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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ec331b4 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65821 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65821) diff --git a/old/65821-0.txt b/old/65821-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c126b42..0000000 --- a/old/65821-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2219 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular -Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 25, Vol. I, June 21, -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. 25, Vol. I, June 21, 1884 - -Author: Various - -Release Date: July 11, 2021 [eBook #65821] - -Language: English - -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. 25, VOL. I, JUNE 21, -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. 25.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, JUNE 21, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._] - - - - -NATURE ON THE ROOF. - -BY RICHARD JEFFERIES, - -AUTHOR OF THE ‘GAMEKEEPER AT HOME,’ ETC. - - -Increased activity on the housetop marks the approach of spring -and summer exactly as in the woods and hedges, for the roof has -its migrants, its semi-migrants, and its residents. When the first -dandelion is opening on a sheltered bank, and the pale-blue field -veronica flowers in the waste corner, the whistle of the starling comes -from his favourite ledge. Day by day it is heard more and more, till, -when the first green spray appears on the hawthorn, he visits the roof -continually. Besides the roof-tree and the chimney-top, he has his own -special place, sometimes under an eave, sometimes between two gables; -and as I sit writing, I can see a pair who have a ledge which slightly -projects from the wall between the eave and the highest window. -This was made by the builder for an ornament; but my two starlings -consider it their own particular possession. They alight with a sort of -half-scream half-whistle just over the window, flap their wings, and -whistle again, run along the ledge to a spot where there is a gable, -and with another note, rise up and enter an aperture between the slates -and the wall. There their nest will be in a little time, and busy -indeed they will be when the young require to be fed, to and fro the -fields and the gable the whole day through, the busiest and the most -useful of birds, for they destroy thousands upon thousands of insects, -and if farmers were wise, they would never have one shot, no matter how -the thatch was pulled about. - -My pair of starlings were frequently at this ledge last autumn, very -late in autumn, and I suspect they had a winter brood there. The -starling does rear a brood sometimes in the midst of the winter, -contrary as that may seem to our general ideas of natural history. They -may be called roof-residents, as they visit it all the year round; -they nest in the roof, rearing two and sometimes three broods; and -use it as their club and place of meeting. Towards July, the young -starlings and those that have for the time at least finished nesting, -flock together, and pass the day in the fields, returning now and then -to their old home. These flocks gradually increase; the starling is -so prolific that the flocks become immense, till in the latter part -of the autumn in southern fields it is common to see a great elm-tree -black with them, from the highest bough downwards, and the noise of -their chattering can be heard a long distance. They roost in firs or -in osier-beds. But in the blackest days of winter, when frost binds -the ground hard as iron, the starlings return to the roof almost every -day; they do not whistle much, but have a peculiar chuckling whistle at -the instant of alighting. In very hard weather, especially snow, the -starlings find it difficult to obtain a living, and at such times will -come to the premises at the rear, and at farmhouses where cattle are in -the yards, search about among them for insects. - -The whole history of the starling is interesting, but I must here -only mention it as a roof-bird. They are very handsome in their full -plumage, which gleams bronze and green among the darker shades; quick -in their motions and full of spirit; loaded to the muzzle with energy, -and never still. I hope none of those who are so good as to read what -I have written will ever keep a starling in a cage; the cruelty is -extreme. As for shooting pigeons at a trap, it is mercy in comparison. - -Even before the starling whistles much, the sparrows begin to chirp; -in the dead of winter they are silent; but so soon as the warmer winds -blow, if only for a day, they begin to chirp. In January this year I -used to listen to the sparrows chirping, the starlings whistling, and -the chaffinches’ ‘chink, chink’ about eight o’clock, or earlier, in -the morning; the first two on the roof, the latter, which is not a -roof-bird, in some garden shrubs. As the spring advances, the sparrows -sing—it is a short song, it is true, but still it is singing—perched at -the edge of a sunny wall. There is not a place about the house where -they will not build—under the eaves, on the roof, anywhere where there -is a projection or shelter, deep in the thatch, under the tiles, in -old eave-swallows’ nests. The last place I noticed as a favourite one -in towns is on the half-bricks left projecting in perpendicular rows -at the sides of unfinished houses. Half-a-dozen nests may be counted -at the side of a house on these bricks; and like the starlings, they -rear several broods, and some are nesting late in the autumn. By -degrees as the summer advances they leave the houses for the corn, and -gather in vast flocks, rivalling those of the starlings. At this time -they desert the roofs, except those who still have nesting duties. In -winter and in the beginning of the new year, they gradually return; -migration thus goes on under the eyes of those who care to notice it. -In London, some who fed sparrows on the roof found that rooks also -came for the crumbs placed out. I sometimes see a sparrow chasing a -rook, as if angry, and trying to drive it away over the roofs where I -live. The thief does not retaliate, but, like a thief, flees from the -scene of his guilt. This is not only in the breeding season, when the -rook steals eggs, but in winter. Town residents are apt to despise -the sparrow, seeing him always black; but in the country the sparrows -are as clean as a pink; and in themselves they are the most animated, -clever little creatures. They are easily tamed. The Parisians are fond -of taming them. At a certain hour in the Tuileries Gardens, you may see -a man perfectly surrounded with a crowd of sparrows—some perching on -his shoulder; some fluttering in the air immediately before his face; -some on the ground like a tribe of followers; and others on the marble -seats. He jerks a crumb of bread into the air—a sparrow dexterously -seizes it as he would a flying insect; he puts a crumb between his -lips—a sparrow takes it out and feeds from his mouth. Meantime they -keep up a constant chirping; those that are satisfied still stay by -and adjust their feathers. He walks on, giving a little chirp with his -mouth, and they follow him along the path—a cloud about his shoulders, -and the rest flying from shrub to shrub, perching, and then following -again. They are all perfectly clean—a contrast to the London sparrow. I -came across one of these sparrow-tamers by chance, and was much amused -at the scene, which, to any one not acquainted with birds, appears -marvellous; but it is really as simple as possible, and you can repeat -it for yourself if you have patience, for they are so sharp they soon -understand you. They seem to play at nest-making before they really -begin; taking up straws in their beaks, and carrying them half-way to -the roof, then letting the straws float away; and the same with stray -feathers. Neither of these, starlings nor sparrows, seem to like the -dark. Under the roof, between it and the first ceiling, there is a -large open space; if the slates or tiles are kept in good order, very -little light enters, and this space is nearly dark in daylight. Even if -chinks admit a beam of light, they do not like it; they seldom enter or -fly about there, though quite accessible to them. But if the roof is in -bad order, and this space light, they enter freely. Though nesting in -holes, yet they like light. The swallows could easily go in and make -nests upon the beams, but they will not, unless the place is well lit. -They do not like darkness in the daytime. - -The swallows bring us the sunbeams on their wings from Africa to fill -the fields with flowers. From the time of the arrival of the first -swallow the flowers take heart; the few and scanty plants that had -braved the earlier cold are succeeded by a constantly enlarging list, -till the banks and lanes are full of them. The chimney-swallow is -usually the forerunner of the three house-swallows; and perhaps no fact -in natural history has been so much studied as the migration of these -tender birds. The commonest things are always the most interesting. -In summer there is no bird so common everywhere as the swallow, and -for that reason, many overlook it, though they rush to see a ‘white’ -elephant. But the deepest thinkers have spent hours and hours in -considering the problem of the swallow—its migrations, its flight, -its habits; great poets have loved it; great artists and art-writers -have curiously studied it. The idea that it is necessary to seek -the wilderness or the thickest woods for nature is a total mistake; -nature is at home, on the roof, close to every one. Eave-swallows, -or house-martins (easily distinguished by the white bar across the -tail), build sometimes in the shelter of the porches of old houses. As -you go in or out, the swallows visiting or leaving their nests fly so -closely as almost to brush the face. Swallow means porch-bird, and for -centuries and centuries their nests have been placed in the closest -proximity to man. They might be called man’s birds, so attached are -they to the human race. I think the greatest ornament a house can -have is the nest of an eave-swallow under the eaves—far superior to -the most elaborate carving, colouring, or arrangement the architect -can devise. There is no ornament like the swallow’s nest; the home -of a messenger between man and the blue heavens, between us and the -sunlight, and all the promise of the sky. The joy of life, the highest -and tenderest feelings, thoughts that soar on the swallow’s wings, come -to the round nest under the roof. Not only to-day, not only the hopes -of future years, but all the past dwells there. Year after year the -generations and descent of the swallow have been associated with our -homes, and all the events of successive lives have taken place under -their guardianship. The swallow is the genius of good to a house. Let -its nest, then, stay; to me it seems the extremity of barbarism, or -rather stupidity, to knock it down. I wish I could induce them to build -under the eaves of this house; I would if I could discover some means -of communicating with them. It is a peculiarity of the swallow that -you cannot make it afraid of you; just the reverse of other birds. The -swallow does not understand being repulsed, but comes back again. Even -knocking the nest down will not drive it away, until the stupid process -has been repeated several years. The robin must be coaxed; the sparrow -is suspicious, and though easy to tame, quick to notice the least -alarming movement. The swallow will not be driven away. He has not the -slightest fear of man; he flies to his nest close to the window, under -the low eave, or on the beams in the outhouses, no matter if you are -looking on or not. Bold as the starlings are, they will seldom do this. -But in the swallow, the instinct of suspicion is reversed; an instinct -of confidence occupies its place. In addition to the eave-swallow, to -which I have chiefly alluded, and the chimney-swallow, there is the -swift, also a roof-bird, and making its nest in the slates of houses in -the midst of towns. These three are migrants, in the fullest sense, and -come to our houses over thousands of miles of land and sea. - -Robins frequently visit the roof for insects, especially when it is -thatched; so do wrens; and the latter, after they have peered along, -have a habit of perching at the extreme angle of a gable, or the -extreme edge of a corner, and uttering their song. Finches occasionally -fly up to the roofs of country-houses if shrubberies are near, also in -pursuit of insects; but they are not truly roof-birds. Wagtails perch -on roofs; they often have their nests in the ivy, or creepers trained -against walls; they are quite at home, and are frequently seen on the -ridges of farmhouses. Tits of several species, particularly the great -titmouse and the blue tit, come to thatch for insects both in summer -and winter. In some districts where they are common, it is not unusual -to see a goatsucker or fern-owl hawk along close to the eaves in the -dusk of the evening for moths. The white owl is a roof-bird (though not -often of the house), building inside the roof, and sitting there all -day in some shaded corner. They do sometimes take up their residence in -the roofs of outhouses attached to dwellings, but not often nowadays, -though still residing in the roofs of old castles. Jackdaws, again, -are roof-birds, building in the roofs of towers. Bats live in roofs, -and hang there wrapped up in their membraneous wings till the evening -calls them forth. They are residents in the full sense, remaining all -the year round, though principally seen in the warmer months; but they -are there in the colder, hidden away, and if the temperature rises, -will venture out and hawk to and fro in the midst of the winter. Tame -pigeons and doves hardly come into this paper, but still it is their -habit to use roofs as tree-tops. Rats and mice creep through the -crevices of roofs, and in old country-houses hold a sort of nightly -carnival, racing to and fro under the roof. Weasels sometimes follow -them indoors and up to their roof strongholds. - -When the first warm rays of spring sunshine strike against the southern -side of the chimney, sparrows perch there and enjoy it; and again in -autumn, when the general warmth of the atmosphere is declining, they -still find a little pleasant heat there. They make use of the radiation -of heat, as the gardener does who trains his fruit-trees to a wall. -Before the autumn has thinned the leaves, the swallows gather on the -highest ridge of the roof in a row and twitter to each other; they know -the time is approaching when they must depart for another climate. In -winter, many birds seek the thatched roofs to roost. Wrens, tits, and -even blackbirds roost in the holes left by sparrows or starlings. - -Every crevice is the home of insects, or used by them for the deposit -of their eggs—under the tiles or slates, where mortar has dropped out -between the bricks, in the holes of thatch, and on the straws. The -number of insects that frequent a large roof must be very great—all -the robins, wrens, bats, and so on, can scarcely affect them; nor the -spiders, though these, too, are numerous. Then there are the moths, -and those creeping creatures that work out of sight, boring their way -through the rafters and beams. Sometimes a sparrow may be seen clinging -to the bare wall of the house; tits do the same thing—it is surprising -how they manage to hold on—they are taking insects from the apertures -of the mortar. Where the slates slope to the south, the sunshine -soon heats them, and passing butterflies alight on the warm surface, -and spread out their wings, as if hovering over the heat. Flies are -attracted in crowds sometimes to heated slates and tiles, and wasps -will occasionally pause there. Wasps are addicted to haunting houses, -and in the autumn, feed on the flies. Floating germs carried by the -air must necessarily lodge in numbers against roofs; so do dust and -invisible particles; and together, these make the rain-water collected -in water-butts after a storm turbid and dark; and it soon becomes full -of living organisms. - -Lichen and moss grow on the mortar wherever it has become slightly -disintegrated; and if any mould, however minute, by any means -accumulates between the slates, there, too, they spring up, and -even on the slates themselves. Tiles are often coloured yellow by -such growths. On some old roofs, which have decayed, and upon which -detritus has accumulated, wallflowers may be found; and the house-leek -takes capricious root where it fancies. The stonecrop is the finest -of roof-plants, sometimes forming a broad patch of brilliant yellow. -Birds carry up seeds and grains, and these germinate in moist thatch. -Groundsel, for instance, and stray stalks of wheat, thin and drooping -for lack of soil, are sometimes seen there, besides grasses. Ivy is -familiar as a roof-creeper. Some ferns and the pennywort will grow -on the wall close to the roof. Where will not ferns grow? We saw one -attached to the under-side of a glass coal-hole cover; its green could -be seen through the thick glass on which people stepped daily. - -Recently, much attention has been paid to the dust which is found on -roofs and ledges at great heights. This meteoric dust, as it is called, -consists of minute particles of iron, which are thought to fall from -the highest part of the atmosphere, or possibly to be attracted to the -earth from space. Lightning usually strikes the roof. The whole subject -of lightning-conductors has been re-opened of late years, there being -reason to think that mistakes have been made in the manner of their -erection. The reason English roofs are high-pitched is not only because -of the rain, that it may shoot off quickly, but on account of snow. -Once now and then there comes a snow-year, and those who live in houses -with flat surfaces anywhere on the roof soon discover how inconvenient -they are. The snow is sure to find its way through, damaging ceilings, -and doing other mischief. Sometimes, in fine summer weather, people -remark how pleasant it would be if the roof were flat, so that it could -be used as a terrace, as it is in warmer climates. But the fact is -the English roof, although now merely copied and repeated without a -thought of the reason of its shape, grew up from experience of severe -winters. Of old, great care and ingenuity—what we should now call -artistic skill—were employed in constructing the roof. It was not only -pleasant to the eye with its gables, but the woodwork was wonderfully -well done. Such roofs may still be seen on ancient mansions, having -endured for centuries. They are splendid pieces of workmanship, and -seen from afar among foliage, are admired by every one who has the -least taste. Draughtsmen and painters value them highly. No matter -whether reproduced on a large canvas or in a little woodcut, their -proportions please. The roof is much neglected in modern houses; it is -either conventional, or it is full indeed of gables, but gables that -do not agree, as it were, with each other—that are obviously put there -on purpose to look artistic, and fail altogether. Now, the ancient -roofs were true works of art, consistent, and yet each varied to its -particular circumstances, and each impressed with the individuality of -the place and of the designer. The finest old roofs were built of oak -or chestnut; the beams are black with age, and in that condition, oak -is scarcely distinguishable from chestnut. - -So the roof has its natural history, its science, and art; it has -its seasons, its migrants and residents, of whom a housetop calendar -might be made. The fine old roofs which have just been mentioned are -often associated with historic events and the rise of families; and -the roof-tree, like the hearth, has a range of proverbs or sayings and -ancient lore to itself. More than one great monarch has been slain by -a tile thrown from the housetop, and numerous other incidents have -occurred in connection with it. The most interesting is the story of -the Grecian mother, who with her infant was on the roof, when, in a -moment of inattention, the child crept to the edge, and was balanced -on the very verge. To call to it, to touch it, would have insured its -destruction; but the mother, without a second’s thought, bared her -breast, and the child eagerly turning to it, was saved! - - - - -BY MEAD AND STREAM. - - -CHAPTER XXXIV.—JUDGE ME. - -Mr Beecham had spoken the words, ‘You must know it all,’ as if they -contained a threat, but impulse directed tone and words. He became -instantly conscious of his excitement, when he saw the startled -expression with which Madge regarded him. His emotion was checked. -Mechanically, he gripped the bridle of his passion, and held it down as -a strong man restrains a restive horse. - -‘Shall I go on?’ he said with almost perfect self-control, although his -voice had not yet quite regained its usual softness. ‘I know that you -will be pained. I do not like that, and so you see me hesitating, and -weakly trying to shift the responsibility from my own shoulders. Shall -I go on?’ - -‘I am not afraid of pain,’ she answered quietly, but with a distant -tremor in her voice; ‘and if you think that I should hear what you have -to say, say it.’ - -‘Then I will speak as gently as it is in my power to do; but this -subject always stirs the most evil passions that are in me. I want -to win your confidence, and that impels me to tell you why I doubt -Philip—it is because I know his father to be false.’ - -‘Oh, you are mistaken!’ she exclaimed, rising at once to the defence of -a friend; ‘you do not know how much good he has done!’ - -‘No; but I do know some of the harm he has done.’ There was a sort -of grim humour in voice and look, as if he were trying to subdue his -bitterness of heart by smiling at the girl’s innocent trustfulness. - -‘Harm!—Mr Hadleigh harm anybody! You judge him wrongly: he may look -hard and—and unpleasant; but he has a kind nature, and suffers a great -deal.’ - -‘He should suffer’ (this more gently now—more like himself, and as if -he spoke in sorrow rather than in anger). ‘But, all the same he has -done harm—cruel, wicked harm.’ - -‘To whom—to whom?’ - -‘To me and to your mother.’ A long pause, as if he were drawing breath -for the words which at length he uttered in a faltering whisper: ‘_His_ -lies separated us.’ - -Madge stood mute and pale. She remembered what Aunt Hessy had told her: -how there had come the rumour first, and then the confident assertion -of the treachery of the absent lover—no one able to tell who brought -the news which the loss of his letter in the wreck, and consequently -apparent silence, seemed to confirm. Then all the sad days of hoping—of -faith in the absent, whilst the heart was sickening and growing faint, -as the weeks, the months passed, and the unbroken silence of the loved -one slowly forced the horrible conviction upon her that the news _must_ -be true. He—Austin, whom she had prayed not to go away—had gone without -answering that pathetic cry, and had broken his troth. - -Poor mother, poor mother! Oh, the agony of it all! Madge could see -it—feel it. She could see the woman in her great sorrow dumbly looking -across the sea, hoping, still hoping that he would come back, until -despair became her master. And now to know that all this misery had -been brought about by a Lie! ... and the speaker of the lie had been -Philip’s father! Two lives wrecked, two hearts broken by a lie. Was it -not the cruelest kind of murder?—the two lives lingering along their -weary way, each believing the other faithless. - -She sprang into the present again—it was too horrible. She would not -believe that any man could be so wicked, and least of all Philip’s -father. - -‘I will not believe it!’ she exclaimed with a sudden movement of the -hands, as if sweeping the sad visions away from her. - -Beecham’s brows lowered, but not frowningly, as he looked long at her -flushed face, and saw that the bright eyes had become brighter still in -the excitement of her indignant repudiation of the charge he made. - -‘Do you like the man?’ he asked in a low tone. - -The question had never occurred to her before, and in the quick -self-survey which it provoked, she was not prepared to say ‘Yes’ or -‘No.’ In the moment, too, she remembered Uncle Dick’s unexplained -quarrel with Mr Hadleigh on the market-day, and also that Uncle Dick, -who wore his heart upon his sleeve, never much favoured the Master of -Ringsford. - -‘He is Philip’s father,’ she answered simply; and in giving the -answer, she felt that it was enough for her. She _must_ like everybody -who belonged to Philip. - -‘Is that all?’ - -‘It is enough,’ she said impatiently. - -‘Do not be angry with me; but try to see a little with my eyes. You -will do so when you learn how guilty he is.’ - -‘I will not hear it!’ and she moved. - -‘For Philip’s sake,’ he said softly but firmly, ‘if not for that of -another, who would tell you it was right that you should hear me.’ - -Madge stood still, her face towards the wall, so that he could not see -her agitation. The bright fire cast the shadow of his profile on the -same wall, and the silhouette, grotesquely exaggerated as the outlines -were, still suggested suffering rather than anger. - -‘Do you know that Hadleigh has good reason for enmity towards me?’ - -‘No; I never knew or thought that he could have reason for enmity -towards any one.’ - -‘He had towards me.’ - -‘I believe you are wrong. I am sure of it;’ and she thought that here -might be her opportunity to further Philip’s desire to reconcile them. - -‘Should you desire to test what I am about to tell you, say to Hadleigh -that you have been told George Laurence was a friend of Philip’s -mother. He was my friend too. My poor sister was passionate and, like -all passionate people, weak. Hadleigh took her from my friend _for her -money_—a pitiful few hundred pounds. I never liked the man; but I hated -him then, and hated him still more when Laurence, becoming reckless -alike of fortune and life, ruined himself and ... killed himself. But -the crime was Hadleigh’s, and it lies heavy on his soul.’ - -‘Oh, why should you speak so bitterly of what he could neither foresee -nor prevent.’ - -‘I charged him with the murder,’ Beecham continued, without heeding the -interruption, ‘and he could not answer me like a man. He spoke soft -words, as if I were a boy in a passion; he even attempted to condole -with me for the loss of my friend, until I fled from him, lest my hands -should obey my wish and not my will. But he had his revenge. He made -my sister’s life a torture. She tried to hide it in her letters to me; -but I could read her misery in every line. And then, when he discovered -that I had gone into the wilds of Africa, without any likelihood of -being able to send a message home for many months, he told the lie -which destroyed our hopes.’ - -‘How do you know that it was he who told it?’ she asked, without moving -and with some fear of the answer. - -‘The man he employed to spread the false report confessed to me what -had been done and by whom.’ - -Madge’s head drooped; there seemed to be no refutation of this proof of -Mr Hadleigh’s guilt possible. - -Beecham partly understood that slight movement of the head, and his -voice had become soft again when he resumed: - -‘I did not seek to retaliate. She was lost to me, and it did not -much matter what evil influence came between us. I am not seeking to -retaliate now. I would have forgotten the man and the evil he had -wrought, if it had not been for the cry my sister sent to me from her -deathbed. She asked me for some sign that in the future I would try to -help and guide her favourite child, Philip. I gave the pledge, and she -was only able to answer that I had made her happy. I am here to fulfil -that pledge, and it might have been easily done, but for you.’ - -‘For me!’—Startled, but not looking at him yet. - -‘Ay, for you, because I wish to be sure that you will be safe in his -keeping; and to be sure of that, I wish him to prove that he has none -of his father’s nature in him.’ - -‘Do you still hate his father so much?’ she said distressfully. - -‘I have long ceased to feel hatred; but I still distrust him and all -that belongs to him. Now that you know why I stand aside to watch how -Philip bears himself, do you still ask me to release you from your -promise?’ - -‘I will not betray your confidence,’ she answered mechanically; ‘but -what I ought to do I will do.’ - -‘I would not desire you to do anything else, my child,’ and all his -gentleness of manner had returned. ‘I will not ask you to say at this -moment whether or not you think I am acting rightly. I ask only that -you will remember whose child you are, and what she was to me, as you -have learned what I was to her. Then you will understand and judge me.’ - -‘I cannot judge, but I will try to understand.’ - -Then she turned towards him, and he saw that although she had been -speaking so quietly, her pain had been great. - -‘Forgive me, my poor child, for bringing this sorrow to you; but it may -be the means of saving you from a life of misery, or of leading you to -one of happiness.’ - -There was a subdued element of solemnity in this—it was so calm, so -earnest, that she remained silent. He imagined that he understood; but -he was mistaken. She did not herself yet understand the complicated -emotions which had been stirred within her. She had tried to put away -those sad visions, but could not: the sorrowful face of the mother -was always looking wistfully at her out of the mists. She ought to -have been filled with bitterness by the account of the crime—for crime -it surely was—which had wrought so much mischief, and the proof of -which appeared to be so strong. Instead of that, she felt sorry for Mr -Hadleigh. Here was the reason for the gloom in which he lived—remorse -lay heavily upon him. Here, too, was the reason for all his kindliness -to her, when he was so cold to others. She was sorry for him. - -Hope came to her relief, dim at first, but growing brighter as she -reflected. Might there not be some error in the counts against him? -She saw that in thinking of the misfortunes of his friend Laurence, -passion had caused Austin Shield to exaggerate the share Mr Hadleigh -had in bringing them about. Might it not be that in a similar way he -had exaggerated and misapprehended what he had been told by the man -who denounced Mr Hadleigh as the person who had employed him to spread -the fatal lie? Whether or not this should prove to be the case, it was -clear that until Mr Shield’s mind was disabused of the belief that -Philip’s father had been the cause of his sorrow and her mother’s, -there was no possibility of effecting a reconciliation between the two -men. But if all his charges were well founded—what then?... She was -afraid to think of what might be to come after. - -Still holding her hand, he made a movement towards the door. Then she -spoke: - -‘I want you to say again that whilst I keep your secret, you leave me -free to speak to Mr Hadleigh about ... about the things you have told -me.’ - -‘Yes, if you still doubt me.’ - -‘I will speak,’ she said deliberately, ‘not because I doubt you, but -because I believe you are mistaken.’ - -Again that long look of reverent admiration of her trustfulness, and -then: - -‘Act as your own heart tells you will be wisest and kindest.’ - - * * * * * - -As he passed down the frozen gravel-path, he met Philip. He was in -no mood for conversation, and saying only ‘Good-evening,’ passed on. -Philip was surprised; although, being wearied himself, he was not sorry -to escape a conversation with one who was a comparative stranger. - -‘What is the matter with Mr Beecham?’ he inquired carelessly, when he -entered the oak parlour and, to his delight, found Madge alone. - -‘He is distressed about some family affairs,’ she answered after a -little hesitation. - -Philip observed the hesitation and, slight as it was, the confusion of -her manner. - -‘Oh, something more about that affair in which you are his confidant, -I suppose, and came to you for comfort. Well, I come upon the same -errand—fagged and worried to death. Will you give me a glass of -wine?—Stay, I should prefer a little brandy-and-water.—Thank you.’ - -He had dropped into an armchair, as if physically tired out. She seated -herself beside him and rested a hand on his shoulder. - -‘You have been disturbed again at the works,’ she said soothingly. - -‘Disturbed!—driven to my wits’ end would be more like my present state. -Everything is going wrong. The capital has nearly all disappeared, -without any sign of a return for it, so that it looks as if I should -speedily have to ask Uncle Shield for more.—What has frightened you?’ - -‘Nothing—it was only a chill—don’t mind it. Have you seen—him?’ - -‘Came straight from him here. He was rather out of humour, I thought; -and as usual, referred me to his lawyers on almost every point. As to -more capital, he said there would be no difficulty about that, if he -was satisfied that the first money had been prudently invested.’ - -‘I understood that he was pleased with what you were attempting.’ - -‘So did I; but it seems to me now as if he was anything but satisfied. -However, he would give me no definite answer or advice. He would think -about it—he would make inquiries, and then see what was to be done. He -is right, of course; and queer as his ways are, he has been kind and -generous. But if he pulls up now, the whole thing will go to smash, -and—to fail, Madge, to fail, when it only requires another strong -effort to make a success!’ - -‘But you are not to fail, Philip.’ - -‘At present, things look rather like it. Oh, it will be rare fun for -them all!’ he added bitterly. - -‘All?’ - -‘Yes, everybody who predicted that my scheme was a piece of madness and -must come to grief. That does not matter so much, though, as finding -myself to be a fool. I wish uncle would talk over the matter quietly -with me. I am sure he could help me.... Why, you are shivering. Come -nearer to the fire.’ - -She moved her chair as he suggested. - -‘But how is it that the money is all gone?’ - -‘It is not exactly gone, but sunk in the buildings and the machinery; -and the disputes with the men have caused a lot of waste. The men are -the real trouble; they can’t get the idea into their heads, somehow; -and even Caleb is turning rusty now. But that is because he is bothered -about Pansy.... Ah, Madge’ (his whole manner changing suddenly as he -grasped her hand and gazed fondly into her eyes); ‘although it will be -a bitter pill to swallow if this scheme falls through—I was so proud of -it, so hopeful of it at the start, and saw such a bright future for it, -and believed it would be such a mighty social lever—although that would -be bitter, I should get over it. I could never get over any trouble -about you, such as that poor chap is in about Pansy.... But that can -never be,’ he concluded impulsively. - -For the next few minutes he forgot all about the works, the men, and -the peril in which his Utopia stood, threatening every day to tumble -all to pieces. Madge was glad that his thoughts should be withdrawn for -a space from his worry, and was glad to be able to breathe more freely -herself in thinking only of their love, for those references to his -Uncle Shield troubled her. - -‘You are not losing courage altogether, then?’ she said smiling. - -‘I shall never lose it altogether so long as you are beside me, -although I may halt at times,’ he answered. ‘There; I am better now. -Don’t let us talk any more to-night about disagreeable things—they -don’t seem half so disagreeable to me as they did when I came in.’ - -So, as they were not to talk about disagreeable things, they talked -about themselves. They did remember Caleb and Pansy, however; and Madge -promised to see the latter soon, and endeavour to persuade her to be -kind to her swain. - - - - -A NORMAN SEASCAPE. - - -It was on our way from Paris to the sea that we found out Dives; a -little town, forgotten now, but once, long ago, holding for four short -weeks an urgent place in the foreground of the world’s history. It is a -day’s journey distant from Paris, a long summer day’s journey through -fair France, fairest of all when one reaches green Normandy, rich in -sober old farmhouses, quaint churches, orchards laden with russet fruit -ripening to fill the cider-barrels. - -The little station near Dives is set in a desert of sand; one white -road leads this way, another that. Of the modest town itself you -see nothing. Your eye is caught for a moment as you look round you -by the gentle undulation of the hills that rise behind it. On these -slopes, a nameless battle was once fought and won; but the story of -that struggle belongs to the past, and it is the present you have to -do with. At this moment your most urgent need is to secure a seat in -omnibus or supplement; all the world is going seawards, and even French -politeness yields a little before the pressure of necessity; for the -crowd is great and the carriages are small. There is infection in -the gaiety of our fellow holiday-seekers, whose costumes are devised -to hint delicately or more broadly their destination. Their pleasure -is expressed with all the _naïveté_ of childhood; so we too, easily -enough, catch something of their spirit, and watch eagerly for the -first hint of blue on the horizon, for the first crisp, salt breath in -the air. Dives, after its spasmodic revival, falls back into silence, -and is forgotten. We forget it too, and for the next few days the -problem of life at Beuzeval-Houlgate occupies us wholly. - -He who first invented Beuzeval must have had a vivid imagination, a -creative genius. What possibilities did he see in that sad reach of -endless sand, in that sadder expanse of sea, as we first saw it under -a gray summer sky? Yet here, almost with the wave of an Aladdin’s -wand, a gay little town sprung into existence—fantastic houses, -pseudo-Swiss châlets, very un-English ‘Cottages Anglais;’ ‘Beach’ -hotels, ‘Sea’ hotels, ‘Beautiful Sojourn’ hotels lined the shore, -and Paris came down and took possession. Houlgate and we are really -one, though some barrier, undefinable and not to be grasped by us, -divides us. But Houlgate holds itself proudly aloof from us; Houlgate -leads the fashions; it is dominated by ‘that ogre, gentility;’ its -houses are more fantastic, its costumes more magnificent, its ways -more mysterious. At Beuzeval, one is not genteel, one is natural; it -is a family-life of simplicity and tranquillity, as the guide-book -sets forth in glowing terms. We live in a little house that faces, -and is indeed set low upon the beach. There is a strip of garden -which produces a gay crop of marigolds and sunflowers growing in a -sandy waste—gold against gold. We belong to Mère Jeanne, an ancient -lady, who wears a white cotton night-cap of the tasselled order, and -who is oftenest seen drawing water at the well. Her vessel is of an -antique shape; and she, too, is old. Tradition whispers that she has -seen ninety winters come and go, yet her cheeks are rosy as one of -her Normandy apples. One feels that life moves slowly and death comes -tardily to this sea-village, where the outer world intrudes but once a -year, and then but for one brief autumn month alone. - -Bathing is the chief occupation of the day, and it is undertaken with -a seriousness that is less French than British. Nothing can be funnier -than to watch this matter of taking _le bain_. From early morning till -noon, all the world is on the beach. Rows of chairs are brought down -from the bath-house—all gay at this hour with wind-tossed flags—and -are planted firmly in the soft loose sand; here those of us who are -spectators sit and watch the show. A paternal government arranges -everything for its children. Here one goes by rule. So many hours of -the morning and so many hours of the evening must alone be devoted -to the salt bath; such and such a space of the wide beach, carefully -marked off with fluttering standards, must alone be occupied. Thus -bathing is a very social affair; the strip of blue water is for the -moment converted into a _salon_, where all the courtesies of life are -duly observed. On the other side of the silver streak, business of -the same nature is no doubt going on; but French imagination alone -could evolve, French genius devise, the strange and wonderful costumes -appropriate to the occasion. - -Here is a lady habited in scarlet, dainty shoes and stockings to match, -and a bewitching cap (none of your hideous oilskin) with falling -lace and telling little bows of ribbon. Here another, clad in pale -blue, with a becoming hat tied under her chin, and many bangles on -her wrists. The shoes alone are a marvel. How do all these intricate -knots and lacings, these glancing buckles, survive the rough and -sportive usage of the waves? Who but our Gallic sisters could imagine -those delicate blendings of dark blue and silver, crimson and brown, -those strange stripes and æsthetic olives and drabs? The costume of -the gentlemen is necessarily less varied, though here and there one -notices an eccentric harlequin, easily distinguishable among the -crowd; and again, what Englishman would dream of taking his morning -dip with a ruff round his neck, a silken girdle, and a hat to save his -complexion from the sun? Two amiable persons dressed in imitation of -the British tar, obligingly spend the greater part of the day in the -sea. Their business it is to conduct timid ladies from the beach and to -assist them in their bath. The braver spirits allow themselves to be -plunged under the brine, the more fearful are content to be sprinkled -delicately from a tin basin. There is also a rower, whose little boat, -furnished with life-saving appliances, plies up and down among the -crowd, lest one more venturesome than his neighbours should pass beyond -his depth; an almost impossible event, as one might say, seeing with -what fondness even the boldest swimmer clings to the shore. - -Danger on these summer waters seems a remote contingency. Here is -neither ‘bar that thunders’ nor ‘shale that rings.’ It is for the -most part a lazy sea, infinitely blue, that comes softly, almost -caressingly, shorewards. At first, one is struck with the absence -of life which it presents—the human element uncounted. There is no -pier, and boating as a pastime is unknown. Occasionally, a fleet of -brown-sheeted fishing-smacks rides out from the little port of Dives, -each sail slowly unfurled, making a spot of warm colour when the sun -shines on the canvas; now and then there is a gleam of white wings -on the far horizon. But the glory of the place is its limitless, -uninterrupted sea, shore, and sky—endless reaches of golden sand, -endless plains of blue water. With so liberal a space of heaven and -of ocean, you have naturally room for many subtle effects, countless -shades and blendings of colour, most evanescent coming and going of -light and shadow. To the left, gay little Cabourg, all big hotels -and Parisian finery, runs out to meet the sea; farther still, Luc is -outlined against the sky. To the right are the cliffs at Havre, pink -at sunset; their position marked when dusk has fallen by the glow of -the revolving light. Beyond, _là bas_—that ‘indifferent, supercilious’ -French _là bas_—an ‘elsewhere’ of little importance, lies unseen -England. When the sun has set, dipping its fireball in haste to cool -itself in the waters, there comes sometimes an illusive effect as -of land, dim, far off, indistinct; but it is cloud-land, not our -sea-island. - -The sunsets are a thing to marvel at, never two nights alike. ‘C’est -adorable!’ as our old Norman waiting-woman said, with a fervent -pressure of the hands, as she looked with us on ‘the crimson splendour -when the day had waned.’ Sometimes it is a lingering glory, the -rose-light on the pools fading slowly, as if loath to go; sometimes the -spectacle is more quickly over, and almost ‘with one stride comes the -dark;’ then swiftly in their appointed order the familiar stars. Now -and again, it is a great storm—a blue-black sea and an inky sky, rent -too frequently by the zigzags of the lightning. There is always the -charm of change and novelty; the piquancy of the unexpected. - -After the serious business of the bath is over, the lunch-hour has -arrived. Being as it were one family, we all take our meals at -the same time. Later in the afternoon, Houlgate rides and drives, -elegant landaus, carriages with linen umbrellas suspended over them, -donkey-carts driven by beautiful young ladies in beautiful Paris gowns. -Beuzeval braves the dust, and looks on respectfully at the show; but -Beuzeval does not drive much. It takes its little folks to the beach -and helps them to build sand-castles. It goes off in bands armed with -forks to the exciting chase of the _équilles_. These little fish of -the eel tribe, which are savoury eating, burrow in the sand at low -tide, and it requires some skill to capture them. Whole families go -out shrimping too, looking not unpicturesque as, set against the light -on the far sea-margin, they push their nets before them. One afternoon -we watched two bearded men amuse themselves for hours with flying a -pink kite. Their gesticulations were lively, and their excitement -great, when at last it sailed bravely before the breeze. We are very -easily amused here; for the most part, we are content to look about us, -hospitable to all stray impressions. At such times, one is tempted to -the idlest speculations. Why, for instance, are all the draught-horses -white? Is it that the blue sheep-skin collar may have the advantage -of contrast? Why, in a land of green pastures, where kine abound, is -milk at a ransom price, and butter not always eatable? Why, again, in -spite of our simplicity, our _vie de famille_, is it necessary to one’s -well-being here to have an inexhaustible Fortunatus’s purse? But these -things are mysteries; let us cease to meddle with them, and follow -Houlgate wider afield, on foot, if you will, to little Dives, too long -neglected—Dives, which sends its placid river to swell the sea, but -lingers inland itself, hardly on the roughest day within sound of the -waves. - -It was at Dives that Duke William of Normandy and his host waited for -the south wind, that fair wind that was to carry them to England. The -harbour, choked now with the shifting sand, and sheltering nothing -larger than a fishing-smack—held the fleet which some have numbered -in thousands; gallant ships for which Normandy’s noblest forest trees -were sacrificed during that long summer of preparation. Finest of them -all, riding most proudly on the waves, was William’s own _Mora_, the -gift of his Matilda. At its prow there was carved in gold the image -of a boy ‘blowing on an ivory horn pointing towards England.’ ‘Stark’ -Duke William thus symbolised his conquest before ever he set foot on -that alien shore. On the gentle slopes above the little town, where the -cattle feed, the great army encamped itself, waiting for that fair wind -that never came. Four weeks they lingered, long enough to associate -the seaport inseparably with the Conqueror’s name; and brave stories -are chronicled of the order he kept among his fierce Gauls, and how -the worthy people of Dives learned to look on the strangers without -distrust—almost with indifference; to till their fields, to tend their -flocks, to gather in the harvest, as if no nation’s fate hung on the -caprice of a breeze. Four weeks of this, and then that great company -melted away almost with the suddenness of a certain Assyrian host of -old—a west wind blew gently—not the longed-for south; but the ships, -weary of inaction, spread their wings, and flew away to St Valery, -where a narrower band of blue separated them from the desired English -haven. And the village folks were left once more to the vast quietude -of their country life. - -There is an old church, rebuilt since English Edward destroyed it, a -noble specimen of Norman architecture, and there they keep recorded on -marble the names of the knights who sailed on that famous expedition -from the port hard by. The church has its legend, too, of a wondrous -effigy of our Lord found by the fishermen who launched their nets in -these waters. It bore the print of nails in the hands and feet; but -the cross to which it had been fastened was awanting. The village -folks gave it reverent sanctuary, and devout hands busied themselves -in fashioning a crucifix; but no crucifix—let the workman be ever so -skilful—could be made to fit the carven Christ. This one was too short, -that too long. Clearly the miracle had been but half wrought; the cross -must be sought where the image had already been found. In faith, the -fishermen cast their nets again and again into the deep. At last, after -long patience on their part, the sea gave up what it had previously -denied. The long-lost cross was found; and with the figure nailed to it -once more, the sacred symbol was borne to its resting-place. A great -feast-day that, for Dives; but only the memory of it lingers. The -treasure has vanished, and nothing save a curious picture representing -the miracle remains to witness to the event. It hangs in the transept, -and there are many who linger to look at it. The outside of this grand -building pleased us well; it stands secure and free, with open spaces -about it, green woods behind, and the blue sky of France above. A -stone’s-throw off there is the market, which is nothing but a wide and -deep overhanging roof, supported on pillars of carved wood. Here the -sturdy peasants of this white-cotton-night-cap country sell the cheeses -that smell so evilly and taste so well. - -But the chief interest of Dives centres itself in the Hôtellerie de -Guillaume le Conquérant. Heart could not desire a quainter, more -out-of-the-world spot in which to pass a summer day. One may take a -hundred or two of years from the reputed date—they boast that Duke -William was housed here, and they show you the chain by which the -_Mora_ was fastened to the shore!—and yet leave the place ancient -enough. The famous reception-rooms may have been, and have been, -redecorated and renewed after an old pattern; but they contain -treasures that can boast a very respectable past. Such black carved oak -is seldom to be seen; and there are tattered hangings, brasses, bits of -china enough to fill a virtuoso’s heart with envy; a wonderful medley -of all tastes and periods. - -Of deepest interest to some of us is the Louis XIV. chair with gilded -arms and seat of faded, silken brocade, from which the most brilliant -correspondent of her day wrote some of the letters that are models -yet of what letters ought to be. Madame de Sévigné came here once and -again on her way to Les Rochers. Once, at least, she came with ‘an -immense retinue,’ that must have taxed the resources of the modest -inn, smaller then than now. The ‘good and amiable’ Duchess de Chaulnes -is of the company. Madame de Carmen makes the third in the trio. The -ladies travel ‘in the best carriage’ with ‘the best horses,’ and that -large following behind them. Madame de Chaulnes, who is all activity, -is up with the dawn. ‘You remember how, in going to Bourbon, I found it -easier to accommodate myself to her ways than to try and mend them.’ -They make quite a royal progress, halting here and there. At Chaulnes -the good duchess is taken ill, seized with sore throat. The kindest -lady in the world nurses her friend and undertakes the cure. ‘At -Paris she would have been bled; but here she was only rubbed for some -time with our famous balsam, which produced quite a miracle. Will you -believe, my dearest, that in one night this precious balsam completely -cured her?’ While the patient slept, the kind nurse wandered in the -noble alleys and the neglected gardens. ‘I call this rehearsing for -Les Rochers,’ she writes gaily; but there is little heat, ‘not one -nightingale to be heard—it is winter on the 17th of April.’ - -Soon, however, the southern warmth floods the land, and they set off, -a gay trio, and one of them at least with eyes for every quick-passing -beauty as they drive through green Normandy. From Caen she writes: ‘We -were three days upon the road from Rouen to this place. We met with no -adventures; but fine weather and spring in all its charm accompanied -us. We ate the best things in the world, went to bed early, and did -not suffer any inconvenience. We were on the sea-coast at Dives, where -we slept.’ (She loves the sea, and elsewhere tells how she sat at her -chamber window and looked out on it.) ‘The country is beautiful.’ -Later, she exclaims: ‘I have seen the most beautiful country in the -world. I did not know Normandy at all; I had seen it when too young. -Alas! perhaps not one of those I saw here before is left alive—that is -sad!’ This is the shadow in the bright picture; she, too, is growing -old, and her spring will not return. It is the last journey she is -making to the well-loved country home. - -Somehow, as we turn away from the quaint hostelry, it is this gracious -and beautiful lady who goes with us, and not ‘stark’ hero William. At -Beuzeval, as we reach it, the sun is already dipping towards the sea, -and all the bathers—a fantastic crowd set against the red light—are -hurrying homewards across the sands. - - - - -ARE OUR COINS WEARING AWAY? - - -After the recent speech by the Chancellor of the Exchequer in which he -showed that our gold coins are much lighter than they ought to be, we -shall have to answer the above question in the affirmative. Our coins -_are_ wearing away, and although not at any very alarming rate, yet -at a perceptible one. Every sovereign, half-sovereign, half-crown, -florin, shilling, or sixpence, &c., which has been out of the Mint any -length of time, weighs less now than it did when brand new. Indeed, -in some old coins this is quite evident upon a casual inspection, for -the image may be worn flat and unrecognisable, and the superscription -may be illegible. Now, the difference in value between this old coin -and the same coin when turned out new may be very trifling; but when -we consider that there are probably millions in circulation which -have similarly suffered depreciation to a greater or less extent, and -that this loss will at some time or other have to be made good, this -question of the wear of our coins becomes of sufficient importance for -a Chancellor of the Exchequer to seek to cope with it. We shall here -only offer a few observations on the mechanical aspects of the subject. - -The office youth fetching a bag of gold from the bank to pay wages -with—the workman putting his small share into his pocket after the lot -has been shot on to a desk and his money has been duly apportioned -to him—the shopman banging it on his counter to see whether it is -sound when it is tendered in payment for groceries, &c., are all -participators in a gigantic system of unintentional ‘sweating.’ -Under this usage—quite inseparable, by the way, from the functions -the coinage has to subserve—it would appear that in the United -Kingdom alone there is something like seven hundred and ten thousand -pounds-worth of gold-dust floating about, widely distributed, and in -microscopic particles, lost to the nation—dust which has been abraded -from the gold coins now in circulation. There are similarly thousands -of pounds-worth of silver particles from our silver coinage worn off in -the same way. - -It has been estimated from exact data that a hundred-year-old sovereign -has lost weight equivalent to a depreciation of eightpence; in other -words, that such a sovereign is only of the intrinsic value of nineteen -shillings and fourpence. There has been a hundred years of wear for -eightpence—as cheap, one would think, as one could possibly get so much -use out of a coin for; but as we shall now see, we have, comparatively -speaking, to pay more for the use of other coins. Thus, for a hundred -years of use of a half-sovereign we pay a small fraction under -eightpence; in other words, the half-sovereign has lost nearly as much -weight as the sovereign; and considering its value, it has therefore -cost the nation nearly twice as much for its use, two half-sovereigns -costing us nearly one shilling and fourpence. It appears from Mr -Childers’s statement that at the present time, taking old and new -coins, there are in the United Kingdom ninety million sovereigns in -circulation; and of these, fifty millions are on the average worth -nineteen shillings and ninepence-halfpenny each. Of the forty million -half-sovereigns in circulation, some twenty-two millions are of the -intrinsic value of nine shillings and ninepence three-farthings each. -Hence the proposal of the Chancellor of the Exchequer to issue, instead -of half-sovereigns, ten-shilling pieces, or tokens, containing only -nine shillings-worth of gold, with the idea of making up for the loss -by waste of the gold coins now in circulation. - -Now, if we inquire into the reason why the half-sovereign wastes so -much faster than the sovereign, we can only come to the conclusion -that, being of half the value, it is a more convenient coin than the -sovereign, and consequently has a much busier life. This applies -with greater force still to coins like the half-crown, shilling, and -sixpence, which are only one-eighth, one-twentieth, and one-fortieth -respectively of the value of a sovereign. And we find upon examination, -what one would naturally expect, that the silver coinage is even more -costly than the gold coinage. The depreciation of the half-crown, -reckoned in terms of itself, is more than double that of the -half-sovereign; that is, if a half-sovereign wastes in the course of -a century to the extent of one-fifteenth of its value, the half-crown -will waste more than two-fifteenths of its value. The depreciation -of shilling-pieces is not far off three times as much as that of -half-crowns; and sixpences waste faster than shillings, though by no -means twice so fast. There is thus an immense waste of our silver -coinage taking place, and it proceeds at such a rate in the case of -sixpences, that the intrinsic value of one a hundred years old would be -only threepence, a century of use having worn away half the silver. - -It is evident from these facts that the relative amounts of wear of -coins are _not_ so much owing to the nature of the metal they are -made of as to the activity of the life they have to lead. The less -the value of the coin, the greater is the use to which it is put; and -consequently, the greater is the depreciation in its value from wear -in a given time. The sovereign being of greatest value, is used least, -and depreciates the least—a circumstance quite in accordance with the -fitness of things when we reflect that it is ‘really an international -coin, largely used in exchange operations, known to the whole -commercial world,’ and that any heavy depreciation of it would lead to -much embarrassment. - - - - -SILAS MONK. - -A TALE OF LONDON OLD CITY. - - -IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER III. - -Unless Rachel had reflected, in the midst of her alarm at the -absence of her grandfather, that Walter Tiltcroft would be at the -counting-house of Armytage and Company at an early hour, there is -no saying what steps she might have taken with the hope of gaining -some tidings of the old man. If anything had happened, Walter must be -the first to bear the news to her. Towards nine o’clock, therefore, -her anxiety began to take a different form; she ceased to expect her -grandfather’s return, and dreaded the appearance of her lover. - -The house was soon put in order; everything about the poor home of -Silas Monk looked as neat and clean as usual. Rachel was on the point -of taking up her needlework, when a quick step on the pavement under -the window attracted her attention. It was Walter Tiltcroft. He -followed her into the sitting-room. He was somewhat out of breath; and -when Rachel caught sight of his face, she thought she had never seen it -so pale. ‘Sit down, Walter,’ said the girl, placing a chair. ‘You have -come to tell me something. You have come to tell me’—and here her voice -almost failed her—‘you have come to tell me that he is dead.’ - -‘No. I thought that I should find your grandfather here.’ - -‘Why, he has not been here the whole night long!’ - -The young man passed his hand confusedly across his brow. ‘What did I -tell you I saw at the office last night?’ - -‘You told me,’ answered Rachel, ‘that you saw grandfather, through a -hole in the shutter, counting handfuls of sovereigns on his desk.’ - -‘Ah!’ exclaimed Walter, ‘then I cannot have dreamt it. I was the first -to enter the office this morning. His room was empty. His ledgers were -lying on his desk; the key was in the lock of the large safe, and the -door of the safe stood open. But there were no signs of Silas Monk.’ - -The girl looked at the young man with a scared face. ‘What shall we do, -if he is lost?’ - -Walter rose quickly from his seat. ‘Wait!’ cried he. ‘We shall find -him. Mr Armytage has sent for a detective—one, as they say, who can see -through a stone wall.’ - -‘Oh!’ cried the girl, ‘they cannot suspect my grandfather! I shall not -rest until you bring him back to me, here, in our old home.’ - -The young man promised, with earnest looks and words, to do his best; -and then hurried away with all possible despatch. - -The commotion at the office, which had been going on ever since nine -o’clock that morning, was showing no signs of abatement when Walter -walked in. The entrance was guarded by two stalwart police-officers, -who assisted the young clerk to make his way through a gaping crowd. -Rumours had already spread about the city: Silas Monk had ‘gone off,’ -some said, with the contents of the great iron safe in the strong-room -of Armytage and Company; and the value of the documents which he had -purloined was estimated at sums varying from one to ten thousand -pounds. Other reports went even further, and declared that Silas, when -entering as a clerk into the firm of Armytage and Company, years and -years ago, had sold himself to the Evil One; that last night, while the -old city clocks were striking twelve, he had received a visit—as did -Faust from Mephistopheles—and had been whisked away in the dark. - -Walter Tiltcroft found another constable near the stairs. ‘You’re -wanted,’ said the officer in a snappish manner. ‘This way.’ The man -conducted Walter to the private office of Mr Armytage, the senior -partner. Here he left him. - -Walter stepped into the room boldly, but with a fast-beating heart. A -gentleman with a head as white as snow and with a very stiff manner, -was standing on the rug before the fire, as he entered. ‘Do you want -me, Mr Armytage?’ - -The senior partner turned his eyes upon the clerk. ‘Yes, Tiltcroft; I -want you.’ - -Looking round, Walter noticed for the first time that they were not -alone. Seated at a table, with his back to the window, so that his face -was in shade, was a gentleman, writing quickly with a quill-pen. This -gentleman had jet-black hair, cut somewhat short; and there was a tuft -of black whisker on a level with each ear. His hat was on the table, -and beside the hat was lying a thick oaken stick. - -Walter had made this observation in a rapid glance, when Mr Armytage -added: ‘What news have you brought from Silas Monk’s house?—Has Silas -been there?’ - -‘No, sir; not for twenty-four hours.’ - -‘Ah! Now, tell me, were you not the last to leave the office yesterday?’ - -When Mr Armytage put this question, the noise of the pen suddenly -ceased. Was the gentleman with the jet-black hair listening? Walter -could not look round, because the senior partner’s eyes were fixed upon -him. But he felt inclined to think that the gentleman was listening -very attentively, being anxious to record the answer. ‘I was the last, -sir, except Silas Monk,’ was Walter’s reply. - -The pen gave a short scratch, and stopped. - -‘Except Silas, of course,’ said Mr Armytage. ‘Did you, after leaving -Silas, go straight home?’ - -‘No, sir.’ - -‘Tell me where you did go, will you?’ - -‘First of all, under the scaffold outside, where I called out, in order -to ascertain if the workmen had gone. As I found no one there, I closed -the front-door. Then I came back, and sat down in a dark place on the -staircase.’ - -Scratch, scratch, scratch from the quill. - -‘On the staircase!’ exclaimed Mr Armytage, with surprise. - -‘I wanted to know why Silas Monk never went home when the rest did, -because his granddaughter was uneasy about him,’ continued Walter. ‘She -told me that it was often close upon midnight before he got home.’ - -‘Well?’ - -‘I found out what kept him at the office.’ - -The senior partner raised his chin, and said encouragingly: ‘Tell us -all about it.’ - -Walter remained silent for a moment, as though collecting his thoughts; -then he said: ‘What happened that night at the office, Mr Armytage, -is simply this. I had hardly sat down on the staircase when, to my -surprise, a workman came out of the yard from his work on the scaffold. -I stopped him and questioned him. He told me that he had remained to -finish some repairs on the roof, and had not heard me call. I let the -man out, and then returned to my place.’ - -The scratching of the quill began and finished while Walter was -speaking. He was about to resume, when the gentleman at the table held -up the pen to enforce silence. - -‘Mr Armytage,’ said the stranger, ‘ask your clerk if he can tell us, -from previous knowledge, anything about this workman.’ - -The senior partner looked inquiringly at Walter. - -‘I’ve known him for years,’ said the young clerk. ‘When a man is wanted -to repair anything in the office, we always send for Joe Grimrood.’ -While the quill was scratching, the head gave a nod, and the voice -exclaimed: ‘Go on!’ - -Walter then mentioned briefly by what accident he had discovered Silas -Monk at his desk with the pile of sovereigns before him; and how, not -daring to disturb him, he had gone away convinced that the head-cashier -was nothing better than an ‘old miser,’ as he expressed it. - -As soon as Walter Tiltcroft had finished his recital, the pen gave -a final scratch; then the stranger rose from the table, folded some -papers together, placed them in his breast-pocket, and taking up his -hat and stick, went out. - -When he was gone, the senior partner, still standing on the rug, -turned to Walter, and said: ‘Go back to your desk. Do not quit the -counting-house to-day; you may be wanted at any moment.’ - -All day long, Walter sat at his desk waiting, with his eyes constantly -bent upon the iron-bound door of the strong-room. Within it, he -pictured to himself Silas Monk wrapped in a white shroud lying -stretched in death, with his hands crossed, and his head raised upon -huge antique ledgers. Presently, Walter even fancied that he heard -the sovereigns chinking as they dropped out of the old man’s hands, -followed by the sound of shuffling feet; and once, while he was -listening, there seemed to issue from this chamber a stifled cry, which -filled him with such terror and dismay, that he found it no easy matter -to hide his agitation from his fellow-clerks, who would have laughed at -him, if they had had the slightest suspicion that he was occupying his -time in such an unprofitable manner, while they were as busily engaged -with the affairs of Armytage and Company as if Silas Monk had never -been born. - - * * * * * - -While these fancies were still troubling Walter Tiltcroft’s brain, he -was sent for by the senior partner. ‘Read that,’ said Mr Armytage, -pointing to a paper on his table as the young man entered the room. ‘It -is a telegram from Fenwick the detective.’ It ran as follows: - -‘_Send Tiltcroft alone to Limehouse Police Station._’ - -Walter looked at the senior partner for instructions. ‘Go!’ cried Mr -Armytage with promptness—‘go, without a moment’s delay!’ - -The young man started off as quickly as his legs would carry him for -the railway terminus near Fenchurch Street. What an inexpressible -relief to escape from his ghostly fantasy regarding the old -strong-room, and to feel that he was at last beginning to take an -active and important part in the search for Silas Monk! - -The train presently arrived at Limehouse. Walter leaped out and made -his way with all speed to the police station. He inquired for the -detective of the first constable he saw, standing, as though on guard, -at the open doorway. - -‘What name?’ - -‘Tiltcroft.’ - -The constable gave a short comprehensive nod; then he looked into the -office, and jerked his head significantly at another constable who was -seated at a desk. This man quickly disappeared into an inner room. - -‘Walk in,’ said the custodian at the doorway, ‘and wait.’ - -Walter walked in, and waited for what seemed an interminable time. But -Fenwick made his appearance at last, walking briskly up to the young -clerk and touching him on the shoulder with the knob of his stick. -‘It’s a matter of identification,’ said he mysteriously; ‘come along.’ -He settled his hat on with the brim touching his black eyebrows, and -led the way into the street. Walter followed. They walked along through -well-lighted thoroughfares, up narrow passages and down dark lanes, -until they came suddenly upon a timber-yard with the river flowing -beyond. At this point the detective stopped and gave a low whistle. -This signal was immediately followed by the sound of oars; and the -dark outline of a boat gliding forward, grew dimly visible out of the -obscurity, below the spot where Fenwick and the young clerk stood. Some -one in the boat directed the rays of a lantern mainly upon their feet, -revealing steep wooden steps. - -‘Follow me!’ cried the detective. - -As they went down step by step to the water’s edge, the rays of the -lantern descended, dropping always a few inches in advance to guide -them, until they were safely shipped, when the lantern was suddenly -suppressed, and the boat was jerked cautiously out into the river by a -figure near the bow, handling shadowy oars. - -Towards what seemed the centre of the stream there was a light shining -so high above them that it appeared, until they drew nearer, like a -solitary star in the dark sky. But the black bulk of a ship’s stern -presently coming in sight, it was apparent that the light belonged to -a large vessel lying at anchor in the river. Under the shadow of this -vessel—if further shadow were possible in this deep darkness—the boat -pulled up, and the lantern was again produced. ‘I’ll go first, my lad,’ -said Fenwick, touching Walter on the shoulder again with his stick. -‘Keep close.’ - -This time the rays from the lantern ascended, rising on a level with -the men’s heads as they went up the ship’s side. As soon as they -reached the deck, the rays again vanished. - -‘We will now proceed to business,’ said the detective. - -‘Ay, ay, sir,’ cried a sailor who had stepped forward to receive the -visitors. ‘Your men are waiting below.’ - -‘Then lead the way.’ - -Walter, wondering what this mystification meant, followed close upon -the heels of Fenwick and the sailor. A few steps brought them to what -was obviously the entrance to the steerage, for it had the dingy -appearance common to that part of a passenger-ship. - -‘Are the emigrants below?’ asked the detective. - -‘Ay, ay,’ replied the sailor—‘fast asleep.’ - -‘So much the better,’ remarked Fenwick. Then he added, with a glance at -Walter: ‘Now for the identification.’ - -The sailor led the way down to heaps of human beings lying huddled -together not unlike sheep, with their heads against boxes, or upon -canvas bags, or packages covered with tarpaulin. The air was warm -and oppressive; and the men, women, and children who were packed in -this place had a uniform expression of weariness on their faces, as -though they were resigned to all the perils and dangers that could be -encountered upon a long voyage. - -‘When do you weigh anchor?’ asked the detective. - -‘At daybreak,’ answered the sailor. - -‘Ah! a little sea-air won’t be amiss,’ remarked Fenwick, looking about -him thoughtfully.—‘Now, let me see.’ He peered into the faces with his -quick keen eyes, leaning his chin the while upon the knob of his stick. -Presently he cocked an eye at Tiltcroft, and said: ‘See any one you -recognise?’ - -Walter threw a swift glance around him. Most of the faces were thin and -pale, and there were several eyes staring at him and his companion; but -many eyes were closed in sleep; among these he saw a half-hidden face -which he seemed to know, yet for the moment could not recall; but the -recollection quickly flashed upon him. - -The detective, watching his expression, saw the change; and following -the direction in which Walter was staring in blank surprise, perceived -that the object in which he appeared to take such a sudden interest -was a large, muscular person, wrapped in a thick pea-jacket, with his -head upon his arm, and his arm resting upon a sea-chest, which was -corded with a thick rope. The man was fast asleep, and on his head was -a mangy-looking skin-cap, pulled down to his eyebrows. - -‘Well,’ said the detective, glancing from this man into Walter’s face; -‘who is he?’ - -‘Joe Grimrood!’ cried Walter. - -It would seem as though the man had heard the mention of his name; -for, as Walter pronounced it, he frowned, and opening his eyes slowly, -looked up askance, like an angry dog. - -‘Get up!’ said the detective, giving the man a playful thrust in the -ribs; ‘you’re wanted.’ - -Joe Grimrood showed his teeth, and started, as though about to spring -upon Fenwick. But on reflection, he appeared to think better of it, and -simply growled. - -Fenwick turned to the sailor, and said, pointing to the chest against -which Joe Grimrood still leaned, ‘Uncord that box. And if,’ he -added—‘if that man moves or utters a word, bind him down hands and feet -with the rope. Do you understand?’ - -‘Ay, ay, sir,’ cried the sailor, with a grin on his honest-looking -face. With all the dexterity of a practised ‘tar,’ the sailor removed -the cord from the chest; then he glanced at the detective for further -instructions. - -‘Open it!’ cried Fenwick. - -At these words, Joe Grimrood, who sat with his back against the iron -pillar and his arms crossed defiantly, showed signs of rebellion in his -small glittering eyes. But a glance from Fenwick quelled him. - -When the chest was opened, a quantity of old clothes was discovered. -‘Make a careful search,’ said the detective. ‘If you find nothing more -valuable than old clothes in that box, I shall be greatly surprised.’ - -Something far more valuable, sure enough, soon came to light. One after -another the sailor brought out fat little bags, which, being shaken, -gave forth a pleasant ring not unlike the chink of gold. - -Fenwick presently, after opening one of these bags, held it up before -Joe Grimrood’s eyes, tauntingly. ‘You’re a nice emigrant, ain’t you? -Why, a man of your wealth ought to be a first-class passenger, not a -steerage. How did you manage to accumulate such a heap of gold?’ - -Joe Grimrood gave another growl, and replied: ‘Let me alone. I’m an -honest workman. Mr Tiltcroft there will tell you if I’m not; asking his -pardon.’ - -‘That’s no answer. How do you come by all this gold?’ - -‘By the sweat of my brow,’ answered the man, with the perspiration -rolling down his face. ‘So help me. By the sweat of my brow.’ - -‘That will do,’ continued the detective. ‘Take my advice, and don’t say -another word.—Come, Tiltcroft. The sooner we get back to the city the -better. There is work to be done there to-night.’ With these words, -Fenwick beckoned to two constables. These men, at a sign from the -detective, seized Joe Grimrood and handcuffed him before he had time to -suspect their intention. Meanwhile, the sailor had packed up the box, -gold and all, and had corded it down as quickly as he had uncorded it. - -The constables went first, with Joe Grimrood between them. The man -showed no resistance. Behind him followed the sailor with the valuable -chest. The detective and Tiltcroft brought up the rear. The boat which -had brought Walter and his companions alongside the emigrant ship was -still waiting under the bow when they came on deck. In a few minutes, -without noise or confusion, they were once more in their places, with -the chest and Joe Grimrood—still between the two constables—by way of -additional freight. Once more the boat moved across the dark river and -carried them to the shore. - -Having deposited Joe Grimrood and his luggage at the police station, -the detective turned to Walter and said: ‘Now, my lad, let us be off. -This business in the city is pressing. Every moment is precious; it’s a -matter of life and death.’ - - - - -THE RATIONALE OF HAUNTED HOUSES. - - -That a very old house should gain the reputation of being haunted -is not surprising, especially if it has been neglected and allowed -to fall out of repair. The woodwork shrinks, the plaster crumbles -away; and through minute slits and chasms in window-frames and -door-cases there come weird and uncanny noises. The wind sighs and -whispers through unseen fissures, suggesting to the superstitious the -wailings of disembodied spirits. A whole household was thrown into -consternation, and had its repose disturbed, one stormy winter, by a -series of lamentable howls and shrieks that rang through the rooms. -The sounds were harrowing, and as they rose fitfully and at intervals, -breaking the silence of the night, the stoutest nerves among the -listeners were shaken. For a long time the visitation continued to -harass the family, recurring by day as well as night, and especially -in rough weather. When there was a storm, piercing yells and shrieks -would come, sudden and startling, changing anon into low melancholy -wails. It was unaccountable. At length the mystery was solved. -Complaints had been made of draughts through the house, and as a -remedy, strips of gutta-percha had at some former time been nailed -along the window-frames, while its owners were at the seaside. This, -for some reason explainable upon acoustic principles, had caused -the disturbance. Even after the gutta-percha had been torn away, a -sudden blast of wind striking near some spot to which a fragment still -adhered, would bring a shriek or moan, to remind the family of the -annoyance they had so long endured. - -Meantime, the house got a bad reputation, and servants were shy of -engaging with its owners. A maid more strong-minded than the others, -and who had hitherto laughed at their fears, came fleeing to her -mistress on one occasion, saying she must leave instantly, and that -nothing would induce her to pass another night under the roof. There -was a long corridor at the top of the house, and the girl’s story was, -that in passing along it, she heard footsteps behind her. Stopping and -looking back, she saw no one; but as soon as she went on, the invisible -pursuer did so too, following close behind. Two or three times she -stood still suddenly, hoping the footsteps would pass on and give her -the go-by; instead of which, they pulled up when she did. And when -at last, wild with terror, she took to her heels and ran, they came -clattering along after her to the end of the passage! - -The mistress suspected that some one was trying to frighten the girl, -and she urged her to come up-stairs and endeavour to find out the -trick. This the terrified damsel refused to do, so the lady went off -alone. On reaching the corridor and proceeding along it, she was -startled to find that, as the maid had described, some one seemed to be -following her. Tap, tap, clack, clack—as of one walking slipshod with -shoes down at heel—came the steps, keeping pace with her own; stopping -when she stopped, and moving on when she did. In vain the lady peered -around and beside her; nothing was to be seen. It could be no trick, -for there was nobody in that part of the house to play a practical joke. - -Ere long the cause was discovered in the shape of a loose board in the -flooring of the corridor. The plank springing when pressed by the foot -in walking along, gave an echoing sound that had precisely the effect -of a step following; and this, in the supposed haunted house, was -sufficient to raise alarm. - -It happened to us once to be a temporary dweller in a mansion that had -a ghostly reputation. We were on our way to Paris, travelling with an -invalid; and the latter becoming suddenly too ill to proceed on the -journey, we were forced to stop in the first town we came to. The hotel -being found too noisy, a house in a quiet street was engaged by the -week. It was a grand old mansion, that had once belonged to a magnate -of the land; fallen now from its high estate, and but indifferently -kept up. Wide stone staircases with balusters of carved oak led to -rooms lofty and spacious, whose walls and ceilings were decorated with -gilded enrichments and paintings in the style of Louis XIV. At the side -of the house was a covered-way leading to the stables and offices. -This was entered through a tall _porte cochère_; and at either side of -the great gates, fixed to the iron railings, were a couple of those -huge metal extinguishers—still sometimes to be seen in quaint old -houses—used in former times to put out the torches or links carried at -night by running footmen beside the carriages of the great. The stables -and offices of the place were now falling into decay, and the _porte -cochère_ generally stood open until nightfall, when the gates were -locked. - -We had been in the house for some little time before we heard the -stories of supernatural sights and sounds connected with it—of figures -flitting through halls and passages—the ghosts of former occupants; -of strange whisperings and uncanny noises. There certainly were -curious sounds about the house, especially in the upper part, where -lumber-closets were locked and sealed up, through whose shrunken -and ill-fitting doors the wind howled with unearthly wails. In the -dining-hall was a row of old family pictures, faded and grim; and -the popular belief was that, at the ‘witching hour,’ these worthies -descended from their frames and held high festival in the scene of -former banquetings. No servant would go at night into this room alone -or in the dark. - -We had with us a young footman called Carroll, the son of an Irish -tenant; devoted to his masters, under whom he had been brought up. He -was a fine young fellow, bold as a lion, and ready to face flesh and -blood in any shape; but a very craven as regarded spirits, fairies, and -supernatural beings, in whom he believed implicitly. One night, after -seeing the invalid settled to rest and committed to the care of the -appointed watcher, I came down to the drawing-room to write letters. It -was an immense saloon, with—doubling and prolonging its dimensions—wide -folding-doors of looking-glass at the end. I had been writing for some -time; far, indeed, into the ‘small-hours.’ The fire was nearly out; -and the candles, which at their best had only served to make darkness -visible in that great place, had burnt low. The room was getting -chilly, dark shadows gathering in the corners. Who has not known the -creepy, shivering feeling that will come over us at such times, when -in the dead silence of the sleeping house we alone are wakeful? The -furniture around begins to crack; the falling of a cinder with a clink -upon the hearth makes us start. And if at such a time the door should -slowly and solemnly open wide, as doors sometimes will, ‘spontaneous,’ -we look up with quickening pulse, half expecting to see some ghastly -spectral shape glide in, admitted by invisible hands. Should sickness -be in the house, and the angel of death—who knows?—be brooding with -dark wing over our dwelling, the nerves, strained by anxiety, are -more than usually susceptible of impressions. I was gathering my -papers together and preparing to steal up-stairs past the sick-room, -glad to escape from the pervading chilliness and gloom, when the door -opened. Not, this time, of itself; for there—the picture of abject -terror—stood Carroll the footman. He was as pale as ashes, shaking all -over; his hair dishevelled, and clothes apparently thrown on in haste. -To my alarmed exclamation, ‘What _is_ the matter?’ he was unable, for -a minute, to make any reply, so violently his lips were trembling, -parched with fear. At last I made out, among half-articulate sounds, -the words ‘Ghost, groans.’ - -‘Oh,’ I said, ‘what nonsense! You have been having a bad dream. You -ought to know better, you who’—— - -My homily was cut short by a groan so fearful, so unlike anything I had -ever heard or imagined, that I was dumb with horror. - -‘Ah-h-h!—there it is again!’ whispered Carroll, dropping on his knees -and crossing himself; while vehemently thumping his breast, he, as a -good Catholic, began to mumble with white lips the prayers for the -dead. Up the stairs through the open door the sounds had come; and -after a few minutes, they were repeated, this time more faintly than -before. - -‘Let us go down and try to find out what it is,’ I said at last. And in -spite of poor Carroll’s misery and entreaties, making a strong effort, -I took the lamp from his trembling hands and began to descend the wide -staircase. Nothing was stirring. In the great dining-room, where I -went in, while the unhappy footman kept safely at the door, casting -frightened glances at the portraits on the walls, all was as usual. -As we went lower down, the groans grew louder and more appalling. -Hoarse, unnatural, long-drawn—such as could not be imagined to proceed -from human throat, they seemed to issue from the bowels of the earth, -and to be re-echoed by the walls of the great dark lofty kitchens. -Beyond these kitchens were long stone passages, leading to cellars -and pantries and servants’ halls, all unused and shut up since the -mansion’s palmy days; and into these we penetrated, led by the fearful -sounds. - -All here was dust and desolation. The smell of age and mould was -everywhere; the air was chill; and the rusty hinges of the doors -shrieked as they were pushed open, scaring away the spiders, whose webs -hung in festoons across the passages, and brushed against our faces as -we went along. Doubtless, for years no foot had invaded this dank and -dreary region, given over to mildew and decay; or disturbed the rats, -which ran scampering off at our approach. The groans seemed very near -us now, and came more frequently. It was terrible, in that gruesome -place, to hearken to the unearthly sounds. I could hear my agonised -companion calling upon every saint in the calendar to take pity upon -the soul in pain. At length there came a groan more fearful than any -that had been before. It rooted us to the spot. And then was utter -silence! - -After a long breathless pause, broken only by the gasps of poor Carroll -in his paroxysm of fear, we turned, and retraced our steps towards the -kitchens. The groans had ceased altogether. - -‘It is over now, whatever it was,’ I said. ‘All is quiet; you had -better go to bed.’ - -He staggered off to his room; while, chilled to the marrow, I crept -up-stairs, not a little shaken, I must confess, by the night’s doings. - -Next day was bright and fine. My bedroom looked to the street; and soon -after rising, I threw open the window, to admit the fresh morning air. -There was a little stir outside. The _porte cochère_ gates were wide -open, and a large cart was drawn up before them. Men with ropes in -their hands were bustling about, talking and gesticulating; passers-by -stopped to look; and boys were peering down the archway at something -going on within. Soon the object of their curiosity was brought to -light. A dead horse was dragged up the passage, and after much tugging -and pulling, was hauled up on the cart and driven away. - -It appeared that at nightfall of the previous day the wretched animal -was being driven to the knacker’s; and straying down into our archway, -while the man who had him in charge was talking to a friend, he fell -over some machinery that stood inside, breaking a limb, and otherwise -frightfully injuring himself. Instead of putting the poor animal out -of pain at once, his inhuman owner left him to die a lingering death -in agonies; and his miserable groans, magnified by the reverberation -of the hollow archway and echoing kitchens, had been the cause of our -nocturnal alarm. - -Carroll shook his head and looked incredulous at this solution of the -mystery, refusing, with the love of his class for the supernatural, to -accept it. Though years have since then passed over his head, tinging -his locks with gray, and developing the brisk, agile footman into the -portly, white-chokered, pompous butler, he will still cleave to his -first belief, and stoutly affirm that flesh and blood had nought to do -with the disturbance that night in the haunted house. - - - - -UMPIRES AT CRICKET. - - -Cricket has undergone many changes during its history, but, as far as -we can tell, one thing has remained unaltered—the umpires are sole -judges of fair and unfair play. The laws of 1774, which are the oldest -in existence, say: ‘They (the umpires) are the sole judges of fair and -unfair play, and all disputes shall be determined by them.’ Various -directions have been given to them from time to time, but nothing has -been done to lessen their responsibility or destroy their authority. -An umpire must not bet on the match at which he is employed, and only -for a breach of that law can he be changed without the consent of both -parties. It is probable that the reason why an ordinary side in a -cricket-match consists of eleven players is that originally a ‘round -dozen’ took part in it, and that one on each side was told off to be -umpire. An old writer on cricket says that in his district the players -were umpires in turn; so, though there might be twelve of them present, -only eleven were actually playing at once. This may have been a remnant -of a universal custom; and it would explain why the peculiar number -eleven is taken to designate a side in a cricket-match. - -It is not always possible for an umpire to give satisfaction to both -parties in a dispute, and very hard things have sometimes been said by -those against whom a decision has been given. Mobbing an umpire is not -so common in cricket as in football, but it is not unknown. Nervous -men have sometimes been influenced by the outcries of spectators, and -have given decisions contrary to their judgment. But occasionally the -opposite effect has been produced by interference. A bowler who has -been unpopular has been clamoured against when bowling fairly; and the -umpire has not interfered even when he has bowled unfairly, lest it -should look as if he was being coerced by the mob. - -For some years there has been a growing demand for what may be called -umpire reform. It has been said that in county matches umpires favoured -their own sides. A few years ago, a Manchester paper commenced an -account of a match between Lancashire and Yorkshire with these words: -‘The weather was hot, the players were hotter, but the umpiring was -hottest of all.’ This kind of danger was sought to be obviated last -year by the appointment of neutral umpires. The Marylebone Cricket Club -appointed the umpires in all county matches; but this did not remove -the dissatisfaction which had previously existed, as it was said that -the umpires were afraid to enforce the strict laws of the game. - -Some people who think there will not be fair-play as long as -professional umpires are employed, would have amateurs in this -position, and they predict that with the alteration there would be -an end to all unfairness and dispute. But Lord Harris, who is the -chief advocate for greater strictness on the part of umpires, says he -believes they would never be successful in first-class matches; he has -seen a good many amateur umpires in Australia, and, without impugning -their integrity, he would be sorry to find umpires in England acting -with so little experience and knowledge of the game. - -Dr W. G. Grace has told two anecdotes of umpires whom he met in -Australia. He says: ‘In an up-country match, our wicket-keeper stumped -a man; but much to our astonishment the umpire gave him not out, and -excused himself in the following terms: “Ah, ah! I was just watching -you, Mr Bush; you had the tip of your nose just over the wicket.” In -a match at Warrnambool, a man snicked a ball, and was caught by the -wicket-keeper. The umpire at the bowler’s wicket being asked for a -decision, replied: “This is a case where I can consult my colleague.” -But of course the other umpire could not see a catch at the wicket -such as this, and said so; whereupon our friend, being pressed for a -decision, remarked: “Well, I suppose he is not out.”’ - -The Australians have frequently said that English professional umpires -are afraid of giving gentlemen out, but this cannot be said of those -who are chosen to stand in the chief matches. A well-known cricketer -tells about a country match in which he was playing. A friend of his -was tempting the fieldsmen to throw at his wicket, until at length -one did throw, and hit it. ‘Not out,’ cried the umpire; and coming up -to the batsman, said: ‘You really must be more careful, sir; you were -clean out that time.’ This reminds us of the umpire who, in answer -to an appeal, said: ‘Not out; but if he does it again, he will be.’ -Caldecourt was a famous umpire—‘Honest Will Caldecourt,’ as he was -called. The author of _Cricketana_ had a high opinion of him, and said -he could give a reason for everything. That is a great virtue in an -umpire. Some men in that position will give decisions readily enough, -but they either cannot or will not explain on what grounds their -decisions are formed. - -John Lillywhite was a very honest umpire. It was his opinion that -bowling was being tolerated which was contrary to the laws of cricket -as they were then framed. In a match at Kennington Oval in 1862, he -acted according to his opinion, for he was umpire. Lillywhite would not -give way, and another umpire was employed in his place on the third day -of the match. Lillywhite was right, and it was unfortunate that he was -superseded. That was not the way to make umpires conscientious. - -When the old All England Eleven were in their prime, and were playing -matches in country places against eighteens and twenty-twos, the -players did not always pay that deference to umpires which was -customary on the best grounds, and advantage was sometimes taken of an -umpire’s nervousness and inexperience. It seemed to be an axiom with -some players, ‘To appeal is always safe.’ If several famous cricketers -cried ‘How’s that?’ it is not to be wondered at that an umpire would -occasionally say ‘Out’ on the spur of the moment, without knowing -why. But a very fair retort was once made to a player who was fond of -making appeals, on the chance of getting a lucky decision. ‘How’s that, -umpire?’ he cried. The reply was: ‘Sir, you know it is not out; so why -ask me, if you mean fair-play?’ - -The umpire has not an easy post to fill, even if he have all the -assistance which can be rendered by the players. Points are constantly -arising which are not provided for in the laws, and he must be guided -by the practice of his predecessors in the best matches. There is such -a thing as common law in cricket, as well as what may be called statute -law. It is undecided whether the umpire should be considered part of -the earth or part of the air. If a ball hit him, and be caught before -it touch the ground, is the batsman out? Some umpires say Yes, and -others say No. Severe accidents have sometimes happened to umpires who -have been struck with the ball, and there is on record that at least -one has met his death in this way. - -When matches were played for money, and when cricket was subject to -open gambling, it was more difficult for umpires to give satisfactory -decisions than it is now. In the account of a match played about sixty -years ago between Sheffield and Nottingham, the Sheffield scorer wrote, -that every time a straight ball was bowled by a Sheffield bowler the -Nottingham umpire called: ‘No ball.’ Many stories arose at that time -about umpires who were supposed to favour their sides. One town was -said to possess a champion umpire, and with his help the Club was -prepared to meet all comers. Only twenty years ago, the following -statement appeared in a respectable magazine: ‘Far north, there is an -idea that a Yorkshire Eleven should have an umpire of their own, as a -kind of Old Bailey witness to swear for Yorkshire through thick and -thin.’ - -But Yorkshiremen themselves have told some racy stories about some of -their umpires. One was appealed to for a catch, and he replied: ‘Not -out; and I’ll bet you two to one you will not win.’ Another at the -close of a match threw up his hat, and exclaimed: ‘Hurrah! I have won -five shillings.’ - -It is well known that when Dr E. M. Grace made his first appearance at -Canterbury, Fuller Pilch was umpire. The doctor was out immediately, -but the umpire gave him in. When he was afterwards expostulated with, -he said he wanted to see if that Mr Grace could bat; so, to satisfy his -curiosity, he inflicted an injustice on his own side. If the same thing -had been done in favour of his own county, it would not have offended -a gentleman whom Mr Bolland refers to in his book on Cricket. This -gentleman, referring to an umpire’s decision on one occasion, said: ‘He -must be either drunk or a fool, to give one of his own side out in that -manner.’ - -At Ecclesall, near Sheffield, there was formerly a parish clerk called -Lingard, who was also a notable umpire. One hot Sunday he was asleep -in his desk, and was dreaming about a match to be played the next day. -After the sermon, when the time came for him to utter his customary -‘Amen,’ he surprised the preacher, and delighted the rustics who were -present, by shouting in a loud voice the word ‘Over.’ - - - - -PARTED. - - - Farewell, farewell—a sadder strain - No other English word can give; - But we are parted though we live, - And ne’er may meet on earth again. - - My life is void without thy love— - A harp with half its strings destroyed; - And thoughts of pleasures once enjoyed, - Can naught of consolation prove. - - We live apart—the ocean’s flow - Divides thy sunny home from mine; - And, musing on the shore’s decline, - I watch the waters come and go. - - I trace thy image in the sand; - I call thy name—I call in vain: - The breeze is blowing from the main, - And mocks me waiting on the strand. - - I see the mighty rivers roll - To plunge, tumultuous, in the sea; - So all my thoughts flow on to thee, - And merge together in their goal. - - But thou hast uttered ‘Fare thee well;’ - And I must bid a last adieu, - Nor let the aching heart pursue - The longings that no tongue can tell. - - * * * * * - - And now, the slow returning tide - No longer murmurs of the sea; - The breeze has changed; it flies to thee - And breathes my message at thy side. - - The tide shall ebb and flow for aye, - The fickle breeze may wander free; - But all my thoughts shall flow to thee, - Till life and longing pass away. - - FRANCIS ERNEST BRADLEY. - - * * * * * - -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. 25, VOL. 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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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 25, Vol. I, June 21, 1884</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Various </p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 11, 2021 [eBook #65821]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>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)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 25, VOL. I, JUNE 21, 1884 ***</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_385">{385}</span></p> - - -<h1>CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL<br /> -OF<br /> -POPULAR<br /> -LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART</h1> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<p class='center'> - -<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> - -<a href="#NATURE_ON_THE_ROOF">NATURE ON THE ROOF.</a><br /> -<a href="#BY_MEAD_AND_STREAM">BY MEAD AND STREAM.</a><br /> -<a href="#A_NORMAN_SEASCAPE">A NORMAN SEASCAPE.</a><br /> -<a href="#ARE_OUR_COINS_WEARING_AWAY">ARE OUR COINS WEARING AWAY?</a><br /> -<a href="#SILAS_MONK">SILAS MONK.</a><br /> -<a href="#THE_RATIONALE_OF_HAUNTED_HOUSES">THE RATIONALE OF HAUNTED HOUSES.</a><br /> -<a href="#UMPIRES_AT_CRICKET">UMPIRES AT CRICKET.</a><br /> -<a href="#PARTED">PARTED.</a><br /> - -<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> - -</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter w100" id="header" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header.jpg" alt="Chambers’s Journal of Popular Literature, Science, -and Art. Fifth Series. Established by William and Robert Chambers, 1832. Conducted by R. Chambers (Secundus)." /> -</div> - - -<hr class="full" /> -<div class="center"> -<div class="header"> -<p class="floatl"><span class="smcap">No. 25.—Vol. I.</span></p> -<p class="floatr"><span class="smcap">Price</span> 1½<em>d.</em></p> -<p class="floatc">SATURDAY, JUNE 21, 1884.</p> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="full" /> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="NATURE_ON_THE_ROOF">NATURE ON THE ROOF.</h2> -</div> -<p class="ph3">BY RICHARD JEFFERIES,</p> - -<p class="ph3">AUTHOR OF THE ‘GAMEKEEPER AT HOME,’ ETC.</p> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Increased</span> activity on the housetop marks the -approach of spring and summer exactly as in the -woods and hedges, for the roof has its migrants, -its semi-migrants, and its residents. When the -first dandelion is opening on a sheltered bank, -and the pale-blue field veronica flowers in the -waste corner, the whistle of the starling comes -from his favourite ledge. Day by day it is heard -more and more, till, when the first green spray -appears on the hawthorn, he visits the roof continually. -Besides the roof-tree and the chimney-top, -he has his own special place, sometimes under -an eave, sometimes between two gables; and as -I sit writing, I can see a pair who have a ledge -which slightly projects from the wall between the -eave and the highest window. This was made -by the builder for an ornament; but my two -starlings consider it their own particular possession. -They alight with a sort of half-scream -half-whistle just over the window, flap their wings, -and whistle again, run along the ledge to a spot -where there is a gable, and with another note, rise -up and enter an aperture between the slates and -the wall. There their nest will be in a little -time, and busy indeed they will be when the -young require to be fed, to and fro the fields -and the gable the whole day through, the busiest -and the most useful of birds, for they destroy -thousands upon thousands of insects, and if -farmers were wise, they would never have one -shot, no matter how the thatch was pulled -about.</p> - -<p>My pair of starlings were frequently at this ledge -last autumn, very late in autumn, and I suspect -they had a winter brood there. The starling does -rear a brood sometimes in the midst of the winter, -contrary as that may seem to our general ideas -of natural history. They may be called roof-residents, -as they visit it all the year round; they -nest in the roof, rearing two and sometimes three -broods; and use it as their club and place of meeting. -Towards July, the young starlings and those -that have for the time at least finished nesting, -flock together, and pass the day in the fields, -returning now and then to their old home. These -flocks gradually increase; the starling is so prolific -that the flocks become immense, till in -the latter part of the autumn in southern fields -it is common to see a great elm-tree black with -them, from the highest bough downwards, and -the noise of their chattering can be heard a long -distance. They roost in firs or in osier-beds. -But in the blackest days of winter, when frost -binds the ground hard as iron, the starlings return -to the roof almost every day; they do not whistle -much, but have a peculiar chuckling whistle at -the instant of alighting. In very hard weather, -especially snow, the starlings find it difficult to -obtain a living, and at such times will come to -the premises at the rear, and at farmhouses -where cattle are in the yards, search about among -them for insects.</p> - -<p>The whole history of the starling is interesting, -but I must here only mention it as a roof-bird. -They are very handsome in their full plumage, -which gleams bronze and green among the darker -shades; quick in their motions and full of spirit; -loaded to the muzzle with energy, and never still. -I hope none of those who are so good as to read -what I have written will ever keep a starling in -a cage; the cruelty is extreme. As for shooting -pigeons at a trap, it is mercy in comparison.</p> - -<p>Even before the starling whistles much, the -sparrows begin to chirp; in the dead of winter -they are silent; but so soon as the warmer winds -blow, if only for a day, they begin to chirp. In -January this year I used to listen to the sparrows -chirping, the starlings whistling, and the chaffinches’ -‘chink, chink’ about eight o’clock, or -earlier, in the morning; the first two on the roof, -the latter, which is not a roof-bird, in some garden -shrubs. As the spring advances, the sparrows sing—it -is a short song, it is true, but still it is singing—perched -at the edge of a sunny wall. There is not -a place about the house where they will not build—under<span class="pagenum" id="Page_386">{386}</span> -the eaves, on the roof, anywhere where -there is a projection or shelter, deep in the thatch, -under the tiles, in old eave-swallows’ nests. The -last place I noticed as a favourite one in towns -is on the half-bricks left projecting in perpendicular -rows at the sides of unfinished houses. -Half-a-dozen nests may be counted at the side of -a house on these bricks; and like the starlings, -they rear several broods, and some are nesting -late in the autumn. By degrees as the summer -advances they leave the houses for the corn, -and gather in vast flocks, rivalling those of the -starlings. At this time they desert the roofs, -except those who still have nesting duties. In -winter and in the beginning of the new year, -they gradually return; migration thus goes on -under the eyes of those who care to notice it. -In London, some who fed sparrows on the roof -found that rooks also came for the crumbs placed -out. I sometimes see a sparrow chasing a rook, -as if angry, and trying to drive it away over the -roofs where I live. The thief does not retaliate, -but, like a thief, flees from the scene of his guilt. -This is not only in the breeding season, when the -rook steals eggs, but in winter. Town residents -are apt to despise the sparrow, seeing him always -black; but in the country the sparrows are as -clean as a pink; and in themselves they are the -most animated, clever little creatures. They are -easily tamed. The Parisians are fond of taming -them. At a certain hour in the Tuileries Gardens, -you may see a man perfectly surrounded with a -crowd of sparrows—some perching on his shoulder; -some fluttering in the air immediately before his -face; some on the ground like a tribe of followers; -and others on the marble seats. He jerks a crumb -of bread into the air—a sparrow dexterously seizes -it as he would a flying insect; he puts a -crumb between his lips—a sparrow takes it -out and feeds from his mouth. Meantime they -keep up a constant chirping; those that are -satisfied still stay by and adjust their feathers. -He walks on, giving a little chirp with his -mouth, and they follow him along the path—a -cloud about his shoulders, and the rest flying -from shrub to shrub, perching, and then following -again. They are all perfectly clean—a contrast -to the London sparrow. I came across one of -these sparrow-tamers by chance, and was much -amused at the scene, which, to any one not -acquainted with birds, appears marvellous; but -it is really as simple as possible, and you can -repeat it for yourself if you have patience, for -they are so sharp they soon understand you. -They seem to play at nest-making before they -really begin; taking up straws in their beaks, -and carrying them half-way to the roof, then -letting the straws float away; and the same with -stray feathers. Neither of these, starlings nor -sparrows, seem to like the dark. Under the roof, -between it and the first ceiling, there is a large -open space; if the slates or tiles are kept in -good order, very little light enters, and this space -is nearly dark in daylight. Even if chinks admit -a beam of light, they do not like it; they seldom -enter or fly about there, though quite accessible -to them. But if the roof is in bad order, and -this space light, they enter freely. Though nesting -in holes, yet they like light. The swallows could -easily go in and make nests upon the beams, but -they will not, unless the place is well lit. They -do not like darkness in the daytime.</p> - -<p>The swallows bring us the sunbeams on their -wings from Africa to fill the fields with flowers. -From the time of the arrival of the first swallow -the flowers take heart; the few and scanty plants -that had braved the earlier cold are succeeded by -a constantly enlarging list, till the banks and lanes -are full of them. The chimney-swallow is usually -the forerunner of the three house-swallows; and -perhaps no fact in natural history has been so much -studied as the migration of these tender birds. -The commonest things are always the most interesting. -In summer there is no bird so common -everywhere as the swallow, and for that reason, -many overlook it, though they rush to see a -‘white’ elephant. But the deepest thinkers have -spent hours and hours in considering the problem -of the swallow—its migrations, its flight, -its habits; great poets have loved it; great artists -and art-writers have curiously studied it. The -idea that it is necessary to seek the wilderness -or the thickest woods for nature is a total mistake; -nature is at home, on the roof, close -to every one. Eave-swallows, or house-martins -(easily distinguished by the white bar across the -tail), build sometimes in the shelter of the porches -of old houses. As you go in or out, the swallows -visiting or leaving their nests fly so closely as -almost to brush the face. Swallow means porch-bird, -and for centuries and centuries their nests -have been placed in the closest proximity to man. -They might be called man’s birds, so attached -are they to the human race. I think the greatest -ornament a house can have is the nest of an eave-swallow -under the eaves—far superior to the most -elaborate carving, colouring, or arrangement the -architect can devise. There is no ornament like -the swallow’s nest; the home of a messenger -between man and the blue heavens, between us -and the sunlight, and all the promise of the sky. -The joy of life, the highest and tenderest feelings, -thoughts that soar on the swallow’s wings, come -to the round nest under the roof. Not only -to-day, not only the hopes of future years, but -all the past dwells there. Year after year the -generations and descent of the swallow have been -associated with our homes, and all the events of -successive lives have taken place under their -guardianship. The swallow is the genius of good -to a house. Let its nest, then, stay; to me it -seems the extremity of barbarism, or rather -stupidity, to knock it down. I wish I could -induce them to build under the eaves of this -house; I would if I could discover some means -of communicating with them. It is a peculiarity -of the swallow that you cannot make it afraid -of you; just the reverse of other birds. The -swallow does not understand being repulsed, but -comes back again. Even knocking the nest -down will not drive it away, until the stupid -process has been repeated several years. The -robin must be coaxed; the sparrow is suspicious, -and though easy to tame, quick to notice the -least alarming movement. The swallow will not -be driven away. He has not the slightest fear -of man; he flies to his nest close to the window, -under the low eave, or on the beams in the outhouses, -no matter if you are looking on or not. -Bold as the starlings are, they will seldom do this. -But in the swallow, the instinct of suspicion is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_387">{387}</span> -reversed; an instinct of confidence occupies its -place. In addition to the eave-swallow, to which -I have chiefly alluded, and the chimney-swallow, -there is the swift, also a roof-bird, and making -its nest in the slates of houses in the midst of -towns. These three are migrants, in the fullest -sense, and come to our houses over thousands of -miles of land and sea.</p> - -<p>Robins frequently visit the roof for insects, -especially when it is thatched; so do wrens; and -the latter, after they have peered along, have a -habit of perching at the extreme angle of a gable, -or the extreme edge of a corner, and uttering their -song. Finches occasionally fly up to the roofs of -country-houses if shrubberies are near, also in -pursuit of insects; but they are not truly roof-birds. -Wagtails perch on roofs; they often have -their nests in the ivy, or creepers trained against -walls; they are quite at home, and are frequently -seen on the ridges of farmhouses. Tits of several -species, particularly the great titmouse and the -blue tit, come to thatch for insects both in summer -and winter. In some districts where they are -common, it is not unusual to see a goatsucker -or fern-owl hawk along close to the eaves in the -dusk of the evening for moths. The white owl -is a roof-bird (though not often of the house), -building inside the roof, and sitting there all -day in some shaded corner. They do sometimes -take up their residence in the roofs of outhouses -attached to dwellings, but not often nowadays, -though still residing in the roofs of old castles. -Jackdaws, again, are roof-birds, building in the -roofs of towers. Bats live in roofs, and hang -there wrapped up in their membraneous wings -till the evening calls them forth. They are -residents in the full sense, remaining all the year -round, though principally seen in the warmer -months; but they are there in the colder, hidden -away, and if the temperature rises, will venture -out and hawk to and fro in the midst of the -winter. Tame pigeons and doves hardly come -into this paper, but still it is their habit to use -roofs as tree-tops. Rats and mice creep through -the crevices of roofs, and in old country-houses -hold a sort of nightly carnival, racing to and fro -under the roof. Weasels sometimes follow them -indoors and up to their roof strongholds.</p> - -<p>When the first warm rays of spring sunshine -strike against the southern side of the chimney, -sparrows perch there and enjoy it; and again in -autumn, when the general warmth of the atmosphere -is declining, they still find a little pleasant -heat there. They make use of the radiation of -heat, as the gardener does who trains his fruit-trees -to a wall. Before the autumn has thinned -the leaves, the swallows gather on the highest -ridge of the roof in a row and twitter to each -other; they know the time is approaching when -they must depart for another climate. In winter, -many birds seek the thatched roofs to roost. -Wrens, tits, and even blackbirds roost in the holes -left by sparrows or starlings.</p> - -<p>Every crevice is the home of insects, or used by -them for the deposit of their eggs—under the -tiles or slates, where mortar has dropped out -between the bricks, in the holes of thatch, and on -the straws. The number of insects that frequent -a large roof must be very great—all the robins, -wrens, bats, and so on, can scarcely affect them; -nor the spiders, though these, too, are numerous. -Then there are the moths, and those creeping -creatures that work out of sight, boring their -way through the rafters and beams. Sometimes -a sparrow may be seen clinging to the bare wall -of the house; tits do the same thing—it is -surprising how they manage to hold on—they -are taking insects from the apertures of the -mortar. Where the slates slope to the south, -the sunshine soon heats them, and passing -butterflies alight on the warm surface, and spread -out their wings, as if hovering over the heat. -Flies are attracted in crowds sometimes to heated -slates and tiles, and wasps will occasionally pause -there. Wasps are addicted to haunting houses, -and in the autumn, feed on the flies. Floating -germs carried by the air must necessarily lodge -in numbers against roofs; so do dust and -invisible particles; and together, these make the -rain-water collected in water-butts after a storm -turbid and dark; and it soon becomes full of -living organisms.</p> - -<p>Lichen and moss grow on the mortar wherever -it has become slightly disintegrated; and -if any mould, however minute, by any means -accumulates between the slates, there, too, they -spring up, and even on the slates themselves. -Tiles are often coloured yellow by such growths. -On some old roofs, which have decayed, and upon -which detritus has accumulated, wallflowers may -be found; and the house-leek takes capricious -root where it fancies. The stonecrop is the finest -of roof-plants, sometimes forming a broad patch -of brilliant yellow. Birds carry up seeds and -grains, and these germinate in moist thatch. -Groundsel, for instance, and stray stalks of wheat, -thin and drooping for lack of soil, are sometimes -seen there, besides grasses. Ivy is familiar as a -roof-creeper. Some ferns and the pennywort will -grow on the wall close to the roof. Where will -not ferns grow? We saw one attached to the -under-side of a glass coal-hole cover; its green -could be seen through the thick glass on which -people stepped daily.</p> - -<p>Recently, much attention has been paid to the -dust which is found on roofs and ledges at great -heights. This meteoric dust, as it is called, -consists of minute particles of iron, which are -thought to fall from the highest part of the -atmosphere, or possibly to be attracted to the -earth from space. Lightning usually strikes the -roof. The whole subject of lightning-conductors -has been re-opened of late years, there being -reason to think that mistakes have been made -in the manner of their erection. The reason -English roofs are high-pitched is not only because -of the rain, that it may shoot off quickly, but on -account of snow. Once now and then there -comes a snow-year, and those who live in houses -with flat surfaces anywhere on the roof soon -discover how inconvenient they are. The snow -is sure to find its way through, damaging ceilings, -and doing other mischief. Sometimes, in fine -summer weather, people remark how pleasant it -would be if the roof were flat, so that it could -be used as a terrace, as it is in warmer climates. -But the fact is the English roof, although now -merely copied and repeated without a thought of -the reason of its shape, grew up from experience of -severe winters. Of old, great care and ingenuity—what -we should now call artistic skill—were -employed in constructing the roof. It was not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_388">{388}</span> -only pleasant to the eye with its gables, but the -woodwork was wonderfully well done. Such -roofs may still be seen on ancient mansions, -having endured for centuries. They are splendid -pieces of workmanship, and seen from afar among -foliage, are admired by every one who has the -least taste. Draughtsmen and painters value them -highly. No matter whether reproduced on a -large canvas or in a little woodcut, their proportions -please. The roof is much neglected in -modern houses; it is either conventional, or it -is full indeed of gables, but gables that do not -agree, as it were, with each other—that are obviously -put there on purpose to look artistic, and -fail altogether. Now, the ancient roofs were true -works of art, consistent, and yet each varied to -its particular circumstances, and each impressed -with the individuality of the place and of the -designer. The finest old roofs were built of -oak or chestnut; the beams are black with age, -and in that condition, oak is scarcely distinguishable -from chestnut.</p> - -<p>So the roof has its natural history, its science, -and art; it has its seasons, its migrants and -residents, of whom a housetop calendar might -be made. The fine old roofs which have just -been mentioned are often associated with historic -events and the rise of families; and the -roof-tree, like the hearth, has a range of proverbs -or sayings and ancient lore to itself. More than -one great monarch has been slain by a tile thrown -from the housetop, and numerous other incidents -have occurred in connection with it. The most -interesting is the story of the Grecian mother, -who with her infant was on the roof, when, in a -moment of inattention, the child crept to the -edge, and was balanced on the very verge. To -call to it, to touch it, would have insured its -destruction; but the mother, without a second’s -thought, bared her breast, and the child eagerly -turning to it, was saved!</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak x-ebookmaker-important" id="BY_MEAD_AND_STREAM">BY MEAD AND STREAM.</h2> -</div> - - -<h3>CHAPTER XXXIV.—JUDGE ME.</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr Beecham</span> had spoken the words, ‘You must -know it all,’ as if they contained a threat, but -impulse directed tone and words. He became -instantly conscious of his excitement, when he saw -the startled expression with which Madge regarded -him. His emotion was checked. Mechanically, -he gripped the bridle of his passion, and held it -down as a strong man restrains a restive horse.</p> - -<p>‘Shall I go on?’ he said with almost perfect -self-control, although his voice had not yet quite -regained its usual softness. ‘I know that you -will be pained. I do not like that, and so you -see me hesitating, and weakly trying to shift the -responsibility from my own shoulders. Shall I -go on?’</p> - -<p>‘I am not afraid of pain,’ she answered quietly, -but with a distant tremor in her voice; ‘and if -you think that I should hear what you have to -say, say it.’</p> - -<p>‘Then I will speak as gently as it is in my -power to do; but this subject always stirs the -most evil passions that are in me. I want to -win your confidence, and that impels me to tell -you why I doubt Philip—it is because I know -his father to be false.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, you are mistaken!’ she exclaimed, rising -at once to the defence of a friend; ‘you do not -know how much good he has done!’</p> - -<p>‘No; but I do know some of the harm he has -done.’ There was a sort of grim humour in voice -and look, as if he were trying to subdue his -bitterness of heart by smiling at the girl’s innocent -trustfulness.</p> - -<p>‘Harm!—Mr Hadleigh harm anybody! You -judge him wrongly: he may look hard and—and -unpleasant; but he has a kind nature, and suffers -a great deal.’</p> - -<p>‘He should suffer’ (this more gently now—more -like himself, and as if he spoke in sorrow rather -than in anger). ‘But, all the same he has done -harm—cruel, wicked harm.’</p> - -<p>‘To whom—to whom?’</p> - -<p>‘To me and to your mother.’ A long pause, -as if he were drawing breath for the words which -at length he uttered in a faltering whisper: ‘<i>His</i> -lies separated us.’</p> - -<p>Madge stood mute and pale. She remembered -what Aunt Hessy had told her: how there had -come the rumour first, and then the confident -assertion of the treachery of the absent lover—no -one able to tell who brought the news which -the loss of his letter in the wreck, and consequently -apparent silence, seemed to confirm. -Then all the sad days of hoping—of faith in -the absent, whilst the heart was sickening and -growing faint, as the weeks, the months passed, -and the unbroken silence of the loved one slowly -forced the horrible conviction upon her that the -news <i>must</i> be true. He—Austin, whom she had -prayed not to go away—had gone without -answering that pathetic cry, and had broken his -troth.</p> - -<p>Poor mother, poor mother! Oh, the agony of -it all! Madge could see it—feel it. She could -see the woman in her great sorrow dumbly looking -across the sea, hoping, still hoping that he -would come back, until despair became her master. -And now to know that all this misery had been -brought about by a Lie! ... and the speaker -of the lie had been Philip’s father! Two lives -wrecked, two hearts broken by a lie. Was it -not the cruelest kind of murder?—the two lives -lingering along their weary way, each believing -the other faithless.</p> - -<p>She sprang into the present again—it was too -horrible. She would not believe that any man -could be so wicked, and least of all Philip’s -father.</p> - -<p>‘I will not believe it!’ she exclaimed with a -sudden movement of the hands, as if sweeping -the sad visions away from her.</p> - -<p>Beecham’s brows lowered, but not frowningly, -as he looked long at her flushed face, and saw -that the bright eyes had become brighter still in -the excitement of her indignant repudiation of -the charge he made.</p> - -<p>‘Do you like the man?’ he asked in a low tone.</p> - -<p>The question had never occurred to her before, -and in the quick self-survey which it provoked, -she was not prepared to say ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ In -the moment, too, she remembered Uncle Dick’s -unexplained quarrel with Mr Hadleigh on the -market-day, and also that Uncle Dick, who wore -his heart upon his sleeve, never much favoured -the Master of Ringsford.</p> - -<p>‘He is Philip’s father,’ she answered simply;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_389">{389}</span> -and in giving the answer, she felt that it was -enough for her. She <i>must</i> like everybody who -belonged to Philip.</p> - -<p>‘Is that all?’</p> - -<p>‘It is enough,’ she said impatiently.</p> - -<p>‘Do not be angry with me; but try to see a -little with my eyes. You will do so when you -learn how guilty he is.’</p> - -<p>‘I will not hear it!’ and she moved.</p> - -<p>‘For Philip’s sake,’ he said softly but firmly, -‘if not for that of another, who would tell you -it was right that you should hear me.’</p> - -<p>Madge stood still, her face towards the wall, -so that he could not see her agitation. The -bright fire cast the shadow of his profile on the -same wall, and the silhouette, grotesquely exaggerated -as the outlines were, still suggested suffering -rather than anger.</p> - -<p>‘Do you know that Hadleigh has good reason -for enmity towards me?’</p> - -<p>‘No; I never knew or thought that he could -have reason for enmity towards any one.’</p> - -<p>‘He had towards me.’</p> - -<p>‘I believe you are wrong. I am sure of it;’ -and she thought that here might be her opportunity -to further Philip’s desire to reconcile -them.</p> - -<p>‘Should you desire to test what I am about to -tell you, say to Hadleigh that you have been told -George Laurence was a friend of Philip’s mother. -He was my friend too. My poor sister was -passionate and, like all passionate people, weak. -Hadleigh took her from my friend <i>for her money</i>—a -pitiful few hundred pounds. I never liked the -man; but I hated him then, and hated him still -more when Laurence, becoming reckless alike of -fortune and life, ruined himself and ... killed -himself. But the crime was Hadleigh’s, and it -lies heavy on his soul.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, why should you speak so bitterly of what -he could neither foresee nor prevent.’</p> - -<p>‘I charged him with the murder,’ Beecham -continued, without heeding the interruption, ‘and -he could not answer me like a man. He spoke -soft words, as if I were a boy in a passion; he -even attempted to condole with me for the loss -of my friend, until I fled from him, lest my hands -should obey my wish and not my will. But he -had his revenge. He made my sister’s life a -torture. She tried to hide it in her letters to me; -but I could read her misery in every line. And -then, when he discovered that I had gone into -the wilds of Africa, without any likelihood of -being able to send a message home for many -months, he told the lie which destroyed our -hopes.’</p> - -<p>‘How do you know that it was he who told it?’ -she asked, without moving and with some fear -of the answer.</p> - -<p>‘The man he employed to spread the false -report confessed to me what had been done and -by whom.’</p> - -<p>Madge’s head drooped; there seemed to be no -refutation of this proof of Mr Hadleigh’s guilt -possible.</p> - -<p>Beecham partly understood that slight movement -of the head, and his voice had become soft -again when he resumed:</p> - -<p>‘I did not seek to retaliate. She was lost to -me, and it did not much matter what evil influence -came between us. I am not seeking to retaliate -now. I would have forgotten the man and the -evil he had wrought, if it had not been for the -cry my sister sent to me from her deathbed. She -asked me for some sign that in the future I -would try to help and guide her favourite child, -Philip. I gave the pledge, and she was only -able to answer that I had made her happy. I -am here to fulfil that pledge, and it might have -been easily done, but for you.’</p> - -<p>‘For me!’—Startled, but not looking at him -yet.</p> - -<p>‘Ay, for you, because I wish to be sure that -you will be safe in his keeping; and to be sure -of that, I wish him to prove that he has none of -his father’s nature in him.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you still hate his father so much?’ she -said distressfully.</p> - -<p>‘I have long ceased to feel hatred; but I still -distrust him and all that belongs to him. Now -that you know why I stand aside to watch how -Philip bears himself, do you still ask me to release -you from your promise?’</p> - -<p>‘I will not betray your confidence,’ she -answered mechanically; ‘but what I ought to -do I will do.’</p> - -<p>‘I would not desire you to do anything else, -my child,’ and all his gentleness of manner had -returned. ‘I will not ask you to say at this -moment whether or not you think I am acting -rightly. I ask only that you will remember -whose child you are, and what she was to me, as -you have learned what I was to her. Then you -will understand and judge me.’</p> - -<p>‘I cannot judge, but I will try to understand.’</p> - -<p>Then she turned towards him, and he saw that -although she had been speaking so quietly, her -pain had been great.</p> - -<p>‘Forgive me, my poor child, for bringing this -sorrow to you; but it may be the means of saving -you from a life of misery, or of leading you to -one of happiness.’</p> - -<p>There was a subdued element of solemnity in -this—it was so calm, so earnest, that she remained -silent. He imagined that he understood; but -he was mistaken. She did not herself yet understand -the complicated emotions which had been -stirred within her. She had tried to put away -those sad visions, but could not: the sorrowful -face of the mother was always looking wistfully -at her out of the mists. She ought to have been -filled with bitterness by the account of the crime—for -crime it surely was—which had wrought -so much mischief, and the proof of which appeared -to be so strong. Instead of that, she felt sorry -for Mr Hadleigh. Here was the reason for the -gloom in which he lived—remorse lay heavily -upon him. Here, too, was the reason for all -his kindliness to her, when he was so cold to -others. She was sorry for him.</p> - -<p>Hope came to her relief, dim at first, but growing -brighter as she reflected. Might there not be -some error in the counts against him? She saw -that in thinking of the misfortunes of his friend -Laurence, passion had caused Austin Shield to -exaggerate the share Mr Hadleigh had in bringing -them about. Might it not be that in a similar -way he had exaggerated and misapprehended what -he had been told by the man who denounced Mr -Hadleigh as the person who had employed him -to spread the fatal lie? Whether or not this -should prove to be the case, it was clear that until<span class="pagenum" id="Page_390">{390}</span> -Mr Shield’s mind was disabused of the belief -that Philip’s father had been the cause of his -sorrow and her mother’s, there was no possibility -of effecting a reconciliation between the two men. -But if all his charges were well founded—what -then?... She was afraid to think of what -might be to come after.</p> - -<p>Still holding her hand, he made a movement -towards the door. Then she spoke:</p> - -<p>‘I want you to say again that whilst I keep -your secret, you leave me free to speak to Mr -Hadleigh about ... about the things you have -told me.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, if you still doubt me.’</p> - -<p>‘I will speak,’ she said deliberately, ‘not because -I doubt you, but because I believe you are mistaken.’</p> - -<p>Again that long look of reverent admiration -of her trustfulness, and then:</p> - -<p>‘Act as your own heart tells you will be wisest -and kindest.’</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>As he passed down the frozen gravel-path, he -met Philip. He was in no mood for conversation, -and saying only ‘Good-evening,’ passed on. -Philip was surprised; although, being wearied -himself, he was not sorry to escape a conversation -with one who was a comparative stranger.</p> - -<p>‘What is the matter with Mr Beecham?’ he -inquired carelessly, when he entered the oak -parlour and, to his delight, found Madge alone.</p> - -<p>‘He is distressed about some family affairs,’ she -answered after a little hesitation.</p> - -<p>Philip observed the hesitation and, slight as it -was, the confusion of her manner.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, something more about that affair in which -you are his confidant, I suppose, and came to you -for comfort. Well, I come upon the same errand—fagged -and worried to death. Will you give -me a glass of wine?—Stay, I should prefer a little -brandy-and-water.—Thank you.’</p> - -<p>He had dropped into an armchair, as if physically -tired out. She seated herself beside him -and rested a hand on his shoulder.</p> - -<p>‘You have been disturbed again at the works,’ -she said soothingly.</p> - -<p>‘Disturbed!—driven to my wits’ end would be -more like my present state. Everything is going -wrong. The capital has nearly all disappeared, -without any sign of a return for it, so that -it looks as if I should speedily have to ask -Uncle Shield for more.—What has frightened -you?’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing—it was only a chill—don’t mind it. -Have you seen—him?’</p> - -<p>‘Came straight from him here. He was rather -out of humour, I thought; and as usual, referred -me to his lawyers on almost every point. As to -more capital, he said there would be no difficulty -about that, if he was satisfied that the first money -had been prudently invested.’</p> - -<p>‘I understood that he was pleased with what -you were attempting.’</p> - -<p>‘So did I; but it seems to me now as if he -was anything but satisfied. However, he would -give me no definite answer or advice. He would -think about it—he would make inquiries, and -then see what was to be done. He is right, of -course; and queer as his ways are, he has been -kind and generous. But if he pulls up now, -the whole thing will go to smash, and—to fail, -Madge, to fail, when it only requires another -strong effort to make a success!’</p> - -<p>‘But you are not to fail, Philip.’</p> - -<p>‘At present, things look rather like it. Oh, -it will be rare fun for them all!’ he added -bitterly.</p> - -<p>‘All?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, everybody who predicted that my scheme -was a piece of madness and must come to grief. -That does not matter so much, though, as finding -myself to be a fool. I wish uncle would talk -over the matter quietly with me. I am sure he -could help me.... Why, you are shivering. -Come nearer to the fire.’</p> - -<p>She moved her chair as he suggested.</p> - -<p>‘But how is it that the money is all gone?’</p> - -<p>‘It is not exactly gone, but sunk in the buildings -and the machinery; and the disputes with -the men have caused a lot of waste. The men -are the real trouble; they can’t get the idea into -their heads, somehow; and even Caleb is turning -rusty now. But that is because he is bothered -about Pansy.... Ah, Madge’ (his whole -manner changing suddenly as he grasped her hand -and gazed fondly into her eyes); ‘although it -will be a bitter pill to swallow if this scheme -falls through—I was so proud of it, so hopeful -of it at the start, and saw such a bright future -for it, and believed it would be such a mighty -social lever—although that would be bitter, I -should get over it. I could never get over any -trouble about you, such as that poor chap is in -about Pansy.... But that can never be,’ he -concluded impulsively.</p> - -<p>For the next few minutes he forgot all about -the works, the men, and the peril in which his -Utopia stood, threatening every day to tumble -all to pieces. Madge was glad that his thoughts -should be withdrawn for a space from his worry, -and was glad to be able to breathe more freely -herself in thinking only of their love, for those -references to his Uncle Shield troubled her.</p> - -<p>‘You are not losing courage altogether, then?’ -she said smiling.</p> - -<p>‘I shall never lose it altogether so long as you -are beside me, although I may halt at times,’ he -answered. ‘There; I am better now. Don’t let -us talk any more to-night about disagreeable -things—they don’t seem half so disagreeable to -me as they did when I came in.’</p> - -<p>So, as they were not to talk about disagreeable -things, they talked about themselves. They did -remember Caleb and Pansy, however; and Madge -promised to see the latter soon, and endeavour to -persuade her to be kind to her swain.</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="A_NORMAN_SEASCAPE">A NORMAN SEASCAPE.</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was on our way from Paris to the sea that we -found out Dives; a little town, forgotten now, -but once, long ago, holding for four short weeks -an urgent place in the foreground of the world’s -history. It is a day’s journey distant from Paris, -a long summer day’s journey through fair France, -fairest of all when one reaches green Normandy, -rich in sober old farmhouses, quaint churches, -orchards laden with russet fruit ripening to fill -the cider-barrels.</p> - -<p>The little station near Dives is set in a desert -of sand; one white road leads this way, another -that. Of the modest town itself you see nothing.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_391">{391}</span> -Your eye is caught for a moment as you look -round you by the gentle undulation of the -hills that rise behind it. On these slopes, a -nameless battle was once fought and won; but -the story of that struggle belongs to the past, -and it is the present you have to do with. At -this moment your most urgent need is to secure -a seat in omnibus or supplement; all the world -is going seawards, and even French politeness -yields a little before the pressure of necessity; -for the crowd is great and the carriages -are small. There is infection in the gaiety of -our fellow holiday-seekers, whose costumes are -devised to hint delicately or more broadly their -destination. Their pleasure is expressed with all -the <i>naïveté</i> of childhood; so we too, easily enough, -catch something of their spirit, and watch eagerly -for the first hint of blue on the horizon, for the -first crisp, salt breath in the air. Dives, after its -spasmodic revival, falls back into silence, and is -forgotten. We forget it too, and for the next few -days the problem of life at Beuzeval-Houlgate -occupies us wholly.</p> - -<p>He who first invented Beuzeval must have had a -vivid imagination, a creative genius. What possibilities -did he see in that sad reach of endless -sand, in that sadder expanse of sea, as we first -saw it under a gray summer sky? Yet here, -almost with the wave of an Aladdin’s wand, a -gay little town sprung into existence—fantastic -houses, pseudo-Swiss châlets, very un-English -‘Cottages Anglais;’ ‘Beach’ hotels, ‘Sea’ hotels, -‘Beautiful Sojourn’ hotels lined the shore, and -Paris came down and took possession. Houlgate -and we are really one, though some barrier, undefinable -and not to be grasped by us, divides -us. But Houlgate holds itself proudly aloof -from us; Houlgate leads the fashions; it is dominated -by ‘that ogre, gentility;’ its houses are -more fantastic, its costumes more magnificent, its -ways more mysterious. At Beuzeval, one is not -genteel, one is natural; it is a family-life of -simplicity and tranquillity, as the guide-book sets -forth in glowing terms. We live in a little house -that faces, and is indeed set low upon the beach. -There is a strip of garden which produces a gay -crop of marigolds and sunflowers growing in a -sandy waste—gold against gold. We belong to -Mère Jeanne, an ancient lady, who wears a white -cotton night-cap of the tasselled order, and who -is oftenest seen drawing water at the well. Her -vessel is of an antique shape; and she, too, is old. -Tradition whispers that she has seen ninety winters -come and go, yet her cheeks are rosy as one of -her Normandy apples. One feels that life moves -slowly and death comes tardily to this sea-village, -where the outer world intrudes but once a year, -and then but for one brief autumn month -alone.</p> - -<p>Bathing is the chief occupation of the day, -and it is undertaken with a seriousness that is -less French than British. Nothing can be funnier -than to watch this matter of taking <i>le bain</i>. -From early morning till noon, all the world is -on the beach. Rows of chairs are brought down -from the bath-house—all gay at this hour with -wind-tossed flags—and are planted firmly in the -soft loose sand; here those of us who are -spectators sit and watch the show. A paternal -government arranges everything for its children. -Here one goes by rule. So many hours of the -morning and so many hours of the evening must -alone be devoted to the salt bath; such and -such a space of the wide beach, carefully marked -off with fluttering standards, must alone be -occupied. Thus bathing is a very social affair; -the strip of blue water is for the moment converted -into a <i>salon</i>, where all the courtesies of -life are duly observed. On the other side of the -silver streak, business of the same nature is no -doubt going on; but French imagination alone -could evolve, French genius devise, the strange -and wonderful costumes appropriate to the -occasion.</p> - -<p>Here is a lady habited in scarlet, dainty shoes -and stockings to match, and a bewitching cap -(none of your hideous oilskin) with falling lace -and telling little bows of ribbon. Here another, -clad in pale blue, with a becoming hat tied under -her chin, and many bangles on her wrists. The -shoes alone are a marvel. How do all these -intricate knots and lacings, these glancing buckles, -survive the rough and sportive usage of the -waves? Who but our Gallic sisters could imagine -those delicate blendings of dark blue and silver, -crimson and brown, those strange stripes and -æsthetic olives and drabs? The costume of the -gentlemen is necessarily less varied, though here -and there one notices an eccentric harlequin, -easily distinguishable among the crowd; and -again, what Englishman would dream of taking -his morning dip with a ruff round his neck, -a silken girdle, and a hat to save his complexion -from the sun? Two amiable persons dressed in -imitation of the British tar, obligingly spend -the greater part of the day in the sea. Their -business it is to conduct timid ladies from the -beach and to assist them in their bath. The -braver spirits allow themselves to be plunged -under the brine, the more fearful are content to -be sprinkled delicately from a tin basin. There -is also a rower, whose little boat, furnished with -life-saving appliances, plies up and down among -the crowd, lest one more venturesome than his -neighbours should pass beyond his depth; an -almost impossible event, as one might say, seeing -with what fondness even the boldest swimmer -clings to the shore.</p> - -<p>Danger on these summer waters seems a remote -contingency. Here is neither ‘bar that thunders’ -nor ‘shale that rings.’ It is for the most part -a lazy sea, infinitely blue, that comes softly, -almost caressingly, shorewards. At first, one is -struck with the absence of life which it presents—the -human element uncounted. There is no -pier, and boating as a pastime is unknown. -Occasionally, a fleet of brown-sheeted fishing-smacks -rides out from the little port of Dives, -each sail slowly unfurled, making a spot of warm -colour when the sun shines on the canvas; now -and then there is a gleam of white wings on the -far horizon. But the glory of the place is its -limitless, uninterrupted sea, shore, and sky—endless -reaches of golden sand, endless plains of blue -water. With so liberal a space of heaven and -of ocean, you have naturally room for many -subtle effects, countless shades and blendings of -colour, most evanescent coming and going of light -and shadow. To the left, gay little Cabourg, all -big hotels and Parisian finery, runs out to meet -the sea; farther still, Luc is outlined against the -sky. To the right are the cliffs at Havre, pink<span class="pagenum" id="Page_392">{392}</span> -at sunset; their position marked when dusk has -fallen by the glow of the revolving light. Beyond, -<i>là bas</i>—that ‘indifferent, supercilious’ French <i>là -bas</i>—an ‘elsewhere’ of little importance, lies unseen -England. When the sun has set, dipping its -fireball in haste to cool itself in the waters, there -comes sometimes an illusive effect as of land, -dim, far off, indistinct; but it is cloud-land, not -our sea-island.</p> - -<p>The sunsets are a thing to marvel at, never -two nights alike. ‘C’est adorable!’ as our old -Norman waiting-woman said, with a fervent -pressure of the hands, as she looked with us -on ‘the crimson splendour when the day had -waned.’ Sometimes it is a lingering glory, the -rose-light on the pools fading slowly, as if loath -to go; sometimes the spectacle is more quickly -over, and almost ‘with one stride comes the dark;’ -then swiftly in their appointed order the familiar -stars. Now and again, it is a great storm—a blue-black -sea and an inky sky, rent too frequently by -the zigzags of the lightning. There is always -the charm of change and novelty; the piquancy -of the unexpected.</p> - -<p>After the serious business of the bath is over, -the lunch-hour has arrived. Being as it were -one family, we all take our meals at the same -time. Later in the afternoon, Houlgate rides -and drives, elegant landaus, carriages with linen -umbrellas suspended over them, donkey-carts -driven by beautiful young ladies in beautiful -Paris gowns. Beuzeval braves the dust, and looks -on respectfully at the show; but Beuzeval does not -drive much. It takes its little folks to the beach -and helps them to build sand-castles. It goes off -in bands armed with forks to the exciting chase -of the <i>équilles</i>. These little fish of the eel tribe, -which are savoury eating, burrow in the sand -at low tide, and it requires some skill to capture -them. Whole families go out shrimping too, -looking not unpicturesque as, set against the light -on the far sea-margin, they push their nets before -them. One afternoon we watched two bearded -men amuse themselves for hours with flying a pink -kite. Their gesticulations were lively, and their -excitement great, when at last it sailed bravely -before the breeze. We are very easily amused -here; for the most part, we are content to look -about us, hospitable to all stray impressions. At -such times, one is tempted to the idlest speculations. -Why, for instance, are all the draught-horses -white? Is it that the blue sheep-skin -collar may have the advantage of contrast? Why, -in a land of green pastures, where kine abound, -is milk at a ransom price, and butter not always -eatable? Why, again, in spite of our simplicity, -our <i>vie de famille</i>, is it necessary to one’s well-being -here to have an inexhaustible Fortunatus’s -purse? But these things are mysteries; let us -cease to meddle with them, and follow Houlgate -wider afield, on foot, if you will, to little Dives, -too long neglected—Dives, which sends its placid -river to swell the sea, but lingers inland itself, -hardly on the roughest day within sound of the -waves.</p> - -<p>It was at Dives that Duke William of Normandy -and his host waited for the south wind, -that fair wind that was to carry them to England. -The harbour, choked now with the shifting -sand, and sheltering nothing larger than a fishing-smack—held -the fleet which some have numbered -in thousands; gallant ships for which Normandy’s -noblest forest trees were sacrificed during that -long summer of preparation. Finest of them all, -riding most proudly on the waves, was William’s -own <i>Mora</i>, the gift of his Matilda. At its prow -there was carved in gold the image of a boy -‘blowing on an ivory horn pointing towards -England.’ ‘Stark’ Duke William thus symbolised -his conquest before ever he set foot on -that alien shore. On the gentle slopes above the -little town, where the cattle feed, the great army -encamped itself, waiting for that fair wind that -never came. Four weeks they lingered, long -enough to associate the seaport inseparably with -the Conqueror’s name; and brave stories are -chronicled of the order he kept among his fierce -Gauls, and how the worthy people of Dives learned -to look on the strangers without distrust—almost -with indifference; to till their fields, to tend -their flocks, to gather in the harvest, as if no -nation’s fate hung on the caprice of a breeze. -Four weeks of this, and then that great company -melted away almost with the suddenness of a -certain Assyrian host of old—a west wind blew -gently—not the longed-for south; but the ships, -weary of inaction, spread their wings, and flew -away to St Valery, where a narrower band of blue -separated them from the desired English haven. -And the village folks were left once more to the -vast quietude of their country life.</p> - -<p>There is an old church, rebuilt since English -Edward destroyed it, a noble specimen of Norman -architecture, and there they keep recorded on -marble the names of the knights who sailed on -that famous expedition from the port hard by. -The church has its legend, too, of a wondrous -effigy of our Lord found by the fishermen who -launched their nets in these waters. It bore -the print of nails in the hands and feet; but -the cross to which it had been fastened was -awanting. The village folks gave it reverent -sanctuary, and devout hands busied themselves -in fashioning a crucifix; but no crucifix—let the -workman be ever so skilful—could be made to -fit the carven Christ. This one was too short, -that too long. Clearly the miracle had been but -half wrought; the cross must be sought where -the image had already been found. In faith, the -fishermen cast their nets again and again into -the deep. At last, after long patience on their -part, the sea gave up what it had previously -denied. The long-lost cross was found; and -with the figure nailed to it once more, the -sacred symbol was borne to its resting-place. -A great feast-day that, for Dives; but only -the memory of it lingers. The treasure has -vanished, and nothing save a curious picture -representing the miracle remains to witness to -the event. It hangs in the transept, and there -are many who linger to look at it. The outside -of this grand building pleased us well; it stands -secure and free, with open spaces about it, green -woods behind, and the blue sky of France above. -A stone’s-throw off there is the market, which -is nothing but a wide and deep overhanging roof, -supported on pillars of carved wood. Here the -sturdy peasants of this white-cotton-night-cap -country sell the cheeses that smell so evilly and -taste so well.</p> - -<p>But the chief interest of Dives centres itself -in the Hôtellerie de Guillaume le Conquérant.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_393">{393}</span> -Heart could not desire a quainter, more out-of-the-world -spot in which to pass a summer day. -One may take a hundred or two of years from -the reputed date—they boast that Duke William -was housed here, and they show you the chain -by which the <i>Mora</i> was fastened to the shore!—and -yet leave the place ancient enough. The -famous reception-rooms may have been, and -have been, redecorated and renewed after an old -pattern; but they contain treasures that can -boast a very respectable past. Such black carved -oak is seldom to be seen; and there are tattered -hangings, brasses, bits of china enough to fill a -virtuoso’s heart with envy; a wonderful medley -of all tastes and periods.</p> - -<p>Of deepest interest to some of us is the Louis -XIV. chair with gilded arms and seat of faded, -silken brocade, from which the most brilliant -correspondent of her day wrote some of the letters -that are models yet of what letters ought to be. -Madame de Sévigné came here once and again on -her way to Les Rochers. Once, at least, she -came with ‘an immense retinue,’ that must have -taxed the resources of the modest inn, smaller then -than now. The ‘good and amiable’ Duchess de -Chaulnes is of the company. Madame de Carmen -makes the third in the trio. The ladies travel -‘in the best carriage’ with ‘the best horses,’ and -that large following behind them. Madame de -Chaulnes, who is all activity, is up with the dawn. -‘You remember how, in going to Bourbon, I -found it easier to accommodate myself to her -ways than to try and mend them.’ They make -quite a royal progress, halting here and there. -At Chaulnes the good duchess is taken ill, seized -with sore throat. The kindest lady in the world -nurses her friend and undertakes the cure. ‘At -Paris she would have been bled; but here she -was only rubbed for some time with our famous -balsam, which produced quite a miracle. Will -you believe, my dearest, that in one night this -precious balsam completely cured her?’ While -the patient slept, the kind nurse wandered in -the noble alleys and the neglected gardens. ‘I -call this rehearsing for Les Rochers,’ she writes -gaily; but there is little heat, ‘not one nightingale -to be heard—it is winter on the 17th of April.’</p> - -<p>Soon, however, the southern warmth floods the -land, and they set off, a gay trio, and one of them -at least with eyes for every quick-passing beauty -as they drive through green Normandy. From -Caen she writes: ‘We were three days upon the -road from Rouen to this place. We met with no -adventures; but fine weather and spring in all -its charm accompanied us. We ate the best things -in the world, went to bed early, and did not suffer -any inconvenience. We were on the sea-coast at -Dives, where we slept.’ (She loves the sea, and -elsewhere tells how she sat at her chamber -window and looked out on it.) ‘The country is -beautiful.’ Later, she exclaims: ‘I have seen the -most beautiful country in the world. I did not -know Normandy at all; I had seen it when too -young. Alas! perhaps not one of those I saw -here before is left alive—that is sad!’ This is -the shadow in the bright picture; she, too, is -growing old, and her spring will not return. It -is the last journey she is making to the well-loved -country home.</p> - -<p>Somehow, as we turn away from the quaint -hostelry, it is this gracious and beautiful lady -who goes with us, and not ‘stark’ hero William. -At Beuzeval, as we reach it, the sun is already -dipping towards the sea, and all the bathers—a -fantastic crowd set against the red light—are -hurrying homewards across the sands.</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="ARE_OUR_COINS_WEARING_AWAY">ARE OUR COINS WEARING AWAY?</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">After</span> the recent speech by the Chancellor of the -Exchequer in which he showed that our gold -coins are much lighter than they ought to be, we -shall have to answer the above question in the -affirmative. Our coins <i>are</i> wearing away, and -although not at any very alarming rate, yet at a -perceptible one. Every sovereign, half-sovereign, -half-crown, florin, shilling, or sixpence, &c., which -has been out of the Mint any length of time, -weighs less now than it did when brand new. -Indeed, in some old coins this is quite evident -upon a casual inspection, for the image may be -worn flat and unrecognisable, and the superscription -may be illegible. Now, the difference in value -between this old coin and the same coin when -turned out new may be very trifling; but when -we consider that there are probably millions in -circulation which have similarly suffered depreciation -to a greater or less extent, and that this loss -will at some time or other have to be made good, -this question of the wear of our coins becomes -of sufficient importance for a Chancellor of the -Exchequer to seek to cope with it. We shall here -only offer a few observations on the mechanical -aspects of the subject.</p> - -<p>The office youth fetching a bag of gold from the -bank to pay wages with—the workman putting -his small share into his pocket after the lot has -been shot on to a desk and his money has been -duly apportioned to him—the shopman banging -it on his counter to see whether it is sound when -it is tendered in payment for groceries, &c., are all -participators in a gigantic system of unintentional -‘sweating.’ Under this usage—quite inseparable, -by the way, from the functions the coinage has -to subserve—it would appear that in the United -Kingdom alone there is something like seven -hundred and ten thousand pounds-worth of gold-dust -floating about, widely distributed, and in -microscopic particles, lost to the nation—dust -which has been abraded from the gold coins now -in circulation. There are similarly thousands of -pounds-worth of silver particles from our silver -coinage worn off in the same way.</p> - -<p>It has been estimated from exact data that -a hundred-year-old sovereign has lost weight -equivalent to a depreciation of eightpence; in -other words, that such a sovereign is only of the -intrinsic value of nineteen shillings and fourpence. -There has been a hundred years of wear for eightpence—as -cheap, one would think, as one could -possibly get so much use out of a coin for; but as -we shall now see, we have, comparatively speaking, -to pay more for the use of other coins. Thus, for -a hundred years of use of a half-sovereign we pay -a small fraction under eightpence; in other words, -the half-sovereign has lost nearly as much weight -as the sovereign; and considering its value, it has -therefore cost the nation nearly twice as much for -its use, two half-sovereigns costing us nearly one -shilling and fourpence. It appears from Mr Childers’s -statement that at the present time, taking -old and new coins, there are in the United<span class="pagenum" id="Page_394">{394}</span> -Kingdom ninety million sovereigns in circulation; -and of these, fifty millions are on the average worth -nineteen shillings and ninepence-halfpenny each. -Of the forty million half-sovereigns in circulation, -some twenty-two millions are of the intrinsic value -of nine shillings and ninepence three-farthings -each. Hence the proposal of the Chancellor of -the Exchequer to issue, instead of half-sovereigns, -ten-shilling pieces, or tokens, containing only nine -shillings-worth of gold, with the idea of making -up for the loss by waste of the gold coins now in -circulation.</p> - -<p>Now, if we inquire into the reason why the half-sovereign -wastes so much faster than the sovereign, -we can only come to the conclusion that, being of -half the value, it is a more convenient coin than -the sovereign, and consequently has a much busier -life. This applies with greater force still to coins -like the half-crown, shilling, and sixpence, which -are only one-eighth, one-twentieth, and one-fortieth -respectively of the value of a sovereign. And we -find upon examination, what one would naturally -expect, that the silver coinage is even more -costly than the gold coinage. The depreciation -of the half-crown, reckoned in terms of itself, is -more than double that of the half-sovereign; that -is, if a half-sovereign wastes in the course of a -century to the extent of one-fifteenth of its value, -the half-crown will waste more than two-fifteenths -of its value. The depreciation of shilling-pieces -is not far off three times as much as that of half-crowns; -and sixpences waste faster than shillings, -though by no means twice so fast. There is thus -an immense waste of our silver coinage taking -place, and it proceeds at such a rate in the case -of sixpences, that the intrinsic value of one a -hundred years old would be only threepence, a -century of use having worn away half the silver.</p> - -<p>It is evident from these facts that the relative -amounts of wear of coins are <i>not</i> so much owing to -the nature of the metal they are made of as to -the activity of the life they have to lead. The -less the value of the coin, the greater is the use to -which it is put; and consequently, the greater is -the depreciation in its value from wear in a given -time. The sovereign being of greatest value, is -used least, and depreciates the least—a circumstance -quite in accordance with the fitness of -things when we reflect that it is ‘really an international -coin, largely used in exchange operations, -known to the whole commercial world,’ and that -any heavy depreciation of it would lead to much -embarrassment.</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="SILAS_MONK">SILAS MONK.</h2> -</div> -<p class="ph3">A TALE OF LONDON OLD CITY.</p> - - -<h3 title="CHAPTER III.">IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER III.</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Unless</span> Rachel had reflected, in the midst of -her alarm at the absence of her grandfather, that -Walter Tiltcroft would be at the counting-house -of Armytage and Company at an early hour, -there is no saying what steps she might have -taken with the hope of gaining some tidings of -the old man. If anything had happened, Walter -must be the first to bear the news to her. -Towards nine o’clock, therefore, her anxiety -began to take a different form; she ceased to -expect her grandfather’s return, and dreaded the -appearance of her lover.</p> - -<p>The house was soon put in order; everything -about the poor home of Silas Monk looked as -neat and clean as usual. Rachel was on the -point of taking up her needlework, when a -quick step on the pavement under the window -attracted her attention. It was Walter Tiltcroft. -He followed her into the sitting-room. He was -somewhat out of breath; and when Rachel -caught sight of his face, she thought she had -never seen it so pale. ‘Sit down, Walter,’ said -the girl, placing a chair. ‘You have come to -tell me something. You have come to tell me’—and -here her voice almost failed her—‘you -have come to tell me that he is dead.’</p> - -<p>‘No. I thought that I should find your -grandfather here.’</p> - -<p>‘Why, he has not been here the whole night -long!’</p> - -<p>The young man passed his hand confusedly -across his brow. ‘What did I tell you I saw -at the office last night?’</p> - -<p>‘You told me,’ answered Rachel, ‘that you -saw grandfather, through a hole in the shutter, -counting handfuls of sovereigns on his desk.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ exclaimed Walter, ‘then I cannot have -dreamt it. I was the first to enter the office -this morning. His room was empty. His -ledgers were lying on his desk; the key was -in the lock of the large safe, and the door -of the safe stood open. But there were no -signs of Silas Monk.’</p> - -<p>The girl looked at the young man with a -scared face. ‘What shall we do, if he is lost?’</p> - -<p>Walter rose quickly from his seat. ‘Wait!’ -cried he. ‘We shall find him. Mr Armytage -has sent for a detective—one, as they say, who -can see through a stone wall.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ cried the girl, ‘they cannot suspect my -grandfather! I shall not rest until you bring -him back to me, here, in our old home.’</p> - -<p>The young man promised, with earnest looks -and words, to do his best; and then hurried -away with all possible despatch.</p> - -<p>The commotion at the office, which had been -going on ever since nine o’clock that morning, -was showing no signs of abatement when Walter -walked in. The entrance was guarded by two -stalwart police-officers, who assisted the young -clerk to make his way through a gaping crowd. -Rumours had already spread about the city: -Silas Monk had ‘gone off,’ some said, with the -contents of the great iron safe in the strong-room -of Armytage and Company; and the -value of the documents which he had purloined -was estimated at sums varying from one -to ten thousand pounds. Other reports went -even further, and declared that Silas, when -entering as a clerk into the firm of Armytage -and Company, years and years ago, had sold himself -to the Evil One; that last night, while the -old city clocks were striking twelve, he had -received a visit—as did Faust from Mephistopheles—and -had been whisked away in the dark.</p> - -<p>Walter Tiltcroft found another constable near -the stairs. ‘You’re wanted,’ said the officer in -a snappish manner. ‘This way.’ The man conducted -Walter to the private office of Mr -Armytage, the senior partner. Here he left -him.</p> - -<p>Walter stepped into the room boldly, but with -a fast-beating heart. A gentleman with a head<span class="pagenum" id="Page_395">{395}</span> -as white as snow and with a very stiff manner, -was standing on the rug before the fire, as he -entered. ‘Do you want me, Mr Armytage?’</p> - -<p>The senior partner turned his eyes upon the -clerk. ‘Yes, Tiltcroft; I want you.’</p> - -<p>Looking round, Walter noticed for the first -time that they were not alone. Seated at a -table, with his back to the window, so that his -face was in shade, was a gentleman, writing -quickly with a quill-pen. This gentleman had -jet-black hair, cut somewhat short; and there -was a tuft of black whisker on a level with -each ear. His hat was on the table, and beside -the hat was lying a thick oaken stick.</p> - -<p>Walter had made this observation in a rapid -glance, when Mr Armytage added: ‘What news -have you brought from Silas Monk’s house?—Has -Silas been there?’</p> - -<p>‘No, sir; not for twenty-four hours.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! Now, tell me, were you not the last -to leave the office yesterday?’</p> - -<p>When Mr Armytage put this question, the -noise of the pen suddenly ceased. Was the -gentleman with the jet-black hair listening? -Walter could not look round, because the senior -partner’s eyes were fixed upon him. But he -felt inclined to think that the gentleman was -listening very attentively, being anxious to record -the answer. ‘I was the last, sir, except Silas -Monk,’ was Walter’s reply.</p> - -<p>The pen gave a short scratch, and stopped.</p> - -<p>‘Except Silas, of course,’ said Mr Armytage. -‘Did you, after leaving Silas, go straight home?’</p> - -<p>‘No, sir.’</p> - -<p>‘Tell me where you did go, will you?’</p> - -<p>‘First of all, under the scaffold outside, where -I called out, in order to ascertain if the workmen -had gone. As I found no one there, I closed -the front-door. Then I came back, and sat down -in a dark place on the staircase.’</p> - -<p>Scratch, scratch, scratch from the quill.</p> - -<p>‘On the staircase!’ exclaimed Mr Armytage, -with surprise.</p> - -<p>‘I wanted to know why Silas Monk never -went home when the rest did, because his granddaughter -was uneasy about him,’ continued -Walter. ‘She told me that it was often close -upon midnight before he got home.’</p> - -<p>‘Well?’</p> - -<p>‘I found out what kept him at the office.’</p> - -<p>The senior partner raised his chin, and said -encouragingly: ‘Tell us all about it.’</p> - -<p>Walter remained silent for a moment, as -though collecting his thoughts; then he said: -‘What happened that night at the office, Mr -Armytage, is simply this. I had hardly sat -down on the staircase when, to my surprise, a -workman came out of the yard from his work -on the scaffold. I stopped him and questioned -him. He told me that he had remained to -finish some repairs on the roof, and had not -heard me call. I let the man out, and then -returned to my place.’</p> - -<p>The scratching of the quill began and finished -while Walter was speaking. He was about to -resume, when the gentleman at the table held up -the pen to enforce silence.</p> - -<p>‘Mr Armytage,’ said the stranger, ‘ask your -clerk if he can tell us, from previous knowledge, -anything about this workman.’</p> - -<p>The senior partner looked inquiringly at Walter.</p> - -<p>‘I’ve known him for years,’ said the young -clerk. ‘When a man is wanted to repair anything -in the office, we always send for Joe -Grimrood.’ While the quill was scratching, the -head gave a nod, and the voice exclaimed: ‘Go -on!’</p> - -<p>Walter then mentioned briefly by what accident -he had discovered Silas Monk at his desk with -the pile of sovereigns before him; and how, not -daring to disturb him, he had gone away convinced -that the head-cashier was nothing better -than an ‘old miser,’ as he expressed it.</p> - -<p>As soon as Walter Tiltcroft had finished his -recital, the pen gave a final scratch; then the -stranger rose from the table, folded some papers -together, placed them in his breast-pocket, and -taking up his hat and stick, went out.</p> - -<p>When he was gone, the senior partner, still -standing on the rug, turned to Walter, and -said: ‘Go back to your desk. Do not quit the -counting-house to-day; you may be wanted at -any moment.’</p> - -<p>All day long, Walter sat at his desk waiting, -with his eyes constantly bent upon the iron-bound -door of the strong-room. Within it, he pictured -to himself Silas Monk wrapped in a white shroud -lying stretched in death, with his hands crossed, -and his head raised upon huge antique ledgers. -Presently, Walter even fancied that he heard the -sovereigns chinking as they dropped out of the -old man’s hands, followed by the sound of -shuffling feet; and once, while he was listening, -there seemed to issue from this chamber a -stifled cry, which filled him with such terror -and dismay, that he found it no easy matter to -hide his agitation from his fellow-clerks, who -would have laughed at him, if they had had the -slightest suspicion that he was occupying his time -in such an unprofitable manner, while they were -as busily engaged with the affairs of Armytage and -Company as if Silas Monk had never been born.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>While these fancies were still troubling Walter -Tiltcroft’s brain, he was sent for by the senior -partner. ‘Read that,’ said Mr Armytage, pointing -to a paper on his table as the young man entered -the room. ‘It is a telegram from Fenwick the -detective.’ It ran as follows:</p> - -<p>‘<i>Send Tiltcroft alone to Limehouse Police Station.</i>’</p> - -<p>Walter looked at the senior partner for instructions. -‘Go!’ cried Mr Armytage with promptness—‘go, -without a moment’s delay!’</p> - -<p>The young man started off as quickly as his -legs would carry him for the railway terminus -near Fenchurch Street. What an inexpressible -relief to escape from his ghostly fantasy regarding -the old strong-room, and to feel that he was at -last beginning to take an active and important -part in the search for Silas Monk!</p> - -<p>The train presently arrived at Limehouse. -Walter leaped out and made his way with all -speed to the police station. He inquired for the -detective of the first constable he saw, standing, -as though on guard, at the open doorway.</p> - -<p>‘What name?’</p> - -<p>‘Tiltcroft.’</p> - -<p>The constable gave a short comprehensive nod; -then he looked into the office, and jerked his -head significantly at another constable who was -seated at a desk. This man quickly disappeared -into an inner room.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_396">{396}</span></p> - -<p>‘Walk in,’ said the custodian at the doorway, -‘and wait.’</p> - -<p>Walter walked in, and waited for what seemed -an interminable time. But Fenwick made his -appearance at last, walking briskly up to the -young clerk and touching him on the shoulder -with the knob of his stick. ‘It’s a matter of -identification,’ said he mysteriously; ‘come along.’ -He settled his hat on with the brim touching -his black eyebrows, and led the way into the -street. Walter followed. They walked along -through well-lighted thoroughfares, up narrow -passages and down dark lanes, until they came -suddenly upon a timber-yard with the river -flowing beyond. At this point the detective -stopped and gave a low whistle. This signal -was immediately followed by the sound of oars; -and the dark outline of a boat gliding forward, -grew dimly visible out of the obscurity, below -the spot where Fenwick and the young clerk -stood. Some one in the boat directed the rays of -a lantern mainly upon their feet, revealing steep -wooden steps.</p> - -<p>‘Follow me!’ cried the detective.</p> - -<p>As they went down step by step to the water’s -edge, the rays of the lantern descended, dropping -always a few inches in advance to guide them, -until they were safely shipped, when the lantern -was suddenly suppressed, and the boat was jerked -cautiously out into the river by a figure near the -bow, handling shadowy oars.</p> - -<p>Towards what seemed the centre of the stream -there was a light shining so high above them -that it appeared, until they drew nearer, like a -solitary star in the dark sky. But the black -bulk of a ship’s stern presently coming in sight, -it was apparent that the light belonged to a large -vessel lying at anchor in the river. Under the -shadow of this vessel—if further shadow were -possible in this deep darkness—the boat pulled -up, and the lantern was again produced. ‘I’ll go -first, my lad,’ said Fenwick, touching Walter -on the shoulder again with his stick. ‘Keep -close.’</p> - -<p>This time the rays from the lantern ascended, -rising on a level with the men’s heads as they -went up the ship’s side. As soon as they reached -the deck, the rays again vanished.</p> - -<p>‘We will now proceed to business,’ said the -detective.</p> - -<p>‘Ay, ay, sir,’ cried a sailor who had stepped -forward to receive the visitors. ‘Your men are -waiting below.’</p> - -<p>‘Then lead the way.’</p> - -<p>Walter, wondering what this mystification -meant, followed close upon the heels of Fenwick -and the sailor. A few steps brought them to what -was obviously the entrance to the steerage, for -it had the dingy appearance common to that part -of a passenger-ship.</p> - -<p>‘Are the emigrants below?’ asked the detective.</p> - -<p>‘Ay, ay,’ replied the sailor—‘fast asleep.’</p> - -<p>‘So much the better,’ remarked Fenwick. -Then he added, with a glance at Walter: ‘Now -for the identification.’</p> - -<p>The sailor led the way down to heaps of human -beings lying huddled together not unlike sheep, -with their heads against boxes, or upon canvas bags, -or packages covered with tarpaulin. The air was -warm and oppressive; and the men, women, and -children who were packed in this place had a -uniform expression of weariness on their faces, -as though they were resigned to all the perils and -dangers that could be encountered upon a long -voyage.</p> - -<p>‘When do you weigh anchor?’ asked the -detective.</p> - -<p>‘At daybreak,’ answered the sailor.</p> - -<p>‘Ah! a little sea-air won’t be amiss,’ remarked -Fenwick, looking about him thoughtfully.—‘Now, -let me see.’ He peered into the faces with his -quick keen eyes, leaning his chin the while upon -the knob of his stick. Presently he cocked an -eye at Tiltcroft, and said: ‘See any one you -recognise?’</p> - -<p>Walter threw a swift glance around him. Most -of the faces were thin and pale, and there were -several eyes staring at him and his companion; -but many eyes were closed in sleep; among these -he saw a half-hidden face which he seemed to -know, yet for the moment could not recall; but -the recollection quickly flashed upon him.</p> - -<p>The detective, watching his expression, saw -the change; and following the direction in which -Walter was staring in blank surprise, perceived -that the object in which he appeared to take such -a sudden interest was a large, muscular person, -wrapped in a thick pea-jacket, with his head upon -his arm, and his arm resting upon a sea-chest, -which was corded with a thick rope. The man -was fast asleep, and on his head was a mangy-looking -skin-cap, pulled down to his eyebrows.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ said the detective, glancing from this -man into Walter’s face; ‘who is he?’</p> - -<p>‘Joe Grimrood!’ cried Walter.</p> - -<p>It would seem as though the man had heard -the mention of his name; for, as Walter pronounced -it, he frowned, and opening his eyes -slowly, looked up askance, like an angry dog.</p> - -<p>‘Get up!’ said the detective, giving the man -a playful thrust in the ribs; ‘you’re wanted.’</p> - -<p>Joe Grimrood showed his teeth, and started, -as though about to spring upon Fenwick. But -on reflection, he appeared to think better of it, -and simply growled.</p> - -<p>Fenwick turned to the sailor, and said, pointing -to the chest against which Joe Grimrood -still leaned, ‘Uncord that box. And if,’ he added—‘if -that man moves or utters a word, bind him -down hands and feet with the rope. Do you -understand?’</p> - -<p>‘Ay, ay, sir,’ cried the sailor, with a grin on -his honest-looking face. With all the dexterity -of a practised ‘tar,’ the sailor removed the cord -from the chest; then he glanced at the detective -for further instructions.</p> - -<p>‘Open it!’ cried Fenwick.</p> - -<p>At these words, Joe Grimrood, who sat with -his back against the iron pillar and his arms -crossed defiantly, showed signs of rebellion in his -small glittering eyes. But a glance from Fenwick -quelled him.</p> - -<p>When the chest was opened, a quantity of old -clothes was discovered. ‘Make a careful search,’ -said the detective. ‘If you find nothing more -valuable than old clothes in that box, I shall be -greatly surprised.’</p> - -<p>Something far more valuable, sure enough, soon -came to light. One after another the sailor -brought out fat little bags, which, being shaken, -gave forth a pleasant ring not unlike the chink -of gold.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_397">{397}</span></p> - -<p>Fenwick presently, after opening one of these -bags, held it up before Joe Grimrood’s eyes, tauntingly. -‘You’re a nice emigrant, ain’t you? Why, -a man of your wealth ought to be a first-class -passenger, not a steerage. How did you manage -to accumulate such a heap of gold?’</p> - -<p>Joe Grimrood gave another growl, and replied: -‘Let me alone. I’m an honest workman. Mr -Tiltcroft there will tell you if I’m not; asking -his pardon.’</p> - -<p>‘That’s no answer. How do you come by all -this gold?’</p> - -<p>‘By the sweat of my brow,’ answered the man, -with the perspiration rolling down his face. ‘So -help me. By the sweat of my brow.’</p> - -<p>‘That will do,’ continued the detective. ‘Take -my advice, and don’t say another word.—Come, -Tiltcroft. The sooner we get back to the city the -better. There is work to be done there to-night.’ -With these words, Fenwick beckoned to two constables. -These men, at a sign from the detective, -seized Joe Grimrood and handcuffed him before -he had time to suspect their intention. Meanwhile, -the sailor had packed up the box, gold -and all, and had corded it down as quickly as -he had uncorded it.</p> - -<p>The constables went first, with Joe Grimrood -between them. The man showed no resistance. -Behind him followed the sailor with the valuable -chest. The detective and Tiltcroft brought -up the rear. The boat which had brought -Walter and his companions alongside the emigrant -ship was still waiting under the bow when they -came on deck. In a few minutes, without noise -or confusion, they were once more in their -places, with the chest and Joe Grimrood—still -between the two constables—by way of additional -freight. Once more the boat moved across the -dark river and carried them to the shore.</p> - -<p>Having deposited Joe Grimrood and his luggage -at the police station, the detective turned to Walter -and said: ‘Now, my lad, let us be off. This -business in the city is pressing. Every moment -is precious; it’s a matter of life and death.’</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_RATIONALE_OF_HAUNTED_HOUSES">THE RATIONALE OF HAUNTED HOUSES.</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">That</span> a very old house should gain the reputation -of being haunted is not surprising, especially if -it has been neglected and allowed to fall out -of repair. The woodwork shrinks, the plaster -crumbles away; and through minute slits and -chasms in window-frames and door-cases there -come weird and uncanny noises. The wind sighs -and whispers through unseen fissures, suggesting -to the superstitious the wailings of disembodied -spirits. A whole household was thrown into consternation, -and had its repose disturbed, one stormy -winter, by a series of lamentable howls and shrieks -that rang through the rooms. The sounds were -harrowing, and as they rose fitfully and at -intervals, breaking the silence of the night, the -stoutest nerves among the listeners were shaken. -For a long time the visitation continued to harass -the family, recurring by day as well as night, -and especially in rough weather. When there -was a storm, piercing yells and shrieks would -come, sudden and startling, changing anon into -low melancholy wails. It was unaccountable. At -length the mystery was solved. Complaints had -been made of draughts through the house, and as -a remedy, strips of gutta-percha had at some -former time been nailed along the window-frames, -while its owners were at the seaside. This, for -some reason explainable upon acoustic principles, -had caused the disturbance. Even after the -gutta-percha had been torn away, a sudden blast -of wind striking near some spot to which a fragment -still adhered, would bring a shriek or moan, -to remind the family of the annoyance they had -so long endured.</p> - -<p>Meantime, the house got a bad reputation, and -servants were shy of engaging with its owners. -A maid more strong-minded than the others, and -who had hitherto laughed at their fears, came -fleeing to her mistress on one occasion, saying -she must leave instantly, and that nothing would -induce her to pass another night under the roof. -There was a long corridor at the top of the house, -and the girl’s story was, that in passing along it, -she heard footsteps behind her. Stopping and -looking back, she saw no one; but as soon as -she went on, the invisible pursuer did so too, -following close behind. Two or three times she -stood still suddenly, hoping the footsteps would -pass on and give her the go-by; instead of which, -they pulled up when she did. And when at last, -wild with terror, she took to her heels and ran, -they came clattering along after her to the end -of the passage!</p> - -<p>The mistress suspected that some one was trying -to frighten the girl, and she urged her to come -up-stairs and endeavour to find out the trick. -This the terrified damsel refused to do, so the -lady went off alone. On reaching the corridor -and proceeding along it, she was startled to find -that, as the maid had described, some one seemed -to be following her. Tap, tap, clack, clack—as of -one walking slipshod with shoes down at heel—came -the steps, keeping pace with her own; stopping -when she stopped, and moving on when she -did. In vain the lady peered around and beside -her; nothing was to be seen. It could be no -trick, for there was nobody in that part of the -house to play a practical joke.</p> - -<p>Ere long the cause was discovered in the shape -of a loose board in the flooring of the corridor. -The plank springing when pressed by the foot -in walking along, gave an echoing sound that had -precisely the effect of a step following; and this, -in the supposed haunted house, was sufficient -to raise alarm.</p> - -<p>It happened to us once to be a temporary -dweller in a mansion that had a ghostly reputation. -We were on our way to Paris, travelling -with an invalid; and the latter becoming suddenly -too ill to proceed on the journey, we were forced -to stop in the first town we came to. The hotel -being found too noisy, a house in a quiet street was -engaged by the week. It was a grand old mansion, -that had once belonged to a magnate of the -land; fallen now from its high estate, and but -indifferently kept up. Wide stone staircases with -balusters of carved oak led to rooms lofty and -spacious, whose walls and ceilings were decorated -with gilded enrichments and paintings in the -style of Louis XIV. At the side of the house -was a covered-way leading to the stables and -offices. This was entered through a tall <i>porte -cochère</i>; and at either side of the great gates, fixed -to the iron railings, were a couple of those huge<span class="pagenum" id="Page_398">{398}</span> -metal extinguishers—still sometimes to be seen -in quaint old houses—used in former times to -put out the torches or links carried at night by -running footmen beside the carriages of the great. -The stables and offices of the place were now -falling into decay, and the <i>porte cochère</i> generally -stood open until nightfall, when the gates were -locked.</p> - -<p>We had been in the house for some little time -before we heard the stories of supernatural sights -and sounds connected with it—of figures flitting -through halls and passages—the ghosts of former -occupants; of strange whisperings and uncanny -noises. There certainly were curious sounds about -the house, especially in the upper part, where -lumber-closets were locked and sealed up, through -whose shrunken and ill-fitting doors the wind -howled with unearthly wails. In the dining-hall -was a row of old family pictures, faded and grim; -and the popular belief was that, at the ‘witching -hour,’ these worthies descended from their frames -and held high festival in the scene of former -banquetings. No servant would go at night into -this room alone or in the dark.</p> - -<p>We had with us a young footman called Carroll, -the son of an Irish tenant; devoted to his masters, -under whom he had been brought up. He was -a fine young fellow, bold as a lion, and ready -to face flesh and blood in any shape; but a very -craven as regarded spirits, fairies, and supernatural -beings, in whom he believed implicitly. One -night, after seeing the invalid settled to rest and -committed to the care of the appointed watcher, -I came down to the drawing-room to write letters. -It was an immense saloon, with—doubling and -prolonging its dimensions—wide folding-doors of -looking-glass at the end. I had been writing for -some time; far, indeed, into the ‘small-hours.’ -The fire was nearly out; and the candles, which -at their best had only served to make darkness -visible in that great place, had burnt low. The -room was getting chilly, dark shadows gathering -in the corners. Who has not known the creepy, -shivering feeling that will come over us at such -times, when in the dead silence of the sleeping -house we alone are wakeful? The furniture -around begins to crack; the falling of a cinder -with a clink upon the hearth makes us start. -And if at such a time the door should slowly -and solemnly open wide, as doors sometimes -will, ‘spontaneous,’ we look up with quickening -pulse, half expecting to see some ghastly spectral -shape glide in, admitted by invisible hands. -Should sickness be in the house, and the angel -of death—who knows?—be brooding with dark -wing over our dwelling, the nerves, strained by -anxiety, are more than usually susceptible of -impressions. I was gathering my papers together -and preparing to steal up-stairs past the sick-room, -glad to escape from the pervading chilliness -and gloom, when the door opened. Not, this -time, of itself; for there—the picture of abject -terror—stood Carroll the footman. He was as -pale as ashes, shaking all over; his hair dishevelled, -and clothes apparently thrown on in -haste. To my alarmed exclamation, ‘What <i>is</i> the -matter?’ he was unable, for a minute, to make -any reply, so violently his lips were trembling, -parched with fear. At last I made out, among -half-articulate sounds, the words ‘Ghost, groans.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ I said, ‘what nonsense! You have been -having a bad dream. You ought to know better, -you who’——</p> - -<p>My homily was cut short by a groan so fearful, -so unlike anything I had ever heard or imagined, -that I was dumb with horror.</p> - -<p>‘Ah-h-h!—there it is again!’ whispered Carroll, -dropping on his knees and crossing himself; -while vehemently thumping his breast, he, as a -good Catholic, began to mumble with white lips -the prayers for the dead. Up the stairs through -the open door the sounds had come; and after a -few minutes, they were repeated, this time more -faintly than before.</p> - -<p>‘Let us go down and try to find out what it is,’ -I said at last. And in spite of poor Carroll’s -misery and entreaties, making a strong effort, I -took the lamp from his trembling hands and -began to descend the wide staircase. Nothing -was stirring. In the great dining-room, where I -went in, while the unhappy footman kept safely -at the door, casting frightened glances at the -portraits on the walls, all was as usual. As we -went lower down, the groans grew louder and -more appalling. Hoarse, unnatural, long-drawn—such -as could not be imagined to proceed from -human throat, they seemed to issue from the -bowels of the earth, and to be re-echoed by the -walls of the great dark lofty kitchens. Beyond -these kitchens were long stone passages, leading -to cellars and pantries and servants’ halls, all -unused and shut up since the mansion’s palmy -days; and into these we penetrated, led by the -fearful sounds.</p> - -<p>All here was dust and desolation. The smell -of age and mould was everywhere; the air was -chill; and the rusty hinges of the doors shrieked -as they were pushed open, scaring away the -spiders, whose webs hung in festoons across the -passages, and brushed against our faces as we -went along. Doubtless, for years no foot had -invaded this dank and dreary region, given over -to mildew and decay; or disturbed the rats, -which ran scampering off at our approach. The -groans seemed very near us now, and came more -frequently. It was terrible, in that gruesome -place, to hearken to the unearthly sounds. I -could hear my agonised companion calling upon -every saint in the calendar to take pity upon -the soul in pain. At length there came a groan -more fearful than any that had been before. It -rooted us to the spot. And then was utter -silence!</p> - -<p>After a long breathless pause, broken only -by the gasps of poor Carroll in his paroxysm -of fear, we turned, and retraced our steps -towards the kitchens. The groans had ceased -altogether.</p> - -<p>‘It is over now, whatever it was,’ I said. ‘All -is quiet; you had better go to bed.’</p> - -<p>He staggered off to his room; while, chilled -to the marrow, I crept up-stairs, not a little -shaken, I must confess, by the night’s doings.</p> - -<p>Next day was bright and fine. My bedroom -looked to the street; and soon after rising, I threw -open the window, to admit the fresh morning -air. There was a little stir outside. The <i>porte -cochère</i> gates were wide open, and a large cart was -drawn up before them. Men with ropes in their -hands were bustling about, talking and gesticulating; -passers-by stopped to look; and boys -were peering down the archway at something<span class="pagenum" id="Page_399">{399}</span> -going on within. Soon the object of their -curiosity was brought to light. A dead horse -was dragged up the passage, and after much -tugging and pulling, was hauled up on the cart -and driven away.</p> - -<p>It appeared that at nightfall of the previous -day the wretched animal was being driven to -the knacker’s; and straying down into our archway, -while the man who had him in charge -was talking to a friend, he fell over some -machinery that stood inside, breaking a limb, -and otherwise frightfully injuring himself. -Instead of putting the poor animal out of pain -at once, his inhuman owner left him to die a -lingering death in agonies; and his miserable -groans, magnified by the reverberation of the -hollow archway and echoing kitchens, had been -the cause of our nocturnal alarm.</p> - -<p>Carroll shook his head and looked incredulous -at this solution of the mystery, refusing, with -the love of his class for the supernatural, to -accept it. Though years have since then -passed over his head, tinging his locks with -gray, and developing the brisk, agile footman -into the portly, white-chokered, pompous butler, -he will still cleave to his first belief, and stoutly -affirm that flesh and blood had nought to do -with the disturbance that night in the haunted -house.</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="UMPIRES_AT_CRICKET">UMPIRES AT CRICKET.</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Cricket</span> has undergone many changes during its -history, but, as far as we can tell, one thing has -remained unaltered—the umpires are sole judges -of fair and unfair play. The laws of 1774, which -are the oldest in existence, say: ‘They (the -umpires) are the sole judges of fair and unfair -play, and all disputes shall be determined by them.’ -Various directions have been given to them from -time to time, but nothing has been done to lessen -their responsibility or destroy their authority. -An umpire must not bet on the match at which -he is employed, and only for a breach of that -law can he be changed without the consent of -both parties. It is probable that the reason why -an ordinary side in a cricket-match consists of -eleven players is that originally a ‘round dozen’ -took part in it, and that one on each side was -told off to be umpire. An old writer on cricket -says that in his district the players were umpires -in turn; so, though there might be twelve of -them present, only eleven were actually playing -at once. This may have been a remnant of a -universal custom; and it would explain why the -peculiar number eleven is taken to designate a -side in a cricket-match.</p> - -<p>It is not always possible for an umpire to give -satisfaction to both parties in a dispute, and very -hard things have sometimes been said by those -against whom a decision has been given. Mobbing -an umpire is not so common in cricket as in football, -but it is not unknown. Nervous men have -sometimes been influenced by the outcries of spectators, -and have given decisions contrary to their -judgment. But occasionally the opposite effect -has been produced by interference. A bowler -who has been unpopular has been clamoured -against when bowling fairly; and the umpire -has not interfered even when he has bowled -unfairly, lest it should look as if he was being -coerced by the mob.</p> - -<p>For some years there has been a growing -demand for what may be called umpire reform. -It has been said that in county matches umpires -favoured their own sides. A few years ago, a -Manchester paper commenced an account of a -match between Lancashire and Yorkshire with these -words: ‘The weather was hot, the players were -hotter, but the umpiring was hottest of all.’ This -kind of danger was sought to be obviated last year -by the appointment of neutral umpires. The -Marylebone Cricket Club appointed the umpires -in all county matches; but this did not remove -the dissatisfaction which had previously existed, -as it was said that the umpires were afraid to -enforce the strict laws of the game.</p> - -<p>Some people who think there will not be fair-play -as long as professional umpires are employed, -would have amateurs in this position, and they -predict that with the alteration there would be -an end to all unfairness and dispute. But Lord -Harris, who is the chief advocate for greater strictness -on the part of umpires, says he believes -they would never be successful in first-class -matches; he has seen a good many amateur -umpires in Australia, and, without impugning -their integrity, he would be sorry to find umpires -in England acting with so little experience and -knowledge of the game.</p> - -<p>Dr W. G. Grace has told two anecdotes of -umpires whom he met in Australia. He says: -‘In an up-country match, our wicket-keeper -stumped a man; but much to our astonishment -the umpire gave him not out, and excused himself -in the following terms: “Ah, ah! I was just -watching you, Mr Bush; you had the tip of your -nose just over the wicket.” In a match at -Warrnambool, a man snicked a ball, and was -caught by the wicket-keeper. The umpire at the -bowler’s wicket being asked for a decision, replied: -“This is a case where I can consult my colleague.” -But of course the other umpire could not see a -catch at the wicket such as this, and said so; -whereupon our friend, being pressed for a decision, -remarked: “Well, I suppose he is not out.”’</p> - -<p>The Australians have frequently said that -English professional umpires are afraid of giving -gentlemen out, but this cannot be said of those -who are chosen to stand in the chief matches. A -well-known cricketer tells about a country match -in which he was playing. A friend of his was -tempting the fieldsmen to throw at his wicket, -until at length one did throw, and hit it. ‘Not -out,’ cried the umpire; and coming up to the batsman, -said: ‘You really must be more careful, sir; -you were clean out that time.’ This reminds us -of the umpire who, in answer to an appeal, said: -‘Not out; but if he does it again, he will be.’ -Caldecourt was a famous umpire—‘Honest Will -Caldecourt,’ as he was called. The author of -<i>Cricketana</i> had a high opinion of him, and said -he could give a reason for everything. That is a -great virtue in an umpire. Some men in that -position will give decisions readily enough, but -they either cannot or will not explain on what -grounds their decisions are formed.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_400">{400}</span></p> - -<p>John Lillywhite was a very honest umpire. It -was his opinion that bowling was being tolerated -which was contrary to the laws of cricket as they -were then framed. In a match at Kennington -Oval in 1862, he acted according to his opinion, -for he was umpire. Lillywhite would not give -way, and another umpire was employed in his -place on the third day of the match. Lillywhite -was right, and it was unfortunate that he was -superseded. That was not the way to make -umpires conscientious.</p> - -<p>When the old All England Eleven were in -their prime, and were playing matches in country -places against eighteens and twenty-twos, the -players did not always pay that deference to -umpires which was customary on the best -grounds, and advantage was sometimes taken of -an umpire’s nervousness and inexperience. It -seemed to be an axiom with some players, ‘To -appeal is always safe.’ If several famous cricketers -cried ‘How’s that?’ it is not to be wondered -at that an umpire would occasionally say ‘Out’ -on the spur of the moment, without knowing -why. But a very fair retort was once made to a -player who was fond of making appeals, on the -chance of getting a lucky decision. ‘How’s that, -umpire?’ he cried. The reply was: ‘Sir, you -know it is not out; so why ask me, if you mean -fair-play?’</p> - -<p>The umpire has not an easy post to fill, even -if he have all the assistance which can be rendered -by the players. Points are constantly arising -which are not provided for in the laws, and he -must be guided by the practice of his predecessors -in the best matches. There is such a thing as -common law in cricket, as well as what may be -called statute law. It is undecided whether the -umpire should be considered part of the earth or -part of the air. If a ball hit him, and be caught -before it touch the ground, is the batsman -out? Some umpires say Yes, and others say No. -Severe accidents have sometimes happened to -umpires who have been struck with the ball, and -there is on record that at least one has met his -death in this way.</p> - -<p>When matches were played for money, and -when cricket was subject to open gambling, it -was more difficult for umpires to give satisfactory -decisions than it is now. In the account of a -match played about sixty years ago between -Sheffield and Nottingham, the Sheffield scorer -wrote, that every time a straight ball was bowled -by a Sheffield bowler the Nottingham umpire -called: ‘No ball.’ Many stories arose at that -time about umpires who were supposed to favour -their sides. One town was said to possess a -champion umpire, and with his help the Club -was prepared to meet all comers. Only twenty -years ago, the following statement appeared in -a respectable magazine: ‘Far north, there is an -idea that a Yorkshire Eleven should have an -umpire of their own, as a kind of Old Bailey -witness to swear for Yorkshire through thick -and thin.’</p> - -<p>But Yorkshiremen themselves have told some -racy stories about some of their umpires. One -was appealed to for a catch, and he replied: ‘Not -out; and I’ll bet you two to one you will not -win.’ Another at the close of a match threw up -his hat, and exclaimed: ‘Hurrah! I have won -five shillings.’</p> - -<p>It is well known that when Dr E. M. Grace -made his first appearance at Canterbury, Fuller -Pilch was umpire. The doctor was out immediately, -but the umpire gave him in. When he -was afterwards expostulated with, he said he -wanted to see if that Mr Grace could bat; so, -to satisfy his curiosity, he inflicted an injustice -on his own side. If the same thing had been -done in favour of his own county, it would not -have offended a gentleman whom Mr Bolland -refers to in his book on Cricket. This gentleman, -referring to an umpire’s decision on one occasion, -said: ‘He must be either drunk or a -fool, to give one of his own side out in that -manner.’</p> - -<p>At Ecclesall, near Sheffield, there was formerly -a parish clerk called Lingard, who was also a -notable umpire. One hot Sunday he was asleep -in his desk, and was dreaming about a match -to be played the next day. After the sermon, -when the time came for him to utter his -customary ‘Amen,’ he surprised the preacher, and -delighted the rustics who were present, by shouting -in a loud voice the word ‘Over.’</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PARTED">PARTED.</h2> -</div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><span class="smcap">Farewell</span>, farewell—a sadder strain</div> - <div class="verse indent2">No other English word can give;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">But we are parted though we live,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And ne’er may meet on earth again.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">My life is void without thy love—</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A harp with half its strings destroyed;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And thoughts of pleasures once enjoyed,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Can naught of consolation prove.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">We live apart—the ocean’s flow</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Divides thy sunny home from mine;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And, musing on the shore’s decline,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I watch the waters come and go.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I trace thy image in the sand;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I call thy name—I call in vain:</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The breeze is blowing from the main,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And mocks me waiting on the strand.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I see the mighty rivers roll</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To plunge, tumultuous, in the sea;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">So all my thoughts flow on to thee,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And merge together in their goal.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">But thou hast uttered ‘Fare thee well;’</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And I must bid a last adieu,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Nor let the aching heart pursue</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The longings that no tongue can tell.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent4"> -. . . . . - </div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And now, the slow returning tide</div> - <div class="verse indent2">No longer murmurs of the sea;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The breeze has changed; it flies to thee</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And breathes my message at thy side.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The tide shall ebb and flow for aye,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The fickle breeze may wander free;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">But all my thoughts shall flow to thee,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Till life and longing pass away.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse right"><span class="smcap">Francis Ernest Bradley.</span></div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="center">Printed and Published by <span class="smcap">W. & R Chambers</span>, 47 Paternoster -Row, <span class="smcap">London</span>, and 339 High Street, <span class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="center"><i>All Rights Reserved.</i></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 25, VOL. 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