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-The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature,
-Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 15, Vol. I, April 12, 1884, by Various
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
-most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
-of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
-will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
-using this eBook.
-
-Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art,
-       Fifth Series, No. 15, Vol. I, April 12, 1884
-
-Author: Various
-
-Release Date: May 20, 2021 [eBook #65389]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-Produced by: Susan Skinner, Eric Hutton and the Online Distributed
-             Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
-             produced from images generously made available by The Internet
-             Archive)
-
-*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR
-LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 15, VOL. I, APRIL 12,
-1884 ***
-
-
-
-
-[Illustration:
-
-CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
-
-OF
-
-POPULAR
-
-LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
-
-Fifth Series
-
-ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
-
-CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
-
-NO. 15.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, APRIL 12, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]
-
-
-
-
-NATURE AROUND LONDON.
-
-
-Most people have the impression that to enjoy country sights and
-sounds, and all the peaceful rural beauties and bright hues of an
-English landscape, one must go a long way out of London. Mr Richard
-Jefferies, in his recent volume, _Nature near London_ (Chatto and
-Windus), has, with his admirable power of nature-painting, shown this
-to be a mistake. About twelve miles from the great metropolis there
-are to be found small picturesque villages lying in the heart of leafy
-copses, and rural lanes imbedded in greenery, and filled with bird
-and insect life. Here the wayfarer, weary with the dust and smoke of
-London, may inhale an atmosphere laden with resinous and balmy scents,
-and stretch himself in the cool grass beside streams beloved by the
-angler, where patches of forget-me-nots gem the greensward with their
-soft turquoise-blue, and the yellow flag hangs out in the bright summer
-sunshine its gay streamers of gold.
-
-Mr Jefferies tells us regarding one of these tiny brooks, that he
-watched season after season a large trout that lay in a deep pool
-under the shadow of a great beech-tree. For nearly four years, in
-shadow and sunshine, he observed this veteran of the finny tribe as
-he lay meditatively watching the world outside from the quiet depths
-of his snug pool. The noisy little sedge-birds chattered overhead,
-and the patient anglers cast their lines with crafty care by the side
-of the brook; but no bait they could use had any charm for him. At
-length, by slow degrees, there came to be a comparative friendliness
-and confidence between the trout and the patient watcher who stood so
-still and silent by the edge of the pool. Sometimes the trout would
-venture out of the shadow, and raising himself over a dead branch that
-lay in the water, display all his speckled beauties in the ripple and
-sunshine. At last, one bright summer morning, an end came to this
-quaint friendship. An awful revolution occurred in the quiet life of
-the brook—the water was dammed up and let off by a side-hatch, in
-order that some large pipe might be laid down; and the big trout, with
-his lesser brethren, fell a victim to the predatory instincts of a
-party of navvies. Our author looked in vain next day into the still
-depths of the beech-tree pool; his finny friend was gone, and the place
-looked empty and dull without him.
-
-It is impossible to describe to any one who has not experienced it
-for himself, how much the near neighbourhood of London enhances all
-the beauties of the country, and brings out the sweet scents of the
-fields and hedges. In the cool dewy mornings, the honeysuckle trailing
-along the hedgerows perfumes the air all around, and mingles with the
-delicious scent of the bean and hay fields. In these woodland copses,
-nature has opened her flowery cornucopia and poured out her treasures
-with a liberal hand. Here one stumbles upon a clump of wild-roses, with
-their delicate pink glow and faint sweet perfume; there, a few steps
-farther bring you to a lime-tree laden with blossoms, and you feel
-the whole perfumed air heavy with the slumberous hum of the bees busy
-overhead. Rabbits dart out and in from under the green palm-like fronds
-of a great clump of brake-fern; the woodpeckers call to each other; the
-jays screech from the leafy lanes; wood-pigeons coo from the depths
-of the copse-wood. There is no blank of silence, no absence of the
-companionship of living things, no lack of vivid interest for any one
-who can scan with an intelligent eye the pages of nature’s great book.
-
-Away over the rippling hayfields, the lark, mounting upwards, a tiny
-speck in the cloudless blue of the summer sky, makes the air quiver
-with the glad thrilling notes of his morning song; and down in the
-leafy hollow of the copse, where the brook murmurs gently beneath the
-overhanging boughs, the blackbird trills his mellifluous flute-like
-notes. Birds, our author says, abound. ‘In some places, almost every
-clod has its lark, every bush its songster.’
-
-One particular lane, with a high hedge bordered with elm-trees, had
-four or five nightingales; and a copse near it resounded in the season
-with the cheerful call of the cuckoo. Magpies, which have become scarce
-in many places throughout the country, are plentiful near London,
-where some birds are also found which, in many country districts,
-are but rare and occasional visitors, such as the blackcap, shrike,
-and gorgeous kingfisher. To a student of bird-life, such spots as a
-little wood, which our author christened Nightingale Copse, cannot
-fail to prove a perfect paradise. It was a favourite resort not only
-of nightingales, but of other migratory birds—chiff-chaffs, willow
-wrens, golden-crested wrens, fieldfares, &c. In the fields bordering
-the highway, partridges abounded; and Mr Jefferies counted on one
-occasion as many as seventeen young pheasants all feeding together on
-the wheat-stubbles. Nor is the ear the only sense which is charmed in
-these woodland copses—in the hedgerows, and under the straggling trees
-and bushes which border the woods, flowers abound, gleaming out in the
-sunshine from between the tall grasses with a sudden surprise of vivid
-colour; or spreading like enamel over the short turf; or intertwining
-their gay garlands with the clustering masses of creeping bramble. Each
-flower has its own peculiar habitat, where it flourishes luxuriantly.
-There are patches of the yellow rock rose, of the cranesbill, of the
-sweet purple wild thyme, of the starry white stitchwort, of the campion
-and yellow snapdragon; while stately and tall under the shadow of the
-birch-trees, the foxglove hangs out to the rustling breeze its lovely
-bells of clouded purple. Nor is heath awanting; ‘the open slopes beyond
-Sandown are covered with heath, growing so thickly, that even the
-narrow footpaths are hidden by the overhanging bushes of it. Beneath
-and amid the heath, what seems a species of lichen grows so profusely
-as to give a gray undertone to the whole.’
-
-In autumn, this stretch of heath blazes out into a deep glory of
-purple, so rich and full, that it seems to give the very atmosphere a
-glow of purple light. Beyond the heath, there are fir-woods, stretching
-to the east and west; while southwards, the heath melts into the soft
-green of corn and meadow lands, with scattered clumps of trees. The
-open slopes among the straggling firs, which dot like sentinels the
-borders of these pine-woods, are covered with forests of tail ferns,
-amid which the browsing cows are lost to sight, and only reveal their
-whereabouts by the tinkling music of the small bells suspended to their
-necks.
-
-Adders are common in these woods, and are sometimes killed for the sake
-of their oil, which some folks consider a specific for deafness. It
-is procured by skinning the adder and taking the fat and boiling it;
-the result being a clear oil, which never thickens even in the coldest
-weather. It is applied by pouring a small quantity into the ear,
-exactly in the same manner as the poison was poured into the ear of the
-sleeping king in _Hamlet_. Squirrels abound in these copses, and so do
-weasels and stoats.
-
-In some fields christened by our author Magpie Fields, because he one
-day saw ten magpies all together in one of them, herbs abound which
-are in request among herbalists for medicinal purposes. One of these
-is yarrow. One day, looking at some mowers at work in a hayfield, he
-saw a man in advance of the others pulling up the yarrow plants as
-fast as he could and carefully laying them aside. Asking him why he
-did so, he answered, that although it seemed such a common weed, it
-was not without its value, for that a person sometimes came and took
-away a whole trap-load of it. The flowers were boiled, and mixed with
-cayenne pepper, and were then used as a remedy for colds in the chest.
-Dandelions are also in request; the tender leaves are pulled in the
-spring, and taken away in sackfuls to be eaten as salad. There are also
-hellebore and blue scabious; and the rough-leaved comfrey; and borage
-with its reminiscences of claret-cup; and groundsel, dear to the owners
-of pet birds; and knotted figwort, and Aaron’s rod; and a whole tribe
-of strongly scented mints and peppermints. The belief in these simples,
-which made the reputation in the middle ages of many a wonder-working
-doctor and village witch, is fast dying out in the country districts,
-where the agricultural labourers scarcely know one herb from
-another; but it flourishes still around the mighty and enlightened
-metropolis. The herb self-heal is to be found in many hedgerows of many
-harvest-fields, as well as on the stubbles near London; but very few
-reapers now would know it if they saw it, or ever think of applying it
-to any accidental cut or gash.
-
-In the harvest and turnip-hoeing seasons, picturesque bivouac fires dot
-the fields and lanes. These do not owe their existence to parties of
-pleasure-seekers, who go a-gipsying under the greenwood tree, but are
-rather the outcome of a hard struggle for the means of subsistence.
-They belong to wandering Irish labourers, who move about from farm to
-farm wherever they can get work, sleeping in barns or outhouses, and
-in fine weather doing their cooking in the open air. Nothing can be
-more unlike the populace of the vast adjacent metropolis than these
-agricultural labourers, native or imported. Look at the ploughman
-in the furrows yonder, with his stolid characterless face, vacantly
-regarding the team of three stately horses before him. Intent day
-by day on the earth beneath his feet, he sees, or at least notices
-little else. ‘His mind imbibes the spirit of the soil,’ and cannot
-rise beyond. When the plough stops, he takes out his bread and cheese;
-and as he munches away, his eyes fall on the sunbeams glittering on
-the roof of the Crystal Palace; but the sparkling reflection awakens
-no train of thought in his uncontemplative soul; he takes no interest
-except in the furrows at his feet; although near London, he is not of
-it.
-
-In the collection of English pottery in the Museum is preserved the
-simple rustic memory of these tillers of the soil, the men who,
-centuries ago, ploughed like this simple countryman these beautiful
-English acres, scattering the seed over the furrows in the green flush
-of spring, and garnering the golden grain beneath the mellow skies of
-autumn. It is curious that so much of the unwritten history of our race
-should be preserved by so frail a thing as earthenware. These jugs and
-mugs, with their quaint mottoes and ornamentation, carry the spectator
-back to the sports and habits of a bygone age.
-
-‘May the best cock win,’ recalls a brutal sport now almost unknown. The
-frog at the bottom of the jug is a rebuke to the too greedy toper;
-while the motto on another cup shows that there were grumblers even in
-the good old days, and that times were hard then as well as now:
-
-    Here’s to thee, mine honest friend,
-    Wishing these hard times to mend.
-
-Beyond the woodlands and valleys which Mr Jefferies has described so
-happily, are the vast South Downs, hidden in masses of gray mist.
-These wide sheep-walks are seemingly endless in their extent. They are
-profusely covered with flowers in their season, with patches of furze,
-and with short thick grass, amid which the wild thyme luxuriates,
-spreading out into soft cushions of purple which might make a seat for
-a king, and permeating with its aromatic fragrance the whole keen air
-of the uplands. The furze is full of bird-life. Only game has decreased
-with the increase of cultivation; and with the decrease of game, foxes
-have become fewer. A few years ago, they were so abundant, that a
-shepherd told our author that he had sometimes seen as many as six at a
-time sunning themselves on the precipitous face of the cliffs at Beachy
-Head. They ascend and descend the precipice by narrow winding-paths of
-their own with the greatest ease and in perfect safety, unless a couple
-have a quarrel on one of the narrow rock-ledges, when fatal results
-often ensue—one or both toppling over.
-
-‘Lands of gold,’ says our author, ‘have been found, and lands of spices
-and precious merchandise; but the South Downs are the land of health.
-There is always the delicious air, turn where you will; and the grass,
-the very touch of which refreshes.’ Besides all this, there is the
-peculiar beauty which gives its chief charm to all elevated situations,
-the interest of the panorama which spreads around and beneath—the
-distant trees which wave in the freshening breeze; the gleam of light
-which brings out into strong relief the warm bit of colouring supplied
-by the tiled roof of yonder farmhouse; the flashes of sunshine which
-brighten up the gloom, and chase the shadows across the swelling
-uplands and green low-lying meadows beyond.
-
-Seen in the shifting lights and glooms of a breezy autumn day, this
-lofty, lonely spot seems a land of enchanted beauty, which holds the
-spectator spellbound, till masses of cloud, rolling up from the sea,
-throw deep purple shadows over the peaceful landscape, and warn him
-that darkness is about to fall over the flower-spangled slopes and
-gleaming sea beyond.
-
-
-
-
-BY MEAD AND STREAM.
-
-CHAPTER XXIII.—CHANGES.
-
-
-The arrival of a stranger in Kingshope was not such an unusual
-occurrence as to attract much particular attention. The villagers were
-accustomed in the summer to frequent visits of bands of ‘beanfeasters’
-or ‘wayzegoose’ parties, as the annual outings of the employees of
-large city firms are called. On these occasions there were athletic
-games on the common, pleasant roamings through the Forest, and high
-revel in the _King’s Head_ or the _Cherry Tree_ afterwards. Then
-there were itinerant photographers, negro minstrels, and gypsy cheap
-Jacks, with caravans drawn by animals which may be best described as
-the skeletons of horses in skin-tights—working the Forest ‘pitch’ or
-‘lay’—these being the slang terms for any given scene of operation
-for the professional vagrant. The bird-snarers and the pigeon-flyers
-seemed to be always about. In the hunting season there were generally
-a few guests at the _King’s Head_; and so, although every new visitor
-underwent a bovine stare, he was forgotten as soon as he passed out of
-sight.
-
-Mr Beecham’s ways were so quiet, that before he had been a week in
-the place, he had glided so imperceptibly into its ordinary life that
-he seemed to be as much a part of it as the parson and the doctor.
-His presence was of course observed, but there was little sign of
-impertinent curiosity. It was understood that he was looking about
-the district for a suitable house in which to settle, or for a site
-on which to build one. This accounted for his long walks; and there
-was nothing remarkable in the fact that his peregrinations led him
-frequently by Willowmere, and sometimes into the neighbourhood of
-Ringsford Manor.
-
-Although his ways were so quiet, there was nothing reserved or
-mysterious about them. The object which had brought him to Kingshope
-was easily comprehended; he entered into conversation with the people
-he met, and took an interest in the affairs of the place—the crops,
-the weather, and the prospects of the poor during the coming winter.
-Yet nothing more was known of his antecedents than that he came from
-London, and that he visited the city two or three times a week. He
-dressed plainly; he lived moderately at the inn—not like one who
-required to reckon his expenses carefully, but like one whose tastes
-were simple and easily satisfied.
-
-The general belief was that he had belonged to one of the professions,
-and that he had retired on a moderate competence, in order to devote
-his time to study of some sort. He himself said nothing on the subject.
-
-One of the first acquaintances he made was Uncle Dick, who adhered to
-the kindly old country custom of giving the time of day to any one he
-met in the lanes or saw passing his gates. The first salutation of the
-master of Willowmere induced Mr Beecham to make inquiries about the
-district, which led to future conversations. These would have speedily
-introduced the stranger to the farmhouse and its mistress; but hitherto
-he had not availed himself of the cordial invitation which was given
-him. He was apparently satisfied with the privilege of going over the
-land with Uncle Dick, inspecting his stock and admiring his horses, and
-thus speedily developing a casual acquaintanceship into a friendship.
-On these occasions he had opportunities of seeing and conversing with
-Madge, and she formed as favourable an opinion of him as her uncle had
-done.
-
-‘Has he ever said what made him think of coming to settle hereabout?’
-inquired the dame one day, after listening to their praises of the
-stranger.
-
-‘Never thought of asking him,’ replied Crawshay, wondering if there was
-anything wrong in having neglected to put such a natural question.
-
-‘He mentioned that some friends of his lived near here at one time,’
-said Madge, ‘and that he had always liked the Forest.’
-
-‘Has he spoken about any family? Is he married? Has he any children?’
-
-‘Why, mother, you wouldn’t have me go prying into what doesn’t concern
-us!’ was Crawshay’s exclamation. ‘It does seem a bit queer, though,
-that he seems to have nobody belonging to him.’
-
-Aunt Hessy thought it very queer; and when Philip came next, she asked
-him to describe Mr Shield to her again.
-
-‘He must have changed very much since I last saw him,’ she said
-thoughtfully. ‘I scarcely know what put it into my head, but this Mr
-Beecham is much more like what I should have fancied your uncle would
-grow into, than the gentleman you describe. But foreign parts do seem
-to alter people strangely. There was neighbour Hartopp’s lad went away
-to California; and when he came back ten years after, it took his own
-mother two whole days before she would believe that he was himself.
-Yes, foreign parts do alter people strangely in appearances as well as
-feelings.’
-
-It was regarded by the little group as a good joke that Aunt Hessy
-should have formed the romantic suspicion that the stranger in the
-village might be her old friend Austin Shield. They did not know
-anything of the confidential letter. She had said nothing about it yet,
-and her conscience was much troubled on that account.
-
-‘It’s wrong to keep a secret from Dick,’ she kept saying to herself. ‘I
-know it is wrong, and I am doing it. If harm come of it, I shall never
-forgive myself; I hope others may be able to do it.’
-
-She regarded with something like fear the enthusiasm with which Philip
-spoke of the social revolution he was to effect by means of the wealth
-placed at his command. Yet it was a noble object the youth was aiming
-at. Surely wealth could do no harm, when it was used for the purpose of
-making the miserable happy, of showing men how they might prosper, and
-teaching them the great lesson, that content and comfort were only to
-be found in hard work. The scheme looked so feasible to her, and was
-so good, that she remained silent lest she should mar the work. She
-bore the stings of conscience, and prayed that Philip might pass safely
-through the ordeal to which he was unconsciously being subjected. He
-talked of the bounty of his uncle, and she was uneasy, knowing that
-this bounty might prove his ruin, although she was quite unable to see
-how that could come about as matters looked at present. She was simply
-afraid, and began to understand why preachers often spoke of gold as
-a fiend—the more dangerous because it appeared as the agent of good.
-Then there was the coming of this stranger at the same time that Philip
-met his uncle in London. Of course there was nothing to associate the
-two in her mind except the period of their arrival. But she was puzzled.
-
-‘There is not the slightest resemblance between the two men, I assure
-you,’ Philip said; ‘but there is this strong resemblance between my
-uncle as he is now and as he was, by your own account, when you knew
-him long ago—he is as odd in his ways as ever. He will not discuss
-anything with me except by letter. That, you might say, was no more
-than prudent, as it can leave no room for dispute as to what we say to
-each other.’
-
-‘He wants to make you careful,’ said the dame, with some feeling of
-relief; for this arrangement seemed to prove that he was desirous of
-helping Philip to pass the test.
-
-‘But, besides, he will scarcely see me at all; and when he does, he is
-as short with me and in as great a hurry to get rid of me as he was on
-the first day I called on him. When I try to explain things to him, he
-says: “All right; go your own way. If you want me to consider anything,
-you must write it out for me.” I don’t mind it now, having got used to
-it; but sometimes I cannot help wondering’——
-
-Philip checked himself, as if he had been about to say something which
-he suddenly remembered should not be spoken even to his dearest friends.
-
-‘Well?’ queried Uncle Dick, looking at him along the line of his
-churchwarden pipe as if it were a gun and he were taking aim. ‘What are
-you stopping for? You can’t help wondering at what?’
-
-‘Only at his droll ways,’ answered Philip. ‘I should have thought that
-risking so much money in my hand, he would have been anxious to have
-the fullest particulars of all that I was doing with it.’
-
-‘So should I, lad. What does your father say about it?’
-
-‘Nothing more than that he will want to speak to me one day soon. He is
-not pleased.’
-
-‘There don’t seem to me much to be not pleased about.—Eh, mother?’
-
-‘We’ll see after a bit,’ answered the dame, cautiously, but smiling.
-‘We don’t know yet whether Philip is to prove himself a very wise man
-or’——
-
-‘Or a fool,’ interrupted Crawshay, with one of his hearty laughs.
-
-‘Nay, Dick; not that. Philip will never prove himself a fool; but he
-might do worse—he might prove himself a sensible man doing foolish
-things.’
-
-The stranger who provoked this discussion went on in his calm way,
-seeking what apparently he could not find, but always with a pleasant
-smile or a kindly ‘good-day’ to the people he met in the fields and
-lanes.
-
-One of his favourite halting-places was at the stile which gave access
-from the roadway to the Willowmere meadows. On the opposite side of the
-road were the willows and beeches, bordering the river. Four of the
-latter trees were known as the ‘dancing beeches,’ from the position in
-which they stood, as if they had suddenly halted whilst whirling round
-in a country-dance; and when the wind blew, their branches interlaced
-and creaked in unison, as if they wanted to begin the dance again.
-This was a famous trysting-place, and in the summer-time the swains
-and their maidens would ‘wander in the meadows where the May-flowers
-grow.’ This is the burden of a rustic ballad which you would often
-hear chanted in the quiet evenings. It served the double purpose of
-supplying the place of conversation and of agreeably expressing the
-thoughts of the singers. Uncle Dick sometimes saw and heard them; but
-with kindly indifference to his clover, he would shake his head and
-turn away, remembering that he, too, had once been young.
-
-Mr Beecham resting on the stile could, by an easy movement of the
-head, command nearly the whole of the hollow in which the village lay;
-and looking upward, could catch glimpses of Willowmere House peering
-through the apple and pear trees of the orchard.
-
-After the lapse of years, how new it all looks, and yet how old;
-how changed, and yet familiar. There is the church, the same gray
-weather-beaten pile, in spite of the vicar’s manful efforts to get it
-put into a state of thorough repair. The vicar himself is the same
-cheery good friend in gladness, and the sympathising comforter in
-sorrow; his hair is almost gray now, and his figure is inclined to be
-rotund; but he is still the same. There are, however, new gravestones
-in the churchyard, and they bear the names of old friends. Their places
-in the world have been easily filled up; their places in the memory of
-the survivors never can be. Ay, there is change indeed.
-
-But here is the golden autumn, its lustre slowly growing dim under the
-touch of approaching winter; there are the green fields and the red
-ploughed lands—they are just as they looked long ago, although his
-eyes see them through the sad haze which separates him from the past.
-There are the sounds of the cattle, the ripple of the river, and the
-rustle of the trees—sounds to which he gave no particular heed in the
-old time, and now they are like the voices of welcoming friends.
-
-So the present steps by us; pain and sorrow plant milestones on our
-way; by-and-by the eye glances tenderly backward and over them, and in
-old age we hear the voices of our youth.
-
-‘Good-afternoon, Mr Beecham. Do you think it will rain?’
-
-He lifted his head, and bowed to Madge and Philip as they were about to
-pass over the stile. He looked up at the sky.
-
-‘I am afraid it will rain; but you will be home before it begins, I
-think.’
-
-Philip gave her his hand; she mounted the three foot-worn wooden steps
-and descended on the meadow side.
-
-‘I hope you will always have a strong hand to help you over the stiles,
-Miss Heathcote,’ he said, smiling; but there seemed to be as much of
-earnest as of jest in his meaning.
-
-‘I believe she may fairly count upon that, Mr Beecham,’ answered Philip.
-
-‘The pity is, we so seldom find what we count upon,’ said Mr Beecham,
-shaking his head.
-
-‘Then we must make the best of what we do find,’ replied Philip
-cheerfully, ‘and scramble over somehow without a helping hand.’
-
-The two passed on at a smart pace up the meadow, Mr Beecham looking
-after them with a dream in his eyes.
-
-Overhead, on this afternoon, was a sky gloomy and threatening; but on
-the horizon were rivers of pale golden light, giving hope and courage
-to the weary ones who were like to faint by the wayside. Suddenly a
-white light relieved the gloom immediately above, and the golden rivers
-were lashed with dark promontories; but still, the farthest point was
-light. Again suddenly a white glory burst through the gloom, dazzling
-the eyes and breaking the clouds into fantastic shapes, which fled from
-it like the witches of evil fleeing before the majestic genii of good.
-Another change, and all gradually toned down into the soft repose of a
-calm evening, bearing the promise of a pleasant day to follow.
-
-‘I have lived alone too much,’ muttered Mr Beecham with a long-drawn
-breath, which is the only approach to a sigh ventured upon by a man
-past middle age; ‘and my own morbid broodings make me superstitious,
-showing me symbols in everything. I hope this one may turn out well,
-however.’
-
-Philip and Madge had disappeared by this time, and Mr Beecham walked
-slowly on to the village.
-
-When the young people reached the homestead, Madge announced that
-Philip had come to tell them something very important, which he had
-refused to reveal until they should be in the house.
-
-Aunt Hessy glanced uneasily from one to the other; but seeing no
-sign of disturbance on either face, her uneasiness passed away. She
-concluded that it was some jest with which Philip had been teasing
-Madge.
-
-‘I have seen Mr Shield again to-day,’ he began, ‘and I have received
-new instructions from him.’
-
-‘He is not going to send you off to Griqualand, after all?’ queried
-Madge quickly.
-
-‘O no; but maybe you would prefer that he should order me off there,
-rather than tell me to take chambers in town.’
-
-‘Chambers in town! What can that be for?’
-
-‘Well, he was as short and bustling as ever; he never seems to have
-time to discuss anything. “That’s what I want,” he says; “if you don’t
-like it, write, and tell me why.” All he said about it was that he
-desired me to feel independent.’
-
-The uneasy expression reappeared on Aunt Hessy’s face.
-
-‘Have you consented to make this change?’ she asked quietly.
-
-‘I could see no objection; and in several ways the arrangement will be
-convenient. I made it clear that it was not in any way to be considered
-as a step towards separating me from my family. He said I could please
-myself as regarded my family—he had nothing to do with that.... Do you
-not like it, Madge?’
-
-The clear eyes looked wistfully in his face. ‘No, Philip; I do not like
-it. But perhaps Mr Shield is right; and it may be as well that you
-should have the experience of being away from us for a time at least.’
-
-‘Living away from you! Why I shall be here as often as ever!’
-
-She said nothing; and Aunt Hessy put the apparently irrelevant question:
-
-‘Have you seen Mr Beecham to-day, Madge?’
-
-‘We saw him by the stile at the foot of the meadow as we passed.’
-
-Aunt Hessy, with evident disappointment, abandoned the droll fancy
-which had for a time possessed her mind.
-
-
-
-
-SOME QUEER DISHES.
-
-
-If, in England, a man was pushed to discover a new animal food, it
-would, I think, be a long time before he hit upon bats as at all likely
-to furnish him with a desirable addition to his table, even if their
-diminutive size did not place an insuperable obstacle in the way of
-their being so utilised. But in many of the South Sea Islands where
-the flying-fox—a species of bat, fifteen inches or so across the
-wings—is common, it is used as food by the natives, and its flesh is
-by no means to be despised even by epicures. This animal, frugivorous
-in his tastes as a rule, does not for all that turn up his nose at a
-plump moth or a succulent beetle when they chance to come in his way;
-but he usually confines himself to fruit—ripe bananas of the best
-quality and plenty of them being about his mark; and dreadful havoc he
-and his friends would make in the banana gardens, if the natives—well
-aware of his habits—did not hasten to bind quantities of dead leaves
-round the ripening fruit, and so preserve it from his attacks. It
-would seem absurd to a stranger to the country to be informed that
-such an insignificant animal as a bat could seriously threaten the
-fruit-harvest in countries where it is so abundant; but he would
-change his opinion when informed that the flying-foxes often settle in
-hundreds in any likely plantation; and as they always destroy very much
-more than they consume, the loss and inconvenience they cause to the
-natives may be properly estimated.
-
-The bat in question is not so strictly nocturnal in his habits as his
-English brother; and although he usually sallies out at sunset, yet I
-have often noticed them sailing about in broad daylight, provided the
-weather was dull and overcast; the flight is even and regular, very
-like that of a rook, and not in the least resembling the extremely
-erratic mode of progression affected by our native species. If in their
-manner of flying—a few steady flaps and then a long sail—they remind
-one of the rook, they also resemble our old friend in their habit of
-assembling together at bedtime, when they all retire to roost on the
-same grove of trees, and hang head downwards with their wings wrapped
-round their bodies, looking like a collection of large cobwebs.
-
-It must not, however, be supposed that the meeting and subsequent
-proceedings take place in silence; the contrary is the case; and an
-immense amount of chattering is carried on for a considerable time,
-when no doubt all the affairs of the day are duly discussed, as well
-as other matters amatory and otherwise. In the old heathen times, the
-rookeries were strongly tabooed by the priests; and even to the present
-day, the natives, more especially the old men, have an evident aversion
-to interfere with the sacred trees, a feeling which does not in the
-least prevent them from killing all the bats they can in other places.
-
-The natives prepare them for food by first cutting off the wings and
-then passing the body through the fire, to remove the fur, and with
-it the strong foxy smell with which it is impregnated. It is then
-carefully scraped, split open, and afterwards grilled on the coals
-spitchcock fashion, when it is ready for consumption; and is capital
-eating, having a rich gamy flavour something between a hare and a
-woodcock.
-
-I was so much encouraged by the success of my first essay at
-bat-eating, that I afterwards had a pie made of several I had shot, and
-from my previous experience, rather looked forward to a good dinner;
-but when the pastry was cut open, I was grievously disappointed by
-finding that the fetid odour peculiar to the live animal had survived
-the cooking—from being unable to escape from the pastry—rendering it
-utterly uneatable, and so for the future contented myself with bat _au
-naturel_—that is, native fashion.
-
-The above-mentioned animal is very common in Australia, and is quite
-as great a nuisance among the orchards there as he is in the islands;
-but it will be some considerable time, I fancy, before our colonial
-brothers utilise him in the kitchen.
-
-I don’t suppose that many people—at least English people, who are
-tolerably prejudiced in their way—have ever voluntarily gone in for
-a cuttle-fish or octopus diet, as they are horribly weird, uncanny
-animals to look at; and few, I opine, would feel inclined to make
-a ‘square meal’ off the shiny creatures, at least until other more
-prepossessing kinds of food remained to be tried. Nevertheless,
-throughout the whole of the Pacific, including Japan, all the different
-varieties of cuttle and octopus are regarded as a _bonne bouche_ of
-peculiar excellence; and both in its capture and preparation, the
-natives display considerable ingenuity. I remember once, when sailing
-in the tropics, seeing one morning the deck of our little schooner
-nearly covered with that very elegant little cuttle-fish called the
-‘flying-squid.’ The sea had been very rough during the night, and I
-could never properly ascertain whether the squid had come on board of
-their own accord, attracted by the light—as the men affirmed—or had
-been left there by a heavy sea we had shipped just before daylight.
-Anyway, our cook, a smart Maltese, at once set to work to collect
-them, and then, much to the disgust of the sailors, who are the most
-prejudiced of mortals, he forthwith proceeded to cook them for the
-cabin table, and sent us down dishes of squid both curried and fried
-that were much approved of by all who partook of them; and proved a
-delightful change after the long course of ‘salt junk’ and tinned soup
-and bouillie that the slow sailing of our little craft had obliged us
-to adopt.
-
-These fish were about six inches long, had large brilliant eyes of
-a set expression, and were furnished with a pair of flippers or
-wings. They also—unlike any other kind of fish that I am acquainted
-with—rejoice in a couple of tails, in lieu of the orthodox number. The
-body, almost transparent, was of a delicate olive brown. Altogether,
-they were pretty little things, and tasted even better than they looked.
-
-I am now about to introduce my readers to a dish of octopus prepared
-_secundum artem_ by a South Sea native. The octopus is by no means,
-without proper apparatus, an easy animal to lay hold of; on the
-contrary, it demands all the cunning of the most experienced South Sea
-fisherman to wile him from his haunts in the coral and to secure a
-good number for a feast.
-
-But here is my Tongese friend Fakatene, just about to launch his
-_hamatefna_, or fishing-canoe; and we cannot do better than accompany
-him on his trip, and lend a hand in catching the fish we are to
-partake of. But first, just notice how ingeniously his tiny vessel
-is constructed out of timber of the bread-fruit tree. This tree does
-not, so far south—we are in about twenty-three degrees five minutes
-south—attain to any great size, and the timber, therefore, is
-proportionately small and scarce, which accounts for the small size of
-the pieces used. The hull, you notice, is pretty well in one piece,
-except that queer-shaped bit so artfully let in near the bows, and so
-close-fitting all round that even a penknife could not be introduced
-between the seams; and were it not for the difference in the grain of
-the wood, the ingenious patch would never be detected. The top sides
-are formed of several small planks neatly sewn on to the hull with
-sinnet, and joined in the same manner to one another; and yet, with all
-this patching, she exceeds in beauty, in the grace of her lines, and in
-her extreme buoyancy in the water, the finest four-oar ever turned out
-by Searle in his most palmy days.
-
-Fakatene is pleased with our admiration of his highly prized canoe,
-and takes some pains to explain that she was moulded on the lines of
-the bonito, one of the swiftest of fishes. Not such a bad idea that,
-we consider, for a poor native; but one that we intellectual white men
-are much too proud, not to say too conceited, to follow; so we go in
-for all kinds of scientific curves and angles, with the result that
-our builders are constantly producing craft that will neither pull nor
-sail, and that would have been a disgrace to Noah himself, or even to
-prehistoric man.—But to return to our canoe. She is provided with an
-outrigger called a ‘thama,’ to prevent capsizing; with a carved-wood
-bailer, in case we ship a sea or make any water from the working of
-the seams; also with a long three-pronged fish-spear, a few lines, a
-bamboo of fresh water; and last, but not least, with the inevitable
-fire-stick, or smouldering twist of tapa cloth, to furnish a light for
-our friend’s _seluka_ (cigarette). Off at last; and Fakatene, who poled
-swiftly over the shallow part of the reef, has taken to his paddle,
-and coasting along the island for some distance, we soon come to a
-favourable spot for our purpose; so we drop anchor—a large stone—and
-business commences.
-
-The octopus dwells in holes in the reef, keeping only a portion of
-his body exposed, so that, while he can look out for his prey, he can
-at the same time quickly withdraw within his hole, directly his dread
-enemy the shark appears, who is always foraging about the reefs in
-search of adventurous cuttles.
-
-Now, I must tell you that the octopus, although partial enough to
-crabs, is particularly fond of the inhabitant of the spotted cowrie or
-ear-shell, so common in our shops; and so Fakatene, well aware of this
-fact, has prepared a cunning bait, artfully constructed of a number of
-small plates of the shell fastened together in such a manner that while
-similar in appearance to the real thing, yet, being much heavier, and
-not containing any air, sinks at once, which a real shell would not
-do. Our friend now lowers his line, with the shell-bait attached, until
-it touches the bottom, and then raising it a few inches off the ground,
-jerks it gently up and down. Presently, a pull on the line shows that
-the fish has taken the bait; more jerking on the part of the native;
-which the octopus replies to by at once throwing out a fresh arm. The
-jerking still continues; until the fish, dreading the escape of his
-prey, lets go his hold of the rocks, and wraps the whole of his body
-round the shell; when the native, perceiving that his line is no longer
-fast to the ground, gently hauls up the line, and finally deposits an
-immense octopus in the bottom of the canoe. Our new friend no sooner
-finds himself caught, than he lets go the deceptive bait, and with his
-great goggle eyes staring hard at nothing in particular, sprawls about
-in the most awkward fashion, at the same time giving vent to a species
-of grunt, until at last he finally retires into the darkest corner he
-can find, and collapses into a lump of grayish-looking jelly, about a
-third part of his apparent size when in motion.
-
-Having by the same means secured several more fish, we return to land,
-when the canoe is duly housed, and Fakatene disposes of the octopi by
-turning them inside out and hanging them up to dry in the sun, having
-first carefully saved all the sepia left in the fish, as this is
-esteemed a great luxury, and an indispensable ingredient in preparing
-the sauce.
-
-When the cuttle is to be cooked, it is first of all carefully cleaned
-and scraped, when all the outer skin, including the hideous-looking
-suckers, comes off. The fish is then cut in pieces, and having been
-tied up in a banana-leaf, is baked in an oven for a considerable
-time in conjunction with cocoa-nut milk and a certain proportion of
-the inky-hued sepia above mentioned, and which, as is well known, is
-made use of by the fish when alive to obscure the water when escaping
-from the pursuit of its enemies. It takes some time to cook octopus
-properly, as it is naturally tough and stringy; but when well prepared,
-it is one of the most delicate and luscious dishes I ever tasted;
-and, singular to say, the cooking converts the tripy, stringy-looking
-substance into a solid meaty food, bearing a curious resemblance to
-lobster both in taste and colour, only rather firmer in texture; a most
-unlooked-for occurrence in such dissimilar articles.
-
-
-
-
-A WITNESS FOR THE DEFENCE.
-
-IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.
-
-
-When I got back to town, the sessions were only a week off; so the
-first thing I did was to call on the solicitor in charge of my murder
-case, in order to learn from him how it stood, and to take it off his
-hands. The magistrate, of course, had sent the prisoner for trial.
-When I came to read the depositions, the case against him seemed
-perfectly simple, and as conclusive as circumstantial evidence could
-make it. The crime had not occurred so long ago but that a diligent
-search had unearthed several witnesses. The servant-girl, who had now
-become the wife of a dairyman in the immediate neighbourhood, was
-found. She proved the bad conduct of young Harden, and the ill-will
-which gradually grew up between him and her former mistress. She also
-spoke to his ejectment from the house on the day of the murder, and
-to his threats at the street-door. She swore to the knife, which had
-been in the possession of the police ever since, as having belonged
-to the prisoner. There were other witnesses to the same facts; and
-the landlord, my client, and several others, proved the flourishing
-of the identical knife and the ominous words in the public-house. To
-complete the chain, the man who had instructed me proved the finding of
-the knife in the room where the murder was committed; and two or three
-witnesses remembered being by his side and seeing him stoop down and
-pick it up. These, with the final facts of his sudden disappearance and
-changes of name, appeared both to me and to my friend to be capable of
-being spun into a rope quite strong enough to swing John Harden out of
-the world.
-
-‘But,’ said my solicitor-friend, ‘the queerest thing of all is that no
-one is going to appear for the prisoner.’
-
-‘No one to appear for him?’
-
-‘No one. Young Elkin holds a watching brief on behalf of the prisoner’s
-master, and that is all. He said Harden had been in Mr Slocum’s—that’s
-his master—service for over seven years, behaving extremely well all
-the time. He was invaluable to his old master, who is something of
-an invalid. He had turned religious, and was disgusted at his former
-wicked life.’
-
-‘But I suppose he has money—or, at anyrate, if Slocum is so fond of
-him, why doesn’t he pay for the defence?’
-
-‘Why, it seems that his notion of religion forbids Harden to avail
-himself of worldly arts. Slocum is only too anxious to retain some
-one; but Harden won’t have it, and no one can persuade him. Says he
-is in the hands of a Higher Power, and it shall be given him what he
-shall speak, and all the rest of it. He wanted to make a speech to the
-magistrate; but Slocum, by Elkin’s advice, did manage to induce him to
-hold his tongue for the present, and say he would reserve his defence.
-Of course they hope he will come to his senses before the trial. But I
-don’t know how that will be. I never saw such an obstinate pig. Only
-gave in to his master about not speaking because the poor man began to
-whimper in court!’
-
-The main part of my work had been done for me, and it only remained
-to bespeak copies of the depositions, see the witnesses, and make
-sure that they intended to say at the Old Bailey substantially the
-same things as they had said at the police court—a most necessary
-precaution, the imagination being so vivid in people of this class that
-they are very likely to amplify their tale if possible—and prepare the
-brief for the prosecuting counsel. This done, I had but to let things
-take their course.
-
-When the day of the trial came, I was betimes in my place at the
-Central Criminal Court, having various other cases in hand there. The
-prisoners, as is customary, were first put up and arraigned—that is,
-had the substance of their several indictments read over to them—and
-were called on to plead ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty.’ These disposed of,
-the case for John Harden was called, and I looked at him with some
-curiosity. No sooner had I done so than I knew that his was a face
-upon which at some time or other I had looked before, and of which I
-had taken note. It is a useful peculiarity of mine that I never forget
-a face to which I have once paid any attention, and I can generally
-recollect the place and circumstances under which I last saw it. But
-here the latter part of my powers failed me. I knew the face well, but
-could not imagine when and where I had beheld it. I even knew that I
-had seen the man bare-headed, and that he was not then, as now, bald on
-the crown. The thing worried me not a little. In the meanwhile, John
-Harden was being put up to take his trial for the murder of Agatha
-Harden.
-
-‘I, m’lud, appear to prosecute in this case,’ said my counsel, starting
-up and down again like the blade of a knife.
-
-‘Does nobody appear for the prisoner?’ asked the judge.
-
-‘I understand, m’lud, that the prisoner is not represented,’ said
-counsel, appearing and disappearing as before.
-
-‘My lord,’ said an agitated voice from the body of the court, ‘I have
-used all possible efforts’——
-
-‘Si-lence!’ proclaimed the usher.
-
-‘Who is that?’ inquired the judge, looking over his spectacles.
-
-‘My lord, I am this foolish fellow’s master; and I am perfectly
-convinced’——
-
-‘I cannot hear you, sir. If the prisoner wishes to have counsel
-assigned to him for his defence, I will name a gentleman, and will
-take care that the prisoner shall have due opportunity for his
-instruction; and if you desire to give evidence on his behalf, you can
-do so.—Prisoner, is it your wish that counsel be assigned to you for
-your defence?’
-
-Harden had been standing with his head slightly bent, and his clasped
-hands resting on the rail of the dock. He now looked up at the judge,
-and replied in a grave and impassive voice: ‘My lord, I wish no help
-but the help of God. I am in His hands, and I am an innocent man. If
-He sees good to deliver me, He will do so. Who am I, that I should
-interfere with His work?’
-
-‘You appear to me,’ said the judge gently, ‘to be under an unfortunate
-delusion. You say rightly that you are in God’s hands; but that should
-not hinder you from using such instruments for your deliverance as he
-offers you. Once more I will ask, do you now desire to be represented
-by counsel?’
-
-‘I do not, my lord.’
-
-‘So be it.—Now, Mr Clincher.’
-
-Rising once more, counsel for the prosecution proceeded to open his
-case. It was clear and straightforward, put concisely and tellingly,
-and embraced the facts which the reader already knows. He then called
-his witnesses; and as each after each left the box, it was easy to see
-from the faces of the jury that things were likely to go hard with the
-prisoner. Always, in answer to the inquiry, ‘Do you wish to put any
-questions to this witness?’ Harden replied: ‘No, my lord. He has said
-the truth, for all I know.’
-
-So smoothly did the trial run its course, that only one incident
-called for remark. This was when my client got into the box; and so
-indecently eager did he appear to be to procure the conviction of the
-prisoner, that he twice called down upon himself a severe rebuke from
-the judge, for persistently volunteering irrelevant statements to
-Harden’s prejudice. And when counsel at length said, ‘That, m’lud, is
-my case,’ and sat down, but little doubt remained as to the prisoner’s
-fate. I still sat with my gaze fascinated by the set face in the dock,
-trying—trying to remember when and where I had last looked upon it.
-
-‘Do you propose, prisoner, to call any witnesses?’ asked the judge.
-
-‘Only my master, my lord—Mr Slocum. He’ll speak for me, and he’ll say,
-I know, that I’m not the man to kill any living thing.’
-
-‘Very well.—And now, before calling him, do you desire to address the
-jury?’
-
-The interest of the case, which, except for that interest which is
-inseparable from a trial for murder, had slightly flagged, revived now
-that a human being was virtually at grips with death. For what had just
-passed meant that there was no defence or attempt at a defence, that
-the jury must convict, and that the man must die, without hope of mercy
-for so cowardly and ungrateful a murderer. There was not a sound in the
-court. It was late in the afternoon, and the winter sun was setting.
-Its rays lit up the crimson hangings, the scarlet robes of the judge,
-the intent faces, all looking one way, the drooping head and white
-composed countenance of the prisoner—the man standing up there in full
-health and strength, and whose life was going down with the sun.
-
-‘I have but a few words to say, my lord and gentlemen. I didn’t do it.
-I was bad enough, and maybe cruel enough in those days, to do it; but I
-didn’t. I was so drunk and so mad, my lord and gentlemen, that I might
-have done it if it had happened earlier in the day, unknown almost to
-myself, and be standing here rightly enough. But I _know_ I couldn’t
-have done it, and why? Because I was miles away at the time. My poor
-aunt, as I’ve heard from what has been said, must have been killed
-between a quarter to and a quarter past eight in the evening. Well, at
-eight o’clock I was at least five miles off. If I’d done it directly
-the girl went out of the house—as she says, at a quarter to eight—it
-isn’t according to reason that I could have broke open the cupboard,
-took the money, and got five miles off in a quarter of an hour.’ He
-stopped, and drew the cuff of his coat across his forehead.
-
-Where _had_ I seen him before? Where and when had I seen him do that
-very action?
-
-‘O gentlemen, I couldn’t have done it! I couldn’t, bad as I was! I
-know, now, how bad that must have been—the mercy of God has been upon
-me since those days—but bad as I was, I owed her too much, and knew
-it, to have hurt her in any way. Won’t you believe me? I tell you I was
-miles away at the time—miles away. Who can tell us you’re saying true?
-you will ask. No one, I suppose. Not a soul was near me that I knew, to
-come here and speak the truth for me this day. But I know the same God
-that saved Daniel can save me from a sorry end, if it is His will to
-do it—if not, His will be done! I’m keeping you too long, only saying
-the same over and over again. I’ll just tell you how it was, and I’ve
-done, and you must do as duty bids you.’
-
-Another pause. The silence of death, or rather of a deathbed. The faces
-in the distance of the darkened court shimmered through the gloom, like
-those of spectres waiting to welcome a coming shade. Then the gas-light
-burst forth, and all sprang into sudden distinctness, and there was a
-general half-stir as of relief.
-
-‘Oh, isn’t there one here that can speak for me? Is there any one who
-remembers the great gas-main explosion in —— Street that year?’
-
-There was again a stir, and a more decided one. Clearly there were
-many in court who remembered it. I did, for one. And remembering it,
-I seemed as one in a tunnel, who sees the glimmer from the distant
-opening, but can distinguish no feature of the landscape beyond.
-
-‘I was there—that night. It was the night of the day I was turned
-out of doors—the night of the murder. How I came to be there, so far
-from my aunt’s neighbourhood, I don’t know, but I found myself working
-hard, helping to lift the stones and timber of the house-fronts that
-were blown in, and getting the poor crushed people out. I worked a long
-time, till I was like to drop; and a policeman clapped me on the back
-and gave me a word of praise and a drink of beer out of a can. I wonder
-where that policeman is now, and if he’d remember?’
-
-He did not respond, wherever he might be. No one to help—no friendly
-plank to bridge over the yawning grave. What was it, this that I was
-trying so hard to recall?
-
-‘I wandered off after that into the by-streets. I knew those parts
-well. I had had a comrade who used to live there, and many a wicked and
-foolish prank we’d played thereabouts. The beer I had just drunk on an
-empty stomach had muddled me again a bit, but I was quite sober enough
-to know every step of the way I went, and remember it now. I turned up
-Hoadley Street, and then to the left along Blewitt Street; and just
-when my aunt must have been struggling with the wretch that took her
-life, whoever it was, I heard a clock strike eight. I did, gentlemen,
-and I suppose I never thought of it since; but now I remember it as
-clear as day. I was standing at the time at the corner of Hauraki
-Street.’
-
-It all came back to me in a moment! I heard the patter of the rain
-on the cab-roof—I saw the gleam of the infrequent lights on the wet
-flags—I listened to the objurgations of the cabman at the obstructing
-dray—I took note of the reflection in the mirror, the queer
-street-name which would not rhyme so as to make sense. The strokes of
-the clock striking eight were in my ears. I saw the lamp at the corner,
-and the man underneath looking up at it—the man with the short broad
-face, the sharp chin, the long thin mouth turned down at the corners,
-and the blank in the front teeth—the innocent man I was hounding to
-his death—the prisoner at the bar!
-
-As I sprang to my feet, down with a crash went my bag full of papers,
-my hat and umbrella, so that even the impassive judge gave a start, and
-the usher, waking up, once more proclaimed ‘Si-lence!’ with shocked
-and injured inflection. Heedless of the majesty of the law, I beckoned
-to my counsel, and as he leaned over to me in surprise, I whispered
-earnestly in his ear. I never saw the human face express more entire
-astonishment. However, seeing that I was unmistakably in earnest, he
-merely nodded and rose to his feet.
-
-‘Your lordship will pardon me,’ he said, ‘for interfering at this
-stage between the prisoner and the jury; but I am instructed to make a
-communication which I feel sure will be as astounding to your lordship
-and the jury as it is to myself. I think I may say that it is the most
-surprising and unprecedented thing which ever occurred in a court of
-justice. My lord, the solicitor who instructs me to prosecute tenders
-himself as a witness for the defence!’
-
-
-
-
-OUR HEALTH.
-
-BY DR ANDREW WILSON, F.R.S.E.
-
-
-II. FOOD AND HEALTH.
-
-From the point of view of the political economist, the idle man has no
-right to participate in the food-supply of the active worker. Whatever
-may be the correctness and force of the arguments which the economist
-may use by way of proving that the non-worker and non-producer has
-no right to participate in the ordinary nutritive supply of his
-fellows, the physiological standpoint assumes another and different
-aspect. The idle man grows hungry and thirsty with the regularity of
-the man who works. He demands food and drink as does his energetic
-companion; and the plea that idleness can need no food-support,
-may be met in a singularly happy and forcible fashion by a plain
-scientific consideration. In the first instance, the idle man might,
-by an appeal to science, show, that whilst he apparently spent life
-without exertion, his bodily functions really represented in their
-ordinary working an immense amount of labour. Sleeping or waking, that
-bodily pumping-engine the heart does not fail to discharge its work,
-in the circulation of the blood. The rise and fall of the chest in
-the sleeping man remind us that it is not death but his ‘twin-brother
-sleep,’ that we are observing. If we make a calculation respecting the
-work which the heart of a man, idle or active, performs in twenty-four
-hours, we may discover that it represents an amount of labour equal to
-one hundred and twenty foot-tons. That is to say, if we could gather
-all the force expended by the heart during its work of twenty-four
-hours into one huge lift, such force would be equal to that required
-to raise one hundred and twenty tons-weight one foot high. Similarly,
-the work of the muscles of breathing in twenty-four hours, represents
-a force equal to that required to lift twenty-one tons one foot high.
-These are only two examples out of many, which the ordinary work and
-labour of mere vegetative existence, without taking into consideration
-any work performed—in the popular sense of the term—involves.
-
-We thus discover that, apart altogether from the every-day labour of
-life, in which brain and muscles engage, an immense amount of work is
-performed in the mere act of keeping ourselves alive. Nowhere in nature
-is work performed without proportionate waste, or wear and tear of the
-machine that works. This dictum holds quite as true of the human body
-as of the steam-engine. And as the engine or other machine requires to
-be supplied with the conditions necessary for the production of force,
-so the living body similarly demands a supply of material from which
-its energy (or the power of doing work) can be derived. As the engine
-obtains the necessary conditions from the fuel and water it consumes,
-so the living body derives its energy from the food upon which it
-subsists. Food in this light is therefore merely matter taken from the
-outside world, and from which our bodies derive the substances required
-for the repair of the waste which the continual work of life entails.
-In the young, food serves a double purpose—it supplies material for
-growth, and it also affords substance from which the supply of force is
-derived. In the adult, whilst no doubt, to a certain extent, the food
-supplies actual loss of substance, it is more especially devoted to the
-performance of work, and of maintaining that equilibrium or balance
-between work and repair, which, as we have seen, constitutes health.
-
-Viewed in this light, the first important rule for food-taking is
-founded on the plain fact, that in the food we must find the substances
-necessary for the repair of our bodies, and for the production of the
-energy through which work is performed. Food-substances in this light
-fall into two well-marked classes—namely, into _Nitrogenous_ and
-_Non-nitrogenous_ substances. Another classification of foods divides
-them into _organic_ and _inorganic_, the former being derived from
-animals and plants—that is, from living beings—while the latter are
-derived from the world of non-living matter. Thus, animal and plant
-substances represent organic foods; while water and minerals, both of
-which are absolutely essential for the support of the body, represent
-inorganic food materials. It would appear that from living matter
-alone, do we obtain the materials for generating force. The inorganic
-water and minerals, however, appear to be absolutely necessary for the
-chemical alterations and changes which are continually taking place
-within the body.
-
-Adopting the classification of foods into the _Nitrogenous_ and
-_Non-nitrogenous_ groups, we discover examples of the first class in
-such substances as _albumen_, seen familiarly in white of egg and other
-substances; _gluten_, found in flour; _gelatin_, obtained from hoofs
-and horns; _legumin_, obtained from certain vegetables; _casein_, found
-in milk; and allied chemical substances. These substances possess a
-remarkable similarity or uniformity of composition. It would appear
-that in the process of digestion they are reduced to a nearly similar
-state, and on this account they can replace one another to a certain
-extent in the dietaries of mankind.
-
-The nitrogenous foods have often been popularly termed ‘flesh-formers,’
-and doubtless this name is well merited. For, as the result of
-experiment, it would seem that the chief duty performed by the
-nitrogenous parts of our food is that of building up and repairing the
-tissues of the body. They also produce heat, through being chemically
-changed in the blood, and thus aid in the production of force or
-energy. But it would also appear tolerably certain, that in a complex
-fashion the nitrogenous parts of our bodies assist or regulate in a
-very exact manner the oxidation or chemical combustion of the tissues.
-
-It should be noted that nitrogenous foods are composed chemically of
-the four elements, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen; the presence
-of the last element giving the characteristic name and chemical
-features to the group. Most of these foods in addition contain small
-proportions of sulphur and phosphorus.
-
-An interesting advance in our knowledge of the part played by
-nitrogenous foods in the work of the body was made, when an idea
-of Liebig was overthrown by later experimentation. Liebig supposed
-that the nitrogenous foods required first to be actually converted
-into tissue—that is, into bodily substance—before their energy
-or work-producing power could be liberated. In this view, muscular
-force, through which we move, was believed to be dependent on the
-changes, destructive or otherwise, which take place in the muscles. The
-substance called _urea_, chiefly given off as a waste product by the
-kidneys and chemically representing nitrogenous waste, was in Liebig’s
-view regarded as representing the results of muscular force which
-had been exerted. But two scientists, Fick and Wislicenus of Zurich,
-proved, by a laborious series of personal experiments in mountain
-ascents, that a non-nitrogenous diet will maintain the body for a short
-time during the performance of severe work, no great increase in the
-amount of urea given off being noticed. The work in question was proved
-to have been performed on the carbon and hydrogen of the food consumed.
-These experiments have led to the now accepted view, that a muscle,
-instead of losing substance during work and thus wasting, in reality
-consumes nitrogen, and grows. The exhaustion of the muscle is dependent
-not so much on chemical waste, as on the accumulation within it of the
-waste products of other foods. The muscle, in other words, is merely
-the agent whereby so much energy, derived from the food, is converted
-into actual and applied force. Did muscle really waste, as Liebig
-supposed, the heart’s substance would be entirely consumed by its work
-of one week!
-
-Such being the functions and nature of nitrogenous foods, we may now
-glance at the non-nitrogenous division. Four groups of foods are
-included in this latter class—namely (1) Starches and sugars, or
-‘amyloids’ as they are often termed; (2) fats and oils; (3) minerals;
-(4) water. The _starches and sugars_ include not merely starch and
-sugar, as ordinarily known, but various gums, and certain acids,
-such as lactic and acetic acids. Starch, as in bread, is a most
-important food. These foods appear to go directly to maintain animal
-heat, and to give energy, or the power of doing work, to the animal
-frame. The heat-producing powers of starches and sugars are certainly
-inferior to those of the fats and oils. But starches and sugars can
-be converted into fat within the system; and hence persons who suffer
-from a tendency to obesity are warned to exclude these foods from
-their dietaries. Starches and sugars likewise appear to assist in
-some measure the digestion of nitrogenous foods. That _fats and oils_
-are heat-producing foods is a fact taught us by the common experience
-of mankind that northern nations consume the greatest proportion of
-fat. The heat-producing powers of fat have been set down at two and
-a half times as great as those of starch and sugar; and there is no
-doubt that, in addition to assisting in the conversion of food into
-body substances, the fatty parts of our food also assist in the work
-of removing waste matters from the body. Fat, in addition, being
-chemically burned in the blood, gives rise to the force which we exert
-in ordinary muscular work.
-
-The _mineral_ parts of our food play an important part in the
-maintenance of the frame. We thus require iron for the blood,
-phosphorus for the brain and nerves, and lime for the bones; whilst
-a variety of other minerals is likewise found in the blood and other
-fluids of the frame. The uses of the mineral constituents of our
-body are still a matter of speculation. Small as may be the quantity
-of certain minerals required for the support of the body, serious
-health-derangement may result when we are deprived of these substances.
-Thus, scurvy appears to be a disease associated with the want of the
-mineral potash in the blood; and the cure of this disease is therefore
-accomplished when we supply to the blood those mineral elements which
-have previously been deficient. Common salt, or chloride of sodium, as
-it is chemically termed, although not entering into the composition
-of the body, appears to form an important part of all the secretions;
-and there can be little doubt that this mineral aids the formation and
-chemical integrity of the gastric juice of the stomach.
-
-_Water_ forms the last item in the list of non-nitrogenous foods. Of
-all foods, perhaps, water is the most important, seeing that it is a
-substance which, in the absence of all other nourishment, can sustain
-life for a period numbering many days. Thus, whilst a man dies in
-from six to seven days when deprived of solid food and water, life
-may be prolonged to as many as sixty days on water alone. The high
-importance of water as a food is abundantly proved, when we discover
-that it constitutes about two-thirds of the weight of the body; that it
-enters into the composition of the brain to the extent of eighty per
-cent.; that the blood consists of nearly eighty per cent. of water;
-and that even bone contains ten per cent. of this fluid. Entering thus
-into the composition of every fluid and tissue of the body, and being
-perpetually given off from lungs, skin, and kidneys in the ordinary
-work of life, there is little wonder that water assumes the first place
-amongst foods. Regarding the uses of water as a food, we see that
-it dissolves and conveys other foods throughout the system; that it
-assists in removing waste products; and that it also takes a share in
-regulating the temperature of the body through its evaporation on the
-skin.
-
-Having thus considered the chemistry of foods, we may now pass
-to discuss the natural rules which science describes for the
-health-regulation of life in the matter of diet. A primary rule for
-food-taking is that which shows that, for the due support of the
-body, we require a combination of nitrogenous and non-nitrogenous
-foods. This fact is proved by the consideration that milk, ‘nature’s
-own food,’ on which the human being grows rapidly in early life, is
-a compound of both classes of foods. So also, in an egg, from which
-is formed an animal body, we find a combination of the two classes.
-Death results if we attempt to feed on either class alone; and as the
-body consists of both classes of substances, the justification for
-the combination of foods is complete. Man can obtain the required
-combination of nitrogenous and non-nitrogenous foods from animals
-alone, from vegetables alone, or from animals and vegetables combined.
-The water, of course, which is an absolutely essential feature of all
-dietaries, is regarded as an additional item. In regulating the dietary
-of mankind, it is found that the food of nations is determined largely,
-or completely, by their situation on the earth’s surface. Thus, the
-northern nations are largely animal feeders; whilst the southern
-peoples of the world are to a great extent vegetarians. Individual
-experience and taste produce amongst the units of a nation special
-proclivities in the way of diet. But we can readily see that mankind,
-with that elasticity of constitution and power to avail themselves of
-their surroundings, can adapt themselves to their environments, and
-become animal feeders, vegetable feeders, or subsist on a mixed dietary
-at will. This is the true solution of the vegetarian controversy. It is
-climate and race which determine the food of a nation. It is individual
-intelligence, liking, and constitution which determine variations and
-departures from the dietaries of the race.
-
-The relations between food and work naturally present themselves
-as topics of the highest importance. In determining the standard
-of health, it is clear that from our food alone, we can obtain the
-energy or power of work required for the discharge of the duties of
-life. An interesting point therefore arises regarding the differences
-which are entailed by varying conditions and amounts of labour. Dr
-Letheby tells us that an adult man in _idleness_ requires, to obtain
-from his food for the support of his body, 2.67 ounces of nitrogenous
-matter and 19.16 ounces of non-nitrogenous matter per day. If the
-individual is to participate in _ordinary labour_, the amount of
-nitrogenous matter obtained from his food must be increased to 4.56
-ounces, while the non-nitrogenous must be represented by 29.24 ounces.
-In the case, lastly, of _active labour_ the amount of food required
-must be increased to 5.81 ounces of nitrogenous, and 34.97 ounces of
-non-nitrogenous matter.
-
-Dalton gives the following as the quantity of food, per day, required
-for the healthy man, taking free exercise in the open air: meat,
-sixteen ounces; bread, nineteen ounces; fat or butter, three and a
-half ounces; water, fifty-two fluid ounces. It ought to be borne in
-mind that these amounts of food represent the diet for a whole day
-compressed, so to speak, into a convenient and readily understood form.
-Another calculation, setting down the daily amount of food required by
-an adult, at nitrogenous matter three hundred grains, and carbon at
-four thousand grains, shows that these amounts would be obtained from
-eighteen ounces of bread; one ounce of butter; four ounces of milk;
-two ounces of bacon; eight ounces of potatoes; six ounces of cabbage;
-three and a half ounces of cheese; one ounce of sugar; three-quarters
-of an ounce of salt; and water (alone, and in beverages) sixty-six and
-a quarter ounces—a total of no less than six pounds fourteen and a
-quarter ounces. Summing up the question of the amounts of food required
-by a healthy adult daily, and _excluding water in all forms as a matter
-of separate calculation_, it may be said that four and a half ounces of
-pure nitrogenous matter would be required in addition to three ounces
-of fatty food, fourteen ounces of starch or sugar, and one ounce of
-mineral matter. An ordinary adult consuming in twenty-four hours, food
-items equal to those contained in one pound of meat and two pounds
-of bread, may be regarded as consuming food of sufficient amount for
-ordinary work. When the work is increased, the diet must naturally be
-increased likewise. We find that persons in active employment require
-about a fifth part more nitrogenous food, and about twice the quantity
-of fat consumed by those engaged in light work; the sugars and starches
-remaining the same.
-
-An interesting practical calculation has been made regarding the
-amounts of different foods required to perform a given and fixed piece
-of work. Taking the work performed by the German observers already
-named, as a standard, namely, that of raising a man’s weight (one
-hundred and forty pounds) ten thousand feet high, it has been found
-that the amounts and cost of various foods required for the performance
-of this work is as follows: Bread, 2.345 pounds, cost 3½d.; oatmeal,
-1.281 pounds, cost 3½d.; potatoes, 5.068 pounds, cost 5¼d.; beef-fat,
-0.555 pounds, cost 5¼d.; cheese, 1.156 pounds, cost 11½d.; butter,
-0.693 pounds, cost 1s. 0½d.; lean beef, 3.532 pounds, cost 3s. 6½d.;
-pale ale, nine bottles, cost 4s. 6d.
-
-The proportion of the different food-elements in an ordinary
-dietary has been set down as follows: nitrogenous matter one, fats
-six, starches and sugars three; and these proportions appear to be
-represented with singular exactness in the ordinary dietaries which
-experience has recommended to mankind. Excess of food in the matter of
-nitrogenous elements tends to induce diseases of an inflammatory and
-gouty nature, and likewise leads to fatty degeneration of the tissues.
-When, on the other hand, there exists lack of nitrogenous substances,
-the individual experiences weakness, want of muscular power, and
-general prostration. The healthy mean is that in which the proportions
-of nitrogenous and non-nitrogenous food are maintained as above
-indicated.
-
-In the construction of dietaries, a few practical hints remain for
-notice. Thus, as regards sex, the dietaries of women are usually, in
-the case of the working-classes, estimated at one-tenth less than those
-of the opposite sex. Age has an important influence in determining
-the amount and quality of food. The growing body consumes more food,
-relatively to work and weight, than the adult, inasmuch as it requires
-material for new tissue. An infant under eight or nine months should
-receive no starch whatever in its dietary, because it is unable to
-digest that substance. Health is naturally a condition in which the
-question of foods assumes a high importance, and various dietaries,
-as is well known, are adapted for the cure of disease. The relation
-of food to work has already been alluded to, and statistics detailed;
-but it may be added that the brain-worker requires his food in a
-more readily digestible form, and also in smaller bulk and in more
-concentrated shape, than the muscle-worker or ordinary labourer. What
-has been said concerning foods will tend to show how wide is the field
-which the subject of nutrition occupies. It may only here be added,
-that the education of the individual in health laws and in the science
-of foods and food-taking, forms the only sure basis for the intelligent
-regulation of that all-important work—the nourishment and due
-support of the frame in relation to the work we perform and to every
-circumstance of life.
-
-
-
-
-THE COMMON-SENSE OF SUPERSTITIONS.
-
-
-Out of a medley of magpies, May cats, broken looking-glasses, crickets,
-village cures, lucky days, and tumbles up-stairs, there dawns a hint
-towards the solving of a very puzzling problem. The problem is, not
-why these things are called lucky or unlucky, but how it is that
-multitudes grow up in every generation to believe the same absurdities,
-and that still in this world of common-sense such items of uncommon
-nonsense keep their character for ‘coming true.’ How is this, and
-where do the secret links exist between the sense and the nonsense? If
-any one takes the trouble to gather together about a hundred rustic
-superstitions and old beliefs of quackery, the reason of the character
-for ‘coming true’—that is, the reason of the traditional hold upon the
-people—will presently begin to be plainly written across the whole
-medley, dawning by degrees, just as writing in acid might dawn upon an
-apparently blank missive held to the heat.
-
-Most superstitions are signs of ill-luck. This in itself is a tell-tale
-fact. Unlucky omens are so numerous, that no believer could escape
-them for long; and in all likelihood he observes not only the unlucky
-signs, but his ill-luck following. The truth is, that the magpie on his
-path had no connection with his loss of money; and on his wedding-day,
-his bride’s unlucky glance in the looking-glass after she was fully
-arrayed, had nothing to do with her discontent as a wife; nor need
-the servant who broke the looking-glass have cried, looking forward
-to seven years of ill-luck. In all three cases, as all the neighbours
-knew, the ill-luck came. But it came because of the prepossessed frame
-of mind that observed and discounted these signs. The superstitious
-character lacks those practical and courageous qualities which wrest
-luck from fortune and make the best of life. The omens of ill-luck
-have come to the fortunate as often; but they were never noticed,
-because they who were cheerily fighting the battle had better use for
-their time. At this moment, the present writer knows of no household
-more radiantly prosperous than one in which the largest looking-glass
-was broken a few days after a move to their newly-built home; and no
-marriage more replete with happiness than a Saturday marriage, though
-proverbially Saturday’s marriage ‘has no luck at all.’ Of course,
-neither the prosperous household nor the well-matched pair were of that
-languid and timid mind that takes nervous note of superstitions.
-
-But, it may be objected, there are signs of good luck too, though
-not so many. Certainly; and there is no truth better known than that
-courage commands success, and such courage in exceptional cases may
-come from a very trivial encouragement. There is a country superstition
-that if a man sets off running and runs round in a circle, when he
-hears the cuckoo for the first time, he will never be out of work till
-spring comes again. But the man who valued steady work would exert
-himself in a more sensible direction than unproductive circle-running,
-and be safe from idle days. Again, if a tumble up-stairs is lucky,
-the predisposition to luck is in the person who will be active and
-quick enough to run up the staircase. Another good omen, the turning
-of a garment inside out in dressing, though it seems to tell of the
-slovenliness that will not succeed, has probably an origin that
-indicated something better; it is a country saying, and it might
-well refer to the hurry and awkwardness of rising without artificial
-light before day—a habit likely to help the farmer’s household to
-good fortune. Or as proof of the real nature of many good signs which
-time has perverted into superstitions, can we doubt that the crickets
-which chirp round the hearth for luck were first noticed there because
-crickets, as a rule, only come to a warm and cosy fireside—the kind of
-hearth that marks a happy cottage home?
-
-A simple grain of common-sense like this must have been the origin of
-many senseless observances. It was necessary to guard ladders from
-being knocked down, so superstition began to warn the passers-by: if
-the children went under the ladder, they would not grow; if girls went,
-they would have no chance of being married within the year; and if
-a man passed under, he would be hanged—in memory of the criminal’s
-ladder under the gibbet.
-
-To take another original grain of common-sense. Warnings against
-carelessness assumed the form of omens. To spill the salt was
-unfortunate; or in some country places, to spill new milk; or in parts
-of Southern Europe, to spill the oil. Leonardo da Vinci painted spilt
-salt near Judas in his famous ‘Last Supper.’ It is one of the most
-widespread of ill omens, though in different places there are shades of
-difference; for instance, in Holland it betokens a shipwreck.
-
-Beside the superstitious disposition being what we may call an unlucky
-disposition, and beside the germ of encouragement that makes its own
-success out of some ‘good signs,’ and the atom of original prudence
-that still exists in some so-called bad omens, there are two other
-reasons why superstitions still keep hold of the people by a reputation
-for ‘coming true.’ These two reasons cover a great deal of ground
-in our theory of explanation. The first is the vague character of
-forecasts. For instance, we all know the rhymes about the luck of
-birthdays, which country-people of different shires repeat rather
-variously. One Scottish version is:
-
-    Monday’s bairn is fair of face;
-    Tuesday’s bairn is full of grace;
-    Wednesday’s bairn is a child of woe;
-    Thursday’s bairn has far to go;
-    Friday’s bairn is loving and giving;
-    Saturday’s bairn works hard for a living;
-    But the bairn that is born on the Sabbath day,
-    Is lively and bonnie, and wise and gay.
-
-Contrast with this the English version:
-
-    Born of a Monday, fair in face;
-    Born of a Tuesday, full of God’s grace;
-    Born of a Wednesday, merry and glad;
-    Born of a Thursday, sour and sad;
-    Born of a Friday, godly given;
-    Born of a Saturday, work for your living;
-    Born of a Sunday, never shall we want—
-    So there ends the week, and there’s an end on’t.
-
-Any superstitious rustic who, from the page of the cottage Bible, dug
-out the deep secret of the day of his birth, would easily find the
-rhyme true of himself for any day of the week. Any country girl would
-trust it was true, if she was born on a Monday. And who that came
-on a Tuesday would confess himself graceless? But about Wednesday’s
-bairn there seems to be a difference of opinion among the prophets:
-one rhyme predicts ‘a child of woe;’ the other says, ‘merry and glad;’
-while a third, well known in Devonshire, says, ‘sour and grum;’ and
-thereby, from self-contradiction, the old rhyme goes down like a house
-of cards. But all the rhymsters are agreed that Saturday’s child works
-hard for his living—as no doubt the children of every other day of
-the week work too, in the sphere of labouring country-life in which
-these old sayings are known. And as variable as this forecast there
-are many others; for every firm believer in superstition has a secret
-satisfaction in proving it true; and which of us is there that could
-not read our life as the interpretation of any forecast, since we all
-can look at the bright or the dark side, having known alike the good
-and the evil days?
-
-The other reason for the reputation for truth is, that, for credulous
-folk, unlucky omens are too terrible to be put to the test. If they
-were freely tried, they would be detected as a mental tyranny, a
-popular fraud; and in a few generations would be remembered by the
-rustic classes, only as the learned now remember the foolish excitement
-of their forefathers in science, seeking the Elixir of Life and the
-Philosopher’s Stone. If dinner-parties of thirteen were to become
-the fashion, we should not see, as we often see now, the cautious
-arrangements of Christmas invitations, or even the timid compromise of
-bringing in a side-table to accommodate the thirteenth. But which of
-the credulous would dare to test these things? It reminds the writer
-of a doubt—still unsolved—whether the taste of parsley would cause a
-parrot to drop down dead. Parsley as a parrot-poison was heard of in
-childhood, not as a superstition, but as a physical fact. What if it
-were true? The _if_ was too terrible. We had visions of our feathered
-gray ‘Prince Charlie’ seizing the green stuff in his hooked beak,
-and rolling off the perch in mortal agonies. So we disbelieved, but
-coward-like avoided the chance, just as all the world avoids thirteen
-at table.
-
-As to superstitious cures, some of them contain slight elements of
-medicinal value; but most depend upon that influence upon the nerves
-which is well known to be capable of giving energy for a time and
-allaying pain. Some of the old cures were decidedly disagreeable and
-troublesome. The native of Devonshire who wanted to get rid of a wart
-was solemnly enjoined to steal a piece of meat, and after rubbing
-the wart with it, throw it over his left shoulder over a wall. The
-Hertfordshire villager, when afflicted with ague, might be cured if he
-would go to Berkhampstead, where oak-trees grew at the cross-roads; and
-after pegging himself by a lock of hair to the trunk of one of these
-trees, he was to give a vigorous jump, and rid himself at once of the
-ague and the tuft of hair. The loss of the hair was so painful, and the
-loss of the ague so doubtful, that the Berkhampstead folks many years
-ago ceased to go to ‘the cross-oaks.’ The ague, the toothache, and
-dog-bites were the subject of many charms. In the former two maladies,
-a nervous impression might go far to cure; and in the last, a charm
-against hydrophobia would protect the simple believer from the great
-peril that is in a brooding fear of madness. The ludicrous cures were
-a legion in themselves. It seems heartlessly unkind to give a poor
-dog the measles; but many an old nurse took a lock of hair from the
-nape of the sick child’s neck, made a sort of sandwich of it between
-bread-and-butter, and watched at the door to transfer, or fancy she had
-transferred, the measles to a stray dog—probably a stray dog, because
-only an ill-fed animal would take her bread. Equally unkind was it to
-strive to give our dumb friend the whooping-cough; but by the same
-process, with a bunch of hair and a piece of meat, the nurse could be
-guilty of that absurdity as well.
-
-Have any of our readers ever encountered a toad with the
-whooping-cough? The Cheshire toads ought to be sometimes found crowing
-and whooping and in need of change of air; for the superstitious
-Cheshire woman whose child has the cough, knows that she has only
-to poke a toad’s head into her child’s mouth to transfer the
-whooping-cough to the toad. Query, Is the disease also transferred—and
-in that case, what are the alarming results—when the victim of
-whooping-cough gets rid of it by being passed nine times under and over
-a donkey? The cure for rickets is to pass the child under and over
-the donkey nine-times-nine turns. This was actually done in London
-as late as 1845; when a man and a woman, solemnly counting, passed
-the unfortunate child under and over the unsuspecting moke eighty-one
-times, in the midst of an admiring crowd. If there was one pass more
-or less, the charm would fail—a broad enough hint of the excuses
-that could be made when such cures as these were sought in vain. The
-eighty-one turns must have confused the counters’ arithmetic, as no
-doubt the child had personal objections, and lifted its voice aloud;
-and sore must have been the trial even to the patience of a donkey.
-
-So, to sum up, we would suggest that superstitions keep their false
-character for truth, firstly, because those who observe them therein
-prove their own leaning towards ill-luck; secondly, because forecasts
-are vague, and interpretations can be traced somehow in the chances of
-life; thirdly, because the penalty of ill omens is so dreaded, that
-the credulous shrink from putting them to the test; fourthly, because
-there are nervous cures, and love-charms, and dreams, in which anxious
-consciousness points right—the wish being father to the thought;
-fifthly, victims of superstition are secretly pleased when (by chance)
-an unlucky omen comes true, and have a satisfaction even in relating
-their misfortunes; while, since no one tells of the cases that do _not_
-come true, every chance fulfilment is a new rivet in the chain that
-ought long ago to have fallen to pieces.
-
-
-
-
-NOXIOUS MANUFACTURES.
-
-
-There is just now a most wholesome activity in regard to the national
-health, and the public are peculiarly interested in the various details
-of our sanitary machinery. Of this, by no means the least important
-department is that instituted under the Alkali Works Regulation
-Act, 1881, or, in other words, the inspection of noxious works and
-factories. In connection with the pollution of rivers, this is an
-old grievance; but too little has hitherto been done to realise or
-to remedy the evil in its general effects upon the public health. So
-greatly, too, have works prejudicial to health increased of late years,
-that their inspection has been decided upon none too soon. Probably, it
-will never be known how far the death-rate has been influenced by this
-cause. It is, however, one of the unavoidable penalties of civilisation
-that we should live under unwholesome conditions of life.
-
-A multitude of influences injurious to health spring into active
-existence with the development of commerce and the growth of luxury.
-Most of these are evident enough. All the elements, indeed, are
-equally guilty. The earth, air, fire, and water, are allied against
-civilised humanity; and modern science is constantly bringing to
-light disagreeable facts in this connection. We have long lived in
-the comfortable belief that Mother Earth was the great purifier.
-The reverse is, it seems, nearer the truth. Years after the germs
-of infection have been consigned to the ground, they have been
-disinterred, and found to be not a whit diminished in virulence.
-Archæologists should, we are told, beware of handling newly found
-relics, lest, perchance, they should contract some archaic disease.
-Even mummies, it appears, in spite of their venerable respectability,
-are objects of legitimate suspicion! Fire, too, has a dreary catalogue
-of sins to answer for. It not only robs us of much of the oxygen, of
-which those of us who live in the towns have so scanty a supply, but it
-gives us in exchange unconsumed carbon in quantities which fill the air
-with smut. In smoke alone it furnishes us with food for reflection—and
-digestion—and probably will continue to do so for some time to come.
-
-Again, water is the most insidious enemy of all. The most indispensable
-of the elements—and we are reminded of our obligations to it pretty
-frequently—it is credited with doing the greatest harm. In league
-with unnatural substances, it has developed such an affinity for
-noxious matter that it appears that nothing short of boiling can
-possibly enable us to drink it with any security. To most people, cold
-boiled water will not seem a very attractive beverage, but it has the
-advantage of being in many ways a safe one.
-
-The air, too, is anything but true to the trust committed to her
-charge. We have long confidingly believed in her good-will. Our sewers,
-drains, and chimneys discharge their pestilent exhalations into the
-air; but instead of carrying these away into space, she receives them
-only to bestow them upon us again.
-
-The outlook is indeed gloomy, and unless we make some progress in
-sanitary science, it is not a little difficult to see how we are to
-continue to support the burden of civilised existence.
-
-In this connection, it is reassuring to know that something is being
-done to lessen these ominously numerous artificial dangers. The works
-which come within the scope of the Alkali, &c. Works Act, 1881, are
-very injurious to life. The manufacture of alkalies, acids, chemical
-manures, salt, and cement, alike involve processes prejudicial to
-health. More than one thousand of these were visited by the inspectors,
-appointed in pursuance of the above Act, during the year 1882; and
-it is interesting to know that some intelligent means are being
-devised whereby the offensive character of these manufactures may be
-diminished. To take a single cause of mischief. The manufacture of
-alkalies and acids has long been conducted in such a way that the
-proportion of noxious matter which was allowed to escape into the
-chimney, or atmosphere, often reached from twenty to forty grains per
-cubic foot of air, twenty being a not uncommon amount. The maximum
-amount which might be allowed to escape with impunity has been
-estimated at four grains per cubic foot; and it is a very important
-feature of the Act that it has been instrumental in reducing this
-very considerably. In the alkali works proper the escape has been
-brought down to two grains, while in some cases it is under one. The
-sulphuric acid works alone are now conspicuous for their failings in
-this important respect, the average escape in those examined during the
-year being 5.5. Again, chemical manure-works have long been a pregnant
-source of annoyance to the inhabitants of the neighbourhood in which
-these are carried on.
-
-It is, curiously enough, the smaller establishments of the kind which
-are the most harmful. The larger works have long employed the most
-complete processes, because the escape of effluvia would otherwise
-have been so great, that it would have speedily aroused hostile action
-on the part of the public. The imposition of preventive measures
-in the case of the smaller works—in many of which no precautions
-whatever have hitherto been adopted—is attended with some difficulty,
-since it involves an expenditure which would in some cases be almost
-prohibitive. It appears, indeed, that no maximum of escape can be fixed
-in works of this kind, and all that remains to be done is to render it
-compulsory that processes should be adopted for washing out such gases
-as are soluble, and for burning those which are more susceptible to
-such a method of treatment. Since such pernicious agents as fluorine
-compounds escape during the action of sulphuric acid upon phosphates,
-the question is one of some urgency. Again, another cause of complaint
-is the escape of sulphuretted hydrogen during the process of making
-sulphate of ammonia. In the larger gas-liquor-works the gas is burned,
-and converted into sulphuric acid in lead chambers; while in others it
-is passed through oxide of iron; and both these methods are perfectly
-satisfactory when properly carried out. Again, the discharge of
-sulphurous or muriatic gases evolved in extracting salt from brine is
-an evil which has remained unremedied almost down to the present time.
-Not the least curious feature of this question, too, is the fact that
-many of the products of distillation are so valuable that it is more
-than mere neglect to throw them away in the form of noxious gases. It
-is unnecessary to describe here the state of the salt districts. They
-might serve as a type of the abomination of desolation. The combined
-effect of the gases and the soot, which pours forth in prodigious
-volumes and from the chimneys of nearly a hundred salt-works in
-Cheshire alone, is most deplorable.
-
-The only possible conclusion from this Report is that we are still far
-behindhand in these matters. We have, for instance, long continued
-to burn coal on the same principle, and are very slow to believe in
-any of the new methods which have been and are continually being
-introduced. Yet not only is black smoke very much more injurious to
-animal and vegetable life than when it has been rendered colourless by
-burning, but it is peculiarly wasteful. It has long been known that
-many valuable commodities could be obtained from coal; and but too
-little progress has hitherto been made in this direction. It is, then,
-all the more interesting to know that in some works in the north of
-England the gases from the blast furnaces have been cooled and washed,
-and ammoniacal salts obtained in such quantities as to make the process
-economical; while by the ‘Young and Beilby’ process it is contended
-that not only can the fuel be consumed for nothing, but that there will
-be several shillings a ton profit.
-
-So far as manufactures are concerned, there certainly seems to be
-no valid reason why the rule that they must consume their own smoke
-should not be much more freely enforced. In the case of the alkali
-trades, which have long been in a very bad state, it is, of course,
-an unfortunate time to suggest the necessity for the outlay of more
-capital in improved works. But the exigencies of the public health are
-paramount, and needlessly offensive processes cannot be tolerated much
-longer. Such a case as that reported from Widnes, where waste heaps of
-offensive matter, consisting chiefly of sulphur and lime, are allowed
-to accumulate, although the sulphur could be extracted at a profit, and
-so prevented from poisoning the streams for miles around, is certainly
-difficult to explain. The drainage from these heaps alone is estimated
-as carrying away twelve tons or seventy pounds-worth of sulphur a day.
-But perhaps as soon as some satisfactory system for eliminating the
-sulphur has been hit upon, this will be remedied. We have certainly
-much yet to learn in sanitary science. The old theories are one by one
-being exploded, and it will no longer do for us to poison the air we
-breathe, under the pleasing impression that its purifying properties
-are inexhaustible. Civilisation has made such strides that she has
-succeeded in overturning the equilibrium of nature. The equilibrium
-must be restored.
-
-
-
-
-TRIMMING THE FEET OF ELEPHANTS.
-
-
-The feet of elephants kept for show purposes are trimmed two or three
-times a year. The sole of an elephant’s foot is heavily covered with
-a thick horny substance of material similar to the three toe-nails on
-each foot; and as it grows thicker and thicker, it tends to contract
-and crack, often laming the animal. Barnum the American showman
-recently subjected his elephants to the trimming process at one of
-the towns where he was exhibiting. With a knife about two feet long,
-great pieces of horn, six inches by four, and a quarter of an inch
-thick, were shaved off. Often pieces of glass, wire, nails, and other
-things are found imbedded in the foot, which have been picked up during
-street parades. Sometimes these irritating morsels work up into the
-leg and produce a festering sore. A large nail was found imbedded in
-the foot of one of the elephants, which had to be extracted with a
-pair of pincers, and the wound syringed with warm water. During the
-operation, the huge creature appeared to suffer great pain, but seemed
-to know that it would afterwards obtain relief, and therefore bore it
-patiently, and trumpeted its pleasure at the close. Three times around
-an elephant’s front-hoof is said to be his exact height.
-
-
-
-
-SONNETS OF PRAISE.
-
-
-THE VALES.
-
-    The nestling vales lie sheltered from rough winds,
-    As little babes in tender keeping grow,
-    Some narrow gorge each flowery limit binds;
-    Thus we from childish eyes hide elder woe.
-    The vales are thick with corn, with plenty shine;
-    Thus should the children smile in sunny glee,
-    For One hath blessed them with a love divine,
-    The untried pilgrims of life’s stormy sea.
-    Though rough winds cannot enter, gentle rain
-    Refreshes the green vale, till springs arise,
-    Their source the snow-clad hills; so age should gain,
-    By gentle teaching childhood’s eager eyes.
-    Rain fills the pools, the thirsty vale is blest;
-    Thus should the children thrive, by love caressed.
-
-
-THE MOUNTAINS.
-
-    The lofty mountains with their snowy crests,
-    God’s ensigns, praise their Lord throughout the land;
-    Their heights, which few can reach, in human breasts
-    Inspiring awe, yet quake beneath His hand.
-    Oft ’twixt their summits and the lower earth,
-    The wreathing cloud-mists roll, alone they dwell
-    As sight-dimmed age. Our cries of pain or mirth
-    Molest them not; thus age with deadening spell
-    Benumbs our ears, yet near each lonely peak
-    Sing mountain birds, sunbeams each summit crown.
-    From highest heaven thus God’s saints may seek
-    Refuge in thoughts divine, though long years drown
-    Earth’s sounds; on mountain crest reposed the Ark,
-    Our home above shines clear, as earth grows dark.
-
-            M. P.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
-and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-_All Rights Reserved._
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.
-
-Page 236: missing word “pounds” inserted—“3.532 pounds”.]
-
-*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR
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