[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. 32.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, AUGUST 9, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
WATER.
Water bears a very important part in relation to the human system and
preservation of health. It combines with the tissues of the body, and
forms a necessary part of its structure. In the case of a man weighing
one hundred and fifty-four pounds, one hundred and eleven would consist
of water. It enters very largely into the composition of our food.
Although water is so important a factor in our existence, and although
its vitiation often gives rise to that deadly pestilence, typhoid
fever, yet, strange to say, there are comparatively few people who
possess any trustworthy information respecting its primary sources and
purest forms. The object of this paper will be to afford our readers
some useful hints respecting the various kinds of water and their
relative purity, also to mention certain wise precautions requisite in
order to avoid impure water.
The first great source of water is the ocean; the sun shining upon
the surface, its heating rays combine with and send out a certain
amount of vapour. The atmosphere, like a sponge, absorbs the vaporous
water, forming clouds, which are driven by the wind east, west, north,
and south. When the clouds arrive in a cooler atmosphere, the vapour
condenses, and descends in the form of rain or snow, being ultimately
absorbed into the earth, giving rise to different varieties of water;
or it pours down the mountains, and forms rivulets, and ultimately
rivers. Thus we have rain, spring, and river water. We may here mention
that Dr Normandy discovered a process by which sea-water can be
distilled and rendered fit to drink. In nature, water is never found
perfectly pure, as that which descends in rain is to a certain degree
contaminated by the impurities contained in the air, as spring-water is
by contact with various substances in the earth. These impurities are
not always perceptible. Thus, the clearest and brightest waters, those
of springs and pellucid rivers, even when filtered, are never pure.
They all contain a greater or less percentage of saline matter, often
so much so, indeed, as to form what are termed mineral waters. Amongst
the purest natural waters hitherto discovered is that of the Loka in
North Sweden. It contains only one-twentieth of a grain (0.0566) of
mineral matter per gallon. The water supplied to the city of Edinburgh
contains from seven to fourteen grains in the gallon; whilst that
of the Thames near London contains about twenty-one. Rain-water, if
collected in the country, is the purest; but when obtained in or near
large cities, becomes impure from passing through a vitiated atmosphere.
It is, however, on spring and river water that we depend for our daily
supply, and a due consideration of these waters is manifestly a matter
of no small moment.
Well-water, as also that of some springs, especially when obtained in
or near towns, although cool and clear, and at times sparkling, is to
be avoided. The solvent power of water being so great, it takes up many
impurities from the soil through which it passes. In the neighbourhood
of dwellings and farmyards, the water often is impure, and unfit to
drink. Wells in the vicinity of graveyards are particularly to be
avoided. Mr Noad found a hundred grains of solid matter to the gallon
of water taken from a well in the vicinity of Highgate Church, London.
Besides mineral substances, decaying vegetable impurities are usually
found in wells. The water that supplies the surface-wells of London is
derived from rain, which percolates through the gravel and accumulates
upon the clay. Now, this gravel contains all the soakage of London
filth; through it run drains and sewers, the surface also being riddled
with innumerable cesspools.
River-water being derived from the conflux of many springs with
rain-water, unless close to large towns, is decidedly preferable to
well-water; but it is liable to a certain amount of contamination, by
holding in suspension a considerable quantity of animal, vegetable,
and earthy matters. This, according to Dr Paris, is unquestionably
the case in water supplied from the Thames by the Grand Junction
Water Company. Be it known that Thames water is never used in London
breweries, but Artesian-well water, brought up from a depth of several
hundred feet.
Besides vegetable and animal impurities in water, there are two other
substances which are usually considered foreign to pure water—namely,
saline and mineral. The saline are often present in such large
proportions as to render water medicinal, as illustrated by those
of Cheltenham, Leamington, and Harrogate, numerous other varieties
existing on the continent. Brighton water, although sparkling, contains
a great deal of bi-carbonate of lime, which, being soluble, filtering
is ineffectual to remove. When boiled, however, the carbonic acid is
driven off and the chalk precipitated. Such water when boiled is fit
for drinking purposes.
A simple but not infallible test for ascertaining animal or vegetable
contaminations in water is to put fifteen or twenty drops of
permanganate of potash solutions, or Condy’s fluid, into a tumblerful
of water. If the water is free from such impurities, the permanganate
will retain its beautiful red colour. Should the water contain
organic matter, the red hue soon disappears, and in proportion to its
contamination will be the discoloration.
Bad water is far more dangerous than impure air; the air may be
dispersed by ventilation and change of atmosphere; whilst water when
vitiated is a constant source of mischief. Snow-water when collected
in the open country equals rain-water in purity. It has been supposed
by some to be unhealthy; but such belief is totally unsupported by
any reliable evidence. The practical observations of Captain Cook
on his voyage round the world demonstrate beyond all question its
wholesomeness.
Lake-water is collected rain, spring, and occasionally river waters.
Its transparency, however, is not to be relied on as evidence of
purity. It is often contaminated by both vegetable and animal matter,
which, owing to its stagnant nature, have become decomposed. According
to Dr Paris and other authorities, endemic diarrhœa often arises from
drinking lake-water, a circumstance which tourists would do well to
bear in mind.
Should much lime be present in water, as in that supplied by the Kent
Water Company, boiling alone will not soften it; but by the addition
of a little soda during the boiling, the lime of the gypsum is
precipitated. Marsh-water is certainly the most impure of all water,
being loaded with decomposing vegetable matter. Many diseases have
without doubt been occasioned by its use.
The receptacles in which even the purest water is kept are of the
utmost importance in a hygienic point of view. The noted colic of
Amsterdam was believed by Tronchin—who wrote a history of that
epidemic—to have been occasioned by leaves falling into leaden
cisterns filled with rain-water and there putrefying. Van Sweiten also
mentions an instance where a whole family were affected with colic from
a similar cause. The acidity arising from decomposing leaves in water
dissolves part of the leaden receptacle, and such water ofttimes thus
induces lead-colic.
The sources of contaminated drinking-water are very numerous, and may
affect the water at its source, in its flow, in its reservoir, or
during distribution. When stored in houses, it is especially exposed
to risk, and this is the most important argument in favour of constant
service. Cistern stowage lessens the risks incidental to intermissions;
but at the same time the success of this plan entirely depends upon
the receptacle being properly made and frequently cleansed. An eminent
physician told the writer that he believed typhoid fever often
originated from the stagnant water in dirty cisterns being used for
drinking purposes.
We have now arrived at the most important part of this paper—namely,
the most effectual means for obtaining pure water.
For the purification of water, various methods have from time to time
been suggested, with more or less success. Perhaps the most efficient
for attaining so desirable an end is by passing it through layers
of charcoal, a substance eminently useful in preserving water from
corruption, by abstracting therefrom both vegetable and animal matter.
Nevertheless, where there is reason to suspect the presence of much
injurious contamination, the process of boiling previous to filtration
should never be omitted. The water subsequently must be agitated in
contact with the atmosphere, with a view to the restoration of its
natural proportion of air; otherwise, it is insipid and tasteless.
In China, water is seldom drunk until it has been boiled. According
to the advice of a distinguished court physician, those who travel
on the continent should studiously avoid drinking water, especially
that contained in the bedroom bottles of hotels. The same authority
is also of opinion that typhoid fever is often thus caught whilst
travelling. Natural mineral waters, such as Apollinaris, are, he
considers, the best to drink whilst travelling. Lastly, those who are
desirous of drinking the purest water should take distilled water,
which possesses the following advantages: (1) Great purity; (2) High
powers as a solvent of all animal and vegetable substances; and (3) The
material assistance which its remarkable solvent properties exercise
in favouring a healthy digestion. It also assists in eliminating
calcareous matter from the system; hence its undeniable utility for
vesical concretions. To those who are unable to obtain distilled
water, we would most strongly urge the importance of boiling all
drinking-water, and then filtering through charcoal, previous to use.
The charcoal through which water is filtered ought frequently to be
replaced by a fresh supply, as otherwise it becomes choked up in
time by impurities, which at last escape into the water. Under such
circumstances, even filtered water may become contaminated. Were this
simple precaution more generally adopted, according to the latest
teachings of science, many a life liable to be destroyed by typhoid
fever would most assuredly be saved.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER XLI.—PULLED UP.
‘The strain is proving almost too much for me,’ Philip wrote. ‘I
have no doubt that my scheme is practicable; and even if I fail,
somebody else will carry it out by-and-by. But at present the men do
not understand it, and are suspicious that my promises will not be
fulfilled. So that the harder I strive to put matters right, the more
wrong they seem to go. The losses are bringing me to a crisis, and the
worry which is the consequence of daily disappointment is driving me
out of my wits. Sleepless nights and restless nervous days began long
ago, although I have not told you; and I have been obliged to swallow
all sorts of rubbish in the form of narcotics. At first they gave
me sleep, and that was a gain, notwithstanding the muddled headachy
feeling they left me next day.
‘O yes; I have seen the doctor. Joy is a capital fellow. He came in by
accident, and when he saw me, gave me good advice—as usual, the advice
which could not be followed. He told me that I ought to have absolute
rest of mind and body, and to secure it, ought to throw up everything.
A good joke that—as good as telling a soldier that he ought to run as
soon as he sees the chance of catching a bullet in the wrong way!
‘Do not be afraid, though: I will take a long rest, when I get things a
little straight here.
‘One of my present worries is that Kersey has deserted—as I feared he
would. Says he is going to Australia or Manitoba, but will give no
explanation. That girl Pansy is no doubt at the bottom of it, and I do
not think even you can set it right. If my suspicions are correct, she
is the fool of her own vanity. She has thrown over an honest fellow,
because she is thinking of a man who has no more notion of having
anything to do with her than of trying to jump over the moon. I am
sorry for her—especially as she deprives me of the best man about the
place.
‘As for Wrentham, he irritates me. He sees my anxiety, and yet he comes
and goes as gaily as if the whole thing were a farce, which should not
disturb anybody’s equanimity, no matter how it ended. And then he has
that horrible look of “I told you so” on his face, whenever I attempt
to make him seriously examine the state of affairs.
‘The fact is I begin to repent having ever asked for his assistance.
He is much more interested in speculative stocks than in the business
which ought to occupy his whole attention at this juncture.
‘But, there—I am in a highly excited condition at present, and no doubt
misjudge him. He does everything required willingly enough, although
not in the spirit which seems to me necessary to the success of my
plans.’
The letter was not finished, and so far it did not give a full account
of his sufferings mental and physical, or of the gravity with which
Dr Joy had warned him that he must pull up at once, or prepare for
insanity or death. The good little doctor had never before pronounced
such a decided verdict, for, with professional discretion and natural
kindliness, he avoided a decisive prognosis unless the result were
inevitable. Philip had promised obedience as soon as he got over
the present difficulty—promised to take whatever drugs the doctor
prescribed, and begged him in the meanwhile not to frighten the people
at Willowmere (of course the doctor understood he meant Madge) with any
alarming reports.
Philip was writing in his chambers late at night, when he was
interrupted by the arrival of Wrentham. The visit had been expected,
and therefore excited no surprise. Philip was struck by a change in
his visitor’s manner, which, although slight, was enough to render the
description he had just written of him a little unfair.
Wrentham’s face was not that of one who was gaily taking part in a
farce. Still his bearing suggested the careless ease of a man who
is either endowed with boundless fortune or a sublime indifference
to bankruptcy. It might be that, being conscious of Philip’s
dissatisfaction, he assumed a more marked degree of nonchalance than he
would have done if there had been confidence between them.
Philip did try to keep this rule in mind—that when your suspicions are
aroused about any person, you should make large allowances for the
exaggerations of the meaning of his or her actions, as interpreted by
your own excited nerves, and for the altered nervous condition of the
person who is conscious of being suspected. But somehow, the rule did
not seem to apply to Wrentham. In favour or out of favour, he was much
the same. He was a cool-headed or light-hearted gambler in the business
of life, and took his losses as coolly as he took his winnings—or
feigned to do so; and this feigning, if well done, has as much effect
upon the looker-on as if the feeling were genuine.
‘Any news?’ Philip inquired, as he put his letter into the desk and
wheeled round to the fire, by the side of which his visitor was already
seated.
‘None; except that our friend appears to consume an extraordinary
quantity of B. and S. But Mr Shield could not be seen by any one this
evening. The man first told me he was out; so I left your note and said
I should return in an hour. Then I marched up and down near the door,
on the watch for anybody like your uncle. I did not see him, but I saw
a friend of mine arrive.’
‘Who was that?’
‘You know him—Beecham, who has been living so long at the _King’s
Head_.’
‘That was an odd coincidence.’
‘Yes, it seemed so,’ rejoined Wrentham, with the tone of one who sees
more than he reports. ‘Very odd that the day after your uncle leaves
the _Langham_ and takes up his quarters in this quiet private hotel,
Beecham should bundle up his traps, quit Kingshope, and come to settle
in the same house.’
‘Has he left our place, then?’
‘So he says—for of course I spoke to him. He does not know where he
is going to, or whether he will return to Kingshope or not. I said it
wasn’t fair to his friends to vanish from amongst them without a hint,
or giving them a chance to express their regret at losing him. He said
it was a way he had of making up his mind suddenly and acting on its
decision instantly. He hoped, however, to have the pleasure of seeing
me again. With that he shook hands and bustled into the hotel before it
came into my head to ask him if he knew Mr Shield.’
‘How could he know him?’ muttered Philip a little impatiently, for this
episode interrupted the account of Wrentham’s endeavours to obtain a
reply from his uncle as to whether or not he would consent to see him
on the following day.
‘Don’t know how exactly; but there are lots of ways in which they might
have met. Beecham has travelled a bit in all sorts of odd corners of
the earth. Anyhow, I think they know each other.’
‘Well, well, that is no business of ours.—Did you see Mr Shield at
last?’
‘No; but I got this message from him with his compliments. He regretted
that he could not see me, but the letter should have immediate
attention.’
‘That is satisfactory,’ said Philip, relieved.
Wrentham looked at him critically, as if he had been a horse on which a
heavy bet depended.
‘You are easily satisfied,’ he observed with a light laugh; but
the sound was not pleasing to the ears of the listener. ‘Before
being satisfied, I should like to have his answer to your note, for
everything goes to the dogs if he declines to come down handsome.’
‘He will not refuse: he is pledged to it. But it is horrible to have to
apply to him so soon.’
‘Ah, yes; it is nasty having to ask a favour. What do you mean to do if
he should say “No” plump, or make some excuse?—which comes to the same
thing, and is more unpleasant, because it kind of holds you under the
obligation without granting you the favour.’
‘I don’t know,’ answered Philip rising and walking up and down the room
uneasily.
‘Well, I have a notion,’ said Wrentham slowly, as he drew his hand over
his chin; ‘but it seems scarcely worth mentioning, as it would take the
form of advice, and you don’t care about my advice, or you wouldn’t be
in this mess.... I beg your pardon: ’pon my honour, I didn’t mean to
say anything that would hurt you.’
‘What were you going to say?’ was Philip’s abrupt response.
‘I was going to say that you ought to find out what Beecham has to do
with him. Of course I have been pretty chummy with the old boy; but
I never could get behind his eyes. _You_ can learn what he is up to
without any trouble.’
‘Me!—how?’
‘By asking Miss Heathcote.’
‘Miss Heathcote! What nonsense you are talking. She knows no more about
the man than I do.’
‘Oh!’—There was a most provoking tone of amused surprise in this
exclamation.—‘You think so?’
‘I am sure of it.’
Wrentham, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his thumbs,
whilst the tips of his fingers touched in front, stared at him
seriously.
‘Then you don’t know what friends they are?—that they have been meeting
daily—that they correspond?’
Philip did not immediately catch the significance of voice and manner,
he was so much occupied with other matters.
‘I daresay, I daresay,’ was the abstracted answer; ‘he is always
wandering about, and they like him at Willowmere.... Do you think we
can manage to prepare the full statement of accounts by the morning?’
The mention of accounts did not please Wrentham. He jerked his head
back with the grand air of one who, being accustomed to deal with large
totals, could not think of giving his mind to petty details.
‘Oh, well, if you don’t mind, I have nothing more to say. As to the
accounts, I don’t see what you want more than your books. They are made
up, and the totals will be quite enough for Mr Shield. They are what,
as you know, I always expected them to be—most confoundedly on the
wrong side. I warned you’——
‘Yes, yes; I know you warned me, and others warned me, and the thing
has turned out as bad as you croakers could wish. That is due to my
mismanagement—to a blunder I have made somewhere, not to any weakness
in the principle of my scheme. Taking the position as it is, I want to
find out where I have blundered.—I do not mean to give in, and will go
on as hard as ever, if we can only tide over the present mess.’
‘That’s right enough,’ ejaculated Wrentham with an outburst of
good-natured admiration; ‘but in the meanwhile, the first thing to do
is to get over the mess.’
‘Ay, how to do that,’ muttered Philip still marching up and down.
‘The shortest way is to make sure that Mr Shield’s mind is not
prejudiced against you and your work at the same time.’
‘Oh, stuff. Who wants to prejudice him against me?’
‘I say, find out what Beecham is after. Maybe he is your friend: in
that case, so much the better; and if he is not, then you will be
able to deal with him more promptly, if you have discovered his trick
in time. Ask Miss Heathcote about him. She ought to tell you all she
knows.’
Philip halted, head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor, and the words
buzzing through his brain—‘She ought to tell me all she knows.’
Certainly she ought, and would. Then, for the first time, there seemed
to reach his ears as from a distance the voices he had heard behind
him at the ‘dancing beeches,’ and he recalled Madge’s agitated face
as she told him that she had been intrusted by this man with a secret
which she must not at present share with him. He had disapproved of
her conduct at the time; he disapproved of it still more strongly now,
although he regarded it as nothing more than a mistake into which she
had been betrayed by her sympathetic heart.
‘Very well,’ he said sharply, ‘I shall ask Miss Heathcote what she
knows about him. What then?’
‘Why, then we shall know where we are,’ Wrentham answered gaily. ‘To be
sure, if you receive a message from Mr Shield to-morrow morning that it
is all right, there will be no necessity to trouble Miss Heathcote.’
It was one of the anomalies of his association with Wrentham—or one
of the effects of the weakness which the strain upon his nerves had
produced—that Philip was influenced by him on those very points on
which he would have least expected himself to be subject to influence
by any one. It is true that whilst he had been all along aware of his
manager’s want of sympathy with his work, he had discovered no reason
to suspect his honesty—and this might account for the anomaly.
So, it was Wrentham who had persuaded him that the time had come
to apply to Mr Shield for assistance at a critical juncture in his
speculation; and it was Wrentham who persuaded him that he ought to
learn from Madge the nature of the secret confided to her by Beecham.
‘He won’t think much more about the accounts to-night,’ Wrentham was
saying mentally as he went down-stairs. And his step was not so jaunty
as usual when he got into the street.
MUSHROOMS FOR THE MILLION.
Is there any one in England who does not esteem mushrooms as delicious
esculents? Their flavour commends them to most palates, and their value
as food is quite on a par with many other vegetables. Few of the other
varieties of edible funguses are approved of by English people, partly
through ignorance and prejudice. Yet in many countries in Europe, about
thirty kinds, closely allied to the mushroom in flavour and excellence,
form the chief diet for thousands of the peasants during the summer
months, either fresh from the meadows or preserved in vinegar and oil.
We may, then, be very thankful to any one who instructs us how to grow
mushrooms so that they may be as plentiful as cabbages, and within the
reach of any cottager who has a garden and can buy a load of manure. A
very practical little treatise on Mushroom-growing has been published
by Mr Wright (price one shilling) at the office of the _Journal of
Horticulture_, 171 Fleet Street, London, from which we propose to give
a slight sketch of his plan, recommending the purchase of the work to
those who desire to follow out his directions. It would seem to be a
most profitable investment in these days, when the farmers have so much
reason for complaint, as the remuneration far exceeds that of any other
vegetable. Fruit-crops as well as vegetables are seriously affected by
winter-cold, high winds, and spring frosts; and from twenty to forty
pounds an acre is an average value of the profits arising from either.
In Cornwall and Devonshire, the early potatoes and valuable fruits
may give from one to two hundred pounds an acre, but this is very
exceptional. Yet mushroom-growing exceeds even this profit.
We will turn now to Mr Wright’s actual calculation, founded on the
well-ascertained fact, that a mushroom-bed two and a half feet wide
and one yard long, and situated in the open air, yields produce of the
value of fifteen shillings, and that the cost of production is five
shillings per yard. There have been seasons when the price was very
high and an extraordinary crop produced, the returns having amounted to
forty-five shillings the yard. The average price to be got in London
is one shilling per pound-weight. Take the width of the beds at two
feet and a half, with five feet of space between each bed, which is
necessary for moving freely between the beds. There are four thousand
eight hundred and forty square yards in an acre, which would allow
of nineteen hundred and thirty-six yards for beds; these, at fifteen
shillings a yard, give a profit of fourteen hundred and fifty-two
pounds; from which deduct rent, eighteen pounds, and cost of production
at five shillings a yard—leaving the very profitable balance of nine
hundred and fifty pounds. The purchase of the spawn, if not grown on
the ground, would be an additional cost of one shilling a yard. From
October to July, seven thousand pounds-weight were really despatched to
market from a length of five hundred yards, and sold for three hundred
and sixty-seven pounds, besides the ketchup that was made from the
overgrown specimens.
The next question is, how to grow this valuable article of commerce.
First of all, the stable-manure (used as a basis) must be of the
best kind, to which oak or beech leaves may be added, as they induce
a steady heat; but the large soft leaves of the sycamore, &c., are
unsuitable. A slight sprinkling of tan, with a very small quantity of
salt and guano, may be advantageous; an ounce of each to a barrowful of
the material will be sufficient. However, many successful growers use
none of these things, but depend entirely on well-prepared manure and
good spawn.
The best time for beginners to prepare their beds is towards the end of
July or in August. In three weeks the manure will be ready for forming
into ridges; in another week, spawn may be inserted. Eight weeks after,
the mushrooms will appear, and continue bearing for three months. Now
for the preparation. Take the manure as it comes from the stalls, the
greater part consisting of straw more or less discoloured. When on the
ground, fork it over, casting aside the long clean straw only; the
remainder, forming a mixture of half and half, should be mixed and
piled into a heap, as if for a hotbed for a frame. Very little water,
if any, will be needed. In four or six days the fermentation should
be in full force and the mass hot. The work of turning and purifying
now begins. Every lock of straw and flake of manure must be separated
and thoroughly incorporated, the outsides being placed in the centre.
From four to six turnings on alternate days are necessary. Thus the
mass is sweetened and the straw broken with the least possible loss of
ammonia. A little practice will guide to the knowledge of when the beds
are in a right condition; the appearance and the smell form the best
indications. There should be an inseparable mass of straw and manure,
a slightly greasy tinge, and a warm brown colour. A lump drawn from
the interior should not smell offensively, but possess a pungent and
somewhat agreeable scent, with a slight odour of mushrooms. If these
features are not present, another turning is required. Texture, heat,
purity, and moisture, are the four important requisites—sufficiently
moist to be pressed into a mass, and yet not a drop of water to be
squeezed from it.
The site for the bed is the next consideration. Shelter from cold
winds is a great advantage; a garden-wall to the north and a hedge on
the south is the best position; but by the use of wattled hurdles,
admirable results have been obtained. The sheltered nook of any
garden or homestead may be better used for this purpose than for any
other kind of produce. If the soil be good in quality, it is well
to remove it where the beds are to be made to the depth of several
inches, and place it on a heap, to be laid afterwards on the top of
the beds. The excavations can be filled with rubble, which insures
a dry foundation, as water should never accumulate on the surface.
As mentioned previously, the beds should be two feet and a half wide
at the base, six inches at the top, and two feet and a half high. At
this angle, the soil will adhere to the sides, and much of the rain
will pass off freely. But where the rainfall is great, they must be
protected with canvas coverings over the straw at the top. A couple of
sticks a yard long will prove an easy guide to the form. Insert them
two and a half feet apart, and draw the tops to within six inches of
each other, and there is the outline of the bed. Soon, however, a line
will only be needed; the eye can do all the rest. Larger beds may be
made; but let the sides be as steep as possible, firm, and smooth, that
the rain may not penetrate. In addition to its being heavily beaten
with forks, it must be twice trodden down—once at the depth of eighteen
inches, and again when three feet high. The appearance will be that of
a thatched roof in miniature, and is quite a work of art for smoothness
and outline. To prevent the bed drying in the centre, holes should be
bored with an iron bar, about ten inches apart, along the ridge to the
bottom of the bed, and a few sticks put in afterwards, to indicate the
temperature.
There are many varieties of mushroom seed, or spawn, as it is termed.
Large quantities are imported from France, where it is made up in
flakes, instead of bricks, as with us. Good virgin spawn made up in
bricks is decidedly the best, but the price is as high as two guineas
a bushel. Mr Veitch, King’s Road, Chelsea, or Mr Barter, Harrow Road,
London, and many others, may be relied on for the small quantity which
would be required for a beginner. The lumps are nine inches long and
six wide; sixteen of them make a bushel. They are composed of soil and
manure. When partially dried, the spawn is inserted, and under a genial
heat it penetrates the entire mass. Kept cool and dry, the vitality
lasts for years. A good mushroom brick when broken should resemble a
mass of silvery cobwebs. In growing these esculents for the market, it
is most advantageous to use the spawn liberally and in large lumps. A
brick may be divided into eight parts, and inserted about nine inches
apart, level with the surface of the ridges. Holes should not be made,
but the manure held up with the left hand, the lump pushed in with the
right; there are then no interstices for the accumulation of steam,
which is fatal to the mycelium. The time for sowing is when the heat of
the bed is decreasing, but has not fallen below eighty degrees an inch
below the surface.
If the bed be in the right condition, the spawn will begin to spread
in three days, after which the top layer may be covered with soil. A
little litter may cover the bed previously, if the heat requires it.
The kind of soil is not an unimportant matter, and strong turfy loam
yields the best produce, such as a gardener would use for growing
chrysanthemums and roses. From this, mushrooms are frequently cut
weighing half a pound. These are termed ‘broilers,’ and are much in
demand in the foreign hotels in London. The top layer from a pasture in
which buttercups rather than daisies are plentiful, forms an excellent
soil. It may even be enriched with bone-meal, if light and sandy, but
on no account with ordinary manure, as some unwelcome fungi might
spring up. The thickness of this covering of soil must be from one to
two inches. It may be slightly moistened before putting on, not after,
lest dry fissures should form and the heat escape. The whole should
be made firm and smooth, but not plastered like a cement floor. The
temperature of September is a guide to the heat required to be kept up,
as that is the month when mushrooms grow naturally in the open air. An
average of fifty-eight degrees must be considered the highest, but they
will be found among the grass meadows as low as forty-seven degrees. On
a mild day in January, a bed was beginning to bear largely in the open
air under a layer of straw nine inches thick. Cold does no real injury
to mushroom beds; it only stops their growth, but does not destroy
the spawn. They may even be frozen through, and yet, when the spring
melts the frost, they will bear. Too high a temperature is much more
destructive, and the cause of many failures.
After all this preparation is made, the routine of management consists
in maintaining the beds at an equable temperature, watering them at the
right time, and gathering the crops. Sufficient straw has been shaken
from the manure when first brought in to cover the beds; it is the best
that can be used, and when dry, its peculiar nature seems to agree with
the mushrooms better than clean sweet straw or hay. If the weather be
mild, six inches of litter will suffice; whilst during a prolonged
frost, two feet or more, with mats, canvas, or some such material, will
be required. The proper temperature can be determined by the hand; if
there is the slightest warmth felt when placed on the soil under the
straw, that is right; or if the thermometer be laid there at night and
has risen to fifty degrees in the morning.
During fine weather in summer, autumn, and spring, the beds require
frequent watering. The soil should never become dry, and the time
chosen must be early in the afternoon on a sunny day. The covering on
the beds will then be warm; and on this—not under it—water must be
sprinkled in sufficient quantity to percolate through and gradually
moisten the soil. Immediately after, the beds must be covered with
mats, to prevent the evaporation, and the vapour that will be generated
will result in a warm, humid atmosphere, so suitable for the growth of
mushrooms. The mats may be removed in the morning. Beginners should
endeavour to have beds beginning to bear in April or October; they are
not profitable after June, as, owing to the nitrogen they contain,
mushrooms speedily decay in hot weather, and become very indigestible.
When the beds are partially exhausted by continuous bearing, a free
application of liquid manure, heated to a hundred degrees, may be
given, and one or two ounces of salt added to each gallon. It is a
well-known fact that sowing salt over grass and pastureland often
produces an enormous crop of mushrooms, whilst on other parts of
the same land not one is to be found. In a small farm the author is
acquainted with, mushrooms grow abundantly among the potato and turnip
crops, whilst none are found in the neighbourhood; the only difference
being that the farmer sowed two hundredweight of salt per acre every
year. Of course, the spawn is there, but the salt develops its growth.
After all this preparation, the pleasant time of gathering the crop
will come; and here knowledge and care are alike requisite. The old
plan was to cut off the mushroom above the soil; now, it is pulled
by hand, and if the stump be left close to the surface, it is at
once scooped out with a knife, leaving a round cavity as large as a
walnut. This plan increases the productiveness of the beds; for if the
threads of the mycelium are not broken, they expend their strength in
masses of mould or fungus. On the other hand, when scooped out, small
tubercles form, and develop into mushrooms, a fine ring appearing round
each cavity. When gathering, a small portion only of the bed should
be uncovered, especially in cold weather, and re-covered as quickly
as possible. It is not unusual for nine or ten pounds to be gathered
at once; and in the case of young beds, the crop may be cleared off
twice a week. As a rule, a good bed will yield ten gatherings—seven
large, the first and last two lighter. It is well to separate them
into two baskets, if intended for the market—one for buttons and cups,
the other for broilers, as it saves time at the weighing-table. The
stems should always be retained, as the mushrooms keep sound for a
much longer period. To the salesman, the packing is of consequence.
One pound is put into each punnet—the baskets which every one knows,
made of shavings. But few are aware what a large trade there is in
these little articles, or where they are made. It is to Brentford or
Hammersmith that we must go to see the juvenile population busy at
work making these cheap and useful articles. They are sold in rolls of
three dozens, of different sizes—‘deep pounds’ and ‘flat pounds,’ which
may be bought for from four to six shillings the gross of Mr Nicholls,
377 Goldhawk Road, Hammersmith. After the loose soil has been taken
from the stems, the mushrooms are neatly packed and tied down with
raffia, the best and cheapest tying material, and then placed in wooden
packing-cases for transmission to towns. Everywhere, in large centres,
the greengrocers are glad to receive them, as the demand is greater
than the supply, the price varying from one shilling to two shillings
the pound from October to June.
Whenever the supply is too large, good unadulterated ketchup finds a
ready market, and mushroom-growing is profitable if only for the juice
alone. What is now sold as mushroom ketchup is rarely pure, bullocks’
liver being one of the usual component parts. The spent beds are most
valuable for manure for the land or for potting the higher class of
plants, and are by no means exhausted. The manure often lies for months
during decomposition before it is fit for the land. Why should not this
be utilised? It is a most suitable investment for market-gardeners
who are not far from a town, and for cottagers who hold a few acres,
keeping one or two horses and cows. If they can make poultry pay, much
more mushrooms. Clergymen and professional men are not unwilling to
add something to their income, and might do much in their parishes to
improve the condition of the working-classes by thus making use of what
too often lies wasting in the farmyards.
This is but a sketch of Mr Wright’s little book, which should be in the
possession of all who intend to be mushroom-growers.
A YARN OF THE _P. AND O._
As there were but very few passengers on board the Peninsular and
Oriental steamer _Sicilia_, outward bound for the Far East, we did not
anticipate the usual amount of fun and festivity which are, strangely
enough, more remarkable features of life on outward-bound than on
homeward-bound steamers. But what we missed in frolic we certainly had
made up to us in the shape of excitement. We numbered about a dozen in
all; but of these, three only need individual description.
The principal personage, in accordance with the ancient dictum that
a woman is at the bottom of everything, was a pretty young widow, a
Londoner, who was on her way to join her friends living in Shanghai.
The worship of the fair sex is nowhere more ardent than aboard ship,
partly, perhaps, because its members contrive to put on under such
exceptional circumstances their most captivating airs and graces; and
chiefly, it must be admitted, although the admission is ungallant,
because, beyond eating and sleeping, there is little else to do than to
offer homage to whatever goddess presents herself. Hence Mrs Fuller, as
she was named, reigned sole and unapproached monarch of the ship. Had
she been other than she was, she would have occupied this position; but
being tall and fair and graceful, she assuredly merited every tribute
of admiration laid at her feet. The darts she unconsciously shot around
fixed themselves most firmly in the hearts of the remaining members of
the prominent trio to be described. The first was a young Englishman
named Goodhew, going out to the consular service in Yedo; the other
was a young Irishman named MacWhirter, going to the same city in the
Japanese government Telegraph Department. Goodhew was as typical an
Englishman as was MacWhirter a typical Irishman, indeed, more so, for
Mac was a victim to a most un-Milesian failing—he could not take a
joke. Goodhew was a big, broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced, blue-eyed,
fair-haired fellow, who ate like an alderman, was always laughing
when he was not eating or sleeping, and was half the life and soul of
our little community. Terence MacWhirter was the other half. He could
sing a capital song and tell a capital story, his story-telling powers
eclipsing his song-singing, inasmuch as with the gravest conceivable
demeanour he would endeavour to foist upon us the most palpable fiction
as the most solemn truth. ‘As true as oi’m standing here,’ was a
concluding phrase of his, which soon became a catchword on board, and
synonymous with what was most extravagant and improbable.
The apple of discord which the fair Londoner was destined to throw
amongst us fell between Goodhew and Mac, who, long before she joined
us at Brindisi, had singled out each other as opponents upon the one
particular question of belief or disbelief in ghosts. Strangely enough,
Goodhew, who had won the Humane Society’s medal for saving life, was a
firm believer in the theory that the departed from this life revisit
their old haunts. Equally strange was it that Mac, although a fervid,
imaginative Irishman, pooh-poohed ghosts and omens and visions and
dreams and second-sight as being unworthy of the consideration of
a practical nineteenth-century human being; and the more instances
Goodhew quoted in support of his creed, the more violently would Mac
exclaim: ‘Now, look ye here, Mister Goodhew; oi’ll stand the man an
onlimited dinner up to a couple of sovereigns who can prove that he has
ever seen a ghost; an’ if a man can show me a ghost, bedad, oi’ll show
him what oi’ll do wid it!’
The arguing matches and disputes between the two opponents formed our
principal amusement during the tedious passage from Southampton to
Brindisi. Then Mrs Fuller came on board, and their antagonism assumed a
new shape. Goodhew helped her on board. Score No. 1 for the Englishman.
But Mac lent her his cane-chair, and equalised matters. Goodhew sat
next to her at table; but Mac sat opposite, which was as good, for in
talking to her, he was obliged to raise his voice, and by so doing
obtained a monopoly of the conversation. To her credit it must be
said that she behaved exactly as a young lady placed in such peculiar
circumstances should behave. She showed no partiality to one more
than to the other. She laughed heartily at Mac’s jokes, and listened
attentively to Goodhew’s quiet common-sense and commonplaces. If one of
them gained a trifling advantage one day, it was made up to the other
the next; and so, whilst conscientiously she believed she was pleasing
both, in reality she was stirring up a fire between the two which was
fated ultimately to burst into a tragedy.
So matters went on. By the time Alexandria was reached, we, the
audience, agreed that Goodhew held a slight advantage, inasmuch as the
passage across the Mediterranean having been stormy, poor Mac spent the
greater part of his time in his berth; whilst Goodhew, who was a good
sailor, was brought into uninterrupted contact with Mrs Fuller, who was
also _mal-de-mer_ proof.
It may be imagined that when we were sick of quoits and ‘bull-board’
and deck-cricket and walking-races, the little comedy played by the
trio formed our chief amusement. Its ups and downs, its various phases,
its situations, were subjects of attentive watchfulness on our part.
We were like a party of special correspondents taking notes of an
important campaign. We received from one another news of victory or
defeat, of attacks foiled, of successful stratagems, of bold strokes,
of new moves, with as much earnestness as if our own interests were at
stake with the issue of the contest. If one of us hurried for’ard with
a joyful face, it was not to tell of a confident prophecy on the part
of the skipper that we should have an easy time in the monsoon, or that
we should make Aden ahead of schedule-time; but to relate some splendid
stroke on the part of Mac, or an admirable counter delivered by
Goodhew. Occasionally, there were uninteresting lulls in the conflict,
and during these periods we were driven to our wits’ end for amusement,
and the time passed slowly and heavily; but when the battle was in full
swing, the long hours of the tropical day sped but too quickly. Our
doctor took an especial interest in the drama, and by virtue of his
official position, was enabled to see far more of its ins and outs and
by-play than we outsiders, and often when matters seemed to slacken
a bit, would infuse fresh life and fire by some adroit, mischievous
remark.
Open hostility soon became the order of the day between Mac and
Goodhew. Hitherto, they had been simply cold and distant to one
another, interlarding their conversation profusely with ‘Sirs’ and ‘I
beg your pardons;’ but by the time we reached Penang, they were hardly
civil to each other. The climax was reached at Penang. According to the
usual custom, a party was made up to visit the celebrated waterfall.
Most of us went: Skipper, Doctor, Mrs Fuller, Goodhew, Mac, and half a
dozen of us outsiders. We arrived at the waterfall after the well-known
broiling ascent, rhapsodised over it, sketched the joss-house, partook
of a sumptuous tiffin beneath its roof, and were about to return to
the quay, when Mrs Fuller espied a dead buzzard floating in the waters
of the pool. ‘Oh, how I should like a few feathers from that beautiful
bird!’ she exclaimed.
Mac and Goodhew rushed to execute the commission. We outsiders never
dreamed of interference, as we foresaw an important scene in the drama.
Mac was armed with his walking-stick, Goodhew had seized a long bamboo
stem. Mac was upon one side of the pool, Goodhew on the other, and the
buzzard floated in the middle between them.
The faces and figures of the two men were perfect studies of
sternness and resolution; they stretched and craned, they knelt, they
floundered, they hopped up and jumped down; for the time-being the
entire universe of each of them was concentrated in that palm-shaded
pool. But the bird stuck resolutely in the middle, in spite of coaxing
and flopping and all sorts of cunning endeavours to waft it to one
side or the other. Suddenly a puff of wind carried it towards Mac.
His face lighted up with joy, and he uttered a smothered ‘Hooroo!’
In a moment his walking-stick was under it, he was slowly but
surely pulling it towards him; when there was a vision of a sort of
fishing-rod in mid-air, a momentary struggle and splash, and Goodhew
triumphantly dragged it towards him. Mac made a desperate dash at the
retreating spoil, missed his footing, and fell plump into the pool. Our
long-restrained feelings were no more to be kept in, and the laughter
which followed awakened the echoes of the solitary Penang waterfall.
To emerge from the water, hatless, dripping, and vanquished, was
humiliating enough for poor Mac; but when he looked at Mrs Fuller, and
saw that she was endeavouring to stifle immoderate laughter with her
pocket-handkerchief, his cup of misery was full, and without another
word, he strode off ahead of us on the path leading to the Settlement,
and was soon lost to view.