men, and they would give him a patient hearing. Still, he would have
liked a little private talk with John Elliott before the meeting in the
library, which was assuming the character of a sort of court-martial.
There were things to say to him which could only be uttered when they
were conversing confidentially. For instance, he could not say to him
before others: ‘You have been accusing Mrs John of behaviour unbecoming
your wife; you have magnified the circumstance of her allowing young
Maynard to kiss her under the mistletoe last Christmas, until you
have come to believe that every time she says a friendly word to him
or smiles on him, she is false to you. You have even gone so far as
to think of employing a private detective to watch them. Now, my dear
friend, do get all that confounded nonsense out of your head. Remember
that she has known Maynard from his boyhood; and although she is not
old enough to be his mother, she still looks on him as a boy, and he
regards her as an elder sister. She is naturally frank, and naturally
treats him with more frankness than she does other men. You know that
she long ago set her heart upon making a match between him and Nellie
Carroll, both being suitable in every respect; and she has succeeded.
What do you think will happen if your absurd fancies get wind? Why,
there will be a general rupture—a split in the camp which may separate
the young folk, and, possibly, you and Mrs John, who has been and is
devoted to you.’
There, that would have brought him to reason, if he had a scrap of
sense left. But it could not be spoken in the presence of others. Very
likely, suspicious John would ask him how he came to know all this, and
the question would be troublesome—a thousand times more troublesome
since all the letters had got into the wrong hands. The one for John
Elliott had reached Mrs Joseph, instead of the simple intimation of the
date of the Major’s arrival; that for Nellie had been delivered to Mrs
John, and Mrs John’s to Nellie. It was awkward.
‘As to the question,’ the Major reflected: ‘I got the information from
Matt Willis, the brother of Mrs John; and he made me promise not to
mix him up in the affair. He got the information from John Elliott
himself, who complained to his brother-in-law about the way his wife
was carrying on with Maynard. Matt had an unconquerable antipathy to
family squabbles, and would not interfere; but thinking that something
should be done to shut John up before serious harm came of his insane
suspicions, he asked me, as the friend of the family, to put things
right. Like a fool, I consented; and the blame of all the trouble falls
on me! Am I to blame?—Stop a minute. By Jove!—it is John Elliott who is
the author of the whole mischief, and I’ll tell him so.’
Greatly consoled by the discovery that he was not the original culprit
in causing what promised to be a serious breach in the relationships of
valued friends, the Major was prepared to face the court-martial before
which he was presently to stand. Ay, and he would have no nonsense
about the affair. He would tell Squire Joseph bluntly that Mrs Joseph
had taken possession of a letter which did not belong to her. He would
tell Maynard to go and speak to Nellie, and assure her, as he had done,
that she had misinterpreted the letter she had received, even if it
had been intended for her; and he would tell John Elliott that he must
either speak to him in private, or take the consequence of his speaking
in the presence of the Squire and Stanley Maynard.
AN OLD TULIP GARDEN.
A quiet, sunny nook in the hollow it is, this square old garden, with
its gravelled walks and high stone walls; a sheltered retreat left
peaceful here, under the overhanging woods, when the stream of the
world’s traffic turned off into another channel. The gray stone house,
separated from the garden by a thick privet hedge and moss-grown court,
is the last dwelling at this end of the quiet market-town, and, with
its slate roof and substantial double story, is of a class greatly
superior to its neighbours, whose warm red tiles are just visible over
the walls. It stands where the old road to Edinburgh dipped to cross
a little stream, and, in the bygone driving days, the stagecoach,
after rattling out of the town and down the steep road there, between
the white, tile-roofed houses, when it crossed the bridge opposite
the door, began to ascend through deep, embowering woods. But a more
direct highway to the Scottish metropolis was opened many a year ago:
just beyond the bridge, a wall was built across the road; and the gray
house with its garden was left secluded in the sunny hollow. The rapid
crescendo of the coach-guard’s horn no longer wakens the echoes of the
place, and the striking of the clock every hour in the town steeple is
the only sound that reaches the spot from the outside world.
The hot sun beats on the garden here all day, from the hour in the
morning when it gets above the grand old beeches of the wood, till it
sets, away beyond the steeple of the town. But in the hottest hours it
is always refreshing to look, over the weather-stained tiles of the
long low toolhouse, at the mossy green of the hill that rises there,
cool and shaded, under the trees. Now and then a bull, of the herd that
feeds in the glades of the wood, comes down that shaded bank, whisking
his tawny sides with an angry tail to keep off the pestering flies, and
his deep bellow reverberates in the hollow. In the early morning, too,
before the dewy freshness has left the air, the sweet mellow pipe of
the mavis and the fuller notes of the blackbird float across from these
green depths, and ever and again throughout the day the clear whistle
of some chaffinch comes from behind the leaves.
Standing here, among the deep box edgings and gravel paths, it is not
difficult to recall the place’s glory of twenty years ago—the glory
upon which these ancient plum-trees, blossoming yet against the sunny
walls, looked down. To the eye of Thought, time and space obstruct no
clouds, and in the atmosphere of Memory, the gardens of the Past bloom
for us always. Years and years agone! It is the day of the fashion for
Dutch bulbs, when fabulous prices were paid for an unusually ‘fancy’
bulb, and in this garden some of the finest of them are grown. The
tulips are in flower, and the long narrow beds which, with scant space
between, fill the entire middle of the garden, are ablaze with the
glory of their bloom. Queenly flowers they are, and tall, each one with
a gentle pedigree—for nothing common or unknown has entrance here—and
crimson, white, and yellow, the velvet petals of some almost black,
striped with rare and exquisite markings, they raise to the sun their
large chaste chalices. The perfection of shape is there, as they rise
from the midst of their green, lance-like leaves; no amorous breeze
ever invades the spot to dishevel their array or filch their treasures;
and the precious golden dust lies in the deep heart of each, untouched
as yet save by the sunshine and the bee. When the noonday heat becomes
too strong, awnings will be spread above the beds; for with the fierce
glare, the petals would open out and the pollen fall before the
delicate task of crossing had been done.
But see! Through the gate in the privet hedge there enters as fair
a sight. Ladies in creamy flowered muslins and soft Indian silks,
shading their eyes from the sun with tiny parasols, pink and white
and green—grand dames of the county, and grander from a distance;
gentlemen in blue swallow-tailed coats and white pantaloons—gallants
escorting their ladies, and connoisseurs to examine the flowers—all,
conducted by the owner, book in hand, advance into the garden and move
along the beds. For that owner, an old man with white hair, clear gray
eyes, and the memory of their youthful red remaining in his cheeks,
this is the gala time of the year. Next month, the beds of ranunculus
will bloom, and pinks and carnations will follow; but the tulips are
his most famous flowers, and, for the few days while they are in
perfection, he leads about, with his old-world courtesy, replying to a
question here, giving a name or a pedigree there, a constant succession
of visitors. These are his hours of triumph. For eleven months he
has gone about his beloved pursuit, mixing loams and leaf-moulds and
earths, sorting, drying, and planting the bulbs, and tending their
growth with his own hand—for to whose, else, could he trust the
work?—and now his toil has blossomed, and its worth is acknowledged.
Plants envied by peers, plants not to be bought, are there, and he
looks into the heart of each tenderly, for he knows it a child of his
own.
Presently he leads his visitors back into the house, across the mossy
stones of the court, where, under glass frames, thousands of auricula
have just passed their bloom, and up the outside stair to the sunny
door in the house-side. He leads them into the shady dining-room,
with its furniture of dark old bees-waxed mahogany, where there is a
slight refreshment of wine and cake, rare old Madeira, and cake, rich
with eggs and Indian spice, made by his daughter’s own hand. Jars and
glasses are filled with sweet-smelling flowers, and the breath of the
new-blown summer comes in through the open doors.
The warm sunlight through the brown linen blind finds its way across
the room, and falls with subdued radiance on the middle picture of the
opposite wall. The dark eyes, bright cheeks, and cherry mouth were
those of the old man’s wife—the wife of his youth. She died while
the smile was yet on her lip and the tear of sympathy in her eye;
for she was the friend of all, and remains yet a tender memory among
the neighbouring poor. The old man is never seen to look upon that
picture; but on Sundays for hours he sits in reverie by his open Bible
here in the room alone. In a velvet case in the corner press there,
lies a silver medal. It was pinned to his breast by the Third George
on a great day at Windsor long ago. For the old man peacefully ending
his years here among the flowers, in his youth served the king, and
fought, as a naval officer, through the French and Spanish wars. As he
goes quietly about, alone, among his garden beds, perchance he hears
again sometimes the hoarse word of command, the quick tread of the men,
and the deep roar of the heavy guns, as his ship goes into action.
The smoke of these battles rolled leeward long ago, and their glory
and their wounds are alike forgotten. In that press, too, lies the
wonderful ebony flute, with its marvellous confusion of silver keys,
upon which he used to take pleasure in recalling the stirring airs of
the fleet. It has played its last tune; the keys are untouched now, and
it is laid past, warped by age, to be fingered by its old master no
more.
But his guests rise to leave, and, receiving with antique grace their
courtly acknowledgments, he attends the ladies across the stone-paved
hall to their carriages.
Many years ago! The old man since then has himself been carried across
that hall to his long home, and no more do grand dames visit the
high-walled garden. But the trees whisper yet above it; the warmth of
summer beats on the gravelled walks; and the flowers, lovely as of old
in their immortal youth, still open their stainless petals to the sun.
ABOUT COBRAS.
BY AN OFFICER.
While at home on furlough from India a short time ago, I was much
amused at finding a very general impression among my friends that to
come across a cobra is an every-day kind of occurrence in India. How
erroneous this idea is may be gathered from the fact that not many
days ago a brother-officer told me that although he had been about ten
years in India, he had never yet seen a cobra in a wild state. His is,
it is true, probably an exceptional case; but still it shows that an
Englishman may pass a considerable time in India without coming across
one of these venomous reptiles. Cobras, however, are met with quite
often enough, and sometimes in very curious and uncomfortable places.
For instance, a young lady who had just returned from a ball in a
small station in Southern India, noticed, as she was on the point of
getting into bed, that the pillow looked disarranged; and on taking it
up to smooth it out, she discovered a cobra coiled up underneath it.
She called out for assistance; and her father coming to the rescue,
speedily despatched the obnoxious intruder with a stick. I happened to
mention this circumstance to an officer one day, and he informed me
that the very same thing had happened to himself soon after his first
arrival in the country, and that, in consequence, he never got into bed
until he had examined the pillows.
In the year 1873, while quartered at Bellary, on going into the
drawing-room of the bungalow, which at that time I shared with a
friend, I discovered a cobra curled up on the sofa cushion. I hastened
out of the room to fetch a stick; but in doing so, I must, I suppose,
have made some noise, as on returning the snake had disappeared. A few
evenings later, however, just as my ‘chum’ was leaving the house to go
out to dinner, he called out to me that there was a snake crawling up
the steps of the veranda in front of the drawing-room. I ran out with
a stick, and succeeded in killing the unwelcome visitor. It turned out
to be a fairly large cobra, and was in all probability the one which
I had seen a few days previously on the sofa. It is, however, in the
bathrooms of an Indian bungalow that cobras, when met with within
doors, are most frequently encountered, as they come there in pursuit
of the frogs which delight to take up their quarters there; for froggy
is an article of diet to which the cobra is very partial. An officer
of the Madras cavalry, since deceased, told me that when quartered
at Arcot, he one day observed in his bathroom, emerging from the
waste-water pipe, the head of a cobra, which was holding in his mouth a
frog. The pipe was too narrow to admit of the snake’s withdrawing his
head unless he released his victim; this, however, from unwillingness
to forego his meal, he would not do, and in consequence, paid the
penalty for his gluttony with his life.
One day, my wife’s ayah came running into our bedroom saying there was
a large snake in the bathroom. Arming myself as usual with a stick, I
went into the bathroom just in time to see the snake disappear into
the waste-water pipe, which ran under another small room to the back
of the house, where the water found its outlet. The servants stationed
themselves at the outlet, while I endeavoured to drive the reptile
out from the rear, first with my stick, and afterwards by pouring the
contents of a kettle of boiling water down the pipe. Both attempts
to dislodge the intruder from his position proving ineffectual, I
commenced a vigorous assault on him by thrusting a bamboo about five
feet long down the pipe, and this time success rewarded my efforts, and
the snake, driven from his refuge, was killed by the servants outside.
This cobra measured about five feet six inches in length, and was the
largest that I have ever seen killed. I may here mention that the
ordinary ideas about the size attained by this species of snake are
greatly exaggerated. Some years ago, a surgeon-major serving in the
Madras presidency, with whom I was acquainted, took a great interest
in this matter, and offered a considerable reward to any one who would
bring him a cobra six feet in length; but, if my memory serves me
right, the reward was never gained, although a very large number of
cobras were produced for his inspection.
Once I witnessed a wonderful escape from the almost invariably fatal
effects of a cobra bite. I was marching with some native troops in the
cold weather, and halted for the night at a place called Maikur, where,
instead of having our tents pitched, my wife and I preferred occupying
a small bungalow belonging to the department of Public Works, which was
situated opposite the encamping-ground. Sitting outside the bungalow
after dinner, I had occasion to call my head-servant to give him some
orders for the next morning. As he ran up, I saw him kick something
off his left foot, and at the same time he called out: ‘Sāmp, sahib,
sāmp!’ (‘A snake, sir, a snake.’) There was a bright wood-fire burning
close by, and I saw by its light the snake with its hood up. It was
immediately killed by some of the camp-followers, and was brought to
me, and proved to be a small cobra. On examining my servant’s foot, I
found one tiny puncture on the ankle, on which was a single drop of
blood. The man was at once taken to the hospital tent, and attended
to by the hospital assistant in medical charge of the troops, who
applied ammonia and did all that was in his power. I was very anxious
about the man; but he awoke me at the hour for marching next morning
as if nothing had happened, and for some time apparently experienced
no inconvenience. Some weeks later, however, after we had reached our
destination, his left leg swelled very much, and he suffered great
pain for a considerable time; but he eventually recovered. The snake
was seen by eight or ten persons besides myself, and was beyond doubt
a cobra; and the only possible explanation of the man’s escape seems
to be that the reptile must have bitten something else very shortly
before, and so to a great extent exhausted the deadly poison in its
fangs.
One of our children had a narrow escape, though of a different kind,
when quite a baby. My wife picked him up one day from the floor, where
he was lying enjoying himself in baby fashion. She had hardly done so,
when a cobra fell from the roof on the very spot on which the little
one had been disporting himself the moment before.
On one occasion, a curious native superstition with regard to the
subject of these notes came to my notice. A cobra which had been killed
in the hut of one of the men was brought up to be shown to me, when a
havildar (native sergeant) called my attention to the fact that the end
of his tail was blunt, saying in Hindustani: ‘Look, sahib; this is a
downright villain; he has bitten some man, and so lost the tip of his
tail.’ On my making further inquiries, I was confidently assured that
whenever a cobra bites a man, the tip of his tail invariably becomes
blunted!
MITIS METAL.
The introduction of wrought-iron castings by the ‘Mitis process,’ to
which attention has lately been directed, forms a new and an important
departure in the employment of this class of iron. Up to the present
time, wrought-iron has been worked into the requisite forms by means
of hammering; whilst a system of stamping in moulds was deemed a
considerable advance in economical working. It is now, however,
proposed to treat wrought-iron in the same manner as cast-iron—namely,
by melting and pouring it into moulds made in sand, and corresponding
in shape with the object desired. By such a process a considerable
saving in the cost of production is obtained. Annealing is found to be
unnecessary.
The difficulty which has hitherto barred the adoption of this method
has been the high temperature to which it has been necessary to
heat the iron before it became sufficiently fluid to flow into the
moulds. Wrought-iron fuses at about four thousand degrees Fahrenheit,
but a considerably higher temperature had to be obtained before the
metal passed out of the viscid state; and on reaching this increased
heat, it was found to absorb gases which caused cavities and flaws
in the castings, rendering them worthless, and what are technically
known in the foundry as ‘wasters.’ To obviate this difficulty, Peter
Ostberg, a Swedish engineer, has taken advantage of the fact that the
melting-point in alloys is considerably below that of their components;
and by combining with the iron a small percentage of aluminium, he has
succeeded in lowering the temperature of fusion of the mixture to such
an extent that excellent castings can be obtained, the temperature
reached not being high enough to cause the absorption of gases. The
castings are clean and sharp in form, and remarkably strong and fine in
texture, being in some cases, it is said, half as tough again as the
metal from which they were made. The great reduction in price cannot
fail to procure for the new process an opening commensurate with its
intrinsic merits.
In the United States and Sweden, Mitis Metal has already established
itself as an article of commerce at once reliable and economical; and
there can be little doubt that the engineers of this country will avail
themselves of this new form of iron, placed at their disposal by an
invention which promises to rival in importance any introduced into
this branch of industry for many years past.
MISSION TO DEEP-SEA FISHERMEN.
In the year 1844, the Thames Church Mission was instituted. A few
years ago, an accidental development of the organisation led to the
establishment of a missionary enterprise among the fishermen engaged
in the North Sea. But the possibilities of the new field of labour
soon justified the formation of a separate body to cope with them; and
on the 30th of November 1884, the Mission to Deep-sea Fishermen was
started. Its primary object is to give religious teaching to the twelve
thousand men and lads who labour on the twelve fishing-fleets cruising
in the North Sea. It has six smacks in its service, a seventh being,
at the time of writing, on the stocks. These smacks supplement their
philanthropic labours by fishing with the fleets with which they sail.
Each vessel carries a missionary skipper, who, as often as the weather
will permit, gathers together in his spacious hold a congregation of
fellow-fishermen for worship. The earnestness of a devout mariner has
often been noted; and from a short cruise the writer recently took on
one of the Mission vessels, he can testify not only to the exceptional
enthusiasm and fervour which characterised the services held on board,
but also to the sound moral tone which, as a result of such services,
prevails generally in the fleets—a condition of things in happy
contrast to the riots and crimes which were rife there in former years.
But not only are the Mission vessels centres of religious instruction;
each carries a quantity of healthy literature, which, circulating
through the fleets, beguiles many a fisherman’s leisure hour of its
tedium. Then, too, medicine-chests and surgical appliances are always
kept on board; and with these at hand, the skipper and mate, qualified
by their certificates from the St John’s Ambulance Association and the
National Health Society, treat the sick and injured fishermen of the
fleet, who would otherwise suffer until reaching land the pangs of
untreated disorders and undressed wounds. Besides this, each missionary
skipper labours to promulgate temperance principles among the fleets
both by personal example and gentle persuasion. Another feature of the
Mission’s work is the collecting and forwarding of knitted cuffs and
comforters—made by friends on shore—to the North Sea fishermen, as
preventives against the terrible ‘sea-blisters’ which oil-skins produce
on unprotected wrists and necks. Lastly, we should mention that the
fishermen of the fleets are encouraged to come frequently aboard the
Mission vessels to join in social gossip over a mug of cocoa. Thus
each of these vessels exists in the various capacities of church,
library, temperance hall, dispensary, and social lounge. The methods by
which the Mission has fought the ‘coper’ or ‘floating grog-shop’ are
tolerably well known, and so need not be dwelt upon here.
Glancing at statistics, we note that, during last year, there were 1856
visits paid to vessels; 10,375 attendants at the seven hundred services
held; 515 temperance pledges were taken; 74,127 tracts and 45,258
magazines distributed; 2725 cases medically and surgically treated;
6665 comforters, 16,210 pairs of cuffs, and 668 helmets, given away;
and 626 copies of the Scriptures sold. Thus the Mission shows a most
healthy growth. It has recently been established in new offices at 181
Queen Victoria Street, London, E.C.; and a new phase of its enterprise
is the circulation of a twopenny monthly journal entitled _Toilers of
the Deep_, being a ‘record of Mission-work among them.’ The magazine is
an excellent one, and we commend it to all who feel an interest in the
twelve thousand men and boys ‘who toil through furious blast and sleety
storm—who hazard their lives, and fall victims, hundreds of them, to
the pitiless waves, that markets at home may be well supplied.’
LOST AT SEA.
Good-night, beloved; the light is slowly dying
From wood and field; and far away the sea
Moans deep within its bosom. Is it sighing
For those whose rest can never broken be;
For those who found their way to God; yet never
Beneath green sod may rest, the sea holds them for ever?