Chambers’s Journal, July 24, 1886

Those who know any part of America, or have even a small acquaintance with Americans, will not have been surprised at the list of names published in the daily papers of the persons who were arrested as the authors of the late disturbance at Chicago. With perhaps one exception, there is not an English name among them; they are all foreign, and to the true American public, must bring home in full force the certain operation of a process hitherto only half apparent—that their country is fast passing through a period of incubation, which, if allowed to continue, will end in the development of a new Germanism, destroying the individuality of the Anglo-Saxon, and flooding the land with theories for the relief of an Old World discontent.

Before steamships and railways had made travel a matter of comparative ease, it was customary to laugh at the peculiarities of our American cousins, in the belief they were the result of the natural growth of transatlantic life; but a wider knowledge of the continent has brought to light the indisputable fact that they are to a very considerable extent the habits and customs of the lower middle class of Germany. The true American, taking into consideration difference of thought, is as much a gentleman, from the English point of view, as the Englishman himself. If there is anything which characterises an Englishman, as distinct from the rest of his species, it is his sensitiveness on the point of similarity to his kind, and his willingness in carrying this out, to submit himself to personal inconvenience, rather than allow any singularity to appear. Where this comes in, the American does not bow to the same strict conventional rule, his constant activity and the dissimilitude of life having of necessity forced him to take circumstances into account. Laying aside the distinction, however, and it is one which does not always intrude itself, making allowance also for a greater conservatism which has retained old English customs and expressions, where is the line to be drawn in cultivated circles between an Englishman and an American? If, also, we look into the great upper middle classes of the two countries, who will grant that the dead level of uniformity in England is more attractive in its outward than its inward form; and who will doubt that for the pleasure of intercourse, the advantage is wholly on the side of America both as regards originality of thought and freedom from restraint?

The juvenile republican of Europe, panting on the outskirts of exclusivism, makes a great mistake when he imagines America is free from ‘class’ prejudice. Let him emigrate to a house on the wrong side of Boston, and we can promise he will have leisure during the remainder of his life to calculate the difference in degree between the descendants of those whose patent of nobility bears the date of the Mayflower and the representatives in the Old World of Norman blood. In the present day, we take it for granted the society of every country is willing to welcome the man of genius or money who is, besides, a gentleman, and does not run his head against established facts. Be that as it may, there is one thing certain—the old idea of Americans, considered typical of the race, and still lingering in some quarters, is entirely an error.

Let us look at a few of the supposed characteristics of our ‘cousins’—one and all taken from the travelling citizen of other days, but who latterly has faded into the background before the true American, and is only now to be seen in second-class hotels or lodgings. Does he ask interminable questions with the curiosity of an inquisitor, till nothing remains but a point-blank demand to know the amount of your income? If so, engage rooms in a German pension, and relate your experiences after a three days’ stay. Does he worry you to death with a skilful display of the knife-trick? Go to a German pastry-cook’s and watch the same performance at four o’clock in the afternoon by a well-dressed young lady on a solid pie. Does he smoke everywhere{466} and spit freely? Enter a Paris tramway car or a second-class German railway carriage, and you will learn that Uncle Sam has not the monopoly of expectorating power. Does his square-cut coat hang upon him like a sack? Does he wear shirt fronts and glazed cuffs, long boots with high heels, and a hat whose style has originated in his inner bosom? If you have observed these things, go to any small German town and see their prototypes. Does he destroy his digestion by drinking iced water as he sits down to dinner? Does he eat a heavy meal in the middle of the day and hurry off as if the table were let? Does he brag like a schoolboy and believe that existence centres in himself? If he does, make the acquaintance of the first German at the nearest watering-place. Does he, in his native town, when aspiring to a higher place in the respect of the citizens, turn himself quite inside out in the effort to be agreeable? Does he take his hat off to the man of distinction with a wide wave, forgetful of his own dignity, eyeing him with suppressed jealousy, and when he dares, endeavouring to patronise, as a means of recommending himself to notice, the realisation of ich empfehl’ mich which is shot out occasionally, more especially in Austria? If so, study the German character in the lower middle class. Is this class, however, making all allowance for humanity, morally sound, and is it the same in the United States? We answer unhesitatingly, ‘Yes;’ though perhaps in Europe it ought to be limited to Northern Germany. We would also affirm that the men in both countries are intellectually decidedly above their customs or their manners; while the women ripen early, and have a natural vivacity added to good appearance, which supplies the want of a corresponding culture.

It would be easy to multiply questions proving the origin of supposed Americanisms; and indeed, the better classes are more tinged with continental ways than they might care to admit, as, for instance, the ‘Pap-a’ and ‘Mam-ma’ of well-born babies; or the Mrs Colonel and Mrs Dr So-and-so, like the Frau Pastor or Frau Doctor of Germany; but we have only desired to show how the foundation has been almost unconsciously laid for the naturalisation of European customs, and, as a consequence, of thought also, so that what is called American is really German. These ideas have been carried to America, of course, by the tide of emigration; and as the population grew out of the emigrants of all nations, native manners were partially lost by the lower orders.

That America should be more Germanised than Irishised or Frenchified, is a tribute to the higher qualities of the Teuton; and that a certain class of Americans could become so transformed from its original type, only tells how completely it has been absorbed, and how far away it already is from the Anglo-Saxon race. That this is a matter of grief to all true Americans, is well known; and it is always said, whenever a case comes up, the man in question is a ‘German American.’ The tenacity of the Teuton has preserved his individuality under foreign conditions, and he now forms a distinctly powerful element in the country, lives the same way as if he were in Germany, thinks the same thoughts, and clings to his language. The American, true to trade instincts, has studied his wants and ministered to them, as, for example, in the consumption of Rio coffee, so that in a way he is responsible for the fostering of nationalities. Societies, too, representing these, formed on philanthropic grounds, everywhere exist; and though the man may call himself American, he is in reality partly Irish, Swiss, or Dutch.

There is, therefore, a hard task before the American people—the necessity to weld into an harmonious whole European elements with long histories of animosity to each other, at all times more or less active, possessing Old World grievances that are inoperative in the United States, and bent upon maintaining their own ideas under the shelter of a common home. That measures will be taken to suppress the disturbances of divers nationalities whenever they occur against the American people, there is no doubt; but it is rather hard upon a new country to have to submit up to fighting-point to the airing of doctrines which do not affect it, and that might create artificial grievances causing endless trouble. In the attempt to banish national distinctions, to develop the Anglo-Saxon race, America has a firm friend here; and just as her truest sons, when desirous of looking beyond themselves, turn for their inspirations to the genius of the British people, so do we in return take a leaf from that chapter of events in the progress of humanity which it seems to be the mission of Americans to arrange.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Twilight, the beautiful serene tropical twilight, was just gathering on Wednesday evening, when the negroes of all the surrounding country, fresh from their daily work in the cane-pieces, with cutlasses and sticks and cudgels in their hands, began to assemble silently around Louis Delgado’s hut, in the bend of the mountains beside the great clump of feathery cabbage-palms. A terrible and motley crowd they looked, bareheaded and bare of foot, many of them with their powerful black arms wholly naked, and thrust loosely through the wide sleeve-holes of the coarse sack-like shirt which, with a pair of ragged trousers, formed their sole bodily covering. Most of the malcontents were men, young and old, sturdy and feeble; but among them there were not a few fierce-looking girls and women, plantation hands of the wildest and most unkempt sort, carelessly dressed in short ragged filthy kirtles, that reached only to the knee, and with their woolly hair tangled and matted with dust and dirt, instead of being covered with the comely and becoming bandana turban of the more civilised and decent household negresses. These women carried cutlasses too, the ordinary agricultural implement of all sugar-growing tropical countries; and one had but to glance at their stalwart black arms or their powerful naked legs and feet, as well as at their cruel laughing faces, to see in a moment that if need were, they could{467} wield their blunt but heavy weapons fully as effectively and as ruthlessly in their own way as the resolute, vengeful men themselves. So wholly unsexed were they, indeed, by brutal field-labour and brutal affections, that it was hard to look upon them closely for a minute and believe them to be really and truly women.

The conspirators assembled silently, it is true, so far as silence under such circumstances is ever possible to the noisy demonstrative negro nature; but in spite of the evident effort which every man made at self-restraint, there was a low undercurrent of whispered talk, accompanied by the usual running commentary of grimaces and gesticulations, which made a buzz or murmur hum ceaselessly through the whole crowd of five or six hundred armed semi-savages. Now and again the women especially, looking down with delightful anticipation at their newly whetted cutlasses, would break out into hoarse ungovernable laughter, as they thought to themselves of the proud white throats they were going to cut that memorable evening, and the dying cries of the little white pickaninnies they were going to massacre in their embroidered lace bassinettes.

‘It warm me heart, Mistah Delgado, sah,’ one white-haired, tottering, venerable old negro mumbled out slowly with a pleasant smile, ‘to see so many good neighbour all come togedder again for kill de buckra. It long since I see fine gadering like dis. I mind de time, sah, in slavery day, when I was young man, just begin for to make lub to de le-adies, how we rise all togedder under John Trelawney down at Star-Apple Bottom, go hunt de white folk in de great insurrection. Ha, dem was times, sah—dem was times, I tellin’ you de trut’, me fren’, in de great insurrection. We beat de goomba drum, we go up to Mistah Pourtalès—same what flog me mudder so unmerciful dat de buckra judges even fine him—an’ we catch de massa himself, an’ we beat him dead wit stick an’ cutlass. Ha, ha, dem was times, sah. Den we catch de young le-adies, an’ we hack dem all to pieces, an’ we burn de bodies. Den we go on to odder house, take all de buckra we find, shoot some, roast some same we roast pig, an’ burn some in deir own houses. Dem was times, sah—dem was times. I doan’t s’pose naygur now will do like we do when I is young man. But dis is good meeting, fine meeting: we cry “Colour for colour,” “Buckra country for us,” an’ de Lard prosper us in de work we hab in hand! Hallelujah!’

One of the women stood listening eagerly to this thrilling recital of early exploits, and asked in a hushed voice of the intensest interest: ‘An’ what de end ob it all, Mistah Corella? What come ob it? How you no get buckra house, den, for youself lib in?’

The old man shook his head mournfully, as he answered with a meditative sigh: ‘Ah, buckra too strong for us—too strong for us altogedder; come upon us too many. Colonel Macgregor, him come wit plenty big army, gun an’ bay’net, an’ shoot us down, an’ charge us ridin’; so we all frightened, an’ run away hide in de bush right up in de mountains. Den dem bring Cuban bloodhound, hunt us out; an’ dem hab court-martial, an’ dem sit on Trelawney, an’ dem hang him, hang him dead, de buckra. An’ dem hang plenty. We kill twenty—twenty-two—twenty-four buckra; an’ buckra kill hundred an’ eighty poor naygur, to make tings even. For one buckra, dem kill ten, fifteen, twenty naygur. But my master hide me till martial law blow ober, because I is strong, hearty young naygur, an’ can work well for him down in cane-piece. Him say: “Doan’t must kill valuable property!” An’ I get off dat way. So dat de end ob John Trelawney him rebellion.’

If the poor soul could only have known it, he might have added with perfect truth that it was the end of every other negro rebellion too; the white man is always too strong for them. But hope springs eternal in the black breast as in all others, and it was with a placid smile of utter oblivion that he added next minute: ‘But we doan’t gwine to be beaten dis time. We too strong ourselbes now for de soldier an’ de buckra. Delgado make tings all snug; buy pistol, drill naygur, plan battle, till we sure ob de victory. De Lard wit us, an’ Delgado him serbant.’

At that moment, Louis Delgado himself stepped forward, erect and firm, with the unmistakable air of a born commander, and said a few words in a clear low earnest voice to the eager mob of armed rioters. ‘Me fren’s,’ he said, ‘you must obey orders. Go quiet, an’ make no noise till you get to de buckra houses. Doan’t turn aside for de rum or de trash-houses; we get plenty rum for ourselbes, I tellin’ you, when we done killed all de buckra. Doan’t set fire to de house anywhere; only kill de male white folk; we want house to lib in ourselbes, when de war ober. Doan’t burn de factories; we want factory for make sugar ourselves when de buckra dribben altogedder clean out ob de country. Doan’t light fire at all; if you light fire, de soldiers in Port-ob-Spain see de blaze directly, an’ come up an’ fight us hard, before we get togedder enough black men to make sure ob de glorious victory. Nebber mind de buckra le-ady; we can get dem when we want dem. Kill, kill, kill! dat is de watchword. Kill, kill, kill de buckra, an’ de Lard delibber de rest into de hands ob his chosen people.’ As he spoke, he raised his two black hands, palm upwards, in the attitude of earnest supplication, towards the darkening heaven, and flung his head fervently backward, with the whites of his big eyes rolling horribly, in his unspoken prayer to the God of battles.

The negroes around, caught with the contagious enthusiasm of Delgado’s voice and mutely eloquent gesture, flung up their own dusky hands, cutlasses and all, with the self-same wild and expressive pantomime, and cried aloud, in a scarcely stifled undertone: ‘De Lard delibber dem, de Lard delibber dem to Louis Delgado.’

The old African gazed around him complacently for a second at the goodly muster of armed followers, to the picked men among whom Isaac Pourtalès was already busily distributing the pistols and the cartridges. ‘Are you ready, me fren’s?’ he asked again, after a short pause. And, like a deep murmur, the answer rang unanimously from that great tumultuous black mass: ‘Praise de Lard, sah, we ready, we ready!’

‘Den march!’ Delgado cried, in the loud tone of a commanding officer; and suiting the action to the word, the whole mob turned after him{468} silently, along the winding path that led down by tortuous twists from the clump of cabbage-palms to the big barn-like Orange Grove trash-houses.

With their naked feet and their cat-like tread, the negroes marched along far more silently than white men could ever have done, toward the faint lights that gleamed fitfully beyond the gully. If possible, Delgado would have preferred to lead them straight to Orange Grove house, for his resentment burnt fiercest of all against the Dupuy family, and he wished at least, whatever else happened, to make sure of massacring that one single obnoxious household. But it was absolutely necessary to turn first to the trash-houses and the factory, for rumours of some impending trouble had already vaguely reached the local authorities. The two constables of the district stood there on guard, and the few faithful and trustworthy plantation hands were with them there, in spite of Mr Dupuy’s undisguised ridicule, half expecting an insurgent attack that very evening. It would never do to leave the enemy thus in the rear, ready either to attack them from behind, or to bear down the news and seek for aid at Port-of-Spain. Delgado’s plan was therefore to carry each plantation entire as he went, without allowing time to the well-affected negroes to give the alarm to the whites in the next one. But he feared greatly the perils and temptations of the factory for his unruly army. ‘Whatebber else you do, me fren’s,’ the old African muttered more than once, turning round beseechingly to his ragged black followers, ‘doan’t drink de new rum, an’ doan’t set fire to de buckra trash-houses.’

At the foot of the little knoll under whose base the trash-houses lay, they came suddenly upon one of the faithful field-hands, Napoleon Floreal, whose fidelity Delgado had already in vain attempted with his rude persuasions. The negroes singled him out at once for their first vengeance. Before the man could raise so much as a sharp shout, Isaac Pourtalès had seized him from behind and gagged his mouth with a loose bandana. Two of the other men, quick as lightning, snatched his arms, and held them bent back in a very painful attitude behind his shoulders. ‘If you is wit us,’ Delgado said, in a hoarse whisper, ‘lift your right foot, fellah.’ Floreal kept both feet pressed doggedly down with negro courage upon the ground. ‘Him is traitor, traitor!’ Pourtalès muttered, between his clenched teeth. ‘Him hab black skin, but white heart. Kill him, kill him!’

In a second, a dozen angry negroes had darted forward, with their savage cutlasses brandished aloft in the air, ready to hack their offending fellow-countryman into a thousand pieces. But Delgado, his black hands held up with a warning air before them, thundered out in a tone of bitter indignation: ‘Doan’t kill him!—doan’t kill him! My children, kill in good order. Dar is plenty buckra for you to kill, witout want to kill your own brudder. Tie de han’kercher around him mout’, bind rope around him arm an’ leg, an’ trow him down de gully yonder among de cactus jungle!’

As he spoke, one of the men produced a piece of stout rope from his pocket, brought for the very purpose of tying the ‘prisoners,’ and proceeded to wind it tightly around Floreal’s body. They fastened it well round arms and legs; stuffed the bandana firmly in his mouth so as to check all his futile attempts at shouting, and rolled him over the slight bank of earth, down among the thick scrub of prickly cactus. Then, as the blood spurted out of the small wounds made by the sharp thorns, they gave a sudden low yell, and burst in a body upon the guardians of the trash-houses.

Before the two black policemen had time to know what was actually happening, they found themselves similarly gagged and bound, and tossed down beside Napoleon Floreal on the prickly cactus bed. In a minute, the insurgents had surrounded the trash-houses, cut down and captured the few faithful negroes, and marched them along unwillingly in their own body, as hostages for the better behaviour of the Orange Grove house-servants.

‘Now, me fren’s,’ Delgado shouted, with fierce energy, ‘down wit de Dupuys! We gwine to humble de proud white man! We must hab blood! De Lard is wit us! He hat’ put down de mighty from deir seats, an’ hat’ exalted de lowly an’ meek!’

But as he spoke, one or two of the heaviest-looking among the rioters began to cast their longing eyes upon the unbroached hogsheads. ‘De rum, de rum!’ one of them cried hoarsely. ‘We want suffin for keep our courage up. Little drop o’ rum help naygur man well to humble de buckra.’

Delgado rushed forward and placed himself resolutely, pistol in hand, before the seductive hogsheads. ‘Whoebber drink a drop ob dat rum dis blessed ebenin’,’ he hissed out angrily, ‘before all de Dupuys is lyin’ cold in deir own houses, I shoot him dead here wit dis very pistol!’

But the foremost rioters only laughed louder than before, and one of them even wrenched the pistol suddenly from his leader’s grasp with an unexpected side movement. ‘Look hyar, Mistah Delgado,’ the man said quietly; ‘dis risin’ is all our risin’, an’ we has got to hab voice ourselbes in de partickler way we gwine to manage him. We doan’t gwine away witout de rum, an’ we gwine to break just one little pickanie hogshead.’ At the word, he raised his cutlass above his head, and lunging forward with it like a sword, with all his force, stove in one of the thick cross-pieces at the top of the barrel, and let the liquor dribble out slowly from the chink in a small but continuous trickling stream. Next moment, a dozen black hands were held down to the silent rill like little cups, and a dozen dusky mouths were drinking down the hot new rum, neat and unalloyed, with fierce grimaces of the highest gusto. ‘Ha, dat good!’ ran round the chorus in thirsty approbation: ‘dat warm de naygur’s heart. Us gwine now to kill de buckra in true earnes’.’

Delgado stood by, mad with rage and disappointment, as he saw his followers, one after another, scrambling for handful after handful of the fiery liquor, and watched some of them, the women especially, reeling about foolishly almost at once from the poisonous fumes of the unrefined spirit. He felt in his heart that his chances were slipping rapidly from him, even before the{469} insurrection was well begun, and that it would be impossible for a crowd of half-drunken negroes to preserve the order and discipline which alone would enable them to cope with the all-puissant and regularly drilled white men. But the more he stormed and swore and raved at them, the more did the greedy and uncontrolled negroes, now revelling in the unstinted supply, hold their hands to the undiminished stream, and drink it off by palmfuls with still deeper grunts and groans of internal satisfaction. ‘If it doan’t no hope ob conquer de island,’ the African muttered at last with a wild Guinea oath to Isaac Pourtalès, ‘at anyrate we has time to kill de Dupuys—an’ dat always some satisfaction.’

The men were now thoroughly inflamed with the hot new rum, and more than one of them began to cry aloud: ‘It time to get to de reg’lar business.’ But a few still lingered lovingly around the dripping hogshead, catching double handfuls of the fresh spirit in their capacious palms. Presently, one of the women, mad with drink, drew out a short pipe from her filthy pocket and began to fill it to the top with raw tobacco. As she did so, she turned tipsily to a man by her side and asked him for a light. The fellow took a match in his unsteady fingers and struck it on a wooden post, flinging it away when done with among a few small scraps of dry trash that lay by accident upon the ground close by. Trash is the desiccated refuse of cane from which the juice has been already extracted, and it is ordinarily used as a convenient fuel to feed the crushing-mills and boil the molasses. Dry as tinder, it lighted up with a flare instantaneously, and raised a crackling blaze, whose ruddy glow pleased and delighted the childish minds of the half-drunken negroes. ‘How him burn!’ the woman with the pipe cried excitedly. ‘Sposin’ we set fire to de trash-house! My heart, how him blaze den! Him light up all de mountains! Burn de trash-house! Burn de trash-house! Dat pretty for true! Burn de trash-house!’

Quick as lightning, the tipsiest rioters had idly kicked the burning ends of loose trash among the great stacked heaps of dry cane under the big sheds; and in one second, before Delgado could even strive in vain to exert his feeble authority, the whole mass had flashed into a single huge sheet of flame, rising fiercely into the evening sky, and reddening with its glow the peaks around, like the lurid glare of a huge volcano. As the flames darted higher and ever higher, licking up the leaves and stalks as they went, the negroes, now fairly loosed from all restraint, leaped and shrieked wildly around them—some of them half-drunk, others absolutely reeling, and all laughing loud with hideous, wild, unearthly laughter, in their murderous merriment. Delgado alone saw with horror that his great scheme of liberation was being fast rendered ultimately hopeless, and could only now concentrate his attention upon his minor plan of personal vengeance against the Dupuy family. Port-of-Spain would be fairly roused by the blaze in half an hour, but at least there was time to murder outright the one offending Orange Grove household.

For a few minutes, helpless and resourceless, he allowed the half-tipsy excited creatures to dance madly around the flaring fire, and to leap and gesticulate with African ferocity in the red glare of the rapidly burning trash-house. ‘Let dem wear out de rum,’ he cried bitterly to Pourtalès. ‘But in a minute, de Dupuys gwine to be down upon us wit de constables an’ de soldiers, if dem doan’t make haste to kill dem beforehand.’

Soon the drunken rioters themselves began to remember that burning trash-houses and stealing rum were not the only form of amusement they had proposed to themselves for that evening’s entertainment. ‘Kill de buckra!—kill de buckra!’ more than one of them now yelled out fiercely at the top of his voice, brandishing his cutlass. ‘Buckra country for us! Colour for colour! Kill dem all! Kill de buckra!’

Delgado seized at once upon the slender opportunity. ‘Me fren’s,’ he shrieked aloud, raising his palms once more imploringly to heaven, ‘kill dem, kill dem! Follow me! Hallelujah! I gwine to lead you to kill de buckra!’

Most of the negroes, recalled to duty by the old African’s angry voice, now fell once more into their rude marching order; but one or two of them, and those the tipsiest, began to turn back wistfully in the direction of the little pool of new rum that lay sparkling in the glare like molten gold in front of the still running hogshead. Louis Delgado looked at them with the fierce contempt of a strong mind for such incomprehensible vacillating weakness. Wrenching his pistol once more from the tipsy grasp of the man who had first seized it, he pointed it in a threatening attitude at the head of the foremost negro among the recalcitrant drunkards. ‘Dis time I tellin’ you true,’ he cried fiercely, in a tone of unmistakable wrath and firmness. ‘De first man dat take a single step nearer dat liquor, I blow his brains out!’

Reckless with drink, and unable to believe in his leader’s firmness, the foremost man took a step or two, laughing a drunken laugh meanwhile, in the forbidden direction, and then turned round again, grinning like a baboon, toward Louis Delgado.

He had better have trifled with an angry tiger. The fierce old African did not hesitate or falter for a single second; pulling the trigger, he fired straight at the grinning face of the drunken renegade, killing him instantaneously. He fell like a log in the pool of new rum, and reddened the stream even as they looked with the quick crimson flow.

Delgado himself hardly paused a second to glance contemptuously at the fallen recalcitrant. ‘Now, me fren’s,’ he cried firmly, kicking the corpse in his wrath, and with his eye twitching in a terrible fashion, ‘whoebber else disobeys orders, I gwine to shoot him dead dat very minute, same as I shoot dat good-for-nuffin disobedient naygur dar! We has got to kill de buckra to-night, an’ ebbery man ob you must follow me now to kill dem ’mediately. De Lard delibber dem into our hand! Follow me, an’ colour for colour!’

At the word, the last recalcitrants, awed into sobriety for the moment by the sudden and ghastly death of their companion, turned trembling to their place in the rude ranks, and began once more to march on in serried order after{470} Louis Delgado. And with one voice, the tumultuous rabble, putting itself again in rapid motion towards Orange Grove, shrieked aloud once more the terrible watchwords: ‘Colour for colour! Kill de buckra!’

We are glad to observe that in spite of the general depression in trade and agriculture, and the many counter-attractions for pleasure-seekers which have sprung up in and around London in recent years, the Zoological Gardens, Regent’s Park, still maintain their popularity with the British public. On Easter-Monday, no fewer than thirty-one thousand visitors paid at the gates; thus clearly proving that the love of natural history is not dying out among us. An expedition to the Zoo is always the more pleasant when we are accompanied by the young, eager to compare the Jumbos and tigers of their Noah’s Ark and picture-book with the living realities to be seen in the Society’s collection. But there are others besides our children who may gain a useful knowledge in natural history by a stroll through the Zoological Gardens; and one hopes for a still more profitable effect in the ideas of many; for when studying the structure, the form, and the habits of even the meanest of creatures, it is hardly possible for the reflective mind to resist feeling a sense of the power and wisdom of the Creator.

Before speaking individually of the many interesting animals to be seen in the Zoological Gardens, it is right to point out, for the benefit of the uninitiated, or to those who have never visited a foreign land, and consequently have not had the opportunity of seeing wild creatures in a state of nature, that though the great majority of the prisoners we see there doubtless give a true idea of their habits when roaming in their native jungles, yet many of the quadrupeds, more especially those bred in the Gardens, cannot altogether be relied upon in this respect; for instance, many of the bears from the Himalaya Mountains, or other cold climes, which, we know, hibernate during the depth of winter, are unable to indulge in their lengthened sleep from force of circumstances. There are no hollow trees or snug caves wherein to curl up comfortably and pass the winter in a state of somnolence. Again, it is often most difficult, if not impossible, to provide the natural food for some of the creatures from tropical countries, and these animals have of necessity to subsist upon whatever their keeper places before them, and that sometimes of a kind which they would hesitate or even refuse to devour in a state of freedom.

Perhaps the most interesting spot in the Zoo to the general visitor is the well-known Lion-house, though children almost invariably show a predilection for the monkeys. The Lion-house was erected some few years ago, and is a great improvement upon the former structure, now used for the bears, wolves, and hyenas; but though fairly roomy and comfortable for the larger felidæ inhabiting it, yet, considering their ever increasing number, and the importance which these carnivora hold in the animal kingdom, it is unfortunate that a still larger space and more commodious building could not have been spared for the purpose. The Lion-house contains not only several fine specimens of African lions, but also almost every known species of the larger Cat tribe, the snow leopard of the Himalayas (Felis uncia) alone excepted.

In our changeable climate, more especially during the long dreary winter-months, when the ground is often covered with snow and hard frosts prevail, animals like the lion, the tiger, and the leopard, accustomed to tropical climates and a more equable temperature than ours, necessarily require their dens to be artificially heated, and great care taken to guard against their suffering from the extreme cold. In spite of every precaution having been taken, several valuable animals succumbed to the rigours of our late almost arctic winter. But ample space and outdoor exercise are also great desiderata, and in this respect it must be confessed that the Lion-house of our own Zoological Gardens does not compare favourably with buildings intended for a like purpose to be seen at Berlin and other continental collections. At the Thiergarten, Berlin—where may be seen a magnificent troop of seven or eight lions all in one large inclosure—there is a rocky hill—made secure, so far as the public are concerned, by a circle of high iron railings, and connected by doorways with the ordinary winter dens. So soon as summer appears and the weather becomes warm, the lions are permitted to roam about at will over this hill; and it is a pleasing sight to observe the creatures really enjoying themselves, and for a time forgetful of their present captivity. Here may be seen a shaggy veteran with his wife and cubs lying together in a group upon some slabs of rock, and basking in the rays of the mid-day sun; there, an old lioness asleep under the shade of an overhanging boulder; while her two half-grown sons, full of health and spirits, are busily engaged in a romp of hide-and-seek.

But to return. The row of elevated seats provided for visitors to the Lion-house, and facing the long line of fourteen cages, affords an excellent view of the inhabitants of the different dens. On the left we see two fine male lions in separate cages; and close to them several lionesses, one with a pair of handsome cubs. To the extreme right are three tigers—two from continental India; and a third, a young, very quiet, and peculiarly dark fulvous-marked animal, recently obtained from Turkestan. It must be confessed, however, as every old Indian shikary will testify, that no one of the three before us conveys a true idea of the enormous size, strength, and muscular power which{471} the royal tiger attains to in a wild state. It would be no exaggeration to say, that a well-fed specimen from the Bengal Sunderbunds or Central India would reach nearly twice the weight, and measure twice the thickness round the shoulders, of any one of the three narrow-chested, hollow-flanked creatures before us. Next in importance and size comes the jaguar from America—a single specimen, but a remarkably fine, powerful animal, and, to all appearance, quite a match for any one of the three undersized tigers from the Old World. The puma or cougar of South America—a pair of beautiful grayish-red cats, but wanting in the brawny limbs and muscular neck and chest of the jaguar. Three beautiful leopards in one den. Many good naturalists would pronounce one of them to be a panther, and a distinct variety from the remaining two; but this is an undecided point among zoologists, so we will not touch upon it, merely remarking upon the extraordinary dissimilarity in the colour and marking of the skins of the three specimens before us, and which fully accounts for the difficulty so many naturalists have found in classifying these felidæ. Lastly, we notice the cheetah, or Indian hunting leopard, said to be the ‘pard’ of the ancients, common to various countries in Asia, and also throughout Africa, but not found in Ceylon, where the common leopard has erroneously gained the title of cheetah. This interesting animal has been rightly placed as a separate subgenus from the true cats, on account of the claws being only partially retractile, with the tips always visible. It is a high-standing, slender creature, thin across the loins like a greyhound, and carrying the tail more after the manner of the dog than the true cat.

As being the largest of the group before us, the lion and the tiger naturally attract our chief attention. These champions of the Old World have many a time in the days of ancient Rome been pitted the one against the other in mortal combat; but there is still a difference of opinion which of the two is the more formidable animal. Probably the tiger, on account of his more muscular hind-quarters, would have most friends; but many experienced travellers and sportsmen who have witnessed the extraordinary strength and ferocity of the lion, hold the contrary opinion. In parts of Central India, as also in Kutch and Guzerat in the Bombay Presidency, the Asiatic lion and tiger are still found in the same jungles; but we never hear of the two animals quarrelling and coming to blows. Formerly, the lion of India, on account of the male having a shorter mane, was considered to be of a different species from his African brother; but more recently, our scientific naturalists have rightly come to the conclusion that the two are identical. It must be allowed, however, that the Asiatic lion is altogether a less courageous and dangerous beast than the animal inhabiting the African continent; and our experienced Indian hunters assert that the former, even when fired at, wounded, and driven to bay, seldom turns on his pursuers and fights to the death after the manner of the royal tiger.

It is somewhat extraordinary that neither lion nor tiger has the power of climbing trees. They can make prodigious springs and bounds, but cannot clamber up a tree ‘hand over hand,’ so to speak, like the bear; and this is the more surprising when we remember that the jaguar, the puma, and the leopard, like all the smaller cats, are active, expert climbers. True, both lion and tiger are far larger and heavier than any other of the felidæ; and undoubtedly their great strength lies in the massive proportions of the shoulder and forepart of the body, as compared with the hind-quarters; yet, when we consider the general symmetry and graceful movements of these two gigantic wild cats, we cannot help feeling disappointed that they are wanting in one of the chief characteristics of the tribe.

Most of us probably who are in the habit of constantly visiting the Zoological Gardens have heard the roar of the lion—that grand, deep-toned, terrible voice, which seems to make the very air in close proximity to the king of beasts vibrate and quiver. We also frequently read and hear tales of the roar of the tiger; but the writer ventures to say that this impression is erroneous. The Bengal tiger, when going his nightly rounds, often makes a low yawning kind of whine or sigh, ending with a subdued grunt sounding like distant thunder; and a highly unpleasant cry it is to the belated traveller on foot as he hurries along the jungle path. But this night-moan of a prowling tiger has no resemblance whatever to the deep, grand, resounding roar of the lion. Again, every tiger-shooter who has witnessed the scene can readily recall to mind that never-to-be-forgotten moment when a royal tiger worthy of the name—perhaps wounded and goaded to fury and desperation by his eager pursuers—at length turns to try conclusions with them, and with open jaws, ears laid back, flashing eye, and tail on end, a truly terrible object, bounds towards his enemies. At such times he makes the jungle resound with a succession of deep-drawn coughing growls, evidently delivered with the intention of striking terror into the hearts of his foes. But again we say, these murderous snarls of an enraged tiger are altogether dissimilar in character to the roar of the king of beasts.

The wild tribes of Central India have often told the writer that at certain seasons of the year they are made aware of tigers being in the neighbourhood by horrible ‘caterwauling’ sounds emanating from the jungle; and doubtless this is correct, for we all know the agony of mind we often labour under when a conclave of our domestic cats are holding a palaver on the garden wall.

There is an almost universal belief that the lion roars when he is hungry, and in a wild state when in search of prey; but the writer ventures to say that, like the bear’s hug and other almost proverbial expressions of the kind, the idea is altogether erroneous. Probably certain verses in the Bible, more especially in the Psalms, such as ‘The lions roaring after their prey, &c.,’ and passages of a similar nature, have given rise to this impression. But, let it be asked, would so cunning an animal as the lion, when hungry and in search of his dinner, betray his approach and put every living creature within miles of the spot thoroughly on the qui vive, by making the forest echo again with his roaring? Assuredly not; for a more certain method of scaring his{472} prey he could not possibly adopt. All quadrupeds, more especially the deer tribe, well know and dread the voice of their natural enemy. Even domestic animals instinctively recognise and show fear on hearing the cry of a wild beast.

In India, the sportsman when out in camp during the hot-weather months, often finds himself far away from towns and villages, in some wild spot in the depths of the jungle. Here, the stillness of the night is constantly broken by the calls of various creatures inhabiting the neighbouring forest—the deep solemn hoot of the horned owl, the sharp call of the spotted deer, or the louder bell of the sambur. But these familiar sounds attract no notice from the domestic animals included in the camp circle. But should a panther on the opposite hill call his mate, or a prowling tiger passing along the river-bank mutter his complaining night-moan, they one and all immediately show by their demeanour that they recognise the cry of a beast of prey. The old elephant chained up beneath the tamarind tree stays for a moment swaying his great body backwards and forwards, and listens attentively. His neighbour, a gray Arab horse, with pricked-up ears, gazes uneasily in the direction the sound appeared to come from; while the dogs, just before lying panting and motionless in the moonlight, spring to their feet with bristling back and lowered tail, and with growls of fear disappear under the tent fly.

Some few years ago, one of the dens allotted to the tigers was tenanted by a fine specimen named ‘Plassey.’ The writer first made the acquaintance of this animal many years ago when quartered with his regiment at Lucknow; and there is a story connected with Plassey’s history, the account of which should read a good lesson, and yet another warning, to too eager sportsmen when tiger-shooting on foot. Two officers of the Irish Lancers, then stationed at Lucknow, were out shooting in the Oude jungles. Captain T—— fired at and mortally wounded a tigress with two cubs. She dropped apparently dead, but with just sufficient life left in her to strike a last blow; and becoming aware of the near approach of her enemy, she suddenly recovered her legs, and in a moment sprang upon him and inflicted the most terrible injuries on the unfortunate sportsman. The tigress was speedily despatched, and the wounded man carried into the nearest station, where everything that could be done for him was done, but in vain, for after lingering several weeks, he succumbed.

Plassey and his brother-cub were taken to Lucknow and reared in the lancer messhouse, where they became great favourites. But time passed; the small harmless cubs grew into large powerful animals—and, as is usually the case, on attaining to a full size they speedily became troublesome and dangerous, so were first chained up, and later on confined in cages. Eventually, Plassey was brought home and presented to the Regent’s Park Gardens, where he died somewhat suddenly in the prime of life. Many valuable and rare animals brought from foreign countries, at great expense and trouble, to our shores, though at first, to all appearance, in the best of health, yet before even reaching middle age, gradually pine away and die. Nor is this to be wondered at when we remember how unnatural it is for them to be cooped up in cages, in place of a wild, unrestrained life, with liberty to wander where they will.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.

It was indeed as Winny had said. I was as stunned by her words as though a heavy blow had actually fallen upon me, and for a few seconds could scarcely think, much less speak; but recovering a little from this confusion, I asked her for some explanation. I called it ‘explanation,’ when I spoke to her, but I felt her statement was true; their manner, their looks at parting, were sufficient to tell me all.

Godfrey Harleston had seen Winny going to and from business, and had contrived an introduction to her—this preliminary acquaintance was but slightly glanced at in her story—then, to show that his views were honourable, he had early proposed marriage, but had explained that he wished it kept a secret until some unpleasant matters which were troubling him were settled. This referred at first to the quarrels between his mother and himself, with Mr Thurles, and afterwards, to the affair of the forged bills, respecting which, to my surprise, he had spoken freely to Winny and given a tolerably correct account. Of the burglary he had said nothing, and until my speech, Winny knew nothing of it. She was startled at finding I was sent for by Mr Thurles; but when she learned it was not for the forgery—the messenger saying nothing about that—she was reassured. On that very evening Godfrey had told her that his difficulty was now settled, and, as naturally following upon this, he proposed now making their marriage known. They were talking on this subject when they met me.

All this Winny told—every word going to my heart—in a rapid, excited manner, which increased in force as she went on, until she finished with a wild declaration that she would go to Godfrey and warn him of the traps which were being set for him, of the danger which awaited him on the morrow. He was her husband—her honourable, guiltless, noble husband! she almost shrieked. It was her duty to warn him, and, if needful, to be with him.

I had a dreadful job to pacify her; and I was obliged to hold out hopes which I knew to be false, and to explain away all that I had said. That all I told her now would be proved false the very next day, I well knew, and perhaps it was cruel to deceive her; but what was I to do? I was nearly mad. I did not show it so much as Winny, but I believe I was as bad.

Never was man in a more painful position on this earth. It was impossible for me to draw back; I could not and would not do so; yet the consequences of going on were frightful. Ruin to my daughter—a blight on her life which could never be removed—this I should bring about; and to do it would kill me.

I never closed my eyes all night; and by the haggard looks of Winny in the morning, I was sure it had been the same with her. I tried to talk as though I was not thinking of the horrible{473} position we were in; but of course it was a dead failure. I said that as she did not seem very well, she had perhaps better not go to business that morning. If I had known what her answer would be, I should probably have held my tongue.

‘Do you think, father,’ she exclaimed, ‘that I can attend to business or to any duty to-day? I shall wait your return here. Remember, it was by your advice that I did not, as I know I ought to have done, go to my husband last night and warn him. You said it would be all for the best if I did not do so. I shall wait here until you bring me the news which proves I was right in taking, and you in giving such advice.’

I went out to keep my appointment, as miserable and wretched a man as any who that day crawled through the streets of London. How I blamed myself for meddling in painful and disagreeable business which I ought to have been done with for ever, and how I vowed to keep clear of everything of the kind, if I could only get out of this scrape. I met Sam’s wife; a pale, care-worn, thinly clad little woman; without a trace, I was sure, of the habitual criminal in her spare features, although I daresay she knew more of Sam’s doings than the law would have looked favourably on.

‘O Mr Holdrey!’ she said—she knew me, it seemed, better than I knew her—‘I am so glad you have come.—But, lor! how bad you look, sir!’

‘He’s going to make a bolt of it,’ she went on; ‘he means sailing for America in a day or two. He got the money from the old lady last night; and I have seen him since I have been here this morning.’

‘Seen him?—seen’—— I began. I knew very well whom she meant, but I was obliged to say something. Yet, it was impossible, I thought, when I recalled the previous night and many other incidents of the case, that young Harleston could be thinking of going abroad.

‘Why, that precious Mr Godfrey,’ she answered. ‘We are only just in time. A pal—a friend, I mean, of poor Sam’s knows him, and has kept an eye on him, to oblige Sam; so he learnt enough to tell me this.’

‘Where did you see him?’ Goodness knows why I asked it, but it did as well as anything else I could think of.

‘He went into a house in that street,’ said Mrs Sam, pointing down a turning at the corner of which we stood. We had met in Gracechurch Street, as being half-way, she living over the water, and because I thought it just possible I might have to see Mr Thurles, after hearing what she had to say.

It was a shipping office, it appeared, into which he had gone. This might easily have been on business for Thurles & Company; yet it agreed so far with what the woman had said, although the place was not an American agency. I dreaded my visit to the Mansion House. I felt that anything would be welcome which might, even for a short time, postpone the awful business I had before me, so I proposed that we should watch until he came out, stationing ourselves in a court where we were not likely to be seen.

She readily agreed, and indeed had said much which I cannot stay to put down, which showed the bitterest animosity against the young man, whom she had seen several times, and who had evidently offended her. This, although of no great consequence, was to me a little strange, as, although I had only seen Godfrey Harleston twice, yet I should have said he was the last man in the world to deserve such hatred. Whatever his faults may have been, there was something open and pleasant in his manner at anyrate. However, Mrs Sam was very decided in her opinion, and while we waited at our post, gave utterance to a good many unflattering speeches regarding Mr Godfrey.

I had in my time been on the watch for six or eight hours at a stretch, and had never felt so uneasy as I did in the twenty minutes I passed in that entry in —— Street. My eyes now fairly ached with watching the never-ceasing streams of figures which came and went in the busy thoroughfare. More than one person came out of the house we were interested in, but I took no more notice of them than of the other strangers. I was looking only for one figure—a figure which I dreaded to see appear, as then I could make no further excuse for delay. Intently as I was watching the office, I thought I must for an instant have dozed, or lost consciousness in some way, for, suddenly, Mrs Sam pulled me sharply by the sleeve, and said: ‘There he is! He has just come out.—Don’t you see him?’ she added hurriedly, seeing me look confusedly from side to side. ‘You say you know him. Don’t you see him?—There—there!’ She pointed with her finger, as she almost angrily uttered these words.

‘No; I do not!’ I exclaimed, with equal sharpness. ‘Mr Harleston is not in sight, I am certain.’

‘Why, what do you mean?’ she cried, and again pointed across the road. ‘Don’t you see him just passing the public-house? He carries a small black bag.’

Then she started back in alarm, and no wonder, for I burst out laughing, and ended by wringing the little woman’s hand with a force which brought tears to her eyes.

‘It’s all right!’ I exclaimed. ‘If that is your Godfrey Harleston, I can understand everything.—Hi!’—this was to a passing cab—‘Mansion House, my good fellow!—Now, jump in, Mrs Sam, and we will settle the business in no time.’

We rattled away. What a load was off my mind! How deep and cunning the trick, and yet how easy to understand, when once the clue was supplied! The man she identified as Godfrey Harleston was no other than Mr George Picknell, my friendly clerk, who had taken so much interest in me, and who had so constantly, although without any seeming intention, directed suspicion to the step-son of Mr Thurles; and if Sam had not been ‘shopped,’ or if Picknell had had the honesty to behave fairly to Sam’s wife, his scheme might have been successful—so far as he was concerned.

We told our story at the Mansion House; and the case being one of importance, Mr Picknell was arrested that very afternoon, as he sat at his desk in the office. If he had not been taken then, we should not have had him at all, for he had a ticket in his pocket for his passage to the Cape, by a vessel sailing the next day.

But before all these things had been done and found out, you may be sure I had hurried off home in a cab. I dashed up the steps, opened the door with my key, and then into the parlour, where Winny was sitting, half distracted with suspense and anxiety. But there must have been something in my face which told a tale, for before I had spoken a word, she rose, and with a laugh, which was a sob before it was finished, threw her arms round my neck and exclaimed: ‘My dear father! Thank heaven!’ She could say no more just then for sobbing and tears; but she knew somehow that all was well. We should have made a pretty picture, if any one could have seen us, for I was as bad as Winny; but we were both brimming over with happiness.

Yet there was a great deal to be accounted for, which at another time would have checked anything like pleasure; but I had got over the worst; the most fatal difficulty had been mastered, and I did not care about anything else.

Mr Godfrey—the real Godfrey—called upon me that afternoon, and much was explained then; while the examination in Picknell’s case supplied most of the rest. What was still obscure was cleared by Godfrey’s mother and by the confession of the unlucky young fellow who had forged the bills and was apprehended about this time. The poor creature was at death’s door, and never lived to take his trial.

I daresay, however, that every one can see pretty nearly what had happened, so I will be very brief. Godfrey Harleston had really taken a fancy for betting on horseraces. Picknell had told the truth in saying this. Most of what he said was true, but so mixed up and coloured that it was worse than a lie. This, of course, is common enough; all mischief-makers resort to this trick.

Well, young Godfrey had bad luck from the first; and Smithers—I forget whether I mentioned his name before, but this was the party who absconded—being his chief adviser, Harleston applied to him to obtain the money to meet some heavy losses. Smithers was as bad off as himself, and had no one to look to for help; while Godfrey, if he chose to make any emergency known, could always get assistance. He trusted to his luck to bring him round, however, without applying to his mother—most novices would have felt the same—so was ready to agree, when Smithers suggested bills at two months, which he could get discounted on his own signature—so Godfrey understood.

Harleston drew up the bills; and Smithers, being unable to get a shilling on his own name, put in a fictitious firm, depending on Godfrey getting the money to meet the bills in time. But, by an awful stroke of luck, the bills were rediscounted, and afterwards paid to Thurles & Company, where some accidental circumstance caused the recognition of Godfrey’s writing, and then inquiry soon proved that the accepting firm was a sham.

Old Thurles was delighted at this, and spoke too freely as to what he would do. Picknell was either in the room at the time when the merchant uttered his threats, or—as I should say was more likely—he listened and skulked till he found out enough to give him his cue. He saw at once how, if the young man had committed forgery, the documents proving his guilt would be a valuable property, and he determined to get them into his possession. But it was not easy to do this and keep suspicion from himself. If stolen from the safe in any ordinary manner and during the day, a clerk must have been suspected. Some little time before, Mr Godfrey had a more serious quarrel than usual with his step-father, and had left the office. It was not until after this that he knew forgery had been committed, but he was aware that the bills had come into the possession of Thurles & Company. His absence suggested a brilliant idea to Picknell, who had a rather large circle of acquaintance of the shadiest character, and was himself, indeed, under a very demure aspect, about as bad a fellow as the Newgate calendar could show. He found out Sam, who was quite willing to undertake so profitable and easy a piece of work as Picknell represented the breaking into the office to be.

The clerk had secured impressions in wax of the keys of the outer safe—he could not get at those which opened the interior one—and Sam had no difficulty in finding an artisan who would make duplicate keys from those patterns. While dealing with his ‘professional’ friend, a splendid piece of strategy suggested itself to the clerk. He saw how to screen himself and throw suspicion on the quarter where it was already only too likely to fall, so he assumed the name of Godfrey Harleston. A tolerably correct account of what had occurred as regarded the forgery, fully satisfied Sam of the expediency of his new friend’s proceedings, and convinced him that he ‘had got hold of a good thing.’

The burglary came off successfully, but with much less immediate profit than Sam had hoped for; however, he anticipated a harvest from the bills. Of course Picknell had to tell his confederate much of his plan in regard to these documents, because they were in the burglar’s possession, and he was not likely to give them up without some inducement.

Without loss of time—for he knew how dangerous a path he was treading—the clerk waited on Mrs Thurles, and claiming to represent those who had discounted bills forged by her son—the lady knew nothing of the burglary—so wrought upon her fears, that she paid him a handsome sum on account, and promised a great deal more when the bills should be given to her. Had the poor lady had the courage to speak openly to her son, she would have found how little he had to do with the forgery. He was uneasy about it, and had been trying to raise money elsewhere to pay the firm who had originally discounted the bills. This he had succeeded in doing, which led him to tell Winny he had at last got over the difficulty he had spoken of. The young dog had more to think about than even the bills at the time, for he had just been{475} married to my Winny; at anyrate, his mother could see he was in trouble, and naturally feared the worst.

So the way was clear for Picknell; but he was so covetous and so thoroughly dishonourable, that he could not act fairly to anybody. He gave Sam the paltry two pounds, which aggravated the burglar more than if he had received nothing. This first sum from Mrs Thurles was obtained on the night when I tracked Picknell to the public-house in the mews, so you may guess how my appearance startled Sam. Picknell had meant to abscond the moment he got the money, and till then, he thought he could put Sam off with excuses, especially as the latter supposed he was dealing with Godfrey Harleston, and the name of Picknell had never been mentioned.

Sam found out that his accomplice was cheating him; then, being arrested, and fearing that his wife and child would be left destitute, he sent for me. Mrs Thurles got nearly all her money back; while Sam and Picknell were each tried at the same sessions of the Central Criminal Court, and were each sentenced to penal servitude; Sam’s time being much the longer.

Mr Thurles paid the reward, and I shared it with Mrs Sam, who went away, soon after, to some relatives in the north of England. I never heard any more of her. But before she went, she brought me a queer, old-fashioned silver jug, as a present to Winny—at the wish of Sam, she said. I did not want to take this; but the little woman declared, most earnestly, that it was her grandmother’s or great-grandmother’s, and honestly come by. She said, too, that Sam had talked so much about his gratitude to me for speaking up for him at the trial, that he would be disappointed if his gift was refused. I recollected Sam’s promise then, and accepted the present, which Winny has on her sideboard; and a gentleman who knows about such things has told her that the jug is very curious and valuable.

Poor Mrs Thurles was so delighted to find her son free, that she would have welcomed his wife if she had been an Eskimo. She took kindly to Winny; and I am proud to say that there is not a happier wife in London than my daughter.

The festival of the Gule of August, on Lammas Day, was one of the four great pagan festivals of Britain. This Gwyl (or festival) probably originated in the desire to celebrate the ingathering of the first-fruits of the earth, particularly that of the grain. Upon the introduction of Christianity into this country the festival continued to be observed on that account. The usual offering at church at this season of the year was a loaf (hlaf) of bread, hence the day became known as ‘Hlaf-mass,’ which became shortened into ‘Lammas.’

Several customs have been observed in various portions of the United Kingdom at Lammas. A very curious custom was practised in Scotland until about the middle of last century. This appears to be a relic of the ancient pagan festival of the Gule of August, and was practised in some parts of the Lothians. We are informed that near the beginning of summer the herdsmen within a certain district associated themselves into bands, which in some instances numbered one hundred members, and occasionally more. It was agreed by each of these communities to build a tower (generally of sods) in some conspicuous place near the centre of their respective districts, to serve as their place of rendezvous on Lammas Day. The base of the erection was usually about four feet square. The tower, seven or eight feet high, was made to slope up to a point, above which floated the colours of the party who had erected it. From the commencement of its being built, the tower became an object of care to the whole community, for it was deemed a disgrace to suffer it to be defaced. Any attempt made to demolish it, either by fraud or force, was resolutely resisted. Each party endeavoured to circumvent the other, and laid plans to steal out unperceived in the night-time and to level the tower to the ground. A successful exploit brought great honour to the undertakers of the expedition. Although the tower was easily rebuilt, yet the news was quickly spread through the whole district by the successful adventurers, who filled it with shouts of joy and exultation, while their unfortunate neighbours were covered with shame. To ward off this disgrace, guard was kept at night at each tower, which was made stronger and stronger as the building advanced. Numerous petty skirmishes ensued; but the assailants seldom made an attack in force, preferring rather to succeed by surprise. As soon, therefore, as they saw they were discovered, they made off as best they could.

Dr James Ferguson—to whom we are indebted for the facts concerning the Lothian Lammas tower builders—states that in order to give the alarm on these and other occasions, every person was armed with a ‘tooting-horn,’ that is, a horn perforated in the small end, through which wind can be forcibly blown from the mouth so as to occasion a loud noise. As every one wished to acquire dexterity in the use of this instrument, the herdsmen practised upon it during the summer while tending their flocks or herds. Towards Lammas, they were incessantly employed answering to and vieing with each other, so that the whole country rang continually with the sounds.

Before the day of the ceremony came round, each community elected a captain; and a stand of colours was prepared for the great event. This consisted of a fine table-cloth of the largest size, decorated with ribbons. All things being ready, the band of herdsmen sallied forth on the morning of the first of August, attired in their best apparel, and armed with stout cudgels. Repairing to the neighbouring tower, the colours were displayed in triumph; then the assembly indulged in horn-blowing and in making merry until about nine o’clock, when they partook of breakfast as they sat upon the green-sward. Scouts were despatched to every quarter to watch the approach of any hostile party.

It frequently happened that on Lammas Day the herdsmen of one district proceeded to attack those of another locality, to bring them under subjection by force. On the approach of a hostile party the horns sounded to arms; the band immediately arranged itself in the best order that could be devised—the boldest{476} and strongest in front, and those of inferior prowess behind. They seldom remained on the defensive, but generally rushed forward bravely to meet the enemy. The captains carried the colours and led the van. When both parties met, they mutually desired each other to lower their colours, in sign of subjection. When there appeared a great disproportion in the strength of the bands, the weakest usually submitted to this ceremony without difficulty, believing their honour was saved by the evident disproportion of the match. If the bands were nearly equal in strength, neither of them yielded; blows ensued, and sometimes bloodshed. It is said that on one occasion four herdsmen were killed and many disabled. If no opponents appeared, or if they themselves had no intention of making an attack, the bands took down their colours about mid-day from their towers, and marched, blowing their horns, to the largest village in the neighbourhood. Here they were met by the lasses and the people generally, who participated in the diversions of the day. Boundaries were marked out, and proclamation made that all who intended to compete in the foot-races should appear. Prizes were offered. The first prize, usually a bonnet ornamented with ribbons, was displayed upon a pole. Sometimes half-a-dozen competitors started, and ran with as great eagerness as if the prize had been a kingdom. A pair of garters was awarded to the victor of the second race; and the winner of the third gained a knife. After the races were over, the people amused themselves in such rural sports as suited their taste, and before sunset dispersed quietly to their respective homes.

In the case where two parties met and one of them yielded to the other, they marched together for some time in two separate bodies, the subjected body behind the other, and then they parted good friends, each holding their games at their own appointed place. Next day, the ribbons and tablecloth that formed the colours were returned to their respective owners; the tower was no longer a matter of consequence, and the country returned to its usual state of tranquillity.

While on a trip to Europe last summer, I noticed in the smoking-room of the good steamer Servia a rather portly, middle-aged gentleman, with a mild expression of countenance, and certainly no trace of the soldier in his bearing; and yet he was the hero of a thrilling adventure. I was introduced to him by one of the officers of the steamer, and found him to be an insurance agent in a large way, going abroad for needed rest—Mr Balcom by name. In the course of a conversation on personal courage, one evening, over our after-dinner cigars, my new-found friend related the following interesting adventure:

You know, in the late war between the North and South, nearly all our able-bodied men on both sides of the line were more or less soldiers of some sort. I was myself a Captain and ‘Commissary of Subsistence’ in the United States Volunteers, and was attached to a cavalry brigade in the army of the Potomac. In the Fall of 1864, my brigade was located in camp for the winter about four or five miles to the south of Winchester, Virginia. As a ‘commissary,’ I had constantly to pass with my train of wagons from the town to camp; but so confident was I that no danger could possibly befall me on that short jaunt, actually all within our own lines, that I carried neither sword nor pistol. Well, one pleasant afternoon in the latter part of November, as I was riding with my orderly, a good soldier, by the name of Leonard, at the head of the wagon-train, wearying of the slow progress made by the mule-teams, I placed the train in charge of the commissary sergeant, and rode on ahead, followed by my orderly only. I had gone little more than half-way to camp—the road we followed became wooded by young timber and underbrush—when, as I turned a bend in the road, I saw four or five mounted men about a quarter of a mile in advance of us. Calling my orderly to my side, I asked him what he thought of them.

‘I guess they are some of our boys, sir. They have our uniform on, and are too far inside of our lines to be “Johnnies”’ (a term applied to the Southerners).

This was my own idea; but still, I seemed intuitively to feel that all was not right. These men evidently saw or heard us, for, turning their horses’ heads toward camp, they marched slowly onward. This at once disarmed me of all doubt, for I knew camp was near, and if they were not ‘all right,’ they would hardly venture that way; so I resumed my canter, and soon overtook my fellow-travellers. When I approached, they filed to each side of the road, as if to let me pass, and I kept on. But no sooner was my orderly and myself past their last file of men, than in an instant we found ourselves confronted by half-a-dozen pistols and the sharp command, ‘Halt!’ (A sixth man had come out of the bush.)

‘Now, you Yanks want to keep your mouths shut, and do as you are told, or it will be all up with you,’ said the commander. ‘Forward—trot—march!’ and away we swept at a swinging trot, Leonard and I completely surrounded by this unwelcome bodyguard, and well covered by their pistols.

About a thousand yards we trotted on, and then swept into a narrow road, more bridle-path than road, along which we kept for a mile or so, when the command ‘Halt!’ was again given. Leonard and I were ordered to dismount and give up our arms. I had none; but my orderly was soon deprived of his. We were again put upon our horses and strapped to the saddles in not too gentle a manner. I ventured to ask where we were going to and who my captors were; and was told we were being taken to Mosby’s camp by some of his men; and furthermore, I was ordered to keep absolute silence on pain of death. From this I inferred that we had to pass very near some portion of our own camp or pickets, and for a moment I hoped some chance might yet arise for escape. But during the march we saw no soldier, or even camp-fire, and this road seemed specially devised to allow free passage from the front to the rear of our{477} lines by any person who knew it. In about an hour or so we came once more upon the highway. Night had fallen, but a young moon partially illuminated the road.

The commander, a lieutenant of these free riders, reined his horse to my side, and said we had passed the Yankee lines, and I could now speak if I chose. I merely said the straps hurt me which bound me to the saddle. We halted, and Leonard and I were untied, with a caution that any attempt to escape would only end in our death. Two of the guerrillas still led our horses, and the commander gave the order to gallop. We moved rapidly, until about eight P.M. For some time we had been ascending, and then slackening our pace a little. Suddenly, before and below us, upon a plain of no great extent, I saw a camp of from five to six hundred men. ‘Here we are,’ said the lieutenant; and in a very short time Leonard and I found ourselves under strong guard in the headquarters of Colonel Mosby at Rectortown. Under the same guard were some score more of ‘Yankee’ prisoners. Supper being over, we were given a little cold ‘hoe’-cake and the run of a pail of water for our share.

I found that some of these my fellow-prisoners were infantry-men; and one lad of about fourteen was a drummer of infantry. The majority, however, were cavalry-men caught wandering too far from their commands. Apparently, I was the only commissioned officer; but as I wore a private’s overcoat, my rank was not known to my fellow-prisoners for some time.

The sentinels about us paced their beats; some of the men were asleep, and I was sitting on a log smoking, when, by the dim light of the fire, I saw a mounted figure approach. The figure halted at the guard; and presently the sergeant in charge called out: ‘Fall in—fall in, you Yankees. Hurry up. Get into line there.’ Finally, all being awake and placed to suit him, he turned, and saluting the horseman, said: ‘The prisoners are paraded, sir.’

‘How many have you?’ asked the rider.—‘Twenty-two in all, sir.’ And then I felt we were in the presence of that terror of the valley, Colonel John S. Mosby, the best provost-marshal Sheridan had in the Shenandoah.

As Mosby advanced nearer to the camp-fire, I was struck with the lack of daring in his face and manner; but I knew he had it, from his past career. His manner was not ferocious or tyrannical, and he quietly turned upon us his eye, which seemed to see the whole of us at a glance. He spoke as follows: ‘Men, your commander has seen fit to refuse all quarter to my soldiers when captured, and hangs or shoots them on the spot. I do not approve of this kind of warfare; but I must retaliate; and as I capture two of your army to every one you get of my command, that is not difficult. Just now, the balance is against you, and five of you twenty-two prisoners must die.’

‘It is not for me to order out any five of you to execution, so the fairest way will be for you to draw for your lives.’ Turning to the sergeant, he continued: ‘Get twenty-two pieces of paper prepared—five numbered from one to five. Let the other seventeen be blank, and have each man draw a ticket; and you supervise the drawing.’

The sergeant hastened away for the paper and a lantern. Hitherto, I had said nothing to any one of my rank; but now, throwing aside my overcoat, I stepped forward, and addressing the mounted officer, asked him if he was Colonel Mosby. The reply came: ‘That is my name, sir.’

I was boiling over with indignation at this bloody action of the guerrilla, and I said: ‘I am an officer and a gentleman; these men are regularly enlisted soldiers of the United States army; surely you are not going to treat them as spies or dogs, because they have fallen into your hands through the fortune of war. What you propose, sir, is not justice; it is assassination.’

I shall never forget the look on Mosby’s face as he turned toward me, and said: ‘What justice would I get if I fell into the hands of your soldiers? I tell you, sir, I value the life of the poorest of my comrades far more than that of twenty Yankees. But I shall only retaliate in kind—man for man, and that I will have. I was not aware, sir, that you were an officer; but surely you can ask no better treatment from me than I give your men?’

I said I wanted nothing more than he would grant to all, and stepped back into my place in the ranks.

The sergeant returned just then, and the awful ‘Lottery of Death,’ as I have ever since called it, began. When my turn came, I drew from the hat a piece of paper; but I could not look at it—my heart stood still, my knees trembled, my hand faltered; but suddenly, as from a horrible dream, I was awakened by the word ‘Blank!—Fall back, sir.’

I was not to die by rope or bullet, at anyrate for a time. I cannot describe to you my terror, my abject fear; nor do I know how I appeared to others; but I do know I shall never suffer the fear of death again so keenly.

The drawing was completed; the five victims separated from us; when, suddenly, a boy’s voice was heard piteously asking for pardon, mercy, anything but death. Colonel Mosby looked toward the little drummer-boy, for he it was, and said: ‘Sergeant, is that boy one of the condemned?’

‘Send him back in the ranks again; he is too young to die yet.’—And, ‘Captain,’ turning to me, ‘since you are so much afraid to die, we will give you another chance.—Sergeant, place two papers—one numbered, the other blank—in your hat, and let the captain and the man next him draw again.’

At this second drawing, although I had only one chance in two of escaping, I did not feel that abject fear that first overcame me, and I stepped forward when ordered and drew another blank piece of paper. My feeling was one of intense pity for the poor fellow who drew the fatal number, and I hardly heard Mosby say: ‘Well, you are a lucky fellow, captain.’

We were removed from the condemned that night. After two or three days, with the aid of some friendly negroes and some burnt cork,{478} I made my escape, reaching our own lines in nine days.

Of the five condemned, two escaped, one by feigning death after being shot, and the other was rescued by a friendly negro before death ensued. These two men reached our army later on, and corroborated my strange story of the ‘Lottery of Death.’ I think you will agree with me that I had cause for showing fear at least once in my life.

Somebody once characterised ‘dirt’ as matter in a wrong place. Now, a weed is a plant in the wrong place. It has a place in the economy of nature, no doubt, unprofitable or even noxious as it may appear to the farmer or gardener. It must not be forgotten, moreover, that even the humblest weed is worthy of patient examination, and is a marvel of physiological structure. Then, again, some of our hedgerow wildings vie in beauty of form and elegance of habit with the cherished garden plants. What have we more charming, for instance, than traveller’s joy (Clematis vitalba), bryony, dogrose, or the large white bindweed? And as to some other weeds, which of our garden plants figure so largely in pictures as the foxglove, purple loosestrife (Lithrum salicaria), the teasel, or the dock? Nevertheless, they are weeds, and as such, are entirely out of place on the garden or farm. Robbers and usurpers are they, to be ignominiously decapitated or uprooted, and consigned to the rubbish-heap or the flames.

Nature, it must be remembered, never sleeps; she either rewards the hand of the diligent with abundant harvests, or she scatters broadcast her thorns and thistles, as a punishment for man’s neglect. The seeds of many species of plants have wonderful vitality. We are not about to quote the ‘mummy wheat’ as an example; but well-authenticated instances are recorded of seeds that have preserved their vitality for upwards of half a century. The seeds of the charlock and others of the Cruciferous tribe are of an oily nature, and therefore capable of withstanding the effects of moisture, and will germinate after being buried for years. But the process of ‘soiling’ the banks of new railways affords evidence of the long-continued vitality of seeds. The surface soil which has been laid aside in heaps for the purpose, is thrown back and spread upon the banks; and among the multitude of grasses and weeds which spring up and form a dense emerald carpet, there are invariably species seldom if ever found in the immediate neighbourhood. In the case of forest fires in the Far West, almost an entire new vegetation succeeds. Occasionally, the extensive moorlands in the neighbourhood of Liphook, Hants, take fire, and burn for days. The heather is dotted over with seedlings of Scotch fir, which is indigenous in the locality. Many of these trees are consumed with the heather, and with them some inches in depth of the dried surface. Seeds from the fir-cones, dropped years ago, are partially relieved from the superincumbent pressure, germinate, and in a few years supply the places of those that are destroyed. But every summer breeze wafts the winged seeds of the thistle, dandelion, the coltsfoot, groundsel, and many others, far and wide. Borne aloft on their tiny parachutes, they sail along until a summer shower bears them down to a moist, warm, resting-place in the field or wild.

The great weed-army which infests farms and gardens in the British Islands numbers about one hundred and thirty species, and consists mainly of two great classes, namely, annuals (fruitful only once) and perennials (capable of producing flowers and fruit time after time). About a dozen, however, are biennials; four of these are thistles; and the most familiar of the remainder are the foxglove and the hemlock. Some of the most troublesome farm and garden pests are perennials, and among these, the most mischievous in their rapidity of growth and tenacity of life are the greater and lesser bindweeds (Convolvulacea) and the couch-grass (Triticum repens). Unless the soil be well dug and pulverised and thoroughly sifted, the attempt to eradicate either of these will be useless; every half-inch of the white crinkled roots of the bindweed or bit of couch-grass to which roots are attached will grow. The greater bindweed, perhaps, is the most difficult to get rid of, and is especially troublesome among evergreens. The tender, semi-transparent shoots stand quite erect under evergreens until they touch the lower branches; they then make rapid growth, and quickly cover the whole head of a laurel, bay, laurustinus, or rhododendron with a thick mantle of light-green leaves, twisted stems, and snow-white trumpet-shaped flowers. Beautiful in its way, no doubt; but what of the handsome shrubs it has stifled in its fatal caresses, and what of the weeks of hard labour that must be expended in the attempt to eradicate the pest?

In Italy, however, the white, underground stems of couch-grass are carefully gathered by the peasantry, taken to market in bundles, and sold as food for cattle and horses. They contain a considerable amount of starch. A variety of couch called matt grass is extensively used in Holland for binding together the sandy dunes and flats by the sea. Coltsfoot is a very troublesome weed; a variegated form of it, with handsome, bold, cream-edged leaf, is wonderfully persistent in forcing its way to other feeding-grounds. In one case under our own observation, its roots, which are tender and brittle, found their way from a bed, beneath a four feet margin of turf and an eight feet wide gravel path. The only place where one is not likely to find the root is where it was planted! In the case of the weeds hitherto particularised, it is useless to remove the part appearing above ground; and it is also so with several of the thistles; unless cut beneath the crown or collar, the result is simply to force the plant to make a fresh effort by throwing out numerous side-shoots.

A year or two ago, we were reminded by the Prime Minister, in one of his thoughtful and suggestive speeches at Hawarden, that ‘one year’s seeding is seven years’ weeding.’ One can appreciate the repetition of the adage when reflecting on the enormous increase of the common groundsel, or the still more extraordinary multiplication of the common poppy. All the year round, even when the temperature is below the{479} freezing-point, the small yellow blossoms of the groundsel may be noticed, each with its bundle of winged seeds, while round the parent plant are a host of young seedlings. But such is the prodigious fertility of the common poppy, that a single plant will during its year of life produce forty thousand seeds! a rate of increase that would, it is computed, in the course of seven years cover the area of Great Britain; and furnish, we may further reckon, enough opium to lull the whole population into a last long sleep. The small seed escapes when ripe through the apertures at the base of the capsule.

Next to the poppy and groundsel we may place the charlock, chickweed, and corn marigold, all annuals, and to be easily got rid of before flowering by hoeing. Some years ago, I was told by an intelligent head-gardener in the island of Colonsay, in the west of Scotland, that seeds of the oxeye daisy arrived in some packages from London. In the course of a few years, oxeye had taken entire possession of the island. It is a perennial, and also seeds plentifully, and is therefore more difficult to destroy. Both the latter and the yellow corn marigold (Chrysanthemum segetum) are now affected by the æsthetic world, and are assuming importance as articles of commerce, thousands of bunches being disposed of on market-days at Covent Garden.

Americans inform us that about two hundred and twenty species of weeds have been imported into their country, mostly from the British Islands. In 1837, there were said to be only one hundred and thirty-seven. The common plantain is known among the Indians as the ‘Englishman’s foot,’ as though following the steps of the white settlers. The common yellow toadflax was, it is said, introduced by a Mr Ranstead as a garden flower, and is now known as the Ranstead weed. In 1788 it had overrun the pastures in the inhabited parts of Pennsylvania, and was the cause of bitter complaints. Chickweed is said to have been introduced as bird-seed, and the Scotch thistle arrived in a bedtick filled with thistle-down. Feathers being cheap, the bed of down was replaced by feathers, and the former thrown by the wayside. The seed soon found a congenial home. There is a troublesome American water-weed, however (Anacharis alsinastrum), which has avenged our transatlantic cousins threefold by choking our ponds, rivers, and canals. Another little intruder from the Cape (Azolla pinnata) may be troublesome. It is a charming little aquatic, and most interesting under the microscope. Some one had thrown a handful of it on a pond we wot of, where the common duckweed (Lemna) flourished; but azolla quickly monopolised the whole surface and crowded out the duckweed.

With regard to weeds generally, it must always be borne in mind by the farmer and gardener that they not only deprive the growing crops of the food intended for them only, but their presence robs the young plant of the air, light, moisture, and heat essential for its healthy development. It is quite possible, however, that some of the plants we now condemn as weeds will some day be utilised as green crops and ploughed in. The entire constituents of the crop are in such case returned to the soil. It is unnecessary to allude here to another aspect of the weed question further than to remark, that a garden owes much of its charm and neatness to its order, cleanliness, and entire absence of weeds.

A little over two years ago (March 22, 1884), under the title of ‘A Practical Science and Art School,’ we gave an account of the transformation that had taken place at Gordon’s College, Aberdeen, the old ‘hospital’ having been converted into a day and evening school, both possessing sections specially devoted to technical instruction. The first independent examination of the College (day-school) has just been made, the examiners being Professor Birrell of St Andrews, and Professor Kennedy of University College, London, who report highly on the appearance made and the work done by the pupils, and on the general condition of the College. They mention that the College has so prospered under its new constitution, that whereas the pupils in attendance previous to 1881 at no time exceeded two hundred, the number on the register for this session (1885-86) exceeds eight hundred. Of these, one hundred and twenty are foundationers, who are entitled to free education, books, and an allowance of £15, 12s. per annum for maintenance and clothing, &c.; and this is all that remains of the ‘hospital’ system. We excerpt the portion of the Report bearing on ‘Handicraft,’ as being of general interest:

‘A certain number of the most promising boys in the third division are allowed to receive workshop instruction for from one and a half to two hours a week; while in the fourth and fifth divisions of the Commercial School it forms a regular subject of instruction, to which about four hours a week are allotted. Some boys have only one year of this work, some (occasionally) over two years. A year and a half seems to be about the average. The work done by individual pupils depends upon their ability and probable future employment, each having free choice so far as it is practicable. All boys occupy themselves with simple woodwork for about a year after entering. Later on, they obtain practice in fitter’s work (filing, chipping, scraping, &c.), and in work at simple machine tools (simple and screw-cutting lathes and planing-machines), also in forging and greensand moulding. Those who require it are also taught something of tinplate and plumber’s work. From twenty to twenty-five lads work in the workshop at one time—there is not room for more. At present, about eighty lads in all are receiving practical instruction in four detachments. Earlier in the session (a large number of the more advanced boys having left for situations in the early spring), the total number was about one hundred and twenty-five, receiving instruction in five divisions.

‘For the purposes of inspection, we requested that boys at all the different stages might be put in the workshop simultaneously, in order that both elementary and advanced work might be examined. The younger boys were making{480} wooden joints, half-lap, scarf, dovetail, &c.; and from this, various grades of work were represented up to the different parts of a slide-rest lathe which was in process of construction. There seemed no tendency to take the work as play; it was carried on as seriously and in the same spirit as every other part of the educational course. The results were correspondingly satisfactory. It is not intended or supposed that work of this kind will supersede the necessity of apprenticeship in practical work; but it is believed that it will send the boys to their apprenticeship much better prepared than they would otherwise be to take advantage of the opportunities they then have of learning, and much more likely to be soon useful to their employers. Carried on in the spirit in which the workshop at Gordon’s College is carried on, these results are certainly achieved, and can only be spoken of in terms of thorough commendation. The work turned out by the boys was not, of course, equal to that of journeymen; but judged from its own point of view, as the work of boys having had at most very little training, it was as satisfactory in execution as in intention.’

It may not be out of place to mention that Mr F. Grant Ogilvie, the Science teacher at Gordon’s College, has recently been appointed Principal of the Heriot-Watt College, Edinburgh; while Mr T. A. Clark, Superintendent of the workshop at Gordon’s College, has been appointed to the corresponding post at Heriot’s Hospital School.

We learn from a contemporary that the experiment in co-operative farming now being made by the Duke of Portland on his Gringley estate is exciting considerable attention in the country amongst all classes. The farm referred to, consisting of about four hundred and eighty-five acres, has been let, together with all the stock, horses, and implements upon it, and with all the rights of the tenant, to an association of six agricultural labourers. It is chiefly arable, there being only thirty-six acres of grass; and the soil is a deep peat, growing good wheat, and also oats, but not barley. The terms upon which the farm is let or leased are, it is said, a fixed rent, payable half-yearly. The tenant-right has been valued by parties mutually chosen, and three per cent. is to be charged on the amount, to be paid half-yearly with the rent. The horses, stock, and implements left upon the farm have also been valued by the same valuers, and three per cent. is to be charged thereon. The tenant-right, the stock, and implements are at all times to be kept up after a style of good husbandry, and the landlord, his agent, or servants are to have every facility shown them to ascertain that the capital is being in no way deteriorated. The shooting is not let with the farm. The agreement is the one usually in force on the Duke’s estate, but it has been found necessary, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, to enter into a subsidiary agreement giving power to resume possession at any time, and this document will necessarily come under the Bills of Sale Act. The amount of the valuation is said to be £2431, 10s. The farm buildings are in good order, and sufficient for the requirements of the farm. The live-stock on the farm has been valued, as also the farming implements and general stock, including sufficient seed-corn. There are four houses on the farm; but in order to meet the requirements of the six men and their families, two of the houses have been divided, and other alterations may also be made. A deed of partnership is being drawn up amongst the men, which shall be in force for seven years. Each man is to receive a wage of four pounds a month; accounts are to be balanced yearly; and after the rent, interest, and all other charges are deducted, the remainder is to be paid over towards reducing the amount of the valuation.

THE CONSUMPTION OF TEA.

The Australian colonies and New Zealand, according to one of the Indian journals, drink far more tea per head of population than the British Islands. The Australians come first, with 7.66 pounds per head; the New Zealanders next, with 7.23 pounds per head; while the people of Great Britain, though appearing third in the list, consume only 4.90 pounds each. Newfoundland and Canada come next; while in the United States the consumption is only 1.30 pound per head; and in Russia, which is always regarded as a great tea-drinking country, the consumption is only 0.61 pound per head. Belgium, Sweden, Austria-Hungary, and Spain consume less than the other European nations; but there is not one nation on the continent, with the exception of Holland, in which the annual consumption exceeds one pound per head. But in certain parts of the countries named, tea-drinking is much more common than in others. In certain Russian districts, especially, tea is drunk constantly and copiously, and it is this fact which has given rise to the notion that Russia is the most bibulous of all tea-drinking countries.

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. 134, VOL. III, JULY 24, 1886 ***

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 134, vol. III, July 24, 1886

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

CONTENTS

THE GERMANISATION OF AMERICA.

IN ALL SHADES.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

VISITS TO THE ZOO.

WHERE THE TRACKS LED TO.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.

AN OLD LAMMAS REVEL.

THE LOTTERY OF DEATH.

ABOUT WEEDS.

TECHNICAL EDUCATION AT GORDON’S COLLEGE, ABERDEEN.

AN EXPERIMENT IN CO-OPERATIVE FARMING.

THE CONSUMPTION OF TEA.

TO A CHERRY BLOSSOM.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 134, vol. III, July 24, 1886

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

CONTENTS

THE GERMANISATION OF AMERICA.

IN ALL SHADES.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

VISITS TO THE ZOO.

WHERE THE TRACKS LED TO.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.

AN OLD LAMMAS REVEL.

THE LOTTERY OF DEATH.

ABOUT WEEDS.

TECHNICAL EDUCATION AT GORDON’S COLLEGE, ABERDEEN.

AN EXPERIMENT IN CO-OPERATIVE FARMING.

THE CONSUMPTION OF TEA.

TO A CHERRY BLOSSOM.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

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