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. 16.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, APRIL 19, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]

SUDDEN FORTUNES.

Few things are so fascinating to read as stories of fortunes suddenly made. They lend to the adventures of miners in gold or diamond fields an interest possessed by enterprises of no other kind; they also impart a most seductive glamour to accounts published in continental newspapers of prize-winners in big lotteries. When the French annual state lotteries were abolished in 1837, a writer of some distinction, M. Alphonse Karr, protested energetically against what he called a hardship for the poor. His defence was curious. ‘For five sous,’ he said, ‘the most miserable of beings may purchase the chance of becoming a millionaire; by suppressing this chance, you take away the ray of hope from the poor man’s life.’

Almost any man can relate from his own experience tales of suddenly acquired wealth; and by this we do not mean the riches that may be inherited through the death of a relative, or those which are won by speculation. The professed money-hunter who succeeds on ‘Change is like the sportsman who brings home a good bag—his spoils, though they may be large, are not unexpected. But there is the man who goes out without any thought of sport, and returns with a plump bird that has dropped into his hands; or the man who, wandering on the seashore, picks up a pearl. It is with persons of this description that we may compare those lucky individuals who, awaiting nothing from fortune, are suddenly overwhelmed by her favours. A few examples of such luck may induce the reader who sees no signs of wealth on his path just yet, never to despair.

At the beginning of 1870, the Hôtel des Réservoirs at Versailles was for sale. It was the largest hotel in the city; but as Versailles had become a sleepy place, almost deserted in winter, and only frequented in summer by casual tourists and Sunday excursionists, the landlord had scarcely been able to pay his way. The hotel was disposed of in January for a very low figure, and the new proprietor entered upon his tenancy on the first of April. He soon repented of his bargain. The season of 1870 brought fewer excursionists than usual; and when, in the middle of July, war was declared against Germany, all the landlord’s chances of recouping himself during the months when foreign tourists abound, seemed gone, so that he had serious thoughts of reselling the house. Within eight weeks, the whole of his prospects were altered. The French were defeated, Paris was invested, Versailles became the headquarters of the invading armies, and suddenly the Hôtel des Réservoirs entered upon a period of such prosperity as doubtless could not be matched by the records of any other hostelry. From the middle of September till the following February it was the lodging-place of Grand Dukes and Princes, as many as it would hold; whilst its dining-rooms were resorted to by all the wealthiest officers in the German forces. As the siege operations kept troops in movement at all hours, meals were served at every time of the day and night. Three relays of cooks and as many of waiters had to be hired; and the consumption of wines, spirits, and liqueurs beggars all reckoning. Princes and rich officers going into action or returning from victory are naturally free with their money; every triumph of German arms was a pretext for banquets and toasts. In fact, from the 1st of October to the date when the occupation of the city ceased—a period of about one hundred and thirty days—the average number of champagne bottles uncorked every day exceeded five hundred! As the Prussians held Rheims, the landlord was enabled to renew his stock of champagne as often as was necessary; but he could not renew his stock of Bordeaux—the Bordelais being in French hands, so that towards the end of the war he was selling his clarets at fancy prices.

The Germans marched away in February; but still the Hôtel des Réservoirs’ marvellous run of luck continued. In March the Communist insurrection broke out; the National Assembly transferred its sittings to Versailles, which was proclaimed the political capital of France; and during the second siege of Paris the hotel was crowded with ministers, foreign ambassadors, deputies, and other persons of note. The result of all this and of the steady custom which the hotel received so long as Versailles remained the seat of government, was that the landlord, who was at the point of ruin in 1870, retired in 1875 worth one hundred and twenty thousand pounds, after selling the hotel for three times what he had paid for it. We may add that in 1870 other very fine hauls of money were made by hotel-keepers in cities which the German armies occupied, and at Tours and Bordeaux, which were successively the seats of the French Government of National Defence.

But it will be objected that such fortunes as war, revolutions, and other great commotions bring to the few, in compensation for the ruin which they scatter among the many, are not to be met with in lands enjoying profound peace like England. Well, there are local convulsions too in England. An obscure village becomes the scene of a murder or a railway accident; an inquest is held; reporters are sent down from London; idlers by the trainful come to view the spot where the mishap occurred; and the village public-house, which had been doing a poor business, all at once finds itself taking gold and silver like a first-class London _buffet_. Such things happen pretty often; indeed, Fortune now and then knocks at houses whose inmates, from sheer bewilderment or stupidity, do not know how to take advantage of her unexpected visit. We have the recollection of a publican in a village on the Great Western line who positively spurned a chance of handsome gains thrown into his way by a snowstorm. An express train had got snowed up in the night; with infinite difficulty, by reason of the darkness, the passengers crawled out, and made across the fields for a public-house about a mile distant; but on arriving there, they met with anything but a hospitable reception. The landlord had been roused from sleep; he could not serve drink, he said, because it was past hours; he had no spare-room for travellers; there was only one ounce of tea in his house; and so forth. In the end, most of the benighted party found a refuge at the vicarage. Had the landlord been a more astute fellow, he might have secured some valuable patrons that night, for there were wealthy people among the passengers; and two of them had to linger for more than a week in the village, having fallen ill.

Let us now leave publicans, and come to stories of sudden professional advancement. All young doctors know what uphill work it sometimes is to establish a practice. Years will often elapse before a doctor gets any return for the money which his friends invested in obtaining his diploma. On the other hand, a single fortunate case may bring patients by the score. About twenty years ago, a young doctor who had been established three years in London without making an income, lost heart, and determined to emigrate to Australia. He sold his small house and furniture, paid his passage-money, and a week before his ship was to sail, went into the country to say good-bye to his parents. Having to change trains at a junction, he was waiting on the platform, when a groom in a smart livery galloped up to the station, and calling excitedly to a porter, handed him a telegraphic message for transmission. From some remarks exchanged between the two men, the young doctor understood that the Duke of ——, a member of the Cabinet, had fallen dangerously ill, and that an eminent physician in London was being telegraphed for. The groom added that he had ridden to the houses of three local doctors, who had all been absent, and that ‘Her Grace was in a terrible way.’

The young doctor saw his opportunity, and at once seized it. ‘I am a medical man,’ he said to the groom; ‘and I will go to the Hall to offer my assistance till another doctor arrives.’

The groom was evidently attached to his master, for he said: ‘Jump on my horse, sir, and ride straight down the road for about four miles; you can’t miss the Hall; any one will tell you where it is.’

The doctor went, was gratefully received by the Duchess, and happened to be just in time to stop a mistake in treatment of the patient, which might have proved fatal if continued for a few hours longer. The Duke was suffering from typhoid fever; and when the eminent physician arrived from town, he declared that the young doctor’s management of the case had been perfect. The result of this was, that the latter was requested to remain at the Hall to take charge of the patient; and his name figured on the bulletins which were issued during the next fortnight, and were printed in all the daily newspapers of the kingdom. Such an advertisement is always the making of a medical man, especially when his patient recovers, as the Duke did. Our penniless friend received a fee of five hundred guineas; took a house at the West End, and from that time to this has been at the head of one of the largest practices in London.

Curiously enough, his sudden rise was indirectly the means of bringing another needy young doctor to great fortune. Having abandoned his emigration scheme, our friend had made a present of his ticket to a former fellow-student of his, a shiftless sort of young man, who was loafing about town, with no regular work or prospects. This ne’er-do-weel had never thought of leaving the mother-country, and he accepted the ticket rather with the idea of making a pleasant voyage gratis than of settling at the antipodes. But on the way out, an epidemic of smallpox occurred among the passengers; the ship’s surgeon died; and the emigrant doctor, stepping into his place, displayed such skill and devotion that he won golden opinions from all on board. As often happens with men of good grit, the sudden call to noble work and great responsibilities completely altered his character, and he became thenceforth a steady fellow. On landing at Sydney, he was presented with a handsome cheque by the agents of the Steamship Company for his services, and soon afterwards was, on their recommendation, appointed physician to the quarantine depôt. This position put him in the way of forming a first-rate private practice and of winning municipal honours. He is now one of the most prosperous men in the colony, and a member of the colonial legislature.

Talking of sea-voyages reminds us of a barrister who has owed professional success to the mere lucky, or let us say providential, hazard which sent him out on a trip to China. Having lived three or four years in chambers without getting a brief, he was almost destitute, when a friend of his who was in the tea-trade offered him a free passage to Shanghai and back on condition of his transacting some piece of business there. On the passage out, the barrister had many conversations with the captain, who chanced to have lately given evidence at Westminster in a lawsuit which was of great importance to the shipping interest. But he had been disgusted with the ‘stupidity,’ as he called it, of the judge and counsel in the case, when talking of maritime and commercial customs; and he exclaimed: ‘Why don’t some of those lawyers who mean to speak in shipping cases, study our ways a little?’ These words struck the young barrister, who, after thinking the matter over for a few days, resolved to live at sea for a while.

On his return to England, he sought for a situation as purser or secretary on board one of the great ocean steamers, and in this capacity made several trips. Then he successively tried expeditions on board whalers, vessels engaged in the cod and herring fisheries, &c.; in fact, he led a sailor’s life for rather more than three years, picking up a full acquaintance with the manners, customs, grievances, and wants of those who had their business in the great waters. On going back to the bar, he almost at once got briefs in the Admiralty Court; and becoming known to solicitors as an expert on shipping questions, his professional fortune was made.

We might quote several cases similar to this one where special knowledge, sometimes acquired by accident, has put men in the way of getting highly honourable and well-paid positions on the newspaper press. A gentleman who is now a distinguished leader-writer on one of the London dailies, got his situation in consequence of having broken his leg while travelling in Germany. He was laid up for months in lodgings, and there became intimate with a Russian refugee, who taught him the Russian language and instructed him thoroughly in Muscovite politics. This occurred at the beginning of the Eastern imbroglio in 1876; and when the patient was getting better, he sent to a London paper a series of letters which exhibited such a familiarity with Russian affairs, that they attracted general notice. He was soon asked to go to St Petersburg as special correspondent; and from that date all things prospered with him. At the time when he broke his leg, he was about to accept a clerkship in a merchant’s office, where he would have had small chance of making any figure in the world.

But we fancy we can hear people exclaim that talent well directed is pretty sure to make a man’s fortune, so that it is never surprising to hear of clever men growing rich. True; but nevertheless there are chances for those who are _not_ clever. We have heard of a man who had two thousand pounds a year left him because he was civil to an infirm old lady in church, finding the hymns for her, setting her hassock, &c. He did not know her name; but she took care to ascertain his, and when she died, he found that she had bequeathed to him the bulk of her property ‘as a reward for his patient kindness.’ A clergyman of our acquaintance obtained a living of good value from a baronet in Norfolk for no other reason than that he was the only curate within ten miles round who had not applied for it when it fell vacant. And another clergyman whom we know got a still better living for having refused preferment offered to him under circumstances derogatory to his dignity. He was a fair singer; and a vulgar plutocrat who had invited him to dinner promised to give him a living if he would sing a comic song at dessert. The quiet rebuke which the young clergyman administered made the plutocrat ashamed of himself, so that the next day he proffered the living with a letter of apology; but the living was refused, the clergyman stating that it would be impossible for him to forget the circumstances under which it was first tendered. This was the more honourable, as the clergyman was very badly off. Another patron, hearing of what he had done, appointed him to a benefice, as a testimony of his admiration.

We may conclude with a story of a man who was suddenly made rich because of his great stupidity. He was the only dull man in a bright-witted family, and going to dine with a wealthy relative who had a horror of fools, he made so many silly remarks, that the old man cried in exasperation: ‘I must do something for you, for you’ll never do anything for yourself. If I don’t make a rich man of you, you’ll become a laughing-stock to the world and a disgrace to your family.’

BY MEAD AND STREAM.

CHAPTER XXIV.—THE WORK.

Philip spoke lightly to Madge about the ‘chambers in town;’ but he was not quite satisfied with the arrangement, when she told him frankly that she did not like it. He confessed that the idea pleased him chiefly because it would give him a sense of independence, which he could never experience so long as he remained at Ringsford and the family continued to be in the same mood as at present. Very little had been said to him there, beyond a few expressions of curiosity on the part of the girls, and a cunning question from Coutts as to what guarantee Uncle Shield could give for the wealth he professed to possess.

‘The amount he promised to place at my disposal is in the bank,’ Philip answered; ‘and that, I fancy, would be sufficient, Coutts, to satisfy even you.’

Coutts nodded, was silent, and began privately to speculate on the possibility of ingratiating himself with this mysterious relative, who seemed to have discovered the mines of Golconda.

Nothing more was said. Mr Hadleigh enjoined silence on the subject until he should please to speak; and he had done so with a sternness which effectually checked the tongue even of Miss Hadleigh, who, being ‘engaged,’ felt herself in some measure released from parental authority.

The consequence was that there had grown up a feeling of constraint, which was exceedingly irksome to the frank, loving nature of Philip; and yet he could not divine how he was to overcome it. He could not tell whether this feeling was due to his own anxiety to reconcile two opposing elements, or to the unspoken irritation of the family with him for having leagued himself with their enemy. It never occurred to him that any one of them could be jealous of his good fortune.

However, this new arrangement seemed to offer an opportunity for making the position clear. Standing apart from the influence of his family, he would be able to consider all the circumstances of his position with more calmness and impartiality than would be otherwise possible.

At the same time, he was a good deal perplexed by the conduct of Mr Shield, and was gradually beginning to feel something like vexation at it. There was the difficulty of seeing him, and then the impossibility of getting him to discuss anything when he did see him. Mr Shield was still at the _Langham_; and if Philip called without having made an appointment, he was either sent away with some excuse, which he knew to be nothing more than an excuse, or there was a great fuss of attendants entering and leaving the room before he was admitted. On these occasions Philip was conscious of an atmosphere of brandy-and-soda; and several times his uncle had been served with a glass of this potent mixture during their interviews, brief as they were. It was to this weakness Philip had been about to refer, when speaking to Dame Crawshay, and to it he was disposed to attribute much of his uncle’s eccentricity of conduct.

But he was always the same roughly good-natured man, although short of speech and decided in manner.

‘Once for all,’ he said gruffly, when Philip made a more strenuous effort than usual to induce him to discuss the scheme he was elaborating; ‘I am not a good talker—see things clearer when they are put down on paper for me. You do that; and if there is anything that does not please me, I’ll tell you fast enough in writing. Then there can be no mistakes between us. Had enough of mistakes in my time already.’

And notwithstanding his peculiarly jerky mode of expressing himself in talking, his letters were invariably clear and to the point. They formed, indeed, a bewildering contrast to the man as he appeared personally, for they were the letters of one who had clear vision and cool judgment. But as yet Philip had not found any opportunity to approach the subject of a reconciliation with his father. He kept that object steadily in view, however, and waited patiently for the right moment in which to speak.

Wrentham was well pleased that Mr Shield should keep entirely in the background; it left him the more freedom in action; and he was delighted with his appointment as general manager for Philip. His first transaction in that capacity was to sublet his offices in Golden Alley to his principal. This saved so much expense, and there were the clerks and all the machinery ready for conducting any business which might be entered upon. Wrentham had agreeable visions of big prizes to be won on the Stock Exchange. He was confident that the whole theory of exchange business was as simple as A B C to him; and only the want of a little capital had prevented him from making a large fortune long ago. His chance had come at last.

Here was this young man, who knew almost nothing of business, but possessed capital which he desired to employ. He, Martin Wrentham, knew how to employ it to the best advantage. What more simple, then? He should employ the capital; instead of dabbling in hundreds, he would be able to deal in thousands, and in no time he would double the capital and make his own fortune too!

But when the time came for Philip to unfold the project which he had been quietly maturing, the sanguine and volatile Wrentham was for an instant dumb with amazement, then peered inquiringly into the face of the young capitalist, as if seeking some symptoms of insanity, and next laughed outright.

‘That’s the best joke I have heard for a long time,’ he exclaimed.

‘Where is the joke?’ asked Philip, a little surprised.

‘You don’t mean to say that you are serious in thinking of investing your capital in this way?’ Wrentham’s hilarity disappeared as he spoke.

‘Perfectly serious; and Mr Shield approves of the idea.’

‘But you will never make money out of it.’

‘I do not know what you may mean by making money; but unless the calculations which have been supplied to me by practical men are utterly wrong, I shall obtain a fair percentage on the capital invested. I do not mean to do anything foolish, for I consider the money as held in trust, and will do what is in my power to make a good use of it.’

‘You want to drive Philanthropy and Business in one team; but I never heard of them going well in harness together.’

‘I think they have done so, and may do so again,’ said Philip cheerfully.

‘You will be an exception to all the rules I know anything about, if you manage to make them go together. If you had five times the capital you are starting with, you could make nothing out of it.’

‘I hope to make a great deal out of it, although not exactly in the sense you mean.’

Wrentham passed his hand through his hair, as if he despaired of bringing his principal to reason.

‘What do you expect to make out of it?’

‘First of all, beginning on our small scale, we shall provide work for so many men. By the system of paying for the work done, rather than by wages whether the work is done or not, each man will be able to earn the value of what he can produce or cares to produce.’

‘You will not find half-a-dozen men willing to accept that arrangement.’

‘We must make the most of those we do find. When the advantages are made plain in practice, others will come in fast enough.’

‘The Unions will prevent them.’

‘It is a kind of Union I am proposing to form—a Union of capital and labour. Then, I propose to divide amongst the men all profits above, say, six or eight per cent. on the capital, in proportion to the work each has done. I believe we shall find plenty of workmen, who will understand and appreciate the scheme.’

Wrentham was resting his elbows on the table and twisting a piece of paper between his fingers. He had got over his first surprise. The one thing he understood was, that Philip would hold obstinately to this ridiculous ideal of a social revolution until experience showed him how impracticable it was. The one thing he did not understand was, how Mr Shield had agreed to let him try it.

‘I admire the generous spirit which prompts you to try this experiment; it is excellent, benevolent, and all that sort of thing,’ he said coolly; ‘but it is not business, and it will be a failure. Every scheme of the same sort that has been tried has failed. However, I shall do my best to help you. How do you propose to begin?’

Philip was prepared for this lukewarm support; he had not expected Wrentham to enter upon the plan with enthusiasm, and was aware that men of business would regard it as a mere fancy, in which a good deal of money would be thrown away. But he was confident that the result would justify his sanguine calculations.

‘I am sorry you cannot take a more cheerful view of my project, Wrentham; but I hope some day to hear you own that you were mistaken. We shall begin by buying this land—here is the plan. Then if we get it at a fair price, we shall proceed to erect two blocks of good healthy tenements for working-people. We shall be our own contractors, and so begin our experiment with the men at once. Take the plans home with you, and look them over; and to-morrow you can open negotiations for the purchase of the land.’

Wrentham’s eyes brightened.

‘Ah, that’s better—that’s something I can do.’

‘You will find that there are many things you can do in carrying out the work,’ said Philip, smiling.

The general manager was restored to equanimity by the prospect of a speculation in land. The young enthusiast went his way, contented with the thought that he had taken the first step towards a social reform of vast importance.

The same afternoon the agents for the land in question received a communication from a solicitor inquiring the terms on which it was to be sold.

THE HOMING PIGEON.

BY GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N.

‘Let it off at Leicester, sir.’

My train had already started, when the speaker—an earnest-faced, enthusiastic-looking working-man—breathless with running, leapt on to the step, and after a hurried glance round the compartment, popped a paper bag into my arms and disappeared.

‘Let it off at Leicester?’ What did the man mean? Did he take me for one of the Fenian brotherhood? Had he handed me an ‘infernal machine’ with which to destroy Leicester railway station? I was taken aback for a moment, but only for a moment, for something rustled inside the bag, and I ‘keeked’ in at a corner.

‘You’re there, are you?’ I said _sotto voce_, as the bright, inquiring eye of a blue homing pigeon met my gaze.

The man’s meaning was plain enough now. Leicester was our first stopping-place. I was to throw the bird up there—which I duly did—and knowing the hour the train was due there, its owner could thus judge of its flying powers from the time it took to regain the loft in London.

By many people, it is believed that the homing pigeon is guided in its wonderful flights by some _special instinct_; others think that sight alone is the bird’s guide. In the far-distant past, long before railways, telegraphs, or telephones were dreamt of, pigeons were used to convey intelligence of all kinds from distant quarters; and even in our own day and in times of peace, homing or carrier pigeons are found exceedingly useful as message-bearers in a hundred ways needless to name.

In time of war, their utility can hardly be overrated. The ‘Paris pigeon-post’ of the Franco-German War of 1870-71 is well known. During the siege, when the gayest city in the world was closely beleaguered by the Prussians, and all communication with the outside world was totally cut off, homing pigeons brought to Paris by balloons, found their way back to Tours and other places, bearing with them news of the beleaguered city. How welcome they must have been to the thousands of people who had friends and relatives in Paris at that time! The messages carried by the pigeons were written or printed, then photographed on thin paper, the words being so reduced in size that it required the aid of a powerful magnifier to decipher them. These tiny documents were carried in small sealed quills, carefully fastened to the centre tail-feathers. From the very moment of the arrival of the first homing pigeon, the Paris pigeon-post was firmly established as an institution; and in times of war among all civilised nations, the aërial _voyageur_ will in future doubtless play a most important part.

We have already in England a large number of clubs devoted to pigeon-flying or pigeon-racing; but it is in Brussels that the sport is carried out to the fullest extent. In Belgium alone, there are at this moment nearly twenty-five hundred clubs, and every town, village, or district in the whole country goes in for its weekly race. The birds are sent off on the Friday or Saturday by special trains, and are liberated in clouds of thousands on the Sunday mornings, two, three, four, or even five hundred miles from home.

I know many people in this country who have as their special hobby the breeding and flying of pigeons in a private way, quite independent of clubs—people who never go very far away from home without taking a pigeon or two along with them, to send back with news of their safe arrival, or their success or non-success in matters of business. I had the following told me by a friend, and have no reason to doubt the truth of it. A gentleman of rather shy disposition came down from London to a town not a hundred miles from Warwick, bent on proposing to a young lady, with whom he was greatly in love. She was the daughter of a well-to-do landowner, and a fancier of Antwerp carriers. The Londoner, however, lacked the courage or opportunity of popping the question. He was bold enough, though, before taking leave, to beg the loan of one of his lady-love’s pets, just ‘to tell her of his safe arrival in town.’ The bird returned from London the same day; and in the little quill, it bore to its mistress a message—that, after all, might more simply and naturally have been conveyed by lip—to wit, a declaration and a proposal. A more artful though innocent way of getting out of a difficulty could hardly have been devised. It was successful too.

The homing pigeon of the present day is not only remarkably fond of the cot and scenes around it wherein it has been bred and reared, but fond of its owner as well, and exceedingly sagacious and docile. The power of wing of this bird is very great, and emulates the speed of the swiftest train, over five hundred miles being done sometimes in less than twelve hours.

Now, although, in our foggy and uncertain climate, we can never hope to attain such results in pigeon-flying as they do in Belgium or sunny France, still, the breeding and utilising of these useful birds deserve far more attention than we in this country give them. It is in the hope that some of the readers of this _Journal_ may be induced to adopt the breeding and flying of these pigeons as a fancy or hobby, that I now devote the rest of this article to a few practical hints about their general management.

I should say, then, to a beginner, join a club, by all means, if there be one anywhere near you. If there is not, and you are energetic enough, why, then, start one; or, independent of all clubs, make your hobby an entirely private one. Now, before doing anything else in the matter, you must have a proper loft or pigeonry for your coming pets. This should be placed as high as possible, so that the birds, from their area or flight, may catch glimpses of the country all round, and thus familiarise themselves with it.

The loft should be divided into two by means of a partition with a door in it, each apartment having an outlet to the area in front. The one room is devoted to the young birds, the other to the old. Without illustrations, it is somewhat difficult to describe the area or trap and its uses, but I will try. In its simplest form, then, it is a large wooden cage—with a little platform in front of it—that is fixed against the pigeons’ own private door to their loft. At the back of the cage is a sliding-door, communicating with the loft, and in command of the owner of the pigeons; and another in the front of the cage. It is evident, then, that if you open the back-door, the bird can get into the area from the loft; and if you open the front one as well, he can get out altogether, to fly about at his own sweet will. Returning from his exercise when tired, if both trap or sliding-doors are open, he can pass right through the cage into the loft; if only the front-door is open, he can get no farther than the interior of the cage or area. But independent of these trap-doors, there are two little swing-doors, called bolting-wires—one in front of the cage, and one behind, that is, betwixt the area and the loft. The peculiarity of these swing-doors is this: they are hinged at the top, and open _inwardly_, being prevented from opening outwardly by a beading placed in front of them at the foot. Well, suppose a bird to have just arrived from off a journey, and alighting on the little platform, found the sliding-door shut, it would immediately shove against the door, which would swing open, permitting the bird’s entrance, and at once shut again against the beading, and prevent its exit. In the same way, through the back bolting-wires, a pigeon could enter the area, but could not return to the loft in that way, nor get out through the bolting-wires in front. When a bird returns home from a journey, the exact time of its arrival may even, by a very simple contrivance attached to the external bolting-wires, be signalled to the owner.

The breeding compartment should have around the walls nesting-boxes, I might call them, or divisions, four feet long, two and a half feet high, and about two feet wide; these ought to be barred in front, with a doorway, to put the pigeons through for breeding purposes, and two earthenware nest-pans in each, hidden from view behind an L-shaped screen of wood. In the loft are pigeon-hoppers and drinking-fountains, as well as a box containing a mixture of gravel, clay, and old mortar, with about one-third of coarse salt; the whole wetted and made into a mass with brine.

About twice a week, a bath is greatly relished by the birds; but care should be taken not to leave the floor of the loft damp. Old lime and gravel should be sprinkled about. The food of the homing pigeon is not different from that of any other pigeon, and consists chiefly of beans, small gray peas, with now and then, by way of change, a little wheat, tares, rice or Indian corn. Soft food may sometimes be given also, such as boiled rice or potato, mixed with oatmeal.

The drinking-water should be changed every day, and the fountain frequently well rinsed out. The greatest cleanliness should prevail in the loft. Everything should be clean and sweet and dry, and there should never be either dust or a bad smell. Green food may be given when the birds cannot get out to supply themselves. It should be given fresh, and on no account left about the loft to decay. Never let the hoppers be empty, and see that the grains are not only good, but free from dust as well.

Next as to getting into stock. There are two or three ways of doing this. It is sometimes possible to get the eggs, which may be placed under an ordinary pigeon. Good old birds may be got—a few pairs; but they must, of course, be kept strict prisoners, else they will fly away. The best plan, however, of getting into stock is that of purchasing young birds as soon as they are fit to leave the mother. These must be put in the loft, but not let out for a week or two, although they should be permitted to go into the area and look around them, to get familiar with the place. After some time, they may be permitted to go out and fly around. If good, they will return; if of a bad strain, they are as well lost. But training should not begin until the bird is fully three months old, and strong. The young birds are first ‘tossed’ two or three hundred yards from their loft. If they have already become familiar with their home surroundings, they will speedily get back to the cot. Toss them unfed, flinging them well up in an open space; and repeat this day after day for some time; then gradually increase the distance, to a quarter of a mile, half a mile, and a mile, and so on to five, ten, up to fifty or a hundred miles of railway. The tossing should be done on a fine day, at all events never on a foggy one.

Birds may be sent to station-masters at different distances along the line to be tossed, the basket in which they have been carried being sent back as a returned empty, with the exact time at which the birds were let out marked on the label by the station-master or porter. When this plan is adopted, it is of course necessary to write to the station-master first, and get his permission to send birds to him for the purpose of being tossed.

I have purposely avoided saying anything about the points and properties of homing pigeons; it is good wing you want, more than shape of head or face, although there ought always to be a skull indicative of room for brains. It is wing you want, I repeat, strength, health, and _strain_. Why I put the last word in italics is this: I consider that it is essential to success, and cheapest in the long-run, to breed from a good working strain. The rule holds good in the breeding of all kinds of live-stock. So the reader, if he intends to take up the homing-pigeon hobby, will do well to see that he gets birds of a _good working stock_ to begin with.

A pigeon is not at its best till it is two years of age; care should be taken, therefore, not to attempt too much with them the first year of training. When a bird returns, treat it to a handful of nice grain, or even hemp; but during training, give nothing that is too fattening in large quantities. Great care and attention are required all the year round; exercise should never be neglected; they should be permitted to get out frequently during the day, or indeed, to have their liberty all day, taking precautions against the tender attentions of vagrant cats. The moulting season is a somewhat critical time, and so is the breeding-time; but this class of pigeons is, on the whole, hardy. Treat your birds with universal kindness, and they will certainly reward you.[1]

FOOTNOTES:

[1] [An excellent article on the subject, with drawings of loft, &c., will be found in _The Field_ for 23d Feb. last.—ED.]

A WITNESS FOR THE DEFENCE.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.

To say that there was a ‘sensation’ would feebly describe what followed. Every one in court sprang to his feet. The prisoner looked as if he had seen a ghost. There was a perfect hubbub of voices, as bar and jury talked among themselves, and my brethren at the solicitors’ table poured questions upon me—to none of which I replied. Silence being restored, the voice of the judge—grave and dignified, but with a perceptible tremor—descended like vocal oil on the troubled waves of sound. ‘Who instructs you, Mr Clincher?’

‘Mr Bentley, my lord.’

The judge looked more astonished than ever. My name was familiar enough to him as a judge, and he had known it even better when, as a leading barrister, he had held many a brief from me.

‘I am persuaded,’ said he, ‘that a gentleman of Mr Bentley’s repute and experience has good reason for what he does. But so extraordinary and unheard-of—— I will ask Mr Bentley himself if he really considers that duty requires him to offer himself as a witness, and when and why he came to that conclusion?’

‘My lord,’ I replied, ‘I am certain that, believing what I have had cause to believe within the last five minutes, I should be greatly to blame if I did not testify on oath to certain facts which are within my own knowledge. But if the prisoner chooses to call me as a witness, your lordship will presently understand why it is that, with all submission, I cannot at this moment, or until I am in the box, give my reasons. And I must add that the value of my evidence to the prisoner will greatly depend on his answers to certain questions which I wish, with your lordship’s sanction, to put to him in writing. And if he answers me as I expect, I believe my evidence will put an end to the case against him.’

‘Really, gentlemen of the jury,’ said his lordship, ‘this matter is assuming a more and more remarkable aspect. I hardly know what to say. That a prisoner on trial for his life should answer questions put to him in private by the prosecuting solicitor is the most extraordinary proposal, I am bound to say, which ever came under my notice. It is the more difficult for me to decide because the prisoner has not the advantage of counsel’s assistance.—Prisoner, is it your wish that this gentleman should be called as a witness on your behalf? You have heard what he has said about certain questions which he wishes to put to you beforehand. Of course you are not bound to answer any such questions, and may nevertheless call him. What do you say?’

‘I am in God’s hands, my lord,’ answered the prisoner, who was quite calm again. ‘It may be that He has raised up a deliverer for me—I cannot tell. But I know that if He wills that I should die, no man can save me; if He wills to save me, nought can do me harm. So I am ready to answer any questions the gentleman wishes.’

‘I propose,’ said the judge, ‘before deciding this extraordinary point, to consult with the learned Recorder in the next court.’

All rose as the judge retired; and during his absence I escaped the questions which assailed me from every side by burying myself in a consultation with my counsel. When he heard what the reader knows, he fully upheld me in what I proposed to do; and then threw himself back in his seat with the air of a man whom nothing could ever astonish again.

‘Si-lence!’ cried the usher. The judge was returning.

‘I have decided,’ said he, ‘to allow the questions to be put as Mr Bentley proposes. Let them be written out and submitted to me for my approval.’

I sat down and wrote my questions, and they were passed up to the judge. As he read them, he looked more surprised than ever. But all he said, as he handed them down, was, ‘Put the questions.’

I walked up to the dock and gave them into the prisoner’s hands, together with my pencil. He read them carefully through, and wrote his answers slowly and with consideration. With the paper in my hand, I got into the witness-box and was sworn.

My evidence was to the effect already stated. As I described the man I had seen under the lamp, with my face averted from the prisoner and turned to the jury, I saw that they were making a careful comparison, and that, allowing for the change wrought by twelve years, they found that the description tallied closely with the man’s appearance.

‘I produce this paper, on which I just now wrote certain questions, to which the prisoner wrote the answers under my eyes. These are the questions and answers:

‘_Question._ Were you smoking when you came up to the corner of Hauraki Street?—_Answer._ No.

‘_Question._ Did you afterwards smoke?—_Answer._ I had no lights.

‘_Question._ Did you try to get a light?—_Answer._ Yes, by climbing a lamp at the corner; but I was not steady enough, and I remember I broke my hat against the crossbar.

‘_Question._ Where did you carry your pipe and tobacco?—_Answer._ In my hat.

‘Those answers,’ I concluded, ‘are absolutely correct in every particular. The man whom I saw under the lamp, at eight o’clock on the night of the murder, behaved as the answers indicate. That concludes the evidence I have felt bound to tender.’ And I handed the slip of paper to the usher for inspection by the jury.

‘Prisoner,’ inquired the judge, ‘do you call any other witness?’

‘I do not, my lord.’

‘Then, gentlemen,’ said the judge, turning to the jury, ‘the one remark that I shall make to you is this—that if you believe the story of the prisoner’s witness, there can be little doubt but that the prisoner was the man whom the witness saw at the corner of Hauraki Street at eight o’clock on the night in question; and if that was so, it is clear, on the case of the prosecution, that he cannot have committed this murder. I should not be doing my duty if I did not point out to you that the witness in question is likely, to say the least, to be without bias in the prisoner’s favour, and that his evidence is very strongly corroborated indeed by the prisoner’s answers to the written questions put to him. Gentlemen, you will now consider your verdict.’

‘We are agreed, my lord,’ said the foreman.

‘Gentlemen of the jury,’ sung out the clerk of arraigns, ‘are you all agreed upon your verdict?’

‘We are.’

‘And that verdict is?’

‘Not guilty.’

‘And that is the verdict of you all?’

‘It is.’

There followed a burst of cheering which the usher could not silence, but which silenced itself as the judge was seen to be speaking. ‘John Harden—I am thankful, every man in this court is thankful, that your trust in the mercy and power of the All-merciful and All-powerful has not been in vain. You stand acquitted of a foul crime by the unhesitating verdict of the jury, and most wonderful has been your deliverance. You go forth a free man; and I am glad to think that the goodness of God has been bestowed on one who has repented of his past sins, and who is not likely, I hope and believe, to be unmindful of that goodness hereafter.—You are discharged.’

Had he been left to himself, I think the prisoner’s old master would have climbed into the dock, with the view of personally delivering his servant out of the house of bondage. But he was restrained by a sympathetic constable, while John Harden was re-conveyed for a short time to the jail, to undergo certain necessary formalities connected with his release from custody. I volunteered to take charge of Mr Slocum, and took him to the vestibule of the prison, overwhelmed during the short walk by thanks and praises. We were soon joined by Harden, whose meeting with his master brought a lump into the throat even of a tough criminal lawyer like myself. I saw them into a cab, and they drove off to Mr Slocum’s hotel, after promising to call on me next day, and enlighten me on certain points as to which I was still in the dark.

As strange a part of my story as any, has yet to be told. I had hardly got back to my office and settled down to read over the various letters which were awaiting my signature, when my late client (Harden’s prosecutor) was announced. I had lost sight of him in the excitement which followed the acquittal. He did not wait to learn whether I was engaged or not, but rushed after the clerk into my room. He was ashen white, or rather gray, and his knees shook so that he could scarcely stand; but his eyes positively blazed with wrath. Leaning over my table, he proceeded, in the presence of the astonished clerk, to pour upon me a flood of abuse and invective of the foulest kind. I had sold him; I was in league with the prisoner. I was a swindling thief of a lawyer, whom he would have struck off the rolls, &c.; until I really thought he had gone out of his mind.

As soon as I could get in a word, I curtly explained that it was no part of a lawyer’s duty to try and hang a man whom he knew to be innocent. As he only replied with abusive language, I ordered him out of the office. The office quieted itself once more—being far too busy, and also too well accustomed to eccentric people to have time for long wonderment at anything—and in an hour I had finished my work, and was preparing to leave for home, when another visitor was announced—Inspector Forrester.

‘Well, Mr Forrester, what’s the matter now? I’m just going off.’

‘Sorry if I put you out of the way, sir; but I thought you’d like to hear what’s happened. The prosecutor in Harden’s case has given himself up for the murder!’

‘What?’ I shouted.

‘He just has, sir. It’s a queer day, this is. When I heard you get up and give evidence for the man you were prosecuting, I thought curiosities was over for ever; but seems they ain’t, and never will be.’

‘How was it?’

‘Well, he came into the station quite quiet, and seemed a bit cast down, but that was all. Said fate was against him, and had saved the man he thought to hang in his stead, and he knew how it must end, and couldn’t wait any longer. I cautioned him, of course—told him to sleep on it before he said anything; but make a statement he would. The short of it all is, that the idea of murdering the old lady for her money had come into his mind in a flash when he saw that poor drunken fool exhibiting his knife in the tavern. He followed him, and picked his pocket of the knife, and then hung about the house, meaning to get in after dark. Then he saw the girl come out and go off, leaving the door closed but not latched, the careless hussy! Then in slips the gentleman, and does what he’d made up his mind to—for you see the old woman knew him well, so he couldn’t afford to leave her alive—gets the cash, and slips out. All in gold it was, two hundred and fifty pounds. When he heard that Harden couldn’t be found, he got uneasy in his mind, and has been getting worse ever since, though he did well enough in trade with the money. Seems he considered he wasn’t safe until some one had been hanged. So, when he recognised Harden, he was naturally down on him at once, and was intensely eager to get him convicted—which I noticed myself, sir, as of course you did, and thought it queer too, I don’t doubt. He took too much pains, you see—he must employ you to make certain, instead of leaving it to us; whereas if he hadn’t come to you, your evidence would never have been given, and I think you’ll say nothing could have saved the prisoner.’

It was true enough. The wretched man had insured the failure of his own fiendish design by employing me, of all the solicitors to whom he might have gone!