1886 ***





[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. 127.—VOL. III.      SATURDAY, JUNE 5, 1886.      PRICE 1½_d._]




HOSTESS AND GUEST.

BY MRS POWER O’DONOGHUE.


PART I.—THE DUTIES OF A HOSTESS.

I have often thought that a few practical hints relative to the
preparations for and treatment of a guest who comes to be a member of
the household for a while, would not, perhaps, be thrown away upon the
general company of readers. I therefore venture to offer these hints
in homely fashion, feeling that I am, as it were, treading upon almost
new ground, for the matter is one that appears to me to have been,
considering its importance, wonderfully little discussed.

Before entering upon my subject, I would wish to say that my
observations and advice are not addressed to those heads of families
who have large establishments and a numerous staff of servants at
command; such, of course, have merely to signify to the housekeeper or
upper housemaid that a guest is expected, and give directions that such
and such a room be prepared: the green, the yellow, blue, or any other
colour, as the case may be. I desire rather to write for those heads of
houses who belong to the middle classes, and for ladies who, for lack
of means, can afford to keep but one servant, or at the most two.

It may, perhaps, be said that in the former case a visitor ought not
to be invited at all; but that is mere nonsense, for there are times
and circumstances when such a mark of civility is undoubtedly due,
and when it cannot with propriety be avoided; nor need there be any
reason, in a properly regulated household, why a guest should not be
lodged and entertained quite as comfortably, if less luxuriously, in
an unpretentious dwelling as within the lordliest halls. Of course, a
great deal must depend upon the style of living to which the visitor
is accustomed. It would, for instance, be unwise for a hostess with
limited means at her command to undertake the entertaining of a wealthy
nabob, who, from being born with the proverbial silver spoon in his
mouth, knows nothing of difficulties or struggles with the world, and
is in consequence a mere mass of selfish exactitude and caprice. Nor
would it be judicious for a person of moderate income to invite a
gourmet, who lives to pamper his appetite, and is guilty of such vulgar
pomposities as passing the wines beneath his nose before tasting them,
in order that he may boast of his knowledge of the various vintages
to which they belong. It is likewise unwise for a host or hostess of
limited resources to extend an offer of hospitality to a fine lady or
gentleman who cannot travel without a maid or valet in attendance upon
them. Strange servants are an intolerable nuisance among a household,
and it is usual for those who have had experience of them, to declare
that they would rather entertain a dozen guests in the dining-room than
cater for one in the kitchen or servants’ hall.

In the event of a hostess deeming it a necessity—which sometimes
occurs—to invite a guest whose household and style of living are to her
knowledge superior to her own, she should not be in the least ashamed
to confess the fact, or feel in the smallest degree embarrassed about
doing so. She should, on the contrary, refer to it—once only—with easy
grace, exhibiting no trace of ‘awkwardness,’ for there is not any shame
in being unable to cope with those who are wealthier than ourselves,
nor can riches ever weigh against gentility of soul. Were we to ape
what we cannot have—to strive after position which we cannot attain—to
attempt style that we cannot keep up—to cheat honest tradesmen out of
their lawful earnings in order to gratify some expensive taste which
we have no right to indulge—then, indeed, might a blush lawfully
arise; but there is nothing in upright frugality to make even the most
sensitive feel ashamed.

I have said, refer to the matter once only, because I consider it a
sign of extreme bad taste to keep perpetually offering apologies to
visitors, in the event of things not being quite so grand or imposing
as the hostess may desire. How frequently we are put to the pain of
listening to such sentences as: ‘Do, pray, take some more; although I
know it is not so good as you have at home’—‘I hope you slept well,
though I am afraid you missed your own fine big room,’ &c. This display
of deferential anxiety cannot be otherwise than painfully embarrassing
to a visitor, and looks as though the hostess were either throwing out
perpetual hints for compliments upon the excellence of her house and
table, or as if she were really uncomfortably conscious of deficiencies
which are perhaps noticeable to herself alone. A few words—the briefer
the better—spoken to the guest on arrival, or inserted in the note of
invitation, are sufficient to answer all purposes: ‘You are aware,
Miss—or Mr’ (as the case may be), ‘that our means are not sufficient to
admit of any style; but I hope you will be comfortable, and I am sure
you will be welcome.’

A hostess of moderate income, such as I am writing for, should always
ascertain personally that the bedchamber intended for her guest’s use
is comfortably arranged and the bed-clothing properly aired. These are
things which, if left to the care of the ordinary run of servants,
will in most instances be performed in a very slovenly manner. As
I intend that these observations shall be of a decidedly practical
nature, I shall state plainly my ideas respecting the arrangement of
a guest-chamber in an ordinary middle-class house. Ignoring, then,
the existence of a family bathroom, the visitor’s apartment should
be provided with a bath, a large sponge, and a plentiful supply of
towels. The first of these should be kept turned up in some spare
corner by day, and laid down at night by the chambermaid, with a
square of oilcloth or felt underneath, to save the carpet from being
wetted; for some persons are very untidy bathers, and make a terrible
splashing when they indulge in a ‘tub.’ The sponge should be kept in a
little basket, made to hook on to the lower rail of the towel-stand,
which is in every way preferable to keeping it in a bag. Care should
be taken that the looking-glass does not, when touched, make a low
salaam—the upper end coming down upon the nose of the visitor, while
the lower portion departs out of sight! This is very frequently the
case in hotels and lodging-houses, and indeed in too many private
dwellings also; and it can be so easily rectified by the bestowal
of a little care upon the screws, that it is quite wonderful how
persons can contentedly go on from month to month propping up the
disabled toilet-mirror—or leaving others to do it—with a hairbrush, or
pocket-handkerchief, or half a newspaper folded into a pad.

Be sure, also, if you are expecting a visitor, to leave the wardrobe
in the guest-chamber perfectly empty, and all the shelves neatly swept
and papered. Be certain to attend particularly to this matter, more
especially if the expected visitor be a lady, for it is pitiable to
contemplate the inconvenience which neglect of it may entail. See
that every article of clothing is removed from drawers and wardrobe;
and do not from negligence leave half-a-dozen dresses hanging up in
the latter, or an array of laces and fineries folded away in the
former. Nothing can possibly be more conducive to the discomfort of
a lady-guest than—just when she has bolted her door and has divested
herself of her outer garments to dress for some dinner or dance—to have
the hostess knock and bounce in, with: ‘I _beg_ your pardon; I know
you won’t mind _me_; but I find the dress I want to wear is in your
wardrobe.’ Or, ‘My opera-mantle is stowed away in one of your drawers.’

I have occasionally stayed at houses, and very frequently at hotels,
where there was no such thing in my room as a wardrobe at all, in any
shape or form—not even a shelved press, or a clothes-rack on the wall.
This is dire misery, and is an unpardonable omission on the part of
those in authority over the management of affairs. It is not by any
means a matter of necessity that a costly glass-panelled wardrobe
should be provided. Many households cannot afford such; but a neatly
painted one is not an extravagance; and in the event of a narrow
staircase or doorway preventing ingress to such a piece of furniture,
there is an excellent plan for improvising a wardrobe, which I have
seen tried with great success. Nail up a substantial clothes-rack in
a recess of the room; suspend a brass rod across it, on which are
curtains hung on rings, and cover in the top with strong calico,
leaving a neat valance of the curtain-stuff, bordered with fringe, to
hang over the edge. Any place, in short, which will allow of coats and
dresses being hung up, to prevent the creasing which they suffer by
folding, and to preserve them from dust, cannot fail to be acceptable
to a visitor, when he or she comes to unpack.

Always make sure that the window-blinds are in perfect working order.
They are at times too stiff, or too loose, or so much out of gear that
if drawn down at night they remain immovable in the morning, and the
guest is obliged to dress in semi-darkness. See, also that the windows
themselves are properly in order. Every window ought to be made to open
both at top and bottom, as this admits of the immediate and thorough
ventilation of the room. If, however, through defective carpentering in
the first instance, the windows are hermetically sealed at the top—as
is too frequently the case in old houses—make certain at all events
that the lower sash opens and shuts with ease, and that when closed
it does not admit a draught. Above all things, see that means are
provided to prevent the shaking of windows in windy weather. Few things
are so aggravating to the temper, and at the same time so wearying to
the constitution, as being kept awake at night by the ceaseless and
monotonous ‘bang, bang’ of a loose window-sash, which, after all, can
be very easily remedied without adopting the old-fashioned method of
thrusting a toothbrush handle or rack-comb between the sashes, to act
as a sort of wedge. Procure two neat flat pieces of wood, about four
inches in length; drill a hole in the centre of each; affix one at each
side of the window-frame with a screw, which you must not drive in too
closely, but leave sufficient of the head for the wood to revolve or
move upon. You will find that by slightly lifting the outer or lower
end of the wood, the other end becomes pressed against the edge of the
window-sash, which it holds perfectly steady; and that by declining or
lowering this outer or lower end, the sash is released from pressure.
The plan is an invention of my own; and I must not be considered
egotistical for saying that it is an excellent one, as it will silence
the noisiest window in an instant of time. A small bar of brass,
treated in the same manner as the wood, looks more ornamental, and is
of course stronger, where much pressure is desirable. Should there be
any aperture or draught, a neat piece of cloth may be nailed along the
sash, and will effectually exclude it.

Take especial care that the carpet does not wrinkle about the door,
or in any other way prevent its shutting. I have seen some extremely
awkward things occur from the neglect of this precaution. A relative
of mine, who was of a very neat and systematic disposition, observed
upon one occasion that there was a great crease in the carpet of
his sitting-room at an hotel where he went to stay; and being of a
practical turn of mind, he got out his own little hammer, and with
the aid of a tack or two, soon set matters to rights. It happened,
however, that the waiter was in the habit of overcoming difficulties by
making a rush at the door; and as he followed this plan an hour later,
when carrying in a heavy tray, the consequences were disastrous, for
the door flew open with the greatest ease, and tray and waiter came
tumbling into the room together.

You should make sure, also, that the bolt and lock of the door are in
proper order. Many persons cannot sleep easily unless their door is
fastened; and it is pleasanter for the hostess to expend a few pence
upon the mending of a lock or bolt, than to hear her guest, at dead
of night, dragging a heavy box or table, or chest of drawers, or some
other unwieldy thing, across the floor of the chamber, to barricade the
door against imaginary disturbances.

Ascertain, likewise, that there are night-lights, matches, and a
substantial taper left in the room—as also writing materials, pins,
hair-pins—if the expected guest be a lady—perfume, and a few amusing
magazines or other specimens of light literature, as well as the Book
of books; for some persons waken early, and enjoy a brief spell of
reading before getting up.

These may perhaps appear very minute details to go into, but believe me
the chamber in which they have been thoroughly attended to—no matter
how plain and unpretentious it may be—will prove infinitely more
comfortable than the most luxuriously furnished room in which they have
been overlooked.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is an excellent plan, in a limited household, to have various
matters connected with housekeeping in readiness before the guest
arrives. A good supply of fresh table-napkins; a number of knives,
forks, and spoons arranged in a sideboard drawer in the dining-room;
a few plates and glasses within the locker, in order to obviate the
necessity for continually ringing the bell; a supply of sweets made;
and a good marketing laid in. Many persons deem this an impossibility
in warm weather; but few things are so, if properly managed. There are
many kinds of sweets that will keep good for days; even those in the
manufacture of which milk has been employed, will not sour if the milk
be first boiled and slightly flavoured, or if condensed milk be used in
place of fresh. Of course, a great deal depends also upon keeping such
things in a perfectly cool atmosphere.

With regard to meat, a joint may be preserved for many days by
wrapping it loosely in a fine cloth wrung out of vinegar, and hanging
it in a draught of air. If the weather be very warm, the cloth
must be remoistened twice, or even thrice a day. Tinned provisions
are excellent in summer, and are invaluable in cases of emergency;
tongues, curries, and soups being amongst the best of the eatables thus
preserved.

A breakfast-table, to be comfortably set, should have a separate tea
or coffee equipage for each individual, except in cases where the
family is very large; then one may be made to serve for two persons.
In like manner, no dinner-table can be said to be properly appointed
where there is any handing about of salt-cellars, water-bottles, or
other necessaries; nor can there be any excuse for it in these days of
cheapness, when very neat little salt-cellars of moulded glass can be
had for a penny apiece. I have even seen some as low as half that price
and yet quite presentable.

Do not exercise your mind too much about amusing your guest. I have
often thought that in some foreign countries, and notably in many
parts of America, the relation of host and guest was a sort of double
slavery. The host has the comfort and amusement of his guest so
painfully at heart, that both undergo, for the time being, an amount
of social misery that entirely spoils the freedom and pleasure of
the visit. In our country it is different. Go to spend a week in an
Englishman’s house, and you may be sure that neither your host nor
hostess will bother you with trifling matters unless you seem to
desire it. Everything goes on as though you were not there, and yet,
_per contra_, the house and its belongings are practically yours so
long as you remain. I consider it the extreme of bad taste to pursue
a visitor with continual offers of amusement. If treated as a member
of the family and suffered to amuse himself, he will generally do very
well, and will feel much happier and more at ease than when he is too
closely looked after. I have heard persons complain bitterly of undue
attentions and continual running after, from which they have suffered
far more acutely than if actually neglected. ‘Where is Mrs Dash? Who
is sitting with her?’ cries the flurried hostess. ‘Good gracious! is
it possible she has been left by herself? Go at once, Mary, or Julia,
or Tommy, and sit with her, and amuse her until I have time to come.’
And all the while, perhaps, the hapless Mrs Dash is struggling to
get a letter or two written, or a bill or account made up, and is
congratulating herself upon the unwonted luxury of a few delicious
moments of absolute quiet. She is revelling in the thought of being
left alone, when, lo! Miss Mary, aged ten, comes awkwardly in, and
stands sniffing in the window, or sits sideways upon the piano-stool,
strumming with one hand at the notes, which is her idea of keeping
the visitor company until mamma comes. Or Master Tommy, aged twelve,
enters with a burst of noise, and proceeds to relate to the afflicted
guest how he and Jack Jones are in the same Latin class; and how said
Jones is beyond him in Euclid, though inferior in something else; and
how Brown licked Black for calling him a dunce—with a variety of other
information, by no means interesting to unconcerned parties. To this
annoyance there are few of us who have not been subjected. A greater
error of judgment can scarcely be committed. To make a guest feel
comfortable and at home, leave him pretty much to his own devices.
To be always striving to amuse him is a poor compliment to his own
resources.

If in the winter-time a visitor comes to stay in your house, inquire
early whether he prefers a fire in his bedroom at night, or a hot jar
laid into the bed. If the latter, so much the better; it not only
economises the coals, but is an immense saving of trouble to the
housemaid in the mornings, as she has not then an additional grate to
make up.

During the stay of your guest, if a lady, do not suffer her to pay
anything towards the expenses of cabs, trains, or laundry, neither
to defray the cost of her own concert or theatre tickets. Whilst in
your house, she is, or ought to be, a member of your family, and it
is not worth while, for the sake of a trifling additional outlay,
to do anything which bears upon it the smallest stamp of meanness.
If, however, the guest be a gentleman, there may—under certain
circumstances—be some little relaxation of the rule; but where a lady
is concerned, it cannot be too stringently adhered to.

Opinions vary as to the propriety of inviting a departing visitor to
remain longer. The hostess should, I think, be guided by circumstances
and surroundings. A lady cannot well press a gentleman to stay, unless
he be a special friend or relative, or that it is her husband’s desire
that he should do so. It is, however, quite usual to ask a lady to
extend her visit a few days beyond the time fixed by her for departure.
Not to do so would appear in most cases inhospitable, or at all events
coldly formal, which amounts to much the same thing. It is an excellent
plan, however, when giving an invitation, to name the time that the
recipient of it is intended to remain. ‘We shall expect you to come to
us for a fortnight;’ or, ‘Stay with us from Monday to Thursday,’ will
enable the guest to know precisely the limit to which his visit ought
to be prolonged.

Make it a rule never to introduce any subject that could be unpleasant
or embarrassing to a visitor. Avoid strictly the smallest allusion to
household worries, as also questions of politics and religion; and if
your household be, unhappily, one in which family jars are at times
wont to figure, banish all such entirely out of view, for the time at
least, if not for all time, as nothing can possibly be more painful to
a guest than witnessing bickerings upon subjects with which he has no
sort of sympathy. A visitor, remember, can have but one feeling upon
all such dreary occasions: namely, an intense desire to get well out of
the way with all convenient speed.

Be careful, also, that your guest shall see nothing of your share of
household duties or drudgery, otherwise he, or she, will be made to
feel excessively uncomfortable. A hostess who presides over a limited
establishment will have many duties to perform, and countless little
matters to engage her attention and need her helping hand; but a
visitor should not on any account be permitted to witness these things.
A well-bred orderly hostess will get her work done quietly and without
fuss, nor will she ever exhibit that bustling, anxious demeanour which
is the characteristic of so many really kind and otherwise excellent
entertainers.

It will not be out of place here to speak a warning word to
ladies—mistresses of households—who allow their overwhelming anxiety
respecting the success of the dinner preparations to appear on their
countenances during the progress of the meal. Which of us is unfamiliar
with the flushed face, eager eyes, and look of tortured suspense with
which some hostesses regard the carrying in of the various dishes? I am
now, of course, speaking of plain, old-fashioned family dinners, where
the joints and sweets are laid upon the table. The hostess may be, and
probably is, engaged in conversation with the guest who occupies the
seat on her right or left hand, as the case may be; but the preoccupied
manner, the wandering thoughts, the painful effort at appearing
interested in whatever topic may be under discussion, are only too
apparent—as are likewise the harassed look if, on the lifting of the
covers, anything is discovered to be wrong, and the palpable look of
relief if, on the other hand, there seems to be no reasonable ground
for apprehension or complaint. All such facial reflexes of the soul can
and ought to be avoided. They are frequently the result of nervousness,
and are in such cases a misfortune, yet one which is quite curable and
capable of being easily overcome. A hostess who cannot preserve her
serenity upon even the most crucial occasions, is lacking in one of the
most essential qualities of an entertainer. The thoughtless spilling
of her best wine, the soiling of her whitest tablecloth, nay, even the
smashing of a whole trayful of her best old family china, should not
cause one muscle of her countenance to change.

On the other hand, an affected ignorance respecting the contents of the
day’s bill of fare is at times almost as fatal as the opposite extreme.
I was myself present at a dinner-party at which one of the untutored
stable-helpers had been brought in, on an emergency, to assist. ‘What
are these, John?’ inquired the languid hostess, as John tremblingly
thrust forward a dish of tartlets just under her right elbow. ‘I don’t
know ma’am, raally,’ he replied; ‘but I think they’re tuppence apiece!’

I shall conclude this portion of my subject by remarking, that if a
hostess has a lady-visitor in her house and does not keep a carriage,
she ought, when the guest is about to depart, to make arrangements
that a cab or other vehicle shall be in waiting at the door in good
time, to convey the visitor to train, boat, or whatever else may lead
to her destination. Gentlemen are usually understood to see after such
matters for themselves.




IN ALL SHADES.

BY GRANT ALLEN,

AUTHOR OF ‘BABYLON,’ ‘STRANGE STORIES,’ ETC. ETC.


CHAPTER XXIX.

In spite of his vigorous dislike for Tom Dupuy, Harry Noel continued
to stop on at Orange Grove for some weeks together, retained there
irresistibly by the potent spell of Nora’s presence. He couldn’t tear
himself away from Nora. And Nora, too, though she could never conquer
her instinctive prejudice against the dark young Englishman—a prejudice
that seemed to be almost ingrained in her very nature—couldn’t help
feeling on her side, also, that it was very pleasant to have Harry Noel
staying in the house with her; he was such a relief and change after
Tom Dupuy and the other sugar-growing young gentlemen of Trinidad! He
had some other ideas in his head beside vacuum pans and saccharometers
and centrifugals; he could talk about something else besides the crop
and the cutting and the boiling. Harry was careful not to recur for
the present to the subject of their last conversation at Southampton;
he left that important issue aside for a while, till Nora had time
to make his acquaintance for herself afresh. A year had passed since
she came to Trinidad; she might have changed her mind meanwhile. At
nineteen or twenty, one’s views often undergo a rapid expansion. In any
case, it would be best to let her have a little time to get to know
him better. In his own heart, Harry Noel had inklings of a certain not
wholly unbecoming consciousness that he cut a very decent figure indeed
in Nora’s eyes, by the side of the awkward, sugar-growing young men of
Trinidad.

One afternoon, a week or two later, he was out riding among the plains
with Nora, attended behind by the negro groom, when they happened to
pass the same corner where he had already met Louis Delgado. The old
man was standing there again, cutlass in hand—the cutlass is the common
agricultural implement and rural jack-of-all-trades of the West Indies,
answering to plough, harrow, hoe, spade, reaping-hook, rake, and
pruning-knife in England—and as Nora passed, he dropped her a grudging,
half-satirical salutation, something between a bow and a courtesy, as
is the primitive custom of the country.

‘A very murderous-looking weapon, the thing that fellow’s got in his
hand,’ Harry Noel said, in passing, to his pretty companion as they
turned the corner. ‘What on earth does he want to do with it, I wonder?’

‘Oh, that!’ Nora exclaimed carelessly, glancing back at it in an
unconcerned fashion. ‘That’s only a cutlass. All our people work with
cutlasses, you know. He’s merely going to hoe up the canes with it.’

‘Nasty things for the niggers to have in their hands, in case there
should ever be any row in the island,’ Harry murmured half aloud; for
the sight of the wild-looking old man ran strangely in his head, and he
couldn’t help thinking to himself how much damage could easily be done
by a sturdy negro with one of those rude and formidable weapons.

‘Yes,’ Nora answered with a childish laugh, ‘those are just what they
always hack us to pieces with, you know, whenever there comes a negro
rising. Mr Hawthorn says there’s very likely to be one soon. He thinks
the negroes are ripe for rebellion. He knows more about them than any
one else, you see; and he’s thoroughly in the confidence of a great
many of them, and he says they’re almost all fearfully disaffected.
That old man Delgado there, in particular—he’s a shocking old man
altogether. He hates papa and Tom Dupuy; and I believe if ever he got
the chance, he’d cut every one of our throats in cold blood as soon as
look at us.’

‘I trust to goodness he won’t get the chance, then,’ Harry ejaculated
earnestly. ‘He seems a most uncivil, ill-conditioned, independent sort
of a fellow altogether. I dropped my whip on the road by chance the
very first afternoon I came here, and I asked this same man to pick it
up for me; and, would you believe it, the old wretch wouldn’t stoop to
hand the thing to me; he told me I might just jump off my horse and
pick it up for myself, if I wanted to get it! Now, you know, a labourer
in England, though he’s a white man like one’s self, would never have
dared to answer me that way. He’d have stooped down and picked it up
instinctively, the moment he was asked to by any gentleman.’

‘Mr Hawthorn says,’ Nora answered, smiling, ‘that our negroes here
are a great deal more independent, and have a great deal more sense
of freedom than English country-people, because they were emancipated
straight off all in one day, and were told at once: “Now, from this
time forth, you’re every bit as free as your masters;” whereas the
English peasants, he says, were never regularly emancipated at all,
but only slowly and unconsciously came out of serfdom, so that there
never was any one day when they felt to themselves that they had become
freemen. I’m not quite sure whether that’s exactly how he puts it,
but I think it is. Anyhow, I know it’s a fact that all one’s negro
women-servants out here are a great deal more independent and saucy
than the white maids used to be over in England.’

‘Independence,’ Harry remarked, cracking his short whip with a sharp
snap, ‘is a very noble quality, considered in the abstract; but when it
comes to taking it in the concrete, I should much prefer for my part
not to have it in my own servants.’

(A sentiment, it may be observed in passing, by no means uncommon,
even when not expressed, among people who make far more pretensions to
democratic feeling than did Harry Noel.)

Louis Delgado, standing behind, and gazing with a malevolent gleam
in his cold dark eyes after the retreating buckra figures, beckoned
in silence with his skinny hand to the black groom, who came back
immediately and unhesitatingly, as if in prompt obedience to some
superior officer.

‘You is number forty-tree, I tink,’ the old man said, looking at the
groom closely. ‘Yes, yes, dat’s your number. Tell me; you know who is
dis buckra from Englan’?’

‘Dem callin’ him Mistah Noel, sah,’ the black groom answered, touching
the brim of his hat respectfully.

‘Yes, yes, I know him name; I know dat already,’ Delgado answered with
an impatient gesture. ‘But what I want to know is jest dis—can you find
out for me from de house-serbants, or anybody up at Orange Grove, where
him fader an’ him mudder come from? I want to know all about him.’

‘Missy Rosina find dat out for me,’ the groom answered, grinning
broadly. ‘Missy Rosina is de young le-ady’s waitin’-maid; an’ de young
le-ady, him tell Rosina pretty well eberyting. Rosina, she is Isaac
Pourtalès’ new sweetheart.’

Delgado nodded in instantaneous acquiescence. ‘All right, number
forty-tree,’ he answered, cutting him short carelessly. ‘Ride after
buckra, an’ say no more about it. I get it all out ob him now, surely.
I know Missy Rosina well, for true. I gib him de lub of Isaac Pourtalès
wit me obeah, I tellin’ you. Send Missy Rosina to me dis ebenin’. I has
plenty ting I want to talk about wit her.’




OLD CITY TREES.


It might seem to many, at first sight, almost ludicrous to be directed
to search for poetry in that most prosaic of all places, the Old City
of London. The busy cry of ‘commerce,’ which all day long deafens the
ear and deadens the finer senses, excludes all thoughts beyond those
which tend to the discovery of the state of the various markets—the
price of stocks, the rate of exchange at Paris, Berlin, or St
Petersburg—the condition, in fact, of all the monetary and mercantile
affairs in the world. Yet if these ‘toilers’ had a moment to spare,
and would look around them and reflect, they would find that there are
spots in the City which have inspired many a poet.

Starting for a ‘walk down Fleet Street,’ and entering at the Middle
Temple gate, we come upon a scene which has been immortalised by
Shakspeare—the scene of the original factions of York and Lancaster. In
this garden, Plantagenet says:

    ‘Since you are tongue-tied, and so loath to speak,
    In dumb significance proclaim your thoughts:
    Let him that is a true-born gentleman,
    And stands upon the honour of his birth,
    If he suppose that I have pleaded truth,
    From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.’

To which Somerset replies:

    ‘Let him that is no coward, nor no flatterer,
    But dare maintain the party of the truth,
    Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.’

In the background of this garden, with its fine trees and flowers,
where the great dramatist placed, in his imagination, this historical
incident, may be seen the old walls and buttresses of the Middle Temple
Hall. The descent into the garden is after the Italian fashion, from
a court, in the centre of which stands that celebrated fountain of
which nearly every noted author has spoken. Who does not remember Ruth
Pinch—that devoted sister of Tom’s, in _Martin Chuzzlewit_, walking
under the trees in Fountain Court, and meeting there—by the merest
accident, of course—her lover? ‘Merrily the fountain leaped and danced,
and merrily the smiling dimples twinkled and expanded more and more,
until they broke into a laugh against the basin’s rim, and vanished.’
There is a graceful poem by L. E. L. (Miss Landon) on this much admired
and petted fountain in the Temple Gardens:

    The fountain’s low singing is heard on the wind,
    Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind:
    Some to grieve, some to gladden; around them they cast
    The hopes of the morrow, the dreams of the past.
    Away in the distance is heard the vast sound
    From the streets of the city that compass it round,
    Like the echo of fountain’s or ocean’s deep call;
    Yet the fountain’s low singing is heard over all.

There is no place, one can see from reading Charles Lamb, which he
loved more than the Temple to wander in. ‘What a transition for a
country-man visiting London for the first time,’ he remarks in his
_Essays_, ‘the passing from the crowded Strand or Fleet Street by
unexpected avenues, into its magnificent, ample squares, its classic
green recesses!... What a collegiate aspect has that fine Elizabethan
hall, where the fountain plays, which I had made to rise and fall,
how many times!’ Among the Temple trees there was formerly a colony
of rooks, brought there by Sir Edward Northey, a well-known lawyer in
the time of Queen Anne, from his house at Epsom. The thought had in
it a touch of humour. The rook, both in his plumage as well as in his
habits, is a legal bird: he is strongly addicted to discussions, lives
in communities, and has altogether the grave appearance of a ‘learned
brother.’ But these rooks have ceased to assemble in the Temple Gardens
for many years.

For a long time, also, a favourite residence of rooks was that
beautiful tree which still stands at the left-hand corner of Wood
Street, on turning out of Cheapside. As late as 1845, two new nests
were built there; and a trace of them is still visible. The spot where
the tree stands marks the site of the church of St Peter-in-Cheap, a
church destroyed by the Great Fire. The terms of the lease of the low
houses at this west corner, with their frontage in Cheapside, forbid
the erection of another story, it is said, or the removal of this tree.
Is it possible that Wordsworth, passing one summer day down Cheapside,
observed the tree, and gained the inspiration which led to the
_Reverie of Poor Susan_?

    At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
    Hangs a thrush that sings loud—it has sung for three years;
    Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
    In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

    ’Tis a note of enchantment. What ails her? She sees
    A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
    Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
    And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Within one of the inner courts of the Bank of England there is a garden
tastefully planted with trees and shrubs, some of considerable age; and
in the centre there springs forth a large fountain, mushroom-shaped,
which plays during the office hours for the benefit of the clerks
who inhabit that portion of the building, and for the ‘toilers’ who
pass in and out with their bills of exchange and their bags of gold.
The sparrows which congregate here flutter from branch to branch,
twittering, ‘as though they called to one another,’ as Charles Dickens
describes it, ‘Let us play at country;’ a place where ‘a few feet of
garden,’ he says in _Edwin Drood_, ‘enable them to do that refreshing
violence to their tiny understandings.’ This green spot, like many
others still to be seen in the City of London, was once a churchyard;
it belonged to the church of St Christopher in Threadneedle Street.

But one of the greenest spots in the City, although only a corner
of it remains, is perhaps Drapers’ Hall Gardens. It is shut in on
all sides by newly constructed mansions, and only those who have
business to transact among the stockbrokers, who have their offices
in these buildings behind Throgmorton Street, have any suspicion of
its existence. It may be reached by wandering through courts and
alleys; it has almost a park-like appearance, if you are fortunate
enough to gain a glimpse of it from an elevated and slightly distant
point of view. Here there is also a fountain visible among the trees.
But how different this garden once was! In the sixteenth century it
was an estate, the property of Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex. It
was purchased from him, in the reign of Henry VIII., by the Drapers’
Company. The gardens then extended northwards as far as London Wall,
and commanded a fine view of Highgate and the adjoining heights. In
Ward’s _London Spy_, it is spoken of as a fashionable promenade an hour
before dinner-time.

In the neighbourhood of the Monument and of Thames Street, these
gardens may be met with at nearly every turning by those who care to
wander into nooks and corners in search of them. By walking up St
Mary-at-Hill out of Thames Street, and entering through a narrow iron
gateway with bars like a prison, above which may be seen in stone a
grinning skull and crossbones, one comes upon some fine trees with
their branches extending overhead in the passage-way. Or, again, when
descending St Dunstan’s Hill, hard by, what is more beautiful in the
City than the trees in the churchyard of St Dunstan, with the gray and
black masonry of the church, against the green leaves, with its four
lofty towers rising above?

To the account of the trees and gardens mentioned above may be added
a short statement of many others existing in out-of-the-way nooks
and corners within the boundary of the city of London. Many of the
small open patches where these trees are found were once undoubtedly
burial-grounds of churches, or the sites of churches long since taken
down. After the beautiful grounds of the Temple, the only other large
open spaces within the boundaries of the City are Finsbury Square,
Finsbury Circus, Charterhouse Square, and Trinity Square. All these
are well laid out with grass, shrubs, trees, and flowers, and are used
as promenading places by the inhabitants. It should be here mentioned
that the trees referred to in this notice are all young, or at most
middle-aged, and that no such thing as a really ‘old’ tree exists
anywhere within the City of London.

We will now continue our ramble, or tour of inspection; and starting
from Temple Bar, we proceed eastward down Fleet Street. Here the
first trees we notice are two or three small and sickly specimens
growing in the churchyard of St Bride, Fleet Street; they are not very
ornamental, or much to look at. Passing on up Ludgate Hill, St Paul’s
Cathedral is reached. The grounds round the church are prettily laid
out, and contain many trees, but all young, small, and weedy. Just
to the east of St Paul’s, in Watling Street, is a little inclosure
very neatly planted with shrubs only, and having in its midst a large
square altar-tomb of some departed City worthy. This spot was once a
burying-ground, or the site of a church long since removed. Proceeding
eastward, and turning down Queen Street, just out of Cannon Street, two
tall and rather fine plane-trees are observed growing in the front of
a grand old mansion, once, of course, the residence of a City magnate,
but now cut up and let out as offices. These planes are worthy of
remark as affording one of the few instances now occurring of trees
found in private grounds inside the City.

We now pass up Queen Street into Cheapside, and thence into Aldersgate
Street. Here we find the ground, once the churchyard of St Botolph,
Aldersgate, has been beautifully laid out as a garden, planted with
trees, flowers, and shrubs, and furnished with numerous seats, and
affording a delightful promenade or resting-place in summer-time, and
is much enjoyed by the immediate neighbourhood. Another plot of ground,
lying on the west, but belonging to Christ Church, Newgate Street, has
also been planted and laid out; but, because it belongs to another
parish, it is separated from the St Botolph’s garden by a low wall and
railing, although the two grounds actually adjoin.

Continuing our walk northward, we arrive at Charterhouse, once
celebrated for its high-class school, which has now been removed into
the country. Adjoining, is Charterhouse Square, laid out with trees,
shrubs, and grass like an ordinary London square, and surrounded
by private dwellings. Returning south, and then going east, we
reach St Alban’s, Wood Street, which has a little ground round it,
decorated with four trees and shrubs. Close by is St Mary-the-Virgin,
Aldermanbury, with four trees round it. Just beyond is a small
churchyard that once belonged to St Mary, Staining, containing two
trees and shrubs; and a little farther is St Olave, Jewry, with six
trees and shrubs, all weedy and sickly.

Passing on into Cannon Street, we turn down Lawrence Poultney Hill,
where we discover a disused burial-ground, with a public passage-way
passing through the midst of it. The plot is planted with eighteen
sickly-looking, weedy trees, large and small, as well as some stunted
shrubs. Passing over King William Street, we reach the top of Lombard
Street, where one little sickly-looking tree is seen in front of
the church of St Mary Woolnoth. Continuing down Lombard Street, and
turning to the right, we come upon the disused burial-ground of St
Nicholas Acon, situated in Nicholas Lane. This little plot is very
neatly laid out with shrubs, and planted with three small trees.
Passing on into King William Street, we ultimately reach London
Bridge, where, close by in Thames Street, we find the large church
of St Magnus-the-Martyr, with its tall and peculiar tower and spire,
near the Monument. It has no churchyard, but a small inclosed space
round it contains a dozen unhealthy-looking young trees. A little
beyond this, close to the church of St Mary-at-Hill, three trees are
observed growing in what is apparently the private ground or garden
in the rear of a dwelling-house. A few minutes farther east, we come
to the fine church of St Dunstan-in-the-East, standing in the midst
of a well-kept churchyard, and having ten goodly young trees, of fair
height and girth, which always have a very agreeable appearance in the
summer-time. Still farther on east, we come to St Olave, Hart Street,
with its little churchyard, planted with ten small trees; and close
by we see the church of Allhallows (Barking), Tower Street. This fine
old church is one of the few which escaped the great fire of 1666. It
stands in a roomy churchyard, decorated with twenty-four trees, and
having somewhat the appearance of a village church and churchyard.

We now emerge into one of the most interesting spots in all London,
interesting not only in an historical sense, but peculiarly so from the
terrible tragedies of which it was so constantly the theatre—namely,
Tower Hill. This vast space, extending from the Tower gates northward
to the Trinity House, was once entirely open; but now a small portion
of its northern extremity is inclosed and neatly planted with grass,
shrubs, and trees. As the Tower itself is situated outside the City
boundaries, we must not include its trees and plantations in this
notice, which strictly applies to trees in the City only. We therefore
turn our steps westward; and in a little court, leading from Mark Lane
to Fenchurch Street, called Star Alley, we come on a curious relic of
the past, a gray medieval church tower, square in shape, with its stair
turret at one corner, which once belonged to the church of Allhallows
(Staining), Mark Lane. The nave of the church has long since been
removed, and the small plot of ground round the old tower is now
prettily laid out with six young trees, many shrubs, yuccas, and other
ornamental plants.

Threading our way to Bishopsgate Street, we find the churchyard of
St Botolph, through which a public footway leads to a neighbouring
street. The ground, right and left, is tastefully laid out as a garden
with pretty shrubs and trees, the effect being pleasing and agreeable,
especially in summer. Nearly opposite is the ancient church of St
Ethelburga, hidden behind the houses, with a small confined space at
the back, in which are fine trees. Two or three more trees are found in
a small inclosure in the vicinity at the back of this church. Close by
is also the curious and interesting church of St Helen, Bishopsgate,
and in the ground round it are four ill-looking, scraggy trees.

Returning southward, and reaching Cornhill, we find a little
burial-ground in the rear of the fine church of St Michael, Cornhill,
neatly laid out, and planted with three small trees. Close by
is another large church, St Peter-upon-Cornhill, with its small
confined churchyard, also neatly laid out, and planted with two small
unhealthy-looking trees.

Taking our way westward, we pass Christ’s Hospital in Newgate Street.
The boys’ playground is a large open _paved_ courtyard, destitute of
grass, trees, or shrubs; but in the private gardens in the rear, trees,
shrubs, and flowers are to be found, having a pleasant appearance.
A little way beyond, we find St Andrew’s, Holborn, and in the open
churchyard surrounding the church are many trees, but not much
cultivation. Passing through the quaint old gateway, we find ourselves
in the interior of Staple Inn, Holborn, with its Hall and gardens. The
latter are neatly laid out with grass, shrubs, and trees, and carefully
kept, affording a quiet retreat from the noise and racket of Holborn
during the bright days of summer.

In conclusion, it may perhaps be worthy of remark that nearly all the
places referred to are very small indeed, mere ‘garden nooks;’ some are
churchyards surrounding churches; and for these reasons, apparently,
none of them are open for the use of the public as places of
recreation, except the cultivated churchyards of St Paul’s Cathedral,
and St Botolph, Aldersgate, close by; and the squares of Finsbury,
Trinity, and Charterhouse, which are open to the immediate residents.
St Botolph, Bishopsgate, has, as already stated, a footway through its
prettily laid out churchyard.

It is at least remarkable how trees will suddenly appear in the City
in the most out-of-the-way corners, where a green leaf would be about
the last thing looked for; yet such is the case, as it has already been
shown. There are two sickly, scraggy, young trees in a little court, up
a narrow dirty lane, on the south side of St Paul’s Cathedral, and at
Stationers’ Hall, where no one would dream of looking for vegetation;
and two or three more in Barnard’s Inn, Holborn, an inn devoted to law
and lawyers. The peculiar character of ‘City trees,’ in nearly all
cases, is that they are lanky, thin, and generally poor and unhealthy
looking. It is rare, indeed, to find a tall, well-grown tree in any of
these odd nooks and corners of the old City; perhaps the three finest
in size and height are two plane-trees in front of a private house—now
used as offices—in Queen Street, Cheapside; and the well-known single
tree at the corner of Wood Street, Cheapside; but these instances are
few and far between.




TREASURE TROVE.


A STORY IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAP. I.

Saint Quinians—that quaint little town which nestles in a valley close
by the cruel, tumbling North Sea—looked forward, sixty years ago, to
market-day as the one weekly break in the monotony of its existence,
just as it does now. On Wednesdays, Saint Quinians became the centre
to which active life converged from a score of villages and hamlets
that regarded it as their metropolis. Wednesday was a point in the
calendar upon which hinged all arrangements, and by which all events
were calculated: people met upon Wednesday who never saw each other at
any other time; and the news of Wednesday was the latest obtainable
by many folk even at an epoch when forty coaches left London every
evening. And if Saint Quinians’ shopkeepers looked forward to Wednesday
as their busy day—if the farmers looked forward to it as the link which
bound them with the outer world—if the local youth saved up their
money and their spirits, and let them both out on Wednesday, Bertha
West, who lived with her father in a solitary house on the shore, some
four miles from the town, looked forward to it as the day when she met
her sweetheart, Harry Symonds, and spent the happiest hours of her
week. Every Wednesday, Harry Symonds met her at the old South Gate—the
only one remaining to tell of days when Saint Quinians was a port of
some fame, and contributed its quota of ships and men to the national
navy—and if she was prevented from coming, a very miserable week was in
store for the young man, as John West, the father of Bertha, did not
approve of the attachment, for the rather selfish reason, that if his
daughter married, he was left alone in the world.

They had been sweethearting in this semi-clandestine manner for more
than a year, and Harry Symonds was beginning to face mentally the
awkward problem of what was to be done, should the old man persist
in his opposition to the match. Not only this; but the young man was
aware that the pretty girl whom he had learned to regard as his own
inalienable private property was the object of very marked attention
on the part of a certain Jasper Rodley, a youth who bore no very high
character in the town, who had suddenly disappeared from it for three
years, and had as unexpectedly returned; and although Harry trusted
Bertha implicitly, he thought that a settlement of affairs would be an
advisable step. And so when, one bright spring Wednesday morning, he
met the girl coming with her market baskets on her arm along the path
over the sandhills, she observed that his face was serious, and very
naturally jumped at the conclusion that something was wrong.

‘Why, Harry,’ she exclaimed, ‘there’s a face for a lover to make who
sees his sweetheart only once a week! There’s nothing wrong, is there?’

‘No, dear,’ replied the young man, his face instantly brightening at
the sound of her voice; ‘there’s nothing wrong. I’ve been thinking,
that’s all. And how are matters at home? How’s the father?’

‘Just as usual, Harry. Father’s been depressed all the week; but I’ve
got him to set to work on his flagstaff and battery with two real guns,
so that he’ll be all right.’

‘I wonder what depresses him?’ asked Harry. ‘You’ve always described
him as such a jovial old seadog.’

‘I don’t know; but ever since the _Fancy Lass_ was wrecked, he’s been
different at times.’

‘And Mr Rodley—has he been annoying you with any of his attentions
lately?’ asked Harry.

‘No. But I’ve seen him more than once about our house.’

‘How did he find out where you lived? And what is he doing there?’

Bertha shook her head, and said: ‘I don’t know. I seem to think that
there has been some acquaintance formed between father and him. He has
never been inside the house, to my knowledge; but I fancy they meet now
and then.’

The young man was silent for a few moments; then he continued: ‘Well,
never mind, Bertha. So long as we are true to each other, he cannot
come between us. He’s a queer fellow, and people say odd things about
him. If you remember, he disappeared from Saint Quinians about the same
time that my sad business with the bank took place.’

‘You mean, when the bank’s sovereigns were stolen, and you were
dismissed for cul—cul—— What was it, Harry?’

‘Culpable negligence, my dear.’

‘Yes, that was it; and a great shame it was!’ cried the girl warmly. ‘I
wonder where the sovereigns went to?’

‘Ah! where indeed?’ asked Harry. ‘They were never traced. But old
Cusack, our cashier, who disappeared with them, took good care that
they never should be traced. It’s my belief that they went to sea, for
three thousand pounds in sovereigns are not carried away so easily.
However, after all, it did me no harm. Every one agreed that I was
cruelly treated. I got a new berth immediately; and I’m much better off
now than I should have been if I’d remained in the bank’s service; so
well off, in fact, Bertha, that I’m beginning to think it almost time
for us to come to some decision as to what we shall do.’

‘O Harry! there’s plenty of time to think about that; and it’s—it’s so
pleasant making love; and besides, I must break it gently to father,
for he has no idea of parting with me yet.’

‘But he surely can’t expect that you should spend your life in that
tumble-down old smuggler’s cottage.—Hillo! there’s Rodley, skulking
about like a whipped cur. We’ll go on.’

So the happy pair proceeded into the market, Harry holding the girl’s
baskets whilst she made her usual purchases, until the clock striking
ten warned the young man that he was due at his office. He saw Bertha
on her road home as far as the South Gate, and was hurrying across the
market-place, when he caught sight of Jasper Rodley walking swiftly in
the direction taken by Bertha. He stopped and watched. He saw Rodley
catch the girl up just as she was disappearing beneath the archway,
raise his hat, and continue by her side in spite of Bertha’s evident
annoyance. Harry Symonds retraced his steps so far that he could watch
the progress of the pair out of the town. Suddenly, he observed Mr
Rodley attempt to put his arms round Bertha’s waist, whereupon the girl
struggled, got free, and ran on.

This was too much for Harry. He ran out by the gate, and, coming up to
Bertha and her tormentor, said to him: ‘Mr Rodley, what do you mean by
daring to force your attentions where they are not wanted?’

Jasper Rodley, a tall, well-built young fellow, of about Harry’s age
and size, started at first; but, shoving his hands into his pockets,
surveyed his questioner for a moment with disdain, and asked: ‘And what
has that to do with you, Mr Dismissed Bank-clerk?’

Harry was itching to thrash him on the spot; but respect for Bertha’s
presence induced him to bottle up his wrath as best he could, and
reply: ‘You’ve no right to bother any girl if she doesn’t want to have
anything to do with you. And look here—your character hereabouts isn’t
so high that you can afford to call other people names, so I warn you
to keep a civil tongue in your head, or something might be done that
you wouldn’t like, and something might be said that would make you look
a little small.’

This last bit was added at random, but it seemed to have a strange
effect upon Rodley, who turned pale for a moment, but recovered himself
and retorted: ‘Done and said, indeed! You couldn’t do much that I’m
afraid of, and at anyrate people couldn’t say of me what they do of
you. How about these sovereigns, eh?’

‘Look here, Rodley. If I did my duty, I should give you a thrashing on
the spot. Just be off.—Miss West is betrothed to me. That’s enough. Do
you hear?’

Jasper Rodley walked off, with a savage scowl on his face and an
imprecation on his lips.

‘O Harry dear!’ cried the girl, who was trembling with fright, ‘I’m so
glad you didn’t fight.’

‘Fight with a cur like that!’ exclaimed Harry. ‘Men of his kidney don’t
fight.—What has he been saying to you, my darling?’

‘Oh, such terrible things, Harry! He says that he will marry me whether
I like it or not—that father is in his power, and has consented; and
that I had better make up my mind to give you up before it is too late.’

‘Why, what on earth can he mean? Your father in the power of a rascal
like that—to consent to your marrying him! He’s only trying to frighten
you. And yet you say that you have seen him with your father. I think I
shall tackle Mr Jasper at once and make him explain his dark speeches.
There’s one thing—I’m not going to have him continue his tormenting of
you, whether your father is in his power or not.—And now, good-bye,
dearest; you’re safe now.’

So the girl pursued her homeward road; and Harry Symonds walked rapidly
back into the town. Just within the gate, he came up with Jasper
Rodley. ‘Rodley,’ he said, ‘I’m going to the office to give an excuse
for my absence. Kindly wait here until I come back, as I want to speak
to you.’

‘If you want to speak to me, you’d better do so at once; I’ve other
things to attend to, and I’m not going to hang about here waiting for
you.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Harry; ‘let’s go where people can’t remark us.
Here, we’ll turn on to the ramparts.’

So they went along the pleasant walk which ran upon what had been, in
old, stirring times, the walls of Saint Quinians, a broad path, bounded
by shrubs and trees on one side, and by the deep stony ditch on the
other.

‘I want an explanation from you,’ said Harry, ‘about what you have just
said to Miss West concerning her father being in your power and your
determination to marry her.’

‘That’s easily given,’ replied Rodley. ‘At a word from me, old Captain
West could be ruined and disgraced. I’m as much in love with Bertha’——

‘Miss West, if you please.’

‘I said “Bertha,” and I repeat it,’ continued Rodley. ‘I’m as much in
love with her as you are, and I intend to marry her. If I can’t marry
her, I ruin her father.’

‘How can you ruin him?’

‘It’s very likely I should tell you—isn’t it?’ answered Rodley with a
sneer.

‘I intend to find out.’

‘Very well then, find out,’ retorted Rodley.—‘And now I must be off.’

‘You don’t go until I have an explanation,’ cried Harry. ‘I don’t
believe a word of what you say, and I believe you are only trying to
terrify the poor girl into submission.’

‘Come now, Symonds, don’t be a fool; we’re men of the world, and
it’s time we understood one another. I tell you once and for all, if
Bertha West does not marry me, I’ll have her father up in the felon’s
dock.—There; I’ve said more than I intended, so good-morning.’

He endeavoured to push past Harry; but the latter barred the way,
saying: ‘You’ll have poor old Captain West up as a felon! Why, man,
you’re mad! A simple old man like that, who never stirs beyond his
garden, who never said an evil thing of any one, much less did a wrong
to any one! Come, be more explicit.’

‘I’ve said more than I intended,’ continued Rodley; ‘and you don’t get
another word out of me.’

Again he tried to get past Harry, and again Harry prevented him,
saying: ‘Neither of us shall budge from here until I find out more
about this.’

Rodley made a desperate effort to get past Harry. The two men struggled
together, and as they were evenly matched in weight and strength, the
issue was doubtful. Suddenly, Rodley loosened his hold of Harry’s arms,
stooped, caught him by the legs, and jerked him over the steep side
of the rampart. Harry fell heavily, struck a projecting mass of stone
half-way down, and rolled amongst the sharp stones and rubbish at the
bottom, where he lay motionless and bleeding. Rodley did not stop to
look after him, but walked rapidly back into the town.




TRIAL BY ORDEAL.


One of the most remarkable judicial systems of olden times was the
trial by ordeal, a mode of procedure founded on the presumption that,
should a person be wrongfully accused, heaven would interpose, and in
some marked way make his innocence undeniable. With the exception of
China, this test was of almost universal adoption in the middle ages;
and, whilst still surviving amongst the uneducated portion of most
civilised communities, is even nowadays largely practised by uncultured
races. As far as its origin is concerned, it may be traced back to
remote antiquity; and the bitter water by which conjugal infidelity was
revealed—an ordeal pure and simple—will readily occur to the biblical
student as an interesting instance in Hebrew legislation and history.
Herodotus relates how King Amasis—whose reign immediately preceded the
invasion of Cambyses—‘was, when a private person, fond of drinking
and jesting, and by no means inclined to serious business. As soon,
however, as means failed him for the indulgence of his amusements,
he used to go about pilfering; and such persons as accused him of
having stolen their property—on his denying it—were wont to take
him to the oracle of the place, where he was oftentimes convicted,
and occasionally acquitted.’ The Greeks had their ordeals, a good
illustration of which occurs in the _Antigone_ of Sophocles, where the
soldiers offer to prove their innocence in various ways:

    Ready with hands to bear the red-hot iron,
    To pass through fire, and by the gods to swear,
    That we nor did the deed, nor do we know
    Who counselled it, nor who performed it.

This mode of purgation, the scholiast tells us, was in common use at
that time.

There was also the water ordeal, and a certain fountain near Ephesus
was specially employed for this purpose. As soon as the accused had
sworn to her innocence, she entered the water with a tablet affixed to
her neck, on which was inscribed her oath. If she were innocent, the
water remained stationary; but if guilty, it gradually rose until the
tablet floated. Traces of the same system are to be met with in the
history of ancient Rome; and amongst notable instances may be quoted
that of the vestal Tucca, who proved her purity by carrying water in
a sieve; and that of Claudia Quinta, who cleared her character by
dragging a ship against the current of the Tiber, after it had run
aground, and resisted every effort made to remove it. But, as Mr Lea
points out in his essay on _The Ordeal_, ‘instances such as these had
no influence on the forms and principles of Roman jurisprudence, which
was based on reason, and not on superstition. With the exception of the
use of torture, the accused was not required to exculpate himself. He
was presumed to be innocent, and the burden of proof lay not on him,
but on the prosecutor.’

The ordeal trial prevailed in France from before the time of
Charlemagne down to the eleventh century. The ancient Germans, too,
were in the habit of resorting to divination; and their superstitious
notions, writes Mr Gibson, led them to invent many methods of purgation
or trial now unknown to the law. It should be added, also, that the
Germans were specially tardy in throwing off this relic of barbarism;
for, at a period when most vulgar ordeals were falling into disuse, the
nobles of Southern Germany established the water ordeal as the mode
of deciding doubtful claims on fiefs; and in Northern Germany it was
instituted for the settlement of conflicting titles on land. Indeed,
as recently as the commencement of the present century, the populace
of Hela, near Danzig, twice plunged into the sea an old woman, reputed
to be a sorceress, who, on persistently rising to the surface, was
pronounced guilty, and beaten to death. Grotius mentions many instances
of water ordeal in Bithynia, Sardinia, and other countries, having been
in use in Iceland from a very early period.

In the primitive jurisprudence of Russia, ordeal by boiling water was
enjoined in cases of minor importance; and in the eleventh century we
find burning iron ordered ‘where the matter at stake amounted to more
than half a grivna of gold.’ A curious survival of ordeal superstition
still prevails to a very large extent in Southern Russia. When a theft
is committed in a household, the servants are summoned together, and
a sorceress is sent for. Should no confession be made by the guilty
party, the sorceress rolls up as many little balls of bread as there
are suspected persons present. She then takes one of these balls,
and addressing the nearest servant, uses this formula: ‘If you have
committed the theft, the ball will sink to the bottom of the vase;
but if you are innocent, it will float on the water.’ The accuracy of
this trial, however, is seldom tested, as the guilty person invariably
confesses before his turn arrives to undergo the ordeal.

Again, in Spain, trial by ordeal was largely practised; and it may
be remembered how, during the pontificate of Gregory VII., it was
debated whether the Gregorian ritual or the Mozarabic ritual contained
the form of worship most acceptable to the Deity. When the chance of
deciding this contest amicably seemed hopeless, the nobles resolved
to arrange the controversy in their customary manner, and, according
to the historian Robertson, the champions—one chosen by either
side—met and fought. But in the year 1322, in Castile and Leon, the
Council of Palencia threatened with excommunication all concerned
in administering the ordeal of fire or water—a circumstance which is
important, as pointing to the disappearance of this mode of trial in
Spain.

Furthermore, the practice of trial by ordeal was under the Danish kings
substituted for the trial by combat, which, until the close of the
ninth century, had been resorted to among the Danes for the detection
of guilt and the acquittal of innocence. In Sweden, says Mr Gibson,
the clergy ‘presided at the trial by ordeal; and it was performed
only in the sanctuary, or in the presence of ministers of the church,
and according to a solemn ritual.’ And yet, as he rightly observes,
its abolition in Europe was due to the continued remonstrances of the
clergy themselves. One form of ordeal practised in Sweden was popularly
known as the _trux iarn_, and consisted in the accused carrying a
red-hot iron, and depositing it in a hole twelve paces from the
starting-point. In accordance with the accustomed mode of procedure,
the accused fasted on bread and water on Monday and Tuesday, the ordeal
being held on Wednesday, previous to which the hand or foot was washed.
It was then allowed to touch nothing until it came in contact with the
iron, after which it was wrapped up and sealed until Saturday, when it
was opened in the presence of the accuser and the judges.

In the years 1815 and 1816, Belgium, says Mr Lea, was disgraced by
ordeal trials performed on unfortunate persons suspected of witchcraft;
and in 1728, in Hungary, thirteen persons suspected of a similar
offence were, by order of the court, subjected to the ordeal of cold
water, and then to that of the balance. Referring to the ordeal of
the balance, Mr Tylor informs us that the use of the Bible as a
counterpoise is on record as recently as 1759, at Aylesbury in this
country, where one Susannah Haynokes, accused of witchcraft, was
formally weighed against the Bible in the parish church. In Lombardy,
ordeal by hot water was a form of procedure much resorted to; and in
Burgundy this was also supplemented by the trial by hot iron.

The instances thus quoted show how universally practised throughout
Europe in bygone years was the trial by ordeal; and if we would still
see it employed with the enthusiastic faith of the middle ages, we
must turn to eastern countries, where, owing to the slow advance of
civilisation, many of their institutions still retain their primitive
form. Indeed, as Mr Isaac Disraeli remarks, ‘ordeals are the rude laws
of a barbarous people who have not yet obtained a written code, and not
advanced enough in civilisation to enter into the refined inquiries,
the subtle distinctions, and elaborate investigations which a court
of law demands.’ This is specially true in the case of India at the
present day, where the same ordeals are practised as were in use five
or six centuries ago. Thus, the guilt or innocence of an accused person
is still tested by his ‘ability to carry red-hot iron, to plunge his
hand unhurt in boiling oil, to pass through fire, to remain under
water, to swallow consecrated rice, to drink water in which an idol
has been immersed, and by various other forms which retain their hold
on public veneration.’ Professor Monier Williams, too, says that trial
by ordeal is recognised by the code of Manu, and quotes the subjoined
rules: ‘Let him cause a man (whose veracity is doubted) to take hold of
fire, or dive under water, or touch the heads of his wife and sons one
by one. The man whom flaming fire burns not and water forces not up,
and who suffers no harm, must be instantly held innocent of perjury.’

In Japan, ordeals extensively prevail; and amongst the many
superstitious practices kept up, we are told how the ‘goo’—a paper
inscribed with certain cabalistic characters—is rolled up and swallowed
by an accused person, this being commonly supposed to give him no
internal rest, if guilty, until he confesses. A similar mode of
procedure is practised by the Siamese, and under a variety of forms was
prevalent in former years. With it, too, we may compare the mouthful of
rice taken by all of a suspected household in India, which the thief’s
nervous fear often prevents him from swallowing.

Formerly, this practice was observed in our own country with the
corsned or trial-slice of consecrated bread or cheese. Even now, says
Mr Tylor, peasants have not forgotten the old formula: ‘May this bit
choke me if I lie.’

In Tibet, a popular ordeal consists in both plaintiff and defendant
thrusting their arms into a caldron of boiling water containing a black
and white stone, victory being assigned to the one who is fortunate
enough to obtain the white. Such an even-handed mode of procedure, if
generally used, must, as Mr Lea remarks, ‘exert a powerful influence in
repressing litigation.’

Among further curious specimens of ordeal trial mentioned by this
author may be noticed those in use in certain parts of Africa.
Thus, the Kalabarese draw a white and black line on the skull of
a chimpanzee, which is then held up before the accused, ‘when an
attraction of the white line towards him indicates his innocence, or
an inclination of the black towards him pronounces his guilt.’ In
Madagascar, a decoction of the nut of the Tangena—a deadly poison—is
administered to the accused. If it act as an emetic, this is considered
a proof of innocence; but if it fail to do so, the guilt of the accused
is confirmed. Dr Livingstone describes a similar ordeal as practised
in Africa, and tells us how ‘when a man suspects that any of his wives
have bewitched him, he sends for the witch-doctor, and all the wives
go forth into the field, and remain fasting till that person has made
an infusion of the plant called “foho.” They all drink it, each one
holding up her hand to heaven in attestation of her innocence. Those
who vomit it are considered innocent; but those whom it purges are
pronounced guilty, and put to death by burning. The innocent return
to their homes, and slaughter a cock, as a thank-offering to their
guardian spirits.’

It should be noted, too, that such modes of trial have been introduced
with much effect into medieval poetry and romance. Thus, says Mr
Gibson, ‘there was the mantle mentioned in a ballad of which Queen
Guenever is the principal heroine, and which is supposed to have
suggested to Spenser his conceit of Florimel’s girdle.’

Lastly, as far as our own country is concerned, trial by ordeal existed
from a very early period. When the Anglo-Saxons were unable to decide
as to the guilt of an accused person, they invariably resorted to this
test, the law requiring that the accuser should swear that he believed
the accused to be guilty, and that his oath should be supported by
a number of friends who swore to their belief in his statement and
to his general truthfulness. Trials of this kind, however, were
often fraudulently conducted. Thus, when William Rufus caused forty
Englishmen of good quality and fortune to be tried by the ordeal of
hot iron, they all escaped unhurt, and were acquitted. But upon this
the king declared that he would try them by his own court. According
to the legendary account, it was by this mode of ordeal that Queen
Emma, the mother of Edward the Confessor, was tried in order to clear
her character from the imputation of an intrigue with Alwyn, Bishop of
Winchester. Then there was the ordeal known as the ‘corsned,’ or morsel
of execration, already alluded to, which consisted of a piece of bread,
weighing about an ounce, being given to the accused person, that, if
he were guilty, it might cause convulsions and paleness and find no
passage; but turn to health and nourishment if he were innocent. The
sudden and fatal appeal to this trial by Godwin, Earl of Kent, in the
year 1053, when accused of the murder of Ælfred, the brother of Edward
the Confessor, ranks amongst the most curious traditions of English
history. Hallam relates how ‘a citizen of London, suspected of murder,
having failed in the ordeal of cold water, was hanged by order of Henry
II., though he had offered five hundred marks to save his life. It
appears as if the ordeal were permitted to persons already convicted by
the verdict of a jury.’

Ordeals were abolished in England about the commencement of Henry
III.’s reign. An edict dated January 27, 1219, directs the judges then
starting on their circuits to employ other modes of proof, ‘seeing that
the judgment of fire and water is forbidden by the Church of Rome.’
Matthew Paris, enumerating the notable occurrences of the first half of
the thirteenth century, alludes to the disuse of the ordeal. But it was
no easy matter to root out such a deep-rooted superstition, instances
of which were of constant occurrence. Thus, the belief that the wounds
of a murdered person would bleed afresh at the approach, or touch, of
the murderer long retained its hold on the popular mind; and in a note
to the _Fair Maid of Perth_, we are told how this bleeding of a corpse
was urged as an evidence of guilt in the High Court of Justiciary at
Edinburgh as late as the year 1668. An interesting survival of this
notion still exists in the north of England, where we are told that
‘touching of the corpse by those who come to look at it is still
expected by the poor who visit their house while a dead body is lying
in it, in token that they wished no ill to the departed, and were in
peace and amity with him.’

Another of the few ordeals that still linger in popular memory may be
seen occasionally in some country village, where persons suspected of
theft are made to hold a Bible hanging to a key, which is supposed
to turn in the hands of the thief—a survival of the old classic and
medieval ordeal described in _Hudibras_ as ‘th’ oracle of sieve and
shears, that turns as certain as the spheres.’ But instances of this
kind are mostly confined to the uncultured part of the community, for,
happily, ordeals have long since had their day, and are now discarded
from the laws of the more civilised nations.




A NORMAN STRONGHOLD.


The lover of antiquity may well lament when he sees our ancient
fortresses nearly levelled to the ground; but the friend of rational
freedom will rejoice, when he reflects on the design for which such
works were erected, and on the many calamities to which they have
given occasion. Amongst the existing but dismantled and ruined
fortresses connecting the present with the sanguinary scene of strife
and bloodshed of the past, is the famous castle of Pontefract, in
Yorkshire, which sustained two memorable sieges by Cromwell’s soldiery.
This celebrated edifice is supposed to be of Saxon origin; and the site
of it is perfectly agreeable to their mode of fortification. While
the Romans formed their camps on a plain or on the level ground, and
defended them by a fosse and a vallum, the Saxons raised the area of
their camps and castles, if the ground was level, or selected hills
as places best adapted for defence and security. The elevated rock
on which the castle is built stands wholly insulated, forming a site
which, without much trouble or expense, might soon be converted into a
stronghold. In support of the theory as to its Saxon origin, it may be
mentioned that, since the demolition of the castle, it has been found
that the great round tower stood upon a raised hill of stiff hard clay,
of which material the Saxons usually made their foundations.

After the Conquest, Ilbert de Lacy received a grant of the place,
and about 1076, all his vast possessions being confirmed to him,
he soon after began to erect the castle. This noble structure cost
immense expense and labour, and no one, unless in possession of a
princely revenue, could have completed it. This formidable structure
and magnificent palace was carried forward for the space of twelve
years with unremitting attention. Ilbert de Lacy, when he laid the
foundation stone of the castle, gave it the name of Pontfrete, because
the situation, as he conceived, resembled the place so called in
Normandy where he was born. Historians, however, have differed much
respecting the origin of the name. Thomas de Castleford, who was bred a
Benedictine monk, and who wrote the history of this place, accounts for
it by the following miracle. William, Archbishop of York, and son of
the sister of King Stephen, returning from Rome, was met by such crowds
of people desirous to see him and receive his blessing, that a wooden
bridge over the river Aire, near to this place, gave way and broke
down, by which accident vast numbers fell into the river. The bishop,
affected at the danger of so many persons, is said to have prayed
with such fervour and success that no one perished. To perpetuate so
striking and so signal a miracle, the pious Normans, says Thomas, gave
the name of Pontefract or Broken-bridge to this place.

The tower of York minster, distant upwards of twenty miles, is
distinctly visible from this elevated rock. The situation of the
castle contributed greatly to its strength, and rendered it almost
impregnable. It was not surrounded by any contiguous hills, and the
only way it could be taken was by blockade. The staterooms of the
castle were large, and accommodated with offices suitable for the
residence of a prince. The style of the building shows it to be Norman;
though it has received various additions and improvements of a later
date.

The barbican was situated on the west side of the outer yard beyond the
mainguard. Barbicans were watch-towers, meant for the accommodation
of the outer guard and for the protection of the main entrance to the
castle. They were sometimes advanced beyond the ditch, to which they
were joined by drawbridges. The north side of the barbican area was
formed by the south wall of the ballium or castle-yard, in the centre
of which was the porter’s lodge, the grand entrance into the yard of
the castle. The whole of this area was sometimes called the barbican,
and within it stood the king’s stables and a large barn. A deep moat
was cut on the west side of the castle. Within the wall of the ballium
or great castle-yard were the lodgings and barracks for the garrison
and artificers, the chapel of St Clement, and the magazine. The
magazine is cut out of a rock, the descent to which is by a passage
four feet wide, with forty-three steps to the bottom. Near this place
was a large dungeon, the entrance to which was at the seventeenth
step of the passage, and was a yard in breadth; but it is now stopped
up by the falling-in of the ruins. The wall, as you descend these
steps, is inscribed with many names. The entrance into the ballium was
usually through a strong machicolated and embattled gate between the
two towers, secured by a herse or portcullis. Over this were the rooms
intended for the porter of the castle. The towers served for the _corps
de garde_. On an eminence at the western extremity of the ballium stood
the keep or donjon, called the Round Tower. It was the citadel or last
retreat of the garrison. The walls of this edifice were always of an
extraordinary thickness, and having in consequence withstood the united
injuries of time and weather, now remain more perfect than any other
part of the castle. Here on the second story were the staterooms for
the governor. The lights were admitted by small chinks, which answered
the double purpose of windows, and served for embrasures whence the
defenders might shoot with long and cross bows. The different stories
were frequently vaulted and divided by strong arches; on the top was
generally a platform with an embattled parapet, whence the garrison
could see and command the exterior works.

Tradition says Richard II. was confined and murdered here by a blow
with a battleaxe from Sir Piers Exton. Fabian and Rapin inform us
‘that on Richard’s arrival at Pontefract Castle, Sir Piers Exton is
related to have murdered the king in the following manner. On the
king’s arrival at the castle, he was closely confined in the great
tower. Soon after, Sir Piers Exton, a domestic of Henry’s, was sent
down with eight ruffians to imbrue their hands with the blood of this
unfortunate king. On the day of their arrival, Richard perceived at
dinner that the victuals were not tasted as usual. He asked the reason
of the taster; and upon his telling him that Exton had brought an order
against it, the king took up a knife and struck him on the face. Exton
with his eight attendants entered his chamber at that instant, and
shutting the door, attempted to lay hold of Richard. He immediately
perceived their fatal errand, and knew he was a lost man. With a noble
resolution, he snatched a halbert or poleaxe from the foremost of them
and defended himself so bravely that he slew four of his assailants.
Whilst combating with the rest of the murderers, Exton got upon a
chair behind him, and, with a poleaxe, discharged such a blow on his
head as laid him down at his feet, where the miserable king ended his
calamities.’ Stow says ‘that the most probable opinion is that he
was starved to death by order of King Henry IV., suffering the most
unheard-of cruelties, keeping him for fifteen days together in hunger,
thirst, and cold, before he reached the end of his miseries.’

Henry IV., after his accession to the throne, and during the whole of
his reign, honoured the castle at Pontefract, the paternal residence
of his family, by his frequent residence. Many state documents were
dated from this castle. After the battle of Shrewsbury, in which fell
the valiant Hotspur and near six thousand of the rebels, the king
marched to Pontefract, to watch the motions of the Scots and the Earl
of Northumberland. He granted full power to certain persons to treat
with the king of Scotland, in a document which is dated at Pontefract
Castle, August 6, 1403. These and other similar acts of the king and
many of his successors originated in this celebrated castle. Lord
Rivers, Sir Richard Grey, and Sir Thomas Vaughan, were executed in this
fortress in the reign of Edward V.

The castle of Pontefract was the only one that held out against the
parliament in the reign of Charles I. The garrison long and obstinately
maintained themselves against the overwhelming numbers of the besieging
army under Fairfax, until famine and reduced numbers compelled them to
capitulate. Great and numerous were the deeds of heroism and daring
displayed in their sallies against their foes, who in more than one
encounter were put to rout. The besiegers, seeing no prospects of
taking the castle by the breach they had made, began to mine, in
order to blow up some of the towers. On the discovery of this, the
garrison sank several pits within the castle, and commenced their
mines from them. The number of pits within and without the castle is
said to have been above a hundred. No great advance was made against
the brave defenders, even by the arrival of Cromwell himself, who
adopted every measure to compel them to surrender the fortress. On the
30th of January 1649, Charles was beheaded. The news of this event
had no sooner reached the garrison, than they loyally proclaimed his
son, Charles II. But the want of provisions and the hopelessness of
relief were stronger than the enemy, and towards the end of March the
garrison walked out of the castle. In compliance with an order, the
fortress was dismantled, and rendered wholly untenable for the future.
General Lambert, to whom the execution of this order was intrusted,
soon rendered this stately and princely stronghold a heap of ruins. The
buildings were unroofed, and all the valuable materials sold.

Thus fell this castle, which had successively been the stronghold of
the brave and warlike Saxons, the residence of a proud and imperious
Norman conqueror, the turreted seat of the high aspiring Dukes of
Lancaster, the palace of princes and of kings, at some periods a nest
of treachery and rebellion, and at others the last hope of vanquished
royalty.




SOME SIMILES.


‘The child of the past and the parent of the future,’ is not an unhappy
simile for the—present. Happiness has been likened to a ghost; all
talk about it, but few, if any, have ever seen it. Ambition’s ladder
rests against a star, remarks a clever writer, who also tells us that a
proverb is a short truth sandwiched between wit and wisdom.

Eloquence is a coat of many colours judiciously blended. No one thing
will make a man eloquent. Flattery has been termed a kind of bad money
to which our vanity gives currency. Society, like shaded silk, must be
viewed in all situations, or its colours will deceive us. Kindness is
the golden chain by which society is bound together; and charity is an
angel breathing on riches; while graves have been poetically called the
footsteps of angels.

Language is a slippery thing to deal with, as some may find when
selecting their similes. Says a writer: ‘Speak of a man’s marble brow,
and he will glow with conscious pride; but allude to his wooden head,
and he’s mad in a minute.’ The young lecturer’s ‘similes were gathered
in a heap’ when he expressed the whole body of his argument on Deceit
in the following: ‘O my brethren, the snowiest shirt-front may conceal
an aching bosom, and the stiffest of all collars encircle a throat that
has many a bitter pill to swallow.’

Plagiarists are a species of purloiners who filch the fruit that others
have gathered, and then throw away or attempt to destroy the basket.

It has been truly said that the abilities of man must fall short on one
side or other, like too scanty a blanket when you are in bed: if you
pull it upon your shoulders, you leave your feet bare; if you thrust
it down upon your feet, your shoulders are uncovered. The man, we are
told, who has not anything to boast of but his illustrious ancestors,
is like a potato—the only good belonging to him being underground.

A man at a dinner in evening dress has been likened to a conundrum: you
can’t tell whether he is a waiter or a guest. A Yankee, describing a
lean opponent, said: ‘That man doesn’t amount to a sum in arithmetic;
add him up, and there’s nothing to carry.’ An American critic in
reviewing a poem, said: ‘The rhythm sounds like turnips rolling over
a barn-floor, while some lines appear to have been measured with a
yard-stick, and others with a ten-foot pole.’

An amusing illustration was given by a parent when asked by his boy,
‘What is understood by experimental and natural philosophy?’ The
answer was: ‘If any one wants to borrow money, that is experimental
philosophy. If the other man knocks him down, that is natural
philosophy.’ Curious and comical illustrations seem natural to many
children. A little girl, suffering from the mumps, declared she felt
as though a headache had slipped down into her neck. ‘Mamma,’ said
another youngster, alluding to a man whose neck was a series of great
rolls of flesh, ‘that man’s got a double-chin on the back of his neck.’
A little three-year-old, in admiring her baby brother, is said to have
exclaimed: ‘He’s got a boiled head, like papa.’

Talking of curious similes—among the southern languages of India is
the Teloogoo or Telinga, so rough in pronunciation that a traveller of
the nation speaking it before a ruler of Bokhara, admitted that its
sound resembled ‘the tossing of a lot of pebbles in a sack.’ A simile
for scarlet stockings is firehose—laughter is the sound you hear when
your hat blows off—and trying to do business without advertising is
said to be ‘like winking at a girl in the dark.’ An unpoetical Yankee
has described ladies’ lips as the glowing gateway of beans, pork,
sauer-kraut, and potatoes. This would provoke Marryat’s exclamation of,
‘Such a metaphor I never _met afore_.’ Much more complimentary was the
old darkey’s neat reply to a beautiful young lady whom he offered to
lift over the gutter, and who insisted she was too heavy. ‘Lor, missy,’
said he, ‘I’se used to lifting barrels of sugar.’ Wit from a man’s
mouth is like a mouse in a hole; you may watch the hole all day, and no
mouse come out; but by-and-by, when no one is looking for it, out pops
the mouse and streams across the parlour.

Marrying a woman for her money, says a philosopher, is very much like
setting a rat-trap and baiting it with your own finger.

An American writer says: ‘A man with one idea always puts me in mind of
an old goose trying to hatch out a paving-stone.’ An editor’s simile of
man’s career is summed up in the lines: ‘Man’s a vapour full of woes,
starts a paper, busts, and goes.’

We all recollect how the Bath waters were associated in Weller’s
mind with the ‘flavour of warm flat-irons.’ The humorist who created
that character was often reminded of a printer’s parenthesis by the
appearance of a bow-legged child; and the elongated pupils of a cat’s
eyes before a bright light were likened by him to ‘two notes of
admiration.’

Just as children call a locomotive ‘a puff-puff,’ savages will use
sounding similes to supply the lack of language. The war-rockets
sent amongst the Ashantees soon became known as ‘shoo-shoos,’ to
describe their hissing; and we have heard that a fieldpiece firing
shell was referred to by some of the Zulus as a ‘boom—byby;’ the first
representing the report of the gun, the second the explosion of the
projectile.

To touch on the poetic and romantic style of similes. Moore, if we
rightly recollect, sings of ‘rose-leaves steeped in milk’ as a simile
for a beautiful complexion. One of the gallant poets of France wrote
of Mary Queen of Scots that her complexion was ‘clear as a white egg
with a blush on it;’ and it certainly is probable that Elizabeth was as
jealous of Mary’s wonderful complexion as of her claims to the English
throne. Beauty has been called a solitary kingdom. Another writer says:
‘The red, white, and blue—the red cheeks, white teeth, and blue eyes
of a lovely girl are as good a flag as a young soldier in the battle
of life can fight for.’ A German poet refers to a fishing-rod as being
typical of a young girl. He says: ‘The eyes are the hooks, the smile
the bait, the lover the gudgeon, and marriage the butter in which he is
fried.’ Matrimony has been well likened to a barque in which two souls
venture forth upon life’s stormy sea with only their own frail help to
aid them; the well-doing of their craft rests with themselves.

A French wit of a post-office turn of mind evolves the following: ‘A
married woman is a letter which has reached its address. A young girl
is a letter not yet addressed.’

Home has been described as the rainbow of life. A laughing philosopher
once, in a moral lecture, compared human life to a table pierced with
a number of holes, each of which has a peg made exactly to fit it, but
which pegs, being stuck in hastily and without selection, chance leads
inevitably to the most awkward mistakes; ‘for how often do we see,’ the
orator pathetically concluded—‘how often do we see the round man stuck
in the three-cornered hole!’ Sir Walter Scott, who alludes to this
simile, says: ‘This new illustration of the vagaries of fortune set the
audience into convulsions of laughter, excepting one fat alderman, who
seemed to make the case his own, and insisted that it was no jesting
matter.’




PROCESSIONARY CATERPILLARS.


In the month of February, these ‘processionary caterpillars’—as they
have come to be called—are seen in large numbers both at Arcachon and
Biarritz. Sometimes chains of two and three hundred may be observed
marching in solemn procession either on the _plage_ or on the roads.
It is clearly seen that they choose the smooth paths of life, as they
are rarely, if ever, seen to perambulate the sandy, uneven forest,
from which they emerge throughout the whole day. Not unfrequently,
they mount the steps of a villa, to take a peep at the interior, to
the dismay of invalids unaccustomed to such extraordinary, though
perfectly harmless callers. On such occasions, they divide into small
detachments, as if conscious that the presence of a whole battalion
might prove inconvenient; for at other times, whatever be the length
of the chain, or how oft soever divided, they invariably unite, and the
one who starts as leader retains the post, as if by common consent,
until their return to the nests they have left in the early morning.
Alas! for the fruit-trees that fall in their way on what may be termed
their foraging expeditions. They halt many times to regale themselves
on succulent leaves, and when fully satisfied, return to their nests
in the evening. These nests are longitudinal in form, similar to those
of wasps, but smaller. They are composed of the dry needle-points of
the pine, divided into minute particles; and are ingeniously woven
together by gossamer threads as fine as those of the spider, but in
appearance so silky as to resemble the work of the silkworm. As it
covers the whole nest, the intention is evidently to keep the fabric
together. Should any one, impelled by curiosity, attempt to pull the
nest to pieces, to discover more of this texture, and afterwards touch
his own eyes, inflammation may set in, and even death ensue. This
enables us to understand how injurious so virulent a poison must be
to the young trees. Many of large growth in the forest of Arcachon
have been completely destroyed by these insects. They are never seen
during the great heat of summer. In mid-winter, they leave the nests
by shoals, unite, and burrow in the earth. There, underground, the
long chain forms itself into a ball, and many of the caterpillars die.
After a time, the rest emerge from their cocoon existence, and return
to the trees, where they make fresh nests on the deserted ones of the
preceding year.




BY THE RIVER.


    We met at morning by the willowed river,
      Long years ago, when both our hearts were young!
    We met to watch the lights and shadows quiver,
      And listen to the song the waters sung.
    But deeper than the music of its flowing,
      The tide of love flowed on from mind to mind;
    While overhead the elder blooms were blowing,
      And dewy fragrance filled the wooing wind.

    We stand beside the waters of the river,
      But now the moaning of the sea is near!
    Far off the beacons ’mid the dimness quiver,
      And rolling breakers fill our hearts with fear.
    No longer choristers of morning greet us,
      Or blossoms of the May-time droop above;
    But shadows of the twilight rise to meet us,
      And cloud the golden harvesting of love.

    Ah! listen to the rushing of the river
      Towards its haven in the restless sea,
    While like a leaf upon its tide for ever
      Our life flows onward to Eternity.
    Oh, ’mid its eager tumult and commotion,
      The whirl of waters, and the dash of foam,
    May Love, the beacon, shining o’er the ocean,
      Lead us together to our Father’s home!

            ARTHUR L. SALMON.

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

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_All Rights Reserved._