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diff --git a/old/64571-h/64571-h.htm b/old/64571-h/64571-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 452f5cb..0000000 --- a/old/64571-h/64571-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3126 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - Chambers’s Journal, by Various—A Project Gutenberg eBook - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} - -.ph3{ - text-align: center; - font-size: large; - font-weight: bold; -} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both; -} - -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -hr.full {width: 95%; margin-left: 2.5%; margin-right: 2.5%;} - -.header {text-align: center; margin-top: 0;} -.header p {text-align: center; text-indent: 0;} -.header .floatl {float: left;} -.header .floatr {float: right;} -.header .floatc {padding-top: .5em;} - -@media handheld -{ -.header {text-align: center; margin-top: 0;} -.header p {text-align: center; text-indent: 0;} -.header .floatl {float: left;} -.header .floatr {float: right;} -.header .floatc {padding-top: .5em;} -} - -div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} -h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} - -.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ - /* visibility: hidden; */ - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; - font-weight: normal; - font-variant: normal; -} /* page numbers */ - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.right {text-align: right;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -/* Images */ - -img { - max-width: 100%; - height: auto; -} -img.w100 {width: 100%;} - - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; - page-break-inside: avoid; - max-width: 100%; -} - -/* Poetry */ -.poetry-container {text-align: center;} -.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} -/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry in browsers */ - .poetry {display: inline-block;} -.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} -.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} -/* large inline blocks don't split well on paged devices */ -@media handheld, print { .poetry {display: block;} } - -/* Poetry indents */ -.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3em;} -.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2em;} - - - </style> - </head> -<body> - -<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 3, Vol. I, January 19, 1884, by Various</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 3, Vol. I, January 19, 1884</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Various</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February 16, 2021 [eBook #64571]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Susan Skinner, Eric Hutton and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 3, VOL. I, JANUARY 19, 1884 ***</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>{33}</span></p> - -<h1>CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL<br /> -OF<br /> -POPULAR<br /> -LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.</h1> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<p class='center'> - -<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> - -<a href="#GIRLS_WIVES_AND_MOTHERS">GIRLS, WIVES, AND MOTHERS.</a><br /> -<a href="#BY_MEAD_AND_STREAM">BY MEAD AND STREAM.</a><br /> -<a href="#THE_CLIFF-HOUSES_OF_CANON_DE">THE CLIFF-HOUSES OF CAÑON DE CHELLY.</a><br /> -<a href="#TWO_DAYS_IN_A_LIFETIME">TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.</a><br /> -<a href="#THE_COLOUR-SENSE">THE COLOUR-SENSE.</a><br /> -<a href="#SO_UNREASONABLE_OF_STEP-MOTHER">‘SO UNREASONABLE OF STEP-MOTHER!’</a><br /> -<a href="#FRENCH_DETECTIVES">FRENCH DETECTIVES.</a><br /> -<a href="#NOT_LOST_BUT_GONE_BEFORE">‘NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.’</a><br /> - -<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> - -</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter" id="header" style="max-width: 37.5em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header.jpg" alt="Chambers’s Journal of Popular Literature, Science, -and Art. Fifth Series. Established by William and Robert Chambers, 1832. Conducted by R. Chambers (Secundus)." /> -</div> - -<hr class="full" /> -<div class="center"> -<div class="header"> -<p class="floatl"><span class="smcap">No. 3.—Vol. I.</span></p> -<p class="floatr"><span class="smcap">Price</span> 1½<em>d.</em></p> -<p class="floatc">SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1884.</p> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="GIRLS_WIVES_AND_MOTHERS">GIRLS, WIVES, AND MOTHERS.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="ph3">A WORD TO THE MIDDLE CLASSES.</p> - - -<p><span class="smcap">There</span> may be theoretically much to sympathise -with in the cry for the yet higher culture of the -women of our middle classes, but at the same -time not a little to find fault with in practice. -While it is difficult to believe that there can -be such a thing as over-education of the human -subject, male or female, there may yet be false -lines of training, which lead to a dainty misplaced -refinement, quite incompatible with the social -position the woman may be called to fill in after-life, -and which too often presupposes, what even -education has a difficulty in supplying—a subsistence -in life. Where we equip, we too frequently -impede. In the hurry to be intelligent -and accomplished, the glitter of drawing-room -graces is an object of greater desire than the more -homely but not less estimable virtues identified -with the kitchen. Our young housewives are -imbued with far too much of the æsthete at the -expense of the cook; too much of the stage, and -too little of the home. In abandoning the equally -mistaken views of our grandfathers on women’s -up-bringing, we have gone to the opposite extreme, -to the exclusion of anything like a means to -an end; and in the blindest disregard of the -recipients’ circumstances in life, present and prospective.</p> - -<p>In considering what the aim of female education -ought to be, it is surely not too much to expect -that of all things it should mentally and physically -fit our women for the battle of life. Its -application and utility should not have to end -where they practically do at present—at the altar. -While it is necessary to provide a common armour -for purposes of general defence, there certainly -ought to be a special strengthening of the harness -where most blows are to be anticipated; and if -not to all, certainly to middle-class women, the -years of battle come <i>after</i>, not before marriage. -Every one of them, then, ought to be trained in -conformity with the supreme law of her being, -to prove a real helpmate to the man that takes -her to wife. Make sure that she is first of all -thoroughly qualified for a mother’s part, in what -may be called a working sphere of life; then add -whatever graces may be desirable as a sweetening, -according to taste, means, and opportunity. It -is in this happy blending of abstract knowledge -with the economy of a home, that true success -in the education of middle-class women must be -sought.</p> - -<p>In the training of our boys, utility in after-life -is seldom lost sight of. Why should it be too often -the reverse in the education of our girls, whose -great vocation in life, as wives and mothers, is a -birthright they cannot renounce, which no lord of -creation can deprive them of, and which no sticklers -for what they are pleased to call the rights of -women can logically disown? No doubt, among -the last-named there are extreme people, who -cannot, from the very nature of their own individual -circumstances, see anything in wifely cares -save the shackles of an old-world civilisation. In -their eyes, motherhood is a tax upon pleasure, -and an abasement of the sex. With them, there -need be no parley. There is no pursuit under the -sun that a woman will not freely forsake—often -at a sacrifice—for the wifely cares that supervene -on marriage; and therein, few will deny, lies her -great and natural sphere in life. Than it, there -is no nobler. In it, she can encounter no rival; -and any attempt to divest herself of nature’s -charge can have but one ending. The blandishments -of a cold æstheticism can never soothe, animate, -and brighten the human soul, like the warm, -suffusive joys which cluster round the married -state.</p> - -<p>Here we may briefly digress to remark, that in -our opinion, no valid objections can be urged -against women entering professional life, <i>provided -they stick to it</i>. They already teach, and that -is neither the lightest nor least important of -masculine pursuits. Why should they not prescribe -for body and soul? why not turn their -proverbial gifts of speech to a golden account at -the bar? It would be in quitting any of these<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>{34}</span> -professions, and taking up the <i>rôle</i> of wife and -mother, which they would have to learn at the -expense of their own and others’ happiness, that -the real mischief of the liberty would lie. In -nine cases out of ten, their failure in the second -choice would be assured, thereby poisoning all -social well-being at its very source.</p> - -<p>The woman not over- but mis-educated is -becoming an alarmingly fruitful cause of the -downward tendencies of much of our middle-class -society. She herself is less to blame for this, than -the short-sighted, though possibly well-meant policy -of her parents and guardians, who, in the worst -spirit of the age, veneer their own flesh and -blood, as they do their furniture, for appearance’ -sake. Let us glance at the educational equipment -they provide their girls with, always premising -that our remarks are to be held as strictly -applicable only to the middle ranks of our -complex society.</p> - -<p>Our typical young woman receives a large -amount of miscellaneous education, extending far -through her teens, and amounting to a very fair -mastery of the <i>R</i>s. If she limp in any of these, it -will be in the admittedly vexatious processes of -arithmetic. She will have a pretty ready command -of the grammatical and idiomatic uses of her -mother-tongue; a fairly firm hold of the geography -of this planet, and an intelligent conception -of the extra-terrestrial system. She will -have plodded through piles of French and -German courses, learning many things from them -but the language. She will have a fair if not -profound knowledge of history. She can, in all -likelihood, draw a little, and even paint; but of -all her accomplishments, what she must imperatively -excel in is music. From tender years, -she will have diligently laboured at all the -musical profundities; and her chances in the -matrimonial market of the future are probably -regarded as being in proportion to her proficient -manipulation of the keyboard. If she -can sing, well and good; play on the piano she -must. If, as a girl, she has no taste for instrumental -music, and no ear to guide her flights -in harmony, the more reason why she should, -with the perseverance of despair, thump away -on the irresponsive ivories, in defiance of every -instinct in her being. The result at twenty -<i>may</i> be something tangible in some cases, but -extremely unsatisfactory at the price.</p> - -<p>During all these years, she has been systematically -kept ignorant of almost every domestic care. -Of the commonplaces of cookery she has not the -remotest idea. A great educationist, whose statement -we have good reason to indorse, asserts -that there are thousands of our young housewives -that do not know how to cook a potato. This -may seem satire. It is, we fear, in too many -cases, true, and we quote it with a view to -correct rather than chastise.</p> - -<p>The misapplications of young miss’s upbringing -do not end here. She cannot sew to any purpose. -If she deign to use a needle at all, it is to -embroider a smoking-cap for a lover or a pair -of slippers for papa. To sew on a button, or -cut out and unite the plainest piece of male -or female clothing, is not always within her -powers, or at least her inclinations. Prosaic -vulgar work, fit only for dressmakers and milliners! -She will spend weeks and months over -eighteen inches of what she is pleased to call -lace, while the neighbouring seamstress is making -up all her underclothing, to pay for which, papa -has not too much money; but then it is genteel.</p> - -<p>She cannot knit. A pair of worsted cuffs or -a lanky cravat is something great to attain to; -while a stocking, even were the charwomen less -easily paid, is sure to come off the needles right-lined -as any of Euclid’s parallelograms—all leg -and no ankle—a suspicion of foot, but never a -vestige of heel. To darn the hole that so soon -appears in the loosely knitted fabric, would be -a servile, reproachful task, quite staggering to -the sentimental aspirations of our engaged -Angelina. Yet darning and the divine art of -mending will one day be to her a veritable -philosopher’s stone, whose magic influences will -shed beams of happiness over her household, and -fortunate will she be if she have not to seek it -with tears.</p> - -<p>By the sick-bed, where she ought to be supreme, -she is often worse than useless. The pillows that -harden on the couch of convalescence, too rarely -know her softening touch. She may be all kindness -and attention—for the natural currents of -her being are full to repletion of sweetness and -sympathy—yet as incapable of really skilled service -as an artist’s lay-figure. And, as a last touch to -the sorry picture, instead of being in any way a -source of comfort to the bread-winners of her -family, or a lessening of the strain on their purse-strings, -she is a continual cause of extra work to -servants, of anxiety to her parents, of <i>ennui</i> to -herself.</p> - -<p>Apparently, the chief mission of the young -lady to whom we address ourselves, is to entice -some eligible young man into the responsibilities -of wedlock. He, poor fellow, succumbs not so -much to intrinsic merits, as to fine lady-like airs. -He sees the polish on the surface, and takes for -granted that there is good solid wear underneath. -Our young miss has conquered, and quits the -family roof-tree, sweetly conscious of her orange -wreath of victory; but alas!—we are sorry to say -it—do not her conquests too often end at the altar, -unless she resolutely set herself to learn the -exacting mysteries of her new sphere, and, what -is far more difficult, to unlearn much that she -has acquired? That she often does at this stage -make a bold and firm departure from the toyish -fancies of her training, and makes, from the sheer -plasticity and devotion of her character, wonderful -strides in the housewife’s craft, we cheerfully -confess. Were it otherwise, the domestic framework -of society would be in a far more disorganised -condition than it happily is. But why handicap -her for the most important, most arduous portion -of her race in life? Why train her to be the -vapid fine lady, with almost the certainty that, -by so doing, you are taking the surest means of -rendering her an insufficient wife and mother? -And, unfortunately, not always, in fact but -seldom, is she able, when she crosses her husband’s, -threshold, to tear herself away from her omnivorous -novel-reading, piano-playing, and all the -other alleviations of confirmed idleness.</p> - -<p>The sweets of the honeymoon and an undefined -vacation beyond make no great calls on her as -a helpmate and wife. If her husband’s means -permit of a servant or two, the smoother the water -and the plainer the sailing for the nonce; although<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>{35}</span> -these keen-scented critics in the kitchen will, in -a very short time, detect and take the grossest -advantage of their mistress’s inexperience. Besides, -if we reflect that among our middle classes more -marry on an income of two hundred pounds -than on a higher, it becomes painfully apparent -that two or three servants are the one thing our -young housewife needs, but cannot possibly -afford.</p> - -<p>She is now, however, only about to begin her -life-work, and if there is such a thing clearly -marked out for a being on this globe, it is for -woman. By birthright, she is the mother of the -human race. Could she have a greater, grander -field for enterprise? How admirably has nature -fitted her for performing the functions of the -mother and adorning the province of the wife! -Hence, there devolves upon her a responsibility -which no extraneous labour in more inviting -fields can excuse. No philosophy, no tinkering -of the constitution, no success in the misnamed -higher walks of life and knowledge, will atone -for the failure of the mother. Let her shine a -social star of the first magnitude, let her be -supreme in every intellectual circle, and then -marry, as she is ever prone to do, in spite of all -theories; and if she fail as a mother, she fails -as a woman and as a human being. She becomes -a mere rag, a tatter of nature’s cast-off clothing, -spiritless, aimless, a failure in this great world -of work.</p> - -<p>As her family increases, the household shadows -deepen, where all should be purity, sweetness, -and light. The domestic ship may even founder -through the downright, culpable incapacity of her -that takes the helm. Her children never have -the air of comfort and cleanliness. In their -clothes, the stitch is never in time. The wilful -neglect, and consequent waste, in this one matter -of half-worn clothing is almost incredible. A -slatternly atmosphere pervades her entire home. -With the lapse of time our young wife becomes -gradually untidy, dishevelled, and even dirty, in -her own person; and at last sits down for good, -disconsolate and overwhelmed by her unseen foe. -Her husband can find no pleasure in the ‘hugger-mugger,’ -as Carlyle phrases it, of his home; there -is no brightness in it to cheer his hours of rest. -He returns from his daily labours to a chaos, -which he shuns by going elsewhere; and so the -sequel of misery and neglect takes form.</p> - -<p>As a first precaution against such a calamity, let -us strip our home-life of every taint of quackery. -Let us regard women’s education, like that of men, -as a means to a lifelong end, never forgetting that -if we unfit it for everyday practice, we render it a -mere useless gem, valuable in a sense, but unset. -Middle-class women will be the better educated, -in every sense, the more skilled they are in the -functions of the mother and the duties of the -wife. Give them every chance of proving thrifty -wives and good mothers, in addition to, or, where -that is impossible, to the exclusion of accomplished -brides. Let some part of their training -as presently constituted, such as the rigours of -music, and the fritterings of embroidery, give -way, in part, to the essential acquirements which -every woman, every mother should possess, and -which no gold can buy. Give us a woman, then, -natural in her studies, her training, her vocations, -and her dress, and in the words of the -wisest of men, who certainly had a varied -experience of womankind, we shall have something -‘far more precious than rubies. She -will not be afraid of the snow for her household; -strength and honour will be her clothing; -her husband shall have no need of spoil; he -shall be known in the gates, when he sitteth -among the elders; he shall praise her; and her -children shall call her blessed.’</p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak x-ebookmaker-important" id="BY_MEAD_AND_STREAM">BY MEAD AND STREAM.</h2> -</div> - - -<h3>CHAPTER IV.—IN THE OAK PARLOUR.</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">And</span> so, it had been only a bit of Uncle Dick’s -kindly forethought and common-sense which had -prompted the alarming words he had spoken -to Madge. How she and Philip laughed at the -chimerical idea that there could be any possible -combination of circumstances in time or space -which could alter their thoughts regarding each -other! The birds in the orchard, in the intervals -of pecking the fruit, seemed to sing a joyous -laughing chorus at the absurdity of it—notwithstanding -that the admission of it might be -prudent.</p> - -<p>But when they came down to the point of -vague admission that in the abstract and in -relation to other couples—of course it could not -apply to their own case—Uncle Dick’s counsel was -such as prudent young people about to separate -should keep in mind, an expression of perplexity -flitted across Madge’s face. She looked at him -with those tenderly wistful serious eyes, half -doubting whether or not to utter the thought -which had come to her.</p> - -<p>‘But what I cannot understand,’ she said -slowly, ‘is why Uncle Dick should have been -in such a temper. You know that although he -may fly into a passion at anything that seems -to him wrong, he never keeps it up. Now he -had all the time riding home from Kingshope -to cool, and yet when he spoke to me he seemed -to be as angry as if he had just come out of -the room where the quarrel took place.’</p> - -<p>‘What can it matter to us?’ was the blithe -response. ‘He is not angry with me or with you, -and so long as that is the case we need not mind -if he should quarrel with all creation.’</p> - -<p>‘I’ll tell you what we will do,’ she said, -and the disappearance of all perplexity from her -face showed that she was quite of his opinion, -although she wanted to have it supported by -another authority.</p> - -<p>‘What is that?’</p> - -<p>‘We will go in and ask Aunt Hessy what she -thinks about it.... Are you aware, sir’ (this -with a pretty assumption of severity), ‘that you -have not seen aunty to-day, and that you have -not even inquired about her?’</p> - -<p>‘That <i>is</i> bad,’ he muttered; but it was evident -that the badness which he felt was the interruption -of the happy wandering through the orchard -by this summary recall to duty.</p> - -<p>In his remorse, however, he was ready to sacrifice -his present pleasure; for Aunt Hessy was -a stanch friend of theirs, and it might be that -her cheery way of looking at things would dispel -the last lingering cloud of doubt from Madge’s -mind regarding the misunderstanding between -his father and Uncle Dick.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>{36}</span></p> - -<p>‘Then we had better go in at once; we shall -find her in the dairy.’</p> - -<p>Mrs Crawshay was superintending the operations -of three buxom maidens who were scalding -the large cans in which the milk was conveyed -every morning to the metropolis. Her -ruddy face with the quiet, kindly gray eyes -was that of a woman in her prime, and even -her perfectly white hair did not detract from the -sense of youth which was expressed in her appearance: -it was an additional charm. She was -nearly sixty. Her age was a standing joke of -Uncle Dick’s. He had made the discovery that -she was a month older than himself, and he -magnified it into a year.</p> - -<p>‘Can’t you see?’ he would say, ‘if you are -born in December and I am born in January, that -makes exactly a year’s difference?’</p> - -<p>Then there would be a loud guffaw, and Uncle -Dick would feel that he had completely overcome -the Missus. The words and the guffaw were as a -rule simultaneous, and if nobody happened to be -present, it usually ended in Uncle Dick putting -his arm round her neck and saying with a lump -in his throat: ‘My old lass—young always to -me.’</p> - -<p>He had not the slightest notion of the poetry -that was in his soul whilst he spoke.</p> - -<p>Mrs Crawshay believed in young love. She had -been very happy in hers. She had been brought -up on a farm. Lads had come about her of course, -and she had put them aside with a—‘Nay, lad, -I’m not for thee,’ and had thought no more about -them. Then Dick Crawshay had come, and—she -did not know why—she had said: ‘Yes, thou -art my lad.’</p> - -<p>They had been very happy notwithstanding -their losses—indeed the losses seemed to have -drawn them closer together.</p> - -<p>‘It’s only you and me, my old lass,’ he would -say in their privacy.</p> - -<p>‘Only you and me, Dick,’ she would say as -her gray head rested on his breast with all the -emotion of youth in her heart.</p> - - -<p class="p2">‘Go into the oak parlour,’ said Mrs Crawshay -cheerily to the young folks, when she understood -their mission; ‘and I’ll be with you in a -minute.’</p> - -<p>The oak parlour was the stateroom of the -house. It was long and high; the oak of the -panels and beams which supported the pointed -roof were of that dark hue which only time can -impart. The three narrow windows had been -lengthened by Dick’s father, and when the moon -shone through them they were like three white -ghosts looking in upon the dark chamber. But -the moon did not often get a chance of doing this, -for there was only a brief period of the year -during which there was not a huge fire blazing -in the great old-fashioned ingle. There were -four portraits of former Crawshays and three -of famous horses; with these exceptions the walls -were bare, for none of the family had ever been -endowed with much love of art.</p> - -<p>There were some legends still current about -the mysteries hidden behind the sombre panels. -One of the panels was specially honoured because -it was reputed to have a recess behind it in which -the king had found shelter for a time during his -flight from the Roundheads. But owing to the -indifference or carelessness of successive generations, -nobody was now quite sure to which of -the panels this honour properly belonged. There -had been occasional attempts made to discover -the royal hiding-place, but they had hitherto -failed.</p> - -<p>The furniture was plain and substantial, displaying -the styles of several periods of manufacture. -In spite of the stiff straight lines of -most of the things in the room, the red curtains, -the red table-cover, the odd variety of the chairs -gave the place a homely and, when the fire was -ablaze, a cosy expression. This stateroom was -correctly called ‘parlour,’ and it had been the -scene of many a revel.</p> - -<p>As Philip and Madge were on their way to -the oak parlour, a servant presented a card to -the latter.</p> - -<p>‘He asked for you, miss,’ said the girl, and -passed on to the kitchen.</p> - -<p>Madge looked at the card, and instantly held -it out to Philip.</p> - -<p>‘Hullo!—my father,’ ejaculated he, adding with -a laugh: ‘Now you can see that this mountain -of yours is not even a molehill.’</p> - -<p>‘How can you tell that?’</p> - -<p>‘Because my father is the reverse of Uncle -Dick. He never forgets—I doubt if he ever -forgives—an unpleasant word. And yet here he -is. Come along at once—but we had better say -nothing to him about the affair unless he speaks -of it himself.’</p> - -<p>They entered the room together, smiling hopefully.</p> - -<p>Mr Lloyd Hadleigh was standing at a window, -hat in one hand, slim umbrella in the other, and -staring hard at the shrubs. He had a way of -staring hard at everything, and yet the way was -so calm and thoughtful that he did not appear -to see anything or anybody, and thus the stare -was not offensive.</p> - -<p>‘The guv’nor always seems to be dreaming -about you when he looks at you, and you never -know when he’s going to speak—that’s awk’ard,’ -was the description of his expression given by -Caleb Kersey, one of the occasional labourers on -Ringsford.</p> - -<p>He was a man of average height, firmly built; -square face; thick black moustache; close cropped -black hair, with only an indication of thinning -on the top and showing few streaks of white. His -age was not more than fifty, and he had attained -the full vigour of life.</p> - -<p>‘People talk about the fire and “go” of thirty,’ -he would say in his dry way. ‘It is nonsense. -At that age a man is either going downhill or -going up it, and in either case he is too much -occupied and worried to have time to be happy. -That was the most miserable period of my -life.’</p> - -<p>Coldness was the first impression of his outward -character. No one had ever seen him in a passion. -Successful in business, he had provided well for -the five children of a very early marriage. He -never referred to that event, and had been long -a widower without showing the slightest inclination -to establish a new mistress at Ringsford.</p> - -<p>He turned on the entrance of Madge and Philip, -saluting the former with grave politeness; then -to the latter: ‘There are some letters for you -at home, Philip.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>{37}</span></p> - -<p>‘Thank you, sir; but I have no doubt they -can wait. I am to stay for dinner here.’</p> - -<p>‘From the postmarks I judge they are of -importance.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah—then I know who they are from, and in -that case there is no hurry at all, for the mail -does not leave until Monday.’</p> - -<p>Mr Hadleigh addressed himself to Madge—no -sign of annoyance in voice or manner.</p> - -<p>‘May I be permitted to have a few minutes’ -conversation with you in private, Miss Heathcote?’</p> - -<p>‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ broke in Philip hastily; -‘I did not understand you to mean that you -found me in the way.—If your aunt should ask -for me, Miss Heathcote, I shall be in the -garden.’</p> - -<p>With a good-natured inclination of the head, -he went out. And as he walked down the -garden path filling his pipe, he muttered to -himself thoughtfully: ‘Seems to me he grows -queerer and queerer every day. What <i>can</i> be -the matter with him? If anybody else had -asked for a private interview so solemnly, I -should have taken it for granted that he was -going to propose.... Daresay he wants to give -some explanation of that confounded row, and -make his apologies through Madge. I should -like him to do that.’</p> - -<p>But Mr Hadleigh was neither going to propose -nor to make apologies. He smiled, a curious sort -of half-sad, half-amused smile, and there was really -something interesting in the expression of his eyes -at the moment.</p> - -<p>‘The truth is, Miss Heathcote, that I cannot -acknowledge weakness before Philip. He is such -a reckless fellow about money, that he would tell -me I ought to give in at once to the labourers.’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure he would not, Mr Hadleigh, if he -thought you were in the right.’</p> - -<p>‘I am not one likely to hold out if convinced -that I am in the wrong.’</p> - -<p>‘Few men do under these conditions, Mr -Hadleigh,’ said Madge, smiling.</p> - -<p>‘Well, at anyrate, I want your assistance very -much; will you give it?’</p> - -<p>‘With great pleasure, if it is worth anything -to you.’</p> - -<p>‘It is worth everything; for what harvest I -might have on the home-farm—and I understand -it promises to be a good one—is likely to be lost -unless you help me.’</p> - -<p>‘How can that be, Mr Hadleigh?’</p> - -<p>‘Through beer. This is how the matter stands. -You know the dispute about the wages, and I am -willing to give in to that. But on this question -of beer in the field I am firm. The men and -women shall have the price of it; but I will -neither give beer on the field nor permit them -to bring it there. A great reform is to be worked -in this matter, and I mean to do what little I -can to advance it. I am sure, Miss Heathcote, -you must acknowledge that I am right in adhering -to this resolution.’</p> - -<p>‘I have been brought up in some very old-fashioned -notions, Mr Hadleigh,’ she answered -with pretty evasiveness.</p> - -<p>‘There is a high principle at stake in it, my -dear Miss Heathcote, and it is worth fighting -for.’</p> - -<p>‘But I do not yet see how my services are to -be of use to you,’ she said, anxious to avoid this -debatable subject. It was one on which her -uncle had quite different views from those of -Mr Hadleigh. And, therefore, she could not -altogether sympathise with the latter’s enthusiasm, -eager as she was to see the people steady -and sober, for she remembered at the moment -that he had made a considerable portion of his -fortune out of a brewery.</p> - -<p>‘That was exactly what I was about to explain,’ -he replied. ‘I came to beg you to speak to Caleb -Kersey.’</p> - -<p>‘Caleb!—why, he never touches anything -stronger than tea.’</p> - -<p>‘That may be; but he believes that other people -have a right to do so if they like. He has persuaded -every man and woman who comes to me -or my bailiff to put the question: “Is there to -be beer?” When they are answered: “No; but -the money,” they turn on their heels and march -off, so that at this moment we have only two men. -Now, my dear Miss Heathcote, will you persuade -Kersey to stop his interference?’</p> - -<p>‘I do not see that he is interfering; but I will -speak to him.’</p> - -<p>‘Thanks, thanks. If you were with me I -should have no difficulty.’</p> - -<p>‘You would find me a very bad second,’ she -answered, laughing, ‘for I should say—submit -to old customs until persuasion alters them, since -force never can.’</p> - -<p>Two things struck Madge during this interview -and the commonplaces about nothing which -followed it: The first, how much more frank -and at ease he seemed to be with her than with -any one else; and the second was, how loath he -seemed to go.</p> - -<p>The owner of Ringsford said to himself as he -was driven away: ‘I shall be glad when she is -Philip’s wife.’</p> - - -<h3>CHAPTER V.—A NEW EDEN.</h3> - -<p>She was still standing at the door to which -she had accompanied Mr Hadleigh, and was -looking after him, when a kindly voice behind -her said: ‘He does look a woeful man. I wonder -if he has any real friends.’</p> - -<p>Madge turned. Aunt Hessy was standing there, -a pitying expression on her comely face, and -she was wiping her hands in her apron. There -was nothing in Mrs Crawshay’s manner or appearance -to indicate her Quaker antecedents, except -the frequent use of thee and thou—she did not -always use that form of speech—and the quiet -tone of all the colours of her dress. Yet, until -her marriage she had been, like her father, a good -Wesleyan; after her marriage she accompanied -her husband to the church in which his family -had kept their place for so many generations. -To her simple faith it was the same whether -she worshipped in church or chapel.</p> - -<p>‘Why do you say that, aunt?’</p> - -<p>‘Because he seems to be so much alone.’</p> - -<p>‘Mr Hadleigh alone! What about all the people -who visit the manor?’</p> - -<p>‘Ay, they visit the manor,’ answered Aunt -Hessy, with a slight shake of the head and a -quiet smile.</p> - -<p>That set Madge thinking. He did impress her -as a solitary man, notwithstanding his family,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>{38}</span> -his many visitors, his school treats, his flower-shows, -and other signs of a busy and what ought -to be a happy life. Then there was the strange -thing that he should come to ask her assistance -to enable him to come to terms with the -harvesters.</p> - -<p>‘I believe you are right, aunt. He is very -much alone, and I suppose that was why he -came to me to-day.’</p> - -<p>‘What did he want?’ asked Dame Crawshay, -with unusual quickness and an expression of -anxiety Madge could not remember ever having -seen on her face before. She did not understand -it until long afterwards.</p> - -<p>Having explained the object of Mr Hadleigh’s -visit, as she understood it, she was surprised to -see how much relieved her aunt looked. Knowing -that that good woman had never had a secret -in her life, and never made the least mystery -about anything, she put the question direct: -‘Did you expect him to say anything else?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know, Madge. He is a queer man, -Mr Hadleigh, in a-many ways. He spoke to your -uncle about this, and he would have nothing -to do with it.’</p> - -<p>‘And that is why they fell out at the market, -I suppose.’</p> - -<p>‘Where is Philip? He must take after his -mother, for he is straightforward in everything.’</p> - -<p>‘He is out in the garden. Shall I go for -him?’</p> - -<p>‘Nay. I want more peas, so we can find him -on our way for them.’</p> - -<p>Philip had not gone far. He had walked down -to the duck-pond; but after that distant excursion, -he kept near the little gate beside the dairy, -glancing frequently at the house-door. He was -dallying with the last hours of the bright morning -of his love, and he grudged every moment that -Madge was away from him. A few days hence -he would be looking back to this one with longing -eyes. How miserable he would be on board that -ship! How he would hate the sound of the -machinery, knowing that every stroke of the -piston was taking him so much farther away -from her. And then, as the waters widened and -stretched into the sky, would not his heart sink, -and would he not wish that he had never started -on this weary journey?</p> - -<p>In response to that lover-like question, he heard -the echo of Madge’s voice in his brain: ‘It was -your mother’s wish.’</p> - -<p>This simple reminder was enough, for he -cherished the sad memory of that sweet pale face, -which smiled upon him hopefully a moment -before it became calm in death.</p> - -<p>He sprang away from these sorrowful reflections. -Yes; he would look back longingly to -this day when sea and sky shut out Willowmere -and Madge from sight. But they would both be -palpable to his mental vision; and he would look -forward to that still brighter day of his return, -his mission fulfilled, and nothing to do but -marry Madge and live happy ever after. Ay, that -should comfort him and make the present parting -bearable.</p> - -<p>Besides, who could say with what fortune he -might come back? The uncle to whom he was -going was rumoured to be the possessor of fabulous -wealth, and although married he was childless. -True, also, he was reported to be so eccentric -that nobody could understand him, or form the -slightest conception of how he would act under -any given circumstances. But it was known that -before he went abroad, his sister—Philip’s mother—had -been the one creature in whom all his -affection seemed to be concentrated. An inexplicable -coldness appeared in his conduct towards her -after her marriage. The reason had never been -explained.</p> - -<p>Shortly before her death, however, there had -come a letter from him, which made her very -happy. But she had burned the letter, by his -instructions, without showing it to any one or -revealing its contents. Evidently it was this -letter which induced her to lay upon her son -the charge of going to her brother Austin Shield, -whenever he should be summoned. But the -uncle held no correspondence with any one at -Ringsford. That he was still alive, could be only -surmised from vague reports and the fact that on -every anniversary of Mrs Hadleigh’s birthday, -with one exception, a fresh wreath of flowers was -found on her grave—placed there, it was believed, -by his orders. Then a few months ago, a letter -had come to Philip, containing an invitation -from his uncle, suggesting possible advantages, and -inclosing a draft for expenses. So, being summoned, -he was going; and whether the result -should be good or ill fortune, his mother’s last -command would be obeyed, and he would return -with a clear conscience to marry Madge.</p> - -<p>That thought kept him in good-humour throughout -the weary ages which seemed to elapse before -he saw Madge and her aunt approaching. He -ran to meet them.</p> - -<p>‘I thought you were never coming,’ was his -exclamation.</p> - -<p>‘Thou’lt be able to do without her for a longer -time than this without troubling thyself, by-and-by,’ -said Dame Crawshay with one of her pleasant -smiles.</p> - -<p>‘When that day comes, I will say you are a -prophetess of evil,’ he retorted, laughing, but with -an air of affectionate respect. That was the feeling -with which she inspired everybody.</p> - -<p>‘Nay, lad; but it need not be evil, for you may -be apart, surely, doing good for each other.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes; but not without wishing we were -together.’</p> - -<p>‘Wilt ever be wishing that?’</p> - -<p>‘For ever and ever.’</p> - -<p>He answered with burlesque solemnity outwardly; -but Madge knew that he spoke from his -heart, and in the full faith of his words. She gave -him a quiet glance with those soft wistful eyes, -and he was very happy.</p> - -<p>They had reached a tall row of peas, at which -Dame Crawshay had been already busy that -morning, as a wooden chair placed beside it -indicated. Here she seated herself, and began -to pluck the peas, shelling them as she plucked; -then dropping the pods into her lap and the peas -into a basin. She performed the operation with -mechanical regularity, which did not in any way -interfere with conversation.</p> - -<p>Madge, kneeling beside her, helped with nimble -fingers; and Philip, hands clasped behind him, -stood looking on admiringly. The sun was -shining upon them; and, darting shafts of light -through the surrounding trees, made bright spots<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>{39}</span> -amidst the moving shadows underneath. Everything -seemed to be still and sleepy. The breeze -was so light that there was only a gentle rustle -of leaves, and through it was heard the occasional -thud of an over-ripe apple or pear as it fell, and -the drowsy hum of the bees.</p> - -<p>Light, warmth, peace. ‘Ah,’ thought Philip, -‘if we could only go on this way always! If we -could fix ourselves thus as in a photograph, what -a blessed Eden this would be!’</p> - -<p>‘Thou’dst find it dull soon, Philip, standing -there looking at us shelling peas, if thou wert -forced to do it,’ said Dame Crawshay, looking -up at him with a curious smile.</p> - -<p>‘That shows you cannot guess my thoughts. -They were of quite a different nature, for I was -wishing that there had been some fixing process -in nature, so that there might never be any change -in our present positions.’</p> - -<p>Madge looked as if she had been thinking -something very similar; but she went on silently -shelling peas; and a sunbeam shooting through -a gap in the green pea hedge, made a golden -radiance on her face.</p> - -<p>‘Eh, deary me, what love will do!’ exclaimed -the dame, laughing, but shaking her head regretfully, -as if sorry that she could not look at things -in the same hopeful humour. ‘Other people have -talked like that in the heyday of life. Some have -found a little of their hope fulfilled; many have -found none of it: all have found that they had -to give up the thought of a great deal of what -they expected. Some take their disappointment -with wise content and make the best of things -as they find them. They jog along as happily -as mortals may, like Dick and me; a-many kick -against the pricks and suffer sorely for it; but -all have to give in sooner or later, and own that -the world could not get along if everybody could -arrange it to suit his own pleasure.’</p> - -<p>How gently this good-natured philosopher -brought them down from the clouds to what -foolish enthusiasts call contemptuously ‘the -common earth.’ Sensible people use the same -phrase, but they use it respectfully, knowing -that this ‘common earth’ may be made beautiful -or ugly as their own actions instruct their -vision.</p> - -<p>To Philip it was quite true that most people -sought something they could never attain; that -many people fancied they had found the something -they wanted, and discovered afterwards, to -their sorrow, that they had not found the thing -at all. But then, you see, it was an entirely -different condition of affairs in his case. He had -found what he wanted, and knew that there could -be no mistake about it.</p> - -<p>To Madge, her aunt’s wisdom appeared to be -very cold and even wrong in some respects, considering -the placid and happy experiences of her -own life. She had her great faith in Philip—her -dream of a life which should be made up of -devotion to him under any circumstances of joy -or sorrow, and she could not believe that it was -possible that their experience should be as full -of crosses as that of others. And yet there was -a strange faintness at her heart, as if she were -vaguely conscious that there were possibilities -which neither she nor Philip could foresee or -understand.</p> - -<p>‘We shall be amongst the wise folk,’ said Philip -confidently, ‘and take things as they come, contentedly. -We shall be easily contented, so long -as we are true to each other—and I don’t think -you imagine there is any chance of a mistake in -that respect.’</p> - -<p>Aunt Hessy went on shelling peas for a time -in silence. There was a thoughtful expression on -her kindly face, and there was even a suggestion -of sadness in it. Here were two young people—so -young, so happy, so full of faith in each other—just -starting on that troublous journey called -Life, and she had to speak those words of warning -which always seem so harsh to the pupils, until, -after bitter experience, they look back and say: -‘If I had only taken the warning in time, what -might have been?’</p> - -<p>By-and-by she spoke very softly: ‘Thou art -thinking, Madge, that I am croaking; and thou, -Philip, are thinking the same.... Nay, there -is no need to deny it. But I do not mean to -dishearten thee. All I want is to make thee -understand that there are many things we reckon -as certain in the heyday of life, that never come -to us.’</p> - -<p>‘I daresay,’ said Philip, plucking a pea-pod -and chewing it savagely; ‘but don’t you think, -Mrs Crawshay, that this is very like throwing -cold-water on us, and that throwing cold-water -is very apt to produce the misadventure which -you think possible?—that is, that something might -happen to alter our plans?’</p> - -<p>‘I am sorry for that, lad; I do not mean to -throw cold-water on thee; but rather to help -thee and to help Madge to look at things in a -sensible way. Listen. I had a friend once who -was like Madge; and she had a friend who was, -as it might be, like you, Philip. He went away, -as you are going, to seek his fortune in foreign -parts. There was a blunder between them, -and she got wedded to another man. Her first -lad came back, and finding how things were, he -went away again and never spoke more to her.’</p> - -<p>‘They must have been miserable.’</p> - -<p>‘For a while they were miserable enough; but -they got over it.’</p> - -<p>‘I’ll be bound the man never married.’</p> - -<p>‘There thou’dst be bound wrong. He did -marry, and is now wealthy and prosperous, though -she was taken away in a fever long ago.’</p> - -<p>‘Ay, but is he happy?’</p> - -<p>‘That is only known to himself and Him that -knows us all.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, for our future I will trust Madge,’ said -Philip, taking her hand, ‘in spite of all your -forebodings; and she will trust me.’</p> - -<p>Dame Crawshay had filled her basin with peas, -and she rose.</p> - -<p>‘God bless thee, Philip, wherever thou goest, -and make thy hopes realities,’ she said with what -seemed to the lovers unnecessary solemnity.</p> - -<p>The dame went into the house. Madge and -Philip went down the meadow, and under the -willows by the merry river, forgot that there was -any parting before them or any danger that their -fortunes might be crossed.</p> - -<p>Those bright days! Can they ever come again, -or can any future joy be so full, so perfect? -There are no love-speeches—little talk of any -kind, and what there is, is commonplace enough. -There is no need for speech. There is only—only!—the -sense of the dear presence that makes<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>{40}</span> -all the world beautiful, leaving the heart nothing -more to desire.</p> - -<p>But the dreams in the sunshine there under -the willows, with the river murmuring sympathetic -harmonies at their feet! The dreams of a future, -and yet no future; for it is always to be as now. -Can it be possible that this man and woman -will ever look coldly on each other—ever speak -angry, passionate words? Can it be possible -that there will ever flit across their minds one -instant’s regret that they had come together?</p> - -<p>No, no: the dreams are of the future; but -the future will be always as now—full of faith -and gladness.</p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_CLIFF-HOUSES_OF_CANON_DE">THE CLIFF-HOUSES OF CAÑON DE -CHELLY.</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> fourth and most southerly iron link of -railway which will soon stretch across the North -American continent from ocean to ocean is -rapidly approaching completion along the thirty-fifth -parallel; already it has reached the San -Francisco mountains in its course to the Pacific. -While avoiding the chances of blockade by -snow, liable in higher latitudes, it has struck -through a little explored region among the -vast plains of Arizona and New Mexico. It is -not easy at once to realise the extent of table-lands, -greater in area than Great Britain and -Ireland, upon which no soul has a settled habitation. -The sun beats down with terrible force on -these dry undulating plains, where at most times -nothing relieves the eye, as it wanders away to -the dim horizon, save a few cactus and sage-bush -plants. But at seasons, heavy rains change dry -gulches into roaring torrents, and parched lowlands -into broad lakes, covering the country with -a fine grass, on which millions of sheep, horses, -and cattle are herded by wandering Navajo and -Moqui Indians. To the periodical rains, as well -as to geological convulsions, are traced the causes -of those wondrous chasms, which in places break -abruptly the rolling surface of the prairie, and -extend in rocky gorges for many miles. They are -called cañons. The grandeur of the scenery found -in one of them, Cañon de Chelly, can scarcely -be overstated.</p> - -<p>Cañon de Chelly—pronounced Canyon de Shay—is -in the north of Arizona. It takes its name -from a Frenchman, who is said to have been the -first white man to set foot within its walls; but -except the record of a recent visit by the United -States Geological Survey, no account of it seems -to have hitherto appeared. The picturesque -features of this magnificent ravine are unrivalled; -and what lends a more fascinating interest, is the -existence, among its rocky walls, of dwellings -once occupied by a race of men, who, dropping -into the ocean of the past with an unwritten -history, are only known to us as cave-dwellers.</p> - -<p>In October 1882, an exploring party, headed -by Professor Stevenson of the Ethnological -Bureau, Washington, and escorted by a number -of soldiers and Indian guides, set out for this -remarkable spot. One of the party, Lieutenant -T. V. Keam, has furnished the following details -of their investigations. After travelling one hundred -and twenty miles out from the nearest -military post, Fort Defiance, and crossing a desert -some twenty miles broad, the entrance to Cañon -de Chelly was reached. The bed of the ravine -is entirely composed of sand, which is constantly -being blown along it, with pitiless force, by -sudden gusts of wind. The walls of the cañon -are red sandstone; at first, but some fifty feet -high, they increase gradually, until at eighteen -miles they reach an elevation of twelve hundred -feet, which is about the highest point, and continue -without decreasing for at least thirty miles. -The first night, Professor Stevenson’s party camped -three miles from the mouth of the cañon, under -a grove of cotton-wood trees, and near a clear -flowing stream of water. Here the scene was an -impressive one. A side ravine of great magnitude -intersected the main cañon, and at the junction -there stood out, like a sentinel, far from the rest -of the cliff, one solemn brown stone shaft eight -hundred feet high. In the morning, continuing -the journey through the awful grandeur of the -gorge, the walls still increased in height, some -having a smooth and beautifully coloured surface -reaching to one thousand feet; others, from the -action of water, sand storms, and atmospheric -effects, cut and broken into grand arches, battlements, -and spires of every conceivable shape. At -times would be seen an immense opening in -the wall, stretching back a quarter of a mile, -the sides covered with verdure of different shades, -reaching to the summit, where tall firs with -giant arms seemed dwarfed to the size of a puny -gooseberry bush, and the lordly oak was only -distinguished by the beautiful sheen of its -leaves.</p> - -<p>On the second night the camp was formed at -the base of a cliff, in which were descried, planted -along a niche at a height of nearly one hundred -feet, some cliff-dwellings. Next morning, these -were reached after a dangerous climb, by means -of a rope thrown across a projecting stick, up -the almost perpendicular sides of this stupendous -natural fortress. The village was perched on its -narrow ledge of rock, facing the south, and was -overshadowed by an enormous arch, formed in -the solid side of the cañon. Overlapping the ruins -for at least fifty feet, at a height above them of -sixty feet, it spread its protecting roof five hundred -feet from end to end. No moisture ever -penetrated beyond the edge of this red shield of -nature; and to its shelter, combined with the dryness -of the atmosphere and preserving nature of -the sand, is to be attributed the remarkable state of -preservation, after such a lapse of time, in which -the houses of the cliff-dwellers were found. Some -of them still stood three stories high, built in -compact form, close together within the extremely -limited space, the timber used to support the roof -being in some cases perfectly sound. The white<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>{41}</span> -stone employed is gypsum, cut with stone implements, -but having the outer edges smoothly dressed -and evenly laid up; the stones of equal size placed -parallel with each other presenting a uniform -and pleasing appearance.</p> - -<p>No remains of importance were found here, -excepting a finely woven sandal, and some pieces -of netting made from the fibre of the yucca plant. -But on proceeding two miles farther up the -cañon, another group of ruins was discovered, -which contained relics of a very interesting character. -The interior of some of the larger houses -was painted with a series of red bands and -squares, fresh in colour, and contained fragments -of ornamented pottery, besides what appeared to -be pieces of blankets made from birds’ feathers; -these, perhaps, in ages past bedecked the shoulders -of some red beauty, when the grim old walls -echoed the fierce war-songs of a long-lost nation. -But the most fortunate find at this spot, and the -first of that description made in the country, was -a cyst, constructed of timber smoothly plastered -on the inside, containing remains of three of the -ancient cliff-dwellers. One was in a sitting posture, -the skin of the thighs and legs being in a -perfect state of preservation. These ruins, as in -the former case, were protected from the weather -by an overhanging arch of rock.</p> - -<p>At several points on the journey through -Cañon de Chelly, hieroglyphics were traced, graven -on the cliff wall. Most of the designs were -unintelligible; but figures of animals, such as -the bear and mountain sheep or goat, were prominent. -Another cliff village was observed of a -considerable size, but planted three hundred feet -above the cañon bed, in such a position that it -is likely to remain sacred from the foot of man -for still further generations. The same elements -which in geologic time fashioned the caves and -recesses of the cañon walls, have in later times -worn the approaches away, so that to-day they -do not even furnish a footing for the bear or -coyote. In what remote age and for how many -generations the cliff-dwellers lived in these strange -fastnesses, will probably never be determined. -Faint traces of still older buildings are found -here and there in the bed of Cañon de Chelly; -and it is conjectured that this region was once -densely populated along the watercourses, and -that the tribes having been driven from their -homes by a powerful foe, the remnant sought -refuge in the caves of the cañon walls.</p> - -<p>Of the great antiquity of these structures, there -is no question. The Indian of to-day knows -nothing of their history, has not even traditions -concerning them. The Navajo, with a few poles -plastered with a heavy deposit of earth, constructs -his <i>hogan</i> or wigwam, and rarely remains in the -same place winter and summer. He has no more -idea of constructing a dwelling like those so perfectly -preserved in the cliffs, than he has of baking -specimens of pottery such as are found in fragments -amongst the walls. In the fine quality of -paste, in the animal handles—something like old -Japanese ware—and in the general ornamentation, -these exhibit a high order of excellence. Some -specimens of what is called laminated ware are -remarkable; threadlike layers of clay are laid -one on each other with admirable delicacy and -patience. In these fragments may yet be read -something of the history of a vanished race. -They illuminate a dark corner in the world’s -history, and seem to indicate a people who once -felt civilising influences higher than anything -known by those uncouth figures whose camp-fires -now glimmer at night across the silent -starlit prairie.</p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="TWO_DAYS_IN_A_LIFETIME">TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="ph3">A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.</p> - - -<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Captain Bowood</span> came forward. ‘Sir Frederick, -your servant; glad to see you,’ he said in his -hearty sailor-like fashion.</p> - -<p>‘I am glad to see you, Captain,’ responded the -Baronet as he proffered his hand. ‘How’s the -gout this morning?’</p> - -<p>‘So, so. Might be better—might be worse.—You -here, Miss Saucebox!’ he added, turning -to Elsie. ‘Why are you not at your lessons—eh, -now?’</p> - -<p>‘As if anybody could learn Latin roots on a -sunny morning like this!’ Then, clasping one of -his arms with both her hands, and looking up -coaxingly into his face, she said: ‘You might -give me a holiday, nunky dear.’</p> - -<p>‘Why, why? A holiday indeed!—Listen to -her, Sir Frederick. The baggage is always -begging for holidays.’</p> - -<p>‘But the baggage doesn’t always get them,’ -was the answer with a pretty pout. Then, after -another glance at the long-haired stranger, who -was already busy with the piano, she said to -herself: ‘It is he; I am sure of it. And yet -if I had not heard his voice, I should not have -known him.’</p> - -<p>Captain Bowood at this time had left his -sixtieth birthday behind him, but he carried his -years lightly. He was a bluff, hearty-looking, -loud-voiced man, with a very red face, and very -white hair and whiskers. A fever, several years -previously, had radically impaired his eyesight, -since which time he had taken to wearing gold-rimmed -spectacles. He had a choleric temper; -but his bursts of petulance were like those -summer storms which are over almost as soon -as they have broken, and leave not a cloud behind. -Throughout the American Civil War, Captain -Bowood had been known as one of the most daring -and successful blockade-runners, and it was during -those days of danger and excitement that he laid -the foundation of the fortune on which he had -since retired. No man was more completely ruled -by his wife than the choleric but generous-hearted -Captain, and no man suspected the fact less than -he did.</p> - -<p>‘I drove over this morning,’ said Sir Frederick, -‘to see you about that bay mare which I hear -you are desirous of getting rid of.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes—just so. We’ll go to the stable -and have a look at her. By-the-bye, I was talking -to Boyd just now, when your name cropped -up. It seems he met you when you were both -in South America. Oscar Boyd, engineering -fellow and all that. You remember him, eh, -now?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>{42}</span></p> - -<p>‘I certainly do remember a Mr Boyd; but it -is many years since we met.’ Then to himself -the Baronet said: ‘Can this be the other man? -Oh! Lady Dimsdale.’</p> - -<p>‘A very agreeable fellow,’ said the Captain. -‘Here on a visit for a couple of days. A little -matter of business between him and me to save -lawyers’ expenses.’</p> - -<p>‘The other man, without a doubt,’ thought the -Baronet. ‘His wife must be dead.’</p> - -<p>Miss Brandon had slipped unobserved out of -the room. She was now sitting in the veranda, -making-believe to be intent over her Latin verbs, -but in reality waiting impatiently till the coast -should be clear. She had not long to wait. -Presently she heard the Captain say in his cheery -loud-voiced way: ‘Come along, Sir Frederick; -we shall just have time to look at the mare before -luncheon;’ and a minute later, she heard the -shutting of a door.</p> - -<p>Then she shut her book, rose from her seat, -and crossing on tiptoe to the open French-window, -she peeped into the room. ‘Is that -you, Charley?’ she asked in a voice that was -little above a whisper.</p> - -<p>‘Whom else should it be?’ answered the -young man, looking round from the piano with -a smile.</p> - -<p>‘I was nearly sure of it from the first; but -then you look such a guy!’</p> - -<p>‘She calls me a guy! after all the trouble I -have taken to get myself up like a foreign -nobleman.’ Speaking thus, he took off his -spectacles and wig, and stood revealed, as -pleasant-looking a young fellow as one would -see in a day’s march.</p> - -<p>Elsie ran forward with a little cry of surprise -and delight. ‘Now I know you for my own!’ -she exclaimed; and when he took her in his -arms and kissed her—more than once—she offered -not the slightest resistance. ‘But what a dreadful -risk to run!’ she went on as soon as she -was set at liberty. ‘Suppose your uncle—good -gracious!’</p> - -<p>‘My uncle? He can’t eat me, that’s certain; -and he has already cut me off with the proverbial -shilling.’</p> - -<p>‘My poor boy! Fate is very, very hard upon -you. We are both down on our luck, Charley; -but we can die together, can’t we?’ As she -propounded this question, she held out her box -of bon-bons. Charley took one, she took another, -and then the box was put away. ‘A pan of -charcoal’—she went on, giving her sweetmeat -a gustatory turn over with her tongue—‘door -and windows close shut—you go to sleep and -forget to wake up. What could be simpler?’</p> - -<p>‘Hardly anything. But we have not quite -come to that yet. Of course, that dreadful Vice-chancellor -won’t let me marry you for some time -to come; but he can’t help himself when you are -one-and-twenty.’</p> - -<p>‘That won’t be for nearly four years,’ answered -Elsie with a pout. ‘What a long, long time to -look forward to!’</p> - -<p>‘We have only to be true to each other, which -I am sure we shall be, and it will pass away far -more quickly than you imagine. By that time, -I hope to be earning enough money to find you -a comfortable home.’</p> - -<p>‘There’s my money, you know, Charley dear.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t mean to have anything to do with that. -If I can’t earn enough to keep my wife, I’ll never -marry.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’</p> - -<p>‘But I shall do that, dear. Why, I’m getting -five guineas a week already; and if I’m not -getting three times as much as that by the time -you are twenty-one, I’ll swallow my wig.’</p> - -<p>‘Your uncle will never forgive you for going -on the stage.’</p> - -<p>‘O yes, he will, by-and-by, when he sees -that I am making a fair living by it and -really mean to stick to it—having sown all my -wild-oats; and above all, when he finds how well -they speak of me in his favourite newspaper. -And that reminds me that it was what the -<i>Telephone</i> said about me that caused old Brooker -our manager to raise my screw from four guineas -a week to five. I cut the notice out of the paper, -you may be sure. Here it is.’ Speaking thus, -Master Charles produced his pocket-book; and -drew from it a printed slip of paper, which he -proceeded to read aloud: ‘“Although we have -had occasion more than once to commend the -acting of Mr Warden”—that’s me—“we were -certainly surprised last evening by his very -masterly rendering of the part of Captain Cleveland. -His byplay was remarkably clever; and -his impassioned love-making in the third act, -where timidity or hesitation would have been -fatal to the piece, brought down the house, and -earned him two well-merited recalls. We certainly -consider that there is no more promising -<i>jeune premier</i> than Mr Warden now on the stage.” -There, my pet, what do you think of that?’ asked -the young actor as he put back the slip of paper -into his pocket-book.</p> - -<p>But his pet vouchsafed no answer. Her face -was turned from him; a tear fell from her eye. -His arms were round her in a moment. ‘My -darling child, what can be the matter?’ he -asked.</p> - -<p>‘I—I wish you had never gone on the stage,’ -said Elsie, with a sob in her voice. ‘I—I wish -you were still a tea-broker!’</p> - -<p>‘Good gracious! what makes you wish anything -so absurd?’</p> - -<p>‘It’s not absurd. Doesn’t the newspaper speak -of your “impassioned love-making?” And then -people—lovers, I mean—are always kissing each -other on the stage.’</p> - -<p>‘Just as they do sometimes in real life;’ and -with that he suited the action to the word.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t, Mr Summers, please.’ And she pushed -him away, and her eyes flashed through her -tears, and she looked very pretty.</p> - -<p>Mr Summers sat down on a chair and was -unfeeling enough to laugh. ‘Why, what a little -goose you are!’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t see it at all.’ This with a toss of her -head. Certainly, it is not pleasant to be called -a goose.</p> - -<p>‘You must know, if you come to think of it, -that both love-making and kissing on the stage -are only so much make-believe, however real -they may seem to the audience. During the -last six months, it has been my fate to have -to make love to about a dozen different ladies; -and during the next six months I shall probably -have to do the same thing to as many more; -but to imagine on that account that I really<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>{43}</span> -care for any of them, or that they really care -for me, would be as absurd as to suppose that -because in the piece we shall play to-morrow -night I shall hunt Tom Bowles—who is the -villain of the drama—through three long acts, -and kill him in the fourth, he and I must -necessarily hate each other. The fact is that -Tom and I are the best of friends, and generally -contrive to lodge together when on our travels.’</p> - -<p>Elsie was half convinced that she <i>had</i> made a -goose of herself, but of course was not prepared -to admit it. ‘I see that Miss Wylie is acting in -your company,’ she said. ‘I saw her in London -about a year ago; she is very, very pretty.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Wylie is a very charming woman.’</p> - -<p>‘And you make love to her?’</p> - -<p>‘Every night of my life—for a little while.’</p> - -<p>Elsie felt her unreasonable mood coming back. -‘Then why don’t you marry her?’ she asked -with a ring of bitterness in her voice.</p> - -<p>Again that callous-hearted young man laughed. -‘Considering that she is married already, and the -happy mother of two children, I can hardly see -the feasibility of your suggestion.’</p> - -<p>‘Then why does she call herself “Miss -Wylie?”’</p> - -<p>‘It’s a way they have in the profession. She -goes by her maiden name. In reality, she is -Mrs Berrington. Her husband travels with her. -He plays “heavy fathers.”’</p> - -<p>Miss Brandon looked mystified. Her lover -saw it.</p> - -<p>‘You see this suit of clothes,’ he said, ‘and this -wig and these spectacles. They are part of the -“make-up” of a certain character I played last -week. I was the Count von Rosenthal, in love -with the beautiful daughter of a poor music-master. -In order to be able to make love to -her, and win her for myself, and not for my -title and riches, I go in the guise of a student, -and take lodgings in the same house where she -and her father are living. After many mishaps, -all ends as it ought to do. Charlotte and I fall -into each other’s arms, and her father blesses -us both with tears in his eyes. Miss Wylie played -the Professor’s daughter, and her husband played -the father’s part, and very well he did it too.’</p> - -<p>‘Her husband allowed you to make love to -his wife?’ said Miss Brandon, with wide-open -eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Of course he did; and he was not so foolish -as to be jealous, like some people. Why should -he be?’</p> - -<p>Elsie was fully convinced by this time that -she had made a goose of herself. ‘You may kiss -me, Charley,’ she said with much sweetness. -‘Dear boy, I forgive you.’</p> - -<p>Suddenly the sound of a footstep caused -them to start and fly asunder. There, close to -the open French-window, stood Captain Bowood, -glaring from one to the other of them. Miss -Brandon gave vent to a little shriek and fled from -the room. The Captain came forward, a fine frenzy -in his eye. ‘Who the deuce may you be, sir?’ -he spluttered, although he had recognised Charley -at the first glance.</p> - -<p>‘I have the honour to be your very affectionate -and obedient nephew, sir.’</p> - -<p>The Captain’s reply to this was an inarticulate -growl. Next moment, his eye fell on the discarded -wig. ‘And what the dickens may this be, sir?’ -he asked as he lifted up the article in question -on the end of his cane.</p> - -<p>‘A trifle of property, sir, belonging to your -affectionate and obedient nephew;’ and with that -he took the wig off the end of the cane and -crammed it into his pocket.</p> - -<p>‘So, so. This is the way, you young jackanapes, -that you set my commands at defiance, and steal -into my house after being forbidden ever to set -foot in it again! You young snake-in-the-grass! -You crocodile! It would serve you right to give -you in charge to the police. How do I know -that you are not after my spoons and forks? -Come now.’</p> - -<p>‘I am glad to find, sir, that your powers of -vituperation are in no way impaired since I had -the pleasure of seeing you last. Time cannot -wither them.—Hem! I believe, sir, that you have -had the honour of twice paying my debts, amounting -in the aggregate to the trifling sum of five -hundred pounds. In this paper, sir, you will -find twenty-five sovereigns, being my first dividend -of one shilling in the pound. A further dividend -will be paid at the earliest possible date.’ As Mr -Summers spoke thus, he drew from his waistcoat -pocket a small sealed packet and placed the same -quietly on the table.</p> - -<p>The irate Captain glanced at the packet and -then at his imperturbable nephew. The cane -trembled in his fingers; for a moment or two -he could not command his voice. ‘What, what!’ -he cried at last. ‘The boy will drive me crazy. -What does he mean with his confounded rigmarole? -Dividend! Shilling in the pound! Bother -me, if I can make head or tail of his foolery!’</p> - -<p>‘And yet, sir, both my words and my meaning -were clear enough, as no doubt you will find -when you come to think them over in your -calmer moments.—And now I have the honour -to wish you a very good-morning; and I hope to -afford you the pleasure of seeing me again before -long.’ Speaking thus, Charles Summers made -his uncle a very low bow, took up his hat, and -walked out of the room.</p> - -<p>‘There’s insolence! There’s audacity!’ burst -out the Captain as soon as he found himself alone. -‘The pleasure of seeing him again—eh? Only -let me find him here without my leave—I’ll—I’ll—— -I don’t know what I won’t do!—And -now I come to think of it, it looks very much -as if he and Miss Saucebox were making love -to each other. How dare they? I’ll haul ’em -both up before the Vice-chancellor.’ Here his -eye fell on the packet on the table. He took it -up and examined it. ‘Twenty-five sovereigns, -did he say? As if I was going to take the young -idiot’s money! I’ll keep it for the present, and -send it back to him by-and-by. Must teach him -a lesson. Do him all the good in the world. -False hair and spectacles, eh? Deceived his old -uncle finely. Just the sort of trick I should have -delighted in when I was a boy. But Master -Charley will be clever if he catches the old fox -asleep a second time.’ He had reached the French-window -on his way out, when he came to a sudden -stand, and gave vent to a low whistle. ‘Ha, ha! -Lady Dimsdale and Mr Boyd, and mighty taken -up with each other they seem. Well, well. I’m -no spoil-sport. I’ll not let them know I’ve seen -them. Looks uncommonly as if Dan Cupid had -got them by the ears. A widow too! All widows<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>{44}</span> -ought to be labelled “Dangerous.”’ Smiling and -chuckling to himself, the Captain drew back, -crossed the room, and went out by the opposite -door.</p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_COLOUR-SENSE">THE COLOUR-SENSE.</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> phenomenon of Colour is one with which all -who are not blind must of necessity be familiar. -So accustomed, indeed, have we been to it -throughout all our lives, that most of us are -inclined to take it for granted, and probably -trouble ourselves very seldom as to its true cause. -A brief discussion, therefore, of the nature of the -Colour-sense may, we trust, prove not uninteresting -to our readers.</p> - -<p>What, then, is colour? It is obvious that it -may be considered in two ways; we may either -discuss the impression it makes on the mind, or -the real external causes to which it is due. -Viewed in the first light, colour is as much a -sensation as is that of being struck or burnt. -Viewed from the latter stand-point, it is merely -a property of light; hence, in order correctly -to understand its nature, we must first briefly -examine the nature of this phenomenon.</p> - -<p>According to modern scientific men, light is -not a material substance, but consists of a kind -of motion or vibration communicated by the -luminous body to the surrounding medium, and -travelling throughout space with an enormous -velocity. The medium, however, through which -light-waves travel is not air, nor any of the -ordinary forms of matter. Of its real nature -nothing is known, and its very existence is only -assumed in order to account for the observed -phenomena. It must be very subtle and very -elastic; but it is a curious fact that the nature -of the vibrations in question would seem to -preclude the supposition that it is a fluid, these -being rather such as would be met with in the -case of a solid. To this medium, whatever its -true nature may be, the name of <i>ether</i> is given.</p> - -<p>The sensation, then, which we know by the -name of Light is to be regarded as the effect on -the retina of the eye of certain very rapid vibrations -in the <i>ether</i> of the universe. All these -waves travel with the same swiftness; but they -are not all of the same length, nor of the same -frequency; and investigation has shown that it -is to this difference of wave-length that difference -of colour is due. In other words, the impression -to which we give the name of a certain colour is -due to the effect on the retina of vibrations of a -certain frequency. This conclusion is arrived at -by a very simple experiment, in which advantage -is taken of the following principle. So long as a -ray of light is passing through the same medium, -it travels in one straight line; but in passing -obliquely from one medium into another of -different density, its path is bent through a certain -angle, just as a column of soldiers has a tendency -to change its direction of march when obliquely -entering a wood or other difficult ground. Now, -this angle is naturally greatest in the case of -the shortest waves, so that when a ray of light -is thus bent out of its course—or, as it is called, -‘refracted’—the various sets of vibrations of -which it is composed all travel in different -directions, and may be separately examined. In -fact the ray of light is analysed, or broken up -into its component parts. The most convenient -apparatus to employ for this purpose is a prism -of glass. It is found, as is well known, that if a -beam of ordinary sun-light be allowed to pass -through the prism and be then received on a -screen, it is resolved into a band of colours -succeeding one another in the order of those of -the rainbow. Such a band of colours is called a -‘spectrum.’</p> - -<p>Now, of the visible portion of the spectrum -the red rays are those which undergo the least -refraction, while the violet rays are bent through -the greatest angle, the other colours in their -natural order being intermediate. From what -has been said above, it is evident that, this being -the case, the portion of the light consisting of -waves of greatest length and least frequency is -that which produces on the eye the sensation of -red, and that each of the other colours is caused -by vibrations of a certain definite length. We are -speaking now of the visible part of the spectrum. -As a matter of fact, the waves of least and greatest -frequency make no impression on the eye at all; -but the former have the greatest heating power, -while the latter are those which chiefly produce -chemical effects such as are utilised in photography.</p> - -<p>Having now arrived at the nature of colour, -we are in a position to apply these facts to the -discussion of coloured substances.</p> - -<p>When light falls on a body, a portion of it is -turned back or, as it is called, ‘reflected’ from -the surface; another part is taken up or ‘absorbed’ -by the substance; while, in the case of a transparent -body, a third portion passes on through it, -and is said to be ‘transmitted.’ Most bodies -absorb the different parts of the light in different -proportions, and hence their various colours are -produced. The colour of a transparent substance -is that of the light which it transmits; while an -opaque body is said to be of the colour of the -light which it reflects, or rather of that part of -it which is irregularly scattered.</p> - -<p>There are three colours in the solar spectrum -which are called ‘primary,’ owing to the fact that -they cannot be produced by mixtures. These are -red, violet, and deep olive green. The generally-received -idea that red, blue, and yellow are primary -colours, is by recent scientific authorities not -regarded as tenable; it arose from observations on -mixtures of pigments rather than of coloured light. -For instance, objects seen through two plates of -glass, one of which is blue and the other yellow, -appear green; but this by no means justifies -us in saying that a mixture of blue and yellow -light is green. For remembering that the two -glasses do not appear coloured by reason of their -adding anything to the light, but rather through -their stopping the passage of certain rays, we -shall see that the green light which is finally -transmitted is not a mixture of yellow and blue -at all, but is rather that portion of the light which -both of the glasses allow to pass. The blue glass -will probably stop all rays except blue, violet, -and green; the yellow glass, all but green, yellow, -and orange. The only light, therefore, which -can pass through both glasses is green. The same -remark applies to mixtures of pigments, each -particle being really transparent, though the -whole bulk appears opaque. It is easy, however, -to obtain real mixtures of coloured lights by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>{45}</span> -employing suitable arrangements, of which one -of the simplest consists of a disc painted with -alternate bands of colours and rapidly rotated. -By such means it is found that a mixture of blue -and yellow is not green, but white or gray, and -that yellow can itself be produced by a mixture -of red and green in proper proportions. The late -Professor Clerk Maxwell made an interesting -series of experiments on colour mixtures by -means of an apparatus known as Maxwell’s -Colour-box, by which any number of colours could -be combined in any required proportions.</p> - -<p>It would, however, be beyond the scope of the -present paper to discuss the many important -results which followed from his investigations. -Helmholtz believed the three primary colour -sensations to be clue to the action of three sets -of nerves at the back of the retina, each of which -is excited only by vibrations within a certain -range of frequency; and this theory is now generally -held. In the case of some persons, the -sensation corresponding to red is wholly absent, -and the spectrum appears to consist of two colours -with white or gray between. The nature of -these colours is, for obvious reasons, difficult to -determine; but one doubtless nearly corresponds -to our sensation of blue, while the other is a -deep colour, probably dark green. Persons thus -affected are usually called ‘colour-blind;’ but -this epithet is a misnomer, and the term ‘dichroic -vision’ has been suggested for the phenomenon -instead.</p> - -<p>We have already remarked that our range of -vision is comparatively narrow, the extreme portions -of the spectrum making no impression on the -retina. But we have no reason to think that these -limits have been the same in all ages. The evidence -would rather tend to show that the human -eye is undergoing a slow and gradual development, -which enables it to distinguish between colours -which the ancients regarded as identical, and may -in future render it able to perceive some portions -at least of the parts of the spectrum which -are now invisible. The Vedas of India, which -are among the most ancient writings known, -attest that in the most remote ages only white -and black could be distinguished.</p> - -<p>It would seem as if the perception of different -degrees of intensity of light preceded by a long -time the appreciation of various kinds of colours. -After weighing the evidence, Magnus has come -to the conclusion that red was the first colour -to become visible, then yellow and orange; and -afterwards, though at a considerable interval, -green, blue, and violet in order. Various passages -in the Old Testament have been cited as proof -that the ancients failed to perceive all the colours -seen by us, one of the most remarkable being in -Ezekiel i. 27 and 28, where the prophet compares -the appearance of the brightness round about the -fire to that of the ‘bow that is in the cloud in -the day of rain’—which passage has been cited -by Mr Gladstone in his article in the <i>Nineteenth -Century</i> for October 1877, as indicating a want of -appreciation of distinct colours among the ancients. -This is not quite clear, however, as the appearance -round about the supernatural fire might have -assumed auroral or rainbow tints. But the most -important evidence on the apparent want of -capacity among the ancients to discriminate -between colours is that afforded by the writings -of Homer, who, in the opinion of Magnus, -could neither have perceived green nor blue. -The point has been carefully examined by Mr -Gladstone, who comes to the conclusion that this -estimate is quite within the mark. Inquiring in -detail into each of Homer’s colour-epithets, he -shows that almost all must be in reality regarded -as expressing degrees of intensity rather than of -quality, and that the few exceptions are all confined -to red and yellow. The brilliant blue sky -of the southern climes where Homer lived must -have appeared to him as of a neutral gray hue. -Of course, the suggestion that the writings -usually assigned to Homer were in reality the -productions of many authors, does not invalidate -the reasoning at all, as we do not attribute -any defect in vision to the poet which was not -equally manifested by his contemporaries.</p> - -<p>It is curious that the distinction between green -and blue is not yet perfectly developed in all -nations. Travellers tell us that the Burmese often -confuse these colours in a remarkable manner. -This and other facts suggest that the development -of the colour-sense is not yet completed; and -that in the future our range of perception may -be still further enlarged, so that the now invisible -rays may be recognised by the eye as distinct -colours.</p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="SO_UNREASONABLE_OF_STEP-MOTHER">‘SO UNREASONABLE OF STEP-MOTHER!’</h2> -</div> - -<p class="ph3">A SKETCH FROM LIFE.</p> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Not</span> long before the death of George Eliot, on -a return trip to London by the Midland route, -I broke my journey at Leicester, to pay a -flying visit to Coventry, where the great writer -had spent many of her happiest days. There -I was privileged by having for escort one of -her most valued friends; and many interesting -reminiscences were for our benefit called to mind, -especially of a visit paid to Edinburgh, ‘mine own -romantic town,’ and of the impression the beauty -of its situation had made on her mind. Next -morning, every favourite haunt of hers was searched -out and commented on, as well as the interesting -points of the quaint old city of Coventry; and -bidding good-bye to our hospitable friends, I -departed alone by the evening mail for Leicester, -there to wait for the midnight train to Edinburgh, -feeling satisfied that the hours had been well -spent. Arrived in Leicester, I was fortunate in -finding a fellow-countryman in one of the porters, -who at once took me and my belongings under -his especial protection, and when he had seen -me comfortably ‘happit up’ on one of the sofas -of the luxurious waiting-room, he retired, bidding -me take a quiet forty winks, and keep my mind -quite easy, for he would give me timely notice of -the arrival of the Scotch train. Scarcely had I -begun to feel the loneliness of my situation, when -the door opened, and a female figure entered, -rather unwilling, apparently; nay, seemed to -be pushed in, while a deep male voice advised -that she should rest by the fire, and not put -herself about so. By a succession of jerks, she -advanced to the chair by the fire opposite to my<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>{46}</span> -sofa; and finding that I was not asleep, as she -had supposed, at once, and without any circumlocution, -began to unburden her mind, her words -flowing from her mouth at express speed, regardless -of comma or full stop.</p> - -<p>‘Not put myself about! Humph! That’s so -like men.—Ain’t it now, miss? Ah, I dessay -you’ve ’ad your own share of worriting before -now, and know ’ow downright masterful and -provoking they can be at times. I tell you <i>w’at</i>, -miss, if you want to be at peace at all, you’ve -got to say black is w’ite, if they ’ave a mind that -it should be so.—Not put myself about! I’d like -to know ’ow one with a ’eart and a soul in their -body could ’elp being put about, as I am.’</p> - -<p>I ventured to hope nothing serious had occurred -to disturb her composure or to put her about, -my voice at once disclosing that I hailed from -the North, and also that I was of a sympathetic -nature.</p> - -<p>‘Put about!’ she once more exclaimed. ‘Why, -I <i>am</i> put about; yes—no use trying to appear -as if I was anything else. Yes; only think, miss! -Not ’alf an hour gone, a telegram was brought to -our ’ouse by the telegraph-boy. His mother, a -widow, keeps a little bit of a shop not many doors -from our own. Yes; he ’ands it in saying it -was for father. I opened it; and there, staring -me right in the eyes were them words: “<i>Step-mother -is lying a-dying.</i>”—Not put about! I’d -just like to know ’ow anybody could ’ave -been anything else than put about, after <i>that</i>. -Now, miss, you must understand that John—that’s -my ’usband—is a great go-to-meeting-man. -Why, at that very moment he might be at the -church meeting, or he might ’ave been at the -Building meeting, or he might ’ave been at -a Masonic meeting, or he might ’ave been -at any other meeting under the sun. And w’atever -was I to do? for there was the telegraph-boy; -there was the telegram, with the words as plain -as plain: “Step-mother is lying a-dying.” I -put on my bonnet and shawl; I ’urried to father’s -office—he is a master-builder, is father, with sixteen -men under him and three apprentices; and -John, my son, for partner. I rushed in quite out -of breath, not expecting to find any one there -at that time of night; but there I found John—that’s -my son—and says I, without taking time -to sit down, though I was like to drop: “John, -w’atever is to be done! Here’s a telegraph-boy -has brought a telegram for father to say, step-mother -is a-dying.’”</p> - -<p>‘Now, miss, I just put it to you, if them telegrams, -coming so sudden at hours w’en no one -expects postmen’s knocks, and bringing such news -as that, ain’t enough to put any one about! Augh! -Men are so queer; there’s no nerves in their bodies, -and can’t understand us women. I’ve no patience -with them. There was John—that’s my son—w’at -did he do? Why, look at me quite composed, -as if it weren’t no news at all, and says he: -“Don’t put yourself about, mother. Father has -gone off not many minutes ago to the paddock, -to give little Bobbie a ride.” And with that he -takes down a time-table, to look at it for the -last train, puts on his hat, calls for a cab, and says -quite composed: “Jump in, mother. We’ll go -in pursuit of father, and then we’ll catch the train -quite easily.” It seemed to me the horse just -crept up the ’ill like a snail; only John would -’ave it they were going faster than their usual -pace. W’en we came to our door, w’at do you -think we saw, now, miss?—No; you’ll never -guess, I dessay. Why, <i>father</i>, to be sure! Yes; -there he was; and there was the pony; and there -was little Bobbie—all three of ’em just about -to start for a long ride into the country. I ’ad -carried the telegram in my pocket; and do you -know, miss, after all my flurry and worry, w’at -did John—that’s my ’usband—say, think you?—Augh! -Men are so unreasonable, and w’at’s -more, such cool and ’eartless pieces. Yes; that’s -w’at <i>they</i> are; and I don’t care who hears me -a-saying it.</p> - -<p>‘John—that’s father—after he had read the -telegram, he turns to me, and says he: “Why, -mother, ’ave your senses left your ’ead altogether? -W’atever made you carry off the telegram! -Couldn’t you ’ave stayed quietly at ’ome, instead -of putting yourself about in this here fashion? -If you ’ad, we’d ’ave been at the station without -any hurry at all, by this time.”</p> - -<p>‘I felt too angry to speak, I do declare, miss. -I think the older men grow, the more aggravating -they get to a sensitive nature. So I gathered -the things together father said we’d better take -with us, into my travelling-basket, without as -much as a single word—a stranger coming in -would ’ave thought me dumb—while father sent -a man back to the paddock with little Bobbie and -the pony. We then got into the cab once more; -and here we are, with John—that’s my son—a-looking -after the tickets and the luggage; and -father smoking his pipe outside as cool as cool. -O dear, if they wouldn’t put me out with their -“Keep cool, mother; no need to fluster and flurry -so, mother”—“Take it easy, good ooman; don’t -put yourself about”—I’d bear it better, I certainly -should.</p> - -<p>‘Is step-mother nice? you ask. Oh—well—that’s -just as you take it. Some people say -she’s nice; some say she’s quite the opposite. -But’—and here she drew her chair closer to me, -and in a more confidential tone, continued: ‘I -tell you <i>w’at</i>, miss—I’ve said it before, and I say -it again—step-mother, in spite of her religious -pro-fession and san’timonious ways, is cantankerous. -No use a-trying to hide it—step-mother -is just w’at I say, <i>can-tankerous</i>. I’ve said it -before; I say it again—she’d show her cantankerousness -to the very last. And han’t -my words come true, for here she is lying -a-dying, and Mary-Anne’s wedding fixed for -Friday of this very week!—O my—now that I -come to ’ave a quiet moment to think, w’atever -am I to do? It’s so unreasonable of step-mother! -Why, the dressmaker was coming this very -evening to fit my dress on for the second time—a -new black silk it is—and w’atever will <i>she</i> -think, w’en she finds I’ve gone off without as -much as a good-bye message? You see, miss, -Mary-Anne is going to marry into quite a genteel -family. Father, and John—that’s my son—he -comes to me not many weeks gone, and says he: -“Mother, I ’ope you are going to ’ave a nice dress -for this wedding. I ’ope it will be a silk or -a satin you decide to buy.” And says I: “John, -you know w’at father is, and ’as been all his -life—a just man to all; but a man who looks<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>{47}</span> -upon gay clothes as not necessary. And then, -John, you know as well as I do that father is -rather close-fisted w’en money has to be paid out—like -his own father before him, who was looked -upon by all as the most parsimonious man in -the town. I don’t say father is quite as bad; -but close-fisted I <i>do</i> say he is, John; and you -know it. Were I to say: ‘Father, I’d like to -’ave a silk dress for this wedding’—and I don’t -hide the fact from <i>you</i>, John, that I certainly -should—he’d just laugh. I know it beforehand. -He’d say: ‘Why, mother, ’aven’t you been -content with a good stuff-dress all our married -life, and can’t you go on to the end so? I’ve -over and over again said my wife looked as well -as most women in the town of Leicester.’”</p> - -<p>‘“But,” says John—that’s my son—“mother, -you owe your duty certainly to father. I’m not -going against it; but w’at I says is: You owe -your duty to your son also; and w’en I wish <i>my</i> -mother to look better than she’s ever done before, -why—to oblige me—you’ll go and purchase the -best silk-dress in town, ’ave it made fashionable, -with frills and all the fal-de-rals and etceteras; -send in the account in my name; and if father -makes any objections, why, let him settle the -matter with <i>me</i>.”</p> - -<p>‘You see, miss, John is getting to be so like -father—both <i>firm</i>, very; and if they take a -notion of any kind w’atever into their ’eads, -you’d move this station as soon as move them -from their purpose; so the dress ’as been bought; -and w’at father will say to it—for it’s to be made -in the height of the fashion—<i>I</i> can’t say.’</p> - -<p>A few judicious questions about the step-mother -who was lying a-dying, drew from my -companion that the said old lady was rich as well -as cantankerous; and that, as there were other -relations who might step in to the injury of the -worthy builder, who was her only stepson, it was, -to say the least, but prudent to be on the -spot.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, yes, miss,’ she exclaimed, stretching her -hands out to keep the heat of the fire from her -face, ‘this is a very strange world. Only on -Sunday, the vicar was preaching to us against -worldly-mindedness, telling us that as we came -naked into the world, so we left it, carrying -nothing away. But, miss, step-mother ain’t like -the most of people; and she’s going to manage -to take with her as much money as she possibly -can.—How is she going to do it? Why, miss—she’s -going to ’ave a coffin!—No need to look -surprised, miss. O yes; we all bury our dead -in coffins; but w’at kind of a coffin is step-mother -going to ’ave, do you think? No; don’t -try to guess, for you’d be down to Scotland and -up again before it would ever come into your -’ead.—No; not a velvet one, nor a satin; but a -<i>hoak</i> one.—Yes; I thought you would get a scare. -A <i>hoak</i> coffin is w’at it is to be. And she’s going -to ’ave bearers—six of ’em. Each bearer is to -’ave ’at-bands and scarfs, and two pounds apiece. -And if all that pomp and tomfoolery ain’t taking -so much money out of the world with her, I -don’t know w’at <i>is</i>. W’en John—that’s father—heard -of it, says he to me: “Mother, if you -survives me, bury me plain, but comf’able;” and -says I: “Father, if you survives me, I ’ope you -will do the same by me—plain, but comf’able; -for I tell you w’at, father, I’d not lie easy underground -thinking of the waste of good money over -such ’umbug.”’</p> - -<p>Here the waiting-room door opened hurriedly, -and the worthy woman bounded to her feet at -the one word ‘Mother!’ pronounced in such a -decided tone that I too was standing beside her -before I knew what I was doing, with all my -wraps tossed higgledy-piggledy on the floor. -Advancing with her to the door, she got out of -me that my immediate destination was Scotland—a -place, to her mind, evidently as remote as the -arctic regions; and in her astonishment, she forgot -the necessity there was to hurry to get in to her -train, now ready to start again. She even seemed -to forget that step-mother was lying a-dying, as -she insisted upon introducing me to her husband, -whose huge body was wrapped in a greatcoat, -with tippet after tippet on it up to his neck. -‘Only to think, John—this lady is going to -Scotland all alone, John! She’ll be travelling -all night.—O dear, however are you to do it, -miss; ain’t you afraid?—Yes, John; I’m coming.—Good-bye, -miss; we’ve ’ad quite a pleasant -chat, I do assure you; the time seems to ’ave -flown.’</p> - -<p>I hurried her along the platform, whispering to -her as I did so: ‘I hope step-mother will rally a -bit; that if she must pass away, it may be next -week, so that Mary-Anne may get her wedding -comfortably over.’ At the very door of the carriage -she paused, seized my hand, shook it warmly, -as she exclaimed: ‘Well, now, you ’ave a feeling -’eart; but I don’t expect her to be so accommodating. -No; I’ve said it before, and I say it again—step-mother -is—<i>can-ta</i>—— Why, w’atever is -the matter?’</p> - -<p>Next thing that happened, the little woman -was lifted up bodily in her son’s arms—a counterpart -of his father—and deposited in the carriage; -while her husband, in spite of his lumbering -large body, succeeded in jumping in just as -the patience of all the railway officials was -exhausted, and the signal given to start the -train. Before it was lost to view, a white -handkerchief fluttered out, by way of good-bye, -causing a smile to rise over the calm features -of John the younger, who, lifting his hat politely -to me, bade me good-evening, adding: ‘Mother -is no great traveller, so she is easily put about. -Dessay if she went often from ’ome, she’d learn -to be more composed.’</p> - -<p>From that hour I have never ceased to regret -that I did not ask the good-natured young builder -to forward me a local paper with the account of -the death and burial of ‘step-mother.’ No doubt -there would be due notice taken of such an -interesting personage, as she lay in state in her -‘hoak’ coffin, surrounded by her bearers in the -flowing scarfs and hat-bands. Sharp as my -friends generally give me credit for being, I own -I committed a grievous blunder; I am therefore -obliged to leave my story without an end, not -being able even to add that the fair Mary-Anne’s -wedding came off on the appointed day, or was -postponed till after the complimentary days of -mourning were past. I cheer myself with the -thought that ‘John—that’s father’—being a firm -man and a sensible, would insist upon the previous -arrangements standing good, seeing that the bridegroom—a -most important fact I have omitted -to record—had a fortnight’s holiday reluctantly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>{48}</span> -granted to him by his employers. Why, now -that I think of it, my countryman the railway -porter would have sent me any number of papers, -judging by the kindly interest he took in my -behalf, and the determined manner he fought -for a particular seat for me in a particular -carriage when the time came for my train to -start. ‘Na, na, mem; nae need for thanks; -blood’s thicker than water,’ he said. ‘Never -you fear, now that the Scotch guard has ta’en up -your cause; you’re a’ right; he’ll see that ye’re -safely housed.’ And safely housed I was, and -went steaming out of the station with my worthy -friend hanging on by the door, calling to me: -‘If you’re ever in the town o’ Perth, mem, my -auld mother would be downright pleased to see -you, for my sake. Tell her I’m getting on as -weel as can be expeckit, sae far frae hame.’</p> - -<p>All night, my disturbed sleep was made doubly -so by dreams of old women of every age and style. -Now I was hunting for the porter’s nameless -mother; now I was standing by the bedside of the -step-mother who was lying a-dying. Again I was -an active assistant at a marriage ceremony, with the -fair Mary-Anne, surrounded by her genteel relations, -leaning on my shoulder, weeping copiously -at the idea of travelling to Scotland. Once more -I stood gazing down on the old step-mother; and -just as the day dawned, I was fairly roused, in -my determination not to be smothered under an -oak coffin and a pyramid of scarfs, hat-bands, and -bearers, by the tumbling of my own bonnet-box -from the luggage-rack above me.</p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="FRENCH_DETECTIVES">FRENCH DETECTIVES.</h2> -</div> - - -<p>‘The Secret Police’ in France are not only -personally unknown to the general public, but, -save in exceptional cases, even to each other. -It is known where they may be found at a -moment’s notice when wanted; but, as a rule, -they do not frequent the prefecture more than -can be helped. They have nothing whatever -to do with serving summonses or executing -warrants. There are among them men who have -lived in almost every class of life, and each of -them has what may be called a special line of -business of his own. In the course of their duty, -some of them mix with the receivers of stolen -goods, others with thieves, many with what are -called in Paris commercial rascals, and not a few -with those whose ‘industry’ it is to melt silver -and other property of a like valuable nature. -Forgers, sharpers of all kinds, housebreakers and -horse-stealers—a very numerous class in Paris—have -each all their special agents of the police, -who watch them, and know where to lay hands -upon them when they are wanted. A French -detective who cannot assume and act up to any -character, and who cannot disguise himself in -any manner so effectually as not to be recognised -even by those who know him best, is not considered -fit to hold his appointment. Their ability -in this way is marvellous. Some years ago, one -of them made a bet that he would in the course -of the next few days address a gentleman with -whom he was acquainted four times, for at least -ten minutes each time, and that he should not -know him on any occasion until the detective -had discovered himself. As a matter of course, -the gentleman was on his guard, and mistrusted -every one who came near him. But the man -won his bet. It is needless to enter into the -particulars. Suffice it to say that in the course -of the next four days he presented himself in -the character of a bootmaker’s assistant, a fiacre-driver, -a venerable old gentleman with a great -interest in the Bourse, and finally as a waiter -in the hotel in which the gentleman was staying.</p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="NOT_LOST_BUT_GONE_BEFORE">‘NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.’</h2> -</div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><span class="smcap">My</span> little child, with clustering hair,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Strewn o’er thy dear, dead brow,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Though in the past divinely fair,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">More lovely art thou now.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">God bade thy gentle soul depart,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">On brightly shimmering wings;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet near thy clay, thy mother’s heart</div> - <div class="verse indent2">All weakly, fondly clings.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">My beauteous child, with lids of snow</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Closed o’er thy dim blue eyes,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Should it not soothe my grief to know</div> - <div class="verse indent2">They shine beyond the skies?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Above thy silent cot I kneel,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With heart all crushed and sore,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">While through the gloom these sweet words steal:</div> - <div class="verse indent2">‘Not lost, but gone before.’</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">My darling child, these flowers I lay</div> - <div class="verse indent2">On locks too fair, too bright,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For the damp grave-mist, cold and gray,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To dim their sunny light.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Soft baby tresses bathed in tears,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Your gold was all mine own!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Ah, weary months! ah, weary years!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That I must dwell alone.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">My only child, I hold thee still,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Clasped in my fond embrace!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My love, my sweet! how fixed, how chill,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">This smile upon thy face!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The grave is cold, my clasp is warm,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Yet give thee up I must;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And birds will sing when thy loved form</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Lies mouldering in the dust.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">My angel child, thy tiny feet</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Dance through my broken dreams;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Ah me, how joyous, quaint, and sweet,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Their baby pattering seems!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I hush my breath, to hear thee speak;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I see thy red lips part;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But wake to feel thy cold, cold cheek,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Close to my breaking heart!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Soon, soon my burning tears shall fall</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Upon thy coffin lid;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nor may those tears thy soul recall</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To earth—nay, God forbid!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Be happy in His love, for I</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Resigned, though wounded sore,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Can hear His angels whispering nigh:</div> - <div class="verse indent2">‘Not lost, but gone before.’</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse right"><span class="smcap">Fanny Forrester.</span></div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="center">Printed and Published by <span class="smcap">W. & R. Chambers</span>, 47 Paternoster -Row, <span class="smcap">London</span>, and 339 High Street, <span class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="center"><i>All Rights Reserved.</i></p> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p>[Transcriber’s note: The following changes have been made to this text.</p> - -<p>Page 47: wa’t to w’at—“know w’at <i>is</i>.”]</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 3, VOL. 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