Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 44, Vol. I, November 1, 1884
Author: Various
Language: English
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LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 44, VOL. I, NOVEMBER 1,
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. 44.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]



HOW THE WEATHER IS MADE AND FORECAST.


In the minds of foreigners, it is held to be one of the many
peculiarities of the people of these islands that so much of their
casual conversation consists of remarks on the weather. The national
temperament is often held to be responsible for this failing; but some
of the blame must no doubt be laid at the door of the weather itself.
Our climate presents such a record of change and uncertainty, that we
need not wonder if it is always in our minds, and the first subject on
our lips when we meet a friend. Other lands may have their cold and
hot, dry, and rainy periods, that come round in the proper order year
after year with unvarying monotony; but with us it may be said of the
weather, that we rarely know what a day or an hour may bring forth.
Even the seasons seem occasionally to be independent of any necessity
of visiting us at the particular time of the year at which we have
been taught to expect them. Spring weather in November, or a winter
temperature in July, or a November fog in the merry month of May, all
seem to be amongst the possibilities of our climate.

Happily, our meteorologists are at length beginning to define with
growing clearness and confidence the laws which underlie and regulate
the complicated and ever varying phenomena which we call the weather,
and many of these laws, like most natural laws, are beautiful in
their simplicity. Although ‘weather wisdom’ is as old as history
itself, the science of the weather or meteorology is a growth of the
last few years. The weather wisdom of our forefathers may in the
light of present knowledge be divided into sense and nonsense. Under
the nonsense may be included not only such proverbs as that which
attributed to St Swithin’s day and certain other times and seasons,
occult influences over the weather, but most of the information of the
old almanacs, which used to ascribe the character of the weather to
the positions and movements of the heavenly bodies and the age and
changes of the moon. The prevalence of the belief that the weather
was regulated by such influences, can only be accounted for by the
well-known love of the human mind for the wonderful and inexplicable.
Much of the old weather lore, however, had a large element of truth
in it, and was the result of the collective experience of many
generations, which had found that certain phenomena were generally
followed by certain conditions of weather. The saying, that a rosy
sky in the morning presages rainy weather, and the same appearance
in the evening, fine weather, was current weather lore before the
Christian era, and is recognised as being, in a certain sense, true at
the present day. Amongst sailors, farmers, shepherds, and such like,
weather maxims, the result of observation and experience, have always
been current, and the value of many of these is now recognised and
explained by science.

The first step towards acquiring an insight into the causes which
control our weather is a study of the laws which regulate the flow and
changes of the winds in these islands. The air is the great medium
in which all the changes of weather are elaborated. We live at the
bottom of a great ocean of air, which extends for many miles upwards,
and which is always heaving and changing, like the other ocean which
it covers. The winds, which are the ever-changing currents which flow
through this invisible sea, are, roughly speaking, the principal
factors in the making of the weather. Many of us know very well the
general character of the weather which accompanies the wind from the
principal points of the compass, that which comes from the moist warm
south-west, for instance; or with the blustering, shower-bringing
north-wester; or with the harsh, dry, east wind in spring; but to most
of us the wind itself ‘bloweth where it listeth.’ The movements of the
air and changes of the wind are, however, subject to laws, a knowledge
of which is in some degree necessary before we can understand how our
weather is made for us.

A simple definition of the wind which we ordinarily experience is
that it is air obeying the force of gravity, in seeking to return to
an equilibrium which has been disturbed. By the aid of the barometer
we are able to form some idea of what is constantly taking place
in the great ocean above us. The principle upon which this simple
and useful instrument is constructed is easily understood. The air
presses downwards upon the earth’s surface with a weight averaging
nearly fifteen pounds to the square inch. If a portion of the surface
of any fluid is relieved from this pressure by inverting over it a
tube exhausted of air, the weight of the air upon the surface outside
will force the fluid up into the tube until the weight of the column
counterbalances the pressure which the air would exercise upon the
amount of surface covered by the mouth of the tube. A column of mercury
in such a case will rise in an air-exhausted tube to a height of about
thirty inches; while water, from its lighter specific gravity, rises to
a height of about thirty-four feet before it counterbalances the weight
of the air above. The depth, and consequently the pressure, of the air
overhead is, however, constantly varying within certain limits; and the
column of mercury in the barometer enables us to keep a faithful record
of the movements of the waves of air in the great ocean under which we
live. At times, the depth of air above us is comparatively shallow, and
the pressure beneath is lessened; the column of mercury is not raised
so high, and the barometer is said to fall. At other times, the air
is heaped up in particular places; the pressure beneath is increased,
and the barometer is said to rise. In stormy weather, the column of
water in a water-barometer where the scale is very large may be seen to
pulsate with every change of pressure from the air-waves at the surface.

The winds are nothing more than the rush of air from the regions of
high pressure to fill up the spaces where low pressure prevails. Thus,
if the column of mercury should stand 28.6 inches high at London, with
a gradual rise as we travelled northward, until the barometer-reading
was 29 inches at Edinburgh at the same time, this would indicate that
a region of depression existed over the former place, and we should
expect a rush of air in the form of wind blowing upon London from the
north.

When the barometrical readings taken simultaneously at stations
distributed over a wide area are compared, the distribution of
atmospheric pressure can be ascertained, and it is possible to tell
from this the force and direction of the winds prevailing within this
area, and generally also the weather which is likely to be experienced.
The greater the inequality of pressure, the greater will be the rush of
air to the centre of depression, and the stronger will be the wind. The
wind, however, does not flow in a straight line from a region of high
to a region of low pressure. The surrounding air from all quarters has
a tendency to flow in, and, as with water, which rushes to the centre
of a funnel when it is flowing out at the bottom, a gyratory movement
is the result. The wind blows round a centre of depression in this
way, always curving inward towards the centre; and in the northern
hemisphere, this gyratory movement of the wind is always in a direction
against the hands of a watch, while the contrary is the case in the
southern hemisphere. These principles of the relation of the winds to
atmospheric pressure hold good without exception over all the world.
They were first definitively stated in America twenty-five years ago;
but Professor Buys Ballot of Utrecht first drew attention to them in
Europe, and the law expressing them is now generally recognised as Buys
Ballot’s law.

In ordinary circumstances in our latitude, the winds are generally
regulated by the differences in pressure induced by contrasts between
continents and oceans. Where the air becomes heated, an area of low
pressure is produced, the warm air becoming rarefied and ascending, and
the heavier cold air rushing in from the sides to supply its place. In
winter, the weather over these islands is controlled to a great extent
by the winds which sweep round a large area of depression which exists
over the Atlantic, the mean centre of which is about midway between
the continents of Europe and America, in the latitude of the Orkney
Islands. This depression is the result of the contrast produced between
the comparatively warm air over this portion of the Atlantic and the
much colder air over the northern portion of Europe and America,
which is continually flowing in to supply the place of the lighter
and constantly ascending warm air. The winds sweeping round this
centre strike our shores from the south-west. This depression is not
stationary, but is continually shifting over a large but well-defined
area, and it gives rise to many subsidiary eddies, or small cyclone
systems as they are called, which sometimes skirt our coasts, or travel
over these islands, bringing with them the storms of wind and rain and
sudden changes of the wind with which we are familiar. In spring, the
prevailing winds from the east and north-east, so much dreaded by many,
are the result of a large cyclonic system formed by the sudden increase
of temperature over middle and southern Europe, as the sun’s rays gain
strength and the days lengthen. The temperature is not yet sufficiently
high to bring in the air from off the Atlantic, as happens when the
season is further advanced, so that the cold air rushes in from the
polar regions in a huge eddy, striking our coasts from the east and
north-east, and bringing in its train all the attendant miseries which
make our English spring a time to be dreaded by the weak and ailing.

A knowledge of the general principles which direct the flow of our
prevailing winds is, however, only of general assistance in enabling
us to forecast the weather which we experience in these islands. This
is governed and produced to a great extent by the development of
subsidiary centres of depression in and between the great cyclonic
systems. These generally approach our shores from the west, travelling
in a north-easterly direction; and they are responsible for most of
the variable weather with which we are so familiar. They generally
carry with them a certain well-defined course of weather. The readings
of the barometer taken simultaneously at many places over a wide
area on a system such as that now controlled by the Meteorological
Office, enables us to determine the approach and development of these
small cyclonic systems, and so to forecast with a certain degree of
confidence the weather likely to be experienced in a certain district
from twelve to twenty-four hours in advance. Most of the disturbing
influences reach us from the west; and as the west coast of Ireland
is the extreme limit to which our stations reach in that direction,
we can receive only very short notice of their approach. This is
one of the principal reasons why, with the means at present at our
disposal, we cannot expect to make our weather science as perfect
as in a country such as America, where the central office receives
warnings from stations dispersed over the face of a vast continent.
Nevertheless, we have made great advances since 1861, when the first
weather forecasts were prepared and issued in this country by the Board
of Trade, under the superintendence of the late Admiral Fitzroy. The
forecasts at that time, although admitted to be of considerable utility
to the country, were thought to be scarcely accurate enough to justify
their continuance upon the system then in operation, and they were
discontinued in 1866.

In the following year, the Meteorological Office was constituted
upon its present footing, and the daily publication of forecasts has
continued down to the present. Considering that—judging from the
forecasts published daily in the newspapers—the chances of a successful
forecast are on the average about seventy-nine per cent. for ordinary
weather, while the percentage of successes is slightly higher in the
case of storm warnings, it is evident that the Meteorological Office is
capable of rendering important service to the community at large. Every
morning, the central office in London receives telegraphic reports
from fifty-three stations. It also receives thirteen reports every
afternoon, and nineteen each evening. Besides the numerous well-placed
observation stations in the British Islands, there are twenty-three
foreign reporting stations, extending along the entire western coast
of Europe, from which information is received, in accordance with
arrangements made with the meteorological organisations in Norway,
Sweden, Denmark, Germany, Holland, and France. The morning observations
are made at all the British stations at eight A.M. Greenwich time, and
are transmitted direct to the Meteorological Office, where they are
received between nine and ten o’clock. Thus are given the barometrical
and thermometrical readings at the various stations at eight A.M.;
the direction and force of the wind, and the state of the weather,
together with any changes of importance which may have been noticed in
the course of the preceding day. From these reports, weather charts
are made out, forecasts of the weather are prepared and issued to the
evening papers in London and the provinces; and a telegraphic résumé of
the weather, or, if necessary, intelligence of storms, is despatched to
various points on our coasts and to foreign countries. The forecasts
for the morning daily papers are issued at half-past eight P.M. on
the previous evening. They are prepared from reports received from
twenty-six home and six foreign stations; but although these are the
most widely distributed and read of any issued from the office, they
are much less complete than the eight A.M. forecasts.

The _Times_ publishes every morning with the forecasts the weather
chart issued by the department. This chart shows the condition and
movements of the atmosphere over the British Isles and the vicinity;
the distribution of pressure; the temperature, state of the sea, and
the force and direction of the winds blowing within the area at six
P.M. on the previous day.

The familiar dotted lines termed isobars, which are such a feature in
weather maps of this sort, are lines at all places along which the
barometer stands at the same height. Except where their regularity
is broken by the existence of subsidiary disturbances, these lines
extend in gradually widening circles around a centre of depression,
the barometer always standing highest along the outside curve, and
gradually and regularly falling towards the centre; so that if we could
view our atmosphere from above one of those centres of depression, we
would see a deep hollow, with sides sloping downwards to the centre,
towards which the revolving air was being gradually indrawn, like water
in an eddy.

At intervals, we receive warning across the Atlantic, from the _New
York Herald_ weather bureau, respecting storms which are crossing
the Atlantic towards our coasts, and which are often described as
‘likely to develop dangerous energy’ on their way. Although many of
those warnings are subsequently justified, or partially justified,
it must not be supposed that these are storms which have left the
American continent on their way to us, and that it has been possible
to calculate their course across the Atlantic and predict the
time of arrival upon our coasts. Mr Clement Ley, Inspector to the
Meteorological Council, tells us that it is not yet satisfactorily
shown that storms cross the Atlantic from America, and he presumes that
arrangements must be effected by which the logs of passing steamers may
be consulted in America as to the character of the weather experienced
in crossing from this country; and from the information received in
this manner, it is possible to arrive at conclusions respecting the
direction and character of storms travelling towards this side of the
Atlantic, and to anticipate their arrival by telegraph, the warning
being flashed beneath the ocean in time to reach us long before the
storm itself.

The variety and complexity of the phenomena which have to pass under
careful observation render the science of the weather an exceedingly
difficult one to study, more especially as, up to the present, we have
done little more than master its fundamental principles. The time ought
not, however, to be far distant when we shall have the means at our
disposal to enable us to forecast the weather with a nearer approach to
certainty than we can attain at present. The results already obtained
by the Meteorological Office are certainly encouraging, and it must
be remembered that, in attempting to forecast the weather in this
country, it labours under two serious disadvantages. The first is our
geographical position, which at present precludes us from obtaining
any but the shortest notice of weather approaching from the west—the
point from which most of our weather comes. The other drawback is of a
pecuniary nature, and it is to be regretted that it prevents us from
testing to the full limit the usefulness of the Meteorological Office.
It may be argued that, in this country, storms are seldom so sudden or
disastrous as to justify us in maintaining at a very much larger outlay
an organisation which would enable us to be warned of their approach.
It is, however, only necessary to take into account the enormous losses
in life and property occasioned every year by the weather in shipwreck
alone, in order to appreciate what might be the value to the nation of
a properly organised system of weather science, did it only succeed in
reducing, even by a small percentage, the annual number of wrecks on
our coasts.



BY MEAD AND STREAM.

BY CHARLES GIBBON.


CHAPTER LIV.—POOR COMFORT.

Madge awakened from the reverie into which she had fallen, to find
Aunt Hessy’s kind eyes resting on her inquiringly and with a shade of
sorrow in them. She, however, instantly awoke, brightened and spoke
with cheerful confidence, although there was a certain note of timidity
in her voice indicating that she had not yet quite recovered from the
effects of the scene in her bedroom.

‘You see, aunt, how wickedly Philip has been deceived, and that I was
right to trust Mr Shield.’

‘Yes, but—Mr Beecham?’

Madge’s cheeks flushed, the smile disappeared, and the head was lifted
with something like impatience. It seemed as if the pronunciation
of Beecham’s name in that questioning tone revealed to her the full
significance of Wrentham’s insinuations—that she was not acting fairly
to Philip.

‘I have told you, aunt, that he is Mr Shield’s friend, and that
he is doing everything that can be done to help Philip out of his
difficulties. You cannot doubt that whatever I may do is for the same
object.’

‘Ah, child, I never doubted thee. My doubt is that whilst desiring to
do right thou may’st have done wrong in giving the trust to a stranger
thou’rt afraid to give to those that love thee.’

‘Mr Beecham will himself tell you before the week is out that he gave
me such proofs of his friendship as would have satisfied even you.’

‘Well, well, we shall say no more, child, till the time comes;
but never expect goodman Dick to be patient with what he thinks
unreasonable. See what a handle this rogue Wrentham—I always felt
that he was a rogue—has made of thy name to help him in cheating and
bamboozling Philip! Take my word, we may turn our toes barely an inch
from the straight path at starting, but we’ll find ourselves miles from
it ere the end if we do not make a quick halt and go back.’

‘I have only held my tongue,’ said the girl quietly enough, but the
feeling of offended innocence was there.

‘Holding the tongue when one should speak out is as bad as telling a
book of lies—worse, for we don’t know how to deal with it.’

‘I should be less sorry for vexing you, aunt,’ said the niece, ‘if I
did not know that by-and-by you will be sorry for having been vexed
with me.’

‘So be it.—But now let us finish clearing up the room, and we’ll get
the bedstead down in the morning. Dr Joy says that Mr Hadleigh is not
nearly so much hurt as was thought at first, and that they may be able
to move him in a day or two.’

When the arrangements for turning the sitting-room into a bedroom had
been completed—and there were nice details to be attended to in the
operation, which the dame would intrust to no other hands than her own
and her niece’s—Madge went in search of Pansy.

Her sudden appearance in the kitchen interrupted the boisterous mirth
which was going forward. When she inquired for Pansy Culver, there was
an abashed look on the faces of those who had permitted the girl to go
without inquiring whither; but Jenny Wodrow answered saucily:

‘She got into a state when I was talking about Caleb Kersey, and
slipped out before any of us could say Jack Robinson.’

The silent reproof in the expression of Madge’s tender eyes had its
effect even on this self-assertive damsel. Jerry Mogridge hobbled up to
his young mistress.

‘I’ll find her for you, Missy,’ he said cheerily, for he was in the
happy state of mind of one who has enjoyed a good meal and knows that
there is a good sleep lying between him and the next day’s toil.

They went out to the yard, and Jerry, opening the door of the dairy,
thrust his head into the darkness with the invocation: ‘Come out ov
here, Pansy Culver; what are you doing there? Missy wants you.’ There
was no answer, and after groping his way amidst cans and pails standing
ready for the morning’s milk, he returned muttering: ‘She ain’t there
anyhow. I’ll get the lantern, Missy, and we’ll soon find her, so being
as she ha’n’t gone to her father’s.’

Whilst Jerry went for the lantern, the moon began to light the
snow-covered ground, and Madge discovered Pansy in the doorway of the
stable. She was leaning against the door as if support were necessary
to save her from falling. Madge put her arm round the girl, and drawing
her out from the shadows into the moonlight, saw that the face was
white as the snow at their feet, and felt that the form was shivering
with agitation more than with cold.

‘I knew it would upset you, Pansy; and intended to tell you myself, but
wanted to do it when we were alone.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Missy,’ answered the girl through her chattering
teeth; ‘but thank you kindly. There’s no help for it now. I’ve been
the ruin of him, and standing out here, I’ve seen how wicked and cruel
I’ve been to him. I knew what he was thinking about, and I might have
told him not to think of it—but I liked him—I like him, and I wish they
would take me in his place. They ought to take me, for it was me that
drove him to it.’

‘Hush, hush, Pansy,’ said Madge with gentle firmness; ‘Caleb is
innocent, and will be free in a few days. It was only some foolish
business he had with Coutts Hadleigh which brought him under
suspicion.’

‘Yes, yes, but it was about me that he went to speak to Mr Coutts—and
Mr Coutts never said anything to me that a gentleman might not say.
Only he was very kind—very kind, and I came to think of him, and—and—it
was all me—all me! And you, though you didn’t mean it, showed me
how wrong it was, and I went away. And if Caleb had only waited,
maybe—maybe.... I don’t know right what I am saying; but I would have
come to myself, and have tried to make him happy.’

This hysterical cry showed the best and the worst sides of the girl’s
character. For a brief space she had yielded to the vanity of her sex,
which accepts the commonplaces of gallantry as special tributes to the
individual, and so had misinterpreted the attentions which Coutts would
have paid to any pretty girl who came in his way. She had been rudely
startled from her folly, and was now paying bitter penance for it. She
took to herself all the blame of Caleb’s guilt, and insisted that she
should be in jail, not him.

Madge allowed her feelings to have full vent, and then was able to
comfort her with the reiterated assurance of Caleb’s innocence, which
would be speedily proved.

The fit being over, Pansy showed herself to be a sensible being, and
listened attentively to the kindly counsel of her friend. She agreed
to follow her original plan, namely, to see her father in the morning
and then return to Camberwell to devote her whole energies to the task
of reclaiming her grandfather from his foolish ways and bringing him
out to Ringsford. Madge was certain that this occupation would prove
the best antidote to all Pansy’s unhappy thoughts and self-reproaches.
Meanwhile it was arranged that Pansy should not have Jenny Wodrow for
her bedfellow.

       *       *       *       *       *

Affairs at the farm had gone on uncomfortably from the moment
Dick Crawshay expressed displeasure with his niece. She made what
advances she could towards reconciliation; but she did not yet offer
any explanation. He was obliged to accept her customary service as
secretary; but it was evident that he would have liked to dispense with
it. Neither his appetite nor his slumbers were disturbed, however; and
he slept soundly through the night whilst the fire was raging at the
Manor. It was not until the wain with its load of milk-cans had started
for the station that he heard from Jerry Mogridge the report of what
had occurred.

Then yeoman Dick mounted his horse and rode at full speed to Ringsford
to offer what help it might be in his power to render, grumbling at
himself all the way for not having been sooner aware of his neighbour’s
danger. Finding Mr Hadleigh in the gardener’s cottage, where there was
want of space and convenience, the farmer with impetuous hospitality
invited the whole family to Willowmere. The invalid could not be
removed until the doctor gave permission; but Caroline and Bertha were
at once escorted to the farm. Miss Hadleigh remained at the cottage to
assist the housekeeper in nursing her father: she was moved to do so by
a sense of duty as well as by the knowledge that Alfred Crowell would
come out as soon as he heard of the disaster, and he would expect to
find her there.

In the bustle and excitement of the first part of the day there was
only one person who thought much about Philip and of the effect this
new calamity might have upon him in his present state. As the afternoon
advanced, everybody was wondering why he neither came nor sent any
message. The arrival of Pansy relieved Madge on this and other points;
and she was happily spared for that night the pain of learning that
Philip did visit the gardener’s cottage without calling at Willowmere.

Postman Zachy delivered two welcome letters in the cold gray light of
the winter morning. Both were from Austin Shield—one for Mrs Crawshay,
the other for Madge. The first simply stated that his old friend might
expect to see him in a few days, and that he believed she would have
reason to give him the kindly greeting which he knew she would like to
give him. The second was longer and contained important information.

‘Be patient and trust me still,’ it said. ‘You have fixed the week
as the limit of your silence: before the time is out I shall be at
Willowmere. Philip has acted in every way as I would have him act under
the circumstances, except in the extreme mercy which he extends to
the man Wrentham; but he pleads that it is for the sake of the poor
lady and child whose happiness depends on the rascal, and I have been
obliged to yield. At the last moment Wrentham attempted to escape, and
would have succeeded but for the cleverness of the detective, Sergeant
Dier.

‘Be patient, and have courage till we meet again.’

‘Be patient—have courage:’ excellent phrases and oftentimes helpful;
but was there ever any one who at a crisis in life has found the words
alone satisfactory? They by no means relieved Madge of all uneasiness,
although she accepted them as a token that her suspense would soon be
at an end. In one respect she was keenly disappointed: there was not a
hint that the proofs she had given Mr Shield of Mr Hadleigh’s innocence
of any complicity in his misfortunes had been yet acknowledged to be
complete. Had that been done, Philip would have forgotten half his
worries. Mr Shield was aware of that—he must be aware of it, and yet he
was silent. She could not help thinking that there was some truth in Mr
Hadleigh’s view of the eccentricity of his character.



THE NEW MEDIÆVAL ROOM AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM.


One of the rooms at the British Museum, left vacant by the removal of
the Natural History Collection to South Kensington, has lately been
re-opened, under the title of the Mediæval Room, with a collection
of curious objects, many of which possess strong personal as well as
antiquarian interest. The articles shown range from the twelfth century
downwards. Some of them have already been on exhibition in another part
of the building; but the majority are now publicly shown for the first
time. The various items have been carefully arranged and labelled by
Messrs Franks and Read, the curators of the Ethnological Department,
the fullness of the appended descriptions more than compensating for
the temporary lack of a catalogue.

Among the curiosities of more modern date is a silver-mounted
punch-bowl of Inveraray marble, formerly the property of the poet
Burns, and presented by his widow to Alexander Cunningham. Not far
distant rests the Lochbuy brooch, a massive ornament four inches in
diameter, said to date from about the year 1500, and to have been
fashioned out of silver found on the estate of Lochbuy, in Mull. Its
centre is a large crystal, surrounded by upright collets bearing
pearls of considerable size. It was long preserved as a sort of
heirloom in the Lochbuy family, but passed out of it by the marriage
of a female representative, and in course of time became part of the
Bernal Collection, whence it was acquired by the British Museum. Hard
by it is a handsomely carved casket, made of the wood of Shakspeare’s
mulberry tree, and presented in 1769, with the freedom of the town of
Stratford-on-Avon, to David Garrick. The majority of the exhibits,
however, belong to very much earlier periods. There is a choice
display of horn and tortoiseshell snuff and tobacco boxes, two of
the latter—duplicates, save in some unimportant particulars—bearing
the arms of Sir Francis Drake, and the representation of a ship in
full sail. We are told that boxes of this same pattern are frequently
offered to collectors as having been the personal property of the great
admiral; but an inscription on one of the specimens here exhibited
shows that they were actually made by one John Obrisset in 1712.

An ordinary-looking piece of rock-crystal in one of the cases claims
to be the veritable ‘show-stone’ or divining crystal of Dr Dee, the
celebrated astrologer and alchemist of Queen Elizabeth’s time. Dee’s
own account of the origin of the show-stone was as follows. He declared
that one day in November 1582, while he was engaged in prayer, the
angel Uriel appeared to him and presented him with a magic crystal,
which had the quality, when steadfastly gazed into, of presenting
visions, and even of producing articulate sounds. These sights and
sounds, however, were only perceptible to a person endowed with the
proper mediumistic faculty. This the doctor himself unfortunately
lacked; but such a person was soon found in one Edward Kelly, who
was engaged as the doctor’s assistant, and produced ‘revelations’
with Joseph-Smith-like facility. Indeed, his revelations had more
than one point in common with those of the Mormon apostle, for it is
recorded that on one occasion he received a divine command that he
and the doctor should exchange wives, which edifying little family
arrangement was actually carried out, with much parade of prayer and
religious ceremonial. It seems probable that Dee really believed
in the manifestations, and was himself the dupe of his unscrupulous
associate. Kelly was accustomed to describe what he saw and heard in
the magic crystal, and Dr Dee took notes of the mystic revelations.
These notes were, in 1659, collected and published in a folio volume
by Dr Meric Casaubon, an eminent scholar of that day, who appears to
have believed that the revelations were really the work of spirits,
though of doubtful character. From these notes it would appear that
Dee was possessed of two, if not more, divining crystals of various
sizes. After his death, a stone, said to be one of these, came into the
possession of the Earl of Peterborough, and thence into that of Lady
Elizabeth Germaine. It subsequently fell into the hands of the then
head of the House of Argyll, by whose son, Lord Frederick Campbell,
it was presented to Horace Walpole. For many years it formed part of
the Strawberry Hill Collection, and there was appended to the leather
case in which it was contained a manuscript note, in Walpole’s own
handwriting, describing it as ‘the black stone into which Dr Dee used
to call his spirits,’ and recording the above facts respecting it. On
the dispersion of the Strawberry Hill Collection in 1842, the stone
in question is said to have been purchased, at the price of thirteen
pounds, by Mr Smythe Pigott; and at the sale of that gentleman’s
library in 1853, to have passed into the hands of Lord Londesborough.
As to the later history of this particular stone, we have no
information; but it is clearly not identical with the one in the
British Museum. Horace Walpole’s is described as being a ‘black stone.’
Others add that it was in shape a flat disk, with a loop or handle,
and it is generally believed to have been a highly polished piece
of cannel coal. The one in the British Museum more nearly resembles
the descriptions given of Lady Blessington’s crystal, employed for
a similar purpose by Lieutenant Morrison, the Zadkiel of ‘almanac’
celebrity. It is a ball, about two inches in diameter, of rather dark
rock-crystal, and, as Mr Read informs us, has been in the possession of
the British Museum for nearly a century. Assuming, however, that, as
stated in Casaubon’s notes, Dr Dee used two or more magic specula, this
may of course have been one of them.

This mystic crystal is appropriately flanked by a collection of
oriental talismans, some in metal, for suspension from the neck; others
of agate or chalcedony, engraved with charms and cabalistic signs, for
reproduction on wax or parchment. Here also are a couple of bezoar
stones, formerly much esteemed as possessing occult medical virtues,
particularly as an antidote to poison. The genuine bezoar stone is a
calculus found in the stomach of the goat or antelope. The specimens
here shown are artificial, being compounded from a recipe in the
possession of Sir Hans Sloane. They claim, however, to have all the
virtues of the genuine article, which we think extremely probable! They
have a peculiar aromatic smell, which probably assisted the belief in
their hygienic properties.

In another of the cases we find post-mortem casts of the faces of
Charles II. and Oliver Cromwell. A third, anonymous when acquired by
the Museum, has since been identified as that of Charles XII., king of
Sweden. The musket-wound in the temple, by which he fell, is plainly
observable. Not far distant are a leathern ‘black-jack’ and a couple
of ‘chopines,’ the latter, however, not being, as French scholars
might be inclined to suppose, the measure of that name, but a sort of
stilt about sixteen inches in height, with a shoe at the upper end,
and formerly worn by the Venetian ladies. Shakspeare alludes to this
queer article where he makes Hamlet say, addressing one of the female
players, ‘By’r Lady, your ladyship is nearer heaven than when I saw
you last, by the altitude of a chopine.’ Here, too, are a couple of
the mallets and a ball used in the old game of pall-mall. The present
specimens were found in the house of Mr Vulliamy, situated in the
street of the same name, which adjoins the ancient Mall. The ball is of
wood, about two and a half inches in diameter; and the mallets, save
that their heads are bound with iron, are almost precisely similar to
those used in croquet at the present day.

There are sundry curious ivories, among them being a drinking-horn made
out of a single tusk, elaborately carved, and mounted with copper-gilt.
It bears the inscription:

    Drinke you this, and thinke no scorne
    Although the cup be much like a horne.

It bears the date 1599, and is in general appearance like a fish, with
a sort of scoop, or spoon-bowl, projecting from the mouth. There are
indications that it was originally fashioned as a horn for blowing, but
was afterwards converted to its present purpose. A small tablet of the
same material represents ‘Orator’ Henley preaching. On the floor in the
centre of the building, presumably Henley’s chapel in Lincoln’s Inn
Fields, is seen an inscription indicating that the notorious Colonel
Charteris lies buried there. Immediately in front of the preacher
stands a bear on his hind-legs, holding a staff; and the congregation
are represented with horns, exaggerated noses, heads of animals, and
other deformities. The preacher appears to be uttering the words, ‘Let
those not calumniate who cannot confute.’

In another part of the room is a choice collection of ancient watches,
pocket dials, and timepieces of various descriptions, some of very
eccentric character. There are oval watches, octagon watches, and
cruciform watches; watches in the form of tulips and other flowers.
There is a dial in the form of a star, and another in the shape of
a lute. A gilt clock, of considerable size, in the form of a ship,
with elaborate mechanical movements, is said to have been made for
the Emperor Rudolf II. A pocket dial shown has a special interest, as
having belonged to Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, some time favourite
of Queen Elizabeth. This dial bears the arms of the ill-fated earl,
together with an inscription showing that it was made by one James
Kynvyn, in 1593.

Astrolabes, nocturnals, and other astronomical instruments, English
and foreign, are largely represented. There are ancient chess and
backgammon boards, with men carved or stamped in divers quaint
fashions; and a number of drinking-cups in bronze, rock-crystal, and
silver, among those of the last material being a small goblet of
graceful fashion long known as the ‘Cellini’ cup, but believed to be
in truth of German workmanship. An elegant tazza of rock-crystal,
mounted with silver-gilt, has a medallion portrait of Queen Elizabeth
in its centre; but whether it actually belonged to the Virgin Queen is
uncertain.

The connoisseur in enamels will here find a large and varied
collection, ranging from the _cloisonné_ of the Byzantine to the _champ
levé_ of the early Limoges school, and the surface-painting of later
artists. Some of the specimens shown are extremely beautiful; indeed,
this collection alone would well repay the trouble of a visit. One of
the earlier specimens, a plate of German enamel, represents Henry of
Blois, Bishop of Winchester, and brother to King Stephen. Among the
more curious specimens of this ancient art are sundry bishops’ crosiers
of various dates, and a couple of ‘pricket’ candlesticks, in which the
candle, instead of being dropped into a socket in the modern manner, is
impaled upon an upright point.

A small _pietà_ of the sixteenth century, placed in one corner of the
room, deserves a special mention. The figures are in wax, skilfully
draped with real silk and lace. Such a combination has usually a tawdry
appearance, but it has no such effect in this instance. The name of
the modeller has not been handed down to us, but he was unquestionably
a true artist. The look of death on the Saviour’s face, and the
heart-broken expression of the Madonna as she bends over to kiss
his blood-stained brow, are almost painfully real. The power of the
representation is the more remarkable from its small size, the whole
group being only about eight inches square.

In a collection numbering many hundreds of items, it is obviously
impossible even to mention more than a very small proportion of the
whole. We have spoken more particularly of such as have some personal
or historical association connected with them; but on the score of
antiquity alone, such a collection as this must be full of interest
to thoughtful minds. Who can gaze upon these relics of the distant
past without yearning to look back into the far-off times when all
these things were new? What would we give to see, ‘in their habit
as they lived,’ the men who fashioned these ancient timepieces, who
drank from these crystal cups, and played tric-trac on these quaint
backgammon boards? It needs but small imagination to call up Burns and
his boon-companions carousing around the marble punch-bowl, with ‘just
a wee drap in their e’e;’ but who shall name the knights who wore this
iron gauntlet or that _repoussé_ breastplate? Their ‘bones are dust,
their good swords rust,’ and yet here is part of their ancient panoply,
well-nigh as perfect as when it left the armourer’s anvil four hundred
years ago. Truly, they did good work, these mediæval artificers. The
struggle for existence was not so intense; they did not hurry, as in
these high-pressure days. Believing, with old George Herbert, that
‘we do it soon enough, if that we do be well,’ they wisely took their
time, caring little to do quick work, so long as they did good work.
And so their handiwork remains, _monumentum ære perennius_, a standing
memorial of the good old time when ‘art was still religion,’ and labour
was noble, because the craftsman put his heart into his work.



ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.

_A NOVELETTE._

BY T. W. SPEIGHT.


CHAPTER V.

Five minutes later, Archie Ridsdale burst abruptly into the room.
‘Here’s a pretty go!’ he exclaimed. ‘Read this, please, dear Madame De
Vigne,’ putting a telegram into her hand.

Madame De Vigne took it and read: ‘“From Beck and Beck, Bedford Row,
London.”’

‘The guv’s lawyers,’ explained Archie.

‘“To Archibald Ridsdale, _Palatine Hotel_, Windermere.—We are
instructed to request you to be at our office at ten A.M. to-morrow, to
meet Sir William Ridsdale.”’

Mora looked at him as she gave him back the telegram.

‘The last train for town,’ said Archie, ‘leaves in twenty-five minutes.
My man is cramming a few things into a bag, and I must start for the
station at once.’

‘Were you not aware that your father had arrived from the continent?’

‘This is the first intimation I’ve had of it. You know how anxiously
I’ve been expecting an answer to the second letter I wrote him nearly a
month ago.’

‘It would seem from the telegram that he prefers a personal interview.’

‘I’m glad of it for some things. He has never refused me anything when
I’ve had the chance of talking to him, and I don’t suppose he will
refuse what I shall undoubtedly ask him to-morrow.’

Madame De Vigne shook her head. ‘You are far too sanguine. Sir William
knows already what it is you want him to do. He knew it before,
when—when’——

‘When he sent Colonel Woodruffe as his plenipo. to negotiate terms with
the enemy—meaning you,’ said Archie, with a laugh. ‘A pretty ambassador
the colonel made!’

Madame De Vigne, who had risen and was gazing out of the window again,
did not answer for a little while. At length she said: ‘Archie, while
there is yet time, before you see your father to-morrow, I beg of you
once more seriously to consider the position in which you will place
yourself by refusing to break off your engagement with my sister. That
Sir William will sanction your marriage with Clarice, I do not for one
moment believe. What father in his position would?’

Archie, when he burst into the room, had omitted to close the door
behind him. It was now pushed a little further open, and, unperceived
by either of the others, Clarice, dressed for walking, stepped into the
room.

‘Naturally, he must have far higher, far more ambitious views for his
only son,’ continued Madame De Vigne. ‘As the world goes, he would be
greatly to blame if he had not. So, Archie,’ she said, as she took both
his hands in hers, ‘when you leave us to-night, I wish you clearly
to understand that you go away unfettered by a tie or engagement of
any kind. You go away as free and untrammelled as you were that sunny
afternoon when you first set eyes on my sister. I speak both for
Clarice and myself.’

Here Clarice came quickly forward. ‘Yes—yes, dear Archie, that is so,’
she exclaimed. ‘You are free from this hour. I—I shall never cease to
think of you, but that won’t matter to any one but myself.’

‘Upon my word, I’m very much obliged to both of you,’ answered Archie,
who was now holding a hand of each. ‘I don’t know whether to laugh or
be angry. A nice, low, mean opinion you must have formed of Archie
Ridsdale, if you think he’s the sort of fellow to act in the way you
suggest.’ Then turning to Clarice, he said: ‘Darling, when you first
told me that you loved me, you believed me to be a poor man—poor in
pocket and poor in prospects. That made no difference in your feelings
towards me. There was then no question of a rich father coming between
us—and I vow that neither he nor any one else in the world _shall_ come
between us! I love and honour my father as much as any son can do; but
this is one of those supreme questions which each man must decide for
himself.’

‘I have said my say—the raven has croaked its croak,’ said Madame De
Vigne with a little shrug, as she crossed to the other side of the
room. ‘You are a wilful, headstrong boy, and I suppose you must be
allowed to ruin yourself in your own way.’

‘Ruin, indeed!’ exclaimed Archie as he drew Clarice to him. ‘I don’t
in the least care who looks upon me as a ruin, so long as this sweet
flower clings to me and twines its tendrils round my heart!’ And with
that he stooped and kissed the fair young face that was gazing so
lovingly into his own.

‘Ah—boys and girls—girls and boys—you are the same all the world over,’
said Madame De Vigne with a sigh.

‘And you won’t be able to go to the picnic to-morrow,’ remarked Clarice
plaintively.

Nanette appeared. ‘The carriage is at the door, sir. The driver says he
has only just time to catch the train.’

‘I’m going to the station, dear, to see Archie off,’ said Clarice to
her sister.

‘Good-bye—for a little while,’ said Archie, as he took Madame De
Vigne’s hand. ‘The moment I have any news, you shall hear from me; and
in any case, you will see me back before we are many days older.’

‘Good-bye—and good-bye. Above all things, don’t forget the love and
obedience you owe your father, and remember—the moment you choose to
claim your freedom, it is yours.’

‘Ah, dear Madame De Vigne’——

She interrupted him with a slight gesture of her hand. ‘Do not think me
hard—do not think me unkind. I have to remember that I am this girl’s
sister and mother in one.’

‘But’——

‘Not another word.’ She took his head in both her hands and drew it
towards her, and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Bon voyage! Dieu vous
protège. The prayers of two women will go with you.’

There was a tear in Archie’s eye as he turned away. Nanette was
standing by the open door. A moment later, and the young people were
gone.

Madame De Vigne stepped out into the veranda and waved her handkerchief
as the carriage drove off.

‘He will marry her whether Sir William gives his consent or not,’ she
mused. ‘He is in youth’s glad spring-tide, when the world is full of
sunshine, and the dragons that beset the ways of life seem put there
only to be fought and overcome. Well—let me but see my darling’s
happiness assured, and I think that I can bear without murmuring
whatever Fate may have in store for myself.’ She stepped back into
the room, and as she did so, Nanette opened the door once more and
announced—‘Colonel Woodruffe.’

A slight tremor shook Madame De Vigne from head to foot. She drew a
long breath, and advanced a step or two to meet the colonel as he
entered the room.

‘I told you that I should come,’ said Colonel Woodruffe, with a rich
glow on his face as he went forward and held out his hand.

‘And you are here,’ answered Madame De Vigne, who had suddenly turned
very pale.

‘Did you not expect me?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, as for a moment she looked him full in the eyes.

She sat down on an ottoman, and the colonel drew up a chair a little
distance away. He was a tall, well-built, soldier-like man, some
thirty-eight or forty years old.

‘You know the purpose that has brought me?’ he asked.

‘I have not forgotten.’

‘Two months ago I had the temerity to ask you a certain question. I,
who had come to judge you, if needs were to condemn, had ended by
losing my heart to the only woman I had ever met who had power to
drag it out of my own safe keeping. You rejected my suit. I left you.
Time went on, but I found it impossible to forget you. At length I
determined again to put my fortune to the proof. It was a forlorn hope,
but I am an old soldier, and I would not despair. Once more I told you
all that I had told you before; once more I put the same question to
you. This time you did not say No, but neither did you say Yes. To-day
I have come for your answer.’ He drew his chair a little closer and
took one of her hands. ‘Mora, do not say that your answer to-day will
be the same as it was before—do not say that you can never learn to
care for me.’

She had listened with bent head and downcast eyes. She now disengaged
her hand, rose, crossed to the window, and then came back. She was
evidently much perturbed. ‘What shall I say? what shall I say?’ she
asked half aloud.

The colonel overheard her and started to his feet. ‘Let me tell you
what to say!’ he exclaimed.

She held up her hand. ‘One moment,’ she said. Then she motioned to him
to be seated, and herself sat down again.

‘Has it never occurred to you,’ she began, ‘to ask yourself how much or
how little you really know about the woman whom you are so desirous
of making your wife? Three months ago you had not even learnt my name,
and now—even now, how much more do you know respecting me and my
antecedents than you knew the first day you met me?’

‘I know that I love you. I ask to know nothing more.’

‘You would take me upon trust?’

‘Try me.’

She shook her head a little sadly. ‘It is not the way of the world.’

‘This is a matter with which the world has nothing to do.’

‘Colonel Woodruffe—I have a Past.’

‘So have all of us who are no longer boys or girls.’

‘It is only right that you should know the history of that Past.’

‘Such knowledge could in nowise influence me. It is with the present
and the future only that I have to do.’

‘It is of the future that I am now thinking.’

‘Pardon me if I scarcely follow you.’

‘How shall I express to you what I wish to convey?’ She rose, crossed
to the table, and taking up a book, began to turn its leaves carelessly
over, evidently scarcely knowing what she was about. ‘If—if it so
happened that I were to accede to your wishes,’ she said—‘if, in short,
I were to become your wife—and at some future time, by some strange
chance, some incident or fact connected with my past life, of which
you knew nothing, and of which you had no previous suspicion, were to
come to your knowledge, would you not have a right to complain that I
had deceived you? that I had kept silence when I ought to have spoken?
that—that’——

‘Mora—Mora, if this is all that stands between me and your love—between
me and happiness, it is nothing—less than nothing! I vow to you’——

‘Stay!’ she said, coming a step or two nearer to him. ‘Do not think
that I fail to appreciate your generosity or the chivalrous kindness
which prompts you to speak as you do. But—I am thinking of myself as
well as of you. If such a thing as I have spoken of were to happen,
although your affection for me might be in nowise changed thereby,
with what feelings should I afterwards regard myself? I should despise
myself, and justly so, to the last day of my life.’

‘No—no! Believe me, you are fighting a shadow that has no substance
behind it. I tell you again, and I will tell you so a hundred times,
if need be, that with your Past I have nothing whatever to do. My
heart tells me in accents not to be mistaken that you are a pure and
noble-minded woman. What need a man care to know more?’

‘I should fail to be all that you believe me to be, were I not to
oppose you in this matter even against your own wishes.’

‘Do you not believe in me? Can you not trust me?’

‘Oh, yes—yes! I believe in you, and trust you as only a woman can
believe and trust. It is the unknown future and what may be hidden
in it, that I dread.’ She crossed to the chimney-piece, took up the
letter, gazed at it for a moment, and then went back with it in her
hand. ‘Since you were here five days ago, I have written this—written
it for you to read. It is the life-history of a most unhappy woman. It
is a story that till now has been a secret between the dead and myself.
But to you it must now be told, because—because—oh! you know why. Take
it—read it; and if after that you choose to come to me—then’——

Not a word more could she say. She put the letter into his hand, and
turning abruptly away, crossed to the window, but she saw nothing for
the blinding mist of tears that filled her eyes.

Colonel Woodruffe, with his gaze fixed on the letter, stood for a
moment or two turning it over and over in his fingers. Then he crossed
to the fireplace. In a stand on the chimney-piece were some vesta
matches. He took one, lighted it, and with it set fire to the letter,
which he held by one corner till it was consumed. Madame De Vigne had
turned and was watching him with wide-staring eyes.

‘“Let the dead Past bury its dead,”’ said the colonel gravely, as the
ashes dropped from his fingers into the grate. ‘Your secret shall
remain a secret still.’

‘’Tis done! I can struggle no longer,’ said Madame De Vigne to herself.

The colonel crossed to her and took one of her hands. ‘Nothing can come
between us now,’ he said. ‘Now you are all my own.’

He drew her to him and touched her lips with his. All her face flushed
rosy red, and into her eyes there sprang a light of love and tenderness
such as he had never seen in them before. Never had he seen her look
so beautiful as at that moment. He led her back to the ottoman and sat
down beside her.

‘Tell me, dearest,’ he said, ‘am I the same man who came into this room
a quarter of an hour ago—doubting, fearing, almost despairing?’

‘Yes, the same.’

‘I began to be afraid that I had been changed into somebody else. Well,
now that the skirmish is over, now that the fortress has capitulated,
suppose we settle the terms of victory. How soon are we to be married?’

‘Married! You take my breath away. You might be one of those
freebooters of the middle ages who used to hang their prisoners the
moment they caught them.’

‘We are prepared to grant the prisoner a reasonable time to make her
peace with the world.’

Madame De Vigne laid a hand gently on his sleeve. ‘Dear friend, let us
talk of this another time,’ she said.

‘Another time then let it be,’ he answered as he lifted her hand to his
lips. ‘Meanwhile’——

‘Yes, meanwhile?’

‘I may as well proceed to give you a few lessons in the art of making
love.’

‘It may be that the pupil knows as much of such matters as her teacher.’

‘That has to be proved. You shall have your first lesson to-morrow.’

‘Merci, monsieur.’

‘By Jove! talking about to-morrow reminds me of something I had nearly
forgotten.’ He started to his feet and pulled out his watch. ‘Now that
you have made me the happiest fellow in England, I must leave you for a
little while.’

‘Leave me?’ she exclaimed as she rose to her feet.

‘Only for a few hours. On my arrival here I found a telegram from my
brother. He has been staying at Derwent Hall, near Grasmere. To-morrow
he starts for Ireland. We have some family matters to arrange. If I
don’t see him to-night, we may not meet again for months. I’m sorry at
having to go, but you won’t mind my leaving you till to-morrow?’

‘Can you ask? Do you know, I’m rather glad you are going.’

‘Why glad?’

‘Because it will give me time to think over all that has happened this
evening. I—I feel as if I want to be alone. You are not a woman, and
can’t understand such things.’

Again his arm stole round her waist. The clock on the mantel-piece
struck the hour. Mora disengaged herself. ‘Twilight seems to have come
all at once,’ she said. ‘You will have a dark drive. It is time for you
to go.’

‘More’s the pity.’

‘To-morrow will soon be here; which reminds me that we have arranged
for a picnic to-morrow at High Ghyll Force.’

‘You will be there?’

‘Clarice and Miss Gaisford have induced me to promise.’

‘If I should happen to drive round that way on my return, should I be
looked upon as an intruder?’

‘As if you didn’t know differently from that!’

‘Then possibly you may see me.’

‘I shall expect you without fail.’

‘In that case I will not fail.—My driver will be wondering what has
become of me.’

‘Good-night,’ said Mora impulsively.

‘Harold,’ he said softly.

‘Harold—dear Harold!’ she answered.

‘My name never sounded so sweet before,’ exclaimed the colonel as, with
a parting embrace, the gallant wooer quitted the apartment.

‘Heaven bless you, my dearest one!’ she murmured as the door closed.
Then she sank on to a seat and wept silently to herself for several
minutes. After a time she proceeded to dry her eyes. ‘What bundles of
contradictions we women are! We cry when we are in trouble, and we cry
when we are glad.’

Nanette came in, carrying a lighted lamp. She was about to close the
windows and draw the curtains, but her mistress stopped her. After the
hot day, the evening seemed too fresh and beautiful to be shut out.
Nanette turned down the flame of the lamp till it seemed little more
than a glowworm in the dusk, and then left the room.

‘How lonely I feel, now that he has gone,’ said Mora; ‘but to-morrow
will bring him again—to-morrow!’

She crossed to the piano and struck a few notes in a minor key. Then
she rose and went to the window. ‘Music has no charms for me to-night,’
she said. ‘I cannot read—I cannot work—I cannot do anything. What
strange restlessness is this that possesses me?’ There was a canary in
a cage hanging near the window. It chirruped to her as if wishful of
being noticed. ‘Ah, my pretty Dick,’ she said, ‘you are always happy so
long as you have plenty of seed and water. I can whisper my secret to
you, and you will never tell it again, will you? Dick—he loves me—he
loves me—he loves me! And I love him, oh, so dearly, Dick!’

She went back to the piano and played a few bars; but being still beset
by the same feeling of restlessness, she presently found her way again
to the window. On the lawn outside, the dusk was deepening. The trees
stood out massive and solemn against the evening sky, but the more
distant features of the landscape were lost in obscurity. How lonely
it seemed! There was not a sound anywhere. Doubtless, several windows
of the hotel were lighted up, but from where Mora was standing they
were not visible. Dinner was still in progress; as soon as it should
be over, the lawn would become alive with figures, idling, flirting,
smoking, seated under the trees, or promenading slowly to and fro.
At present, however, the lady had the whole solemn, lovely scene to
herself.

She stood gazing out of the window for some minutes without moving,
looking in her white dress in the evening dusk like a statue chiselled
out of snowy marble.

‘My heart ought to beat with happiness,’ she inwardly communed; ‘but it
is filled with a vague dread of something—I know not what—a fear that
has no name. Yet what have I to fear? Nothing—nothing! My secret is
still my own, and the grave tells no tales.’

Suddenly a breath of air swept up from the lake and shook the curtains.
She looked round the dim room with a shudder. The tiny tongue of flame
from the lamp only served, as it were, to make darkness visible. She
made a step forward, and then drew back. The room seemed full of
weird shadows. Was there not something in that corner? It was like a
crouching figure, all in black, waiting to spring upon her! And that
curtain—it seemed as if grasped by a hidden hand! What if some one were
hiding there!

She sank into the nearest chair and pressed her fingers to her eyes.
‘No—no—no!’ she murmured. ‘These are only my own foolish imaginings. O
Harold, Harold! why did you leave me?’

Next moment the silence was broken by the faint, far-away sound of a
horn, playing a slow, sweet air. Mora lifted her head and listened.

‘Music on the lake. How sweet it sounds. It has broken the spell that
held me. It seems like the voice of a friend calling through the
darkness. I will walk down to the edge of the water. The cool air from
the hills will do me good.’

There was a black lace scarf hanging over the arm of a couch; she took
it up and draped it over her head and round her throat and shoulders.
Her foot was on the threshold, she was in the act of stepping out into
the veranda, when she heard a voice outside speaking to some other
person. The instant she heard it she shrank back as though petrified
with horror.

‘That voice! Can the grave give up its dead?’ she whispered as though
she were asking the question of some one.

Next moment the figures of two men, one walking a little way behind
the other, became distinctly outlined against the evening sky as they
advanced up the sloping pathway from the lake. The first of the two men
was smoking, the second was carrying some articles of luggage.

The first man came to a halt nearly opposite the windows of Madame
de Vigne’s sitting-room. Turning to the second man, he said, with a
pronounced French accent: ‘Take my luggage into the hotel. I will stay
here a little while and smoke.’

The second man passed forward out of sight. The first man, still
standing on the same spot, took out another cigar, struck a match,
and proceeded to light it. For a moment by the light of the match his
features were plainly visible; next moment all was darkness again.

But Madame De Vigne, crouching behind the curtains of the dimly lighted
room, had seen enough to cause her heart to die within her.

‘The grave _has_ given up its dead! It is he!’ her blanched lips
murmured.

Some minutes later, Clarice Loraine, on going into the sitting-room,
found her sister on the floor in a dead faint.



AN EDUCATIONAL PIONEER.


It would be difficult to find a more unique or more interesting
educational body than the so-called Brothers of the Christian Schools.
Founded some two hundred years ago by the venerable John Baptist de la
Salle, on lines which the best schools of to-day have not hesitated
to adopt, the influence of this Institute has spread over all the
civilised, and even to some regions of the uncivilised world. Its
extension to Great Britain is but of recent date, and only seven
schools have as yet been inaugurated. The thoroughness and practical
value of the instruction given are mainly due to a strict adherence to
the ‘object’ lesson principle.

Hitherto, we have been accustomed to associate this with the
Kindergarten ideas of Pestalozzi and Froebel; but although their
efforts to lighten the intellectual labours of the young were mainly
instrumental in bringing ‘playwork’ to its present perfection,
recent researches have shown that the venerable Dr de la Salle in
his educational plan strongly urged that pupils should be taken to
exhibitions and so forth, where their masters could give practical
illustrations of special studies. Zoological or botanical gardens
were in this way to be visited, that the uses and benefits of certain
animals or plants might be demonstrated; and school museums, herbaria,
geological, mineralogical, and other collections were afterwards to be
formed by the pupils themselves. And not only did De la Salle institute
object-teaching, but he was also the first to introduce class methods.
Before his time, children were for the most part taught individually,
or, where this was not so, large numbers were collected in one room,
each in turn going to the teacher to have separate instruction, whilst
the others were allowed to remain idle, free to torment one another or
the little victim at the master’s table. Great care was taken by De la
Salle in examining and placing the children committed to his care in
the classes best fitted for them; and the success of his method was
so great, that the numerous schools opened by the Brothers under his
direction soon became overcrowded.

His great object was to reach the poor, and to train them to a
knowledge of a holy life and an independent livelihood. The opposition
he met with was at times very great. The ire of professional
writing-masters was first aroused; the poor had necessarily been
debarred from learning to write, because only the well-to-do could
afford the stipulated fees, and writing-masters were therefore employed
to do all the correspondence of those who could not write. So, when De
la Salle undertook to teach every child who came to him what had been
in some senses a secret art, their fury vented itself in an opposition
so overpowering that they drove the Brothers from their schools in
Paris and threw their furniture into the streets. The opposition was
only temporary, however; and as time passed, fresh schools were opened,
not only in France and her colonies, but in every European country, and
many parts of America, as well as in one or two districts of Asia and
Africa.

The Institute of the Brothers of the Christian Schools, though
nominally Roman Catholic, is truly catholic in its widest sense, for,
besides admitting children of every religious denomination, secular
learning is admirably provided for. Their greatest successes have
perhaps been achieved in the art of writing and drawing, as applied
to all technical industries and art products. One illustration of the
results of their method of teaching writing in a remote region where
the pupils are not the easiest to train, may be cited as an example.
When the treaty of commerce between France and Madagascar in 1868 was
about to be signed, Queen Ranavalona was much struck by the beautiful
caligraphy of the copy presented to her by the Chancellor of the French
Consulate, and she determined that hers should not be inferior. The
pupils in all the chief schools in the island furnished examples of
handwriting to the queen’s prime-minister, but without satisfying her
taste. At last, an officer who had seen the Brothers’ schools suggested
that one of their pupils should compete. A young boy, Marc Rabily-Kely,
sent in some beautiful specimens of different styles of writing; and
the copying of the treaty was at once intrusted to him. When the two
copies were presented side by side, a murmur of applause went round
at the sight of Queen Ranavalona’s copy, and all cried out: ‘Resy ny
vasoha’ (The whites are beaten). This is only one instance among many,
and shows how much can be done by systematic training in the art of
writing, a subject much neglected in the majority of schools.

But De la Salle did not stop short at educating the poor; he was
the first to found training colleges for masters, and the first to
institute regular boarding-schools in which everything relating to
commerce, finance, military engineering, architecture, and mathematics
was taught, and in which trades could be learned. Besides these, he
founded an institution in which agriculture was taught as a science.
At St Yon, where the first agricultural school was started, a large
garden was devoted to the culture of specimens of fodder-plants,
injurious plants, grain, plants peculiar to certain soils, fruits and
flowers. The students of to-day study all this, and in addition to
working on model farms, visit all the best farms around, are sent with
special professors to attend certain markets and sales of live-stock,
and have special field-days for practically studying botany, geology,
and entomology. The innovations introduced by De la Salle extended
to other matters than practical education. Before French boys in his
day were allowed to study their own language, they were obliged to
learn to read Latin, and thus years were sometimes spent in acquiring
a certain facility in reading a language they never understood. De la
Salle changed all this, in spite of repeated opposition, and succeeded
in making the vernacular tongue the basis of their teaching instead of
Latin. Owing to this change, the poor scholars progressed much more
rapidly than those in other schools, and the Brothers’ Institutes were
soon far ahead of all the elementary schools of their day. The way in
which they have held their position even till to-day is shown by the
results of the public examinations in Paris during the last thirty-five
years. Out of sixteen hundred and thirty-five scholarships offered
during this time, pupils of these schools have obtained thirteen
hundred and sixteen. This in itself is an enormous proportion; but
it is even greater than it appears, when we consider that seculars
had more schools, fewer pupils per teacher, and thus a better chance
to advance the individual scholar, and as a rule, a richer class of
scholars to select from. These scholarship examinations have recently
been discontinued, though not until after the Brothers’ pupils were
excluded from competition in consequence of the so-called ‘laicisation’
of schools in 1880, after which the Brothers of Paris gave up their
government schools and opened voluntary ones.

The whole educational scheme of De la Salle was admirably complete;
but perhaps the most interesting feature of the whole—now that we
are familiarised with his systems for teaching special subjects by
their spread in their original or a modified form to most European
countries—was his very simple plan for enforcing discipline. He was
always loath to believe unfavourable accounts of any pupil, and in
the first place took pains to discover whether the failings were the
result of the misdirection of those in authority or of the pupil’s
own wilfulness. When there was evidently a necessity for punishment,
the culprit was put in a quiet and fairly comfortable cell. Once shut
in alone, his notice was attracted to stands obviously intended for
flowers, to empty cages and other things which reminded the little
prisoner that there were good and beautiful enjoyments for those who
deserved them. One of the first questions the boys generally asked
was why there were nails for pictures, cages for birds, &c., and yet
neither pictures nor birds. In answer, they were told that as they
improved they would be supplied with all these good things; that if
they left off using profane or bad language, a bird would be put in the
cage; that as soon as they became industrious and worked well, their
prison vases would be adorned with flowers; that when they acknowledged
their previous wrong-doing, pleasant pictures would be hung on the
panels; that when their repentance was seen to be sincere, they would
rejoin their schoolfellows; and that in time they would be allowed to
go back to their families.

The system worked so well, and is still found to succeed so thoroughly,
that it is almost a wonder it has not become more general. It has
certainly many advantages over the plan of giving boys so many hundred
lines to write, which is a mere task, soon forgotten, and benefiting
no one. But as there are only seven schools, and those of very recent
foundation, in England, we may perhaps still have to wait before
hearing that this discipline is at all general. In the meantime, all
interested in the training of the young might derive valuable hints
from studying this and other methods initiated by the pioneer of
popular education not only in France, but in all Europe.



THE MISSING CLUE.

A TALE OF THE FENS.


CHAPTER I.—THE ARRIVAL AT THE ‘SAXONFORD ARMS.’

If any misanthropic subject of His Most Gracious Majesty King George
II. had wished to withdraw himself from the bustle of public life and
turn recluse in real good earnest, he could scarcely have chosen a
district more likely to suit his retiring taste than the country in the
vicinity of Saxonford. Scarcely aspiring to the dignity of a village,
the place so named was merely a cluster of cottages formed upon the
edge of a rough highway leading apparently to nowhere. In ancient
times this spot had been of somewhat more importance, for it was here
that a religious house of no inconsiderable size had flourished. But
those days had long passed away; and in 1745 the only remnant of the
monastery which survived the depredations committed by man and the
all-effacing hand of Time was a gray skeleton tower, a silent witness
to its departed conventual magnificence. Being erected, as was usually
the case with fen settlements, upon a rise of comparatively high land,
the remains commanded a view of an almost unbroken horizon. Standing
at some distance from the hamlet which had arisen round the monastic
ruin was a quaint dilapidated structure, known to the scattered natives
of those parts as the _Saxonford Arms_. Whatever might have been the
causes that induced the architect to build such an inn—for it was
by no means a small one—in so lonely a part, must remain a matter
of conjecture. A visitor was almost unknown at the old inn. There
it stood, weather-beaten and time-worn as the gray old tower which
overlooked it, and much more likely to tumble down, if the truth be
told.

At the time we speak of, the scene appeared unusually calm and
beautiful, for the day was drawing to an end, and it was close upon
sunset, a period which is seldom seen to so much advantage as in the
low-lying districts of the fens. The weather had been unusually hot,
and the sinking sun shed a warm glow over a tract of well-browned
country, making its rich hues seem richer still. In the glassy water of
the river, the vivid sky was reflected as in a mirror, while the tall
tops of the sedge-rushes that bordered it were scarcely stirred by a
breath of air. A rotten timber bridge, which might have been erected in
the time of Hereward, spanned the stream at a short distance from the
old inn; crossing this, the road dipped down and led the way between
patches of black peat, cultivated land, and unreclaimed watery morass,
straight towards the south.

A small party of strong sunburnt fen labourers were seated on the rough
benches in front of mine host’s ancient house of entertainment, some of
them swarthy, black-bearded men, others with light tawny hair and blue
eyes. True types of the hardy race were they; their strong, uncovered
brown arms, which had all day long been working under a baking sun,
upon a shadeless flat, telling a tale of sinewy power that came not a
jot under the renowned strength of their mighty ancestors. Mine host
himself, a ruddy-faced man of middle age, was there too, smoking a long
well-coloured pipe, and gazing in a thoughtful way across the long
stretch of fen, over which the shades of night were steadily creeping.

‘What be ye gaping at, master?’ quoth one of the brawny labourers, as
the landlord shaded his eyes with his hand and endeavoured to make out
some indistinct object.

‘What’re ye looking after, Hobb?’ asked another one in a bantering
tone. ‘Can’t ye believe your own eyes, man?’

‘Nay, Swenson, I can’t,’ returned mine host, lowering his hand and
turning to the person who addressed him. ‘I want a good pair sadly.’

‘You’re like to get ’em staring over the fen in that way, my boy!’
remarked Swenson with a hoarse laugh.

‘Lend me your eyes here, Harold,’ went on the innkeeper. ‘Take a squint
across that bank and tell me what you see.’

‘What be the good o’ askin’ me?’ returned the man. ‘I can’t tell a
barn-door from a peat-stack at fifty yards’ distance.’

‘I’ll tell ye, Dipping,’ cried a young sunburnt giant, starting up from
the bench on which he had been sitting. ‘Where is’t?’

‘You see yon tall willow?’

‘Him as sticks up there by the dike?’

‘Ay. Look out there to the left o’ it, across the fen, and tell me what
ye see.’

The fellow’s blue eyes were directed with an earnest gaze towards the
distant spot which the landlord pointed out; and then he turned sharply
round and exclaimed: ‘It be two horsemen.’

‘Are ye sure?’ asked mine host, as he bent his brows and vainly tried
to make out the far-off speck.

‘Quite sure,’ was the reply. ‘They’re coming up the road by the old
North Lode.—There; now they’re passing One Man’s Mill.’

‘I see ’em!’ exclaimed Swenson, pointing towards a solitary windmill,
the jagged sails of which formed a slight break in the long line of
misty flatness.

‘Perchance they be travellers, and will want beds for the night,’ said
mine host, roused to action by the mere possibility of such an event
occurring. ‘I will see that the place is got ready for them.’

‘Hobb Dipping is soon counting his chickens,’ remarked one of the
uncouth fenmen, laughing, as the landlord of the _Saxonford Arms_
disappeared.

‘Ay, it’s like him all over,’ rejoined Swenson, while he gathered up
some implements and prepared to go.—‘Are ye coming with me, Harold?’

‘No, my boy; I’m agoing to stop and see who yon horsemen may be. News
are scarce in these parts. If you’re off now, why, good-night to ye.’

Swenson nods, bids the man good-night, and then strides off in the
direction of the old gray tower. The major part of the loiterers go
with him; but three or four still linger, looking along the misty road,
and waiting as if in expectation of something.

A light up in one of the windows of the inn tells that Hobb Dipping
is preparing his best room for the reception of the approaching
travellers, in case it should be needed; and a savoury smell of hot
meat which issues forth through the open doorway of the hostel makes
the few hungry watchers that remain feel inclined to seek their own
supper-tables. At length mine host has finished his task, and the most
presentable apartment that the house contains is ready for instant
occupation if necessary. Honest Hobb Dipping gazes wistfully out of a
rickety diamond-paned window, and thinks that his labour must have been
in vain. The moon is rising from the shadow of a thick bank of vapour,
its dim red outline as yet but faintly seen through the misty cloud.
It is getting late; the travellers must have passed by the bridge, and
ridden along the flood-bank. ‘If they know not the way well,’ mutters
Dipping to himself, ‘they’ll lose themselves in the fen for certain. An
awkward path that be, specially binight, with a damp fog rising.’

At this moment, a clatter of horses’ hoofs breaks the silence, and
two horsemen canter over the shaky timber bridge and draw up in front
of the old inn. Mine host bustles about shouting a number of confused
directions; the one youthful domestic which the place boasts of running
helplessly to and fro and doing nothing. The foremost rider, suddenly
leaping from his horse, strides into the inn, and flings himself into a
chair, ordering a private room and supper to be made ready at once.

Honest Dipping hurries about, unused to strangers of distinction,
bringing in liquor and glasses, meat, platters and knives, besides a
quantity of other things that are not wanted, the stranger meanwhile
having taken possession of the room up-stairs which had been hurriedly
prepared for him.

Presently follows the gentleman’s servant, a short muscular fellow,
with a sullen, lowering countenance; and a short conversation takes
place between the man and his master.

‘Are the horses put up, Derrick?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And the pistols?’

‘Here they are, Sir Carnaby.’

‘Loaded, of course?’

‘Ay, sir, both of them.’

‘Right! Now, what think you of this part? Is it not quiet enough for
us? I never was in such a dead-alive wilderness before; and taking that
into consideration, I fancy it is possible to last out a few days even
in this ghastly shanty. After that, I shall ride to Lynn and take ship,
for, as I live, the country is getting too hot to hold me.’

Derrick gave vent to a sound resembling a grunt, and muttered a few
words containing seemingly some disparaging reference to the ‘king over
the water.’

‘Hush, you fool!’ exclaimed his master in a low whisper; ‘you should
know better than to speak of what does not concern you. Be wise, and
hold your tongue.’

‘Your pardon, Sir Carnaby,’ replied Derrick; ‘it shall not be spoken of
again.’

‘And mind, Derrick, in case we should be inquired after, let the rustic
boors know that I am Mr Morton, a landowner from somewhere or other.
You, Derrick, are John Jones; so mind and answer to your name. D’ye
hear?’

The attendant’s face relaxed into a sly grin as he answered: ‘I hear,
sir.’

The truth is, Mr Morton—or to call him by his proper name, Sir
Carnaby Vincent—was a young baronet of good family, and reputed to
be enormously rich. In consequence of his being mixed up in some
disturbances occasioned by the Jacobite party, he had found it
necessary, at a previous period, to avoid the cognisance of the
authorities. But a certain nobleman having interested himself in
the youthful plotter’s behalf, the affair was hushed up, and Sir
Carnaby returned to society once more. Having a relish for all kinds
of intrigue, besides being of too excitable a temperament to exist
long in a state of quiet, the madcap young fellow again entered heart
and soul into the intrigues of Prince Charles’ followers, and this
time succeeded only too well in attracting notice. A warrant was
issued for his apprehension; and Sir Carnaby once more had to seek
safety in flight, taking with him a quantity of valuable papers, and
the blessings of all his companions engaged in the perilous cause.
He was accompanied by only one person, his servant Derrick, a rough
but doggedly faithful retainer, who had followed the fortunes of his
house for nearly thirty years. Derrick himself cared not a jot for the
Jacobite party to which Sir Carnaby was so attached; his first thought
was to follow his master, and share the dangers which he might have
to encounter. Their retreat from the metropolis was safely effected,
much to the satisfaction of the baronet, who was really seriously
alarmed at this second unlucky discovery. From London they journeyed
through Cambridgeshire, Sir Carnaby’s plan being to lie quiet for a
few days in the heart of the fens, then afterwards proceeding to some
obscure seaport on the borders of the Wash, to take sail for a foreign
land, where he could best forward the fortunes both of himself and his
hapless Prince.


CHAPTER II.—THE JACOBITE.

‘Where did you place the saddle-bags, Derrick?’ asked Sir Carnaby, when
Hobb Dipping had quitted the old wainscoted apartment in which his
distinguished visitor was about to partake of supper.

Speech was a gift which nature had bestowed very sparingly upon the
attendant; moreover, he was possessed of a rough, unmelodious voice.
Pointing towards a chair in one corner, he slowly ejaculated: ‘There,
sir—underneath.’

‘Good!’ said Sir Carnaby, seating himself at the table.—‘By the way,
Derrick, I think it would be just as well to look after the innkeeper:
his glances are a trifle too curious to please me. When I have finished
my supper, you had better descend into the public room and try to
ascertain his opinion of us.’

‘Right, sir,’ replied the attendant.

‘Come from behind my chair, you varlet,’ said the baronet, motioning
him at the same time with his hand. ‘Draw up to the table and break
your fast with me; we shall gain time by so doing.’

Derrick sat down respectfully at the farther end of the board, and
gazed in a thoughtful way at a dark patch of sky which could be seen
through the diamond-shaped panes of glass in a window opposite him.

‘You seem in no hurry to refresh the inner man,’ remarked Sir Carnaby.
‘What are you thinking of, Derrick?’

‘A dream, sir.’

‘A what?’

‘A dream, sir,’ repeated Derrick—‘one I had last night.’

‘Well, as your mind appears to be somewhat uneasy,’ remarked Sir
Carnaby, with a slight smile playing over his features, ‘I should
recommend open confession as being the proper thing to relieve it.’

‘There’s little enough to tell, sir,’ said Derrick; ‘’twas only a bit
of dark sky up there that brought it back to me.’

‘Well,’ said Sir Carnaby simply.

‘It seemed to me,’ continued the attendant, ‘as if I was riding alone,
holding your horse by the bridle. The moon was up, and the sky looked
the same as it does out there. I can remember now quite plain that I
felt kind of troubled, but what about, I know just as little as you,
sir.’

‘Is that the whole story?’ asked Sir Carnaby with a laugh. ‘Well, I
can tell you, good Derrick, so far as riding alone goes, your prophecy
is likely to prove a true one, though I certainly don’t intend you to
carry off my horse with you.—See here; this is something more important
than a heavy-headed dream. You must start to-morrow for the Grange. Be
in the saddle early, and don’t spare your spurs.’

‘Am I to go alone, sir?’

‘Certainly. The journey has no object beyond the delivery of this
letter; and as inquiry is sure to be pretty rife concerning me, I shall
stay where I am and await your return.’

Derrick received the sealed envelope which was handed to him with a
gruff but respectful ‘Right, sir,’ and then relapsed into his customary
silence.

‘I shall leave it to your discretion to find out the way,’ said Sir
Carnaby. ‘Of course you will go armed?’

The attendant opened his coat without speaking and touched the hilt of
a stout hanger which he wore at his side.

Sir Carnaby smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said; ‘you are ready enough to play
at blood-letting; but that sort of thing is best avoided. Let your
movements be as quiet and speedy as possible; and when you reach your
destination, seek out Captain Hollis by means of that address. Give the
note into his hands, then make haste back. I shall have other work for
you when you return.’

‘More plots,’ thought Derrick, but he merely uttered a grunt and
pocketed the letter.

‘This room,’ continued the baronet, ‘seems to be parlour and bedchamber
in one. So far well. If there should be any occasion to consult me
again before you start, one rap at this door will be quite sufficient
to wake me. I am a light sleeper.’

‘Anything more, sir?’

‘Nothing more to-night; you have all my orders for the
present.—Good-night, Derrick.’

‘Good-night, sir.’

When the last faint clank of Derrick’s boots has ceased to ring upon
the staircase, Sir Carnaby Vincent rises and locks the door, glancing
outside first, to see that no one lurks without. This being done, he
carefully bars the shutters over the window, looks inside two cupboards
which the room contains, and then having ascertained that he is not
likely to be overlooked, draws forth the afore-mentioned saddle-bags. A
strange look of anxiety passes over the fugitive’s face as he plunges
his hand into one of them, and brings out a small, shallow, oaken box,
black with age. Its contents are apparently of no little value, for
the lid is secured by two locks, and a corresponding number of blotchy
red seals, upon which may be deciphered the impression of a crest. Sir
Carnaby turns the box over and examines its fastenings, then rises and
walks slowly round the room, as if in search of something. His manner
at this moment is most strange, and the light step with which he treads
over the old flooring does not awaken enough creaking to disturb a
mouse. Four times round the room he goes, with a curious expression on
his face which would puzzle even a skilful physiognomist to interpret,
then stooping down, he places the box on the floor and appears to
listen.



THE MUSK-RAT OF INDIA.

FROM AN ANGLO-INDIAN.


The musk-rat is from six to eight inches long, of a slatish-blue
colour, with a long movable snout, and diminutive eyes. Its skin is
very loose, and quite conceals the extremities, only allowing the feet
to be seen. This formation occasions the peculiar pattering of its
run. The tail, broad at its base, is pinkish and bare of everything
except a few hairs; ears are diminutive. Loathed and detested by all,
this creature leads a charmed life; only a few dogs will kill it, and
then there is always sneezing and a little foaming afterwards. Cats
follow but won’t touch it; it is, moreover, equally avoided by more
aristocratic rats and mice. As the animal runs along the wall of the
room, it emits a kind of self-satisfied purr, which, if alarmed, breaks
into a squeak, and immediately the scent-bottle is opened. If there is
light to see the tiny creature, you will observe it scanning with its
nose all parts of the horizon in search of what caused the alarm; the
eyes apparently being unequal to the task.

Musk-rats have a singular habit of always running along the walls of
a room, never crossing from one wall to the other; hence, as they are
not swift movers, they are easily overtaken, and a blow from a cane
instantly kills the animal. Traps are of little use in capturing these
creatures; and if one is captured, that trap is for ever useless as
regards ordinary rats and mice, which won’t approach it after being
contaminated. ‘Muskies’ are omnivorous and very voracious. During the
rains, the insect world is on the wing. If at this season you place
a night-light on the ground near the beat of a musk-rat, you will be
amused at watching its antics in trying to catch some of the buzzers
round the light, or those crawling up the wall, and will be surprised
at its agility. The captives are ruthlessly crunched, and the animal
never seems satiated; at the same time its enjoyment is evinced by
its purring. Woe betide him should another musky invade this happy
hunting-ground! War is at once proclaimed, and immediately the two are
fighting for their lives, squeaking, snapping, biting, rolling over
and over, and all the time letting off their awful scent-bottles. You,
in the comparative distance, just escape the disgusting odour; but the
insect invasion catch it full, and quickly leave the scene. And so the
fight goes on, until you happily catch both the combatants with one
blow of your cane, and the stinking turmoil ceases; and having thrown
open the doors to ventilate the room, you are glad to retire to rest.

I was awakened one night at Arrah by the squeaking and stench of two
musk-rats, which were in mortal combat near my bed. Quietly rising and
seizing my slipper, I smote the combatants a wrathful blow, to which
one succumbed, and the other escaped through the venetian. I then lay
down again, but only to hear the hateful p-r-r-r-r of ‘musky,’ who had
come to look after his dead brother. Seizing him, he carried him off
to the venetian, and there dropped him with a squeak, as I rose to my
elbow. Bringing the dead rat back and laying my slipper handy, I again
lay down. Very soon I heard the disgusting purr and saw the dead musky
being carried off; and now the slipper was true, and both muskies lay
prone.

Apropos to this, if you throw out a dead rat or mouse, he is at once
swooped upon by a kite or crow; but both these scavengers will avoid
a dead musk-rat; the kite will swoop and pass on as if he had not
noticed the odour, whilst our old friend the crow will alight at a
safe distance, and with one eye survey the dead shrew. Perhaps in that
glance a whiff from the scent-bottle reaches him, for he hops off a
yard or two, caws, and then rubs his beak once or twice on the ground.
Then he takes an observation with the other eye, caws, and flies up
into the overhanging nína tree. No one will touch the dead musk-rat;
even those faithful undertakers, the burying-beetles, avoid him.

Now, what is the scent of the musk-rat like? When I was last at home in
1875, I went into a greenhouse on a hot summer day, and found it given
up to the musk-plant. ‘Muskies! muskies!’ I exclaimed, as I fled from
the stifling, dank, and fetid atmosphere. Get up that combination—a
hot day, a dank, humid, and suffocating greenhouse given up to the
musk-plant, and you will have the full effect of only one full-blown
musky. The odour of the plant, heavy when close, is delicate when
diffused; the scent of the musk-rat, on the other hand, is heavy when
diffused, and insupportable when near. The marvellous diffusibility of
this odour is illustrated in many ways. It has long been maintained
that the musk-rat has only to pass over a closely corked bottle of
wine to destroy its contents. I have tasted sherry so destroyed, and
at the same time have placed corked bottles of water in the runs of
musk-rats without any defilement. The odour won’t permeate glass, so
the bottle of sherry must have been contaminated by a defiled cork.
Place a porous water-goblet (_sooráhí_) in the run of a musk-rat, and
defilement is secure; and if that goblet endures for a hundred years,
it will during that century affect all water which may be put into it.
These animals seem to enjoy communicating their disgusting odour to
surrounding objects. It doesn’t follow that mere contact conveys it,
for I have often handled these animals without contamination; but there
is undoubtedly—setting aside the scent-bottle as a means of defence—an
instinctive marking of objects for purposes of recognition, sheer
mischief, or for the easing of the secretion organ.

Another anomaly pertains to this animal: though so disgusting to
others, it is not so to itself; and it is one of the tidiest and most
cleanly of animals. Its nesting arrangements, too, are very peculiar;
nothing is more greedily utilised than paper, which it tears up. Some
years ago, I lived in a boarded house, and used to be nightly worried
by a pattering and purring musky dragging a newspaper towards a certain
corner. Arrived there, it disappeared down a hole and pulled the paper
after it—that is, as much as would enter the hole. If I gently removed
the paper, the inquisitive nose would appear ranging round the hole,
and shortly after, the animal itself in quest of the paper. I had the
boarding taken up, and there, in a paper nest, lay five pink and naked
muskies, all heads, with hardly any bodies, and quite blind.

I cannot find one redeeming trait in the character and conduct of
_Sorex cœrulescens_, and I must admit that he is an ill-favoured beast,
and of questionable utility.



A DAY IN EARLY SUMMER.


    A little wood, wherein with silver sound
      A brooklet whispers all the sunny day,
    And on its banks all flow’rets which abound
      In the bright circle of the charmèd May:
    Primroses, whose faint fragrance you may know
      From other blooms; and oxlips, whose sweet breath
    Is kissed by windflowers—star-like gems which blow
      Beside pale sorrel, in whose veins is death;
    Larch-trees are there, with plumes of palest green;
      And cherry, dropping leaves of scented white;
    While happy birds, amid the verdant screen,
      Warble their songs of innocent delight.
    Surely they err who say life is not blest;
    Hither may come the weary and have rest.

            J. C. H.

       *       *       *       *       *

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. 44, Vol. I, November 1, 1884" ***

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