It was settled that Wilfred should go to Paris.
Mr Merton was a banker in a good position in London, and he had
naturally wished Wilfred, who was his only child, to enter into his
office and succeed him in his business. But unfortunately for his
schemes, the boy had at an early age developed a strong taste for
drawing, and this taste, which had been discouraged rather than
fostered, had grown with his growth, until his father had been obliged
to admit to himself that it was useless to try to coerce him, and
that the lad must be allowed to take his own way. Giving in to an
unavoidable necessity, and giving in to it gracefully, are, however,
two very different things, and Mr Merton chose the former course. He
allowed his son to become an artist, because he saw very clearly that
he could do nothing else, but beyond that he did scarcely anything
for him; with but scanty instruction, he was, as Mabel had said, very
nearly self-taught.
Had Mrs Merton lived to see her boy grow up, things would have been
no doubt on a very different footing between father and son; her
influence would have been used to soften the disagreement between them;
and a woman's influence is rarely ineffectual. But unhappily for them
both, she had died when Wilfred was about ten years old; and he and
his father were left to rub the angles of their natures against one
another, without any one to round the angularity off.
And so it came to pass that when Mr Merton offered to send Wilfred to
Paris, although there were many reasons for which the young man would
have preferred remaining at home, he thought it would not do to refuse
his father's offer, and so accepted it, and prepared for leaving home.
From the moment that this idea had been first communicated to Mabel,
she had had a great and unaccountably strong dislike to it; and now
when it was resolved upon, and the time of Wilfred's going was drawing
near, an excitable restless feeling came over her, that made her
depressed and miserable. This depression so haunted her, that she could
not help looking upon it as an omen and a warning.
She tried hard to repress this boding feeling, but in vain; and tried
also, and with more success, to keep it from Wilfred's sight; but at
last when the day of his departure had arrived, and he had come to
say good-bye to her, she could restrain herself no longer, and to his
surprise and dismay beseeched him to change his mind and remain at home!
'Why, Mabel, my darling,' he answered, clasping his hands round her
waist as he spoke, and looking down fondly at her, 'what do you mean?
You have never said a word against my going until now.'
'No; I have been trying not to think of it. But O Wilfred! I have such
a strong feeling in my heart that some harm will come of your going; I
have had it ever since you first spoke of it. Do stay.'
'You can't be well, my pet; it isn't like you to have such fancies.'
'I know it isn't; but I am quite well; and it is because I am not
generally fanciful or nervous that I am so much impressed by the
feeling I have now. Do listen to me.'
'My dearest,' said her lover, kissing the upturned face, 'it is too
late to change my plans now. Shake off this fancy, my queen, for it is
only a fancy. I like going so little myself, Mabel, that you mustn't
make it more difficult to me.'
Mabel resolutely withheld herself from saying any more on the subject;
but the feeling of dread that she could not explain was strong upon her
still, and it was very hard to keep it to herself. When Wilfred left
her she clung to him as though the parting were to be for ever; and
when she found herself alone, the anticipation of evils to come came
back with redoubled force.
CHANGE-RINGING.
The frequent allusions to bells by our poets are directly conclusive
to the strong attachment which binds these sounds to English ears. We
all delight in listening to the merry peal, and yet notwithstanding
our fondness for the same, and although all our days of rejoicing are
considered incomplete without the ringing of bells, it is strange how
very little is understood either of the art or science of what is
termed change-ringing.
Ringing bells in changes is peculiar to England. When rung thus, the
bells are necessarily rung 'up;' that is, each bell, by an arrangement
of wheel and rope, is gradually swung until, after describing larger
and larger arcs, it swings through a complete circle at each sound or
stroke of the clapper. The swinging motion also materially increases
the sweetness of the tone. When bells are rung in changes, each bell is
brought to a balance after each revolution; and when the bell 'runs'
well, very little actual strength is required, and the work, unless
prolonged, is not so exhaustive as many suppose. In this as in many
other things, it is more 'knack' than strength that is required. The
tenor bell of the ring of twelve at St Saviour's, Southwark, weighs
fifty-two hundredweight; and the wheel, in the grooves of which the
rope for ringing it runs, is about nine feet in diameter; yet this
ponderous bell with its huge gearing has often been rung by one man for
four hours without rest, involving more than five thousand changes; and
was once rung for six and a half hours by one man. This, however, was a
great feat.
A number of bells hung together is called a 'ring,' the number
generally varying from five to a dozen, which last is the greatest
number that has yet been hung in a steeple. When the highest note--the
treble bell--is sounded first, and followed by the consecutive notes
until the deepest or 'tenor' bell is struck, the bells are said to be
rung in 'rounds.' And it is worthy of remark that this is the order
in which they are rung before 'going off' into changes, and again on
'coming round.'
Those uninitiated in the mysteries of bell-ringing will be surprised
to learn that on six bells no fewer than 720 changes can be obtained;
that is, the six numbers can be arranged in 720 distinct combinations.
The addition of another bell increases the combination to 5040; while
on eight bells the enormous number of 40,320 changes may be obtained.
As about twenty-eight changes are rung per minute, it takes about
three hours to accomplish the whole of the changes on seven bells; and
thus to ring five thousand changes is considered a feat, and called a
'peal;' any less number being merely a 'touch.' When changes are rung
on seven, nine, or eleven bells, all the eight, ten, or twelve bells
are rung, the tenor bell--the key-note--always striking last; this
practice is more musical than when the whole number of the bells are
working in the changes. Change-ringing upon each number of bells has
a distinctive name; thus changes on five bells are called doubles; on
six, minor; seven, triples; eight, major; nine, cators; ten, royal;
eleven, cinques; and twelve, maximus.
Changes are produced according to certain laws or 'methods;' and by
a previously acquired knowledge of the method, each performer, by
watching the rise and fall of the ropes, is able to work his bell in
the same path in which it would be found to move if the changes were
written down on paper. There are several different methods which are
practised--namely, Plain Bob, Grandsire, Oxford or Kent Treble Bob,
Stedman's Principle, Cambridge, London and Superlative Surprise, and
Double Norwich Court. These can all be applied to the different numbers
of bells. Thus a touch of Kent Treble Bob Major is that method rung on
eight bells.
Although very few persons could possibly be debarred from practising
change-ringing by want of physical strength, a good deal of
perseverance is necessary to become a proficient in the art. After
acquiring the sleight of hand necessary to ring a bell in rounds, a
fair amount of practice is also necessary to obtain the quickness of
eye--called 'rope-sight'--to work among the other ropes, in changes.
While his hands and eyes are thus busily employed, the ringer must also
listen to ascertain whether the swing of the bell is so regulated that
it strikes at a proper interval after the one immediately preceding it.
In ringing on eight bells, the eight sounds are produced in about two
seconds; a quarter of a second therefore elapses between the sounds of
the consecutive bells; and as a variation of a quarter of this time is
appreciable to a practised ringer, the error of the sixteenth part of
a second would lead to jarring results. The hands, eyes, and ears must
therefore be in constant unison during change-ringing; and as at the
same time the mind must never be relaxed from the consideration of the
'method by which the changes are produced,' the mental and physical
powers are kept in pretty active employment.
The fascination which this art has for its followers is shewn by the
fact that all the great performances in ringing have been undertaken
solely for the honour accorded to such feats. When a peal of five
thousand changes is attempted, it is considered of no account unless it
is 'true.' The requirements are somewhat exacting. If the same change
should occur twice, through an error of the composer, it is a 'false'
peal. The ringing must be completed without a stop or hitch; and as
at any time during the three hours that will probably be occupied, a
ringer may lose his way, and cause the others to be confused, a 'jumble
out' will probably ensue; the conductor may miss a 'call,' which is
required to carry the changes to the length required, or may make one
too many; a man may miss his rope and send his bell over the balance;
or a rope may break. Thus until the last change of a peal is struck,
it is never safe for the ringers to congratulate themselves upon its
performance.
Nowadays long peals are only considered as feats when the same
men--only one man to each bell--ring throughout the peal. When a peal
of great length is attempted there is, therefore, cause to fear that at
the last moment one of the men at the 'heavy end,' as the bells near
the tenor are called, may knock up. For instance, in ringing according
to Stedman's principle--a very complicated method, on eleven bells--the
peal of 7392 changes rung in 1848 in four hours and fifty-five minutes
at St Martin's, Birmingham, where the tenor bell weighs thirty-five
hundredweight, continued the 'longest on record' until 1851, when
it was beaten by the College Youths, a very old-established London
society of ringers, who rang 7524 changes in five hours and twenty-four
minutes at St Giles', Cripplegate, where the tenor weighs thirty-six
hundredweight. The Cumberland Youths, another old London society,
thereupon tried to beat this performance by ringing 8184 changes at
St Michael's, Cornhill, the tenor of which ring weighs forty-one
hundredweight. On the first occasion they 'jumbled out' after ringing
nearly six thousand changes; and at a subsequent attempt rang six hours
and two minutes, but were then so knocked up that they could not finish
the peal, and were compelled to stop when they had rung 7746 changes.
Now, although this was longer than the peal rung by the College Youths,
it was an incomplete performance, not being continued until the bells
returned to the order of rounds, which they would have done at the
8184th change. The Cripplegate peal was at last beaten by a peal of
8448 changes, rung in 1858, at Painswick in Gloucestershire. Although
the tenor of the ring of twelve at Painswick only weighs twenty-eight
hundredweight, the College Youths actually attempted to beat this
length at St Saviour's, Southwark, where the tenor weighs fifty-two
hundredweight. They were, however, unsuccessful, as after ringing
over eight thousand changes in six hours and a half, they got into a
'jumble,' and thus a most remarkable feat was lost, and considered of
no account, when another half-hour would have completed a performance
which might never have been excelled. In their next attempt the College
Youths were more fortunate, as on April 27, 1861, they rang at St
Michael's, Cornhill, in six hours and forty-one minutes, a peal of 8580
changes of Stedman's Cinques, which still remains the longest length
rung in this method on eleven bells.
The College and Cumberland Youths have long been worthy rivals in the
different mysteries of change-ringing. While the former society dates
its origin back to 1637, the latter claims its descent from an old
society called the 'London Scholars,' whose origin, however, is lost
in antiquity. The earliest known peal by the London Scholars is one
of 5040 changes, rung in 1717 on the ten bells which were then in the
tower of St Bride's, Fleet Street. This is said to have been the first
five thousand ever rung on ten bells.
The rivalry between the societies of College and Cumberland Youths was
at its greatest height in 1777. On January 20th, in that year, the
Cumberlands rang 6240 changes on the bells of St Leonard's, Shoreditch.
This was the longest which had been rung on ten bells by ten men only,
and occupied four hours and thirty-four minutes. The tenor bell at St
Leonard's weighs thirty-one hundredweight; and as in ringing these
6240 changes, the ringer would never be in a state of rest, as during
nearly five hours he would cause a revolving plaything of over a ton
and a half to make 6240 revolutions, it might be supposed that no set
of men could easily be found who would be desirous of gaining the empty
honour of merely exceeding such a performance by so many more hours
or minutes. This, however, was not the opinion of the College Youths,
who, on February 18th, in the same year, on the same bells, completed a
peal of 10,000 changes in seven hours and twenty-eight minutes. After
this the Cumberlands evidently took a little preliminary training on
the bells of Shoreditch, as on March 12th they rang 5080 changes;
on April 5th, 8120 changes; and then on May 10th capped the College
Youths' performance by a peal of 10,200 changes in seven hours and
forty minutes. The non-university College men were, however, equal to
the occasion, and nine days afterwards rang 11,080 changes at the same
place in eight hours and two minutes; a performance so extraordinary,
that the Cumberland Youths were fain to let it stand as the longest on
record until 1784, when, on March 27th, they actually accomplished, at
Shoreditch, 12,000 changes in nine hours and five minutes; which peal
until this day remains the longest ever rung on ten bells, when all the
bells are rung in the changes.
It might be thought that such prolonged physical and mental exertion
would have a bad effect upon the performers; but, whether it is from
the fact that only men of the strongest constitutions take a fancy for
such exertion, or that the splendid exercise of ringing is, even when
carried to such great excess, really productive of benefit, it yet
remains a fact that ringers are noted for the great ages to which some
of them live to take part in their favourite exercise. As an instance
of longevity, the case of Thomas Barham is especially noteworthy. This
man, who was a gardener at Leeds, in Kent, was passionately fond of
ringing, and during his lifetime rang in considerably over one hundred
peals, each of five thousand changes and upwards. He was born in 1725,
and died in 1818, aged ninety-three years. At that time, in ringing
long peals it was not regarded as a strict rule that there should be
no relief to the performers, or that, as now, each bell should be rung
throughout the peal by the same man; consequently there does not seem
to have been any ordinary limit to the aspirations of the ringers of
those days.
About 1750, Barham and his companions were endeavouring to achieve the
extent of the changes on eight bells (40,320 changes), any man who was
fatigued being relieved by some other ringer. In one of these attempts,
on Monday, March 31, 1755, they commenced ringing at two o'clock in the
afternoon, and rang until six o'clock on the Tuesday morning, when the
sixth bell-clapper broke, after they had rung 24,800 changes. In this
attempt, Barham rang the seventh bell for fourteen hours and forty-four
minutes before he required to be relieved. On March 23, 1761, they
again attempted it, but had the misfortune to overturn a bell after
ringing seventeen thousand changes; but on April 7th and 8th in the
same year, they are said to have accomplished the 40,320 changes in
twenty-seven hours, the eight bells being manned at different times by
fourteen men.
The most remarkable of the records which Barham left behind him were
perhaps the 'Veteran' peals in which he took part. When fifty-five
years of age, he rang in a peal of 5040 changes of Bob Major, occupying
three hours and thirteen minutes, when the average age of the eight
performers was sixty-one years. In another peal--which occupied three
hours and twelve minutes, the ages of the performers were 82, 70, 77,
65, 70, 65, 67, and 86; making an average of nearly seventy-three
years. Barham also rang in peals occupying over three hours, when
eighty-four and eighty-eight years of age. In Barham's case, it is
thus fully shewn that the extraordinary performances he took part in
did not in any way tend to disable him in his old age. Southey, in
his _Doctor_, mentions a peal of Bob Major rung at Aston Church, near
Birmingham, in the year 1796--but really in 1789--when eight men,
some of whom he mentions were under twenty years of age, rang 14,224
changes in eight hours and forty-five minutes. This, Southey remarks,
'was the longest peal ever rung in that part of the country or anywhere
else.' Certainly it was a very clever performance, considering that the
tenor of the ring weighs twenty-one hundredweight; but it was really
surpassed by a rival band of ringers, who rang at the same church on
October 1, 1793, a peal of 15,360 changes of Bob Major in nine hours
and thirty-one minutes. This continued the greatest number of changes
rung single-handed until 1868, when the College Youths rang 15,840
changes in nine hours and twelve minutes at St Matthew's, Bethnal
Green. The tenor, however, at Bethnal Green is very much lighter than
that of the Aston peal, and the latter still remains the longest length
rung with such a heavy tenor, and in point of time exceeds the Bethnal
Green performance by nineteen minutes.
So little is known about bell-ringing, that erroneous illustrations are
prepared by even the best of our illustrated papers, at Christmas-time,
and not a little faulty information regarding the _modus operandi_ is
added. Very few persons seem to be aware that many matters of practical
and scientific interest are to be found in the almost unknown art of
change-ringing.
CHRISTMAS IN THE ARCTIC REGIONS.
Christmas is essentially a family festival: our very earliest
recollections of it are of a day spent by the whole family together;
a day on which the social distinctions of nursery, school-room, and
drawing-room were as far as possible abolished, and on which all the
little ones who could behave with anything like discretion were taken
to church and dined with the elders. As the children grew up and
dispersed to school and college, Christmas was still the day on which
all reassembled to make one family once more.
But at length there comes a time when this reassembling is no longer
possible, when the girls belong to new homes and new circles, and the
boys are scattered abroad in distant lands, whence only loving thoughts
can reach the 'old folks at home.' Then the good old Christmas toast,
'To all absent friends,' becomes full of meaning to the few who still
assemble round the dear parental hearth, and is followed by a quiet
pause, while imagination travels to all quarters of the globe, and the
Christmas greeting infolds the whole world in its embrace. And the good
wishes as they emanate from the home are met by returning thoughts from
the sons, the brothers, it may be the husbands, in the distant lands
where they too are keeping Christmas, though among circumstances very
different to ours, and still striving as much as possible to keep up
the customs they loved when they were young.
To us dwellers in Northern Europe, Christmas, with its apparently
unseasonable heat, strikes us by its strange incongruity; but how
strange must be a Christmas in the far north, where no sun rises to
gladden the day on which the Sun of Righteousness rose upon the earth.
A year ago we had the happiness of welcoming back to their homes the
latest heroes of the Polar Seas. We do not need to be reminded how,
in May 1875, the _Alert_ and the _Discovery_ sailed from our shores,
having for their destination the Pole itself. The Pole was not reached;
that was beyond human power; but we felt that all that men could do was
done, and we were thankful to see them home again. It is surely enough
to have spent one Christmas in such desolation; in a higher latitude
than ever man has reached before, and beyond the farthest point to
which even the Esquimaux, the hardy natives of the lands of perpetual
snow, have penetrated in their most distant wanderings; beyond the
boundary of all animal life on land or sea, there British sailors and
British ships have wintered, and the British flag has floated upon a
sea of eternal ice. All honour be to them.
It seems to us wonderful that even with every attainable comfort, men
should be able to live through an arctic winter, as any disaster to the
ships must be certain death to the crews. That this has been the case
before now, we know. That it is not invariably the case we know also;
and the following account gives us a good picture of the different ways
in which two companion vessels spent their Christmas in the frozen sea
in 1870, and shews what diverse vicissitudes may be encountered by
ships in the same season.
In the spring of 1870, before the war with France had broken out and
taken up almost all the thoughts of the nation, Germany sent out two
ships, the _Germania_ and the _Hansa_, with the hope of reaching the
North Pole. As is usually the case in arctic expeditions, little could
be done during the first season, and the ships were obliged to take up
their winter-quarters off the east coast of Greenland. They had already
been separated, so that the crew of one vessel had no idea of the
condition of the other. An officer upon the _Germania_ thus writes of
their Christmas:
'To the men who have already lived many weary months among the
icebergs, Christmas signifies, in addition to its other associations,
that the half of their long night--with its fearful storms, its
enforced cessation of all energy, its discomfort and sadness--has
passed, and that the sun will soon again shed his life- and
warmth-giving beams on the long-deserted North. From this time the
grim twilight, during which noon has been hardly distinguishable from
the other hours, grows daily lighter, until at length all hearts are
gladdened, and a cheerful activity is once again called forth by
the first glimpse of the sun. Christmas, the midnight of the arctic
explorer, thus marks a period in his life which he has good cause to
consider a joyful one. On no day would it be more natural for him to
recall his home; and though far from that loved spot, and cut off from
all intercourse save with his little band of comrades, and being,
moreover, uncertain whether the ice will retain him in its grasp, as
it has retained so many before him, he is right to keep the festival
with all cheerfulness; thankful, while remembering what he has already
passed through and achieved, and full of firm courage and confidence
for the unknown future.
'What are our friends at home doing? was the thought that stirred us
all as we prepared to keep our Christmas 1870, in the true German
style. We had no suspicion of the mighty struggle in which our
Fatherland was then engaged, for what could we know of the affairs of
the world, from which no sound had reached us for so many long weeks.
Our world was only in our ship, and all around us, in the half-light of
the weary monotonous arctic night, lay the apparently boundless desert
of ice, while the snow-laden hurricane howled and moaned through the
silence. We thought too of our mates on our companion-ship the _Hansa_,
from whom we had been separated. Did they still live? Had they been so
fortunate as to reach the shore, and were they, like us, honouring
Christmas? Who could tell?
'For days before the festival, an unusual activity was observable
all over the ship; and as soon as the severe storm which raged from
December 16th to the 21st had abated, parties were organised, under
our botanist Dr Pansch, to certain points of Sabine Island, near to
which we were anchored, where, in a strangely sheltered nook, several
varieties of a native Greenland evergreen plant, _Andromeda tetragona_,
were to be found. A great quantity of this plant was conveyed on board,
to be converted into a Christmas tree. Under the orders of Dr Pansch,
the Andromeda was wound round small pieces of wood, several of which
were attached, like fir-twigs, to a large bough; and when these boughs
were fastened to a pole, they formed a very respectable fir-tree.
'After dinner on Christmas-day, the cabin was cleared for the
completion of the preparations; and on our recall at six o'clock, we
found that all had assumed an unwontedly festive appearance. The walls
were decorated with the signal-flags and our national eagle; and the
large cabin table, somewhat enlarged to make room to seat seventeen
men, was covered with a clean white cloth, which had been reserved
for the occasion. On the table stood the "fir" tree, shining in the
splendour of many little wax-lights, and ornamented with all sorts
of little treasures, some of which, such as the gilded walnuts, had
already seen a Christmas in Germany; below the tree was a small present
for each of us, provided long beforehand, in readiness for the day,
by loving friends and relatives at home. There was a packet too for
each of the crew, containing some little joking gift, prepared by the
mirth-loving Dr Pansch, and a useful present also; while the officers
were each and all remembered.
'When the lights burned down, and the resinous Andromeda was beginning
to take fire, the tree was put aside, and a feast began, at which full
justice was done to the costly Sicilian wine with which a friend had
generously supplied us before we left home. We had a dish of roast
seal! Some cakes were made by the cook, and the steward produced his
best stores. For the evening, the division between the fore and aft
cabins was removed, and there was free intercourse between officers
and men; many a toast was drunk to the memory of friends at home, and
at midnight a polar ball was improvised by a dance on the ice. The
boatswain, the best musician of the party, seated himself with his
hand-organ between the antlers of a reindeer which lay near the ship,
and the men danced two and two on their novel flooring of hard ice!
'Such was our experience of a Christmas in the north polar circle; but
the uncertainties of arctic voyaging are great, and the two ships of
our expedition made trial of the widely different fates which await the
traveller in those frozen regions; and while we on the _Germania_ were
singularly fortunate in escaping accidents and in keeping our crew, in
spite of some hardships, in sound health and good spirits, the _Hansa_
was crushed by the ice, and her crew, after facing unheard-of dangers,
and passing two hundred days on a block of ice, were barely rescued to
return home.'
Yet even to the crew of the ill-fated _Hansa_ Christmas brought some
share of festivities. The tremendous gale which had raged for many
days ceased just before the Day, and the heavy fall of snow with
which it terminated, and which had almost buried the black huts that
the shipwrecked men had constructed for themselves upon the drifting
icebergs from the débris of the wreck, had produced a considerable rise
in the temperature, and there was every indication that a season of
calm might now be anticipated.
The log-book of the _Hansa_ thus describes the celebration of the
festival: 'The tree was erected in the afternoon, while the greater
part of the crew took a walk; and the lonely hut shone with wonderful
brightness amid the snow. Christmas upon a Greenland iceberg! The
tree was artistically put together of fir-wood and mat-weed, and Dr
Laube had saved a twist of wax-taper for the illumination. Chains of
coloured paper and newly baked cakes were not wanting, and the men had
made a knapsack and a revolver case as a present for the captain. We
opened the leaden chests of presents from Professor Hochstetter and the
Geological Society, and were much amused by their contents. Each man
had a glass of port wine; and we then turned over the old newspapers
which we found in the chests, and drew lots for the presents, which
consisted of small musical instruments, such as fifes, jews-harps,
trumpets, &c., with draughts and other games, puppets, crackers, &c. In
the evening we feasted on chocolate and gingerbread.'
'We observed the day very quietly,' writes Dr Laube in his diary. 'If
this Christmas be the last we are to see, it was at least a cheerful
one; but should a happy return home be decreed for us, the next will,
we trust, be far brighter. May God so grant!'
THE MISTLETOE.
The following notes regarding the mistletoe, which we extract from
Hardwicke's _Science-Gossip_, may be interesting to our readers.
The writer informs us that 'the mistletoe abounds far too much in
the apple orchards of Worcestershire and Herefordshire, but passes
over pear-trees, and long observation has only given me two or three
instances where pear-trees had mistletoe upon them. The apple was
known to the Druids, and it has been suggested that the wily priests
furtively transplanted their mystic plant from apple-trees, where it
was sure to grow, to oaks, where otherwise it would be unlikely to
be found. This is rendered not improbable by what Davies says in his
_Celtic Researches_, that the apple-tree was considered by the Druids
_the next sacred tree to the oak_, and that orchards of it were planted
by them in the vicinity of their groves of oak. This was certainly an
astute plan for keeping up the growth of the mistletoe.
'Blackbirds, thrushes, and fieldfares are fond of the
mistletoe-berries, and when their bills get sticky from eating them,
they wipe their mandibles on the branches of trees where they rest,
and from the seeds there left enveloped in slime, young plants take
their rise. I have thus observed mistletoe bushes extending in long
lines across country where tall hawthorns rise from hedges bounding the
pastures; for, next to apple-trees, mistletoe is most plentiful upon
the hawthorn. But rather curiously, in modern times, the parasite has
shewn a predilection for the black Italian poplar, which has been much
planted of late years; and wherever in the Midland counties this poplar
has been planted, the mistletoe is sure to appear upon the trees in a
short time. The lime is also very often obliged to support the plant,
which disfigures its symmetry, raising huge knots upon its branches;
and I have observed limes that must have nourished protuberant bushes
for thirty years or more. The maple, the ash, and the willow have
frequently mistletoe bushes upon them; but common as the elm is, that
tree almost entirely escapes an intrusion; and indeed I never but
once saw mistletoe upon an elm. On the oak it is very uncommon in the
present day, and where apparent, it is on trees of no very great age,
whatever their descent may be.
'My friend Professor Buckman, who has written economically upon
orchards in his useful book on _Farm Cultivation_, asserts that while
the mistletoe is hurtful to the tree in hastening its decay, yet
in apple-trees it has the effect of pressing on their maturity and
fruit-bearing earlier than would be the case without the parasite,
which urges a quicker growth upon its foster-parent. The tenant of an
orchard would thus be benefited for a few years, though premature decay
would be the result.
'Authors may differ as to the etymology of mistletoe, but it appears
to me that our common English name has no very recondite origin.
_Mistion_ is an obsolete old English word, used, however, as late as
in the writings of Boyle; and this is defined in Dr Johnson's original
folio edition of his Dictionary as _the state of being mingled_. Now
this is truly the condition of our plant, which is intermingled with
the foliage of other trees, and mixes up their juices with its own; and
is indeed in rural places still simply called the _mistle_. If to this
we add the old English _tod_ or _toe_, signifying _bush_, we have at
once the derivation, meaning the _mingled bush_, mixed up and growing
among foliage dissimilar to its own. Still, in winter its stiff and
leathery evergreen leaves and dense bushy aspect give it a visible
position on its own account; and thus the epithet of _frigore viscum_
given it by Virgil is peculiarly applicable. It is certainly remarkable
that the hanging up of mistletoe in houses for mirthful purposes and
emblematical of Christmas should so long endure that the Midland towns
have their markets filled with it as Christmas approaches, and loads of
it find a ready sale in the north of England (and Scotland), where the
plant is a rarity, if found at all.'
A LOCAL INSTANCE OF CANINE ATTACHMENT.
A correspondent of the _Rotherham Advertiser_ writes: 'Stories
almost innumerable have been enumerated illustrative of the sagacity
of the dog and its attachment to its owner. A remarkable and
well-authenticated instance, which may not be uninteresting, has
just come under my notice, as having occurred some years ago in the
neighbourhood of Rotherham. A person in Rotherham obtained a young
shepherd dog, which he retained for a long period. While in his
possession it became much attached to the whole of the family, and
especially to two of its master's sons. After a time, circumstances
transpired which led to the animal being sent to live permanently
at the residence of a farmer at Thorpe Salvin. After the lapse of a
considerable time, one of the sons of the dog's former master paid a
visit to the farm. The dog on seeing him appeared to be overjoyed, and
was most demonstrative in its indications of delight. During his stay
it would not leave him; and when it became necessary for him to leave
in the evening, the animal could scarcely be restrained, and had to be
chained up in the room where the family were sitting. As the visitor
was taking leave of his host, the poor animal howled in a most piteous
manner, and manifested other unmistakable signs of grief. Immediately
he had left the house, the dog all at once became quiet, and settling
down on the floor, seemed to be asleep. The strange and sudden change
which had come over the animal was remarked, and on the parties going
to him, he was found to be quite dead. The singular occurrence became
well known in the neighbourhood, and it was regarded that the dog had
died literally heart-broken. When the same dog was only a puppy it was
attacked and beaten by a bigger dog. The defeated animal shewed his
sagacity and at the same time his revengeful feelings, by waiting until
eighteen months had elapsed, when it had fully grown, and then he lay
in wait for his old adversary as near as possible to where the former
combat took place, and gave his former enemy a "drubbing" that nearly
cost him his life.'
MONUMENT AND TURF.
Full in the midst of these gray bounds
A lordly stone upswells;
The scroll, that thrice its bulk surrounds,
The passing stranger tells
Of what renownèd line he came,
Who 'neath the marble lies,
What deeds he wrought of mark and fame,
That live when mortal dies.
And deep is graved how high his worth
Was prized, how widely known,
What honours crowned him from his birth,
What grief had raised the stone:
Yet he sleeps calmly on beneath,
Where Silence mocks at Fame;
Nor heeds the pomp made over death,
This blazon of his name.
Some paces off and thou wilt see
A grave of simple show,
As lowly and retired as he
Had been who rests below;
High rank and riches kept afar,
While they enjoyed their day,
The high and low--what social bar
May now divide their clay?
No honours mark the poor man's tomb,
This green secluded spot,
Yet still the pansy's purple bloom
Proclaims him not forgot;
No graven stone reclines above
To mourn the humble dead,
But woman's grief and children's love
Bedew the hallowed bed.
Nor here is any record hung
Of lineage and race,
The turf alone tells whence he sprung
Who fills this narrow space;
His virtues slumber with his dust,
Unrecked of and unknown;
But God in Whom reposed his trust
Receives him for His own.
D. F.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._