No. 18.—Vol. I.
Price 1½d.
SATURDAY, MAY 3, 1884.
{273}
NORFOLK BROADS AND RIVERS.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
QUEER LODGERS.
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
EPISODES OF LITERARY MANUSCRIPTS.
ANIMAL MEMORIALS AND MEMENTOES.
SOME FOOD-NOTES.
SERENADE.
No. 18.—Vol. I.
Price 1½d.
SATURDAY, MAY 3, 1884.
To many, the wild solitudes of marsh and mere, the rivers and ‘broads’ of Norfolk, are almost as entirely unknown as the arid solitudes of the unexplored Australian deserts. Yet there are few spots where the holiday-seeker can find more easily and cheaply relaxation and enjoyment than in these vast reedy wildernesses of East Anglia. Mr G. Christopher Davies, in his interesting book, Norfolk Broads and Rivers (Blackwood and Sons), paints in a graphic manner the engrossing charm of these placid inland seas, with their reedy margins shimmering softly green in the gray morning mists, or flushing into warm tints of beauty beneath the smile of sunset. A stranger is apt to fancy that marsh scenery is uninteresting; but the very reverse is the case; it has a beauty of its own, which is seldom even monotonous, so incessant is the play of sunshine and shadow over the wide sedgy flats and shallows. The marsh vegetation is luxuriant, even tropical in some of the more sheltered nooks among the reeds; grasses are abundant, and so are flowers, which often grow in broad patches, and warm with vivid gleams of colour the low-toned landscape. In May and June, the banks are gay with the vivid gold of the yellow iris and marsh buttercup; then come the crimson glow of the ragged-robin, the delicate blue of the forget-me-not, the deep purple flush of the loosestrife, and the creamy white of the water-lilies, which spread till they almost cover the shallow bays with their broad glossy leaves and shining cups of white and gold.
The reedy capes and bays, the sedgy islets, with the green park lands and wooded glades beyond, give an irresistible charm to these broads, which is enhanced by the soft stillness of their utter solitude and loneliness. The passing clouds and rising wind give a certain motion and variety to the great marsh plain; but nothing speaks of the busy world beyond save the white sail of a solitary yacht, or the rich red-brown canvas of a gliding wherry; and not a sound falls on the listening ear except the monotonous measured plash of the oars or the wild scream of the startled waterfowl. These wide watery plains, interesting at all seasons, are often extremely beautiful at sunrise and sunset. Then gorgeous sky-tints of gold and crimson are flashed back from the wide mirror-like expanse of the still lagoons with a vivid glow of colouring which is almost painful in its intensity. The great forests of reeds gleam like bundles of spears tipped with lambent flame, and the patches of feathery grasses and flowers are lit up with weird glimmers of rose-red and gold, glorious but evanescent. Light gray mists float up from the marshy hollows, mellowing the sunset glow with an indistinct quivering haze, which, mirage-like, cheats the wondering gazer with visions of ships and islands and wooded knolls, which he will search for in vain on the morrow.
A ‘broad’ is a term peculiar to Norfolk; it means the broadening out of the rivers into lakes, which is very common all over the marsh district. These broads abound in fish, and afford capital sport to the angler. Bream and roach are abundant; and carp, although not so plentiful, are to be found, and grow to a large size. The rudd, or red-eye, a beautiful active fish, is very abundant; and few things are more enjoyable, when the weather is good and the fish rise easily, than a day’s rudd-fishing on the broads. The paying fish of these marsh meres are, however, the pike and eel; and a great number of fishermen live by eel-fishing. Eels are netted, speared, and caught in eel-pots; and after a flood, when eels are what is called ‘on the move,’ a single fisherman will often catch as many as four or five stone-weight in a night.
The pike is, however, Mr Davies says, ‘the monarch of the Norfolk waters, and at one time was supremely abundant; but the natives harried him to their utmost.’ The best way to enjoy pike-fishing and the scenery of the broads is to take an excursion for a few days in a small yacht, either alone or with a companion. Human habitations are few and far between on the banks{274} of the sluggish rivers; but every now and then one comes upon a cluster of picturesque old-world buildings, or an ancient primitive village, with small houses furnished with quaint dormer windows and fantastic gables, and here and there a gray old church, finely set down on a rising ground amid a clump of ancient spreading elms. Beyond the broad belt of reeds that fringe the water are green meadows, dotted with red-and-white cattle, whose effect from an artistic point of view is very good, but from an angler’s standpoint is sometimes rather trying, as there is generally a bull, and as often as not he is a vicious and combative specimen of the bovine tribe. On this red-letter day, however, even the inevitable bull was quiet, and our author was left undisturbed to thread his way, on a soft warm afternoon, through the glowing beauties of an October landscape. In the marshes, all the seasons have their peculiar glory; but the autumnal colouring stands out with a vivid distinctness unknown elsewhere. Beyond the screen of reeds, a belt of wood fringes the river-bank—beech, alder, and elm, each tree glowing with its own autumnal tint of red or yellow or russet brown.
Mr Davies, who had seldom the luck to go a-fishing when pike were on the move, had two special pools in view, on one or both of which he relied to fill his basket. Around the first of these the margin was very soft and wet, and he was daintily picking his steps from one tussock of grass to another, when whiz went a wild-duck from the sedges, and in a moment he was floundering up to the knees in mud. There were, however, pike in the pool when he reached it—great sluggish beauties, lazily lying under the gleaming, swaying leaves of the water-lilies. For once, he was in luck, to use his own words: ‘As our bait traversed the deep back-water, we felt the indescribable thrill, or rather shock, which proceeds from a decided run, and a three-pound pike fights as gamely as a ten-pounder.’ The small fish caught, he trudged on in the waning afternoon sunshine to the second pool; startling a kingfisher, which flashed out of the reeds behind him like a veritable gem of living colour. The second pool was closely fringed with trees and bushes, the dusk-red gold of whose leaves was mirrored in its placid depths; while every few minutes a crisp leaf-hail dropped in the level sunshine like Danaë’s fabled showers of gold. Pike, however, and not artistic effects, were for the moment in our author’s eye, and pike he was sure there were, lurking under the mass of leaves which covered the gleaming waters of the pool. ‘Seizing the exact moment when there was a clear track across the leaf-strewn water, we cast our bait, and worked it with every sense agog with expectation. Ah! there is a welcome check at last. We strike hard, and find that we are fast in a good-sized fish.’ Up and down, round and round, he goes, floundering wildly about, now in one direction, now in another. There is a pause of excited uncertainty, during which the line becomes heavily clogged with leaves. To have, or not to have, the scaly monarch of the silent pool? that is the question. It was ticklish work for a few minutes; but at last he turned suddenly on his side, and was towed into the shallow below, and landed in triumph.
Pike in these broads sometimes attain a great size, and have been taken weighing between thirty and forty pounds. The reeds, which with their bright green and purple fringes form such a prominent feature in the marsh scenery, are yearly cut and gathered, and are a really valuable crop. They are used for thatching, making fences, and supporting plaster-work. Whittlesea Mere, before it was drained, produced annually a thousand bundles of reeds, which were sold at one pound per bundle. The men forsake all their other avocations to join in the reed-harvest, which yields them while it lasts very good wages.
On some of the broads there is still to be seen an industry fast falling into decay—decoys with decoy ducks and dogs. These require to be worked with the utmost silence and caution. One winter-night in 1881 Mr Davies inspected in company with the keeper the decoy at Fritton Broad. The night was cold and dark, and each of the men had to carry a piece of smouldering turf in his hand to destroy the human scent, which would otherwise have alarmed the wary ducks. This made their eyes water; and the decoy-dog, a large red retriever, being in high spirits, insisted on tripping them up repeatedly, as they crawled along in the darkness bent almost double. The interest of the sight, however, when at length they reached the decoy, fully made up for these petty discomforts. Peeping through an eyehole, a flock of teal were to be seen paddling about quite close to them; while beyond these were several decoy-ducks, and beyond these again a large flock of mallards. The decoy-ducks are trained to come for food whenever they see the dog or hear a whistle from the decoy-man. The dog now showed himself obedient to a sign from his master, and in an instant every head among the teal was up, and every bright shy eye twinkling with pleased curiosity. Impelled by curiosity, they slowly swim towards the dog, which, slowly retiring, leads them towards the mouth of the decoy-pipe, showing himself at intervals till they were well within it. The keeper then ran silently to the mouth of the pipe, and waving his handkerchief, forced them, frightened and reluctant, to flutter forward into the tunnel. He then detached a hoop from the grooves, gave it a twist, and secured them by cutting off their return. This seemed the last act of the drama, and Mr Davies took the opportunity to straighten his back, which was aching dreadfully, ‘immediately there was a rush of wings, and the flock of mallards left the decoy. “There, now, you ha’ done it!” exclaimed the keeper excitedly. “All them mallards were following the dog into the pipe, and we could ha’ got a second lot.” We expressed our sorrow in becoming terms, and watched the very expeditious way in which he extracted the birds from the tunnel net, wrung their necks, and flung them into a heap.’ Few places now are suitable for decoys, for even life in the marshes is not so quiet as it used to be.
In all these broads and meres and the rivers which intersect them, bird-life abounds, and an almost incredible number of eggs are collected for the market, every egg which resembles a plover’s being collected and sold as such. Of the bird-dwellers in the marshes, herons are the most conspicuous; bitterns were also once common, but there are now few of them, and their singular{275} booming cry is but seldom heard. The great crested grebe is still plentiful; but the ruff, which was once very abundant, is now seldom seen. Of the smaller birds, the graceful bearded tit has become very rare; but willow-wrens and reed-buntings, jays, and cuckoos and king-fishers find their respective habitats.
There are swans to be found all over the broads, particularly on the river Yare; but they are not plentiful anywhere. A pair take possession of a particular portion of the river, and defend their proprietary rights in it with the utmost fierceness. They will not suffer the intrusion of any other swans, and will very often attack human beings, if they see any reasonable prospect of success. ‘A swan will not exactly attack a wherry or even a pleasure-boat; but a canoe comes within his capacity; and once while rowing down the river Yare in our small canvas jolly-boat, a cock-swan chased us for half a mile, and threatened every moment to drive his beak through the canvas.’
The appearance of the country around these broads has changed very much during the last half-century, and this change is still going on. Wherever it seems possible, drainage-works are attempted and carried out; and acres upon acres of valuable meadow-land have been and are in process of being reclaimed from the marsh. Some of these flat green meadows, which a century back were sodden quagmires covered with stagnant water, now pasture large herds of cattle, and are let at four pounds an acre for grazing purposes. At the outlet of the drains into the river, drainage windmills are erected of every size and shape, from the brick tower to the skeleton wooden erection painted a brilliant red or green. These windmills form a striking and picturesque addition to the background of a marsh picture, but, like the decoys, they will soon be a thing of the past, as they are now beginning to be superseded by steam, which does the work required much more efficiently and quickly.
Otters abound in the pathless forests of reeds which fringe the meres, and are often bold and familiar. One night while sleeping on board his yacht at Cantley, Mr Davies was awakened by the noise of something heavy jumping on board. The boat rocked violently, and the disturbance was so sudden and inexplicable, that he got up just in time to see a large dark object plunge overboard and disappear. On striking a light, the broad and unmistakable track of an otter, was visible, imprinted wherever his moist feet had been, and that seemed to be everywhere, for he had evidently made a round in search of something eatable.
The whole marsh district is subject to destructive floods and high tides, which rush up the rivers, driving back the fresh water and destroying vast quantities of fish. The whole coast also suffers much from sea-breaches. ‘Between Winterton and Waxham, hard by Hornsea Mere, the only barrier between sea and lake is a line of what are called “miel” banks, which are simply banks of sand held together by marum grasses. Upon this marum grass, which grows in the loosest sand, the welfare of a wide district depends. In 1781, there were many breaches of the sea between Waxham and Winterton, so that every tide the salt water and sands destroyed the marshes and the fish in the broads and river; and if the wind blew briskly from the north-west, by which the quantity of water in the North Sea was largely increased from the Atlantic, the salt water drowned all the low country even as far as Norwich.’ In the following eight years, the breaches were seriously widened, the largest being two hundred yards in width, through which a vast body of water poured.
In a country so open, wind-storms are very frequent; and what are called ‘Rodges blasts,’ rotatory whirlwinds, often occasion great damage, wrecking the windmills, uprooting trees, convulsing the grasses, and lifting the reed-stacks high into the air. Will-o’-the-wisps, once very common, are now comparatively rare, having been exorcised by drainage. Mr Davies only once saw one at Hickling over a wet bit of meadow. ‘The sportive fiend that haunts the mead’ appeared to him as a small flickering phosphorescent light faintly visible in the darkness.
Another peculiar and uncomfortable phenomenon of the marshes is the water-eynd or sea-smoke, which, rolling up from the ocean, covers the whole landscape with a dense watery vapour, shutting out the placid beauty of lagoon and mere, and reed-bed and coppice, and putting an end to all pleasure, till the sun shines out again in a blaze of glory, bathing the drenched flats in a warm flush of colour. The reeds on the wide margins of the meres then quiver in the sunlight, which shimmers down into their dark-green recesses; the still water gleams in the shallow bays, where the cattle stand knee deep; and the warm air is redolent of the odour of meadow-sweet and thyme: all is motion and colour and fragrance, as if Nature were visibly rejoicing at having got quit of the uncomfortable bath of the water-eynd.
BY CHARLES GIBBON.
Philip locked his desk, after placing Mr Shield’s letter in his pocket-book, locked his door, and hastened to the station in time to catch one of the afternoon fast trains to Dunthorpe. As he was in a hurry, he hired a fly to Ringsford. On the way down, he had made up his mind to get over what he anticipated would be a disagreeable interview with his father, before going to Willowmere. Then he would be able to tell Madge all about it, and receive comfort from her.
He alighted at the gate, and walked swiftly up the avenue. The sun was out of sight; but it had left behind a soft red glow, which warmed and brightened the blackened landscape. Peering through the dark lacework formed by the bare branches of the trees, he saw a figure standing as it were in the centre of that red glow: the shadows which surrounded Philip making the figure on the higher ground beyond appear to be a long way off. A melancholy figure: light all round him, darkness within himself.
Philip quickened his steps, and taking a footpath through the shrubbery, advanced to his father, as he was beginning to move slowly from the position in which he had halted.
‘Glad to see you, Philip,’ said Mr Hadleigh,{276} whilst he did what he had rarely done before—took his son’s arm. There was also a touch of unusual kindliness in his voice and manner. ‘I have missed you the last few evenings more than I fancied I should do. You have been enjoying yourself, no doubt—theatres, clubs, friends and cards perhaps. Well, enjoy these things whilst you may. You have the means and the opportunity. I never had; and it is singular how soon the capacity for enjoyment is extinguished. Like everything else—capacity or faculty—it requires exercise, if it is to be kept in good condition.’
Philip was relieved, but considerably puzzled by his father’s strange humour.
‘I have been enjoying myself; but not in the way you mention. I have been harder at work than I have ever been, except when preparing for the last exam.’
‘Ah, and you did not make so very much out of that hard work after all.’
‘Not so much as I ought to have done, certainly; but I hope to make more out of this effort,’ said Philip, with an attempt to pass lightly by the uncomfortable reminder that he had failed to take his degree. ‘Have you read the papers I sent you?’
‘Yes.’
Mr Hadleigh spoke as if reluctant to make the admission, and his brows contracted slightly, but his arm rested more kindly on that of his son, as if to make amends for this apparent want of sympathy. Philip was unconscious of these signs of varying moods.
‘I am glad of that—now you will be able to give me the benefit of your advice. Wrentham fancies I am running after a chimera, and will come to grief. He has not said that precisely; but what he has said, and his manner, convince me that that is his notion; and I am afraid that it will materially affect the value of his help to me. I should like you to tell me what you think.’
Mr Hadleigh was silent; and they walked on towards the sheltered grove, where, during his convalescence, Philip had spent so many pleasant hours with Madge. As they were passing through it, the father spoke:
‘I did not want to read those papers, Philip, but—weakness, perhaps—a little anxiety on your account, possibly, compelled me to look over them. I have nothing to say further than this—the experiment is worth making, when you have the means at command. I should have invested the money, and enjoyed myself on the interest. You see’ (there was a curious half-sad, half-mocking smile on his face), ‘I who have known so little pleasure in life, am a strong advocate for the pleasure of others.’
‘And that is very much the same theory which I am trying to work out.’
‘Yes; and I hope you will succeed, but—you are forgetting yourself.’
‘Not at all—my pleasure will be found in my success.’
‘Success,’ muttered Mr Hadleigh, speaking to himself; ‘that is our one cry—let me succeed in this, and I shall be happy!... We must all work it out for ourselves.’ Then, as if rousing from a dream: ‘I hope you will succeed, Philip; but I have no advice to give beyond this—take care of yourself.’
‘That is just what I am anxious for you and’—(he was about to say ‘and Mr Shield;’ but desirous of avoiding any unpleasant element, he quickly altered the phrase)—‘you and everybody to understand. My object is not to establish a new charity, but a business which will yield me a satisfactory income for my personal labour, and a sufficient interest on the capital invested, whilst it provides the same for my work-people, or, as I should prefer to call them, my fellow-labourers. As my returns increase, theirs should increase’——
‘Or diminish according to the result of your speculation?’ interrupted Mr Hadleigh drily.
‘Of course—that is taken for granted. Now, I want you to tell me, do you think this is folly?’
‘No, not folly,’ was the slow meditative reply, ‘if you find pleasure in doing it. My theory is doubtless a selfish one, but it is the simplest rule to walk by—that is, do what is best for yourself in the meantime, and in the end, the chances are that you will find you have also done the best for others. If you believe that this experiment is the most satisfactory thing you can do for yourself, then, it is not folly, even if it should fail.’
‘Thank you. I cannot tell you how much you relieve my mind. I am convinced that in making this experiment I am dealing with a problem of great importance. It is a system by which capital and labour shall have an equal interest in working earnestly for the same end. I want to set about it on business principles. You are the only man of practical experience who has spoken a word of comfort on the subject.’
‘I am dealing with it from a selfish point of view—considering only how you can obtain most pleasure, comfort, happiness—call it what you may—for yourself out of your fortune. I should never have entered on such a scheme. You tell me that it was optional on your part to go into business or to live on the interest of the money?’
‘Quite optional; but of course I could not accept the trust and do nothing.’
‘Ah, I think my advice would have been that you should have accepted the trust, as you call it, invested it in safe securities, married, and basked in the sunshine of life—an easy mind, and a substantial balance at your banker’s.’
‘But my mind would not have been easy if I had done that.’
‘Then you were right not to do it. Every man has his own way of seeking happiness. You have yours; and I shall watch the progress of your work with attentive interest.—But we have other matters to speak about. I have done something of which I hope you will approve.’
Philip could not help smiling at this intimation. Mr Hadleigh had never before suggested that he desired or required the approval of any one in whatever he chose to do.
‘You can be sure of what my opinion will be of anything you do, sir.’
‘Perhaps.’
They walked on in silence, and passed Culver’s cottage. They met Pansy coming from the well with a pail of water. She put down the pail, and courtesied to the master and his son. She was on Philip’s side of the path, and he whispered in passing:
{277}
‘There is good news for you by-and-by, Pansy.’
She smiled vaguely, and blushed—she blushed at everything, this little wood-nymph.
‘What is the good news you have for the girl?’ asked Mr Hadleigh sharply, although he had not appeared to be observing anything.
‘I suppose there can be no harm in telling you, although it is a kind of a secret.’
‘What is it?’
‘Caleb Kersey is making up to Pansy; but old Sam does not like it, as the young man is so unsettled. The good news I have for her is that Kersey has joined me, and will have good wages and good prospects.’
‘You might have told her at once.’
‘I thought it better that the man himself should do that.... But you had something to say about yourself.’
‘It concerns you more than me,’ said Mr Hadleigh, resuming his low meditative tone. ‘I have been altering my will.’
There are few generous-minded men who like to hear anything about even a friend’s will, and much less about that of a parent who in all probability has a good many years still to live. Philip was extremely sensitive on the subject, and therefore found it difficult to say anything at all when his father paused.
‘I would rather you did not speak about it,’ he said awkwardly. ‘There is and there can be no necessity to do so. You have many years before you yet, and in any case I shall be content with whatever arrangement you make.’
‘Many years before me still,’ continued Mr Hadleigh musingly, repeating his son’s words. ‘True; I believe I have; it is possible even that I might marry again, and begin a new life altogether with prospects of happiness, since it would be guided by the experience of the past. Most people have a longing at some time or other that they might begin all over again; and why should not a man of, say middle age, take a fresh start, and realise in the new life the happiness he has missed—by his own folly or that of others—in the old one?’
Philip did not understand, and so remained silent.
Was there ever a grown-up son or daughter who felt quite pleased with the idea of a parent’s second marriage? When the marriage cannot be prevented, the sensible ones assume a graciousness, if they do not feel it, and go on their way with varying degrees of comfort in being on friendly terms with their parent; the foolish ones sulk, suffer, cause annoyance, and derive no benefit from their ill-humour. Philip was surprised and a little amused at the suggestion of his father marrying again. The idea had never occurred to him before; and now, when it was presented, the memory of his mother stirred in him what he owned at once was an unreasonable feeling of disapproval. To his youthful mind, a man nearly fifty was old; he had not yet reached the period at which the number of years required to make a man old begins to extend up to, and even beyond the threescore and ten. When he came to think of it, however, he could recollect numerous instances of men much older than his father marrying for the second, third, or fourth time.
‘Yes, it is possible to make a fresh start,’ Mr Hadleigh went on, still musing; ‘and one may learn to forget the past. Did you ever consider, Philip, what a tyrant memory is?’
‘I cannot say that I have, sir.’
‘No; you are too young—by-and-by you will understand.... But this is not what I wanted to speak about.’
He rested a little more on his son’s arm, as if he were in that way desirous of giving him a kindly pressure, whilst he recalled his thoughts to the immediate subject he wished to explain.
‘It is about the will. I have made a new one. I suppose you are aware that although my fortune is considerable whilst it remains in the hands of one person, it dwindles down to a moderate portion when divided amongst four or five?’
‘Clearly.’
‘Then suppose you and I reverse our positions for a time. You have five children, three of them being girls. You wish to leave each of them as well provided for as possible. One of the sons becomes by peculiar circumstances the possessor of a fortune almost equal to your own. Tell me how you would divide your property?’
Philip reflected for a few moments, and then with a bright look, which showed that he had taken in the whole problem, replied:
‘The thing is quite simple. I should leave the son who had been so lucky only a trifle of some sort, in token of good-will; and I should divide the whole of the property amongst the other four. That would be the right thing to do; would it not?’
The father halted, grasped his hand, and looked at him with a smile. This was such an unusual sign of emotion, that Philip was for an instant taken aback.
‘That is almost precisely what I have done,’ said Mr Hadleigh calmly; ‘and your answer is what I expected. Still, it pleases me to learn from your own lips that you are satisfied.’
‘Not only satisfied, but delighted that you should have had so much confidence in me as to know I should be.’
‘A few words more and I shall release you.—Oh, I know that you are eager to be off, and where you wish to be off to. Right, right—seek the sweets of life, the bitters come.... You are separating yourself from me. That is natural, and follows as a matter of course. I would have liked it better if the circumstances had been different. Enough of that. Your rooms at the house will be always ready for you, and come when you may, you will be welcome to me. Now, go: be happy.’
He pointed towards the Forest in the direction of Willowmere. He looked older than usual: in his movement and attitude there was an unconscious solemnity, as if he were giving his favourite son a blessing while sending him forth into the world.
Philip bowed. He saw that his father was strangely agitated, and so turned away without speaking.
What was in the man’s mind, as he watched the stalwart figure rapidly disappear into the shadows of the Forest? Hitherto, he had been walking and standing erect, although his head was bent a little, as usual. Now his whole form appeared to collapse, as if its strength had been suddenly withdrawn, and he dwindled, as it were, in height and breadth.
{278}
The shadows deepened upon him as he stood there; stars began to appear; a branch of an elm-tree close by began to creak monotonously—betokening the gathering strength of the wind, although at present it seemed light; and still he remained in that dejected attitude, gazing vacantly in the direction taken by Philip, long after Philip had disappeared.
He roused from his trance, looked round him, then clasping hands at his back, walked dreamily after his son.
Scientific research, especially when directed to the more obscure and remote conditions of animal life, has often a twofold interest. In itself, and in the marvellous structural adaptations revealed by the microscope, the pursuit has its own special attraction; while, in addition, the information thus obtained may be so practically utilised as to minister to the preservation of health, and to the improved rearing and cultivation of animals and plants. An inquiry, conducted three years ago, by Professor A. P. Thomas, at the instance of the Royal Agricultural Society of England, is noticeable in both these respects. The inquiry extended over a period of more than two years, and the object in view throughout was the discovery of the origin and possible prevention of a well-known and destructive disease affecting sheep and other grazing animals, both in this country and abroad; and during the course of the inquiry, which was a painstaking and exhaustive one, facts of no small interest, from the view-point of natural history alone, have been elicited.
By this disease—Liver-fluke, Fluke Disease, Liver-rot, as it is variously termed—it has been estimated that as many as one million sheep perished annually, in this country alone, from the effects of the malady—a loss which was doubled, if not sometimes trebled, by the advent of a wet season such as 1879, and which does not include the large percentage of animals annually dying in America, Australia, and elsewhere from the same cause. It was known that the disease was due to the presence of a parasitic flat worm in greater or lesser numbers, together with its eggs, in the entrails of infected sheep, and also that flocks grazing habitually in low and marshy pasture-grounds were generally more liable than others to be attacked; but it was not known precisely in what manner the disease was incurred.
It was not until 1882 that careful experiment finally succeeded in tracing throughout the wonderful life-career of the liver-fluke, and shedding light upon the possibility of the prevention of the scourge. Into this latter question of prevention, we do not enter at present. Those who are interested, practically or otherwise, in this branch of the subject may consult for full particulars the scientific journals in which the results of this inquiry first appeared. (See Journal of Royal Agricultural Society, No. 28; also Quarterly Journal of Microscopical Science for January 1883. For the history of the disease, see The Rot in Sheep, by Professor Simonds; London: John Murray, 1880.) Even from a dietetic point of view, it is for the public good that the disease should be extirpated, as it is well known that unwholesome dropsical meat, from the bodies of fluke-infested sheep, is frequently pushed on the market. Nor is this parasite exclusively confined to the lower animals. It has been communicated to human beings, doubtless from the consumption of infected meat producing cysts in the liver, &c.
But it is the initial results of Professor Thomas’s experiments, those which trace the progress of the fluke from the embryo to the adult stage, with which we have to do at present.
Starting from the previously observed but obscure relationship said to exist between the larval forms of certain snails or slugs and the liver-fluke, as found in the carcases of sheep and other infected back-boned animals, it was discovered, after much careful examination, that a certain connection did exist between them, with this remarkable circumstance in addition—that the minute cysts, or bags, which contain the embryo fluke, and which are to be found adhering to grass stalks in some sheep-pastures, emanated, indeed, from the body of one particular description of snail, but that this embryo parasite was undoubtedly derived—several generations previously, and in quite another form—from the sheep itself!
The original embryo—not that which clings to grass stalks, but the embryo three or four generations before, born of the adult fluke’s egg—is hatched after the egg drops from the sheep’s body, in marshy ground, ditches, or ponds. It then attaches itself to the snail, produces in the snail’s body two, and sometimes three generations of successors, all totally dissimilar from the original fluke. The last generation alone quits the snail, and, assuming the ‘cyst’ form, waits to be swallowed by the grazing animal, in order to become a full-grown fluke. The fluke’s progeny again go through the transformation changes of their predecessors.
Once more, in order to render the process clear. Taking the adult fluke—laying its eggs principally in the bile-ducts of the sheep, which it never leaves—as the original parent, its children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, inhabiting the snail, are all totally different in appearance from their original progenitor—most of the generations differing also from each other. It is only the fourth, though sometimes the third generation, which, changing its form to a migratory one, is enabled thereby to leave the snail, and ultimately to assume the cyst form, adapted to produce in time the veritable fluke once more. Naturalists term this process, one not unknown in other forms of life, ‘alternation of generation,’ or metagenesis.
The appearance of the full-grown fluke (Fasciola hepatica) is well known to sheep-farmers and others. It is of an oval or leaf-like shape, not unlike a small flounder or fluke (hence the name of the worm), pale brown in colour, and ranging in size from an inch to an inch and a third in length—though occasionally much smaller, even the twenty-fourth of an inch—and in breadth about half its own length. A projecting portion is seen at the head, with a mouth placed in the centre of a small sucker at the tip, by which the fluke attaches itself. Over two hundred flukes have been found in the liver of a single sheep. Each one is estimated to produce some hundreds of thousands of eggs. Each{279} of the eggs contains one embryo, which when full grown is nearly the length of the egg—the spare egg-space up to that time being filled with the food-stuff to support it till hatched. As long as the egg continues in the body of the sheep, it remains inert. It is only when dropped—as they are from time to time in great numbers by the animal—and alighting upon wet ground, or on water in ditches or drains, that, under favourable conditions of heat, &c., the embryo at length comes forth. The time which elapses before the egg is hatched is extremely variable.
Viewed through a microscope, the egg, which is only the two-hundredth of an inch in diameter, may be seen to contain the embryo, which is unlike its parent in every way, and will never show any trace of family likeness to it. It is in the shape of a sugar-loaf, with a slight projecting point at the broader end, and two rudimentary eyes near the same. When hatched on damp ground or in water, it swims freely about with the broader end forward, like a boat propelled stern foremost. The whole of its body, except the projecting horn, which is drawn in when swimming, is covered with long waving hairs, or cilia, which, being moved backwards and forwards, serve as oars, or paddles, to propel it through the water.
Swimming with a restless revolving motion through the water, the embryo begins to search for suitable quarters—in other words, to find a snail wherein to quarter itself. It is not easily satisfied, although snails, generally speaking, are plentiful enough. Indeed, it has been definitely ascertained that of all the known descriptions of snails there are only two which the embryo ever attacks. Of these two species, only one is apparently suitable as a dwelling, those who enter the other perishing shortly after admittance. The only suitable snail is a very insignificant fresh-water one, Limnæus truncatulus, with a brown spiral shell. It is only from a quarter to a half inch in size, and seems to have no popular name. It is to be found very widely distributed through the world. Said to breed in mud of ditches and drains, it is so far amphibious as to wander far from water. It can also remain dry for a lengthened period; and even when apparently quite shrivelled up for lack of moisture, revives with a shower of rain.
The embryo knows this snail from all others; placed in a basin of water, with many other species of snails, it at once singles this one out, to serve as an intermediate host. Into the soft portion of the snail’s body, the embryo accordingly begins to make its way. Pressing the boring horn or tool of its head against the yielding flesh of the snail, the embryo advances with a rotary motion like a screw-driver, aided by the constant movement of the cilia. The borer, as it pierces the snail, grows longer and longer, and finally operating as a wedge, a rent is eventually made sufficiently large to admit the unbidden guest bodily to the lodgings it will never quit. It settles at once in or near the lung of the snail, there to feed on the juices of the animal. The paddle-like cilia, now useless, are thrown off; the eyes become indistinct; it subsides into a mere bag of germs, as it changes to a rounder form, and becomes in other words a sporocyst, or bladder of germs—for this animal, unlike its egg-laying parent, produces its young alive within itself.
This, then, is the first stage—the embryo, from the fluke’s egg, migrates to, and becomes a sporocyst in the snail’s body.
The germs inside the sporocyst in time come to maturity, commencing the existence of the second generation, which are called rediæ. These germs number from six to ten in each sporocyst; they grow daily more elongated in form, and one by one, leave the parent by breaking through the body-walls, the rent which is thus made closing up behind them. These rediæ thus born, never leave the snail. They are, however, different from the sporocyst, being about the twentieth of an inch, in adult size, sack-like in shape, furnished with a mouth, and also with an intestine. Two protuberances behind serve the animal for legs; for, unlike the sporocyst, the redia does not remain in one part of its house, but travels backwards and forwards, preying chiefly on the liver of the snail, and generally doing a great deal of damage. Finally, indeed, these parasites destroy their host altogether.
In the bodies of the rediæ—so called after Redi, the anatomist—the third generation again is formed in germ fashion. The nature of this third generation varies. Rediæ may in turn produce rediæ like themselves, tenants of the snail for life; or they may produce another form, totally dissimilar, one which is fitted for quitting the snail and entering on another mode of existence. This change, however, takes place either in the first generation produced by the rediæ, or, at latest, in the second, more frequently in the latter. At first, this new form appears like the young of the sporocyst. But when either in the children or the grandchildren of the first rediæ, this stage is reached, the animal undergoes a remarkable change, to fit it for new surroundings. It is to be an emigrant, and dons for that purpose a tail twice as long as itself. It is then termed a cercaria, and is shaped like a tadpole.
To recapitulate, then. A cercaria may thus be the young of the rediæ, either of the first or second generation; and the rediæ again sprang from the sporocyst, which is the after-formation of the fluke’s embryo. These cercariæ or tadpole-shaped animals are flat and oval in the body, about the ninetieth of an inch in length, and tail more than twice as long. They escape from the parent rediæ by a natural orifice, crawl out of the snail, and enter on a new life. Its existence as a cercaria in this style will much depend on the locality of the snail for the time being. If it should find itself in water when quitting the snail, the cercaria attaches itself when swimming to the stalks of aquatic plants; or if in confinement, to the walls of the aquarium. If the snail is in a field or on the edge of a ditch or pool, the cercaria on leaving proceeds to fix itself to the stalks or lower leaves of grass near the roots. In every case the result is the same. Gathering itself up into a round ball on coming to rest, a gummy substance exudes from the body, forming a round white envelope; the tail, being violently agitated, falls off, and the round body left, hardening externally with exposure, the cyst or bladder—measuring about the hundredth of an inch across—is complete. Every{280} cyst contains a young fluke, ready to be matured only when swallowed by some grazing animal, such as a sheep. Till that happens, the fluke within remains inert; and if not swallowed thus within a few weeks, the inmate of the cyst finally perishes. Of this remarkable family, however, a sufficient number outlive the changes and risks of their life-history to render the disease caused by the survivors a serious scourge.
It is to be hoped that the further results of careful inquiry into the habits of these parasites will have the effect of reducing the evil to a minimum.
BY HUGH CONWAY.
The Abbots of Chewton-Abbot, Gloucestershire, were county people, and, moreover, had always occupied that coveted position. They dreaded not the researches of the officious antiquary who pokes about in pedigrees, and finds that, three or four generations ago, the founders of certain families acquired their wealth by trade. They at least were independent of money-earning. The fact that Chewton began to be known as Chewton-Abbot so far back as the fifteenth century, showed they were no upstarts. Indeed, if not of the very first rank—that rank from which knights of the shire are chosen—the Abbots, from the antiquity of their family, and from the centuries that family had owned the same estates, were entitled to dispute the question of precedence with all save a few very great magnates. They were undoubtedly people of importance. The reigning Abbot, it need scarcely be said, was always a county magistrate, and at some period of his life certain to serve as sheriff. But for generations the family had occupied exactly the same position, and exercised exactly the same amount of influence in the land. The Abbots seemed neither to rise nor fall. If they added nothing to their estates, they alienated nothing. If they gave no great statesmen, warriors, or geniuses to the world, they produced, sparingly, highly respectable members of society, who lived upon the family acres and spent their revenues in a becoming manner.
The estates were unentailed; but as, so far, no Abbot had incurred his father’s displeasure, the line of descent from father to eldest son had been unbroken, and appeared likely to continue so. True, it was whispered, years ago, that the custom was nearly changed, when Mr William Abbot, the present owner of the estate, was leading a life in London very different from the respectable traditions of the family. But the reports were not authenticated; and as, soon after his father’s death, he married a member of an equally old, equally respectable, and equally proud family, all such ill-natured gossip died a natural death; and at the time this tale opens, William Abbot was leading the same quiet life his ancestors had led before him.
It was one of the cherished Abbot traditions that the family was not prolific. So long as the race was kept from disappearing, they were contented. In this respect the present head of the family showed himself a true Abbot. He had but one son, a young man who had just taken a fair degree at Oxford, and who was now staying at Chewton Hall, before departing on a round of polite travel, which, according to old-world precedent, his parents considered necessary to crown the educational edifice.
Mr and Mrs Abbot were in the breakfast-room at Chewton Hall. Mr Abbot was alone at the table, lazily discussing his breakfast. His wife and son, who were early risers, had taken that meal nearly an hour before. The young man being away on some outdoor pursuit, the husband and wife had the room to themselves. Mr Abbot had just poured out his second cup of tea, and, according to his usual custom, commenced breaking the seals of the letters which lay beside his plate. His wife drew near to him.
‘I am afraid that infatuated boy has in some way entangled himself with the young woman I told you of,’ she said.
‘What young woman?’ asked Mr Abbot, laying down his letters.
‘I told you last week he was always riding into Bristol—so often, that I felt sure there was some attraction there.’
‘You did, I remember. But I took little notice of it. Boys will be boys, you know.’
‘Yes; but it is time we interfered. I found him this morning kissing a photograph and holding a lock of hair in his hand. I taxed him with his folly.’
‘My dear Helena,’ said Mr Abbot, with a shade of contempt in his voice, ‘will you forgive my saying, that in matters of this kind it is best to leave young men alone, and not to see more than can be helped. Leave the boy alone—that is my advice.’
‘You don’t quite understand me,’ replied Mrs Abbot. ‘He wants to marry her.’
‘Wants to do what!’ cried her husband, now fully aware of the gravity of the situation.
‘He told me this morning he had asked her to be his wife. She would, he knew, consent, if we would welcome her as a daughter.’
‘How kind! How considerate!’ said Mr Abbot scornfully. ‘Who may she be, and where did Frank meet her?’
‘He saved her from some incivility at the railway station, and so made her acquaintance. Who she is, he scarcely seems to know, except that her name is Millicent Keene, and that she lives with an aunt somewhere in Clifton. Frank gave me the address, and begged me to call—assuring me that I should take her to my heart the moment I saw her.’
‘He must be mad!’ exclaimed Mr Abbot, rising and pacing the room. ‘Mad, utterly mad! Does he think that we are going to let him—an Abbot—marry the first nameless young woman who strikes his fancy? I will talk to him, and soon bring him to his senses. The estates are unentailed, thank goodness! so I have some hold over him.’
Mrs Abbot’s lip just curled with scorn, as she heard her husband’s direct commonplace plan for restoring her son’s wandering senses. She knew that such parental thunderbolts were apt to do more harm than good.
‘I would not threaten just yet,’ she said. ‘Frank is very self-willed, and may give us{281} trouble. For my part, I intend to drive into Clifton this morning and see the girl.’
‘What folly! To give the affair your apparent sanction?’
‘No. To show her how absurd it is to fancy we shall ever allow Frank to take a wife out of his proper sphere; and to hint that if he marries against our will, her husband will be a beggar. The fact of her withholding her consent to marry him until we approve of her, shows me she is quite able to look after her own interests.’
Mr Abbot, who knew his wife’s skill in social diplomacy, offered no valid objections; so the horses were ordered, and Mrs Abbot drove to Clifton.
The mistress of Chewton Hall was a woman of about fifty-five; tall and stately, noticeably but not attractively handsome. Rising in intellect far above the level of the family into which she had married, she had started by endeavouring to mould her husband’s mind to the capacities of her own. In the early days of their married life, she had urged him unceasingly to strive for a higher position in the world than that of a mere country gentleman. She wished him to enter the political arena; to contest a borough; in fact, to change his way of living entirely. But she found the task a hopeless one. A docile husband in most things, nothing could move William Abbot from the easy groove in which his forefathers had always placidly slidden. The husband and wife were of very different natures. Perhaps the only common ground between them was their family pride and the sense of their importance. Yet while the gentleman was quite contented with the latter as it now stood, and always had stood, the lady was ambitious, and wished to augment it. But her efforts were of no avail; so at last, with a feeling touching dangerously near to contempt, she gave up attempting to sway her husband in this direction, and centred all her hopes in her only son, on whom she flattered herself she had bestowed some of her superior intellect. He should play an important part in the world. At the first opportunity, he should enter parliament, become a distinguished member of society, and, so far as possible, satisfy her ambition. Of course he must marry, but his marriage should be one to strengthen his hands both by wealth and connections. Now that he was on the threshold of man’s estate, she had turned her serious attention to this subject, and had for some time been considering what heiresses she knew who were worthy of picking up the handkerchief which she meant to let fall on his behalf. She had postponed her decision until his return from the contemplated tour. Then she would broach the subject of an advantageous matrimonial alliance to him. By broaching the subject, Mrs Abbot meant laying her commands upon her son to wed the lady she had chosen for him.
As she drove along the twelve miles of road to Clifton, and reflected on all these things, is it any wonder that her frame of mind was an unpleasant one; that her eyes grew hard, and she felt little disposed to be merciful to the owner of that pretty face which threatened to come between her and the cherished schemes of years?
The carriage stopped at the address given her by her son—a quiet little house in a quiet little street, where the arrival of so grand an equipage and so fine a pair of horses was an event of sufficient rarity to make many windows open, and maid-servants, even mistresses, crane out and wonder what it meant. Mrs Abbot, having ascertained that Miss Keene was at home, and having made known her wish to see her, was shown into a room plainly but not untastefully furnished. A piano, an unfinished drawing, some dainty embroidery, gave evidence of more refinement than Mrs Abbot expected, or, to tell the truth, hoped to find in her enemy’s surroundings. A bunch of flowers, artistically arranged, was in a glass vase on the table; and the visitor felt more angry and bitter than before, as she recognised many a choice orchid, and knew by this token that the Chewton hothouses had been robbed for Miss Keene’s sake. Mrs Abbot tapped her foot impatiently as she awaited the moment when her youthful enemy should appear and be satisfactorily crushed.
The mistress of Chewton-Abbot had somehow conceived the idea that the girl who had won her son’s heart was of a dollish style of beauty. She may have jumped at this conclusion from the memories of her own young days, when she found the heart of man was more susceptible to attractions of this type than to those of her own severer charms. Pretty enough, after a fashion, she expected to find the girl, but quite crushable and pliant between her clever and experienced hands. She had no reason for this impression. She had coldly declined to look at the portrait which her son, that morning, had wished to show her. Having formed her own ideal of her would-be successor at Chewton Hall, she regulated her actions accordingly. Her plan was to begin by striking terror into the foe. She wished no deception; the amenities of social warfare might be dispensed with on this occasion. Knowing the advantage usually gained by a sudden and unexpected attack, she had not revealed her name. She simply desired the servant to announce a lady to see Miss Keene.
Hearing a light step approaching the door, Mrs Abbot drew herself up to her full height and assumed the most majestic attitude she could. It was as one may imagine a fine three-decker of the old days turning her broadside, with sixty guns run out and ready for action, upon some puny foe, to show her that at a word she might be blown out of the water. Or it was what is called nowadays a demonstration in force.
The door opened, and Millicent Keene entered. Mrs Abbot bowed slightly; then, without speaking a word, in a deliberate manner looked the newcomer up and down. She did not for a moment attempt to conceal the object of her visit. Her offensive scrutiny was an open declaration of war, and the girl was welcome to construe it as such.
But what did the great lady see as she cast that hostile, but, in spite of herself, half-curious glance on the girl who came forward to greet her unexpected visitor? She saw a beautiful girl of about nineteen; tall, and, making allowances for age, stately as herself. She saw a figure as near perfection as a young girl’s may be. She saw a sweet calm face, with regular features and pale pure complexion, yet with enough colour to speak of perfect health. She saw a pair of dark-brown{282} truthful eyes—eyes made darker by the long lashes—a mass of brown hair dressed exactly as it should be. She saw, in fact, the exact opposite to the picture she had drawn: and as Millicent Keene, with graceful carriage and a firm but light step, advanced towards her, Mrs Abbot’s heart sank. She had entirely miscalculated the strength of the enemy, and she felt that it would be no easy matter to tear a woman such as this from a young man’s heart.
The girl bore Mrs Abbot’s offensive glance bravely. She returned her bow, and without embarrassment, begged her to be seated. Then she waited for her visitor to explain the object of her call.
‘You do not know who I am, I suppose?’ said Mrs Abbot after a pause.
‘I have the pleasure of knowing Mrs Abbot by sight,’ replied Millicent in a perfectly calm voice.
‘Then you know why I have called upon you?’
The girl made no reply.
Mrs Abbot continued, with unmistakable scorn in her voice: ‘I have called to see the young lady whom my son tells me he is resolved, against his parents’ wish, to make his wife.’
‘I am sorry, Mrs Abbot, you should have thought it needful to call and tell me this.’
‘How could you expect otherwise? Frank Abbot bears one of the oldest names, and is heir to one of the best estates in the county. When he marries, he must marry a wife in his own position. What has Miss Keene to offer in exchange for what he can bestow?’
The girl’s pale face flushed; but her brave brown eyes met those of her interrogator without flinching. ‘If I thought you would understand me, Mrs Abbot, I should say that I have a woman’s true love to give him, and that is enough. He sought me, and won that love. He asked for it, and I gave it. I can say no more.’
‘In these days,’ said Mrs Abbot contemptuously, ‘persons in our station require more than love—that, a young man like Frank can always have for the asking.—Of what family are you, Miss Keene?’
‘Of none. My father was a tradesman. He was unfortunate in his business, and has been many years abroad trying to redeem his fortunes. With the exception of an education which, I fear, has cost my poor father many privations, I have nothing to boast of. I live with an aunt, who has a small income of her own.—Now you know my history.’
Mrs Abbot had soon seen that crushing tactics failed to meet the exigencies of the case. She put on an appearance of frankness. ‘You are candid with me, Miss Keene, and it appears to me you have plenty of common-sense. I put it to you; do you think that Mr Abbot or myself can lend our sanction to this ill-advised affair?’
The girl’s lip curled in a manner which was particularly galling to Mrs Abbot. A tradesman’s daughter, whose proper place was behind a counter, had no right to be able to assume such an expression! ‘That was for Frank, not for me, to consider, Mrs Abbot.’
‘But surely you will not marry him against our wishes?’
The girl was silent for a minute. An answer to such a question required consideration. ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘We are both too young. But if, in after-years, Frank Abbot wishes me to be his wife, I will share his lot, let it be high or low.’ She spoke proudly and decisively, as one who felt that her love was well worth having, and would make up for much that a man might be called on to resign in order to enjoy it.
It was this independence, the value the tradesman’s daughter set upon herself, that annoyed Mrs Abbot, and led her into the mistake of firing her last and, as she hoped, fatal shot. ‘You are not perhaps aware,’ she said, ‘that the estate is unentailed?’
Millicent, who did not at once catch the drift of her words, looked inquiringly.
‘I mean,’ explained Mrs Abbot, ‘that my husband may leave it to whom he likes—that if you marry my son, you will marry a beggar.’
The girl rose. With all her practice, Mrs Abbot herself could not have spoken or looked more scornfully. ‘How little you know me, madam, to insult me like that! Have you so poor an opinion of your son as to fancy I cannot love him for himself? Did you marry Mr Abbot for his wealth?’—Mrs Abbot winced mentally at the question.—‘Do you think I wish to marry Francis Abbot only for the position I shall gain? You are wrong—utterly wrong!’
‘Then,’ said Mrs Abbot with the bitterness of defeat, ‘I suppose you will persist in this foolish engagement, and the only chance I have is an appeal to my son?’
‘I have promised to be his wife. He alone shall release me from that promise. But it may be long before he can claim it, and so your anxiety may rest for some time, Mrs Abbot. I have this morning received a letter from my father. He wishes me to join him in Australia. Next month, I shall sail, and it will probably be three or four years before I return. Then, if Frank wishes me to be his wife—if he says to me: “I will risk loss of lands and love of parents for your sake,” I will bid him take me, and carve out a way in the world for himself.’
A weight was lifted from Mrs Abbot’s mind. She caught the situation at once. Three or four years’ separation! What might not happen! Although she strove to speak calmly as a great lady should, she could not keep a certain eagerness out of her voice. ‘But will you not correspond during that time?’
This was another important question. Again Millicent paused, and considered her answer. ‘I will neither write nor be written to. If, eventually, I marry your son—if his love can stand the test of absence and silence—at least you shall not say I did not give him every opportunity of terminating our engagement.’
Mrs Abbot rose and assumed a pleasant manner—so pleasant that, considering the respective positions of herself and Miss Keene, it should have been irresistible. ‘I am compelled to say that such a decision is all I could expect. You must forgive me if, with my views for my son’s career, I have said anything hasty or unjust. I will now wish you good-morning; and I am sure, had we met under other circumstances, we might have been great friends.’
Whatever of dignity and majesty Mrs Abbot{283} dropped as she put on this appearance of friendliness was taken up by the girl. She took no notice of her visitor’s outstretched hand. She rang the bell for the servant, and bowed coldly and haughtily as Mrs Abbot swept from the room.
But bravely as she had borne herself under the eyes of her inquisitor, when the rumble of the carriage wheels died away from the quiet street, Millicent Keene threw herself on the sofa and burst into a flood of tears. ‘O my love!’ she sobbed out. ‘It is hard; but it is right. It will never be, I know! It is too long—too long to wait and hope. Can you be true, when everything is brought to bear against me? Will you forget? Will the love of to-day seem but a boy’s idle dream? Shall I ever forget?’
A great deal might be said on the subject of manuscripts. From the carefully illuminated specimens of old, preserved in our public museums, down to the hastily scribbled printer’s ‘copy’ of to-day, each bears a history, and could contribute to unfold some portion of the life of the author whose hand had wrought it. Indeed, were it possible for each written sheet to tell its own story—we here refer to manuscripts of more modern date—what a picture of intellectual endurance, disappointments, poverty, and ofttimes despair, would be brought to light; what tales of huntings amongst publishers, rebuffs encountered, and hardships undergone, would be added to literary biography.
Thackeray has himself told us how his Vanity Fair was hawked about from publisher to publisher, and its failure everywhere predicted. For a long period, Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre shared the same fate. Again, Mr Kinglake’s carefully composed Eothen, the labour of several years, was destined to go the weary round of publishers in vain; and it was only when its author induced one of that cautious fraternity to accept the classic little work as a present, that he at length enjoyed the gratification of seeing it in print. The first chapter of The Diary of a Late Physician was offered successively to the conductors of the three leading London magazines, and rejected as ‘unsuitable to their pages,’ and ‘not likely to interest the public,’ until Mr Warren, then a young man of three-and-twenty, and a law student, bethought himself of Blackwood. ‘I remember taking my packet,’ he says, ‘to Mr Cadell’s in the Strand, with a sad suspicion that I should never see or hear anything more of it; but shortly after, I received a letter from Mr Blackwood, informing me that he had inserted the chapter, and begging me to make arrangements for immediately proceeding regularly with the series. He expressed his cordial approval of that portion, and predicted that I was likely to produce a series of papers well suited to his magazine, and calculated to interest the public.’
Turning now for a moment to the disciples of dramatic authorship, we discover that their experience is similar to that of many authors. Poor Tom Robertson—that indefatigable actor and dramatist—sank into his grave almost before he saw the establishment of his fame; and John Baldwin Buckstone, during his struggling career, was in the habit of pawning his manuscripts with Mr Lacy, the theatrical publisher, in order to procure bread. Upon one occasion, when met by a sympathising actor in the street, he appeared with scarcely a shoe to his feet, and almost broken-hearted, declaring that all his earthly anticipations were centred upon the acceptance of a comedy, the rejection of which would certainly prove fatal to his existence. In the end, happily for him, the comedy was accepted.
The following anecdote is connected with the history of the Odéon, one of the first theatres in Paris. One day a young author came to ascertain the fate of his piece, which, by the way, had appeared such a formidable package upon its receipt, that the secretary was not possessed of sufficient moral courage to untie the tape that bound it. ‘It is not written in the style to suit the theatre,’ he replied, handing back the manuscript. ‘It is not bad, but it is deficient in interest.’ At this juncture, the young man smiled, and untying the roll, he displayed some quires of blank paper! Thus convicted, the secretary shook hands with the aspirant, invited him to dinner, and shortly afterwards assisted him to a successful début at the Odéon. Another author once waited upon the popular manager of a London theatre inquiring the result of the perusal of his manuscript; whereupon the other, having forgotten all about it, carefully opened a large drawer, exhibiting a heterogeneous mass of documents, and exclaimed: ‘There! help yourself. I don’t know exactly which is yours; but you may take any one of them you like!’
In this instance the manager was even more considerate towards the feelings of an author than that other dramatic demigod who, it is said, was regularly in receipt of so many new pieces, good, bad, and indifferent, that he devised an ingenious method of getting rid of them. During that particular season, the exigencies of the play required a roll of papers—presumably a will—to be nightly burned in a candle in full sight of the audience; and in this way he managed to make room for the numerous manuscripts which young authors only too eagerly poured in upon him, quite unconscious of their certain fate!
Indeed, volumes might be written upon the difficulties sometimes encountered in climbing the literary ladder, and whilst the more persevering have ultimately achieved the goal of their ambition, others have been fated to see their writings consigned to oblivion, and have themselves perhaps sunk into an early grave, consequent upon the disappointments and privations endured. When the poet Chatterton was found lying dead in his garret in Brook Street, his manuscripts had been strewn upon the floor, torn into a thousand pieces. Thus much good literature has often been lost to posterity. A number of instances, too, might be cited wherein persons have risen from their deathbed to destroy their manuscripts, and which task has either proved so distressing to their sensibilities, or fatiguing to their physical powers, that they immediately afterwards expired. It is placed upon record how Colardeau, that elegant versifier of Pope’s Epistle of Eloisa to Abelard, recollected at the approach of his death that he had not destroyed what was{284} written of a translation of Tasso; and unwilling to intrust this delicate office to his friends, he raised himself from his bed, and dragging his feeble frame to the place where the manuscript was deposited, with a last effort he consumed it in the flames. In another example, an author of celebrity directed his papers to be brought to his bed, and there, the attendant holding a light, he burned them, smiling as the greedy flames devoured what had been his work for years.
Few authors willingly destroy any manuscript that has cost them a long period of toil and research, though history records numerous examples where the loss of certain manuscripts has almost proved an irremediable misfortune to their author. The story of Mr Carlyle lending the manuscript of the first volume of his French Revolution to his friend John Stuart Mill, and its accidental destruction by fire, is well known. A similar disaster once happened to M. Firmin Abauzit, a philosopher who had applied himself to every branch of human learning, and to whom the great Newton had remarked, among other compliments: ‘You are worthy to distinguish between Leibnitz and me.’ It happened on one occasion that he had engaged a fresh female servant, rustic, simple, and thoughtless, and being left alone in his study for a while, she declared to herself that she would ‘set his things to rights;’ with which words she deliberately cleared the table, and swept the whole of his papers into the fire, thus destroying calculations which had been the work of upwards of forty years. Without one word, however, the philosopher calmly recommenced his task, with more pain than can readily be imagined. Most readers also will remember the similar misadventure which occurred to Sir Isaac Newton.
Of manuscripts which have perished through the ignorance or malignancy of the illiterate, there are numerous instances. The original ‘Magna Charta,’ with all its appendages of seals and signatures, was one day discovered, by Sir Robert Cotton, in the hands of his tailor, who with his shears was already in the act of cutting up into measures that priceless document, which had been so long given up as for ever lost. He bought the curiosity for a trifle; and caused it to be preserved, where it is still to be seen, in the Cottonian Library, with the marks of dilapidation plainly apparent. The immortal works of Agobart were found by Papirius Masson in the hands of a bookbinder at Lyons, the mechanic having long been in the habit of using the manuscript sheets for the purpose of lining the covers of his books. Similarly, a stray page of the second decade of Livy was found by a man of letters concealed under the parchment of his battledore, as he was amusing himself at that pastime in the country. He at once hastened to the maker of the battledore; but alas! it was too late—the man had used the last sheet of the manuscript of Livy about a week before!
A treatise printed among the works of Barbosa, a bishop of Ugento, in 1649, fell into the possession of that worthy, it is said, in a rather singular manner. Having sent out for a fish for his table, his domestic brought him one rolled up in a piece of written paper, which excited the bishop’s curiosity so much, that he forthwith rushed out to the market, just in time to discover and rescue the original manuscript from which the leaf had been torn. This work he afterwards published under the title of De Officio Episcopi.
The manuscripts of Leonardo da Vinci suffered greatly from the wilful ignorance of his relatives. Once, when a curious collector of antiquities chanced to discover a portion of his writings by the merest accident, he eagerly carried them to one of the descendants of the great painter; but the man coldly observed that ‘he had a great deal more in his garret, which had lain there for many years, if the rats had not destroyed them.’
Cardinal Granville was in the habit of preserving his letters, and at his death, he left behind him a prodigious number, written in all languages, and duly noted, underlined, and collated by his own hand. These relics were left in several immense chests, to the mercy of time and the rats; and subsequently, five or six of the chestsful were sold to the grocers as waste paper. It was then that an examination of the treasure was made; and as the result of the united labours of several literary men, enough of the papers to fill eight thick folios were rescued, and afterwards published.
Fire and shipwreck have at various periods caused considerable havoc among manuscripts. Many of our oldest Anglo-Saxon manuscripts were consumed some years ago by a fire in the Cottonian Library; and those which remain present a baked and shrivelled appearance, rendering them almost unrecognisable. Ben Jonson on one occasion sustained the loss of the labours of twenty-one years within one short hour, by fire; and Meninsky’s famous Persian Dictionary met with a like fate from the effects of a bomb falling upon the roof of his house during the siege of Vienna by the Turks.
National libraries have occasionally been lost at sea. In the beginning of last century, a wealthy burgomaster of Middelburg, in the Netherlands, named Hudde, actuated solely by literary curiosity, made a journey to China; and after travelling through the whole of the provinces, he set sail for Europe, laden with a manuscript collection of his observations, the labour of thirty years, the whole of which was sunk in the ocean. Again, Guarino Verenese, one of those learned Italians who volunteered to travel through Greece for the recovery of ancient manuscripts, had his perseverance repaid by the acquisition of many priceless treasures. Returning to Italy, however, he was shipwrecked; and such was his grief at the loss of this collection, that his hair became suddenly white.
Differing from those authors who have destroyed their manuscripts before death, are those who have delivered them into the hands of relatives and friends, together with the fullest instructions as to their disposal. It is well known that Lord Byron handed the manuscript of his autobiography to Tom Moore, with the strictest injunctions not to publish it till after his death. Immediately after he expired, Moore sold the manuscript to John Murray the publisher for two thousand pounds; but subsequently knowing something of the nature of the autobiography, and the effect which its publication would exert upon the memory of the deceased author, his own better feelings, united to the persuasions of Byron’s friends, prompted him to regain possession of the{285} document, which he did, at the same time refunding the money to Mr Murray. The manuscript was then burned.
In the matter of the manuscripts of musical works, it may be related that shortly after Handel had settled at Hamburg in the capacity of conductor of the opera in that city, he cultivated the acquaintance of a well-known musician named Mattheson, and the two became great friends. But presently a quarrel arose between them, the result of which was that they drew their swords; and Mattheson’s weapon might in all probability have dealt fatally with the other’s life, had it not chanced to strike and break upon the score of Almira, Handel’s first opera, which he had hurriedly stowed beneath his coat, and over which, it is said, the quarrel had really arisen. After this, the combatants became reconciled, and Mattheson eventually bore the principal character in the opera when it was produced.
Returning to literature, it is perhaps not generally known that Swift’s Tale of a Tub was introduced to the world with such cunning secrecy, that the manuscript was actually thrown from a passing coach into the doorway of the bookseller who afterwards published it. Gulliver’s Travels was given to the public in the same mysterious manner. From one of Swift’s letters to Pope, as well as from another epistle to Dr T. Sheridan, we learn that during the time occupied in finishing, revising, and transcribing his manuscript, prior to thinking about a fitting bookseller to publish it, Tickell, then Secretary of State, expressed a strong curiosity to see the work concerning which there was so much secrecy. But the Dean frankly replied that it would be quite impossible for Mr Tickell to find his ‘treasury of waste-papers without searching through nine different houses,’ inasmuch as he had his manuscripts conveyed from place to place through nine or ten different hands; and then it would be necessary to send to him for a key to the work, else he could not understand a chapter of it. In the end, Gulliver came forth from its hiding-place through the medium of Mr Charles Ford, who offered to carry the manuscript to Mr Motte the bookseller, on behalf of his friend, and to whom he afterwards complained that the man’s timidity was such as to compel him to make some important abridgments throughout the work. The book was, however, no sooner published, than it was received with unlimited acclamation by all classes.
Of Defoe’s world-famous Robinson Crusoe, published in 1719, we are told that it was only taken up by Taylor—who purchased the manuscript, and netted one thousand pounds by the publication—after every other bookseller in town had refused it. In a similar manner, one bookseller refused to give twenty-five pounds for the manuscript of Fielding’s Tom Jones; while another bought it, and cleared not less than eighteen thousand pounds by the venture during his lifetime!
With a few particulars touching upon the value of manuscripts which have at various periods been put up for public sale after the death of their authors, we will bring our paper to a conclusion.
When, some years ago, the manuscript of Scott’s Guy Mannering came into the market, the United States gladly secured the precious treasure at a cost of three hundred and eighty guineas; and in 1867, at a sale of the manuscripts which had belonged to Mr Cadell the well-known publisher, the Lady of the Lake was sold for two hundred and seventy-seven guineas, and Rokeby realised one hundred and thirty-six guineas, both becoming the property of Mr Hope-Scott. At the same sale, Sir William Fraser paid two hundred guineas for the manuscript of Marmion; whilst the same appreciative collector of literary antiquities paid, in 1875, so high a price as two hundred and fifty guineas for Gray’s Elegy in a Country Churchyard, a composition occupying no more than four quarto sheets of manuscript.
Of Charles Dickens’s manuscripts, The Christmas Carol was purchased by Mr Harvey of St James’s Street for the sum of one hundred and fifty pounds, and resold by him for two hundred and fifty pounds; The Battle of Life is still held on sale by that gentleman; and Our Mutual Friend was purchased, on behalf of Mr George Washington Childs of Philadelphia, by Mr Hotten, for two hundred pounds. As is well known, the manuscript of The Pickwick Papers was bequeathed by Mr Forster to the South Kensington Museum, and will become the property of the British nation on the death of his widow, who has meanwhile, and in the most generous manner, permitted it and other manuscripts from the pen of Charles Dickens to be publicly exhibited where they will become permanently enshrined.
Not very long ago, the manuscript of a short poem by Burns brought seventy guineas; yet this sum must be regarded as but a small proportion of that value which might be realised for only one line—not to speak of one play—written by Shakspeare’s own hand. In his Memorials of Westminster Abbey, the late Dean Stanley has told us how Spenser the poet died in King Street, Westminster, and was solemnly interred in Poets’ Corner, hard by. ‘His hearse,’ he says, ‘was attended by poets; and mournful elegies, together with the pens that wrote them, were thrown into his tomb. What a funeral was that at which Beaumont, Fletcher, Jonson, and, in all probability, Shakspeare attended! what a grave in which the pen of Shakspeare may be mouldering away!’ Certainly, if but one line of that ‘mournful elegy’ written by the Immortal Bard could be recovered and offered for sale, we should then have a pleasing and memorable opportunity of marking the estimation in which the poet is held by mankind.
Commenting on the honour paid by the Athenians to a dog that followed his master across the sea to Salamis, Pope says: ‘This respect to a dog in the most polite people of the world is very observable. A modern instance of gratitude to a dog, though we have but few such, is, that the chief Order of Denmark—now called the Order of the Elephant—was instituted in memory of the fidelity of a dog named Wild-brat to one of their kings, who had been deserted by his subjects. He gave his Order this motto, or to{286} this effect (which still remains): “Wild-brat was faithful.”’
Had Pope been writing half-a-dozen years later, he need not have gone to Denmark for a modern instance of gratitude to a dog. Mr Robert—afterwards Viscount—Molesworth being prevented entering an outhouse by his favourite greyhound pulling him away by his coat lappet, ordered a footman to examine the place. On opening the door, the man was shot dead by a hidden robber. The faithful hound afterwards died in London, and his master sent his body to Yorkshire, to be inurned in Edglington Wood, near Doncaster; the receptacle of his remains bearing an inscription in Latin, which has been thus translated: ‘Stay, traveller! Nor wonder that a lamented Dog is thus interred with funeral honour. But, ah! what a Dog! His beautiful form and snow-white colour; pleasing manners and sportive playfulness; his affection, obedience, and fidelity, made him the delight of his master, to whom he closely adhered with his eager companions of the chase, delighted in attending him. Whenever the mind of his lord was depressed, he would assume fresh spirit and animation. A master, not ungrateful for his merits, has here, in tears, deposited his remains in this marble urn.—M. F. C. 1714.’
An Italian greyhound, buried in Earl Temple’s garden at Stowe, had never saved his master’s life, but was nevertheless held worthy of a memorial stone, bearing the eulogistic epitaph from the pen of Arbuthnot:
‘To the Memory of Signor Fido—An Italian of good extraction, who came to England not to bite us, like most of his countrymen, but to gain an honest livelihood. He hunted not for fame, yet acquired it; regardless of the praises of his friends, but most sensible of their love. Though he lived among the Great, he neither learned nor flattered any vice. He was no bigot, though he doubted of none of the Thirty-nine Articles. And if to follow Nature and to respect the laws of Society be philosophical, he was a perfect philosopher, a faithful friend, an agreeable companion, a loving husband, distinguished by a numerous offspring, all which he lived to see take good courses. In his old age, he retired to the home of a clergyman in the country, where he finished his earthly race, and died an honour and an example to his species. Reader—This stone is guiltless of flattery, for he to whom it is inscribed was not a Man, but a Greyhound.’
That eulogy is more than could honestly be said of the animal whose monument proclaims:
Not in company, we should say, with that of the blameless creature commemorated by the couplet:
Among the sojourners at the Grand Hôtel Victoria, Mentone, in the year 1872, was the Archduchess Marie Régnier, who, during her three months’ stay there, took such a liking to mine host’s handsome dog Pietrino, that she begged him of M. Milandi, and carried her prize with her to Vienna. In less than a fortnight after reaching that capital, Pietrino was back in his old quarters again, having travelled eight hundred miles across strange countries, over mountains, through towns and villages, only to die at his master’s feet five days after his coming home. He was buried among the rose-bushes in the grounds so familiar to him, his resting place marked by a marble column, inscribed, ‘Ci-gît Pietrino, Ami Fidèle. 1872.’
Exactly a hundred years before that, a dog died at Minorca out of sheer grief for the loss of his master, who, ordered home to England, did not care to encumber himself with his canine friend. Honouring the deserted animal’s unworthily placed affection, his owner’s brother-officers saw him decently interred, and erected a stone to his memory, bearing an epitaph written by Lieutenant Erskine, ending:
Of tougher constitution was a small Scotch terrier that, in 1868, followed his master’s coffin to the churchyard of Old Greyfriars, Edinburgh, heedless of the notice forbidding entrance to dogs. The morning after the funeral, Bobby was found lying on the newly-made mound. He was turned out of the churchyard; but the next morning saw him upon the grave, and the next and the next. Taking pity upon the forlorn little creature, the custodian of the burial-ground gave him some food. From that time, Bobby considered himself privileged, and was constantly in and about the churchyard, only leaving it at mid-day to obtain a meal at the expense of a kind-hearted restaurant keeper; but every night was passed upon the spot holding all he had once held dear. Many were the attempts to get him to transfer his allegiance from the dead to the living; but none availed. As long as his life lasted, and it lasted four years, Bobby stayed by, or in the immediate neighbourhood of, his master’s grave. Such fidelity, unexampled even in his faithful race, deserved to be kept in remembrance; and thanks to the most munificent of Lady Bountifuls, his memory is kept green by his counterfeit presentment on a drinking-fountain of Peterhead granite erected on George the Fourth Bridge, as a ‘tribute to the affectionate fidelity of Greyfriars Bobby. In 1868, the faithful dog followed the remains of his master to Greyfriars Churchyard, and lingered near the spot until his death in 1872.’
London is not without its memorials to dogs. On the wall leading to the Irongate Stairs, near the Tower, may be read: ‘In Memory of Egypt, a favourite dog belonging to the Irongate Watermen, killed on the 4th August 1841, aged 16.
A tablet placed near the north-east end of the platform of the Edgware Road Railway Station, is inscribed:
In Memory of
Poor Fan,
Died May 8, 1876.
For ten years at the Drivers’ call.
Fed by many,
Regretted by all.
Poor Fan lies under an evergreen hard by. She was notable for travelling continually on a railway engine between the Edgware Road and Hammersmith; occasionally getting off at an intermediate station, crossing the line, and returning by the next train; never taking any train but a Hammersmith train when outward bound, or going farther east than her own particular station when journeying homewards.
An Englishman travelling in France in 1698, was disgusted at seeing, in a ducal garden, a superb memorial in the shape of a black marble cat couching on a gilded white marble cushion, on the top of a black marble pedestal bearing the one word ‘Menine.’ Such posthumous honour is rarely paid to puss; but two other instances of it may be cited. In making excavations near the Place de la Bastille, in the ground formerly occupied by the gardens of the Hôtel de Lesdiguières, the workmen brought to light the handsome tomb of a cat which had belonged to Françoise-Marguerite de Gondy, widow of Emmanuel de Crequi, Duke of Lesdiguières. It bore no laudatory epitaph, but the odd quatrain:
Or to put it into English: ‘Here lies a handsome cat. Her mistress, who loved nothing, loved her out of caprice. Why say so? All the world knew it well.’
‘Grandfather,’ a feline Nestor, belonging to a lady in Scotland, was something more than handsome. When he had passed his twenty-first year, he could climb a tree, catch a bird, hunt a mouse, or kill a rat, as cleverly as in his younger days; and when he died, at the age of twenty-two, had well earned himself a memorial stone and an epitaph. Both were accorded him, the last-named running thus:
The horse, even though he may have won a fortune for his master, as a rule goes literally to the dogs at last. Some few of the wonders of the turf have escaped that indignity. A plain stone inscribed simply ‘Sir Peter,’ tells visitors to Knowsley, Sir Peter Teazle lies beneath it. A sculptured stone, rifled from a cardinal’s monument, overlooks the grave of Emilius at Easby Abbey. A cedar, planted by a once famous jockey, rises hard by the resting-place of Bay-Middleton and Crucifix; Kingston reposes under the shade of a grand oak at Eltham; Blair-Athol, the pride of Malton, lies embowered at Cobham; and green is the grave of Amato, well within hail of the course he traversed triumphantly. The skeleton of Eclipse is still, we believe, on view at Cannons, but it must be minus at least one hoof, since King William IV. gave a piece of plate, with a hoof of Eclipse set in gold, to be run for at Ascot in 1832; the trophy being carried off by Lord Chesterfield’s Priam. Equine mementoes usually take this form, and many a sideboard can show the polished hoof of a famous racehorse. The Prince of Wales is said to possess a hoof of the charger that bore Nolan to his death at Balaklava; it is surmounted with a small silver figure of the Captain, carrying the fatal order for the advance of the Light Brigade. An interesting military souvenir enough; but not so interesting as a polished and shod hoof, mounted so as to serve as a snuff-box, the property of the Guards’ Club; for this bears the inscription: ‘Hoof of Marengo, rare charger of Napoleon, ridden by him at Marengo, Austerlitz, Jena, Wagram, in the campaign of Russia, and lastly at Waterloo;’ while on the margin of the silver shoe is to be read: ‘Marengo was wounded in the near hip at Waterloo, when his great master was on him, in the hollow road in advance of the French position. He had been frequently wounded before in other battles.’
We have received the following notes from a gentleman—an occasional contributor—who devotes much of his attention to such matters, making them indeed an especial and constant study.
The Antipodean Rabbit Nuisance.—That which for several years past has been the bane of agriculturists at the antipodes, is not unlikely to prove in the end something akin to a blessing. Rabbits in many places, notwithstanding what has been done to exterminate them, are nearly as numerous as ever; but instead of killing them by means of poison and burying them in the ground, they are now systematically ‘trapped,’ and, being cooked and tinned, command a large sale. At the Western Meat-preserving Company’s Works, Colac, Victoria, as many as seventeen thousand pairs of rabbits are dealt with in the course of the early weeks of the season, which, it may be explained, lasts for a period of seven months; and although the supply diminishes as the season progresses, over{288} three hundred thousand pairs are annually prepared for sale, finding a ready market. A large number of persons are employed during the continuance of this industry; no fewer than three hundred and fifty people obtaining remunerative work in connection with this one establishment. On an average, over five thousand two-pound tins are turned out every day within the period indicated. These are made up for sale in three different ways—as plain rabbits, as rabbits cooked with onions, and rabbits done up with bacon; and for each description there is now setting in a large European demand. Many of the men engaged in the rabbit-work at Colac are exceedingly dexterous, and work with great rapidity, some individual hands among them being able to skin with ease one hundred pairs of rabbits in an hour. In order to gain a wager, one very expert person skinned four hundred and twenty-eight of these animals in sixty minutes! It should be mentioned, that before being skinned, the heads and feet of the conies are chopped off. Work of every kind is performed by the most cleanly methods, and only the best animals are selected to be tinned, while none are sent out without being carefully examined. The trappers are paid by results, and are, as a rule, welcome to visit those farms which are overrun with the pest. In the earlier weeks of the season, a gang of expert trappers will each earn over five pounds a week. The rabbits as they are caught are slung across poles in convenient places, and then lifted and conveyed in carts to ‘the works.’ There are several establishments of the kind in Victoria, and hopes are now being entertained by farmers of a speedy deliverance from the rabbit nuisance, as the large numbers which are being killed must in time tell on the breeding supplies. Similar establishments are also about to be started in New Zealand.
Edible Snails.—None but those who have made special inquiry into the subject are aware of the great dimensions which the continental snail-trade has of late assumed. Many tons of these vine-fed delicacies reach Paris every year during the snail season, which lasts from September to about April, during some part of which period under natural circumstances the animals would be asleep. In this country there would be a universal shudder, if it were proposed to add the common garden-snail to the national commissariat, no matter how attractive might be the shape assumed by the Escargot de Bourgogne, or other snail of the orchard or vineyard; yet we eat countless quantities of whelks and periwinkles, which are not such clean-feeding animals as the snails of the garden. A recent authority states that enormous quantities of snails are forwarded annually from Marseilles and Genoa to Paris, and that tens of thousands of these creatures find their way to the markets of Bordeaux, Lyons, Vienna, and Munich. Such is the demand, that many persons now ‘cultivate’ snails for the markets, and find the business a remunerative one. As many as twenty or thirty thousand can be bred in a very small space.
The Conger Eel.—This fish has of late attracted a good deal of attention, from its having been asserted that it was frequently made into turtle-soup. Whether that be so or not, the conger eel is in reality one of our most valuable food-fishes. There is, unfortunately, a prejudice in the public mind against it. In all continental fish-markets—at least in those situated on seas which contain the fish—a plentiful supply of congers may always be had. The writer has seen hundreds of them in the markets at Dieppe, Boulogne, and Paris, and in the cuisine of France the conger occupies a prominent place. It can be converted into excellent soup, and may be cooked in various other palatable ways: it may be roasted, stewed, or broiled, or made into a succulent pie. In Guernsey and Jersey, its flesh is highly esteemed, as being adaptable to the culinary art in an eminent degree. This fish ought to be much more plentifully exposed for sale than it is; and if our fishermen found a market for it, it would no doubt be so. It is a most prolific animal, yielding its eggs in literal millions. A specimen which weighed twenty-eight pounds possessed a roe of the weight of twenty-three ounces, which was computed to contain the almost incredible number of fifteen millions of eggs! Mr Buckland, in one of his fishery Reports, says: ‘What becomes of this enormous number of eggs, is unknown to man; they probably form the food of many small sea-creatures, especially crabs. They are exceedingly minute.’ How curious it seems that the common herring, which yields on the average about thirty thousand ova, should be so plentiful, and the conger, which contains many millions of eggs, should be comparatively so scarce.
Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.
All Rights Reserved.