After his rebuff by Lady Dimsdale, the Baronet made up his mind to
set off home as soon as possible. He was stung as he had rarely been
stung in his life before, and was in no humour for the company of any
one. But before he could get away, an almost incredible rumour reached
his ears that Mr Boyd’s long-lost wife had unexpectedly appeared at
Rosemount. This was enough to induce Sir Frederick to change his plans,
especially when backed up by the Captain’s pressing invitation to stay
for dinner, for who could tell what unexpected turn events might now
take? So he sent his groom in the dogcart to fetch his dress clothes,
and made up his mind to remain where he was till the following morning.
Sir Frederick had easily discovered, by questioning one of the
servants, in which particular room Mr Boyd and his wife had located
themselves. It was the room next the library. So into the library
went Sir Frederick, on the pretext of having some letters to write,
and there he sat with the door a little way open—waiting. A certain
strange idea was fermenting in his brain, which he could not get rid of
till he had satisfied himself whether it had any foundation in fact or
otherwise. The moment he saw Boyd pass the library door, he knew that
the opportunity for which he had been waiting had come.
Sir Frederick advanced a step or two, and looked round, as if in search
of some one. ‘Pardon my intrusion,’ he said with a bow; ‘but—Mr Boyd—is
he not here?’
‘Mr Boyd has left the room for a few minutes. He will be back
presently.’
The Baronet gave a well-simulated start at the first sound of Mrs
Boyd’s voice. Then he seemed to regard her attentively for a moment
or two, with his head a little on one side. ‘Pardon me,’ he said with
a half-smile of inquiry, ‘but have I not the honour of addressing Mrs
Boyd?’
At this question she seemed to freeze suddenly. Her eyes traversed him
from head to foot before she answered him; then in cold clear tones she
said: ‘I am the wife of Oscar Boyd.’
‘I thought I could not be mistaken,’ replied the Baronet, with his most
insinuating smile.—‘I am Sir Frederick Pinkerton. But it is so long
since I had the pleasure of seeing you last, that in all probability
you have quite forgotten me.’
There was something about him that had evidently aroused her
suspicions. She was at a loss to know what ground to take with him.
‘Yes—I cannot quite call you to mind,’ she said hesitatingly, after a
little pause. ‘And yet? No. Tell me where I have seen you before.’
‘At New Orleans.’
‘Ha! I have not been at New Orleans for many years.’
‘I met you on two or three occasions in society, a few months after
your marriage.’
‘Yes—I think I remember you now. But it is a long time ago, monsieur,
and I was introduced to so many people about that time.’
‘I entertain a very distinct recollection of you, madam.’
‘I am indeed flattered, monsieur.’ She smiled a little set smile, which
came and went as if it were produced by clockwork. She was evidently
far from being at her ease.
‘Your unexpected appearance must have been a great surprise to Mr
Boyd—a surprise and a pleasure in one. The return of a wife whom he
believed to have been lost to him for ever several years ago! What a
unique experience!’
‘An experience, monsieur, which very few husbands, I am afraid, would
care to have brought home to themselves. You have an English proverb,
“Out of sight, out of mind.” That is a very true proverb.’
‘Fie, fie! Mrs Boyd. You must not be so severe on us poor men. We are
not all alike. Take your own case as an instance. You come back, from
the tomb as it were, after I know not how many years, and find your
husband still faithful to your memory.—Ah no; you must not malign us
all.’
Was he mocking her, or what, this smiling, smooth-faced man? She was
becoming more vaguely uneasy every minute, she scarcely knew why.
‘The sight of you this morning, Mrs Boyd,’ resumed the Baronet,
‘brings to my memory a certain little incident which I had all but
forgotten. In those days, I was something of a traveller. About a
year subsequently to my introduction to you, madam, I found myself in
Mexico.’
Mrs Boyd could not repress a start, but she did not speak.
‘While there, singular to say, I made the acquaintance of a certain
relative of yours, who inquired most particularly concerning your
welfare.’
Mrs Boyd’s face might have been seen to pale even under its artificial
colouring. She steadied her voice by an effort. ‘Of a relation of mine,
monsieur! May I ask his name?’
‘Don Diego Riaz.’ He pronounced the name slowly, looking fixedly at her
the while.
‘Ha!’ She fell back a step, as if some one had aimed a blow at her, and
then one hand went up quickly to her heart. Both hatred and fear shone
out of the eyes with which she stared at him.
‘By heavens! I have hit the mark,’ said the Baronet to himself.
‘Who can this man be? How much does he know?’ was her unspoken thought.
‘I am afraid you are ill, Mrs Boyd,’ remarked the Baronet.
‘A spasm; a mere nothing,’ she answered.—‘To return to what you were
saying. I have neither seen nor heard anything of Don Diego Riaz for
many years, and I hope neither to see nor hear anything of him in time
to come. There was no love lost between him and me.’
‘His was a singular character, and strange tales were told of him. For
instance, it was whispered that on one occasion when a certain member
of his family left home without his knowledge or consent, he’——
‘Spare me the recital, I pray of you. The mere mention of that man’s
name is hateful to me! utterly hateful!’ Her voice was charged with
passion, her black eyes seemed to strike fire. She walked across to the
window and then came back again.
Sir Frederick felt that he had pursued the topic as far as it was safe
to do so. ‘’Tis she; I can no longer doubt,’ he murmured to himself. ‘I
have not forgotten what I was told in Mexico.’
‘How much or how little does this man know?’ Estelle kept asking
herself. She was seriously uneasy.
‘Do you purpose making a long stay in England, Mrs Boyd?’ asked the
Baronet in his most matter-of-fact tone.
‘I think not, Sir Frederick. My husband talks about sailing for South
America in a few days. He has lost nearly the whole of his fortune.
_N’est ce pas?_’
‘I believe so. I was prodigiously sorry to hear of it.—Do you accompany
your husband abroad, Mrs Boyd?’
‘Monsieur! Is it not a wife’s duty to accompany her husband anywhere
and everywhere? And consider for how many years Oscar and I have been
separated! He would not leave me behind him for the world.’
‘Yours must be a romantic story, Mrs Boyd. I hope we shall have the
pleasure of hearing from your lips some particulars of your marvellous
escape.’
At this moment Mrs Bowood entered the room. She could contain herself
no longer. What was Mr Boyd about, that he did not at once introduce
his wife to herself and the Captain? Then she was dying to apologise
for her mistake of the morning; besides which, her sense of hospitality
was outraged by the fact that Mrs Boyd had been all this time in the
house without having been shown to her rooms or asked to partake of
refreshments of any kind. Such a state of affairs must be put an end to
forthwith.
Mrs Bowood came forward with her most genial smile. ‘I am come to
apologise for my absurd mistake of this morning, though it was partly
your own fault, my dear Mrs Boyd.’ She had hold of both Estelle’s hands
by this time. ‘How do you do? How do you do? Allow me to welcome you
to Rosemount.—Ah, Sir Frederick, you here?’ This was said with some
surprise.
‘I had the honour of making Mrs Boyd’s acquaintance several years ago.’
‘Wonders will never cease.’ Then turning to Estelle, she went on: ‘Only
to think that I mistook you for a French governess! But you ought to
have let me know at first who you were, and then matters would have
been set right at once.’
‘I wanted to surprise my husband,’ answered Estelle, with downcast
eyes. ‘I wanted to see whether he would know me again, after so long a
time.’
‘As if he could help knowing you and he your husband! I can imagine how
overjoyed he must have been to see you again.’
‘_Cher_ Oscar! He was distracted with joy. He could scarcely speak to
me at first for emotion.’
Sir Frederick smiled cynically, but did not speak.
‘No chance for Laura now,’ said Mrs Bowood to herself. ‘How fortunate
this woman did not come a day later.’
Mrs Bowood had left the room-door wide open, and at this juncture her
eye caught sight of Lady Dimsdale, who was passing along the corridor
on her way to the side-door that opened into the grounds. ‘Laura,
Laura! come here,’ she called. ‘I want to introduce you to Mrs Boyd.’
‘The woman he kissed!’ muttered Estelle between her teeth.
‘Checkmate for my Lady Disdain,’ remarked Sir Frederick to himself with
a shrug.
Lady Dimsdale hearing herself called by name turned back, and entered
the room. She looked a little paler than ordinary, but was perfectly
composed. Going straight up to Estelle, she held out her hand. ‘Mrs
Boyd and I have met already,’ she said in her most matter-of-fact tone.
‘Ah, _oui_,’ answered Estelle with a shrug, as she took the proffered
hand for a moment and then let it drop.
‘Met before!’ exclaimed Mrs Bowood in amazement.
‘A couple of hours ago,’ said Lady Dimsdale.
‘For one minute only,’ explained Estelle.
‘Then I must introduce you.—This is Lady Dimsdale, one of my dearest
friends.—Laura—Mrs Boyd.’
‘I am enchanted to make the acquaintance of Lady Dimsdale.’
‘’Tis a pity Lady D. cannot return the compliment,’ muttered Sir
Frederick to himself.
Mrs Bowood turned to him. ‘By-the-bye, Sir Frederick, have you seen the
Captain since luncheon?’ With that the two crossed over to the window
and began to talk together.
‘Mrs Boyd, I feel that some explanation is due to you,’ said Lady
Dimsdale in a low voice to the other.
‘I have not asked for any explanation, Lady Dimsdale.’
‘I repeat that one is due to you.’
‘As you please,’ answered the other, with a little lifting of her
shoulders; and with that she sat down and yawned unmistakably behind
her handkerchief.
‘Mr Boyd and I were acquainted many years ago, before he went abroad,’
began Lady Dimsdale. ‘He was a frequent visitor at my father’s
vicarage. After he went away, I never saw him again till yesterday.
This morning, fully believing that you had been dead for many years, he
asked me to become his wife.’
‘You did not say No,’ sneered Estelle.
‘At that moment you entered the room.’
‘It was very bad taste on my part, I confess. Had I known how you were
engaged, I would have waited five minutes longer.’
‘With all my heart, I wish that you had come an hour sooner!’
‘I told you that I did not require any explanation. Now that you have
chosen to press one on me, what is the value of it? _Absolument rien!_
The world is wide, and one kiss more or less is of little consequence.’
She rose, and crossed to the table and opened a book of photographs.
‘And that woman is Oscar Boyd’s wife!’ said Lady Dimsdale to herself as
she looked after her. Her heart was very, very bitter.
Mrs Bowood turned as Estelle crossed to the table. ‘I am afraid you
will think us all very inhospitable, Mrs Boyd,’ she said; ‘but it is
your husband’s fault that you did not come in to luncheon. However, a
tray will be ready for you in a few minutes. By-the-bye, has any one
shown you your rooms?’
‘My rooms, madame! We—that is, my husband and I—are going to London by
the next train. At least, that is what Oscar says.’
‘Going away by the next train! Mr Boyd had promised to stay a week, and
why need he go away because you have arrived?’
‘I only know, madame, that he told me he was going away.’
‘That will never do. I must talk to him; and Captain Bowood must talk
to him; and you, Lady Dimsdale, and you, Sir Frederick, must add
your persuasions to ours to induce Mr Boyd not to run away from us
in this sudden fashion. Next week we have two picnics and an archery
meeting—and Mrs Boyd has been so long away from England!’
‘I am sure Mr Boyd can’t be hard-hearted enough to resist all our
entreaties,’ said the Baronet. ‘The influence of Lady Dimsdale alone
might’——
‘You rate my influence too highly, Sir Frederick,’ interrupted Laura
hastily, while a warm flush mounted to her cheek. ‘In a matter like
this, Mr Boyd probably knows his own business better than any one.’
The Baronet, in nowise disconcerted, turned to Estelle: ‘To run away
from us so soon would be cruel indeed.’ Then to Mrs Bowood: ‘I am sure
we are all anxious for the pleasure of Mrs Boyd’s further acquaintance.
We want to know her better—we want to hear the story of her adventures,
of her wonderful escape from shipwreck.’
‘A dangerous man this—I hate him!’ muttered Estelle between her teeth.
‘Yes—of course—the story of the shipwreck,’ cried impulsive Mrs Bowood.
‘I had forgotten that for the moment. We are all dying to hear it.’
Estelle’s eyes were on Lady Dimsdale. ‘The woman he kissed says
nothing,’ was her unspoken comment. Then turning to Mrs Bowood,
she said: ‘The shipwreck? O yes, I will tell you all about the
shipwreck—but not to-day. I am a little tired.’
‘I am sure you must be, and hungry too. We have all been very remiss,’
replied the mistress of Rosemount. Then putting her arm into that of
Estelle, she added: ‘But your tray will be ready by this time, and Mr
Boyd must join you when he comes down. Meanwhile, I want to introduce
you to Captain Bowood.—Laura, dear, you are coming?’
‘I will join you in a few minutes,’ was Lady Dimsdale’s reply. She
wanted to be alone.
Mrs Bowood and Estelle quitted the room together. Sir Frederick
lingered behind for a moment.
‘What a happy man our friend Boyd must be to-day.—Don’t you think so,
dear Lady Dimsdale?’ he said with a smirk.
‘Very happy, Sir Frederick,’ answered Laura, looking him steadily in
the eyes. ‘Who can doubt it?’
‘Lucky dog! lucky dog!’ ejaculated the Baronet as he followed the other
ladies from the room.
Lady Dimsdale sank into an easy-chair. ‘His wife! His wife!’ How the
words kept ringing in her brain. ‘Thank heaven she came at the moment
she did, and not five minutes later! And yet if she had come an hour
sooner, that would have been better still. Would it? I don’t know. I
cannot tell. His words were so sweet to me! Did I answer him? No. He
looked into my eyes and read his answer there. And now I must never see
him or think of him more! Oh, my darling—the love of my girlhood—the
only love of my life—it is hard to bear, hard to bear!’ She felt as if
her heart were surcharged with tears; they glistened in her eyes.
At this moment Oscar Boyd entered the room. He gave a little start
when he saw who was in it. He had not expected to find her there. From
the head of the staircase, just as he was on the point of coming down,
he had seen his wife and Mrs Bowood enter the dining-room, and he
guessed what had happened during his absence. The hard set look on his
pale face softened inexpressibly as his eyes rested on Lady Dimsdale.
‘Laura!’ he said, pausing for an instant with the handle of the door in
his hand.
She neither looked up nor answered him; for a moment or two she was
afraid to trust either her eyes or her voice.
He shut the door, and went forward and took one of her hands. ‘Laura!’
he said again, and there was a world of tenderness in the way he
pronounced that one little word.
Then she looked up, and he saw the tears shining in her eyes. ‘Oscar!—I
may call you so for the last time—we ought to have parted without
another word.’
‘I could not have gone away without seeing you again, if only for a few
minutes.’
‘You _are_ going away?’
‘By the next train.’
‘It is better so.’
‘Laura! when I spoke to you this morning, it was in the full belief
that I was a free man—that no tie existed on earth to debar me from
saying the words I said then.’
‘I know it—I know it.’
‘The woman—my wife—whom I had every reason to believe had died long
ago, will accompany me when I leave this place. But to-morrow she and I
will part for ever. Her future will be duly cared for, and after that I
shall never see her again. Laura! you and I may never meet again after
to-day. Think of me sometimes when I am far away.’
‘Always—always.’
‘O heavens, when I think how happy we might have been! And now!’ Strong
man though he was, it was all he could do to keep himself from breaking
down. He was possessed by an almost irresistible impulse to fling his
arms round her and press her passionately to his heart.
Love’s fine instinct told Laura something of what was passing in his
breast. She stood up and laid one hand softly on his arm. ‘You had
better go now,’ she said very gently. ‘No more words are needed between
you and me. We know what we know, and no one can deprive us of that
knowledge.’
He felt the wisdom of her words. To delay that which was inevitable was
merely to prolong her misery and his own. Besides, his wife might enter
the room at any moment. And yet—and yet it was so hard to have his
treasure torn from him at the very moment he had made it his own!
Laura had a rose in the bosom of her dress. She took it out and fixed
it in his button-hole. ‘Now go. Not another word,’ she whispered.
‘I shall write to you once before I sail,’ he said.
‘No—no; better not.’
He did not dispute the point, but took each of her hands in one of his.
For the space of a few seconds they stood heart to heart, as it were,
gazing into each other’s eyes. Then Oscar lifted first one hand and
then the other, and pressed them to his lips with a sort of reverent
passionate tenderness. ‘Farewell, my darling, farewell!’
The words struck a chill to her heart. They were the last anguished cry
of love and happiness lost for ever.
GLIMPSES OF THE SCOT ABROAD.
A few years ago, I was what is called a ‘globe-trotter,’ by which
title, as the reader knows, is meant that distinctively modern
personage—the world-tourist. He is the creation of the steamboat
and the rail, and of all the Ariel-like capabilities due to recent
discoveries and improvements in locomotion by land and sea. The term
globe-trotter is suggestive. One conjures up a traveller, knapsack on
back, poking his nose into the Himalayas, sauntering across Sahara,
brushing past the Pyramids, leaving his card at Calcutta, scampering
over the American prairie, lunching at Rome, and dropping in to see the
Seven Churches of Asia. The voyager of to-day can buttonhole Old Father
Time, and be on familiar terms with his primal relative Space. It was
thus that in the course of two or three years I was fortunate enough to
visit most of the embryo kingdoms which make up our colonial empire,
as well as Britain’s great dependency in the East. As need scarcely be
said, I boasted a note-book, for what traveller of this era is without
one, wherewith on his return to publish Passages, Reminiscences,
Fly-leaves, or Jottings of his unique wanderings? From the memoranda
made during this tour round the world, I have compiled several
incidents connected with the Scot abroad. These pretend to be nothing
more than ripples on the current of colonial life, giving slight hints
as to moods and bearing of the Scot abroad, in the varying scenes of
his exile.
It is a truism to say that Scotsmen are to be found in every corner of
the habitable globe. As I once heard a Melbourne Englishman remark: ‘If
there were no Scotchmen, what would the world do for bank-managers?’
They have been noted as enterprising emigrants, and, in a large number
of cases, successful colonists. I met with few instances of Scotchmen
complaining in respect of their material welfare. One man in Queensland
had a somewhat unique grievance, which, however, he set forth with a
twinkle in the eye: ‘There’s the government spendin’ pounds upon pounds
in bringin’ oot folk to this country, while here’s me wi’ fifteen
bairns, maistly a’ born here, an’ I’ve never got a penny for ony o’
them!’
Otago is perhaps the most Scottish of any portion of the colonial
empire, though Ontario runs it very close. Dunedin is almost undiluted
in its Scottish nationality, and is a city of considerable stir.
Sabbatarian questions, as well as the question of instrumental music
in the church, are warmly discussed in Otago. At a certain gathering
of Presbyterian clergymen, one of them urged that organs should be
introduced in order to draw more young people to the church; upon which
an old minister remarked that this was acting on the principle of ‘O
whistle, an’ I’ll come to ye, my lad!’ The Scot abroad has a great
love for the institutions of his native country, and endeavours to
transplant as many of them as circumstances will allow. Even the winter
weather of Scotland induces kindly recollections in the breasts of old
settlers. I remember, after a phenomenal fall of snow in Dunedin, the
like of which had not been seen for twenty years, an elder of the kirk
exclaiming, as he rubbed his hands: ‘Sic glorious snaw-ba’ fechts we
had—it mindit me o’ langsyne! Man, I was sorry when the thaw cam’ on.’
Caledonian Societies flourish all over New Zealand as much as does the
thistle itself. On the Thames gold-field, in the province of Auckland,
there was a corps of Highland Volunteers. Whenever they marched through
the town, they were invariably followed by numbers of Maories, who
tied blankets round their waists, like kilts, and no doubt imagined
themselves sufficiently Celtic.
The national dishes are much in vogue in New Zealand. An English lady
in Wellington, the capital of that colony, on one occasion detailed
how she had tried to make a haggis in order to please her husband, who
hailed from north of the Tweed. With the help of a cookery-book, the
numerous ingredients were collected and prepared, and at last inserted
in a big pot. Alas! the haggis would not sink, despite renewed efforts.
The lady, in despair, called in an experienced neighbour, who pierced
the haggis with a fork, and successfully ‘scuttled’ it. I am sorry to
add that after all the wife’s trouble and anxiety, the dish proved a
total failure. It is to be hoped that her husband was not so difficult
to please as the well-to-do tradesman in Auckland, who grumbled sorely
as to New Zealand ‘not being fit for a Scotsman to live in.’ ‘How’s
that?’ ‘Weel, the fact is I—I—canna get my parritch made to please
me!’ Talking of porridge, the dish was a favourite in the Christchurch
Hotel, province of Canterbury, where it was cooked by a Frenchman who
now and again actually spoke broken Scotch with a Parisian accent;
while at Wanganui, in the North Island, the ‘parritch’ was prepared by
a Chinese cook.
To say that Scotsmen abroad are still fond of their national music
is simply to say that they do not cease to be Scotsmen. If anything,
the fondness becomes intensified. I once heard an enthusiast in South
Africa observe: ‘_My Ain Fireside_—_Ye Banks and Braes_—_The Land
o’ the Leal_—eh! a body could be fit to gang to heaven hearing thae
sangs sung!’ At a mission-school connected with the Scotch Church in
Cape Town I once listened to _Weel may the Boatie row_, sung as a
duet by a Dutch girl and a Malay, a result attained by the enthusiasm
of the Scottish schoolmaster. It seemed to me as incongruous as
hearing the Old Hundred in the ‘Scots Kirk’ of Calcutta, unwittingly
accompanied by the tom-toms of a Hindu festival transpiring in the
street. Now that I have taken the reader so far as India, let me note
also that in the Church of Scotland College at Calcutta I saw an
advanced class of Bengali youths reading Scott’s _Lady of the Lake_
and making marginal notes. Returning to Australia, a pleasant memory
is that of an afternoon spent in a school at Sandhurst, the aforetime
‘Bendigo.’ Here, after the ordinary class-duties had been performed,
the scholars were initiated into the mysteries of Highland reels and
strathspeys, under the tutorship of an Aberdonian dame, the Aberdonian
schoolmaster accompanying on the fiddle. I recollect, too, how an
Irish grocer in Adelaide, South Australia, was moved to stand outside
his door in the bright moonlight evenings and play _Monymusk_ on a
tin whistle. A vision of Canada now rises before me, with its host of
local bards, each with his wallet of poems on his back, trudging from
village to village—the troubadours of the backwoods. Their warblings
were not of the snow-laden forest, the subdued glory of the Indian
summer, the autumn-gilded maple, or the swift, miraculous dawn of
the Columbian spring. Their strains were those of exile; strains of
Scotia, of ‘hame,’ of rippling burnies, of the purple heather, of the
thousand-and-one historic and sympathetic memories of the dear old
land. But hark! what sounds do we hear echoing from a Sabbath school in
Sacramento, California? Scottish tunes, but linked to religious words,
the children singing a hymn of the church militant to the melody of
_Scots wha hae_; while _Ye Banks and Braes_ served as the tender medium
for stanzas of a more devotional character.
The farmer is a notable figure in one’s Canadian remembrances, the
agricultural class comprising about half the population. In Ontario
you will find many old Scotch settlers, and much could be written upon
their present and past experiences. The times are considerably altered
from the days when the rough pioneering work had to be done. I once met
two aged farmers, one of whom had seen eighty-three winters, who had
emigrated to Canada together about forty years ago, and might have been
taken for typical old settlers. In telling their primitive toils and
privations, their weather-beaten faces were lit up with an animation
that was almost joyous in its character. One related, as if it were
some rare humour, that his first log-hut in the backwoods was at many
places open to the heavens, and that frequently he had to dust the snow
off his blankets before he went to bed. The wintry theme suggests the
story of a Scottish Canadian who, on a voyage to the mother-country,
was one day found sleeping on deck, when the captain roused him with a
natural caution against sunstroke. ‘Sunstroke!’ scornfully replied the
awakened one. ‘It wad tak’ a’ the sun atween here an’ Greenock to thaw
the Canada frost oot o’ my head.’
In Salt Lake City there are not a few Scottish Mormons. I chanced to
have a brief conversation there with a middle-aged Scotchwoman, who was
a follower of Brigham Young, and who did not hesitate to magnify the
virtues of polygamy. It turned out, however, that her zeal was largely
of a theoretical nature, as the good lady did not seem to believe
in the system so far as it might entail any discomfort upon herself.
At Omaha I was acquainted with a Highlander who in the first days of
Mormonism became converted to polygamy, but who ultimately abjured the
faith. Many a time and oft, in Celtic daring, had he stood on the banks
of the Missouri River, lifting up his voice in the wilderness like the
Baptist of old, denouncing Mormonism to the bands of converts as they
passed over the stream to the ostensible Land of Canaan. His life was
in daily peril, but he escaped scathless from his self-imposed mission.
In San Francisco I saw Elder Stenhouse, who had been until lately a
chief among the Utah Saints. He and his wife, both Scotch people, had
dedicated themselves honestly to the new faith, but finding out its
hollowness, they shook off the dust of the desert—there is plenty of
it—from their shoes, and took farewell of Salt Lake.
In travelling about from place to place you make acquaintance with a
most interesting type of character—that of the veteran Scotchman. In
Christchurch, New Zealand, I met a Waterloo veteran, eighty-four years
of age, yet with erect, military carriage. With vivacious garrulity
he told that he was born in Fife; that he had lodged at the house of
Mrs Grant of Laggan; that he knew ‘Jamie Hogg’ and Nathaniel Gow; that
he had been all through the Peninsular War, had fought at Waterloo,
and had been on half-pay since 1817. A companion-figure was that
of the venerable Highlander of King William’s Town, Cape Colony—a
genial-hearted man, of stern brow and with war-worn features—whose
talk was a strange blending of pleasant Scottish reminiscence and
weird stories of Kaffir campaigns in which he had taken part. Again,
while sailing up the Suez Canal, on the voyage home from India, one of
my fellow-passengers was an old Scotsman who had fought at Waterloo,
and was then engaged making a tour of the world. As he said, with
pleasant pathos: ‘I want to see all that’s to be seen before I’m happit
up in the mools’—a phrase that can only be inadequately rendered in
English as ‘lying snug beneath the sod.’ He left the steamer at Port
Saïd, as he was bound on an excursion to the Holy Land, and as the
quarter-master offered to carry his portmanteau, the old fellow elbowed
him aside, exclaiming: ‘Pooh, pooh; I’m a young man yet!’ Last and not
least notable of this class was an old and well-preserved gentleman
I met at Wellington, New Zealand. He was an Edinburgh man, and had
been educated at the university there. He had been acquainted with
friends of Burns, had known the poet’s ‘Chloris’ and ‘Clarinda,’ and
in speaking of the Potterrow always seemed to regard it as still a
fashionable street. To gossip with him was like shaking hands with the
past.
In going round the world, one is sure to find relatives and souvenirs
of famous men and women. At Hobart-Town, Tasmania, there resided,
when I visited the town, the granddaughter of Neil Gow and daughter
of Nathaniel Gow, the composer of _Caller Herrin’_. In the Waikato
district of the North Island of New Zealand, about a hundred miles
from the city of Auckland, lives, I still trust, old Mrs Nicol, mother
of the late Robert Nicol, the celebrated Perthshire poet. During a
stormy passage in a small steamer on the New Zealand coast, I had some
interesting chats with an Irish gentleman who had met and talked with
Sir Walter Scott in a chapel in Italy, during the closing scenes of
that busy life. I may add also that at Listowel, in Ontario, I was
privileged to meet the brother of Dr Livingstone, and was much struck
with the facial resemblance between him and the great traveller. In the
University of Dunedin the visitor can see, in a gilt frame, a lock of
Burns’s hair, labelled ‘A genuine relic of the Poet, and modicum of a
larger lock owned by Jean Armour.’ A certain country hotel in Tasmania
lives in my memory from its having distributed through its rooms an
extraordinary number of pictures of John Knox, the religious character
of the house being increased by the fact that one of the apartments
was used as the ‘study’ of the Presbyterian clergyman of the village.
The name of John Knox, by association, recalls to my mind the incident
of the eccentric Scot of Kaffraria, South Africa, who had a portrait
of Mary Queen of Scots hung in his bedroom, and who, every morning on
rising, stretched his hands towards it, crying: ‘O my poor murdered
queen!’
The visitor fresh from home is certain of meeting with a kind welcome
from his countrymen abroad. The welcome need not be on personal
grounds. An Edinburgh man in Canada once shook my hand warmly, saying:
‘I dinna ken ye; I never met ye before; but I just want to see a man
that’s seen Arthur Seat since I saw it.’ The love of home sometimes
reaches an intense pitch, as in the case of the Scotsman at Fort
Beaufort, in Cape Colony, who ejaculated: ‘I’d rather gang hame and
be hanged, than dee here a natural death!’ Again, an old man in New
Zealand remarked: ‘I doot I’ll no get hame to Scotland again; but if
onybody said: “Ye shall not go,” I’d be off the morn’s mornin’!’ With
which forcible yet touching deliverance let these glimpses conclude.
I am afraid that during our brief bird’s-eye view of colonial life,
the reader has been dragged hither and thither in a somewhat erratic
course. The irregularity, however, has been more apparent than real.
Whether amid Canadian snows, New Zealand mountains, Australian bush,
or South African _veldt_, you meet with the same shrewd, persevering
Scotsman, steadily moving in his colonial orbit, and moving none the
less regularly because of the tender gravitation of his heart towards
the central sphere of patriotic affection—dear though distant Scotland.
IS SMOKING INJURIOUS TO HEALTH?
Although the above important question is so frequently asked, more
especially of medical men, yet their replies are as a general rule
either of a vague or dogmatic nature that is anything but satisfactory.
There has been unlimited discussion respecting the injurious effects of
smoking, ever since the first introduction of tobacco, and a great deal
of nonsense has unfortunately been urged by enthusiasts on both sides.
Some have praised tobacco far beyond its merits; while others have so
enlarged upon its injurious and poisonous qualities as to make one
wonder that anybody who smokes should be left alive at all. Hitherto,
however, no satisfactory solution of the problem appears to have been
arrived at. Our object in this paper will be to deal as concisely as
possible with the subject upon its merits.
In the first place, we may inform our readers that smoking is and is
not injurious. This apparently contradictory assertion admits, however,
of the following explanation. In New England, it has been with truth
alleged that the thirst induced by smoking is an active incentive to
alcoholic excess and its attendant evils. Now, on the other hand,
amongst Asiatic nations the reverse holds good. Mr Lane—translator of
the _Arabian Nights_—when in the East, noticed that smoking appeared
to possess a soothing effect, attended with slight exhilaration, and
that it supplied the place of alcoholic beverages. Mr Layard, whose
knowledge of eastern nations is most extensive, was also of the same
opinion. Mr Crawford, again, an authority of high repute as regards
Asiatic habits, believes the use of tobacco has contributed to the
sobriety both of Asiatic and European nations. Here we have two
entirely contradictory results, as, in North America smoking produces
dissipation; whilst in the East it not only restrains, but takes its
place. It is therefore to climate, temperament, and bodily constitution
acting and reacting upon each other, that we may trace so opposite an
effect.
The chemical constituents of tobacco are three, the due consideration
of which is highly important. They are: (1) A volatile oil; (2) a
volatile alkali; (3) an empyreumatic oil. The volatile oil, although
in minute quantities, has a most powerful action on the physical
system, even in the smallest dose; and when taken internally, gives
rise to nausea with giddiness. The volatile alkali is _nicotine_,
possessing narcotic and very poisonous qualities; so much so indeed,
that a single drop of it is sufficient to kill a dog. The proportion
of this substance in the dry tobacco-leaf varies from two to eight per
cent., according to Professor Johnston, who states that ‘in smoking
a quarter of an ounce of tobacco, two grains or more of one of the
most subtle poisons known may be drawn into the smoker’s mouth;’ the
reason why he is not poisoned being because this deadly juice is not
concentrated. Empyreumatic oil (from Gr. _empyreuo_, I kindle), the
third active ingredient of tobacco, is so called to express the burned
smell and acrid taste which result from the combustion of the tobacco
during smoking. This oil closely resembles in its action that which is
produced from poisonous foxglove leaf (_Digitalis purpurea_). A drop
of empyreumatic oil when applied to the tongue of a cat has produced
convulsions and death in a few minutes. Reptiles are destroyed by it
as through an electric shock. It must be borne in mind that these
three chemical ingredients are _united_ when smoking, and produce to a
greater or less degree their respective effects. A cigar when smoked
to the _end_ effectually discharges into the smoker’s mouth everything
produced by its combustion. When saliva is retained in the mouth, the
effects of tobacco in one sense become more markedly developed on the
nervous system. On the other hand, when constant expectoration takes
place, digestion becomes impaired, from the diminution of saliva,
which plays an important part in this function. We have heard medical
men, who were themselves smokers, aver that the former is the least
of the two evils; which we hope is the case, as the habit of constant
expectoration in which many smokers indulge, is certainly one of the
most unpleasant concomitants of the pipe or cigar.
In a purely physiological sense, smoking acts as follows: (1) The
heart’s action becomes lowered; (2) the elimination of carbonic acid is
diminished, thus interfering with the respiratory power; (3) the waste
of the body is checked, and digestion to a certain extent impeded.
Excessive smoking disorders digestion, and, where the heart is weak,
often induces disease of that organ. It is by no means uncommon to find
habitual smokers troubled with dyspepsia. Dr Leared considers excessive
smoking decidedly productive of indigestion. Dr Pereira, who was a high
authority on such matters, when alluding to habitual smokers in his
celebrated _Materia Medica_, observes: ‘The practice, when moderately
indulged in, provokes thirst, increases the secretion of saliva, and
produces that remarkably soothing and tranquillising effect upon the
mind which has caused it to be so much admired and adopted by all
classes of society, and by all nations civilised and barbarous.’ Later
on, the same eminent authority states that ‘when indulged in to excess,
and especially by those unaccustomed to its use, smoking causes nausea,
trembling, and in some cases paralysis and death.’ Instances are
recorded of persons killing themselves by smoking seventeen or eighteen
pipes at a sitting!
In his luminous _Treatise on Poisons_, Dr Christison states that
‘no well-ascertained ill effects have been shown to result from the
habitual practice of smoking.’ On the other hand, Dr Prout, a late
distinguished physician and chemist, was of a different opinion. He
observes: ‘Tobacco disorders the assimilating functions in general, but
particularly, I believe, the assimilation of saccharine principle. It
is the weak and those predisposed to disease who fall victims to its
poisonous operation, whilst the strong and healthy suffer comparatively
little therefrom.’ So even this learned physician’s opinion is to a
certain extent thus modified.
The researches of Dr Richardson, F.R.S., are of immense value with
regard to the action of tobacco upon the health. He is of opinion that
there are no grounds for believing that smoking—of course, we infer,
when indulged in with moderation—can produce organic change. Functional
disturbances of the heart, brain, and vision, he tells us, may be
traced to its excessive use. It is universally, however, admitted that
tobacco, like alcohol—in minute doses—arrests oxidation of living
tissues, thus checking their disintegration. Dr Richardson, for this
reason, justly considers smoking highly injurious to the young, causing
impairment of growth.
In the course of an important discussion which took place between Sir
Ranald Martin, Mr Solly, Dr Ranking, and other scientific physicians,
the following important results were arrived at respecting smoking: (1)
That the habit is only prejudicial when carried to excess; (2) that
tobacco is innocuous as compared with alcohol, and in no case worse
than tea, and by the side of high living, contrasts most favourably.
Whether smoking is or is not injurious to health depends principally
upon the following conditions: (1) The kind of tobacco smoked; (2) the
manner in which it is consumed; (3) the amount of tobacco smoked; and
lastly, when it is indulged in. The great object is to obtain a tobacco
which possesses the smallest percentage of nicotine. It was formerly
believed that the best varieties of Havana and Turkish tobacco were the
most innocuous. According, however, to the recent exhaustive researches
of Dr George Harley, F.R.S., it appears that the more delicate the
aroma of tobacco, the more poisonous it becomes. Dr Harley is also
of opinion that ‘Caporal’ tobacco contains _least nicotine_, and is
consequently to be preferred by those desirous of health. Pipes made
of clay, and meerschaums—not foul—are, Dr Richardson considers, in a
hygienic point of view, superior to cigars and cigarettes. Neither
cigars nor cigarettes should ever be smoked near the end, as the
nicotine then is discharged into the mouth in larger proportions. M.
Melsens, a very distinguished chemist, is of opinion that a plug of
cotton-wool saturated with a solution of strong citric or tannic acid
should be inserted in the stem of the pipe, cigar, or cigarette holder.
By this precaution, the smoke is effectually filtered, ere reaching the
mouth, as the nicotine would then be seized by and combined with the
acid. Those who object to this plan on account of its trouble, might
with advantage place a small piece of plain cotton-wool in the stem
of their pipe as a filtering agent. This should on each occasion be
removed and replaced by a fresh one. A more convenient, and probably
not less effective plug, is a bit of paper crumpled into a soft ball
and placed in the bottom of the pipe. It acts as an absorbent of the
objectionable juices which might otherwise find their way into the
mouth, and can be changed, if the smoker chooses, every time he fills
his pipe.
From a review of the scientific testimony and physiological facts
bearing upon this subject, we may safely arrive at the following
conclusions: (1) That smoking in excess is decidedly an injurious
habit, frequently causing dyspepsia, and functional diseases of the
heart, brain, and nervous system. (2) That smoking, even when in
moderation, is pernicious in early life, also to certain constitutions,
and in particular conditions of the body. (3) That in adult life and in
ordinary health, no well-ascertained ill effects have been demonstrated
as owing their causation to _moderate_ smoking. (4) That the _moderate_
use of tobacco is not only in many cases a harmless luxury, but
occasionally, from its soothing and tranquillising influence, a useful
adjunct. Smoking, even in the strictest moderation, with some persons
of peculiar idiosyncrasies, acts as a poison, and should therefore be
avoided, when feelings of discomfort are entailed by its use.
It is impossible to lay down any rule as to the amount of tobacco which
may be consumed without a deleterious effect upon the health. What
would be moderation to one is often excess to another, according to
temperament, habit, and individual peculiarities. Each person ought to
be able to judge for himself as to what is moderation. The best time
for smoking is undoubtedly after a meal; and the most injurious, on an
empty stomach.
In drawing this paper to a close, we cannot do better than by appending
the following extract, taken from Mr Dawson’s valuable little work on
longevity. On page sixty-nine of _How to Prolong Life_, when speaking
of smoking, Mr Dawson observes: ‘All things taken into account, it
is evident that tobacco in excess is certainly prejudicial to good
health; in moderation, however, it may be indulged in with comparative
impunity; but under any circumstances, it should be known that a man
in health is much better without it. How much more so in the case of
those who are weakly! Lastly, I desire to impress upon all smokers that
_moderation_ in this habit is of no small moment, the ill effects being
proportioned to indulgence.’
TO A CHILD.
Kathleen of the glad blue eyes,
Elf-locks dark and curling—
Kathleen of the laughing voice,
Like a wild stream whirling:
When I gaze into those eyes,
Deep I read the story
Of a long-lost Paradise
And the young world’s glory.
Many a tale of fairyland
Have we dreamed together,
By the hearth in shadow-time,
Out on wind-swept heather.
Tired, I told of prince and fay,
Court and castle hoary;
Give me, sweet, my turn to-day—
I, too, crave a story.
Blue eyes telling tales to mine
Darkly raise their fringes:
Earth had doors to heaven once,
Wide on golden hinges.
From beyond, the timeless light
Banished time and sorrow;
Child-world had no yesterday,
Heaven was to-morrow.
Nought was there of languid bloom,
Frail and fevered splendour,
Kisses like the daisies thronged,
Love made greensward tender,
Truth was sunny as the sky,
Branching care spread o’er us,
All that warbled ecstasy
Made the garden’s chorus.
O thou Eden of the past—
If I could but find thee,
All I have, for thee, I’d cast,
Worthless, vain, behind me—
When the heaven-gates stood wide,
And all the air was ringing
With mingled voices of our home
And sound of angels singing!
Am I sad? How startled shine
Those blue eyes in wonder!
Child, whose heart beats close to mine,
Far are we asunder.
Yet, if I would follow thee,
Oft I marvel whether
Thou couldst lead me in, to see
Eden-land together.
M. E. ATTERIDGE.
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and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
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