[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 44.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
HOW THE WEATHER IS MADE AND FORECAST.
In the minds of foreigners, it is held to be one of the many
peculiarities of the people of these islands that so much of their
casual conversation consists of remarks on the weather. The national
temperament is often held to be responsible for this failing; but some
of the blame must no doubt be laid at the door of the weather itself.
Our climate presents such a record of change and uncertainty, that we
need not wonder if it is always in our minds, and the first subject on
our lips when we meet a friend. Other lands may have their cold and
hot, dry, and rainy periods, that come round in the proper order year
after year with unvarying monotony; but with us it may be said of the
weather, that we rarely know what a day or an hour may bring forth.
Even the seasons seem occasionally to be independent of any necessity
of visiting us at the particular time of the year at which we have
been taught to expect them. Spring weather in November, or a winter
temperature in July, or a November fog in the merry month of May, all
seem to be amongst the possibilities of our climate.
Happily, our meteorologists are at length beginning to define with
growing clearness and confidence the laws which underlie and regulate
the complicated and ever varying phenomena which we call the weather,
and many of these laws, like most natural laws, are beautiful in
their simplicity. Although ‘weather wisdom’ is as old as history
itself, the science of the weather or meteorology is a growth of the
last few years. The weather wisdom of our forefathers may in the
light of present knowledge be divided into sense and nonsense. Under
the nonsense may be included not only such proverbs as that which
attributed to St Swithin’s day and certain other times and seasons,
occult influences over the weather, but most of the information of the
old almanacs, which used to ascribe the character of the weather to
the positions and movements of the heavenly bodies and the age and
changes of the moon. The prevalence of the belief that the weather
was regulated by such influences, can only be accounted for by the
well-known love of the human mind for the wonderful and inexplicable.
Much of the old weather lore, however, had a large element of truth
in it, and was the result of the collective experience of many
generations, which had found that certain phenomena were generally
followed by certain conditions of weather. The saying, that a rosy
sky in the morning presages rainy weather, and the same appearance
in the evening, fine weather, was current weather lore before the
Christian era, and is recognised as being, in a certain sense, true at
the present day. Amongst sailors, farmers, shepherds, and such like,
weather maxims, the result of observation and experience, have always
been current, and the value of many of these is now recognised and
explained by science.
The first step towards acquiring an insight into the causes which
control our weather is a study of the laws which regulate the flow and
changes of the winds in these islands. The air is the great medium
in which all the changes of weather are elaborated. We live at the
bottom of a great ocean of air, which extends for many miles upwards,
and which is always heaving and changing, like the other ocean which
it covers. The winds, which are the ever-changing currents which flow
through this invisible sea, are, roughly speaking, the principal
factors in the making of the weather. Many of us know very well the
general character of the weather which accompanies the wind from the
principal points of the compass, that which comes from the moist warm
south-west, for instance; or with the blustering, shower-bringing
north-wester; or with the harsh, dry, east wind in spring; but to most
of us the wind itself ‘bloweth where it listeth.’ The movements of the
air and changes of the wind are, however, subject to laws, a knowledge
of which is in some degree necessary before we can understand how our
weather is made for us.
A simple definition of the wind which we ordinarily experience is
that it is air obeying the force of gravity, in seeking to return to
an equilibrium which has been disturbed. By the aid of the barometer
we are able to form some idea of what is constantly taking place
in the great ocean above us. The principle upon which this simple
and useful instrument is constructed is easily understood. The air
presses downwards upon the earth’s surface with a weight averaging
nearly fifteen pounds to the square inch. If a portion of the surface
of any fluid is relieved from this pressure by inverting over it a
tube exhausted of air, the weight of the air upon the surface outside
will force the fluid up into the tube until the weight of the column
counterbalances the pressure which the air would exercise upon the
amount of surface covered by the mouth of the tube. A column of mercury
in such a case will rise in an air-exhausted tube to a height of about
thirty inches; while water, from its lighter specific gravity, rises to
a height of about thirty-four feet before it counterbalances the weight
of the air above. The depth, and consequently the pressure, of the air
overhead is, however, constantly varying within certain limits; and the
column of mercury in the barometer enables us to keep a faithful record
of the movements of the waves of air in the great ocean under which we
live. At times, the depth of air above us is comparatively shallow, and
the pressure beneath is lessened; the column of mercury is not raised
so high, and the barometer is said to fall. At other times, the air
is heaped up in particular places; the pressure beneath is increased,
and the barometer is said to rise. In stormy weather, the column of
water in a water-barometer where the scale is very large may be seen to
pulsate with every change of pressure from the air-waves at the surface.
The winds are nothing more than the rush of air from the regions of
high pressure to fill up the spaces where low pressure prevails. Thus,
if the column of mercury should stand 28.6 inches high at London, with
a gradual rise as we travelled northward, until the barometer-reading
was 29 inches at Edinburgh at the same time, this would indicate that
a region of depression existed over the former place, and we should
expect a rush of air in the form of wind blowing upon London from the
north.
When the barometrical readings taken simultaneously at stations
distributed over a wide area are compared, the distribution of
atmospheric pressure can be ascertained, and it is possible to tell
from this the force and direction of the winds prevailing within this
area, and generally also the weather which is likely to be experienced.
The greater the inequality of pressure, the greater will be the rush of
air to the centre of depression, and the stronger will be the wind. The
wind, however, does not flow in a straight line from a region of high
to a region of low pressure. The surrounding air from all quarters has
a tendency to flow in, and, as with water, which rushes to the centre
of a funnel when it is flowing out at the bottom, a gyratory movement
is the result. The wind blows round a centre of depression in this
way, always curving inward towards the centre; and in the northern
hemisphere, this gyratory movement of the wind is always in a direction
against the hands of a watch, while the contrary is the case in the
southern hemisphere. These principles of the relation of the winds to
atmospheric pressure hold good without exception over all the world.
They were first definitively stated in America twenty-five years ago;
but Professor Buys Ballot of Utrecht first drew attention to them in
Europe, and the law expressing them is now generally recognised as Buys
Ballot’s law.
In ordinary circumstances in our latitude, the winds are generally
regulated by the differences in pressure induced by contrasts between
continents and oceans. Where the air becomes heated, an area of low
pressure is produced, the warm air becoming rarefied and ascending, and
the heavier cold air rushing in from the sides to supply its place. In
winter, the weather over these islands is controlled to a great extent
by the winds which sweep round a large area of depression which exists
over the Atlantic, the mean centre of which is about midway between
the continents of Europe and America, in the latitude of the Orkney
Islands. This depression is the result of the contrast produced between
the comparatively warm air over this portion of the Atlantic and the
much colder air over the northern portion of Europe and America,
which is continually flowing in to supply the place of the lighter
and constantly ascending warm air. The winds sweeping round this
centre strike our shores from the south-west. This depression is not
stationary, but is continually shifting over a large but well-defined
area, and it gives rise to many subsidiary eddies, or small cyclone
systems as they are called, which sometimes skirt our coasts, or travel
over these islands, bringing with them the storms of wind and rain and
sudden changes of the wind with which we are familiar. In spring, the
prevailing winds from the east and north-east, so much dreaded by many,
are the result of a large cyclonic system formed by the sudden increase
of temperature over middle and southern Europe, as the sun’s rays gain
strength and the days lengthen. The temperature is not yet sufficiently
high to bring in the air from off the Atlantic, as happens when the
season is further advanced, so that the cold air rushes in from the
polar regions in a huge eddy, striking our coasts from the east and
north-east, and bringing in its train all the attendant miseries which
make our English spring a time to be dreaded by the weak and ailing.
A knowledge of the general principles which direct the flow of our
prevailing winds is, however, only of general assistance in enabling
us to forecast the weather which we experience in these islands. This
is governed and produced to a great extent by the development of
subsidiary centres of depression in and between the great cyclonic
systems. These generally approach our shores from the west, travelling
in a north-easterly direction; and they are responsible for most of
the variable weather with which we are so familiar. They generally
carry with them a certain well-defined course of weather. The readings
of the barometer taken simultaneously at many places over a wide
area on a system such as that now controlled by the Meteorological
Office, enables us to determine the approach and development of these
small cyclonic systems, and so to forecast with a certain degree of
confidence the weather likely to be experienced in a certain district
from twelve to twenty-four hours in advance. Most of the disturbing
influences reach us from the west; and as the west coast of Ireland
is the extreme limit to which our stations reach in that direction,
we can receive only very short notice of their approach. This is
one of the principal reasons why, with the means at present at our
disposal, we cannot expect to make our weather science as perfect
as in a country such as America, where the central office receives
warnings from stations dispersed over the face of a vast continent.
Nevertheless, we have made great advances since 1861, when the first
weather forecasts were prepared and issued in this country by the Board
of Trade, under the superintendence of the late Admiral Fitzroy. The
forecasts at that time, although admitted to be of considerable utility
to the country, were thought to be scarcely accurate enough to justify
their continuance upon the system then in operation, and they were
discontinued in 1866.
In the following year, the Meteorological Office was constituted
upon its present footing, and the daily publication of forecasts has
continued down to the present. Considering that—judging from the
forecasts published daily in the newspapers—the chances of a successful
forecast are on the average about seventy-nine per cent. for ordinary
weather, while the percentage of successes is slightly higher in the
case of storm warnings, it is evident that the Meteorological Office is
capable of rendering important service to the community at large. Every
morning, the central office in London receives telegraphic reports
from fifty-three stations. It also receives thirteen reports every
afternoon, and nineteen each evening. Besides the numerous well-placed
observation stations in the British Islands, there are twenty-three
foreign reporting stations, extending along the entire western coast
of Europe, from which information is received, in accordance with
arrangements made with the meteorological organisations in Norway,
Sweden, Denmark, Germany, Holland, and France. The morning observations
are made at all the British stations at eight A.M. Greenwich time, and
are transmitted direct to the Meteorological Office, where they are
received between nine and ten o’clock. Thus are given the barometrical
and thermometrical readings at the various stations at eight A.M.;
the direction and force of the wind, and the state of the weather,
together with any changes of importance which may have been noticed in
the course of the preceding day. From these reports, weather charts
are made out, forecasts of the weather are prepared and issued to the
evening papers in London and the provinces; and a telegraphic résumé of
the weather, or, if necessary, intelligence of storms, is despatched to
various points on our coasts and to foreign countries. The forecasts
for the morning daily papers are issued at half-past eight P.M. on
the previous evening. They are prepared from reports received from
twenty-six home and six foreign stations; but although these are the
most widely distributed and read of any issued from the office, they
are much less complete than the eight A.M. forecasts.
The _Times_ publishes every morning with the forecasts the weather
chart issued by the department. This chart shows the condition and
movements of the atmosphere over the British Isles and the vicinity;
the distribution of pressure; the temperature, state of the sea, and
the force and direction of the winds blowing within the area at six
P.M. on the previous day.
The familiar dotted lines termed isobars, which are such a feature in
weather maps of this sort, are lines at all places along which the
barometer stands at the same height. Except where their regularity
is broken by the existence of subsidiary disturbances, these lines
extend in gradually widening circles around a centre of depression,
the barometer always standing highest along the outside curve, and
gradually and regularly falling towards the centre; so that if we could
view our atmosphere from above one of those centres of depression, we
would see a deep hollow, with sides sloping downwards to the centre,
towards which the revolving air was being gradually indrawn, like water
in an eddy.
At intervals, we receive warning across the Atlantic, from the _New
York Herald_ weather bureau, respecting storms which are crossing
the Atlantic towards our coasts, and which are often described as
‘likely to develop dangerous energy’ on their way. Although many of
those warnings are subsequently justified, or partially justified,
it must not be supposed that these are storms which have left the
American continent on their way to us, and that it has been possible
to calculate their course across the Atlantic and predict the
time of arrival upon our coasts. Mr Clement Ley, Inspector to the
Meteorological Council, tells us that it is not yet satisfactorily
shown that storms cross the Atlantic from America, and he presumes that
arrangements must be effected by which the logs of passing steamers may
be consulted in America as to the character of the weather experienced
in crossing from this country; and from the information received in
this manner, it is possible to arrive at conclusions respecting the
direction and character of storms travelling towards this side of the
Atlantic, and to anticipate their arrival by telegraph, the warning
being flashed beneath the ocean in time to reach us long before the
storm itself.
The variety and complexity of the phenomena which have to pass under
careful observation render the science of the weather an exceedingly
difficult one to study, more especially as, up to the present, we have
done little more than master its fundamental principles. The time ought
not, however, to be far distant when we shall have the means at our
disposal to enable us to forecast the weather with a nearer approach to
certainty than we can attain at present. The results already obtained
by the Meteorological Office are certainly encouraging, and it must
be remembered that, in attempting to forecast the weather in this
country, it labours under two serious disadvantages. The first is our
geographical position, which at present precludes us from obtaining
any but the shortest notice of weather approaching from the west—the
point from which most of our weather comes. The other drawback is of a
pecuniary nature, and it is to be regretted that it prevents us from
testing to the full limit the usefulness of the Meteorological Office.
It may be argued that, in this country, storms are seldom so sudden or
disastrous as to justify us in maintaining at a very much larger outlay
an organisation which would enable us to be warned of their approach.
It is, however, only necessary to take into account the enormous losses
in life and property occasioned every year by the weather in shipwreck
alone, in order to appreciate what might be the value to the nation of
a properly organised system of weather science, did it only succeed in
reducing, even by a small percentage, the annual number of wrecks on
our coasts.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
BY CHARLES GIBBON.
CHAPTER LIV.—POOR COMFORT.
Madge awakened from the reverie into which she had fallen, to find
Aunt Hessy’s kind eyes resting on her inquiringly and with a shade of
sorrow in them. She, however, instantly awoke, brightened and spoke
with cheerful confidence, although there was a certain note of timidity
in her voice indicating that she had not yet quite recovered from the
effects of the scene in her bedroom.
‘You see, aunt, how wickedly Philip has been deceived, and that I was
right to trust Mr Shield.’
‘Yes, but—Mr Beecham?’
Madge’s cheeks flushed, the smile disappeared, and the head was lifted
with something like impatience. It seemed as if the pronunciation
of Beecham’s name in that questioning tone revealed to her the full
significance of Wrentham’s insinuations—that she was not acting fairly
to Philip.
‘I have told you, aunt, that he is Mr Shield’s friend, and that
he is doing everything that can be done to help Philip out of his
difficulties. You cannot doubt that whatever I may do is for the same
object.’
‘Ah, child, I never doubted thee. My doubt is that whilst desiring to
do right thou may’st have done wrong in giving the trust to a stranger
thou’rt afraid to give to those that love thee.’
‘Mr Beecham will himself tell you before the week is out that he gave
me such proofs of his friendship as would have satisfied even you.’
‘Well, well, we shall say no more, child, till the time comes;
but never expect goodman Dick to be patient with what he thinks
unreasonable. See what a handle this rogue Wrentham—I always felt
that he was a rogue—has made of thy name to help him in cheating and
bamboozling Philip! Take my word, we may turn our toes barely an inch
from the straight path at starting, but we’ll find ourselves miles from
it ere the end if we do not make a quick halt and go back.’
‘I have only held my tongue,’ said the girl quietly enough, but the
feeling of offended innocence was there.
‘Holding the tongue when one should speak out is as bad as telling a
book of lies—worse, for we don’t know how to deal with it.’
‘I should be less sorry for vexing you, aunt,’ said the niece, ‘if I
did not know that by-and-by you will be sorry for having been vexed
with me.’
‘So be it.—But now let us finish clearing up the room, and we’ll get
the bedstead down in the morning. Dr Joy says that Mr Hadleigh is not
nearly so much hurt as was thought at first, and that they may be able
to move him in a day or two.’
When the arrangements for turning the sitting-room into a bedroom had
been completed—and there were nice details to be attended to in the
operation, which the dame would intrust to no other hands than her own
and her niece’s—Madge went in search of Pansy.
Her sudden appearance in the kitchen interrupted the boisterous mirth
which was going forward. When she inquired for Pansy Culver, there was
an abashed look on the faces of those who had permitted the girl to go
without inquiring whither; but Jenny Wodrow answered saucily:
‘She got into a state when I was talking about Caleb Kersey, and
slipped out before any of us could say Jack Robinson.’
The silent reproof in the expression of Madge’s tender eyes had its
effect even on this self-assertive damsel. Jerry Mogridge hobbled up to
his young mistress.
‘I’ll find her for you, Missy,’ he said cheerily, for he was in the
happy state of mind of one who has enjoyed a good meal and knows that
there is a good sleep lying between him and the next day’s toil.
They went out to the yard, and Jerry, opening the door of the dairy,
thrust his head into the darkness with the invocation: ‘Come out ov
here, Pansy Culver; what are you doing there? Missy wants you.’ There
was no answer, and after groping his way amidst cans and pails standing
ready for the morning’s milk, he returned muttering: ‘She ain’t there
anyhow. I’ll get the lantern, Missy, and we’ll soon find her, so being
as she ha’n’t gone to her father’s.’
Whilst Jerry went for the lantern, the moon began to light the
snow-covered ground, and Madge discovered Pansy in the doorway of the
stable. She was leaning against the door as if support were necessary
to save her from falling. Madge put her arm round the girl, and drawing
her out from the shadows into the moonlight, saw that the face was
white as the snow at their feet, and felt that the form was shivering
with agitation more than with cold.
‘I knew it would upset you, Pansy; and intended to tell you myself, but
wanted to do it when we were alone.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Missy,’ answered the girl through her chattering
teeth; ‘but thank you kindly. There’s no help for it now. I’ve been
the ruin of him, and standing out here, I’ve seen how wicked and cruel
I’ve been to him. I knew what he was thinking about, and I might have
told him not to think of it—but I liked him—I like him, and I wish they
would take me in his place. They ought to take me, for it was me that
drove him to it.’
‘Hush, hush, Pansy,’ said Madge with gentle firmness; ‘Caleb is
innocent, and will be free in a few days. It was only some foolish
business he had with Coutts Hadleigh which brought him under
suspicion.’
‘Yes, yes, but it was about me that he went to speak to Mr Coutts—and
Mr Coutts never said anything to me that a gentleman might not say.
Only he was very kind—very kind, and I came to think of him, and—and—it
was all me—all me! And you, though you didn’t mean it, showed me
how wrong it was, and I went away. And if Caleb had only waited,
maybe—maybe.... I don’t know right what I am saying; but I would have
come to myself, and have tried to make him happy.’
This hysterical cry showed the best and the worst sides of the girl’s
character. For a brief space she had yielded to the vanity of her sex,
which accepts the commonplaces of gallantry as special tributes to the
individual, and so had misinterpreted the attentions which Coutts would
have paid to any pretty girl who came in his way. She had been rudely
startled from her folly, and was now paying bitter penance for it. She
took to herself all the blame of Caleb’s guilt, and insisted that she
should be in jail, not him.
Madge allowed her feelings to have full vent, and then was able to
comfort her with the reiterated assurance of Caleb’s innocence, which
would be speedily proved.
The fit being over, Pansy showed herself to be a sensible being, and
listened attentively to the kindly counsel of her friend. She agreed
to follow her original plan, namely, to see her father in the morning
and then return to Camberwell to devote her whole energies to the task
of reclaiming her grandfather from his foolish ways and bringing him
out to Ringsford. Madge was certain that this occupation would prove
the best antidote to all Pansy’s unhappy thoughts and self-reproaches.
Meanwhile it was arranged that Pansy should not have Jenny Wodrow for
her bedfellow.
* * * * *
Affairs at the farm had gone on uncomfortably from the moment
Dick Crawshay expressed displeasure with his niece. She made what
advances she could towards reconciliation; but she did not yet offer
any explanation. He was obliged to accept her customary service as
secretary; but it was evident that he would have liked to dispense with
it. Neither his appetite nor his slumbers were disturbed, however; and
he slept soundly through the night whilst the fire was raging at the
Manor. It was not until the wain with its load of milk-cans had started
for the station that he heard from Jerry Mogridge the report of what
had occurred.
Then yeoman Dick mounted his horse and rode at full speed to Ringsford
to offer what help it might be in his power to render, grumbling at
himself all the way for not having been sooner aware of his neighbour’s
danger. Finding Mr Hadleigh in the gardener’s cottage, where there was
want of space and convenience, the farmer with impetuous hospitality
invited the whole family to Willowmere. The invalid could not be
removed until the doctor gave permission; but Caroline and Bertha were
at once escorted to the farm. Miss Hadleigh remained at the cottage to
assist the housekeeper in nursing her father: she was moved to do so by
a sense of duty as well as by the knowledge that Alfred Crowell would
come out as soon as he heard of the disaster, and he would expect to
find her there.
In the bustle and excitement of the first part of the day there was
only one person who thought much about Philip and of the effect this
new calamity might have upon him in his present state. As the afternoon
advanced, everybody was wondering why he neither came nor sent any
message. The arrival of Pansy relieved Madge on this and other points;
and she was happily spared for that night the pain of learning that
Philip did visit the gardener’s cottage without calling at Willowmere.
Postman Zachy delivered two welcome letters in the cold gray light of
the winter morning. Both were from Austin Shield—one for Mrs Crawshay,
the other for Madge. The first simply stated that his old friend might
expect to see him in a few days, and that he believed she would have
reason to give him the kindly greeting which he knew she would like to
give him. The second was longer and contained important information.
‘Be patient and trust me still,’ it said. ‘You have fixed the week
as the limit of your silence: before the time is out I shall be at
Willowmere. Philip has acted in every way as I would have him act under
the circumstances, except in the extreme mercy which he extends to
the man Wrentham; but he pleads that it is for the sake of the poor
lady and child whose happiness depends on the rascal, and I have been
obliged to yield. At the last moment Wrentham attempted to escape, and
would have succeeded but for the cleverness of the detective, Sergeant
Dier.
‘Be patient, and have courage till we meet again.’
‘Be patient—have courage:’ excellent phrases and oftentimes helpful;
but was there ever any one who at a crisis in life has found the words
alone satisfactory? They by no means relieved Madge of all uneasiness,
although she accepted them as a token that her suspense would soon be
at an end. In one respect she was keenly disappointed: there was not a
hint that the proofs she had given Mr Shield of Mr Hadleigh’s innocence
of any complicity in his misfortunes had been yet acknowledged to be
complete. Had that been done, Philip would have forgotten half his
worries. Mr Shield was aware of that—he must be aware of it, and yet he
was silent. She could not help thinking that there was some truth in Mr
Hadleigh’s view of the eccentricity of his character.
THE NEW MEDIÆVAL ROOM AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM.
One of the rooms at the British Museum, left vacant by the removal of
the Natural History Collection to South Kensington, has lately been
re-opened, under the title of the Mediæval Room, with a collection
of curious objects, many of which possess strong personal as well as
antiquarian interest. The articles shown range from the twelfth century
downwards. Some of them have already been on exhibition in another part
of the building; but the majority are now publicly shown for the first
time. The various items have been carefully arranged and labelled by
Messrs Franks and Read, the curators of the Ethnological Department,
the fullness of the appended descriptions more than compensating for
the temporary lack of a catalogue.
Among the curiosities of more modern date is a silver-mounted
punch-bowl of Inveraray marble, formerly the property of the poet
Burns, and presented by his widow to Alexander Cunningham. Not far
distant rests the Lochbuy brooch, a massive ornament four inches in
diameter, said to date from about the year 1500, and to have been
fashioned out of silver found on the estate of Lochbuy, in Mull. Its
centre is a large crystal, surrounded by upright collets bearing
pearls of considerable size. It was long preserved as a sort of
heirloom in the Lochbuy family, but passed out of it by the marriage
of a female representative, and in course of time became part of the
Bernal Collection, whence it was acquired by the British Museum. Hard
by it is a handsomely carved casket, made of the wood of Shakspeare’s
mulberry tree, and presented in 1769, with the freedom of the town of
Stratford-on-Avon, to David Garrick. The majority of the exhibits,
however, belong to very much earlier periods. There is a choice
display of horn and tortoiseshell snuff and tobacco boxes, two of
the latter—duplicates, save in some unimportant particulars—bearing
the arms of Sir Francis Drake, and the representation of a ship in
full sail. We are told that boxes of this same pattern are frequently
offered to collectors as having been the personal property of the great
admiral; but an inscription on one of the specimens here exhibited
shows that they were actually made by one John Obrisset in 1712.
An ordinary-looking piece of rock-crystal in one of the cases claims
to be the veritable ‘show-stone’ or divining crystal of Dr Dee, the
celebrated astrologer and alchemist of Queen Elizabeth’s time. Dee’s
own account of the origin of the show-stone was as follows. He declared
that one day in November 1582, while he was engaged in prayer, the
angel Uriel appeared to him and presented him with a magic crystal,
which had the quality, when steadfastly gazed into, of presenting
visions, and even of producing articulate sounds. These sights and
sounds, however, were only perceptible to a person endowed with the
proper mediumistic faculty. This the doctor himself unfortunately
lacked; but such a person was soon found in one Edward Kelly, who
was engaged as the doctor’s assistant, and produced ‘revelations’
with Joseph-Smith-like facility. Indeed, his revelations had more
than one point in common with those of the Mormon apostle, for it is
recorded that on one occasion he received a divine command that he
and the doctor should exchange wives, which edifying little family
arrangement was actually carried out, with much parade of prayer and
religious ceremonial. It seems probable that Dee really believed
in the manifestations, and was himself the dupe of his unscrupulous
associate. Kelly was accustomed to describe what he saw and heard in
the magic crystal, and Dr Dee took notes of the mystic revelations.
These notes were, in 1659, collected and published in a folio volume
by Dr Meric Casaubon, an eminent scholar of that day, who appears to
have believed that the revelations were really the work of spirits,
though of doubtful character. From these notes it would appear that
Dee was possessed of two, if not more, divining crystals of various
sizes. After his death, a stone, said to be one of these, came into the
possession of the Earl of Peterborough, and thence into that of Lady
Elizabeth Germaine. It subsequently fell into the hands of the then
head of the House of Argyll, by whose son, Lord Frederick Campbell,
it was presented to Horace Walpole. For many years it formed part of
the Strawberry Hill Collection, and there was appended to the leather
case in which it was contained a manuscript note, in Walpole’s own
handwriting, describing it as ‘the black stone into which Dr Dee used
to call his spirits,’ and recording the above facts respecting it. On
the dispersion of the Strawberry Hill Collection in 1842, the stone
in question is said to have been purchased, at the price of thirteen
pounds, by Mr Smythe Pigott; and at the sale of that gentleman’s
library in 1853, to have passed into the hands of Lord Londesborough.
As to the later history of this particular stone, we have no
information; but it is clearly not identical with the one in the
British Museum. Horace Walpole’s is described as being a ‘black stone.’
Others add that it was in shape a flat disk, with a loop or handle,
and it is generally believed to have been a highly polished piece
of cannel coal. The one in the British Museum more nearly resembles
the descriptions given of Lady Blessington’s crystal, employed for
a similar purpose by Lieutenant Morrison, the Zadkiel of ‘almanac’
celebrity. It is a ball, about two inches in diameter, of rather dark
rock-crystal, and, as Mr Read informs us, has been in the possession of
the British Museum for nearly a century. Assuming, however, that, as
stated in Casaubon’s notes, Dr Dee used two or more magic specula, this
may of course have been one of them.
This mystic crystal is appropriately flanked by a collection of
oriental talismans, some in metal, for suspension from the neck; others
of agate or chalcedony, engraved with charms and cabalistic signs, for
reproduction on wax or parchment. Here also are a couple of bezoar
stones, formerly much esteemed as possessing occult medical virtues,
particularly as an antidote to poison. The genuine bezoar stone is a
calculus found in the stomach of the goat or antelope. The specimens
here shown are artificial, being compounded from a recipe in the
possession of Sir Hans Sloane. They claim, however, to have all the
virtues of the genuine article, which we think extremely probable! They
have a peculiar aromatic smell, which probably assisted the belief in
their hygienic properties.
In another of the cases we find post-mortem casts of the faces of
Charles II. and Oliver Cromwell. A third, anonymous when acquired by
the Museum, has since been identified as that of Charles XII., king of
Sweden. The musket-wound in the temple, by which he fell, is plainly
observable. Not far distant are a leathern ‘black-jack’ and a couple
of ‘chopines,’ the latter, however, not being, as French scholars
might be inclined to suppose, the measure of that name, but a sort of
stilt about sixteen inches in height, with a shoe at the upper end,
and formerly worn by the Venetian ladies. Shakspeare alludes to this
queer article where he makes Hamlet say, addressing one of the female
players, ‘By’r Lady, your ladyship is nearer heaven than when I saw
you last, by the altitude of a chopine.’ Here, too, are a couple of
the mallets and a ball used in the old game of pall-mall. The present
specimens were found in the house of Mr Vulliamy, situated in the
street of the same name, which adjoins the ancient Mall. The ball is of
wood, about two and a half inches in diameter; and the mallets, save
that their heads are bound with iron, are almost precisely similar to
those used in croquet at the present day.
There are sundry curious ivories, among them being a drinking-horn made
out of a single tusk, elaborately carved, and mounted with copper-gilt.
It bears the inscription:
Drinke you this, and thinke no scorne
Although the cup be much like a horne.
It bears the date 1599, and is in general appearance like a fish, with
a sort of scoop, or spoon-bowl, projecting from the mouth. There are
indications that it was originally fashioned as a horn for blowing, but
was afterwards converted to its present purpose. A small tablet of the
same material represents ‘Orator’ Henley preaching. On the floor in the
centre of the building, presumably Henley’s chapel in Lincoln’s Inn
Fields, is seen an inscription indicating that the notorious Colonel
Charteris lies buried there. Immediately in front of the preacher
stands a bear on his hind-legs, holding a staff; and the congregation
are represented with horns, exaggerated noses, heads of animals, and
other deformities. The preacher appears to be uttering the words, ‘Let
those not calumniate who cannot confute.’
In another part of the room is a choice collection of ancient watches,
pocket dials, and timepieces of various descriptions, some of very
eccentric character. There are oval watches, octagon watches, and
cruciform watches; watches in the form of tulips and other flowers.
There is a dial in the form of a star, and another in the shape of
a lute. A gilt clock, of considerable size, in the form of a ship,
with elaborate mechanical movements, is said to have been made for
the Emperor Rudolf II. A pocket dial shown has a special interest, as
having belonged to Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, some time favourite
of Queen Elizabeth. This dial bears the arms of the ill-fated earl,
together with an inscription showing that it was made by one James
Kynvyn, in 1593.
Astrolabes, nocturnals, and other astronomical instruments, English
and foreign, are largely represented. There are ancient chess and
backgammon boards, with men carved or stamped in divers quaint
fashions; and a number of drinking-cups in bronze, rock-crystal, and
silver, among those of the last material being a small goblet of
graceful fashion long known as the ‘Cellini’ cup, but believed to be
in truth of German workmanship. An elegant tazza of rock-crystal,
mounted with silver-gilt, has a medallion portrait of Queen Elizabeth
in its centre; but whether it actually belonged to the Virgin Queen is
uncertain.
The connoisseur in enamels will here find a large and varied
collection, ranging from the _cloisonné_ of the Byzantine to the _champ
levé_ of the early Limoges school, and the surface-painting of later
artists. Some of the specimens shown are extremely beautiful; indeed,
this collection alone would well repay the trouble of a visit. One of
the earlier specimens, a plate of German enamel, represents Henry of
Blois, Bishop of Winchester, and brother to King Stephen. Among the
more curious specimens of this ancient art are sundry bishops’ crosiers
of various dates, and a couple of ‘pricket’ candlesticks, in which the
candle, instead of being dropped into a socket in the modern manner, is
impaled upon an upright point.
A small _pietà_ of the sixteenth century, placed in one corner of the
room, deserves a special mention. The figures are in wax, skilfully
draped with real silk and lace. Such a combination has usually a tawdry
appearance, but it has no such effect in this instance. The name of
the modeller has not been handed down to us, but he was unquestionably
a true artist. The look of death on the Saviour’s face, and the
heart-broken expression of the Madonna as she bends over to kiss
his blood-stained brow, are almost painfully real. The power of the
representation is the more remarkable from its small size, the whole
group being only about eight inches square.
In a collection numbering many hundreds of items, it is obviously
impossible even to mention more than a very small proportion of the
whole. We have spoken more particularly of such as have some personal
or historical association connected with them; but on the score of
antiquity alone, such a collection as this must be full of interest
to thoughtful minds. Who can gaze upon these relics of the distant
past without yearning to look back into the far-off times when all
these things were new? What would we give to see, ‘in their habit
as they lived,’ the men who fashioned these ancient timepieces, who
drank from these crystal cups, and played tric-trac on these quaint
backgammon boards? It needs but small imagination to call up Burns and
his boon-companions carousing around the marble punch-bowl, with ‘just
a wee drap in their e’e;’ but who shall name the knights who wore this
iron gauntlet or that _repoussé_ breastplate? Their ‘bones are dust,
their good swords rust,’ and yet here is part of their ancient panoply,
well-nigh as perfect as when it left the armourer’s anvil four hundred
years ago. Truly, they did good work, these mediæval artificers. The
struggle for existence was not so intense; they did not hurry, as in
these high-pressure days. Believing, with old George Herbert, that
‘we do it soon enough, if that we do be well,’ they wisely took their
time, caring little to do quick work, so long as they did good work.
And so their handiwork remains, _monumentum ære perennius_, a standing
memorial of the good old time when ‘art was still religion,’ and labour
was noble, because the craftsman put his heart into his work.
ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.
_A NOVELETTE._
BY T. W. SPEIGHT.