Chapter II: Part 2

He apologised for not calling a cab by saying that it ‘was dead low water with Sam,’ and the governor did not care about laying out more money than could be helped. This, however, did not explain why I was wanted; and the inside of a ’bus not being a good place for talking secrets, we said little more until we got down at the corner of the Old Bailey, and then there was too much hurry to think of talking.

Sam’s trial had begun; the facts were so simple that it was not likely to last long. A robbery had been committed, somewhat early in the night—eleven or twelve o’clock—at a house in Camberwell. Two of the residents in the next house saw a man leap from a back window into the garden, and gave the alarm. This man the witnesses believed to be Sam. They had even described the burglar as having a remarkably long neck; and the accused being notoriously a bad character, the event was likely to be against him. Mr Browle hurried to me the moment I entered the court—leaving the then witness to go without cross-examination—and thanked me for coming. ‘We hardly hoped it, you know,’ continued the legal gentleman, ‘as you had not been subpœnaed, and I know you do not think much of Braceby. But the man is innocent this time; he is, indeed, Mr Holdrey.’

I naturally asked about my expenses and so forth—I did this as a matter of business—before I entered on what I was expected to prove.

‘Don’t hesitate over that, there’s a good fellow,’ said Browle. ‘Sam will pay you; you know he will, for he is honest enough in private life, even if he is not so professionally. I don’t think you are the man to sacrifice a poor wretch for the sake of your fees; but if you insist—why, I will guarantee them myself, and it is no business of mine to do that, as you know.’

I was fairly surprised at this, and liked the old fellow for being so much in earnest. I felt that I could not let him outdo me, and said so.

Two minutes told me what I was expected to say, and the case for the prosecution being closed, I was at once called on. I was the only witness for the defence. Long-necked Sam was not likely to call any of his friends as to character, and indeed all his ‘pals’ were shy of showing themselves in the Old Bailey when the trials were on and the police about. Braceby had recollected on the very morning of the trial, that the day on which the burglary took place was the St Leger day, and that I had met him late in the evening and expressed my wonder that he was not down at the races. Had he not been able to fix the day by this incident, it would have gone hard with him; but I was able to prove beyond all sort of doubt that I was in his company, fully five miles from the scene of the burglary, at the very moment the robber, whoever he was, was leaving the house. So it was impossible that Sam could have been the burglar, and the case virtually broke down at once.

The prosecuting counsel and, for the matter of that, the judge also, or I fancied so, looked anything but pleased at my interference, and some of my old comrades rallied me a little on my new friends—but that was all in good temper.

Sam met me outside the court, and rough as he was, the tears stood in his eyes as he thanked me. ‘I won’t ask you to have a glass with me, Mr Holdrey,’ he said, ‘because I know I am not in your line. I daresay you will live to see me in the dock again and to hear of my getting a lifer. But if, afore that comes on, I can do anything to show you what I think of you to-day, I will do it; and if I send that pretty daughter of yours a present—and I have watched her bright face many a day, when she did not know I was looking at her—if I send her a present, it shall be something as I have come by honestly, and that she needn’t be afraid of taking from my hands.’

Having got rid of him, I went home, all the more disposed to enjoy my daughter’s conversation—and she had always plenty to tell me of her little adventures during the day—and all the more inclined to enjoy my unread newspaper, from the long and disagreeable business I had gone through.

Winny came in soon after me; her place had closed a little earlier, being so near Christmas. I was glad I had got home first, as she might have been anxious about me and my going off so suddenly. I told her my adventures; and when I said it was almost a pity that I had been able to clear such a bad lot as Sam undoubtedly was, and had always been, as he would be sure to do some harm soon, she put her hand over my mouth, to prevent my saying anything so wicked. The poor creature had one more chance, she said, and perhaps he would make good use of it—there was hope for everybody. I knew, better perhaps than she did, how much hope there was for Sam; but Winny was always soft-hearted, and took the most favourable view of everything. I gave way to her; and somehow, she seemed to be more affectionate than ever that night, and I felt pleased at the idea of a quiet evening with her. Then she got her needlework, and I my pipe, while the beating of the rain against the window—for the wind had risen at nightfall—made everything seem brighter and cosier than before. I had scarcely taken a single whiff, when I heard a vehicle stop opposite the house, then a double knock followed. ‘Some one for the landlord,’ I thought. But no; it was for me, and for the second time that day I told the servant to show a strange gentleman in.

This arrival was a very different-looking man from the shabby clerk from Browle the lawyer, but his errand was much the same in effect. It was to take me out; indeed, a cab had been brought so that no time should be lost, and the stranger was directed to take me to the private house of Mr Thurles—Mr Thurles of Cornhill, the man explained.

I knew who Mr Thurles was—knew where he lived, and knew his house of business as well as I knew St Paul’s; but I had never spoken to him; and what he wanted me for, I could not guess. And what was stranger, the messenger knew little more than I did. He was valet, or butler, or something; but all he had been told was to ask Mr Holdrey to accompany him, and to say, if any objection should be made, that money was no object. He believed it was about a robbery—that was all he knew.

This sounded stranger still; and I turned to my daughter to say something about it, when I was horrified at her pale, almost ghastly looks. All the bloom had gone from her face, and she held one hand on her breast as if to stop her heart from beating too violently.

‘Why, Winny, what are you frightened at?’ I exclaimed. ‘There is no harm in my being sent for by Mr Thurles, who is a highly respectable gentleman. You should not let yourself be excited.’

‘O father!’ she said, ‘it was so unexpected, so sudden—I thought—I do not know what I thought.’ She faltered as she spoke, and the tears were in her eyes.

This was so different from her usual cheerful manner, that I would not go out until she had recovered herself. Perhaps I should not have gone then, but that a young friend of her own happened to call in, and so I was more satisfied to leave her.

My companion scarcely spoke during the ride; and when we arrived at the square where Mr Thurles lived, I was at once shown up into the library, where the gentleman was waiting for me. I never saw a harsher or sterner looking man than the merchant. He was, I supposed, about sixty years old, with thin iron-gray hair, gray bushy whiskers, and large heavy eyebrows, which, when he frowned, gave an expression to his face which was anything but pleasant.

He came to business directly, and spoke in just the tone one would have expected from such a man. ‘You are, or were, Sergeant Holdrey, of the — division, I believe?’

I replied that he was right.

‘I have sent for you,’ he went on, ‘because our house was interested in a case managed by you, and I then made up my mind that if ever I wanted a detective, you should be the man.’

I began to say something about my feeling flattered by being thus distinguished; but he continued, without taking notice of it.

‘You will be paid well; and the quicker you are, the better I shall pay you. I am inclined to think that you will not find your work specially difficult. I believe I know who is wanted, but I must have better information. My counting-house has been robbed, the safe opened with false keys, and ransacked.’

‘It has been kept very quiet,’ I said, as he paused; ‘for I have never heard a word of it. I hope you did not lose much?’

‘It has been kept quiet,’ answered Mr Thurles; ‘no one out of my establishment knows of it, and very few of our own people have more than a dim idea of the right story. We did not lose much; only the outer safe was opened. The thieves had not the keys of the inner one, which contained a large amount in money; but perhaps they did not want to open that.’

‘Not want to’—— I began, in some astonishment, for such an idea was enough to astonish anybody, when he again snapped me up sharply.

‘If you will listen to me, and not interrupt,’ was his pleasant remark, ‘you may understand your instructions the sooner. The person who stole, or caused to be stolen, what really was taken, wanted only a couple of bills, accepted by Waterman & Co.—Do you know the firm?’

‘No; I can’t say I do. I know most of the City houses, but I never came across them.’

‘And you are not likely to do so,’ he returned; ‘for there is no such firm in existence. The bills were forgeries. They were never intended to get into my hands, and no doubt would have been taken up by the drawer. But the holders were pressed for money, and gave them to another firm not much better off, who handed them to us. I did not believe that a large house, as I heard Waterman & Co. were, would have anything to do with such small matters; and some other things, trivial enough in themselves, adding to my suspicions, I caused inquiries to be made, with the result I expected—that is, of finding they were forgeries. The next thing was to trace them; and as I was already pretty certain of the forger, I should easily have done that, when the office was entered, the safe unlocked, not forced, so it must have been done by some one who had access to the keys. These bills were stolen, so all proof is lost. But if I cannot trace the forger, I may the burglar, and that is what I want you for—and for this I will pay five hundred pounds.’

He went on to explain that he was not upon good terms with his wife. But I could have told _him_ all about that; every one in the City knew that he had married a widow of great wealth, who had an only son, and that he had almost broken the poor woman’s heart by his coldness and neglect. There had been no open outbreak or scandal, but they were separated; the son, who was now some four or five and twenty years old, being a sort of link between the pair, by remaining in his step-father’s counting-house.

All this, with a very different colouring, the merchant told me now. I could have saved him the trouble, but you should always let such persons have as much talking as they like. When he had finished this part, he told me something which surprised me. He had reason to believe, he said, that this step-son, Godfrey Harleston, was the person who forged these bills and who robbed the office. There were marks on the counting-house window frames and sills which showed that the burglar had entered and left by that way; indeed, it would have been almost impossible for any one to leave by the front of the house without attracting attention. All this was clear enough; but then he went on to say that he would cheerfully spend a thousand pounds, besides the reward, to bring the crime home to his step-son, who, he explained, was a thoroughly bad character, and had been a thorn in his side for a long time.

‘If he is as bad as you are, old gentleman,’ I thought to myself, ‘he must be a bad one indeed.’

I took a great dislike to Mr Thurles for showing such bitter animosity to the young fellow; but I could see that the chief aim of the merchant was to wound his mother through him; and although, after seven-and-twenty years in the police, it took more than a little to upset me, I could hardly stand this. However, some one else would have the job if I did not, so I agreed to undertake the business.

I was to do what I liked, spend what I pleased, and have whatever help I wanted; but I do not care much about help. In some things, of course, you must have people with you; but, as a rule, a single man can do all there is to be done, and when he works, he is sure to be always working on the same line, which is more than you can be certain of when there are two or three of you in it. Nor did I see that laying out much money would help us. I told him so; and before I left him, had given him a sketch of what I thought would be a good beginning.

He rang for a bottle of port and some cigars. After a time, I went home in capital temper with myself, and talked my last cigar out with Winny, who was sitting up for me, and still, I thought, looking anything but her usual self.

MUSICAL SAND.

Most persons have heard of stones which on being struck give out musical notes, and many may have seen the arrangement of such stones known as the Rock Harmonicon, which is capable of discoursing eloquent music. But the existence of musical or sonorous sand is not so well known, although such sand appears to occur in localities widely distributed over the earth’s surface. A paper giving some interesting particulars respecting this phenomenon was communicated to the meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of Science at Philadelphia in 1884, by Professor Bolton of Hartford, Connecticut, and Dr Alexis Julien of New York. The authors begin their paper by stating that at the Minneapolis meeting of the Association they had given some account of the so-called ‘Singing Beach’ at Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts, and of the occurrence of sonorous sand at Eigg, in the Hebrides, and other localities. During the twelve months that had elapsed, they had continued their researches; and by means of extensive correspondence, they had established the fact, that sonorous sand, instead of being a rarity, is of very common occurrence. Circulars were sent to all keepers of life-saving stations throughout the United States; and from the replies received to date, a list of seventy-four localities in America had been obtained.

Through the Smithsonian Institution, specimens of sonorous sand had been received from the island of Bornholm, Denmark; Colberg, Prussia; and Kanai, Hawaii Islands. Experiments had been conducted both at Manchester-by-the-Sea and at Far Rockaway, Long Island, to determine accurately the properties of sonorous sand, with the object of explaining the cause of its singular characteristics. It was found that the loudest sound of which a given sand is capable was most conveniently produced by confining a quart or more in a bag and strongly striking together the contents. Sounds thus produced were heard distinctly at both the Manchester and Rockaway beaches at a distance of one hundred and fifty to two hundred feet, the distance varying according to the strength and direction of the wind and the interference of the surf-noise. At Rockaway, a careful experiment was made in fields removed from the beach. The sound produced by striking the bag was heard at a distance of four hundred and fifty feet, measured by a tape-line. The sound has a hoot-like tone, easily recognised.

The character of the sounds obtained by friction on the beach is decidedly musical, and the experimenters were able to indicate the exact notes on a musical staff. The shrillness and lowness of note depend chiefly on the quantity of sand disturbed. By plunging both hands into the sand and bringing them together quickly, a tone is heard of which the dominant note is B below the treble stave . By stroking the sand nearer the surface and with less force, very high notes were heard confused. They ranged from E, fourth space treble clef, to B above the stave. By rubbing firmly and briskly a double handful of the sand, several notes on a rising scale were heard. The ear received an impression something like that formed by sliding a finger up a violin string at the same time that the bow is drawn. These results were obtained at Manchester. The Rockaway beach gave somewhat different tones—the B below the leger-line was not heard at all; but the note F, first space treble, B, C, and G above the stave, were heard at different times according to the manner of the friction. The notes were determined by comparison with those made on a violin, concert pitch.

The evanescent character of the acoustic quality of the sand is strongly marked. Sand which has been recently wet requires thorough drying before it resumes its acoustic powers; consequently, sandy beaches do not always possess the sonorous power in equal measure, and the seeker sometimes fails to discover musical sand in the locality reputed. Meteorological conditions decidedly affect the sonorousness.

Musical sand is easily deprived of its acoustic qualities. Besides wetting it, friction between the dry hands also accomplishes the result. The quickest way of ‘killing’ the sand—except by water—is to shake a small quantity in a tin box. When first agitated, a peculiar sound is heard, which entirely ceases after twenty to twenty-five slow up-and-down movements of the box. Attempts to restore to ‘killed’ sand its sonorous properties have met with indifferent success. Sonorous and mute sand occur in the beach closely adjoining, but they cannot be distinguished by the eye; friction alone determines the difference. In sand of strongly marked acoustic properties, a tingling sensation is perceived in the finger and also in the toe, even through the boots.

Careful search in literature shows that allusions to sonorous sand are scattered sparingly through writings of a thousand years. An obscure allusion to the phenomenon occurs in one of the stories of the _Arabian Nights_. Old Chinese chronicles mention sonorous sand as occurring in the desert of Lob-nor. Marco Polo narrates superstitions concerning it. The Emperor Baber refers to a locality in Afghanistan; and many travellers in the East describe hills of moving sand whence issue mysterious noises. The famous Jebel Nakous, situated on the east coast of the Gulf of Suez, has been visited by at least six European and American travellers, including Ehrenberg, who was there in 1823. By comparing their descriptions, it has been discovered that they describe not one locality, but two, or possibly three, in the same region. The dry sand rests on a steep incline, and when agitated, slides down the slope with a gradually increasing noise, variously described, but the loudest tones of which are universally compared to distant thunder. In 1850, Hugh Miller discovered musical sand at Eigg, in the Hebrides. In 1882, Professor Bolton visited the same locality and began a monograph.

Microscopical examination of the samples of musical sand showed that the great majority were remarkable for a certain degree in uniformity of size—usually about 0.3, 0.4, 0.5 millimetres in diameter, general round form, polished superficies, and freedom from fine dust or minute fragments; consequently, they often present a characteristic oolitic or roe-like appearance, light colour, and mobile condition. At certain localities, the sonorous sand has been found to present the decided features of a quicksand; and a general connection between these two facts is suspected to prevail wherever the conformation of coasts and oceanic currents permit the concentration of the sonorous sand below the high-tide mark.

The information on this curious subject collected by the two American savants may perhaps set some of our readers to search for ‘singing beaches’ on these islands. The phenomenon is well worthy of investigation, and no light seems as yet to have been thrown on its cause, nor any progress made towards the solution of the mystery of the difference between mute and musical sand.

NOSES.

A popular lecturer in one of his discourses had occasion to speak on noses, and he himself, ‘defective only in his Roman nose,’ declared, had he the choice of noses, his face should be ornamented by a ‘regular weather-cutter.’ The desire was commendable and worthy attention, for strangers are instinctively judged by their noses. The nose indeed proclaims the man, and is the outward and visible symbol of inward mental calibre and intellectual character. Men of note almost invariably possess decided and prominent ‘leading articles;’ whilst an insufficient nasal accompaniment not unfrequently denotes inanity, lack of moral vigour, and at once negatives qualities which would otherwise give respect and credit. Of course there are extremes and exceptions; but generally, it is, that the more prolonged the proboscis the more striking is the countenance, and the more original the force of character.

An extreme case is recorded of a Lancashire man, whose prodigious feature became a centre of attraction in the busiest thoroughfares of Manchester, whilst he was on a visit there. Becoming at length either tired or confused by the inquisitive attention and wonderment of a crowd of admirers, he seized his nose with both hands and gave it a sudden impatient twist, as though removing an obstruction from the footway, and said sharply: ‘There—be quick, and get past as soon as you can.’

A Yorkshire manufacturer whose good living had given him ‘a nose as red as a comet,’ was told by a wealthy friend very bluntly, ‘I couldn’t afford to keep that nose of thine.’ Another friend assured him he had no cause for fear of not living comfortably, for should all other means of subsistence fail, he could easily hire himself out as a railway danger-signal.

Amongst the South Sea islanders, the nose is made to be a medium of expression of affection and amity. Tribes swearing everlasting peace, seal the compact with a promiscuous rubbing of noses against noses; by the same frictional process, maidens declaim their woes at parting and joys on reunion with other maidens, the action being attended by—so said an eye-witness—‘the shedding of a power of tears.’ Lovers make their amatory declarations through their noses, their courtship being a protracted series of rub-rub-rubbing of nose to nose.

We recall an interruption Dr Binney had whilst he was preaching on one occasion. He saw opposite to him in the gallery a countryman making elaborate preparations for putting his handkerchief to the common usage appointed to it. The doctor became interested, and stayed expectant in his discourse just before the crisis. The countryman blew a terrible blast, awakening the echoes, and almost perceptibly shaking the building to its foundations. The doctor, having

Met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow,

waited for the fainting echoes to die, and then said with impressive gravity: ‘Let us now resume.’

Charles Lamb’s rebuke to a man who by self-assertion pronounced himself devoid of any peculiarity, ought not to be omitted. ‘Wh-which hand do you b-b-blow your n-n-nose with?’ inquired Lamb.

‘With my right hand, to be sure.’

‘Ah!’ said Lamb pensively, ‘that’s your pe-pe-pe-peculiarity. I b-b-blow mine with my hand-kerchief.’

The nose is quite a proverbial topic; for example, ‘To turn up the nose,’ ‘Put his nose out of joint,’ ‘Paid through his nose,’ and ‘Putting his nose to the grindstone,’ ‘Led by the nose,’ with many others equally felicitous. ‘Driving hogs over Swarston Bridge’ is a Derbyshire polite way of expressing snoring; and several stories are told respecting pig-drivers. A small boy was once asked: ‘Is your elder brother musical?’

‘Yes, sir; ’e is that.’

‘Can he play?’

‘O yes, sir; ’e plays beautiful.’

‘On what instrument does he perform?’

‘Why, sir, ’e plays on his nose!’

A celebrated divine was preaching before the king and court in Stuart times, when the monarch and several noblemen ‘nodded gentle assents’ to all he said, for ‘they slumbered and slept.’ The divine, wishful to reprove, but fearful to offend, at last summoned courage to shout to one of the somnolent nobles: ‘My lord, my lord, don’t snore so loud, or you’ll waken His Majesty!’

The subject has not commended itself generally to poets, yet there are few who would be inclined to say that there is nothing poetical about the nose. Here and there, we do find pointed references in poetry to the homely feature more or less poetical in expression. We can easily fancy Cowper’s picture of ‘the shivering urchin, with dewdrop at his nose;’ whilst our poet-laureate indulges in a higher flight over a maiden’s nose ‘tip-tilted like the petal of a flower,’ which sounds very refined indeed. Henry, Lord Brougham, whose nose was somewhat of this latter order, did not feel flattered by a similar reference to it. In conducting a case in Yorkshire, he was bothered in cross-examining a witness by a constant repetition of the word ‘humbug.’ ‘Humbug,’ said Lord Brougham—‘humbug, what do you mean by humbug?’—‘Whoy,’ returned the Yorkshireman, ‘if I wer to tell ye ’at ye’d getten a nice nose, I should be humbugging ye.’

_Punch_ frequently alludes to the subject, and in its pages is to be found a description of what some suppose to be a masonic sign, under the terms of ‘taking a sight’ and ‘taking a double sight.’ ‘In taking a sight’ the thumb of one hand is placed to the extreme tip of the nose, with the fingers extended to their straightest utmost capacity; whilst ‘taking a double sight’ involves the addition of the second hand to the first, the thumb to the little finger, and action as before. The action is more varied and considered more expressive when a slight undulatory movement is observed by the fingers. The London newsboy appreciates the practice of taking a sight, especially favouring it when he has managed to sell, under the cry of ‘Third edition,’ a day but one before yesterday’s paper to a passenger upon an omnibus.

Nursery rhymes are not complete without a nose or noses, and they are constantly being quoted, for instance:

Says Moses to Aaron:
‘Thy nose is a rare un!’
Says Aaron to Moses:
‘Let us _swap_ noses!’

And we cannot forget:

The servant in the garden hanging out the clothes,
By came a dickey bird and popped off her nose!

‘I am satisfied on every point but one,’ said a gentleman to an applicant for service—‘I cannot get over your nose.’

‘That is not to be wondered at, sir,’ replied the applicant, ‘for the bridge is broken.’

This last incident gives us a moral wherewith to adorn our paper, that, out of all noses collective, defective, conceptive, or reflective, it is better to have an ill-shaped nose than no nose at all.

SMOKING AND SNUFFING IN CHURCH.

Amongst the ‘things not generally known’ to the present generation is that smoking has been indulged in in the churches of Great Britain, in various parts of ‘the continent’—particularly in the Netherlands—and in South America. It is nevertheless true. It must not, however, be inferred from this statement that the practice was so general amongst the male portion of the congregation as it is in the ‘smoking concerts’ of our day, or that the fairer sex participated in the ‘weed’ during the performance of divine worship. The practice prevailed, let us hope, to only a very limited extent; but that it had been carried on in church during the delivery of the sermon, in the church immediately after service, and in the vestry during the holding of service, and at other times, there is reliable evidence to prove. In England and Scotland, smoking in religious edifices was practised more or less during the greater portion of last century, if not the whole of it, and down into the present century. In Dutch and South American churches, smoking has been indulged in down to a very recent period. Snuff-taking in churches is a practice which is common throughout the European continent. It has also prevailed in the churches of both England and Scotland for a long period; but the snuff-takers in places of worship of to-day are not so demonstrative as were those of ‘the good old times,’ of which we read and hear about, but fail to realise.

Readers of Sir Walter Scott may remember that mention is made in _The Heart of Midlothian_ of a smoker of considerable local importance, named Duncan of Knockdunder. Of him it is written: ‘So soon as the congregation were seated after prayers, and the clergyman had read his text, the gracious Duncan, after rummaging the leathern purse which hung in front of his petticoat, produced a short tobacco-pipe made of iron, and observed almost aloud: “I hae forgotten my spleuchan [tobacco-pouch], Lachlan; gang down to the clachan and bring me up a pennyworth of twist.” Six arms, the nearest within reach, presented, with an obedient start, as many tobacco-pouches to the man of office. He made choice of one with a nod of acknowledgment, filled his pipe, lighted it with the assistance of his pistol-flint, and smoked with infinite composure during the whole time of the sermon. At the end of the discourse, he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, replaced it in his sporran, returned the tobacco-pouch to its owner, and joined in the prayer with decency and attention.’

In a volume of letters written by the Rev. John Disney of Swinderby, Lincolnshire, to James Grainger, is a communication bearing the date December 13, 1773, in which this passage occurs: ‘The affair happened in St Mary’s Church in Nottingham, when Archbishop Blackbourn (of York) was there on a visitation. The archbishop had ordered some of the apparitors, or other attendants, to bring him pipes and tobacco and some liquor into the vestry, for his refreshment after the fatigue of confirmation. And this coming to Mr Disney’s ears, he forbade their being brought thither, and with a becoming spirit remonstrated with the archbishop upon the impropriety of his conduct, at the same time telling His Grace that his vestry should not be converted into a smoking-room.’ Mr Disney was grandfather to the writer of the letter above quoted, and was the vicar of Nottingham; local writers, however, who refer to this matter attribute the desire to drink and smoke in St Mary’s to the Rev. Dr Richard Reynolds, who was consecrated to the bishopric of Lincoln in 1723, and died in 1744.

The Rev. S. Parr, LL.D., was an everlasting smoker. ‘Morning, noon, and night,’ might he have been seen enveloped in clouds of tobacco-smoke. Neither time nor place seemed to him to be inappropriate for the indulgence. When he was perpetual curate of Hatton, in Warwickshire (1783-90), he regularly smoked in the vestry whilst the congregation were singing, immediately before the delivery of his sermon. For this purpose, the hymns selected were lengthy. The doctor frequently remarked: ‘My people like long hymns; but I prefer a long pipe!’ In all probability, his pipes on such occasions (to be somewhat in character with the place) were of the kind known as ‘churchwardens.’ The Rev. Robert Hall, the distinguished Baptist preacher, indulged in profuse smoking in the intervals of public worship.

A well-known writer to periodical literature tells us that only last autumn he spent a few hours at Edam, one of the so-called ‘Dead Cities of the Zuyder Zee,’ though a quietly active and bustling little place, and a great centre of the Dutch cheese-trade. The minister, in pointing out and explaining the various matters of interest about the interior, smoked a cigar and offered our informant one.

Respecting the practice of smoking in churches in South America, Mr J. M. Cowper of Canterbury writes: ‘I remember three instances of smoking in church in Lima, Peru. In the church of La Merced, I saw a layman surreptitiously enjoying his cigar while service was going on. In the vestry of the same church I saw a full-robed bishop smoking before going into the pulpit to preach. In his case, a friendly layman put a handkerchief under the episcopal chin, to keep the ashes from falling on the smoker’s robes. In the cathedral vestry, I saw the “Master of the Ceremonies” (an Englishman) smoking a cigar. A spittoon is placed in the stall of each cathedral dignitary.’

The Vice-chancellor of Cambridge issued some regulations previous to the visit of King James I. in 1615, in which it was enjoined ‘That noe graduate, scholler, or student of this universitie presume to take tobacco in St Marie’s Church uppon payne of finall expellinge the universitie.’ This most probably referred to snuffing rather than smoking. ‘It is hardly possible that a prejudice, in no degree abated, against smoking in church could have been defied so openly at such an early stage in the introduction of tobacco. On the other hand, a pinch of snuff is easily conveyed to the nostrils with a fair degree of secrecy.’ It must be remembered that at this period snuffing was in great favour with the faculty, who recommended it as the best preventive as well as cure for cold in the head.

A late rector of Hackney, the Rev. Mr Goodchild, used to refresh himself in the middle of his sermon with a tremendous pinch of snuff, which he conveyed, from his chamois-leather-lined waistcoat pocket, to his nose. A Free Church minister in Glasgow, one Sunday morning gave out as the morning lesson the fourth section of the hundred and nineteenth psalm. While his congregation were looking out the ‘portion of scripture’ in their Bibles, the Doctor of Divinity (or of Laws, we know not which) took out his mull, and seizing a lusty pinch with finger and thumb, regaled his nose with the snuff. He then began the lesson—‘My soul cleaveth unto the dust!’ The titter that ran round the church, and the confusion of the minister, showed that both the congregation and he felt the Psalmist’s ‘pinch.’

An English lady, on a visit to Scotland, attended public worship in a parish church at no great distance from Crathie. In the same pew were about a dozen persons—farmers, their wives, and herdsmen. Shortly before the beginning of the sermon, a large snuff-mull was passed to the occupants of the pew. Upon the lady-visitor declining to take a pinch, an old man, who was evidently a shepherd, whispered, in a very significant manner: ‘Tak’ the sneeshin’, mem—tak’ the sneeshin’. Ye dinna ken oor meenister; ye’ll need it afore he’s dune!’

ABOUT DEATH’S-HEADS.

Probably, at some time or other, the reader has found feeding upon the leaves of potatoes a large green, yellowish green, or brown creature about the thickness of his finger, with seven dark purple and yellow-margined streaks upon the sides, and the dorsal portion decorated with black dots; the tail-end, moreover, being adorned with a ‘caudal appendage’ somewhat resembling a lamb’s tail in miniature, save that it is rigid, and not woolly; or it may be that in digging up the crop, if the owner of a garden, he has turned up a reddish-brown ‘grub,’ which, beyond a jerk or two with the pointed tail segments, seemed incapable of motion. The fate of these creatures is generally a sad and sudden one, if the finder happen to be the rustic unlearned in insect-life. ‘Here be a locust; dang the beast!’ and down comes the merciless iron heel, and behold, a shapeless mass! Yet the poor things were harmless enough, and known to the entomologist as, in the one case, the larva or caterpillar, and in the other, the pupa, of the Death’s-head Moth (_Acherontia atropos_).

Most years seem remarkable for the prevalence of some particular forms of insect-life. For instance, in 1877, clover fields teemed with golden butterflies, which soon spread into high-roads, and even town gardens. These were the Clouded Yellow (_Colias edusa_), since which only sparingly has the butterfly been seen. Then, in 1879, came swarms of Silver Y Moths (_Plusia gamma_), the caterpillars of which played sad havoc with the farmer’s peas, completely stripping them of leaves—to plants, both as lungs and stomach—so that the peas never ripened in the pod. But nature, as we speak, had provided a remedy in the form of flocks of thrushes, which ‘fared sumptuously every day’ upon the larvæ; and yet so ignorant was the farmer of the help his little feathered friends were rendering him, that he attributed the mischief to ‘them rascally birds,’ and was for ‘shooting them all off.’

Some seasons, the beans in our gardens are thickly covered with insects (_Aphis rumicis_), and ants may be watched busily plying their antennæ, and milking their aphis cows, and sipping up the exuded nectar-like fluid with a gusto an epicure might envy. Or, it may be the pendulous racemes of the Sycamore (_Acer pseudoplatanus_) look as if dipped in ink from the swarms of a sable dipteron, or fly (_Dilophus febrilis_), thickly aggregated thereon. And last year we had clouds of green-flies—another species of aphis—migrating, in some places even almost stopping traffic, and, in one little town in the south of England, extinguishing the lights in the post-office, and filling eyes, ears, noses, and mouths of the officials to the serious impediment of their duties. So, too, the season of 1885 proved a good one, as the lepidopterist would say, for the larvæ of the Death’s-head Moth, in fact, it is doubtful if it had ever been so abundant. It is a grand species—the largest of our native _Sphingidæ_, or Hawk Moths, and interesting in all stages of its existence. It is the only lepidopteron that we possess capable of making any cry; but the caterpillar, pupa, and moth of _Atropos_ can all squeak. In putting the moths into a comatose state, prior to consigning them to the ammonia bottle—when needing to kill them for the cabinet—I have applied a camel-hair brush dipped in chloroform to the proboscis, holding them by finger and thumb by the under side of the wings, so as not to disfigure their beauty, I have been surprised at the muscular power exhibited, it being all I could do to prevent their escaping, the insect the while squeaking as loudly as a poor mouse whilst suffering from the tender mercies of Puss.

The caterpillars are not easy to find. We may go over ridge by ridge of the potatoes and not see one, so well hidden are they by protective resemblance to the plants upon which they feed; the colours of the leaves and flowers of the potato, for example, the dark violet petals, and yellow anthers, all being reproduced in the caterpillar. The best and quickest way to discover them is to search for the traces of their repasts, which are collected in little heaps at the bottom of the plant; and if these be fresh, we may be confident that a little scrutiny will speedily reveal an obese, soft larva tightly clasping the stem. The larvæ are found throughout August; and about the beginning of September are full-fed, when they bury beneath the soil, forming a cell in which they turn to pupæ. Sometimes the moth emerges in October or November; but such specimens are generally barren females, and the insect usually remains in pupa condition throughout the winter, coming out about midsummer of the following year.

The moth or imago of _Acherontia atropos_ is very handsome; the upper wings have a velvety appearance, the colours being an extremely rich mixture of browns and black and gray, thickly powdered with whitish dots. The lower wings are orange, with two dusky bands crossing from the inner to the hind margin. In the centre of the dark plush-like thorax is a mark curiously resembling a skull, from which the moth takes its name. The body is very thick, with six or seven black transverse bands, and a broad bluish-gray one down the middle. They have a strong penchant for honey, to secure which, they will enter beehives, putting the bees to flight by their bold front, although perfectly defenceless themselves. There is a superstition still lingering in some parts of the New Forest that the Death’s-head Moth was not seen in England till after the execution of Charles I.

THE PIG PEN.

The question of pig-breeding is one that should force itself on the attention of the farmer, and the many lessons which the situation forces upon the country impressed on his mind. At our agricultural census last year, we found not only that our stock of swine showed a decrease of something like two hundred thousand head since 1884, and of over three hundred thousand head since 1883, but also that the country was understocked in a branch of our agriculture that even in these times leaves a profit. We believe that a corn-mill and a few extra pigs would prove a far better market for inferior corn than any other that can be named. An American writer has told us that ‘Cincinnati owes its wealth to the discovery of a method of putting fifteen bushels of corn into a three-bushel barrel and transporting it to distant markets. This has been accomplished by means of the pig. He converts seven bushels of corn into one hundred pounds of pork.’ This is a lesson that the English farmer might well lay to heart; and if this were the case, we are sure that we should not find the pig-stock of the country declining at a time when prices for corn have just been at the lowest ebb in the memory of man.

That we can find a market for an increased production of pork and bacon is certain. Last year, we paid the foreigner—and chiefly the Yankee—some three millions sterling for dead pig-meat, sent to us in the shape of hams, bacon, and pork. There is no reason why we should not this season increase our breeding-herds of swine and make some attempt to wrest from the foreigner this market. It lies at our doors; and the pig himself is perhaps the most profitable of all the meat-making machinery of the farm. The fecundity of the pig is such that the breeding-stock may be increased almost at will. At one of the prize-farms of the Royal Agricultural Society, last year, the judges report that from nine to ten sows are kept every year, and that from these from fifty to sixty pigs are sold every year. Their prolificness is a source of profit, but not the only one. Mr J. C. Morton points out some other reasons why, in fattening pigs, more profit might be expected than in fattening oxen or sheep. One is, that the carcase of the pig includes the head—so much additional weight—which in the case of the ox or sheep is part of the offal. Another is, that the pig is a feeder on all manner of vegetable and animal refuse, extracting nourishment from matter which other animals refuse; and it is useful, therefore, as a scavenger and utiliser of waste food.

There can be only one answer—and it is one often given in times past to amateurs, who have been so struck with the fecundity of the pig, that they have wondered how it is not more largely bred—that can be given to these claims of the pig to greater attention. ‘Oh,’ it may be retorted, ‘you forget that with the pig, like all other farm-stock, it is a question of how much the land will carry. For his feeding, crops of mangolds, cabbage, carrots, and such-like are required; and in summer, cut clover is wanted.’

That may oftentimes be a good answer, but not in a season when all kinds of corn can be bought cheap, and when farmers oftentimes are unable to sell their cereals except at a figure at which it is far more profitable to manufacture it into pork, and send it in that form—fifteen bushels in a three-bushel measure—to market. This is a matter well worthy the attention of farmers at the present moment, and a thought that ought to lead to a large increase in the pig-stock of the country.

THE MINSTRELS.

The minstrels in the gallery,
The revellers in the hall:
Across the pauses of the feast
The singers’ voices fall,
But in the tide of mirth below,
They have no share at all.

They sing of battle and of joust,
Of deeds of high emprise;
They sing of honours bravely won,
Of lovers’ happy sighs,
Of banquet when the fight is o’er,
And light of ladies’ eyes.

Their stirring thoughts, their tender words
Float down on music’s wing.
Alas! the joys, the gallant deeds
Wherewith their verses ring,
They know not. Those who hear the song,
Have known, but cannot sing.

Thus every day, in every age,
Throbs on the world’s fierce heart,
In passion-heat of joy or grief
At banquet, fight, or mart;
But there the minstrel has no place—
He needs must stand apart.

Too soft his flesh to bear life’s storms,
Too keen his restless brain,
His heart too ready to perceive
Joy’s inmost heart of pain;
But the lone sorrow of his lot
Makes sad his merriest strain.

And in his darker hours, the wish
Consumes him like a fire,
To cast away for evermore
The burden of the lyre,
To share the life of other men,
Its fullness, its desire.

In vain! The gladness of the loved,
The conquest of the strong,
Life’s heavy tasks and fair rewards,
Not unto him belong.
He sighs; and as it leaves his lips,
The sigh becomes a song.

CATHERINE GRANT FURLEY.

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

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_All Rights Reserved._

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[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text:

Page 419: occured to occurred—“has occurred during”.]