CHAPTER V.

BETWEEN TWO WORLDS.

Dr. Penn was with George this day, and was to be with him to the last.

His duty was taken by a curate.

I will not attempt to describe my feelings at this terrible time, but

merely narrate circumstantially the wonderful events (or illusions, call

them which you will) of the evening.

We sat up-stairs in the blue room, and Harriet fell asleep on the sofa.

It was about half-past ten o'clock when she awoke with a scream, and in

such terror that I had much difficulty in soothing her. She seemed very

unwilling to tell me the cause of her distress; but at last confessed

that on the two preceding nights she had had a vivid and alarming dream,

on each night the same. Poor Edmund's hand (she recognized it by the

sapphire ring) seemed to float in the air before her; and even after she

awoke, she still seemed to see it floating towards the door, and then

coming back again, till it vanished altogether. She had seen it again

now in her sleep. I sat silent, struggling with a feeling of

indignation. Why had she not spoken of it before? I do not know how long

it might have been before I should have broken the silence, but that my

eyes turned to the partially-open window and the dark night that lay

beyond. Then I shrieked, louder than she had done--

"Harriet! _There it is!_"

There it was--to my eyes--the detached hand, round which played a pale

light--the splendid sapphire gleaming unearthlily, like the flame of a

candle that is burning blue. But Harriet could see nothing. She said

that I frightened her, and shook her nerves, and took pleasure in doing

so; that I was the author of all our trouble, and she wished I would

drop the dreadful subject. She would have said much more, but that I

startled her by the vehemence of my interruption. I said that the day

was past when I would sacrifice my peace or my duty to her whims; and

she ventured no remonstrance when I announced that I intended to follow

the hand so long as it moved, and discover the meaning of the

apparition. I then flew downstairs and out into the garden, where it

still gleamed, and commenced a slow movement towards the gate. But my

flight had been observed, Nelly, by Robert, our old butler. I had

always been his favourite in the family, and since my grief, his humble

sympathy had only been second to that of Dr. Penn. I had noticed the

anxious watch he had kept over me since the trial, with a sort of sad

amusement. I afterwards learnt that all his fears had culminated to a

point when he saw me rush wildly from the house that night. He had

thought I was going to drown myself. He concealed his fears at the time,

however, and only said--

"What be the matter, Miss Dorothy?"

"Is that you, Robert?" I said. "Come here. Look! Do you see?"

"See what?" he said.

"Don't you see anything?" I said. "No light? Nothing?"

"Nothin' whatever," said Robert, decidedly; "it be as dark as pitch."

I stood silent, gazing at the apparition, which, having reached the

gate, was slowly re-advancing. If it were fancy, why did it not vanish?

I rubbed my eyes, but it was there still. Robert interrupted me,

solemnly--

"Miss Dorothy, do _you_ see anything?"

"Robert," I said, "you are a faithful friend. Listen! I see before me

the lost hand of your dead master. I know it by the sapphire ring. It is

surrounded by a pale light, and moves slowly. My sister has seen it

three times in her sleep; and I see it now with my waking eyes. You may

laugh, Robert; but it is too true."

I was not prepared for the indignant reply:

"Laugh, Miss Dorothy! The Lord forbid! If so be you do see anything, and

it should be the Lord's will to reveal anything about poor dear Master

Edmund to you as loved him, and is his sister, who am I that I should

laugh? My mother had a cousin (many a time has she told me the story) as

married a sailor (he was mate on board a vessel bound for the West

Indies), and one night, about three weeks after her husband had--"

"Robert!" I said, "you shall tell me that story another day with

pleasure; but no time is to be lost now. I mean to follow the hand: will

you come with me and take care of me?"

"Go in, ma'am," he said; "wrap up warm, and put on thick shoes, and come

quietly down to this door. I'll just slip in and quiet the servants, and

meet you."

"And bring a lantern," I said; "this light does not light you."

In five minutes we were there again; and the hand was vivid as ever.

"Do you see it now?" whispered the butler, anxiously.

"Yes," I said; "it is moving."

"Go on," he said; "I will keep close behind you."

It was pitch dark, and, except for the gleaming hand, and the erratic

circles of light cast by the lantern, we could see nothing. The hand

gradually moved faster, increasing to a good walking pace, passing over

the garden-gate and leading us on till I completely lost knowledge of

our position; but still we went steadily forward. At last we got into a

road, and went along by a wall; and, after a few steps, the hand, which

was before me, moved sharply aside.

"Robert," I said, "it has gone over a gate--we must go too! Where are

we?"

He answered, in a tone of the deepest horror--

"Miss Dorothy! for the Lord's sake, think what you are doing, and let us

turn back while we can! You've had sore affliction; but it's an awful

thing to bring an innocent man to trouble."

"The innocent man _is_ in trouble!" I said, passionately. "Is it nothing

that he should die, if truth could save him? You may go back if you

like; but I shall go on. Tell me, whose place is this?"

"Never mind, my dear young lady," he said, soothingly. "Go on, and the

Lord be with you! But be careful. You're sure you see it now?"

"Certain," I said. "It is moving. Come on."

We went forward, and I heard a click behind me.

"What is that?" I said.

"Hush!" he whispered; "make no noise! It was my pistol. Go gently, my

dear young lady. It is a farmyard, and you may stumble."

"It has stopped over a building!" I whispered.

"Not the house!" he returned, hoarsely.

"I am going on," I said. "Here we are. What is it? Whose is it?"

He came close to me, and whispered solemnly--

"Miss Dorothy! be brave, and make no noise! We are in Farmer Parker's

yard; and this is a barn."

Then the terror came over me.

"Let us turn back," I said. "You are right. One may bear one's own

troubles, but not drag in other people. Take me home!"

But Robert would not take me home; and my courage came back, and I held

the lantern whilst he unfastened the door. Then the ghastly hand passed

into the barn, and we followed it.

"It has stopped in the far corner," I said. "There seems to be wood or

something."

"It's bundles of wood," he whispered. "I know the place. Sit down, and

tell me if it moves."

I sat down, and waited long and wearily, while he moved heavy bundles of

firewood, pausing now and then to ask, "Is it here still?" At last he

asked no more; and in a quarter of an hour he only spoke once: then it

was to say--

"This plank has been moved."

After a while he came away to look for a spade. He found one, and went

back again. At last a smothered sound made me spring up and rush to him;

but he met me, driving me back.

"I beg of you, dear Miss Dorothy, keep away. Have you a handkerchief

with you?"

I had one, and gave it to him. His hands were covered with earth. He had

only just gone back again when I gave a cry--

"Robert! _It has gone!_"

He came up to me, keeping one hand behind him.

"Miss Dorothy, if ever you were good and brave, hold out now!"

I beat my hands together--"It has gone! It has gone!"

"It has not gone!" he said. "Master Edmund's hand is in this

handkerchief. It has been buried under a plank of the flooring!"

I gasped, "Let me see it!"

But he would not. "No, no! my dear lady, you must not--cannot. I only

knew it by the ring!"

Then he made me sit down again, whilst he replaced the firewood; and

then, with the utmost quietness, we set out to return, I holding the

lantern in one hand, and with the other clinging to his arm (for the

apparition that had been my guide before was gone), and he carrying the

awful relic in his other hand. Once, as we were leaving the yard, he

whispered--

"Look!"

"I see nothing," said I.

"Hold up your lantern," he whispered.

"There is nothing but the dog-kennel," I said.

"Miss Dorothy," he said, "_the dog has not barked tonight!_"

By the time we reached home, my mind had fully realized the importance

of our discovery, and the terribly short time left us in which to profit

by it, supposing, as I fully believed, that it was the first step to the

vindication of George's innocence. As we turned into the gate, Robert,

who had been silent for some time broke out--

"Miss Dorothy! Mr. George Manners is as innocent as I am; and

God forgive us all for doubting him! What shall we do?"

"I am going up to town," I said, "and you are going with me. We will go

to Dr. Penn. He has a lodging close by the prison: I have the address.

At eight o'clock to-morrow the king himself could not undo this

injustice. We have, let me see, how many hours?"

Robert pulled out his old silver watch and brought it to the lantern.

"It is twenty minutes to twelve."

"Rather more than eight hours. Heaven help us! You will get something to

eat, Robert, and put the horses at once into the chariot. I will be

ready."

I went straight up-stairs, and met Harriet at the door. I pushed her back

into the room and took her hands.

"Harriet! Robert has found poor Edmund's hand, _with the ring_, buried

under some wood in Thomas Parker's barn. I am going up to town with him

at once, to put the matter into Dr. Penn's hands, and save George

Manners' life, if it be not too late."

She wrenched her hands away, and flung herself at my feet. I never saw

such a change come over any face. She had had time in the (what must

have been) anxious interval of our absence, for some painful enough

reflection, and my announcement had broken through the blindness of a

selfish mind, and found its way where she seldom let anything come--to

her feelings.

"Oh, Dolly! Dolly! will you ever forgive me? Why did I not tell you

before? But I thought it was only a dream. And indeed, indeed I thought

Mr. Manners had done it. But that man Parker! If it had not been for

Mr. Manners being found there, I should have sworn that Parker had done

it. Dolly! I saw him that night. He came in and helped. And once I saw

him look at Mr. Manners with such a strange expression, and he seemed so

anxious to make him say that it was a quarrel, and that he had done it

in self-defence. But you know I thought it must be Mr. Manners--and I

did so love poor Edmund!"

And she lay sobbing in agony on the ground. I said--

"My love, I pray that it is not too late: but we must not waste time.

Help me _now_, Harriet!"

She sprang up at once.

"Yes! you must have food. You shall go. I shall not go with you. I am

not worthy, but I will pray till you come back again."

I said, "There is one most important thing for you to do. Let no soul go

out or come into the house till I return, or some gossip will bring it

to Parker's ears that we have gone to London."

Harriet promised, and rushed off to get me food and wine. With her own

hands she filled a hot-water bottle for my feet in the chariot, supplied

my purse with gold, and sewed some notes up in my stays; and (as if

anxious to crowd into this one occasion all the long-withheld offices

of sisterly kindness) came in with her arms full of a beautiful set of

sables that belonged to her--cloak, cuffs, muff, etc.--and in these she

dressed me. And then we fell into each others arms, and I wept upon her

neck the first tears I had shed that day. As I stood on the doorstep,

she held up the candle and looked at me.

"My dear!" she said, "how pretty your sweet face does look out of those

great furs! You shall keep them always."

Dear Harriet! Her one idea--beauty. I suppose the "ruling passion,"

whatever it may be, is strong with all of us, even in the face of death.

Moreover, hers was one of those shallow minds that seem instinctively to

escape by any avenue from a painful subject; and by the time that I was

in the chariot, she had got over the first shock, and there was an

almost infectious cheerfulness in her farewell.

"It _must_ be all right, Dolly!"

Then I fell back, and we started. The warm light of the open door became

a speck, and then nothing; and in the long dark drive, when every

footfall of the horses seemed to consume an age, the sickening agony of

suspense was almost intolerable. Oh, my dear! never, never shall I

forget that night. The black trees and hedges whirling past us in the

darkness, always the same, like an enchanted drive; then the endless

suburbs, and at last the streets where people lounged in corners and

stopped the way, as if every second of time were not worth a king's

ransom; and sedan-chairs trotted lightly home from gay parties as if

life were not one long tragedy. Once the way was stopped, once we lost

it. That mistake nearly killed me. At last a watchman helped us to the

little by-street where Dr. Penn was lodging, near which a loud sound of

carpenters' work and hurrying groups of people puzzled me exceedingly.

After much knocking, an upper window was opened and a head put out, and

my dear friend's dear voice called to us. I sprang out on to the

pavement and cried--

"Dr. Penn, this is Dorothy."

He came down and took us in, and then (my voice failing) Robert

explained to him the nature of our errand, and showed him the ghastly

proof. Dr. Penn came back to me.

"My love," he said, "you must come up-stairs and rest."

"Rest!" I shrieked, "never! Get your hat, doctor, and come quickly. Let

us go to the king. Let us do something. We have very little time, and he

must be saved."

I believe I was very unreasonable; I fear that I delayed them some

minutes before good Dr. Penn could persuade me that I should only be a

hindrance, that he would do everything that was possible, and could do

so much better with no one but Robert.

"My love," he said, "trust me. To obey is better than sacrifice!"

I went up-stairs into the dingy little sitting-room, and he went to call

his landlady--"a good woman," he said: "I have known her long." Then he

went away, and Robert with him, to the house of the Home Secretary.

It was three o'clock. Five hours still!

I sat staring at the sprawling paper on the walls, and at the long snuff

of the candle that Dr. Penn had lighted, and at a framed piece of

embroidery, representing Abraham sacrificing Isaac, that hung upon the

wall. Were there no succouring angels now?

The door opened, and I looked wearily round. A motherly woman, with

black eyes, fat cheeks, and a fat wedding-ring, stood curtseying at the

door. I said, "I think you are Dr. Penn's landlady? He says you are very

good. Pray come in."

Then I dropped my head on my hand again, and stared vacantly as before.

Exhaustion had almost become stupor, and it was in a sort of dream that

I watched the stout figure moving softly to and fro, lighting the fire,

and bringing an air of comfort over the dreary little parlour. Then she

was gone for a little bit, and I felt a little more lonely and weary;

and then I heard that cheerful clatter, commonly so grateful to

feminine exhaustion, and the good woman entered with a toasted glow upon

her face, bearing a tray with tea, and such hospitable accompaniments as

she could command. She set them down and came up to me with an air of

determination.

"My dear, you must be a good young lady and take some tea. We all have

our troubles, but a good heart goes a long way."

Her pitying face broke me down. How sadly without feminine sympathy I

had been through all my troubles I had never felt as I felt it now that

it had come. I fairly dropped my head upon her shoulder and sobbed out

the apparently irrelevant remark--

"Dear madam, I have no mother!"

She understood me, and flinging her arms round me sobbed louder than I.

It would have been wicked to offer further resistance. She brought down

pillows, covered them with a red shawl, and propped me up till the

horsehair sofa became an easy couch, and with mixed tears and smiles I

contrived to swallow a few mouthfuls, a feat which she exalted to an act

of sublime virtue.

"And now, my dear," she said, "you will have some warm water and wash

your hands and face and smooth your hair, and go to sleep for a bit."

"I cannot sleep," I said.

But Mrs. Smith was not to be baffled.

"I shall give you something to make you," said she.

And so, when the warm water had done its work, I had to swallow a

sleeping-draught and be laid easily upon the sofa. Her last words as she

"tucked me up" were, oddly enough--

"The tea's brought back a bit of colour to your cheeks, miss, and I will

say you do look pretty in them beautiful sables!"

A very different thought was working in my head as the sleeping-draught

tingled through my veins.

"Will the birds sing at sunrise?"

Nelly, I slept twelve long hours without a dream. It was four o'clock in

the afternoon of Monday when I awoke, and only then, I believe, from the

mesmeric influence of being gazed at. Eleanor! there is only one such

pair of eyes in all the world! George Manners was kneeling by my side.

Abraham was still sacrificing his son upon the wall, but my Isaac was

restored to me. I sat up and flung myself into his arms. It was long,

long before either of us could speak, and, oddly enough, one of the

first things he said was (twitching my cloak with the quaint curiosity

of a man very ignorant about feminine belongings), "My darling, you seem

sadly ill, but yet, Doralice, your sweet face does look so pretty in

these great furs."

* * * * *

My story is ended, Nelly, and my promise fulfilled. The rest you know.

How the detective, who left London before four o'clock that morning,

found the rusty knife that had been buried with the hand, and

apprehended Parker, who confessed his guilt. The wretched man said, that

being out on the fatal night about some sick cattle, he had met poor

Edmund by the low gate; that Edmund had begun, as usual, to taunt him;

that the opportunity of revenge was too strong, and he had murdered him.

His first idea had been flight, and being unable to drag the ring from

Edmund's hand, which was swollen, he had cut it off, and thrown the body

into the ditch. On hearing of the finding of the body, and of poor

George's position, he determined to brave it out, with what almost fatal

success we have seen. He dared not then sell the ring, and so buried it

in his barn. Two things respecting his end were singular: First, at the

last he sent for Dr. Penn, imploring him to stay with him till he died.

That good man, as ever, obeyed the call of duty and kindness, but he was

not fated to see the execution of my brother's murderer. The night

before, Thomas Parker died in prison; not by his own hand, Nelly. A fit

of apoplexy, the result of intense mental excitement, forestalled the

vengeance of the law.

Need I tell you, dear friend, who know it so well, that I am happy?

Not, my love, that such tragedies can be forgotten--these deep wounds

leave a scar. This one brought my husband's first white hairs, and took

away my girlhood for ever. But if the first blush of careless gaiety has

gone from life, if we are a little "old before our time," it may be that

this state of things has its advantages. Perhaps, having known together

such real affliction, we cannot now afford to be disturbed by the petty

vexations and worthless misunderstandings that form the troubles of

smoother lives. Perhaps, having been all but so awfully parted, we can

never afford, in this short life, to be otherwise than of one heart and

one soul. Perhaps, my dear, in short, the love that kept faith through

shame, and was cemented by fellow-suffering, can hardly do otherwise

than flourish to our heart's best content in the sunshine of prosperity

with which God has now blessed us.

THE SMUT.

The councillor's chimney smoked. It always did smoke when the wind was

in the north. A Smut came down and settled on a brass knob of the

fender, which the councillor's housekeeper had polished that very

morning. The shining surface reflected the Smut, and he seemed to

himself to be two.

"How large I am!" said he, with complacency. "I am quite a double Smut.

I am bigger than any other. If I were a little harder, I should be a

cinder, not to say a coal. Decidedly my present position is too low for

so important an individual. Will no one recognize my merit and elevate

me?"

But no one did. So the Smut determined to raise himself, and taking

advantage of a draught under the door, he rose upwards and alighted on

the nose of the councillor, who was reading the newspaper.

"This is a throne, a crimson one," said the Smut, "made on purpose for

me. But somehow I do not seem so large as I was."

The truth is that the councillor (though a great man) was, in respect

of his nose, but mortal. It was not made of brass; it would not (as the

cabinet-makers say) take a polish. It did not reflect the object seated

on it.

"It is unfortunate," said the Smut. "But it is not fit that an

individual of my position (almost, as I may say, a coal) should have a

throne that does not shine. I must certainly go higher."

But unhappily for the Smut, at this moment the councillor became aware

of something on his nose. He put up his hand and rubbed the place. In an

instant the poor Smut was destroyed. But it died on the throne, which

was some consolation.

Moral.

More chimneys smoke than the councillor's chimney, and there are many

Smuts in the world. Let those who have found a brass knob be satisfied.

THE CRICK.

It was a Crick in the wall, a very small Crick too. But it is not always

the biggest people who have the strongest affections.

When the wind was in the east, it blew the Dust into the Crick, and when

it set the other way, the Dust was blown out of it. The Crick was of a

warm and passionate temperament, and was devotedly attached to the Dust.

"I love you," he whispered. "I am your husband. I protect, surround,

defend, cherish you, and house you, you poor fragile Dust. You are my

wife. You fill all the vacant space of my heart. I adore you. I am all

heart!"

And if vacant space is heart, this last assertion was quite true.

"Remain with me always," said the Crick.

"Ever with thee," said the Dust, who spoke like a valentine.

But the most loving couples cannot control destiny. The wind went round

to the west, and the Crick was emptied in a moment. In the first thrill

of agony he stretched himself and became much wider.

"I am empty," he cried; "I shall never be filled again. This is the

greatest misfortune that could possibly have happened."

The Crick was wrong. He was not to remain empty; and a still greater

misfortune was in store. The owner of the wall was a careful man, and

came round his premises with a trowel of mortar.

"What a crack!" said he; "it must be the frost. A stitch in time saves

nine, however." And so saying he slapped a lump of mortar into the Crick

with the dexterity of a mason.

In due time the wind went back to the east, and with it came the Dust.

"Cruel Crick!" she wept. "You have taken another wife to your heart!"

And the Crick could not answer, for he had ceased to exist.

This is a tragedy of real life, and cannot fail to excite sympathy.

THE BROTHERS.

They were brothers--twin brothers, and the most intense fraternal

affection subsisted between them. They were Peas--Sweet-peas, born

together in the largest end of the same Pod. When they were little,

flat, skinny, green things, they regarded the Pod in which they were

born with the same awful dread which the greatest of men have at one

time felt for nursery authority. They believed that the Pod ruled the

world.

It was impossible to conceive a limit to the power of a thing that could

hold so tight. But in due time the Peas became large and round and

black, and the Pod got yellow and shrunken, and was thoroughly despised.

"It is time we left the nursery," said the brothers. "Where shall we go

to, when we enter the world?" they inquired of the mother plant.

"You will fall on the ground," said she, "in the south border, where we

now are. The soil is good, and the situation favourable. You will then

lie quiet for the winter, and in the spring you will come up and flower,

and bear pods as I have done. That will be your fate. Not eventful

perhaps, but prosperous; and it comforts me to think that you are so

well provided for."

But the best of parents cannot foresee everything in the future career

of their children, and the mother plant was wrong.

The Peas burst from the Pod, it is true; but they fell, not into the

south border, but into the hand of the seedsman to whom the garden

belonged.

"This is an adventure," said the brothers.

They were put with a lot of other Sweet-peas, and a brown paper bag was

ready to receive them.

"Any way we are together," said they.

But at that moment one of the brothers rolled from the bag on the floor.

The seedsman picked him up, and he found himself tossed into a bag of

peas.

"It is all right," said he; "I shall find my brother in time."

But though he rolled about as much as he could, he could not find him;

for the truth is, that he had been put by mistake into a paper of eating

peas; but he did not know this.

"Patience!" cried he; "we shall be sown shortly, and when we come up we

shall find each other, if not before."

The other Pea thought that his brother was in the bag with him, and when

he could not find him he consoled himself in the same manner.

"When we come up we shall find each other, if not before."

They were both sold in company with others, and they were both sown. No.

1 was sown in a cosy little garden near a cosy little cottage in the

country. No. 2 was sown in a field, being intended for the market.

They both came up and made leaves, and budded and blossomed, and the

first thing each did when he opened his petals was to look round for his

brother.

No. 1 found himself among other Sweet-peas, but his brother was not

there; and soon a beautiful girl, who came into a garden to gather a

nosegay, plucked him from his stalk.

No. 2 found himself also among Peas--a field full--but they were all

white ones, and had no scent whatever. He had been sown near the wall,

and he leant against it and wept.

Just then a young sailor came whistling down the road. He was sunburnt

but handsome, and he was picking flowers from the roadside. When he saw

the Sweet-pea he shouted.

"That's the best of the bunch," said he, and put it with the others.

Then he went whistling down the road into the village, past the old grey

church, and up to a cosy little cottage in a cosy little garden. He

opened the door and went into a room where a beautiful girl was

arranging some flowers that lay on the table. When she saw him they gave

a cry and embraced each other. After a while he said, "I have brought

you some wild flowers; but this is the best," and he held up the

Sweet-pea.

"This is not a wild flower," said she; "it is a garden flower, and must

have been sown by accident. It shall be put with the other garden

flowers."

And she laid the Sweet-pea among the rest on the table, and so the

brothers met at last.

The young couple sat hand in hand in the sunshine, and talked of the

past.

"Time seemed to go slowly while we were parted," said the young man;

"and now, to look back upon, all our misery seems but a dream."

"That is just what _we_ feel," said the Sweet-peas.

"I was very sad," said the young girl softly, "very sad indeed; for, I

thought you might be dead, or have married some one else, and that we

might never meet again. But in spite of everything I couldn't quite

despair. It seemed impossible that those who really loved each other

should be separated for ever."

Meanwhile the Sweet-peas lay on the table. They were very happy, but

just a little anxious, for the lovers had forgotten to put them in

water, and they were fading fast.

"We are very happy," they murmured, "very happy. This moment alone is

worth all that we have endured. It is true we are fading before we have

ever fully bloomed, and after this we do not know what will happen to

us. But the young girl is right. One cannot quite despair. It seems

impossible that those who really love each other should be separated for

ever."

COUSIN PEREGRINE'S WONDER STORIES.

THE CHINESE JUGGLERS, AND THE ENGLISHMAN'S HANDS.

(_Founded on Fact_.)

Cousin Peregrine had never been away quite so long before. He had been

in the East, and the latter part of his absence from home had been spent

not only in a foreign country, but in parts of it where Englishmen had

seldom been before, and amid the miserable scenes of war.

However, he was at home at last, very much to the satisfaction of his

young cousins, and also to his own. They had been assured by him, in a

highly illustrated letter, that his arms were safe and sound in his

coat-sleeves, that he had no wooden legs, and that they might feel him

all over for wounds as hard as they liked. Only Maggie, the eldest,

could even fancy she remembered Cousin Peregrine, but they all seemed

to know him by his letters, even before he arrived. At last he came.

Cousin Peregrine was dressed like other people, much to the

disappointment of his young relatives, who when they burst (with more or

less attention to etiquette) into the dining-room with the dessert, were

in full expectation of seeing him in his uniform, or at least with his

latest medal pinned to his dress-coat.

Perhaps it was because Cousin Peregrine was so very seldom troubled by

chubby English children with a claim on his good nature that he was

particularly indulgent to his young cousins. However this may be, they

soon stood in no awe of him, and a chorus cried around him--

"Where's your new medal, Cousin? What's it about? What's on it?"

"Taku Forts," said Cousin Peregrine, smiling grimly.

"What's Tar--Koo?" inquired the young people.

"Taku is the name of a place in China, and you know I've just come from

China," said Cousin Peregrine.

On which six voices cried--

"Did you drink nothing but tea?"

"Did you buy lots of old China dragons?"

"Did you see any ladies with half their feet cut off?"

"Did you live in a house with bells hanging from the roof?"

"Are the Chinese like the people on Mamma's fan?"

"Did you wear a pigtail?"

Cousin Peregrine's hair was so very short that the last question raised

a roar of laughter, after which the chorus spoke with one voice--

"Do tell us all about China!"

At which he put on a serio-comic countenance, and answered with much

gravity--

"Oh, certainly, with all my heart. It will be rather a long story, but

never mind. By the way, I am afraid I can hardly begin much before the

birth of Confucius, but as that happened in or about the year 550

B.C., you will still have to hear about two thousand four

hundred years of its history or so, which will keep us going for a few

months".

"Confucius--whose real name was Kwang-Foo-Tsz (and if you can pronounce

that last word properly you can do more than many eminent Chinese

scholars can)--was born in the province of Kan Tang ----.

"Oh, not about Confuse-us!" pleaded a little maid on Cousin Peregrine's

knee. "Tell us what you did."

"But tell us _wonderful_ things," stipulated a young gentleman, fresh

from _The Boy Hunters_ and kindred works.

If young bachelors have a weak point when they are kind to children, it

is that they are apt to puzzle them with paradoxes. Even Cousin

Peregrine did "sometimes tease," so his cousins said.

On this occasion he began a long rambling speech, in which he pretended

not to know what things are and what are not _wonderful_. The _Boy

Hunters_ young gentleman fell headlong into the quagmire of definitions,

but the oldest sister, who had her own ideas about things, said firmly--

"Wonderful things are things which surprise you very much, and which you

never saw before, and which you don't understand. Like as if you saw a

lot of giants coming out of a hole in the road. At least that's what

_we_ mean by wonderful."

"Upon my word, Maggie," said Cousin Peregrine, "your definition is most

admirable. I cannot say that I have met with giants in China, even in

the north, where the men are taller than in the south. But I can tell

you of something I saw in China which surprised me very much, which I

had never seen before, and which, I give you my word, I don't understand

to this hour, but which I have no doubt was not in the least wonderful

to the poor half-naked Chinaman who did it in my courtyard. And then, if

you like, I will tell you something else which surprised some Chinese

country-folk very much, which they never saw before, and which they

certainly did not understand when they did see it. Will that do?"

"Oh yes, yes! Thank you, yes!" cried the chorus, and Maggie said--

"First all about the thing _you_ thought wonderful, you know."

"Well, the thing I thought wonderful was a conjuring trick done by a

Chinese juggler."

"Did he only do one trick?" said the little maid on Cousin Peregrine's

knee.

"Oh, he did lots of tricks," said Cousin Peregrine, "many of them common

Eastern ones, which are now familiar in England, but which he certainly

performed in a wonderful way: because, you see, he had not the advantage

of doing his tricks on a stage fitted up by himself, he did them in the

street, or in my courtyard, with very little apparatus, and naked to the

waist. For instance, the common trick of bringing a glass bowl full of

water and fish out of a seemingly empty shawl is not so marvellous if

the conjurer has a well-draped table near him from behind which he can

get such things, or even good wide sleeves to hide them in. But my poor

conjurer was almost naked, and the bit of carpet, about the size of this

hearthrug, which he carried with him, did not seem capable of holding

glass bowls of water, most certainly. Besides which he shook it, and

spread it on the ground close by me, after which he threw himself down

and rolled on it. And yet from underneath this he drew out a glass bowl

of water with gold-fish swimming in it. But that trick and many others

one can see very well done in London now, though not so utterly without

apparatus. The trick which he did so particularly well, and which

puzzled me so much, I have never seen in Europe. This is the one I am

going to describe to you."

"Describe the conjurer a bit more first, Cousin Peregrine."

"There is nothing more to describe. He was not at all a grand conjurer,

he was only a poor common juggler, exhibiting his tricks in the public

streets many times in the day for the few small coins which the

bystanders chose to give him. He was a very merry fellow, and all the

time he was about his performance he kept making fun and jokes; and

these amused the audience so much that you may believe that I was sorry

my ignorance of his language hindered me from understanding them.

"All sorts of people used to stop and look at the juggler: brawny

porters, with loads of merchandise, or boxes of tea, or bars of silver,

which they carried in boxes or baskets slung on bamboo poles over their

shoulders."

"Like the pictures on the tea-boxes," whispered little Bessy.

"There's a figure of it in the grocer's window," said her brother, who

had seen more of the world than Bessy; "not a picture, a figure dressed

in silk; and they're square boxes, not baskets, that he's got--wooden

panniers I call them."

"Who else used to stop, Cousin Peregrine?" asked Maggie.

"Street confectioners, Maggie, with small movable sweetmeat stalls,

which they carry on their backs. Men with portable stoves too, who

always have a cup of tea ready for you for a small coin worth about the

twentieth part of a penny. Tiny-footed women toddling awkwardly along,

with children--also cramp-footed--toddling awkwardly after them, dressed

in all the colours of the rainbow, and with their poor little arms stuck

out at right angles with their bodies, to help them to keep their

balance. Even the blind beggars, who go along striking on a bell to let

people know that they are blind, as otherwise they might be knocked

over, even they used to stop and listen to my juggler's jokes, though

they could not see his tricks.

"All this was in the street; but sometimes I got him to come into my own

courtyard to do his tricks there, that I might watch him more carefully.

But watch as I might, I could never see how he did this particular

feat. He used to do it with no clothes on except a pair of short

trousers, for in the hot season, you must know, the lower classes of

Chinese go about naked to the waist. Indeed, hot as it is, they don't

wear hats. The juggler possessed both a hat and a jacket, as it

happened, but he took them off when he did his trick."

"And what _was_ the trick?" asked several impatient voices. "What did he

do?"

"He used to swallow ten or twelve needles one after the other, and 'wash

them down' with a ball of thread, which he swallowed next, and by and by

he used to draw the thread slowly out of his mouth, yard after yard, and

it had all the needles threaded on it."

"Oh, Cousin Peregrine!"

"He used to come quite close to me, Maggie, as close as I am to you now,

and take each needle--one after the other--between the finger and thumb

of his right hand--keeping all the other fingers away from it, stick the

point of it for a moment into his other palm, to show that it was sharp,

and then to all appearance swallow it bodily before your eyes. In this

way he seemed to swallow successively all the twelve needles. Then he

opened his mouth, that you might ascertain that they were not there, and

you certainly could not see them. He next swallowed a little ball of

thread, not much bigger than a pea. This being done, he seemed to be

very uneasy (as well he might be!), and he made fearful faces and

violent gestures, and stamped on the ground, and muttered incantations,

and threw up his hands and eyes to the sky; and presently the end of a

thread was to be seen coming out between his teeth, upon which he took

hold of this end, and carefully drew out the thread with all the needles

threaded on it. Then there was always much applause, and the small coins

used to be put pretty liberally into the hat which he handed round to

receive them."

"Was that all?" asked the young gentleman of the adventure books.

"All what, Fred?"

"All that you thought wonderful."

"Yes," said Cousin Peregrine. "Don't you think it curious?"

"Oh, very, Cousin, and I like it very much indeed, only if that's all

_you_ thought wonderful, now I want you to tell us what _you_ did that

_the Chinese_ thought wonderful."

"It's not very easy to surprise a town-bred Chinaman," said Cousin

Peregrine. "What I am going to tell you about now happened in the

country. It was up in the north, and in a part where Europeans had very

rarely been seen."

"How came you to be there, Cousin Peregrine?"

"I was not on duty. I had got leave for a few days to go up and see

Pekin. Therefore I was not in uniform, remember, but in plain clothes.

"On this particular occasion I was on the river Peiho, in one of the

clumsy Chinese river-boats. If the wind were favourable, we sailed; if

we went with the stream--well and good. If neither stream nor wind were

in our favour, the boat was towed."

"Like a barge--with a horse--Cousin Peregrine?"

"Like a barge, Maggie, but not with a horse. One or two of the Chinamen

put the rope round them and pulled us along. It was not a quick way of

travelling, as you may believe, and when the Peiho was slow and winding,

I got out and walked by the paths among the fields."

"Paths and fields--like ours?"

"Yes. Very like some bits of the agricultural parts of England. But no

pretty meadows. Every scrap of land seemed to be cultivated for crops.

You know the population of China is enormous, and the Chinese are very

economical in using their land to produce food, and as they are not

great meat-eaters--as we are--their fields are mostly ploughed and sown,

so I walked along among rice-fields and cotton-fields, and with little

villages here and there, where the cottages are built of mud or stone

with tile roofs."

"Did you see any of the villagers?"

"Most certainly I did. You must know that the inhospitable way in which

the Chinese and Japanese have for many long years received strangers has

come from misunderstandings, and ignorance, and suspicion, and perhaps

from some other reasons; but the Chinese and Japanese villagers who see

strangers for the first time, and have lived quiet country lives out of

the way of politics, are often very hospitable and friendly. I am bound,

however, to except the women; not because they wished us ill, but they

are afraid of strangers, and they kept well out of our way."

"Do the village Chinese women have those funny smashed-up feet, Cousin

Peregrine?"

"In the north of China they have. In the south only ladies deform

themselves in this fashion; and the Tartar women always leave their own

beautiful little feet uninjured. Well, the men came out of their

cottages and fields, and pressed eagerly but good-naturedly round me."

"Do the village men wear pigtails?"

"Every Chinaman wears a pigtail. A Chinaman without a pigtail would be

as great a rarity as a Manx cat, or rather, I ought to say, he would be

like the tailless fox in the fable; only you would never catch a

Chinaman trying to persuade his friends that it was creditable to have

no tail! For I must tell you that pigtails are sometimes cut off--as a

degradation--when a man has committed some crime. But as soon as he can,

he gets the barber to put him on a false pigtail, as a closely-cropped

convict might wear a wig. They roll them up when they are at work if

they are in the way, but if a servant came into your room with his tail

tucked up you would be very angry with him, It would be like a

housemaid coming in with her sleeves and skirt tucked up for

house-cleaning--_most_ disrespectful!"

"Were these the men you showed something to that _they_ thought

wonderful?"

"Yes, Fred. And now I'll tell you what it was. You must know that I

could speak no Chinese, and my new friends could speak no English, so

they chattered like magpies to each other, and laughed like children or

Chinamen--for the Chinese are very fond of a joke. When they laughed I

laughed, and we bowed and shook hands, and they turned me round and felt

me all over, and _felt my hands_."

"What about your hands, Cousin?"

"I had on dog-skin gloves, yellow ones. Now when all the male population

of the hamlet had stroked these very carefully, I perceived that they

had never seen gloves before, and that they believed themselves to be

testing the feel of a barbarian's skin."

"Barbarian?"

"Certainly, Bessie. They give us the same polite name that we feel

ourselves more justified in applying to them. Well, when they had

laughed, and I had laughed, and we had shaken hands afresh, laughing

heartily as we did so, and I began to feel it was time to go on and

catch up my boat, which was floating sluggishly down the winding stream

of the Peiho, I resolved on one final effect, like the last scene of a

dramatic performance. Making vigorous signs and noises, to intimate that

something was coming, and they must look out sharp, and feeling very

much like a conjurer who has requested his audience to keep their eyes

on him and 'see how it's done'--I slyly unbuttoned my gloves, and then

with much parade began to draw one off by the finger-tips.

"'Eyah! Eyah!' cried the Chinamen on all the notes of the gamut, as they

fell back over each other. _They thought I was skinning my hands_. I

'smiled superior,' as I took the gloves off, and made an effect almost

as great by putting them on again."

"Oh, Cousin Peregrine, weren't they astonished?"

"They were, Maggie, And unless they are more familiar with Europeans

now, the mystery is probably to this day as unsolved to them as the

trick of the ball of thread and the twelve needles still is to me. By

this time, however, my boat was

'Far off, a blot upon the stream,'

and I had to hasten away as fast as I could to catch it up. I parted on

the most friendly terms from my narrow-eyed acquaintance, but when I had

nearly regained my boat I could still see them in their blue-cotton

dresses and long pigtails, gazing open-mouthed at my vanishing figure

across the rice-fields."

* * * * *

After a few seconds' silence, during which Maggie had sat with her eyes

thoughtfully fixed on the fire, she said, "Cousin Peregrine, you said in

your letters that it was very cold in the north of China. If Chinamen

know nothing about gloves, how can they keep their hands warm?" Maggie

had a little the air of regarding this question as a poser, but Cousin

Peregrine was not disconcerted.

"My dear Maggie, your question reminds me of another occasion, when I

astonished a most respectable old China gentleman by my gloves. I will

tell you about it, as it will show you how the Chinese keep their hands

warm.

"It was on this very same expedition. We were at Tung-Chow, about eight

miles from Pekin. At this place we had to leave the river, and take to

our Tartar ponies, which our Chinese horse-boys had ridden up to this

point to meet us. We had hired a little cart to convey our baggage, and

I was sitting on my pony watching the lading up of the cart, when a dear

old Chinaman, dressed in blue wadded silk, handsomely lined with fur,

came up to me, and with that air of gentlemanly courtesy which is by no

means confined to Europe, began to explain and expound in his own

language for my benefit."

"What was he talking about? Could you tell?"

"I soon guessed. The fact is I am not very apt to wear gloves when I can

help it, especially if I am working at anything. At the moment the old

Chinese gentleman came up I was holding the reins of my pony with bare

hands (my gloves being in my pocket), and as the morning was cold, my

fingers looked rather blue. Having ascertained by feeling that my

coat-sleeves would not turn down any lower than my wrists, he touched my

hands softly, and made courteous signs, indicating that he was about to

do me a good turn. Having signalled a polite disapprobation of the

imperfect nature of my sleeves, he drew my attention to his own deep

wide ones. Turning them back so as to expose the hands, the fine fur

lining lay like a rich trimming above his wrists. Then with a glance of

infinite triumph he bespoke my close attention as, shivering, to express

cold, he turned the long sleeves, each a quarter of a yard, over his

hands, and stuffing each hand into the opposite sleeve they were warm

and comfortable, as it were in a muff, which was a part of his coat.

More sensible than our muffs too, the fur was inside instead of out.

"He was the very pink of politeness, but at this point his pride of

superior intelligence could not be restrained, and he broke into fits of

delighted laughter, in which the horse-boys, the spectators, my friends,

and (as is customary in China) everybody within sight and hearing

joined.

"I took good care to laugh heartily too. After which I made signs the

counterpart of his. He looked anxious. I put my hand in my pocket, and

drew out my gloves. He stared. _I put them on_, and nodded, to show that

that was the way we barbarians did it.

"'Eyah!' cried the silk-robed old gentleman.

"'Eyah!' echoed the horse-boys and the crowd.

"Then I laughed, and the horse-boys laughed loudly, and the crowd louder

still, and finally the old gentleman doubled himself up in his blue silk

fur-lined robe in fits of laughter.

"An Asiatic only relishes one thing better than being outwitted--that is

to outwit.

"'Eyah! Eyah! Ha! ha! ha!' they cried as we rode away.

"'Ha! ha! ha!' replied I, waving a well-gloved hand, on my road to

Pekin."

WAVES OF THE GREAT SOUTH SEAS.

(_Founded on Fact_.)

"Very likely the man who drew it had been nearly drowned by one

himself."

"Very likely nothing of the sort!"

"How could he draw it if he hadn't seen it?"

"Why, they always do. Look at Uncle Alfred, he drew a splendid picture

of a shipwreck. Don't you remember his doing it at the dining-room

table, and James coming in to lay the cloth, and he would have a bit of

the table left clear for him, because he was in the middle of putting in

the drowning men, and wanted to get them in before luncheon? And Uncle

Herbert wrote a beautiful poem to it, and they were both put into a real

magazine. And Uncle Alfred and Uncle Herbert never were in shipwrecks.

So there!"

"Well, Uncle Alfred drew it very well, and he made very big waves. So

there!"

"Ah, but he didn't make waves like a great wall. He did it very

naturally, and he draws a great deal better than those rubbishy old

pictures in Father's _Robinson Crusoe_."

"Well, I don't care. The Bible says that when the Children of Israel

went through the Red Sea the waters were a wall to them on their right

hand and on their left. And I believe they were great waves like the

wave in _Robinson Crusoe_, only they weren't allowed to fall down till

Pharaoh and his host came, and then they washed them all away."

"But that's a miracle. I don't believe there are waves like that now."

"I believe there are in other countries. Uncle Alfred's shipwreck was

only an English shipwreck, with waves like the waves at the seaside."

"Let's ask Cousin Peregrine. He's been in foreign countries, and he's

been at sea."

The point in dispute between Maggie and her brother was this:--The

nursery copy of _Robinson Crusoe_ was an old one which had belonged to

their father, with very rough old wood-cuts, one of which represented

Robinson Crusoe cowering under a huge wave, which towered far above his

head, and threatened to overwhelm him. This wave Maggie had declared to

be unnatural and impossible, whilst the adventure-book young gentleman

clung to and defended an illustration which had helped him so vividly to

realize the sea-perils of his hero.

It was the day following that of Cousin Peregrine's arrival, and when

evening arrived the two children carried the book down with them to

dessert, and attacked Cousin Peregrine simultaneously.

"Cousin Peregrine, you've been at sea: isn't that an impossible wave?"

"Cousin Peregrine, you've been at sea: aren't there sometimes waves like

that in foreign places?"

"It's not very cleverly drawn," said Cousin Peregrine, examining the

wood-cut; "but making allowance for that, I have seen waves not at all

unlike this one."

"There!" cried the young gentleman triumphantly. "Maggie laughed at it,

and said it was like a wall."

"Some waves are very like walls, but those are surf-waves, as they are

called, that is, waves which break upon a shore. The waves I am thinking

of just now are more like mountains--translucent blackish-blue

mountains--mountains that look as if they were made of bottle-green

glass, like the glass mountain in the fairy tale, or shining mountains

of phosphorescent light--meeting you as if, they would overwhelm you,

passing under you, and tossing you like the old woman in the blanket,

and then running away behind you as you go to meet another. Every wave

with a little running white crest on its ridge; though not quite such a

curling frill as this one has which is engulfing poor Robinson Crusoe.

But his is a surf-wave, of course. Those I am speaking of are waves in

mid-ocean."

"Not as tall as a man, Cousin Peregrine?"

"As tall as many men piled one upon another, Maggie."

"It certainly is very funny that the children should choose this subject

to tease you about tonight, Peregrine," said Mamma.

We are all apt to speak inaccurately. Mamma did not mean that the

subject was a comical one, but that it was remarkable that the children

should have started it at dessert, when the grown-up people had been

discussing it at dinner.

They had not been talking about Robinson Crusoe's wave, but about the

loss of an Australian vessel, in sad circumstances which were in every

one's mouth. A few people only had been saved. They had spent many days

in an open boat in great suffering, and the particular question

discussed at dinner was, whether the captain of a certain vessel which

had passed without rescuing them had been so inhuman as to see and yet

to leave them.

"How could he help seeing them?" Mamma had indignantly asked. "It was

daylight, and of course somebody was on the deck, even if the captain

was still in bed. Don't talk to me, Peregrine! You would say black is

white for the sake of argument, especially if it was to defend somebody.

But little as I know about the sea, I know that it's flat."

"And that's flat!" interposed Papa.

"It's all very well making fun of me," Mamma had continued with

good-humoured vehemence, "but there were no Welsh hills and valleys to

block the view of castaway fellow-creatures not a mile off, and it was

daylight, and he _must_ have seen them."

"I'm not quite sure about the hills and valleys," Cousin Peregrine had

replied; "and hills of water are quite as troublesome to see through as

hills of earth."

At this moment the dining-room door had opened to admit the children,

Maggie coming first, and making her courtesy in the doorway, with the

old fat, brown-calf-bound _Robinson Crusoe_ under her arm. It opened

without the slightest difficulty at the picture of the big wave, and the

children appealed to Cousin Peregrine as has been related.

Maggie was a little taken aback by a decision which was in favour of her

brother's judgment. She was apt to think rather highly of her own, and

even now she pondered, and then put another question--

"But if the waves were so very, very big, Cousin, they would swallow up

the ships!"

"No, Maggie, not if the sailors manage their ship properly, and turn her

about so that she meets the wave in the right way. Then she rides over

it instead of being buried under it."

"It would be dreadful if they didn't!" said Maggie.

"I remember being in a ship that didn't meet one of these waves in the

right way," said Cousin Peregrine.

"Tell us all about it," said Fred, settling himself with two or three

severe fidgets into the seat of his chair.

"I _was_ going to have protested against the children asking you for

another story so soon, Peregrine," said Mamma, "but now I feel selfish,

for your wave-story will be quite as much for me as for the little

ones."

"Where was it, Cousin Peregrine?"

"Where was the wave, do you mean? It was in the great South Seas. As to

where I was, I was in a sailing-vessel bound for South Australia. To

begin at the beginning, I must explain to you that this vessel was one

of those whose captains accepted the instruments offered by the Board of

Trade to any ship that would keep a meteorological log. I was fond of

such matters, and I took the trouble off the captain's hands, by keeping

his meteorological log for him."

"What is a meteorological log, Cousin?"

"A kind of diary, in which you put down the temperature of the sea and

air, how cold or hot they are--the way the wind blows, how the barometer

is, and anything special and interesting about the weather overhead or

the currents in the sea. Now I must tell you that there had been a good

deal of talk about currents of warm water in the Southern Ocean, like

the Gulf Stream of the Atlantic, which keeps the west coasts of Great

Britain so warm. But these South Sea currents had not been very

accurately observed, and information on the subject was desired. Well,

one day we got right into a warm current."

"How did you know, Cousin?"

"By drawing up a bucket of water out of the sea, and putting the

thermometer into it. But I ought to tell you what a thermometer is--"

"We know quite well," said Maggie. "Nurse always put it into Baby's bath

when he had fits, to see if the water was the right warmth."

"Very good, Maggie. Then let me tell you that the water of the sea got

nearly thirty degrees warmer on that day between noon and midnight."

"How did you know about midnight?" Maggie inquired doubtfully; "weren't

you in bed?"

"No, I was not, I was very busy all day 'taking observations' every hour

or two, and it was at twelve o'clock this very night that the 'comber'

broke on deck."

"What _is_ a 'comber'?"

"A 'comber' is the name for a large wave with a comb or crest of foam, a

sort of wave over which our ship ought to have ridden; but I must tell

you that it was no easy matter to meet them on this occasion, because

(owing to the cross currents) the waves did not all go one way, but came

at us from various points. The sea was very heavy, and the night was

very dark. I tried the heat of the water for the last time that evening,

and having bade good-night to the officer whose watch was just over, I

stayed for a few minutes to talk to the officer whose watch was just

beginning, before going below to go to bed. We were standing aft, and,

fortunately for us, near one of the masts, when through the darkness we

saw the sloping sides of a great South Sea wave coming at the fore part

of the ship, but sideways. 'The rigging!' shouted the officer of the

watch, and as we both clung to the ropes the wave broke on our bows,

smashed the jib-boom, and swept the decks from stem to stern."

"And if you hadn't held on by the rigging you would have been washed

away?"

"I am afraid we should, Fred, for every loose thing on deck was swept

off in less than a minute. The bull kept his feet, by the bye; but then

he had four, and I have only two."

"The bull! what bull?"

"We were taking some cattle out to Australia. There was a bull who lived

in a stable that had been made for him on deck. When this comber broke

over us it tore up the bull's house, and carried it overboard, but I met

the bull himself taking a walk at large as I went below to change my

clothes and get some sleep."

"Were you wet?"

"Drenched, my dear Maggie; but when I got to my cabin I found that there

was no hope of rest for some hours. The wave had flooded the cabins,

broken in doors, and washed everything and everybody about. So we all

had to set to work to bale out water, and mop up our bed-rooms; and as

the wave had also put out what lights there were, we had to work in the

dark, and very uncomfortable work it was! What the women and children

did, and the poor people who were sea-sick, I hardly know. Of course we

who could keep our feet did the work."

"Weren't you ever sea-sick?"

"Never, I am thankful to say."

"Not when it's very, very rough?"

"Not in a gale. I have once or twice on that voyage been the captain's

only companion at dinner, tied to the mast to keep myself steady, and

with the sherry in one pocket and my wine-glass in another to keep

_them_ steady, and quite ashamed of my appetite, for if the sea doesn't

make you feel very ill it makes you feel very well."

"I had no idea there were such very big waves really," said Maggie,

thoughtfully.

"I see that they are quite big enough to shelter the captain's

character, Peregrine," said Mamma, smiling, "and I am much obliged to

you for correcting my ignorance. I don't _wish_ to believe that any

English sailor would pass a boat in distress without giving help, if he

saw it."

"I am quite sure no English sailor would, and very few real sailors of

any nation, I think. A real seaman knows too well what sea-perils are,

and that what is another man's case one day may be his the next; and

cowardice and cold-heartedness are the last sins that can be laid at

Jack Tar's door as a rule. But I will finish my story by telling the

children what happened next morning, as it goes to illustrate both my

statements, that it is not easy to see an open boat in a heavy sea, and

that sailors are very ready to risk their lives for each other."

"You're like Captain Marryat, Cousin Peregrine," said Fred.

"He's not a sailor captain, he's a soldier captain," said Maggie. "Go

on, Cousin."

"As I told you, we had two or three hours of very disagreeable work

before our cabins were even tolerably comfortable; but it made us more

tired than ever, and when I did turn in I slept like a top, and the

rolling of the ship only rocked me to sounder slumbers. I was awakened

at seven o'clock next morning by a fellow-passenger, who popped in to

cry, 'There's a man overboard!' 'Who?' shouted I as I jumped up.

'Giovanni,' he replied as he vanished, leaving me to follow him on deck

as quickly as possible. Now, Fred, picture to yourself a grey morning,

the damp deck of our vessel being rapidly crowded with everybody on

board, and all eyes strained towards a heavy sea, with big blue-black

mountains of water running at us, and under us, and away from us all

along; every wave had a white crest: but there were some other patches

of snowy white hovering over the dark sea, on which all the experienced

eyes were soon fixed!"

"What were they?" whispered Fred.

"Albatross," said Cousin Peregrine. "They had been following us for

days, hovering, swooping, and whirling those great white wings of

theirs, which sometimes measure nine feet from tip to tip."

"What did they follow you for?"

"They came to pick up anything that may be thrown overboard, and they

came now, as we knew, after poor Giovanni, whose curly black head kept

ducking out of their way as he swam with desperate courage in our wake."

"Oh, Cousin Peregrine! Didn't the captain stop the ship?"

"Certainly, Maggie, though, quickly as it was done, it left the poor

fellow far away behind. And heavy as the sea was, they were lowering a

boat when I got on deck, and the captain had called for volunteers among

the sailors to man it."

"Oh, I hope he got them!"

"I hope you won't insult a noble and gallant profession by having any

doubt about it, Maggie. He might have had the ship's crew bodily if he

had wanted them, and if the waves had run twice as high."

"Spare me!" said Mamma.

"As it was the few men needed were soon ready. The boat was launched

without being upset, and the men got in without mishap. Then they laid

themselves to their oars, we gave them a parting cheer, and they

vanished from our sight."

"_Drowned_, Cousin Peregrine?"

"No, no. Though I can tell you we were as anxious for them as for

Giovanni now. But when they had crossed the first water-mountains, and

gone down into the water-valleys beyond, they were quite out of sight of

the crowd on the deck of the ship, daylight though it was."

"I retract everything I ever said," cried Mamma impetuously.

"And not only could we not see them, but they could not see the man they

were risking their lives to save. Those crested mountains which hid them

from us hid him from them."

"What _did_ you do?"

"Men were sent up the masts to look out from such a height that they

could look over the waves. _They_ could see both Giovanni and the boat,

and as they were so high up the men in the boat could see them. So the

men on the masts kept their eyes on Giovanni, and the men in the boat

kept their eyes on the men on the masts, and steered their course

according to the signals from the look-out."

"And they saved him?"

"Yes, they brought him back; and if we cheered when they went away, you

may believe we cheered when they got safe to the ship's side again."

"And who was Giovanni? and did he get all right?"

"Giovanni was one of the sailors, an Italian. He was a fine young

fellow, and appeared to think nothing whatever of his adventure. I

remember he resolutely refused to go below and change his clothes till

he had helped to haul up the boat. With his white teeth shining through

a broad grin, he told us in his broken English that he had been

overboard every voyage he had taken. He said he didn't mind anything

except the swooping and pecking of the albatross. They obliged him to

dive so constantly, to keep his eyes from their beaks."

"Was it a comber washed him overboard?"

"No. He was mending the jib-boom, and lost his hold and fell into the

sea. He really had a very narrow escape. A less active swimmer might

easily have been drowned. I always think, too, that he had an advantage

in the fact that the water was warm."

"I am so glad the nasty albatross were disappointed."

"The nasty albatross were probably disappointed when they found that

Giovanni was not a piece of spoilt pork. However, they set their

beautiful wings, and went their way, and we set our sails, and went our

way, which was to Adelaide, South Australia."

COUSIN PEREGRINE'S TRAVELLER'S TALES.

JACK OF PERA.

(_Founded on Fact_.)

"Cousin Peregrine, oughtn't we to love our neighbour, whether he's a

nice neighbour or a nasty neighbour?"

"Certainly, Maggie."

"But need we when he's a nasty _next-door_ neighbour?" asked Fred, in

such rueful tones that Cousin Peregrine burst out laughing and said,

"Who is your nasty next-door neighbour, Fred, and what has he done?"

"Well, his name is Mackinnon, Cousin; and everybody says he's always

quarrelling; and he complained of our screaming and the cockatoo

playing--no, of the cockatoo's screaming and our playing prisoners'

base, and he kept our ball once, and now he has complained of poor dear

Ponto's going into his garden, and the dear darling old thing has to be

tied up, except when we take him out for stiff walks."

"I didn't notice anything stiff about his walk yesterday, Fred, He took

the fence into your nasty neighbour's garden at one bound, and came back

with another."

"I don't know what can make him go there!" cried Fred; "I wish he

understood about keeping to his own grounds."

"Ponto never lived in Constantinople, that is evident," said Cousin

Peregrine.

"Did you ever live in Constantinople, Cousin?" asked Maggie.

"Yes, Maggie, I am happy to say I have."

"Why are you glad, Cousin?"

"Because in some respects it is the loveliest city on earth, and I am

glad to have seen it."

"Tell us what it is like."

"And tell us why you say Ponto never lived there."

"I was a good deal younger than I am now," said Cousin Peregrine, "when

I saw Constantinople for the first time, and had seen much less of the

world than I have seen since; but even now I remember nothing in my

travels with greater delight than my first sight of that lovely city. It

was from the sea. Do you know anything about the Sea of Marmora, Fred?"

"I don't think I know much," said Fred doubtfully.

"But we've got an atlas," said Maggie, "so you can show it us, you

know."

"Well, give me the map. Here is the Sea of Marmora, with

Turkey-in-Europe on one side of it, and Turkey-in-Asia on the other side

of it. This narrower part that you come into it by is called the

Dardanelles, that narrower part that you go out of it by is called the

Bosphorus. The Bosphorus is about two miles broad; it is salt water, you

know, and leads from the Sea of Marmora to the Black Sea, which is

farther north. This narrow piece of water going westward out of the

Bosphorous is called the Golden Horn. Constantinople--which is built,

like Rome, on hills--rises above the shores of the Bosphorus and on both

sides of the Golden Horn. The part of it which is south of the Golden

Horn is called Stamboul, and is the especially Turkish Quarter. Across

the Golden Horn from Stamboul lies the Quarter called Galata--the

commercial port--and beyond that Pera--beautiful Pera!--the Quarter

where English people live when they live at Constantinople. North of

these are more suburbs, and then detached Turkish villages and gay

gardens dotting the banks of the Bosphorus."

"But you lived at Pera?"

"Yes, I lived at Pera; in a house looking into the Turkish cemetery."

"Was it nice, Cousin, like our churchyard? or do the Turks do horrid

things with their dead people, like those Chinese you told us about, who

put them in boxes high up in the air?"

"The Turks bury their dead as we do, my dear Maggie, and they plant

their graveyards with cypresses, which, standing tall and dark among the

headstones of the graves, have a very picturesque effect. The cemetery

in all Turkish towns is a favourite place of public resort, but I cannot

say that it is kept in very nice order, as a rule. For the sake of a

water-colour sketch I made in one, I was very glad that the upright

headstones were tumbling about in all directions, it took away the look

of stiffness and monotony; but I am bound to say that the graves looked

neglected as well as picturesque. The cemetery at Pera had too much

refuse, and too many cocks, hens, and dogs in it. It looked very pretty,

however, from my windows, sloping down towards the Golden Horn, beyond

which I could catch a glimpse of Stamboul on the heights across the

water. But I have not yet told you what Constantinople looked like when

I first saw it."

"You began about the Sea of Marmora, Cousin, and here it is. I've had

my middle finger on it ever since we found it, to keep the place."

"Very good, Maggie. We were coming up the Sea of Marmora one evening,

and drew near to Constantinople about sunrise. I knew we were near, but

I could not see anything, because a thick white mist hung in front of us

like a veil resting on the sea. We were near the mouth of the Bosphorus

when the sun broke out, the white mist rose slowly, like the curtain of

a theatre, and--more beautiful than any scene that human hands can ever

paint--I saw the Queen of Cities glittering in the sunshine."

"What made it glitter? Are the houses built of shiny stuff?"

"The houses are built of wood, but they are painted in many colours. The

rounded domes of the mosques are white, and the minarets, tall, slender,

and fretted, are white, with golden tops, or white and blue. I can give

you no idea how beautifully the shapes of the mosques and minarets break

the uniformity of the mass of houses, nor how the gay colours, the white

and the gold, shone like gems against a cloudless blue sky when the mist

rose. No princess in an Eastern fairy-tale ever dazzled and delighted

the beholder by lifting her veil and displaying her beauty and her

jewels more than my eyes were charmed when the veil was lifted from

Constantinople, and I saw her lovely and sparkling in the sun."

"Are the streets very beautiful when you get into them?"

"Ah, Fred, I am sorry to say--no. They are very dirty, and very narrow.

But they are picturesque, and made doubly so by the fact that in them

you meet people of all nations, in every kind of dress, gay with all

colours of the rainbow."

"Are there shops in the streets?"

"Most of the shops are all together in certain streets by themselves,

forming what is called a Bazaar. But in the other streets there are a

few, such as sweetmeat shops and coffee shops, where the old Turks go to

drink thick black coffee, and smoke, and hear the news; and (if they

wish it) to be shaved."

"I thought Turks wore long beards?"

"The lower-class Turks, and the country ones, and those who like to

follow the old fashions, wear beards, but they have their heads shaved,

and wear the turban. Most modern Turks, Government officials, and so

forth, shave off their beards and whiskers, and wear short hair and a

moustache, with the fez, or cloth cap. The old-fashioned dress is much

the handsomest, I think, and I am sorry it is dying out."

"The poor women-Turks aren't allowed to go out, are they, Cousin

Peregrine?"

"Oh yes, they are, but they have to be veiled, and so bundled up that

you can not only not tell one woman from another, but they hardly look

like women at all--more like unsteady balloons, or inflated sacks of

different colours. They wear yellow leather boots, and no stockings.

Over the boots they wear large slippers, in which they shuffle along

with a gait very little less awkward than the toddle of a cramp-footed

lady in China. If they are ungraceful on foot, matters are not much

better when they ride. Sitting astride a donkey (for they do not use

side-saddles), a Turkish lady is about as comical an object as you could

wish to behold, though I have no doubt she is quite unconscious of

looking anything but dignified, as she presses on to her shopping in the

Bazaar, screaming to the half-naked Arab donkey-boy to urge on her steed

with his stick. As the great cloak dress, in which women envelop

themselves from head to foot when they go out, is all of one colour,

they have this advantage over Englishwomen out shopping, that they do

not look ugly from being bedizened with ill-assorted hues and frippery

trimmings. In fact a mass of Turkish women, each clothed in one shade of

colour, looks very like a flower-bed--a flower-bed of sole-coloured

tulips without stalks!"

"The Bazaars are bigger than Charity Bazaars, I suppose," said Maggie

thoughtfully; "are they as big as the Baker Street Bazaar?"

"The Bazaar of Stamboul, the Turkish Quarter of Constantinople, is

almost a Quarter by itself. It takes up many, many streets, Maggie. I am

sure I wish with all my heart I could take you children through it. You

would think yourselves in fairy-land, or rather in some of those

underground caves full of dazzling treasures such as Aladdin found

himself in."

"But why, Cousin Peregrine? Do the Turks have very wonderful things in

their shops?"

"I fancy, Maggie, that in no place in the world can one see such a

collection of valuable merchandise gathered from all quarters of the

globe. But it is not only the gold, the jewels, the ivories, the

gorgeous silks and brocades, morocco leathers, and priceless furs, which

make these great Eastern markets unlike ours. The common wares for

everyday use are often of a much more picturesque kind than with us.

There is no great beauty in an English boot-shop, but the shoe-bazaar in

Stamboul is gay with slippers of all colours, embroidered with gold and

silver thread, to say nothing of the ladies' yellow leather boots. A

tobacconist's shop with us is interesting to none but smokers, but

Turkish pipes have stems several feet long, made of various kinds of

wood, and these and the amber mouth-pieces, which are often of very

great value, and enriched with jewels, make the pipe-seller's wares

ornamental as well as useful. Nor can our gunsmiths' shops compete for

picturesqueness with the Bazaar devoted to arms, of all sorts and kinds,

elaborately mounted, decorated, sheathed, and jewelled. Turkey and

Persian carpets and rugs are common enough in England now, and you know

how handsome they are. Turbans, and even fezes, you will allow to look

prettier than English hats. Then some of the shops display things that

one does not see at all at home, such as the glass lamps for hanging in

the mosques and Greek churches. Nor is it the things for sale alone

which make the Bazaar so wonderful a sight. The buyers and sellers are

at least as picturesque as what they sell and buy. The floor of each

shop is raised two or three feet from the ground, and on a gay rug the

turbaned Turk who keeps it sits cross-legged and smokes his pipe and

makes his bargains, whilst down the narrow street (which in many

instances is arched overhead with stone) there struggle, and swarm, and

scream, and fight, black slaves, obstinate camels, primitive-looking

chariots full of Turkish ladies, people of all colours in all costumes,

and from every part of the world."

"It must be a wonderful place," sighed Maggie; "streets full of

beautiful shoes, and streets full of beautiful carpets."

"Just so, Maggie."

"Not at all like a London Bazaar, then. I thought perhaps it was a place

that shut up to itself, with a beadle sitting at the door?"

"I never was in Stamboul at night, but my belief is that the Bazaar is

secured at night by the locking up of gates. You know the people who own

the shops do not live in them, and as most valuable merchandise remains

in the Bazaar, it must be protected in some way. I suppose the watchmen

look after it."

"Have the Turks watchmen like the old London watchmen, Cousin? With

nightcaps, and rattles, and lanterns, and big coats?"

"The Turkish watchmen wear turbans--not nightcaps; but they have

lanterns and big coats, and in one respect they are remarkably like the

old 'Charlies,' as the London watchmen used to be called. Their object

is not (like policemen) to find robbers and misdoers, but to frighten

them away. Just as the old Charlies used to spring their wooden rattles

that the thieves might get out of their way, so the Turkish watchman

strikes the ground with an iron-shod staff, that makes a great noise,

for the same purpose. In one respect, however, the Turkish watchmen are

most useful--they give warning of fires."

"Are there often fires in Constantinople?"

"Very often, Fred. And when a big straggling city is built of wood in a

hot climate which keeps the wood so dry that a spark will set it ablaze,

when the water-supply is small, and the water-carriers, who feed the

fire-engines from their leathern water-pots, are chiefly bent upon

securing their pay for the help they give; and when, to crown all, the

sufferers themselves are generally of the belief that what is to happen

will happen, and that there is very little use in trying to avert

calamity--you may believe that a fire, once started, spreads not by

houses, but by streets, leaving acres of black ruins dotted with the

still standing chimneys. However, I fancy that of late years wider

streets and stone buildings are becoming commoner. There were stone

houses, built by Europeans, in Constantinople even when I was there."

"Did you see a fire whilst you were there?"

"Yes, indeed. One came so near the house where I lived that I had

everything packed up ready for a start, but fortunately my house

escaped. I must tell you that the Turks have one very sensible custom in

connection with these fires. They have what are called fire-towers, on

which men are stationed to give warning when a fire breaks out in any

part of the town. They have a system of signals, by which they show in

what quarter of the city the fire is. At night the signalling is done by

lamps. There is an old Genoese tower between Pera and Galata which has

been made into a fire-tower. The one at Stamboul I think is modern.

These buildings are tall--like light-houses--so that the signals can be

seen from all parts of Constantinople, and so that the men stationed on

them have the whole city in view. Besides these signals, it is part of

the watchman's duty, as I told you, to give warning of a fire, and the

quarter in which it has broken out. I assure you one listens with some

anxiety when the ring of his iron-tipped staff on the rough pavement

is followed by the cry, '_Yan ghun vah! Stamboul-dah_' ('There is a

fire! In Stamboul'); or '_Yan ghun vah! Pera-dah_' ('There is a fire!

In Pera')."

"But there are fire-engines?"

"There may be very good ones now. In my time nothing could be more

futile than the trumpery one which was carried on men's shoulders.

Indeed, until the streets are much less rough, narrow, and steep, I do

not see how one could be _driven_ at any speed."

"Did the men who carried the engine run?"

"Yes, and at a good swinging pace too, their half-naked bodies streaming

with perspiration, and (I should have thought) their labours quite

doubled by yelling as they ran. Their cries are echoed by the

formidable-looking band which follows, waving long poles armed with

hooks, &c., for pulling down houses to stop the progress of the flames.

On the heels of these figures follow mounted officials, whose dignity is

in a fixed proportion to the extent of the calamity. If the fire is a

very very extensive one, the Sultan himself has to be upon the spot."

"It must be very exciting," said Fred, in a tone of relish.

"You've told us lots about Constantinople now, Cousin Peregrine," said

Maggie, who had the air of having heard quite enough on the subject;

"now tell us about why you said Ponto never was in Constantinople. Don't

the Turks keep dogs?"

"Not as we do, for pets and friends; and yet the dog population of

Constantinople is more numerous and powerful, and infinitely more noisy,

than I can easily describe to you."

"Whom do they belong to then?"

"They have no special masters or mistresses. They are more like troops

of wolves than a collection of Pontos."

"But who gives them their dinners?"

"They live on offal and the offscourings of the city, and though the

Turks freely throw all their refuse into their streets, there are so

many dogs that they are all half-starved. They are very fierce, and have

as a rule a great dislike to strangers. At night they roam about the

streets, and are said to fall upon any one who does not carry a

lantern."

"But does anybody carry a lantern--except the watchmen?"

"Everybody does. Coloured paper lanterns, like the Chinese ones, with a

bit of candle inside. With one of these in one hand and a heavy stone or

stick in the other, you may get safely through a night-walk among the

howling dogs of Stamboul."

"What horrible beasts!"

"I think you would pity them if you were there. They are half starved,

and have no friends."

"There isn't a home for lost and starving dogs in Constantinople then?"

"The whole city may be considered as the headquarters of starving dogs,

but not of lost ones. That reminds me why I said Ponto had not lived

there. If he had he would know his own grounds, and keep to them."

"But, Cousin Peregrine, I thought you said the Turkish dogs had no

particular homes?"

"Every dog in Constantinople belongs to a particular Quarter of the

town, which he knows, and to which he confines himself with marvellous

sagacity. In the Quarter in which he was born, there he must live, and

there (if he wishes to die peaceably) he must die. If he strays on any

pretext into another Quarter, the dogs of the Quarter he has invaded

will tear him to pieces, and dine upon his bones."

"How does he know where his own part of the town begins and ends?"

"I cannot tell you, Maggie. But I can tell you of my own knowledge that

he does. Jack did, though we tried to deceive him over and over again."

"Who was Jack?"

"The handsomest dog I ever saw in Constantinople. The Turkish dogs are

by no means beautiful as a rule, they are too much like jackals, and as

they are apt to be maimed and covered with scars from fights with each

other, they do not make much of what good looks they have. However, Jack

was rather less wild and wolfish-looking than most of his friends. He

was of a fine tawny yellow, and had an intelligent face, poor fellow. He

belonged to our Quarter--in fact the cemetery was his home till he took

to lying at our door."

"Then he was a Pera dog?"

[Illustration]

"Yes, and I and the brother-officers who were living with me made friends

with him. We gave him food and spoke kindly to him, and he laid aside his

prejudices against foreigners, and laid his tawny limbs on our threshold.

We became really attached to each other. He received the very British

name of Jack, and seemed quite contented with it. He took walks with us.

It was then that again and again we tried to deceive him about the limits

of his Quarter, and get him into another one unawares. He never was

misled. But later on, as he grew tame, less fearful of things in general,

and more unwilling to quit us when we were out together, he sometimes

strayed beyond his bounds, not because he was deceived as to his limits,

but he ventured on the risk for our sakes. Even then, however, he would

not walk in the public thoroughfares, he 'dodged' through gardens, empty

courtyards and quiet by-places where he was not likely to meet the

outraged dogs of the Quarter he was invading. The moment we were safe back

'in bounds' he came freely and happily to our side once more. I have often

wondered, since I left Constantinople, how long Jack lived, and how he

died."

"Oh, didn't you take him away?"

"I couldn't, my dear. And you must not think, Maggie, that if Turks do

not pet dogs they are cruel to them. It is not the case. A Turk would

never dream of petting a dog, but if he saw one looking hot and thirsty

in the street he would be more likely to take trouble to get it a dish

of water than many English people who feed their own particular pets on

mutton-chops. Jack was not likely to be ill-treated after our departure,

but I sometimes have a heart-sore suspicion that we may have raised

dreams in his doggish heart never again to be realized. If he were at

all like other dogs (and the more we knew of him the more companionable

he became), he must have waited many a long hour in patient faithfulness

at our deserted threshold. He must have felt his own importance as a dog

with a name, in that wild and nameless tribe to which he belonged. He

must have dreamed of his foreign friends on many a blazing summer's

afternoon. Perhaps he stole cautiously into other Quarters to look for

us. I hope he did not venture too far--Maggie--my dear Maggie! You are

not fretting about poor Jack? I assure you that really the most probable

thing is that our successors made friends with him."

"Do you really and truly think so, Cousin Peregrine?"

"On my word of honour I do, Maggie. You must remember that Jack was not

a Stamboul dog. He belonged to Pera, where Europeans live, so there is a

strong probability that his unusual tameness and beauty won other

friends for him when we had gone."

"I hope somebody very nice lived in your house when you went away."

"I hope so, Maggie."

"Cousin Peregrine, do you think we could teach Ponto to know his own

quarter?"

"I think you could, Fred. I once lived next door to a man who was very

fond of his garden. It was a mere strip in front of his hut--for we were

quartered in camp at this time--and not even a paling separated it from

a similar strip in front of my quarters. My bit, I regret to say, was

not like his in any respect but shape. I had a rather ragged bit of

turf, and he had a glowing mass of flowers. The monotony of my

grass-plat was only broken by the marrow-bones and beef-ribs which my

dog first picked and then played with under my windows. I was as fond of

him as my brother-officer was of his flowers. I am sorry to say that

Dash had a fancy for the gayer garden, and for some time my

good-tempered neighbour bore patiently with his inroads, and with a sigh

buried the beef-bone that Dash had picked among the mignonette at the

roots of a magnificent rose which he often alluded to as 'John Hopper,'

and seemed to treat as a friend. Mr. Hopper certainly throve on Dash's

bones, but unfortunately Dash took to applying them himself to the roots

of plants for which I believe that bone manure is not recommended. When

he made a hole two foot deep in the Nemophila bed, and laid a sheep's

head by in it against a rainy day, I felt that something must be done.

After the humblest apologies to my neighbour, I begged for a few days'

grace. He could not have spoken more feelingly of the form, scent, and

colour of his friend John Hopper than I ventured to do in favour of the

intelligence of my friend Dash. In short I begged for a week's patience

on his part, that I might teach Dash to know his own garden. If I failed

to do so, I promised to put him on the chain, much as I dislike tying up

dogs."

"How did you manage, Cousin?"

"Whenever Dash strayed into the next garden, I began to scold him in the

plainest English, and covered him with reproaches, till he slunk

gradually back to his own untidy grass-plat. When he touched his own

grounds, I changed my tone at once, to approbation. At first this change

simply brought him flying to my feet again, if I was standing with my

friend in his garden. But after a plentiful application of, 'How dare

you, Sir? Go back' (pointing), 'go back to your garden. If this

gentleman catches you here again, he'll grind your bones to make John

Hopper's bread. That's a good dog. No! Down! Stay where you are!'--Dash

began to understand. It took many a wistful gaze of his brown eyes

before he fully comprehended what I meant, but he learned it at last. He

never put paw into Major E----'s garden without looking thoroughly

ashamed of himself. He would lie on his own ragged lawn and wistfully

watch me sitting and smoking among the roses; but when I returned to our

own quarters he welcomed me with an extravagant delight which seemed to

congratulate me on my escape from the enemy's country."

"Oh, Cousin Peregrine! We must try and teach Ponto to know his own

garden."

"I strongly advise you to do so. Ponto is a gentleman of honour and

intelligence, I feel convinced. I think he will learn his neighbourly

duties, and if he does do so as well as Dash did--whatever you may think

of Mr. Mackinnon--I think Mr. Mackinnon will soon cease to regard Ponto

as--a nasty next-door neighbour."

THE PRINCES OF VEGETATION.

This fanciful and high-sounding title was given by the great Swedish

botanist, Linnæus, to a race of plants which are in reality by no means

distantly allied to a very humble family--the family of Rushes.

The great race of Palms puzzled the learned Swede. He did not know where

to put them in his system; so he gave them an appendix all to

themselves, and called them the Princes of Vegetation.

The appendix cannot have been a small one, for the Order of Palms is

very large. About five hundred different species are known and named,

but there are probably many more.

They are a very beautiful order of plants; indeed, the striking elegance

of their forms has secured them a prominence in pictures, poetry, and

proverbs, which makes them little less familiar to those who live in

countries too cold for them to grow in, than to those whose home, like

theirs, is in the tropics. The name Palm (Latin, _Palma_) is supposed to

have been applied to them from a likeness in the growth of their

branches to the outspread palm of the hand; and the fronds of some of

the fan-palms are certainly not unlike the human hand, as commonly drawn

by street-boys upon doors and walls.

So beautiful a tree, when it flourished in the symbol-loving East, was

sure to be invested with poetical and emblematical significance.

Conquerors were crowned with wreaths of palm, which is said to have been

chosen as a symbol of victory, because of the elasticity with which it

rises after the pressure of the heaviest weight--an explanation,

perhaps, more appropriate to it as the emblem of spiritual triumphs--the

Palm of Martyrdom and the Palms of the Blessed.

But as a religious symbol it is not confined to the Church triumphant.

Not only is the "great multitude which no man can number" represented to

us as "clothed in white robes, and palms in their hands"--the word

"palmer" records the fact that he who returned from a pilgrimage to the

Holy Land was known, not only by the cockle-shell on his gown, but by

the staff of palm on which he leant. St. Gregory also alludes to the

palm-tree as an accepted emblem of the life of the righteous, and adds

that it may well be so, since it is rough and bare below, and expands

above into greenness and beauty.

The palm here alluded to is evidently the date palm (_Phoenix

dactylifera_). This is pre-eminently the palm-tree of the Bible, and was

in ancient times abundant in the Holy Land, though, curiously enough, it

is now comparatively rare. Jericho was known as "the city of palm-trees"

in the time of Moses (Deut. xxxiv. 3). It is alluded to again in the

times of the Judges (Judges i. 11; iii. 13), and it bore the same title

in the days of Ahaz (2 Chron. xxviii. 15). Josephus speaks of it as

still famous for its palm-groves in his day, but it is said that a few

years ago only one tree remained, which is now gone.

It was under a palm that Deborah the prophetess sat when all Israel came

up to her for judgment; and to an audience under the shadow of this

tree, which bore her name, that she summoned Barak out of

Kedesh-naphtali. Bethany means "the House of Dates," and the branches of

palm which the crowd cut down to strew before our Lord as He rode into

Jerusalem were no doubt of this particular species.

Women--as well as places--were often named after the Princes of

Vegetation, whose graceful and stately forms approved them to lovers and

poets as fit types of feminine beauty.

Usefulness, however, even more than ornament, is the marked

characteristic of the tribe. "From this order (_Palmæ_)," says one

writer, "are obtained wine, oil, wax, flour, sugar, salt, thread,

utensils, weapons, habitations, and food"--a goodly list of the

necessaries of life, to which one may add many smaller uses, such as

that of "vegetable ivory" for a variety of purposes, and the materials

for walking-sticks, canework, marine soap, &c., &c.

The Princes of Vegetation are to be found in all parts of the world

where the climate is adapted to the tropical tastes of their Royal

Highnesses.

They have come into our art, our literature, and our familiar knowledge

from the East; but they abound in the tropics of the West, and some

species are now common in South America whose original home was in

India.

The cocoa-nut palm (_Cocos nucifera_) is an Indian and South Sea Islands

Prince; but his sway extends now over all tropical countries. The

cocoa-nut palm begins to bear fruit in from seven to eight years after

planting, and it bears on for no less than seventy to eighty years.

Length of days, you see, as well as beauty and beneficence, mark this

royal race which Linnæus placed alone!

Cocoa-nuts are useful in many ways. The milk is pleasant, and in hot

and thirsty countries is no doubt often a great boon. The white flesh--a

familiar school-boy dainty--is eaten raw and cooked. It produces oil,

and is used in the manufacture of stearine candles. It is also used to

make _marine soap_, which will lather in salt water. The wood of the

palm is used for ornamental joinery, the leaves for thatch and

basket-work, the fibre for cordage and cocoa-nut matting, and the husk

for fuel and brushes.

Cocoa and chocolate come from another palm (_Theobroma cacao_), which is

cultivated largely in South America and the West Indies.

Sago and tapioca are made from the starch yielded by several species of

palm. The little round balls of sago are formed from a white powder

(sago flour, as it is called), just as homoeopathic pillules are

formed from sugar. It is possible to see chemists make pills from

boluses to globules, but the Malay Indians are said jealously to keep

the process of "pearling" sago a trade secret. Tapioca is only another

form of sago starch. Sago flour is now imported into England in

considerable quantities. It is used for "dressing" calicoes.

Among those products of the palm which we import most liberally is

"vegetable ivory."

Vegetable ivory is the kernel of the fruit of one of the most beautiful

of palms (_Phytelephas macrocarpa_).

This Prince of Vegetation is a native of South America. "It is

short-stemmed and procumbent, but has a magnificent crown of light green

ostrich-feather-like leaves, which rise from thirty to forty feet high."

The fruit is as big as a man's head. Two or three millions of the nuts

are imported by us every year, and applied to all the purposes of use

and ornament for which real ivory is available.

The Coquilla-nut palm (_Attalea funifera_), whose fruit is about the

size of an ostrich-egg, also supplies a kind of vegetable ivory.

Our ideas of palm-trees are so much derived from the date palm of Judæa,

that an erect and stately growth is probably inseparably connected in

our minds with the Princes of Vegetation. But some of the most beautiful

are short-stemmed and creeping; whilst others fling giant arms from tree

to tree of the tropical forests, now drooping to the ground, and then

climbing up again in very luxuriance of growth. Many of the rattan palms

(_Calamus_) are of this character. They wind in and out, hanging in

festoons from the branches, on which they lean in princely

condescension, with stems upwards of a thousand feet in length.

There is something comical in having to add that these clinging rattan

stems, which cannot support their own weight, have a proverbial fame,

and are in great request for the manufacture of walking-sticks. They

are also largely imported into Great Britain for canework.