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<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76348 ***</div>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_785">{785}</span></p>
<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. -->
<h1>CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL<br>
OF<br>
POPULAR<br>
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.</h1>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2>
</div>

<p class="center">
<a href="#INN-SIGNS-THEIR_ORIGIN_AND">INN-SIGNS—THEIR ORIGIN AND MEANINGS.</a><br>
<a href="#BY_ORDER_OF_THE_LEAGUE">BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.</a><br>
<a href="#STORIES_OF_CATS">STORIES OF CATS.</a><br>
<a href="#WANTED_A_CLUE">WANTED, A CLUE.</a><br>
<a href="#THE_LAW_OF_INNKEEPER_AND_GUEST">THE LAW OF INNKEEPER AND GUEST.</a><br>
<a href="#INCIDENTS_OF_RENT-COLLECTION_IN">INCIDENTS OF RENT-COLLECTION IN IRELAND.</a><br>
<a href="#CLERGYMANS_SORE_THROAT">‘CLERGYMAN’S SORE THROAT.’</a><br>
<a href="#IN_THE_DISTANT_YEARS">IN THE DISTANT YEARS.</a>
</p>
<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. -->





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  <img class="w100" src="images/header.jpg"  alt="Chambers’s Journal of Popular Literature, Science,
and Art. Fifth Series. Established by William and Robert Chambers, 1832. Conducted by R. Chambers (Secundus).">
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<hr class="full">
<div class="center">
<div class="header">
<p class="floatl"><span class="smcap">No. 154.—Vol. III.</span></p>
<p class="floatr"><span class="smcap">Price</span> 1½<em>d.</em></p>
<p class="floatc">SATURDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1886.</p>
</div></div></div>

<hr class="full">



<div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="INN-SIGNS-THEIR_ORIGIN_AND">INN-SIGNS—THEIR ORIGIN AND
MEANINGS.</h2></div>


<p><span class="smcap">In</span> 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.</p>

<p>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. &amp; 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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_786">{786}</span>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 <i>not</i> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 <i>Barnaby Rudge</i>, 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.</p>

<p>The various <i>devices used as signs</i> are of infinite
variety and varying degrees of interest, from the
<i>Heads</i>, or portraits, of modern political, naval, or
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_787">{787}</span>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_788">{788}</span>Three Loggerheads, and various others, which
may be said to have had an indirectly heraldic
origin.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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, &amp;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 <i>Journal</i> for 1881, page 107.</p>

<p>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.</p>




<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak x-ebookmaker-important" id="BY_ORDER_OF_THE_LEAGUE">BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.</h2></div>


<h3>CHAPTER XVIII.</h3>

<p>‘<span class="smcap">You</span> wished to see me?’</p>

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

<p>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.</p>

<p>‘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.’</p>

<p>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?’</p>

<p>‘My name is Isodore.’</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>‘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?’</p>

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

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

<p>‘Forbidden him,’ Enid echoed haughtily. ‘And
why?’</p>

<p>‘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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>‘And yet,’ Isodore replied—‘and yet you
would see a way out of the difficulty into which
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_789">{789}</span>the miserable schemes of Le Gautier have placed
you? Do I speak plainly, or shall I be more
explicit?’</p>

<p>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.’</p>

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

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

<p>‘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?’</p>

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

<p>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.</p>

<p>‘Sir Geoffrey, you are a swindled, deluded
man!’</p>

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

<p>‘By the conjurer, Le Gautier.’</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>‘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?’</p>

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

<p>‘They were a common, vulgar, barefaced
swindle!’</p>

<p>‘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’——</p>

<p>‘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.’</p>

<p>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?’</p>

<p>‘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?’</p>

<p>‘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.’</p>

<p>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’——</p>

<p>‘Your brother, Sir Geoffrey.’</p>

<p>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!</p>

<p>‘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.’</p>

<p>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.</p>

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

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

<p>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.</p>

<p>‘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
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_790">{790}</span>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’ <i>Christmas Carol</i>, 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.’</p>

<p>‘Ah!’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed. ‘Go on!’</p>

<p>‘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.’</p>

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

<p>‘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!’</p>

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

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

<p>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.’</p>

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

<p>‘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.’</p>

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

<p>‘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.’</p>

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

<p>‘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
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_791">{791}</span>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.’</p>

<p>‘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.’</p>

<p>‘I care not for that. I shall always remember
you with gratitude.’</p>

<p>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!’</p>




<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="STORIES_OF_CATS">STORIES OF CATS.</h2></div>


<p><span class="smcap">So</span> 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!</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 <i>made</i> 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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_792">{792}</span>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 <i>meum</i> and <i>tuum</i>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_793">{793}</span>a great portion of leisure time luxuriously lying
in the sunshine, amidst mignonette, &amp;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.</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Nature is fine in love: and where ’tis fine,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">It sends some precious incense of itself</div>
<div class="verse indent0">After the thing it loves.</div></div>
</div></div>

<p>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.’</p>

<p>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.</p>




<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="WANTED_A_CLUE">WANTED, A CLUE.</h2></div>


<h3 title="CHAP. II.">IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.</h3>

<p><span class="smcap">Another</span> 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.</p>

<p>‘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!’</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>‘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?’</p>

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

<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_794">{794}</span></p>
<p>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.’</p>

<p>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.</p>

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

<p>‘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.’</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>‘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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>‘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.’</p>

<p>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.’</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>‘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.</p>

<p>‘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.’</p>

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

<p>‘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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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!’</p>

<p>‘But I would rather not. You know I am not
my own mistress here. Mrs Morrell might not
like’——</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_795">{795}</span></p>
<p>‘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.’</p>

<p>‘I fear you have been foolish and hasty, Jane,’
I said reprovingly.</p>

<p>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?’</p>

<p>‘Not that I am aware of.’</p>

<p>‘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.’</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.’</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_796">{796}</span>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.</p>

<p>‘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.</p>

<p>‘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.’</p>

<p>‘And Mrs Morrell and her brother?’</p>

<p>‘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?’</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.’</p>

<p>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.</p>




<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_LAW_OF_INNKEEPER_AND_GUEST">THE LAW OF INNKEEPER AND GUEST.</h2></div>


<p><span class="smcap">These</span> 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
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_797">{797}</span>rest and refreshment at the village inn; and if
he came on horseback, his horse was fed and
well taken care of.</p>

<p>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</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent10">Selleth goode ale and beer,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And giveth to all righte goode cheer.</div></div>
</div></div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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: ‘<i>Nautæ caupones</i>.’
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 <i>bonâ fide</i> 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.</p>

<p>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 <i>damnum fatale</i>, and the innkeeper
is not liable unless a case of fire-raising by the
servant of the inn is proved.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_798">{798}</span>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 <i>damnum fatale</i>, as where the goods are
destroyed by a tempest.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 <i>not</i> 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.</p>

<p>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 <i>County Hotel</i>.
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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_799">{799}</span>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.</p>




<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="INCIDENTS_OF_RENT-COLLECTION_IN">INCIDENTS OF RENT-COLLECTION IN
IRELAND.</h2></div>


<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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.</p>

<p>‘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.’</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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?’</p>

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

<p>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.’</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>‘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.’</p>

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

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

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

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

<p>‘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.’</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>‘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!’</p>

<p>‘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.’</p>

<p>Lynch wrote his name across the back of the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_800">{800}</span>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>‘O sir,’ cried Lynch, ‘what are ye doin’ at
all?’</p>

<p>‘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.’</p>

<p>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!’</p>

<p>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!’</p>

<p>‘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.</p>




<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak smalltext" id="CLERGYMANS_SORE_THROAT">‘CLERGYMAN’S SORE THROAT.’</h2></div>


<p>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.’</p>




<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="IN_THE_DISTANT_YEARS">IN THE DISTANT YEARS.</h2></div>


<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0"><span class="smcap">We</span> met last in the distant years,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And parted, ne’er to meet again;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">My aching eyes were filled with tears,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">My heart was sore with untold pain.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">But, though we parted thus for aye,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">A lingering hope my heart yet holds,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That we may meet again some day</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Ere Death shall shroud us in his folds.</div></div>

<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">We parted; ’twas the old, old way;</div>
<div class="verse indent2">A too well-trusted friend’s deceit</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Had taken each from each away,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Both hoping nevermore to meet.</div>
<div class="verse indent0"><i>He</i> thought that I was false; while <i>I</i>,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Enshadowed under falsehood’s spell,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">In anger said a last good-bye</div>
<div class="verse indent2">To him I once had loved so well.</div></div>

<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">But now I know the truth at last;</div>
<div class="verse indent2">I would I knew <i>he</i> knew the same,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">To come to me from out the past</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And tell me I was not to blame.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">But, ah! ’tis maybe all too late:</div>
<div class="verse indent2">That day of joy may never dawn;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">I can no more than watch and wait,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And through the future years hope on.</div>
<div class="verse attrib"><span class="smcap">J. A. M‘Donald.</span></div></div>
</div></div>

<hr class="full">

<p class="center">Printed and Published by <span class="smcap">W. &amp; R. Chambers</span>, 47 Paternoster
Row, <span class="smcap">London</span>, and 339 High Street, <span class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>.</p>

<hr class="full">

<p class="center"><i>All rights reserved.</i></p>

<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76348 ***</div>
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