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CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
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POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 127.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, JUNE 5, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
HOSTESS AND GUEST.
BY MRS POWER O’DONOGHUE.
PART I.—THE DUTIES OF A HOSTESS.
I have often thought that a few practical hints relative to the
preparations for and treatment of a guest who comes to be a member of
the household for a while, would not, perhaps, be thrown away upon the
general company of readers. I therefore venture to offer these hints
in homely fashion, feeling that I am, as it were, treading upon almost
new ground, for the matter is one that appears to me to have been,
considering its importance, wonderfully little discussed.
Before entering upon my subject, I would wish to say that my
observations and advice are not addressed to those heads of families
who have large establishments and a numerous staff of servants at
command; such, of course, have merely to signify to the housekeeper or
upper housemaid that a guest is expected, and give directions that such
and such a room be prepared: the green, the yellow, blue, or any other
colour, as the case may be. I desire rather to write for those heads of
houses who belong to the middle classes, and for ladies who, for lack
of means, can afford to keep but one servant, or at the most two.
It may, perhaps, be said that in the former case a visitor ought not
to be invited at all; but that is mere nonsense, for there are times
and circumstances when such a mark of civility is undoubtedly due,
and when it cannot with propriety be avoided; nor need there be any
reason, in a properly regulated household, why a guest should not be
lodged and entertained quite as comfortably, if less luxuriously, in
an unpretentious dwelling as within the lordliest halls. Of course, a
great deal must depend upon the style of living to which the visitor
is accustomed. It would, for instance, be unwise for a hostess with
limited means at her command to undertake the entertaining of a wealthy
nabob, who, from being born with the proverbial silver spoon in his
mouth, knows nothing of difficulties or struggles with the world, and
is in consequence a mere mass of selfish exactitude and caprice. Nor
would it be judicious for a person of moderate income to invite a
gourmet, who lives to pamper his appetite, and is guilty of such vulgar
pomposities as passing the wines beneath his nose before tasting them,
in order that he may boast of his knowledge of the various vintages
to which they belong. It is likewise unwise for a host or hostess of
limited resources to extend an offer of hospitality to a fine lady or
gentleman who cannot travel without a maid or valet in attendance upon
them. Strange servants are an intolerable nuisance among a household,
and it is usual for those who have had experience of them, to declare
that they would rather entertain a dozen guests in the dining-room than
cater for one in the kitchen or servants’ hall.
In the event of a hostess deeming it a necessity—which sometimes
occurs—to invite a guest whose household and style of living are to her
knowledge superior to her own, she should not be in the least ashamed
to confess the fact, or feel in the smallest degree embarrassed about
doing so. She should, on the contrary, refer to it—once only—with easy
grace, exhibiting no trace of ‘awkwardness,’ for there is not any shame
in being unable to cope with those who are wealthier than ourselves,
nor can riches ever weigh against gentility of soul. Were we to ape
what we cannot have—to strive after position which we cannot attain—to
attempt style that we cannot keep up—to cheat honest tradesmen out of
their lawful earnings in order to gratify some expensive taste which
we have no right to indulge—then, indeed, might a blush lawfully
arise; but there is nothing in upright frugality to make even the most
sensitive feel ashamed.
I have said, refer to the matter once only, because I consider it a
sign of extreme bad taste to keep perpetually offering apologies to
visitors, in the event of things not being quite so grand or imposing
as the hostess may desire. How frequently we are put to the pain of
listening to such sentences as: ‘Do, pray, take some more; although I
know it is not so good as you have at home’—‘I hope you slept well,
though I am afraid you missed your own fine big room,’ &c. This display
of deferential anxiety cannot be otherwise than painfully embarrassing
to a visitor, and looks as though the hostess were either throwing out
perpetual hints for compliments upon the excellence of her house and
table, or as if she were really uncomfortably conscious of deficiencies
which are perhaps noticeable to herself alone. A few words—the briefer
the better—spoken to the guest on arrival, or inserted in the note of
invitation, are sufficient to answer all purposes: ‘You are aware,
Miss—or Mr’ (as the case may be), ‘that our means are not sufficient to
admit of any style; but I hope you will be comfortable, and I am sure
you will be welcome.’
A hostess of moderate income, such as I am writing for, should always
ascertain personally that the bedchamber intended for her guest’s use
is comfortably arranged and the bed-clothing properly aired. These are
things which, if left to the care of the ordinary run of servants,
will in most instances be performed in a very slovenly manner. As
I intend that these observations shall be of a decidedly practical
nature, I shall state plainly my ideas respecting the arrangement of
a guest-chamber in an ordinary middle-class house. Ignoring, then,
the existence of a family bathroom, the visitor’s apartment should
be provided with a bath, a large sponge, and a plentiful supply of
towels. The first of these should be kept turned up in some spare
corner by day, and laid down at night by the chambermaid, with a
square of oilcloth or felt underneath, to save the carpet from being
wetted; for some persons are very untidy bathers, and make a terrible
splashing when they indulge in a ‘tub.’ The sponge should be kept in a
little basket, made to hook on to the lower rail of the towel-stand,
which is in every way preferable to keeping it in a bag. Care should
be taken that the looking-glass does not, when touched, make a low
salaam—the upper end coming down upon the nose of the visitor, while
the lower portion departs out of sight! This is very frequently the
case in hotels and lodging-houses, and indeed in too many private
dwellings also; and it can be so easily rectified by the bestowal
of a little care upon the screws, that it is quite wonderful how
persons can contentedly go on from month to month propping up the
disabled toilet-mirror—or leaving others to do it—with a hairbrush, or
pocket-handkerchief, or half a newspaper folded into a pad.
Be sure, also, if you are expecting a visitor, to leave the wardrobe
in the guest-chamber perfectly empty, and all the shelves neatly swept
and papered. Be certain to attend particularly to this matter, more
especially if the expected visitor be a lady, for it is pitiable to
contemplate the inconvenience which neglect of it may entail. See
that every article of clothing is removed from drawers and wardrobe;
and do not from negligence leave half-a-dozen dresses hanging up in
the latter, or an array of laces and fineries folded away in the
former. Nothing can possibly be more conducive to the discomfort of
a lady-guest than—just when she has bolted her door and has divested
herself of her outer garments to dress for some dinner or dance—to have
the hostess knock and bounce in, with: ‘I _beg_ your pardon; I know
you won’t mind _me_; but I find the dress I want to wear is in your
wardrobe.’ Or, ‘My opera-mantle is stowed away in one of your drawers.’
I have occasionally stayed at houses, and very frequently at hotels,
where there was no such thing in my room as a wardrobe at all, in any
shape or form—not even a shelved press, or a clothes-rack on the wall.
This is dire misery, and is an unpardonable omission on the part of
those in authority over the management of affairs. It is not by any
means a matter of necessity that a costly glass-panelled wardrobe
should be provided. Many households cannot afford such; but a neatly
painted one is not an extravagance; and in the event of a narrow
staircase or doorway preventing ingress to such a piece of furniture,
there is an excellent plan for improvising a wardrobe, which I have
seen tried with great success. Nail up a substantial clothes-rack in
a recess of the room; suspend a brass rod across it, on which are
curtains hung on rings, and cover in the top with strong calico,
leaving a neat valance of the curtain-stuff, bordered with fringe, to
hang over the edge. Any place, in short, which will allow of coats and
dresses being hung up, to prevent the creasing which they suffer by
folding, and to preserve them from dust, cannot fail to be acceptable
to a visitor, when he or she comes to unpack.
Always make sure that the window-blinds are in perfect working order.
They are at times too stiff, or too loose, or so much out of gear that
if drawn down at night they remain immovable in the morning, and the
guest is obliged to dress in semi-darkness. See, also that the windows
themselves are properly in order. Every window ought to be made to open
both at top and bottom, as this admits of the immediate and thorough
ventilation of the room. If, however, through defective carpentering in
the first instance, the windows are hermetically sealed at the top—as
is too frequently the case in old houses—make certain at all events
that the lower sash opens and shuts with ease, and that when closed
it does not admit a draught. Above all things, see that means are
provided to prevent the shaking of windows in windy weather. Few things
are so aggravating to the temper, and at the same time so wearying to
the constitution, as being kept awake at night by the ceaseless and
monotonous ‘bang, bang’ of a loose window-sash, which, after all, can
be very easily remedied without adopting the old-fashioned method of
thrusting a toothbrush handle or rack-comb between the sashes, to act
as a sort of wedge. Procure two neat flat pieces of wood, about four
inches in length; drill a hole in the centre of each; affix one at each
side of the window-frame with a screw, which you must not drive in too
closely, but leave sufficient of the head for the wood to revolve or
move upon. You will find that by slightly lifting the outer or lower
end of the wood, the other end becomes pressed against the edge of the
window-sash, which it holds perfectly steady; and that by declining or
lowering this outer or lower end, the sash is released from pressure.
The plan is an invention of my own; and I must not be considered
egotistical for saying that it is an excellent one, as it will silence
the noisiest window in an instant of time. A small bar of brass,
treated in the same manner as the wood, looks more ornamental, and is
of course stronger, where much pressure is desirable. Should there be
any aperture or draught, a neat piece of cloth may be nailed along the
sash, and will effectually exclude it.
Take especial care that the carpet does not wrinkle about the door,
or in any other way prevent its shutting. I have seen some extremely
awkward things occur from the neglect of this precaution. A relative
of mine, who was of a very neat and systematic disposition, observed
upon one occasion that there was a great crease in the carpet of
his sitting-room at an hotel where he went to stay; and being of a
practical turn of mind, he got out his own little hammer, and with
the aid of a tack or two, soon set matters to rights. It happened,
however, that the waiter was in the habit of overcoming difficulties by
making a rush at the door; and as he followed this plan an hour later,
when carrying in a heavy tray, the consequences were disastrous, for
the door flew open with the greatest ease, and tray and waiter came
tumbling into the room together.
You should make sure, also, that the bolt and lock of the door are in
proper order. Many persons cannot sleep easily unless their door is
fastened; and it is pleasanter for the hostess to expend a few pence
upon the mending of a lock or bolt, than to hear her guest, at dead
of night, dragging a heavy box or table, or chest of drawers, or some
other unwieldy thing, across the floor of the chamber, to barricade the
door against imaginary disturbances.
Ascertain, likewise, that there are night-lights, matches, and a
substantial taper left in the room—as also writing materials, pins,
hair-pins—if the expected guest be a lady—perfume, and a few amusing
magazines or other specimens of light literature, as well as the Book
of books; for some persons waken early, and enjoy a brief spell of
reading before getting up.
These may perhaps appear very minute details to go into, but believe me
the chamber in which they have been thoroughly attended to—no matter
how plain and unpretentious it may be—will prove infinitely more
comfortable than the most luxuriously furnished room in which they have
been overlooked.
* * * * *
It is an excellent plan, in a limited household, to have various
matters connected with housekeeping in readiness before the guest
arrives. A good supply of fresh table-napkins; a number of knives,
forks, and spoons arranged in a sideboard drawer in the dining-room;
a few plates and glasses within the locker, in order to obviate the
necessity for continually ringing the bell; a supply of sweets made;
and a good marketing laid in. Many persons deem this an impossibility
in warm weather; but few things are so, if properly managed. There are
many kinds of sweets that will keep good for days; even those in the
manufacture of which milk has been employed, will not sour if the milk
be first boiled and slightly flavoured, or if condensed milk be used in
place of fresh. Of course, a great deal depends also upon keeping such
things in a perfectly cool atmosphere.
With regard to meat, a joint may be preserved for many days by
wrapping it loosely in a fine cloth wrung out of vinegar, and hanging
it in a draught of air. If the weather be very warm, the cloth
must be remoistened twice, or even thrice a day. Tinned provisions
are excellent in summer, and are invaluable in cases of emergency;
tongues, curries, and soups being amongst the best of the eatables thus
preserved.
A breakfast-table, to be comfortably set, should have a separate tea
or coffee equipage for each individual, except in cases where the
family is very large; then one may be made to serve for two persons.
In like manner, no dinner-table can be said to be properly appointed
where there is any handing about of salt-cellars, water-bottles, or
other necessaries; nor can there be any excuse for it in these days of
cheapness, when very neat little salt-cellars of moulded glass can be
had for a penny apiece. I have even seen some as low as half that price
and yet quite presentable.
Do not exercise your mind too much about amusing your guest. I have
often thought that in some foreign countries, and notably in many
parts of America, the relation of host and guest was a sort of double
slavery. The host has the comfort and amusement of his guest so
painfully at heart, that both undergo, for the time being, an amount
of social misery that entirely spoils the freedom and pleasure of
the visit. In our country it is different. Go to spend a week in an
Englishman’s house, and you may be sure that neither your host nor
hostess will bother you with trifling matters unless you seem to
desire it. Everything goes on as though you were not there, and yet,
_per contra_, the house and its belongings are practically yours so
long as you remain. I consider it the extreme of bad taste to pursue
a visitor with continual offers of amusement. If treated as a member
of the family and suffered to amuse himself, he will generally do very
well, and will feel much happier and more at ease than when he is too
closely looked after. I have heard persons complain bitterly of undue
attentions and continual running after, from which they have suffered
far more acutely than if actually neglected. ‘Where is Mrs Dash? Who
is sitting with her?’ cries the flurried hostess. ‘Good gracious! is
it possible she has been left by herself? Go at once, Mary, or Julia,
or Tommy, and sit with her, and amuse her until I have time to come.’
And all the while, perhaps, the hapless Mrs Dash is struggling to
get a letter or two written, or a bill or account made up, and is
congratulating herself upon the unwonted luxury of a few delicious
moments of absolute quiet. She is revelling in the thought of being
left alone, when, lo! Miss Mary, aged ten, comes awkwardly in, and
stands sniffing in the window, or sits sideways upon the piano-stool,
strumming with one hand at the notes, which is her idea of keeping
the visitor company until mamma comes. Or Master Tommy, aged twelve,
enters with a burst of noise, and proceeds to relate to the afflicted
guest how he and Jack Jones are in the same Latin class; and how said
Jones is beyond him in Euclid, though inferior in something else; and
how Brown licked Black for calling him a dunce—with a variety of other
information, by no means interesting to unconcerned parties. To this
annoyance there are few of us who have not been subjected. A greater
error of judgment can scarcely be committed. To make a guest feel
comfortable and at home, leave him pretty much to his own devices.
To be always striving to amuse him is a poor compliment to his own
resources.
If in the winter-time a visitor comes to stay in your house, inquire
early whether he prefers a fire in his bedroom at night, or a hot jar
laid into the bed. If the latter, so much the better; it not only
economises the coals, but is an immense saving of trouble to the
housemaid in the mornings, as she has not then an additional grate to
make up.
During the stay of your guest, if a lady, do not suffer her to pay
anything towards the expenses of cabs, trains, or laundry, neither
to defray the cost of her own concert or theatre tickets. Whilst in
your house, she is, or ought to be, a member of your family, and it
is not worth while, for the sake of a trifling additional outlay,
to do anything which bears upon it the smallest stamp of meanness.
If, however, the guest be a gentleman, there may—under certain
circumstances—be some little relaxation of the rule; but where a lady
is concerned, it cannot be too stringently adhered to.
Opinions vary as to the propriety of inviting a departing visitor to
remain longer. The hostess should, I think, be guided by circumstances
and surroundings. A lady cannot well press a gentleman to stay, unless
he be a special friend or relative, or that it is her husband’s desire
that he should do so. It is, however, quite usual to ask a lady to
extend her visit a few days beyond the time fixed by her for departure.
Not to do so would appear in most cases inhospitable, or at all events
coldly formal, which amounts to much the same thing. It is an excellent
plan, however, when giving an invitation, to name the time that the
recipient of it is intended to remain. ‘We shall expect you to come to
us for a fortnight;’ or, ‘Stay with us from Monday to Thursday,’ will
enable the guest to know precisely the limit to which his visit ought
to be prolonged.
Make it a rule never to introduce any subject that could be unpleasant
or embarrassing to a visitor. Avoid strictly the smallest allusion to
household worries, as also questions of politics and religion; and if
your household be, unhappily, one in which family jars are at times
wont to figure, banish all such entirely out of view, for the time at
least, if not for all time, as nothing can possibly be more painful to
a guest than witnessing bickerings upon subjects with which he has no
sort of sympathy. A visitor, remember, can have but one feeling upon
all such dreary occasions: namely, an intense desire to get well out of
the way with all convenient speed.
Be careful, also, that your guest shall see nothing of your share of
household duties or drudgery, otherwise he, or she, will be made to
feel excessively uncomfortable. A hostess who presides over a limited
establishment will have many duties to perform, and countless little
matters to engage her attention and need her helping hand; but a
visitor should not on any account be permitted to witness these things.
A well-bred orderly hostess will get her work done quietly and without
fuss, nor will she ever exhibit that bustling, anxious demeanour which
is the characteristic of so many really kind and otherwise excellent
entertainers.
It will not be out of place here to speak a warning word to
ladies—mistresses of households—who allow their overwhelming anxiety
respecting the success of the dinner preparations to appear on their
countenances during the progress of the meal. Which of us is unfamiliar
with the flushed face, eager eyes, and look of tortured suspense with
which some hostesses regard the carrying in of the various dishes? I am
now, of course, speaking of plain, old-fashioned family dinners, where
the joints and sweets are laid upon the table. The hostess may be, and
probably is, engaged in conversation with the guest who occupies the
seat on her right or left hand, as the case may be; but the preoccupied
manner, the wandering thoughts, the painful effort at appearing
interested in whatever topic may be under discussion, are only too
apparent—as are likewise the harassed look if, on the lifting of the
covers, anything is discovered to be wrong, and the palpable look of
relief if, on the other hand, there seems to be no reasonable ground
for apprehension or complaint. All such facial reflexes of the soul can
and ought to be avoided. They are frequently the result of nervousness,
and are in such cases a misfortune, yet one which is quite curable and
capable of being easily overcome. A hostess who cannot preserve her
serenity upon even the most crucial occasions, is lacking in one of the
most essential qualities of an entertainer. The thoughtless spilling
of her best wine, the soiling of her whitest tablecloth, nay, even the
smashing of a whole trayful of her best old family china, should not
cause one muscle of her countenance to change.
On the other hand, an affected ignorance respecting the contents of the
day’s bill of fare is at times almost as fatal as the opposite extreme.
I was myself present at a dinner-party at which one of the untutored
stable-helpers had been brought in, on an emergency, to assist. ‘What
are these, John?’ inquired the languid hostess, as John tremblingly
thrust forward a dish of tartlets just under her right elbow. ‘I don’t
know ma’am, raally,’ he replied; ‘but I think they’re tuppence apiece!’
I shall conclude this portion of my subject by remarking, that if a
hostess has a lady-visitor in her house and does not keep a carriage,
she ought, when the guest is about to depart, to make arrangements
that a cab or other vehicle shall be in waiting at the door in good
time, to convey the visitor to train, boat, or whatever else may lead
to her destination. Gentlemen are usually understood to see after such
matters for themselves.
IN ALL SHADES.
BY GRANT ALLEN,
AUTHOR OF ‘BABYLON,’ ‘STRANGE STORIES,’ ETC. ETC.
CHAPTER XXIX.
In spite of his vigorous dislike for Tom Dupuy, Harry Noel continued
to stop on at Orange Grove for some weeks together, retained there
irresistibly by the potent spell of Nora’s presence. He couldn’t tear
himself away from Nora. And Nora, too, though she could never conquer
her instinctive prejudice against the dark young Englishman—a prejudice
that seemed to be almost ingrained in her very nature—couldn’t help
feeling on her side, also, that it was very pleasant to have Harry Noel
staying in the house with her; he was such a relief and change after
Tom Dupuy and the other sugar-growing young gentlemen of Trinidad! He
had some other ideas in his head beside vacuum pans and saccharometers
and centrifugals; he could talk about something else besides the crop
and the cutting and the boiling. Harry was careful not to recur for
the present to the subject of their last conversation at Southampton;
he left that important issue aside for a while, till Nora had time
to make his acquaintance for herself afresh. A year had passed since
she came to Trinidad; she might have changed her mind meanwhile. At
nineteen or twenty, one’s views often undergo a rapid expansion. In any
case, it would be best to let her have a little time to get to know
him better. In his own heart, Harry Noel had inklings of a certain not
wholly unbecoming consciousness that he cut a very decent figure indeed
in Nora’s eyes, by the side of the awkward, sugar-growing young men of
Trinidad.
One afternoon, a week or two later, he was out riding among the plains
with Nora, attended behind by the negro groom, when they happened to
pass the same corner where he had already met Louis Delgado. The old
man was standing there again, cutlass in hand—the cutlass is the common
agricultural implement and rural jack-of-all-trades of the West Indies,
answering to plough, harrow, hoe, spade, reaping-hook, rake, and
pruning-knife in England—and as Nora passed, he dropped her a grudging,
half-satirical salutation, something between a bow and a courtesy, as
is the primitive custom of the country.
‘A very murderous-looking weapon, the thing that fellow’s got in his
hand,’ Harry Noel said, in passing, to his pretty companion as they
turned the corner. ‘What on earth does he want to do with it, I wonder?’
‘Oh, that!’ Nora exclaimed carelessly, glancing back at it in an
unconcerned fashion. ‘That’s only a cutlass. All our people work with
cutlasses, you know. He’s merely going to hoe up the canes with it.’
‘Nasty things for the niggers to have in their hands, in case there
should ever be any row in the island,’ Harry murmured half aloud; for
the sight of the wild-looking old man ran strangely in his head, and he
couldn’t help thinking to himself how much damage could easily be done
by a sturdy negro with one of those rude and formidable weapons.
‘Yes,’ Nora answered with a childish laugh, ‘those are just what they
always hack us to pieces with, you know, whenever there comes a negro
rising. Mr Hawthorn says there’s very likely to be one soon. He thinks
the negroes are ripe for rebellion. He knows more about them than any
one else, you see; and he’s thoroughly in the confidence of a great
many of them, and he says they’re almost all fearfully disaffected.
That old man Delgado there, in particular—he’s a shocking old man
altogether. He hates papa and Tom Dupuy; and I believe if ever he got
the chance, he’d cut every one of our throats in cold blood as soon as
look at us.’
‘I trust to goodness he won’t get the chance, then,’ Harry ejaculated
earnestly. ‘He seems a most uncivil, ill-conditioned, independent sort
of a fellow altogether. I dropped my whip on the road by chance the
very first afternoon I came here, and I asked this same man to pick it
up for me; and, would you believe it, the old wretch wouldn’t stoop to
hand the thing to me; he told me I might just jump off my horse and
pick it up for myself, if I wanted to get it! Now, you know, a labourer
in England, though he’s a white man like one’s self, would never have
dared to answer me that way. He’d have stooped down and picked it up
instinctively, the moment he was asked to by any gentleman.’
‘Mr Hawthorn says,’ Nora answered, smiling, ‘that our negroes here
are a great deal more independent, and have a great deal more sense
of freedom than English country-people, because they were emancipated
straight off all in one day, and were told at once: “Now, from this
time forth, you’re every bit as free as your masters;” whereas the
English peasants, he says, were never regularly emancipated at all,
but only slowly and unconsciously came out of serfdom, so that there
never was any one day when they felt to themselves that they had become
freemen. I’m not quite sure whether that’s exactly how he puts it,
but I think it is. Anyhow, I know it’s a fact that all one’s negro
women-servants out here are a great deal more independent and saucy
than the white maids used to be over in England.’
‘Independence,’ Harry remarked, cracking his short whip with a sharp
snap, ‘is a very noble quality, considered in the abstract; but when it
comes to taking it in the concrete, I should much prefer for my part
not to have it in my own servants.’
(A sentiment, it may be observed in passing, by no means uncommon,
even when not expressed, among people who make far more pretensions to
democratic feeling than did Harry Noel.)
Louis Delgado, standing behind, and gazing with a malevolent gleam
in his cold dark eyes after the retreating buckra figures, beckoned
in silence with his skinny hand to the black groom, who came back
immediately and unhesitatingly, as if in prompt obedience to some
superior officer.
‘You is number forty-tree, I tink,’ the old man said, looking at the
groom closely. ‘Yes, yes, dat’s your number. Tell me; you know who is
dis buckra from Englan’?’
‘Dem callin’ him Mistah Noel, sah,’ the black groom answered, touching
the brim of his hat respectfully.
‘Yes, yes, I know him name; I know dat already,’ Delgado answered with
an impatient gesture. ‘But what I want to know is jest dis—can you find
out for me from de house-serbants, or anybody up at Orange Grove, where
him fader an’ him mudder come from? I want to know all about him.’
‘Missy Rosina find dat out for me,’ the groom answered, grinning
broadly. ‘Missy Rosina is de young le-ady’s waitin’-maid; an’ de young
le-ady, him tell Rosina pretty well eberyting. Rosina, she is Isaac
Pourtalès’ new sweetheart.’
Delgado nodded in instantaneous acquiescence. ‘All right, number
forty-tree,’ he answered, cutting him short carelessly. ‘Ride after
buckra, an’ say no more about it. I get it all out ob him now, surely.
I know Missy Rosina well, for true. I gib him de lub of Isaac Pourtalès
wit me obeah, I tellin’ you. Send Missy Rosina to me dis ebenin’. I has
plenty ting I want to talk about wit her.’
OLD CITY TREES.
It might seem to many, at first sight, almost ludicrous to be directed
to search for poetry in that most prosaic of all places, the Old City
of London. The busy cry of ‘commerce,’ which all day long deafens the
ear and deadens the finer senses, excludes all thoughts beyond those
which tend to the discovery of the state of the various markets—the
price of stocks, the rate of exchange at Paris, Berlin, or St
Petersburg—the condition, in fact, of all the monetary and mercantile
affairs in the world. Yet if these ‘toilers’ had a moment to spare,
and would look around them and reflect, they would find that there are
spots in the City which have inspired many a poet.
Starting for a ‘walk down Fleet Street,’ and entering at the Middle
Temple gate, we come upon a scene which has been immortalised by
Shakspeare—the scene of the original factions of York and Lancaster. In
this garden, Plantagenet says:
‘Since you are tongue-tied, and so loath to speak,
In dumb significance proclaim your thoughts:
Let him that is a true-born gentleman,
And stands upon the honour of his birth,
If he suppose that I have pleaded truth,
From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.’
To which Somerset replies:
‘Let him that is no coward, nor no flatterer,
But dare maintain the party of the truth,
Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.’
In the background of this garden, with its fine trees and flowers,
where the great dramatist placed, in his imagination, this historical
incident, may be seen the old walls and buttresses of the Middle Temple
Hall. The descent into the garden is after the Italian fashion, from
a court, in the centre of which stands that celebrated fountain of
which nearly every noted author has spoken. Who does not remember Ruth
Pinch—that devoted sister of Tom’s, in _Martin Chuzzlewit_, walking
under the trees in Fountain Court, and meeting there—by the merest
accident, of course—her lover? ‘Merrily the fountain leaped and danced,
and merrily the smiling dimples twinkled and expanded more and more,
until they broke into a laugh against the basin’s rim, and vanished.’
There is a graceful poem by L. E. L. (Miss Landon) on this much admired
and petted fountain in the Temple Gardens:
The fountain’s low singing is heard on the wind,
Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind:
Some to grieve, some to gladden; around them they cast
The hopes of the morrow, the dreams of the past.
Away in the distance is heard the vast sound
From the streets of the city that compass it round,
Like the echo of fountain’s or ocean’s deep call;
Yet the fountain’s low singing is heard over all.
There is no place, one can see from reading Charles Lamb, which he
loved more than the Temple to wander in. ‘What a transition for a
country-man visiting London for the first time,’ he remarks in his
_Essays_, ‘the passing from the crowded Strand or Fleet Street by
unexpected avenues, into its magnificent, ample squares, its classic
green recesses!... What a collegiate aspect has that fine Elizabethan
hall, where the fountain plays, which I had made to rise and fall,
how many times!’ Among the Temple trees there was formerly a colony
of rooks, brought there by Sir Edward Northey, a well-known lawyer in
the time of Queen Anne, from his house at Epsom. The thought had in
it a touch of humour. The rook, both in his plumage as well as in his
habits, is a legal bird: he is strongly addicted to discussions, lives
in communities, and has altogether the grave appearance of a ‘learned
brother.’ But these rooks have ceased to assemble in the Temple Gardens
for many years.
For a long time, also, a favourite residence of rooks was that
beautiful tree which still stands at the left-hand corner of Wood
Street, on turning out of Cheapside. As late as 1845, two new nests
were built there; and a trace of them is still visible. The spot where
the tree stands marks the site of the church of St Peter-in-Cheap, a
church destroyed by the Great Fire. The terms of the lease of the low
houses at this west corner, with their frontage in Cheapside, forbid
the erection of another story, it is said, or the removal of this tree.
Is it possible that Wordsworth, passing one summer day down Cheapside,
observed the tree, and gained the inspiration which led to the
_Reverie of Poor Susan_?
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a thrush that sings loud—it has sung for three years;
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
’Tis a note of enchantment. What ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Within one of the inner courts of the Bank of England there is a garden
tastefully planted with trees and shrubs, some of considerable age; and
in the centre there springs forth a large fountain, mushroom-shaped,
which plays during the office hours for the benefit of the clerks
who inhabit that portion of the building, and for the ‘toilers’ who
pass in and out with their bills of exchange and their bags of gold.
The sparrows which congregate here flutter from branch to branch,
twittering, ‘as though they called to one another,’ as Charles Dickens
describes it, ‘Let us play at country;’ a place where ‘a few feet of
garden,’ he says in _Edwin Drood_, ‘enable them to do that refreshing
violence to their tiny understandings.’ This green spot, like many
others still to be seen in the City of London, was once a churchyard;
it belonged to the church of St Christopher in Threadneedle Street.
But one of the greenest spots in the City, although only a corner
of it remains, is perhaps Drapers’ Hall Gardens. It is shut in on
all sides by newly constructed mansions, and only those who have
business to transact among the stockbrokers, who have their offices
in these buildings behind Throgmorton Street, have any suspicion of
its existence. It may be reached by wandering through courts and
alleys; it has almost a park-like appearance, if you are fortunate
enough to gain a glimpse of it from an elevated and slightly distant
point of view. Here there is also a fountain visible among the trees.
But how different this garden once was! In the sixteenth century it
was an estate, the property of Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex. It
was purchased from him, in the reign of Henry VIII., by the Drapers’
Company. The gardens then extended northwards as far as London Wall,
and commanded a fine view of Highgate and the adjoining heights. In
Ward’s _London Spy_, it is spoken of as a fashionable promenade an hour
before dinner-time.
In the neighbourhood of the Monument and of Thames Street, these
gardens may be met with at nearly every turning by those who care to
wander into nooks and corners in search of them. By walking up St
Mary-at-Hill out of Thames Street, and entering through a narrow iron
gateway with bars like a prison, above which may be seen in stone a
grinning skull and crossbones, one comes upon some fine trees with
their branches extending overhead in the passage-way. Or, again, when
descending St Dunstan’s Hill, hard by, what is more beautiful in the
City than the trees in the churchyard of St Dunstan, with the gray and
black masonry of the church, against the green leaves, with its four
lofty towers rising above?
To the account of the trees and gardens mentioned above may be added
a short statement of many others existing in out-of-the-way nooks
and corners within the boundary of the city of London. Many of the
small open patches where these trees are found were once undoubtedly
burial-grounds of churches, or the sites of churches long since taken
down. After the beautiful grounds of the Temple, the only other large
open spaces within the boundaries of the City are Finsbury Square,
Finsbury Circus, Charterhouse Square, and Trinity Square. All these
are well laid out with grass, shrubs, trees, and flowers, and are used
as promenading places by the inhabitants. It should be here mentioned
that the trees referred to in this notice are all young, or at most
middle-aged, and that no such thing as a really ‘old’ tree exists
anywhere within the City of London.
We will now continue our ramble, or tour of inspection; and starting
from Temple Bar, we proceed eastward down Fleet Street. Here the
first trees we notice are two or three small and sickly specimens
growing in the churchyard of St Bride, Fleet Street; they are not very
ornamental, or much to look at. Passing on up Ludgate Hill, St Paul’s
Cathedral is reached. The grounds round the church are prettily laid
out, and contain many trees, but all young, small, and weedy. Just
to the east of St Paul’s, in Watling Street, is a little inclosure
very neatly planted with shrubs only, and having in its midst a large
square altar-tomb of some departed City worthy. This spot was once a
burying-ground, or the site of a church long since removed. Proceeding
eastward, and turning down Queen Street, just out of Cannon Street, two
tall and rather fine plane-trees are observed growing in the front of
a grand old mansion, once, of course, the residence of a City magnate,
but now cut up and let out as offices. These planes are worthy of
remark as affording one of the few instances now occurring of trees
found in private grounds inside the City.
We now pass up Queen Street into Cheapside, and thence into Aldersgate
Street. Here we find the ground, once the churchyard of St Botolph,
Aldersgate, has been beautifully laid out as a garden, planted with
trees, flowers, and shrubs, and furnished with numerous seats, and
affording a delightful promenade or resting-place in summer-time, and
is much enjoyed by the immediate neighbourhood. Another plot of ground,
lying on the west, but belonging to Christ Church, Newgate Street, has
also been planted and laid out; but, because it belongs to another
parish, it is separated from the St Botolph’s garden by a low wall and
railing, although the two grounds actually adjoin.
Continuing our walk northward, we arrive at Charterhouse, once
celebrated for its high-class school, which has now been removed into
the country. Adjoining, is Charterhouse Square, laid out with trees,
shrubs, and grass like an ordinary London square, and surrounded
by private dwellings. Returning south, and then going east, we
reach St Alban’s, Wood Street, which has a little ground round it,
decorated with four trees and shrubs. Close by is St Mary-the-Virgin,
Aldermanbury, with four trees round it. Just beyond is a small
churchyard that once belonged to St Mary, Staining, containing two
trees and shrubs; and a little farther is St Olave, Jewry, with six
trees and shrubs, all weedy and sickly.
Passing on into Cannon Street, we turn down Lawrence Poultney Hill,
where we discover a disused burial-ground, with a public passage-way
passing through the midst of it. The plot is planted with eighteen
sickly-looking, weedy trees, large and small, as well as some stunted
shrubs. Passing over King William Street, we reach the top of Lombard
Street, where one little sickly-looking tree is seen in front of
the church of St Mary Woolnoth. Continuing down Lombard Street, and
turning to the right, we come upon the disused burial-ground of St
Nicholas Acon, situated in Nicholas Lane. This little plot is very
neatly laid out with shrubs, and planted with three small trees.
Passing on into King William Street, we ultimately reach London
Bridge, where, close by in Thames Street, we find the large church
of St Magnus-the-Martyr, with its tall and peculiar tower and spire,
near the Monument. It has no churchyard, but a small inclosed space
round it contains a dozen unhealthy-looking young trees. A little
beyond this, close to the church of St Mary-at-Hill, three trees are
observed growing in what is apparently the private ground or garden
in the rear of a dwelling-house. A few minutes farther east, we come
to the fine church of St Dunstan-in-the-East, standing in the midst
of a well-kept churchyard, and having ten goodly young trees, of fair
height and girth, which always have a very agreeable appearance in the
summer-time. Still farther on east, we come to St Olave, Hart Street,
with its little churchyard, planted with ten small trees; and close
by we see the church of Allhallows (Barking), Tower Street. This fine
old church is one of the few which escaped the great fire of 1666. It
stands in a roomy churchyard, decorated with twenty-four trees, and
having somewhat the appearance of a village church and churchyard.
We now emerge into one of the most interesting spots in all London,
interesting not only in an historical sense, but peculiarly so from the
terrible tragedies of which it was so constantly the theatre—namely,
Tower Hill. This vast space, extending from the Tower gates northward
to the Trinity House, was once entirely open; but now a small portion
of its northern extremity is inclosed and neatly planted with grass,
shrubs, and trees. As the Tower itself is situated outside the City
boundaries, we must not include its trees and plantations in this
notice, which strictly applies to trees in the City only. We therefore
turn our steps westward; and in a little court, leading from Mark Lane
to Fenchurch Street, called Star Alley, we come on a curious relic of
the past, a gray medieval church tower, square in shape, with its stair
turret at one corner, which once belonged to the church of Allhallows
(Staining), Mark Lane. The nave of the church has long since been
removed, and the small plot of ground round the old tower is now
prettily laid out with six young trees, many shrubs, yuccas, and other
ornamental plants.
Threading our way to Bishopsgate Street, we find the churchyard of
St Botolph, through which a public footway leads to a neighbouring
street. The ground, right and left, is tastefully laid out as a garden
with pretty shrubs and trees, the effect being pleasing and agreeable,
especially in summer. Nearly opposite is the ancient church of St
Ethelburga, hidden behind the houses, with a small confined space at
the back, in which are fine trees. Two or three more trees are found in
a small inclosure in the vicinity at the back of this church. Close by
is also the curious and interesting church of St Helen, Bishopsgate,
and in the ground round it are four ill-looking, scraggy trees.
Returning southward, and reaching Cornhill, we find a little
burial-ground in the rear of the fine church of St Michael, Cornhill,
neatly laid out, and planted with three small trees. Close by
is another large church, St Peter-upon-Cornhill, with its small
confined churchyard, also neatly laid out, and planted with two small
unhealthy-looking trees.
Taking our way westward, we pass Christ’s Hospital in Newgate Street.
The boys’ playground is a large open _paved_ courtyard, destitute of
grass, trees, or shrubs; but in the private gardens in the rear, trees,
shrubs, and flowers are to be found, having a pleasant appearance.
A little way beyond, we find St Andrew’s, Holborn, and in the open
churchyard surrounding the church are many trees, but not much
cultivation. Passing through the quaint old gateway, we find ourselves
in the interior of Staple Inn, Holborn, with its Hall and gardens. The
latter are neatly laid out with grass, shrubs, and trees, and carefully
kept, affording a quiet retreat from the noise and racket of Holborn
during the bright days of summer.
In conclusion, it may perhaps be worthy of remark that nearly all the
places referred to are very small indeed, mere ‘garden nooks;’ some are
churchyards surrounding churches; and for these reasons, apparently,
none of them are open for the use of the public as places of
recreation, except the cultivated churchyards of St Paul’s Cathedral,
and St Botolph, Aldersgate, close by; and the squares of Finsbury,
Trinity, and Charterhouse, which are open to the immediate residents.
St Botolph, Bishopsgate, has, as already stated, a footway through its
prettily laid out churchyard.
It is at least remarkable how trees will suddenly appear in the City
in the most out-of-the-way corners, where a green leaf would be about
the last thing looked for; yet such is the case, as it has already been
shown. There are two sickly, scraggy, young trees in a little court, up
a narrow dirty lane, on the south side of St Paul’s Cathedral, and at
Stationers’ Hall, where no one would dream of looking for vegetation;
and two or three more in Barnard’s Inn, Holborn, an inn devoted to law
and lawyers. The peculiar character of ‘City trees,’ in nearly all
cases, is that they are lanky, thin, and generally poor and unhealthy
looking. It is rare, indeed, to find a tall, well-grown tree in any of
these odd nooks and corners of the old City; perhaps the three finest
in size and height are two plane-trees in front of a private house—now
used as offices—in Queen Street, Cheapside; and the well-known single
tree at the corner of Wood Street, Cheapside; but these instances are
few and far between.
TREASURE TROVE.
A STORY IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAP. I.