[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 16.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, APRIL 19, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
SUDDEN FORTUNES.
Few things are so fascinating to read as stories of fortunes suddenly
made. They lend to the adventures of miners in gold or diamond fields
an interest possessed by enterprises of no other kind; they also
impart a most seductive glamour to accounts published in continental
newspapers of prize-winners in big lotteries. When the French annual
state lotteries were abolished in 1837, a writer of some distinction,
M. Alphonse Karr, protested energetically against what he called a
hardship for the poor. His defence was curious. ‘For five sous,’ he
said, ‘the most miserable of beings may purchase the chance of becoming
a millionaire; by suppressing this chance, you take away the ray of
hope from the poor man’s life.’
Almost any man can relate from his own experience tales of suddenly
acquired wealth; and by this we do not mean the riches that may be
inherited through the death of a relative, or those which are won by
speculation. The professed money-hunter who succeeds on ‘Change is like
the sportsman who brings home a good bag—his spoils, though they may be
large, are not unexpected. But there is the man who goes out without
any thought of sport, and returns with a plump bird that has dropped
into his hands; or the man who, wandering on the seashore, picks up a
pearl. It is with persons of this description that we may compare those
lucky individuals who, awaiting nothing from fortune, are suddenly
overwhelmed by her favours. A few examples of such luck may induce
the reader who sees no signs of wealth on his path just yet, never to
despair.
At the beginning of 1870, the Hôtel des Réservoirs at Versailles was
for sale. It was the largest hotel in the city; but as Versailles had
become a sleepy place, almost deserted in winter, and only frequented
in summer by casual tourists and Sunday excursionists, the landlord had
scarcely been able to pay his way. The hotel was disposed of in January
for a very low figure, and the new proprietor entered upon his tenancy
on the first of April. He soon repented of his bargain. The season of
1870 brought fewer excursionists than usual; and when, in the middle
of July, war was declared against Germany, all the landlord’s chances
of recouping himself during the months when foreign tourists abound,
seemed gone, so that he had serious thoughts of reselling the house.
Within eight weeks, the whole of his prospects were altered. The French
were defeated, Paris was invested, Versailles became the headquarters
of the invading armies, and suddenly the Hôtel des Réservoirs entered
upon a period of such prosperity as doubtless could not be matched
by the records of any other hostelry. From the middle of September
till the following February it was the lodging-place of Grand Dukes
and Princes, as many as it would hold; whilst its dining-rooms were
resorted to by all the wealthiest officers in the German forces. As
the siege operations kept troops in movement at all hours, meals were
served at every time of the day and night. Three relays of cooks and
as many of waiters had to be hired; and the consumption of wines,
spirits, and liqueurs beggars all reckoning. Princes and rich officers
going into action or returning from victory are naturally free with
their money; every triumph of German arms was a pretext for banquets
and toasts. In fact, from the 1st of October to the date when the
occupation of the city ceased—a period of about one hundred and thirty
days—the average number of champagne bottles uncorked every day
exceeded five hundred! As the Prussians held Rheims, the landlord was
enabled to renew his stock of champagne as often as was necessary; but
he could not renew his stock of Bordeaux—the Bordelais being in French
hands, so that towards the end of the war he was selling his clarets at
fancy prices.
The Germans marched away in February; but still the Hôtel des
Réservoirs’ marvellous run of luck continued. In March the Communist
insurrection broke out; the National Assembly transferred its
sittings to Versailles, which was proclaimed the political capital
of France; and during the second siege of Paris the hotel was crowded
with ministers, foreign ambassadors, deputies, and other persons of
note. The result of all this and of the steady custom which the hotel
received so long as Versailles remained the seat of government, was
that the landlord, who was at the point of ruin in 1870, retired in
1875 worth one hundred and twenty thousand pounds, after selling the
hotel for three times what he had paid for it. We may add that in 1870
other very fine hauls of money were made by hotel-keepers in cities
which the German armies occupied, and at Tours and Bordeaux, which were
successively the seats of the French Government of National Defence.
But it will be objected that such fortunes as war, revolutions, and
other great commotions bring to the few, in compensation for the
ruin which they scatter among the many, are not to be met with in
lands enjoying profound peace like England. Well, there are local
convulsions too in England. An obscure village becomes the scene of a
murder or a railway accident; an inquest is held; reporters are sent
down from London; idlers by the trainful come to view the spot where
the mishap occurred; and the village public-house, which had been
doing a poor business, all at once finds itself taking gold and silver
like a first-class London _buffet_. Such things happen pretty often;
indeed, Fortune now and then knocks at houses whose inmates, from sheer
bewilderment or stupidity, do not know how to take advantage of her
unexpected visit. We have the recollection of a publican in a village
on the Great Western line who positively spurned a chance of handsome
gains thrown into his way by a snowstorm. An express train had got
snowed up in the night; with infinite difficulty, by reason of the
darkness, the passengers crawled out, and made across the fields for a
public-house about a mile distant; but on arriving there, they met with
anything but a hospitable reception. The landlord had been roused from
sleep; he could not serve drink, he said, because it was past hours; he
had no spare-room for travellers; there was only one ounce of tea in
his house; and so forth. In the end, most of the benighted party found
a refuge at the vicarage. Had the landlord been a more astute fellow,
he might have secured some valuable patrons that night, for there were
wealthy people among the passengers; and two of them had to linger for
more than a week in the village, having fallen ill.
Let us now leave publicans, and come to stories of sudden professional
advancement. All young doctors know what uphill work it sometimes
is to establish a practice. Years will often elapse before a doctor
gets any return for the money which his friends invested in obtaining
his diploma. On the other hand, a single fortunate case may bring
patients by the score. About twenty years ago, a young doctor who
had been established three years in London without making an income,
lost heart, and determined to emigrate to Australia. He sold his
small house and furniture, paid his passage-money, and a week before
his ship was to sail, went into the country to say good-bye to his
parents. Having to change trains at a junction, he was waiting on the
platform, when a groom in a smart livery galloped up to the station,
and calling excitedly to a porter, handed him a telegraphic message
for transmission. From some remarks exchanged between the two men, the
young doctor understood that the Duke of ——, a member of the Cabinet,
had fallen dangerously ill, and that an eminent physician in London was
being telegraphed for. The groom added that he had ridden to the houses
of three local doctors, who had all been absent, and that ‘Her Grace
was in a terrible way.’
The young doctor saw his opportunity, and at once seized it. ‘I am a
medical man,’ he said to the groom; ‘and I will go to the Hall to offer
my assistance till another doctor arrives.’
The groom was evidently attached to his master, for he said: ‘Jump on
my horse, sir, and ride straight down the road for about four miles;
you can’t miss the Hall; any one will tell you where it is.’
The doctor went, was gratefully received by the Duchess, and happened
to be just in time to stop a mistake in treatment of the patient,
which might have proved fatal if continued for a few hours longer. The
Duke was suffering from typhoid fever; and when the eminent physician
arrived from town, he declared that the young doctor’s management of
the case had been perfect. The result of this was, that the latter was
requested to remain at the Hall to take charge of the patient; and
his name figured on the bulletins which were issued during the next
fortnight, and were printed in all the daily newspapers of the kingdom.
Such an advertisement is always the making of a medical man, especially
when his patient recovers, as the Duke did. Our penniless friend
received a fee of five hundred guineas; took a house at the West End,
and from that time to this has been at the head of one of the largest
practices in London.
Curiously enough, his sudden rise was indirectly the means of bringing
another needy young doctor to great fortune. Having abandoned his
emigration scheme, our friend had made a present of his ticket to
a former fellow-student of his, a shiftless sort of young man, who
was loafing about town, with no regular work or prospects. This
ne’er-do-weel had never thought of leaving the mother-country, and he
accepted the ticket rather with the idea of making a pleasant voyage
gratis than of settling at the antipodes. But on the way out, an
epidemic of smallpox occurred among the passengers; the ship’s surgeon
died; and the emigrant doctor, stepping into his place, displayed such
skill and devotion that he won golden opinions from all on board. As
often happens with men of good grit, the sudden call to noble work and
great responsibilities completely altered his character, and he became
thenceforth a steady fellow. On landing at Sydney, he was presented
with a handsome cheque by the agents of the Steamship Company for his
services, and soon afterwards was, on their recommendation, appointed
physician to the quarantine depôt. This position put him in the way of
forming a first-rate private practice and of winning municipal honours.
He is now one of the most prosperous men in the colony, and a member of
the colonial legislature.
Talking of sea-voyages reminds us of a barrister who has owed
professional success to the mere lucky, or let us say providential,
hazard which sent him out on a trip to China. Having lived three
or four years in chambers without getting a brief, he was almost
destitute, when a friend of his who was in the tea-trade offered him
a free passage to Shanghai and back on condition of his transacting
some piece of business there. On the passage out, the barrister had
many conversations with the captain, who chanced to have lately given
evidence at Westminster in a lawsuit which was of great importance to
the shipping interest. But he had been disgusted with the ‘stupidity,’
as he called it, of the judge and counsel in the case, when talking of
maritime and commercial customs; and he exclaimed: ‘Why don’t some of
those lawyers who mean to speak in shipping cases, study our ways a
little?’ These words struck the young barrister, who, after thinking
the matter over for a few days, resolved to live at sea for a while.
On his return to England, he sought for a situation as purser or
secretary on board one of the great ocean steamers, and in this
capacity made several trips. Then he successively tried expeditions
on board whalers, vessels engaged in the cod and herring fisheries,
&c.; in fact, he led a sailor’s life for rather more than three years,
picking up a full acquaintance with the manners, customs, grievances,
and wants of those who had their business in the great waters. On going
back to the bar, he almost at once got briefs in the Admiralty Court;
and becoming known to solicitors as an expert on shipping questions,
his professional fortune was made.
We might quote several cases similar to this one where special
knowledge, sometimes acquired by accident, has put men in the way of
getting highly honourable and well-paid positions on the newspaper
press. A gentleman who is now a distinguished leader-writer on one of
the London dailies, got his situation in consequence of having broken
his leg while travelling in Germany. He was laid up for months in
lodgings, and there became intimate with a Russian refugee, who taught
him the Russian language and instructed him thoroughly in Muscovite
politics. This occurred at the beginning of the Eastern imbroglio in
1876; and when the patient was getting better, he sent to a London
paper a series of letters which exhibited such a familiarity with
Russian affairs, that they attracted general notice. He was soon asked
to go to St Petersburg as special correspondent; and from that date all
things prospered with him. At the time when he broke his leg, he was
about to accept a clerkship in a merchant’s office, where he would have
had small chance of making any figure in the world.
But we fancy we can hear people exclaim that talent well directed is
pretty sure to make a man’s fortune, so that it is never surprising
to hear of clever men growing rich. True; but nevertheless there are
chances for those who are _not_ clever. We have heard of a man who had
two thousand pounds a year left him because he was civil to an infirm
old lady in church, finding the hymns for her, setting her hassock,
&c. He did not know her name; but she took care to ascertain his, and
when she died, he found that she had bequeathed to him the bulk of
her property ‘as a reward for his patient kindness.’ A clergyman of
our acquaintance obtained a living of good value from a baronet in
Norfolk for no other reason than that he was the only curate within
ten miles round who had not applied for it when it fell vacant. And
another clergyman whom we know got a still better living for having
refused preferment offered to him under circumstances derogatory to
his dignity. He was a fair singer; and a vulgar plutocrat who had
invited him to dinner promised to give him a living if he would sing
a comic song at dessert. The quiet rebuke which the young clergyman
administered made the plutocrat ashamed of himself, so that the next
day he proffered the living with a letter of apology; but the living
was refused, the clergyman stating that it would be impossible for him
to forget the circumstances under which it was first tendered. This
was the more honourable, as the clergyman was very badly off. Another
patron, hearing of what he had done, appointed him to a benefice, as a
testimony of his admiration.
We may conclude with a story of a man who was suddenly made rich
because of his great stupidity. He was the only dull man in a
bright-witted family, and going to dine with a wealthy relative who
had a horror of fools, he made so many silly remarks, that the old man
cried in exasperation: ‘I must do something for you, for you’ll never
do anything for yourself. If I don’t make a rich man of you, you’ll
become a laughing-stock to the world and a disgrace to your family.’
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER XXIV.—THE WORK.
Philip spoke lightly to Madge about the ‘chambers in town;’ but he was
not quite satisfied with the arrangement, when she told him frankly
that she did not like it. He confessed that the idea pleased him
chiefly because it would give him a sense of independence, which he
could never experience so long as he remained at Ringsford and the
family continued to be in the same mood as at present. Very little
had been said to him there, beyond a few expressions of curiosity
on the part of the girls, and a cunning question from Coutts as to
what guarantee Uncle Shield could give for the wealth he professed to
possess.
‘The amount he promised to place at my disposal is in the bank,’ Philip
answered; ‘and that, I fancy, would be sufficient, Coutts, to satisfy
even you.’
Coutts nodded, was silent, and began privately to speculate on the
possibility of ingratiating himself with this mysterious relative, who
seemed to have discovered the mines of Golconda.
Nothing more was said. Mr Hadleigh enjoined silence on the subject
until he should please to speak; and he had done so with a sternness
which effectually checked the tongue even of Miss Hadleigh, who,
being ‘engaged,’ felt herself in some measure released from parental
authority.
The consequence was that there had grown up a feeling of constraint,
which was exceedingly irksome to the frank, loving nature of Philip;
and yet he could not divine how he was to overcome it. He could not
tell whether this feeling was due to his own anxiety to reconcile two
opposing elements, or to the unspoken irritation of the family with him
for having leagued himself with their enemy. It never occurred to him
that any one of them could be jealous of his good fortune.
However, this new arrangement seemed to offer an opportunity for making
the position clear. Standing apart from the influence of his family, he
would be able to consider all the circumstances of his position with
more calmness and impartiality than would be otherwise possible.
At the same time, he was a good deal perplexed by the conduct of Mr
Shield, and was gradually beginning to feel something like vexation at
it. There was the difficulty of seeing him, and then the impossibility
of getting him to discuss anything when he did see him. Mr Shield was
still at the _Langham_; and if Philip called without having made an
appointment, he was either sent away with some excuse, which he knew to
be nothing more than an excuse, or there was a great fuss of attendants
entering and leaving the room before he was admitted. On these
occasions Philip was conscious of an atmosphere of brandy-and-soda;
and several times his uncle had been served with a glass of this
potent mixture during their interviews, brief as they were. It was to
this weakness Philip had been about to refer, when speaking to Dame
Crawshay, and to it he was disposed to attribute much of his uncle’s
eccentricity of conduct.
But he was always the same roughly good-natured man, although short of
speech and decided in manner.
‘Once for all,’ he said gruffly, when Philip made a more strenuous
effort than usual to induce him to discuss the scheme he was
elaborating; ‘I am not a good talker—see things clearer when they
are put down on paper for me. You do that; and if there is anything
that does not please me, I’ll tell you fast enough in writing. Then
there can be no mistakes between us. Had enough of mistakes in my time
already.’
And notwithstanding his peculiarly jerky mode of expressing himself
in talking, his letters were invariably clear and to the point. They
formed, indeed, a bewildering contrast to the man as he appeared
personally, for they were the letters of one who had clear vision and
cool judgment. But as yet Philip had not found any opportunity to
approach the subject of a reconciliation with his father. He kept that
object steadily in view, however, and waited patiently for the right
moment in which to speak.
Wrentham was well pleased that Mr Shield should keep entirely in
the background; it left him the more freedom in action; and he was
delighted with his appointment as general manager for Philip. His first
transaction in that capacity was to sublet his offices in Golden Alley
to his principal. This saved so much expense, and there were the clerks
and all the machinery ready for conducting any business which might be
entered upon. Wrentham had agreeable visions of big prizes to be won on
the Stock Exchange. He was confident that the whole theory of exchange
business was as simple as A B C to him; and only the want of a little
capital had prevented him from making a large fortune long ago. His
chance had come at last.
Here was this young man, who knew almost nothing of business, but
possessed capital which he desired to employ. He, Martin Wrentham, knew
how to employ it to the best advantage. What more simple, then? He
should employ the capital; instead of dabbling in hundreds, he would be
able to deal in thousands, and in no time he would double the capital
and make his own fortune too!
But when the time came for Philip to unfold the project which he had
been quietly maturing, the sanguine and volatile Wrentham was for an
instant dumb with amazement, then peered inquiringly into the face of
the young capitalist, as if seeking some symptoms of insanity, and next
laughed outright.
‘That’s the best joke I have heard for a long time,’ he exclaimed.
‘Where is the joke?’ asked Philip, a little surprised.
‘You don’t mean to say that you are serious in thinking of investing
your capital in this way?’ Wrentham’s hilarity disappeared as he spoke.
‘Perfectly serious; and Mr Shield approves of the idea.’
‘But you will never make money out of it.’
‘I do not know what you may mean by making money; but unless the
calculations which have been supplied to me by practical men are
utterly wrong, I shall obtain a fair percentage on the capital
invested. I do not mean to do anything foolish, for I consider the
money as held in trust, and will do what is in my power to make a good
use of it.’
‘You want to drive Philanthropy and Business in one team; but I never
heard of them going well in harness together.’
‘I think they have done so, and may do so again,’ said Philip
cheerfully.
‘You will be an exception to all the rules I know anything about, if
you manage to make them go together. If you had five times the capital
you are starting with, you could make nothing out of it.’
‘I hope to make a great deal out of it, although not exactly in the
sense you mean.’
Wrentham passed his hand through his hair, as if he despaired of
bringing his principal to reason.
‘What do you expect to make out of it?’
‘First of all, beginning on our small scale, we shall provide work for
so many men. By the system of paying for the work done, rather than by
wages whether the work is done or not, each man will be able to earn
the value of what he can produce or cares to produce.’
‘You will not find half-a-dozen men willing to accept that arrangement.’
‘We must make the most of those we do find. When the advantages are
made plain in practice, others will come in fast enough.’
‘The Unions will prevent them.’
‘It is a kind of Union I am proposing to form—a Union of capital and
labour. Then, I propose to divide amongst the men all profits above,
say, six or eight per cent. on the capital, in proportion to the work
each has done. I believe we shall find plenty of workmen, who will
understand and appreciate the scheme.’
Wrentham was resting his elbows on the table and twisting a piece of
paper between his fingers. He had got over his first surprise. The one
thing he understood was, that Philip would hold obstinately to this
ridiculous ideal of a social revolution until experience showed him how
impracticable it was. The one thing he did not understand was, how Mr
Shield had agreed to let him try it.
‘I admire the generous spirit which prompts you to try this experiment;
it is excellent, benevolent, and all that sort of thing,’ he said
coolly; ‘but it is not business, and it will be a failure. Every scheme
of the same sort that has been tried has failed. However, I shall do my
best to help you. How do you propose to begin?’
Philip was prepared for this lukewarm support; he had not expected
Wrentham to enter upon the plan with enthusiasm, and was aware that men
of business would regard it as a mere fancy, in which a good deal of
money would be thrown away. But he was confident that the result would
justify his sanguine calculations.
‘I am sorry you cannot take a more cheerful view of my project,
Wrentham; but I hope some day to hear you own that you were mistaken.
We shall begin by buying this land—here is the plan. Then if we get it
at a fair price, we shall proceed to erect two blocks of good healthy
tenements for working-people. We shall be our own contractors, and so
begin our experiment with the men at once. Take the plans home with
you, and look them over; and to-morrow you can open negotiations for
the purchase of the land.’
Wrentham’s eyes brightened.
‘Ah, that’s better—that’s something I can do.’
‘You will find that there are many things you can do in carrying out
the work,’ said Philip, smiling.
The general manager was restored to equanimity by the prospect of a
speculation in land. The young enthusiast went his way, contented with
the thought that he had taken the first step towards a social reform of
vast importance.
The same afternoon the agents for the land in question received a
communication from a solicitor inquiring the terms on which it was to
be sold.
THE HOMING PIGEON.
BY GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N.
‘Let it off at Leicester, sir.’
My train had already started, when the speaker—an earnest-faced,
enthusiastic-looking working-man—breathless with running, leapt on to
the step, and after a hurried glance round the compartment, popped a
paper bag into my arms and disappeared.
‘Let it off at Leicester?’ What did the man mean? Did he take me for
one of the Fenian brotherhood? Had he handed me an ‘infernal machine’
with which to destroy Leicester railway station? I was taken aback for
a moment, but only for a moment, for something rustled inside the bag,
and I ‘keeked’ in at a corner.
‘You’re there, are you?’ I said _sotto voce_, as the bright, inquiring
eye of a blue homing pigeon met my gaze.
The man’s meaning was plain enough now. Leicester was our first
stopping-place. I was to throw the bird up there—which I duly did—and
knowing the hour the train was due there, its owner could thus judge of
its flying powers from the time it took to regain the loft in London.
By many people, it is believed that the homing pigeon is guided in
its wonderful flights by some _special instinct_; others think that
sight alone is the bird’s guide. In the far-distant past, long before
railways, telegraphs, or telephones were dreamt of, pigeons were used
to convey intelligence of all kinds from distant quarters; and even in
our own day and in times of peace, homing or carrier pigeons are found
exceedingly useful as message-bearers in a hundred ways needless to
name.
In time of war, their utility can hardly be overrated. The ‘Paris
pigeon-post’ of the Franco-German War of 1870-71 is well known. During
the siege, when the gayest city in the world was closely beleaguered
by the Prussians, and all communication with the outside world was
totally cut off, homing pigeons brought to Paris by balloons, found
their way back to Tours and other places, bearing with them news of
the beleaguered city. How welcome they must have been to the thousands
of people who had friends and relatives in Paris at that time!
The messages carried by the pigeons were written or printed, then
photographed on thin paper, the words being so reduced in size that it
required the aid of a powerful magnifier to decipher them. These tiny
documents were carried in small sealed quills, carefully fastened to
the centre tail-feathers. From the very moment of the arrival of the
first homing pigeon, the Paris pigeon-post was firmly established as
an institution; and in times of war among all civilised nations, the
aërial _voyageur_ will in future doubtless play a most important part.
We have already in England a large number of clubs devoted to
pigeon-flying or pigeon-racing; but it is in Brussels that the sport is
carried out to the fullest extent. In Belgium alone, there are at this
moment nearly twenty-five hundred clubs, and every town, village, or
district in the whole country goes in for its weekly race. The birds
are sent off on the Friday or Saturday by special trains, and are
liberated in clouds of thousands on the Sunday mornings, two, three,
four, or even five hundred miles from home.
I know many people in this country who have as their special hobby the
breeding and flying of pigeons in a private way, quite independent of
clubs—people who never go very far away from home without taking a
pigeon or two along with them, to send back with news of their safe
arrival, or their success or non-success in matters of business. I
had the following told me by a friend, and have no reason to doubt
the truth of it. A gentleman of rather shy disposition came down from
London to a town not a hundred miles from Warwick, bent on proposing to
a young lady, with whom he was greatly in love. She was the daughter
of a well-to-do landowner, and a fancier of Antwerp carriers. The
Londoner, however, lacked the courage or opportunity of popping the
question. He was bold enough, though, before taking leave, to beg the
loan of one of his lady-love’s pets, just ‘to tell her of his safe
arrival in town.’ The bird returned from London the same day; and in
the little quill, it bore to its mistress a message—that, after all,
might more simply and naturally have been conveyed by lip—to wit,
a declaration and a proposal. A more artful though innocent way of
getting out of a difficulty could hardly have been devised. It was
successful too.
The homing pigeon of the present day is not only remarkably fond of
the cot and scenes around it wherein it has been bred and reared, but
fond of its owner as well, and exceedingly sagacious and docile. The
power of wing of this bird is very great, and emulates the speed of the
swiftest train, over five hundred miles being done sometimes in less
than twelve hours.
Now, although, in our foggy and uncertain climate, we can never hope
to attain such results in pigeon-flying as they do in Belgium or sunny
France, still, the breeding and utilising of these useful birds deserve
far more attention than we in this country give them. It is in the hope
that some of the readers of this _Journal_ may be induced to adopt the
breeding and flying of these pigeons as a fancy or hobby, that I now
devote the rest of this article to a few practical hints about their
general management.
I should say, then, to a beginner, join a club, by all means, if there
be one anywhere near you. If there is not, and you are energetic
enough, why, then, start one; or, independent of all clubs, make your
hobby an entirely private one. Now, before doing anything else in the
matter, you must have a proper loft or pigeonry for your coming pets.
This should be placed as high as possible, so that the birds, from
their area or flight, may catch glimpses of the country all round, and
thus familiarise themselves with it.
The loft should be divided into two by means of a partition with a
door in it, each apartment having an outlet to the area in front. The
one room is devoted to the young birds, the other to the old. Without
illustrations, it is somewhat difficult to describe the area or trap
and its uses, but I will try. In its simplest form, then, it is a
large wooden cage—with a little platform in front of it—that is fixed
against the pigeons’ own private door to their loft. At the back of the
cage is a sliding-door, communicating with the loft, and in command of
the owner of the pigeons; and another in the front of the cage. It is
evident, then, that if you open the back-door, the bird can get into
the area from the loft; and if you open the front one as well, he can
get out altogether, to fly about at his own sweet will. Returning from
his exercise when tired, if both trap or sliding-doors are open, he
can pass right through the cage into the loft; if only the front-door
is open, he can get no farther than the interior of the cage or area.
But independent of these trap-doors, there are two little swing-doors,
called bolting-wires—one in front of the cage, and one behind, that is,
betwixt the area and the loft. The peculiarity of these swing-doors is
this: they are hinged at the top, and open _inwardly_, being prevented
from opening outwardly by a beading placed in front of them at the
foot. Well, suppose a bird to have just arrived from off a journey, and
alighting on the little platform, found the sliding-door shut, it would
immediately shove against the door, which would swing open, permitting
the bird’s entrance, and at once shut again against the beading, and
prevent its exit. In the same way, through the back bolting-wires,
a pigeon could enter the area, but could not return to the loft in
that way, nor get out through the bolting-wires in front. When a bird
returns home from a journey, the exact time of its arrival may even, by
a very simple contrivance attached to the external bolting-wires, be
signalled to the owner.
The breeding compartment should have around the walls nesting-boxes,
I might call them, or divisions, four feet long, two and a half feet
high, and about two feet wide; these ought to be barred in front, with
a doorway, to put the pigeons through for breeding purposes, and two
earthenware nest-pans in each, hidden from view behind an L-shaped
screen of wood. In the loft are pigeon-hoppers and drinking-fountains,
as well as a box containing a mixture of gravel, clay, and old mortar,
with about one-third of coarse salt; the whole wetted and made into a
mass with brine.
About twice a week, a bath is greatly relished by the birds; but care
should be taken not to leave the floor of the loft damp. Old lime and
gravel should be sprinkled about. The food of the homing pigeon is not
different from that of any other pigeon, and consists chiefly of beans,
small gray peas, with now and then, by way of change, a little wheat,
tares, rice or Indian corn. Soft food may sometimes be given also, such
as boiled rice or potato, mixed with oatmeal.
The drinking-water should be changed every day, and the fountain
frequently well rinsed out. The greatest cleanliness should prevail
in the loft. Everything should be clean and sweet and dry, and there
should never be either dust or a bad smell. Green food may be given
when the birds cannot get out to supply themselves. It should be given
fresh, and on no account left about the loft to decay. Never let the
hoppers be empty, and see that the grains are not only good, but free
from dust as well.
Next as to getting into stock. There are two or three ways of doing
this. It is sometimes possible to get the eggs, which may be placed
under an ordinary pigeon. Good old birds may be got—a few pairs;
but they must, of course, be kept strict prisoners, else they will
fly away. The best plan, however, of getting into stock is that of
purchasing young birds as soon as they are fit to leave the mother.
These must be put in the loft, but not let out for a week or two,
although they should be permitted to go into the area and look around
them, to get familiar with the place. After some time, they may be
permitted to go out and fly around. If good, they will return; if of
a bad strain, they are as well lost. But training should not begin
until the bird is fully three months old, and strong. The young birds
are first ‘tossed’ two or three hundred yards from their loft. If they
have already become familiar with their home surroundings, they will
speedily get back to the cot. Toss them unfed, flinging them well up
in an open space; and repeat this day after day for some time; then
gradually increase the distance, to a quarter of a mile, half a mile,
and a mile, and so on to five, ten, up to fifty or a hundred miles of
railway. The tossing should be done on a fine day, at all events never
on a foggy one.
Birds may be sent to station-masters at different distances along the
line to be tossed, the basket in which they have been carried being
sent back as a returned empty, with the exact time at which the birds
were let out marked on the label by the station-master or porter.
When this plan is adopted, it is of course necessary to write to the
station-master first, and get his permission to send birds to him for
the purpose of being tossed.
I have purposely avoided saying anything about the points and
properties of homing pigeons; it is good wing you want, more than shape
of head or face, although there ought always to be a skull indicative
of room for brains. It is wing you want, I repeat, strength, health,
and _strain_. Why I put the last word in italics is this: I consider
that it is essential to success, and cheapest in the long-run, to breed
from a good working strain. The rule holds good in the breeding of
all kinds of live-stock. So the reader, if he intends to take up the
homing-pigeon hobby, will do well to see that he gets birds of a _good
working stock_ to begin with.
A pigeon is not at its best till it is two years of age; care should be
taken, therefore, not to attempt too much with them the first year of
training. When a bird returns, treat it to a handful of nice grain, or
even hemp; but during training, give nothing that is too fattening in
large quantities. Great care and attention are required all the year
round; exercise should never be neglected; they should be permitted to
get out frequently during the day, or indeed, to have their liberty
all day, taking precautions against the tender attentions of vagrant
cats. The moulting season is a somewhat critical time, and so is the
breeding-time; but this class of pigeons is, on the whole, hardy. Treat
your birds with universal kindness, and they will certainly reward
you.[1]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] [An excellent article on the subject, with drawings of loft, &c.,
will be found in _The Field_ for 23d Feb. last.—ED.]
A WITNESS FOR THE DEFENCE.
IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.
To say that there was a ‘sensation’ would feebly describe what
followed. Every one in court sprang to his feet. The prisoner looked as
if he had seen a ghost. There was a perfect hubbub of voices, as bar
and jury talked among themselves, and my brethren at the solicitors’
table poured questions upon me—to none of which I replied. Silence
being restored, the voice of the judge—grave and dignified, but with a
perceptible tremor—descended like vocal oil on the troubled waves of
sound. ‘Who instructs you, Mr Clincher?’
‘Mr Bentley, my lord.’
The judge looked more astonished than ever. My name was familiar enough
to him as a judge, and he had known it even better when, as a leading
barrister, he had held many a brief from me.
‘I am persuaded,’ said he, ‘that a gentleman of Mr Bentley’s repute and
experience has good reason for what he does. But so extraordinary and
unheard-of—— I will ask Mr Bentley himself if he really considers that
duty requires him to offer himself as a witness, and when and why he
came to that conclusion?’
‘My lord,’ I replied, ‘I am certain that, believing what I have had
cause to believe within the last five minutes, I should be greatly to
blame if I did not testify on oath to certain facts which are within
my own knowledge. But if the prisoner chooses to call me as a witness,
your lordship will presently understand why it is that, with all
submission, I cannot at this moment, or until I am in the box, give my
reasons. And I must add that the value of my evidence to the prisoner
will greatly depend on his answers to certain questions which I wish,
with your lordship’s sanction, to put to him in writing. And if he
answers me as I expect, I believe my evidence will put an end to the
case against him.’
‘Really, gentlemen of the jury,’ said his lordship, ‘this matter is
assuming a more and more remarkable aspect. I hardly know what to say.
That a prisoner on trial for his life should answer questions put to
him in private by the prosecuting solicitor is the most extraordinary
proposal, I am bound to say, which ever came under my notice. It is
the more difficult for me to decide because the prisoner has not the
advantage of counsel’s assistance.—Prisoner, is it your wish that this
gentleman should be called as a witness on your behalf? You have heard
what he has said about certain questions which he wishes to put to you
beforehand. Of course you are not bound to answer any such questions,
and may nevertheless call him. What do you say?’
‘I am in God’s hands, my lord,’ answered the prisoner, who was quite
calm again. ‘It may be that He has raised up a deliverer for me—I
cannot tell. But I know that if He wills that I should die, no man can
save me; if He wills to save me, nought can do me harm. So I am ready
to answer any questions the gentleman wishes.’
‘I propose,’ said the judge, ‘before deciding this extraordinary point,
to consult with the learned Recorder in the next court.’
All rose as the judge retired; and during his absence I escaped the
questions which assailed me from every side by burying myself in a
consultation with my counsel. When he heard what the reader knows, he
fully upheld me in what I proposed to do; and then threw himself back
in his seat with the air of a man whom nothing could ever astonish
again.
‘Si-lence!’ cried the usher. The judge was returning.
‘I have decided,’ said he, ‘to allow the questions to be put as Mr
Bentley proposes. Let them be written out and submitted to me for my
approval.’
I sat down and wrote my questions, and they were passed up to the
judge. As he read them, he looked more surprised than ever. But all he
said, as he handed them down, was, ‘Put the questions.’
I walked up to the dock and gave them into the prisoner’s hands,
together with my pencil. He read them carefully through, and wrote his
answers slowly and with consideration. With the paper in my hand, I got
into the witness-box and was sworn.
My evidence was to the effect already stated. As I described the man
I had seen under the lamp, with my face averted from the prisoner and
turned to the jury, I saw that they were making a careful comparison,
and that, allowing for the change wrought by twelve years, they found
that the description tallied closely with the man’s appearance.
‘I produce this paper, on which I just now wrote certain questions,
to which the prisoner wrote the answers under my eyes. These are the
questions and answers:
‘_Question._ Were you smoking when you came up to the corner of Hauraki
Street?—_Answer._ No.
‘_Question._ Did you afterwards smoke?—_Answer._ I had no lights.
‘_Question._ Did you try to get a light?—_Answer._ Yes, by climbing a
lamp at the corner; but I was not steady enough, and I remember I broke
my hat against the crossbar.
‘_Question._ Where did you carry your pipe and tobacco?—_Answer._ In my
hat.
‘Those answers,’ I concluded, ‘are absolutely correct in every
particular. The man whom I saw under the lamp, at eight o’clock on the
night of the murder, behaved as the answers indicate. That concludes
the evidence I have felt bound to tender.’ And I handed the slip of
paper to the usher for inspection by the jury.
‘Prisoner,’ inquired the judge, ‘do you call any other witness?’
‘I do not, my lord.’
‘Then, gentlemen,’ said the judge, turning to the jury, ‘the one remark
that I shall make to you is this—that if you believe the story of the
prisoner’s witness, there can be little doubt but that the prisoner was
the man whom the witness saw at the corner of Hauraki Street at eight
o’clock on the night in question; and if that was so, it is clear,
on the case of the prosecution, that he cannot have committed this
murder. I should not be doing my duty if I did not point out to you
that the witness in question is likely, to say the least, to be without
bias in the prisoner’s favour, and that his evidence is very strongly
corroborated indeed by the prisoner’s answers to the written questions
put to him. Gentlemen, you will now consider your verdict.’
‘We are agreed, my lord,’ said the foreman.
‘Gentlemen of the jury,’ sung out the clerk of arraigns, ‘are you all
agreed upon your verdict?’
‘We are.’
‘And that verdict is?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘And that is the verdict of you all?’
‘It is.’
There followed a burst of cheering which the usher could not silence,
but which silenced itself as the judge was seen to be speaking. ‘John
Harden—I am thankful, every man in this court is thankful, that your
trust in the mercy and power of the All-merciful and All-powerful
has not been in vain. You stand acquitted of a foul crime by the
unhesitating verdict of the jury, and most wonderful has been your
deliverance. You go forth a free man; and I am glad to think that the
goodness of God has been bestowed on one who has repented of his past
sins, and who is not likely, I hope and believe, to be unmindful of
that goodness hereafter.—You are discharged.’
Had he been left to himself, I think the prisoner’s old master would
have climbed into the dock, with the view of personally delivering
his servant out of the house of bondage. But he was restrained by a
sympathetic constable, while John Harden was re-conveyed for a short
time to the jail, to undergo certain necessary formalities connected
with his release from custody. I volunteered to take charge of Mr
Slocum, and took him to the vestibule of the prison, overwhelmed during
the short walk by thanks and praises. We were soon joined by Harden,
whose meeting with his master brought a lump into the throat even of
a tough criminal lawyer like myself. I saw them into a cab, and they
drove off to Mr Slocum’s hotel, after promising to call on me next day,
and enlighten me on certain points as to which I was still in the dark.
As strange a part of my story as any, has yet to be told. I had hardly
got back to my office and settled down to read over the various letters
which were awaiting my signature, when my late client (Harden’s
prosecutor) was announced. I had lost sight of him in the excitement
which followed the acquittal. He did not wait to learn whether I was
engaged or not, but rushed after the clerk into my room. He was ashen
white, or rather gray, and his knees shook so that he could scarcely
stand; but his eyes positively blazed with wrath. Leaning over my
table, he proceeded, in the presence of the astonished clerk, to pour
upon me a flood of abuse and invective of the foulest kind. I had sold
him; I was in league with the prisoner. I was a swindling thief of a
lawyer, whom he would have struck off the rolls, &c.; until I really
thought he had gone out of his mind.
As soon as I could get in a word, I curtly explained that it was no
part of a lawyer’s duty to try and hang a man whom he knew to be
innocent. As he only replied with abusive language, I ordered him
out of the office. The office quieted itself once more—being far too
busy, and also too well accustomed to eccentric people to have time
for long wonderment at anything—and in an hour I had finished my
work, and was preparing to leave for home, when another visitor was
announced—Inspector Forrester.
‘Well, Mr Forrester, what’s the matter now? I’m just going off.’
‘Sorry if I put you out of the way, sir; but I thought you’d like to
hear what’s happened. The prosecutor in Harden’s case has given himself
up for the murder!’
‘What?’ I shouted.
‘He just has, sir. It’s a queer day, this is. When I heard you get
up and give evidence for the man you were prosecuting, I thought
curiosities was over for ever; but seems they ain’t, and never will be.’
‘How was it?’