[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. 154.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
INN-SIGNS—THEIR ORIGIN AND MEANINGS.
In these days of enlightenment, the signs displayed by our inns,
taverns, and public-houses are not matters of great or urgent
importance to us in the ordinary routine of our daily life. But in
times past the case was widely different. For several centuries at
least, signs and signboards were matters not only of convenience,
but even of necessity. During this time they played a by no means
unimportant part in the busy world of trade and commerce, and were of
great service to mankind in general in a way they are no longer capable
of being. Under these circumstances, it will be easily understood that
they gathered around them no small amount of interest, not only of a
commercial, but also of a domestic, and even of an historical kind.
Many, even of our modern inn-signs, are able to speak instructively
to those who trouble to decipher their now somewhat indistinct and
illegible meanings. They tell us of the customs of our forefathers, of
the superstitious beliefs they held, of the wares they made and dealt
in, and of the party strifes in which they engaged. They speak to us
also of the great men who had so large a share in the making of English
history in bygone times, and are able in many other ways to remind us
of the pursuits, the pleasures, the manners, and the customs of our
ancestors. It will therefore be worth while to devote some attention to
the subject of our modern inn-signs, especially as comparatively little
has hitherto been written about them.
The use of signs as a means of distinguishing different houses of
business is a custom which has come down to us from times of great
antiquity; nevertheless, it is not now at all difficult to discover the
reasons which first led to their being employed. During the last and
preceding centuries, only an infinitesimally small proportion of the
people was able to read and write. In those times it would obviously
have been useless for any tradesman to have inscribed his name and
occupation, or the number of his house, over his door, as is now done.
The words ‘W. & R. Chambers, Publishers,’ would then have conveyed
very little meaning, or none at all, to the popular mind. But if each
tradesman suspended before his house some easily recognisable device
of a pictorial nature, the case would obviously have been different.
If the sign thus displayed indicated the nature of the wares sold
within, it would answer a double purpose; but in any case, it would
serve to mark the particular house displaying it. Signs, too, would be
especially useful in distinguishing different establishments in times
when many members of the same craft dwelt together in a particular
street or quarter. This they used formerly to do, very much more than
now; and in the various large cities of the East the custom still to a
great extent survives.
In speaking of the origin of the use of signs, it must never be
forgotten that in past times they were not confined, as now, almost
exclusively to ‘public-houses.’ We have still the sign of the Pole
for a barber, the Black Boy for a tobacconist, the Rod and Fish for a
tackle-dealer, the Golden Balls for a pawnbroker, and some others; but
formerly, almost all houses of business displayed their signs, just
as inns and taverns do now. Evidence of this fact is afforded by the
imprint of almost any old book published in the seventeenth century.
Such books were generally either printed or sold by an individual
dwelling at the White Hart, the Red Lion, the Green Dragon, the Golden
Tun, or some such sign. Most of Shakspeare’s works, it may be noted,
were first issued from houses displaying devices similar to the above,
and situated in or near to St Paul’s Churchyard. Were an imprint, like
that which each of these works bore, to appear on any modern book,
it would certainly convey to many the idea that the volume had been
printed at an ordinary ‘public-house.’ In Paris, moreover, to the
present day, it is almost or quite as common for ordinary tradesmen to
display signs, as it is for hotel-keepers and liquor-sellers to do so.
In that city, too, all vendors of firewood and coals have the fronts
of their houses painted so as to convey the idea that they are built of
rough logs of wood. This device, though not displayed upon a signboard,
is in every way of the nature of a modern tradesman’s sign.
In the times when signs were in general use by all tradesmen, it was
only natural that each man should endeavour to outdo his neighbours
in the obtrusiveness of his signboard. Those firms who advertise on
street hoardings do precisely the same kind of thing at the present
day; each endeavours, by means of brilliancy of colour or novelty of
design, to obtain, through his posters, greater publicity for the wares
he deals in, and to attract more attention than his neighbours. Just
so, a century or more ago, many ingenious devices were made use of to
force into notice the signboards of those days. Some of the boards were
made of enormous size; others were painted in flaring colours; others
bore striking or amusing objects, likely to be remembered by those
who saw them; while others were projected far out into the street, or
suspended within elaborate, and often really ornamental, frameworks of
iron. When each tradesman thus endeavoured to eclipse the signboards of
his neighbours, it may well be imagined that inconvenience was caused
to the general public. Complaints that the size and prominence of the
signboards prevented the access of sunlight and the free circulation
of the air in the narrow London streets, first began to be heard, we
are told, as early as the beginning of the fifteenth century, when an
order was made to abate the nuisance. In the course of time, however,
the evil grew again, till Charles II., in 1667, directed that no
signboards were thereafter to hang across the streets, but that they
were to be fixed against the sides of the houses. Again, however, as
years passed by, the nuisance reappeared. In 1762, large powers were
once more granted, and there was a general and final clearing away of
the too obtrusive signboards. Old prints and engravings of the last
century often give a good idea of the way in which the public streets,
both of London and other towns, were once disfigured by these overgrown
signboards.
This general demolition in 1762 gave a blow to the use of signboards
from which those evidences of past ignorance have never since
recovered. But had the conditions which first brought them into
existence remained the same, there can be no doubt that the signboards
would have again risen, phœnix-like, from their own ruins. Happily
those conditions have _not_ remained the same. That knowledge of
reading and writing which during the present century has become
widespread among all classes, has, it may be truly said, given a
death-blow alike to the universal use of signs and to the art of the
sign-painter. This, to be sure, is not a matter to call for regret on
its own account; nevertheless, the great decline in the use of the
old-fashioned pictorial signboards is to be regretted for many reasons.
The signs our forefathers used have—as already pointed out—largely
interwoven themselves with our history. In losing them, we are
losing one of the well-known landmarks of the past. The signs of the
Woolpack and the Golden Fleece, for instance, which are still common
in the Eastern Counties, are mementos of the time when the woollen
trade flourished in that part of England. The sign of the Coach and
Horses, still a very frequent sign everywhere, calls to mind the old
coaching-days. Our numerous Arms, our many Lions, Bulls, Dragons,
Bears, and Horses—red, blue, black, green, or white—and divers other
strangely coloured animals, most of which are quite unknown to men of
science, are all relics of medieval times, when heraldry was cherished
and understood by every one. Many similar instances might be pointed
out, did space permit.
Most of the signboards now displayed by our inns and taverns bear
strong evidence of their own degradation from the high position they
once occupied. Inasmuch as they now usually bear the name of the house
in written characters, they show most clearly how entirely forgotten
are the reasons which originally led to the adoption of the use of
signs. Only now and then do we see a pictorial signboard of the real
old-fashioned sort.
This decay in the use of inn-signs, however, is no greater than the
decline in importance of the inns themselves. These have, within
little more than the last half-century, descended from a position of
great importance and prosperity to one of comparative degradation.
Few persons of the present day have an adequate idea of the extent to
which tavern-life influenced thought and manners fifty, one hundred,
or two hundred years ago. Then each man had his tavern, much as we now
have our clubs and reading-rooms; there he nightly met his friends,
heard the high-priced London newspapers read aloud, and discussed
the political and business topics of the time. Dickens, in _Barnaby
Rudge_, has well sketched the select village company which for many
years had met nightly at the old Maypole to tipple and debate. Ale was
the universal beverage on these occasions; and in days when there were
no colossal breweries at Burton, Romford, or elsewhere, the fame of
any tavern was great or small according to the skill of the landlord
or his servants in producing this beverage. Inns, too, formed the
stopping-places of the many coaches of a hundred years ago, and at them
were kept the numerous horses then required for the traffic. In the old
coaching-days, indeed, many a small town or village on any main road
consisted largely or chiefly of inns; and supplying the necessaries for
the passing traffic may be said to have formed the ‘local industry’
by which the inhabitants of such places lived. Thus the inns of olden
times combined to a large extent within themselves the various uses
to which modern clubs, reading-rooms, institutes, railway stations,
eating-houses, hotels, public-houses, livery stables, and the like, are
now severally put. Then they were the centres round which most events
of the time revolved; now they are little more than tippling-houses for
the lower classes.
The various _devices used as signs_ are of infinite variety and
varying degrees of interest, from the _Heads_, or portraits, of modern
political, naval, or military celebrities, to such signs as the Rose
and Crown, the Fleur-de-Lys, the Spread Eagle, the Cross Keys, our
numerous Arms, fantastically coloured animals of all kinds, and many
other similar devices. Signs of the former kind require little or no
explanation; they are usually modern and uninteresting vulgarisms,
and their meanings are self-apparent. With signs of the latter class,
however, the case is generally far different, and a search for their
original significance, often much obscured by the mists of antiquity,
is usually an interesting one. As a rule, such signs will be found to
have been derived from the armorial bearings of some sovereign, noble,
or other historical personage.
From the quaint and now almost forgotten science of heraldry, indeed,
has been derived a large majority of our oldest and most interesting
signs. This fact need cause no surprise when it is remembered that in
former days every one was familiar with this so-called ‘science.’ The
incomprehensible jargon, spoken of as ‘blazon’ by heraldic writers,
and the various devices appearing on all modern coats of arms, though
little more nowadays than grotesque hieroglyphics to most, were once
read and perfectly understood even by the common people. A knowledge of
heraldry was once, probably, as general as a knowledge of the ‘three
Rs’ is now. It was no wonder, therefore, that the idea early suggested
itself to the minds of tradesmen and others to use their own coats
of arms—when they had any—or those of the great trade guild to which
they belonged, or those of their landlord, or some patron, as signs.
This convenient custom, once established, would be sure to be largely
followed; there can, indeed, be no question that in this way arose the
custom of naming houses the ‘So-and-so Arms.’ At the present time, the
custom itself remains, though its origin has been almost entirely lost
sight of. Many inns have in consequence come to be known as the Arms of
persons, trades, places, and things which never did, and never could
bear, a coat of arms. Such signs, for instance, as the Lilliput Arms,
the Cricketers’ Arms, and the Libra Arms, are modern and meaningless
absurdities. Clearly the origin of the sign of the King’s Arms had
never occurred to the simple clodhopper of whom it is related that he
once walked many miles to see King George IV. on one of his journeys,
and who came home greatly disappointed; for he found the king had arms
like other men, while he had always understood that His Majesty’s right
arm was a lion, and his left a unicorn. Arms of various kinds form a
large proportion of our modern signs, often as much as ten per cent.,
and sometimes double that in particular districts. As a general rule,
where a house has displayed for many years together an armorial sign,
the ‘coat’ will be found to be that of the largest landowner or most
prominent personage in the district.
When the general knowledge of heraldry began to decline, and armorial
bearings fell largely into disuse, many houses, formerly known as the
‘Somebody’s Arms,’ probably came gradually to be called after, and
distinguished by, the most prominent ‘charge’ in the coat, or after the
‘crest’ or one of the ‘supporters,’ which might have been, in heraldic
blazon, a lion gules (red), a boar azure (blue), a white hart, or a
rose crowned. Thus undoubtedly originated many strange signs which are
still common.
The personal ‘badges’ adopted by kings and great nobles in early times,
and worn on the arm by their servants and retainers, have also given
origin to many similar signs. Thus, the White Hart—one of our very
commonest signboard devices—represents the favourite badge of King
Richard II., although the white hart has also a legendary existence.
The Rose and Crown—another extremely abundant sign—owes its existence
to the fact that most of the earlier English sovereigns used a rose
crowned as a badge. The Blue Boar, the badge of the once powerful De
Veres, Earls of Oxford, is to this day commoner in the county of Essex,
where lay the family seat, than anywhere else. The Red Lion, another
of our very commonest signs, is probably in the same way derived from
the personal badge of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, though it
doubtless represents also the lion in the arms of Scotland. As a rule,
fantastically coloured animals will be found to have had an heraldic
origin. Creatures in their natural colours either may or may not have
been derived from heraldry; thus, the Greyhound, though it has figured
both as the badge, and one or both of the ‘supporters’ of the arms of
several English sovereigns, may owe its frequent appearance on the
signboard to its modern use in the coursing-field. In the case of the
White Horse, too, a very common sign, it is difficult now to decide
whether it represents the White Horse of the Saxons, or that of the
House of Hanover, or one of the many white horses to be seen in our
streets.
The number Three, it will be found, occurs on signboards in most
districts more than twice as often as all other numbers put together.
This may be partly explained by the fact that three has been regarded
as a lucky number from very early times. It is, however, extremely
common for three ‘charges’—that is, objects—to appear on coats of
arms; and there can be no doubt that very many of our modern Threes
have had, either directly or indirectly, an heraldic origin. Among
signs which have, in all probability, been derived directly from
heraldry, may be mentioned the Three Cups, taken from the arms of the
Salters’ Company; the Three Tuns, from the arms either of the Brewers’
or the Vintners’ Companies; the Three Compasses, from the armorial
bearings of the Carpenters’ Company; the Three Pigeons, probably
derived from the arms of the Tallow-chandlers’ Company; the Three
Fleurs-de-Lys—formerly, though not now, a common sign—taken from the
arms of France; and many others. To this class also belongs the sign of
the Three Golden Balls, still displayed by every pawnbroker. The balls,
it is said, represent certain round gilt objects, technically known
as ‘bezants,’ which formed part of the coat of arms of the dukes of
Medici, from whose states and from Lombardy most of the early bankers
came. These capitalists advanced money on valuable objects, and thus
gradually became pawnbrokers. The custom of naming houses the ‘Three
Somethings’ still survives, although the origin of that custom has been
lost sight of. Thus, we get such meaningless absurdities as the Three
Jolly Wheelers (whatever they may be), the Three Mariners, the Three
Loggerheads, and various others, which may be said to have had an
indirectly heraldic origin.
Many signs, too, once formed a ‘rebus’ or pun on the names of the
persons who displayed them; such signs are not now common, though they
appear frequently on the ‘tokens’ issued so numerously by tradesmen
in the seventeenth century. Most of these bore the sign under which
their issuers traded. Thus, we find Three Conies, or rabbits, on
those of Hugh Conny; a Finch on those of John Finch; a Hand and Cock
representing Hancock; and a Babe and Tun representing Babington.
Many most absurd and altogether incongruous combinations still appear
on our signboards, though these are not so abundant as formerly; thus,
we have the Sun and Whalebone, the Dog and Gridiron, the Plough and
Sail, the Crown and Blacksmith, the Bull and Horseshoe, and numerous
others. In some cases, a connection between the two objects is obvious;
every one, for instance, will be able to see what brought together
on a signboard the Cat and Fiddle, the Eagle and Child, the Dog and
Partridge, George and the Dragon, &c. But in the case of the examples
given above, there is no connection between the two objects referred
to, and their combination is quite meaningless. They have in most cases
arisen from an ancient custom of adding the sign of the old house to
that of the new, when a tradesman has been removing from one place of
business to another; or else an apprentice, when beginning business on
his own account, has added some sign of his own selection to that of
the master under whom he formerly served.
Not a few signs for which no likely meaning or derivation can be
found are in all probability corruptions; that is to say, they were
originally set up to commemorate some person, object, or event of,
perhaps, only local celebrity. In the course of time, this became
forgotten; and under vulgar pronunciation—or, possibly, on the advent
of a new landlord, who knew nothing of the original meaning of the
device—the sign was changed to something else which it seemed to imply
or nearly resemble. Thus, it is said the sign of the George Canning has
become changed into the George and Cannon, and that of the Island Queen
into the Iceland Queen. In Oxfordshire there is a house with the sign
of the Sheep and Anchor, which probably was once the Ship and Anchor.
Another house, in Hertfordshire, formerly had a ship in full sail
represented on its signboard; of late years, however, the board has
merely been inscribed the Ship; and quite recently, on the advent of a
new landlord who had been a cattle-dealer, the sign was changed to that
of the Sheep.
Inn-signs have in some cases been painted by artists of considerable
eminence. An interesting account of various instances in which this has
been the case will be found in the volume of this _Journal_ for 1881,
page 107.
Want of space obviously prevents any attempt being here made to explain
in detail the origin and meanings of all our innumerable existing
signs. The last edition of the London Directory enumerates no fewer
than seventeen hundred and forty-two distinct devices as appearing
in the metropolis alone. All that it is possible to do here is to
indicate in a general way the manner in which most of our modern signs
originated, and that has now been done.
BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.
CHAPTER XVIII.
‘You wished to see me?’
‘Yes; if you will be so good as to sit down and listen to me.’
Enid stood looking at her mysterious visitor in some perplexity. There
was something almost weird about the strange woman’s beauty; but in
obedience, she seated herself to listen.
‘I have a strange story to tell,’ Isodore commenced. ‘For a long while
now I have been watching over your welfare. Do not think me personal or
rude in any questions I may ask. Believe me, I do not for one moment
wish to pain you; indeed, on the other hand, I wish to do you a great
service.’
Enid inclined her head gently. ‘Perhaps it will be as well to have as
perfect confidence between us as possible. You already know my name.
Will you be so good as to tell me to whom I owe this visit?’
‘My name is Isodore.’
Enid looked at her visitor in interest and admiration. This, then, was
the beautiful mystery about whom Maxwell had often spoken, the princess
to whom the fatal Brotherhood owed allegiance. Then she grew frigid.
Had it not been for her and such as her, Frederick would have been with
her now.
‘You misjudge me,’ Isodore continued sadly, for she had read the
other’s thoughts as easily as an open book. ‘Believe me, had I known,
Mr Maxwell would never have been sent to Rome. But if I am to continue,
I must have your confidence. What if I tell you your lover is in
England now?’
‘In England, and never came to see me!’ Enid exclaimed with a little
gasp. ‘Impossible! He would surely have written.’
‘Nevertheless, it is perfectly true, though he only arrived yesterday.
He would have come to you, or written, had I not forbidden him.’
‘Forbidden him,’ Enid echoed haughtily. ‘And why?’
‘Because things were not ready,’ Isodore replied calmly. ‘I did not
take a journey to Rome at the hazard of my life, to rescue him from
a great danger, to have my plans upset at the last moment. If it had
not been for me, Mr Maxwell would not be alive now.’ Isodore could not
restrain herself sufficiently to conceal this touch of womanly feeling.
Enid’s face softened strangely. ‘I have heard of you. Forgive me, if I
seem cold, but I have been severely tried lately,’ she said. ‘You do
not know what a load you have taken off my mind; and yet, perhaps’——
She stopped abruptly; her thoughts turned in the direction of Le
Gautier, and wondering how she could face her lover now.
‘And yet,’ Isodore replied—‘and yet you would see a way out of the
difficulty into which the miserable schemes of Le Gautier have placed
you? Do I speak plainly, or shall I be more explicit?’
The random shot went home; Enid’s face flushed crimson to the fair
curls lying on her forehead. ‘You speak plainly enough,’ she faltered.
‘You need say no more. I am dazed and bewildered by your wonderful
knowledge.’
‘It will be clear enough presently. The clouds are dark now; but I see
rays of light here and there. Do you study spiritualism?’
‘No,’ Enid answered, puzzled by the abruptness and inconsequence of the
question. ‘I cannot say that I have. But why?’
‘If your father is in the house, I shall be glad to see him. Will you
be good enough to ascertain if he can be seen?’
‘If I tell him he is wanted on supernatural affairs, he will come.’
Enid smiled as she rang the bell. ‘It is his craze.’
After a little pause, the baronet entered the room, and, like his
daughter, stood inthralled by the visitor’s perfect beauty. He bowed
low; in spite of his age, he was a lover of the beautiful still. He
looked up admiringly in the perfect eyes, and waited for her to speak.
‘Sir Geoffrey, you are a swindled, deluded man!’
‘Bless me!’ the startled baronet exclaimed at this unceremonious
opening. ‘Swindled, deluded, I? Who by? Impossible!’
‘By the conjurer, Le Gautier.’
Sir Geoffrey stared in open-mouthed amazement; even the breeding of the
Charterises did not rise to this occasion. Enid’s heart gave one leap,
and then began to beat violently. She was conscious of some coming
revelations of the deepest interest to her, and waited with impatience
for Isodore to speak.
‘Some time ago, you went to a house near Paddington. You will please
correct me if I am in error, Sir Geoffrey. During your presence there
you saw several startling manifestations: you were commanded to do
certain things, one of which affected deeply your daughter’s happiness,
and which, by some happy accident, were equally acceptable to Le
Gautier. Am I right?’
‘Perfectly,’ the baronet gasped. ‘And I need not say they will be
carried out to the letter. I believe’——
‘They were a common, vulgar, barefaced swindle!’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Sir Geoffrey interposed politely, ready to do
battle in defence of his pet scheme. ‘I cannot agree with you. Le
Gautier’——
‘Is a low adventurer. I am not talking idly; I can prove every word I
say. This very morning, I was at Paddington, and saw the manifestation
room, or whatever you may choose to call it. At the back of the room
is a large mirror; over the window is another. Preparations for the
manufacture of visions to suit any taste were manifest. And one thing
in conclusion: the girl who personated your better self and your dead
brother, who never was married, is at present under your roof. She is
Linda Despard, the girl who met with the accident in Piccadilly.’
Sir Geoffrey began to feel uncomfortable, and moreover experienced a
twinge of common-sense. There was something so horribly realistic
about the beautiful stranger’s story, that it shook his faith to its
foundation. ‘But really, such an extraordinary tale,’ he stammered,
‘and everything appeared so real. I cannot doubt, the likeness to my
brother was so perfect. Am I mad that I should believe this?’
‘If you will excuse me for a moment and permit me to see this Linda
Despard, I will introduce you to your brother in a few moments.—Miss
Charteris, have I your permission?’
‘You have my permission to do anything which will clear up the wretched
mystery,’ Enid cried passionately. ‘Even now, I am totally at a loss to
know what you are speaking of. Go! Do anything you may desire, so that
we can have a little quietness hereafter.’
Without another word, Isodore vanished, leaving Sir Geoffrey pacing the
drawing-room in great perturbation and casting uneasy glances in Enid’s
direction. He was not convinced yet, but his doubts were troublesome.
‘It is all nonsense,’ he exclaimed. ‘I saw with my own eyes’——
‘Your brother, Sir Geoffrey.’
The baronet looked up, and there, standing in the doorway, saw Isodore,
holding by the hand a figure dressed in a slouch-hat and enveloped in
a cloak. For a moment, he staggered back in amazement: it was the lost
Ughtred to the life!
‘This is the long-lost brother,’ Isodore continued.—‘Linda, throw your
hat away, and tell Sir Geoffrey the tale you told Lucrece.—Listen, Sir
Geoffrey, and you will hear something entertaining, and Miss Charteris
something that will restore the bloom to her cheeks.’
Linda Despard pushed her hat aside, and stood, half-boldly,
half-timidly, before the startled baronet. There were tears in her eyes
as she looked at Enid.
‘But what can this possibly have to do with Le Gautier?’ Sir Geoffrey
demanded.
Isodore waved him aside haughtily. ‘Much, if you will have patience,’
she said.—‘Linda, you had best commence. We are trifling.’
There was an air of command in these words there was no disputing. Enid
sank into a chair pale but collected, the baronet standing behind her,
looking anything but comfortable. Lucrece took up her place beside her
mistress. Isodore stood through the interview.
‘Well, I will do anything to help that angel of mercy who has been so
good and kind to me!’ the actress commenced, with a grateful glance at
Enid. ‘I tried to do her a great injury; but, thank heaven, I am not
too late to save her yet. I am much to blame; but this is a hard world,
and there are times when a few shillings are a godsend to me. It is not
a long story. Lucrece here, and Isodore, knew my husband, and how he
used to treat me, beating, half-starving me, and taking all my earnings
to spend at the cafés. Well, I put up with that life as long as I
could; and then, after one awful night, I left him. I came to England,
and brought my boy with me. After some hardships, I contrived to get
a situation in a London theatre under a new name. It was only a small
part, for my imperfect English was against me. One night, some months
ago, as I was coming out of the theatre, I met Le Gautier. I had known
him in better days, and though I was not ignorant of his character, it
was pleasant to hear the old familiar tongue again. It appeared he had
been in the theatre, and recognised me, and waited to say a few words
as I came out. Time went on, and he was really kind to me. Through his
influence I obtained a rise of salary, and I was grateful. What he
really wanted with me you shall hear presently.’ The narrator paused a
moment here, and looked round in the eager faces. Every sound could be
heard distinctly—the ticking of the clocks, and Sir Geoffrey’s heavy
breathing. ‘One night he came to my lodgings,’ the speaker resumed,
‘and then he asked me if I had forgotten the old spiritualism tricks.
I must tell you that once on a time I travelled the continent with a
company that played ghostly pieces, such, for instance, as translations
of Dickens’ _Christmas Carol_, a simple thing, a mere optical illusion,
what you call Pepper’s Ghost. I told him I thought I could remember,
and then he made a proposal to me. I never hesitated; the pay was too
good for that. I was to meet Le Gautier at a house near Paddington one
night, and go through the old tricks for a gentleman deeply interested
in spiritualism. I learnt my lesson well. I was first to personate the
better self of the spectator, and afterwards the spirit of his brother.’
‘Ah!’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed. ‘Go on!’
‘I interest you now. I thought I should. I knew at the time, to my
shame let me confess it, from the things I had to say, that the
spectator was to be got into Le Gautier’s power. Well, the night came;
the simple apparatus was fixed; everything promised well. I was a bit
nervous, for I was out of practice, and I wanted to see what sort of
a man the victim was. While they were at dinner, I looked into the
room, and there I saw the gentleman whom I now know to be Sir Geoffrey
Charteris. When I saw your credulous face,’ the narrator continued,
addressing the baronet, ‘I was no longer afraid. Presently, when it
became dark and they sat over their wine, I listened till a word agreed
upon was uttered by Le Gautier, and I commenced. First, there was
some music, sounding strangely enough in the room, but not to me, for
I played it. That was simple to an unbeliever with ordinary nerves;
then came flashes of light, also easy enough; and when I deemed I
had created a sufficient sense of fear, I entered the room. It was
quite dark by that time, and I was dressed from head to foot in close
garments. I touched Sir Geoffrey on the face and whispered in his ear;
and once when he showed signs of unbelief, I clutched him by the throat
and nearly strangled him.—Sir Geoffrey, if I make a mistake in a single
particular, correct me.’
‘You are perfectly correct,’ the baronet answered, flushing scarlet.
‘Pray, continue. You do not know what the suspense is to me.’
‘Had you been quick and strong of nerve, you would have found it out
then, for, as it was, you grasped my arm, covered in wet eel-skins, a
creepy thing to touch in the dark, even if you know what it is. That
was the first part of the performance, and then the real business
commenced in earnest. Le Gautier led you to a room at the back of the
house, a room draped in black cloth, and seated you in a certain spot,
daring you to move at your peril. I wonder I did not laugh at this; I
did once or twice, I know, so that I had to finish with an hysterical
scream, which had the advantage of relieving me and heightening the
effect. Well, the jugglery commenced—the meanest trickery, hardly
sufficient to deceive a child. It was easy enough to work it under
cover of the incense and smoke; for behind your chair, Sir Geoffrey,
the curtains were pulled back and a mirror exposed. I stood upon a
pedestal in the window, behind another mirror. The illusion is perfect,
and all I had to do was to ask and answer questions. I got through the
first part of the performance well enough; but when I had to personate
Sir Geoffrey’s brother, the case was different. Had you, sir, been
calm and collected, you must have discovered. I personated the spirit
of your brother, desiring penance for some fancied wrong done to my
children; and to heighten the effect, two ragged little boys were
introduced to personate the dead man’s starving and abandoned family.
Frightened almost to death by the fear of being haunted, Sir Geoffrey,
you promised me anything. You promised to join some League, the meaning
of which I do not know, to carry out your dead brother’s work; and
last, but not least, that my good angel and preserver there should
become Le Gautier’s wife. The illusion was perfect, and a little of Le
Gautier’s matchless ventriloquism completed it.—And now,’ the speaker
continued, running forward and falling at Enid’s feet, ‘let me implore
your forgiveness! My benefactress, how grateful I am that I have been
able to serve you!’
‘I have nothing to forgive,’ Enid replied. ‘You have taken far too
great a load off my mind for me to reproach you now.’
‘But the whole thing is inexplicable to me,’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed.
‘How did you manage to impersonate my late brother so accurately?’
Linda Despard smiled and pointed to a photograph album. ‘Easy enough
with plenty of these about. What simpler than to abstract a likeness
from one of these books and give it me! With my theatrical training and
knowledge of make-up, the task was nothing.’
‘I am all the more astonished,’ Isodore remarked, ‘that the audacity of
the command relating to Miss Enid did not open your eyes.’
‘But you understand Le Gautier professed to know nothing of what had
taken place,’ Sir Geoffrey explained. ‘I even had to broach the subject
to him. He never by any chance alluded to it.’
‘Such cunning as his always proves too deep for simple honesty. I need
not ask if you believe what you have heard, Sir Geoffrey?’
‘Indeed, I do.—Enid, my child, come and kiss me, and say you forgive
your foolish old father. Take me away into the country, where people
cannot find me. I am not fit to mix with men of sense; and, O Enid, as
soon as it is convenient, tell Varley to go into the library and pick
out all the works he can find on spiritualism and burn them.’
‘You are sure you have forgiven me?’ Linda Despard asked Enid timidly.
‘From the bottom of my heart. You have done me a service to-day which
I cannot forget, or indeed ever repay.—And to you, Isodore, if I may
call you so, I am grateful. You will pardon me if I seemed harsh or
hard when you came here, but I have distrusted every one of late.’
‘You have no cause to thank me,’ Isodore replied simply. ‘I am afraid I
must confess that it is not entirely upon your behalf I have done this
thing.’
‘I care not for that. I shall always remember you with gratitude.’
Isodore turned quickly from the window. ‘Le Gautier is coming up the
steps,’ she exclaimed. ‘He must not see me here now, or everything will
be ruined. I must see you again before I leave the house. Where can I
hide? I would not have him discover me now for ten thousand pounds!’
STORIES OF CATS.
So much praise has been lavished on dogs and horses, as exceptionally
favoured friends, that scant measure of justice is meted to equally
deserving if less popular animals. Notably is this the case towards one
animal which Shakspeare, with all his marvellous knowledge of creation,
has denominated the ‘harmless, necessary cat.’ Persons most familiar
with the feline race will indeed plead their cause enthusiastically;
but such honourable exceptions are few and far between. Those who
consider no luxury too costly for the indulgence of a dog, think it no
sin to tacitly countenance—if not worse—any amount of harsh treatment
or indifference that may under the same roof be accorded to a cat. The
origin of so unfair and ignorant a prejudice is somewhat difficult to
trace; for, in point of fact, one is no more faultless than the other,
although their failings are very differently judged and condoned. At
the generality of houses, cats are merely tolerated—as a choice between
two evils—lest rats and mice should abound; and supposed to fare
sumptuously on such prey, even where, through ill-requited service,
none are to be found. When theft or destruction of fragile articles
is discovered, blame is usually awarded in one convenient quarter
only; whereas the accused thereby is too often made a scapegoat for
the shortcomings of others. An animal may be driven by sheer hunger to
purloin food, because, through inhumanity, none has been given. A clear
case of justifiable larceny! Dumb plaintiffs, unable to employ counsel,
can tell no tales. Could they contradict plausible but false evidence,
how many high and hitherto unimpeachable reputations for honesty and
veracity would perish!
Cats, in the abstract, might well exclaim with Shylock, ‘Sufferance is
the badge of all our tribe.’ They nevertheless have numerous estimable
qualities, from which little credit is derived. They are devoted
mothers as a rule, guarding their young at the risk of life itself;
facing opponents on their behalf from which, by nature, they would
fly in abject terror; playing juvenile games, even at an advanced
age, to amuse their kittens; keeping them sleek and glossy as satin,
while patiently teaching those accomplishments that they will need
when left to their unaided resources in after-life. A pattern for the
imitation of too many parents. Notwithstanding such creditable traits
of character, kittens are mercilessly destroyed; though some of all
other progeny are spared, out of consideration for maternal affection
and well-being. A cat is vulgarly said to have ‘nine lives;’ but, in
sober truth, the single existence it can lay claim to is seldom open
to envy. Without entering here upon details of many cruelties almost
too barbarous for belief, it cannot be ignored that boys, and even men,
not otherwise supposed to be utterly devoid of common humanity, think
nothing of allowing this most unoffending animal to be deliberately
tortured to death by dogs, or similarly revolting practices. They
appear to be under a delusion that there is something manly in
expressing detestation of cats, while professing fondness for animals
in general, and choosing for pets very uninviting specimens. Sundry
so-called ‘sports’—save the mark!—are now happily illegal; offenders
in brutality towards cats are rarely convicted; and—under the present
imperfect state of the law for the protection of dumb animals—can then
be only very inadequately punished.
Cats are tolerably popular in stables, where they are able to
render good return for their lodging at little cost for board. They
become greatly attached to horses, their favourite sleeping-place
being frequently on a horse’s back; a strange selection, which yet
appears to be mutually agreeable. It has been widely said that cats
are incapable of any great degree of affection, and that the small
amount evinced is for their home, and not its inmates. They are, in
addition, considered unable to learn tricks and actions which make
dogs such amusing companions. It is also thought to be much more
difficult to cure the former of faults and natural aversions. Too
great reliance may, however, be placed on these assertions. A bad
name is easily acquired where champions are few and little intimacy
is allowed. ‘Leading the life of a cat and dog,’ for instance, is
popularly supposed to represent the reverse of harmony; yet some cats
and dogs—which have not been _made_ enemies—become devoted friends,
affording an illustration of peaceful unanimity that many of their
biped detractors might profitably imitate. Again, cats, though they
have a decided instinct for killing birds, have been taught to abstain
from molesting those in cages. Two cases came under the writer’s notice
where cats were left constantly in places filled with birds, yet never
injured any, having been early impressed by the idea that there are
birds and birds, some species requiring even protection from harm. The
home of one conscientious creature was at a bird-fancier’s shop, and
no breach of faith resulted from the watchman’s being left nightly on
guard. The experiment might be hazardous to quote, but other examples
could be mentioned. A few well-authenticated anecdotes may clear away
some mistaken notions, and tend to the saving of helpless animals from
cruelty and neglect.
A military chaplain, when living with his family at Madras, had a
favourite cat. Having to change his residence, he removed to another
side of the city, a distance of several miles. The in-coming tenant’s
wife took a great fancy to the cat, and begged that it might be
transferred with the house. Through fear that it would be lost in
going so far from familiar haunts, added to the knowledge that a good
home would be given, and, more especially, because poor Puss was
then in delicate health, she was, after much hesitation, allowed to
remain. About three weeks afterwards, the chaplain’s wife sitting in
the drawing-room of her new home, was amazed to see their old friend
enter the veranda, spring into her lap, overwhelming her with caresses,
and showing every possible demonstration of delight at their reunion.
It was assumed that she had, in an unaccountable manner, come to take
up her quarters where an unequivocal welcome was received. Towards
evening, the visitor disappeared, as mysteriously as she had arrived,
returning the following day, but this time not alone, for in her
mouth was a very small kitten, which she gently laid at the feet of
her mistress with a pleading and most eloquent expression, as though
craving for sanctuary. It need hardly be said that both refugees were
incorporated into the household. Upon inquiry, it was ascertained
that one kitten only had been spared out of a family born at the
former residence. With this ‘sole daughter of her house and heart,’
the faithful creature had travelled to those she had ‘loved and lost
a while.’ How such a journey could have been thrice accomplished,
through the intricate and wholly unknown streets of so large and
populous a city as Madras, bringing on the last occasion so young a
kitten safely with her, surmounting all the difficulties and dangers
of such a formidable transit, is inexplicable, and must certainly
be deemed a marvellous feat. No member of the chaplain’s family had
visited their old home, not even a servant had passed between the two
localities, nor had the new tenants called on the original inhabitants.
The extraordinary reflection and foresight shown in first taking the
journey alone to insure success, and then fetching the fragile little
being prudently left behind, is perhaps the most curious part of
this ‘owre true tale.’ It will be conceded readily that this strong
attachment could only have been for those with whom she had so long and
happily dwelt. Truth is again stranger than fiction.
A lady living near Eton College—close to that memorable spot, dear
to the heart of Eton boys, ‘Chalvey Ditch’—possessed, amongst her
children’s many pets, a beautifully marked tortoiseshell cat, whose
‘lot had fallen in a fair ground,’ amidst ‘the smooth stones of the
stream.’ When the lady’s sons left college, she removed to London—where
the cat would not only have led an unhappy life, after roaming about
of her own free will, but would probably have been lost—she was, to
the sincere regret of her young companions, presented to some friends
living at a considerable distance in Windsor Forest, where a luxurious
home was offered. A family from elsewhere took the remainder of the
lady’s lease off her hands, through which arrangement the following
story came to light. When writing on business, the question was asked
if the lady while living near Eton had amongst her pets a beautifully
marked tortoiseshell cat; which being answered in the affirmative, a
striking proof of intelligence was narrated. Not long after possession
was taken, such a cat—identified by minute description—arrived during
the night, and was found next morning, with a newly born family of
kittens, in an outhouse—her chosen lodging on previous interesting
occasions—having found her way from far in the Forest, whither she had
been taken after dark, through or round Eton and Windsor, and thence
to her once happy home. It may be a disputed point in this instance
whether such fidelity to old associations might be attributed to
love for the house or its former owners. Nevertheless, from the warm
affection shown by the cat towards the latter, no doubt was felt on the
subject by those best able to decide. They were gone beyond her reach,
but she had done her utmost, in loving memory of them.
Some boys were observed in a Welsh village carrying a very small
snow-white kitten, with ‘eyes of most celestial blue,’ and being asked
its destination, stated that they were about to consign the pretty
little creature to an early and a watery grave; from which cruel fate
it was promptly rescued by right of purchase. The kitten being too
young to quit its bereaved parent, was temporarily returned to her
charge, she having in the interim been placed on board-wages. This
presumably equitable plan, from some hidden reason, did not answer,
and the juvenile pensioner seemed far from thriving. Taffy’s peculiar
notions as to _meum_ and _tuum_ may have had something to do with the
failure. Prematurely removed to its proprietor’s care, the junior
member was patiently reared by hand. This Samaritan-like deed brought
fairly earned reward, for the foundling grew into a very handsome cat,
and became a highly prized favourite. So great was the love of ‘Jenny
Lind’ for those who had saved her from death, subsequently, under
domestic difficulties, bringing her to full years of discretion, that
although accompanying them in several long journeys, and living in
many temporary homes, she never once offered to leave them. Petted and
coveted by newer friends, she remained loyal in her allegiance to the
end of her days. Another proof of attachment to persons, not places.
A cat belonging to a gentleman resident about eight miles from London,
was given to a brewer living at a distant part of the metropolis;
taken there after dark in a closed basket placed in a covered wagon. A
fortnight had elapsed, when the poor animal, weary and footsore, walked
into her former master’s kitchen, and lay down in its accustomed corner
by the fire, purring with joy at having reached the old home. Such
fidelity was deservedly rewarded.