Chambers’s Journal, June 5, 1886

I have often thought that a few practical hints relative to the preparations for and treatment of a guest who comes to be a member of the household for a while, would not, perhaps, be thrown away upon the general company of readers. I therefore venture to offer these hints in homely fashion, feeling that I am, as it were, treading upon almost new ground, for the matter is one that appears to me to have been, considering its importance, wonderfully little discussed.

Before entering upon my subject, I would wish to say that my observations and advice are not addressed to those heads of families who have large establishments and a numerous staff of servants at command; such, of course, have merely to signify to the housekeeper or upper housemaid that a guest is expected, and give directions that such and such a room be prepared: the green, the yellow, blue, or any other colour, as the case may be. I desire rather to write for those heads of houses who belong to the middle classes, and for ladies who, for lack of means, can afford to keep but one servant, or at the most two.

It may, perhaps, be said that in the former case a visitor ought not to be invited at all; but that is mere nonsense, for there are times and circumstances when such a mark of civility is undoubtedly due, and when it cannot with propriety be avoided; nor need there be any reason, in a properly regulated household, why a guest should not be lodged and entertained quite as comfortably, if less luxuriously, in an unpretentious dwelling as within the lordliest halls. Of course, a great deal must depend upon the style of living to which the visitor is accustomed. It would, for instance, be unwise for a hostess with limited means at her command to undertake the entertaining of a wealthy nabob, who, from being born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, knows nothing of difficulties or struggles with the world, and is in consequence a mere mass of selfish exactitude and caprice. Nor would it be judicious for a person of moderate income to invite a gourmet, who lives to pamper his appetite, and is guilty of such vulgar pomposities as passing the wines beneath his nose before tasting them, in order that he may boast of his knowledge of the various vintages to which they belong. It is likewise unwise for a host or hostess of limited resources to extend an offer of hospitality to a fine lady or gentleman who cannot travel without a maid or valet in attendance upon them. Strange servants are an intolerable nuisance among a household, and it is usual for those who have had experience of them, to declare that they would rather entertain a dozen guests in the dining-room than cater for one in the kitchen or servants’ hall.

In the event of a hostess deeming it a necessity—which sometimes occurs—to invite a guest whose household and style of living are to her knowledge superior to her own, she should not be in the least ashamed to confess the fact, or feel in the smallest degree embarrassed about doing so. She should, on the contrary, refer to it—once only—with easy grace, exhibiting no trace of ‘awkwardness,’ for there is not any shame in being unable to cope with those who are wealthier than ourselves, nor can riches ever weigh against gentility of soul. Were we to ape what we cannot have—to strive after position which we cannot attain—to attempt style that we cannot keep up—to cheat honest tradesmen out of their lawful earnings in order to gratify some expensive taste which we have no right to indulge—then, indeed, might a blush lawfully arise; but there is nothing in upright frugality to make even the most sensitive feel ashamed.

I have said, refer to the matter once only, because I consider it a sign of extreme bad taste to keep perpetually offering apologies to visitors, in the event of things not being quite so grand or imposing as the hostess may desire. How{354} frequently we are put to the pain of listening to such sentences as: ‘Do, pray, take some more; although I know it is not so good as you have at home’—‘I hope you slept well, though I am afraid you missed your own fine big room,’ &c. This display of deferential anxiety cannot be otherwise than painfully embarrassing to a visitor, and looks as though the hostess were either throwing out perpetual hints for compliments upon the excellence of her house and table, or as if she were really uncomfortably conscious of deficiencies which are perhaps noticeable to herself alone. A few words—the briefer the better—spoken to the guest on arrival, or inserted in the note of invitation, are sufficient to answer all purposes: ‘You are aware, Miss—or Mr’ (as the case may be), ‘that our means are not sufficient to admit of any style; but I hope you will be comfortable, and I am sure you will be welcome.’

A hostess of moderate income, such as I am writing for, should always ascertain personally that the bedchamber intended for her guest’s use is comfortably arranged and the bed-clothing properly aired. These are things which, if left to the care of the ordinary run of servants, will in most instances be performed in a very slovenly manner. As I intend that these observations shall be of a decidedly practical nature, I shall state plainly my ideas respecting the arrangement of a guest-chamber in an ordinary middle-class house. Ignoring, then, the existence of a family bathroom, the visitor’s apartment should be provided with a bath, a large sponge, and a plentiful supply of towels. The first of these should be kept turned up in some spare corner by day, and laid down at night by the chambermaid, with a square of oilcloth or felt underneath, to save the carpet from being wetted; for some persons are very untidy bathers, and make a terrible splashing when they indulge in a ‘tub.’ The sponge should be kept in a little basket, made to hook on to the lower rail of the towel-stand, which is in every way preferable to keeping it in a bag. Care should be taken that the looking-glass does not, when touched, make a low salaam—the upper end coming down upon the nose of the visitor, while the lower portion departs out of sight! This is very frequently the case in hotels and lodging-houses, and indeed in too many private dwellings also; and it can be so easily rectified by the bestowal of a little care upon the screws, that it is quite wonderful how persons can contentedly go on from month to month propping up the disabled toilet-mirror—or leaving others to do it—with a hairbrush, or pocket-handkerchief, or half a newspaper folded into a pad.

Be sure, also, if you are expecting a visitor, to leave the wardrobe in the guest-chamber perfectly empty, and all the shelves neatly swept and papered. Be certain to attend particularly to this matter, more especially if the expected visitor be a lady, for it is pitiable to contemplate the inconvenience which neglect of it may entail. See that every article of clothing is removed from drawers and wardrobe; and do not from negligence leave half-a-dozen dresses hanging up in the latter, or an array of laces and fineries folded away in the former. Nothing can possibly be more conducive to the discomfort of a lady-guest than—just when she has bolted her door and has divested herself of her outer garments to dress for some dinner or dance—to have the hostess knock and bounce in, with: ‘I beg your pardon; I know you won’t mind me; but I find the dress I want to wear is in your wardrobe.’ Or, ‘My opera-mantle is stowed away in one of your drawers.’

I have occasionally stayed at houses, and very frequently at hotels, where there was no such thing in my room as a wardrobe at all, in any shape or form—not even a shelved press, or a clothes-rack on the wall. This is dire misery, and is an unpardonable omission on the part of those in authority over the management of affairs. It is not by any means a matter of necessity that a costly glass-panelled wardrobe should be provided. Many households cannot afford such; but a neatly painted one is not an extravagance; and in the event of a narrow staircase or doorway preventing ingress to such a piece of furniture, there is an excellent plan for improvising a wardrobe, which I have seen tried with great success. Nail up a substantial clothes-rack in a recess of the room; suspend a brass rod across it, on which are curtains hung on rings, and cover in the top with strong calico, leaving a neat valance of the curtain-stuff, bordered with fringe, to hang over the edge. Any place, in short, which will allow of coats and dresses being hung up, to prevent the creasing which they suffer by folding, and to preserve them from dust, cannot fail to be acceptable to a visitor, when he or she comes to unpack.

Always make sure that the window-blinds are in perfect working order. They are at times too stiff, or too loose, or so much out of gear that if drawn down at night they remain immovable in the morning, and the guest is obliged to dress in semi-darkness. See, also that the windows themselves are properly in order. Every window ought to be made to open both at top and bottom, as this admits of the immediate and thorough ventilation of the room. If, however, through defective carpentering in the first instance, the windows are hermetically sealed at the top—as is too frequently the case in old houses—make certain at all events that the lower sash opens and shuts with ease, and that when closed it does not admit a draught. Above all things, see that means are provided to prevent the shaking of windows in windy weather. Few things are so aggravating to the temper, and at the same time so wearying to the constitution, as being kept awake at night by the ceaseless and monotonous ‘bang, bang’ of a loose window-sash, which, after all, can be very easily remedied without adopting the old-fashioned method of thrusting a toothbrush handle or rack-comb between the sashes, to act as a sort of{355} wedge. Procure two neat flat pieces of wood, about four inches in length; drill a hole in the centre of each; affix one at each side of the window-frame with a screw, which you must not drive in too closely, but leave sufficient of the head for the wood to revolve or move upon. You will find that by slightly lifting the outer or lower end of the wood, the other end becomes pressed against the edge of the window-sash, which it holds perfectly steady; and that by declining or lowering this outer or lower end, the sash is released from pressure. The plan is an invention of my own; and I must not be considered egotistical for saying that it is an excellent one, as it will silence the noisiest window in an instant of time. A small bar of brass, treated in the same manner as the wood, looks more ornamental, and is of course stronger, where much pressure is desirable. Should there be any aperture or draught, a neat piece of cloth may be nailed along the sash, and will effectually exclude it.

Take especial care that the carpet does not wrinkle about the door, or in any other way prevent its shutting. I have seen some extremely awkward things occur from the neglect of this precaution. A relative of mine, who was of a very neat and systematic disposition, observed upon one occasion that there was a great crease in the carpet of his sitting-room at an hotel where he went to stay; and being of a practical turn of mind, he got out his own little hammer, and with the aid of a tack or two, soon set matters to rights. It happened, however, that the waiter was in the habit of overcoming difficulties by making a rush at the door; and as he followed this plan an hour later, when carrying in a heavy tray, the consequences were disastrous, for the door flew open with the greatest ease, and tray and waiter came tumbling into the room together.

You should make sure, also, that the bolt and lock of the door are in proper order. Many persons cannot sleep easily unless their door is fastened; and it is pleasanter for the hostess to expend a few pence upon the mending of a lock or bolt, than to hear her guest, at dead of night, dragging a heavy box or table, or chest of drawers, or some other unwieldy thing, across the floor of the chamber, to barricade the door against imaginary disturbances.

Ascertain, likewise, that there are night-lights, matches, and a substantial taper left in the room—as also writing materials, pins, hair-pins—if the expected guest be a lady—perfume, and a few amusing magazines or other specimens of light literature, as well as the Book of books; for some persons waken early, and enjoy a brief spell of reading before getting up.

These may perhaps appear very minute details to go into, but believe me the chamber in which they have been thoroughly attended to—no matter how plain and unpretentious it may be—will prove infinitely more comfortable than the most luxuriously furnished room in which they have been overlooked.

It is an excellent plan, in a limited household, to have various matters connected with housekeeping in readiness before the guest arrives. A good supply of fresh table-napkins; a number of knives, forks, and spoons arranged in a sideboard drawer in the dining-room; a few plates and glasses within the locker, in order to obviate the necessity for continually ringing the bell; a supply of sweets made; and a good marketing laid in. Many persons deem this an impossibility in warm weather; but few things are so, if properly managed. There are many kinds of sweets that will keep good for days; even those in the manufacture of which milk has been employed, will not sour if the milk be first boiled and slightly flavoured, or if condensed milk be used in place of fresh. Of course, a great deal depends also upon keeping such things in a perfectly cool atmosphere.

With regard to meat, a joint may be preserved for many days by wrapping it loosely in a fine cloth wrung out of vinegar, and hanging it in a draught of air. If the weather be very warm, the cloth must be remoistened twice, or even thrice a day. Tinned provisions are excellent in summer, and are invaluable in cases of emergency; tongues, curries, and soups being amongst the best of the eatables thus preserved.

A breakfast-table, to be comfortably set, should have a separate tea or coffee equipage for each individual, except in cases where the family is very large; then one may be made to serve for two persons. In like manner, no dinner-table can be said to be properly appointed where there is any handing about of salt-cellars, water-bottles, or other necessaries; nor can there be any excuse for it in these days of cheapness, when very neat little salt-cellars of moulded glass can be had for a penny apiece. I have even seen some as low as half that price and yet quite presentable.

Do not exercise your mind too much about amusing your guest. I have often thought that in some foreign countries, and notably in many parts of America, the relation of host and guest was a sort of double slavery. The host has the comfort and amusement of his guest so painfully at heart, that both undergo, for the time being, an amount of social misery that entirely spoils the freedom and pleasure of the visit. In our country it is different. Go to spend a week in an Englishman’s house, and you may be sure that neither your host nor hostess will bother you with trifling matters unless you seem to desire it. Everything goes on as though you were not there, and yet, per contra, the house and its belongings are practically yours so long as you remain. I consider it the extreme of bad taste to pursue a visitor with continual offers of amusement. If treated as a member of the family and suffered to amuse himself, he will generally do very well, and will feel much happier and more at ease than when he is too closely looked after. I have heard persons complain bitterly of undue attentions and continual running after, from which they have suffered far more acutely than if actually neglected. ‘Where is Mrs Dash? Who is sitting with her?’ cries the flurried hostess. ‘Good gracious! is it possible she has been left by herself? Go at once, Mary, or Julia, or Tommy, and sit with her, and amuse her until I have time to come.’ And all the while, perhaps, the hapless Mrs Dash is struggling to get a letter or two written, or a bill or account made{356} up, and is congratulating herself upon the unwonted luxury of a few delicious moments of absolute quiet. She is revelling in the thought of being left alone, when, lo! Miss Mary, aged ten, comes awkwardly in, and stands sniffing in the window, or sits sideways upon the piano-stool, strumming with one hand at the notes, which is her idea of keeping the visitor company until mamma comes. Or Master Tommy, aged twelve, enters with a burst of noise, and proceeds to relate to the afflicted guest how he and Jack Jones are in the same Latin class; and how said Jones is beyond him in Euclid, though inferior in something else; and how Brown licked Black for calling him a dunce—with a variety of other information, by no means interesting to unconcerned parties. To this annoyance there are few of us who have not been subjected. A greater error of judgment can scarcely be committed. To make a guest feel comfortable and at home, leave him pretty much to his own devices. To be always striving to amuse him is a poor compliment to his own resources.

If in the winter-time a visitor comes to stay in your house, inquire early whether he prefers a fire in his bedroom at night, or a hot jar laid into the bed. If the latter, so much the better; it not only economises the coals, but is an immense saving of trouble to the housemaid in the mornings, as she has not then an additional grate to make up.

During the stay of your guest, if a lady, do not suffer her to pay anything towards the expenses of cabs, trains, or laundry, neither to defray the cost of her own concert or theatre tickets. Whilst in your house, she is, or ought to be, a member of your family, and it is not worth while, for the sake of a trifling additional outlay, to do anything which bears upon it the smallest stamp of meanness. If, however, the guest be a gentleman, there may—under certain circumstances—be some little relaxation of the rule; but where a lady is concerned, it cannot be too stringently adhered to.

Opinions vary as to the propriety of inviting a departing visitor to remain longer. The hostess should, I think, be guided by circumstances and surroundings. A lady cannot well press a gentleman to stay, unless he be a special friend or relative, or that it is her husband’s desire that he should do so. It is, however, quite usual to ask a lady to extend her visit a few days beyond the time fixed by her for departure. Not to do so would appear in most cases inhospitable, or at all events coldly formal, which amounts to much the same thing. It is an excellent plan, however, when giving an invitation, to name the time that the recipient of it is intended to remain. ‘We shall expect you to come to us for a fortnight;’ or, ‘Stay with us from Monday to Thursday,’ will enable the guest to know precisely the limit to which his visit ought to be prolonged.

Make it a rule never to introduce any subject that could be unpleasant or embarrassing to a visitor. Avoid strictly the smallest allusion to household worries, as also questions of politics and religion; and if your household be, unhappily, one in which family jars are at times wont to figure, banish all such entirely out of view, for the time at least, if not for all time, as nothing can possibly be more painful to a guest than witnessing bickerings upon subjects with which he has no sort of sympathy. A visitor, remember, can have but one feeling upon all such dreary occasions: namely, an intense desire to get well out of the way with all convenient speed.

Be careful, also, that your guest shall see nothing of your share of household duties or drudgery, otherwise he, or she, will be made to feel excessively uncomfortable. A hostess who presides over a limited establishment will have many duties to perform, and countless little matters to engage her attention and need her helping hand; but a visitor should not on any account be permitted to witness these things. A well-bred orderly hostess will get her work done quietly and without fuss, nor will she ever exhibit that bustling, anxious demeanour which is the characteristic of so many really kind and otherwise excellent entertainers.

It will not be out of place here to speak a warning word to ladies—mistresses of households—who allow their overwhelming anxiety respecting the success of the dinner preparations to appear on their countenances during the progress of the meal. Which of us is unfamiliar with the flushed face, eager eyes, and look of tortured suspense with which some hostesses regard the carrying in of the various dishes? I am now, of course, speaking of plain, old-fashioned family dinners, where the joints and sweets are laid upon the table. The hostess may be, and probably is, engaged in conversation with the guest who occupies the seat on her right or left hand, as the case may be; but the preoccupied manner, the wandering thoughts, the painful effort at appearing interested in whatever topic may be under discussion, are only too apparent—as are likewise the harassed look if, on the lifting of the covers, anything is discovered to be wrong, and the palpable look of relief if, on the other hand, there seems to be no reasonable ground for apprehension or complaint. All such facial reflexes of the soul can and ought to be avoided. They are frequently the result of nervousness, and are in such cases a misfortune, yet one which is quite curable and capable of being easily overcome. A hostess who cannot preserve her serenity upon even the most crucial occasions, is lacking in one of the most essential qualities of an entertainer. The thoughtless spilling of her best wine, the soiling of her whitest tablecloth, nay, even the smashing of a whole trayful of her best old family china, should not cause one muscle of her countenance to change.

On the other hand, an affected ignorance respecting the contents of the day’s bill of fare is at times almost as fatal as the opposite extreme. I was myself present at a dinner-party at which one of the untutored stable-helpers had been brought in, on an emergency, to assist. ‘What are these, John?’ inquired the languid hostess, as John tremblingly thrust forward a dish of tartlets just under her right elbow. ‘I don’t know ma’am, raally,’ he replied; ‘but I think they’re tuppence apiece!’

I shall conclude this portion of my subject by remarking, that if a hostess has a lady-visitor in her house and does not keep a carriage, she ought, when the guest is about to depart, to{357} make arrangements that a cab or other vehicle shall be in waiting at the door in good time, to convey the visitor to train, boat, or whatever else may lead to her destination. Gentlemen are usually understood to see after such matters for themselves.

CHAPTER XXIX.

In spite of his vigorous dislike for Tom Dupuy, Harry Noel continued to stop on at Orange Grove for some weeks together, retained there irresistibly by the potent spell of Nora’s presence. He couldn’t tear himself away from Nora. And Nora, too, though she could never conquer her instinctive prejudice against the dark young Englishman—a prejudice that seemed to be almost ingrained in her very nature—couldn’t help feeling on her side, also, that it was very pleasant to have Harry Noel staying in the house with her; he was such a relief and change after Tom Dupuy and the other sugar-growing young gentlemen of Trinidad! He had some other ideas in his head beside vacuum pans and saccharometers and centrifugals; he could talk about something else besides the crop and the cutting and the boiling. Harry was careful not to recur for the present to the subject of their last conversation at Southampton; he left that important issue aside for a while, till Nora had time to make his acquaintance for herself afresh. A year had passed since she came to Trinidad; she might have changed her mind meanwhile. At nineteen or twenty, one’s views often undergo a rapid expansion. In any case, it would be best to let her have a little time to get to know him better. In his own heart, Harry Noel had inklings of a certain not wholly unbecoming consciousness that he cut a very decent figure indeed in Nora’s eyes, by the side of the awkward, sugar-growing young men of Trinidad.

One afternoon, a week or two later, he was out riding among the plains with Nora, attended behind by the negro groom, when they happened to pass the same corner where he had already met Louis Delgado. The old man was standing there again, cutlass in hand—the cutlass is the common agricultural implement and rural jack-of-all-trades of the West Indies, answering to plough, harrow, hoe, spade, reaping-hook, rake, and pruning-knife in England—and as Nora passed, he dropped her a grudging, half-satirical salutation, something between a bow and a courtesy, as is the primitive custom of the country.

‘A very murderous-looking weapon, the thing that fellow’s got in his hand,’ Harry Noel said, in passing, to his pretty companion as they turned the corner. ‘What on earth does he want to do with it, I wonder?’

‘Oh, that!’ Nora exclaimed carelessly, glancing back at it in an unconcerned fashion. ‘That’s only a cutlass. All our people work with cutlasses, you know. He’s merely going to hoe up the canes with it.’

‘Nasty things for the niggers to have in their hands, in case there should ever be any row in the island,’ Harry murmured half aloud; for the sight of the wild-looking old man ran strangely in his head, and he couldn’t help thinking to himself how much damage could easily be done by a sturdy negro with one of those rude and formidable weapons.

‘Yes,’ Nora answered with a childish laugh, ‘those are just what they always hack us to pieces with, you know, whenever there comes a negro rising. Mr Hawthorn says there’s very likely to be one soon. He thinks the negroes are ripe for rebellion. He knows more about them than any one else, you see; and he’s thoroughly in the confidence of a great many of them, and he says they’re almost all fearfully disaffected. That old man Delgado there, in particular—he’s a shocking old man altogether. He hates papa and Tom Dupuy; and I believe if ever he got the chance, he’d cut every one of our throats in cold blood as soon as look at us.’

‘I trust to goodness he won’t get the chance, then,’ Harry ejaculated earnestly. ‘He seems a most uncivil, ill-conditioned, independent sort of a fellow altogether. I dropped my whip on the road by chance the very first afternoon I came here, and I asked this same man to pick it up for me; and, would you believe it, the old wretch wouldn’t stoop to hand the thing to me; he told me I might just jump off my horse and pick it up for myself, if I wanted to get it! Now, you know, a labourer in England, though he’s a white man like one’s self, would never have dared to answer me that way. He’d have stooped down and picked it up instinctively, the moment he was asked to by any gentleman.’

‘Mr Hawthorn says,’ Nora answered, smiling, ‘that our negroes here are a great deal more independent, and have a great deal more sense of freedom than English country-people, because they were emancipated straight off all in one day, and were told at once: “Now, from this time forth, you’re every bit as free as your masters;” whereas the English peasants, he says, were never regularly emancipated at all, but only slowly and unconsciously came out of serfdom, so that there never was any one day when they felt to themselves that they had become freemen. I’m not quite sure whether that’s exactly how he puts it, but I think it is. Anyhow, I know it’s a fact that all one’s negro women-servants out here are a great deal more independent and saucy than the white maids used to be over in England.’

‘Independence,’ Harry remarked, cracking his short whip with a sharp snap, ‘is a very noble quality, considered in the abstract; but when it comes to taking it in the concrete, I should much prefer for my part not to have it in my own servants.’

(A sentiment, it may be observed in passing, by no means uncommon, even when not expressed, among people who make far more pretensions to democratic feeling than did Harry Noel.)

Louis Delgado, standing behind, and gazing with a malevolent gleam in his cold dark eyes after the retreating buckra figures, beckoned in{358} silence with his skinny hand to the black groom, who came back immediately and unhesitatingly, as if in prompt obedience to some superior officer.

‘You is number forty-tree, I tink,’ the old man said, looking at the groom closely. ‘Yes, yes, dat’s your number. Tell me; you know who is dis buckra from Englan’?’

‘Dem callin’ him Mistah Noel, sah,’ the black groom answered, touching the brim of his hat respectfully.

‘Yes, yes, I know him name; I know dat already,’ Delgado answered with an impatient gesture. ‘But what I want to know is jest dis—can you find out for me from de house-serbants, or anybody up at Orange Grove, where him fader an’ him mudder come from? I want to know all about him.’

‘Missy Rosina find dat out for me,’ the groom answered, grinning broadly. ‘Missy Rosina is de young le-ady’s waitin’-maid; an’ de young le-ady, him tell Rosina pretty well eberyting. Rosina, she is Isaac Pourtalès’ new sweetheart.’

Delgado nodded in instantaneous acquiescence. ‘All right, number forty-tree,’ he answered, cutting him short carelessly. ‘Ride after buckra, an’ say no more about it. I get it all out ob him now, surely. I know Missy Rosina well, for true. I gib him de lub of Isaac Pourtalès wit me obeah, I tellin’ you. Send Missy Rosina to me dis ebenin’. I has plenty ting I want to talk about wit her.’

It might seem to many, at first sight, almost ludicrous to be directed to search for poetry in that most prosaic of all places, the Old City of London. The busy cry of ‘commerce,’ which all day long deafens the ear and deadens the finer senses, excludes all thoughts beyond those which tend to the discovery of the state of the various markets—the price of stocks, the rate of exchange at Paris, Berlin, or St Petersburg—the condition, in fact, of all the monetary and mercantile affairs in the world. Yet if these ‘toilers’ had a moment to spare, and would look around them and reflect, they would find that there are spots in the City which have inspired many a poet.

Starting for a ‘walk down Fleet Street,’ and entering at the Middle Temple gate, we come upon a scene which has been immortalised by Shakspeare—the scene of the original factions of York and Lancaster. In this garden, Plantagenet says:

In the background of this garden, with its fine trees and flowers, where the great dramatist placed, in his imagination, this historical incident, may be seen the old walls and buttresses of the Middle Temple Hall. The descent into the garden is after the Italian fashion, from a court, in the centre of which stands that celebrated fountain of which nearly every noted author has spoken. Who does not remember Ruth Pinch—that devoted sister of Tom’s, in Martin Chuzzlewit, walking under the trees in Fountain Court, and meeting there—by the merest accident, of course—her lover? ‘Merrily the fountain leaped and danced, and merrily the smiling dimples twinkled and expanded more and more, until they broke into a laugh against the basin’s rim, and vanished.’ There is a graceful poem by L. E. L. (Miss Landon) on this much admired and petted fountain in the Temple Gardens:

There is no place, one can see from reading Charles Lamb, which he loved more than the Temple to wander in. ‘What a transition for a country-man visiting London for the first time,’ he remarks in his Essays, ‘the passing from the crowded Strand or Fleet Street by unexpected avenues, into its magnificent, ample squares, its classic green recesses!... What a collegiate aspect has that fine Elizabethan hall, where the fountain plays, which I had made to rise and fall, how many times!’ Among the Temple trees there was formerly a colony of rooks, brought there by Sir Edward Northey, a well-known lawyer in the time of Queen Anne, from his house at Epsom. The thought had in it a touch of humour. The rook, both in his plumage as well as in his habits, is a legal bird: he is strongly addicted to discussions, lives in communities, and has altogether the grave appearance of a ‘learned brother.’ But these rooks have ceased to assemble in the Temple Gardens for many years.

For a long time, also, a favourite residence of rooks was that beautiful tree which still stands at the left-hand corner of Wood Street, on turning out of Cheapside. As late as 1845, two new nests were built there; and a trace of them is still visible. The spot where the tree stands marks the site of the church of St Peter-in-Cheap, a church destroyed by the Great Fire. The terms of the lease of the low houses at this west corner, with their frontage in Cheapside, forbid the erection of another story, it is said, or the removal of this tree. Is it possible that Wordsworth, passing one summer day down Cheapside, observed{359} the tree, and gained the inspiration which led to the Reverie of Poor Susan?

Within one of the inner courts of the Bank of England there is a garden tastefully planted with trees and shrubs, some of considerable age; and in the centre there springs forth a large fountain, mushroom-shaped, which plays during the office hours for the benefit of the clerks who inhabit that portion of the building, and for the ‘toilers’ who pass in and out with their bills of exchange and their bags of gold. The sparrows which congregate here flutter from branch to branch, twittering, ‘as though they called to one another,’ as Charles Dickens describes it, ‘Let us play at country;’ a place where ‘a few feet of garden,’ he says in Edwin Drood, ‘enable them to do that refreshing violence to their tiny understandings.’ This green spot, like many others still to be seen in the City of London, was once a churchyard; it belonged to the church of St Christopher in Threadneedle Street.

But one of the greenest spots in the City, although only a corner of it remains, is perhaps Drapers’ Hall Gardens. It is shut in on all sides by newly constructed mansions, and only those who have business to transact among the stockbrokers, who have their offices in these buildings behind Throgmorton Street, have any suspicion of its existence. It may be reached by wandering through courts and alleys; it has almost a park-like appearance, if you are fortunate enough to gain a glimpse of it from an elevated and slightly distant point of view. Here there is also a fountain visible among the trees. But how different this garden once was! In the sixteenth century it was an estate, the property of Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex. It was purchased from him, in the reign of Henry VIII., by the Drapers’ Company. The gardens then extended northwards as far as London Wall, and commanded a fine view of Highgate and the adjoining heights. In Ward’s London Spy, it is spoken of as a fashionable promenade an hour before dinner-time.

In the neighbourhood of the Monument and of Thames Street, these gardens may be met with at nearly every turning by those who care to wander into nooks and corners in search of them. By walking up St Mary-at-Hill out of Thames Street, and entering through a narrow iron gateway with bars like a prison, above which may be seen in stone a grinning skull and crossbones, one comes upon some fine trees with their branches extending overhead in the passage-way. Or, again, when descending St Dunstan’s Hill, hard by, what is more beautiful in the City than the trees in the churchyard of St Dunstan, with the gray and black masonry of the church, against the green leaves, with its four lofty towers rising above?

To the account of the trees and gardens mentioned above may be added a short statement of many others existing in out-of-the-way nooks and corners within the boundary of the city of London. Many of the small open patches where these trees are found were once undoubtedly burial-grounds of churches, or the sites of churches long since taken down. After the beautiful grounds of the Temple, the only other large open spaces within the boundaries of the City are Finsbury Square, Finsbury Circus, Charterhouse Square, and Trinity Square. All these are well laid out with grass, shrubs, trees, and flowers, and are used as promenading places by the inhabitants. It should be here mentioned that the trees referred to in this notice are all young, or at most middle-aged, and that no such thing as a really ‘old’ tree exists anywhere within the City of London.

We will now continue our ramble, or tour of inspection; and starting from Temple Bar, we proceed eastward down Fleet Street. Here the first trees we notice are two or three small and sickly specimens growing in the churchyard of St Bride, Fleet Street; they are not very ornamental, or much to look at. Passing on up Ludgate Hill, St Paul’s Cathedral is reached. The grounds round the church are prettily laid out, and contain many trees, but all young, small, and weedy. Just to the east of St Paul’s, in Watling Street, is a little inclosure very neatly planted with shrubs only, and having in its midst a large square altar-tomb of some departed City worthy. This spot was once a burying-ground, or the site of a church long since removed. Proceeding eastward, and turning down Queen Street, just out of Cannon Street, two tall and rather fine plane-trees are observed growing in the front of a grand old mansion, once, of course, the residence of a City magnate, but now cut up and let out as offices. These planes are worthy of remark as affording one of the few instances now occurring of trees found in private grounds inside the City.

We now pass up Queen Street into Cheapside, and thence into Aldersgate Street. Here we find the ground, once the churchyard of St Botolph, Aldersgate, has been beautifully laid out as a garden, planted with trees, flowers, and shrubs, and furnished with numerous seats, and affording a delightful promenade or resting-place in summer-time, and is much enjoyed by the immediate neighbourhood. Another plot of ground, lying on the west, but belonging to Christ Church, Newgate Street, has also been planted and laid out; but, because it belongs to another parish, it is separated from the St Botolph’s garden by a low wall and railing, although the two grounds actually adjoin.

Continuing our walk northward, we arrive at Charterhouse, once celebrated for its high-class school, which has now been removed into the{360} country. Adjoining, is Charterhouse Square, laid out with trees, shrubs, and grass like an ordinary London square, and surrounded by private dwellings. Returning south, and then going east, we reach St Alban’s, Wood Street, which has a little ground round it, decorated with four trees and shrubs. Close by is St Mary-the-Virgin, Aldermanbury, with four trees round it. Just beyond is a small churchyard that once belonged to St Mary, Staining, containing two trees and shrubs; and a little farther is St Olave, Jewry, with six trees and shrubs, all weedy and sickly.

Passing on into Cannon Street, we turn down Lawrence Poultney Hill, where we discover a disused burial-ground, with a public passage-way passing through the midst of it. The plot is planted with eighteen sickly-looking, weedy trees, large and small, as well as some stunted shrubs. Passing over King William Street, we reach the top of Lombard Street, where one little sickly-looking tree is seen in front of the church of St Mary Woolnoth. Continuing down Lombard Street, and turning to the right, we come upon the disused burial-ground of St Nicholas Acon, situated in Nicholas Lane. This little plot is very neatly laid out with shrubs, and planted with three small trees. Passing on into King William Street, we ultimately reach London Bridge, where, close by in Thames Street, we find the large church of St Magnus-the-Martyr, with its tall and peculiar tower and spire, near the Monument. It has no churchyard, but a small inclosed space round it contains a dozen unhealthy-looking young trees. A little beyond this, close to the church of St Mary-at-Hill, three trees are observed growing in what is apparently the private ground or garden in the rear of a dwelling-house. A few minutes farther east, we come to the fine church of St Dunstan-in-the-East, standing in the midst of a well-kept churchyard, and having ten goodly young trees, of fair height and girth, which always have a very agreeable appearance in the summer-time. Still farther on east, we come to St Olave, Hart Street, with its little churchyard, planted with ten small trees; and close by we see the church of Allhallows (Barking), Tower Street. This fine old church is one of the few which escaped the great fire of 1666. It stands in a roomy churchyard, decorated with twenty-four trees, and having somewhat the appearance of a village church and churchyard.

We now emerge into one of the most interesting spots in all London, interesting not only in an historical sense, but peculiarly so from the terrible tragedies of which it was so constantly the theatre—namely, Tower Hill. This vast space, extending from the Tower gates northward to the Trinity House, was once entirely open; but now a small portion of its northern extremity is inclosed and neatly planted with grass, shrubs, and trees. As the Tower itself is situated outside the City boundaries, we must not include its trees and plantations in this notice, which strictly applies to trees in the City only. We therefore turn our steps westward; and in a little court, leading from Mark Lane to Fenchurch Street, called Star Alley, we come on a curious relic of the past, a gray medieval church tower, square in shape, with its stair turret at one corner, which once belonged to the church of Allhallows (Staining), Mark Lane. The nave of the church has long since been removed, and the small plot of ground round the old tower is now prettily laid out with six young trees, many shrubs, yuccas, and other ornamental plants.

Threading our way to Bishopsgate Street, we find the churchyard of St Botolph, through which a public footway leads to a neighbouring street. The ground, right and left, is tastefully laid out as a garden with pretty shrubs and trees, the effect being pleasing and agreeable, especially in summer. Nearly opposite is the ancient church of St Ethelburga, hidden behind the houses, with a small confined space at the back, in which are fine trees. Two or three more trees are found in a small inclosure in the vicinity at the back of this church. Close by is also the curious and interesting church of St Helen, Bishopsgate, and in the ground round it are four ill-looking, scraggy trees.

Returning southward, and reaching Cornhill, we find a little burial-ground in the rear of the fine church of St Michael, Cornhill, neatly laid out, and planted with three small trees. Close by is another large church, St Peter-upon-Cornhill, with its small confined churchyard, also neatly laid out, and planted with two small unhealthy-looking trees.

Taking our way westward, we pass Christ’s Hospital in Newgate Street. The boys’ playground is a large open paved courtyard, destitute of grass, trees, or shrubs; but in the private gardens in the rear, trees, shrubs, and flowers are to be found, having a pleasant appearance. A little way beyond, we find St Andrew’s, Holborn, and in the open churchyard surrounding the church are many trees, but not much cultivation. Passing through the quaint old gateway, we find ourselves in the interior of Staple Inn, Holborn, with its Hall and gardens. The latter are neatly laid out with grass, shrubs, and trees, and carefully kept, affording a quiet retreat from the noise and racket of Holborn during the bright days of summer.

In conclusion, it may perhaps be worthy of remark that nearly all the places referred to are very small indeed, mere ‘garden nooks;’ some are churchyards surrounding churches; and for these reasons, apparently, none of them are open for the use of the public as places of recreation, except the cultivated churchyards of St Paul’s Cathedral, and St Botolph, Aldersgate, close by; and the squares of Finsbury, Trinity, and Charterhouse, which are open to the immediate residents. St Botolph, Bishopsgate, has, as already stated, a footway through its prettily laid out churchyard.

It is at least remarkable how trees will suddenly appear in the City in the most out-of-the-way corners, where a green leaf would be about the last thing looked for; yet such is the case, as it has already been shown. There are two sickly, scraggy, young trees in a little court, up a narrow dirty lane, on the south side of St Paul’s Cathedral, and at Stationers’ Hall, where no one would dream of looking for vegetation; and two or three more in Barnard’s Inn, Holborn, an inn devoted to law and lawyers. The peculiar character of ‘City trees,’ in nearly all cases, is that they are lanky, thin, and generally poor and unhealthy looking. It is rare,{361} indeed, to find a tall, well-grown tree in any of these odd nooks and corners of the old City; perhaps the three finest in size and height are two plane-trees in front of a private house—now used as offices—in Queen Street, Cheapside; and the well-known single tree at the corner of Wood Street, Cheapside; but these instances are few and far between.

A STORY IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAP. I.

Saint Quinians—that quaint little town which nestles in a valley close by the cruel, tumbling North Sea—looked forward, sixty years ago, to market-day as the one weekly break in the monotony of its existence, just as it does now. On Wednesdays, Saint Quinians became the centre to which active life converged from a score of villages and hamlets that regarded it as their metropolis. Wednesday was a point in the calendar upon which hinged all arrangements, and by which all events were calculated: people met upon Wednesday who never saw each other at any other time; and the news of Wednesday was the latest obtainable by many folk even at an epoch when forty coaches left London every evening. And if Saint Quinians’ shopkeepers looked forward to Wednesday as their busy day—if the farmers looked forward to it as the link which bound them with the outer world—if the local youth saved up their money and their spirits, and let them both out on Wednesday, Bertha West, who lived with her father in a solitary house on the shore, some four miles from the town, looked forward to it as the day when she met her sweetheart, Harry Symonds, and spent the happiest hours of her week. Every Wednesday, Harry Symonds met her at the old South Gate—the only one remaining to tell of days when Saint Quinians was a port of some fame, and contributed its quota of ships and men to the national navy—and if she was prevented from coming, a very miserable week was in store for the young man, as John West, the father of Bertha, did not approve of the attachment, for the rather selfish reason, that if his daughter married, he was left alone in the world.

They had been sweethearting in this semi-clandestine manner for more than a year, and Harry Symonds was beginning to face mentally the awkward problem of what was to be done, should the old man persist in his opposition to the match. Not only this; but the young man was aware that the pretty girl whom he had learned to regard as his own inalienable private property was the object of very marked attention on the part of a certain Jasper Rodley, a youth who bore no very high character in the town, who had suddenly disappeared from it for three years, and had as unexpectedly returned; and although Harry trusted Bertha implicitly, he thought that a settlement of affairs would be an advisable step. And so when, one bright spring Wednesday morning, he met the girl coming with her market baskets on her arm along the path over the sandhills, she observed that his face was serious, and very naturally jumped at the conclusion that something was wrong.

‘Why, Harry,’ she exclaimed, ‘there’s a face for a lover to make who sees his sweetheart only once a week! There’s nothing wrong, is there?’

‘No, dear,’ replied the young man, his face instantly brightening at the sound of her voice; ‘there’s nothing wrong. I’ve been thinking, that’s all. And how are matters at home? How’s the father?’

‘Just as usual, Harry. Father’s been depressed all the week; but I’ve got him to set to work on his flagstaff and battery with two real guns, so that he’ll be all right.’

‘I wonder what depresses him?’ asked Harry. ‘You’ve always described him as such a jovial old seadog.’

‘I don’t know; but ever since the Fancy Lass was wrecked, he’s been different at times.’

‘And Mr Rodley—has he been annoying you with any of his attentions lately?’ asked Harry.

Bertha shook her head, and said: ‘I don’t know. I seem to think that there has been some acquaintance formed between father and him. He has never been inside the house, to my knowledge; but I fancy they meet now and then.’

The young man was silent for a few moments; then he continued: ‘Well, never mind, Bertha. So long as we are true to each other, he cannot come between us. He’s a queer fellow, and people say odd things about him. If you remember, he disappeared from Saint Quinians about the same time that my sad business with the bank took place.’

‘You mean, when the bank’s sovereigns were stolen, and you were dismissed for cul—cul—— What was it, Harry?’

‘Yes, that was it; and a great shame it was!’ cried the girl warmly. ‘I wonder where the sovereigns went to?’

‘Ah! where indeed?’ asked Harry. ‘They were never traced. But old Cusack, our cashier, who disappeared with them, took good care that they never should be traced. It’s my belief that they went to sea, for three thousand pounds in sovereigns are not carried away so easily. However, after all, it did me no harm. Every one agreed that I was cruelly treated. I got a new berth immediately; and I’m much better off now than I should have been if I’d remained in the bank’s service; so well off, in fact, Bertha, that I’m beginning to think it almost time for us to come to some decision as to what we shall do.’

‘O Harry! there’s plenty of time to think about that; and it’s—it’s so pleasant making love; and besides, I must break it gently to father, for he has no idea of parting with me yet.’

‘But he surely can’t expect that you should spend your life in that tumble-down old smuggler’s cottage.—Hillo! there’s Rodley, skulking about like a whipped cur. We’ll go on.’

So the happy pair proceeded into the market,{362} Harry holding the girl’s baskets whilst she made her usual purchases, until the clock striking ten warned the young man that he was due at his office. He saw Bertha on her road home as far as the South Gate, and was hurrying across the market-place, when he caught sight of Jasper Rodley walking swiftly in the direction taken by Bertha. He stopped and watched. He saw Rodley catch the girl up just as she was disappearing beneath the archway, raise his hat, and continue by her side in spite of Bertha’s evident annoyance. Harry Symonds retraced his steps so far that he could watch the progress of the pair out of the town. Suddenly, he observed Mr Rodley attempt to put his arms round Bertha’s waist, whereupon the girl struggled, got free, and ran on.

This was too much for Harry. He ran out by the gate, and, coming up to Bertha and her tormentor, said to him: ‘Mr Rodley, what do you mean by daring to force your attentions where they are not wanted?’

Jasper Rodley, a tall, well-built young fellow, of about Harry’s age and size, started at first; but, shoving his hands into his pockets, surveyed his questioner for a moment with disdain, and asked: ‘And what has that to do with you, Mr Dismissed Bank-clerk?’

Harry was itching to thrash him on the spot; but respect for Bertha’s presence induced him to bottle up his wrath as best he could, and reply: ‘You’ve no right to bother any girl if she doesn’t want to have anything to do with you. And look here—your character hereabouts isn’t so high that you can afford to call other people names, so I warn you to keep a civil tongue in your head, or something might be done that you wouldn’t like, and something might be said that would make you look a little small.’

This last bit was added at random, but it seemed to have a strange effect upon Rodley, who turned pale for a moment, but recovered himself and retorted: ‘Done and said, indeed! You couldn’t do much that I’m afraid of, and at anyrate people couldn’t say of me what they do of you. How about these sovereigns, eh?’

‘Look here, Rodley. If I did my duty, I should give you a thrashing on the spot. Just be off.—Miss West is betrothed to me. That’s enough. Do you hear?’

Jasper Rodley walked off, with a savage scowl on his face and an imprecation on his lips.

‘O Harry dear!’ cried the girl, who was trembling with fright, ‘I’m so glad you didn’t fight.’

‘Fight with a cur like that!’ exclaimed Harry. ‘Men of his kidney don’t fight.—What has he been saying to you, my darling?’

‘Oh, such terrible things, Harry! He says that he will marry me whether I like it or not—that father is in his power, and has consented; and that I had better make up my mind to give you up before it is too late.’

‘Why, what on earth can he mean? Your father in the power of a rascal like that—to consent to your marrying him! He’s only trying to frighten you. And yet you say that you have seen him with your father. I think I shall tackle Mr Jasper at once and make him explain his dark speeches. There’s one thing—I’m not going to have him continue his tormenting of you, whether your father is in his power or not.—And now, good-bye, dearest; you’re safe now.’

So the girl pursued her homeward road; and Harry Symonds walked rapidly back into the town. Just within the gate, he came up with Jasper Rodley. ‘Rodley,’ he said, ‘I’m going to the office to give an excuse for my absence. Kindly wait here until I come back, as I want to speak to you.’

‘If you want to speak to me, you’d better do so at once; I’ve other things to attend to, and I’m not going to hang about here waiting for you.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Harry; ‘let’s go where people can’t remark us. Here, we’ll turn on to the ramparts.’

So they went along the pleasant walk which ran upon what had been, in old, stirring times, the walls of Saint Quinians, a broad path, bounded by shrubs and trees on one side, and by the deep stony ditch on the other.

‘I want an explanation from you,’ said Harry, ‘about what you have just said to Miss West concerning her father being in your power and your determination to marry her.’

‘That’s easily given,’ replied Rodley. ‘At a word from me, old Captain West could be ruined and disgraced. I’m as much in love with Bertha’——

‘I said “Bertha,” and I repeat it,’ continued Rodley. ‘I’m as much in love with her as you are, and I intend to marry her. If I can’t marry her, I ruin her father.’

‘It’s very likely I should tell you—isn’t it?’ answered Rodley with a sneer.

‘You don’t go until I have an explanation,’ cried Harry. ‘I don’t believe a word of what you say, and I believe you are only trying to terrify the poor girl into submission.’

‘Come now, Symonds, don’t be a fool; we’re men of the world, and it’s time we understood one another. I tell you once and for all, if Bertha West does not marry me, I’ll have her father up in the felon’s dock.—There; I’ve said more than I intended, so good-morning.’

He endeavoured to push past Harry; but the latter barred the way, saying: ‘You’ll have poor old Captain West up as a felon! Why, man, you’re mad! A simple old man like that, who never stirs beyond his garden, who never said an evil thing of any one, much less did a wrong to any one! Come, be more explicit.’

‘I’ve said more than I intended,’ continued Rodley; ‘and you don’t get another word out of me.’

Again he tried to get past Harry, and again Harry prevented him, saying: ‘Neither of us shall budge from here until I find out more about this.’

Rodley made a desperate effort to get past Harry. The two men struggled together, and as they were evenly matched in weight and strength, the issue was doubtful. Suddenly, Rodley loosened his hold of Harry’s arms, stooped, caught him by the legs, and jerked him{363} over the steep side of the rampart. Harry fell heavily, struck a projecting mass of stone half-way down, and rolled amongst the sharp stones and rubbish at the bottom, where he lay motionless and bleeding. Rodley did not stop to look after him, but walked rapidly back into the town.

One of the most remarkable judicial systems of olden times was the trial by ordeal, a mode of procedure founded on the presumption that, should a person be wrongfully accused, heaven would interpose, and in some marked way make his innocence undeniable. With the exception of China, this test was of almost universal adoption in the middle ages; and, whilst still surviving amongst the uneducated portion of most civilised communities, is even nowadays largely practised by uncultured races. As far as its origin is concerned, it may be traced back to remote antiquity; and the bitter water by which conjugal infidelity was revealed—an ordeal pure and simple—will readily occur to the biblical student as an interesting instance in Hebrew legislation and history. Herodotus relates how King Amasis—whose reign immediately preceded the invasion of Cambyses—‘was, when a private person, fond of drinking and jesting, and by no means inclined to serious business. As soon, however, as means failed him for the indulgence of his amusements, he used to go about pilfering; and such persons as accused him of having stolen their property—on his denying it—were wont to take him to the oracle of the place, where he was oftentimes convicted, and occasionally acquitted.’ The Greeks had their ordeals, a good illustration of which occurs in the Antigone of Sophocles, where the soldiers offer to prove their innocence in various ways:

There was also the water ordeal, and a certain fountain near Ephesus was specially employed for this purpose. As soon as the accused had sworn to her innocence, she entered the water with a tablet affixed to her neck, on which was inscribed her oath. If she were innocent, the water remained stationary; but if guilty, it gradually rose until the tablet floated. Traces of the same system are to be met with in the history of ancient Rome; and amongst notable instances may be quoted that of the vestal Tucca, who proved her purity by carrying water in a sieve; and that of Claudia Quinta, who cleared her character by dragging a ship against the current of the Tiber, after it had run aground, and resisted every effort made to remove it. But, as Mr Lea points out in his essay on The Ordeal, ‘instances such as these had no influence on the forms and principles of Roman jurisprudence, which was based on reason, and not on superstition. With the exception of the use of torture, the accused was not required to exculpate himself. He was presumed to be innocent, and the burden of proof lay not on him, but on the prosecutor.’

The ordeal trial prevailed in France from before the time of Charlemagne down to the eleventh century. The ancient Germans, too, were in the habit of resorting to divination; and their superstitious notions, writes Mr Gibson, led them to invent many methods of purgation or trial now unknown to the law. It should be added, also, that the Germans were specially tardy in throwing off this relic of barbarism; for, at a period when most vulgar ordeals were falling into disuse, the nobles of Southern Germany established the water ordeal as the mode of deciding doubtful claims on fiefs; and in Northern Germany it was instituted for the settlement of conflicting titles on land. Indeed, as recently as the commencement of the present century, the populace of Hela, near Danzig, twice plunged into the sea an old woman, reputed to be a sorceress, who, on persistently rising to the surface, was pronounced guilty, and beaten to death. Grotius mentions many instances of water ordeal in Bithynia, Sardinia, and other countries, having been in use in Iceland from a very early period.

In the primitive jurisprudence of Russia, ordeal by boiling water was enjoined in cases of minor importance; and in the eleventh century we find burning iron ordered ‘where the matter at stake amounted to more than half a grivna of gold.’ A curious survival of ordeal superstition still prevails to a very large extent in Southern Russia. When a theft is committed in a household, the servants are summoned together, and a sorceress is sent for. Should no confession be made by the guilty party, the sorceress rolls up as many little balls of bread as there are suspected persons present. She then takes one of these balls, and addressing the nearest servant, uses this formula: ‘If you have committed the theft, the ball will sink to the bottom of the vase; but if you are innocent, it will float on the water.’ The accuracy of this trial, however, is seldom tested, as the guilty person invariably confesses before his turn arrives to undergo the ordeal.

Again, in Spain, trial by ordeal was largely practised; and it may be remembered how, during the pontificate of Gregory VII., it was debated whether the Gregorian ritual or the Mozarabic ritual contained the form of worship most acceptable to the Deity. When the chance of deciding this contest amicably seemed hopeless, the nobles resolved to arrange the controversy in their customary manner, and, according to the historian Robertson, the champions—one chosen by either side—met and fought. But in the year 1322, in Castile and Leon, the Council of Palencia{364} threatened with excommunication all concerned in administering the ordeal of fire or water—a circumstance which is important, as pointing to the disappearance of this mode of trial in Spain.

Furthermore, the practice of trial by ordeal was under the Danish kings substituted for the trial by combat, which, until the close of the ninth century, had been resorted to among the Danes for the detection of guilt and the acquittal of innocence. In Sweden, says Mr Gibson, the clergy ‘presided at the trial by ordeal; and it was performed only in the sanctuary, or in the presence of ministers of the church, and according to a solemn ritual.’ And yet, as he rightly observes, its abolition in Europe was due to the continued remonstrances of the clergy themselves. One form of ordeal practised in Sweden was popularly known as the trux iarn, and consisted in the accused carrying a red-hot iron, and depositing it in a hole twelve paces from the starting-point. In accordance with the accustomed mode of procedure, the accused fasted on bread and water on Monday and Tuesday, the ordeal being held on Wednesday, previous to which the hand or foot was washed. It was then allowed to touch nothing until it came in contact with the iron, after which it was wrapped up and sealed until Saturday, when it was opened in the presence of the accuser and the judges.

In the years 1815 and 1816, Belgium, says Mr Lea, was disgraced by ordeal trials performed on unfortunate persons suspected of witchcraft; and in 1728, in Hungary, thirteen persons suspected of a similar offence were, by order of the court, subjected to the ordeal of cold water, and then to that of the balance. Referring to the ordeal of the balance, Mr Tylor informs us that the use of the Bible as a counterpoise is on record as recently as 1759, at Aylesbury in this country, where one Susannah Haynokes, accused of witchcraft, was formally weighed against the Bible in the parish church. In Lombardy, ordeal by hot water was a form of procedure much resorted to; and in Burgundy this was also supplemented by the trial by hot iron.

The instances thus quoted show how universally practised throughout Europe in bygone years was the trial by ordeal; and if we would still see it employed with the enthusiastic faith of the middle ages, we must turn to eastern countries, where, owing to the slow advance of civilisation, many of their institutions still retain their primitive form. Indeed, as Mr Isaac Disraeli remarks, ‘ordeals are the rude laws of a barbarous people who have not yet obtained a written code, and not advanced enough in civilisation to enter into the refined inquiries, the subtle distinctions, and elaborate investigations which a court of law demands.’ This is specially true in the case of India at the present day, where the same ordeals are practised as were in use five or six centuries ago. Thus, the guilt or innocence of an accused person is still tested by his ‘ability to carry red-hot iron, to plunge his hand unhurt in boiling oil, to pass through fire, to remain under water, to swallow consecrated rice, to drink water in which an idol has been immersed, and by various other forms which retain their hold on public veneration.’ Professor Monier Williams, too, says that trial by ordeal is recognised by the code of Manu, and quotes the subjoined rules: ‘Let him cause a man (whose veracity is doubted) to take hold of fire, or dive under water, or touch the heads of his wife and sons one by one. The man whom flaming fire burns not and water forces not up, and who suffers no harm, must be instantly held innocent of perjury.’

In Japan, ordeals extensively prevail; and amongst the many superstitious practices kept up, we are told how the ‘goo’—a paper inscribed with certain cabalistic characters—is rolled up and swallowed by an accused person, this being commonly supposed to give him no internal rest, if guilty, until he confesses. A similar mode of procedure is practised by the Siamese, and under a variety of forms was prevalent in former years. With it, too, we may compare the mouthful of rice taken by all of a suspected household in India, which the thief’s nervous fear often prevents him from swallowing.

Formerly, this practice was observed in our own country with the corsned or trial-slice of consecrated bread or cheese. Even now, says Mr Tylor, peasants have not forgotten the old formula: ‘May this bit choke me if I lie.’

In Tibet, a popular ordeal consists in both plaintiff and defendant thrusting their arms into a caldron of boiling water containing a black and white stone, victory being assigned to the one who is fortunate enough to obtain the white. Such an even-handed mode of procedure, if generally used, must, as Mr Lea remarks, ‘exert a powerful influence in repressing litigation.’

Among further curious specimens of ordeal trial mentioned by this author may be noticed those in use in certain parts of Africa. Thus, the Kalabarese draw a white and black line on the skull of a chimpanzee, which is then held up before the accused, ‘when an attraction of the white line towards him indicates his innocence, or an inclination of the black towards him pronounces his guilt.’ In Madagascar, a decoction of the nut of the Tangena—a deadly poison—is administered to the accused. If it act as an emetic, this is considered a proof of innocence; but if it fail to do so, the guilt of the accused is confirmed. Dr Livingstone describes a similar ordeal as practised in Africa, and tells us how ‘when a man suspects that any of his wives have bewitched him, he sends for the witch-doctor, and all the wives go forth into the field, and remain fasting till that person has made an infusion of the plant called “foho.” They all drink it, each one holding up her hand to heaven in attestation of her innocence. Those who vomit it are considered innocent; but those whom it purges are pronounced guilty, and put to death by burning. The innocent return to their homes, and slaughter a cock, as a thank-offering to their guardian spirits.’

It should be noted, too, that such modes of trial have been introduced with much effect into medieval poetry and romance. Thus, says Mr Gibson, ‘there was the mantle mentioned in a ballad of which Queen Guenever is the principal heroine, and which is supposed to have suggested to Spenser his conceit of Florimel’s girdle.’

Lastly, as far as our own country is concerned, trial by ordeal existed from a very early period. When the Anglo-Saxons were unable to decide as to the guilt of an accused person, they invariably resorted to this test, the law requiring that the accuser should swear that he believed the accused to be guilty, and that his oath should be supported by a number of friends who swore to their belief in his statement and to his general truthfulness. Trials of this kind, however, were often fraudulently conducted. Thus, when William Rufus caused forty Englishmen of good quality and fortune to be tried by the ordeal of hot iron, they all escaped unhurt, and were acquitted. But upon this the king declared that he would try them by his own court. According to the legendary account, it was by this mode of ordeal that Queen Emma, the mother of Edward the Confessor, was tried in order to clear her character from the imputation of an intrigue with Alwyn, Bishop of Winchester. Then there was the ordeal known as the ‘corsned,’ or morsel of execration, already alluded to, which consisted of a piece of bread, weighing about an ounce, being given to the accused person, that, if he were guilty, it might cause convulsions and paleness and find no passage; but turn to health and nourishment if he were innocent. The sudden and fatal appeal to this trial by Godwin, Earl of Kent, in the year 1053, when accused of the murder of Ælfred, the brother of Edward the Confessor, ranks amongst the most curious traditions of English history. Hallam relates how ‘a citizen of London, suspected of murder, having failed in the ordeal of cold water, was hanged by order of Henry II., though he had offered five hundred marks to save his life. It appears as if the ordeal were permitted to persons already convicted by the verdict of a jury.’

Ordeals were abolished in England about the commencement of Henry III.’s reign. An edict dated January 27, 1219, directs the judges then starting on their circuits to employ other modes of proof, ‘seeing that the judgment of fire and water is forbidden by the Church of Rome.’ Matthew Paris, enumerating the notable occurrences of the first half of the thirteenth century, alludes to the disuse of the ordeal. But it was no easy matter to root out such a deep-rooted superstition, instances of which were of constant occurrence. Thus, the belief that the wounds of a murdered person would bleed afresh at the approach, or touch, of the murderer long retained its hold on the popular mind; and in a note to the Fair Maid of Perth, we are told how this bleeding of a corpse was urged as an evidence of guilt in the High Court of Justiciary at Edinburgh as late as the year 1668. An interesting survival of this notion still exists in the north of England, where we are told that ‘touching of the corpse by those who come to look at it is still expected by the poor who visit their house while a dead body is lying in it, in token that they wished no ill to the departed, and were in peace and amity with him.’

Another of the few ordeals that still linger in popular memory may be seen occasionally in some country village, where persons suspected of theft are made to hold a Bible hanging to a key, which is supposed to turn in the hands of the thief—a survival of the old classic and medieval ordeal described in Hudibras as ‘th’ oracle of sieve and shears, that turns as certain as the spheres.’ But instances of this kind are mostly confined to the uncultured part of the community, for, happily, ordeals have long since had their day, and are now discarded from the laws of the more civilised nations.

The lover of antiquity may well lament when he sees our ancient fortresses nearly levelled to the ground; but the friend of rational freedom will rejoice, when he reflects on the design for which such works were erected, and on the many calamities to which they have given occasion. Amongst the existing but dismantled and ruined fortresses connecting the present with the sanguinary scene of strife and bloodshed of the past, is the famous castle of Pontefract, in Yorkshire, which sustained two memorable sieges by Cromwell’s soldiery. This celebrated edifice is supposed to be of Saxon origin; and the site of it is perfectly agreeable to their mode of fortification. While the Romans formed their camps on a plain or on the level ground, and defended them by a fosse and a vallum, the Saxons raised the area of their camps and castles, if the ground was level, or selected hills as places best adapted for defence and security. The elevated rock on which the castle is built stands wholly insulated, forming a site which, without much trouble or expense, might soon be converted into a stronghold. In support of the theory as to its Saxon origin, it may be mentioned that, since the demolition of the castle, it has been found that the great round tower stood upon a raised hill of stiff hard clay, of which material the Saxons usually made their foundations.

After the Conquest, Ilbert de Lacy received a grant of the place, and about 1076, all his vast possessions being confirmed to him, he soon after began to erect the castle. This noble structure cost immense expense and labour, and no one, unless in possession of a princely revenue, could have completed it. This formidable structure and magnificent palace was carried forward for the space of twelve years with unremitting attention. Ilbert de Lacy, when he laid the foundation stone of the castle, gave it the name of Pontfrete, because the situation, as he conceived, resembled the place so called in Normandy where he was born. Historians, however, have differed much respecting the origin of the name. Thomas de Castleford, who was bred a Benedictine monk, and who wrote the history of this place, accounts for it by the following miracle. William, Archbishop of York, and son of the sister of King Stephen, returning from Rome, was met by such crowds of people desirous to see him and receive his blessing, that a wooden bridge over the river Aire, near to this place, gave way and broke down, by which accident vast numbers fell into the river. The{366} bishop, affected at the danger of so many persons, is said to have prayed with such fervour and success that no one perished. To perpetuate so striking and so signal a miracle, the pious Normans, says Thomas, gave the name of Pontefract or Broken-bridge to this place.

The tower of York minster, distant upwards of twenty miles, is distinctly visible from this elevated rock. The situation of the castle contributed greatly to its strength, and rendered it almost impregnable. It was not surrounded by any contiguous hills, and the only way it could be taken was by blockade. The staterooms of the castle were large, and accommodated with offices suitable for the residence of a prince. The style of the building shows it to be Norman; though it has received various additions and improvements of a later date.

The barbican was situated on the west side of the outer yard beyond the mainguard. Barbicans were watch-towers, meant for the accommodation of the outer guard and for the protection of the main entrance to the castle. They were sometimes advanced beyond the ditch, to which they were joined by drawbridges. The north side of the barbican area was formed by the south wall of the ballium or castle-yard, in the centre of which was the porter’s lodge, the grand entrance into the yard of the castle. The whole of this area was sometimes called the barbican, and within it stood the king’s stables and a large barn. A deep moat was cut on the west side of the castle. Within the wall of the ballium or great castle-yard were the lodgings and barracks for the garrison and artificers, the chapel of St Clement, and the magazine. The magazine is cut out of a rock, the descent to which is by a passage four feet wide, with forty-three steps to the bottom. Near this place was a large dungeon, the entrance to which was at the seventeenth step of the passage, and was a yard in breadth; but it is now stopped up by the falling-in of the ruins. The wall, as you descend these steps, is inscribed with many names. The entrance into the ballium was usually through a strong machicolated and embattled gate between the two towers, secured by a herse or portcullis. Over this were the rooms intended for the porter of the castle. The towers served for the corps de garde. On an eminence at the western extremity of the ballium stood the keep or donjon, called the Round Tower. It was the citadel or last retreat of the garrison. The walls of this edifice were always of an extraordinary thickness, and having in consequence withstood the united injuries of time and weather, now remain more perfect than any other part of the castle. Here on the second story were the staterooms for the governor. The lights were admitted by small chinks, which answered the double purpose of windows, and served for embrasures whence the defenders might shoot with long and cross bows. The different stories were frequently vaulted and divided by strong arches; on the top was generally a platform with an embattled parapet, whence the garrison could see and command the exterior works.

Tradition says Richard II. was confined and murdered here by a blow with a battleaxe from Sir Piers Exton. Fabian and Rapin inform us ‘that on Richard’s arrival at Pontefract Castle, Sir Piers Exton is related to have murdered the king in the following manner. On the king’s arrival at the castle, he was closely confined in the great tower. Soon after, Sir Piers Exton, a domestic of Henry’s, was sent down with eight ruffians to imbrue their hands with the blood of this unfortunate king. On the day of their arrival, Richard perceived at dinner that the victuals were not tasted as usual. He asked the reason of the taster; and upon his telling him that Exton had brought an order against it, the king took up a knife and struck him on the face. Exton with his eight attendants entered his chamber at that instant, and shutting the door, attempted to lay hold of Richard. He immediately perceived their fatal errand, and knew he was a lost man. With a noble resolution, he snatched a halbert or poleaxe from the foremost of them and defended himself so bravely that he slew four of his assailants. Whilst combating with the rest of the murderers, Exton got upon a chair behind him, and, with a poleaxe, discharged such a blow on his head as laid him down at his feet, where the miserable king ended his calamities.’ Stow says ‘that the most probable opinion is that he was starved to death by order of King Henry IV., suffering the most unheard-of cruelties, keeping him for fifteen days together in hunger, thirst, and cold, before he reached the end of his miseries.’

Henry IV., after his accession to the throne, and during the whole of his reign, honoured the castle at Pontefract, the paternal residence of his family, by his frequent residence. Many state documents were dated from this castle. After the battle of Shrewsbury, in which fell the valiant Hotspur and near six thousand of the rebels, the king marched to Pontefract, to watch the motions of the Scots and the Earl of Northumberland. He granted full power to certain persons to treat with the king of Scotland, in a document which is dated at Pontefract Castle, August 6, 1403. These and other similar acts of the king and many of his successors originated in this celebrated castle. Lord Rivers, Sir Richard Grey, and Sir Thomas Vaughan, were executed in this fortress in the reign of Edward V.

The castle of Pontefract was the only one that held out against the parliament in the reign of Charles I. The garrison long and obstinately maintained themselves against the overwhelming numbers of the besieging army under Fairfax, until famine and reduced numbers compelled them to capitulate. Great and numerous were the deeds of heroism and daring displayed in their sallies against their foes, who in more than one encounter were put to rout. The besiegers, seeing no prospects of taking the castle by the breach they had made, began to mine, in order to blow up some of the towers. On the discovery of this, the garrison sank several pits within the castle, and commenced their mines from them. The number of pits within and without the castle is said to have been above a hundred. No great advance was made against the brave defenders, even by the arrival of Cromwell himself, who adopted every measure to compel them to surrender the fortress. On the 30th of January 1649, Charles was beheaded. The{367} news of this event had no sooner reached the garrison, than they loyally proclaimed his son, Charles II. But the want of provisions and the hopelessness of relief were stronger than the enemy, and towards the end of March the garrison walked out of the castle. In compliance with an order, the fortress was dismantled, and rendered wholly untenable for the future. General Lambert, to whom the execution of this order was intrusted, soon rendered this stately and princely stronghold a heap of ruins. The buildings were unroofed, and all the valuable materials sold.

Thus fell this castle, which had successively been the stronghold of the brave and warlike Saxons, the residence of a proud and imperious Norman conqueror, the turreted seat of the high aspiring Dukes of Lancaster, the palace of princes and of kings, at some periods a nest of treachery and rebellion, and at others the last hope of vanquished royalty.

‘The child of the past and the parent of the future,’ is not an unhappy simile for the—present. Happiness has been likened to a ghost; all talk about it, but few, if any, have ever seen it. Ambition’s ladder rests against a star, remarks a clever writer, who also tells us that a proverb is a short truth sandwiched between wit and wisdom.

Eloquence is a coat of many colours judiciously blended. No one thing will make a man eloquent. Flattery has been termed a kind of bad money to which our vanity gives currency. Society, like shaded silk, must be viewed in all situations, or its colours will deceive us. Kindness is the golden chain by which society is bound together; and charity is an angel breathing on riches; while graves have been poetically called the footsteps of angels.

Language is a slippery thing to deal with, as some may find when selecting their similes. Says a writer: ‘Speak of a man’s marble brow, and he will glow with conscious pride; but allude to his wooden head, and he’s mad in a minute.’ The young lecturer’s ‘similes were gathered in a heap’ when he expressed the whole body of his argument on Deceit in the following: ‘O my brethren, the snowiest shirt-front may conceal an aching bosom, and the stiffest of all collars encircle a throat that has many a bitter pill to swallow.’

Plagiarists are a species of purloiners who filch the fruit that others have gathered, and then throw away or attempt to destroy the basket.

It has been truly said that the abilities of man must fall short on one side or other, like too scanty a blanket when you are in bed: if you pull it upon your shoulders, you leave your feet bare; if you thrust it down upon your feet, your shoulders are uncovered. The man, we are told, who has not anything to boast of but his illustrious ancestors, is like a potato—the only good belonging to him being underground.

A man at a dinner in evening dress has been likened to a conundrum: you can’t tell whether he is a waiter or a guest. A Yankee, describing a lean opponent, said: ‘That man doesn’t amount to a sum in arithmetic; add him up, and there’s nothing to carry.’ An American critic in reviewing a poem, said: ‘The rhythm sounds like turnips rolling over a barn-floor, while some lines appear to have been measured with a yard-stick, and others with a ten-foot pole.’

An amusing illustration was given by a parent when asked by his boy, ‘What is understood by experimental and natural philosophy?’ The answer was: ‘If any one wants to borrow money, that is experimental philosophy. If the other man knocks him down, that is natural philosophy.’ Curious and comical illustrations seem natural to many children. A little girl, suffering from the mumps, declared she felt as though a headache had slipped down into her neck. ‘Mamma,’ said another youngster, alluding to a man whose neck was a series of great rolls of flesh, ‘that man’s got a double-chin on the back of his neck.’ A little three-year-old, in admiring her baby brother, is said to have exclaimed: ‘He’s got a boiled head, like papa.’

Talking of curious similes—among the southern languages of India is the Teloogoo or Telinga, so rough in pronunciation that a traveller of the nation speaking it before a ruler of Bokhara, admitted that its sound resembled ‘the tossing of a lot of pebbles in a sack.’ A simile for scarlet stockings is firehose—laughter is the sound you hear when your hat blows off—and trying to do business without advertising is said to be ‘like winking at a girl in the dark.’ An unpoetical Yankee has described ladies’ lips as the glowing gateway of beans, pork, sauer-kraut, and potatoes. This would provoke Marryat’s exclamation of, ‘Such a metaphor I never met afore.’ Much more complimentary was the old darkey’s neat reply to a beautiful young lady whom he offered to lift over the gutter, and who insisted she was too heavy. ‘Lor, missy,’ said he, ‘I’se used to lifting barrels of sugar.’ Wit from a man’s mouth is like a mouse in a hole; you may watch the hole all day, and no mouse come out; but by-and-by, when no one is looking for it, out pops the mouse and streams across the parlour.

Marrying a woman for her money, says a philosopher, is very much like setting a rat-trap and baiting it with your own finger.

An American writer says: ‘A man with one idea always puts me in mind of an old goose trying to hatch out a paving-stone.’ An editor’s simile of man’s career is summed up in the lines: ‘Man’s a vapour full of woes, starts a paper, busts, and goes.’

We all recollect how the Bath waters were associated in Weller’s mind with the ‘flavour of warm flat-irons.’ The humorist who created that character was often reminded of a printer’s parenthesis by the appearance of a bow-legged child; and the elongated pupils of a cat’s eyes before a bright light were likened by him to ‘two notes of admiration.’

Just as children call a locomotive ‘a puff-puff,’ savages will use sounding similes to supply the lack of language. The war-rockets sent amongst the Ashantees soon became known as ‘shoo-shoos,’ to describe their hissing; and we have heard that a fieldpiece firing shell was referred to by some of the Zulus as a ‘boom—byby;’ the first representing the report of the gun, the second the explosion of the projectile.

To touch on the poetic and romantic style of similes. Moore, if we rightly recollect, sings of ‘rose-leaves steeped in milk’ as a simile for a beautiful complexion. One of the gallant poets of France wrote of Mary Queen of Scots that her complexion was ‘clear as a white egg with a blush on it;’ and it certainly is probable that Elizabeth was as jealous of Mary’s wonderful complexion as of her claims to the English throne. Beauty has been called a solitary kingdom. Another writer says: ‘The red, white, and blue—the red cheeks, white teeth, and blue eyes of a lovely girl are as good a flag as a young soldier in the battle of life can fight for.’ A German poet refers to a fishing-rod as being typical of a young girl. He says: ‘The eyes are the hooks, the smile the bait, the lover the gudgeon, and marriage the butter in which he is fried.’ Matrimony has been well likened to a barque in which two souls venture forth upon life’s stormy sea with only their own frail help to aid them; the well-doing of their craft rests with themselves.

A French wit of a post-office turn of mind evolves the following: ‘A married woman is a letter which has reached its address. A young girl is a letter not yet addressed.’

Home has been described as the rainbow of life. A laughing philosopher once, in a moral lecture, compared human life to a table pierced with a number of holes, each of which has a peg made exactly to fit it, but which pegs, being stuck in hastily and without selection, chance leads inevitably to the most awkward mistakes; ‘for how often do we see,’ the orator pathetically concluded—‘how often do we see the round man stuck in the three-cornered hole!’ Sir Walter Scott, who alludes to this simile, says: ‘This new illustration of the vagaries of fortune set the audience into convulsions of laughter, excepting one fat alderman, who seemed to make the case his own, and insisted that it was no jesting matter.’

In the month of February, these ‘processionary caterpillars’—as they have come to be called—are seen in large numbers both at Arcachon and Biarritz. Sometimes chains of two and three hundred may be observed marching in solemn procession either on the plage or on the roads. It is clearly seen that they choose the smooth paths of life, as they are rarely, if ever, seen to perambulate the sandy, uneven forest, from which they emerge throughout the whole day. Not unfrequently, they mount the steps of a villa, to take a peep at the interior, to the dismay of invalids unaccustomed to such extraordinary, though perfectly harmless callers. On such occasions, they divide into small detachments, as if conscious that the presence of a whole battalion might prove inconvenient; for at other times, whatever be the length of the chain, or how oft soever divided, they invariably unite, and the one who starts as leader retains the post, as if by common consent, until their return to the nests they have left in the early morning. Alas! for the fruit-trees that fall in their way on what may be termed their foraging expeditions. They halt many times to regale themselves on succulent leaves, and when fully satisfied, return to their nests in the evening. These nests are longitudinal in form, similar to those of wasps, but smaller. They are composed of the dry needle-points of the pine, divided into minute particles; and are ingeniously woven together by gossamer threads as fine as those of the spider, but in appearance so silky as to resemble the work of the silkworm. As it covers the whole nest, the intention is evidently to keep the fabric together. Should any one, impelled by curiosity, attempt to pull the nest to pieces, to discover more of this texture, and afterwards touch his own eyes, inflammation may set in, and even death ensue. This enables us to understand how injurious so virulent a poison must be to the young trees. Many of large growth in the forest of Arcachon have been completely destroyed by these insects. They are never seen during the great heat of summer. In mid-winter, they leave the nests by shoals, unite, and burrow in the earth. There, underground, the long chain forms itself into a ball, and many of the caterpillars die. After a time, the rest emerge from their cocoon existence, and return to the trees, where they make fresh nests on the deserted ones of the preceding year.

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

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 127, VOL. III, JUNE 5, 1886 ***

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 127, vol. III, June 5, 1886

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

CONTENTS

HOSTESS AND GUEST.

PART I.—THE DUTIES OF A HOSTESS.

IN ALL SHADES.

CHAPTER XXIX.

OLD CITY TREES.

TREASURE TROVE.

A STORY IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAP. I.

TRIAL BY ORDEAL.

A NORMAN STRONGHOLD.

SOME SIMILES.

PROCESSIONARY CATERPILLARS.

BY THE RIVER.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 127, vol. III, June 5, 1886

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

CONTENTS

HOSTESS AND GUEST.

PART I.—THE DUTIES OF A HOSTESS.

IN ALL SHADES.

CHAPTER XXIX.

OLD CITY TREES.

TREASURE TROVE.

A STORY IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAP. I.

TRIAL BY ORDEAL.

A NORMAN STRONGHOLD.

SOME SIMILES.

PROCESSIONARY CATERPILLARS.

BY THE RIVER.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

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