and facing the door, was a man who took my attention more than any one
there, the _cafetier_ excepted. He was a full-cheeked, heavy-browed
man, not tall, but strongly built, and with something of that added
corpulence which so often comes with middle age. He had close-cropped
iron-gray hair, which stood out like a stiff stubble in every
direction; but his moustache and imperial were jet black, and therefore
presumably dyed. He had a rather thick aquiline nose, and he wore a
pair of gold-rimmed spectacles; but once or twice I caught a glance
from his eyes, which were steel-gray in colour, so keen and piercing,
that his assumption of artificial aid for them seemed somewhat of a
mockery. He was dressed in a tightly buttoned black frock-coat, and
wore a wisp of black ribbon round his neck, tied in a formal little
bow under his turn-down collar. His trousers were dark gray in colour,
and his feet were incased in a pair of broad-toed varnished boots. His
rather large plump hands were white and shapely, and his filbert nails
were carefully trimmed. He looked so superior to the general run of
the other frequenters of the coffee-shop whom I had hitherto seen,
that he had an air of being altogether out of place. He neither spoke
to nor was addressed by any one except Jean, who served him with his
chocolate, but seemed immersed in the contents first of one foreign
newspaper and then of another, several of which were spread on the
table in front of him. Still, notwithstanding his seeming indifference
to everything that was going on around him, an impression somehow got
possession of me that not a man entered or left the place without being
keenly scrutinised from behind those gold-rimmed spectacles, while more
than once I had an uneasy consciousness that I was the object who was
being photographed by that coldly penetrative gaze.
As soon as I had finished my chop, Jean came to clear the table, upon
which I took the opportunity of saying to him: ‘I shall require a bed
here to-night. I suppose you can find room for me?’
He stared at me for a moment or two in open-eyed astonishment. Then he
said: ‘Monsieur is mistaken. We have no beds for strangers here.’
‘Then why have you the announcement of “Good Beds” painted up on the
lamp outside?’ I demanded a little hotly.
Jean shrugged his shoulders. ‘Ah, that is a mistake—all at once a
mistake,’ he answered with his strong French accent. ‘The Englishman
who had this place before Monsieur Karavich, used to let out beds; but
Monsieur Karavich, who has been here but two months, does not. No.’
At this juncture M. Karavich himself appeared on the scene. He had come
to ascertain what the discussion was about. He put a question to Jean
in French, and the latter answered him volubly in the same language.
‘Jean is right, monsieur,’ said the _cafetier_ to me in his broken
English, which I had some difficulty in comprehending, and with an air
of polite deprecation. ‘We do not let out beds to strangers. The lamp
shall be altered to-morrow. I am sorry—truly sorry, monsieur.’
‘So am I sorry,’ I answered stoutly. ‘I am an utter stranger in London,
never having set foot in it till three hours ago, and I know no more
where I am than the man in the moon. Besides, think of the fog! What
am I, a stranger, to do if turned out into the midst of it? You can
surely find me a bed somewhere. I don’t care how humble it is—and it’s
only for one night. Put your head outside the door, monsieur, and see
for yourself whether on such a night you would turn even a dog into the
streets.’
The _cafetier_ spoke to Jean in some language with which I had no
acquaintance. Jean replied volubly as usual. Then the _cafetier_ spoke
again, but this time his voice had an imperative tone in it such as I
had not noticed before. Jean turned pale, and replied, not in words,
but by turning out the palms of his hands and spreading wide his
fingers. It was an answer replete with significance. Turning to me, the
_cafetier_ said, in his slow, hesitating tones: ‘I will find monsieur a
bed. He is a stranger and an Englishman and claims my hospitality: that
is enough for Fedor Karavich.’
I did not fail to thank him. He smiled faintly, made me a little bow,
and went slowly back to his counter. When I turned my eyes on Jean, he
was scowling at me most unmistakably. What could I possibly have done
to annoy the sprightly little man?
The stranger with the gold spectacles pushed away his newspapers and
rose to go. Jean helped him on with his fur-lined overcoat, and as he
did so, a quick whisper passed between the two. Then Jean left him. The
stranger put on his hat, and coming down a pace or two till he stood
close by the end of my table, he proceeded to leisurely button up his
coat. I happened to look up, and our eyes met. The stranger smiled,
and said in a soft, pleasant voice, in which there was the faintest
perceptible trace of a foreign accent: ‘Pardon, but I think I heard
monsieur say just now that he was a stranger in London. Is that not so?’
‘Quite a stranger,’ I replied. ‘I only arrived here three hours ago,
and was never in London before.’
I was glad to have some one to speak to, were it only this
pleasant-voiced foreigner; it seemed in some measure to take off the
edge of my loneliness.
‘Again pardon,’ said the other; ‘but monsieur would naturally find the
fog outside rather bewildering? Ah, your English climate! He would
be puzzled, for instance, to find his way from this house to Charing
Cross, or even to the nearest bridge; is it not so?’
‘Faith, you’re right there,’ I answered with a laugh. ‘I have not the
slightest idea of the locality of this house, nor even on which side
the river it is situated. But daylight will solve my difficulties in
that respect.’
‘Ah, that daylight is a great tell-tale,’ answered the stranger with
the ghost of a shrug. ‘Bon soir, monsieur; I hope you will sleep well,
and have pleasant dreams.’
Again the same inscrutable smile flitted across his face. Raising his
hat slightly, he pushed open the swing-doors, and passed out into the
fog and darkness.
It was growing late by this time. Besides myself, there were only two
customers now left in the place, who seemed still as intent on their
game of dominoes as they had been when I went in. Summoning Jean, I
asked to be shown to my room.
I think the bedroom into which I was presently inducted was the very
smallest in which it was ever my lot to sleep, while the bed itself
was so short, that a tall lanky fellow such as I was might well wonder
how his length of limb was to be packed away in so small a compass.
On turning down the bedclothes, the sheets and pillow-cases, to my
countrified eyes, accustomed to the snowiest of linen, looked far too
dingy to be at all inviting. It seemed to me that they had not been
changed for a considerable period; but be that as it may, I had no
inclination to trust myself into too close contact with their dubious
purity. I was tired enough to sleep anywhere, and had there been
anything in the shape of an easy-chair in the room, I would have made
that my couch for the night. What I did was to take off my collar,
boots, and coat, lie down on the bed, turn up the counterpane over me
on both sides, and lay my coat over that. Thousands in London that
night had a far worse bed than mine. Leaving the end of candle which
Jean had given me to burn itself out, three minutes later I was in a
sound dreamless sleep.
FORTUNE.
By a deplorable limitation of the meaning of the word, it has come
about that the idea suggested to most minds by the expression ‘fortune’
or ‘a fortunate man’ is the accumulation of wealth. It would seem,
therefore, that, in the popular estimation, no man is fortunate who is
not in the possession of riches. A little thought, above all a little
experience of life, will soon convince us that this is not the case;
and so far is it from being true, that wealth will be found to be but
a small and solitary factor in those various accidents or providences
of our lives from which we derive our happiness. The sordid wooer in
the ballad, who asked, ‘What is your fortune, my pretty maid?’ knew
of no fortune beside that of riches. The pretty and witty maid knew
better. ‘My face is my fortune, sir,’ she said; and let in a flood of
unaccustomed light upon the benighted mind of her baffled suitor, to
whom it had never occurred that fortune might consist in beauty and the
qualities that win love and admiration.
It is doubtful whether a man who, by a stroke or two of the pen, can
flutter the innocent dovecots of the Exchange, is, by virtue of that
power, any happier than the humble farmer whose year’s income may be
straitened by one night’s rain. Far in advance of wealth, in estimating
what meed of fortune has fallen to any man’s lot, should be placed
health, upon the state of which our welfare so largely depends, and the
preservation of which is so nearly contingent upon the method of life
we adopt. Riches without health do not bring with them the capacity for
their enjoyment; and yet how many of us waste the latter in the pursuit
of the former! The merchant who rises early and toils till a late
hour at his desk in the sunless city office for the sake of amassing
money, has generally advanced far beyond middle age before his object
is attained, and finds then that he has lost the faculty of enjoyment.
Leisure has become a weariness to him; the pursuits for which he once
coveted it have lost their attraction for him; the studies he once
desired opportunities to follow up, have lost their interest; he has no
longer the robust health and bodily strength demanded for the sports
and pastimes which once seemed to him to make life worth living.
Without the accustomed occupation, the day is a blank; he must still
journey to the office, still add sovereign to sovereign, and take what
comfort is possible from the reflection that another may perhaps spend
them, and that they may serve to keep in ease and idleness one who
never worked for them—a poor and second-hand solace, indeed, for no man
yet ever started life with the intention of acquiring wealth for the
sole benefit of his successor. The proper image of such a man, wearing
out his days in the dull monotonous round of business, is the ass in
the great hollow wheel of the water-well in Carisbrooke Castle, which
walks for ever up-hill, but which never advances, and never rises, and
the end of whose labour is to draw water that others may drink it.
With numerically unimportant exceptions, we have all to toil for our
living; and it is probable that that man is most truly described as
fortunate who at the outset in life has chosen work in which he can
take pleasure. To labour during the best hours of the day in hatred or
contempt of the task, for the sake of the few hours of leisure that are
thereby earned, will in the long-run weaken the moral fibre and lower
the vitality; and those hours of leisure will probably be wasted when
won. But he who has been fortunate enough to find work for his hands to
do which will bring him food and shelter, and in which at the same time
his soul can rejoice, will lay aside his task with a spirit fresh for
a new study, a new enterprise, or with a zest for innocent and healthy
enjoyment.
The artist who labours to create forms, hues, and ideas of beauty;
the author who enriches the world with fresh treasures of thought;
the physician whose aim and whose reward is to relieve suffering; the
carpenter to whom his craft is a pride and a triumph; the labourer
in the field who loves the soil he tills, and delights to watch from
season to season the checkered success of his operations: these,
and such as these, are the truly fortunate men, into whose annual
money-winnings we have no need to inquire before pronouncing them
happy. Here, again, our lot is to a large extent in our own hands; for
though we have not all the professions and occupations of life offered
to our choice, yet some selection is open to us, and it behoves us to
choose both wisely and boldly, and it is an instance where boldness
is often wisdom. Even where the choice presented to us is so narrow
as seemingly to preclude all chance of satisfying our aspirations,
there is but little work in the world which we cannot ennoble by our
method of performing it and by the spirit in which we undertake it.
The ideal life which presents us with the spectacle of the Master
washing the feet of his disciples and kneading the common clay of the
ground, teaches us how to invest with dignity the meanest labour of
our hands. From the examples of Chaucer, whose pen ‘moved over bills
of lading,’ and of Burns, whose feet trod deep into the miry furrows
behind the plough he guided, we may learn that while a humble toil
cannot degrade the man, a man may infinitely ennoble the toil. Let us
but once recognise that it is necessary and right that any piece of
work should be done, and that it has fallen to our lot to do it, and
a genuine pleasure may be derived from its thorough performance. ‘The
manly part,’ says Emerson, ‘is to do with might and main what you can
do.’ Indifference as to the excellence of the work turned out, hurried
or perfunctory or slovenly execution, will result in lethargy and
self-dissatisfaction; while a right pride in a piece of good work well
done will leave the nerves braced and not relaxed, and the faculties
developed instead of diminished.
Fortunate, again, beyond the power of mishap to depress, is the man who
is endowed with such elasticity of spirit that he can shake off the
anxieties and wearinesses of the mind in the mere delight of existence;
to whom the fresh breath of morning as he rises, the sense of bodily
strength as he steps forth into the open air, the consciousness of
vigour as he performs his mid-day toil, the assurance of sound sleep
as he lays his head on the pillow at night, can bring oblivion of the
losses or the disappointments of yesterday. And, once more, a measure
of this good fortune is within the reach of most of us. The temper
that broods over trouble, that cries over spilt milk, and forebodes
unrealised ills, is one easy indeed to yield to, but one which can
be put to rout with a little fortitude and resolve; and, that once
achieved, the energies necessary for the retrieval of our position will
quickly reassert themselves.
Highly favoured, too, of fortune is the man who has been born with an
ear and a heart for Music, with an eye and a heart for Art and Nature,
and with a brain and a heart for Poetry; for veritably in these are to
be found the most inexhaustible riches, the most enduring delights,
the most exalting pleasures. But it would be unavailing to attempt to
capitulate the various gifts that birth or accident confers which are
worthy to be regarded as good fortune. A moment’s reflection is all
that is needed to prove that opulence is but a small and single item
among the infinite number of such gifts; and the sordid tendency of
the mind, and the liability of words to become restricted in their
meaning and debased in their application, is evinced in the narrowed
signification of opulence ascribed by common usage to the word
‘fortune.’ We live in a money-grasping age, and it is well to call to
mind from time to time that guineas are not the only counters with
which the game of life is played and won or lost, and that our banker
is not, after all, the best judge of our fortune.
THE IVORY TRADE.
There is no doubt in the world but that American trade is being
admirably served by American consuls in every part of the world.
The Reports which these gentlemen send are not only written in an
interesting manner, but embrace nearly every subject that can be of
service to the industrial occupations of any country. Among recent
Reports is one by Mr Consul Webster on ivory so far as it relates to
the Sheffield cutlery trade; and as his Report embraces nearly every
matter connected with this trade—though some of his figures are not
very new—the facts cannot fail to be of interest to this country also.
From the Report, it appears that in 1880 there were imported 13,435
cwt. of ivory from the following countries; British East Indies sent us
2972 cwt.; west coast of Africa, 2310 cwt.; Egypt, 2003 cwt.; British
possessions in South Africa, 1114 cwt.; the native states, east coast
of Africa, 1099 cwt.; Aden, 693 cwt.; France, 612 cwt.; Holland, 431
cwt.; Malta, 411 cwt.; Portuguese possessions, West Africa, 361 cwt.;
British possessions, West Africa, 162 cwt.; and all other countries,
1267 cwt.
Malta is the port of shipment to England of ivory that finds its way
to Tripoli and other points on the north coast of Africa. To Holland,
ivory is brought from her possessions on the coast of Africa. France
receives but little except what has been purchased in England,
portions of which are sometimes returned. The Bombay, Siam, and
Zanzibar ivory is bought for the making of piano keys, carvings, and
other expensive articles of luxury. All ivory from the east coast of
Africa, except the Cape, comes through Zanzibar, and pays a royalty
to the sultan. This is known to the trade by a mark—a rude figure of
an elephant—that is put upon it after the payment of this royalty. Mr
Webster calls attention to the fact that this mark is often erased from
tusks that are to be sent to the United States from the English sales,
and suggests that this is done to prevent identification, and evade
the extra duty chargeable on all ‘goods the produce of countries east
of the Cape of Good Hope, when imported from places west of the Cape
of Good Hope.’ It will be news to most of us in this country that the
United States thus tries to prohibit, where possible, the purchase of
raw material through the European markets.
Mammoth tusks of ivory occasionally come to this country from Siberia;
but as these have been lying exposed for centuries, and probably for
many thousands of years, and often buried in ice, the ‘nature’ has
gone out of them, and they are not fit for the cutler’s use. The teeth
of the walrus and hippopotamus are used in considerable quantity, and
being of suitable size, are used whole for making expensive carved
handles. Ivory of the best quality comes from the west coast of Africa,
under the names of Cameroon, Angola, and Gaboon ivory. This is brought
down from the interior, and retains a larger proportion of the ‘fat’
or gelatine, from the fact, probably, that it is more recently from
the animal. In this state it is called ‘green’ ivory. It is more
translucent, and not so white as the Egyptian and other kinds, called
‘white’ ivory, that have been lying a longer time and in a more sandy
region, and exposed to the heat of the sun until the animal matter
has disappeared. The excellence of the ‘green’ ivory consists in its
greater toughness and in its growing whiter by age, instead of yellow,
as is the case with the whiter varieties. Yet buyers of cutlery,
through ignorance of these qualities, usually prefer the whiter kinds,
which on that account are more in demand for the Sheffield trade,
and have more than doubled in price since 1879. The sales of ivory
occur every three months at London and Liverpool, and sales are also
held to a limited extent and at irregular intervals at Rotterdam. At
Liverpool, only ivory of the best quality, and from the west coast
of Africa, is offered. Buyers from Germany and France and agents of
American consumers attend these sales; and it is estimated that about
one quarter of the whole amount goes to Sheffield, another quarter to
London, and the other half to Germany, France, and the United States.
Turning from the sources and sale of ivory, we next have some very
interesting facts relating to its manufacture. The experienced eye
is quick to discern the value of a lot of ivory, when—which is
essential—it is guided by a knowledge of the country from which it
comes. It is also said that the electric light is beginning to be used
to test the soundness of the tusks. There is just now great anxiety as
to the future supply of ivory. The stocks in public warehouses are
smaller than for many years past, and the rapid increase in prices is
causing great anxiety to manufacturers. At a recent sale at Liverpool,
the best African ivory sold by the ton at over twelve shillings and
sixpence per pound. This will explain the fact that the principal
factor in the value of the best table cutlery is the handle. When the
ivory comes into the hands of the cutler, much skill is required to
make the most of the precious material, and every scrap is turned to
account. After cutting out the scales of all sizes for pocket-knives,
and the solid handles for table cutlery, the small pieces are usually
sold to the button-makers, or maybe made into ‘pearls.’ These latter
are the small pieces of ivory, pearl, or horn inserted into the handles
of tea and coffee pots as non-conductors of heat, and are so called
because they were originally made of pearl. The fine sawdust is sold
for fertilising purposes, for the manufacture of gelatine, and for
making a fine white sizing used in the manufacture of lace curtains and
other fabrics. The refuse still remaining goes to the makers of ivory
black. The proportion of this residuum is about fifteen pounds to the
hundredweight, and sells at from sixteen to twenty pounds per ton. Many
efforts have been made to devise some method for the solidification
of ivory dust, but as yet without success. Great skill is required
in the cutting of ivory, as of wood, to bring out the beauty of the
grain. The saw of the cutter occasionally reveals a rifle-ball that
has been lodged in the tusk, and that has been completely covered over
by subsequent growth. About one-third the length of the tusk, where
it enters the head of the elephant, is hollow. This hollow, when the
tusk is in place upon the live animal, is filled with a soft pulp or
core, which supplies the growth of the tusk. A ball lodged in this
core will in time be imbedded in the solid ivory. This hollow portion
is cut off and sold separately, except the thinnest portion, as bangle
ivory, and is in great demand for bangles or ornamental rings for the
ankles and arms of Indian and African women. That portion of the tusk
towards the point is usually more solid and of finer grain. This is cut
off and sold by itself at high prices under the name of billiard-ball
points. Small teeth of from ten to fifteen pounds-weight are called
in the trade ‘scrivelloes.’ The points of these small tusks are used
in their natural state for making handles for expensive carving sets
and for other articles of luxury. The large proportion of very small
tusks which are now brought to market annually is a sure indication
of the increasing number of elephants that die young. To show to what
size these tusks might attain, the American consul states that there
was in a Sheffield showroom an African elephant’s tusk nine feet long,
twenty-one inches in girth, and weighing one hundred and sixty pounds.
The value of the tusk was one hundred and thirty pounds, and it is said
that an animal large enough and strong enough to carry such a pair
would attract far more attention than Jumbo did. In the nine years
which ended with 1881, there were 5286 tons of ivory imported into
Great Britain, and as the number of tusks is known, the average weight
of pairs of tusks can be ascertained. It is a little under forty pounds
each pair. At this rate, these imports represent 296,016 pairs, and
consequently the same number of elephants have either died long ago,
or have been recently slaughtered, to supply the demands of luxury in
nine years alone. ‘At this rate of destruction,’ says Mr Webster, ‘it
will be seen how rapidly this noble animal must disappear, and how
surely ivory will become a thing of the past. There are, doubtless,
large quantities of ivory still remaining in the interior of the
African continent; but with the rapid advance of civilised man, and the
temptation of increasing high prices, these will soon be discovered and
exhausted.’
SPOKEN IN ANGER.
’Twas but a little word in anger spoken,
While proud eyes flashed through bitter burning tears;
But oh, I felt that fatal word had broken
The cord of love that bound our hearts for years.
Thy tortured face, that long wild look of sorrow,
Like some pale ghost, must haunt me while I live;
And yet, how bright, how full of joy the morrow,
Had I but breathed one simple word—‘Forgive!’
I did not hear thy tender voice appealing,
Nor marked thy anguish when I cried, ‘Depart!’
Too blind to see thy pitying glance, revealing
The generous promptings of thy noble heart.
How could I know that faithful heart was yearning,
Though crushed and wounded to its inmost core,
To take me back, like weary bird returning
In fear and trembling, when the storm is o’er!
‘Remember, love, that it may be for ever;
To see my face no more by night or day.
Be calm, rash heart, think well before we sever;
Recall the angry word, and bid me stay.’
Dead silence fell; the song-birds hushed their singing.
‘Enough,’ I proudly cried; ‘I choose my fate.’
While ever through my maddened brain kept ringing
The death-knell of my love—too late, too late!
‘Forgive, forgive!’ I wailed, the wild tears streaming,
As, ’mid the moaning trees, I stood alone;
‘Love, let thy kisses wake me from my dreaming.’
Thy pleading voice, thy tortured face, was gone.
That angry word, I may recall it never;
For o’er thy narrow grave, rank weeds have grown.
‘Remember, love, that it may be for ever.’
Ah, words prophetic! love, had I but known!
My locks are gray, my eyes are dim with weeping,
The face once loved by thee, no longer fair;
Beneath the daisies, thou art calmly sleeping:
There, a lone woman often kneels in prayer.
Ah, sweetheart mine, thou art so lowly lying,
Thou canst not hear the tearful voice above,
That with the night-wind evermore is sighing:
‘I spoke in anger! oh, forgive me, love!’
FANNY FORRESTER.
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