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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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