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diff --git a/old/64975-0.txt b/old/64975-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c983c2c..0000000 --- a/old/64975-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2230 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, -Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 6, Vol. I, February 9, 1884, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, - Fifth Series, No. 6, Vol. I, February 9, 1884 - -Author: Various - -Release Date: April 03, 2021 [eBook #64975] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Susan Skinner, Eric Hutton and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The Internet - Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR -LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 6, VOL. I, FEBRUARY 9, -1884 *** - - - - -[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL - -OF - -POPULAR - -LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART - -Fifth Series - -ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832 - -CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS) - -NO. 6.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._] - - - - -CIRCULATING-LIBRARY CRITICS. - - -It appears to be a mania with some people to criticise everything which -comes in their way, no matter whether it be the last new bonnet of Mrs -Smith, the pug dog possessed by Mr Jones, or the last new novel by -Mr Brown; and as a true specimen of the ready-made critic, we might -cite those interesting individuals who, having more time upon their -hands than they can comfortably get rid of, endeavour to dispose of -some of the surplus stock by subscribing to a circulating library, and -diligently ‘cutting-up’ and otherwise abusing every author they read. -Novels, of course, are the principal dish of these readers; and it must -candidly be admitted that some of the notes pencilled in the margins -are not altogether uncalled for; though some of them are decidedly -personal, not to say unpleasant; while others, on the contrary, only -raise a smile, and if particularly ridiculous, are underlined by some -sarcastic reader, in order to call more attention to the blunder, which -has probably been committed by some indolent and not very well-informed -critic. - -But taken as a whole, this criticism, although in some cases severe, -is but the echo of public opinion, and as such, is entitled to -consideration, no matter how humble the source may appear from which -it springs; and we know of nothing more enjoyable than a well-read -book, which has been some ten or twelve months in circulation. And -such a book would without doubt prove of great service to its author, -could he by any means get hold of a copy; for he would then have the -opportunity of judging for himself how his work was appreciated by the -public; and although some of the remarks would doubtless cause him -annoyance, he should remember that they are the candid opinion of the -readers through whose hands the work has passed. And if he has good -sense and a desire to please the public, he would avail himself of -those critical remarks which seemed to be just, and alter the text in -any future editions. It is an author’s place to write his work to the -best of his ability, and that of his readers to criticise it after it -has appeared in print. Whether the book be good or bad, the author may -be sure that he will have a faithful and industrious army of critics in -the shape of subscribers to circulating libraries, who will diligently -search out all its little defects, and display them in the margin for -the edification of the next reader, who in turn will try his best to -discover something which the other has passed over, and triumphantly -display it in a similar manner. Although ‘the stone that is rolling’ -is said to gather no moss, it is a far different thing with a novel; -for the faster it passes from hand to hand, the more and more abundant -becomes its crop; and at a seaside watering-place, the writer has seen -blank sheets of letter-paper inserted between some of the leaves, -because the margins were already too crowded, to admit of some reader -adding his mite to the evidence there accumulated! - -This is why we suppose it might be advantageous to an author to get -hold of a copy of his work which has been through a like ordeal; and -let him remember at the same time that his book has probably travelled -through the hands of some people who are intimately acquainted with -certain subjects upon which it treats, and whose opinion is not to be -lightly passed over. As some of the novelists of the present day seem -to think the law a machine which they can work upon as they choose, -without the slightest regard to facts, it might be recommended to -them either to study the subject seriously, or submit any notes which -may appear upon this subject in the margins of their works, to an -experienced lawyer; and in nine cases out of ten, the author will find -that the readers’ notes are correct. This may be taken as a proof that -people, although they may pass rough criticism upon the characters, -situation, and general plot of a novel, are not so eager to criticise -points which touch upon the law, physic, &c., unless they thoroughly -understand the subject. As an instance of this, we have heard of a -doctor who would never read a new novel by a certain author, because -in a former work this gentleman had murdered a man in a manner which -my friend described as being ‘utterly ridiculous;’ for the poison -administered, and of which the character in the novel died, would not -in reality ‘have killed a cat.’ - -These remarks may serve to show that the public, although they may -accept a taking title, a pretty cover, and a pound or so of toned -paper, as a novel, will also exercise their right of picking its -contents to pieces as soon as possible. To show with what diligence -some of them do so, we quote the following: ‘The red rose actually -_died_ the captain’s cheeks.’ The word in italics is underlined in the -book, and altered in the margin to _dyed_. This, of course, is merely -a printer’s error; but it serves to show how the circulating-library -critic delights in ‘cutting-up’ the work of other people’s brains, -and exposing to the best advantage any little defect he may discover. -Then, again, in the same work, in describing the scene of a shipwreck, -the author makes use of the following words: ‘Quantities of chips, and -pieces of wood, and bits of _iron, were floating about_.’ The words in -italics are underlined in pencil by some incredulous reader, who could -not quite appreciate the joke, and took this method of calling the next -reader’s attention to it. The words might have been a mere slip of the -pen; but, as they stand underlined in the book, it is impossible to -overlook them now. - -A little farther on in the same work, an unmarried gentleman is -supposed to have made his will, bequeathing all his property to -friends settled in the colonies; and his relatives at his decease are -disputing the same, when this paragraph occurs, and is supposed to be -uttered by a _lawyer_: ‘But had he lived to marry Lady A——, he would -surely have cancelled this will!’ Probably had the gentleman lived, he -would have done so; but our pencil-critic shows that such an act would -have been altogether unnecessary, by writing against the paragraph: -‘The act of marrying would have rendered it null.’ This is strictly -and legally correct; and as the words are supposed to be spoken by a -lawyer, it shows that the opinion of these gentlemen is not always to -be implicitly relied upon, especially when they air them in a novel. - -To turn now to the criticising of situations, we find our amateur -critic is quite as hard upon them as he is upon the characters, and -will not allow a novelist to make use of situations which it is -scarcely probable would happen in real life. A noble lord is forced -through some miraculous circumstances which would rival the adventures -narrated in the _Arabian Nights_, to associate with poachers, who are -well known to the police; and after some time has elapsed, he at length -regains the property, which has wrongfully been kept from him by his -uncle; and to celebrate this happy event, he gives what is styled in -the novel a ‘levée,’ and invites thereto the whole country-side, -_including the poachers_, and also the police of the town. Our critic -could not quite appreciate the novelty of this situation, and therefore -pencils in the margin: ‘Is it likely the poachers would have ventured -there?’ After studying the facts of the case, and reducing the subject -to practical life, which is evidently the meaning of our critic, -and also bearing in mind that the police and poachers were in the -same room, and that several of the latter were ‘wanted’ for various -offences, we may take that bit of criticism as sound. - -If our voluntary critics will read novels, they must expect novel -things; but as far as our observation goes, this is the very thing -they criticise most. They will not allow a young and delicate lady to -elope with a handsome Captain on a stormy night with nothing to protect -her from the weather but a flimsy ball-dress, under any consideration -whatever; but feelingly suggest in the margin that the gentleman should -either offer her his ulster or procure an umbrella; a piece of advice -for which I am sure the young lady’s parents would devoutly thank them, -if they only had the pleasure of their acquaintance. - -We might easily add to these examples; but the above is sufficient to -show that the novelist who sits down to write a work of fiction merely -for the sake of airing an opinion, or to please a certain person, -neither caring in what language he expresses himself nor how absurd the -book may be, may be sure of a warm reception when his work falls into -the hands of the circulating-library critics. - - - - -BY MEAD AND STREAM. - - -CHAPTER IX.—SLANDER’S SHAFT. - -They were still at breakfast when the postman arrived, and Madge was -surprised to find amongst the letters two from the Manor. Both were -addressed in Miss Hadleigh’s large angular writing: one was for her -uncle, the other for herself. - -As Madge had long conducted her uncle’s correspondence, she attended -to his letters first; but remembering that still unexplained quarrel, -misunderstanding, or whatever it was, between him and Mr Hadleigh, she -discreetly kept the letter from Ringsford back till she had disposed -of the others. These were all on business, and of a most satisfactory -nature: good prices for grain, good prices for sheep and cattle, and -reports of a deficient harvest in America, whilst that of Willowmere -was excellent. Uncle Dick was in capital humour, and disposed to be on -good terms with everybody. It is wonderful how prosperous all the world -looks when our own affairs are thriving; and how merciful we can be in -our judgment as to the cause of our neighbour’s failure. - -Then Madge—sly Madge—opened the Ringsford letter, and read a formal -invitation to dinner at the Manor a fortnight hence, on the eve of Mr -Philip Hadleigh’s departure. - -‘You will go, of course, uncle?’ said Madge, looking up with a coaxing -smile.—‘And you will break through your rule of not going to parties -for once, aunt? You know we may not see Philip for a long, long time.’ - -Aunt Hessy smiled, and looked inquiringly at her husband. Dick Crawshay -was not a man to bear malice; but it was evident that he did not relish -this invitation. He was not frowning, but his face was not quite so -cheerful as it had been a moment before. - -‘I don’t know,’ he said, rising. ‘I hate these sort of things at -Ringsford. They’ve always a lot of people that don’t know anything’ -(about farming and cattle, he meant); ‘and when I’m there, I always -feel as uncomfortable as a bull in a china-shop that didn’t want to -break the crockery. Certain, I have spoken to some young fools that -knew all about betting lists, but not one that knew the points of a -horse—except Wrentham. They only want me there because they want you, -Madge; and if it wasn’t for you, I’d say no straight off.’ - -‘But you mustn’t do that, uncle; at least wait till we see what is in -my letter.’ - -‘You can tell me about it when I come in. That new reaping-machine -ain’t doing what I expected of it, and I want to give it a fair trial -under my own eyes.’ - -With that he went out, preceded by the dogs; for they had made for the -door the moment their master rose to his feet, and as it opened, almost -tumbled over each other in their haste to be first afield. - -‘I hope he will go,’ said Madge thoughtfully; adding, after a pause: -‘We must try to persuade him, aunt.’ - -‘Why are you so anxious about this, child? I never knew you to be very -eager to go to Ringsford yourself.’ - -‘Because I am about to disappoint Mr Hadleigh in a matter which he -considers of great importance.’ - -Then she read the strange letter she had received from him, and -Dame Crawshay was surprised almost as much as Madge herself by the -earnestness of the appeal it contained. She was silent for several -minutes, evidently occupied by some serious reflections. At length: - -‘Thou knowest how I love the lad; but that does not blind me to his -faults—nay, it need not startle thee to hear me say he has faults: we -all have our share of them. Perhaps it is lucky for thee that what -seems to me Philip’s worst fault is that he has the impulsive way his -father speaks about.’ - -‘But all his impulses are good-natured ones.’ - -‘I do not doubt it; but that makes it the more needful he should have -some experience of the world’s ways before tying himself and you down -to a hard-and-fast line. Nothing but experience will ever teach us that -the hard-and-fast line of life is the easiest in the end. There’s a -heap of truth in what Mr Hadleigh says about Philip, though he doesn’t -seem to me to have found the surest way of keeping him right.’ - -‘What would you advise, then?’ was the eager question. - -‘Thou must settle this matter for thyself, Madge; but I will tell thee -that there is one thing Mr Hadleigh is quite wrong about.’ - -‘What is that?’ - -‘In saying that Mr Shield would try to keep Philip from _you_.’ - -The emphasis on the last word and the curious, half-sad, half-pleased -smile which accompanied it, caused Madge to ask wonderingly: - -‘Did you know Mr Shield?’ - -‘Ay, long ago, before he went abroad.’ - -‘Have you never seen him since?’ - -‘Once—only once, and that was a sad time, although we were not five -minutes together. He heard only a bit of the truth: he would not stay -to hear it all, and I daresay he has had many a sorry hour for it -since.’ - -She ceased, and leaning back on her chair, lapsed into a dream of -sorrowful memories. Madge did not like to disturb her, for she was -suddenly amazed by the suspicion that once upon a time Austin Shield -had been Aunt Hessy’s lover. - -But the active dame was not given to wool-gathering, and looking up -quickly, she caught the expression of her niece, and guessed its -meaning. - -‘Nay, thou art mistaken,’ she said, shaking her head, and that curious -smile again appeared on her face; ‘there has only been one man that -was ever more than another to me, and that’s thy uncle.... But I’ll -tell thee a secret, child; it can do no harm. Hast forgotten what I was -telling thee and Philip in the garden yesterday?’ - -‘About the two lovers? O no.’ - -‘Well, the man was Mr Austin Shield, and the girl was thy mother.’ - -‘My mother!’ was the ejaculation of the astounded Madge. - -‘Yes. It was a silly business on her part, poor soul; but she was -cruelly deceived. She had been told lies about him; and there were so -many things which made them look like truth, that she believed them.’ - -‘What could she have been told that could make her forget him?’ - -‘She never did forget him—she never could forget him; and she told the -man she married so. What she was told was, that Austin had forgotten -her, and taken somebody else to wife. At the same time no letters came -from him. She waited for months, watching every post; but there was -never a sign from him. She fretted and fretted; and father fretted to -see her getting so bad on account of a man who was not worth thinking -about. He had broken his word, and that was enough to make father turn -his back on him for ever.’ - -‘But how did my mother come to—to marry so soon?’ - -‘She was kind of persuaded into it by father, and by her wish to -please him. He was a kind good man; but he was strict in his notions -of things. He considered that it was sinful of her to be thinking of a -man who had done her such wrong. Then Mr Heathcote was a great friend -of father’s—he was a deacon in our chapel—and he asked sister to be his -wife. He was quiet and well-to-do then; and father was on his side, -though he was twenty years older than your mother. Father thought that -his age would make him the better guide for one who was so weak as to -keep on mourning for a base man. He was never done speaking about the -happy home that was offered her, and in every prayer asked the Lord to -turn her heart into the right path. At last she consented: but she -told Mr Heathcote everything; and he said he was content, and that -he would try his best to make her content too, by-and-by. Father was -glad—and that did cheer poor sister a bit, for she was fond of father. -So she married.’ - -‘And then?’ - -Only the subdued voice, the wide, startled eyes, indicated the -agitation of the daughter, who was listening to this piteous story of a -mother’s suffering. - -‘And then there came a letter from Austin Shield, and he came himself -almost as soon as the letter. He had been “up country,” as he called -it, for more than a year, and he had been lucky beyond all his -expectations. But there were no posts in the wild places he had been -staying at. He had written to warn us not to expect to hear of him -for many months; but the vessel that was carrying that message home -to us—eh, deary, what sorrow it would have saved us—was wrecked in a -fog on some big rock near the Scilly Isles; and although a-many of the -mail-bags were fished up out of the sea, the one with sister’s letter -in it was never found.’ - -‘What did my poor mother do?’ - -‘She sat and shivered and moaned; but she could not speak. I saw him -when he came, and told him that he must not see her any more, for she -was married. I wasn’t able to tell him how it happened, for the sight -of his face feared me so. It was like white stone, and his eyes were -black. Before I could get my tongue again, he gave me a look that I can -never forget, and walked away.... I found out where he was, some time -afterwards, and wrote telling him all about it. He answered me, saying: -“Thank you. I understand. God bless you all.” We never had another word -direct from him; but we often heard about him; and some time after your -mother went to rest, we learned that he had really got married; and the -news pleased me vastly, for it helped me to think that maybe he was -comfortable and resigned at last. I hope he is; but he has no family, -and his sending for Philip looks as if he wants somebody to console -him.’ - -‘But who was it spread the lies about him at the first?’ - -‘Ah, that we never knew. It was cleverly done; the story was in -everybody’s mouth; but nobody could tell where it had come from.’ - -The feelings of Madge as she listened to her aunt were of a complicated -nature: there was the painful sympathy evoked by the knowledge that it -was her own mother who had been so wickedly deceived; then it seemed as -if the events related had happened to some one else; and again there -was a mysterious sense of awe as she recognised how closely the past -and the present were linked together. Philip was the near relation of -the man her mother had loved, and was to be parted from her on his -account for an indefinite period. - -Who could tell what Fate might lie in this coincidence? - -She pitied the lovers; and her indignation rose to passion at thought -of the slanderers who had caused them so much misery. Then came -confused thoughts about her father: he, too, must have loved as well -as Mr Shield; and he had been generous. - -Gentle hands were laid upon her bowed head, and looking up, she met the -tender eyes of Aunt Hessy. - -‘I have troubled you, child; but I have told you this so that you may -understand why I cannot counsel you to bid Philip stay or go.’ - -A soft light beamed on Madge’s face; a sweet thought filled her heart. -She would bid Philip go to help and comfort the man her mother had -loved. - - -CHAPTER X.—LIGHT AND SHADOW. - -As soon as she found that Madge was calm and ready to proceed with the -duties of the day, Aunt Hessy bustled out to look after the maidens in -the dairy and the kitchen. The other affairs of the house were attended -to by Madge assisted by Jenny Wodrow, an active girl, who had wisely -given up straw-plaiting at Luton for domestic service at Willowmere. - -When clearing the breakfast-table, Madge found Miss Hadleigh’s letter, -which she had forgotten in the new interests and speculations excited -by her aunt’s communication. - -Miss Hadleigh was one of those young ladies who fancy that in personal -intercourse with others dignity is best represented by the assumption -of a languid air of indifference to everything, whilst they compensate -themselves for this effort by ‘gushing’ over pages of note-paper. Of -course she began with ‘My dearest Madge:’ everybody was her ‘dearest;’ -and how she found a superlative sufficient to mark the degree of her -regard for her betrothed is a problem in the gymnastics of language. - -‘You know all about dearest Phil going to leave us in about a fortnight -or three weeks, and goodness only knows when he may come home again. -Well, we are going to have a _little_ dinner-party all to his honour -and glory, as you would see by the card I have addressed to your uncle. -Mind, it is a _little_ and very select party. There will be nobody -present except the most intimate and most esteemed friends of the -Family.’ (Family written with a very large capital F.) - -‘Now the party cannot be _complete_ without you and your dear uncle -and aunt; and I write this _special_ supplement to the card to implore -you to keep yourselves free for Tuesday the 28th, and to tell you that -we will take _no_ excuse from any of you. Carrie and Bertha want to -have some friends in after dinner, so that they might get up a dance. -Of course, in my position I do not care for these things now; but to -please the girls, it might be arranged. Would _you_ like it?—because, -if you did, that would settle the matter at once. We have not told -Phil yet, because he always makes fun of _everything_ we do to try -and amuse him. Papa has been consulted, and as usual leaves it _all_ -to us.—Please do write soon, darling, and believe me ever yours most -affectionately, - - BEATRICE HADLEIGH.’ - -‘_P.S._—If you don’t mind, dear, I wish you _would_ tell me what colour -you are to wear, so that I might have something to harmonise with it. -We might have a symphony all to ourselves, as the æsthetes call it.’ - -From this it appeared that Philip’s sisters were not aware of their -father’s desire to keep him at home. There would be no difficulty in -replying to Miss Hadleigh—even to the extent of revealing the colour of -her dress—when Uncle Dick had consented to go. - -When the immediate household cares were despatched, Madge sat down at -her desk to write to Mr Hadleigh. She was quite clear about what she -had to say; but she paused, seeking the gentlest way of saying it. - -‘DEAR MR HADLEIGH,’ she began at last, ‘Your letter puts a great -temptation in my way; and I should be glad to avoid doing anything to -displease you. But your son has given me a reason for his going, which -leaves him no alternative but to go, and me no alternative but to pray -that he may return safely and well.’ - -When she had signed and sealed up this brief epistle, a mountain seemed -to roll off her shoulders; her head became clear again: she _knew_ that -what Philip and her mother would have wished had been done. A special -messenger was sent off with it to Ringsford; for although the distance -between the two places was only about three miles, the letter would not -have been delivered until next day, had it gone by the ordinary post. - - * * * * * - -Mr Hadleigh read these few lines without any sign of disappointment. -He read them more than once, and found in them something so quietly -decisive, that he would have considered it an easier task to conquer -Philip in his most obstinate mood, than to move this girl one -hair’s-breadth from her resolve. - -He refolded the paper carefully and placed it in his pocket. Then he -rang the bell. - -‘Bid Toomey be ready to drive me over to catch the ten o’clock train,’ -he said quietly to the servant who answered his summons. - -‘A pity, a pity,’ he repeated to himself. ‘Fools both—they will not -accept happiness when it is offered them. A pity, a pity.... They will -have their way.’ - -The carriage conveyed him to Dunthorpe Station in good time for the -train; and the train being a ‘fast,’ landed him at Liverpool Street -Station before eleven o’clock. - -He walked slowly along Broad Street, a singular contrast to the hurry -and bustle of the other passengers. He was not going in the direction -of his own offices; and he did not look as if he were going on any -particular business anywhere. He had the air of a man who was taking an -enforced constitutional, and who by mistake had wandered into the city -instead of into the park. - -He turned into Cornhill, and then into Golden Alley, which must have -obtained its name when gold was only known in quartz; for it was a -dull, gloomy-looking place, with dust-stained windows and metal plates -up the sides of the doorways, so begrimed that it required an effort of -the sight to decipher the names on them. But it was quiet and eminently -respectable. Standing in Golden Alley, one had the sense of being in -the midst of steady-going, long-established firms, who had no need of -outward show to attract customers. - -Mr Hadleigh halted for a moment at one of the doors, and looked at -a leaden-like plate, bearing the simple inscription, GRIBBLE & CO. -He ascended one flight of stairs, and entered an office in which two -clerks were busy at their desks, whilst a youth at another desk near -the door was addressing envelopes with the eager rapidity of one who is -paid so much per thousand. - -No one paid any attention to the opening of the door. - -‘Is Mr Wrentham in?’ inquired Mr Hadleigh. - -At the sound of his voice, one of the clerks advanced obsequiously. - -‘Yes, sir. He is engaged at present; but I will send in your name.’ - -He knew who the visitor was; and after rapidly writing the name on a -slip of paper, took it into an inner room. Mr Hadleigh glanced over -some bills which were lying on the counter announcing the dates of -sailing of a number of A1 clippers and first-class screw-steamers to -all parts of the world. - -The clerk reappeared, and with a polite, ‘Will you walk in, sir?’ held -the door of the inner room open till Mr Hadleigh passed in, and then -closed it. - -Mr Wrentham rose from his table, holding out his hand. ‘Glad to see you -here, Mr Hadleigh—very glad. I hope it is business that brings you?’ - -‘Yes—important business,’ was the answer. - - - - -CURIOUS ANTIPATHIES IN ANIMALS. - - -I. HORSES. - -My late father-in-law, a physician in extensive practice, once -possessed a horse named Jack, which was celebrated for his many -peculiarities and his great sagacity. One of his antipathies was a -decided hatred to one particular melody, the well-known Irish air, -_Drops of Brandy_. If any one began to whistle or hum this air, Jack -would instantly show fight by laying his ears back, grinding his teeth, -biting and kicking, but always recovering his good temper when the -music ceased. No other melody or music of any kind ever affected him; -you might whistle or sing as long as you liked, provided you did not -attempt the objectionable Irish air. One of the doctor’s nephews and -Jack were great friends. The lad could do almost anything with him; but -if he presumed to whistle the objectionable melody of Erin, Jack would -show his displeasure by instantly pulling off the lad’s cap and biting -it savagely, but never attempting the smallest personal injury to the -boy himself, and always exhibiting his love when the sounds ceased; -thus saying, as plainly as a horse could say: ‘We are great friends, -and I love you very much; but pray, don’t make that odious noise, to -which I entertain a very strong objection.’ - -Jack had another and very peculiar antipathy—he never would permit -anything bulky to be carried by his rider. This came out for the first -time one day when the doctor was going on a visit, and having to sleep -at his friend’s, intended to take a small handbag with him. On the -groom handing this up to the doctor, after he was mounted, Jack—who had -been an attentive observer of the whole proceeding by craning his head -round—at once exhibited his strong displeasure by rearing, kicking, -buck-jumping, and jibing—so utterly unlike his usual steady-going ways, -that the doctor at once divined the cause, and threw the bag down, -when Jack became perfectly quiet and docile; but instantly, however, -re-enacting the same scene, when the groom once more offered the bag -to the doctor. The experiment was repeated several times, and always -with the same singular result; and at length the attempt was given -up, when Jack trotted off on his journey, showing the best of tempers -throughout. Why he should have exhibited this extraordinary dislike to -carrying a small handbag, which was neither large in size nor heavy in -weight, it is impossible even to guess. - -On another occasion the groom, wishing to bring home with him a small -sack containing some household requisite, thought to lay it across the -front of his saddle; but Jack was too quick and too sharp for him. -Instantly rearing, and then kicking violently, he threw the groom off -on one side and the objectionable burden on the other. After this, no -further attempts were made to ruffle the customary serenity of Jack’s -rather peculiar temper. - -The same gentleman also possessed a beautiful bay mare called Jenny, -remarkable for her sweet temper and pretty loving ways. She was a -great favourite with the doctor’s daughters, and would ‘shake hands’ -when asked, and kiss them in the most engaging manner, with a sort -of nibbling motion of her black lips up and down the face. She would -follow any one she liked about the fields, answer to her name like a -dog, and would always salute any of her favourites on seeing them with -that pretty low ‘hummering’ sound so common with pet horses, but never -heard from those subject to ill-treatment. But, with all these graces, -the pretty and interesting Jenny had several peculiar antipathies, in -one of which she too somewhat resembled a dog Wag (to be noticed in a -future article), and that was a marked dislike to the singing voice of -one particular person, a lady, a relative of the doctor’s. This lady -often went to the stable to feed Jenny with lettuces or apples, and -they were always the best of friends; but so sure as she began to sing -anything, Jenny instantly forgot her good manners, lost all propriety, -and exhibited the usual signs of strong equine displeasure, although -she never took the smallest notice of the singing or whistling of any -other person, treating it apparently with indifference. One day, as the -doctor was driving this lady out, he suggested, by way of experiment, -that she should begin to sing. In a moment, Jenny’s ears were down -flat, and a great kick was delivered with hearty goodwill on to the -front of the carriage; and more would doubtless have followed, had not -the lady prudently stopped short in her vocal efforts; when Jenny was -herself again, and resumed her usual good behaviour. - -Another and very remarkable peculiarity of Jenny’s was her -unaccountable antipathy to the doctor’s wife. If that lady approached -her, she would grind her teeth savagely, and try to bite her in the -most spiteful manner. What is perhaps even more singular, she would -never, if possible, let the lady get into the carriage, if she knew -it. Jenny would turn her head, and keep a lookout behind her, in the -drollest manner possible; and the moment she caught sight of the lady -approaching the carriage for the purpose of getting in, Jenny would -immediately commence her troublesome tantrums of biting and kicking. So -strongly did she object to drawing her mistress, that more than once -she damaged the carriage with her powerful heels, so that the doctor -was obliged to request his wife to approach the carriage from behind, -whilst a groom held Jenny’s head, to prevent her looking round. Even -this was not always sufficient; for if the lady talked or laughed, -Jenny would actually recognise her voice, and the usual ‘scene’ would -be forthwith enacted. Now, the most singular part of this story is, -that this lady was, like all her family, a genuine lover of all -animals, especially horses. She was very fond of Jenny, and had tried -in every way to make friends with her, and therefore her dislike to -her mistress was all the more unaccountable, as there was not a shadow -of cause for it. We can all understand dislike on the part of any -animal where there has been any sort of ill-usage; but it is wholly -inexplicable when nothing but love and kindness has been invariably -practised towards that animal. - -Jenny I am afraid was a great pet, and like all pets, was full of -fads and fancies. One of these was certainly peculiar. Not far from -the doctor’s residence there was a particular gate opening into a -field. As soon as Jenny came near this gate, she would commence -her tantrums, rearing, kicking, plunging, jibing, and altogether -declining to pass it; and it was not until after the exercise of a -great amount of patience and perseverance, by repeatedly leading -her—after much opposition—up to the gate and making her see it and -smell it—thereby proving to her that it would do her no harm—that at -length she was brought to pass it quietly and without notice. What -could have occasioned this strange antipathy to one particular gate, -it is impossible to guess, for, until she came into the doctor’s -possession, she had never been in that part of the county, and -therefore could have had no unpleasant recollections of this gate in -any way. It is, however, possible that the gate in question might -have strongly resembled some other gate elsewhere with which were -associated disagreeable memories; for I well remember that, some years -ago, I often rode a fine young mare which had only recently come from -Newmarket, where she had been trained. At first, she could never be -induced to go down Rotten Row without a great deal of shying, jibing, -and rearing, and other signs of resistance and displeasure. And this -was subsequently explained by the fact, that the place where she was -trained and exercised at Newmarket was a long road with a range of -posts and rails, closely resembling Rotten Row; and doubtless the mare -was under the impression that this was either the same place, or that -she was about to be subjected to the same severe training which she had -undergone at Newmarket; hence her determined opposition. - -One more trait of Jenny’s odd antipathies must be mentioned before -I conclude, and that was her fixed aversion to men of the working -peasant class. She would never let such a man hold her by the bridle, -or even approach her, without trying to bite him, and jerking her head -away with every sign of anger and aversion whilst he stood near. But -she never exhibited any feelings of dislike to well-dressed, clean, -comfortable-looking persons, who might have done almost anything with -her, and with whom she would ‘shake hands,’ or kiss in the gentlest -possible manner. Of a truth, Jenny was certainly unique in her odd -fancies and peculiar behaviour in every way; a singular mixture of good -and evil—a spiteful, vindictive temper on the one hand, combined with -the utmost affection and docility on the other. - - - - -TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME. - -A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS. - - -CHAPTER VI. - -Five minutes later, Miss Brandon burst into the room in her usual -impulsive fashion. Lady Dimsdale was standing at one of the windows. It -was quite enough for Elsie to find there was some one to talk to—more -especially when that some one was Lady Dimsdale, whom she looked upon -as the most charming woman in the world. At once she began to rattle on -after her usual fashion. ‘Thank goodness, those hateful exercises are -over for to-day. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. Arma virumque -cano. How I do detest Latin! My grandmother didn’t know a word of it, -and she was the most delightful old lady I ever knew. Besides, where’s -the use of it? When Charley and I are married, I can’t talk to him in -Latin—nor even to the butcher’s boy, nor the fishmonger. Perhaps, if I -were to speak to my poodle in dog-Latin, he might understand me.’ Then, -with a sudden change of manner, she said: ‘Dear Lady Dimsdale, what is -the matter?’ for Laura had turned, and the traces of tears were still -visible around her eyes. ‘Why, I do believe you have been’—— - -‘Yes, crying—that’s the only word for it,’ answered Laura with a smile. - -‘Do tell me what it is. Nothing serious?’ - -‘Nothing more serious than the last chapter of a foolish love-story.’ -She had taken up a book instinctively. - -‘I’m awfully glad it’s nothing worse. Love-stories that make one cry -are delicious. I always feel better after a good cry.’ Her sharp eyes -were glancing over the title of the book in Lady Dimsdale’s hand. -‘“Buchan’s _Domestic Medicine_,”’ she read out aloud. ‘Dear Lady -Dimsdale, surely this is not the book that’—— She was suddenly silent. -The room had a bow-window, the casement of which stood wide open this -sunny morning. Elsie had heard voices on the terrace outside. ‘That’s -dear old nunky’s voice,’ she said. ‘And—yes—no—I do believe it is -though!’ She crossed to the window and peeped out from behind the -curtains. - -Stumping slowly along the terrace, assisted by his thick Malacca, came -Captain Bowood. By his side marched a dark-bearded military-looking -inspector of police, dressed in the regulation blue braided frock-coat -and peaked cap. They were engaged in earnest conversation. - -‘An inspector of police! What can be the matter? I do believe they are -coming here.’ So spoke Elsie; but when she looked round, expecting a -response, she found herself alone. Lady Dimsdale had slipped out of the -room. - -The voices came nearer. Elsie seated herself at the table, opened a -book, ruffled her hair, and pretended to be poring over her lessons. - -The door opened, and Captain Bowood, followed by the inspector, entered -the room. ‘Pheugh! Enough to frizzle a nigger,’ ejaculated the former, -as he mopped his forehead with his yellow bandana handkerchief. Then -perceiving Elsie, he said, as he pinched one of her ears, ‘Ha, Poppet, -you here?’ - -‘Yes, nunky; and dreadfully puzzled I am. I want to find out in what -year the Great Pyramid was built. Do, please, tell me.’ - -‘Ha, ha!—Listen to that, Mr Inspector.—If you had asked me the distance -from here to New York, now. Great Pyramid, eh?’ - -The inspector, pencil and notebook in hand, was examining the -fastenings of the window. ‘Very insecure, Captain Bowood,’ he said; -‘very insecure indeed. A burglar would make short work of them.’ - -Miss Brandon was eying him furtively. There was a puzzled look on her -face. ‘I could almost swear it was Charley’s voice; and yet’—— - -‘Come, come; you’ll frighten us out of our wits, if you talk like -that,’ answered the Captain. - -‘Many burglaries in this neighbourhood of late,’ remarked the inspector -sententiously. - -‘Just so, just so.’ This was said a little uneasily. - -‘Best to warn you in time, sir.’ - -‘O Charley, you naughty, naughty boy!’ remarked Miss Brandon under her -breath. ‘Even I did not know him at first.’ - -‘But if Mr Burglar chooses to pay us a visit, who’s to hinder him?’ -asked the Captain. - -The inspector shrugged his shoulders and smiled an inscrutable smile. - -‘You don’t mean to say that they intend to pay us a visit to-night? -Come now.’ - -‘Every reason to believe so, Captain.’ - -‘But, confound it! how do you know all this?’ - -‘Secret information. Know many things. Mrs Bowood keeps her jewel-case -in top left-hand drawer in her dressing-room. Know that.’ - -‘Bless my heart! How did you find that out?’ - -‘Secret information. Gold chronometer with inscription on it hidden -away at the bottom of your writing-desk. Know that.’ - -‘How the’—— - -‘Secret information.’ - -‘O Charley, Charley, you artful darling!’—this _sotto voce_ from Miss -Brandon. - -The Captain looked bewildered, as well he might. ‘This is really most -wonderful,’ he said. ‘But about those rascals who, you say, are going -to visit us to-night?’ - -‘Give ’em a warm reception, Captain. Leave that to me.’ - -‘Yes, yes. Warm reception. Good. Have some of your men in hiding, eh, -Mr Inspector?’ - -‘Half a dozen of ’em, Captain.’ - -‘Just so, just so. And I’ll be in hiding too. I’ve a horse-pistol -up-stairs nearly as long as my arm.’ - -‘Shan’t need that, sir.’ - -‘No good having a horse-pistol if one doesn’t make use of it now and -then.’ - -‘Half-a-dozen men—three inside the house, and three out,’ remarked the -inspector as he wrote down the particulars in his book. - -‘And I’ll make the seventh—don’t forget that!’ cried the Captain, -looking as fierce as some buccaneer of bygone days. ‘If there’s one -among the burglars more savage than the rest, leave him for me to -tackle.’ - -‘My poor, dear nunky, if you only knew!’ murmured Elsie under her -breath. - -‘Perhaps I had better lend you a pair of these, Captain; they might -prove useful in a scuffle,’ remarked the inspector as he produced a -pair of handcuffs from the tail-pocket of his coat. ‘The simplest -bracelets in the world. The easiest to get on, and the most difficult -to get off—till you know how. Allow me. This is how it’s done. What -could be more simple?’ - -Nothing apparently could be more simple, seeing that, before Captain -Bowood knew what had happened, he found himself securely handcuffed. - -‘Ha, ha—just so. Queer sensation—very,’ he exclaimed, turning redder in -the face than usual. ‘But I don’t care how soon you take them off, Mr -Inspector.’ - -‘No hurry, Captain, no hurry.’ - -‘Confound you! what do you mean by no hurry? What’—— But here the -Captain came to a sudden stop. - -The inspector’s black wig and whiskers had vanished, and the laughingly -impudent features of his peccant nephew were revealed to his astonished -gaze. - -‘Good-afternoon, my dear uncle. This is the second time to-day that I -have had the pleasure of seeing you.’ Then he called: ‘Elsie, dear!’ - -‘Here I am, Charley,’ came in immediate response. - -‘Come and kiss me.’ - -‘Yes, Charley.’ And with that Miss Brandon rose from her chair, and -with a slightly heightened colour and the demurest air possible, came -down the room and allowed her lover to lightly touch her lips with his. -It was a pretty picture. - -‘What—what! Why—why,’ spluttered the Captain. For a little while words -seemed to desert him. - -‘My dear uncle, pray, _pray_, do not allow yourself to get quite so red -in the face; at your time of life you really alarm me.’ - -‘You—you vile young jackanapes! You—you cockatrice!—And you, miss, you -shall smart for this. I’ll—I’ll—— Oh!’ - -‘Patience, good uncle; prithee, patience.’ - -‘Patience! O for a good horsewhip!’ - -‘When I called upon you this morning, sir,’ resumed Charles the -imperturbable, ‘I left unsaid the most important part of that which -I had come to say; it therefore became needful that I should see you -again.’ - -‘O for a horsewhip! Are you going to take these things off me, or are -you not?’ - -‘The object of my second visit, sir, is to inform you that Miss Brandon -and I are engaged to be married, and to beg of you to give us your -consent and blessing, and make two simple young creatures happy.’ - -‘Handcuffed like a common poacher on his way to jail! Oh, when once I -get free!’ - -‘We have made up our minds to get married; haven’t we, Elsie?’ - -‘We have—or else to die together,’ replied Miss Brandon, as she struck -a little tragic attitude. - -‘Think over what I have said, my dear uncle, and accord us your -consent.’ - -‘Or our deaths will lie at your door.’ - -‘Every night as the clock struck twelve, you would see us by your side.’ - -‘You would never more enjoy your rum-and-water and your pipe.’ - -‘I should tickle your ear with a ghostly feather, and wake you in the -middle of your first sleep.’ - -‘I shall go crazy—crazy!’ spluttered the Captain. He would have stamped -his foot, only he was afraid of the gout. - -‘Not quite, sir, I hope,’ replied young Summers, with a sudden change -of manner; and next moment, and without any action of his own in the -matter, the Captain found himself a free man. The first thing he did -was to make a sudden grasp at his cane; but Elsie was too quick for -him, or it might have fared ill with her sweetheart. - -Master Charley laughed. ‘I am sorry, my dear uncle, to have to leave -you now; but time is pressing. You will not forget what I have said, I -feel sure. I shall look for your answer to my request in the course of -three or four days; or would you prefer, sir, that I should wait upon -you for it in person?’ - -‘If you ever dare to set foot inside my door again, I’ll—I’ll -spiflicate you—yes, sir, spiflicate you!’ - -‘To what a terrible fate you doom me, good my lord!—Come, Elsie, you -may as well walk with me through the shrubbery.’ - -Miss Brandon going up suddenly to Captain Bowood, flung her arms round -his neck and kissed him impulsively. ‘You dear, crusty, cantankerous, -kind-hearted old thing, I can’t help loving you!’ she cried. - -‘Go along, you baggage. As bad as he is—every bit. Go along.’ - -‘_Au revoir_, uncle,’ said Mr Summers with his most courtly stage bow. -‘We shall meet again—at Philippi.’ - -A moment later, Captain Bowood found himself alone. ‘There’s -impudence!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s worse than that; it’s cheek—downright -cheek. Never bamboozled like it before. Handcuffed! What an old -nincompoop I must have looked! Good thing Sir Frederick or any of -the others didn’t see me. I should never have heard the last of it.’ -With that, the last trace of ill-humour vanished, and he burst into -a hearty, sailor-like guffaw. ‘Just the sort of trick I should have -gloried in when I was a young spark!’ He rose from his chair, took -his cane in his hand, and limped as far as the window, his gout being -rather troublesome this afternoon. ‘So, so. There they go, arm in -arm. Who would have thought of Don Carlos falling in love with Miss -Saucebox? But I don’t know that he could do better. She’s a good -girl—a little flighty just now; but that will cure itself by-and-by—and -she will have a nice little property when she comes of age. Must -pretend to set my face against it, though, and that will be sure to -make them fonder of one another. Ha, ha! we old sea-dogs know a thing -or two.’ And with that the Captain winked confidentially to himself two -or three times and went about his business. - - * * * * * - -When Sir Frederick Pinkerton followed Mrs Bowood and Mrs Boyd out of -the room where the interview had taken place, and left Lady Dimsdale -sitting there alone, he quitted the house at once, and sauntered in his -usual gingerly fashion through the flower-garden to an unfrequented -part of the grounds known as the Holly Walk, where there was not much -likelihood of his being interrupted. Like Lady Dimsdale, he wanted to -be alone. Just then, he had much to occupy his thoughts. To and fro he -paced the walk slowly and musingly, his hands behind his back, his eyes -bent on the ground. - -‘What tempts me to do this thing?’ he asked himself, not once, but -several times. ‘That I dislike the man is quite certain; why, then, -take upon myself to interfere between this woman and him? Certainly I -have nothing to thank Oscar Boyd for; why, then, mix myself up in a -matter that concerns me no more than it concerns the man in the moon? -If he had not appeared on the scene just when he did, I might perhaps -have won Lady Dimsdale for my wife. But now? Too late—too late! Even -when he and this woman shall have gone their way, he will live in -my lady’s memory, never probably to be forgotten. He is her hero of -romance. That he made love to her in years gone by, when they were -young together, there is little doubt; that he made love to her again -this morning, and met with no such rebuff as I did, seems equally -clear; and though she knows now that he can never become her husband, -yet she on her side will never forget him. In what way, then, am I -called upon to interfere in his affairs? Should I not be a fool for -my pains? And yet to let that woman claim him as her own, when a word -from me would—— No! _Noblesse oblige._ What should I think of myself -in years to come, if I were to permit this man’s life to be blasted -by so cruel a fraud? The thought would hardly be a pleasant one on -one’s deathbed.’ He shrugged his shoulders, and went on slowly pacing -the Holly Walk. At length he raised his head and said half aloud: ‘I -will do it, and at once; but it shall be on my own conditions, Lady -Dimsdale—on my own conditions.’ - -There was a gardener at work some distance away. He called the man to -him, and sent him with a message to the house. Ten minutes later, Lady -Dimsdale entered the Holly Walk. - -Sir Frederick approached her with one of his most elaborate bows. - -‘You wish to see me, Sir Frederick?’ she said inquiringly, but a little -doubtfully. She hoped that he was not about to re-open the subject that -had been discussed between them earlier in the day. - -‘I have taken the liberty of asking you to favour me with your company -for a few minutes—here, where we shall be safe from interruption. The -matter I am desirous of consulting you upon admits of no delay.’ - -She bowed, but said nothing. His words reassured her on one point, -while filling her with a vague uneasiness. The sunshade she held over -her head was lined with pink; it served its purpose in preventing the -Baronet from detecting how pale and wan was the face under it. - -They began to pace the walk slowly side by side. - -‘Equally with others, Lady Dimsdale, you are aware that, by a strange -turn of fortune, Mr Boyd’s wife, whom he believed to have been dead for -several years, has this morning reappeared?’ - -‘You were in the parlour, Sir Frederick, when I was introduced to Mrs -Boyd only half an hour ago.’ She answered him coldly and composedly -enough; but he could not tell how her heart was beating. - -‘Strangely enough, I happened to be in New Orleans about the time of Mr -Boyd’s marriage, and I know more about the facts of that unhappy affair -than he has probably told to any one in England. It is enough to say -that the reappearance of this woman is the greatest misfortune that -could have happened to him. Oscar Boyd was a miserable man before he -parted from her—he will be ten times more miserable in years to come.’ - -‘You have not asked me to meet you here, Sir Frederick, in order to -tell me this?’ - -‘This, and something more, Lady Dimsdale. Listen!’ He laid one finger -lightly on the sleeve of his companion’s dress, as if to emphasise her -attention. ‘I happen to be acquainted with a certain secret—it matters -not how it came into my possession—the telling of which—and it could -be told in half-a-dozen words—would relieve Mr Boyd of this woman at -once and for ever, would make a free man of him, as free to marry as in -those old days when he used to haunt that vicarage garden which I too -remember so well!’ - -Lady Dimsdale stopped in her walk and stared at him with wide-open -eyes. ‘You—possess—a secret that could do all this!’ - -‘I have stated no more than the simple truth.’ - -‘Then Mr Boyd is not this woman’s husband?’ The question burst from her -lips swiftly, impetuously. Next moment her eyes fell and a tell-tale -blush suffused her cheeks. But here again the pink-lined sunshade came -to her rescue. - -‘Mr Boyd is the husband of no other woman,’ answered the Baronet drily. - -‘With what object have you made _me_ the recipient of this confidence, -Sir Frederick?’ - -‘That I will presently explain. You are probably aware that Mr Boyd -leaves for London by the next train?’ - -Lady Dimsdale bowed. - -‘So that if my information is to be made available at all, no time must -be lost.’ - -‘I still fail to see why—— But that does not matter. As you say, there -is no time to lose. You will send for Mr Boyd at once, Sir Frederick. -You are a generous-minded man, and you will not fail to reveal to him a -secret which so nearly affects the happiness of his life.’ She spoke to -him appealingly, almost imploringly. - -He smiled a coldly disagreeable smile. ‘Pardon me, Lady Dimsdale, but -generosity is one of those virtues which I have never greatly cared -to cultivate. Had I endeavoured to do so, the soil would probably have -proved barren, and the results not worth the trouble. In any case, I -have never tried. I am a man of the world, that, and nothing more.’ - -‘But this secret, Sir Frederick—as between man and man, as between one -gentleman and another—you will not keep it to yourself? You will not. -No! I cannot believe that of you.’ - -He lifted his hat for a moment. ‘Lady Dimsdale flatters me.’ Then he -glanced at his watch. ‘Later even than I thought. This question must be -decided at once, or not at all. Lady Dimsdale, I am willing to reveal -my secret to Mr Boyd on one condition—and on one only.’ - -For a moment she hesitated, being still utterly at a loss to imagine -why the Baronet had taken her so strangely into his confidence. Then -she said: ‘May I ask what the condition in question is, Sir Frederick?’ - -‘It was to tell it to you that I asked you to favour me with your -presence here. Lady Dimsdale, my one condition is this: That when this -man—this Mr Oscar Boyd—shall be free to marry again, as he certainly -will be when my secret becomes known to him—you shall never consent to -become his wife, and that you shall never reveal to him the reason why -you decline to do so.’ - -‘Oh! This to me! Sir Frederick Pinkerton, you have no right to assume—— -Nothing, nothing can justify this language!’ - -He thought he had never seen her look so beautiful as she looked at -that moment, with flashing eyes, heaving bosom, and burning cheeks. - -He bowed and spread out his hands deprecatingly. ‘Pardon me, but I have -assumed nothing—nothing whatever. I have specified a certain condition -as the price of my secret. Call that condition a whim—the whim of an -eccentric elderly gentleman, who, having no wife to keep him within the -narrow grooves of common-sense, originates many strange ideas at times. -Call it by what name you will, Lady Dimsdale, it still remains what -it was. To apply a big word to a very small affair—you have heard my -ultimatum.’ He glanced at his watch again. ‘I shall be in the library -for the next quarter of an hour. One word from you—Yes or No—and I -shall know how to act. On that one word hangs the future of your -friend, Mr Oscar Boyd.’ He saluted her with one of his most ceremonious -bows, and then turned and walked slowly away. - -There was a garden-seat close by, and to this Lady Dimsdale made her -way. She was torn by conflicting emotions. Indignation, grief, wonder, -curiosity, each and all held possession of her. ‘Was ever a woman -forced into such a cruel position before?’ she asked herself. ‘What -can this secret be? Is that woman not his wife? Yet Oscar recognised -her as such the moment he set eyes on her. Can it be possible that she -had a husband living when he married her, and that Sir Frederick is -aware of the fact? It is all a mystery. Oh, how cruel, how cruel of Sir -Frederick to force me into this position! What right has he to assume -that even if Oscar were free to-morrow, he would—— And yet—— Oh, it -is hard—hard! Why has this task been laid upon me? He will be free, -and yet he must never know by what means. But whose happiness ought I -to think of first—his or my own? His—a thousand times his! There is -but one answer possible, and Sir Frederick knows it. He understands -a woman’s heart. I must decide at once—now. There is not a moment to -lose. But one answer.’ Her eyes were dry, although her heart was full -of anguish. Tears would find their way later on. - -She quitted her seat, and near the end of the walk she found the same -gardener that the Baronet had made use of. She beckoned the man to -her, and as she slipped a coin into his hand, said to him: ‘Go to Sir -Frederick Pinkerton, whom you will find in the library, and say to him -that Lady Dimsdale’s answer is “Yes.”’ - -The man scratched his head and stared at her open-mouthed; so, for -safety’s sake, she gave him the message a second time. Then he seemed -to comprehend, and touching his cap, set off at a rapid pace in the -direction of the house. - -Lady Dimsdale took the same way slowly, immersed in bitter thoughts. -‘Farewell, Oscar, farewell!’ her heart kept repeating to itself. ‘Not -even when you are free, must you ever learn the truth.’ - - * * * * * - -Meanwhile, Mrs Boyd, after lunching heartily with kind, chatty Mrs -Bowood to keep her company, and after arranging her toilet, had gone -back to the room in which her husband had left her, and from which he -had forbidden her to stir till his return. She was somewhat surprised -not to find him there, but quite content to wait till he should think -it well to appear. There was a comfortable-looking couch in the room, -and after a hearty luncheon on a warm day, forty winks seem to follow -as a natural corollary; at least that was Estelle’s view of the present -state of affairs. But before settling down among the soft cushions of -the couch, she went up to the glass over the chimney-piece, and taking -a tiny box from her pocket, opened it, and, with the swan’s-down puff -which she found therein, just dashed her cheeks with the faintest -possible _soupçon_ of Circassian Bloom, and then half rubbed it off -with her handkerchief. - -‘A couple of glasses of champagne would have saved me the need of doing -this; but your cold thin claret has neither soul nor fire in it,’ she -remarked to herself. ‘How comfortable these English country-houses are. -I should like to stay here for a month. Only the people are so very -good and, oh! so very stupid, that I know I should tire of them in a -day or two, and say or do something that would make them fling up their -hands in horror.’ She yawned, gave a last glance at herself, and then -went and sat down on the couch. As she was re-arranging the pillows, -she found a handkerchief under one of them. She pounced on it in a -moment. In one corner was a monogram. She read the letters, ‘L. D.,’ -aloud. ‘My Lady Dimsdale’s, without a doubt,’ she said. ‘Damp, too. She -has been crying for the loss of her darling Oscar.’ She dropped the -handkerchief with a sneer and set her foot on it. ‘How sweet it is to -have one’s rival under one’s feet—sweeter still, when you know that she -loves him and you don’t! Lady Dimsdale will hardly care to let Monsieur -Oscar kiss her again. He is going away on a long journey with his -wife—with his wife, ha, ha! Fools! If they only knew!’ The echo of her -harsh, unwomanly laugh had scarcely died away, when the door opened, -and the man of whom she had been speaking stood before her. - -After bidding farewell to Lady Dimsdale, Mr Boyd had plunged at once -into a lonely part of the grounds, where he would be able to recover -himself in some measure, unseen by any one. Of a truth, he was very -wretched. It seemed almost impossible to believe that one short -hour—nay, even far less than that—should have sufficed to plunge him -from the heights of felicity into the lowest depths of misery. Yet, so -it was; and thus, alas, it is but too often in this world of unstable -things. But the necessity for action was imminent upon him; there would -be time enough hereafter for thinking and suffering. A few minutes -sufficed to enable him to lock down his feelings beyond the guess or -ken of others, and then he went in search of Captain Bowood. He found -his host and Mrs Bowood together. The latter was telling her husband -all about her recent interview with Mrs Boyd. The mistress of Rosemount -had never had a bird of such strange plumage under her roof before, and -had rarely been so puzzled as she was to-day. That this woman was a -lady, Mrs Bowood’s instincts declined to let her believe; but the fact -that she was Mr Boyd’s wife seemed to prove that she must be something -better than an adventuress. The one certain fact was, that she was a -guest at Rosemount, and as such must be made welcome. - -When Mr Boyd entered the room, Mrs Bowood was at once struck by the -change in his appearance. She felt instinctively that some great -calamity had overtaken this man, and her motherly heart was touched. -Accordingly, when Mr Boyd intimated to her and the Captain that it was -imperatively necessary that he and his wife should start for London by -the five o’clock train, she gave expression to her regret that such a -necessity should have arisen, but otherwise offered no opposition to -the proposed step, as, under ordinary circumstances, she would have -been sure to do. In matters such as these, the Captain always followed -his wife’s lead. Five minutes later, Oscar Boyd went in search of his -wife. - - - - -IN ST PETER’S. - - -To have spent a winter in Rome is so common an experience for English -people, that it seems as if there were nothing new to be said about -it, nothing out of the ordinary routine to be done during its course. -We all know we must lodge in or near the Piazza di Spagna; must make -the round of the studios; drive on the Pincio; go to the Trinità to -hear the nuns sing; have an audience of the Holy Father; drink the -Trevi water; muse in the Colosseum; wander with delighted bewilderment -through the sculpture-galleries of the Vatican; explore the ruins on -the Palatine; get tickets for the Cercola Artistica; attend Sunday -vespers at St Peter’s; and tire ourselves to death amongst the three -hundred and odd churches, each one with some special attraction, which -forbids us to slight it. These things are amongst the unwritten laws -of travel; English, Americans, and Germans are impelled alike by a -curious instinct of duty to carry them out to the letter. In so doing, -they jostle one another perpetually, see over and over again the same -faces, hear the same remarks, and alas! find only the same ideas. But -notwithstanding this, there are yet undiscovered corners in the old -city, and many quaint ceremonies are unknown to or overlooked by the -_forestieri_. An account of some of these latter may perhaps be found -interesting. - -A few winters ago, we learned, through the politeness of a cardinal’s -secretary, that certain services well worth attending would take place -in St Peter’s, commencing at about half-past seven on the mornings -of the Thursday, Friday, and Saturday in Holy-week. These were the -consecration of the chrism used in baptism and the oil for extreme -unction, the commemoration of the death and passion of our Lord, -and the kindling of the fire for lighting the lamps extinguished on -Holy-Thursday. As no public notice is given of the hours of these -ceremonies, we were glad of the information. - -The ‘functions’ formerly conducted in the Sistine Chapel were -transferred some years ago to the Capello Papale, which is in St -Peter’s, the third chapel on the left-hand side of the nave. It is -extremely small and inconvenient, being almost entirely taken up -with stalls for the cardinals, bishops, canons, and vicars lay and -choral. The pope’s own choir always sing here, but are assembled -in full strength only on festivals; then, however, their exquisite -unaccompanied singing is well worth hearing, and in the year of which -we speak, the soprani and alti were specially good. On Holy-Thursday -there is scarcely any cessation of worship in the great church all day; -and at 7.30 A.M. we are barely in time to watch the assembling of the -functionaries who are to assist at the ceremony of the consecration of -the oil. The chrism used in baptism is composed of balsam and oil; and -this and the oil for holy unction are considered extremely precious; -bishops and other dignitaries journey long distances to procure it, and -convey it to their respective dioceses and benefices. Their appearance -adds not a little to the effect of the usual assemblage of canons of St -Peter’s, for their vestments are much more varied in colour; the canons -wearing always violet silk robes, and gray or white fur capes when not -officiating; and their soft hue makes an excellent background for the -brilliant scarlet trains of the cardinals, two of whom are lighting up -the corner stalls with their crimson magnificence. - -A number of seats take up the space in the middle of the chapel, and -are arranged in a square, having a table in the centre. The choir -presently commence singing a Latin hymn, and a glittering procession -of canons and heads of orders enters; they take their places in the -square; the chalices with the oil and the balsam of the chrism are -placed on the table, and the officiating cardinal begins the ceremony. -He is an exceedingly handsome man, very tall, with clearly cut -features, and walks in a magnificent fashion; his great white silk -cope, stiff with its embroidery of gold, silver, and precious stones, -seems no encumbrance to him, and he looks a fitting president for -this august meeting. The cardinal blesses the first of the chalices -presented to him, saying the words of benediction in clear distinct -tones, the singing meanwhile continuing softly while he lays his hands -on all the cups placed before him. Then the choir cease, and each -cardinal, bishop, priest, and canon kneels in turn before the table, -saying three times, ‘Ave sancta chrisma.’ The sounds of the different -voices in which the words are said, as their various old, young, -short, tall, fat, or thin owners pronounce them, have a somewhat odd -effect, and it is a relief when the lovely singing is resumed, while -the cardinal’s clear tones pronounce blessings on the oil for extreme -unction. After this, the same ceremony is repeated, except that the -words three times said are, ‘Ave sanctum oleum.’ As there are at least -one hundred and thirty persons to perform this act of devotion, the -service becomes a little tedious; and if it were not for the novelty, -the exquisite singing, and the wonderful effects of light and colour -in the glowing morning atmosphere, we should not have been surprised -at the absence of our compatriots; but there is a sense of freshness -and strangeness in the service which makes us wonder the chapel is -not crowded. The small congregation consists of flower-sellers, women -in black veils—who always belong to the middle classes—beggars, and -shopkeepers from the long street leading to St Peter’s. The magnificent -gathering of officiating priests makes the smallness of the attendance -more noticeable. - -After the consecration service, a mass is celebrated, and during -the _Gloria in excelsis_, the bells are rung for the last time till -Saturday. - -No mass is sung on Good-Friday; therefore, two hosts are consecrated on -Holy-Thursday, one of which is placed in a magnificent jewelled pyx, -and carried in procession to a niche beneath an altar in a side-chapel; -the beautiful hymn, _Pange lingua_, being sung the while. The niche is -called a ‘sepulchre,’ and is covered with gold and silver ornaments, -and glitters with candles. All coverings are removed from the altars, -and all lights put out on this day, the next ceremony to the mass being -that of stripping and washing the high-altar. The bare marble of the -great table is exposed, and those who have taken part in the earlier -‘functions,’ walk in procession, and stand in a circle round it; -acolytes carrying purple glass bottles pour on it something that smells -like vinegar; and each dignitary, being provided with a tiny brush made -of curled shavings, goes in turn to sweep the surface, places his brush -on a tray, takes a sponge, with which he rubs the marble, and finally -replaces that by a napkin, with which it is dried. By this time the -morning is well on; the worshippers and onlookers in the great church -are many; but there is no crowding or pushing. As the space is so vast, -that all who wish can see, a few of the functionaries who keep order -are quite enough to make things go easily. - -At all these services, we are much impressed by the extreme ease with -which everything is conducted. There is a ‘master of ceremonies,’ and -he, one fancies, must have held rehearsals; for from the officiating -cardinal to the smallest acolyte, no one ever moves at the wrong time, -or steps into the wrong place; yet the marching and counter-marching, -the handing, giving, placing, taking, involved in such an elaborate -ceremonial must require nice and careful arrangement and extreme -foresight. The dresses of the priests who assist at these functions -are violet cassocks, and very short surplices edged with lace, plaited -into folds of minute patterns, involving laundry-work of no mean -description. Other priests, and all bishops and monsignore, wear the -same coloured cassocks, but with the addition of red pipings on cuffs -and collars and fronts. - -The function of the ‘washing of the altar’ being ended, there is a -pause; and one cannot but imagine that the cardinal retires to the -great sacristy with a feeling of relief that the pageant is over for -the time. The procession winds away to the left, and disappears through -the gray marble doors of the sacristy; and we go home to lunch, feeling -as if we had been spending a morning with our ancestors of three -centuries back. The doings of the last four or five hours do not seem -to agree with the appearance of the Via Babuino as our old coachman -rattles us up to the door of our lodgings. - -In the afternoon, we are again in St Peter’s; this time, to find it -almost crowded. At three, the ‘holy relics’ are exposed. These are—the -handkerchief given by St Veronica to the Saviour as He passed on His -way to the cross, and on which there is said to be the impression of -His face; the lance with which His side was pierced; the head of St -Andrew; and a portion of the true cross. They are presented to the -public gaze from a balcony at an immense height, on one of the four -great buttresses which support the dome. There is a rattle of small -drums, and priests with white vestments appear on the balcony, holding -up certain magnificent jewelled caskets of different shapes, amidst -the dazzling settings of which it is quite impossible to recognise any -object in particular. The kneeling throng, the vast dim church, the -clouds of incense, the roll of drums, the sudden appearance of the -glittering figures on the balcony, their disappearance, followed by -the noise of the crowds as they quickly move and talk, after the dead -silence during the exposure of the objects of veneration, combine to -make this a most striking and impressive scene. Then, in the Capello -Papale, follows the service of the Tenebræ, as it is called, with the -singing of the Lamentations and the Miserere. The quietness of the now -densely packed crowd, the soft music, and the glimmer of the few lights -left in the dim chapel, strike one with a novel effect, after the -somewhat careless and florid services usually conducted here. - -Emerging thence, the vast space of the cathedral looks larger than ever -in the twilight, and the brilliant line of lights round the shrine -of St Peter seem to glitter with double lustre; these, however, with -all others, are soon extinguished, and the great basilica remains in -darkness with covered crucifixes and stripped altars till Saturday -morning. The ‘crowd’ as it seemed within the small chapel, appears -nothing outside, and one by one the listeners disappear through the -heavy leathern curtain that screens the door, finding by contrast the -great piazza a scene of brilliant light, but quiet with what seems a -strange stillness in the midst of a crowded city. - -On Good-Friday morning we are again in the Pope’s Chapel at half-past -seven, and are in time to see the canons take their places in the -stalls. Three priests, habited only in black cassock, and close -surplice with no lace edging, advance to the altar and begin the -service. The first part of this consists simply of a reading in -Latin of the whole of the chapters from the gospel of St John which -relate to the passion. The priests take different parts: one reads -most beautifully the narrative; another speaks the words uttered by -our Saviour; the third, those used by Pilate; and the choir repeat -the words of the populace. It is startling in its simplicity, but -wonderfully dramatic; the dignified remonstrances of Pilate, and the -clear elocution of the reader of the history, making up an impressive -service, not the least part of its strangeness consisting in the -fact of there being no congregation; not a dozen persons besides -the priests and canons are present in the chapel. This ended, the -officiating bishop, who is clothed in purple vestments embroidered with -gold, kneels in prayer before the altar, while the priests prostrate -themselves. The bishop then rises; and the choir chant softly in a -minor key while he takes the crucifix from the altar, uncovers it, and -holds it up to the people. In the afternoon, the relics are exposed, -Lamentations and Miserere sung after Tenebræ, as on the preceding days; -but the church is dark, bare, and silent. - -The gloom of Friday is forgotten in the brilliant sunshine of Saturday -morning, and we feel inspired with the freshness and life of a new day, -as we once more gain the great steps leading to the basilica, watch the -rainbow on the fountains, and the dancing lights in the waters of the -large basins in the piazza. The obelisk in the centre is tipped with -red gold, and the clear blue sky makes the figures on the _loggia_ and -colonnades stand out with lifelike distinctness. This morning we are -called to join in an unquestionable festival, the early ceremonial of -rekindling the lights being one of the most cheerful ‘functions’ in -which it is possible to participate. - -This service commences outside the cathedral; and ascending the steps -to the _loggia_ or porch, we find it already occupied by an imposing -array of priests and bishops. The handsome cardinal again officiates; -he is seated with his back to the piazza, just within the pillars -of the porch, and facing the brazen centre-doors of the church. In -front of him is an enormous brasier, in which burns a bright fire of -coals, branches, and leaves, which has been lighted by a spark struck -from a flint outside the church. He wears magnificent purple and gold -vestments; his finely embroidered cope and jewelled mitre glitter in -the sun. Around him are acolytes, some of whom tend the fire, while -others carry censers; priests, canons, and bishops all gorgeously -apparelled, and performing their parts in the service with the usual -precision and alacrity. Two priests stand with their backs to the great -bronze doors; one bearing a massive gold cross, the other holding a -bamboo with a transverse bar on the top, and on this are three candles. -After some chanting, the cardinal rises; and an acolyte fills a censer -with live coals from the brasier, and brings it for benediction; -another presents five large cones of incense covered with gold; these -are also blessed and sprinkled with holy-water; then incense is put -on the hot ashes in the censer; and as the smoke ascends, the great -bronze doors, so rarely unclosed, are thrown open, and the procession -enters the cathedral. The effect is strangely beautiful. The lovely -early morning light and sunshine, the great building empty of living -thing, the gorgeous procession throwing a line of brilliant colour into -the dim soft mist of the nave, the choir chanting as the priests walk, -their voices echoing in the great space—all form a combination which -must touch the least impressionable spectator, and which cannot but be -photographed on the memory to its smallest detail. At the door, there -is a pause while one of the candles on the bamboo is lighted; a second -flame is kindled in the nave, and the third at the altar in the choir -chapel. Thence, light is immediately sent to the other churches in -Rome, where also darkness has reigned since Thursday afternoon. - -A venerable canon now ascends a platform, and from a very high desk -reads some chapters, recites prayers, and then lights the great -Easter candle which stands beside him. This is a huge pillar of wax, -decorated with beautifully painted wreaths of flowers, and is placed in -a magnificent silver candlestick. He takes the five cones of incense -which the cardinal had blessed in the porch, and fixes them on the -candle in the form of a cross. During his reading, the candles and -lamps all over the church are relighted, and when it is over, all who -formed the procession, bearing bouquets of lovely flowers, and small -brushes like those used on Holy-Thursday, march to the baptistery, -where the cardinal blesses the font, pours on the water in the huge -basin chrism and oil, and sprinkles water to the four points of the -compass—typifying the quarters of the globe. - -On the return of the procession to the choir chapel, the cardinal and -others prostrate themselves before the altar while some beautiful -litanies are chanted. Then follows a pause, during which the priests -retire to the sacristy to take off their embroidered vestments. They -return wearing only surplices edged with handsome lace over their -cassocks. The cardinal has a plain cope of white silk and gold. - -After this, is the mass; and at the _Gloria_ the bells ring out a grand -peal, all pictures are uncovered, and the organ is played for the first -time during many days. The great church resumes its wonted cheerful -aspect, and light and colour hold again their places. - -The afternoon ceremonies consist only of a procession of the cardinal -to worship at special altars, the display of the holy relics, and the -singing of a fine _Alleluia_ and psalm, instead of the usual vespers. - -Some pause is needed, one feels, before the cathedral is filled by -the crowds who attend the Easter-Sunday mass; for no greater contrast -can be imagined than that between the scenes of the quiet morning -functions, with the numerous priests and few people, the stillness -and peace of the hours we have been describing, and those enacted by -the thronging crowds of foreign sightseers at the great festivals, -who, pushing, gesticulating, standing on tiptoe, and asking irrelevant -questions in audible voices, seem to look on these sacred services as -spectacles devised for their gratification, rather than as expressions -of the worship of a large section of their fellow-creatures; thus -exemplifying the rapidity with which ignorance becomes irreverence. - - - - -AMONG THE ADVERTISERS AGAIN. - - -Can it ever be said that there is nothing in the papers, when -advertisers are always to the fore, providing matter for admiration, -wonder, amusement, or speculation? One day a gentleman announces -the loss of his heart between the stalls and boxes of the Haymarket -Theatre; the next, we have ‘R. N.’ telling ‘Dearest E.’—‘If you -have the slightest inclination to become first-mate on board the -screw-steamer, say so, and I will ask papa;’ and by-and-by we are -trying to guess how the necessity arose for the following: ‘St James’s -Theatre, Friday.—The Gentleman to whom a Lady offered her hand, -apologises for not being able to take it.’ - -Does any one want two thousand pounds? That nice little sum is to be -obtained by merely introducing a certain New-Yorker to ‘the Pontess;’ -or if he or she be dead, to his or her heirs. ‘There is a doubt whether -the cognomen was, or is, borne by a woman, a man, or a child; if by -the last, it must have been born prior to the spring of 1873.’ If the -Pontess-seeker fails in his quest from not knowing exactly what it is -that he wants, an advertiser in the _Times_ is likely to have the same -fortune from knowing, and letting those interested know, exactly what -it is that he does not want. Needing the services of a married pair as -coachman and cook, this outspoken gentleman stipulates that the latter -must not grumble at her mistress being her own housekeeper; nor expect -fat joints to be ordered to swell her perquisites; nor be imbued with -the idea that because plenty may be around, she is bound to swell the -tradesmen’s bills by as much waste as possible. ‘No couple need apply -that expect the work to be put out, are fond of change, or who dictate -to their employers how much company may be kept.’ - -When two of a trade fall out, they are apt to disclose secrets which it -were wiser to keep to themselves. Disgusted by the success of a rival -whose advertising boards bore the representation of a venerable man -sitting cross-legged at his work, a San Francisco tailor advertised: -‘Don’t be humbugged by hoary-headed patriarchs who picture themselves -cross-legged, and advertise pants made to order, three, four, and five -dollars a pair. Do you know how it’s done? When you go into one of -these stores that cover up their shop-windows with sample lengths of -cassimere, marked “Pants to order, three dollars fifty cents and four -dollars;” after you have made a selection of the piece of cloth you -want your pants made from, the pompous individual who is chief engineer -of the big tailor shears, lays them softly on the smoothest part of -his cutting-table, unrolls his tape-line, and proceeds to measure his -victim all over the body. The several measurements are all carefully -entered in a book by the other humbug. The customer is then told that -his pants will be finished in about twenty-four or thirty-six hours; -all depends upon how long it takes to shrink the cloth. That’s the -end of the first act. Part second.—The customer no sooner leaves the -store than the merchant-tailor calls his shopboy Jim, and sends him -around to some wholesale jobber, and says: “Get me a pair of pants, -pattern thirty-six,” which is the shoddy imitation of the piece of -cassimere that your pants are to be made of. “Get thirty-four round -the waist, and thirty-three in the leg.” They are pulled out of a pile -of a hundred pairs just like them, made by Chinese cheap labour. All -the carefully made measurements and other claptrap are the bait on the -hook. That’s the way it’s done.’ - -Traders sometimes give themselves away, as Americans say, innocently -enough, a Paris grocer advertising Madeira at two francs, Old Madeira -at three francs, and genuine Madeira at ten francs, a bottle. A -Bordeaux wine-merchant, after stating the price per cask and bottle -of ‘the most varied and superior growths of Bordeaux and Burgundy,’ -concludes by announcing that he has also a stock of natural wine to be -sold by private treaty. A sacrificing draper funnily tempts ladies to -rid him of three hundred baptiste robes by averring ‘they will not last -over two days;’ and the proprietor of somebody’s Methuselah Pills can -give them no higher praise than, ‘Thousands have taken them, and are -living still.’ - -When continental advertisers, bent upon lightening British purses, -rashly adventure to attack Englishmen in their own tongue, the -result is often disastrously comical. The proprietor of a ‘milk-cur’ -establishment in Aix-la-Chapelle, ‘foundet before twenty years of -orders from the magistrat,’ boasts that his quality of ‘Suisse and his -experiences causes him to deliver a milk pure and nutritive, obtained -by sounds cow’s and by a natural forage.’ One Parisian hosier informs -his hoped-for patrons he possesses patent machinery for cutting -‘sirths’—Franco-English, we presume, for shirts. Another proclaims his -resolve to sell his wares dirty cheap; and a dealer in butter, eggs, -and cheeses, whose ‘produces’ arrive every day ‘from the farms of the -establishment without intermedial,’ requests would-be customers to -send orders by unpaid letters, as ‘the house does not recognise any -traveller.’ A Hamburg firm notifies that their ‘universal binocle of -field is also preferable for the use in the field, like in the theatre, -and had to the last degree of perfection concerning to rigouressness -and pureness of the glass;’ while they are ready to supply all comers -with ‘A Glass of Field for the Marine 52ctm opjectiv opening in extra -shout lac-leather étui and strap, at sh 35s 6d.’ This is a specimen of -their ‘English young man’s’ powers of composition that would justify -the enterprising opticians in imitating the Frenchman whose shop-window -was graced with a placard, bearing the strange device, ‘English spoken -here a few.’ - -An Italian, speaking French well and a little English, with whom ‘wage -is no object,’ advertising in a London paper for an engagement as an -indoor servant, puts down his height as ‘fifty-seven feet seven.’ But -he manages his little English to better purpose than his countryman of -Milan, who offers the bestest comforts to travellers, at his hotel, -which he describes as ‘situated in the centre of an immence parck, -with most magnificient views of the Alp chain, and an English church -residing in the hotel’—the latter being furthermore provided with -‘baths of mineral waters in elegant private cabins and shower rooms, -and two basins for bathin’; one for gentlemen, the oter for ladies;’ -while it contains a hundred and fifty rooms, ‘all exposed to the -south-west dining-groom.’ - -Such an exposure might well cause the Milanese host’s visitors to -become ‘persons dependent upon the headache, or who have copious -perspirations,’ whom a M. Lejeune invites ‘to come and visit without -buying his new fabrication,’ with the chance of meeting ‘the -hat-makers, who endeavour by caoutchouc, gummed linen and others, to -prevent hats from becoming dirt;’ eager to hear the inventor of the new -fabrication demonstrate ‘how much all those preparations are injurious, -and excite, on contrary, to perspiration.’ Equally anxious to attract -British custom is a doctor-dentist who, ‘after many years consecrated -to serious experiences, has perfected the laying of artificial teeth -by wholly new proceedings. He makes himself most difficulty works; it -is the best guaranty, and, thanks to his peculiar proceeding, his work -joins to elegancy, solidity, and duration.’ Considering all things, our -doctor-dentist’s derangement of sentences is quite as commendable as -that of the Belfast gentleman desirous of letting ‘the House at present -occupied, and since erected by J. H——, Esq.;’ who might pair off with -the worthy responsible for—‘To be sold, _six_ cows—No. 1, a beautiful -cow, calved eight days, with splendid calf at foot, a good milker; -No. 2, a cow to calve in about fourteen days, and great promise. The -_other two_ cows are calved about twenty-one days, and _will speak for -themselves_.’ - -By a fortuitous concurrence of antagonistic lines, the _Times_ one -morning gave mothers the startling information that - - JOSEPH GILLOTT’S STEEL PENS - THE BEST FOOD FOR INFANTS - IS PREPARED SOLELY BY - SAVORY AND MOORE - -—a hint as likely to be taken as that of a public benefactor who -announced in the _Standard_: ‘Incredible as it may seem, I have ground -to hope that half a glass of cold water, taken immediately after every -meal, will be found to be the divinely appointed antidote for every -kind of medicine.’ - -Another benevolent individual kindly tells us how to make coffee: - - Placed in the parted straining-top let stand - The moistened coffee, till the grain expand, - Before the fire; then boiling water pour, - And quaff the nectar of the Indian shore. - -But he is not quite so generous as he seems, since he is careful -to inform us he is in possession of an equally excellent recipe -for bringing out the flavour of tea, which he will forward for -five shillings-worth of stamps. Urged by an equally uncontrollable -desire to serve his fellow-creatures, a ‘magister in palmystery and -conditionalist’ offers, with the aid of guardian spirits, to obtain for -any one a glimpse at the past and present; and, on certain conditions, -of the future; but with less wisdom than a magister of palmystery -should display, he winds up with the prosaic notification, ‘Boots and -shoes made to order.’ - -The wants of the majority of advertisers are intelligible enough; -but it needs some special knowledge to understand what may be -meant by the good people who hanker for a portable mechanic, an -efficient handwriter, a peerless feeder, a first-class ventilator on -human hair-nets, a practical cutter by measure on ladies’ waists, -a youth used to wriggling, and a boy to kick Gordon. Nor is the -position required by a respectable young lady as ‘figure in a -large establishment,’ altogether clear to our mind; and we may be -doing injustice to the newspaper proprietor requiring ‘a sporting -compositor,’ by inferring he wants a man clever alike at ‘tips’ and -types. - -It does not say much for American theatrical ‘combinations,’ that the -managers of one of them ostentatiously proclaim: ‘We pay our salaries -regularly every Tuesday; by so doing, we avoid lawsuits, are not -compelled to constantly change our people, and always carry our watches -in our pockets.’ Neither would America appear to be quite such a land -of liberty as it is supposed to be, since a gentleman advertises his -want of a furnished room where he can have perfect independence; while -we have native testimony to our cousins’ curiosity in a quiet young -lady desiring a handsome furnished apartment ‘with non-inquisitive -parties;’ and a married couple seeking three or four furnished rooms -‘for very light housekeeping, where people are not inquisitive.’ Can -it be the same pair who want a competent Protestant girl ‘to take -entire charge of a bottled baby?’ If so, their anxiety to abide with -non-curious folk is easily comprehended. - -Very whimsical desires find expression in the advertising columns of -the day. A lady of companionable habits, wishing to meet with a lady -or gentleman requiring a companion, would prefer to act as such to -‘one who, from circumstances, is compelled to lead a retired life.’ -A stylish and elegant widow, a good singer and musician, possessing -energy, business knowledge, and means of her own, ready, ‘for the -sake of a social home,’ to undertake the supervision of a widower’s -establishment, thinks it well to add, goodness knows why, ‘a Radical -preferred.’ Somebody in search of a middle-aged man willing to travel, -stipulates for a misanthrope with bitter experience of the wickedness -of mankind; displaying as pleasant a taste as the proprietor of a -wonderful discovery for relieving pain and curing disease without -medicine, who wants a partner in the shape of a consumptive or -asthmatical gentleman. - -Your jocular man, lacking an outlet for his wit, will often pay -for the privilege of airing his humour in public. Here are a few -examples. ‘Wanted, a good Liberal candidate for the Kilmarnock Burghs. -Several inferior ones given in exchange.’—‘Wanted a Thin Man who has -been used to collecting debts, to crawl through keyholes and find -debtors who are never at home. Salary, nothing the first year; to -be doubled each year afterwards.’—‘Wanted, Twelve-feet planks at -the corners of all the streets in Melbourne, until the Corporation -can find some other means of crossing the metropolitan creeks. The -planks and the Corporation may be tied up to the lamp-posts in the -dry weather.’—‘Wanted, a Cultured Gentleman used to milking goats; a -University man preferred.’—‘Correspondence is solicited from Bearded -Ladies, Circassians, and other female curiosities, who, in return for a -true heart and devoted husband, would travel during the summer months, -and allow him to take the money at the door.’—‘Wanted, a Coachman, -the ugliest in the city; he must not, however, have a moustache nor -red hair, as those are very taking qualities in certain households at -present. As he will not be required to take care of his employer’s -daughter, and is simply engaged to see to the horses, he will only be -allowed twenty dollars per month.’ - -A great deal might be said about pictorial advertisements, if the -impossibility of reproducing them did not stand in the way. As it is, -we must content ourselves with showing how an advertisement can be -illustrated without the help of draughtsman or engraver. By arranging -ordinary printers’ types thus: - -[Illustration] - -an ingenious advertising agent presents the public with portraits of -the man who does not and the man who does advertise, and says: ‘Try it, -and see how you will look yourself.’ - - - - -A STRANGE INSTITUTION. - - -Amongst the oral traditions of the past in Cambridge, there is handed -down to the modern undergraduate an account of a secret Society which -was established in the university at a remote period of time, and which -was called the Lie Society. At the weekly meetings of the members, an -ingenious falsehood was fabricated, which frequently referred to some -person locally known, and which was probably not altogether free from -scandal. It was the duty of all the members to propagate this invented -story as much as possible by relating it to every one they met. Each -member had to make a note of the altered form in which the lie thus -circulated came round to him individually, and these were read out at -the next meeting with all the copious additions and changes the story -had received passing from one to the other, often to such an extent -as to leave but little of the original fabric left. After a time the -Society began to languish, and soon after disappeared altogether. - -In the dim past, and before the present stringent regulations were made -as to examinations in the Senate House, another secret Society was -organised, called the Beavers, which was for the purpose of enabling -members, when being examined, to help each other by a system of -signals. With this view, one of the members of the Beavers was told off -by lot to perform various duties assigned to him, such as engaging the -attention of the examiners, and giving information as to the papers by -preconcerted signs. This Society soon collapsed. To one of its members -is credited the ingenious watch-faced Euclid, and the edition of -Little-go-classics on sleeve-links. - - - - -MY HOME IN ANNANDALE REVISITED. - - - I leave with joy the smoky town, - As pining captive quits his cell, - O’er shining sea and purple fell, - Again to see the sun go down: - - As once behind great Penmanmawr, - A ball of fire, o’er Conway Bay - He silent hung, then sank away, - And beauteous shone the evening star. - - My village home at length I reach, - And stand beside my father’s door; - His feet are on its step no more: - From texts like this, Time loves to preach. - - Daylight is dying in the west; - The leaden night-clouds blot the sky; - Across the fields, the pewit’s cry - Only makes deeper nature’s rest. - - The water-wheel stands at the mill, - The fisher leaves the sandy shore, - By garden gate and unlatched door - Lassies and lads are meeting still. - - Beside me stand the kirk and manse, - On this green knoll among the trees; - The summer burn still croons to these; - But where are those who loved me once? - - Only a sound of breaking waves, - All through the night, comes from the sea: - But those who kindly thought of me, - Are sleeping in these quiet graves. - - No sounds of earth can wake the dead! - I vainly yearn for what hath been: - The faces I in youth have seen, - With the lost years away have fled. - - The faintest breath that stirs the air - Will take the dead leaf from the tree; - Thus, one by one, have gone from me - Those who my young companions were. - - A stranger in my native place, - Wearing the silver mask of years, - None meet me now with smiles or tears, - Or in the man the boy can trace. - - My trees cut down, have left the place - Vacant and silent where they grew; - From fields and farms, that once I knew, - I miss each well-remembered face. - - This price, returning, I must pay, - With wandering foot who loved to roam: - Thrice happy he who finds a home - And constant friends, when far away. - - As relics from a holy shrine, - Dear names are treasured in my heart; - Death only for an hour can part; - And all I loved, will yet be mine. - - With blinding tears, I turn away. - Young hearts round this new life can twine; - But from my path has passed for aye - The light and love of auld langsyne. - - KIRTLE. - - * * * * * - -Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, -and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH. - - * * * * * - -_All Rights Reserved._ - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR -LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 6, VOL. I, FEBRUARY 9, -1884 *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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