Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 41, Vol. I, October 11, 1884
Author: Various
Language: English
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LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 41, VOL. I, OCTOBER 11,
1884 ***



[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 41.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, OCTOBER 11, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]



EUROPEAN EMIGRATION TO AMERICA, AND ITS EFFECTS.


One of the greatest economic problems of our time is associated with
the double stream which has been setting westward across the Atlantic
with steady persistence for some two or three years, and which even
now does not seem to have passed its height. It is a stream which
is composed of the labour and the capital of the Old World. To the
number of many hundreds of thousands of individuals, some of the best
bone and sinew of the European states has been transplanted each
year to America. And latterly, this exodus has been accompanied by a
large volume of that without which labour can do little collectively.
During the last twelve months especially, the number of schemes for
the employment of British capital across the Atlantic has increased
enormously; and at the present time, there are many millions of money,
belonging to people still residing on this side, invested directly or
indirectly in land, and in industries connected with land in the States
of the Union and of Canada. The receptivity of the American continent
in respect both of labour and of capital is very great; but it is not
unlimited. Nor is the supply of either labour or capital unlimited
in the countries of the eastern hemisphere. There is not as yet any
imminent danger of excessive contribution in the one case and of
depletion in the other; but we are within sight of consequences which
it may be well to consider.

And first with regard to Emigration. It must not be supposed that
America—and for the present let us confine our attention to the
United States—welcomes without exception the human stream. There are
undoubtedly elements in it which would be objectionable anywhere. There
are hordes of paupers and loafers and ne’erdoweels, who are as little
likely to do any good for themselves, or to benefit the community, in
the New World as in the Old. But apart from these, there has been a
flow of shrewd workers and skilled artisans, which a certain section
of the American nation is disposed to regard with a sour look. The
reason is not far to seek. The dominant economic policy of America has
been, as we know, one of strict protection of their own industries.
For the benefit of the few, the many are heavily burdened, in the
belief—fallacious, and not always genuinely entertained—that in process
of time the many will reap the harvest. The conductors of these
domestic industries are glad enough to get all the experienced foreign
labour they can; but the domestic labourer says, very naturally, that
the importation is unjust to him. He says, in effect: ‘You tax foreign
products to shut out competition with yourselves; but you admit freely
foreign producers to compete with me. You raise the cost of living to
me by the imposition of taxes to foster your trades; yet you reduce
my means of living by suffering immigration which tends to reduce
the level of wages.’ Here is friction, and friction which is already
producing sparks. It is not difficult to foresee the result. The
working-classes cannot continue to burn the candle at both ends for
ever. It is not practicable for any country in these days to prohibit,
or even to restrict, the importation of human beings. Nor can America
say: ‘We will receive any number of farm-labourers, or miners, or
anybody disposed to squat in the backwoods and open up our country; but
we will draw the line at mechanics or any form of skilled labour which
we can ourselves produce to the extent of our requirements.’ The effect
of the supply of foreign labour would have been more apparent ere
this but for the suicidal policy of the American trades-unions, which
practically prohibit the evolution of domestic skill, by forbidding
apprenticeship to crafts. But, nevertheless, the effect must eventually
be to diminish ‘the reward of labour.’

A well-known American writer holds that the increase in the number
of labourers does not _tend_ to diminish wages, but the converse.
What in his opinion causes the tendency of ‘the reward of labour’
to a minimum in spite of increase in producing-power, is that rent
increases in a still greater ratio. The result is much the same, as
far as the labourer is concerned, and it proceeds, whether directly,
as is commonly held, or indirectly, as the American writer holds, from
there being three men to house and feed where there had been only two.
If, however, it be really the matter of rent or interest which affects
the price of labour, then the American citizen has all the more reason
to regard with attention the other portion of the stream, namely, the
flow of British capital for investment in land and cattle in the West.
We do not know the aggregate capital of the numerous Ranche and other
Companies which have been lately formed, but it is enormous; and with
private investments as well, the total British capital occupied in
them cannot be short of twenty millions sterling, and probably is even
considerably more. The actual amount is not material to our argument.
The effect of this tremendous diversion of capital is twofold. It
is increasing the value of older estates by the absorption of cheap
competitive lots, and it is arousing in the Americans themselves a
species of earth-hunger which promises to be very keen. There are
thoughtful, observing men on the other side of the Atlantic, who,
noting the disfavour into which investments in railroads have fallen,
because of their comparatively poor returns—and also because of the
distrust begotten by their scandalous management—and who noting, also,
the rapidity with which English capital is leading the way—predict
that America is on the eve of the most tremendous land ‘boom’ ever
known. That means, in plain English, that the enhancement in the
value of land, legitimately produced by settlement and cultivation—in
other words, by the employment of actual capital and labour—will have
an artificial enhancement of indefinite extent added to it _by the
action of speculation_. In all commodities dealt in by man, there is
an intrinsic value and a speculative value. When the speculative value
becomes inflated above the level of intrinsic value, there ensues a
period of dangerous excitement, which invariably ends in collapse and
disaster. This is especially the case with land, and it is precisely
towards such a critical time that America seems verging.

All this, however, seems to us to point to the probability of
free-trade becoming ere long the watchword of the working-classes
in the United States. With free-trade in labour concurrently with
land-speculation, subjecting them to diminution of wages, and at the
same time increase in the cost of living, they will have no alternative
but to demand the free admission of all materials bearing on their
industries and affecting the cost of living. It is possible that in
the present great land-movement may be germinating the seeds of the
next great commercial crisis; and upon the theory of periodicity, one
of these crises will be due in a year or two. So, also, it is probable
that the Emigration movement from the east has carried and is carrying
with it elements which will aid in bringing about the much to be
desired future of free-trade.



BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER LI.—HEY, PRESTO!

Coutts having seen that his father and sisters were provided with all
necessary comforts, hastened to the city. He had an appointment which
could not be postponed; he could do nothing more at Ringsford; in town
he could arrange with some contractor to send out a band of men to make
the least injured portion of the Manor again habitable, and to clear
away the débris as quickly as possible.

The appointment was to meet Philip and Wrentham at Mr Shield’s
apartments. Coutts was confident that the bill he held was a forgery.
He had no doubt Philip had been fooled into it somehow, but that was no
reason why _he_ should be fooled out of it. The way Shield had received
him plainly indicated that he would give him no place in his will;
whilst he was anxious to avoid scandal which would involve Philip.

‘Well, if the old fellow won’t give me a slice of his fortune, I’ll
screw a plum out of it,’ was Coutts’s agreeable reflection. ‘I have the
forged bill, and unless he hands me over double the amount, I don’t
give it up.’

That was a ‘smart’ stroke of business, which delighted Coutts almost
as much as the prospect of gaining such a large sum of money, and of
making the ‘old fellow’ stump up in spite of himself. There was, too,
in his mind a kind of moral fitness in the transaction; for it would be
paying out this precious uncle for some of the annoyance he had caused
his father. In addition, there was to be reckoned the satisfaction of
outwitting one of the cutest scamps he had come across—a fellow who
had overreached even him—for with the same move which was to checkmate
Shield, Wrentham would be paid out too. He gave little consideration to
his brother, having no doubt that he would escape all right somehow.

He had secured the services of a detective who possessed the highest
qualifications for his office, namely, he was not like a detective
at all in manner, appearance or speech. Meeting Sergeant Dier in an
ordinary way, you would regard him as a successful commercial man.
There was not the slightest flavour of Scotland Yard about him. He
was a good actor, a good singer, and a capital story-teller. Some of
his most important discoveries were made whilst he was entertaining a
roomful of company with his merry anecdotes. The secret of his success
lay partly in a natural gift for his business, his enthusiasm, and the
good-nature which underlay it all. He never allowed a scoundrel to
escape; but he dealt very gently with any poor creature who might be
betrayed into a first crime.

When Coutts reached his office, Sergeant Dier was waiting for him.
Any one looking at the detective as he stood, bareheaded, reading a
newspaper, would have imagined that he was one of the bank officials.
He accompanied Coutts to his private room.

‘Well, what news have you?’

‘Our man has everything prepared for a holiday abroad,’ was Dier’s
smiling reply.

‘Can he get away?’

‘O dear, no; he is at present under the eye of one of my friends, and
he has been obliged to delay his departure until to-morrow, owing to a
difficulty he has found in collecting his funds on such short notice.’

‘Is that all?’

‘There is a little more,’ said Dier complacently. ‘I have found a man
who can identify his writing under any disguise.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Our man’s brother. It was not easy to persuade him to help us, but he
consented at the last moment, and is to meet us at Mr Shield’s place.’

‘Capital,’ said Coutts. ‘You understand, I do not wish to proceed to
extremities unless we are forced to it.’

‘So you informed me; but the case is turning out such a pretty one that
it would have been an honour to explain it in court.’

‘Never mind the honour; we’ll balance that somehow. I shall be ready in
twenty minutes, and will meet you at the hotel.’

Sergeant Dier bowed and left. Outside the room he nodded and smiled
to himself as he placed a glossy hat jauntily on his head. Mentally
and cheerfully he was saying: ‘I don’t care about that chap—not much.
I should not be surprised to find him coming my way sometime with the
positions changed.’

Coutts examined letters, signed papers brought to him by his chief
clerk, and punctually at the expiration of twenty minutes was on his
way to Mr Shield’s hotel. At the door he found Sergeant Dier and Bob
Tuppit waiting. The poor little conjurer was nervous, and evidently
required all the robust encouragement of the good-natured detective to
sustain him in going through with the task he had been persuaded to
undertake.

They were immediately conducted to Mr Shield’s sitting-room. Coutts was
a little surprised and not pleased to find that Philip and Wrentham
had arrived before him; and beside Mr Shield stood Mr Beecham—for whom
he entertained an instinctive dislike, not to mention that on the few
occasions of their meeting his wittiest cynicisms had been silenced by
the quiet searching gaze of the elder man.

Philip had not yet heard of the previous night’s events at Ringsford.
He was pale, but calm, and he greeted his brother somewhat coldly.
Wrentham was apparently at ease and playing his part of devoted and
therefore anxious friend to perfection. He had not yet caught sight
of Bob Tuppit, who easily hid himself behind the broad shoulders of
Sergeant Dier.

‘I expected,’ said Coutts after formal salutations, ‘to have had the
pleasure of a few minutes’ private conversation with you, Mr Shield,
before we proceeded with this disagreeable business.’

‘I don’t think it necessary,’ answered Shield in his brusque way.

‘As you will, sir,’ continued Coutts with a slight inclination of the
head. ‘I have brought with me two persons who will, I believe, aid us
materially in the inquiry we are about to make.’

‘Who are they?’ was the blunt query, indicating Mr Shield’s usual
impatience of palaver.

‘This is Mr Dier, who is interested on my behalf; and this’——

‘Is a friend of mine,’ interposed Dier blandly, ‘who is an expert in
distinguishing handwriting.’

Wrentham was the only one who showed surprise at these introductions,
and he moved a little backward at sight of Bob Tuppit, covering his
uneasiness by a slight cough, as if clearing his throat. Shield looked
at Beecham, and the latter spoke.

‘A very good idea, Mr Hadleigh, and as I have some acquaintance with
Mr Tuppit, I can vouch for his ability to discharge any task he
undertakes. I presume you have shown him specimens of the different
handwritings?’

‘I do not understand your position in this affair, Mr Beecham,’ said
Coutts superciliously; ‘I can only address myself to Mr Shield, or if
he chooses, I can retire, and let the matter take the ordinary legal
course.’

‘I am here as the friend of Mr Shield,’ was the reply, without the
least symptom of irritation at the manner and words of Coutts.

‘You can speak to him as you would to me,’ growled Shield.

‘Oh, very well,’ said Coutts, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I thought you
wanted to keep the affair as quiet as possible. But, please yourself.
Then, I have not submitted any writing to Mr Tuppit, whose name I learn
from Mr Beecham. He, being perfectly acquainted with the penmanship of
one of the persons concerned, I thought it would be more satisfactory
to you to have the investigation made in your presence.’

He glanced at Wrentham as he spoke, and that gentleman assumed an air
of curiosity and interest.

‘Begin with Tuppit at once: that will cut the thing short,’ said
Shield, as if already impatient of the delay caused by these
preliminaries.

‘Then here is a sheet of paper which Mr Shield has already signed,’
said Mr Beecham. ‘Will you put down your name, Mr Philip, and you, Mr
Wrentham?’

They signed at once, and there was no reluctance apparent on the part
of either, but the grand flourish which Wrentham was in the habit of
drawing under his signature was not quite so steady as usual.

‘Now,’ proceeded Mr Beecham, ‘here is a scrap of paper on which Mr
Shield has written a few words. Will you both write something on
separate slips, and that will enable us to test Mr Tuppit’s skill in
distinguishing the writers.’

This having been done, the sheet bearing the three signatures was first
given to Tuppit, and it shook slightly in his hand as he advanced to
the window to inspect it carefully. He then laid the paper on the table.

‘I think I know the character of the writings now,’ he said.

The three slips were next handed to him, and he named the writer of
each correctly.

‘Clever chap—knows what he is about,’ was Shield’s comment. Then
looking almost fiercely at Coutts: ‘Suppose you have brought _your_
paper with you?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Show it then, and let us hear what he has to say about it.’

Coutts slowly took out his pocket-book and looked inquiringly at
Sergeant Dier. The latter had been observing the whole proceedings with
that kind of interest which a skilful player bestows on an exciting
game at cards or billiards. He responded promptly to Coutts’s look.

‘Best thing you can do, sir. It will settle the whole business at once.’

But Coutts did not want to settle the whole business until he had
spoken to Shield in private, and explained the terms on which publicity
might be avoided. So he put in a hypocritical protest which he hoped
would aid him in making his bargain by-and-by.

‘You are aware, Mr Shield, that there are reasons why I do not wish
this matter to go beyond ourselves; and I believe you have the same
desire. On that account we need not regard Mr Tuppit’s decision as
final.’

‘I shall,’ answered Shield, frowning. ‘Hand him the paper.’

Coutts obeyed with the reluctant air of one who is compelled to do
something he dislikes. He did not look at Philip, who was watching him
with pitying eyes.

‘It is rather a serious thing, gentlemen,’ said Tuppit, speaking for
the first time, and now as coolly as if he were on his conjuring
platform, ‘a very serious thing to give a decided opinion in a case
of this sort without very careful examination. You will permit me to
compare the signatures on this paper with the writing on the different
papers you showed me.’ He gathered them up in his hand as he spoke. ‘I
must use a magnifying glass.’

He whipped one out from the tail-pocket of his coat. Then with its aid
he carefully compared the writings. After ten minutes he rose, and
instead of giving his decision, he advanced to Philip with the bill in
his hand.

‘That is your signature,’ he said.

‘It is,’ replied Philip, quietly.

Coutts gave a slight shake of the head, as if this was no more than he
expected although he deplored it. Wrentham’s eyes moved restlessly from
one face to the other.

Tuppit next advanced to Mr Shield.

‘This is the signature of Mr Austin Shield.’

‘That is the signature of Austin Shield,’ was the answer after a brief
glance at the writing.



ILLICIT DISTILLATION IN IRELAND.


The mountainous districts in the north of Ireland have long been
famous for the manufacture of whisky—or as it is sometimes called when
made without the concurrence of the revenue, ‘poteen.’ Until the last
few years, the practice was exceedingly common, even within a few
miles of towns of considerable size; but latterly the total output of
spirits has been much reduced in quantity, and has been of inferior
quality. Various causes have contributed to this. Formerly, the excise
supervision was not so efficient as it has since become. Very often,
Englishmen or Scotchmen were selected for Irish districts, and found
the peasantry combined to a man against them. They were aided, too, by
a body of police whose sole duties were the detection and exposure of
frauds against the revenue, and therefore it was a clear issue between
two parties, with a large body of spectators standing neutral, or
rather, in the national spirit, strongly sympathising with those who
were trying to evade the law. Besides, if the Squire—who was of course
a magistrate—found an anonymous present of a five-gallon jar of poteen,
why should he go and waste good liquor by giving it up, and perhaps by
so doing get some of his own tenants into trouble! It was clearly none
of his business; in which opinion his neighbours heartily shared, as
they sipped it in punch at his festive board. The priest, too, was of
the same mind; for as long as the ‘boys’ did not take too much, or beat
their wives, or neglect attending mass, it was a very convenient way of
turning an honest penny in those hard times. With the tacit concurrence
of these two great social forces, the owner of the still had little to
fear, and could carry on his lawless trade with comparative impunity.
The possession of a common secret encouraged cordial relations between
all classes and creeds, until they resembled the proverbial happy
family. But the events of the last thirty years have changed all this,
and have indirectly led to a large diminution of private distillation.

The first blow which it received was the disbanding of the revenue
police about the year 1858, and the absorption of their duties, and the
drafting of the most capable members of the force into the Royal Irish
Constabulary. This body have a great many duties to perform: they keep
the peace; act as public prosecutors in petty cases; distribute and
collect the census papers and votes for poor-law guardians; make up
the agricultural statistics; act as an armed drilled force in time of
riot; and lastly, as detectives of crime and, since 1858, of illicit
distillation. On account of these numerous functions, they are brought
into contact with almost every individual in their district, not so
much at the barracks as at their own homes; and the sight of an empty
jar in an unlikely place, or an unusual abundance of spirits about a
particular house, are signs not lost on the vigilant constable, and
carefully stored up by him for future use.

Again, the improved means of transit in the mountainous districts
have given the affairs of the inhabitants more publicity. Post-vans,
mail-cars, and narrow-gauge railways, are everywhere furnishing certain
and regular communication between the better populated and more
civilised valleys and the poorer and less inhabited mountains. By these
means, enterprising travellers have penetrated the backward districts,
and been received with the customary hospitality of the Irish to
strangers. They are occasionally even permitted to taste the native
‘mountain dew,’ and sometimes thoughtlessly bring their entertainers
into trouble by incautiously boasting of their privileges before
strangers. The information has been carried to the police force in the
district in which the, alas! too confiding host resided, and has caused
a watch to be set on him, resulting eventually in the discovery of the
fountain-head.

But information of this kind is accidental, and therefore such cases
are rare. The fact is that the chief sources of knowledge are, as
might be expected from the analogy of other Irish conspiracies, from
within the camp, which is sure to hold sooner or later some informer.
A difference of opinion about the division of the spoil, a row amongst
their womankind, or some such characteristic quarrel, leads to
ill-feeling, and some impulsive member of the gang, in the haste of
momentary spite, secretly informs the police. Then the customary and
well-known scene follows. A force of constabulary fully armed steals
out under cover of night, carefully surround the fated still-house, and
advancing from all sides, simultaneously burst in upon the unfortunate
distillers just as the outlying scout has brought word that the police
are coming. Resistance, though sometimes attempted, is useless, and the
dread guardians of the law proceed to destroy the prepared materials,
seize the still, and quench the fire. Finally, the sad procession of
police, prisoners, and utensils—the last being placed in a cart with
the manufactured spirits—wends its way down the mountain-side to the
nearest barracks. Then, at the next petty sessions of the district, all
those who were found engaged, together with the tenant on whose holding
the distillation was being carried on, are heavily fined, with the
option of a severe term of imprisonment.

But what has conduced more than anything else to the diminution of
illicit distillation has been successive bad harvests, rack-renting,
and absentee landlords. These have produced agrarian outrages, and
these in their turn have led to Coercion Acts, giving the constabulary
night-patrol powers of a very comprehensive character. As the
mountainous districts are the poorest, so the outrages have been
more frequent there, and the police in seeking for those intent on
committing crime, have often accidentally found those merely intent on
distilling poteen. All these discoveries are treasured up, and care
taken that the same practice will not again occur in the same place;
and thus the opportunities for illicit distillation are gradually
becoming fewer and fewer, and everything seems to point towards its
total extinction.

The place selected for the operations of the distiller is usually
some natural hollow, or a sheltered spot partially hidden by some
overhanging rock. But occasionally there are much more habitable places
prepared. A favourite example of this is an artificial cave dug out
in the side of a high bank close to a stream, the proximity of which
is always necessary for their operations. The entrance is generally
concealed with great ingenuity by a luxuriant growth of furze and
other shrubs. Inside, a raised seat of earth, on which some heather
has been strewn, and a rudely built chimney, complete the structure.
The functions of the chimney are not by any means exhausted by being
brought up to the natural level of the earth. As is well known, burning
peat has an easily recognisable odour, and if this drew attention to
a wreath of smoke ascending in the midst of a field, the chances of a
long life for the still-house would be very small. Instead, therefore,
of being directly brought out, every conceivable artifice is employed
to render the smoke invisible. Sometimes it is led into a drain; at
others, into a thick growth of underwood; again, it is carried for
some distance, and allowed to make its escape in such small quantities
as to be practically imperceptible. In one case of which we knew, the
still-house was underground in the vicinity of the owner’s cottage, and
advantage of this was taken to convey the chimney up the earthen fence
and effect a junction with the flue of the kitchen.

In some cases, a dwelling-house is chosen in such a locality as to
defy suspicion. An example of this occurred in a market-town where
distillation was carried on for many years in the main street within
a hundred yards of an important constabulary barracks, and the owner
in this case was said to have amassed a considerable amount of money.
For aught that is known, many similar instances may still exist, as
the shrewdness shown by the choice of such a hiding-place renders
detection, except through treachery, a most unlikely event. It would be
well perhaps to add, that in the case just related the proprietor of
the still was a bachelor.

Having prepared a suitable place, the next thing is to procure a still
and worm, which are usually manufactured by the local tinker. The still
is generally made of strong tinned plate, and is of a cylindrical form,
except the head, which is rounded and enlarged, in order to better
collect the alcohol as it evaporates. The highest part of the head
terminates in a tube, wide at first, but gradually becoming narrower,
until it reaches the worm, which is a long tube curled into a spiral,
and during work is always kept cold by immersion in water. It is
sometimes made from tinned plate, but preferably of sheet-copper, as
this material, in some mysterious way, is said to make better poteen.

The still having been procured, the materials from which the spirit
is extracted must be obtained. Malt is, of course, the most important
item, but in past times was very difficult to procure, as part of the
excise officer’s labours, until the repeal of the malt tax, was to
prevent its preparation in corn-mills, so that the still-owner had
frequently to choose between making it for himself with imperfect
appliances, or using an inferior substitute. This was either ordinary
grain or treacle, generally the latter, from its portability, and the
quickness with which it could be prepared. Indeed, the extra sale of
treacle in particular districts has been a very trustworthy indication
of the quantity of spirits being manufactured. In one village where
some years ago the average sale was three casks a week, the present
consumption is not more than one every two months. But perhaps this
may result as much from the repeal of the malt tax as the decline in
illicit distillation.

The malt or treacle is laid down in water somewhat under boiling-point,
and allowed to remain there until it has attained to the consistence of
thin water-gruel. It is now ready for fermentation, which is effected
by means of yeast; and when this process is complete, the mixture is
called ‘wash,’ and is now ready for distillation. The still is now
filled with wash, and a gentle heat applied, vaporising the alcohol,
which passes through the still-head, and is cooled back to its liquid
form in the worm, at the lower end of which it is received by pans,
crocks, ‘piggins,’ or indeed any vessel which will hold it. From these
receptacles it is put into jars or casks—more commonly five-gallon
‘kegs’—and conveyed to a place of safety. When all the wash has been
distilled, the articles employed are carefully hidden, a favourite
place for the still and worm being under water in the neighbouring
stream. Then nothing remains but the distribution of the spirits in
such a manner as to realise a handsome profit. This is an operation
demanding all the craft of the distiller. To dispose of it to his
immediate neighbours would be to disclose his secret, and they would
either demand the poteen for nothing, or denounce him if he refused
to give it. It must therefore be conveyed to a distance, and sold to
some publican at such a price as will amply compensate both parties for
their risk. As the publican must keep a record of all the spirits he
receives, he incurs the danger of having material on his premises which
is not entered in his stock-book; as a rule, therefore, the poteen is
mixed with whisky resembling it in flavour, and the blend sold as the
original.

In order to get the jar or cask safely into the town, the distiller
usually envelops it in straw or hay, and tries to pass it off as
innocent fodder; or another plan is to place it in the centre of a cart
of turf, and on selling the turf to the proper person, its removal is
easy, though occasionally even more ingenious methods are resorted to.

Fortunes acquired by means of illicit distillation have given rise
to a very curious taunt amongst the inhabitants of the north-west
of Ireland. When it was intended to convey to any person in the
strongest possible manner that his pride in his family circumstances
was only that of an upstart, the common expression for this was: ‘Your
grandmother was Doherty ——, and wore a tin pocket.’ The origin of this
saying was as follows. The northern part of the county of Donegal,
particularly the district of Innishowen, is largely peopled by persons
of the name of Doherty and O’Doherty. In past times, one of the best
means of smuggling poteen into Londonderry and other towns in the
vicinity was by a tin flask carried by the women in their pockets.
Hence the expression.



ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.


CHAPTER II.

As soon as Mr Ridsdale and Miss Loraine found themselves alone, they
seated themselves on the rustic seat lately vacated by the vicar and Dr
M‘Murdo. Master Archie lighted a cigarette.

Clarice Loraine at this time had just left her nineteenth birthday
behind her. She was tall and limber as any fabled nymph of the woods,
with an easy, swaying grace in all her movements such as Art alone
could never have taught her. She had a cloud of silky, pale-gold hair,
that looked as if some sportive zephyr had ruffled it in passing;
while her eyes were of the deepest and tenderest blue. Her habitual
expression was one of sweet seriousness, of most gentle gravity; but
when she smiled, which she did often, she smiled both with her lips and
her eyes: it was like the lighting up of a beautiful landscape with a
sudden flash of sunshine.

And the young man to whom she had given away her heart? Well, he was
a stalwart, good-looking enough young fellow, about twenty-five years
old, with dark-brown hair, and a moustache to match; with frank,
clear-gazing eyes, which looked as if nothing in the world could
cause them to flinch; in short, one of those manly, clear-skinned,
resolute-looking young Englishmen of whom those who choose may see
scores any day during the season in London town.

‘Are you sure, darling, that you are not too tired to go on the lake
this evening?’ asked Archie presently.

‘I am just a little tired now; but I shall not be a bit tired when the
time comes to start. To-night it will be full moon.’

Archie looked at his watch. ‘The afternoon post will be in in about
half an hour. I wonder whether it will bring us anything from the
pater?’

‘O Archie, if it should bring a letter from your father in which he
orders you to give me up!’

‘As if I had not told you a hundred times already that I am not going
to give you up for any one in the wide world!’

‘It would make me ever, ever so unhappy to think that I should come as
an obstacle between your father and you.’

‘Don’t be a little goose. I’m old enough to choose a wife for myself;
and I’ve chosen you, and mean to have you in spite of everybody. If the
pater chooses to turn rusty about it, I can’t help it. He did the very
same thing when he was a young fellow. He ran away with my mother—oh,
I’ve heard all about it!—and I’m not aware that he ever had cause to
regret having done so. Of course it would be pleasanter—a jolly sight
pleasanter—to have his consent and good wishes and all that; but if he
won’t give us them, I daresay we shall be able to get along somehow or
other without them. There are worse things in the world than poverty,
when two people love each other as you and I love each other, sweet
one.’

What bold beings are these lovers! Nothing daunts them. They will take
the world by storm and set Fortune herself at defiance. A very Paladin
seemed Archie in the eyes of the girl who loved him. How beautifully he
spoke—what noble sentiments fell from his lips!

‘I am not afraid to face poverty or anything else,’ she murmured, ‘so
long as I know that you care for me.’ Tears trembled in her eyes.

‘And that I shall never, never cease to do!’ he responded fervently.

He had sidled a little closer to her on the rustic bench, and he now
tried, after a fashion old as the hills, to insinuate one arm gently
round her waist.

‘No—no, Archie, dear, you must not do that! We are not alone. Although
that young curate pretends to be reading, he’s watching us all the
time.’

‘Confound his impudence!’ growled Archie with a glance over his
shoulder at the obnoxious individual. Then he drew exactly an inch and
a half further away, and proceeded to light a fresh cigarette.

The fact was that, after the immemorial fashion of lovers, our two
young lunatics had been so absorbed in themselves and their own affairs
that they had had no eyes to note the fresh arrivals which the last
steamer had brought to the hotel. One of these was a young man dressed
in the garb of a modern curate. The afternoon was hot, and as he came
slowly up the path that led from the level of the lake to the elevated
ground on which the hotel was built, he fanned himself with the broad
brim of his low-crowned felt hat. Behind him marched a porter carrying
a bulky portmanteau, a mackintosh, and an exceedingly slim umbrella.

A little way from the path stood an immense elm, round the bole of
which a seat had been fixed for the convenience of visitors. It looked
cool and tempting; the young man glanced at it and hesitated.

‘Why go indoors just yet?’ he asked himself. Then turning to the
porter, he said: ‘Take those traps into the hotel and secure a bedroom
for me. Then find out whether you have a Lady Renshaw and a Miss Wynter
staying in the hotel, and come back at once and let me know.’

‘Yes, sir—Lady Renshaw and Miss Wynter.—What name shall I have put down
for the bedroom—your name, sir?’

‘My name? Um. By-the-bye, what _is_ my name?’ the young man asked
himself in some perplexity. Then his face brightened, and he said
impressively: ‘My name is Mr Golightly.’

‘Yes, sir—the Reverend Mr Golightly.’

‘No, sir’—with severity—‘not the Reverend Mr Golightly. Plain Mr
Golightly—of London.’

‘Yes, sir. Plain Mr Golightly. I’ll be sure not to forget. Back in five
minutes, sir.’ Mr Golightly went and sat down in the welcome shade of
the elm.

‘I’m fairly in for it now,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve passed the Rubicon, and
there’s no going back. If they are not here already, they will be sure
to arrive by the next train. Will Bella recognise me in this rig-out, I
wonder? Upon my word, I don’t think she will.’

Presently the porter came back. ‘No ladies stopping here by the name
you spoke of, sir,’ said the man.

‘At what hour is the table-d’hôte?’

‘At seven o’clock, sir.—Got you a very nice bedroom, sir—splendid view
across the lake. No. 65, sir.’

‘When is the next train due in from London?’

‘One about due in now, sir. The drive from the station takes about
twenty minutes. Thank ye, sir.’

‘About twenty minutes; I may as well wait here,’ remarked Mr Golightly
to himself as soon as the man had left him. ‘This will be a capital
“coign of vantage” from which to spot the arrivals.’

He yawned, crossed his legs, and produced from his pocket a soberly
bound little volume, which might have been a volume of sermons, only it
was not. He read a page or two, then he yawned again, and then he shut
up the book.

‘No, not even Alphonse Daudet has power to charm me this afternoon.
Will she come?—will she not come? Does she love me?—does she not love
me? Upon my word, I’m in a regular fever; pulse about a hundred and
twenty to the minute. I wonder why they can’t inoculate one for love,
the same as they do for other things. A mild attack for about a week,
and then we should get over it for life.’

Suddenly he started and threw a keen look at the two young people some
little distance away, whom he had scarcely noticed before. ‘Archie
Ridsdale, by all that’s wonderful! I’ve not seen him for a century.
Does Lady Renshaw know that he’s here, I wonder? and is she dragging
Bella down to this place that she may try to catch the rich baronet’s
son for her niece’s husband? It’s just like one of her ladyship’s
moves. Well, I’m not going to worry myself with jealousy. Besides,
somebody at the club said that Archie had engaged himself to a girl
without a penny. I wonder whether that is the demoiselle in question.
She looks pretty enough to turn any fellow’s head.’

Mr Golightly whistled softly to himself for a minute or two; then he
muttered: ‘Wretched slow work watching another fellow spoon and not be
able to join in the fun one’s self! That must be the girl. By Jove!
Master Archie seems about as hard hit as I am.’

This latter remark was elicited by the sight of Mr Ridsdale sidling up
to Miss Loraine with the evident intention of encircling her waist with
his arm; but, as we have already seen, he was very properly repulsed.
Presently Clarice rose and gathered up her heap of ferns and grasses.

‘You are not going indoors already, Clarice?’

‘Already! Commend me to your sex for being unreasonable. A pretty
scolding I shall get from Mora for having been out so long.’

‘I don’t believe Madame De Vigne could scold any one, were she to try
ever so much.’

‘You don’t know her. She has a terrible temper. It runs in the family.’

‘I am glad you have told me. I shall be prepared for the worst.—We
shall meet again at the table-d’hôte; meanwhile, I’ll go and look after
the postman.’

‘Should there be a letter, you will let me know as soon as possible?’

‘Never fear.’

With a smile and a nod, she left him, and speeding across the lawn,
entered the hotel by a French-window, one of a number which stood wide
open this sunny afternoon.

Archie gazed after her admiringly till she was out of sight. Then he
buried his hands in his pockets and turned and sauntered slowly up
towards the main entrance to the hotel.

‘Ah! here’s Ridsdale coming this way,’ exclaimed Mr Golightly. ‘Wonder
whether he’ll know me? What larks!’

But Mr Ridsdale was thinking his own thoughts, and he passed Mr
Golightly, who was apparently deep in the perusal of his sober-looking
volume, as though there was no such person in existence. But he had not
got more than a few yards beyond the tree when he heard himself called.

‘Archie, dear!’ cried some one softly. If it were not a feminine voice
that spoke, it was a very good imitation of one.

Mr Ridsdale started, and turned. Beyond two or three loungers round
the door of the hotel, some distance away, not a creature was visible
save the clerical-looking young man seated under the tree and intent on
his book.

Archie’s eyes struck fire and his face flamed suddenly. He advanced
three or four paces. ‘Did you address that remark to me, sir?’ he
sternly demanded.

‘Of course I did, sir,’ answered Mr Golightly, looking up innocently in
the other’s face. Then before Archie’s wrath had time to explode, he
flung down his book and started laughingly to his feet. ‘Ridsdale, old
chappie, how de do?’ he exclaimed. ‘Awfully glad to meet you. Don’t you
know me?’

‘No, sir, I do not know you,’ answered Archie with a cold stare. ‘Never
saw you before in my life, that I’m aware of.’

‘What! Not recollect Dick Dulcimer?’

‘Dick Dulcimer! You!’ eyeing him from top to toe. ‘It can’t be.’

‘But it is—at least I’ve every reason to believe so, and _I_ think I
ought to know.’

‘But’——, and again he eyed him critically over.

‘Why this thusness, you would ask. I’ll explain in a few words. But sit
down for a minute or two; it’s too hot to stand.—You remember Bella
Wynter?’

‘Rather. One of the prettiest girls out, the season before last. I was
nearly a gone coon in that quarter myself.’

‘Well—I’m quite a gone coon.’

‘Glad to hear it. Congratulate you, old man.’

‘It’s the old story, of course. I’ve next to nothing, Bella has
less. There’s a dragon in the path in the shape of Lady Renshaw,
Bella’s aunt. But probably you remember her ladyship?’—Mr Ridsdale
nodded.—‘Well, she detests me, and has set her heart on Bella marrying
money.’

‘Of course. But what has Miss Wynter herself to say in the matter?’

‘Oh, I think Bella likes me—a little; in fact, I’ve not much doubt on
that point, although, like the young person in the play, I’ve never
told my love. But she has been brought up to think it a crime to marry
a poor beggar without a fortune, and then she’s so completely under the
dowager’s thumb that she dare scarcely call her bonnet her own. The
Fates only know how it will end.’

‘And you are down here?’——

‘To meet them. I expect them by the next train. Bella corresponds with
my sister, and Madge gave me the hint. I got a fortnight’s leave,
and made up my mind to follow them; but apparently I’m here first.
Of course it would never have done to let Lady R. find me here; she
would have taken the alarm at once, and have carried off Bella by the
next train. What was to be done? All at once it struck me that I had
lately been playing the part of a curate in some amateur theatricals
in town. A month hence we are going to play the same comedietta again
for another charity, so that, as it happened, I had the togs, obtained
for the first performance, still by me. I shaved off my beard and
moustache, had my hair and eyebrows dyed black, donned my clerical
garb, took a ticket from Euston, and here I am.’

‘Your own mother wouldn’t know you if she were to meet you.’

‘Not much fear of the dowager recognising me, eh?’ asked Mr Dulcimer
with a chuckle. Then he added more seriously: ‘If I can only get Bella
to myself for an hour while she’s down here—there was no chance of it
in town—I’ll know my fate one way or the other. She’s an arrant young
flirt, I know; but I’ll have no more of her shilly-shallying; she shall
give me a plain Yes or a plain No.’

‘I commend your resolution, and wish you every success with the fair
Bella. Of course your secret is quite safe in my hands, and if I can do
anything to assist you’——

‘I’m sure you will. Thanks, Ridsdale. Don’t forget that there’s no Dick
Dulcimer here. I am’——

‘The Reverend?’——

‘No; not the Reverend, but plain Mr Golightly. It may be all very well
to play the part of a curate in a comedietta, but I don’t care to
_pose_ for the character in real life.’

‘But your clerical garb—everybody will take you for a parson.’

‘I can’t help that. If driven into a corner, I will tell people that
I’m a preceptor of youth, in fact a tutor, which is no more than the
truth, because, you see, I’m teaching Will Hanover to play the fiddle,
so that he’s my pupil and I’m his tutor.’

‘But what made you choose such an outlandish name as Golightly?’ asked
the other with a smile.

‘Because Golightly belongs to me, dear boy—it’s my own property. Know,
good my lord, that my full name is Richard Golightly Dulcimer. My
godfather was Dr Golightly, who’s now Bishop of Melminster. Many’s the
tip I’ve had from him in the days when I wore a jacket and turn-down
collar. But he wasn’t a bishop then, and my dad hadn’t lost his
fortune, and things now in that quarter are by no means what they used
to be.’

‘I’ll not forget the name. And now I must go; I’m expecting an
important letter. We shall meet later on.’

‘For the present, ta, ta,’ said Mr Dulcimer.

‘Sly dog! Never said a word about his own little affair,’ muttered
Dick. ‘Intolerably slow work waiting here. I wonder how much longer
they’ll be? Ha! happy thought.—Hi!’

The last exclamatory remark was addressed to a waiter who was in the
act of removing an empty bottle and some glasses from a garden-table a
little way off.

Up came the waiter, a smiling, little, bullet-headed fellow, French
or Swiss, with his black hair closely cropped, and clean-shaved,
blue-black cheeks and chin.

‘Bring me a pint of bitter beer in a tankard,’ said Richard loftily.

‘Oui, m’sieu.’

He was not away more than a couple of minutes. Dick was very thirsty,
and he seized the tankard eagerly.

‘Wait,’ he said laconically. Then he blew off the beads of creamy
froth, raised the tankard to his lips, and slowly and deliberately
proceeded to empty it.

While he was thus engaged, two ladies, followed by a maid carrying
wraps and umbrellas, came round a corner of the shrubbery. They had
driven from the station by way of the lower road, and hence had to walk
through a portion of the grounds in order to reach the hotel.

‘A clergyman, and drinking beer out of a metal pot!’ exclaimed the
elder of the two ladies. ‘What can the Establishment be coming to!’

Dick, whose back was towards the party, gave a great start and nearly
dropped the tankard. ‘The dragon’s voice! I’m caught!’ Then giving
the tankard back to Jules, he said with an affected lisp: ‘Thank you
very much, my friend. On a sultry day like this, nothing can be more
refreshing than a little iced lemonade.’

‘Lemonade! Ah-ha; monsieur s’amuse,’ murmured Jules with a slight
lifting of the shoulders as he took back the tankard and marched away.

‘After all, dear, he was drinking nothing stronger than lemonade,’
remarked the elder lady, who was none other than Lady Renshaw, in a low
voice to her niece. ‘No doubt he acquired the habit of drinking out of
pewter while at college. I am told that they have many strange customs
at the universities, which have been handed down from more barbarous
times.—An interesting-looking young man.’

‘Very,’ assented Miss Wynter, who had started at the first sound of
Dick’s voice, and was now looking inquiringly at him. ‘That voice!’ she
said to herself. ‘I could fancy that it was Dick—I mean Mr Dulcimer,
who was speaking. But that is impossible. And yet’——

Meanwhile, Dick had turned, and after gravely lifting his hat to the
ladies, had resumed his seat, and was now intent again on his book.

Lady Renshaw was a fine, florid specimen of womanhood, who among her
intimate friends gracefully acknowledged to being thirty-five years
of age, but was probably at least ten years older. She still retained
considerable traces of those good looks which several years previously
had captured the elderly affections of the late Sir Timothy. Although
her figure might display a greater amplitude of proportions than of
yore, yet was her hair still black and glossy, her large dark eyes
still as coldly bright as ever they had been, while if the fine bloom
on her cheeks owed nothing of its tints to the lily, there are many
people who prefer the rich damask of the rose even in the matter of
complexion. Here, among the Westmoreland hills, her ladyship was
dressed as richly and elaborately as if for a little shopping in Regent
Street or a drive in the Park. Herein she showed her knowledge of the
eternal fitness of things. Lady Renshaw in a cotton gown or a seaside
wrapper would have looked little better than a dowdy. Simplicity and
she had nothing in common. But Lady Renshaw fashionably attired in
satins and laces was a sufficiently good imitation of a lady to pass
current as such with nine people out of every dozen.

Miss Bella Wynter was a brunette, not very tall, but with a slender,
graceful figure, black, sparkling eyes, and the sauciest little chin
imaginable. Naturally, she was an unselfish, generous-hearted girl; but
the circumstances of life and her aunt’s hard worldly training were
doing their best to spoil her. She, too, was dressed in the extreme of
the prevalent fashion, and looked as if she might just have stepped out
of the show-room of a Parisian _modiste_.

‘There can be no harm in speaking to him,’ said Lady Renshaw in a low
voice to her niece. ‘He may be the son of a bishop or the nephew of a
lord; one never can tell whom one may encounter at these big hotels.’
Then going a little nearer to Dick, she said to him: ‘I presume, sir,
that you are staying at the _Palatine_?’

Mr Dulcimer started, rose and bowed. ‘For a day or two, madam, on my
way north.’ He spoke with the same little affected lisp with which he
had addressed Jules the waiter.

‘I’m nearly certain it’s Dick,’ said Bella to herself with her heart
all a-flutter. ‘But what daring! what effrontery!’

‘Then perhaps you can inform me at what hour the table-d’hôte takes
place?’ said her ladyship.

Dick knew quite well, but was not going to tell. ‘I only arrived a
couple of hours ago, madam; but I will at once ascertain.’

‘No, no, no! Greatly obliged to you, but we are going indoors
presently, and can then ascertain for ourselves.’

‘It _is_ he!’ exclaimed Miss Wynter under her breath. ‘O Dick, Dick!’

Lady Renshaw had turned, and was gazing through her eyeglass. ‘Really,
my love, the view from this spot is too utterly exquisite,’ she said.
‘Such luminosity of atmosphere—such spontaneity of sunshine! Observe
that magnificent effect of _chiaro-oscuro_ among the hills. Quite
Ruskinesque. I dote on nature—especially in her wilder moods.’

‘No doubt nature is infinitely obliged to your ladyship,’ murmured
Richard under his breath.

Bella seemed as if she could not keep her eyes off him. ‘He has shaved
off his darling beard and moustache, and come all this way on purpose
to be near me!’ she mused. ‘Does any one else care enough for me to do
as much as that? Heigh-ho! why is he so poor?’

‘And now, dear, I think we had better go indoors,’ said her ladyship
blandly. ‘The heat is somewhat trying.’ Then turning to Dick: ‘We shall
probably meet again, Mr—er—Mr—?’

‘Golightly, madam. Mr Richard Golightly, at your service.’

‘—— At the table-d’hôte, or somewhere, Mr Golightly.’ This very
graciously.

‘I trust, madam, to have the honour,’ and Mr Dulcimer bowed deeply.

‘O you wicked boy!’ murmured Bella.

‘The old she-dragon suspects nothing,’ said the wicked boy to himself
with a chuckle as soon as the ladies had turned their backs.

‘A Golightly, my dear,’ remarked Lady Renshaw to her niece. ‘There are
several good families of that name. One in Devon and another in York.
The young man may be worth cultivating. I hope you will endeavour to
make yourself agreeable to him.’

‘I will do my best, aunt,’ answered the young hypocrite demurely.

‘How thankful I am that we have got rid of that odious Mr Dulcimer!’

Bella’s black eyes danced with mischief; it was all she could do to
keep back a laugh. ‘O auntie, auntie, if you only knew!’ she whispered
to herself.

When she reached the door of the hotel, she could not resist turning
her head for a parting look. No one was about, and Dick blew her a
kiss. She blushed, she knew not why, but it was certainly not with
indignation.

‘Well,’ mused Mr Dulcimer with a sigh as he resumed his seat under
the tree; ‘if she won’t have me, I’ll cut the old country and try
sheep-farming at the antipodes. Capital cure for love, sheep-farming.’
Taking a pipecase out of his pocket, he extracted therefrom a highly
coloured meerschaum. ‘Come along, old friend; let you and me have a
confab together. Stay, though, is it the correct thing for a curate—and
I suppose everybody will insist on taking me for one—to smoke a
meerschaum? Well, if they don’t do it in public, lots of them do it in
private. Jolly fellows, some curates—others awful duffers.’ He rose
and stretched himself. ‘There must be a quiet nook somewhere among
those trees where a fellow can enjoy a whiff without the world being
the wiser?’ Whereupon he sauntered away towards the lower part of the
grounds, his hands behind his back and his book under his arm, totally
unaware that his movements were being watched by a pair of bright black
eyes from an upper window of the hotel.



INTERVIEWED BY A BUSHRANGER.


I was staying in Sydney for a few weeks, and had put up at the
_Polynesian Club_. There I made the acquaintance of a young colonial
journalist, by name Alison Fellgate, a frank, clever, easy-going
fellow, who had compressed a good deal of life into his forty years.
One evening after dinner we sat smoking under the broad veranda that
ran round three sides of the Club building. Presently, Fellgate took
out his watch and held it in his hand for a few moments. ‘I have an
engagement this evening, but there is plenty of time yet,’ he said.

‘I have several times noticed what a particularly handsome watch that
is of yours, Fellgate,’ I said.

‘Ah, that watch has a story,’ he replied.

‘I have observed some sort of inscription on it. A presentation, I
suppose?’

‘Right. It was a presentation, but of a somewhat unusual sort.’

‘I grow curious. Let us have the story.’

‘Very good. It is a story I have had to tell more than once. You must
know, then, that I began my journalistic life in the colonies as
editor of that able and distinguished organ of public opinion, the
_Burragundi Beacon_. I had been conducting it for some six months, to
the satisfaction, I am always proud to remember, of the proprietors,
when that outbreak of bushranging which was headed by the notorious
Frank Gardiner began to keep the country in a state of continual
excitement and terrorism. I need not tell you that of all the knights
of the bush, Frank Gardiner was in prowess and achievement second to
none. For several years, he and his gang eluded all efforts at capture
on the part of the government, until the country-people began to think
that Frank, like his illustrious forerunner and prototype, Dick Turpin,
bore a charmed life. At last, two thousand pounds was set on his head,
alive or dead.

One morning I received a short letter something like the following,
addressed to the editor of the _Beacon_:

    SIR—I observe a statement in the _Sydney Morning Herald_ of
    to-day to the effect that myself and my mates last Monday night
    attempted an attack upon Lawson’s Station, Woonara. Will you
    allow me the use of your widely-read columns to say that this
    announcement is entirely erroneous, from the simple fact, that
    on that night I and my party were busily engaged elsewhere.—I
    am, yours, &c.,

            FRANK GARDINER.

I was so tickled with this letter—there was something so funny in its
cool audacity, and the whole circumstances—that I at once inserted it
in the _Beacon_.

About a fortnight later, I received a second letter, which ran pretty
much like:

    SIR—It must necessarily be the fate of all public men to
    encounter much misrepresentation, and I must just submit, I
    suppose, like others. At the same time, when there is a remedy
    at hand, a man is merely doing himself justice in availing
    himself of that remedy. I appeal, therefore, simply to your
    sense of right and fair-play in requesting you to publish my
    flat and emphatic denial to a paragraph which appeared in
    the Sydney papers of last Friday—namely, that in the recent
    encounter with troopers, one of my mates was wounded in the
    arm. Nothing of the sort took place, thanks to the clumsy
    shooting of our opponents. The same paragraph also states that
    in the last sticking-up of the Binda Flat mail we treated our
    prisoners with much harshness. The very reverse of this was the
    actual case, and this statement can only have emanated from
    persons wilfully and maliciously determined upon prejudicing
    myself and my comrades in the public mind.—I remain, yours, &c.,

            FRANK GARDINER.

That letter also found a place in the _Beacon_. Afterwards I received
in all some half-a-dozen communications from the notorious bushranger,
varying in details, but all of a similar purport—their object to
correct some blunder or misrepresentation on the part of the public
press. All these communications found a place in the paper. I saw no
harm in thus inserting them. Some of my readers did not hesitate to
accuse me of aiding and abetting the bushrangers by the publication of
Frank Gardiner’s letters, alleging that they were merely blinds to lead
the police off the real track. But I reasoned that, even if this were
the case, the ruse was so simple and transparent a one, that the police
were not in the least likely to fall into it. But I did not think that
Gardiner had any such purpose in sending the letters. I believed that
their meaning was on the surface, though it sometimes struck me that,
over and above this, the bushranger was himself aware in some degree
of the humour of the situation, and that his sense of this sometimes
shaped the wording of his letters. Most of the townspeople took my
view of the matter, and laughed at the thing; and the circulation of
the _Beacon_ in nowise suffered.

I had received, I say, about half-a-dozen of Mr Gardiner’s
communications, covering a space of ten or twelve weeks, when an event
occurred. I was sitting in my little room about eleven o’clock at
night; I had just finished some correspondence-work connected with the
paper, and had just lighted a cigar and settled back into my chair
with a Homeric sigh of relief, when there was a knock at the door;
and the next moment, without waiting for the least countersign of any
sort, a figure entered. I tipped my chair back until I very nearly
lost my balance at the unexpected aspect presented by my unceremonious
visitor—a tall, athletic man with a shaggy, light-coloured beard,
dressed in ordinary bushman’s garb, pistols in his belt, and a carbine
at his back, his face hidden by a mask. Such outwardly was my visitor—a
sufficiently awkward and disquieting figure thus suddenly to present
itself at the dead of night to a harmless country editor armed with
no fire-weapon more deadly than a cigar. My first thought was how the
fellow had got into the house; but this and all other thoughts were
quickly dispersed by my new friend addressing me: “Good-evening, Mr
Fellgate.”

“Good-evening, Mr—— I beg your pardon; you have the advantage of me.”

“I’ve a little bit of business with you—never mind my name. I would
have sent up my card, but I’ve forgotten my card-case.”

This symptom of a vein of humour—thin as it was—in my guest, reassured
me a little.

“I am very much at your service, I am sure,” I replied. “Anything I can
do to”——

“That’s it, boss. I was sure you wouldn’t cut up anyway rough about the
business; and we on our side ’ll try to make it pleasant all round for
you. Well, the business simply is that you’re to come along with me, Mr
Fellgate; and the sooner we’re off, the better for all parties.”

I did not quite expect this, and my visitor’s proposal had no great
charms.

“You mean that I am to accompany you, wherever you are going to, now—at
once?”

“That’s it. That’s my order. So hurry up, Mr Editor; and just think
of others besides yourself. My neck’s half-way in the halter at this
blessed moment.”

The man spoke in the coolest and most determined manner, and I at once
saw that any further attempt at resistance would be worse than useless.

“One word more, Mr Fellgate,” my companion continued. “If you follow me
quietly and without any row, no harm will come to you. I promise you
that, on my word as between gentlemen.”

This should perhaps have been completely reassuring. Nevertheless,
it was with some considerable feeling of doubt and disquiet that I
prepared to accompany the bushranger, for such and nothing short the
man evidently was. We left the house noiselessly. The aged lady who
acted for me in the capacity of housekeeper had long since retired,
and our cautious footsteps did not disturb her. Outside, tethered to a
rail-fence at a little distance from the house, stood two horses.

My companion then blindfolded me, and I mounted one of the two
horses. This blindfolding again I did not much fancy; but caution
and discretion seemed now to be my safest cue. When the bushranger
had himself mounted, he caught my horse’s rein, and we started. For
about a quarter of an hour we pursued the high-road at a quick walk, a
jogging, uneasy half-amble, that was anything but a comfortable pace,
the uneasiness seeming to be increased by my being blindfolded. Then
we suddenly diverged from the highway, and in a little had entered the
bush, as I could easily judge from the fall of my horse’s feet on the
soft sand-track. I should have mentioned that the night was a very dark
one, without either moon or stars.

We rode on for the best part of a couple of hours, very few words
passing between us. I knew the time to be about that length afterwards;
but in reality it seemed much longer to me, partly, perhaps, from the
fact of my being blindfolded; partly, without doubt, from the whole
conditions of my ride being in no sense what could be called lively or
inspiriting.

At the end of two hours, then, my leader suddenly tightened my rein,
and we drew up. He bade me descend, which I did, still with the bandage
on my eyes. The next moment my friend had removed the handkerchief
which he had used for blindfolding me, when a strange sight met my
eyes. I was standing in the middle of a small clearing in the heart of
the forest. The darkness was lit up by half-a-dozen flaming torches and
the light of a small fire, round which five or six men were reclining
on the short sparse grass. The man nearest the fire at once caught
my attention. He was about the middle height, and of a very active
and well-proportioned figure; black-bearded, with particularly bright
and alert eyes, and of not an unprepossessing cast of features. A few
minutes’ scrutiny of the man confirmed me in my identification of him.
He was no other than my correspondent of the past three months—the
notorious bushranger who had been harrying the country right and left
for nearly two years, levying black-mail on all whom he encountered
without the slightest respect to persons or dignities—the redoubtable
outlaw, Frank Gardiner. Various portraits of the man were abroad
throughout the country, all sufficiently like to enable me to recognise
the original, now that he was before me.

All the men, from the leader downwards, were armed to the lips, so to
speak; and as the light of the fire and the wavering torches gleamed
from the bright steel of the carbines and pistols to the bronzed
faces of the highwaymen, tanned almost black by constant exposure to
a semi-tropical sun, I could not but be reminded of the old familiar
stories of Italian banditti and the old pictures one had seen of the
same.

The leader of the gang was the first to speak. “Good-evening, Mr
Fellgate; or rather, good-morning. You recognise me, I daresay?”

“Yes; I think I do.”

“From the several flattering portraits of me that are about, eh? I
wonder you do recognise me from them, that’s a fact. If ever I catch
that blackguard of a photographer who has so abominably burlesqued me
in those pictures, I engage to make it lively for him!”

It was generally understood that personal vanity was one of Gardiner’s
weaknesses, and remembering this, I could not help smiling a little at
the speaker’s words.

“You may smile, Mr Editor; but no public man likes to have such a vile
caricature of himself scattered broadcast over the country; you know
that well enough, and you wouldn’t care about it yourself.”

“Perhaps not; but I haven’t yet attained enough distinction to be very
well able to judge how I should feel,” I answered.

“Yes; I daresay that makes a difference.—But to come to business.
You’re wondering, I suppose, why you’ve been brought here in this
somewhat unceremonious fashion?”

“I am a little puzzled.”

“But not afraid, I hope. You don’t look that way much.”

“No; not now. I was just a little startled at first, I must confess.
But I am not aware of any wrong I have ever done you, Frank Gardiner.”

“That’s it, my boy—that’s it. On the contrary, it has been all the
other way; and that’s why I wanted to have a word with you personally.
I wanted to make the nearer acquaintance of my editor, you know.—How
do you think they read? I mean those letters. Not so bad for a young
aspirant in literature, eh? I’m positively thinking of getting them
reprinted in a small book, if I can get any of those Sydney publishing
sharps to undertake it. _Epistles of a Bushranger._ Taking title,
eh?—a fortune in the very name. Would fetch the public no end, don’t
you think?—But I beg your pardon for keeping you standing all the
time, Mr Editor. Just bring yourself to anchor; and have a drink, will
you?—Young Hall, hand the editor your flask.”

A young man, considerably the youngest-looking of the party, handed me
his flask, which I put to my lips, merely touching the liquor.

“You drink mighty shallow, Mr Fellgate. One finger’s about your mark,
I judge. Well, please yourself.—Now, look here. There’s a cool two
thousand set on my head; you know all about that. Well, there’s a
carbine by your side, as pretty a piece as you’ll find this side the
range. Now’s your chance. Take up the gun, and you can hardly miss me,
if you were to try.”

Of course such a thing was totally out of the question, for more
reasons than one. But even if it had been possible for me to do as the
highwayman suggested, I should have been a fool to have attempted his
life under the existing and peculiar circumstances.

“Just try the weapon, Mr Fellgate. Put it to your shoulder, and see
how it lies as prettily in rest as a baby asleep. Let it off overhead
there.”

I raised the gun and attempted to fire it, when I discovered that I was
quite unable to do so. I could not move the trigger a hairbreadth. It
was some kind of trick-lock, the secret of which was probably known to
the owner alone.

Gardiner laughed quietly. “A pretty thing, ain’t it? But I don’t
believe you would have used the weapon against me just at present, even
if you could—I’ll do you that credit.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said I, half jocularly.

“Shoot me down like a dingo in a trap? No, no! A fair field and a
chance for his hair even to an outlaw. That would be more your motto,
Mr Fellgate, I’m sure. Why, I’d grant that myself even to a trooper,
unless the case was very pressing.—But now, I must really come to the
point.”

During all this colloquy, none of the rest of the gang had put in a
word, but smoked silently on, regarding me with stolid gravity.

“I have always had a considerable admiration for the press as an
institution,” Gardiner resumed, “but never so much as since making your
acquaintance as an editor, Mr Fellgate. You have acted towards me in
the most honourable and gentlemanly manner; and while those wretched
and ignorant Sydney rags the _Herald_ and _Empire_ have refused to
insert my letters contradicting the many lying and libellous statements
they have published regarding myself and my mates, you have vindicated
the claims of the press to being a free and impartial organ of public
expression. Now, no man who knows Frank Gardiner ever accused him of
forgetting a friend or a service. I consider, Mr Fellgate, that you
have done me a real service in this matter, and acted like a gentleman
all round, and I would like to show you that I am not insensible of
this. Though I am a bushranger, I am not a blackguard. If you will be
good enough to accept this trifle, just in recognition of my admiration
for you as an editor, and of my personal regard, you will do me a
favour, Mr Fellgate.” As he spoke, Gardiner took from his breast-pocket
a small morocco case and handed it to me. I opened the case, and found
inside a handsome gold watch.

Seldom, I venture to think, in the history of presentations was any
one made under more singular circumstances. It seemed to reverse
all precedent. Tradition was being read backwards; for instead of a
highwayman taking a watch from me, I was getting one from him. To
devise such a situation in fiction were, of course, easy enough; but I
am relating a true incident, and as such I am inclined to think that
the case was unique.

Of course, I accepted the watch. What else could I do? Sticklers for
morality may refuse to indorse my conduct in so doing; but these same
stern moralists would have probably acted precisely as I did under the
same circumstances. I was by no means so sure of my position that I
could afford to affront or offend my strange friends in any way. Under
that easy sang-froid, careless banter, and studied politeness which
Gardiner had shown throughout our conversation, I knew that there
remained a will that brooked no contradiction, and that had never yet
been thwarted. Under circumstances like these, where personal danger
enters as a large factor in determining our ultimate action, the
majority of us are apt to give an easy and liberal interpretation to
the minor ethics.

I took the watch, uttering some commonplace words of acceptance in
doing so.

“And now, Mr Fellgate, I think our interview is at an end. I am glad
you like the watch, and I think you will find that it is as good as
it looks. In all probability, you and I will never meet again. But if
ever you hear any of those snivelling city counter-jumpers maligning
me and my brave fellows here, you at least may kindly think that
we’re perhaps not so black as they paint us.—Jim, take care of the
editor.—Good-night.”

I was once more blindfolded, and Jim and I returned as we had come.
When we reached the confines of the forest, however, we dismounted, and
my companion removed my bandage. The first gray glimmer of the dawn was
stealing through the bush.

“You’ll have to walk the rest of the way home, Mr Fellgate. I’m like
the ghost in the play, you understand—must hook it with the first
light. Sorry I can’t take you to your door.”

“Don’t mention it; I know every inch of the road,” I said, bent upon
answering him in the same vein.

“You’re a pretty cool hand, Mr Editor. Didn’t think you scribbling
chaps were that sort. No offence. Adieu!”

When I reached my rooms, I found my landlady already astir. She had not
been much surprised to find my bedroom empty, for it had once or twice
happened that I had to spend the night at the office, although that was
not a frequent occurrence, the _Beacon_ being only a bi-weekly issue.
I lay down on the sofa in my sitting-room and took a couple of hours’
sleep. When I awoke, the events of the night had for a little all the
feeling of a dream; but that fancy quickly passed away. Over my morning
coffee I examined my newly and so strangely acquired gift at greater
leisure. I may say in conclusion that it has been my constant companion
ever since that night, and I don’t think there is a better time-keeper
out of London. Would you like to look at it closer?’

Fellgate handed me the watch. It was a remarkably handsome
hunting-watch, very finely finished, and bearing the name of a famous
London maker. Inside, I read this inscription:

    Presented to ALISON FELLGATE, Esquire,
                      by
                FRANK GARDINER.

‘You know all about Gardiner’s ultimate fate, of course,’ my companion
resumed, ‘though you were not in the colonies at the time—how he and
nearly all his gang were at last taken, and how Frank himself got a
long term. It could never be proved against him that he had actually
killed any one, and so he escaped the gallows. He is serving out his
time now in Darlinghurst up there, and behaving himself very decently,
they say.’

       *       *       *       *       *

Gardiner, the most notorious highwayman, on the whole, that ever ranged
the Australian bush, only served a portion of his allotted term. At
the end of that period, Sir Hercules Robinson, the then governor of
New South Wales, exerted himself to obtain Gardiner’s release from
further imprisonment, believing that the prisoner’s good conduct from
the beginning of his incarceration deserved this. Many persons thought
this course on the part of Sir Hercules somewhat hasty and injudicious;
and it was not without considerable opposition and difficulty that the
governor had his way, as he finally did. On his release, Gardiner
betook himself to California, where it was generally understood that he
became the proprietor of a drinking-bar—a somewhat inglorious finish to
his career.



SOME REALITIES OF RANCHING.

FROM A MONTANA CORRESPONDENT.


Much has lately been written on the subject of Western Ranching—enough
to make the matter perhaps wearisome to some readers; but I have not
seen any writer touch on the worst side. Frequently I hear of young
fellows, who, attracted by the tales they have read, are eager to go
West and into ranching. For those who conduct it properly, there is
money in this business; but let me tell these youngsters that there is
little else in it. At first, everything is novel; but that soon wears
off, and then for a thoroughly good monotonous life. I know nothing
to compare with it. Life in a log cabin, with bacon and beans and
canned vegetables for food, and a lot of uneducated cowboys as daily
associates, is not the most fascinating thing in this world. Your
men may be good, honest, trustworthy fellows; but they are rough and
uncouth in speech and manners, and you soon get utterly tired of their
company.

Your letters, papers, and magazines help, of course, to while away
many a weary hour. Riding after cattle, branding, &c., is your chief
excitement; but let me say that constant daily work at that gets
monotonous in time. You have some big-game shooting, always more or
less difficult of access; and you have trout-fishing—successful, when
the fish choose to bite. I have generally found the best fishing when
the weather was hottest and the mosquitoes thickest. Again, remember
that a small band of cattle does not return ready cash in proportion to
a large one. Your expenses are greater in proportion, and the results
are liable to discourage you.

To a lover of scenery, the change from Britain’s green hills and mossy
woods to the dull yellow browns of the ‘Rockies’ is dispiriting. For a
few weeks in June, a greenish tint pervades the hillsides, and then,
alas! how quickly do the yellows and browns triumph! I do not write
this to discourage earnest fellows from going into ranching; but they
must not expect—as many seem to do—that life out West is one of roses,
and that with a small capital to begin with, they can hunt and fish
and have a constantly jolly time, and in a very few years come home
with a fortune. Life in summer is endurable; but how about winter?
The best ranges are in the north-western country, and the winters are
simply awful. It has always been a wonder to me how cattle survive
at all, much less come out in good condition in spring. How about
the nice gentlemanly fellow from home and home luxuries, enduring a
winter with thermometer ranging from twenty to sixty degrees _below_
zero! (Two years ago, the spirit glasses stood in Southern Montana at
sixty degrees below zero for over twenty hours at one time. Needless
to say the mercury glasses were all frozen _solid_.) He rides forth on
the range to look at his cattle, and comes in, probably, with nose,
cheekbones, hands, and feet nipped, more or less severely. Next day, he
does the same, with similar results, and then vows he won’t go again.
He remains indoors for a few days, roasting beside a big stove, gets
impatient at the deadly weariness of his life, and goes fishing through
the ice—catches a few fish; results same as when riding. He then thinks
he will try deer-tracking, or possibly a little amateur trapping. In
either case he tramps all day through deep snow, varied by falling into
a hidden spring-hole now and again, getting wet, and instantly his legs
are incased in a solid mail of ice, which he must break, in order to
walk. He comes home at night tired out, perhaps with game, more likely
without; and vowing he has had enough of that sort of thing, falls back
on cards and whisky, and so gets through the winter.

Some fellows have a hazy sort of idea that by hiring out as cowboys,
they eventually will be, by hook or crook, taken in as partners by
the stock-owner. This is about the greatest error they can fall into.
Nine stockmen out of ten would not give a new arrival his board for
his services. He cannot ride—I mean, he cannot _sit_ on one of our
quarter-tamed _bronchos_ much over three minutes; he knows nothing
whatever about the semi-wild habits of Western cattle, or how to manage
them. A _good_ cowboy requires special knowledge and special points
in his character; and constant daily practice for years is needed to
acquire the one and develop the others.

Of course, you can do as some of the Cheyenne fellows do, live
practically in town, and let the ranche run itself. They have an
attractive club and good society there, and lots of the men make
Cheyenne their headquarters. This _may_ be business, when you own, or
manage, large herds, and when you depend on your foreman to do the
work, while you pose gracefully in front as a cattle-king; but it is
anything but business where you have only a small band, on the success
of which depends your future. Sternly and ruefully, you must turn your
back on the delights of town, and manfully determine to stay up-country
and see it through.



REMAINS OF ANCIENT LONDON.


In constructing the last section of the Metropolitan (or ‘Underground’)
Railway—that expensive three-quarters of a mile, which it is said
will cost three millions—many curious discoveries have been made,
and many interesting relics brought to light. The section commences
at the present Mansion House Station, in Cannon Street, and proceeds
nearly east, at a considerable depth, terminating at the present Tower
Hill Station, and thus completing what is commonly called the ‘Inner
Circle.’ In its course, the railway tunnel traverses one of the most
ancient sites of the original British-Roman London; and the discoveries
alluded to chiefly refer to that period. The most important of these
has been a very perfectly built landing-stage or pier, not on the banks
of the Thames, but on the left bank of Wall Brook, near its confluence
with the Thames, the site being beneath the present Dowgate Hill,
which leads direct to the river. The stage appears to have been erected
with much care and skill, and is a very superior work. First, the spot
is filled in with oak timber-piling, carefully bound together; on this
is laid a concrete bed, which, in its turn, supports a Roman tesselated
pavement.

The Wall Brook at that period was doubtless a stream of some
importance, having perhaps a mouth sufficiently broad to make a sort
of useful harbour, just off the Thames; hence the necessity of a
landing-pier or stage being constructed here for commercial purposes.
Nor is this the only one of the kind which the railway-works have
brought to light, for a second has been found beneath Trinity Square
Gardens, which are situated on the spot known as ‘Tower Hill,’ so
celebrated in history as the place of public execution. This second
landing-stage also appears to have stood on a bank leading to the
river, forming, like the other, a small harbour for the unloading
of craft or landing of passengers. This stage is built in the same
way—timber-piles supporting a concrete bed, and on this again the
usual Roman tile pavement. But it was observed that the oak-piling was
surrounded by a number of oak-tree roots, leading to the supposition
that the ground had to be cleared of its original forest before the
building operations of the landing-stage were begun. This is confirmed
by the fact that the spot where these discoveries were made must have
been outside the eastern boundary of the original city of London;
because a fortress—or work of some kind—was erected by the Romans for
the protection of the city on that side, on the site of Gundulph’s
still existing ‘Tower,’ and of course _outside_ the town, and
surrounded probably at that period by the ‘forest primeval.’

The underground track of this part of the railway has proved a
storehouse for relics of both Roman and medieval times. A great deal
of pottery has been found, as well as articles of glassware, and even
cannon-balls. Two leaden coffins were brought to light of decided Roman
pattern; also Roman coins. Amongst the many Roman tiles which were
unearthed, one of them bears the distinct mark of a dog’s foot, which
can only be explained by the animal having walked over the tile whilst
it was still soft after its manufacture. Two entire skeletons were
also discovered, each head downwards—one in Trinity Square, and one at
the bottom of a well twenty-five feet below the ground, in Aldgate.
The remains of the windlass which had once been at the top were also
discovered, together with some pieces of broken pottery. A second well
was also found near the first; but their age has not been determined.

Below the station at Tower Hill, some timber-piles were uncovered,
which have been stated to be the remains of the scaffold on which Lords
Kilmarnock, Balmerino, and Lovat suffered in the last century. But this
seems unlikely, as no doubt the scaffold was removed after the last
execution. But even if it was not, one hundred and forty years would
hardly be sufficient to bury, many feet below the surface, so large
an article as a timber scaffold. A rare and curious print, giving a
view of Tower Hill on the occasion of the death of Lord Lovat, shows
the scaffold about the middle of the Hill, and consequently to the
south-west of the present station.

Since the above was written, we learn that ‘more unexpected but
important evidence’ has been brought to light of the buildings of
ancient London, by the destruction of the remains of old London Wall.
It had already been noticed that the foundations of the Roman wall by
the river were made up very much of materials which had been already
used in public buildings, and near to Tower Hill it has been discovered
that some fine sepulchral monuments have been made to serve the same
purpose. During the further destruction of the wall, it has been
found to have been partly constructed with stones belonging to older
buildings to a very great extent, some of the bastions being composed
of them. In the wall in Castle Street, Bevis Marks, sculptured stones
on which are inscriptions are being discovered, and carefully collected
by some zealous antiquaries, for deposit in the Guildhall Museum.



THE ‘STRONG-ROOM’ AT PETERBOROUGH.


We have already referred (see _Journal_, page 464) to the singular
revelation of a regular system of medieval ‘jerry-building’ found to
have existed in Peterborough Cathedral; and we have now to record
another interesting discovery, by which the old ‘strong-room’ of the
church has been brought to light. In excavating for the foundations
of the piers of the new central tower, some ancient masonry was found
deep below the surface, which was at once pronounced to be the remains
of the original Saxon church, which, together with the monastery, had
been destroyed by the marauding Danes. These remains indicated that
the former church occupied nearly the position of the present one; and
whilst these antiquarian researches were going on, speculation was
rife as to a certain crypt or chamber supposed to exist close under
the floor of the present church, as indicated by Gunton, who wrote the
History of the cathedral not very long after its narrow escape from the
hands of Cromwell’s soldiers.

Accordingly, a careful search was made by Dean Perowne and the clerk
of the works, to the north of the great central tower, and bordering
on the south end of the north transept; when the accuracy of their
calculations was proved, and their labours rewarded by the discovery,
immediately under the pavement, of an underground chamber measuring
six feet three inches in length, by four feet wide, and six feet high.
A curved flight of steps rises from one side of the chamber, whilst a
straight flight leads off at one end, and both ascend directly to the
floor of the church above. The vault was found to be filled with all
sorts of apparent rubbish in stone and metal. On close inspection,
however, much of this proved to be parts of the choir-screen, which,
from its great beauty, had been the glory of the church and the
admiration of historians for centuries, but which, at the sacking of
the church by Cromwell’s soldiers in 1643, had been pulled to the
ground with ropes, and then smashed to pieces. The rest of the contents
consisted of pieces of stone, forming parts of what had once been,
apparently, a reredos; bits of stained glass, which lost their colour
on exposure to the air; fragments of broken swords and pikes; pieces of
leathern scabbards; bits of charred wood; and a quantity of bones of
animals, probably sheep, which had been used for food.

On the chamber being cleared and closely examined, competent
authorities pronounced the floor to be much older work than the rest of
the vault, and it is not impossible that this might have been part of
the floor of the original Saxon church. It was composed of large flags,
several of which had been violently disturbed, possibly by Cromwell’s
looters, in their search for spoil, and in the thought of finding
another hidden chamber still lower down. Whether or not they found any
valuables does not appear to be known; but the supposition is that they
did not, or it would have been referred to by contemporary historians.

Opinions seem divided as to the use of this vault. The more general
opinion appears to be that it was nothing more or less than the
‘strong-room’ of the monastery. In medieval times, secrecy was often
more trusted in than locks and bars; for the latter, force and patience
might ultimately overcome; but a hidden secret would be a secret still;
and in the present instance, as there was not the smallest outward
indication of the existence of such a chamber, so long as the secret
was kept inviolate, the chamber and its contents were safe. All the
facts in connection with this interesting discovery being taken into
careful consideration, the conclusion may be safely arrived at, that
this chamber or vault was indeed the ‘strong-room’ or ‘safe,’ contrived
and cleverly concealed centuries ago, beneath the floor of the great
cathedral, for the purpose of containing the money and treasures
belonging to the community of the monastery of Peterborough, and now so
unexpectedly laid open to the eager gaze of admiring antiquaries and
architects of this present year of grace 1884. Perhaps discoveries of
still deeper interest are in store for us from amongst the foundations
of this grand medieval fane.



OCCASIONAL NOTES.


BURNS AND SCALDS.

There are very few homes whose inmates have not at some time or other
suffered more or less severely from the effects of a burn; there are
few persons who ever forget the severity of the pain that succeeds a
bad burn; and yet there are very few who make any provision for the
proper treatment of such wounds. This neglect arises from indifference
or from ignorance, but chiefly the latter. A burn treated in time does
not take nearly so long to heal, and generally heals better than it
otherwise would. The object of the present paper is to make familiar a
few of the remedies which are generally applied to burns—remedies so
simple in themselves that they can be applied by any person.

The best thing to apply to a burned or scalded part is Carron oil
spread on lint or linen. The main object in the treatment of a burn is
to keep the affected part out of contact with the air; but the part of
the treatment to which our attention should be first directed is that
which will lessen or remove the pain. Ice or cold water is sometimes
used; and sometimes water moderately warm, or a gentle heat, gives
relief. Carron oil—so called from the famous Carron ironworks, where it
is extensively used—not only lessens the immediate pain, but covers the
part with a film which effectually shuts out the air and prevents the
skin getting dry.

This Carron oil can be prepared in a very simple way. It consists
of equal parts of olive oil and lime-water. Olive oil, or salad or
Lucca oil, is the oil best suited for the purpose; but if not easily
obtainable, linseed oil answers the purpose very well. Lime-water can
be easily made by any one, if it cannot be procured otherwise. About
a teaspoonful of the lime used by builders—if the purer kind is not
obtainable—added to a pint of water and well shaken, is all that is
required. It is then allowed to settle, and the water when required
is drawn off without disturbing the sediment at the bottom. Pour the
oil on the lime-water, stir or shake well, and the mixture is ready
for use. It is poured freely between two folds of lint, or the lint
dipped in the mixture; the lint applied to the wound, and held in
position by a bandage. The wound may be dressed twice a day; but in
dressing, the wound should be exposed to the air the shortest possible
time. If the lint adheres to the wound, it must not be pulled off, but
first moistened thoroughly with the oil, when it comes off easily.
In some cases, it is not advisable to remove the lint. Under such
circumstances, the best way to proceed is to lift up one fold of the
lint, drop the oil within the folds, replace the fold as before, and
secure the bandage. Carron oil is one of those things that no household
should be at any time without.

Considering the simplicity of the cure, how easily olive oil and
lime-water can be obtained, let us hope that for the sake of relieving
even a few minutes’ pain, no reader of this paper will be in the future
without a bottle of Carron oil.


INTERESTING DISCOVERY AT ROME.

A beautiful statue of Bacchus has recently been discovered in a hollow
place beneath the staircase in the library at Hadrian’s Villa, Rome. It
represents the god not as the coarse dissipated old man, but according
to his later aspect, as a beautiful effeminate youth. It is singularly
well preserved, the right hand only being missing. Its great beauty was
at once recognised, and casts were immediately made, one of which is at
Berlin, another at Strassburg, and a third in the new Cast Museum of
Sculpture at Cambridge. The statue represents a youth standing with the
weight of the body thrown on the right leg; the right hand is raised,
and held, it is supposed, the two-handled wine-cup or _kantharos_ of
Bacchus. Over the right shoulder is thrown a _nebris_ (fawn-skin),
which falls back and front with studied symmetry. A question has arisen
amongst the learned on these subjects as to whether this beautiful
work of ancient art is itself an original, or a copy in marble from a
bronze original. And then comes the still more important inquiry, what
is its date? Professor Michaelis—a noted authority—states his opinion
that ‘the statue is a work of the eclectic school, the post-Alexandrian
manner which selected and combined, and advisedly imitated, the style
of bygone manners, which sought to revive the manner of the best
Attic and Argive work;’ and which the learned professor fancies he
can discern by certain peculiar appearances and treatment, and a want
of harmony in many minute details, which, however, could hardly occur
to any ordinary spectator, who sees before him simply an exquisitely
finished and beautiful work of antique art.


TELEPHONING EXTRAORDINARY.

The most remarkable piece of telephoning yet attempted has been just
accomplished by the engineers of the ‘International Bell Telephone
Company,’ who successfully carried out an experiment by which they
were enabled to hold a conversation between St Petersburg and Bologæ,
a distance of two thousand four hundred and sixty-five miles.
Blake transmitting, and Bell receiving, instruments were used, and
conversation was kept up notwithstanding a rather high induction.
The experiments were carried on during the night, when the telegraph
lines were not at work. The Russian engineers of this Company are
so confident of further success that they hope shortly to be able
to converse with ease at a distance of four thousand six hundred
and sixty-five miles; but to accomplish this astonishing feat they
must combine all the conditions favourable for the transmission of
telephonic sounds. If it is found possible to hold audible conversation
at such extraordinary distances, it is possible that this fact will
be speedily improved upon, and we shall be enabled to converse freely
between London and New York, and by-and-by between London and the
antipodes.



A MODERN MADRIGAL.


    Come, for the buds are burst in the warren,
      And the lamb’s first bleat is heard in the mead;
    Come, be Phyllis, and I’ll be Coryn,
      Though flocks we have none to fold or feed.

    Come for a ramble down the dingle,
      For Spring has taken the Earth to bride;
    Leave the cricket to chirp by the ingle,
      And forth with me to the rivulet-side.

    Lo! how the land has put from off her
      Her virgin raiment of winter white,
    And laughs in the eyes of the Spring, her lover,
      Who flings her a garland of flowers and light.

    Hark how the lark in his first ascension
      Fills heaven with love-songs, hovering on high;
    Trust to us for the Spring’s intention,
      Trust to the morn for a stormless sky.

    I know the meadow for daffodowndillies,
      And the haunt of the crocus purple and gold;
    I’ll be Coryn, and you’ll be Phyllis,
      Springs to-day are as sweet as of old.

            F. WYVILLE HOME.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 41, Vol. I, October 11, 1884" ***

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