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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 63533 ***</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_289"></a>{289}</span></p>

<h1>CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL<br />
OF<br />
POPULAR<br />
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.</h1>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" >CONTENTS</h2>
</div>

<p class='center'>

<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. -->

<a href="#A_VOYAGE_IN_THE_SUNBEAM">A VOYAGE IN THE <i>SUNBEAM</i>.</a><br />
<a href="#HELENA_LADY_HARROGATE">HELENA, LADY HARROGATE.</a><br />
<a href="#WORK_IN_THE_LONDON_DOCKS">WORK IN THE LONDON DOCKS.</a><br />
<a href="#PRETTY_MRS_OGILVIE">PRETTY MRS OGILVIE.</a><br />
<a href="#BURNABYS_RIDE_IN_TURKEY">BURNABY’S RIDE IN TURKEY.</a><br />
<a href="#WEDDING_EXTRAVAGANCES">WEDDING EXTRAVAGANCES.</a><br />
<a href="#CANINE_CUNNING">CANINE CUNNING.</a><br />
<a href="#IN_MEMORIAM">IN MEMORIAM.</a><br />

<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. -->

</p>






<hr class="full" />

<div class="chapter">
<div class="figcenter" id="header" style="max-width: 37.5em;">
  <img class="w100" src="images/header.png"  alt="Chambers’s Journal of Popular Literature, Science,
and Art. Fourth Series. Conducted by William and Robert Chambers." />
</div>

<hr class="full" />
<div class="center">
<div class="header">
<p class="floatl"><span class="smcap">No. 750.</span></p>
<p class="floatr"><span class="smcap">Price</span> 1½<em>d.</em></p>
<p class="floatc">SATURDAY, MAY 11, 1878.</p>
</div></div></div>

<hr class="full" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="A_VOYAGE_IN_THE_SUNBEAM">A VOYAGE IN THE <i>SUNBEAM</i>.</h2>
</div>


<p><span class="smcap">We</span> have not for a long time perused a more
lively and interesting book than that written by
Mrs Brassey, purporting to be an account of her
voyage round the world, in the yacht named the
<i>Sunbeam</i>. The lady was accompanied by her
husband, Mr Thomas Brassey, M.P., also her
children and a few private friends. The yacht,
a handsomely fitted up and commodious vessel,
possessed three masts, and had a powerful sailing
capacity, but was provided with a screw and steam-power,
to be used as occasion required.</p>

<p>Though laying no claim to literary skill, Mrs
Brassey writes pleasingly in the form of a diary;
and she may be complimented on her untiring
energy in bearing fatigue, and the good taste with
which she describes the multiplicity of scenes and
circumstances calling for observation. Mr Brassey,
usually called Tom in the narrative, was his own
navigator, which infers no small degree of nautical
knowledge; and we are led to believe that this
was not his first expedition with the <i>Sunbeam</i>.
He was, of course, assisted by a sailing-master,
a boatswain, and engineer, besides a crew of at
least twenty able-bodied seamen; the full compliment
being made up by a steward and stewardess,
cooks, nurse, lady’s-maid, and other domestics.</p>

<p>One can fancy the pleasurable excitement in
preparing for a year’s voyage of this kind,
the arrangements to be made, the articles to be
taken; the hopes probably predominating over
the fears, the farewells on going on board. It
is the fate of few to have so splendid a chance
of making a tour of the globe, carrying from
clime to clime not a few of the comforts of home—an
elegant saloon for daily resort, a library
of seven hundred volumes for amusing reading,
nicely fitted-up cabins, baths, a first-rate cuisine
and larder, everything else to make life pass away
agreeably; letters of introduction, abundant means,
liberty to sail where and when you like. What
more could anybody desire? Such is yacht-life.
It was brought to perfection in the <i>Sunbeam</i>.
Looking to the elegant form of the vessel, and
the large quantity of sail she carried, we can
form an idea of her great speed when running
before a favourable wind. The only drawback,
it can be supposed, was the small draught of
water, about nine feet, wherefore in rough weather
there must have been a considerable tumbling
about. However, that is what will be expected
in yachting, which differs materially from performing
a voyage in large sea-going ships.</p>

<p>The <i>Sunbeam</i>, sailing from the Thames, set out
on the 1st July 1876, and steering westward by
the Isle of Wight, suffered some rough weather
in getting into the Atlantic. On the 13th there
was a cry of a ‘sail on the port-beam;’ but on
investigation it proved to be an abandoned vessel
tossed about on the ocean, with masts gone, and
the sea washing over the half-broken-up deck.
This unfortunate derelict was visited; it had been
laden with wine, of which several casks were carried
away, and then it was left to its fate; though,
had time permitted to take the hulk into port,
a considerable salvage might have been realised.
The party were beginning to settle down. At
meals there was much pleasant talk; Mrs Brassey
read and wrote a good deal, and learned Spanish;
one of the gentlemen taught the children, and the
commissariat department was satisfactory. The
land first reached was Madeira. At Funchal, the
vessel dropped anchor; and with jaunting about to
see the island, there was a stay of several days.
Many friends came on board before departure, and
‘all admired the yacht very much, particularly
the various cosy corners in the deck-house.’</p>

<p>On the 20th July, off for the Canary Islands;
and these being reached, there was an expedition
on horseback to the Peak of Teneriffe. Tremendous
as was the ascent of a mountain which
rises eleven thousand four hundred and sixty-six
feet above the level of the sea, Mrs Brassey did not
shrink from the undertaking. She, however, did
not attempt to climb the cone of five hundred and
thirty feet, composed as it is of hot ashes, into
which the feet sink at every step, while sulphurous
vapours pour from the various fissures. View
from the summit magnificent. Of the picturesque<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_290"></a>{290}</span>
scenery drawings and photographs were taken.
Teneriffe being exhausted, off went the <i>Sunbeam</i>,
still holding in a southerly direction by the Cape de
Verde Islands.</p>

<p>Rio de Janeiro, on the coast of South America,
was reached on the 18th August. A graphic
account is given of excursions in Brazil. The eye
everywhere was struck with the brilliant colours
of the humming-birds, flowers, and butterflies.
Palm, orange, lemon, and citron trees were among
the common objects of vegetation. A variation
in the general amusement consisted of a voyage
up the River Plate and a journey on the Pampas.
Splendid country, and well farmed, but under
what an infliction—the locusts. Of these terrible
creatures Mrs Brassey heard a good deal, and she
longed to see them, and her wish was gratified.
She says: ‘In the course of our ride we saw in the
distant sky what looked very much like a heavy
purple thunder-cloud, but which the experienced
pronounced to be a swarm of locusts. It seemed
impossible; but as we proceeded they met us,
first singly, and then in gradually increasing
numbers, until each step became positively painful,
owing to the smart blows we received from
them on our heads, faces, and hands.... As the
locusts passed between us and the sun they completely
obscured the light; a little later, with the
sun’s rays shining directly on their wings, they
looked like a golden cloud, such as one sometimes
sees in the transformation scene in a pantomime.’
We pass over much that is described in the
Argentine Republic, as of little or no interest in
this country.</p>

<p>The <i>Sunbeam</i> set off in its course southwards on
September 28th. While lying down to rest after
breakfast, Mrs Brassey was summoned to come on
deck to see a ship which had signalled being on
fire. A boat being despatched to discover the
condition of affairs, the vessel was found to be
the <i>Monkshaven</i>, sixty days out from Swansea,
bound for Valparaiso with a cargo of smelting-coal,
which had taken fire by the spontaneous ignition of
gases. As it was evident that the unfortunate ship
could not be saved, prompt assistance was given
in bringing the crew on board the <i>Sunbeam</i>. ‘The
poor fellows,’ says Mrs Brassey, ‘were almost wild
with joy at getting alongside another ship, after
all the hardships they had gone through, and in
their excitement they threw overboard many things
which they might as well have kept, as they had
taken the trouble to bring them. Our boat made
three trips altogether; and by half-past six we had
them all safe on board, with most of their effects,
and the ship’s chronometers, charts, and papers....
While we were at dinner the ship was blazing like
a tar-barrel.’ The last time the <i>Monkshaven</i> was
seen, she was burned down nearly to the water’s
edge. From the information given respecting the
ill-fated ship, it was learned that a large American
steamer had passed quite close to her, and disregarding
signals of distress, had steamed away
southward, leaving all on board to their fate.
The kind attention shewn by Mr Brassey comes
strongly out in contrast with such heartless conduct.
The unexpected addition of the crew of
the <i>Monkshaven</i> to those on board the <i>Sunbeam</i>
proved a trial on the commissariat, but the difficulty
was overcome. The inconvenience was
fortunately for only a few days. The <i>Ilimani</i>,
one of the Pacific Company’s mail-steamers, came
in sight on the route for England, and to this
vessel the crew of the <i>Monkshaven</i> were consigned.
Besides affording this relief, ‘the captain of the
<i>Ilimani</i> kindly gave us half a bullock, killed
this morning, a dozen live ducks and chickens,
and the latest newspapers.’</p>

<p>On the 6th October, the <i>Sunbeam</i> was off the
coast of Patagonia; the rugged mountains of Tierra
del Fuego rose on the sky, and now the yacht
shaped its course for the Straits of Magellan. To
get through these tortuous narrows is reckoned
one of the clever feats in navigation. There
are many sunken rocks to be avoided, and the
natives scattered about the coast are not to be
relied on. The scenery, which is described as
singularly picturesque, is well represented in some
beautiful illustrations.</p>

<p>The narrow channels were got through on the
12th October; the sun pierced through the clouds,
and the broad Pacific was in view. What a
triumph in navigation to have piloted ‘the yacht
through the Straits, for it would do credit, not
only to any amateur, but to a professional seaman.’
Sails were hoisted; and now begins what we deem
to be the most amusing part of the work; for
after touching at Valparaiso, the voyaging was
among the groups of islands which, dotting the
Pacific, lie basking in the profuse beauty of the
tropics. Valparaiso, the most important trading
town of Chili, left some agreeable impressions.
Several English gentlemen were solicitous that
the party should stay for a few days; and there
were excursions in the neighbourhood. An emporium
of Panama hats was visited. These hats
are a curiosity, and are worn by almost everybody
on the coast. They are made of ‘a special kind of
grass, split very fine,’ and are sold at an extraordinary
price; fifty to sixty guineas being not an
unusual price for a single hat, though some are
sold at a cheaper rate. Their recommendation
is that they are light, pliable, and so enduring
that they will almost last for ever. Very wonderful
hats, as Mrs Brassey thinks, but gravely
adds, that where ‘so many hats are lost overboard,
they would prove rather an unprofitable
investment.’ Some curious details are given respecting
the abundance of eggs, which are offered
in profusion at meals. Eggs on all occasions
are the order of the day, and poultry in superlative
abundance. Valparaiso, in short, is the
paradise of eggs. It is stated that there are good
shops, but everything is ‘frightfully dear.’ We
can at all events say that there is a considerable
import of English books and periodicals.</p>

<p>The route adopted from Valparaiso was westward
to the Society Islands, lying in nearly the
twentieth degree of south latitude. They may
be said to be at the very middle of the Pacific, and
out of the way of general navigation. It was a
charming sail, but rather slow work; and looking
to the great stretch of ocean to be traversed, there
were qualms of feeling as to how provisions and
water would last—fear that there will have to
be a dependence on potted meats; and talking
of these meats, we are assured that none at
all equal those of American preparation. Slipping
on at the rate of five miles an hour under
sail, but sometimes accelerated by a breeze, the
<i>Sunbeam</i> went onward night and day with nothing
to look at but the ocean and sky. Much time
was spent in reading, and there was some amusement<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_291"></a>{291}</span>
in noticing the paroquets, monkeys, and
other pet animals that had been domesticated on
board. On Sundays, as was customary throughout,
all hands were summoned for Divine service,
just as at home in England. The length of the
service depended on the weather. When circumstances
permitted, Mr Brassey read a sermon in
addition to the usual prayers. One likes to read
of these continued acknowledgments of Divine care
by a whole ship’s company, amidst the perils of
the deep.</p>

<p>The Society Islands were reached on the 26th
November. For the very interesting account of
these islands we must refer to what is described
by Mrs Brassey. But for the rise of coral reefs,
these islands would scarcely have an existence.
This is one of the wonders of nature. Our authoress
is at a loss to describe the beauty of the scene.
‘Submarine coral forests of every colour, studded
with sea-flowers, anemones, and echinidæ, of a
brilliancy only to be seen in dreamland; shoals
of the brightest and swiftest fish darting and
flashing in and out; shells, every one of which
was fit to hold the place of honour in a conchologist’s
collection, moving slowly along with their
living inmates: this is what we saw when we
looked down from the side of the boat into the
depths below.’ On landing at one of the islands,
the party were hospitably received by the natives.
Piles of cocoa-nuts, fish, and fowls were laid
down as presents at their feet. From the cocoa-nuts
they were refreshed by a drink of cool milk
offered for their acceptance. For these gifts there
was a proper requital. Mrs Brassey says: ‘The
women were gentle and kind, and were delighted
with some beads, looking-glasses, and knives I
gave them; in return for which they brought us
quantities of beautiful shells.’ At the island of
Tahiti there was a similar exchange of courtesies.
Papiette is described as quite a town, with a
market affording an immense choice of articles
for sale.</p>

<p>The pleasures of a tropical clime are unfortunately
apt to be marred by certain torments. During
the rainy season, water falls in solid masses
which no temporary shelter can withstand; that,
however, is nothing in comparison with the invasion
of insects. A small party which set out in an
American wagon for a drive of two days round
Tahiti, passed the night at an inn where the insect
pest was experienced in an unmistakable way.
The rooms were swarming with cockroaches ‘about
three inches long’, which climbed the walls and
were seen in every crevice. ‘Then there were the
mosquitoes, who hummed and buzzed about us,
and with whom, alas! we were doomed to have
a closer acquaintance. Our bed was fitted with
the very thickest calico mosquito curtains, impervious
to the air, but not to the venomous
little insects, who found their way through every
tiny opening in spite of all our efforts to exclude
them.... Amidst suffocating heat, in the moonlight,
were seen columns of nasty brown cockroaches
ascending the bed-posts, crawling along
the top of the curtains, dropping with a thud
on the bed, and then descending over the side
to the ground.’ Being unable to stand it any
longer, Mrs Brassey rose, emptied her slippers
of the cockroaches, seized on her garments, and
fled to the garden; whence, however, she was
driven back by torrents of rain. Such is a picture
of certain inconveniences in these tropical islands.
Prodigious beauty of vegetation, flowers magnificent,
all seemingly a kind of paradise—but the
plague of insects.</p>

<p>Making a run northwards, the <i>Sunbeam</i> reached
Hawaii, one of the Sandwich Islands, on the
22d December. Here was the same profusion
and beauty of flowers. The women and girls
are described as being gaily decorated with
wreaths and garlands, and wearing a dress of a
very simple yet not inelegant fashion, consisting
of ‘a coloured long-sleeved loose gown reaching to
the feet’—no tying at the waist, all flowing and
free, with no restraint in walking or sitting
down. Our space does not permit us to follow
the movements of the party in their excursions
through interesting scenery. Hawaii, like
all the other islands in the group, is of volcanic
origin. Kilauea, which is still raging, is reckoned
to be the largest volcano in the world, for its
crater is nine miles in circumference. This extraordinary
volcano, situated at the top of a
mountain six thousand feet above the level of
the sea, was visited by Mrs Brassey, although the
journey to it is fatiguing, and the approach to it
is attended with some peril. There happens to
be a comfortable inn near the brink of the crater,
at which travellers are accommodated and are
furnished with guides to conduct them with
safety to points of interest.</p>

<p>According to Mrs Brassey’s account, the scene
was horribly grand. ‘We were standing on the
extreme edge of a precipice, overhanging a lake
of molten fire, a hundred feet below us, and nearly
a mile across. Dashing against the cliffs on the
opposite side, with a noise like the roar of a
stormy ocean, waves of blood-red, fiery, liquid
lava hurled their billows upon an iron-bound headland,
and then rushed up the face of the cliffs
to toss their gory spray high in the air. The
restless heaving lake boiled and bubbled, never
remaining the same for two minutes together....
There was an island on one side of the lake, which
the fiery waves seemed to attack unceasingly with
relentless fury, as if bent on hurling it from its
base. On the other side was a large cavern, into
which the burning mass rushed with a loud roar,
breaking down in its impetuous headlong career
the gigantic stalactites that overhung the mouth
of the cave, and flinging up the liquid material
for the formation of new ones. It was all terribly
grand, magnificently sublime; but no words could
adequately describe such a scene.’</p>

<p>Perhaps the specimens now presented will
incline readers to undertake a thorough perusal
of this unique and interesting work, which (published
by Longman) we doubt not will be found
at all the libraries. The route homewards of the
<i>Sunbeam</i> from Hawaii was by way of Japan, the
China Sea, the Straits of Malacca, Ceylon, the
Bay of Bengal, the Red Sea, the Suez Canal, and
the Mediterranean, about all which there are many
amusing details. As regards the traffic on the
Suez Canal, the gratifying fact is mentioned, that
on the day the <i>Sunbeam</i> entered the Canal, the
sum of six thousand pounds was taken as dues
at the Suez office alone. The climate of the
Mediterranean, which we are in the habit of extolling
as beneficial to invalids from northern
countries, suited badly, as we are told, with the
delicate constitution of the pet animals brought<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_292"></a>{292}</span>
from the South Pacific and other warm regions.
Although tended with great care, several pined
and died, from the effects of acute bronchitis or
other ailments, after passing Malta. All these
victims to a change of climate ‘were placed together
in a neat little box, and committed to the
deep at sunset, a few tears being shed over the
departed pets, especially by the children.’</p>

<p>Mrs Brassey with her family and friends reached
home—a palatial mansion on the south coast of
England, near Hastings—on the morning of the
27th May 1877. In the whole voyage round the
world, no hitch nor any misadventure had occurred.
We can imagine that the expedition will
have left an agreeable topic of conversation for
life, and that its surprising success will inspire
others equally qualified to follow the brilliant
example offered by ‘A Voyage in the <i>Sunbeam</i>.’</p>


<hr class="chap" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="HELENA_LADY_HARROGATE">HELENA, LADY HARROGATE.</h2>
</div>


<h3>CHAPTER XXV.—AT THE PHEASANTRY.</h3>

<p>‘<span class="smcap">I have</span> letters to write—one to the Lord-lieutenant
in particular, on county business,’ said the
Earl, smiling, and addressing himself to Captain
Denzil; ‘otherwise I daresay that I too should
have been able to find something worth the showing
you out of doors. As it is, you young people
must go without me.’</p>

<p>Jasper, who had a lazy man’s horror of improved
implements, Dutch dairies, new patent draining-tiles,
and cattle-food, and who knew the Earl’s
passion for farming, felt inwardly grateful to the
Lord-lieutenant for detaining his noble host
within doors. The Countess had not the slightest
intention of accompanying her guests in their visit
to the pheasantry. Except in a carriage, or in dry
weather among the well-rolled paths of the rose-garden,
Lady Wolverhampton scarcely ever left
the house. Her age, though she looked younger,
was within a year or two of that of her lord, and
he was by far the stronger of the two. Indeed it
was mainly due to her declining health and growing
incapacity for exertion that the High Tor
family had for this year foregone what most
persons of their rank regard less as a pleasure
than as a duty, the passing of at least a portion
of the season in London.</p>

<p>The party from Carbery Chase had been very
cordially received. People can afford yet to cultivate
the old-fashioned quality of cordiality in rural
retirement, where it answers to detect hidden
merits and to see in the best light the things and
persons in the midst of which and whom our lives
have to be passed.</p>

<p>‘I am glad,’ said the Countess, ‘that Captain
Denzil was able to come over with you to-day,
my dears.’</p>

<p>With Sir Sykes’s two daughters the mistress of
High Tor was on sufficiently familiar terms; but
their brother’s character was not quite so much
esteemed by the De Vere family as were theirs.
Still, in the country, a young man and an elder
son is <i>per se</i> a being of some importance, and to
Jasper, with his arm yet in the black silken sling,
there attached somewhat of romance, on account of
his late accident and the adventurous way in
which he had incurred it. He had not been
expected, and his presence at High Tor was taken
as a compliment.</p>

<p>Scarcely had the Ladies Maud and Gladys De
Vere had time to don the pretty hats that so well
set off the comeliness of the one and the bright
beauty of the other, before their brother came
into the room. Lord Harrogate had a riding-whip
in his hand, and a long ride over the purple
moorlands in prospect; but he was easily induced
to defer it, and to make one of the party, that
presently sauntered across the park towards a
sunny sandy nook, screened from cold north winds
by a friendly belt of fir and pine, where the new
pheasantry had been established.</p>

<p>Near to the place where a footpath led to a
sequestered dell, the new governess Miss Gray and
her pupil met the group of advancing sight-seers.
Ethel would have passed on with a quiet graceful
bow of recognition; but Lady Alice had no notion
of being thus shelved.</p>

<p>‘You are going to look at the pheasants,’ she
said; ‘and we have just seen them. They seem
rather frightened, but so very pretty!’</p>

<p>The words which young Lady Alice had employed
when speaking of the exotic birds would
have been singularly appropriate to Ethel Gray.
The new governess looked timid and something
more than pretty during the general hand-shaking
and interchange of civil conventional phrases
which now ensued. Jasper, whose acquaintance
with Ethel was of the slightest, had contented
himself with lifting his hat; but he had stared
at her beautiful face with as cool a steadiness
of gaze as though she had been a picture or a
statue. Why Lord Harrogate should have resented
this, it would have been no easy matter for his
lordship to explain; but there was scorn, and anger
too, in the glance which he shot at unconscious
Jasper; while it was not without some embarrassment
that he addressed a word or two of polite
commonplace to Miss Gray. Then the governess
and her pupil pursued their way to the house,
and the rest of the party strolled on towards the
pheasantry.</p>

<p>‘How handsome she is!’ exclaimed honest Lucy
Denzil, looking back after the angular form of
Lady Alice, and the graceful figure that contrasted
so strongly with the bony awkwardness of the
school-girl; and Lady Maud echoed the praise, and
Lady Gladys smiled approval. The Earl’s second
daughter was, as has been said, very lovely, and
her golden hair and blue eyes had produced the
usual effect of fascinating for the time being
Jasper’s fickle fancy. It is quite possible to be
very hard and at the same time very weak where
women are concerned; and Captain Denzil, wary
man of the world as he boasted himself to be,
and selfish as he certainly was, could not at the
moment resist the spell of the enchantress.</p>

<p>‘Cripple as I am,’ said Jasper, glancing at his
injured arm, ‘you see that I could not resist the
temptation to come when you asked me.’</p>

<p>‘They are not my pheasants; they are Maud’s,
you know,’ returned Lady Gladys, as though wilfully
misunderstanding him.</p>

<p>‘Fortunate birds!—that is if you condescend to
take an interest in them,’ said the captain, nonchalant
as ever, but contriving to throw into his
tone and look a something of suppressed tenderness,
that was not perhaps wholly feigned. Ruth
Willis saw the look, although she was not near
enough to overhear the words, and her eyes
flashed and her white teeth closed sharply, almost<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_293"></a>{293}</span>
savagely, on her pouting lip. She felt the mortification
which an angler might feel did he see the
half-hooked salmon, the silvery patriarch of the
pool, desert his bait, and leap provokingly at the
artificial fly of some rival disciple of Piscator.
She could not forget how, an hour or two ago,
the heir of Carbery had deigned to devote to her
service those very tricks of manner—in her anger
she mentally called them so—which now before
her very eyes he was practising for the benefit
of another. She did not care for him; but he
piqued her, by the very effrontery of his fickleness,
into attaching to him a value which in calmer
moments she would never have set on one so
intrinsically base as Jasper Denzil.</p>

<p>In spite of world-old experience and sage aphorisms,
each sex remains to some extent a standing
problem to the other. So Ruth Willis, nettled,
baffled, wrathful, still did not fathom the depths
of Jasper’s worthless nature one half so clearly as
she would have done had her keen powers of
observation been exercised at the expense of a
woman. She even felt angry with Lady Gladys,
though most unreasonably, for the proud beauty
wore her most glacial armour of chilling haughtiness
when she perceived that Jasper was disposed
to pay her what is popularly known as ‘marked
attentions.’</p>

<p>The innocent pheasants, the ostensible end and
object of this expedition, were duly inspected,
and lavishly fed with the millet and barley, the
chopped eggs and crushed maize, which young
pheasants love. They were fair enough to look
upon, these shy pretty captives, still timorous and
bewildered by their close confinement in the darksome
baskets wherein they had been crammed by
the irreverent poultry-merchant who had consigned
them to High Tor; and not yet quite at home in
their new abode, which had been so freshly decorated
for their reception that the paint on the
wood and the lacquer on the wires were barely
dry. Golden pheasants there were, and white or
silver pheasants, and pencilled pheasants, worthy
descendants of a feathered ancestry that had pecked
and strutted in the gardens of coral-buttoned
mandarins, in far-off China.</p>

<p>The curious thing was, that except by their
mistress Lady Maud and the elder of the two
Denzil girls, who was a kindred spirit, the pheasants
were scarcely looked at with regardful eyes.
Is it not always so? At launch or military
review or polo-match, or when a princely trowel
of pure gold condescendingly applies a dab of
sublime mortar to a glorified foundation-stone of
some new building, how very, very few of the
nominal spectators concentrate their thoughts and
their vision on the show, which the reporters
will presently describe with such graphic power!
Private affairs, hopes, fears, interests, are all of
them petty magnets sufficient to neutralise the
great avowed attraction of the hour.</p>

<p>There was Ruth Willis, her whole attention
stealthily concentrating itself upon Captain Denzil
at the side of the Earl’s second daughter; there
was Jasper, vainly trying to thaw the ice of
Lady Gladys’ disdain; and Lord Harrogate, whose
thoughts seemed at times to wander away from
the present scene and company. Add to these
Blanche Denzil, sorrowfully conscious that Lord
Harrogate himself, in whose eyes she would have
given much to find favour, was thinking of anything
rather than of her preference for him, and
it will be seen that the real amateurs of fancy
pheasants were but in a narrow minority.</p>

<p>A good girl who loves a man worthy of her
esteem, yet who is constrained by maiden modesty
and the rules of good-breeding to hide away the
sentiment as though it were a sin, deserves more
pity than often falls to her lot. It is never Leap-year
for her. She cannot be the first to speak.
And if there be one point upon which men are
exceptionally blind, it is to the perception that
their merits may be highly appreciated by some
young lady to whom they never give a thought
when absent from her. Poor Blanche had trouble
enough now and then to keep down the rising
tears that welled up to her eyes as she noted
twenty signs of the painful fact that Lord Harrogate
regarded her with that amicable indifference
which cannot readily ripen, as dislike sometimes
can, into love. But Blanche was too gentle to
grow bitter over a disappointment, as did Ruth
Willis, although for her too the pleasure of the
day was damped and dulled.</p>

<p>The visitors from Carbery would not, on getting
back to the broad gravelled drive where the
basket-carriage awaited them, re-enter the house.
They had taken leave of the Earl and Countess,
and declined all hospitable proffers of luncheon
beforehand. There was some kissing among the
girls and a good deal of hand-shaking, and then
the ‘double basket’ again received its living load,
and ‘good-bye’ was said, and off dashed the mettled
Exmoor ponies under Lucy Denzil’s guidance.</p>

<p>Two of the party from the Chase carried back
with them to Carbery hearts that were heavier
than when they had first set out for the projected
visit to the pheasantry at High Tor. Sir Sykes’s
ward, so talkative two hours ago, had become
sullenly mute. Ruth Willis was smarting under
her defeat, for she had measured herself with Lady
Gladys, and could not but acknowledge to herself
that her own elfish piquancy was quite thrown
into the shade by the superior charms of the
Earl’s daughter. Blanche was sad and thoughtful.
Jasper, twisting his well-waxed moustache, seemed
unaware, in the preoccupation of his own mind,
that Ruth was resentful and Blanche melancholy,
while Miss Denzil frankly wondered why conversation
languished as it did. Excellent Lucy had
had no by-play to distract her attention from the
object of the expedition; she had seen the birds
and chatted with her friend, and was mildly gratified
with her outing. Nevertheless it was but a
silent party that the Exmoor ponies whisked back
along the well-kept road that led to Carbery
Chase.</p>


<h3>CHAPTER XXVI.—THE NEW BROOM.</h3>

<p>‘Clever enough, and too clever! It’s your look-out,
sir, of course, and not mine; but I can’t
help thinking that to give my friend Mr Wilkins
an estate to manage is uncommonly like turning
a fox into a poultry-yard to take care of the
chickens.’</p>

<p>Such was Jasper Denzil’s remonstrance with
his father, on hearing the baronet’s announcement
of his intention to transfer the reins of local
government to the willing hands of the City
solicitor, <i>vice</i> Pounce and Pontifex superseded.
Privately, Sir Sykes was of much the same<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_294"></a>{294}</span>
opinion as his son; but as he was merely seeking
to put a good face on what he felt to be really
a surrender to a demand imperiously urged, he
shook his head, saying: ‘You are prejudiced
against this person, Jasper, and perhaps not unnaturally
so. His manners, I admit, are not prepossessing,
and his moral code has probably been
shaped in a rough school of ethics; but I consider
him to be one of those men whom it is pleasanter
to have for a friend than for an enemy.’</p>

<p>Jasper’s expressive upper lip wore a curl of
disgust. It was to him very disagreeable that
Mr Wilkins, who had got the better of him, as
he resentfully felt, in many an encounter of wits,
should be often at Carbery, and right-hand man
to its owner. He resolved on one more attempt
to dislodge the intruder.</p>

<p>‘I would not, were I you, sir,’ said he, ‘either
trust Wilkins a yard farther than I could see him,
or be guided by his advice as to the management
of the estate. You yourself heard the fellow say,
at luncheon to-day, that he should not know
turnips when he saw them unless there were
boiled mutton in the middle of them. Wilkins
only meant to raise a laugh when he hashed up
that old joke against the Cockney sportsmen who
ride to hounds, but he was nearer the truth than
he was aware of.’</p>

<p>‘Ah, well,’ returned the baronet blandly, ‘I
daresay his agricultural knowledge is after all
pretty much on a par with that of Messrs Pounce
and Pontifex.’</p>

<p>And then Jasper shrugged up his shoulders and
was silent, for he perceived that it was hopeless to
deprecate a foregone conclusion. For good or for
ill, Sir Sykes had made up his mind to convert
Mr Wilkins into a grand-vizier over the broad
acres that lay within the circuit of his wide-stretching
ring-fence.</p>

<p>Enoch Wilkins, gentleman, had on that morning
reached Carbery Chase, and was in a fair way of
earning for himself any rather than golden opinions
from its inmates. Mr Wilkins, as he often and not
untruly boasted, knew the world, that is to say he
had a minute and almost microscopic acquaintance
with one or two sections of the shady side of it.
He understood turf-men, as a smart prison-governor
understands convicts, and knew the natural history
of the fast-living and embarrassed young officer as
well as some lecturer on entomology knows the
ways of beetle and butterfly. In a lower social
grade, he was deeply versed in the arcana of Loan
Societies, and could apply the thumbscrew of the
County Court in nicely calculated proportions
to a struggling debtor. Of what he called swell
society Mr Wilkins had but a limited experience.
He had shared, as the purveyors of welcome
cash often do share, in the costly banquets
given at Greenwich or Richmond hotels by wild
young gentlemen of blood and fashion. He had
even, at the instance of some needy man about
town who curried favour with any dispenser of
ready-money, received a card which entitled him,
now and again, to be crushed and jostled and
trodden upon by distinguished company at the
maddening ‘At Home’ of some berouged and
bewigged old peeress.</p>

<p>There was, as Mr Wilkins felt with some inward
misgivings, a difference between forming part of a
mob at Macbeth House or at the Baratarian
Embassy, and mixing on intimate terms with such
a family as were the Denzils. Yet, as the French
idiomatically twist the phrase, he paid it off with
audacity, being greasily familiar with Sir Sykes;
on terms of brotherly frankness where Jasper
was concerned; and for the benefit of the young
ladies, assuming the character of the facetious and
agreeable rattle, as he conceived incumbent on a
regular Londoner and a bachelor to boot, when on
a visit in the country.</p>

<p>Blanche and Lucy Denzil scarcely knew whether
to let amusement or dislike predominate in their
minds as Mr Wilkins rattled on, pouring out
miscellaneous anecdotes and jokes that, if worn
threadbare in the metropolis, would, he was convinced,
retain enough of their original gloss and
sparkle to pass muster in the country. That the
man was coarse, pushing, and unscrupulous, was
evident even to critics so lenient as the baronet’s
daughters; while Sir Sykes, behind his urbane
smile, suffered martyrdom from his new agent’s
deportment.</p>

<p>There was one member of the family circle at
Carbery whom Mr Wilkins eyed with quite an
exceptional interest. He rarely addressed himself
in conversation to the Indian orphan, Sir Sykes’s
ward, but he watched her narrowly, and the more
he saw of her the harder he found it to adhere to
his original hypothesis as regarded the young lady
whom Richard Hold, master mariner, had recommended
to his good offices.</p>

<p>‘If that demure manner and those downcast
eyes do not belong to as sly a puss as ever lived,
write me down a greenhorn!’ was the mental
reflection of Enoch Wilkins, of St Nicholas
Poultney, in the City of London, gentleman. ‘That
she sets her cap at the captain, Sir Sykes Denzil’s
hopeful heir, I take for granted. Her communicative
friend, the pirate fellow, implied as much.
The Lancer does not seem, however, disposed to
come forward in a satisfactory style, and play
Philemon to her Baucis.’</p>

<p>And it was a fact that since the morning which
had witnessed the drive to High Tor and the visit
to the pheasantry, the snares of Miss Ruth Willis
had been vainly set for the capture of that bird of
dubious feather, Jasper Denzil.</p>

<p>Why Jasper, who had so much to gain by the
match on which his father’s mind was inexplicably
bent, should hang back and prove recalcitrant, it
was hard to say. His was not an independent
soul. He was free from any trammels of a too
scrupulous delicacy, and would have fingered any
money got through the grimiest channels, without
fear of soiling those white useless hands of his,
the manliest work of which had hitherto been to
grasp a bridle-rein. Yet Jasper had been very
remiss of late in his attentions towards Ruth
Willis, and apparently indifferent to the bribe of
an income and establishment to be earned by
marrying her.</p>

<p>‘Now look here, Sir Sykes!’ said the lawyer
after dinner, as he edged his chair nearer to that
of his host, refilled his glass, and assumed a tone
of waggish confidence—‘look here, Sir Sykes! You
want brushing up down here at Carbery, you do
indeed; ay and a little fresh air let in upon you.
In an old estate like this, and under such management
as those of Pounce and Proser—beg his
pardon; I mean Pontifex; ha, ha, ha!’—pursued
Mr Wilkins, having his laugh out, without so
much as a sympathetic titter from Jasper or a smile<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_295"></a>{295}</span>
from Sir Sykes—‘in an estate of this kind matters
are apt to stagnate, and all sorts of abuses and jobs
to grow up, like the green duckweed on the surface
of a pool. Your head-gamekeeper now, Sir
Sykes, I never saw him, but I’m sure that he’s a
rogue.’</p>

<p>‘Leathers is an old servant,’ answered Sir
Sykes coldly; ‘I have had no reason to think ill
of him.’</p>

<p>‘I’ll go bail that he’s a rogue, for all that,’
returned the unabashed lawyer, holding up his
glass to the light, to admire the ruby claret before
he swallowed it. ‘The head-keeper of an easy-going,
moneyed gent of your standing—excuse me,
Sir Sykes—must be a saint, if he’s not a sinner.
Think of the temptations! Why, the rabbits
alone must be a cool two hundred a year to the
man; and then the pheasants, and the black-mail
from the tenants for keeping the ground-game
within reasonable numbers, and the percentage on
watchers’ wages. I’ll get you a contract with a
London poulterer, Sir Sykes, that shall stand you
in something handsome, provide you with a keeper
twice as useful as Leathers, and insure your
having a hot corner for your friends at battue-time.
I’m a new broom, and sweep clean.’</p>

<p>‘You promise well, at anyrate!’ said Jasper
with a languid sneer.</p>

<p>‘And did you ever know me not ready to
implement when I had once promised?’ briskly
retorted the solicitor. ‘I merely mention the
gamekeeper to shew that all’s fish that comes
to my net, and that I am not above attending
to such minor fry as a fellow in velveteen with
a dog-whistle at his button-hole. We must go
on commercial principles, Sir Sykes, if we want
to manage an estate so as to make it pay, nowadays.
All that feudal nonsense of an affectionate
tenantry and a liberal lord of the manor is about
as dead as Queen Anne. You should get a new
steward as well as a new gamekeeper, Sir Sykes.’</p>

<p>The baronet stirred restlessly in his chair. He
did not at all like this. Carbery, and the fair
estate that went with it, had never yet been
administered on commercial principles, especially
when applied by so sweeping a reformer as Mr
Wilkins of St Nicholas Poultney. ‘Mr Cornish
keeps his accounts very correctly,’ he said in a
hesitating tone. ‘Old Lord Harrogate gave him
the stewardship, which his father had had before
him, and his tenure of it has satisfied me.’</p>

<p>‘Because you can afford, or fancy you can, to be
robbed right and left,’ said the lawyer, gulping
down his wine. ‘It is your plausible hereditary
steward, that has fattened and battened on the
plunder of successive generations, who sucks the
very marrow out of the land. Don’t tell <i>me</i>!
I’ll overhaul Mr Cornish’s accounts in a way he’s
little used to. But first you must introduce me to
the farmers, Sir Sykes, and give me time to worm
out of them what they pay, in kind or money, by
way of fines, good-will, premium, and so forth, for
the honour of tilling your under-rented acres. I’ll
raise your rent-roll, never fear me, but not with a
native chawbacon for prime-minister.’</p>

<p>‘So the steward must be flung overboard, it
seems, as well as poor old Leathers the keeper,’
observed Jasper, half amused, but half annoyed.</p>

<p>‘And I’ve got another peg to fit into the vacant
hole,’ said the lawyer, again addressing himself
to the claret. ‘With your permission, Sir Sykes,
to-morrow we’ll wire for him to run down from
London for your approval. A sharp fellow is
Abrahams. You won’t mind his persuasion? Jew
as he is, he’s thoroughly at home in a farmhouse,
counts every sheaf of wheat in the barn, and every
house-lamb in the kitchen on frosty days, and
wheedles out of the women what the husbands are
too dogged to tell.—This is delicious claret, but
no one except myself seems to drink it. Suppose
we join the ladies?’</p>

<p>‘What has the governor done,’ groaned Jasper,
as he lit his cigar, ‘to be under the thumb of
such a man as this?’</p>


<hr class="chap" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="WORK_IN_THE_LONDON_DOCKS">WORK IN THE LONDON DOCKS.</h2>
</div>


<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the metropolis there is always to be found a
vast amount of ‘labour unattached,’ recruited from
men in nearly every rank of life. To form an idea
of the surplusage in the labour market, advertise
for a ‘light-porter,’ and you will have at least two
hundred applications before eleven o’clock the next
day. If you desire a clerk at a salary of, say,
twenty shillings a week, half a thousand eager
candidates will apply for the vacancy. While if
you have anything of a superior sort to offer, such
as the secretaryship of a charitable institution, or
hospital, suitable to the talents of retired military
officers and others, probably a thousand competitors
will offer themselves to your discrimination. Of
course many people will be surprised that such
numbers should prefer living in semi-idleness,
hunting after any opportunity that offers, rather
than exert themselves to obtain employment in less
crowded localities; but then in London there is
the great magnet of the ‘lucky chance’ constantly
before their eyes. If one obtains a situation at
a pound a week, there are constantly opportunities
of bettering one’s self, especially in large firms, who
carefully select and promote their men according
to capability and merit. Then, again, a man may
be starving in a garret, poorly dressed, existing
somehow by borrowing a shilling or two occasionally
when you meet him in the street; but in a
month or two may be in a good position in an
insurance company or an actuary’s office. But as
bread must be obtained somehow until the golden
opportunity offers itself, a number of men who
have seen better days are compelled by sheer
necessity to fly to that paradise of the destitute,
the Docks.</p>

<p>The great Dock Companies in London, fully
aware of the superabundance of labour always in
the market, do not employ, permanently, one-third
of the men they require, since they are usually
able to procure at least twice as many hands as
they need at a moment’s notice. Indeed so great
is the competition for even Dock employment, that
unless you are known to one of the foremen, or
in some way furnished with an introduction to
one of the Company’s officials, you stand a very
poor chance of obtaining work, save occasionally,
when a sudden pressure of business comes on and
they are glad to accept any one that offers. Sometimes
a huge ship comes in requiring to be discharged
in a few days; and everybody who can
work may, by offering himself, obtain employment
for a brief period; but, the time of pressure over,
he will present himself at the Dock-gates day after
day in vain. The Company’s foremen of course
give the preference to their regular hands, and the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_296"></a>{296}</span>
stranger who has helped them in their time of
need is passed over. So the best thing you can
do if you desire employment at the Docks is to
obtain a letter of recommendation from some
broker or merchant who does business with the
Company, and according to the influence he possesses
so will your work be regulated. It will
require great influence to enable you to be placed
on the ‘permanent’ or ‘extra-permanent’ staff; and
the utmost you can hope for is to obtain employment
by the day so long as any ships are at work,
with the prospect of losing a few days now and
then when things are dull.</p>

<p>The clock has struck a quarter past seven in
the morning, and already may be seen clustered
round the Dock-gates small groups of men, with
hands invariably in their pockets and short pipes
in their mouths, discussing the prospect of work
for the day, and the only chance they have of
obtaining a meal of food and a night’s lodging.
These are the ‘chance’ or ‘odd-time’ men, who
if they are not taken on the first thing, loiter
about the entrance all day, waiting a ‘call’ from
one of the foremen; sometimes making two, four,
or five hours, as the case may be. Of all this
class of men, it may be truly said that they are
waiters upon Providence, for they are usually the
last selected; and as to their garments (their sole
earthly possession), very few of them could obtain
a shilling for all they wear from head to foot.
Indeed so dilapidated are some of their shoes,
that it is no uncommon thing for them to be paid
off after an hour’s work or so, because their feet
will not retain a footing upon a slippery floor.
It also occurs at times that they come in to work
so famished that they sink exhausted after a little
exertion, though in this case the foremen who
employ them are generally kind-hearted enough
to advance a few pence to obtain a little food to
enable them to hold out the day. As the clock nears
the half-hour (7.30 <span class="allsmcap">A.M.</span>) the regular ‘outsiders’
come up. These men are in better condition than
the others; but there is a seedy, ragged appearance
about most of them, which tells the unmistakable
tale that their chief earnings go to the
public-house. And now there is a stir. A small
wicket in the gate is open, and a foreman comes
out, and calling out the names of the men he
requires, they pass in. These are engaged by the
half-hour, and are liable to be dismissed as soon
as their work is completed, let the time be what
it may. Usually they remain at work the whole
day; but, should any unforeseen occurrence—such
as stoppage of a ship’s discharge on account
of weather, or a break-down in some of the
machinery for removing cargo—prevent them
labouring, the word is passed to ‘wash up,’ and
they are paid off at once, perhaps an hour or two
after they have been engaged.</p>

<p>After this crew come the Company’s ‘recommended’
men, persons who through the influence
of some merchant obtain employment. With
them also arrive the ‘extra-permanent’ men; and
these two classes always have a preference when
any work is going on. They are engaged by the
day and paid by the day; and each man on entering
receives a numbered ticket about the size of a
railway ticket, which will entitle him to receive his
wages in rotation at the pay-box in the afternoon.
The pay for all alike is fivepence per hour; but
the highest class of all, the ‘permanent’ men, receive
twenty shillings per week all the year round, be
the hours long or short, and are always certain
of their money whether the Company can find
work for them or not. In the months of November,
December, January, and February, the
work is from nine to four, and the remainder of
the year from eight to four, with extra pay for
overtime to all alike when any is to be made.
Thus it will be seen that with pretty constant
employment a fair living is to be made at the
Docks; but in addition, many men make something
extra in the evenings, either as ‘supers’ at
one of the theatres, chairmen at those convivial
meetings known as ‘Free-and-Easies,’ or in some
other capacity. In short, at the Docks, as elsewhere,
it is only the idle and disreputable class
that starves; for the Company’s officials naturally
select the best men first, and only employ the
‘duffers’ when they cannot possibly do without
them.</p>

<p>At a few minutes before eight we are all at our
posts; men are on board ship commencing to roll
out the bales of merchandise from the ‘hold;’ the
ponderous hydraulic ‘ram’ swings out from the
warehouse, and three or four bales are hooked on
and hoisted ashore. It is (we will say) a large
Australian wool ship; and as soon as the bales
are landed, they are pounced upon by a man
with stencil-plate and brush, who with nimble
fingers marks the name of the ship on each.
Then an individual with stentorian lungs (probably
a broken-down auctioneer) shouts out to the check
clerk at the table the mark on each particular
bale, and this is recorded in a book called a ‘tally-sheet.’
Next, a couple of muscular men attack
with axes the iron bands with which the bales
are clamped, and sever them, so that the wool
expands to nearly double its size; for it is all
pressed by hydraulic machinery previous to being
stowed in the ship, in order to economise space.
The bales thus released are now trotted off by
active truckmen to the scales, where they are
weighed, marked, and sorted in different piles
according to their mark. All this is done in less
time than it takes to read about it, amid a storm
of shouts, execrations, commands, and other noises
in every conceivable variety.</p>

<p>Let us take a walk round the Docks and warehouses
and inspect the vast piles of merchandise
lying about in every direction. Yonder is a ship
discharging brandy, with a vigilant Custom-house
officer watching every cask as it comes ashore.
In another place they are emptying on the floor
hogshead after hogshead of coffee, to be weighed
for duty. That sedate-looking man with a needle
in his hand sewing up rice-bags has been a schoolmaster,
and can write excellent hexameters. A
little farther on, a solicitor, unfortunately struck
off the rolls, is wheeling a truck; and farther on
a once prosperous merchant is assisting to push
along a hogshead of sugar. The conclusion one
arrives at, after making the round of the Docks, is,
that nearly everything we eat and drink is manipulated
first by the dirty classes, who shovel our
necessaries about at their pleasure, and tread over
them as if they were so much dirt. See those
dingy men with garments tattered and patched
stooping and working on those sloppy floors.
They are scraping up the molasses which has
filtered out from the sugar-casks, and putting it
into tubs. This will be all sent away to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_297"></a>{297}</span>
sugar-boilers’, and converted into cheap sugar,
and go to localities where it will be bought
by housekeepers who study economy in the
kitchen. This sort of sugar always has a
lumpy clear appearance, with a slight clammy
taste in the mouth, and can be detected with a
little practice at a glance. It is usually sold alone,
but is often mixed with better sugar, in order to
make that half-penny difference in the pound so
tempting to certain housewives.</p>

<p>We are warned that it is noon by the tinkling
of a bell, which resounds all over the Dock; and
at the first stroke everything is dropped out of
hand immediately, and to the cry of ‘Bell ho!’
every one rushes out of the warehouses for dinner.
A few of the more provident have brought some
in their pockets; but the majority go straight to
the old man or old woman who is permitted by
the Company to supply them with bread, cheese,
beer, soup, and pudding, all of an indifferent
sort; and if they have any money, buy something
to eat; and if they have none, try and borrow a
penny or two from somebody else; or cajole the
refreshment caterer into giving them credit until
four o’clock. Very few of them have knives
wherewith to cut their food decently; they gnaw
it anyhow; in fact their chief rule seems to be to
buy nothing that they are not absolutely compelled
to buy, for fear the vendor should cheat
them; and if some of them could observe this rule
so far as the beer-shop is concerned, they would
make their fortunes, many of them possessing
talents, as experts in ‘tasting,’ of no common
order.</p>

<p>Their meal finished, some now creep on board
ship to smoke, a thing they are not allowed to do in
the warehouses; others of a larcenous disposition,
prowl about the cook’s galley to appropriate anything
they can, such as meat, knives, brushes, in
short any small portable articles, which they either
devour, or else sell at any price to somebody else.
At twenty minutes past twelve the bell again
summons them to work, and each man crawls
slowly back to his post, the majority of cheeks
indicating apparently the existence of gum-boil
to the uninitiated, but which abnormal appearance
is due solely to the companionable ‘quid’ of
tobacco.</p>

<p>By this time a number of vans are in the yard
waiting to take away goods, and the foremen are
pretty nearly sure to want some extra hands to
assist. Consequently out they go to the gates, and
select as many as they require from the forest of
palms held up before them. In this way work
goes on until a few minutes before four, when all
parties knock off, unless the ship should have to
work an hour or two longer. At the pay-box
the men arrange themselves in numerical order,
and are paid with great celerity by the cashier,
the exact amount due to each man being handed
to him as he passes the window. At the exit gate
are stationed two of the Company’s constables, who
search any one they have cause to suspect, for in
spite of the utmost vigilance and the aid of a
large staff of police, pilfering is constantly going
on within the Docks, and it requires great watchfulness
to prevent the men taking anything out.
As it is, things are occasionally smuggled out,
though, when an offender is convicted, he usually
meets with a severe penalty.</p>

<p>The London and St Katherine’s Docks (now
amalgamated under one Company) cover an area
of about forty-five acres, and have nearly as much
warehouse accommodation as all the other Dock
companies put together. The capital embarked in
them, inclusive of loans and debentures, may be
stated at about eight millions sterling, and the
employés of all classes about three thousand
daily. The annual imports into these Docks are
seldom less than seventy millions, the exports
being also considerable. With all this enormous
trade and this vast amount of business, things
are managed with great, though of course not
perfect accuracy; every man knows his place,
and there are seldom any mistakes but such as
will occur at times from unavoidable hurry and
confusion.</p>


<hr class="chap" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="PRETTY_MRS_OGILVIE">PRETTY MRS OGILVIE.</h2>
</div>


<p><span class="smcap">All</span> the women are jealous of her; there is no
doubt about that. The first time she appears in
church with crisp mauve muslins floating about
her and a dainty mauve erection on her head,
which presumably she calls a bonnet, I know at
once how it will be. And of course the other sex
will range themselves on her side to a man; that is
also beyond question. As she rises from her knees
and takes her little lavender-gloved hands from
her face and looks about her for a moment with a
sweet shy glance, she is simply bewitching; and I
doubt if any male creature in our musty little
church pays proper attention to the responses for
ten minutes afterwards. A new face is a great
rarity with us, and <i>such</i> a new face one might not
see more than once in a decade, so let us hope we
may be forgiven.</p>

<p>As I gaze at the delicate profile before me, the
coils of golden hair, the complexion like the inside
of a sea-shell, the slender milk-white throat, and
the long dark eyelashes, which droop modestly
over the glorious gray eyes, shall I own that I
steal a glance of disapproval at Mary Anne, my
Mary Anne, the partner of my joys and sorrows for
twenty years, and the mother of my six children?
Mary Anne’s figure is somewhat overblown, her
hair is tinged with gray, and the complexion of
her good-humoured face is slightly rubicund. But
she has been a good wife to me; and I feel, with a
twinge of compunction, that I have no right to be
critical, as I think of a shining spot on the top of
my own head, and of a little box I received from
the dentist only a month ago, carefully secured
from observation. But as we emerge from church
I draw myself up and try to look my best as we
pass the trailing mauve robes. Jack, one of our
six, stumbles over the train; which gives me an
opportunity of raising my hat and apologising for
the brat’s awkwardness; and I am rewarded with a
sweet smile and an upward glance out of the great
gray eyes which is simply intoxicating.</p>

<p>‘We must call on Mrs Ogilvie at once,’ I observe
to Mary Anne as we proceed across the fields on
our homeward walk. ‘It is my duty as her landlord
to find out if she is comfortable. She is a ladylike
person,’ I continue, diplomatically forbearing
to allude to the obvious beauty; ‘and I daresay,
my dear, you will find her an agreeable neighbour.’</p>

<p>‘Ladylike!’ cries my wife, with a ring of indignation
in her voice. ‘I don’t call it ladylike to
come to a quiet country church dressed as if she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_298"></a>{298}</span>
were going to a flower-show. Besides, she is
painted. A colour like that can’t be natural. But
you men are all alike—always taken with a little
outside show and glitter.’</p>

<p>‘But my dear,’ I remonstrate, ‘perhaps she did
not know how very countrified and bucolic our
congregation is; and I really do think it will be
very unneighbourly if we don’t call. It must
be very dull for her to know no one.’ I ignore
the remark about the paint, but in my heart I
give the assertion an emphatic contradiction.</p>

<p>Mrs Ogilvie has rented a small cottage which
I own in the west-country village in which I
am the principal doctor. She is the wife of a
naval officer who is away in the Flying Squadron,
and has settled in our sleepy little hamlet to live
quietly during his absence. All her references
have been quite unexceptionable, and indeed
she is slightly known to our Squire, as is also
her absent husband. ‘A splendid fellow he
is,’ Mr Dillon tells me, ‘stands six feet in his
stockings, and is as handsome as Apollo; indeed
I don’t believe that for good looks you could find
such another couple in England.’</p>

<p>The following day Mary Anne, with but little
persuasion, agrees to accompany me to the cottage
to call on Mrs Ogilvie. The door is opened by
a neat maid-servant. She is at home; and we are
ushered into the drawing-room, which we almost
fail to recognise, so changed is it. Bright fresh
hangings are in the windows, a handsome piano
stands open, books and periodicals lie on the
tables in profusion, and flowers are everywhere.
‘Evidently a woman of refinement and cultivated
tastes,’ I think to myself; ‘the beauty is more
than skin deep.’</p>

<p>Presently Mrs Ogilvie comes in, looking if possible
even lovelier than she did the day before.
She is in a simple white dress, with here and
there a knot of blue ribbon about it; and she has
a bit of blue also in her golden hair. Her manner
is as charming as her looks, and as she thanks
my wife with pleasant cordial words for being
the first of her neighbours to take compassion
on her loneliness, I can see that my Mary Anne,
whose heart is as large as her figure, basely deserts
the female faction and goes over to the enemy.
Mrs Ogilvie is very young, still quite a girl,
though she has been married three years she tells
us.</p>

<p>‘It is dreadful that Frank should have to go
away,’ she says, and the tears well up in her large
gray eyes; ‘that is the worst of the service. But
I suppose no woman ought to interfere with her
husband’s career. I am going to live here as
quietly as possible until he returns. See; here
is his photograph,’ she continues, lifting a case
from the table and handing it to Mary Anne. ‘Is
he not handsome?’</p>

<p>He is most undeniably so, if the likeness speaks
truth, and we both say so; Mary Anne, with the
privilege of her sex and age, adding a word as
to the beauty of the pair.</p>

<p>‘O yes,’ replies Mrs Ogilvie without the smallest
embarrassment: ‘we are always called the “handsome
couple.”’</p>

<p>I suppose something of my astonishment expresses
itself in my countenance, for she smiles,
and says: ‘I am afraid you think me very vain;
but I cannot help knowing that I am good-looking,
any more than I can help being aware that my
eyes are gray, not black, and that my hair is
golden. It is a gift from God, like any talent; a
valuable one too, I think it; and I own that I am
proud of it, for my dear Frank’s sake, who admires
it so much.’</p>

<p>Yes, this is Mrs Ogilvie’s peculiarity, as we
afterwards discover—an intense and quite open
admiration of her own beauty. And indeed there
is something so simple and naïve about it, that we
do not find it displeasing when we get accustomed
to it. She always speaks of herself as if she were
a third person, and honestly appreciates her lovely
face, as if it were some rare picture, as indeed it is,
of Dame Nature’s own painting. She is equally
ready to admit the good looks of other women,
and has not a trace of jealousy in her composition.
But often you will hear her say, in describing
some one else: ‘She has a lovely complexion—something
in the style of mine, but not so clear.’
Or, ‘She has a beautiful head of hair, but not so
sunny as mine;’ &amp;c. &amp;c. At first, every one is
astonished at this idiosyncrasy of hers, but in a
little while we all come to laugh at it; there is
something original and amusing about it; and in
all other ways she is <i>so</i> charming.</p>

<p>My wife, with whom she speedily becomes
intimate, tells me that she is sure she values her
beauty more for her husband’s sake than her own.
‘She evidently adores him,’ says Mary Anne; ‘and
he seems to think so much of her sweet looks.
She says he fell in love with her at first sight,
before he ever spoke to her.’</p>

<p>But Mrs Ogilvie has many more attractions
than are to be found in her face. She is a highly
educated woman, a first-rate musician and a pleasant
and intelligent companion; and more than all,
she has a sweet loving disposition, and a true
heart at the core of all her little vanities. She
is very good to the poor in our village, and often
when I am on my rounds, I meet her coming out
of some cottage with an empty basket in her hand,
which was full when she entered it.</p>

<p>In a quiet little neighbourhood like ours, such
a woman cannot fail to be an acquisition, and
every one hastens to call on her, and many are the
dinners and croquet parties which are inaugurated
in her honour. To the former she will not go;
she does not wish to go out in the evening during
her husband’s absence—much to my wife’s satisfaction,
who approves of women being ‘keepers at
home’—and it is only seldom that she can be
induced to grace one of the croquet parties with
her presence.</p>

<p>But when she does, she eclipses every one else.
She always dresses in the most exquisite taste, as
if anxious that the setting should be worthy of
the jewel—the beauty which she prizes so highly.
She is always sweet and gracious, and vanquishes
the men by her loveliness, the women in spite of
it. But she is in no sense of the word a coquette;
and the only admirer she favours is our Jack, aged
fourteen, who is head-over-ears in love with her,
and is ready at any moment to forego cricket for
the honour of escorting Mrs Ogilvie through the
village, and the privilege of carrying her basket.
So the quiet weeks and months glide by, linking
us daily more closely together.</p>

<p>She has been settled at the cottage rather more
than two years and is beginning to count the weeks
to her husband’s return. <i>We</i> do not number them
quite so eagerly, for when he comes he will take<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_299"></a>{299}</span>
her away from us, and we shall miss her sorely.
It is summer again, a hot damp summer; it has
been a very sickly season, and my hands are full.</p>

<p>‘I shall have to get a partner, my dear,’ I say to
my wife as I prepare to go out. ‘If this goes on I
shall have more to do than I can manage. There
is a nasty fever about which I don’t like the look of;
and if we don’t have a change for the better in this
muggy weather, there is no saying what it may
turn to.’</p>

<p>‘I am glad all the boys are at school,’ observes
Mary Anne, ‘and I think I will let the girls accept
their aunt’s invitation and go to her for a
month.’</p>

<p>‘It would be a very good plan, and I should be
glad if you would go too. A little change would
do you good.’</p>

<p>‘And pray who is to look after you?’ asks my
wife reproachfully. ‘Who is to see that you take
your meals properly, and don’t rush off to see your
patients, leaving your dinner untasted on the
table?’</p>

<p>Mentally I confess that I should probably be
poorly off without my Mary Anne; but it is a bad
plan to encourage vanity in one’s wife, so I say:
‘Oh, I should do very well by myself;’ and with a
parting nod betake myself to my daily duty.</p>

<p>In the village I meet Mrs Ogilvie, basket in
hand. She doesn’t look well, and I say so.</p>

<p>‘You have no business out in the heat of the
day,’ I tell her. ‘You are not a Hercules, and you
will only be knocking yourself up. What will
your husband say, if he does not find you looking
your best when he comes back?’</p>

<p>A shade passes over her face. ‘Ah! he would
not be pleased,’ she says rather gravely; ‘he always
likes to see me look my <i>very</i> best and prettiest.’</p>

<p>‘Well then, as your doctor, I must forbid your
doing any more cottage-visiting just at present.
You are not looking strong, and going into those
close houses is not good for you. I will come and
see you on my way back.’</p>

<p>Which I do. I find there is nothing the matter
with her; she is only a little languid. Perhaps the
weather has affected her; perhaps she is wearying
for her husband; and I prescribe a tonic, which I
think will soon set her to rights. I do not remain
long with her, for I have an unspoken anxiety, and
I am in a hurry to get home.</p>

<p>‘You had better send the children away to-morrow
morning, Mary Anne,’ I say as soon as I
get in. ‘Mrs Black is very ill, and I am afraid—I
cannot quite tell yet, but I am afraid—she is
going to have small-pox. Of course I shall have
her removed at once, if I am right; but it may
prove not to be an isolated case, and it will be
as well to get the children out of the way. I
shall try and persuade every one in the village to
be vaccinated to-morrow.’</p>

<p>‘You will be clever if you manage that,’ says
my wife. ‘I am afraid some of the people are
very prejudiced against it. You know when the
children and I were revaccinated three years ago,
you could not persuade any of the villagers to be
done at the same time.’</p>

<p>On the following day we despatch the children
early to their aunt’s, under the care of an old
servant; and as soon as I have seen them off, I
go down to Mrs Black’s. To my consternation I
find Mrs Ogilvie just leaving the house.</p>

<p>‘I have been disobedient, you see,’ she says
gaily; ‘but I promised to bring Mrs Black something
early this morning; and she seemed so ill
yesterday that I did not like to disappoint her.
But I am not going to transgress orders again—for
Frank’s sake,’ she adds softly.</p>

<p>I give an internal groan. Heaven grant she
may not have transgressed them once too often!
And I hasten into the cottage, to find my worst
fears confirmed. Mrs Black has small-pox quite
unmistakably.</p>

<p>For some hours I am occupied in making
arrangements for her removal to the infirmary,
and in vaccinating such of my poorer patients
as I can frighten or coerce into allowing me to
do so; and it is afternoon before I am able to
go and look after Mrs Ogilvie.</p>

<p>She seems rather astonished when I inform her
what my errand is—that I want to vaccinate her
(for of course I do not wish to frighten her by
telling her about Mrs Black); but she submits
readily enough when I say that I have heard of
a case of small-pox in a neighbouring village
(which I have), and think it would be a wise precautionary
measure.</p>

<p>‘It is very good of you,’ she says in her pretty
gracious way as she bares her white arm. ‘I have
never been vaccinated since I was a baby, so I
suppose it will be desirable.’</p>

<p>Desirable? I should think so indeed! And I
send up a prayer as I perform the operation that
I may not be too late.</p>

<p>I am so busy for the next few days that I am
unable to go down to the cottage. One or two
more cases of small-pox appear in the village, and
I am anxious and hard-worked; but Mary Anne
tells me that Mrs Ogilvie has heard of Mrs Black’s
removal and is dreadfully nervous about herself.
‘I hope she will not frighten herself into it,’ adds
my wife.</p>

<p>‘If she hadn’t contracted it before I vaccinated
her, I think she is pretty safe,’ I reply; ‘but there
is just the chance that she may have had the
poison in her previously.’</p>

<p>Almost as I speak a message comes from Mrs
Ogilvie, who ‘wishes to see me professionally.’
My heart sinks as I seize my hat and follow the
messenger; and with too good reason. I find her
suffering from the first symptoms of small-pox;
and in twenty-four hours it has declared itself
unequivocally and threatens to be a bad case. I
try to keep the nature of her illness from her, but
in vain. She questions me closely, and when she
discovers the truth, gives way to a burst of despair
which is painful to witness. ‘I shall be marked;
I shall be hideous!’ she exclaims, sobbing bitterly.
‘Poor Frank, how he will hate me!’</p>

<p>In vain I try to comfort her, to convince her that
in not one out of a hundred cases does the disease
leave dreadful traces behind it; she refuses to
be consoled. And soon she is too ill to be reasoned
with, or indeed to know much of her own state.
She is an orphan, and has no near relatives for
whom we can send, so Mary Anne installs herself
in the sick-room as head-nurse; and as I see her
bending lovingly over the poor disfigured face,
and ministering with tender hands to the ceaseless
wants of the invalid, my wife is in my eyes
beautiful exceedingly; so does the shadow of a
good deed cast a glory around the most homely
countenance.</p>

<p>For some time Mrs Ogilvie’s life is in great<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_300"></a>{300}</span>
danger; but her youth and good constitution prevail
against the grim destroyer, and at length
I am able to pronounce all peril past.</p>

<p>But alas, alas! all my hopes, all my care,
all my poor skill have been in vain; and the
beauty which we have all admired so much, and
which has been so precious to our poor patient,
is a thing of the past. She is marked—slightly it
is true; but the pure complexion is thick and
muddy, the once bright eyes are heavy and dull,
and the golden hair is thin and lustreless. We
keep it from her as long as we can, but she soon
discovers it in our sorrowful looks; and her horror,
her agony, almost threaten to unseat her reason.
My wife is with her night and day, watching her
like a mother, using every argument she can think
of to console her, and above all, counselling with
gentle words submission to the will of God. But
her misery, after the first shock, is not so much
for herself as for the possible effect the loss of her
beauty may have on her husband, who is now
daily expected. His ship has been at sea, so we
have been unable to write to him; and only on
his arrival in Plymouth Sound will he hear of
his poor young wife’s illness and disfigurement.
Before her sickness she had been counting the
hours; now she sees every day go past with a
shudder, feeling that she is brought twenty-four
hours nearer to the dread trial. At length his
vessel arrives, and I receive a telegram telling me
when we may expect him, and begging me to
break the news gently to his wife. She receives
it with a flood of bitter tears and sobs, crying out
that he will hate and loathe her, and that she
is about to lose all the happiness of her life. My
wife weeps with her; and I am conscious of a choking
sensation in my throat as we take leave of her
half an hour before Mr Ogilvie is expected, and
pray God to bless and sustain her.</p>

<p>We are sitting in rather melancholy mood after
dinner, talking of the poor young husband and
wife, when Mr Ogilvie is announced, and I hasten
to the door to meet him.</p>

<p>‘She will not see me!’ he says impetuously,
coming in without any formal greeting. ‘She has
shut herself into her room, and calls to me with
hysterical tears that she is too dreadful to look
upon, that I shall cease to love her as soon as
I behold her, and that she cannot face it.’ And
the strong man falls into a chair with a sob.</p>

<p>‘It is not so bad as that,’ I begin.</p>

<p>‘I don’t care how bad it is,’ he cries; ‘she need
not doubt my love. My poor darling will always
be the same to me whether she has lost her beauty
or not.’</p>

<p>Whereupon I extend my hand to him and shake
his heartily; and I know my wife has great difficulty
in restraining herself from enveloping him
in her motherly arms and embracing him.</p>

<p>‘We must resort to stratagem,’ I say. ‘I will
go down to the cottage at once, and you follow me
in ten minutes with my wife. I will try and coax
Mrs Ogilvie to come out and speak to me, and you
must steal upon her unawares.’</p>

<p>Mrs Ogilvie at first refuses to see or speak to me;
but I go up to her door and am mean enough to
remind her of my wife’s devotion to her and
entreat her, for her sake, to come down to me.</p>

<p>‘Where is Frank?’ she asks.</p>

<p>‘I left him at home with Mary Anne,’ I reply,
feeling that I am worthy of being a diplomatist at
the court of St Petersburg, as she opens the door
and descends the stairs. I take her out into the
garden and begin to reprove her for her conduct,
with assumed anger. She listens with eyes
blinded by tears. I, on the look-out for it, hear
the latch of the garden gate click; but she,
absorbed in her sorrow, does not notice it. I look
up and see Frank Ogilvie’s eyes fixed hungrily on
his wife. Her changed appearance must be an
awful shock to him; but he bears it bravely; and
in a moment he has sprung forward, clasped her
in his arms, and the poor scarred face is hidden on
his true and loving heart!</p>

<p>Then Mary Anne and I turn silently away, and
leave him to teach her that there are things more
valuable, of far higher worth than any mere beauty
of face or form.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>After all, we do not lose her, for Mr Ogilvie
coming into some money, leaves the navy and purchases
a small estate in our neighbourhood, on
which they still reside. Mrs Ogilvie is no longer
young, and has a family of lads and lasses around
her, who inherit much of their mother’s loveliness.
But one of the first things she teaches them is not
to set a fictitious value on it; ‘for,’ she says, ‘I
thought too much of mine, and God took it from
me.’ No one ever hears her regret the loss of her
beauty; ‘for through that trial,’ she tells my wife,
‘I learned to know the true value of my Frank’s
heart.’</p>

<p>She simply worships her husband, and is in all
respects a happy woman. Indeed, seeing the sweet
smiles which adorn her face and the loving light
which dwells in her eyes, I am sometimes tempted
to call her as of yore—Pretty Mrs Ogilvie.</p>


<hr class="chap" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="BURNABYS_RIDE_IN_TURKEY">BURNABY’S RIDE IN TURKEY.</h2>
</div>


<p>In his volume of travels in Turkey, Captain
Burnaby has given such a large variety of
amusing particulars, that it is eminently worthy
of perusal. The following are a few rough notes:</p>

<p>Radford, the captain’s English servant, was one of
the veritable descendants of Uncle Toby’s Corporal
Trim; men—for there are a large family of them—to
whom the word duty means obeying the word
of command, no matter what form it may happen
to take, be it to cook a dinner or storm a trench.
At Constantinople another servant was required
and engaged—one Osman, a Mohammedan, a
very smart fellow, in every sense of the word.
Picturesque in dress, tall and fine-looking into the
bargain, and fully alive to the worth of the
Effendi’s gold, to which he helped himself unsparingly,
without hurt to his conscience or hinderance
to his prayers. The devotions of this
worthy proving a fruitful source of misery to the
captain, he came to the conclusion that religious
servants are a mistake, especially in the East.</p>

<p>At Constantinople there was some little delay
occasioned by having horses to buy and friends to
see, and then there were the cafés, which are
always amusing more or less; for the proprietors
find that good voices and pretty girls are
sure attractions, whether for Giaour or Turk.
But the poor girls have a hard time of it. By
birth they are chiefly Hungarian and Italian.
They act as waitresses mostly, and are compelled
by the Turks who frequent the cafés to sweeten,
by tasting, all that they order. The violence thus<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_301"></a>{301}</span>
done to their digestive organs may be imagined.
One Italian girl bemoaned her lot, saying: ‘It is
such a mixture. I have a pain sometimes (pointing
to the bodice of her dress). I wish to cry; but I
have to run about and smile, wait upon visitors
and drink with them. It is a dreadful life! Oh,
if I could only return to Florence!’</p>

<p>Captain Burnaby found the Turkish women’s
faces ‘sadly wanting in expression;’ at least those
he had an opportunity of seeing, for the women all
go veiled. Still their veils are of very thin muslin,
and man’s curiosity is penetrating. But this
noticeable lack of expression is not to be wondered
at, when we hear that they are wholly uncultivated
in mind—only one in a thousand among
them can read or write. They amuse themselves
in gossip and eating.</p>

<p>The Ride was not at all times agreeable. It
was not pleasant, for instance, having to cross
wooden bridges without parapets, and to see the
river below through holes in the wooden planks
beneath the horse’s feet; or to wade up to the
horse’s girths through lanes of water. But such
is the fortune of travelling in the unknown.</p>

<p>At the village of Nahilan the caimacan or
governor was hospitable, and soon the whole
population was in attendance to see and talk
with the traveller. He was given the seat of
honour on a rug near the fire. The caimacan
in a fur-lined dressing-gown came next, the rest
of the party in order not according to rank,
but according to their possessions—the man who
owned one hundred cows being seated next the
governor. Conversation at first did not get on
any better there than at home. But some one
made a plunge, and the state of the roads was
discussed. This opened the way to politics
and the prospect of English help, about which
the Turks were eager and anxious to learn. The
war was the one topic of interest among them,
as well it might be. The scenery in the neighbourhood
was lovely, and Captain Burnaby wished
that he had been born a painter, to have caught
the impression of the beauty around him, and
have fixed it for ever on canvas. He has painted
at least one little sketch successfully in words:
‘A succession of hills, each one loftier than its
fellow, broke upon us as we climbed the steep
(leading towards Angora). They were of all forms,
shades, and colours, ash gray, blue, vermilion,
robed in imperial purple, and dotted with patches
of vegetation. Our road wound amidst these
chameleon-like heights, whose silvery rivulets
streamed down the sides of the many-coloured
hills.’</p>

<p>But we must leave this pretty scene to describe
the night’s lodging at the next halt, which gives
us an insight into Turkish beds and bedrooms.
No bedsteads are used. ‘One or two mattresses
are laid on the floor; the <i>yorgan</i>, a silk quilt
lined with linen and stuffed with feathers, taking
the place of sheets and blankets. These yorgans
are heirlooms in a Turkish family, and are handed
down from father to son. It is a mark of high
respect when a host gives you his wedding yorgan
to sleep under. Captain Burnaby found the
honour a trying one, as many generations of fleas
shared it with him. Osman grew eloquent on
the subject of yorgans. He had one so beautiful
that neither his wife nor himself liked to use it.</p>

<p>Hearing that he was married, Captain Burnaby
questioned him about his wife. Did he love her?
Was she pretty? To which Osman replied: ‘She
is a good cook. She makes soup. Effendi, I
could not afford to marry a good-looking girl.
There was one in our village—such a pretty one,
with eyes like a hare and plump as a turkey—but
she could not cook, and her father wanted too
much for her. For my present wife I gave only
ten liras (or Turkish pounds); but she did not
weigh more than one hundred pounds. She was
very cheap. Her eyes are not quite straight, but
she can cook. Looks don’t last; but cooking is an
art that the Prophet himself did not despise.’</p>

<p>At every place a cordial reception awaited the
traveller. The Turks are not ungrateful; and
English help during the Crimean War is still
remembered. At Angora, a town of importance,
there was an English vice-consul, a married
man, living in a house furnished with every
English comfort. He is the only Englishman,
or rather Scotchman, in the place. A Turkish
gentleman gave a dinner-party in honour of the
traveller. These Turkish dinner-parties are compared
to Turkish music, and declared to consist
of a series of surprises. ‘In music the leader of
an orchestra goes from andante to a racing pace
without any crescendo whatever. The cook in
the same manner gives first a dish as sweet as
honey, and then astonishes our stomach with a
sauce as acid as vinegar. Now we are eating fish,
another instant blanc-mange. And so on throughout
the feast were the startling contrasts continued.
Servants were abundant and pressing.
Each guest ate with his fingers, helping himself
according to his rank or social status.’ When
dinner was over the host rose, not forgetting to
say his grace: ‘Praise be to God.’ A servant then
poured water over the hands of each, according to
his rank, for precedence is duly observed in the
veriest trifle; and then they all adjourned to
another room to smoke and drink coffee.</p>

<p>Nothing can exceed the hospitality and generosity
of the Turk. Admire what belongs to him,
and he begs you to accept it, be it a book, a horse,
or a servant. Talking of servants, it was amusing
to hear Osman railing at the man in charge of
the pack-horse for allowing the horse that carried
the valuables, in the form of groceries and cartridges,
to lie down in a river, thus injuring the
contents of his pack. The Eastern method of
abuse is to attack a man’s female relatives—a
point on which all Easterns are most sensitive—in
language the reverse of choice.</p>

<p>In Anatolia and in most parts of Asia Minor,
every man is his own architect and builder,
on the following simple principles. When old
enough to marry, a man chooses a bit of oblong
ground, on the side of a hill if he can, and
digs out the earth to the depth of several
feet. ‘Hewing down some trees, he cuts six
posts, each about ten feet high, and drives them
three feet into the ground, three posts being on
one side of the oblong, three on the other. Cross-beams
are fastened to the top of these uprights,
and branches of trees, plastered with clay, cover
all.’ The doorway is of rude construction. In
the interior, a wooden railing divides the room into
two, one-half of which is occupied by the animals,
the other by the family. A hole in the ceiling is
the only mode of ventilation, and in cold weather
this is stopped up. The ‘family’ often consists of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_302"></a>{302}</span>
twelve in number, and at night they lie huddled
on the floor, which in poorer houses is covered
with coarse rugs of camels’ hair, and Persian rugs
among the wealthier. The close proximity to livestock
invites a third and irrepressible population
of fleas in most of these houses. The misery of a
night spent with legions of these insects must
be felt to be thoroughly understood and appreciated.
They formed the chief discomfort of the
travellers, whose English skins were not case-hardened
to the assaults of the lively banqueteers.
When sickness overtook them (as it did when
they had advanced far on their journey) and
sleep became imperative, the misery of our
travellers grew serious. To be ravaged by fever
as well as by fleas would at once try the strongest.
At last in one village a hint was given that if
the Effendi’s skin were attacked, no bucksheesh
would follow. Instantly the host had a remedy
at hand. He had a cart in his yard; and the
Effendi at last had the comfort of a few hours of
undisturbed slumber.</p>

<p>At various places the Armenian churches were
visited. It is the custom among the Armenians, as
among the Jews, to separate the women from the
men during divine service. The Armenians take
the further precaution of hiding the women behind
a screened lattice-work. Great pity was expressed
for our English clergymen when it was found they
used no such precaution in their churches, and it
was remarked: ‘They must find it difficult to keep
the attention of their flock, if the ladies are as
pretty as they are said to be.’ In the Armenian
churches, however, the precaution is used to keep
the women devotional; but such is the power of
attraction, that in many places Captain Burnaby
noticed that the lattice had been broken away!
The interior of an Armenian church resembles a
mosque, and is carpeted with thick Persian rugs.
As the Armenian Christians worship pictures,
the walls are hung with several in gaudy frames.
The service is ritualistic in the extreme, and
politic to temporal no less than spiritual rulers;
for on the occasion of Captain Burnaby’s attendance,
the service opened with two songs sung by
the choir—one in honour of the Queen of England,
out of compliment to the visitor present; the
other for the Sultan. Some of their traditions are
curious. One is, that a prince of theirs, a leper,
living at the same time as Christ, heard of his
miracles, and wrote a letter to the Saviour, inviting
him to come and take up his abode in Armenia and
cure him of his disease. The Lord is supposed to
have replied: ‘After I have gone, I will send one
of my disciples to cure thy malady and give life to
thee and thine.’ With the letter, Christ is supposed
to have sent at the same time a handkerchief which
had received the image of his face by being pressed
to it; and it is this tradition which they adduce
to justify their adoration of pictures.</p>

<p>The Turk’s religion is a compound of faith
and fatalism, sprinkled occasionally with due precaution.
Here is an instance of their fatalism.
When Captain Burnaby was at Kars, the streets
were in such a filthy condition, owing to the sewage
of the town being thrown in front of the buildings,
that the hospitals were full of typhoid, and cholera
was anticipated; and yet neither soldiers nor
inhabitants would stir a finger to remove the
source of their miseries out of the streets; the
soldiers declaring that they were not scavengers,
and the inhabitants making some other excuse.
When warned of the consequences, each took refuge
in kismet or fate. Allah was great and able to
perform miracles. If Allah saw fit, there would
be no cholera—although their streets were reeking
with the seeds of disease.</p>

<p>In most of the towns, excitement prevailed in
organising battalions for the seat of war. The
Turks are essentially a warlike nation, and fight
for their country without a murmur, in the face of
such disadvantages as bad food and long arrears of
pay.</p>

<p>We have not before spoken of a new travelling
companion who took Osman’s place—one Mohammed
by name, who was as faithful as the Prophet
himself. Osman turned out a very bad bargain.
His fidelity to the Effendi’s purse became at last
greater even than his love of prayer; and his
keen eye after an exorbitant percentage was
worthy of a London usurer. Remonstrance was
in vain. At last he was dismissed, having been
caught thieving, and Mohammed reigned in his
stead, to the comfort of all parties. He was
a soldier and a mountaineer, brave and hardy
on land, but a coward at sea. He loved his lord
the Effendi, and dearly loved his ‘brother’ Radford’s
cooking. His ‘brother’s’ opinion of him
at parting was characteristic: ‘That Mohammed
was not such a bad chap after all, sir. Them
Turks have stomachs, and like filling them they
do; but they have something in their hearts as
well.’ And so Mohammed shewed—for in illness
he was a kind nurse, and faithful to his ‘lord’s’
interests throughout. On one occasion, Mohammed
complained of rheumatism, and Radford
applied a mustard paper. What a sensation it
created among the Kurd villagers—some of whom
were spectators of course—when they heard that
the wet paper had produced the fire under which
Mohammed lay writhing and groaning. It was a
miracle; and forthwith the Effendi was hailed
everywhere as a <i>hakim</i> or doctor, and his fame
spread from place to place on the road. A Persian
asked, and even admitted him into his harem, to
prescribe for his pretty wife, to whom he gave
small doses of quinine. Another time a Kurd
asked him to cure his toothache; but mustard
papers were powerless here; so Radford was called
in consultation, and said it ought to come out.
But there were no instruments at hand, and the
operation had to be declined. ‘Give me something
for my stomach then,’ asked the Kurd.
Three pills were then handed to him, which he
chewed deliberately, declaring, when he had
finished them, his tooth was better!</p>

<p>At one place, after passing over a narrow wooden
bridge that spanned the Euphrates—only forty
yards wide at this point—the travellers crossed
the Hasta Dagh (mountain); presently they came
to a glacier, the frozen surface of which extended
a hundred yards, the decline being steeper than
the roof of an average English house. ‘Should it
be taken?’ was the question asked with much
consternation, and decided in the affirmative. The
guide rode his horse to the glacier. The poor
animal trembled when it reached the brink; but
a reminder from Mohammed’s whip hastened the
poor brute’s decision, and he stretched his forelegs
over the declivity, almost touching the
slippery surface with his girth. Another crack
from Mohammed, and horse and guide were<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_303"></a>{303}</span>
whirling down the glacier, and only pulled up
at last by finding themselves buried in a snowdrift
six feet deep. When his turn came, Captain
Burnaby describes the sensation as if he were
‘waltzing madly down the slippery surface.’ To
witness the descent of the others was something
fearful; though not so dangerous as it appeared.
When Radford emerged from his snowy burial,
he exclaimed: ‘I never thought as how a horse
could skate before. It was more than sliding,
that it was; a cutting a figure of eight all down
the roof of a house.’</p>

<p>Our travellers at last reached Batoum, where
they parted from Mohammed, and where we must
part from them, not without sincere regret. After
this, they took ship across the Black Sea to Constantinople,
and all adventures were over. We
shall not quickly forget the two thousand miles of
ground so graphically described, and over a portion
of which we have travelled with them in the
saddle. Nor will the reader of Captain Burnaby’s
volume of travels throughout the land of the
Osmanli, easily forget the scenes and incidents and
people so graphically depicted. We omit with
regret many good stories we should like to have
told; but space is inexorable. To those who are
inclined to echo this regret, we can only say: ‘Do
as we have done, and take the ride with Burnaby
for yourselves.’</p>


<hr class="chap" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="WEDDING_EXTRAVAGANCES">WEDDING EXTRAVAGANCES.</h2>
</div>


<p><span class="smcap">The</span> following sensible observations on the wastefulness
which often takes place on marriage
occasions, are from the pen of Camilla Crosland—our
old and esteemed contributor originally
known as Camilla Toulmin. They appear in
<i>Social Notes</i>, a weekly periodical not unlike our
own, edited by Mr S. C. Hall, and which has our
best wishes for its success.</p>

<p>‘How many people there are who in fine clothes
and with smiling faces “assist” at a modern wedding,
yet in their heart of hearts think the profuse
outlay and the general festive arrangements usual
on the occasion a piece of tiresome folly! Few,
however, like to make a dead set against time-honoured
customs, unless strong personal feelings
or personal interests are concerned.</p>

<p>‘Marriage may certainly lay claim to being the
most important event in life, and as such there must
ever be solemnity associated with it. In fact our
Prayer-book speaks of the solemnisation of matrimony.
Of course it is right that there should be
a certain publicity attached to every marriage
ceremony, and probably in this fact originated
the custom of inviting friends to be present on
the occasion, till by degrees wedding-parties have
become more and more crowded, and now it is a
common thing for a vast assembly to congregate
at them. Of course where there is great wealth,
and people love this sort of display, and bride and
bridegroom have nerve for it, and are, moreover,
happy in possessing “troops of friends,” there is no
reason why money should not circulate—the confectioner
revel in <i>chefs-d’œuvre</i>, the florist realise
a week’s ordinary income in bouquets, and the
milliner make her mint of money by rich toilets.
But a vice of the English middle class is to ape
the rank above it; and I confess it has often to
me seemed pitiable to know at what a cost of
after self-denial a showy wedding has taken place.</p>

<p>‘It is desirable that when two young people,
suitable in age, character, station, are warmly
attached, they should be married as soon as prudence
permits. Let us take, for instance, the case
of an accomplished but portionless young lady, the
eldest of several daughters, who has been accustomed
to utilise her talents in the home circle.
She has been engaged, say four years, to a gentleman
in a government office with a slowly rising
salary. He is about thirty, she five or six and
twenty. He has saved enough money to furnish
a pretty little suburban dwelling, and she will be
provided by her father with a modest <i>trousseau</i>,
and they think it now high time to “settle.” Their
income, even including a fatherly allowance for
pin-money, will be considerably less than five
hundred pounds per annum, and they, being good
arithmeticians, know they must live quietly, visit
and entertain only in a homely, friendly manner,
and neither go to nor give formal parties. Of
what use is the costly white silk bridal dress,
which in all human probability will never in its
original state be worn again? It will, of course,
be laid up carefully, and looked at occasionally
with tender sentimental interest; but by-and-by,
in a year or two, it will seem old-fashioned, and
most probably be picked to pieces and dyed some
serviceable colour. Then there were probably at
least four bride’s-maids, each to be presented with
a jewelled <i>souvenir</i> by the not too affluent bridegroom,
and the costly wedding-breakfast to be
provided by the father. One mischief of the thing
being that the whole arrangement becomes a
precedent, so that the next sister who marries
would seem slighted if she were to have a less
stylish wedding.</p>

<p>‘Perhaps the costly entertainment—which is
often a great trial to the feelings of the parties
most chiefly concerned—can only be given by
dipping into a very slender capital, or by relinquishing
the autumn seaside holiday. The worst
of the matter is that the class a little below the
one I have attempted to describe, imitates the
bad example in its own way and to its own
detriment.’</p>

<p>Mrs Crosland, in conclusion, mentions a case in
which persons of respectable standing consulted
economy and common sense in their marriage
arrangements. ‘Due arrangements having been
quietly made, the young lady one morning,
dressed in ordinary attire, escorted by her father
to “give her away,” and accompanied by a
younger sister to serve as bride’s-maid, walked to
the parish church, where the expectant bridegroom
was ready to receive them. There the
ceremony was performed, the little party returning
to partake of the family luncheon before the
wedded pair started on their tour. Was not this
an example worthy under many circumstances to
be followed?’</p>


<hr class="chap" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak ph3" id="CANINE_CUNNING">CANINE CUNNING.</h2>
</div>


<p>The following is from a correspondent: ‘A
near neighbour of mine has a large mongrel
dog, a terrible nuisance to all passing the house,
which unfortunately stands near the highway.
The brute has the nasty habit of rushing out and
attacking every passing vehicle. Complaints were
loud and numerous; and at length the owner hit
upon a plan which he thought would effectually<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_304"></a>{304}</span>
cure his dog. He attached a small log of wood or
a “clog” by a chain to his collar. This answered
admirably; for no sooner did the dog start in pursuit
of anything than the clog not only checked
his speed but generally rolled him over into the
bargain. Now this would not do. Doggie was
evidently puzzled, and reflected upon the position;
and if he did not possess reasoning powers, he
certainly shewed something very like them, for
he quickly overcame the difficulty, and to the
surprise of all, was soon at his old work, nearly
as bad as ever. And this is how he managed.
No longer did he attempt to drag the clog on
the ground and allow it to check and upset him,
but before starting he caught it up in his mouth,
ran before the passing horse, dropped it, and
commenced the attack; and when distanced, would
again seize the clog in his mouth, and resume
his position ahead, and thus became as great a
pest as ever. Even on his ordinary travels about
he is now seen carrying his clog in his mouth,
instead of letting it drag on the ground between
his legs.’</p>


<h3 class="ph3">LOST DOGS.</h3>

<p>Few facts will better illustrate the vast scale on
which almost everything presents itself in the
English metropolis, even so humble a subject as
that of poor dogs that have temporarily lost their
masters, than one mentioned in the Annual Report
of the Chief Commissioner of Police. He informs
us that nearly nineteen thousand (more than
18,800) stray dogs were taken charge of by the
police in the metropolis during the year 1876!
A little romance might be mixed up with the story
of most of these homeless wanderers, if we could
but know it: how Carlo or Boxer was distressed
at losing his protector. The animals were either
taken for a while to the Dogs’ Home at Battersea,
or were otherwise provided for.</p>


<hr class="chap" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="IN_MEMORIAM">IN MEMORIAM.</h2>

<p class="ph3">(M. A. W.—POETESS. ÆTAT 25.)</p>
</div>



<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0"><span class="smcap">O Noble</span> heart! so gentle, kind;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Thy life, like a brief summer wind,</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">Hath passed away,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And left me here on earth to mourn</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Thine early flight to that sweet bourne</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">Where angels stay.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">There may my soul from slumber ’wake</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">When heaven and earth their concord break,</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">And Time is o’er;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">When Christ, in his enthroned array,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Proclaims aloud his Advent Day</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">From shore to shore!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">There may we meet at last and find</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">(Mind, heart, and soul for aye entwined)</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">Eternal rest;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">There tread together Eden’s bowers—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The land of life and light and flowers—</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">With souls as blest.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Brief was thy sojourn here, sweet girl;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And life, with all its glittering whirl,</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">Soon passed thee by;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Leaving the flower to droop unseen,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The world rolled on, not heeding e’en</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">Thy dying cry.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">In that dark hour, thy fleeting soul,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Regardless of Death’s stern control,</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">Broke forth in song;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And as the falt’ring numbers came,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">By angels fair thy hallowed fame</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">Was borne along.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">O well-beloved! enseamed in light,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">If thou canst gaze upon my night</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">Of lonely grief:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Behold me now, and mark the tears</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That still must flow through future years</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">Without relief.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Yet the dread tomb which steals away</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">From brightest gem its purest ray—</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">The Life sublime!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Must know we can its power defy,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For thou art safe beyond the sky,</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">And for all time.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Yea; thou art safe with that great God</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Who rules Creation with a rod</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">Of love and light;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The Being of a glorious mien,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Whose majesty is Grand, Serene,</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">And Infinite!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, better far thou shouldst be there,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Removed from this world’s doubt and care—</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">A gloomy train;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Full-veiled in peerless robes of light,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Enthroned where comes nor storm, nor night,</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">Nor grief, nor pain.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And could I gaze above and see</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The glow of immortality</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">That veils thy soul,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And feel thy holy presence near,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To guard me from ungodly fear,</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">And its control:</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Then should I bless the hidden blow</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That laid my darling’s bosom low</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">Within the grave;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And own that Love’s immortal Hand</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Did guide the swift unerring brand</div>
    <div class="verse indent12">Which struck to save.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse right">J. A. E.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<hr class="full" />

<p>The Conductors of <span class="smcap">Chambers’s Journal</span> beg to direct
the attention of <span class="smcap">Contributors</span> to the following notice:</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p><i>1st.</i> All communications should be addressed to the
‘Editor, 339 High Street, Edinburgh.’</p>

<p><i>2d.</i> To insure the return of papers that may prove
ineligible, postage-stamps should in every case accompany
them.</p>

<p><i>3d.</i> <span class="smcap">Manuscripts</span> should bear the author’s full <i>Christian</i>
name, surname, and address, legibly written.</p>

<p><i>4th.</i> MS. should be written on one side of the leaf only.</p>

<p><i>5th.</i> Poetical offerings should be accompanied by an
envelope, stamped and directed.</p></div>

<p><i>Unless Contributors comply with the above rules, the
Editor cannot undertake to return ineligible papers.</i></p>

<hr class="full" />

<p class="center">Printed and Published by <span class="smcap">W. &amp; R. Chambers</span>, 47 Paternoster
Row, <span class="smcap">London</span>, and 339 High Street, <span class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>.</p>

<hr class="full" />

<p class="center"><i>All Rights Reserved.</i></p>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 63533 ***</div>
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