[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

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ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

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NO. 135.—VOL. III.      SATURDAY, JULY 31, 1886.      PRICE 1½_d._]




HYGEIA IN THE DOG-DAYS.


Hygeia, the Goddess of Health, receives many rebuffs. She has numbers
of followers, who pretend to listen to her teachings, but who do not
quite understand her. She is a very simple and sweet goddess, and
it would do us all good to put ourselves under her gentle training
for a few of the hot weeks of summer. She would be pleased with our
patronage, although she is a reputed Pagan goddess. She is no worse
for that, as long as she is practical and poetical and teaches us how
to make ourselves comfortable. Oh, these reeking hot days of July! I
fear we break the commandments of the goddess by feeding too largely
upon them. I am ashamed to own that I have been regaling myself not
wisely but too well upon some of the hottest foods within reach, merely
because I liked them. I have dined, and am growing hotter and hotter,
in consequence of the dishes which appetite and not reason selected.

Whilst ruminating over a pipe on the evening of one of the dog-days,
the thermometer being above eighty degrees in the shade, I have
wondered what the goddess Hygeia would have done, and what she would
have recommended, under the circumstances, for purposes of health and
comfort. She wouldn’t have eaten roast duck, I know; but how would she
have combated the fierce heat, by way of keeping herself cool? Would
she have swallowed haggis and cockaleekie in North Britain, ham and
beef in Yorkshire, and tripe and onions in London? Not a bit of it.
Hygeia had too much respect for herself as a goddess to indulge in such
plebeian and delusive dainties in hot weather.

I can just see her in a scornful attitude, on the top of a marble
column such as Alma Tadema loves to paint—she waves her hand over the
smoking viands our good cooks are sending up for our delectation. She
preaches abstention in a way that makes one feel creepy, as her words
seem to come down from the cold marble. She is commanding her followers
to keep cool with milk and water, and grapes and strawberries, and
to leave all the alcohol and wine and beer for other occasions. I
beg Hygeia’s pardon, and shall renounce heat-producers on hot days
in future, although they are very good, and like everything else,
unfortunately, what dyspeptics like best.

What a dinner for a broiling day!—hot roast ducks and fowls, hot
vegetables, a pint of heating stout, hot fish and roast beef and soups
and plumpuddings, hot omelets, and a dozen more hot things, all washed
down with port wine and whisky toddy, as a nightcap, with hot tea at
intervals between! What would Hygeia say? She would say: Abandon all
hope of keeping cool, if you put such things into your receptacles.
There is only one thing unmentioned—a hot poker—and probably your punch
has been stirred up with it. Such is an average Englishman’s food on
the sweltering days of July and August. And yet the French say we can’t
cook! Only imagine the plethora-producing power of an ordinary dog-days
dinner.

As I know something about Hygeia, I may state that she will always
hold aloof from people who feed on hot meats and beverages such as I
have described. As for herself, she has (or had) an internal Limited
Liability Company, which contents itself with rice-puddings and other
innocent sustenance free from fats and sugars. She is, or was, a very
plain and wholesome and abstemious feeder, seldom aspiring to anything
beyond the regulation cup of tea, or a drink from the pump or pail, or
now and then a seltzer, potass or soda, varied with a dash of claret or
sherry or champagne. There is some use in these goddesses after all.
Hygeia promises (we are getting somewhat mixed with past and present)
that she will befriend any one in the dog-days who follows her rôle,
lives simply, eats the fruits of the season, and gives up a portion
of carbonaceous food, which adds fuel to the internal fires. She will
even bring Morpheus in her train, and tuck up a fellow who obeys her,
and give him happy rest and sweet dreams, without a headache in the
morning. In the night-watches, she will keep him cool as a frog or
a cucumber, without the fires of Vesuvius to make him kick against
unknown quantities, and wrestle with demons and dragons and other
enemies of sleep.

But if, like humble children, we would benefit by the goddess to the
full, there are other things to attend to besides food and drink to
make us comfortable in the dog-days. We are nearly all astray in the
kind of raiment we wear, both in weight and colour and quality and
substance. We draw down the divine caloric by dark, heat-producing
clothes in a way which shocks Hygeia. Why not take to nankeen and
cotton, and please the dear soul, and comfort ourselves as well?
She never wore funereal black in hot summers. She never had a hot
chimney-pot on her head; she was never seen in ebony coloured trousers
or a villainous hot mantle. She believes in white apparel, as angels
ought to do—white window blinds and knickerbockers, white wide-awakes
and sun-shades, white fish, white bread, white pulpy fruit, or as near
that colour as possible, and white curtains and covers.

And Hygeia is right. Why should we keep such big fires and jets of
lambent gas in the dog-days, consuming the life-giving oxygen, and yet
complain of being overheated? He would be a plucky man who dare ride
through public streets with white unmentionables, coat and vest, and
white umbrella, on a white horse. He would look cool, however, and feel
so; and if we could prevail upon ourselves to be a little lighter and
whiter on saddle, or rail or steamboat, Hygeia says we should derive
great joy thereby in July and August. At all events, we might make
some approach to it in our dishabille. We need not be mere blocks for
tailors and milliners to hang dresses upon, obliging us to be tight
and uncomfortable because Fashion wills it. We require loose, lightly
fitting garments, if we would keep cool.

Moreover, now that we are hobnobbing with goddesses and know their ways
and philosophies, let us inquire why we open our windows and let in the
broiling summer heat; and having let it in, why we do not allow it to
go out again by the chimney or the roof. Limp, flabby girls, familiar
to us all through Du Maurier’s pencil, spend much time in stuffing our
grates with lilies and peacocks’ feathers and sunflowers. They fill
the chimney with sacking and make the outside very pretty; thus no air
makes its exit by the chimney flue. Hygeia says the young ladies are
all wrong; and she doesn’t care a fig for sunflowers, if they prevent
the operations of nature. Hot air should ascend, and cool air come into
a house. ‘Dear girls,’ says Hygeia, ‘let these fads alone; pull out all
the stuffing, and be natural. You are hot; cool yourselves. Why do you
cram chimneys with flowers? It is not a festival. Make room for the
king—for air, light, and comfort. Perish the peacock plumes; down with
the gaudy flowers; and away with the fernery in front of them! Out with
the sooty sacking. Give air, and plenty of it, in the dog-days.’

Hygeia says we don’t make ourselves comfortable by the windows. We
ought to have more green and white sun-blinds. We open our morning
sashes and let in the bright heat all day, to make our bedrooms
unbearable at night. Nevertheless, everybody does it. Cottagers in the
country open their lattices amongst honeysuckles, roses, and stocks;
palaces are open amongst vines and trellises of wisteria and orange.
Never mind, says our authority. Let me teach you to close all windows
as closely as if they were glued, and let them remain so till the sun
begins to wester in the heavens. We might do much by way of cooling
our houses, if we attended to such sensible arrangements as closing
in a southerly aspect, and opening in a northern one, always opening
opposite the sun, and also by having free ventilation through the
attics.

Directly the sun begins to decline, let every maiden and housewife, and
man and woman and child, with an eye for the picturesque, and a feeling
for health and beauty, throw up the Venetian or Parisian blinds. Open
your rooms to the glories of the evening; throw up, and pull down the
sashes; open wide all your doors. Let cool breezes enter into corridor
and cellar and garret and room; let the ‘caller’ air circulate through
every inch of the house hour after hour, whilst you are getting your
evening meal, whilst you say your prayers, whilst you think of others
after the toils of the day. If it be your priceless lot to dwell apart
from city life, and have outside your cottage or villa or mansion,
flowers, those lovely gifts of Dame Nature, let scents of rose and
thyme come in at every gap in the hedge, at every rift of the wall,
at every cranny of the house—scents of rosemary and mignonette, and
lavender and bergamot, and lily and elderberry. Welcome the delicate
perfume on its cooling, refreshing, healthy mission. It is Hygeia’s
gift—a superlative boon for the dog-days.

Strawberries are waiting to be plucked in all the hot months. If we
have the possibility of enjoying a holiday, what can be better than a
strawberry garden and plenty of cream? whilst larks aloft, and cuckoos
in the shade, are singing in the plenitude of their full hearts, and
whilst nimble fingers are spreading the white tablecloth on the grass
to receive the dainty fruit.

Talk of lotos-eaters—we prefer strawberry gatherers. An old divine said
he believed the joys of paradise would consist of eating strawberries
to the sounds of a trumpet. We rejoice to think that we can have this
transcendental pastime nearer home. We have the strawberries in full
force, and there is generally a brass band round the corner to supply,
for a small gratuity, the trumpet. Unluckily, doctors have decided
that many of us derive no advantage from the strawberry; and alas!
and alack-a-day! even claret-cup and champagne and iced cream are
occasionally proscribed! When boys, we ate more ices than we could
afford; in maturity, we have the pocket-money—without the digestion. A
lady in France thought that if strawberry ices were only _sinful_, no
pleasure could exceed that which is to be enjoyed in the consumption
of the pleasant fruit. In the eyes of some people, eating strawberries
_has_ become almost sinful, so the French lady will be able to satisfy
her conscience, perhaps, on that score. Nevertheless, the old parson
that Izaak Walton speaks of was right: ‘Certainly, God might have made
a better berry than the strawberry, but certainly, God never did.’ So
let us enjoy this heaven-sent fruit in the dog-days.

Not that we are at a loss for juicy fruits as long as we have our
pine-apples and melons and tomatoes, our peaches and jargonelles,
grapes and nectarines, and plums and apricots, a very paradisiacal
melange, born of our glorious summer; all which indicates that
providence nurtured them for the dog-days that we may eat and be
satisfied. We may be sure that the sugar in fruits is modified by other
elements, wisely elaborated by a Beneficent chemistry.

After the dog-days comes ‘St Luke’s little summer,’ beginning on the
18th of October and lasting for an octave. Horses and cows feel the
heat, dogs whine, and cats show distress, birds sip the morning dew
on the leaves for refreshment, even our trees and flowers hang their
branches languidly. The Italians twit us by saying that only dogs and
Englishmen walk in the sun. Well, it is so little of it we get, that
we may be excused if we make the best of it, although we know we may
suffer for our imprudence, and go home with colds or neuralgia from too
free exposure and rapid cooling. Young dancing and gamboling Sylphs and
Cupids in gauze, like so many butterflies in the sunbeams, had better
be aware that they may get too much of it, although not often, and we
must have an administrative check upon them, so that they do not fly
into the heat and scorch their wings.

We are not an eminently sunny people; our fruit has not the rich orange
tints of sunnier climes, where warmth is perennial and perpetual; and
then dog-days come at last, and we go out to bask like lizards amongst
the sand of our shores, or to splash amongst salt water at our bathing
resorts. Our hot days ought to be an enjoyment, which they would be
if we prepared ourselves for them and attended to the changes of
temperature. We are not to throw off all our wraps in one grand effort
to be free, still less to court chills by foolishly hanging about damp
places merely to get cool, and losing our animal heat quicker than we
can replace it. Hygeia is the last person in the world to tolerate
such errors. She requires us to use common-sense, and not to use an
erroneous dietary; and if we obeyed her implicitly, our summers would
leave us not so relaxed and overdone and dull and full of languor as
they often do. If we will have heating food and heavy raiment, we
resist the precepts of Hygeia, and we shall fail to win her smile when
she draws the curtain for the season.

We must not tempt malaria by walking too late in dewy grass, when the
moon is up, and all nature looks bright and beautiful, and only the
nightingale sings or the willow-wren warbles amongst the osiers. We may
stay out too late, by way of getting cool, until we get quite hot, and
feverish with a cough that won’t let us sleep; and as blackbirds and
thrushes call upon us with dulcet notes about three o’clock A.M., we
cannot answer the polite and musical invitation, if our throats suffer
from the evening fog.

Young folk will pardon this dog-day talk, as it perhaps may benefit
them. It is very pleasant to see them enjoying themselves, wild with
the shimmering sunshine. We were all young once, ‘before Decay’s
effacing fingers had swept the lines where beauty lingers,’ and
before rheumatism caught us in its horrible grip. Long may they enjoy
themselves—and ourselves too enjoy our rollicking fun and nonsense
amongst wild-birds and flowers and hayricks, amongst the scents of
new-mown hay and clover and bean fields. What a lot of joy middle-aged
people have to renounce, and yet we can still appreciate our dog-days!

An old proverb says, ‘Every dog has his day;’ but there are only
forty dog-days in the calendar according to modern almanacs. They
begin on the 3d of July, and end on the 11th of August. Bailey, the
dictionary-maker of 1755, says the dog-days are ‘certain days in July
and August, commonly from the 24th of the former to the 28th of the
latter, so called from the star Canis or Dog-star, which then rises
and sets with the sun, and greatly increases the heat.’ This was
published three years after the introduction of new style, which took
the place of old style in 1752. Another authority, more recent, says:
‘The canicular or dog-days denote a certain number of days preceding
and ensuing the heliacal rising of the Canicula or the Dog-star in the
morning. Almanac-makers usually mark the beginning of the dog-days
from about the end of July, and end them about their first week in
September.’ Most people are accustomed to connect these days with mad
dogs and hydrophobia generally, and they begin to think of M. Pasteur
and his experiments at such times. There is evident confusion as to the
time they begin and end. One thing is plain—they indicate the hotter
portion of our year: some of them are so hot that we perspire if we
stand still, though an Arab would freeze. What are we to do at such
times? Simply, let us sit quietly if we can, and enjoy our siesta in a
rather darkened room, with a pretty girl at the piano to sing for us,
whilst we have our ‘hubble-bubble’ and rose-water or fragrant cigar and
a pleasant book, till the cool of the evening. A considerable number
of the dog-days are anything but hot; they are dashed by rain, as
picnic parties know to their sorrow. St Swithin, of pluvial notoriety,
bids us put up our umbrellas on the 15th of July, whilst he assuages
the heat, and acts the part of Aquarius for the good of the world,
spoiling all the custards and junkets and cheese-cakes, and taking
out the stiffening of the ladies’ curls and collars in a remarkably
disagreeable manner, by a sudden downpour, that often continues for
many hours together. What an ungallant, heartless, and stingy old saint
he must be!




IN ALL SHADES.


CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Mr Dupuy was seated quietly at dinner in his own dining-room, with Nora
at the opposite end of the table, and Uncle ’Zekiel, the butler, in
red plush waistcoat as usual, standing solemnly behind his chair. Mr
Dupuy was in excellent spirits, in spite of the little affair of the
previous night, for the sugar-cane had cut very heavy, and the boiling
was progressing in the most admirable manner. He sipped his glass of
St Emilion (as imported) with the slow, easy air of a person at peace
with himself and with all creation. The world at large seemed just
that moment to suit him excellently. ‘Nora, my dear,’ he drawled out
lazily, with the unctuous deliberateness of the full-blooded man well
fed, ‘this is a capital pine-apple certainly—a Ripley, I perceive; far
superior in flavour, Ripleys, to the cheap common black sugar-pines:
always insist upon getting Ripleys.—I think, if you please, I’ll take
another piece of that pine-apple.’

Nora cut him a good thick slice from the centre of the fruit—it is
only in England that people commit the atrocity of cutting pine in
thin layers—and laid down the knife with a stifled yawn upon the tall
dessert dish. She was evidently bored—very deeply bored indeed. Orange
Grove without Harry Noel began to seem a trifle dull; and it must be
confessed that to live for months together with an old gentleman of
Mr Dupuy’s sluggish temperament was scarcely a lively mode of life
for a pretty, volatile, laughter-loving girl of twenty, like little
Nora. ‘What’s this, papa,’ she asked languidly, just by way of keeping
up the conversation, ‘about the negroes here in Westmoreland being
so dreadfully discontented? Somebody was telling me’—Nora prudently
suppressed Marian Hawthorn’s name, for fear of an explosion—‘that
there’s a great deal of stir and ferment among the plantation hands.
What are they bothering and worrying about now, I wonder?’

Mr Dupuy rolled the remainder of his glassful of claret on his
discriminative palate, very reflectively, for half a minute or so,
and then answered in his most leisurely fashion: ‘Lies, lies—a pack
of lies, the whole lot of it, Nora. I know who you heard that from,
though you won’t tell me so. You heard it from some of your fine
coloured friends there, over at Mulberry.—Now, don’t deny it, for I
won’t believe you. When I say a thing, you know I mean it. You heard
it, I say, from some of these wretched, disaffected coloured people.
And there isn’t a word of truth in the whole story—not a syllable—not
a shadow—not a grain—not a penumbra. Absolute falsehood, the entire
lot of it, got up by these designing radical coloured people, to serve
their own private purposes. I assure you, Nora, there isn’t in the
whole world a finer, better paid, better fed, better treated, or more
happy and contented peasantry than our own comfortable West Indian
negroes. For my part, I can’t conceive what on earth they’ve ever got
to be discontented about.’

‘But, papa, they _do_ say there’s a great chance of a regular rising.’

‘Rising, my dear!—rising! Did you say a rising? Ho, ho! that’s really
too ridiculous! What, these niggers rise in revolt against the white
people! Why, my dear child, they’d never dare to do it. A pack of
cowardly, miserable, quaking and quavering nigger blackguards.
Rise, indeed! I’d like to see them try it! O no; nothing of the
sort. Somebody’s been imposing on you. They’re too afraid of us, my
dear, ever to think of venturing upon a regular rising. Show me a
nigger, I always say to anybody who talks that sort of nonsense to
me, and I’ll show you a coward, and a thief too, and a liar, and a
vagabond.—’Zekiel, you rascal, pour me out another glass of claret,
sir, this minute!’

Uncle ’Zekiel poured out the claret for his red-faced master with a
countenance wholly unclouded by this violent denunciation of his own
race; to say the truth, the old butler was too much accustomed to
similar sentiments from Mr Dupuy’s lips ever to notice particularly
what his master was saying. He smiled and grinned, and showed his own
white teeth good-humouredly as he laid down the claret jug, exactly as
though Mr Dupuy had been ascribing to the African race in general, and
to himself in particular, all the virtues and excellences ever observed
in the most abstractly perfect human character.

‘No,’ Mr Dupuy went on dogmatically, ‘they won’t rise: a pack of
mean-spirited, cowardly, ignorant vagabonds as ever were born, the
niggers, the whole lot of them. I never knew a nigger yet who had a
single ounce of courage in him. You might walk over them, and trample
them down in heavy riding-boots, and they wouldn’t so much as dare
to raise a finger against you. And besides, what have they got to
rise for? Haven’t they got everything they can ever expect to have?
Haven’t they got their freedom and their cottages? But they’re always
grumbling, always grumbling about something or other—a set of idle,
lazy, discontented vagabonds as ever I set eyes on!’

‘I thought you said just now,’ Nora put in with a provoking smile,
‘they were the finest, happiest, and most contented peasantry to be
found anywhere.’

There was nothing more annoying to Mr Dupuy than to have one of his
frequent conversational inconsistencies ruthlessly brought home to him
by his own daughter—the only person in the whole world who would ever
have ventured upon taking such an unwarrantable liberty. So he laid
down his glass of claret with a forced smile, and by way of changing
the subject, said unconcernedly: ‘Bless my soul, what on earth can all
that glare be over yonder? Upon my word, now I look at it, I fancy,
Nora, it seems to come from the direction of the trash-houses.’

Uncle ’Zekiel, standing up behind his master’s chair, and gazing
outward, could see more easily over the dining-table, and out through
the open doorway of the room, to the hillside beyond, where the glare
came from. In a moment, he realised the full meaning of the unwonted
blaze, and cried out sharply, in his shrill old tones: ‘O sah, O sah!
de naygurs hab risen, an’ dem burnin’ de trash-houses, dem burnin’ de
trash-houses!’

Mr Dupuy, aghast with righteous anger and astonishment, could hardly
believe his own ears at this unparalleled piece of nigger impertinence
coming from so old a servant as Uncle ’Zekiel. He turned round upon
his trusty butler slowly and solemnly, chair and all, and with his two
hands planted firmly on his capacious knees, he said in his most awful
voice: ‘’Zekiel, I’m quite at a loss to understand what you can mean by
such conduct. Didn’t you hear me distinctly say to Miss Nora this very
minute that the niggers don’t rise, won’t rise, can’t rise, and never
have risen? How dare you, sir, how dare you contradict me to my very
face in this disgraceful, unaccountable manner?’

But Uncle ’Zekiel, quite convinced in his own mind of the correctness
of his own hasty inference, could only repeat, more and more
energetically every minute: ‘It de trut’ I tellin’ you, sah; it de
trut’ I tellin’ you. Naygur hab risen, runnin’ an’ shoutin’, kickin’
fire about, an’ burnin’ de trash-houses!’

Mr Dupuy rose from the table, pale but incredulous. Nora jumped up,
white and terrified, but with a mute look of horror-struck appeal to
Uncle ’Zekiel. ‘Doan’t you be afraid, missy,’ the old man whispered to
her in a loud undertone; ‘we fight all de naygur in all Trinidad before
we let dem hurt a single hair ob your sweet, pretty, white, little
head, dearie.’

At that moment, for the first time, a loud shout burst suddenly
upon their astonished ears, a mingled tumultuous yell of ‘Kill de
buckra—kill de buckra!’ broken by deep African guttural mumblings, and
the crackling noise of the wild flames among the dry cane-refuse. It
was the shout that the negroes raised as Delgado called them back from
the untimely fire to their proper work of bloodshed and massacre.

In her speechless terror, Nora flung herself upon her father’s arms,
and gazed out upon the ever reddening glare beyond with unspeakable
alarm.

Next minute, the cry from without rose again louder and louder: ‘Buckra
country for us! Kill de buckra! Colour for colour! Kill dem—kill dem!’
And then, another deep negro voice, clearer and shriller far than all
of them, broke the deathly stillness that succeeded for a second, with
the perfectly audible and awful words: ‘Follow me! I gwine to lead you
to kill de Dupuys an’ all de buckra!’

‘’Zekiel!’ Mr Dupuy said, coming to himself, and taking down his
walking-stick with that calm unshaken courage in which the white West
Indian has never been found lacking in the hour of danger—‘’Zekiel,
come with me! I must go out at once and quell these rioters.’

Nora gazed at him in blank dismay. ‘Papa, papa!’ she cried
breathlessly, ‘you’re not going out to them just with your stick, are
you? You’re not going out alone to all these wretches without even so
much as a gun or a pistol!’

‘My dear,’ Mr Dupuy answered, coolly and collectedly, disengaging
himself from her arms not without some quiet natural tenderness, ‘don’t
be alarmed. You don’t understand these people as well as I do. I’m a
magistrate for the county: they’ll respect my position. The moment I
come near, they’ll all disperse and grow as mild as babies.’

And even as he spoke, the confused shrieks of the women surged closer
and closer upon their ears: ‘Kill dem—kill dem! De liquor—de liquor!’

‘Ah! I told you so,’ Mr Dupuy murmured, half to himself, very
complacently, with a deep breath. ‘Only a foolish set of tipsy
negresses, waking and rum-drinking, and kicking about firebrands.’

For another second, there was a slight pause again, while one might
count twenty; and then the report of a pistol rang out clear and
definite upon the startled air from the direction of the flaring
trash-houses. It was Delgado’s pistol, shooting down the tipsy
recalcitrant.

‘This means business!’ Mr Dupuy ejaculated, raising his voice, with
a sidelong glance at poor trembling Nora.—‘Come along, ’Zekiel; come
along all of you. We must go out at once and quiet them or disperse
them.—Dick, Thomas, Emilius, Robert, Jo, Mark Antony! every one of you!
come along with me, come along with me, and see to the trash-houses
before these tipsy wretches have utterly destroyed them.’

(_To be continued._)




BEES AND HONEY.


The honey-bee has been an object of great interest from the very
earliest ages; the most ancient historical records make frequent
reference to it. ‘A little balm and a little honey’ formed part of the
present which Jacob sent into Egypt to Joseph in the time of the great
famine. The ‘busy bee’ figures also in Greek as well as Hebrew history.
The little creature has given a name to many females of high degree.
The Hebrew name of the bee (Deborah) was given to Rebecca’s nurse,
as also to that magnanimous prophetess whose courage and patriotism
inspired the flagging zeal and waning energies of her dispirited
countrymen. The Greek name of the bee (Melissa) was given to one of the
daughters of Melissus, king of Crete. It was she who, with her sister
Amalthæa, is fabled to have fed Jupiter with the milk of goats. She is
said, also, to have first discovered the means of collecting honey from
the stores of the bees, from which some ancient writers inferred that
she not only bore the name, but that she was actually changed into a
bee.

Another Greek story tells of a woman of Corinth, also bearing the name
of Melissa, who, having been admitted to officiate in the festivals
of Ceres, the goddess of agriculture, afterwards refused to initiate
others, and was torn to pieces for her disobedience, a swarm of bees
being made to rise from her body.

The old Greek name for the bee seems to have fallen into disuse in this
country as a name given to females, though there can be no reason why
its use should not be revived, for it is at least as melodious as the
Hebrew name of the same significance, still applied to many a matron
and maiden—a name which is expressive of honeyed sweetness, as also of
unwearied energy and untiring industry.

Those who have had personal knowledge and experience of bee-culture
will bear out the remark that bees are not particular as to the size
or the position of the home in which they choose to dwell, so that it
suffices for them to carry on with security their wonderful operations.
In their wild state, cavities of rocks and hollow trees are alike
available; and in their domestic conditions they have no preference for
a straw skep over a wooden box, nor for the wooden house over the straw
castle.

The bee, which, while under proper control and management, is one of
man’s best friends, proves, when assailed by him in any way, a terrible
adversary. Allusion is made to this by Moses in his story of what
befell the Israelites in their wilderness sojourn: ‘The Amorites came
out against you, and chased you as bees do, and destroyed you.’ The
strength and force of their sting is such as to enable them to pierce
the skin of the horse and other large animals and kill them. Their
ordinary speed when in flight, is from sixty to eighty miles an hour,
and they have been known to fly past the windows of an express train
when travelling at full speed in the same direction. Their manner of
attack is to dash straight at the object aimed at; and commonly, when
excited by the presence of some unknown spectator, and especially by
the intermeddling of some undexterous or mischievous person, they
will attack the face, aiming especially at the eyes. When, therefore,
the thousands which inhabit a single hive are aroused by the sound of
alarm, well understood by all the inmates, to repel an invader, they
sally forth with a courage and determination which none can withstand,
attacking their foes on every side with a fury it is impossible to
resist. King David must have witnessed just such a scene, which he
reproduces in his description of the fierce attacks, the determined
onslaughts of his bitter and unrelenting foes: ‘All nations compassed
me about ... they compassed me about like bees.’

Somewhat recently, the mishap of a porter in handling a box of bees
in transit by railway created an amusing and rather alarming scene at
the station. There was a general stampede of passengers and officials
flying in every direction, chased by the infuriated bees. It was
only when some one, skilled in the management of bees, catching the
queen and placing her in the box, restored confidence and quiet, for,
flocking loyally to her standard, the whole colony returned to the
case, which was in due time forwarded to its destination. But even this
was a small affair compared with what is related in ancient history of
persons being driven from their habitations, and the inhabitants of an
entire town being compelled to flee before myriads of bees. Ælianus,
who flourished about 200 A.D., gives an instance of this in one of his
seventeen books on animals. Mungo Park, too, the African traveller,
mentions a modern instance which took place near Dooproo: ‘We had no
sooner unloaded the asses than some of the people, being in search
of honey, inopportunely disturbed a large swarm of bees. They came
out in immense numbers, and attacked men and beasts at the same time.
Luckily, most of the asses were loose, and galloped up the valley; but
the horses and people were very much stung, and obliged to scamper
off in all directions. In fact, for half an hour the bees seemed
to have put an end to our journey. In the evening, when they became
less troublesome and we could venture to collect our cattle, we found
many of them much stung and swelled about the head. Three asses were
missing; one died in the evening, and another next morning. Our guide
lost his horse, and many of the people were much stung about the head
and face.’

The fierceness and unrelenting cruelty of the ancient Assyrians, and
the terror with which their swarming multitudes filled the inhabitants
of the lands they invaded, have caused them to be likened to bees in
their much-dreaded attacks on such as have aroused their anger: ‘And
it shall come to pass in that day that the Lord shall _hiss_ for the
fly that is in the uttermost part of the rivers of Egypt, and for the
bee that is in the land of Assyria. And they shall come, and shall rest
all of them in the desolate valleys, and in the holes of the rocks,
and upon all thorns, and upon all bushes.’ The ‘hiss’ was simply a
call, in allusion to the note of the queen bee, as she issues her royal
mandate to her ever loyal subjects to prepare for action. It has also
been supposed to allude to a custom prevailing in very ancient times
in connection with bee-culture, or honey-raising in the neighbourhood
of rivers. During the dry season, a number of hives would be placed
on a flat-bottomed boat, in the charge of an attendant. Very early
in the morning the boat would begin the day’s voyage, gently gliding
down the river, the bees sallying forth with the sun to collect their
golden stores and deposit them in their several hives, which they
commonly know by some mark. The innumerable flowers on the banks of
the rivers offered them a fine harvest-field. At the approach of
evening, the well-known whistle or ‘hiss’ of the care-taker—a decent
imitation of the queen’s own call—would bring them back to their hives
in multitudes, when the boat would be paddled back to the farm or other
place of rendezvous.

As an article of food, and as a much-valued and even royal luxury,
honey has been used from the remotest ages. Nor was it much, if any,
less in request as a healing medicine for both inward and outward
application. And though it may have fallen somewhat into disuse
in these days, when many good things are overlooked, and when the
artificial too often supplants the real, it may be safely predicted
that the wide and rapid spread of bee-culture will induce a return to
some of the wiser uses and methods and forms of adaptation employed by
our early forefathers, as well as stimulate to new applications and new
developments of its wondrous powers.

When and by whom mead or metheglin was first made from honey, could
not be easily determined. The two words are not unfrequently applied
to the same liquor; but that is not correct, as they are dissimilar.
Both, however, are made from honey, sometimes also from the refuse or
washings of the comb. Queen Elizabeth had such fondness for metheglin
as to prescribe carefully how it should be made and with what a variety
of herbs it should be flavoured. In Wales, it long continued to be
held in high esteem; and its various beneficial properties have been
quaintly set forth in a letter addressed to Cliffe the historian by the
learned Welshman, Rev. James Howells (born 1594), brother of Thomas
Howells, some time Bishop of Gloucester and Bristol. The uniqueness of
the communication is the apology for its quotation in full:

    SIR—To inaugurate a new and jovial new year unto you, I send you
    a morning’s draught [namely, a bottle of metheglin]. Neither Sir
    John Barleycorn nor Bacchus hath anything to do with it; but it is
    the pure juice of the bee, the laborious bee, and king of insects.
    The Druids and old British bards were wont to take a carouse hereof
    before they entered into their speculations; and if you do so when
    your fancy labours with anything, it will do you no hurt; and I
    know your fancy to be very good. But this drink always carries a
    kind of state with it, for it must be attended with a brown toast;
    nor will it admit of but one good draught, and that in the morning;
    if more, it will keep a-humming in the head, and so speak much
    of the house it came from, I mean the hive, as I gave a caution
    elsewhere; and because the bottle might make more haste, have made
    it go upon these (poetic) feet:


    _J. H. T. C. Salutem et Annum Platonicum._

    The juice of bees, not Bacchus, here behold,
    Which British bards were wont to quaff of old;
    The berries of the grape with furies swell,
    But in the honeycomb the graces dwell.

    This alludes to a saying which the Turks have, that there lurks a
    devil in every berry of the vine. So I wish you cordially as to me
    an auspicious and joyful new year, because you know I am, &c.

Metheglin is no doubt a healthy beverage, containing an admixture of
milk. Pallus Romulus, when he was a hundred years old, told Julius
Cæsar that he had preserved the vigour of his mind and body by taking
metheglin inwardly, and using oil outwardly. Metheglin and mead may
be made very strong, and, of course, they both contain some amount of
alcohol. In Virgil’s days, metheglin was used to qualify wine when
harsh. He writes of

    Huge heavy honeycombs, of golden juice,
    Not only sweet, but pure, and fit for use;
    To allay the strength and hardness of the wine,
    And with old Bacchus new metheglin join.

Mead or metheglin was the nectar of the Scandinavian nations, which
they expected to drink in heaven, using the skulls of their enemies as
goblets. Thus we read in Penrose’s _Carousal of Odin_:

    Fill the honeyed beverage high;
    Fill the skulls, ’tis Odin’s cry!
    Heard ye not the powerful call,
    Thundering through the vaulted hall?
    Fill the meathe, and spread the board,
    Vassals of the grisly lord!—
    The feast begins, the skull goes round,
    Laughter shouts—the shouts resound.

In England at the present time, mead, like many other old and excellent
domestic compounds, has passed almost entirely out of use. In very few
houses could it now be found. Here and there in a farmhouse where old
customs linger, it may still be had; and it is still used for colds
and other complaints, both in the case of men and cattle.

The revival of bee-keeping and the conduct of the enterprise on
scientific principles, will restore honey to its wonted place in the
domestic economy; and if carefully studied and thriftily managed, the
cultivation of bees and the product of honey may be made to form not
only an important article of food and a considerable item of domestic
revenue, but an ample source of amusement, and a means of recreation
healthful alike to body and mind.




A GALLANT RESCUE.


Some six years ago I was staying in a little village about half a
mile from the sea, on the south-east coast of Cornwall. I had just
recovered from a severe attack of blood-poisoning, and had not yet
entirely regained my strength. My two companions were Herbert B——, a
medical student, and Sam W——, a midshipman in the royal navy, both
of whom had lived the best part of their lives at the seaside, and
had been accustomed from their boyhood to boating and yachting in all
sorts of weather. The former, about six feet in height, was a paragon
of herculean strength. The latter, four inches less, was slightly but
firmly built, and in his eyes there was a look of boldness and audacity
which was unmistakable, whilst his every action gave evidence of a
catlike activity.

That part of the Cornish coast on which we were staying was bare and
rocky; a long line of cliffs rearing themselves straight out of the
water to a height of about two hundred feet, stretched half-a-dozen
miles on either side of us, affording no shelter for boats of a large
size. The only thing resembling a haven was a small bay about a mile
from our cottage, running a hundred and fifty yards inland, and facing
south-south-east. From each side of this bay a bold reef of rocks
jutted straight out to sea for about seventy yards, acting as natural
breakwaters, and preventing a surf in the bay even in the roughest
weather. In this bay, which was very dangerous of approach to those
who did not know the landmarks, we kept a fishing-boat, about twenty
feet long by six feet and a half beam; long and somewhat narrow, being
lightly built, and meant for rowing as well as sailing.

I was sitting alone in the dining-room of our cottage about eleven
o’clock on the morning of October 25, 1879. The wind, which had been
blowing fresh for the past three days, had increased during the night
to a strong gale from the south-west, and my two friends had gone out
about an hour before to watch the very rough sea, and to see if there
were any ships or boats in distress. I felt rather unwell, and was
congratulating myself on not having gone out in such weather, when I
heard a quick step outside the door, and Herbert burst in, crying in
a decided manner: ‘There’s a dismasted schooner drifting up channel,
broadside on to the sea; there’s a heavy squall of rain over Looe [the
nearest port, about eight miles off], and the life-boat people can’t
see her; so Sam and I are going off to her in the fishing-boat; and as
none of the villagers will come to steer, I’ve come to fetch you.’

‘Fetch me!’ I ejaculated, horror-struck. ‘But my illness’——

‘Put your illness in your pocket, and keep it there till you come
back,’ said my friend. ‘You _must_ come—unless you’re afraid,’ he
added, glaring at me.

Although of a weak and nervous temperament, I am by no means a coward;
so I told him I was ready to accompany him. On our way to the bay,
Herbert told me that when first seen, the schooner was dismasted, but
that the crew had managed to keep steerage-way on her by hoisting the
jib and letting her run before the gale: the canvas being rotten,
however, as is often the case on board small traders, the sail had
blown right out of the bolt-ropes, and the vessel had swung round
broadside on to the sea.

On reaching the cliff, a thrilling sight met my gaze. Some four miles
off, a square-topsail schooner of not more than two hundred tons was
being tossed about at the mercy of the waves. Her mainmast had gone by
the board, and her fore-topmast had snapped off a few feet above the
cap; her foreyard, however, still remained. She had a tremendous list
to port—which was also her lee-side—and every sea that struck her broke
clean over her, and seemed to shake her fearfully. We did not stop half
a minute to observe this, but hurried to the bay where our boat was
beached. Sam was preparing her for sea with all speed, but as coolly
as if he were going out with a water-party on the upper reaches of the
Thames.

After taking out some of the ballast to lighten her for the heavy
pull—we could not sail, for wind and sea were dead against us—the boat
was launched. No sooner had we got beyond the points of the two natural
breakwaters, than a sea with what sailors call a ‘head’ on it struck us
on the starboard bow, sending the boat’s head flying round and filling
her quarter-full of water.

‘Gracious powers!’ I cried, ‘we’ll never get out there. And if we do,
we’ll never get back safely with the boat full of people.’

‘Pull her head round to the sea, Sam, my boy.—Mind your helm, Arthur,
and don’t talk,’ said Herbert calmly. ‘And as soon as we get beyond
the rocks, you can start baling,’ he added, as we again met the first
wave outside the bay. But this time I was prepared, and grasping the
helm firmly, kept the boat’s head dead on to the sea. With one vigorous
stroke of the oars, which Herbert and Sam handled in a masterly style,
we dashed over, almost through, the huge billow that threatened to
ingulf us, and not a moment too soon, for a second after it passed
under our stern, it broke with a roar like the report of a cannon.

Then began a tremendous battle against wind and sea; Herbert dragging
his oar through the water with that apparent ease and grace peculiar to
men endowed with enormous muscular power; whilst Sam, who was pulling
bow-oar, strained his sinewy arms and lithe body till, by their united
efforts, the spray flew over the boat’s bow as she boldly dashed over,
often through, the waves. We were wet to the skin; and it was with
great difficulty that I could keep the boat’s head straight.

After about an hour and a half of as hard work as two men ever endured
in a good cause, during which time I was kept constantly baling, we
got close under the lee of the wrecked vessel, which had now drifted
to within two miles of the shore. There were eight poor half-frozen
wretches on board, one of whom was a woman, clinging to some spars
which were securely lashed on the mainhold hatch. When we shouted and
signalled them to throw us a rope, none of them moved. The cold and
wet, and staying so long in the same position, had so stiffened them
that they were unable to render us any assistance in getting on board.
We then tried to approach the lee-quarter of the wreck; but just as
we got under the mainchains, by which my companions meant to climb on
board, a tremendous sea broke over the weather-quarter, and washing
down over the lee gunwale, half filled our boat, and almost upset it.

‘We’re gone this time!’ I exclaimed.

‘Then we’ll all go together,’ cried Sam in a tone as if he rather
enjoyed the idea than otherwise.

‘Out oars and pull back again,’ said Herbert calmly, without taking any
notice of my frightened exclamation, for the wave had washed us some
distance from the schooner.

On again approaching the wreck, we found the upper part of the
fore-topmast floating about thirty feet from her side, with the
fore-topmast backstay still fastened to it. After some trouble, Sam
managed to cut the spar adrift and make the rope secure to our boat,
the other end still being fast to the schooner. Herbert, telling me to
keep the boat as clear of water as possible with the baling bucket,
went forward. Taking hold of the rope, he jumped overboard, quickly
drew himself hand over hand to the schooner’s side, and climbed on
board by the forechains. Sam soon followed him, though he was nearly
washed away by a sea which broke over the schooner. Herbert, however,
who was clinging to the foreshrouds, quickly grasped his wrist, and
saved him.

After a short consultation, Sam went aloft with a rope, and lying
out on the lee foreyard arm, passed the end of the rope through the
brace-block. He then came down on deck again, and making a bowline on
a bight (a knot with two large loops) with it, gave it to Herbert,
who made it and the other end of the rope fast to a belaying pin. Sam
then came back to the boat to help me to receive the unfortunates.
Herbert proceeded with great difficulty to the main hatch, and waiting
till a huge wave had washed over the schooner, took the woman in his
strong arms and brought her to where he had made fast the tackle. He
then signalled us to haul the boat as near to the wreck as we dared.
Then he put the woman’s head and shoulders through one loop, and her
limbs through the other, and waiting his opportunity, swung her on
to the boat, where we unslung her, so to speak, and passed the knot
back to Herbert. The crew followed in the same manner. As Herbert was
carrying the last of them down to swing him over to the boat, the
schooner shipped a tremendous sea, which sent Herbert and his burden
flying into the lee scuppers. After remaining in suspense for half
a minute without either of them appearing above the bulwarks, Sam
jumped at once overboard, dragged himself by the rope to the wreck,
and climbed on board. Stooping, he disengaged the tightly clasped arms
of the sailor from Herbert’s neck; he then helped his friend, who was
half insensible, to rise, and propped him against the bulwarks with
his arms round the backstay. Sam was then about to stoop again to help
the sailor, when he recoiled with an exclamation of horror. The poor
fellow’s head, as he had fallen with Herbert’s huge weight on the top
of him, had struck against the main-bits, and was shattered: he was
stone-dead!

With great difficulty Sam managed to put his friend into the bowline
and sling him over to the boat, he himself following by the rope by
which we were made fast to the schooner. Herbert, who looked very pale
and ill, sank back exhausted in the stern-sheets. A thin stream of
blood was trickling from his temple; and he also suffered from pain in
his right side.

It was late in the afternoon ere we cast off our rope and prepared
for our homeward journey. We had scarcely got fifty yards from the
schooners side, when a heavy sea struck her; she shook from stem to
stern, then heeled over to port till we thought she would capsize;
but she righted herself again, as if struggling to keep afloat, then
slowly began to sink by the bow. A second wave struck her, more on
the quarter; plunging her bow into the trough of the sea, she raised
her stern in the air, and, diving like some sea monster, disappeared.
We afterwards learned from the captain that her cargo—loose limestone
blocks of about a hundredweight each—had shifted. The list this gave
to the schooner had caused the mainmast, which was already slightly
sprung, to go over the side, taking the fore-topmast with it. The
shifting of the cargo had also started one of the planks, which
accounted for the schooner springing a leak and going down.

The wind, which had chopped round to the southward, had blown us to
within half a mile of the shore. Hoisting our close-reefed lug, we
steered for the small haven, which we reached in safety in a quarter
of an hour, after having narrowly escaped being upset by the ugly
‘topping’ of a wave at the entrance between the two points of rock.
We were received with shouts of joy from the villagers and some
coastguardsmen, who, having perceived that the vessel was drifting in
shore, had prepared the rocket apparatus in case of emergency.

Poor Herbert had to be lifted out of the boat and carried to our
cottage on a stretcher. A surgeon was in immediate attendance, and we
awaited with no little anxiety the result of his examination. Three
ribs were found to be fractured; but the wound in his temple proved
very slight. Suffice it to say that our friend was able to return to
his studies in a few weeks.

Neither Sam nor myself suffered from our exposure; the former remaining
all night in attendance on Herbert; I, taking a steaming glass of grog,
turned in between the blankets.

The shipwrecked crew were well attended to by the landlord of the
village inn, and were next morning sent on to Plymouth. Nothing
was known about the man who was killed; he had shipped on board the
schooner at Falmouth, but no one knew where he came from.

A week after this event we received a letter of thanks from the owners
of the schooner, who also offered us a handsome acknowledgment for our
timely assistance, which we declined with thanks.

The captain, who is now master of a much larger vessel, and whose wife
it was we had saved, insists on repeating his expressions of gratitude
whenever we meet; but his tone becomes very grave when we laugh and
attempt to make light of the danger we encountered.




OUR HEDGEHOGS.


Who among us has not been amused and delighted by Frank Buckland’s most
original accounts of the various animals, wild and tame, with which,
at different periods of his career, he came in contact? Reading in his
_Life_ the account of the hedgehog imported into the Deanery in the
fond hope that it would devour the black beetles, has reminded us of
some of our own experiences in connection with those animals. We were
troubled with black beetles in our kitchen regions, and were informed
that hedgehogs would eat them. It was long before the _Life of Frank
Buckland_ appeared; we had not the benefit of his experience, or we
might have known that, as he says, ‘they don’t act. A hedgehog cannot
possibly hold more than a pint of beetles at a time, and in my kitchen
there are gallons of them.’

When the first hedgehog arrived and was turned loose in the kitchen, we
expected great things of it; but, to our surprise, the creature would
not take the trouble to catch the beetles. They might swarm on every
side, ‘beetles to right of him, beetles to left of him;’ they might run
right before his eyes—he only regarded them with placid indifference.
He may have performed prodigies of beetle-catching in the middle of the
night when no one saw him; but so far as our observation went, the only
way in which he could be induced to eat any was when they were caught
for him—taken up in the fire-shovel and presented to him on that as on
a dish. Certainly there was no perceptible diminution in the number of
black beetles, and our regret was therefore the less when before long
the hedgehog mysteriously disappeared. Perhaps the beetles ate him;
perhaps he managed to slip out unobserved into the yard. At all events,
no trace of him was ever discovered; not even his skeleton in the flue,
as was the case with Frank Buckland’s hedgehog.

After this, I don’t suppose we expected much in the way of
beetle-eating from his successor, known amongst us by the name of
Hogatha; but she was less shy and more sociable than many hedgehogs,
and amused us by her droll ways. She would of course roll herself into
a prickly ball when touched, but would uncurl as I sat with her on my
lap, and look about her with her bright little eyes. I think she would
soon have become tame, and I should have made a pet of her, but for
one unfortunate circumstance. If even the whale has his unmentionable
parasite, it will not perhaps appear surprising when I mention that
fleas in great number inhabited my little friend’s bristly coat. When
she uncurled as she lay on my lap, they could be seen running in and
out over her odd little head and face. Perhaps this is a favourite
locality, being less bristly, and presumably more comfortable for the
fleas than the more prickly portions of the body. But it was too much.
Not even for the sake of cultivating the acquaintance of the charming
Hogatha, could I face the prospect of restless nights and irritated
skin, so our friendship waned.

It must have been this hedgehog which frightened me one night. I was
not learned in natural history, and didn’t know that hedgehogs could
run fast and mount stairs. It was late at night, and I was in bed, when
I was startled by hearing strange noises in the passage outside my
door. Sometimes they appeared distant, sometimes near; sometimes there
came a kind of scraping at the door, which had a most uncanny sound. Is
there such a thing as being physically superstitious, the mind having
little or nothing to do with it? If so, I was physically superstitious;
and the tendency which was in my blood, handed down perhaps from old
Breton ancestors, was developed (parents and nurses, please take heed
to my words!) by ghost stories told me in my childhood. At the time of
which I am writing, though quite grown up, I well remember there was
one story in particular I hardly dared recall, which, if it came back
to my memory in the night, would cause the old feeling of terror to
overwhelm me like a flood; wherefore it was with an effort that I got
up and lit the gas; then, ‘taking my courage in both hands,’ I opened
the door—and behold! there was Hogatha tearing up and down the long
passage like an express train! I couldn’t consent to have her _and_ her
fleas, and I couldn’t have her without, so I conveyed her down-stairs,
and shut her in the kitchen.

Then there was the sweet little baby hedgehog, given me by a lad who
found a nest in his garden. We didn’t mean to be cruel, either of us,
but no doubt were so, for the poor little thing was too young to be
taken from its mother. I could not induce it to eat or drink, and at
last I gave it to the cat, which had kittens at the time, to see if
she would adopt it. She received it graciously when I put it into her
basket, as though it had been her own kitten. But it was all no use;
the poor little thing pined and died.

We were by this time pretty well convinced that beetle-eating on the
part of hedgehogs was chiefly theoretical, with just as much relation
to the realities of life as many other theories, and no more. We
desired, however, to keep our minds open to new impressions; and when
told that they were useful in a garden because they would eat the
snails and slugs, we believed our informant, and hailed with gratitude
the arrival of two fresh hedgehogs. They were named Paul and Virginia,
and were shut up in the summer-house, with the idea that when they had
become well accustomed to that as their place of abode, they might
not run away when allowed to go loose in the garden. But there must
be some mistake about their fondness for snails and slugs. I took one
to Paul (or Virginia, I am not sure which) one day; and, after some
hesitation, he slowly ate it; but presently threw it out of his mouth.
It didn’t seem encouraging when you remember that they were expected to
help to clear the garden of such pests. However, Paul and Virginia were
allowed, when supposed to be sufficiently at home, to take their walks
abroad, and then they also disappeared, nor have I ever seen either of
the queer creatures since.




HOW PAT DELANEY PAID HIS RENT.


I was born in County Blank, Ireland, educated in Dublin, and chose for
profession—if profession it may be called—that of a tea-planter; but
times were bad, health failed me, and after ten years spent in Assam, I
returned to England with the intention of remaining, should a suitable
appointment be procurable. No one knows, however, till he tries how
difficult it is to find suitable employment on returning after a lapse
of years to one’s old haunts; the true reason of it being that there
is too large a proportion of the _genus homo_ collected together in
this corner of the globe. My parents had died during my absence, and
their property had passed into the hands of an elder brother with whom
I was not on good terms, so I did not revisit the old place. Hearing,
however, that my uncle, Sir Toby O’Bride, who owned considerable
estates in another county, was having some trouble with his tenants, I
thought I would cross over and see him.

My respected relative was in the act of shutting up house and beating
a hasty retreat from the country. No rents had been forthcoming for
some time, so he had lately changed his agent. The new one succeeded
in bringing a few of the tenants to their senses and the rents to Sir
Toby’s pocket, but two nights previous to my arrival the unfortunate
man was shot when returning home through the park, after dining with
Sir Toby. The police had some _suspects_ in charge; but as it proved,
they had no hand in the affair, and the guilt was never brought home to
the real perpetrator.

‘I don’t know,’ said my uncle, ‘what is to be done, but at present I
intend going away for a time. They will shoot at me next, if I remain.
This shocking affair has quite unnerved me.’ My uncle did indeed look
shaken and ill.

‘I have a plan,’ said I, ‘if I may suggest it? Let me take the agent’s
place, and see if I can improve matters. The people all know me more
or less, and if any of them try to make holes in me, they will find me
well prepared to retaliate. I mean this seriously, uncle. I am an idle
man at present, and will be more than pleased if you let me have my
way.’

He pooh-poohed my proposition at first, declaring it was simply
suicidal to attempt such a thing; but he finally consented, and I was
installed in the agent’s cosy cottage at a salary of four hundred
pounds per annum. The first step was to purchase ostentatiously a
pair of six-chambered revolvers, and erecting a target in the garden,
I peppered away at it. Whenever any one came to my office, I took
occasion to show what an excellent shot I was. The office window stood
high from the ground, and was furnished with iron bars and a grating
like that of a prison cell. When the tenantry came to pay their rent,
they found me seated at the table with one of my faithful beauties on
each side of me, and it was well known that I never left the house
without them.

Whether it was owing to my knowledge of the character of the people
with whom I had to deal, or whether it was their knowledge that I liked
them sincerely, but knew them too well to be ‘done’ by them or to fear
their threats, I cannot say; whichever way it was, no attempt was made
on my life, and a larger proportion of the rents due passed through my
hands in the course of the year than had through those of the agents
for some time previously. Of course, there were some tenants who could
not or would not pay their rent. Stories of bad harvests, cattle dying,
pigs getting measles, and starving families at home, came eloquently
from the glib tongues of the delinquents. Sometimes true, more or less,
generally less, for there was very little bad land on the estate.
Foremost amongst the last-named section was one named Delaney. He held
a good farm, which had been tenanted for generations back by Delaneys,
who had been counted good tenants in their day; but this Pat came under
the influence of agitators, who perverted his ideas of honesty.

Pat Delaney was among the first to refuse to pay his rent, and the
aggravating part of it was that I felt sure he had the money. He was
the best judge of horses in the country-side, and attended all the
fairs, doing a good deal of cattle-dealing in a quiet way, so that
in spite of bad seasons, he was counted a well-to-do man among his
fellows. But on rent-day not a shilling was forthcoming. The old
story—failure of the potato crop, bad harvest, wife sick, a lot of
mouths to fill, and ‘Wouldn’t I put in a word for him with the masther?
Shure, the kind ould masther wouldn’t be hard on a poor man. He would
pay up next rent-day for sartain.’

‘No, Pat,’ said I. ‘This is the second time you have brought me that
story. You are far behindhand with your rent; and if you don’t pay up
now, out you must go. The land is good and the rent low. If you can’t
make it pay, we must find another tenant who will. It goes against my
heart to turn you out, for Delaneys have been on the place for three
generations now; and I am sure you _can_ pay, if you like. The Delaneys
were never paupers before.’

Glancing sharply at him, I saw a flicker of indecision pass over his
countenance, and his hand fidgeted with the edge of his jacket; but
in a moment the former expression of doggedness came over his face
like a cloud; he straightened himself, and said insolently: ‘Shure an’
wouldn’t I pay if I could? It isn’t dishonest ye’re thinkin’ I am?’

An idea struck me. Changing my tone, I remarked indifferently: ‘O no;
the Delaneys were always honest. But if the money is not forthcoming,
out you must go, and there’s an end of the matter.’

Gathering up the books, I returned them to the safe, locked it, and
taking my hat, I turned to my companion and began confidentially: ‘I
want to ask your opinion about something, Pat. They tell me you are a
good judge of a nag; I want you to tell me what you think of one I
have in the stable just now.’

At the word ‘nag,’ Pat was all attention.

‘She’s a beauty, and, I imagine, should fetch a good deal. She belongs
to a friend of mine, who is hard up, and asked me if I could sell her
for him, which will be easily done; but I want your opinion of her.
There are two or three offers for her already. She was bought, I know,
for one hundred and twenty pounds; but that is a little time ago; and
my friend would take sixty pounds for her now, or even forty pounds,
down.’

Pat’s eyes scintillated, and I saw his hand tremble with eagerness.
By this time we had reached the stable where Black Bess, my beautiful
hunter, stood. She had arrived a week before, a gift from my uncle, Sir
Toby, and she looked her hundred and twenty guineas every inch, the
beauty!

‘Cheap at forty pounds, eh, Pat? Look at her points, man. I wish I
could buy her myself.’

‘She’s a purty crayture, sor,’ ejaculated Pat as he went over her
points with keen appreciation. Looking at her teeth, patting the
glossy, arched neck, and finally passing his hand down each leg, he
raised his head, and said in a sheepish sort of way: ‘She’s worth her
forty pounds, sor.’

‘Yes, I know that. Now, I thought you might know of some one wanting a
horse. Perhaps one of your friends might like to deal; but I must have
cash down.’

‘I know ov one man who moight take him, sor.’

‘Do you? Well, I’d be glad if you’d send him to me to-morrow; and if
the mare is still here, he may have her; but he must take his chance,
mind you. I have several offers, and “first come first served” is the
rule for this business. Sir Thomas Clarke has an eye on her, and would
probably give sixty pounds if I hung on a bit; but my friend wants the
money at once. Emerson of Bogside was here this morning, and liked the
looks of her; said he might look back in the afternoon and close the
bargain; so your friend must take his chance.’

‘Shure, sor, and ye moight jest keep her till me frind sees her
to-morrow. He’s sartain shure to take her, and cash down on the spot.’
Pat was most persuasive, and I saw by the gleam in his eye that he was
safe on my hook. He knew as well as I did that he had only to take her
to the first fair and he would get seventy or eighty pounds for her, if
not more.

‘No, no. A bargain is a bargain. I told Emerson that it would be a
case of first come first served. If Black Bess is here to-morrow, your
friend can have her, and welcome; but I cannot keep her for any one.’

A heavy footstep tramped up the garden path, and we heard a loud voice
asking for me.

‘Why, that must be Emerson back already!—Good-day, Pat; I don’t think I
need ask you to trouble your friend, after all.’

‘Stop, stop, sor; I’ll buy the mare meself, and here’s the money.’
Ripping open the lining of his jacket, he thrust a roll of dirty notes
into my hand.

Slowly I counted them, ‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight
five-pound notes. That makes forty. Thanks, Pat. Just half your rent!
Now, you go home and bring me the other half. I know you have it all,
and you cannot deny it.’

When I wrote to Sir Toby, I had the extreme satisfaction of telling him
that Delaney had paid up in full; and Black Bess carries me none the
worse for having been an unconscious actor in the little drama which
proved so successful.




THE MONTH:

SCIENCE AND ARTS.


We have much pleasure in recording the establishment of the ‘County
Scientific Society for Middlesex.’ There are many such Societies, most
of them in a very flourishing condition, dotted about the kingdom,
where, for a small subscription, the members can meet at lectures,
concerts, and various entertainments. In addition to this, many of
these institutions have attached to them educational and art classes,
which students can attend for a small fee. It is certainly time that
the metropolitan county should be similarly provided for, although
for some years past many local institutions of the kind have sprung
up round about the great city. Among the vice-presidents of the new
Society we note such honoured names as Lubbock, Huxley, Flower, Abel,
and Geikie. These alone should insure that success which we hope
the enterprise will achieve. Application for membership and other
particulars may be obtained from Mr Sydney T. Klein, Clarence Lodge,
Willesden, N.W.

The newspapers constantly remind us that there are many persons in the
kingdom who object to vaccination, and, as a matter of course, there
are not wanting agitators who are constantly calling aloud for the
repeal of the law which makes the operation compulsory. Three years ago
an outcry of the same kind arose at Zurich in Switzerland, with the
effect that the cantonal law of compulsory vaccination was repealed.
By reference to the official returns set forth in a paper by Professor
Dunant, we are able to judge of the effect of the popular vote. In the
canton named, the deaths from smallpox were in the year 1881, seven;
in the two following years there were no deaths from that disease; in
1884, they rose to eleven; in 1885, they were seventy-three; and in the
first three months of this present year, the deaths from smallpox were
no fewer than eighty-five. These terrible figures need no comment, save
the remark, that they do not take into account the sightless eyes and
dreadful disfigurements of those who were attacked but did not die.

More conclusive evidence as to the efficacy of Jenner’s discovery may
be gathered from Dr Jassen’s book, recently published at Brussels. Let
us quote one instance given. Last year, in twenty-one German towns
having an aggregate population of four millions, where vaccination was
compulsory, the deaths from smallpox numbered twenty-seven; while in
fifteen French towns owning the same aggregate number of inhabitants,
but where the law was not in force, there were no fewer than eight
hundred and sixty-six deaths from smallpox in the same period.

According to a Report published by Lieutenant von Nimptsch of a journey
made by him with a traveller attached to the Congo Free State, a
navigable river has been discovered by them which is likely to be of
great importance to the future trade of the Congo. The river Congo,
as will be seen by the map, flows in a north-westerly direction, and
afterwards takes a southward course to its mouth in the Atlantic Ocean.
Within the large tract of country comprised in this bend of the river,
has been found the new waterway. It is described by the travellers
as flowing through wide plains well adapted for cultivation, with
pasturage, and forests of palms, and gutta-percha trees. Plenty of
ivory was obtainable, in exchange for empty boxes and tins, from the
inhabitants of the many villages which lined the banks of the river.
There are many affluents to this waterway, one of which was navigable
for two hundred and fifty miles. Altogether, we have presented to us
in the Report a network of navigable rivers extending over a length of
more than three thousand miles.

An interesting note in the _Times_ tells of a place in Russia, in the
region of the Transbaïkal, where there exists a multitude of mineral
springs. These have been held in high repute by the natives for many
years, and it has long been the custom to bring patients to the springs
for curative treatment. Not only human beings, but cattle, sheep,
and horses suffering from cutaneous affections have, it is alleged,
benefited by such treatment. The temperature of the springs varies
from thirty-five to over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit; and some are
ferruginous, some alkaline, and others sulphurous in composition. At
present, the alleged virtues of these waters are only known locally,
and there is little accommodation for strangers. But it is believed
that, in the future, patients will be attracted to the place from great
distances.

At Sonnblick, one of the heights of the Tyrolese Alps, the summit of
which is ten thousand feet above the sea-level, an observatory is in
course of construction, which will represent the highest establishment
of the kind in Europe. The summit of this mountain is more easily
accessible than some of the neighbouring peaks; and there is already
a wire-rope way which affords communication with some mines half-way
up the mountain. It was the owner of these mines who was the first
to point out the desirability of establishing an observatory here.
The building will consist of a blockhouse and a massive stone turret
forty feet high, which will form the observatory proper. The house is
being built of timber in preference to stone, as experience teaches
that the former material is more effectual in keeping out the intense
cold prevalent at such an altitude. The observer will be in telephonic
communication with the miner’s house two thousand feet below him; and
from the latter place a record of his observations will be telegraphed
to the nearest city, and thence all the world over.

Another portion of the old wall of London has recently been laid bare
by some excavations now in progress near Ludgate Hill, at the Broadway,
Blackfriars. This portion of the ancient defence of the capital is
clearly a continuation of the fragment removed a few years ago, and
is built mainly of limestone and rough mortar intermingled with tiles,
bricks, and, strange to say, lumps of soft white chalk.

We have lately had the opportunity of examining a little piece of
apparatus which represents the most recent advance in photographic
contrivances. In outward appearance it is a book, somewhat less in
size than the ordinary two-shilling railway novel. Upon opening it,
it is seen to have flexible folds like the web of a duck’s foot, and
when open, it remains so fixed by invisible springs. It is in reality
a wedge-shaped camera furnished with a lens, which is sunk into the
middle of the back of the imitation book. It is also furnished with a
hidden shutter, which closes and uncloses the lens aperture at the will
of the owner.

The recent inclement and unseasonable weather in the south of England
has been characterised by two very unusual occurrences. First, at
Deal in Kent, a small whirlwind lifted some boats from the beach,
displaced a heavy crane on the railway, and did other damage. A few
days afterwards, a similar phenomenon occurred at Sparham, Norfolk,
which presented some extraordinary features. Its course could be traced
for half a mile; and its path of destruction was well marked by a patch
which, commencing with a width of two yards only, finished at the end
of the half mile with a width of one hundred yards. During the two
minutes which the storm lasted, it uprooted trees, unroofed houses,
pulverised some hencoops, and wrought much destruction. The weather was
perfectly calm except over the space covered by the whirlwind.

The total eclipse of the sun which will take place on the 29th of
August is to be observed by an expedition sent out by the Royal Society
and by funds from the Treasury. The party will at first proceed to
Barbadoes, and will be conveyed thence to Grenada by a war-vessel. The
island will be covered with stations for observing the eclipse, and all
modern instruments will be used in the operations. The eclipse will not
be visible at Greenwich.

There has been established for many years a school of practical
engineering at the Crystal Palace, Sydenham, and this school has
already educated many who have excelled in their profession. As an
example of the practical method of instruction pursued, we note that
recently a steamer of thirteen hundred tons was worked from London to
Dundee and back by a division of the students who are turning their
attention to marine engineering. They were divided into gangs of four,
and each gang had to work for ten hours in the engine-room under the
strictest discipline. While in the north, they had an opportunity of
making a professional inspection of the new Tay Bridge.

Experiments have recently been made at Berlin with a new description
of military shell which is charged with rolls of gun-cotton. The
projectile is said to be so destructive that no defensive works however
solid can withstand it. The German government are so satisfied with the
experiments that they have ordered a large number of the shells to be
manufactured forthwith.

According to the _Revue Scientifique_, the discovery or suggestion of
the Germ theory of disease cannot be placed to the credit of modern
physicists, but is due to a Dr Goiffon, who died at Lyons more than one
hundred and fifty years ago. He published a work on the Origin of the
Plague in 1721, from which the following is quoted: ‘Minute insects
or worms can alone explain these diseases. It is true they are not
visible, but it does not therefore follow that they are non-existent.
It is only that our microscopes are not at present powerful enough to
show them. We can easily imagine the existence of creatures which bear
the same proportion to mites that mites bear to elephants. No other
hypothesis can explain the facts; neither the malign influence of the
stars, nor terrestrial exhalations, nor miasmata, nor atoms, whether
biting or burning, acid or bitter, could regain their vitality once
they had lost it. If, on the other hand, we admit the existence of
minute living creatures, we understand how infection can be conveyed in
a latent condition from one place, to break out afresh in another.’

Among the multifarious objects on view at that palace of wonders,
the Colonial and Indian Exhibition, are naturally many products of
the animal and vegetable kingdoms which are comparatively strange to
British experience. Among these may be named certain drugs, gums and
resins, oils, dyes, different kinds of timber fibres, leathers, &c.
Now, it is evident that many of these things may be useful to our
manufacturers if only their properties can be made known. With this
view, arrangements have been made for the systematic examination of
these foreign products, to see whether they can be applied to present
manufactures, or whether they are suitable for new purposes. Visitors
to the Exhibition can attend these examinations, which, if necessary,
will be followed by conferences.

A thoughtful man, in strolling through the vast network of galleries
at the Colonial Exhibition, cannot help feeling that there is some
excuse for the national boast that ‘Britannia rules the waves,’ for
all the treasures of the earth seem to be gathered together here.
The next thought that must occur to every one is the regret that the
Exhibition is only a temporary one, and that the riches which have been
gathered with such care and trouble from such a wide area must soon
be again dispersed. There are indications that this regret, felt as
it is by the executive as well as by the casual visitor, may lead to
a practical result. For years it has been urged by a few that London
ought to possess a Colonial Museum. We have now an unusual opportunity
for forming the nucleus of such an establishment, and that opportunity
should not be lost.

It seems difficult to believe that in these hard-working and
matter-of-fact times, persons should be found who revert to the gross
superstitions common to the people in far-off centuries. A so-called
astrologer has been for a year at least making a good living by casting
nativities in the neighbourhood of Brunswick Square, London; but his
operations have been cut short by a fine in the police court.

The controversy which has been going on for some months between Mr
J. C. Robinson and Sir James D. Linton as to the alleged fading of
water-colour paintings through exposure to light and other influences
is now to be brought to public arbitration. Sir James Linton, the
President of the Royal Institute of Painters, has arranged to open an
exhibition of the works of the most celebrated artists of the last
fifty years, so that all may judge whether they have deteriorated. He
is a champion for the permanence of this delightful phase of art; while
Mr Robinson thinks differently.

The manufacture of whitelead, while representing one of our most
important industries, has always had the bad character of being most
destructive to the health and lives of the workmen employed in it. The
substitution of other materials in the making of white paint has been
constantly tried, but all give the palm to whitelead because of its
‘covering’ power. A new process has just been devised by Messrs Lewis
and Bartlett for producing whitelead of the finest quality direct from
the ore. The process is too long to describe here, but we may briefly
state its advantages over the old method. It combines two manufactures,
for whitelead and piglead are produced simultaneously. No deleterious
fumes escape into the atmosphere, for the smelting furnace employed
has no chimney. The operations are conducted with a greatly reduced
expenditure of time and labour; while, best of all, the industry is not
in any way hurtful to the workers. The process is an American one, and
is introduced into this country by Messrs John Hall & Sons of Bristol.

It would seem from the letter of a correspondent to the _Standard_
that frogs and mice are deadly enemies. This gentleman observed a
battle-royal going on between these creatures in a shed. The mice
pursued the frogs all over the place, for some little time without
result, for the frogs managed to elude them. But gradually the mice
gained an advantage, capturing and recapturing the frogs, and biting
them until they were incapable of further resistance. The mice then
finished the business by devouring a portion of the dead frogs.

The last new agricultural implement is a hay-loader, which has been
recently patented by Mr Spilman of Dakota. This machine collects the
scattered hay from the field, raises it to a suitable height, and
finally discharges it upon the hayrack of the wagon. Lovers of the
beauties of the country will regret that the pleasant sight afforded
by a number of bronzed haymakers loading a wagon, a scene which has
so often tempted the artist’s pencil, should be threatened by the
introduction of this mechanical thing. But time is money, and there is
now little room for sentiment.

From the Report of a Cattle Show recently held at Buenos Ayres we learn
that the South Americans are by no means behind Europeans in their
use of machinery and implements for agricultural use. Also, that the
live-stock there has much benefited by the importation of short-horns
from Britain, and from Charolais in France, so far as the cattle are
concerned, and that the sheep have equally benefited by acquaintance
with our southdowns and with the French merinos. Some few years ago, a
loud outcry arose among our agriculturists that buyers from the other
side of the Atlantic were purchasing all our best stock at prices far
beyond what the British farmer could afford to pay. There is now the
hope that we shall be recouped by the importation of mutton and beef of
first-rate quality. The freezing process has now been brought to such
perfection that, with meat from the English stock, it should afford us
the opportunity of getting the best flesh food far cheaper than we can
attempt to raise it for ourselves.

Surely Mr Flinders Petrie is the most successful and energetic digger
that the archæological world has ever seen. His past discoveries have
already resulted in much increased knowledge of dead nations; but now
he has lighted upon a most curious find in the north-eastern delta of
the Nile: this is a royal palace, which is identified with the greatest
certainty with that building which the Bible calls ‘Pharaoh’s house
in Tahpanhes.’ The building carries us back in imagination to the
Egypt of two thousand five hundred years ago. Next to its scriptural
connection, interest centres in the description of the domestic offices
of the building; and as we read of the kitchen with its dresser, the
butler’s pantry full of empty wine vessels and their stoppers, the
sanctum of the scullery-maid with its sink, we feel that the place has
been tenanted by ordinary human beings. Mr Petrie’s account of the sink
is worth quoting: ‘It is formed of a large jar with the bottom knocked
out, and filled with broken potsherds placed on edge. The water ran
through this, and thence into more broken pots below, placed one in
another, all bottomless, going down to the clean sand some four or five
feet below.’

Mr Francis Greene publishes in an American journal the results of some
careful observations which he has made on street traffic. According to
him, asphalt is a far better covering for roads than either granite or
wood. He puts the matter in this way: a horse will travel five hundred
and eighty-three miles on asphalt before meeting with an accident,
four hundred and thirteen on granite, and two hundred and seventy-two
miles on wood. This agrees with experience in London with regard to the
first two materials, but not with regard to wood, which experts say is
the safest material of all. Londoners have certainly the best means of
judging of this, for there is very little wood-paving in America. At
the same time, it is quite certain that altogether accidents are far
more frequent in London. This may be accounted for by the dampness of
the air, which gives rise to the peculiar greasiness of the streets, so
fatal to horses; and also by the increased traffic, which leads to the
accumulation of manure, another element in the slippery state of the
roads.

The snail harvest has recently begun in France. The ‘poor man’s oyster’
is so appreciated by our neighbours that Paris alone consumes some
forty-nine tons daily, the best kind coming from Grenoble or Burgundy.
The finest specimens are carefully reared in an _escargotière_, or
snail-park, such as the poor Capuchin monks planned in bygone days
at Colmar and Weinbach, when they had no money to buy food, and so
cultivated snails. But the majority are collected by the vine-dressers
in the evening from the stone heaps where the snails have assembled
to enjoy the dew. The creatures are then starved in a dark cellar for
two months, and when they have closed up the aperture of their shell,
are ready for cooking. According to the true Burgundy method, they
are boiled in five or six waters, extracted from the shell, dressed
with fresh butter and garlic, then replaced in the shell, covered with
parsley and bread crumbs, and finally simmered in white wine.




OCCASIONAL NOTES.


THE PRESENT POSITION OF THE PETROLEUM INDUSTRY.

Mr Charles Marvin, one of the first to direct attention to the Russian
petroleum fields at Baku, in speaking lately of the transference of
petroleum in bulk, said that America was at present the principal
petroleum power. By the development of the petroleum fields at Baku,
Russia had recently sprung into the position of the second petroleum
power; and Mr Marvin thought that England should come to the front and
occupy the third position as soon as possible. By the annexation of
King Theebaw’s dominions, we had come into possession of the Burmese
petroleum fields, and he thought steps ought to be taken at once by
the Indian government to survey these fields and to throw them open
to British capital and enterprise. Within the last few years, since
the extension of the railway, considerable petroleum deposits had been
discovered in Beluchistan, but he regretted that the Indian government
had decided to make them a Crown monopoly. Still more recently,
petroleum in abundance had been discovered in Egypt. Since he wrote in
1882 of the Caspian petroleum fields, eighty steamers had been placed
on that inland sea to carry oil in tanks from Baku to the mouth of
the Volga; and on the Volga there were upwards of a hundred vessels
running. At present, nearly all the petroleum arriving in Europe from
America was brought in barrels; several tank steamers were, however,
being constructed on the Tyne for the purpose of carrying petroleum in
bulk.

Mr Phillips, in lecturing at the Royal Aquarium on this subject, said
that the total shipments of refined oil from America in 1885 amounted
to 6,985,637 barrels, of which the United Kingdom received 1,269,723;
London taking 666,964 barrels. If the total shipments were placed in
barrels end to end, like a string of beads, they would reach from
London to New York. It is estimated that the world’s consumption of
illuminating oil amounts to 1,800,000 gallons every day. At the present
price of oil as sold retail, and taking an ordinary circular-wick
burner of forty candle power, it costs about three-sixteenths of a
penny per hour, which was fifty per cent. cheaper than gas. In this
connection, it may be mentioned that the Balloon Society of Great
Britain is offering a prize for a cheap safety-lamp suitable for
universal use. The annual production of mineral oil shale has continued
to increase in Scotland, until in the present year it stands at the
unprecedented figure of about two million tons.


THE CRYSTALLISATION OF FRUIT.

From a paper by Consul Mason, of Marseilles, we learn a good deal
about the business of preserving fruits by the crystallising process
peculiar to South-eastern France, and practised on a large scale at
Apt in the department of Vaucluse, at Clermont in Auvergne, as well
as at Marseilles, Grasse, Avignon, and other places. It is curious
to find these preserved fruits exported not only to England and the
United States, but also to other countries, such as Algiers, the East
and West Indies, and even South America, where nature has made the
dwellers so far independent of preserved fruit. The fruits preserved
by the crystallised process are chiefly pears, cherries, apricots,
pine-apples, plums, figs, citrons, oranges, melons, and a dwarf orange
called ‘chinois.’ Peaches are found to be too costly to be treated to
any extent in this fashion.

For the purposes of crystallisation, the fruit must be fresh, clear of
all decay and blemish, and of the proper degree of ripeness. The chief
thing to be done in this process is to extract the juice of the fruit
and replace it in the pulp with liquid sugar, which, upon hardening,
not only preserves the fruit from fermentation and decay, but retains
it in its original form and consistency.

The fruit is first carefully assorted in respect to size and uniform
degree of ripeness. Pears, pine-apples, and quinces are pared; citrons
are cut into quarters and soaked a month in seawater; and the ‘pips’
of apricots, cherries, and peaches are carefully removed. This work,
which requires a certain degree of skill, is chiefly done by women.
When thus prepared, the fruit is immersed in boiling water, which
quickly penetrates the pulp, dissolving and diluting the juice, which
is thereby nearly eliminated; then the fruit is taken from the water
and drained, leaving only the solid portion of the pulp intact. The
period of immersion must be regulated by the size and ripeness of the
fruit. If immersed too long, the pulp is either over-cooked, or is left
too dry and woody. If taken out too soon, the juices left in the pulp
prevent perfect absorption of the sugar afterwards, and by eventually
causing fermentation, destroy the value of the product. A skilful
workman can tell by the colour and appearance of the pulp when it is
properly ‘blanched.’ For the different grades of fruits, sugar-sirups
of different degrees of density are required: the softer the fruit, the
stronger the sirup required for its preservation. The sirup having been
prepared by dissolving the sugar in pure water, the fruit is immersed
in it and left at rest for a certain period in large earthenware
pans, glazed inside. The sirup penetrates the pulp, and gradually
withdraws and replaces the remaining fruity juice, which, as it exudes
and mingles with the transparent liquid, produces a certain filmy or
clouded appearance, which marks the commencement of fermentation.
When this has reached a certain stage, the vessel containing the
sirup and fruit is placed over the fire and heated to two hundred and
twelve degrees, which corrects the fermentation. If the sirup is of
proper density, the process of impregnating the fruit with sugar will
be complete in about six weeks, during which period it is sometimes
necessary to perform the heating process three times. The fruit now
goes through one of two finishing processes according as it is to be
‘glazed’ or ‘crystallised.’ Some manufacturers are said to quicken the
crystallisation of fruit by the use of a powerful antiseptic called
salicylic acid; but although time, labour, and sugar are thereby saved,
Mr Mason believes it is at the expense of quality in the finished
product.


THE ANCIENT BOAT AT BRIGG.

A notice will be found in No. 126 of the _Journal_ referring to the
discovery, at Brigg in Lincolnshire, during the excavations for a new
gasholder, of a curious and ancient boat cut out of a solid piece
of oak, and measuring forty-eight feet in length, fifty-two inches
in width, and thirty-three inches in depth. The vessel is in a fine
state of preservation, and it is to be hoped that proper means will
be provided by the authorities for preserving this interesting relic.
The last news that we have of it, however, is that it has ‘got into
Chancery.’ A curious dispute seems to have arisen as to the ownership
of this relic; and probably, when the case comes to be argued before
the Court, some interesting legal points will be raised by the
gentlemen of the ‘long robe’ as to the main question at issue. Whatever
may be the result, one thing is certain, that so rare a prehistoric
relic as this should be preserved to the nation as public property, on
the spot, or in the town near to where it was found, as an object of
peculiar local interest. It would be a mistake to remove it to London,
as has been suggested; but to exhibit it for money is neither fair
nor proper, and the public will probably watch the proceedings before
the High Court of Chancery with interest. Boats found buried in the
earth and dating from remote antiquity are very rare in this country,
although several have been discovered of late years in Norway and
Denmark, they having been the tomb or grave of the original commander,
one of the brave and lawless vikings who roamed the seas and ravaged
the neighbouring coasts of Europe in search of conquest and plunder,
and when at last his restless life had closed, made his beloved ship at
once his monument and sepulchre.


RELICS OF ANCIENT CARTHAGE—MOSAICS.

Not long ago, some highly artistic relics of ancient Carthage were
disposed of at an auction in London. Two of the finest of these are
mosaics in splendid preservation, each about three feet square. The
one represents a woman robed and wearing a crown of flowers, with a
naked youth sitting beside her; and the other a youth carrying on his
shoulders an eagle. These have been called ‘Peace’ and ‘War;’ but there
seems to be no authority for this. Both works are evidently early
Carthaginian, and must have belonged to a period when Carthage held
a high position as a nursery of art, especially in the beautiful art
of mosaic-work, of which ancient Greece has left no trace, whilst the
mosaics of Rome are of a much later date. It will be remembered that
Carthage was celebrated for her beautiful coloured marbles, and for the
wonderful skill of her artists and workmen, which were known throughout
the civilised world, for Carthage was a large city one hundred and
forty years before the foundations of Rome were laid. It is possible,
therefore, that the peculiar art of working in mosaic may have been
originated in Carthage, and may have found its way to Rome, where it
might have been practised by Roman, or even Carthaginian artists. But,
as a rule, the Roman work is very inferior to the Carthaginian. These
specimens were, with many others, collected by Count d’Hérisson from
recent excavations made in a garden at Danar-el-Sciat, near Tunis,
and situated in the midst of the ruins of ancient Carthage. Of the
authenticity of these relics there can be, therefore, no possible
doubt, as they were brought direct from the site of the city itself.
The two referred to, together with several other interesting specimens,
were purchased by Mr Edwin Long, R.A.

Whilst on the subject of mosaics, we may mention that a valuable
discovery has just been made at Chiusi in Italy. Whilst some workmen
were digging out a watercourse at the foot of a hill near Monte Venere,
they came upon a mosaic pavement about nine feet by six feet in size.
The centre represents a double hunting scene: in the top row are three
stags pursued by a hunter with a spear; below is a boar followed by two
hunters, carrying each an axe and lance. The whole work is in perfect
preservation, well and carefully executed with much fire and spirit,
and is interesting as being the first piece of mosaic pavement that has
been discovered in Chiusi or its neighbourhood.




SWEETHEART, FAREWELL.


    Beneath the whispering trees we lingered late,
      Hand clasped in hand, my dearest love and I,
    And he spake words I never can forget,
      Of tender trust and love, until I die;
    And with his eyes what lips would fail to tell
    He spoke, what time he said: ‘Sweetheart, farewell.’

    With sweet caress he clasped me to his breast,
      And looked upon me as with angel’s eyes,
    And kissed my brow, and kissed my lips, and kissed
      The tears away that now began to rise;
    And ever the same tale of love would tell,
    What time he sadly spoke: ‘Sweetheart, farewell.’

    And so he went away, and I am weary
      Of nature’s smiles—my heart is full of strife—
    The long, long days without him are so dreary,
      And all the bright has faded out of life.
    ‘Come back, my love, the old sweet tale to tell,
    But nevermore to say: “Sweetheart, farewell.”’

            WILLIAM COWAN.

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