The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 20, Vol. I, May 17, 1884

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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 20, Vol. I, May 17, 1884

Author: Various

Release date: June 20, 2021 [eBook #65647]

Language: English

Credits: Susan Skinner, Eric Hutton and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)






No. 20.—Vol. I.


SATURDAY, MAY 17, 1884.



In a paper which appeared in this Journal (January 12) headed ‘What is a Peer?’ it was sought to present within very narrow limits and in untechnical language a sketch of the institution generally known as the Peerage. We endeavoured to exhibit the difference between the peerage itself as a whole and that important section of it termed the House of Lords, the status of the peers of the United Kingdom, of Great Britain, of Scotland, and of Ireland, and the distinction between real titles of nobility and those permitted to be adopted by courtesy. In short, we dealt with the external and legal features of the peerage viewed as an element of the constitution. We now propose to, in some measure, fill up the previous outline of the subject, and this will be done by shortly examining some of the internal characteristics of this institution which are distinctly peculiar to it. These will include a reference to matters which may not inaptly be termed ‘curiosities,’ if we limit the sense of this word to matters which, though perhaps not exactly curiosities in themselves, are nevertheless such, from their being confined to the cognisance of comparatively few persons.

Adopting for present purposes this acceptation of the word ‘curiosities,’ it may safely be asserted that the peerage abounds with curiosities of all kinds. Probably the most interesting are those disclosed in the records of family vicissitudes; but then these are but chapters in human life with their interest enhanced by the exalted position of the actors in the various dramas presented. Then, again, there are the anecdotal curiosities, which are exceedingly amusing, especially those of a strictly personal character; and we might easily fill many pages with narrations of this kind, any one of which would abundantly confirm the saw, that truth is stranger than fiction. But we think that such curiosities as we have mentioned are not those which would most interest or arrest the attention of an uninitiated reader, and accordingly, we have culled a few which we consider calculated to instruct as well as amuse him. If we are asked to define the species of instruction likely to be conveyed by the study of a theme like the peerage and its peculiarities, we should reply, that considered as we now propose to consider it, the subject will unfold many facts of deep historical interest; and we should not hesitate to declare that no one can fully comprehend either the general or the constitutional history of this country without some acquaintance with the peerage and its workings.

In ‘What is a Peer?’ we dealt with the legal and the courtesy aspect of titles; we shall here consider the mode of limiting them, their devolution, &c.; and we shall have one word to say about etiquette—not that species of etiquette, however, dealt with in books which purport to be manuals of good manners, but what may be called the etiquette of bearing titles; and this we hope will not be deemed unworthy of attention.

And first, the reader is reminded that all hereditary titles of honour are known to the law by the name of incorporeal hereditaments, a term explained in ‘What is a Peer?’

A close analogy to the rules of real property law is observable in those which govern the creation, &c., of titles. Thus, we have heirs apparent and presumptive to honours as well as to estates; and this observation will introduce us to one feature in the etiquette of the peerage worthy of notice. We have shown how a peer may hold several titles of different grades; and we will now more fully consider a case of this kind. Suppose that the Marquis of A. is also Earl of B., Viscount C., and Baron D., and that he has several sons and daughters. His eldest son is his heir-apparent, and he may assume, according to his father’s pleasure, either of the other titles during his lifetime. It is usual, however, in such cases for the eldest son to take the earldom as a courtesy title. During the existence of the Marquis and his eldest son, none of the{306} other sons would be permitted to adopt the remaining two titles; but all after the Earl would, as sons of a Marquis, be Lord John or Lord William So-and-so, &c.; and only the younger sons of Dukes and Marquises are so styled. The daughters, however, of all noblemen except Viscounts and Barons are styled ‘Ladies,’ with their Christian and surnames following the word ‘Lady;’ but they have no other style similar to that of an eldest son. (The position of daughters who claim a barony held by their father will be considered in a subsequent portion of the present paper.) Now, if the Earl of B. above mentioned were to die in his father’s lifetime, the second son would succeed to the courtesy title, and so on as to the rest, in the event of each son dying in his father’s lifetime. Thus, on the decease, in 1865, of Viscount Cranborne, eldest son of the then Marquis of Salisbury, Lord Robert Cecil—now Marquis of Salisbury—became Lord Cranborne. But the rule just mentioned is not absolute as to any of its features; for it may be remembered that the eldest son of the late Marquis—who, by the way, was also Earl—of Clanricarde, Viscount Burke, and Lord Dunkellin—was styled by the baronial title. On his death in the lifetime of the Marquis, the second son became Viscount Burke, and not Lord Dunkellin. Again, in 1879, when the Earl of Tankerville’s eldest son, Lord Ossulston, died, the latter’s brother, the Honourable G. M. Bennet, became eldest son, not, however, as Lord Ossulston, but as Lord Bennet; and instances of this might be multiplied. We believe, indeed, that the practice indicated under such circumstances to be the correct or fashionable one at the present day.

In the grant of a peerage the succession is generally limited in tail male—that is, entailed in the male line; but there are instances of special limitations in the grant to meet the want of heirs male of the body; and in such cases we may have a peerage as it were wandering about in all directions. Thus, a peerage may be limited in tail male, with a remainder over in tail male to some other person. This was the case with the barony of the great Lord Nelson. In 1798, he was created Baron Nelson of the Nile, and of Burnham-Thorpe in the county of Norfolk; and in 1801, Viscount Nelson. But these were entailed honours; and in the same year he was created Baron Nelson of the Nile, and of Hilborough in the county of Norfolk, with remainder—failing his own issue male—to his father and his issue male; failing which, to the issue male, severally and successively, of Lord Nelson’s sisters. At the death of the hero in 1805 at Trafalgar without issue, the first barony and the viscounty became extinct; but the second barony descended—the father being dead—to Lord Nelson’s brother. This nobleman was then elevated to the earldom, and the grant was again limited to him in tail male, with remainder over, failing his own issue, to the heirs male of his sister, Mrs Bolton; and failing them, to the issue of another sister, Mrs Matcham. The first earl having died without issue, was succeeded by his nephew, Mr T. Bolton, who thus became second Earl Nelson; and the present earl is his son, and has issue. Should all the male descendants of the latter eventually become extinct, the title will then go in remainder to the right heir of Mrs Matcham. If there be no such heir of that lady, then the title of Nelson will become extinct.

But of all the curiosities of the peerage, its ‘complications’ may justly be reckoned among the strongest and most interesting, and these complications are numerous, peculiar, and at the same time interesting in their way. They are attributable to various causes, of which the following may be accounted the chief: The failure of male issue in a family wherein exists a female peerage, the holder of which marries a commoner, who assumes her name; the absolute extinction of a title in one family by forfeiture or want of issue, and its subsequent assumption or revival in the person of a stranger in blood to the previous holders of the title; the failure of heirs to a title in tail male—that is, one limited to heirs male of the body, while perhaps another title held by the same person is in fee—that is, descendible to his heirs general. In such a case, the title in tail would of course become extinct, while the other would go to the right heir. Again, these complications are caused by the assumption of surnames other than those originally belonging to the persons assuming them, by the creation of special limitations in the grant of a title; by the confounding of names with titles, or those of peerage with those borne by courtesy; by the growth of peerages which, as it were, sprout from some great House already ennobled; and lastly, by the distinctions which exist with regard to peers of the United Kingdom, of Great Britain, of England, or of Ireland. We will endeavour to illustrate as informally as possible some of the foregoing statements, and this we think may be done by giving a short account of one well-known title and some of its family ramifications. This mode of treating the subject—on the principle of ex uno disce omnes—will be found to answer the object in view, and will also disclose other matters of interest connected therewith.

Some few years ago, there existed an amiable but weak young nobleman known to the world as the Marquis of Hastings, and to his intimates as Harry Hastings. Born in 1842, he succeeded his brother as fourth marquis at the early age of nine, was married when twenty-two under somewhat romantic circumstances, ‘plunged’ heavily on the turf, sustained enormous losses, and died at the age of twenty-six, when the marquisate of Hastings became extinct. It was a singularly fantastic display of the irony of fate which caused this man ‘of noble blood and high descent,’ the holder of a long string of proud titles, to become the associate and the victim of blacklegs and swindlers. Yet so it was; and when he died, society could not but heave a sigh of pity. In Burke’s Peerage of the time, the Marquis of Hastings is thus described: ‘Sir Henry-Weysford-Charles-Plantagenet Rawdon-Hastings, Earl of Rawdon, and Viscount Loudoun in the peerage of the United Kingdom; Baron Rawdon of Rawdon, Co. York, in the peerage of Great Britain; Baron Grey de Ruthyn, Baron Hastings, Hungerford, Newmarch, Botreaux, Molines, and Moels, in the peerage of England; Earl of Loudoun and Baron Campbell of Loudoun, Tarrinyeane and Mauchline, in the peerage of Scotland; Earl of Moira and Baron Rawdon in the peerage of Ireland; a{307} Baronet of England, and one of the co-heirs[1] to the barony of Montague.’

Now, from the extract just cited it will be seen that Hastings is not only a title but a name. As a matter of fact, however, Hastings is not the original patronymic of those who held the title as a marquisate. Their real name was Rawdon, and the Rawdons are an important Yorkshire family, established in that county at least since the Conquest. In 1665, one of them was created a Baronet; and we shall see that this was the baronetcy held by the late Marquis of Hastings. In 1750, a great-grandson of the Baronet was raised to the Irish peerage as Baron Rawdon; and in 1761 was promoted to an earldom, taking the title of Moira. This nobleman was thrice married, his last wife—by whom alone he had male issue—having been Lady Elizabeth Hastings, eldest daughter of the ninth Earl of Huntingdon.[2] Hastings, then, was the family name of the Earls of Huntingdon; and it is that of the present earl, who is the only peer entitled to it as an original surname. The eldest son of the above-mentioned marriage was Francis, second Earl of Moira, who achieved an historical reputation as a soldier, a statesman, and an accomplished gentleman. He is well remembered as an able governor-general of India; and he it was who became the first Marquis of Hastings; but we need hardly say that he was connected with his great predecessor, Warren Hastings of Daylesford, only by reason of the marriage above mentioned. It may be observed that during the suspension of the earldom of Huntingdon, the then proprietors of Daylesford claimed to represent the chief branch of the Hastings family.

Having traced the connection between the families of Rawdon and Hastings, it now remains to discover how the baronies of the latter became attached to the former family. The ninth Earl of Huntingdon, father of the first Countess of Moira, died in 1746, and was succeeded by his son, brother of the Lady Moira. The tenth earl, however, died without issue in 1789; whereupon the earldom became suspended, and so continued for thirty years, a fact involving matters of very deep interest, but of no importance so far as present purposes are concerned. The tenth Earl of Huntingdon’s heir was his sister, Lady Moira, and upon her descended the ancient baronies of the Huntingdon earldom—namely, Hastings, Hungerford, Botreaux, and Molines. Her husband, the first Earl of Moira, died in 1793, and, as just stated, was succeeded as such by his son Francis, who, in 1804, married Flora, Baroness Campbell and Countess of Loudoun in her own right. Elizabeth, Countess-Dowager of Moira, died in 1808; Francis, her son, was promoted to the English peerage so far as the barony of Rawdon was concerned. Then came his assumption of his mother’s maiden name of Hastings, his successful claims to the Huntingdon baronies, and lastly, in 1816 we find him Viscount Loudoun, Earl of Rawdon, &c., and Marquis of Hastings—all in the peerage of the United Kingdom. It is thus shown how a Rawdon was the founder of the Hastings marquisate; how Elizabeth Hastings brought the old baronies previously mentioned into the Rawdon family; and how the Scotch earldom of Loudoun and the United Kingdom viscounty were held by the same family.

There are two more titles to account for—the ancient baronies in fee of Hastings, created in 1264, and Grey de Ruthyn, created in 1324. These titles were originally in the De Hastings family, one of whom married, some time in the seventeenth century, Sir Henry Yelverton, Bart., of Norfolk, since which time, Yelverton—not to be confounded with Lord Avonmore’s family name—has been the patronymic of the Lords and Ladies Grey de Ruthyn. On the death of the nineteenth lord in 1831, the title descended to his daughter, who married the second Marquis of Hastings. This is how these two titles of Hastings, as a barony, and Grey de Ruthyn came to be held by the late marquis, whose mother was the twentieth holder of the latter title.

We have said that on his death in 1868 the marquisate became extinct; but what, it may be asked, became of the other titles? The answer to that question, though simple, will reveal yet further complications, caused by the assumption of surnames, &c. In the first place, all of what may be called the Rawdon honours necessarily became extinct. Not so, however, all those acquired by their marriages, &c. Thus, the Scotch earldom of Loudoun survived, and of this we will trace the devolution from the death of the last Marquis of Hastings. That nobleman left a sister, married to a commoner, Mr C. F. Clifton; and she, by her brother’s death without issue, became Countess of Loudoun in her own right, and succeeded to some of the family property. Mr Clifton took the family name of his wife; and at her death some time since, her son became Earl of Loudoun, Baron Hastings, Botreaux, &c., and by the last-named title now sits in the House of Lords. The other baronies transferred to the Rawdon family by the Lady Elizabeth Hastings, Grey de Ruthyn, &c., are in abeyance; but the Earl of Loudoun is the eldest co-heir to them. (The terms ‘abeyance’ and ‘co-heir’ will be explained later on.) Mr Clifton himself, the earl’s father, has been raised to the peerage as Lord Donington, the name of the Hastings’ seat in Leicestershire. We see that the Earl of Loudoun is also Baron Hastings, and by that title he may also vote; but, for the following reasons, Botreaux is a preferable title whereby to sit. The fact is, there is another Lord Hastings, whose family name is Astley. He is a peer of the United Kingdom, and his title is one of great antiquity, created in 1289. The present baron is the twenty-sixth in order of succession; but it will be found that this barony is not so ancient as the oldest of those which came to the Rawdons through Lady Elizabeth Hastings, daughter of the Earl of Huntingdon. Thus, while a higher title may absorb all those of a lower rank existing in the same family, the latter may nevertheless as it were attract the higher one to them, and a nobleman of the highest rank may be heir to a title of a less exalted character than his own. Thus, the Marquis of Lansdowne{308} is heir to the titles of his mother, who is second Baroness Keith and seventh Baroness Nairne. It may be observed in passing that there are about ninety Scotch and Irish peers in parliament who sit and vote by titles other than those by which they are commonly known and addressed.

The story of the present great House of Northumberland also furnishes a remarkable instance of the vicissitudes of a peerage, and the strange results of changing or adopting surnames by titled families. The present name of the Dukes of Northumberland is Percy, and their table of lineage connects them with the family to which the renowned Harry Hotspur belonged. But supposing this connection to be real, which we do not dispute, such of the blood of that renowned soldier as now flows through the veins of the Percies of to-day must certainly be in an extremely diluted condition. Unless we are mistaken, the actual family name of the Northumberland family is Smithson, and that of Percy is an assumed name. Hence the following lines to a Duke of Northumberland, by no less a person than George Canning:

No drop of princely Percy’s blood
Through those cold veins doth run;
With Hotspur’s blazon, castles, arms,
I still am poor Smithson.

The fact is, the present Northumberlands are the issue[3] of a marriage which took place in 1657 between an heiress of the real Percies and one Sir Hugh Smithson, a Yorkshire baronet; and the whole narrative may be read in Burke’s Peerage under the title of ‘Northumberland.’ It does not, however, mention the reply of George III. to one of the dukes of this house who complained to him that he was the first Duke of Northumberland who did not possess the Garter. ‘Quite so,’ said the king snappishly, ‘and the first Smithson who ever asked for it!’

It appears that the lady just alluded to was a daughter of Marmaduke, second Lord Langdale; and this fact introduces us to a notable curiosity of the peerage—namely, the extinction and resuscitation of titles. The latter circumstance may occur not only in the family originally holding the extinct title, but, as already intimated, in some other family in no way connected with the former. We will shortly give a few instances of this feature of the peerage, and the title of Langdale may first be noticed.

The first peer was a Mr Marmaduke Langdale, who in 1658 was created Baron Langdale, title and family name being the same. There were in all five holders of this title, all bearing the single Christian name of Marmaduke. The last died without issue in 1777, and the title became extinct. In the year 1836, an eminent King’s Counsel—still remembered by some persons—named Henry Bickersteth became Master of the Rolls, and was raised to the peerage as Lord Langdale, but so far as we know he was in no way connected with the Langdale family, and there is no Lord Langdale now. The wife of this peer, who was Master of the Rolls, was Lady Jane Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford; and this celebrated title will furnish another instance of the loss of titular honours by one family, and their resumption by another. The peerage of Oxford—an earldom from beginning to end—was originally held by the illustrious family of De Vere, one of whom was created Earl of Oxford by the Empress Maud, an honour confirmed by Henry II. in 1155. The ninth earl was Robert, who was created Marquis of Dublin in 1386 by Richard II., and, as stated in ‘What is a Peer?’ was the first marquis in the English peerage. He was banished and attainted in 1388, whereupon his honours became forfeited. Four years afterwards, however, the earldom was regranted to his uncle Aubrey, and subsequently the attainder of Robert was annulled. In 1464, we find the twelfth earl beheaded, and another attainder created; but after a lapse of three years, his son John is reinstated, only, however, to enjoy his honours for ten years, at the end of which period he also is attainted and suffers forfeiture. In 1513, all is right again; his nephew becomes the fourteenth earl; and from his time down to 1702, there is no break in the succession. But in that year, Aubrey, the twentieth earl, dies without male issue; and from that time to the present, we hear no more of the ancient and noble family of De Vere as Earls of Oxford. Perhaps the most distinguished of them was Edward, seventeenth earl (1540-1604); while another member of the family was Sir Francis de Vere, a celebrated soldier in the time of Queen Elizabeth. The title of Oxford was revived in 1711 by a stranger in blood to the De Veres—Robert Harley, Queen Anne’s celebrated Tory statesman, who in that year became Earl of Oxford and Mortimer. The second of these earls was the founder of the Harleian Library. The first earl had been a great collector of books, and it is said that he was so much attached to them, that although his library contained about one hundred thousand volumes, he knew the precise position of each on the shelves! The honours of the Harley family continued until 1853, when Alfred, the sixth earl, died without issue, and the earldom of Oxford once more ceased to exist.

These are but representative instances of the creation, forfeiture, extinction, and revival of titles. We could, of course, considerably increase the list of them, but to do so, would fill a volume. We will, however, just glance at five lines of the well-known speech of Henry V. to his soldiers in Shakspeare’s play of Henry V. (act iv., scene 3), and inquire how many of the great personages there mentioned are represented in blood at the present time by those who hold the very same titles:

Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words—
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo’ster—
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.

These words are supposed to be uttered on the eve of the battle of Agincourt, in 1415, and the Bedford of that day was John Plantagenet, third son of Henry IV. There were only three of these Dukes of Bedford, the last of whom died in 1495; and it was not until 1550 that the first Russell, the ancestor of the present Duke of Bedford, was{309} ennobled. To him the existing great House owes its origin; and there has been an unbroken continuity in the succession from his time until now, according to the limitations in the grants of the various honours bestowed on the family of Russell.

The peerage of Exeter is extremely singular. Therein we find four dukes, starting from John Holland, the first of them, in 1397. Between the first and the last duke there were two forfeitures and one extinction of the title; moreover, only three of them were Hollands, the second having been a Beaufort, a natural son of John of Gaunt; and this must have been the Exeter mentioned by Shakspeare; but the poet and dates are not quite reconcilable here. Then came two Marquises of Exeter, both of whom were Courtenays; and the present Marquis is a Cecil, the originator of the now existing marquisate having been the second Lord Burleigh or Burghley, who became Earl of Exeter in 1605. The present marquisate of the title dates from 1793.

The history of the peerage or title of Warwick is one of the most extraordinary to be found on the rolls. It was commenced in the reign of the Conqueror, comprises, in the first place, fourteen earls, mostly of the name of De Newburgh and De Beauchamp, a duke, and a countess. It has been extinct four times, and forfeited five times; has been borne by royalty, by the noblest of the noble, by traitors, and by no less than thirty-three persons of various families. After becoming extinct in the family of Rich by the decease of the eighth earl without issue in 1759, it was revived in that of Greville, and the present earl is the fourth in succession since then. The first of these holders of the title was Francis Greville, a descendant of William de Beauchamp, the tenth of the first set of earls, who died in 1298. The fifth and last of the De Beauchamps as Earls of Warwick must have been Shakspeare’s Warwick; so that while clearly the Bedfords and Exeters of to-day are not the representatives of those mentioned in Henry V., the Earl of Warwick who fought at Agincourt has a living descendant. The same may be said as to Talbot. The person alluded to by Shakspeare was the sixth baron of that title, and was the greatest soldier of his time. He was created Earl of Shrewsbury in 1442, and the present earl—who is the twentieth from him, and premier Earl of England—is also Earl and Baron Talbot, and accordingly is a blood-relative of Shakspeare’s fourth hero. Salisbury comes next; but the present marquis being descended from Robert Cecil, created Earl of Salisbury in 1605, is therefore not connected with Henry’s Salisbury, who was Thomas de Montacute. The Marquisate of Salisbury was created in 1780, every other previous holder of a Salisbury title having been an earl, and the honour first arose in the reign of Stephen.

With regard to the last of the personages introduced by Shakspeare, Glo’ster, it may be observed that the title of Gloucester appears from its very beginning to have been appropriated to personages of unusually exalted birth. It commenced with a natural son of Henry I., and went through eleven earldoms to 1337. From that time we have only dukes; and Shakspeare evidently alludes to Humphry Plantagenet, youngest son of Henry IV., and therefore brother of Henry V., whom the poet, with strict regard to the rules of courtesy, makes the last to be named by the gallant king. With him the dukedom of Gloucester became extinct; but it was revived in 1461, and conferred on Richard, brother of Edward IV., commonly known as ‘Crookback.’ At his death at Bosworth in 1485, the title merged in the Crown; and the last who held it was the uncle of our present gracious Queen, William-Frederick, Duke of Gloucester and Edinburgh. Seeing that Shakspeare’s Glo’ster was the son of Henry IV., and that our present royal family trace their descent through all the previous sovereigns of England, we may conclude that while the ‘Bedford and Exeter’ and Salisbury of Agincourt fame have no representatives at the present day connected with them by any ties of sanguinity, yet that ‘Harry the King,’ ‘Warwick and Talbot’ and Glo’ster are so represented, and in the manner just intimated.



Uncle Dick was for some time busy with his meal and with the details of the scare he had got in the morning.

‘I tell you, Philip, it a’most took away my appetite—and that’s saying something. Seemed to me that the bullock had nearly all the signs of foot-and-mouth; and the vet. thought so too; when along comes Beecham, and shows us it was nothing of the kind, but that the brute had somehow swallowed a poisonous herb. Clever chap that. Never thought he knew anything about cattle.... You see what it would have been to me? I would not have been allowed to exhibit at Smithfield at all this year—I, who have some of the finest stock in the county or in Norfolk either, and I won’t even bar that of His Royal Highness, although he has a prime breed—managed as well as my own too. I set my heart on getting a prize at the show this year; and it was hard lines to think that I was to be shut out at the last moment a’most, all owing to them foreigners bringing the disease amongst us.’

‘But you are at rest on that score now,’ said Philip, rousing himself to say something.

‘O yes; it’s right enough now; but it was a scare; and if it had not been for Beecham, the vet. would have gone off and reported me. I couldn’t have said nay; for bad as it would be to get the disease amongst my own stock, I’d feel it a heap worse if I carried it to somebody else’s. Don’t know how to be thankful enough to Beecham.’

The repetition of the name awakened some association of sounds in Philip’s ears; and whilst one division of his thoughts was entirely occupied with Madge, there seemed to be another whispering the question: ‘Was not that voice I heard behind me at the “dancing beeches” like the stranger’s?’

Uncle Dick went on describing the merits of the cattle he was to exhibit at Smithfield; but when he had pushed away his plate, he suddenly became aware that he was speaking to an inattentive audience.

‘Got the toothache, Philip?—or lost anything?’ he asked.


‘No, no.—I beg your pardon, Uncle Dick,’ replied Philip, a little confused, but frankly admitting his inattention. ‘Madge did not seem to be quite well when she came in just now, and I was thinking about her.’

‘Wool-gathering,’ said Uncle Dick with a hearty laugh. ‘Well, never mind. I ought to have known better. What’s the use of talking about prime fat cattle to a lad when he is sweethearting! I forgive you.’

Philip made an attempt to respond to the laugh; but it was not very successful, and he was glad of the relief which the entrance of the dame afforded him. In her quiet eyes, he fancied that there were signs of disturbed thought.

‘What ails Madge?’ inquired Uncle Dick. ‘Here is Philip in a way about her. She was well enough at dinner-time.’

‘She is out of sorts a bit, and wants to see Philip in the other room.’

‘Go to her lad; and if you have been amusing yourselves with a tiff—why, buss and make it up.’

Philip scarcely heard the whole of this wise counsel, for he had darted off the moment he heard that Madge wanted him.

But she was not in the room yet. So he stood watching the door, and wondering what could be the meaning of this conduct, which would have been singular on the part of any girl, but was most singular in his eyes when it was the conduct of Madge. A headache was not a sufficient explanation of that frightened look on her face, and it was still less a satisfactory explanation of her eager desire to get away from him, when he had expected to be chidden for his long absence. What could have happened, to account for it?

In all this wondering and questioning there was not the remotest shade of jealousy. He loved her. She loved him; he trusted her absolutely. His was the nature which gives absolute trust, and is incapable of thinking that it might be betrayed. But this absolute trust is in a keen-eyed, passionate nature a sort of windbag; and with the first pin-prick of suspicion it collapses: all trust changes to all doubt. He was still untouched by this demon. So he only wondered, and was sorry for her.

Then she came in, looking so pale—haggard almost—and quite unlike herself. She had made no attempt to conceal the fact that she had been crying. She closed the door, held out her hands to him, avoiding his eyes, and rested her head on his shoulder.

That was all right: she was not angry with him. He kissed the wet eyes gratefully, and the lips. But she did not look at him or speak; and although he wanted to say something soothing, he did not know how to begin.

Presently he was startled by a low sobbing, and words came to him: ‘For goodness’ sake, Madge, tell me what is the meaning of all this. Have I done anything to vex you?’

She pressed his hands, to assure him that he had not; but she did not speak.

‘Then what is it, my poor Madge? What can have upset you in this way? Uncle Dick and Aunt Hessy are all right: I am all right; but I shall be all wrong in a minute, if you will not show me how I am to make you all right, like the rest of us.’

She raised her head slowly, wiped her eyes, and went to a chair by the fire. No smile, no sign of relief, but a frown at the laughing flame which rose from the burning log of wood. (That was one of Madge’s own conceits, to have a homely log of wood for the evening fires.) Suddenly she lay back on the chair with hands clasped on the top of her head.

‘I don’t know what to say to you, Philip.’

‘What about?’

‘About being so foolish.’

‘Tell me why you are so foolish, and then maybe some good fairy will help me to tell you what you ought to say.’

He rested his elbow on the back of her chair and passed his hand tenderly over her hot brow. Her lips tightened, then relaxed, and she seemed to be on the point of crying again. With an effort, she overcame this hysterical emotion.

‘Sit down, Philip, there, where I can see your face,’ she said; and the voice was steady, although there were pauses between some of the words.

‘Will that do?’

He seated himself so that he could look at her face in the full light of the fire.

‘No; turn to the fire, so that I can see you.’

He drew a hassock close to her chair, sat down on it, and looked up to her so that the full reflection of the fire fell upon him.

‘Will that please you?’

She passed her hand timidly through his hair without looking at him.

‘I am half ashamed to tell you,’ she said huskily, ‘because I have done something that you will be angry about.’

‘Come on with it, then, and let us get the angry part over as quickly as possible, so that we may have the more time for enjoying ourselves.’

‘I always thought that I should never listen to anything which I might not repeat to you, Philip,’ she said hesitatingly.


‘This afternoon, I have listened to something which I have ... I have promised not to tell you—yet.’

That little word ‘yet’ seemed to come in as a peacemaker; and Philip felt that it was so. But he looked gravely at the merry fire for a few minutes before he answered, and she now gazed anxiously into his face.

Then, he:

‘I don’t like the idea, Madge, and it would be nonsense to pretend that I did. I should feel myself—well, we won’t say what; but my notion is that our lives should be so much one that our acts should be clear to each other, and our thoughts should be the same, as far as possible. I am not so stupid as to imagine that we can always control our thoughts, and think only what we ought to think (what a weary world it would be if we could!); but I believe that a man and woman who love each other can, and ought to be honest in their thoughts, and should not keep one which cannot be confided to the twin—twin—what shall I call it?—twin spirit. There; that will do. Funny that I should be talking this way to you, Madge—you have taught it to me.’

His upturned face still wore the frank, boyish{311} expression which it always assumed when he was with her.

Madge took her hand from his head and clasped it with the other round her knees, whilst she stared into the fire.

‘It is Aunt Hessy who has taught us both that rule. I, too, believe in it, and mean to follow it. But’——

She stopped, and the fright showed itself in her eyes again by the clear light of the cheerful fire.

‘Why don’t you go on?’ he asked, after a moment of thoughtful silence. ‘Why are you so distressed? Does this confidence, or secret, concern any of us?’

‘It concerns YOU—and I may not tell you what it is. That is why I am troubled.’

And again she clasped hands over her head, as if to subdue its throbbing.

He was thoughtful; and an expression appeared on his face, so like the one often seen on his father’s, that Madge, whose nerves were quickened by her pain, was startled. But he spoke kindly:

‘Have you told—or are you to tell—Aunt Hessy and Uncle Dick?’

‘No ... no ... no’ (this was like a moan). ‘I am not to tell them either—not now, that is. By-and-by, you shall all know—you first, Philip.... Don’t ask me any more questions. I wish I could have held my tongue altogether—it would have spared you pain, perhaps. But I could not do that. I thought you might blame me afterwards, and maybe misunderstand many things that I may do. There is no wrong meant to any one—no harm. You will see that, when it is explained.’

He rose slowly, and stood with his back to the fire, gazing at her.

‘Is not this foolish, Madge?’ he said sadly. ‘You see what a state you have got into already over a matter which I have no doubt appears to you innocent enough, and is very likely quite trifling in its consequences to me or any one, except yourself. I can see you are going to worry about it—I shall not—and I cannot guess why you should. At the same time, it does not please me to think that you should accept any confidence which you may not share with Aunt Hessy, if not with me.’

She looked at him with such sad eyes: no tears in them, but questioning him, as if inspired by some distant thought, as yet only half comprehended. Her voice, too, seemed to come from a distance.

‘I thought you would have trusted me, Philip. I hope you will, when you know that my mother has to do with this promise I have given.’

He placed his hands on her shoulders.

‘I did not need that assurance, but am glad that you have told me so much. I do trust you—so much, that if you had simply said you had a secret which was not to be told to me yet a while, I should have thought nothing about it. But when I see that this thing distresses you and makes you ill—come, now, confess you would not have liked me to be indifferent.’

She confessed:

‘No; I should not have liked you to be indifferent.’

‘Very well, then, you have heard—say, a riddle, about which you think it right to hold your tongue meanwhile. I am content; for I know that you would not hold your tongue if you thought that any harm was to come of it to anybody. So, let it be, until you are ready to give us the answer to this riddle.’

He stooped and kissed her.

‘Thank you, Philip. I am better now; but it did seem so terrible to have to tell you that there was something’——

He put his hand playfully on her mouth, stopping her.

‘We are not going to say anything more about that. I have a lot of things to tell you; and came here in fear and trembling that you would be scolding me roundly for my long absence. But I see you have not missed me so much.’

Something of her bright smile returned as she shook her head disapprovingly.

‘You know that I have missed you very much, or you would not have said that. But I knew that you were busy with the work which is to make your name a blessed one all over the world. How I should like to be by your side helping you!’

‘You can be, whenever you choose. Why not at once? Although Uncle Shield says he would prefer that I should not marry for a year, I refused to give any promise on that subject, and am free to please you and myself.’

‘No, no; I have told you that my ideas are the same as Mr Shield’s. You must be quite free to set your plans in good working order before you tie yourself down to me. For you know I shall require such a heap of attention and looking after!’

And the eyes which had been for a second clouded when he pleaded again for their early union, opened upon him with that gentle light which could lead him anywhere. And so he yielded, allowing the subject of greatest import to their future to be put aside once more for matters of the moment. He told her first with what forbearance his father had acted, and how wisely he had dealt with his fortune.

‘I did expect to have a bad time with him; but he was kinder to me than ever, and has done exactly what I should have asked him to do if he had consulted me beforehand. I am proud of him, and believe that he will be the first to hold out the hand of friendship, when I come to my grand scene of reconciliation between him and my uncle.—What is the matter with you? Why did you start?’

‘A chill—don’t mind it, please. I do hope you will manage to bring them together in friendship. You know I have as much interest in it as you now.’

‘That is as it ought to be. I am sure that the governor would give in; but Shield passes all my powers of understanding. He won’t speak like a sensible man to me, and yet he writes like a philosopher—at least as if he took real interest in what I am doing, and wished me to succeed.’

‘Why do you not write to him about your father?’

‘Because I am keeping that part of my work in hand until I can pounce upon both of them, and make them feel so ashamed, that they will not be able to say no when I say, and you say with me—Shake hands. We will manage it, you and I. Won’t we?’


‘I will try to do my part.’

She spoke low, and her thoughts seemed to reach into the future and the past farther than those of her lover. She seemed to feel that her part was a much heavier one than he imagined.

‘For that, of course, we must watch our opportunity, and be ready to seize it when it comes. I know you will not fail, and hope I shall not. But there is another thing I want you to do at once.’

‘What is that?’

‘To bring old Culver into a Christian frame of mind regarding Caleb Kersey. You will manage that by proving to him what a fortune Kersey is going to make as my foreman. I am sure he will do well, and sure too that Pansy will be a lucky woman to have such a husband.’

‘I think she would be; and for a time believed that she thought so too. But lately—I do not know why—I have had a suspicion that Pansy does not care so much for Caleb as she used to do.’

‘Oh—h,’ is the simplest representation of the long-drawn sound emitted by Philip, with many modulations before it passed into silence. It suggested surprise, curiosity, and suspicion, combined with a degree of uneasiness. ‘Surely it is not possible that Pansy, who has always appeared to me the model of an innocent country girl, has been only making fun of this sturdy fellow? Can she have taken any other man into her mind? If she has, it will turn the poor chap topsy-turvy.’

‘Has he said anything to you about her?’

‘No; but I could see the whole thing when we were working at the church decorations. If ever any man was ready to die for a woman, Caleb feels that way towards Pansy. I hope she is not a fool.’

The last phrase was uttered with an excess of energy which the occasion did not seem to demand.

‘How could you suppose that?’

‘Because she is a woman,’ he replied, with forced audacity and an awkward smile. ‘Why do you suppose that she is changed?’

‘You cannot have noticed her lately, or you would not require to ask. She has grown pale and nervous and forgets what she is told—blushes and grows white without any reason.’

‘All that fits in exactly with my suspicion,’ said Philip seriously; ‘she has seen somebody else who has caught her fancy more than Kersey, and she is either afraid or ashamed to own it.’

Madge looked surprised.

‘I never knew you to be so uncharitable, Philip. Can you not imagine any other cause for her unhappy state?’

‘No.’ He could not bring himself to say: ‘I have seen my brother Coutts talking to her in a way which I should call flirting if she had been a girl with a good dowry at her back. I know that he will require substantial compensation for the surrender of his bachelorhood.’

‘It might be so,’ said Madge reflectively; ‘but my idea was that she had been so worried by her father, that she had come to wish Caleb would keep away, and was too shy to tell him frankly.’

‘Perhaps it is so; and maybe it would be best that we should not interfere. At the same time, I think old Culver should have a hint that in standing in Kersey’s way he is doing his daughter an injury that he may be sorry for by-and-by. You might do that without risk of hurting anybody.’

‘Yes; and if Pansy gives me an opportunity, I shall tell her what you think about Caleb.’

‘And about his prospects—don’t forget that with both of them. I told her this afternoon, when passing, that there was good news coming to her, and there could be no better angel than you to carry it.’


‘I didn’t tell her that last bit, of course; but I thought it.’

She was not angry; and he sat down on the hassock again. Then they laid their heads together, and saw beautiful visions of the future in the bright fire. To him the path was like one long golden sunbeam; but she saw many motes in it—some of them big ones—although she said nothing at all about them to him.

She was striving hard to make him forget the opening part of their interview, and to send him away with a feeling of contentment in the belief that she was happy, so that he might go on with his great work undisturbed by any anxiety on her account. She felt that it was a great work, and that she must do everything in her power to lift the bars to its accomplishment out of the way. He had shown himself in two characters to-night—the loving, light-hearted boy and—when he stood up with that thoughtful face which reminded her of his father—the earnest and sharpsighted man.

She was not clear as to which side of his character she liked most; but they were both hers, and it was a relief to feel that if trial came to them, he could be resolute and considerate.

So she did her best to hide the fatigue which worry had brought upon her; and for a time she was completely successful.

Suddenly he jumped up.

‘How stupid I am, Madge!’ he exclaimed in irritation with himself.

‘What is the matter now?’

‘You—why, you are as tired as can be, and ought to have been off to bed long ago. I began by trying to get you to think of something pleasant, so as to drive off the blue fit that was on you, and then in my own enjoyment forgot how weary you must be. I am going away at once.’

She relieved him with a laugh; it was a delight to feel that they had been both inspired by the same good thought.

‘I am glad you did not go sooner, Philip,’ she said, standing up, her hands clasped round his neck. ‘Do you know that, to-night, you have made me feel what I thought was impossible?’

‘That must be worth knowing. What is it?’

‘That I care more for you than ever,’ she whispered, as she rested her brow on his shoulder.

A pause, as his arms tightened round her—his heart in his throat. Then, as people do in accepting the greatest benefactions, trying to hide with a laugh what they, from the hard teachings of stoic philosophers, have come to regard as the foolish weakness of tears of joy.

‘I was not sure for a minute whether to be{313} glad or sorry for that, Madge. But of course it is right. What is it Othello says—or wishes? Something about love growing as years go on. That’s how it will be with us.’

‘I think so—I believe so. But you must not quote Othello. He killed his love because he had no true faith in it.’

‘But then he was a nigger, and I am not. All right. I won’t mention the gentleman again. I shall be here to-morrow.’

‘Very well. Go to Uncle Dick now and help him in my place. He has some papers to fill up, and I intended to do them to-night. He will be disappointed if they are not done.’

‘Now, there is a real good girl,’ said Philip, delighted. ‘I like you best when you are asking me to do something for you.’

When he entered the oak parlour, Aunt Hessy was at one side of the fire, knitting. Uncle Dick was at the other, puffing with the vigour of impatience unusually large clouds from his churchwarden, whilst he stared at a blue foolscap paper. On the table were a mass of other papers, which were tossed about as if somebody had been trying to get them into as confused a mass as possible.

‘Where’s Madge?’ he ejaculated as soon as Philip appeared. ‘You’ve kept her long enough for once in a way, Philip. I am getting into a regular passion with all these rules and restrictions.’

‘Let me fill a pipe, and I shall be ready to take Madge’s place.’

‘You!’ was the mirthfully contemptuous exclamation. ‘You don’t know anything about the things, and nobody can take her place.’

‘But she has sent me, and I’ll do my best to please you, sir,’ retorted Philip with mock humility.

‘Better let Philip do what’s wanted,’ said the dame, as she rose to leave the room; ‘Madge is not well to-night.’

Uncle Dick grumbled at the absence of his secretary, but good-naturedly resigned himself to the services of her substitute. Presently, he found that Philip was so apt in taking up his suggestions that he almost forgot Madge.


The journalist has no time to pick his words or sort his sentences with care. Once he has parted company with his MS., or as it is technically termed ‘copy,’ it is, as a rule, a case of ‘what I have written, I have written;’ so that, given an easy-going ‘press-reader,’ the supplier of news is likely enough to have reason to fret and fume when he sees himself in print; deriving little consolation from knowing that slipshod writing oftentimes makes very funny reading. Assuredly it is amusing to read one morning that the authorities of Alexandria are busily engaged disaffecting that, by all accounts, already sufficiently disaffected city; and the next, to learn our Canadian cousins are discussing the possibility of the abduction of Her Most Gracious Majesty. For these items of news we may be indebted to the compositor’s maladroit intervention; but that convenient scapegoat is hardly answerable for the statement that an opera by Signor Riaci, ‘the son and nephew of the composer of that name,’ had been well received at Vienna; nor can he be held responsible for the information that a town in America rejoices in a Society ‘for the prevention of cruelty to animals with upwards of a hundred dollars in the bank;’ and that a certain event occurred on the night of the twenty-fifth of May, at about two o’clock in the morning.

It may be taken for granted that the rising School of Art is in the ascendant; it is easy to believe in an overcome toper being found ‘with a pint-pot in his hand, which he could not drink;’ but some of the statements made in the newspapers tax one’s credulity overmuch. Lenient as magistrates are towards feminine offenders, they would scarcely content themselves with fining a virago for ‘breaking her mother-in-law’s arm by weekly instalments.’ Good bats as there are in the Surrey Eleven, we must take leave to doubt that one of them scored seven hundred and twelve runs in an innings. And clever as French doctors may be, they are not so clever as a Paris correspondent makes out, when, relating the discovery of a murder in that city, he tells us that ‘the only portion of the body not entirely destroyed was the left foot; and a medical examination of the remains proved that the man had been killed by blows on the head.’

Shakspeare was wrong in supposing there was any bourne from which no traveller could return. Glorifying the doings of Nares’s band of Arctic explorers, a leader-writer said: ‘From the leader of the expedition, who occupied the crow’s-nest until he was overcome by exhaustion, to the humblest seaman who died from fatigue and cold, all have earned the rewards of heroes, and have come back laden with stores of knowledge.’ An unlucky workman overbalancing himself and tumbling from his airy perch into the street, we read: ‘The deceased was seen to pitch head foremost from the scaffold, and little hopes are entertained of his recovery.’ Perhaps the deceased might have got over it, had his doctor been as devoted as the gentleman called in to do his best for a poor hurt lad, who ‘was in frequent attendance upon him after the inquest.’ Not, it may be hoped, from the remorseful feeling actuating his professional brother into writing: ‘This is to certify that I attended Mrs S. during her last illness, and that she died in consequence thereof.’

Here is a nut for lovers of arithmetical riddles to crack at their leisure; we give it up: ‘The diamond wedding of Major-general Lennox and his wife was celebrated on Saturday, at their house in Kelvinside. The General was born in Scotland in the year 1727, and was married on the 2d of December 1882, in the city of Cawnpore, to Mademoiselle de Laval, born in 1806, who had arrived at the French settlements in India with her parents from Mauritius, when that island passed in 1810 from the hands of the French into the possession of the English. General Lennox served in India for forty-three years. He went through the Cabul wars of 1839-43; assisted at{314} the capture of Ghuznee, Khelat, Kandahar, Cabul, Gwalior, and was present at the battle of Sobraon. With his wife and youngest daughter, he was miraculously preserved during the Indian Mutiny of 1857. General Lennox retired from the service in 1860.’ After that, there is nothing surprising in a certain baronet being ‘born in Paris in 1844, and married in 1827.’

Reporting the death of a cricketer from taking carbolic acid in mistake for black draught, an Irish newspaper said: ‘The shopman filled the draught bottle out of a carbolic acid jar, instead of that marked “Senna Mixture,” though his orders were never to do so unless under supervision.’ Anticipating the death of a whale exhibited at the inaptly named Royal Aquarium at Westminster, a London paper observed: ‘It will make excellent porpoise-skin boots.’ Relating a chase after a native robber, an Indian paper said: ‘A Bheel outlaw, fleeing for the jungle, saw his comrades captured one by one, then followed his horse and his wife, and the wretched man at last found that his only companion was his mother-in-law. He thereupon gave way to despair, and was taken by the police without further trouble.’ Noticing the meeting of a new organisation called the Grand State Defenders, a New York journal said the members were bound by a solemn oath ‘never to leave the state, except in the case of an invasion by a foreign foe.’ In each case the satiric insinuation is plain enough. Whether it is intentional or not, would require some skill at thought-reading to decide.

It is well for an English soldier to be equal to a sea-voyage; but it is not generally known that it is requisite he should be familiar with life on the ocean wave. Such is the case, however, or a journalist protesting against the Duke of Connaught’s promotion to a major-generalship, on the ground that ‘he never went to sea unless it was absolutely necessary,’ is as much out of his reckoning as the correspondent representing M. Paul Bert as telling the people of Grenoble: ‘We have enemies whom their triumph has not satiated. Their appetites command us to be watchful; and once our military education is made, and our army thoroughly organised, we shall be able to say to our foes: “Take care! twelve hundred citizens are arrayed in arms before you. They are all ready; they are all united. Do not touch France!”’

The London shopkeeper’s ‘Boots sold and healed while you wait,’ is not so likely to attract customers as the more pronounced orthographical eccentricities of the Gloucestershire gardener, having ‘sallery plants for zale,’ and ready to supply all comers with kalleflour, brokaler, weentur greens, raggit jak, rottigurs cale, and sprouiting brokla. But it would be hard to resist the temptation of assisting at a dramatic entertainment lightened by the musical performances of ‘a band of amateur gentlemen;’ and still harder to refuse to take a ticket for a cricket-match, knowing ‘the entire proceeds are for the benefit of the late Isaac Johnson, who is totally unprovided for;’ but the loyal natives of the Principality were not to be persuaded into joining a proposed Welsh Land League by the suggestion that they might ‘send in their names anonymously.’

When the inhabitants of a French town complained of being disturbed by the explosion of shells, the discharge of cannon, and the rattle of small-arms at a mimic presentment of the bombardment of Plevna, the authorities sent a written notice to those concerned, informing them that for the future, Plevna must be bombarded at the point of the bayonet. The guardians of public property at Concord, Massachusetts, posted up placards offering a reward for the apprehension and conviction of persons guilty of ‘girdling’ the trees in the school-house yard, and promising the payment of a suitable reward ‘for anything of the kind that may hereafter be done to any of the trees in the streets.’ Of course, they no more meant what they said, than did the Commissioners of National Education in Ireland, when, in a Report, signed by four professors, they stated that the female teachers ‘were instructed in plain cooking, had, in fact, to go through the process of cooking themselves in their turn;’ a specimen of official English upon a par with the inscription telling visitors to Kew: ‘This Gallery, containing studies from Nature, painted by her in various lands, was given in 1882 to these Gardens by Marianne Hope.’

A scientific writer asks us to believe that on placing a decapitated frog at the bottom of a vessel filled with water, the animal rises to the surface, and keeps itself there, with its head in the air; or if the frog be placed in the same vessel, under an inverted glass, filled with water, it behaves in the same manner. Some folks hold novel-reading in contempt, but it is astonishing what a deal of information may be gathered from novels. For instance, we have learned that Scylla was a dandy; that Miss Hardcastle was the heroine of Sheridan’s best comedy; that a haggis is a dish peculiar to Ireland; that it usually snows upon the Derby Day; that lilacs and violets bloom amid the hues of ripening fruit; that heather blooms on the Scottish hills in the month of May; that the drones of the hive are given to toiling overmuch; that ibis-shooting is the favourite pastime of Tyrolese sportsmen; that rising barristers shrug their shoulders under rustling silk gowns; that the Victoria Cross is won by a hundred deeds of disciplined valour; that an officer can draw half-pay after selling out; and that our best bred Englishwomen are very rarely of the same name as the men they have married. One would not care to make the acquaintance of an Olympian girl with pagan eyes full of nocturnal mysteries; or desire the company of a lady ‘only a simulacrum of femininity,’ or of a gentleman deserving to be described as a small Vesuvius tabernacling in corporalities; while a lip that owes no man anything and only bows to its maker, and a castle in the air overstepping all difficulties and all rancour, are altogether beyond appreciation or comprehension. Perhaps the ladies and gentlemen who delight in mystifying such readers as they may have, are urged to it as Balzac was. Asked to explain an abstruse passage in one of his books, he frankly owned it had no meaning at all. ‘You see,’ said he, ‘for the average reader all that is clear seems easy; and if I did not sometimes give him a complicated and meaningless sentence, he would think he knew as much as myself. But when he comes upon something he cannot comprehend,{315} he re-reads it, puzzles over it, takes his head between his hands, and glares at it; and finding it impossible to make head or tail of it, says—“Great man, Balzac; he knows more than I do!”’



Frank laughed at the idea of Mrs Abbot kneeling at his feet; and had not the least intention of sending Millicent’s address.

He saw little of any one for the next few days except Millicent. His poor friend Mr John Jones called several times, but each time found him absent.

‘Your master is neglecting his business,’ he said sternly to Frank’s small clerk.

‘Got something pleasanter to attend to,’ said the youth with a wink. He was a sharp lad, and able to form his own opinions.

One day towards the end of the week, Mr Jones did succeed in catching his young friend, and, moreover, in smoking the whole of a long cigar in his society. ‘Look here, Abbot,’ he said, ‘what’s up with you? Are you going to be married?’

‘Yes,’ said Frank; ‘I am.’

‘Thought so,’ said Mr Jones. ‘When?’

‘Next Tuesday,’ answered Frank as laconically as his strange friend.

‘Girl got money?’

‘No; poorer than I am.’

‘That’s bad. Tell me all about it.’

Every man in Frank’s plight likes a friend to unburden his heart to; so Mr Jones had the whole history of his love affair, from the moment his mother intervened down to the present happy time. Frank waxed so eloquent, that his friend’s eyes glistened, and when the history was finished, he grasped the young man’s hand, and wished him good wishes which were certainly heartfelt.

‘I have a favour to ask,’ he said, in a very humble way, quite different from his usual energetic style of talking. ‘I haven’t known you long, so it’s presumption on my part. But I’ve grown very fond of you. May I come to the church and see you married?’

‘You may be best-man, if you like; or you can give the bride away. It will save us having recourse to the sexton.—Only on one condition, though,’ continued Frank, struck by a sudden thought; ‘that is, you don’t go making absurd presents.’

‘I must give you something.’

‘Give me a box of cigars, then.’

‘Very well,’ said Mr Jones. ‘But you’re disgustingly proud.’

So it was settled. To Frank’s great relief—for he disliked paining the man by refusing anything—Mr Jones brought him a box of his big cigars, and on the Tuesday morning accompanied him to the quiet town church, where in due time Millicent appeared, accompanied by her distant relative. Mr John Jones acted in his twofold capacity with great decorum. Frank had laughingly told Millicent of the strange arrangement he had made. She raised no objection. ‘What does it matter,’ she said, ‘so long as we are really married?’ So, when the clergyman asked who gave this woman, &c., Mr Jones stepped forward and performed the office. When the ceremony was over, and the happy pair stepping into the carriage, thinking, no doubt, his services entitled him to some reward, he kissed the bride on her forehead—a proceeding which rather staggered Frank, although, as Millicent did not seem annoyed, he said nothing.

‘That old Jones is a strange fellow,’ he said, as Millicent and he were safely ensconced in the brougham.

‘Yes. How long have you known him?’

‘Only a week or two—quite a chance acquaintance.’

‘Chance acquaintances are not to be depended upon,’ said Mrs Frank Abbot sententiously.

Then, as was but natural, they talked of other things, and dismissed Mr John Jones from their happy minds.

During the last week, they had held many debates as to where they should spend the honeymoon. As yet, they had only partially settled the important point. By Millicent’s express wish, the first week was to be passed at Clifton. ‘Dear old Clifton!’ she said. ‘We met there first; remember that, sir!’ Frank did not particularly want to go to Clifton, but he yielded without a murmur. Whether it should be Switzerland, Italy, France, Scotland, or Ireland afterwards, was to be decided at their leisure. So the brougham drove to Paddington, and Mr and Mrs Frank Abbot took the train for the west.

They spent five happy days at Clifton; although they knew the scenery by heart, it looked more beautiful than ever under the present auspices. Then Frank began to talk about going elsewhere; but Millicent seemed in no hurry to make a move. ‘I wonder, Frank,’ she said one evening, ‘you don’t go over and have a look at your old home.’

‘I haven’t the heart to go,’ sighed Frank. ‘I might have gone by myself; but I can’t stand it with you. I shall be thinking all the while how you would have graced it.’

‘Who lives there now?’

‘A Mr Tompkinson—a London merchant.’

‘I should so like to see the place, Frank! Do take me to-morrow.’

Frank, who, in truth, was longing to have a look at the old place, consented. They decided to go the next day. ‘We will have a carriage, and drive,’ said Frank.

‘What extravagance!’ said Millicent.

‘Never mind. I shall only be married once. When our honeymoon is over, we will go in for strict economy.’

Millicent agreed to this. So a carriage was hired the next morning, and they started for Frank’s ancestral home.

It was a lovely September morning; the air was fresh and exhilarating. As soon as the dark dusty city was left behind, Millicent’s spirits rose to a mad pitch, which Frank, with all his newly married adoration, fancied was not quite in keeping with what was to him at least a sort of solemn pilgrimage. She caught hold of his hands and squeezed them, she laughed and talked; in fact, generally misconducted herself. Frank had never seen her in such a mood before. He was fain to believe that she was forcing her merriment, to show him how little she cared for the loss of the{316} wealth she would have shared. Nevertheless, as each landmark came in sight, and at last he knew that he was passing through lands which one day should have been his, he grew gloomy, moody, and miserable. Millicent saw what passed through his mind; she sank into silence; an occasional pressure of the hand only reminding him that at least he had her.

Presently he stopped the carriage. ‘You can get the best view of the dear old house from here,’ he said.

‘Let us get out,’ said his wife.

They alighted, and for some minutes stood looking at the long gray house. Frank’s eyes were full of tears.

‘Can’t we go over the house?’ asked Millicent.

‘By permission of Mr Tompkinson, no doubt; but he is a stranger to me, so I don’t care to ask it.’

‘But I want to see the inside so much, Frank; you have described it to me so often. Let us go up and ask if we can go over it.’

The idea of asking leave to go over Chewton Hall was more than Frank could bear. ‘I would much rather not,’ he said.

‘But I want to go, Frank,’ said Millicent, pouting. ‘No one will know us, so what does it matter?’

Frank still shook his head and raised objections. If there was one thing above another he hated, it was asking favours of strangers. Chewton Hall was not a show-place. It boasted no specimens of interesting architecture; it possessed no gallery of paintings. As likely as not, when they reached the door and preferred their request, some flunky of this fellow Tompkinson’s would order them off the grounds. In short, sorry as he was to disappoint his wife, Mr Abbot firmly refused to ask leave to go over the Hall. Thereupon he discovered that he had married a young woman who had no intention of giving him abject obedience.

‘It’s very unkind of you,’ she said. ‘I will go over the place. If you won’t come, I shall go alone.’ She turned away, pushed the lodge-gate open in a most unceremonious way, and was twenty yards up the drive before her husband had recovered from his surprise. At first, he resolved to leave her to her fate; but that seemed an unkind thing to do. After all, she wanted to look over his old home solely for love of him. He could not let her go alone; besides, as he was hesitating, she turned and beckoned to him. So he walked after her.

As soon as Millicent had satisfied herself that her husband was following her, she quickened her pace to such an extent, that without actually running, he could not overtake her. Arguing that a man’s running after a woman up a stranger’s carriage-drive was not a dignified preparation to asking a favour, Frank followed his wife at a reasonable pace; and when he came up to her, found her standing at the door of the Hall in conversation with an elderly woman, who was evidently a housekeeper. Frank thought this good woman eyed him very curiously and suspiciously.

‘It’s all right, Frank,’ said Millicent, turning her smiling face to him. ‘We may go over the Hall. Mr Tompkinson is not here at present.’

‘Please, walk in,’ said the housekeeper, dropping a courtesy.

Millicent did so; and Frank followed her, sulkily. He did not approve of the proceedings. As his wife had forced him to the house, he had determined to send his card up to Mr Tompkinson, trusting that his former connection with the place would excuse the liberty he was taking. But he did not like this going behind the man’s back, and felt sure that Millicent had been smoothing the way with a bribe.

‘That’s the drawing-room—the dining-room—library—billiard-room,’ said the housekeeper, jerking her finger at the doors in succession. ‘Please, walk through them; and ring when you’d like to go up-stairs and see the view.’

Therewith the woman vanished, after giving Millicent a knowing look, which Frank felt sure spoke of wholesale bribery.

‘I say, Millicent,’ said Frank, ‘we can’t go walking about a man’s house alone, in this fashion.’

‘My dear,’ said Millicent very seriously, ‘I pledged my honour we would pocket nothing.’ Then she broke into an hysterical little laugh; and Frank wondered what had come to his wife.

‘Let us go to the drawing-room first,’ she said, recovering her gravity, and opening the door pointed out by the housekeeper.

Frank passed through the doorway, and for a moment could think of nothing but how he should keep himself from quite breaking down. The room looked almost the same as when he last entered it—the same as he had known it from his earliest days. Every chair and table the same, or apparently so. Then he remembered that the purchaser of the house had also bought nearly all the household furniture. At the time, he was glad to think the old place would not be dismantled; now he regretted it had not been. The presence of the well-remembered Lares and Penates left the old home unchanged in all—save that it was no longer his home. There was the very stool on which as a boy he used to sit at his mother’s feet; there was the wonderful Japanese cabinet, with dozens of little lackered drawers, which used to be opened now and again as a great treat to him. And here was he standing in the middle of these old household gods, by permission of another man’s servant. He wished he had been firm, and not yielded to Millicent’s whim.

His heart was too full for words. He turned away from his wife, who was watching him earnestly, turned away, not willing she should see how much he was affected. He opened the door of the conservatory and passed out among the flowers. Even the flowers looked the same. The red stars of taxonia shone from the green clouds above as of old. The large heliotrope against the wall was in full blossom. The great centre tree-palm was still there. The fountain played as of old, and splashed down on the goldfish swimming in the basin. How well he remembered when his great delight was to be lifted up to look at those red and white carp! He could stand these memories no longer. Let him go away—out of the house—never to come near it again. He went back to the room to find Millicent. The room was untenanted. He supposed his wife, taking advantage of the accorded permission, had extended her researches. He looked in the dining-room. As the old family portraits had been bought by his own people, this{317} room did not appeal to him so much. He glanced round; Millicent was not there. He walked across the hall and opened the library door. He did not notice whether this room was changed or not. He had eyes for one thing only, and, perhaps, a more astonishing sight was never seen by a six days’ bridegroom. Here was Millicent—his wife, her hat and mantle thrown off, absolutely sitting on the knee of a gentleman; moreover, with her arms twined round his neck, her cheek resting against his, and so concealing his features from her outraged husband, who no doubt would have rushed to immolate his supposed rival, had not Millicent, without changing her position, looked at him with eyes so full of love, tenderness, and triumph, that Frank Abbot stood rooted to the ground, and wondered why he should be dreaming in broad daylight. Then he grew very pale, all sorts of wild things rushing into his head. He managed to take a step or two forward; and Millicent jumping off her human perch, rushed to meet him, threw her arms round his neck, sobbed and laughed, and all the while ejaculated: ‘My darling—my darling! My own love! To think it should be through me! My own dear husband!’

She kissed him and embraced him in so fervent a manner, that his attention could scarcely be given elsewhere; but the impression grew upon him that over her shoulder, sitting in the chair from which she had sprung, was his chance acquaintance, Mr John Jones.

‘What—does—it all mean?’ gasped Mr Abbot, as his wife subsided on his shoulder.—‘Mr Jones, you here! What does it mean?’

Mr Jones rose from his chair and held out his hand. ‘Shake hands, Frank,’ he said. ‘It means this. I told you you’d have to take something from me, proud as you were. You’ve taken my daughter, at anyrate.’


‘Yes; I know. I’m Keene, not Jones. That girl of mine is a romantic, obstinate child. I’m an old fool, and ought to be ashamed of myself; but it did me good to find she was going to marry a man who thought she hadn’t a penny-piece to her name. Shake hands, Frank.’

‘But—here!’ ejaculated Frank.

‘Yes, here. In my house; or rather, in yours and Millicent’s. The truth is, when we landed in England, the first paper Milly saw held an advertisement, saying this place was for sale. She made me go the next day and buy it, stock, lock, and barrel. Now you know all.’

‘O Frank!’ interposed Millicent, ‘forgive me—I had been in England four months before I wrote to you! Do forgive me, Frank! They were very long months.’

As Frank gave her a passionate kiss, she supposed herself forgiven. Mr Keene drew out his cigar-case.

‘Now all’s settled,’ he said, ‘I’ll send and tell your carriage to go back. You can drive into Clifton this evening and fetch your luggage.’

‘Stop a moment!’ said Frank. ‘Mr Keene, I am too bewildered to say all I want to; but it must be clearly understood that I am not going to be a dependent on your bounty.’

‘I always told you, you were absurdly proud,’ growled Mr Keene.

‘I will not. Had I known that you had purchased my father’s estate, I could not have married Millicent. I would not have let the world call me a fortune-hunter.’

Mrs Frank Abbot glanced at her father. ‘I told you what he was, papa,’ she said. Then turning to Frank: ‘Will you kindly look at me, sir, and tell me how I have changed so greatly that people will think I am only worth marrying for my money?’

To this challenge Frank made no reply, in words. Then he took his wife’s hand. ‘Millicent,’ he said, ‘shall it be clearly understood that you are the wife of a poor man—that you will be happy when I ask you to leave this and come to London with me, while I work at my profession as before?’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ growled Mr Keene. But Millicent looked into her husband’s face and whispered: ‘My darling love, your wishes shall be mine!’

Then Mr Keene went out and sent the carriage away.

It is a great temptation to describe the meeting between Mrs Abbot and her daughter-in-law. The elder lady’s surprise and joy simply beggar description. Loving her son as she really did, the reversionary restoration was as much a satisfaction to her as if her own husband had been reinstated. The meeting between the two ladies was embarrassing for both to look forward to; but it went off to perfection. Mrs Abbot, all smiles and sweetness, embraced her daughter-in-law, and said: ‘My dear, I told you that under other circumstances we should be great friends. We shall be so now—shall we not?’ It was a graceful, if not an unworldly apology; and as Millicent returned her kiss and begged her to forget what had happened, Mrs Abbot hung round the girl’s neck a diamond cross, which, being her own personal property, had survived the wreck; and after this, a peace was established which as yet has not been broken.

Did Frank Abbot continue to work as hard at his profession as he had resolved to do? The events above recorded are of comparatively recent date. So I can say with truth that he is still a working member of the bar, and is supposed to be making a fair income. As Mr Keene had not the least intention of allowing his daughter to go empty-handed to a husband, however quixotic he might be, the young couple have always been far away from the poverty which one of them was continually harping upon. The last I heard about them is that Mr Keene, who, since his daughter’s marriage, has spent most of his time in London, told Frank roundly, that unless he would bring Millicent back to Chewton, throw his pride to the winds, and live at the Hall as his forefathers had lived—acting, if he liked, for conscience’ sake, as bailiff or manager of the estate—he, Mr Keene, would at once sell the place, and invest the proceeds in something more profitable than a large house in which he could not live alone, or acres about which he cared nothing.

Millicent, who thinks Frank looking pale and fagged, and is quite sure that London air does not suit the baby, seconds her father’s appeals with eloquent looks; and Frank, who has{318} formed an affectionate regard for Mr Keene, and who finds that, with such attractions at home, circuit-going is dreary work, certainly wavers in his determination; so it is more than likely that one day the bar will lose what might have been a distinguished ornament to it, and that Chewton Hall will once more have a proper master and mistress.


The following sketch of a certain gymnast’s professional origin and career may not be without interest to the reader, since it presents an entire departure from the usually recognised methods of training athletes—a departure which, though exceptional, is by no means unique. The performer who furnished me with the narration is one of the best flying trapezists of the day, and has invented several novel and clever specialities of a ‘lofty’ character, in which he takes part with his wife and a female apprentice. Taking the liberty of excising much collateral, not to say irrelevant, detail, with which the history was interspersed throughout, I will allow the gymnast to tell his own tale.

‘I was the best gymnast in the school when I was a boy. Horizontal bar, parallel bars, pole, ladder, rope, swinging-bar—anything that could be done on the rough bit of a gymnasium that we had in the playground, I could do. All the coppers I got—and they weren’t many, for my parents were hard-working people who had enough to do to make both ends meet—I used to save up until they made a sixpence. Cakes and apples never drew a halfpenny out of my pocket. Then I used to treat myself to a visit to whatever circus or theatre gave most tumbling for the money; and when I got back to school next day, I used to begin to practise all the new tricks I’d seen the night before. It’s a wonder I didn’t break my neck at it! As it was, I used to be black and blue and grazed all over sometimes—got caned for it too, now and then; but nothing stopped me. Born in me, I suppose. Anyhow, I always liked exercises on the bar a good deal better than exercises on a slate or copy-book, even if I got black marks for one and good marks for the other; for I wasn’t so bad at school-work as you might think, and could show you a writing prize now that I got over seventy other boys.

‘When I left school, I joined a gymnastic club, and soon took the lead there too. But then my father died, and mother fell ill. I had to put my shoulder to the wheel in earnest to get bread for myself and help her all I could, and I had enough to think of without gymnastics. I was a shop-boy, but through writing a good hand was promoted to keeping the books. In a short time I left that, and got a regular clerkship at a very fair salary. I seemed to be in luck’s way; but before I’d been in the berth a month, my master failed, and I found myself out of a situation.

‘They were rough times after that for a long while. Try as I would, I could get nothing; and at last I started off, and worked my passage over to America. There I got a job, something between a junior clerk and a porter, in a merchant’s office in New York.

‘One summer’s evening, I was passing the entrance to one of the minor entertainment gardens, when a flaming poster with a picture of some acrobats caught my eye. I hadn’t quite lost my old taste; so, as the price of admission wasn’t very high, I went in and saw the performance. Why, thinks I to myself, I used to be able to do better than that in the old playground at Hoxton! Why shouldn’t I turn a few dollars that way now? I liked the idea so much, that, going home to my lodgings, I bought a few yards of rope; and that very night, without ever going to bed, I fixed up a bit of apparatus among the beams of the attic where I slept, making the foot-rail of the bedstead do duty for a trapeze bar. I had lost a lot of the neatness; but all the old tricks came back one by one before morning; for I practised all that blessed night, and never slept a wink. Before the week was out, I had an engagement at that same garden; the salary wasn’t a big one, certainly, but it was three times what I was getting in the office. In less than a month I made my first appearance in fleshings and spangles.

‘For a little while I managed to keep on the office-work and this too; then it got to the chief clerk’s ears, and I was dismissed. “Of course you were,” says everybody, though I have never been able to see why exactly. However, it didn’t matter much, for just afterwards I was wanted for two turns a day instead of one, which more than made up the lost money.

‘Well, I had several engagements after this at small halls and gardens; for I wasn’t a big “draw” at that time, and could only do what a score of other gymnasts were doing in the city; but the style I worked in gave satisfaction; and I kept on improving on the old tricks and practising new ones, for my heart and soul was in the business. It wasn’t all smooth sailing, either; for sometimes I was out of an engagement for a good while, and began to think it would have been better to have stuck to the quill-driving. All the spare cash I had went home to the mother, and—flush or hard up—I still slept in the same attic, though I had put the bed-rail back in its place.

‘At last I joined a circus and came to England. I learnt fancy riding, and took a turn at clowning and the rope at times; but the low bar and single trapeze or rings was what I was wanted for most. You see, I had been nearly three years regularly at it by that time, and was beginning to make a mark. We started on a provincial tour, and pitched for a week at Norwich. I don’t notice the public much; but there was a girl there that came two or three nights’ running and sat close to the ring, that somehow struck my fancy. The last night but one, I caught myself looking round for her, as I sat on the bar before swinging off; and sure enough, there she was, just alongside the outer upright of my apparatus. Whether it was that that made me miss my tip or not, I can’t say, but that night I had a slip—nothing of any consequence; it marked my knee and shoulder next day; but I was able to finish my performance as if nothing had happened. In fact, the public would hardly have noticed it, but for the girl’s screeching out, “Oh, he’s killed!” and fainting. It made a bit of a fuss; but I liked her for it. Two days afterwards, when we were on the march at five{319} o’clock in the morning, there she stood at the door of her father’s cottage, an old farm-place just out of the town, to see us go by. That’s my wife, sir!

‘Eighteen she was, when she married me, and I was twenty-two. But she didn’t begin to train till a year later; and six months after that we got our first double engagement. It was her idea, not mine. She suggested it. I said it was impossible. She insisted; and it was done. I get as many pounds weekly now in some places as I did quarter-dollars at starting. I’ve got a snug little bit of money in the bank, and I’ve got a snug little place of my own out at Wood Green; and soon, maybe, we shall give up business, and go in for agency or catering. And it’s all through her idea and pluck. And am I going to risk her life for the want of a few yards of safety-netting and the trouble of setting it, to please a manager or the public either?

‘It was her idea, too, to take an apprentice for the same business, as she had got on so well herself. So we looked about, not for a young child, but for a grown girl; and at last we found one of sixteen years of age, small and half-starved, helping her mother at the wash-tub. I hope to train a good many more, but I shall always look out for one that’s been half-starved. The first thing we did was to feed her up—beefsteaks and porter, strong broth, essence of meat, and eggs beaten up in port wine. Now, all that would have turned to fat and done her no good, only I made her take exercise with it. I hung up a pair of rings about seven feet high in a doorway, and used to keep her drawing herself up and down by the arms all day long, on and off. We used to sit in the room to watch her and tell her when to leave off; and my wife would promise her a new tie or a hat or a pair of earrings as soon as she could pull up a certain number of times. For the first month, she used to complain of pains at the back of the shoulder-blades, but a little embrocation soon eased it. That’s all the work she did for three months, and by that time she had arms nearly as big as mine! Then we took her up on the bars with us. She’s been with us three years now, and won’t be out of her time for another two; and then I shall take her into the firm as a partner, or engage her at a good salary; for she’s as strong as a man, and yet light enough for my wife to catch. I have paid her mother five shillings a week ever since we have had her, and we have made her presents, besides feeding and clothing her. When she is perfect in the business we are practising now, I am going to give her a five-pound note.’

Mrs Gymnast was a graceful, slender woman of exquisite symmetry, some seven-and-twenty years old. Miss Apprentice, though nineteen, was no taller than many girls five years her junior, but had the limbs and muscles of a young giantess.


Sir William Fairbairn, in his well-known book Mills and Millwork, dismisses the subject of windmills in thirteen pages, and much of this scant notice is occupied with an antiquarian rather than an engineering inquiry into the history and birthplace of windmills; proving that even ere he wrote, the ‘Wind’ age had merged and lost itself in its all-powerful successor the ‘Steam’ age. The gist of the matter is thus summed up by Sir William: ‘It is more probable that we are indebted to the Dutch for our improved knowledge of windmills, and wind as a motive-power; and it is within my own recollection that the whole of the eastern coasts of England and Scotland were studded with windmills, and that for a considerable distance into the interior of the country. Half a century ago, nearly the whole of the grinding, stamping, sawing, and draining was done by wind in the flat counties; and no one could enter any of the towns in Northumberland, Lincolnshire, Yorkshire, or Norfolk but must have remarked the numerous windmills spreading their sails to catch the breeze. Such was the state of our windmills sixty years ago; and nearly the whole of our machinery depended on wind, or on water where the necessary fall could be secured. These sources of power have nearly been abandoned in this country, having been replaced by the all-pervading power of steam. This being the case, wind as a motive-power may be considered as a thing of the past, and a short notice will therefore suffice.’ Thus Sir William Fairbairn dismisses the subject.

The ‘English Windmill Epoch,’ as it may be termed, reached its zenith between the middle of the last century and the close of the first quarter of our own. During this period, Andrew Meikle, John Smeaton, and Sir William Cubitt lived and worked; and to this period belong all the experiments and literature concerning windmills which we possess; for since this period, the introduction of steam has resulted in an almost entire abandonment of wind-power, save in certain cases, to which we shall presently refer. The advantages undoubtedly possessed by wind over steam as a prime mover—economy in first cost, very low working expenses, and great simplicity in construction—are more than counterbalanced by the uncertainty experienced in its employment. Cases, however, there now are in which wind-power is employed, and with appreciable advantage, or it would, as elsewhere, have been superseded. From Guernsey, a large export trade is carried on in granite, from quarries situated in the northern and eastern parts of the island. These quarries, sunk in some places to great depths, are invariably drained by small four-armed windmills, erected on timber uprights, and actuating bucket-pumps. Driven by the constant sea and land breezes, these little mills, dotted about over the landscape, have small difficulty in draining the quarries of the accumulated rainfall, which, owing to the comparative absence of springs and streams, is the only source of flooding. Should a calm render the pumps idle, a few weeks’ accumulation of rain does not hinder the quarrymen; whilst a cessation of wind for even a week is a very rare occurrence.

Turning to the flat eastern counties of England, the visitor to Lowestoft, Yarmouth, or Lincoln will find windmills largely employed in the drainage of the fen districts. The main drain through the fields is carried between high banks, and is at a higher level than the fields themselves. The flood-water on the fields is raised into these drains by large scoop-wheels, actuated by windmills.{320} Here, however, steam begins to make its appearance, and an occasional tall chimney marks the presence of a small beam-engine, whose owner wishes to be independent of Boreas in draining the fields around. The advantages to be derived from a combination of wind and steam have frequently been urged, on the ground that a saving of fuel is effected by using wind-power when possible, steam-power being available in case of calm. This arrangement, though undoubtedly possessing the advantages claimed for it, involves a larger outlay of capital, together with augmented complication in construction, and has in consequence never met with much favour.

To those who delight to indulge in prophetic engineering speculation, the future of wind-power in connection with electricity will afford an ample field. The power developed during storms might be stored in an accumulator, to be used during calms; by this means eliminating the element of ‘uncertainty,’ the prime cause of the disfavour into which wind as a motive-power has fallen. In conclusion, though it is not unfrequently the custom to declaim against the neglect of wind as a prime motor, there are, as has been shown, many cases where it can be and is advantageously employed; and though it is undoubtedly certain that its more extended use would be accompanied by results of economic value, it is yet equally certain that a return to wind as a chief prime mover would be as retrogressive as a return to sailing-vessels, to the exclusion of our modern steam-driven craft.



Quaint ‘bits’ of old-fashioned furniture have for a long time past been much sought after, and pretty examples are now to be met with in almost every house of refinement and taste. One occasionally meets with old-fashioned things which from change of circumstances can no longer be used for their original purpose. The silver-handled steel knives and double-pronged or tined forks—which most members of the present generation have never even seen—were, when not in use, stored away in a specially made satin-wood or mahogany box, often beautifully decorated with inlaid marquetrie-work, and in the better examples the mountings were of chased silver. The interior of the box was apparently solid, with a separate slit for each knife and fork, which, handle uppermost, stood upright. Until recently, these beautiful specimens of the cabinet-work of a bygone age could be purchased for a very few shillings each. Some one has lately discovered that by removing the interior false top and adding divisions for paper and envelopes, these old knife-boxes can easily be transformed into choice and covetable stationery cabinets; and dealers are now buying them up, and when transformed, are asking almost as many pounds as they gave shillings. Another ingenious person—a lady well known in society—has discovered that the highly polished, old-fashioned double-handled plethoric copper or brass tea-urn wherewith our great-grandmothers delighted to adorn the table when their friends assembled to discuss a dish of tea, can easily be transformed into a noble table-lamp of striking proportions. The urn proper forms the body; and a paraffine lamp, with its ordinary glass receptacle for oil, is fitted into the space formerly occupied by the heater, which, with the lid, is of course discarded. The projecting spout is likewise banished, and a simple metal boss, with a corresponding one for uniformity on the other side, takes its place. To complete, an extra large shade is fitted over an octagon-shaped wire framework of ordinary construction.


A very clever and most ingeniously constructed tricycle has lately been brought forward by Messrs Ayrton and Perry, the great peculiarity of which consists in the fact that it is driven, not by the feet, but by electricity, thereby saving all labour. It is described as an open-fronted machine of the usual pattern, but with its ordinary driving-gear removed. The driving-wheel is forty-four inches in diameter, and close to it is a large spur-wheel containing two hundred and forty-two teeth. The motor is placed beneath the seat, and the armature spindle carries a spindle of twelve teeth, gearing into the spur-wheel, by which both motion and speed are regulated. The battery is composed of Faure, Sellon, Volknar cells, and is so placed as to act direct upon the spur-wheel, so that there is no loss of power. When fully charged, the battery is said to contain a store of electricity equal to what is understood as two horse-power. The engine is entirely under the control of the rider, and pace can be regulated to a nicety. Such a machine will be found invaluable to invalids, and persons who do not care for driving horses or travelling at a very high rate of speed; and, as neither fire nor water is required, there is no fear of explosion, smoke, or mess.


Indeed, they have not grieved me sore,
Your faithlessness and your deceit;
The truth is, I was troubled more
How I should make a good retreat:
Another way my heart now tends;
We can cry quits, and be good friends.
I found you far more lovable,
Because your fickleness I saw,
For I myself am changeable,
And like, you know, to like doth draw:
Thus neither needs to make amends;
We can cry quits, and be good friends.
While I was monarch of your heart,
My heart from you did never range;
But from my vassal did I part,
When you your lady-love did change:
No penalty the change attends;
We can cry quits, and be good friends.
Farewell! We’ll meet again some day,
And all our fortunes we’ll relate;
Of love let’s have no more to say,
’Tis clear we’re not each other’s fate.
Our game in pleasant fashion ends;
We can cry quits, and be good friends.
Catherine Grant Furley.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.

All Rights Reserved.


[1] This indicates that the barony mentioned is in abeyance, a term which will be explained afterwards.

[2] It may interest some readers to be reminded that the widow of this earl, Selina, was the founder of the religious body known as ‘Lady Huntingdon’s Connection.’

[3] It may be instructive to the non-legal reader to be told that the word ‘issue’ in law signifies lineal descendants ad infinitum, and therefore has a more extensive signification than ‘children.’ The two terms are often confounded; but while of course ‘issue’ will include children, it may include more than children.