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-The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature,
-Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 3, Vol. I, January 19, 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. 3, Vol. I, January 19, 1884
-
-Author: Various
-
-Release Date: February 16, 2021 [eBook #64571]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-Produced by: Susan Skinner, Eric Hutton and the Online Distributed
-             Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
-             produced from images generously made available by The Internet
-             Archive)
-
-*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR
-LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 3, VOL. I, JANUARY 19,
-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. 3.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]
-
-
-
-
-GIRLS, WIVES, AND MOTHERS.
-
-A WORD TO THE MIDDLE CLASSES.
-
-
-There may be theoretically much to sympathise with in the cry for the
-yet higher culture of the women of our middle classes, but at the
-same time not a little to find fault with in practice. While it is
-difficult to believe that there can be such a thing as over-education
-of the human subject, male or female, there may yet be false lines
-of training, which lead to a dainty misplaced refinement, quite
-incompatible with the social position the woman may be called to fill
-in after-life, and which too often presupposes, what even education has
-a difficulty in supplying—a subsistence in life. Where we equip, we too
-frequently impede. In the hurry to be intelligent and accomplished, the
-glitter of drawing-room graces is an object of greater desire than the
-more homely but not less estimable virtues identified with the kitchen.
-Our young housewives are imbued with far too much of the æsthete at the
-expense of the cook; too much of the stage, and too little of the home.
-In abandoning the equally mistaken views of our grandfathers on women’s
-up-bringing, we have gone to the opposite extreme, to the exclusion of
-anything like a means to an end; and in the blindest disregard of the
-recipients’ circumstances in life, present and prospective.
-
-In considering what the aim of female education ought to be, it is
-surely not too much to expect that of all things it should mentally
-and physically fit our women for the battle of life. Its application
-and utility should not have to end where they practically do at
-present—at the altar. While it is necessary to provide a common armour
-for purposes of general defence, there certainly ought to be a special
-strengthening of the harness where most blows are to be anticipated;
-and if not to all, certainly to middle-class women, the years of battle
-come _after_, not before marriage. Every one of them, then, ought to
-be trained in conformity with the supreme law of her being, to prove
-a real helpmate to the man that takes her to wife. Make sure that she
-is first of all thoroughly qualified for a mother’s part, in what may
-be called a working sphere of life; then add whatever graces may be
-desirable as a sweetening, according to taste, means, and opportunity.
-It is in this happy blending of abstract knowledge with the economy of
-a home, that true success in the education of middle-class women must
-be sought.
-
-In the training of our boys, utility in after-life is seldom lost
-sight of. Why should it be too often the reverse in the education of
-our girls, whose great vocation in life, as wives and mothers, is a
-birthright they cannot renounce, which no lord of creation can deprive
-them of, and which no sticklers for what they are pleased to call the
-rights of women can logically disown? No doubt, among the last-named
-there are extreme people, who cannot, from the very nature of their
-own individual circumstances, see anything in wifely cares save the
-shackles of an old-world civilisation. In their eyes, motherhood is a
-tax upon pleasure, and an abasement of the sex. With them, there need
-be no parley. There is no pursuit under the sun that a woman will not
-freely forsake—often at a sacrifice—for the wifely cares that supervene
-on marriage; and therein, few will deny, lies her great and natural
-sphere in life. Than it, there is no nobler. In it, she can encounter
-no rival; and any attempt to divest herself of nature’s charge can
-have but one ending. The blandishments of a cold æstheticism can never
-soothe, animate, and brighten the human soul, like the warm, suffusive
-joys which cluster round the married state.
-
-Here we may briefly digress to remark, that in our opinion, no valid
-objections can be urged against women entering professional life,
-_provided they stick to it_. They already teach, and that is neither
-the lightest nor least important of masculine pursuits. Why should they
-not prescribe for body and soul? why not turn their proverbial gifts
-of speech to a golden account at the bar? It would be in quitting any
-of these professions, and taking up the _rôle_ of wife and mother,
-which they would have to learn at the expense of their own and others’
-happiness, that the real mischief of the liberty would lie. In nine
-cases out of ten, their failure in the second choice would be assured,
-thereby poisoning all social well-being at its very source.
-
-The woman not over- but mis-educated is becoming an alarmingly fruitful
-cause of the downward tendencies of much of our middle-class society.
-She herself is less to blame for this, than the short-sighted, though
-possibly well-meant policy of her parents and guardians, who, in the
-worst spirit of the age, veneer their own flesh and blood, as they do
-their furniture, for appearance’ sake. Let us glance at the educational
-equipment they provide their girls with, always premising that our
-remarks are to be held as strictly applicable only to the middle ranks
-of our complex society.
-
-Our typical young woman receives a large amount of miscellaneous
-education, extending far through her teens, and amounting to a very
-fair mastery of the _R_s. If she limp in any of these, it will be
-in the admittedly vexatious processes of arithmetic. She will have
-a pretty ready command of the grammatical and idiomatic uses of her
-mother-tongue; a fairly firm hold of the geography of this planet, and
-an intelligent conception of the extra-terrestrial system. She will
-have plodded through piles of French and German courses, learning many
-things from them but the language. She will have a fair if not profound
-knowledge of history. She can, in all likelihood, draw a little, and
-even paint; but of all her accomplishments, what she must imperatively
-excel in is music. From tender years, she will have diligently laboured
-at all the musical profundities; and her chances in the matrimonial
-market of the future are probably regarded as being in proportion to
-her proficient manipulation of the keyboard. If she can sing, well and
-good; play on the piano she must. If, as a girl, she has no taste for
-instrumental music, and no ear to guide her flights in harmony, the
-more reason why she should, with the perseverance of despair, thump
-away on the irresponsive ivories, in defiance of every instinct in her
-being. The result at twenty _may_ be something tangible in some cases,
-but extremely unsatisfactory at the price.
-
-During all these years, she has been systematically kept ignorant of
-almost every domestic care. Of the commonplaces of cookery she has
-not the remotest idea. A great educationist, whose statement we have
-good reason to indorse, asserts that there are thousands of our young
-housewives that do not know how to cook a potato. This may seem satire.
-It is, we fear, in too many cases, true, and we quote it with a view to
-correct rather than chastise.
-
-The misapplications of young miss’s upbringing do not end here. She
-cannot sew to any purpose. If she deign to use a needle at all, it
-is to embroider a smoking-cap for a lover or a pair of slippers for
-papa. To sew on a button, or cut out and unite the plainest piece of
-male or female clothing, is not always within her powers, or at least
-her inclinations. Prosaic vulgar work, fit only for dressmakers and
-milliners! She will spend weeks and months over eighteen inches of
-what she is pleased to call lace, while the neighbouring seamstress is
-making up all her underclothing, to pay for which, papa has not too
-much money; but then it is genteel.
-
-She cannot knit. A pair of worsted cuffs or a lanky cravat is something
-great to attain to; while a stocking, even were the charwomen less
-easily paid, is sure to come off the needles right-lined as any of
-Euclid’s parallelograms—all leg and no ankle—a suspicion of foot, but
-never a vestige of heel. To darn the hole that so soon appears in the
-loosely knitted fabric, would be a servile, reproachful task, quite
-staggering to the sentimental aspirations of our engaged Angelina.
-Yet darning and the divine art of mending will one day be to her a
-veritable philosopher’s stone, whose magic influences will shed beams
-of happiness over her household, and fortunate will she be if she have
-not to seek it with tears.
-
-By the sick-bed, where she ought to be supreme, she is often worse
-than useless. The pillows that harden on the couch of convalescence,
-too rarely know her softening touch. She may be all kindness and
-attention—for the natural currents of her being are full to repletion
-of sweetness and sympathy—yet as incapable of really skilled service
-as an artist’s lay-figure. And, as a last touch to the sorry picture,
-instead of being in any way a source of comfort to the bread-winners of
-her family, or a lessening of the strain on their purse-strings, she is
-a continual cause of extra work to servants, of anxiety to her parents,
-of _ennui_ to herself.
-
-Apparently, the chief mission of the young lady to whom we
-address ourselves, is to entice some eligible young man into the
-responsibilities of wedlock. He, poor fellow, succumbs not so much
-to intrinsic merits, as to fine lady-like airs. He sees the polish
-on the surface, and takes for granted that there is good solid wear
-underneath. Our young miss has conquered, and quits the family
-roof-tree, sweetly conscious of her orange wreath of victory; but
-alas!—we are sorry to say it—do not her conquests too often end at
-the altar, unless she resolutely set herself to learn the exacting
-mysteries of her new sphere, and, what is far more difficult, to
-unlearn much that she has acquired? That she often does at this stage
-make a bold and firm departure from the toyish fancies of her training,
-and makes, from the sheer plasticity and devotion of her character,
-wonderful strides in the housewife’s craft, we cheerfully confess. Were
-it otherwise, the domestic framework of society would be in a far more
-disorganised condition than it happily is. But why handicap her for the
-most important, most arduous portion of her race in life? Why train her
-to be the vapid fine lady, with almost the certainty that, by so doing,
-you are taking the surest means of rendering her an insufficient wife
-and mother? And, unfortunately, not always, in fact but seldom, is she
-able, when she crosses her husband’s threshold, to tear herself away
-from her omnivorous novel-reading, piano-playing, and all the other
-alleviations of confirmed idleness.
-
-The sweets of the honeymoon and an undefined vacation beyond make no
-great calls on her as a helpmate and wife. If her husband’s means
-permit of a servant or two, the smoother the water and the plainer
-the sailing for the nonce; although these keen-scented critics in
-the kitchen will, in a very short time, detect and take the grossest
-advantage of their mistress’s inexperience. Besides, if we reflect
-that among our middle classes more marry on an income of two hundred
-pounds than on a higher, it becomes painfully apparent that two or
-three servants are the one thing our young housewife needs, but cannot
-possibly afford.
-
-She is now, however, only about to begin her life-work, and if there is
-such a thing clearly marked out for a being on this globe, it is for
-woman. By birthright, she is the mother of the human race. Could she
-have a greater, grander field for enterprise? How admirably has nature
-fitted her for performing the functions of the mother and adorning the
-province of the wife! Hence, there devolves upon her a responsibility
-which no extraneous labour in more inviting fields can excuse. No
-philosophy, no tinkering of the constitution, no success in the
-misnamed higher walks of life and knowledge, will atone for the failure
-of the mother. Let her shine a social star of the first magnitude, let
-her be supreme in every intellectual circle, and then marry, as she
-is ever prone to do, in spite of all theories; and if she fail as a
-mother, she fails as a woman and as a human being. She becomes a mere
-rag, a tatter of nature’s cast-off clothing, spiritless, aimless, a
-failure in this great world of work.
-
-As her family increases, the household shadows deepen, where all
-should be purity, sweetness, and light. The domestic ship may even
-founder through the downright, culpable incapacity of her that takes
-the helm. Her children never have the air of comfort and cleanliness.
-In their clothes, the stitch is never in time. The wilful neglect, and
-consequent waste, in this one matter of half-worn clothing is almost
-incredible. A slatternly atmosphere pervades her entire home. With the
-lapse of time our young wife becomes gradually untidy, dishevelled,
-and even dirty, in her own person; and at last sits down for good,
-disconsolate and overwhelmed by her unseen foe. Her husband can find no
-pleasure in the ‘hugger-mugger,’ as Carlyle phrases it, of his home;
-there is no brightness in it to cheer his hours of rest. He returns
-from his daily labours to a chaos, which he shuns by going elsewhere;
-and so the sequel of misery and neglect takes form.
-
-As a first precaution against such a calamity, let us strip our
-home-life of every taint of quackery. Let us regard women’s education,
-like that of men, as a means to a lifelong end, never forgetting that
-if we unfit it for everyday practice, we render it a mere useless gem,
-valuable in a sense, but unset. Middle-class women will be the better
-educated, in every sense, the more skilled they are in the functions
-of the mother and the duties of the wife. Give them every chance of
-proving thrifty wives and good mothers, in addition to, or, where
-that is impossible, to the exclusion of accomplished brides. Let some
-part of their training as presently constituted, such as the rigours
-of music, and the fritterings of embroidery, give way, in part, to
-the essential acquirements which every woman, every mother should
-possess, and which no gold can buy. Give us a woman, then, natural in
-her studies, her training, her vocations, and her dress, and in the
-words of the wisest of men, who certainly had a varied experience of
-womankind, we shall have something ‘far more precious than rubies. She
-will not be afraid of the snow for her household; strength and honour
-will be her clothing; her husband shall have no need of spoil; he shall
-be known in the gates, when he sitteth among the elders; he shall
-praise her; and her children shall call her blessed.’
-
-
-
-
-BY MEAD AND STREAM.
-
-
-CHAPTER IV.—IN THE OAK PARLOUR.
-
-And so, it had been only a bit of Uncle Dick’s kindly forethought and
-common-sense which had prompted the alarming words he had spoken to
-Madge. How she and Philip laughed at the chimerical idea that there
-could be any possible combination of circumstances in time or space
-which could alter their thoughts regarding each other! The birds in
-the orchard, in the intervals of pecking the fruit, seemed to sing a
-joyous laughing chorus at the absurdity of it—notwithstanding that the
-admission of it might be prudent.
-
-But when they came down to the point of vague admission that in the
-abstract and in relation to other couples—of course it could not apply
-to their own case—Uncle Dick’s counsel was such as prudent young people
-about to separate should keep in mind, an expression of perplexity
-flitted across Madge’s face. She looked at him with those tenderly
-wistful serious eyes, half doubting whether or not to utter the thought
-which had come to her.
-
-‘But what I cannot understand,’ she said slowly, ‘is why Uncle Dick
-should have been in such a temper. You know that although he may fly
-into a passion at anything that seems to him wrong, he never keeps it
-up. Now he had all the time riding home from Kingshope to cool, and yet
-when he spoke to me he seemed to be as angry as if he had just come out
-of the room where the quarrel took place.’
-
-‘What can it matter to us?’ was the blithe response. ‘He is not angry
-with me or with you, and so long as that is the case we need not mind
-if he should quarrel with all creation.’
-
-‘I’ll tell you what we will do,’ she said, and the disappearance of
-all perplexity from her face showed that she was quite of his opinion,
-although she wanted to have it supported by another authority.
-
-‘What is that?’
-
-‘We will go in and ask Aunt Hessy what she thinks about it.... Are you
-aware, sir’ (this with a pretty assumption of severity), ‘that you have
-not seen aunty to-day, and that you have not even inquired about her?’
-
-‘That _is_ bad,’ he muttered; but it was evident that the badness which
-he felt was the interruption of the happy wandering through the orchard
-by this summary recall to duty.
-
-In his remorse, however, he was ready to sacrifice his present
-pleasure; for Aunt Hessy was a stanch friend of theirs, and it
-might be that her cheery way of looking at things would dispel
-the last lingering cloud of doubt from Madge’s mind regarding the
-misunderstanding between his father and Uncle Dick.
-
-‘Then we had better go in at once; we shall find her in the dairy.’
-
-Mrs Crawshay was superintending the operations of three buxom maidens
-who were scalding the large cans in which the milk was conveyed every
-morning to the metropolis. Her ruddy face with the quiet, kindly gray
-eyes was that of a woman in her prime, and even her perfectly white
-hair did not detract from the sense of youth which was expressed in her
-appearance: it was an additional charm. She was nearly sixty. Her age
-was a standing joke of Uncle Dick’s. He had made the discovery that she
-was a month older than himself, and he magnified it into a year.
-
-‘Can’t you see?’ he would say, ‘if you are born in December and I am
-born in January, that makes exactly a year’s difference?’
-
-Then there would be a loud guffaw, and Uncle Dick would feel that he
-had completely overcome the Missus. The words and the guffaw were as
-a rule simultaneous, and if nobody happened to be present, it usually
-ended in Uncle Dick putting his arm round her neck and saying with a
-lump in his throat: ‘My old lass—young always to me.’
-
-He had not the slightest notion of the poetry that was in his soul
-whilst he spoke.
-
-Mrs Crawshay believed in young love. She had been very happy in hers.
-She had been brought up on a farm. Lads had come about her of course,
-and she had put them aside with a—‘Nay, lad, I’m not for thee,’ and had
-thought no more about them. Then Dick Crawshay had come, and—she did
-not know why—she had said: ‘Yes, thou art my lad.’
-
-They had been very happy notwithstanding their losses—indeed the losses
-seemed to have drawn them closer together.
-
-‘It’s only you and me, my old lass,’ he would say in their privacy.
-
-‘Only you and me, Dick,’ she would say as her gray head rested on his
-breast with all the emotion of youth in her heart.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-‘Go into the oak parlour,’ said Mrs Crawshay cheerily to the young
-folks, when she understood their mission; ‘and I’ll be with you in a
-minute.’
-
-The oak parlour was the stateroom of the house. It was long and high;
-the oak of the panels and beams which supported the pointed roof were
-of that dark hue which only time can impart. The three narrow windows
-had been lengthened by Dick’s father, and when the moon shone through
-them they were like three white ghosts looking in upon the dark
-chamber. But the moon did not often get a chance of doing this, for
-there was only a brief period of the year during which there was not
-a huge fire blazing in the great old-fashioned ingle. There were four
-portraits of former Crawshays and three of famous horses; with these
-exceptions the walls were bare, for none of the family had ever been
-endowed with much love of art.
-
-There were some legends still current about the mysteries hidden
-behind the sombre panels. One of the panels was specially honoured
-because it was reputed to have a recess behind it in which the king had
-found shelter for a time during his flight from the Roundheads. But
-owing to the indifference or carelessness of successive generations,
-nobody was now quite sure to which of the panels this honour properly
-belonged. There had been occasional attempts made to discover the royal
-hiding-place, but they had hitherto failed.
-
-The furniture was plain and substantial, displaying the styles of
-several periods of manufacture. In spite of the stiff straight lines of
-most of the things in the room, the red curtains, the red table-cover,
-the odd variety of the chairs gave the place a homely and, when the
-fire was ablaze, a cosy expression. This stateroom was correctly called
-‘parlour,’ and it had been the scene of many a revel.
-
-As Philip and Madge were on their way to the oak parlour, a servant
-presented a card to the latter.
-
-‘He asked for you, miss,’ said the girl, and passed on to the kitchen.
-
-Madge looked at the card, and instantly held it out to Philip.
-
-‘Hullo!—my father,’ ejaculated he, adding with a laugh: ‘Now you can
-see that this mountain of yours is not even a molehill.’
-
-‘How can you tell that?’
-
-‘Because my father is the reverse of Uncle Dick. He never forgets—I
-doubt if he ever forgives—an unpleasant word. And yet here he is. Come
-along at once—but we had better say nothing to him about the affair
-unless he speaks of it himself.’
-
-They entered the room together, smiling hopefully.
-
-Mr Lloyd Hadleigh was standing at a window, hat in one hand, slim
-umbrella in the other, and staring hard at the shrubs. He had a way of
-staring hard at everything, and yet the way was so calm and thoughtful
-that he did not appear to see anything or anybody, and thus the stare
-was not offensive.
-
-‘The guv’nor always seems to be dreaming about you when he looks at
-you, and you never know when he’s going to speak—that’s awk’ard,’ was
-the description of his expression given by Caleb Kersey, one of the
-occasional labourers on Ringsford.
-
-He was a man of average height, firmly built; square face; thick
-black moustache; close cropped black hair, with only an indication of
-thinning on the top and showing few streaks of white. His age was not
-more than fifty, and he had attained the full vigour of life.
-
-‘People talk about the fire and “go” of thirty,’ he would say in his
-dry way. ‘It is nonsense. At that age a man is either going downhill or
-going up it, and in either case he is too much occupied and worried to
-have time to be happy. That was the most miserable period of my life.’
-
-Coldness was the first impression of his outward character. No one had
-ever seen him in a passion. Successful in business, he had provided
-well for the five children of a very early marriage. He never referred
-to that event, and had been long a widower without showing the
-slightest inclination to establish a new mistress at Ringsford.
-
-He turned on the entrance of Madge and Philip, saluting the former with
-grave politeness; then to the latter: ‘There are some letters for you
-at home, Philip.’
-
-‘Thank you, sir; but I have no doubt they can wait. I am to stay for
-dinner here.’
-
-‘From the postmarks I judge they are of importance.’
-
-‘Ah—then I know who they are from, and in that case there is no hurry
-at all, for the mail does not leave until Monday.’
-
-Mr Hadleigh addressed himself to Madge—no sign of annoyance in voice or
-manner.
-
-‘May I be permitted to have a few minutes’ conversation with you in
-private, Miss Heathcote?’
-
-‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ broke in Philip hastily; ‘I did not
-understand you to mean that you found me in the way.—If your aunt
-should ask for me, Miss Heathcote, I shall be in the garden.’
-
-With a good-natured inclination of the head, he went out. And as he
-walked down the garden path filling his pipe, he muttered to himself
-thoughtfully: ‘Seems to me he grows queerer and queerer every day. What
-_can_ be the matter with him? If anybody else had asked for a private
-interview so solemnly, I should have taken it for granted that he was
-going to propose.... Daresay he wants to give some explanation of that
-confounded row, and make his apologies through Madge. I should like him
-to do that.’
-
-But Mr Hadleigh was neither going to propose nor to make apologies.
-He smiled, a curious sort of half-sad, half-amused smile, and there
-was really something interesting in the expression of his eyes at the
-moment.
-
-‘The truth is, Miss Heathcote, that I cannot acknowledge weakness
-before Philip. He is such a reckless fellow about money, that he would
-tell me I ought to give in at once to the labourers.’
-
-‘I am sure he would not, Mr Hadleigh, if he thought you were in the
-right.’
-
-‘I am not one likely to hold out if convinced that I am in the wrong.’
-
-‘Few men do under these conditions, Mr Hadleigh,’ said Madge, smiling.
-
-‘Well, at anyrate, I want your assistance very much; will you give it?’
-
-‘With great pleasure, if it is worth anything to you.’
-
-‘It is worth everything; for what harvest I might have on the
-home-farm—and I understand it promises to be a good one—is likely to be
-lost unless you help me.’
-
-‘How can that be, Mr Hadleigh?’
-
-‘Through beer. This is how the matter stands. You know the dispute
-about the wages, and I am willing to give in to that. But on this
-question of beer in the field I am firm. The men and women shall have
-the price of it; but I will neither give beer on the field nor permit
-them to bring it there. A great reform is to be worked in this matter,
-and I mean to do what little I can to advance it. I am sure, Miss
-Heathcote, you must acknowledge that I am right in adhering to this
-resolution.’
-
-‘I have been brought up in some very old-fashioned notions, Mr
-Hadleigh,’ she answered with pretty evasiveness.
-
-‘There is a high principle at stake in it, my dear Miss Heathcote, and
-it is worth fighting for.’
-
-‘But I do not yet see how my services are to be of use to you,’ she
-said, anxious to avoid this debatable subject. It was one on which
-her uncle had quite different views from those of Mr Hadleigh. And,
-therefore, she could not altogether sympathise with the latter’s
-enthusiasm, eager as she was to see the people steady and sober, for
-she remembered at the moment that he had made a considerable portion of
-his fortune out of a brewery.
-
-‘That was exactly what I was about to explain,’ he replied. ‘I came to
-beg you to speak to Caleb Kersey.’
-
-‘Caleb!—why, he never touches anything stronger than tea.’
-
-‘That may be; but he believes that other people have a right to do so
-if they like. He has persuaded every man and woman who comes to me
-or my bailiff to put the question: “Is there to be beer?” When they
-are answered: “No; but the money,” they turn on their heels and march
-off, so that at this moment we have only two men. Now, my dear Miss
-Heathcote, will you persuade Kersey to stop his interference?’
-
-‘I do not see that he is interfering; but I will speak to him.’
-
-‘Thanks, thanks. If you were with me I should have no difficulty.’
-
-‘You would find me a very bad second,’ she answered, laughing, ‘for I
-should say—submit to old customs until persuasion alters them, since
-force never can.’
-
-Two things struck Madge during this interview and the commonplaces
-about nothing which followed it: The first, how much more frank and at
-ease he seemed to be with her than with any one else; and the second
-was, how loath he seemed to go.
-
-The owner of Ringsford said to himself as he was driven away: ‘I shall
-be glad when she is Philip’s wife.’
-
-
-CHAPTER V.—A NEW EDEN.
-
-She was still standing at the door to which she had accompanied Mr
-Hadleigh, and was looking after him, when a kindly voice behind her
-said: ‘He does look a woeful man. I wonder if he has any real friends.’
-
-Madge turned. Aunt Hessy was standing there, a pitying expression on
-her comely face, and she was wiping her hands in her apron. There was
-nothing in Mrs Crawshay’s manner or appearance to indicate her Quaker
-antecedents, except the frequent use of thee and thou—she did not
-always use that form of speech—and the quiet tone of all the colours
-of her dress. Yet, until her marriage she had been, like her father,
-a good Wesleyan; after her marriage she accompanied her husband to
-the church in which his family had kept their place for so many
-generations. To her simple faith it was the same whether she worshipped
-in church or chapel.
-
-‘Why do you say that, aunt?’
-
-‘Because he seems to be so much alone.’
-
-‘Mr Hadleigh alone! What about all the people who visit the manor?’
-
-‘Ay, they visit the manor,’ answered Aunt Hessy, with a slight shake of
-the head and a quiet smile.
-
-That set Madge thinking. He did impress her as a solitary man,
-notwithstanding his family, his many visitors, his school treats, his
-flower-shows, and other signs of a busy and what ought to be a happy
-life. Then there was the strange thing that he should come to ask her
-assistance to enable him to come to terms with the harvesters.
-
-‘I believe you are right, aunt. He is very much alone, and I suppose
-that was why he came to me to-day.’
-
-‘What did he want?’ asked Dame Crawshay, with unusual quickness and an
-expression of anxiety Madge could not remember ever having seen on her
-face before. She did not understand it until long afterwards.
-
-Having explained the object of Mr Hadleigh’s visit, as she understood
-it, she was surprised to see how much relieved her aunt looked. Knowing
-that that good woman had never had a secret in her life, and never made
-the least mystery about anything, she put the question direct: ‘Did you
-expect him to say anything else?’
-
-‘I don’t know, Madge. He is a queer man, Mr Hadleigh, in a-many ways.
-He spoke to your uncle about this, and he would have nothing to do with
-it.’
-
-‘And that is why they fell out at the market, I suppose.’
-
-‘Where is Philip? He must take after his mother, for he is
-straightforward in everything.’
-
-‘He is out in the garden. Shall I go for him?’
-
-‘Nay. I want more peas, so we can find him on our way for them.’
-
-Philip had not gone far. He had walked down to the duck-pond; but after
-that distant excursion, he kept near the little gate beside the dairy,
-glancing frequently at the house-door. He was dallying with the last
-hours of the bright morning of his love, and he grudged every moment
-that Madge was away from him. A few days hence he would be looking back
-to this one with longing eyes. How miserable he would be on board that
-ship! How he would hate the sound of the machinery, knowing that every
-stroke of the piston was taking him so much farther away from her. And
-then, as the waters widened and stretched into the sky, would not his
-heart sink, and would he not wish that he had never started on this
-weary journey?
-
-In response to that lover-like question, he heard the echo of Madge’s
-voice in his brain: ‘It was your mother’s wish.’
-
-This simple reminder was enough, for he cherished the sad memory of
-that sweet pale face, which smiled upon him hopefully a moment before
-it became calm in death.
-
-He sprang away from these sorrowful reflections. Yes; he would look
-back longingly to this day when sea and sky shut out Willowmere and
-Madge from sight. But they would both be palpable to his mental vision;
-and he would look forward to that still brighter day of his return, his
-mission fulfilled, and nothing to do but marry Madge and live happy
-ever after. Ay, that should comfort him and make the present parting
-bearable.
-
-Besides, who could say with what fortune he might come back? The uncle
-to whom he was going was rumoured to be the possessor of fabulous
-wealth, and although married he was childless. True, also, he was
-reported to be so eccentric that nobody could understand him, or
-form the slightest conception of how he would act under any given
-circumstances. But it was known that before he went abroad, his
-sister—Philip’s mother—had been the one creature in whom all his
-affection seemed to be concentrated. An inexplicable coldness appeared
-in his conduct towards her after her marriage. The reason had never
-been explained.
-
-Shortly before her death, however, there had come a letter from him,
-which made her very happy. But she had burned the letter, by his
-instructions, without showing it to any one or revealing its contents.
-Evidently it was this letter which induced her to lay upon her son
-the charge of going to her brother Austin Shield, whenever he should
-be summoned. But the uncle held no correspondence with any one at
-Ringsford. That he was still alive, could be only surmised from vague
-reports and the fact that on every anniversary of Mrs Hadleigh’s
-birthday, with one exception, a fresh wreath of flowers was found on
-her grave—placed there, it was believed, by his orders. Then a few
-months ago, a letter had come to Philip, containing an invitation from
-his uncle, suggesting possible advantages, and inclosing a draft for
-expenses. So, being summoned, he was going; and whether the result
-should be good or ill fortune, his mother’s last command would be
-obeyed, and he would return with a clear conscience to marry Madge.
-
-That thought kept him in good-humour throughout the weary ages which
-seemed to elapse before he saw Madge and her aunt approaching. He ran
-to meet them.
-
-‘I thought you were never coming,’ was his exclamation.
-
-‘Thou’lt be able to do without her for a longer time than this without
-troubling thyself, by-and-by,’ said Dame Crawshay with one of her
-pleasant smiles.
-
-‘When that day comes, I will say you are a prophetess of evil,’ he
-retorted, laughing, but with an air of affectionate respect. That was
-the feeling with which she inspired everybody.
-
-‘Nay, lad; but it need not be evil, for you may be apart, surely, doing
-good for each other.’
-
-‘Yes; but not without wishing we were together.’
-
-‘Wilt ever be wishing that?’
-
-‘For ever and ever.’
-
-He answered with burlesque solemnity outwardly; but Madge knew that he
-spoke from his heart, and in the full faith of his words. She gave him
-a quiet glance with those soft wistful eyes, and he was very happy.
-
-They had reached a tall row of peas, at which Dame Crawshay had
-been already busy that morning, as a wooden chair placed beside it
-indicated. Here she seated herself, and began to pluck the peas,
-shelling them as she plucked; then dropping the pods into her lap and
-the peas into a basin. She performed the operation with mechanical
-regularity, which did not in any way interfere with conversation.
-
-Madge, kneeling beside her, helped with nimble fingers; and Philip,
-hands clasped behind him, stood looking on admiringly. The sun was
-shining upon them; and, darting shafts of light through the surrounding
-trees, made bright spots amidst the moving shadows underneath.
-Everything seemed to be still and sleepy. The breeze was so light that
-there was only a gentle rustle of leaves, and through it was heard
-the occasional thud of an over-ripe apple or pear as it fell, and the
-drowsy hum of the bees.
-
-Light, warmth, peace. ‘Ah,’ thought Philip, ‘if we could only go on
-this way always! If we could fix ourselves thus as in a photograph,
-what a blessed Eden this would be!’
-
-‘Thou’dst find it dull soon, Philip, standing there looking at us
-shelling peas, if thou wert forced to do it,’ said Dame Crawshay,
-looking up at him with a curious smile.
-
-‘That shows you cannot guess my thoughts. They were of quite a
-different nature, for I was wishing that there had been some fixing
-process in nature, so that there might never be any change in our
-present positions.’
-
-Madge looked as if she had been thinking something very similar; but
-she went on silently shelling peas; and a sunbeam shooting through a
-gap in the green pea hedge, made a golden radiance on her face.
-
-‘Eh, deary me, what love will do!’ exclaimed the dame, laughing, but
-shaking her head regretfully, as if sorry that she could not look at
-things in the same hopeful humour. ‘Other people have talked like
-that in the heyday of life. Some have found a little of their hope
-fulfilled; many have found none of it: all have found that they had to
-give up the thought of a great deal of what they expected. Some take
-their disappointment with wise content and make the best of things as
-they find them. They jog along as happily as mortals may, like Dick and
-me; a-many kick against the pricks and suffer sorely for it; but all
-have to give in sooner or later, and own that the world could not get
-along if everybody could arrange it to suit his own pleasure.’
-
-How gently this good-natured philosopher brought them down from
-the clouds to what foolish enthusiasts call contemptuously ‘the
-common earth.’ Sensible people use the same phrase, but they use it
-respectfully, knowing that this ‘common earth’ may be made beautiful or
-ugly as their own actions instruct their vision.
-
-To Philip it was quite true that most people sought something they
-could never attain; that many people fancied they had found the
-something they wanted, and discovered afterwards, to their sorrow,
-that they had not found the thing at all. But then, you see, it was an
-entirely different condition of affairs in his case. He had found what
-he wanted, and knew that there could be no mistake about it.
-
-To Madge, her aunt’s wisdom appeared to be very cold and even wrong
-in some respects, considering the placid and happy experiences of her
-own life. She had her great faith in Philip—her dream of a life which
-should be made up of devotion to him under any circumstances of joy
-or sorrow, and she could not believe that it was possible that their
-experience should be as full of crosses as that of others. And yet
-there was a strange faintness at her heart, as if she were vaguely
-conscious that there were possibilities which neither she nor Philip
-could foresee or understand.
-
-‘We shall be amongst the wise folk,’ said Philip confidently, ‘and
-take things as they come, contentedly. We shall be easily contented, so
-long as we are true to each other—and I don’t think you imagine there
-is any chance of a mistake in that respect.’
-
-Aunt Hessy went on shelling peas for a time in silence. There was
-a thoughtful expression on her kindly face, and there was even a
-suggestion of sadness in it. Here were two young people—so young, so
-happy, so full of faith in each other—just starting on that troublous
-journey called Life, and she had to speak those words of warning which
-always seem so harsh to the pupils, until, after bitter experience,
-they look back and say: ‘If I had only taken the warning in time, what
-might have been?’
-
-By-and-by she spoke very softly: ‘Thou art thinking, Madge, that I am
-croaking; and thou, Philip, are thinking the same.... Nay, there is no
-need to deny it. But I do not mean to dishearten thee. All I want is to
-make thee understand that there are many things we reckon as certain in
-the heyday of life, that never come to us.’
-
-‘I daresay,’ said Philip, plucking a pea-pod and chewing it savagely;
-‘but don’t you think, Mrs Crawshay, that this is very like throwing
-cold-water on us, and that throwing cold-water is very apt to produce
-the misadventure which you think possible?—that is, that something
-might happen to alter our plans?’
-
-‘I am sorry for that, lad; I do not mean to throw cold-water on thee;
-but rather to help thee and to help Madge to look at things in a
-sensible way. Listen. I had a friend once who was like Madge; and she
-had a friend who was, as it might be, like you, Philip. He went away,
-as you are going, to seek his fortune in foreign parts. There was a
-blunder between them, and she got wedded to another man. Her first lad
-came back, and finding how things were, he went away again and never
-spoke more to her.’
-
-‘They must have been miserable.’
-
-‘For a while they were miserable enough; but they got over it.’
-
-‘I’ll be bound the man never married.’
-
-‘There thou’dst be bound wrong. He did marry, and is now wealthy and
-prosperous, though she was taken away in a fever long ago.’
-
-‘Ay, but is he happy?’
-
-‘That is only known to himself and Him that knows us all.’
-
-‘Well, for our future I will trust Madge,’ said Philip, taking her
-hand, ‘in spite of all your forebodings; and she will trust me.’
-
-Dame Crawshay had filled her basin with peas, and she rose.
-
-‘God bless thee, Philip, wherever thou goest, and make thy hopes
-realities,’ she said with what seemed to the lovers unnecessary
-solemnity.
-
-The dame went into the house. Madge and Philip went down the meadow,
-and under the willows by the merry river, forgot that there was any
-parting before them or any danger that their fortunes might be crossed.
-
-Those bright days! Can they ever come again, or can any future joy be
-so full, so perfect? There are no love-speeches—little talk of any
-kind, and what there is, is commonplace enough. There is no need for
-speech. There is only—only!—the sense of the dear presence that makes
-all the world beautiful, leaving the heart nothing more to desire.
-
-But the dreams in the sunshine there under the willows, with the river
-murmuring sympathetic harmonies at their feet! The dreams of a future,
-and yet no future; for it is always to be as now. Can it be possible
-that this man and woman will ever look coldly on each other—ever speak
-angry, passionate words? Can it be possible that there will ever flit
-across their minds one instant’s regret that they had come together?
-
-No, no: the dreams are of the future; but the future will be always as
-now—full of faith and gladness.
-
-
-
-
-THE CLIFF-HOUSES OF CAÑON DE CHELLY.
-
-
-The fourth and most southerly iron link of railway which will soon
-stretch across the North American continent from ocean to ocean is
-rapidly approaching completion along the thirty-fifth parallel;
-already it has reached the San Francisco mountains in its course to
-the Pacific. While avoiding the chances of blockade by snow, liable in
-higher latitudes, it has struck through a little explored region among
-the vast plains of Arizona and New Mexico. It is not easy at once to
-realise the extent of table-lands, greater in area than Great Britain
-and Ireland, upon which no soul has a settled habitation. The sun beats
-down with terrible force on these dry undulating plains, where at most
-times nothing relieves the eye, as it wanders away to the dim horizon,
-save a few cactus and sage-bush plants. But at seasons, heavy rains
-change dry gulches into roaring torrents, and parched lowlands into
-broad lakes, covering the country with a fine grass, on which millions
-of sheep, horses, and cattle are herded by wandering Navajo and Moqui
-Indians. To the periodical rains, as well as to geological convulsions,
-are traced the causes of those wondrous chasms, which in places break
-abruptly the rolling surface of the prairie, and extend in rocky gorges
-for many miles. They are called cañons. The grandeur of the scenery
-found in one of them, Cañon de Chelly, can scarcely be overstated.
-
-Cañon de Chelly—pronounced Canyon de Shay—is in the north of Arizona.
-It takes its name from a Frenchman, who is said to have been the first
-white man to set foot within its walls; but except the record of a
-recent visit by the United States Geological Survey, no account of
-it seems to have hitherto appeared. The picturesque features of this
-magnificent ravine are unrivalled; and what lends a more fascinating
-interest, is the existence, among its rocky walls, of dwellings once
-occupied by a race of men, who, dropping into the ocean of the past
-with an unwritten history, are only known to us as cave-dwellers.
-
-In October 1882, an exploring party, headed by Professor Stevenson
-of the Ethnological Bureau, Washington, and escorted by a number of
-soldiers and Indian guides, set out for this remarkable spot. One of
-the party, Lieutenant T. V. Keam, has furnished the following details
-of their investigations. After travelling one hundred and twenty miles
-out from the nearest military post, Fort Defiance, and crossing a
-desert some twenty miles broad, the entrance to Cañon de Chelly was
-reached. The bed of the ravine is entirely composed of sand, which is
-constantly being blown along it, with pitiless force, by sudden gusts
-of wind. The walls of the cañon are red sandstone; at first, but some
-fifty feet high, they increase gradually, until at eighteen miles they
-reach an elevation of twelve hundred feet, which is about the highest
-point, and continue without decreasing for at least thirty miles. The
-first night, Professor Stevenson’s party camped three miles from the
-mouth of the cañon, under a grove of cotton-wood trees, and near a
-clear flowing stream of water. Here the scene was an impressive one.
-A side ravine of great magnitude intersected the main cañon, and at
-the junction there stood out, like a sentinel, far from the rest of
-the cliff, one solemn brown stone shaft eight hundred feet high. In
-the morning, continuing the journey through the awful grandeur of the
-gorge, the walls still increased in height, some having a smooth and
-beautifully coloured surface reaching to one thousand feet; others,
-from the action of water, sand storms, and atmospheric effects, cut and
-broken into grand arches, battlements, and spires of every conceivable
-shape. At times would be seen an immense opening in the wall,
-stretching back a quarter of a mile, the sides covered with verdure of
-different shades, reaching to the summit, where tall firs with giant
-arms seemed dwarfed to the size of a puny gooseberry bush, and the
-lordly oak was only distinguished by the beautiful sheen of its leaves.
-
-On the second night the camp was formed at the base of a cliff, in
-which were descried, planted along a niche at a height of nearly one
-hundred feet, some cliff-dwellings. Next morning, these were reached
-after a dangerous climb, by means of a rope thrown across a projecting
-stick, up the almost perpendicular sides of this stupendous natural
-fortress. The village was perched on its narrow ledge of rock, facing
-the south, and was overshadowed by an enormous arch, formed in the
-solid side of the cañon. Overlapping the ruins for at least fifty feet,
-at a height above them of sixty feet, it spread its protecting roof
-five hundred feet from end to end. No moisture ever penetrated beyond
-the edge of this red shield of nature; and to its shelter, combined
-with the dryness of the atmosphere and preserving nature of the sand,
-is to be attributed the remarkable state of preservation, after such a
-lapse of time, in which the houses of the cliff-dwellers were found.
-Some of them still stood three stories high, built in compact form,
-close together within the extremely limited space, the timber used
-to support the roof being in some cases perfectly sound. The white
-stone employed is gypsum, cut with stone implements, but having the
-outer edges smoothly dressed and evenly laid up; the stones of equal
-size placed parallel with each other presenting a uniform and pleasing
-appearance.
-
-No remains of importance were found here, excepting a finely woven
-sandal, and some pieces of netting made from the fibre of the yucca
-plant. But on proceeding two miles farther up the cañon, another group
-of ruins was discovered, which contained relics of a very interesting
-character. The interior of some of the larger houses was painted with
-a series of red bands and squares, fresh in colour, and contained
-fragments of ornamented pottery, besides what appeared to be pieces
-of blankets made from birds’ feathers; these, perhaps, in ages past
-bedecked the shoulders of some red beauty, when the grim old walls
-echoed the fierce war-songs of a long-lost nation. But the most
-fortunate find at this spot, and the first of that description made in
-the country, was a cyst, constructed of timber smoothly plastered on
-the inside, containing remains of three of the ancient cliff-dwellers.
-One was in a sitting posture, the skin of the thighs and legs being in
-a perfect state of preservation. These ruins, as in the former case,
-were protected from the weather by an overhanging arch of rock.
-
-At several points on the journey through Cañon de Chelly, hieroglyphics
-were traced, graven on the cliff wall. Most of the designs were
-unintelligible; but figures of animals, such as the bear and mountain
-sheep or goat, were prominent. Another cliff village was observed of a
-considerable size, but planted three hundred feet above the cañon bed,
-in such a position that it is likely to remain sacred from the foot of
-man for still further generations. The same elements which in geologic
-time fashioned the caves and recesses of the cañon walls, have in later
-times worn the approaches away, so that to-day they do not even furnish
-a footing for the bear or coyote. In what remote age and for how many
-generations the cliff-dwellers lived in these strange fastnesses, will
-probably never be determined. Faint traces of still older buildings
-are found here and there in the bed of Cañon de Chelly; and it is
-conjectured that this region was once densely populated along the
-watercourses, and that the tribes having been driven from their homes
-by a powerful foe, the remnant sought refuge in the caves of the cañon
-walls.
-
-Of the great antiquity of these structures, there is no question.
-The Indian of to-day knows nothing of their history, has not even
-traditions concerning them. The Navajo, with a few poles plastered
-with a heavy deposit of earth, constructs his _hogan_ or wigwam, and
-rarely remains in the same place winter and summer. He has no more idea
-of constructing a dwelling like those so perfectly preserved in the
-cliffs, than he has of baking specimens of pottery such as are found
-in fragments amongst the walls. In the fine quality of paste, in the
-animal handles—something like old Japanese ware—and in the general
-ornamentation, these exhibit a high order of excellence. Some specimens
-of what is called laminated ware are remarkable; threadlike layers of
-clay are laid one on each other with admirable delicacy and patience.
-In these fragments may yet be read something of the history of a
-vanished race. They illuminate a dark corner in the world’s history,
-and seem to indicate a people who once felt civilising influences
-higher than anything known by those uncouth figures whose camp-fires
-now glimmer at night across the silent starlit prairie.
-
-
-
-
-TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.
-
-A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.
-
-
-CHAPTER III.
-
-Captain Bowood came forward. ‘Sir Frederick, your servant; glad to see
-you,’ he said in his hearty sailor-like fashion.
-
-‘I am glad to see you, Captain,’ responded the Baronet as he proffered
-his hand. ‘How’s the gout this morning?’
-
-‘So, so. Might be better—might be worse.—You here, Miss Saucebox!’ he
-added, turning to Elsie. ‘Why are you not at your lessons—eh, now?’
-
-‘As if anybody could learn Latin roots on a sunny morning like this!’
-Then, clasping one of his arms with both her hands, and looking up
-coaxingly into his face, she said: ‘You might give me a holiday, nunky
-dear.’
-
-‘Why, why? A holiday indeed!—Listen to her, Sir Frederick. The baggage
-is always begging for holidays.’
-
-‘But the baggage doesn’t always get them,’ was the answer with a pretty
-pout. Then, after another glance at the long-haired stranger, who was
-already busy with the piano, she said to herself: ‘It is he; I am sure
-of it. And yet if I had not heard his voice, I should not have known
-him.’
-
-Captain Bowood at this time had left his sixtieth birthday behind him,
-but he carried his years lightly. He was a bluff, hearty-looking,
-loud-voiced man, with a very red face, and very white hair and
-whiskers. A fever, several years previously, had radically impaired
-his eyesight, since which time he had taken to wearing gold-rimmed
-spectacles. He had a choleric temper; but his bursts of petulance
-were like those summer storms which are over almost as soon as they
-have broken, and leave not a cloud behind. Throughout the American
-Civil War, Captain Bowood had been known as one of the most daring and
-successful blockade-runners, and it was during those days of danger and
-excitement that he laid the foundation of the fortune on which he had
-since retired. No man was more completely ruled by his wife than the
-choleric but generous-hearted Captain, and no man suspected the fact
-less than he did.
-
-‘I drove over this morning,’ said Sir Frederick, ‘to see you about that
-bay mare which I hear you are desirous of getting rid of.’
-
-‘Yes, yes—just so. We’ll go to the stable and have a look at her.
-By-the-bye, I was talking to Boyd just now, when your name cropped up.
-It seems he met you when you were both in South America. Oscar Boyd,
-engineering fellow and all that. You remember him, eh, now?’
-
-‘I certainly do remember a Mr Boyd; but it is many years since we met.’
-Then to himself the Baronet said: ‘Can this be the other man? Oh! Lady
-Dimsdale.’
-
-‘A very agreeable fellow,’ said the Captain. ‘Here on a visit for a
-couple of days. A little matter of business between him and me to save
-lawyers’ expenses.’
-
-‘The other man, without a doubt,’ thought the Baronet. ‘His wife must
-be dead.’
-
-Miss Brandon had slipped unobserved out of the room. She was now
-sitting in the veranda, making-believe to be intent over her Latin
-verbs, but in reality waiting impatiently till the coast should be
-clear. She had not long to wait. Presently she heard the Captain say in
-his cheery loud-voiced way: ‘Come along, Sir Frederick; we shall just
-have time to look at the mare before luncheon;’ and a minute later, she
-heard the shutting of a door.
-
-Then she shut her book, rose from her seat, and crossing on tiptoe
-to the open French-window, she peeped into the room. ‘Is that you,
-Charley?’ she asked in a voice that was little above a whisper.
-
-‘Whom else should it be?’ answered the young man, looking round from
-the piano with a smile.
-
-‘I was nearly sure of it from the first; but then you look such a guy!’
-
-‘She calls me a guy! after all the trouble I have taken to get myself
-up like a foreign nobleman.’ Speaking thus, he took off his spectacles
-and wig, and stood revealed, as pleasant-looking a young fellow as one
-would see in a day’s march.
-
-Elsie ran forward with a little cry of surprise and delight. ‘Now I
-know you for my own!’ she exclaimed; and when he took her in his arms
-and kissed her—more than once—she offered not the slightest resistance.
-‘But what a dreadful risk to run!’ she went on as soon as she was set
-at liberty. ‘Suppose your uncle—good gracious!’
-
-‘My uncle? He can’t eat me, that’s certain; and he has already cut me
-off with the proverbial shilling.’
-
-‘My poor boy! Fate is very, very hard upon you. We are both down
-on our luck, Charley; but we can die together, can’t we?’ As she
-propounded this question, she held out her box of bon-bons. Charley
-took one, she took another, and then the box was put away. ‘A pan of
-charcoal’—she went on, giving her sweetmeat a gustatory turn over with
-her tongue—‘door and windows close shut—you go to sleep and forget to
-wake up. What could be simpler?’
-
-‘Hardly anything. But we have not quite come to that yet. Of course,
-that dreadful Vice-chancellor won’t let me marry you for some time to
-come; but he can’t help himself when you are one-and-twenty.’
-
-‘That won’t be for nearly four years,’ answered Elsie with a pout.
-‘What a long, long time to look forward to!’
-
-‘We have only to be true to each other, which I am sure we shall be,
-and it will pass away far more quickly than you imagine. By that time,
-I hope to be earning enough money to find you a comfortable home.’
-
-‘There’s my money, you know, Charley dear.’
-
-‘I don’t mean to have anything to do with that. If I can’t earn enough
-to keep my wife, I’ll never marry.’
-
-‘Oh!’
-
-‘But I shall do that, dear. Why, I’m getting five guineas a week
-already; and if I’m not getting three times as much as that by the time
-you are twenty-one, I’ll swallow my wig.’
-
-‘Your uncle will never forgive you for going on the stage.’
-
-‘O yes, he will, by-and-by, when he sees that I am making a fair living
-by it and really mean to stick to it—having sown all my wild-oats; and
-above all, when he finds how well they speak of me in his favourite
-newspaper. And that reminds me that it was what the _Telephone_ said
-about me that caused old Brooker our manager to raise my screw from
-four guineas a week to five. I cut the notice out of the paper, you
-may be sure. Here it is.’ Speaking thus, Master Charles produced
-his pocket-book; and drew from it a printed slip of paper, which he
-proceeded to read aloud: ‘“Although we have had occasion more than
-once to commend the acting of Mr Warden”—that’s me—“we were certainly
-surprised last evening by his very masterly rendering of the part
-of Captain Cleveland. His byplay was remarkably clever; and his
-impassioned love-making in the third act, where timidity or hesitation
-would have been fatal to the piece, brought down the house, and earned
-him two well-merited recalls. We certainly consider that there is no
-more promising _jeune premier_ than Mr Warden now on the stage.” There,
-my pet, what do you think of that?’ asked the young actor as he put
-back the slip of paper into his pocket-book.
-
-But his pet vouchsafed no answer. Her face was turned from him; a tear
-fell from her eye. His arms were round her in a moment. ‘My darling
-child, what can be the matter?’ he asked.
-
-‘I—I wish you had never gone on the stage,’ said Elsie, with a sob in
-her voice. ‘I—I wish you were still a tea-broker!’
-
-‘Good gracious! what makes you wish anything so absurd?’
-
-‘It’s not absurd. Doesn’t the newspaper speak of your “impassioned
-love-making?” And then people—lovers, I mean—are always kissing each
-other on the stage.’
-
-‘Just as they do sometimes in real life;’ and with that he suited the
-action to the word.
-
-‘Don’t, Mr Summers, please.’ And she pushed him away, and her eyes
-flashed through her tears, and she looked very pretty.
-
-Mr Summers sat down on a chair and was unfeeling enough to laugh. ‘Why,
-what a little goose you are!’ he said.
-
-‘I don’t see it at all.’ This with a toss of her head. Certainly, it is
-not pleasant to be called a goose.
-
-‘You must know, if you come to think of it, that both love-making and
-kissing on the stage are only so much make-believe, however real they
-may seem to the audience. During the last six months, it has been
-my fate to have to make love to about a dozen different ladies; and
-during the next six months I shall probably have to do the same thing
-to as many more; but to imagine on that account that I really care
-for any of them, or that they really care for me, would be as absurd
-as to suppose that because in the piece we shall play to-morrow night
-I shall hunt Tom Bowles—who is the villain of the drama—through three
-long acts, and kill him in the fourth, he and I must necessarily hate
-each other. The fact is that Tom and I are the best of friends, and
-generally contrive to lodge together when on our travels.’
-
-Elsie was half convinced that she _had_ made a goose of herself, but of
-course was not prepared to admit it. ‘I see that Miss Wylie is acting
-in your company,’ she said. ‘I saw her in London about a year ago; she
-is very, very pretty.’
-
-‘Miss Wylie is a very charming woman.’
-
-‘And you make love to her?’
-
-‘Every night of my life—for a little while.’
-
-Elsie felt her unreasonable mood coming back. ‘Then why don’t you marry
-her?’ she asked with a ring of bitterness in her voice.
-
-Again that callous-hearted young man laughed. ‘Considering that she is
-married already, and the happy mother of two children, I can hardly see
-the feasibility of your suggestion.’
-
-‘Then why does she call herself “Miss Wylie?”’
-
-‘It’s a way they have in the profession. She goes by her maiden name.
-In reality, she is Mrs Berrington. Her husband travels with her. He
-plays “heavy fathers.”’
-
-Miss Brandon looked mystified. Her lover saw it.
-
-‘You see this suit of clothes,’ he said, ‘and this wig and these
-spectacles. They are part of the “make-up” of a certain character I
-played last week. I was the Count von Rosenthal, in love with the
-beautiful daughter of a poor music-master. In order to be able to make
-love to her, and win her for myself, and not for my title and riches,
-I go in the guise of a student, and take lodgings in the same house
-where she and her father are living. After many mishaps, all ends as
-it ought to do. Charlotte and I fall into each other’s arms, and her
-father blesses us both with tears in his eyes. Miss Wylie played the
-Professor’s daughter, and her husband played the father’s part, and
-very well he did it too.’
-
-‘Her husband allowed you to make love to his wife?’ said Miss Brandon,
-with wide-open eyes.
-
-‘Of course he did; and he was not so foolish as to be jealous, like
-some people. Why should he be?’
-
-Elsie was fully convinced by this time that she had made a goose of
-herself. ‘You may kiss me, Charley,’ she said with much sweetness.
-‘Dear boy, I forgive you.’
-
-Suddenly the sound of a footstep caused them to start and fly asunder.
-There, close to the open French-window, stood Captain Bowood, glaring
-from one to the other of them. Miss Brandon gave vent to a little
-shriek and fled from the room. The Captain came forward, a fine frenzy
-in his eye. ‘Who the deuce may you be, sir?’ he spluttered, although he
-had recognised Charley at the first glance.
-
-‘I have the honour to be your very affectionate and obedient nephew,
-sir.’
-
-The Captain’s reply to this was an inarticulate growl. Next moment,
-his eye fell on the discarded wig. ‘And what the dickens may this be,
-sir?’ he asked as he lifted up the article in question on the end of
-his cane.
-
-‘A trifle of property, sir, belonging to your affectionate and obedient
-nephew;’ and with that he took the wig off the end of the cane and
-crammed it into his pocket.
-
-‘So, so. This is the way, you young jackanapes, that you set my
-commands at defiance, and steal into my house after being forbidden
-ever to set foot in it again! You young snake-in-the-grass! You
-crocodile! It would serve you right to give you in charge to the
-police. How do I know that you are not after my spoons and forks? Come
-now.’
-
-‘I am glad to find, sir, that your powers of vituperation are in no
-way impaired since I had the pleasure of seeing you last. Time cannot
-wither them.—Hem! I believe, sir, that you have had the honour of
-twice paying my debts, amounting in the aggregate to the trifling sum
-of five hundred pounds. In this paper, sir, you will find twenty-five
-sovereigns, being my first dividend of one shilling in the pound. A
-further dividend will be paid at the earliest possible date.’ As Mr
-Summers spoke thus, he drew from his waistcoat pocket a small sealed
-packet and placed the same quietly on the table.
-
-The irate Captain glanced at the packet and then at his imperturbable
-nephew. The cane trembled in his fingers; for a moment or two he
-could not command his voice. ‘What, what!’ he cried at last. ‘The boy
-will drive me crazy. What does he mean with his confounded rigmarole?
-Dividend! Shilling in the pound! Bother me, if I can make head or tail
-of his foolery!’
-
-‘And yet, sir, both my words and my meaning were clear enough, as no
-doubt you will find when you come to think them over in your calmer
-moments.—And now I have the honour to wish you a very good-morning;
-and I hope to afford you the pleasure of seeing me again before long.’
-Speaking thus, Charles Summers made his uncle a very low bow, took up
-his hat, and walked out of the room.
-
-‘There’s insolence! There’s audacity!’ burst out the Captain as soon as
-he found himself alone. ‘The pleasure of seeing him again—eh? Only let
-me find him here without my leave—I’ll—I’ll—— I don’t know what I won’t
-do!—And now I come to think of it, it looks very much as if he and Miss
-Saucebox were making love to each other. How dare they? I’ll haul ’em
-both up before the Vice-chancellor.’ Here his eye fell on the packet on
-the table. He took it up and examined it. ‘Twenty-five sovereigns, did
-he say? As if I was going to take the young idiot’s money! I’ll keep
-it for the present, and send it back to him by-and-by. Must teach him
-a lesson. Do him all the good in the world. False hair and spectacles,
-eh? Deceived his old uncle finely. Just the sort of trick I should
-have delighted in when I was a boy. But Master Charley will be clever
-if he catches the old fox asleep a second time.’ He had reached the
-French-window on his way out, when he came to a sudden stand, and gave
-vent to a low whistle. ‘Ha, ha! Lady Dimsdale and Mr Boyd, and mighty
-taken up with each other they seem. Well, well. I’m no spoil-sport.
-I’ll not let them know I’ve seen them. Looks uncommonly as if Dan Cupid
-had got them by the ears. A widow too! All widows ought to be labelled
-“Dangerous.”’ Smiling and chuckling to himself, the Captain drew back,
-crossed the room, and went out by the opposite door.
-
-
-
-
-THE COLOUR-SENSE.
-
-
-The phenomenon of Colour is one with which all who are not blind must
-of necessity be familiar. So accustomed, indeed, have we been to it
-throughout all our lives, that most of us are inclined to take it for
-granted, and probably trouble ourselves very seldom as to its true
-cause. A brief discussion, therefore, of the nature of the Colour-sense
-may, we trust, prove not uninteresting to our readers.
-
-What, then, is colour? It is obvious that it may be considered in two
-ways; we may either discuss the impression it makes on the mind, or the
-real external causes to which it is due. Viewed in the first light,
-colour is as much a sensation as is that of being struck or burnt.
-Viewed from the latter stand-point, it is merely a property of light;
-hence, in order correctly to understand its nature, we must first
-briefly examine the nature of this phenomenon.
-
-According to modern scientific men, light is not a material substance,
-but consists of a kind of motion or vibration communicated by the
-luminous body to the surrounding medium, and travelling throughout
-space with an enormous velocity. The medium, however, through which
-light-waves travel is not air, nor any of the ordinary forms of matter.
-Of its real nature nothing is known, and its very existence is only
-assumed in order to account for the observed phenomena. It must be very
-subtle and very elastic; but it is a curious fact that the nature of
-the vibrations in question would seem to preclude the supposition that
-it is a fluid, these being rather such as would be met with in the case
-of a solid. To this medium, whatever its true nature may be, the name
-of _ether_ is given.
-
-The sensation, then, which we know by the name of Light is to be
-regarded as the effect on the retina of the eye of certain very rapid
-vibrations in the _ether_ of the universe. All these waves travel
-with the same swiftness; but they are not all of the same length,
-nor of the same frequency; and investigation has shown that it is to
-this difference of wave-length that difference of colour is due. In
-other words, the impression to which we give the name of a certain
-colour is due to the effect on the retina of vibrations of a certain
-frequency. This conclusion is arrived at by a very simple experiment,
-in which advantage is taken of the following principle. So long as a
-ray of light is passing through the same medium, it travels in one
-straight line; but in passing obliquely from one medium into another of
-different density, its path is bent through a certain angle, just as
-a column of soldiers has a tendency to change its direction of march
-when obliquely entering a wood or other difficult ground. Now, this
-angle is naturally greatest in the case of the shortest waves, so that
-when a ray of light is thus bent out of its course—or, as it is called,
-‘refracted’—the various sets of vibrations of which it is composed all
-travel in different directions, and may be separately examined. In fact
-the ray of light is analysed, or broken up into its component parts.
-The most convenient apparatus to employ for this purpose is a prism
-of glass. It is found, as is well known, that if a beam of ordinary
-sun-light be allowed to pass through the prism and be then received on
-a screen, it is resolved into a band of colours succeeding one another
-in the order of those of the rainbow. Such a band of colours is called
-a ‘spectrum.’
-
-Now, of the visible portion of the spectrum the red rays are those
-which undergo the least refraction, while the violet rays are bent
-through the greatest angle, the other colours in their natural order
-being intermediate. From what has been said above, it is evident that,
-this being the case, the portion of the light consisting of waves of
-greatest length and least frequency is that which produces on the eye
-the sensation of red, and that each of the other colours is caused
-by vibrations of a certain definite length. We are speaking now of
-the visible part of the spectrum. As a matter of fact, the waves of
-least and greatest frequency make no impression on the eye at all;
-but the former have the greatest heating power, while the latter are
-those which chiefly produce chemical effects such as are utilised in
-photography.
-
-Having now arrived at the nature of colour, we are in a position to
-apply these facts to the discussion of coloured substances.
-
-When light falls on a body, a portion of it is turned back or, as it
-is called, ‘reflected’ from the surface; another part is taken up or
-‘absorbed’ by the substance; while, in the case of a transparent body,
-a third portion passes on through it, and is said to be ‘transmitted.’
-Most bodies absorb the different parts of the light in different
-proportions, and hence their various colours are produced. The colour
-of a transparent substance is that of the light which it transmits;
-while an opaque body is said to be of the colour of the light which it
-reflects, or rather of that part of it which is irregularly scattered.
-
-There are three colours in the solar spectrum which are called
-‘primary,’ owing to the fact that they cannot be produced by mixtures.
-These are red, violet, and deep olive green. The generally-received
-idea that red, blue, and yellow are primary colours, is by recent
-scientific authorities not regarded as tenable; it arose from
-observations on mixtures of pigments rather than of coloured light. For
-instance, objects seen through two plates of glass, one of which is
-blue and the other yellow, appear green; but this by no means justifies
-us in saying that a mixture of blue and yellow light is green. For
-remembering that the two glasses do not appear coloured by reason of
-their adding anything to the light, but rather through their stopping
-the passage of certain rays, we shall see that the green light which
-is finally transmitted is not a mixture of yellow and blue at all, but
-is rather that portion of the light which both of the glasses allow to
-pass. The blue glass will probably stop all rays except blue, violet,
-and green; the yellow glass, all but green, yellow, and orange. The
-only light, therefore, which can pass through both glasses is green.
-The same remark applies to mixtures of pigments, each particle being
-really transparent, though the whole bulk appears opaque. It is easy,
-however, to obtain real mixtures of coloured lights by employing
-suitable arrangements, of which one of the simplest consists of a disc
-painted with alternate bands of colours and rapidly rotated. By such
-means it is found that a mixture of blue and yellow is not green, but
-white or gray, and that yellow can itself be produced by a mixture of
-red and green in proper proportions. The late Professor Clerk Maxwell
-made an interesting series of experiments on colour mixtures by means
-of an apparatus known as Maxwell’s Colour-box, by which any number of
-colours could be combined in any required proportions.
-
-It would, however, be beyond the scope of the present paper to discuss
-the many important results which followed from his investigations.
-Helmholtz believed the three primary colour sensations to be due to
-the action of three sets of nerves at the back of the retina, each
-of which is excited only by vibrations within a certain range of
-frequency; and this theory is now generally held. In the case of some
-persons, the sensation corresponding to red is wholly absent, and the
-spectrum appears to consist of two colours with white or gray between.
-The nature of these colours is, for obvious reasons, difficult to
-determine; but one doubtless nearly corresponds to our sensation of
-blue, while the other is a deep colour, probably dark green. Persons
-thus affected are usually called ‘colour-blind;’ but this epithet is
-a misnomer, and the term ‘dichroic vision’ has been suggested for the
-phenomenon instead.
-
-We have already remarked that our range of vision is comparatively
-narrow, the extreme portions of the spectrum making no impression on
-the retina. But we have no reason to think that these limits have been
-the same in all ages. The evidence would rather tend to show that the
-human eye is undergoing a slow and gradual development, which enables
-it to distinguish between colours which the ancients regarded as
-identical, and may in future render it able to perceive some portions
-at least of the parts of the spectrum which are now invisible. The
-Vedas of India, which are among the most ancient writings known,
-attest that in the most remote ages only white and black could be
-distinguished.
-
-It would seem as if the perception of different degrees of intensity
-of light preceded by a long time the appreciation of various kinds of
-colours. After weighing the evidence, Magnus has come to the conclusion
-that red was the first colour to become visible, then yellow and
-orange; and afterwards, though at a considerable interval, green, blue,
-and violet in order. Various passages in the Old Testament have been
-cited as proof that the ancients failed to perceive all the colours
-seen by us, one of the most remarkable being in Ezekiel i. 27 and 28,
-where the prophet compares the appearance of the brightness round
-about the fire to that of the ‘bow that is in the cloud in the day of
-rain’—which passage has been cited by Mr Gladstone in his article in
-the _Nineteenth Century_ for October 1877, as indicating a want of
-appreciation of distinct colours among the ancients. This is not quite
-clear, however, as the appearance round about the supernatural fire
-might have assumed auroral or rainbow tints. But the most important
-evidence on the apparent want of capacity among the ancients to
-discriminate between colours is that afforded by the writings of
-Homer, who, in the opinion of Magnus, could neither have perceived
-green nor blue. The point has been carefully examined by Mr Gladstone,
-who comes to the conclusion that this estimate is quite within the
-mark. Inquiring in detail into each of Homer’s colour-epithets, he
-shows that almost all must be in reality regarded as expressing degrees
-of intensity rather than of quality, and that the few exceptions
-are all confined to red and yellow. The brilliant blue sky of the
-southern climes where Homer lived must have appeared to him as of a
-neutral gray hue. Of course, the suggestion that the writings usually
-assigned to Homer were in reality the productions of many authors,
-does not invalidate the reasoning at all, as we do not attribute any
-defect in vision to the poet which was not equally manifested by his
-contemporaries.
-
-It is curious that the distinction between green and blue is not yet
-perfectly developed in all nations. Travellers tell us that the Burmese
-often confuse these colours in a remarkable manner. This and other
-facts suggest that the development of the colour-sense is not yet
-completed; and that in the future our range of perception may be still
-further enlarged, so that the now invisible rays may be recognised by
-the eye as distinct colours.
-
-
-
-
-‘SO UNREASONABLE OF STEP-MOTHER!’
-
-A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
-
-
-Not long before the death of George Eliot, on a return trip to London
-by the Midland route, I broke my journey at Leicester, to pay a flying
-visit to Coventry, where the great writer had spent many of her
-happiest days. There I was privileged by having for escort one of her
-most valued friends; and many interesting reminiscences were for our
-benefit called to mind, especially of a visit paid to Edinburgh, ‘mine
-own romantic town,’ and of the impression the beauty of its situation
-had made on her mind. Next morning, every favourite haunt of hers was
-searched out and commented on, as well as the interesting points of the
-quaint old city of Coventry; and bidding good-bye to our hospitable
-friends, I departed alone by the evening mail for Leicester, there to
-wait for the midnight train to Edinburgh, feeling satisfied that the
-hours had been well spent. Arrived in Leicester, I was fortunate in
-finding a fellow-countryman in one of the porters, who at once took
-me and my belongings under his especial protection, and when he had
-seen me comfortably ‘happit up’ on one of the sofas of the luxurious
-waiting-room, he retired, bidding me take a quiet forty winks, and keep
-my mind quite easy, for he would give me timely notice of the arrival
-of the Scotch train. Scarcely had I begun to feel the loneliness of my
-situation, when the door opened, and a female figure entered, rather
-unwilling, apparently; nay, seemed to be pushed in, while a deep male
-voice advised that she should rest by the fire, and not put herself
-about so. By a succession of jerks, she advanced to the chair by the
-fire opposite to my sofa; and finding that I was not asleep, as
-she had supposed, at once, and without any circumlocution, began to
-unburden her mind, her words flowing from her mouth at express speed,
-regardless of comma or full stop.
-
-‘Not put myself about! Humph! That’s so like men.—Ain’t it now, miss?
-Ah, I dessay you’ve ’ad your own share of worriting before now, and
-know ’ow downright masterful and provoking they can be at times. I tell
-you _w’at_, miss, if you want to be at peace at all, you’ve got to
-say black is w’ite, if they ’ave a mind that it should be so.—Not put
-myself about! I’d like to know ’ow one with a ’eart and a soul in their
-body could ’elp being put about, as I am.’
-
-I ventured to hope nothing serious had occurred to disturb her
-composure or to put her about, my voice at once disclosing that I
-hailed from the North, and also that I was of a sympathetic nature.
-
-‘Put about!’ she once more exclaimed. ‘Why, I _am_ put about; yes—no
-use trying to appear as if I was anything else. Yes; only think, miss!
-Not ’alf an hour gone, a telegram was brought to our ’ouse by the
-telegraph-boy. His mother, a widow, keeps a little bit of a shop not
-many doors from our own. Yes; he ’ands it in saying it was for father.
-I opened it; and there, staring me right in the eyes were them words:
-“_Step-mother is lying a-dying._”—Not put about! I’d just like to
-know ’ow anybody could ’ave been anything else than put about, after
-_that_. Now, miss, you must understand that John—that’s my ’usband—is
-a great go-to-meeting-man. Why, at that very moment he might be at
-the church meeting, or he might ’ave been at the Building meeting, or
-he might ’ave been at a Masonic meeting, or he might ’ave been at any
-other meeting under the sun. And w’atever was I to do? for there was
-the telegraph-boy; there was the telegram, with the words as plain as
-plain: “Step-mother is lying a-dying.” I put on my bonnet and shawl;
-I ’urried to father’s office—he is a master-builder, is father, with
-sixteen men under him and three apprentices; and John, my son, for
-partner. I rushed in quite out of breath, not expecting to find any one
-there at that time of night; but there I found John—that’s my son—and
-says I, without taking time to sit down, though I was like to drop:
-“John, w’atever is to be done! Here’s a telegraph-boy has brought a
-telegram for father to say, ‘step-mother is a-dying.’”
-
-‘Now, miss, I just put it to you, if them telegrams, coming so sudden
-at hours w’en no one expects postmen’s knocks, and bringing such news
-as that, ain’t enough to put any one about! Augh! Men are so queer;
-there’s no nerves in their bodies, and can’t understand us women. I’ve
-no patience with them. There was John—that’s my son—w’at did he do?
-Why, look at me quite composed, as if it weren’t no news at all, and
-says he: “Don’t put yourself about, mother. Father has gone off not
-many minutes ago to the paddock, to give little Bobbie a ride.” And
-with that he takes down a time-table, to look at it for the last train,
-puts on his hat, calls for a cab, and says quite composed: “Jump in,
-mother. We’ll go in pursuit of father, and then we’ll catch the train
-quite easily.” It seemed to me the horse just crept up the ’ill like
-a snail; only John would ’ave it they were going faster than their
-usual pace. W’en we came to our door, w’at do you think we saw, now,
-miss?—No; you’ll never guess, I dessay. Why, _father_, to be sure! Yes;
-there he was; and there was the pony; and there was little Bobbie—all
-three of ’em just about to start for a long ride into the country. I
-’ad carried the telegram in my pocket; and do you know, miss, after
-all my flurry and worry, w’at did John—that’s my ’usband—say, think
-you?—Augh! Men are so unreasonable, and w’at’s more, such cool and
-’eartless pieces. Yes; that’s w’at _they_ are; and I don’t care who
-hears me a-saying it.
-
-‘John—that’s father—after he had read the telegram, he turns to me,
-and says he: “Why, mother, ’ave your senses left your ’ead altogether?
-W’atever made you carry off the telegram! Couldn’t you ’ave stayed
-quietly at ’ome, instead of putting yourself about in this here
-fashion? If you ’ad, we’d ’ave been at the station without any hurry at
-all, by this time.”
-
-‘I felt too angry to speak, I do declare, miss. I think the older
-men grow, the more aggravating they get to a sensitive nature. So I
-gathered the things together father said we’d better take with us,
-into my travelling-basket, without as much as a single word—a stranger
-coming in would ’ave thought me dumb—while father sent a man back to
-the paddock with little Bobbie and the pony. We then got into the cab
-once more; and here we are, with John—that’s my son—a-looking after the
-tickets and the luggage; and father smoking his pipe outside as cool
-as cool. O dear, if they wouldn’t put me out with their “Keep cool,
-mother; no need to fluster and flurry so, mother”—“Take it easy, good
-ooman; don’t put yourself about”—I’d bear it better, I certainly should.
-
-‘Is step-mother nice? you ask. Oh—well—that’s just as you take it. Some
-people say she’s nice; some say she’s quite the opposite. But’—and
-here she drew her chair closer to me, and in a more confidential
-tone, continued: ‘I tell you _w’at_, miss—I’ve said it before, and
-I say it again—step-mother, in spite of her religious pro-fession
-and san’timonious ways, is cantankerous. No use a-trying to hide
-it—step-mother is just w’at I say, _can-tankerous_. I’ve said it
-before; I say it again—she’d show her cantankerousness to the very
-last. And han’t my words come true, for here she is lying a-dying, and
-Mary-Anne’s wedding fixed for Friday of this very week!—O my—now that
-I come to ’ave a quiet moment to think, w’atever am I to do? It’s so
-unreasonable of step-mother! Why, the dressmaker was coming this very
-evening to fit my dress on for the second time—a new black silk it
-is—and w’atever will _she_ think, w’en she finds I’ve gone off without
-as much as a good-bye message? You see, miss, Mary-Anne is going to
-marry into quite a genteel family. Father, and John—that’s my son—he
-comes to me not many weeks gone, and says he: “Mother, I ’ope you are
-going to ’ave a nice dress for this wedding. I ’ope it will be a silk
-or a satin you decide to buy.” And says I: “John, you know w’at father
-is, and ’as been all his life—a just man to all; but a man who looks
-upon gay clothes as not necessary. And then, John, you know as well
-as I do that father is rather close-fisted w’en money has to be paid
-out—like his own father before him, who was looked upon by all as the
-most parsimonious man in the town. I don’t say father is quite as bad;
-but close-fisted I _do_ say he is, John; and you know it. Were I to
-say: ‘Father, I’d like to ’ave a silk dress for this wedding’—and I
-don’t hide the fact from _you_, John, that I certainly should—he’d just
-laugh. I know it beforehand. He’d say: ‘Why, mother, ’aven’t you been
-content with a good stuff-dress all our married life, and can’t you go
-on to the end so? I’ve over and over again said my wife looked as well
-as most women in the town of Leicester.’”
-
-‘“But,” says John—that’s my son—“mother, you owe your duty certainly
-to father. I’m not going against it; but w’at I says is: You owe your
-duty to your son also; and w’en I wish _my_ mother to look better than
-she’s ever done before, why—to oblige me—you’ll go and purchase the
-best silk-dress in town, ’ave it made fashionable, with frills and all
-the fal-de-rals and etceteras; send in the account in my name; and if
-father makes any objections, why, let him settle the matter with _me_.”
-
-‘You see, miss, John is getting to be so like father—both _firm_, very;
-and if they take a notion of any kind w’atever into their ’eads, you’d
-move this station as soon as move them from their purpose; so the dress
-’as been bought; and w’at father will say to it—for it’s to be made in
-the height of the fashion—_I_ can’t say.’
-
-A few judicious questions about the step-mother who was lying a-dying,
-drew from my companion that the said old lady was rich as well as
-cantankerous; and that, as there were other relations who might step in
-to the injury of the worthy builder, who was her only stepson, it was,
-to say the least, but prudent to be on the spot.
-
-‘Ah, yes, miss,’ she exclaimed, stretching her hands out to keep the
-heat of the fire from her face, ‘this is a very strange world. Only
-on Sunday, the vicar was preaching to us against worldly-mindedness,
-telling us that as we came naked into the world, so we left it,
-carrying nothing away. But, miss, step-mother ain’t like the most of
-people; and she’s going to manage to take with her as much money as she
-possibly can.—How is she going to do it? Why, miss—she’s going to ’ave
-a coffin!—No need to look surprised, miss. O yes; we all bury our dead
-in coffins; but w’at kind of a coffin is step-mother going to ’ave, do
-you think? No; don’t try to guess, for you’d be down to Scotland and up
-again before it would ever come into your ’ead.—No; not a velvet one,
-nor a satin; but a _hoak_ one.—Yes; I thought you would get a scare. A
-_hoak_ coffin is w’at it is to be. And she’s going to ’ave bearers—six
-of ’em. Each bearer is to ’ave ’at-bands and scarfs, and two pounds
-apiece. And if all that pomp and tomfoolery ain’t taking so much money
-out of the world with her, I don’t know w’at _is_. W’en John—that’s
-father—heard of it, says he to me: “Mother, if you survives me, bury me
-plain, but comf’able;” and says I: “Father, if you survives me, I ’ope
-you will do the same by me—plain, but comf’able; for I tell you w’at,
-father, I’d not lie easy underground thinking of the waste of good
-money over such ’umbug.”’
-
-Here the waiting-room door opened hurriedly, and the worthy woman
-bounded to her feet at the one word ‘Mother!’ pronounced in such a
-decided tone that I too was standing beside her before I knew what I
-was doing, with all my wraps tossed higgledy-piggledy on the floor.
-Advancing with her to the door, she got out of me that my immediate
-destination was Scotland—a place, to her mind, evidently as remote as
-the arctic regions; and in her astonishment, she forgot the necessity
-there was to hurry to get in to her train, now ready to start again.
-She even seemed to forget that step-mother was lying a-dying, as she
-insisted upon introducing me to her husband, whose huge body was
-wrapped in a greatcoat, with tippet after tippet on it up to his neck.
-‘Only to think, John—this lady is going to Scotland all alone, John!
-She’ll be travelling all night.—O dear, however are you to do it, miss;
-ain’t you afraid?—Yes, John; I’m coming.—Good-bye, miss; we’ve ’ad
-quite a pleasant chat, I do assure you; the time seems to ’ave flown.’
-
-I hurried her along the platform, whispering to her as I did so: ‘I
-hope step-mother will rally a bit; that if she must pass away, it may
-be next week, so that Mary-Anne may get her wedding comfortably over.’
-At the very door of the carriage she paused, seized my hand, shook it
-warmly, as she exclaimed: ‘Well, now, you ’ave a feeling ’eart; but I
-don’t expect her to be so accommodating. No; I’ve said it before, and I
-say it again—step-mother is—_can-ta_—— Why, w’atever is the matter?’
-
-Next thing that happened, the little woman was lifted up bodily in her
-son’s arms—a counterpart of his father—and deposited in the carriage;
-while her husband, in spite of his lumbering large body, succeeded
-in jumping in just as the patience of all the railway officials was
-exhausted, and the signal given to start the train. Before it was
-lost to view, a white handkerchief fluttered out, by way of good-bye,
-causing a smile to rise over the calm features of John the younger,
-who, lifting his hat politely to me, bade me good-evening, adding:
-‘Mother is no great traveller, so she is easily put about. Dessay if
-she went often from ’ome, she’d learn to be more composed.’
-
-From that hour I have never ceased to regret that I did not ask the
-good-natured young builder to forward me a local paper with the account
-of the death and burial of ‘step-mother.’ No doubt there would be due
-notice taken of such an interesting personage, as she lay in state in
-her ‘hoak’ coffin, surrounded by her bearers in the flowing scarfs and
-hat-bands. Sharp as my friends generally give me credit for being, I
-own I committed a grievous blunder; I am therefore obliged to leave
-my story without an end, not being able even to add that the fair
-Mary-Anne’s wedding came off on the appointed day, or was postponed
-till after the complimentary days of mourning were past. I cheer
-myself with the thought that ‘John—that’s father’—being a firm man
-and a sensible, would insist upon the previous arrangements standing
-good, seeing that the bridegroom—a most important fact I have omitted
-to record—had a fortnight’s holiday reluctantly granted to him by
-his employers. Why, now that I think of it, my countryman the railway
-porter would have sent me any number of papers, judging by the kindly
-interest he took in my behalf, and the determined manner he fought
-for a particular seat for me in a particular carriage when the time
-came for my train to start. ‘Na, na, mem; nae need for thanks; blood’s
-thicker than water,’ he said. ‘Never you fear, now that the Scotch
-guard has ta’en up your cause; you’re a’ right; he’ll see that ye’re
-safely housed.’ And safely housed I was, and went steaming out of the
-station with my worthy friend hanging on by the door, calling to me:
-‘If you’re ever in the town o’ Perth, mem, my auld mother would be
-downright pleased to see you, for my sake. Tell her I’m getting on as
-weel as can be expeckit, sae far frae hame.’
-
-All night, my disturbed sleep was made doubly so by dreams of old
-women of every age and style. Now I was hunting for the porter’s
-nameless mother; now I was standing by the bedside of the step-mother
-who was lying a-dying. Again I was an active assistant at a marriage
-ceremony, with the fair Mary-Anne, surrounded by her genteel relations,
-leaning on my shoulder, weeping copiously at the idea of travelling to
-Scotland. Once more I stood gazing down on the old step-mother; and
-just as the day dawned, I was fairly roused, in my determination not to
-be smothered under an oak coffin and a pyramid of scarfs, hat-bands,
-and bearers, by the tumbling of my own bonnet-box from the luggage-rack
-above me.
-
-
-
-
-FRENCH DETECTIVES.
-
-
-‘The Secret Police’ in France are not only personally unknown to the
-general public, but, save in exceptional cases, even to each other.
-It is known where they may be found at a moment’s notice when wanted;
-but, as a rule, they do not frequent the prefecture more than can be
-helped. They have nothing whatever to do with serving summonses or
-executing warrants. There are among them men who have lived in almost
-every class of life, and each of them has what may be called a special
-line of business of his own. In the course of their duty, some of them
-mix with the receivers of stolen goods, others with thieves, many
-with what are called in Paris commercial rascals, and not a few with
-those whose ‘industry’ it is to melt silver and other property of a
-like valuable nature. Forgers, sharpers of all kinds, housebreakers
-and horse-stealers—a very numerous class in Paris—have each all their
-special agents of the police, who watch them, and know where to lay
-hands upon them when they are wanted. A French detective who cannot
-assume and act up to any character, and who cannot disguise himself
-in any manner so effectually as not to be recognised even by those
-who know him best, is not considered fit to hold his appointment.
-Their ability in this way is marvellous. Some years ago, one of them
-made a bet that he would in the course of the next few days address
-a gentleman with whom he was acquainted four times, for at least ten
-minutes each time, and that he should not know him on any occasion
-until the detective had discovered himself. As a matter of course,
-the gentleman was on his guard, and mistrusted every one who came
-near him. But the man won his bet. It is needless to enter into the
-particulars. Suffice it to say that in the course of the next four days
-he presented himself in the character of a bootmaker’s assistant, a
-fiacre-driver, a venerable old gentleman with a great interest in the
-Bourse, and finally as a waiter in the hotel in which the gentleman was
-staying.
-
-
-
-
-‘NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.’
-
-
-    My little child, with clustering hair,
-      Strewn o’er thy dear, dead brow,
-    Though in the past divinely fair,
-      More lovely art thou now.
-    God bade thy gentle soul depart,
-      On brightly shimmering wings;
-    Yet near thy clay, thy mother’s heart
-      All weakly, fondly clings.
-
-    My beauteous child, with lids of snow
-      Closed o’er thy dim blue eyes,
-    Should it not soothe my grief to know
-      They shine beyond the skies?
-    Above thy silent cot I kneel,
-      With heart all crushed and sore,
-    While through the gloom these sweet words steal:
-      ‘Not lost, but gone before.’
-
-    My darling child, these flowers I lay
-      On locks too fair, too bright,
-    For the damp grave-mist, cold and gray,
-      To dim their sunny light.
-    Soft baby tresses bathed in tears,
-      Your gold was all mine own!
-    Ah, weary months! ah, weary years!
-      That I must dwell alone.
-
-    My only child, I hold thee still,
-      Clasped in my fond embrace!
-    My love, my sweet! how fixed, how chill,
-      This smile upon thy face!
-    The grave is cold, my clasp is warm,
-      Yet give thee up I must;
-    And birds will sing when thy loved form
-      Lies mouldering in the dust.
-
-    My angel child, thy tiny feet
-      Dance through my broken dreams;
-    Ah me, how joyous, quaint, and sweet,
-      Their baby pattering seems!
-    I hush my breath, to hear thee speak;
-      I see thy red lips part;
-    But wake to feel thy cold, cold cheek,
-      Close to my breaking heart!
-
-    Soon, soon my burning tears shall fall
-      Upon thy coffin lid;
-    Nor may those tears thy soul recall
-      To earth—nay, God forbid!
-    Be happy in His love, for I
-      Resigned, though wounded sore,
-    Can hear His angels whispering nigh:
-      ‘Not lost, but gone before.’
-
-            FANNY FORRESTER.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
-and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-_All Rights Reserved._
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-[Transcriber’s note: The following changes have been made to this text.
-
-Page 47: wa’t to w’at—“know w’at _is_.”]
-
-*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR
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-1884 ***
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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 64571 ***
+
+[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. 3.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]
+
+
+
+
+GIRLS, WIVES, AND MOTHERS.
+
+A WORD TO THE MIDDLE CLASSES.
+
+
+There may be theoretically much to sympathise with in the cry for the
+yet higher culture of the women of our middle classes, but at the
+same time not a little to find fault with in practice. While it is
+difficult to believe that there can be such a thing as over-education
+of the human subject, male or female, there may yet be false lines
+of training, which lead to a dainty misplaced refinement, quite
+incompatible with the social position the woman may be called to fill
+in after-life, and which too often presupposes, what even education has
+a difficulty in supplying—a subsistence in life. Where we equip, we too
+frequently impede. In the hurry to be intelligent and accomplished, the
+glitter of drawing-room graces is an object of greater desire than the
+more homely but not less estimable virtues identified with the kitchen.
+Our young housewives are imbued with far too much of the æsthete at the
+expense of the cook; too much of the stage, and too little of the home.
+In abandoning the equally mistaken views of our grandfathers on women’s
+up-bringing, we have gone to the opposite extreme, to the exclusion of
+anything like a means to an end; and in the blindest disregard of the
+recipients’ circumstances in life, present and prospective.
+
+In considering what the aim of female education ought to be, it is
+surely not too much to expect that of all things it should mentally
+and physically fit our women for the battle of life. Its application
+and utility should not have to end where they practically do at
+present—at the altar. While it is necessary to provide a common armour
+for purposes of general defence, there certainly ought to be a special
+strengthening of the harness where most blows are to be anticipated;
+and if not to all, certainly to middle-class women, the years of battle
+come _after_, not before marriage. Every one of them, then, ought to
+be trained in conformity with the supreme law of her being, to prove
+a real helpmate to the man that takes her to wife. Make sure that she
+is first of all thoroughly qualified for a mother’s part, in what may
+be called a working sphere of life; then add whatever graces may be
+desirable as a sweetening, according to taste, means, and opportunity.
+It is in this happy blending of abstract knowledge with the economy of
+a home, that true success in the education of middle-class women must
+be sought.
+
+In the training of our boys, utility in after-life is seldom lost
+sight of. Why should it be too often the reverse in the education of
+our girls, whose great vocation in life, as wives and mothers, is a
+birthright they cannot renounce, which no lord of creation can deprive
+them of, and which no sticklers for what they are pleased to call the
+rights of women can logically disown? No doubt, among the last-named
+there are extreme people, who cannot, from the very nature of their
+own individual circumstances, see anything in wifely cares save the
+shackles of an old-world civilisation. In their eyes, motherhood is a
+tax upon pleasure, and an abasement of the sex. With them, there need
+be no parley. There is no pursuit under the sun that a woman will not
+freely forsake—often at a sacrifice—for the wifely cares that supervene
+on marriage; and therein, few will deny, lies her great and natural
+sphere in life. Than it, there is no nobler. In it, she can encounter
+no rival; and any attempt to divest herself of nature’s charge can
+have but one ending. The blandishments of a cold æstheticism can never
+soothe, animate, and brighten the human soul, like the warm, suffusive
+joys which cluster round the married state.
+
+Here we may briefly digress to remark, that in our opinion, no valid
+objections can be urged against women entering professional life,
+_provided they stick to it_. They already teach, and that is neither
+the lightest nor least important of masculine pursuits. Why should they
+not prescribe for body and soul? why not turn their proverbial gifts
+of speech to a golden account at the bar? It would be in quitting any
+of these professions, and taking up the _rôle_ of wife and mother,
+which they would have to learn at the expense of their own and others’
+happiness, that the real mischief of the liberty would lie. In nine
+cases out of ten, their failure in the second choice would be assured,
+thereby poisoning all social well-being at its very source.
+
+The woman not over- but mis-educated is becoming an alarmingly fruitful
+cause of the downward tendencies of much of our middle-class society.
+She herself is less to blame for this, than the short-sighted, though
+possibly well-meant policy of her parents and guardians, who, in the
+worst spirit of the age, veneer their own flesh and blood, as they do
+their furniture, for appearance’ sake. Let us glance at the educational
+equipment they provide their girls with, always premising that our
+remarks are to be held as strictly applicable only to the middle ranks
+of our complex society.
+
+Our typical young woman receives a large amount of miscellaneous
+education, extending far through her teens, and amounting to a very
+fair mastery of the _R_s. If she limp in any of these, it will be
+in the admittedly vexatious processes of arithmetic. She will have
+a pretty ready command of the grammatical and idiomatic uses of her
+mother-tongue; a fairly firm hold of the geography of this planet, and
+an intelligent conception of the extra-terrestrial system. She will
+have plodded through piles of French and German courses, learning many
+things from them but the language. She will have a fair if not profound
+knowledge of history. She can, in all likelihood, draw a little, and
+even paint; but of all her accomplishments, what she must imperatively
+excel in is music. From tender years, she will have diligently laboured
+at all the musical profundities; and her chances in the matrimonial
+market of the future are probably regarded as being in proportion to
+her proficient manipulation of the keyboard. If she can sing, well and
+good; play on the piano she must. If, as a girl, she has no taste for
+instrumental music, and no ear to guide her flights in harmony, the
+more reason why she should, with the perseverance of despair, thump
+away on the irresponsive ivories, in defiance of every instinct in her
+being. The result at twenty _may_ be something tangible in some cases,
+but extremely unsatisfactory at the price.
+
+During all these years, she has been systematically kept ignorant of
+almost every domestic care. Of the commonplaces of cookery she has
+not the remotest idea. A great educationist, whose statement we have
+good reason to indorse, asserts that there are thousands of our young
+housewives that do not know how to cook a potato. This may seem satire.
+It is, we fear, in too many cases, true, and we quote it with a view to
+correct rather than chastise.
+
+The misapplications of young miss’s upbringing do not end here. She
+cannot sew to any purpose. If she deign to use a needle at all, it
+is to embroider a smoking-cap for a lover or a pair of slippers for
+papa. To sew on a button, or cut out and unite the plainest piece of
+male or female clothing, is not always within her powers, or at least
+her inclinations. Prosaic vulgar work, fit only for dressmakers and
+milliners! She will spend weeks and months over eighteen inches of
+what she is pleased to call lace, while the neighbouring seamstress is
+making up all her underclothing, to pay for which, papa has not too
+much money; but then it is genteel.
+
+She cannot knit. A pair of worsted cuffs or a lanky cravat is something
+great to attain to; while a stocking, even were the charwomen less
+easily paid, is sure to come off the needles right-lined as any of
+Euclid’s parallelograms—all leg and no ankle—a suspicion of foot, but
+never a vestige of heel. To darn the hole that so soon appears in the
+loosely knitted fabric, would be a servile, reproachful task, quite
+staggering to the sentimental aspirations of our engaged Angelina.
+Yet darning and the divine art of mending will one day be to her a
+veritable philosopher’s stone, whose magic influences will shed beams
+of happiness over her household, and fortunate will she be if she have
+not to seek it with tears.
+
+By the sick-bed, where she ought to be supreme, she is often worse
+than useless. The pillows that harden on the couch of convalescence,
+too rarely know her softening touch. She may be all kindness and
+attention—for the natural currents of her being are full to repletion
+of sweetness and sympathy—yet as incapable of really skilled service
+as an artist’s lay-figure. And, as a last touch to the sorry picture,
+instead of being in any way a source of comfort to the bread-winners of
+her family, or a lessening of the strain on their purse-strings, she is
+a continual cause of extra work to servants, of anxiety to her parents,
+of _ennui_ to herself.
+
+Apparently, the chief mission of the young lady to whom we
+address ourselves, is to entice some eligible young man into the
+responsibilities of wedlock. He, poor fellow, succumbs not so much
+to intrinsic merits, as to fine lady-like airs. He sees the polish
+on the surface, and takes for granted that there is good solid wear
+underneath. Our young miss has conquered, and quits the family
+roof-tree, sweetly conscious of her orange wreath of victory; but
+alas!—we are sorry to say it—do not her conquests too often end at
+the altar, unless she resolutely set herself to learn the exacting
+mysteries of her new sphere, and, what is far more difficult, to
+unlearn much that she has acquired? That she often does at this stage
+make a bold and firm departure from the toyish fancies of her training,
+and makes, from the sheer plasticity and devotion of her character,
+wonderful strides in the housewife’s craft, we cheerfully confess. Were
+it otherwise, the domestic framework of society would be in a far more
+disorganised condition than it happily is. But why handicap her for the
+most important, most arduous portion of her race in life? Why train her
+to be the vapid fine lady, with almost the certainty that, by so doing,
+you are taking the surest means of rendering her an insufficient wife
+and mother? And, unfortunately, not always, in fact but seldom, is she
+able, when she crosses her husband’s threshold, to tear herself away
+from her omnivorous novel-reading, piano-playing, and all the other
+alleviations of confirmed idleness.
+
+The sweets of the honeymoon and an undefined vacation beyond make no
+great calls on her as a helpmate and wife. If her husband’s means
+permit of a servant or two, the smoother the water and the plainer
+the sailing for the nonce; although these keen-scented critics in
+the kitchen will, in a very short time, detect and take the grossest
+advantage of their mistress’s inexperience. Besides, if we reflect
+that among our middle classes more marry on an income of two hundred
+pounds than on a higher, it becomes painfully apparent that two or
+three servants are the one thing our young housewife needs, but cannot
+possibly afford.
+
+She is now, however, only about to begin her life-work, and if there is
+such a thing clearly marked out for a being on this globe, it is for
+woman. By birthright, she is the mother of the human race. Could she
+have a greater, grander field for enterprise? How admirably has nature
+fitted her for performing the functions of the mother and adorning the
+province of the wife! Hence, there devolves upon her a responsibility
+which no extraneous labour in more inviting fields can excuse. No
+philosophy, no tinkering of the constitution, no success in the
+misnamed higher walks of life and knowledge, will atone for the failure
+of the mother. Let her shine a social star of the first magnitude, let
+her be supreme in every intellectual circle, and then marry, as she
+is ever prone to do, in spite of all theories; and if she fail as a
+mother, she fails as a woman and as a human being. She becomes a mere
+rag, a tatter of nature’s cast-off clothing, spiritless, aimless, a
+failure in this great world of work.
+
+As her family increases, the household shadows deepen, where all
+should be purity, sweetness, and light. The domestic ship may even
+founder through the downright, culpable incapacity of her that takes
+the helm. Her children never have the air of comfort and cleanliness.
+In their clothes, the stitch is never in time. The wilful neglect, and
+consequent waste, in this one matter of half-worn clothing is almost
+incredible. A slatternly atmosphere pervades her entire home. With the
+lapse of time our young wife becomes gradually untidy, dishevelled,
+and even dirty, in her own person; and at last sits down for good,
+disconsolate and overwhelmed by her unseen foe. Her husband can find no
+pleasure in the ‘hugger-mugger,’ as Carlyle phrases it, of his home;
+there is no brightness in it to cheer his hours of rest. He returns
+from his daily labours to a chaos, which he shuns by going elsewhere;
+and so the sequel of misery and neglect takes form.
+
+As a first precaution against such a calamity, let us strip our
+home-life of every taint of quackery. Let us regard women’s education,
+like that of men, as a means to a lifelong end, never forgetting that
+if we unfit it for everyday practice, we render it a mere useless gem,
+valuable in a sense, but unset. Middle-class women will be the better
+educated, in every sense, the more skilled they are in the functions
+of the mother and the duties of the wife. Give them every chance of
+proving thrifty wives and good mothers, in addition to, or, where
+that is impossible, to the exclusion of accomplished brides. Let some
+part of their training as presently constituted, such as the rigours
+of music, and the fritterings of embroidery, give way, in part, to
+the essential acquirements which every woman, every mother should
+possess, and which no gold can buy. Give us a woman, then, natural in
+her studies, her training, her vocations, and her dress, and in the
+words of the wisest of men, who certainly had a varied experience of
+womankind, we shall have something ‘far more precious than rubies. She
+will not be afraid of the snow for her household; strength and honour
+will be her clothing; her husband shall have no need of spoil; he shall
+be known in the gates, when he sitteth among the elders; he shall
+praise her; and her children shall call her blessed.’
+
+
+
+
+BY MEAD AND STREAM.
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.—IN THE OAK PARLOUR.
+
+And so, it had been only a bit of Uncle Dick’s kindly forethought and
+common-sense which had prompted the alarming words he had spoken to
+Madge. How she and Philip laughed at the chimerical idea that there
+could be any possible combination of circumstances in time or space
+which could alter their thoughts regarding each other! The birds in
+the orchard, in the intervals of pecking the fruit, seemed to sing a
+joyous laughing chorus at the absurdity of it—notwithstanding that the
+admission of it might be prudent.
+
+But when they came down to the point of vague admission that in the
+abstract and in relation to other couples—of course it could not apply
+to their own case—Uncle Dick’s counsel was such as prudent young people
+about to separate should keep in mind, an expression of perplexity
+flitted across Madge’s face. She looked at him with those tenderly
+wistful serious eyes, half doubting whether or not to utter the thought
+which had come to her.
+
+‘But what I cannot understand,’ she said slowly, ‘is why Uncle Dick
+should have been in such a temper. You know that although he may fly
+into a passion at anything that seems to him wrong, he never keeps it
+up. Now he had all the time riding home from Kingshope to cool, and yet
+when he spoke to me he seemed to be as angry as if he had just come out
+of the room where the quarrel took place.’
+
+‘What can it matter to us?’ was the blithe response. ‘He is not angry
+with me or with you, and so long as that is the case we need not mind
+if he should quarrel with all creation.’
+
+‘I’ll tell you what we will do,’ she said, and the disappearance of
+all perplexity from her face showed that she was quite of his opinion,
+although she wanted to have it supported by another authority.
+
+‘What is that?’
+
+‘We will go in and ask Aunt Hessy what she thinks about it.... Are you
+aware, sir’ (this with a pretty assumption of severity), ‘that you have
+not seen aunty to-day, and that you have not even inquired about her?’
+
+‘That _is_ bad,’ he muttered; but it was evident that the badness which
+he felt was the interruption of the happy wandering through the orchard
+by this summary recall to duty.
+
+In his remorse, however, he was ready to sacrifice his present
+pleasure; for Aunt Hessy was a stanch friend of theirs, and it
+might be that her cheery way of looking at things would dispel
+the last lingering cloud of doubt from Madge’s mind regarding the
+misunderstanding between his father and Uncle Dick.
+
+‘Then we had better go in at once; we shall find her in the dairy.’
+
+Mrs Crawshay was superintending the operations of three buxom maidens
+who were scalding the large cans in which the milk was conveyed every
+morning to the metropolis. Her ruddy face with the quiet, kindly gray
+eyes was that of a woman in her prime, and even her perfectly white
+hair did not detract from the sense of youth which was expressed in her
+appearance: it was an additional charm. She was nearly sixty. Her age
+was a standing joke of Uncle Dick’s. He had made the discovery that she
+was a month older than himself, and he magnified it into a year.
+
+‘Can’t you see?’ he would say, ‘if you are born in December and I am
+born in January, that makes exactly a year’s difference?’
+
+Then there would be a loud guffaw, and Uncle Dick would feel that he
+had completely overcome the Missus. The words and the guffaw were as
+a rule simultaneous, and if nobody happened to be present, it usually
+ended in Uncle Dick putting his arm round her neck and saying with a
+lump in his throat: ‘My old lass—young always to me.’
+
+He had not the slightest notion of the poetry that was in his soul
+whilst he spoke.
+
+Mrs Crawshay believed in young love. She had been very happy in hers.
+She had been brought up on a farm. Lads had come about her of course,
+and she had put them aside with a—‘Nay, lad, I’m not for thee,’ and had
+thought no more about them. Then Dick Crawshay had come, and—she did
+not know why—she had said: ‘Yes, thou art my lad.’
+
+They had been very happy notwithstanding their losses—indeed the losses
+seemed to have drawn them closer together.
+
+‘It’s only you and me, my old lass,’ he would say in their privacy.
+
+‘Only you and me, Dick,’ she would say as her gray head rested on his
+breast with all the emotion of youth in her heart.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+‘Go into the oak parlour,’ said Mrs Crawshay cheerily to the young
+folks, when she understood their mission; ‘and I’ll be with you in a
+minute.’
+
+The oak parlour was the stateroom of the house. It was long and high;
+the oak of the panels and beams which supported the pointed roof were
+of that dark hue which only time can impart. The three narrow windows
+had been lengthened by Dick’s father, and when the moon shone through
+them they were like three white ghosts looking in upon the dark
+chamber. But the moon did not often get a chance of doing this, for
+there was only a brief period of the year during which there was not
+a huge fire blazing in the great old-fashioned ingle. There were four
+portraits of former Crawshays and three of famous horses; with these
+exceptions the walls were bare, for none of the family had ever been
+endowed with much love of art.
+
+There were some legends still current about the mysteries hidden
+behind the sombre panels. One of the panels was specially honoured
+because it was reputed to have a recess behind it in which the king had
+found shelter for a time during his flight from the Roundheads. But
+owing to the indifference or carelessness of successive generations,
+nobody was now quite sure to which of the panels this honour properly
+belonged. There had been occasional attempts made to discover the royal
+hiding-place, but they had hitherto failed.
+
+The furniture was plain and substantial, displaying the styles of
+several periods of manufacture. In spite of the stiff straight lines of
+most of the things in the room, the red curtains, the red table-cover,
+the odd variety of the chairs gave the place a homely and, when the
+fire was ablaze, a cosy expression. This stateroom was correctly called
+‘parlour,’ and it had been the scene of many a revel.
+
+As Philip and Madge were on their way to the oak parlour, a servant
+presented a card to the latter.
+
+‘He asked for you, miss,’ said the girl, and passed on to the kitchen.
+
+Madge looked at the card, and instantly held it out to Philip.
+
+‘Hullo!—my father,’ ejaculated he, adding with a laugh: ‘Now you can
+see that this mountain of yours is not even a molehill.’
+
+‘How can you tell that?’
+
+‘Because my father is the reverse of Uncle Dick. He never forgets—I
+doubt if he ever forgives—an unpleasant word. And yet here he is. Come
+along at once—but we had better say nothing to him about the affair
+unless he speaks of it himself.’
+
+They entered the room together, smiling hopefully.
+
+Mr Lloyd Hadleigh was standing at a window, hat in one hand, slim
+umbrella in the other, and staring hard at the shrubs. He had a way of
+staring hard at everything, and yet the way was so calm and thoughtful
+that he did not appear to see anything or anybody, and thus the stare
+was not offensive.
+
+‘The guv’nor always seems to be dreaming about you when he looks at
+you, and you never know when he’s going to speak—that’s awk’ard,’ was
+the description of his expression given by Caleb Kersey, one of the
+occasional labourers on Ringsford.
+
+He was a man of average height, firmly built; square face; thick
+black moustache; close cropped black hair, with only an indication of
+thinning on the top and showing few streaks of white. His age was not
+more than fifty, and he had attained the full vigour of life.
+
+‘People talk about the fire and “go” of thirty,’ he would say in his
+dry way. ‘It is nonsense. At that age a man is either going downhill or
+going up it, and in either case he is too much occupied and worried to
+have time to be happy. That was the most miserable period of my life.’
+
+Coldness was the first impression of his outward character. No one had
+ever seen him in a passion. Successful in business, he had provided
+well for the five children of a very early marriage. He never referred
+to that event, and had been long a widower without showing the
+slightest inclination to establish a new mistress at Ringsford.
+
+He turned on the entrance of Madge and Philip, saluting the former with
+grave politeness; then to the latter: ‘There are some letters for you
+at home, Philip.’
+
+‘Thank you, sir; but I have no doubt they can wait. I am to stay for
+dinner here.’
+
+‘From the postmarks I judge they are of importance.’
+
+‘Ah—then I know who they are from, and in that case there is no hurry
+at all, for the mail does not leave until Monday.’
+
+Mr Hadleigh addressed himself to Madge—no sign of annoyance in voice or
+manner.
+
+‘May I be permitted to have a few minutes’ conversation with you in
+private, Miss Heathcote?’
+
+‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ broke in Philip hastily; ‘I did not
+understand you to mean that you found me in the way.—If your aunt
+should ask for me, Miss Heathcote, I shall be in the garden.’
+
+With a good-natured inclination of the head, he went out. And as he
+walked down the garden path filling his pipe, he muttered to himself
+thoughtfully: ‘Seems to me he grows queerer and queerer every day. What
+_can_ be the matter with him? If anybody else had asked for a private
+interview so solemnly, I should have taken it for granted that he was
+going to propose.... Daresay he wants to give some explanation of that
+confounded row, and make his apologies through Madge. I should like him
+to do that.’
+
+But Mr Hadleigh was neither going to propose nor to make apologies.
+He smiled, a curious sort of half-sad, half-amused smile, and there
+was really something interesting in the expression of his eyes at the
+moment.
+
+‘The truth is, Miss Heathcote, that I cannot acknowledge weakness
+before Philip. He is such a reckless fellow about money, that he would
+tell me I ought to give in at once to the labourers.’
+
+‘I am sure he would not, Mr Hadleigh, if he thought you were in the
+right.’
+
+‘I am not one likely to hold out if convinced that I am in the wrong.’
+
+‘Few men do under these conditions, Mr Hadleigh,’ said Madge, smiling.
+
+‘Well, at anyrate, I want your assistance very much; will you give it?’
+
+‘With great pleasure, if it is worth anything to you.’
+
+‘It is worth everything; for what harvest I might have on the
+home-farm—and I understand it promises to be a good one—is likely to be
+lost unless you help me.’
+
+‘How can that be, Mr Hadleigh?’
+
+‘Through beer. This is how the matter stands. You know the dispute
+about the wages, and I am willing to give in to that. But on this
+question of beer in the field I am firm. The men and women shall have
+the price of it; but I will neither give beer on the field nor permit
+them to bring it there. A great reform is to be worked in this matter,
+and I mean to do what little I can to advance it. I am sure, Miss
+Heathcote, you must acknowledge that I am right in adhering to this
+resolution.’
+
+‘I have been brought up in some very old-fashioned notions, Mr
+Hadleigh,’ she answered with pretty evasiveness.
+
+‘There is a high principle at stake in it, my dear Miss Heathcote, and
+it is worth fighting for.’
+
+‘But I do not yet see how my services are to be of use to you,’ she
+said, anxious to avoid this debatable subject. It was one on which
+her uncle had quite different views from those of Mr Hadleigh. And,
+therefore, she could not altogether sympathise with the latter’s
+enthusiasm, eager as she was to see the people steady and sober, for
+she remembered at the moment that he had made a considerable portion of
+his fortune out of a brewery.
+
+‘That was exactly what I was about to explain,’ he replied. ‘I came to
+beg you to speak to Caleb Kersey.’
+
+‘Caleb!—why, he never touches anything stronger than tea.’
+
+‘That may be; but he believes that other people have a right to do so
+if they like. He has persuaded every man and woman who comes to me
+or my bailiff to put the question: “Is there to be beer?” When they
+are answered: “No; but the money,” they turn on their heels and march
+off, so that at this moment we have only two men. Now, my dear Miss
+Heathcote, will you persuade Kersey to stop his interference?’
+
+‘I do not see that he is interfering; but I will speak to him.’
+
+‘Thanks, thanks. If you were with me I should have no difficulty.’
+
+‘You would find me a very bad second,’ she answered, laughing, ‘for I
+should say—submit to old customs until persuasion alters them, since
+force never can.’
+
+Two things struck Madge during this interview and the commonplaces
+about nothing which followed it: The first, how much more frank and at
+ease he seemed to be with her than with any one else; and the second
+was, how loath he seemed to go.
+
+The owner of Ringsford said to himself as he was driven away: ‘I shall
+be glad when she is Philip’s wife.’
+
+
+CHAPTER V.—A NEW EDEN.
+
+She was still standing at the door to which she had accompanied Mr
+Hadleigh, and was looking after him, when a kindly voice behind her
+said: ‘He does look a woeful man. I wonder if he has any real friends.’
+
+Madge turned. Aunt Hessy was standing there, a pitying expression on
+her comely face, and she was wiping her hands in her apron. There was
+nothing in Mrs Crawshay’s manner or appearance to indicate her Quaker
+antecedents, except the frequent use of thee and thou—she did not
+always use that form of speech—and the quiet tone of all the colours
+of her dress. Yet, until her marriage she had been, like her father,
+a good Wesleyan; after her marriage she accompanied her husband to
+the church in which his family had kept their place for so many
+generations. To her simple faith it was the same whether she worshipped
+in church or chapel.
+
+‘Why do you say that, aunt?’
+
+‘Because he seems to be so much alone.’
+
+‘Mr Hadleigh alone! What about all the people who visit the manor?’
+
+‘Ay, they visit the manor,’ answered Aunt Hessy, with a slight shake of
+the head and a quiet smile.
+
+That set Madge thinking. He did impress her as a solitary man,
+notwithstanding his family, his many visitors, his school treats, his
+flower-shows, and other signs of a busy and what ought to be a happy
+life. Then there was the strange thing that he should come to ask her
+assistance to enable him to come to terms with the harvesters.
+
+‘I believe you are right, aunt. He is very much alone, and I suppose
+that was why he came to me to-day.’
+
+‘What did he want?’ asked Dame Crawshay, with unusual quickness and an
+expression of anxiety Madge could not remember ever having seen on her
+face before. She did not understand it until long afterwards.
+
+Having explained the object of Mr Hadleigh’s visit, as she understood
+it, she was surprised to see how much relieved her aunt looked. Knowing
+that that good woman had never had a secret in her life, and never made
+the least mystery about anything, she put the question direct: ‘Did you
+expect him to say anything else?’
+
+‘I don’t know, Madge. He is a queer man, Mr Hadleigh, in a-many ways.
+He spoke to your uncle about this, and he would have nothing to do with
+it.’
+
+‘And that is why they fell out at the market, I suppose.’
+
+‘Where is Philip? He must take after his mother, for he is
+straightforward in everything.’
+
+‘He is out in the garden. Shall I go for him?’
+
+‘Nay. I want more peas, so we can find him on our way for them.’
+
+Philip had not gone far. He had walked down to the duck-pond; but after
+that distant excursion, he kept near the little gate beside the dairy,
+glancing frequently at the house-door. He was dallying with the last
+hours of the bright morning of his love, and he grudged every moment
+that Madge was away from him. A few days hence he would be looking back
+to this one with longing eyes. How miserable he would be on board that
+ship! How he would hate the sound of the machinery, knowing that every
+stroke of the piston was taking him so much farther away from her. And
+then, as the waters widened and stretched into the sky, would not his
+heart sink, and would he not wish that he had never started on this
+weary journey?
+
+In response to that lover-like question, he heard the echo of Madge’s
+voice in his brain: ‘It was your mother’s wish.’
+
+This simple reminder was enough, for he cherished the sad memory of
+that sweet pale face, which smiled upon him hopefully a moment before
+it became calm in death.
+
+He sprang away from these sorrowful reflections. Yes; he would look
+back longingly to this day when sea and sky shut out Willowmere and
+Madge from sight. But they would both be palpable to his mental vision;
+and he would look forward to that still brighter day of his return, his
+mission fulfilled, and nothing to do but marry Madge and live happy
+ever after. Ay, that should comfort him and make the present parting
+bearable.
+
+Besides, who could say with what fortune he might come back? The uncle
+to whom he was going was rumoured to be the possessor of fabulous
+wealth, and although married he was childless. True, also, he was
+reported to be so eccentric that nobody could understand him, or
+form the slightest conception of how he would act under any given
+circumstances. But it was known that before he went abroad, his
+sister—Philip’s mother—had been the one creature in whom all his
+affection seemed to be concentrated. An inexplicable coldness appeared
+in his conduct towards her after her marriage. The reason had never
+been explained.
+
+Shortly before her death, however, there had come a letter from him,
+which made her very happy. But she had burned the letter, by his
+instructions, without showing it to any one or revealing its contents.
+Evidently it was this letter which induced her to lay upon her son
+the charge of going to her brother Austin Shield, whenever he should
+be summoned. But the uncle held no correspondence with any one at
+Ringsford. That he was still alive, could be only surmised from vague
+reports and the fact that on every anniversary of Mrs Hadleigh’s
+birthday, with one exception, a fresh wreath of flowers was found on
+her grave—placed there, it was believed, by his orders. Then a few
+months ago, a letter had come to Philip, containing an invitation from
+his uncle, suggesting possible advantages, and inclosing a draft for
+expenses. So, being summoned, he was going; and whether the result
+should be good or ill fortune, his mother’s last command would be
+obeyed, and he would return with a clear conscience to marry Madge.
+
+That thought kept him in good-humour throughout the weary ages which
+seemed to elapse before he saw Madge and her aunt approaching. He ran
+to meet them.
+
+‘I thought you were never coming,’ was his exclamation.
+
+‘Thou’lt be able to do without her for a longer time than this without
+troubling thyself, by-and-by,’ said Dame Crawshay with one of her
+pleasant smiles.
+
+‘When that day comes, I will say you are a prophetess of evil,’ he
+retorted, laughing, but with an air of affectionate respect. That was
+the feeling with which she inspired everybody.
+
+‘Nay, lad; but it need not be evil, for you may be apart, surely, doing
+good for each other.’
+
+‘Yes; but not without wishing we were together.’
+
+‘Wilt ever be wishing that?’
+
+‘For ever and ever.’
+
+He answered with burlesque solemnity outwardly; but Madge knew that he
+spoke from his heart, and in the full faith of his words. She gave him
+a quiet glance with those soft wistful eyes, and he was very happy.
+
+They had reached a tall row of peas, at which Dame Crawshay had
+been already busy that morning, as a wooden chair placed beside it
+indicated. Here she seated herself, and began to pluck the peas,
+shelling them as she plucked; then dropping the pods into her lap and
+the peas into a basin. She performed the operation with mechanical
+regularity, which did not in any way interfere with conversation.
+
+Madge, kneeling beside her, helped with nimble fingers; and Philip,
+hands clasped behind him, stood looking on admiringly. The sun was
+shining upon them; and, darting shafts of light through the surrounding
+trees, made bright spots amidst the moving shadows underneath.
+Everything seemed to be still and sleepy. The breeze was so light that
+there was only a gentle rustle of leaves, and through it was heard
+the occasional thud of an over-ripe apple or pear as it fell, and the
+drowsy hum of the bees.
+
+Light, warmth, peace. ‘Ah,’ thought Philip, ‘if we could only go on
+this way always! If we could fix ourselves thus as in a photograph,
+what a blessed Eden this would be!’
+
+‘Thou’dst find it dull soon, Philip, standing there looking at us
+shelling peas, if thou wert forced to do it,’ said Dame Crawshay,
+looking up at him with a curious smile.
+
+‘That shows you cannot guess my thoughts. They were of quite a
+different nature, for I was wishing that there had been some fixing
+process in nature, so that there might never be any change in our
+present positions.’
+
+Madge looked as if she had been thinking something very similar; but
+she went on silently shelling peas; and a sunbeam shooting through a
+gap in the green pea hedge, made a golden radiance on her face.
+
+‘Eh, deary me, what love will do!’ exclaimed the dame, laughing, but
+shaking her head regretfully, as if sorry that she could not look at
+things in the same hopeful humour. ‘Other people have talked like
+that in the heyday of life. Some have found a little of their hope
+fulfilled; many have found none of it: all have found that they had to
+give up the thought of a great deal of what they expected. Some take
+their disappointment with wise content and make the best of things as
+they find them. They jog along as happily as mortals may, like Dick and
+me; a-many kick against the pricks and suffer sorely for it; but all
+have to give in sooner or later, and own that the world could not get
+along if everybody could arrange it to suit his own pleasure.’
+
+How gently this good-natured philosopher brought them down from
+the clouds to what foolish enthusiasts call contemptuously ‘the
+common earth.’ Sensible people use the same phrase, but they use it
+respectfully, knowing that this ‘common earth’ may be made beautiful or
+ugly as their own actions instruct their vision.
+
+To Philip it was quite true that most people sought something they
+could never attain; that many people fancied they had found the
+something they wanted, and discovered afterwards, to their sorrow,
+that they had not found the thing at all. But then, you see, it was an
+entirely different condition of affairs in his case. He had found what
+he wanted, and knew that there could be no mistake about it.
+
+To Madge, her aunt’s wisdom appeared to be very cold and even wrong
+in some respects, considering the placid and happy experiences of her
+own life. She had her great faith in Philip—her dream of a life which
+should be made up of devotion to him under any circumstances of joy
+or sorrow, and she could not believe that it was possible that their
+experience should be as full of crosses as that of others. And yet
+there was a strange faintness at her heart, as if she were vaguely
+conscious that there were possibilities which neither she nor Philip
+could foresee or understand.
+
+‘We shall be amongst the wise folk,’ said Philip confidently, ‘and
+take things as they come, contentedly. We shall be easily contented, so
+long as we are true to each other—and I don’t think you imagine there
+is any chance of a mistake in that respect.’
+
+Aunt Hessy went on shelling peas for a time in silence. There was
+a thoughtful expression on her kindly face, and there was even a
+suggestion of sadness in it. Here were two young people—so young, so
+happy, so full of faith in each other—just starting on that troublous
+journey called Life, and she had to speak those words of warning which
+always seem so harsh to the pupils, until, after bitter experience,
+they look back and say: ‘If I had only taken the warning in time, what
+might have been?’
+
+By-and-by she spoke very softly: ‘Thou art thinking, Madge, that I am
+croaking; and thou, Philip, are thinking the same.... Nay, there is no
+need to deny it. But I do not mean to dishearten thee. All I want is to
+make thee understand that there are many things we reckon as certain in
+the heyday of life, that never come to us.’
+
+‘I daresay,’ said Philip, plucking a pea-pod and chewing it savagely;
+‘but don’t you think, Mrs Crawshay, that this is very like throwing
+cold-water on us, and that throwing cold-water is very apt to produce
+the misadventure which you think possible?—that is, that something
+might happen to alter our plans?’
+
+‘I am sorry for that, lad; I do not mean to throw cold-water on thee;
+but rather to help thee and to help Madge to look at things in a
+sensible way. Listen. I had a friend once who was like Madge; and she
+had a friend who was, as it might be, like you, Philip. He went away,
+as you are going, to seek his fortune in foreign parts. There was a
+blunder between them, and she got wedded to another man. Her first lad
+came back, and finding how things were, he went away again and never
+spoke more to her.’
+
+‘They must have been miserable.’
+
+‘For a while they were miserable enough; but they got over it.’
+
+‘I’ll be bound the man never married.’
+
+‘There thou’dst be bound wrong. He did marry, and is now wealthy and
+prosperous, though she was taken away in a fever long ago.’
+
+‘Ay, but is he happy?’
+
+‘That is only known to himself and Him that knows us all.’
+
+‘Well, for our future I will trust Madge,’ said Philip, taking her
+hand, ‘in spite of all your forebodings; and she will trust me.’
+
+Dame Crawshay had filled her basin with peas, and she rose.
+
+‘God bless thee, Philip, wherever thou goest, and make thy hopes
+realities,’ she said with what seemed to the lovers unnecessary
+solemnity.
+
+The dame went into the house. Madge and Philip went down the meadow,
+and under the willows by the merry river, forgot that there was any
+parting before them or any danger that their fortunes might be crossed.
+
+Those bright days! Can they ever come again, or can any future joy be
+so full, so perfect? There are no love-speeches—little talk of any
+kind, and what there is, is commonplace enough. There is no need for
+speech. There is only—only!—the sense of the dear presence that makes
+all the world beautiful, leaving the heart nothing more to desire.
+
+But the dreams in the sunshine there under the willows, with the river
+murmuring sympathetic harmonies at their feet! The dreams of a future,
+and yet no future; for it is always to be as now. Can it be possible
+that this man and woman will ever look coldly on each other—ever speak
+angry, passionate words? Can it be possible that there will ever flit
+across their minds one instant’s regret that they had come together?
+
+No, no: the dreams are of the future; but the future will be always as
+now—full of faith and gladness.
+
+
+
+
+THE CLIFF-HOUSES OF CAÑON DE CHELLY.
+
+
+The fourth and most southerly iron link of railway which will soon
+stretch across the North American continent from ocean to ocean is
+rapidly approaching completion along the thirty-fifth parallel;
+already it has reached the San Francisco mountains in its course to
+the Pacific. While avoiding the chances of blockade by snow, liable in
+higher latitudes, it has struck through a little explored region among
+the vast plains of Arizona and New Mexico. It is not easy at once to
+realise the extent of table-lands, greater in area than Great Britain
+and Ireland, upon which no soul has a settled habitation. The sun beats
+down with terrible force on these dry undulating plains, where at most
+times nothing relieves the eye, as it wanders away to the dim horizon,
+save a few cactus and sage-bush plants. But at seasons, heavy rains
+change dry gulches into roaring torrents, and parched lowlands into
+broad lakes, covering the country with a fine grass, on which millions
+of sheep, horses, and cattle are herded by wandering Navajo and Moqui
+Indians. To the periodical rains, as well as to geological convulsions,
+are traced the causes of those wondrous chasms, which in places break
+abruptly the rolling surface of the prairie, and extend in rocky gorges
+for many miles. They are called cañons. The grandeur of the scenery
+found in one of them, Cañon de Chelly, can scarcely be overstated.
+
+Cañon de Chelly—pronounced Canyon de Shay—is in the north of Arizona.
+It takes its name from a Frenchman, who is said to have been the first
+white man to set foot within its walls; but except the record of a
+recent visit by the United States Geological Survey, no account of
+it seems to have hitherto appeared. The picturesque features of this
+magnificent ravine are unrivalled; and what lends a more fascinating
+interest, is the existence, among its rocky walls, of dwellings once
+occupied by a race of men, who, dropping into the ocean of the past
+with an unwritten history, are only known to us as cave-dwellers.
+
+In October 1882, an exploring party, headed by Professor Stevenson
+of the Ethnological Bureau, Washington, and escorted by a number of
+soldiers and Indian guides, set out for this remarkable spot. One of
+the party, Lieutenant T. V. Keam, has furnished the following details
+of their investigations. After travelling one hundred and twenty miles
+out from the nearest military post, Fort Defiance, and crossing a
+desert some twenty miles broad, the entrance to Cañon de Chelly was
+reached. The bed of the ravine is entirely composed of sand, which is
+constantly being blown along it, with pitiless force, by sudden gusts
+of wind. The walls of the cañon are red sandstone; at first, but some
+fifty feet high, they increase gradually, until at eighteen miles they
+reach an elevation of twelve hundred feet, which is about the highest
+point, and continue without decreasing for at least thirty miles. The
+first night, Professor Stevenson’s party camped three miles from the
+mouth of the cañon, under a grove of cotton-wood trees, and near a
+clear flowing stream of water. Here the scene was an impressive one.
+A side ravine of great magnitude intersected the main cañon, and at
+the junction there stood out, like a sentinel, far from the rest of
+the cliff, one solemn brown stone shaft eight hundred feet high. In
+the morning, continuing the journey through the awful grandeur of the
+gorge, the walls still increased in height, some having a smooth and
+beautifully coloured surface reaching to one thousand feet; others,
+from the action of water, sand storms, and atmospheric effects, cut and
+broken into grand arches, battlements, and spires of every conceivable
+shape. At times would be seen an immense opening in the wall,
+stretching back a quarter of a mile, the sides covered with verdure of
+different shades, reaching to the summit, where tall firs with giant
+arms seemed dwarfed to the size of a puny gooseberry bush, and the
+lordly oak was only distinguished by the beautiful sheen of its leaves.
+
+On the second night the camp was formed at the base of a cliff, in
+which were descried, planted along a niche at a height of nearly one
+hundred feet, some cliff-dwellings. Next morning, these were reached
+after a dangerous climb, by means of a rope thrown across a projecting
+stick, up the almost perpendicular sides of this stupendous natural
+fortress. The village was perched on its narrow ledge of rock, facing
+the south, and was overshadowed by an enormous arch, formed in the
+solid side of the cañon. Overlapping the ruins for at least fifty feet,
+at a height above them of sixty feet, it spread its protecting roof
+five hundred feet from end to end. No moisture ever penetrated beyond
+the edge of this red shield of nature; and to its shelter, combined
+with the dryness of the atmosphere and preserving nature of the sand,
+is to be attributed the remarkable state of preservation, after such a
+lapse of time, in which the houses of the cliff-dwellers were found.
+Some of them still stood three stories high, built in compact form,
+close together within the extremely limited space, the timber used
+to support the roof being in some cases perfectly sound. The white
+stone employed is gypsum, cut with stone implements, but having the
+outer edges smoothly dressed and evenly laid up; the stones of equal
+size placed parallel with each other presenting a uniform and pleasing
+appearance.
+
+No remains of importance were found here, excepting a finely woven
+sandal, and some pieces of netting made from the fibre of the yucca
+plant. But on proceeding two miles farther up the cañon, another group
+of ruins was discovered, which contained relics of a very interesting
+character. The interior of some of the larger houses was painted with
+a series of red bands and squares, fresh in colour, and contained
+fragments of ornamented pottery, besides what appeared to be pieces
+of blankets made from birds’ feathers; these, perhaps, in ages past
+bedecked the shoulders of some red beauty, when the grim old walls
+echoed the fierce war-songs of a long-lost nation. But the most
+fortunate find at this spot, and the first of that description made in
+the country, was a cyst, constructed of timber smoothly plastered on
+the inside, containing remains of three of the ancient cliff-dwellers.
+One was in a sitting posture, the skin of the thighs and legs being in
+a perfect state of preservation. These ruins, as in the former case,
+were protected from the weather by an overhanging arch of rock.
+
+At several points on the journey through Cañon de Chelly, hieroglyphics
+were traced, graven on the cliff wall. Most of the designs were
+unintelligible; but figures of animals, such as the bear and mountain
+sheep or goat, were prominent. Another cliff village was observed of a
+considerable size, but planted three hundred feet above the cañon bed,
+in such a position that it is likely to remain sacred from the foot of
+man for still further generations. The same elements which in geologic
+time fashioned the caves and recesses of the cañon walls, have in later
+times worn the approaches away, so that to-day they do not even furnish
+a footing for the bear or coyote. In what remote age and for how many
+generations the cliff-dwellers lived in these strange fastnesses, will
+probably never be determined. Faint traces of still older buildings
+are found here and there in the bed of Cañon de Chelly; and it is
+conjectured that this region was once densely populated along the
+watercourses, and that the tribes having been driven from their homes
+by a powerful foe, the remnant sought refuge in the caves of the cañon
+walls.
+
+Of the great antiquity of these structures, there is no question.
+The Indian of to-day knows nothing of their history, has not even
+traditions concerning them. The Navajo, with a few poles plastered
+with a heavy deposit of earth, constructs his _hogan_ or wigwam, and
+rarely remains in the same place winter and summer. He has no more idea
+of constructing a dwelling like those so perfectly preserved in the
+cliffs, than he has of baking specimens of pottery such as are found
+in fragments amongst the walls. In the fine quality of paste, in the
+animal handles—something like old Japanese ware—and in the general
+ornamentation, these exhibit a high order of excellence. Some specimens
+of what is called laminated ware are remarkable; threadlike layers of
+clay are laid one on each other with admirable delicacy and patience.
+In these fragments may yet be read something of the history of a
+vanished race. They illuminate a dark corner in the world’s history,
+and seem to indicate a people who once felt civilising influences
+higher than anything known by those uncouth figures whose camp-fires
+now glimmer at night across the silent starlit prairie.
+
+
+
+
+TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.
+
+A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+Captain Bowood came forward. ‘Sir Frederick, your servant; glad to see
+you,’ he said in his hearty sailor-like fashion.
+
+‘I am glad to see you, Captain,’ responded the Baronet as he proffered
+his hand. ‘How’s the gout this morning?’
+
+‘So, so. Might be better—might be worse.—You here, Miss Saucebox!’ he
+added, turning to Elsie. ‘Why are you not at your lessons—eh, now?’
+
+‘As if anybody could learn Latin roots on a sunny morning like this!’
+Then, clasping one of his arms with both her hands, and looking up
+coaxingly into his face, she said: ‘You might give me a holiday, nunky
+dear.’
+
+‘Why, why? A holiday indeed!—Listen to her, Sir Frederick. The baggage
+is always begging for holidays.’
+
+‘But the baggage doesn’t always get them,’ was the answer with a pretty
+pout. Then, after another glance at the long-haired stranger, who was
+already busy with the piano, she said to herself: ‘It is he; I am sure
+of it. And yet if I had not heard his voice, I should not have known
+him.’
+
+Captain Bowood at this time had left his sixtieth birthday behind him,
+but he carried his years lightly. He was a bluff, hearty-looking,
+loud-voiced man, with a very red face, and very white hair and
+whiskers. A fever, several years previously, had radically impaired
+his eyesight, since which time he had taken to wearing gold-rimmed
+spectacles. He had a choleric temper; but his bursts of petulance
+were like those summer storms which are over almost as soon as they
+have broken, and leave not a cloud behind. Throughout the American
+Civil War, Captain Bowood had been known as one of the most daring and
+successful blockade-runners, and it was during those days of danger and
+excitement that he laid the foundation of the fortune on which he had
+since retired. No man was more completely ruled by his wife than the
+choleric but generous-hearted Captain, and no man suspected the fact
+less than he did.
+
+‘I drove over this morning,’ said Sir Frederick, ‘to see you about that
+bay mare which I hear you are desirous of getting rid of.’
+
+‘Yes, yes—just so. We’ll go to the stable and have a look at her.
+By-the-bye, I was talking to Boyd just now, when your name cropped up.
+It seems he met you when you were both in South America. Oscar Boyd,
+engineering fellow and all that. You remember him, eh, now?’
+
+‘I certainly do remember a Mr Boyd; but it is many years since we met.’
+Then to himself the Baronet said: ‘Can this be the other man? Oh! Lady
+Dimsdale.’
+
+‘A very agreeable fellow,’ said the Captain. ‘Here on a visit for a
+couple of days. A little matter of business between him and me to save
+lawyers’ expenses.’
+
+‘The other man, without a doubt,’ thought the Baronet. ‘His wife must
+be dead.’
+
+Miss Brandon had slipped unobserved out of the room. She was now
+sitting in the veranda, making-believe to be intent over her Latin
+verbs, but in reality waiting impatiently till the coast should be
+clear. She had not long to wait. Presently she heard the Captain say in
+his cheery loud-voiced way: ‘Come along, Sir Frederick; we shall just
+have time to look at the mare before luncheon;’ and a minute later, she
+heard the shutting of a door.
+
+Then she shut her book, rose from her seat, and crossing on tiptoe
+to the open French-window, she peeped into the room. ‘Is that you,
+Charley?’ she asked in a voice that was little above a whisper.
+
+‘Whom else should it be?’ answered the young man, looking round from
+the piano with a smile.
+
+‘I was nearly sure of it from the first; but then you look such a guy!’
+
+‘She calls me a guy! after all the trouble I have taken to get myself
+up like a foreign nobleman.’ Speaking thus, he took off his spectacles
+and wig, and stood revealed, as pleasant-looking a young fellow as one
+would see in a day’s march.
+
+Elsie ran forward with a little cry of surprise and delight. ‘Now I
+know you for my own!’ she exclaimed; and when he took her in his arms
+and kissed her—more than once—she offered not the slightest resistance.
+‘But what a dreadful risk to run!’ she went on as soon as she was set
+at liberty. ‘Suppose your uncle—good gracious!’
+
+‘My uncle? He can’t eat me, that’s certain; and he has already cut me
+off with the proverbial shilling.’
+
+‘My poor boy! Fate is very, very hard upon you. We are both down
+on our luck, Charley; but we can die together, can’t we?’ As she
+propounded this question, she held out her box of bon-bons. Charley
+took one, she took another, and then the box was put away. ‘A pan of
+charcoal’—she went on, giving her sweetmeat a gustatory turn over with
+her tongue—‘door and windows close shut—you go to sleep and forget to
+wake up. What could be simpler?’
+
+‘Hardly anything. But we have not quite come to that yet. Of course,
+that dreadful Vice-chancellor won’t let me marry you for some time to
+come; but he can’t help himself when you are one-and-twenty.’
+
+‘That won’t be for nearly four years,’ answered Elsie with a pout.
+‘What a long, long time to look forward to!’
+
+‘We have only to be true to each other, which I am sure we shall be,
+and it will pass away far more quickly than you imagine. By that time,
+I hope to be earning enough money to find you a comfortable home.’
+
+‘There’s my money, you know, Charley dear.’
+
+‘I don’t mean to have anything to do with that. If I can’t earn enough
+to keep my wife, I’ll never marry.’
+
+‘Oh!’
+
+‘But I shall do that, dear. Why, I’m getting five guineas a week
+already; and if I’m not getting three times as much as that by the time
+you are twenty-one, I’ll swallow my wig.’
+
+‘Your uncle will never forgive you for going on the stage.’
+
+‘O yes, he will, by-and-by, when he sees that I am making a fair living
+by it and really mean to stick to it—having sown all my wild-oats; and
+above all, when he finds how well they speak of me in his favourite
+newspaper. And that reminds me that it was what the _Telephone_ said
+about me that caused old Brooker our manager to raise my screw from
+four guineas a week to five. I cut the notice out of the paper, you
+may be sure. Here it is.’ Speaking thus, Master Charles produced
+his pocket-book; and drew from it a printed slip of paper, which he
+proceeded to read aloud: ‘“Although we have had occasion more than
+once to commend the acting of Mr Warden”—that’s me—“we were certainly
+surprised last evening by his very masterly rendering of the part
+of Captain Cleveland. His byplay was remarkably clever; and his
+impassioned love-making in the third act, where timidity or hesitation
+would have been fatal to the piece, brought down the house, and earned
+him two well-merited recalls. We certainly consider that there is no
+more promising _jeune premier_ than Mr Warden now on the stage.” There,
+my pet, what do you think of that?’ asked the young actor as he put
+back the slip of paper into his pocket-book.
+
+But his pet vouchsafed no answer. Her face was turned from him; a tear
+fell from her eye. His arms were round her in a moment. ‘My darling
+child, what can be the matter?’ he asked.
+
+‘I—I wish you had never gone on the stage,’ said Elsie, with a sob in
+her voice. ‘I—I wish you were still a tea-broker!’
+
+‘Good gracious! what makes you wish anything so absurd?’
+
+‘It’s not absurd. Doesn’t the newspaper speak of your “impassioned
+love-making?” And then people—lovers, I mean—are always kissing each
+other on the stage.’
+
+‘Just as they do sometimes in real life;’ and with that he suited the
+action to the word.
+
+‘Don’t, Mr Summers, please.’ And she pushed him away, and her eyes
+flashed through her tears, and she looked very pretty.
+
+Mr Summers sat down on a chair and was unfeeling enough to laugh. ‘Why,
+what a little goose you are!’ he said.
+
+‘I don’t see it at all.’ This with a toss of her head. Certainly, it is
+not pleasant to be called a goose.
+
+‘You must know, if you come to think of it, that both love-making and
+kissing on the stage are only so much make-believe, however real they
+may seem to the audience. During the last six months, it has been
+my fate to have to make love to about a dozen different ladies; and
+during the next six months I shall probably have to do the same thing
+to as many more; but to imagine on that account that I really care
+for any of them, or that they really care for me, would be as absurd
+as to suppose that because in the piece we shall play to-morrow night
+I shall hunt Tom Bowles—who is the villain of the drama—through three
+long acts, and kill him in the fourth, he and I must necessarily hate
+each other. The fact is that Tom and I are the best of friends, and
+generally contrive to lodge together when on our travels.’
+
+Elsie was half convinced that she _had_ made a goose of herself, but of
+course was not prepared to admit it. ‘I see that Miss Wylie is acting
+in your company,’ she said. ‘I saw her in London about a year ago; she
+is very, very pretty.’
+
+‘Miss Wylie is a very charming woman.’
+
+‘And you make love to her?’
+
+‘Every night of my life—for a little while.’
+
+Elsie felt her unreasonable mood coming back. ‘Then why don’t you marry
+her?’ she asked with a ring of bitterness in her voice.
+
+Again that callous-hearted young man laughed. ‘Considering that she is
+married already, and the happy mother of two children, I can hardly see
+the feasibility of your suggestion.’
+
+‘Then why does she call herself “Miss Wylie?”’
+
+‘It’s a way they have in the profession. She goes by her maiden name.
+In reality, she is Mrs Berrington. Her husband travels with her. He
+plays “heavy fathers.”’
+
+Miss Brandon looked mystified. Her lover saw it.
+
+‘You see this suit of clothes,’ he said, ‘and this wig and these
+spectacles. They are part of the “make-up” of a certain character I
+played last week. I was the Count von Rosenthal, in love with the
+beautiful daughter of a poor music-master. In order to be able to make
+love to her, and win her for myself, and not for my title and riches,
+I go in the guise of a student, and take lodgings in the same house
+where she and her father are living. After many mishaps, all ends as
+it ought to do. Charlotte and I fall into each other’s arms, and her
+father blesses us both with tears in his eyes. Miss Wylie played the
+Professor’s daughter, and her husband played the father’s part, and
+very well he did it too.’
+
+‘Her husband allowed you to make love to his wife?’ said Miss Brandon,
+with wide-open eyes.
+
+‘Of course he did; and he was not so foolish as to be jealous, like
+some people. Why should he be?’
+
+Elsie was fully convinced by this time that she had made a goose of
+herself. ‘You may kiss me, Charley,’ she said with much sweetness.
+‘Dear boy, I forgive you.’
+
+Suddenly the sound of a footstep caused them to start and fly asunder.
+There, close to the open French-window, stood Captain Bowood, glaring
+from one to the other of them. Miss Brandon gave vent to a little
+shriek and fled from the room. The Captain came forward, a fine frenzy
+in his eye. ‘Who the deuce may you be, sir?’ he spluttered, although he
+had recognised Charley at the first glance.
+
+‘I have the honour to be your very affectionate and obedient nephew,
+sir.’
+
+The Captain’s reply to this was an inarticulate growl. Next moment,
+his eye fell on the discarded wig. ‘And what the dickens may this be,
+sir?’ he asked as he lifted up the article in question on the end of
+his cane.
+
+‘A trifle of property, sir, belonging to your affectionate and obedient
+nephew;’ and with that he took the wig off the end of the cane and
+crammed it into his pocket.
+
+‘So, so. This is the way, you young jackanapes, that you set my
+commands at defiance, and steal into my house after being forbidden
+ever to set foot in it again! You young snake-in-the-grass! You
+crocodile! It would serve you right to give you in charge to the
+police. How do I know that you are not after my spoons and forks? Come
+now.’
+
+‘I am glad to find, sir, that your powers of vituperation are in no
+way impaired since I had the pleasure of seeing you last. Time cannot
+wither them.—Hem! I believe, sir, that you have had the honour of
+twice paying my debts, amounting in the aggregate to the trifling sum
+of five hundred pounds. In this paper, sir, you will find twenty-five
+sovereigns, being my first dividend of one shilling in the pound. A
+further dividend will be paid at the earliest possible date.’ As Mr
+Summers spoke thus, he drew from his waistcoat pocket a small sealed
+packet and placed the same quietly on the table.
+
+The irate Captain glanced at the packet and then at his imperturbable
+nephew. The cane trembled in his fingers; for a moment or two he
+could not command his voice. ‘What, what!’ he cried at last. ‘The boy
+will drive me crazy. What does he mean with his confounded rigmarole?
+Dividend! Shilling in the pound! Bother me, if I can make head or tail
+of his foolery!’
+
+‘And yet, sir, both my words and my meaning were clear enough, as no
+doubt you will find when you come to think them over in your calmer
+moments.—And now I have the honour to wish you a very good-morning;
+and I hope to afford you the pleasure of seeing me again before long.’
+Speaking thus, Charles Summers made his uncle a very low bow, took up
+his hat, and walked out of the room.
+
+‘There’s insolence! There’s audacity!’ burst out the Captain as soon as
+he found himself alone. ‘The pleasure of seeing him again—eh? Only let
+me find him here without my leave—I’ll—I’ll—— I don’t know what I won’t
+do!—And now I come to think of it, it looks very much as if he and Miss
+Saucebox were making love to each other. How dare they? I’ll haul ’em
+both up before the Vice-chancellor.’ Here his eye fell on the packet on
+the table. He took it up and examined it. ‘Twenty-five sovereigns, did
+he say? As if I was going to take the young idiot’s money! I’ll keep
+it for the present, and send it back to him by-and-by. Must teach him
+a lesson. Do him all the good in the world. False hair and spectacles,
+eh? Deceived his old uncle finely. Just the sort of trick I should
+have delighted in when I was a boy. But Master Charley will be clever
+if he catches the old fox asleep a second time.’ He had reached the
+French-window on his way out, when he came to a sudden stand, and gave
+vent to a low whistle. ‘Ha, ha! Lady Dimsdale and Mr Boyd, and mighty
+taken up with each other they seem. Well, well. I’m no spoil-sport.
+I’ll not let them know I’ve seen them. Looks uncommonly as if Dan Cupid
+had got them by the ears. A widow too! All widows ought to be labelled
+“Dangerous.”’ Smiling and chuckling to himself, the Captain drew back,
+crossed the room, and went out by the opposite door.
+
+
+
+
+THE COLOUR-SENSE.
+
+
+The phenomenon of Colour is one with which all who are not blind must
+of necessity be familiar. So accustomed, indeed, have we been to it
+throughout all our lives, that most of us are inclined to take it for
+granted, and probably trouble ourselves very seldom as to its true
+cause. A brief discussion, therefore, of the nature of the Colour-sense
+may, we trust, prove not uninteresting to our readers.
+
+What, then, is colour? It is obvious that it may be considered in two
+ways; we may either discuss the impression it makes on the mind, or the
+real external causes to which it is due. Viewed in the first light,
+colour is as much a sensation as is that of being struck or burnt.
+Viewed from the latter stand-point, it is merely a property of light;
+hence, in order correctly to understand its nature, we must first
+briefly examine the nature of this phenomenon.
+
+According to modern scientific men, light is not a material substance,
+but consists of a kind of motion or vibration communicated by the
+luminous body to the surrounding medium, and travelling throughout
+space with an enormous velocity. The medium, however, through which
+light-waves travel is not air, nor any of the ordinary forms of matter.
+Of its real nature nothing is known, and its very existence is only
+assumed in order to account for the observed phenomena. It must be very
+subtle and very elastic; but it is a curious fact that the nature of
+the vibrations in question would seem to preclude the supposition that
+it is a fluid, these being rather such as would be met with in the case
+of a solid. To this medium, whatever its true nature may be, the name
+of _ether_ is given.
+
+The sensation, then, which we know by the name of Light is to be
+regarded as the effect on the retina of the eye of certain very rapid
+vibrations in the _ether_ of the universe. All these waves travel
+with the same swiftness; but they are not all of the same length,
+nor of the same frequency; and investigation has shown that it is to
+this difference of wave-length that difference of colour is due. In
+other words, the impression to which we give the name of a certain
+colour is due to the effect on the retina of vibrations of a certain
+frequency. This conclusion is arrived at by a very simple experiment,
+in which advantage is taken of the following principle. So long as a
+ray of light is passing through the same medium, it travels in one
+straight line; but in passing obliquely from one medium into another of
+different density, its path is bent through a certain angle, just as
+a column of soldiers has a tendency to change its direction of march
+when obliquely entering a wood or other difficult ground. Now, this
+angle is naturally greatest in the case of the shortest waves, so that
+when a ray of light is thus bent out of its course—or, as it is called,
+‘refracted’—the various sets of vibrations of which it is composed all
+travel in different directions, and may be separately examined. In fact
+the ray of light is analysed, or broken up into its component parts.
+The most convenient apparatus to employ for this purpose is a prism
+of glass. It is found, as is well known, that if a beam of ordinary
+sun-light be allowed to pass through the prism and be then received on
+a screen, it is resolved into a band of colours succeeding one another
+in the order of those of the rainbow. Such a band of colours is called
+a ‘spectrum.’
+
+Now, of the visible portion of the spectrum the red rays are those
+which undergo the least refraction, while the violet rays are bent
+through the greatest angle, the other colours in their natural order
+being intermediate. From what has been said above, it is evident that,
+this being the case, the portion of the light consisting of waves of
+greatest length and least frequency is that which produces on the eye
+the sensation of red, and that each of the other colours is caused
+by vibrations of a certain definite length. We are speaking now of
+the visible part of the spectrum. As a matter of fact, the waves of
+least and greatest frequency make no impression on the eye at all;
+but the former have the greatest heating power, while the latter are
+those which chiefly produce chemical effects such as are utilised in
+photography.
+
+Having now arrived at the nature of colour, we are in a position to
+apply these facts to the discussion of coloured substances.
+
+When light falls on a body, a portion of it is turned back or, as it
+is called, ‘reflected’ from the surface; another part is taken up or
+‘absorbed’ by the substance; while, in the case of a transparent body,
+a third portion passes on through it, and is said to be ‘transmitted.’
+Most bodies absorb the different parts of the light in different
+proportions, and hence their various colours are produced. The colour
+of a transparent substance is that of the light which it transmits;
+while an opaque body is said to be of the colour of the light which it
+reflects, or rather of that part of it which is irregularly scattered.
+
+There are three colours in the solar spectrum which are called
+‘primary,’ owing to the fact that they cannot be produced by mixtures.
+These are red, violet, and deep olive green. The generally-received
+idea that red, blue, and yellow are primary colours, is by recent
+scientific authorities not regarded as tenable; it arose from
+observations on mixtures of pigments rather than of coloured light. For
+instance, objects seen through two plates of glass, one of which is
+blue and the other yellow, appear green; but this by no means justifies
+us in saying that a mixture of blue and yellow light is green. For
+remembering that the two glasses do not appear coloured by reason of
+their adding anything to the light, but rather through their stopping
+the passage of certain rays, we shall see that the green light which
+is finally transmitted is not a mixture of yellow and blue at all, but
+is rather that portion of the light which both of the glasses allow to
+pass. The blue glass will probably stop all rays except blue, violet,
+and green; the yellow glass, all but green, yellow, and orange. The
+only light, therefore, which can pass through both glasses is green.
+The same remark applies to mixtures of pigments, each particle being
+really transparent, though the whole bulk appears opaque. It is easy,
+however, to obtain real mixtures of coloured lights by employing
+suitable arrangements, of which one of the simplest consists of a disc
+painted with alternate bands of colours and rapidly rotated. By such
+means it is found that a mixture of blue and yellow is not green, but
+white or gray, and that yellow can itself be produced by a mixture of
+red and green in proper proportions. The late Professor Clerk Maxwell
+made an interesting series of experiments on colour mixtures by means
+of an apparatus known as Maxwell’s Colour-box, by which any number of
+colours could be combined in any required proportions.
+
+It would, however, be beyond the scope of the present paper to discuss
+the many important results which followed from his investigations.
+Helmholtz believed the three primary colour sensations to be due to
+the action of three sets of nerves at the back of the retina, each
+of which is excited only by vibrations within a certain range of
+frequency; and this theory is now generally held. In the case of some
+persons, the sensation corresponding to red is wholly absent, and the
+spectrum appears to consist of two colours with white or gray between.
+The nature of these colours is, for obvious reasons, difficult to
+determine; but one doubtless nearly corresponds to our sensation of
+blue, while the other is a deep colour, probably dark green. Persons
+thus affected are usually called ‘colour-blind;’ but this epithet is
+a misnomer, and the term ‘dichroic vision’ has been suggested for the
+phenomenon instead.
+
+We have already remarked that our range of vision is comparatively
+narrow, the extreme portions of the spectrum making no impression on
+the retina. But we have no reason to think that these limits have been
+the same in all ages. The evidence would rather tend to show that the
+human eye is undergoing a slow and gradual development, which enables
+it to distinguish between colours which the ancients regarded as
+identical, and may in future render it able to perceive some portions
+at least of the parts of the spectrum which are now invisible. The
+Vedas of India, which are among the most ancient writings known,
+attest that in the most remote ages only white and black could be
+distinguished.
+
+It would seem as if the perception of different degrees of intensity
+of light preceded by a long time the appreciation of various kinds of
+colours. After weighing the evidence, Magnus has come to the conclusion
+that red was the first colour to become visible, then yellow and
+orange; and afterwards, though at a considerable interval, green, blue,
+and violet in order. Various passages in the Old Testament have been
+cited as proof that the ancients failed to perceive all the colours
+seen by us, one of the most remarkable being in Ezekiel i. 27 and 28,
+where the prophet compares the appearance of the brightness round
+about the fire to that of the ‘bow that is in the cloud in the day of
+rain’—which passage has been cited by Mr Gladstone in his article in
+the _Nineteenth Century_ for October 1877, as indicating a want of
+appreciation of distinct colours among the ancients. This is not quite
+clear, however, as the appearance round about the supernatural fire
+might have assumed auroral or rainbow tints. But the most important
+evidence on the apparent want of capacity among the ancients to
+discriminate between colours is that afforded by the writings of
+Homer, who, in the opinion of Magnus, could neither have perceived
+green nor blue. The point has been carefully examined by Mr Gladstone,
+who comes to the conclusion that this estimate is quite within the
+mark. Inquiring in detail into each of Homer’s colour-epithets, he
+shows that almost all must be in reality regarded as expressing degrees
+of intensity rather than of quality, and that the few exceptions
+are all confined to red and yellow. The brilliant blue sky of the
+southern climes where Homer lived must have appeared to him as of a
+neutral gray hue. Of course, the suggestion that the writings usually
+assigned to Homer were in reality the productions of many authors,
+does not invalidate the reasoning at all, as we do not attribute any
+defect in vision to the poet which was not equally manifested by his
+contemporaries.
+
+It is curious that the distinction between green and blue is not yet
+perfectly developed in all nations. Travellers tell us that the Burmese
+often confuse these colours in a remarkable manner. This and other
+facts suggest that the development of the colour-sense is not yet
+completed; and that in the future our range of perception may be still
+further enlarged, so that the now invisible rays may be recognised by
+the eye as distinct colours.
+
+
+
+
+‘SO UNREASONABLE OF STEP-MOTHER!’
+
+A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
+
+
+Not long before the death of George Eliot, on a return trip to London
+by the Midland route, I broke my journey at Leicester, to pay a flying
+visit to Coventry, where the great writer had spent many of her
+happiest days. There I was privileged by having for escort one of her
+most valued friends; and many interesting reminiscences were for our
+benefit called to mind, especially of a visit paid to Edinburgh, ‘mine
+own romantic town,’ and of the impression the beauty of its situation
+had made on her mind. Next morning, every favourite haunt of hers was
+searched out and commented on, as well as the interesting points of the
+quaint old city of Coventry; and bidding good-bye to our hospitable
+friends, I departed alone by the evening mail for Leicester, there to
+wait for the midnight train to Edinburgh, feeling satisfied that the
+hours had been well spent. Arrived in Leicester, I was fortunate in
+finding a fellow-countryman in one of the porters, who at once took
+me and my belongings under his especial protection, and when he had
+seen me comfortably ‘happit up’ on one of the sofas of the luxurious
+waiting-room, he retired, bidding me take a quiet forty winks, and keep
+my mind quite easy, for he would give me timely notice of the arrival
+of the Scotch train. Scarcely had I begun to feel the loneliness of my
+situation, when the door opened, and a female figure entered, rather
+unwilling, apparently; nay, seemed to be pushed in, while a deep male
+voice advised that she should rest by the fire, and not put herself
+about so. By a succession of jerks, she advanced to the chair by the
+fire opposite to my sofa; and finding that I was not asleep, as
+she had supposed, at once, and without any circumlocution, began to
+unburden her mind, her words flowing from her mouth at express speed,
+regardless of comma or full stop.
+
+‘Not put myself about! Humph! That’s so like men.—Ain’t it now, miss?
+Ah, I dessay you’ve ’ad your own share of worriting before now, and
+know ’ow downright masterful and provoking they can be at times. I tell
+you _w’at_, miss, if you want to be at peace at all, you’ve got to
+say black is w’ite, if they ’ave a mind that it should be so.—Not put
+myself about! I’d like to know ’ow one with a ’eart and a soul in their
+body could ’elp being put about, as I am.’
+
+I ventured to hope nothing serious had occurred to disturb her
+composure or to put her about, my voice at once disclosing that I
+hailed from the North, and also that I was of a sympathetic nature.
+
+‘Put about!’ she once more exclaimed. ‘Why, I _am_ put about; yes—no
+use trying to appear as if I was anything else. Yes; only think, miss!
+Not ’alf an hour gone, a telegram was brought to our ’ouse by the
+telegraph-boy. His mother, a widow, keeps a little bit of a shop not
+many doors from our own. Yes; he ’ands it in saying it was for father.
+I opened it; and there, staring me right in the eyes were them words:
+“_Step-mother is lying a-dying._”—Not put about! I’d just like to
+know ’ow anybody could ’ave been anything else than put about, after
+_that_. Now, miss, you must understand that John—that’s my ’usband—is
+a great go-to-meeting-man. Why, at that very moment he might be at
+the church meeting, or he might ’ave been at the Building meeting, or
+he might ’ave been at a Masonic meeting, or he might ’ave been at any
+other meeting under the sun. And w’atever was I to do? for there was
+the telegraph-boy; there was the telegram, with the words as plain as
+plain: “Step-mother is lying a-dying.” I put on my bonnet and shawl;
+I ’urried to father’s office—he is a master-builder, is father, with
+sixteen men under him and three apprentices; and John, my son, for
+partner. I rushed in quite out of breath, not expecting to find any one
+there at that time of night; but there I found John—that’s my son—and
+says I, without taking time to sit down, though I was like to drop:
+“John, w’atever is to be done! Here’s a telegraph-boy has brought a
+telegram for father to say, ‘step-mother is a-dying.’”
+
+‘Now, miss, I just put it to you, if them telegrams, coming so sudden
+at hours w’en no one expects postmen’s knocks, and bringing such news
+as that, ain’t enough to put any one about! Augh! Men are so queer;
+there’s no nerves in their bodies, and can’t understand us women. I’ve
+no patience with them. There was John—that’s my son—w’at did he do?
+Why, look at me quite composed, as if it weren’t no news at all, and
+says he: “Don’t put yourself about, mother. Father has gone off not
+many minutes ago to the paddock, to give little Bobbie a ride.” And
+with that he takes down a time-table, to look at it for the last train,
+puts on his hat, calls for a cab, and says quite composed: “Jump in,
+mother. We’ll go in pursuit of father, and then we’ll catch the train
+quite easily.” It seemed to me the horse just crept up the ’ill like
+a snail; only John would ’ave it they were going faster than their
+usual pace. W’en we came to our door, w’at do you think we saw, now,
+miss?—No; you’ll never guess, I dessay. Why, _father_, to be sure! Yes;
+there he was; and there was the pony; and there was little Bobbie—all
+three of ’em just about to start for a long ride into the country. I
+’ad carried the telegram in my pocket; and do you know, miss, after
+all my flurry and worry, w’at did John—that’s my ’usband—say, think
+you?—Augh! Men are so unreasonable, and w’at’s more, such cool and
+’eartless pieces. Yes; that’s w’at _they_ are; and I don’t care who
+hears me a-saying it.
+
+‘John—that’s father—after he had read the telegram, he turns to me,
+and says he: “Why, mother, ’ave your senses left your ’ead altogether?
+W’atever made you carry off the telegram! Couldn’t you ’ave stayed
+quietly at ’ome, instead of putting yourself about in this here
+fashion? If you ’ad, we’d ’ave been at the station without any hurry at
+all, by this time.”
+
+‘I felt too angry to speak, I do declare, miss. I think the older
+men grow, the more aggravating they get to a sensitive nature. So I
+gathered the things together father said we’d better take with us,
+into my travelling-basket, without as much as a single word—a stranger
+coming in would ’ave thought me dumb—while father sent a man back to
+the paddock with little Bobbie and the pony. We then got into the cab
+once more; and here we are, with John—that’s my son—a-looking after the
+tickets and the luggage; and father smoking his pipe outside as cool
+as cool. O dear, if they wouldn’t put me out with their “Keep cool,
+mother; no need to fluster and flurry so, mother”—“Take it easy, good
+ooman; don’t put yourself about”—I’d bear it better, I certainly should.
+
+‘Is step-mother nice? you ask. Oh—well—that’s just as you take it. Some
+people say she’s nice; some say she’s quite the opposite. But’—and
+here she drew her chair closer to me, and in a more confidential
+tone, continued: ‘I tell you _w’at_, miss—I’ve said it before, and
+I say it again—step-mother, in spite of her religious pro-fession
+and san’timonious ways, is cantankerous. No use a-trying to hide
+it—step-mother is just w’at I say, _can-tankerous_. I’ve said it
+before; I say it again—she’d show her cantankerousness to the very
+last. And han’t my words come true, for here she is lying a-dying, and
+Mary-Anne’s wedding fixed for Friday of this very week!—O my—now that
+I come to ’ave a quiet moment to think, w’atever am I to do? It’s so
+unreasonable of step-mother! Why, the dressmaker was coming this very
+evening to fit my dress on for the second time—a new black silk it
+is—and w’atever will _she_ think, w’en she finds I’ve gone off without
+as much as a good-bye message? You see, miss, Mary-Anne is going to
+marry into quite a genteel family. Father, and John—that’s my son—he
+comes to me not many weeks gone, and says he: “Mother, I ’ope you are
+going to ’ave a nice dress for this wedding. I ’ope it will be a silk
+or a satin you decide to buy.” And says I: “John, you know w’at father
+is, and ’as been all his life—a just man to all; but a man who looks
+upon gay clothes as not necessary. And then, John, you know as well
+as I do that father is rather close-fisted w’en money has to be paid
+out—like his own father before him, who was looked upon by all as the
+most parsimonious man in the town. I don’t say father is quite as bad;
+but close-fisted I _do_ say he is, John; and you know it. Were I to
+say: ‘Father, I’d like to ’ave a silk dress for this wedding’—and I
+don’t hide the fact from _you_, John, that I certainly should—he’d just
+laugh. I know it beforehand. He’d say: ‘Why, mother, ’aven’t you been
+content with a good stuff-dress all our married life, and can’t you go
+on to the end so? I’ve over and over again said my wife looked as well
+as most women in the town of Leicester.’”
+
+‘“But,” says John—that’s my son—“mother, you owe your duty certainly
+to father. I’m not going against it; but w’at I says is: You owe your
+duty to your son also; and w’en I wish _my_ mother to look better than
+she’s ever done before, why—to oblige me—you’ll go and purchase the
+best silk-dress in town, ’ave it made fashionable, with frills and all
+the fal-de-rals and etceteras; send in the account in my name; and if
+father makes any objections, why, let him settle the matter with _me_.”
+
+‘You see, miss, John is getting to be so like father—both _firm_, very;
+and if they take a notion of any kind w’atever into their ’eads, you’d
+move this station as soon as move them from their purpose; so the dress
+’as been bought; and w’at father will say to it—for it’s to be made in
+the height of the fashion—_I_ can’t say.’
+
+A few judicious questions about the step-mother who was lying a-dying,
+drew from my companion that the said old lady was rich as well as
+cantankerous; and that, as there were other relations who might step in
+to the injury of the worthy builder, who was her only stepson, it was,
+to say the least, but prudent to be on the spot.
+
+‘Ah, yes, miss,’ she exclaimed, stretching her hands out to keep the
+heat of the fire from her face, ‘this is a very strange world. Only
+on Sunday, the vicar was preaching to us against worldly-mindedness,
+telling us that as we came naked into the world, so we left it,
+carrying nothing away. But, miss, step-mother ain’t like the most of
+people; and she’s going to manage to take with her as much money as she
+possibly can.—How is she going to do it? Why, miss—she’s going to ’ave
+a coffin!—No need to look surprised, miss. O yes; we all bury our dead
+in coffins; but w’at kind of a coffin is step-mother going to ’ave, do
+you think? No; don’t try to guess, for you’d be down to Scotland and up
+again before it would ever come into your ’ead.—No; not a velvet one,
+nor a satin; but a _hoak_ one.—Yes; I thought you would get a scare. A
+_hoak_ coffin is w’at it is to be. And she’s going to ’ave bearers—six
+of ’em. Each bearer is to ’ave ’at-bands and scarfs, and two pounds
+apiece. And if all that pomp and tomfoolery ain’t taking so much money
+out of the world with her, I don’t know w’at _is_. W’en John—that’s
+father—heard of it, says he to me: “Mother, if you survives me, bury me
+plain, but comf’able;” and says I: “Father, if you survives me, I ’ope
+you will do the same by me—plain, but comf’able; for I tell you w’at,
+father, I’d not lie easy underground thinking of the waste of good
+money over such ’umbug.”’
+
+Here the waiting-room door opened hurriedly, and the worthy woman
+bounded to her feet at the one word ‘Mother!’ pronounced in such a
+decided tone that I too was standing beside her before I knew what I
+was doing, with all my wraps tossed higgledy-piggledy on the floor.
+Advancing with her to the door, she got out of me that my immediate
+destination was Scotland—a place, to her mind, evidently as remote as
+the arctic regions; and in her astonishment, she forgot the necessity
+there was to hurry to get in to her train, now ready to start again.
+She even seemed to forget that step-mother was lying a-dying, as she
+insisted upon introducing me to her husband, whose huge body was
+wrapped in a greatcoat, with tippet after tippet on it up to his neck.
+‘Only to think, John—this lady is going to Scotland all alone, John!
+She’ll be travelling all night.—O dear, however are you to do it, miss;
+ain’t you afraid?—Yes, John; I’m coming.—Good-bye, miss; we’ve ’ad
+quite a pleasant chat, I do assure you; the time seems to ’ave flown.’
+
+I hurried her along the platform, whispering to her as I did so: ‘I
+hope step-mother will rally a bit; that if she must pass away, it may
+be next week, so that Mary-Anne may get her wedding comfortably over.’
+At the very door of the carriage she paused, seized my hand, shook it
+warmly, as she exclaimed: ‘Well, now, you ’ave a feeling ’eart; but I
+don’t expect her to be so accommodating. No; I’ve said it before, and I
+say it again—step-mother is—_can-ta_—— Why, w’atever is the matter?’
+
+Next thing that happened, the little woman was lifted up bodily in her
+son’s arms—a counterpart of his father—and deposited in the carriage;
+while her husband, in spite of his lumbering large body, succeeded
+in jumping in just as the patience of all the railway officials was
+exhausted, and the signal given to start the train. Before it was
+lost to view, a white handkerchief fluttered out, by way of good-bye,
+causing a smile to rise over the calm features of John the younger,
+who, lifting his hat politely to me, bade me good-evening, adding:
+‘Mother is no great traveller, so she is easily put about. Dessay if
+she went often from ’ome, she’d learn to be more composed.’
+
+From that hour I have never ceased to regret that I did not ask the
+good-natured young builder to forward me a local paper with the account
+of the death and burial of ‘step-mother.’ No doubt there would be due
+notice taken of such an interesting personage, as she lay in state in
+her ‘hoak’ coffin, surrounded by her bearers in the flowing scarfs and
+hat-bands. Sharp as my friends generally give me credit for being, I
+own I committed a grievous blunder; I am therefore obliged to leave
+my story without an end, not being able even to add that the fair
+Mary-Anne’s wedding came off on the appointed day, or was postponed
+till after the complimentary days of mourning were past. I cheer
+myself with the thought that ‘John—that’s father’—being a firm man
+and a sensible, would insist upon the previous arrangements standing
+good, seeing that the bridegroom—a most important fact I have omitted
+to record—had a fortnight’s holiday reluctantly granted to him by
+his employers. Why, now that I think of it, my countryman the railway
+porter would have sent me any number of papers, judging by the kindly
+interest he took in my behalf, and the determined manner he fought
+for a particular seat for me in a particular carriage when the time
+came for my train to start. ‘Na, na, mem; nae need for thanks; blood’s
+thicker than water,’ he said. ‘Never you fear, now that the Scotch
+guard has ta’en up your cause; you’re a’ right; he’ll see that ye’re
+safely housed.’ And safely housed I was, and went steaming out of the
+station with my worthy friend hanging on by the door, calling to me:
+‘If you’re ever in the town o’ Perth, mem, my auld mother would be
+downright pleased to see you, for my sake. Tell her I’m getting on as
+weel as can be expeckit, sae far frae hame.’
+
+All night, my disturbed sleep was made doubly so by dreams of old
+women of every age and style. Now I was hunting for the porter’s
+nameless mother; now I was standing by the bedside of the step-mother
+who was lying a-dying. Again I was an active assistant at a marriage
+ceremony, with the fair Mary-Anne, surrounded by her genteel relations,
+leaning on my shoulder, weeping copiously at the idea of travelling to
+Scotland. Once more I stood gazing down on the old step-mother; and
+just as the day dawned, I was fairly roused, in my determination not to
+be smothered under an oak coffin and a pyramid of scarfs, hat-bands,
+and bearers, by the tumbling of my own bonnet-box from the luggage-rack
+above me.
+
+
+
+
+FRENCH DETECTIVES.
+
+
+‘The Secret Police’ in France are not only personally unknown to the
+general public, but, save in exceptional cases, even to each other.
+It is known where they may be found at a moment’s notice when wanted;
+but, as a rule, they do not frequent the prefecture more than can be
+helped. They have nothing whatever to do with serving summonses or
+executing warrants. There are among them men who have lived in almost
+every class of life, and each of them has what may be called a special
+line of business of his own. In the course of their duty, some of them
+mix with the receivers of stolen goods, others with thieves, many
+with what are called in Paris commercial rascals, and not a few with
+those whose ‘industry’ it is to melt silver and other property of a
+like valuable nature. Forgers, sharpers of all kinds, housebreakers
+and horse-stealers—a very numerous class in Paris—have each all their
+special agents of the police, who watch them, and know where to lay
+hands upon them when they are wanted. A French detective who cannot
+assume and act up to any character, and who cannot disguise himself
+in any manner so effectually as not to be recognised even by those
+who know him best, is not considered fit to hold his appointment.
+Their ability in this way is marvellous. Some years ago, one of them
+made a bet that he would in the course of the next few days address
+a gentleman with whom he was acquainted four times, for at least ten
+minutes each time, and that he should not know him on any occasion
+until the detective had discovered himself. As a matter of course,
+the gentleman was on his guard, and mistrusted every one who came
+near him. But the man won his bet. It is needless to enter into the
+particulars. Suffice it to say that in the course of the next four days
+he presented himself in the character of a bootmaker’s assistant, a
+fiacre-driver, a venerable old gentleman with a great interest in the
+Bourse, and finally as a waiter in the hotel in which the gentleman was
+staying.
+
+
+
+
+‘NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.’
+
+
+    My little child, with clustering hair,
+      Strewn o’er thy dear, dead brow,
+    Though in the past divinely fair,
+      More lovely art thou now.
+    God bade thy gentle soul depart,
+      On brightly shimmering wings;
+    Yet near thy clay, thy mother’s heart
+      All weakly, fondly clings.
+
+    My beauteous child, with lids of snow
+      Closed o’er thy dim blue eyes,
+    Should it not soothe my grief to know
+      They shine beyond the skies?
+    Above thy silent cot I kneel,
+      With heart all crushed and sore,
+    While through the gloom these sweet words steal:
+      ‘Not lost, but gone before.’
+
+    My darling child, these flowers I lay
+      On locks too fair, too bright,
+    For the damp grave-mist, cold and gray,
+      To dim their sunny light.
+    Soft baby tresses bathed in tears,
+      Your gold was all mine own!
+    Ah, weary months! ah, weary years!
+      That I must dwell alone.
+
+    My only child, I hold thee still,
+      Clasped in my fond embrace!
+    My love, my sweet! how fixed, how chill,
+      This smile upon thy face!
+    The grave is cold, my clasp is warm,
+      Yet give thee up I must;
+    And birds will sing when thy loved form
+      Lies mouldering in the dust.
+
+    My angel child, thy tiny feet
+      Dance through my broken dreams;
+    Ah me, how joyous, quaint, and sweet,
+      Their baby pattering seems!
+    I hush my breath, to hear thee speak;
+      I see thy red lips part;
+    But wake to feel thy cold, cold cheek,
+      Close to my breaking heart!
+
+    Soon, soon my burning tears shall fall
+      Upon thy coffin lid;
+    Nor may those tears thy soul recall
+      To earth—nay, God forbid!
+    Be happy in His love, for I
+      Resigned, though wounded sore,
+    Can hear His angels whispering nigh:
+      ‘Not lost, but gone before.’
+
+            FANNY FORRESTER.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
+and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_All Rights Reserved._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Transcriber’s note: The following changes have been made to this text.
+
+Page 47: wa’t to w’at—“know w’at _is_.”]
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 64571 ***
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-<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 3, Vol. I, January 19, 1884, by Various</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
-are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the
-country where you are located before using this eBook.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 3, Vol. I, January 19, 1884</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Various</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February 16, 2021 [eBook #64571]</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>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)</div>
-
-<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 3, VOL. I, JANUARY 19, 1884 ***</div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>{33}</span></p>
-
-<h1>CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL<br />
-OF<br />
-POPULAR<br />
-LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.</h1>
-
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2>
-</div>
-
-<p class='center'>
-
-<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. -->
-
-<a href="#GIRLS_WIVES_AND_MOTHERS">GIRLS, WIVES, AND MOTHERS.</a><br />
-<a href="#BY_MEAD_AND_STREAM">BY MEAD AND STREAM.</a><br />
-<a href="#THE_CLIFF-HOUSES_OF_CANON_DE">THE CLIFF-HOUSES OF CAÑON DE CHELLY.</a><br />
-<a href="#TWO_DAYS_IN_A_LIFETIME">TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.</a><br />
-<a href="#THE_COLOUR-SENSE">THE COLOUR-SENSE.</a><br />
-<a href="#SO_UNREASONABLE_OF_STEP-MOTHER">‘SO UNREASONABLE OF STEP-MOTHER!’</a><br />
-<a href="#FRENCH_DETECTIVES">FRENCH DETECTIVES.</a><br />
-<a href="#NOT_LOST_BUT_GONE_BEFORE">‘NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.’</a><br />
-
-<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. -->
-
-</p>
-
-<hr class="full" />
-
-<div class="chapter">
-<div class="figcenter" id="header" style="max-width: 37.5em;">
-  <img class="w100" src="images/header.jpg"  alt="Chambers’s Journal of Popular Literature, Science,
-and Art. Fifth Series. Established by William and Robert Chambers, 1832. Conducted by R. Chambers (Secundus)." />
-</div>
-
-<hr class="full" />
-<div class="center">
-<div class="header">
-<p class="floatl"><span class="smcap">No. 3.—Vol. I.</span></p>
-<p class="floatr"><span class="smcap">Price</span> 1½<em>d.</em></p>
-<p class="floatc">SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1884.</p>
-</div></div></div>
-
-<hr class="full" />
-
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2 class="nobreak" id="GIRLS_WIVES_AND_MOTHERS">GIRLS, WIVES, AND MOTHERS.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<p class="ph3">A WORD TO THE MIDDLE CLASSES.</p>
-
-
-<p><span class="smcap">There</span> may be theoretically much to sympathise
-with in the cry for the yet higher culture of the
-women of our middle classes, but at the same
-time not a little to find fault with in practice.
-While it is difficult to believe that there can
-be such a thing as over-education of the human
-subject, male or female, there may yet be false
-lines of training, which lead to a dainty misplaced
-refinement, quite incompatible with the social
-position the woman may be called to fill in after-life,
-and which too often presupposes, what even
-education has a difficulty in supplying—a subsistence
-in life. Where we equip, we too frequently
-impede. In the hurry to be intelligent
-and accomplished, the glitter of drawing-room
-graces is an object of greater desire than the more
-homely but not less estimable virtues identified
-with the kitchen. Our young housewives are
-imbued with far too much of the æsthete at the
-expense of the cook; too much of the stage, and
-too little of the home. In abandoning the equally
-mistaken views of our grandfathers on women’s
-up-bringing, we have gone to the opposite extreme,
-to the exclusion of anything like a means to
-an end; and in the blindest disregard of the
-recipients’ circumstances in life, present and prospective.</p>
-
-<p>In considering what the aim of female education
-ought to be, it is surely not too much to expect
-that of all things it should mentally and physically
-fit our women for the battle of life. Its
-application and utility should not have to end
-where they practically do at present—at the altar.
-While it is necessary to provide a common armour
-for purposes of general defence, there certainly
-ought to be a special strengthening of the harness
-where most blows are to be anticipated; and if
-not to all, certainly to middle-class women, the
-years of battle come <i>after</i>, not before marriage.
-Every one of them, then, ought to be trained in
-conformity with the supreme law of her being,
-to prove a real helpmate to the man that takes
-her to wife. Make sure that she is first of all
-thoroughly qualified for a mother’s part, in what
-may be called a working sphere of life; then add
-whatever graces may be desirable as a sweetening,
-according to taste, means, and opportunity. It
-is in this happy blending of abstract knowledge
-with the economy of a home, that true success
-in the education of middle-class women must be
-sought.</p>
-
-<p>In the training of our boys, utility in after-life
-is seldom lost sight of. Why should it be too often
-the reverse in the education of our girls, whose
-great vocation in life, as wives and mothers, is a
-birthright they cannot renounce, which no lord of
-creation can deprive them of, and which no sticklers
-for what they are pleased to call the rights of
-women can logically disown? No doubt, among
-the last-named there are extreme people, who
-cannot, from the very nature of their own individual
-circumstances, see anything in wifely cares
-save the shackles of an old-world civilisation. In
-their eyes, motherhood is a tax upon pleasure,
-and an abasement of the sex. With them, there
-need be no parley. There is no pursuit under the
-sun that a woman will not freely forsake—often
-at a sacrifice—for the wifely cares that supervene
-on marriage; and therein, few will deny, lies her
-great and natural sphere in life. Than it, there
-is no nobler. In it, she can encounter no rival;
-and any attempt to divest herself of nature’s
-charge can have but one ending. The blandishments
-of a cold æstheticism can never soothe, animate,
-and brighten the human soul, like the warm,
-suffusive joys which cluster round the married
-state.</p>
-
-<p>Here we may briefly digress to remark, that in
-our opinion, no valid objections can be urged
-against women entering professional life, <i>provided
-they stick to it</i>. They already teach, and that
-is neither the lightest nor least important of
-masculine pursuits. Why should they not prescribe
-for body and soul? why not turn their
-proverbial gifts of speech to a golden account at
-the bar? It would be in quitting any of these<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>{34}</span>
-professions, and taking up the <i>rôle</i> of wife and
-mother, which they would have to learn at the
-expense of their own and others’ happiness, that
-the real mischief of the liberty would lie. In
-nine cases out of ten, their failure in the second
-choice would be assured, thereby poisoning all
-social well-being at its very source.</p>
-
-<p>The woman not over- but mis-educated is
-becoming an alarmingly fruitful cause of the
-downward tendencies of much of our middle-class
-society. She herself is less to blame for this, than
-the short-sighted, though possibly well-meant policy
-of her parents and guardians, who, in the worst
-spirit of the age, veneer their own flesh and
-blood, as they do their furniture, for appearance’
-sake. Let us glance at the educational equipment
-they provide their girls with, always premising
-that our remarks are to be held as strictly
-applicable only to the middle ranks of our
-complex society.</p>
-
-<p>Our typical young woman receives a large
-amount of miscellaneous education, extending far
-through her teens, and amounting to a very fair
-mastery of the <i>R</i>s. If she limp in any of these, it
-will be in the admittedly vexatious processes of
-arithmetic. She will have a pretty ready command
-of the grammatical and idiomatic uses of her
-mother-tongue; a fairly firm hold of the geography
-of this planet, and an intelligent conception
-of the extra-terrestrial system. She will
-have plodded through piles of French and
-German courses, learning many things from them
-but the language. She will have a fair if not
-profound knowledge of history. She can, in all
-likelihood, draw a little, and even paint; but of
-all her accomplishments, what she must imperatively
-excel in is music. From tender years,
-she will have diligently laboured at all the
-musical profundities; and her chances in the
-matrimonial market of the future are probably
-regarded as being in proportion to her proficient
-manipulation of the keyboard. If she
-can sing, well and good; play on the piano she
-must. If, as a girl, she has no taste for instrumental
-music, and no ear to guide her flights
-in harmony, the more reason why she should,
-with the perseverance of despair, thump away
-on the irresponsive ivories, in defiance of every
-instinct in her being. The result at twenty
-<i>may</i> be something tangible in some cases, but
-extremely unsatisfactory at the price.</p>
-
-<p>During all these years, she has been systematically
-kept ignorant of almost every domestic care.
-Of the commonplaces of cookery she has not the
-remotest idea. A great educationist, whose statement
-we have good reason to indorse, asserts
-that there are thousands of our young housewives
-that do not know how to cook a potato. This
-may seem satire. It is, we fear, in too many
-cases, true, and we quote it with a view to
-correct rather than chastise.</p>
-
-<p>The misapplications of young miss’s upbringing
-do not end here. She cannot sew to any purpose.
-If she deign to use a needle at all, it is to
-embroider a smoking-cap for a lover or a pair
-of slippers for papa. To sew on a button, or
-cut out and unite the plainest piece of male
-or female clothing, is not always within her
-powers, or at least her inclinations. Prosaic
-vulgar work, fit only for dressmakers and milliners!
-She will spend weeks and months over
-eighteen inches of what she is pleased to call
-lace, while the neighbouring seamstress is making
-up all her underclothing, to pay for which, papa
-has not too much money; but then it is genteel.</p>
-
-<p>She cannot knit. A pair of worsted cuffs or
-a lanky cravat is something great to attain to;
-while a stocking, even were the charwomen less
-easily paid, is sure to come off the needles right-lined
-as any of Euclid’s parallelograms—all leg
-and no ankle—a suspicion of foot, but never a
-vestige of heel. To darn the hole that so soon
-appears in the loosely knitted fabric, would be
-a servile, reproachful task, quite staggering to
-the sentimental aspirations of our engaged
-Angelina. Yet darning and the divine art of
-mending will one day be to her a veritable
-philosopher’s stone, whose magic influences will
-shed beams of happiness over her household, and
-fortunate will she be if she have not to seek it
-with tears.</p>
-
-<p>By the sick-bed, where she ought to be supreme,
-she is often worse than useless. The pillows that
-harden on the couch of convalescence, too rarely
-know her softening touch. She may be all kindness
-and attention—for the natural currents of
-her being are full to repletion of sweetness and
-sympathy—yet as incapable of really skilled service
-as an artist’s lay-figure. And, as a last touch to
-the sorry picture, instead of being in any way a
-source of comfort to the bread-winners of her
-family, or a lessening of the strain on their purse-strings,
-she is a continual cause of extra work to
-servants, of anxiety to her parents, of <i>ennui</i> to
-herself.</p>
-
-<p>Apparently, the chief mission of the young
-lady to whom we address ourselves, is to entice
-some eligible young man into the responsibilities
-of wedlock. He, poor fellow, succumbs not so
-much to intrinsic merits, as to fine lady-like airs.
-He sees the polish on the surface, and takes for
-granted that there is good solid wear underneath.
-Our young miss has conquered, and quits the
-family roof-tree, sweetly conscious of her orange
-wreath of victory; but alas!—we are sorry to say
-it—do not her conquests too often end at the altar,
-unless she resolutely set herself to learn the
-exacting mysteries of her new sphere, and, what
-is far more difficult, to unlearn much that she
-has acquired? That she often does at this stage
-make a bold and firm departure from the toyish
-fancies of her training, and makes, from the sheer
-plasticity and devotion of her character, wonderful
-strides in the housewife’s craft, we cheerfully
-confess. Were it otherwise, the domestic framework
-of society would be in a far more disorganised
-condition than it happily is. But why handicap
-her for the most important, most arduous portion
-of her race in life? Why train her to be the
-vapid fine lady, with almost the certainty that,
-by so doing, you are taking the surest means of
-rendering her an insufficient wife and mother?
-And, unfortunately, not always, in fact but
-seldom, is she able, when she crosses her husband’s,
-threshold, to tear herself away from her omnivorous
-novel-reading, piano-playing, and all the
-other alleviations of confirmed idleness.</p>
-
-<p>The sweets of the honeymoon and an undefined
-vacation beyond make no great calls on her as
-a helpmate and wife. If her husband’s means
-permit of a servant or two, the smoother the water
-and the plainer the sailing for the nonce; although<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>{35}</span>
-these keen-scented critics in the kitchen will, in
-a very short time, detect and take the grossest
-advantage of their mistress’s inexperience. Besides,
-if we reflect that among our middle classes more
-marry on an income of two hundred pounds
-than on a higher, it becomes painfully apparent
-that two or three servants are the one thing our
-young housewife needs, but cannot possibly
-afford.</p>
-
-<p>She is now, however, only about to begin her
-life-work, and if there is such a thing clearly
-marked out for a being on this globe, it is for
-woman. By birthright, she is the mother of the
-human race. Could she have a greater, grander
-field for enterprise? How admirably has nature
-fitted her for performing the functions of the
-mother and adorning the province of the wife!
-Hence, there devolves upon her a responsibility
-which no extraneous labour in more inviting
-fields can excuse. No philosophy, no tinkering
-of the constitution, no success in the misnamed
-higher walks of life and knowledge, will atone
-for the failure of the mother. Let her shine a
-social star of the first magnitude, let her be
-supreme in every intellectual circle, and then
-marry, as she is ever prone to do, in spite of all
-theories; and if she fail as a mother, she fails
-as a woman and as a human being. She becomes
-a mere rag, a tatter of nature’s cast-off clothing,
-spiritless, aimless, a failure in this great world
-of work.</p>
-
-<p>As her family increases, the household shadows
-deepen, where all should be purity, sweetness,
-and light. The domestic ship may even founder
-through the downright, culpable incapacity of her
-that takes the helm. Her children never have
-the air of comfort and cleanliness. In their
-clothes, the stitch is never in time. The wilful
-neglect, and consequent waste, in this one matter
-of half-worn clothing is almost incredible. A
-slatternly atmosphere pervades her entire home.
-With the lapse of time our young wife becomes
-gradually untidy, dishevelled, and even dirty, in
-her own person; and at last sits down for good,
-disconsolate and overwhelmed by her unseen foe.
-Her husband can find no pleasure in the ‘hugger-mugger,’
-as Carlyle phrases it, of his home; there
-is no brightness in it to cheer his hours of rest.
-He returns from his daily labours to a chaos,
-which he shuns by going elsewhere; and so the
-sequel of misery and neglect takes form.</p>
-
-<p>As a first precaution against such a calamity, let
-us strip our home-life of every taint of quackery.
-Let us regard women’s education, like that of men,
-as a means to a lifelong end, never forgetting that
-if we unfit it for everyday practice, we render it a
-mere useless gem, valuable in a sense, but unset.
-Middle-class women will be the better educated,
-in every sense, the more skilled they are in the
-functions of the mother and the duties of the
-wife. Give them every chance of proving thrifty
-wives and good mothers, in addition to, or, where
-that is impossible, to the exclusion of accomplished
-brides. Let some part of their training
-as presently constituted, such as the rigours of
-music, and the fritterings of embroidery, give
-way, in part, to the essential acquirements which
-every woman, every mother should possess, and
-which no gold can buy. Give us a woman, then,
-natural in her studies, her training, her vocations,
-and her dress, and in the words of the
-wisest of men, who certainly had a varied
-experience of womankind, we shall have something
-‘far more precious than rubies. She
-will not be afraid of the snow for her household;
-strength and honour will be her clothing;
-her husband shall have no need of spoil; he
-shall be known in the gates, when he sitteth
-among the elders; he shall praise her; and her
-children shall call her blessed.’</p>
-
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2 class="nobreak x-ebookmaker-important" id="BY_MEAD_AND_STREAM">BY MEAD AND STREAM.</h2>
-</div>
-
-
-<h3>CHAPTER IV.—IN THE OAK PARLOUR.</h3>
-
-<p><span class="smcap">And</span> so, it had been only a bit of Uncle Dick’s
-kindly forethought and common-sense which had
-prompted the alarming words he had spoken
-to Madge. How she and Philip laughed at the
-chimerical idea that there could be any possible
-combination of circumstances in time or space
-which could alter their thoughts regarding each
-other! The birds in the orchard, in the intervals
-of pecking the fruit, seemed to sing a joyous
-laughing chorus at the absurdity of it—notwithstanding
-that the admission of it might be
-prudent.</p>
-
-<p>But when they came down to the point of
-vague admission that in the abstract and in
-relation to other couples—of course it could not
-apply to their own case—Uncle Dick’s counsel was
-such as prudent young people about to separate
-should keep in mind, an expression of perplexity
-flitted across Madge’s face. She looked at him
-with those tenderly wistful serious eyes, half
-doubting whether or not to utter the thought
-which had come to her.</p>
-
-<p>‘But what I cannot understand,’ she said
-slowly, ‘is why Uncle Dick should have been
-in such a temper. You know that although he
-may fly into a passion at anything that seems
-to him wrong, he never keeps it up. Now he
-had all the time riding home from Kingshope
-to cool, and yet when he spoke to me he seemed
-to be as angry as if he had just come out of
-the room where the quarrel took place.’</p>
-
-<p>‘What can it matter to us?’ was the blithe
-response. ‘He is not angry with me or with you,
-and so long as that is the case we need not mind
-if he should quarrel with all creation.’</p>
-
-<p>‘I’ll tell you what we will do,’ she said,
-and the disappearance of all perplexity from her
-face showed that she was quite of his opinion,
-although she wanted to have it supported by
-another authority.</p>
-
-<p>‘What is that?’</p>
-
-<p>‘We will go in and ask Aunt Hessy what she
-thinks about it.... Are you aware, sir’ (this
-with a pretty assumption of severity), ‘that you
-have not seen aunty to-day, and that you have
-not even inquired about her?’</p>
-
-<p>‘That <i>is</i> bad,’ he muttered; but it was evident
-that the badness which he felt was the interruption
-of the happy wandering through the orchard
-by this summary recall to duty.</p>
-
-<p>In his remorse, however, he was ready to sacrifice
-his present pleasure; for Aunt Hessy was
-a stanch friend of theirs, and it might be that
-her cheery way of looking at things would dispel
-the last lingering cloud of doubt from Madge’s
-mind regarding the misunderstanding between
-his father and Uncle Dick.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>{36}</span></p>
-
-<p>‘Then we had better go in at once; we shall
-find her in the dairy.’</p>
-
-<p>Mrs Crawshay was superintending the operations
-of three buxom maidens who were scalding
-the large cans in which the milk was conveyed
-every morning to the metropolis. Her
-ruddy face with the quiet, kindly gray eyes
-was that of a woman in her prime, and even
-her perfectly white hair did not detract from the
-sense of youth which was expressed in her appearance:
-it was an additional charm. She was
-nearly sixty. Her age was a standing joke of
-Uncle Dick’s. He had made the discovery that
-she was a month older than himself, and he
-magnified it into a year.</p>
-
-<p>‘Can’t you see?’ he would say, ‘if you are
-born in December and I am born in January, that
-makes exactly a year’s difference?’</p>
-
-<p>Then there would be a loud guffaw, and Uncle
-Dick would feel that he had completely overcome
-the Missus. The words and the guffaw were as a
-rule simultaneous, and if nobody happened to be
-present, it usually ended in Uncle Dick putting
-his arm round her neck and saying with a lump
-in his throat: ‘My old lass—young always to
-me.’</p>
-
-<p>He had not the slightest notion of the poetry
-that was in his soul whilst he spoke.</p>
-
-<p>Mrs Crawshay believed in young love. She had
-been very happy in hers. She had been brought
-up on a farm. Lads had come about her of course,
-and she had put them aside with a—‘Nay, lad,
-I’m not for thee,’ and had thought no more about
-them. Then Dick Crawshay had come, and—she
-did not know why—she had said: ‘Yes, thou
-art my lad.’</p>
-
-<p>They had been very happy notwithstanding
-their losses—indeed the losses seemed to have
-drawn them closer together.</p>
-
-<p>‘It’s only you and me, my old lass,’ he would
-say in their privacy.</p>
-
-<p>‘Only you and me, Dick,’ she would say as
-her gray head rested on his breast with all the
-emotion of youth in her heart.</p>
-
-
-<p class="p2">‘Go into the oak parlour,’ said Mrs Crawshay
-cheerily to the young folks, when she understood
-their mission; ‘and I’ll be with you in a
-minute.’</p>
-
-<p>The oak parlour was the stateroom of the
-house. It was long and high; the oak of the
-panels and beams which supported the pointed
-roof were of that dark hue which only time can
-impart. The three narrow windows had been
-lengthened by Dick’s father, and when the moon
-shone through them they were like three white
-ghosts looking in upon the dark chamber. But
-the moon did not often get a chance of doing this,
-for there was only a brief period of the year
-during which there was not a huge fire blazing
-in the great old-fashioned ingle. There were
-four portraits of former Crawshays and three
-of famous horses; with these exceptions the walls
-were bare, for none of the family had ever been
-endowed with much love of art.</p>
-
-<p>There were some legends still current about
-the mysteries hidden behind the sombre panels.
-One of the panels was specially honoured because
-it was reputed to have a recess behind it in which
-the king had found shelter for a time during his
-flight from the Roundheads. But owing to the
-indifference or carelessness of successive generations,
-nobody was now quite sure to which of
-the panels this honour properly belonged. There
-had been occasional attempts made to discover
-the royal hiding-place, but they had hitherto
-failed.</p>
-
-<p>The furniture was plain and substantial, displaying
-the styles of several periods of manufacture.
-In spite of the stiff straight lines of
-most of the things in the room, the red curtains,
-the red table-cover, the odd variety of the chairs
-gave the place a homely and, when the fire was
-ablaze, a cosy expression. This stateroom was
-correctly called ‘parlour,’ and it had been the
-scene of many a revel.</p>
-
-<p>As Philip and Madge were on their way to
-the oak parlour, a servant presented a card to
-the latter.</p>
-
-<p>‘He asked for you, miss,’ said the girl, and
-passed on to the kitchen.</p>
-
-<p>Madge looked at the card, and instantly held
-it out to Philip.</p>
-
-<p>‘Hullo!—my father,’ ejaculated he, adding with
-a laugh: ‘Now you can see that this mountain
-of yours is not even a molehill.’</p>
-
-<p>‘How can you tell that?’</p>
-
-<p>‘Because my father is the reverse of Uncle
-Dick. He never forgets—I doubt if he ever
-forgives—an unpleasant word. And yet here he
-is. Come along at once—but we had better say
-nothing to him about the affair unless he speaks
-of it himself.’</p>
-
-<p>They entered the room together, smiling hopefully.</p>
-
-<p>Mr Lloyd Hadleigh was standing at a window,
-hat in one hand, slim umbrella in the other, and
-staring hard at the shrubs. He had a way of
-staring hard at everything, and yet the way was
-so calm and thoughtful that he did not appear
-to see anything or anybody, and thus the stare
-was not offensive.</p>
-
-<p>‘The guv’nor always seems to be dreaming
-about you when he looks at you, and you never
-know when he’s going to speak—that’s awk’ard,’
-was the description of his expression given by
-Caleb Kersey, one of the occasional labourers on
-Ringsford.</p>
-
-<p>He was a man of average height, firmly built;
-square face; thick black moustache; close cropped
-black hair, with only an indication of thinning
-on the top and showing few streaks of white. His
-age was not more than fifty, and he had attained
-the full vigour of life.</p>
-
-<p>‘People talk about the fire and “go” of thirty,’
-he would say in his dry way. ‘It is nonsense.
-At that age a man is either going downhill or
-going up it, and in either case he is too much
-occupied and worried to have time to be happy.
-That was the most miserable period of my
-life.’</p>
-
-<p>Coldness was the first impression of his outward
-character. No one had ever seen him in a passion.
-Successful in business, he had provided well for
-the five children of a very early marriage. He
-never referred to that event, and had been long
-a widower without showing the slightest inclination
-to establish a new mistress at Ringsford.</p>
-
-<p>He turned on the entrance of Madge and Philip,
-saluting the former with grave politeness; then
-to the latter: ‘There are some letters for you
-at home, Philip.’</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>{37}</span></p>
-
-<p>‘Thank you, sir; but I have no doubt they
-can wait. I am to stay for dinner here.’</p>
-
-<p>‘From the postmarks I judge they are of
-importance.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Ah—then I know who they are from, and in
-that case there is no hurry at all, for the mail
-does not leave until Monday.’</p>
-
-<p>Mr Hadleigh addressed himself to Madge—no
-sign of annoyance in voice or manner.</p>
-
-<p>‘May I be permitted to have a few minutes’
-conversation with you in private, Miss Heathcote?’</p>
-
-<p>‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ broke in Philip hastily;
-‘I did not understand you to mean that you
-found me in the way.—If your aunt should ask
-for me, Miss Heathcote, I shall be in the
-garden.’</p>
-
-<p>With a good-natured inclination of the head,
-he went out. And as he walked down the
-garden path filling his pipe, he muttered to
-himself thoughtfully: ‘Seems to me he grows
-queerer and queerer every day. What <i>can</i> be
-the matter with him? If anybody else had
-asked for a private interview so solemnly, I
-should have taken it for granted that he was
-going to propose.... Daresay he wants to give
-some explanation of that confounded row, and
-make his apologies through Madge. I should
-like him to do that.’</p>
-
-<p>But Mr Hadleigh was neither going to propose
-nor to make apologies. He smiled, a curious sort
-of half-sad, half-amused smile, and there was really
-something interesting in the expression of his eyes
-at the moment.</p>
-
-<p>‘The truth is, Miss Heathcote, that I cannot
-acknowledge weakness before Philip. He is such
-a reckless fellow about money, that he would tell
-me I ought to give in at once to the labourers.’</p>
-
-<p>‘I am sure he would not, Mr Hadleigh, if he
-thought you were in the right.’</p>
-
-<p>‘I am not one likely to hold out if convinced
-that I am in the wrong.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Few men do under these conditions, Mr
-Hadleigh,’ said Madge, smiling.</p>
-
-<p>‘Well, at anyrate, I want your assistance very
-much; will you give it?’</p>
-
-<p>‘With great pleasure, if it is worth anything
-to you.’</p>
-
-<p>‘It is worth everything; for what harvest I
-might have on the home-farm—and I understand
-it promises to be a good one—is likely to be lost
-unless you help me.’</p>
-
-<p>‘How can that be, Mr Hadleigh?’</p>
-
-<p>‘Through beer. This is how the matter stands.
-You know the dispute about the wages, and I am
-willing to give in to that. But on this question
-of beer in the field I am firm. The men and
-women shall have the price of it; but I will
-neither give beer on the field nor permit them
-to bring it there. A great reform is to be worked
-in this matter, and I mean to do what little I
-can to advance it. I am sure, Miss Heathcote,
-you must acknowledge that I am right in adhering
-to this resolution.’</p>
-
-<p>‘I have been brought up in some very old-fashioned
-notions, Mr Hadleigh,’ she answered
-with pretty evasiveness.</p>
-
-<p>‘There is a high principle at stake in it, my
-dear Miss Heathcote, and it is worth fighting
-for.’</p>
-
-<p>‘But I do not yet see how my services are to
-be of use to you,’ she said, anxious to avoid this
-debatable subject. It was one on which her
-uncle had quite different views from those of
-Mr Hadleigh. And, therefore, she could not
-altogether sympathise with the latter’s enthusiasm,
-eager as she was to see the people steady
-and sober, for she remembered at the moment
-that he had made a considerable portion of his
-fortune out of a brewery.</p>
-
-<p>‘That was exactly what I was about to explain,’
-he replied. ‘I came to beg you to speak to Caleb
-Kersey.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Caleb!—why, he never touches anything
-stronger than tea.’</p>
-
-<p>‘That may be; but he believes that other people
-have a right to do so if they like. He has persuaded
-every man and woman who comes to me
-or my bailiff to put the question: “Is there to
-be beer?” When they are answered: “No; but
-the money,” they turn on their heels and march
-off, so that at this moment we have only two men.
-Now, my dear Miss Heathcote, will you persuade
-Kersey to stop his interference?’</p>
-
-<p>‘I do not see that he is interfering; but I will
-speak to him.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Thanks, thanks. If you were with me I
-should have no difficulty.’</p>
-
-<p>‘You would find me a very bad second,’ she
-answered, laughing, ‘for I should say—submit
-to old customs until persuasion alters them, since
-force never can.’</p>
-
-<p>Two things struck Madge during this interview
-and the commonplaces about nothing which
-followed it: The first, how much more frank
-and at ease he seemed to be with her than with
-any one else; and the second was, how loath he
-seemed to go.</p>
-
-<p>The owner of Ringsford said to himself as he
-was driven away: ‘I shall be glad when she is
-Philip’s wife.’</p>
-
-
-<h3>CHAPTER V.—A NEW EDEN.</h3>
-
-<p>She was still standing at the door to which
-she had accompanied Mr Hadleigh, and was
-looking after him, when a kindly voice behind
-her said: ‘He does look a woeful man. I wonder
-if he has any real friends.’</p>
-
-<p>Madge turned. Aunt Hessy was standing there,
-a pitying expression on her comely face, and
-she was wiping her hands in her apron. There
-was nothing in Mrs Crawshay’s manner or appearance
-to indicate her Quaker antecedents, except
-the frequent use of thee and thou—she did not
-always use that form of speech—and the quiet
-tone of all the colours of her dress. Yet, until
-her marriage she had been, like her father, a good
-Wesleyan; after her marriage she accompanied
-her husband to the church in which his family
-had kept their place for so many generations.
-To her simple faith it was the same whether
-she worshipped in church or chapel.</p>
-
-<p>‘Why do you say that, aunt?’</p>
-
-<p>‘Because he seems to be so much alone.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Mr Hadleigh alone! What about all the people
-who visit the manor?’</p>
-
-<p>‘Ay, they visit the manor,’ answered Aunt
-Hessy, with a slight shake of the head and a
-quiet smile.</p>
-
-<p>That set Madge thinking. He did impress her
-as a solitary man, notwithstanding his family,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>{38}</span>
-his many visitors, his school treats, his flower-shows,
-and other signs of a busy and what ought
-to be a happy life. Then there was the strange
-thing that he should come to ask her assistance
-to enable him to come to terms with the
-harvesters.</p>
-
-<p>‘I believe you are right, aunt. He is very
-much alone, and I suppose that was why he
-came to me to-day.’</p>
-
-<p>‘What did he want?’ asked Dame Crawshay,
-with unusual quickness and an expression of
-anxiety Madge could not remember ever having
-seen on her face before. She did not understand
-it until long afterwards.</p>
-
-<p>Having explained the object of Mr Hadleigh’s
-visit, as she understood it, she was surprised to
-see how much relieved her aunt looked. Knowing
-that that good woman had never had a secret
-in her life, and never made the least mystery
-about anything, she put the question direct:
-‘Did you expect him to say anything else?’</p>
-
-<p>‘I don’t know, Madge. He is a queer man,
-Mr Hadleigh, in a-many ways. He spoke to your
-uncle about this, and he would have nothing
-to do with it.’</p>
-
-<p>‘And that is why they fell out at the market,
-I suppose.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Where is Philip? He must take after his
-mother, for he is straightforward in everything.’</p>
-
-<p>‘He is out in the garden. Shall I go for
-him?’</p>
-
-<p>‘Nay. I want more peas, so we can find him
-on our way for them.’</p>
-
-<p>Philip had not gone far. He had walked down
-to the duck-pond; but after that distant excursion,
-he kept near the little gate beside the dairy,
-glancing frequently at the house-door. He was
-dallying with the last hours of the bright morning
-of his love, and he grudged every moment that
-Madge was away from him. A few days hence
-he would be looking back to this one with longing
-eyes. How miserable he would be on board that
-ship! How he would hate the sound of the
-machinery, knowing that every stroke of the
-piston was taking him so much farther away
-from her. And then, as the waters widened and
-stretched into the sky, would not his heart sink,
-and would he not wish that he had never started
-on this weary journey?</p>
-
-<p>In response to that lover-like question, he heard
-the echo of Madge’s voice in his brain: ‘It was
-your mother’s wish.’</p>
-
-<p>This simple reminder was enough, for he
-cherished the sad memory of that sweet pale face,
-which smiled upon him hopefully a moment
-before it became calm in death.</p>
-
-<p>He sprang away from these sorrowful reflections.
-Yes; he would look back longingly to
-this day when sea and sky shut out Willowmere
-and Madge from sight. But they would both be
-palpable to his mental vision; and he would look
-forward to that still brighter day of his return,
-his mission fulfilled, and nothing to do but
-marry Madge and live happy ever after. Ay, that
-should comfort him and make the present parting
-bearable.</p>
-
-<p>Besides, who could say with what fortune he
-might come back? The uncle to whom he was
-going was rumoured to be the possessor of fabulous
-wealth, and although married he was childless.
-True, also, he was reported to be so eccentric
-that nobody could understand him, or form the
-slightest conception of how he would act under
-any given circumstances. But it was known that
-before he went abroad, his sister—Philip’s mother—had
-been the one creature in whom all his
-affection seemed to be concentrated. An inexplicable
-coldness appeared in his conduct towards her
-after her marriage. The reason had never been
-explained.</p>
-
-<p>Shortly before her death, however, there had
-come a letter from him, which made her very
-happy. But she had burned the letter, by his
-instructions, without showing it to any one or
-revealing its contents. Evidently it was this
-letter which induced her to lay upon her son
-the charge of going to her brother Austin Shield,
-whenever he should be summoned. But the
-uncle held no correspondence with any one at
-Ringsford. That he was still alive, could be only
-surmised from vague reports and the fact that on
-every anniversary of Mrs Hadleigh’s birthday,
-with one exception, a fresh wreath of flowers was
-found on her grave—placed there, it was believed,
-by his orders. Then a few months ago, a letter
-had come to Philip, containing an invitation
-from his uncle, suggesting possible advantages, and
-inclosing a draft for expenses. So, being summoned,
-he was going; and whether the result
-should be good or ill fortune, his mother’s last
-command would be obeyed, and he would return
-with a clear conscience to marry Madge.</p>
-
-<p>That thought kept him in good-humour throughout
-the weary ages which seemed to elapse before
-he saw Madge and her aunt approaching. He
-ran to meet them.</p>
-
-<p>‘I thought you were never coming,’ was his
-exclamation.</p>
-
-<p>‘Thou’lt be able to do without her for a longer
-time than this without troubling thyself, by-and-by,’
-said Dame Crawshay with one of her pleasant
-smiles.</p>
-
-<p>‘When that day comes, I will say you are a
-prophetess of evil,’ he retorted, laughing, but with
-an air of affectionate respect. That was the feeling
-with which she inspired everybody.</p>
-
-<p>‘Nay, lad; but it need not be evil, for you may
-be apart, surely, doing good for each other.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Yes; but not without wishing we were
-together.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Wilt ever be wishing that?’</p>
-
-<p>‘For ever and ever.’</p>
-
-<p>He answered with burlesque solemnity outwardly;
-but Madge knew that he spoke from his
-heart, and in the full faith of his words. She gave
-him a quiet glance with those soft wistful eyes,
-and he was very happy.</p>
-
-<p>They had reached a tall row of peas, at which
-Dame Crawshay had been already busy that
-morning, as a wooden chair placed beside it
-indicated. Here she seated herself, and began
-to pluck the peas, shelling them as she plucked;
-then dropping the pods into her lap and the peas
-into a basin. She performed the operation with
-mechanical regularity, which did not in any way
-interfere with conversation.</p>
-
-<p>Madge, kneeling beside her, helped with nimble
-fingers; and Philip, hands clasped behind him,
-stood looking on admiringly. The sun was
-shining upon them; and, darting shafts of light
-through the surrounding trees, made bright spots<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>{39}</span>
-amidst the moving shadows underneath. Everything
-seemed to be still and sleepy. The breeze
-was so light that there was only a gentle rustle
-of leaves, and through it was heard the occasional
-thud of an over-ripe apple or pear as it fell, and
-the drowsy hum of the bees.</p>
-
-<p>Light, warmth, peace. ‘Ah,’ thought Philip,
-‘if we could only go on this way always! If we
-could fix ourselves thus as in a photograph, what
-a blessed Eden this would be!’</p>
-
-<p>‘Thou’dst find it dull soon, Philip, standing
-there looking at us shelling peas, if thou wert
-forced to do it,’ said Dame Crawshay, looking
-up at him with a curious smile.</p>
-
-<p>‘That shows you cannot guess my thoughts.
-They were of quite a different nature, for I was
-wishing that there had been some fixing process
-in nature, so that there might never be any change
-in our present positions.’</p>
-
-<p>Madge looked as if she had been thinking
-something very similar; but she went on silently
-shelling peas; and a sunbeam shooting through
-a gap in the green pea hedge, made a golden
-radiance on her face.</p>
-
-<p>‘Eh, deary me, what love will do!’ exclaimed
-the dame, laughing, but shaking her head regretfully,
-as if sorry that she could not look at things
-in the same hopeful humour. ‘Other people have
-talked like that in the heyday of life. Some have
-found a little of their hope fulfilled; many have
-found none of it: all have found that they had
-to give up the thought of a great deal of what
-they expected. Some take their disappointment
-with wise content and make the best of things
-as they find them. They jog along as happily
-as mortals may, like Dick and me; a-many kick
-against the pricks and suffer sorely for it; but
-all have to give in sooner or later, and own that
-the world could not get along if everybody could
-arrange it to suit his own pleasure.’</p>
-
-<p>How gently this good-natured philosopher
-brought them down from the clouds to what
-foolish enthusiasts call contemptuously ‘the
-common earth.’ Sensible people use the same
-phrase, but they use it respectfully, knowing
-that this ‘common earth’ may be made beautiful
-or ugly as their own actions instruct their
-vision.</p>
-
-<p>To Philip it was quite true that most people
-sought something they could never attain; that
-many people fancied they had found the something
-they wanted, and discovered afterwards, to
-their sorrow, that they had not found the thing
-at all. But then, you see, it was an entirely
-different condition of affairs in his case. He had
-found what he wanted, and knew that there could
-be no mistake about it.</p>
-
-<p>To Madge, her aunt’s wisdom appeared to be
-very cold and even wrong in some respects, considering
-the placid and happy experiences of her
-own life. She had her great faith in Philip—her
-dream of a life which should be made up of
-devotion to him under any circumstances of joy
-or sorrow, and she could not believe that it was
-possible that their experience should be as full
-of crosses as that of others. And yet there was
-a strange faintness at her heart, as if she were
-vaguely conscious that there were possibilities
-which neither she nor Philip could foresee or
-understand.</p>
-
-<p>‘We shall be amongst the wise folk,’ said Philip
-confidently, ‘and take things as they come, contentedly.
-We shall be easily contented, so long
-as we are true to each other—and I don’t think
-you imagine there is any chance of a mistake in
-that respect.’</p>
-
-<p>Aunt Hessy went on shelling peas for a time
-in silence. There was a thoughtful expression on
-her kindly face, and there was even a suggestion
-of sadness in it. Here were two young people—so
-young, so happy, so full of faith in each other—just
-starting on that troublous journey called
-Life, and she had to speak those words of warning
-which always seem so harsh to the pupils, until,
-after bitter experience, they look back and say:
-‘If I had only taken the warning in time, what
-might have been?’</p>
-
-<p>By-and-by she spoke very softly: ‘Thou art
-thinking, Madge, that I am croaking; and thou,
-Philip, are thinking the same.... Nay, there
-is no need to deny it. But I do not mean to
-dishearten thee. All I want is to make thee
-understand that there are many things we reckon
-as certain in the heyday of life, that never come
-to us.’</p>
-
-<p>‘I daresay,’ said Philip, plucking a pea-pod
-and chewing it savagely; ‘but don’t you think,
-Mrs Crawshay, that this is very like throwing
-cold-water on us, and that throwing cold-water
-is very apt to produce the misadventure which
-you think possible?—that is, that something might
-happen to alter our plans?’</p>
-
-<p>‘I am sorry for that, lad; I do not mean to
-throw cold-water on thee; but rather to help
-thee and to help Madge to look at things in a
-sensible way. Listen. I had a friend once who
-was like Madge; and she had a friend who was,
-as it might be, like you, Philip. He went away,
-as you are going, to seek his fortune in foreign
-parts. There was a blunder between them,
-and she got wedded to another man. Her first
-lad came back, and finding how things were, he
-went away again and never spoke more to her.’</p>
-
-<p>‘They must have been miserable.’</p>
-
-<p>‘For a while they were miserable enough; but
-they got over it.’</p>
-
-<p>‘I’ll be bound the man never married.’</p>
-
-<p>‘There thou’dst be bound wrong. He did
-marry, and is now wealthy and prosperous, though
-she was taken away in a fever long ago.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Ay, but is he happy?’</p>
-
-<p>‘That is only known to himself and Him that
-knows us all.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Well, for our future I will trust Madge,’ said
-Philip, taking her hand, ‘in spite of all your
-forebodings; and she will trust me.’</p>
-
-<p>Dame Crawshay had filled her basin with peas,
-and she rose.</p>
-
-<p>‘God bless thee, Philip, wherever thou goest,
-and make thy hopes realities,’ she said with what
-seemed to the lovers unnecessary solemnity.</p>
-
-<p>The dame went into the house. Madge and
-Philip went down the meadow, and under the
-willows by the merry river, forgot that there was
-any parting before them or any danger that their
-fortunes might be crossed.</p>
-
-<p>Those bright days! Can they ever come again,
-or can any future joy be so full, so perfect?
-There are no love-speeches—little talk of any
-kind, and what there is, is commonplace enough.
-There is no need for speech. There is only—only!—the
-sense of the dear presence that makes<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>{40}</span>
-all the world beautiful, leaving the heart nothing
-more to desire.</p>
-
-<p>But the dreams in the sunshine there under
-the willows, with the river murmuring sympathetic
-harmonies at their feet! The dreams of a future,
-and yet no future; for it is always to be as now.
-Can it be possible that this man and woman
-will ever look coldly on each other—ever speak
-angry, passionate words? Can it be possible
-that there will ever flit across their minds one
-instant’s regret that they had come together?</p>
-
-<p>No, no: the dreams are of the future; but
-the future will be always as now—full of faith
-and gladness.</p>
-
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_CLIFF-HOUSES_OF_CANON_DE">THE CLIFF-HOUSES OF CAÑON DE
-CHELLY.</h2>
-</div>
-
-
-<p><span class="smcap">The</span> fourth and most southerly iron link of
-railway which will soon stretch across the North
-American continent from ocean to ocean is
-rapidly approaching completion along the thirty-fifth
-parallel; already it has reached the San
-Francisco mountains in its course to the Pacific.
-While avoiding the chances of blockade by
-snow, liable in higher latitudes, it has struck
-through a little explored region among the
-vast plains of Arizona and New Mexico. It is
-not easy at once to realise the extent of table-lands,
-greater in area than Great Britain and
-Ireland, upon which no soul has a settled habitation.
-The sun beats down with terrible force on
-these dry undulating plains, where at most times
-nothing relieves the eye, as it wanders away to
-the dim horizon, save a few cactus and sage-bush
-plants. But at seasons, heavy rains change dry
-gulches into roaring torrents, and parched lowlands
-into broad lakes, covering the country with
-a fine grass, on which millions of sheep, horses,
-and cattle are herded by wandering Navajo and
-Moqui Indians. To the periodical rains, as well
-as to geological convulsions, are traced the causes
-of those wondrous chasms, which in places break
-abruptly the rolling surface of the prairie, and
-extend in rocky gorges for many miles. They are
-called cañons. The grandeur of the scenery found
-in one of them, Cañon de Chelly, can scarcely
-be overstated.</p>
-
-<p>Cañon de Chelly—pronounced Canyon de Shay—is
-in the north of Arizona. It takes its name
-from a Frenchman, who is said to have been the
-first white man to set foot within its walls; but
-except the record of a recent visit by the United
-States Geological Survey, no account of it seems
-to have hitherto appeared. The picturesque
-features of this magnificent ravine are unrivalled;
-and what lends a more fascinating interest, is the
-existence, among its rocky walls, of dwellings
-once occupied by a race of men, who, dropping
-into the ocean of the past with an unwritten
-history, are only known to us as cave-dwellers.</p>
-
-<p>In October 1882, an exploring party, headed
-by Professor Stevenson of the Ethnological
-Bureau, Washington, and escorted by a number
-of soldiers and Indian guides, set out for this
-remarkable spot. One of the party, Lieutenant
-T. V. Keam, has furnished the following details
-of their investigations. After travelling one hundred
-and twenty miles out from the nearest
-military post, Fort Defiance, and crossing a desert
-some twenty miles broad, the entrance to Cañon
-de Chelly was reached. The bed of the ravine
-is entirely composed of sand, which is constantly
-being blown along it, with pitiless force, by
-sudden gusts of wind. The walls of the cañon
-are red sandstone; at first, but some fifty feet
-high, they increase gradually, until at eighteen
-miles they reach an elevation of twelve hundred
-feet, which is about the highest point, and continue
-without decreasing for at least thirty miles.
-The first night, Professor Stevenson’s party camped
-three miles from the mouth of the cañon, under
-a grove of cotton-wood trees, and near a clear
-flowing stream of water. Here the scene was an
-impressive one. A side ravine of great magnitude
-intersected the main cañon, and at the junction
-there stood out, like a sentinel, far from the rest
-of the cliff, one solemn brown stone shaft eight
-hundred feet high. In the morning, continuing
-the journey through the awful grandeur of the
-gorge, the walls still increased in height, some
-having a smooth and beautifully coloured surface
-reaching to one thousand feet; others, from the
-action of water, sand storms, and atmospheric
-effects, cut and broken into grand arches, battlements,
-and spires of every conceivable shape. At
-times would be seen an immense opening in
-the wall, stretching back a quarter of a mile,
-the sides covered with verdure of different shades,
-reaching to the summit, where tall firs with
-giant arms seemed dwarfed to the size of a puny
-gooseberry bush, and the lordly oak was only
-distinguished by the beautiful sheen of its
-leaves.</p>
-
-<p>On the second night the camp was formed at
-the base of a cliff, in which were descried, planted
-along a niche at a height of nearly one hundred
-feet, some cliff-dwellings. Next morning, these
-were reached after a dangerous climb, by means
-of a rope thrown across a projecting stick, up
-the almost perpendicular sides of this stupendous
-natural fortress. The village was perched on its
-narrow ledge of rock, facing the south, and was
-overshadowed by an enormous arch, formed in
-the solid side of the cañon. Overlapping the ruins
-for at least fifty feet, at a height above them of
-sixty feet, it spread its protecting roof five hundred
-feet from end to end. No moisture ever
-penetrated beyond the edge of this red shield of
-nature; and to its shelter, combined with the dryness
-of the atmosphere and preserving nature of
-the sand, is to be attributed the remarkable state of
-preservation, after such a lapse of time, in which
-the houses of the cliff-dwellers were found. Some
-of them still stood three stories high, built in
-compact form, close together within the extremely
-limited space, the timber used to support the roof
-being in some cases perfectly sound. The white<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>{41}</span>
-stone employed is gypsum, cut with stone implements,
-but having the outer edges smoothly dressed
-and evenly laid up; the stones of equal size placed
-parallel with each other presenting a uniform
-and pleasing appearance.</p>
-
-<p>No remains of importance were found here,
-excepting a finely woven sandal, and some pieces
-of netting made from the fibre of the yucca plant.
-But on proceeding two miles farther up the
-cañon, another group of ruins was discovered,
-which contained relics of a very interesting character.
-The interior of some of the larger houses
-was painted with a series of red bands and
-squares, fresh in colour, and contained fragments
-of ornamented pottery, besides what appeared to
-be pieces of blankets made from birds’ feathers;
-these, perhaps, in ages past bedecked the shoulders
-of some red beauty, when the grim old walls
-echoed the fierce war-songs of a long-lost nation.
-But the most fortunate find at this spot, and the
-first of that description made in the country, was
-a cyst, constructed of timber smoothly plastered
-on the inside, containing remains of three of the
-ancient cliff-dwellers. One was in a sitting posture,
-the skin of the thighs and legs being in a
-perfect state of preservation. These ruins, as in
-the former case, were protected from the weather
-by an overhanging arch of rock.</p>
-
-<p>At several points on the journey through
-Cañon de Chelly, hieroglyphics were traced, graven
-on the cliff wall. Most of the designs were
-unintelligible; but figures of animals, such as
-the bear and mountain sheep or goat, were prominent.
-Another cliff village was observed of a
-considerable size, but planted three hundred feet
-above the cañon bed, in such a position that it
-is likely to remain sacred from the foot of man
-for still further generations. The same elements
-which in geologic time fashioned the caves and
-recesses of the cañon walls, have in later times
-worn the approaches away, so that to-day they
-do not even furnish a footing for the bear or
-coyote. In what remote age and for how many
-generations the cliff-dwellers lived in these strange
-fastnesses, will probably never be determined.
-Faint traces of still older buildings are found
-here and there in the bed of Cañon de Chelly;
-and it is conjectured that this region was once
-densely populated along the watercourses, and
-that the tribes having been driven from their
-homes by a powerful foe, the remnant sought
-refuge in the caves of the cañon walls.</p>
-
-<p>Of the great antiquity of these structures, there
-is no question. The Indian of to-day knows
-nothing of their history, has not even traditions
-concerning them. The Navajo, with a few poles
-plastered with a heavy deposit of earth, constructs
-his <i>hogan</i> or wigwam, and rarely remains in the
-same place winter and summer. He has no more
-idea of constructing a dwelling like those so perfectly
-preserved in the cliffs, than he has of baking
-specimens of pottery such as are found in fragments
-amongst the walls. In the fine quality of
-paste, in the animal handles—something like old
-Japanese ware—and in the general ornamentation,
-these exhibit a high order of excellence. Some
-specimens of what is called laminated ware are
-remarkable; threadlike layers of clay are laid
-one on each other with admirable delicacy and
-patience. In these fragments may yet be read
-something of the history of a vanished race.
-They illuminate a dark corner in the world’s
-history, and seem to indicate a people who once
-felt civilising influences higher than anything
-known by those uncouth figures whose camp-fires
-now glimmer at night across the silent
-starlit prairie.</p>
-
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2 class="nobreak" id="TWO_DAYS_IN_A_LIFETIME">TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<p class="ph3">A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.</p>
-
-
-<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3>
-
-<p><span class="smcap">Captain Bowood</span> came forward. ‘Sir Frederick,
-your servant; glad to see you,’ he said in his
-hearty sailor-like fashion.</p>
-
-<p>‘I am glad to see you, Captain,’ responded the
-Baronet as he proffered his hand. ‘How’s the
-gout this morning?’</p>
-
-<p>‘So, so. Might be better—might be worse.—You
-here, Miss Saucebox!’ he added, turning
-to Elsie. ‘Why are you not at your lessons—eh,
-now?’</p>
-
-<p>‘As if anybody could learn Latin roots on a
-sunny morning like this!’ Then, clasping one of
-his arms with both her hands, and looking up
-coaxingly into his face, she said: ‘You might
-give me a holiday, nunky dear.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Why, why? A holiday indeed!—Listen to
-her, Sir Frederick. The baggage is always
-begging for holidays.’</p>
-
-<p>‘But the baggage doesn’t always get them,’
-was the answer with a pretty pout. Then, after
-another glance at the long-haired stranger, who
-was already busy with the piano, she said to
-herself: ‘It is he; I am sure of it. And yet
-if I had not heard his voice, I should not have
-known him.’</p>
-
-<p>Captain Bowood at this time had left his
-sixtieth birthday behind him, but he carried his
-years lightly. He was a bluff, hearty-looking,
-loud-voiced man, with a very red face, and very
-white hair and whiskers. A fever, several years
-previously, had radically impaired his eyesight,
-since which time he had taken to wearing gold-rimmed
-spectacles. He had a choleric temper;
-but his bursts of petulance were like those
-summer storms which are over almost as soon
-as they have broken, and leave not a cloud behind.
-Throughout the American Civil War, Captain
-Bowood had been known as one of the most daring
-and successful blockade-runners, and it was during
-those days of danger and excitement that he laid
-the foundation of the fortune on which he had
-since retired. No man was more completely ruled
-by his wife than the choleric but generous-hearted
-Captain, and no man suspected the fact less than
-he did.</p>
-
-<p>‘I drove over this morning,’ said Sir Frederick,
-‘to see you about that bay mare which I hear
-you are desirous of getting rid of.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Yes, yes—just so. We’ll go to the stable
-and have a look at her. By-the-bye, I was talking
-to Boyd just now, when your name cropped
-up. It seems he met you when you were both
-in South America. Oscar Boyd, engineering
-fellow and all that. You remember him, eh,
-now?’</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>{42}</span></p>
-
-<p>‘I certainly do remember a Mr Boyd; but it
-is many years since we met.’ Then to himself
-the Baronet said: ‘Can this be the other man?
-Oh! Lady Dimsdale.’</p>
-
-<p>‘A very agreeable fellow,’ said the Captain.
-‘Here on a visit for a couple of days. A little
-matter of business between him and me to save
-lawyers’ expenses.’</p>
-
-<p>‘The other man, without a doubt,’ thought the
-Baronet. ‘His wife must be dead.’</p>
-
-<p>Miss Brandon had slipped unobserved out of
-the room. She was now sitting in the veranda,
-making-believe to be intent over her Latin verbs,
-but in reality waiting impatiently till the coast
-should be clear. She had not long to wait.
-Presently she heard the Captain say in his cheery
-loud-voiced way: ‘Come along, Sir Frederick;
-we shall just have time to look at the mare before
-luncheon;’ and a minute later, she heard the
-shutting of a door.</p>
-
-<p>Then she shut her book, rose from her seat,
-and crossing on tiptoe to the open French-window,
-she peeped into the room. ‘Is that
-you, Charley?’ she asked in a voice that was
-little above a whisper.</p>
-
-<p>‘Whom else should it be?’ answered the
-young man, looking round from the piano with
-a smile.</p>
-
-<p>‘I was nearly sure of it from the first; but
-then you look such a guy!’</p>
-
-<p>‘She calls me a guy! after all the trouble I
-have taken to get myself up like a foreign
-nobleman.’ Speaking thus, he took off his
-spectacles and wig, and stood revealed, as
-pleasant-looking a young fellow as one would
-see in a day’s march.</p>
-
-<p>Elsie ran forward with a little cry of surprise
-and delight. ‘Now I know you for my own!’
-she exclaimed; and when he took her in his
-arms and kissed her—more than once—she offered
-not the slightest resistance. ‘But what a dreadful
-risk to run!’ she went on as soon as she
-was set at liberty. ‘Suppose your uncle—good
-gracious!’</p>
-
-<p>‘My uncle? He can’t eat me, that’s certain;
-and he has already cut me off with the proverbial
-shilling.’</p>
-
-<p>‘My poor boy! Fate is very, very hard upon
-you. We are both down on our luck, Charley;
-but we can die together, can’t we?’ As she
-propounded this question, she held out her box
-of bon-bons. Charley took one, she took another,
-and then the box was put away. ‘A pan of
-charcoal’—she went on, giving her sweetmeat
-a gustatory turn over with her tongue—‘door
-and windows close shut—you go to sleep and
-forget to wake up. What could be simpler?’</p>
-
-<p>‘Hardly anything. But we have not quite
-come to that yet. Of course, that dreadful Vice-chancellor
-won’t let me marry you for some time
-to come; but he can’t help himself when you are
-one-and-twenty.’</p>
-
-<p>‘That won’t be for nearly four years,’ answered
-Elsie with a pout. ‘What a long, long time to
-look forward to!’</p>
-
-<p>‘We have only to be true to each other, which
-I am sure we shall be, and it will pass away far
-more quickly than you imagine. By that time,
-I hope to be earning enough money to find you
-a comfortable home.’</p>
-
-<p>‘There’s my money, you know, Charley dear.’</p>
-
-<p>‘I don’t mean to have anything to do with that.
-If I can’t earn enough to keep my wife, I’ll never
-marry.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Oh!’</p>
-
-<p>‘But I shall do that, dear. Why, I’m getting
-five guineas a week already; and if I’m not
-getting three times as much as that by the time
-you are twenty-one, I’ll swallow my wig.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Your uncle will never forgive you for going
-on the stage.’</p>
-
-<p>‘O yes, he will, by-and-by, when he sees
-that I am making a fair living by it and
-really mean to stick to it—having sown all my
-wild-oats; and above all, when he finds how well
-they speak of me in his favourite newspaper.
-And that reminds me that it was what the
-<i>Telephone</i> said about me that caused old Brooker
-our manager to raise my screw from four guineas
-a week to five. I cut the notice out of the paper,
-you may be sure. Here it is.’ Speaking thus,
-Master Charles produced his pocket-book; and
-drew from it a printed slip of paper, which he
-proceeded to read aloud: ‘“Although we have
-had occasion more than once to commend the
-acting of Mr Warden”—that’s me—“we were
-certainly surprised last evening by his very
-masterly rendering of the part of Captain Cleveland.
-His byplay was remarkably clever; and
-his impassioned love-making in the third act,
-where timidity or hesitation would have been
-fatal to the piece, brought down the house, and
-earned him two well-merited recalls. We certainly
-consider that there is no more promising
-<i>jeune premier</i> than Mr Warden now on the stage.”
-There, my pet, what do you think of that?’ asked
-the young actor as he put back the slip of paper
-into his pocket-book.</p>
-
-<p>But his pet vouchsafed no answer. Her face
-was turned from him; a tear fell from her eye.
-His arms were round her in a moment. ‘My
-darling child, what can be the matter?’ he
-asked.</p>
-
-<p>‘I—I wish you had never gone on the stage,’
-said Elsie, with a sob in her voice. ‘I—I wish
-you were still a tea-broker!’</p>
-
-<p>‘Good gracious! what makes you wish anything
-so absurd?’</p>
-
-<p>‘It’s not absurd. Doesn’t the newspaper speak
-of your “impassioned love-making?” And then
-people—lovers, I mean—are always kissing each
-other on the stage.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Just as they do sometimes in real life;’ and
-with that he suited the action to the word.</p>
-
-<p>‘Don’t, Mr Summers, please.’ And she pushed
-him away, and her eyes flashed through her
-tears, and she looked very pretty.</p>
-
-<p>Mr Summers sat down on a chair and was
-unfeeling enough to laugh. ‘Why, what a little
-goose you are!’ he said.</p>
-
-<p>‘I don’t see it at all.’ This with a toss of her
-head. Certainly, it is not pleasant to be called
-a goose.</p>
-
-<p>‘You must know, if you come to think of it,
-that both love-making and kissing on the stage
-are only so much make-believe, however real
-they may seem to the audience. During the
-last six months, it has been my fate to have
-to make love to about a dozen different ladies;
-and during the next six months I shall probably
-have to do the same thing to as many more;
-but to imagine on that account that I really<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>{43}</span>
-care for any of them, or that they really care
-for me, would be as absurd as to suppose that
-because in the piece we shall play to-morrow
-night I shall hunt Tom Bowles—who is the
-villain of the drama—through three long acts,
-and kill him in the fourth, he and I must
-necessarily hate each other. The fact is that
-Tom and I are the best of friends, and generally
-contrive to lodge together when on our travels.’</p>
-
-<p>Elsie was half convinced that she <i>had</i> made a
-goose of herself, but of course was not prepared
-to admit it. ‘I see that Miss Wylie is acting in
-your company,’ she said. ‘I saw her in London
-about a year ago; she is very, very pretty.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Miss Wylie is a very charming woman.’</p>
-
-<p>‘And you make love to her?’</p>
-
-<p>‘Every night of my life—for a little while.’</p>
-
-<p>Elsie felt her unreasonable mood coming back.
-‘Then why don’t you marry her?’ she asked
-with a ring of bitterness in her voice.</p>
-
-<p>Again that callous-hearted young man laughed.
-‘Considering that she is married already, and the
-happy mother of two children, I can hardly see
-the feasibility of your suggestion.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Then why does she call herself “Miss
-Wylie?”’</p>
-
-<p>‘It’s a way they have in the profession. She
-goes by her maiden name. In reality, she is
-Mrs Berrington. Her husband travels with her.
-He plays “heavy fathers.”’</p>
-
-<p>Miss Brandon looked mystified. Her lover
-saw it.</p>
-
-<p>‘You see this suit of clothes,’ he said, ‘and this
-wig and these spectacles. They are part of the
-“make-up” of a certain character I played last
-week. I was the Count von Rosenthal, in love
-with the beautiful daughter of a poor music-master.
-In order to be able to make love to
-her, and win her for myself, and not for my
-title and riches, I go in the guise of a student,
-and take lodgings in the same house where she
-and her father are living. After many mishaps,
-all ends as it ought to do. Charlotte and I fall
-into each other’s arms, and her father blesses
-us both with tears in his eyes. Miss Wylie played
-the Professor’s daughter, and her husband played
-the father’s part, and very well he did it too.’</p>
-
-<p>‘Her husband allowed you to make love to
-his wife?’ said Miss Brandon, with wide-open
-eyes.</p>
-
-<p>‘Of course he did; and he was not so foolish
-as to be jealous, like some people. Why should
-he be?’</p>
-
-<p>Elsie was fully convinced by this time that
-she had made a goose of herself. ‘You may kiss
-me, Charley,’ she said with much sweetness.
-‘Dear boy, I forgive you.’</p>
-
-<p>Suddenly the sound of a footstep caused
-them to start and fly asunder. There, close to
-the open French-window, stood Captain Bowood,
-glaring from one to the other of them. Miss
-Brandon gave vent to a little shriek and fled from
-the room. The Captain came forward, a fine frenzy
-in his eye. ‘Who the deuce may you be, sir?’
-he spluttered, although he had recognised Charley
-at the first glance.</p>
-
-<p>‘I have the honour to be your very affectionate
-and obedient nephew, sir.’</p>
-
-<p>The Captain’s reply to this was an inarticulate
-growl. Next moment, his eye fell on the discarded
-wig. ‘And what the dickens may this be, sir?’
-he asked as he lifted up the article in question
-on the end of his cane.</p>
-
-<p>‘A trifle of property, sir, belonging to your
-affectionate and obedient nephew;’ and with that
-he took the wig off the end of the cane and
-crammed it into his pocket.</p>
-
-<p>‘So, so. This is the way, you young jackanapes,
-that you set my commands at defiance, and steal
-into my house after being forbidden ever to set
-foot in it again! You young snake-in-the-grass!
-You crocodile! It would serve you right to give
-you in charge to the police. How do I know
-that you are not after my spoons and forks?
-Come now.’</p>
-
-<p>‘I am glad to find, sir, that your powers of
-vituperation are in no way impaired since I had
-the pleasure of seeing you last. Time cannot
-wither them.—Hem! I believe, sir, that you have
-had the honour of twice paying my debts, amounting
-in the aggregate to the trifling sum of five
-hundred pounds. In this paper, sir, you will
-find twenty-five sovereigns, being my first dividend
-of one shilling in the pound. A further dividend
-will be paid at the earliest possible date.’ As Mr
-Summers spoke thus, he drew from his waistcoat
-pocket a small sealed packet and placed the same
-quietly on the table.</p>
-
-<p>The irate Captain glanced at the packet and
-then at his imperturbable nephew. The cane
-trembled in his fingers; for a moment or two
-he could not command his voice. ‘What, what!’
-he cried at last. ‘The boy will drive me crazy.
-What does he mean with his confounded rigmarole?
-Dividend! Shilling in the pound! Bother
-me, if I can make head or tail of his foolery!’</p>
-
-<p>‘And yet, sir, both my words and my meaning
-were clear enough, as no doubt you will find
-when you come to think them over in your
-calmer moments.—And now I have the honour
-to wish you a very good-morning; and I hope to
-afford you the pleasure of seeing me again before
-long.’ Speaking thus, Charles Summers made
-his uncle a very low bow, took up his hat, and
-walked out of the room.</p>
-
-<p>‘There’s insolence! There’s audacity!’ burst
-out the Captain as soon as he found himself alone.
-‘The pleasure of seeing him again—eh? Only
-let me find him here without my leave—I’ll—I’ll——
-I don’t know what I won’t do!—And
-now I come to think of it, it looks very much
-as if he and Miss Saucebox were making love
-to each other. How dare they? I’ll haul ’em
-both up before the Vice-chancellor.’ Here his
-eye fell on the packet on the table. He took it
-up and examined it. ‘Twenty-five sovereigns,
-did he say? As if I was going to take the young
-idiot’s money! I’ll keep it for the present, and
-send it back to him by-and-by. Must teach him
-a lesson. Do him all the good in the world.
-False hair and spectacles, eh? Deceived his old
-uncle finely. Just the sort of trick I should have
-delighted in when I was a boy. But Master
-Charley will be clever if he catches the old fox
-asleep a second time.’ He had reached the French-window
-on his way out, when he came to a sudden
-stand, and gave vent to a low whistle. ‘Ha, ha!
-Lady Dimsdale and Mr Boyd, and mighty taken
-up with each other they seem. Well, well. I’m
-no spoil-sport. I’ll not let them know I’ve seen
-them. Looks uncommonly as if Dan Cupid had
-got them by the ears. A widow too! All widows<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>{44}</span>
-ought to be labelled “Dangerous.”’ Smiling and
-chuckling to himself, the Captain drew back,
-crossed the room, and went out by the opposite
-door.</p>
-
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_COLOUR-SENSE">THE COLOUR-SENSE.</h2>
-</div>
-
-
-<p><span class="smcap">The</span> phenomenon of Colour is one with which all
-who are not blind must of necessity be familiar.
-So accustomed, indeed, have we been to it
-throughout all our lives, that most of us are
-inclined to take it for granted, and probably
-trouble ourselves very seldom as to its true cause.
-A brief discussion, therefore, of the nature of the
-Colour-sense may, we trust, prove not uninteresting
-to our readers.</p>
-
-<p>What, then, is colour? It is obvious that it
-may be considered in two ways; we may either
-discuss the impression it makes on the mind, or
-the real external causes to which it is due.
-Viewed in the first light, colour is as much a
-sensation as is that of being struck or burnt.
-Viewed from the latter stand-point, it is merely
-a property of light; hence, in order correctly
-to understand its nature, we must first briefly
-examine the nature of this phenomenon.</p>
-
-<p>According to modern scientific men, light is
-not a material substance, but consists of a kind
-of motion or vibration communicated by the
-luminous body to the surrounding medium, and
-travelling throughout space with an enormous
-velocity. The medium, however, through which
-light-waves travel is not air, nor any of the
-ordinary forms of matter. Of its real nature
-nothing is known, and its very existence is only
-assumed in order to account for the observed
-phenomena. It must be very subtle and very
-elastic; but it is a curious fact that the nature
-of the vibrations in question would seem to
-preclude the supposition that it is a fluid, these
-being rather such as would be met with in the
-case of a solid. To this medium, whatever its
-true nature may be, the name of <i>ether</i> is given.</p>
-
-<p>The sensation, then, which we know by the
-name of Light is to be regarded as the effect on
-the retina of the eye of certain very rapid vibrations
-in the <i>ether</i> of the universe. All these
-waves travel with the same swiftness; but they
-are not all of the same length, nor of the same
-frequency; and investigation has shown that it
-is to this difference of wave-length that difference
-of colour is due. In other words, the impression
-to which we give the name of a certain colour is
-due to the effect on the retina of vibrations of a
-certain frequency. This conclusion is arrived at
-by a very simple experiment, in which advantage
-is taken of the following principle. So long as a
-ray of light is passing through the same medium,
-it travels in one straight line; but in passing
-obliquely from one medium into another of
-different density, its path is bent through a certain
-angle, just as a column of soldiers has a tendency
-to change its direction of march when obliquely
-entering a wood or other difficult ground. Now,
-this angle is naturally greatest in the case of
-the shortest waves, so that when a ray of light
-is thus bent out of its course—or, as it is called,
-‘refracted’—the various sets of vibrations of
-which it is composed all travel in different
-directions, and may be separately examined. In
-fact the ray of light is analysed, or broken up
-into its component parts. The most convenient
-apparatus to employ for this purpose is a prism
-of glass. It is found, as is well known, that if a
-beam of ordinary sun-light be allowed to pass
-through the prism and be then received on a
-screen, it is resolved into a band of colours
-succeeding one another in the order of those of
-the rainbow. Such a band of colours is called a
-‘spectrum.’</p>
-
-<p>Now, of the visible portion of the spectrum
-the red rays are those which undergo the least
-refraction, while the violet rays are bent through
-the greatest angle, the other colours in their
-natural order being intermediate. From what
-has been said above, it is evident that, this being
-the case, the portion of the light consisting of
-waves of greatest length and least frequency is
-that which produces on the eye the sensation of
-red, and that each of the other colours is caused
-by vibrations of a certain definite length. We are
-speaking now of the visible part of the spectrum.
-As a matter of fact, the waves of least and greatest
-frequency make no impression on the eye at all;
-but the former have the greatest heating power,
-while the latter are those which chiefly produce
-chemical effects such as are utilised in photography.</p>
-
-<p>Having now arrived at the nature of colour,
-we are in a position to apply these facts to the
-discussion of coloured substances.</p>
-
-<p>When light falls on a body, a portion of it is
-turned back or, as it is called, ‘reflected’ from
-the surface; another part is taken up or ‘absorbed’
-by the substance; while, in the case of a transparent
-body, a third portion passes on through it,
-and is said to be ‘transmitted.’ Most bodies
-absorb the different parts of the light in different
-proportions, and hence their various colours are
-produced. The colour of a transparent substance
-is that of the light which it transmits; while an
-opaque body is said to be of the colour of the
-light which it reflects, or rather of that part of
-it which is irregularly scattered.</p>
-
-<p>There are three colours in the solar spectrum
-which are called ‘primary,’ owing to the fact that
-they cannot be produced by mixtures. These are
-red, violet, and deep olive green. The generally-received
-idea that red, blue, and yellow are primary
-colours, is by recent scientific authorities not
-regarded as tenable; it arose from observations on
-mixtures of pigments rather than of coloured light.
-For instance, objects seen through two plates of
-glass, one of which is blue and the other yellow,
-appear green; but this by no means justifies
-us in saying that a mixture of blue and yellow
-light is green. For remembering that the two
-glasses do not appear coloured by reason of their
-adding anything to the light, but rather through
-their stopping the passage of certain rays, we
-shall see that the green light which is finally
-transmitted is not a mixture of yellow and blue
-at all, but is rather that portion of the light which
-both of the glasses allow to pass. The blue glass
-will probably stop all rays except blue, violet,
-and green; the yellow glass, all but green, yellow,
-and orange. The only light, therefore, which
-can pass through both glasses is green. The same
-remark applies to mixtures of pigments, each
-particle being really transparent, though the
-whole bulk appears opaque. It is easy, however,
-to obtain real mixtures of coloured lights by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>{45}</span>
-employing suitable arrangements, of which one
-of the simplest consists of a disc painted with
-alternate bands of colours and rapidly rotated.
-By such means it is found that a mixture of blue
-and yellow is not green, but white or gray, and
-that yellow can itself be produced by a mixture
-of red and green in proper proportions. The late
-Professor Clerk Maxwell made an interesting
-series of experiments on colour mixtures by
-means of an apparatus known as Maxwell’s
-Colour-box, by which any number of colours could
-be combined in any required proportions.</p>
-
-<p>It would, however, be beyond the scope of the
-present paper to discuss the many important
-results which followed from his investigations.
-Helmholtz believed the three primary colour
-sensations to be clue to the action of three sets
-of nerves at the back of the retina, each of which
-is excited only by vibrations within a certain
-range of frequency; and this theory is now generally
-held. In the case of some persons, the
-sensation corresponding to red is wholly absent,
-and the spectrum appears to consist of two colours
-with white or gray between. The nature of
-these colours is, for obvious reasons, difficult to
-determine; but one doubtless nearly corresponds
-to our sensation of blue, while the other is a
-deep colour, probably dark green. Persons thus
-affected are usually called ‘colour-blind;’ but
-this epithet is a misnomer, and the term ‘dichroic
-vision’ has been suggested for the phenomenon
-instead.</p>
-
-<p>We have already remarked that our range of
-vision is comparatively narrow, the extreme portions
-of the spectrum making no impression on the
-retina. But we have no reason to think that these
-limits have been the same in all ages. The evidence
-would rather tend to show that the human
-eye is undergoing a slow and gradual development,
-which enables it to distinguish between colours
-which the ancients regarded as identical, and may
-in future render it able to perceive some portions
-at least of the parts of the spectrum which
-are now invisible. The Vedas of India, which
-are among the most ancient writings known,
-attest that in the most remote ages only white
-and black could be distinguished.</p>
-
-<p>It would seem as if the perception of different
-degrees of intensity of light preceded by a long
-time the appreciation of various kinds of colours.
-After weighing the evidence, Magnus has come
-to the conclusion that red was the first colour
-to become visible, then yellow and orange; and
-afterwards, though at a considerable interval,
-green, blue, and violet in order. Various passages
-in the Old Testament have been cited as proof
-that the ancients failed to perceive all the colours
-seen by us, one of the most remarkable being in
-Ezekiel i. 27 and 28, where the prophet compares
-the appearance of the brightness round about the
-fire to that of the ‘bow that is in the cloud in
-the day of rain’—which passage has been cited
-by Mr Gladstone in his article in the <i>Nineteenth
-Century</i> for October 1877, as indicating a want of
-appreciation of distinct colours among the ancients.
-This is not quite clear, however, as the appearance
-round about the supernatural fire might have
-assumed auroral or rainbow tints. But the most
-important evidence on the apparent want of
-capacity among the ancients to discriminate
-between colours is that afforded by the writings
-of Homer, who, in the opinion of Magnus,
-could neither have perceived green nor blue.
-The point has been carefully examined by Mr
-Gladstone, who comes to the conclusion that this
-estimate is quite within the mark. Inquiring in
-detail into each of Homer’s colour-epithets, he
-shows that almost all must be in reality regarded
-as expressing degrees of intensity rather than of
-quality, and that the few exceptions are all confined
-to red and yellow. The brilliant blue sky
-of the southern climes where Homer lived must
-have appeared to him as of a neutral gray hue.
-Of course, the suggestion that the writings
-usually assigned to Homer were in reality the
-productions of many authors, does not invalidate
-the reasoning at all, as we do not attribute
-any defect in vision to the poet which was not
-equally manifested by his contemporaries.</p>
-
-<p>It is curious that the distinction between green
-and blue is not yet perfectly developed in all
-nations. Travellers tell us that the Burmese often
-confuse these colours in a remarkable manner.
-This and other facts suggest that the development
-of the colour-sense is not yet completed; and
-that in the future our range of perception may
-be still further enlarged, so that the now invisible
-rays may be recognised by the eye as distinct
-colours.</p>
-
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2 class="nobreak" id="SO_UNREASONABLE_OF_STEP-MOTHER">‘SO UNREASONABLE OF STEP-MOTHER!’</h2>
-</div>
-
-<p class="ph3">A SKETCH FROM LIFE.</p>
-
-
-<p><span class="smcap">Not</span> long before the death of George Eliot, on
-a return trip to London by the Midland route,
-I broke my journey at Leicester, to pay a
-flying visit to Coventry, where the great writer
-had spent many of her happiest days. There
-I was privileged by having for escort one of
-her most valued friends; and many interesting
-reminiscences were for our benefit called to mind,
-especially of a visit paid to Edinburgh, ‘mine own
-romantic town,’ and of the impression the beauty
-of its situation had made on her mind. Next
-morning, every favourite haunt of hers was searched
-out and commented on, as well as the interesting
-points of the quaint old city of Coventry; and
-bidding good-bye to our hospitable friends, I
-departed alone by the evening mail for Leicester,
-there to wait for the midnight train to Edinburgh,
-feeling satisfied that the hours had been well
-spent. Arrived in Leicester, I was fortunate in
-finding a fellow-countryman in one of the porters,
-who at once took me and my belongings under
-his especial protection, and when he had seen
-me comfortably ‘happit up’ on one of the sofas
-of the luxurious waiting-room, he retired, bidding
-me take a quiet forty winks, and keep my mind
-quite easy, for he would give me timely notice of
-the arrival of the Scotch train. Scarcely had I
-begun to feel the loneliness of my situation, when
-the door opened, and a female figure entered,
-rather unwilling, apparently; nay, seemed to
-be pushed in, while a deep male voice advised
-that she should rest by the fire, and not put
-herself about so. By a succession of jerks, she
-advanced to the chair by the fire opposite to my<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>{46}</span>
-sofa; and finding that I was not asleep, as she
-had supposed, at once, and without any circumlocution,
-began to unburden her mind, her words
-flowing from her mouth at express speed, regardless
-of comma or full stop.</p>
-
-<p>‘Not put myself about! Humph! That’s so
-like men.—Ain’t it now, miss? Ah, I dessay
-you’ve ’ad your own share of worriting before
-now, and know ’ow downright masterful and
-provoking they can be at times. I tell you <i>w’at</i>,
-miss, if you want to be at peace at all, you’ve
-got to say black is w’ite, if they ’ave a mind that
-it should be so.—Not put myself about! I’d like
-to know ’ow one with a ’eart and a soul in their
-body could ’elp being put about, as I am.’</p>
-
-<p>I ventured to hope nothing serious had occurred
-to disturb her composure or to put her about,
-my voice at once disclosing that I hailed from
-the North, and also that I was of a sympathetic
-nature.</p>
-
-<p>‘Put about!’ she once more exclaimed. ‘Why,
-I <i>am</i> put about; yes—no use trying to appear
-as if I was anything else. Yes; only think, miss!
-Not ’alf an hour gone, a telegram was brought to
-our ’ouse by the telegraph-boy. His mother, a
-widow, keeps a little bit of a shop not many doors
-from our own. Yes; he ’ands it in saying it
-was for father. I opened it; and there, staring
-me right in the eyes were them words: “<i>Step-mother
-is lying a-dying.</i>”—Not put about! I’d
-just like to know ’ow anybody could ’ave
-been anything else than put about, after <i>that</i>.
-Now, miss, you must understand that John—that’s
-my ’usband—is a great go-to-meeting-man.
-Why, at that very moment he might be at the
-church meeting, or he might ’ave been at the
-Building meeting, or he might ’ave been at
-a Masonic meeting, or he might ’ave been
-at any other meeting under the sun. And w’atever
-was I to do? for there was the telegraph-boy;
-there was the telegram, with the words as plain
-as plain: “Step-mother is lying a-dying.” I
-put on my bonnet and shawl; I ’urried to father’s
-office—he is a master-builder, is father, with sixteen
-men under him and three apprentices; and
-John, my son, for partner. I rushed in quite out
-of breath, not expecting to find any one there
-at that time of night; but there I found John—that’s
-my son—and says I, without taking time
-to sit down, though I was like to drop: “John,
-w’atever is to be done! Here’s a telegraph-boy
-has brought a telegram for father to say, step-mother
-is a-dying.’”</p>
-
-<p>‘Now, miss, I just put it to you, if them telegrams,
-coming so sudden at hours w’en no one
-expects postmen’s knocks, and bringing such news
-as that, ain’t enough to put any one about! Augh!
-Men are so queer; there’s no nerves in their bodies,
-and can’t understand us women. I’ve no patience
-with them. There was John—that’s my son—w’at
-did he do? Why, look at me quite composed,
-as if it weren’t no news at all, and says he:
-“Don’t put yourself about, mother. Father has
-gone off not many minutes ago to the paddock,
-to give little Bobbie a ride.” And with that he
-takes down a time-table, to look at it for the
-last train, puts on his hat, calls for a cab, and says
-quite composed: “Jump in, mother. We’ll go
-in pursuit of father, and then we’ll catch the train
-quite easily.” It seemed to me the horse just
-crept up the ’ill like a snail; only John would
-’ave it they were going faster than their usual
-pace. W’en we came to our door, w’at do you
-think we saw, now, miss?—No; you’ll never
-guess, I dessay. Why, <i>father</i>, to be sure! Yes;
-there he was; and there was the pony; and there
-was little Bobbie—all three of ’em just about
-to start for a long ride into the country. I ’ad
-carried the telegram in my pocket; and do you
-know, miss, after all my flurry and worry, w’at
-did John—that’s my ’usband—say, think you?—Augh!
-Men are so unreasonable, and w’at’s
-more, such cool and ’eartless pieces. Yes; that’s
-w’at <i>they</i> are; and I don’t care who hears me
-a-saying it.</p>
-
-<p>‘John—that’s father—after he had read the
-telegram, he turns to me, and says he: “Why,
-mother, ’ave your senses left your ’ead altogether?
-W’atever made you carry off the telegram!
-Couldn’t you ’ave stayed quietly at ’ome, instead
-of putting yourself about in this here fashion?
-If you ’ad, we’d ’ave been at the station without
-any hurry at all, by this time.”</p>
-
-<p>‘I felt too angry to speak, I do declare, miss.
-I think the older men grow, the more aggravating
-they get to a sensitive nature. So I gathered
-the things together father said we’d better take
-with us, into my travelling-basket, without as
-much as a single word—a stranger coming in
-would ’ave thought me dumb—while father sent
-a man back to the paddock with little Bobbie and
-the pony. We then got into the cab once more;
-and here we are, with John—that’s my son—a-looking
-after the tickets and the luggage; and
-father smoking his pipe outside as cool as cool.
-O dear, if they wouldn’t put me out with their
-“Keep cool, mother; no need to fluster and flurry
-so, mother”—“Take it easy, good ooman; don’t
-put yourself about”—I’d bear it better, I certainly
-should.</p>
-
-<p>‘Is step-mother nice? you ask. Oh—well—that’s
-just as you take it. Some people say
-she’s nice; some say she’s quite the opposite.
-But’—and here she drew her chair closer to me,
-and in a more confidential tone, continued: ‘I
-tell you <i>w’at</i>, miss—I’ve said it before, and I say
-it again—step-mother, in spite of her religious
-pro-fession and san’timonious ways, is cantankerous.
-No use a-trying to hide it—step-mother
-is just w’at I say, <i>can-tankerous</i>. I’ve said it
-before; I say it again—she’d show her cantankerousness
-to the very last. And han’t
-my words come true, for here she is lying
-a-dying, and Mary-Anne’s wedding fixed for
-Friday of this very week!—O my—now that I
-come to ’ave a quiet moment to think, w’atever
-am I to do? It’s so unreasonable of step-mother!
-Why, the dressmaker was coming this very
-evening to fit my dress on for the second time—a
-new black silk it is—and w’atever will <i>she</i>
-think, w’en she finds I’ve gone off without as
-much as a good-bye message? You see, miss,
-Mary-Anne is going to marry into quite a genteel
-family. Father, and John—that’s my son—he
-comes to me not many weeks gone, and says he:
-“Mother, I ’ope you are going to ’ave a nice dress
-for this wedding. I ’ope it will be a silk or
-a satin you decide to buy.” And says I: “John,
-you know w’at father is, and ’as been all his
-life—a just man to all; but a man who looks<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>{47}</span>
-upon gay clothes as not necessary. And then,
-John, you know as well as I do that father is
-rather close-fisted w’en money has to be paid out—like
-his own father before him, who was looked
-upon by all as the most parsimonious man in
-the town. I don’t say father is quite as bad;
-but close-fisted I <i>do</i> say he is, John; and you
-know it. Were I to say: ‘Father, I’d like to
-’ave a silk dress for this wedding’—and I don’t
-hide the fact from <i>you</i>, John, that I certainly
-should—he’d just laugh. I know it beforehand.
-He’d say: ‘Why, mother, ’aven’t you been
-content with a good stuff-dress all our married
-life, and can’t you go on to the end so? I’ve
-over and over again said my wife looked as well
-as most women in the town of Leicester.’”</p>
-
-<p>‘“But,” says John—that’s my son—“mother,
-you owe your duty certainly to father. I’m not
-going against it; but w’at I says is: You owe
-your duty to your son also; and w’en I wish <i>my</i>
-mother to look better than she’s ever done before,
-why—to oblige me—you’ll go and purchase the
-best silk-dress in town, ’ave it made fashionable,
-with frills and all the fal-de-rals and etceteras;
-send in the account in my name; and if father
-makes any objections, why, let him settle the
-matter with <i>me</i>.”</p>
-
-<p>‘You see, miss, John is getting to be so like
-father—both <i>firm</i>, very; and if they take a
-notion of any kind w’atever into their ’eads,
-you’d move this station as soon as move them
-from their purpose; so the dress ’as been bought;
-and w’at father will say to it—for it’s to be made
-in the height of the fashion—<i>I</i> can’t say.’</p>
-
-<p>A few judicious questions about the step-mother
-who was lying a-dying, drew from my
-companion that the said old lady was rich as well
-as cantankerous; and that, as there were other
-relations who might step in to the injury of the
-worthy builder, who was her only stepson, it was,
-to say the least, but prudent to be on the
-spot.</p>
-
-<p>‘Ah, yes, miss,’ she exclaimed, stretching her
-hands out to keep the heat of the fire from her
-face, ‘this is a very strange world. Only on
-Sunday, the vicar was preaching to us against
-worldly-mindedness, telling us that as we came
-naked into the world, so we left it, carrying
-nothing away. But, miss, step-mother ain’t like
-the most of people; and she’s going to manage
-to take with her as much money as she possibly
-can.—How is she going to do it? Why, miss—she’s
-going to ’ave a coffin!—No need to look
-surprised, miss. O yes; we all bury our dead
-in coffins; but w’at kind of a coffin is step-mother
-going to ’ave, do you think? No; don’t
-try to guess, for you’d be down to Scotland and
-up again before it would ever come into your
-’ead.—No; not a velvet one, nor a satin; but a
-<i>hoak</i> one.—Yes; I thought you would get a scare.
-A <i>hoak</i> coffin is w’at it is to be. And she’s going
-to ’ave bearers—six of ’em. Each bearer is to
-’ave ’at-bands and scarfs, and two pounds apiece.
-And if all that pomp and tomfoolery ain’t taking
-so much money out of the world with her, I
-don’t know w’at <i>is</i>. W’en John—that’s father—heard
-of it, says he to me: “Mother, if you
-survives me, bury me plain, but comf’able;” and
-says I: “Father, if you survives me, I ’ope you
-will do the same by me—plain, but comf’able;
-for I tell you w’at, father, I’d not lie easy underground
-thinking of the waste of good money over
-such ’umbug.”’</p>
-
-<p>Here the waiting-room door opened hurriedly,
-and the worthy woman bounded to her feet at
-the one word ‘Mother!’ pronounced in such a
-decided tone that I too was standing beside her
-before I knew what I was doing, with all my
-wraps tossed higgledy-piggledy on the floor.
-Advancing with her to the door, she got out of
-me that my immediate destination was Scotland—a
-place, to her mind, evidently as remote as the
-arctic regions; and in her astonishment, she forgot
-the necessity there was to hurry to get in to her
-train, now ready to start again. She even seemed
-to forget that step-mother was lying a-dying, as
-she insisted upon introducing me to her husband,
-whose huge body was wrapped in a greatcoat,
-with tippet after tippet on it up to his neck.
-‘Only to think, John—this lady is going to
-Scotland all alone, John! She’ll be travelling
-all night.—O dear, however are you to do it,
-miss; ain’t you afraid?—Yes, John; I’m coming.—Good-bye,
-miss; we’ve ’ad quite a pleasant
-chat, I do assure you; the time seems to ’ave
-flown.’</p>
-
-<p>I hurried her along the platform, whispering to
-her as I did so: ‘I hope step-mother will rally a
-bit; that if she must pass away, it may be next
-week, so that Mary-Anne may get her wedding
-comfortably over.’ At the very door of the carriage
-she paused, seized my hand, shook it warmly,
-as she exclaimed: ‘Well, now, you ’ave a feeling
-’eart; but I don’t expect her to be so accommodating.
-No; I’ve said it before, and I say it again—step-mother
-is—<i>can-ta</i>—— Why, w’atever is
-the matter?’</p>
-
-<p>Next thing that happened, the little woman
-was lifted up bodily in her son’s arms—a counterpart
-of his father—and deposited in the carriage;
-while her husband, in spite of his lumbering
-large body, succeeded in jumping in just as
-the patience of all the railway officials was
-exhausted, and the signal given to start the
-train. Before it was lost to view, a white
-handkerchief fluttered out, by way of good-bye,
-causing a smile to rise over the calm features
-of John the younger, who, lifting his hat politely
-to me, bade me good-evening, adding: ‘Mother
-is no great traveller, so she is easily put about.
-Dessay if she went often from ’ome, she’d learn
-to be more composed.’</p>
-
-<p>From that hour I have never ceased to regret
-that I did not ask the good-natured young builder
-to forward me a local paper with the account of
-the death and burial of ‘step-mother.’ No doubt
-there would be due notice taken of such an
-interesting personage, as she lay in state in her
-‘hoak’ coffin, surrounded by her bearers in the
-flowing scarfs and hat-bands. Sharp as my
-friends generally give me credit for being, I own
-I committed a grievous blunder; I am therefore
-obliged to leave my story without an end, not
-being able even to add that the fair Mary-Anne’s
-wedding came off on the appointed day, or was
-postponed till after the complimentary days of
-mourning were past. I cheer myself with the
-thought that ‘John—that’s father’—being a firm
-man and a sensible, would insist upon the previous
-arrangements standing good, seeing that the bridegroom—a
-most important fact I have omitted
-to record—had a fortnight’s holiday reluctantly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>{48}</span>
-granted to him by his employers. Why, now
-that I think of it, my countryman the railway
-porter would have sent me any number of papers,
-judging by the kindly interest he took in my
-behalf, and the determined manner he fought
-for a particular seat for me in a particular
-carriage when the time came for my train to
-start. ‘Na, na, mem; nae need for thanks;
-blood’s thicker than water,’ he said. ‘Never
-you fear, now that the Scotch guard has ta’en up
-your cause; you’re a’ right; he’ll see that ye’re
-safely housed.’ And safely housed I was, and
-went steaming out of the station with my worthy
-friend hanging on by the door, calling to me:
-‘If you’re ever in the town o’ Perth, mem, my
-auld mother would be downright pleased to see
-you, for my sake. Tell her I’m getting on as
-weel as can be expeckit, sae far frae hame.’</p>
-
-<p>All night, my disturbed sleep was made doubly
-so by dreams of old women of every age and style.
-Now I was hunting for the porter’s nameless
-mother; now I was standing by the bedside of the
-step-mother who was lying a-dying. Again I was
-an active assistant at a marriage ceremony, with the
-fair Mary-Anne, surrounded by her genteel relations,
-leaning on my shoulder, weeping copiously
-at the idea of travelling to Scotland. Once more
-I stood gazing down on the old step-mother; and
-just as the day dawned, I was fairly roused, in
-my determination not to be smothered under an
-oak coffin and a pyramid of scarfs, hat-bands, and
-bearers, by the tumbling of my own bonnet-box
-from the luggage-rack above me.</p>
-
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2 class="nobreak" id="FRENCH_DETECTIVES">FRENCH DETECTIVES.</h2>
-</div>
-
-
-<p>‘The Secret Police’ in France are not only
-personally unknown to the general public, but,
-save in exceptional cases, even to each other.
-It is known where they may be found at a
-moment’s notice when wanted; but, as a rule,
-they do not frequent the prefecture more than
-can be helped. They have nothing whatever
-to do with serving summonses or executing
-warrants. There are among them men who have
-lived in almost every class of life, and each of
-them has what may be called a special line of
-business of his own. In the course of their duty,
-some of them mix with the receivers of stolen
-goods, others with thieves, many with what are
-called in Paris commercial rascals, and not a few
-with those whose ‘industry’ it is to melt silver
-and other property of a like valuable nature.
-Forgers, sharpers of all kinds, housebreakers and
-horse-stealers—a very numerous class in Paris—have
-each all their special agents of the police,
-who watch them, and know where to lay hands
-upon them when they are wanted. A French
-detective who cannot assume and act up to any
-character, and who cannot disguise himself in
-any manner so effectually as not to be recognised
-even by those who know him best, is not considered
-fit to hold his appointment. Their ability
-in this way is marvellous. Some years ago, one
-of them made a bet that he would in the course
-of the next few days address a gentleman with
-whom he was acquainted four times, for at least
-ten minutes each time, and that he should not
-know him on any occasion until the detective
-had discovered himself. As a matter of course,
-the gentleman was on his guard, and mistrusted
-every one who came near him. But the man
-won his bet. It is needless to enter into the
-particulars. Suffice it to say that in the course
-of the next four days he presented himself in
-the character of a bootmaker’s assistant, a fiacre-driver,
-a venerable old gentleman with a great
-interest in the Bourse, and finally as a waiter
-in the hotel in which the gentleman was staying.</p>
-
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2 class="nobreak" id="NOT_LOST_BUT_GONE_BEFORE">‘NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.’</h2>
-</div>
-
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-  <div class="stanza">
-    <div class="verse indent0"><span class="smcap">My</span> little child, with clustering hair,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">Strewn o’er thy dear, dead brow,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">Though in the past divinely fair,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">More lovely art thou now.</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">God bade thy gentle soul depart,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">On brightly shimmering wings;</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">Yet near thy clay, thy mother’s heart</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">All weakly, fondly clings.</div>
-  </div>
-  <div class="stanza">
-    <div class="verse indent0">My beauteous child, with lids of snow</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">Closed o’er thy dim blue eyes,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">Should it not soothe my grief to know</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">They shine beyond the skies?</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">Above thy silent cot I kneel,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">With heart all crushed and sore,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">While through the gloom these sweet words steal:</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">‘Not lost, but gone before.’</div>
-  </div>
-  <div class="stanza">
-    <div class="verse indent0">My darling child, these flowers I lay</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">On locks too fair, too bright,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">For the damp grave-mist, cold and gray,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">To dim their sunny light.</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">Soft baby tresses bathed in tears,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">Your gold was all mine own!</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">Ah, weary months! ah, weary years!</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">That I must dwell alone.</div>
-  </div>
-  <div class="stanza">
-    <div class="verse indent0">My only child, I hold thee still,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">Clasped in my fond embrace!</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">My love, my sweet! how fixed, how chill,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">This smile upon thy face!</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">The grave is cold, my clasp is warm,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">Yet give thee up I must;</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">And birds will sing when thy loved form</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">Lies mouldering in the dust.</div>
-  </div>
-  <div class="stanza">
-    <div class="verse indent0">My angel child, thy tiny feet</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">Dance through my broken dreams;</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">Ah me, how joyous, quaint, and sweet,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">Their baby pattering seems!</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">I hush my breath, to hear thee speak;</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">I see thy red lips part;</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">But wake to feel thy cold, cold cheek,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">Close to my breaking heart!</div>
-  </div>
-  <div class="stanza">
-    <div class="verse indent0">Soon, soon my burning tears shall fall</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">Upon thy coffin lid;</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">Nor may those tears thy soul recall</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">To earth—nay, God forbid!</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">Be happy in His love, for I</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">Resigned, though wounded sore,</div>
-    <div class="verse indent0">Can hear His angels whispering nigh:</div>
-    <div class="verse indent2">‘Not lost, but gone before.’</div>
-  </div>
-  <div class="stanza">
-    <div class="verse right"><span class="smcap">Fanny Forrester.</span></div>
-  </div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<hr class="full" />
-
-<p class="center">Printed and Published by <span class="smcap">W. &amp; R. Chambers</span>, 47 Paternoster
-Row, <span class="smcap">London</span>, and 339 High Street, <span class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>.</p>
-
-<hr class="full" />
-
-<p class="center"><i>All Rights Reserved.</i></p>
-
-<hr class="full" />
-
-<p>[Transcriber’s note: The following changes have been made to this text.</p>
-
-<p>Page 47: wa’t to w’at—“know w’at <i>is</i>.”]</p>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 3, VOL. I, JANUARY 19, 1884 ***</div>
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+
+    </style>
+  </head>
+<body>
+<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 64571 ***</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>{33}</span></p>
+
+<h1>CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL<br />
+OF<br />
+POPULAR<br />
+LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.</h1>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class='center'>
+
+<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. -->
+
+<a href="#GIRLS_WIVES_AND_MOTHERS">GIRLS, WIVES, AND MOTHERS.</a><br />
+<a href="#BY_MEAD_AND_STREAM">BY MEAD AND STREAM.</a><br />
+<a href="#THE_CLIFF-HOUSES_OF_CANON_DE">THE CLIFF-HOUSES OF CAÑON DE CHELLY.</a><br />
+<a href="#TWO_DAYS_IN_A_LIFETIME">TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.</a><br />
+<a href="#THE_COLOUR-SENSE">THE COLOUR-SENSE.</a><br />
+<a href="#SO_UNREASONABLE_OF_STEP-MOTHER">‘SO UNREASONABLE OF STEP-MOTHER!’</a><br />
+<a href="#FRENCH_DETECTIVES">FRENCH DETECTIVES.</a><br />
+<a href="#NOT_LOST_BUT_GONE_BEFORE">‘NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.’</a><br />
+
+<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. -->
+
+</p>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<div class="figcenter" id="header" style="max-width: 37.5em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/header.jpg"  alt="Chambers’s Journal of Popular Literature, Science,
+and Art. Fifth Series. Established by William and Robert Chambers, 1832. Conducted by R. Chambers (Secundus)." />
+</div>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+<div class="center">
+<div class="header">
+<p class="floatl"><span class="smcap">No. 3.—Vol. I.</span></p>
+<p class="floatr"><span class="smcap">Price</span> 1½<em>d.</em></p>
+<p class="floatc">SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1884.</p>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="GIRLS_WIVES_AND_MOTHERS">GIRLS, WIVES, AND MOTHERS.</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="ph3">A WORD TO THE MIDDLE CLASSES.</p>
+
+
+<p><span class="smcap">There</span> may be theoretically much to sympathise
+with in the cry for the yet higher culture of the
+women of our middle classes, but at the same
+time not a little to find fault with in practice.
+While it is difficult to believe that there can
+be such a thing as over-education of the human
+subject, male or female, there may yet be false
+lines of training, which lead to a dainty misplaced
+refinement, quite incompatible with the social
+position the woman may be called to fill in after-life,
+and which too often presupposes, what even
+education has a difficulty in supplying—a subsistence
+in life. Where we equip, we too frequently
+impede. In the hurry to be intelligent
+and accomplished, the glitter of drawing-room
+graces is an object of greater desire than the more
+homely but not less estimable virtues identified
+with the kitchen. Our young housewives are
+imbued with far too much of the æsthete at the
+expense of the cook; too much of the stage, and
+too little of the home. In abandoning the equally
+mistaken views of our grandfathers on women’s
+up-bringing, we have gone to the opposite extreme,
+to the exclusion of anything like a means to
+an end; and in the blindest disregard of the
+recipients’ circumstances in life, present and prospective.</p>
+
+<p>In considering what the aim of female education
+ought to be, it is surely not too much to expect
+that of all things it should mentally and physically
+fit our women for the battle of life. Its
+application and utility should not have to end
+where they practically do at present—at the altar.
+While it is necessary to provide a common armour
+for purposes of general defence, there certainly
+ought to be a special strengthening of the harness
+where most blows are to be anticipated; and if
+not to all, certainly to middle-class women, the
+years of battle come <i>after</i>, not before marriage.
+Every one of them, then, ought to be trained in
+conformity with the supreme law of her being,
+to prove a real helpmate to the man that takes
+her to wife. Make sure that she is first of all
+thoroughly qualified for a mother’s part, in what
+may be called a working sphere of life; then add
+whatever graces may be desirable as a sweetening,
+according to taste, means, and opportunity. It
+is in this happy blending of abstract knowledge
+with the economy of a home, that true success
+in the education of middle-class women must be
+sought.</p>
+
+<p>In the training of our boys, utility in after-life
+is seldom lost sight of. Why should it be too often
+the reverse in the education of our girls, whose
+great vocation in life, as wives and mothers, is a
+birthright they cannot renounce, which no lord of
+creation can deprive them of, and which no sticklers
+for what they are pleased to call the rights of
+women can logically disown? No doubt, among
+the last-named there are extreme people, who
+cannot, from the very nature of their own individual
+circumstances, see anything in wifely cares
+save the shackles of an old-world civilisation. In
+their eyes, motherhood is a tax upon pleasure,
+and an abasement of the sex. With them, there
+need be no parley. There is no pursuit under the
+sun that a woman will not freely forsake—often
+at a sacrifice—for the wifely cares that supervene
+on marriage; and therein, few will deny, lies her
+great and natural sphere in life. Than it, there
+is no nobler. In it, she can encounter no rival;
+and any attempt to divest herself of nature’s
+charge can have but one ending. The blandishments
+of a cold æstheticism can never soothe, animate,
+and brighten the human soul, like the warm,
+suffusive joys which cluster round the married
+state.</p>
+
+<p>Here we may briefly digress to remark, that in
+our opinion, no valid objections can be urged
+against women entering professional life, <i>provided
+they stick to it</i>. They already teach, and that
+is neither the lightest nor least important of
+masculine pursuits. Why should they not prescribe
+for body and soul? why not turn their
+proverbial gifts of speech to a golden account at
+the bar? It would be in quitting any of these<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>{34}</span>
+professions, and taking up the <i>rôle</i> of wife and
+mother, which they would have to learn at the
+expense of their own and others’ happiness, that
+the real mischief of the liberty would lie. In
+nine cases out of ten, their failure in the second
+choice would be assured, thereby poisoning all
+social well-being at its very source.</p>
+
+<p>The woman not over- but mis-educated is
+becoming an alarmingly fruitful cause of the
+downward tendencies of much of our middle-class
+society. She herself is less to blame for this, than
+the short-sighted, though possibly well-meant policy
+of her parents and guardians, who, in the worst
+spirit of the age, veneer their own flesh and
+blood, as they do their furniture, for appearance’
+sake. Let us glance at the educational equipment
+they provide their girls with, always premising
+that our remarks are to be held as strictly
+applicable only to the middle ranks of our
+complex society.</p>
+
+<p>Our typical young woman receives a large
+amount of miscellaneous education, extending far
+through her teens, and amounting to a very fair
+mastery of the <i>R</i>s. If she limp in any of these, it
+will be in the admittedly vexatious processes of
+arithmetic. She will have a pretty ready command
+of the grammatical and idiomatic uses of her
+mother-tongue; a fairly firm hold of the geography
+of this planet, and an intelligent conception
+of the extra-terrestrial system. She will
+have plodded through piles of French and
+German courses, learning many things from them
+but the language. She will have a fair if not
+profound knowledge of history. She can, in all
+likelihood, draw a little, and even paint; but of
+all her accomplishments, what she must imperatively
+excel in is music. From tender years,
+she will have diligently laboured at all the
+musical profundities; and her chances in the
+matrimonial market of the future are probably
+regarded as being in proportion to her proficient
+manipulation of the keyboard. If she
+can sing, well and good; play on the piano she
+must. If, as a girl, she has no taste for instrumental
+music, and no ear to guide her flights
+in harmony, the more reason why she should,
+with the perseverance of despair, thump away
+on the irresponsive ivories, in defiance of every
+instinct in her being. The result at twenty
+<i>may</i> be something tangible in some cases, but
+extremely unsatisfactory at the price.</p>
+
+<p>During all these years, she has been systematically
+kept ignorant of almost every domestic care.
+Of the commonplaces of cookery she has not the
+remotest idea. A great educationist, whose statement
+we have good reason to indorse, asserts
+that there are thousands of our young housewives
+that do not know how to cook a potato. This
+may seem satire. It is, we fear, in too many
+cases, true, and we quote it with a view to
+correct rather than chastise.</p>
+
+<p>The misapplications of young miss’s upbringing
+do not end here. She cannot sew to any purpose.
+If she deign to use a needle at all, it is to
+embroider a smoking-cap for a lover or a pair
+of slippers for papa. To sew on a button, or
+cut out and unite the plainest piece of male
+or female clothing, is not always within her
+powers, or at least her inclinations. Prosaic
+vulgar work, fit only for dressmakers and milliners!
+She will spend weeks and months over
+eighteen inches of what she is pleased to call
+lace, while the neighbouring seamstress is making
+up all her underclothing, to pay for which, papa
+has not too much money; but then it is genteel.</p>
+
+<p>She cannot knit. A pair of worsted cuffs or
+a lanky cravat is something great to attain to;
+while a stocking, even were the charwomen less
+easily paid, is sure to come off the needles right-lined
+as any of Euclid’s parallelograms—all leg
+and no ankle—a suspicion of foot, but never a
+vestige of heel. To darn the hole that so soon
+appears in the loosely knitted fabric, would be
+a servile, reproachful task, quite staggering to
+the sentimental aspirations of our engaged
+Angelina. Yet darning and the divine art of
+mending will one day be to her a veritable
+philosopher’s stone, whose magic influences will
+shed beams of happiness over her household, and
+fortunate will she be if she have not to seek it
+with tears.</p>
+
+<p>By the sick-bed, where she ought to be supreme,
+she is often worse than useless. The pillows that
+harden on the couch of convalescence, too rarely
+know her softening touch. She may be all kindness
+and attention—for the natural currents of
+her being are full to repletion of sweetness and
+sympathy—yet as incapable of really skilled service
+as an artist’s lay-figure. And, as a last touch to
+the sorry picture, instead of being in any way a
+source of comfort to the bread-winners of her
+family, or a lessening of the strain on their purse-strings,
+she is a continual cause of extra work to
+servants, of anxiety to her parents, of <i>ennui</i> to
+herself.</p>
+
+<p>Apparently, the chief mission of the young
+lady to whom we address ourselves, is to entice
+some eligible young man into the responsibilities
+of wedlock. He, poor fellow, succumbs not so
+much to intrinsic merits, as to fine lady-like airs.
+He sees the polish on the surface, and takes for
+granted that there is good solid wear underneath.
+Our young miss has conquered, and quits the
+family roof-tree, sweetly conscious of her orange
+wreath of victory; but alas!—we are sorry to say
+it—do not her conquests too often end at the altar,
+unless she resolutely set herself to learn the
+exacting mysteries of her new sphere, and, what
+is far more difficult, to unlearn much that she
+has acquired? That she often does at this stage
+make a bold and firm departure from the toyish
+fancies of her training, and makes, from the sheer
+plasticity and devotion of her character, wonderful
+strides in the housewife’s craft, we cheerfully
+confess. Were it otherwise, the domestic framework
+of society would be in a far more disorganised
+condition than it happily is. But why handicap
+her for the most important, most arduous portion
+of her race in life? Why train her to be the
+vapid fine lady, with almost the certainty that,
+by so doing, you are taking the surest means of
+rendering her an insufficient wife and mother?
+And, unfortunately, not always, in fact but
+seldom, is she able, when she crosses her husband’s,
+threshold, to tear herself away from her omnivorous
+novel-reading, piano-playing, and all the
+other alleviations of confirmed idleness.</p>
+
+<p>The sweets of the honeymoon and an undefined
+vacation beyond make no great calls on her as
+a helpmate and wife. If her husband’s means
+permit of a servant or two, the smoother the water
+and the plainer the sailing for the nonce; although<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>{35}</span>
+these keen-scented critics in the kitchen will, in
+a very short time, detect and take the grossest
+advantage of their mistress’s inexperience. Besides,
+if we reflect that among our middle classes more
+marry on an income of two hundred pounds
+than on a higher, it becomes painfully apparent
+that two or three servants are the one thing our
+young housewife needs, but cannot possibly
+afford.</p>
+
+<p>She is now, however, only about to begin her
+life-work, and if there is such a thing clearly
+marked out for a being on this globe, it is for
+woman. By birthright, she is the mother of the
+human race. Could she have a greater, grander
+field for enterprise? How admirably has nature
+fitted her for performing the functions of the
+mother and adorning the province of the wife!
+Hence, there devolves upon her a responsibility
+which no extraneous labour in more inviting
+fields can excuse. No philosophy, no tinkering
+of the constitution, no success in the misnamed
+higher walks of life and knowledge, will atone
+for the failure of the mother. Let her shine a
+social star of the first magnitude, let her be
+supreme in every intellectual circle, and then
+marry, as she is ever prone to do, in spite of all
+theories; and if she fail as a mother, she fails
+as a woman and as a human being. She becomes
+a mere rag, a tatter of nature’s cast-off clothing,
+spiritless, aimless, a failure in this great world
+of work.</p>
+
+<p>As her family increases, the household shadows
+deepen, where all should be purity, sweetness,
+and light. The domestic ship may even founder
+through the downright, culpable incapacity of her
+that takes the helm. Her children never have
+the air of comfort and cleanliness. In their
+clothes, the stitch is never in time. The wilful
+neglect, and consequent waste, in this one matter
+of half-worn clothing is almost incredible. A
+slatternly atmosphere pervades her entire home.
+With the lapse of time our young wife becomes
+gradually untidy, dishevelled, and even dirty, in
+her own person; and at last sits down for good,
+disconsolate and overwhelmed by her unseen foe.
+Her husband can find no pleasure in the ‘hugger-mugger,’
+as Carlyle phrases it, of his home; there
+is no brightness in it to cheer his hours of rest.
+He returns from his daily labours to a chaos,
+which he shuns by going elsewhere; and so the
+sequel of misery and neglect takes form.</p>
+
+<p>As a first precaution against such a calamity, let
+us strip our home-life of every taint of quackery.
+Let us regard women’s education, like that of men,
+as a means to a lifelong end, never forgetting that
+if we unfit it for everyday practice, we render it a
+mere useless gem, valuable in a sense, but unset.
+Middle-class women will be the better educated,
+in every sense, the more skilled they are in the
+functions of the mother and the duties of the
+wife. Give them every chance of proving thrifty
+wives and good mothers, in addition to, or, where
+that is impossible, to the exclusion of accomplished
+brides. Let some part of their training
+as presently constituted, such as the rigours of
+music, and the fritterings of embroidery, give
+way, in part, to the essential acquirements which
+every woman, every mother should possess, and
+which no gold can buy. Give us a woman, then,
+natural in her studies, her training, her vocations,
+and her dress, and in the words of the
+wisest of men, who certainly had a varied
+experience of womankind, we shall have something
+‘far more precious than rubies. She
+will not be afraid of the snow for her household;
+strength and honour will be her clothing;
+her husband shall have no need of spoil; he
+shall be known in the gates, when he sitteth
+among the elders; he shall praise her; and her
+children shall call her blessed.’</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak x-ebookmaker-important" id="BY_MEAD_AND_STREAM">BY MEAD AND STREAM.</h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<h3>CHAPTER IV.—IN THE OAK PARLOUR.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">And</span> so, it had been only a bit of Uncle Dick’s
+kindly forethought and common-sense which had
+prompted the alarming words he had spoken
+to Madge. How she and Philip laughed at the
+chimerical idea that there could be any possible
+combination of circumstances in time or space
+which could alter their thoughts regarding each
+other! The birds in the orchard, in the intervals
+of pecking the fruit, seemed to sing a joyous
+laughing chorus at the absurdity of it—notwithstanding
+that the admission of it might be
+prudent.</p>
+
+<p>But when they came down to the point of
+vague admission that in the abstract and in
+relation to other couples—of course it could not
+apply to their own case—Uncle Dick’s counsel was
+such as prudent young people about to separate
+should keep in mind, an expression of perplexity
+flitted across Madge’s face. She looked at him
+with those tenderly wistful serious eyes, half
+doubting whether or not to utter the thought
+which had come to her.</p>
+
+<p>‘But what I cannot understand,’ she said
+slowly, ‘is why Uncle Dick should have been
+in such a temper. You know that although he
+may fly into a passion at anything that seems
+to him wrong, he never keeps it up. Now he
+had all the time riding home from Kingshope
+to cool, and yet when he spoke to me he seemed
+to be as angry as if he had just come out of
+the room where the quarrel took place.’</p>
+
+<p>‘What can it matter to us?’ was the blithe
+response. ‘He is not angry with me or with you,
+and so long as that is the case we need not mind
+if he should quarrel with all creation.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I’ll tell you what we will do,’ she said,
+and the disappearance of all perplexity from her
+face showed that she was quite of his opinion,
+although she wanted to have it supported by
+another authority.</p>
+
+<p>‘What is that?’</p>
+
+<p>‘We will go in and ask Aunt Hessy what she
+thinks about it.... Are you aware, sir’ (this
+with a pretty assumption of severity), ‘that you
+have not seen aunty to-day, and that you have
+not even inquired about her?’</p>
+
+<p>‘That <i>is</i> bad,’ he muttered; but it was evident
+that the badness which he felt was the interruption
+of the happy wandering through the orchard
+by this summary recall to duty.</p>
+
+<p>In his remorse, however, he was ready to sacrifice
+his present pleasure; for Aunt Hessy was
+a stanch friend of theirs, and it might be that
+her cheery way of looking at things would dispel
+the last lingering cloud of doubt from Madge’s
+mind regarding the misunderstanding between
+his father and Uncle Dick.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>{36}</span></p>
+
+<p>‘Then we had better go in at once; we shall
+find her in the dairy.’</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Crawshay was superintending the operations
+of three buxom maidens who were scalding
+the large cans in which the milk was conveyed
+every morning to the metropolis. Her
+ruddy face with the quiet, kindly gray eyes
+was that of a woman in her prime, and even
+her perfectly white hair did not detract from the
+sense of youth which was expressed in her appearance:
+it was an additional charm. She was
+nearly sixty. Her age was a standing joke of
+Uncle Dick’s. He had made the discovery that
+she was a month older than himself, and he
+magnified it into a year.</p>
+
+<p>‘Can’t you see?’ he would say, ‘if you are
+born in December and I am born in January, that
+makes exactly a year’s difference?’</p>
+
+<p>Then there would be a loud guffaw, and Uncle
+Dick would feel that he had completely overcome
+the Missus. The words and the guffaw were as a
+rule simultaneous, and if nobody happened to be
+present, it usually ended in Uncle Dick putting
+his arm round her neck and saying with a lump
+in his throat: ‘My old lass—young always to
+me.’</p>
+
+<p>He had not the slightest notion of the poetry
+that was in his soul whilst he spoke.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Crawshay believed in young love. She had
+been very happy in hers. She had been brought
+up on a farm. Lads had come about her of course,
+and she had put them aside with a—‘Nay, lad,
+I’m not for thee,’ and had thought no more about
+them. Then Dick Crawshay had come, and—she
+did not know why—she had said: ‘Yes, thou
+art my lad.’</p>
+
+<p>They had been very happy notwithstanding
+their losses—indeed the losses seemed to have
+drawn them closer together.</p>
+
+<p>‘It’s only you and me, my old lass,’ he would
+say in their privacy.</p>
+
+<p>‘Only you and me, Dick,’ she would say as
+her gray head rested on his breast with all the
+emotion of youth in her heart.</p>
+
+
+<p class="p2">‘Go into the oak parlour,’ said Mrs Crawshay
+cheerily to the young folks, when she understood
+their mission; ‘and I’ll be with you in a
+minute.’</p>
+
+<p>The oak parlour was the stateroom of the
+house. It was long and high; the oak of the
+panels and beams which supported the pointed
+roof were of that dark hue which only time can
+impart. The three narrow windows had been
+lengthened by Dick’s father, and when the moon
+shone through them they were like three white
+ghosts looking in upon the dark chamber. But
+the moon did not often get a chance of doing this,
+for there was only a brief period of the year
+during which there was not a huge fire blazing
+in the great old-fashioned ingle. There were
+four portraits of former Crawshays and three
+of famous horses; with these exceptions the walls
+were bare, for none of the family had ever been
+endowed with much love of art.</p>
+
+<p>There were some legends still current about
+the mysteries hidden behind the sombre panels.
+One of the panels was specially honoured because
+it was reputed to have a recess behind it in which
+the king had found shelter for a time during his
+flight from the Roundheads. But owing to the
+indifference or carelessness of successive generations,
+nobody was now quite sure to which of
+the panels this honour properly belonged. There
+had been occasional attempts made to discover
+the royal hiding-place, but they had hitherto
+failed.</p>
+
+<p>The furniture was plain and substantial, displaying
+the styles of several periods of manufacture.
+In spite of the stiff straight lines of
+most of the things in the room, the red curtains,
+the red table-cover, the odd variety of the chairs
+gave the place a homely and, when the fire was
+ablaze, a cosy expression. This stateroom was
+correctly called ‘parlour,’ and it had been the
+scene of many a revel.</p>
+
+<p>As Philip and Madge were on their way to
+the oak parlour, a servant presented a card to
+the latter.</p>
+
+<p>‘He asked for you, miss,’ said the girl, and
+passed on to the kitchen.</p>
+
+<p>Madge looked at the card, and instantly held
+it out to Philip.</p>
+
+<p>‘Hullo!—my father,’ ejaculated he, adding with
+a laugh: ‘Now you can see that this mountain
+of yours is not even a molehill.’</p>
+
+<p>‘How can you tell that?’</p>
+
+<p>‘Because my father is the reverse of Uncle
+Dick. He never forgets—I doubt if he ever
+forgives—an unpleasant word. And yet here he
+is. Come along at once—but we had better say
+nothing to him about the affair unless he speaks
+of it himself.’</p>
+
+<p>They entered the room together, smiling hopefully.</p>
+
+<p>Mr Lloyd Hadleigh was standing at a window,
+hat in one hand, slim umbrella in the other, and
+staring hard at the shrubs. He had a way of
+staring hard at everything, and yet the way was
+so calm and thoughtful that he did not appear
+to see anything or anybody, and thus the stare
+was not offensive.</p>
+
+<p>‘The guv’nor always seems to be dreaming
+about you when he looks at you, and you never
+know when he’s going to speak—that’s awk’ard,’
+was the description of his expression given by
+Caleb Kersey, one of the occasional labourers on
+Ringsford.</p>
+
+<p>He was a man of average height, firmly built;
+square face; thick black moustache; close cropped
+black hair, with only an indication of thinning
+on the top and showing few streaks of white. His
+age was not more than fifty, and he had attained
+the full vigour of life.</p>
+
+<p>‘People talk about the fire and “go” of thirty,’
+he would say in his dry way. ‘It is nonsense.
+At that age a man is either going downhill or
+going up it, and in either case he is too much
+occupied and worried to have time to be happy.
+That was the most miserable period of my
+life.’</p>
+
+<p>Coldness was the first impression of his outward
+character. No one had ever seen him in a passion.
+Successful in business, he had provided well for
+the five children of a very early marriage. He
+never referred to that event, and had been long
+a widower without showing the slightest inclination
+to establish a new mistress at Ringsford.</p>
+
+<p>He turned on the entrance of Madge and Philip,
+saluting the former with grave politeness; then
+to the latter: ‘There are some letters for you
+at home, Philip.’</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>{37}</span></p>
+
+<p>‘Thank you, sir; but I have no doubt they
+can wait. I am to stay for dinner here.’</p>
+
+<p>‘From the postmarks I judge they are of
+importance.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Ah—then I know who they are from, and in
+that case there is no hurry at all, for the mail
+does not leave until Monday.’</p>
+
+<p>Mr Hadleigh addressed himself to Madge—no
+sign of annoyance in voice or manner.</p>
+
+<p>‘May I be permitted to have a few minutes’
+conversation with you in private, Miss Heathcote?’</p>
+
+<p>‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ broke in Philip hastily;
+‘I did not understand you to mean that you
+found me in the way.—If your aunt should ask
+for me, Miss Heathcote, I shall be in the
+garden.’</p>
+
+<p>With a good-natured inclination of the head,
+he went out. And as he walked down the
+garden path filling his pipe, he muttered to
+himself thoughtfully: ‘Seems to me he grows
+queerer and queerer every day. What <i>can</i> be
+the matter with him? If anybody else had
+asked for a private interview so solemnly, I
+should have taken it for granted that he was
+going to propose.... Daresay he wants to give
+some explanation of that confounded row, and
+make his apologies through Madge. I should
+like him to do that.’</p>
+
+<p>But Mr Hadleigh was neither going to propose
+nor to make apologies. He smiled, a curious sort
+of half-sad, half-amused smile, and there was really
+something interesting in the expression of his eyes
+at the moment.</p>
+
+<p>‘The truth is, Miss Heathcote, that I cannot
+acknowledge weakness before Philip. He is such
+a reckless fellow about money, that he would tell
+me I ought to give in at once to the labourers.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I am sure he would not, Mr Hadleigh, if he
+thought you were in the right.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I am not one likely to hold out if convinced
+that I am in the wrong.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Few men do under these conditions, Mr
+Hadleigh,’ said Madge, smiling.</p>
+
+<p>‘Well, at anyrate, I want your assistance very
+much; will you give it?’</p>
+
+<p>‘With great pleasure, if it is worth anything
+to you.’</p>
+
+<p>‘It is worth everything; for what harvest I
+might have on the home-farm—and I understand
+it promises to be a good one—is likely to be lost
+unless you help me.’</p>
+
+<p>‘How can that be, Mr Hadleigh?’</p>
+
+<p>‘Through beer. This is how the matter stands.
+You know the dispute about the wages, and I am
+willing to give in to that. But on this question
+of beer in the field I am firm. The men and
+women shall have the price of it; but I will
+neither give beer on the field nor permit them
+to bring it there. A great reform is to be worked
+in this matter, and I mean to do what little I
+can to advance it. I am sure, Miss Heathcote,
+you must acknowledge that I am right in adhering
+to this resolution.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I have been brought up in some very old-fashioned
+notions, Mr Hadleigh,’ she answered
+with pretty evasiveness.</p>
+
+<p>‘There is a high principle at stake in it, my
+dear Miss Heathcote, and it is worth fighting
+for.’</p>
+
+<p>‘But I do not yet see how my services are to
+be of use to you,’ she said, anxious to avoid this
+debatable subject. It was one on which her
+uncle had quite different views from those of
+Mr Hadleigh. And, therefore, she could not
+altogether sympathise with the latter’s enthusiasm,
+eager as she was to see the people steady
+and sober, for she remembered at the moment
+that he had made a considerable portion of his
+fortune out of a brewery.</p>
+
+<p>‘That was exactly what I was about to explain,’
+he replied. ‘I came to beg you to speak to Caleb
+Kersey.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Caleb!—why, he never touches anything
+stronger than tea.’</p>
+
+<p>‘That may be; but he believes that other people
+have a right to do so if they like. He has persuaded
+every man and woman who comes to me
+or my bailiff to put the question: “Is there to
+be beer?” When they are answered: “No; but
+the money,” they turn on their heels and march
+off, so that at this moment we have only two men.
+Now, my dear Miss Heathcote, will you persuade
+Kersey to stop his interference?’</p>
+
+<p>‘I do not see that he is interfering; but I will
+speak to him.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Thanks, thanks. If you were with me I
+should have no difficulty.’</p>
+
+<p>‘You would find me a very bad second,’ she
+answered, laughing, ‘for I should say—submit
+to old customs until persuasion alters them, since
+force never can.’</p>
+
+<p>Two things struck Madge during this interview
+and the commonplaces about nothing which
+followed it: The first, how much more frank
+and at ease he seemed to be with her than with
+any one else; and the second was, how loath he
+seemed to go.</p>
+
+<p>The owner of Ringsford said to himself as he
+was driven away: ‘I shall be glad when she is
+Philip’s wife.’</p>
+
+
+<h3>CHAPTER V.—A NEW EDEN.</h3>
+
+<p>She was still standing at the door to which
+she had accompanied Mr Hadleigh, and was
+looking after him, when a kindly voice behind
+her said: ‘He does look a woeful man. I wonder
+if he has any real friends.’</p>
+
+<p>Madge turned. Aunt Hessy was standing there,
+a pitying expression on her comely face, and
+she was wiping her hands in her apron. There
+was nothing in Mrs Crawshay’s manner or appearance
+to indicate her Quaker antecedents, except
+the frequent use of thee and thou—she did not
+always use that form of speech—and the quiet
+tone of all the colours of her dress. Yet, until
+her marriage she had been, like her father, a good
+Wesleyan; after her marriage she accompanied
+her husband to the church in which his family
+had kept their place for so many generations.
+To her simple faith it was the same whether
+she worshipped in church or chapel.</p>
+
+<p>‘Why do you say that, aunt?’</p>
+
+<p>‘Because he seems to be so much alone.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Mr Hadleigh alone! What about all the people
+who visit the manor?’</p>
+
+<p>‘Ay, they visit the manor,’ answered Aunt
+Hessy, with a slight shake of the head and a
+quiet smile.</p>
+
+<p>That set Madge thinking. He did impress her
+as a solitary man, notwithstanding his family,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>{38}</span>
+his many visitors, his school treats, his flower-shows,
+and other signs of a busy and what ought
+to be a happy life. Then there was the strange
+thing that he should come to ask her assistance
+to enable him to come to terms with the
+harvesters.</p>
+
+<p>‘I believe you are right, aunt. He is very
+much alone, and I suppose that was why he
+came to me to-day.’</p>
+
+<p>‘What did he want?’ asked Dame Crawshay,
+with unusual quickness and an expression of
+anxiety Madge could not remember ever having
+seen on her face before. She did not understand
+it until long afterwards.</p>
+
+<p>Having explained the object of Mr Hadleigh’s
+visit, as she understood it, she was surprised to
+see how much relieved her aunt looked. Knowing
+that that good woman had never had a secret
+in her life, and never made the least mystery
+about anything, she put the question direct:
+‘Did you expect him to say anything else?’</p>
+
+<p>‘I don’t know, Madge. He is a queer man,
+Mr Hadleigh, in a-many ways. He spoke to your
+uncle about this, and he would have nothing
+to do with it.’</p>
+
+<p>‘And that is why they fell out at the market,
+I suppose.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Where is Philip? He must take after his
+mother, for he is straightforward in everything.’</p>
+
+<p>‘He is out in the garden. Shall I go for
+him?’</p>
+
+<p>‘Nay. I want more peas, so we can find him
+on our way for them.’</p>
+
+<p>Philip had not gone far. He had walked down
+to the duck-pond; but after that distant excursion,
+he kept near the little gate beside the dairy,
+glancing frequently at the house-door. He was
+dallying with the last hours of the bright morning
+of his love, and he grudged every moment that
+Madge was away from him. A few days hence
+he would be looking back to this one with longing
+eyes. How miserable he would be on board that
+ship! How he would hate the sound of the
+machinery, knowing that every stroke of the
+piston was taking him so much farther away
+from her. And then, as the waters widened and
+stretched into the sky, would not his heart sink,
+and would he not wish that he had never started
+on this weary journey?</p>
+
+<p>In response to that lover-like question, he heard
+the echo of Madge’s voice in his brain: ‘It was
+your mother’s wish.’</p>
+
+<p>This simple reminder was enough, for he
+cherished the sad memory of that sweet pale face,
+which smiled upon him hopefully a moment
+before it became calm in death.</p>
+
+<p>He sprang away from these sorrowful reflections.
+Yes; he would look back longingly to
+this day when sea and sky shut out Willowmere
+and Madge from sight. But they would both be
+palpable to his mental vision; and he would look
+forward to that still brighter day of his return,
+his mission fulfilled, and nothing to do but
+marry Madge and live happy ever after. Ay, that
+should comfort him and make the present parting
+bearable.</p>
+
+<p>Besides, who could say with what fortune he
+might come back? The uncle to whom he was
+going was rumoured to be the possessor of fabulous
+wealth, and although married he was childless.
+True, also, he was reported to be so eccentric
+that nobody could understand him, or form the
+slightest conception of how he would act under
+any given circumstances. But it was known that
+before he went abroad, his sister—Philip’s mother—had
+been the one creature in whom all his
+affection seemed to be concentrated. An inexplicable
+coldness appeared in his conduct towards her
+after her marriage. The reason had never been
+explained.</p>
+
+<p>Shortly before her death, however, there had
+come a letter from him, which made her very
+happy. But she had burned the letter, by his
+instructions, without showing it to any one or
+revealing its contents. Evidently it was this
+letter which induced her to lay upon her son
+the charge of going to her brother Austin Shield,
+whenever he should be summoned. But the
+uncle held no correspondence with any one at
+Ringsford. That he was still alive, could be only
+surmised from vague reports and the fact that on
+every anniversary of Mrs Hadleigh’s birthday,
+with one exception, a fresh wreath of flowers was
+found on her grave—placed there, it was believed,
+by his orders. Then a few months ago, a letter
+had come to Philip, containing an invitation
+from his uncle, suggesting possible advantages, and
+inclosing a draft for expenses. So, being summoned,
+he was going; and whether the result
+should be good or ill fortune, his mother’s last
+command would be obeyed, and he would return
+with a clear conscience to marry Madge.</p>
+
+<p>That thought kept him in good-humour throughout
+the weary ages which seemed to elapse before
+he saw Madge and her aunt approaching. He
+ran to meet them.</p>
+
+<p>‘I thought you were never coming,’ was his
+exclamation.</p>
+
+<p>‘Thou’lt be able to do without her for a longer
+time than this without troubling thyself, by-and-by,’
+said Dame Crawshay with one of her pleasant
+smiles.</p>
+
+<p>‘When that day comes, I will say you are a
+prophetess of evil,’ he retorted, laughing, but with
+an air of affectionate respect. That was the feeling
+with which she inspired everybody.</p>
+
+<p>‘Nay, lad; but it need not be evil, for you may
+be apart, surely, doing good for each other.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Yes; but not without wishing we were
+together.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Wilt ever be wishing that?’</p>
+
+<p>‘For ever and ever.’</p>
+
+<p>He answered with burlesque solemnity outwardly;
+but Madge knew that he spoke from his
+heart, and in the full faith of his words. She gave
+him a quiet glance with those soft wistful eyes,
+and he was very happy.</p>
+
+<p>They had reached a tall row of peas, at which
+Dame Crawshay had been already busy that
+morning, as a wooden chair placed beside it
+indicated. Here she seated herself, and began
+to pluck the peas, shelling them as she plucked;
+then dropping the pods into her lap and the peas
+into a basin. She performed the operation with
+mechanical regularity, which did not in any way
+interfere with conversation.</p>
+
+<p>Madge, kneeling beside her, helped with nimble
+fingers; and Philip, hands clasped behind him,
+stood looking on admiringly. The sun was
+shining upon them; and, darting shafts of light
+through the surrounding trees, made bright spots<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>{39}</span>
+amidst the moving shadows underneath. Everything
+seemed to be still and sleepy. The breeze
+was so light that there was only a gentle rustle
+of leaves, and through it was heard the occasional
+thud of an over-ripe apple or pear as it fell, and
+the drowsy hum of the bees.</p>
+
+<p>Light, warmth, peace. ‘Ah,’ thought Philip,
+‘if we could only go on this way always! If we
+could fix ourselves thus as in a photograph, what
+a blessed Eden this would be!’</p>
+
+<p>‘Thou’dst find it dull soon, Philip, standing
+there looking at us shelling peas, if thou wert
+forced to do it,’ said Dame Crawshay, looking
+up at him with a curious smile.</p>
+
+<p>‘That shows you cannot guess my thoughts.
+They were of quite a different nature, for I was
+wishing that there had been some fixing process
+in nature, so that there might never be any change
+in our present positions.’</p>
+
+<p>Madge looked as if she had been thinking
+something very similar; but she went on silently
+shelling peas; and a sunbeam shooting through
+a gap in the green pea hedge, made a golden
+radiance on her face.</p>
+
+<p>‘Eh, deary me, what love will do!’ exclaimed
+the dame, laughing, but shaking her head regretfully,
+as if sorry that she could not look at things
+in the same hopeful humour. ‘Other people have
+talked like that in the heyday of life. Some have
+found a little of their hope fulfilled; many have
+found none of it: all have found that they had
+to give up the thought of a great deal of what
+they expected. Some take their disappointment
+with wise content and make the best of things
+as they find them. They jog along as happily
+as mortals may, like Dick and me; a-many kick
+against the pricks and suffer sorely for it; but
+all have to give in sooner or later, and own that
+the world could not get along if everybody could
+arrange it to suit his own pleasure.’</p>
+
+<p>How gently this good-natured philosopher
+brought them down from the clouds to what
+foolish enthusiasts call contemptuously ‘the
+common earth.’ Sensible people use the same
+phrase, but they use it respectfully, knowing
+that this ‘common earth’ may be made beautiful
+or ugly as their own actions instruct their
+vision.</p>
+
+<p>To Philip it was quite true that most people
+sought something they could never attain; that
+many people fancied they had found the something
+they wanted, and discovered afterwards, to
+their sorrow, that they had not found the thing
+at all. But then, you see, it was an entirely
+different condition of affairs in his case. He had
+found what he wanted, and knew that there could
+be no mistake about it.</p>
+
+<p>To Madge, her aunt’s wisdom appeared to be
+very cold and even wrong in some respects, considering
+the placid and happy experiences of her
+own life. She had her great faith in Philip—her
+dream of a life which should be made up of
+devotion to him under any circumstances of joy
+or sorrow, and she could not believe that it was
+possible that their experience should be as full
+of crosses as that of others. And yet there was
+a strange faintness at her heart, as if she were
+vaguely conscious that there were possibilities
+which neither she nor Philip could foresee or
+understand.</p>
+
+<p>‘We shall be amongst the wise folk,’ said Philip
+confidently, ‘and take things as they come, contentedly.
+We shall be easily contented, so long
+as we are true to each other—and I don’t think
+you imagine there is any chance of a mistake in
+that respect.’</p>
+
+<p>Aunt Hessy went on shelling peas for a time
+in silence. There was a thoughtful expression on
+her kindly face, and there was even a suggestion
+of sadness in it. Here were two young people—so
+young, so happy, so full of faith in each other—just
+starting on that troublous journey called
+Life, and she had to speak those words of warning
+which always seem so harsh to the pupils, until,
+after bitter experience, they look back and say:
+‘If I had only taken the warning in time, what
+might have been?’</p>
+
+<p>By-and-by she spoke very softly: ‘Thou art
+thinking, Madge, that I am croaking; and thou,
+Philip, are thinking the same.... Nay, there
+is no need to deny it. But I do not mean to
+dishearten thee. All I want is to make thee
+understand that there are many things we reckon
+as certain in the heyday of life, that never come
+to us.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I daresay,’ said Philip, plucking a pea-pod
+and chewing it savagely; ‘but don’t you think,
+Mrs Crawshay, that this is very like throwing
+cold-water on us, and that throwing cold-water
+is very apt to produce the misadventure which
+you think possible?—that is, that something might
+happen to alter our plans?’</p>
+
+<p>‘I am sorry for that, lad; I do not mean to
+throw cold-water on thee; but rather to help
+thee and to help Madge to look at things in a
+sensible way. Listen. I had a friend once who
+was like Madge; and she had a friend who was,
+as it might be, like you, Philip. He went away,
+as you are going, to seek his fortune in foreign
+parts. There was a blunder between them,
+and she got wedded to another man. Her first
+lad came back, and finding how things were, he
+went away again and never spoke more to her.’</p>
+
+<p>‘They must have been miserable.’</p>
+
+<p>‘For a while they were miserable enough; but
+they got over it.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I’ll be bound the man never married.’</p>
+
+<p>‘There thou’dst be bound wrong. He did
+marry, and is now wealthy and prosperous, though
+she was taken away in a fever long ago.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Ay, but is he happy?’</p>
+
+<p>‘That is only known to himself and Him that
+knows us all.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Well, for our future I will trust Madge,’ said
+Philip, taking her hand, ‘in spite of all your
+forebodings; and she will trust me.’</p>
+
+<p>Dame Crawshay had filled her basin with peas,
+and she rose.</p>
+
+<p>‘God bless thee, Philip, wherever thou goest,
+and make thy hopes realities,’ she said with what
+seemed to the lovers unnecessary solemnity.</p>
+
+<p>The dame went into the house. Madge and
+Philip went down the meadow, and under the
+willows by the merry river, forgot that there was
+any parting before them or any danger that their
+fortunes might be crossed.</p>
+
+<p>Those bright days! Can they ever come again,
+or can any future joy be so full, so perfect?
+There are no love-speeches—little talk of any
+kind, and what there is, is commonplace enough.
+There is no need for speech. There is only—only!—the
+sense of the dear presence that makes<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>{40}</span>
+all the world beautiful, leaving the heart nothing
+more to desire.</p>
+
+<p>But the dreams in the sunshine there under
+the willows, with the river murmuring sympathetic
+harmonies at their feet! The dreams of a future,
+and yet no future; for it is always to be as now.
+Can it be possible that this man and woman
+will ever look coldly on each other—ever speak
+angry, passionate words? Can it be possible
+that there will ever flit across their minds one
+instant’s regret that they had come together?</p>
+
+<p>No, no: the dreams are of the future; but
+the future will be always as now—full of faith
+and gladness.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_CLIFF-HOUSES_OF_CANON_DE">THE CLIFF-HOUSES OF CAÑON DE
+CHELLY.</h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<p><span class="smcap">The</span> fourth and most southerly iron link of
+railway which will soon stretch across the North
+American continent from ocean to ocean is
+rapidly approaching completion along the thirty-fifth
+parallel; already it has reached the San
+Francisco mountains in its course to the Pacific.
+While avoiding the chances of blockade by
+snow, liable in higher latitudes, it has struck
+through a little explored region among the
+vast plains of Arizona and New Mexico. It is
+not easy at once to realise the extent of table-lands,
+greater in area than Great Britain and
+Ireland, upon which no soul has a settled habitation.
+The sun beats down with terrible force on
+these dry undulating plains, where at most times
+nothing relieves the eye, as it wanders away to
+the dim horizon, save a few cactus and sage-bush
+plants. But at seasons, heavy rains change dry
+gulches into roaring torrents, and parched lowlands
+into broad lakes, covering the country with
+a fine grass, on which millions of sheep, horses,
+and cattle are herded by wandering Navajo and
+Moqui Indians. To the periodical rains, as well
+as to geological convulsions, are traced the causes
+of those wondrous chasms, which in places break
+abruptly the rolling surface of the prairie, and
+extend in rocky gorges for many miles. They are
+called cañons. The grandeur of the scenery found
+in one of them, Cañon de Chelly, can scarcely
+be overstated.</p>
+
+<p>Cañon de Chelly—pronounced Canyon de Shay—is
+in the north of Arizona. It takes its name
+from a Frenchman, who is said to have been the
+first white man to set foot within its walls; but
+except the record of a recent visit by the United
+States Geological Survey, no account of it seems
+to have hitherto appeared. The picturesque
+features of this magnificent ravine are unrivalled;
+and what lends a more fascinating interest, is the
+existence, among its rocky walls, of dwellings
+once occupied by a race of men, who, dropping
+into the ocean of the past with an unwritten
+history, are only known to us as cave-dwellers.</p>
+
+<p>In October 1882, an exploring party, headed
+by Professor Stevenson of the Ethnological
+Bureau, Washington, and escorted by a number
+of soldiers and Indian guides, set out for this
+remarkable spot. One of the party, Lieutenant
+T. V. Keam, has furnished the following details
+of their investigations. After travelling one hundred
+and twenty miles out from the nearest
+military post, Fort Defiance, and crossing a desert
+some twenty miles broad, the entrance to Cañon
+de Chelly was reached. The bed of the ravine
+is entirely composed of sand, which is constantly
+being blown along it, with pitiless force, by
+sudden gusts of wind. The walls of the cañon
+are red sandstone; at first, but some fifty feet
+high, they increase gradually, until at eighteen
+miles they reach an elevation of twelve hundred
+feet, which is about the highest point, and continue
+without decreasing for at least thirty miles.
+The first night, Professor Stevenson’s party camped
+three miles from the mouth of the cañon, under
+a grove of cotton-wood trees, and near a clear
+flowing stream of water. Here the scene was an
+impressive one. A side ravine of great magnitude
+intersected the main cañon, and at the junction
+there stood out, like a sentinel, far from the rest
+of the cliff, one solemn brown stone shaft eight
+hundred feet high. In the morning, continuing
+the journey through the awful grandeur of the
+gorge, the walls still increased in height, some
+having a smooth and beautifully coloured surface
+reaching to one thousand feet; others, from the
+action of water, sand storms, and atmospheric
+effects, cut and broken into grand arches, battlements,
+and spires of every conceivable shape. At
+times would be seen an immense opening in
+the wall, stretching back a quarter of a mile,
+the sides covered with verdure of different shades,
+reaching to the summit, where tall firs with
+giant arms seemed dwarfed to the size of a puny
+gooseberry bush, and the lordly oak was only
+distinguished by the beautiful sheen of its
+leaves.</p>
+
+<p>On the second night the camp was formed at
+the base of a cliff, in which were descried, planted
+along a niche at a height of nearly one hundred
+feet, some cliff-dwellings. Next morning, these
+were reached after a dangerous climb, by means
+of a rope thrown across a projecting stick, up
+the almost perpendicular sides of this stupendous
+natural fortress. The village was perched on its
+narrow ledge of rock, facing the south, and was
+overshadowed by an enormous arch, formed in
+the solid side of the cañon. Overlapping the ruins
+for at least fifty feet, at a height above them of
+sixty feet, it spread its protecting roof five hundred
+feet from end to end. No moisture ever
+penetrated beyond the edge of this red shield of
+nature; and to its shelter, combined with the dryness
+of the atmosphere and preserving nature of
+the sand, is to be attributed the remarkable state of
+preservation, after such a lapse of time, in which
+the houses of the cliff-dwellers were found. Some
+of them still stood three stories high, built in
+compact form, close together within the extremely
+limited space, the timber used to support the roof
+being in some cases perfectly sound. The white<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>{41}</span>
+stone employed is gypsum, cut with stone implements,
+but having the outer edges smoothly dressed
+and evenly laid up; the stones of equal size placed
+parallel with each other presenting a uniform
+and pleasing appearance.</p>
+
+<p>No remains of importance were found here,
+excepting a finely woven sandal, and some pieces
+of netting made from the fibre of the yucca plant.
+But on proceeding two miles farther up the
+cañon, another group of ruins was discovered,
+which contained relics of a very interesting character.
+The interior of some of the larger houses
+was painted with a series of red bands and
+squares, fresh in colour, and contained fragments
+of ornamented pottery, besides what appeared to
+be pieces of blankets made from birds’ feathers;
+these, perhaps, in ages past bedecked the shoulders
+of some red beauty, when the grim old walls
+echoed the fierce war-songs of a long-lost nation.
+But the most fortunate find at this spot, and the
+first of that description made in the country, was
+a cyst, constructed of timber smoothly plastered
+on the inside, containing remains of three of the
+ancient cliff-dwellers. One was in a sitting posture,
+the skin of the thighs and legs being in a
+perfect state of preservation. These ruins, as in
+the former case, were protected from the weather
+by an overhanging arch of rock.</p>
+
+<p>At several points on the journey through
+Cañon de Chelly, hieroglyphics were traced, graven
+on the cliff wall. Most of the designs were
+unintelligible; but figures of animals, such as
+the bear and mountain sheep or goat, were prominent.
+Another cliff village was observed of a
+considerable size, but planted three hundred feet
+above the cañon bed, in such a position that it
+is likely to remain sacred from the foot of man
+for still further generations. The same elements
+which in geologic time fashioned the caves and
+recesses of the cañon walls, have in later times
+worn the approaches away, so that to-day they
+do not even furnish a footing for the bear or
+coyote. In what remote age and for how many
+generations the cliff-dwellers lived in these strange
+fastnesses, will probably never be determined.
+Faint traces of still older buildings are found
+here and there in the bed of Cañon de Chelly;
+and it is conjectured that this region was once
+densely populated along the watercourses, and
+that the tribes having been driven from their
+homes by a powerful foe, the remnant sought
+refuge in the caves of the cañon walls.</p>
+
+<p>Of the great antiquity of these structures, there
+is no question. The Indian of to-day knows
+nothing of their history, has not even traditions
+concerning them. The Navajo, with a few poles
+plastered with a heavy deposit of earth, constructs
+his <i>hogan</i> or wigwam, and rarely remains in the
+same place winter and summer. He has no more
+idea of constructing a dwelling like those so perfectly
+preserved in the cliffs, than he has of baking
+specimens of pottery such as are found in fragments
+amongst the walls. In the fine quality of
+paste, in the animal handles—something like old
+Japanese ware—and in the general ornamentation,
+these exhibit a high order of excellence. Some
+specimens of what is called laminated ware are
+remarkable; threadlike layers of clay are laid
+one on each other with admirable delicacy and
+patience. In these fragments may yet be read
+something of the history of a vanished race.
+They illuminate a dark corner in the world’s
+history, and seem to indicate a people who once
+felt civilising influences higher than anything
+known by those uncouth figures whose camp-fires
+now glimmer at night across the silent
+starlit prairie.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="TWO_DAYS_IN_A_LIFETIME">TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="ph3">A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.</p>
+
+
+<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Captain Bowood</span> came forward. ‘Sir Frederick,
+your servant; glad to see you,’ he said in his
+hearty sailor-like fashion.</p>
+
+<p>‘I am glad to see you, Captain,’ responded the
+Baronet as he proffered his hand. ‘How’s the
+gout this morning?’</p>
+
+<p>‘So, so. Might be better—might be worse.—You
+here, Miss Saucebox!’ he added, turning
+to Elsie. ‘Why are you not at your lessons—eh,
+now?’</p>
+
+<p>‘As if anybody could learn Latin roots on a
+sunny morning like this!’ Then, clasping one of
+his arms with both her hands, and looking up
+coaxingly into his face, she said: ‘You might
+give me a holiday, nunky dear.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Why, why? A holiday indeed!—Listen to
+her, Sir Frederick. The baggage is always
+begging for holidays.’</p>
+
+<p>‘But the baggage doesn’t always get them,’
+was the answer with a pretty pout. Then, after
+another glance at the long-haired stranger, who
+was already busy with the piano, she said to
+herself: ‘It is he; I am sure of it. And yet
+if I had not heard his voice, I should not have
+known him.’</p>
+
+<p>Captain Bowood at this time had left his
+sixtieth birthday behind him, but he carried his
+years lightly. He was a bluff, hearty-looking,
+loud-voiced man, with a very red face, and very
+white hair and whiskers. A fever, several years
+previously, had radically impaired his eyesight,
+since which time he had taken to wearing gold-rimmed
+spectacles. He had a choleric temper;
+but his bursts of petulance were like those
+summer storms which are over almost as soon
+as they have broken, and leave not a cloud behind.
+Throughout the American Civil War, Captain
+Bowood had been known as one of the most daring
+and successful blockade-runners, and it was during
+those days of danger and excitement that he laid
+the foundation of the fortune on which he had
+since retired. No man was more completely ruled
+by his wife than the choleric but generous-hearted
+Captain, and no man suspected the fact less than
+he did.</p>
+
+<p>‘I drove over this morning,’ said Sir Frederick,
+‘to see you about that bay mare which I hear
+you are desirous of getting rid of.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Yes, yes—just so. We’ll go to the stable
+and have a look at her. By-the-bye, I was talking
+to Boyd just now, when your name cropped
+up. It seems he met you when you were both
+in South America. Oscar Boyd, engineering
+fellow and all that. You remember him, eh,
+now?’</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>{42}</span></p>
+
+<p>‘I certainly do remember a Mr Boyd; but it
+is many years since we met.’ Then to himself
+the Baronet said: ‘Can this be the other man?
+Oh! Lady Dimsdale.’</p>
+
+<p>‘A very agreeable fellow,’ said the Captain.
+‘Here on a visit for a couple of days. A little
+matter of business between him and me to save
+lawyers’ expenses.’</p>
+
+<p>‘The other man, without a doubt,’ thought the
+Baronet. ‘His wife must be dead.’</p>
+
+<p>Miss Brandon had slipped unobserved out of
+the room. She was now sitting in the veranda,
+making-believe to be intent over her Latin verbs,
+but in reality waiting impatiently till the coast
+should be clear. She had not long to wait.
+Presently she heard the Captain say in his cheery
+loud-voiced way: ‘Come along, Sir Frederick;
+we shall just have time to look at the mare before
+luncheon;’ and a minute later, she heard the
+shutting of a door.</p>
+
+<p>Then she shut her book, rose from her seat,
+and crossing on tiptoe to the open French-window,
+she peeped into the room. ‘Is that
+you, Charley?’ she asked in a voice that was
+little above a whisper.</p>
+
+<p>‘Whom else should it be?’ answered the
+young man, looking round from the piano with
+a smile.</p>
+
+<p>‘I was nearly sure of it from the first; but
+then you look such a guy!’</p>
+
+<p>‘She calls me a guy! after all the trouble I
+have taken to get myself up like a foreign
+nobleman.’ Speaking thus, he took off his
+spectacles and wig, and stood revealed, as
+pleasant-looking a young fellow as one would
+see in a day’s march.</p>
+
+<p>Elsie ran forward with a little cry of surprise
+and delight. ‘Now I know you for my own!’
+she exclaimed; and when he took her in his
+arms and kissed her—more than once—she offered
+not the slightest resistance. ‘But what a dreadful
+risk to run!’ she went on as soon as she
+was set at liberty. ‘Suppose your uncle—good
+gracious!’</p>
+
+<p>‘My uncle? He can’t eat me, that’s certain;
+and he has already cut me off with the proverbial
+shilling.’</p>
+
+<p>‘My poor boy! Fate is very, very hard upon
+you. We are both down on our luck, Charley;
+but we can die together, can’t we?’ As she
+propounded this question, she held out her box
+of bon-bons. Charley took one, she took another,
+and then the box was put away. ‘A pan of
+charcoal’—she went on, giving her sweetmeat
+a gustatory turn over with her tongue—‘door
+and windows close shut—you go to sleep and
+forget to wake up. What could be simpler?’</p>
+
+<p>‘Hardly anything. But we have not quite
+come to that yet. Of course, that dreadful Vice-chancellor
+won’t let me marry you for some time
+to come; but he can’t help himself when you are
+one-and-twenty.’</p>
+
+<p>‘That won’t be for nearly four years,’ answered
+Elsie with a pout. ‘What a long, long time to
+look forward to!’</p>
+
+<p>‘We have only to be true to each other, which
+I am sure we shall be, and it will pass away far
+more quickly than you imagine. By that time,
+I hope to be earning enough money to find you
+a comfortable home.’</p>
+
+<p>‘There’s my money, you know, Charley dear.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I don’t mean to have anything to do with that.
+If I can’t earn enough to keep my wife, I’ll never
+marry.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Oh!’</p>
+
+<p>‘But I shall do that, dear. Why, I’m getting
+five guineas a week already; and if I’m not
+getting three times as much as that by the time
+you are twenty-one, I’ll swallow my wig.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Your uncle will never forgive you for going
+on the stage.’</p>
+
+<p>‘O yes, he will, by-and-by, when he sees
+that I am making a fair living by it and
+really mean to stick to it—having sown all my
+wild-oats; and above all, when he finds how well
+they speak of me in his favourite newspaper.
+And that reminds me that it was what the
+<i>Telephone</i> said about me that caused old Brooker
+our manager to raise my screw from four guineas
+a week to five. I cut the notice out of the paper,
+you may be sure. Here it is.’ Speaking thus,
+Master Charles produced his pocket-book; and
+drew from it a printed slip of paper, which he
+proceeded to read aloud: ‘“Although we have
+had occasion more than once to commend the
+acting of Mr Warden”—that’s me—“we were
+certainly surprised last evening by his very
+masterly rendering of the part of Captain Cleveland.
+His byplay was remarkably clever; and
+his impassioned love-making in the third act,
+where timidity or hesitation would have been
+fatal to the piece, brought down the house, and
+earned him two well-merited recalls. We certainly
+consider that there is no more promising
+<i>jeune premier</i> than Mr Warden now on the stage.”
+There, my pet, what do you think of that?’ asked
+the young actor as he put back the slip of paper
+into his pocket-book.</p>
+
+<p>But his pet vouchsafed no answer. Her face
+was turned from him; a tear fell from her eye.
+His arms were round her in a moment. ‘My
+darling child, what can be the matter?’ he
+asked.</p>
+
+<p>‘I—I wish you had never gone on the stage,’
+said Elsie, with a sob in her voice. ‘I—I wish
+you were still a tea-broker!’</p>
+
+<p>‘Good gracious! what makes you wish anything
+so absurd?’</p>
+
+<p>‘It’s not absurd. Doesn’t the newspaper speak
+of your “impassioned love-making?” And then
+people—lovers, I mean—are always kissing each
+other on the stage.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Just as they do sometimes in real life;’ and
+with that he suited the action to the word.</p>
+
+<p>‘Don’t, Mr Summers, please.’ And she pushed
+him away, and her eyes flashed through her
+tears, and she looked very pretty.</p>
+
+<p>Mr Summers sat down on a chair and was
+unfeeling enough to laugh. ‘Why, what a little
+goose you are!’ he said.</p>
+
+<p>‘I don’t see it at all.’ This with a toss of her
+head. Certainly, it is not pleasant to be called
+a goose.</p>
+
+<p>‘You must know, if you come to think of it,
+that both love-making and kissing on the stage
+are only so much make-believe, however real
+they may seem to the audience. During the
+last six months, it has been my fate to have
+to make love to about a dozen different ladies;
+and during the next six months I shall probably
+have to do the same thing to as many more;
+but to imagine on that account that I really<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>{43}</span>
+care for any of them, or that they really care
+for me, would be as absurd as to suppose that
+because in the piece we shall play to-morrow
+night I shall hunt Tom Bowles—who is the
+villain of the drama—through three long acts,
+and kill him in the fourth, he and I must
+necessarily hate each other. The fact is that
+Tom and I are the best of friends, and generally
+contrive to lodge together when on our travels.’</p>
+
+<p>Elsie was half convinced that she <i>had</i> made a
+goose of herself, but of course was not prepared
+to admit it. ‘I see that Miss Wylie is acting in
+your company,’ she said. ‘I saw her in London
+about a year ago; she is very, very pretty.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Miss Wylie is a very charming woman.’</p>
+
+<p>‘And you make love to her?’</p>
+
+<p>‘Every night of my life—for a little while.’</p>
+
+<p>Elsie felt her unreasonable mood coming back.
+‘Then why don’t you marry her?’ she asked
+with a ring of bitterness in her voice.</p>
+
+<p>Again that callous-hearted young man laughed.
+‘Considering that she is married already, and the
+happy mother of two children, I can hardly see
+the feasibility of your suggestion.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Then why does she call herself “Miss
+Wylie?”’</p>
+
+<p>‘It’s a way they have in the profession. She
+goes by her maiden name. In reality, she is
+Mrs Berrington. Her husband travels with her.
+He plays “heavy fathers.”’</p>
+
+<p>Miss Brandon looked mystified. Her lover
+saw it.</p>
+
+<p>‘You see this suit of clothes,’ he said, ‘and this
+wig and these spectacles. They are part of the
+“make-up” of a certain character I played last
+week. I was the Count von Rosenthal, in love
+with the beautiful daughter of a poor music-master.
+In order to be able to make love to
+her, and win her for myself, and not for my
+title and riches, I go in the guise of a student,
+and take lodgings in the same house where she
+and her father are living. After many mishaps,
+all ends as it ought to do. Charlotte and I fall
+into each other’s arms, and her father blesses
+us both with tears in his eyes. Miss Wylie played
+the Professor’s daughter, and her husband played
+the father’s part, and very well he did it too.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Her husband allowed you to make love to
+his wife?’ said Miss Brandon, with wide-open
+eyes.</p>
+
+<p>‘Of course he did; and he was not so foolish
+as to be jealous, like some people. Why should
+he be?’</p>
+
+<p>Elsie was fully convinced by this time that
+she had made a goose of herself. ‘You may kiss
+me, Charley,’ she said with much sweetness.
+‘Dear boy, I forgive you.’</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly the sound of a footstep caused
+them to start and fly asunder. There, close to
+the open French-window, stood Captain Bowood,
+glaring from one to the other of them. Miss
+Brandon gave vent to a little shriek and fled from
+the room. The Captain came forward, a fine frenzy
+in his eye. ‘Who the deuce may you be, sir?’
+he spluttered, although he had recognised Charley
+at the first glance.</p>
+
+<p>‘I have the honour to be your very affectionate
+and obedient nephew, sir.’</p>
+
+<p>The Captain’s reply to this was an inarticulate
+growl. Next moment, his eye fell on the discarded
+wig. ‘And what the dickens may this be, sir?’
+he asked as he lifted up the article in question
+on the end of his cane.</p>
+
+<p>‘A trifle of property, sir, belonging to your
+affectionate and obedient nephew;’ and with that
+he took the wig off the end of the cane and
+crammed it into his pocket.</p>
+
+<p>‘So, so. This is the way, you young jackanapes,
+that you set my commands at defiance, and steal
+into my house after being forbidden ever to set
+foot in it again! You young snake-in-the-grass!
+You crocodile! It would serve you right to give
+you in charge to the police. How do I know
+that you are not after my spoons and forks?
+Come now.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I am glad to find, sir, that your powers of
+vituperation are in no way impaired since I had
+the pleasure of seeing you last. Time cannot
+wither them.—Hem! I believe, sir, that you have
+had the honour of twice paying my debts, amounting
+in the aggregate to the trifling sum of five
+hundred pounds. In this paper, sir, you will
+find twenty-five sovereigns, being my first dividend
+of one shilling in the pound. A further dividend
+will be paid at the earliest possible date.’ As Mr
+Summers spoke thus, he drew from his waistcoat
+pocket a small sealed packet and placed the same
+quietly on the table.</p>
+
+<p>The irate Captain glanced at the packet and
+then at his imperturbable nephew. The cane
+trembled in his fingers; for a moment or two
+he could not command his voice. ‘What, what!’
+he cried at last. ‘The boy will drive me crazy.
+What does he mean with his confounded rigmarole?
+Dividend! Shilling in the pound! Bother
+me, if I can make head or tail of his foolery!’</p>
+
+<p>‘And yet, sir, both my words and my meaning
+were clear enough, as no doubt you will find
+when you come to think them over in your
+calmer moments.—And now I have the honour
+to wish you a very good-morning; and I hope to
+afford you the pleasure of seeing me again before
+long.’ Speaking thus, Charles Summers made
+his uncle a very low bow, took up his hat, and
+walked out of the room.</p>
+
+<p>‘There’s insolence! There’s audacity!’ burst
+out the Captain as soon as he found himself alone.
+‘The pleasure of seeing him again—eh? Only
+let me find him here without my leave—I’ll—I’ll——
+I don’t know what I won’t do!—And
+now I come to think of it, it looks very much
+as if he and Miss Saucebox were making love
+to each other. How dare they? I’ll haul ’em
+both up before the Vice-chancellor.’ Here his
+eye fell on the packet on the table. He took it
+up and examined it. ‘Twenty-five sovereigns,
+did he say? As if I was going to take the young
+idiot’s money! I’ll keep it for the present, and
+send it back to him by-and-by. Must teach him
+a lesson. Do him all the good in the world.
+False hair and spectacles, eh? Deceived his old
+uncle finely. Just the sort of trick I should have
+delighted in when I was a boy. But Master
+Charley will be clever if he catches the old fox
+asleep a second time.’ He had reached the French-window
+on his way out, when he came to a sudden
+stand, and gave vent to a low whistle. ‘Ha, ha!
+Lady Dimsdale and Mr Boyd, and mighty taken
+up with each other they seem. Well, well. I’m
+no spoil-sport. I’ll not let them know I’ve seen
+them. Looks uncommonly as if Dan Cupid had
+got them by the ears. A widow too! All widows<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>{44}</span>
+ought to be labelled “Dangerous.”’ Smiling and
+chuckling to himself, the Captain drew back,
+crossed the room, and went out by the opposite
+door.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_COLOUR-SENSE">THE COLOUR-SENSE.</h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<p><span class="smcap">The</span> phenomenon of Colour is one with which all
+who are not blind must of necessity be familiar.
+So accustomed, indeed, have we been to it
+throughout all our lives, that most of us are
+inclined to take it for granted, and probably
+trouble ourselves very seldom as to its true cause.
+A brief discussion, therefore, of the nature of the
+Colour-sense may, we trust, prove not uninteresting
+to our readers.</p>
+
+<p>What, then, is colour? It is obvious that it
+may be considered in two ways; we may either
+discuss the impression it makes on the mind, or
+the real external causes to which it is due.
+Viewed in the first light, colour is as much a
+sensation as is that of being struck or burnt.
+Viewed from the latter stand-point, it is merely
+a property of light; hence, in order correctly
+to understand its nature, we must first briefly
+examine the nature of this phenomenon.</p>
+
+<p>According to modern scientific men, light is
+not a material substance, but consists of a kind
+of motion or vibration communicated by the
+luminous body to the surrounding medium, and
+travelling throughout space with an enormous
+velocity. The medium, however, through which
+light-waves travel is not air, nor any of the
+ordinary forms of matter. Of its real nature
+nothing is known, and its very existence is only
+assumed in order to account for the observed
+phenomena. It must be very subtle and very
+elastic; but it is a curious fact that the nature
+of the vibrations in question would seem to
+preclude the supposition that it is a fluid, these
+being rather such as would be met with in the
+case of a solid. To this medium, whatever its
+true nature may be, the name of <i>ether</i> is given.</p>
+
+<p>The sensation, then, which we know by the
+name of Light is to be regarded as the effect on
+the retina of the eye of certain very rapid vibrations
+in the <i>ether</i> of the universe. All these
+waves travel with the same swiftness; but they
+are not all of the same length, nor of the same
+frequency; and investigation has shown that it
+is to this difference of wave-length that difference
+of colour is due. In other words, the impression
+to which we give the name of a certain colour is
+due to the effect on the retina of vibrations of a
+certain frequency. This conclusion is arrived at
+by a very simple experiment, in which advantage
+is taken of the following principle. So long as a
+ray of light is passing through the same medium,
+it travels in one straight line; but in passing
+obliquely from one medium into another of
+different density, its path is bent through a certain
+angle, just as a column of soldiers has a tendency
+to change its direction of march when obliquely
+entering a wood or other difficult ground. Now,
+this angle is naturally greatest in the case of
+the shortest waves, so that when a ray of light
+is thus bent out of its course—or, as it is called,
+‘refracted’—the various sets of vibrations of
+which it is composed all travel in different
+directions, and may be separately examined. In
+fact the ray of light is analysed, or broken up
+into its component parts. The most convenient
+apparatus to employ for this purpose is a prism
+of glass. It is found, as is well known, that if a
+beam of ordinary sun-light be allowed to pass
+through the prism and be then received on a
+screen, it is resolved into a band of colours
+succeeding one another in the order of those of
+the rainbow. Such a band of colours is called a
+‘spectrum.’</p>
+
+<p>Now, of the visible portion of the spectrum
+the red rays are those which undergo the least
+refraction, while the violet rays are bent through
+the greatest angle, the other colours in their
+natural order being intermediate. From what
+has been said above, it is evident that, this being
+the case, the portion of the light consisting of
+waves of greatest length and least frequency is
+that which produces on the eye the sensation of
+red, and that each of the other colours is caused
+by vibrations of a certain definite length. We are
+speaking now of the visible part of the spectrum.
+As a matter of fact, the waves of least and greatest
+frequency make no impression on the eye at all;
+but the former have the greatest heating power,
+while the latter are those which chiefly produce
+chemical effects such as are utilised in photography.</p>
+
+<p>Having now arrived at the nature of colour,
+we are in a position to apply these facts to the
+discussion of coloured substances.</p>
+
+<p>When light falls on a body, a portion of it is
+turned back or, as it is called, ‘reflected’ from
+the surface; another part is taken up or ‘absorbed’
+by the substance; while, in the case of a transparent
+body, a third portion passes on through it,
+and is said to be ‘transmitted.’ Most bodies
+absorb the different parts of the light in different
+proportions, and hence their various colours are
+produced. The colour of a transparent substance
+is that of the light which it transmits; while an
+opaque body is said to be of the colour of the
+light which it reflects, or rather of that part of
+it which is irregularly scattered.</p>
+
+<p>There are three colours in the solar spectrum
+which are called ‘primary,’ owing to the fact that
+they cannot be produced by mixtures. These are
+red, violet, and deep olive green. The generally-received
+idea that red, blue, and yellow are primary
+colours, is by recent scientific authorities not
+regarded as tenable; it arose from observations on
+mixtures of pigments rather than of coloured light.
+For instance, objects seen through two plates of
+glass, one of which is blue and the other yellow,
+appear green; but this by no means justifies
+us in saying that a mixture of blue and yellow
+light is green. For remembering that the two
+glasses do not appear coloured by reason of their
+adding anything to the light, but rather through
+their stopping the passage of certain rays, we
+shall see that the green light which is finally
+transmitted is not a mixture of yellow and blue
+at all, but is rather that portion of the light which
+both of the glasses allow to pass. The blue glass
+will probably stop all rays except blue, violet,
+and green; the yellow glass, all but green, yellow,
+and orange. The only light, therefore, which
+can pass through both glasses is green. The same
+remark applies to mixtures of pigments, each
+particle being really transparent, though the
+whole bulk appears opaque. It is easy, however,
+to obtain real mixtures of coloured lights by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>{45}</span>
+employing suitable arrangements, of which one
+of the simplest consists of a disc painted with
+alternate bands of colours and rapidly rotated.
+By such means it is found that a mixture of blue
+and yellow is not green, but white or gray, and
+that yellow can itself be produced by a mixture
+of red and green in proper proportions. The late
+Professor Clerk Maxwell made an interesting
+series of experiments on colour mixtures by
+means of an apparatus known as Maxwell’s
+Colour-box, by which any number of colours could
+be combined in any required proportions.</p>
+
+<p>It would, however, be beyond the scope of the
+present paper to discuss the many important
+results which followed from his investigations.
+Helmholtz believed the three primary colour
+sensations to be clue to the action of three sets
+of nerves at the back of the retina, each of which
+is excited only by vibrations within a certain
+range of frequency; and this theory is now generally
+held. In the case of some persons, the
+sensation corresponding to red is wholly absent,
+and the spectrum appears to consist of two colours
+with white or gray between. The nature of
+these colours is, for obvious reasons, difficult to
+determine; but one doubtless nearly corresponds
+to our sensation of blue, while the other is a
+deep colour, probably dark green. Persons thus
+affected are usually called ‘colour-blind;’ but
+this epithet is a misnomer, and the term ‘dichroic
+vision’ has been suggested for the phenomenon
+instead.</p>
+
+<p>We have already remarked that our range of
+vision is comparatively narrow, the extreme portions
+of the spectrum making no impression on the
+retina. But we have no reason to think that these
+limits have been the same in all ages. The evidence
+would rather tend to show that the human
+eye is undergoing a slow and gradual development,
+which enables it to distinguish between colours
+which the ancients regarded as identical, and may
+in future render it able to perceive some portions
+at least of the parts of the spectrum which
+are now invisible. The Vedas of India, which
+are among the most ancient writings known,
+attest that in the most remote ages only white
+and black could be distinguished.</p>
+
+<p>It would seem as if the perception of different
+degrees of intensity of light preceded by a long
+time the appreciation of various kinds of colours.
+After weighing the evidence, Magnus has come
+to the conclusion that red was the first colour
+to become visible, then yellow and orange; and
+afterwards, though at a considerable interval,
+green, blue, and violet in order. Various passages
+in the Old Testament have been cited as proof
+that the ancients failed to perceive all the colours
+seen by us, one of the most remarkable being in
+Ezekiel i. 27 and 28, where the prophet compares
+the appearance of the brightness round about the
+fire to that of the ‘bow that is in the cloud in
+the day of rain’—which passage has been cited
+by Mr Gladstone in his article in the <i>Nineteenth
+Century</i> for October 1877, as indicating a want of
+appreciation of distinct colours among the ancients.
+This is not quite clear, however, as the appearance
+round about the supernatural fire might have
+assumed auroral or rainbow tints. But the most
+important evidence on the apparent want of
+capacity among the ancients to discriminate
+between colours is that afforded by the writings
+of Homer, who, in the opinion of Magnus,
+could neither have perceived green nor blue.
+The point has been carefully examined by Mr
+Gladstone, who comes to the conclusion that this
+estimate is quite within the mark. Inquiring in
+detail into each of Homer’s colour-epithets, he
+shows that almost all must be in reality regarded
+as expressing degrees of intensity rather than of
+quality, and that the few exceptions are all confined
+to red and yellow. The brilliant blue sky
+of the southern climes where Homer lived must
+have appeared to him as of a neutral gray hue.
+Of course, the suggestion that the writings
+usually assigned to Homer were in reality the
+productions of many authors, does not invalidate
+the reasoning at all, as we do not attribute
+any defect in vision to the poet which was not
+equally manifested by his contemporaries.</p>
+
+<p>It is curious that the distinction between green
+and blue is not yet perfectly developed in all
+nations. Travellers tell us that the Burmese often
+confuse these colours in a remarkable manner.
+This and other facts suggest that the development
+of the colour-sense is not yet completed; and
+that in the future our range of perception may
+be still further enlarged, so that the now invisible
+rays may be recognised by the eye as distinct
+colours.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="SO_UNREASONABLE_OF_STEP-MOTHER">‘SO UNREASONABLE OF STEP-MOTHER!’</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="ph3">A SKETCH FROM LIFE.</p>
+
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Not</span> long before the death of George Eliot, on
+a return trip to London by the Midland route,
+I broke my journey at Leicester, to pay a
+flying visit to Coventry, where the great writer
+had spent many of her happiest days. There
+I was privileged by having for escort one of
+her most valued friends; and many interesting
+reminiscences were for our benefit called to mind,
+especially of a visit paid to Edinburgh, ‘mine own
+romantic town,’ and of the impression the beauty
+of its situation had made on her mind. Next
+morning, every favourite haunt of hers was searched
+out and commented on, as well as the interesting
+points of the quaint old city of Coventry; and
+bidding good-bye to our hospitable friends, I
+departed alone by the evening mail for Leicester,
+there to wait for the midnight train to Edinburgh,
+feeling satisfied that the hours had been well
+spent. Arrived in Leicester, I was fortunate in
+finding a fellow-countryman in one of the porters,
+who at once took me and my belongings under
+his especial protection, and when he had seen
+me comfortably ‘happit up’ on one of the sofas
+of the luxurious waiting-room, he retired, bidding
+me take a quiet forty winks, and keep my mind
+quite easy, for he would give me timely notice of
+the arrival of the Scotch train. Scarcely had I
+begun to feel the loneliness of my situation, when
+the door opened, and a female figure entered,
+rather unwilling, apparently; nay, seemed to
+be pushed in, while a deep male voice advised
+that she should rest by the fire, and not put
+herself about so. By a succession of jerks, she
+advanced to the chair by the fire opposite to my<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>{46}</span>
+sofa; and finding that I was not asleep, as she
+had supposed, at once, and without any circumlocution,
+began to unburden her mind, her words
+flowing from her mouth at express speed, regardless
+of comma or full stop.</p>
+
+<p>‘Not put myself about! Humph! That’s so
+like men.—Ain’t it now, miss? Ah, I dessay
+you’ve ’ad your own share of worriting before
+now, and know ’ow downright masterful and
+provoking they can be at times. I tell you <i>w’at</i>,
+miss, if you want to be at peace at all, you’ve
+got to say black is w’ite, if they ’ave a mind that
+it should be so.—Not put myself about! I’d like
+to know ’ow one with a ’eart and a soul in their
+body could ’elp being put about, as I am.’</p>
+
+<p>I ventured to hope nothing serious had occurred
+to disturb her composure or to put her about,
+my voice at once disclosing that I hailed from
+the North, and also that I was of a sympathetic
+nature.</p>
+
+<p>‘Put about!’ she once more exclaimed. ‘Why,
+I <i>am</i> put about; yes—no use trying to appear
+as if I was anything else. Yes; only think, miss!
+Not ’alf an hour gone, a telegram was brought to
+our ’ouse by the telegraph-boy. His mother, a
+widow, keeps a little bit of a shop not many doors
+from our own. Yes; he ’ands it in saying it
+was for father. I opened it; and there, staring
+me right in the eyes were them words: “<i>Step-mother
+is lying a-dying.</i>”—Not put about! I’d
+just like to know ’ow anybody could ’ave
+been anything else than put about, after <i>that</i>.
+Now, miss, you must understand that John—that’s
+my ’usband—is a great go-to-meeting-man.
+Why, at that very moment he might be at the
+church meeting, or he might ’ave been at the
+Building meeting, or he might ’ave been at
+a Masonic meeting, or he might ’ave been
+at any other meeting under the sun. And w’atever
+was I to do? for there was the telegraph-boy;
+there was the telegram, with the words as plain
+as plain: “Step-mother is lying a-dying.” I
+put on my bonnet and shawl; I ’urried to father’s
+office—he is a master-builder, is father, with sixteen
+men under him and three apprentices; and
+John, my son, for partner. I rushed in quite out
+of breath, not expecting to find any one there
+at that time of night; but there I found John—that’s
+my son—and says I, without taking time
+to sit down, though I was like to drop: “John,
+w’atever is to be done! Here’s a telegraph-boy
+has brought a telegram for father to say, step-mother
+is a-dying.’”</p>
+
+<p>‘Now, miss, I just put it to you, if them telegrams,
+coming so sudden at hours w’en no one
+expects postmen’s knocks, and bringing such news
+as that, ain’t enough to put any one about! Augh!
+Men are so queer; there’s no nerves in their bodies,
+and can’t understand us women. I’ve no patience
+with them. There was John—that’s my son—w’at
+did he do? Why, look at me quite composed,
+as if it weren’t no news at all, and says he:
+“Don’t put yourself about, mother. Father has
+gone off not many minutes ago to the paddock,
+to give little Bobbie a ride.” And with that he
+takes down a time-table, to look at it for the
+last train, puts on his hat, calls for a cab, and says
+quite composed: “Jump in, mother. We’ll go
+in pursuit of father, and then we’ll catch the train
+quite easily.” It seemed to me the horse just
+crept up the ’ill like a snail; only John would
+’ave it they were going faster than their usual
+pace. W’en we came to our door, w’at do you
+think we saw, now, miss?—No; you’ll never
+guess, I dessay. Why, <i>father</i>, to be sure! Yes;
+there he was; and there was the pony; and there
+was little Bobbie—all three of ’em just about
+to start for a long ride into the country. I ’ad
+carried the telegram in my pocket; and do you
+know, miss, after all my flurry and worry, w’at
+did John—that’s my ’usband—say, think you?—Augh!
+Men are so unreasonable, and w’at’s
+more, such cool and ’eartless pieces. Yes; that’s
+w’at <i>they</i> are; and I don’t care who hears me
+a-saying it.</p>
+
+<p>‘John—that’s father—after he had read the
+telegram, he turns to me, and says he: “Why,
+mother, ’ave your senses left your ’ead altogether?
+W’atever made you carry off the telegram!
+Couldn’t you ’ave stayed quietly at ’ome, instead
+of putting yourself about in this here fashion?
+If you ’ad, we’d ’ave been at the station without
+any hurry at all, by this time.”</p>
+
+<p>‘I felt too angry to speak, I do declare, miss.
+I think the older men grow, the more aggravating
+they get to a sensitive nature. So I gathered
+the things together father said we’d better take
+with us, into my travelling-basket, without as
+much as a single word—a stranger coming in
+would ’ave thought me dumb—while father sent
+a man back to the paddock with little Bobbie and
+the pony. We then got into the cab once more;
+and here we are, with John—that’s my son—a-looking
+after the tickets and the luggage; and
+father smoking his pipe outside as cool as cool.
+O dear, if they wouldn’t put me out with their
+“Keep cool, mother; no need to fluster and flurry
+so, mother”—“Take it easy, good ooman; don’t
+put yourself about”—I’d bear it better, I certainly
+should.</p>
+
+<p>‘Is step-mother nice? you ask. Oh—well—that’s
+just as you take it. Some people say
+she’s nice; some say she’s quite the opposite.
+But’—and here she drew her chair closer to me,
+and in a more confidential tone, continued: ‘I
+tell you <i>w’at</i>, miss—I’ve said it before, and I say
+it again—step-mother, in spite of her religious
+pro-fession and san’timonious ways, is cantankerous.
+No use a-trying to hide it—step-mother
+is just w’at I say, <i>can-tankerous</i>. I’ve said it
+before; I say it again—she’d show her cantankerousness
+to the very last. And han’t
+my words come true, for here she is lying
+a-dying, and Mary-Anne’s wedding fixed for
+Friday of this very week!—O my—now that I
+come to ’ave a quiet moment to think, w’atever
+am I to do? It’s so unreasonable of step-mother!
+Why, the dressmaker was coming this very
+evening to fit my dress on for the second time—a
+new black silk it is—and w’atever will <i>she</i>
+think, w’en she finds I’ve gone off without as
+much as a good-bye message? You see, miss,
+Mary-Anne is going to marry into quite a genteel
+family. Father, and John—that’s my son—he
+comes to me not many weeks gone, and says he:
+“Mother, I ’ope you are going to ’ave a nice dress
+for this wedding. I ’ope it will be a silk or
+a satin you decide to buy.” And says I: “John,
+you know w’at father is, and ’as been all his
+life—a just man to all; but a man who looks<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>{47}</span>
+upon gay clothes as not necessary. And then,
+John, you know as well as I do that father is
+rather close-fisted w’en money has to be paid out—like
+his own father before him, who was looked
+upon by all as the most parsimonious man in
+the town. I don’t say father is quite as bad;
+but close-fisted I <i>do</i> say he is, John; and you
+know it. Were I to say: ‘Father, I’d like to
+’ave a silk dress for this wedding’—and I don’t
+hide the fact from <i>you</i>, John, that I certainly
+should—he’d just laugh. I know it beforehand.
+He’d say: ‘Why, mother, ’aven’t you been
+content with a good stuff-dress all our married
+life, and can’t you go on to the end so? I’ve
+over and over again said my wife looked as well
+as most women in the town of Leicester.’”</p>
+
+<p>‘“But,” says John—that’s my son—“mother,
+you owe your duty certainly to father. I’m not
+going against it; but w’at I says is: You owe
+your duty to your son also; and w’en I wish <i>my</i>
+mother to look better than she’s ever done before,
+why—to oblige me—you’ll go and purchase the
+best silk-dress in town, ’ave it made fashionable,
+with frills and all the fal-de-rals and etceteras;
+send in the account in my name; and if father
+makes any objections, why, let him settle the
+matter with <i>me</i>.”</p>
+
+<p>‘You see, miss, John is getting to be so like
+father—both <i>firm</i>, very; and if they take a
+notion of any kind w’atever into their ’eads,
+you’d move this station as soon as move them
+from their purpose; so the dress ’as been bought;
+and w’at father will say to it—for it’s to be made
+in the height of the fashion—<i>I</i> can’t say.’</p>
+
+<p>A few judicious questions about the step-mother
+who was lying a-dying, drew from my
+companion that the said old lady was rich as well
+as cantankerous; and that, as there were other
+relations who might step in to the injury of the
+worthy builder, who was her only stepson, it was,
+to say the least, but prudent to be on the
+spot.</p>
+
+<p>‘Ah, yes, miss,’ she exclaimed, stretching her
+hands out to keep the heat of the fire from her
+face, ‘this is a very strange world. Only on
+Sunday, the vicar was preaching to us against
+worldly-mindedness, telling us that as we came
+naked into the world, so we left it, carrying
+nothing away. But, miss, step-mother ain’t like
+the most of people; and she’s going to manage
+to take with her as much money as she possibly
+can.—How is she going to do it? Why, miss—she’s
+going to ’ave a coffin!—No need to look
+surprised, miss. O yes; we all bury our dead
+in coffins; but w’at kind of a coffin is step-mother
+going to ’ave, do you think? No; don’t
+try to guess, for you’d be down to Scotland and
+up again before it would ever come into your
+’ead.—No; not a velvet one, nor a satin; but a
+<i>hoak</i> one.—Yes; I thought you would get a scare.
+A <i>hoak</i> coffin is w’at it is to be. And she’s going
+to ’ave bearers—six of ’em. Each bearer is to
+’ave ’at-bands and scarfs, and two pounds apiece.
+And if all that pomp and tomfoolery ain’t taking
+so much money out of the world with her, I
+don’t know w’at <i>is</i>. W’en John—that’s father—heard
+of it, says he to me: “Mother, if you
+survives me, bury me plain, but comf’able;” and
+says I: “Father, if you survives me, I ’ope you
+will do the same by me—plain, but comf’able;
+for I tell you w’at, father, I’d not lie easy underground
+thinking of the waste of good money over
+such ’umbug.”’</p>
+
+<p>Here the waiting-room door opened hurriedly,
+and the worthy woman bounded to her feet at
+the one word ‘Mother!’ pronounced in such a
+decided tone that I too was standing beside her
+before I knew what I was doing, with all my
+wraps tossed higgledy-piggledy on the floor.
+Advancing with her to the door, she got out of
+me that my immediate destination was Scotland—a
+place, to her mind, evidently as remote as the
+arctic regions; and in her astonishment, she forgot
+the necessity there was to hurry to get in to her
+train, now ready to start again. She even seemed
+to forget that step-mother was lying a-dying, as
+she insisted upon introducing me to her husband,
+whose huge body was wrapped in a greatcoat,
+with tippet after tippet on it up to his neck.
+‘Only to think, John—this lady is going to
+Scotland all alone, John! She’ll be travelling
+all night.—O dear, however are you to do it,
+miss; ain’t you afraid?—Yes, John; I’m coming.—Good-bye,
+miss; we’ve ’ad quite a pleasant
+chat, I do assure you; the time seems to ’ave
+flown.’</p>
+
+<p>I hurried her along the platform, whispering to
+her as I did so: ‘I hope step-mother will rally a
+bit; that if she must pass away, it may be next
+week, so that Mary-Anne may get her wedding
+comfortably over.’ At the very door of the carriage
+she paused, seized my hand, shook it warmly,
+as she exclaimed: ‘Well, now, you ’ave a feeling
+’eart; but I don’t expect her to be so accommodating.
+No; I’ve said it before, and I say it again—step-mother
+is—<i>can-ta</i>—— Why, w’atever is
+the matter?’</p>
+
+<p>Next thing that happened, the little woman
+was lifted up bodily in her son’s arms—a counterpart
+of his father—and deposited in the carriage;
+while her husband, in spite of his lumbering
+large body, succeeded in jumping in just as
+the patience of all the railway officials was
+exhausted, and the signal given to start the
+train. Before it was lost to view, a white
+handkerchief fluttered out, by way of good-bye,
+causing a smile to rise over the calm features
+of John the younger, who, lifting his hat politely
+to me, bade me good-evening, adding: ‘Mother
+is no great traveller, so she is easily put about.
+Dessay if she went often from ’ome, she’d learn
+to be more composed.’</p>
+
+<p>From that hour I have never ceased to regret
+that I did not ask the good-natured young builder
+to forward me a local paper with the account of
+the death and burial of ‘step-mother.’ No doubt
+there would be due notice taken of such an
+interesting personage, as she lay in state in her
+‘hoak’ coffin, surrounded by her bearers in the
+flowing scarfs and hat-bands. Sharp as my
+friends generally give me credit for being, I own
+I committed a grievous blunder; I am therefore
+obliged to leave my story without an end, not
+being able even to add that the fair Mary-Anne’s
+wedding came off on the appointed day, or was
+postponed till after the complimentary days of
+mourning were past. I cheer myself with the
+thought that ‘John—that’s father’—being a firm
+man and a sensible, would insist upon the previous
+arrangements standing good, seeing that the bridegroom—a
+most important fact I have omitted
+to record—had a fortnight’s holiday reluctantly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>{48}</span>
+granted to him by his employers. Why, now
+that I think of it, my countryman the railway
+porter would have sent me any number of papers,
+judging by the kindly interest he took in my
+behalf, and the determined manner he fought
+for a particular seat for me in a particular
+carriage when the time came for my train to
+start. ‘Na, na, mem; nae need for thanks;
+blood’s thicker than water,’ he said. ‘Never
+you fear, now that the Scotch guard has ta’en up
+your cause; you’re a’ right; he’ll see that ye’re
+safely housed.’ And safely housed I was, and
+went steaming out of the station with my worthy
+friend hanging on by the door, calling to me:
+‘If you’re ever in the town o’ Perth, mem, my
+auld mother would be downright pleased to see
+you, for my sake. Tell her I’m getting on as
+weel as can be expeckit, sae far frae hame.’</p>
+
+<p>All night, my disturbed sleep was made doubly
+so by dreams of old women of every age and style.
+Now I was hunting for the porter’s nameless
+mother; now I was standing by the bedside of the
+step-mother who was lying a-dying. Again I was
+an active assistant at a marriage ceremony, with the
+fair Mary-Anne, surrounded by her genteel relations,
+leaning on my shoulder, weeping copiously
+at the idea of travelling to Scotland. Once more
+I stood gazing down on the old step-mother; and
+just as the day dawned, I was fairly roused, in
+my determination not to be smothered under an
+oak coffin and a pyramid of scarfs, hat-bands, and
+bearers, by the tumbling of my own bonnet-box
+from the luggage-rack above me.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="FRENCH_DETECTIVES">FRENCH DETECTIVES.</h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<p>‘The Secret Police’ in France are not only
+personally unknown to the general public, but,
+save in exceptional cases, even to each other.
+It is known where they may be found at a
+moment’s notice when wanted; but, as a rule,
+they do not frequent the prefecture more than
+can be helped. They have nothing whatever
+to do with serving summonses or executing
+warrants. There are among them men who have
+lived in almost every class of life, and each of
+them has what may be called a special line of
+business of his own. In the course of their duty,
+some of them mix with the receivers of stolen
+goods, others with thieves, many with what are
+called in Paris commercial rascals, and not a few
+with those whose ‘industry’ it is to melt silver
+and other property of a like valuable nature.
+Forgers, sharpers of all kinds, housebreakers and
+horse-stealers—a very numerous class in Paris—have
+each all their special agents of the police,
+who watch them, and know where to lay hands
+upon them when they are wanted. A French
+detective who cannot assume and act up to any
+character, and who cannot disguise himself in
+any manner so effectually as not to be recognised
+even by those who know him best, is not considered
+fit to hold his appointment. Their ability
+in this way is marvellous. Some years ago, one
+of them made a bet that he would in the course
+of the next few days address a gentleman with
+whom he was acquainted four times, for at least
+ten minutes each time, and that he should not
+know him on any occasion until the detective
+had discovered himself. As a matter of course,
+the gentleman was on his guard, and mistrusted
+every one who came near him. But the man
+won his bet. It is needless to enter into the
+particulars. Suffice it to say that in the course
+of the next four days he presented himself in
+the character of a bootmaker’s assistant, a fiacre-driver,
+a venerable old gentleman with a great
+interest in the Bourse, and finally as a waiter
+in the hotel in which the gentleman was staying.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="NOT_LOST_BUT_GONE_BEFORE">‘NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.’</h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0"><span class="smcap">My</span> little child, with clustering hair,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Strewn o’er thy dear, dead brow,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Though in the past divinely fair,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">More lovely art thou now.</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">God bade thy gentle soul depart,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">On brightly shimmering wings;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Yet near thy clay, thy mother’s heart</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">All weakly, fondly clings.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">My beauteous child, with lids of snow</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Closed o’er thy dim blue eyes,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Should it not soothe my grief to know</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">They shine beyond the skies?</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Above thy silent cot I kneel,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">With heart all crushed and sore,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">While through the gloom these sweet words steal:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">‘Not lost, but gone before.’</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">My darling child, these flowers I lay</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">On locks too fair, too bright,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">For the damp grave-mist, cold and gray,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">To dim their sunny light.</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Soft baby tresses bathed in tears,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Your gold was all mine own!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Ah, weary months! ah, weary years!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">That I must dwell alone.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">My only child, I hold thee still,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Clasped in my fond embrace!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">My love, my sweet! how fixed, how chill,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">This smile upon thy face!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">The grave is cold, my clasp is warm,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Yet give thee up I must;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">And birds will sing when thy loved form</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Lies mouldering in the dust.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">My angel child, thy tiny feet</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Dance through my broken dreams;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Ah me, how joyous, quaint, and sweet,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Their baby pattering seems!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">I hush my breath, to hear thee speak;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">I see thy red lips part;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">But wake to feel thy cold, cold cheek,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Close to my breaking heart!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">Soon, soon my burning tears shall fall</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Upon thy coffin lid;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Nor may those tears thy soul recall</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">To earth—nay, God forbid!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Be happy in His love, for I</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Resigned, though wounded sore,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Can hear His angels whispering nigh:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">‘Not lost, but gone before.’</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse right"><span class="smcap">Fanny Forrester.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+
+<p class="center">Printed and Published by <span class="smcap">W. &amp; R. Chambers</span>, 47 Paternoster
+Row, <span class="smcap">London</span>, and 339 High Street, <span class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>.</p>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+
+<p class="center"><i>All Rights Reserved.</i></p>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+
+<p>[Transcriber’s note: The following changes have been made to this text.</p>
+
+<p>Page 47: wa’t to w’at—“know w’at <i>is</i>.”]</p>
+
+<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 64571 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature,
+Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 3, Vol. I, January 19, 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. 3, Vol. I, January 19, 1884
+
+Author: Various
+
+Release Date: February 16, 2021 [eBook #64571]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Susan Skinner, Eric Hutton and the Online Distributed
+             Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
+             produced from images generously made available by The Internet
+             Archive)
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR
+LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 3, VOL. I, JANUARY 19,
+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. 3.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]
+
+
+
+
+GIRLS, WIVES, AND MOTHERS.
+
+A WORD TO THE MIDDLE CLASSES.
+
+
+There may be theoretically much to sympathise with in the cry for the
+yet higher culture of the women of our middle classes, but at the
+same time not a little to find fault with in practice. While it is
+difficult to believe that there can be such a thing as over-education
+of the human subject, male or female, there may yet be false lines
+of training, which lead to a dainty misplaced refinement, quite
+incompatible with the social position the woman may be called to fill
+in after-life, and which too often presupposes, what even education has
+a difficulty in supplying—a subsistence in life. Where we equip, we too
+frequently impede. In the hurry to be intelligent and accomplished, the
+glitter of drawing-room graces is an object of greater desire than the
+more homely but not less estimable virtues identified with the kitchen.
+Our young housewives are imbued with far too much of the æsthete at the
+expense of the cook; too much of the stage, and too little of the home.
+In abandoning the equally mistaken views of our grandfathers on women’s
+up-bringing, we have gone to the opposite extreme, to the exclusion of
+anything like a means to an end; and in the blindest disregard of the
+recipients’ circumstances in life, present and prospective.
+
+In considering what the aim of female education ought to be, it is
+surely not too much to expect that of all things it should mentally
+and physically fit our women for the battle of life. Its application
+and utility should not have to end where they practically do at
+present—at the altar. While it is necessary to provide a common armour
+for purposes of general defence, there certainly ought to be a special
+strengthening of the harness where most blows are to be anticipated;
+and if not to all, certainly to middle-class women, the years of battle
+come _after_, not before marriage. Every one of them, then, ought to
+be trained in conformity with the supreme law of her being, to prove
+a real helpmate to the man that takes her to wife. Make sure that she
+is first of all thoroughly qualified for a mother’s part, in what may
+be called a working sphere of life; then add whatever graces may be
+desirable as a sweetening, according to taste, means, and opportunity.
+It is in this happy blending of abstract knowledge with the economy of
+a home, that true success in the education of middle-class women must
+be sought.
+
+In the training of our boys, utility in after-life is seldom lost
+sight of. Why should it be too often the reverse in the education of
+our girls, whose great vocation in life, as wives and mothers, is a
+birthright they cannot renounce, which no lord of creation can deprive
+them of, and which no sticklers for what they are pleased to call the
+rights of women can logically disown? No doubt, among the last-named
+there are extreme people, who cannot, from the very nature of their
+own individual circumstances, see anything in wifely cares save the
+shackles of an old-world civilisation. In their eyes, motherhood is a
+tax upon pleasure, and an abasement of the sex. With them, there need
+be no parley. There is no pursuit under the sun that a woman will not
+freely forsake—often at a sacrifice—for the wifely cares that supervene
+on marriage; and therein, few will deny, lies her great and natural
+sphere in life. Than it, there is no nobler. In it, she can encounter
+no rival; and any attempt to divest herself of nature’s charge can
+have but one ending. The blandishments of a cold æstheticism can never
+soothe, animate, and brighten the human soul, like the warm, suffusive
+joys which cluster round the married state.
+
+Here we may briefly digress to remark, that in our opinion, no valid
+objections can be urged against women entering professional life,
+_provided they stick to it_. They already teach, and that is neither
+the lightest nor least important of masculine pursuits. Why should they
+not prescribe for body and soul? why not turn their proverbial gifts
+of speech to a golden account at the bar? It would be in quitting any
+of these professions, and taking up the _rôle_ of wife and mother,
+which they would have to learn at the expense of their own and others’
+happiness, that the real mischief of the liberty would lie. In nine
+cases out of ten, their failure in the second choice would be assured,
+thereby poisoning all social well-being at its very source.
+
+The woman not over- but mis-educated is becoming an alarmingly fruitful
+cause of the downward tendencies of much of our middle-class society.
+She herself is less to blame for this, than the short-sighted, though
+possibly well-meant policy of her parents and guardians, who, in the
+worst spirit of the age, veneer their own flesh and blood, as they do
+their furniture, for appearance’ sake. Let us glance at the educational
+equipment they provide their girls with, always premising that our
+remarks are to be held as strictly applicable only to the middle ranks
+of our complex society.
+
+Our typical young woman receives a large amount of miscellaneous
+education, extending far through her teens, and amounting to a very
+fair mastery of the _R_s. If she limp in any of these, it will be
+in the admittedly vexatious processes of arithmetic. She will have
+a pretty ready command of the grammatical and idiomatic uses of her
+mother-tongue; a fairly firm hold of the geography of this planet, and
+an intelligent conception of the extra-terrestrial system. She will
+have plodded through piles of French and German courses, learning many
+things from them but the language. She will have a fair if not profound
+knowledge of history. She can, in all likelihood, draw a little, and
+even paint; but of all her accomplishments, what she must imperatively
+excel in is music. From tender years, she will have diligently laboured
+at all the musical profundities; and her chances in the matrimonial
+market of the future are probably regarded as being in proportion to
+her proficient manipulation of the keyboard. If she can sing, well and
+good; play on the piano she must. If, as a girl, she has no taste for
+instrumental music, and no ear to guide her flights in harmony, the
+more reason why she should, with the perseverance of despair, thump
+away on the irresponsive ivories, in defiance of every instinct in her
+being. The result at twenty _may_ be something tangible in some cases,
+but extremely unsatisfactory at the price.
+
+During all these years, she has been systematically kept ignorant of
+almost every domestic care. Of the commonplaces of cookery she has
+not the remotest idea. A great educationist, whose statement we have
+good reason to indorse, asserts that there are thousands of our young
+housewives that do not know how to cook a potato. This may seem satire.
+It is, we fear, in too many cases, true, and we quote it with a view to
+correct rather than chastise.
+
+The misapplications of young miss’s upbringing do not end here. She
+cannot sew to any purpose. If she deign to use a needle at all, it
+is to embroider a smoking-cap for a lover or a pair of slippers for
+papa. To sew on a button, or cut out and unite the plainest piece of
+male or female clothing, is not always within her powers, or at least
+her inclinations. Prosaic vulgar work, fit only for dressmakers and
+milliners! She will spend weeks and months over eighteen inches of
+what she is pleased to call lace, while the neighbouring seamstress is
+making up all her underclothing, to pay for which, papa has not too
+much money; but then it is genteel.
+
+She cannot knit. A pair of worsted cuffs or a lanky cravat is something
+great to attain to; while a stocking, even were the charwomen less
+easily paid, is sure to come off the needles right-lined as any of
+Euclid’s parallelograms—all leg and no ankle—a suspicion of foot, but
+never a vestige of heel. To darn the hole that so soon appears in the
+loosely knitted fabric, would be a servile, reproachful task, quite
+staggering to the sentimental aspirations of our engaged Angelina.
+Yet darning and the divine art of mending will one day be to her a
+veritable philosopher’s stone, whose magic influences will shed beams
+of happiness over her household, and fortunate will she be if she have
+not to seek it with tears.
+
+By the sick-bed, where she ought to be supreme, she is often worse
+than useless. The pillows that harden on the couch of convalescence,
+too rarely know her softening touch. She may be all kindness and
+attention—for the natural currents of her being are full to repletion
+of sweetness and sympathy—yet as incapable of really skilled service
+as an artist’s lay-figure. And, as a last touch to the sorry picture,
+instead of being in any way a source of comfort to the bread-winners of
+her family, or a lessening of the strain on their purse-strings, she is
+a continual cause of extra work to servants, of anxiety to her parents,
+of _ennui_ to herself.
+
+Apparently, the chief mission of the young lady to whom we
+address ourselves, is to entice some eligible young man into the
+responsibilities of wedlock. He, poor fellow, succumbs not so much
+to intrinsic merits, as to fine lady-like airs. He sees the polish
+on the surface, and takes for granted that there is good solid wear
+underneath. Our young miss has conquered, and quits the family
+roof-tree, sweetly conscious of her orange wreath of victory; but
+alas!—we are sorry to say it—do not her conquests too often end at
+the altar, unless she resolutely set herself to learn the exacting
+mysteries of her new sphere, and, what is far more difficult, to
+unlearn much that she has acquired? That she often does at this stage
+make a bold and firm departure from the toyish fancies of her training,
+and makes, from the sheer plasticity and devotion of her character,
+wonderful strides in the housewife’s craft, we cheerfully confess. Were
+it otherwise, the domestic framework of society would be in a far more
+disorganised condition than it happily is. But why handicap her for the
+most important, most arduous portion of her race in life? Why train her
+to be the vapid fine lady, with almost the certainty that, by so doing,
+you are taking the surest means of rendering her an insufficient wife
+and mother? And, unfortunately, not always, in fact but seldom, is she
+able, when she crosses her husband’s threshold, to tear herself away
+from her omnivorous novel-reading, piano-playing, and all the other
+alleviations of confirmed idleness.
+
+The sweets of the honeymoon and an undefined vacation beyond make no
+great calls on her as a helpmate and wife. If her husband’s means
+permit of a servant or two, the smoother the water and the plainer
+the sailing for the nonce; although these keen-scented critics in
+the kitchen will, in a very short time, detect and take the grossest
+advantage of their mistress’s inexperience. Besides, if we reflect
+that among our middle classes more marry on an income of two hundred
+pounds than on a higher, it becomes painfully apparent that two or
+three servants are the one thing our young housewife needs, but cannot
+possibly afford.
+
+She is now, however, only about to begin her life-work, and if there is
+such a thing clearly marked out for a being on this globe, it is for
+woman. By birthright, she is the mother of the human race. Could she
+have a greater, grander field for enterprise? How admirably has nature
+fitted her for performing the functions of the mother and adorning the
+province of the wife! Hence, there devolves upon her a responsibility
+which no extraneous labour in more inviting fields can excuse. No
+philosophy, no tinkering of the constitution, no success in the
+misnamed higher walks of life and knowledge, will atone for the failure
+of the mother. Let her shine a social star of the first magnitude, let
+her be supreme in every intellectual circle, and then marry, as she
+is ever prone to do, in spite of all theories; and if she fail as a
+mother, she fails as a woman and as a human being. She becomes a mere
+rag, a tatter of nature’s cast-off clothing, spiritless, aimless, a
+failure in this great world of work.
+
+As her family increases, the household shadows deepen, where all
+should be purity, sweetness, and light. The domestic ship may even
+founder through the downright, culpable incapacity of her that takes
+the helm. Her children never have the air of comfort and cleanliness.
+In their clothes, the stitch is never in time. The wilful neglect, and
+consequent waste, in this one matter of half-worn clothing is almost
+incredible. A slatternly atmosphere pervades her entire home. With the
+lapse of time our young wife becomes gradually untidy, dishevelled,
+and even dirty, in her own person; and at last sits down for good,
+disconsolate and overwhelmed by her unseen foe. Her husband can find no
+pleasure in the ‘hugger-mugger,’ as Carlyle phrases it, of his home;
+there is no brightness in it to cheer his hours of rest. He returns
+from his daily labours to a chaos, which he shuns by going elsewhere;
+and so the sequel of misery and neglect takes form.
+
+As a first precaution against such a calamity, let us strip our
+home-life of every taint of quackery. Let us regard women’s education,
+like that of men, as a means to a lifelong end, never forgetting that
+if we unfit it for everyday practice, we render it a mere useless gem,
+valuable in a sense, but unset. Middle-class women will be the better
+educated, in every sense, the more skilled they are in the functions
+of the mother and the duties of the wife. Give them every chance of
+proving thrifty wives and good mothers, in addition to, or, where
+that is impossible, to the exclusion of accomplished brides. Let some
+part of their training as presently constituted, such as the rigours
+of music, and the fritterings of embroidery, give way, in part, to
+the essential acquirements which every woman, every mother should
+possess, and which no gold can buy. Give us a woman, then, natural in
+her studies, her training, her vocations, and her dress, and in the
+words of the wisest of men, who certainly had a varied experience of
+womankind, we shall have something ‘far more precious than rubies. She
+will not be afraid of the snow for her household; strength and honour
+will be her clothing; her husband shall have no need of spoil; he shall
+be known in the gates, when he sitteth among the elders; he shall
+praise her; and her children shall call her blessed.’
+
+
+
+
+BY MEAD AND STREAM.
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.—IN THE OAK PARLOUR.
+
+And so, it had been only a bit of Uncle Dick’s kindly forethought and
+common-sense which had prompted the alarming words he had spoken to
+Madge. How she and Philip laughed at the chimerical idea that there
+could be any possible combination of circumstances in time or space
+which could alter their thoughts regarding each other! The birds in
+the orchard, in the intervals of pecking the fruit, seemed to sing a
+joyous laughing chorus at the absurdity of it—notwithstanding that the
+admission of it might be prudent.
+
+But when they came down to the point of vague admission that in the
+abstract and in relation to other couples—of course it could not apply
+to their own case—Uncle Dick’s counsel was such as prudent young people
+about to separate should keep in mind, an expression of perplexity
+flitted across Madge’s face. She looked at him with those tenderly
+wistful serious eyes, half doubting whether or not to utter the thought
+which had come to her.
+
+‘But what I cannot understand,’ she said slowly, ‘is why Uncle Dick
+should have been in such a temper. You know that although he may fly
+into a passion at anything that seems to him wrong, he never keeps it
+up. Now he had all the time riding home from Kingshope to cool, and yet
+when he spoke to me he seemed to be as angry as if he had just come out
+of the room where the quarrel took place.’
+
+‘What can it matter to us?’ was the blithe response. ‘He is not angry
+with me or with you, and so long as that is the case we need not mind
+if he should quarrel with all creation.’
+
+‘I’ll tell you what we will do,’ she said, and the disappearance of
+all perplexity from her face showed that she was quite of his opinion,
+although she wanted to have it supported by another authority.
+
+‘What is that?’
+
+‘We will go in and ask Aunt Hessy what she thinks about it.... Are you
+aware, sir’ (this with a pretty assumption of severity), ‘that you have
+not seen aunty to-day, and that you have not even inquired about her?’
+
+‘That _is_ bad,’ he muttered; but it was evident that the badness which
+he felt was the interruption of the happy wandering through the orchard
+by this summary recall to duty.
+
+In his remorse, however, he was ready to sacrifice his present
+pleasure; for Aunt Hessy was a stanch friend of theirs, and it
+might be that her cheery way of looking at things would dispel
+the last lingering cloud of doubt from Madge’s mind regarding the
+misunderstanding between his father and Uncle Dick.
+
+‘Then we had better go in at once; we shall find her in the dairy.’
+
+Mrs Crawshay was superintending the operations of three buxom maidens
+who were scalding the large cans in which the milk was conveyed every
+morning to the metropolis. Her ruddy face with the quiet, kindly gray
+eyes was that of a woman in her prime, and even her perfectly white
+hair did not detract from the sense of youth which was expressed in her
+appearance: it was an additional charm. She was nearly sixty. Her age
+was a standing joke of Uncle Dick’s. He had made the discovery that she
+was a month older than himself, and he magnified it into a year.
+
+‘Can’t you see?’ he would say, ‘if you are born in December and I am
+born in January, that makes exactly a year’s difference?’
+
+Then there would be a loud guffaw, and Uncle Dick would feel that he
+had completely overcome the Missus. The words and the guffaw were as
+a rule simultaneous, and if nobody happened to be present, it usually
+ended in Uncle Dick putting his arm round her neck and saying with a
+lump in his throat: ‘My old lass—young always to me.’
+
+He had not the slightest notion of the poetry that was in his soul
+whilst he spoke.
+
+Mrs Crawshay believed in young love. She had been very happy in hers.
+She had been brought up on a farm. Lads had come about her of course,
+and she had put them aside with a—‘Nay, lad, I’m not for thee,’ and had
+thought no more about them. Then Dick Crawshay had come, and—she did
+not know why—she had said: ‘Yes, thou art my lad.’
+
+They had been very happy notwithstanding their losses—indeed the losses
+seemed to have drawn them closer together.
+
+‘It’s only you and me, my old lass,’ he would say in their privacy.
+
+‘Only you and me, Dick,’ she would say as her gray head rested on his
+breast with all the emotion of youth in her heart.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+‘Go into the oak parlour,’ said Mrs Crawshay cheerily to the young
+folks, when she understood their mission; ‘and I’ll be with you in a
+minute.’
+
+The oak parlour was the stateroom of the house. It was long and high;
+the oak of the panels and beams which supported the pointed roof were
+of that dark hue which only time can impart. The three narrow windows
+had been lengthened by Dick’s father, and when the moon shone through
+them they were like three white ghosts looking in upon the dark
+chamber. But the moon did not often get a chance of doing this, for
+there was only a brief period of the year during which there was not
+a huge fire blazing in the great old-fashioned ingle. There were four
+portraits of former Crawshays and three of famous horses; with these
+exceptions the walls were bare, for none of the family had ever been
+endowed with much love of art.
+
+There were some legends still current about the mysteries hidden
+behind the sombre panels. One of the panels was specially honoured
+because it was reputed to have a recess behind it in which the king had
+found shelter for a time during his flight from the Roundheads. But
+owing to the indifference or carelessness of successive generations,
+nobody was now quite sure to which of the panels this honour properly
+belonged. There had been occasional attempts made to discover the royal
+hiding-place, but they had hitherto failed.
+
+The furniture was plain and substantial, displaying the styles of
+several periods of manufacture. In spite of the stiff straight lines of
+most of the things in the room, the red curtains, the red table-cover,
+the odd variety of the chairs gave the place a homely and, when the
+fire was ablaze, a cosy expression. This stateroom was correctly called
+‘parlour,’ and it had been the scene of many a revel.
+
+As Philip and Madge were on their way to the oak parlour, a servant
+presented a card to the latter.
+
+‘He asked for you, miss,’ said the girl, and passed on to the kitchen.
+
+Madge looked at the card, and instantly held it out to Philip.
+
+‘Hullo!—my father,’ ejaculated he, adding with a laugh: ‘Now you can
+see that this mountain of yours is not even a molehill.’
+
+‘How can you tell that?’
+
+‘Because my father is the reverse of Uncle Dick. He never forgets—I
+doubt if he ever forgives—an unpleasant word. And yet here he is. Come
+along at once—but we had better say nothing to him about the affair
+unless he speaks of it himself.’
+
+They entered the room together, smiling hopefully.
+
+Mr Lloyd Hadleigh was standing at a window, hat in one hand, slim
+umbrella in the other, and staring hard at the shrubs. He had a way of
+staring hard at everything, and yet the way was so calm and thoughtful
+that he did not appear to see anything or anybody, and thus the stare
+was not offensive.
+
+‘The guv’nor always seems to be dreaming about you when he looks at
+you, and you never know when he’s going to speak—that’s awk’ard,’ was
+the description of his expression given by Caleb Kersey, one of the
+occasional labourers on Ringsford.
+
+He was a man of average height, firmly built; square face; thick
+black moustache; close cropped black hair, with only an indication of
+thinning on the top and showing few streaks of white. His age was not
+more than fifty, and he had attained the full vigour of life.
+
+‘People talk about the fire and “go” of thirty,’ he would say in his
+dry way. ‘It is nonsense. At that age a man is either going downhill or
+going up it, and in either case he is too much occupied and worried to
+have time to be happy. That was the most miserable period of my life.’
+
+Coldness was the first impression of his outward character. No one had
+ever seen him in a passion. Successful in business, he had provided
+well for the five children of a very early marriage. He never referred
+to that event, and had been long a widower without showing the
+slightest inclination to establish a new mistress at Ringsford.
+
+He turned on the entrance of Madge and Philip, saluting the former with
+grave politeness; then to the latter: ‘There are some letters for you
+at home, Philip.’
+
+‘Thank you, sir; but I have no doubt they can wait. I am to stay for
+dinner here.’
+
+‘From the postmarks I judge they are of importance.’
+
+‘Ah—then I know who they are from, and in that case there is no hurry
+at all, for the mail does not leave until Monday.’
+
+Mr Hadleigh addressed himself to Madge—no sign of annoyance in voice or
+manner.
+
+‘May I be permitted to have a few minutes’ conversation with you in
+private, Miss Heathcote?’
+
+‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ broke in Philip hastily; ‘I did not
+understand you to mean that you found me in the way.—If your aunt
+should ask for me, Miss Heathcote, I shall be in the garden.’
+
+With a good-natured inclination of the head, he went out. And as he
+walked down the garden path filling his pipe, he muttered to himself
+thoughtfully: ‘Seems to me he grows queerer and queerer every day. What
+_can_ be the matter with him? If anybody else had asked for a private
+interview so solemnly, I should have taken it for granted that he was
+going to propose.... Daresay he wants to give some explanation of that
+confounded row, and make his apologies through Madge. I should like him
+to do that.’
+
+But Mr Hadleigh was neither going to propose nor to make apologies.
+He smiled, a curious sort of half-sad, half-amused smile, and there
+was really something interesting in the expression of his eyes at the
+moment.
+
+‘The truth is, Miss Heathcote, that I cannot acknowledge weakness
+before Philip. He is such a reckless fellow about money, that he would
+tell me I ought to give in at once to the labourers.’
+
+‘I am sure he would not, Mr Hadleigh, if he thought you were in the
+right.’
+
+‘I am not one likely to hold out if convinced that I am in the wrong.’
+
+‘Few men do under these conditions, Mr Hadleigh,’ said Madge, smiling.
+
+‘Well, at anyrate, I want your assistance very much; will you give it?’
+
+‘With great pleasure, if it is worth anything to you.’
+
+‘It is worth everything; for what harvest I might have on the
+home-farm—and I understand it promises to be a good one—is likely to be
+lost unless you help me.’
+
+‘How can that be, Mr Hadleigh?’
+
+‘Through beer. This is how the matter stands. You know the dispute
+about the wages, and I am willing to give in to that. But on this
+question of beer in the field I am firm. The men and women shall have
+the price of it; but I will neither give beer on the field nor permit
+them to bring it there. A great reform is to be worked in this matter,
+and I mean to do what little I can to advance it. I am sure, Miss
+Heathcote, you must acknowledge that I am right in adhering to this
+resolution.’
+
+‘I have been brought up in some very old-fashioned notions, Mr
+Hadleigh,’ she answered with pretty evasiveness.
+
+‘There is a high principle at stake in it, my dear Miss Heathcote, and
+it is worth fighting for.’
+
+‘But I do not yet see how my services are to be of use to you,’ she
+said, anxious to avoid this debatable subject. It was one on which
+her uncle had quite different views from those of Mr Hadleigh. And,
+therefore, she could not altogether sympathise with the latter’s
+enthusiasm, eager as she was to see the people steady and sober, for
+she remembered at the moment that he had made a considerable portion of
+his fortune out of a brewery.
+
+‘That was exactly what I was about to explain,’ he replied. ‘I came to
+beg you to speak to Caleb Kersey.’
+
+‘Caleb!—why, he never touches anything stronger than tea.’
+
+‘That may be; but he believes that other people have a right to do so
+if they like. He has persuaded every man and woman who comes to me
+or my bailiff to put the question: “Is there to be beer?” When they
+are answered: “No; but the money,” they turn on their heels and march
+off, so that at this moment we have only two men. Now, my dear Miss
+Heathcote, will you persuade Kersey to stop his interference?’
+
+‘I do not see that he is interfering; but I will speak to him.’
+
+‘Thanks, thanks. If you were with me I should have no difficulty.’
+
+‘You would find me a very bad second,’ she answered, laughing, ‘for I
+should say—submit to old customs until persuasion alters them, since
+force never can.’
+
+Two things struck Madge during this interview and the commonplaces
+about nothing which followed it: The first, how much more frank and at
+ease he seemed to be with her than with any one else; and the second
+was, how loath he seemed to go.
+
+The owner of Ringsford said to himself as he was driven away: ‘I shall
+be glad when she is Philip’s wife.’
+
+
+CHAPTER V.—A NEW EDEN.
+
+She was still standing at the door to which she had accompanied Mr
+Hadleigh, and was looking after him, when a kindly voice behind her
+said: ‘He does look a woeful man. I wonder if he has any real friends.’
+
+Madge turned. Aunt Hessy was standing there, a pitying expression on
+her comely face, and she was wiping her hands in her apron. There was
+nothing in Mrs Crawshay’s manner or appearance to indicate her Quaker
+antecedents, except the frequent use of thee and thou—she did not
+always use that form of speech—and the quiet tone of all the colours
+of her dress. Yet, until her marriage she had been, like her father,
+a good Wesleyan; after her marriage she accompanied her husband to
+the church in which his family had kept their place for so many
+generations. To her simple faith it was the same whether she worshipped
+in church or chapel.
+
+‘Why do you say that, aunt?’
+
+‘Because he seems to be so much alone.’
+
+‘Mr Hadleigh alone! What about all the people who visit the manor?’
+
+‘Ay, they visit the manor,’ answered Aunt Hessy, with a slight shake of
+the head and a quiet smile.
+
+That set Madge thinking. He did impress her as a solitary man,
+notwithstanding his family, his many visitors, his school treats, his
+flower-shows, and other signs of a busy and what ought to be a happy
+life. Then there was the strange thing that he should come to ask her
+assistance to enable him to come to terms with the harvesters.
+
+‘I believe you are right, aunt. He is very much alone, and I suppose
+that was why he came to me to-day.’
+
+‘What did he want?’ asked Dame Crawshay, with unusual quickness and an
+expression of anxiety Madge could not remember ever having seen on her
+face before. She did not understand it until long afterwards.
+
+Having explained the object of Mr Hadleigh’s visit, as she understood
+it, she was surprised to see how much relieved her aunt looked. Knowing
+that that good woman had never had a secret in her life, and never made
+the least mystery about anything, she put the question direct: ‘Did you
+expect him to say anything else?’
+
+‘I don’t know, Madge. He is a queer man, Mr Hadleigh, in a-many ways.
+He spoke to your uncle about this, and he would have nothing to do with
+it.’
+
+‘And that is why they fell out at the market, I suppose.’
+
+‘Where is Philip? He must take after his mother, for he is
+straightforward in everything.’
+
+‘He is out in the garden. Shall I go for him?’
+
+‘Nay. I want more peas, so we can find him on our way for them.’
+
+Philip had not gone far. He had walked down to the duck-pond; but after
+that distant excursion, he kept near the little gate beside the dairy,
+glancing frequently at the house-door. He was dallying with the last
+hours of the bright morning of his love, and he grudged every moment
+that Madge was away from him. A few days hence he would be looking back
+to this one with longing eyes. How miserable he would be on board that
+ship! How he would hate the sound of the machinery, knowing that every
+stroke of the piston was taking him so much farther away from her. And
+then, as the waters widened and stretched into the sky, would not his
+heart sink, and would he not wish that he had never started on this
+weary journey?
+
+In response to that lover-like question, he heard the echo of Madge’s
+voice in his brain: ‘It was your mother’s wish.’
+
+This simple reminder was enough, for he cherished the sad memory of
+that sweet pale face, which smiled upon him hopefully a moment before
+it became calm in death.
+
+He sprang away from these sorrowful reflections. Yes; he would look
+back longingly to this day when sea and sky shut out Willowmere and
+Madge from sight. But they would both be palpable to his mental vision;
+and he would look forward to that still brighter day of his return, his
+mission fulfilled, and nothing to do but marry Madge and live happy
+ever after. Ay, that should comfort him and make the present parting
+bearable.
+
+Besides, who could say with what fortune he might come back? The uncle
+to whom he was going was rumoured to be the possessor of fabulous
+wealth, and although married he was childless. True, also, he was
+reported to be so eccentric that nobody could understand him, or
+form the slightest conception of how he would act under any given
+circumstances. But it was known that before he went abroad, his
+sister—Philip’s mother—had been the one creature in whom all his
+affection seemed to be concentrated. An inexplicable coldness appeared
+in his conduct towards her after her marriage. The reason had never
+been explained.
+
+Shortly before her death, however, there had come a letter from him,
+which made her very happy. But she had burned the letter, by his
+instructions, without showing it to any one or revealing its contents.
+Evidently it was this letter which induced her to lay upon her son
+the charge of going to her brother Austin Shield, whenever he should
+be summoned. But the uncle held no correspondence with any one at
+Ringsford. That he was still alive, could be only surmised from vague
+reports and the fact that on every anniversary of Mrs Hadleigh’s
+birthday, with one exception, a fresh wreath of flowers was found on
+her grave—placed there, it was believed, by his orders. Then a few
+months ago, a letter had come to Philip, containing an invitation from
+his uncle, suggesting possible advantages, and inclosing a draft for
+expenses. So, being summoned, he was going; and whether the result
+should be good or ill fortune, his mother’s last command would be
+obeyed, and he would return with a clear conscience to marry Madge.
+
+That thought kept him in good-humour throughout the weary ages which
+seemed to elapse before he saw Madge and her aunt approaching. He ran
+to meet them.
+
+‘I thought you were never coming,’ was his exclamation.
+
+‘Thou’lt be able to do without her for a longer time than this without
+troubling thyself, by-and-by,’ said Dame Crawshay with one of her
+pleasant smiles.
+
+‘When that day comes, I will say you are a prophetess of evil,’ he
+retorted, laughing, but with an air of affectionate respect. That was
+the feeling with which she inspired everybody.
+
+‘Nay, lad; but it need not be evil, for you may be apart, surely, doing
+good for each other.’
+
+‘Yes; but not without wishing we were together.’
+
+‘Wilt ever be wishing that?’
+
+‘For ever and ever.’
+
+He answered with burlesque solemnity outwardly; but Madge knew that he
+spoke from his heart, and in the full faith of his words. She gave him
+a quiet glance with those soft wistful eyes, and he was very happy.
+
+They had reached a tall row of peas, at which Dame Crawshay had
+been already busy that morning, as a wooden chair placed beside it
+indicated. Here she seated herself, and began to pluck the peas,
+shelling them as she plucked; then dropping the pods into her lap and
+the peas into a basin. She performed the operation with mechanical
+regularity, which did not in any way interfere with conversation.
+
+Madge, kneeling beside her, helped with nimble fingers; and Philip,
+hands clasped behind him, stood looking on admiringly. The sun was
+shining upon them; and, darting shafts of light through the surrounding
+trees, made bright spots amidst the moving shadows underneath.
+Everything seemed to be still and sleepy. The breeze was so light that
+there was only a gentle rustle of leaves, and through it was heard
+the occasional thud of an over-ripe apple or pear as it fell, and the
+drowsy hum of the bees.
+
+Light, warmth, peace. ‘Ah,’ thought Philip, ‘if we could only go on
+this way always! If we could fix ourselves thus as in a photograph,
+what a blessed Eden this would be!’
+
+‘Thou’dst find it dull soon, Philip, standing there looking at us
+shelling peas, if thou wert forced to do it,’ said Dame Crawshay,
+looking up at him with a curious smile.
+
+‘That shows you cannot guess my thoughts. They were of quite a
+different nature, for I was wishing that there had been some fixing
+process in nature, so that there might never be any change in our
+present positions.’
+
+Madge looked as if she had been thinking something very similar; but
+she went on silently shelling peas; and a sunbeam shooting through a
+gap in the green pea hedge, made a golden radiance on her face.
+
+‘Eh, deary me, what love will do!’ exclaimed the dame, laughing, but
+shaking her head regretfully, as if sorry that she could not look at
+things in the same hopeful humour. ‘Other people have talked like
+that in the heyday of life. Some have found a little of their hope
+fulfilled; many have found none of it: all have found that they had to
+give up the thought of a great deal of what they expected. Some take
+their disappointment with wise content and make the best of things as
+they find them. They jog along as happily as mortals may, like Dick and
+me; a-many kick against the pricks and suffer sorely for it; but all
+have to give in sooner or later, and own that the world could not get
+along if everybody could arrange it to suit his own pleasure.’
+
+How gently this good-natured philosopher brought them down from
+the clouds to what foolish enthusiasts call contemptuously ‘the
+common earth.’ Sensible people use the same phrase, but they use it
+respectfully, knowing that this ‘common earth’ may be made beautiful or
+ugly as their own actions instruct their vision.
+
+To Philip it was quite true that most people sought something they
+could never attain; that many people fancied they had found the
+something they wanted, and discovered afterwards, to their sorrow,
+that they had not found the thing at all. But then, you see, it was an
+entirely different condition of affairs in his case. He had found what
+he wanted, and knew that there could be no mistake about it.
+
+To Madge, her aunt’s wisdom appeared to be very cold and even wrong
+in some respects, considering the placid and happy experiences of her
+own life. She had her great faith in Philip—her dream of a life which
+should be made up of devotion to him under any circumstances of joy
+or sorrow, and she could not believe that it was possible that their
+experience should be as full of crosses as that of others. And yet
+there was a strange faintness at her heart, as if she were vaguely
+conscious that there were possibilities which neither she nor Philip
+could foresee or understand.
+
+‘We shall be amongst the wise folk,’ said Philip confidently, ‘and
+take things as they come, contentedly. We shall be easily contented, so
+long as we are true to each other—and I don’t think you imagine there
+is any chance of a mistake in that respect.’
+
+Aunt Hessy went on shelling peas for a time in silence. There was
+a thoughtful expression on her kindly face, and there was even a
+suggestion of sadness in it. Here were two young people—so young, so
+happy, so full of faith in each other—just starting on that troublous
+journey called Life, and she had to speak those words of warning which
+always seem so harsh to the pupils, until, after bitter experience,
+they look back and say: ‘If I had only taken the warning in time, what
+might have been?’
+
+By-and-by she spoke very softly: ‘Thou art thinking, Madge, that I am
+croaking; and thou, Philip, are thinking the same.... Nay, there is no
+need to deny it. But I do not mean to dishearten thee. All I want is to
+make thee understand that there are many things we reckon as certain in
+the heyday of life, that never come to us.’
+
+‘I daresay,’ said Philip, plucking a pea-pod and chewing it savagely;
+‘but don’t you think, Mrs Crawshay, that this is very like throwing
+cold-water on us, and that throwing cold-water is very apt to produce
+the misadventure which you think possible?—that is, that something
+might happen to alter our plans?’
+
+‘I am sorry for that, lad; I do not mean to throw cold-water on thee;
+but rather to help thee and to help Madge to look at things in a
+sensible way. Listen. I had a friend once who was like Madge; and she
+had a friend who was, as it might be, like you, Philip. He went away,
+as you are going, to seek his fortune in foreign parts. There was a
+blunder between them, and she got wedded to another man. Her first lad
+came back, and finding how things were, he went away again and never
+spoke more to her.’
+
+‘They must have been miserable.’
+
+‘For a while they were miserable enough; but they got over it.’
+
+‘I’ll be bound the man never married.’
+
+‘There thou’dst be bound wrong. He did marry, and is now wealthy and
+prosperous, though she was taken away in a fever long ago.’
+
+‘Ay, but is he happy?’
+
+‘That is only known to himself and Him that knows us all.’
+
+‘Well, for our future I will trust Madge,’ said Philip, taking her
+hand, ‘in spite of all your forebodings; and she will trust me.’
+
+Dame Crawshay had filled her basin with peas, and she rose.
+
+‘God bless thee, Philip, wherever thou goest, and make thy hopes
+realities,’ she said with what seemed to the lovers unnecessary
+solemnity.
+
+The dame went into the house. Madge and Philip went down the meadow,
+and under the willows by the merry river, forgot that there was any
+parting before them or any danger that their fortunes might be crossed.
+
+Those bright days! Can they ever come again, or can any future joy be
+so full, so perfect? There are no love-speeches—little talk of any
+kind, and what there is, is commonplace enough. There is no need for
+speech. There is only—only!—the sense of the dear presence that makes
+all the world beautiful, leaving the heart nothing more to desire.
+
+But the dreams in the sunshine there under the willows, with the river
+murmuring sympathetic harmonies at their feet! The dreams of a future,
+and yet no future; for it is always to be as now. Can it be possible
+that this man and woman will ever look coldly on each other—ever speak
+angry, passionate words? Can it be possible that there will ever flit
+across their minds one instant’s regret that they had come together?
+
+No, no: the dreams are of the future; but the future will be always as
+now—full of faith and gladness.
+
+
+
+
+THE CLIFF-HOUSES OF CAÑON DE CHELLY.
+
+
+The fourth and most southerly iron link of railway which will soon
+stretch across the North American continent from ocean to ocean is
+rapidly approaching completion along the thirty-fifth parallel;
+already it has reached the San Francisco mountains in its course to
+the Pacific. While avoiding the chances of blockade by snow, liable in
+higher latitudes, it has struck through a little explored region among
+the vast plains of Arizona and New Mexico. It is not easy at once to
+realise the extent of table-lands, greater in area than Great Britain
+and Ireland, upon which no soul has a settled habitation. The sun beats
+down with terrible force on these dry undulating plains, where at most
+times nothing relieves the eye, as it wanders away to the dim horizon,
+save a few cactus and sage-bush plants. But at seasons, heavy rains
+change dry gulches into roaring torrents, and parched lowlands into
+broad lakes, covering the country with a fine grass, on which millions
+of sheep, horses, and cattle are herded by wandering Navajo and Moqui
+Indians. To the periodical rains, as well as to geological convulsions,
+are traced the causes of those wondrous chasms, which in places break
+abruptly the rolling surface of the prairie, and extend in rocky gorges
+for many miles. They are called cañons. The grandeur of the scenery
+found in one of them, Cañon de Chelly, can scarcely be overstated.
+
+Cañon de Chelly—pronounced Canyon de Shay—is in the north of Arizona.
+It takes its name from a Frenchman, who is said to have been the first
+white man to set foot within its walls; but except the record of a
+recent visit by the United States Geological Survey, no account of
+it seems to have hitherto appeared. The picturesque features of this
+magnificent ravine are unrivalled; and what lends a more fascinating
+interest, is the existence, among its rocky walls, of dwellings once
+occupied by a race of men, who, dropping into the ocean of the past
+with an unwritten history, are only known to us as cave-dwellers.
+
+In October 1882, an exploring party, headed by Professor Stevenson
+of the Ethnological Bureau, Washington, and escorted by a number of
+soldiers and Indian guides, set out for this remarkable spot. One of
+the party, Lieutenant T. V. Keam, has furnished the following details
+of their investigations. After travelling one hundred and twenty miles
+out from the nearest military post, Fort Defiance, and crossing a
+desert some twenty miles broad, the entrance to Cañon de Chelly was
+reached. The bed of the ravine is entirely composed of sand, which is
+constantly being blown along it, with pitiless force, by sudden gusts
+of wind. The walls of the cañon are red sandstone; at first, but some
+fifty feet high, they increase gradually, until at eighteen miles they
+reach an elevation of twelve hundred feet, which is about the highest
+point, and continue without decreasing for at least thirty miles. The
+first night, Professor Stevenson’s party camped three miles from the
+mouth of the cañon, under a grove of cotton-wood trees, and near a
+clear flowing stream of water. Here the scene was an impressive one.
+A side ravine of great magnitude intersected the main cañon, and at
+the junction there stood out, like a sentinel, far from the rest of
+the cliff, one solemn brown stone shaft eight hundred feet high. In
+the morning, continuing the journey through the awful grandeur of the
+gorge, the walls still increased in height, some having a smooth and
+beautifully coloured surface reaching to one thousand feet; others,
+from the action of water, sand storms, and atmospheric effects, cut and
+broken into grand arches, battlements, and spires of every conceivable
+shape. At times would be seen an immense opening in the wall,
+stretching back a quarter of a mile, the sides covered with verdure of
+different shades, reaching to the summit, where tall firs with giant
+arms seemed dwarfed to the size of a puny gooseberry bush, and the
+lordly oak was only distinguished by the beautiful sheen of its leaves.
+
+On the second night the camp was formed at the base of a cliff, in
+which were descried, planted along a niche at a height of nearly one
+hundred feet, some cliff-dwellings. Next morning, these were reached
+after a dangerous climb, by means of a rope thrown across a projecting
+stick, up the almost perpendicular sides of this stupendous natural
+fortress. The village was perched on its narrow ledge of rock, facing
+the south, and was overshadowed by an enormous arch, formed in the
+solid side of the cañon. Overlapping the ruins for at least fifty feet,
+at a height above them of sixty feet, it spread its protecting roof
+five hundred feet from end to end. No moisture ever penetrated beyond
+the edge of this red shield of nature; and to its shelter, combined
+with the dryness of the atmosphere and preserving nature of the sand,
+is to be attributed the remarkable state of preservation, after such a
+lapse of time, in which the houses of the cliff-dwellers were found.
+Some of them still stood three stories high, built in compact form,
+close together within the extremely limited space, the timber used
+to support the roof being in some cases perfectly sound. The white
+stone employed is gypsum, cut with stone implements, but having the
+outer edges smoothly dressed and evenly laid up; the stones of equal
+size placed parallel with each other presenting a uniform and pleasing
+appearance.
+
+No remains of importance were found here, excepting a finely woven
+sandal, and some pieces of netting made from the fibre of the yucca
+plant. But on proceeding two miles farther up the cañon, another group
+of ruins was discovered, which contained relics of a very interesting
+character. The interior of some of the larger houses was painted with
+a series of red bands and squares, fresh in colour, and contained
+fragments of ornamented pottery, besides what appeared to be pieces
+of blankets made from birds’ feathers; these, perhaps, in ages past
+bedecked the shoulders of some red beauty, when the grim old walls
+echoed the fierce war-songs of a long-lost nation. But the most
+fortunate find at this spot, and the first of that description made in
+the country, was a cyst, constructed of timber smoothly plastered on
+the inside, containing remains of three of the ancient cliff-dwellers.
+One was in a sitting posture, the skin of the thighs and legs being in
+a perfect state of preservation. These ruins, as in the former case,
+were protected from the weather by an overhanging arch of rock.
+
+At several points on the journey through Cañon de Chelly, hieroglyphics
+were traced, graven on the cliff wall. Most of the designs were
+unintelligible; but figures of animals, such as the bear and mountain
+sheep or goat, were prominent. Another cliff village was observed of a
+considerable size, but planted three hundred feet above the cañon bed,
+in such a position that it is likely to remain sacred from the foot of
+man for still further generations. The same elements which in geologic
+time fashioned the caves and recesses of the cañon walls, have in later
+times worn the approaches away, so that to-day they do not even furnish
+a footing for the bear or coyote. In what remote age and for how many
+generations the cliff-dwellers lived in these strange fastnesses, will
+probably never be determined. Faint traces of still older buildings
+are found here and there in the bed of Cañon de Chelly; and it is
+conjectured that this region was once densely populated along the
+watercourses, and that the tribes having been driven from their homes
+by a powerful foe, the remnant sought refuge in the caves of the cañon
+walls.
+
+Of the great antiquity of these structures, there is no question.
+The Indian of to-day knows nothing of their history, has not even
+traditions concerning them. The Navajo, with a few poles plastered
+with a heavy deposit of earth, constructs his _hogan_ or wigwam, and
+rarely remains in the same place winter and summer. He has no more idea
+of constructing a dwelling like those so perfectly preserved in the
+cliffs, than he has of baking specimens of pottery such as are found
+in fragments amongst the walls. In the fine quality of paste, in the
+animal handles—something like old Japanese ware—and in the general
+ornamentation, these exhibit a high order of excellence. Some specimens
+of what is called laminated ware are remarkable; threadlike layers of
+clay are laid one on each other with admirable delicacy and patience.
+In these fragments may yet be read something of the history of a
+vanished race. They illuminate a dark corner in the world’s history,
+and seem to indicate a people who once felt civilising influences
+higher than anything known by those uncouth figures whose camp-fires
+now glimmer at night across the silent starlit prairie.
+
+
+
+
+TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.
+
+A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+Captain Bowood came forward. ‘Sir Frederick, your servant; glad to see
+you,’ he said in his hearty sailor-like fashion.
+
+‘I am glad to see you, Captain,’ responded the Baronet as he proffered
+his hand. ‘How’s the gout this morning?’
+
+‘So, so. Might be better—might be worse.—You here, Miss Saucebox!’ he
+added, turning to Elsie. ‘Why are you not at your lessons—eh, now?’
+
+‘As if anybody could learn Latin roots on a sunny morning like this!’
+Then, clasping one of his arms with both her hands, and looking up
+coaxingly into his face, she said: ‘You might give me a holiday, nunky
+dear.’
+
+‘Why, why? A holiday indeed!—Listen to her, Sir Frederick. The baggage
+is always begging for holidays.’
+
+‘But the baggage doesn’t always get them,’ was the answer with a pretty
+pout. Then, after another glance at the long-haired stranger, who was
+already busy with the piano, she said to herself: ‘It is he; I am sure
+of it. And yet if I had not heard his voice, I should not have known
+him.’
+
+Captain Bowood at this time had left his sixtieth birthday behind him,
+but he carried his years lightly. He was a bluff, hearty-looking,
+loud-voiced man, with a very red face, and very white hair and
+whiskers. A fever, several years previously, had radically impaired
+his eyesight, since which time he had taken to wearing gold-rimmed
+spectacles. He had a choleric temper; but his bursts of petulance
+were like those summer storms which are over almost as soon as they
+have broken, and leave not a cloud behind. Throughout the American
+Civil War, Captain Bowood had been known as one of the most daring and
+successful blockade-runners, and it was during those days of danger and
+excitement that he laid the foundation of the fortune on which he had
+since retired. No man was more completely ruled by his wife than the
+choleric but generous-hearted Captain, and no man suspected the fact
+less than he did.
+
+‘I drove over this morning,’ said Sir Frederick, ‘to see you about that
+bay mare which I hear you are desirous of getting rid of.’
+
+‘Yes, yes—just so. We’ll go to the stable and have a look at her.
+By-the-bye, I was talking to Boyd just now, when your name cropped up.
+It seems he met you when you were both in South America. Oscar Boyd,
+engineering fellow and all that. You remember him, eh, now?’
+
+‘I certainly do remember a Mr Boyd; but it is many years since we met.’
+Then to himself the Baronet said: ‘Can this be the other man? Oh! Lady
+Dimsdale.’
+
+‘A very agreeable fellow,’ said the Captain. ‘Here on a visit for a
+couple of days. A little matter of business between him and me to save
+lawyers’ expenses.’
+
+‘The other man, without a doubt,’ thought the Baronet. ‘His wife must
+be dead.’
+
+Miss Brandon had slipped unobserved out of the room. She was now
+sitting in the veranda, making-believe to be intent over her Latin
+verbs, but in reality waiting impatiently till the coast should be
+clear. She had not long to wait. Presently she heard the Captain say in
+his cheery loud-voiced way: ‘Come along, Sir Frederick; we shall just
+have time to look at the mare before luncheon;’ and a minute later, she
+heard the shutting of a door.
+
+Then she shut her book, rose from her seat, and crossing on tiptoe
+to the open French-window, she peeped into the room. ‘Is that you,
+Charley?’ she asked in a voice that was little above a whisper.
+
+‘Whom else should it be?’ answered the young man, looking round from
+the piano with a smile.
+
+‘I was nearly sure of it from the first; but then you look such a guy!’
+
+‘She calls me a guy! after all the trouble I have taken to get myself
+up like a foreign nobleman.’ Speaking thus, he took off his spectacles
+and wig, and stood revealed, as pleasant-looking a young fellow as one
+would see in a day’s march.
+
+Elsie ran forward with a little cry of surprise and delight. ‘Now I
+know you for my own!’ she exclaimed; and when he took her in his arms
+and kissed her—more than once—she offered not the slightest resistance.
+‘But what a dreadful risk to run!’ she went on as soon as she was set
+at liberty. ‘Suppose your uncle—good gracious!’
+
+‘My uncle? He can’t eat me, that’s certain; and he has already cut me
+off with the proverbial shilling.’
+
+‘My poor boy! Fate is very, very hard upon you. We are both down
+on our luck, Charley; but we can die together, can’t we?’ As she
+propounded this question, she held out her box of bon-bons. Charley
+took one, she took another, and then the box was put away. ‘A pan of
+charcoal’—she went on, giving her sweetmeat a gustatory turn over with
+her tongue—‘door and windows close shut—you go to sleep and forget to
+wake up. What could be simpler?’
+
+‘Hardly anything. But we have not quite come to that yet. Of course,
+that dreadful Vice-chancellor won’t let me marry you for some time to
+come; but he can’t help himself when you are one-and-twenty.’
+
+‘That won’t be for nearly four years,’ answered Elsie with a pout.
+‘What a long, long time to look forward to!’
+
+‘We have only to be true to each other, which I am sure we shall be,
+and it will pass away far more quickly than you imagine. By that time,
+I hope to be earning enough money to find you a comfortable home.’
+
+‘There’s my money, you know, Charley dear.’
+
+‘I don’t mean to have anything to do with that. If I can’t earn enough
+to keep my wife, I’ll never marry.’
+
+‘Oh!’
+
+‘But I shall do that, dear. Why, I’m getting five guineas a week
+already; and if I’m not getting three times as much as that by the time
+you are twenty-one, I’ll swallow my wig.’
+
+‘Your uncle will never forgive you for going on the stage.’
+
+‘O yes, he will, by-and-by, when he sees that I am making a fair living
+by it and really mean to stick to it—having sown all my wild-oats; and
+above all, when he finds how well they speak of me in his favourite
+newspaper. And that reminds me that it was what the _Telephone_ said
+about me that caused old Brooker our manager to raise my screw from
+four guineas a week to five. I cut the notice out of the paper, you
+may be sure. Here it is.’ Speaking thus, Master Charles produced
+his pocket-book; and drew from it a printed slip of paper, which he
+proceeded to read aloud: ‘“Although we have had occasion more than
+once to commend the acting of Mr Warden”—that’s me—“we were certainly
+surprised last evening by his very masterly rendering of the part
+of Captain Cleveland. His byplay was remarkably clever; and his
+impassioned love-making in the third act, where timidity or hesitation
+would have been fatal to the piece, brought down the house, and earned
+him two well-merited recalls. We certainly consider that there is no
+more promising _jeune premier_ than Mr Warden now on the stage.” There,
+my pet, what do you think of that?’ asked the young actor as he put
+back the slip of paper into his pocket-book.
+
+But his pet vouchsafed no answer. Her face was turned from him; a tear
+fell from her eye. His arms were round her in a moment. ‘My darling
+child, what can be the matter?’ he asked.
+
+‘I—I wish you had never gone on the stage,’ said Elsie, with a sob in
+her voice. ‘I—I wish you were still a tea-broker!’
+
+‘Good gracious! what makes you wish anything so absurd?’
+
+‘It’s not absurd. Doesn’t the newspaper speak of your “impassioned
+love-making?” And then people—lovers, I mean—are always kissing each
+other on the stage.’
+
+‘Just as they do sometimes in real life;’ and with that he suited the
+action to the word.
+
+‘Don’t, Mr Summers, please.’ And she pushed him away, and her eyes
+flashed through her tears, and she looked very pretty.
+
+Mr Summers sat down on a chair and was unfeeling enough to laugh. ‘Why,
+what a little goose you are!’ he said.
+
+‘I don’t see it at all.’ This with a toss of her head. Certainly, it is
+not pleasant to be called a goose.
+
+‘You must know, if you come to think of it, that both love-making and
+kissing on the stage are only so much make-believe, however real they
+may seem to the audience. During the last six months, it has been
+my fate to have to make love to about a dozen different ladies; and
+during the next six months I shall probably have to do the same thing
+to as many more; but to imagine on that account that I really care
+for any of them, or that they really care for me, would be as absurd
+as to suppose that because in the piece we shall play to-morrow night
+I shall hunt Tom Bowles—who is the villain of the drama—through three
+long acts, and kill him in the fourth, he and I must necessarily hate
+each other. The fact is that Tom and I are the best of friends, and
+generally contrive to lodge together when on our travels.’
+
+Elsie was half convinced that she _had_ made a goose of herself, but of
+course was not prepared to admit it. ‘I see that Miss Wylie is acting
+in your company,’ she said. ‘I saw her in London about a year ago; she
+is very, very pretty.’
+
+‘Miss Wylie is a very charming woman.’
+
+‘And you make love to her?’
+
+‘Every night of my life—for a little while.’
+
+Elsie felt her unreasonable mood coming back. ‘Then why don’t you marry
+her?’ she asked with a ring of bitterness in her voice.
+
+Again that callous-hearted young man laughed. ‘Considering that she is
+married already, and the happy mother of two children, I can hardly see
+the feasibility of your suggestion.’
+
+‘Then why does she call herself “Miss Wylie?”’
+
+‘It’s a way they have in the profession. She goes by her maiden name.
+In reality, she is Mrs Berrington. Her husband travels with her. He
+plays “heavy fathers.”’
+
+Miss Brandon looked mystified. Her lover saw it.
+
+‘You see this suit of clothes,’ he said, ‘and this wig and these
+spectacles. They are part of the “make-up” of a certain character I
+played last week. I was the Count von Rosenthal, in love with the
+beautiful daughter of a poor music-master. In order to be able to make
+love to her, and win her for myself, and not for my title and riches,
+I go in the guise of a student, and take lodgings in the same house
+where she and her father are living. After many mishaps, all ends as
+it ought to do. Charlotte and I fall into each other’s arms, and her
+father blesses us both with tears in his eyes. Miss Wylie played the
+Professor’s daughter, and her husband played the father’s part, and
+very well he did it too.’
+
+‘Her husband allowed you to make love to his wife?’ said Miss Brandon,
+with wide-open eyes.
+
+‘Of course he did; and he was not so foolish as to be jealous, like
+some people. Why should he be?’
+
+Elsie was fully convinced by this time that she had made a goose of
+herself. ‘You may kiss me, Charley,’ she said with much sweetness.
+‘Dear boy, I forgive you.’
+
+Suddenly the sound of a footstep caused them to start and fly asunder.
+There, close to the open French-window, stood Captain Bowood, glaring
+from one to the other of them. Miss Brandon gave vent to a little
+shriek and fled from the room. The Captain came forward, a fine frenzy
+in his eye. ‘Who the deuce may you be, sir?’ he spluttered, although he
+had recognised Charley at the first glance.
+
+‘I have the honour to be your very affectionate and obedient nephew,
+sir.’
+
+The Captain’s reply to this was an inarticulate growl. Next moment,
+his eye fell on the discarded wig. ‘And what the dickens may this be,
+sir?’ he asked as he lifted up the article in question on the end of
+his cane.
+
+‘A trifle of property, sir, belonging to your affectionate and obedient
+nephew;’ and with that he took the wig off the end of the cane and
+crammed it into his pocket.
+
+‘So, so. This is the way, you young jackanapes, that you set my
+commands at defiance, and steal into my house after being forbidden
+ever to set foot in it again! You young snake-in-the-grass! You
+crocodile! It would serve you right to give you in charge to the
+police. How do I know that you are not after my spoons and forks? Come
+now.’
+
+‘I am glad to find, sir, that your powers of vituperation are in no
+way impaired since I had the pleasure of seeing you last. Time cannot
+wither them.—Hem! I believe, sir, that you have had the honour of
+twice paying my debts, amounting in the aggregate to the trifling sum
+of five hundred pounds. In this paper, sir, you will find twenty-five
+sovereigns, being my first dividend of one shilling in the pound. A
+further dividend will be paid at the earliest possible date.’ As Mr
+Summers spoke thus, he drew from his waistcoat pocket a small sealed
+packet and placed the same quietly on the table.
+
+The irate Captain glanced at the packet and then at his imperturbable
+nephew. The cane trembled in his fingers; for a moment or two he
+could not command his voice. ‘What, what!’ he cried at last. ‘The boy
+will drive me crazy. What does he mean with his confounded rigmarole?
+Dividend! Shilling in the pound! Bother me, if I can make head or tail
+of his foolery!’
+
+‘And yet, sir, both my words and my meaning were clear enough, as no
+doubt you will find when you come to think them over in your calmer
+moments.—And now I have the honour to wish you a very good-morning;
+and I hope to afford you the pleasure of seeing me again before long.’
+Speaking thus, Charles Summers made his uncle a very low bow, took up
+his hat, and walked out of the room.
+
+‘There’s insolence! There’s audacity!’ burst out the Captain as soon as
+he found himself alone. ‘The pleasure of seeing him again—eh? Only let
+me find him here without my leave—I’ll—I’ll—— I don’t know what I won’t
+do!—And now I come to think of it, it looks very much as if he and Miss
+Saucebox were making love to each other. How dare they? I’ll haul ’em
+both up before the Vice-chancellor.’ Here his eye fell on the packet on
+the table. He took it up and examined it. ‘Twenty-five sovereigns, did
+he say? As if I was going to take the young idiot’s money! I’ll keep
+it for the present, and send it back to him by-and-by. Must teach him
+a lesson. Do him all the good in the world. False hair and spectacles,
+eh? Deceived his old uncle finely. Just the sort of trick I should
+have delighted in when I was a boy. But Master Charley will be clever
+if he catches the old fox asleep a second time.’ He had reached the
+French-window on his way out, when he came to a sudden stand, and gave
+vent to a low whistle. ‘Ha, ha! Lady Dimsdale and Mr Boyd, and mighty
+taken up with each other they seem. Well, well. I’m no spoil-sport.
+I’ll not let them know I’ve seen them. Looks uncommonly as if Dan Cupid
+had got them by the ears. A widow too! All widows ought to be labelled
+“Dangerous.”’ Smiling and chuckling to himself, the Captain drew back,
+crossed the room, and went out by the opposite door.
+
+
+
+
+THE COLOUR-SENSE.
+
+
+The phenomenon of Colour is one with which all who are not blind must
+of necessity be familiar. So accustomed, indeed, have we been to it
+throughout all our lives, that most of us are inclined to take it for
+granted, and probably trouble ourselves very seldom as to its true
+cause. A brief discussion, therefore, of the nature of the Colour-sense
+may, we trust, prove not uninteresting to our readers.
+
+What, then, is colour? It is obvious that it may be considered in two
+ways; we may either discuss the impression it makes on the mind, or the
+real external causes to which it is due. Viewed in the first light,
+colour is as much a sensation as is that of being struck or burnt.
+Viewed from the latter stand-point, it is merely a property of light;
+hence, in order correctly to understand its nature, we must first
+briefly examine the nature of this phenomenon.
+
+According to modern scientific men, light is not a material substance,
+but consists of a kind of motion or vibration communicated by the
+luminous body to the surrounding medium, and travelling throughout
+space with an enormous velocity. The medium, however, through which
+light-waves travel is not air, nor any of the ordinary forms of matter.
+Of its real nature nothing is known, and its very existence is only
+assumed in order to account for the observed phenomena. It must be very
+subtle and very elastic; but it is a curious fact that the nature of
+the vibrations in question would seem to preclude the supposition that
+it is a fluid, these being rather such as would be met with in the case
+of a solid. To this medium, whatever its true nature may be, the name
+of _ether_ is given.
+
+The sensation, then, which we know by the name of Light is to be
+regarded as the effect on the retina of the eye of certain very rapid
+vibrations in the _ether_ of the universe. All these waves travel
+with the same swiftness; but they are not all of the same length,
+nor of the same frequency; and investigation has shown that it is to
+this difference of wave-length that difference of colour is due. In
+other words, the impression to which we give the name of a certain
+colour is due to the effect on the retina of vibrations of a certain
+frequency. This conclusion is arrived at by a very simple experiment,
+in which advantage is taken of the following principle. So long as a
+ray of light is passing through the same medium, it travels in one
+straight line; but in passing obliquely from one medium into another of
+different density, its path is bent through a certain angle, just as
+a column of soldiers has a tendency to change its direction of march
+when obliquely entering a wood or other difficult ground. Now, this
+angle is naturally greatest in the case of the shortest waves, so that
+when a ray of light is thus bent out of its course—or, as it is called,
+‘refracted’—the various sets of vibrations of which it is composed all
+travel in different directions, and may be separately examined. In fact
+the ray of light is analysed, or broken up into its component parts.
+The most convenient apparatus to employ for this purpose is a prism
+of glass. It is found, as is well known, that if a beam of ordinary
+sun-light be allowed to pass through the prism and be then received on
+a screen, it is resolved into a band of colours succeeding one another
+in the order of those of the rainbow. Such a band of colours is called
+a ‘spectrum.’
+
+Now, of the visible portion of the spectrum the red rays are those
+which undergo the least refraction, while the violet rays are bent
+through the greatest angle, the other colours in their natural order
+being intermediate. From what has been said above, it is evident that,
+this being the case, the portion of the light consisting of waves of
+greatest length and least frequency is that which produces on the eye
+the sensation of red, and that each of the other colours is caused
+by vibrations of a certain definite length. We are speaking now of
+the visible part of the spectrum. As a matter of fact, the waves of
+least and greatest frequency make no impression on the eye at all;
+but the former have the greatest heating power, while the latter are
+those which chiefly produce chemical effects such as are utilised in
+photography.
+
+Having now arrived at the nature of colour, we are in a position to
+apply these facts to the discussion of coloured substances.
+
+When light falls on a body, a portion of it is turned back or, as it
+is called, ‘reflected’ from the surface; another part is taken up or
+‘absorbed’ by the substance; while, in the case of a transparent body,
+a third portion passes on through it, and is said to be ‘transmitted.’
+Most bodies absorb the different parts of the light in different
+proportions, and hence their various colours are produced. The colour
+of a transparent substance is that of the light which it transmits;
+while an opaque body is said to be of the colour of the light which it
+reflects, or rather of that part of it which is irregularly scattered.
+
+There are three colours in the solar spectrum which are called
+‘primary,’ owing to the fact that they cannot be produced by mixtures.
+These are red, violet, and deep olive green. The generally-received
+idea that red, blue, and yellow are primary colours, is by recent
+scientific authorities not regarded as tenable; it arose from
+observations on mixtures of pigments rather than of coloured light. For
+instance, objects seen through two plates of glass, one of which is
+blue and the other yellow, appear green; but this by no means justifies
+us in saying that a mixture of blue and yellow light is green. For
+remembering that the two glasses do not appear coloured by reason of
+their adding anything to the light, but rather through their stopping
+the passage of certain rays, we shall see that the green light which
+is finally transmitted is not a mixture of yellow and blue at all, but
+is rather that portion of the light which both of the glasses allow to
+pass. The blue glass will probably stop all rays except blue, violet,
+and green; the yellow glass, all but green, yellow, and orange. The
+only light, therefore, which can pass through both glasses is green.
+The same remark applies to mixtures of pigments, each particle being
+really transparent, though the whole bulk appears opaque. It is easy,
+however, to obtain real mixtures of coloured lights by employing
+suitable arrangements, of which one of the simplest consists of a disc
+painted with alternate bands of colours and rapidly rotated. By such
+means it is found that a mixture of blue and yellow is not green, but
+white or gray, and that yellow can itself be produced by a mixture of
+red and green in proper proportions. The late Professor Clerk Maxwell
+made an interesting series of experiments on colour mixtures by means
+of an apparatus known as Maxwell’s Colour-box, by which any number of
+colours could be combined in any required proportions.
+
+It would, however, be beyond the scope of the present paper to discuss
+the many important results which followed from his investigations.
+Helmholtz believed the three primary colour sensations to be due to
+the action of three sets of nerves at the back of the retina, each
+of which is excited only by vibrations within a certain range of
+frequency; and this theory is now generally held. In the case of some
+persons, the sensation corresponding to red is wholly absent, and the
+spectrum appears to consist of two colours with white or gray between.
+The nature of these colours is, for obvious reasons, difficult to
+determine; but one doubtless nearly corresponds to our sensation of
+blue, while the other is a deep colour, probably dark green. Persons
+thus affected are usually called ‘colour-blind;’ but this epithet is
+a misnomer, and the term ‘dichroic vision’ has been suggested for the
+phenomenon instead.
+
+We have already remarked that our range of vision is comparatively
+narrow, the extreme portions of the spectrum making no impression on
+the retina. But we have no reason to think that these limits have been
+the same in all ages. The evidence would rather tend to show that the
+human eye is undergoing a slow and gradual development, which enables
+it to distinguish between colours which the ancients regarded as
+identical, and may in future render it able to perceive some portions
+at least of the parts of the spectrum which are now invisible. The
+Vedas of India, which are among the most ancient writings known,
+attest that in the most remote ages only white and black could be
+distinguished.
+
+It would seem as if the perception of different degrees of intensity
+of light preceded by a long time the appreciation of various kinds of
+colours. After weighing the evidence, Magnus has come to the conclusion
+that red was the first colour to become visible, then yellow and
+orange; and afterwards, though at a considerable interval, green, blue,
+and violet in order. Various passages in the Old Testament have been
+cited as proof that the ancients failed to perceive all the colours
+seen by us, one of the most remarkable being in Ezekiel i. 27 and 28,
+where the prophet compares the appearance of the brightness round
+about the fire to that of the ‘bow that is in the cloud in the day of
+rain’—which passage has been cited by Mr Gladstone in his article in
+the _Nineteenth Century_ for October 1877, as indicating a want of
+appreciation of distinct colours among the ancients. This is not quite
+clear, however, as the appearance round about the supernatural fire
+might have assumed auroral or rainbow tints. But the most important
+evidence on the apparent want of capacity among the ancients to
+discriminate between colours is that afforded by the writings of
+Homer, who, in the opinion of Magnus, could neither have perceived
+green nor blue. The point has been carefully examined by Mr Gladstone,
+who comes to the conclusion that this estimate is quite within the
+mark. Inquiring in detail into each of Homer’s colour-epithets, he
+shows that almost all must be in reality regarded as expressing degrees
+of intensity rather than of quality, and that the few exceptions
+are all confined to red and yellow. The brilliant blue sky of the
+southern climes where Homer lived must have appeared to him as of a
+neutral gray hue. Of course, the suggestion that the writings usually
+assigned to Homer were in reality the productions of many authors,
+does not invalidate the reasoning at all, as we do not attribute any
+defect in vision to the poet which was not equally manifested by his
+contemporaries.
+
+It is curious that the distinction between green and blue is not yet
+perfectly developed in all nations. Travellers tell us that the Burmese
+often confuse these colours in a remarkable manner. This and other
+facts suggest that the development of the colour-sense is not yet
+completed; and that in the future our range of perception may be still
+further enlarged, so that the now invisible rays may be recognised by
+the eye as distinct colours.
+
+
+
+
+‘SO UNREASONABLE OF STEP-MOTHER!’
+
+A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
+
+
+Not long before the death of George Eliot, on a return trip to London
+by the Midland route, I broke my journey at Leicester, to pay a flying
+visit to Coventry, where the great writer had spent many of her
+happiest days. There I was privileged by having for escort one of her
+most valued friends; and many interesting reminiscences were for our
+benefit called to mind, especially of a visit paid to Edinburgh, ‘mine
+own romantic town,’ and of the impression the beauty of its situation
+had made on her mind. Next morning, every favourite haunt of hers was
+searched out and commented on, as well as the interesting points of the
+quaint old city of Coventry; and bidding good-bye to our hospitable
+friends, I departed alone by the evening mail for Leicester, there to
+wait for the midnight train to Edinburgh, feeling satisfied that the
+hours had been well spent. Arrived in Leicester, I was fortunate in
+finding a fellow-countryman in one of the porters, who at once took
+me and my belongings under his especial protection, and when he had
+seen me comfortably ‘happit up’ on one of the sofas of the luxurious
+waiting-room, he retired, bidding me take a quiet forty winks, and keep
+my mind quite easy, for he would give me timely notice of the arrival
+of the Scotch train. Scarcely had I begun to feel the loneliness of my
+situation, when the door opened, and a female figure entered, rather
+unwilling, apparently; nay, seemed to be pushed in, while a deep male
+voice advised that she should rest by the fire, and not put herself
+about so. By a succession of jerks, she advanced to the chair by the
+fire opposite to my sofa; and finding that I was not asleep, as
+she had supposed, at once, and without any circumlocution, began to
+unburden her mind, her words flowing from her mouth at express speed,
+regardless of comma or full stop.
+
+‘Not put myself about! Humph! That’s so like men.—Ain’t it now, miss?
+Ah, I dessay you’ve ’ad your own share of worriting before now, and
+know ’ow downright masterful and provoking they can be at times. I tell
+you _w’at_, miss, if you want to be at peace at all, you’ve got to
+say black is w’ite, if they ’ave a mind that it should be so.—Not put
+myself about! I’d like to know ’ow one with a ’eart and a soul in their
+body could ’elp being put about, as I am.’
+
+I ventured to hope nothing serious had occurred to disturb her
+composure or to put her about, my voice at once disclosing that I
+hailed from the North, and also that I was of a sympathetic nature.
+
+‘Put about!’ she once more exclaimed. ‘Why, I _am_ put about; yes—no
+use trying to appear as if I was anything else. Yes; only think, miss!
+Not ’alf an hour gone, a telegram was brought to our ’ouse by the
+telegraph-boy. His mother, a widow, keeps a little bit of a shop not
+many doors from our own. Yes; he ’ands it in saying it was for father.
+I opened it; and there, staring me right in the eyes were them words:
+“_Step-mother is lying a-dying._”—Not put about! I’d just like to
+know ’ow anybody could ’ave been anything else than put about, after
+_that_. Now, miss, you must understand that John—that’s my ’usband—is
+a great go-to-meeting-man. Why, at that very moment he might be at
+the church meeting, or he might ’ave been at the Building meeting, or
+he might ’ave been at a Masonic meeting, or he might ’ave been at any
+other meeting under the sun. And w’atever was I to do? for there was
+the telegraph-boy; there was the telegram, with the words as plain as
+plain: “Step-mother is lying a-dying.” I put on my bonnet and shawl;
+I ’urried to father’s office—he is a master-builder, is father, with
+sixteen men under him and three apprentices; and John, my son, for
+partner. I rushed in quite out of breath, not expecting to find any one
+there at that time of night; but there I found John—that’s my son—and
+says I, without taking time to sit down, though I was like to drop:
+“John, w’atever is to be done! Here’s a telegraph-boy has brought a
+telegram for father to say, ‘step-mother is a-dying.’”
+
+‘Now, miss, I just put it to you, if them telegrams, coming so sudden
+at hours w’en no one expects postmen’s knocks, and bringing such news
+as that, ain’t enough to put any one about! Augh! Men are so queer;
+there’s no nerves in their bodies, and can’t understand us women. I’ve
+no patience with them. There was John—that’s my son—w’at did he do?
+Why, look at me quite composed, as if it weren’t no news at all, and
+says he: “Don’t put yourself about, mother. Father has gone off not
+many minutes ago to the paddock, to give little Bobbie a ride.” And
+with that he takes down a time-table, to look at it for the last train,
+puts on his hat, calls for a cab, and says quite composed: “Jump in,
+mother. We’ll go in pursuit of father, and then we’ll catch the train
+quite easily.” It seemed to me the horse just crept up the ’ill like
+a snail; only John would ’ave it they were going faster than their
+usual pace. W’en we came to our door, w’at do you think we saw, now,
+miss?—No; you’ll never guess, I dessay. Why, _father_, to be sure! Yes;
+there he was; and there was the pony; and there was little Bobbie—all
+three of ’em just about to start for a long ride into the country. I
+’ad carried the telegram in my pocket; and do you know, miss, after
+all my flurry and worry, w’at did John—that’s my ’usband—say, think
+you?—Augh! Men are so unreasonable, and w’at’s more, such cool and
+’eartless pieces. Yes; that’s w’at _they_ are; and I don’t care who
+hears me a-saying it.
+
+‘John—that’s father—after he had read the telegram, he turns to me,
+and says he: “Why, mother, ’ave your senses left your ’ead altogether?
+W’atever made you carry off the telegram! Couldn’t you ’ave stayed
+quietly at ’ome, instead of putting yourself about in this here
+fashion? If you ’ad, we’d ’ave been at the station without any hurry at
+all, by this time.”
+
+‘I felt too angry to speak, I do declare, miss. I think the older
+men grow, the more aggravating they get to a sensitive nature. So I
+gathered the things together father said we’d better take with us,
+into my travelling-basket, without as much as a single word—a stranger
+coming in would ’ave thought me dumb—while father sent a man back to
+the paddock with little Bobbie and the pony. We then got into the cab
+once more; and here we are, with John—that’s my son—a-looking after the
+tickets and the luggage; and father smoking his pipe outside as cool
+as cool. O dear, if they wouldn’t put me out with their “Keep cool,
+mother; no need to fluster and flurry so, mother”—“Take it easy, good
+ooman; don’t put yourself about”—I’d bear it better, I certainly should.
+
+‘Is step-mother nice? you ask. Oh—well—that’s just as you take it. Some
+people say she’s nice; some say she’s quite the opposite. But’—and
+here she drew her chair closer to me, and in a more confidential
+tone, continued: ‘I tell you _w’at_, miss—I’ve said it before, and
+I say it again—step-mother, in spite of her religious pro-fession
+and san’timonious ways, is cantankerous. No use a-trying to hide
+it—step-mother is just w’at I say, _can-tankerous_. I’ve said it
+before; I say it again—she’d show her cantankerousness to the very
+last. And han’t my words come true, for here she is lying a-dying, and
+Mary-Anne’s wedding fixed for Friday of this very week!—O my—now that
+I come to ’ave a quiet moment to think, w’atever am I to do? It’s so
+unreasonable of step-mother! Why, the dressmaker was coming this very
+evening to fit my dress on for the second time—a new black silk it
+is—and w’atever will _she_ think, w’en she finds I’ve gone off without
+as much as a good-bye message? You see, miss, Mary-Anne is going to
+marry into quite a genteel family. Father, and John—that’s my son—he
+comes to me not many weeks gone, and says he: “Mother, I ’ope you are
+going to ’ave a nice dress for this wedding. I ’ope it will be a silk
+or a satin you decide to buy.” And says I: “John, you know w’at father
+is, and ’as been all his life—a just man to all; but a man who looks
+upon gay clothes as not necessary. And then, John, you know as well
+as I do that father is rather close-fisted w’en money has to be paid
+out—like his own father before him, who was looked upon by all as the
+most parsimonious man in the town. I don’t say father is quite as bad;
+but close-fisted I _do_ say he is, John; and you know it. Were I to
+say: ‘Father, I’d like to ’ave a silk dress for this wedding’—and I
+don’t hide the fact from _you_, John, that I certainly should—he’d just
+laugh. I know it beforehand. He’d say: ‘Why, mother, ’aven’t you been
+content with a good stuff-dress all our married life, and can’t you go
+on to the end so? I’ve over and over again said my wife looked as well
+as most women in the town of Leicester.’”
+
+‘“But,” says John—that’s my son—“mother, you owe your duty certainly
+to father. I’m not going against it; but w’at I says is: You owe your
+duty to your son also; and w’en I wish _my_ mother to look better than
+she’s ever done before, why—to oblige me—you’ll go and purchase the
+best silk-dress in town, ’ave it made fashionable, with frills and all
+the fal-de-rals and etceteras; send in the account in my name; and if
+father makes any objections, why, let him settle the matter with _me_.”
+
+‘You see, miss, John is getting to be so like father—both _firm_, very;
+and if they take a notion of any kind w’atever into their ’eads, you’d
+move this station as soon as move them from their purpose; so the dress
+’as been bought; and w’at father will say to it—for it’s to be made in
+the height of the fashion—_I_ can’t say.’
+
+A few judicious questions about the step-mother who was lying a-dying,
+drew from my companion that the said old lady was rich as well as
+cantankerous; and that, as there were other relations who might step in
+to the injury of the worthy builder, who was her only stepson, it was,
+to say the least, but prudent to be on the spot.
+
+‘Ah, yes, miss,’ she exclaimed, stretching her hands out to keep the
+heat of the fire from her face, ‘this is a very strange world. Only
+on Sunday, the vicar was preaching to us against worldly-mindedness,
+telling us that as we came naked into the world, so we left it,
+carrying nothing away. But, miss, step-mother ain’t like the most of
+people; and she’s going to manage to take with her as much money as she
+possibly can.—How is she going to do it? Why, miss—she’s going to ’ave
+a coffin!—No need to look surprised, miss. O yes; we all bury our dead
+in coffins; but w’at kind of a coffin is step-mother going to ’ave, do
+you think? No; don’t try to guess, for you’d be down to Scotland and up
+again before it would ever come into your ’ead.—No; not a velvet one,
+nor a satin; but a _hoak_ one.—Yes; I thought you would get a scare. A
+_hoak_ coffin is w’at it is to be. And she’s going to ’ave bearers—six
+of ’em. Each bearer is to ’ave ’at-bands and scarfs, and two pounds
+apiece. And if all that pomp and tomfoolery ain’t taking so much money
+out of the world with her, I don’t know w’at _is_. W’en John—that’s
+father—heard of it, says he to me: “Mother, if you survives me, bury me
+plain, but comf’able;” and says I: “Father, if you survives me, I ’ope
+you will do the same by me—plain, but comf’able; for I tell you w’at,
+father, I’d not lie easy underground thinking of the waste of good
+money over such ’umbug.”’
+
+Here the waiting-room door opened hurriedly, and the worthy woman
+bounded to her feet at the one word ‘Mother!’ pronounced in such a
+decided tone that I too was standing beside her before I knew what I
+was doing, with all my wraps tossed higgledy-piggledy on the floor.
+Advancing with her to the door, she got out of me that my immediate
+destination was Scotland—a place, to her mind, evidently as remote as
+the arctic regions; and in her astonishment, she forgot the necessity
+there was to hurry to get in to her train, now ready to start again.
+She even seemed to forget that step-mother was lying a-dying, as she
+insisted upon introducing me to her husband, whose huge body was
+wrapped in a greatcoat, with tippet after tippet on it up to his neck.
+‘Only to think, John—this lady is going to Scotland all alone, John!
+She’ll be travelling all night.—O dear, however are you to do it, miss;
+ain’t you afraid?—Yes, John; I’m coming.—Good-bye, miss; we’ve ’ad
+quite a pleasant chat, I do assure you; the time seems to ’ave flown.’
+
+I hurried her along the platform, whispering to her as I did so: ‘I
+hope step-mother will rally a bit; that if she must pass away, it may
+be next week, so that Mary-Anne may get her wedding comfortably over.’
+At the very door of the carriage she paused, seized my hand, shook it
+warmly, as she exclaimed: ‘Well, now, you ’ave a feeling ’eart; but I
+don’t expect her to be so accommodating. No; I’ve said it before, and I
+say it again—step-mother is—_can-ta_—— Why, w’atever is the matter?’
+
+Next thing that happened, the little woman was lifted up bodily in her
+son’s arms—a counterpart of his father—and deposited in the carriage;
+while her husband, in spite of his lumbering large body, succeeded
+in jumping in just as the patience of all the railway officials was
+exhausted, and the signal given to start the train. Before it was
+lost to view, a white handkerchief fluttered out, by way of good-bye,
+causing a smile to rise over the calm features of John the younger,
+who, lifting his hat politely to me, bade me good-evening, adding:
+‘Mother is no great traveller, so she is easily put about. Dessay if
+she went often from ’ome, she’d learn to be more composed.’
+
+From that hour I have never ceased to regret that I did not ask the
+good-natured young builder to forward me a local paper with the account
+of the death and burial of ‘step-mother.’ No doubt there would be due
+notice taken of such an interesting personage, as she lay in state in
+her ‘hoak’ coffin, surrounded by her bearers in the flowing scarfs and
+hat-bands. Sharp as my friends generally give me credit for being, I
+own I committed a grievous blunder; I am therefore obliged to leave
+my story without an end, not being able even to add that the fair
+Mary-Anne’s wedding came off on the appointed day, or was postponed
+till after the complimentary days of mourning were past. I cheer
+myself with the thought that ‘John—that’s father’—being a firm man
+and a sensible, would insist upon the previous arrangements standing
+good, seeing that the bridegroom—a most important fact I have omitted
+to record—had a fortnight’s holiday reluctantly granted to him by
+his employers. Why, now that I think of it, my countryman the railway
+porter would have sent me any number of papers, judging by the kindly
+interest he took in my behalf, and the determined manner he fought
+for a particular seat for me in a particular carriage when the time
+came for my train to start. ‘Na, na, mem; nae need for thanks; blood’s
+thicker than water,’ he said. ‘Never you fear, now that the Scotch
+guard has ta’en up your cause; you’re a’ right; he’ll see that ye’re
+safely housed.’ And safely housed I was, and went steaming out of the
+station with my worthy friend hanging on by the door, calling to me:
+‘If you’re ever in the town o’ Perth, mem, my auld mother would be
+downright pleased to see you, for my sake. Tell her I’m getting on as
+weel as can be expeckit, sae far frae hame.’
+
+All night, my disturbed sleep was made doubly so by dreams of old
+women of every age and style. Now I was hunting for the porter’s
+nameless mother; now I was standing by the bedside of the step-mother
+who was lying a-dying. Again I was an active assistant at a marriage
+ceremony, with the fair Mary-Anne, surrounded by her genteel relations,
+leaning on my shoulder, weeping copiously at the idea of travelling to
+Scotland. Once more I stood gazing down on the old step-mother; and
+just as the day dawned, I was fairly roused, in my determination not to
+be smothered under an oak coffin and a pyramid of scarfs, hat-bands,
+and bearers, by the tumbling of my own bonnet-box from the luggage-rack
+above me.
+
+
+
+
+FRENCH DETECTIVES.
+
+
+‘The Secret Police’ in France are not only personally unknown to the
+general public, but, save in exceptional cases, even to each other.
+It is known where they may be found at a moment’s notice when wanted;
+but, as a rule, they do not frequent the prefecture more than can be
+helped. They have nothing whatever to do with serving summonses or
+executing warrants. There are among them men who have lived in almost
+every class of life, and each of them has what may be called a special
+line of business of his own. In the course of their duty, some of them
+mix with the receivers of stolen goods, others with thieves, many
+with what are called in Paris commercial rascals, and not a few with
+those whose ‘industry’ it is to melt silver and other property of a
+like valuable nature. Forgers, sharpers of all kinds, housebreakers
+and horse-stealers—a very numerous class in Paris—have each all their
+special agents of the police, who watch them, and know where to lay
+hands upon them when they are wanted. A French detective who cannot
+assume and act up to any character, and who cannot disguise himself
+in any manner so effectually as not to be recognised even by those
+who know him best, is not considered fit to hold his appointment.
+Their ability in this way is marvellous. Some years ago, one of them
+made a bet that he would in the course of the next few days address
+a gentleman with whom he was acquainted four times, for at least ten
+minutes each time, and that he should not know him on any occasion
+until the detective had discovered himself. As a matter of course,
+the gentleman was on his guard, and mistrusted every one who came
+near him. But the man won his bet. It is needless to enter into the
+particulars. Suffice it to say that in the course of the next four days
+he presented himself in the character of a bootmaker’s assistant, a
+fiacre-driver, a venerable old gentleman with a great interest in the
+Bourse, and finally as a waiter in the hotel in which the gentleman was
+staying.
+
+
+
+
+‘NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.’
+
+
+    My little child, with clustering hair,
+      Strewn o’er thy dear, dead brow,
+    Though in the past divinely fair,
+      More lovely art thou now.
+    God bade thy gentle soul depart,
+      On brightly shimmering wings;
+    Yet near thy clay, thy mother’s heart
+      All weakly, fondly clings.
+
+    My beauteous child, with lids of snow
+      Closed o’er thy dim blue eyes,
+    Should it not soothe my grief to know
+      They shine beyond the skies?
+    Above thy silent cot I kneel,
+      With heart all crushed and sore,
+    While through the gloom these sweet words steal:
+      ‘Not lost, but gone before.’
+
+    My darling child, these flowers I lay
+      On locks too fair, too bright,
+    For the damp grave-mist, cold and gray,
+      To dim their sunny light.
+    Soft baby tresses bathed in tears,
+      Your gold was all mine own!
+    Ah, weary months! ah, weary years!
+      That I must dwell alone.
+
+    My only child, I hold thee still,
+      Clasped in my fond embrace!
+    My love, my sweet! how fixed, how chill,
+      This smile upon thy face!
+    The grave is cold, my clasp is warm,
+      Yet give thee up I must;
+    And birds will sing when thy loved form
+      Lies mouldering in the dust.
+
+    My angel child, thy tiny feet
+      Dance through my broken dreams;
+    Ah me, how joyous, quaint, and sweet,
+      Their baby pattering seems!
+    I hush my breath, to hear thee speak;
+      I see thy red lips part;
+    But wake to feel thy cold, cold cheek,
+      Close to my breaking heart!
+
+    Soon, soon my burning tears shall fall
+      Upon thy coffin lid;
+    Nor may those tears thy soul recall
+      To earth—nay, God forbid!
+    Be happy in His love, for I
+      Resigned, though wounded sore,
+    Can hear His angels whispering nigh:
+      ‘Not lost, but gone before.’
+
+            FANNY FORRESTER.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
+and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_All Rights Reserved._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Transcriber’s note: The following changes have been made to this text.
+
+Page 47: wa’t to w’at—“know w’at _is_.”]
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR
+LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 3, VOL. I, JANUARY 19,
+1884 ***
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+<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 3, Vol. I, January 19, 1884, by Various</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
+are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the
+country where you are located before using this eBook.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 3, Vol. I, January 19, 1884</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Various</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February 16, 2021 [eBook #64571]</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>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)</div>
+
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 3, VOL. I, JANUARY 19, 1884 ***</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>{33}</span></p>
+
+<h1>CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL<br />
+OF<br />
+POPULAR<br />
+LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.</h1>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class='center'>
+
+<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. -->
+
+<a href="#GIRLS_WIVES_AND_MOTHERS">GIRLS, WIVES, AND MOTHERS.</a><br />
+<a href="#BY_MEAD_AND_STREAM">BY MEAD AND STREAM.</a><br />
+<a href="#THE_CLIFF-HOUSES_OF_CANON_DE">THE CLIFF-HOUSES OF CAÑON DE CHELLY.</a><br />
+<a href="#TWO_DAYS_IN_A_LIFETIME">TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.</a><br />
+<a href="#THE_COLOUR-SENSE">THE COLOUR-SENSE.</a><br />
+<a href="#SO_UNREASONABLE_OF_STEP-MOTHER">‘SO UNREASONABLE OF STEP-MOTHER!’</a><br />
+<a href="#FRENCH_DETECTIVES">FRENCH DETECTIVES.</a><br />
+<a href="#NOT_LOST_BUT_GONE_BEFORE">‘NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.’</a><br />
+
+<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. -->
+
+</p>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<div class="figcenter" id="header" style="max-width: 37.5em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/header.jpg"  alt="Chambers’s Journal of Popular Literature, Science,
+and Art. Fifth Series. Established by William and Robert Chambers, 1832. Conducted by R. Chambers (Secundus)." />
+</div>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+<div class="center">
+<div class="header">
+<p class="floatl"><span class="smcap">No. 3.—Vol. I.</span></p>
+<p class="floatr"><span class="smcap">Price</span> 1½<em>d.</em></p>
+<p class="floatc">SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1884.</p>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="GIRLS_WIVES_AND_MOTHERS">GIRLS, WIVES, AND MOTHERS.</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="ph3">A WORD TO THE MIDDLE CLASSES.</p>
+
+
+<p><span class="smcap">There</span> may be theoretically much to sympathise
+with in the cry for the yet higher culture of the
+women of our middle classes, but at the same
+time not a little to find fault with in practice.
+While it is difficult to believe that there can
+be such a thing as over-education of the human
+subject, male or female, there may yet be false
+lines of training, which lead to a dainty misplaced
+refinement, quite incompatible with the social
+position the woman may be called to fill in after-life,
+and which too often presupposes, what even
+education has a difficulty in supplying—a subsistence
+in life. Where we equip, we too frequently
+impede. In the hurry to be intelligent
+and accomplished, the glitter of drawing-room
+graces is an object of greater desire than the more
+homely but not less estimable virtues identified
+with the kitchen. Our young housewives are
+imbued with far too much of the æsthete at the
+expense of the cook; too much of the stage, and
+too little of the home. In abandoning the equally
+mistaken views of our grandfathers on women’s
+up-bringing, we have gone to the opposite extreme,
+to the exclusion of anything like a means to
+an end; and in the blindest disregard of the
+recipients’ circumstances in life, present and prospective.</p>
+
+<p>In considering what the aim of female education
+ought to be, it is surely not too much to expect
+that of all things it should mentally and physically
+fit our women for the battle of life. Its
+application and utility should not have to end
+where they practically do at present—at the altar.
+While it is necessary to provide a common armour
+for purposes of general defence, there certainly
+ought to be a special strengthening of the harness
+where most blows are to be anticipated; and if
+not to all, certainly to middle-class women, the
+years of battle come <i>after</i>, not before marriage.
+Every one of them, then, ought to be trained in
+conformity with the supreme law of her being,
+to prove a real helpmate to the man that takes
+her to wife. Make sure that she is first of all
+thoroughly qualified for a mother’s part, in what
+may be called a working sphere of life; then add
+whatever graces may be desirable as a sweetening,
+according to taste, means, and opportunity. It
+is in this happy blending of abstract knowledge
+with the economy of a home, that true success
+in the education of middle-class women must be
+sought.</p>
+
+<p>In the training of our boys, utility in after-life
+is seldom lost sight of. Why should it be too often
+the reverse in the education of our girls, whose
+great vocation in life, as wives and mothers, is a
+birthright they cannot renounce, which no lord of
+creation can deprive them of, and which no sticklers
+for what they are pleased to call the rights of
+women can logically disown? No doubt, among
+the last-named there are extreme people, who
+cannot, from the very nature of their own individual
+circumstances, see anything in wifely cares
+save the shackles of an old-world civilisation. In
+their eyes, motherhood is a tax upon pleasure,
+and an abasement of the sex. With them, there
+need be no parley. There is no pursuit under the
+sun that a woman will not freely forsake—often
+at a sacrifice—for the wifely cares that supervene
+on marriage; and therein, few will deny, lies her
+great and natural sphere in life. Than it, there
+is no nobler. In it, she can encounter no rival;
+and any attempt to divest herself of nature’s
+charge can have but one ending. The blandishments
+of a cold æstheticism can never soothe, animate,
+and brighten the human soul, like the warm,
+suffusive joys which cluster round the married
+state.</p>
+
+<p>Here we may briefly digress to remark, that in
+our opinion, no valid objections can be urged
+against women entering professional life, <i>provided
+they stick to it</i>. They already teach, and that
+is neither the lightest nor least important of
+masculine pursuits. Why should they not prescribe
+for body and soul? why not turn their
+proverbial gifts of speech to a golden account at
+the bar? It would be in quitting any of these<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>{34}</span>
+professions, and taking up the <i>rôle</i> of wife and
+mother, which they would have to learn at the
+expense of their own and others’ happiness, that
+the real mischief of the liberty would lie. In
+nine cases out of ten, their failure in the second
+choice would be assured, thereby poisoning all
+social well-being at its very source.</p>
+
+<p>The woman not over- but mis-educated is
+becoming an alarmingly fruitful cause of the
+downward tendencies of much of our middle-class
+society. She herself is less to blame for this, than
+the short-sighted, though possibly well-meant policy
+of her parents and guardians, who, in the worst
+spirit of the age, veneer their own flesh and
+blood, as they do their furniture, for appearance’
+sake. Let us glance at the educational equipment
+they provide their girls with, always premising
+that our remarks are to be held as strictly
+applicable only to the middle ranks of our
+complex society.</p>
+
+<p>Our typical young woman receives a large
+amount of miscellaneous education, extending far
+through her teens, and amounting to a very fair
+mastery of the <i>R</i>s. If she limp in any of these, it
+will be in the admittedly vexatious processes of
+arithmetic. She will have a pretty ready command
+of the grammatical and idiomatic uses of her
+mother-tongue; a fairly firm hold of the geography
+of this planet, and an intelligent conception
+of the extra-terrestrial system. She will
+have plodded through piles of French and
+German courses, learning many things from them
+but the language. She will have a fair if not
+profound knowledge of history. She can, in all
+likelihood, draw a little, and even paint; but of
+all her accomplishments, what she must imperatively
+excel in is music. From tender years,
+she will have diligently laboured at all the
+musical profundities; and her chances in the
+matrimonial market of the future are probably
+regarded as being in proportion to her proficient
+manipulation of the keyboard. If she
+can sing, well and good; play on the piano she
+must. If, as a girl, she has no taste for instrumental
+music, and no ear to guide her flights
+in harmony, the more reason why she should,
+with the perseverance of despair, thump away
+on the irresponsive ivories, in defiance of every
+instinct in her being. The result at twenty
+<i>may</i> be something tangible in some cases, but
+extremely unsatisfactory at the price.</p>
+
+<p>During all these years, she has been systematically
+kept ignorant of almost every domestic care.
+Of the commonplaces of cookery she has not the
+remotest idea. A great educationist, whose statement
+we have good reason to indorse, asserts
+that there are thousands of our young housewives
+that do not know how to cook a potato. This
+may seem satire. It is, we fear, in too many
+cases, true, and we quote it with a view to
+correct rather than chastise.</p>
+
+<p>The misapplications of young miss’s upbringing
+do not end here. She cannot sew to any purpose.
+If she deign to use a needle at all, it is to
+embroider a smoking-cap for a lover or a pair
+of slippers for papa. To sew on a button, or
+cut out and unite the plainest piece of male
+or female clothing, is not always within her
+powers, or at least her inclinations. Prosaic
+vulgar work, fit only for dressmakers and milliners!
+She will spend weeks and months over
+eighteen inches of what she is pleased to call
+lace, while the neighbouring seamstress is making
+up all her underclothing, to pay for which, papa
+has not too much money; but then it is genteel.</p>
+
+<p>She cannot knit. A pair of worsted cuffs or
+a lanky cravat is something great to attain to;
+while a stocking, even were the charwomen less
+easily paid, is sure to come off the needles right-lined
+as any of Euclid’s parallelograms—all leg
+and no ankle—a suspicion of foot, but never a
+vestige of heel. To darn the hole that so soon
+appears in the loosely knitted fabric, would be
+a servile, reproachful task, quite staggering to
+the sentimental aspirations of our engaged
+Angelina. Yet darning and the divine art of
+mending will one day be to her a veritable
+philosopher’s stone, whose magic influences will
+shed beams of happiness over her household, and
+fortunate will she be if she have not to seek it
+with tears.</p>
+
+<p>By the sick-bed, where she ought to be supreme,
+she is often worse than useless. The pillows that
+harden on the couch of convalescence, too rarely
+know her softening touch. She may be all kindness
+and attention—for the natural currents of
+her being are full to repletion of sweetness and
+sympathy—yet as incapable of really skilled service
+as an artist’s lay-figure. And, as a last touch to
+the sorry picture, instead of being in any way a
+source of comfort to the bread-winners of her
+family, or a lessening of the strain on their purse-strings,
+she is a continual cause of extra work to
+servants, of anxiety to her parents, of <i>ennui</i> to
+herself.</p>
+
+<p>Apparently, the chief mission of the young
+lady to whom we address ourselves, is to entice
+some eligible young man into the responsibilities
+of wedlock. He, poor fellow, succumbs not so
+much to intrinsic merits, as to fine lady-like airs.
+He sees the polish on the surface, and takes for
+granted that there is good solid wear underneath.
+Our young miss has conquered, and quits the
+family roof-tree, sweetly conscious of her orange
+wreath of victory; but alas!—we are sorry to say
+it—do not her conquests too often end at the altar,
+unless she resolutely set herself to learn the
+exacting mysteries of her new sphere, and, what
+is far more difficult, to unlearn much that she
+has acquired? That she often does at this stage
+make a bold and firm departure from the toyish
+fancies of her training, and makes, from the sheer
+plasticity and devotion of her character, wonderful
+strides in the housewife’s craft, we cheerfully
+confess. Were it otherwise, the domestic framework
+of society would be in a far more disorganised
+condition than it happily is. But why handicap
+her for the most important, most arduous portion
+of her race in life? Why train her to be the
+vapid fine lady, with almost the certainty that,
+by so doing, you are taking the surest means of
+rendering her an insufficient wife and mother?
+And, unfortunately, not always, in fact but
+seldom, is she able, when she crosses her husband’s,
+threshold, to tear herself away from her omnivorous
+novel-reading, piano-playing, and all the
+other alleviations of confirmed idleness.</p>
+
+<p>The sweets of the honeymoon and an undefined
+vacation beyond make no great calls on her as
+a helpmate and wife. If her husband’s means
+permit of a servant or two, the smoother the water
+and the plainer the sailing for the nonce; although<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>{35}</span>
+these keen-scented critics in the kitchen will, in
+a very short time, detect and take the grossest
+advantage of their mistress’s inexperience. Besides,
+if we reflect that among our middle classes more
+marry on an income of two hundred pounds
+than on a higher, it becomes painfully apparent
+that two or three servants are the one thing our
+young housewife needs, but cannot possibly
+afford.</p>
+
+<p>She is now, however, only about to begin her
+life-work, and if there is such a thing clearly
+marked out for a being on this globe, it is for
+woman. By birthright, she is the mother of the
+human race. Could she have a greater, grander
+field for enterprise? How admirably has nature
+fitted her for performing the functions of the
+mother and adorning the province of the wife!
+Hence, there devolves upon her a responsibility
+which no extraneous labour in more inviting
+fields can excuse. No philosophy, no tinkering
+of the constitution, no success in the misnamed
+higher walks of life and knowledge, will atone
+for the failure of the mother. Let her shine a
+social star of the first magnitude, let her be
+supreme in every intellectual circle, and then
+marry, as she is ever prone to do, in spite of all
+theories; and if she fail as a mother, she fails
+as a woman and as a human being. She becomes
+a mere rag, a tatter of nature’s cast-off clothing,
+spiritless, aimless, a failure in this great world
+of work.</p>
+
+<p>As her family increases, the household shadows
+deepen, where all should be purity, sweetness,
+and light. The domestic ship may even founder
+through the downright, culpable incapacity of her
+that takes the helm. Her children never have
+the air of comfort and cleanliness. In their
+clothes, the stitch is never in time. The wilful
+neglect, and consequent waste, in this one matter
+of half-worn clothing is almost incredible. A
+slatternly atmosphere pervades her entire home.
+With the lapse of time our young wife becomes
+gradually untidy, dishevelled, and even dirty, in
+her own person; and at last sits down for good,
+disconsolate and overwhelmed by her unseen foe.
+Her husband can find no pleasure in the ‘hugger-mugger,’
+as Carlyle phrases it, of his home; there
+is no brightness in it to cheer his hours of rest.
+He returns from his daily labours to a chaos,
+which he shuns by going elsewhere; and so the
+sequel of misery and neglect takes form.</p>
+
+<p>As a first precaution against such a calamity, let
+us strip our home-life of every taint of quackery.
+Let us regard women’s education, like that of men,
+as a means to a lifelong end, never forgetting that
+if we unfit it for everyday practice, we render it a
+mere useless gem, valuable in a sense, but unset.
+Middle-class women will be the better educated,
+in every sense, the more skilled they are in the
+functions of the mother and the duties of the
+wife. Give them every chance of proving thrifty
+wives and good mothers, in addition to, or, where
+that is impossible, to the exclusion of accomplished
+brides. Let some part of their training
+as presently constituted, such as the rigours of
+music, and the fritterings of embroidery, give
+way, in part, to the essential acquirements which
+every woman, every mother should possess, and
+which no gold can buy. Give us a woman, then,
+natural in her studies, her training, her vocations,
+and her dress, and in the words of the
+wisest of men, who certainly had a varied
+experience of womankind, we shall have something
+‘far more precious than rubies. She
+will not be afraid of the snow for her household;
+strength and honour will be her clothing;
+her husband shall have no need of spoil; he
+shall be known in the gates, when he sitteth
+among the elders; he shall praise her; and her
+children shall call her blessed.’</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak x-ebookmaker-important" id="BY_MEAD_AND_STREAM">BY MEAD AND STREAM.</h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<h3>CHAPTER IV.—IN THE OAK PARLOUR.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">And</span> so, it had been only a bit of Uncle Dick’s
+kindly forethought and common-sense which had
+prompted the alarming words he had spoken
+to Madge. How she and Philip laughed at the
+chimerical idea that there could be any possible
+combination of circumstances in time or space
+which could alter their thoughts regarding each
+other! The birds in the orchard, in the intervals
+of pecking the fruit, seemed to sing a joyous
+laughing chorus at the absurdity of it—notwithstanding
+that the admission of it might be
+prudent.</p>
+
+<p>But when they came down to the point of
+vague admission that in the abstract and in
+relation to other couples—of course it could not
+apply to their own case—Uncle Dick’s counsel was
+such as prudent young people about to separate
+should keep in mind, an expression of perplexity
+flitted across Madge’s face. She looked at him
+with those tenderly wistful serious eyes, half
+doubting whether or not to utter the thought
+which had come to her.</p>
+
+<p>‘But what I cannot understand,’ she said
+slowly, ‘is why Uncle Dick should have been
+in such a temper. You know that although he
+may fly into a passion at anything that seems
+to him wrong, he never keeps it up. Now he
+had all the time riding home from Kingshope
+to cool, and yet when he spoke to me he seemed
+to be as angry as if he had just come out of
+the room where the quarrel took place.’</p>
+
+<p>‘What can it matter to us?’ was the blithe
+response. ‘He is not angry with me or with you,
+and so long as that is the case we need not mind
+if he should quarrel with all creation.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I’ll tell you what we will do,’ she said,
+and the disappearance of all perplexity from her
+face showed that she was quite of his opinion,
+although she wanted to have it supported by
+another authority.</p>
+
+<p>‘What is that?’</p>
+
+<p>‘We will go in and ask Aunt Hessy what she
+thinks about it.... Are you aware, sir’ (this
+with a pretty assumption of severity), ‘that you
+have not seen aunty to-day, and that you have
+not even inquired about her?’</p>
+
+<p>‘That <i>is</i> bad,’ he muttered; but it was evident
+that the badness which he felt was the interruption
+of the happy wandering through the orchard
+by this summary recall to duty.</p>
+
+<p>In his remorse, however, he was ready to sacrifice
+his present pleasure; for Aunt Hessy was
+a stanch friend of theirs, and it might be that
+her cheery way of looking at things would dispel
+the last lingering cloud of doubt from Madge’s
+mind regarding the misunderstanding between
+his father and Uncle Dick.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>{36}</span></p>
+
+<p>‘Then we had better go in at once; we shall
+find her in the dairy.’</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Crawshay was superintending the operations
+of three buxom maidens who were scalding
+the large cans in which the milk was conveyed
+every morning to the metropolis. Her
+ruddy face with the quiet, kindly gray eyes
+was that of a woman in her prime, and even
+her perfectly white hair did not detract from the
+sense of youth which was expressed in her appearance:
+it was an additional charm. She was
+nearly sixty. Her age was a standing joke of
+Uncle Dick’s. He had made the discovery that
+she was a month older than himself, and he
+magnified it into a year.</p>
+
+<p>‘Can’t you see?’ he would say, ‘if you are
+born in December and I am born in January, that
+makes exactly a year’s difference?’</p>
+
+<p>Then there would be a loud guffaw, and Uncle
+Dick would feel that he had completely overcome
+the Missus. The words and the guffaw were as a
+rule simultaneous, and if nobody happened to be
+present, it usually ended in Uncle Dick putting
+his arm round her neck and saying with a lump
+in his throat: ‘My old lass—young always to
+me.’</p>
+
+<p>He had not the slightest notion of the poetry
+that was in his soul whilst he spoke.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Crawshay believed in young love. She had
+been very happy in hers. She had been brought
+up on a farm. Lads had come about her of course,
+and she had put them aside with a—‘Nay, lad,
+I’m not for thee,’ and had thought no more about
+them. Then Dick Crawshay had come, and—she
+did not know why—she had said: ‘Yes, thou
+art my lad.’</p>
+
+<p>They had been very happy notwithstanding
+their losses—indeed the losses seemed to have
+drawn them closer together.</p>
+
+<p>‘It’s only you and me, my old lass,’ he would
+say in their privacy.</p>
+
+<p>‘Only you and me, Dick,’ she would say as
+her gray head rested on his breast with all the
+emotion of youth in her heart.</p>
+
+
+<p class="p2">‘Go into the oak parlour,’ said Mrs Crawshay
+cheerily to the young folks, when she understood
+their mission; ‘and I’ll be with you in a
+minute.’</p>
+
+<p>The oak parlour was the stateroom of the
+house. It was long and high; the oak of the
+panels and beams which supported the pointed
+roof were of that dark hue which only time can
+impart. The three narrow windows had been
+lengthened by Dick’s father, and when the moon
+shone through them they were like three white
+ghosts looking in upon the dark chamber. But
+the moon did not often get a chance of doing this,
+for there was only a brief period of the year
+during which there was not a huge fire blazing
+in the great old-fashioned ingle. There were
+four portraits of former Crawshays and three
+of famous horses; with these exceptions the walls
+were bare, for none of the family had ever been
+endowed with much love of art.</p>
+
+<p>There were some legends still current about
+the mysteries hidden behind the sombre panels.
+One of the panels was specially honoured because
+it was reputed to have a recess behind it in which
+the king had found shelter for a time during his
+flight from the Roundheads. But owing to the
+indifference or carelessness of successive generations,
+nobody was now quite sure to which of
+the panels this honour properly belonged. There
+had been occasional attempts made to discover
+the royal hiding-place, but they had hitherto
+failed.</p>
+
+<p>The furniture was plain and substantial, displaying
+the styles of several periods of manufacture.
+In spite of the stiff straight lines of
+most of the things in the room, the red curtains,
+the red table-cover, the odd variety of the chairs
+gave the place a homely and, when the fire was
+ablaze, a cosy expression. This stateroom was
+correctly called ‘parlour,’ and it had been the
+scene of many a revel.</p>
+
+<p>As Philip and Madge were on their way to
+the oak parlour, a servant presented a card to
+the latter.</p>
+
+<p>‘He asked for you, miss,’ said the girl, and
+passed on to the kitchen.</p>
+
+<p>Madge looked at the card, and instantly held
+it out to Philip.</p>
+
+<p>‘Hullo!—my father,’ ejaculated he, adding with
+a laugh: ‘Now you can see that this mountain
+of yours is not even a molehill.’</p>
+
+<p>‘How can you tell that?’</p>
+
+<p>‘Because my father is the reverse of Uncle
+Dick. He never forgets—I doubt if he ever
+forgives—an unpleasant word. And yet here he
+is. Come along at once—but we had better say
+nothing to him about the affair unless he speaks
+of it himself.’</p>
+
+<p>They entered the room together, smiling hopefully.</p>
+
+<p>Mr Lloyd Hadleigh was standing at a window,
+hat in one hand, slim umbrella in the other, and
+staring hard at the shrubs. He had a way of
+staring hard at everything, and yet the way was
+so calm and thoughtful that he did not appear
+to see anything or anybody, and thus the stare
+was not offensive.</p>
+
+<p>‘The guv’nor always seems to be dreaming
+about you when he looks at you, and you never
+know when he’s going to speak—that’s awk’ard,’
+was the description of his expression given by
+Caleb Kersey, one of the occasional labourers on
+Ringsford.</p>
+
+<p>He was a man of average height, firmly built;
+square face; thick black moustache; close cropped
+black hair, with only an indication of thinning
+on the top and showing few streaks of white. His
+age was not more than fifty, and he had attained
+the full vigour of life.</p>
+
+<p>‘People talk about the fire and “go” of thirty,’
+he would say in his dry way. ‘It is nonsense.
+At that age a man is either going downhill or
+going up it, and in either case he is too much
+occupied and worried to have time to be happy.
+That was the most miserable period of my
+life.’</p>
+
+<p>Coldness was the first impression of his outward
+character. No one had ever seen him in a passion.
+Successful in business, he had provided well for
+the five children of a very early marriage. He
+never referred to that event, and had been long
+a widower without showing the slightest inclination
+to establish a new mistress at Ringsford.</p>
+
+<p>He turned on the entrance of Madge and Philip,
+saluting the former with grave politeness; then
+to the latter: ‘There are some letters for you
+at home, Philip.’</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>{37}</span></p>
+
+<p>‘Thank you, sir; but I have no doubt they
+can wait. I am to stay for dinner here.’</p>
+
+<p>‘From the postmarks I judge they are of
+importance.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Ah—then I know who they are from, and in
+that case there is no hurry at all, for the mail
+does not leave until Monday.’</p>
+
+<p>Mr Hadleigh addressed himself to Madge—no
+sign of annoyance in voice or manner.</p>
+
+<p>‘May I be permitted to have a few minutes’
+conversation with you in private, Miss Heathcote?’</p>
+
+<p>‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ broke in Philip hastily;
+‘I did not understand you to mean that you
+found me in the way.—If your aunt should ask
+for me, Miss Heathcote, I shall be in the
+garden.’</p>
+
+<p>With a good-natured inclination of the head,
+he went out. And as he walked down the
+garden path filling his pipe, he muttered to
+himself thoughtfully: ‘Seems to me he grows
+queerer and queerer every day. What <i>can</i> be
+the matter with him? If anybody else had
+asked for a private interview so solemnly, I
+should have taken it for granted that he was
+going to propose.... Daresay he wants to give
+some explanation of that confounded row, and
+make his apologies through Madge. I should
+like him to do that.’</p>
+
+<p>But Mr Hadleigh was neither going to propose
+nor to make apologies. He smiled, a curious sort
+of half-sad, half-amused smile, and there was really
+something interesting in the expression of his eyes
+at the moment.</p>
+
+<p>‘The truth is, Miss Heathcote, that I cannot
+acknowledge weakness before Philip. He is such
+a reckless fellow about money, that he would tell
+me I ought to give in at once to the labourers.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I am sure he would not, Mr Hadleigh, if he
+thought you were in the right.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I am not one likely to hold out if convinced
+that I am in the wrong.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Few men do under these conditions, Mr
+Hadleigh,’ said Madge, smiling.</p>
+
+<p>‘Well, at anyrate, I want your assistance very
+much; will you give it?’</p>
+
+<p>‘With great pleasure, if it is worth anything
+to you.’</p>
+
+<p>‘It is worth everything; for what harvest I
+might have on the home-farm—and I understand
+it promises to be a good one—is likely to be lost
+unless you help me.’</p>
+
+<p>‘How can that be, Mr Hadleigh?’</p>
+
+<p>‘Through beer. This is how the matter stands.
+You know the dispute about the wages, and I am
+willing to give in to that. But on this question
+of beer in the field I am firm. The men and
+women shall have the price of it; but I will
+neither give beer on the field nor permit them
+to bring it there. A great reform is to be worked
+in this matter, and I mean to do what little I
+can to advance it. I am sure, Miss Heathcote,
+you must acknowledge that I am right in adhering
+to this resolution.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I have been brought up in some very old-fashioned
+notions, Mr Hadleigh,’ she answered
+with pretty evasiveness.</p>
+
+<p>‘There is a high principle at stake in it, my
+dear Miss Heathcote, and it is worth fighting
+for.’</p>
+
+<p>‘But I do not yet see how my services are to
+be of use to you,’ she said, anxious to avoid this
+debatable subject. It was one on which her
+uncle had quite different views from those of
+Mr Hadleigh. And, therefore, she could not
+altogether sympathise with the latter’s enthusiasm,
+eager as she was to see the people steady
+and sober, for she remembered at the moment
+that he had made a considerable portion of his
+fortune out of a brewery.</p>
+
+<p>‘That was exactly what I was about to explain,’
+he replied. ‘I came to beg you to speak to Caleb
+Kersey.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Caleb!—why, he never touches anything
+stronger than tea.’</p>
+
+<p>‘That may be; but he believes that other people
+have a right to do so if they like. He has persuaded
+every man and woman who comes to me
+or my bailiff to put the question: “Is there to
+be beer?” When they are answered: “No; but
+the money,” they turn on their heels and march
+off, so that at this moment we have only two men.
+Now, my dear Miss Heathcote, will you persuade
+Kersey to stop his interference?’</p>
+
+<p>‘I do not see that he is interfering; but I will
+speak to him.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Thanks, thanks. If you were with me I
+should have no difficulty.’</p>
+
+<p>‘You would find me a very bad second,’ she
+answered, laughing, ‘for I should say—submit
+to old customs until persuasion alters them, since
+force never can.’</p>
+
+<p>Two things struck Madge during this interview
+and the commonplaces about nothing which
+followed it: The first, how much more frank
+and at ease he seemed to be with her than with
+any one else; and the second was, how loath he
+seemed to go.</p>
+
+<p>The owner of Ringsford said to himself as he
+was driven away: ‘I shall be glad when she is
+Philip’s wife.’</p>
+
+
+<h3>CHAPTER V.—A NEW EDEN.</h3>
+
+<p>She was still standing at the door to which
+she had accompanied Mr Hadleigh, and was
+looking after him, when a kindly voice behind
+her said: ‘He does look a woeful man. I wonder
+if he has any real friends.’</p>
+
+<p>Madge turned. Aunt Hessy was standing there,
+a pitying expression on her comely face, and
+she was wiping her hands in her apron. There
+was nothing in Mrs Crawshay’s manner or appearance
+to indicate her Quaker antecedents, except
+the frequent use of thee and thou—she did not
+always use that form of speech—and the quiet
+tone of all the colours of her dress. Yet, until
+her marriage she had been, like her father, a good
+Wesleyan; after her marriage she accompanied
+her husband to the church in which his family
+had kept their place for so many generations.
+To her simple faith it was the same whether
+she worshipped in church or chapel.</p>
+
+<p>‘Why do you say that, aunt?’</p>
+
+<p>‘Because he seems to be so much alone.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Mr Hadleigh alone! What about all the people
+who visit the manor?’</p>
+
+<p>‘Ay, they visit the manor,’ answered Aunt
+Hessy, with a slight shake of the head and a
+quiet smile.</p>
+
+<p>That set Madge thinking. He did impress her
+as a solitary man, notwithstanding his family,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>{38}</span>
+his many visitors, his school treats, his flower-shows,
+and other signs of a busy and what ought
+to be a happy life. Then there was the strange
+thing that he should come to ask her assistance
+to enable him to come to terms with the
+harvesters.</p>
+
+<p>‘I believe you are right, aunt. He is very
+much alone, and I suppose that was why he
+came to me to-day.’</p>
+
+<p>‘What did he want?’ asked Dame Crawshay,
+with unusual quickness and an expression of
+anxiety Madge could not remember ever having
+seen on her face before. She did not understand
+it until long afterwards.</p>
+
+<p>Having explained the object of Mr Hadleigh’s
+visit, as she understood it, she was surprised to
+see how much relieved her aunt looked. Knowing
+that that good woman had never had a secret
+in her life, and never made the least mystery
+about anything, she put the question direct:
+‘Did you expect him to say anything else?’</p>
+
+<p>‘I don’t know, Madge. He is a queer man,
+Mr Hadleigh, in a-many ways. He spoke to your
+uncle about this, and he would have nothing
+to do with it.’</p>
+
+<p>‘And that is why they fell out at the market,
+I suppose.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Where is Philip? He must take after his
+mother, for he is straightforward in everything.’</p>
+
+<p>‘He is out in the garden. Shall I go for
+him?’</p>
+
+<p>‘Nay. I want more peas, so we can find him
+on our way for them.’</p>
+
+<p>Philip had not gone far. He had walked down
+to the duck-pond; but after that distant excursion,
+he kept near the little gate beside the dairy,
+glancing frequently at the house-door. He was
+dallying with the last hours of the bright morning
+of his love, and he grudged every moment that
+Madge was away from him. A few days hence
+he would be looking back to this one with longing
+eyes. How miserable he would be on board that
+ship! How he would hate the sound of the
+machinery, knowing that every stroke of the
+piston was taking him so much farther away
+from her. And then, as the waters widened and
+stretched into the sky, would not his heart sink,
+and would he not wish that he had never started
+on this weary journey?</p>
+
+<p>In response to that lover-like question, he heard
+the echo of Madge’s voice in his brain: ‘It was
+your mother’s wish.’</p>
+
+<p>This simple reminder was enough, for he
+cherished the sad memory of that sweet pale face,
+which smiled upon him hopefully a moment
+before it became calm in death.</p>
+
+<p>He sprang away from these sorrowful reflections.
+Yes; he would look back longingly to
+this day when sea and sky shut out Willowmere
+and Madge from sight. But they would both be
+palpable to his mental vision; and he would look
+forward to that still brighter day of his return,
+his mission fulfilled, and nothing to do but
+marry Madge and live happy ever after. Ay, that
+should comfort him and make the present parting
+bearable.</p>
+
+<p>Besides, who could say with what fortune he
+might come back? The uncle to whom he was
+going was rumoured to be the possessor of fabulous
+wealth, and although married he was childless.
+True, also, he was reported to be so eccentric
+that nobody could understand him, or form the
+slightest conception of how he would act under
+any given circumstances. But it was known that
+before he went abroad, his sister—Philip’s mother—had
+been the one creature in whom all his
+affection seemed to be concentrated. An inexplicable
+coldness appeared in his conduct towards her
+after her marriage. The reason had never been
+explained.</p>
+
+<p>Shortly before her death, however, there had
+come a letter from him, which made her very
+happy. But she had burned the letter, by his
+instructions, without showing it to any one or
+revealing its contents. Evidently it was this
+letter which induced her to lay upon her son
+the charge of going to her brother Austin Shield,
+whenever he should be summoned. But the
+uncle held no correspondence with any one at
+Ringsford. That he was still alive, could be only
+surmised from vague reports and the fact that on
+every anniversary of Mrs Hadleigh’s birthday,
+with one exception, a fresh wreath of flowers was
+found on her grave—placed there, it was believed,
+by his orders. Then a few months ago, a letter
+had come to Philip, containing an invitation
+from his uncle, suggesting possible advantages, and
+inclosing a draft for expenses. So, being summoned,
+he was going; and whether the result
+should be good or ill fortune, his mother’s last
+command would be obeyed, and he would return
+with a clear conscience to marry Madge.</p>
+
+<p>That thought kept him in good-humour throughout
+the weary ages which seemed to elapse before
+he saw Madge and her aunt approaching. He
+ran to meet them.</p>
+
+<p>‘I thought you were never coming,’ was his
+exclamation.</p>
+
+<p>‘Thou’lt be able to do without her for a longer
+time than this without troubling thyself, by-and-by,’
+said Dame Crawshay with one of her pleasant
+smiles.</p>
+
+<p>‘When that day comes, I will say you are a
+prophetess of evil,’ he retorted, laughing, but with
+an air of affectionate respect. That was the feeling
+with which she inspired everybody.</p>
+
+<p>‘Nay, lad; but it need not be evil, for you may
+be apart, surely, doing good for each other.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Yes; but not without wishing we were
+together.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Wilt ever be wishing that?’</p>
+
+<p>‘For ever and ever.’</p>
+
+<p>He answered with burlesque solemnity outwardly;
+but Madge knew that he spoke from his
+heart, and in the full faith of his words. She gave
+him a quiet glance with those soft wistful eyes,
+and he was very happy.</p>
+
+<p>They had reached a tall row of peas, at which
+Dame Crawshay had been already busy that
+morning, as a wooden chair placed beside it
+indicated. Here she seated herself, and began
+to pluck the peas, shelling them as she plucked;
+then dropping the pods into her lap and the peas
+into a basin. She performed the operation with
+mechanical regularity, which did not in any way
+interfere with conversation.</p>
+
+<p>Madge, kneeling beside her, helped with nimble
+fingers; and Philip, hands clasped behind him,
+stood looking on admiringly. The sun was
+shining upon them; and, darting shafts of light
+through the surrounding trees, made bright spots<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>{39}</span>
+amidst the moving shadows underneath. Everything
+seemed to be still and sleepy. The breeze
+was so light that there was only a gentle rustle
+of leaves, and through it was heard the occasional
+thud of an over-ripe apple or pear as it fell, and
+the drowsy hum of the bees.</p>
+
+<p>Light, warmth, peace. ‘Ah,’ thought Philip,
+‘if we could only go on this way always! If we
+could fix ourselves thus as in a photograph, what
+a blessed Eden this would be!’</p>
+
+<p>‘Thou’dst find it dull soon, Philip, standing
+there looking at us shelling peas, if thou wert
+forced to do it,’ said Dame Crawshay, looking
+up at him with a curious smile.</p>
+
+<p>‘That shows you cannot guess my thoughts.
+They were of quite a different nature, for I was
+wishing that there had been some fixing process
+in nature, so that there might never be any change
+in our present positions.’</p>
+
+<p>Madge looked as if she had been thinking
+something very similar; but she went on silently
+shelling peas; and a sunbeam shooting through
+a gap in the green pea hedge, made a golden
+radiance on her face.</p>
+
+<p>‘Eh, deary me, what love will do!’ exclaimed
+the dame, laughing, but shaking her head regretfully,
+as if sorry that she could not look at things
+in the same hopeful humour. ‘Other people have
+talked like that in the heyday of life. Some have
+found a little of their hope fulfilled; many have
+found none of it: all have found that they had
+to give up the thought of a great deal of what
+they expected. Some take their disappointment
+with wise content and make the best of things
+as they find them. They jog along as happily
+as mortals may, like Dick and me; a-many kick
+against the pricks and suffer sorely for it; but
+all have to give in sooner or later, and own that
+the world could not get along if everybody could
+arrange it to suit his own pleasure.’</p>
+
+<p>How gently this good-natured philosopher
+brought them down from the clouds to what
+foolish enthusiasts call contemptuously ‘the
+common earth.’ Sensible people use the same
+phrase, but they use it respectfully, knowing
+that this ‘common earth’ may be made beautiful
+or ugly as their own actions instruct their
+vision.</p>
+
+<p>To Philip it was quite true that most people
+sought something they could never attain; that
+many people fancied they had found the something
+they wanted, and discovered afterwards, to
+their sorrow, that they had not found the thing
+at all. But then, you see, it was an entirely
+different condition of affairs in his case. He had
+found what he wanted, and knew that there could
+be no mistake about it.</p>
+
+<p>To Madge, her aunt’s wisdom appeared to be
+very cold and even wrong in some respects, considering
+the placid and happy experiences of her
+own life. She had her great faith in Philip—her
+dream of a life which should be made up of
+devotion to him under any circumstances of joy
+or sorrow, and she could not believe that it was
+possible that their experience should be as full
+of crosses as that of others. And yet there was
+a strange faintness at her heart, as if she were
+vaguely conscious that there were possibilities
+which neither she nor Philip could foresee or
+understand.</p>
+
+<p>‘We shall be amongst the wise folk,’ said Philip
+confidently, ‘and take things as they come, contentedly.
+We shall be easily contented, so long
+as we are true to each other—and I don’t think
+you imagine there is any chance of a mistake in
+that respect.’</p>
+
+<p>Aunt Hessy went on shelling peas for a time
+in silence. There was a thoughtful expression on
+her kindly face, and there was even a suggestion
+of sadness in it. Here were two young people—so
+young, so happy, so full of faith in each other—just
+starting on that troublous journey called
+Life, and she had to speak those words of warning
+which always seem so harsh to the pupils, until,
+after bitter experience, they look back and say:
+‘If I had only taken the warning in time, what
+might have been?’</p>
+
+<p>By-and-by she spoke very softly: ‘Thou art
+thinking, Madge, that I am croaking; and thou,
+Philip, are thinking the same.... Nay, there
+is no need to deny it. But I do not mean to
+dishearten thee. All I want is to make thee
+understand that there are many things we reckon
+as certain in the heyday of life, that never come
+to us.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I daresay,’ said Philip, plucking a pea-pod
+and chewing it savagely; ‘but don’t you think,
+Mrs Crawshay, that this is very like throwing
+cold-water on us, and that throwing cold-water
+is very apt to produce the misadventure which
+you think possible?—that is, that something might
+happen to alter our plans?’</p>
+
+<p>‘I am sorry for that, lad; I do not mean to
+throw cold-water on thee; but rather to help
+thee and to help Madge to look at things in a
+sensible way. Listen. I had a friend once who
+was like Madge; and she had a friend who was,
+as it might be, like you, Philip. He went away,
+as you are going, to seek his fortune in foreign
+parts. There was a blunder between them,
+and she got wedded to another man. Her first
+lad came back, and finding how things were, he
+went away again and never spoke more to her.’</p>
+
+<p>‘They must have been miserable.’</p>
+
+<p>‘For a while they were miserable enough; but
+they got over it.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I’ll be bound the man never married.’</p>
+
+<p>‘There thou’dst be bound wrong. He did
+marry, and is now wealthy and prosperous, though
+she was taken away in a fever long ago.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Ay, but is he happy?’</p>
+
+<p>‘That is only known to himself and Him that
+knows us all.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Well, for our future I will trust Madge,’ said
+Philip, taking her hand, ‘in spite of all your
+forebodings; and she will trust me.’</p>
+
+<p>Dame Crawshay had filled her basin with peas,
+and she rose.</p>
+
+<p>‘God bless thee, Philip, wherever thou goest,
+and make thy hopes realities,’ she said with what
+seemed to the lovers unnecessary solemnity.</p>
+
+<p>The dame went into the house. Madge and
+Philip went down the meadow, and under the
+willows by the merry river, forgot that there was
+any parting before them or any danger that their
+fortunes might be crossed.</p>
+
+<p>Those bright days! Can they ever come again,
+or can any future joy be so full, so perfect?
+There are no love-speeches—little talk of any
+kind, and what there is, is commonplace enough.
+There is no need for speech. There is only—only!—the
+sense of the dear presence that makes<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>{40}</span>
+all the world beautiful, leaving the heart nothing
+more to desire.</p>
+
+<p>But the dreams in the sunshine there under
+the willows, with the river murmuring sympathetic
+harmonies at their feet! The dreams of a future,
+and yet no future; for it is always to be as now.
+Can it be possible that this man and woman
+will ever look coldly on each other—ever speak
+angry, passionate words? Can it be possible
+that there will ever flit across their minds one
+instant’s regret that they had come together?</p>
+
+<p>No, no: the dreams are of the future; but
+the future will be always as now—full of faith
+and gladness.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_CLIFF-HOUSES_OF_CANON_DE">THE CLIFF-HOUSES OF CAÑON DE
+CHELLY.</h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<p><span class="smcap">The</span> fourth and most southerly iron link of
+railway which will soon stretch across the North
+American continent from ocean to ocean is
+rapidly approaching completion along the thirty-fifth
+parallel; already it has reached the San
+Francisco mountains in its course to the Pacific.
+While avoiding the chances of blockade by
+snow, liable in higher latitudes, it has struck
+through a little explored region among the
+vast plains of Arizona and New Mexico. It is
+not easy at once to realise the extent of table-lands,
+greater in area than Great Britain and
+Ireland, upon which no soul has a settled habitation.
+The sun beats down with terrible force on
+these dry undulating plains, where at most times
+nothing relieves the eye, as it wanders away to
+the dim horizon, save a few cactus and sage-bush
+plants. But at seasons, heavy rains change dry
+gulches into roaring torrents, and parched lowlands
+into broad lakes, covering the country with
+a fine grass, on which millions of sheep, horses,
+and cattle are herded by wandering Navajo and
+Moqui Indians. To the periodical rains, as well
+as to geological convulsions, are traced the causes
+of those wondrous chasms, which in places break
+abruptly the rolling surface of the prairie, and
+extend in rocky gorges for many miles. They are
+called cañons. The grandeur of the scenery found
+in one of them, Cañon de Chelly, can scarcely
+be overstated.</p>
+
+<p>Cañon de Chelly—pronounced Canyon de Shay—is
+in the north of Arizona. It takes its name
+from a Frenchman, who is said to have been the
+first white man to set foot within its walls; but
+except the record of a recent visit by the United
+States Geological Survey, no account of it seems
+to have hitherto appeared. The picturesque
+features of this magnificent ravine are unrivalled;
+and what lends a more fascinating interest, is the
+existence, among its rocky walls, of dwellings
+once occupied by a race of men, who, dropping
+into the ocean of the past with an unwritten
+history, are only known to us as cave-dwellers.</p>
+
+<p>In October 1882, an exploring party, headed
+by Professor Stevenson of the Ethnological
+Bureau, Washington, and escorted by a number
+of soldiers and Indian guides, set out for this
+remarkable spot. One of the party, Lieutenant
+T. V. Keam, has furnished the following details
+of their investigations. After travelling one hundred
+and twenty miles out from the nearest
+military post, Fort Defiance, and crossing a desert
+some twenty miles broad, the entrance to Cañon
+de Chelly was reached. The bed of the ravine
+is entirely composed of sand, which is constantly
+being blown along it, with pitiless force, by
+sudden gusts of wind. The walls of the cañon
+are red sandstone; at first, but some fifty feet
+high, they increase gradually, until at eighteen
+miles they reach an elevation of twelve hundred
+feet, which is about the highest point, and continue
+without decreasing for at least thirty miles.
+The first night, Professor Stevenson’s party camped
+three miles from the mouth of the cañon, under
+a grove of cotton-wood trees, and near a clear
+flowing stream of water. Here the scene was an
+impressive one. A side ravine of great magnitude
+intersected the main cañon, and at the junction
+there stood out, like a sentinel, far from the rest
+of the cliff, one solemn brown stone shaft eight
+hundred feet high. In the morning, continuing
+the journey through the awful grandeur of the
+gorge, the walls still increased in height, some
+having a smooth and beautifully coloured surface
+reaching to one thousand feet; others, from the
+action of water, sand storms, and atmospheric
+effects, cut and broken into grand arches, battlements,
+and spires of every conceivable shape. At
+times would be seen an immense opening in
+the wall, stretching back a quarter of a mile,
+the sides covered with verdure of different shades,
+reaching to the summit, where tall firs with
+giant arms seemed dwarfed to the size of a puny
+gooseberry bush, and the lordly oak was only
+distinguished by the beautiful sheen of its
+leaves.</p>
+
+<p>On the second night the camp was formed at
+the base of a cliff, in which were descried, planted
+along a niche at a height of nearly one hundred
+feet, some cliff-dwellings. Next morning, these
+were reached after a dangerous climb, by means
+of a rope thrown across a projecting stick, up
+the almost perpendicular sides of this stupendous
+natural fortress. The village was perched on its
+narrow ledge of rock, facing the south, and was
+overshadowed by an enormous arch, formed in
+the solid side of the cañon. Overlapping the ruins
+for at least fifty feet, at a height above them of
+sixty feet, it spread its protecting roof five hundred
+feet from end to end. No moisture ever
+penetrated beyond the edge of this red shield of
+nature; and to its shelter, combined with the dryness
+of the atmosphere and preserving nature of
+the sand, is to be attributed the remarkable state of
+preservation, after such a lapse of time, in which
+the houses of the cliff-dwellers were found. Some
+of them still stood three stories high, built in
+compact form, close together within the extremely
+limited space, the timber used to support the roof
+being in some cases perfectly sound. The white<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>{41}</span>
+stone employed is gypsum, cut with stone implements,
+but having the outer edges smoothly dressed
+and evenly laid up; the stones of equal size placed
+parallel with each other presenting a uniform
+and pleasing appearance.</p>
+
+<p>No remains of importance were found here,
+excepting a finely woven sandal, and some pieces
+of netting made from the fibre of the yucca plant.
+But on proceeding two miles farther up the
+cañon, another group of ruins was discovered,
+which contained relics of a very interesting character.
+The interior of some of the larger houses
+was painted with a series of red bands and
+squares, fresh in colour, and contained fragments
+of ornamented pottery, besides what appeared to
+be pieces of blankets made from birds’ feathers;
+these, perhaps, in ages past bedecked the shoulders
+of some red beauty, when the grim old walls
+echoed the fierce war-songs of a long-lost nation.
+But the most fortunate find at this spot, and the
+first of that description made in the country, was
+a cyst, constructed of timber smoothly plastered
+on the inside, containing remains of three of the
+ancient cliff-dwellers. One was in a sitting posture,
+the skin of the thighs and legs being in a
+perfect state of preservation. These ruins, as in
+the former case, were protected from the weather
+by an overhanging arch of rock.</p>
+
+<p>At several points on the journey through
+Cañon de Chelly, hieroglyphics were traced, graven
+on the cliff wall. Most of the designs were
+unintelligible; but figures of animals, such as
+the bear and mountain sheep or goat, were prominent.
+Another cliff village was observed of a
+considerable size, but planted three hundred feet
+above the cañon bed, in such a position that it
+is likely to remain sacred from the foot of man
+for still further generations. The same elements
+which in geologic time fashioned the caves and
+recesses of the cañon walls, have in later times
+worn the approaches away, so that to-day they
+do not even furnish a footing for the bear or
+coyote. In what remote age and for how many
+generations the cliff-dwellers lived in these strange
+fastnesses, will probably never be determined.
+Faint traces of still older buildings are found
+here and there in the bed of Cañon de Chelly;
+and it is conjectured that this region was once
+densely populated along the watercourses, and
+that the tribes having been driven from their
+homes by a powerful foe, the remnant sought
+refuge in the caves of the cañon walls.</p>
+
+<p>Of the great antiquity of these structures, there
+is no question. The Indian of to-day knows
+nothing of their history, has not even traditions
+concerning them. The Navajo, with a few poles
+plastered with a heavy deposit of earth, constructs
+his <i>hogan</i> or wigwam, and rarely remains in the
+same place winter and summer. He has no more
+idea of constructing a dwelling like those so perfectly
+preserved in the cliffs, than he has of baking
+specimens of pottery such as are found in fragments
+amongst the walls. In the fine quality of
+paste, in the animal handles—something like old
+Japanese ware—and in the general ornamentation,
+these exhibit a high order of excellence. Some
+specimens of what is called laminated ware are
+remarkable; threadlike layers of clay are laid
+one on each other with admirable delicacy and
+patience. In these fragments may yet be read
+something of the history of a vanished race.
+They illuminate a dark corner in the world’s
+history, and seem to indicate a people who once
+felt civilising influences higher than anything
+known by those uncouth figures whose camp-fires
+now glimmer at night across the silent
+starlit prairie.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="TWO_DAYS_IN_A_LIFETIME">TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="ph3">A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.</p>
+
+
+<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Captain Bowood</span> came forward. ‘Sir Frederick,
+your servant; glad to see you,’ he said in his
+hearty sailor-like fashion.</p>
+
+<p>‘I am glad to see you, Captain,’ responded the
+Baronet as he proffered his hand. ‘How’s the
+gout this morning?’</p>
+
+<p>‘So, so. Might be better—might be worse.—You
+here, Miss Saucebox!’ he added, turning
+to Elsie. ‘Why are you not at your lessons—eh,
+now?’</p>
+
+<p>‘As if anybody could learn Latin roots on a
+sunny morning like this!’ Then, clasping one of
+his arms with both her hands, and looking up
+coaxingly into his face, she said: ‘You might
+give me a holiday, nunky dear.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Why, why? A holiday indeed!—Listen to
+her, Sir Frederick. The baggage is always
+begging for holidays.’</p>
+
+<p>‘But the baggage doesn’t always get them,’
+was the answer with a pretty pout. Then, after
+another glance at the long-haired stranger, who
+was already busy with the piano, she said to
+herself: ‘It is he; I am sure of it. And yet
+if I had not heard his voice, I should not have
+known him.’</p>
+
+<p>Captain Bowood at this time had left his
+sixtieth birthday behind him, but he carried his
+years lightly. He was a bluff, hearty-looking,
+loud-voiced man, with a very red face, and very
+white hair and whiskers. A fever, several years
+previously, had radically impaired his eyesight,
+since which time he had taken to wearing gold-rimmed
+spectacles. He had a choleric temper;
+but his bursts of petulance were like those
+summer storms which are over almost as soon
+as they have broken, and leave not a cloud behind.
+Throughout the American Civil War, Captain
+Bowood had been known as one of the most daring
+and successful blockade-runners, and it was during
+those days of danger and excitement that he laid
+the foundation of the fortune on which he had
+since retired. No man was more completely ruled
+by his wife than the choleric but generous-hearted
+Captain, and no man suspected the fact less than
+he did.</p>
+
+<p>‘I drove over this morning,’ said Sir Frederick,
+‘to see you about that bay mare which I hear
+you are desirous of getting rid of.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Yes, yes—just so. We’ll go to the stable
+and have a look at her. By-the-bye, I was talking
+to Boyd just now, when your name cropped
+up. It seems he met you when you were both
+in South America. Oscar Boyd, engineering
+fellow and all that. You remember him, eh,
+now?’</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>{42}</span></p>
+
+<p>‘I certainly do remember a Mr Boyd; but it
+is many years since we met.’ Then to himself
+the Baronet said: ‘Can this be the other man?
+Oh! Lady Dimsdale.’</p>
+
+<p>‘A very agreeable fellow,’ said the Captain.
+‘Here on a visit for a couple of days. A little
+matter of business between him and me to save
+lawyers’ expenses.’</p>
+
+<p>‘The other man, without a doubt,’ thought the
+Baronet. ‘His wife must be dead.’</p>
+
+<p>Miss Brandon had slipped unobserved out of
+the room. She was now sitting in the veranda,
+making-believe to be intent over her Latin verbs,
+but in reality waiting impatiently till the coast
+should be clear. She had not long to wait.
+Presently she heard the Captain say in his cheery
+loud-voiced way: ‘Come along, Sir Frederick;
+we shall just have time to look at the mare before
+luncheon;’ and a minute later, she heard the
+shutting of a door.</p>
+
+<p>Then she shut her book, rose from her seat,
+and crossing on tiptoe to the open French-window,
+she peeped into the room. ‘Is that
+you, Charley?’ she asked in a voice that was
+little above a whisper.</p>
+
+<p>‘Whom else should it be?’ answered the
+young man, looking round from the piano with
+a smile.</p>
+
+<p>‘I was nearly sure of it from the first; but
+then you look such a guy!’</p>
+
+<p>‘She calls me a guy! after all the trouble I
+have taken to get myself up like a foreign
+nobleman.’ Speaking thus, he took off his
+spectacles and wig, and stood revealed, as
+pleasant-looking a young fellow as one would
+see in a day’s march.</p>
+
+<p>Elsie ran forward with a little cry of surprise
+and delight. ‘Now I know you for my own!’
+she exclaimed; and when he took her in his
+arms and kissed her—more than once—she offered
+not the slightest resistance. ‘But what a dreadful
+risk to run!’ she went on as soon as she
+was set at liberty. ‘Suppose your uncle—good
+gracious!’</p>
+
+<p>‘My uncle? He can’t eat me, that’s certain;
+and he has already cut me off with the proverbial
+shilling.’</p>
+
+<p>‘My poor boy! Fate is very, very hard upon
+you. We are both down on our luck, Charley;
+but we can die together, can’t we?’ As she
+propounded this question, she held out her box
+of bon-bons. Charley took one, she took another,
+and then the box was put away. ‘A pan of
+charcoal’—she went on, giving her sweetmeat
+a gustatory turn over with her tongue—‘door
+and windows close shut—you go to sleep and
+forget to wake up. What could be simpler?’</p>
+
+<p>‘Hardly anything. But we have not quite
+come to that yet. Of course, that dreadful Vice-chancellor
+won’t let me marry you for some time
+to come; but he can’t help himself when you are
+one-and-twenty.’</p>
+
+<p>‘That won’t be for nearly four years,’ answered
+Elsie with a pout. ‘What a long, long time to
+look forward to!’</p>
+
+<p>‘We have only to be true to each other, which
+I am sure we shall be, and it will pass away far
+more quickly than you imagine. By that time,
+I hope to be earning enough money to find you
+a comfortable home.’</p>
+
+<p>‘There’s my money, you know, Charley dear.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I don’t mean to have anything to do with that.
+If I can’t earn enough to keep my wife, I’ll never
+marry.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Oh!’</p>
+
+<p>‘But I shall do that, dear. Why, I’m getting
+five guineas a week already; and if I’m not
+getting three times as much as that by the time
+you are twenty-one, I’ll swallow my wig.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Your uncle will never forgive you for going
+on the stage.’</p>
+
+<p>‘O yes, he will, by-and-by, when he sees
+that I am making a fair living by it and
+really mean to stick to it—having sown all my
+wild-oats; and above all, when he finds how well
+they speak of me in his favourite newspaper.
+And that reminds me that it was what the
+<i>Telephone</i> said about me that caused old Brooker
+our manager to raise my screw from four guineas
+a week to five. I cut the notice out of the paper,
+you may be sure. Here it is.’ Speaking thus,
+Master Charles produced his pocket-book; and
+drew from it a printed slip of paper, which he
+proceeded to read aloud: ‘“Although we have
+had occasion more than once to commend the
+acting of Mr Warden”—that’s me—“we were
+certainly surprised last evening by his very
+masterly rendering of the part of Captain Cleveland.
+His byplay was remarkably clever; and
+his impassioned love-making in the third act,
+where timidity or hesitation would have been
+fatal to the piece, brought down the house, and
+earned him two well-merited recalls. We certainly
+consider that there is no more promising
+<i>jeune premier</i> than Mr Warden now on the stage.”
+There, my pet, what do you think of that?’ asked
+the young actor as he put back the slip of paper
+into his pocket-book.</p>
+
+<p>But his pet vouchsafed no answer. Her face
+was turned from him; a tear fell from her eye.
+His arms were round her in a moment. ‘My
+darling child, what can be the matter?’ he
+asked.</p>
+
+<p>‘I—I wish you had never gone on the stage,’
+said Elsie, with a sob in her voice. ‘I—I wish
+you were still a tea-broker!’</p>
+
+<p>‘Good gracious! what makes you wish anything
+so absurd?’</p>
+
+<p>‘It’s not absurd. Doesn’t the newspaper speak
+of your “impassioned love-making?” And then
+people—lovers, I mean—are always kissing each
+other on the stage.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Just as they do sometimes in real life;’ and
+with that he suited the action to the word.</p>
+
+<p>‘Don’t, Mr Summers, please.’ And she pushed
+him away, and her eyes flashed through her
+tears, and she looked very pretty.</p>
+
+<p>Mr Summers sat down on a chair and was
+unfeeling enough to laugh. ‘Why, what a little
+goose you are!’ he said.</p>
+
+<p>‘I don’t see it at all.’ This with a toss of her
+head. Certainly, it is not pleasant to be called
+a goose.</p>
+
+<p>‘You must know, if you come to think of it,
+that both love-making and kissing on the stage
+are only so much make-believe, however real
+they may seem to the audience. During the
+last six months, it has been my fate to have
+to make love to about a dozen different ladies;
+and during the next six months I shall probably
+have to do the same thing to as many more;
+but to imagine on that account that I really<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>{43}</span>
+care for any of them, or that they really care
+for me, would be as absurd as to suppose that
+because in the piece we shall play to-morrow
+night I shall hunt Tom Bowles—who is the
+villain of the drama—through three long acts,
+and kill him in the fourth, he and I must
+necessarily hate each other. The fact is that
+Tom and I are the best of friends, and generally
+contrive to lodge together when on our travels.’</p>
+
+<p>Elsie was half convinced that she <i>had</i> made a
+goose of herself, but of course was not prepared
+to admit it. ‘I see that Miss Wylie is acting in
+your company,’ she said. ‘I saw her in London
+about a year ago; she is very, very pretty.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Miss Wylie is a very charming woman.’</p>
+
+<p>‘And you make love to her?’</p>
+
+<p>‘Every night of my life—for a little while.’</p>
+
+<p>Elsie felt her unreasonable mood coming back.
+‘Then why don’t you marry her?’ she asked
+with a ring of bitterness in her voice.</p>
+
+<p>Again that callous-hearted young man laughed.
+‘Considering that she is married already, and the
+happy mother of two children, I can hardly see
+the feasibility of your suggestion.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Then why does she call herself “Miss
+Wylie?”’</p>
+
+<p>‘It’s a way they have in the profession. She
+goes by her maiden name. In reality, she is
+Mrs Berrington. Her husband travels with her.
+He plays “heavy fathers.”’</p>
+
+<p>Miss Brandon looked mystified. Her lover
+saw it.</p>
+
+<p>‘You see this suit of clothes,’ he said, ‘and this
+wig and these spectacles. They are part of the
+“make-up” of a certain character I played last
+week. I was the Count von Rosenthal, in love
+with the beautiful daughter of a poor music-master.
+In order to be able to make love to
+her, and win her for myself, and not for my
+title and riches, I go in the guise of a student,
+and take lodgings in the same house where she
+and her father are living. After many mishaps,
+all ends as it ought to do. Charlotte and I fall
+into each other’s arms, and her father blesses
+us both with tears in his eyes. Miss Wylie played
+the Professor’s daughter, and her husband played
+the father’s part, and very well he did it too.’</p>
+
+<p>‘Her husband allowed you to make love to
+his wife?’ said Miss Brandon, with wide-open
+eyes.</p>
+
+<p>‘Of course he did; and he was not so foolish
+as to be jealous, like some people. Why should
+he be?’</p>
+
+<p>Elsie was fully convinced by this time that
+she had made a goose of herself. ‘You may kiss
+me, Charley,’ she said with much sweetness.
+‘Dear boy, I forgive you.’</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly the sound of a footstep caused
+them to start and fly asunder. There, close to
+the open French-window, stood Captain Bowood,
+glaring from one to the other of them. Miss
+Brandon gave vent to a little shriek and fled from
+the room. The Captain came forward, a fine frenzy
+in his eye. ‘Who the deuce may you be, sir?’
+he spluttered, although he had recognised Charley
+at the first glance.</p>
+
+<p>‘I have the honour to be your very affectionate
+and obedient nephew, sir.’</p>
+
+<p>The Captain’s reply to this was an inarticulate
+growl. Next moment, his eye fell on the discarded
+wig. ‘And what the dickens may this be, sir?’
+he asked as he lifted up the article in question
+on the end of his cane.</p>
+
+<p>‘A trifle of property, sir, belonging to your
+affectionate and obedient nephew;’ and with that
+he took the wig off the end of the cane and
+crammed it into his pocket.</p>
+
+<p>‘So, so. This is the way, you young jackanapes,
+that you set my commands at defiance, and steal
+into my house after being forbidden ever to set
+foot in it again! You young snake-in-the-grass!
+You crocodile! It would serve you right to give
+you in charge to the police. How do I know
+that you are not after my spoons and forks?
+Come now.’</p>
+
+<p>‘I am glad to find, sir, that your powers of
+vituperation are in no way impaired since I had
+the pleasure of seeing you last. Time cannot
+wither them.—Hem! I believe, sir, that you have
+had the honour of twice paying my debts, amounting
+in the aggregate to the trifling sum of five
+hundred pounds. In this paper, sir, you will
+find twenty-five sovereigns, being my first dividend
+of one shilling in the pound. A further dividend
+will be paid at the earliest possible date.’ As Mr
+Summers spoke thus, he drew from his waistcoat
+pocket a small sealed packet and placed the same
+quietly on the table.</p>
+
+<p>The irate Captain glanced at the packet and
+then at his imperturbable nephew. The cane
+trembled in his fingers; for a moment or two
+he could not command his voice. ‘What, what!’
+he cried at last. ‘The boy will drive me crazy.
+What does he mean with his confounded rigmarole?
+Dividend! Shilling in the pound! Bother
+me, if I can make head or tail of his foolery!’</p>
+
+<p>‘And yet, sir, both my words and my meaning
+were clear enough, as no doubt you will find
+when you come to think them over in your
+calmer moments.—And now I have the honour
+to wish you a very good-morning; and I hope to
+afford you the pleasure of seeing me again before
+long.’ Speaking thus, Charles Summers made
+his uncle a very low bow, took up his hat, and
+walked out of the room.</p>
+
+<p>‘There’s insolence! There’s audacity!’ burst
+out the Captain as soon as he found himself alone.
+‘The pleasure of seeing him again—eh? Only
+let me find him here without my leave—I’ll—I’ll——
+I don’t know what I won’t do!—And
+now I come to think of it, it looks very much
+as if he and Miss Saucebox were making love
+to each other. How dare they? I’ll haul ’em
+both up before the Vice-chancellor.’ Here his
+eye fell on the packet on the table. He took it
+up and examined it. ‘Twenty-five sovereigns,
+did he say? As if I was going to take the young
+idiot’s money! I’ll keep it for the present, and
+send it back to him by-and-by. Must teach him
+a lesson. Do him all the good in the world.
+False hair and spectacles, eh? Deceived his old
+uncle finely. Just the sort of trick I should have
+delighted in when I was a boy. But Master
+Charley will be clever if he catches the old fox
+asleep a second time.’ He had reached the French-window
+on his way out, when he came to a sudden
+stand, and gave vent to a low whistle. ‘Ha, ha!
+Lady Dimsdale and Mr Boyd, and mighty taken
+up with each other they seem. Well, well. I’m
+no spoil-sport. I’ll not let them know I’ve seen
+them. Looks uncommonly as if Dan Cupid had
+got them by the ears. A widow too! All widows<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>{44}</span>
+ought to be labelled “Dangerous.”’ Smiling and
+chuckling to himself, the Captain drew back,
+crossed the room, and went out by the opposite
+door.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_COLOUR-SENSE">THE COLOUR-SENSE.</h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<p><span class="smcap">The</span> phenomenon of Colour is one with which all
+who are not blind must of necessity be familiar.
+So accustomed, indeed, have we been to it
+throughout all our lives, that most of us are
+inclined to take it for granted, and probably
+trouble ourselves very seldom as to its true cause.
+A brief discussion, therefore, of the nature of the
+Colour-sense may, we trust, prove not uninteresting
+to our readers.</p>
+
+<p>What, then, is colour? It is obvious that it
+may be considered in two ways; we may either
+discuss the impression it makes on the mind, or
+the real external causes to which it is due.
+Viewed in the first light, colour is as much a
+sensation as is that of being struck or burnt.
+Viewed from the latter stand-point, it is merely
+a property of light; hence, in order correctly
+to understand its nature, we must first briefly
+examine the nature of this phenomenon.</p>
+
+<p>According to modern scientific men, light is
+not a material substance, but consists of a kind
+of motion or vibration communicated by the
+luminous body to the surrounding medium, and
+travelling throughout space with an enormous
+velocity. The medium, however, through which
+light-waves travel is not air, nor any of the
+ordinary forms of matter. Of its real nature
+nothing is known, and its very existence is only
+assumed in order to account for the observed
+phenomena. It must be very subtle and very
+elastic; but it is a curious fact that the nature
+of the vibrations in question would seem to
+preclude the supposition that it is a fluid, these
+being rather such as would be met with in the
+case of a solid. To this medium, whatever its
+true nature may be, the name of <i>ether</i> is given.</p>
+
+<p>The sensation, then, which we know by the
+name of Light is to be regarded as the effect on
+the retina of the eye of certain very rapid vibrations
+in the <i>ether</i> of the universe. All these
+waves travel with the same swiftness; but they
+are not all of the same length, nor of the same
+frequency; and investigation has shown that it
+is to this difference of wave-length that difference
+of colour is due. In other words, the impression
+to which we give the name of a certain colour is
+due to the effect on the retina of vibrations of a
+certain frequency. This conclusion is arrived at
+by a very simple experiment, in which advantage
+is taken of the following principle. So long as a
+ray of light is passing through the same medium,
+it travels in one straight line; but in passing
+obliquely from one medium into another of
+different density, its path is bent through a certain
+angle, just as a column of soldiers has a tendency
+to change its direction of march when obliquely
+entering a wood or other difficult ground. Now,
+this angle is naturally greatest in the case of
+the shortest waves, so that when a ray of light
+is thus bent out of its course—or, as it is called,
+‘refracted’—the various sets of vibrations of
+which it is composed all travel in different
+directions, and may be separately examined. In
+fact the ray of light is analysed, or broken up
+into its component parts. The most convenient
+apparatus to employ for this purpose is a prism
+of glass. It is found, as is well known, that if a
+beam of ordinary sun-light be allowed to pass
+through the prism and be then received on a
+screen, it is resolved into a band of colours
+succeeding one another in the order of those of
+the rainbow. Such a band of colours is called a
+‘spectrum.’</p>
+
+<p>Now, of the visible portion of the spectrum
+the red rays are those which undergo the least
+refraction, while the violet rays are bent through
+the greatest angle, the other colours in their
+natural order being intermediate. From what
+has been said above, it is evident that, this being
+the case, the portion of the light consisting of
+waves of greatest length and least frequency is
+that which produces on the eye the sensation of
+red, and that each of the other colours is caused
+by vibrations of a certain definite length. We are
+speaking now of the visible part of the spectrum.
+As a matter of fact, the waves of least and greatest
+frequency make no impression on the eye at all;
+but the former have the greatest heating power,
+while the latter are those which chiefly produce
+chemical effects such as are utilised in photography.</p>
+
+<p>Having now arrived at the nature of colour,
+we are in a position to apply these facts to the
+discussion of coloured substances.</p>
+
+<p>When light falls on a body, a portion of it is
+turned back or, as it is called, ‘reflected’ from
+the surface; another part is taken up or ‘absorbed’
+by the substance; while, in the case of a transparent
+body, a third portion passes on through it,
+and is said to be ‘transmitted.’ Most bodies
+absorb the different parts of the light in different
+proportions, and hence their various colours are
+produced. The colour of a transparent substance
+is that of the light which it transmits; while an
+opaque body is said to be of the colour of the
+light which it reflects, or rather of that part of
+it which is irregularly scattered.</p>
+
+<p>There are three colours in the solar spectrum
+which are called ‘primary,’ owing to the fact that
+they cannot be produced by mixtures. These are
+red, violet, and deep olive green. The generally-received
+idea that red, blue, and yellow are primary
+colours, is by recent scientific authorities not
+regarded as tenable; it arose from observations on
+mixtures of pigments rather than of coloured light.
+For instance, objects seen through two plates of
+glass, one of which is blue and the other yellow,
+appear green; but this by no means justifies
+us in saying that a mixture of blue and yellow
+light is green. For remembering that the two
+glasses do not appear coloured by reason of their
+adding anything to the light, but rather through
+their stopping the passage of certain rays, we
+shall see that the green light which is finally
+transmitted is not a mixture of yellow and blue
+at all, but is rather that portion of the light which
+both of the glasses allow to pass. The blue glass
+will probably stop all rays except blue, violet,
+and green; the yellow glass, all but green, yellow,
+and orange. The only light, therefore, which
+can pass through both glasses is green. The same
+remark applies to mixtures of pigments, each
+particle being really transparent, though the
+whole bulk appears opaque. It is easy, however,
+to obtain real mixtures of coloured lights by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>{45}</span>
+employing suitable arrangements, of which one
+of the simplest consists of a disc painted with
+alternate bands of colours and rapidly rotated.
+By such means it is found that a mixture of blue
+and yellow is not green, but white or gray, and
+that yellow can itself be produced by a mixture
+of red and green in proper proportions. The late
+Professor Clerk Maxwell made an interesting
+series of experiments on colour mixtures by
+means of an apparatus known as Maxwell’s
+Colour-box, by which any number of colours could
+be combined in any required proportions.</p>
+
+<p>It would, however, be beyond the scope of the
+present paper to discuss the many important
+results which followed from his investigations.
+Helmholtz believed the three primary colour
+sensations to be clue to the action of three sets
+of nerves at the back of the retina, each of which
+is excited only by vibrations within a certain
+range of frequency; and this theory is now generally
+held. In the case of some persons, the
+sensation corresponding to red is wholly absent,
+and the spectrum appears to consist of two colours
+with white or gray between. The nature of
+these colours is, for obvious reasons, difficult to
+determine; but one doubtless nearly corresponds
+to our sensation of blue, while the other is a
+deep colour, probably dark green. Persons thus
+affected are usually called ‘colour-blind;’ but
+this epithet is a misnomer, and the term ‘dichroic
+vision’ has been suggested for the phenomenon
+instead.</p>
+
+<p>We have already remarked that our range of
+vision is comparatively narrow, the extreme portions
+of the spectrum making no impression on the
+retina. But we have no reason to think that these
+limits have been the same in all ages. The evidence
+would rather tend to show that the human
+eye is undergoing a slow and gradual development,
+which enables it to distinguish between colours
+which the ancients regarded as identical, and may
+in future render it able to perceive some portions
+at least of the parts of the spectrum which
+are now invisible. The Vedas of India, which
+are among the most ancient writings known,
+attest that in the most remote ages only white
+and black could be distinguished.</p>
+
+<p>It would seem as if the perception of different
+degrees of intensity of light preceded by a long
+time the appreciation of various kinds of colours.
+After weighing the evidence, Magnus has come
+to the conclusion that red was the first colour
+to become visible, then yellow and orange; and
+afterwards, though at a considerable interval,
+green, blue, and violet in order. Various passages
+in the Old Testament have been cited as proof
+that the ancients failed to perceive all the colours
+seen by us, one of the most remarkable being in
+Ezekiel i. 27 and 28, where the prophet compares
+the appearance of the brightness round about the
+fire to that of the ‘bow that is in the cloud in
+the day of rain’—which passage has been cited
+by Mr Gladstone in his article in the <i>Nineteenth
+Century</i> for October 1877, as indicating a want of
+appreciation of distinct colours among the ancients.
+This is not quite clear, however, as the appearance
+round about the supernatural fire might have
+assumed auroral or rainbow tints. But the most
+important evidence on the apparent want of
+capacity among the ancients to discriminate
+between colours is that afforded by the writings
+of Homer, who, in the opinion of Magnus,
+could neither have perceived green nor blue.
+The point has been carefully examined by Mr
+Gladstone, who comes to the conclusion that this
+estimate is quite within the mark. Inquiring in
+detail into each of Homer’s colour-epithets, he
+shows that almost all must be in reality regarded
+as expressing degrees of intensity rather than of
+quality, and that the few exceptions are all confined
+to red and yellow. The brilliant blue sky
+of the southern climes where Homer lived must
+have appeared to him as of a neutral gray hue.
+Of course, the suggestion that the writings
+usually assigned to Homer were in reality the
+productions of many authors, does not invalidate
+the reasoning at all, as we do not attribute
+any defect in vision to the poet which was not
+equally manifested by his contemporaries.</p>
+
+<p>It is curious that the distinction between green
+and blue is not yet perfectly developed in all
+nations. Travellers tell us that the Burmese often
+confuse these colours in a remarkable manner.
+This and other facts suggest that the development
+of the colour-sense is not yet completed; and
+that in the future our range of perception may
+be still further enlarged, so that the now invisible
+rays may be recognised by the eye as distinct
+colours.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="SO_UNREASONABLE_OF_STEP-MOTHER">‘SO UNREASONABLE OF STEP-MOTHER!’</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="ph3">A SKETCH FROM LIFE.</p>
+
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Not</span> long before the death of George Eliot, on
+a return trip to London by the Midland route,
+I broke my journey at Leicester, to pay a
+flying visit to Coventry, where the great writer
+had spent many of her happiest days. There
+I was privileged by having for escort one of
+her most valued friends; and many interesting
+reminiscences were for our benefit called to mind,
+especially of a visit paid to Edinburgh, ‘mine own
+romantic town,’ and of the impression the beauty
+of its situation had made on her mind. Next
+morning, every favourite haunt of hers was searched
+out and commented on, as well as the interesting
+points of the quaint old city of Coventry; and
+bidding good-bye to our hospitable friends, I
+departed alone by the evening mail for Leicester,
+there to wait for the midnight train to Edinburgh,
+feeling satisfied that the hours had been well
+spent. Arrived in Leicester, I was fortunate in
+finding a fellow-countryman in one of the porters,
+who at once took me and my belongings under
+his especial protection, and when he had seen
+me comfortably ‘happit up’ on one of the sofas
+of the luxurious waiting-room, he retired, bidding
+me take a quiet forty winks, and keep my mind
+quite easy, for he would give me timely notice of
+the arrival of the Scotch train. Scarcely had I
+begun to feel the loneliness of my situation, when
+the door opened, and a female figure entered,
+rather unwilling, apparently; nay, seemed to
+be pushed in, while a deep male voice advised
+that she should rest by the fire, and not put
+herself about so. By a succession of jerks, she
+advanced to the chair by the fire opposite to my<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>{46}</span>
+sofa; and finding that I was not asleep, as she
+had supposed, at once, and without any circumlocution,
+began to unburden her mind, her words
+flowing from her mouth at express speed, regardless
+of comma or full stop.</p>
+
+<p>‘Not put myself about! Humph! That’s so
+like men.—Ain’t it now, miss? Ah, I dessay
+you’ve ’ad your own share of worriting before
+now, and know ’ow downright masterful and
+provoking they can be at times. I tell you <i>w’at</i>,
+miss, if you want to be at peace at all, you’ve
+got to say black is w’ite, if they ’ave a mind that
+it should be so.—Not put myself about! I’d like
+to know ’ow one with a ’eart and a soul in their
+body could ’elp being put about, as I am.’</p>
+
+<p>I ventured to hope nothing serious had occurred
+to disturb her composure or to put her about,
+my voice at once disclosing that I hailed from
+the North, and also that I was of a sympathetic
+nature.</p>
+
+<p>‘Put about!’ she once more exclaimed. ‘Why,
+I <i>am</i> put about; yes—no use trying to appear
+as if I was anything else. Yes; only think, miss!
+Not ’alf an hour gone, a telegram was brought to
+our ’ouse by the telegraph-boy. His mother, a
+widow, keeps a little bit of a shop not many doors
+from our own. Yes; he ’ands it in saying it
+was for father. I opened it; and there, staring
+me right in the eyes were them words: “<i>Step-mother
+is lying a-dying.</i>”—Not put about! I’d
+just like to know ’ow anybody could ’ave
+been anything else than put about, after <i>that</i>.
+Now, miss, you must understand that John—that’s
+my ’usband—is a great go-to-meeting-man.
+Why, at that very moment he might be at the
+church meeting, or he might ’ave been at the
+Building meeting, or he might ’ave been at
+a Masonic meeting, or he might ’ave been
+at any other meeting under the sun. And w’atever
+was I to do? for there was the telegraph-boy;
+there was the telegram, with the words as plain
+as plain: “Step-mother is lying a-dying.” I
+put on my bonnet and shawl; I ’urried to father’s
+office—he is a master-builder, is father, with sixteen
+men under him and three apprentices; and
+John, my son, for partner. I rushed in quite out
+of breath, not expecting to find any one there
+at that time of night; but there I found John—that’s
+my son—and says I, without taking time
+to sit down, though I was like to drop: “John,
+w’atever is to be done! Here’s a telegraph-boy
+has brought a telegram for father to say, step-mother
+is a-dying.’”</p>
+
+<p>‘Now, miss, I just put it to you, if them telegrams,
+coming so sudden at hours w’en no one
+expects postmen’s knocks, and bringing such news
+as that, ain’t enough to put any one about! Augh!
+Men are so queer; there’s no nerves in their bodies,
+and can’t understand us women. I’ve no patience
+with them. There was John—that’s my son—w’at
+did he do? Why, look at me quite composed,
+as if it weren’t no news at all, and says he:
+“Don’t put yourself about, mother. Father has
+gone off not many minutes ago to the paddock,
+to give little Bobbie a ride.” And with that he
+takes down a time-table, to look at it for the
+last train, puts on his hat, calls for a cab, and says
+quite composed: “Jump in, mother. We’ll go
+in pursuit of father, and then we’ll catch the train
+quite easily.” It seemed to me the horse just
+crept up the ’ill like a snail; only John would
+’ave it they were going faster than their usual
+pace. W’en we came to our door, w’at do you
+think we saw, now, miss?—No; you’ll never
+guess, I dessay. Why, <i>father</i>, to be sure! Yes;
+there he was; and there was the pony; and there
+was little Bobbie—all three of ’em just about
+to start for a long ride into the country. I ’ad
+carried the telegram in my pocket; and do you
+know, miss, after all my flurry and worry, w’at
+did John—that’s my ’usband—say, think you?—Augh!
+Men are so unreasonable, and w’at’s
+more, such cool and ’eartless pieces. Yes; that’s
+w’at <i>they</i> are; and I don’t care who hears me
+a-saying it.</p>
+
+<p>‘John—that’s father—after he had read the
+telegram, he turns to me, and says he: “Why,
+mother, ’ave your senses left your ’ead altogether?
+W’atever made you carry off the telegram!
+Couldn’t you ’ave stayed quietly at ’ome, instead
+of putting yourself about in this here fashion?
+If you ’ad, we’d ’ave been at the station without
+any hurry at all, by this time.”</p>
+
+<p>‘I felt too angry to speak, I do declare, miss.
+I think the older men grow, the more aggravating
+they get to a sensitive nature. So I gathered
+the things together father said we’d better take
+with us, into my travelling-basket, without as
+much as a single word—a stranger coming in
+would ’ave thought me dumb—while father sent
+a man back to the paddock with little Bobbie and
+the pony. We then got into the cab once more;
+and here we are, with John—that’s my son—a-looking
+after the tickets and the luggage; and
+father smoking his pipe outside as cool as cool.
+O dear, if they wouldn’t put me out with their
+“Keep cool, mother; no need to fluster and flurry
+so, mother”—“Take it easy, good ooman; don’t
+put yourself about”—I’d bear it better, I certainly
+should.</p>
+
+<p>‘Is step-mother nice? you ask. Oh—well—that’s
+just as you take it. Some people say
+she’s nice; some say she’s quite the opposite.
+But’—and here she drew her chair closer to me,
+and in a more confidential tone, continued: ‘I
+tell you <i>w’at</i>, miss—I’ve said it before, and I say
+it again—step-mother, in spite of her religious
+pro-fession and san’timonious ways, is cantankerous.
+No use a-trying to hide it—step-mother
+is just w’at I say, <i>can-tankerous</i>. I’ve said it
+before; I say it again—she’d show her cantankerousness
+to the very last. And han’t
+my words come true, for here she is lying
+a-dying, and Mary-Anne’s wedding fixed for
+Friday of this very week!—O my—now that I
+come to ’ave a quiet moment to think, w’atever
+am I to do? It’s so unreasonable of step-mother!
+Why, the dressmaker was coming this very
+evening to fit my dress on for the second time—a
+new black silk it is—and w’atever will <i>she</i>
+think, w’en she finds I’ve gone off without as
+much as a good-bye message? You see, miss,
+Mary-Anne is going to marry into quite a genteel
+family. Father, and John—that’s my son—he
+comes to me not many weeks gone, and says he:
+“Mother, I ’ope you are going to ’ave a nice dress
+for this wedding. I ’ope it will be a silk or
+a satin you decide to buy.” And says I: “John,
+you know w’at father is, and ’as been all his
+life—a just man to all; but a man who looks<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>{47}</span>
+upon gay clothes as not necessary. And then,
+John, you know as well as I do that father is
+rather close-fisted w’en money has to be paid out—like
+his own father before him, who was looked
+upon by all as the most parsimonious man in
+the town. I don’t say father is quite as bad;
+but close-fisted I <i>do</i> say he is, John; and you
+know it. Were I to say: ‘Father, I’d like to
+’ave a silk dress for this wedding’—and I don’t
+hide the fact from <i>you</i>, John, that I certainly
+should—he’d just laugh. I know it beforehand.
+He’d say: ‘Why, mother, ’aven’t you been
+content with a good stuff-dress all our married
+life, and can’t you go on to the end so? I’ve
+over and over again said my wife looked as well
+as most women in the town of Leicester.’”</p>
+
+<p>‘“But,” says John—that’s my son—“mother,
+you owe your duty certainly to father. I’m not
+going against it; but w’at I says is: You owe
+your duty to your son also; and w’en I wish <i>my</i>
+mother to look better than she’s ever done before,
+why—to oblige me—you’ll go and purchase the
+best silk-dress in town, ’ave it made fashionable,
+with frills and all the fal-de-rals and etceteras;
+send in the account in my name; and if father
+makes any objections, why, let him settle the
+matter with <i>me</i>.”</p>
+
+<p>‘You see, miss, John is getting to be so like
+father—both <i>firm</i>, very; and if they take a
+notion of any kind w’atever into their ’eads,
+you’d move this station as soon as move them
+from their purpose; so the dress ’as been bought;
+and w’at father will say to it—for it’s to be made
+in the height of the fashion—<i>I</i> can’t say.’</p>
+
+<p>A few judicious questions about the step-mother
+who was lying a-dying, drew from my
+companion that the said old lady was rich as well
+as cantankerous; and that, as there were other
+relations who might step in to the injury of the
+worthy builder, who was her only stepson, it was,
+to say the least, but prudent to be on the
+spot.</p>
+
+<p>‘Ah, yes, miss,’ she exclaimed, stretching her
+hands out to keep the heat of the fire from her
+face, ‘this is a very strange world. Only on
+Sunday, the vicar was preaching to us against
+worldly-mindedness, telling us that as we came
+naked into the world, so we left it, carrying
+nothing away. But, miss, step-mother ain’t like
+the most of people; and she’s going to manage
+to take with her as much money as she possibly
+can.—How is she going to do it? Why, miss—she’s
+going to ’ave a coffin!—No need to look
+surprised, miss. O yes; we all bury our dead
+in coffins; but w’at kind of a coffin is step-mother
+going to ’ave, do you think? No; don’t
+try to guess, for you’d be down to Scotland and
+up again before it would ever come into your
+’ead.—No; not a velvet one, nor a satin; but a
+<i>hoak</i> one.—Yes; I thought you would get a scare.
+A <i>hoak</i> coffin is w’at it is to be. And she’s going
+to ’ave bearers—six of ’em. Each bearer is to
+’ave ’at-bands and scarfs, and two pounds apiece.
+And if all that pomp and tomfoolery ain’t taking
+so much money out of the world with her, I
+don’t know w’at <i>is</i>. W’en John—that’s father—heard
+of it, says he to me: “Mother, if you
+survives me, bury me plain, but comf’able;” and
+says I: “Father, if you survives me, I ’ope you
+will do the same by me—plain, but comf’able;
+for I tell you w’at, father, I’d not lie easy underground
+thinking of the waste of good money over
+such ’umbug.”’</p>
+
+<p>Here the waiting-room door opened hurriedly,
+and the worthy woman bounded to her feet at
+the one word ‘Mother!’ pronounced in such a
+decided tone that I too was standing beside her
+before I knew what I was doing, with all my
+wraps tossed higgledy-piggledy on the floor.
+Advancing with her to the door, she got out of
+me that my immediate destination was Scotland—a
+place, to her mind, evidently as remote as the
+arctic regions; and in her astonishment, she forgot
+the necessity there was to hurry to get in to her
+train, now ready to start again. She even seemed
+to forget that step-mother was lying a-dying, as
+she insisted upon introducing me to her husband,
+whose huge body was wrapped in a greatcoat,
+with tippet after tippet on it up to his neck.
+‘Only to think, John—this lady is going to
+Scotland all alone, John! She’ll be travelling
+all night.—O dear, however are you to do it,
+miss; ain’t you afraid?—Yes, John; I’m coming.—Good-bye,
+miss; we’ve ’ad quite a pleasant
+chat, I do assure you; the time seems to ’ave
+flown.’</p>
+
+<p>I hurried her along the platform, whispering to
+her as I did so: ‘I hope step-mother will rally a
+bit; that if she must pass away, it may be next
+week, so that Mary-Anne may get her wedding
+comfortably over.’ At the very door of the carriage
+she paused, seized my hand, shook it warmly,
+as she exclaimed: ‘Well, now, you ’ave a feeling
+’eart; but I don’t expect her to be so accommodating.
+No; I’ve said it before, and I say it again—step-mother
+is—<i>can-ta</i>—— Why, w’atever is
+the matter?’</p>
+
+<p>Next thing that happened, the little woman
+was lifted up bodily in her son’s arms—a counterpart
+of his father—and deposited in the carriage;
+while her husband, in spite of his lumbering
+large body, succeeded in jumping in just as
+the patience of all the railway officials was
+exhausted, and the signal given to start the
+train. Before it was lost to view, a white
+handkerchief fluttered out, by way of good-bye,
+causing a smile to rise over the calm features
+of John the younger, who, lifting his hat politely
+to me, bade me good-evening, adding: ‘Mother
+is no great traveller, so she is easily put about.
+Dessay if she went often from ’ome, she’d learn
+to be more composed.’</p>
+
+<p>From that hour I have never ceased to regret
+that I did not ask the good-natured young builder
+to forward me a local paper with the account of
+the death and burial of ‘step-mother.’ No doubt
+there would be due notice taken of such an
+interesting personage, as she lay in state in her
+‘hoak’ coffin, surrounded by her bearers in the
+flowing scarfs and hat-bands. Sharp as my
+friends generally give me credit for being, I own
+I committed a grievous blunder; I am therefore
+obliged to leave my story without an end, not
+being able even to add that the fair Mary-Anne’s
+wedding came off on the appointed day, or was
+postponed till after the complimentary days of
+mourning were past. I cheer myself with the
+thought that ‘John—that’s father’—being a firm
+man and a sensible, would insist upon the previous
+arrangements standing good, seeing that the bridegroom—a
+most important fact I have omitted
+to record—had a fortnight’s holiday reluctantly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>{48}</span>
+granted to him by his employers. Why, now
+that I think of it, my countryman the railway
+porter would have sent me any number of papers,
+judging by the kindly interest he took in my
+behalf, and the determined manner he fought
+for a particular seat for me in a particular
+carriage when the time came for my train to
+start. ‘Na, na, mem; nae need for thanks;
+blood’s thicker than water,’ he said. ‘Never
+you fear, now that the Scotch guard has ta’en up
+your cause; you’re a’ right; he’ll see that ye’re
+safely housed.’ And safely housed I was, and
+went steaming out of the station with my worthy
+friend hanging on by the door, calling to me:
+‘If you’re ever in the town o’ Perth, mem, my
+auld mother would be downright pleased to see
+you, for my sake. Tell her I’m getting on as
+weel as can be expeckit, sae far frae hame.’</p>
+
+<p>All night, my disturbed sleep was made doubly
+so by dreams of old women of every age and style.
+Now I was hunting for the porter’s nameless
+mother; now I was standing by the bedside of the
+step-mother who was lying a-dying. Again I was
+an active assistant at a marriage ceremony, with the
+fair Mary-Anne, surrounded by her genteel relations,
+leaning on my shoulder, weeping copiously
+at the idea of travelling to Scotland. Once more
+I stood gazing down on the old step-mother; and
+just as the day dawned, I was fairly roused, in
+my determination not to be smothered under an
+oak coffin and a pyramid of scarfs, hat-bands, and
+bearers, by the tumbling of my own bonnet-box
+from the luggage-rack above me.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="FRENCH_DETECTIVES">FRENCH DETECTIVES.</h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<p>‘The Secret Police’ in France are not only
+personally unknown to the general public, but,
+save in exceptional cases, even to each other.
+It is known where they may be found at a
+moment’s notice when wanted; but, as a rule,
+they do not frequent the prefecture more than
+can be helped. They have nothing whatever
+to do with serving summonses or executing
+warrants. There are among them men who have
+lived in almost every class of life, and each of
+them has what may be called a special line of
+business of his own. In the course of their duty,
+some of them mix with the receivers of stolen
+goods, others with thieves, many with what are
+called in Paris commercial rascals, and not a few
+with those whose ‘industry’ it is to melt silver
+and other property of a like valuable nature.
+Forgers, sharpers of all kinds, housebreakers and
+horse-stealers—a very numerous class in Paris—have
+each all their special agents of the police,
+who watch them, and know where to lay hands
+upon them when they are wanted. A French
+detective who cannot assume and act up to any
+character, and who cannot disguise himself in
+any manner so effectually as not to be recognised
+even by those who know him best, is not considered
+fit to hold his appointment. Their ability
+in this way is marvellous. Some years ago, one
+of them made a bet that he would in the course
+of the next few days address a gentleman with
+whom he was acquainted four times, for at least
+ten minutes each time, and that he should not
+know him on any occasion until the detective
+had discovered himself. As a matter of course,
+the gentleman was on his guard, and mistrusted
+every one who came near him. But the man
+won his bet. It is needless to enter into the
+particulars. Suffice it to say that in the course
+of the next four days he presented himself in
+the character of a bootmaker’s assistant, a fiacre-driver,
+a venerable old gentleman with a great
+interest in the Bourse, and finally as a waiter
+in the hotel in which the gentleman was staying.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="NOT_LOST_BUT_GONE_BEFORE">‘NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.’</h2>
+</div>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0"><span class="smcap">My</span> little child, with clustering hair,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Strewn o’er thy dear, dead brow,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Though in the past divinely fair,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">More lovely art thou now.</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">God bade thy gentle soul depart,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">On brightly shimmering wings;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Yet near thy clay, thy mother’s heart</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">All weakly, fondly clings.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">My beauteous child, with lids of snow</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Closed o’er thy dim blue eyes,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Should it not soothe my grief to know</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">They shine beyond the skies?</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Above thy silent cot I kneel,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">With heart all crushed and sore,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">While through the gloom these sweet words steal:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">‘Not lost, but gone before.’</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">My darling child, these flowers I lay</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">On locks too fair, too bright,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">For the damp grave-mist, cold and gray,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">To dim their sunny light.</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Soft baby tresses bathed in tears,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Your gold was all mine own!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Ah, weary months! ah, weary years!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">That I must dwell alone.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">My only child, I hold thee still,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Clasped in my fond embrace!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">My love, my sweet! how fixed, how chill,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">This smile upon thy face!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">The grave is cold, my clasp is warm,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Yet give thee up I must;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">And birds will sing when thy loved form</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Lies mouldering in the dust.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">My angel child, thy tiny feet</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Dance through my broken dreams;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Ah me, how joyous, quaint, and sweet,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Their baby pattering seems!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">I hush my breath, to hear thee speak;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">I see thy red lips part;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">But wake to feel thy cold, cold cheek,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Close to my breaking heart!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent0">Soon, soon my burning tears shall fall</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Upon thy coffin lid;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Nor may those tears thy soul recall</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">To earth—nay, God forbid!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Be happy in His love, for I</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Resigned, though wounded sore,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Can hear His angels whispering nigh:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">‘Not lost, but gone before.’</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse right"><span class="smcap">Fanny Forrester.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+
+<p class="center">Printed and Published by <span class="smcap">W. &amp; R. Chambers</span>, 47 Paternoster
+Row, <span class="smcap">London</span>, and 339 High Street, <span class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>.</p>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+
+<p class="center"><i>All Rights Reserved.</i></p>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+
+<p>[Transcriber’s note: The following changes have been made to this text.</p>
+
+<p>Page 47: wa’t to w’at—“know w’at <i>is</i>.”]</p>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 3, VOL. I, JANUARY 19, 1884 ***</div>
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author	nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org>	2025-01-23 09:31:20 -0800
committer	nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org>	2025-01-23 09:31:20 -0800
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