Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 110, Vol. III, February 6, 1886
Author: Various
Language: English
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LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 110, VOL. III, FEBRUARY
6, 1886 ***



[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. 110.—VOL. III.      SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 1886.      PRICE 1½_d._]



THE ETHICS OF HOUSEKEEPING.


The cry is everywhere the same—the badness of our modern servants. But
who is really to blame—the mistresses or the maids? the masters or
the employed? The one class are educated, the other are comparatively
ignorant; and influence filters downwards—it does not permeate the
social mass from below. We cast longing looks backward to the bygone
times when servants were the humble friends of the family, ready to
serve for love and bare maintenance if bad times came, and identifying
themselves with the fortunes of their masters. But we forget that
we ourselves have changed even more than they, since the days when
mistresses overlooked the maids in closer companionship than is
warranted now by the conditions of society—when daily details were
ordered by the lady, and the execution of her orders was personally
supervised—when housekeeping was at once an art and a pleasure, a
science and a source of pride. Then young servants were trained
immediately under the eye of the mistress and by her direct influence;
as now they are trained under the head servant of their special
department. And in this change of teachers alone, if no other cause
were wanting, we could trace the source of the deterioration complained
of.

The lady who, two generations ago, taught the still-room maid the
mysteries of sirups and confections, of jams and jellies and dainty
sweetmeats—who knew the prime joints, and the signs of good meat,
tender poultry, and fresh fish, as well as the cook herself—who could
go blindfold to her linen press and pick out the best sheets from
the ordinary, and knew by place as well as by touch where the finer
huckaback towels were to be found and where the coarser—who could
check as well as instruct the housemaid at every turn—such a mistress
as this, for her own part diligent, refined, truthful, God-fearing,
was likely to give a higher tone, infuse a more faithful and dutiful
spirit into her servants, than is possible now, when the thing is
reduced to a profession like any other, and the teacher is only
technically, not morally, in advance of the pupil. It is the mistresses
who have let the reins slip from their hands, not the maids who have
taken the bit between their teeth; or, rather, the latter has been
in consequence of the former; and when we blame our servants for the
‘heartlessness’ of their service—for the ease with which they throw up
their situations, on the sole plea of want of change, or of bettering
themselves, to the infinite disturbance of things and trouble to the
household—we must remember that we ourselves first broke the golden
links, and that to expect devotion without giving affection is to
expect simply slavishness. The advantage of the present system of mere
professional and skilled technicality is to be found in the greater
comfort and regularity of the household; in the more finished precision
and perfection of the service; in the more complete systemisation of
the whole art and practice of attendance. But these gains have been
bought with a price—not only in the increased cost of housekeeping,
but in the deterioration of the moral character of servants, and in
the annihilation of the friendly and quasi-family feeling which once
existed between the mistress and her domestics.

In large cities and in the houses of the rich, the upper men-servants
are practically their own masters. They make their own stipulations as
to hours, food, allowances, liberties; and compound for the nervous
exhaustion of perpetual worry which does not include hard work, by a
scale of feeding which is more savage than civilised, in the quantity
of flesh-meat included. They can make the house pleasant or intolerable
to a guest; and in a thousand sly mysterious ways they cause the
mistress annoyances which cannot be brought home to them, and of which
they enjoy the effect produced. In the kitchen, the cook is absolute
mistress, and holds her lady as merely the superscriber of her own
_menu_ for the day, as well as the bank whence is drawn the money for
the bills—which she pays. And in the payment of those bills, as well as
in dealing with remnants—of which woe betide the mistress who should
recommend the home consumption!—the cook doubles and trebles her wages,
and feathers her own nest with the down plucked from her employers.
Can we wonder at this? We put a half-educated person into a place of
trust and temptation; we neither check nor overlook her; we trust all
to her abstract honesty and sense of justice; there is no danger of
discovery, still less of punishment; she has before her the additional
temptation of pleasing her fellow-servants with whom she lives in
hourly contact, rather than of saving the pockets of her rich employers
whom she scarcely knows and rarely sees; and then we lift up our hands
at the depravity of human nature, when we find that the tradesmen give
back a percentage on their bills, and that whole pounds of wax candles
swell the perquisite of the grease-pot handsomely. But next door, the
rich merchant is a fraudulent bankrupt; the respectable family lawyer
over the way absconds after having dealt with his clients’ securities;
master’s friend, the banker, puts up the shutters to the ruin of
thousands on thousands, while his wife has a secured jointure which
enables them to live in princely style; and the stockjobber, who dines
with us on Sundays, makes use of private information to sell to his
best friend shares which, up to their highest point to-day, he knows
will collapse like a burst balloon to-morrow. Are we not a little hard
on the kitchen, seeing what is done in the parlour?

Go from the rich to the poor among our gentry—from the gilded upper
stratum to the lower base and barren subsoil—and here again we find
that mistresses are as much to blame as the maids, whose shortcomings
they bewail and resent. In a household of this kind, the _res angusta
domi_ prevents the hiring, because rendering impossible the payment, of
good and well-trained servants; and the mistress has to be content with
young girls whom she must teach, and whose untutored services she buys
at small cost. But here, again, the modern spirit of the age spoils
what else might seem to be a return to old and wholesome conditions.
Nine times out of ten, the mistress is as incapable of teaching as the
maid is slow of learning; for we must remember that untrained girls
of this sort are generally taken from the most humble class, and that
they come into service with but little natural brightness of wit and
less educational sharpening. The mistress expects too much from them.
For the most part aching under her own burden, disliking her duties,
and envying her richer sisters, she does the least she can in the
house, and gives the heavy end of the stick to the hired help. And,
forgetful of the maxim of ‘line upon line and precept upon precept,’
and of the necessity of reiteration, patient and continual, if a dull
brain has to be impressed and a new method learned, she is impatient
and angry when orders are forgotten—ways of doing things bungled—and
chaos, disorder, and confusion are the result. Perhaps she herself is
unpunctual and inexact; but she expects from her seventeen-old little
Betty the punctuality of the sun and the regularity of the clock.
Perhaps she herself is undutiful, and shirks all that she can transfer
on to another’s hands; but she looks for devotion, self-sacrifice, the
unfailing performance of her duty, from this comparative child, and
feels entitled to sit in the seat of the judge, when these virtues
run dry and the shallow stream of conscientiousness fails. From the
nurse-girl, herself a mere child, hired to wheel the perambulator
and look after the children, she expects such patience, forbearance,
and understanding of child-nature, as she herself, mother as she is,
cannot command. If Jacky is rude and Jenny is rebellious, if Tommy is
unmanageable and Katie is defiant, she, the mother, whose temper would
be in a blaze on the moment, demands that the nursemaid shall bear all
with a calm and equable mind, and, without the power of punishing,
be able to reduce to obedience these little rebels, whom she herself
cannot always control with the help of the rod and the dark-closet to
boot. Furthermore, she lays the blame of these naughty tempers on the
girl, to excuse the children. They are always good with _her_, she says
angrily, and it must be Mary’s fault that they are so often tiresome
when _she_ has them. And when she says this, she does not remember the
old adage about the little pitchers and long ears, and never realises
the fact that by her own words she gives the children their cue, and
encourages them to be rude to one who, they know beforehand, will be
made the scapegoat for their sins. That overpowering maternal love—that
_storgë_, of which poets make so much account, and which is the primal
necessity for the preservation of the race—is at times the cause of
great injustice, especially when dealing with those unprotected young
nursemaids to whom no authority can be given, from whom all controlling
influence is expected, and who have neither moral force nor mental
enlightenment enough to control themselves, still less others. If they
stand in the attitude of accusers, the mother rejects them as traducers.

Sometimes, in small households, the master interferes like a woman, and
adds to the confusion by putting his masculine fingers into the already
over-stocked domestic pie. There are men who are simply maddening in
a house. They watch behind the window-blind and count the number of
seconds Betty gives to the baker’s boy, and how she smirks and smiles
at the handsome young greengrocer or the smart Mr Butcher. That Betty
should have any pleasure in the gallant words or flattering looks of
one or all of these, seems to them a sin, a dereliction of duty, and,
in some queer way, a wrong and a robbery done to them. For were they
to be completely candid, most masters and mistresses would say that
they expected the whole of a servant’s nature to be given to them—all
her thoughts as well as her abilities—all her interests as well as
all her time; and that to fall in love is a kind of petty treason and
a quasi-dishonest transfer of energy. Put in this crude way, this
theorem would be denied; and a dozen other reasons would be given for
the confessed dislike felt by employers for a love-sick maid. Reduced
to its elements, it would come to what we have said—impatience of the
inevitable troubler of the conditions being one of the proofs on our
side. In matters of this kind, the ‘molly-man,’ who stays at home,
peeps from behind the blind and puts his fingers into all the pies
aboard, is a harsher and less sympathetic person to deal with than is
the average mistress, to whom a girl’s love affairs carry an echo that
awakens old dreams in her own soul and gain a little compassion for the
sufferer. For, after all, Betty’s love for the baker’s young man is
very much the same kind of thing as Ada’s for the captain and Mabel’s
for the curate; and neither the cut nor the material of the gown
influences the beating of the heart which throbs beneath!

In all this, as we had occasion in a recent paper to observe, we do
not excuse the faulty side of modern servants, but we should like
to see inaugurated a better method of dealing with it. We should
like to see the mistresses go back to the old friendly feeling and
friendly intercourse with those who live under their roof, and make
their happiness, by the conscientious discharge of duty—that old
friendly feeling which made of the household one family, and brought
the servants in line with the masters by the golden cord of human
sympathy. People say that this is impossible; that the spirit of the
age prevents it; that servants themselves refuse to recognise anything
like personal interest from their employers; that the whole tone and
character of service are changed, and that it is now only a profession,
where the employed live under the roof of their employers, instead of
out of the house, as with mill-hands and the like. It may be so; but
if even so, we contend that the higher natures could influence the
lower if they would; that knowledge could direct ignorance; and that it
depends on the masters and mistresses to get good out of these changed
conditions—human nature, on the whole, seeking the light, and society,
like a broken crystal, mending its fractures with fresh material, to
the maintenance of form and beauty.



IN ALL SHADES.

BY GRANT ALLEN,

AUTHOR OF ‘BABYLON,’ ‘STRANGE STORIES,’ ETC. ETC.


CHAPTER VII.

The morning when Edward and Marian were to start on their voyage to
Trinidad, with Nora in their charge, was a beautifully clear, calm, and
sunny one. The tiny steam-tender that took them down Southampton Water,
from the landing-stage to the moorings where the big ocean-going Severn
lay at anchor, ploughed her way merrily through the blue ripplets
that hardly broke the level surface. Though it was a day of parting,
nobody was over-sad. General Ord had come down with Marian, his face
bronzed with twenty years of India, but straight and erect still like
a hop-pole, as he stood with his tall thin figure lithe and steadfast
on the little quarter-deck. Mrs Ord was there too, crying a little, of
course, as is only decorous on such occasions, yet not more so than a
parting always demands from the facile eyes of female humanity. Marian
didn’t cry much, either; she felt so safe in going with Edward, and
hoped to be back so soon again on a summer visit to her father and
mother. As for Nora, Nora was always bright as the sunshine, and
could never see anything except the bright side of things. ‘We shall
take such care of dear Marian in Trinidad, Mrs Ord!’ she said gaily.
‘You’ll see her home again on a visit in another twelvemonth, with more
roses on her cheek than she’s got now, when she’s had a taste of our
delicious West Indian mountain air.’

‘And if Trinidad suits Miss Ord—Mrs Hawthorn, I mean—dear me, how
stupid of me!’ Harry Noel put in quietly, ‘half as well as it seems
to have suited you, Miss Dupuy, we shall have no cause to complain of
Hawthorn for having taken her out there.’

‘Oh, no fear of that,’ Nora answered, smiling one of her delicious
childish smiles. ‘You don’t know how delightful Trinidad is, Mr Noel;
it’s really one of the most charming places in all Christendom.’

‘On your recommendation, then,’ Harry answered, bowing slightly and
looking at her with eyes full of meaning, ‘I shall almost be tempted
to go out some day and see for myself how really delightful are these
poetical tropics of yours.’

Nora blushed, and her eyes fell slightly. ‘You would find them very
lovely, no doubt, Mr Noel,’ she answered, more demurely and in a
half-timid fashion; ‘but I can’t recommend them, you know, with any
confidence, because I was such a very little girl when I first came
home to England. You had better not come out to Trinidad merely on the
strength of my recommendation.’

Harry bowed his head again gravely. ‘As you will,’ he said. ‘Your word
is law. And yet, perhaps some day, I shouldn’t be surprised if Hawthorn
and Mrs Hawthorn were to find me dropping in upon them unexpectedly for
a scratch dinner. After all, it’s a mere nothing nowadays to run across
the millpond, as the Yankees call it.’

They reached the _Severn_ about an hour before the time fixed for
starting, and sat on deck talking together with that curious sense of
finding nothing to say which always oppresses one on the eve of a long
parting. It seems as though no subject of conversation sufficiently
important for the magnitude of the occasion ever occurred to one: the
mere everyday trivialities of ordinary talk sound out of place at
such a serious moment. So, by way of something to do, the party soon
began to institute a series of observations upon Edward and Marian’s
fellow-passengers, as they came on board, one after another, in
successive batches on the little tender.

‘Just look at that brown young man!’ Nora cried, in a suppressed
whisper, as a tall and gentlemanly looking mulatto walked up the
gangway from the puffing tug. ‘We shall be positively overwhelmed with
coloured people, I declare! There are three Hottentot Venuses down in
the saloon already, bound for Haiti; and a San Domingo general, as
black as your hat; and a couple of walnut-coloured old gentlemen going
to Dominica. And now, here’s another regular brown man coming on board
to us. What’s his name, I wonder? Oh, there it is, painted as large
as life upon his portmanteau! “Dr Whitaker, Trinidad.” Why, my dear,
he’s actually going the whole way with us. And a doctor too! goodness
gracious. Just fancy being attended through fever by a man of that
complexion!’

‘Oh, hush, Nora!’ Marian cried, in genuine alarm. ‘He’ll overhear you,
and you’ll hurt his feelings. Besides, you oughtn’t to talk so about
other people, whether they hear you or whether they don’t.’

‘Hurt his feelings, my dear! O dear, no, not a bit of it. I know them
better than you do. My dear Marian, these people haven’t got any
feelings; they’ve been too much accustomed to be laughed at from the
time they were babies, ever to have had the chance of acquiring any.’

‘Then the more shame,’ Edward interrupted gravely, ‘to those who have
laughed them out of all self-respect and natural feeling. But I don’t
believe, for my part, there’s anybody on earth who doesn’t feel hurt at
being ridiculed.’

‘Ah, that’s so nice of you to think and talk like that, Mr Hawthorn,’
Nora answered frankly; ‘but you won’t think so, you know, I’m quite
certain, after you’ve been a month or two on shore over in Trinidad.’

‘Good-morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ the captain of the _Severn_
put in briskly, walking up to them as they lounged in a group on the
clean-scrubbed quarter-deck—‘good-morning, ladies and gentlemen. Fine
weather to start on a voyage. Are you all going with us?—Why, bless my
heart, if this isn’t General Ord! I sailed with you, sir, fifteen years
ago now or more, must be, when I was a second officer in the P. and O.
service.—You don’t remember me; no, I daresay not; I was only a second
officer then, and you sat at the captain’s table. But I remember you,
sir—I remember you. There’s more folks know Tom Fool, the proverb says,
than Tom Fool knows; and no offence meant, general, nor none be taken.
And so you’re going out with us now, are you?—going out with us now?
Well, you’ll sit at the captain’s table still, sir, no doubt, you and
your party; and as I’m the captain now, you see, why, I shall have a
better chance than I used to have of making your acquaintance.’

The captain laughed heartily as he spoke at his own small wit; but
General Ord drew himself up rather stiffly, and answered in a somewhat
severe tone: ‘No, I’m not going out with you this journey myself; but
my daughter, who has lately married, and her husband here, are just
setting out to their new home over in Trinidad.’

‘In Trinidad,’ the jolly captain echoed heartily—‘in Trinidad! Well,
well, beautiful island, beautiful, beautiful! Must mind they don’t
take too much mainsheet, or catch yellow Jack, or live in the marshes,
that’s all; otherwise, they’ll find it a delightful residence. I took
out a young sub-lieutenant, just gazetted, last voyage but two, when
they had the yellow Jack awfully bad up at cantonments. He was in a
deadly funk of the fever all the way, and always asking everybody
questions about it. The moment he landed, who does he go and meet but
an old Irish friend of the family, who was going home by the return
steamer. The Irishman rushes up to him and shakes his hand violently
and says he—“Me dear fellow,” says he, “ye’ve come in the very nick of
time. Promotion’s certain; they’re dying by thousands. Every day, wan
of ’em drops off the list; and all ye’ve got to do is to hould yer
head up, keep from drinking any brandy, and don’t be frightened; and,
be George, ye’ll rise in no time as fast as I have; and I’m going home
this morning a colonel.”’

The general shuddered slightly. ‘Not a pleasant introduction to the
country, certainly,’ he answered in his driest manner. ‘But I suppose
Trinidad’s fairly healthy at present?’

‘Healthy! Well, yes, well enough as the tropics go, general.—But don’t
you be afraid of your young people. With health and strength, they’ll
pull through decently, not a doubt of it.—Let me see—let me see; I
must secure ’em a place at my own table. We’ve got rather an odd lot
of passengers this time, mostly; a good many of ’em have got a very
decided touch o’ the tar-brush about ’em—a touch o’ the tar-brush.
There’s that woolly-headed nigger fellow over there who’s just come
aboard; he’s going to Trinidad too; he’s a doctor, he is. We mustn’t
let your people get mixed up with all that lot, of course; I’ll keep
’em a place nice and snug at my own table.’

‘Thank you,’ the general said, rather more graciously than
before.—‘This is my daughter, captain, Mrs Hawthorn. And this is my
son-in-law, Mr Edward Hawthorn, who’s going out to accept a district
judgeship over yonder in Trinidad.’

‘Ha!’ the jovial captain answered in his bluff voice, doffing his hat
sailor-fashion to Marian and Edward. ‘Going to hang up the niggers
out in Trinidad, are you, sir? Going to hang up the niggers! Well,
well, they deserve it all, every man-Jack of ’em, the lazy beggars;
they all deserve hanging. A pestering set of idle, thieving, hulking
vagabonds, as ever came around to coal a ship in harbour! I’d judge
’em, I would—I’d judge ’em.’ And the captain pantomimically expressed
the exact nature of his judicial sentiments by pressing his own stout
bull-neck, just across the windpipe, with his sturdy right hand,
till his red and sunburnt face grew even redder and redder with the
suggested suspension.

Edward smiled quietly, but answered nothing.

‘Well, sir,’ the captain went on as soon as he had recovered fully from
the temporary effects of his self-inflicted strangulation, ‘and have
you ever been in the West Indies before, or is this your first visit?’

‘I was born there,’ Edward answered. ‘I’m a Trinidad man by birth; but
I’ve lived so long in England, and went there so young, that I don’t
really recollect very much about my native country.’

‘Mr Hawthorn’s father you may know by name,’ the general said, a little
assertively. ‘He is a son of the Honourable James Hawthorn, of Agualta
Estate, Trinidad.’

The captain drew back for a moment with a curious look, and scanned
Edward closely from head to foot with a remarkably frank and maritime
scrutiny; then he whistled low to himself for a few seconds, and
seemed to be ruminating inwardly upon some very amusing and unusual
circumstance. At last he answered slowly, in a more reserved and
somewhat embarrassed tone: ‘O yes, I know Mr Hawthorn of Agualta—know
him personally; well-known man, Mr Hawthorn of Agualta. Member of the
Legislative Council of the island. Fine estate, Agualta—very fine
estate indeed, and has one of the largest outputs of rum and sugar
anywhere in the whole West Indies.’

‘I told you so,’ Harry Noel murmured parenthetically. ‘The governor
is coiny. They’re all alike, the whole breed of them. Secretiveness
large, acquisitiveness enormous, benevolence and generosity absolutely
undeveloped. When you get to Trinidad, my dear Teddy, bleed him, bleed
him!’

‘Well, well, Mrs Hawthorn,’ the captain said gallantly to Marian,
who stood by rather wondering what his sudden change of demeanour
could possibly portend, ‘you shall have a seat at my table—certainly,
certainly; you shall have a seat at my table. The general’s an old
passenger of mine on the P. and O.; and I’ve known Mr Hawthorn of
Agualta Estate ever since I first came upon the West India liners.—And
the young lady, is she going too?’ For Captain Burford, like most
others of his craft, had a quick eye for pretty faces, and he had not
been long in picking out and noticing Nora’s.

‘This is Miss Dupuy of Orange Grove,’ Marian said, drawing her young
companion a little forward. ‘Perhaps you know her father too, as you’ve
been going so long to the island.’

‘What! a daughter of Mr Theodore Dupuy of Orange Grove and Pimento
Valley,’ the captain replied briskly. ‘Mr Theodore Dupuy’s daughter!
Lord bless my soul, Mr Theodore Dupuy! O yes, don’t I just know him!
Why, Mr Dupuy’s one of the most respected and well-known gentlemen
in the whole island. Been settled at Orange Grove, the Dupuys have,
ever since the old Spanish occupation.—And so you’re taking out Mr
Theodore Dupuy’s daughter, are you, Mrs Hawthorn? Well, well! Taking
out Mr—Theodore Dupuy’s daughter. That’s a capital joke, that is.—O
yes, you must all sit at the head of my table, ladies; and I’ll do
everything that lies in my power to make you comfortable.’

Meanwhile, Edward and Harry Noel had strolled off for a minute towards
the opposite end of the deck, where the mulatto gentleman was standing
quite alone, looking down steadily into the deep-blue motionless
water. As the captain moved away, Nora Dupuy gave a little start, and
caught Marian Hawthorn’s arm excitedly and suddenly. ‘Look there!’
she cried—‘oh, look there, Marian! Do you see Mr Hawthorn? Do you
see what he’s doing? That brown man over there, with the name on the
portmanteau, has turned round and spoken to him, and Mr Hawthorn’s
actually held out his hand and is shaking hands with him!’

‘Well,’ Marian answered in some surprise, ‘I see he is. Why not?’

‘Why not? My dear, how can you ask me such a question! Why, of course,
because the man’s a regular mulatto—a coloured person.’

Marian laughed. ‘Really, dear,’ she answered, more amused than angry,
‘you mustn’t be so entirely filled up with your foolish little West
Indian prejudices. The young man’s a doctor, and no doubt a gentleman
in education and breeding, and, for my part, I can’t for the life of me
see why one shouldn’t shake hands with him as well as with any other
respectable person.’

‘Oh, but Marian, you know—a brown man!—his father and mother!—the
associations—no, really!’

Marian smiled again. ‘They’re coming this way,’ she said; ‘we shall
soon hear what they’re talking about. Perhaps he knows something about
your people, or Edward’s.’

Nora looked up quite defiant. ‘About _my_ people, Marian!’ she said
almost angrily. ‘Why, what can you be thinking of! You don’t suppose,
do you, that _my_ people are in the habit of mixing casually with
woolly-headed mulattoes?’

She had hardly uttered the harsh words, when the mulatto gentleman
walked over towards them side by side with Edward Hawthorn, and lifted
his hat courteously to Marian.

‘My wife,’ Edward said, as Marian bowed slightly in return: ‘Dr
Whitaker.’

‘I saw your husband’s name upon his boxes, Mrs Hawthorn,’ the mulatto
gentleman said with a pleasant smile, and in a soft, clear, cultivated
voice; ‘and as my father has the privilege of knowing Mr Hawthorn of
Agualta, over in Trinidad, I took the liberty of introducing myself
at once to him. I’m glad to hear that we’re to be fellow-passengers
together, and that your husband has really decided to return at last to
his native island.’

‘Thank you,’ Marian answered simply. ‘We are all looking forward much
to our life in Trinidad.’ Then, with a little mischievous twinkle in
her eye, she turned to Nora. ‘This is another of our fellow-passengers,
Dr Whitaker,’ she said demurely—‘my friend, Miss Dupuy, whom I’m taking
out under my charge—another Trinidadian: you ought to know one another.
Miss Dupuy’s father lives at an estate called Orange Grove—isn’t it,
Nora?’

The mulatto doctor lifted his hat again, and bowed with marked
politeness to the blushing white girl. For a second, their eyes met. Dr
Whitaker’s looked at the beautiful half-childish face with unmistakable
instantaneous admiration. Nora’s flashed a little angrily, and her
nostrils dilated with a proud quiver; but she said never a word; she
merely gave a chilly bow, and didn’t attempt even to offer her pretty
little gloved hand to the brown stranger.

‘I have heard of Miss Dupuy’s family by name,’ the mulatto answered,
speaking to Marian, but looking askance at the same time toward the
petulant Nora. ‘Mr Dupuy of Orange Grove is well known throughout the
island. I am glad that we are going to have so much delightful Trinidad
society on our outward passage.’

‘Thank him for nothing,’ Nora murmured aside to Harry Noel, moving away
as she spoke towards Mrs Ord at the other end of the vessel. ‘What
impertinence! Marian ought to have known better than to introduce me to
him.’

‘It’s a pity you don’t like the coloured gentleman,’ Harry Noel put in
provokingly. ‘The appreciation is unfortunately not mutual, it seems.
He appeared to me to be very much struck with you at first sight, Miss
Dupuy, to judge by his manner.’

Nora turned towards him with a sudden fierceness and haughtiness that
fairly surprised the easy-going young barrister. ‘Mr Noel,’ she said in
a tone of angry but suppressed indignation, ‘how dare you speak to me
so about that negro fellow, sir—how dare you? How dare you mention him
and me in the same breath together? How dare you presume to joke with
me on such a subject? Don’t speak to me again, pray. You don’t know
what we West Indians are, or you’d never have ventured to utter such a
speech as that to any woman with a single drop of West Indian blood in
her whole body.’

Harry bowed silently and bit his lip; then, without another word, he
moved back slowly toward the other group, and allowed Nora to join Mrs
Ord by the door of the companion-ladder.

In twenty minutes more, the first warning bell rang for those who
were going ashore, to get ready for their departure. There was the
usual hurried leave-taking on every side; there was the usual amount
of shedding of tears; there was the usual shouting and bawling, and
snorting and puffing; and there was the usual calm indifference of the
ship’s officers, moving up and down through all the tearful valedictory
groups, as through an ordinary incident of humanity, experienced
regularly every six weeks of a whole lifetime. As Marian and her mother
were taking their last farewells, Harry Noel ventured once more timidly
to approach Nora Dupuy and address a few parting words to her in a low
undertone.

‘I’m sorry I offended you unintentionally just now, Miss Dupuy,’ he
said quietly. ‘I thought the best apology I could offer at the moment
was to say nothing just then in exculpation. But I really didn’t mean
to hurt your feelings, and I hope we still part friends.’

Nora held out her small hand to him a trifle reluctantly. ‘As you have
the grace to apologise,’ she said, ‘I shall overlook it. Yes, we part
friends, Mr Noel; I have no reason to part otherwise.’

‘Then there’s no chance for me?’ Harry asked in a low tone, looking
straight into her eyes, with a searching glance.

‘No chance,’ Nora echoed, dropping her eyes suddenly, but speaking very
decidedly. ‘You must go now, Mr Noel; the second bell’s ringing.’

Harry took her hand once more, and pressed it faintly. ‘Good-bye, Miss
Dupuy,’ he said—‘good-bye—for the present. I daresay we shall meet
again before long, some day—in Trinidad.’

‘O no!’ Nora cried in a low voice, as he turned to leave her. ‘Don’t
do that, Mr Noel; don’t come out to Trinidad. I told you it’d be quite
useless.’

Harry laughed one of his most teasing laughs. ‘My father has property
in the West Indies, Miss Dupuy,’ he answered in his usual voice of
light badinage, paying her out in her own coin; ‘and I shall probably
come over some day to see how the niggers are getting on upon it—that
was all I meant. Good-bye—good-bye to you.’

But his eyes belied what he said, and Nora knew they did as she saw him
look back a last farewell from the deck of the retreating little tender.

‘Any more for the shore—any more for the shore?’ cried the big sailor
who rang the bell. ‘No more.—Then shove off, cap’n’—to the skipper of
the tug-boat.

In another minute, the great anchor was heaved, and the big screw began
to revolve slowly through the sluggish water. Next moment, the ship
moved from her moorings and was fairly under weigh. Just as she moved,
a boat with a telegraph-boy on board rowed up rapidly to her side, and
a voice from the boat shouted aloud in a sailor’s bass: ‘_Severn_,
ahoy!’

‘Ahoy!’ answered the ship’s officer.

‘Passenger aboard by the name of Hawthorn? We’ve got a telegram for
him.’

Edward rushed quickly to the ship’s side, and answered in his loudest
voice: ‘Yes. Here I am.’

‘Passenger aboard by the name of Miss Dupuy? We’ve got a telegram for
her.’

‘This is she,’ Edward answered. ‘How can we get them?’

‘Lower a bucket,’ the ship’s officer shouted to a sailor.—‘You can put
’em in that, boy, can’t you?’

The men in the boat caught the bucket, and fastened in the letters
rudely with a stone taken from the ballast at the bottom. The screw
still continued to revolve as the sailors drew up the bucket hastily.
A little water got over the side and wet the telegrams; but they were
both still perfectly legible. Edward unfolded his in wondering silence,
while Marian looked tremulously over his right shoulder. It contained
just these few short words:

‘_From_ HAWTHORN, _Trinidad_, to HAWTHORN, R.M.S. _Severn_,
_Southampton_.—For God’s sake, don’t come out. Reasons by letter.’

Marian gazed at it for a moment in speechless surprise; then she
turned, pale and white, to her husband beside her. ‘O Edward,’ she
cried, looking up at him with a face of terror, ‘what on earth can it
mean? What on earth can they wish us not to come out for?’

Edward held the telegram open before his eyes, gazing at it blankly in
inexpressible astonishment. ‘My darling,’ he said, ‘my own darling, I
haven’t the very remotest notion. I can’t imagine why on earth they
should ever wish to keep us away from them.’

At the same moment, Nora held her own telegram out to Marian with a
little laugh of surprise and amusement. Marian glanced at it and read
it hastily. It ran as follows:

‘_From_ DUPUY, _Trinidad_, to MISS DUPUY, R.M.S. _Severn_,
_Southampton_.—Don’t come out till next steamer. On no account go on
board the _Severn_.’



TWO EVENINGS WITH BISMARCK.


IN TWO PARTS.—PART II.

Another week has elapsed. The month of May has arrived in all its glory
and beauty. The magnificent trees in the park of the Diet House form a
leafy arched avenue, and amid the branches of the venerable six hundred
year old yew-tree, beneath which Mendelssohn composed the overture to
his _Midsummer Night’s Dream_, feathered songsters of every kind hold
their gay revels. The spring, that wonderful season of longing and
restless desire, is, as usual, warring successfully against the stern
duties of the members of parliament. Even the hardest workers among
them, Prince Albrecht of Prussia, Moltke, and Steinmetz, ay, even those
most persevering of deputies, Wachler and Count Rennard, can no longer
remain indoors. The outcry about the bad ventilation of the House is
only a pretext to cover their retreat with honour, and all gradually
assemble beneath the giant yew, there to listen to the gay tales and
rare bits of scandal with which Hennig and Unruh regale the assembly.
Last year, when, during the intense heat, we sat out here in the cool
_pavillon_, discussing the wine duties with the help of some bottles
of rare old Rhenish, President Simson had a large telegraphic bell
placed on the top of the kiosk, which by its sudden peal so startled
our unconscious souls, like the voice of the last trumpet, that it
completely scared away the god Bacchus from these precincts for ever.

It was therefore with intense relief that all looked forward to the
legitimate parliamentary recreation of the week, Prince Bismarck’s
Saturday evening. This time, no constables were visible. Immediately
on entering the first reception room up-stairs, we saluted his lady,
and were welcomed by Bismarck himself, who at once entered into
conversation with us, only stopping occasionally to shake hands
with some fresh arrival. The crush gradually began to lessen as the
visitors dispersed into the various rooms. We were still standing in
the anteroom, near the great sideboard; the moment seemed favourable
for ascertaining the meaning of the stuffed hare; I therefore asked
Bismarck why it was placed there.

‘Oh, have you not noticed that this hare is brunette?’

‘Brunette?’

‘Yes. Look here—he has a dark-brown head and back, whereas he ought by
rights to be yellow. I ought to place an ordinary hare beside him to
show off this natural curiosity. He was the only “brunette” hare among
the fifteen hundred we killed that day.’

Most of the guests had gone to the billiard-room. There were not so
many present on this Saturday evening; a festival in commemoration
of the foundation of the Law Union had drawn nearly all the legal
celebrities of the House to Charlottenburg.

But what interested me most was Bismarck’s own room, the door of which
stood open.

‘May one enter?’ I ask of one of the house-servants.

‘Certainly, sir,’ is the reply.

And crossing the threshold, I glance round the room. In the centre,
though somewhat nearer the two windows that lead on to the terrace,
stands Bismarck’s writing-table, a sort of long desk, provided on each
side with open pigeon-holes. The chair, without any lean, is a large
round seat of massive oak, which turns either way. On the right-hand
side are the shelves that hold the public documents. There were none
there now, but on the floor below lay several locked portfolios. The
light falls from the left, gently softened by white and crimson silk
curtains. Innumerable white gloves, and swords enough to arm a whole
division of generals, are piled up on a table facing the door through
which we entered. On the escritoire beside it, the Chancellor’s various
civil, military, and official head-coverings form quite a small
exhibition. The other half of the wall is completely filled up by a
couch of colossal dimensions, covered with blue brocade. It is almost
as broad as it is long, without back or side cushions, only at the head
a round bolster is placed, on which reposes an embroidered cushion
with this inscription: ‘In Memory of the Year 1866.’

The pictures on the walls consist of life-size engravings, portraits
of the great _Kurfürst_ Frederick the Great, Frederick-William III.,
and King William. Beside this latter hangs an engraving of Murillo’s
Madonna, looking somewhat surprised at her worldly companions.
Finally, on the wall behind the writing-table hangs a charming Swiss
cuckoo-clock; while just below the portrait of Frederick the Great,
and so placed that Bismarck can see it when he reposes on the couch,
hangs a small picture of his mother, whose memory, as is well known, he
treasures above everything else. Even taken from the simple stand-point
of man to man, it is satisfactory to find, by the various letters from
among his private papers that have of late years been made public, such
a fund of kindly feeling, such a bright and hearty nature, as one would
hardly have looked for in this daring and indomitable combatant.

‘In spite of all the hunting and raking-up of anecdotes of Bismarck’s
past life,’ said a Saxon deputy, ‘that has been going on now for some
years both by Sunday and week-day sportsmen, from the big journals
down to the tiny pamphlets, not one half of what he has really done,
said, and written, will ever be collected together; while those who
are at all honest will frankly admit that it would be impossible to
reproduce faithfully the peculiar form and fresh originality of his
sayings. Thus, I heard rather a characteristic anecdote of his meeting
with Councillor P——, from the Saxon town of M——, at the Berlin Railway
Station in Leipzig. Bismarck—it was in 1863—had been with the king in
Carlsbad, and was travelling back to Berlin, viâ Leipzig, in strict
incognito. It was noon, and there was more than an hour to wait before
the next train started. Our friend Councillor P——, who had been told
by the station-master who his travelling companion was, went into the
reserved dining saloon—Bismarck did the same—and soon the two merged
into amicable converse, while discussing their respective luncheons.
Bismarck praised the beauty of Saxony and the bravery and industry of
its people. Councillor P——, who did not belong to the blind worshippers
of Herr von Beust, asked his _vis-à-vis_ what he thought of the Saxon
government and policy. His _vis-à-vis_ continued his panegyric. P——,
determined not to be outdone, launched forth into raptures about
Prussia—not, however, including the Berliners.

“Well, you are quite right,” said Bismarck. “I daresay you have heard
the story of the Alpine host, who, after pointing out the glories of
his native land, asked a Berlin youth whether they had such mountains
as that in Berlin. ‘No,’ he replied; ‘we have not got such mountains;
but if we _had_, they would be far finer than these!’ Much the same
thing happened to me. I was living in Hanover for some time, and one
day I went, with a friend from Berlin, along the beautiful Herrenhauser
Allee. ‘Look at those magnificent trees!’ I said. ‘Where?’ was the
answer, as he looked round with contempt. ‘You mean _these_? Why,
they are not to be compared to the Linden of Berlin!’ The following
year, I walked with my friend Unter den Linden. They had their usual
summer aspect, which, as I daresay you all know, is sufficiently dreary
and melancholy. ‘Well, what say you now?’ I asked my companion. ‘Do
you still maintain that this is superior to the Herrenhauser Allee?’
‘Oh, leave me in peace with your Herrenhausers and Allees,’ he cried
testily; ‘it always makes me savage when I am shown anything better
than we have in Berlin.’ There you have a true picture of the Berliner.”

‘Bismarck then went on discussing the lower classes in Berlin,
especially the porters, and lamented that it was found almost
impossible to make them trustworthy. “You should do the same as we do,”
replied the councillor—“swear the men in before they take service.”

“Oh,” replied Bismarck, laughing, “that would not hold water with us.”

‘Meanwhile, the doors of the reserved dining-room were thrown open
to the great travelling public, who began to assemble preparatory
to the starting of the train. Among others, the well-known Leipzig
_colporteur_, Hartwig, utilised the moments to find a fresh market
for his wares. He had evidently also another motive—which he kept out
of sight—and that was to give the Prussian minister some unvarnished
truths and a piece of his mind about his political views, for of course
he knew Bismarck by sight.’

Now first I noticed the gigantic size of the bearskin that lay beneath
the billiard-table—it is almost as long as the table itself. Bismarck
shot the animal in Russia, after having watched and waited for it five
nights running.

The mighty Nimrod now joined our party, and leant up against the
billiard-table while talking. He then sat down _on_ the table, and
while keeping up a lively conversation with Hennig and the rest of us
about various points on the interior economy of the Diet, he every now
and then threw a billiard ball behind him, so that each time it hit
the two others that were on the table. After the discussion had lasted
some time, Bismarck said: ‘But come, gentlemen; I think it is time we
had some refreshment.’ So saying, he led the way, and we again passed
through the chamber with the yellow Gobelins, full of Chinese figures,
animals, and pagodas, on to the dining saloon. On our way, we passed
Deputy Kratz in deep confab with General von Steinmetz. They were still
continuing the discussion on the theory of light, with which the worthy
judge and the victor of Trautenau had entertained the House for over an
hour a few days ago.

Close beside them stood the Hessian deputy Braun, talking to
Admiral Jachmann. It is incredible what an inordinate desire this
inland resident, who has never even heard the sound of the sea, has
for occupying himself with naval matters. Perhaps these constant
discussions with landsmen, who cannot know much of nautical affairs,
are the cause of the somewhat stereotyped smile that curves the worthy
admiral’s otherwise handsome lips. This time, however, he did _not_
smile. Braun had asked him the following simple but weighty question:
‘The papers and telegraphs have just informed us of the arrival at
Kiel, from England, of the _König Wilhelm_, the largest armour-plated
ship of the North German navy. They write in such a cool, indifferent
sort of manner, as if it were quite an everyday affair for us to pay
out over three million dollars for such a vessel. Has Your Excellency
already inspected the vessel?’ ‘No; I will do so to-morrow.’ And with
this answer the deputy had to be satisfied.

As I passed on, I again came across Bismarck, this time in conversation
with Albrecht, the town recorder of Hanover, who in the previous year
had had a sharp tussle about his right to the ox with which the guild
of butchers have, from time immemorial, every year presented the
recorder. The much-vexed question, _re_ the ox, was happily not now
in dispute, Albrecht having manfully fought for and gained his cause.
But the point under discussion was evidently nearly as delicate and
intricate, for I heard Bismarck say: ‘Well, both you and I have lost
some hair—we have therefore _one_ very important point in common—and
ought to understand one another all the better.’

The table in the dining saloon was again covered with all the
cold delicacies of a true North German kitchen; and again, like
last Saturday, a small side-table had been taken possession of by
some of the deputies, among whom I noticed the gentlemanly police
superintendent Devens of Cologne; the two noble sons of the soil, Evelt
and Hosius; and the honest but somewhat moody Günther of Saxony.

Ere long, Bismarck came up and seated himself between Devens and Evelt,
chatting pleasantly with them, while enjoying the cool and fragrant
_Maitrank_.

‘How do you like my _Maitrank_?’ he asked.

‘It is perfect, Your Excellency!’

‘Yes; I rather pride myself on it. Curiously enough, during all my
student days I never found any _Waldmeister_ further south than
Heidelberg. Our South German brethren were first initiated into the
delights of the _Maitrank_ by us northerners. You from Hohenzollern,
for instance, have no _Waldmeister_, I suppose?’

‘O yes, Your Excellency,’ replied Evelt. ‘It grows splendidly with
us. But I also may lay claim to the honour of having introduced the
Swabians to its magic powers.’

‘You have to thank your sterile Alps for that,’ returned Bismarck.
‘Were they more sheltered, no _Waldmeister_ would grow there.’

A group of deputies and several waiters with plates and glasses now
separated me from the speakers. When I again rejoined the party,
Bismarck was telling them the following story of General von Strotha:
‘He was at that time living quietly at Frankfort, in command of the
allied garrison there, when one day he received a telegram from the
then Minister President, Count von Brandenburg, to come at once to
Berlin and report himself to the minister. Strotha starts for Berlin in
hot haste, and thence immediately goes to Brandenburg.

“I have sent for Your Excellency to ask you to become War Minister,”
said Brandenburg.

“Me!” exclaimed Strotha. “For heaven’s sake, Your Excellency, what made
you think of such a thing? I am not in any way fitted for the post.”

“I am afraid that can’t be helped. See; here is the order from His
Majesty the king, requiring that you shall be War Minister.”

‘Strotha reads the order, looking greatly troubled, and then says: “Of
course, if His Majesty commands, I must obey.”

“Well, then, my dear colleague,” continues Brandenburg, “you will
attend the cabinet council at ten to-day.”

“Oh, I could not possibly do that.”

“I am afraid you will have to. See; here is another order from His
Majesty, expressly desiring you to undertake the War Department in the
cabinet.”

“Then I must of course obey,” said the new War Minister, with a deep
sigh of dejection.

‘He is just about to leave, in order to prepare himself for his
presumable maiden speech, when Brandenburg stops him: “I suppose you
know, general, that you must appear in _mufti_ [plain clothes] at the
council?”

‘Strotha stood speechless with amazement. This was the finishing
stroke. “I have none!” he at last managed to stammer forth.

“Well, you will have to get yourself some by ten o’clock—such are the
king’s commands.”

“Then of course I must obey,” replied Strotha, leaving the room in a
very crestfallen manner.

‘But he faced his difficulty valiantly. Jumping into a cab, he drove
off to the Mühlendamm, where all the old Jews congregate; and at ten
o’clock precisely, a strange figure, with an enormously nigh collar
and coat sleeves hanging right over his hands, was seated at the
ministerial table—this was the new War Minister!’

Günther, who never could hide what he felt, and who generally looked
at the dark side of most things, had followed the Chancellor’s story
with undisguised amusement. The circle became every moment more gay and
lively.

‘Take care, Günther,’ cried Mosig von Ahrenberg, holding up his finger
in mock-threat; ‘I see plainly that Bismarck has completely bewitched
you. I shall feel bound to make your apostasy known to a certain paper
in Leipzig.’

Whilst this merry chaff was going on, Bismarck’s wife and her daughters
had come in and had seated themselves at the table. The conversation
now became more general; and soon after, as it was getting late, the
party broke up. With a profound bow to the ladies, and a kindly shake
of the hand from our genial host, we took our departure, well pleased
with our second social evening at the hospitable dwelling of ‘Our
Chancellor.’



A GOLDEN ARGOSY.

_A NOVELETTE._

BY FRED. M. WHITE.


CHAPTER X.

A cynical writer somewhere observes, that no man is too rich not to
be glad to get a thousand pounds; and we may therefore assume the joy
of an individual who possesses about as many pence, in prospect of
obtaining possession of that sum. It was with this kind of joy—not,
however, quite free from incredulity—that Edgar, when he met Mr Slimm
by appointment at his hotel next day, listened to that gentleman’s
renewed asseverations that there were thousands of pounds somewhere
in that bit of paper which had been such a mystery to Edgar and his
friends. Mr Slimm was this morning more enthusiastic than ever on
the subject; but Edgar only smiled in reply, and eyed his cigar with
the air of a connoisseur in the weed. The notion of his possessing
such a sum was decidedly puzzling. His coolness attracted Mr Slimm’s
admiration.

‘I’ve seen a man hanged in the middle of a comic song,’ that gentleman
observed, with an air of studious reflection; ‘and I guess he was
somewhat frigid. I once saw a man meet a long-lost brother whom he had
given up for dead, and ask him for a borrowed sovereign, by way of
salutation, and I calculate that was cool; but for pure solid stoical
calmness, you are right there and blooming.’

‘Had I expressed any perturbation, it would have been on account of
my doubting your sanity,’ Edgar replied. ‘Does it not strike you as
a little strange that a casual acquaintance should discover a puzzle
worth ten thousand pounds to me?’

‘The onexpected always happens; and blessed things happen swiftly, as
great and good things always do,’ said Slimm sententiously. ‘I haven’t
quite got the touch of them quotations, but the essence is about
consolidated, I calculate.’

‘What a fund of philosophy you have!’

‘You may say that,’ said the American with some little pride. ‘You
see, some years ago I was down to New Orleans, and I had considerable
fever—fact, I wasn’t out of the house for months. Reading ain’t much in
my line; but I had to put up with it then. There was a good library in
the house, and at first I used to pick out the plums; but that wouldn’t
do, so I took ’em in alphabetical order. It was a large assortment of
experience to me. First, I’d get Blair on the _Grave_, and read that
till I was oncertain whether I was an or’nary man or a desperate bad
one. Then I would hitch on to _British Battles_, and get the taste out
of my mouth. I reckon I stored up enough knowledge to ruin an or’nary
digestion. I read a cookery-book once, followed by a chemistry work. I
got mixed there.—But to return to our muttons, as the Mo’sieus say. I
ain’t joking about that letter, and that’s a fact.’

‘But what can you know about it?’ Edgar queried, becoming interested,
in spite of himself and his better judgment.

‘Well, you listen, and I’ll tell you.’

Edgar composed himself to listen, excited more than he cared to show
by the impressive air of his companion, and the absence of that
quaint smile which usually distinguished him; nor could the younger
man fail to notice not only the change of manner but the change of
voice. Mr Slimm was no longer a rough miner; and his accent, if not of
refinement, was that of cultivation. Carefully choosing another cigar,
and lighting it with deliberate slowness, each moment served to raise
his companion’s impatience, a consummation which the astute American
doubtless desired.

‘When I first knew your uncle,’ he said at length, ‘we were both much
younger men, and, as I have before told you, I saved his life. That was
in the mines. Well, after a time I lost sight of him, as is generally
the case with such wanderers. After he left the mines, I did not stay
long; for a kind of home-sickness came over me, and I concluded to
get away. I determined to get back and settle down; and for the first
time in my life, the notion of marriage came into my head. I had not
returned long when I met my fate. Mr Seaton, I will not weary you with
a description of my wife. If ever there was an angel upon earth—— But
no matter; still, it is always a mystery to my mind what she could see
in a rough uncouth fellow like me. Well, in course of time we married.
I had some money then; but we decided before the year was out that it
would be best to get some business for occupation for me. So, after
little Amy was born, we moved West.

‘For five years we lived there in our little paradise, and two more
children came to brighten our Western home. I was rapidly growing a
rich man, for the country was good, and the fear of Indians kept more
timorous people away. As for us, we were the best of friends; and the
old chief used to come to my framehouse and nurse little Amy for hours.
I shall never forget that sight. The dear little one, with her blue
eyes and fair curls, sitting on that stern old man’s knee, playing with
his beads, and not the least afraid; while the old fellow used to grunt
and laugh and get as near a smile as it is possible for an Indian to
do. But this was not to last. The old chief died, and a half-breed was
appointed in his place. I never liked that man. There was something so
truculent and vicious in his face, that it was impossible to like the
ruffian. Well, one day he insulted my wife; she screamed, and I ran to
her assistance. I took in the situation at a glance, and gave him there
and then about the soundest thrashing a man ever had in his life. He
went away threatening dire vengeance and looking the deadliest hate;
but next morning he came and apologised in such humble terms—for the
scoundrel spoke English as well as his own tongue—that I was fain to
forget it. Another peaceful year passed away, and then I was summoned
to New York on business. Without a single care or anxiety, I left my
precious ones behind. I had done it before, and they were not the least
afraid.

‘One night, when I had completed my business, and had prepared
everything for my start in the morning, I was strolling aimlessly along
Broadway, when I was hailed by a shout, accompanied by a hearty slap on
the back. I turned round, and there I saw Charlie Morton. Mind, I am
talking of over twenty years ago, and I think of him as the dashing,
good-natured, weak Charlie Morton I used to know.—Well, to resume. Over
a quiet smoke, he arranged to accompany me.

‘It was a glorious morning when we set out, and our hearts were light
and gladsome, and our spirits as bright as the weather. Was not I
returning to my darlings! We rode on mile after mile and day after
day, till we were within twelve hours of my house. Then we found, by
unmistakable signs, that the Indians were on the war-path. This was
uncomfortable news for us; but still I never had an uneasy thought for
the people at home.

‘When the following morning dawned, I rose with a strange presentiment
of coming evil; but I shook it off, thinking it was the excitement of
returning, for I had never been away from my wife so long before.
It was just about noon when I thought I saw a solitary figure in the
distance. It was a strange thing to meet a stray Indian there, and
judge of my surprise when I saw him making towards us! It turned out
to be a deaf and dumb Sioux I employed about the clearing, and one
of the same tribe we were so friendly with. By his excited state and
jaded appearance, he had travelled far and hurriedly. When we came up
to him, a horrible fear came over me, for then I saw he was in his
war-paint. Hurriedly, I made signs to him to know if all was well at
home. He shook his head sadly; and with that composure which always
characterises his race, proceeded to search for something in his
deerskin vest. You can imagine the eagerness with which I watched him;
and when he produced a note, with what eagerness did I snatch it out of
his hand! Hastily, I read it, and sank back in my saddle with a sense
of almost painful relief. Apparently, all was well. The missive was
half a sheet of note-paper, or, more properly, half of half a sheet of
paper, containing some twelve lines, written right across the paper,
with no signature or heading, saying how anxious she was for my return.
I handed it to Morton with a feeling of delight and thankfulness; but,
to my surprise, as he read it, he became graver and graver. At last he
burst forth: “Slimm, have you any secret cipher between yourselves?”

“No,” I replied, somewhat startled at the question. “Why?”

“Because there is something more here than meets the eye. You will not
mind my saying so; but the body of this note is almost cold, not to say
frivolous, while words, burning words, catch my eye here and there. Can
you explain it?”

“Go on!”

‘I hardly knew my own voice, it sounded so hard and strained.

“Yes,” he mused, twisting the paper in his supple fingers, “there is
more here than meets the eye. This old messenger is a Sioux; that tribe
is on the war-path, and the chief thoroughly understands English. An
ordinary appeal for help would be worse than useless, if it fell into
his hands. I perceive this paper is creased, and creased with method,
and the most touching words are always confined within certain creases.
Now, I will fold this longways, and turn the paper so; and then fold it
thus, and thus. We are coming to the enigma. Now thus.—No; this way,
and—— Merciful powers!”

‘He almost reeled from his saddle, and I leant over him with straining
eyes and read: “For God’s sake, hasten. On the war-path. White Cloud
[the chief] has declared.... Hasten to us.” I stopped to see no more.
Mechanically thrusting the paper into his saddle-bag, Morton urged me
forward; and for some hours we rode like madmen, spurring our horses
till the poor creatures almost dropped. At last, in the distance I saw
what was my home—a smoking mass of ruins. In the garden lay my three
children—dead; and not a quarter of a mile away my wife—also dead!’

The American here stopped, and threw himself on his face upon the couch
where he had been reclining, his huge frame shaking with the violence
of his emotion. Edgar watched him with an infinite pity in his eyes for
some moments, not daring to intrude upon his grief. Presently, Slimm
calmed himself, and raising his face, said: ‘Wall, my friend, I guess
them statistics are sorter calculated to blight what the poet calls
“love’s young dream.”—Pass the brandy,’ he continued, with an air of
ghastly cheerfulness.

‘Why did you tell me this?’ Edgar said, pained and shocked at the
recital and its horrible climax.

‘Well, you see I wanted to convince you of the truth of my words. I
shall never allude to my story again, and I hope you never will either;
though I dream of it at times.—Your wife’s uncle kept that paper,
and I have not the slightest doubt that the same plan has been taken
as regards his wealth. I can’t explain it to you at this moment; but
from the description you have given of his last letter, I have not the
smallest hesitation in saying that it is formed on the same lines as
the fatal note I have told you of. Charlie Morton was a good fellow,
but he had not the slightest imagination or originality.’

‘And you really think that paper contains a secret of importance?’

‘Never doubted it for a moment. Look at the whole circumstances. Fancy
your meeting me; fancy my knowing your uncle; fancy—— Bah! It’s clear as
mud.’

‘The coincidences are certainly wonderful.’

‘Well, they are a few.—And now,’ said Mr Slimm, dropping into his most
pronounced Yankee style, ‘let this Adonis truss his points, freeze onto
a clean biled rag, and don his plug-hat, and we’ll go and interview
that inter_es_tin’ epistle—yes, sir.’


CHAPTER XI.

Edgar and his transatlantic companion walked along Holborn in silence.
The former was deeply immersed in thought; and the American, in spite
of his forced gaiety, had not yet lost all trace of his late emotion.
Presently, they quitted the busy street and turned into one of the
narrow lanes leading to Queen Square. Arrived at the house, they were
admitted by the grimy diminutive maid-of-all-work, and slowly ascended
the maze of stairs leading to Edgar’s sitting-room. There were two
persons who looked up as they entered—Eleanor and Jasper Felix. Edgar
performed the ceremony of introduction, asking his companion if he had
ever heard of the great novelist. He had.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Slimm impressively, ‘I believe that name has been
mentioned in my hearing once, if not more.—Allow me to shake hands with
you, sir. I ain’t given to worshipping everybody who writes a ream of
nonsense and calls it a novel; but when I come across men like you,
I want to remember it. We don’t have many of your stamp across the
Atlantic, though Nathaniel Hawthorne runs you very close.’

‘Indeed, you are very complimentary,’ Felix replied; ‘and I take
your word as flattering. I don’t like flattery as a rule, especially
American flattery. It is rare, in a general way. I feel as if they
always want something, you know.’

‘Well, I do calculate my countrymen don’t give much away for nothing.
They like a _quid pro quo_; and if they can get the _quid_ without the
_quo_, so much the better are they pleased. But I didn’t come here to
discuss the idiosyncrasies of my countrymen.’

Mr Slimm seemed to possess the happy knack of making his conversation
suit his company. Edgar could not help contrasting him now with the
typical Yankee of the gambling-house; they hardly seemed like the same
men.

‘Have you got your uncle’s letter?’ Edgar asked his wife.

‘Why?’ she asked, without the slightest curiosity.

‘Why? I have almost come to your way of thinking,’ replied Edgar. ‘Do
you know, a wonderful thing has happened this morning. To make a long
story short, my good friend here was an old friend of your uncle’s.
The story is a very sad one; but the gist of it is that the paper your
uncle left so nearly resembles a tragic document which he and Mr Slimm
once perused together—what is termed a cipher—that he is almost sure it
is taken from the same. The coincidence is so strange, the two letters
are so remarkably alike’——

‘Is this really so, Mr Slimm?’ Eleanor asked eagerly.

‘Yes, madam,’ he said quietly. ‘Some day I will tell you the tale, but
not now, of how I came to be in receipt of that terrible document. Your
uncle was with me; and from what I know of the circumstances, they must
be the same. If you don’t mind me seeing it’——

Before he could finish his sentence, Eleanor was out of the room, and
a silence, an uneasy silence of expectancy, fell on the group. No one
spoke, and the few minutes she was away seemed like hours. Then she
reappeared, and put the paper in his hands.

He merely glanced at it for a moment; indeed, he had not time to read
it through before a smile began to ripple over his quaint-looking,
weather-beaten face. The smile gradually grew into a laugh, and then he
turned to view the anxious group with a face full of congratulation and
triumph.

‘Have you found it? Is it so?’ burst from three people simultaneously.

He was provokingly slow in his reply, and his Yankee drawl was more
painfully apparent than ever. ‘Young man,’ said he to Edgar, ‘what
might have been the nominal value of your uncle’s estate—if he had any?’

‘About thirty or forty thousand pounds.’

‘And I promised, if you would let me see this paper, I would show you
something worth ten thousand pounds. Well, you must pardon me for my
little mistake. One can’t always guard against mistakes, and this paper
is worth four times that amount.’

For a few moments every one was aghast at the value of the discovery.

Edgar was the first to recover himself. ‘You are not joking, Slimm?’ he
exclaimed hoarsely.

‘Never a bit,’ he replied with a gaiety delicately intended to cover
and arouse the emotion of the others. ‘There it is on the face of the
paper, as plainly as possible—the fateful words staring me in the face.
You could see them yourselves, if you only knew how.’

‘Wonderful!’ exclaimed Felix. ‘And that simple paper contains a secret
worth all that money?’

‘Why, certainly. Not only that, but where it is, and the exact spot
in which it is concealed. Only to think—a starving, desperate woman
dragging such a secret as that about London; and only to think of a
single moment preventing it being buried in the Thames. Wonderful,
wonderful!’

‘Perhaps you will disclose it to us,’ said Edgar, impatient at this
philosophical tirade.

‘No!’ Eleanor put in resolutely—‘no, Edgar! I do not think it would
be fair. Considering the time and trouble Mr Carver has given to the
matter, it would only be right for him to know at the same time. The
dear old gentleman has been so enthusiastic throughout, and so kind,
that I should feel disappointed if he did not hear the secret disclosed
when we are all together.’

‘How thoughtful you are, Mrs Seaton!’ remarked Felix with great
admiration. ‘Of course you are right. The old fellow will be delighted
beyond measure, and will fancy he has a hand in the matter himself.’

‘I do not see why we should wait for that,’ Edgar grumbled.

‘Impatient boy!’ said Eleanor with a charming smile. ‘Talk about
curiosity in woman, indeed!’

‘All right,’ he replied laughingly, his brow clearing at one glance
from his wife. ‘I suppose we must wait. I do not see, however, what is
to prevent us starting to see him at once. Probably, you won’t be more
than an hour putting on your bonnet, Nelly?’

‘I shall be with you in five minutes;’ and, singular to relate, she was.

‘Curiosity,’ remarked Edgar, ‘is a great stimulus, even to women.’

Arrived at Bedford Row, they found Mr Carver at his office, and
fortunately disengaged. It did not take that astute gentleman long to
perceive, from the faces of his visitors, that something very great and
very fortunate had happened.

‘Well, good people,’ he said, cheerfully rubbing his head with
considerable vigour, ‘what news? Not particularly bad, by the look of
you.’

Edgar stated the case briefly, and at the beginning of his narrative it
was plain to see that the worthy solicitor was somewhat disappointed;
but when he learned they were nearly as much in the dark as he, he
resumed his usual rubicund aspect.

‘Dear, dear! how fortunate. Wonderful, wonderful!’ he exclaimed,
hopping about excitedly. ‘Never heard such a thing in my life—never,
and thirty years in practice too. Quite a hero, Edgar.’

‘No, sir,’ Edgar put in modestly. ‘Mr Slimm is the hero. Had it not
been for him, we could never have discovered the hidden mine. Talk
about Aladdin’s lamp!’

‘And so you knew my poor client?’ broke in Mr Carver, addressing Slimm.
‘What a fine fellow he was in those days! I suppose you showed him the
secret of the cipher?’

‘Wall, no, stranger,’ replied the American, the old Adam cropping out
again strongly. ‘He guessed it by instinct, if it wasn’t something
higher’n that. I did not know it myself, though it was sent to me by
one very dear to me, to warn me of danger. You see, it might have come
into the hands of an enemy who understood English, and it was just a
desperate chance. It came a trifle late to save my peace of mind,’ he
continued naturally and bitterly, ‘and I shall never forget it. The
sight of that piece of paper in that lady’s hands,’ pointing to the
important document, ‘gave me a touch of the old feeling when I first
saw it.’

‘Poor fellow, poor fellow! Pray, don’t distress yourself upon our
account. A mere explanation’——

‘I’d almost forgotten,’ replied Mr Slimm, taking the paper from
Eleanor’s hands. ‘If you will be good enough to listen, I will explain
it.’

They drew close round the table, and he proceeded to explain.

‘The paper I hold in my hand,’ said the American, ‘is filled with
writing, commencing at the top of the paper, without anything of a
margin, and ending in the same manner. The paper, you perceive, is
ruled with dotted lines, which makes the task of deciphering the
secret all the easier. It has five dotted perpendicular lines at equal
distances; and four horizontal, not so equal in distance. These are
guide-lines. Now, I will take the letter and fold it along the centre
dotted line from top to bottom, with the writing inside—so. Then from
the second dotted line, counting from the right-hand side, I fold it
backwards, showing the writing—thus. Then I fold the fourth dotted line
from the right hand over the writing. The first part is accomplished
by turning the narrow slip of writing between the fifth line and the
left-hand side back thus; and then you see this. The rest is simple.
Fold the slip in two, keeping the writing inside; then turn the bottom
portion back and fold it across the lower dotted line, and the puzzle
is complete. Or there is yet a simpler way. In each corner of the paper
there are a few words inclosed by the dotted lines. Begin at the top at
the word “Darling,” then across the line to the words “Nelly, in.” Then
the next line, which is all inclosed at the top in the corner squares.
Read the same way at the bottom corner squares; and see the result. You
are puzzled by the folding, I see; but try the other way. Here,’ he
said, handing the paper to Nelly; ‘please read aloud what you can make
of it.’

Following his instructions, Nelly made out the words thus:

    _Darling_          _Nelly, in_
    _the garden_       _under the_
    _Niobe_            _you will_
    _find my_          _money._

The murder was out! The mystery which had puzzled every one was
explained; and after all, it was so simple! The simplicity of the
affair was its greatest safeguard. It was so simple, so particularly
devoid of intricacy, that it had baffled them all. Something
bewildering and elaborate they had expected, but nothing like this. Mr
Carver, notwithstanding his joy, looked inexpressibly foolish. Edgar
gave way to his emotion in mirth. ‘O shade of Edgar Allan Poe, what a
climax!’ he exclaimed. ‘Was it for this our worthy friend waded through
the abstruse philosophy of _The Purloined Letter_ and the intricacies
of _The Gold Bug_? Was it for this that _The Murders in the Rue Morgue_
and _The Mystery of Marie Roget_ were committed to memory?’

‘Be quiet, you young jackanapes!’ exclaimed Mr Carver testily; and
then, seeing the ludicrous side of the matter, he joined in the younger
man’s mirth with equal heartiness.

‘But why,’ said Eleanor, still serious, and dwelling upon the
mystery—‘why did not uncle fold the letter in the way he wished it to
be read?’

‘Well, madam,’ Mr Slimm explained, ‘you see in that case the letter
would have adapted itself to the folds so readily, that, had it fallen
into a stranger’s hand, he would have discovered the secret at once.
Your uncle must have remembered the letter he founded his upon, and how
easily he discovered that. By folding this paper in the ordinary way,
improper curiosity was baffled.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Eleanor mused. ‘Anyway, thank heaven, we have
solved the mystery, and we are free at last!’

‘Don’t look so serious, darling,’ Edgar said brightly. ‘It is all ours
now, to do what we like with. How happy we shall be!’

‘Ahem!’ coughed Mr Bates ominously, the only remark which, by the way,
he had made during the scene.

‘Bless me, Bates!’ ejaculated Mr Carver in his abrupt way. ‘Really, I
had quite forgotten you.—Shake hands, Bates! Let me shake hands with my
future partner.’

‘Begging your pardon, sir, I think not. You’—reproachfully—‘seem to
have forgotten the will. Mr Morton’s last testament left this property
to Miss Wakefield—this money is part of his estate.’

Mr Carver groaned and sank back in his chair. It was too true. Mr
Morton’s last will devised his estate to Miss Wakefield, and this
treasure was hers beyond the shadow of a doubt.



THE FLOATING ISLAND ON DERWENTWATER.


Mr Ward in his book on the _Geology of the English Lake District_,
while describing some of the effects that various rock formations have
on scenery, has stated that the mountains surrounding Lake Derwentwater
are not only geologically interesting, but are very beautiful. To
quote his own words. He says: ‘If we take our stand upon Friar’s Crag,
jutting out into Derwentwater, we have before us one of the fairest
views that England can give. The lake, studded with wooded islets, and
surrounded by mountains of varied form and outline. Upon the west side,
the mountains, most exquisitely grouped together, have soft outlines
and smooth and grassy slopes, sometimes meeting below to form, as in
Newlands Vale, an inverted arch of marvellous elegance and grace. These
are of Skiddaw slate, which mostly weathers away in small flakes or
pencil-like pieces, giving rise to a clayey and shaly wash at the base
of the hills. Upon the east side of the lake and at its head, the case
is otherwise; the mountains have generally rough and hummocky outlines
and steep and craggy sides; whilst their waste lies below in the shape
of rough tumbled masses, like ruins of a giant castle. These consist of
rocks belonging to the volcanic series, which are hard, massive, and
well jointed. Thus we have presented to us two independent types of
scenery, formed by very distinct classes of rock.’

Southey, in a letter to Coleridge, describing the view from his house
(Greta Hall), compared the mountains of the first type above mentioned
to the ‘tents of a camp of giants;’ whilst it is between a rift in
the rocks of the latter, or volcanic series, that the Watendlath burn
rushes down and forms the picturesque Falls of Lodore.

But, apart from the varied charms of scenery surrounding Derwentwater,
and the many historical reminiscences connected with the immediate
neighbourhood, the lake has a phenomenon of its own in the so-called
Floating Island. The visitor to Keswick may see at any time, and if
such be his desire, may row round and thoroughly inspect four islands
on the lake; but this one, through its somewhat eccentric movements,
is not so easily examined. In fact, it only exists as an island for
a few weeks’ duration, and then generally at intervals of several
years. The last time it was visible was in 1884, when it was noticed
about the middle of August; and disappeared during the first week in
October. It is doubtful whether all the causes of this occurrence are
yet known; for, on its last appearance, considerable interest was taken
in it by scientific men, and several experiments were made with a view
of ascertaining its substance, both solid and gaseous. Certain it is
that, even in these days of accurate information and universal reading,
considerable misconception must exist on the subject. For instance, an
article appeared in this _Journal_ for August 1874, in which it was
stated that ‘until it was driven ashore in a gale, a few years ago,
there used to be an island of this kind’ [the writer had previously
spoken of a floating island on a Swedish lake, which occasionally sank
below the surface and reappeared] ‘on Derwentwater, Cumberland.... When
a stick or fishing-rod was driven through it, a jet of water would
spurt up from the hole; thus indicating that some spring or current was
pressing against it from below; and this was probably the force which
kept it at the surface, and being of an intermittent character, allowed
it at times to sink to the bottom.’ This writer’s idea was, that a
waterfall, which he mentions as ‘throwing itself into the lake,’ but is
in reality at least a quarter of a mile off, caused a current, which,
according to its force, was able to buoy the island up by its pressure.
This fallacious theory is mentioned in one or two guide-books to
Keswick, one stating that, ‘the guides, the older and more intelligent
ones, will tell you of a little stream that gets lost in the ground.’
This ‘little stream’ is the Catgill Beck, which, in its passage from
the hills, forms the waterfall spoken of in the previous quotation. The
‘driven ashore in a gale’ statement is easily refuted by the fact that
the island made its appearance two years after in the same place as on
its previous emergences, namely, about a hundred and fifty yards from
the shore at the south-eastern corner of the lake.

The _Daily News_ of August 20, 1884, contained a short leading article
on the subject, in which, after describing the floating gardens of the
ancient Mexicans, the writer continues: ‘This at Derwentwater seems to
be merely an accidental accretion of material round some tree-trunk or
something of the kind, which, as in the larger island just alluded to
[an American one], has become in some way anchored to the bed of the
lake, probably at that point not very deep.’

The writers of the two articles above quoted could never have examined,
and probably had never even seen the island in question.

A frequent source of error is the notion people are liable to carry
away who have only seen it from the shore. Many see it, probably for
the first and only time, from the top of a stagecoach, on their way to
Buttermere or on some other favourite excursion. Just previously, the
driver has perhaps directed their attention, by a jerk of his whip over
his left shoulder, to Raven’s Crag. Now, there is a gap in the trees on
the other side, and a glimpse of the lake is caught. ‘Floating Island,’
laconically remarks Jehu to the box-seat occupants, and again points
his whip, but this time to the right towards the lake. ‘Where? where?’
ask the others behind. ‘There, there—don’t you see?’ and on rolls the
coach, some wondering if that little patch of green were it; others,
failing to see anything, refer to their guide-books or companions as to
what object of interest must next be looked for. _Lodore Hotel_ comes
into view, and the minds of the hurried tourists are once more engaged
in a hasty examination of the Falls. So the day wears on, and they have
seen the Floating Island. But how, and how much? Even the name itself
may cause misapprehension, although it would be difficult to give the
object a more definite appellation.

The island is not mentioned either by Hutchinson or Nicolson and Burns
in their Histories of Cumberland, published towards the end of last
century. In an interesting account, however, of _A Fortnight’s Ramble
to the Lakes_, by Jos. Budworth, F.S.A., published 1795, a short
reference is made to it. After speaking of the ‘stormy breakers’ on the
lake, caused by ‘a bottom wind,’ he goes on to say: ‘It is said Keswick
Lake often wears this appearance a day or two previous to a storm; and
when violently agitated at the bottom, an island arises, and remains
upon the surface some time.... The grass and the moss are as green as
a meadow, which soon unite and become consistent. There are very few
people in the neighbourhood who have not been upon it.’ It is probably
to Jonathan Ottley, a native of Keswick, and a very careful observer,
that we owe the first really authentic account of the island. In a
paper read before the Manchester Literary and Philosophical Society,
and published in their Transactions for the year 1819, he gives a
graphic description of it, and mentions a newspaper correspondence
having appeared in the _Carlisle Journal_ some years previous, in which
two or three different theories were propounded by various writers
as to the cause of its emergence. At the end of this Memoir, a note
from John Dalton—the author of the Atomic Theory, and a native of
Cumberland, although at this time he had resided in Manchester for
some years—explains, that ‘being at Keswick in 1815, Mr Ottley and I
procured a small quantity of the gas [from the island], which I found
to consist of equal parts of carburetted hydrogen and azotic gases,
with about six per cent. of carbonic acid.’ It will be seen from the
above that the island had not escaped the observation of men of science
very early in the present century.

From a distance, it looks like a grass plot floating on the lake. It
is never more than six inches above the water, but varies considerably
in area in different years. On its last emergence, the exposed surface
was about fifty yards by twelve; but in 1842 it was upwards of ninety
yards long by twenty broad. It generally makes its appearance in July,
August, or September, and disappears towards the end of the last month.
In 1831, however, it came to the top on the tenth of June, and remained
exposed until the twenty-fourth of September—the longest period ever
remembered. It has never been seen except in the summer or autumn
months, and then only after periods of excessive drought and warm
weather; but whether its origin is owing to the lowness of the water
in the lake, or to the high temperature, or to a combination of both
causes, is still an open question.

The bed of the lake where the island appears consists of what, were
there no lake over it, would be called a peat-moss, which extends over
several acres. When the water is calm, dark-brown patches may be seen
over the whole of this area, indicating rents or fissures. The depth
of water is very uniform here, varying from six to eight feet when the
lake is at an average height. The appearance of the island is caused
by a portion of this peat-moss rising, not bodily, as in a detached
mass, but like a huge blister. It is this peculiar manner of rising
that upsets the preconceived notions of many visitors, leading some to
suppose that the surface of the lake having become lowered, through
drought or other causes, a portion of its bed has been laid bare.
Although this peat-moss is capable of considerable distention, owing to
the elasticity of its component parts, it not unfrequently occurs that
a rupture takes place whilst rising to the surface. In such cases, two
islands are sometimes formed, but more frequently one part sinks, when
a fairly accurate idea may be formed of the thickness of the peat-moss
or substance of the island. If the second portion, or part that has
remained at the surface, on resuming its position at the bottom, does
not exactly fill the same space as before, a gap is caused, which
accounts for the apparent dark patches before mentioned.

The aquatic plants growing on the bed of this portion of the lake
are, when living, all specifically lighter than water, which may
easily be proved by detaching any of them from the bottom, when they
will be found to rise to the surface. They grow, wither, and decay,
their roots matting together amidst the finely divided turf, itself
the remains of various mosses, producing what Ottley aptly calls a
‘congeries of weeds.’ The thickness of this mass is about six feet,
and rests upon a bed of clay. After a continuance of high temperature,
the air and gas—of which there is always a considerable amount in
such substances—expand. This expansion is sufficient to reduce the
weight of the whole slightly below an equal volume of water. The water
insinuates itself between the peat-moss and the bed of clay on which
it rests, but to which it is in no way attached, owing to the roots
not being able to penetrate it. The mass slowly rises, the lighter
portion gradually dragging itself to the surface, although, as has been
previously stated, not absolutely detaching itself from the rest. After
appearing above the level of the water, the weeds make vigorous growth,
which tends to reduce temporarily the specific gravity of the whole
still more, and to give that emerald hue to the exposed part which
made Budworth describe it as being ‘as green as a meadow.’ If, through
heavy rainfall, the water-level of the lake be raised, the island rises
and falls with it. Should low temperature, however, supervene, the
mass loses its buoyancy, and slowly disappears; once more to sink into
obscurity and become part of the bed of the lake, after having, for a
butterfly existence, basked under the warm August sun as the Floating
Island.



POPULAR LEGAL FALLACIES.[1]

BY AN EXPERIENCED PRACTITIONER.

_THE RIGHTS OF THE ELDEST SON AND OTHER CHILDREN OF AN INTESTATE OWNER
OF REAL AND PERSONAL ESTATE._


Many persons believe that the eldest son of a man who has died without
leaving a will, or who in other words dies intestate, is entitled
to the whole of the property, both real and personal, left by his
deceased parent; but this is an error so far as relates to the personal
estate, and in some cases also in respect of the real estate. By the
common law, which had its origin in feudal times, the eldest son was
entitled to succeed to the property of his deceased father; and might
be called upon to perform the military and other duties which were due
and accustomed to be paid in respect of such property to the immediate
feudal superior. Hence the origin of what is often spoken of as an
iniquitous system of favouritism arbitrarily established by law. When
there were no standing armies, and the king upon the throne for the
time being had to depend upon the military services of the barons who
had received lands upon condition of performing such services, while
the barons in turn had to depend upon the persons to whom they had
granted parts of their lands upon similar conditions, it was of great
importance that there should always be a male possessor of those lands.
If he were an ‘infant’ and incapable of bearing arms, a relative was
appointed guardian of his person and estate during his minority, and
upon this guardian devolved the duties appertaining to the estate. But
in those days, tenancies for years and other smaller interests in lands
were not held as of much account, being of small value, and subject to
being forfeited or declared void on various pretences; whence arises
the apparent anomaly, that leasehold property is personal estate,
whatever may be its value, and therefore distributable among all the
children of an intestate, as will be explained more fully. A third
class of property is ‘copyhold,’ which is real estate, but in respect
of which the feudal services were of a different description. Being
useful only, and not military, these services were considered as
inferior in dignity and less honourable than the duties attached to the
possession of freehold property. The subject of tenures and services
is full of interest, but the exigences of space compel us to turn away
from the tempting theme. It was, however, necessary to refer thus
briefly to the origin of the present rules of law, in order to make
intelligible the reasons for the distinctions which still exist.

We have mentioned the common-law rule of descent of land, and must note
two exceptions to the general rule. By the custom of ‘borough English,’
which exists at Maldon in Essex, in the city of Gloucester, and other
places, the youngest instead of the eldest son inherits his father’s
freeholds in case of intestacy. And by the custom of ‘gavelkind,’
which still applies to most of the land in Kent, although some has
been disgavelled by private Acts of Parliament, the freeholds of an
intestate are divisible among all the sons of the deceased in equal
shares.

Leaving these customs aside, we propose to consider the effect of the
intestacy of an owner of freehold and other property who leaves a
family of children surviving him.

In such a case, the widow (if any) would be entitled to receive
one-third of the rents of the freeholds for her life, that being a
provision made for her by the law under the name of dower. Dower
attaches to all the freehold lands and hereditaments of which her
deceased husband was the actual owner at the time of his decease,
either in fee-simple or fee-tail; except, in the latter case, if the
entail were limited to the children of the first wife, the second wife
would not be dowable out of the estate. But this provision, mercifully
made by the law for the widow of a man who had so far neglected the
duty of a husband as to omit to provide for her by his will, may be
barred in a very peculiar manner. The right of a widow to dower will be
barred if in the conveyance to her husband, or any deed subsequently
executed by him, there should be a declaration that she is not to be
entitled to dower out of the property to which such conveyance or
other deed relates. In this way many widows have been deprived of
dower without the knowledge of their husbands. If the declaration be
contained in the conveyance, the execution thereof by the husband is
not necessary, as he takes the property subject to the contents of
such conveyance. If in any other deed, probably he signs, seals, and
delivers it without taking the trouble to read its contents, trusting
to his solicitor to see that the documents are all right. There cannot
be any possible advantage in inserting the declaration in question,
and, in our opinion, any solicitor who inserts it without express
instructions to do so—which are never given—is guilty of a grave
dereliction of duty towards his client.

Subject to the right of dower, if not barred, and to any existing
mortgages or other charges, the freehold property of an intestate
becomes the property of his eldest son immediately on the death; and
the rents are apportionable according to the ownership. The proportion
of the current rent down to the actual date of the decease of the
former owner forms part of his personal estate, as well as all arrears
of rent then remaining unpaid. When the heir first receives any
rent, he pays to his father’s executors so much as belongs to them,
and retains the remainder for his own use, although he must satisfy
prior charges thereout. Thus, if the father died in the middle of a
half-year, the year’s rents being one thousand pounds, there being a
mortgage of ten thousand pounds at four per centum per annum, and the
widow being dowable, then, upon receipt of the first half-year’s rent,
five hundred pounds, the mortgagees would claim two hundred pounds,
the executors one hundred and fifty, the widow fifty, and the heir
would have one hundred for his own benefit. The next half-year, the
mortgagees would again take two hundred pounds, the widow one hundred,
and the heir two hundred pounds. This is how the practical working of
such a case is generally managed; but strictly, the widow might have
one-third of the lands set apart for her own use during her life, in
satisfaction of her right to dower. This, however, is seldom done,
although it used to be the ordinary course.

Copyhold property is more uncertain in its incidents than freehold,
being regulated entirely by the custom of each manor of which the
property is holden. The three modes of descent mentioned above may
perhaps be considered to divide the manors in the kingdom almost
equally amongst them. There is an equal diversity in respect of
free-bench, the copyhold equivalent for dower. In a few manors, the
widow is entitled to the whole of the rents so long as she remains a
widow; in others, she has half; and in others, two-thirds; while in
the remainder, the proportion is the same as the dower payable out of
freeholds, one-third; although the duration of the allowance frequently
differs, not being usually for life, as dower, but during widowhood—in
some manors the additional obligation of chastity being imposed. The
heir, whether the eldest or the youngest son, is subjected to the same
obligations as in respect of freehold; and if the gavelkind custom
applies, each share on a further intestacy descends to the heirs of
the co-heir. In this way has been illustrated the disadvantage of
any rule of law which makes real estate divisible. We knew a small
copyhold estate consisting of a cottage and garden, which became by
successive intestacies subdivided into shares, some of which were worth
no more than two shillings per year each. Only those who have had
practical acquaintance with the management of land can appreciate the
inconvenience arising from this minute subdivision.

We have already said that leasehold property is personal estate; and it
only remains to explain the process of distributing the personal estate
of an intestate. Assuming that the deceased was a widower who left
seven grown-up children, and who was the owner of leasehold houses,
money on mortgage, shares in various railway and other joint-stock
companies, also household furniture and other movable effects—any
one or more (not exceeding three) of the children might apply for
letters of administration of the personal estate and effects of the
deceased; two sureties being required to enter into a bond for the due
administration of the personalty. The administrator, when appointed,
would have full power to sell the houses, shares, furniture, &c.,
and to call in the mortgage moneys. Out of the moneys to be produced
thereby, and any other money in the bank, in the house, or elsewhere,
and of any debts collected and got in, either by means of actions or
otherwise, the administrator would first pay the funeral expenses and
costs of administration, including sale expenses; next, all debts which
were owing by the intestate at the time of his decease; and would then
divide the clear residue among all the children of the deceased in
equal shares. If any child had died leaving lawful issue, the share
which he would have taken if living would be divided equally amongst
his issue. In either case, no distinction would be made in respect of
age or sex. The eldest son would take the share which fell to him,
within the rule of distributions, whether he had inherited any real
estate from his father or not. If the intestate left a widow, she would
be entitled to letters of administration, and to retain one-third of
the residue for her own benefit before the division of the remainder
amongst the children, &c.

Formerly, the shares of personal estate which passed to children of the
deceased were chargeable with legacy-duty at the rate of one per cent.;
but this does not apply to intestacies in respect of which letters of
administration have been granted on or since the 1st of June 1881,
and on which an increased rate of probate duty has been paid. This,
however, does not affect the succession duty in respect of real estate,
which is still payable.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] It should be understood that this series of articles deals mainly
with English as apart from Scotch law.



THE MOTHER’S VIGIL.

BY HUGH CONWAY.


    A wakeful night with stealthy tread
      O’er weary day had crept,
    As near her dying infant’s bed
      A mother watched and wept.
    She saw the dews of death o’erspread
      That brow so white and fair,
    And bowing down her aching head,
      She breathed a fervent prayer:

    ‘O Thou,’ she cried, ‘a mother’s love
      Hast known—a mother’s grief—
    Bend down from starry heights above,
      And send my heart relief.
    Sweet lips that smiled are drawn in pain,
      Yet rest his life may keep,
    And give him to my arms again:
      Oh, let my baby sleep!’

    When sickly dawn a gleam had cast
      Of light on night’s black pall,
    Through gates of heaven in mercy past
      An answer to her call.
    On sombre wings, through gloomy skies,
      Death’s angel darkly swept—
    He softly kissed those troubled eyes,
      And lo! the infant slept.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._




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