Chapter II: Part 2

Of deepest interest to some of us is the Louis XIV. chair with gilded arms and seat of faded, silken brocade, from which the most brilliant correspondent of her day wrote some of the letters that are models yet of what letters ought to be. Madame de Sévigné came here once and again on her way to Les Rochers. Once, at least, she came with ‘an immense retinue,’ that must have taxed the resources of the modest inn, smaller then than now. The ‘good and amiable’ Duchess de Chaulnes is of the company. Madame de Carmen makes the third in the trio. The ladies travel ‘in the best carriage’ with ‘the best horses,’ and that large following behind them. Madame de Chaulnes, who is all activity, is up with the dawn. ‘You remember how, in going to Bourbon, I found it easier to accommodate myself to her ways than to try and mend them.’ They make quite a royal progress, halting here and there. At Chaulnes the good duchess is taken ill, seized with sore throat. The kindest lady in the world nurses her friend and undertakes the cure. ‘At Paris she would have been bled; but here she was only rubbed for some time with our famous balsam, which produced quite a miracle. Will you believe, my dearest, that in one night this precious balsam completely cured her?’ While the patient slept, the kind nurse wandered in the noble alleys and the neglected gardens. ‘I call this rehearsing for Les Rochers,’ she writes gaily; but there is little heat, ‘not one nightingale to be heard—it is winter on the 17th of April.’

Soon, however, the southern warmth floods the land, and they set off, a gay trio, and one of them at least with eyes for every quick-passing beauty as they drive through green Normandy. From Caen she writes: ‘We were three days upon the road from Rouen to this place. We met with no adventures; but fine weather and spring in all its charm accompanied us. We ate the best things in the world, went to bed early, and did not suffer any inconvenience. We were on the sea-coast at Dives, where we slept.’ (She loves the sea, and elsewhere tells how she sat at her chamber window and looked out on it.) ‘The country is beautiful.’ Later, she exclaims: ‘I have seen the most beautiful country in the world. I did not know Normandy at all; I had seen it when too young. Alas! perhaps not one of those I saw here before is left alive—that is sad!’ This is the shadow in the bright picture; she, too, is growing old, and her spring will not return. It is the last journey she is making to the well-loved country home.

Somehow, as we turn away from the quaint hostelry, it is this gracious and beautiful lady who goes with us, and not ‘stark’ hero William. At Beuzeval, as we reach it, the sun is already dipping towards the sea, and all the bathers—a fantastic crowd set against the red light—are hurrying homewards across the sands.

ARE OUR COINS WEARING AWAY?

After the recent speech by the Chancellor of the Exchequer in which he showed that our gold coins are much lighter than they ought to be, we shall have to answer the above question in the affirmative. Our coins _are_ wearing away, and although not at any very alarming rate, yet at a perceptible one. Every sovereign, half-sovereign, half-crown, florin, shilling, or sixpence, &c., which has been out of the Mint any length of time, weighs less now than it did when brand new. Indeed, in some old coins this is quite evident upon a casual inspection, for the image may be worn flat and unrecognisable, and the superscription may be illegible. Now, the difference in value between this old coin and the same coin when turned out new may be very trifling; but when we consider that there are probably millions in circulation which have similarly suffered depreciation to a greater or less extent, and that this loss will at some time or other have to be made good, this question of the wear of our coins becomes of sufficient importance for a Chancellor of the Exchequer to seek to cope with it. We shall here only offer a few observations on the mechanical aspects of the subject.

The office youth fetching a bag of gold from the bank to pay wages with—the workman putting his small share into his pocket after the lot has been shot on to a desk and his money has been duly apportioned to him—the shopman banging it on his counter to see whether it is sound when it is tendered in payment for groceries, &c., are all participators in a gigantic system of unintentional ‘sweating.’ Under this usage—quite inseparable, by the way, from the functions the coinage has to subserve—it would appear that in the United Kingdom alone there is something like seven hundred and ten thousand pounds-worth of gold-dust floating about, widely distributed, and in microscopic particles, lost to the nation—dust which has been abraded from the gold coins now in circulation. There are similarly thousands of pounds-worth of silver particles from our silver coinage worn off in the same way.

It has been estimated from exact data that a hundred-year-old sovereign has lost weight equivalent to a depreciation of eightpence; in other words, that such a sovereign is only of the intrinsic value of nineteen shillings and fourpence. There has been a hundred years of wear for eightpence—as cheap, one would think, as one could possibly get so much use out of a coin for; but as we shall now see, we have, comparatively speaking, to pay more for the use of other coins. Thus, for a hundred years of use of a half-sovereign we pay a small fraction under eightpence; in other words, the half-sovereign has lost nearly as much weight as the sovereign; and considering its value, it has therefore cost the nation nearly twice as much for its use, two half-sovereigns costing us nearly one shilling and fourpence. It appears from Mr Childers’s statement that at the present time, taking old and new coins, there are in the United Kingdom ninety million sovereigns in circulation; and of these, fifty millions are on the average worth nineteen shillings and ninepence-halfpenny each. Of the forty million half-sovereigns in circulation, some twenty-two millions are of the intrinsic value of nine shillings and ninepence three-farthings each. Hence the proposal of the Chancellor of the Exchequer to issue, instead of half-sovereigns, ten-shilling pieces, or tokens, containing only nine shillings-worth of gold, with the idea of making up for the loss by waste of the gold coins now in circulation.

Now, if we inquire into the reason why the half-sovereign wastes so much faster than the sovereign, we can only come to the conclusion that, being of half the value, it is a more convenient coin than the sovereign, and consequently has a much busier life. This applies with greater force still to coins like the half-crown, shilling, and sixpence, which are only one-eighth, one-twentieth, and one-fortieth respectively of the value of a sovereign. And we find upon examination, what one would naturally expect, that the silver coinage is even more costly than the gold coinage. The depreciation of the half-crown, reckoned in terms of itself, is more than double that of the half-sovereign; that is, if a half-sovereign wastes in the course of a century to the extent of one-fifteenth of its value, the half-crown will waste more than two-fifteenths of its value. The depreciation of shilling-pieces is not far off three times as much as that of half-crowns; and sixpences waste faster than shillings, though by no means twice so fast. There is thus an immense waste of our silver coinage taking place, and it proceeds at such a rate in the case of sixpences, that the intrinsic value of one a hundred years old would be only threepence, a century of use having worn away half the silver.

It is evident from these facts that the relative amounts of wear of coins are _not_ so much owing to the nature of the metal they are made of as to the activity of the life they have to lead. The less the value of the coin, the greater is the use to which it is put; and consequently, the greater is the depreciation in its value from wear in a given time. The sovereign being of greatest value, is used least, and depreciates the least—a circumstance quite in accordance with the fitness of things when we reflect that it is ‘really an international coin, largely used in exchange operations, known to the whole commercial world,’ and that any heavy depreciation of it would lead to much embarrassment.

SILAS MONK.

A TALE OF LONDON OLD CITY.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER III.

Unless Rachel had reflected, in the midst of her alarm at the absence of her grandfather, that Walter Tiltcroft would be at the counting-house of Armytage and Company at an early hour, there is no saying what steps she might have taken with the hope of gaining some tidings of the old man. If anything had happened, Walter must be the first to bear the news to her. Towards nine o’clock, therefore, her anxiety began to take a different form; she ceased to expect her grandfather’s return, and dreaded the appearance of her lover.

The house was soon put in order; everything about the poor home of Silas Monk looked as neat and clean as usual. Rachel was on the point of taking up her needlework, when a quick step on the pavement under the window attracted her attention. It was Walter Tiltcroft. He followed her into the sitting-room. He was somewhat out of breath; and when Rachel caught sight of his face, she thought she had never seen it so pale. ‘Sit down, Walter,’ said the girl, placing a chair. ‘You have come to tell me something. You have come to tell me’—and here her voice almost failed her—‘you have come to tell me that he is dead.’

‘No. I thought that I should find your grandfather here.’

‘Why, he has not been here the whole night long!’

The young man passed his hand confusedly across his brow. ‘What did I tell you I saw at the office last night?’

‘You told me,’ answered Rachel, ‘that you saw grandfather, through a hole in the shutter, counting handfuls of sovereigns on his desk.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Walter, ‘then I cannot have dreamt it. I was the first to enter the office this morning. His room was empty. His ledgers were lying on his desk; the key was in the lock of the large safe, and the door of the safe stood open. But there were no signs of Silas Monk.’

The girl looked at the young man with a scared face. ‘What shall we do, if he is lost?’

Walter rose quickly from his seat. ‘Wait!’ cried he. ‘We shall find him. Mr Armytage has sent for a detective—one, as they say, who can see through a stone wall.’

‘Oh!’ cried the girl, ‘they cannot suspect my grandfather! I shall not rest until you bring him back to me, here, in our old home.’

The young man promised, with earnest looks and words, to do his best; and then hurried away with all possible despatch.

The commotion at the office, which had been going on ever since nine o’clock that morning, was showing no signs of abatement when Walter walked in. The entrance was guarded by two stalwart police-officers, who assisted the young clerk to make his way through a gaping crowd. Rumours had already spread about the city: Silas Monk had ‘gone off,’ some said, with the contents of the great iron safe in the strong-room of Armytage and Company; and the value of the documents which he had purloined was estimated at sums varying from one to ten thousand pounds. Other reports went even further, and declared that Silas, when entering as a clerk into the firm of Armytage and Company, years and years ago, had sold himself to the Evil One; that last night, while the old city clocks were striking twelve, he had received a visit—as did Faust from Mephistopheles—and had been whisked away in the dark.

Walter Tiltcroft found another constable near the stairs. ‘You’re wanted,’ said the officer in a snappish manner. ‘This way.’ The man conducted Walter to the private office of Mr Armytage, the senior partner. Here he left him.

Walter stepped into the room boldly, but with a fast-beating heart. A gentleman with a head as white as snow and with a very stiff manner, was standing on the rug before the fire, as he entered. ‘Do you want me, Mr Armytage?’

The senior partner turned his eyes upon the clerk. ‘Yes, Tiltcroft; I want you.’

Looking round, Walter noticed for the first time that they were not alone. Seated at a table, with his back to the window, so that his face was in shade, was a gentleman, writing quickly with a quill-pen. This gentleman had jet-black hair, cut somewhat short; and there was a tuft of black whisker on a level with each ear. His hat was on the table, and beside the hat was lying a thick oaken stick.

Walter had made this observation in a rapid glance, when Mr Armytage added: ‘What news have you brought from Silas Monk’s house?—Has Silas been there?’

‘No, sir; not for twenty-four hours.’

‘Ah! Now, tell me, were you not the last to leave the office yesterday?’

When Mr Armytage put this question, the noise of the pen suddenly ceased. Was the gentleman with the jet-black hair listening? Walter could not look round, because the senior partner’s eyes were fixed upon him. But he felt inclined to think that the gentleman was listening very attentively, being anxious to record the answer. ‘I was the last, sir, except Silas Monk,’ was Walter’s reply.

The pen gave a short scratch, and stopped.

‘Except Silas, of course,’ said Mr Armytage. ‘Did you, after leaving Silas, go straight home?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Tell me where you did go, will you?’

‘First of all, under the scaffold outside, where I called out, in order to ascertain if the workmen had gone. As I found no one there, I closed the front-door. Then I came back, and sat down in a dark place on the staircase.’

Scratch, scratch, scratch from the quill.

‘On the staircase!’ exclaimed Mr Armytage, with surprise.

‘I wanted to know why Silas Monk never went home when the rest did, because his granddaughter was uneasy about him,’ continued Walter. ‘She told me that it was often close upon midnight before he got home.’

‘Well?’

‘I found out what kept him at the office.’

The senior partner raised his chin, and said encouragingly: ‘Tell us all about it.’

Walter remained silent for a moment, as though collecting his thoughts; then he said: ‘What happened that night at the office, Mr Armytage, is simply this. I had hardly sat down on the staircase when, to my surprise, a workman came out of the yard from his work on the scaffold. I stopped him and questioned him. He told me that he had remained to finish some repairs on the roof, and had not heard me call. I let the man out, and then returned to my place.’

The scratching of the quill began and finished while Walter was speaking. He was about to resume, when the gentleman at the table held up the pen to enforce silence.

‘Mr Armytage,’ said the stranger, ‘ask your clerk if he can tell us, from previous knowledge, anything about this workman.’

The senior partner looked inquiringly at Walter.

‘I’ve known him for years,’ said the young clerk. ‘When a man is wanted to repair anything in the office, we always send for Joe Grimrood.’ While the quill was scratching, the head gave a nod, and the voice exclaimed: ‘Go on!’

Walter then mentioned briefly by what accident he had discovered Silas Monk at his desk with the pile of sovereigns before him; and how, not daring to disturb him, he had gone away convinced that the head-cashier was nothing better than an ‘old miser,’ as he expressed it.

As soon as Walter Tiltcroft had finished his recital, the pen gave a final scratch; then the stranger rose from the table, folded some papers together, placed them in his breast-pocket, and taking up his hat and stick, went out.

When he was gone, the senior partner, still standing on the rug, turned to Walter, and said: ‘Go back to your desk. Do not quit the counting-house to-day; you may be wanted at any moment.’

All day long, Walter sat at his desk waiting, with his eyes constantly bent upon the iron-bound door of the strong-room. Within it, he pictured to himself Silas Monk wrapped in a white shroud lying stretched in death, with his hands crossed, and his head raised upon huge antique ledgers. Presently, Walter even fancied that he heard the sovereigns chinking as they dropped out of the old man’s hands, followed by the sound of shuffling feet; and once, while he was listening, there seemed to issue from this chamber a stifled cry, which filled him with such terror and dismay, that he found it no easy matter to hide his agitation from his fellow-clerks, who would have laughed at him, if they had had the slightest suspicion that he was occupying his time in such an unprofitable manner, while they were as busily engaged with the affairs of Armytage and Company as if Silas Monk had never been born.

* * * * *

While these fancies were still troubling Walter Tiltcroft’s brain, he was sent for by the senior partner. ‘Read that,’ said Mr Armytage, pointing to a paper on his table as the young man entered the room. ‘It is a telegram from Fenwick the detective.’ It ran as follows:

‘_Send Tiltcroft alone to Limehouse Police Station._’

Walter looked at the senior partner for instructions. ‘Go!’ cried Mr Armytage with promptness—‘go, without a moment’s delay!’

The young man started off as quickly as his legs would carry him for the railway terminus near Fenchurch Street. What an inexpressible relief to escape from his ghostly fantasy regarding the old strong-room, and to feel that he was at last beginning to take an active and important part in the search for Silas Monk!

The train presently arrived at Limehouse. Walter leaped out and made his way with all speed to the police station. He inquired for the detective of the first constable he saw, standing, as though on guard, at the open doorway.

‘What name?’

‘Tiltcroft.’

The constable gave a short comprehensive nod; then he looked into the office, and jerked his head significantly at another constable who was seated at a desk. This man quickly disappeared into an inner room.

‘Walk in,’ said the custodian at the doorway, ‘and wait.’

Walter walked in, and waited for what seemed an interminable time. But Fenwick made his appearance at last, walking briskly up to the young clerk and touching him on the shoulder with the knob of his stick. ‘It’s a matter of identification,’ said he mysteriously; ‘come along.’ He settled his hat on with the brim touching his black eyebrows, and led the way into the street. Walter followed. They walked along through well-lighted thoroughfares, up narrow passages and down dark lanes, until they came suddenly upon a timber-yard with the river flowing beyond. At this point the detective stopped and gave a low whistle. This signal was immediately followed by the sound of oars; and the dark outline of a boat gliding forward, grew dimly visible out of the obscurity, below the spot where Fenwick and the young clerk stood. Some one in the boat directed the rays of a lantern mainly upon their feet, revealing steep wooden steps.

‘Follow me!’ cried the detective.

As they went down step by step to the water’s edge, the rays of the lantern descended, dropping always a few inches in advance to guide them, until they were safely shipped, when the lantern was suddenly suppressed, and the boat was jerked cautiously out into the river by a figure near the bow, handling shadowy oars.

Towards what seemed the centre of the stream there was a light shining so high above them that it appeared, until they drew nearer, like a solitary star in the dark sky. But the black bulk of a ship’s stern presently coming in sight, it was apparent that the light belonged to a large vessel lying at anchor in the river. Under the shadow of this vessel—if further shadow were possible in this deep darkness—the boat pulled up, and the lantern was again produced. ‘I’ll go first, my lad,’ said Fenwick, touching Walter on the shoulder again with his stick. ‘Keep close.’

This time the rays from the lantern ascended, rising on a level with the men’s heads as they went up the ship’s side. As soon as they reached the deck, the rays again vanished.

‘We will now proceed to business,’ said the detective.

‘Ay, ay, sir,’ cried a sailor who had stepped forward to receive the visitors. ‘Your men are waiting below.’

‘Then lead the way.’

Walter, wondering what this mystification meant, followed close upon the heels of Fenwick and the sailor. A few steps brought them to what was obviously the entrance to the steerage, for it had the dingy appearance common to that part of a passenger-ship.

‘Are the emigrants below?’ asked the detective.

‘Ay, ay,’ replied the sailor—‘fast asleep.’

‘So much the better,’ remarked Fenwick. Then he added, with a glance at Walter: ‘Now for the identification.’

The sailor led the way down to heaps of human beings lying huddled together not unlike sheep, with their heads against boxes, or upon canvas bags, or packages covered with tarpaulin. The air was warm and oppressive; and the men, women, and children who were packed in this place had a uniform expression of weariness on their faces, as though they were resigned to all the perils and dangers that could be encountered upon a long voyage.

‘When do you weigh anchor?’ asked the detective.

‘At daybreak,’ answered the sailor.

‘Ah! a little sea-air won’t be amiss,’ remarked Fenwick, looking about him thoughtfully.—‘Now, let me see.’ He peered into the faces with his quick keen eyes, leaning his chin the while upon the knob of his stick. Presently he cocked an eye at Tiltcroft, and said: ‘See any one you recognise?’

Walter threw a swift glance around him. Most of the faces were thin and pale, and there were several eyes staring at him and his companion; but many eyes were closed in sleep; among these he saw a half-hidden face which he seemed to know, yet for the moment could not recall; but the recollection quickly flashed upon him.

The detective, watching his expression, saw the change; and following the direction in which Walter was staring in blank surprise, perceived that the object in which he appeared to take such a sudden interest was a large, muscular person, wrapped in a thick pea-jacket, with his head upon his arm, and his arm resting upon a sea-chest, which was corded with a thick rope. The man was fast asleep, and on his head was a mangy-looking skin-cap, pulled down to his eyebrows.

‘Well,’ said the detective, glancing from this man into Walter’s face; ‘who is he?’

‘Joe Grimrood!’ cried Walter.

It would seem as though the man had heard the mention of his name; for, as Walter pronounced it, he frowned, and opening his eyes slowly, looked up askance, like an angry dog.

‘Get up!’ said the detective, giving the man a playful thrust in the ribs; ‘you’re wanted.’

Joe Grimrood showed his teeth, and started, as though about to spring upon Fenwick. But on reflection, he appeared to think better of it, and simply growled.

Fenwick turned to the sailor, and said, pointing to the chest against which Joe Grimrood still leaned, ‘Uncord that box. And if,’ he added—‘if that man moves or utters a word, bind him down hands and feet with the rope. Do you understand?’

‘Ay, ay, sir,’ cried the sailor, with a grin on his honest-looking face. With all the dexterity of a practised ‘tar,’ the sailor removed the cord from the chest; then he glanced at the detective for further instructions.

‘Open it!’ cried Fenwick.

At these words, Joe Grimrood, who sat with his back against the iron pillar and his arms crossed defiantly, showed signs of rebellion in his small glittering eyes. But a glance from Fenwick quelled him.

When the chest was opened, a quantity of old clothes was discovered. ‘Make a careful search,’ said the detective. ‘If you find nothing more valuable than old clothes in that box, I shall be greatly surprised.’

Something far more valuable, sure enough, soon came to light. One after another the sailor brought out fat little bags, which, being shaken, gave forth a pleasant ring not unlike the chink of gold.

Fenwick presently, after opening one of these bags, held it up before Joe Grimrood’s eyes, tauntingly. ‘You’re a nice emigrant, ain’t you? Why, a man of your wealth ought to be a first-class passenger, not a steerage. How did you manage to accumulate such a heap of gold?’

Joe Grimrood gave another growl, and replied: ‘Let me alone. I’m an honest workman. Mr Tiltcroft there will tell you if I’m not; asking his pardon.’

‘That’s no answer. How do you come by all this gold?’

‘By the sweat of my brow,’ answered the man, with the perspiration rolling down his face. ‘So help me. By the sweat of my brow.’

‘That will do,’ continued the detective. ‘Take my advice, and don’t say another word.—Come, Tiltcroft. The sooner we get back to the city the better. There is work to be done there to-night.’ With these words, Fenwick beckoned to two constables. These men, at a sign from the detective, seized Joe Grimrood and handcuffed him before he had time to suspect their intention. Meanwhile, the sailor had packed up the box, gold and all, and had corded it down as quickly as he had uncorded it.

The constables went first, with Joe Grimrood between them. The man showed no resistance. Behind him followed the sailor with the valuable chest. The detective and Tiltcroft brought up the rear. The boat which had brought Walter and his companions alongside the emigrant ship was still waiting under the bow when they came on deck. In a few minutes, without noise or confusion, they were once more in their places, with the chest and Joe Grimrood—still between the two constables—by way of additional freight. Once more the boat moved across the dark river and carried them to the shore.

Having deposited Joe Grimrood and his luggage at the police station, the detective turned to Walter and said: ‘Now, my lad, let us be off. This business in the city is pressing. Every moment is precious; it’s a matter of life and death.’

THE RATIONALE OF HAUNTED HOUSES.

That a very old house should gain the reputation of being haunted is not surprising, especially if it has been neglected and allowed to fall out of repair. The woodwork shrinks, the plaster crumbles away; and through minute slits and chasms in window-frames and door-cases there come weird and uncanny noises. The wind sighs and whispers through unseen fissures, suggesting to the superstitious the wailings of disembodied spirits. A whole household was thrown into consternation, and had its repose disturbed, one stormy winter, by a series of lamentable howls and shrieks that rang through the rooms. The sounds were harrowing, and as they rose fitfully and at intervals, breaking the silence of the night, the stoutest nerves among the listeners were shaken. For a long time the visitation continued to harass the family, recurring by day as well as night, and especially in rough weather. When there was a storm, piercing yells and shrieks would come, sudden and startling, changing anon into low melancholy wails. It was unaccountable. At length the mystery was solved. Complaints had been made of draughts through the house, and as a remedy, strips of gutta-percha had at some former time been nailed along the window-frames, while its owners were at the seaside. This, for some reason explainable upon acoustic principles, had caused the disturbance. Even after the gutta-percha had been torn away, a sudden blast of wind striking near some spot to which a fragment still adhered, would bring a shriek or moan, to remind the family of the annoyance they had so long endured.

Meantime, the house got a bad reputation, and servants were shy of engaging with its owners. A maid more strong-minded than the others, and who had hitherto laughed at their fears, came fleeing to her mistress on one occasion, saying she must leave instantly, and that nothing would induce her to pass another night under the roof. There was a long corridor at the top of the house, and the girl’s story was, that in passing along it, she heard footsteps behind her. Stopping and looking back, she saw no one; but as soon as she went on, the invisible pursuer did so too, following close behind. Two or three times she stood still suddenly, hoping the footsteps would pass on and give her the go-by; instead of which, they pulled up when she did. And when at last, wild with terror, she took to her heels and ran, they came clattering along after her to the end of the passage!

The mistress suspected that some one was trying to frighten the girl, and she urged her to come up-stairs and endeavour to find out the trick. This the terrified damsel refused to do, so the lady went off alone. On reaching the corridor and proceeding along it, she was startled to find that, as the maid had described, some one seemed to be following her. Tap, tap, clack, clack—as of one walking slipshod with shoes down at heel—came the steps, keeping pace with her own; stopping when she stopped, and moving on when she did. In vain the lady peered around and beside her; nothing was to be seen. It could be no trick, for there was nobody in that part of the house to play a practical joke.

Ere long the cause was discovered in the shape of a loose board in the flooring of the corridor. The plank springing when pressed by the foot in walking along, gave an echoing sound that had precisely the effect of a step following; and this, in the supposed haunted house, was sufficient to raise alarm.

It happened to us once to be a temporary dweller in a mansion that had a ghostly reputation. We were on our way to Paris, travelling with an invalid; and the latter becoming suddenly too ill to proceed on the journey, we were forced to stop in the first town we came to. The hotel being found too noisy, a house in a quiet street was engaged by the week. It was a grand old mansion, that had once belonged to a magnate of the land; fallen now from its high estate, and but indifferently kept up. Wide stone staircases with balusters of carved oak led to rooms lofty and spacious, whose walls and ceilings were decorated with gilded enrichments and paintings in the style of Louis XIV. At the side of the house was a covered-way leading to the stables and offices. This was entered through a tall _porte cochère_; and at either side of the great gates, fixed to the iron railings, were a couple of those huge metal extinguishers—still sometimes to be seen in quaint old houses—used in former times to put out the torches or links carried at night by running footmen beside the carriages of the great. The stables and offices of the place were now falling into decay, and the _porte cochère_ generally stood open until nightfall, when the gates were locked.

We had been in the house for some little time before we heard the stories of supernatural sights and sounds connected with it—of figures flitting through halls and passages—the ghosts of former occupants; of strange whisperings and uncanny noises. There certainly were curious sounds about the house, especially in the upper part, where lumber-closets were locked and sealed up, through whose shrunken and ill-fitting doors the wind howled with unearthly wails. In the dining-hall was a row of old family pictures, faded and grim; and the popular belief was that, at the ‘witching hour,’ these worthies descended from their frames and held high festival in the scene of former banquetings. No servant would go at night into this room alone or in the dark.

We had with us a young footman called Carroll, the son of an Irish tenant; devoted to his masters, under whom he had been brought up. He was a fine young fellow, bold as a lion, and ready to face flesh and blood in any shape; but a very craven as regarded spirits, fairies, and supernatural beings, in whom he believed implicitly. One night, after seeing the invalid settled to rest and committed to the care of the appointed watcher, I came down to the drawing-room to write letters. It was an immense saloon, with—doubling and prolonging its dimensions—wide folding-doors of looking-glass at the end. I had been writing for some time; far, indeed, into the ‘small-hours.’ The fire was nearly out; and the candles, which at their best had only served to make darkness visible in that great place, had burnt low. The room was getting chilly, dark shadows gathering in the corners. Who has not known the creepy, shivering feeling that will come over us at such times, when in the dead silence of the sleeping house we alone are wakeful? The furniture around begins to crack; the falling of a cinder with a clink upon the hearth makes us start. And if at such a time the door should slowly and solemnly open wide, as doors sometimes will, ‘spontaneous,’ we look up with quickening pulse, half expecting to see some ghastly spectral shape glide in, admitted by invisible hands. Should sickness be in the house, and the angel of death—who knows?—be brooding with dark wing over our dwelling, the nerves, strained by anxiety, are more than usually susceptible of impressions. I was gathering my papers together and preparing to steal up-stairs past the sick-room, glad to escape from the pervading chilliness and gloom, when the door opened. Not, this time, of itself; for there—the picture of abject terror—stood Carroll the footman. He was as pale as ashes, shaking all over; his hair dishevelled, and clothes apparently thrown on in haste. To my alarmed exclamation, ‘What _is_ the matter?’ he was unable, for a minute, to make any reply, so violently his lips were trembling, parched with fear. At last I made out, among half-articulate sounds, the words ‘Ghost, groans.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘what nonsense! You have been having a bad dream. You ought to know better, you who’——

My homily was cut short by a groan so fearful, so unlike anything I had ever heard or imagined, that I was dumb with horror.

‘Ah-h-h!—there it is again!’ whispered Carroll, dropping on his knees and crossing himself; while vehemently thumping his breast, he, as a good Catholic, began to mumble with white lips the prayers for the dead. Up the stairs through the open door the sounds had come; and after a few minutes, they were repeated, this time more faintly than before.

‘Let us go down and try to find out what it is,’ I said at last. And in spite of poor Carroll’s misery and entreaties, making a strong effort, I took the lamp from his trembling hands and began to descend the wide staircase. Nothing was stirring. In the great dining-room, where I went in, while the unhappy footman kept safely at the door, casting frightened glances at the portraits on the walls, all was as usual. As we went lower down, the groans grew louder and more appalling. Hoarse, unnatural, long-drawn—such as could not be imagined to proceed from human throat, they seemed to issue from the bowels of the earth, and to be re-echoed by the walls of the great dark lofty kitchens. Beyond these kitchens were long stone passages, leading to cellars and pantries and servants’ halls, all unused and shut up since the mansion’s palmy days; and into these we penetrated, led by the fearful sounds.

All here was dust and desolation. The smell of age and mould was everywhere; the air was chill; and the rusty hinges of the doors shrieked as they were pushed open, scaring away the spiders, whose webs hung in festoons across the passages, and brushed against our faces as we went along. Doubtless, for years no foot had invaded this dank and dreary region, given over to mildew and decay; or disturbed the rats, which ran scampering off at our approach. The groans seemed very near us now, and came more frequently. It was terrible, in that gruesome place, to hearken to the unearthly sounds. I could hear my agonised companion calling upon every saint in the calendar to take pity upon the soul in pain. At length there came a groan more fearful than any that had been before. It rooted us to the spot. And then was utter silence!

After a long breathless pause, broken only by the gasps of poor Carroll in his paroxysm of fear, we turned, and retraced our steps towards the kitchens. The groans had ceased altogether.

‘It is over now, whatever it was,’ I said. ‘All is quiet; you had better go to bed.’

He staggered off to his room; while, chilled to the marrow, I crept up-stairs, not a little shaken, I must confess, by the night’s doings.

Next day was bright and fine. My bedroom looked to the street; and soon after rising, I threw open the window, to admit the fresh morning air. There was a little stir outside. The _porte cochère_ gates were wide open, and a large cart was drawn up before them. Men with ropes in their hands were bustling about, talking and gesticulating; passers-by stopped to look; and boys were peering down the archway at something going on within. Soon the object of their curiosity was brought to light. A dead horse was dragged up the passage, and after much tugging and pulling, was hauled up on the cart and driven away.

It appeared that at nightfall of the previous day the wretched animal was being driven to the knacker’s; and straying down into our archway, while the man who had him in charge was talking to a friend, he fell over some machinery that stood inside, breaking a limb, and otherwise frightfully injuring himself. Instead of putting the poor animal out of pain at once, his inhuman owner left him to die a lingering death in agonies; and his miserable groans, magnified by the reverberation of the hollow archway and echoing kitchens, had been the cause of our nocturnal alarm.

Carroll shook his head and looked incredulous at this solution of the mystery, refusing, with the love of his class for the supernatural, to accept it. Though years have since then passed over his head, tinging his locks with gray, and developing the brisk, agile footman into the portly, white-chokered, pompous butler, he will still cleave to his first belief, and stoutly affirm that flesh and blood had nought to do with the disturbance that night in the haunted house.

UMPIRES AT CRICKET.

Cricket has undergone many changes during its history, but, as far as we can tell, one thing has remained unaltered—the umpires are sole judges of fair and unfair play. The laws of 1774, which are the oldest in existence, say: ‘They (the umpires) are the sole judges of fair and unfair play, and all disputes shall be determined by them.’ Various directions have been given to them from time to time, but nothing has been done to lessen their responsibility or destroy their authority. An umpire must not bet on the match at which he is employed, and only for a breach of that law can he be changed without the consent of both parties. It is probable that the reason why an ordinary side in a cricket-match consists of eleven players is that originally a ‘round dozen’ took part in it, and that one on each side was told off to be umpire. An old writer on cricket says that in his district the players were umpires in turn; so, though there might be twelve of them present, only eleven were actually playing at once. This may have been a remnant of a universal custom; and it would explain why the peculiar number eleven is taken to designate a side in a cricket-match.

It is not always possible for an umpire to give satisfaction to both parties in a dispute, and very hard things have sometimes been said by those against whom a decision has been given. Mobbing an umpire is not so common in cricket as in football, but it is not unknown. Nervous men have sometimes been influenced by the outcries of spectators, and have given decisions contrary to their judgment. But occasionally the opposite effect has been produced by interference. A bowler who has been unpopular has been clamoured against when bowling fairly; and the umpire has not interfered even when he has bowled unfairly, lest it should look as if he was being coerced by the mob.

For some years there has been a growing demand for what may be called umpire reform. It has been said that in county matches umpires favoured their own sides. A few years ago, a Manchester paper commenced an account of a match between Lancashire and Yorkshire with these words: ‘The weather was hot, the players were hotter, but the umpiring was hottest of all.’ This kind of danger was sought to be obviated last year by the appointment of neutral umpires. The Marylebone Cricket Club appointed the umpires in all county matches; but this did not remove the dissatisfaction which had previously existed, as it was said that the umpires were afraid to enforce the strict laws of the game.

Some people who think there will not be fair-play as long as professional umpires are employed, would have amateurs in this position, and they predict that with the alteration there would be an end to all unfairness and dispute. But Lord Harris, who is the chief advocate for greater strictness on the part of umpires, says he believes they would never be successful in first-class matches; he has seen a good many amateur umpires in Australia, and, without impugning their integrity, he would be sorry to find umpires in England acting with so little experience and knowledge of the game.

Dr W. G. Grace has told two anecdotes of umpires whom he met in Australia. He says: ‘In an up-country match, our wicket-keeper stumped a man; but much to our astonishment the umpire gave him not out, and excused himself in the following terms: “Ah, ah! I was just watching you, Mr Bush; you had the tip of your nose just over the wicket.” In a match at Warrnambool, a man snicked a ball, and was caught by the wicket-keeper. The umpire at the bowler’s wicket being asked for a decision, replied: “This is a case where I can consult my colleague.” But of course the other umpire could not see a catch at the wicket such as this, and said so; whereupon our friend, being pressed for a decision, remarked: “Well, I suppose he is not out.”’

The Australians have frequently said that English professional umpires are afraid of giving gentlemen out, but this cannot be said of those who are chosen to stand in the chief matches. A well-known cricketer tells about a country match in which he was playing. A friend of his was tempting the fieldsmen to throw at his wicket, until at length one did throw, and hit it. ‘Not out,’ cried the umpire; and coming up to the batsman, said: ‘You really must be more careful, sir; you were clean out that time.’ This reminds us of the umpire who, in answer to an appeal, said: ‘Not out; but if he does it again, he will be.’ Caldecourt was a famous umpire—‘Honest Will Caldecourt,’ as he was called. The author of _Cricketana_ had a high opinion of him, and said he could give a reason for everything. That is a great virtue in an umpire. Some men in that position will give decisions readily enough, but they either cannot or will not explain on what grounds their decisions are formed.

John Lillywhite was a very honest umpire. It was his opinion that bowling was being tolerated which was contrary to the laws of cricket as they were then framed. In a match at Kennington Oval in 1862, he acted according to his opinion, for he was umpire. Lillywhite would not give way, and another umpire was employed in his place on the third day of the match. Lillywhite was right, and it was unfortunate that he was superseded. That was not the way to make umpires conscientious.

When the old All England Eleven were in their prime, and were playing matches in country places against eighteens and twenty-twos, the players did not always pay that deference to umpires which was customary on the best grounds, and advantage was sometimes taken of an umpire’s nervousness and inexperience. It seemed to be an axiom with some players, ‘To appeal is always safe.’ If several famous cricketers cried ‘How’s that?’ it is not to be wondered at that an umpire would occasionally say ‘Out’ on the spur of the moment, without knowing why. But a very fair retort was once made to a player who was fond of making appeals, on the chance of getting a lucky decision. ‘How’s that, umpire?’ he cried. The reply was: ‘Sir, you know it is not out; so why ask me, if you mean fair-play?’

The umpire has not an easy post to fill, even if he have all the assistance which can be rendered by the players. Points are constantly arising which are not provided for in the laws, and he must be guided by the practice of his predecessors in the best matches. There is such a thing as common law in cricket, as well as what may be called statute law. It is undecided whether the umpire should be considered part of the earth or part of the air. If a ball hit him, and be caught before it touch the ground, is the batsman out? Some umpires say Yes, and others say No. Severe accidents have sometimes happened to umpires who have been struck with the ball, and there is on record that at least one has met his death in this way.

When matches were played for money, and when cricket was subject to open gambling, it was more difficult for umpires to give satisfactory decisions than it is now. In the account of a match played about sixty years ago between Sheffield and Nottingham, the Sheffield scorer wrote, that every time a straight ball was bowled by a Sheffield bowler the Nottingham umpire called: ‘No ball.’ Many stories arose at that time about umpires who were supposed to favour their sides. One town was said to possess a champion umpire, and with his help the Club was prepared to meet all comers. Only twenty years ago, the following statement appeared in a respectable magazine: ‘Far north, there is an idea that a Yorkshire Eleven should have an umpire of their own, as a kind of Old Bailey witness to swear for Yorkshire through thick and thin.’

But Yorkshiremen themselves have told some racy stories about some of their umpires. One was appealed to for a catch, and he replied: ‘Not out; and I’ll bet you two to one you will not win.’ Another at the close of a match threw up his hat, and exclaimed: ‘Hurrah! I have won five shillings.’

It is well known that when Dr E. M. Grace made his first appearance at Canterbury, Fuller Pilch was umpire. The doctor was out immediately, but the umpire gave him in. When he was afterwards expostulated with, he said he wanted to see if that Mr Grace could bat; so, to satisfy his curiosity, he inflicted an injustice on his own side. If the same thing had been done in favour of his own county, it would not have offended a gentleman whom Mr Bolland refers to in his book on Cricket. This gentleman, referring to an umpire’s decision on one occasion, said: ‘He must be either drunk or a fool, to give one of his own side out in that manner.’

At Ecclesall, near Sheffield, there was formerly a parish clerk called Lingard, who was also a notable umpire. One hot Sunday he was asleep in his desk, and was dreaming about a match to be played the next day. After the sermon, when the time came for him to utter his customary ‘Amen,’ he surprised the preacher, and delighted the rustics who were present, by shouting in a loud voice the word ‘Over.’

PARTED.

Farewell, farewell—a sadder strain
No other English word can give;
But we are parted though we live,
And ne’er may meet on earth again.

My life is void without thy love—
A harp with half its strings destroyed;
And thoughts of pleasures once enjoyed,
Can naught of consolation prove.

We live apart—the ocean’s flow
Divides thy sunny home from mine;
And, musing on the shore’s decline,
I watch the waters come and go.

I trace thy image in the sand;
I call thy name—I call in vain:
The breeze is blowing from the main,
And mocks me waiting on the strand.

I see the mighty rivers roll
To plunge, tumultuous, in the sea;
So all my thoughts flow on to thee,
And merge together in their goal.

But thou hast uttered ‘Fare thee well;’
And I must bid a last adieu,
Nor let the aching heart pursue
The longings that no tongue can tell.

* * * * *

And now, the slow returning tide
No longer murmurs of the sea;
The breeze has changed; it flies to thee
And breathes my message at thy side.

The tide shall ebb and flow for aye,
The fickle breeze may wander free;
But all my thoughts shall flow to thee,
Till life and longing pass away.

FRANCIS ERNEST BRADLEY.

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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._