Chapter II: Part 2

The journalist has no time to pick his words or sort his sentences with care. Once he has parted company with his MS., or as it is technically termed ‘copy,’ it is, as a rule, a case of ‘what I have written, I have written;’ so that, given an easy-going ‘press-reader,’ the supplier of news is likely enough to have reason to fret and fume when he sees himself in print; deriving little consolation from knowing that slipshod writing oftentimes makes very funny reading. Assuredly it is amusing to read one morning that the authorities of Alexandria are busily engaged disaffecting that, by all accounts, already sufficiently disaffected city; and the next, to learn our Canadian cousins are discussing the possibility of the abduction of Her Most Gracious Majesty. For these items of news we may be indebted to the compositor’s maladroit intervention; but that convenient scapegoat is hardly answerable for the statement that an opera by Signor Riaci, ‘the son and nephew of the composer of that name,’ had been well received at Vienna; nor can he be held responsible for the information that a town in America rejoices in a Society ‘for the prevention of cruelty to animals with upwards of a hundred dollars in the bank;’ and that a certain event occurred on the night of the twenty-fifth of May, at about two o’clock in the morning.

It may be taken for granted that the rising School of Art is in the ascendant; it is easy to believe in an overcome toper being found ‘with a pint-pot in his hand, which he could not drink;’ but some of the statements made in the newspapers tax one’s credulity overmuch. Lenient as magistrates are towards feminine offenders, they would scarcely content themselves with fining a virago for ‘breaking her mother-in-law’s arm by weekly instalments.’ Good bats as there are in the Surrey Eleven, we must take leave to doubt that one of them scored seven hundred and twelve runs in an innings. And clever as French doctors may be, they are not so clever as a Paris correspondent makes out, when, relating the discovery of a murder in that city, he tells us that ‘the only portion of the body not entirely destroyed was the left foot; and a medical examination of the remains proved that the man had been killed by blows on the head.’

Shakspeare was wrong in supposing there was any bourne from which no traveller could return. Glorifying the doings of Nares’s band of Arctic explorers, a leader-writer said: ‘From the leader of the expedition, who occupied the crow’s-nest until he was overcome by exhaustion, to the humblest seaman who died from fatigue and cold, all have earned the rewards of heroes, and have come back laden with stores of knowledge.’ An unlucky workman overbalancing himself and tumbling from his airy perch into the street, we read: ‘The deceased was seen to pitch head foremost from the scaffold, and little hopes are entertained of his recovery.’ Perhaps the deceased might have got over it, had his doctor been as devoted as the gentleman called in to do his best for a poor hurt lad, who ‘was in frequent attendance upon him after the inquest.’ Not, it may be hoped, from the remorseful feeling actuating his professional brother into writing: ‘This is to certify that I attended Mrs S. during her last illness, and that she died in consequence thereof.’

Here is a nut for lovers of arithmetical riddles to crack at their leisure; we give it up: ‘The diamond wedding of Major-general Lennox and his wife was celebrated on Saturday, at their house in Kelvinside. The General was born in Scotland in the year 1727, and was married on the 2d of December 1882, in the city of Cawnpore, to Mademoiselle de Laval, born in 1806, who had arrived at the French settlements in India with her parents from Mauritius, when that island passed in 1810 from the hands of the French into the possession of the English. General Lennox served in India for forty-three years. He went through the Cabul wars of 1839-43; assisted at the capture of Ghuznee, Khelat, Kandahar, Cabul, Gwalior, and was present at the battle of Sobraon. With his wife and youngest daughter, he was miraculously preserved during the Indian Mutiny of 1857. General Lennox retired from the service in 1860.’ After that, there is nothing surprising in a certain baronet being ‘born in Paris in 1844, and married in 1827.’

Reporting the death of a cricketer from taking carbolic acid in mistake for black draught, an Irish newspaper said: ‘The shopman filled the draught bottle out of a carbolic acid jar, instead of that marked “Senna Mixture,” though his orders were never to do so unless under supervision.’ Anticipating the death of a whale exhibited at the inaptly named Royal Aquarium at Westminster, a London paper observed: ‘It will make excellent porpoise-skin boots.’ Relating a chase after a native robber, an Indian paper said: ‘A Bheel outlaw, fleeing for the jungle, saw his comrades captured one by one, then followed his horse and his wife, and the wretched man at last found that his only companion was his mother-in-law. He thereupon gave way to despair, and was taken by the police without further trouble.’ Noticing the meeting of a new organisation called the Grand State Defenders, a New York journal said the members were bound by a solemn oath ‘never to leave the state, except in the case of an invasion by a foreign foe.’ In each case the satiric insinuation is plain enough. Whether it is intentional or not, would require some skill at thought-reading to decide.

It is well for an English soldier to be equal to a sea-voyage; but it is not generally known that it is requisite he should be familiar with life on the ocean wave. Such is the case, however, or a journalist protesting against the Duke of Connaught’s promotion to a major-generalship, on the ground that ‘he never went to sea unless it was absolutely necessary,’ is as much out of his reckoning as the correspondent representing M. Paul Bert as telling the people of Grenoble: ‘We have enemies whom their triumph has not satiated. Their appetites command us to be watchful; and once our military education is made, and our army thoroughly organised, we shall be able to say to our foes: “Take care! _twelve hundred_ citizens are arrayed in arms before you. They are all ready; they are all united. Do not touch France!”’

The London shopkeeper’s ‘Boots sold and healed while you wait,’ is not so likely to attract customers as the more pronounced orthographical eccentricities of the Gloucestershire gardener, having ‘sallery plants for zale,’ and ready to supply all comers with kalleflour, brokaler, weentur greens, raggit jak, rottigurs cale, and sprouiting brokla. But it would be hard to resist the temptation of assisting at a dramatic entertainment lightened by the musical performances of ‘a band of amateur gentlemen;’ and still harder to refuse to take a ticket for a cricket-match, knowing ‘the entire proceeds are for the benefit of the late Isaac Johnson, who is totally unprovided for;’ but the loyal natives of the Principality were not to be persuaded into joining a proposed Welsh Land League by the suggestion that they might ‘send in their names anonymously.’

When the inhabitants of a French town complained of being disturbed by the explosion of shells, the discharge of cannon, and the rattle of small-arms at a mimic presentment of the bombardment of Plevna, the authorities sent a written notice to those concerned, informing them that for the future, Plevna must be bombarded at the point of the bayonet. The guardians of public property at Concord, Massachusetts, posted up placards offering a reward for the apprehension and conviction of persons guilty of ‘girdling’ the trees in the school-house yard, and promising the payment of a suitable reward ‘for anything of the kind that may hereafter be done to any of the trees in the streets.’ Of course, they no more meant what they said, than did the Commissioners of National Education in Ireland, when, in a Report, signed by four professors, they stated that the female teachers ‘were instructed in plain cooking, had, in fact, to go through the process of cooking themselves in their turn;’ a specimen of official English upon a par with the inscription telling visitors to Kew: ‘This Gallery, containing studies from Nature, painted by her in various lands, was given in 1882 to these Gardens by Marianne Hope.’

A scientific writer asks us to believe that on placing a decapitated frog at the bottom of a vessel filled with water, the animal rises to the surface, and keeps itself there, with its head in the air; or if the frog be placed in the same vessel, under an inverted glass, filled with water, it behaves in the same manner. Some folks hold novel-reading in contempt, but it is astonishing what a deal of information may be gathered from novels. For instance, we have learned that Scylla was a dandy; that Miss Hardcastle was the heroine of Sheridan’s best comedy; that a haggis is a dish peculiar to Ireland; that it usually snows upon the Derby Day; that lilacs and violets bloom amid the hues of ripening fruit; that heather blooms on the Scottish hills in the month of May; that the drones of the hive are given to toiling overmuch; that ibis-shooting is the favourite pastime of Tyrolese sportsmen; that rising barristers shrug their shoulders under rustling silk gowns; that the Victoria Cross is won by a hundred deeds of disciplined valour; that an officer can draw half-pay after selling out; and that our best bred Englishwomen are very rarely of the same name as the men they have married. One would not care to make the acquaintance of an Olympian girl with pagan eyes full of nocturnal mysteries; or desire the company of a lady ‘only a simulacrum of femininity,’ or of a gentleman deserving to be described as a small Vesuvius tabernacling in corporalities; while a lip that owes no man anything and only bows to its maker, and a castle in the air overstepping all difficulties and all rancour, are altogether beyond appreciation or comprehension. Perhaps the ladies and gentlemen who delight in mystifying such readers as they may have, are urged to it as Balzac was. Asked to explain an abstruse passage in one of his books, he frankly owned it had no meaning at all. ‘You see,’ said he, ‘for the average reader all that is clear seems easy; and if I did not sometimes give him a complicated and meaningless sentence, he would think he knew as much as myself. But when he comes upon something he cannot comprehend, he re-reads it, puzzles over it, takes his head between his hands, and glares at it; and finding it impossible to make head or tail of it, says—“Great man, Balzac; he knows more than I do!”’

CHEWTON-ABBOT.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.

Frank laughed at the idea of Mrs Abbot kneeling at his feet; and had not the least intention of sending Millicent’s address.

He saw little of any one for the next few days except Millicent. His poor friend Mr John Jones called several times, but each time found him absent.

‘Your master is neglecting his business,’ he said sternly to Frank’s small clerk.

‘Got something pleasanter to attend to,’ said the youth with a wink. He was a sharp lad, and able to form his own opinions.

One day towards the end of the week, Mr Jones did succeed in catching his young friend, and, moreover, in smoking the whole of a long cigar in his society. ‘Look here, Abbot,’ he said, ‘what’s up with you? Are you going to be married?’

‘Yes,’ said Frank; ‘I am.’

‘Thought so,’ said Mr Jones. ‘When?’

‘Next Tuesday,’ answered Frank as laconically as his strange friend.

‘Girl got money?’

‘No; poorer than I am.’

‘That’s bad. Tell me all about it.’

Every man in Frank’s plight likes a friend to unburden his heart to; so Mr Jones had the whole history of his love affair, from the moment his mother intervened down to the present happy time. Frank waxed so eloquent, that his friend’s eyes glistened, and when the history was finished, he grasped the young man’s hand, and wished him good wishes which were certainly heartfelt.

‘I have a favour to ask,’ he said, in a very humble way, quite different from his usual energetic style of talking. ‘I haven’t known you long, so it’s presumption on my part. But I’ve grown very fond of you. May I come to the church and see you married?’

‘You may be best-man, if you like; or you can give the bride away. It will save us having recourse to the sexton.—Only on one condition, though,’ continued Frank, struck by a sudden thought; ‘that is, you don’t go making absurd presents.’

‘I must give you something.’

‘Give me a box of cigars, then.’

‘Very well,’ said Mr Jones. ‘But you’re disgustingly proud.’

So it was settled. To Frank’s great relief—for he disliked paining the man by refusing anything—Mr Jones brought him a box of his big cigars, and on the Tuesday morning accompanied him to the quiet town church, where in due time Millicent appeared, accompanied by her distant relative. Mr John Jones acted in his twofold capacity with great decorum. Frank had laughingly told Millicent of the strange arrangement he had made. She raised no objection. ‘What does it matter,’ she said, ‘so long as we are really married?’ So, when the clergyman asked who gave this woman, &c., Mr Jones stepped forward and performed the office. When the ceremony was over, and the happy pair stepping into the carriage, thinking, no doubt, his services entitled him to some reward, he kissed the bride on her forehead—a proceeding which rather staggered Frank, although, as Millicent did not seem annoyed, he said nothing.

‘That old Jones is a strange fellow,’ he said, as Millicent and he were safely ensconced in the brougham.

‘Yes. How long have you known him?’

‘Only a week or two—quite a chance acquaintance.’

‘Chance acquaintances are not to be depended upon,’ said Mrs Frank Abbot sententiously.

Then, as was but natural, they talked of other things, and dismissed Mr John Jones from their happy minds.

During the last week, they had held many debates as to where they should spend the honeymoon. As yet, they had only partially settled the important point. By Millicent’s express wish, the first week was to be passed at Clifton. ‘Dear old Clifton!’ she said. ‘We met there first; remember that, sir!’ Frank did not particularly want to go to Clifton, but he yielded without a murmur. Whether it should be Switzerland, Italy, France, Scotland, or Ireland afterwards, was to be decided at their leisure. So the brougham drove to Paddington, and Mr and Mrs Frank Abbot took the train for the west.

They spent five happy days at Clifton; although they knew the scenery by heart, it looked more beautiful than ever under the present auspices. Then Frank began to talk about going elsewhere; but Millicent seemed in no hurry to make a move. ‘I wonder, Frank,’ she said one evening, ‘you don’t go over and have a look at your old home.’

‘I haven’t the heart to go,’ sighed Frank. ‘I might have gone by myself; but I can’t stand it with you. I shall be thinking all the while how you would have graced it.’

‘Who lives there now?’

‘A Mr Tompkinson—a London merchant.’

‘I should so like to see the place, Frank! Do take me to-morrow.’

Frank, who, in truth, was longing to have a look at the old place, consented. They decided to go the next day. ‘We will have a carriage, and drive,’ said Frank.

‘What extravagance!’ said Millicent.

‘Never mind. I shall only be married once. When our honeymoon is over, we will go in for strict economy.’

Millicent agreed to this. So a carriage was hired the next morning, and they started for Frank’s ancestral home.

It was a lovely September morning; the air was fresh and exhilarating. As soon as the dark dusty city was left behind, Millicent’s spirits rose to a mad pitch, which Frank, with all his newly married adoration, fancied was not quite in keeping with what was to him at least a sort of solemn pilgrimage. She caught hold of his hands and squeezed them, she laughed and talked; in fact, generally misconducted herself. Frank had never seen her in such a mood before. He was fain to believe that she was forcing her merriment, to show him how little she cared for the loss of the wealth she would have shared. Nevertheless, as each landmark came in sight, and at last he knew that he was passing through lands which one day should have been his, he grew gloomy, moody, and miserable. Millicent saw what passed through his mind; she sank into silence; an occasional pressure of the hand only reminding him that at least he had her.

Presently he stopped the carriage. ‘You can get the best view of the dear old house from here,’ he said.

‘Let us get out,’ said his wife.

They alighted, and for some minutes stood looking at the long gray house. Frank’s eyes were full of tears.

‘Can’t we go over the house?’ asked Millicent.

‘By permission of Mr Tompkinson, no doubt; but he is a stranger to me, so I don’t care to ask it.’

‘But I want to see the inside so much, Frank; you have described it to me so often. Let us go up and ask if we can go over it.’

The idea of asking leave to go over Chewton Hall was more than Frank could bear. ‘I would much rather not,’ he said.

‘But I want to go, Frank,’ said Millicent, pouting. ‘No one will know us, so what does it matter?’

Frank still shook his head and raised objections. If there was one thing above another he hated, it was asking favours of strangers. Chewton Hall was not a show-place. It boasted no specimens of interesting architecture; it possessed no gallery of paintings. As likely as not, when they reached the door and preferred their request, some flunky of this fellow Tompkinson’s would order them off the grounds. In short, sorry as he was to disappoint his wife, Mr Abbot firmly refused to ask leave to go over the Hall. Thereupon he discovered that he had married a young woman who had no intention of giving him abject obedience.

‘It’s very unkind of you,’ she said. ‘I _will_ go over the place. If you won’t come, I shall go alone.’ She turned away, pushed the lodge-gate open in a most unceremonious way, and was twenty yards up the drive before her husband had recovered from his surprise. At first, he resolved to leave her to her fate; but that seemed an unkind thing to do. After all, she wanted to look over his old home solely for love of him. He could not let her go alone; besides, as he was hesitating, she turned and beckoned to him. So he walked after her.

As soon as Millicent had satisfied herself that her husband was following her, she quickened her pace to such an extent, that without actually running, he could not overtake her. Arguing that a man’s running after a woman up a stranger’s carriage-drive was not a dignified preparation to asking a favour, Frank followed his wife at a reasonable pace; and when he came up to her, found her standing at the door of the Hall in conversation with an elderly woman, who was evidently a housekeeper. Frank thought this good woman eyed him very curiously and suspiciously.

‘It’s all right, Frank,’ said Millicent, turning her smiling face to him. ‘We may go over the Hall. Mr Tompkinson is not here at present.’

‘Please, walk in,’ said the housekeeper, dropping a courtesy.

Millicent did so; and Frank followed her, sulkily. He did not approve of the proceedings. As his wife had forced him to the house, he had determined to send his card up to Mr Tompkinson, trusting that his former connection with the place would excuse the liberty he was taking. But he did not like this going behind the man’s back, and felt sure that Millicent had been smoothing the way with a bribe.

‘That’s the drawing-room—the dining-room—library—billiard-room,’ said the housekeeper, jerking her finger at the doors in succession. ‘Please, walk through them; and ring when you’d like to go up-stairs and see the view.’

Therewith the woman vanished, after giving Millicent a knowing look, which Frank felt sure spoke of wholesale bribery.

‘I say, Millicent,’ said Frank, ‘we can’t go walking about a man’s house alone, in this fashion.’

‘My dear,’ said Millicent very seriously, ‘I pledged my honour we would pocket nothing.’ Then she broke into an hysterical little laugh; and Frank wondered what had come to his wife.

‘Let us go to the drawing-room first,’ she said, recovering her gravity, and opening the door pointed out by the housekeeper.

Frank passed through the doorway, and for a moment could think of nothing but how he should keep himself from quite breaking down. The room looked almost the same as when he last entered it—the same as he had known it from his earliest days. Every chair and table the same, or apparently so. Then he remembered that the purchaser of the house had also bought nearly all the household furniture. At the time, he was glad to think the old place would not be dismantled; now he regretted it had not been. The presence of the well-remembered Lares and Penates left the old home unchanged in all—save that it was no longer his home. There was the very stool on which as a boy he used to sit at his mother’s feet; there was the wonderful Japanese cabinet, with dozens of little lackered drawers, which used to be opened now and again as a great treat to him. And here was he standing in the middle of these old household gods, by permission of another man’s servant. He wished he had been firm, and not yielded to Millicent’s whim.

His heart was too full for words. He turned away from his wife, who was watching him earnestly, turned away, not willing she should see how much he was affected. He opened the door of the conservatory and passed out among the flowers. Even the flowers looked the same. The red stars of taxonia shone from the green clouds above as of old. The large heliotrope against the wall was in full blossom. The great centre tree-palm was still there. The fountain played as of old, and splashed down on the goldfish swimming in the basin. How well he remembered when his great delight was to be lifted up to look at those red and white carp! He could stand these memories no longer. Let him go away—out of the house—never to come near it again. He went back to the room to find Millicent. The room was untenanted. He supposed his wife, taking advantage of the accorded permission, had extended her researches. He looked in the dining-room. As the old family portraits had been bought by his own people, this room did not appeal to him so much. He glanced round; Millicent was not there. He walked across the hall and opened the library door. He did not notice whether this room was changed or not. He had eyes for one thing only, and, perhaps, a more astonishing sight was never seen by a six days’ bridegroom. Here was Millicent—his wife, her hat and mantle thrown off, absolutely sitting on the knee of a gentleman; moreover, with her arms twined round his neck, her cheek resting against his, and so concealing his features from her outraged husband, who no doubt would have rushed to immolate his supposed rival, had not Millicent, without changing her position, looked at him with eyes so full of love, tenderness, and triumph, that Frank Abbot stood rooted to the ground, and wondered why he should be dreaming in broad daylight. Then he grew very pale, all sorts of wild things rushing into his head. He managed to take a step or two forward; and Millicent jumping off her human perch, rushed to meet him, threw her arms round his neck, sobbed and laughed, and all the while ejaculated: ‘My darling—my darling! My own love! To think it should be through me! My own dear husband!’

She kissed him and embraced him in so fervent a manner, that his attention could scarcely be given elsewhere; but the impression grew upon him that over her shoulder, sitting in the chair from which she had sprung, was his chance acquaintance, Mr John Jones.

‘What—does—it all mean?’ gasped Mr Abbot, as his wife subsided on his shoulder.—‘Mr Jones, you here! What does it mean?’

Mr Jones rose from his chair and held out his hand. ‘Shake hands, Frank,’ he said. ‘It means this. I told you you’d have to take something from me, proud as you were. You’ve taken my daughter, at anyrate.’

‘But’——

‘Yes; I know. I’m Keene, not Jones. That girl of mine is a romantic, obstinate child. I’m an old fool, and ought to be ashamed of myself; but it did me good to find she was going to marry a man who thought she hadn’t a penny-piece to her name. Shake hands, Frank.’

‘But—here!’ ejaculated Frank.

‘Yes, here. In my house; or rather, in yours and Millicent’s. The truth is, when we landed in England, the first paper Milly saw held an advertisement, saying this place was for sale. She made me go the next day and buy it, stock, lock, and barrel. Now you know all.’

‘O Frank!’ interposed Millicent, ‘forgive me—I had been in England four months before I wrote to you! Do forgive me, Frank! They were very long months.’

As Frank gave her a passionate kiss, she supposed herself forgiven. Mr Keene drew out his cigar-case.

‘Now all’s settled,’ he said, ‘I’ll send and tell your carriage to go back. You can drive into Clifton this evening and fetch your luggage.’

‘Stop a moment!’ said Frank. ‘Mr Keene, I am too bewildered to say all I want to; but it must be clearly understood that I am not going to be a dependent on your bounty.’

‘I always told you, you were absurdly proud,’ growled Mr Keene.

‘I will not. Had I known that you had purchased my father’s estate, I could not have married Millicent. I would not have let the world call me a fortune-hunter.’

Mrs Frank Abbot glanced at her father. ‘I told you what he was, papa,’ she said. Then turning to Frank: ‘Will you kindly look at me, sir, and tell me how I have changed so greatly that people will think I am only worth marrying for my money?’

To this challenge Frank made no reply, in words. Then he took his wife’s hand. ‘Millicent,’ he said, ‘shall it be clearly understood that you are the wife of a poor man—that you will be happy when I ask you to leave this and come to London with me, while I work at my profession as before?’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ growled Mr Keene. But Millicent looked into her husband’s face and whispered: ‘My darling love, your wishes shall be mine!’

Then Mr Keene went out and sent the carriage away.

It is a great temptation to describe the meeting between Mrs Abbot and her daughter-in-law. The elder lady’s surprise and joy simply beggar description. Loving her son as she really did, the reversionary restoration was as much a satisfaction to her as if her own husband had been reinstated. The meeting between the two ladies was embarrassing for both to look forward to; but it went off to perfection. Mrs Abbot, all smiles and sweetness, embraced her daughter-in-law, and said: ‘My dear, I told you that under other circumstances we should be great friends. We shall be so now—shall we not?’ It was a graceful, if not an unworldly apology; and as Millicent returned her kiss and begged her to forget what had happened, Mrs Abbot hung round the girl’s neck a diamond cross, which, being her own personal property, had survived the wreck; and after this, a peace was established which as yet has not been broken.

* * * * *

Did Frank Abbot continue to work as hard at his profession as he had resolved to do? The events above recorded are of comparatively recent date. So I can say with truth that he is still a working member of the bar, and is supposed to be making a fair income. As Mr Keene had not the least intention of allowing his daughter to go empty-handed to a husband, however quixotic he might be, the young couple have always been far away from the poverty which one of them was continually harping upon. The last I heard about them is that Mr Keene, who, since his daughter’s marriage, has spent most of his time in London, told Frank roundly, that unless he would bring Millicent back to Chewton, throw his pride to the winds, and live at the Hall as his forefathers had lived—acting, if he liked, for conscience’ sake, as bailiff or manager of the estate—he, Mr Keene, would at once sell the place, and invest the proceeds in something more profitable than a large house in which he could not live alone, or acres about which he cared nothing.

Millicent, who thinks Frank looking pale and fagged, and is quite sure that London air does not suit the baby, seconds her father’s appeals with eloquent looks; and Frank, who has formed an affectionate regard for Mr Keene, and who finds that, with such attractions at home, circuit-going is dreary work, certainly wavers in his determination; so it is more than likely that one day the bar will lose what might have been a distinguished ornament to it, and that Chewton Hall will once more have a proper master and mistress.

ACROBATS.

The following sketch of a certain gymnast’s professional origin and career may not be without interest to the reader, since it presents an entire departure from the usually recognised methods of training athletes—a departure which, though exceptional, is by no means unique. The performer who furnished me with the narration is one of the best flying trapezists of the day, and has invented several novel and clever specialities of a ‘lofty’ character, in which he takes part with his wife and a female apprentice. Taking the liberty of excising much collateral, not to say irrelevant, detail, with which the history was interspersed throughout, I will allow the gymnast to tell his own tale.

‘I was the best gymnast in the school when I was a boy. Horizontal bar, parallel bars, pole, ladder, rope, swinging-bar—anything that could be done on the rough bit of a gymnasium that we had in the playground, I could do. All the coppers I got—and they weren’t many, for my parents were hard-working people who had enough to do to make both ends meet—I used to save up until they made a sixpence. Cakes and apples never drew a halfpenny out of my pocket. Then I used to treat myself to a visit to whatever circus or theatre gave most tumbling for the money; and when I got back to school next day, I used to begin to practise all the new tricks I’d seen the night before. It’s a wonder I didn’t break my neck at it! As it was, I used to be black and blue and grazed all over sometimes—got caned for it too, now and then; but nothing stopped me. Born in me, I suppose. Anyhow, I always liked exercises on the bar a good deal better than exercises on a slate or copy-book, even if I got black marks for one and good marks for the other; for I wasn’t so bad at school-work as you might think, and could show you a writing prize now that I got over seventy other boys.

‘When I left school, I joined a gymnastic club, and soon took the lead there too. But then my father died, and mother fell ill. I had to put my shoulder to the wheel in earnest to get bread for myself and help her all I could, and I had enough to think of without gymnastics. I was a shop-boy, but through writing a good hand was promoted to keeping the books. In a short time I left that, and got a regular clerkship at a very fair salary. I seemed to be in luck’s way; but before I’d been in the berth a month, my master failed, and I found myself out of a situation.

‘They were rough times after that for a long while. Try as I would, I could get nothing; and at last I started off, and worked my passage over to America. There I got a job, something between a junior clerk and a porter, in a merchant’s office in New York.

‘One summer’s evening, I was passing the entrance to one of the minor entertainment gardens, when a flaming poster with a picture of some acrobats caught my eye. I hadn’t quite lost my old taste; so, as the price of admission wasn’t very high, I went in and saw the performance. Why, thinks I to myself, _I_ used to be able to do better than that in the old playground at Hoxton! Why shouldn’t I turn a few dollars that way now? I liked the idea so much, that, going home to my lodgings, I bought a few yards of rope; and that very night, without ever going to bed, I fixed up a bit of apparatus among the beams of the attic where I slept, making the foot-rail of the bedstead do duty for a trapeze bar. I had lost a lot of the neatness; but all the old tricks came back one by one before morning; for I practised all that blessed night, and never slept a wink. Before the week was out, I had an engagement at that same garden; the salary wasn’t a big one, certainly, but it was three times what I was getting in the office. In less than a month I made my first appearance in fleshings and spangles.

‘For a little while I managed to keep on the office-work and this too; then it got to the chief clerk’s ears, and I was dismissed. “Of course you were,” says everybody, though I have never been able to see why exactly. However, it didn’t matter much, for just afterwards I was wanted for two turns a day instead of one, which more than made up the lost money.

‘Well, I had several engagements after this at small halls and gardens; for I wasn’t a big “draw” at that time, and could only do what a score of other gymnasts were doing in the city; but the style I worked in gave satisfaction; and I kept on improving on the old tricks and practising new ones, for my heart and soul was in the business. It wasn’t all smooth sailing, either; for sometimes I was out of an engagement for a good while, and began to think it would have been better to have stuck to the quill-driving. All the spare cash I had went home to the mother, and—flush or hard up—I still slept in the same attic, though I had put the bed-rail back in its place.

‘At last I joined a circus and came to England. I learnt fancy riding, and took a turn at clowning and the rope at times; but the low bar and single trapeze or rings was what I was wanted for most. You see, I had been nearly three years regularly at it by that time, and was beginning to make a mark. We started on a provincial tour, and pitched for a week at Norwich. I don’t notice the public much; but there was a girl there that came two or three nights’ running and sat close to the ring, that somehow struck my fancy. The last night but one, I caught myself looking round for her, as I sat on the bar before swinging off; and sure enough, there she was, just alongside the outer upright of my apparatus. Whether it was that that made me miss my tip or not, I can’t say, but that night I had a slip—nothing of any consequence; it marked my knee and shoulder next day; but I was able to finish my performance as if nothing had happened. In fact, the public would hardly have noticed it, but for the girl’s screeching out, “Oh, he’s killed!” and fainting. It made a bit of a fuss; but I liked her for it. Two days afterwards, when we were on the march at five o’clock in the morning, there she stood at the door of her father’s cottage, an old farm-place just out of the town, to see us go by. That’s my wife, sir!

‘Eighteen she was, when she married me, and I was twenty-two. But she didn’t begin to train till a year later; and six months after that we got our first double engagement. It was her idea, not mine. She suggested it. I said it was impossible. She insisted; and it was done. I get as many pounds weekly now in some places as I did quarter-dollars at starting. I’ve got a snug little bit of money in the bank, and I’ve got a snug little place of my own out at Wood Green; and soon, maybe, we shall give up business, and go in for agency or catering. And it’s all through her idea and pluck. And am I going to risk her life for the want of a few yards of safety-netting and the trouble of setting it, to please a manager or the public either?

‘It was her idea, too, to take an apprentice for the same business, as she had got on so well herself. So we looked about, not for a young child, but for a grown girl; and at last we found one of sixteen years of age, small and half-starved, helping her mother at the wash-tub. I hope to train a good many more, but I shall always look out for one that’s been half-starved. The first thing we did was to feed her up—beefsteaks and porter, strong broth, essence of meat, and eggs beaten up in port wine. Now, all that would have turned to fat and done her no good, only I made her take exercise with it. I hung up a pair of rings about seven feet high in a doorway, and used to keep her drawing herself up and down by the arms all day long, on and off. We used to sit in the room to watch her and tell her when to leave off; and my wife would promise her a new tie or a hat or a pair of earrings as soon as she could pull up a certain number of times. For the first month, she used to complain of pains at the back of the shoulder-blades, but a little embrocation soon eased it. That’s all the work she did for three months, and by that time she had arms nearly as big as mine! Then we took her up on the bars with us. She’s been with us three years now, and won’t be out of her time for another two; and then I shall take her into the firm as a partner, or engage her at a good salary; for she’s as strong as a man, and yet light enough for my wife to catch. I have paid her mother five shillings a week ever since we have had her, and we have made her presents, besides feeding and clothing her. When she is perfect in the business we are practising now, I am going to give her a five-pound note.’

Mrs Gymnast was a graceful, slender woman of exquisite symmetry, some seven-and-twenty years old. Miss Apprentice, though nineteen, was no taller than many girls five years her junior, but had the limbs and muscles of a young giantess.

THE ABANDONMENT OF WIND-POWER.

Sir William Fairbairn, in his well-known book _Mills and Millwork_, dismisses the subject of windmills in thirteen pages, and much of this scant notice is occupied with an antiquarian rather than an engineering inquiry into the history and birthplace of windmills; proving that even ere he wrote, the ‘Wind’ age had merged and lost itself in its all-powerful successor the ‘Steam’ age. The gist of the matter is thus summed up by Sir William: ‘It is more probable that we are indebted to the Dutch for our improved knowledge of windmills, and wind as a motive-power; and it is within my own recollection that the whole of the eastern coasts of England and Scotland were studded with windmills, and that for a considerable distance into the interior of the country. Half a century ago, nearly the whole of the grinding, stamping, sawing, and draining was done by wind in the flat counties; and no one could enter any of the towns in Northumberland, Lincolnshire, Yorkshire, or Norfolk but must have remarked the numerous windmills spreading their sails to catch the breeze. Such was the state of our windmills sixty years ago; and nearly the whole of our machinery depended on wind, or on water where the necessary fall could be secured. These sources of power have nearly been abandoned in this country, having been replaced by the all-pervading power of steam. This being the case, wind as a motive-power may be considered as a thing of the past, and a short notice will therefore suffice.’ Thus Sir William Fairbairn dismisses the subject.

The ‘English Windmill Epoch,’ as it may be termed, reached its zenith between the middle of the last century and the close of the first quarter of our own. During this period, Andrew Meikle, John Smeaton, and Sir William Cubitt lived and worked; and to this period belong all the experiments and literature concerning windmills which we possess; for since this period, the introduction of steam has resulted in an almost entire abandonment of wind-power, save in certain cases, to which we shall presently refer. The advantages undoubtedly possessed by wind over steam as a prime mover—economy in first cost, very low working expenses, and great simplicity in construction—are more than counterbalanced by the uncertainty experienced in its employment. Cases, however, there now are in which wind-power is employed, and with appreciable advantage, or it would, as elsewhere, have been superseded. From Guernsey, a large export trade is carried on in granite, from quarries situated in the northern and eastern parts of the island. These quarries, sunk in some places to great depths, are invariably drained by small four-armed windmills, erected on timber uprights, and actuating bucket-pumps. Driven by the constant sea and land breezes, these little mills, dotted about over the landscape, have small difficulty in draining the quarries of the accumulated rainfall, which, owing to the comparative absence of springs and streams, is the only source of flooding. Should a calm render the pumps idle, a few weeks’ accumulation of rain does not hinder the quarrymen; whilst a cessation of wind for even a week is a very rare occurrence.

Turning to the flat eastern counties of England, the visitor to Lowestoft, Yarmouth, or Lincoln will find windmills largely employed in the drainage of the fen districts. The main drain through the fields is carried between high banks, and is at a higher level than the fields themselves. The flood-water on the fields is raised into these drains by large scoop-wheels, actuated by windmills. Here, however, steam begins to make its appearance, and an occasional tall chimney marks the presence of a small beam-engine, whose owner wishes to be independent of Boreas in draining the fields around. The advantages to be derived from a combination of wind and steam have frequently been urged, on the ground that a saving of fuel is effected by using wind-power when possible, steam-power being available in case of calm. This arrangement, though undoubtedly possessing the advantages claimed for it, involves a larger outlay of capital, together with augmented complication in construction, and has in consequence never met with much favour.

To those who delight to indulge in prophetic engineering speculation, the future of wind-power in connection with electricity will afford an ample field. The power developed during storms might be stored in an accumulator, to be used during calms; by this means eliminating the element of ‘uncertainty,’ the prime cause of the disfavour into which wind as a motive-power has fallen. In conclusion, though it is not unfrequently the custom to declaim against the neglect of wind as a prime motor, there are, as has been shown, many cases where it can be and is advantageously employed; and though it is undoubtedly certain that its more extended use would be accompanied by results of economic value, it is yet equally certain that a return to wind as a chief prime mover would be as retrogressive as a return to sailing-vessels, to the exclusion of our modern steam-driven craft.

OCCASIONAL NOTES.

OLD-FASHIONED FURNITURE.

Quaint ‘bits’ of old-fashioned furniture have for a long time past been much sought after, and pretty examples are now to be met with in almost every house of refinement and taste. One occasionally meets with old-fashioned things which from change of circumstances can no longer be used for their original purpose. The silver-handled steel knives and double-pronged or tined forks—which most members of the present generation have never even seen—were, when not in use, stored away in a specially made satin-wood or mahogany box, often beautifully decorated with inlaid marquetrie-work, and in the better examples the mountings were of chased silver. The interior of the box was apparently solid, with a separate slit for each knife and fork, which, handle uppermost, stood upright. Until recently, these beautiful specimens of the cabinet-work of a bygone age could be purchased for a very few shillings each. Some one has lately discovered that by removing the interior false top and adding divisions for paper and envelopes, these old knife-boxes can easily be transformed into choice and covetable stationery cabinets; and dealers are now buying them up, and when transformed, are asking almost as many pounds as they gave shillings. Another ingenious person—a lady well known in society—has discovered that the highly polished, old-fashioned double-handled plethoric copper or brass tea-urn wherewith our great-grandmothers delighted to adorn the table when their friends assembled to discuss a dish of tea, can easily be transformed into a noble table-lamp of striking proportions. The urn proper forms the body; and a paraffine lamp, with its ordinary glass receptacle for oil, is fitted into the space formerly occupied by the heater, which, with the lid, is of course discarded. The projecting spout is likewise banished, and a simple metal boss, with a corresponding one for uniformity on the other side, takes its place. To complete, an extra large shade is fitted over an octagon-shaped wire framework of ordinary construction.

AN ELECTRICAL TRICYCLE.

A very clever and most ingeniously constructed tricycle has lately been brought forward by Messrs Ayrton and Perry, the great peculiarity of which consists in the fact that it is driven, not by the feet, but by electricity, thereby saving all labour. It is described as an open-fronted machine of the usual pattern, but with its ordinary driving-gear removed. The driving-wheel is forty-four inches in diameter, and close to it is a large spur-wheel containing two hundred and forty-two teeth. The motor is placed beneath the seat, and the armature spindle carries a spindle of twelve teeth, gearing into the spur-wheel, by which both motion and speed are regulated. The battery is composed of Faure, Sellon, Volknar cells, and is so placed as to act direct upon the spur-wheel, so that there is no loss of power. When fully charged, the battery is said to contain a store of electricity equal to what is understood as two horse-power. The engine is entirely under the control of the rider, and pace can be regulated to a nicety. Such a machine will be found invaluable to invalids, and persons who do not care for driving horses or travelling at a very high rate of speed; and, as neither fire nor water is required, there is no fear of explosion, smoke, or mess.

QUITS!

Indeed, they have not grieved me sore,
Your faithlessness and your deceit;
The truth is, I was troubled more
How I should make a good retreat:
Another way my heart now tends;
We can cry quits, and be good friends.

I found you far more lovable,
Because your fickleness I saw,
For I myself am changeable,
And like, you know, to like doth draw:
Thus neither needs to make amends;
We can cry quits, and be good friends.

While I was monarch of your heart,
My heart from you did never range;
But from my vassal did I part,
When you your lady-love did change:
No penalty the change attends;
We can cry quits, and be good friends.

Farewell! We’ll meet again some day,
And all our fortunes we’ll relate;
Of love let’s have no more to say,
’Tis clear we’re not each other’s fate.
Our game in pleasant fashion ends;
We can cry quits, and be good friends.

CATHERINE GRANT FURLEY.

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

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_All Rights Reserved._

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