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CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
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POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 9.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, MARCH 1, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
BIRDS OF SPRING.
BY RICHARD JEFFERIES, AUTHOR OF THE ‘GAMEKEEPER AT HOME,’ ETC.
The birds of spring come as imperceptibly as the leaves. One by one the
buds open on hawthorn and willow, till all at once the hedges appear
green, and so the birds steal quietly into the bushes and trees, till
by-and-by a chorus fills the wood, and each warm shower is welcomed
with varied song. To many, the majority of spring-birds are really
unknown; the cuckoo, the nightingale, and the swallow, are all with
which they are acquainted, and these three make the summer. The loud
cuckoo cannot be overlooked by any one passing even a short time in
the fields; the nightingale is so familiar in verse that every one
tries to hear it; and the swallows enter the towns and twitter at the
chimney-top. But these are really only the principal representatives of
the crowd of birds that flock to our hedges in the early summer; and
perhaps it would be accurate to say that no other area of equal extent,
either in Europe or elsewhere, receives so many feathered visitors.
The English climate is the established subject of abuse, yet it is the
climate most preferred and sought by the birds, who have the choice of
immense continents.
Nothing that I have ever read of, or seen, or that I expect to see,
equals the beauty and the delight of a summer spent in our woods and
meadows. Green leaves and grass, and sunshine, blue skies, and sweet
brooks—there is nothing to approach it; it is no wonder the birds are
tempted to us. The food they find is so abundant, that after all their
efforts, little apparent diminution can be noticed; to this fertile
and lovely country, therefore, they hasten every year. It might be
said that the spring-birds begin to come to us in the autumn, as early
as October, when hedge-sparrows and golden-crested wrens, larks,
blackbirds, and thrushes, and many others, float over on the gales from
the coasts of Norway. Their numbers, especially of the smaller birds,
such as larks, are immense, and their line of flight so extended that
it strikes our shores for a distance of two hundred miles. The vastness
of these numbers, indeed, makes me question whether they all come from
Scandinavia. That is their route; Norway seems to be the last land they
see before crossing; but I think it possible that their original homes
may have been farther still. Though many go back in the spring, many
individuals remain here, and rejoice in the plenty of the hedgerows.
As all roads of old time led to Rome, so do bird-routes lead to these
islands. Some of these birds appear to pair in November, and so have
settled their courtship long before the crocuses of St Valentine. Much
difference is apparent in the dates recorded of the arrivals in spring;
they vary year by year, and now one and now another bird presents
itself first, so that I shall not in these notes attempt to arrange
them in strict order.
One of the first noticeable in southern fields is the common wagtail.
When his shrill note is heard echoing against the walls of the
outhouses as he rises from the ground, the carters and ploughmen know
that there will not be much more frost. If icicles hang from the
thatched eaves, they will not long hang, but melt before the softer
wind. The bitter part of winter is over. The wagtail is a house-bird,
making the houses or cattle-pens its centre, and remaining about them
for months. There is not a farmhouse in the south of England without
its summer pair of wagtails, not more than one pair as a rule, for they
are not gregarious till winter; but considering that every farmhouse
has its pair, their numbers must be really large.
Where wheatears frequent, their return is very marked; they appear
suddenly in the gardens and open places, and cannot be overlooked.
Swallows return one by one at first, and we get used to them by
degrees. The wheatears seem to drop out of the night, and to be
showered down on the ground in the morning. A white bar on the tail
renders them conspicuous, for at that time much of the surface of the
earth is bare and dark. Naturally birds of the wildest and most open
country, they yet show no dread, but approach the houses closely. They
are local in their habits, or perhaps follow a broad but well-defined
route of migration; so that while common in one place, they are rare
in others. In two localities with which I am familiar, and know every
path, I never saw a wheatear. I heard of them occasionally as passing
over, but they were not birds of the district. In Sussex, on the
contrary, the wheatear is as regularly seen as the blackbird; and in
the spring and summer you cannot go a walk without finding them. They
change their ground three times: first on arrival, they feed in the
gardens and arable fields; next, they go up on the hills; lastly, they
return to the coast, and frequent the extreme edge of the cliffs and
the land by the shore. Every bird has its different manner; I do not
know how else to express it. Now, the wheatears move in numbers, and
yet not in concert; in spring, perhaps twenty may be counted in sight
at once on the ground, feeding together and yet quite separate; just
opposite in manner to starlings, who feed side by side and rise and
fly as one. Every wheatear feeds by himself, a space between him and
his neighbour, dotted about, and yet they obviously have a certain
amount of mutual understanding; they recognise that they belong to the
same family, but maintain their individuality. On the hills in their
breeding season they act in the same way; each pair has a wide piece
of turf, sometimes many acres. But if you see one pair, it is certain
that other pairs are in the neighbourhood. In their breeding-grounds
they will not permit a man to approach so near as when they arrive,
or as when the nesting is over. At the time of their arrival, any one
can walk up within a short distance; so again in autumn. During the
nesting-time the wheatear perches on a molehill, or a large flint, or
any slight elevation above the open surface of the downs, and allows no
one to come closer than fifty yards.
The hedge-sparrows, that creep about the bushes of the hedgerow as mice
creep about the banks, are early in spring joined by the whitethroats,
almost the first hedgebirds to return. The thicker the undergrowth
of nettles and wild parsley, rushes and rough grasses, the more the
whitethroat likes the spot. Amongst this tangled mass he lives and
feeds, slipping about under the brambles and ferns as rapidly as if
the way was clear. Loudest of all, the chiff-chaff sings in the ash
woods, bare and leafless, while yet the sharp winds rush between the
poles, rattling them together, and bringing down the dead twigs to the
earth. The violets are difficult to find, few and scattered; but his
clear note rings in the hushes of the eastern breeze, encouraging the
flowers. It is very pleasant indeed to hear him; one’s hands are dry
and the skin rough with the east wind; the trunks of the trees look
dry, and the lichens have shrivelled on the bark; the brook looks dark;
gray dust rises and drifts, and the gray clouds hurry over; but the
chiff-chaff sings, and it is certainly spring. The first green leaves
which the elder put forth in January have been burned up by frost, and
the woodbine, which looked as if it would soon be entirely green then,
has been checked, and remains a promise only. The chiff-chaff tells the
buds of the coming April rains and the sweet soft intervals of warm
sun. He is a sure forerunner. He defies the bitter wind; his little
heart is as true as steel. He is one of the birds in which I feel a
personal interest, as if I could converse with him. The willow-wren,
his friend, comes later, and has a gentler, plaintive song.
Meadow-pipits are not migrants in the sense that the swallows are; but
they move about and so change their localities, that when they come
back they have much of the interest of a spring-bird. They rise from
the ground and sing in the air like larks, but not at such a height,
nor is the song so beautiful. These, too, are early birds. They often
frequent very exposed places, as the side of a hill where the air is
keen, and where one would not expect to meet with so lively a little
creature. The pond has not yet any of the growths that will presently
render its margin green; the willow-herbs are still low, the aquatic
grasses have not become strong, and the osiers are without leaf. If
examined closely, evidences of growth would be found everywhere around
it; but as yet the surface is open, and it looks cold. Along the brook
the shoals are visible, as the flags have not risen from the stems
which were cut down in the autumn. In the sedges, however, the first
young shoots are thrusting up, and the reeds have started, slender
green stalks tipped with the first leaves. At the verge of the water, a
thick green plant of marsh-marigold has one or two great golden flowers
open. This is the appearance of his home when the sedge-reedling
returns to it. Sometimes he may be seen flitting across the pond, or
perched for a moment on an exposed branch; but he quickly returns to
the dry sedges or the bushes, or climbs in and out the willow-stoles.
It is too bare and open for him at the pond, or even by the brook-side.
So much does he love concealment, that although to be near the water
is his habit, for a while he prefers to keep back among the bushes. As
the reeds and reed canary-grass come up and form a cover—as the sedges
grow green and advance to the edge of the water—as the sword-flags lift
up and expand, opening from a centre, the sedge-reedling issues from
the bushes and enters these vigorous growths, on which he perches, and
about which he climbs as if they were trees. In the pleasant mornings,
when the sun grows warm about eleven o’clock, he calls and sings with
scarcely a cessation, and is answered by his companions up and down
the stream. He does but just interrupt his search for food to sing;
he stays a moment, calls, and immediately resumes his prying into
every crevice of the branches and stoles. The thrush often sits on a
bough and sings for a length of time, apart from his food, and without
thinking of it, absorbed in his song, and full of the sweetness of the
day. These restless sedge-reedlings cannot pause; their little feet
are for ever at work, climbing about the willow-stoles where the wands
spring from the trunk; they never reflect, they are always engaged.
This restlessness is to them a great pleasure; they are filled with
the life which the sun gives, and express it in every motion; they
are so joyful, they cannot be still. Step into the osier bed amongst
them gently; they will chirp—a note like a sparrow’s—just in front,
and only recede a yard at a time, as you push through the tall grass,
flags, and underwood. Stand where you can see the brook, not too near,
but so as to see it through a fringe of sedges and willows. The pink
lychnis or ragged robin grows among the grasses; the iris flowers
higher on the shore. The water-vole comes swimming past on his way
to nibble the green weeds in the stream round about the great branch
which fell two winters since and remains in the water. Aquatic plants
take root in its shelter. There, too, a moorhen goes, sometimes diving
under the bough. A blackbird flies up to drink or bathe, never at the
grassy edge, but always choosing a spot where he can get at the stream
free from obstruction. The sound of many birds singing comes from the
hedge across the meadow; it mingles with the rush of the water through
a drawn hatch—finches and linnets, thrush and chiff-chaff, wren and
whitethroat, and others farther away, whose louder notes only, reach.
The singing is so mixed and interwoven, and is made of so many notes,
it seems as if it were the leaves singing, the countless leaves, as if
they had voices.
A brightly coloured bird, the redstart, appears suddenly in spring,
like a flower that has bloomed before the bud was noticed. Red is his
chief colour, and as he rushes out from his perch to take an insect
on the wing, he looks like a red streak. These birds sometimes nest
near farmhouses in the rickyards, sometimes by copses, and sometimes
in the deepest and most secluded coombes or glens, the farthest places
from habitation; so that they cannot be said to have any preference,
as so many birds have, for a particular kind of locality; but they
return year by year to the places they have chosen. The return of the
corncrake or landrail is quickly recognised by the noise he makes in
the grass; he is the noisiest of all the spring-birds. The return of
the goatsucker is hardly noticed at first. This is not at all a rare,
but rather a local bird, well known in many places, but in others
unnoticed, except by those who feel a special interest. A bird must be
common and plentiful before people generally observe it, so that there
are many of the labouring class who have never seen the goatsucker,
or would say so, if you asked them. Few observe the migration of the
turtle-doves, perhaps confusing them with the wood-pigeons, which
stay in the fields all the winter. By the time the sap is well up in
the oaks, all the birds have arrived, and the tremulous cooing of the
turtle-dove is heard by those engaged in barking the felled trees.
The sap rises slowly in the oaks, moving gradually through the minute
interstices or capillary tubes of this close-grained wood; the softer
timber trees are full of it long before the oak; and when the oak is
putting forth its leaves, it is high spring. Doves stay so much at
this time in the great hawthorns of the hedgerows and at the edge of
the copses, that they are seldom noticed, though comparatively large
birds. They are easily seen by any who wish; the coo-coo tells where
they are; and in walking gently to find them, many other lesser birds
will be observed. A wryneck may be caught sight of on a bough overhead;
a black-headed bunting, in the hedge where there is a wet ditch and
rushes; a blackcap, in the birches; and the ‘zee-zee-zee’ of the
tree-pipit by the oaks just through the narrow copse.
This is the most pleasant and the best way to observe—to have an
object, when so many things will be seen that would have been
passed unnoticed. To steal softly along the hedgerow, keeping out
of sight as much as possible, pausing now and then to listen as the
coo-coo is approached; and then, when near enough to see the doves,
to remain quiet behind a tree, is the surest way to see everything
else. The thrush will not move from her nest if passed so quietly;
the chaffinch’s lichen-made nest will be caught sight of against the
elm-trunk—it would escape notice otherwise; the whitethroat may be
watched in the nettles almost underneath; a rabbit will sit on his
haunches and look at you from among the bare green stalks of brake
rising; mice will rustle under the ground-ivy’s purple flowers; a mole
perhaps may be seen, for at this time they often leave their burrows
and run along the surface; and indeed so numerous are the sights and
sounds and interesting things, that you will soon be conscious of the
fact, that while you watch one, two or three more are escaping you. It
would be the same with any other search as well as the dove; I choose
the dove because by then all the other creatures are come and are busy,
and because it is a fairly large bird with a distinctive note, and
consequently a good guide.
But these are not all the spring-birds: there are the whinchats,
fly-catchers, sandpipers, ring-ousels, and others that are occasional
or rare. There is not a corner of the fields, woods, streams, or hills,
which does not receive a new inhabitant; the sandpiper comes to the
open sandy margins of the pool; the fly-catcher, to the old post by the
garden; the whinchat, to the furze; the tree-pipit, to the oaks, where
their boughs overhang meadow or cornfield; the sedge-reedling, to the
osiers; the dove, to the thick hedgerows; the wheatear, to the hills;
and I see I have overlooked the butcher-bird or shrike, as indeed in
writing of these things one is certain to overlook something, so wide
is the subject. Many of the spring-birds do not sing on their first
arrival, but stay a little while; by that time, others are here. Grass
blade comes up by grass blade till the meadows are freshly green; leaf
comes forth by leaf till the trees are covered; and like the leaves,
the birds gently take their places, till the hedges are imperceptibly
filled.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
BY CHARLES GIBBON.
CHAPTER XIV.—IN HARVEST-TIME.
Meanwhile the harvest-work on the lands of Ringsford Manor was
progressing rapidly—to the surprise of the neighbours, who had heard
that Mr Hadleigh could not obtain hands, owing to his craze about the
beer question. He did not obtain much sympathy in the district in this
attempted social revolution. It was known that he was not a teetotaler
himself; and most of the proprietors and farmers and all the labourers
took Caleb Kersey’s view, that apart from the question whether beer
was good or bad for them, this autocratic refusal of it to those who
preferred to have it was an interference with the liberty of the
subject. As he passed through the market-place, a band of labourers had
shouted in chorus the old rhyme: ‘Darn his eyes, whoever tries, to rob
a poor man of his beer.’
But in spite of this determined opposition, here was a strong troop
of men and women clearing the ground so fast that it looked as if the
Ringsford cutting and ingathering would be completed as soon as that of
any other farm. And the beer was not allowed on the field.
This was wonderful: but a greater wonder still was the fact that the
hands who had been so swiftly brought together were working under Caleb
Kersey himself—Caleb, the peasants’ champion, the temperance defender
of every man’s right to get drunk if he liked! There were mutterings
of discontent amongst his followers: there were whispers that he had
been heavily bribed to desert their cause; and those who had previously
deserted him, shook their heavy heads, declaring that they ‘knowed what
was a-coming.’
‘It ain’t fair on him—he ain’t acting square by me,’ Jacob Cone, the
Ringsford bailiff, had been heard to say in the _Cherry Tree_ taproom.
‘He comes and he takes my place, and does whatever master wants, when I
was a-trying to get master to let folk have their own way, as they’ve
been allays ’customed to.’
That was Jacob’s first and last grumble; for Caleb, hearing of it, took
him to every one of the hands, and each made the same statement:
‘We can do without the beer. We gave it up because we choose to, and
not because we’re forced to.’
For the rest, Caleb contented himself with saying simply: ‘I ain’t
working for Mr Hadleigh, and I wasn’t hired by him.’
‘Daresay he contracted with some un?’
A nod would be the response to his inquisitive friend; and Caleb
would proceed with his work as earnestly as if his life depended upon
accomplishing a given task within the day. His example inspired the
younger men with some spirit of emulation, and the women, old and
young, with admiration. The old stagers bluntly told him at the close
of the first day that they could not keep pace with him, and did not
mean to try.
‘Do the best you can, lads, and you’ll satisfy me,’ was all he said.
The whispers as to his treason to the cause of the ‘Union,’ which
floated about, and of which he was perfectly conscious, had no other
effect upon him than to make him labour with increased zeal. But he
smarted inwardly; for, like all popular leaders, he felt keenly the
signs of waning favour amongst his followers—felt them the more keenly
because he had so often, to his own serious detriment, proved his
integrity, and knew that he was faithful as ever to the cause he had
espoused.
It is doubtful if he would have been able to hold up so stoutly against
the swelling tide of unpopularity, if there had not been a compensating
influence upon him, strengthening his arm, although it did not always
keep his head cool, or his pulse steady.
Every morning, when the white mist was rising from the hollows, and
the trees appeared through it like shadows of themselves, whilst the
long grass through which he tramped to the field sparkled and glowed
around him, as the sun cleared the atmosphere, his way took him by the
gardener’s cottage. Every evening, when the harvest-moon was rising
slowly over the tree-tops, his way homeward took him again by the
cottage. He frequently caught a glimpse of Pansy, and generally had an
opportunity of exchanging greetings with her.
‘A fine morning,’ he would say; and he was under the impression that
he spoke with a smile, but always looked as solemn as if he were at a
funeral.
‘Yes, a fine morning,’ she would say with a real smile, and a tint on
her cheeks as if they reflected the radiance of the sun.
Then he would stand as if he had something more to say; but first he
had to look up at the sky; next strain his eyes over the rolling-ground
in the direction of the Forest, as if much depended upon his noting
the development of the trees through the mist; and again up at the
chimney-top, to observe which way the wind was blowing. The result of
all this observation being:
‘We’ll have a rare drying wind to-day.’
Then she, in a modified way, would go through the same pantomime and
answer pleasantly; ‘Yes, I think you will.’
And he would pass on, leaving that great ‘something’ he wanted to
say still unspoken. Yet Caleb was reputed to be a man possessed of a
special gift of speech. He showed no lack of it in the presence of any
one save Pansy.
‘I wonder what gars him come round this way ilka mornin’ and night,’
said Sam Culver one day to his daughter, looking at her suspiciously.
‘He’d be far sooner hame if he gaed round by the wood, like other folk.’
‘I cannot tell, father,’ she answered, her gypsy cheeks aglow: ‘maybe
he has to go up to the House for something.’
Sam shook his head thoughtfully: he did not relish the idea which had
entered it.
‘Kersey is a decent enough lad; but he is wildish in his notions of
things, and a’ the farmers round about are feared to trust him with ony
work. That’s no the right way to get through the world, my lass, and I
wouldna like to see you with sic a man.’
Pansy was a little startled by this plain way of suggesting why
Caleb chose to take the longest route to his work; and she proceeded
hurriedly to clear away the breakfast dishes. That evening, Caleb did
not see her as he passed the cottage.
Whatever Sam Culver’s opinion of Caleb Kersey might have been, it
underwent considerable modification, if not an entire change, as he
watched him work and the harvest rapidly drawing to a close under his
care. At anyrate, one evening, as Caleb was exchanging that stereotyped
greeting with Pansy, and was about to pass on, her father came up and
asked him in to supper.
‘It’s just a plate o’ porridge and milk, you ken; but you’re welcome,
if yer not ower proud to sup it. Mony’s the great man has sought
naething better.’
A little shyness on Caleb’s part was quickly overcome. He entered the
cottage, and was presently seated at the same table with Pansy. He was
amply compensated for all that he had suffered on account of yielding
to Madge’s request that he should take the Ringsford harvest in hand.
The gardener, since he had settled in the south, had, like many of his
countrymen, considerably loosened the Puritanical stays which he had
been accustomed to wear in the north. Indeed, it was said that he had
been discovered in the greenhouse on a Sabbath, when he ought to have
been in church. He still, however, felt the influence of old habits,
and so he said grace in this fashion:
‘Fa’ tae, fa’ tae, and thank the Lord for a guid supper.’
When the meal was finished, Sam took his guest out to see a new
geranium which he was cultivating; and then he revealed to him a fancy
which he had been cultivating as largely as his geranium.
‘I was thinking, Kersey, that you have been getting on bravely with the
harvest. Noo, if you could just manage to cut the last stook on the day
of Mr Philip’s dinner, it would be a real surprise to the folk at the
house, and a grand feather in your cap.’
‘I think it can be done,’ said Caleb quietly.
And it was done. On the evening fixed for the festival, the last sheaf
of the Ringsford grain was placed on the lawn in front of the Manor.
Whilst the guests were arriving, Madge had been told by Sam Culver that
this was to be done; so she went out with Uncle Dick and Mr Hadleigh to
congratulate Caleb on the good harvest he had gathered in, and to thank
him on her own part for having undertaken the task.
‘It’s the best job you have ever done, Caleb,’ cried Uncle Dick, giving
him a hearty slap on the shoulder. ‘Stick to this kind of thing, my
lad, and leave speechifying to them that cannot do any better.’
‘I am always ready to work,’ replied Caleb, avoiding the second part of
his well-wisher’s speech.
‘I offer you my sincere thanks, Kersey,’ said Mr Hadleigh in his
reserved way; ‘and it would please me to hear of anything I could do
for you.’
‘I am obliged to you.’
This ungraciously, but with a slight movement of the head, which might
be called half a nod.
‘You can bear it in mind. Had I known that you would be finished
to-day, I should have arranged for our harvest-home gathering to take
place this evening. I am sure that would have gratified Miss Heathcote
and my son.’
Another half-nod, and Caleb moved away.
The gong sounded. Mr Hadleigh gave his arm to Madge, and led her
towards the house.
As they entered the hall, they were met by the butler.
‘Do you know where Mr Philip is, sir?’ asked the man nervously. ‘Dinner
is quite ready, and he is not in the house; and nobody has seen him
since he started for town this morning.’
The butler’s anxiety was equally divided between the danger of having
the dinner spoiled and the question as to what had become of Philip.
‘Have you sent to his room?’
‘I have been there myself, sir. His things are all lying ready for him;
but he is nowhere about.’
Mr Hadleigh frowned.
‘This is very annoying. I told him he should not go to town to-day. He
has missed his train, I suppose. Give him a quarter of an hour, Terry,
and then serve dinner.... Excuse me, Miss Heathcote, one moment.’
He beckoned to a footman, who followed him into a small sideroom.
‘Send Cone to the station,’ he said in a low voice; ‘and bid him
inquire if there has been an accident on the line.’
CHAPTER XV.—THE BANQUET WAITS.
The explanation that Philip, having important business in town, had no
doubt been detained so long as to have missed his train, satisfied all
the guests except one. She, however, maintained as calm a demeanour
as Mr Hadleigh himself; and he regarded her at times with a curiously
thoughtful expression.
‘How brave she is,’ was his thought. ‘Can she have misgivings and he so
firm?’
Madge had misgivings; for Philip had told her that he had only to put
his seal on the despatch-box containing the important papers he was
to carry with him to Uncle Shield, and that he expected to return
early enough to call at Willowmere before going home. This, she had
suggested, would be waste of time, for she would be busy with her
elaborate toilet, and unable to see him. They both enjoyed the fun
of the idea that she should be so long engaged in dressing for this
important occasion as to leave no time to see him.
‘Well, I shall see Uncle Dick at anyrate, and of course he will be
a first-rate substitute. Indeed, now I think of it, he would be far
more interesting than a coquettish young person whose mind is wholly
absorbed in the arrangement of her bows and laces. He would tell me
all about the spread of the foot-and-mouth disease, and that would be
useful information at anyrate. Eh?’
They parted, laughing, and thus it was only a half-promise that he
should call. She was not surprised, therefore, when he did not appear.
When, however, the hour of dinner at the Manor arrived and he had
not yet returned, she felt that vague anxiety which is almost more
difficult to hide in the presence of others than the pain of some
definite calamity. She knew quite well that if he had only missed a
train, he would have telegraphed. But no one looking at her would have
suspected that her mind was disturbed by the least unhappy thought.
Miss Hadleigh only said: ‘That careless boy! To be late on such an
occasion as this when he knows that papa is always put out when
anybody is late’—and went on doing her best to remember her duty as
a hostess by not giving all her attention to ‘Alfred.’ Miss Caroline
only whispered in reply: ‘He is so stupid.’ As for Miss Bertha, she
was so busily engaged in conversation with one of her brother Coutts’s
friends, that she was unconscious of any disarrangement of the
evening’s programme.
So the party in the drawing-room buzzed like a hive of contented bees
on a warm summer day, and no one showed the slightest symptom of being
aware that the hour appointed for dinner had passed.
The vicar, Paul Havens, was a hale, sunny-faced man of about fifty
years, with bushy iron-gray hair and whiskers, and square muscular
frame. He was one of those men whose strong, kindly nature reflects
itself upon all who come in contact with him, and inspires them too
with a sense of strength. His genial presence was like fresh air in
the mansion or the peasant’s cot. He was no ‘sporting parson;’ but he
chatted with Crawshay with as much interest as if he were, about the
prospects of sport on the stubble this season, and how the pheasants
were likely to turn out when their time came. Then, as Dr Guy came up,
the vicar turned to little Mrs Joy in time to relieve her from utter
distraction at the cynical jokes and compliments of Coutts Hadleigh.
The latter delighted in bewildering this good lady, whose wits were not
particularly quick, although, with her husband, Dr Edwin Joy, she was
an enthusiastic social reformer.
‘My husband and I believe,’ she would say, with her little head bending
slightly to one side, ‘that want of thrift is at the bottom of all
the poverty and misery of the working-classes in town and country.
Now we endeavour to inculcate that great fact on all who come under
our influence; and Dr Joy, as my father’s partner, you know, has many
opportunities for speaking a word in season. And we always speak it!
Thrift, thrift, thrift, is our text; and I assure you we have succeeded
in making _some_ improvements in our district.’
And they did preach from this text with untiring enthusiasm; they
diligently perused every book and pamphlet published on the subject,
and their own affairs were continually in a hopeless muddle. They could
always see exactly what other people ought to do under any given
circumstances, and were always ready with the best advice; but they
were like children in dealing with the most ordinary difficulties of
their own lives. They were a good-natured couple, however, thoroughly
sincere and well meaning, so that these little idiosyncrasies amused
their friends, and did no harm to the working-people on whose behalf
they were specially exercised.
Mrs Joy’s father, Dr Guy, smiled grimly at the profound wisdom they
displayed in other people’s business, and the folly which invariably
cropped up whenever they had anything to do for themselves. At the
beginning of every year, they made a serious calculation of the least
amount their income was likely to be for the coming twelve months, and
resolved to live within it; they even determined to lay aside some
portion to meet contingencies. At the end of every year, they were
amazed to find how far they had exceeded their calculated expenditure,
and spent days in wondering how it could be.
‘Edwin, I cannot understand it,’ Mrs Joy would exclaim helplessly.
‘Neither can I,’ he would answer with a puzzled look at the figures
before him. Then, brightening up, he would say: ‘We must try again, my
dear.’
‘Yes, we must try again, dear,’ she would say, also brightening up, and
comforted by visions of the surplus which the mighty thrift would give
them next time.
Then they would make another serious calculation of ways and means,
and with light hearts, go on just as before, studying and preaching
the doctrines which, by some inscrutable twist in their natures,
they were unable to practise. They were so like children playing at
housekeeping, that although Dr Guy had to bear the consequences of
their mismanagement, he could not be angry with them long at a time.
Besides, he had consolation in two facts: first, that Fanny was his
only child, and would inherit everything he possessed; and second, that
Edwin Joy was really a clever surgeon, successful in his practice,
and much liked by his patients, notwithstanding his stupidity in
money matters. Indeed, the greater part of the practice rested on his
shoulders now, and nothing delighted him more than to be up to the eyes
in work.
Dr Guy belonged to the old school of country practitioners, and was as
much interested in agriculture as in physic. He had a small farm, in
the management of which he found agreeable occupation. So he took the
first opportunity of getting Crawshay into a corner to discuss the best
means of stamping out the rapidly spreading foot-and-mouth disease and
the advantages of ensilage.
Madge and Mrs Crawshay looking on, were well pleased to see that for
once Uncle Dick did not regret coming to Ringsford. But although Madge
found time to think of this, and to give intelligent attention to any
one who addressed her, she glanced often at the door expectantly.
At length the door opened, the butler entered, spoke a few words to his
master, and then withdrew. Mr Hadleigh immediately advanced to Madge.
‘I am glad to tell you, Philip has returned,’ he said in a quiet voice.
A flush of pleasure on her calm face expressed her gratitude for this
good news.
‘Then he was only detained—nothing has happened?’
‘I presume that nothing particular has happened; but we shall learn
presently from himself. His message to me was only to desire that we
should proceed to dinner at once, and allow him to join us in the
dining-room. So you must permit Coutts to take you down.’
CALLS BEFORE THE CURTAIN.
It has often been said that an actor exists upon the breath of
applause; and to a certain extent this is literally as well as
figuratively true; for during a long period of his early career he is
fated to undergo many hardships, and frequently finds himself playing
week after week for one of those unscrupulous ‘managers’ who can
hardly be got to pay their company their salaries, while revelling
in all possible comfort themselves. Indeed, a long chapter might be
written upon the sorrows incident to ‘the profession;’ but this would
be entirely beside our present purpose. Suffice it to remark, as an
introduction to our immediate theme, that no histrion ever yet trod the
boards who was unmindful of the public recognition of his talents; and
so soon as an opportunity offers in which to distinguish himself, and
his efforts are rewarded with a round of applause, from that moment
will he devote himself the more assiduously to his calling, by reason
of the enviable stimulus so received.
It has been placed upon record how Fanny Horton, a once celebrated
actress, won her first applause in a somewhat singular manner. During
her performance in a particular scene, she was loudly hissed, when,
advancing to the footlights, she asked: ‘Which do you dislike—my
playing or my person?’ ‘The playing, the playing!’ was the answer from
all parts of the house. ‘Well,’ she returned, ‘that consoles me; for my
playing may be bettered, but my person I cannot alter!’ The audience
were so struck with the ingenuity of this retort, that they immediately
applauded as loudly as they had the moment before condemned her; and
from that night she improved in her acting, and soon became a favourite
with the public.
It will scarcely be denied that applause is not only welcome, but
necessary to the actor; and even so great an artiste as Mrs Siddons
was susceptible to the force of this truth, though not so much in its
regard to professional adulation, as for personal convenience. ‘It
encourages,’ she was wont to say; ‘and better still, it gives time
for breath!’ On this account, as well as for other obvious reasons,
the managers of the Parisian theatres have organised a regular system
of hired applause, termed the _claque_; and this not only saves the
audience the trouble of applauding, but it is frequently the means
of influencing the success of a new production, while it affords
the actors engaged an opportunity of purchasing a too frequently
questionable notoriety by a monetary arrangement with the _claque_, or
at anyrate with the head of that department who grandiloquently styles
himself ‘the contractor for success.’
But it must not by any means be imagined that the _claque_ is a
modern institution. From the time of the ancient drama downwards,
the approbation of the spectators has always been eagerly courted by
the performers, and hired persons to applaud their acting regularly
attended the representations. Both the Greeks and the Romans made use
of the device. It has been well attested that Nero, the Roman emperor,
who at all times took an active part in the theatrical representations
of his day, enforced applause at the point of the sword; and Suetonius
tells us that one day when Nero sang the fable of _Atis and the
Bacchantes_, he deputed Burrhus and Seneca to incite the audience to
applaud. On one occasion, while the emperor was on the stage, singing
to his own accompaniment on the lyre, an earthquake shook the imperial
city; yet not one among that enormous assemblage dared so much as
attempt to flee from the danger, or leave his seat, fearing the summary
wrath of the tyrant, whose will held them so powerfully in bondage. At
another time, a poor woman fell asleep during the performance, and on
one of Nero’s soldiers descrying her situation, she narrowly escaped
with her life.
But the Romans could not give Nero the honour of a call before the
curtain, for the simple reason that drop-curtains were not then in use.
Indeed, the introduction of stage-curtains belongs to a comparatively
late period. In the reign of Elizabeth, we find that the theatres—or
playhouses, as they were termed—were of the most primitive kind. For
the most part the performances were conducted on a rude platform in
the London inn yards; while the few regular stationary playhouses were
little better furnished in the way of proper dramatic accessories.
The use of scenery is, of course, nowhere to be traced, and the only
semblance to a proscenium consisted of a pair of tapestry curtains,
which were drawn aside by cords when the performance began. The same
arrangement has also been found in all examples of the early Spanish,
Portuguese, and other continental theatres.
Among the earliest permanent English playhouses were ‘The Theatre’
and ‘The Fortune,’ neither of which, however, possessed a proper
drop-curtain. But ‘The Red Bull,’ another old theatre, had a
drop-curtain; and when, in the year 1633, that playhouse was
demolished, rebuilt, and enlarged, it was decorated in a manner almost
in advance of the time, the management particularly priding itself
upon ‘a stage-curtain of pure Naples silk.’ It was not until the year
1656 that the first attempt of Sir William Davenant to establish the
lyric drama in England brought with it the use of regular painted
scenery on our stage. As an introductory venture, and fully aware that
the performance of everything of a dramatic tendency had long been
prohibited throughout the country, he announced a miscellaneous kind of
entertainment, consisting of ‘music and declamation,’ which was duly
held at Rutland House in Charterhouse Yard, on the 23d of May. Thus
far encouraged, he immediately followed with the first genuine opera,
entitled _The Siege of Rhodes_, employing a libretto, music, costumes,
and five elaborate scenes. Further representations of opera were always
signalised by the use of scenery, and the example was naturally soon
followed by the drama, so soon as the altered condition of the times
had sufficiently permitted its revival. In place of a drop-curtain
of tapestry, silk, or other material, a painted scene also came into
fashion, on which was generally shown some incident in the opera
about to be enacted. The painted crimson curtain used in _The Siege
of Rhodes_ had upon it also a representation of the arms and military
trophies of the several nations which took part in this memorable siege.
Still, for all that, the green curtain retained its position in all
permanent theatres—and even in the puppet-shows, so popular in their
day—nor was it until quite recently that the more fashionable houses
thought proper to dispense with it altogether.
Touching upon stage-curtains of our own time, it will scarcely be
necessary to dilate upon the peculiarly constructed proscenium of the
present Haymarket Theatre, London, which is nothing more or less than
an elaborate picture in its gilt frame. The curtain of course forms the
picture, and no orchestra-pew being visible, the frame or proscenium
is continued on the lower side without interruption. The footlights
are not discovered until the rising of the curtain, and the ‘calls’
are necessarily responded to on the stage itself, for which purpose
the curtain is again drawn up. Perhaps the most interesting curtain
of the ordinary character is that now in use at New Sadler’s Wells
Theatre, which conveys to the eye a very perfect idea of that famous
‘musick-house’ on the banks of the New River in ‘merrie Islington,’ as
it appeared rather more than a hundred years ago.
Mr Henry Irving in his established dramatic home at the Lyceum Theatre
has always preferred to take his ‘calls’ on the stage itself; indeed,
he never appears in front of the curtain except on the night of the
opening or the termination of his season, which is always looked
forward to in London as an event. The production of _Romeo and Juliet_
afforded him an agreeable opportunity, however, of making a new
departure in his manner of responding to the congratulations of his
patrons—the living ‘Prologue’ opening the tragedy by stepping forward
from between a pair of truly magnificent curtains of yellow plush,
when, having recited his lines, the withdrawal of these curtains
unveiled the first scene representing ‘the public place’ at Verona. Mr
Irving, further, took occasion at the close of each act of leading Miss
Ellen Terry before the footlights in the same manner, thus obviating
the necessity of raising the curtain proper before these calls could be
replied to.
So much for theatrical curtains in general. We will now go on to
narrate several notable incidents connected with ‘Calls before the
Curtain.’
When David Garrick made his re-appearance at Drury Lane, after an
absence of two years during a provincial tour, the theatre was packed
from floor to ceiling, and the audience were quite beside themselves
with enthusiasm. The play was announced to be _Much Ado About Nothing_;
but, as the actor expected, he had first to show himself in front of
the curtain. He had prepared an address to the audience, which he
delivered previous to beginning the play. When he came upon the stage,
he was welcomed with three loud plaudits, each finishing with a huzza.
When R. W. Elliston was manager of the ‘Royal Circus,’ to which he
gave the present name of the ‘Surrey Theatre,’ he was one night called
before the curtain under rather exceptional circumstances. On that
occasion, an actor named Carles, who had long been a popular favourite
at that house, was absent, having unfortunately been arrested for debt
while on his way to the theatre, and another actor, possibly not very
much his inferior in regard to talent, had to be substituted. The
performance, however, had not long commenced, when the audience missed
their favourite, and called loudly for ‘Carles!’ Carles not appearing,
the uproar became general; and as soon as the curtain had fallen upon
the first act, the manager was summoned. Elliston duly appeared and
asked, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, what is your pleasure?’ But to all that
he said they cried only ‘Carles!’ Not yet aware of their intentions, he
exclaimed: ‘One at a time, if you please;’ and singling out a puny yet
over-energetic malcontent in the pit, he begged pardon of the audience,
saying: ‘Let me hear what _this_ gentleman has to say.’ Then addressing
the man: ‘Now, sir, I’ll attend to you _first_, if the rest of the
gentlemen will allow me.’
The man, as might be imagined, was not a little taken aback at this
remark; yet he managed to say: ‘Carles’ name is in the bill, and where
is he?’ At this, Elliston assumed a grave air, and folding his arms,
addressed the people as follows: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, with your
leave I will say a few words. I admit that Mr Carles’ name _is_ in
the bill; I do not wish to deny it; but’—here he assumed a decidedly
tragic tone—‘but are you to be reminded of the many accidents that may
intervene between the issuing of that bill and the evening’s fulfilment
of its promise? Is it requisite to remind the enlightened and thinking
portion of the public here assembled that the chances and changes of
human life are dependent upon circumstances, and not upon ourselves?’
Here all shouted: ‘Ay, ay; bravo!’
The manager, pointing to the man in the pit, went on: ‘And you, sir,
who are so loud in your demand for Mr Carles, cannot _you_ also
imagine that his absence may be occasioned by some sore distress,
some occurrence not within human foresight to anticipate or divert?
Cannot you picture to yourself the possibility of Mr Carles at this
moment lying upon a sick—nay, perhaps a dying bed, surrounded by his
weeping children and his agonised wife’ [Mr Carles was a bachelor!],
‘whose very bread depends upon the existence of an affectionate devoted
husband and father, and who _may_ be deprived of his exertions and
support for ever? Is it so _very_ difficult to imagine a scene like
this taking place at the very moment when you are calling for him so
imperiously to appear before you, selfishly desirous of your present
amusement and unmindful of his probable danger!’ Great and general
applause.
Inwardly, Mr Elliston felt struck at the success of his diplomacy,
especially as at this point the audience turned against the man who had
spoken, and joined their voices in cries of ‘Turn him out!’ to which
sentence the manager found it best to lend countenance; and having
given his permission, the unlucky ‘pitite’ was summarily ejected from
the theatre, and in a little while the performance was continued in
perfect order.
Calls for the author after the first representation of a new play are,
of course, frequent, the more especially when the work has given entire
satisfaction. In some instances, the audience summon that individual
to appear for no other purpose than to hiss him for the unskilfulness
of his performance; in which case, the author will most probably
retaliate with a speech wherein mention of ‘an organised opposition’
comes uppermost. Speaking of the former, some curious examples might
be noted. An author frequently announces, through the medium of the
manager, that he has betaken himself abroad, or, say, to Scotland,
fearing the result of his piece, whereas he may be quietly looking on
at the back of the pit, or has concealed himself behind the curtains
of a private box. In another case, the successful author will attempt
to make a speech, while bowing his acknowledgments, and signally fail,
retiring considerably more abashed than triumphant. But the crowning
episode to be narrated in this connection occurred some years ago at
one of the Dublin theatres, when one of the tragedies of Sophocles was
put on the stage. At the close of the performance, the ‘gods’ loudly
called for the author; whereupon the manager explained that as the
author had been dead more than two thousand years, he could not very
well appear. Nothing disconcerted, a very small gallery-boy called out:
‘Then let’s have his mummy!’