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diff --git a/old/64571-0.txt b/old/64571-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index cff6f70..0000000 --- a/old/64571-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2207 +0,0 @@ -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 *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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