{321}

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

FROM JAFFA TO JERUSALEM.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
SOME CURIOSITIES OF THE PEERAGE.
A ZULU ROMANCE.
CONCERNING LOVE.
THE PROGRESS OF CYCLING.
SPRING IN THE ALLEY.

---

No. 21.—Vol. I.

Price 1½d.

SATURDAY, MAY 24, 1884.

Coasting along the arid Syrian shore, there is little to attract the attention of the traveller from Port Said to Jaffa, till the last-named town is in sight. If, however, there is a haze upon the water and the wind is from the shore, a powerful perfume of orange-flowers borne across the sea is the first intimation that one is nearing Jaffa, perhaps the most ancient town—certainly one of the most ancient towns—in the world. Presuming that no wind has sprung up since you left the Egyptian port—in which case you will be carried on to Beyrout, as the steamers only touch at Jaffa in calm weather, owing to the danger and almost impossibility of landing passengers or goods—presuming, however, that all is well, you reach Jaffa most probably in the early morning; and having anchored outside a reef of rocks which incloses a natural harbour permitting the entrance only of small boats, you look upon a scene as picturesque and peculiarly eastern in its character as you could wish. Rising abruptly from the sea, the whitened, flat-roofed houses intermingle with the domes of the mosques and the convent towers; while the surmounting citadel, the surrounding wall, and massive gates, give the distinctive character that one had observed in Tangier, or Algiers, or Cairo.

Along the quay is collected a throng of people, containing representatives of half the ports in the Levant or the East. Huge brown-sailed boats are moored in the smooth water within; while outside, the water washes over the encircling rocks—the fabled rocks of Andromeda’s captivity. Palms and plantain trees are scattered here and there, with the glimpse of orchards beyond; and stately camels, with their stalwart Bedouin guides, carrying bales of merchandise or corn, now and again move across the line of vision on the shore. And now the boats are putting out to the steamer, and the swarthy boatmen ply their oars with vigour; and boats filled with oranges and lemons and gigantic melons, and bright-hued fishes, swarm around us. Not least, to add to the general effect, and certainly chiefest for one’s individual comfort, are the men of Cook and Howard the agents, clad respectively in blue and red, who in well-manned boats are at the service of the traveller. Here, be it remarked, that whatever prejudice may exist amongst ordinary British travellers against ‘Cooking it’ on the continent, in the East the services of these agents are invaluable; and the travelling public owes much to them for having brought dragomans, guides, hotel-keepers, and stable-keepers to some decency in the matter of their charges. Placing ourselves in the hands of one of them, we are landed at the quay, and pass along the narrow crowded street that leads to the market-place at the top of the town.

The first thing that struck one was the remarkable beauty of the inhabitants, men and women alike. Jews, Turks, Syrians, and Arabs were all in marked contrast to the ugly squat Egyptians amongst whom we had recently sojourned; and the Bedouins are a much finer race than those of either the Egyptian or Sinaitic Desert, whose acquaintance we had just made. As may be assumed, there is a marked Jewish cast of countenance—as we call it at home—amongst all classes, even to the Bedouins. The camels, too, are larger and finer looking. It is to be feared, however, that it is only in physical qualities that the Syrians can show a superiority to the Egyptians; morally, they appear to be very much on a par.

We pass along the winding antiquated street, through ancient arches, up occasional broad steps, past shops of all kinds—holes in the wall, where Jews and Greeks, squatted on their hams, are ready to sell you anything from an estate to a pair of slippers—jostled by camels and mules and donkeys carrying grain and merchandise of various kinds, and accompanied by the handsome picturesque Bedouins of the Syrian Desert, through bazaars with fruit-sellers, water-carriers, and hawkers of all kinds plying their various trades, until we reach the market-place, where there seems to be more spirit and business-like{322} animation than one usually sees in the East. The house of Simon the tanner is pointed out to us, and we receive the information with the necessary reserve. But there are unmistakable tanneries in its neighbourhood, if that evidence goes for anything. Arrived at the hotel, we first ordered a couple of horses to be got ready as soon as possible; and having viewed the sorry-looking hacks, took a hurried breakfast, as we were anxious to be on the road. Good horses and saddles are usually to be obtained in Syria without any difficulty, but we had unfortunately hit upon the very time when they were least plentiful, namely, the Thursday following Easter Sunday. Breakfast was not a very long affair, consisting of the inevitable cutlet and eggs, anchovies, sliced sausages, olives, figs, and oranges—to which some months in the East had made us familiar. A most dirty and exasperating waiter, who seemed to take more than the average delight of his Syrian countrymen in telling lies, boldly asked for ‘backsheesh,’ informing us that his former statement as to being the proprietor was untrue; and when he saw us loading our revolvers, asked what we were ‘going to shoot his people for; that was not good!’ However, he did us the honour to guide us personally to a point where the road led to Jerusalem; and away we went on our journey.

The road was very dusty, but the air was full of the perfume of flowers; and it was delicious to ride past the orange groves and gardens and orchards that extended for nearly a mile out of the busy, jostling, evil-smelling town. After passing the orchards and gardens, the road becomes rather tame and barren, and though well enough for riding, must be terribly disagreeable for those who undertake the journey by carriage. We met many pilgrims returning from Jerusalem—there had been ten thousand of them there in Holy Week. They came trooping past, on camels, mules, donkeys, and horses, in carts and carriages, and many on foot. They were chiefly Russians, but many were Levantines. Many carried the precious relics that had been made sacred to them by being laid upon the Holy Sepulchre, or perhaps thrust into the so-called ‘Holy Fire.’ Sometimes a crowd would appear in the distance, and the long cylindrical tins containing sanctified candles—some of them five or six feet long—would shine like lances in the sun. ‘Family’ camels with a sort of howdah, or a canopy with beds on either side or ‘atop,’ would hold some three or four children and their mother. Others would be squatted on the top of their baggage. All their faces had a pleased and satisfied look, as of having accomplished a desirable work. At intervals of a mile or so, we passed the guardhouses of the police, placed for the protection of the road to Jerusalem; and after about three hours and a half, reached Ramleh, the first halting-place on the road, and remarkable for its broad and clean streets, and its well-to-do, sleepy appearance. Indeed, but for the hideously diseased and distorted mendicants, one might have thought one’s self in some rather odd-looking English or French or German village; which feeling would not be dispelled by the homely appearance of the primitive little German hotel, where we were supplied with cold meat and salad, and the most delicious beer we had tasted since leaving England—Marzenburg Export Bier, it was called. After a short halt, we remounted, having only paid a hurried visit to the tower of Ramleh—a landmark for some distance over this flat country, and whence one obtains an extensive view. The road now improves somewhat, though there is little of interest or beauty to be seen. An hour’s ride brought us to the village of Kubâb, where we obtained some oranges and a drink of water, the heat being very great.

Leaving Kubâb, we shortly after entered the valley of Ajalon, where we enjoyed a pleasant gallop over the rich soft earth skirting the fields, which in a few weeks would be covered with verdure. The roadway itself was in course of being mended, and one pitied the unhappy occupants of the vehicles forced to traverse the highway. Here we were passed by hundreds of pilgrims, with whom we exchanged the usual ‘Liltak said,’ or ‘Naharak rubârah,’ of friendly greeting; and shortly after ascending an incline at the end of the valley, reached Latroon, the supposed birthplace of the Penitent Thief. By the roadside was a rough kind of restaurant, at which many pilgrims were regaling themselves with coffee, cakes, fruit, and their hubble-bubbles. But turning off the main road, we alighted at the Latroon Hotel, where everything was of a rather primitive character, but managed by a civil and intelligent young Greek. We were made very comfortable. The freshness in the air here was delightful, after our dusty and hot ride; and as it was now about four o’clock, and there was still a good six hours to Jerusalem, we determined upon staying at Latroon for the night. The interesting historical associations of the surrounding country—the passing of the pilgrims—the tinkling of bells—the finely placed ruin of the ‘Castle of the Good Thief’—the rustic character of the people about, who forgot even to ask for backsheesh—the fertile fields—here a group of Bedouins with their camels brought to knee—there a batch of pilgrims settling down for the night—while shepherds hurry home their flocks, and horses and mules and asses are being tethered for the night—all served to bring before one a charming and interesting picture, that was well worth the delay.

After a very refreshing night’s rest in a clean and comfortable room, we started betimes next morning. Half an hour from Latroon brought us to the mouth of Wady Ali, a lovely glen, through which one enters amongst the Judæan hills. The glen, with large rocks and boulders on either side, but rich in wild-flowers of all kinds, and prominent amongst them our own national thistle, did indeed at times remind us of spots we had known in the west of Scotland.{323} After winding through a delightfully picturesque valley, well wooded, and rich in olive groves, we began to make the ascent of the Judæan hills, winding round and about by steep zigzag paths, occasionally obtaining fine views of the surrounding country, and on reaching the summit, had a splendid panorama of the coast of Syria with the Mediterranean beyond, and away to the south the bare Desert of Tih, running up to the well-cultivated country of Palestine. We had last seen this Tih Desert from the mountains of Sinai, away to the south-east.

The country about the summit of the Judæan hills is wild and bare and rocky; and as we begin again to descend gradually by zigzag and abrupt ups and downs, the road is often steep, and always difficult, and gives one an opportunity of testing and admiring the sureness of foot of the Arab horse. Poor as were the specimens we bestrode—and neither of the riders was a light weight—they picked their way amongst loose stones or glistening rocks, and down the steep inclines, with a perfectly marvellous facility, and galloped over the rough rock-strewn roads as if their legs were made of cast-iron. It is rare to find an Arab that will trot properly. The usual pace is a quick walk, or an amble, a most serviceable pace, which they seem capable of keeping up indefinitely, and which is as little distressing to the horse as to his rider. The shoe, which consists of a flat piece of metal with a hole in the middle, certainly does not seem to the stranger exactly adapted to their work; and a horse is sometimes lamed by a small stone getting into the hole; but acute judges say that this mode of shoeing—common all over the East—has advantages where the roads are hard, hot, and dry.

Presently we come upon the village of Kirjath-Jearim (the ‘Village of the Grapes’), and passing the possible Emmaus, descend to Kolonieh, close by a river-bed, which we cross by a bridge, to make the last ascent of the journey. On reaching the top of this ascent, Jerusalem appears suddenly close to us with a suburb of modern buildings: hospitals, almshouses, and villas—spick-and-span with iron railings, porters’ lodges, and clocks—European time, and Roman numerals on the face! which make us rub our eyes for the moment. Passing these, however, we come immediately to the walls of the Holy City; and turning sharply off to the left, past the new German hotel (Fiel), the only one outside the walls, we enter the Damascus Gate, and our journey is at an end.

It does not come within the scope of the present article to give a description, which has been done a thousand times before, of anything beyond the mere journey from Jaffa to Jerusalem. But in a few words it must be said that the impression is one of disappointment at Jerusalem. The streets are dirty and ill-paved, and scarcely any properly authenticated spot can actually be pointed out. Each sanctimonious-looking dragoman has a sniffle, and ‘lies like a wily Hindu.’ From the Greek or Armenian priest who humbugs the miserable pilgrims with his ‘Holy Fire,’ to the hawker of cards of sham flowers from Zion or Bethlehem, sham shells from the Jordan, or sham wood from Olivet, there is nothing but falsehood and extortion. About the only redeeming feature amidst the mass of corruption, dirt, and hypocrisy, is the well-kept and trim little English church, with its decent congregation; while certainly the only well-ordered quarter of the city is the Moslem quarter.

CHAPTER XXIX.—SUSPICION.

And those interlacing shadows of the bare branches across the footpath through the forest which had been like delicate fairy fretwork when Philip passed along, broadened and deepened into black masses before the father as he followed. He had no purpose in following, beyond a vague craving to know what Madge would say when she learned that he had disinherited this favourite of the family, and a fancy that it would be pleasant to walk back with him, when he might explain more fully than he had done the motives by which he had been actuated.

He, too, knew this pathway well; but, although he walked on, he had not yet decided to go all the way. When he entered the glade in which the King’s Oak reigned, he halted. This was a place for elfin revels, and fairy-rings were common in it. Every child brought here to play felt sure that this was the very spot where little Red Riding Hood met the wolf, and that her grandmother’s cottage stood over there, where some funny people tried to make them believe was once a Roman camp. Romans indeed! as if they were going to give up the delightful association of Red Riding Hood with the place for a lot of dull people they were forced to read about in school-books! And, of course, it was here also that the other Hood called Robin assembled with his merry men, and Little John and Friar Tuck. It was no use attempting to correct their geography by informing them that Sherwood Forest was a long way from here: the child’s imagination insists upon associating its heroes with known places.

Mr Hadleigh was reminded of the happy group of children he had found here in the sunshine not long ago, and as their bright faces rose before him in the soft twilight, he seemed to grow strong again. Pleasant memories are as helpful to us as pleasant anticipations.

When he resumed his way, he walked more firmly than he had done since Philip left him. He had now decided to go on and wait for him near the stile; and he unconsciously quickened his pace, although aware that he would have plenty of time to spare. On reaching the roadway, however, he proceeded leisurely, listening to the river, but hearing no melody in it.

As he approached the stile, he saw the figures of a man and woman slowly cross the road. They shook hands, and he heard the man say:

‘I have your promise, and I shall hold you to it. Be faithful, and I shall be able to think of the past without pain.’

There was a reply, but in a tone so low that it did not reach his ears. He recognised in the man the stranger who had recently taken up his quarters in the village, although he had only seen him once and, then, at a distance. The woman was Madge.

They parted. She hurried up the meadow; and{324} after a brief pause, Mr Beecham turned in the direction of the village.

Mr Hadleigh had involuntarily halted, feeling that he was the accidental spectator of an incident for which the actors had not desired an audience. Beecham’s words and the girl’s manner satisfied him of that. He became immediately aware, however, that standing still would naturally suggest that he was playing the part of a spy. And he could not escape observation, for the man was coming straight towards him. He, therefore, resumed his leisurely pace.

As was frequently his habit, Mr Beecham walked with head slightly bent, his eyes seeming to read strange writings on the ground. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he looked up. There was a momentary and unaccountable change in his expression—as if he had suddenly passed under the shadow of a tree, and coming into the full light again it was placid and gentle as usual.

‘Good-evening,’ said Mr Hadleigh hastily, remembering the country custom he had adopted of saluting any one he encountered on the road.

‘Good-evening,’ echoed Beecham, with a slight inclination of the head.

They passed, moving quietly on their opposite ways. Neither looked back, for each was conscious that the other intended or wished to do so, and did not care to be caught in the act.

That is one of the droll sensations often experienced in the common course of daily life. We meet a friend, part, and without any reason, have a desire to look after him, but restrain ourselves, lest he, being similarly disposed, should ‘catch us at it.’ We laugh at ourselves, and forget the absurd impulse. But what informs the look, the breath, the tone which makes us like or dislike a man or a woman without any apparent justification? The mystery is one which the poets and philosophers of all ages seem to be continually touching, but never grasping. Some call it instinct, others animal magnetism. All we know is that we feel and cannot tell why; but there are few who have not had occasion to regret that they have not allowed themselves to be guided by this inexplicable influence.

Mr Hadleigh, merely passing this stranger in the deepening twilight, knew that he was a foe.

Whether or not surprise at the words he had overheard, and wonder at their being addressed to Miss Heathcote, had anything to do with the sensation, he could not tell; but he felt as keen a chill as if he had passed an iceberg—mentally and physically the sensation was exactly the same. Yet he had heard nothing but praise of this quiet, kindly-looking gentleman. There was a degree of chagrin, certainly, in the thought that in a few weeks Mr Beecham—a casual visitor, as he might still be called—had obtained more influence amongst the villagers than the master of Ringsford had won by years of endeavour to help and guide them.

Of course, Mr Hadleigh attributed this success to the fact that the stranger was indiscriminate in his charity. He gave help wherever it was wanted, without taking the trouble to inquire into each case, or to advise the recipients of his bounty as to the future conduct which would insure their independence. He gave them their own way, in short, saying nothing about the carelessness which created their necessities. To a man who has the means, this is the easiest and shortest road to popularity. But this could never result in permanent benefit to the poor.

Now, Mr Hadleigh had really tried to do permanent good: and, compared to this newcomer, he was still a stranger amongst the people. All allowance being made for the difference of temperament and the difference of method, it was difficult to understand why Mr Beecham should so quickly win what Mr Hadleigh had long striven for with so little result—the affection of those around him.

He turned his eyes inward: was not this part—a great part—of the penalty he had to pay for making worldly success his first thought and Love the second? Was it too late to win one heart? He had gained the admiration, the esteem, the envy of many: was it too late to win one heart? How common folk would laugh at this rich, prosperous man, if they knew that life was a misery to him because he had cast away its crown—if they knew how gladly he would change places with his poorest labourer, if by so doing he might secure the affection for which he craved.

If Philip’s mother had been with him, he would have lavished upon her all that wealth could buy!... There he stopped, in bitterness, for he came to the end of his world again: wealth could not buy love. Obsequious submission, a show of respect, obedience to his orders, he could hire: but that was all. This man Beecham, without apparent effort or sacrifice, obtained at once the ‘Something’ that was beyond price.

To his relief came curiosity and suspicion of—he did not know what. But why should this man receive any promise from Miss Heathcote? Why should it have to do with his past? Why should she, who was to be Philip’s wife, be there, speaking to a stranger, when her lover was waiting for her?

He halted, and after a moment’s hesitation, turned in the direction of the village. He was not to wait for his son.

At first he walked slowly, as if he might still change his mind; but as his thoughts quickened, so did his steps, and the church tower was looming darkly against the slate-like sky when he stopped at the gate of Mr Wrentham’s cottage.

A pretty little squat building of one story, lying well back from the road; a patch of green surrounded by bushy evergreens, and the front wall covered with trellis-work, at present supporting a spider’s web of branches, which in season blossomed into red and white roses, making the cottage look like a bower rather than a homestead.

At the gate, Mr Hadleigh again hesitated, as if doubtful whether or not to carry out the intention which had brought him to the place. Since the evening of Philip’s accident, he had spoken very little in private to Wrentham. Natural enough as the accident had appeared, he was afflicted by an uneasy feeling that Wrentham had something to do with bringing it about, and that to his own visit to Golden Alley the first blame was due.

{325}

With some impatience at his weakness, he rang the bell and advanced to the door. The servant was new to the place, and required to ask the visitor’s name; whereupon a door was flung open, and Wrentham came out with effusive cordiality.

‘My dear Mr Hadleigh, this is a grand surprise. I won’t stop to ask you what has made you think of dropping in upon me; but I must say thank you for a new pleasure. Come in, come in; there is nobody here but myself. I have only arrived within the last five minutes, and Mrs Wrentham is putting our girl to sleep. You have passed over these stages of domestic inconvenience; but you can excuse us for not being always in reception order. We let our visitors take us as they find us, and those who don’t like it need not come again. Simple and sensible rule, is it not? But we should have liked you to find us a little more in apple-pie order, especially as it is your first visit.’

This was spoken with Wrentham’s usual gay rapidity, allowing his unexpected guest no opportunity to protest, as he ushered him into a tidy little drawing-room which was apparently very much in ‘reception order.’ Chairs, tables, nick-nacks were almost too primly arranged to accord with the free-and-easy ways which the owner professed. He was, however, so seldom in the room that he was ignorant of its condition. The dining-room, on the other side of the passage, was his ‘snuggery,’ and there he spent his evenings when at home, which was seldom until late at night; and frequently he was absent for days on business.

But he was an affectionate husband and father. He was particular about having his wife and daughter always dressed in the newest and finest fabrics, and regularly took them out for a treat on Saturday or Sunday. Mrs Wrentham was a delicate, nervous lady, apparently content with her lot, and glad to escape from the toil of visiting and receiving visitors. Her whole existence was filled by her child Ada, a bright creature of eight years, nicknamed by her father ‘Pussie,’ on account of her passionate attachment to cats.

‘Will you take a chair?’ Wrentham went on. ‘You are such a fellow for taking one by surprise—always a pleasant surprise; but you give one no chance of doing anything to show how it is appreciated. You dropped down upon me in Golden Alley, just as you have dropped down upon me here, without the least warning.’

Mr Hadleigh listened patiently, his cold, dreaming eyes staring vacantly at him, but closely noting every change on his face.

‘I hope I do not disturb you?’ he said quietly, taking the proffered chair.

‘My dear sir!—as if I should not be delighted to see you under any circumstances—at any time—in any place!’

‘You are very kind. I come to you for the same reason that I visited your office—I want some information which I think you may be able to give me.’

‘About your son? I am afraid there is not much I can say in regard to him that will be satisfactory to a man of business like yourself.’

Wrentham shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, as if the subject were one he would rather not discuss.

‘It is not about my son that I desire to speak to you this time.’

There was a peculiar emphasis on the last two words, suggestive that the result of the former conversation had not been satisfactory. Wrentham was, or very cleverly affected to be, unconscious of the suggestion.

‘I am glad of that—real glad, as Americans say. And yet I have more than once had a notion of going to you and asking you to try to bring the young man to reason. I am supposed to be his manager and adviser. My management consists in doing the work of a message-boy—that is, strictly carrying out his instructions: my advice is nowhere.’

‘I have no desire to interfere with him in his present course.’

‘So I supposed, and that is what has kept me from going to you. I had no idea, until after accepting this agreement with him, that he was such an obstinate beggar—you know that I am speaking of him as my friend. He has got this mania—I have told him that I consider it a mania—and he sticks to it. Unfortunately, his uncle approves of it; but you know that this is not business—he will never get anything out of it.’

‘Not in your sense, Mr Wrentham; but there are some profits which cannot be reckoned by the figures in our ledgers—and some losses too.’

‘Undoubtedly, sir, undoubtedly; at the same time, you cannot blame me for taking the commonplace view of things, and regretting that a young man with such a splendid opportunity should deliberately chuck it into the gutter. Why, with his capital, I can see a magnificent future, if he would only consent to follow the dictates of common-sense.’

‘You mean those dictates which lead to the making of money. His notion is to make people happy. Well, as you are aware, I have had some experience in obeying common-sense, as you understand it; and I am curious to see the result of Philip’s experiment. I have no desire and no right to interfere with him.’

‘The result will be ruin—absolute ruin. In less than twelve months he will not have a penny of the whole capital now at his disposal. However, as you say, we have nothing to do with it. At the same time, I trust you will, for my sake, remember by-and-by that I have entered my protest against the course he is pursuing.’

‘I shall remember,’ said Mr Hadleigh, inclining his head gravely. ‘What I called to ask you was, do you know anything about Mr Beecham, who seems to have taken permanent quarters at the King’s Head?’

‘Beecham!’ exclaimed Wrentham gleefully, as if intensely relieved by an agreeable change of subject. ‘I should think so. I believe that it was my privilege to be the first amongst his acquaintances in Kingshope. I don’t think he would object to my saying that he is a friend of mine. A capital fellow—simple as a child, and yet wise as a philosopher ever can be.’

‘That sounds like a sneer at philosophers.’

‘I did not mean it; but there is a difference between the man who is a philosopher and the man who is up to the time of day. Now, this Beecham has travelled a great deal, read a great{326} deal, and knows a great deal; but he doesn’t know a game at cards. I had to show him how to play Nap!’

Mr Hadleigh was not interested by this record of the simplicity of the stranger; he was occupied by some other reflection, which caused his brows to contract and his eyelids to droop.

‘Has he told you what part of the world he comes from?’

Wrentham laughed.

‘Why, he comes from everywhere—America, Australia, and likely enough the North Pole, although he has not particularly referred to it.’

Mr Hadleigh rose.

‘Will you find out for me, if you can, where he came from last?’

Wrentham became suddenly serious.

‘You don’t suppose there is anything wrong about him? He acts and talks straightforwardly enough.’

‘I am asking you, Mr Wrentham, for information,’ answered Mr Hadleigh with a mechanical smile. ‘If you have won money from him in betting or playing Nap, I have no doubt you will be paid. My inquiry is suggested by the fact, that he has reminded me of an old—acquaintance’ (he seemed to falter over the word, as if he had wished to say friend, but could not). ‘Should he be the man, I want to have a little conversation with him.’

‘Meaning no harm to him?’ queried Wrentham, suspiciously.

‘On the contrary—good to him and to myself.’

‘Then I shall go along and see him this evening. He’ll tell me at once.’

‘I would prefer that my name was not mentioned.’

‘Oh ... that may make a difference. However, I have no doubt of being able to give you the information you want by to-morrow.’

Mr Hadleigh went away, turning his steps homeward. Through the forest again. Those withered branches were like the milestones of his life, and the pathway of withered leaves was a fitting one for him. You who love nature know that those leaves which the careless call dead are the nurses of the coming spring blossoms; and to him they brought back old thoughts, old faces. How beautiful they are: beautiful, because our tenderest thoughts have their roots in graves.

IN TWO PARTS.—PART II.

The most recent instance of reviving an extinct title is the assumption by Sir Henry Brand, late Speaker of the House of Commons, of the Viscounty of Hampden. It is usual for the Speaker, on retiring from office, to be created a Viscount, and there are circumstances of interest surrounding the elevation of Sir Henry Brand to this dignity. In the first place, he is heir-presumptive to the barony of Dacre, now held by his brother, the twenty-second lord, who was born in 1808. Should, therefore, Lord Hampden survive Lord Dacre, the ancient barony will merge in the recent viscounty and be lost sight of. But why should Sir Henry Brand have chosen the title of Hampden? The fact is this title is young compared with the name borne by ‘the great Buckinghamshire Esquire,’ as Macaulay calls the illustrious patriot. It was created in 1776, when Robert Trevor, fourth baron of that title, assumed the name of Hampden, and was created Viscount Hampden of Great and Little Hampden, in the county of Bucks, where the Hampdens had been the untitled lords long before the Conquest. Three Trevor-Hampdens bore this title, which became extinct in 1824. Now, between the Trevors and the Lords Dacre there is a connection, which we will endeavour to shortly exhibit. The original family name of the Lords Dacre was Dacre; but an unusual variety of other surnames have been at different times assumed by them. In 1715, the fifteenth lord died without male issue; and his daughter Anne became Baroness Dacre, sixteenth holder of the title, who was three times married, and had male issue by each of her husbands. One of them, Thomas Barrett Lennard, became seventeenth Lord Dacre. A son, Charles, by her second marriage, became the husband of Gertrude, daughter and co-heir of John Trevor, Esq., of Glynde in Sussex. The children of Charles and Gertrude were a son and a daughter; of whom the former became eighteenth Lord Dacre, and the latter another Baroness Dacre (nineteenth), who married, in 1771, Thomas Brand, Esq., of the Hoo, Welwyn, Herts; and thus we bring together the Trevors and the Brands. The twentieth Lord Dacre died without issue, and was succeeded by his brother, the twenty-first lord, who assumed the name and arms of Trevor, in compliance with a direction in the will of the last Viscount Hampden. Accordingly, while the surname of the present Lord Dacre is Trevor, that of his brother, Lord Hampden, is merely Brand. It is understood that some members of the family of the Earl of Buckinghamshire, whose patronymic is Hobart Hampden—they being descended in the female line from the patriot, who left no male issue—endeavoured to dissuade Sir Henry Brand from taking the title which he chose. But surely, considering the circumstances mentioned above, he was justified in his selection; and all will feel that the title of Hampden could not be borne by one more worthy to be associated with this great name than the late Speaker.

The foregoing transcripts from titular and family history have been somewhat detailed, inasmuch as their features are representative of many other peerages, and also elucidate various matters connected with the peerage not patent to all persons. They show inter alia how titles may not only be extinguished, but may be shifted about from family to family when the limitations of those titles are in fee. They show, also, why it is that a peer who is generally known by one title may yet sit and vote in the House of Lords or Peers by some other; the short explanation being, that he is not a peer of the United Kingdom, or, in other words, a peer of the entire realm, so far as his first title is concerned. In our previous paper ‘What is a Peer?’ this feature of the peerage was alluded to; and we may now add that there is only one peer, who, not being a peer of the realm in regard to his chief title,{327} yet sits and votes in the House of Lords by a title as exalted as the other. This is the Duke of Hamilton, who, though premier Duke of Scotland, yet, as such has no hereditary seat in parliament,[1] while as Duke of Brandon he has; and he would be so described in the Lords’ division lists. Then, again, the Marquis of Huntly, though premier Marquis of Scotland, is yet only Lord Meldrum when sitting in the House of Lords. The Marquis of Sligo is only such in the peerage of Ireland, but sits in parliament as Lord Monteagle; and there is also a Lord Monteagle who is a peer of the realm by that title only. The eighteenth Earl of Erroll is singularly situated. When sitting in parliament he is Lord Kilmarnock, and this is the courtesy title borne by his eldest son, so that there are two Lords Kilmarnock!

The distinctions just referred to between peers of the United Kingdom and those who are not have given rise to some singular features in the peerage which are, at first sight, of an anomalous character. Thus, while the son of a tradesman who becomes a peer of the United Kingdom to-day may die to-morrow, and his son may take his seat in the House of Lords as an hereditary legislator; on the other hand, the thirty-fourth Scotch Earl of Mar—merely as such—and the thirty-first Irish Lord Kingsale have no hereditary right to a seat in the legislature, although the latter is premier Baron of Ireland. It is of course competent to the Crown—the fountain of honour—to promote these and other noblemen similarly situated to the peerage of the United Kingdom; but until this is done, they take rank below the last created baron of the realm. At one time it appears to have been usual to honour a man by first making him an Irish peer, and then to promote him gradually, as in the case of Rawdon, Earl of Moira, and conspicuously so in that of the Fitzwilliam peerage and others. But then we must remember that it was not before January 1, 1801, that the expression ‘United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland’ was known; nor before 1707 that the term ‘Great Britain’ was, or could in law have been applied to England and Scotland as a whole.[2] The one was created by the statute 39 and 40 Geo. III. c. 67 (July 2, 1800), the other by 5 and 6 Anne c. 8 (May 1, 1707). To these statutes we refer the reader desirous of more information on this subject. He may also peruse that interesting work of light reading, The Reports of the Lords’ Committees on the Dignity of a Peer of the Realm, comprised in four folio volumes (1826).

In ‘What is a Peer?’ we made allusion to peerages created by writ of summons and by letters-patent. We may here observe that there was another form of barony, that by tenure, which, however, long ago became obsolete. Now, it is to be remarked with regard to the creation of a barony by writ of summons, that it always conferred a peerage in fee—in other words, one descendible to males and females—and this will introduce us to two terms previously mentioned, ‘abeyance’ and ‘co-heirs,’ which require a short explanation. It will be convenient to furnish this by reference to those baronies of the Huntingdon earldom which, we have seen, were transplanted, so to speak, from the Hastings into the Rawdon family by the single act of marriage of an heiress of the former with a member of the latter house. The word ‘abeyance’ itself is peculiar, and signifies, to look at something expectingly—in fact, with open mouth. It has been used with regard to corporeal hereditaments; but the subject of estates in abeyance, or in nubibus, is far too intricate to be entered upon here. We must, however, make some allusion to the law of real property, in order to render our succeeding statements intelligible—and titles of honour are to be dealt with under the rules of that branch of law. There are some of those rules, however, which, though applicable to ordinary incorporeal hereditaments, are not so to titles of honour. Thus, while an acre of land in fee is alienable, a title in fee is not; it may devolve, but cannot be devised. Again, if the tenant or, as we commonly say, the owner of an estate in fee simple dies intestate, leaving no sons, but daughters, all the latter inherit as ‘co-heirs,’ or, as lawyers call them, ‘coparceners,’ who are regarded in law as making one heir. Under such circumstances, they may sever the joint ownership if they like; but if they do not, the entire estate may devolve upon the last survivor, assuming the others to die unmarried and intestate. This right of survivorship will not, however, exist as against the heir of any of them where the above circumstances are wanting. Thus, if A. and B. are coparceners, and B. marries, dies, and leaves a son C., the right of B. will descend on C.; and so on. Well, now, a title of honour clearly cannot be made the subject of partition; and accordingly, if the male holder of a barony which originated in a writ of summons dies leaving two daughters, his barony does not become extinct, but falls into ‘abeyance.’ If one of these daughters marries, then dies, leaving a daughter, but her own sister still unmarried, the barony is still in abeyance until either the aunt or her niece dies. If the latter predeceases the former, leaving no issue, there is an end of the abeyance; the aunt assumes the title; but if she dies without having been married, the title then becomes ‘extinct.’ If, on the other hand, the niece has male children, and dies, her eldest son succeeds; and if the latter dies without issue, leaving no brothers or their issue, but only sisters, who do not marry, the title will again fall into abeyance. Thus, it is seen how a barony may be in abeyance, and how there may be co-heirs thereto as claimants also, how such co-heirs and their heirs may exist as such for an indefinite period, or until the title can devolve upon one person. The Crown, however, may exercise its prerogative of terminating the abeyance in favour of one of them, as was done in the Zouche peerage in 1828.

But to return to the Hastings’ honours, and the baronies which Elizabeth transferred to the Rawdon family. The first Baron Hungerford was{328} summoned by writ in the reign of Henry VI.; and his son married Margaret, daughter of Baron Botreaux, thus acquiring this title. Their son Robert married the daughter of Baron Molynes or Molines, and in her right assumed that title, with his own and Botreaux. He was beheaded in 1463. The son of this last Baron Hungerford had a daughter, Mary, who married the first Baron Hastings somewhere about 1480, was summoned to parliament by writ; and in 1485 the attainder of the Hungerfords was reversed, and the family honours were restored. The third Baron Hastings was raised to the earldom of Huntingdon, in which dignity these honours were merged; and when the eighteenth earl died in 1789, they descended to his sister, the mother of the first marquis, and this is really how they came into the Rawdon family. It will also be understood from what precedes that the only dignity in the peerage which can fall into abeyance, and, accordingly, to which there can only be co-heirs, is a barony created by writ; and we may observe, that when it cannot be determined upon whom a higher title devolves, there is said to be a ‘suspension’ of that title. It is also to be remembered that as no barony is known to have been created by letters-patent prior to the eleventh year of Richard II., baronies created before then are presumed to have been created by writ of summons.

We have said that the Crown by the exercise of its prerogative may terminate an abeyance, and this may be done either in favour of a person who is, or one who is not, a peer. In the former case, a writ of summons issues to him by the style of the barony in abeyance; in the latter, letters-patent are employed, and this is the practice where the person on whom the title falls is a lady.

And now a few words as to the ‘forfeiture’ of a title. This will follow in all cases upon a conviction for high treason, but not necessarily for felony. If, however, a peerage has originated in a writ of summons, and therefore descendible to heirs-general, it will be forfeited on an attainder for felony. It is a curious fact, too, that although the Crown can pardon a criminal, it cannot in any case restore a dignity once forfeited for attainder, so as to place the offender and his family in statu quo. This can be done only by an Act of Parliament. The Crown can revive the forfeited title, but it then becomes a new one; so that if a twentieth Earl of X. is attainted, although the Crown may create his son Earl of X., yet the latter becomes not the twenty-first, but only the first Earl of X.

There is one more matter of interest which ought to be mentioned here. We have seen that the barons of Hungerford acquired two titles in right of their wives. Now, with regard to real property, if a man is married to a woman possessed of an estate in fee simple or in tail, and she dies without having had a child born alive, he will, in the absence of a settlement, or a will by her to the contrary, lose all interest in such property. If, however, she has had a child which may have lived only long enough to utter one cry, or can be proved in any way to have lived after its birth, the husband will in such case, after his wife’s death, become tenant of the estate for life, and will be termed ‘tenant by the curtesy.’ Such, however, is not the case with regard to titles of honour; and although, as we have seen, there are instances of this ‘curtesy’ in regard to dignities, yet, according to Sir Harris Nicolas, there are none to be met with after the reign of Henry VIII., the latest examples being those of Hungerford, already referred to, and Strange.

Although the House of Lords is undoubtedly an aristocratic assembly, yet it is essentially a cosmopolitan body, and paradoxical as the statement will perhaps appear, it may even be said to be in one sense democratic. It is also to be observed that in this respect the House of Lords differs from the peerage viewed in its entirety. For whereas the latter, so regarded, is aristocratic because of the remote ancestry, wealth, and power of many of its members who have no seat in the House of Lords, yet this assembly, as a section of the peerage, will be found to contain men who may fairly be said to be—employing a significant common phrase—‘Of no family at all.’ Hence our application of the term ‘democratic’ to this assembly; and on consideration, it will be found to be hardly either far-fetched or inappropriate, because the history of England will disclose instances in which the sympathy of the House of Lords has been with the people, where rights and liberties have been endangered, either by injudicious action by the Commons, by the attempt to unduly enlarge the prerogatives of the Crown, or from other causes. The truth is, we have peers who have sprung from all sorts and conditions of men—from traders, retail as well as wholesale; also from the professions. Of these sources of supply the legal profession is the most distinguished, about half the members of the present House of Lords, including some of the oldest, wealthiest, and grandest of them, either being descended from, or owing their position to, successful members of the Bar. We are not aware of any solicitor, as such, having been raised to the peerage; but the great Lord Chancellor Hardwicke, ancestor of the present earl, commenced life as an articled clerk; and Thomas Parker the first Earl of Macclesfield practised as a solicitor before becoming a barrister. Like his illustrious predecessor Bacon, he was impeached for corrupt practices in his office, and fined thirty thousand pounds.

It is amusing to notice—though, of course, the fact is not mentioned as an argument for any previous statement—that in the peerage we have a Browne, a Jones, and a Robinson, which are the family names respectively of the Marquis of Sligo, Viscount Ranelagh, and the Marquis of Ripon, the present Governor-general of India. Four of our greatest dukes—Cleveland, Grafton, Richmond, and St Albans—are severally descended from Charles II. and his mistresses, the last-named having for his ancestress the fair and amiable, but frail Eleanor Gwynne, or as she is commonly called, Nell Gwynne. Another ‘irregular scion of royalty’ is the present Earl of Munster, whose grandparents were King William IV. and Mrs Jordan the actress. With regard to the above-named dukes, it is a remarkable circumstance that although the sovereigns of England ceased in 1801 to perpetrate the act of absurdity and effrontery of styling themselves kings of France, yet the above-mentioned noblemen still quarter the arms of that country on their heraldic shields. At the same time, over such arms, which are those{329} of Charles II., there is placed the sinister[3] baton—that is, one extending from nearly the top of the left of the shield to nearly the bottom of its right—which is the emblem of illegitimacy. Lord Munster also bears the royal arms with the same ‘abatement,’ as a herald would say. Then, on the other hand, there are eight dukes, three marquises, seventeen earls, three viscounts, and fourteen barons who are entitled to quarter the royal arms of Plantagenet on their shields without this said baton. But this is not so singular as the fact disclosed during the course of the ‘Sussex Peerage Case,’ to be noticed again presently, that upwards of thirty thousand persons in this country have royal blood in their veins!

The distinction between what may be termed personal titles and those of a local or territorial character should be observed. Occasionally, one hears of a Marquis of Townshend, a Marquis of Conyngham, an Earl of Waldegrave, of Granville, &c. Such expressions are erroneous; there are, in fact, no such titles, and the ‘of’ is improperly introduced. We ought to say Earl Granville, &c. So also with the Earls Cairns, Fitzwilliam, Grey, Stanhope, &c., whose name and chief title are the same. We have, however, Earl Brownlow, whose family name is Cust. Moreover, a peer whose chief title is personal, may yet possess others which are local, but not, so far as we know, territorial. Thus, Earl Fortescue’s second title is Viscount Ebrington, and the Marquis Conyngham is Earl of Mountcharles. Again, all a peer’s titles may be the same as his name, as in the case of Sir J. V. S. Townshend, Bart., who is Marquis, Viscount, and Baron Townshend. It is, however, usual in this family for the eldest son to be designated Viscount Raynham during his father’s lifetime, the viscounty being, in fact, ‘Townshend of Raynham, in the county of Norfolk.’

But even where peers do bear territorial or local titles, as, for example, the Duke of Norfolk, Marquis of Northampton or Earl of Derby, it is not usual in society to so speak of them except in the case of a dukedom; all noblemen, whether actually so, or only by courtesy, being styled simply Lord So-and-so.

It now and then happens that some distinguished man, who for some reason is not disposed to accept a peerage himself, will yet permit such honour to be conferred on his wife. This was the case with the late Lord Beaconsfield, whose wife became in 1868 Viscountess Beaconsfield, her husband still remaining a commoner. Then, again, in 1836 the wife of Sir John Campbell, afterwards Lord Campbell, and Chief Justice of England, was raised to the peerage as Baroness Stratheden, before her husband was, a circumstance which will be found to disclose the unusual fact of three baronies being conferred in the short space of six years on two families, each indebted for its elevation to nobility to a successful lawyer. The father of Lady Stratheden was Sir James Scarlett, who was created Chief Baron of the Exchequer and Lord Abinger in January 1835. Next year the Stratheden peerage was created; and in 1841, Lady Stratheden’s husband became Lord Chancellor of Great Britain and Lord Campbell. She died in 1860, whereupon her eldest son succeeded to her title. Lord Campbell died next year; and the same nobleman also took his father’s title. Thus we have what seems at first sight the puzzling title of Stratheden and Campbell.

There are a few other instances in the peerage of the employment of a double title, for example, the Dukes of Buckingham and Chandos; Hamilton and Brandon; Richmond and Gordon: the Earls of Mar and Kellie; Warwick and Brooke; Pembroke and Montgomery; Stamford and Warrington; Suffolk and Berkshire; Wemyss and March; Winchelsea and Nottingham, &c.: Viscount Massereene and Ferrard (who sits as Lord Oriel): Baron Saye and Sele; Baron Mowbray, Segrave, and Stourton; Oranmore and Browne; De L’Isle and Dudley, &c., which the reader inclined to do so may investigate for himself.

Then we have titles of another compound order, as those of Lord Clifford of Chudleigh, Howard of Glossop, Vaux of Harrowden, Willoughby de Broke, Willoughby de Eresby, &c.; and as an instance of idem sonans in titles, we may mention the barony of Middleton and the viscounty of Midleton, the respective holders of which are peers of the realm, and pronounce their titles in the same way.

Some of the heraldic mottoes of our nobility are extremely peculiar. A very blunt one is that of Byron, Crede Byron (Believe a Byron). A few of them have reference to the achievements for which the peerage was originally conferred, or from which promotion therein was the result. Thus, Baron Exmouth, upon whom a viscounty was conferred after the bombardment of Algiers in 1816, placed his family motto over his crest, and the word ‘Algiers’ under his shield. In the same way the celebrated Field-marshal Viscount Gough had the words ‘China,’ ‘Barrosa,’ and ‘Goojerat’ painted on his armorial bearings, also the Irish words Faugh a Ballagh—that is, clear the way, which is the war-cry of the regiment known as the Connaught Rangers. Again, Lord Radstock’s motto is ‘St Vincent,’ commemorating a naval exploit of the first peer, who was a son of the third Earl Waldegrave, which, however, took place off Cape Lagos in 1797. The motto of the hero John Jervis, who destroyed the Spanish fleet off Cape St Vincent in 1797, and who was raised to the peerage as Earl St Vincent, was the strange-looking word ‘Thus,’ and it is still borne by the representative of the Jervis family, who, however, is only Viscount St Vincent. ‘Thus’ is a nautical term of command which, shortly explained, signifies an order to keep the ship’s head in the direction in which she is proceeding. The motto of Earl Fortescue, Forte scutum salus ducum (that is, A strong shield is the safeguard of the leaders), is noteworthy. According to Sir B. Burke, the ancestor of the Fortescues was one Sir Richard le Fort, who protected the Conqueror at the battle of Hastings by his shield. Escue being the Norman word for shield, it was added to Fort, and thus produced the name and the title of Fortescue. The above motto is also that of the Fortescues Lords Clermont, who are kinsmen of the others. Two ennobled barristers chose mottoes associated with their professional pursuits, Pratt, Marquis Camden,{330} having taken Judicium parium, aut lex terræ (that is, The judgment of our peers, or the law of the land); while the renowned advocate Thomas, Lord Erskine, adopted the phrase Trial by Jury. This nobleman was the son of the fifth Earl of Buchan, whose family motto is Judge nought; and there is some singularity about the abandonment of this motto for that of Trial by Jury. There are two mottoes of an extremely suggestive character—that of Earl Howe (Let Curzon hold what Curzon held), and that of the Marquis Conyngham (Over Fork over!). The history of the latter family will show that the spirit of this phrase, taken in its vulgar acceptation, has not been disregarded by them. In some of the mottoes we discover a play of words—a fanciful conceit, as it would have once been termed. Thus, the Earls of Onslow use the well-known proverb, Festine lente, or ‘Hasten slowly,’ which evidently has reference to the present form of their name, On-slow, which, however, was originally Ondeslow. Then, again, Earl Manvers’ is Pie repone te (Repose with pious confidence). If the position of the letters in the Latin words be changed, we have Piereponete; and ‘Pierrepont’ is the family name of the above nobleman. The motto of the Earls of Wemyss, This our Charter is, contains their name of Charteris. So also does that of the Roches, Lords Fermoy, Mon Dieu est ma roche; and the motto of the Earls of Sandwich, Post tot naufragia portum (After so many shipwrecks, we arrive at port). Then, again, the Duke of Devonshire, and Lords Chesham and Waterpark, all of the Cavendish family, have for their motto Cavendo tutus (Safe by being cautious), evidently a jeu de mots, a hazy sort of play on the name of the title.

In a previous paragraph, we alluded to the Sussex Peerage Case. This was a very painful curiosity indeed of the peerage. The Duke of Sussex, sixth son of George III., had married, in 1793, Lady Augusta Murray, daughter of the Earl of Dunmore. The marriage ceremony was twice performed—first at Rome, and next at St George’s, Hanover Square, and the union was one of affection on both sides. Two children were born of it—a son and a daughter, the former having been Colonel Sir Augustus F. D’Este, and the latter, Mademoiselle D’Este, who became the second wife of Serjeant Wilde, afterwards Lord Chancellor Truro. That lady died in 1855 without issue, and the present Lord Truro is accordingly descended from the first wife. On the death of the Duke of Sussex in 1843, Sir A. D’Este claimed the Dukedom of Sussex; but the Prerogative Court of Canterbury, the then forum of matrimonial causes, held the marriage of his parents to have been null and void, as contrary to the provisions of the Royal Marriage Act (12 Geo. III. c. 11). Sir Augustus D’Este died in 1849; and this lamentable story in its legal aspect may be read in the second volume of Clark and Finnelly’s House of Lords’ Reports. The Sussex Peerage Case, beyond its painful interest, is of importance to lawyers, several rules of the law of evidence having been fixed by it. The same may be said of some other peerage cases, as those of Banbury and Shrewsbury. And we may also mention that one which probably stands without a parallel in the records of scandalous family history, the celebrated Berkeley Peerage Case, a veritable curiosity, not of the peerage only, but of human life generally, being, in fact, an agglomeration of frauds, perjuries, and immoral proceedings, all surrounded by an atmosphere of the most repulsive vulgarity. We gladly pass it by. Indeed, it ought, except for illustrative purposes, to be let severely alone.

We have spoken in a previous paragraph of ‘premier peerages;’ and perhaps a few words are necessary on this subject.

The premier peerages of the realm are as follows:

England—Duke of Norfolk, 1483; Marquis of Winchester, 1551; Earl Shrewsbury, 1442; Viscount Hereford, 1550; Baron Le Despencer, 1264.

Scotland—Duke of Hamilton, 1643; Marquis of Huntly, 1559; Earl Crawford, 1398; Viscount Falkland, 1620; Baron Forbes, 1442 (?).

Ireland—Duke of Leinster, 1766, who is also premier Marquis and Earl of Ireland; Viscount Gormanston, 1478; Baron Kingsale, 1181.

Of all these, Kingsale is the oldest existing title, but, as already intimated, Lord Kingsale has no seat in the House of Lords. The barony (by writ) of Le Despencer is the oldest in England, but is at present held by a lady, who is the wife of Viscount Falmouth, whose son is therefore heir to both titles. The oldest title borne by a member of the House of Lords under which he sits and votes is that of De Ros, this barony having been created 1264, but after that of Le Despencer.

Earls, Viscounts, Barons, and Baronesses are entitled to be styled ‘Right Honourable;’ a Marquis is ‘Most Honourable,’ or ‘Most Noble and Puissant Prince;’ a Duke is ‘Most Noble,’ or ‘Most High, Potent, and Noble Prince.’ All peers except barons are by the etiquette of heraldry regarded and styled as cousins of the sovereign. Thus, a Viscount or an Earl is addressed as, ‘Our right trusty and well-beloved Cousin;’ a Marquis as, ‘Our right trusty and entirely beloved Cousin;’ and a Duke as, ‘Our right trusty and right entirely beloved Cousin.’

As a rule, the course of true love runs smoother in Kaffir-land than in more civilised countries. The reason for this is not far to seek. In Europe, the business of matrimony is complicated by its being associated with the impulses of the heart; but amongst our Ethiopian brethren the emotional has but little place or power. The whole affair is simply arranged by the father of the girl. Eight or ten oxen are handed over to the dusky Paterfamilias by the eligible suitor, who in exchange receives the damsel—blushing, no doubt, if one could perceive it beneath the dark skin. In rare instances, it may be a case of mutual affection; and in the true story which I am about to relate, affairs went ‘clean off the track’ in a quite phenomenal fashion. A good deal of this romantic drama, which took place in and about Maritzburg, the capital of Natal, came under the immediate notice of my wife and myself, while the rest of it was told us by one or other of the chief actors.

It was towards the close of a summer afternoon.{331} The day had been more than usually hot, but a slight curtain of cloud was now pleasantly veiling the sun. Our house was situated on a gently rising ground on the outskirts of the town—a comfortable one-storied cottage, surrounded by a deep veranda, and standing a short distance back from the road. There would have been sultry stillness, but for the chirp and whir of insects, the too frequent ‘ping’ of the mosquito as it hovered around one’s ear, the ‘clunk-clunk’ of the frogs in a neighbouring streamlet, and the sonorous voice of our Kaffir ‘boy’ chanting some barbarous lay in one of the outhouses. Occasionally a creaking, full-laden bullock-wagon would toil past, drawn by a span of twelve or fourteen patient oxen, and overhung by a cloud of red dust, stirred up from the broad, rut-lined, arid highway. Anon, a buggy would dash jolting along, to the imminent danger of family groups of itinerant Kaffirs, who would, with a loud ‘Wow!’ jump aside; and once in a while a solitary horseman, booted and spurred, would be seen galloping to or from the town.

I was lying in a swing-hammock suspended in the veranda, smoking a cigar, and fitfully reading that day’s paper. Now and again, my eye mechanically rested on the road, watching the several wayfarers. Presently my attention was more particularly drawn to a young Zulu woman, who had opened our front gate, and was slowly walking up the path leading to our house. She was probably about seventeen years of age, though, to one unacquainted with Kaffir physique, she might have seemed at least twenty-one, and moved with the erect and graceful carriage characteristic of the race. Her dress consisted of what may be best described as a canvas tunic, which had originally been a sack, but round the arm-holes and short skirt was a border of many-coloured beads. Upon her shapely arms were brass rings and circlets of beads, while similar ornaments graced her calf and ankle. Her hair had been combed up, stiffened with red clay, and tied into a bunch—a toilet significant of her status as a married woman, the Kaffir virgin usually rejoicing merely in her primitive ‘wool.’

The young woman’s steps were directed to the back of our premises, where she disappeared. What could she be after? The next moment I said to myself that she must be one of our ‘boy’s’ relations. The kinship of one’s Kaffir boy, be it here remarked, is invariably very extensive; and unless you exercise some strictness, your rearmost premises are very apt to be invaded by his parents, his brothers, ‘his sisters and his cousins and his aunts,’ not to speak of his uncles and vaguely remote relatives. Our boy, Capelle by name, had been told that we were not to be annoyed by frequent visits from his friends; and as that day he had already welcomed and hospitably fed—with our maize-meal—about half-a-dozen of his acquaintances, I somewhat resented the coming of this youthful matron.

It was in my mind to jump out of the hammock and remonstrate with our domestic, when I heard stealthy footsteps in the veranda. The next moment Capelle stood before me, asking permission, as far as I could make out, for his sister to remain overnight. My wife now appeared, telling me that Capelle and the young woman had been having high words in the Kaffir-house. Thereupon I questioned him as to the cause of the quarrel. ‘Baas’ (Master), he began; and then delivered a fluent discourse in his native tongue, doubtless full of information, but almost wholly unintelligible to me, until my wife acted as interpreter. My better-half, having to scold and direct the boy, had in about two years’ time mastered the colloquial Kaffir generally spoken in Maritzburg kitchens. Out of the facts extracted from Capelle and his sister by cross-examination, the following interesting narrative was evolved.

Some six months previous, this young woman, whose name was ’Manthla, had plighted her troth to one Umhlassu, who was now working as a porter at an ironmonger’s in Maritzburg, and was rapidly saving up the money to buy the necessary cattle wherewith to purchase her from her papa. He had now eight oxen, only two short of the number required, and had secured a hut for her reception. For her part, ’Manthla had given Umhlassu a pair of earrings, a necklace, a snuff-box, bead ornaments for the head, and other gifts such as Kaffir maidens present to their lovers. Unfortunately, another wooer had come to her father, offering twelve bullocks for ’Manthla; and the parent, very naturally—for such doings are not unknown even in Mayfair—favoured the wealthier suitor. The oxen were accepted there and then, without the daughter being consulted in the matter. As a rule, the reception of the live-stock by the father is an important point in the marriage-service of the Zulus. The next step is the arranging of the wedding-feast, at which there generally is dancing for two or three days, as well as the consumption of one of the oxen which form part of the ‘marriage-settlement,’ not to mention the drinking galore of native beer.

’Manthla had steadily declined to take any part in the proceedings, though she had been in the charge of the matrons of the kraal, who had dressed her hair in the manner already described. With still greater persistence, she refused to accompany Indebbelish, her would-be lord and master, to his kraal, even going the length of producing a knife and protesting she would take away her life, rather than become his bride. Her father threatened to beat her with a stick; all her friends upbraided her; and finally, she was handed over to the old women, who kept her a prisoner and all but starved her, to induce a better state of mind. Her almost unheard-of defiance of ‘use and wont’ astonished the marriage-party; but their amazement reached its climax when, in the midst of the festivities, it was discovered that ’Manthla had seized a favourable opportunity to escape. She had travelled on foot fifty miles into Maritzburg, and it was at the close of that journey that I had seen her from our veranda.

When ’Manthla had greeted her brother and told him the whole story, he was of course highly indignant at her disregard of tribal custom. He rated her in good sound terms, jeered at her, and treated her to a variety of ill-favoured epithets, in which the Zulu vocabulary is unusually rich. It was the sound of this fraternal reproof which my wife had heard. There was really nothing for it but to give shelter to the fugitive for at least one night. It would scarcely have{332} been humane to have turned ’Manthla adrift, tired and hungry as she was; and accordingly the ‘pilgrim of love’ was allowed to take her fill of porridge and sleep on the kitchen floor.

Early next morning, as I was mounting my cob at the stable-door, preparatory to a ‘spin’ over the veldt before breakfast, there appeared an elderly Kaffir, who held up the forefinger of his right hand and exclaimed ‘Inkosi!’—the native salutation of respect. This was no less a personage than Pank, the father of ’Manthla and of our boy Capelle. He was attired in a soldier’s old coat, and ragged trousers that descended no farther than his knees. On his head was a battered felt hat; while through the lobe of one ear was stuck a cigar, and through the other a cylindrical ‘snuff-box.’ Though old Pank had come in hot haste from the kraal all those fifty miles, and was presumably in a state of great mental agitation, he sauntered into our back-yard as carelessly as if he had only casually dropped in from next door. I have noticed the same characteristic in several other Kaffirs. After the afore-mentioned salutation, Pank’s lean face broadened into a grin, and he vivaciously ejaculated two or three times: ‘It’s allee right, allee right!’ This phrase, which proved to be the only English at his command, was introduced with great frequency, and sometimes with ludicrous effect. This optimist remark, however, was not upon his lips when he caught sight of his daughter ’Manthla timidly peeping out from the door of the Kaffir-house. His face darkened in expression, and pouring forth a volley of reproaches, the ‘stern parient’ approached her. I stood anxiously watching the interview, fearing lest violence might be the outcome. But after Pank had uncorked the vial of his wrath, it quickly evaporated, and in a short time he sat down on his haunches, took the snuff-box from his ear and regaled himself with a hearty pinch.

I rode off; and on my return, half an hour later, the old fellow was in our kitchen, calmly consuming a large pot of porridge. It turned out that he had ordered ’Manthla to be ready to accompany him at once to the kraal of Indebbelish. Alas, however, for the ‘best-laid schemes!’ When the babba (father) went into the Kaffir-house, he found ’Manthla had again fled. His anger and disgust were now turned upon Capelle, who vowed he had had no hand in her flight. The father retorted, the son recriminated, and it was only by rushing out and brandishing my riding-whip that order was restored. The old man suddenly grinned and exclaimed: ‘Allee right, allee right!’ and then his eye catching sight of a big iron pot which had fallen into disuse, he asked if we could spare it. My wife sarcastically inquired if there was anything else he would like; upon which Pank requested a bottle of castor-oil, for the purpose of anointing his body when he reached home. This being given him, the injured father strode away, with the big pot over his head like a huge helmet, and we hoped we had seen the last of him. Not at all! In five minutes or so the old rascal came back, begging Capelle’s wages for the next three months. It is customary for the babbas to collect the money due to their sons, but payment in advance was altogether without precedent. Happily, by disbursing the wages due for a month which had almost expired, we for a time got rid of the father of our heroine.

It is time that we again followed her fortunes. When ’Manthla ran away from our house, she betook herself to Umhlassu, who, true lover that he was, forsook his work, packed up his blankets, and went off with his bride to his own kraal. Feasting and dancing were again indulged in, this time, however, by the bridegroom’s relatives. Hearing of this, the unsuccessful Indebbelish indignantly demanded the cattle back from ’Manthla’s father; but this just request was point-blank refused. Indebbelish saw he had no other alternative but to trudge into town to institute an action for ‘breach of promise’ against Babba Pank. The machinery of the native court in Maritzburg was in due course set in motion, and the case appointed to come off in three weeks, a fact we knew one evening by the advent of Indebbelish, who was about the most handsome Kaffir we had ever seen. He came to have a chat with Capelle, who had favoured his wooing in time past, and was still friendly. We naturally objected to have our larder drawn upon alternately by the plaintiff and defendant in the pending suit, and so declined to give Indebbelish board and lodging. But he made up for this by calling night after night and smoking Capelle’s tobacco.

At length the great day of the trial dawned, and with it came the beaming face of ’Manthla’s father with his irrepressible ‘Allee right!’ He marched in and billeted himself upon us for about six days. I am not aware whether this was owing to prolonged litigation or to the enjoyment of living at some one else’s expense. At all events, when the week expired, the babba vouchsafed the information that the case had gone against him, and that he had to restore the bullocks, at the same time cheerily adding: ‘It’s allee right, allee right!’ Nevertheless, he went away very downcast, after another ineffectual attempt to collect Capelle’s wages in advance. A day or two afterwards, the cattle were returned to Indebbelish with a bad grace; but Umhlassu gave Babba Pank eight oxen, with a promise of other two at some future period; and the heart of the old man rejoiced. The sympathies of my wife had been aroused in favour of Indebbelish; but her interest instantly vanished when she found that ‘the poor, forsaken young man,’ long previous to his ‘courtship’ of ’Manthla, was already possessed of three wives! When Indebbelish received back the oxen from the babba, he simply drove them off to another kraal, and purchased an ebony virgin to complete his connubial quartet.

About eighteen months afterwards, I happened to be amongst the Saturday morning throng on the Market Square of Maritzburg. Hundreds of people—English, Dutch, Indian, and Kaffir—were moving about the dusty expanse of ground, which was covered with auctioneers’ stands, bullock-wagons, sacks of produce, cows and horses on sale, and large quantities of the miscellaneous household goods which find their way to colonial marts. At one part of the ground, a number of Kaffir wives were squatted alongside heaps of firewood, which they had conveyed into town, and were now selling. As I observed them, my boy Capelle suddenly drew my attention to a woman who was walking towards the group. She carried a great load of firewood in long lengths poised upon her{333} head, and a baby slung behind her in a blanket. I dimly recollected her face; Capelle told me her name, and ran forward to speak to her. It was none other than the heroine of the love-match—poor ’Manthla!

IN TWO PARTS.—PART II.

Having in the former part of this paper considered certain theories concerning the nature, qualities, power, and vitality of love, we would now invite the attention of our readers to some of the symptoms, evidences, and effects of that passion. Here we find ourselves upon somewhat firmer ground, for the field now before us is not so much that of theory and definition as of observation and experience. While the profoundest philosophers find themselves at a loss in attempting to formulate some satisfactory theory on the subject, the most unsophisticated observer can tell us something of the signs and tokens by which love manifests its presence. The symptoms of the tender passion are both varied and varying, and we have it on the authority of Addison that there is no other passion which produces such contrary effects in so great a degree. Byron describes love as bearing within itself ‘the very germ of change.’

For a thoroughly comprehensive catalogue of love’s tokens take the reply of Silvius to Phebe in As You Like It. ‘Good shepherd,’ says Phebe, ‘tell this youth what ’tis to love.’ ‘It is,’ replies Silvius, ‘to be all made of sighs and tears; it is to be all made of faith and service; it is to be all made of fantasy, all made of passion, and all made of wishes; all adoration, duty, and observance; all humbleness, all patience, and impatience; all purity, all trial, all observance.’ If the foregoing be accepted as an accurate description of what it is to love, one is enabled to understand the belief that the reason why Love is not included among the virtues is that it combines them all in one.

Dryden has given us several accounts of the way in which the tender passion operates upon the mind. In one passage he says:

The same writer, descending to more everyday observations, and speaking of the condition of a person in love, declares:

This is certainly a faithful description of the conventional lover, whom you meet in novels, and there are no doubt a great many sentimental people who still languish and sigh, after the old romantic pattern. Yet there are a great many more who get through all their love experiences with very little languishing and very few sighs. They are much too busy, or too cheerful, or too matter-of-fact, to indulge their passion to the pining or languishing degree; so that tears and sighs and groans are not by any means inevitable or necessary symptoms of love. While one lover is to be found ‘sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad made to his mistress’ eyebrow,’ another is discovered basking joyfully in the sunshine of his love, and singing with Moore that

Ovid remarks that tears are by no means unserviceable in love, because by tears you may touch a heart of stone. He therefore advises the lover to endeavour that his mistress should find him with his cheeks bathed in tears; and he adds, that if you are not quite equal to the shedding of genuine tears, you may bathe your eyes and cheeks by other means. But Ovid is discoursing on the art of love, and what we are at present considering are the true marks of the genuine passion. There are, no doubt, few matters in which there has been, since the world began, so much dissimulation and hypocrisy as in love affairs, and Ovid’s artful suggestions recall the profane observation of a cynical writer, that ‘Love consists of a little sighing, a little crying, a little dying—and a deal of lying.’ It is not our present purpose, however, to enter upon the false in love, or the spurious impersonations which stalk about in his name. Let it suffice to say that Ovid’s crafty advice is founded on the fact that true love is often tearful and desponding. It may not be, as Silvius puts it, ‘all sighs and tears,’ but even the most sanguine love may have its moments of sadness and doubt. ‘Love,’ says one of the poets—

And Scott declares that ‘Love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.’ Another poet argues that unless you quake and are struck dumb when your mistress enters the room, you have loved amiss, and must begin anew.

But if love is sometimes downcast and fearful, it just as often soars aloft on the pinions of hope, for ‘Love can hope where Reason would despair.’ The lover has a miraculous way of finding hope and encouragement amid the most unpromising circumstances. He can feed for weeks together on a word or a glance; and if his mistress frown and turn her back upon him, he must still lay the flattering unction to his soul that she merely frowns, as Shakspeare expresses it somewhere, to beget more love in him. Truly, the lover had need be ‘all patience,’ for ’tis a fickle god he woos. If he would not woo in vain, he must bear with a thousand caprices, inconstancies, and tyrannies.

Lovers are proverbially blind to each other’s shortcomings, and their praises of each other are therefore untrammelled by ordinary scruples on the score of veracity. ‘There never,’ says Bacon, ‘was a proud man thought so absurdly well of himself as the lover doth of the person loved.’ It is therefore at once easy and natural for men and women under the influence of the tender passion to present to each other, and to swallow with the keenest relish, a great deal of this kind of food.

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If we are to credit the French poet Chamfort, who says he has seen women of all countries, an Italian woman does not believe that she is loved by her lover unless he is capable of committing a crime for her, an Englishwoman an extravagance, and a Frenchwoman a folly. Let us hope that worthier performances than these are sometimes demanded in token of love’s sincerity—acts of self-denial, of merit, of generosity, and of faithfulness. Richter is of opinion, however, that ‘love requires not so much proofs as expressions of love—it demands little else than the power to feel and to requite love.’ Dryden gives expression to the same idea, when he says:

How often has love spurned riches, power, enjoyment, the good opinion of the world, and everything else, in order to meet responsive love amid poverty, suffering, deprivation, and even dishonour! True love will sacrifice everything to be requited; for ‘Lovers all but love disdain.’

Whatever form its manifestations may take, it may be assumed that the fickle god will not fail to show itself. ‘There are two things not to be hidden,’ says the proverb—‘Love and a cough.’ It may be expressed by sighs and tears, by a dejected and distracted mien, and by what Shakspeare calls ‘the pale complexion of true love.’ It may be discovered in tell-tale blushes—‘celestial rosy red, Love’s proper hue,’ as Milton puts it—in bashful awkwardness, and in a distressing self-consciousness in the presence of the adored object. And it may be shown no less plainly and emphatically in quiet self-devotion, dutifulness, and self-sacrifice. It often identifies itself with various kinds of manias, such as a mania for composing amatory epistles or writing verses, a mania for going to church, for haunting a particular street, or for buying kid gloves, patent-leather boots, and eau-de-Cologne. These, with many other similar and equally harmless symptoms, are quite familiar.

Then there is a more extravagant class of manifestations that the hard unfeeling world would describe as folly. When love reaches what Bacon calls ‘the mad degree,’ there is absolutely no limit to the excesses that may be perpetrated in its name. But of the comparatively harmless kinds of folly there is usually a considerable admixture in even the sedatest loves. Thomson describes the lover as ‘the very fool of nature.’ It is not, of course, to be supposed that he is ever conscious of his folly—when he is engaged in it, at all events—for

Yet it cannot be denied that the folly in love is, to the lovers, by no means the least agreeable part of it.

is Cowley’s frank confession; and most lovers, if they carefully examine their experience and speak the truth, will echo the sentiment. Wisdom would never give utterance to all those fond, foolish fancies, those ‘airy nothings,’ and sweet flatteries that the lover prizes so much; and wisdom would often dictate a degree of prudence and reserve and formality that could never be endured by two hearts that beat as one.

After what we have seen of Cupid’s fickleness and ever-varying moods, it will not be imagined that when love is not all smiles and sunshine, it is therefore insincere or undesirable. In the words of the poet Walsh:

After the storm, the sun returns as bright and genial as before, and the air is all the purer and the sweeter for the electric war that has disturbed its stillness. The love that cannot outlive a few misunderstandings and disagreements can hardly claim to be considered as genuine, and had better be allowed to pass at once into the limbo of exploded myths. The truth is, however, that Love often dispenses his favours in a very eccentric way, and each favour is sometimes paid for with a more than proportionate amount of suffering; so that the lover must be often tempted to exclaim with Addison:

Yet he will probably resolve the problem in much the same manner as the poet does in completing the stanza:

Spenser finds that ‘love with gall and honey doth abound,’ and in computing the proportion of each, he expresses the belief that for every drachm of honey there is a pound of gall. Notwithstanding this, however, he is prepared to assert that

This is the attitude which the lover must adopt; and if the gall preponderate in his experience—which we sincerely hope it won’t—he must comfort and sustain himself with thoughts of the honey he has enjoyed, and that may be yet in store for him.

If the course of true love does not run smooth, that is not always because the way is not clear enough or level enough, but very often entirely on account of Love’s injudicious and impracticable behaviour. If Love will indulge his propensity to masquerade in the guise of frenzy or delirium, folly or extravagance, there is nothing at all surprising in his getting into trouble. But what is the use of sermonising? Notwithstanding all the striking lessons he has received, and the painful experiences through which he has passed, Cupid is still much the same wilful, rollicking, mischief-loving sprite that he was when he first appeared upon our planet; and so, no doubt, he will remain to the end of the chapter.

At the same time, when all is said and done, is it not just possible that Love gets blamed for a good deal of trouble and mischief for which he is really not responsible? Do people not often cry out against Love’s tyranny and unreasonableness, when they ought to blame their own{335} selfishness, or pride, or blundering stupidity? Love must be treated as an honoured guest, not as a slave; and if he leave us, may we not reasonably ask ourselves, before we begin to upbraid and revile him, whether we have not driven him away by our own neglect and heartlessness and querulous impatience? When we consider how he is sometimes treated, the wonder is, not so much that he should have departed, as that he should have stayed so long.

It is exceedingly interesting to the reflective cyclist of the present day to indulge in a retrospect of ten or fifteen years, and compare his present position with the status that subsisted in those early days of the wheel. Nothing could better illustrate the rapid growth of this comparatively modern method of locomotion than the spread and increasing importance of the various Exhibitions in different parts of the country devoted entirely or in part to demonstrating the advances made in the two or three wheeler during the recess of winter. And these advances have been most marked during the past year, the machines now exhibited showing plainly the care and attention bestowed upon them. In one important detail in particular this is markedly apparent, namely, in that of gearing for tricycles. It is a well-known fact among cyclists that the temporary exhaustion following the rapid traversing of a smooth level road does not proceed in a tenth degree so much from the actual strength expended as upon the rapid exertion required. To obviate this, a system of gearing-up has been introduced, whereby the wheels make more revolutions than the feet. But as this would place the rider at a disadvantage in ascending inclines or in traversing rough roads, a system of gearing level or down has been combined, whereby, by a mechanical arrangement, the wheels perform either the same number of revolutions as the feet, or less. The combination of these systems has produced some of the most intricately ingenious mechanisms that have lately appeared before the public, and cyclists are busily engaged in testing and otherwise determining which system shall be introduced into their mounts for the coming season.

In the June number of the Journal for last year we predicted the approach of a period of unusual activity in cycling, and the prediction has not proved fallacious; for the season which closed with the approach of last winter was remarkable in many respects, as the following will show. In October, the extraordinary distance of two hundred and sixty miles was ridden on a two-wheeler in twenty-four hours over ordinary roads; a tricycle under similar circumstances has covered over two hundred and twenty-one miles when ridden by a gentleman, and one hundred and fifty-two miles when propelled by a lady. In August, a tricycle was driven from John o’ Groats to Land’s End—ten hundred and seven miles—in fourteen days; the bicycle record by a shorter route being a little over nine days; whilst in October a bicyclist rode from London to Derby—a distance of one hundred and twenty-six miles—without either stopping or dismounting. Many feats of endurance and determination similar to the above have taken place upon the public roads; whilst upon the racing-path, the great feature has been the ‘record cutting’ of the year. In 1882, a well-known doctor and amateur bicyclist rode twenty miles and three hundred and twenty-five yards in an hour; in 1883, this was beaten by a professional at Leicester, who covered twenty miles nine hundred and five yards in the same time; whilst the time for one mile has been lowered from two minutes forty-one and three-fifth seconds to two minutes forty and four-fifth seconds. The time for one mile for a tricycle was also lowered to three minutes five seconds, and all existing tricycling records from a quarter of a mile to one hundred miles were beaten last year. But the rapid advances which characterise the sport will doubtless enable faster times than the above to be made in the not far distant future, and the records which we now behold with pardonable pride may sink into comparative insignificance.

The objection has been raised by many opponents of cycling that it is of no practical value to mankind apart from the means it provides for healthy recreation. This objection no longer exists. The tricycle is now used extensively in many parts of the kingdom by professional men; clergymen in particular are very partial to it; to the doctor it is a positive boon, ay, and to the patient as well at times, for in an emergency, the ready steed can be mounted at once, and no delay caused by awakening drowsy coachmen and harnessing horses. A new description of tricycle now enables enterprising tradesmen, notably news-agents, grocers, and others whose wares are of a comparatively light nature, to deliver their goods with more despatch than formerly; and the Post-office authorities have been alive to the advantages offered by this means of distribution by obtaining machines for rural districts in connection with the Parcels Post and the delivery of letters. The Inland Revenue Office by a recent order recognises the tricycle; and the police in some of our colonies have used them for some time. These facts plainly show that the tricycle has entered upon a new phase of its existence, and that a noble and useful career undoubtedly awaits it.

The ‘freemasonry of the wheel’ has been pushed on to a greater extent than ever during the past year, and is a factor which undoubtedly influences a large proportion of the British public. This is shown by the increasing numbers of the Cyclists’ Touring Club, which increased from seven to nearly twelve thousand during 1883, and promises to reach even twenty thousand during the current year. The ladies are giving their heartiest support, and are joining in large numbers; whilst the movement offers so many attractions to all riders in providing touring companions, hotels with fixed tariffs in nearly every town in Great Britain and the continent, good-fellowship and congenial society wherever the cyclist may happen to alight, and other advantages too numerous to mention, that it includes in its roll many of the nobility and gentry in all parts of the land, and is supported by some of the highest dignitaries of the Church and members of the legal, medical, military, and naval professions.

Other great cycling institutions exist, which{336} are rendering good service to the general public in various ways, one notably in calling attention to the decadence of our public roads since the old coaching-days. In many parts of the country, main roads now exist that are all but impassable to ordinary traffic; their deterioration may be attributed mainly to the competition and monopolisation of the railways in diverting the traffic that once passed over them. Their condition is a misfortune to the public in general, and especially to the inhabitants of the locality; for as good roads are certain to advance the prosperity of a district, so bad ones have ever been considered an indication of a backward state of civilisation. The local authorities to whom the construction and maintenance of these roads have been intrusted, are being aroused to a sense of their responsibility by influentially and numerously attended meetings of persons interested in cycling; the laws relating to the highways have been collected and discussed, and many leading newspapers have given prominence to the grievances vented at these assemblies. If the result should be the amelioration of the condition of these highways, the thanks of the general public will be due to the cyclists, and it will tend to forge still stronger the link which is fast binding them into closer fellowship.

To many manufacturing towns, the rise of cycling has been a boon; to one in particular, Coventry, it has proved perhaps the greatest blessing that has ever befallen it. That ancient city was fast sinking into absolute inertness through the falling-off of its staple trade; it can now boast of being one of the most prosperous towns of the midlands, with huge manufactories and busy hives of men sending forth to the world those apparently delicate structures which are now in such universal request. Other towns, such as Birmingham, London, Wolverhampton, &c., sensibly feel the demands of the two hundred thousand cyclists who are computed to be in Great Britain alone, and the export trade of these towns is rapidly becoming greater in this particular branch. The two and three wheeler have now penetrated to nearly every part of the globe; they are no longer strangers to the Russian, the Turk, and the Hindu; in Brazil, Australia, and New Zealand, they make steady progress; and even the sacred land of the Celestials is not free from their enchantments. This wide and general dissemination of a sport which is essentially English, cannot fail to be a source of the greatest gratification to those who so sturdily fought for it and upheld it during the trials of its early existence.

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