Imagine a man paying forty thousand pounds into the Bank of England,
and learning to-morrow that that stupendous financial concern had
stopped payment! Imagine Lady Clara Vere de Vere discovering her
wonderful _parure_, with its European renown, to be paste! Imagine the
feelings of Thomas Carlyle when the carelessness of John Stuart Mill
destroyed the labour of years! Imagine poor Euclid’s state of mind when
his wife burnt his books! In short, imagine, each of you, the greatest
calamity you can think of, and you will have some faint notion of
the feelings of the quartet in Mr Carver’s office at Mr Bates’s
disconcerting discovery.
For a few minutes, silence reigned supreme, and then Edgar commenced
to whistle. It was not a particularly cheerful air, but it sufficed to
arouse the others from their stupefaction.
‘If I had not been an infatuated old idiot,’ said Mr Carver, hurling
the unfortunate volume of romance with unnecessary violence across the
room, ‘I should have foreseen this;’ and murmuring something about
strait-waistcoats and the thick-headedness of society in general, he
lapsed into gloomy silence.
Mr Bates regarded his chief in mild disapproval. Such an ebullition of
feeling by no means accorded with his views of professional etiquette;
besides, he had a feeling that his discovery had not been treated
in a proper and business-like manner. ‘Hem!’ said that gentleman,
clearing his throat gently—‘hem! If I may be allowed to make a
remark—apologising to you, sir’—Mr Carver nodded with dark meaning—‘and
taking upon myself to make a suggestion: might it not be possible that
where the money is, a will may be concealed also?’
The party ceased to contemplate space, and a ray of hope quivered on
the gloomy horizon for a moment. Mr Carver, however, eyed his clerk
with an air of indignation blended with resigned sorrow. ‘I suppose,
Bates, every man has moments of incipient insanity,’ he said in accents
of the most scathing sarcasm. ‘You, I perceive, are only mortal. I
should be sorry to imagine you to have arrived at the worst stage; but
I may be allowed, I think, to point out to you one little fact. Do
you for one moment suppose that a man who is idiot enough to bury his
treasure in this manner, has enough sense remaining to make a will?’
and Mr Carver looked at his subordinate with the air of a man who has
made his great point and confounded his adversary.
‘I do not agree with you, sir,’ retorted Bates mildly. ‘A gentleman who
has brains enough to carry out such a scheme as this, was not likely
to forget a vital part. You are generally sharp enough to see a point
like this. What with romances and games of marbles, hem! and such other
frivolities, business seems quite forgotten!’
It was curious to note with what eagerness the parties most interested
hung upon the clerk’s words.
‘Bates, Bates! I never thought it would come to this,’ returned the
pseudo-justice, shaking his head in more sorrow than anger. ‘A man
still in the prime of life and to talk like this! Poor fellow, poor
fellow!’
‘Well, sir, you may doubt, and of course you have a right to your own
opinion; but we shall see.’
‘See, Bates! how can we see?’ exclaimed the lawyer. ‘Is not this
treasure buried upon Miss Wakefield’s property, and are we likely to
get an order to search that property?—O yes, of course’—returning to
the sarcastic mode—‘Miss Wakefield is so gentle, so amiable, so sweet,
and unsuspecting!—Bates, I am ashamed of you!’
The imperturbable Bates shrugged his shoulders slightly and resumed
his writing. So far as he was concerned, the matter was done with;
but he knew the character of his superior sufficiently to know that
the words he had said would take root, for, sooth to say, Mr Carver
laid considerable weight upon his junior’s acumen, though, between the
twain, such an idea was tacitly ignored.
During the above interesting duologue, Mr Slimm had been eyeing the
antagonists with a smile of placid amusement. That wily gentleman
was rather taken with Bates’s argument. ‘Seems to me,’ he said, ‘the
advantage is not all on one side. The honoured mistress of Eastwood,
the lady whom our friend’—pointing to Mr Carver—‘has spoken of in such
eulogistic terms, is no better off than we are. She has the property
where the money is concealed, and, as far as we know now, it belongs
to her. Any movement on our side will be sufficient to arouse her
suspicions. Providing the money is found, as I have before said, as far
as we know, it belongs to her. It is scarcely worth while going to the
trouble and expense of unearthing this wealth for her. So far, she has
the bulge on us. On the other hand, we know where the money is. She
does not, and there we have the bulge on her.’
‘And what is your proposition?’ Mr Carver inquired.
‘Arbitration,’ replied the American. ‘There is only one thing to do,
and that is compromise. Even supposing our friends only get half,
surely that is better than nothing. It’s the easiest thing in the
world. All you have to do is to say to the lady: “Miss Wakefield, Mr
Morton left you his money. You cannot find the money. Mrs Seaton knows
where it is. The money, we admit, is yours, though in justice it should
belong to her. In a word, my dear lady, divide;”’ and Mr Slimm leant
back in his chair whistling a little air from _Princess Ida_, as if the
whole thing was settled to the satisfaction of all parties.
Mr Carver looked at him as a connoisseur eyes a bad copy of an old
master. ‘Mr Slimm, I presume you have never seen the lady?’
Mr Slimm shook his head.
‘I thought not,’ continued Mr Carver. ‘You have been all over the
world, and in the course of your rambles I presume you have seen the
Sphinx?—Very good. Now, I do not suppose it ever struck you as a good
idea to interview that curiosity, or to sit down before its stony
charms with a view to learning its past history and the date of its
birth.—No? The idea is too absurd; but I may venture to say, without
exceeding the bounds of professional caution, that you are just as
likely to get any display of emotion from Miss Wakefield—and indeed,
the wonderful stone is much the more pleasant object’——
‘But she is not so very awful, Mr Carver,’ Eleanor interposed.
‘My dear, I know she is not endowed with venomous fangs, though she has
the wisdom of the serpent. I am prepared to do anything for you in any
shape or form, but I do draw the line at Miss Wakefield. As regards
interviewing her upon such a subject, I must respectfully but firmly
decline.’
‘Surely you don’t object to such a course being taken?’ Edgar asked
eagerly. ‘There is no particular harm in it.’
‘On the contrary, I think it is the right course to adopt; but I do
_not_ propose to be the victim,’ said Mr Carver drily. ‘If any one in
this select company has some evil to atone for, and wants a peculiarly
torturing penance, let him undertake the task.’
Felix looked at Mr Bates; Edgar looked at his wife, and each waited
politely and considerately for the others to speak. It is not often
one meets such pure disregard of self in this grasping world. However,
the task must be done; and as Mr Carver disclaimed it, and Bates had
no interest in the affair, moreover, Eleanor not being expected to
volunteer, manifestly the work lay before the American, Edgar, or Felix.
The American, like another Curtius, was prepared to fling himself into
the gulf. With characteristic and national modesty, he merely waited,
willing to yield the van of battle; but the delicacy of the others left
him no alternative. He volunteered to go.
‘I am a man of few words,’ he said, ‘and I guess I am about calculated
to fill the vacancy. I am alone in the world, and if I fail to return,
there will be no dear one to mourn the loss. I have one little favour
to ask before I go, and that is, in case the worst happens, to spare me
an epitaph. You will think of me sometimes; and when you sit round your
winter firesides and the wind is howling in the naked trees’—— Here he
waved his hands deprecatingly towards the company, as if praying them
to spare his emotions.
Mr Carver’s eyes twinkled at this tirade. ‘Well, that is settled then,’
he said. ‘The sooner you go the better. Shall we say to-morrow?—Very
good. The address is 34 Cedar Road, Hampstead.’
‘It is well,’ said the victim to friendship. ‘Before I quit you once
and for ever, I should like to break the bread of joviality once more;
for the last time, I should like to look upon the wine when it is red.
To drop the language of metaphor, I invite you all to lunch with me at
the _Holborn_.’
It was left, then, in Mr Slimm’s hands to consummate what he
denominated as ‘working the oracle.’
‘What do you think of my dream, now?’ Eleanor asked her husband as they
walked home together.
‘Your “Argosy with golden sails?”’ queried Edgar. ‘Well, I am beginning
to think it may come into port after all.’
* * * * *
Like the ‘condemned man’ of the penny-a-liner, Mr Slimm passed a good
night, and the thought of the task he had undertaken did not deter him
from making a hearty and substantial breakfast. Without so much as a
tremor, he ordered a cab, and sped away northwards on his diplomatic
errand.
Cedar Road may, without any great stretch of imagination, be termed
dingy. It is not the dinginess of the typical London street, but a
jaunty kind of griminess, a griminess which knows itself to be grimy,
but swaggers with a pretension of spick-and-span cleanliness; a sort of
place which makes one think of that cheap gentility which wears gaudy
apparel and unclean linen, or no linen at all. I may better explain
my meaning by saying that the majority of the houses were black with
smoke, and yet, singularly enough, the facings of light stone at the
corners had preserved their natural colour, and each house was adorned
by a veranda painted a staring green, which stood out in ghastly
contrast to the fog-stained fronts. Every house had a little grass
plot—called, by a stretch of courtesy, the lawn—fronting it. It was
presumedly of grass, because it was vegetation of some kind, but about
as much like the genuine article as London milk resembles the original
lacteal fluid. In the centre of each ‘lawn’ was an oval flower-bed,
tenanted by some hardy annuals, bearing infinitesimal blooms of a
neutral tint. Each house was approached by a flight of steps rising
from the road, which gentle ascent served to keep the prying gaze of
the vulgar from peering too closely into the genteel seclusion of
the dining-rooms. Every house was the counterpart of its neighbour,
each having the same sad-coloured curtains and wire-blinds on the
ground-floor, the same cheap muslins at the drawing-room windows, and
the same drawn blinds, surmounted with brass rods, to the bedrooms. A
canary likewise hung in a painted cage in every drawing-room window;
No. 34 boasting in addition a stagnant-looking aquarium, containing
three torpid goldfish in extremely dirty water.
After three peals of the bell, each outrivalling its predecessor in
volume, which is not saying much for the bell-metal at No. 34, Mr Slimm
was answered. Through the fragile door he had distinctly heard the
sounds of revelry within, and acquired the information that some mystic
Melissa was ‘tidying,’ and therefore ’Tilda must transform herself for
the nonce into the slave of the bell. By the petulant expression on
’Tilda’s face, the errand was not particularly pleasant to her.
In answer to his query, the misanthropic ’Tilda vouchsafed the
information that Miss Wakefield was in, adding, that he had better come
this way; which siren summons he lost no time in obeying, and was thus
introduced into the seclusion of Miss Wakefield’s chamber. Inquiring
his name with a snap, and having obtained the desired information,
the bewitching ’Tilda disappeared, and apparently appeared to be
singing some sort of ditty in a crescendo voice at the foot of the
stairs; the fact of the case being that Miss Wakefield was summoned
_vivâ voce_; her part of the conversation being inaudible, and the
voice of the charmer being perfectly distinct to the visitor, the
song running something after this fashion: ‘Miss Wakefield’—um, um,
‘wanted, mum’—um, um. ‘A man, please’—um, um, um. ‘Rather tall’ (very
distinctly)—um. ‘No; he is not a gentleman’—um, um, um.—‘All right,
miss.’ And then she reappeared with the information that Miss Wakefield
would be down at once.
The space of time mentioned having resolved itself into a quarter of
an hour, Mr Slimm was enabled to complete his plan of campaign, not
that he anticipated any resistance—in which deduction he was decidedly
wrong—but because he thought it best to be quite prepared with his
story, and in a position to receive the enemy in good and compact
order. By the time he had done this, and taken a mental inventory of
all the furniture in the room—not a violent effort of memory—the door
opened, and Miss Wakefield entered.
A FEW WORDS ON SALMON ANGLING.
Salmon anglers as a class are shrewd and observant; many of them are
men of education; not a few are men of distinction in literature,
science, and art; and certainly few follow the business of their lives
with such an ardent zeal, watching and calculating all the chances of
success; yet, strangely enough, the anglers of to-day know little more
than was known generations ago as to the habits of the fish, and how or
when they are most likely to succeed in capturing them. It is asserted
that the salmon fly is essentially the same lure as was used two
centuries ago; and despite the great increase of anglers and the ready
reward that awaits any improvement that an inventor might produce, no
lure has been devised at all equal to the so-called fly; for, be it
remembered, there is no consensus of opinion amongst anglers as to
what this lure appears to be, to the eye of the salmon. All are agreed
that it resembles no living insect, though some hold that it must be
taken for an insect, from the opening and shutting of the wings caused
by the play of the rod; others argue that its appearance is that of
the shrimp as it moves in the water; while some maintain that it is an
unmistakable minnow in appearance, and particularly in its movements.
Against the minnow theory it is said: ‘Why do not salmon prefer the
natural or the artificial minnow, the latter of which even, is so much
more like the real fish?’ To this it is argued that the motion of the
fly is much more minnow-like than either of these lures, while the
wings are closely held in minnow-like shape in the heavy currents where
salmon are commonly found, let the rod be played as it may. In some
rivers, few salmon can be induced to take any lure, and in many rivers
the majority of those fish never rise to a fly; but we doubt if any man
yet knows the cause thereof.
On the other hand, there are frequent examples of salmon rising most
determinedly several times in rapid succession, and each time giving
a tug at the fly; and there are cases, as we know personally, in
which both fly and worm hooks have been struck into the fish’s mouth,
the line broken, and the same fish caught by the same angler a few
minutes later with a similar lure, and brought to bank with the two
severed hooks in its mouth. Such an example shows that some salmon feed
greedily at times. It also seems to disprove another theory advanced by
many men—namely, that salmon feed so rarely in fresh waters, that it is
only an idle freak when they rise to a glittering moving lure. Whether
there are different breeds of salmon in our British rivers, we do not
know; but certainly there are decided variations, some being markedly
short and deep compared with others, and some reddening and becoming
more spotted in fresh water; but whether some kinds of fish are more
‘taking’ than others, we know nothing.
Salmon flies are much more carefully and artistically ‘dressed’ now
than they were in former times. The gayest and the grayest of birds
are hunted down to supply feathers for this purpose—gold and silver
pheasants, the bustards and jungle-cocks of India, the ostrich of
Africa, the wood-ducks of North America, the great owls and hawks of
equatorial and arctic regions, peacocks, guinea-fowls, chanticleers and
drakes of the poultry-yard, and above all turkeys, brown, gray, and
white, often carefully bred to colour for this particular purpose—all
are made subservient to the salmon angler’s thirst for fine feathers.
The cost of materials seems of small account, two or three guineas
being frequently given for a fine skin of the golden pheasant.
Hooks, though finer made and of better steel, are not very different
in shape from those in use some two thousand years ago, as may be
seen in those got from Pompeii, now in the museum at Naples. But in
variety of fine feathers, in silks and wools of wondrous dyes, in gold
and silver tinsels, and in the great manipulating skill now devoted
to the production of salmon flies, there must have been advances.
Many of these lures are jewel-like enough to be worn as bonnet and
dress ornaments by ladies of fashion; and looking into a well-stocked
angling book, one cannot but conclude that any salmon knowing a good
thing could not fail to jump at some of the dazzling beauties got up
for the delectation of its kind. Certainly many anglers, doting over
their favourites, feel that if they were salmon, this or that ‘grand
fly’ would be irresistible. We have heard an old enthusiast assert, as
he hurried into a favourite pool, that he had on ‘a hook this morning
that a fish canna lie below.’ And yet the fastidiousness of the fish
seems to keep pace with the advances of the angler’s art and knowledge.
Salmon see more hooks and lines, and possibly get to know them better;
and so all the fine rods, reels, lines, and lures do not insure even
the raising of a salmon, be the day and the river never so promising
and the angler charming never so wisely.
To an outsider, it must often be a huge joke to see a party of
salmon anglers mounted cap-à-pie with such a wealth of fishing
paraphernalia—silver-mounted rods and reels, creels of vast dimensions,
waterproof coats, wading boots and ‘breeks,’ luncheon-bags and
landing-nets equally capacious, and great telescopic-mounted gaffs
of glittering steel and brass, formidable-looking enough to grapple
a seal—marching down the glen with their gillies in the morning;
and marching back again at night without having turned a scale on a
salmon’s back, though the fish were tumbling about the pools like
porpoises, and so plentiful, that had Donald only thrown in the big
gaff, he could hardly have failed to hook a thumper in hauling it back
again.
Many anglers are prone to speak with confidence as to what conditions
of water and weather are favourable for salmon rising, and what
sorts of flies are most suitable for these varying conditions; but
experienced anglers are least likely to speak with assurance on such
points. It is amusing enough to hear with what perceptions fish are
credited as to coming changes of weather, and the like; and one is
apt to wonder how they in the river know so much more of the outer
atmosphere, and ‘what fools these mortals be’ who live in it and can
tell so little. There are points on which there is some agreement;
but if laid down as rules, it must be stated that these have so many
exceptions, that it is about as difficult for the average man to draw
reliable conclusions from them as from ‘the weather-glass.’ Salmon rise
best to the fly when there is a little colour in the water; when skies
are clouded; when the air is clear rather than muggy; when weather
is cold rather than warm; in a falling rather than a rising river;
where waters flow sharply; and in comparatively shallow pools or parts
thereof, rather than in deep water. When to this it is added that the
more coloured or the rougher the water and the larger the river, the
larger and brighter the fly that should be used, most of what is really
known is summed up, leaving a wide field for further investigation, a
field that has been long and all but fruitlessly cultivated.
At times, for days together, not a salmon can be induced to rise;
another day comes in which salmon are got ‘all along the line;’ and not
an angler can assign any reliable reason for this change, though many
of them may profess to do so. Anglers may fish a salmon pool for hours
without getting a rise; yet at some other hour, several salmon may be
caught; but whether the cause lies in the state of the atmosphere, the
light, or the moving of fish in the pool, all the combined wisdom of
anglers is nought but foolishness there anent. Again, a salmon may be
got by a less skilled angler fishing immediately behind a redoubtable
fisherman; but whether it was the particular hook that caught the eye
of the fish, its particular movement at the moment, the accidental
proximity of the fish, or all these temptations combined, what man
can tell? It seems certain that salmon often follow a hook or watch
it from their ‘lie’ without rising to it; and undoubtedly at times
their decision ‘to fight or flee’ is determined by the motion of the
lure at the critical moment. Anglers often observe that their hook is
suddenly seized when the motion of the rod was stopped, or when, after
hanging still for a few seconds, it was moved. The fly is frequently
taken when it sinks deeply from a slack line; sometimes when in the act
of sinking, and sometimes when it is being raised slowly, as by the
winding of the reel; and at other times when the angler, stumbling over
rough stones, accidentally jerks about his hook. A salmon frequently
rushes to the surface after a fly that is being quickly drawn up for a
fresh cast, and others take a fly when being dragged slowly up stream
by the angler walking along the bank. Some salmon take the fly with a
grand rush. We have seen a large fish dash half-way across a pool, with
its dorsal cutting the water for several yards ere it seized the swift
retreating fly. Others take it slowly, as by suction.
Anglers are untiring in the discussion of the merits of their various
flies—Parsons, Silver Doctors, Sweeps, Durbar Rangers, Jock Scotts,
&c. Yet salmon are frequently caught by what most anglers would call
very unlikely flies, after declining to grapple the gayest and best.
So great is this uncertainty, that many anglers maintain it is of
little consequence what the fly is, if it is only well presented to a
salmon when in a rising mood. Salmon have been caught in all kinds of
weather—in calm and in thunderstorm; in rain and in brilliant sunshine;
under white and under black clouds; with winds blowing from all points
of the compass—though south and west seem best; even at times in
sharp frosty mornings. They have been often caught with small hooks
in turbid waters, and vice versâ. We have seen a twenty-pounder rise
to a number two trout fly so small that one might suppose such a mite
could never be tasted in such a mouth, and yet the salmon rose to it
like a porpoise, though in a very small crystal-clear river and under
a dazzling noonday sun. As to the play of the rod in salmon angling,
fish are taken under all fashions—fast and slow, short or long lifting;
while some successful fishermen trust more to the current making the
play, and move their rods very slightly. We have seen an angler kill
two large salmon and lose a third in quick succession by standing in
one spot and holding his rod quite still. One piece of reliable good
advice we can give to those who have not already learned it. Though an
angler in a general way can form a notion as to what are the likely
parts of a river, it is only by repeated observations that some of the
best ‘lies’ are found out; and as there are favourite ‘lies’ occupied
all the year round, and year after year, by the finest river-trout,
sea-trout, and salmon, it is best to observe where the anglers who have
long frequented a river, fish most persistently, as there the fish will
certainly be found.
Salmon anglers—unlike trout anglers—should make few casts, should cast
the line lightly, playing the fly quietly and persistently over the
best parts of the pools only, and not wasting time over unknown water.
Nothing so certainly diminishes his chances of a ‘rise,’ as recklessly
wading where he may be seen by the fish, or casting his line heavily,
and lifting it often and hurriedly.
BUTTERINE.
Professor Sheldon, at the great show of the British Dairy Farmers’
Association, tried to comfort some of those present by telling them
that there was a great future for dairy-farming in this country. Whilst
corn-growing was doomed in England, the consumption of fresh milk was
increasing—it had trebled in London within the last twenty years. Both
cheese and butter ought to be consumed in much greater quantities, for
there was no article of food so cheap as cheese. He had no objection to
butterine; only, let it be sold as such.
At the annual meeting of the same society, presided over by Lord
Vernon, Canon Bagot introduced the subject of butterine, the extended
use and manufacture of which is already pressing heavily on the
dairy-farmer. He said he did not want to stop the sale of butterine;
but he wanted the law so altered, that persons should be imprisoned,
instead of being fined, for selling butterine as butter. He gave a bit
of personal experience. He said he had disguised some of the Dublin
dairymaids and sent them to purchase butter in eight shops. In every
case, a receipt was given to the effect that the butter was pure;
but on being analysed, it was found that there was not a particle of
butter in any of the samples. One of these tradesmen had been fined
five times for selling butterine as butter! A motion which he moved was
carried—‘That the Council be requested to take into consideration the
best means of prohibiting the sale of butterine as butter, and that
they immediately take such steps as were desirable.’
Lord Vernon added his testimony as to the unfairness of retailing
butterine for butter and selling it at one-and-sixpence a pound. He had
seen enormous quantities of butterine in Paris, but there it was sold
as such. About a month previously, he had been asked by a man to turn
his dairy-farm into a butterine factory, by which he hoped to make ten
thousand pounds a year.
Under the title of ‘Sham Butter,’ in _Chambers’s Journal_ for May 15,
1880, the discovery and manufacture of butterine were briefly related.
An ingenious Frenchman, M. Mège, patented a process by which beef-suet
can be converted into butterine, and since then the manufacture has
spread till we have factories at work in France, England, Holland,
Germany, and America. In a Report laid before the House of Commons, it
was declared that the substances so produced were harmless, and that
good butterine was more wholesome than bad butter. In considering the
subject, it must be remembered that there is good and bad butterine, as
well as good and bad butter.
Oleo-margarine is the raw material from which butterine is made. It is
procured in this way: From the freshly slaughtered carcasses of cattle
in the abattoirs of large towns, the superfluous portions of suet are
taken to the butterine factories. The finest, cleanest, and sweetest
portions only are selected for making oleo-margarine. This prepared oil
is largely exported from America to Holland, whence it comes over to us
as butterine.
A scientific periodical describes the process of manufacture as
follows. At the factory, the beef-suet is thrown into tanks containing
tepid water; and after standing a short time it is washed repeatedly
in cold water, and disintegrated and separated from fibre by passing
it through a ‘meat-hasher,’ worked by steam, after which it is forced
through a fine sieve. It is then melted by surrounding the tanks
with water at a temperature of about one hundred and twenty degrees
Fahrenheit. Great care is taken not to exceed this point; otherwise,
the fat would begin to decompose and acquire a flavour of tallow. After
being well stirred, the adipose membrane subsides to the bottom of
the tank, and is separated under the name of ‘scrap,’ whilst a clear
yellow oil is left above, together with a film of white oily substance.
This film is removed by skimming, and the yellow oil is drawn off
and allowed to solidify. The ‘refined fat,’ as the substance is now
termed, is then taken to the pressroom—which is kept at a temperature
of about ninety degrees Fahrenheit—packed in cotton cloths, and placed
in galvanised iron plates in a press. On being subjected to pressure,
oil flows away. The cakes of stearine which remain are sent to the
candle-makers. The oil—which is now known as oleo-margarine—is filled
into barrels for sale or export, or directly made into butterine by
adding to it ten per cent. of milk and churning the mixture. It is now
coloured with annatto and rolled with ice, to set it; salt is added;
the process is finished, and it is ready for packing.
Holland has taken the lead in the manufacture of butterine; there are
now forty-five factories in the country, most of which are in North
Brabant, where the farms are small, and maintain but one or two cows.
As the farmers there can only make a small quantity of butter, which
is apt to spoil before it can be collected for market, they readily
make contracts with the butterine-makers. The factories at Oss, in
Holland, alone, send an average of one hundred and fifty tons per week
of oleo-margarine butter to England. There are also several firms in
this country engaged in its manufacture; one firm in London can turn
out from ten to twenty tons per week.
Professor Mayer in 1883 made some experiments as to the digestibility
and wholesomeness of butterine as compared with dairy butter. The
experiments were made on two healthy male subjects; and the conclusion
arrived at was, that there is not much difference between the
digestibility of butterine and that of dairy butter. As to eggs or
germs existing in butterine, whereby disease may be spread, there is as
yet, happily, no instance on record. As far as nutritive qualities go,
it stands on very nearly the same level as butter.
We learn that an Act was passed, April 24, 1884, by the Senate of
New York prohibiting the fabrication of any article out of margarine
substances, intended to replace butter and cheese. A fine of one
hundred dollars is attached to the breaking of the Act. In the
preliminary inquiry made by a Committee, it is stated that twenty
out of the thirty samples bought as dairy butter were proved to be
butterine. The quantity of butterine manufactured and sent into the
State of New York was estimated at forty million pounds annually. The
ordinary butter, except the very best grades, was spoken of as rapidly
disappearing from the market. One witness testified that something
between one hundred and fifty and two hundred thousand packages of
butterine, of fifty-five pounds each, were shipped at New York in 1882;
and between two hundred and two hundred and fifty thousand packages
in 1883. Another witness said that the gross receipts of the genuine
butter-trade in New York are fifty per cent. less than what they would
be but for the sale of butterine as butter.
The passing of this Act is virtually a granting of protection for
the American dairy industry, and gives effect to the voice of so far
interested parties. Butterine has fared much better at the hands of
scientific men. Sir Lyon Playfair, Sir Frederick J. Bramwell, Sir F.
Abel, Dr James Bell, and others, none of whom are in any way interested
in its manufacture, have given a favourable verdict regarding
butterine, looking upon it as a boon to the working population. Dr
James Bell, in a paper read at the International Health Exhibition,
said that butterine and oleo-margarine are, in the opinion of high
authorities, legitimate articles of commerce, when honestly sold, and
if made in a cleanly manner from sound fats, as they afford the poor a
cheap and useful substitute for butter, especially during the winter
months, when good butter is both scarce and dear.
Professor Odling, who presided at a meeting of the London Society of
Arts, when a paper was read by Mr Anton Jurgens, in December 1884, on
this subject, is of the same opinion. Mr Jurgens said that the total
exports from Holland alone, in 1883, amounted to about forty thousand
tons, valued at about three million pounds sterling. The greatest care
was taken in its manufacture to promote cleanliness and excellence.
No tainted fat could possibly be used: the smallest portion of bad
fat would contaminate the whole mass. The _Lancet_ has said that
butterine is better and cheaper than much of the common butter sold.
Mr Jurgens is of the same opinion; and he also said that, owing to
its composition, butterine does not become rancid, but retains its
sweetness longer than butter. This was owing to the absence of butyrin,
which gives the aroma to fresh butter, but causes it soon to become
rank.
Dr Mouton says that the Dutch manufacturers strongly desire to have
this product imported under its own name, and he questions whether a
single package is introduced under a false one. Dutch butterine, when
made from the best materials, cannot easily be distinguished from dairy
butter; but when made from bad materials, it is easily discerned, and
no consumer could be imposed upon by it. He says further, that the
English market is the most particular one with which they have to deal.
Denmark is the only European state where particular regulations are in
force with regard to the manufacture, sale, and import of butterine. In
France, a bill for this purpose has been drafted; in the other European
states, the import of margarine and butterine seems to be considered as
a public boon.
Time, which tests all things, will also test butterine. Professor
Odling, speaking as a physician, says that a cheap and inexpensive fat
is a great want with many young children, and that butterine supplies
this want. We find that butterine can be sold at a profit, for the
different qualities, at from eightpence to one-and-fourpence per pound.
When, as we have already seen, it is made from good materials, it is
wholesome and nourishing; and considering the demands of our vast
population in this respect—our imports of butter and butterine last
year amounting in value to twelve and a half millions sterling—who
shall say that butterine may not have a useful future before it? Let
it, however, be _called_ butterine, and honestly sold as such.
THAT FATAL DIAMOND.
A THIEF’S CONFESSION.
I am the most unhappy man that ever occupied a prison cell. I say this
advisedly, knowing that hundreds are at this moment bewailing their
fate, which in many cases may seem harder than mine; but it is not,
if they still retain the self-respect which I have lost. That’s what
tortures me; my _prestige_ is gone; I am degraded in my own eyes; I
despise myself as heartily as the most virtuous man in the world could.
That I, to whom half the thieves in London have looked for guidance,
should myself have laid a plot for myself and walked into it! It is
too humiliating! To fall a victim to a too powerful combination of
adverse circumstances is no disgrace; to be outwitted by the superior
finesse of the police is hard, but endurable; but to fall into a snare
which should not have misled a boy who had never stolen so much as a
handkerchief in his life—this, this is shame!
It was that diamond ring that did it. I really think some special
ill-luck must have attached to the trinket, for it brought no good to
its previous possessor. It was hardly in the regular way of business
that it came into my hands—just as it has escaped from them in a most
unbusiness-like fashion. That young man must have been in great straits
before he united himself to me in the business of stealing his uncle’s
cash-box, in order to obtain funds to pay his gambling debts. It was
a very easy matter for me. He was to mix a few drops of an opiate I
gave him with his relative’s brandy-and-water one evening, and leave
the hall-door open; I had only to walk in and take up the booty he had
collected and placed ready for me. It was a very fair collection of
plate that awaited me as well as the coveted cash-box; but I am fond
of jewellery, and the house was so beautifully asleep, that I could
not resist creeping up to the master’s bedroom to see if there was not
in it a trifle worth picking up. There was—the diamond ring, and a
rather good set of studs. I took them, and slipped out of the room so
quietly that I should not have disturbed their owner, even if my young
friend had not, by way of making sure, doubled the prescribed dose of
the opiate, and thereby plunged his uncle into, not sleep, but death.
Poor young fellow! the knowledge that he had killed a relation who had
always treated him with kindness, if also with severity, was too much
for his mind, which doubtless was never strong. Those debts of honour
were never paid; he never came to claim his share of that night’s
spoil; and I have heard that the distant cousin who, failing him,
inherited the old man’s property, grumbles greatly at having to pay for
his being kept in a lunatic asylum.
This is cowardice on my part. I have condemned myself, as the fitting
punishment of my folly, to set down in black and white the way in which
I entrapped myself, and I am postponing the task to maunder over an
irrelevant incident.
The ring had not been long in my possession when I paid the unlucky
visit to Paris which began my misfortunes. The London police were very
active just then, and business was in consequence dull and risky,
so, being in funds, I thought I might take a holiday and enjoy a
fortnight in the city of pleasure. I was pretty well known at home;
but I had not, so far as I knew, a single enemy in France, and I did
not intend to make any. For a fortnight I would be a mere innocent
pleasure-seeker, taking the day’s amusements as they came, and making
no effort after either my own gain or others’ loss. Such was my
intention; but alas! what intention, especially if it be a good one,
can withstand the force of the habits of a lifetime? Mine gave way, and
speedily.
One evening, a pleasant April evening, I formed one of the crowd
that surrounded the platform at an open-air concert. By my side
was standing a stout and elderly man, whom, from a score of tiny
indications, I guessed to be a British holiday-maker. ‘There’s from
fifteen to twenty pounds in his coat-pocket, I’ll be bound,’ thought
I. ‘He is far too cautious to leave his money at his hotel, where
Frenchmen, whom he regards as all thieves, may lay hands on it, so he
carries it about with him, thinking that on his person it cannot fail
to be safe.’ The idea of undeceiving him in this particular was too
tempting; I found myself smiling in anticipation at the bewildered
and horror-struck expression his face would wear when he discovered
his loss. It was the humour of the thing that touched me. That fatal
gift of humour, which has ruined so many honest men, led me to my
destruction. Deep in my soul, beneath the outer garb of the man of
the world I was wearing, dwelt the instincts of the professional
pickpocket. Almost unconsciously I inserted my left hand (we are
all ambidexter in our profession) in his pocket and gently drew out
a pocket-book—the very sort of pocket-book I knew he would carry.
I edged away from my victim as soon as the little operation was
over, and disentangling myself from the interested auditors who were
listening to a gaily-dressed damsel shrieking with the remains of a
once powerful voice, I soon found myself walking along the brightly
lighted boulevard. I had not gone far before I noticed that the diamond
ring which I constantly wore on the third finger of my left hand, was
missing. It was a little too large for me; but I had not thought it
advisable to have the size altered just yet; and the result was that it
had slipped from my finger. I knew that I wore it when I left my hotel;
but I could not recollect noticing its presence at any subsequent time;
so I went to every place I had visited since I came out, the café where
I had dined, the shop where I had bought some cigars, the streets I
had traversed, looking everywhere for some trace of my lost jewel, and
inquiring of every one to whom I had previously spoken if they had seen
anything of it. I felt a dreary conviction that my treasured ornament
was gone for ever, when, as a last resource, I went to a _bureau de
police_, and gave a description of the lost ring to the officer there.
The officer was polite, but gave me small hope of ever seeing my
diamond again. I gave it up as gone for ever.
I was sitting in my hotel dull and depressed, angry at my own
carelessness, and inclined to give up any further holiday, and forget
my annoyance by a speedy return to my professional duties in London,
when my friend of the police-office entered.
‘I am happy,’ he said, bowing politely and smiling with, as I thought,
anticipation of a handsome reward—‘I am happy to inform monsieur
that we hope soon to place his ring in his hands. One answering to
the description you gave was brought to our office by the finder,
a countryman of your own. The ring being rather an uncommon one, I
felt assured that it could be no other than the one you had lost. You
described it, I think, as consisting of five diamonds set in the shape
of a violet, with a smaller brilliant in the centre—a very curious and
valuable jewel.’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ I replied curtly, wondering why he could not give me
back my property without so many words.
‘Then I may safely assume that this is the ring in question?’ He
brought out my ring from his pocket and showed it to me.
‘It is,’ I said, stretching out my hand; but he did not restore the
jewel, only stood there, holding it and smiling more than ever. I
supposed that he wanted to see some sign of the reward he expected
to receive before parting with the trinket. I took out my purse, and
opening it, made some remark about showing my appreciation of his
honesty; but he shook his head, smiling, if possible, more broadly than
before.
‘Do you not wish to know, monsieur, how your ring was found?’ he asked,
with a leer which I thought was disagreeable.
‘Well, how was it found?’ I said tartly.
My policeman drew himself up to deliver his great effect. ‘Monsieur,
your ring was found in another man’s pocket!’ I stared at him in
bewilderment, mingled with an indefinite fear, while he continued
his narrative in a less courteous and more confidential tone than he
had hitherto assumed. ‘Ah! _mon ami_, one may be too clever; one’s
dexterity may lead one astray if it be not balanced by discretion.
You had not long left the office, when another Englishman came
in complaining that he had lost a pocket-book containing all his
money. He had put his hand in his pocket to bring it out, meaning
to pay for something, but found it gone, and in its place a diamond
ring—your ring. For my own part, I do not doubt your honesty—even your
generosity. You believed, doubtless, that exchange is not robbery, and
that, in leaving your ring in exchange for his _porte-monnaie_, you
would at once obtain a memento of a compatriot and do him a practical
benefit. That is the interpretation I should wish to put on the affair;
but the owner of the pocket-book will not see it in that light—he lacks
imagination, as so many English do. Of course, your coming to ask us
to try to recover your lost ring tends to give colour to his version
of the matter, which is, that while you were robbing him of his money,
the ring slipped from your hand, and remained in his pocket; and with
a lack of sympathy for a countryman, which I grieve to recount, he
demands that you should be arrested, a duty which I am reluctantly
compelled to fulfil.’
I was absolutely dumb with surprise and anger. Had I had my wits about
me, I might—though circumstances were against me—have brought some
counter-charge of theft against my accuser; but I was so stupefied
by the strange turn events had taken, that I submitted meekly to be
searched, to have the fateful pocket-book taken from me, and to be led
away to prison. Somehow, too, I was unable to secure possession of the
ring that was the cause of my undoing, and I have not seen it since my
arrest.
So here I sit in my cell, depressed and weary, a victim to the
bitterest self-reproach. I could almost wish to be condemned to
lifelong imprisonment, for what is freedom worth to me? After such a
piece of suicidal folly as I have been guilty of, I shall never dare to
lift up my head among my professional brethren, and I fear that nothing
will be left for me but to take to honesty when my term expires.
FISH-CULTURE.
Elaborate arrangements have been made at the establishments of the
National Fish-culture Association for hatching the ova of all kinds
of fish this year. For some time past, agents have been employed in
spawning fish and collecting the eggs from various rivers and streams,
and a considerable number have already been deposited in the Hatchery
at South Kensington for incubation. The American government have
intimated their intention to forward very large consignments of ova
from the various species of salmonidæ abounding in the waters of the
United States, including the white-fish (_Coregonus albus_), which,
owing to the success attending their propagation in this country
during 1885, will be hatched out in large numbers. As soon as the fry
are in a fit condition, they will be located in the waters at the
Delaford Park Establishment, belonging to the Association, whence
they will be distributed in Scottish and other lakes. It is intended
by the Association to increase the range of their operations, and
bestow further attention upon the culture of ‘coarse’ fish, which will
necessitate an extension of the Fishery at Delaford. In 1885 numerous
presentations of salmonidæ were made to public waters in the United
Kingdom, but only those fish were selected that are desirable for
the purposes of replenishing depleted _locales_. The various fish,
both American and English, reared at the beginning of last year by
the Association are thriving well, and it can be fairly said that
great success has crowned all the endeavours put forward to increase
the numerical proportions of our fish and improve their multifarious
species.
TWO SONNETS.
KEATS.
O purblind world! Not seldom in the years
You find your hero in some man despised,
Some martyr whom you slew, too lightly prized,
And bathe the corse in vain unheeded tears.
Too late your wisdom; for the lost one hears
No longer or contumely or praise:
On kinder death in weariness he lays
His head, forgetting all that life endears.
And this one, on whose lips the altar coal
Of inspiration burned; within whose soul
The fire of the eternal lived, and wrought
Your baser dross to bars of golden thought;
Oh, how you scorned him! Now, in reverent wise,
The weakest murmur of his lips you prize.
And thou, strong soul in a weak body pent,
Spirit of Keats! It was not thine to know
In thy brief span the joy, the generous glow
Of common praise and common wonderment.
But wearying until the clarion breath,
The voice of fame, should fix thy name among
Immortals, came the murmur soft as song,
As sad as thine—the summoning of death.
O sorrow that the deaf world would not hear
Such music, the enchantment of all time,
Until the singer, leaving the sublime,
The orphic song half sung, had fled its sphere!
Too late, too late, our tardy honours now,
Wreathing vain laurel on thy calm dead brow.
GEORGE L. MOORE.
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and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
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