Chambers’s Journal, by Various—A Project Gutenberg eBook

One of the greatest economic problems of our time is associated with the double stream which has been setting westward across the Atlantic with steady persistence for some two or three years, and which even now does not seem to have passed its height. It is a stream which is composed of the labour and the capital of the Old World. To the number of many hundreds of thousands of individuals, some of the best bone and sinew of the European states has been transplanted each year to America. And latterly, this exodus has been accompanied by a large volume of that without which labour can do little collectively. During the last twelve months especially, the number of schemes for the employment of British capital across the Atlantic has increased enormously; and at the present time, there are many millions of money, belonging to people still residing on this side, invested directly or indirectly in land, and in industries connected with land in the States of the Union and of Canada. The receptivity of the American continent in respect both of labour and of capital is very great; but it is not unlimited. Nor is the supply of either labour or capital unlimited in the countries of the eastern hemisphere. There is not as yet any imminent danger of excessive contribution in the one case and of depletion in the other; but we are within sight of consequences which it may be well to consider.

And first with regard to Emigration. It must not be supposed that America—and for the present let us confine our attention to the United States—welcomes without exception the human stream. There are undoubtedly elements in it which would be objectionable anywhere. There are hordes of paupers and loafers and ne’erdoweels, who are as little likely to do any good for themselves, or to benefit the community, in the New World as in the Old. But apart from these, there has been a flow of shrewd workers and skilled artisans, which a certain section of the American nation is disposed to regard with a sour look. The reason is not far to seek. The dominant economic policy of America has been, as we know, one of strict protection of their own industries. For the benefit of the few, the many are heavily burdened, in the belief—fallacious, and not always genuinely entertained—that in process of time the many will reap the harvest. The conductors of these domestic industries are glad enough to get all the experienced foreign labour they can; but the domestic labourer says, very naturally, that the importation is unjust to him. He says, in effect: ‘You tax foreign products to shut out competition with yourselves; but you admit freely foreign producers to compete with me. You raise the cost of living to me by the imposition of taxes to foster your trades; yet you reduce my means of living by suffering immigration which tends to reduce the level of wages.’ Here is friction, and friction which is already producing sparks. It is not difficult to foresee the result. The working-classes cannot continue to burn the candle at both ends for ever. It is not practicable for any country in these days to prohibit, or even to restrict, the importation of human beings. Nor can America say: ‘We will receive any number of farm-labourers, or miners, or anybody disposed to squat in the backwoods and open up our country; but we will draw the line at mechanics or any form of skilled labour which we can ourselves produce to the extent of our requirements.’ The effect of the supply of foreign labour would have been more apparent ere this but for the suicidal policy of the American trades-unions, which practically prohibit the evolution of domestic skill, by forbidding apprenticeship to crafts. But, nevertheless, the effect must eventually be to diminish ‘the reward of labour.’

A well-known American writer holds that the increase in the number of labourers does not tend to diminish wages, but the converse. What in his opinion causes the tendency of ‘the reward of labour’ to a minimum in spite of increase in{642} producing-power, is that rent increases in a still greater ratio. The result is much the same, as far as the labourer is concerned, and it proceeds, whether directly, as is commonly held, or indirectly, as the American writer holds, from there being three men to house and feed where there had been only two. If, however, it be really the matter of rent or interest which affects the price of labour, then the American citizen has all the more reason to regard with attention the other portion of the stream, namely, the flow of British capital for investment in land and cattle in the West. We do not know the aggregate capital of the numerous Ranche and other Companies which have been lately formed, but it is enormous; and with private investments as well, the total British capital occupied in them cannot be short of twenty millions sterling, and probably is even considerably more. The actual amount is not material to our argument. The effect of this tremendous diversion of capital is twofold. It is increasing the value of older estates by the absorption of cheap competitive lots, and it is arousing in the Americans themselves a species of earth-hunger which promises to be very keen. There are thoughtful, observing men on the other side of the Atlantic, who, noting the disfavour into which investments in railroads have fallen, because of their comparatively poor returns—and also because of the distrust begotten by their scandalous management—and who noting, also, the rapidity with which English capital is leading the way—predict that America is on the eve of the most tremendous land ‘boom’ ever known. That means, in plain English, that the enhancement in the value of land, legitimately produced by settlement and cultivation—in other words, by the employment of actual capital and labour—will have an artificial enhancement of indefinite extent added to it by the action of speculation. In all commodities dealt in by man, there is an intrinsic value and a speculative value. When the speculative value becomes inflated above the level of intrinsic value, there ensues a period of dangerous excitement, which invariably ends in collapse and disaster. This is especially the case with land, and it is precisely towards such a critical time that America seems verging.

All this, however, seems to us to point to the probability of free-trade becoming ere long the watchword of the working-classes in the United States. With free-trade in labour concurrently with land-speculation, subjecting them to diminution of wages, and at the same time increase in the cost of living, they will have no alternative but to demand the free admission of all materials bearing on their industries and affecting the cost of living. It is possible that in the present great land-movement may be germinating the seeds of the next great commercial crisis; and upon the theory of periodicity, one of these crises will be due in a year or two. So, also, it is probable that the Emigration movement from the east has carried and is carrying with it elements which will aid in bringing about the much to be desired future of free-trade.

CHAPTER LI.—HEY, PRESTO!

Coutts having seen that his father and sisters were provided with all necessary comforts, hastened to the city. He had an appointment which could not be postponed; he could do nothing more at Ringsford; in town he could arrange with some contractor to send out a band of men to make the least injured portion of the Manor again habitable, and to clear away the débris as quickly as possible.

The appointment was to meet Philip and Wrentham at Mr Shield’s apartments. Coutts was confident that the bill he held was a forgery. He had no doubt Philip had been fooled into it somehow, but that was no reason why he should be fooled out of it. The way Shield had received him plainly indicated that he would give him no place in his will; whilst he was anxious to avoid scandal which would involve Philip.

‘Well, if the old fellow won’t give me a slice of his fortune, I’ll screw a plum out of it,’ was Coutts’s agreeable reflection. ‘I have the forged bill, and unless he hands me over double the amount, I don’t give it up.’

That was a ‘smart’ stroke of business, which delighted Coutts almost as much as the prospect of gaining such a large sum of money, and of making the ‘old fellow’ stump up in spite of himself. There was, too, in his mind a kind of moral fitness in the transaction; for it would be paying out this precious uncle for some of the annoyance he had caused his father. In addition, there was to be reckoned the satisfaction of outwitting one of the cutest scamps he had come across—a fellow who had overreached even him—for with the same move which was to checkmate Shield, Wrentham would be paid out too. He gave little consideration to his brother, having no doubt that he would escape all right somehow.

He had secured the services of a detective who possessed the highest qualifications for his office, namely, he was not like a detective at all in manner, appearance or speech. Meeting Sergeant Dier in an ordinary way, you would regard him as a successful commercial man. There was not the slightest flavour of Scotland Yard about him. He was a good actor, a good singer, and a capital story-teller. Some of his most important discoveries were made whilst he was entertaining a roomful of company with his merry anecdotes. The secret of his success lay partly in a natural gift for his business, his enthusiasm, and the good-nature which underlay it all. He never allowed a scoundrel to escape; but he dealt very gently with any poor creature who might be betrayed into a first crime.

When Coutts reached his office, Sergeant Dier was waiting for him. Any one looking at the detective as he stood, bareheaded, reading a newspaper, would have imagined that he was one of{643} the bank officials. He accompanied Coutts to his private room.

‘Our man has everything prepared for a holiday abroad,’ was Dier’s smiling reply.

‘O dear, no; he is at present under the eye of one of my friends, and he has been obliged to delay his departure until to-morrow, owing to a difficulty he has found in collecting his funds on such short notice.’

‘There is a little more,’ said Dier complacently. ‘I have found a man who can identify his writing under any disguise.’

‘Our man’s brother. It was not easy to persuade him to help us, but he consented at the last moment, and is to meet us at Mr Shield’s place.’

‘Capital,’ said Coutts. ‘You understand, I do not wish to proceed to extremities unless we are forced to it.’

‘So you informed me; but the case is turning out such a pretty one that it would have been an honour to explain it in court.’

‘Never mind the honour; we’ll balance that somehow. I shall be ready in twenty minutes, and will meet you at the hotel.’

Sergeant Dier bowed and left. Outside the room he nodded and smiled to himself as he placed a glossy hat jauntily on his head. Mentally and cheerfully he was saying: ‘I don’t care about that chap—not much. I should not be surprised to find him coming my way sometime with the positions changed.’

Coutts examined letters, signed papers brought to him by his chief clerk, and punctually at the expiration of twenty minutes was on his way to Mr Shield’s hotel. At the door he found Sergeant Dier and Bob Tuppit waiting. The poor little conjurer was nervous, and evidently required all the robust encouragement of the good-natured detective to sustain him in going through with the task he had been persuaded to undertake.

They were immediately conducted to Mr Shield’s sitting-room. Coutts was a little surprised and not pleased to find that Philip and Wrentham had arrived before him; and beside Mr Shield stood Mr Beecham—for whom he entertained an instinctive dislike, not to mention that on the few occasions of their meeting his wittiest cynicisms had been silenced by the quiet searching gaze of the elder man.

Philip had not yet heard of the previous night’s events at Ringsford. He was pale, but calm, and he greeted his brother somewhat coldly. Wrentham was apparently at ease and playing his part of devoted and therefore anxious friend to perfection. He had not yet caught sight of Bob Tuppit, who easily hid himself behind the broad shoulders of Sergeant Dier.

‘I expected,’ said Coutts after formal salutations, ‘to have had the pleasure of a few minutes’ private conversation with you, Mr Shield, before we proceeded with this disagreeable business.’

‘As you will, sir,’ continued Coutts with a slight inclination of the head. ‘I have brought with me two persons who will, I believe, aid us materially in the inquiry we are about to make.’

‘Who are they?’ was the blunt query, indicating Mr Shield’s usual impatience of palaver.

‘Is a friend of mine,’ interposed Dier blandly, ‘who is an expert in distinguishing handwriting.’

Wrentham was the only one who showed surprise at these introductions, and he moved a little backward at sight of Bob Tuppit, covering his uneasiness by a slight cough, as if clearing his throat. Shield looked at Beecham, and the latter spoke.

‘A very good idea, Mr Hadleigh, and as I have some acquaintance with Mr Tuppit, I can vouch for his ability to discharge any task he undertakes. I presume you have shown him specimens of the different handwritings?’

‘I do not understand your position in this affair, Mr Beecham,’ said Coutts superciliously; ‘I can only address myself to Mr Shield, or if he chooses, I can retire, and let the matter take the ordinary legal course.’

‘I am here as the friend of Mr Shield,’ was the reply, without the least symptom of irritation at the manner and words of Coutts.

‘Oh, very well,’ said Coutts, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I thought you wanted to keep the affair as quiet as possible. But, please yourself. Then, I have not submitted any writing to Mr Tuppit, whose name I learn from Mr Beecham. He, being perfectly acquainted with the penmanship of one of the persons concerned, I thought it would be more satisfactory to you to have the investigation made in your presence.’

He glanced at Wrentham as he spoke, and that gentleman assumed an air of curiosity and interest.

‘Begin with Tuppit at once: that will cut the thing short,’ said Shield, as if already impatient of the delay caused by these preliminaries.

‘Then here is a sheet of paper which Mr Shield has already signed,’ said Mr Beecham. ‘Will you put down your name, Mr Philip, and you, Mr Wrentham?’

They signed at once, and there was no reluctance apparent on the part of either, but the grand flourish which Wrentham was in the habit of drawing under his signature was not quite so steady as usual.

‘Now,’ proceeded Mr Beecham, ‘here is a scrap of paper on which Mr Shield has written a few words. Will you both write something on separate slips, and that will enable us to test Mr Tuppit’s skill in distinguishing the writers.’

This having been done, the sheet bearing the three signatures was first given to Tuppit, and it shook slightly in his hand as he advanced to the window to inspect it carefully. He then laid the paper on the table.

The three slips were next handed to him, and he named the writer of each correctly.

‘Clever chap—knows what he is about,’ was Shield’s comment. Then looking almost fiercely{644} at Coutts: ‘Suppose you have brought your paper with you?’

Coutts slowly took out his pocket-book and looked inquiringly at Sergeant Dier. The latter had been observing the whole proceedings with that kind of interest which a skilful player bestows on an exciting game at cards or billiards. He responded promptly to Coutts’s look.

But Coutts did not want to settle the whole business until he had spoken to Shield in private, and explained the terms on which publicity might be avoided. So he put in a hypocritical protest which he hoped would aid him in making his bargain by-and-by.

‘You are aware, Mr Shield, that there are reasons why I do not wish this matter to go beyond ourselves; and I believe you have the same desire. On that account we need not regard Mr Tuppit’s decision as final.’

Coutts obeyed with the reluctant air of one who is compelled to do something he dislikes. He did not look at Philip, who was watching him with pitying eyes.

‘It is rather a serious thing, gentlemen,’ said Tuppit, speaking for the first time, and now as coolly as if he were on his conjuring platform, ‘a very serious thing to give a decided opinion in a case of this sort without very careful examination. You will permit me to compare the signatures on this paper with the writing on the different papers you showed me.’ He gathered them up in his hand as he spoke. ‘I must use a magnifying glass.’

He whipped one out from the tail-pocket of his coat. Then with its aid he carefully compared the writings. After ten minutes he rose, and instead of giving his decision, he advanced to Philip with the bill in his hand.

Coutts gave a slight shake of the head, as if this was no more than he expected although he deplored it. Wrentham’s eyes moved restlessly from one face to the other.

‘That is the signature of Austin Shield,’ was the answer after a brief glance at the writing.

The mountainous districts in the north of Ireland have long been famous for the manufacture of whisky—or as it is sometimes called when made without the concurrence of the revenue, ‘poteen.’ Until the last few years, the practice was exceedingly common, even within a few miles of towns of considerable size; but latterly the total output of spirits has been much reduced in quantity, and has been of inferior quality. Various causes have contributed to this. Formerly, the excise supervision was not so efficient as it has since become. Very often, Englishmen or Scotchmen were selected for Irish districts, and found the peasantry combined to a man against them. They were aided, too, by a body of police whose sole duties were the detection and exposure of frauds against the revenue, and therefore it was a clear issue between two parties, with a large body of spectators standing neutral, or rather, in the national spirit, strongly sympathising with those who were trying to evade the law. Besides, if the Squire—who was of course a magistrate—found an anonymous present of a five-gallon jar of poteen, why should he go and waste good liquor by giving it up, and perhaps by so doing get some of his own tenants into trouble! It was clearly none of his business; in which opinion his neighbours heartily shared, as they sipped it in punch at his festive board. The priest, too, was of the same mind; for as long as the ‘boys’ did not take too much, or beat their wives, or neglect attending mass, it was a very convenient way of turning an honest penny in those hard times. With the tacit concurrence of these two great social forces, the owner of the still had little to fear, and could carry on his lawless trade with comparative impunity. The possession of a common secret encouraged cordial relations between all classes and creeds, until they resembled the proverbial happy family. But the events of the last thirty years have changed all this, and have indirectly led to a large diminution of private distillation.

The first blow which it received was the disbanding of the revenue police about the year 1858, and the absorption of their duties, and the drafting of the most capable members of the force into the Royal Irish Constabulary. This body have a great many duties to perform: they keep the peace; act as public prosecutors in petty cases; distribute and collect the census papers and votes for poor-law guardians; make up the agricultural statistics; act as an armed drilled force in time of riot; and lastly, as detectives of crime and, since 1858, of illicit distillation. On account of these numerous functions, they are brought into contact with almost every individual in their district, not so much at the barracks as at their own homes; and the sight of an empty jar in an unlikely place, or an unusual abundance of spirits about a particular house, are signs not lost on the vigilant constable, and carefully stored up by him for future use.

Again, the improved means of transit in the mountainous districts have given the affairs of the inhabitants more publicity. Post-vans, mail-cars, and narrow-gauge railways, are everywhere furnishing certain and regular communication between the better populated and more civilised valleys and the poorer and less inhabited mountains. By these means, enterprising travellers have penetrated the backward districts, and been received with the customary hospitality of the Irish to strangers. They are occasionally even permitted to taste the native ‘mountain dew,’ and sometimes thoughtlessly bring their entertainers into trouble by incautiously boasting of their privileges before strangers. The information has been carried to the police force in the district in which the, alas! too confiding host resided, and has caused a watch to be set on him, resulting eventually in the discovery of the fountain-head.

But information of this kind is accidental, and therefore such cases are rare. The fact is that the chief sources of knowledge are, as might be expected from the analogy of other Irish conspiracies, from within the camp, which is sure to hold sooner or later some informer. A difference of opinion about the division of the spoil, a row amongst their womankind, or some such characteristic quarrel, leads to ill-feeling, and some impulsive member of the gang, in the haste of momentary spite, secretly informs the police. Then the customary and well-known scene follows. A force of constabulary fully armed steals out under cover of night, carefully surround the fated still-house, and advancing from all sides, simultaneously burst in upon the unfortunate distillers just as the outlying scout has brought word that the police are coming. Resistance, though sometimes attempted, is useless, and the dread guardians of the law proceed to destroy the prepared materials, seize the still, and quench the fire. Finally, the sad procession of police, prisoners, and utensils—the last being placed in a cart with the manufactured spirits—wends its way down the mountain-side to the nearest barracks. Then, at the next petty sessions of the district, all those who were found engaged, together with the tenant on whose holding the distillation was being carried on, are heavily fined, with the option of a severe term of imprisonment.

But what has conduced more than anything else to the diminution of illicit distillation has been successive bad harvests, rack-renting, and absentee landlords. These have produced agrarian outrages, and these in their turn have led to Coercion Acts, giving the constabulary night-patrol powers of a very comprehensive character. As the mountainous districts are the poorest, so the outrages have been more frequent there, and the police in seeking for those intent on committing crime, have often accidentally found those merely intent on distilling poteen. All these discoveries are treasured up, and care taken that the same practice will not again occur in the same place; and thus the opportunities for illicit distillation are gradually becoming fewer and fewer, and everything seems to point towards its total extinction.

The place selected for the operations of the distiller is usually some natural hollow, or a sheltered spot partially hidden by some overhanging rock. But occasionally there are much more habitable places prepared. A favourite example of this is an artificial cave dug out in the side of a high bank close to a stream, the proximity of which is always necessary for their operations. The entrance is generally concealed with great ingenuity by a luxuriant growth of furze and other shrubs. Inside, a raised seat of earth, on which some heather has been strewn, and a rudely built chimney, complete the structure. The functions of the chimney are not by any means exhausted by being brought up to the natural level of the earth. As is well known, burning peat has an easily recognisable odour, and if this drew attention to a wreath of smoke ascending in the midst of a field, the chances of a long life for the still-house would be very small. Instead, therefore, of being directly brought out, every conceivable artifice is employed to render the smoke invisible. Sometimes it is led into a drain; at others, into a thick growth of underwood; again, it is carried for some distance, and allowed to make its escape in such small quantities as to be practically imperceptible. In one case of which we knew, the still-house was underground in the vicinity of the owner’s cottage, and advantage of this was taken to convey the chimney up the earthen fence and effect a junction with the flue of the kitchen.

In some cases, a dwelling-house is chosen in such a locality as to defy suspicion. An example of this occurred in a market-town where distillation was carried on for many years in the main street within a hundred yards of an important constabulary barracks, and the owner in this case was said to have amassed a considerable amount of money. For aught that is known, many similar instances may still exist, as the shrewdness shown by the choice of such a hiding-place renders detection, except through treachery, a most unlikely event. It would be well perhaps to add, that in the case just related the proprietor of the still was a bachelor.

Having prepared a suitable place, the next thing is to procure a still and worm, which are usually manufactured by the local tinker. The still is generally made of strong tinned plate, and is of a cylindrical form, except the head, which is rounded and enlarged, in order to better collect the alcohol as it evaporates. The highest part of the head terminates in a tube, wide at first, but gradually becoming narrower, until it reaches the worm, which is a long tube curled into a spiral, and during work is always kept cold by immersion in water. It is sometimes made from tinned plate, but preferably of sheet-copper, as this material, in some mysterious way, is said to make better poteen.

The still having been procured, the materials from which the spirit is extracted must be obtained. Malt is, of course, the most important item, but in past times was very difficult to procure, as part of the excise officer’s labours, until the repeal of the malt tax, was to prevent its preparation in corn-mills, so that the still-owner had frequently to choose between making it for himself with imperfect appliances, or using an inferior substitute. This was either ordinary grain or treacle, generally the latter, from its portability, and the quickness with which it could be prepared. Indeed, the extra sale of treacle in particular districts has been a very trustworthy indication of the quantity of spirits being manufactured. In one village where some years ago the average sale was three casks a week, the present consumption is not more than one every two months. But perhaps this may result as much from the repeal of the malt tax as the decline in illicit distillation.

The malt or treacle is laid down in water somewhat under boiling-point, and allowed to remain there until it has attained to the consistence of thin water-gruel. It is now ready for fermentation, which is effected by means of yeast; and when this process is complete, the mixture is called ‘wash,’ and is now ready for distillation. The still is now filled with wash, and a gentle heat applied, vaporising the alcohol, which passes through the still-head, and is cooled back to its liquid form in the worm, at the lower{646} end of which it is received by pans, crocks, ‘piggins,’ or indeed any vessel which will hold it. From these receptacles it is put into jars or casks—more commonly five-gallon ‘kegs’—and conveyed to a place of safety. When all the wash has been distilled, the articles employed are carefully hidden, a favourite place for the still and worm being under water in the neighbouring stream. Then nothing remains but the distribution of the spirits in such a manner as to realise a handsome profit. This is an operation demanding all the craft of the distiller. To dispose of it to his immediate neighbours would be to disclose his secret, and they would either demand the poteen for nothing, or denounce him if he refused to give it. It must therefore be conveyed to a distance, and sold to some publican at such a price as will amply compensate both parties for their risk. As the publican must keep a record of all the spirits he receives, he incurs the danger of having material on his premises which is not entered in his stock-book; as a rule, therefore, the poteen is mixed with whisky resembling it in flavour, and the blend sold as the original.

In order to get the jar or cask safely into the town, the distiller usually envelops it in straw or hay, and tries to pass it off as innocent fodder; or another plan is to place it in the centre of a cart of turf, and on selling the turf to the proper person, its removal is easy, though occasionally even more ingenious methods are resorted to.

Fortunes acquired by means of illicit distillation have given rise to a very curious taunt amongst the inhabitants of the north-west of Ireland. When it was intended to convey to any person in the strongest possible manner that his pride in his family circumstances was only that of an upstart, the common expression for this was: ‘Your grandmother was Doherty ——, and wore a tin pocket.’ The origin of this saying was as follows. The northern part of the county of Donegal, particularly the district of Innishowen, is largely peopled by persons of the name of Doherty and O’Doherty. In past times, one of the best means of smuggling poteen into Londonderry and other towns in the vicinity was by a tin flask carried by the women in their pockets. Hence the expression.

CHAPTER II.

As soon as Mr Ridsdale and Miss Loraine found themselves alone, they seated themselves on the rustic seat lately vacated by the vicar and Dr M‘Murdo. Master Archie lighted a cigarette.

Clarice Loraine at this time had just left her nineteenth birthday behind her. She was tall and limber as any fabled nymph of the woods, with an easy, swaying grace in all her movements such as Art alone could never have taught her. She had a cloud of silky, pale-gold hair, that looked as if some sportive zephyr had ruffled it in passing; while her eyes were of the deepest and tenderest blue. Her habitual expression was one of sweet seriousness, of most gentle gravity; but when she smiled, which she did often, she smiled both with her lips and her eyes: it was like the lighting up of a beautiful landscape with a sudden flash of sunshine.

And the young man to whom she had given away her heart? Well, he was a stalwart, good-looking enough young fellow, about twenty-five years old, with dark-brown hair, and a moustache to match; with frank, clear-gazing eyes, which looked as if nothing in the world could cause them to flinch; in short, one of those manly, clear-skinned, resolute-looking young Englishmen of whom those who choose may see scores any day during the season in London town.

‘Are you sure, darling, that you are not too tired to go on the lake this evening?’ asked Archie presently.

‘I am just a little tired now; but I shall not be a bit tired when the time comes to start. To-night it will be full moon.’

Archie looked at his watch. ‘The afternoon post will be in in about half an hour. I wonder whether it will bring us anything from the pater?’

‘O Archie, if it should bring a letter from your father in which he orders you to give me up!’

‘As if I had not told you a hundred times already that I am not going to give you up for any one in the wide world!’

‘It would make me ever, ever so unhappy to think that I should come as an obstacle between your father and you.’

‘Don’t be a little goose. I’m old enough to choose a wife for myself; and I’ve chosen you, and mean to have you in spite of everybody. If the pater chooses to turn rusty about it, I can’t help it. He did the very same thing when he was a young fellow. He ran away with my mother—oh, I’ve heard all about it!—and I’m not aware that he ever had cause to regret having done so. Of course it would be pleasanter—a jolly sight pleasanter—to have his consent and good wishes and all that; but if he won’t give us them, I daresay we shall be able to get along somehow or other without them. There are worse things in the world than poverty, when two people love each other as you and I love each other, sweet one.’

What bold beings are these lovers! Nothing daunts them. They will take the world by storm and set Fortune herself at defiance. A very Paladin seemed Archie in the eyes of the girl who loved him. How beautifully he spoke—what noble sentiments fell from his lips!

‘I am not afraid to face poverty or anything else,’ she murmured, ‘so long as I know that you care for me.’ Tears trembled in her eyes.

He had sidled a little closer to her on the rustic bench, and he now tried, after a fashion old as the hills, to insinuate one arm gently round her waist.

‘No—no, Archie, dear, you must not do that! We are not alone. Although that young curate pretends to be reading, he’s watching us all the time.’

‘Confound his impudence!’ growled Archie with a glance over his shoulder at the obnoxious individual. Then he drew exactly an inch and a half further away, and proceeded to light a fresh cigarette.

The fact was that, after the immemorial fashion of lovers, our two young lunatics had been so absorbed in themselves and their own affairs that they had had no eyes to note the fresh arrivals which the last steamer had brought to the hotel. One of these was a young man dressed in the garb of a modern curate. The afternoon was hot, and as he came slowly up the path that led from the level of the lake to the elevated ground on which the hotel was built, he fanned himself with the broad brim of his low-crowned felt hat. Behind him marched a porter carrying a bulky portmanteau, a mackintosh, and an exceedingly slim umbrella.

A little way from the path stood an immense elm, round the bole of which a seat had been fixed for the convenience of visitors. It looked cool and tempting; the young man glanced at it and hesitated.

‘Why go indoors just yet?’ he asked himself. Then turning to the porter, he said: ‘Take those traps into the hotel and secure a bedroom for me. Then find out whether you have a Lady Renshaw and a Miss Wynter staying in the hotel, and come back at once and let me know.’

‘Yes, sir—Lady Renshaw and Miss Wynter.—What name shall I have put down for the bedroom—your name, sir?’

‘My name? Um. By-the-bye, what is my name?’ the young man asked himself in some perplexity. Then his face brightened, and he said impressively: ‘My name is Mr Golightly.’

‘No, sir’—with severity—‘not the Reverend Mr Golightly. Plain Mr Golightly—of London.’

‘Yes, sir. Plain Mr Golightly. I’ll be sure not to forget. Back in five minutes, sir.’ Mr Golightly went and sat down in the welcome shade of the elm.

‘I’m fairly in for it now,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve passed the Rubicon, and there’s no going back. If they are not here already, they will be sure to arrive by the next train. Will Bella recognise me in this rig-out, I wonder? Upon my word, I don’t think she will.’

Presently the porter came back. ‘No ladies stopping here by the name you spoke of, sir,’ said the man.

‘At seven o’clock, sir.—Got you a very nice bedroom, sir—splendid view across the lake. No. 65, sir.’

‘One about due in now, sir. The drive from the station takes about twenty minutes. Thank ye, sir.’

‘About twenty minutes; I may as well wait here,’ remarked Mr Golightly to himself as soon as the man had left him. ‘This will be a capital “coign of vantage” from which to spot the arrivals.’

He yawned, crossed his legs, and produced from his pocket a soberly bound little volume, which might have been a volume of sermons, only it was not. He read a page or two, then he yawned again, and then he shut up the book.

‘No, not even Alphonse Daudet has power to charm me this afternoon. Will she come?—will she not come? Does she love me?—does she not love me? Upon my word, I’m in a regular fever; pulse about a hundred and twenty to the minute. I wonder why they can’t inoculate one for love, the same as they do for other things. A mild attack for about a week, and then we should get over it for life.’

Suddenly he started and threw a keen look at the two young people some little distance away, whom he had scarcely noticed before. ‘Archie Ridsdale, by all that’s wonderful! I’ve not seen him for a century. Does Lady Renshaw know that he’s here, I wonder? and is she dragging Bella down to this place that she may try to catch the rich baronet’s son for her niece’s husband? It’s just like one of her ladyship’s moves. Well, I’m not going to worry myself with jealousy. Besides, somebody at the club said that Archie had engaged himself to a girl without a penny. I wonder whether that is the demoiselle in question. She looks pretty enough to turn any fellow’s head.’

Mr Golightly whistled softly to himself for a minute or two; then he muttered: ‘Wretched slow work watching another fellow spoon and not be able to join in the fun one’s self! That must be the girl. By Jove! Master Archie seems about as hard hit as I am.’

This latter remark was elicited by the sight of Mr Ridsdale sidling up to Miss Loraine with the evident intention of encircling her waist with his arm; but, as we have already seen, he was very properly repulsed. Presently Clarice rose and gathered up her heap of ferns and grasses.

‘Already! Commend me to your sex for being unreasonable. A pretty scolding I shall get from Mora for having been out so long.’

‘I don’t believe Madame De Vigne could scold any one, were she to try ever so much.’

‘I am glad you have told me. I shall be prepared for the worst.—We shall meet again at the table-d’hôte; meanwhile, I’ll go and look after the postman.’

With a smile and a nod, she left him, and speeding across the lawn, entered the hotel by a French-window, one of a number which stood wide open this sunny afternoon.

Archie gazed after her admiringly till she was out of sight. Then he buried his hands in his pockets and turned and sauntered slowly up towards the main entrance to the hotel.

‘Ah! here’s Ridsdale coming this way,’ exclaimed Mr Golightly. ‘Wonder whether he’ll know me? What larks!’

But Mr Ridsdale was thinking his own thoughts, and he passed Mr Golightly, who was apparently deep in the perusal of his sober-looking volume, as though there was no such person in existence. But he had not got more than a few yards beyond the tree when he heard himself called.

‘Archie, dear!’ cried some one softly. If it were not a feminine voice that spoke, it was a very good imitation of one.

Mr Ridsdale started, and turned. Beyond two{648} or three loungers round the door of the hotel, some distance away, not a creature was visible save the clerical-looking young man seated under the tree and intent on his book.

Archie’s eyes struck fire and his face flamed suddenly. He advanced three or four paces. ‘Did you address that remark to me, sir?’ he sternly demanded.

‘Of course I did, sir,’ answered Mr Golightly, looking up innocently in the other’s face. Then before Archie’s wrath had time to explode, he flung down his book and started laughingly to his feet. ‘Ridsdale, old chappie, how de do?’ he exclaimed. ‘Awfully glad to meet you. Don’t you know me?’

‘No, sir, I do not know you,’ answered Archie with a cold stare. ‘Never saw you before in my life, that I’m aware of.’

‘But it is—at least I’ve every reason to believe so, and I think I ought to know.’

‘Why this thusness, you would ask. I’ll explain in a few words. But sit down for a minute or two; it’s too hot to stand.—You remember Bella Wynter?’

‘Rather. One of the prettiest girls out, the season before last. I was nearly a gone coon in that quarter myself.’

‘It’s the old story, of course. I’ve next to nothing, Bella has less. There’s a dragon in the path in the shape of Lady Renshaw, Bella’s aunt. But probably you remember her ladyship?’—Mr Ridsdale nodded.—‘Well, she detests me, and has set her heart on Bella marrying money.’

‘Oh, I think Bella likes me—a little; in fact, I’ve not much doubt on that point, although, like the young person in the play, I’ve never told my love. But she has been brought up to think it a crime to marry a poor beggar without a fortune, and then she’s so completely under the dowager’s thumb that she dare scarcely call her bonnet her own. The Fates only know how it will end.’

‘To meet them. I expect them by the next train. Bella corresponds with my sister, and Madge gave me the hint. I got a fortnight’s leave, and made up my mind to follow them; but apparently I’m here first. Of course it would never have done to let Lady R. find me here; she would have taken the alarm at once, and have carried off Bella by the next train. What was to be done? All at once it struck me that I had lately been playing the part of a curate in some amateur theatricals in town. A month hence we are going to play the same comedietta again for another charity, so that, as it happened, I had the togs, obtained for the first performance, still by me. I shaved off my beard and moustache, had my hair and eyebrows dyed black, donned my clerical garb, took a ticket from Euston, and here I am.’

‘Not much fear of the dowager recognising me, eh?’ asked Mr Dulcimer with a chuckle. Then he added more seriously: ‘If I can only get Bella to myself for an hour while she’s down here—there was no chance of it in town—I’ll know my fate one way or the other. She’s an arrant young flirt, I know; but I’ll have no more of her shilly-shallying; she shall give me a plain Yes or a plain No.’

‘I commend your resolution, and wish you every success with the fair Bella. Of course your secret is quite safe in my hands, and if I can do anything to assist you’——

‘I’m sure you will. Thanks, Ridsdale. Don’t forget that there’s no Dick Dulcimer here. I am’——

‘No; not the Reverend, but plain Mr Golightly. It may be all very well to play the part of a curate in a comedietta, but I don’t care to pose for the character in real life.’

‘I can’t help that. If driven into a corner, I will tell people that I’m a preceptor of youth, in fact a tutor, which is no more than the truth, because, you see, I’m teaching Will Hanover to play the fiddle, so that he’s my pupil and I’m his tutor.’

‘But what made you choose such an outlandish name as Golightly?’ asked the other with a smile.

‘Because Golightly belongs to me, dear boy—it’s my own property. Know, good my lord, that my full name is Richard Golightly Dulcimer. My godfather was Dr Golightly, who’s now Bishop of Melminster. Many’s the tip I’ve had from him in the days when I wore a jacket and turn-down collar. But he wasn’t a bishop then, and my dad hadn’t lost his fortune, and things now in that quarter are by no means what they used to be.’

‘I’ll not forget the name. And now I must go; I’m expecting an important letter. We shall meet later on.’

‘Sly dog! Never said a word about his own little affair,’ muttered Dick. ‘Intolerably slow work waiting here. I wonder how much longer they’ll be? Ha! happy thought.—Hi!’

The last exclamatory remark was addressed to a waiter who was in the act of removing an empty bottle and some glasses from a garden-table a little way off.

Up came the waiter, a smiling, little, bullet-headed fellow, French or Swiss, with his black hair closely cropped, and clean-shaved, blue-black cheeks and chin.

He was not away more than a couple of minutes. Dick was very thirsty, and he seized the tankard eagerly.

‘Wait,’ he said laconically. Then he blew off the beads of creamy froth, raised the tankard to his lips, and slowly and deliberately proceeded to empty it.

While he was thus engaged, two ladies, followed{649} by a maid carrying wraps and umbrellas, came round a corner of the shrubbery. They had driven from the station by way of the lower road, and hence had to walk through a portion of the grounds in order to reach the hotel.

‘A clergyman, and drinking beer out of a metal pot!’ exclaimed the elder of the two ladies. ‘What can the Establishment be coming to!’

Dick, whose back was towards the party, gave a great start and nearly dropped the tankard. ‘The dragon’s voice! I’m caught!’ Then giving the tankard back to Jules, he said with an affected lisp: ‘Thank you very much, my friend. On a sultry day like this, nothing can be more refreshing than a little iced lemonade.’

‘Lemonade! Ah-ha; monsieur s’amuse,’ murmured Jules with a slight lifting of the shoulders as he took back the tankard and marched away.

‘After all, dear, he was drinking nothing stronger than lemonade,’ remarked the elder lady, who was none other than Lady Renshaw, in a low voice to her niece. ‘No doubt he acquired the habit of drinking out of pewter while at college. I am told that they have many strange customs at the universities, which have been handed down from more barbarous times.—An interesting-looking young man.’

‘Very,’ assented Miss Wynter, who had started at the first sound of Dick’s voice, and was now looking inquiringly at him. ‘That voice!’ she said to herself. ‘I could fancy that it was Dick—I mean Mr Dulcimer, who was speaking. But that is impossible. And yet’——

Meanwhile, Dick had turned, and after gravely lifting his hat to the ladies, had resumed his seat, and was now intent again on his book.

Lady Renshaw was a fine, florid specimen of womanhood, who among her intimate friends gracefully acknowledged to being thirty-five years of age, but was probably at least ten years older. She still retained considerable traces of those good looks which several years previously had captured the elderly affections of the late Sir Timothy. Although her figure might display a greater amplitude of proportions than of yore, yet was her hair still black and glossy, her large dark eyes still as coldly bright as ever they had been, while if the fine bloom on her cheeks owed nothing of its tints to the lily, there are many people who prefer the rich damask of the rose even in the matter of complexion. Here, among the Westmoreland hills, her ladyship was dressed as richly and elaborately as if for a little shopping in Regent Street or a drive in the Park. Herein she showed her knowledge of the eternal fitness of things. Lady Renshaw in a cotton gown or a seaside wrapper would have looked little better than a dowdy. Simplicity and she had nothing in common. But Lady Renshaw fashionably attired in satins and laces was a sufficiently good imitation of a lady to pass current as such with nine people out of every dozen.

Miss Bella Wynter was a brunette, not very tall, but with a slender, graceful figure, black, sparkling eyes, and the sauciest little chin imaginable. Naturally, she was an unselfish, generous-hearted girl; but the circumstances of life and her aunt’s hard worldly training were doing their best to spoil her. She, too, was dressed in the extreme of the prevalent fashion, and looked as if she might just have stepped out of the show-room of a Parisian modiste.

‘There can be no harm in speaking to him,’ said Lady Renshaw in a low voice to her niece. ‘He may be the son of a bishop or the nephew of a lord; one never can tell whom one may encounter at these big hotels.’ Then going a little nearer to Dick, she said to him: ‘I presume, sir, that you are staying at the Palatine?’

Mr Dulcimer started, rose and bowed. ‘For a day or two, madam, on my way north.’ He spoke with the same little affected lisp with which he had addressed Jules the waiter.

‘I’m nearly certain it’s Dick,’ said Bella to herself with her heart all a-flutter. ‘But what daring! what effrontery!’

‘Then perhaps you can inform me at what hour the table-d’hôte takes place?’ said her ladyship.

Dick knew quite well, but was not going to tell. ‘I only arrived a couple of hours ago, madam; but I will at once ascertain.’

‘No, no, no! Greatly obliged to you, but we are going indoors presently, and can then ascertain for ourselves.’

Lady Renshaw had turned, and was gazing through her eyeglass. ‘Really, my love, the view from this spot is too utterly exquisite,’ she said. ‘Such luminosity of atmosphere—such spontaneity of sunshine! Observe that magnificent effect of chiaro-oscuro among the hills. Quite Ruskinesque. I dote on nature—especially in her wilder moods.’

‘No doubt nature is infinitely obliged to your ladyship,’ murmured Richard under his breath.

Bella seemed as if she could not keep her eyes off him. ‘He has shaved off his darling beard and moustache, and come all this way on purpose to be near me!’ she mused. ‘Does any one else care enough for me to do as much as that? Heigh-ho! why is he so poor?’

‘And now, dear, I think we had better go indoors,’ said her ladyship blandly. ‘The heat is somewhat trying.’ Then turning to Dick: ‘We shall probably meet again, Mr—er—Mr—?’

‘—— At the table-d’hôte, or somewhere, Mr Golightly.’ This very graciously.

‘The old she-dragon suspects nothing,’ said the wicked boy to himself with a chuckle as soon as the ladies had turned their backs.

‘A Golightly, my dear,’ remarked Lady Renshaw to her niece. ‘There are several good families of that name. One in Devon and another in York. The young man may be worth cultivating. I hope you will endeavour to make yourself agreeable to him.’

Bella’s black eyes danced with mischief; it was all she could do to keep back a laugh. ‘O auntie, auntie, if you only knew!’ she whispered to herself.

When she reached the door of the hotel, she could not resist turning her head for a parting look. No one was about, and Dick blew her a kiss. She blushed, she knew not why, but it was certainly not with indignation.

‘Well,’ mused Mr Dulcimer with a sigh as he resumed his seat under the tree; ‘if she won’t have me, I’ll cut the old country and try sheep-farming at the antipodes. Capital cure for love, sheep-farming.’ Taking a pipecase out of his pocket, he extracted therefrom a highly coloured meerschaum. ‘Come along, old friend; let you and me have a confab together. Stay, though, is it the correct thing for a curate—and I suppose everybody will insist on taking me for one—to smoke a meerschaum? Well, if they don’t do it in public, lots of them do it in private. Jolly fellows, some curates—others awful duffers.’ He rose and stretched himself. ‘There must be a quiet nook somewhere among those trees where a fellow can enjoy a whiff without the world being the wiser?’ Whereupon he sauntered away towards the lower part of the grounds, his hands behind his back and his book under his arm, totally unaware that his movements were being watched by a pair of bright black eyes from an upper window of the hotel.

I was staying in Sydney for a few weeks, and had put up at the Polynesian Club. There I made the acquaintance of a young colonial journalist, by name Alison Fellgate, a frank, clever, easy-going fellow, who had compressed a good deal of life into his forty years. One evening after dinner we sat smoking under the broad veranda that ran round three sides of the Club building. Presently, Fellgate took out his watch and held it in his hand for a few moments. ‘I have an engagement this evening, but there is plenty of time yet,’ he said.

‘I have several times noticed what a particularly handsome watch that is of yours, Fellgate,’ I said.

‘I have observed some sort of inscription on it. A presentation, I suppose?’

‘Very good. It is a story I have had to tell more than once. You must know, then, that I began my journalistic life in the colonies as editor of that able and distinguished organ of public opinion, the Burragundi Beacon. I had been conducting it for some six months, to the satisfaction, I am always proud to remember, of the proprietors, when that outbreak of bushranging which was headed by the notorious Frank Gardiner began to keep the country in a state of continual excitement and terrorism. I need not tell you that of all the knights of the bush, Frank Gardiner was in prowess and achievement second to none. For several years, he and his gang eluded all efforts at capture on the part of the government, until the country-people began to think that Frank, like his illustrious forerunner and prototype, Dick Turpin, bore a charmed life. At last, two thousand pounds was set on his head, alive or dead.

One morning I received a short letter something like the following, addressed to the editor of the Beacon:

Sir—I observe a statement in the Sydney Morning Herald of to-day to the effect that myself and my mates last Monday night attempted an attack upon Lawson’s Station, Woonara. Will you allow me the use of your widely-read columns to say that this announcement is entirely erroneous, from the simple fact, that on that night I and my party were busily engaged elsewhere.—I am, yours, &c.,

Frank Gardiner.

I was so tickled with this letter—there was something so funny in its cool audacity, and the whole circumstances—that I at once inserted it in the Beacon.

About a fortnight later, I received a second letter, which ran pretty much like:

Sir—It must necessarily be the fate of all public men to encounter much misrepresentation, and I must just submit, I suppose, like others. At the same time, when there is a remedy at hand, a man is merely doing himself justice in availing himself of that remedy. I appeal, therefore, simply to your sense of right and fair-play in requesting you to publish my flat and emphatic denial to a paragraph which appeared in the Sydney papers of last Friday—namely, that in the recent encounter with troopers, one of my mates was wounded in the arm. Nothing of the sort took place, thanks to the clumsy shooting of our opponents. The same paragraph also states that in the last sticking-up of the Binda Flat mail we treated our prisoners with much harshness. The very reverse of this was the actual case, and this statement can only have emanated from persons wilfully and maliciously determined upon prejudicing myself and my comrades in the public mind.—I remain, yours, &c.,

Frank Gardiner.

That letter also found a place in the Beacon. Afterwards I received in all some half-a-dozen communications from the notorious bushranger, varying in details, but all of a similar purport—their object to correct some blunder or misrepresentation on the part of the public press. All these communications found a place in the paper. I saw no harm in thus inserting them. Some of my readers did not hesitate to accuse me of aiding and abetting the bushrangers by the publication of Frank Gardiner’s letters, alleging that they were merely blinds to lead the police off the real track. But I reasoned that, even if this were the case, the ruse was so simple and transparent a one, that the police were not in the least likely to fall into it. But I did not think that Gardiner had any such purpose in sending the letters. I believed that their meaning was on the surface, though it sometimes struck me that, over and above this, the bushranger was himself aware in some degree of the humour of the situation, and that his sense of this sometimes shaped the wording of his letters. Most of the townspeople{651} took my view of the matter, and laughed at the thing; and the circulation of the Beacon in nowise suffered.

I had received, I say, about half-a-dozen of Mr Gardiner’s communications, covering a space of ten or twelve weeks, when an event occurred. I was sitting in my little room about eleven o’clock at night; I had just finished some correspondence-work connected with the paper, and had just lighted a cigar and settled back into my chair with a Homeric sigh of relief, when there was a knock at the door; and the next moment, without waiting for the least countersign of any sort, a figure entered. I tipped my chair back until I very nearly lost my balance at the unexpected aspect presented by my unceremonious visitor—a tall, athletic man with a shaggy, light-coloured beard, dressed in ordinary bushman’s garb, pistols in his belt, and a carbine at his back, his face hidden by a mask. Such outwardly was my visitor—a sufficiently awkward and disquieting figure thus suddenly to present itself at the dead of night to a harmless country editor armed with no fire-weapon more deadly than a cigar. My first thought was how the fellow had got into the house; but this and all other thoughts were quickly dispersed by my new friend addressing me: “Good-evening, Mr Fellgate.”

“I’ve a little bit of business with you—never mind my name. I would have sent up my card, but I’ve forgotten my card-case.”

This symptom of a vein of humour—thin as it was—in my guest, reassured me a little.

“I am very much at your service, I am sure,” I replied. “Anything I can do to”——

“That’s it, boss. I was sure you wouldn’t cut up anyway rough about the business; and we on our side ’ll try to make it pleasant all round for you. Well, the business simply is that you’re to come along with me, Mr Fellgate; and the sooner we’re off, the better for all parties.”

“You mean that I am to accompany you, wherever you are going to, now—at once?”

“That’s it. That’s my order. So hurry up, Mr Editor; and just think of others besides yourself. My neck’s half-way in the halter at this blessed moment.”

The man spoke in the coolest and most determined manner, and I at once saw that any further attempt at resistance would be worse than useless.

“One word more, Mr Fellgate,” my companion continued. “If you follow me quietly and without any row, no harm will come to you. I promise you that, on my word as between gentlemen.”

This should perhaps have been completely reassuring. Nevertheless, it was with some considerable feeling of doubt and disquiet that I prepared to accompany the bushranger, for such and nothing short the man evidently was. We left the house noiselessly. The aged lady who acted for me in the capacity of housekeeper had long since retired, and our cautious footsteps did not disturb her. Outside, tethered to a rail-fence at a little distance from the house, stood two horses.

My companion then blindfolded me, and I mounted one of the two horses. This blindfolding again I did not much fancy; but caution and discretion seemed now to be my safest cue. When the bushranger had himself mounted, he caught my horse’s rein, and we started. For about a quarter of an hour we pursued the high-road at a quick walk, a jogging, uneasy half-amble, that was anything but a comfortable pace, the uneasiness seeming to be increased by my being blindfolded. Then we suddenly diverged from the highway, and in a little had entered the bush, as I could easily judge from the fall of my horse’s feet on the soft sand-track. I should have mentioned that the night was a very dark one, without either moon or stars.

We rode on for the best part of a couple of hours, very few words passing between us. I knew the time to be about that length afterwards; but in reality it seemed much longer to me, partly, perhaps, from the fact of my being blindfolded; partly, without doubt, from the whole conditions of my ride being in no sense what could be called lively or inspiriting.

At the end of two hours, then, my leader suddenly tightened my rein, and we drew up. He bade me descend, which I did, still with the bandage on my eyes. The next moment my friend had removed the handkerchief which he had used for blindfolding me, when a strange sight met my eyes. I was standing in the middle of a small clearing in the heart of the forest. The darkness was lit up by half-a-dozen flaming torches and the light of a small fire, round which five or six men were reclining on the short sparse grass. The man nearest the fire at once caught my attention. He was about the middle height, and of a very active and well-proportioned figure; black-bearded, with particularly bright and alert eyes, and of not an unprepossessing cast of features. A few minutes’ scrutiny of the man confirmed me in my identification of him. He was no other than my correspondent of the past three months—the notorious bushranger who had been harrying the country right and left for nearly two years, levying black-mail on all whom he encountered without the slightest respect to persons or dignities—the redoubtable outlaw, Frank Gardiner. Various portraits of the man were abroad throughout the country, all sufficiently like to enable me to recognise the original, now that he was before me.

All the men, from the leader downwards, were armed to the lips, so to speak; and as the light of the fire and the wavering torches gleamed from the bright steel of the carbines and pistols to the bronzed faces of the highwaymen, tanned almost black by constant exposure to a semi-tropical sun, I could not but be reminded of the old familiar stories of Italian banditti and the old pictures one had seen of the same.

The leader of the gang was the first to speak. “Good-evening, Mr Fellgate; or rather, good-morning. You recognise me, I daresay?”

“From the several flattering portraits of me that are about, eh? I wonder you do recognise me from them, that’s a fact. If ever I catch that blackguard of a photographer who has so abominably burlesqued me in those pictures, I engage to make it lively for him!”

It was generally understood that personal vanity was one of Gardiner’s weaknesses, and remembering this, I could not help smiling a little at the speaker’s words.

“You may smile, Mr Editor; but no public man likes to have such a vile caricature of himself scattered broadcast over the country; you know that well enough, and you wouldn’t care about it yourself.”

“Perhaps not; but I haven’t yet attained enough distinction to be very well able to judge how I should feel,” I answered.

“Yes; I daresay that makes a difference.—But to come to business. You’re wondering, I suppose, why you’ve been brought here in this somewhat unceremonious fashion?”

“No; not now. I was just a little startled at first, I must confess. But I am not aware of any wrong I have ever done you, Frank Gardiner.”

“That’s it, my boy—that’s it. On the contrary, it has been all the other way; and that’s why I wanted to have a word with you personally. I wanted to make the nearer acquaintance of my editor, you know.—How do you think they read? I mean those letters. Not so bad for a young aspirant in literature, eh? I’m positively thinking of getting them reprinted in a small book, if I can get any of those Sydney publishing sharps to undertake it. Epistles of a Bushranger. Taking title, eh?—a fortune in the very name. Would fetch the public no end, don’t you think?—But I beg your pardon for keeping you standing all the time, Mr Editor. Just bring yourself to anchor; and have a drink, will you?—Young Hall, hand the editor your flask.”

A young man, considerably the youngest-looking of the party, handed me his flask, which I put to my lips, merely touching the liquor.

“You drink mighty shallow, Mr Fellgate. One finger’s about your mark, I judge. Well, please yourself.—Now, look here. There’s a cool two thousand set on my head; you know all about that. Well, there’s a carbine by your side, as pretty a piece as you’ll find this side the range. Now’s your chance. Take up the gun, and you can hardly miss me, if you were to try.”

Of course such a thing was totally out of the question, for more reasons than one. But even if it had been possible for me to do as the highwayman suggested, I should have been a fool to have attempted his life under the existing and peculiar circumstances.

“Just try the weapon, Mr Fellgate. Put it to your shoulder, and see how it lies as prettily in rest as a baby asleep. Let it off overhead there.”

I raised the gun and attempted to fire it, when I discovered that I was quite unable to do so. I could not move the trigger a hairbreadth. It was some kind of trick-lock, the secret of which was probably known to the owner alone.

Gardiner laughed quietly. “A pretty thing, ain’t it? But I don’t believe you would have used the weapon against me just at present, even if you could—I’ll do you that credit.”

“Shoot me down like a dingo in a trap? No, no! A fair field and a chance for his hair even to an outlaw. That would be more your motto, Mr Fellgate, I’m sure. Why, I’d grant that myself even to a trooper, unless the case was very pressing.—But now, I must really come to the point.”

During all this colloquy, none of the rest of the gang had put in a word, but smoked silently on, regarding me with stolid gravity.

“I have always had a considerable admiration for the press as an institution,” Gardiner resumed, “but never so much as since making your acquaintance as an editor, Mr Fellgate. You have acted towards me in the most honourable and gentlemanly manner; and while those wretched and ignorant Sydney rags the Herald and Empire have refused to insert my letters contradicting the many lying and libellous statements they have published regarding myself and my mates, you have vindicated the claims of the press to being a free and impartial organ of public expression. Now, no man who knows Frank Gardiner ever accused him of forgetting a friend or a service. I consider, Mr Fellgate, that you have done me a real service in this matter, and acted like a gentleman all round, and I would like to show you that I am not insensible of this. Though I am a bushranger, I am not a blackguard. If you will be good enough to accept this trifle, just in recognition of my admiration for you as an editor, and of my personal regard, you will do me a favour, Mr Fellgate.” As he spoke, Gardiner took from his breast-pocket a small morocco case and handed it to me. I opened the case, and found inside a handsome gold watch.

Seldom, I venture to think, in the history of presentations was any one made under more singular circumstances. It seemed to reverse all precedent. Tradition was being read backwards; for instead of a highwayman taking a watch from me, I was getting one from him. To devise such a situation in fiction were, of course, easy enough; but I am relating a true incident, and as such I am inclined to think that the case was unique.

Of course, I accepted the watch. What else could I do? Sticklers for morality may refuse to indorse my conduct in so doing; but these same stern moralists would have probably acted precisely as I did under the same circumstances. I was by no means so sure of my position that I could afford to affront or offend my strange friends in any way. Under that easy sang-froid, careless banter, and studied politeness which Gardiner had shown throughout our conversation, I knew that there remained a will that brooked no contradiction, and that had never yet been thwarted. Under circumstances like these, where personal danger enters as a large factor in determining our ultimate action, the majority of us are apt to give an easy and liberal interpretation to the minor ethics.

“And now, Mr Fellgate, I think our interview is at an end. I am glad you like the watch, and I think you will find that it is as good as it looks. In all probability, you and I will never meet again. But if ever you hear any{653} of those snivelling city counter-jumpers maligning me and my brave fellows here, you at least may kindly think that we’re perhaps not so black as they paint us.—Jim, take care of the editor.—Good-night.”

I was once more blindfolded, and Jim and I returned as we had come. When we reached the confines of the forest, however, we dismounted, and my companion removed my bandage. The first gray glimmer of the dawn was stealing through the bush.

“You’ll have to walk the rest of the way home, Mr Fellgate. I’m like the ghost in the play, you understand—must hook it with the first light. Sorry I can’t take you to your door.”

“Don’t mention it; I know every inch of the road,” I said, bent upon answering him in the same vein.

“You’re a pretty cool hand, Mr Editor. Didn’t think you scribbling chaps were that sort. No offence. Adieu!”

When I reached my rooms, I found my landlady already astir. She had not been much surprised to find my bedroom empty, for it had once or twice happened that I had to spend the night at the office, although that was not a frequent occurrence, the Beacon being only a bi-weekly issue. I lay down on the sofa in my sitting-room and took a couple of hours’ sleep. When I awoke, the events of the night had for a little all the feeling of a dream; but that fancy quickly passed away. Over my morning coffee I examined my newly and so strangely acquired gift at greater leisure. I may say in conclusion that it has been my constant companion ever since that night, and I don’t think there is a better time-keeper out of London. Would you like to look at it closer?’

Fellgate handed me the watch. It was a remarkably handsome hunting-watch, very finely finished, and bearing the name of a famous London maker. Inside, I read this inscription:

‘You know all about Gardiner’s ultimate fate, of course,’ my companion resumed, ‘though you were not in the colonies at the time—how he and nearly all his gang were at last taken, and how Frank himself got a long term. It could never be proved against him that he had actually killed any one, and so he escaped the gallows. He is serving out his time now in Darlinghurst up there, and behaving himself very decently, they say.’

Gardiner, the most notorious highwayman, on the whole, that ever ranged the Australian bush, only served a portion of his allotted term. At the end of that period, Sir Hercules Robinson, the then governor of New South Wales, exerted himself to obtain Gardiner’s release from further imprisonment, believing that the prisoner’s good conduct from the beginning of his incarceration deserved this. Many persons thought this course on the part of Sir Hercules somewhat hasty and injudicious; and it was not without considerable opposition and difficulty that the governor had his way, as he finally did. On his release, Gardiner betook himself to California, where it was generally understood that he became the proprietor of a drinking-bar—a somewhat inglorious finish to his career.

Much has lately been written on the subject of Western Ranching—enough to make the matter perhaps wearisome to some readers; but I have not seen any writer touch on the worst side. Frequently I hear of young fellows, who, attracted by the tales they have read, are eager to go West and into ranching. For those who conduct it properly, there is money in this business; but let me tell these youngsters that there is little else in it. At first, everything is novel; but that soon wears off, and then for a thoroughly good monotonous life. I know nothing to compare with it. Life in a log cabin, with bacon and beans and canned vegetables for food, and a lot of uneducated cowboys as daily associates, is not the most fascinating thing in this world. Your men may be good, honest, trustworthy fellows; but they are rough and uncouth in speech and manners, and you soon get utterly tired of their company.

Your letters, papers, and magazines help, of course, to while away many a weary hour. Riding after cattle, branding, &c., is your chief excitement; but let me say that constant daily work at that gets monotonous in time. You have some big-game shooting, always more or less difficult of access; and you have trout-fishing—successful, when the fish choose to bite. I have generally found the best fishing when the weather was hottest and the mosquitoes thickest. Again, remember that a small band of cattle does not return ready cash in proportion to a large one. Your expenses are greater in proportion, and the results are liable to discourage you.

To a lover of scenery, the change from Britain’s green hills and mossy woods to the dull yellow browns of the ‘Rockies’ is dispiriting. For a few weeks in June, a greenish tint pervades the hillsides, and then, alas! how quickly do the yellows and browns triumph! I do not write this to discourage earnest fellows from going into ranching; but they must not expect—as many seem to do—that life out West is one of roses, and that with a small capital to begin with, they can hunt and fish and have a constantly jolly time, and in a very few years come home with a fortune. Life in summer is endurable; but how about winter? The best ranges are in the north-western country, and the winters are simply awful. It has always been a wonder to me how cattle survive at all, much less come out in good condition in spring. How about the nice gentlemanly fellow from home and home luxuries, enduring a winter with thermometer ranging from twenty to sixty degrees below zero! (Two years ago, the spirit glasses stood in Southern Montana at sixty degrees below zero for over twenty hours at one time. Needless to say the mercury glasses were all frozen solid.) He rides forth on the range{654} to look at his cattle, and comes in, probably, with nose, cheekbones, hands, and feet nipped, more or less severely. Next day, he does the same, with similar results, and then vows he won’t go again. He remains indoors for a few days, roasting beside a big stove, gets impatient at the deadly weariness of his life, and goes fishing through the ice—catches a few fish; results same as when riding. He then thinks he will try deer-tracking, or possibly a little amateur trapping. In either case he tramps all day through deep snow, varied by falling into a hidden spring-hole now and again, getting wet, and instantly his legs are incased in a solid mail of ice, which he must break, in order to walk. He comes home at night tired out, perhaps with game, more likely without; and vowing he has had enough of that sort of thing, falls back on cards and whisky, and so gets through the winter.

Some fellows have a hazy sort of idea that by hiring out as cowboys, they eventually will be, by hook or crook, taken in as partners by the stock-owner. This is about the greatest error they can fall into. Nine stockmen out of ten would not give a new arrival his board for his services. He cannot ride—I mean, he cannot sit on one of our quarter-tamed bronchos much over three minutes; he knows nothing whatever about the semi-wild habits of Western cattle, or how to manage them. A good cowboy requires special knowledge and special points in his character; and constant daily practice for years is needed to acquire the one and develop the others.

Of course, you can do as some of the Cheyenne fellows do, live practically in town, and let the ranche run itself. They have an attractive club and good society there, and lots of the men make Cheyenne their headquarters. This may be business, when you own, or manage, large herds, and when you depend on your foreman to do the work, while you pose gracefully in front as a cattle-king; but it is anything but business where you have only a small band, on the success of which depends your future. Sternly and ruefully, you must turn your back on the delights of town, and manfully determine to stay up-country and see it through.

In constructing the last section of the Metropolitan (or ‘Underground’) Railway—that expensive three-quarters of a mile, which it is said will cost three millions—many curious discoveries have been made, and many interesting relics brought to light. The section commences at the present Mansion House Station, in Cannon Street, and proceeds nearly east, at a considerable depth, terminating at the present Tower Hill Station, and thus completing what is commonly called the ‘Inner Circle.’ In its course, the railway tunnel traverses one of the most ancient sites of the original British-Roman London; and the discoveries alluded to chiefly refer to that period. The most important of these has been a very perfectly built landing-stage or pier, not on the banks of the Thames, but on the left bank of Wall Brook, near its confluence with the Thames, the site being beneath the present Dowgate Hill, which leads direct to the river. The stage appears to have been erected with much care and skill, and is a very superior work. First, the spot is filled in with oak timber-piling, carefully bound together; on this is laid a concrete bed, which, in its turn, supports a Roman tesselated pavement.

The Wall Brook at that period was doubtless a stream of some importance, having perhaps a mouth sufficiently broad to make a sort of useful harbour, just off the Thames; hence the necessity of a landing-pier or stage being constructed here for commercial purposes. Nor is this the only one of the kind which the railway-works have brought to light, for a second has been found beneath Trinity Square Gardens, which are situated on the spot known as ‘Tower Hill,’ so celebrated in history as the place of public execution. This second landing-stage also appears to have stood on a bank leading to the river, forming, like the other, a small harbour for the unloading of craft or landing of passengers. This stage is built in the same way—timber-piles supporting a concrete bed, and on this again the usual Roman tile pavement. But it was observed that the oak-piling was surrounded by a number of oak-tree roots, leading to the supposition that the ground had to be cleared of its original forest before the building operations of the landing-stage were begun. This is confirmed by the fact that the spot where these discoveries were made must have been outside the eastern boundary of the original city of London; because a fortress—or work of some kind—was erected by the Romans for the protection of the city on that side, on the site of Gundulph’s still existing ‘Tower,’ and of course outside the town, and surrounded probably at that period by the ‘forest primeval.’

The underground track of this part of the railway has proved a storehouse for relics of both Roman and medieval times. A great deal of pottery has been found, as well as articles of glassware, and even cannon-balls. Two leaden coffins were brought to light of decided Roman pattern; also Roman coins. Amongst the many Roman tiles which were unearthed, one of them bears the distinct mark of a dog’s foot, which can only be explained by the animal having walked over the tile whilst it was still soft after its manufacture. Two entire skeletons were also discovered, each head downwards—one in Trinity Square, and one at the bottom of a well twenty-five feet below the ground, in Aldgate. The remains of the windlass which had once been at the top were also discovered, together with some pieces of broken pottery. A second well was also found near the first; but their age has not been determined.

Below the station at Tower Hill, some timber-piles were uncovered, which have been stated to be the remains of the scaffold on which Lords Kilmarnock, Balmerino, and Lovat suffered in the last century. But this seems unlikely, as no doubt the scaffold was removed after the last execution. But even if it was not, one hundred and forty years would hardly be sufficient to bury, many feet below the surface, so large an article as a timber scaffold. A rare and curious print, giving a view of Tower Hill on the occasion of the death of Lord Lovat, shows the scaffold{655} about the middle of the Hill, and consequently to the south-west of the present station.

Since the above was written, we learn that ‘more unexpected but important evidence’ has been brought to light of the buildings of ancient London, by the destruction of the remains of old London Wall. It had already been noticed that the foundations of the Roman wall by the river were made up very much of materials which had been already used in public buildings, and near to Tower Hill it has been discovered that some fine sepulchral monuments have been made to serve the same purpose. During the further destruction of the wall, it has been found to have been partly constructed with stones belonging to older buildings to a very great extent, some of the bastions being composed of them. In the wall in Castle Street, Bevis Marks, sculptured stones on which are inscriptions are being discovered, and carefully collected by some zealous antiquaries, for deposit in the Guildhall Museum.

We have already referred (see Journal, page 464) to the singular revelation of a regular system of medieval ‘jerry-building’ found to have existed in Peterborough Cathedral; and we have now to record another interesting discovery, by which the old ‘strong-room’ of the church has been brought to light. In excavating for the foundations of the piers of the new central tower, some ancient masonry was found deep below the surface, which was at once pronounced to be the remains of the original Saxon church, which, together with the monastery, had been destroyed by the marauding Danes. These remains indicated that the former church occupied nearly the position of the present one; and whilst these antiquarian researches were going on, speculation was rife as to a certain crypt or chamber supposed to exist close under the floor of the present church, as indicated by Gunton, who wrote the History of the cathedral not very long after its narrow escape from the hands of Cromwell’s soldiers.

Accordingly, a careful search was made by Dean Perowne and the clerk of the works, to the north of the great central tower, and bordering on the south end of the north transept; when the accuracy of their calculations was proved, and their labours rewarded by the discovery, immediately under the pavement, of an underground chamber measuring six feet three inches in length, by four feet wide, and six feet high. A curved flight of steps rises from one side of the chamber, whilst a straight flight leads off at one end, and both ascend directly to the floor of the church above. The vault was found to be filled with all sorts of apparent rubbish in stone and metal. On close inspection, however, much of this proved to be parts of the choir-screen, which, from its great beauty, had been the glory of the church and the admiration of historians for centuries, but which, at the sacking of the church by Cromwell’s soldiers in 1643, had been pulled to the ground with ropes, and then smashed to pieces. The rest of the contents consisted of pieces of stone, forming parts of what had once been, apparently, a reredos; bits of stained glass, which lost their colour on exposure to the air; fragments of broken swords and pikes; pieces of leathern scabbards; bits of charred wood; and a quantity of bones of animals, probably sheep, which had been used for food.

On the chamber being cleared and closely examined, competent authorities pronounced the floor to be much older work than the rest of the vault, and it is not impossible that this might have been part of the floor of the original Saxon church. It was composed of large flags, several of which had been violently disturbed, possibly by Cromwell’s looters, in their search for spoil, and in the thought of finding another hidden chamber still lower down. Whether or not they found any valuables does not appear to be known; but the supposition is that they did not, or it would have been referred to by contemporary historians.

Opinions seem divided as to the use of this vault. The more general opinion appears to be that it was nothing more or less than the ‘strong-room’ of the monastery. In medieval times, secrecy was often more trusted in than locks and bars; for the latter, force and patience might ultimately overcome; but a hidden secret would be a secret still; and in the present instance, as there was not the smallest outward indication of the existence of such a chamber, so long as the secret was kept inviolate, the chamber and its contents were safe. All the facts in connection with this interesting discovery being taken into careful consideration, the conclusion may be safely arrived at, that this chamber or vault was indeed the ‘strong-room’ or ‘safe,’ contrived and cleverly concealed centuries ago, beneath the floor of the great cathedral, for the purpose of containing the money and treasures belonging to the community of the monastery of Peterborough, and now so unexpectedly laid open to the eager gaze of admiring antiquaries and architects of this present year of grace 1884. Perhaps discoveries of still deeper interest are in store for us from amongst the foundations of this grand medieval fane.

BURNS AND SCALDS.

There are very few homes whose inmates have not at some time or other suffered more or less severely from the effects of a burn; there are few persons who ever forget the severity of the pain that succeeds a bad burn; and yet there are very few who make any provision for the proper treatment of such wounds. This neglect arises from indifference or from ignorance, but chiefly the latter. A burn treated in time does not take nearly so long to heal, and generally heals better than it otherwise would. The object of the present paper is to make familiar a few of the remedies which are generally applied to burns—remedies so simple in themselves that they can be applied by any person.

The best thing to apply to a burned or scalded part is Carron oil spread on lint or linen. The main object in the treatment of a burn is to keep the affected part out of contact with the air; but the part of the treatment to which our attention should be first directed is that which will lessen{656} or remove the pain. Ice or cold water is sometimes used; and sometimes water moderately warm, or a gentle heat, gives relief. Carron oil—so called from the famous Carron ironworks, where it is extensively used—not only lessens the immediate pain, but covers the part with a film which effectually shuts out the air and prevents the skin getting dry.

This Carron oil can be prepared in a very simple way. It consists of equal parts of olive oil and lime-water. Olive oil, or salad or Lucca oil, is the oil best suited for the purpose; but if not easily obtainable, linseed oil answers the purpose very well. Lime-water can be easily made by any one, if it cannot be procured otherwise. About a teaspoonful of the lime used by builders—if the purer kind is not obtainable—added to a pint of water and well shaken, is all that is required. It is then allowed to settle, and the water when required is drawn off without disturbing the sediment at the bottom. Pour the oil on the lime-water, stir or shake well, and the mixture is ready for use. It is poured freely between two folds of lint, or the lint dipped in the mixture; the lint applied to the wound, and held in position by a bandage. The wound may be dressed twice a day; but in dressing, the wound should be exposed to the air the shortest possible time. If the lint adheres to the wound, it must not be pulled off, but first moistened thoroughly with the oil, when it comes off easily. In some cases, it is not advisable to remove the lint. Under such circumstances, the best way to proceed is to lift up one fold of the lint, drop the oil within the folds, replace the fold as before, and secure the bandage. Carron oil is one of those things that no household should be at any time without.

Considering the simplicity of the cure, how easily olive oil and lime-water can be obtained, let us hope that for the sake of relieving even a few minutes’ pain, no reader of this paper will be in the future without a bottle of Carron oil.

INTERESTING DISCOVERY AT ROME.

A beautiful statue of Bacchus has recently been discovered in a hollow place beneath the staircase in the library at Hadrian’s Villa, Rome. It represents the god not as the coarse dissipated old man, but according to his later aspect, as a beautiful effeminate youth. It is singularly well preserved, the right hand only being missing. Its great beauty was at once recognised, and casts were immediately made, one of which is at Berlin, another at Strassburg, and a third in the new Cast Museum of Sculpture at Cambridge. The statue represents a youth standing with the weight of the body thrown on the right leg; the right hand is raised, and held, it is supposed, the two-handled wine-cup or kantharos of Bacchus. Over the right shoulder is thrown a nebris (fawn-skin), which falls back and front with studied symmetry. A question has arisen amongst the learned on these subjects as to whether this beautiful work of ancient art is itself an original, or a copy in marble from a bronze original. And then comes the still more important inquiry, what is its date? Professor Michaelis—a noted authority—states his opinion that ‘the statue is a work of the eclectic school, the post-Alexandrian manner which selected and combined, and advisedly imitated, the style of bygone manners, which sought to revive the manner of the best Attic and Argive work;’ and which the learned professor fancies he can discern by certain peculiar appearances and treatment, and a want of harmony in many minute details, which, however, could hardly occur to any ordinary spectator, who sees before him simply an exquisitely finished and beautiful work of antique art.

TELEPHONING EXTRAORDINARY.

The most remarkable piece of telephoning yet attempted has been just accomplished by the engineers of the ‘International Bell Telephone Company,’ who successfully carried out an experiment by which they were enabled to hold a conversation between St Petersburg and Bologæ, a distance of two thousand four hundred and sixty-five miles. Blake transmitting, and Bell receiving, instruments were used, and conversation was kept up notwithstanding a rather high induction. The experiments were carried on during the night, when the telegraph lines were not at work. The Russian engineers of this Company are so confident of further success that they hope shortly to be able to converse with ease at a distance of four thousand six hundred and sixty-five miles; but to accomplish this astonishing feat they must combine all the conditions favourable for the transmission of telephonic sounds. If it is found possible to hold audible conversation at such extraordinary distances, it is possible that this fact will be speedily improved upon, and we shall be enabled to converse freely between London and New York, and by-and-by between London and the antipodes.

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

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

CONTENTS

EUROPEAN EMIGRATION TO AMERICA, AND ITS EFFECTS.

BY MEAD AND STREAM.

CHAPTER LI.—HEY, PRESTO!

ILLICIT DISTILLATION IN IRELAND.

ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.

CHAPTER II.

INTERVIEWED BY A BUSHRANGER.

SOME REALITIES OF RANCHING.

REMAINS OF ANCIENT LONDON.

THE ‘STRONG-ROOM’ AT PETERBOROUGH.

OCCASIONAL NOTES.

BURNS AND SCALDS.

INTERESTING DISCOVERY AT ROME.

TELEPHONING EXTRAORDINARY.

A MODERN MADRIGAL.

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

CONTENTS

EUROPEAN EMIGRATION TO AMERICA, AND ITS EFFECTS.

BY MEAD AND STREAM.

CHAPTER LI.—HEY, PRESTO!

ILLICIT DISTILLATION IN IRELAND.

ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.

CHAPTER II.

INTERVIEWED BY A BUSHRANGER.

SOME REALITIES OF RANCHING.

REMAINS OF ANCIENT LONDON.

THE ‘STRONG-ROOM’ AT PETERBOROUGH.

OCCASIONAL NOTES.

BURNS AND SCALDS.

INTERESTING DISCOVERY AT ROME.

TELEPHONING EXTRAORDINARY.

A MODERN MADRIGAL.

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