[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 138.—VOL. III.      SATURDAY, AUGUST 21, 1886.      PRICE 1½_d._]




HOLIDAYS IN CAMP.

ACROSS THE ATLANTIC.


In the United States, even in the coolest, most northerly portion,
the summers are long and hot; the July days are scorching and the
nights are suffocating in the crowded cities and larger towns; with
August comes a little change, but then come the exhausting ‘dog-days,’
when, though the mercury will not run so high in the thermometer, the
atmosphere is as unpleasant as if it were still July.

Those who can afford it—and many who cannot do so, but fancy they must
do as their wealthy neighbours do—begin in June to flit to seaside,
mountain, or Springs hotel, where they pay as high a rent for a tiny
room as would give them a whole house in town. Here the ladies and
children stay for such a time as suits them, or as suits papa’s purse.
If the hotel chosen is within a reasonable distance of the men’s places
of business, they will flock there on Saturday night, and hasten away
early on Monday morning. At some resorts, certain trains or boats have
the local name, for the season, of ‘husbands’ train’ or boat, as the
case may be. The maidens who have no lover to look for at this time
are on the alert to see what ‘new men’ Messrs So-and-so will bring
with them this Saturday; for there is an appalling dearth of eligible
men—eligible, if only as escorts or partners at tennis or cotillon at
most of these summer resorts. Between Monday and Saturday the ladies
amuse themselves with fancy-work, gossip, reading of light novels,
fault-finding with the meals, or with the noise other people’s children
make, and flirting with the men who, taking their own holiday, are
remaining at the hotel for a week or two. Then, too, there is usually,
in so mixed an assembly as must necessarily be found at even the most
select hotel, at least one person who has something queer, perhaps
no worse than simply great eccentricity, about her, and so furnishes
material to her fellow-boarders for endless speculation and gossip.

Hotel-life is so distasteful to many and so expensive, that there
has of late arisen another way of summering—camping-out; but not
necessarily tenting, though some prefer that. All over the northern
portion of the land there are springing up like mushrooms roughly-built
cottages, which are only better than a tent in that they are
water-tight, have hard floors, and are not apt to be blown down at the
first stiff gale. These cottages are often unpainted, or but slightly
so, and have two rooms, small, down-stairs, and one large or two
small rooms above; if the latter, the partition is rarely more than
six feet high. When the campers are a mixed party, not simply father,
mother, and children, the young men sleep down in the living-room,
and the up-stairs beds are curtained off by curtains or screens. The
cottage is always erected near water of some sort, old ocean having
the preference, and a pinewood on the edge of a pond or lake is also
popular. I remember one such spot, in Maine, where some friends of mine
passed a very delightful vacation; it was a pine-grove not many miles
from the city of Augusta, on the very edge of one of those hundreds of
fresh-water lakelets which dot Maine so thickly. The owner of the land
had erected five of these simple houses, and rented them to persons
of the highest respectability, one being a High School teacher, one a
Universalist minister, one an editor, and so on. The rental was very
moderate—at the rate of a dollar a day for those who only wished to
remain one or two weeks; but at a very much less figure if they took
a cottage for the two summer months. This price included the use of
all the ice they needed for the preservation of their food, and a
rowboat which would hold eight persons. The campers brought their own
furniture; and it is really surprising how few things one actually
needs to live in comfort for a month. The pond which bears the Indian
name—more easy to pronounce than to write—of Cobbasacontee, is well
stocked with fish, and is dotted all over with pretty little islands,
which are capital places to land and build a fire to cook the fish
you have just caught. If you have taken the precaution to bring with
you a coffee-pot as well as your frying-pan, and some coffee, sugar,
condensed milk, pepper, salt, and buttered bread, you can soon have a
meal fit for a king—a hungry king.

How well I remember one such excursion I made two years ago! There were
five in the party, none very young, and none at all in love with any
one present. We two ladies were afraid to trust ourselves in the tiny
sailboat which made part of our fleet of two, so we and my friend’s
nephew started off in the rowboat. Hardly had we got well out, however,
when the sailor of the party found that his sail was not fitted to
the boat it was in; and nothing would suit the men but that sails
and oars must change places while passengers sat still; and in spite
of our unspoken qualms and our glances of mistrust slily exchanged
with one another, we had to go under full sail after all. And how
the wind did justify its title of ‘fickle as a woman,’ that morning!
For a few moments we would scud over the water in a rather alarming
style, considering that our skiff was capable of holding only about
six persons; then, after having dipped our gunwale quite as often as I
liked, the breeze would vanish, the sail would hang limp and lifeless,
and we were becalmed. The other boat was soon far ahead; and while
we were yet within sight of our camp, the occupants had reached our
destination, and were hauling in the fish with most provoking rapidity.
During one of our spasmodic, rapid skims down the pond, we disturbed
a mother-loon. Laughing at us in the strange, weird manner peculiar
to that sort of water-fowl, she swam down the shore, trying to allure
us to chase her, and not believe that there was a nest full of little
loons, less hardy than the young one which was paddling along beside
her, among those long sedges from which she had started out with such
haste as our boat drew near them. For as much as a quarter of mile
she lured us—so _she_ put it—away from her home, answering us when
we tried to imitate her tones. Did you ever hear a loon laugh in the
dusk stillness of a warm summer night? It has a queer, eerie sound—a
lonesome, unhappy sound. After much tacking and drifting, we came at
last to a little island where two of my friend’s city neighbours, a
minister and a learned judge, were camping in a tiny cottage, set in a
most lovely spot, a tangle of underbrush and blackberry vines growing
up to the very doorway. Little brown squirrels—so tame that at our
approach they ran _down_ the trees to see what we were doing in their
domain—sprang about from tree to tree, or scampered over the soft
grass, quite aware that no one would harm _them_ while fishes were
so plenty; birds twittered and sung; Eden could not have been more
peaceful. There are scores of such islands to be hired or bought for a
mere song.

Did you ever inspect a house kept by the average man? I have heard that
men when camping are rarely in the habit of washing dishes any oftener
than they can help; and since I saw the little kitchen attached to that
cottage, I am sure some men, some learned men, don’t worry over such
trifles as greasy pans or grimy tins! The judge and his comrade had
gone out for a day’s fishing; we had met them on our way down, and
they cordially bade us make ourselves perfectly at home in their abode.
We did so. They sent us a message, a few days later, that they wished
the ladies would visit their house again. I know they hardly recognised
their own cups and saucers when they went to get supper that night!

The furnishing of most of these cottages is very primitive.
Comfortable beds are a _sine quâ non_ to those who are accustomed to
hair-mattresses and pliant springs, and one can sleep sweetly and
restfully on a bed of dry clean hay. It is not much trouble to carry
empty ticks, and dry grass or, still better, pine-needles can be had
for the gathering. Blankets and thick quilts must be on hand, for, no
matter what the days are, it is sure to be chilly the moment the sun
is well out of sight. A cot-bed is also necessary—for friends who, in
town, cannot find time to visit one, will gladly travel fifty miles
to camp a day or two with their cronies who have a cottage—not only
for use at night, but to be converted into a lounge in the daytime;
and of course there will be hammocks to sling under the trees or on
the piazza. There is always a farmer near who will gladly sell—at city
prices—butter, eggs, and milk; and as most of these lakes are well
stocked with fish, black bass, pickerel, trout, or perch—or if the camp
is on the seashore, there are mackerel, lobsters, clams, and greedy,
open-mouthed sculpin, which can devour more bait without being hooked
than any ten other fish, but which make a fairly good chowder when
enough are caught—no one needs suffer from hunger.

Several pretty groves on the Kennebec and Penobscot rivers are utilised
for camp-meetings. Here, for a week, usually in the latter part of
August—when the farmers are done haying—or the beginning of September,
religious services are held morning, noon, and night, popular preachers
or exhorters being invited to take part. The grounds immediately around
the spot where the services are held are generally owned by a stock
Company, and the regulations for the preservation of good order are
very strict, and rigidly enforced: lights must be out at a given hour;
unseemly mirth or secular music is not tolerated on Sunday; the sale
of intoxicating liquors is not permitted at any time, nor the use of
them in private tents or cottages, if it can be detected by the patrol
force always on hand. These rules are absolutely necessary to prevent
the freedom of camp-life from degenerating into license; for many young
folks go to camp-meeting who care very little for the religious part of
the affair.

The Methodists have the largest number of camp-grounds; but other
denominations are more or less fond of them. I once visited a
Spiritualist camp-ground on one of these Maine rivers; and a damper,
more ghostly spot could not well be imagined; everything and everybody
looked mouldy, and one might, without much stretch of the imagination,
expect to see a materialised spirit pop up anywhere. I understand,
however, that there were never any ‘manifestations’ at camp; it was
only held for the dissemination of their peculiar faith.

A party of about a dozen boys and four or five men have gone for the
past six years to a little island in a New Hampshire lake not far from
Lake Winnipisaukee, which is a favourite summer resort on account of
its beautiful scenery, to pass the months of July and August. Their
temporary dwelling is very primitive, not much more than a roof and
three walls, for they intend to spend all their time in the open air.
Every Sunday afternoon these boys have held religious services; they
have a small parlour organ, and form a choir themselves. They intend
this year, if possible, to have their choir properly vested, for
_their_ service is according to the Book of Common Prayer. There is not
a church of any sort within a long distance, for this portion of the
State is rather thinly settled. It is of New Hampshire that residents
of other States say that the farmers there have to sharpen the noses
of the sheep, in order that they may crop the grass between the rocks,
as New Hampshire is all rocks. The natives attend the boys’ service
as a treat, though, as the church is not very well known there, they
are not quite sure that they approve of the ceremonial. The service is
not always lay, however; several distinguished clergy and one or two
bishops have visited this little camp and have preached for them. One
of the boys told me that during these six years there had been but one
Sunday when it rained so hard that they had to hold service in their
hut. Doubtless, some day there will be a permanent chapel there.

And oh, what good times the little ones have at these camps! No fine
clothes to be kept clean; no attractive but forbidden alley children to
be avoided; no danger of being run over; no cross dogs to fear; and no
venturing out in the water without the knowledge of mamma or nurse, for
here no one is too busy to have one eye on the little mischiefs; but as
much paddling about on the brink of the lake or ocean as would delight
any small heart. And then, too, for mamma’s side of the question: no
candy-shops to draw the pennies out of her pocket, or the tears from
disappointed eyes; no coaxing ‘Can’t we go play with So-and-so?’ no
scarlet fever or measles to be caught from some neighbour’s progeny;
no evil influences to be feared for the older boys and girls; and no
parties to be made for or attended by the children.

Mother Nature is a great restorer, and a few days of uninterrupted
intercourse with her do more to renew the wasted health or relaxed
energies, than as many weeks of dress and gaiety at a fashionable
resort; and so sensible people are becoming more and more convinced.




IN ALL SHADES.


CHAPTER XLI.

Before the yelling mob could close again round Harry Noel’s fallen
body, with their wild onslaught of upraised cutlasses, more dangerous
to one another in the thick press than to the prostrate Englishman or
to poor fainting and unconscious Nora, another hasty clatter of horse’s
hoofs burst upon them from behind, up the hilly pathway, and a loud,
clear, commanding voice called out in resonant tones that overtopped
and stilled for a moment the tumultuous murmur of negro shrieks: ‘In
the Queen’s name—in the Queen’s name, hold; disperse there!’

That familiar adjuration acted like magic on the fierce and half-naked
throng of ignorant and superstitious plantation negroes. It was indeed
to them a mighty word to conjure with, that loud challenge in the name
of the great distant Queen, whose reality seemed as far away from them
and as utterly removed from their little sphere as heaven itself. They
dropped their cutlasses instantly, for a brief moment of doubt and
hesitation; a few voices still shouted fiercely, ‘Kill him—kill him!’
and then a unanimous cry arose among all the surging mass of wild and
scowling black humanity: ‘Mr Hawtorn, Mr Hawtorn! Him come in Missis
Queen name, so gib us warnin’. Now us gwine to get justice. Mr Hawtorn,
Mr Hawtorn!’

But while the creole-born plantation hands thus welcomed eagerly what
they looked upon, in their simplicity, as the Queen’s direct mouthpiece
and representative, Louis Delgado, his face distorted with rage, and
his arms plying his cutlass desperately, frowned and gnashed his
teeth more fiercely than ever with rage and disappointment; for his
wild African passion was now fully aroused, and like the tiger that
has once tasted blood, he would not be balked of the final vengeful
delight of hacking his helpless victim slowly to pieces in a long-drawn
torture. ‘Missis Queen!’ he cried contemptuously, turning round and
brandishing his cutlass with savage joy once more before the eyes of
his half-sobered companions—‘Missis Queen, him say dar! Ha, ha, what
him say dat for? What de Queen to me, I want you tell me? I doan’t care
for Queen, or judge, or magistrate, or nuffin! I gwine to kill all de
white men togedder, in all Trinidad, de Lard helpin’ me!’

As he spoke, Edward Hawthorn jumped hastily from his saddle, and
advanced with long strides towards the fiercely gesticulating and
mumbling African. The plantation negroes, cowed and tamed for the
moment by Edward’s bold and resolute presence, and overawed by the
great name of that mysterious, unknown, half-mythical Queen Victoria,
beyond the vast illimitable ocean, fell back sullenly to right and
left, and made a little lane through the middle of the crowd for the
Queen’s representative to mount the staircase. Edward strode up,
without casting a single glance on either side, to where Delgado stood
savagely beside Harry Noel’s fallen body, and put his right hand with
an air of indisputable authority upon the frantic African’s uplifted
arm. Delgado tried to shake him off suddenly with a quick, adroit,
convulsive movement; but Edward’s grip was tight and vice-like, and
he held the black arm powerless in his grasp, as he spoke aloud a few
words in some unknown language, which sounded to the group of wondering
negroes like utter gibberish—or perhaps some strange spell with which
the representative of Queen Victoria knew how to conjure by some still
more potent and terrible obeah than even Delgado’s.

But Louis Delgado alone knew that the words were Arabic, and that
Edward Hawthorn grasped his arm: ‘In the name of Allah, the All-wise,
the most Powerful!’

At the sound of that mighty spell, a powerful one, indeed, to the
fierce, old, half-christianised Mohammedan, Delgado’s arm dropped
powerless to his trembling side, and he fell back, gnashing his teeth
like a bulldog balked of a fight, into the general mass of plantation
negroes. There he stood, dazed and stunned apparently, leaning up
sulkily against the piazza post, but speaking not a word to either
party for good or for evil.

The lull was but for a minute; and Edward Hawthorn saw at once that
if he was to gain any permanent advantage by the momentary change
of feeling in the fickle negro mob, he must keep their attention
distracted for a while, till their savage passions had time to cool a
little, and the effect of this unwonted orgy of fire and bloodshed had
passed away before the influence of sober reflection. A negro crowd is
like a single creature of impulse—swayed to and fro a hundred times
more easily than even a European mob by every momentary passing wave of
anger or of feeling.

‘Take up Mr Noel and Miss Dupuy,’ he said aside in his cool commanding
tone to the Orange Grove servants:—‘Mr Noel isn’t dead—I see him
breathing yet—and lay them on a bed and look after them, while I speak
to these angry people.’ Then he turned, mastering himself with an
effort for that terrible crisis, and taking a chair from the piazza,
he mounted it quickly, and began to speak in a loud voice, unbroken by
a single tremor of fear, like one addressing a public meeting, to the
great sea of wondering, upturned black faces, lighted up from behind in
lurid gleams by the red glare of the still blazing cane-houses.

‘My friends,’ he said, holding his hand before him, palm outward, in a
mute appeal for silence and a fair hearing, ‘listen to me for a moment.
I want to speak to you; I want to help you to what you yourselves are
blindly seeking. I am here to-night as Queen Victoria’s delegate and
representative. Queen Victoria has your welfare and interest at heart;
and she has sent me out to this island to do equal justice between
black man and white man, and to see that no one oppresses another by
force or fraud, by lawlessness or cunning. As you all know, I am in
part a man of your own blood; and Queen Victoria, in sending me out
to judge between you, and in appointing so many of your own race to
posts of honour here in Trinidad, has shown her wish to favour no one
particular class or colour to the detriment or humiliation of the
others. But in doing as I see you have done to-night—in burning down
factories, in attacking houses, in killing or trying to kill your own
employers, and helpless women, and men who have done no crime against
you except trying to protect your victims from your cruel vengeance—in
doing this, my friends, you have not done wisely. That is not the way
to get what you want from Queen Victoria.—What is it you want? Tell me
that. That is the first thing. If it is anything reasonable, the Queen
will grant it. What do you want from Queen Victoria?’

With one voice the whole crowd of lurid upturned black faces answered
loudly and earnestly: ‘Justice, justice!’

Edward paused a moment, with rhetorical skill, and looked down at
the mob of shouting lips with a face half of sternness and half of
benevolence. ‘My friends,’ he said again, ‘you shall have justice. You
haven’t always had it in the past—that I know and regret; but you
shall have it, trust me, henceforth in the future. Listen to me. I know
you have often suffered injustice. Your rights have not been always
respected, and your feelings have many times been ruthlessly trampled
upon. Nobody sympathises with you more fully than I do. But just
because I sympathise with you so greatly, I feel it my duty to warn you
most earnestly against acting any longer as you have been acting this
evening. I am your friend—you know I am your friend. From me, I trust,
you have never had anything less than equal justice.’

‘Dat’s true—dat’s true!’ rang in a murmuring wave of assent from the
eager listening crowd of negroes.

‘Well,’ Edward went on, lowering his tone to more persuasive accents,
‘be advised by me, then, and if you want to get what you ask from Queen
Victoria, do as I tell you. Disperse to-night quietly and separately.
Don’t go off in a body together and talk with one another excitedly
around your watch-fires about your wrongs and your grievances. Burn
no more factories and cane-houses. Attack no more helpless men and
innocent women. Think no more of your rights for the present. But go
each man to his own hut, and wait to see what Queen Victoria will do
for you.—If you continue foolishly to burn and riot, shall I tell you
in plain words what will happen to you? The governor will be obliged to
bring out the soldiers and the volunteers against you; they will call
upon you, as I call upon you now, in the Queen’s name, to lay down your
pistols and your guns and your cutlasses; and if you don’t lay them
down at once, they will fire upon you, and disperse you easily. Don’t
be deceived. Don’t believe that because you are more numerous—because
there are so many more of you than of the white men—you could conquer
them and kill them by main force, if it ever came to open fighting.
The soldiers, with their regular drill and their good arms and their
constant training, could shoot you all down with the greatest ease,
in spite of your numbers and your pistols and your cutlasses. I don’t
say this to frighten you or to threaten you; I say it as your friend,
because I don’t want you foolishly to expose yourselves to such a
terrible butchery and slaughter.’

A murmur went through the crowd once more, and they looked dubiously
and inquiringly toward Louis Delgado. But the African gave no sign and
made no answer; he merely stood sullenly still by the post against
which he was leaning; so Edward hastened to reassure the undecided mob
of listening negroes by turning quickly to the other side of the moot
question.

‘Now, listen again,’ he said, ‘for what I’m going to say to you now
is very important. If you will disperse, and go each to his own home,
without any further trouble or riot, I will undertake, myself, to go
to England on purpose for you, and tell Queen Victoria herself about
all your troubles. I will tell her that you haven’t always been justly
treated, and I’ll try to get new and better laws made in future for
you, under which you may secure more justice than you sometimes get
under present arrangements. Do you understand me? If you go home at
once, I promise to go across the sea and speak to Queen Victoria
herself on your behalf, over in England.’

The view of British constitutional procedure implied in Edward
Hawthorn’s words was not perhaps strictly accurate; but his negro
hearers would hardly have felt so much impressed if he had offered to
lay their grievances boldly at the foot of that impersonal entity,
the Colonial Office; while the idea that they were to have a direct
spokesman, partly of their own blood, with the Queen herself, flattered
their simple African susceptibilities and helped to cool their savage
anger. Like children as they are, they began to smile and show their
great white teeth in infantile satisfaction, as pleasantly as though
they had never dreamt ten minutes earlier of hacking Harry Noel’s body
fiercely into little pieces; and more than one voice cried out in
hearty tones: ‘Hoorrah for Mr Hawtorn! Him de black man fren’. Gib him
a cheer, boys! Him gwine to ’peak for us to Queen Victoria!’

‘Then promise me faithfully,’ Edward said, holding out his hand once
more before him, ‘that you’ll all go home this very minute and settle
down quietly in your own houses.’

‘We promise, sah,’ a dozen voices answered eagerly.

Edward Hawthorn turned anxiously for a moment to Louis Delgado. ‘My
brother,’ he said to him rapidly in Arabic, ‘this is your doing. You
must help me now to quiet the people you have first so fiercely and
so foolishly excited. Assist me in dispersing them, and I will try to
lighten for you the punishment which will surely be inflicted upon you
as ringleader, when this is all over.’

But Delgado, propped in a stony attitude against the great wooden post
of the piazza, answered still never a word. He stood there to all
appearance in stolid and sullen indifference to all that was passing so
vividly around him, with his white and bloodshot eyes staring vacantly
into the blank darkness that stretched in front of him, behind the
flickering light of the now collapsed and burnt-out cane-houses.

Edward touched him lightly on his bare arm. To his utter horror and
amazement, though not cold, it was soft and corpse-like, as in the
first hour of death, before rigidity and chilliness have begun to set
in. He looked up into the bloodshot eyes. Their staring balls seemed
already glazed and vacuous, utterly vacant of the fierce flashing
light that had gleamed from the pupils so awfully and savagely but ten
minutes before, as he brandished his cutlass with frantic yells above
Harry Noel’s fallen body. Two of the plantation negroes, attracted
by Edward’s evident recoil of horror, came forward with curiosity,
flinging down their cutlasses, and touched the soft cheeks, not with
the reverent touch which a white man feels always due to the sacredness
of death, but harshly and rudely, as one might any day touch a
senseless piece of stone or timber.

Edward looked at them with a pallid face of mute inquiry. The youngest
of the two negroes drew back for a second, overtaken apparently by a
superstitious fear, and murmured low in an awe-struck voice: ‘Him dead,
sah, dead—stone dead. Dead dis ten minute, since ever you begin to
’peak to de people, sah.’

He was indeed. His suppressed rage at the partial failure of his
deeply cherished scheme of vengeance on the hated white men, coming
so close upon his paroxysm of triumph over the senseless bodies of
Mr Dupuy and Harry Noel, had brought about a sudden fit of cardiac
apoplexy. The old African’s savage heart had burst outright with
conflicting emotions. Leaning back upon the pillar for support, as he
felt the blood failing within him, he had died suddenly and unobserved
without a word or a cry, and had stood there still, as men will often
stand under similar circumstances, propped up against the supporting
pillar, in the exact attitude in which death had first overtaken him.
In the very crisis of his victory and his defeat, he had been called
away suddenly to answer for his conduct before a higher tribunal than
the one with which Edward Hawthorn had so gently and forbearingly
threatened him.

The effect of this sudden catastrophe upon the impressionable minds of
the excited negroes was indeed immediate and overwhelming. Lifting up
their voices in loud wails and keening, as at their midnight wakes,
they cried tremulously one after another: ‘De Lard is against us—de
Lard is against us! Ebbery man to your tents, O Israel! De Lard hab
killed Delgado—hab killed Delgado—hab smitten him down, for de murder
him committed!’ To their unquestioning antique faith, it was the
visible judgment of heaven against their insurrection, the blood of
Theodore Dupuy and Harry Noel crying out for vengeance from the floor
of the piazza, like the blood of righteous Abel long before, crying out
for vengeance from the soil of Eden.

More than one of them believed in his heart, too, that the mysterious
words in the unknown language which Edward Hawthorn had muttered over
the old African were the spell that had brought down upon him before
their very eyes the unseen bolt of the invisible powers. Whether it
were obeah, or whether it were imprecation and solemn prayer to the God
of heaven, they thought within themselves, in their dim, inarticulate,
unspoken fashion, that ‘Mr Hawtorn word bring down de judgment dat very
minute on Louis Delgado.’

In an incredibly short space of time, the great crowd of black faces
had melted away as quickly as it came, and Edward Hawthorn was left
alone in the piazza, with none but the terrified servants of the Orange
Grove household to help him in his task or to listen to his orders. All
that night long, across the dark gorge and the black mango grove, they
could hear the terrified voices of the negroes in their huts singing
hymns, and crying aloud in strange prayers to God in heaven that the
guilt of this murder might not be visited upon their heads, as it had
been visited before their very eyes that night on Louis Delgado. To the
negro mind, the verdict of fate is the verdict of heaven.

‘Take up his body, too, and lay it down on the sofa,’ Edward said to
Uncle ’Zekiel, still beside himself with terror at the manifold horrors
of this tragical evening.

‘I doan’t can dare, sah,’ Uncle ’Zekiel answered tremulously—‘I doan’t
can dare lay me hand upon de corpse, I tellin’ you, sah. De finger ob
de Lard has smite Delgado. I doan’t dare to lift an’ carry him.’

‘One of you boys, then, come and help me,’ Edward cried, holding up the
corpse with one hand to keep it from falling.

But not one of them dared move a single step nearer to the terrible
awe-inspiring object.

At last, finding that no help was forthcoming on any hand, Edward
lifted up the ghastly burden all by himself in his own arms, and laid
it down reverently and gently on the piazza sofa. ‘It is better so,’ he
murmured to himself slowly and pitifully. ‘There will be no more blood
on either side shed at anyrate for this awful evening’s sorry business.’

And then at length he had leisure to turn back into the house itself
and make inquiries after Mr Dupuy and Harry and Nora.




WILD-BEES AND BEE-HUNTING.


There are, it is said, no fewer than twenty-seven genera, and one
hundred and seventy-seven species of bees, natives of Great Britain.
But one only of all these, the _Apis millifica_, or common honey-bee,
has been domesticated. Attempts have been made with others, especially
with the _bombus_, or humble-bee, but without any adequate success.

The frequent mention of honey in the Old Testament from the patriarchal
ages downward, and the description of Palestine as ‘a land flowing
with milk and honey,’ may well have raised the question whether the
honey was obtained from bees in a wild condition or in a state of
domestication. The weight of evidence is in favour of the former. In
the somewhat wandering life, as ‘strangers and pilgrims,’ which many of
the patriarchs led, bee-culture would have been very inconvenient, if
not impossible; and as honey was to be had in rich abundance simply for
the seeking, there would be little inducement to undertake unnecessary
cares and labours in the domestication of the native variety. There is
no question, however, as to the possibility of inducing wild bees to
accept domestication. In Cashmere and the north of India, the natives
have a simple and ready method of doing this: in building their houses,
they leave cavities in one of the walls having a sunny aspect, with
a small hole like that of a modern hive opening outwards. The inner
side of the wall is fitted with a frame of wood with a door attached.
A swarm of bees in search of a new home—or perhaps the pioneers who
are sent, a day or two before the actual swarming, to seek out a
dwelling-place—would be attracted by such an ‘open door,’ and the
family, or army, ten, twenty, or thirty thousand strong, would at once
take possession. The vacant space would soon be filled by the busy
workers; and the inmates of the house, having access to the store by
means of the open door, could move a comb or two at pleasure, without
distressing the bees, simply using the precaution of blowing in as much
smoke at the back as would cause the bees to fly out at the front.
English travellers report having seen the operation performed, and
the bees quietly return when the work was done. The plan has been
recommended for use in this country. It is at least practicable, if
not necessary. In dwelling-houses there might be risks, which would
not apply to farm-buildings and erections around a country house. But
if man has not utilised this plan, the bees themselves have acted upon
it. An instance of two within the writer’s own knowledge may not be
uninteresting.

I was the tenant of Rose Cottage, Brenchley, Kent, from 1853 to 1862.
The house—which has been considerably altered since—was well adapted
for such a purpose. The upper parts of the walls were formed, as is
common in that part of the county, externally of tiles on a framework
of wood, and internally of lath and plaster. In the cavities there
would be ample space for large stores of comb and honey. A swarm
of bees took possession of a portion of the front wall, having a
south-south-eastern aspect, entering their abode through a crevice
between the tiles just over one of the chamber windows. They held
possession for several years, and still held their own when I left
the cottage. As they never swarmed, it is almost certain there must
have been a large collection of honey; but for some reason or other,
chiefly, no doubt, on account of the difficulty of taking the honey
without injuring the house and exposing the whole family to the attacks
of the bees, I profited in no way by their busy labours.

Less than ten years ago, when making a call at the old farmhouse,
Penrhos, Lyonshall, Herefordshire, my attention was directed to a
colony of bees which had made a settlement in the upper part of one
of the walls of the house. I suggested the removal of a portion of
the inner wall, and predicted a large ‘find.’ After some time, this
advice was acted on; but the farmer adopted a plan which I should have
strongly deprecated—the plan of destroying with brimstone the entire
bee community. The store of honey was so great that every available
keeler and pan in the house was filled to the extent of nearly two
hundredweight.

Two other instances may be cited, as reported in the _West Surrey
Times_. One is that of an extraordinary ‘take’ of honey from the walls
of the _Hautboy and Fiddle Inn_, Ockham, Surrey. The outer walls of
the house are about three feet in thickness, and at the very top of
the third story a colony of bees had established themselves, holding
undisturbed possession for a number of years. At length the innkeeper
determined to find out their whereabouts. After a diligent search
under the roof, a piece of comb was found. Descending to one of the
upper bedrooms, chisel and hammer went to work, and a square of about
two feet was opened in the front wall; here a large mass of comb was
discovered; and after fumigating the bees, about one hundred and twenty
pounds of honey were secured. Another and still more extraordinary
‘take’ of honey was secured at Winter’s Hall, Bramley, Surrey, the seat
of Mr George Barrett. Some bees had long held possession of a space
between the ceiling of the coachhouse and the granary: on effecting an
entrance, about three hundredweight of honey was secured.

In some countries the honey-bee still roams at will and uncontrolled;
this is notably the case in the western parts of the United States
and Canada. The discovery of their natural hives for the purpose of
securing the honey is the calling of a class of persons known as
bee-hunters. A writer of considerable repute thus speaks on this
subject: ‘The beautiful forests in which we were encamped abounded
in bee-trees; that is to say, trees in the decayed trunks of which
wild-bees had established their hives. It is surprising in what
countless swarms the bees have overspread the Far West within but a
moderate number of years. The Indians consider them the harbinger
of the white man, as the buffalo is of the red man, and say that in
proportion as the bee advances, the Indian and the buffalo retire. We
are always accustomed to associate the hum of the beehive with the
farmhouse and the flower-garden, and to consider those industrious
little animals as connected with the busy haunts of men; and I am told
that the wild-bee is seldom to be met with at any great distance from
the frontier. They have been the heralds of civilisation, steadily
preceding it, as it advanced from the Atlantic borders; and some of
the ancient (early) settlers of the West pretend to give the very year
when the honey-bee first crossed the Mississippi. The Indians, with
surprise, found the mouldering trees of their forests suddenly teeming
with ambrosial sweets; and nothing, I am told, can exceed the greedy
relish with which they banquet for the first time upon the unbought
luxury of the wilderness. At present, the honey-bee swarms in myriads
in the noble groves and forests that skirt and intersect the prairies
and extend along the alluvial bottoms of the rivers. It seems to me as
if these beautiful regions answer literally to the description of the
land of promise, “a land flowing with milk and honey;” for the rich
pasturage of the prairies is calculated to sustain herds of cattle as
countless as the sands upon the seashore; while the flowers with which
they are enamelled render them a very paradise for the nectar-seeking
bee.’

A bee-hunt must be a very exciting adventure, and, as most people
would think, attended with considerable risk; but the ingenuity of
the settlers, and especially of the bee-hunters, who make a living
of the business, is equal to the occasion. Let us, for the sake of
greater brevity, suppose a case, which is, however, little other than
a narrative of simple facts. A party sets out in quest of a bee-tree—a
tree in the cavity of which a colony of bees have established
themselves. The party is headed by a veteran bee-hunter, a tall lank
fellow, with his homespun dress hanging loosely about him, and a hat
which might be taken for a beeskep. A man similarly attired attends
him, with a long rifle on his shoulder. The rest of the party, six in
number, are armed with axes and rifles. Thus accoutred, they are ready
for any sport, or even more serious business. Reaching an open glade
on the skirts of the forest, the party halts, and the leader advances
to a low bush, on which he places a piece of honeycomb. This is a
lure for the bees. In a very short time several are humming about it
and diving into the cells. Laden with honey, they rise into the air
and dart off in a straight line with almost the velocity of a bullet.
The hunters watch attentively the course they take, and set off in the
same direction, still watching the course of the bees. In this way the
tree where the bees have made their home is reached. But it will often
happen, as may be suspected, that the bees will elude the sight of the
most vigilant hunter, and the party may wander about without succeeding
in finding any treasure. Another method is then adopted: a few bees
are caught and placed in a small box with a glass top, having at the
bottom a small piece of honeycomb. When they have satisfied themselves
with honey, two or three are allowed to escape, the hunters taking
care to observe the direction of their flight and to follow them as
rapidly as possible. When these bees are lost sight of, two or three
others are set free and their course followed, and so on until the
identical tree has been reached. It sometimes happens that one set of
bees take an opposite course to their predecessors. The hunter knows
by this that he has passed the tree, or otherwise missed his mark, and
he retraces his steps and follows the lead of the unerring bees. The
sight of the bee is so strong and keen that it can descry its home at
an immense distance. It is a well-ascertained fact that if a bee be
caught on a flower at any given distance south of its home, and then
be taken in a close box an equal distance north of it, the little
creature, when set free, after flying in a circle for a moment, will
take a straight course to its identical tree. Therefore, the hunter who
has intelligence, patience, and perseverance on his side is sure to be
successful in the end.

It not unfrequently happens that when in the immediate neighbourhood of
the tree, the hunter may not be able to distinguish the particular one
he is searching for from the rest, as the entrance to the bee-castle
is commonly many feet above the ground. He is not then at the end of
his resources. A small fire is kindled, and upon a piece of stone or
other suitable material made hot, some honeycomb is placed; the smell
will at once induce the whole colony of bees to come down from their
citadel, when the hunters proceed with their axes to bring down the
tree. A vigorous writer thus describes the proceedings, when the party
of hunters had traced the honey-laden bees to their hive in the hollow
trunk of a blasted oak, into which, after buzzing about for a time,
they entered at a hole about sixty feet from the ground: ‘Two of the
bee-hunters now plied their axes vigorously at the foot of the tree,
to level it with the ground. The mere spectators and amateurs in the
meantime drew off to a cautious distance, to be out of the way of the
falling of the tree and the vengeance of its inmates. The jarring
blows of the axe seemed to have no effect in alarming or agitating
this most industrious community; they continued to ply at their usual
occupations; some arriving full-freighted into port, others sallying
forth on new expeditions, like so many merchantmen in a money-making
metropolis, little suspicious of impending bankruptcy and downfall.
Even a loud crack, which announced the disrupture of the trunk, failed
to divert their attention from the intense pursuit of gain. At length,
down came the tree with a tremendous crash, bursting open from end to
end, and displaying all the hoarded treasures of the commonwealth.
One of the hunters immediately ran up with a wisp of lighted hay,
as a defence against the bees. The latter, however, made no attack,
and sought no revenge; they seemed stupefied by the catastrophe and
unsuspicious of its cause, remaining crawling and buzzing about the
ruins, without offering us any molestation.’

When the tree had been brought down, the whole party fell to with
spoon and hunting-knife to scoop out the combs with which the hollow
trunk was stored. A single tree has been known to yield from one
hundredweight to one and a half hundredweight.

‘Some of the combs were old and of a deep brown colour; others were
beautifully white, and the honey in their cells was almost limpid.
Such of the combs as were entire were placed in camp kettles, to be
conveyed to the encampment; those which had been broken by the fall
were devoured on the spot. Every stark bee-hunter was to be seen with a
rich morsel in his hand, dripping about his fingers, and disappearing
as rapidly as a cream tart before the holiday appetite of a schoolboy.’

Not in America alone, but in Africa also, the wild-bee is an object
of pursuit by the natives. Even the Hottentots show considerable
shrewdness in obtaining the wild-honey. The author of an _Expedition
into the Interior of Africa_ thus describes an operation of this kind:
‘One of the Hottentots observed a number of bees entering a hole in the
ground which had formerly belonged to some animal of the weasel kind.
As he made signs for us to come to him, we turned that way, fearing he
had met with some accident.’ It was the home of a recent swarm. ‘When
the people began to unearth the bees, I did not expect that we should
escape being severely stung; but they knew so well how to manage an
affair of this kind, that they robbed the poor bees with the greatest
ease and safety. Before they commenced digging, a fire was made near
the hole, and constantly supplied with damp fuel, to produce a cloud of
smoke. In this the workmen were completely enveloped, so that the bees
returning from the field were prevented approaching, and those which
flew out of the nest were driven by it to a distance.’

The same writer mentions another incident, even more interesting.
‘Whilst I was engaged in the chase one day on foot with a Namaqua
attendant, he picked up a small stone; he looked at it earnestly, then
over the plain, and threw it down again. I asked what it was. He said
there was the mark of a bee on it. Taking it up, I also saw on it a
small pointed drop of wax, which had fallen from the bee in its flight.
The Namaqua noticed the direction the point of the drop indicated, and
walking on, he picked up another stone, also with a drop of wax on it,
and so on at considerable intervals, till, getting behind a crag, he
looked up, and bees were seen flying across the sky and in and out of
a cleft in the face of the rock. Here, of course, was the honey he was
in pursuit of. A dry bush was selected, a fire was made, the cliff
ascended, and the nest robbed in the smoke.’

An amusing anecdote is related in _Feminine Monarchy_, an old book
printed in 1609, and given by a Russian ambassador to Rome as ‘written
out of experience by Charles Butler.’ A man was out in the woods
searching for honey. Climbing a large hollow tree, he discovered an
immense ‘find’ of the luscious produce. By some means however, he
missed his footing, and slipped into the hollow, sinking up to his
breast in honey. He struggled to get out, but without avail. He called
and shouted, but alike in vain. He was far from human habitation,
and help there was none, for no one heard his cries. At length, when
he had begun to despair of deliverance, he was extricated in a most
remarkable and unexpected way. Strange to say, another honey-hunter
came to the same tree in the person of a large bear, which, smelling
the honey, the scent of which had been diffused by the efforts of the
imprisoned man, mounted the tree and began to lower himself, hind-part
first, into the hollow. The hunter, rightly concluding that the worst
could be but death, which he was certain of if he remained where he
was, clasped the bear around the loins with both hands, at the same
time shouting with all his strength. The bear, what with the handling
and the shouting, was very seriously frightened, and made speed to get
out of his fix. The man held fast, and the bear pulled until, with his
immense strength, he drew the man fairly out of his strange prison. The
bear being released, made the best of his way off, more frightened than
hurt, leaving the man, as the story quaintly says, ‘in joyful fear.’

We conclude this paper with a story of another kind, a version of
which was given some years ago in a contemporary; but the French
bishop was turned into an English prelate, and the bee-keeping curé
into an Anglican clergyman, the story being otherwise greatly changed.
The said French bishop, while paying a visit to his clergy, was much
distressed by the extreme poverty which met him everywhere. Reaching
the house of a certain curate who lived in the midst of very poor
parishioners, where he expected to witness even greater destitution,
he was astonished to find that everything about the house wore an
appearance of comfort and plenty. Greatly surprised by what he saw, the
bishop asked: ‘How is this, my friend? You are the first pastor I have
seen having a cheerful face and a plentiful board. Have you any income
independent of your cure?’

‘Yes,’ said the curé, ‘I have. My household would otherwise starve
on the pittance I receive from my poor people. If you will walk into
the garden, I will show you the stock which yields me such excellent
interest.’

On going into the garden, the bishop saw a long range of beehives.

‘There,’ said the curé—‘there is the bank from which I draw an annual
dividend; and it is one that never stops payment.’

The fact was that his honey supplied the place of sugar, leaving him a
considerable quantity for sale, in addition to other household uses.
Then, of the washings of the comb and refuse honey he manufactured a
very palatable wine; while the wax went far to pay his shoemaker’s
bill.

Ever afterwards, it is said, when any of the clergy complained to the
bishop of poverty, he would tell the story of the bee-keeping curé,
following up his anecdote with the advice: ‘Keep bees—keep bees!’




A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY.


CHAPTER III.—A GRAVE ACCUSATION.

Thus valiant, the Major entered the library at the appointed time. He
was, however, taken aback on finding that it was not only the gentlemen
he had to confront, but also two of the ladies—Mrs Joseph and Mrs John.
Nellie had positively refused to be present. He had not bargained
for an examination in the presence of the ladies, for he could not
say before them what he must say in order to exculpate himself. He
felt that he was being very unfairly treated. But he was thankful for
small mercies. They might have had Miss Euphemia in to witness his
humiliation—for humiliation it must be to confess his stupidity in
despatching the letters in the wrong envelopes.

The Squire was seated at his writing-table, and assumed something of
his magisterial air (he was a J.P.) as he requested the Major to take a
chair. The three letters were on the desk before him; and he proceeded
to read them carefully, whilst profound silence prevailed. Mrs Joseph
darted angry glances alternately at her husband and the culprit.
Mrs John looked more serious than usual, but still showed symptoms
of an inclination to titter. John Elliott stood in the shadow of a
large bookcase; Maynard near the window which opened to the terrace,
impatiently twirling his moustache and at intervals glancing fiercely
towards the Major, who, in his indignation at the whole proceeding,
returned the glance in a like spirit.

The Squire cleared his throat with a raucous cough. ‘You have placed
me in a most painful position, Major,’ he began with an evident desire
to be friendly, which was checked by the frown of his wife. ‘I am as
tolerant as anybody of a joke. You know that well enough, Dawkins; but
I can’t stand such a hoax as you have played upon us in sending these
letters here.’

The Major rose; he felt so much injured, that he was calm. ‘My dear
friend Elliott’——

‘Oh, confound it—there’s the beginning of the plaguy things,’
ejaculated the Squire.

‘Allow me to explain. I intended no hoax. These letters were written
with an earnest desire to avert misunderstanding. Unfortunately, in my
agitation and haste, I blundered.’

‘Not a hoax—not a joke!’ bellowed the Squire, rising to his feet and
thrusting the letters into a drawer of the table. ‘Do you mean to say,
then, that I suspected my wife of anything?’

‘No.’

‘Do you mean to say that a word could be spoken about me in association
with any one which could or should cause Nellie—Miss Carroll—to be
displeased with me?’ broke in Maynard threateningly.

‘No.’

‘Do you mean to say that I am in any way involved with another lady?’
snapped Elliott of Arrowby.

‘No.’

‘Stop a minute,’ interposed Mrs John, in her light-hearted way, coming
to the rescue of Major Dawkins, and turning to her husband. ‘The Major
did not say you were involved, John; he only warned me not to mind any
nonsense I might hear about you. Give our friend time to explain.’

‘I am grateful for your intercession, madam,’ said the Major stiffly.
‘If your husband has read the letter which, as I have told you, fell
into Mrs Joseph’s hands by mischance, he knows precisely how the matter
stands, and I request _him_ to explain, or to speak to me in private.’

‘I have read the letter, of course,’ was the peevish response of John
Elliott; ‘and it does not suggest anything for me to explain, or why
you should require a private interview with me.’

The Major had the opportunity to avenge himself on the instant by
stating before them all why he had written the letters. But Mrs John
was evidently quite ignorant of her husband’s suspicions; why should
he pain her by revealing them? The outcome of the revelation would be
an inevitable rupture between the man and wife. Nellie Carroll had not
heard John Elliott’s scandal about Maynard: why should he, for his
own convenience, stir the stagnant pool and increase the distress he
had already unintentionally caused? No; he would not do that. He had
blundered, and must pay the penalty.

‘Since Mr John Elliott declines to say anything or to grant me a
private interview,’ said the Major firmly, ‘the affair must end here.
I withdraw everything that is written in these unlucky letters, and
request you to give them back to me, so that they may be at once
destroyed.’

‘That won’t do,’ rejoined the Squire gruffly; ‘if you won’t make the
thing clear to us, it has gone too far to end here. I shall place the
letters in the hands of my solicitor to-morrow morning, and leave him
to arrange with you.’

‘In that case, you will provoke a family scandal which will cause you
all much vexation, and cannot possibly do good to anybody.’

‘It will at least teach _some_ person a serious lesson,’ observed Mrs
Joseph sternly.

‘O madam, the lesson has been learned already,’ answered the Major
bitterly.—‘But since you, Squire, are not satisfied that I am
sufficiently punished for my mistake by the loss of your friendship,
but also mean to take legal proceedings, I must summon a friend from
town who will convince you that the trouble did not originate with me.’

‘So be it, Major Dawkins; and as things stand, I shall expect your
visit to Todhurst to terminate to-morrow,’ said the Squire, getting the
inhospitable words out with much difficulty.

‘It would terminate this instant, were it not that I still desire to
serve you and your family. So much you will acknowledge to-morrow, and
then my presence will no longer disturb you.’

There was a degree of dignity in the Major’s retreat which impressed
everybody except the hot-headed lover, Maynard, who muttered between
his teeth: ‘If this were not my friend’s house, I would horsewhip the
little beggar.’ As he could not enjoy that luxury, he occupied his
talents in seeking a reconciliation with Nellie, and unluckily, but
naturally, besought the aid of Mrs John. His conversations with her
in the drawing-room and on the lawn again irritated the suspicious
husband, who, instead of speaking out frankly, endeavoured to hide the
bitter thoughts which were passing through his mind, and became more
abstracted and more disagreeable than ever.

Mrs Joseph perversely held to her opinion that the guest had
‘something’ to say which she ought to know.

‘But you don’t mean to say, Kitty,’ the Squire expostulated, ‘that if
I had any fault to find with you I should not speak it straight out to
yourself, instead of blabbing it to other folk? Past experience ought
to make you sure that when I am not pleased, you will hear about it
soon enough.’

‘I know that perfectly well—there is no lack of fault-finding on your
part to myself; and how am I to tell what you have been saying about me
to others?’ retorted Mrs Joseph, whose temper being once roused, as has
been stated, was not easily allayed.

‘Nonsense, Kitty—you don’t believe that I would speak about you to
outsiders.—Come, now; drop this humbug, for you know it is humbug; and,
’pon my honour, I think we have been too hard on poor Dawkins.’

‘Before deciding on that point, I shall wait to hear what this friend
he is summoning from London has to say to-morrow.’

‘I take his word for it, that there was a mistake.’

‘Then he should not make such a mistake, and having made it, ought to
suffer the consequences.’

‘But, my dear, don’t you see that he is taking the consequences?—and
infernally unpleasant ones they are. I tell you there is nothing in
it; and if he had only said it was all a joke, I should have been
satisfied.’

‘But he said it was not a joke, and told you that if you prosecuted
him, it would result in a grave family scandal. How can you answer
that?’

‘I can’t, and he wouldn’t; so we must wait for the person who will.’

There was a kind of armed truce declared in this way between the
husband and wife—she feeling guiltily conscious that she was somehow
making a mountain of a molehill; and he feeling perfectly sure of it.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Major went straight to his room, resolved that he would hold no
intercourse with the family until Mrs John’s brother, Matt Willis,
arrived. Had there been a train that evening to town, he would have
taken it and brought his friend down; and if there had been a hotel
in the village, he would have left the house forthwith. But there was
no train and there was no hotel—not even a beershop, for the country
folk thereabout mostly brewed their own ale. There was, however, a post
and telegraph office in the village, and Hollis was despatched with a
message for Willis, entreating him, for his sister’s sake, to come down
by the first train on the following morning. That done, he endeavoured
to compose himself and to take a calm survey of his position. He had
upset everybody, and most of all himself, by his good-natured anxiety
to save others from the consequences of their own folly. The thing
ought to have resulted in a laugh and a shake-hands all round; but
instead of that, it threatened to become a serious affair for the
law-courts to deal with; and the Major had no means to enable him to
indulge in the luxury of a lawsuit.

What was he to do? Nothing but what he had determined upon—to get
Willis to speak out, since John Elliott would not. There was of course
the possibility that Willis would refuse, as it was his intense
repugnance to interfering with family squabbles which had prompted him
to call for the Major’s assistance as mediator between his sister and
her husband.

Major Dawkins felt indignant with John Elliott for shrinking from
speaking the few words which would have put everything right. But the
truth flashed upon him—perhaps the man was so blinded by his jealousy,
that he really did not understand what was required of him, when asked
to explain the position. Although the Major could only surmise that
this was the case, the surmise was correct; but the true reason why
John Elliott did not understand him was that he had no idea of his
conversation with Willis having been repeated to any one. If that were
so, the Major felt that it was his duty to prevent the threatened
publicity by every means in his power. Apart from his consideration
for the feelings of Mrs John and Nellie, there was his own plight to
be taken into account. Publicity would expose him to ridicule, if not
contempt, and would inevitably put an end to all hope of winning the
hand of Miss Euphemia Panton. He resolved to see the Squire the moment
dinner was over, and make another effort to get him to understand the
real state of the unfortunate business.

       *       *       *       *       *

Servants have a special instinct for discovering the ill-luck of the
family they serve, and invariably they accept it in a distorted form.
Then they sympathise with the master and mistress, or rejoice in their
fallen state, according to the perquisites which have been allowed
them or withheld from them. Hollis having heard that his master was
in disgrace with the family they had come to visit, felt that his own
dignity was at stake; therefore, in the housekeeper’s room and in the
butler’s pantry he valiantly defended the honour of his chief. He was
a little crest-fallen when he found that his master was not to join
the family at dinner, for this circumstance appeared to confirm the
gossip of the servants’ hall that the Major had been guilty of some
grave offence, the nature of which was too dreadful to be mentioned.
Hollis was equal to the occasion, and by taking the position as one
of great injustice to his master, succeeded, by cautious suggestions
of forthcoming revelations, in impressing the housekeeper and butler
with the idea that they would reap a large reward in the future by
careful attention to the Major’s present needs. The diplomacy of Hollis
was used as much on his own account as on that of his master; for he
managed to secure command of the dishes which were most favoured
by the Major—and himself, as well as a sufficient supply of Clos de
Vougeot and Heidsieck.

The Major was scarcely sufficiently appreciative of the attentions of
his servant in catering for him so far as the eatables were concerned;
and he sadly disappointed Hollis by taking a larger share of the wine
than that gentleman had expected. For this loss, however, he contrived
to compensate himself when he got downstairs again. Major Dawkins was
too eager for the moment when he should be able to speak freely to the
Squire to find any delight in eating; and although he took the wine,
it was without any of the relish with which he usually partook of rare
vintages. When Hollis had cleared the table, he rose immediately,
disregarding his digestion, and paced the room. He knew that the dinner
would be a more lugubrious affair than the luncheon had been, and he
endeavoured to calculate exactly when it would be over.

The time having arrived, he opened his door, which was nearly opposite
that of the library. To the latter he advanced quickly, knowing that
the Squire frequently went thither after dinner to examine letters or
to take a nap. He heard some one moving in the room, and tapped at the
door. There was no answer. He tapped again, and still receiving no
answer, boldly turned the handle and entered. There was no one visible.
He was puzzled, for there had been unmistakable sounds of some one
moving about and also of the shutting of a drawer. The window which
opened on the terrace was slightly ajar, and possibly the Squire,
suspecting who was his visitor, had stepped out in order to avoid him.
That was both unfriendly and unjust.

The Major was angry, for he could not conceive any reason for being
avoided in this manner. He looked out: no one was visible on the
terrace. Then a sudden temptation seized him. He knew exactly in which
drawer the Squire had placed those abominable letters. They were his
own—why should he not take possession of them and destroy them? In
this way the whole miserable business would be ended. Of course, he
could not deny having written such letters as would be described, but
they would not be forthcoming; and if it should come to the worst, his
explanation of the circumstances under which they had been written
would be listened to with the more patience and consideration.

The temptation was too much for him. For the sake of the family as
well as for his own sake, those letters must be destroyed. He went to
the drawer, pulled it open, and there before him lay the letters. He
snatched them out and thrust them into the breast-pocket of his coat,
with the intention of burning them when he reached his own room; but at
that moment his wrists were tightly grasped and he heard the click of
handcuffs fastened upon them. He was helpless and speechless. He stood
staring at the smiling face of a broad-shouldered fellow who wore the
costume of a gamekeeper.

‘Got you at last,’ said this gentleman quite pleasantly. ‘You have
given me no end of trouble; but, there, I respect you all the more.
Only, you have been coming it rather strong, and I am surprised that
you didn’t take a rest, seeing that you’ve had the valuables out of
half-a-dozen mansions in the county.’

‘What do you mean?’ shouted the Major furiously.

‘Nothing particular,’ replied the complacent gentleman, ‘unless you
count it particular that I should want you to come along with me. I
am a constable, and I have been looking out for you for some weeks
past. So, you had better make no fuss about the matter, but come along
quietly. It’ll be all the better for yourself.’

‘You confounded fool!’ ejaculated the Major indignantly, ‘do you take
_me_ for a burglar? I am a guest in this house—I am Major Dawkins.’

‘Alias Captain Jack, alias ’Arry Smith.’

‘Call the family—they will identify me,’ the Major almost shrieked,
whilst he endeavoured to free himself from his handcuffs.

‘Oh, I’ll call the family,’ answered the detective, as he lifted up a
jemmy which was lying beside the Squire’s desk. ‘I suppose you don’t
know what this little tool means, and I suppose you don’t know anything
about this drawer which has been forced open with it?’

‘You scoundrel, to suspect me of such’——

‘There now; don’t say anything to commit yourself; I’ll call the
family.’

Thereupon, the detective rang the bell.

The summons was answered by Parker the butler, who was somewhat
astonished to find a stranger in the library with the Major. The
latter’s face—purple with rage—and wild gesticulations, with his
fettered hands, presented a spectacle so astounding that Parker could
scarcely believe his eyes rested on a guest of the house.

‘Tell your master to come here and release me from this ruffian, who
takes me—me, Major Dawkins—for a burglar!’

The detective smiled placidly as he addressed the butler: ‘Yes, if
you please, inform Mr Elliott that he is wanted here on particular
business.’




ENGLISH COUNSEL AND SOLICITORS.

BY A BARRISTER.


Some time ago, an agitation sprang up in favour of the amalgamation of
the two legal professions in England, and the conduct thereafter of
litigious business on lines more or less nearly approximating to the
American system. The movement emanated, no doubt, from the town branch
of the profession; for it is no secret that many solicitors are anxious
to distinguish themselves in court by pleading their clients’ causes,
in place of retaining counsel to do so for them. But, in the face of
more burning questions, the agitation gradually died away.

It now seems not unlikely to be revived, as it is certain that sooner
or later it must be. And an _ex cathedrâ_ utterance given by that
eminently practical judge, Mr Justice Stephen, a short time ago, will
tend to hasten the course of events in this matter. A case for trial
before that judge was duly called on, when it was found that the
plaintiff was unrepresented, his counsel being at the time engaged in
another court. The plaintiff being unwilling, or at least unprepared,
to conduct his own case—notwithstanding the growing tendency in favour
of personally conducted cases—the judge was asked to allow the case
to stand over, which he did, but not without giving a hint as to the
possibility of future ‘reform.’ ‘If,’ said his lordship, ‘such an
incident occurs often, it will become necessary to do away with the
separation between solicitors and barristers.’ Just so. This is the
way the question is regarded from the judicial point of view. When
the judge is put to inconvenience, he speaks out; and if he is at all
often put to inconvenience, he will act also. But inasmuch as, in most
actions, each party is represented by more than one counsel—certainly
no ‘distinguished’ or fashionable counsel will accept a brief without
a junior—such inconvenience to a judge is of comparatively unfrequent
occurrence; so that, although one of its members may occasionally
be found to _speak_ in favour of amalgamation, little or no active
assistance can be expected from the judicial body.

But how does the question affect other interests? Solicitors, as we
have hinted, are in favour of amalgamation. It can hardly do them
much harm, but must in many cases add to their professional incomes,
which is of course all that, as a body, they want. Barristers are more
opposed to it, but, we think, without much reason. A few, doubtless,
will suffer; but the state of the advocate’s profession as a whole can
hardly be worse than it is at present. There are barristers, it may
be said, who earn fifteen or twenty thousand pounds a year; but they
are not many—infinitely fewer in number than those who earn nothing at
all—and they are probably well above the reach of competition, partly
by reason of their known and exceptional ability, and partly because
they have been placed by fashion on a pedestal which is too firm to
crumble away, at least during their brief span of life. But the few who
make such incomes may be compared to the large landowners whom Mr Henry
George and his friends would rob to enrich (?) those who have no land.
If all the incomes made at the Bar were added together, and their sum
divided amongst all the barristers, each would have but a pittance, so
overstocked is the profession. Hence, regarding barristers as forming a
small community, and giving due consideration to the greatest happiness
of the greatest number principle, it is pretty obvious that the Bar has
really little to lose by the bringing about of amalgamation.

Now from the point of view of the public. It is clear that this largest
interest must benefit by amalgamation. It would promote economy—an
extremely great gain. It would practically mean the abolition of that
middle-man who is so obnoxious to economists, so hurtful to the proper
expression of delicate points, and so wasteful of time. It matters not
to the public, as long as it is placed in direct communication with
its counsel, whether that counsel be a solicitor or a barrister; but
it is of great and increasing importance to the vast body of litigants
that personal relations should be established between client and
advocate; and this is what must sooner or later come to pass. Other
advantages of the amalgamated system have been before urged here and
elsewhere; they need not be again specified in detail. Technically,
the probable effect of the system would be the immediate entering into
partnership of counsel and solicitors; which would mean nothing to the
general public except the nearer approach of counsel and the vastly
increased possibility of personal interview with him. Solicitors, in
fact, would for all practical purposes become barristers’ confidential
clerks; they would do all the work they do now for settlement by their
partner counsel; they would receive clients in chambers while their
partners were engaged in court, and in the event of an unusual press
of court-work, would conduct the minor cases through their trials.
The aggregate advantages of such a reform are so obvious, that minor
interests should not be considered in bringing it about; and we
are therefore inclined to express a hope that Mr Justice Stephen’s
criticism of the existing state of affairs may prove to be prophetic of
the near future.




LADY FREDERICK’S DIAMONDS.


I, Arnold Blake, have had a queer up-and-down, checkered sort of
life, and until I was nearing my fortieth year, was most persistently
down in my luck. First, it was in Mexico that I tried my fortune, and
failed. Then, tempted by an enthusiastic friend, I went to Genoa and
set up there in partnership with him as a merchant. The life was a very
healthy and happy one, but not what any one could call profitable,
from a pecuniary point of view—in fact, quite the reverse. After a
few years, finding it impossible, with both ends stretched to the
uttermost, to make them meet, we gave that up; and I moved on to Nice,
where I had two or three substantial friends. There, things took a turn
for the better, and I gradually formed a niche for myself, in time
becoming quite an authority in my own small circle. Then, acting on
good advice, I started a branch bank in connection with a well-known
one in London. This answered fairly well; I had just as much work as
I cared to do, was able to pay my expenses, and had even begun to lay
by a little hoard against the proverbial ‘rainy-day.’ Nice was a gay,
bright town to live in, and I constantly met old friends, and made many
pleasant new ones, who were passing through to the South, or spending
two or three months there, or at Monte Carlo, for the fascinating
pleasure of either losing their own money, or making a tidy little
fortune out of somebody else’s pocket.

One afternoon, I was sitting in my small counting-house, writing
for the English mail, when the door opened, and in came an old
acquaintance, Sir Frederick O’Connor, with a parcel in his hand. ‘How
d’ye do, Blake?’ said he cheerily. ‘I’ve come to you to get me out of
a difficulty. These are my wife’s jewels. Why she has brought them
with her, family diamonds and all, passes my understanding. I call it
insane! Fact is I don’t relish the idea of waking up some fine morning
to find my throat cut! I want to know if you will be so good as to keep
them in your safe while we are here. Whenever Lady O’Connor wishes to
dazzle her friends with them, I can easily come round and ask you for
what she wants.’

Naturally, I willingly consented to find a corner for the jewels; and
after I had taken an inventory of them, Sir Frederick himself placed
them in an inner compartment, and I locked the door. I little thought
what a dance those confounded diamonds should lead me!

A few days after this, at a large garden-party I met Lady O’Connor,
young, pretty, and happy-looking. She shook hands cordially, expressed
pleasure at meeting again, and asked if I thought the season would be
a gay one. ‘By-the-by,’ she said, ‘it is very kind of you, Mr Blake,
to take care of my valuables. Sir Frederick was quite in despair
about them, until a happy thought suggested you as their protector.
I am going to trouble you for some of them to-morrow. Fred will call
for them; and do not be surprised if you see him bristling with
bowie-knives and revolvers, for he has a fixed idea that the Nice
ruffian has a keener nose for other people’s property than any other
ruffian in the world.’

I answered that her lovely jewels were worthy of an escort armed to the
teeth, and that I was very glad indeed to be of use to Sir Frederick
and herself in any way.

The morning after this garden-party—it must have been about half-past
four or five—my sleepy senses were completely scattered by my door
being thrown violently open, and Roscoe, my combined valet and
commissionaire, a quiet and respectful treasure, landing beside me as
if shot out of a catapult. I knew at once that something very dreadful
must have happened. Roscoe’s face of horror and despair would have made
a valuable study for an artist.

‘Get up, sir, at once, and come down to the office. The safe has
been broken open, and cleaned out, sir, quite empty!’ gasped Roscoe
breathlessly, pale with excitement.

I cannot recollect what followed during the few minutes in which I
hurriedly dressed, and Roscoe is far too considerate to have ever
reminded me of that short scene. The first thing I _do_ remember is,
finding myself in my office, clothed in a sketchy and uncomfortable
manner, the victim of one of the most audacious burglaries that
had taken place in Nice for a very long time. I stood gazing at my
ransacked safe and rummaged drawers, and at the floor, strewn with
papers, among which, here and there, I noticed a few gold pieces, which
seemed as if the robbers had been interrupted or startled in some way
or other. I was afraid to move from the spot on which I stood until the
detective, whom I had sent Roscoe off in a _fiacre_ to fetch, should
arrive, lest I might unwittingly destroy some small but important piece
of evidence, which his experienced eyes would discover at a glance.
In a very short time he appeared, and after a friendly word or two,
commenced his investigations. He carefully examined the safe, the
window, and the door. Nothing seemed to escape him. He took voluminous
notes; measured a footmark which he discovered on the floor; but the
footmark on further inquiry was found to be his own, which rather put
him out.

I told him of the jewels which had been placed in my care so lately.

‘Your man informed me, monsieur, as we came, that you had diamonds of
great value in your iron safe.’

A clammy dew broke out suddenly on my forehead, as I remembered that
Lady O’Connor was counting on appearing in those same jewels at the
prefecture ball that night.

‘On the strength of what your servant told me, monsieur,’ continued the
detective, ‘I have already telegraphed to Marseilles, Genoa, and Turin,
and have directed some of my most trustworthy men to be on the alert at
the railway station and the port. I will send and let monsieur know the
moment we get any trace of the stolen property.’

I made out a careful list of all I had lost, gave it to the detective,
and then returned to my rooms to dress in a rather less superficial
manner. The awful business of breaking the loss of the jewels to
Sir Frederick and Lady O’Connor was now staring me in the face, and
as I walked to their hotel I became a prey to the most paralysing
nervousness I hope it will ever be my lot to endure. I was shown into
a charming sitting-room, facing the sea, and though I did not look
at anything round me, except the two people I had come to see, I
remembered afterwards every detail of the scene.

They were at breakfast. The refreshing, sun-warmed morning air breathed
softly in through the open window, scented by the mignonette, which
grew thickly in boxes on the balcony outside. Lady O’Connor looked very
graceful and pretty in a long loose gown of some soft Indian silk,
trimmed with lace. Sir Frederick, also in comfortable unconventional
garments, was reading aloud a letter, over which they were both
laughing merrily as I was announced. They welcomed me warmly, looking
as if early and unexpected visitors were quite a common occurrence,
and between them, carried on the usual preliminary chit-chat about the
lovely weather, the delight of being able to breakfast with the window
open in the month of November, the view, &c., as long as the servant
remained in the room, while I stood looking from one to the other,
solemnly bowing my head in silent answer to their cheerful remarks. It
is not necessary to relate what passed; suffice it to say that both
Sir Frederick and Lady O’Connor possessed an unusual share of kindness
of heart and of sympathy with other people’s misfortunes, and they
endeavoured to make my unpleasant position as easy for me as possible.

Then followed a week of restless activity. I haunted the police bureau;
if I was not there two or three times a day myself, I sent Roscoe to
find out for me if any telegrams had arrived on the all-important
subject, any clue been found to throw the smallest light upon it.

One lovely afternoon, I was walking down the Promenade des Anglais in
anything but a cheerful frame of mind, indeed I do not think I ever
felt so utterly depressed before. Nothing whatever had been heard of
the missing jewels; and during a long consultation that morning with
Aigunez the detective, he had told me that he firmly believed that
the robbery was the work of one man, and that the jewels were still
in Nice. I had been calling at one of the pretty villas beyond the
Var, and was now making my way down the side of the Promenade next
the houses, to the _Hôtel de la Mediterranée_, to talk over Aigunez’s
last suggestion with Sir Frederick O’Connor. As I was passing the high
solid walls of the now quite unused cemetery, I noticed that the door
was ajar; and expecting to find there old Baroni the care-taker, whom
I knew, I pushed open the door and entered. Nobody was there: all was
silent and solitary. Here and there were untidy heaps of rubbish;
tangled, overgrown bushes; and propped against the walls were two
or three gravestones that had covered graves from which the remains
had been removed to some family vault elsewhere. I could not help
wondering how much Baroni received for the amount of care and labour
he bestowed on the old English burial-ground. When my eyes, which were
uncommonly sharp ones, had become accustomed to the dark shadows thrown
by the walls, and the brilliant glare where the shadow-line ended, I
noticed that a gravestone lying in rather a retired spot appeared,
by the fresh-looking footmarks round it, to have been lately moved.
I do not think that this circumstance would have roused my curiosity
in the then preoccupied state of my mind, had it not been that close
beside it a large branch of a neighbouring tree had been bent down
and fastened firmly to the ground by means of a stone. This arrested
my attention, it was so evidently intended to mark the spot. Exerting
all my strength, I pushed the heavy stone sufficiently to one side to
enable me to see that it concealed a small pit, recently dug, by the
look of the mould round it. It was empty! I managed to replace the
gravestone, and left the cemetery, carefully closing the door behind
me, and glancing round to see if my actions had been observed.

I hurried on to the hotel, wondering and conjecturing as to the
possible meaning of the curious little mystery I had just discovered.
That small oblong pit, for what purpose could it have been prepared?
My first idea was that a murder had been or was about to be committed,
and in this way it was intended to get rid of the victim’s body; but
the hole was certainly not large enough for a grown person. Was it
possible that it was to be the unblessed, unadorned tomb of some little
one, done to death by pitiless earthly guardians, who found its frail
helpless life a burden to them? That was too hideous a fancy. Suddenly,
the thought struck me that it might be a hiding-place for property! By
Jove, the diamonds!

At that moment I reached the _Mediterranée_, and going up the broad
stairs three at a time in my excitement, I knocked at the door of the
O’Connors’ sitting-room. Sir Frederick was alone, smoking, with the
last number of the _World_ in his hand.

‘I felt sure that you would come in this afternoon,’ he said, as he
pushed his cigar case towards me, ‘so I put off going to the club.—What
is the latest intelligence?’

I first told him of Aigunez’s opinion, that the jewels were still in
Nice, an opinion which had now gained for me a double significance.
Then I unfolded my own budget, and told him of all I had seen in the
old cemetery which had been closed for so many years.

This put Sir Frederick into the wildest spirits. ‘We’ve got them now,
Blake!’ he exclaimed, ‘and no mistake about it. They’ve run themselves
into a nice trap. Of _course_, these are the rascals we’re after.—What
do you say?—Don’t set my heart upon it, in case of disappointment.
Nonsense! my dear fellow. Don’t you see they cannot get rid of diamonds
like those in a hurry; and not being able to leave the town puts them
in a regular fix? It is very dangerous for them to keep such valuable
things about them, and now, they flatter themselves that they have
found an uncommonly safe hiding-place. Why, Fate must have led you by
the very nose to that door this afternoon!’

I laughed. ‘It is as well for us, perhaps, that I did not feel her
fingers, or things might have turned out differently. We had better
settle our plan of action for to-night, as it won’t do to let this
chance slip. How fortunate there is no moon. It will be as black as
Erebus inside those high walls.’

‘Our best plan,’ said Sir Frederick, ‘is, I think, to hide ourselves
there as soon as it is dark. We may have a long time to wait; but then,
again, we may not, and we are much less likely to be observed if we
slip in early in the evening.’

‘Then I will call for you, Sir Frederick, as soon as it is dark
enough,’ I answered. ‘And allow me to suggest that we do not take
Aigunez into our confidence, for it will be a triumph indeed to cut out
the far-famed French detective in his own line of business.’

I left the hotel with a lighter heart than I had carried about with
me for some time. Though I had cautioned Sir Frederick not to be too
sanguine, I was myself convinced that we should have the diamonds in
our possession before morning. I went back to my rooms, wrote some
letters, dined, and then tried to quiet my excited mind by pacing up
and down the sitting-room, smoking my usual post-prandial cigar, till
I thought it was sufficiently dark to venture forth. The church clocks
were striking ten as I arrived at the _Mediterranée Hôtel_, and I found
Sir Frederick performing the same restless quarter-deck constitutional
on the pavement outside.

‘So glad you’ve come, Blake; I’m anxious to be off now.—What is that in
your hand?’

‘A small lantern,’ I answered. ‘We shall find it useful.’

‘Got a revolver?’ inquired Sir Frederick in a solemn whisper.

‘No,’ said I, in an equally sepulchral voice; ‘fists are my weapons.’

‘Pooh!’ returned he. ‘Of what use are English fists when you have an
Italian knife in your ribs?—Here we are!’

The door was exactly as I had left it. There was not a sign of anybody
near us, so we went quickly through, closing it again behind us. We,
stood for a minute silent and still, until our eyes had become more
accustomed to the intense darkness round us; then we groped our way,
with two or three stumbles against tombstones and over mounds of earth,
to the spot where I fancied the marked stone must be, and in a few
seconds I discovered it without doubt, by falling over it. As I was
collecting myself and my scattered senses together again, after this
sudden and unpleasant downfall, I heard close beside me a volley of
muttered execrations from Sir Frederick, who declared, in an agitated
whisper, that he was sure he had caught a ghost or something very like
it. At the risk of discovery, I opened the lantern, and for one second
threw the light on the object he held in his hands. It was an unusually
large bat, which, disturbed by our intrusion on its own domain, must
have flown or dropped on to Sir Frederick from the tree under which he
was standing. He quickly shook it off; and without further adventure
we concealed ourselves in some thick bushes near the grave. It would
have required the eyes of a lynx to discover us, hidden as we were
in the midst of a mass of evergreens, overgrown with a network of
tangled creepers, and the high black wall behind. There we waited,
keenly watchful. Not a leaf stirred. A perfectly dead silence lay
over everything, as if the fairy of the Sleeping Beauty story of our
childhood held nature bound under her spell. A mouldy, damp, earthy
vapour rose from the ground at my feet, and seemed to weigh me down as
if it were something solid.

The clock of Notre-Dame struck eleven. Another long weary hour went
slowly by, and then the clock struck midnight. I believe I had sunk
into a sort of doze, when every faculty was suddenly roused by hearing
a soft movement at the door, which was very gently opened. There was
a pause, as if the new-comers were listening; the door was shut, and
a lantern shed its narrow streak of light over the graves at their
feet. One, two, three dark forms, two of whom carried between them what
seemed to be a box. Sir Frederick gently nudged me—of course _that_
contained the jewels. They came quietly to the side of the mysterious
tombstone, and, setting their burden down on another one close by, they
set to work, and quickly moved it to one side. I then discovered, to my
surprise, that the one that held the lantern was a woman. Their faces
were deep in shadow; I did not once get a glimpse of their features.
All their movements were quiet and free from haste; they evidently
had not the smallest notion that discovery was possible. The two men
carefully laid the box in the hole prepared for it, covered it with
mould, and, after replacing the stone stretched themselves, and held
the lantern aloft, the better to survey their handiwork. It seemed very
satisfactory to their female companion, for I distinctly heard her
breathe a sigh of unmistakable relief. They left the place as quietly
as they had come to it, not having, as far as we knew, spoken a word to
each other the whole time.

It was our turn now. As soon as we were quite sure that we again
had this dismal solitude to ourselves, we emerged from our damp
hiding-place and shook ourselves into shape, for naturally we both felt
very stiff and numb after our long weird vigil. I opened my lantern,
and we began eagerly to undo the work we had just seen so neatly
accomplished. It did not take long to remove the stone and scatter the
thin layer of mould. In a few minutes we had the box—a boy’s oblong
deal play-box, clamped with iron—lying on a tombstone before us.

‘Open it, Blake,’ said Sir Frederick.

‘Locked,’ I answered as I shook the lid.

‘Take my knife,’ continued the baronet, as he drew from his pocket one
of the formidable weapons at which his wife had laughed.

It was a common lock, and easily forced. As I threw back the lid, Sir
Frederick held up the lantern. ‘Take them out, Blake, and see if they
are all there; it will be a wonderful thing if none are missing.—What
on earth is that?’

‘It looks to me like a dog-collar,’ I answered, as I shook out a black
Cashmere shawl in which was wrapped a silver curb chain with a small
silver bell attached to it.

‘Stolen from somebody else,’ cried Sir Frederick. ‘Get on with the
rest.’

‘This beats everything,’ said I, and drew forth a small pale-blue
garment fashioned like a horse’s body-cloth, with a monogram in gold
thread at one side. ‘It is a dog’s coat.—And what the deuce is this?’

‘A dog!’ we exclaimed simultaneously.

Carefully folded in a piece of soft linen lay the body of a small silky
white, long-haired terrier—to judge by all its surroundings, a lady’s
cherished pet. For a few seconds, disgust and disappointment kept us
silent; then Sir Frederick broke out into a series of execrations more
amusing than effective.

We had been befooled by our own enthusiasm as amateur detectives, and
at first were angry, but by-and-by came to see the situation in its
more grotesque aspect. After giving vent to our feelings in a burst
of suppressed laughter, we put the little pet back into his play-box
coffin, being careful to see that everything was just as we had found
it; and quickly shovelling the mould and pushing the tombstone over it,
we crept out of the old cemetery. Our feelings were very different from
those with which we had entered it. We were greatly cheered, however,
on reaching the hotel to find a line from Aigunez, which had come
during Sir Frederick’s absence; ‘I am on the right track.’

We heard no more for two days, when the detective reappeared with
a captive, a valet whom Sir Frederick had dismissed before leaving
England, who, knowing the great value of the jewels which Lady O’Connor
was taking with her, had thought it worth his while to follow them, and
being a clever hand at that sort of work, had succeeded as we have seen.




OCCASIONAL NOTES.


THE WEST AUSTRALIAN GOLD-FIELDS.

For some years, the government of Western Australia has offered
a reward of five thousand pounds for the discovery of a payable
gold-field within three hundred miles of a declared port. From recent
news from Perth, it would almost appear that a profitable gold-field
has at last been discovered. We learn that Messrs Malet and M‘Ewen, who
were sent by the government to explore the Kimberley District, in the
extreme north of the colony, have returned, after an expedition which
nearly proved disastrous to the explorers. They lost their horses;
and having consumed all their provisions, only escaped starvation by
coming unexpectedly to a settler’s hut, where they obtained assistance.
The party arrived barefooted, their boots having fallen to pieces
on the tramp of one hundred miles. Mr M‘Ewen nearly succumbed to the
hardships of the journey. A quantity of the new gold has already
found its way to England. According to advices from Derby, the port
of the country—named after the present Lord Derby, and situated at
the head of King’s Sound—large numbers of people, who were totally
unfitted for the work, were starting for the Kimberley gold-fields. As
the roads are rough, and provisions scarce and dear, with an absence
of water, it goes without saying that no one need venture in search
of wealth without being supplied with plenty of money and an ample
supply of provisions. The country is described as closely resembling
the Peak Down District in Queensland. The gold is much scattered, but
the gullies are numerous. It is expected that so soon as the alluvial
gold is worked out, productive reefs will be laid bare. The Kimberley
District, contrary to what many have supposed, is a country about four
and a half times the size of Scotland, with splendid rivers, and with
millions of acres of pastoral and agricultural land. The climate has
been commended by Captain Grey and other explorers as one of the finest
and healthiest in the tropics. Last year, the population numbered only
about one hundred white men; the blacks, who are not numerous, are
tractable. Sheep, cattle, and horses thrive well, so that, whether or
not the gold-fields fulfil the expectations of those who seek their
fortune at the gold-fields, there is a fine country to develop. Derby,
the capital of this district, at the mouth of the Fitzroy River,
consisted lately of but a few huts and tents, and is the station of a
government resident. Should the ‘rush’ to the gold-fields continue,
doubtless all this will soon be changed.


ROYAL VETERINARY COLLEGE.

The horse fills so large a place in human affairs, that a few words
descriptive of an institution devoted to its welfare must interest
more or less every one. The Royal Veterinary College—situated in Great
College Street, Camden Town, London, N.W.—discharges the twofold
function of a hospital and a school; that is to say, it is there the
sick or maimed horse—or for the matter of that, the sick or maimed
sheep, ox, dog, &c.—is taken to be doctored; and it is there the young
man goes for the education and diploma which are to qualify him for
the vocation of a veterinary surgeon. The scope of the present series
of papers, however, only justifies our considering the institution in
its curative capacity. Horse-owners, then, come, in relation to the
College, under two heads—subscribers and non-subscribers. If elected by
the Governing Body, or General Purposes Committee, a person becomes a
yearly subscriber by paying two guineas per annum; or a life subscriber
either by paying twenty guineas in one sum, or sixteen guineas
after making the annual payment for not less than two consecutive
years—certain exceptional conditions applying to firms and companies.
The privileges of a subscriber are—(1) To have the gratuitous opinion
of the professors as to the treatment to be applied to any animal of
his brought for the purpose to the College, but which he may desire to
retain in his own keeping. (2) To have admitted into the infirmary,
for medical and surgical treatment, any number of his own horses and
other animals for which there may be room, at a charge only for their
‘keep.’ (3) To have in the course of any year five horses, his actually
or prospective property, examined gratuitously as to soundness, either
before or after purchase; and to have any further number examined at
a fee of ten shillings and sixpence per head. (4) To be supplied with
medicines for animals at a fixed charge. (5) To have, at a fixed rate,
a chemical analysis made by the Professor of Chemistry at the College
of any water, provender, oilcake, or other feeding-matter, and of the
viscera of any animal suspected of being poisoned. (6) In cases of
extensive or serious outbreaks of disease, to have an investigation
made into its nature and causes, on payment of the fixed charges. And
(7) To have a post-mortem examination of any animal, or parts of an
animal, sent to the College, and receive an opinion of the probable
cause of death, on payment of a fixed charge. As regards outsiders or
non-subscribers, the treatment and examination of their animals by the
staff of the College are subject to a higher tariff of charges. Another
disability under which they labour is that their animals may not be
received into the infirmary for treatment. ‘Accidents’ and other urgent
cases are received into the institution at all times of the day and
night, special vehicles being kept at hand for their transportation.

A singular by-law of the College is the following: ‘Credit will be
given for all animals which may die in the infirmary according to
the amount received for the carcase; but all diseased parts shall be
considered to be the property of the College.’ Such ‘diseased parts’
are useful vehicles in the dissecting-room for conveying knowledge to
the minds of the students.




A SONG OF REST.


    O weary Hands! that, all the day,
      Were set to labour hard and long,
    Now softly fall the shadows gray,
      The bells are rung for evensong.
    An hour ago, the golden sun
      Sank slowly down into the west;
    Poor, weary Hands, your toil is done;
      ’Tis time for rest!—’tis time for rest!

    O weary Feet! that many a mile
      Have trudged along a stony way,
    At last ye reach the trysting stile;
      No longer fear to go astray.
    The gently bending, rustling trees
      Rock the young birds within the nest,
    And softly sings the quiet breeze:
      ‘’Tis time for rest!—’tis time for rest!’

    O weary Eyes! from which the tears
      Fell many a time like thunder-rain—
    O weary Heart! that through the years
      Beat with such bitter, restless pain,
    To-night forget the stormy strife,
      And know, what Heaven shall send is best;
    Lay down the tangled web of life;
      ’Tis time for rest!—’tis time for rest!

            FLORENCE TYLEE.

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

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_All Rights Reserved._