Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. - 751, May 18, 1878
Author: Various
Language: English
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LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, NO. 751, MAY 18, 1878 ***



[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 751.      SATURDAY, MAY 18, 1878.      PRICE 1½_d._]



WANDERINGS ROUND ST VALERY.


Should there be any one who wishes to spend a few weeks in a quiet
French watering-place not far from the English coast, let him try St
Valery. Here he will not find the fashion and gaiety of Trouville,
requiring a dozen new costumes for his wife in as many days, nor
the picturesque scenery of Biarritz and the Pyrenees. Yet the flat
plains of Picardy have their charms, and there is much to interest the
archæologist. This is the classic ground of the troubadours. There
are great memories of heroic deeds in the middle ages, and some of
the finest monuments of religious zeal. Rivers flow quietly through
narrow valleys, planted with willows and poplars, often enlarging into
small lakes, where the water-lily spreads its broad leaves and queenly
flowers.

Wandering on the downs near the sea, the scenery is sad, but offers
a grand and severe beauty of its own. Nothing is there to recall the
presence of man; it is a desert, with the eternal murmur of the ocean
and the ever-changing aspects of the season. Animals and birds abound
in these solitudes; rabbits swarm in their burrows to such a degree
that fourteen hundred have been taken from one spot at the same time.
The fishing-hawk comes to seek its food in the finny tribes that rise
to the surface of the water; a species of wild-fowl intrudes into the
rabbit’s burrow and there builds her nest; the sea-gull deposits her
eggs on the bare rock; the curlew mingles her plaintive cry with the
harsher note of the heron. In the cold days of winter the swan, the
eider-duck, the wild-goose, driven from the northern seas by the ice,
take refuge on the sands left bare at low-water. Sometimes, during the
prevalence of east wind, rare foreign birds are driven to the shores;
and in the marshes, lapwings, snipes, and water-fowl abound. Capital
ground this, for the ornithologist and wild-fowler.

St Valery itself, situated on the river Somme and occupying an
important military position, suffered most cruelly in the wars of the
middle ages. Its old walls have seen the inhabitants slaughtered and
the fleets burned twenty times; English, Burgundians, and Spaniards
have helped to level it to the dust; yet the brave little town has
risen again from its ruins and set to work to restore its thriving
commerce. Here it was that a tragical event happened in the thirteenth
century, when the powerful Lord de Coucy held his sway. Many a
story-teller and troubadour has narrated within the castle walls how
he married the lovely Adèle, daughter of the Comte de Ponthieu, and
how, as she was passing through a forest with too small an escort for
such lawless times, she was attacked by brigands and subjected to the
greatest indignities. Her husband, with equal cruelty, wished to efface
the affront, and ordered her to be thrown into the sea. Some Flemings,
sailing on their way to the Holy Land, saw the beautiful lady floating
on the waves, took her on board, and when they arrived, sold her to
the Sultan of Amaria, who by kind treatment made her happy in her
banishment.

But whilst she forgot her country and her religion, the husband and
father were filled with the deepest remorse, and determined to do
penance by going to Jerusalem. A fearful tempest stranded them on
the territory of the Sultan, by whose orders they were thrown into a
dungeon. The day after, a great festival was held in honour of the
Sultan’s birthday; and according to the custom of the country, the
people came to the palace to demand a Christian captive to torture and
kill. The choice fell upon the Comte de Ponthieu. When he was brought
out, and the astonished Adèle recognised him, she said to her husband:
‘Give me, I pray you, this captive; he knows how to play at chess and
draughts.’ Her request was granted; and then another captive appeared,
the Lord de Coucy. ‘Let me also have this one,’ she said; ‘he can tell
wonderful stories to amuse me.’ ‘Willingly,’ answered the obliging
Sultan. Recognition was soon established among the three; pardon was
sought, and granted; and Adèle, under pretext of taking a sail, escaped
with the two captives, and landed in France. They regained their own
possessions, and from that time lived a life of great piety.

Leaving St Valery, let us take a pleasant excursion to see the fine
old feudal castle of Rambures. There is probably not a more perfect
specimen of the military architecture of the middle ages in the whole
of France. We walk round it and admire the four enormous brick towers
rising at the angles of the quadrangular fortress, crowned with the
roofs then so much in favour, resembling pepper-boxes. The walls, many
yards in thickness, are pierced with embrasures; where we now stand
they seem like a narrow slit; but when we enter, there is ample room
for a man and horse to stand in them. Everything is prepared for a long
defence: descending into the vaults, there are stables for a number
of horses, ovens to bake bread for a regiment, wells, and store-rooms
ready to contain any amount of provisions. Below these cold dark
excavations are the still more melancholy _oubliettes_, a suitable
name, where the prisoners were too often forgotten and allowed to die a
lingering death of starvation. Here the lord of the place could without
any trial confine his vassals who refused to grind their wheat at his
mill, bake their bread at his bakehouse, or get in his harvest at the
loss of their own. Such was the state of affairs in these olden times!

The shore-line takes us to the oldest hereditary fief of the French
monarchy, a spot rendered interesting from its connection with Joan
of Arc. A few houses, half-buried in sand, form what the people still
persist in calling ‘the port and town of Crotoy,’ once so flourishing
as the centre of commerce for the wines of the south and the wool
and dye-woods of Spain, which were shipped off from here to the
cloth-workers of Flanders. When it belonged to our kings Edward II. and
III., the port dues amounted to no less than twelve hundred pounds, a
very large sum for those days; now they are but thirty-two pounds a
year. The honest hospitable fishermen are always ready to rescue any
distressed ship driven on to the coast by storms. It is remembered
that one of their race, whose name was Vandenthum, saved the Duc de
Larochefoucauld. In the worst days of the Revolution, when it was a
crime to bear a title, this most devoted of the adherents of Louis XVI.
fled to Crotoy, in the hope of getting to England. Before getting into
Vandenthum’s boat, the Duke gave his valet half of a card, the ace of
hearts, saying: ‘When this good fisherman brings you the other half, I
shall be safe on the other side; pray take it at once to my wife.’ The
card was delivered; and every year after the Duke shewed his gratitude
by making Vandenthum spend a fortnight with him, treating him in a
princely manner, seating him at his side, and recognising him as his
deliverer.

It was in the strong castle of this place where Joan of Arc was
imprisoned in 1430. From Amiens came a priest to receive her confession
and administer the sacrament; and many ladies and citizens from the
same place, sympathising with her under her cruel treatment, visited
her. Thanking them warmly and kissing them, she exclaimed, weeping:
‘These are good people; may it please God, when my days are ended,
that I may be buried in this place.’ If you talk to the fishermen’s
wives here, they speak of this heroic woman with profound respect; and
singularly enough, the last branch of her family has settled among
the people she loved. They are living in comparative poverty, having a
place in the Custom-house, but are proud of the letters-patent which
authorise them to adopt the name of Du Lis, and bear on their arms the
_fleur de lis_ of the Bourbons.

Six miles away we come to the once celebrated church of Rue, with a
dismantled fortress, a belfry, clock tower, and gibbet of the olden
times. St Wulphy was a saint of miracle-working power, and to him the
church was dedicated; but in the incessant attacks of the Normans his
relics were carried off. The saint still cared for his church, and
prayed God to give his people something better; whereupon some workmen
digging near Golgotha found buried in the earth a crucifix, sculptured
by Nicodemus. This was set afloat at Jaffa in a boat without oars,
sail, or pilot, and soon stranded on the shore of Rue. In the present
day it is trade which turns villages into towns; then it was faith;
wherever the relics of a saint were to be found, the most obscure
place grew rapidly in riches and population. Thus pilgrims flocked to
this out-of-the-way place from all parts of France; the popes granted
indulgences to those who visited it, and it became a rival to St James
of Compostella. Here was often found Louis XI., who had great need
for desiring pardon, and miser though he was, left behind him rich
presents. Of the fine old church nothing remains but a chapel, which
is a masterpiece of architectural beauty; the legend of the bark is
represented on the tympanum, and on the façade are statues of several
of the kings of France. All its rich treasures and the miraculous cross
were carried away at the end of the last century by the faithless
dragoons of the Republican army.

Musing on the changes of time and public opinion, we look far away
over the downs towards Abbeville, and under the shadow of the large
forest which darkens the horizon, call to mind the great victory which
the armies of England gained on the field of Crécy. Edward III. knew
the country well, for his youthful days had been passed at the Château
Gard-les-Rue, which belonged to his mother, Isabel of Ponthieu. Walking
over the ground, the spots where the carnage was most terrible may be
traced by the names given to tracts of land, such as the _Marche à
Carognes_, meaning ‘The Pathway of Corpses.’ In the morning, when the
fields are covered with dew, the deep ditches where the victims were
buried may be distinctly traced, for there, curiously enough, the earth
remains damp much longer than in the other furrows. Standing in the
green forest-road is an old cross of sandstone, which the peasants tell
you is the spot where the body of the king of Bohemia was found. He
was one of the most faithful allies of the French king, and blind; but
in the midst of the battle he desired his two faithful knights to lead
his horse in, that he might strike one last blow for his friend. All
the three fell together in front of the hill, from which the English
archers drew their bow-strings with such fatal effect that ten thousand
of the French were left dead on the battle-field. Here it was that the
gallant Black Prince won his spurs, and the crest of feathers which
still pertains to our Prince of Wales.

Starting on the road to Abbeville, and passing the large beetroot
manufactories which abound in Picardy, we gain a beautiful view of the
fertile vale of the Somme; but our destination is eastward, to visit
St Riquier. Two monks from Bangor are said to have preached the gospel
here 590 A.D., and incurring the anger of the idolatrous people, they
were attacked and would have perished but for the help of one of their
converts named Riquier. After their departure he became a priest,
and continued the good work, founding an abbey, which King Dagobert
richly endowed. This exquisite building was built in the form of a
triangle, as a symbol of the Trinity. The number three was everywhere
reproduced; three doors opened into the vestibule, three chapels rose
at the angles, three altars, three pulpits, the three symbols of
Constantinople, of St Athanasius, and the apostles. Three hundred monks
and thirty-three choristers sang in the processions, and finally the
abbot fed daily three hundred poor persons.

Whilst the ruthless hands of the whitewasher have destroyed innumerable
frescoes, there still remain two large mural paintings in the treasury
of this church, one being a representation of the translation of the
relics of St Riquier, the other a Dance of Death. The latter is divided
into three compartments; in the first are three skeletons, one digging
a grave, another holding a spade (the emblem of demolition), the
third an arrow, the instrument of death. Richly-dressed well-mounted
cavaliers appear in the second, setting out for the chase with falcons
on their wrists; but at the sight of the skeletons the horses rear, and
one of the falcons is flying away. In the last, persons of every rank
are walking together to the grave; a wild and poetical teaching, which
recalled, in the midst of the inequalities of the feudal days, the
certainty of their all meeting in the final resting-place.

It was in these well-known funereal allegories that religious thought
took refuge, whilst burlesque associations or brotherhoods traversed
the towns in disorganised bands, and the troubadours sang their
romances of ladies catching hearts in their nets to put into the box
of forgetfulness. Christian art endeavoured to bring men back to
the remembrance of God by shewing them death under various aspects.
Sometimes the artist placed him with a coffin under his arm in the
cortège of kings; or as a guest at the marriage-feast standing behind
the bride; or as a wood-cutter lopping off branches laden with nobles
and citizens; as if to illustrate that however high the position in
this world, all must at last fall.

To St Riquier, Charlemagne loved to repair, and he made it a centre
of learning, like Tours, Metz, and St Gall. Some remains of the old
towers of his day still remain, as well as the mosaic roses which he
sent for from Rome to adorn it. In the porch were buried two abbots who
were killed in 853, in one of the numerous incursions of the Normans.
Their bodies were found wrapped in sheep-skins, when the beautiful
church of the fifteenth century rose from the ashes of the old one.
Among the many statues of saints which adorn the main portal is a very
noble one of Joan of Arc, holding a half-broken lance; her eyes are
cast down, and the expression is that of a perfectly beautiful but sad
countenance. She was confined in the castle for a few days.

Upon the beauties of Amiens we must not dwell; it was a centre for
the cultivation of poetry, sculpture, and the fine arts throughout
the middle ages. The inhabitants worked at its glorious cathedral for
sixty-eight years, forming a kind of camp, and relieving each other as
they cut the stones, singing canticles the while. The tall spire was
destroyed by a thunderbolt in 1527; but two zealous village carpenters
determined to rebuild it; and six years later it was finished. Many
monograms testify to the visits of master-masons, who came to admire
the work of the Picardy peasants; the eighteen hundred medallions
detailing the history of the world, besides many bas-reliefs carved by
the old workmen of Amiens. Abbeville is also a most interesting old
town, not only for its past monuments, but as the home of that modern
geologist M. de Perthes, who has left his museum of relics to the
city. We must bid adieu to Picardy, to its hardy peasants, delicious
cider, and well-cultivated plains with regret, as being not the least
interesting among the French provinces, and well worthy the notice of
the wandering traveller.



HELENA, LADY HARROGATE.


CHAPTER XXVII.—AT THE STANNARIES.

‘We shall have a delightful day,’ said young Lady Alice joyously, as
the sweet scent of the bruised heather and the steam of the wet earth
came floating on the breeze, and the clouds rolled off majestically
seawards, leaving the broad surface of Dartmoor, like a purple robe
dashed with green, flecked and dappled by the dancing sunbeams. ‘A
delightful day for our peep at the old Stannaries,’ repeated the girl.
‘The air will be all the fresher and the weather steadier, for the
heavy shower of this morning.’

Lady Alice, the youngest and, some said, the cleverest of the Earl’s
daughters, was an indulged child, and there was a carriage at High
Tor which she regarded as her very own. This was a low wagonette,
built of light osier-work, lined with dark blue, and drawn by a
hairy-heeled pony, quite as shaggy as a bear, and not much bigger than
a Newfoundland dog. The villagers for miles around were tolerably
familiar with the jingle of the bells that were attached to the pony’s
collar; but on the present occasion the boy in livery who held the
reins had been bidden to strike into one of the rugged roads that led
into the moor itself, where hamlets were scarce, and even isolated
dwellings few and far between.

‘It would be a thousand pities,’ said Lady Alice presently, turning
towards Ethel, who sat beside her in the wagonette, ‘not to shew you
the Stannaries—which are among our principal lions hereabouts—before
the winter-storms set in. It is not always pleasant or quite safe to go
so far into the moor after apple-harvest.’

‘But you forget,’ said Ethel, smiling, ‘that I, in my ignorance, have
not the very faintest idea as to what Stannaries may be.’

‘Is it possible!’ exclaimed the child, turning upon her governess
a glance of that pitying wonder with which the very young receive
a confession of deficient information on the part of their elders.
‘Did you really never hear, Miss Gray, of our Cornish and Devon
tin-mines?—we call them Stannaries because _stannum_ is the Latin
word for tin, you know—which were worked, ever so many hundreds and
thousands of years ago, by Phœnicians and Carthaginians and Jews I
believe, and Romans I am sure. Very ancient they are at anyrate, and
very curious; and I want to shew you ours, the only ones in this part
of Dartmoor, with the stone huts of the miners still standing, although
no tin has been taken out of the lodes for many a long year.’

Ethel laughed good-humouredly at her own scanty stock of local lore.

‘I have read,’ she said gently, ‘of tin mines in Cornwall, and of that
place with the odd name Marazion, which made people fancy the Lost
Tribes were to be looked for somewhere near the Land’s End, and how the
Phœnicians came of old in ships to fetch the tin away. But I did not
know they came to Devon too.’

‘O yes; they did,’ persisted Lady Alice, eager for the credit of her
county. ‘Our workings are quite as ancient as the great Cornish mines,
though not so big. And there was once a Mayor of Halgaver, and a
sort of diggers’ law on the moor, as there is among the gold-seekers
in Australia now. I have heard Papa speak of it. But there is the
farmhouse’—pointing to a dwelling, screened by black firs from the cold
north-east winds, which crowned a swelling ridge of high ground—‘our
explorings. You are a capital walker, and so am I; and the way to enjoy
the moor and understand it is to cross it on foot.’

The pony, wagonette, and lad in livery being duly left at the farm, the
two girls set off together to traverse the distance that intervened
between the ridge on which the house was built and a bleak table-land
from which cropped up, like fossil mushrooms, many gray stones of
various shapes.

‘Those are the Circles—the Rounds as the poor people call them,’ said
Lady Alice in her character of cicerone. ‘Nobody in these parts cares
to be near them after dark. They are said to be haunted, but that is
all nonsense of course.’

‘They look cold and ghostly enough even in broad daylight,’ said
Ethel, as they pushed on along a broad smooth track of emerald green,
one of several green belts that varied the dull purple of the sea of
heather. Overhead, on tireless wing, the hawk wheeled. The lapwing,
with complaining note, skirred the plain, striving with world-old
artifice of drooping wing and broken flight, to lure away the human
intruders from her flat nest, full of speckled eggs. The moorland
hare, dark-furred and long-limbed, broke abruptly from her seat and
galloped off unpursued. The Circles were reached at last, and proved to
be quaint rings of dilapidated buildings, all of unhewn stone and of
the rudest construction. Here and there the huts, roof and walls alike
composed of rough slabs, were intact. Nothing could be more desolate
than the appearance of these bare, gaunt hovels, reared by the hands of
the long dead, standing solitary in the midst of a desert.

‘Here they lived once upon a time, those old people, the heathen
miners, whose bronze tools and lumps of ore and morsels of charred wood
are even now sometimes picked up by boys who hunt for birds’ eggs on
the moor. They worked near the surface, and never drove their galleries
very deep into the earth. And then came Christian times, when these
hovels were inhabited by very different dwellers, until at last the
mines were given up as no longer worth the labour of winning the tin.’

Ethel looked around her with a kind of awe. She had imagination enough
to enable her to realise the dim Past, when these deserted huts were
peopled by inhabitants strange of garb and speech, gnomes of the mine
utterly unlike to any who now tread English ground. In fancy she could
behold the motley throng of Pagan toilers, whose bronze picks had
once rung against gneiss and granite, mica and sandstone, on the now
silent moor. There the Briton, his fair skin stained with woad, and
the small and swarthy mountaineer whose forefathers had preceded the
Celt in ownership of the land, had laboured side by side with Spaniard,
Moor, and Goth, with Scythian, Arab, and Indian—slaves all, and mostly
captives in war, whom the cruel policy of Rome consigned to far-off
regions of the earth, much as our justice stocked Virginian plantations
and Australian cattle-runs with the offscourings of ignorance and crime.

It was at the grave as it were of a dead industry that Ethel now stood.
The ground, honeycombed by what resembled gigantic rabbit-burrows, was
strewed here and there with dross and scoriæ, and blackened by fire,
wherever the remains of a rude kiln told of smelting carried on long
ago.

‘I have all sorts of things to shew you,’ said Lady Alice impatiently.
‘Just look into one of the huts, and then wonder how human beings could
ever have made a home of such a place. See! It is just like a stone
bee-hive—no windows. That was for warmth, I suppose. The little light
they wanted came in at the door, no doubt. And up above there, where
you see the hole between the stones, the smoke must have found its way
out, after it had half-choked the lungs and blinded the eyes of those
inside the hut. They wanted a good peat-fire though, to keep them alive
when the great snows of winter fell; and they had it too, for just see
how hard and black the earthen floor has become in the course of years.
Now then for the mine where the Roman sword was found, and then for the
Pixies’ Well.’

The Pixies’ Well proved to be a curious natural depression in the rocky
soil, thimble-shaped, and about twenty feet in depth, carpeted with
moss of the brightest green from the brink to where the water glimmered
starlike from amid rank weeds beneath.

‘They say the fairies used to dance round this well on Midsummer night
and dip stolen children in the water, that they might never long to go
back to earth again, but live contentedly in Elfland. Our Devonshire
people believe all sorts of things still, you must know, though they
are getting ashamed of talking about them before strangers.—Are you
tired, Miss Gray?’

Miss Gray was not tired, and her mercurial pupil thereupon proposed a
visit to a new attraction.

‘The idea of it came into my head while we were looking down into the
well,’ explained Lady Alice; ‘and though the Hunger Hole is not one of
the sights of the Stannaries, still if you are not afraid of a longer
walk, we might visit it and yet be at home in good time. It is a mile
or more from here.’

‘That is an odd name, the Hunger Hole,’ said Ethel. ‘I suppose there is
some legend to account for so ominous a word?’

‘There is indeed,’ said the Earl’s youngest daughter as, by Ethel’s
side, she left the ring of ruinous huts and passed along a strong
causeway that led towards the west; ‘and moreover, in this case there
can be no doubt about its being true. A young Jacobite—it was just
after the Northern rising in 1715—fled to a country-house near here,
Morford Place, where his mother’s family lived, hoping to be sheltered
and enabled to embark secretly for France. There had been treachery
at work, however, for the fugitive’s intentions were revealed to the
authorities; and on the morning of the very day when he arrived in mean
disguise, constables and soldiers had searched the mansion from garret
to cellar.

‘That the poor refugee should be concealed at Morford seemed
impossible, and yet as the roads were beset and the harbours watched,
escape over sea was not for the moment to be thought of. The squire
of Morford bethought him of the place that we are going to see, which
was then known to very few, and where priests had often been hidden,
when every Jesuit who came to England carried his life in his hand. So
young Mr John Grahame—that was his name—was lodged in the grotto that
we shall presently see, and sometimes one of the ladies of the family,
his cousins, and sometimes a trusty servant, carried him food. But the
poor young man had some secret enemy who could not rest until assured
of his destruction, for just as the rigour of the pursuit seemed to
be over, and it was arranged that the fugitive should be put on board
a smuggling craft bound for the French coast, Morford Place was again
searched, and a chain of sentries posted, with orders to shoot whoever
tried to pass them by.

‘Day after day dragged on, and no food could be conveyed to the
unfortunate occupant of the Hiding Hole—the Priest’s Hole, as they
called it then—while the dragoons scoured the country, questioning the
folks in every village if a stranger had been seen. No doubt it was
hoped that famine would force the Jacobite to leave his retreat; but
after a time the soldiers grew tired of waiting, or the authorities
imagined they had been on a false scent. At anyrate the troops were
withdrawn. But when some of the Morford family stole, trembling, to
the unfrequented spot where their luckless kinsman lay hid, they stood
aghast to see the raven and the carrion-crow flapping and screaming
about the grotto—a sure sign that there was death within. True enough,
poor young Grahame had perished of want, sooner than venture forth to
be dragged to the jail and the gibbet; and ever since that day the
place has borne the name of the Hunger Hole.’

By this time the stony causeway had given place to a narrow footway
that led through one of those swamps that vary the undrained surface of
Dartmoor. To left and right rose tall reeds, thick enough to simulate a
tropical cane-brake, while wild flax, mallows, and stunted alder-bushes
abounded. The moor-hen sprang from her nest among the bulrushes that
bordered the sullen pools of discoloured water, and the snake crept
hissing through the coarse grass, as if angry at the unwonted trespass
on his haunts. The unstable ground, even at that dry season of the
year, shook beneath the feet of the explorers; and it was easy for
Ethel to give credence to her pupil’s statement that even the hardy
moorman avoided Bitternley Swamp in winter.

‘The place took its name from the bitterns that used to abound here,’
said Lady Alice; ‘but there is no nook too lonely for the men whom the
London bird-stuffers employ, and the last bittern was shot two years
since. Soon there won’t be a feathered creature, except pheasants and
partridges and perhaps the saucy sparrows, left alive.—But that’—as
they passed a sheet of dark water, stained by the peat of the morass
until it resembled ink in hue—‘is Blackpool; and yonder, among those
rocks on the bank above, is the Hunger Hole. You cannot see the opening
of the grotto from here—that is the beauty of it—but wait till we get
quite close, and then you will understand how naturally the cave was
made to hide in.’

Even when the two girls had got clear of the swamp and scrambled up
the rude flight of steps, nearly effaced by time and rains, that
facilitated the scaling of the precipitous bank, Ethel could see
no signs of the grotto they sought, until her youthful companion
pulled aside the hazel boughs, that grew between two angles of
lichen-incrusted rock, and disclosed, about a yard above their heads,
a narrow fissure, too low for a person of ordinary stature to enter
without stooping, and even then half-hidden by grass and brambles.

‘That is the Hunger Hole,’ said Lady Alice triumphantly. ‘A fugitive
may lie concealed here, I think, if the enemy were ranging all the moor
to capture him. It is higher inside than at the mouth, and the bridge
within gives access to the inner chamber. Come; we must be quick.—Ah!
there is no danger,’ added the girl, mistaking the cause of her
companion’s hesitation.

‘I am not afraid; I was merely thinking of the sad story of this
place,’ said Ethel with a shudder that she could not repress. And
passing over the boulders of loose rock, they entered Indian file into
the Hunger Hole.


CHAPTER XXVIII.—THE HUNGER HOLE.

Ethel, on following her young pupil through the darkling portal of the
cave, moved forward at first with extreme precaution; but gradually,
as her eyes became accustomed to the dim mysterious light that reigned
within, she could distinguish that the grotto really did increase in
height within two paces of the entrance, and that it was quite possible
to stand upright without inconvenience beneath the rocky roof. She saw
that she was in a natural cavern of small dimensions, the irregular
level of the floor being moistened by the water that oozed through a
crevice between two mossy stones and trickled onwards until it fell,
with a monotonous dripping sound, into a chasm some ten or eleven feet
in breadth, over which a wooden bridge, the timbers of which were
black with age and coated with colourless growths of fungi and mosses,
afforded the means of passing.

‘They say the Hunger Hole was known and used from very early times,’
observed Lady Alice, stepping fearlessly upon the dilapidated bridge,
of which the hand-rails, if such there had been, had long since rotted
away. ‘But its very existence was kept secret by the Morfords of
Morford and two or three other families of the neighbouring gentry and
their trusty retainers, until after that sad tragedy of which I told
you. You will find the inner chamber more comfortable than the outer
cave, where the spring is.’

And indeed Ethel found herself in a recess, somewhat smaller than the
exterior portion of the cavern, but dry, and free alike from trickling
moisture and the unwholesome growth of cryptogams, that carpeted the
slimy floor of the antechamber through which they had passed. At one
extremity of the chamber a sort of bench or bed-place had been cut,
evidently by human agency, in the stony wall. Light came filtered
down through boughs and creeping-plants from above the chasm, where a
glimpse of the sky might be caught; while beneath, some subterranean
pool or streamlet, to judge by the drip, drip, of the water that ran
over the mossy lip of the fissure, certainly existed.

‘Life must have been very dreary here, spent in solitude, and with
the haunting apprehension that at each instant the secret of the
hiding-hole might be betrayed or discovered,’ said Ethel, again
shivering, as though the air of the cave had been icy cold. ‘It would
be almost better to face any danger than to linger’——

A sudden creaking and cracking, as of breaking wood-work, interrupted
Ethel’s speech, and was instantly followed by a dull heavy plunge, and
then a splashing sound, as though something weighty had fallen from a
considerable height into water below.

‘Good heavens, the bridge—the bridge!’ Such were the words that rose
simultaneously to the lips of both the girls, and by a common impulse
pupil and governess hurried to the verge of the abyss. Their instinct
of alarm had been but too accurate in divining what had occurred. The
bridge—the rotten old timbers of which had for centuries been exposed
to the corroding influence of time and decay—had disappeared into the
depths below, and now an impassable chasm yawned between the young
explorers of the cave and the doorway by which they had entered it.
They fell back and looked at one another with white scared faces.

Ethel was the first to recover her self-command. ‘This is awkward,’ she
said, trying to smile, ‘for we shall be late in reaching High Tor, and
I am afraid the Countess will be anxious. Of course, as soon as it is
known that we have not returned to the farm where the carriage and pony
were left, search will be made.’

‘No one will think of looking here,’ returned young Lady Alice, with
a disconsolate shake of the head. ‘We are fully two miles from the
Stannaries, and everybody will suppose that we have returned thence
by the footpath that crosses Bramberry Common, or the bridle-road
that skirts Otter Pool and the Red Rock—short-cuts both of them, and
favourite paths of mine, as is known. I am, unluckily, a wilful child,
and have a sad character for roving over hill and dale, so that even
Mamma will not be frightened at the first. And—and, another thing that
is bad. Nobody will suspect us of crossing Bitternley Swamp, even in
fine weather, without a gentleman or a man of some sort, to take care
of us in case of need. The truth is, Miss Gray, it was a silly thing
to do, a fool-hardy trick to play even on a day like this; for lives
have been lost there often, as all on the moor know. We got across
dry-footed or nearly so; but it might have been different. My brother
said once, I was as bad to follow as a Will-o’-the-Wisp could be.’ The
girl laughed, as though to reanimate her own drooping spirits, but the
sullen echoes of the cave gave back the laughter hollowly.

‘Can we not make some signal—call aloud perhaps, to notify our plight
to any who may be passing near?’ asked Ethel, after a moment’s
consideration. But even as she spoke she felt the futility of the
expedient she had suggested.

‘Nobody may pass this way for weeks to come,’ said Lady Alice
despondently. ‘You don’t know, you can’t guess how very desolate
Dartmoor is at most times. We might scream ourselves hoarse, without
getting an answer from any voice but that of the peewit by day and the
fern-owl by night. No; I was thinking I could perhaps get across.’

But a deliberate survey of the chasm proved the hopelessness of such
an attempt. A trained gymnast with nerves exceptionally steady could
readily have taken the leap, although to slip or stumble was to incur
a certain and miserable death in the unseen waters below. But even
the hardy maidens who tend their brass-belled kine among the Alpine
pastures of Tyrol would have flinched from the effort to spring from
one side of that yawning gulf to the other. Then for a time, a long
time, there was silence, unbroken save by the regular plash and tinkle
of the water, as it trickled over the floor of the outer cave and fell
over into the black abyss below.

‘They must surely take the alarm at High Tor,’ said Ethel after a
space. ‘There will be a hue-and-cry through all the neighbourhood. The
worst that can happen will be that we may spend the night here, and be
very cold and very hungry.’

‘Hungry! Yes, we are likely to be that, before we are found,’
half-petulantly interrupted Lady Alice. And then there was no more said
for a longer time than before.

Ethel’s mind was busy as she sat side by side with her pupil on the
rough-hewn bench of stone that had been the death-bed of the luckless
Jacobite refugee. How little had she thought, when listening an hour
or two ago, to the legend of John Grahame’s death, that she who told
and she who hearkened to the tale would soon be shut up in that dismal
lair, to suffer hardship, perhaps even to—— No, not to die, so near to
home and friends; _that_ was a supposition too wild to be harboured!
They must be sought out, found, delivered from the prison to which
accident had consigned them. Some one would pass. Some one might even
then be within hearing, and be rambling on all-unconscious of the
predicament of those within. So strongly did the idea that friendly
ears might be near present itself to Ethel, that she started to her
feet, calling aloud again and again for help. The hollow echoes of the
cave returned the sound, as though in mockery, while Lady Alice sat
mute and listless on the rocky bench. Presently she too sprang up. ‘I
cannot bear it,’ cried the young girl, in her quick impetuous way. ‘I
would sooner run the risk of fifty deaths than remain here, listening
to the dreadful drip, drip, of the water as it falls into the pool
or the brook beneath. We can’t, now the bridge is gone, cross the
fissure. But perhaps, if you would help me, I might manage to scramble
to the top of the rocks above here where the light comes down, and at
any rate wave a handkerchief, or do something to attract attention if
any one comes near.’

Ethel glanced up at the ragged rocks draped with weed and bramble, and
then down at the gaping chasm, into which a false step would probably
hurl any aspirant who should prove unequal to the attempt.

‘It is for me to try it, my dear, not you,’ she said quietly, but with
a resolution that was not to be shaken. ‘I am taller and stronger; and
besides, how could I meet the Countess again if I allowed you to run
into a danger I shrank from?’ And without further prelude Ethel grasped
a tough tendril of the ivy that hung within reach, and by clinging to
every crevice or angle of the rock that could yield support to foot or
hand, succeeded in gaining a ledge of stone, above which a tall slender
hazel shot up into the free air. But to climb the few feet of bare
stone above her was impossible. ‘It is idle; I cannot do it,’ she said
sadly.

It did indeed begin to seem a hopeless case, that is supposing that
young Lady Alice was correct in her estimate of the loneliness of the
spot and of the unlikelihood of succour.

‘I cannot reach the top; the rock is as steep as a wall,’ said Ethel,
again looking down from amidst the ferns and foxgloves, the ivy trails
and ropes of bramble, that half-filled the aperture.

‘That tall nut-tree, it is close to your hand,’ cried the quick-witted
young damsel below. ‘Could you not pull it towards you, tie your
handkerchief to the topmost bough, and let it spring up again? That
would give us a chance, should any one come near.’

With some difficulty Ethel succeeded in grasping the tough stem of
the tall hazel, and bending it until she was able to make fast her
handkerchief, as Alice had suggested, to the uppermost twigs. Up sprang
the slender stem again the instant it was released, and the white
pennon fluttered out, clear of the rocks, in the moorland breeze.

‘We have hoisted our flag,’ said Lady Alice blithely, ‘to let them know
we are at home.’ But as hour after hour went by, and the longed-for
help came not, and the increasing gloom of the faint cool light that
filled the grotto told of the waning of the day, the spirits of Ethel’s
young charge lost their buoyancy.

‘I wish at least,’ she said peevishly, ‘that tiresome dripping of the
water would but stop. I feel as though it would drive me mad. Why not
try the jump back over the chasm? Even if one fell in, it would be
better so than to die by inches.’

Ethel did her best to impart comfort. But her pupil would not be
comforted.

‘No, no!’ she said repeatedly; ‘they will not find us till—till it is
too late. The last place where any one would dream of looking is the
Hunger Hole. It is so far off that nobody will imagine we walked all
the way; and then, as none know of the broken bridge, it will never
occur to any one that we are shut up here. They will believe us to be
drowned. It is not difficult to get smothered in a swamp hereabouts.
And the pools will be dragged and the rivers examined, and still the
riddle will remain unsolved.’

Presently the girl crept up to Ethel’s side and stole her hand into
that of her governess. ‘I want you to forgive me, Miss Gray—Ethel
dear,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It is my wilfulness that has been the
cause of all.’

Ethel answered her soothingly; and with a great sob young Lady Alice,
who was no coward, kept down her rising tears. For an hour or more they
sat silent, hand in hand.

‘Do you remember,’ whispered Alice De Vere, after a time, ‘an old, old
song, _The Mistletoe Bough_? Maud sings it. I am afraid it will come
true for us, and the Hunger Hole will have a new story.’



SOME ANIMAL ENEMIES OF MAN.


It is a somewhat remarkable fact that the domain of human existence is
singularly liable to be intruded upon by lower forms of both animal
and plant life, which may in some cases inflict injury of great extent
upon man’s possessions or even upon his bodily frame. Not so long ago
a foreign member of the beetle-fraternity threatened the interests of
agriculturists in this country, and caused consternation to prevail
throughout the length and breadth of the land. And although the
alarm with which the advent of the insect-intruder was hailed has
now disappeared, agriculturists would inform us that their especial
territory is beset with other insect-enemies which invariably damage
their crops, and which in certain seasons cause the disastrous failure
of many a thriving field. Witness in proof of this the ravages of
the ‘turnip-fly’ and its neighbours, which blight the crops in some
districts to an extent which must be seen to be realised. Or take the
case of the hop-grower, whose favourable prospects largely depend on
the absence of a small species of plant-lice which specially affects
these plants, and which in certain seasons may cause, by their enormous
increase, the total failure of this important crop. Nor do our
insect-foes confine their ravages to growing-crops. When the fruits of
the harvest have been duly gathered in and stored within the granary,
even there they are attacked by minute pests. Numberless insects—flies,
beetles, and other forms—select the granary as a nursery or suitable
place for the upbringing of their young; the larvæ or young insects
feeding on the grain and destroying large quantities by their increase
as well as by their destructive habits. Apart from the domain of
agriculture, however, lower forms of animal and plant life powerfully
affect man’s estate. The growth and increase of lower plants produce
many skin-diseases; and if it be true—already rendered probable—that
epidemics are propagated through the agency of living ‘germs’ which
increase after the fashion of lower forms of life, then it may be
held that we are liable to be attacked on every side by enemies,
insignificant as to size, but of incalculable power when their numbers
are taken into consideration. Parasites of various kinds ravage man’s
flocks and even affect his own health, so that it is perfectly clear
that we do not by any means enjoy any immunity whatever from the
enemies which living nature in its prolific abundance produces, and
which select man and man’s belongings as their lawful spoil.

The animal enemies of man, concerning which we purpose to say a few
words in the present paper, belong to a different sphere from that at
which we have just glanced. Some of the most powerful marauders upon
human territory belong to the Mollusca or group of the true shell-fish,
and present themselves as near relations of the oysters, mussels,
and their allies. The molluscs which become of interest to man in
other than a gastronomic sense, possess, like the famous oyster, a
bivalve shell, or one consisting of two halves. In the first of man’s
molluscan enemies to which we may direct attention, the shell is of
small size, and so far from inclosing the body of the animal, appears
to exist merely as an appendage to one extremity, which for want of
a better term, we may name the head—although, as every one knows, no
distinct head exists in the oyster and its kind. Suppose that from
this head-extremity, bearing its two small shells, a long worm-like or
tubular body is continued, and we may then form a rough and ready, but
correct idea of the appearance of the famous ‘ship-worm’—the _Teredo_
of the naturalist. This animal was first styled the ‘ship-worm’ by
Linnæus and his contemporaries; and in truth it resembles a worm much
more closely than its shell-fish neighbours. As a worm, indeed, it
was at first classified by naturalists. But appearances in zoological
science are as deceptive as they are known proverbially to be in
common life, and the progress of research afterwards duly discovered
beneath the worm-like guise of the teredo, all the characters of a
true mollusc. The long body of the mollusc simply consists of the
breathing-tubes, by which water is admitted to the gills, being
extremely developed, the body proper being represented by the small
portion to which the two small shells are attached.

The importance of the ship-worm arises from the use it makes of these
apparently insignificant shells as a boring-apparatus; and any sea-side
visitor, residing on a coast where an ocean-swell or severe storms
strew the shore with drift-wood, has but to use his eyes to assure
himself of the extent and perfection of the ship-worm’s labours. Pieces
of drift-wood may be seen to be literally riddled by these molluscs,
which live in the burrows they thus excavate. Each habitation is
further seen to be coated with a limy layer formed by the tubular body,
and the boring for the most part is noted to proceed in the direction
of the grain of the wood. The little excavator turns aside in its
course, however, when it meets with a knot in the wood, and an iron
nail appears of all things to be the ship-worm’s greatest obstacle—a
fact which has been taken advantage of, as we shall presently see, by
way of arresting its work of destruction.

Linnæus long ago designated the ship-worm as the _calamitas navium_,
and although perhaps the expression as applied to ships is somewhat
far-fetched—save in the case of broken-down hulks—and utterly
inapplicable in this age of iron, there can be little doubt that
regarded relatively to wooden piles, piers, and like erections, the
ship-worm is unquestionably a calamity personified. So, at anyrate,
thought the Dutch in the years 1731-32, when the teredo began to
pay attentions of too exclusive a nature to the wooden piles which
supported the great earth-works or ‘dikes’ that keep the sea from
claiming the United Provinces as its own. A Dutchman has been well said
to pay great attention to two things which are euphoniously and shortly
expressed by the words ‘dams’ and ‘drams.’ The former keep the sea from
invading his territory, and the latter aid in protecting him personally
from the effects of the perennial damp amidst which he exists. The
ship-worm in the years just mentioned caused terror to prevail through
the length and breadth of the Netherlands, through its appearance in
large numbers in the wooden piles of the dams or dikes. On these piles
the fortunes of Holland may be said to depend; and the foundations of
the Dutch empire might therefore be regarded, correctly enough, as
having been sapped and threatened by an envious enemy in the shape of
a mollusc, and one belonging to by no means the highest group of that
division of animals. The alarm spread fast through the Netherlands,
and the government was not slow to appreciate the danger, or to offer
a reward of large amount for the discovery of any plan which would
successfully stay the progress of such dreaded invaders.

Inventors, it might be remarked, are not slow, as a rule, to accept
invitations of such generous nature; and if report speaks truly, the
office of discriminating between the worthless and feasible projects
which were submitted to the Dutch nation on the occasion referred to,
could not have proved either an easy or enviable one. Then came the
chemists with lotions innumerable, and the inventors of varnishes,
paints, and poisons were in a state of hopeful anxiety. But none of
these preparations was found to fulfil the required conditions, and
the only project which appeared to savour of feasibility was one
which was rejected on account of its impracticable nature—namely that
of picking the teredos from their burrows like whelks from their
shells. The kingdom of Holland thus appeared in a fair way of being
undermined by an enemy of infinitely greater power and one less capable
of being successfully resisted than the Grand Turk, who once upon a
time declared his intention of exterminating the nation with an army
whose only weapons were spades and shovels. But after a period of
unrestricted labour, the ship-worm ‘turned tail’ on the Netherlands,
and disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving only a few
stragglers to mark the vantage-ground.

Though Britain has not suffered from teredo-epidemics in the same
measure as Holland, there can be little doubt that the ravages of this
mollusc on the timber of our piers and dockyards, cost us a large
sum annually. The stoutest oak is riddled through with the same ease
displayed in perforating the softer pine; and in some of our seaport
towns, especially on the southern coasts, the yearly estimates for
repairs of damage done by the ship-worm form no inconsiderable item
in the government or local expenditure as the case may be. The most
effectual plan for the repression of the teredo and for the prevention
of its work of destruction appears to be that of protecting the exposed
timber by driving therein short nails with very broad heads. These
nails form a kind of armour-casing which is rendered more effective
through the chemical action of the water in producing rust.

Some molluscs, near neighbours of the teredo, and which burrow for
the most part into stone, but occasionally perforate wood, are those
belonging to the Piddock-family—the genera _Pholas_ and _Saxicava_ of
the naturalist—celebrated by Pliny of old as phosphorescent animals.
The _Saxicavæ_ have somewhat elongated shells, by means of which they
burrow in rocks and lie ensconced in their dwelling-places, and whose
perforated rock-homes are eagerly sought after by all who delight in
forming rockeries in their gardens. These molluscs have ere now caused
fears for the safety of Plymouth breakwater, through the persistence
with which they excavated their burrows into the substance of the
stones. And as has been well pointed out, the destructive action of
these molluscs may pave the way for an inroad of the sea; a riddled
mass of rock or stone being rendered through their attack liable to
disintegration from the action of the waves.

A final example of an animal enemy of man which as regards size is
to be deemed insignificant when compared with the teredo, but which
nevertheless adds by its destructive work to our annual expenditure, is
the little crustacean known as the _Limnoria terebrans_, or popularly
as the wood-boring shrimp or ‘gribble.’ This animal belongs to the
group including the familiar ‘Slaters’ or ‘Wood-lice,’ found under
stones and in damp situations, and by means of its powerful jaws
burrows deeply into wood of all kinds. Occasionally, the ship-worm and
gribble have been found at work in the same locality and have committed
ravages of great extent; the latter, on account of its small size,
being more difficult of detection and eradication than its molluscan
neighbour.

The consideration of a subject such as the present, it may lastly be
remarked, possesses a phase not without some degree of consolation
to minds which, if incapable of seeing ‘good in everything,’ may
nevertheless believe in the adjustment and counterbalancing of most of
Nature’s operations. The repression of animal life by parasites may in
one sense prove a gain to nature at large, viewed from a Malthusian
stand-point, although humanly considered, there may be differences
of opinion regarding the applicability of the opinion to the case of
man. But if the ravages of the teredo and its neighbours on the works
of man are to be considered as a veritable affliction, we must not
fail to think also of the service these animals render in clearing the
ocean of vast masses of drift-wood, which, liberated from the mouths
of all the great rivers of the world, would speedily accumulate to
check navigation and impede commerce in many quarters of the world.
The genius of Brunel, which discerned in the manner of the ship-worm’s
burrowing the true method of excavating the tunnel associated with his
name, and which thus improved engineering science by a happy thought
and observation, may also be regarded as bearing testimony to the
consoling fact that there exist few evils which are entirely unmixed
with good.



MY JOURNEY TO BRIGHTON.


A few years ago, in the second week of September, I found myself, very
much against my inclination, still inhaling the dusty atmosphere of my
London chambers, Lincoln’s Inn. I was anxious that the suit upon which
I was engaged should be ready for the commencement of the November
term; it was unusually intricate; the client a man of high rank and
importance, or I should not have allowed it to detain me in town
after the 12th of August, at which date all the ordinary temptations
had assailed me and had been resisted; and now having relinquished
my favourite recreations, both grouse and partridge shooting, all my
friends dispersed far and wide, and no companion left in town with
whom I cared to spend the remaining weeks of the long vacation, I was
quite at a loss whither to betake myself for a change, so necessary to
the exhausted legal brain at that period of the year. I turned over
the leaves of my _Bradshaw_ in the hope of gaining an idea, but its
maddening pages left me more unsettled than ever. At last I suddenly
resolved to run down to Brighton by the afternoon express, which I
found would just give me time to go home for a portmanteau and make the
few necessary arrangements for a short absence; one thing only being
clear to my mind, that I should not stay long away.

The transit from Lincoln’s Inn to Eaton Place, where as a bachelor I
still resided with my mother, was rapidly accomplished; and if I had
not been unexpectedly detained at home, I should have reached Victoria
in comfortable time; as it was, my hansom only drove into the station
as the bell was ringing for the train to start, and I hastily jumped
into the first carriage in which I could find room, as the train moved
on. It proved to be a second-class.

As soon as I had settled myself in my corner, I naturally took an
observation of my companions. There were but two on my side of the
carriage: an elderly and very provincial-looking lady; and opposite
to her, and in the farthest corner from my own, a very young one, who
at once arrested my attention. That she was quite a girl was very
evident, though her face was almost concealed by one of those ugly blue
veils which render the complexion livid, the hair green; but in this
instance the actual shade of the latter was visible in the rich plaits
which were coiled round the back of her head, and such golden-brown is
sure to be accompanied by a skin as fair as that of the slender throat
of which I just caught a glimpse. The figure was extremely petite
and graceful, the dress perfectly plain, and the whole appearance so
undoubtedly that of a young lady, that it seemed an almost incongruous
circumstance that she should have in her lap a sleeping infant. The
child—richly dressed in ample robes, and carefully veiled—was so small
that I guessed it to be scarcely a month old.

Now we all know that there are women who adore babies, and it is
possible that there are also some girls who are given to a predilection
so incomprehensible to the masculine mind generally. I concluded that
I beheld one of these wonders in my youthful fellow-traveller, as at
any slight movement of her little charge, she soothed and hushed it in
a truly maternal manner; while her companion (no doubt, thought I, the
child’s nurse) was entirely occupied, as it seemed to me for want of
something else to do, with a huge packet of sandwiches.

Presently our fast train stopped at Croydon. The elderly female
prepared to alight; and having assisted her, I offered to hand out the
young lady. To my great surprise she said: ‘Thank you very much, but I
go on to Brighton.’

‘And baby too?’ I asked.

‘O yes!’ she replied. ‘I never trust him to any one else.’

I was sorely perplexed. Surely, surely she could not be the mother. The
thought was preposterous. My curiosity was fairly roused, and I tried
to beguile her into conversation on indifferent topics; but she was a
discreet little person, and her replies were so monosyllabic, that we
arrived at our destination without having become in the least better
acquainted. However, as we entered the station, she did at last throw
back the ugly veil as she looked somewhat anxiously from the window,
and then disclosed to my admiring gaze one of the loveliest faces I
had ever looked upon. She appeared to be about sixteen. Large dark
eyes bright as stars, were shaded with long black lashes; a rosebud of
a mouth, a small delicate nose ever so slightly _retroussé_, and the
sudden blush which increased these charms, when I asked if she expected
any one to meet her, made a powerful impression upon me _then_, and
were destined, though I knew it not at the time, to affect my peace of
mind and influence my future life.

I repeated my question before she gave her hesitating answer: ‘The
fact is I do _not_ expect any one, as my friends do not know that I am
alone.’

‘Pray allow me then to help you with your luggage, or in any way.’

‘Thank you so much, but I have no luggage; the servants brought it all
down yesterday.’ Then again blushing, she added: ‘If you _would_ kindly
call a fly, it will be all I shall require.’

Before handing her out of the carriage, I offered (I confess in much
tribulation) to relieve her of the infant; but she exclaimed, laughing
merrily: ‘O no; I really could not trust you for the world.’

So we walked together towards the fly, I having previously observed
that her ticket, like my own, was for the first-class. Here was another
mystery. In my haste I had been glad to secure a seat anywhere; but
I recollected that she must have been settled in her corner of the
carriage for some time when I jumped in, as she then appeared to be
quite absorbed in a book. We now reached the fly; and not in the least
incommoded with her burden, she skipped nimbly up the steps, and
requested me to direct the driver to ‘89 Marine Parade.’

‘No mystery about the address at all events,’ I thought as I raised
my hat to take leave of my fair companion, who bending towards me,
thanked me with the sweet voice and refined pronunciation that I love
to hear in women, for the slight service I had rendered her, and left
me perfectly bewitched by her grace and beauty. I stood gazing after
the fly till it was quite out of sight, before I procured one for
myself. I could not understand my feelings. That I, a man of the world,
accustomed to the society of attractive women, should in my thirtieth
year fall in love at first sight with a little girl scarcely more than
half that age, seemed incredible. I could not, and would not believe
it. No; it certainly was mere curiosity which induced me to traverse
Brighton from morning to night in the hope of seeing her again. For
three whole days my rambles were unsuccessful. I fancied once that
she passed in a barouche on the drive; but it was only the pose in
the carriage which struck me, the face being turned away. At last I
began to fear that she and her friends had only stopped at Brighton
_en route_ for some other destination; and feeling utterly weary of
all the frequented parts of the gay town, on the fourth morning I
wandered towards Cliftonville. A deep reverie was interrupted by the
sound of silvery-toned laughter; and considerably below me on the
beach I discerned the fairy form which had become so familiar to my
imagination. An adjacent seat was a ‘coigne of vantage’ whence I could
watch her who had so attracted me.

She was attired in a dainty morning-dress of pale blue, looped up
over the crisp white frills of an under-skirt; she wore the same
hat in which I had first seen her, but without the objectionable
veil, and still better, was without the far more objectionable
baby. A fashionable-looking lady was seated near her occupied with
a book; while the fairy (as I shall call her till I know her name)
was frolicking about with a little Maltese dog, which she vainly
endeavoured to entice into the sea. The little animal, more like a ball
of white wool, scampered readily enough after the pebbles thrown for
it as the waves retreated, but rushed back to his mistress, as if for
protection from the advancing waters, as they returned and broke upon
the shingle.

I watched these gambols with the interest of a school-boy, rather than
that of a man of my mature age, and felt that I should never tire of
so watching them. Then the elder lady rose and spoke to her companion;
the latter immediately picked up the little dog, and they walked slowly
up the beach towards the place where I was sitting, without observing
me until they were so close that I could not avoid (had I so wished)
raising my hat to my late railway companion. She returned my salutation
with a blush and a smile; while her friend’s inquiring glance was
somewhat haughty.

‘The gentleman, dear aunt,’ explained the fairy, ‘who was so kind to me
on my journey.’

‘I am happy, sir, to have the opportunity of thanking you for your
attention to my niece,’ was the rejoinder—the words being courteous
enough, while the manner was so distant, that it was impossible for me
to do otherwise than wish them good-morning, and content myself with
gazing after the blue cloud which enveloped my fairy till it had melted
away in the distance.

Of course I walked in the same direction the following morning, but
no fairy appeared to me. I tried the esplanade, the piers, the shops
at all hours, without success. At last one day, which I had almost
determined should be my last in Brighton, I thought a book might
change my thoughts, and by good-fortune went for it to the library
in St James’s Street. There, standing in the entrance, I beheld the
graceful little lady with her white dog. The stately aunt was at the
counter turning over the books; and when at last she had made her
choice, she found her niece actually conversing with a comparative
stranger. I could see that she was not greatly pleased at the meeting,
in spite of her studied politeness; but to my infinite satisfaction,
a friendly shower detained her, and she was unavoidably drawn into
the conversation, though with true English reserve; her niece, on the
contrary, chattered away with all the naïveté of a child.

‘We must have a fly, Lily,’ said the aunt presently. ‘I am sure the
rain will not cease for some time.’

‘Oh, it is really hardly worth while,’ replied that young lady, ‘we are
so near home, and my considerate fellow-traveller has offered us his
umbrella.’

‘You are extremely polite, sir,’ said the frigid duenna; ‘but you
require it yourself; we cannot think of’——

‘Not at all,’ I interrupted. ‘Pray favour me by using it. Any time will
do for returning it; either to the _Old Ship_, where I am staying;
or I am here almost every day; or if you will allow me, I would save
all trouble by calling for it.’ I then presented my card, which bore
my town address. It evidently satisfied her, for the icy manner
perceptibly thawed; and taking out her card-case, she gave me her own,
expressing her hope that they might have the pleasure of seeing me.

Here was a success. I think I must have returned to the hotel on
wings—certainly it was not the ordinary walk of mortals which conveyed
me; for I found myself seated before my solitary dinner quite oblivious
of everything that might have occurred since that parting at the
library.

The following afternoon, on wings again, I flew to the temple which
enshrined my divinity. Miss Langdale was at home. I had of course
inquired for the elder lady. I was conducted up the broad staircase
to an elegant drawing-room, its four French windows opening upon a
spacious verandah, which pleasantly shaded this luxuriously furnished
apartment. A grand-piano and harp testified to the musical tastes
of the family. But there was little time for observation, as Miss
Langdale entered the room almost immediately. She was very gracious in
her welcome; but that could not make up to me for the absence of her
charming niece.

‘I am sorry,’ observed the placid lady, as if stating a very
unimportant fact, ‘that my niece is not at home; it is the day for her
riding-lesson, and unfortunately she has but just gone.’

I could scarcely conceal my bitter disappointment sufficiently to make
a conventional reply: ‘I was of course fortunate to have found one of
the ladies at home in so fine a day, &c.’

There was no difficulty in ‘getting on,’ as it is called, with Miss
Langdale: the inevitable subject of the weather was disposed of at
once; politics occupied almost as short a time; church matters were
settled as briefly; in short every conceivable topic was touched upon
before I had an opportunity of leading the conversation to the niece.

‘I have two nieces under my charge,’ said Miss Langdale—‘Lilian, whom
you have seen; the younger still a child at school; also a nephew,
who I assure you is more trouble than both the girls together; but
I am happy to say my brother has now sent him abroad with a tutor,
so we must hope he will return much improved.’ The voluble lady then
proceeded to inform me that Mr Langdale had lost his wife when ‘Rosa’
was born, and that she, the aunt, had resided with the family ever
since—a period of ten years. ‘So I have had the entire charge of the
children, and now look upon them as my own,’ she added.

‘The niece I have had the pleasure of seeing,’ I observed, ‘does
infinite credit to her training; I think her perfectly charming.’

‘I am very glad to hear you say so,’ said Miss Langdale; ‘it is
certainly the general opinion, and I naturally like to think so myself;
but it is possible I may be blinded by partiality. To me, Lilian
appears guileless as a child with the sense of a woman, a combination
which makes her manners very fascinating. But she is really almost too
fearless; I never met with a girl with so much self-reliance.’

Longing to hear more, yet not feeling at liberty to ask questions, I
merely murmured some commonplace truism about a ‘noble quality.’

‘So it is,’ replied the sedate aunt, ‘when not carried too far; that
journey, for instance. I positively shudder when I think of a girl like
Lily, brought up as she has been, undertaking it quite alone.’

‘With the exception of’——I stammered.

Taking advantage of my hesitation, the talkative lady interrupted,
as if to help me to my meaning: ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Farquhar. She
certainly was fortunate enough to meet with a companion who would,
I feel sure, have protected her from any annoyance. But think how
different it might have been; and she left home expecting to take care
of herself.’

Much vexed at being misunderstood, I was hastening to explain, when
the door was thrown open and visitors were announced. I had already
exceeded the orthodox limits of a morning call, so I rose to take
leave, disappointed, yet consoled by an invitation to call again. ‘When
I hope,’ said my hostess, ‘that Lily will be at home.’

I need scarcely say that the invitation was accepted; and I made my
next visit at an earlier hour than I had ventured upon at the first,
which was necessarily more ceremonious. I was on this occasion shewn
into a small, exceedingly pretty morning-room, with glass doors opening
into a garden, fragrant with mignonette and gay with autumn flowers. I
was standing at these open doors inhaling the perfumed air, when Miss
Langdale joined me.

‘You are admiring our garden, I see,’ said that lady. ‘I assure you
we are very proud of it; for though other people have recently found
out that flowers will flourish at Brighton, my brother has always
cultivated his. Being his own, he has spared no pains upon the
property. We live here almost as much as at Kensington; and he comes
to us as often as business will permit.’

This information was interesting in its way; but my thoughts were with
the fairest flower of them all. A slight rustle of silk behind us made
me aware of her presence. I held the tiny gloved hand which was placed
so frankly in mine a moment longer than was necessary, while I noticed
that she was more elaborately dressed than I had before seen her, her
hat being of white felt, with a long fleecy ostrich feather lying upon
her burnished hair.

‘You are going out, I perceive, Miss Lilian,’ I observed, preparing
regretfully to take leave; ‘pray do not let me detain you.’

‘You are not detaining us at all,’ she replied, ‘for you see my aunt
has not even begun to dress; but as we generally take a drive in the
afternoon, and not knowing you were here, I thought I might as well be
ready for it.’

‘We shall be extremely pleased if you will accompany us,’ said Miss
Langdale, addressing me; ‘that is, if it will not bore you.’

Bore me indeed! I was in ecstasies.

‘Then, if you will excuse me, I will dress at once.—In the meantime,
Lily, you can shew Mr Farquhar the garden. I shall not be long.’

Dear, good lady; she might have been all day at her toilet as far as I
was concerned; for was I not at last alone with my fairy! Walking up
and down the broad gravel walk, we chatted for some time before I found
an opportunity of mentioning a subject to which no allusion whatever
had been made since the never-to-be-forgotten day of our journey to
Brighton.

‘I ought to apologise,’ I began, ‘for not having before asked after our
young fellow-traveller. I hope the baby’——

‘Oh, pray do not mention it,’ cried my companion, a vivid blush
overspreading face and throat. ‘I have heard quite enough of that baby,
I assure you, already.’

This was startling. But I was destined to be still more perplexed,
for she added earnestly: ‘Promise me, Mr Farquhar, never to allude to
that subject before my aunt, or Papa when he comes; he will be here on
Saturday. So promise me, or I shall never hear the last of it.’

‘You may trust me, indeed you may. But surely you will not refuse to
tell me.’

A velvet dress and feathered bonnet now appeared in view, and Miss
Langdale approaching, told us that the carriage was at the door. We had
a perfectly lovely drive, not dawdling up and down the Parade, but far
away over the fresh breezy downs; and when it was over I returned to my
rooms a bewitched and bewildered man.

The following Saturday I was introduced to Mr Langdale. He was very
cordial, and immediately asked me to dinner. I found him a capital
host; and I think we were mutually pleased with the acquaintance.

From that time I was a frequent visitor at the house, and the more
I saw of Lily the more passionately I loved her. But for that one
forbidden subject, I should have been supremely happy, for I could
see that she liked my society; and when her lovely eyes met mine with
the open truthful expression which was their characteristic, I could
scarcely believe that she had a secret in the world. Sometimes I
forgot it altogether; sometimes it haunted me even in the happiest
moments of our intercourse, when, as I relapsed into reverie, she would
innocently ask why I was ‘so absent.’

I hope I shall not therefore be thought guilty of impertinent curiosity
when I confess that I became intensely anxious to solve this provoking
mystery. It was not easy to do so; as though almost daily now in Lily’s
society, I was never alone with her, and I was bound by my promise in
the presence of others. The wished-for opportunity, however, occurred
at last. It was Saturday, and Mr Langdale was as usual expected by an
afternoon train. It was the custom for Miss Langdale and Lily to take
the carriage to meet him at the station, and it was at the door when
I happened to pass the house. The ladies came out at the same moment.
I was about to assist them into the carriage, when Miss Langdale, who
looked very ill, said: ‘I am afraid, my dear, I am not well enough to
go with you; I would rather lie down. With this headache the glare is
insupportable.’

‘I told you so, dear aunt,’ replied Lily. ‘We need not go; the carriage
can be sent for Papa without us.’

But Miss Langdale would not hear of Lily giving up her drive and
also disappointing Papa; so after many affectionate remonstrances,
Miss Lily was obliged to depart. Just as the footman was closing the
carriage-door, Miss Langdale said: ‘Will you go with her, Mr Farquhar?
We know,’ she added smiling, ‘by experience that you can take care of
her.’

Overjoyed, I sprang into the vacant seat beside Lily, who as we drove
off exclaimed: ‘What a careful old darling aunt is! She seems to think
I am never to be trusted alone; and is more particular than ever
since—since,’ she added, slightly hesitating, ‘that unlucky journey.’

‘Will you trust me, Lily?’ I asked, for the first time addressing her
by that familiar name. ‘Will you trust me, and grant me a favour?’

‘Certainly, I will, if possible,’ she replied. ‘What do you wish me to
do?’

‘I wish you to tell me why that journey from London was unlucky,
and—about—the baby.’

‘Do you really care to know?’ she asked, apparently quite amused.

‘I care for everything which concerns you, Lily,’ I replied very
seriously.

‘Then I suppose I must tell you,’ said she with a sigh, the glowing
colour mantling over her fair young face. ‘But I must say it is rather
hard to have to proclaim one’s own folly, at the risk too of’——

‘Of what?’ I asked anxiously.

‘Well, I was going to say, of forfeiting your good opinion; but I
daresay you think me frivolous as it is.’

‘I think, Miss Lilian,’ I replied, now greatly excited, ‘that you are
amusing yourself at my expense.’

Startled by my sudden change of manner, she gazed at me in evident
amazement, then said: ‘What _can_ you mean, Mr Farquhar? I am only
surprised that you should feel any curiosity on the subject; I thought
men were never curious.’

‘Then I am an exception,’ I exclaimed. ‘How can I help being interested
in all that concerns you? So pray, fulfil your promise at once, as we
ought to be at the station in a few minutes.’

‘Oh, there is not much to tell,’ she quietly observed. ‘But if I am to
constitute you my father-confessor, I must tell you _all_, that you may
understand the motives which actuated my conduct.’

‘Yes, yes,’ I muttered; ‘as you please; only, pray, pray go on.’

‘Then,’ said Lily composedly, ‘I must begin with the day you and I
travelled together from London. Papa was to have accompanied me, my
aunt and the servants having gone the day before; but unexpected
business came in the way, and when he came in to luncheon, he told me
that he could not possibly go to Brighton till the following week, and
asked me if I could also remain in town. I told him it was impossible;
the house was dismantled, my clothes sent away, and I was actually
dressed for the journey. Papa saw how awkward it was for me; and when I
represented to him that I should be little more than an hour alone in
the train if I went, while I should be all day by myself in the great
empty house if I remained at home, he somewhat reluctantly gave his
consent to my going without him. He then desired my brother to take
me to the station, and see me safe into a carriage, gave me a book to
read, which he said would prevent any one talking to me, and wished me
good-bye; and with many injunctions to “take great care of myself,”
he left me with Harry, who grumbled very much at being detained on my
account, as he was also going from home, and had promised to meet some
friends who would be waiting for him. I had Papa’s permission, however,
and was determined to go. Then Harry told me that I should not be
allowed to have my dog with me, that it would be put into a dark place,
where it would be sure to howl all the way. This was almost too much
for me; and I was on the point of giving way to Harry’s persuasion,
and wait for the escort of Papa, who would be sure to prevent that, as
he is known to all the officials on the Brighton line, when a sudden
thought struck me. I flew up-stairs to Rosa’s room, took her doll,
which is as big as a baby, out of its box, and quickly taking off its
long robes, I dressed poor little dear struggling Sprite in them.’

‘Lily, Lily!’ I exclaimed, almost too vexed with myself to laugh at
this absurd solution of the mystery. ‘Why did you not tell me this
before?’

‘I did not know you would care about such a trifle, for one thing,’ she
replied; ‘and really aunt was so angry with me at the time that I did
not wish to renew the subject in her presence; so you see this has been
the first opportunity I have had for telling you; and now I suppose you
will think me as childish as aunt did—worse than childish, she said.’

‘Shall I tell you what I think, Lily?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she said, laughing; ‘I should like to know the worst.’

‘I think then that you are much too charming to travel alone, and that
I should like to take care of you always. Tell me, my darling, if I may
hope to do so?’

‘Always?’ she asked wonderingly, as if scarcely understanding me.

‘Yes, Lily, as your devoted and adoring husband.’

At this moment the carriage drove into the station, and stopped at
the usual place of meeting. We were not too soon, for the train had
just arrived, and Lily’s quick eyes caught sight of her father coming
towards us. ‘There’s Papa!’ she exclaimed, starting up in the carriage.
I took her hand, and gently drawing her back to her seat, I implored
her to answer me.

Her lovely face was flushed, the ready tears trembled on the long
lashes which veiled her eyes; she hesitated for a moment, then in two
words made me happy. ‘Ask Papa,’ she whispered.

I could only thank her by a silent pressure of her tiny hand, as ‘Papa’
at that moment joined us, and neither of us was sufficiently composed
to explain the reason of my presence.

Lily and I quite understood each other; and I was able to satisfy Mr
Langdale as to my position and prospects; but he would only consent to
an engagement on condition that our marriage should not take place till
his daughter was of age. I pleaded that it would be quite impossible
for me to bear the delay of so many years.

‘How old,’ he inquired, ‘do you imagine the child to be?’

‘Certainly not more than seventeen.’

‘Then let me tell you for your comfort that Lily has reached the mature
age of nineteen and a half,’ replied her father.

I was equally surprised and pleased, for it made the disparity between
us so much less than I thought, as well as the proposed time of
probation.

It was a favourite joke of Mr Langdale’s that it was my darling’s
childish trick with the little dog, and not her appearance, which
had given me an erroneous opinion of her age. Miss Langdale always
pretended to agree with her brother. That good lady highly approved of
our engagement, declaring that she had taken a fancy to me from the
first. This was not exactly true, but no doubt she thought it was when
she said it.

One evening when we were talking over the memorable journey, it
occurred to me to ask Lily why she had travelled second-class on that
occasion, her ticket being for the first.

‘Hush!’ she whispered, placing her little hand upon my lips. ‘Aunt does
not yet know of that flagrant impropriety; but I assure you I had a
good reason.’

She told me afterwards that her brother was so charmed with ‘the lark,’
as he called it, that he quite forgot his ill-humour, and tried to
assist her to carry out her plan in every possible way; he had taken
her ticket and selected a carriage, when it occurred to him that she
would look more like a nursemaid in the second-class; to which she
agreed. Lily a nursemaid! Did my darling expect to travel only with the
blind?

On the twenty-first anniversary of her birthday, our marriage took
place at Brighton, where the first happy days of our courtship were
passed. Rosa, a pretty little girl quite as tall as her sister, was the
chief bride’s-maid, looking scarcely younger than the bride, who is now
the beloved mistress of a large establishment. My mother, who resides
with us, never interferes with my clever little wife, whom she loves
as a daughter; and as for me, I believe—well, I am sure that I am the
most obedient as well as the most devoted of her servants.



THE PROPER THING.


Foremost in the ranks of despots of our own creating may be mentioned
that allegorical personage Mrs Grundy, who though an unseen power,
seems to be armed with all the force and subtlety of a dreaded tyrant.
Her kindred partake of the same nature. Some are recognised facts,
and known by special names; others are nameless, and perhaps not even
supposed to exist; but all are powerful, and all are to be dreaded.

Ancient as Mrs Grundy—generally living side by side with her amongst
civilised races—is that great uncompromising tyrant called the Proper
Thing; though among barbarous tribes, neither Mrs Grundy nor the
Proper Thing is to be found, because both spring from the corruption
of a refined instinct—the instinct of order and decorum. Races
semi-civilised and over-civilised—terms which mean nearly the same
thing—are most subject to the capricious influences of this tyrant. But
wherever the slightest improvement has been made on complete savagery,
there the gall-nut has appeared upon it, so that a few wild Bush-tribes
seem to be the only portions of the human family over whom the Proper
Thing has not more or less extended sceptre.

The forms assumed by the Proper Thing in various regions are of
infinite variety, and sometimes even more startling than ludicrous. In
certain of the South Sea Islands, for instance, it is the Proper Thing
for children to kill their parents when verging on old age; and the
parents are quite agreeable to the practice, which derives its power
from religious belief, as the tyrant’s dictates often do in heathen
countries. In China the Proper Thing has been a terrible autocrat.
There, women’s feet have been reduced to the shape and size of a
nutmeg, and mandarins’ nails lengthened to a proportionate enormity—all
out of deference to the Proper Thing, which to them means being idle
and known to be idle. There, awe of the imperial presence has made
it indispensable to ‘nine times knock the noddle;’ and we know how
a representative of our own country was justly applauded in England
for refusing to perform that ceremony, or conform to the exigences of
the Proper Thing as by law established in China. It stalks across the
lone expanses of the North American prairies, inspiring men to let
their hair grow to the ground and make pompous speeches; while it lays
heavy weights on women’s shoulders and crops their locks, and in some
places flattens children’s heads in their cradles. East and west, in
the past and in the present, its legislation is always seen taking the
most contradictory forms, but almost equally inconvenient in all. Thus
in ancient Mexico it decreed that the nobility should go to court in
their shabbiest dresses, because no one might dare to be smart in the
presence of the Emperor; and in modern Europe it decrees that ladies
shall impoverish themselves rather than not go to court in a blaze of
splendour. In this instance, however, there is no question as to which
decree is the most convenient.

The capriciousness of this power is its most objectionable
characteristic, since its rule would be highly beneficent if it only
attacked bad manners and customs, which on the contrary it very often
overlooks. In Germany, for example, people with the longest prefaces
to their names, the addresses on whose envelopes are a perfect volume
of titles, are allowed to pass their knives and forks with alarming
celerity in front of their neighbours at dinner, in order to plunge
them into some distant coveted dish. No doubt their appetites are more
enormous than ours, for in the matter of capacity for food, beyond the
widest width there always seems to be a wider still; but the exigences
of the Proper Thing ought at least to make them wait until the dishes
are handed to them in civilised form, or even do without the object of
their desire rather than risk cutting off their neighbours’ noses. But
it really seems that the more stringent the rule of the Proper Thing,
the more latitude is given to disagreeable manners. In the sixteenth
and seventeenth centuries, for example, it was much more of an autocrat
even than it is now; and yet with all the flattery, the bowing and
scraping and long titles, no one put any constraint on his temper, and
the best bred people thought nothing of throwing things at each other’s
heads when they were in a passion. Occurrences of this sort are rare
now, at least in high-class and diplomatic society.

But still the rule of the Proper Thing is rather severe on all classes
even here at home, nor do any of our liberties and charters interfere
with its prerogatives. We may question them nevertheless. Of course we
do not mean to question regulations made for the comfort and decency
and order of society, such as the hostess sitting at the head of the
table, the eating of fish with a silver knife, or even a duchess taking
precedence of a marchioness. All these regulations and others of the
same kind relate to good manners, which are often quite independent of
the Proper Thing; and without a little code of niceties we should soon
sink to the lowest depths of animalism. But why should it be improper
for a lady to ride alone, whereas a similar fiat has not gone forth
against her walking alone in country roads and lanes, though she must
be much safer from molestation on horseback than on foot? Why must
invited guests to an evening party always be after their time? Why is
it necessary to dine at late unwholesome hours, to dance all night,
and to go to several parties in one evening? But these are really only
the more harmless pranks of the chief ruler. Unfortunately, there are
others which interfere tyrannically with the serious business of life.

The Proper Thing has always taken up its stronghold very specially
in the institution of Caste, where for unnumbered centuries it has
reigned over India with a despotism harsher than that of the native
princes. Nor has it by any means confined its caste regulations to
Eastern lands. Far be it from us to make hostile reflections on the
venerable institution of distinction of classes in our own country;
on the contrary, we might rather lament the confusion into which this
institution has fallen among us. But none the less we may question
the extraordinary laws which govern what is still called ‘loss of
caste.’ Why should a lady lose hers because she earns her bread as a
governess, while a gentleman does not lose his through being a tutor?
Of course she can recover her caste if only she has a fortune left
her; it is not like Indian caste, once lost for ever lost; but in the
majority of cases this does not happen. And why, when wholesome caste
laws are thrown to the winds, should an absurd and unjust one like this
hold its ground? But after all, it is perhaps natural to the spirit
and genius of the Proper Thing, which has always been harsher with
women than with men, according to the principles on which human affairs
have generally been conducted. However, tyranny of this sort is by no
means confined to the upper and middle classes even as regards caste.
In this matter the lower ranks, and especially their female half, are
very much its slaves. In these, though the women do not therefore hold
themselves bound to speak in a low voice, or to cultivate the good
quality which is next to godliness, or to refrain from repairing at all
costs to crowded and not always very sober scenes of holiday-making,
they are fully alive to the necessity of flaunting every new fashion
in the public eye on Sunday through a medium of tawdry tint and flimsy
material; children wearing a _tablier_ or _panier_ of totally different
material and antagonistic colour to the frock which it was intended to
adorn; women with hideous complications of blue feathers and red roses
on their heads. Lately, indeed, since ladies have set the good example
of wearing the dark colours which become nearly every one, it has been
much followed by their imitators below-stairs, though we fear more for
the sake of the example than the goodness of it.

Another and still stranger phase is to be found in some of our
small sea-side ports and fishing-villages, where it is considered a
disgrace to girls to go into service, though it is not derogatory to
their dignity to assume male attire and pick cockles all day on a
mud-bank. The men are held to have formed a _mésalliance_ if they marry
gentlemen’s servants; a falling-off which, if their wives die, they may
retrieve by a second marriage with a lady who (emphatically) ‘has never
been in service.’ But no doubt it is natural enough that the people
should copy their superiors’ worship of the Proper Thing in this as
in the other fashions, though they have different notions of what the
Proper Thing really is.

We hope to have established the fact that this tyrant has nothing to
do with virtue. Its rule has often flourished most where virtue has
been at the lowest ebb. How brilliantly, for example, the Proper Thing
reigned in the court of Louis XIV., which was certainly not a school of
morality. Neither has it much to do with what may be justly called _les
convenances_; we mean those smaller constraints and proprieties which
young American ladies set aside without any deterioration of their real
goodness, but with a certain detriment to their manners and maidenly
charms. Originally, no doubt, the Proper Thing sprang from a sense of
true propriety, but it has degenerated so far as sometimes even to
contradict that sense; and virtue can stand all the better without
such a whimsical attempt at a buttress. Of course it will always set
itself up more or less as a buttress, and as necessary to virtue and
propriety, unless the real things should make such progress as to
crowd out the counterfeit. But we fear that there never will be a
civilisation so pure and simple that delicacy and honour will, of their
own goodness, take the place of the true Proper Thing.



INSTANCES OF LONGEVITY.


We had been putting to rights an old surgery that it might be turned
into a dwelling-house. A complete set of drawers, with names of drugs
and medical condiments printed thereon, had been torn from the wall;
vast heaps of bones, used formerly for scientific purposes, had been
taken from a large mouldy cupboard, and had thereafter received
Christian burial in a corner of our garden. All had been done that was
possible to sweeten and purify the ancient place, when we discovered
on a certain shelf several dusty and stained volumes, which looked to
our eyes interesting and curious. One of the volumes, entitled _Health
and Longevity_, was secured at once by my young children, and some
extraordinary woodcuts of venerable individuals, more or less hideous,
were cut therefrom, the volume itself being then thrown aside: Some
notes regarding these ancient beings may not be uninteresting.

The first, whose portrait lies before me as I write, is named ‘Isobel
Walker, who lived in the parish of Daviot, Aberdeenshire, and died
2d November 1774, aged one hundred and twelve years.’ The period of
her birth was established beyond doubt by the records of the parish
of Rayne, in Garioch, where she was born. Nothing remarkable is known
regarding her mode of life, excepting that she is said to have had
‘a placid temper, and to have been in that medium state in regard to
leanness and corpulence which is favourable to long life.’ She is
represented on the plate as a plump-faced, cheerful woman, with no
perceptible neck, and with an intelligent expression of countenance.

The next individual whose somewhat stolid countenance lies before me in
one of the quaint wood-engravings, is called ‘Peter Garden, who lived
also in Aberdeenshire, in the parish of Auchterless, and who died on
the 12th January 1775, aged one hundred and thirty-one years.’ He was
above the average height, led a temperate and frugal life; was employed
in agricultural pursuits to the last, and preserved his looks so well
that he appeared to be a fresher and younger man than his son, who was
far advanced in life.’ There have, the record goes on to say, ‘been
several older people in Scotland than either Isobel Walker or Peter
Garden, but unfortunately no picture or engraving of them can now be
found.’ Among these was John Taylor, a miner at the Leadhills, who
worked at that employment till he was one hundred and twelve! He did
not marry till he was sixty, after which there were nine children born
to him. ‘He saw to the last without spectacles, had excellent teeth,
and enjoyed his existence till 1770, when he yielded to fate, at the
age of one hundred and thirty-two.’

The fourth venerable and antique person mentioned is ‘Catharine,
Countess of Desmond, who died at the age of one hundred and forty
years, in the reign of King James I. She was a daughter of the
Fitzgeralds of Dromana in the county of Waterford, and in the reign
of Edward IV., married James, fourteenth Earl of Desmond.’ She was
in England in that reign, and danced at court with Richard, Duke of
Gloucester. It appears that she retained her full vigour to an advanced
period of life; and the ruin of the House of Desmond obliged her to
take a journey from Bristol to London, to solicit relief from the
court, when she was nearly one hundred and forty. She twice or thrice
renewed her teeth, and is represented with a heavy and voluminous
head-dress, and a most stern and masculine cast of features.

So much for Scotland and Ireland. Our fifth wood-cut, much defaced
and time-worn, is a portraiture of ‘Thomas Parr, son of John Parr of
Winnington, in the parish of Alderbury in Shropshire, who was born in
1483, in the reign of Edward IV., and resided in the Strand, London,
in 1635; consequently was one hundred and fifty-two years and some odd
months. He lived in the reigns of ten kings and queens, and was buried
in Westminster Abbey.’ When he was about one hundred and fifty-two
years of age, he was brought up to London by Thomas, Earl of Arundel,
and carried to court. The king said to him: ‘You have lived longer than
other men. What have you done more than other men?’ He replied: ‘I did
penance when I was a hundred years old.’ His great rules for longevity
are well known: ‘Keep your head cool by temperance; your feet warm by
exercise; rise early; go soon to bed; and if you are inclined to get
fat, keep your eyes open and your mouth shut.’ Or in other words: ‘Be
moderate both in your sleep and diet.’

Henry Jenkins is the next person on our list. His birthplace is
unknown; ‘but there is satisfactory evidence of his great longevity.’
At the age of between ten and twelve he was sent to Northallerton with
a horse-load of arrows, ‘previous to the battle of _Flowden_, which was
fought on the 9th of September 1513; and as he died on the 8th December
1670, he must have then been one hundred and sixty-nine years of age.’
He had been often sworn in Chancery and in other courts to above one
hundred and forty years’ memory; and there is a record preserved in
the King’s Remembrancer’s office in the Exchequer, by which it appears
‘that Henry Jenkins of Ellerton-upon-Swale, labourer, aged one hundred
and fifty-seven, was produced and deposed as a witness.’ Little is
known of his mode of living except that towards the close of his life
he ‘swam rivers.’ His diet is said to have been ‘coarse and sour.’ He
is represented with a long white beard, a shovel-hat, and a pensive
expression of face—not unpleasing.

Our next plate represents two very disagreeable-looking Hungarian
specimens of humanity, named ‘Sarah Roffin or Rovin, and John Rovin,
man and wife.’ They are depicted as enjoying the sweets of domestic
life. John Rovin is entering the hovel in which they live, with a
long staff in his hand, a bundle of some kind on his back. Sarah
is aged one hundred and sixty-four; her husband is one hundred and
seventy-two! In these circumstances, the expression of utter disgust
and weariness to be seen on both faces is scarcely to be wondered at.
They had at the time their likenesses were taken ‘lived together one
hundred and forty-seven years, and were both born at Stadova in the
directory Casanseber in Temeswaer Banat; their children, two sons
and two daughters, being then alive. The youngest son is one hundred
and sixteen years of age, and he has two great-grandsons, the one in
the twenty-seventh, the other in the thirty-fifth year of his age.’ A
description of the picture from which this engraving is taken has been
given in the following terms: ‘The dress of John Rovin consists of a
white frock reaching almost to the knees, and confined round the waist
by a girdle made of rushes, in which is hung a knife. He is standing
supported by a stick; his knees are rather bent; in his left hand are
some heads of Indian corn, which he is presenting to his wife. His hair
and beard are a light gray; his eyes are quick, clear, and penetrating;
and though his whole aspect proclaims his life to have been a long one,
there are no such traces of old age in him as appear in his wife. _She_
stoops very much, is wrinkled, old, and yellow, and in her whole aspect
is displayed extreme old age in its most revolting form. Near her feet
and on the ground is seated a large handsome tortoise-shell cat, which
also appears very old.’

The last of this extraordinary batch of aged people is called Petratsch
Zortan or Czartan, aged one hundred and eighty-five; and like the
preceding pair, is Hungarian. In a Dutch dictionary entitled _Het
algemeen Historich Woonderbok_, there is an account given of this
ancient personage, of which the following is a translation: ‘Czartan
was born in 1537 at Kosfrock, a village four miles from Temeswaer, in
Hungary, where he had lived one hundred and eighty years. When the
Turks took Temeswaer from the Christians, he kept his father’s cattle.
A few days before his death he walked with the help of his stick to
the post-house of Kosfrock, to ask alms of the travellers. He had but
little eyesight; his hair and beard were of a greenish-white colour; he
had few teeth remaining. His son was ninety-seven years of age—by his
third wife. Being a Greek, the old man was a strict observer of fasts,
and never used any food but milk and cakes, called by the Hungarians
“Kollatschen,” together with a good glass of brandy. He had descendants
in the fifth generation, with whom he sometimes played, carrying them
in his arms. He died in 1724. Count Wallis had a portrait taken of this
old man, when he fell in with him previous to his death. The Dutch
envoy then at Vienna transmitted this account to the States-general.’



DREAMLAND—A SONNET.


    At night, when all is hushed in still repose,
    When ‘Nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep,’
    Doth o’er our wearied frame soft vigil keep,
    And with her gentle hand our eyelids close,
    Then doth the restless spirit take its flight,
    While soft Imagination lends her wings,
    And the chained watchdog Will no longer springs
    To bar its progress through the realms of Night.
    Reason, the watchful porter at the gate,
    Tired with the constant labours of the day,
    Retires to rest, and leaves it free to stray
    Into the land where Fancy keeps her state,
    And her attendant fays glad homage shew
    To mortal visitants from earth below.

            CATHARINE DAVIDSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._



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