Chapter II: Part 2

The five years have changed him from a boy to a man. He is handsome as ever, but his look is more serious; his features express even more character. He has given up all dreams of the woolsack; but is conscious of possessing fair abilities, a good address, a commanding presence, and a great deal of ready self-confidence. He feels that in a few years’ time he may have a home to share, if the woman he loves is still willing to share it. He has not again written to her. He has heard nothing from her, although the time by which he promised to claim her has long passed. He is, however, resolved that as soon as he sees the future fairly promising, he will seek her, and learn whether she is still true to him; or whether the sweetest episode of his life must be linked with the memory of a woman’s faithlessness and inconstancy. He sighs as he thinks of the time which has elapsed since she waved him that last farewell at Plymouth. ‘She may be married, years ago,’ he says, ‘and have three or four children by now.’ Then he thinks of her steadfast eyes, and knows that he wrongs her—blames himself for his mistrust. To sum up, Frank Abbot’s constancy remains firm; but he is obliged to do what thousands of other men must do, hope for better days, working, meanwhile, with might and main to bring the dawn of those better days near.

Does he regret the loss of his fortune much? Of course he does, being neither a fool nor of a superhuman nature. Many a day, as he sits in wig and gown in the stifling court, listening to learned arguments on cases in which he has not the remotest interest, his soul longs for a day with the pheasants, a run with the Duke’s hounds, or a ride round the home-farm; and he anathematises all joint-stock banks as roundly as his father may be supposed to have done. But, nevertheless, Frank is not a soured man. He is somewhat grave and self-contained, but pleasant company enough to the few men whom he chooses to call his friends.

He has not been near Chewton Hall since the family downfall. It had been bought, with a great part of the furniture, by a rich London merchant, whose name, although he had heard it at the time of the sale, had slipped from his mind. Frank cared little who held it. He knew it is only in romances that a ruined family regains possession of its kingdom. Some day he intended to run down and have a look at the old place which he had loved so well; although he feared the sight would not improve the tenor of his mind, or make him less inclined to rail at Fortune.

Just about this time Frank made a new acquaintance. It was long vacation. The Lord Chief-justice was yachting; his brother-judges, Queen’s Counsel, and learned leaders, were recruiting their jaded energies as it best pleased them; gay juniors had thrown their wigs into their boxes, and were away on various holiday pursuits. Frank, however, who had recently succeeded in getting some occasional work on a journal, and who hoped to get more, was still in London. One morning, a gentleman, who wished to see Mr Abbot, was shown into his chambers. The visitor was a tall middle-aged man, strongly built, well dressed, and with pleasant features. He looked like one who had led a hard life, and lines on his brow told of trouble. His hands were large and brown—it was evident they had not been idle in their day. Not, perhaps, quite a gentleman, as we conventionally use, or abuse, that word, but a noticeable, out-of-the-common man. He gave Frank a sharp quick glance, as if trying to gauge his intellect and powers. Apparently satisfied, he took the chair offered him, and explained his errand. He had a lawsuit pending, and wished Mr Abbot to conduct the case. Frank interposed smilingly, and told his new client that it was etiquette for his instructions to come through a solicitor. He explained that a barrister and the man whose cause he pleaded must communicate through a third party. His visitor apologised for his ignorance about such matters, and said he would see his solicitor. However, after the apology was accepted, instead of bowing himself out, Mr John Jones—for by that name he called himself—entered into a general kind of conversation with Frank. He spoke easily and pleasantly on a variety of topics, and when at last he left the room, shook hands most cordially with the young man, and hoped he should meet him again soon.

‘Wonder who he is?’ said Frank, laughing over the sudden friendliness this stranger had exhibited. ‘Anyway, I hope he’ll make his solicitors send me that brief.’

However, no brief came; but for the next few days Frank Abbot was always tumbling across Mr John Jones. He met him in the street as he went to and from his chambers. Mr Jones always stopped him, shook hands, and as often as not, turned and walked beside him. Frank began to like the man. He was very amusing, and seemed to know every country under the sun. Indeed, he declared he was a greater stranger to London than to any other capital. He was a great smoker; and as soon as he found that Frank did not object to the smell of good tobacco in his chambers, scarcely a day went by without his paying him a visit and having a long chat over a cigar. Frank was bound to think that Mr John Jones had taken a great liking to him. Perhaps, the man wanted a friend. As he said, he knew no one in London, and no one knew him.

So young Abbot drifted into intimacy with this lonely man, and soon quite looked forward to the sound of his cheerful voice and the fragrance of those particularly good cigars he smoked. He even, at Mr Jones’ urgent request, ran down to the seaside for a couple of days with him, and found the time pass very pleasantly in his society.

Although the young man was very reticent on the subject of his family’s misfortune, Mr Jones had somehow arrived at the conclusion that he was not rolling in wealth. He made no secret of the fact that he himself was absurdly rich. ‘I say, Abbot,’ he remarked one day, ‘if you want any money to push yourself up with, let me know.’ Perhaps Mr Jones fancied that judgeships were to be bought.

‘I don’t want any,’ said Frank shortly.

‘Don’t take offence. I said, if you do. Your pride—the worst part of you. It’s very hard a man can only help a fellow like you by dying and leaving him money. I don’t want to die just yet.’

Frank laughed. ‘I want no money left me. I shouldn’t take yours if you left it to me.’

‘Well, you’ll have to some day, you see.’ Then Mr John Jones lit another cigar from the stump of the old one, and went his way; leaving Frank more puzzled than ever with his new friend.

But the next day an event occurred which drove Mr John Jones, money, and everything save one thing, out of his head: Millicent Keene was in England—in London!

When he saw her letter lying on his table, Frank Abbot feared it could not be real. It would fade away like a fairy bank-note. No; before him lay a few lines in her handwriting: ‘MY DEAR FRANK—I have returned at last. I am at No. 4 Caxton Place.—Yours, MILLICENT KEENE.’

Early as it was, he rushed out of his office, jumped into a cab, and sped away to the address she gave him.

We may pass over the raptures, the embraces, the renewed vows, the general delicious character of that long-deferred meeting. We may suppose the explanation of the lost letter accounting for the girl’s silence; and we may picture her sympathy with her lover’s misfortunes, and her approval of the manly way in which he had gone to work to retrieve them, in some degree. Let us imagine them very very happy, sitting hand in hand in a room at No. 4 Caxton Place; Millicent, by-the-by, looking more beautiful than ever, her charms not lessened by the look of joy in her dark eyes.

Their first transports are over. They have descended to mundane things. In fact, Frank is now telling her that he believes he can count on so many hundreds a year. What does his darling think?

Miss Keene purses up her pretty mouth and knits her brows. To judge by appearances, she might be the most mercenary young woman. Frank waits her reply anxiously.

‘I think we may manage,’ she says. ‘I have been accustomed to poverty all my life, you know.’

Frank would have vowed to work his fingers to the bones before she should want anything; but remembering just in time that his profession worked with the tongue instead of the hands, checked himself. He thanked her with a kiss.

‘When shall we be married?’ he said.

She looked up at him shyly. ‘Would you think it very dreadful if I said the sooner the better? In fact, Frank, I have come from Australia to marry you. If you had forgotten me, I should have gone straight back.’

‘Next week?’ asked Frank, scarcely believing his own happiness. ‘Will next week be too soon? One advantage of being poor and living in lodgings is, that we can be married without any bother “about a house.”’

Millicent gave him to understand that next week would do. She was staying with some distant relative. No one’s consent had to be asked. She had told her father all. The day Frank chose, she would be his wife.

‘How is your father? I forgot to ask,’ said Frank.

‘Much the same as ever,’ answered Millicent in a way which inferred that Mr Keene’s struggles to redeem fortune were as great as before.

Then she dismissed Frank until to-morrow. He went home walking on air, and, like a dutiful son, wrote to Mrs Abbot, telling her that Millicent had returned, and next week would marry him. Mrs Abbot’s reply may be given here:

‘MY DEAR FRANK—I _say_ nothing. I am too much _horrified_. If any young man was ever called upon to marry money and build up the fallen fortunes of a family, it is you. My last hope is gone. The obstinacy of your character I know too well. If I thought I could turn you from your purpose, I would come and _kneel at your feet_. If I knew Miss Keene’s address, I would make one last appeal to her. She, I believe, was a sensible young woman.—Your affectionate MOTHER.’

COMMON ERRORS IN DOMESTIC MEDICINE.

BY AN OLD PRACTITIONER.

Among the various passions which are inherent in the human breast, none is stronger or more evident than the desire which every one manifests to practise the healing art in some form or other, either on himself or—more frequently—on his fellow-creatures; a propensity which betrays itself in the gratuitous administration of physic, the infliction of minor surgery, or, if these suggestions be not favourably received by the patient, in copious advice of a hygienic nature. This is particularly the case with the gentler sex. Every woman is a physician at heart, and nothing is more refreshing than to sit and listen to two ladies in confidential medical conversation respecting the merits of their favourite nostrums. It is to them that homœopathy especially appeals. What more delightful spectacle can be found than that of a fair amateur ‘doctress’ with her book, her case of phials and little gold spoon, dispensing globules to her family, to her servants, to her neighbours, to any one and every one; and to enjoy at the same time the sweet reflection that she is not doing a particle of harm! Nevertheless, there are some not unfrequent mistakes in the application of so-called household remedies, excellent in themselves; and to call attention to these, and to a few popular fallacies on the subject of health and disease, is the object of the present paper.

Let us commence with that finest of domestic institutions, the poultice—bread, linseed, or mustard—soothing, fomenting, or stimulating, according to circumstances. There are few remedies in the pharmacopœia of wider beneficial application in surgery and medicine than this; yet terrible mischief often follows its injudicious use. A man has a cough, or his child wheezes with a ‘tightness on the chest,’ and on goes a poultice straightway. So far, so good; in all probability they wake up next morning greatly relieved. But the father is off to his daily business, and the child runs about and plays as usual, while—since they feel so much better—neither takes any precaution, by extra clothing or otherwise, to guard against the consequences of the poultice itself. The skin and subjacent tissues have been rendered lax by the heat and moisture, the blood-vessels are dilated, and the circulation of the part increased; to use a common expression, the ‘pores’ are open, and there is thus a tenfold liability to catch cold, especially in winter-time, when these things most frequently happen. Ordinary colds which are said to have ‘run’ into congestion of the lungs, bronchitis, or pneumonia, may often be traced to their serious or fatal termination through the _undefended_ use of a poultice.

It should be borne in mind that a common poultice—such as is made of linseed meal or bread—is merely a vehicle for the application of damp heat—a continuous fomentation, in fact—and has no specific curative action. A muslin bag filled with bran, or flannels dipped in hot water, have precisely the same effect, but are not so conveniently employed, as they have to be more frequently renewed. A poultice should always be thoroughly mixed and homogeneous in consistence throughout; just so wet as to permit of its retaining the mould of the cup when turned out, but not wet enough to exude water by its own weight when lightly applied. A _hot_ poultice should never be allowed to remain on after its outer part is less than the temperature of the blood, nor must it get dry and caked. As a general rule, it may be said that bread makes a better cataplasm than linseed meal, but requires to be changed oftener. There are, of course, special medical reasons in occasional cases for the preference of one or the other, but such instances scarcely come within the scope of this article. Well-mashed carrots make a capital soothing application, and a poultice composed of tea-leaves is, owing to its slight astringent action, generally suitable when one is required about the region of the eye. An abominable mixture of soap and sugar is very popular as a local remedy in some parts of England, and is credited with great ‘drawing’ properties. On the other hand, it is good to know that the old-fashioned liniment of hartshorn and oil is one of the best embrocations ever invented under ordinary circumstances, and that therapeutical research amongst all the drugs that the vegetable and mineral kingdoms afford has never discovered an improvement on salt and water as a gargle for simple sore throat.

What British home would _be_ a home without its little roll of sticking or court plaster? How often is it that little tearful eyes look mistily down on a poor scratched finger, held carefully out in the other hand, as if there were some danger of its coming off, while mamma cuts a thin yellow strip and wraps it round the injured member with comforting words, all lamentation being temporarily reduced to an occasional sob in the interest of the operation. That the sticking-plaster exercises a fine moral effect in such a case, there can be no doubt; but I fear there is as little doubt that it often does more harm than good from a physical point of view, and this arises from the fallacious belief in it as a healing agent. The only real service that sticking-plaster does is to hold two cut surfaces together while Nature’s process necessary for their union is being completed, acting for a slight wound as stitches do in a deep one. But to cover an abrasion or raw surface with it is worse than useless, as it only irritates it. The plea is often advanced that it serves to keep dust and dirt off. A bit of wet linen rag, however, would be far better for that purpose.

Most of the ordinary household cures for chilblains are well enough in their way, but an unfortunate mistake is often committed in applying certain of them, which are fit only for the chilblains in their early stage, to broken ones, setting up thereby great inflammation and producing very painful sores. A broken chilblain is a little ulcer, and must be treated as such. As for the thousand-and-one remedies in vogue for corns, it is wonderful that they should exist at all, since nine people out of ten could cure their own without any application whatever, by wearing properly fitting boots and shoes. It is irregularity of pressure which creates corns; boots which are too big being as productive of the tiny torments as tight ones. A wet rag covered with oiled silk—to retain the moisture—and bound round the corn, is one of the best cures.

A very common but reprehensible practice is that of holding a burn as close to the grate as possible, ‘to draw the fire out’—not out of the fireplace—but from the injured part. It is quite feasible to conceive that such a proceeding may give ease by deadening sensation in some instances; but it by no means follows that it does good or expedites recovery—indeed, we shall see that in such a case the loss of sensation really proves further damage to the tissues. Burns have been divided by surgeons into six classes: (1) Simple scorching, sufficient only to redden the surface. (2) Blistering; the cuticle raised and forming little bladders of water. (3) The skin denuded of its cuticle. This is the most painful stage of all, as it leaves the nerve-ends exposed. (4) Destruction of the entire thickness of the skin; painless or nearly so, because the sensitive nerve-bulbs are destroyed. (5) Destruction of all the soft parts; and (6) charring of the bone—two conditions very difficult to imagine as co-existent with any remnant of life. It can thus be readily understood how a burn of the third order of magnitude can be converted by additional heat into the fourth, and temporary relief from pain purchased by transforming a trifling injury into a serious one, liable to be followed by severe illness and permanent deformity. A most mysterious cause of death after burns is the ulceration and bursting of a certain blood-vessel in the stomach. The connection between the two has never been discovered. People talk about this or that being good for a burn, but not for a scald, or _vice versâ_; but practically no distinction is to be drawn between the two, further than that, as we know the highest temperature of water, we know the utmost limit of injury in a scald, whereas there is no limit to the possibilities of a burn. To keep the air from both is the main object in treatment. Cook, who generally appears on the scene of the disaster with her flour-dredge, is a very efficient surgeon for burns and scalds of the first degree—this little scientific technicality will comfort the sufferer marvellously; but where the skin is raised or broken, something of an oily nature—Carron oil, for instance—should be substituted. Cover it up with lots of cotton-wool, as though you wished to keep it as warm as possible; and, mind, no soap and sugar on any account!

What is the origin of the popular idea that the finger-nails are poisonous to a wound? It does not do a wound much good to scratch it, or indeed touch it, but that is no reason why those useful little shields of our finger-ends should be so libelled. Whence comes the notion that to pierce a girl’s ears and compel her to wear earrings improves her eyesight? Possibly this may have arisen from the fact that medical men sometimes put blisters behind the ears as counter-irritants, to relieve some chronic ophthalmic disorders. Why is a glass of hot rum-and-water with a lump of butter in it not only familiarly prescribed for but familiarly swallowed by catarrh-afflicted mankind? Speaking of colds generally, we may remark in passing that treacle posset, hot gruel, putting the feet in mustard-and-water, &c., are all capital things, but that they effect only the one object of inducing perspiration. There is nothing specifically curative about any of them. It is a mistake, however, to give spirits, negus, or any alcoholic fluids in influenza colds where there is much congestion of the mucous membranes, as it increases the incidental headache.

Some people fancy that a magnet will draw out a needle, broken off short in the hand, even when it has passed in altogether out of sight. When a medical practitioner is called upon to extract a broken needle, he usually finds that it has been driven beyond reach by injudicious squeezing and other futile home-attempts at extraction, for the lightest touch makes a needle travel. A very troublesome class of case this is, owing to the uncertainty of its exact situation, of the direction of its long axis, and of its even being there at all—each sufficient to create the disagreeable possibility of cutting into the flesh without finding it. In such a state of affairs, one might as well put a magnet in the mouth to draw one’s boots on, as to expect to extract the needle by its influence. But a celebrated surgeon, Mr Marshall, has devised an ingenious application of this force for the purpose of detection. A powerful magnet is held upon the part which contains the suspected needle for some time, so as to influence it. Then a finely-hung polarised needle is suspended over it, and is immediately deflected, if any metal be concealed beneath. Never press or squeeze the flesh about a broken needle or bit of glass. If you cannot lay hold of it with the fingers or scissors, or, still better, a pair of tweezers, and pull it right out at once, keep quite still until a doctor has seen it. By so doing, you may save yourself weeks or months of pain, and even possible amputation of a limb.

Tea if taken in excess is indigestible and nerve-destroying; but in sickness this delightful fluid gives a temporary stimulus to the brain, and though possessing no feeding qualities in itself, it prevents or retards the waste of tissue—a property of considerable importance in illness where but little food is taken. Above all, the fact of being allowed one favourite beverage, albeit greatly diluted, when everything else that pertains to the routine of daily life seems interdicted or upset, has a beneficial effect on the patient, who welcomes his cup of weak tea with something of the anticipation of that refreshment and social enjoyment he derives from it under brighter circumstances.

‘Is the bone broken, or only fractured, doctor?’ is an anxious question often asked apropos of an injured limb. Broken and fractured are synonymous terms in surgery, my dear madam—it is always a lady who asks this—but I think I know what you mean. A fully developed bone is rarely cracked—nearly always it snaps in two pieces—but the soft cartilaginous bones of children sometimes sustain what is called a ‘green-stick fracture,’ a name which almost explains itself, meaning that the bone is broken through part of its thickness, but not separated, as happens with the green bough of a tree. Many people have a totally erroneous idea, when an arm or leg is badly bruised only, that it would be better if it were broken. ‘Right across the muscle, too!’ implies that an injury has been received across the upper arm in the region of the biceps, that being the only ‘muscle’ which is honoured by general public recognition. How many people know that what they call their flesh, and the lean part of meat, is nothing but muscles, the pulleys by which every action of the body is performed? Common mistakes lie in trying to ‘walk off’ rheumatism, sprains, and other things which should be kept entirely at rest; and in squeezing collections of matter which have burst or been lanced, with a view to hasten their healing by the more speedy emptying of their contents.

Of late years, the Latin or other scientific equivalents for diseases have crept into general use, with the curious result that in many cases they are taken to mean different things. Scarlatina, for instance, not only sounds much nicer than scarlet fever, but is often considered to be that disease in a milder form; and the identity of pneumonia with inflammation of the lungs, or of gastric with typhoid fever, or of the various terms ending in ‘itis’ with the inflammation they are intended to specify, is far from being universally recognised. Abscess is a better word than ‘gathering;’ and though, on the other hand, ‘tumour’ seems very dreadful, we may find consolation in remembering that after all it only means a swelling, whatever the nature may be, from a gum-boil to a cancer. There is much in a name. Dipsomania sounds much better than the other thing; and kleptomania by any other name would not smell so sweet. Much in a name? I should think so. Read what follows, if you doubt it. When a ship arrives in an English port from abroad, before those on board are allowed to have any communication with the shore, the ship must be declared healthy by the sanitary authorities, who accordingly board her at once, inspect her bills of health, and especially the list of those who have been ill during the voyage. If any of these are entered on the sick-list as having suffered from intermittent fever, printed forms have to be filled up, declarations made and signed, certificates written out, all sorts of questions answered about whether their bedding or clothing has been destroyed; and the men themselves paraded on deck for inspection. But if it is stated, instead, that they have suffered from ague—only another word for intermittent fever—then no notice is taken of it!

After all, there is very little rationale in any amateur system of medicine; all its treatment is purely empirical, and has its root in that love of mysticism which prevails in everything. Medicine, like every other science, is built up of hard, unromantic facts, amenable to the laws of logic and common-sense. The popular idea runs always on specifics. Every bottle in a druggist’s shop is supposed to contain a definite remedy for a definite disease; and the patient weaving of link with link in a chain of logical inferences, of the correlation of causes and effects, which constitutes medical science, is unknown. ‘What’s good for so-and-so?’ is a query constantly put to a doctor; and if he answers honestly, he must confess that in nine cases out of ten he can give no absolute reply, but must preface his words with, ‘That depends!’ Take two very frequent illustrations by way of conclusion. What is ‘good for’ indigestion? and what for a headache? But what is indigestion? Not a disease, but a generic name for fifty different diseases, all attended with the same symptoms in some measure, but proceeding from not only different but often entirely opposite causes. Thus, the pain may be produced by a deficiency or by an excess of the gastric juice; and by any derangement, from a simple error in diet to a cancer; and it requires the practised eye, ear, and hand of the physician to detect and appreciate those minute differences which point to the root of the evil. As for a headache, such a complaint hardly exists _per se_, but is almost invariably a symptom only of some other disorder; and we all know how many varying states of the body will give us headache. Nevertheless, may the practice of domestic medicine and the virtues which go with it long continue in our midst, and let no man be so ill-advised as to banish the harmless little medicine-chest with its associations from his hearth.

OUTWARD AND HOMEWARD BOUND.

Many a long journey by sea and land, in fair weather and in foul, has fallen to my lot; but to none can I look back with such vivid delight as to the first which found me turning from wintry England to seek a perpetual summer beneath Eastern skies.

I fancy every one’s first voyage by one of the P. and O. steam-packets must be a matter of considerable amusement, from the novelty of everything. Perhaps one of the most curious sights is the coming on board of the Indian and Colonial mails. It seems scarcely possible that such a multitude of boxes and sacks as those which lie heaped up in such solid masses can really be all postal matter. A very great man on board is the guardian of Her Majesty’s mails. A man of wondrous authority—occasionally a thorn in the side of the captain, as being the possessor of certain powers of interference or of counsel, rarely, however, brought into action. Then as to fellow-passengers, there is no type of man, woman, or child who is not here represented. Happily, when outward bound, the proportion of children is very small. The return voyage is very different. Perhaps ninety or a hundred children of all sizes and ages, flying from oriental climates, in which young English life cannot flourish, and all more or less spoilt by the care of ayahs and native servants, whose sole idea of training is to give a child whatever it cries for. Imagine the torture which must be inflicted by such an army of babies on the older passengers, probably never, at the best, much addicted to babiolatry, but now rendered doubly irritable by long battles with sun and liver; for on a voyage homeward there are generally a sad proportion of sickly folk; men conscious of possessing a liver, and all manner of other complaints, or, worse still, unconscious alike of life’s cares or pleasures. On our return to England, there were no less than twelve lunatics on board, victims of the combined influence of the sun and the system of incessant ‘pegs,’ alias brandy and soda-water.

Outward bound, we find abundant studies of character in ship-life, where business is laid aside, and in general every one tries to make the best of his neighbours. From the grave old Indian official, returning to his high post in some distant corner of the empire, down to the beardless Competition Wallah, still breathless from the educational high-pressure to which he has been subjected, all minds are naturally more or less tinged with thoughts of the land for which they are bound; and we hear more of Indian and Colonial manners and customs than we should do in a year in Britain. A considerable number of the more energetic set to work at once to learn Hindustani or some other oriental language—generally a fruitless struggle, as only an exceptional few, with wondrous powers of abstraction, can find leisure for any settled work.

Among the small novelties which catch the unaccustomed eye, is the setting of a great dinner-table in stormy weather. The table from end to end is covered with skeleton frames of mahogany, laid over the tablecloth. These are called ‘fiddles,’ and keep your plate from rolling too far. As to your cup or wine-glass, it stands on a swinging table opposite your nose, and preserves so perfect an equilibrium, that in the wildest storm, not one drop of the contents is spilt. How the stewards manage to wait, and the cooks to cook, for such a multitude, in such a rolling and turmoil, and in such limited space, is a matter for perpetual wonder and admiration. If you go for’ard, you will find a regular town—butcher’s shop and baker’s shop, carpenter’s shop and engineer’s shop, tailors and laundrymen—that is, sailors doing amateur work; and as to the live-stock, there are sheep and pigs, and cows and oxen, and poultry of every description; in short, a regular farmyard; and I think some of the big children find as much amusement as the little ones in that corner of the ship.

One thing startling to a new traveller is the rapidity with which time changes. He finds his watch going very wrong, and perhaps, for the first day or two, is weak enough to alter it, till he finds it simpler to count ‘bells’ after the manner of the sea. Speaking of hours, one of the many small gambling devices to relieve the tedium of the voyage is a system of sweepstakes as to the exact moment when the vessel will drop anchor at any given port, tickets being issued for every five or ten minutes of the expected forenoon or afternoon, and the winnings being sometimes presented to a Sailors’ Orphan Fund. Some of my fellow-travellers have told me that in long weary voyages they had been driven to institute races for short distances, the steeds being cheese-mites, or maggots carefully extracted from the nuts. These races at last became positively exciting; and the same creatures being preserved from day to day, were, if of approved speed, worth small fortunes to their owners. A very swift maggot would sell for a large sum! Fly loo was another favourite game, but happily, we have never had occasion to try such singular amusements. There are games at Bull for those who want exercise; and sedentary games and books, and singing and chatting, for sociable folk. For my part, being an unsocial sort of animal, I think that ‘to be talked to all day’ is the sum of human misery, as much on board ship as on land. So, on my memorable first voyage, when all was new and delightful, I soon discovered a quiet nook on the top of the deck cabin, right astern, where, with infinite satisfaction, I established myself, and there read in peace, no one venturing to invade that haven of refuge save under a solemn vow of silence. But when the light began to wane, the silence was no more; for the sons and daughters of music there assembled, and as there were several good voices and a first-rate leader, the glees and choruses were sometimes very effective.

Thus pleasantly day and night slipped by in quick succession. Casual acquaintanceships ripened into lifelong friendships; and when at length we reached our journey’s end, the joy of arrival was tempered by true regret for the break-up of a pleasant party, and the dispersion of many friends, of whom the majority in all probability might never meet again.

* * * * *

A brief year passed away—a year of ever-changing delight in the wondrous Indian land, and ere we realised that our allotted twelve months were over, we found ourselves numbered with _The Homeward Bound_. Very different was our return journey from the last. Instead of finding ourselves surrounded by a superabundance of bright energetic life, our companions were almost all on the sick-list, as few people who were not driven home by illness, would exchange an Indian winter for the chilly frosts and snows of England. Instead of the continuous sunshine of our outward journey, we had bitter winds and sharp storms, and though we were too good sailors to be thereby affected, some of our neighbours were wretched enough.

But the saddest change of all was the long list of funerals, which, commencing ere we left the deep-blue Indian Ocean, only ended as we neared the English shores. Sometimes we heard the beautiful words of the solemn funeral service read in the quiet moonlight, and sometimes when we could scarcely distinguish a word for the howling of the storm and roar of waters, and only knew by the sad, earnest faces of sailors and soldiers crowding round, that the uncoffined clay, which lay so still beneath the outspread Union-jack, was about to be committed to the deep. The first who thus ‘fell asleep’ was a little child, on whom the tropical sun had laid its fiery finger. Not all the ice of Himla could cool the burning of that fevered, throbbing brow; and the wistful baby-eyes looked vainly up, in piteous mute appeal, to those who knew too bitterly how utterly powerless they were to help. But when the red glowing sun sank below the mellow waters, that tender spirit rose to its Home, far beyond the stars; and loving hands laid the tiny marble form in a pure white shell, meet for so fair a pearl. Then kind, warm-hearted British tars covered that little coffin with England’s flag, and laid it down gently and reverently, standing round bareheaded in the warm southern moonlight, while holy words were uttered as the little white coffin sank down into the quiet depths of that wondrously blue sea.

A few more days went by, and again the Angel of Death was among us. This time he came to call away a poor fellow with the frame of a young giant, who but a few months before had left the Emerald Isle in glowing health and strength, but who now wearily dragged himself along sun-stricken, utterly unconscious that the shadow of the angel’s wing already darkened over him; only craving once more to reach the old home, where mother and sisters would welcome him. But when the sun rose, one cold, bleak morning, we were told he had passed away in the night. We were on the Red Sea; but it was bitterly cold and stormy, and the dull, drear, wintry winds were echoing over bleak bare shores, and sighing among the masts and rigging. Even the sea was leaden-hued; and when the funeral service was read, and the body lowered into the sullen waves, the pale sunrise was overclouded by a heavy drifting shower. It was the saddest, dreariest funeral at which I was ever present. In the cabin next to his was another victim of the sun—a handsome young bride, with mind, alas! all unstrung. Of course she could not have known what was passing so near, yet, through all those sad hours she kept on crooning a low plaintive song, telling how

Somebody’s darling, so young, and so fair,
Somebody’s darling lay dying there.

An hour later we lay-to, off the wreck of the ill-fated _Carnatic_, the property of the same Company as the ship in which we sailed; which, but a few weeks previously, had, one Sunday night, in calmest weather, diverged but a little from her course, and struck upon a hidden coral reef. There she lay all the long day in the sunshine. So little was danger suspected, that not even Her Majesty’s mails, or the precious human lives on board, were landed on the island of Shadwan, which lay at a distance of about three miles; and where all might have found a safe refuge. Meals continued to be served with the usual wonderful regularity; and between whiles, the passengers amused themselves with angling for fish of dazzling colours, which swarmed all round the coral rock. In short, the affair seems to have been treated in the light of a summer picnic, till the dread moment when, at midnight, the vessel suddenly parted mid-ships and went down. Thus, like another _Royal George_, the good ship suddenly foundered in a calm sea, carrying with her many a brave British heart. Some good swimmers, though carried down with the swirl, struggled to the surface, and after many a hard blow from floating spars and luggage, escaped with their lives; and a few boats likewise got beyond the reach of the whirlpool. It was Tuesday night before the survivors were all safe on the isle of Shadwan; and of their goods, only one dressing-bag and one dry box of matches had escaped. Some huge bales of dry cotton had, however, been cast ashore, so tightly packed that the centre was still quite dry. This they heaped up as material for a bonfire, wherewith to greet the first sail that hove in sight; and while some stood by, ready to kindle the blaze, others rowed out to sea again, taking with them their only rocket. They had not long to wait. Soon a great steamer belonging to the same Company drew near, and the Homeward-bound rescued the survivors of the Outward-bound, whose journey sunward had been thus sadly damped at the outset. All we saw of the wreck were the extreme tips of the masts appearing above the waters, to mark where the divers were even then at work, seeking to rescue property of all sorts. The mails had previously been rescued, and many half-legible letters had reached India before we had sailed thence.

Strangely, in truth, fell our Christmas Eve, as we landed, on the dull shore of Suez, where, on a little sandy island, so many of England’s sons, ‘homeward-bound,’ sleep their last sleep beneath the burning sun; and as we stood in the starlight, watching the last of our companions hurrying on to Alexandria, it was hard indeed to realise that festive Yule had found us in such dreary quarters. Nor—for it was before the Suez Canal days—did it mend matters much to spend our Christmas Day whirling across the Desert in an Egyptian railway. But when evening brought us to the green banks of the Nile, we were content.

OCCASIONAL NOTES.

WHY DO WE NOW DRINK LESS COFFEE?

For many years past it has been plainly apparent that there has been a decline in the consumption of coffee; and while the use of spirits, wine, tobacco, tea, and cocoa has considerably increased, that of coffee has fallen off to a considerable extent. Dr Wallace, F.R.S.E., in a paper read before the Society of Public Analysts, is of opinion that the people of this country are losing their taste for coffee because of the difficulty of obtaining it in a pure state. About the time when the consumption per head was highest, coffee began to be adulterated with chicory, and now this is done so universally, that many people prefer the mixture to pure coffee, and few know the taste of the genuine article.

When travelling on the continent, the tourist enjoys the fragrant cup; but the beverage supplied at the best hotels and restaurants in this country is not coffee, but a mixture of that substance with chicory, in the proportion of three-fourths to one-third of the whole, and sometimes more. As Dr Wallace correctly says, this substance may be described as chicory flavoured with coffee. Chicory being bitter, with three times the colouring power of coffee, gives it the appearance of great strength; but it should always be remembered that it contains no caffeine, and wants the exhilarating qualities for which good coffee is partaken. The sooner the public awakens to a sense of this fact, the better.

Pure coffee can be had; but it is only sold with a grudge, for the grocer has his chief profit in the chicory with which it is adulterated. To show where the profit lies, take the case of a particular coffee sold in tins, which contains one part of coffee to three parts of chicory, and is sold at one-and-fourpence per pound. The coffee in a pound of it costs, retail, say sevenpence, the chicory, say fourpence, tins, say threepence, profit twopence—total, one-and-fourpence. But the purchaser gets no value except the sevenpenceworth of coffee, the chicory only adding colour, bitterness, and body, so that he pays one-and-fourpence for sevenpenceworth of coffee.

Amongst the other substances used to adulterate coffee in order to yield a higher profit to the dealer, are burnt sugar or caramel, dried and roasted figs, dried dates, date-stones, decayed ships’ biscuits, beans, peas, acorns, malt, dandelion root, turnips, carrots, parsnips, and mangold-wurzel, all of which are roasted in imitation of coffee. There is little wonder, therefore, that coffee, which lends itself so easily to unprincipled adulteration, is becoming unpopular. According to Dr Wallace, the quantity used per head in 1843 was 1.1 lb., increasing up to 1848, when it was 1.37 lb. It has since slowly but steadily declined, especially since 1853, and is now only .89 lb.; a decrease since 1843 of nineteen per cent., and since 1853 of fifty-four per cent. About five pounds of tea per head are consumed to one of coffee. In France, with a heavier duty, the consumption of coffee is 3.23 lbs. a head; Germany and Holland, 5.3 lbs.; Switzerland, 6.68 lbs.; Italy, only 1.05 lb.; while Belgium is largest of all, being 9 lbs. a head. The total consumption in Europe is about four hundred thousand tons, of which Great Britain used fourteen thousand tons in 1880. In the same year, about six thousand tons of chicory were retained for home consumption, which is an index to the extent of the adulteration. When the public taste ceases to lend itself to coffee adulterated with chicory and other rubbish, and when folks have acquired the art of making it properly, then the beverage might take the high place in general estimation to which it is justly entitled.

ABNORMAL HUMANITY.

A new phenomenon has lately appeared in Paris in the shape of a man with a head resembling that of a calf. The similarity is said to be wonderful. For his own sake, it is to be hoped that this eccentric-looking person will prove as great a financial success as his three recent celebrated predecessors—the Man-frog, the man with a goose’s head, and the Man-dog, who have all retired into private life, having made a nice little fortune. The Man-frog was first exhibited in 1866, at a French country fête. He had a stout ill-shapen body, covered with a skin like a leather bottle, and a face exactly like a frog’s, large eyes, an enormous mouth, and the skin cold and clammy. He attracted a good deal of attention from the Academy of Medicine, and a delegate was deputed to make him an object of study. He went all over France; and at the end of a few years, retired to his native place, Puyre, in Gers.

The man with the goose’s head was first shown at the Gingerbread Fair in 1872. He was twenty years of age, had round eyes, a long and flat nose the shape and size of a goose’s bill, an immensely long neck, and was without a single hair on his head. He only wanted feathers to make him complete. The effect of his interminably long neck twisting about was extremely ludicrous, and was so much appreciated, that his receipts were very large. He now passes under his proper name of Jean Rondier, and is established at Dijon as a photographer. He is married; and, thanks to enormously high collars and a wig, is now tolerably presentable.

The Man-dog came from Russia, and was for a long time exhibited in Paris. He is now settled at Pesth, having established a bird-fancier’s business there, which is decidedly flourishing.

THE SOLITARY SINGER.

Sweet singer!—sweet to hear when only one
Among the thousand voices of the spring
Thou carollest—how sweeter far, alone
And all unrivalled, art thou wont to fling
The spell of music o’er the list’ning air
From yon drear spray by winter’s blight left bare.

Say what the burden of that patient strain
Which answer seeketh none, but ever forth
Is poured, and by itself its own refrain,
Still echo’d, findeth—save that from the North
Responsive plainings through the leafless tree
Mingle, methinks, with thine in sympathy.

It cannot but be sad—a low-tuned sigh
For lost delights thy callow youth once knew,
When all the grove was blossom, all the sky
A smile above thee, and the glad hours flew
Unmarred from when thy notes brought in the day,
Till evening’s hush was mellowed by thy lay.

It cannot all be sad—some sweet alloy
Of Hope would seem to tremble through thy song,
And serve, when all thy mates are mute, to buoy
Thy heart, though clouds across thy heaven throng,
Though strewn all blossom, and the rude winds’ brawl
Sound the sad dirge of twilight’s sombre fall.

Whate’er it be, clear-throated, soft, and low,
It woos the stern hour with a lulling tone,
According well with streams that whispering flow
Ice-muffled, with the sound of sere leaves blown
In rustling eddies ’neath their parent shade,
Where Autumn’s glory by the wind is laid.

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[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 294: generelly to generally—“generally abortive”.]