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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76348 ***





[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. 154.—VOL. III.      SATURDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1886.      PRICE 1½_d._]




INN-SIGNS—THEIR ORIGIN AND MEANINGS.


In these days of enlightenment, the signs displayed by our inns,
taverns, and public-houses are not matters of great or urgent
importance to us in the ordinary routine of our daily life. But in
times past the case was widely different. For several centuries at
least, signs and signboards were matters not only of convenience,
but even of necessity. During this time they played a by no means
unimportant part in the busy world of trade and commerce, and were of
great service to mankind in general in a way they are no longer capable
of being. Under these circumstances, it will be easily understood that
they gathered around them no small amount of interest, not only of a
commercial, but also of a domestic, and even of an historical kind.
Many, even of our modern inn-signs, are able to speak instructively
to those who trouble to decipher their now somewhat indistinct and
illegible meanings. They tell us of the customs of our forefathers, of
the superstitious beliefs they held, of the wares they made and dealt
in, and of the party strifes in which they engaged. They speak to us
also of the great men who had so large a share in the making of English
history in bygone times, and are able in many other ways to remind us
of the pursuits, the pleasures, the manners, and the customs of our
ancestors. It will therefore be worth while to devote some attention to
the subject of our modern inn-signs, especially as comparatively little
has hitherto been written about them.

The use of signs as a means of distinguishing different houses of
business is a custom which has come down to us from times of great
antiquity; nevertheless, it is not now at all difficult to discover the
reasons which first led to their being employed. During the last and
preceding centuries, only an infinitesimally small proportion of the
people was able to read and write. In those times it would obviously
have been useless for any tradesman to have inscribed his name and
occupation, or the number of his house, over his door, as is now done.
The words ‘W. & R. Chambers, Publishers,’ would then have conveyed
very little meaning, or none at all, to the popular mind. But if each
tradesman suspended before his house some easily recognisable device
of a pictorial nature, the case would obviously have been different.
If the sign thus displayed indicated the nature of the wares sold
within, it would answer a double purpose; but in any case, it would
serve to mark the particular house displaying it. Signs, too, would be
especially useful in distinguishing different establishments in times
when many members of the same craft dwelt together in a particular
street or quarter. This they used formerly to do, very much more than
now; and in the various large cities of the East the custom still to a
great extent survives.

In speaking of the origin of the use of signs, it must never be
forgotten that in past times they were not confined, as now, almost
exclusively to ‘public-houses.’ We have still the sign of the Pole
for a barber, the Black Boy for a tobacconist, the Rod and Fish for a
tackle-dealer, the Golden Balls for a pawnbroker, and some others; but
formerly, almost all houses of business displayed their signs, just
as inns and taverns do now. Evidence of this fact is afforded by the
imprint of almost any old book published in the seventeenth century.
Such books were generally either printed or sold by an individual
dwelling at the White Hart, the Red Lion, the Green Dragon, the Golden
Tun, or some such sign. Most of Shakspeare’s works, it may be noted,
were first issued from houses displaying devices similar to the above,
and situated in or near to St Paul’s Churchyard. Were an imprint, like
that which each of these works bore, to appear on any modern book,
it would certainly convey to many the idea that the volume had been
printed at an ordinary ‘public-house.’ In Paris, moreover, to the
present day, it is almost or quite as common for ordinary tradesmen to
display signs, as it is for hotel-keepers and liquor-sellers to do so.
In that city, too, all vendors of firewood and coals have the fronts
of their houses painted so as to convey the idea that they are built of
rough logs of wood. This device, though not displayed upon a signboard,
is in every way of the nature of a modern tradesman’s sign.

In the times when signs were in general use by all tradesmen, it was
only natural that each man should endeavour to outdo his neighbours
in the obtrusiveness of his signboard. Those firms who advertise on
street hoardings do precisely the same kind of thing at the present
day; each endeavours, by means of brilliancy of colour or novelty of
design, to obtain, through his posters, greater publicity for the wares
he deals in, and to attract more attention than his neighbours. Just
so, a century or more ago, many ingenious devices were made use of to
force into notice the signboards of those days. Some of the boards were
made of enormous size; others were painted in flaring colours; others
bore striking or amusing objects, likely to be remembered by those
who saw them; while others were projected far out into the street, or
suspended within elaborate, and often really ornamental, frameworks of
iron. When each tradesman thus endeavoured to eclipse the signboards of
his neighbours, it may well be imagined that inconvenience was caused
to the general public. Complaints that the size and prominence of the
signboards prevented the access of sunlight and the free circulation
of the air in the narrow London streets, first began to be heard, we
are told, as early as the beginning of the fifteenth century, when an
order was made to abate the nuisance. In the course of time, however,
the evil grew again, till Charles II., in 1667, directed that no
signboards were thereafter to hang across the streets, but that they
were to be fixed against the sides of the houses. Again, however, as
years passed by, the nuisance reappeared. In 1762, large powers were
once more granted, and there was a general and final clearing away of
the too obtrusive signboards. Old prints and engravings of the last
century often give a good idea of the way in which the public streets,
both of London and other towns, were once disfigured by these overgrown
signboards.

This general demolition in 1762 gave a blow to the use of signboards
from which those evidences of past ignorance have never since
recovered. But had the conditions which first brought them into
existence remained the same, there can be no doubt that the signboards
would have again risen, phœnix-like, from their own ruins. Happily
those conditions have _not_ remained the same. That knowledge of
reading and writing which during the present century has become
widespread among all classes, has, it may be truly said, given a
death-blow alike to the universal use of signs and to the art of the
sign-painter. This, to be sure, is not a matter to call for regret on
its own account; nevertheless, the great decline in the use of the
old-fashioned pictorial signboards is to be regretted for many reasons.
The signs our forefathers used have—as already pointed out—largely
interwoven themselves with our history. In losing them, we are
losing one of the well-known landmarks of the past. The signs of the
Woolpack and the Golden Fleece, for instance, which are still common
in the Eastern Counties, are mementos of the time when the woollen
trade flourished in that part of England. The sign of the Coach and
Horses, still a very frequent sign everywhere, calls to mind the old
coaching-days. Our numerous Arms, our many Lions, Bulls, Dragons,
Bears, and Horses—red, blue, black, green, or white—and divers other
strangely coloured animals, most of which are quite unknown to men of
science, are all relics of medieval times, when heraldry was cherished
and understood by every one. Many similar instances might be pointed
out, did space permit.

Most of the signboards now displayed by our inns and taverns bear
strong evidence of their own degradation from the high position they
once occupied. Inasmuch as they now usually bear the name of the house
in written characters, they show most clearly how entirely forgotten
are the reasons which originally led to the adoption of the use of
signs. Only now and then do we see a pictorial signboard of the real
old-fashioned sort.

This decay in the use of inn-signs, however, is no greater than the
decline in importance of the inns themselves. These have, within
little more than the last half-century, descended from a position of
great importance and prosperity to one of comparative degradation.
Few persons of the present day have an adequate idea of the extent to
which tavern-life influenced thought and manners fifty, one hundred,
or two hundred years ago. Then each man had his tavern, much as we now
have our clubs and reading-rooms; there he nightly met his friends,
heard the high-priced London newspapers read aloud, and discussed
the political and business topics of the time. Dickens, in _Barnaby
Rudge_, has well sketched the select village company which for many
years had met nightly at the old Maypole to tipple and debate. Ale was
the universal beverage on these occasions; and in days when there were
no colossal breweries at Burton, Romford, or elsewhere, the fame of
any tavern was great or small according to the skill of the landlord
or his servants in producing this beverage. Inns, too, formed the
stopping-places of the many coaches of a hundred years ago, and at them
were kept the numerous horses then required for the traffic. In the old
coaching-days, indeed, many a small town or village on any main road
consisted largely or chiefly of inns; and supplying the necessaries for
the passing traffic may be said to have formed the ‘local industry’
by which the inhabitants of such places lived. Thus the inns of olden
times combined to a large extent within themselves the various uses
to which modern clubs, reading-rooms, institutes, railway stations,
eating-houses, hotels, public-houses, livery stables, and the like, are
now severally put. Then they were the centres round which most events
of the time revolved; now they are little more than tippling-houses for
the lower classes.

The various _devices used as signs_ are of infinite variety and
varying degrees of interest, from the _Heads_, or portraits, of modern
political, naval, or military celebrities, to such signs as the Rose
and Crown, the Fleur-de-Lys, the Spread Eagle, the Cross Keys, our
numerous Arms, fantastically coloured animals of all kinds, and many
other similar devices. Signs of the former kind require little or no
explanation; they are usually modern and uninteresting vulgarisms,
and their meanings are self-apparent. With signs of the latter class,
however, the case is generally far different, and a search for their
original significance, often much obscured by the mists of antiquity,
is usually an interesting one. As a rule, such signs will be found to
have been derived from the armorial bearings of some sovereign, noble,
or other historical personage.

From the quaint and now almost forgotten science of heraldry, indeed,
has been derived a large majority of our oldest and most interesting
signs. This fact need cause no surprise when it is remembered that in
former days every one was familiar with this so-called ‘science.’ The
incomprehensible jargon, spoken of as ‘blazon’ by heraldic writers,
and the various devices appearing on all modern coats of arms, though
little more nowadays than grotesque hieroglyphics to most, were once
read and perfectly understood even by the common people. A knowledge of
heraldry was once, probably, as general as a knowledge of the ‘three
Rs’ is now. It was no wonder, therefore, that the idea early suggested
itself to the minds of tradesmen and others to use their own coats
of arms—when they had any—or those of the great trade guild to which
they belonged, or those of their landlord, or some patron, as signs.
This convenient custom, once established, would be sure to be largely
followed; there can, indeed, be no question that in this way arose the
custom of naming houses the ‘So-and-so Arms.’ At the present time, the
custom itself remains, though its origin has been almost entirely lost
sight of. Many inns have in consequence come to be known as the Arms of
persons, trades, places, and things which never did, and never could
bear, a coat of arms. Such signs, for instance, as the Lilliput Arms,
the Cricketers’ Arms, and the Libra Arms, are modern and meaningless
absurdities. Clearly the origin of the sign of the King’s Arms had
never occurred to the simple clodhopper of whom it is related that he
once walked many miles to see King George IV. on one of his journeys,
and who came home greatly disappointed; for he found the king had arms
like other men, while he had always understood that His Majesty’s right
arm was a lion, and his left a unicorn. Arms of various kinds form a
large proportion of our modern signs, often as much as ten per cent.,
and sometimes double that in particular districts. As a general rule,
where a house has displayed for many years together an armorial sign,
the ‘coat’ will be found to be that of the largest landowner or most
prominent personage in the district.

When the general knowledge of heraldry began to decline, and armorial
bearings fell largely into disuse, many houses, formerly known as the
‘Somebody’s Arms,’ probably came gradually to be called after, and
distinguished by, the most prominent ‘charge’ in the coat, or after the
‘crest’ or one of the ‘supporters,’ which might have been, in heraldic
blazon, a lion gules (red), a boar azure (blue), a white hart, or a
rose crowned. Thus undoubtedly originated many strange signs which are
still common.

The personal ‘badges’ adopted by kings and great nobles in early times,
and worn on the arm by their servants and retainers, have also given
origin to many similar signs. Thus, the White Hart—one of our very
commonest signboard devices—represents the favourite badge of King
Richard II., although the white hart has also a legendary existence.
The Rose and Crown—another extremely abundant sign—owes its existence
to the fact that most of the earlier English sovereigns used a rose
crowned as a badge. The Blue Boar, the badge of the once powerful De
Veres, Earls of Oxford, is to this day commoner in the county of Essex,
where lay the family seat, than anywhere else. The Red Lion, another
of our very commonest signs, is probably in the same way derived from
the personal badge of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, though it
doubtless represents also the lion in the arms of Scotland. As a rule,
fantastically coloured animals will be found to have had an heraldic
origin. Creatures in their natural colours either may or may not have
been derived from heraldry; thus, the Greyhound, though it has figured
both as the badge, and one or both of the ‘supporters’ of the arms of
several English sovereigns, may owe its frequent appearance on the
signboard to its modern use in the coursing-field. In the case of the
White Horse, too, a very common sign, it is difficult now to decide
whether it represents the White Horse of the Saxons, or that of the
House of Hanover, or one of the many white horses to be seen in our
streets.

The number Three, it will be found, occurs on signboards in most
districts more than twice as often as all other numbers put together.
This may be partly explained by the fact that three has been regarded
as a lucky number from very early times. It is, however, extremely
common for three ‘charges’—that is, objects—to appear on coats of
arms; and there can be no doubt that very many of our modern Threes
have had, either directly or indirectly, an heraldic origin. Among
signs which have, in all probability, been derived directly from
heraldry, may be mentioned the Three Cups, taken from the arms of the
Salters’ Company; the Three Tuns, from the arms either of the Brewers’
or the Vintners’ Companies; the Three Compasses, from the armorial
bearings of the Carpenters’ Company; the Three Pigeons, probably
derived from the arms of the Tallow-chandlers’ Company; the Three
Fleurs-de-Lys—formerly, though not now, a common sign—taken from the
arms of France; and many others. To this class also belongs the sign of
the Three Golden Balls, still displayed by every pawnbroker. The balls,
it is said, represent certain round gilt objects, technically known
as ‘bezants,’ which formed part of the coat of arms of the dukes of
Medici, from whose states and from Lombardy most of the early bankers
came. These capitalists advanced money on valuable objects, and thus
gradually became pawnbrokers. The custom of naming houses the ‘Three
Somethings’ still survives, although the origin of that custom has been
lost sight of. Thus, we get such meaningless absurdities as the Three
Jolly Wheelers (whatever they may be), the Three Mariners, the Three
Loggerheads, and various others, which may be said to have had an
indirectly heraldic origin.

Many signs, too, once formed a ‘rebus’ or pun on the names of the
persons who displayed them; such signs are not now common, though they
appear frequently on the ‘tokens’ issued so numerously by tradesmen
in the seventeenth century. Most of these bore the sign under which
their issuers traded. Thus, we find Three Conies, or rabbits, on
those of Hugh Conny; a Finch on those of John Finch; a Hand and Cock
representing Hancock; and a Babe and Tun representing Babington.

Many most absurd and altogether incongruous combinations still appear
on our signboards, though these are not so abundant as formerly; thus,
we have the Sun and Whalebone, the Dog and Gridiron, the Plough and
Sail, the Crown and Blacksmith, the Bull and Horseshoe, and numerous
others. In some cases, a connection between the two objects is obvious;
every one, for instance, will be able to see what brought together
on a signboard the Cat and Fiddle, the Eagle and Child, the Dog and
Partridge, George and the Dragon, &c. But in the case of the examples
given above, there is no connection between the two objects referred
to, and their combination is quite meaningless. They have in most cases
arisen from an ancient custom of adding the sign of the old house to
that of the new, when a tradesman has been removing from one place of
business to another; or else an apprentice, when beginning business on
his own account, has added some sign of his own selection to that of
the master under whom he formerly served.

Not a few signs for which no likely meaning or derivation can be
found are in all probability corruptions; that is to say, they were
originally set up to commemorate some person, object, or event of,
perhaps, only local celebrity. In the course of time, this became
forgotten; and under vulgar pronunciation—or, possibly, on the advent
of a new landlord, who knew nothing of the original meaning of the
device—the sign was changed to something else which it seemed to imply
or nearly resemble. Thus, it is said the sign of the George Canning has
become changed into the George and Cannon, and that of the Island Queen
into the Iceland Queen. In Oxfordshire there is a house with the sign
of the Sheep and Anchor, which probably was once the Ship and Anchor.
Another house, in Hertfordshire, formerly had a ship in full sail
represented on its signboard; of late years, however, the board has
merely been inscribed the Ship; and quite recently, on the advent of a
new landlord who had been a cattle-dealer, the sign was changed to that
of the Sheep.

Inn-signs have in some cases been painted by artists of considerable
eminence. An interesting account of various instances in which this has
been the case will be found in the volume of this _Journal_ for 1881,
page 107.

Want of space obviously prevents any attempt being here made to explain
in detail the origin and meanings of all our innumerable existing
signs. The last edition of the London Directory enumerates no fewer
than seventeen hundred and forty-two distinct devices as appearing
in the metropolis alone. All that it is possible to do here is to
indicate in a general way the manner in which most of our modern signs
originated, and that has now been done.




BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.


CHAPTER XVIII.

‘You wished to see me?’

‘Yes; if you will be so good as to sit down and listen to me.’

Enid stood looking at her mysterious visitor in some perplexity. There
was something almost weird about the strange woman’s beauty; but in
obedience, she seated herself to listen.

‘I have a strange story to tell,’ Isodore commenced. ‘For a long while
now I have been watching over your welfare. Do not think me personal or
rude in any questions I may ask. Believe me, I do not for one moment
wish to pain you; indeed, on the other hand, I wish to do you a great
service.’

Enid inclined her head gently. ‘Perhaps it will be as well to have as
perfect confidence between us as possible. You already know my name.
Will you be so good as to tell me to whom I owe this visit?’

‘My name is Isodore.’

Enid looked at her visitor in interest and admiration. This, then, was
the beautiful mystery about whom Maxwell had often spoken, the princess
to whom the fatal Brotherhood owed allegiance. Then she grew frigid.
Had it not been for her and such as her, Frederick would have been with
her now.

‘You misjudge me,’ Isodore continued sadly, for she had read the
other’s thoughts as easily as an open book. ‘Believe me, had I known,
Mr Maxwell would never have been sent to Rome. But if I am to continue,
I must have your confidence. What if I tell you your lover is in
England now?’

‘In England, and never came to see me!’ Enid exclaimed with a little
gasp. ‘Impossible! He would surely have written.’

‘Nevertheless, it is perfectly true, though he only arrived yesterday.
He would have come to you, or written, had I not forbidden him.’

‘Forbidden him,’ Enid echoed haughtily. ‘And why?’

‘Because things were not ready,’ Isodore replied calmly. ‘I did not
take a journey to Rome at the hazard of my life, to rescue him from
a great danger, to have my plans upset at the last moment. If it had
not been for me, Mr Maxwell would not be alive now.’ Isodore could not
restrain herself sufficiently to conceal this touch of womanly feeling.

Enid’s face softened strangely. ‘I have heard of you. Forgive me, if I
seem cold, but I have been severely tried lately,’ she said. ‘You do
not know what a load you have taken off my mind; and yet, perhaps’——
She stopped abruptly; her thoughts turned in the direction of Le
Gautier, and wondering how she could face her lover now.

‘And yet,’ Isodore replied—‘and yet you would see a way out of the
difficulty into which the miserable schemes of Le Gautier have placed
you? Do I speak plainly, or shall I be more explicit?’

The random shot went home; Enid’s face flushed crimson to the fair
curls lying on her forehead. ‘You speak plainly enough,’ she faltered.
‘You need say no more. I am dazed and bewildered by your wonderful
knowledge.’

‘It will be clear enough presently. The clouds are dark now; but I see
rays of light here and there. Do you study spiritualism?’

‘No,’ Enid answered, puzzled by the abruptness and inconsequence of the
question. ‘I cannot say that I have. But why?’

‘If your father is in the house, I shall be glad to see him. Will you
be good enough to ascertain if he can be seen?’

‘If I tell him he is wanted on supernatural affairs, he will come.’
Enid smiled as she rang the bell. ‘It is his craze.’

After a little pause, the baronet entered the room, and, like his
daughter, stood inthralled by the visitor’s perfect beauty. He bowed
low; in spite of his age, he was a lover of the beautiful still. He
looked up admiringly in the perfect eyes, and waited for her to speak.

‘Sir Geoffrey, you are a swindled, deluded man!’

‘Bless me!’ the startled baronet exclaimed at this unceremonious
opening. ‘Swindled, deluded, I? Who by? Impossible!’

‘By the conjurer, Le Gautier.’

Sir Geoffrey stared in open-mouthed amazement; even the breeding of the
Charterises did not rise to this occasion. Enid’s heart gave one leap,
and then began to beat violently. She was conscious of some coming
revelations of the deepest interest to her, and waited with impatience
for Isodore to speak.

‘Some time ago, you went to a house near Paddington. You will please
correct me if I am in error, Sir Geoffrey. During your presence there
you saw several startling manifestations: you were commanded to do
certain things, one of which affected deeply your daughter’s happiness,
and which, by some happy accident, were equally acceptable to Le
Gautier. Am I right?’

‘Perfectly,’ the baronet gasped. ‘And I need not say they will be
carried out to the letter. I believe’——

‘They were a common, vulgar, barefaced swindle!’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Sir Geoffrey interposed politely, ready to do
battle in defence of his pet scheme. ‘I cannot agree with you. Le
Gautier’——

‘Is a low adventurer. I am not talking idly; I can prove every word I
say. This very morning, I was at Paddington, and saw the manifestation
room, or whatever you may choose to call it. At the back of the room
is a large mirror; over the window is another. Preparations for the
manufacture of visions to suit any taste were manifest. And one thing
in conclusion: the girl who personated your better self and your dead
brother, who never was married, is at present under your roof. She is
Linda Despard, the girl who met with the accident in Piccadilly.’

Sir Geoffrey began to feel uncomfortable, and moreover experienced a
twinge of common-sense. There was something so horribly realistic
about the beautiful stranger’s story, that it shook his faith to its
foundation. ‘But really, such an extraordinary tale,’ he stammered,
‘and everything appeared so real. I cannot doubt, the likeness to my
brother was so perfect. Am I mad that I should believe this?’

‘If you will excuse me for a moment and permit me to see this Linda
Despard, I will introduce you to your brother in a few moments.—Miss
Charteris, have I your permission?’

‘You have my permission to do anything which will clear up the wretched
mystery,’ Enid cried passionately. ‘Even now, I am totally at a loss to
know what you are speaking of. Go! Do anything you may desire, so that
we can have a little quietness hereafter.’

Without another word, Isodore vanished, leaving Sir Geoffrey pacing the
drawing-room in great perturbation and casting uneasy glances in Enid’s
direction. He was not convinced yet, but his doubts were troublesome.
‘It is all nonsense,’ he exclaimed. ‘I saw with my own eyes’——

‘Your brother, Sir Geoffrey.’

The baronet looked up, and there, standing in the doorway, saw Isodore,
holding by the hand a figure dressed in a slouch-hat and enveloped in
a cloak. For a moment, he staggered back in amazement: it was the lost
Ughtred to the life!

‘This is the long-lost brother,’ Isodore continued.—‘Linda, throw your
hat away, and tell Sir Geoffrey the tale you told Lucrece.—Listen, Sir
Geoffrey, and you will hear something entertaining, and Miss Charteris
something that will restore the bloom to her cheeks.’

Linda Despard pushed her hat aside, and stood, half-boldly,
half-timidly, before the startled baronet. There were tears in her eyes
as she looked at Enid.

‘But what can this possibly have to do with Le Gautier?’ Sir Geoffrey
demanded.

Isodore waved him aside haughtily. ‘Much, if you will have patience,’
she said.—‘Linda, you had best commence. We are trifling.’

There was an air of command in these words there was no disputing. Enid
sank into a chair pale but collected, the baronet standing behind her,
looking anything but comfortable. Lucrece took up her place beside her
mistress. Isodore stood through the interview.

‘Well, I will do anything to help that angel of mercy who has been so
good and kind to me!’ the actress commenced, with a grateful glance at
Enid. ‘I tried to do her a great injury; but, thank heaven, I am not
too late to save her yet. I am much to blame; but this is a hard world,
and there are times when a few shillings are a godsend to me. It is not
a long story. Lucrece here, and Isodore, knew my husband, and how he
used to treat me, beating, half-starving me, and taking all my earnings
to spend at the cafés. Well, I put up with that life as long as I
could; and then, after one awful night, I left him. I came to England,
and brought my boy with me. After some hardships, I contrived to get
a situation in a London theatre under a new name. It was only a small
part, for my imperfect English was against me. One night, some months
ago, as I was coming out of the theatre, I met Le Gautier. I had known
him in better days, and though I was not ignorant of his character, it
was pleasant to hear the old familiar tongue again. It appeared he had
been in the theatre, and recognised me, and waited to say a few words
as I came out. Time went on, and he was really kind to me. Through his
influence I obtained a rise of salary, and I was grateful. What he
really wanted with me you shall hear presently.’ The narrator paused a
moment here, and looked round in the eager faces. Every sound could be
heard distinctly—the ticking of the clocks, and Sir Geoffrey’s heavy
breathing. ‘One night he came to my lodgings,’ the speaker resumed,
‘and then he asked me if I had forgotten the old spiritualism tricks.
I must tell you that once on a time I travelled the continent with a
company that played ghostly pieces, such, for instance, as translations
of Dickens’ _Christmas Carol_, a simple thing, a mere optical illusion,
what you call Pepper’s Ghost. I told him I thought I could remember,
and then he made a proposal to me. I never hesitated; the pay was too
good for that. I was to meet Le Gautier at a house near Paddington one
night, and go through the old tricks for a gentleman deeply interested
in spiritualism. I learnt my lesson well. I was first to personate the
better self of the spectator, and afterwards the spirit of his brother.’

‘Ah!’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed. ‘Go on!’

‘I interest you now. I thought I should. I knew at the time, to my
shame let me confess it, from the things I had to say, that the
spectator was to be got into Le Gautier’s power. Well, the night came;
the simple apparatus was fixed; everything promised well. I was a bit
nervous, for I was out of practice, and I wanted to see what sort of
a man the victim was. While they were at dinner, I looked into the
room, and there I saw the gentleman whom I now know to be Sir Geoffrey
Charteris. When I saw your credulous face,’ the narrator continued,
addressing the baronet, ‘I was no longer afraid. Presently, when it
became dark and they sat over their wine, I listened till a word agreed
upon was uttered by Le Gautier, and I commenced. First, there was
some music, sounding strangely enough in the room, but not to me, for
I played it. That was simple to an unbeliever with ordinary nerves;
then came flashes of light, also easy enough; and when I deemed I
had created a sufficient sense of fear, I entered the room. It was
quite dark by that time, and I was dressed from head to foot in close
garments. I touched Sir Geoffrey on the face and whispered in his ear;
and once when he showed signs of unbelief, I clutched him by the throat
and nearly strangled him.—Sir Geoffrey, if I make a mistake in a single
particular, correct me.’

‘You are perfectly correct,’ the baronet answered, flushing scarlet.
‘Pray, continue. You do not know what the suspense is to me.’

‘Had you been quick and strong of nerve, you would have found it out
then, for, as it was, you grasped my arm, covered in wet eel-skins, a
creepy thing to touch in the dark, even if you know what it is. That
was the first part of the performance, and then the real business
commenced in earnest. Le Gautier led you to a room at the back of the
house, a room draped in black cloth, and seated you in a certain spot,
daring you to move at your peril. I wonder I did not laugh at this; I
did once or twice, I know, so that I had to finish with an hysterical
scream, which had the advantage of relieving me and heightening the
effect. Well, the jugglery commenced—the meanest trickery, hardly
sufficient to deceive a child. It was easy enough to work it under
cover of the incense and smoke; for behind your chair, Sir Geoffrey,
the curtains were pulled back and a mirror exposed. I stood upon a
pedestal in the window, behind another mirror. The illusion is perfect,
and all I had to do was to ask and answer questions. I got through the
first part of the performance well enough; but when I had to personate
Sir Geoffrey’s brother, the case was different. Had you, sir, been
calm and collected, you must have discovered. I personated the spirit
of your brother, desiring penance for some fancied wrong done to my
children; and to heighten the effect, two ragged little boys were
introduced to personate the dead man’s starving and abandoned family.
Frightened almost to death by the fear of being haunted, Sir Geoffrey,
you promised me anything. You promised to join some League, the meaning
of which I do not know, to carry out your dead brother’s work; and
last, but not least, that my good angel and preserver there should
become Le Gautier’s wife. The illusion was perfect, and a little of Le
Gautier’s matchless ventriloquism completed it.—And now,’ the speaker
continued, running forward and falling at Enid’s feet, ‘let me implore
your forgiveness! My benefactress, how grateful I am that I have been
able to serve you!’

‘I have nothing to forgive,’ Enid replied. ‘You have taken far too
great a load off my mind for me to reproach you now.’

‘But the whole thing is inexplicable to me,’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed.
‘How did you manage to impersonate my late brother so accurately?’

Linda Despard smiled and pointed to a photograph album. ‘Easy enough
with plenty of these about. What simpler than to abstract a likeness
from one of these books and give it me! With my theatrical training and
knowledge of make-up, the task was nothing.’

‘I am all the more astonished,’ Isodore remarked, ‘that the audacity of
the command relating to Miss Enid did not open your eyes.’

‘But you understand Le Gautier professed to know nothing of what had
taken place,’ Sir Geoffrey explained. ‘I even had to broach the subject
to him. He never by any chance alluded to it.’

‘Such cunning as his always proves too deep for simple honesty. I need
not ask if you believe what you have heard, Sir Geoffrey?’

‘Indeed, I do.—Enid, my child, come and kiss me, and say you forgive
your foolish old father. Take me away into the country, where people
cannot find me. I am not fit to mix with men of sense; and, O Enid, as
soon as it is convenient, tell Varley to go into the library and pick
out all the works he can find on spiritualism and burn them.’

‘You are sure you have forgiven me?’ Linda Despard asked Enid timidly.

‘From the bottom of my heart. You have done me a service to-day which
I cannot forget, or indeed ever repay.—And to you, Isodore, if I may
call you so, I am grateful. You will pardon me if I seemed harsh or
hard when you came here, but I have distrusted every one of late.’

‘You have no cause to thank me,’ Isodore replied simply. ‘I am afraid I
must confess that it is not entirely upon your behalf I have done this
thing.’

‘I care not for that. I shall always remember you with gratitude.’

Isodore turned quickly from the window. ‘Le Gautier is coming up the
steps,’ she exclaimed. ‘He must not see me here now, or everything will
be ruined. I must see you again before I leave the house. Where can I
hide? I would not have him discover me now for ten thousand pounds!’




STORIES OF CATS.


So much praise has been lavished on dogs and horses, as exceptionally
favoured friends, that scant measure of justice is meted to equally
deserving if less popular animals. Notably is this the case towards one
animal which Shakspeare, with all his marvellous knowledge of creation,
has denominated the ‘harmless, necessary cat.’ Persons most familiar
with the feline race will indeed plead their cause enthusiastically;
but such honourable exceptions are few and far between. Those who
consider no luxury too costly for the indulgence of a dog, think it no
sin to tacitly countenance—if not worse—any amount of harsh treatment
or indifference that may under the same roof be accorded to a cat. The
origin of so unfair and ignorant a prejudice is somewhat difficult to
trace; for, in point of fact, one is no more faultless than the other,
although their failings are very differently judged and condoned. At
the generality of houses, cats are merely tolerated—as a choice between
two evils—lest rats and mice should abound; and supposed to fare
sumptuously on such prey, even where, through ill-requited service,
none are to be found. When theft or destruction of fragile articles
is discovered, blame is usually awarded in one convenient quarter
only; whereas the accused thereby is too often made a scapegoat for
the shortcomings of others. An animal may be driven by sheer hunger to
purloin food, because, through inhumanity, none has been given. A clear
case of justifiable larceny! Dumb plaintiffs, unable to employ counsel,
can tell no tales. Could they contradict plausible but false evidence,
how many high and hitherto unimpeachable reputations for honesty and
veracity would perish!

Cats, in the abstract, might well exclaim with Shylock, ‘Sufferance is
the badge of all our tribe.’ They nevertheless have numerous estimable
qualities, from which little credit is derived. They are devoted
mothers as a rule, guarding their young at the risk of life itself;
facing opponents on their behalf from which, by nature, they would
fly in abject terror; playing juvenile games, even at an advanced
age, to amuse their kittens; keeping them sleek and glossy as satin,
while patiently teaching those accomplishments that they will need
when left to their unaided resources in after-life. A pattern for the
imitation of too many parents. Notwithstanding such creditable traits
of character, kittens are mercilessly destroyed; though some of all
other progeny are spared, out of consideration for maternal affection
and well-being. A cat is vulgarly said to have ‘nine lives;’ but, in
sober truth, the single existence it can lay claim to is seldom open
to envy. Without entering here upon details of many cruelties almost
too barbarous for belief, it cannot be ignored that boys, and even men,
not otherwise supposed to be utterly devoid of common humanity, think
nothing of allowing this most unoffending animal to be deliberately
tortured to death by dogs, or similarly revolting practices. They
appear to be under a delusion that there is something manly in
expressing detestation of cats, while professing fondness for animals
in general, and choosing for pets very uninviting specimens. Sundry
so-called ‘sports’—save the mark!—are now happily illegal; offenders
in brutality towards cats are rarely convicted; and—under the present
imperfect state of the law for the protection of dumb animals—can then
be only very inadequately punished.

Cats are tolerably popular in stables, where they are able to
render good return for their lodging at little cost for board. They
become greatly attached to horses, their favourite sleeping-place
being frequently on a horse’s back; a strange selection, which yet
appears to be mutually agreeable. It has been widely said that cats
are incapable of any great degree of affection, and that the small
amount evinced is for their home, and not its inmates. They are, in
addition, considered unable to learn tricks and actions which make
dogs such amusing companions. It is also thought to be much more
difficult to cure the former of faults and natural aversions. Too
great reliance may, however, be placed on these assertions. A bad
name is easily acquired where champions are few and little intimacy
is allowed. ‘Leading the life of a cat and dog,’ for instance, is
popularly supposed to represent the reverse of harmony; yet some cats
and dogs—which have not been _made_ enemies—become devoted friends,
affording an illustration of peaceful unanimity that many of their
biped detractors might profitably imitate. Again, cats, though they
have a decided instinct for killing birds, have been taught to abstain
from molesting those in cages. Two cases came under the writer’s notice
where cats were left constantly in places filled with birds, yet never
injured any, having been early impressed by the idea that there are
birds and birds, some species requiring even protection from harm. The
home of one conscientious creature was at a bird-fancier’s shop, and
no breach of faith resulted from the watchman’s being left nightly on
guard. The experiment might be hazardous to quote, but other examples
could be mentioned. A few well-authenticated anecdotes may clear away
some mistaken notions, and tend to the saving of helpless animals from
cruelty and neglect.

A military chaplain, when living with his family at Madras, had a
favourite cat. Having to change his residence, he removed to another
side of the city, a distance of several miles. The in-coming tenant’s
wife took a great fancy to the cat, and begged that it might be
transferred with the house. Through fear that it would be lost in
going so far from familiar haunts, added to the knowledge that a good
home would be given, and, more especially, because poor Puss was
then in delicate health, she was, after much hesitation, allowed to
remain. About three weeks afterwards, the chaplain’s wife sitting in
the drawing-room of her new home, was amazed to see their old friend
enter the veranda, spring into her lap, overwhelming her with caresses,
and showing every possible demonstration of delight at their reunion.
It was assumed that she had, in an unaccountable manner, come to take
up her quarters where an unequivocal welcome was received. Towards
evening, the visitor disappeared, as mysteriously as she had arrived,
returning the following day, but this time not alone, for in her
mouth was a very small kitten, which she gently laid at the feet of
her mistress with a pleading and most eloquent expression, as though
craving for sanctuary. It need hardly be said that both refugees were
incorporated into the household. Upon inquiry, it was ascertained
that one kitten only had been spared out of a family born at the
former residence. With this ‘sole daughter of her house and heart,’
the faithful creature had travelled to those she had ‘loved and lost
a while.’ How such a journey could have been thrice accomplished,
through the intricate and wholly unknown streets of so large and
populous a city as Madras, bringing on the last occasion so young a
kitten safely with her, surmounting all the difficulties and dangers
of such a formidable transit, is inexplicable, and must certainly
be deemed a marvellous feat. No member of the chaplain’s family had
visited their old home, not even a servant had passed between the two
localities, nor had the new tenants called on the original inhabitants.
The extraordinary reflection and foresight shown in first taking the
journey alone to insure success, and then fetching the fragile little
being prudently left behind, is perhaps the most curious part of
this ‘owre true tale.’ It will be conceded readily that this strong
attachment could only have been for those with whom she had so long and
happily dwelt. Truth is again stranger than fiction.

A lady living near Eton College—close to that memorable spot, dear
to the heart of Eton boys, ‘Chalvey Ditch’—possessed, amongst her
children’s many pets, a beautifully marked tortoiseshell cat, whose
‘lot had fallen in a fair ground,’ amidst ‘the smooth stones of the
stream.’ When the lady’s sons left college, she removed to London—where
the cat would not only have led an unhappy life, after roaming about
of her own free will, but would probably have been lost—she was, to
the sincere regret of her young companions, presented to some friends
living at a considerable distance in Windsor Forest, where a luxurious
home was offered. A family from elsewhere took the remainder of the
lady’s lease off her hands, through which arrangement the following
story came to light. When writing on business, the question was asked
if the lady while living near Eton had amongst her pets a beautifully
marked tortoiseshell cat; which being answered in the affirmative, a
striking proof of intelligence was narrated. Not long after possession
was taken, such a cat—identified by minute description—arrived during
the night, and was found next morning, with a newly born family of
kittens, in an outhouse—her chosen lodging on previous interesting
occasions—having found her way from far in the Forest, whither she had
been taken after dark, through or round Eton and Windsor, and thence
to her once happy home. It may be a disputed point in this instance
whether such fidelity to old associations might be attributed to
love for the house or its former owners. Nevertheless, from the warm
affection shown by the cat towards the latter, no doubt was felt on the
subject by those best able to decide. They were gone beyond her reach,
but she had done her utmost, in loving memory of them.

Some boys were observed in a Welsh village carrying a very small
snow-white kitten, with ‘eyes of most celestial blue,’ and being asked
its destination, stated that they were about to consign the pretty
little creature to an early and a watery grave; from which cruel fate
it was promptly rescued by right of purchase. The kitten being too
young to quit its bereaved parent, was temporarily returned to her
charge, she having in the interim been placed on board-wages. This
presumably equitable plan, from some hidden reason, did not answer,
and the juvenile pensioner seemed far from thriving. Taffy’s peculiar
notions as to _meum_ and _tuum_ may have had something to do with the
failure. Prematurely removed to its proprietor’s care, the junior
member was patiently reared by hand. This Samaritan-like deed brought
fairly earned reward, for the foundling grew into a very handsome cat,
and became a highly prized favourite. So great was the love of ‘Jenny
Lind’ for those who had saved her from death, subsequently, under
domestic difficulties, bringing her to full years of discretion, that
although accompanying them in several long journeys, and living in
many temporary homes, she never once offered to leave them. Petted and
coveted by newer friends, she remained loyal in her allegiance to the
end of her days. Another proof of attachment to persons, not places.

A cat belonging to a gentleman resident about eight miles from London,
was given to a brewer living at a distant part of the metropolis;
taken there after dark in a closed basket placed in a covered wagon. A
fortnight had elapsed, when the poor animal, weary and footsore, walked
into her former master’s kitchen, and lay down in its accustomed corner
by the fire, purring with joy at having reached the old home. Such
fidelity was deservedly rewarded.

A lady visiting a bird-fancier’s shop, was struck by the beauty and
size of an Angora cat exhibited for sale, imprisoned in a large
parrot’s cage. The captive effectually pleading for pity by licking
her hand, was purchased and taken home. After some years, the cat
was removed with his mistress to Brighton, though under protest as
to future reformation. Tom was then probably one of the largest of
his species, and universally admired. He had adopted an apparently
incurable habit of sharpening his claws on a highly polished
dining-room table; and also committed sad havoc amongst the flowers
in the garden of his new abode, spending a great portion of leisure
time luxuriously lying in the sunshine, amidst mignonette, &c. A decree
of banishment was at length unwillingly issued, and poor innocently
erring Tom forthwith departed to a country rectory, where he was much
valued. Every kindness that could conduce to his comfort was shown,
all his special tastes as to diet consulted; but the exile remained
inconsolable. He never attempted to return, not seeming to have
sufficient energy left to attempt aught in self-defence; he simply gave
himself up to despair. It was vainly hoped that time would reconcile
the mourner to his changed lot, but matters only grew worse, the cat
pining and fretting till he became the shadow of his former self.
He could not twine ‘fantastick garlands,’ or utter an altogether
‘melodious lay,’ like ‘the fair Ophelia,’ but wandered aimlessly
about the garden, eating little except green fruit and such strange
fare; dying, after a brief period, literally of a broken heart. The
chief object of this devoted love was the cook he had left behind
him. The attachment, unlike that of Shakspeare’s ill-starred heroine,
may not have been a romantic one; still, it was purely disinterested,
unwavering amidst all mere worldly temptations.

    Nature is fine in love: and where ’tis fine,
    It sends some precious incense of itself
    After the thing it loves.

Poor faithful Tom gave the sole offering he had to give—his life. If it
be true that ‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,’ it was in the
above case proved to be a cat’s ‘whole existence.’

As an illustration of maternal devotion, the ensuing fact was
contributed by a relative. A little girl had set her heart on capturing
a wild kitten, which resolutely refused to enter human habitations,
neither would it allow any one to go near it, having thus from its
birth led a truly Bohemian life. An old gardener told the child, in
forcible language, that she might as well try to catch Lucifer himself.
Children are not easily daunted in such kindred pursuits, acting
confidently on the understanding that everything comes to those who
wait. By very slow degrees the waif was first cautiously approached,
next timidly caressed, then borne triumphantly home, and finally
installed there as a favoured guest. From having been literally in
a savage state, it soon became remarkably gentle and domesticated,
by the same principle that no rabbit grows so thoroughly tame as the
wild species. She was also, during after-years, extremely fond of her
young, several of which were reared without disaster; but upon one
occasion the cat came to her mistress in a sadly distressed state of
mind, eagerly trying to induce her to follow it. Compliance being for
the moment put off, the suppliant left in dire grief; presently coming
back carrying a dead kitten, which was laid before her friend with
bitter lamentations. This being taken away, she brought, one by one,
every member of a luckless family, none of which had seen the light.
They were then buried, the mother remaining a picture of sorrow. It
was hoped the curtain had fallen over the final scene of a domestic
tragedy; but the interment could not have been properly carried out,
for she dug them up, and again brought each successively into the
house, after which they were more effectually disposed of. A long time
elapsed before the poor creature could be consoled for their loss.




WANTED, A CLUE.


IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.

Another week passed by, Edith growing more and more prostrate each
day, and I was very anxious to hear from Dr Archer. At last arrived
a letter, in a hand disguised as a lady’s, on girlish light-blue
note-paper, with ‘Helen’ stamped on it. These precautions would have
made me smile, had I not known how necessary they were. All the letters
which entered the house had first to undergo Mrs Morrell’s scrutiny.

‘I am utterly baffled,’ he wrote, in a very shaky hand. ‘The experiment
from which I hoped so much has turned out an utter failure. All the
substances submitted to me have been subjected to the most minute and
delicate tests known to science, without discovering in any one of them
the slightest trace of arsenic, or any other poison. I am in despair. I
know that somehow my darling’s life is being undermined by poison, and
yet I cannot trace it. I am powerless to interfere. I have nothing but
suspicion to go upon, and dare not apply for a magistrate’s warrant. My
only hope is in you, Miss Armitage!’

I knew I was but a slender reed to trust to; and I went up-stairs to
the sickroom, feeling miserable to the last degree. Mrs Morrell was
seated by the bedside. Edith looked paler and thinner than ever. She
moaned out, when she saw me, that she was ‘so thirsty;’ and had hardly
been supplied with a cooling draught, when the racking cramps from
which she had lately suffered so terribly, came on, and she writhed
in every limb. I wiped the cold dews from her forehead, afraid at
the moment that she was dying, the attack was so terribly severe,
and seemed to exhaust her so much. By-and-by, she fell into a doze,
and Mrs Morrell went out of the room. Feeling perfectly desperate,
I commenced a thorough search through the apartment for anything
suspicious, without finding the smallest thing which could serve as a
clue. Probably I aroused the invalid, for, in returning to the bedside,
I found her staring at me with the fixed gaze of a sick person.

‘Edith, dear, tell me, have you ever seen Mrs Morrell—or anybody—put
any powder or liquid into your medicine or your food? Have you ever
noticed that it had a disagreeable taste, or a sediment at the bottom?’

‘No, never,’ she answered, with evident surprise. Her brain was clear
enough between the paroxysms. ‘Never, Alice.’

Just then, a tap sounded at the door, and purblind old Dr Stevens came
tottering in, nearly upsetting a small table, and seeming scarcely able
to hold his patient’s wrist firm in his shaky old fingers. I watched
him with the maddening feeling, that if ever two unscrupulous poisoners
had the very medical man most desirable in their case, it was these
two. Mrs Morrell came into the room, as usual during his visits, and
followed him down-stairs.

I waylaid her later on in the day and asked her what Dr Stevens had
said. She replied, that unfortunately their darling was very ill, but
while there was life there was hope. Then summoning all my nerve, I
boldly asked that I might be allowed to sit up with Edith that night.
She looked rather astonished, then, thanking me warmly for my ‘kind
offer,’ declined on the plea of not robbing me of my rest. I replied
that it was not fair that she should have all the night-nursing; but
all I got was a very decided ‘No.’

I went away convinced that the danger, whatever it was, was reserved
for the night. When the invalid was left alone with her traitorous
nurse, in some form the poison was administered.

‘Does Mrs Morrell sit beside you all night?’ I asked Edith, next time
we were alone.

‘O no. She would, if I wanted her; but I don’t like it. It fidgets me
to see her. Besides, I generally sleep pretty well the first part of
the night. She puts on her dressing-gown and lies on the bed in the
next room, ready to come if I call her.’

The mystery only seemed to grow the more inscrutable, the further I
pursued it. I went thoughtfully to my room, in search of a book I was
reading aloud to Edith, promising to return immediately. As I stooped
to lift the volume from a low shelf, the one ring I wore, which had
always been a great deal too large for me, slipped from my finger and
rolled away across the floor, to disappear underneath the hangings of
my large, old-fashioned bedstead. Much annoyed, and anxious to recover
it, for it was priceless to me as my dear mother’s engagement ring,
I went down on my hands and knees and tried to find it; but in vain.
The darkness under the massive draperies was complete, and I could see
nothing in the shadow.

I looked round for a light. But there was no gas at the Hall, and my
candlestick was carried down-stairs every morning by the housemaid, to
reappear no more until late in the evening, on the slab in the hall. I
scarcely liked to ring for it, for my position disposed me to trouble
the servants as little as possible. All at once, I recollected that the
candlesticks were never taken out of Edith’s room, and that I could
borrow one of hers. I did so, and lighted it, and setting it on the
floor, I soon found my ring.

‘How badly that candle burns, to be sure!’ I remarked to myself as I
rose to my feet. ‘The wax cannot be good.’ The light was anything but
pure, being of a peculiar reddish colour; and the flame sputtered so
much, that more than once I thought it was going out. At the same time
it gave off a fine white smoke.

I stood watching the sputtering flame for some minutes, much puzzled,
until I remembered that the invalid was alone all this time. So I
carried the candle, still burning, back to her room. To explain my
delay, I pointed out what I had noticed, saying that I thought the
servants must have substituted some inferior articles of their own for
good wax candles, either from carelessness or dishonesty.

‘The servants never meddle with my candlesticks,’ said Edith languidly.
‘They are not sent down to the kitchen; but when they want refilling,
Mrs Morrell puts fresh ones in here. She keeps them in that cupboard;
look, and you’ll see.’

I opened the cupboard for the first time—for I had never had occasion
to go to it before—and there, sure enough, were three or four wooden
boxes, which proved to be full of wax candles; thirty pounds-weight at
least. Before I closed the door again, Mrs Morrell entered the room.
I fancied that her face changed and she turned pale as she saw me
standing by the cupboard; but if so, she quickly recovered, and when I
made some remark about there being a large stock of candles, composedly
answered: ‘Yes; she found it best to keep plenty ready at hand, so as
not to have to disturb dear Edith by leaving the room to search for
lights in the middle of the night.’

I made no further remark, as something warned me it was better to say
no more; so I opened my book and began to read.

The next morning, as I was on my way to the invalid’s room about eleven
o’clock, I became aware of high voices in the hall, and came upon Mrs
Morrell and the housemaid Jane engaged in altercation. Jane, who was
generally a civil and obliging girl, was flushed with anger, whilst her
mistress was paler than usual.

‘Very well, then, ma’am, I’ll go somewhere else, where I shan’t be
called to account for every paltry little bit of candle,’ said the
housemaid as I approached.

‘You know perfectly well that it is not the candle I care about, but
the disobedience to my express orders, Jane. A month to-day you leave
my service.’

‘I’ll go to-day, ma’am; I don’t care if I do lose a month’s wages,’
returned the girl independently.

‘Very well. You need never refer to me for a character,’ said Mrs
Morrell, biting her lips, as she followed me to Edith’s room. She said
nothing to me in explanation, beyond merely stating that Jane had been
very impertinent.

I found Edith in a terribly prostrate condition, and I could see that
Dr Stevens, when he came, had very little hope. I watched Mrs Morrell
as she hung over the invalid, and wondered whether I ought not to
believe that she was the most tender, loving, and devoted of nurses;
for I really almost thought that Dr Archer might be mistaken after
all, and that her guardians were as anxious for her recovery as I was.
She herself evidently realised her danger, for she asked to have the
Bible read to her, and would insist upon pressing a valuable diamond
ring upon me as a keepsake. My gentle little friend had so won my heart
by her unvarying sweetness, that I could not restrain my tears, and
retreated to my own room, where I could give free vent to my feelings.

By-and-by, a knock came at my door, and opening it, I confronted Jane
in hat and jacket, ready for departure. ‘You’ve always treated me well,
miss, and I thought before I go I’d like to tell you why I’m turned out
like a thief, without a character, after being here three years!’ began
the girl in honest indignation. ‘Mrs Morrell’s sure to take care you
hear her story; so, if you please, you shall have mine first!’

‘But I would rather not. You know I am not my own mistress here. Mrs
Morrell might not like’——

‘Oh, but, please, miss, do listen. It’s all on account of the
candlesticks in Miss Edith’s room. You know, miss, Mrs Morrell never
lets us servants touch them—they never go down to the kitchen. But this
morning, when I went in at eight to see to the fire, I noticed that
one candle had been guttering awfully, and the wax had run down over
the sides, and made such a mess as you never saw! Mrs Morrell wasn’t
there, and Miss Edith was asleep; so I took the candlestick down with
me to clean it, meaning no harm. But I had the breakfast to get ready;
and to tell you the truth, Miss Armitage, I forgot about it. By-and-by
Mrs Morrell came down-stairs, looking reg’lar pale, and wanting to know
who took one of the candlesticks away out of Miss Edith’s room. I said
I had. Then Mrs Morrell went on at me awful, and wanted to know how I
dared do such a thing; and I was to bring it back at once. Sarah had
washed it; but when we came to look for the piece of candle that was in
it, nowhere could we find it. I suspect Sarah threw it into the fire. I
told Mrs Morrell it was only a little piece, not so long as my finger.
But if you’ll believe me, Miss Armitage, she made as much fuss over
losing that paltry bit of candle-end as some folks would over a diamond
necklace. I really didn’t think missis was so mean. I suppose my temper
got up, and when she said I was impertinent and should leave, I told
her I’d go to-day.’

‘I fear you have been foolish and hasty, Jane,’ I said reprovingly.

But she went on: ‘The queerest thing of all, Miss Armitage, is, that
when Mrs Morrell first came into the kitchen she was as white as a
sheet. I should have said she was frightened—only it seems ridiculous
that any lady could ever be afraid of losing a candle-end! I can’t
make it out at all, miss. She always is so mortally stingy with those
candles of Miss Edith’s. Do you know, is there anything about them,
miss, that makes them more valuable than other candles?’

‘Not that I am aware of.’

‘Well, really, do you know, miss, I’ve sometimes thought there must be
something odd about them,’ said Jane, turning to go. ‘I know, for one
thing, they’re not bought with the rest from the grocer at Beecham, but
come all the way from London; so perhaps that’s why Mrs Morrell sets
such store by them.—And now, miss, I’ll say good-bye.’

I gave the honest girl a little silk handkerchief as a parting gift,
and sat down to ruminate on what I had just heard. A drowning man
clutches at a straw; and in my terrible distress of mind, I was ready
to clutch at any theory, however absurd, for solving the mystery of
Edith’s illness. Jane’s casual remark about there being something
queer about the candles so lavishly burned in the sickroom, had set me
thinking whether after all there might not be something deleterious in
them, intended to act injuriously upon the invalid. It was certain they
burned very badly, as if there were some foreign substance incorporated
in them. On the other hand, I had never, in my wildest dreams, imagined
that there could be such things as poisonous candles. I had never heard
of them before. The theory seemed to me at best a very wild one; but
Edith’s life was at stake, and I was bound to do my very uttermost
to aid her. Mrs Morrell’s conduct about the candles seemed odd and
suspicious all through. The jealous watch she kept over them; her dread
of losing them; her unwillingness to let me be in Edith’s room by
candle-light—surely all these extraordinary precautions meant something.

Feeling perfectly desperate, I went back to the sickroom. Edith was
lying back on her pillows in utter exhaustion, and Mrs Morrell was
softly reading a chapter of St John’s Gospel. Seeing no other way
out of the difficulty, I said boldly: ‘Mrs Morrell, if you will go
down-stairs into the dining-room, I think Mr Foster wants to speak to
you.’

It was an untruth; but I could not afford to be too scrupulous. Mrs
Morrell disappeared. I sprang to the cupboard, and took two candles out
of a box, and at once went to hide them in my room. When the widow came
back, saying she could not find her brother anywhere—I had seen him
leave the house some time before—I apologised, and professed to have
misunderstood the message. She resumed her reading, whilst I slipped
out of the room and hastily put on my outdoor garments. I knew that in
going out without leave at such a moment, I risked losing my situation;
but I did not care; I was in no mood to stand upon etiquette.

I made my way to the village, to the cottage of a trustworthy man
who was sometimes employed to do odd jobs about the Hall. He readily
promised to take my small parcel to Dr Archer at once. Had the distance
not been three miles, I should have taken it myself.

I heard nothing from Dr Archer during the whole of the next day; and
in a perfect torment of doubt and apprehension, I waited and waited,
too agitated to eat or sleep, seeing Edith grow worse every hour,
and fearing that after all she would die before the mystery of her
illness could be solved. She was in a state of prostration fearful to
witness. Restless and miserable, I sat in the sickroom or wandered
about the house, and had the further trial of seeing that my behaviour
had at last aroused suspicion in my employers’ minds, and that a
quiet surveillance was kept upon my movements. Although I had made no
appointment, and scarcely expected to meet Dr Archer, I endeavoured to
be in the afternoon in the fir plantation which had already been the
scene of several interviews; but Mr Foster so decidedly intimated his
intention of accompanying me if I took a walk, that I abandoned the
attempt. I detected under the mask of grief so cleverly assumed by both
brother and sister, a subdued eagerness and restlessness, attributable
no doubt to anxiety as to the success of their scheme.

I felt that all was as good as lost, when, on entering the sickroom
on the second morning, I found Edith pallid and almost lifeless, and
learned that Mrs Morrell, in real or pretended alarm, had already sent
off a messenger for Dr Stevens.

Sick at heart, I sat down by the bedside, and watched the invalid,
who was too far gone to recognise me, as she usually did. There came
a tap at the door, and ‘Please, ma’am, you’re wanted,’ in the voice
of one of the maids; and the widow rose and noiselessly glided out of
the room. My ears were quickened by anxiety, and my curiosity was
intense at hearing a short sharp scream, a scuffle, and the sound of an
authoritative man’s voice on the landing outside. Edith was too languid
to notice anything; and even when the door opened again and Dr Archer
and an elderly gentleman entered the room, she never opened her eyes.

‘My darling! Have the wretches brought you to this?’ was the young
doctor’s quick exclamation; and hurrying to the window, which Mrs
Morrell had always religiously kept closed, he opened it, and a stream
of chilly but life-giving air came rushing in. The other doctor, who
was, I afterwards found, an eminent physician from London, bent over
the patient, examining her pulse and administering restoratives. I
glanced interrogatively at Dr Archer and murmured one word.

‘Those candles? Poisoned. Thoroughly impregnated with arsenic. A very
few nights more of breathing the poisoned air, and nothing could have
saved her.—I don’t know how you came to hit upon the clue so cleverly,
Miss Armitage; but I shall bless your sagacity all my life long.’

‘And Mrs Morrell and her brother?’

‘Are safely in charge of two policemen, and on their way to the
county jail. I analysed those candles at once, and then applied for
a magistrate’s warrant, telegraphing to Dr Weston to meet me here.
Two policemen in plain clothes were detailed for the arrest, and the
affair was managed very quietly, so that even the servants do not know
precisely what has happened. Mr Foster was arrested in his study,
and made no resistance, although he assumed a high tone of injured
innocence.—Do you know, Miss Armitage, where the rest of the poisoned
candles are kept?’

In reply I opened the door of the cupboard and pointed to the rows of
boxes. He and Dr Weston then carefully locked and sealed up the door,
until the state of the invalid should permit a fuller investigation
of the apartment. Dr Archer then informed me that a nurse had been
telegraphed for from the Nurses’ Home at the county town, and that I
need feel no apprehension lest Edith should suffer from the want of
skilled attendance.

Nurse Mary soon after arrived, and proved invaluable. All her care and
skill, however, were needed to counteract the effects of the poison
upon Edith’s delicate frame. For days she hung between life and death.
Her convalescence was long and tedious; but at length she recovered
sufficiently to leave Gorton Hall for the Isle of Wight, where the pure
sea-breezes soon brought back the colour to her cheeks.

Investigation proved that the candles similar to those which had
been burned nightly in the sickroom for over two months, were highly
deleterious. The wax was pure, but the wicks were impregnated by a
strong solution of arsenic. The remainder were analysed, and from
them much of the poisonous drug was extracted. The closest research,
however, failed to discover from whom they had been originally
procured. Beyond the fact that the boxes came from London, their
origin remains a mystery to this day. The plans of the conspirators
had been so cleverly laid that it was almost impossible to bring their
wrongdoing home to them.

I wish I could say that both Edith’s treacherous guardians received an
exemplary punishment; but unfortunately, punishment in this world does
not always overtake the criminal. Mr Foster maintained the assertion of
his innocence to the last; nor was there one tittle of evidence, direct
or indirect, against him. Ably defended by a most skilful advocate, he
escaped absolutely scot-free. Mrs Morrell maintained the same line of
conduct, and was merely sentenced to imprisonment for two years. Dr
Archer and I were aghast and bitterly disappointed at such an obvious
failure of justice. But we had one small consolation—that Edith’s
fortune was secured to her, and that the scheming adventurers who
had risked all to grasp her gold were not benefited, after all their
trouble, by one farthing.

The Thorndyke family interfered, and her affairs were placed in
trustworthy hands until her coming of age. Her twenty-first birthday
was also the day of her marriage to Dr Archer; and they are indeed
a united pair. I will not write down here all the expressions of
gratitude I received from Edith, her lover, and her relatives, for
my ‘courage’ and ‘sagacity’ in defeating her step-father’s murderous
designs. I declined Edith’s offer of a home with her, for I believed
that married people are happiest by themselves; but, though still
working for my living, I spend all my holidays with her, and little
voices already call me ‘Auntie.’

Their home is perfect in all its appointments; but one fact, which is
never explained to casual visitors, sometimes strikes new-comers as
strange: nothing will induce Dr Archer to have a wax candle in his
house. They set it down as a fad and singular fancy; only Edith, he,
and I know the truth.




THE LAW OF INNKEEPER AND GUEST.


These two terms, appendant one to the other, are now to most people
somewhat vague, and seem to point out a state of things a little
strange. Of course, we all know what a guest is; but we associate
that term more with the friendly interchange of courtesy than with
the relation between innkeeper and guest in modern times. The usage
is derived from a condition of things that has to a great extent
disappeared—when the means of communication between one part of the
country and another were less rapid and more limited than now. The
roads also were far from good; indeed, about the reign of Queen
Elizabeth they were so bad that there were only a few coaches existing;
and everything had to be done by means of packhorses and light gigs. To
many places, especially in Cumberland, Westmorland, North Lancashire,
Wales, and many of the western counties, there were no roads, only a
beaten path over a huge lonely common, often a long way above the level
of the sea, and extending for many hours’ journey. To get to Cumberland
out of Westmorland was practically almost impossible, except with
the aid of a guide who knew the various passes and the many dangers
that lay in the route, including those from the footpad and mounted
highwayman. If a traveller visited these lonely places, he would get
rest and refreshment at the village inn; and if he came on horseback,
his horse was fed and well taken care of.

In those remote times, therefore, the business of an innkeeper was an
important accessory to every country village. His house was usually
situated on the high-road, and was called by a variety of names, quaint
and funny; and sometimes his sign bore the telling legend, which he did
well to follow—that he

              Selleth goode ale and beer,
    And giveth to all righte goode cheer.

Thus the duty of an innkeeper came to be recognised as one which was
most important to the state, one which it was the bounden duty of
judges of the high courts to look well after.

It is long since the duty of an innkeeper to his guest or traveller
was regulated by the common law of the land, while the abuses into
which he is liable to fall, have also been made the subject of statute
law regulation. The whole law on this subject in England and Scotland
is derived from the famous Edict of the Roman prætor, beginning with
the words: ‘_Nautæ caupones_.’ Here is a brief outline of what the
innkeeper has to do, and what he has to guard against. Before he is
allowed to have a license, his house must be proved to be substantial,
and to have sufficient accommodation for man and beast. In fact,
anything that a traveller may need or reasonably demand, he should and
must supply him with. If the innkeeper refuses without any good or
justifiable reason, he is liable to be sued for any damages that the
traveller may think due to him for such refusal, and for the annoyance
and inconvenience caused thereby. The innkeeper is compelled to let
into his house at any time of the night any person who is a _bonâ fide_
traveller; immediately to supply him with refreshments, according to
his needs, and to put up his horse and vehicle. When he takes the
traveller into his house, the latter immediately becomes his guest,
and the innkeeper himself is transformed into ‘mine host.’ Here begins
the proper employment of the innkeeper. He takes care of his guest’s
luggage, houses his carriage, feeds his horse, and does everything for
the care and safety of the accompaniments of his guest. If the latter
has servants, he puts them up, sees to their welfare and ease, and
indeed becomes one of the most hospitable of men. Of course he knows he
will be paid for his trouble—perhaps well paid—and this urges him to
make everybody as comfortable as possible. It will be kept in view that
a coffee-house, a boarding-house, or a lodging-house, is not an inn.

Let us suppose that some of the property of the guest is stolen; some
village rogue has noticed the wealth of the traveller or the abundance
of luggage, and has secretly—perhaps during the night—entered the
house of the innkeeper and made off with something belonging to the
traveller. Or, again, the inn might be set on fire, and except the
inmates who would escape, everything within it would be destroyed and
consumed. Who, then, is responsible for the traveller’s goods? If this
had occurred in a friend’s house, or anywhere else, of course the owner
would be the loser; but it happened in the house of an innkeeper,
amenable to certain precedents of our common law, and he is liable
to the full extent of the loss. But in Scotland, a loss by fire is
regarded as _damnum fatale_, and the innkeeper is not liable unless a
case of fire-raising by the servant of the inn is proved.

You may say this seems hard, and we answer it does; but still it is
an exceptional case. At the same time, it shows what an innkeeper is
bound to do, and gives additional security to the goods of a person,
seeking the assistance of another unknown to him. The case is different
from a person taking upon himself the custody of goods for a premium
or charge according to the value of the goods so left with him; for it
is not necessary that the innkeeper should even know that his guest
had any property with him; and for what might appear to be the absurd
carelessness of the owner, he is in many cases responsible.

But perhaps it will be better to give a few of the cases which have
occurred on this subject, as proving definitely this peculiar feature
of our law. We will first take a case which was tried at the Lancaster
assizes in 1793, in which it appeared that a merchant called Bennet was
accustomed to send his servant with goods to the market at Manchester.
At the time in question, this man had bought certain goods, but had
not been able to dispose of them. He consequently endeavoured to find
a place where he could leave them until the next market-day. He went
to an inn, and there asked the wife of the innkeeper—whose name was
Mellor—if he might leave them there; but she replied that she could
not tell, for they were full of parcels. The servant then sat down,
put behind his chair the parcels of goods he had brought, and had some
drink. After sitting a little while, he got up, and found that the
parcels were missing. Bennet, the master of the servant and owner of
the goods, then sued the innkeeper for their value, and obtained a
verdict in his favour.

This case certainly gives the idea that the servant was very careless
in allowing his goods to be stolen just behind him; but the matter
was well argued out on a rule for a new trial of the cause, which
was discharged, the judges holding that the man had immediately upon
his entry and asking for something to drink become a guest; and the
innkeeper was responsible for the care of the goods brought with him
into the house, even though his wife had refused to take care of them
until the next market-day, for that was a separate transaction.

But let us cite another case, in which a verdict was given for the
innkeeper, it being proved that there were suspicious circumstances,
which ought to have been guarded against by the owner of the goods sued
for. Some seventy years ago, a Birmingham factor in the course of his
business stopped at an inn in Oxford, having with him three boxes of
valuable goods, chiefly jewellery. As he desired to show his wares to
customers, he asked for a private room, which was provided him. The
landlady also gave him the key to the room, so that he might lock the
door when he went out. The boxes were removed into this room; and a
customer calling, the factor opened his boxes and displayed his goods.
Several purchases were made. During this time, the door of the room was
twice opened; a stranger looked in, begged pardon, and immediately
withdrew. The door was then bolted, to prevent further interruption.
After they had completed their business, the customer left, and the
factor packed up his goods, but did not lock the door. What was
stranger still, he said afterwards that he did not know whether he had
shut it or left it open. The door also opened into a gateway which led
to the street, and on the outside of this door there was found a key.
The result of this carelessness was that two of the boxes with their
contents were stolen. The factor then endeavoured to recover their
value from the innkeeper, but failed. The matter was brought before
the superior courts, the judges of which, although they held that the
giving of the key to the factor was not sufficient of itself to absolve
the innkeeper from his liability, yet they decided he could not be held
responsible, after the gross carelessness shown by the plaintiff.

Another case happened at Brighton in 1830, in which a gentleman named
Kent sued to recover the value of a reticule and a number of bank-notes
which were in it at the time it was stolen. The plaintiff, his wife,
and a young lady called Miss Stratford, took a sitting-room and two
bedrooms at an hotel in Brighton, so situated that when the door of
the sitting-room was open, a person could see the entrances into both
bedrooms. Mrs Kent, shortly after they had taken possession, went into
one of the bedrooms, laid the reticule on the bed, and afterwards
returned into the sitting-room, leaving the door open. After she had
been there for about five minutes, she sent Miss Stratford for the
reticule; but it was not to be found. Here the jury had no difficulty
in finding a verdict for the plaintiff; the only question being,
whether money came within the scope of the writ, in the same way
as goods undoubtedly did. It being decided in the affirmative, the
plaintiff succeeded.

There is no doubt that the liability of the innkeeper is excluded by
the contributory negligence of the guest; but the innkeeper must show
not only that the guest did not show the ordinary care that might be
expected from a prudent man, but also that the loss would not have
happened if such care had been shown. But as the guest is entitled to
rely on the common-law obligation of the innkeeper, these cases of
contributory negligence seldom arise, except where it may be inferred,
from the acts or words of the parties, that the innkeeper’s liability
has been qualified or superseded, or where the guest is put on his
guard by suspicious circumstances. The usual notice on a bedroom wall
about locking the door will not protect the innkeeper, unless the guest
actually read it and made no objection. The only other case in which an
innkeeper is not liable is that of _damnum fatale_, as where the goods
are destroyed by a tempest.

Let us take three other cases, which will show a little diversity, but
will further explain our subject. A man came to an inn with a horse,
and left it under the innkeeper’s care to be fed. The latter put the
horse into a field, whence it was stolen; and for this the innkeeper
was held to be liable. In the same way, a gentleman, whilst taking
refreshments within the house, left his carriage in the care of the
hostler, who placed it, as was his custom, in the road; and it was
stolen. The innkeeper was held to be responsible.

The peculiarity of these cases is not only in the fact that the place
whence the horse and carriage were severally stolen was not in the
inn, but also in the circumstance that they were put in a certain
place without the sanction or knowledge of the owner. In a similar
case, however, in which the owner had asked that the horse should be
put out to pasture beyond the precincts of the inn, the innkeeper was
exonerated from all liability in respect of its loss.

We think we have shown by these cases that the responsibility of an
innkeeper is by no means a light one, and that it may be taken as a
fact, that in ordinary and unexceptional cases, he is liable for the
goods of his guest. Here we may add in parenthesis, that he is _not_
liable for the person of his guest beyond his own actions; that is,
if the guest is assaulted or in any way maltreated on his premises,
the innkeeper is not liable beyond what he may himself personally have
contributed to such maltreatment. There are, however, many points
which may be, and have been, raised, according to the particular
circumstances of the case, as where there is attached to the inn an
ordinary refreshment bar, and the owner of the goods only makes use of
that part of the house; in which case he cannot recover. Again, the
innkeeper is only responsible for what happens in his own house—with
the exceptions we have before noticed—and by his default, or by that
of his servants. He is protected, if the theft is committed by the
servants or companions of the traveller. If his house is full, but a
person says he will shift for himself among the guests, then he is
not responsible for anything that is lost; neither is he, unless the
relation of landlord and guest is established.

On this latter point, we will give one more case, which was tried at
the last summer assizes at Carlisle. The plaintiff was a traveller for
a firm of wine-merchants, and in the course of his journeys he alighted
from the train at Carlisle station, to which is connected the _County
Hotel_. He at once intrusted his luggage to the hotel porter, with the
intention of staying until the next day and sleeping in the hotel.
He went up the covered passage into the hotel; but there received a
telegram, which he considered necessitated his going to Manchester
that day. Before doing so, he asked for some refreshments, and was
shown into the refreshment room, which was legally not part of the inn,
and not endowed with the same liabilities as the other part, the inn
proper. On his way to this room, he met the hotel porter, who asked the
number of his room. He said that he did not know whether he was going
to stay overnight or not. The porter then locked the luggage in a room
in the passage used for that purpose. When the traveller required the
luggage, part of it could not be found. For this he sued the innkeeper,
but failed, as it was not considered to be satisfactorily proved that
he had become a guest of the innkeeper.

By an Act passed in 1863 (26 and 27 Vict. c. 41), the liability of
innkeepers for the goods of their guests was limited to the sum of
thirty pounds, except in two cases: (1) where the goods were deposited
for safe custody; (2) where the goods were stolen, lost, or injured
through the wilful act or neglect of the innkeeper. The innkeeper must
put up a notice of the Act in the hall of the inn, and he is entitled
to require that deposited goods shall be in a sealed box. This Act does
not apply to horses and carriages.




INCIDENTS OF RENT-COLLECTION IN IRELAND.


The collection of rents in Ireland is often an unpleasant duty; but
amusing incidents sometimes arise. Last year, a farmer in the county of
Cavan came to me on the rent-day and said he could not pay more than
half the sum he owed. He had much to tell of losses, bad times, and
low prices, and I listened with patience until he had finished. I then
reminded him that his rent had been reduced under the Land Act, and
that I had voluntarily cancelled a considerable arrear; and I firmly
refused to accept less than the full amount. Mickey Sheridan—that was
his name—was married, and I knew his wife ruled the roast.

‘Now, Mickey,’ said I, ‘you ought to be ashamed of yourself! After what
has been done to relieve you, I did expect you to behave better. I am
sure your wife would not approve of your conduct.’

Mickey had frequently confided to me that ‘herself’—his wife—gave him
‘a sore life;’ and I desired to learn how far she had meddled in this
matter.

After some hesitation, he replied: ‘Well, sir, if ye won’t discover on
me, I’ll tell ye the thruth. Herself advised me to pay only half the
rent. She’s a good scholar, an’ reads the papers; an’ she tells me a
new Land Act will soon be passed an’ all arrears wiped out.—Will yer
honour take the half-year?’

‘No, Mickey, I cannot. Be honest, and pay the money you owe. I feel
sure you have it all in your pocket.’

That was a hit; for Mickey, with an Irish peasant’s quick sense of
the humour of the situation, replied: ‘Begorra, it’s in two pockets!
Herself made up the two half-years in separate parcels, an’ put thim
into different pockets, to purvint any mistake; an’ I was only to give
yer honour one of thim, if I could manage it. But here’s the full
money, an’ maybe it’s best to keep out of debt.’

A few weeks later, when I was collecting rents in the county of
Longford, one of the principal tenants came forward, before any money
had been paid, as the spokesman of thirty others who were present, and
asked for an abatement.

‘Why, Pat Molloy,’ said I, ‘you and all here hold your farms at reduced
rents, which you agreed to pay under an amicable arrangement made only
two years ago and according to the provisions of the Land Act. I cannot
do what you ask; but if you really have not the full year’s rent, I
will accept three-fourths of it and give you a reasonable time to pay
the remainder.’

‘We thank yer honour,’ said Pat; ‘an’ here is my money.’

‘How much did you give me?’ said I, after I had carefully twice counted
the bundle of notes.

‘Thirty pounds, sir; an’ all in one-pound notes; an’ shure, it’s the
hard work I had to make it!’

‘Och, thrue for ye, Pat Molloy!’ said a voice behind him; ‘faith, it’s
not aisy to make the rint those times!’

‘Well, Pat,’ said I, ‘you have given me thirty-nine pounds; and I now
have the pleasure of handing you the receipt for the same.’

Whether the ten-pound note had been paid to Pat Molloy in mistake for
one pound, and its value was unknown to him, or that he had omitted to
take it out of the bundle, could only be matter of conjecture. He kept
a close mouth, and left the room.

The misadventure of their leader broke up the concerted union of
the tenants; and when I announced, after Molloy departed, that I
should insist on full payments—seeing ten-pound notes were apparently
plentiful in the district—nearly all the tenants came forward and paid.

It is well known that a great part of the thirty million of deposits
held by the Irish joint-stock banks have been lodged by farmers. I have
often received deposit receipts when collecting rents. I remember a
thrifty man who used to lodge his savings when they reached even five
pounds. On the rent-day, it was his annual custom to enlarge on the
badness of the times and the low prices; but he invariably supplied
the best refutation of his statements by producing a number of deposit
receipts for small sums and indorsing them with much pride.

When the land agitation was at its height a few years ago, a friend of
mine was collecting rents one day in a town in the county of Leitrim.
He was seated in a large room of a hotel, and nearly fifty tenants were
present. Very little money had been paid. Abatements were asked which
the agent had no power to make, and there was more conversation than
business going on. But my friend understands the Irish character and
its love of talk, and he knew that if he permitted the men to expatiate
on the reasons why they could not pay, he would be more likely finally
to get the money; so, he patiently listened to the usual jeremiades,
and bided his time. But fortune favoured him. The ringleader, or chief
Land-Leaguer, amongst the assembled tenants was Denis Lynch. He held a
small farm, but was also a cattle-dealer, and his time was of value to
him; and finding he could extract no further concession from the agent,
who had offered a fair abatement, he announced that he would pay a
half-year’s rent.

‘I must be off,’ he said, ‘to the fair of Boyle, sir, an’ can’t delay
here, like those men. Here is a deposit receipt for ten pounds, an’ the
half-year’s rint is nine pounds. But be all the saints, yer honour, I
made the little thrifle by dealing, an’ not out of the farm!’

‘Well, Denis,’ said the agent, ‘you could not deal in cattle without
a farm to feed and rest your stock; and I have told you that I am
instructed not to accept less than a year’s rent. But’—glancing at the
deposit receipt, which he had taken from the man, and turning it down
on the table—‘indorse this receipt, and I will consider your case.’

Lynch wrote his name across the back of the document; and the other
adding his own signature, said to his clerk: ‘Take this receipt to the
bank up the street and fetch me pound-notes for it.’ He then proceeded
to fill a form of receipt for a year’s rent, and handed it to Lynch,
who was astute enough to see that he might profit by what he supposed
was an error, and quietly folded up the receipt and put it into his
pocket.

When the clerk returned, the agent said: ‘Now, Denis, here is your
change;’ and he began counting and pushing across the table, to the
astonished tenant, note after note.

‘O sir,’ cried Lynch, ‘what are ye doin’ at all?’

‘Why, Denis,’ replied the other, ‘I am paying what is due to you.
You gave me a deposit receipt for one hundred pounds; you have got a
receipt for a year’s rent; and here are eighty-two one-pound notes,
together with eighteen shillings in silver, which is five per cent.
discount on your rent. You can’t blame me for retaining a year’s
rent—you accepted a receipt for it. And indeed, when a man has hundreds
at his banker’s, he may fairly be required to pay his rent in full.
Yet, I make you an allowance. You cannot suppose, after what has taken
place, and your readiness to avail yourself of what you believed to be
an error in the rent receipt, that you should receive the ten per cent.
abatement offered to the tenants generally. I have given you half of
it, not wishing to be severe. But your tricks have not succeeded; and I
hope you won’t forget the lesson of to-day, and that you will remember
in future that honesty is the best policy.’

All eyes in the room were turned on Lynch, who hastily gathered up the
notes and stuffed them into his pockets; and as he made his way to the
door, he was heard to murmur, ‘Begorra, ’twas the wrong receipt!’

He departed, feeling he had lost all title to leadership; and as men
will still worship success, even when accidental, many voices joined
in complimenting ‘his honour, who was too sharp for Denis Lynch, who
thought to act the rogue, but met wid a mistake, glory be to God!’

‘His honour’ was soon busily employed in receiving the full rents,
which nearly all the tenants had brought with them. But he believes his
collection on that day would have been a very small one, if Denis Lynch
had not presented the ‘wrong’ deposit receipt.




‘CLERGYMAN’S SORE THROAT.’


Dr Thomas Whipham, M.B., F.R.C.P., physician to St George’s Hospital,
and in charge of the department for Diseases of the Throat there,
claims to have discovered the origin of ‘clergyman’s sore throat,’ a
disorder which often proves so troublesome to ministers of religion.
He was struck, it appears, by the circumstance that barristers—from
whom as great oratorical efforts are exacted as from clergymen—do not
suffer from this highly painful and inconvenient form of sore throat.
He looked around for an explanation, and endeavoured, at first, to
trace it to adverse atmospheric conditions. But he early decided that
the air of a crowded court of law must be more injurious than that of
an ordinary place of worship; and hence he was forced to seek elsewhere
a satisfactory solution of the problem he had set himself. At length
the different positions, in relation to their auditors, from which
clergymen and barristers spoke, suggested itself for consideration.
While a barrister slightly threw back his head in addressing the judge
and jury who were seated above him, the clergyman depressed his in
addressing the congregation seated below him. Experiments were made
with a man reading aloud with his head in the two positions. In the
first, the tone of his voice was clear and penetrating, and phonation
was practised with a minimum of exertion; in the second, the tone grew
muffled, and the previous distinctness could only be approximated
with additional effort. Nor was indistinct utterance the only result
recorded of the experiment in the second position. The friction of the
air passing through the throat of the reader was very much increased.
Thus, says Dr Whipham, hyperæmia was established in the parts affected
by this excessive friction; and temporary hyperæmia, if frequently
encouraged, soon becomes chronic congestion. Dr Whipham was satisfied
that he had arrived at the true cause of ‘clergyman’s sore throat;’ and
facts soon came to confirm his impression. Two clergymen, hailing from
different parts of the country, placed themselves under treatment for
the disorder, which had long held a hold on them. They were directed,
in speaking from the pulpit, for the future to hold their heads well
up, instead of allowing them to droop forwards and downwards. Both soon
reported ‘a speedy relief from their suffering.’




IN THE DISTANT YEARS.


    We met last in the distant years,
      And parted, ne’er to meet again;
    My aching eyes were filled with tears,
      My heart was sore with untold pain.
    But, though we parted thus for aye,
      A lingering hope my heart yet holds,
    That we may meet again some day
      Ere Death shall shroud us in his folds.

    We parted; ’twas the old, old way;
      A too well-trusted friend’s deceit
    Had taken each from each away,
      Both hoping nevermore to meet.
    _He_ thought that I was false; while _I_,
      Enshadowed under falsehood’s spell,
    In anger said a last good-bye
      To him I once had loved so well.

    But now I know the truth at last;
      I would I knew _he_ knew the same,
    To come to me from out the past
      And tell me I was not to blame.
    But, ah! ’tis maybe all too late:
      That day of joy may never dawn;
    I can no more than watch and wait,
      And through the future years hope on.

            J. A. M‘DONALD.

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76348 ***