Chapter II: Part 2

My first glance round showed me that we had alighted some twenty or thirty yards from a broad, sluggish-flowing river, which I at once said to myself could be none other than the Thames. A thin white mist lay on the water, through which only the faintest outlines of the opposite shore were discernible. In mid-stream, a small steamer lay moored, from the funnel of which a thin black pennon of smoke was lazily trailing. We had alighted at a kind of wharf, roughly paved and shut in by some half-dilapidated buildings, which looked unspeakably forlorn and desolate in the light of early morning. Some half-score men, dressed in guernseys and high boots, were lounging about, their hands buried deep in their pockets, looking on with a stolidity which it seemed as if nothing could rouse into animation, at the proceedings of the party of which I formed one, which were conducted without the slightest pretence at secrecy. A little way in the background stood the plumeless hearse with its two black horses.

We three men, I in the middle, walked down to the edge of the wharf. The tide was low; and it was not till we were close to the water that I perceived a couple of boats which seemed to be waiting our arrival. The first looked like an ordinary ship’s boat; in it were seated some half-dozen men resting on their oars, with a cockswain in the stern. The second boat was a broad old-fashioned tub; but I could not repress a shudder when I saw the coffin which had been brought down in the hearse laid along its bottom. Two men were in this boat, one seated at the head, and the other at the foot, of the coffin.

There was barely time to note all this before, in compliance with a whispered word from Legros, who still kept by my side, I descended four or five slimy tide-washed steps, and stepped into the first boat, followed closely by my companions. As soon as we had seated ourselves, a signal was given; the men dipped their oars, and a moment later the ragged wharf and its staring denizens were left behind. And now it was I first became aware that we had the other boat with its awful freight in tow. It glided after us through the morning mist, as though the secret it held was one from which we might never more escape.

Our boat headed in a straight line from the wharf. I had undergone so many surprises during the last few hours that it was only one more added to the number to find that our destination was the steamer which was anchored out in mid-stream. Five minutes later, I found myself on board, and, at the invitation of Legros, I at once followed him below. He conducted me into a handsomely fitted up saloon, and then left me. It could not have been more than a few minutes after this when the engine gave its first palpitating throb, and the third stage of my strange journey had begun.

Whither were we bound? What would be the duration of our voyage? And what possible object could my captors have in taking me so far away from home? These were questions that put themselves to me again and again; and then I thought of the fate of poor Karavich, and my heart as I did so grew faint within me.

It was all an unfathomable mystery, and the more I strove to find some ray of light to guide me through its mazes, the more bewildered I became. In order to relieve in some measure the burden of my thoughts, I began to peer through the port-holes of the cabin, one after another; but there was little to be seen to gratify my curiosity. A dim line of desolate flats on the one hand; on the other, an equally dreary expanse of far-reaching shore, with here and there a few scattered buildings, from some of which sprung huge chimneys, which were already belching forth black volumes of smoke to the morning air. It had begun to rain by this time; but there seemed to be scarcely the faintest breath of wind; the quick soft pulsing of the engines told me that we were now making rapid progress through the water.

I had been about half an hour alone, when I was rejoined by Legros. He was all smiles and amiability. He gave me the impression of a man from whose mind some burden which had pressed heavily on it had been suddenly lifted. There was no longer that strained intense look in his eyes—that air of watchful suspicion which had been so noticeable in him earlier on, had altogether vanished. He was, if possible, more of an enigma to me under this new aspect than he had been before.

‘Your eyes have a drowsy look in them, my friend,’ he said pleasantly. ‘First of all, you must partake of some breakfast; and after that, you shall sleep—sleep—sleep for the next dozen hours, if it so please you. This little _appartement_ is set aside for your service so long as you favour us with your company.’ As he spoke, he opened one of a row of three or four doors, and disclosed a tiny sleeping berth, fitted up and in every respect ready for occupation, which looked infinitely tempting to my tired eyes. I took advantage of the opportunity to perform some needful ablutions. When I re-entered the saloon, breakfast was on the table. A minute later, Legros and I were joined by two men whom I had not seen before, together with one of the men who had accompanied us inside the carriage. The two strangers were in some kind of undress uniform. Legros smilingly introduced me to them as a young English friend of his who had taken a fancy to accompany them a little way on their voyage. They replied by a few polite words in English, in which they expressed a hope that my voyage would prove a pleasant one; but polite though their words might be, I thought I detected under them a hidden ring of sarcasm. After this, the conversation became general, except as far as I was concerned, it being conducted in the same unknown language as before.

When I sat down at table, I seemed to have no appetite, but it came with the occasion, and despite the doubts and fears which beset me, I made a hearty meal. When the others rose, I retired to my berth, and in less than ten minutes was sound asleep. It was on the point of three o’clock when I awoke. On gazing out through the port-hole, nothing could be seen but a slowly heaving expanse of waters, through which we were quickly cleaving our way. A dreary drizzle of rain was still falling. On entering the saloon, I found M. Legros lounging on the couch over a novel and a cigarette. ‘Ah, ha! you look better, much better,’ he said with a nod and a smile. ‘I advise you to do as I am doing. It’s the only thing on a day like this. Here are cigarettes, and on that shelf you will find some half hundred novels in half-a-dozen languages. You can of course go on deck if you wish to do so and prefer a wet coat to a dry one.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I will try what it’s like on deck—at least for a little while. The fresh air will do me good.’

Of a truth, there was not much to keep any one long on deck. A man at the wheel, an officer on the bridge, and two seamen forward, all in oilskins, were the only living beings visible. After lighting a cigar, I found a sheltered nook under the lee of one of the boats. As far as my defective geographical knowledge allowed me to judge, we were now somewhere about the mouth of the Thames and heading towards the North Sea. On our left, mile after mile of low-lying desolate shore was dimly discernible through the thin drizzle of rain. This I concluded must be some portion of the Essex coast. On our right, the gray heaving waters stretched out into infinitude. Already the dull November afternoon was darkening to its close. From minute to minute, my spirits within me seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper; the gloom and desolation of the great waste of waters seemed but a reflex of the gloom and disquietude of my own thoughts. In a little while I flung away the end of my cigar and went below. M. Legros was no longer there; I had the saloon to myself. It was necessary to pass the time somehow, so, after making choice of a book, I stretched myself on a sofa and made a resolute attempt to read. It was a vain effort. Karavich’s melancholy deep-set eyes and white face blotted out the printed words.

After a time, the steward appeared and began his preparations for dinner. He was a sandy-haired, foxy-faced man, with a retreating chin and prominent teeth. I went on, pretending to read, and taking but little or no notice of him; when presently I was startled by a low warning ‘Hist!’ and on glancing up, I saw that the man was regarding me with a strangely earnest look. When he perceived that he had attracted my attention, he held up a finger, as if in warning, and then said in a whisper, that was a strange jumble of broken English interlarded with French, such as I cannot attempt to reproduce: ‘Do not appear to notice me, monsieur, nor speak to me aloud, for the love of heaven!’

I stared at him in astonishment, but so far obeyed his adjuration as to remain silent.

‘Monsieur is an Englishman,’ he began again presently, but still in a whisper so low that only with difficulty could I make out what he said; ‘and his kind heart will not allow him to refuse to do a small service for one who is in great extremity. Is it not so?’

‘Before I can promise, I must know what the service is that you want me to do,’ I whispered back.

‘It is only to post a certain letter after monsieur’s arrival in London.’

I could not repress a start. ‘But how soon am I likely to be back in London?’ I asked with an eagerness I could not conceal.

‘If all goes well, in less than twenty-four hours from now.’

Here, indeed, was joyful tidings; but I suppose I must have looked somewhat incredulous, for a moment later the man added: ‘Monsieur will find that what I tell him is the truth.’

‘In that case, of course, I shall be quite willing to post any letter you may intrust to my care.’

‘O monsieur, thanks—a thousand thanks!’ replied the man in a tone the sincerity of which I could not doubt. ‘If Monsieur Karavich could do so, he would thank monsieur in person, because it is he who is the writer of the letter.’

‘Monsieur Karavich!’ I exclaimed aloud. ‘I thought that’——

The clatter of a dozen knives on the table drowned my voice. The steward had turned as white as a sheet. ‘For the love of heaven, monsieur, do not speak above a whisper,’ he said after a pause and a frightened look round. ‘What I am doing now is at the risk of my life—but that matters little. No; Monsieur Karavich is not dead. To avoid any dangerous questions being asked, he was brought down here as if he were a dead man in a coffin made for the purpose. Oh, but it was cunningly contrived! Of all Monsieur Karavich’s friends, no one knew—there was not one to warn him.’

Before I could say anything further, he had left the cabin, but he was back again in the course of two or three minutes. ‘Here is the letter, monsieur,’ he said, still in a whisper. ‘The thanks of ten, of twenty, of fifty thousand brave hearts would be yours, if they knew the service you have promised to do. In less than fifty hours, it will be known in every capital in Europe that Fedor Karavich is a prisoner.’

I took the letter and put it away in an inner pocket of my vest. ‘No eyes but mine shall see the letter. I will post it with my own hands as soon as I reach London. But tell me—who and what _is_ Monsieur Karavich?’

‘One of the greatest and noblest of men, and a true patriot, if ever there was one. Monsieur Karavich is not his real name; he has twenty different names for different occasions. By birth he belongs to one of the noblest families in his native land; but his heart, his life, his fortune, have been given to the poor and oppressed. His real name is a name of terror wherever tyranny hides and trembles.’

‘And what will be his fate, now that his enemies have got him in their clutches?’

‘Who can tell? It is not the first time the Bear has had him in its grip. He passed ten years in Siberia when little more than a boy. _Probablement_, he will disappear—vanish utterly, and be heard of never again.’

‘Is there no way of helping him? Are there no means of rescuing him?’

The man spread his hands with a gesture eloquent of despair. ‘There is no hope—none,’ he answered with a half-sob in his voice. There was silence for a few moments, then I noticed his strange face lighten, and coming close to me, he said in a lower whisper than before: ‘And yet, monsieur, who can tell? Fedor Karavich has friends where none would expect to find them—friends secret, but devoted to the cause, even amongst the highest of the high. All that gold can do, all that powerful influence unseen and working in the dark, can do for him will be done; but after all’—— He finished with a despondent shake of the head.

‘The cause, as you call it, seems to have its emissaries everywhere,’ I remarked. ‘Even you yourself’—— I paused. If an apparition had suddenly stood before the man, he could scarcely have looked more scared. He gave a great gasp, but did not speak.

A moment later, we heard the sound of footsteps. As M. Legros entered by one door, the steward disappeared through another. I became at once immersed in my novel.

The same party sat down to dinner that had met at breakfast. Each of them addressed a few words to me in English, and treated me with the utmost courtesy; but, as before, the chief part of the conversation was kept up in a language of which I knew nothing. When dinner was over, cigarettes and cards were introduced, and I was invited by M. Legros to form one in a rubber of whist. This, however, I declined to do, and went back to my book instead. And so a couple of hours sped quietly away.

At length I said to M. Legros: ‘If you have no objection, and these gentlemen will not think it rude on my part, I will retire to my berth.’

‘Do so by all means,’ he answered. ‘But if I were you, I would only partially undress. It is by no means unlikely that you may be called in a hurry.’

About four hours later, I was called in a hurry. A tap came to my door, and the voice of Legros said: ‘Are you awake, monsieur? If so, be good enough to dress as quickly as possible.’

Five minutes later I joined him in the saloon.

‘I am grieved to say that we are about to lose the pleasure of your company,’ he observed in his blandest tones. ‘Whatever my regrets may be, I am afraid that I can scarcely expect you to share them; but it is just possible that we may have the felicity of meeting again on some future occasion. In any case, we shall hardly fail to remember each other. Wrap this cloak around you; I trust you will accept it at my hands as a slight souvenir of our acquaintance; and put this flask of cognac in your pocket; you will find the night-air cold on the water.—And now for a few last words of caution.’ His brows contracted and his face seemed to darken a little as he went on: ‘For your own sake, and if you value your future welfare—nay, what do I say, if you value life itself—you will not speak one word to any living being of that which you have seen and heard during the past few hours. Should we find the authorities in London setting on foot certain inquiries, we shall feel assured that any information they may have acquired can only have emanated from you. In that case—— But I feel sure I need not say more, except that I wish you to believe that my warning is intended for your good. And now, _cher_ monsieur, if you are ready.’

I followed him on deck like a man in a dream. I had not noticed till now that the screw of the steamer had ceased to revolve and that we were scarcely moving through the water. The night was bright and starlit. ‘Yonder little vessel—what you English, I believe, call a fishing-smack—will be your home for the next hour or two,’ said M. Legros, pointing to a dark object some little distance away. ‘It will convey you to the nearest port, from which you will readily make your way to London.’ He took my hand and held it with a hearty grip. ‘And now, adieu, and _bon voyage_.’ Then in a whisper: ‘Remember my warning. In a pocket of the cloak you will find money to defray your expenses to London.’

They were his last words to me. A moment later I was being transferred in a small boat from the steamer to the smack. Even before I got aboard the latter, the steamer was under way again. We could see her lights for a little while after she herself was lost to view, then they, too, were swallowed up in the darkness.

The crew of the smack consisted of three men and a boy. They were a rough but kindly set, and did their best under the circumstances to make me comfortable. I asked them no questions, nor did they ask me any. No doubt, M. Legros had paid them well for the service they had undertaken to perform. Soon after daybreak they put me ashore at Lowestoft, and by noon I found myself in London. I at once took a cab and drove off to my friend Gascoigne’s lodgings, only stopping for a moment by the way to post poor Karavich’s letter. I had an impression, but it may have been groundless, that my movements were watched and followed both at Lowestoft and in London.

I had not been an hour in Gascoigne’s company before I had so far disobeyed M. Legros’ warning as to have told my friend everything. At my age, it could not well have been otherwise; the burden of such a secret was too heavy for my young shoulders to bear. But I had no desire to share it with any one else: once I had told the story to my friend, I felt that I could hold my tongue for ever.

Three days later, in the dusk of evening, Gascoigne and I strolled down the street to a certain house in which Karavich’s note had been addressed. We found the number readily enough. The ground-floor was a baker’s shop with an unmistakable English name on the sign—certainly not the name on Karavich’s letter. In the window was a card inscribed: ‘First and Second Floors to let Unfurnished;’ and sure enough, on looking up we saw four uncurtained windows staring blankly into the dark like so many sightless eyes. We made no inquiry at the shop, but hurried away, feeling as if we had touched the verge of another mystery.

One evening, early in the following spring, I was standing gazing into a jeweller’s window in Bond Street, when a passing stranger halted, apparently with the view of following my example. I was conscious of his presence, but that was all. I did not even glance at him. Suddenly a voice whispered in my ear: ‘Fedor Karavich has escaped; let his enemies beware!’ I turned with a start, but only to see a tall dark-clothed figure striding swiftly away.

* * * * *

Before these lines see the light, twelve thousand miles of ocean will intervene between me and the readers of them. Had it not been so, in all probability the strange experience embodied therein would never have been made public.

ON PREVENTION OF BLINDNESS IN THE NEW-BORN.

BY A MEMBER OF THE OPHTHALMOLOGICAL SOCIETY.

Among the grandest of our charitable institutions may be counted those for the care and instruction of the blind. Their utility and the benefit they confer are beyond question, and they are in the highest degree deserving of moral and material support. It is fortunate that human sympathy is seldom slow in extending itself to those, be they young or old, who have lost the priceless boon of vision and who dwell in ‘eternal night.’ Whilst this is the case, however, and it is a matter for thankfulness, it is well to remember that ours is peculiarly an age when prevention is held to be better than cure, and when considered in connection with cases that admit of ‘no cure,’ the wisdom of pursuing a course of ‘prevention’ is only too evident.

It is well known that a large number of the inmates of our blind institutions have been rendered fit objects for admission by preventable causes. The purpose the writer has now before him is the consideration of a class of such preventable cases, but which also embraces the largest proportion. It is peculiarly a subject on which the public need information, and by the acquirement and diffusion of which knowledge, it will be within their power to do an amount of good, and which will tend in some degree to lessen the number blinded in the manner to be now described.

The class of cases to which reference is made are those of young babies, to whom, in consequence of a serious inflammation occurring within a few days after birth, the light of the world may be taken away from them, almost, indeed, before their eyes have opened to it. The disease is principally, but by no means exclusively found among the poorer people; and as it is among them that ignorance mostly prevails, the direst results are most frequently witnessed. The affection—setting-in a few days after birth—is characterised by a discharge of matter from the eyes, and attended with redness and swelling, generally, of the eyelids. Whilst on the one hand it must be strongly urged that such a condition is a serious one, on the other it must be equally recognised that if treated sufficiently early it is amenable to remedies. No mother of a babe should, on noticing the appearances indicated, delay sending for or taking her child to a medical man. The grossest ignorance, however, prevails among mothers and those surrounding them, as to the gravity of this affection, at the time and after the births of their children. The writer in his medical practice experiences few circumstances more sad, and calculated to harrow one’s feelings more keenly, than for a baby to be brought for the first medical treatment when the disease has already wrought such havoc as to render a cure an improbability, and too often an impossibility. Such instances are of frequent occurrence in hospital practice. Dr Emrys-Jones some time ago collected statistics as to the condition of the eyes when brought for treatment at the Manchester Royal Eye Hospital; and he found six and a quarter per cent. of the eyes were hopelessly lost, in some cases both eyes, in others one only. There is, moreover, an amazing degree of careless indifference displayed, and when a case in a wretched condition is seen by a medical man for the first time at the end of one, two, or three weeks after the onset of the affection, to the question, ‘What have you been doing all this time for the baby’s eyes?’ will come the reply: ‘Why, nothing, sir;’ as if a special virtue lay in a negative answer.

The importance of preventing blindness being caused by this disease will be evident, when it is asserted that a third or more of all cases in the blind schools of England have been occasioned by it. Nor, indeed, does this in any manner show its entire effects; for those who have only lost one eye through it, would, of course, be omitted from calculation, as well as those whose vision had been affected in a less degree. On the continent, the proportion would appear to be equally large. In Germany, Reinhard, from investigations at twenty-two German blind asylums, found six hundred and fifty-eight blind from this disease among a total of twenty-one hundred and sixty-five, or thirty and a half per cent. Observations among our own institutions would appear to represent as large or a larger percentage of cases. The writer has kept a record of children admitted into a teaching institution with which he is connected, and the number in his notebook is sixty-two. Of this number he excludes seven, as either not having been examined by him, or the cause of blindness not verified; but of the remaining fifty-five, in no fewer than twenty-one is this affection distinctly traceable as the cause of blindness. This gives a percentage of about thirty-nine. No words, it would appear, can be necessary to add to the telling effect of such figures.

It must be recollected, moreover, that the blind are not only shut off from the pleasures of this world, but their unhappy lot too frequently renders them a necessary burden on their more fortunate sight-possessing fellows. It is desirable that a knowledge of the dreadful results following a neglect of this disease should be impressed upon the community. The results mentioned comparatively seldom occur among the well-to-do, for the reason that the doctor is in immediate attendance, and under skilful treatment the affection is cured; but, however, by extending information on this subject, it will, it is hoped, reach the less fortunately situated. A comprehensive plan for attaining such an object was introduced to the notice of the Ophthalmological Society of the United Kingdom, by Dr David M‘Keown of Manchester. He proposed to utilise the poor-law and birth registration organisations. Such a plan would enable every mother of new-born infants to have read to her, and to be put in possession of, or of whoever may be in attendance, a card specifying the characters and dangers of the disease; and again, as the birth of every child has to be registered within a certain number of days, another opportunity would be afforded for giving a card with the desired information. The card, it was proposed, should run in this way: ‘_Instructions regarding new-born infants._—If the child’s eyelids become red and swollen, or begin to run matter within a few days after birth, it is to be taken without a day’s delay to a doctor. The disease is very dangerous; and if not at once treated, may destroy the sight of both eyes.’

The Society, on the Report of its Committee on this subject, adopted, with slight modifications, the series of resolutions suggested by Dr M‘Keown. The first resolution of the Society, and which chiefly concerns us here, was as follows: ‘That the purulent ophthalmia of new-born infants being the cause of a vast amount of blindness, mainly because of the ignorance of the public regarding its dangerous character, and the consequent neglect to apply for timely medical aid, it is desirable to instruct those in charge of new-born children by a card’ (as previously mentioned). This is to be distributed, the resolution adds, by the poor-law and birth registration organisations of the United Kingdom; and details the methods to be adopted for carrying the plan into operation. In a subsequent resolution, the aid of the medical press is solicited, and the attention of the various institutions which train or employ midwives is drawn to this very important subject.

These resolutions, as it has been said, were adopted by the Ophthalmological Society; and they were desired to be communicated to the Presidents of the Local Government Board, and of similar bodies in Scotland and Ireland. A deputation also was appointed to wait upon the Presidents of these bodies, if necessary, to urge the desirability of the plan sketched out being put into practice; and among other members of this deputation were Sir William Bowman, and the President (Mr Jonathan Hutchinson) of the Society.

It is very much to be hoped that the action of such an influential Society will have a good effect. It clearly puts the gravity of the case before the public; and any individual who can in any way spread the knowledge contained in the foregoing Report will be engaged in a really good cause.

For some time, the Society for the Prevention of Blindness has issued and circulated a leaflet entitled, ‘Advice to Mothers who do not wish their Children to be Blind.’ It contains sound directions as to the nature of the disease, its recognition, and hints as to what should be done whilst the doctor is being fetched, which should, however, be by no means delayed. Any one interested in the welfare of the blind, and wishing for further information as to the objects of the Society, should communicate with Dr Roth, Secretary, 48 Wimpole Street, London, W.

The object the writer has had in view in this article has been to draw attention to this affection of babies’ eyes, and to enforce the urgent necessity for prompt and proper treatment. He has not inserted any directions as to remedies parents may themselves employ, because it is essentially a disease that no one but a medical man should treat, and parents should be encouraged to apply at once for relief. For the very poor, in every town is a hospital or dispensary, to which the infant can be taken. The better-to-do should seek the services of their own doctor. Whilst saying this, however, it may be observed that cleanliness is of the greatest importance; and this should be regarded both as to the infant’s surroundings and also as to the eyes, in cleansing them with _clean_ tepid water frequently, of all discharge; and this requires to be done very gently. At the time of the birth of the baby, also, the eyes are the first parts that should be washed clean, and not left until the last, as is not unfrequently the case. If this were done, the disease in many cases would be prevented.

PARLIAMENTARY TITBITS.

Edmund Burke, the distinguished orator and writer, at the close of an election in 1774, in an eloquent speech, thanked his constituents for electing him as their member. He was followed by his colleague, Mr Cruger, a merchant, who, after the orator’s remarks, contented himself by exclaiming: ‘Gentlemen, I say ditto to Mr Burke!’

Two stories are told of Lord Brougham. On being offered the post of Chief Baron of the Exchequer, Brougham refused it, alleging that its acceptance would prevent the continuance of his parliamentary duties. ‘True,’ rejoined Canning; ‘but you will be only one stage from the woolsack.’—‘Yes,’ said Brougham; ‘but the horses will be off.’

The second is contained in a remark of Sydney Smith, who, seeing Brougham in a carriage on the panel of which was the letter B. surmounted by a coronet, observed: ‘There goes a carriage with a B outside and a wasp inside.’

Lord Erskine had the following unique form of replying to begging letters: ‘Sir—I feel honoured by your application, and I beg to subscribe’—here the recipient had to turn over the leaf—‘myself, your very obedient servant.’

Lord Palmerston’s good-humour as a distinct element of his character is well known. We find it even during his last illness, when his physician was forced to mention death. ‘Die, my dear doctor!’ he exclaimed; ‘that’s the _last_ thing I shall do.’

When Shiel had learned by heart, but failed to remember, the exordium of a speech beginning with the word ‘Necessity,’ which he repeated three times, Sir Robert Peel continued: ‘Is not _always_ the mother of invention.’

Some good sayings are attributed to George Selwyn, who was called ‘the receiver-general of wit and stray jokes,’ and was a silent member of parliament for many years. When told that Sir Joshua Reynolds intended to stand for parliament, Selwyn replied: ‘Sir Joshua is the ablest man I know on a canvas.’

Horace Walpole, when complaining one day of the existence of the same indecision, irresolution, and want of system, in the reign of George III. as had been witnessed in that of Queen Anne, remarked concerning the continuance of the Duke of Newcastle as First Lord of the Treasury after the accession of George III.: ‘There is nothing new under the sun.’—‘Nor under the grandson,’ added Selwyn, George III. being the grandson of George II.

George III. one day alluded to Selwyn as ‘that rascal George;’ on which Selwyn asked: ‘What does that mean?’ Immediately adding: ‘Oh, I forgot; it is one of the hereditary titles of the Georges.’

The Duke of Cumberland on asking Selwyn how a horse he had lately purchased answered, received the reply: ‘I really don’t know; I have never asked him a question.’

When it was proposed at one time to tax coals instead of iron, Sheridan objected to the proposal on the ground that ‘it would be a jump from the frying-pan into the fire.’

Many other examples might be given of Sheridan’s wit; we shall mention three. On meeting one day two royal dukes, one of them said that they had just been discussing whether Sheridan were a greater fool than knave. The wit, placing himself between them, quickly replied: ‘Why, faith, I believe I’m between the two.’ His son said that were he in parliament, he would write on his forehead, ‘To let.’—‘Add “unfurnished,”’ suggested the father. On another occasion, when asked by his tailor for at least the interest of his bill, Sheridan replied: ‘It is not my interest to pay the principal, nor my principle to pay the interest.’

With this last we may compare Talleyrand’s method in dealing with creditors. When asked by one when he should receive payment, the only answer given was: ‘_Ma foi_, how inquisitive you are!’

We shall draw this paper to a close by quoting from _The Anecdotal History of Parliament_ the following:

‘_An Irish Election Bill._—The following bill was sent by an innkeeper at Trim to Sir Mark Somerville, who had given an order that all persons who voted for him in a contested election for Meath should be boarded and lodged at his expense. The bill, it is said, is still kept in a frame at the family seat.

_April 16, 1826._

MY BILL—

To eating 16 freeholders above-stairs for Sir Marks, at 3s. 3d. a
head, is to me £2, 12s.

To eating 16 more below-stairs, and 2 priests after supper, is to
me, £2, 15s. 9d.

To 6 beds in one room, and 4 in a nother at 2 guineas every bed,
and not more than four in any bed, at any time cheap enough, God
knows, is to me, £22, 15s.

To 18 horses and 5 mules about my yard all night at 13s. every one
of them, and for a man which was lost on the head of watching them
all night, is to me, £5, 5s.

For breakfast on tay in the morning for every one of them and as
many more as they brought, as near as I can guess, £4, 12s.

To raw whisky and punch, without talking of pipes, tobacco, as well
as for porter, and as well as for breaking a pot above-stairs and
other glasses and delf for the first day and night, I am not sure,
but for the three days and a half of the election as little as I
can call it, and to be very exact, it is all or thereabouts as near
as I can guess, and not to be too particular, is to me at least,
£79, 15s. 9d.

For shaving and cropping off the heads of the 49 freeholders for
Sir Marks, at 13d. for every head of them by my brother had a wote,
is to me, £2, 13s. 1d. For a womit and a nurse for poor Tom Kernan
in the middle of the night, when he was not expected, is to me ten
hogs.

I don’t talk of the piper, or for keeping him sober as long as he
was sober, is to me, £0.

THE TOTAL.

2 12 0 0
2 15 0 9 Signed
22 15 0 0 in the place of JEMMY CARS wife
5 5 0 0 his
4 12 0 0 BRYAN × GARRATY
79 15 0 9 Mark.
2 13 0 1
10 10
0 0
£110, 18s. 7d.,

you may say £111, 0s. 0d. So your Honour, Sir Marks, send me this
eleven hundred by Bryan himself, who and I prays for your success
always in Trim, and no more at present.’

BREAD FROM THE BARK OF THE FIR-TREE.

The present century is marked by a great social improvement in the position of the lower or working classes; the days of famine, from which they suffered so severely, have passed away, and they can now rely upon bread made wholly from corn, free from husk and chaff, and of that fine quality which a century ago was a luxury only indulged in by the upper or wealthier classes. This improvement has been brought about by a fuller cultivation of the land and by a general development of trade—great social changes which are the spirit or essence of civilisation.

In England, the white bread of the poor man is a thing of this century; whole-meal or brown-bread, barley-bread, and oatcake being their old form of food.

In the last century, when the wood-trade of the Baltic was confined to the Russian ports, the now thriving towns in the Gulf of Bothnia were poor fishing-villages, and the bread of the people was commonly made from the inner bark of the fir-tree. Their staple grain was oats and rye; but in time of scarcity, bark-bread was used; at other times, bark-meal was mixed with corn-meal, as a matter of economy. As the making of bark-bread may now be termed a lost art, we propose to give a few notes upon it, which cannot fail to be of interest to the general reader.

Until recently, the making of bark-bread from the fir-tree was common in the north of Sweden and Norway and in the north-western parts of Finland. The bark was stripped from the trees in the spring, the only time of the year it is easily removable; that of the trunk of large trees was most preferred, as it was less strong than the bark of small trees or branches. Linnæus, the great naturalist, when passing through the woods of Helsingland, in Sweden, in 1732, says: ‘The common and spruce firs grow here to a very large size. The inhabitants had stripped almost every tree of its bark.’ The outer or hard scaly bark was carefully removed, as the inner bark was the only part required. The bark was then dried in the sun, and stored for winter use, a season that embraces six or seven months of the year. Preparatory to grinding, the bark was rendered friable, thick, and porous by being warmed over a slow fire. It was then in part given to their swine in a granulated form, by way of economising corn, the swine by this food being rendered extremely fat. Other parts were cut up obliquely and given to their cows, goats, and sheep. When ground, this bark-meal, as it was called, was stored in barrels.

The following is an old recipe for making it into bread: ‘The meal is moistened with cold water into a paste or dough, without being allowed to go into a state of fermentation, and without any yeast. Cold water is preferred to warm, the latter rendering the dough too brittle. The dough being of a soft consistence, is then well kneaded on a table. A handful is sufficient to make one cake, though no person would suppose that so small a quantity could make so large a cake as afterwards appears. This lump of dough is spread out on a flat table, not with a rolling-pin, but with the hands, and a flat trowel or shovel; a considerable quantity of flour is sprinkled over the surface, and the whole mass is extended until it becomes as thin as a skin of parchment. It is then turned by means of a very large shovel, after being previously pricked all over with an instrument made on purpose, and composed of a large handful of the wing feathers of ptarmigan, partridge, or some such birds. The other side, when turned uppermost, is subsequently pricked in the same manner. The cake is then put into the oven, only one being ever baked at a time. The attendance of a person is necessary to watch the cake, and move or lift it up occasionally, that it may not burn. Much time, indeed, is not required for the baking. When sufficiently done, the cake is hung over some kind of rail, and the two sides hang down parallel to each other. Other cakes when baked are hung near to, or over, the first. When the whole are finished, they are laid by one upon another in a large heap, until wanted.’

The dough was said to be more compact than barley, and almost as much so as rye; but the bread was noted as being rather bitter in taste.

Mr Laing, in his _Journal of a Residence in Norway_, states that he had been disposed to doubt the use of fir-bark for bread; but he found it more extensive than is generally supposed. In Norway, it is the custom to kiln-dry oats to such a degree that both the grain and the husks are made into a meal almost as fine as wheaten flour. In bad seasons, the inner bark of young Scotch pines is kiln-dried in a similar manner to the oats, and ground along with them, so as to add to the quantity of the meal. The present dilapidated state of the forests in districts which formerly supplied wood for exportation, is ascribed to the great destruction of young trees for this purpose in the year 1812. The bread baked of the oat and pine meal is said to be very good. It is made in the form of ‘flat cakes, covering the bottom of a girdle or frying-pan, and as thin as a sheet of paper, being put on the girdle in nearly a fluid state.’ When used at table, these cakes are made crisp by being warmed a little.

It would appear that the inner bark of the silver birch-tree is also used for grinding into bark-meal. Loudon says in his _Arboretum Britannicum_: ‘In Kamtschatka, the inner bark of the birch is dried and ground, like that of the Scotch pine, in order to mix it with oatmeal, in times of scarcity. It is also said to be eaten in small pieces along with the roe of fish.’ The Rev. Dr Brewer, in his _Dictionary of Phrase and Fable_, says: ‘In the fifteenth century, Christopher III. of Scandinavia, in a time of great scarcity, had the bark of birch wood mixed with meal for food, from which circumstance he was called “The King of Bark.”’

It is quite clear that the birch is wholesome, for in the Baltic Provinces it is customary for women in the streets to sell birch-sap in pails to the cry of _birk vatten_ (birch-water); and we are told in the _Penny Cyclopædia_ that ‘during the siege of Hamburg by the Russians in 1814, almost all the birch-trees in the neighbourhood were destroyed by the Boshkirs and other barbarian soldiers in the Russian service, by being tapped for their sap.’

In the old home of bark-bread, wheat and oats are practically unknown, the shortness of the summer not admitting of the ripening of these cereals. The inhabitants are consequently confined to barley and rye, the latter being their staple food. This rye-bread is dark in colour, but very sweet and wholesome.

We have seen the bakers of Sweden drawing batches of rye-bread; and from the sweetness of it and its appearance as it lined the floor of the bakehouse, we could scarcely disabuse our minds that it was not a batch of English plum-loaf.

The making of bark-bread may now be said to be a thing of the past; but its use even so late as the first half of this century, points to a primitive age, and an intensity in the struggle for life with which we in England are wholly unacquainted.

THE STANHOPE GOLD MEDAL.

In this _Journal_ for June 6, 1885, we gave our readers some account of the ‘Heroes of Peace’ whose gallant acts had been rewarded in the course of the previous year by the Royal Humane Society. The Stanhope Gold Medal—‘the “blue ribbon” of the Society’—is awarded early in each year to the hero of the most praiseworthy instance of bravery brought to the notice of the Society during the preceding twelve months. In the beginning of this year, then, the Stanhope Medal was awarded to Alfred Collins, a young fisherman of Looe, Cornwall, for an act of bravery of such signal daring as to deserve special notice here. On a dark stormy night of December 1884, a boy named Hoskings fell overboard from the fishing lugger _Water Nymph_, then seven or eight miles south-east of the Eddystone lighthouse. The captain of the boat, Alfred Collins, immediately jumped overboard, hampered though he was by his oilskins and sea-boots, and holding on to his boat with one hand, endeavoured to clutch the boy with the other. He failed in this attempt; but clambering into the boat again, he secured the end of a line, and carrying this with him, he jumped overboard once more, and swam in the direction of the sinking lad. There was a heavy gale blowing, and the night was dark, with heavy rain. By the time Collins reached the boy, he was eighty feet from the _Water Nymph_, and already three feet under water; but Collins managed to clutch him, and the two were with great difficulty pulled on board. Such self-sacrificing heroism as this needs no commendation; but the Royal Humane Society do well to recognise it by the award of their medals. In addition to the Stanhope Medal, the Society awarded during last year fifteen silver medals, and one hundred and thirty-nine bronze ones; and to ten heroes who already wore the medal for previous acts of bravery, the clasp was given; while the minor awards, of testimonials on vellum and parchment and of money, numbered no fewer than two hundred and twenty-seven. In the cases reported to the Society during the twelve months, out of four hundred and thirty-nine persons attempted to be rescued, four hundred and six were actually saved.

AT THE MILL.

Swallows, skimming o’er the shallows,
Where, above the reeds and mallows,
May-flies hover light,
As ye course o’er flood and lea,
Twitter of my love to me—
Cometh he to-night?

Insect-mazes, softly droning
O’er the mill-stream’s fitful moaning,
In your wayward flight,
Murmur o’er the bridge’s cope
Lullabies to dreaming Hope—
Cometh he to-night?

Weave your flaming splendours o’er me,
Evening clouds that float before me,
Rosy, gold, and white;
Flood my soul with pearly rays,
Harbingers of halcyon days—
Cometh he to-night?

Flowers that lade the zephyr’s fleetness
With the burden of your sweetness,
Cheer me, calm and bright.
Sweet as you my thoughts shall spring,
When his soft-tongued whispering
Breathes o’er me to-night.

Fickle he as swallow’s glancing;
Wavering as the May-fly’s dancing
In the waning light!
Flimsy as the clouds above,
Frail as petals all his love!
Where is he to-night?

He is here! my homebound swallow;
True to me as May-flies follow
Streamlets to alight.
Fair as skies in sunset hours,
Sweeter far than honeyed flowers,
Comes my love to-night!

F. H. WOOD.

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

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