[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 18.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, MAY 3, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
NORFOLK BROADS AND RIVERS.
To many, the wild solitudes of marsh and mere, the rivers and ‘broads’
of Norfolk, are almost as entirely unknown as the arid solitudes of
the unexplored Australian deserts. Yet there are few spots where
the holiday-seeker can find more easily and cheaply relaxation and
enjoyment than in these vast reedy wildernesses of East Anglia. Mr
G. Christopher Davies, in his interesting book, _Norfolk Broads and
Rivers_ (Blackwood and Sons), paints in a graphic manner the engrossing
charm of these placid inland seas, with their reedy margins shimmering
softly green in the gray morning mists, or flushing into warm tints of
beauty beneath the smile of sunset. A stranger is apt to fancy that
marsh scenery is uninteresting; but the very reverse is the case; it
has a beauty of its own, which is seldom even monotonous, so incessant
is the play of sunshine and shadow over the wide sedgy flats and
shallows. The marsh vegetation is luxuriant, even tropical in some of
the more sheltered nooks among the reeds; grasses are abundant, and so
are flowers, which often grow in broad patches, and warm with vivid
gleams of colour the low-toned landscape. In May and June, the banks
are gay with the vivid gold of the yellow iris and marsh buttercup;
then come the crimson glow of the ragged-robin, the delicate blue of
the forget-me-not, the deep purple flush of the loosestrife, and the
creamy white of the water-lilies, which spread till they almost cover
the shallow bays with their broad glossy leaves and shining cups of
white and gold.
The reedy capes and bays, the sedgy islets, with the green park lands
and wooded glades beyond, give an irresistible charm to these broads,
which is enhanced by the soft stillness of their utter solitude and
loneliness. The passing clouds and rising wind give a certain motion
and variety to the great marsh plain; but nothing speaks of the busy
world beyond save the white sail of a solitary yacht, or the rich
red-brown canvas of a gliding wherry; and not a sound falls on the
listening ear except the monotonous measured plash of the oars or
the wild scream of the startled waterfowl. These wide watery plains,
interesting at all seasons, are often extremely beautiful at sunrise
and sunset. Then gorgeous sky-tints of gold and crimson are flashed
back from the wide mirror-like expanse of the still lagoons with a
vivid glow of colouring which is almost painful in its intensity. The
great forests of reeds gleam like bundles of spears tipped with lambent
flame, and the patches of feathery grasses and flowers are lit up with
weird glimmers of rose-red and gold, glorious but evanescent. Light
gray mists float up from the marshy hollows, mellowing the sunset glow
with an indistinct quivering haze, which, mirage-like, cheats the
wondering gazer with visions of ships and islands and wooded knolls,
which he will search for in vain on the morrow.
A ‘broad’ is a term peculiar to Norfolk; it means the broadening out
of the rivers into lakes, which is very common all over the marsh
district. These broads abound in fish, and afford capital sport to
the angler. Bream and roach are abundant; and carp, although not so
plentiful, are to be found, and grow to a large size. The rudd, or
red-eye, a beautiful active fish, is very abundant; and few things are
more enjoyable, when the weather is good and the fish rise easily, than
a day’s rudd-fishing on the broads. The paying fish of these marsh
meres are, however, the pike and eel; and a great number of fishermen
live by eel-fishing. Eels are netted, speared, and caught in eel-pots;
and after a flood, when eels are what is called ‘on the move,’ a single
fisherman will often catch as many as four or five stone-weight in a
night.
The pike is, however, Mr Davies says, ‘the monarch of the Norfolk
waters, and at one time was supremely abundant; but the natives harried
him to their utmost.’ The best way to enjoy pike-fishing and the
scenery of the broads is to take an excursion for a few days in a small
yacht, either alone or with a companion. Human habitations are few and
far between on the banks of the sluggish rivers; but every now and
then one comes upon a cluster of picturesque old-world buildings, or
an ancient primitive village, with small houses furnished with quaint
dormer windows and fantastic gables, and here and there a gray old
church, finely set down on a rising ground amid a clump of ancient
spreading elms. Beyond the broad belt of reeds that fringe the water
are green meadows, dotted with red-and-white cattle, whose effect
from an artistic point of view is very good, but from an angler’s
standpoint is sometimes rather trying, as there is generally a bull,
and as often as not he is a vicious and combative specimen of the
bovine tribe. On this red-letter day, however, even the inevitable
bull was quiet, and our author was left undisturbed to thread his
way, on a soft warm afternoon, through the glowing beauties of an
October landscape. In the marshes, all the seasons have their peculiar
glory; but the autumnal colouring stands out with a vivid distinctness
unknown elsewhere. Beyond the screen of reeds, a belt of wood fringes
the river-bank—beech, alder, and elm, each tree glowing with its own
autumnal tint of red or yellow or russet brown.
Mr Davies, who had seldom the luck to go a-fishing when pike were
on the move, had two special pools in view, on one or both of which
he relied to fill his basket. Around the first of these the margin
was very soft and wet, and he was daintily picking his steps from
one tussock of grass to another, when whiz went a wild-duck from the
sedges, and in a moment he was floundering up to the knees in mud.
There were, however, pike in the pool when he reached it—great sluggish
beauties, lazily lying under the gleaming, swaying leaves of the
water-lilies. For once, he was in luck, to use his own words: ‘As our
bait traversed the deep back-water, we felt the indescribable thrill,
or rather shock, which proceeds from a decided run, and a three-pound
pike fights as gamely as a ten-pounder.’ The small fish caught, he
trudged on in the waning afternoon sunshine to the second pool;
startling a kingfisher, which flashed out of the reeds behind him like
a veritable gem of living colour. The second pool was closely fringed
with trees and bushes, the dusk-red gold of whose leaves was mirrored
in its placid depths; while every few minutes a crisp leaf-hail dropped
in the level sunshine like Danaë’s fabled showers of gold. Pike,
however, and not artistic effects, were for the moment in our author’s
eye, and pike he was sure there were, lurking under the mass of leaves
which covered the gleaming waters of the pool. ‘Seizing the exact
moment when there was a clear track across the leaf-strewn water, we
cast our bait, and worked it with every sense agog with expectation.
Ah! there is a welcome check at last. We strike hard, and find that
we are fast in a good-sized fish.’ Up and down, round and round, he
goes, floundering wildly about, now in one direction, now in another.
There is a pause of excited uncertainty, during which the line becomes
heavily clogged with leaves. To have, or not to have, the scaly monarch
of the silent pool? that is the question. It was ticklish work for a
few minutes; but at last he turned suddenly on his side, and was towed
into the shallow below, and landed in triumph.
Pike in these broads sometimes attain a great size, and have been
taken weighing between thirty and forty pounds. The reeds, which
with their bright green and purple fringes form such a prominent
feature in the marsh scenery, are yearly cut and gathered, and are
a really valuable crop. They are used for thatching, making fences,
and supporting plaster-work. Whittlesea Mere, before it was drained,
produced annually a thousand bundles of reeds, which were sold at one
pound per bundle. The men forsake all their other avocations to join in
the reed-harvest, which yields them while it lasts very good wages.
On some of the broads there is still to be seen an industry fast
falling into decay—decoys with decoy ducks and dogs. These require
to be worked with the utmost silence and caution. One winter-night
in 1881 Mr Davies inspected in company with the keeper the decoy at
Fritton Broad. The night was cold and dark, and each of the men had
to carry a piece of smouldering turf in his hand to destroy the human
scent, which would otherwise have alarmed the wary ducks. This made
their eyes water; and the decoy-dog, a large red retriever, being in
high spirits, insisted on tripping them up repeatedly, as they crawled
along in the darkness bent almost double. The interest of the sight,
however, when at length they reached the decoy, fully made up for
these petty discomforts. Peeping through an eyehole, a flock of teal
were to be seen paddling about quite close to them; while beyond these
were several decoy-ducks, and beyond these again a large flock of
mallards. The decoy-ducks are trained to come for food whenever they
see the dog or hear a whistle from the decoy-man. The dog now showed
himself obedient to a sign from his master, and in an instant every
head among the teal was up, and every bright shy eye twinkling with
pleased curiosity. Impelled by curiosity, they slowly swim towards
the dog, which, slowly retiring, leads them towards the mouth of the
decoy-pipe, showing himself at intervals till they were well within it.
The keeper then ran silently to the mouth of the pipe, and waving his
handkerchief, forced them, frightened and reluctant, to flutter forward
into the tunnel. He then detached a hoop from the grooves, gave it a
twist, and secured them by cutting off their return. This seemed the
last act of the drama, and Mr Davies took the opportunity to straighten
his back, which was aching dreadfully, ‘immediately there was a rush
of wings, and the flock of mallards left the decoy. “There, now, you
ha’ done it!” exclaimed the keeper excitedly. “All them mallards
were following the dog into the pipe, and we could ha’ got a second
lot.” We expressed our sorrow in becoming terms, and watched the very
expeditious way in which he extracted the birds from the tunnel net,
wrung their necks, and flung them into a heap.’ Few places now are
suitable for decoys, for even life in the marshes is not so quiet as it
used to be.
In all these broads and meres and the rivers which intersect them,
bird-life abounds, and an almost incredible number of eggs are
collected for the market, every egg which resembles a plover’s being
collected and sold as such. Of the bird-dwellers in the marshes, herons
are the most conspicuous; bitterns were also once common, but there
are now few of them, and their singular booming cry is but seldom
heard. The great crested grebe is still plentiful; but the ruff, which
was once very abundant, is now seldom seen. Of the smaller birds,
the graceful bearded tit has become very rare; but willow-wrens and
reed-buntings, jays, and cuckoos and king-fishers find their respective
habitats.
There are swans to be found all over the broads, particularly on the
river Yare; but they are not plentiful anywhere. A pair take possession
of a particular portion of the river, and defend their proprietary
rights in it with the utmost fierceness. They will not suffer the
intrusion of any other swans, and will very often attack human beings,
if they see any reasonable prospect of success. ‘A swan will not
exactly attack a wherry or even a pleasure-boat; but a canoe comes
within his capacity; and once while rowing down the river Yare in our
small canvas jolly-boat, a cock-swan chased us for half a mile, and
threatened every moment to drive his beak through the canvas.’
The appearance of the country around these broads has changed very
much during the last half-century, and this change is still going on.
Wherever it seems possible, drainage-works are attempted and carried
out; and acres upon acres of valuable meadow-land have been and are in
process of being reclaimed from the marsh. Some of these flat green
meadows, which a century back were sodden quagmires covered with
stagnant water, now pasture large herds of cattle, and are let at four
pounds an acre for grazing purposes. At the outlet of the drains into
the river, drainage windmills are erected of every size and shape, from
the brick tower to the skeleton wooden erection painted a brilliant red
or green. These windmills form a striking and picturesque addition to
the background of a marsh picture, but, like the decoys, they will soon
be a thing of the past, as they are now beginning to be superseded by
steam, which does the work required much more efficiently and quickly.
Otters abound in the pathless forests of reeds which fringe the meres,
and are often bold and familiar. One night while sleeping on board his
yacht at Cantley, Mr Davies was awakened by the noise of something
heavy jumping on board. The boat rocked violently, and the disturbance
was so sudden and inexplicable, that he got up just in time to see a
large dark object plunge overboard and disappear. On striking a light,
the broad and unmistakable track of an otter, was visible, imprinted
wherever his moist feet had been, and that seemed to be everywhere, for
he had evidently made a round in search of something eatable.
The whole marsh district is subject to destructive floods and high
tides, which rush up the rivers, driving back the fresh water and
destroying vast quantities of fish. The whole coast also suffers much
from sea-breaches. ‘Between Winterton and Waxham, hard by Hornsea Mere,
the only barrier between sea and lake is a line of what are called
“miel” banks, which are simply banks of sand held together by marum
grasses. Upon this marum grass, which grows in the loosest sand, the
welfare of a wide district depends. In 1781, there were many breaches
of the sea between Waxham and Winterton, so that every tide the salt
water and sands destroyed the marshes and the fish in the broads and
river; and if the wind blew briskly from the north-west, by which the
quantity of water in the North Sea was largely increased from the
Atlantic, the salt water drowned all the low country even as far as
Norwich.’ In the following eight years, the breaches were seriously
widened, the largest being two hundred yards in width, through which a
vast body of water poured.
In a country so open, wind-storms are very frequent; and what
are called ‘Rodges blasts,’ rotatory whirlwinds, often occasion
great damage, wrecking the windmills, uprooting trees, convulsing
the grasses, and lifting the reed-stacks high into the air.
Will-o’-the-wisps, once very common, are now comparatively rare, having
been exorcised by drainage. Mr Davies only once saw one at Hickling
over a wet bit of meadow. ‘The sportive fiend that haunts the mead’
appeared to him as a small flickering phosphorescent light faintly
visible in the darkness.
Another peculiar and uncomfortable phenomenon of the marshes is the
water-eynd or sea-smoke, which, rolling up from the ocean, covers the
whole landscape with a dense watery vapour, shutting out the placid
beauty of lagoon and mere, and reed-bed and coppice, and putting an end
to all pleasure, till the sun shines out again in a blaze of glory,
bathing the drenched flats in a warm flush of colour. The reeds on the
wide margins of the meres then quiver in the sunlight, which shimmers
down into their dark-green recesses; the still water gleams in the
shallow bays, where the cattle stand knee deep; and the warm air is
redolent of the odour of meadow-sweet and thyme: all is motion and
colour and fragrance, as if Nature were visibly rejoicing at having got
quit of the uncomfortable bath of the water-eynd.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
BY CHARLES GIBBON.
CHAPTER XXVI.—A QUESTION OF DIVISION.
Philip locked his desk, after placing Mr Shield’s letter in his
pocket-book, locked his door, and hastened to the station in time to
catch one of the afternoon fast trains to Dunthorpe. As he was in a
hurry, he hired a fly to Ringsford. On the way down, he had made up his
mind to get over what he anticipated would be a disagreeable interview
with his father, before going to Willowmere. Then he would be able to
tell Madge all about it, and receive comfort from her.
He alighted at the gate, and walked swiftly up the avenue. The sun was
out of sight; but it had left behind a soft red glow, which warmed and
brightened the blackened landscape. Peering through the dark lacework
formed by the bare branches of the trees, he saw a figure standing as
it were in the centre of that red glow: the shadows which surrounded
Philip making the figure on the higher ground beyond appear to be a
long way off. A melancholy figure: light all round him, darkness within
himself.
Philip quickened his steps, and taking a footpath through the
shrubbery, advanced to his father, as he was beginning to move slowly
from the position in which he had halted.
‘Glad to see you, Philip,’ said Mr Hadleigh, whilst he did what he
had rarely done before—took his son’s arm. There was also a touch
of unusual kindliness in his voice and manner. ‘I have missed you
the last few evenings more than I fancied I should do. You have been
enjoying yourself, no doubt—theatres, clubs, friends and cards perhaps.
Well, enjoy these things whilst you may. You have the means and the
opportunity. I never had; and it is singular how soon the capacity for
enjoyment is extinguished. Like everything else—capacity or faculty—it
requires exercise, if it is to be kept in good condition.’
Philip was relieved, but considerably puzzled by his father’s strange
humour.
‘I have been enjoying myself; but not in the way you mention. I have
been harder at work than I have ever been, except when preparing for
the last exam.’
‘Ah, and you did not make so very much out of that hard work after all.’
‘Not so much as I ought to have done, certainly; but I hope to make
more out of this effort,’ said Philip, with an attempt to pass lightly
by the uncomfortable reminder that he had failed to take his degree.
‘Have you read the papers I sent you?’
‘Yes.’
Mr Hadleigh spoke as if reluctant to make the admission, and his brows
contracted slightly, but his arm rested more kindly on that of his son,
as if to make amends for this apparent want of sympathy. Philip was
unconscious of these signs of varying moods.
‘I am glad of that—now you will be able to give me the benefit of your
advice. Wrentham fancies I am running after a chimera, and will come to
grief. He has not said that precisely; but what he has said, and his
manner, convince me that that is his notion; and I am afraid that it
will materially affect the value of his help to me. I should like you
to tell me what you think.’
Mr Hadleigh was silent; and they walked on towards the sheltered grove,
where, during his convalescence, Philip had spent so many pleasant
hours with Madge. As they were passing through it, the father spoke:
‘I did not want to read those papers, Philip, but—weakness, perhaps—a
little anxiety on your account, possibly, compelled me to look over
them. I have nothing to say further than this—the experiment is worth
making, when you have the means at command. I should have invested
the money, and enjoyed myself on the interest. You see’ (there was a
curious half-sad, half-mocking smile on his face), ‘I who have known
so little pleasure in life, am a strong advocate for the pleasure of
others.’
‘And that is very much the same theory which I am trying to work out.’
‘Yes; and I hope you will succeed, but—you are forgetting _yourself_.’
‘Not at all—my pleasure will be found in my success.’
‘Success,’ muttered Mr Hadleigh, speaking to himself; ‘that is our one
cry—let me succeed in this, and I shall be happy!... We must all work
it out for ourselves.’ Then, as if rousing from a dream: ‘I hope you
will succeed, Philip; but I have no advice to give beyond this—take
care of yourself.’
‘That is just what I am anxious for you and’—(he was about to say
‘and Mr Shield;’ but desirous of avoiding any unpleasant element,
he quickly altered the phrase)—‘you and everybody to understand. My
object is not to establish a new charity, but a business which will
yield me a satisfactory income for my personal labour, and a sufficient
interest on the capital invested, whilst it provides the same for my
work-people, or, as I should prefer to call them, my fellow-labourers.
As my returns increase, theirs should increase’——
‘Or diminish according to the result of your speculation?’ interrupted
Mr Hadleigh drily.
‘Of course—that is taken for granted. Now, I want you to tell me, do
you think this is folly?’
‘No, not folly,’ was the slow meditative reply, ‘if you find pleasure
in doing it. My theory is doubtless a selfish one, but it is the
simplest rule to walk by—that is, do what is best for yourself in the
meantime, and in the end, the chances are that you will find you have
also done the best for others. If you believe that this experiment is
the most satisfactory thing you can do for yourself, then, it is not
folly, even if it should fail.’
‘Thank you. I cannot tell you how much you relieve my mind. I am
convinced that in making this experiment I am dealing with a problem
of great importance. It is a system by which capital and labour shall
have an equal interest in working earnestly for the same end. I want to
set about it on business principles. You are the only man of practical
experience who has spoken a word of comfort on the subject.’
‘I am dealing with it from a selfish point of view—considering only
how you can obtain most pleasure, comfort, happiness—call it what you
may—for yourself out of your fortune. I should never have entered on
such a scheme. You tell me that it was optional on your part to go into
business or to live on the interest of the money?’
‘Quite optional; but of course I could not accept the trust and do
nothing.’
‘Ah, I think my advice would have been that you should have accepted
the trust, as you call it, invested it in safe securities, married, and
basked in the sunshine of life—an easy mind, and a substantial balance
at your banker’s.’
‘But my mind would not have been easy if I had done that.’
‘Then you were right not to do it. Every man has his own way of seeking
happiness. You have yours; and I shall watch the progress of your work
with attentive interest.—But we have other matters to speak about. I
have done something of which I hope you will approve.’
Philip could not help smiling at this intimation. Mr Hadleigh had never
before suggested that he desired or required the approval of any one in
whatever he chose to do.
‘You can be sure of what my opinion will be of anything you do, sir.’
‘Perhaps.’
They walked on in silence, and passed Culver’s cottage. They met Pansy
coming from the well with a pail of water. She put down the pail, and
courtesied to the master and his son. She was on Philip’s side of the
path, and he whispered in passing:
‘There is good news for you by-and-by, Pansy.’
She smiled vaguely, and blushed—she blushed at everything, this little
wood-nymph.
‘What is the good news you have for the girl?’ asked Mr Hadleigh
sharply, although he had not appeared to be observing anything.
‘I suppose there can be no harm in telling you, although it is a kind
of a secret.’
‘What is it?’
‘Caleb Kersey is making up to Pansy; but old Sam does not like it, as
the young man is so unsettled. The good news I have for her is that
Kersey has joined me, and will have good wages and good prospects.’
‘You might have told her at once.’
‘I thought it better that the man himself should do that.... But you
had something to say about yourself.’
‘It concerns you more than me,’ said Mr Hadleigh, resuming his low
meditative tone. ‘I have been altering my will.’
There are few generous-minded men who like to hear anything about
even a friend’s will, and much less about that of a parent who in all
probability has a good many years still to live. Philip was extremely
sensitive on the subject, and therefore found it difficult to say
anything at all when his father paused.
‘I would rather you did not speak about it,’ he said awkwardly. ‘There
is and there can be no necessity to do so. You have many years before
you yet, and in any case I shall be content with whatever arrangement
you make.’
‘Many years before me still,’ continued Mr Hadleigh musingly, repeating
his son’s words. ‘True; I believe I have; it is possible even that I
might marry again, and begin a new life altogether with prospects of
happiness, since it would be guided by the experience of the past. Most
people have a longing at some time or other that they might begin all
over again; and why should not a man of, say middle age, take a fresh
start, and realise in the new life the happiness he has missed—by his
own folly or that of others—in the old one?’
Philip did not understand, and so remained silent.
Was there ever a grown-up son or daughter who felt quite pleased with
the idea of a parent’s second marriage? When the marriage cannot be
prevented, the sensible ones assume a graciousness, if they do not feel
it, and go on their way with varying degrees of comfort in being on
friendly terms with their parent; the foolish ones sulk, suffer, cause
annoyance, and derive no benefit from their ill-humour. Philip was
surprised and a little amused at the suggestion of his father marrying
again. The idea had never occurred to him before; and now, when it was
presented, the memory of his mother stirred in him what he owned at
once was an unreasonable feeling of disapproval. To his youthful mind,
a man nearly fifty was old; he had not yet reached the period at which
the number of years required to make a man old begins to extend up to,
and even beyond the threescore and ten. When he came to think of it,
however, he could recollect numerous instances of men much older than
his father marrying for the second, third, or fourth time.
‘Yes, it is possible to make a fresh start,’ Mr Hadleigh went on, still
musing; ‘and one may learn to forget the past. Did you ever consider,
Philip, what a tyrant memory is?’
‘I cannot say that I have, sir.’
‘No; you are too young—by-and-by you will understand.... But this is
not what I wanted to speak about.’
He rested a little more on his son’s arm, as if he were in that way
desirous of giving him a kindly pressure, whilst he recalled his
thoughts to the immediate subject he wished to explain.
‘It is about the will. I have made a new one. I suppose you are aware
that although my fortune is considerable whilst it remains in the hands
of one person, it dwindles down to a moderate portion when divided
amongst four or five?’
‘Clearly.’
‘Then suppose you and I reverse our positions for a time. You have five
children, three of them being girls. You wish to leave each of them
as well provided for as possible. One of the sons becomes by peculiar
circumstances the possessor of a fortune almost equal to your own. Tell
me how you would divide your property?’
Philip reflected for a few moments, and then with a bright look, which
showed that he had taken in the whole problem, replied:
‘The thing is quite simple. I should leave the son who had been so
lucky only a trifle of some sort, in token of good-will; and I should
divide the whole of the property amongst the other four. That would be
the right thing to do; would it not?’
The father halted, grasped his hand, and looked at him with a smile.
This was such an unusual sign of emotion, that Philip was for an
instant taken aback.
‘That is almost precisely what I have done,’ said Mr Hadleigh calmly;
‘and your answer is what I expected. Still, it pleases me to learn from
your own lips that you are satisfied.’
‘Not only satisfied, but delighted that you should have had so much
confidence in me as to know I should be.’
‘A few words more and I shall release you.—Oh, I know that you are
eager to be off, and where you wish to be off to. Right, right—seek
the sweets of life, the bitters come.... You are separating yourself
from me. That is natural, and follows as a matter of course. I would
have liked it better if the circumstances had been different. Enough of
that. Your rooms at the house will be always ready for you, and come
when you may, you will be welcome to me. Now, go: be happy.’
He pointed towards the Forest in the direction of Willowmere. He looked
older than usual: in his movement and attitude there was an unconscious
solemnity, as if he were giving his favourite son a blessing while
sending him forth into the world.
Philip bowed. He saw that his father was strangely agitated, and so
turned away without speaking.
What was in the man’s mind, as he watched the stalwart figure rapidly
disappear into the shadows of the Forest? Hitherto, he had been walking
and standing erect, although his head was bent a little, as usual.
Now his whole form appeared to collapse, as if its strength had been
suddenly withdrawn, and he dwindled, as it were, in height and breadth.
The shadows deepened upon him as he stood there; stars began to appear;
a branch of an elm-tree close by began to creak monotonously—betokening
the gathering strength of the wind, although at present it seemed
light; and still he remained in that dejected attitude, gazing vacantly
in the direction taken by Philip, long after Philip had disappeared.
He roused from his trance, looked round him, then clasping hands at his
back, walked dreamily after his son.
QUEER LODGERS.
Scientific research, especially when directed to the more obscure
and remote conditions of animal life, has often a twofold interest.
In itself, and in the marvellous structural adaptations revealed by
the microscope, the pursuit has its own special attraction; while, in
addition, the information thus obtained may be so practically utilised
as to minister to the preservation of health, and to the improved
rearing and cultivation of animals and plants. An inquiry, conducted
three years ago, by Professor A. P. Thomas, at the instance of the
Royal Agricultural Society of England, is noticeable in both these
respects. The inquiry extended over a period of more than two years,
and the object in view throughout was the discovery of the origin and
possible prevention of a well-known and destructive disease affecting
sheep and other grazing animals, both in this country and abroad;
and during the course of the inquiry, which was a painstaking and
exhaustive one, facts of no small interest, from the view-point of
natural history alone, have been elicited.
By this disease—Liver-fluke, Fluke Disease, Liver-rot, as it is
variously termed—it has been estimated that as many as one million
sheep perished annually, in this country alone, from the effects of
the malady—a loss which was doubled, if not sometimes trebled, by the
advent of a wet season such as 1879, and which does not include the
large percentage of animals annually dying in America, Australia, and
elsewhere from the same cause. It was known that the disease was due
to the presence of a parasitic flat worm in greater or lesser numbers,
together with its eggs, in the entrails of infected sheep, and also
that flocks grazing habitually in low and marshy pasture-grounds were
generally more liable than others to be attacked; but it was not known
precisely in what manner the disease was incurred.
It was not until 1882 that careful experiment finally succeeded in
tracing throughout the wonderful life-career of the liver-fluke, and
shedding light upon the possibility of the prevention of the scourge.
Into this latter question of prevention, we do not enter at present.
Those who are interested, practically or otherwise, in this branch of
the subject may consult for full particulars the scientific journals
in which the results of this inquiry first appeared. (See _Journal
of Royal Agricultural Society_, No. 28; also _Quarterly Journal of
Microscopical Science_ for January 1883. For the history of the
disease, see _The Rot in Sheep_, by Professor Simonds; London: John
Murray, 1880.) Even from a dietetic point of view, it is for the public
good that the disease should be extirpated, as it is well known that
unwholesome dropsical meat, from the bodies of fluke-infested sheep,
is frequently pushed on the market. Nor is this parasite exclusively
confined to the lower animals. It has been communicated to human
beings, doubtless from the consumption of infected meat producing cysts
in the liver, &c.
But it is the initial results of Professor Thomas’s experiments, those
which trace the progress of the fluke from the embryo to the adult
stage, with which we have to do at present.
Starting from the previously observed but obscure relationship said
to exist between the larval forms of certain snails or slugs and the
liver-fluke, as found in the carcases of sheep and other infected
back-boned animals, it was discovered, after much careful examination,
that a certain connection _did_ exist between them, with this
remarkable circumstance in addition—that the minute cysts, or bags,
which contain the embryo fluke, and which are to be found adhering to
grass stalks in some sheep-pastures, emanated, indeed, from the body
of one particular description of snail, but that this embryo parasite
was undoubtedly derived—several generations previously, and in quite
another form—from the sheep itself!
The _original_ embryo—not that which clings to grass stalks, but the
embryo three or four generations before, born of the adult fluke’s
egg—is hatched after the egg drops from the sheep’s body, in marshy
ground, ditches, or ponds. It then attaches itself to the snail,
produces in the snail’s body two, and sometimes three generations of
successors, all totally dissimilar from the original fluke. The last
generation alone quits the snail, and, assuming the ‘cyst’ form, waits
to be swallowed by the grazing animal, in order to become a full-grown
fluke. The fluke’s progeny again go through the transformation changes
of their predecessors.
Once more, in order to render the process clear. Taking the adult
fluke—laying its eggs principally in the bile-ducts of the sheep, which
it never leaves—as the original parent, its children, grandchildren,
and great-grandchildren, inhabiting the snail, are all totally
different in appearance from their original progenitor—most of the
generations differing also from each other. It is only the fourth,
though sometimes the third generation, which, changing its form to a
migratory one, is enabled thereby to leave the snail, and ultimately to
assume the cyst form, adapted to produce in time the veritable fluke
once more. Naturalists term this process, one not unknown in other
forms of life, ‘alternation of generation,’ or metagenesis.
The appearance of the full-grown fluke (_Fasciola hepatica_) is well
known to sheep-farmers and others. It is of an oval or leaf-like
shape, not unlike a small flounder or fluke (hence the name of the
worm), pale brown in colour, and ranging in size from an inch to an
inch and a third in length—though occasionally much smaller, even the
twenty-fourth of an inch—and in breadth about half its own length. A
projecting portion is seen at the head, with a mouth placed in the
centre of a small sucker at the tip, by which the fluke attaches
itself. Over two hundred flukes have been found in the liver of a
single sheep. Each one is estimated to produce some hundreds of
thousands of eggs. Each of the eggs contains one embryo, which when
full grown is nearly the length of the egg—the spare egg-space up to
that time being filled with the food-stuff to support it till hatched.
As long as the egg continues in the body of the sheep, it remains
inert. It is only when dropped—as they are from time to time in great
numbers by the animal—and alighting upon wet ground, or on water in
ditches or drains, that, under favourable conditions of heat, &c., the
embryo at length comes forth. The time which elapses before the egg is
hatched is extremely variable.
Viewed through a microscope, the egg, which is only the two-hundredth
of an inch in diameter, may be seen to contain the embryo, which is
unlike its parent in every way, and will never show any trace of family
likeness to it. It is in the shape of a sugar-loaf, with a slight
projecting point at the broader end, and two rudimentary eyes near the
same. When hatched on damp ground or in water, it swims freely about
with the broader end forward, like a boat propelled stern foremost. The
whole of its body, except the projecting horn, which is drawn in when
swimming, is covered with long waving hairs, or _cilia_, which, being
moved backwards and forwards, serve as oars, or paddles, to propel it
through the water.
Swimming with a restless revolving motion through the water, the
embryo begins to search for suitable quarters—in other words, to
find a snail wherein to quarter itself. It is not easily satisfied,
although snails, generally speaking, are plentiful enough. Indeed, it
has been definitely ascertained that of all the known descriptions of
snails there are only _two_ which the embryo ever attacks. Of these
two species, only one is apparently suitable as a dwelling, those who
enter the other perishing shortly after admittance. The only suitable
snail is a very insignificant fresh-water one, _Limnæus truncatulus_,
with a brown spiral shell. It is only from a quarter to a half inch in
size, and seems to have no popular name. It is to be found very widely
distributed through the world. Said to breed in mud of ditches and
drains, it is so far amphibious as to wander far from water. It can
also remain dry for a lengthened period; and even when apparently quite
shrivelled up for lack of moisture, revives with a shower of rain.
The embryo knows this snail from all others; placed in a basin of
water, with many other species of snails, it at once singles this one
out, to serve as an intermediate host. Into the soft portion of the
snail’s body, the embryo accordingly begins to make its way. Pressing
the boring horn or tool of its head against the yielding flesh of the
snail, the embryo advances with a rotary motion like a screw-driver,
aided by the constant movement of the _cilia_. The borer, as it pierces
the snail, grows longer and longer, and finally operating as a wedge,
a rent is eventually made sufficiently large to admit the unbidden
guest bodily to the lodgings it will never quit. It settles at once
in or near the lung of the snail, there to feed on the juices of the
animal. The paddle-like cilia, now useless, are thrown off; the eyes
become indistinct; it subsides into a mere bag of germs, as it changes
to a rounder form, and becomes in other words a _sporocyst_, or bladder
of germs—for this animal, unlike its egg-laying parent, produces its
young alive within itself.
This, then, is the first stage—the embryo, from the fluke’s egg,
migrates to, and becomes a sporocyst in the snail’s body.
The germs inside the sporocyst in time come to maturity, commencing the
existence of the _second_ generation, which are called _rediæ_. These
germs number from six to ten in each sporocyst; they grow daily more
elongated in form, and one by one, leave the parent by breaking through
the body-walls, the rent which is thus made closing up behind them.
These _rediæ_ thus born, never leave the snail. They are, however,
different from the sporocyst, being about the twentieth of an inch, in
adult size, sack-like in shape, furnished with a mouth, and also with
an intestine. Two protuberances behind serve the animal for legs; for,
unlike the sporocyst, the _redia_ does not remain in one part of its
house, but travels backwards and forwards, preying chiefly on the liver
of the snail, and generally doing a great deal of damage. Finally,
indeed, these parasites destroy their host altogether.
In the bodies of the _rediæ_—so called after Redi, the anatomist—the
third generation again is formed in germ fashion. The nature of this
third generation varies. _Rediæ_ may in turn produce _rediæ_ like
themselves, tenants of the snail for life; or they may produce another
form, totally dissimilar, one which is fitted for quitting the snail
and entering on another mode of existence. This change, however, takes
place either in the first generation produced by the _rediæ_, or, at
latest, in the second, more frequently in the latter. At first, this
new form appears like the young of the sporocyst. But when either in
the children or the grandchildren of the first _rediæ_, this stage is
reached, the animal undergoes a remarkable change, to fit it for new
surroundings. It is to be an emigrant, and dons for that purpose a tail
twice as long as itself. It is then termed a _cercaria_, and is shaped
like a tadpole.
To recapitulate, then. A _cercaria_ may thus be the young of the
_rediæ_, either of the first or second generation; and the _rediæ_
again sprang from the sporocyst, which is the after-formation of the
fluke’s embryo. These _cercariæ_ or tadpole-shaped animals are flat
and oval in the body, about the ninetieth of an inch in length, and
tail more than twice as long. They escape from the parent _rediæ_ by
a natural orifice, crawl out of the snail, and enter on a new life.
Its existence as a _cercaria_ in this style will much depend on the
locality of the snail for the time being. If it should find itself in
water when quitting the snail, the _cercaria_ attaches itself when
swimming to the stalks of aquatic plants; or if in confinement, to the
walls of the aquarium. If the snail is in a field or on the edge of
a ditch or pool, the _cercaria_ on leaving proceeds to fix itself to
the stalks or lower leaves of grass near the roots. In every case the
result is the same. Gathering itself up into a round ball on coming
to rest, a gummy substance exudes from the body, forming a round
white envelope; the tail, being violently agitated, falls off, and
the round body left, hardening externally with exposure, the cyst or
bladder—measuring about the hundredth of an inch across—is complete.
Every cyst contains a young fluke, ready to be matured _only when
swallowed by some grazing animal, such as a sheep_. Till that happens,
the fluke within remains inert; and if not swallowed thus within a few
weeks, the inmate of the cyst finally perishes. Of this remarkable
family, however, a sufficient number outlive the changes and risks of
their life-history to render the disease caused by the survivors a
serious scourge.
It is to be hoped that the further results of careful inquiry into the
habits of these parasites will have the effect of reducing the evil to
a minimum.
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
BY HUGH CONWAY.
IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER I.
The Abbots of Chewton-Abbot, Gloucestershire, were county people, and,
moreover, had always occupied that coveted position. They dreaded
not the researches of the officious antiquary who pokes about in
pedigrees, and finds that, three or four generations ago, the founders
of certain families acquired their wealth by trade. They at least were
independent of money-earning. The fact that Chewton began to be known
as Chewton-Abbot so far back as the fifteenth century, showed they were
no upstarts. Indeed, if not of the very first rank—that rank from which
knights of the shire are chosen—the Abbots, from the antiquity of their
family, and from the centuries that family had owned the same estates,
were entitled to dispute the question of precedence with all save a
few very great magnates. They were undoubtedly people of importance.
The reigning Abbot, it need scarcely be said, was always a county
magistrate, and at some period of his life certain to serve as sheriff.
But for generations the family had occupied exactly the same position,
and exercised exactly the same amount of influence in the land. The
Abbots seemed neither to rise nor fall. If they added nothing to their
estates, they alienated nothing. If they gave no great statesmen,
warriors, or geniuses to the world, they produced, sparingly, highly
respectable members of society, who lived upon the family acres and
spent their revenues in a becoming manner.
The estates were unentailed; but as, so far, no Abbot had incurred
his father’s displeasure, the line of descent from father to eldest
son had been unbroken, and appeared likely to continue so. True, it
was whispered, years ago, that the custom was nearly changed, when Mr
William Abbot, the present owner of the estate, was leading a life in
London very different from the respectable traditions of the family.
But the reports were not authenticated; and as, soon after his father’s
death, he married a member of an equally old, equally respectable, and
equally proud family, all such ill-natured gossip died a natural death;
and at the time this tale opens, William Abbot was leading the same
quiet life his ancestors had led before him.
It was one of the cherished Abbot traditions that the family was not
prolific. So long as the race was kept from disappearing, they were
contented. In this respect the present head of the family showed
himself a true Abbot. He had but one son, a young man who had just
taken a fair degree at Oxford, and who was now staying at Chewton
Hall, before departing on a round of polite travel, which, according
to old-world precedent, his parents considered necessary to crown the
educational edifice.
Mr and Mrs Abbot were in the breakfast-room at Chewton Hall. Mr Abbot
was alone at the table, lazily discussing his breakfast. His wife and
son, who were early risers, had taken that meal nearly an hour before.
The young man being away on some outdoor pursuit, the husband and wife
had the room to themselves. Mr Abbot had just poured out his second
cup of tea, and, according to his usual custom, commenced breaking the
seals of the letters which lay beside his plate. His wife drew near to
him.
‘I am afraid that infatuated boy has in some way entangled himself with
the young woman I told you of,’ she said.
‘What young woman?’ asked Mr Abbot, laying down his letters.
‘I told you last week he was always riding into Bristol—so often, that
I felt sure there was some attraction there.’
‘You did, I remember. But I took little notice of it. Boys will be
boys, you know.’
‘Yes; but it is time we interfered. I found him this morning kissing a
photograph and holding a lock of hair in his hand. I taxed him with his
folly.’
‘My dear Helena,’ said Mr Abbot, with a shade of contempt in his voice,
‘will you forgive my saying, that in matters of this kind it is best to
leave young men alone, and not to see more than can be helped. Leave
the boy alone—that is my advice.’
‘You don’t quite understand me,’ replied Mrs Abbot. ‘He wants to marry
her.’
‘Wants to do what!’ cried her husband, now fully aware of the gravity
of the situation.
‘He told me this morning he had asked her to be his wife. She would, he
knew, consent, if we would welcome her as a daughter.’
‘How kind! How considerate!’ said Mr Abbot scornfully. ‘Who may she be,
and where did Frank meet her?’
‘He saved her from some incivility at the railway station, and so made
her acquaintance. Who she is, he scarcely seems to know, except that
her name is Millicent Keene, and that she lives with an aunt somewhere
in Clifton. Frank gave me the address, and begged me to call—assuring
me that I should take her to my heart the moment I saw her.’
‘He must be mad!’ exclaimed Mr Abbot, rising and pacing the room. ‘Mad,
utterly mad! Does he think that we are going to let him—an Abbot—marry
the first nameless young woman who strikes his fancy? I will talk to
him, and soon bring him to his senses. The estates are unentailed,
thank goodness! so I have some hold over him.’
Mrs Abbot’s lip just curled with scorn, as she heard her husband’s
direct commonplace plan for restoring her son’s wandering senses. She
knew that such parental thunderbolts were apt to do more harm than good.
‘I would not threaten just yet,’ she said. ‘Frank is very self-willed,
and may give us trouble. For my part, I intend to drive into Clifton
this morning and see the girl.’
‘What folly! To give the affair your apparent sanction?’