Chapter I: Part 1

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 154.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]

INN-SIGNS—THEIR ORIGIN AND MEANINGS.

In these days of enlightenment, the signs displayed by our inns, taverns, and public-houses are not matters of great or urgent importance to us in the ordinary routine of our daily life. But in times past the case was widely different. For several centuries at least, signs and signboards were matters not only of convenience, but even of necessity. During this time they played a by no means unimportant part in the busy world of trade and commerce, and were of great service to mankind in general in a way they are no longer capable of being. Under these circumstances, it will be easily understood that they gathered around them no small amount of interest, not only of a commercial, but also of a domestic, and even of an historical kind. Many, even of our modern inn-signs, are able to speak instructively to those who trouble to decipher their now somewhat indistinct and illegible meanings. They tell us of the customs of our forefathers, of the superstitious beliefs they held, of the wares they made and dealt in, and of the party strifes in which they engaged. They speak to us also of the great men who had so large a share in the making of English history in bygone times, and are able in many other ways to remind us of the pursuits, the pleasures, the manners, and the customs of our ancestors. It will therefore be worth while to devote some attention to the subject of our modern inn-signs, especially as comparatively little has hitherto been written about them.

The use of signs as a means of distinguishing different houses of business is a custom which has come down to us from times of great antiquity; nevertheless, it is not now at all difficult to discover the reasons which first led to their being employed. During the last and preceding centuries, only an infinitesimally small proportion of the people was able to read and write. In those times it would obviously have been useless for any tradesman to have inscribed his name and occupation, or the number of his house, over his door, as is now done. The words ‘W. & R. Chambers, Publishers,’ would then have conveyed very little meaning, or none at all, to the popular mind. But if each tradesman suspended before his house some easily recognisable device of a pictorial nature, the case would obviously have been different. If the sign thus displayed indicated the nature of the wares sold within, it would answer a double purpose; but in any case, it would serve to mark the particular house displaying it. Signs, too, would be especially useful in distinguishing different establishments in times when many members of the same craft dwelt together in a particular street or quarter. This they used formerly to do, very much more than now; and in the various large cities of the East the custom still to a great extent survives.

In speaking of the origin of the use of signs, it must never be forgotten that in past times they were not confined, as now, almost exclusively to ‘public-houses.’ We have still the sign of the Pole for a barber, the Black Boy for a tobacconist, the Rod and Fish for a tackle-dealer, the Golden Balls for a pawnbroker, and some others; but formerly, almost all houses of business displayed their signs, just as inns and taverns do now. Evidence of this fact is afforded by the imprint of almost any old book published in the seventeenth century. Such books were generally either printed or sold by an individual dwelling at the White Hart, the Red Lion, the Green Dragon, the Golden Tun, or some such sign. Most of Shakspeare’s works, it may be noted, were first issued from houses displaying devices similar to the above, and situated in or near to St Paul’s Churchyard. Were an imprint, like that which each of these works bore, to appear on any modern book, it would certainly convey to many the idea that the volume had been printed at an ordinary ‘public-house.’ In Paris, moreover, to the present day, it is almost or quite as common for ordinary tradesmen to display signs, as it is for hotel-keepers and liquor-sellers to do so. In that city, too, all vendors of firewood and coals have the fronts of their houses painted so as to convey the idea that they are built of rough logs of wood. This device, though not displayed upon a signboard, is in every way of the nature of a modern tradesman’s sign.

In the times when signs were in general use by all tradesmen, it was only natural that each man should endeavour to outdo his neighbours in the obtrusiveness of his signboard. Those firms who advertise on street hoardings do precisely the same kind of thing at the present day; each endeavours, by means of brilliancy of colour or novelty of design, to obtain, through his posters, greater publicity for the wares he deals in, and to attract more attention than his neighbours. Just so, a century or more ago, many ingenious devices were made use of to force into notice the signboards of those days. Some of the boards were made of enormous size; others were painted in flaring colours; others bore striking or amusing objects, likely to be remembered by those who saw them; while others were projected far out into the street, or suspended within elaborate, and often really ornamental, frameworks of iron. When each tradesman thus endeavoured to eclipse the signboards of his neighbours, it may well be imagined that inconvenience was caused to the general public. Complaints that the size and prominence of the signboards prevented the access of sunlight and the free circulation of the air in the narrow London streets, first began to be heard, we are told, as early as the beginning of the fifteenth century, when an order was made to abate the nuisance. In the course of time, however, the evil grew again, till Charles II., in 1667, directed that no signboards were thereafter to hang across the streets, but that they were to be fixed against the sides of the houses. Again, however, as years passed by, the nuisance reappeared. In 1762, large powers were once more granted, and there was a general and final clearing away of the too obtrusive signboards. Old prints and engravings of the last century often give a good idea of the way in which the public streets, both of London and other towns, were once disfigured by these overgrown signboards.

This general demolition in 1762 gave a blow to the use of signboards from which those evidences of past ignorance have never since recovered. But had the conditions which first brought them into existence remained the same, there can be no doubt that the signboards would have again risen, phœnix-like, from their own ruins. Happily those conditions have _not_ remained the same. That knowledge of reading and writing which during the present century has become widespread among all classes, has, it may be truly said, given a death-blow alike to the universal use of signs and to the art of the sign-painter. This, to be sure, is not a matter to call for regret on its own account; nevertheless, the great decline in the use of the old-fashioned pictorial signboards is to be regretted for many reasons. The signs our forefathers used have—as already pointed out—largely interwoven themselves with our history. In losing them, we are losing one of the well-known landmarks of the past. The signs of the Woolpack and the Golden Fleece, for instance, which are still common in the Eastern Counties, are mementos of the time when the woollen trade flourished in that part of England. The sign of the Coach and Horses, still a very frequent sign everywhere, calls to mind the old coaching-days. Our numerous Arms, our many Lions, Bulls, Dragons, Bears, and Horses—red, blue, black, green, or white—and divers other strangely coloured animals, most of which are quite unknown to men of science, are all relics of medieval times, when heraldry was cherished and understood by every one. Many similar instances might be pointed out, did space permit.

Most of the signboards now displayed by our inns and taverns bear strong evidence of their own degradation from the high position they once occupied. Inasmuch as they now usually bear the name of the house in written characters, they show most clearly how entirely forgotten are the reasons which originally led to the adoption of the use of signs. Only now and then do we see a pictorial signboard of the real old-fashioned sort.

This decay in the use of inn-signs, however, is no greater than the decline in importance of the inns themselves. These have, within little more than the last half-century, descended from a position of great importance and prosperity to one of comparative degradation. Few persons of the present day have an adequate idea of the extent to which tavern-life influenced thought and manners fifty, one hundred, or two hundred years ago. Then each man had his tavern, much as we now have our clubs and reading-rooms; there he nightly met his friends, heard the high-priced London newspapers read aloud, and discussed the political and business topics of the time. Dickens, in _Barnaby Rudge_, has well sketched the select village company which for many years had met nightly at the old Maypole to tipple and debate. Ale was the universal beverage on these occasions; and in days when there were no colossal breweries at Burton, Romford, or elsewhere, the fame of any tavern was great or small according to the skill of the landlord or his servants in producing this beverage. Inns, too, formed the stopping-places of the many coaches of a hundred years ago, and at them were kept the numerous horses then required for the traffic. In the old coaching-days, indeed, many a small town or village on any main road consisted largely or chiefly of inns; and supplying the necessaries for the passing traffic may be said to have formed the ‘local industry’ by which the inhabitants of such places lived. Thus the inns of olden times combined to a large extent within themselves the various uses to which modern clubs, reading-rooms, institutes, railway stations, eating-houses, hotels, public-houses, livery stables, and the like, are now severally put. Then they were the centres round which most events of the time revolved; now they are little more than tippling-houses for the lower classes.

The various _devices used as signs_ are of infinite variety and varying degrees of interest, from the _Heads_, or portraits, of modern political, naval, or military celebrities, to such signs as the Rose and Crown, the Fleur-de-Lys, the Spread Eagle, the Cross Keys, our numerous Arms, fantastically coloured animals of all kinds, and many other similar devices. Signs of the former kind require little or no explanation; they are usually modern and uninteresting vulgarisms, and their meanings are self-apparent. With signs of the latter class, however, the case is generally far different, and a search for their original significance, often much obscured by the mists of antiquity, is usually an interesting one. As a rule, such signs will be found to have been derived from the armorial bearings of some sovereign, noble, or other historical personage.

From the quaint and now almost forgotten science of heraldry, indeed, has been derived a large majority of our oldest and most interesting signs. This fact need cause no surprise when it is remembered that in former days every one was familiar with this so-called ‘science.’ The incomprehensible jargon, spoken of as ‘blazon’ by heraldic writers, and the various devices appearing on all modern coats of arms, though little more nowadays than grotesque hieroglyphics to most, were once read and perfectly understood even by the common people. A knowledge of heraldry was once, probably, as general as a knowledge of the ‘three Rs’ is now. It was no wonder, therefore, that the idea early suggested itself to the minds of tradesmen and others to use their own coats of arms—when they had any—or those of the great trade guild to which they belonged, or those of their landlord, or some patron, as signs. This convenient custom, once established, would be sure to be largely followed; there can, indeed, be no question that in this way arose the custom of naming houses the ‘So-and-so Arms.’ At the present time, the custom itself remains, though its origin has been almost entirely lost sight of. Many inns have in consequence come to be known as the Arms of persons, trades, places, and things which never did, and never could bear, a coat of arms. Such signs, for instance, as the Lilliput Arms, the Cricketers’ Arms, and the Libra Arms, are modern and meaningless absurdities. Clearly the origin of the sign of the King’s Arms had never occurred to the simple clodhopper of whom it is related that he once walked many miles to see King George IV. on one of his journeys, and who came home greatly disappointed; for he found the king had arms like other men, while he had always understood that His Majesty’s right arm was a lion, and his left a unicorn. Arms of various kinds form a large proportion of our modern signs, often as much as ten per cent., and sometimes double that in particular districts. As a general rule, where a house has displayed for many years together an armorial sign, the ‘coat’ will be found to be that of the largest landowner or most prominent personage in the district.

When the general knowledge of heraldry began to decline, and armorial bearings fell largely into disuse, many houses, formerly known as the ‘Somebody’s Arms,’ probably came gradually to be called after, and distinguished by, the most prominent ‘charge’ in the coat, or after the ‘crest’ or one of the ‘supporters,’ which might have been, in heraldic blazon, a lion gules (red), a boar azure (blue), a white hart, or a rose crowned. Thus undoubtedly originated many strange signs which are still common.

The personal ‘badges’ adopted by kings and great nobles in early times, and worn on the arm by their servants and retainers, have also given origin to many similar signs. Thus, the White Hart—one of our very commonest signboard devices—represents the favourite badge of King Richard II., although the white hart has also a legendary existence. The Rose and Crown—another extremely abundant sign—owes its existence to the fact that most of the earlier English sovereigns used a rose crowned as a badge. The Blue Boar, the badge of the once powerful De Veres, Earls of Oxford, is to this day commoner in the county of Essex, where lay the family seat, than anywhere else. The Red Lion, another of our very commonest signs, is probably in the same way derived from the personal badge of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, though it doubtless represents also the lion in the arms of Scotland. As a rule, fantastically coloured animals will be found to have had an heraldic origin. Creatures in their natural colours either may or may not have been derived from heraldry; thus, the Greyhound, though it has figured both as the badge, and one or both of the ‘supporters’ of the arms of several English sovereigns, may owe its frequent appearance on the signboard to its modern use in the coursing-field. In the case of the White Horse, too, a very common sign, it is difficult now to decide whether it represents the White Horse of the Saxons, or that of the House of Hanover, or one of the many white horses to be seen in our streets.

The number Three, it will be found, occurs on signboards in most districts more than twice as often as all other numbers put together. This may be partly explained by the fact that three has been regarded as a lucky number from very early times. It is, however, extremely common for three ‘charges’—that is, objects—to appear on coats of arms; and there can be no doubt that very many of our modern Threes have had, either directly or indirectly, an heraldic origin. Among signs which have, in all probability, been derived directly from heraldry, may be mentioned the Three Cups, taken from the arms of the Salters’ Company; the Three Tuns, from the arms either of the Brewers’ or the Vintners’ Companies; the Three Compasses, from the armorial bearings of the Carpenters’ Company; the Three Pigeons, probably derived from the arms of the Tallow-chandlers’ Company; the Three Fleurs-de-Lys—formerly, though not now, a common sign—taken from the arms of France; and many others. To this class also belongs the sign of the Three Golden Balls, still displayed by every pawnbroker. The balls, it is said, represent certain round gilt objects, technically known as ‘bezants,’ which formed part of the coat of arms of the dukes of Medici, from whose states and from Lombardy most of the early bankers came. These capitalists advanced money on valuable objects, and thus gradually became pawnbrokers. The custom of naming houses the ‘Three Somethings’ still survives, although the origin of that custom has been lost sight of. Thus, we get such meaningless absurdities as the Three Jolly Wheelers (whatever they may be), the Three Mariners, the Three Loggerheads, and various others, which may be said to have had an indirectly heraldic origin.

Many signs, too, once formed a ‘rebus’ or pun on the names of the persons who displayed them; such signs are not now common, though they appear frequently on the ‘tokens’ issued so numerously by tradesmen in the seventeenth century. Most of these bore the sign under which their issuers traded. Thus, we find Three Conies, or rabbits, on those of Hugh Conny; a Finch on those of John Finch; a Hand and Cock representing Hancock; and a Babe and Tun representing Babington.

Many most absurd and altogether incongruous combinations still appear on our signboards, though these are not so abundant as formerly; thus, we have the Sun and Whalebone, the Dog and Gridiron, the Plough and Sail, the Crown and Blacksmith, the Bull and Horseshoe, and numerous others. In some cases, a connection between the two objects is obvious; every one, for instance, will be able to see what brought together on a signboard the Cat and Fiddle, the Eagle and Child, the Dog and Partridge, George and the Dragon, &c. But in the case of the examples given above, there is no connection between the two objects referred to, and their combination is quite meaningless. They have in most cases arisen from an ancient custom of adding the sign of the old house to that of the new, when a tradesman has been removing from one place of business to another; or else an apprentice, when beginning business on his own account, has added some sign of his own selection to that of the master under whom he formerly served.

Not a few signs for which no likely meaning or derivation can be found are in all probability corruptions; that is to say, they were originally set up to commemorate some person, object, or event of, perhaps, only local celebrity. In the course of time, this became forgotten; and under vulgar pronunciation—or, possibly, on the advent of a new landlord, who knew nothing of the original meaning of the device—the sign was changed to something else which it seemed to imply or nearly resemble. Thus, it is said the sign of the George Canning has become changed into the George and Cannon, and that of the Island Queen into the Iceland Queen. In Oxfordshire there is a house with the sign of the Sheep and Anchor, which probably was once the Ship and Anchor. Another house, in Hertfordshire, formerly had a ship in full sail represented on its signboard; of late years, however, the board has merely been inscribed the Ship; and quite recently, on the advent of a new landlord who had been a cattle-dealer, the sign was changed to that of the Sheep.

Inn-signs have in some cases been painted by artists of considerable eminence. An interesting account of various instances in which this has been the case will be found in the volume of this _Journal_ for 1881, page 107.

Want of space obviously prevents any attempt being here made to explain in detail the origin and meanings of all our innumerable existing signs. The last edition of the London Directory enumerates no fewer than seventeen hundred and forty-two distinct devices as appearing in the metropolis alone. All that it is possible to do here is to indicate in a general way the manner in which most of our modern signs originated, and that has now been done.

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

CHAPTER XVIII.

‘You wished to see me?’

‘Yes; if you will be so good as to sit down and listen to me.’

Enid stood looking at her mysterious visitor in some perplexity. There was something almost weird about the strange woman’s beauty; but in obedience, she seated herself to listen.

‘I have a strange story to tell,’ Isodore commenced. ‘For a long while now I have been watching over your welfare. Do not think me personal or rude in any questions I may ask. Believe me, I do not for one moment wish to pain you; indeed, on the other hand, I wish to do you a great service.’

Enid inclined her head gently. ‘Perhaps it will be as well to have as perfect confidence between us as possible. You already know my name. Will you be so good as to tell me to whom I owe this visit?’

‘My name is Isodore.’

Enid looked at her visitor in interest and admiration. This, then, was the beautiful mystery about whom Maxwell had often spoken, the princess to whom the fatal Brotherhood owed allegiance. Then she grew frigid. Had it not been for her and such as her, Frederick would have been with her now.

‘You misjudge me,’ Isodore continued sadly, for she had read the other’s thoughts as easily as an open book. ‘Believe me, had I known, Mr Maxwell would never have been sent to Rome. But if I am to continue, I must have your confidence. What if I tell you your lover is in England now?’

‘In England, and never came to see me!’ Enid exclaimed with a little gasp. ‘Impossible! He would surely have written.’

‘Nevertheless, it is perfectly true, though he only arrived yesterday. He would have come to you, or written, had I not forbidden him.’

‘Forbidden him,’ Enid echoed haughtily. ‘And why?’

‘Because things were not ready,’ Isodore replied calmly. ‘I did not take a journey to Rome at the hazard of my life, to rescue him from a great danger, to have my plans upset at the last moment. If it had not been for me, Mr Maxwell would not be alive now.’ Isodore could not restrain herself sufficiently to conceal this touch of womanly feeling.

Enid’s face softened strangely. ‘I have heard of you. Forgive me, if I seem cold, but I have been severely tried lately,’ she said. ‘You do not know what a load you have taken off my mind; and yet, perhaps’—— She stopped abruptly; her thoughts turned in the direction of Le Gautier, and wondering how she could face her lover now.

‘And yet,’ Isodore replied—‘and yet you would see a way out of the difficulty into which the miserable schemes of Le Gautier have placed you? Do I speak plainly, or shall I be more explicit?’

The random shot went home; Enid’s face flushed crimson to the fair curls lying on her forehead. ‘You speak plainly enough,’ she faltered. ‘You need say no more. I am dazed and bewildered by your wonderful knowledge.’

‘It will be clear enough presently. The clouds are dark now; but I see rays of light here and there. Do you study spiritualism?’

‘No,’ Enid answered, puzzled by the abruptness and inconsequence of the question. ‘I cannot say that I have. But why?’

‘If your father is in the house, I shall be glad to see him. Will you be good enough to ascertain if he can be seen?’

‘If I tell him he is wanted on supernatural affairs, he will come.’ Enid smiled as she rang the bell. ‘It is his craze.’

After a little pause, the baronet entered the room, and, like his daughter, stood inthralled by the visitor’s perfect beauty. He bowed low; in spite of his age, he was a lover of the beautiful still. He looked up admiringly in the perfect eyes, and waited for her to speak.

‘Sir Geoffrey, you are a swindled, deluded man!’

‘Bless me!’ the startled baronet exclaimed at this unceremonious opening. ‘Swindled, deluded, I? Who by? Impossible!’

‘By the conjurer, Le Gautier.’

Sir Geoffrey stared in open-mouthed amazement; even the breeding of the Charterises did not rise to this occasion. Enid’s heart gave one leap, and then began to beat violently. She was conscious of some coming revelations of the deepest interest to her, and waited with impatience for Isodore to speak.

‘Some time ago, you went to a house near Paddington. You will please correct me if I am in error, Sir Geoffrey. During your presence there you saw several startling manifestations: you were commanded to do certain things, one of which affected deeply your daughter’s happiness, and which, by some happy accident, were equally acceptable to Le Gautier. Am I right?’

‘Perfectly,’ the baronet gasped. ‘And I need not say they will be carried out to the letter. I believe’——

‘They were a common, vulgar, barefaced swindle!’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Sir Geoffrey interposed politely, ready to do battle in defence of his pet scheme. ‘I cannot agree with you. Le Gautier’——

‘Is a low adventurer. I am not talking idly; I can prove every word I say. This very morning, I was at Paddington, and saw the manifestation room, or whatever you may choose to call it. At the back of the room is a large mirror; over the window is another. Preparations for the manufacture of visions to suit any taste were manifest. And one thing in conclusion: the girl who personated your better self and your dead brother, who never was married, is at present under your roof. She is Linda Despard, the girl who met with the accident in Piccadilly.’

Sir Geoffrey began to feel uncomfortable, and moreover experienced a twinge of common-sense. There was something so horribly realistic about the beautiful stranger’s story, that it shook his faith to its foundation. ‘But really, such an extraordinary tale,’ he stammered, ‘and everything appeared so real. I cannot doubt, the likeness to my brother was so perfect. Am I mad that I should believe this?’

‘If you will excuse me for a moment and permit me to see this Linda Despard, I will introduce you to your brother in a few moments.—Miss Charteris, have I your permission?’

‘You have my permission to do anything which will clear up the wretched mystery,’ Enid cried passionately. ‘Even now, I am totally at a loss to know what you are speaking of. Go! Do anything you may desire, so that we can have a little quietness hereafter.’

Without another word, Isodore vanished, leaving Sir Geoffrey pacing the drawing-room in great perturbation and casting uneasy glances in Enid’s direction. He was not convinced yet, but his doubts were troublesome. ‘It is all nonsense,’ he exclaimed. ‘I saw with my own eyes’——

‘Your brother, Sir Geoffrey.’

The baronet looked up, and there, standing in the doorway, saw Isodore, holding by the hand a figure dressed in a slouch-hat and enveloped in a cloak. For a moment, he staggered back in amazement: it was the lost Ughtred to the life!

‘This is the long-lost brother,’ Isodore continued.—‘Linda, throw your hat away, and tell Sir Geoffrey the tale you told Lucrece.—Listen, Sir Geoffrey, and you will hear something entertaining, and Miss Charteris something that will restore the bloom to her cheeks.’

Linda Despard pushed her hat aside, and stood, half-boldly, half-timidly, before the startled baronet. There were tears in her eyes as she looked at Enid.

‘But what can this possibly have to do with Le Gautier?’ Sir Geoffrey demanded.

Isodore waved him aside haughtily. ‘Much, if you will have patience,’ she said.—‘Linda, you had best commence. We are trifling.’

There was an air of command in these words there was no disputing. Enid sank into a chair pale but collected, the baronet standing behind her, looking anything but comfortable. Lucrece took up her place beside her mistress. Isodore stood through the interview.

‘Well, I will do anything to help that angel of mercy who has been so good and kind to me!’ the actress commenced, with a grateful glance at Enid. ‘I tried to do her a great injury; but, thank heaven, I am not too late to save her yet. I am much to blame; but this is a hard world, and there are times when a few shillings are a godsend to me. It is not a long story. Lucrece here, and Isodore, knew my husband, and how he used to treat me, beating, half-starving me, and taking all my earnings to spend at the cafés. Well, I put up with that life as long as I could; and then, after one awful night, I left him. I came to England, and brought my boy with me. After some hardships, I contrived to get a situation in a London theatre under a new name. It was only a small part, for my imperfect English was against me. One night, some months ago, as I was coming out of the theatre, I met Le Gautier. I had known him in better days, and though I was not ignorant of his character, it was pleasant to hear the old familiar tongue again. It appeared he had been in the theatre, and recognised me, and waited to say a few words as I came out. Time went on, and he was really kind to me. Through his influence I obtained a rise of salary, and I was grateful. What he really wanted with me you shall hear presently.’ The narrator paused a moment here, and looked round in the eager faces. Every sound could be heard distinctly—the ticking of the clocks, and Sir Geoffrey’s heavy breathing. ‘One night he came to my lodgings,’ the speaker resumed, ‘and then he asked me if I had forgotten the old spiritualism tricks. I must tell you that once on a time I travelled the continent with a company that played ghostly pieces, such, for instance, as translations of Dickens’ _Christmas Carol_, a simple thing, a mere optical illusion, what you call Pepper’s Ghost. I told him I thought I could remember, and then he made a proposal to me. I never hesitated; the pay was too good for that. I was to meet Le Gautier at a house near Paddington one night, and go through the old tricks for a gentleman deeply interested in spiritualism. I learnt my lesson well. I was first to personate the better self of the spectator, and afterwards the spirit of his brother.’

‘Ah!’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed. ‘Go on!’

‘I interest you now. I thought I should. I knew at the time, to my shame let me confess it, from the things I had to say, that the spectator was to be got into Le Gautier’s power. Well, the night came; the simple apparatus was fixed; everything promised well. I was a bit nervous, for I was out of practice, and I wanted to see what sort of a man the victim was. While they were at dinner, I looked into the room, and there I saw the gentleman whom I now know to be Sir Geoffrey Charteris. When I saw your credulous face,’ the narrator continued, addressing the baronet, ‘I was no longer afraid. Presently, when it became dark and they sat over their wine, I listened till a word agreed upon was uttered by Le Gautier, and I commenced. First, there was some music, sounding strangely enough in the room, but not to me, for I played it. That was simple to an unbeliever with ordinary nerves; then came flashes of light, also easy enough; and when I deemed I had created a sufficient sense of fear, I entered the room. It was quite dark by that time, and I was dressed from head to foot in close garments. I touched Sir Geoffrey on the face and whispered in his ear; and once when he showed signs of unbelief, I clutched him by the throat and nearly strangled him.—Sir Geoffrey, if I make a mistake in a single particular, correct me.’

‘You are perfectly correct,’ the baronet answered, flushing scarlet. ‘Pray, continue. You do not know what the suspense is to me.’

‘Had you been quick and strong of nerve, you would have found it out then, for, as it was, you grasped my arm, covered in wet eel-skins, a creepy thing to touch in the dark, even if you know what it is. That was the first part of the performance, and then the real business commenced in earnest. Le Gautier led you to a room at the back of the house, a room draped in black cloth, and seated you in a certain spot, daring you to move at your peril. I wonder I did not laugh at this; I did once or twice, I know, so that I had to finish with an hysterical scream, which had the advantage of relieving me and heightening the effect. Well, the jugglery commenced—the meanest trickery, hardly sufficient to deceive a child. It was easy enough to work it under cover of the incense and smoke; for behind your chair, Sir Geoffrey, the curtains were pulled back and a mirror exposed. I stood upon a pedestal in the window, behind another mirror. The illusion is perfect, and all I had to do was to ask and answer questions. I got through the first part of the performance well enough; but when I had to personate Sir Geoffrey’s brother, the case was different. Had you, sir, been calm and collected, you must have discovered. I personated the spirit of your brother, desiring penance for some fancied wrong done to my children; and to heighten the effect, two ragged little boys were introduced to personate the dead man’s starving and abandoned family. Frightened almost to death by the fear of being haunted, Sir Geoffrey, you promised me anything. You promised to join some League, the meaning of which I do not know, to carry out your dead brother’s work; and last, but not least, that my good angel and preserver there should become Le Gautier’s wife. The illusion was perfect, and a little of Le Gautier’s matchless ventriloquism completed it.—And now,’ the speaker continued, running forward and falling at Enid’s feet, ‘let me implore your forgiveness! My benefactress, how grateful I am that I have been able to serve you!’

‘I have nothing to forgive,’ Enid replied. ‘You have taken far too great a load off my mind for me to reproach you now.’

‘But the whole thing is inexplicable to me,’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed. ‘How did you manage to impersonate my late brother so accurately?’

Linda Despard smiled and pointed to a photograph album. ‘Easy enough with plenty of these about. What simpler than to abstract a likeness from one of these books and give it me! With my theatrical training and knowledge of make-up, the task was nothing.’

‘I am all the more astonished,’ Isodore remarked, ‘that the audacity of the command relating to Miss Enid did not open your eyes.’

‘But you understand Le Gautier professed to know nothing of what had taken place,’ Sir Geoffrey explained. ‘I even had to broach the subject to him. He never by any chance alluded to it.’

‘Such cunning as his always proves too deep for simple honesty. I need not ask if you believe what you have heard, Sir Geoffrey?’

‘Indeed, I do.—Enid, my child, come and kiss me, and say you forgive your foolish old father. Take me away into the country, where people cannot find me. I am not fit to mix with men of sense; and, O Enid, as soon as it is convenient, tell Varley to go into the library and pick out all the works he can find on spiritualism and burn them.’

‘You are sure you have forgiven me?’ Linda Despard asked Enid timidly.

‘From the bottom of my heart. You have done me a service to-day which I cannot forget, or indeed ever repay.—And to you, Isodore, if I may call you so, I am grateful. You will pardon me if I seemed harsh or hard when you came here, but I have distrusted every one of late.’

‘You have no cause to thank me,’ Isodore replied simply. ‘I am afraid I must confess that it is not entirely upon your behalf I have done this thing.’

‘I care not for that. I shall always remember you with gratitude.’

Isodore turned quickly from the window. ‘Le Gautier is coming up the steps,’ she exclaimed. ‘He must not see me here now, or everything will be ruined. I must see you again before I leave the house. Where can I hide? I would not have him discover me now for ten thousand pounds!’

STORIES OF CATS.

So much praise has been lavished on dogs and horses, as exceptionally favoured friends, that scant measure of justice is meted to equally deserving if less popular animals. Notably is this the case towards one animal which Shakspeare, with all his marvellous knowledge of creation, has denominated the ‘harmless, necessary cat.’ Persons most familiar with the feline race will indeed plead their cause enthusiastically; but such honourable exceptions are few and far between. Those who consider no luxury too costly for the indulgence of a dog, think it no sin to tacitly countenance—if not worse—any amount of harsh treatment or indifference that may under the same roof be accorded to a cat. The origin of so unfair and ignorant a prejudice is somewhat difficult to trace; for, in point of fact, one is no more faultless than the other, although their failings are very differently judged and condoned. At the generality of houses, cats are merely tolerated—as a choice between two evils—lest rats and mice should abound; and supposed to fare sumptuously on such prey, even where, through ill-requited service, none are to be found. When theft or destruction of fragile articles is discovered, blame is usually awarded in one convenient quarter only; whereas the accused thereby is too often made a scapegoat for the shortcomings of others. An animal may be driven by sheer hunger to purloin food, because, through inhumanity, none has been given. A clear case of justifiable larceny! Dumb plaintiffs, unable to employ counsel, can tell no tales. Could they contradict plausible but false evidence, how many high and hitherto unimpeachable reputations for honesty and veracity would perish!

Cats, in the abstract, might well exclaim with Shylock, ‘Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.’ They nevertheless have numerous estimable qualities, from which little credit is derived. They are devoted mothers as a rule, guarding their young at the risk of life itself; facing opponents on their behalf from which, by nature, they would fly in abject terror; playing juvenile games, even at an advanced age, to amuse their kittens; keeping them sleek and glossy as satin, while patiently teaching those accomplishments that they will need when left to their unaided resources in after-life. A pattern for the imitation of too many parents. Notwithstanding such creditable traits of character, kittens are mercilessly destroyed; though some of all other progeny are spared, out of consideration for maternal affection and well-being. A cat is vulgarly said to have ‘nine lives;’ but, in sober truth, the single existence it can lay claim to is seldom open to envy. Without entering here upon details of many cruelties almost too barbarous for belief, it cannot be ignored that boys, and even men, not otherwise supposed to be utterly devoid of common humanity, think nothing of allowing this most unoffending animal to be deliberately tortured to death by dogs, or similarly revolting practices. They appear to be under a delusion that there is something manly in expressing detestation of cats, while professing fondness for animals in general, and choosing for pets very uninviting specimens. Sundry so-called ‘sports’—save the mark!—are now happily illegal; offenders in brutality towards cats are rarely convicted; and—under the present imperfect state of the law for the protection of dumb animals—can then be only very inadequately punished.

Cats are tolerably popular in stables, where they are able to render good return for their lodging at little cost for board. They become greatly attached to horses, their favourite sleeping-place being frequently on a horse’s back; a strange selection, which yet appears to be mutually agreeable. It has been widely said that cats are incapable of any great degree of affection, and that the small amount evinced is for their home, and not its inmates. They are, in addition, considered unable to learn tricks and actions which make dogs such amusing companions. It is also thought to be much more difficult to cure the former of faults and natural aversions. Too great reliance may, however, be placed on these assertions. A bad name is easily acquired where champions are few and little intimacy is allowed. ‘Leading the life of a cat and dog,’ for instance, is popularly supposed to represent the reverse of harmony; yet some cats and dogs—which have not been _made_ enemies—become devoted friends, affording an illustration of peaceful unanimity that many of their biped detractors might profitably imitate. Again, cats, though they have a decided instinct for killing birds, have been taught to abstain from molesting those in cages. Two cases came under the writer’s notice where cats were left constantly in places filled with birds, yet never injured any, having been early impressed by the idea that there are birds and birds, some species requiring even protection from harm. The home of one conscientious creature was at a bird-fancier’s shop, and no breach of faith resulted from the watchman’s being left nightly on guard. The experiment might be hazardous to quote, but other examples could be mentioned. A few well-authenticated anecdotes may clear away some mistaken notions, and tend to the saving of helpless animals from cruelty and neglect.

A military chaplain, when living with his family at Madras, had a favourite cat. Having to change his residence, he removed to another side of the city, a distance of several miles. The in-coming tenant’s wife took a great fancy to the cat, and begged that it might be transferred with the house. Through fear that it would be lost in going so far from familiar haunts, added to the knowledge that a good home would be given, and, more especially, because poor Puss was then in delicate health, she was, after much hesitation, allowed to remain. About three weeks afterwards, the chaplain’s wife sitting in the drawing-room of her new home, was amazed to see their old friend enter the veranda, spring into her lap, overwhelming her with caresses, and showing every possible demonstration of delight at their reunion. It was assumed that she had, in an unaccountable manner, come to take up her quarters where an unequivocal welcome was received. Towards evening, the visitor disappeared, as mysteriously as she had arrived, returning the following day, but this time not alone, for in her mouth was a very small kitten, which she gently laid at the feet of her mistress with a pleading and most eloquent expression, as though craving for sanctuary. It need hardly be said that both refugees were incorporated into the household. Upon inquiry, it was ascertained that one kitten only had been spared out of a family born at the former residence. With this ‘sole daughter of her house and heart,’ the faithful creature had travelled to those she had ‘loved and lost a while.’ How such a journey could have been thrice accomplished, through the intricate and wholly unknown streets of so large and populous a city as Madras, bringing on the last occasion so young a kitten safely with her, surmounting all the difficulties and dangers of such a formidable transit, is inexplicable, and must certainly be deemed a marvellous feat. No member of the chaplain’s family had visited their old home, not even a servant had passed between the two localities, nor had the new tenants called on the original inhabitants. The extraordinary reflection and foresight shown in first taking the journey alone to insure success, and then fetching the fragile little being prudently left behind, is perhaps the most curious part of this ‘owre true tale.’ It will be conceded readily that this strong attachment could only have been for those with whom she had so long and happily dwelt. Truth is again stranger than fiction.

A lady living near Eton College—close to that memorable spot, dear to the heart of Eton boys, ‘Chalvey Ditch’—possessed, amongst her children’s many pets, a beautifully marked tortoiseshell cat, whose ‘lot had fallen in a fair ground,’ amidst ‘the smooth stones of the stream.’ When the lady’s sons left college, she removed to London—where the cat would not only have led an unhappy life, after roaming about of her own free will, but would probably have been lost—she was, to the sincere regret of her young companions, presented to some friends living at a considerable distance in Windsor Forest, where a luxurious home was offered. A family from elsewhere took the remainder of the lady’s lease off her hands, through which arrangement the following story came to light. When writing on business, the question was asked if the lady while living near Eton had amongst her pets a beautifully marked tortoiseshell cat; which being answered in the affirmative, a striking proof of intelligence was narrated. Not long after possession was taken, such a cat—identified by minute description—arrived during the night, and was found next morning, with a newly born family of kittens, in an outhouse—her chosen lodging on previous interesting occasions—having found her way from far in the Forest, whither she had been taken after dark, through or round Eton and Windsor, and thence to her once happy home. It may be a disputed point in this instance whether such fidelity to old associations might be attributed to love for the house or its former owners. Nevertheless, from the warm affection shown by the cat towards the latter, no doubt was felt on the subject by those best able to decide. They were gone beyond her reach, but she had done her utmost, in loving memory of them.

Some boys were observed in a Welsh village carrying a very small snow-white kitten, with ‘eyes of most celestial blue,’ and being asked its destination, stated that they were about to consign the pretty little creature to an early and a watery grave; from which cruel fate it was promptly rescued by right of purchase. The kitten being too young to quit its bereaved parent, was temporarily returned to her charge, she having in the interim been placed on board-wages. This presumably equitable plan, from some hidden reason, did not answer, and the juvenile pensioner seemed far from thriving. Taffy’s peculiar notions as to _meum_ and _tuum_ may have had something to do with the failure. Prematurely removed to its proprietor’s care, the junior member was patiently reared by hand. This Samaritan-like deed brought fairly earned reward, for the foundling grew into a very handsome cat, and became a highly prized favourite. So great was the love of ‘Jenny Lind’ for those who had saved her from death, subsequently, under domestic difficulties, bringing her to full years of discretion, that although accompanying them in several long journeys, and living in many temporary homes, she never once offered to leave them. Petted and coveted by newer friends, she remained loyal in her allegiance to the end of her days. Another proof of attachment to persons, not places.

A cat belonging to a gentleman resident about eight miles from London, was given to a brewer living at a distant part of the metropolis; taken there after dark in a closed basket placed in a covered wagon. A fortnight had elapsed, when the poor animal, weary and footsore, walked into her former master’s kitchen, and lay down in its accustomed corner by the fire, purring with joy at having reached the old home. Such fidelity was deservedly rewarded.

A lady visiting a bird-fancier’s shop, was struck by the beauty and size of an Angora cat exhibited for sale, imprisoned in a large parrot’s cage. The captive effectually pleading for pity by licking her hand, was purchased and taken home. After some years, the cat was removed with his mistress to Brighton, though under protest as to future reformation. Tom was then probably one of the largest of his species, and universally admired. He had adopted an apparently incurable habit of sharpening his claws on a highly polished dining-room table; and also committed sad havoc amongst the flowers in the garden of his new abode, spending a great portion of leisure time luxuriously lying in the sunshine, amidst mignonette, &c. A decree of banishment was at length unwillingly issued, and poor innocently erring Tom forthwith departed to a country rectory, where he was much valued. Every kindness that could conduce to his comfort was shown, all his special tastes as to diet consulted; but the exile remained inconsolable. He never attempted to return, not seeming to have sufficient energy left to attempt aught in self-defence; he simply gave himself up to despair. It was vainly hoped that time would reconcile the mourner to his changed lot, but matters only grew worse, the cat pining and fretting till he became the shadow of his former self. He could not twine ‘fantastick garlands,’ or utter an altogether ‘melodious lay,’ like ‘the fair Ophelia,’ but wandered aimlessly about the garden, eating little except green fruit and such strange fare; dying, after a brief period, literally of a broken heart. The chief object of this devoted love was the cook he had left behind him. The attachment, unlike that of Shakspeare’s ill-starred heroine, may not have been a romantic one; still, it was purely disinterested, unwavering amidst all mere worldly temptations.

Nature is fine in love: and where ’tis fine,
It sends some precious incense of itself
After the thing it loves.

Poor faithful Tom gave the sole offering he had to give—his life. If it be true that ‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,’ it was in the above case proved to be a cat’s ‘whole existence.’

As an illustration of maternal devotion, the ensuing fact was contributed by a relative. A little girl had set her heart on capturing a wild kitten, which resolutely refused to enter human habitations, neither would it allow any one to go near it, having thus from its birth led a truly Bohemian life. An old gardener told the child, in forcible language, that she might as well try to catch Lucifer himself. Children are not easily daunted in such kindred pursuits, acting confidently on the understanding that everything comes to those who wait. By very slow degrees the waif was first cautiously approached, next timidly caressed, then borne triumphantly home, and finally installed there as a favoured guest. From having been literally in a savage state, it soon became remarkably gentle and domesticated, by the same principle that no rabbit grows so thoroughly tame as the wild species. She was also, during after-years, extremely fond of her young, several of which were reared without disaster; but upon one occasion the cat came to her mistress in a sadly distressed state of mind, eagerly trying to induce her to follow it. Compliance being for the moment put off, the suppliant left in dire grief; presently coming back carrying a dead kitten, which was laid before her friend with bitter lamentations. This being taken away, she brought, one by one, every member of a luckless family, none of which had seen the light. They were then buried, the mother remaining a picture of sorrow. It was hoped the curtain had fallen over the final scene of a domestic tragedy; but the interment could not have been properly carried out, for she dug them up, and again brought each successively into the house, after which they were more effectually disposed of. A long time elapsed before the poor creature could be consoled for their loss.

WANTED, A CLUE.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.

Another week passed by, Edith growing more and more prostrate each day, and I was very anxious to hear from Dr Archer. At last arrived a letter, in a hand disguised as a lady’s, on girlish light-blue note-paper, with ‘Helen’ stamped on it. These precautions would have made me smile, had I not known how necessary they were. All the letters which entered the house had first to undergo Mrs Morrell’s scrutiny.