[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. 10.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, MARCH 8, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
NETTLE-CLOTH.
Some little time ago, when one of our most distinguished botanists was
asked his opinion about the desirability of forming a collection of all
the vegetable substances which are or have been used in medicine both
by civilised and savage races, he replied that it would take a large
building to hold it. Although a series of fibre-yielding plants would
be much less in number, the list would still be a long one, provided we
knew all those in use by savage tribes. Very few of these, however, are
extensively used for clothing. Putting aside wool and silk, which are
animal products, we have only cotton and flax of prime importance. Hemp
of fine quality is largely grown in Italy, and there woven into cloth
for ordinary purposes; but as yet this use of hemp in other civilised
countries appears to be limited, though the fibre is everywhere
employed for cordage. With the exception of jute, which is chiefly made
into coarse fabrics, all other vegetable fibres believed to be suitable
for important textile industries may be said to be as yet only on their
trial. But a number—such as the so-called New Zealand flax (_Phormium
tenax_), Manila hemp (_Musa textilis_), pine-apple (_Bromelia ananas_),
American aloe (_Agave Americana_), and some yielded by certain species
of palms—are known to possess very valuable properties. We have omitted
to mention any members of the Nettle tribe—to which, however, the
hemp-plant is closely allied—as we propose to say a few special words
about them.
Growing both wild and cultivated in suitable localities scattered
over a large area in South-eastern Asia, there is a species of nettle
to which a peculiar interest is attached. The reason of this is that
the liber or inner side of its bark yields a fibre excelling every
other derived from the vegetable kingdom for fineness, strength, and
lustre combined. In China, this fibre is called by English-speaking
people, China grass; in India it is called _rhea_; and in the Malayan
Archipelago by the name of _ramie_. It was some time before botanists
discovered that the material which was known in commerce by three
different names was the produce of the same plant—a stingless nettle.
For more than half a century, much attention has now been devoted to
the _Urtica nivea_ or _Bœhmeria nivea_ (a newer name), as the China
grass plant is called in scientific language. Long in use in China and
Japan for making ropes and cloth—much of the latter being of very fine
quality—it was introduced into England for manufacturing purposes soon
after Mr Fortune the well-known botanist returned in 1846 from his
travels in China. Small quantities had, however, been sent to England
long before this. Even as early as 1810, some bales of the Indian-grown
fibre were received at the India House, London, and its great strength
as a rope-making material ascertained. Indeed, it is stated on high
authority, that this fibre has been in use in the Netherlands since the
sixteenth century.
In Messrs Marshall’s great flax-mill at Leeds, China grass was spun
to some extent for about ten years after 1851, and its snow-white
silky yarn is more or less constantly in use in some kinds of Bradford
fabrics. But unlike the jute fibre, which has created in the course of
a single generation a gigantic industry, the trade in China grass has
scarcely advanced at all. The value of the latter is admitted on all
hands; there is practically an unlimited demand for it; plenty of it
could be grown in India, and yet it is not cultivated to any extent.
This is solely owing to the great amount of manual labour required to
separate the fibre and bark from the stem, and then the fibre from the
bark, no machine having been yet invented which will do this at once
efficiently and cheaply.
The Indian government have long been vexed that the latent wealth of
the plant yielding this much-prized rhea fibre cannot be realised. In
1869 they offered a prize of five thousand pounds for the best, and
another of two thousand pounds for the second-best machine which would
separate and prepare the fibre, at a cost of fifteen pounds per ton
in India, in such a way that it would fetch fifty pounds per ton in
England. It may here be mentioned that it sometimes sells as high as
eighty pounds per ton, and even higher; while the highest price for
jute rarely exceeds twenty-five pounds, and for flax of fine quality,
forty pounds. Naturally, the Indian administration hoped that the
offer of these handsome prizes would bring forward as competitors some
of the ablest machinists in Europe. But whether it was owing to the
inherent difficulty of the problem, to the expense of taking out heavy
machines to India, or to that apathy with which it is frequently said
we in this country regard everything Indian, practically nothing came
of the competition. Mr John Greig of Edinburgh sent a machine for trial
which so far met the conditions that he received a douceur of fifteen
hundred pounds. About thirty competitors applied to have their machines
tried; but eventually Mr Greig alone put in an appearance. It was found
that by his method it cost fully fifteen pounds per ton to prepare the
fibre in India; and when this was sent to London, it was valued at only
twenty-eight pounds per ton.
In 1875, Dr Forbes Watson—one of a small band of scientific men who
have done much to bring under notice the industrial resources of
India—suggested that, in order to save the expense of freight, trials
of machines should be made in England instead of India. Green stems of
the plant grown in the south of France were promised for the purpose;
and towards the end of that year, several inventors had entered their
machines for competition; but owing to unforeseen difficulties, it was
found impossible to hold the trials. Unwilling to abandon the hope of
attaining their great object, the government of India issued a new
notification to inventors in 1877. This time the prizes offered were
five thousand pounds for the best, and one thousand pounds for the
second-best machine or process for preparing rhea fibre which would be
worth forty-five pounds per ton in London, at a cost of not more than
fifteen pounds per ton laid down at any port of shipment in India. The
trials having been arranged to take place, as before, at Saháranpur
in September 1879, ten competitors appeared; but only seven had their
machines tested. When the fibre prepared by each arrived in London,
it was found that the highest value put upon any of the samples was
twenty-six pounds per ton. Accordingly, none of the competitors could
claim the full amount of either of the prizes; but Messrs Van der Ploeg
and Nagoua, two textile machinists well known on the continent, were
each awarded five hundred pounds, and Mr Cameron one hundred pounds. On
the failure of this second competition, it was determined not to renew
the offer of a prize until it could be proved by private enterprise
that the rhea plant could be cultivated with profit in India. The
unfavourable reports on the best samples prepared at the second trial
at Saháranpur seem to have convinced the Indian government that at
present the prospect of producing Indian rhea which would successfully
compete with the fibre of the same plant grown and prepared in China,
is not very hopeful.
Notwithstanding this second failure on the part of the government of
India to obtain by rewards a machine capable of turning the cultivation
of the rhea plant in that country into a commercial success, so
confident are many good judges of the great value of China grass as a
textile material, that the interest in it is increasing from year to
year. Its cultivation is spreading over Southern Europe, considerable
areas being now laid out into plantations of China grass in Italy and
the south of France. Spain and Portugal are beginning to grow it;
and on the south side of the Mediterranean, Algiers and Egypt are
also moving in the same direction. It is believed that this recent
development of ramie culture in the Mediterranean region—to call the
plant by the name our French neighbours appear to prefer—is to some
extent owing to Favier’s recent method of treating the fibre, the
patent for which is owned by a Company located at Avignon. This plan is
very simple, and considering how much the use of steam—we do not mean
as a motive force—has quickened many processes, even in the textile
industries, it is wonderful that it had not been thought of before. M.
Favier merely exposes the stems of the plant to the action of steam for
about twenty minutes in a closed wooden trough, after which the bark
and fibre are easily stripped from the stem. By the retting process, or
steeping in cold water, it takes days, sometimes weeks, to effect the
decortication of the stems; and we have seen how difficult it has been
found to do this by machinery. But although M. Favier’s process greatly
simplifies matters in this early stage of the preparation of the fibre,
the gummy substance and outer skin still require to be removed from it.
Only the other day, it was announced that Professor Frémy, a
distinguished French chemist, has, after an elaborate series of
experiments, found out a method of readily separating the fibre from
these extraneous matters. He takes up the ribbons of bark with attached
fibre, as obtained by M. Favier’s plan, and subjects them to a peculiar
treatment, which mainly consists in boiling them under pressure in
an alkaline solution. During the operation, everything deleterious
is removed from the useful portion of the fibre, which is then ready
for the ordinary operation of the spinner. There seems good grounds
for believing that the combined processes of Messrs Favier and Frémy,
which are about to be tried on a scale of some magnitude in France,
will prove a commercial success. It will be curious to watch the future
history of a plant which has so long baffled every attempt to raise
it into conspicuous importance as an article of commerce, about which
volumes have been written, and the fibre of which is now well known by
its valuable properties to those engaged in textile industries in every
civilised country.
There is another Indian nettle, called _Urtica heterophylla_, which
produces a strong, fine, white, glossy fibre. Best known by the name of
the Neilgherry nettle, it is nevertheless widely diffused over India.
The stem, branches, and leaves are covered with stiff sharp bristles,
which give it a formidable, or, as some say, a ferocious appearance.
These also inflict acute pain if they should happen to be touched, but
fortunately the effect of the sting soon passes away. The prepared
fibre of this plant is sometimes called vegetable wool; and it is
better suited, from its appearance, for mixing with real wool than rhea
fibre, which has been a good deal used for this purpose. In some parts
of India, the fibre of the Neilgherry nettle is used by the natives in
the manufacture of cloth. It has been partially experimented upon for
textile purposes in England; but there seems to have been a difference
of opinion as to its merits. Owing to its sting, there are even greater
difficulties in separating its fibre than is the case with rhea; but
these might be overcome by some mechanical or chemical treatment. It is
a quick-growing plant, and could be cultivated to any extent, should a
demand for it arise.
We must pass over other species of _urtica_, and come to the common
stinging nettle of Europe. As is well known, this plant furnishes a
nutritious food for swine and some other animals, and in Scotland is
occasionally used for making a kind of soup termed nettle kail; and in
default of a better, its roots will furnish, along with alum, a yellow
dye. The tenacity of its fibre has long been known. It has been woven
into cloth in past times, but no doubt only on a limited scale, in
nearly every country where the plant grows. Nor have its properties as
a textile material been altogether overlooked in modern times, at least
in the British Islands, since lace, parasol covers, and other fancy
articles made of common nettle fibre have been on exhibition in the
Museums of Economic Botany at Kew and Dublin for the last thirty years,
besides having been occasionally brought under the notice of the public
in various other ways. At Dresden, Herr F. C. Seidel has recently
established a manufactory for nettle-cloth, in which, according to what
seems to be an authentic report, he uses fibre of the common species;
but the significant remark is added, that he prefers to get his
material from the Chinese nettle.
Some persons think that they see a great nettle industry looming in
the future, if only a process of readily separating the useless parts
of its stem without injuring the fibre could be discovered. We are of
course speaking of the common nettle. A statement has been published
which one can very readily believe—namely, that the profitable
extraction of its fibre is possible only when it is cultivated. In the
wild state, the plant is branchy; but when grown on suitable soil at
regular distances of from five to eight inches apart, it forms single
stems from four to fully seven feet high. Even if they would serve as
well as cultivated plants, and could be economically gathered from
many widely scattered localities, all the wild nettles growing in our
waste places and old churchyards would be a bagatelle in the sense of
furnishing material for many large spinning-mills.
Whatever sanguine people may think, other things besides skilful
cultivation and an easy process of preparing the fibre will determine
whether nettle crops will be profitable; or, to put the matter in
another way, whether a great industry is likely to be established by
the manufacture of nettle-cloth. There is no difficulty in cultivating
or in dressing flax, nor any lack of demand for it; yet shrewd Scotch
farmers have found out that other crops are more profitable, and
therefore the blue-blossomed flax fields which many of us saw in our
boyhood in Central Fife and the Lowlands of Scotland have entirely
disappeared. If nettle-cloth is ever to be anything but a curiosity, it
will require to have attractions in quality and price which will enable
it to compete with other textiles. During the American civil war, the
jute-mills of Dundee were turning out many thousands of yards of cheap
but serviceable fabrics to be used instead of calico, because the cost
of the latter had gone up a little. For some of the purposes to which
it was applied, the jute did as well as the cotton. But the war having
ended, calico of a certain ‘make’ and quality became once more a trifle
cheaper than its rival, and so jute was quickly beaten out of the field
again. This is an example of the kind of battle which any fibre new to
commerce will have to fight, unless it possesses some property of quite
exceptional value.
To many persons, it seems a pity that we cannot utilise a plant which
yields something useful. But the nettle is by no means the most
striking example of a native plant which might be and yet is not used
in the arts. One or two species of fern, such as the common bracken,
are greatly more abundant in this country than the nettle—whole
hillsides in many districts being covered with them. Yet although a
very serviceable paper can be made from ferns, paper manufacturers
prefer to send to the shores of the Mediterranean for a species of
wild grass to supply their mills. For several years past, an ingenious
Glasgow chemist has been trying to make a marketable gum or jelly from
the common seaweed, thrown up in great abundance on the western coasts
of Scotland. We hope he may succeed; but meanwhile we are sending
elsewhere for what we require of seaweed jelly—even to far Japan. The
peat-mosses of Ireland—and of Scotland too, for that matter—would
furnish an endless number of beautiful paraffin candles, if some great
Company with limited liability would only take the business up—and make
the candles at a trifling loss per pound.
Some of our readers will probably suppose that we have given them a
too humble estimate of the value of the common nettle as a textile
material. There is no denying the fact that the tenacity of its
cortical fibres is scarcely if at all inferior to those of flax or
hemp. But how to grow, spin, and weave them into a saleable cloth, is
a problem which has not yet been solved. Just now, there is a partial
revival of what may be almost called the ancient art of manufacturing
hand-made paper for printed books. In these days, too, many of the
fair sex have apparently discovered that embroidery when worked by
hand is really more interesting and beautiful than when it is done by
a machine, supposing that in both cases the design is of nearly equal
merit. It seems also to be dawning on many persons that earthenware
dishes painted by the fingers have, even when a little dauby, a kind of
attraction about them not possessed by those which have their patterns
printed from an engraved copper-plate, and are therefore all rigidly
alike. Possibly, ‘fashion’ may carry matters a little farther in this
direction, and revive the use of textile fabrics spun by the distaff
and spindle, and woven on handlooms. But by the help of machinery,
the labour of one woman can nowadays make clothing for more than a
thousand others. A hundred years ago, nearly every woman had to spin
the material required for the clothing of her family; but at that same
time, or at least not long before it, those in the upper ranks had
a knowledge of many useful and ingenious arts which they no longer
possess. If it were possible but in part to resuscitate the state of
matters which obtained in these old days, before spinning-jennies, or
powerlooms, or lace-making machines were dreamed of, there would be
fully more hope than there is of people keeping themselves warm by an
external application of the stinging nettle, in a less heroic way than
we are told the Romans did of old.
Nettle-cloth is undoubtedly an excellent fabric, but—Will it pay the
manufacturer? The answer to this is, Not yet.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER XVI.—LIGHT HEARTS AND SAD.
The buzz of conversation continued as the party descended the broad
staircase.
‘Rather bad of Phil to keep us waiting all this time,’ said Coutts as
he gave Madge his arm.
‘Perhaps he could not help it,’ she suggested.
‘Ah, perhaps not. But you see Wrentham hasn’t turned up yet either, and
I daresay they have been lunching together,’ rejoined Coutts with a
smile, which was to her a very unpleasant one.
They had only taken their places at table, when Philip and Wrentham
quietly entered. There was an agreeable murmur of satisfaction at the
arrival of the gentleman in whose honour they had met, and his greeting
was as cordial as if nobody were hungry on his account.
No one except Madge appeared to observe the singular alteration in
his appearance. He was pale, his eyes seemed heavy like those of one
wakening from sleep, and the smile with which he responded to the
welcome of his friends was forced—his expression altogether unlike
what she had expected it to be. His walk, too, was that of one who was
carefully measuring each step. For an instant, the ugly suggestion of
his brother, that he had been taking too much wine at lunch, occurred
to her.
He took his seat by her side; dinner proceeded. Presently general
conversation was resumed, and the cause of the temporary delay of the
banquet appeared to be forgotten.
But to Madge the brilliant light of the room and the merriment around
them only made that pale-faced man beside her the more unlike Philip.
‘I am sorry I could not get here sooner,’ he said in an undertone, and
his voice sounded unusually feeble.
‘What is the matter, Philip? Why are you so pale?’
‘You cannot expect me to be taking leave of all my friends without
feeling queer,’ he answered with an attempt to smile.
‘That is not it—you are ill.’
‘I am—a little; and don’t bother about it just now. I’ll tell you how
it happened, by-and-by.’
‘How what happened?’
‘I have hurt myself. There now; don’t be alarmed—it is nothing. You
see I am here; and I don’t want to spoil the evening by letting our
friends know it. Look at the girls; they would go into fits if things
didn’t come off just as they planned them.’
‘How did you do it?’ she asked calmly.
‘That mare Wrentham bought from Uncle Dick tumbled over me; that’s all.
I’ll be as well as ever, when I’ve had a little rest.’
‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘Not yet. The fact is, I was taking a nap at Wrentham’s, to brace me up
for the evening.’
‘You mean that you were insensible?’
‘Perhaps that was it. But don’t think about it. Have some wine?’
When the ladies were retiring, Philip opened the door for them; but
that was the last effort his strength allowed him to make. He felt
giddy and faint.
‘Help me up-stairs,’ was all he could say to Dr Joy, who was at his
side.
Edwin Joy was a little dark man, but he was sinewy and active. He
wheeled Philip round so that he placed him easily in a chair near the
table.
‘Don’t stir, anybody,’ he said quickly to the astounded guests.
‘Drink this,’ he said to Philip, holding a glass to his lips....
‘Better?’
Philip nodded.
‘Take a little more. I have been watching you, and knew there was
something wrong. What have you been doing?’
All this was uttered rapidly, but in a low and cheery tone, not to
alarm the hearers.
‘Riding. The mare was fresh and skittish. The man warned me that she
had been at high feeding for some days, and getting little to do. But
I knew the mare, and thought I could manage her. She tried to throw
me—then stood bolt upright—lost balance, and fell back over me.’
‘Ah! Feet and legs all right. Where were you hurt?’
‘I don’t know. I was slipping off; but there is a queer sensation here.’
The little doctor passed his hands rapidly over the side to which
Philip pointed, and beckoned to Dr Guy.
The guests had obeyed the doctor’s injunction not to leave their seats.
His words acted like a charm in a fairy tale, and they were suddenly
spell-bound in the position they occupied when it was spoken. They
looked in dumb astonishment at the principal actors in this unexpected
scene. The spell was broken by Dr Guy rising from his seat.
‘What mare was it?’ asked Crawshay, turning sharply to Wrentham.
‘The one I had from you.’
‘And you were giving her high feed and nothing to do!... Humph! I used
to think you knew something about horses.’
The yeoman rose with an expression of contempt and advanced to Philip.
‘What’s the matter, lad? Art sore hurt? It went against the grain to
part with that mare; and I fervently wish she had eaten her head off
at Willowmere, rather than she should have done this. I wouldn’t have
parted with her, neither, only I thought she was going into safe hands.’
‘Get him into bed,’ said Dr Guy decisively.
‘For any sake, don’t spoil the fun to-night,’ said Philip feebly. ‘My
father will make some excuse for me. I fancied I could hold out for a
little longer; but it’s no use.’
‘Do not trouble yourself about that, Philip,’ said Mr Hadleigh. ‘Our
friends here will say nothing to-night, and the young people shall
enjoy themselves as if nothing had happened.’
‘Thanks. Maybe I shall be able to come down before the fun is all over.’
Supported by Uncle Dick and Dr Guy, and followed by Dr Joy, Philip
proceeded to his bedroom.
‘This is most unfortunate,’ muttered Wrentham, looking much distressed.
‘I had no idea the brute would play such a trick.’
Mr Hadleigh apparently paid no attention to this. Taking his place at
the table, he spoke quietly:
‘You all heard what my son said, and I need not ask you to aid me in
carrying out his wish.—Pass the wine, Mr Crowell.’
* * * * *
And so the crowd of young people who had been invited to the ‘little
dance’ had no hint of the accident to mar their pleasure. Outside, the
brilliant light shining through the canvas of the marquee contended
for precedence with the ruddy harvest-moon. Inside, the place was
like an illuminated hall of flowers and plants. Sam Culver and Pansy
with assistants had been at work for two days here. The dresses, the
wreaths, the feathers, the jewels of the girls and matrons, with their
faces brightened by the excitement of the moment, formed a living
kaleidoscope, as they moved and mingled in the dance or promenade. The
strains of the band were heard in the village; and little groups of
village lads and maidens hung around the gates of Ringsford to listen
to the music.
‘I suppose I must be Phil’s deputy for a time here as well as in the
house,’ said Coutts in his suavest manner to Madge. ‘I hope you don’t
mind very much?’
‘I do mind a great deal,’ she answered with a frankness which would
have been rude in any one else, and yet in her appeared to be the
kindliest answer to his question. ‘But I suppose I must go through the
first quadrille.’
And reluctantly she did so. When it was over, and Coutts would fain
have retained his position as deputy, she said:
‘Will you take me to Mr Hadleigh, please? He is there speaking to the
vicar, near the entrance.’
Mr Hadleigh advanced to meet them, and she, relinquishing the arm of
Coutts, took that of his father.
‘She requires taming. Poor Phil,’ was the reflection of the
practical-minded Coutts, as he turned away to bestow his attentions on
beauties who would appreciate them more.
Mr Hadleigh understood why she desired to speak to him, and they went
outside, walking slowly across the lawn towards the house.
‘There is no great danger,’ he assured her at once; ‘but he will
probably be a prisoner for a few weeks. At present his chief idea is
that we should say nothing about it.’
‘I should like to see him—if the doctors will allow me,’ she said after
a brief pause, her head bowed as if she were studying the long shadows
on the grass.
‘We can ask them.... Are you sorry that he will not be able to go with
the _Hertford Castle_?’
‘How can I be otherwise?’
He did not speak for a few seconds—Then:
‘You sometimes puzzle me very much, Miss Heathcote.’
‘Why?’ she asked, looking up, and the moon shone full on her face. His
was in darkness.
‘You seem to wish him to go away.’
‘I have already explained,’ she answered with a degree of constraint.
‘Yes, I understand,’ he said dreamily. ‘Mine is a selfish way of
considering the matter. I grudge every moment that what I—prize most,
is out of sight. I suppose it is because we feel how short the time is
we can possess our treasures, that in growing old we grow selfish.’
‘But you are not an old man, Mr Hadleigh.’ She was trying to find
something gentle to say.
He shook his head.
‘I know men who are nearly twice my age in years and yet are boys
compared with me. I feel very old just now.’
‘But you know his absence will not be long.’
‘True—his absence will not be long.... Here is Dr Guy.—Well, doctor,
what news do you bring us now?’
They had entered through the conservatory, and encountered the doctor
on the way to seek his host.
‘He has had a rest, and there is not much harm done. But it was foolish
of him not to lie up at once and send for us.’
‘Miss Heathcote would like to see him.’
‘Well, it won’t do him any harm for her to see him—especially as it is
his wish that she should; but he ought to be kept as quiet as possible.
I have been sent for; but Joy will stay as long as may be necessary.’
Mr Hadleigh himself took Madge to the door of Philip’s room, and it was
opened by Mrs Picton, the housekeeper.
‘That’s her now,’ said Philip. He was lying on his right side on the
bed, his back towards the door.—‘Now, doctor, give us the ten minutes
you promised.’
‘I trust to you, Miss Heathcote,’ said Dr Joy, ‘not to allow him to
move from his present position until I return; and not to let him speak
too much.’
She bowed. The doctor and Mrs Picton left the room.
‘Isn’t this a nuisance, Madge?’ began Philip, by an effort refraining
from turning round to look at her. ‘It upsets everything.’
‘But there is no danger, Philip,’ she answered, laying her hand
soothingly on his head.
‘That’s just it—if it had been a real knock-up, one could have said,
“There’s no help for it,” and settled down to enjoy a month or two in
bed. But with a mere scratch like this, which only threatens to be
troublesome if you don’t behave yourself, it’s—well, it’s irritating.’
‘What was it you wanted to say to me, Philip? You know, we have only a
few minutes, and you heard what the doctor said to me.’
‘O yes, of course.... Are they having a good time out there?... I can
hear the music—there, they are at the Lancers now—and it makes my feet
go in spite of me. I did hope to have such a jolly time with you,
Madge. I had put my name down for nearly every dance in the programme.’
‘I am afraid we should both have been rather tired,’ she said, smiling,
glad to find him in such good spirits.
‘The next dance is a waltz.—Ah!’
He had moved his arm incautiously, and a sharp pang reminded him of his
condition. With that little cry he had uttered, Madge felt the pang too.
‘I am going away now,’ she said, trying to speak firmly; ‘I am only
doing you harm by staying.’
‘No, no; don’t go, Madge—the touch of your hand has done me more good
than all their bandages. I will be quiet. There is something very
particular you have to do for me. (What a capital band they have got.)’
‘If you speak again about anything except what you want me to do, I
shall leave the room.’
That quieted him, and he kept still for a little.
‘I want you to write to Uncle Shield,’ he said at length tranquilly.
‘If you write to-morrow, it will be in time for the next mail.’
‘What am I to say to him?’
‘Say that I have attended to all his instructions, and have everything
ready to start in the _Hertford Castle_ on the sixth, and that I still
hope to do so.’
‘Oh, that isn’t possible, Philip.’
‘We’ll see. Tell him next about this accident, which the doctors say
will prevent me from getting on to my feet for some weeks. I hope to
prove they are wrong; but send him this warning through you, so that he
may not be disappointed.’
‘Would it not be better that your father or your brother should send
this message?’
‘Not at all. He would not open a letter from either of them, as he
has warned me; and they would not write one, as I know. I hope to set
that old misunderstanding between my father and him right some day.
Meanwhile, I very much want you to do this for me.’
‘As you please, Philip.’
‘Thanks, Madge, thanks. Then tell him particularly that Wrentham’s
affairs are all right.... He’s a good fellow, Wrentham. You remember,
I did not like him at first; since I have come to know him better, I
have altered my opinion. He is a real good fellow, and made everything
in this troublesome business quite smooth and easy for me. Only I wish
he hadn’t asked me to try that mare to-day, or that I hadn’t been so
unlucky as to agree to do it.’
‘Uncle is very angry about it. He says the mare has been shamefully
treated, for she had no vice at all when she left him, and he intends
to buy her back.’
‘I hope he won’t.... Now let me see; was there anything else? No; I
have told you all that I want to say. You will find an envelope with
his full address on the table over there.’
As she was getting the envelope, there was a tap at the door.
‘That’s the doctor, I suppose,’ muttered Philip disappointedly. ‘Why,
you can’t have been five minutes here. You won’t be worrying yourself
about this, Madge. I’ll be all right in a few days.’
‘Don’t speak any more,’ she said, bending over and touching his
somewhat feverish brow with her lips. ‘I shall be here to-morrow. We
are going home now. Good-night.’
Dr Joy was at the door, waiting to enter.
‘Will you look at him, doctor, and tell me how he is before I go?’
said Madge softly. The doctor went in, and after feeling his patient’s
pulse, returned.
‘He has been a little excited. Don’t leave for half an hour, and I will
send a message to you.’
In half an hour Mrs Picton brought her the message: Philip was sleeping.
SOME PARLIAMENTARY MAIDEN SPEECHES.
There have probably been very few members of parliament who have risen
in their place for the first time without an unpleasant nervous tremor.
Even if a parliamentary neophyte be not, as the familiar phrase has it,
‘unaccustomed to public speaking,’ he has certainly been unaccustomed
to such an audience; and to hear himself called upon by the Speaker
to address the first legislative assembly in the world, is an ordeal
which is none the less trying because it has been voluntarily courted.
Seeing that in past times so large a number of those returned to
parliament have been comparatively unpractised speakers, the fact that
absolute break-downs in maiden speeches are rare must be attributed
to the sympathetic encouragement which the House always accords to
the new member. Audiences at St Stephen’s are fastidious, but they
are also kindly; the maiden speech which is a notorious failure is
generally made such by over-confident fluency rather than by nervous
hesitation; and, to mention one example only, Lord Beaconsfield’s early
_fiasco_, the story of which has been told a hundred times, was not due
to nervous timidity, but to the ambition of a young and clever man,
conscious of power, to achieve a parliamentary reputation by a single
_coup_.
There are, of course, a few early failures on record which cannot be
thus accounted for. The maiden speech of Sheridan, who was destined
to become one of the greatest of British orators, was not exactly
a break-down, but its escape from being such was very narrow. In
Sheridan’s case, the audience was more than usually sympathetic, for
his literary reputation had excited curiosity and interest; but his
indistinctness of utterance and hesitancy of manner impressed his
hearers with the belief that, great as were his mental powers, he had
not the physical qualifications for effective speech, and that—to quote
the words of one verdict—‘nature never intended him for an orator.’
Woodfall, the celebrated parliamentary reporter, was fond of telling
how, at the conclusion of his speech, Sheridan came up to him, and
asked with evident anxiety what he thought of his first attempt.
Woodfall’s reply was: ‘I am sorry to say I do not think this is your
line; you had much better have stuck to your former pursuits.’ This
was discouraging; but Sheridan was not easily discouraged; and his
subsequent career justified the confident boldness of his reply to the
depreciatory estimate: ‘It is in me, however, and it shall come out!’
The failure of another distinguished man of letters, Joseph Addison,
was much more complete. He sat for Malmesbury, in the House of Commons
which was elected in 1708, and rose once to make a speech; but his
diffidence completely silenced him, and he never made a second attempt.
In the Irish parliament, where Lord Wharton’s influence procured him a
seat for the borough of Cavan, he made another failure, the story of
which is told by Mr O’Flanagan, whom we quote at second-hand from Mr G.
H. Jenning’s _Anecdotal History of the British Parliament_, a capital
compilation, to which we acknowledge a general indebtedness. ‘On a
motion before the House,’ writes Mr O’Flanagan, ‘Addison rose, and
having said, “Mr Speaker, I conceive,” paused, as if frightened by the
sound of his own voice. He again commenced, “I conceive, Mr Speaker,”
when he stopped, until roused by cries of “Hear, hear,” when he once
more essayed with, “Sir, I conceive.” Power of further utterance was
denied, so he sat down amidst the scarcely suppressed laughter of his
brother-members.’
The name of Addison recalls that of Steele; and one of the most
interesting incidents in Steele’s first brief parliamentary career was
the maiden speech of his young friend Lord Finch, which began as a
break-down, and ended as a success. In Queen Anne’s time, shortly after
Steele’s election for Stockbridge, a motion was made to expel him from
parliament, on the ground that in one of his periodical publications
he had ‘maliciously insinuated that the Protestant succession in the
House of Hanover was in danger under Her Majesty’s administration.’
It so happened that very shortly before this time a libel directed
against Lord Finch’s sister had been scathingly denounced and exposed
in Steele’s paper the _Guardian_; and the young nobleman felt that he
could not be silent when Steele in his turn was attacked. He leaped
to his feet, determined to do his best; but though his heart was in
the right place, he found it very difficult to get his words there,
and after managing to get out a few confused sentences, he sat down,
utterly discomfited. The failure would have been unredeemed, had it not
been that as he resumed his seat he exclaimed: ‘It is strange I cannot
speak for this man, when I would readily fight for him.’ The words were
heard all over the House; and Lord Finch’s audience, though hostile to
Steele, was one which could be trusted to respond at once, the moment
an appeal was made to its chivalrous instincts. From both sides of the
House came a spontaneous burst of cheering, which so encouraged the
young speaker, that he rose again to his feet; and this time made a
telling and eloquent speech, which was the beginning of a successful
parliamentary career.
Many years before the occurrence of this incident, another failure
had been turned into a success by a happy thought on the part of
the speaker himself, which proved that his break-down could hardly
be attributed to want of presence of mind. During the latter part
of the seventeenth century, a young man, who was afterwards to
become celebrated as third Earl of Shaftesbury, and author of
_Characteristics_, sat in the House of Commons as Lord Ashley. A bill
was introduced to grant the services of counsel to prisoners tried
for high-treason; and though the proposal was based on the commonest
principles of justice, it found many and bitter opponents. Lord Ashley,
however, was among its warmest supporters, and rose to argue in its
defence; but, unfortunately, after saying a few words, he found himself
unable to proceed. A little time was given him to collect his thoughts;
but at last the patience of his hearers was exhausted, and they called
loudly upon him to go on, when, looking at the Speaker, he said: ‘If,
sir, I, who rise only to give my opinion on the bill now depending,
am so confounded that I am unable to express the least of what I
proposed to say, what must the condition of that man be who, without
any assistance, is pleading for his life, and is apprehensive of being
deprived of it?’ It may safely be said that the most elaborately
prepared and eloquently delivered oration could hardly have been more
rhetorically effective than this happily extemporised argument.
A record of oratorical triumphs is less entertaining than a record of
failures; but the stories of one or two maiden speeches which owed
their success to simple assurance are amusing enough. Modesty and
timidity have not been characteristics of _all_ the members who have
ever sat in parliament. They do not, for example, seem to have been
very prominent in Mr Lechmere, afterwards Lord Lechmere, who, on his
election for Appleby, turned round to address the House immediately
after having taken the oath, and before he had gone through the
formality of taking his seat. Mr Cowper, made Lord Chancellor in 1707,
was not quite so precipitate, but much more copious in his rhetorical
outpourings, for he spoke three times during his first evening in the
House; and even he was excelled by the notorious ‘Orator Hunt,’ who on
a similar occasion gave his fellow-members no fewer than six samples
of his peculiar eloquence. The hero of one of the amusing stories just
referred to was the well-known Thomas Slingsby—generally shortened to
Tom—Duncombe. The speech itself was an extraordinary affair, being
an all-round attack upon various prominent statesmen, delivered in
a manner which may be described as fascinatingly impudent; but the
funniest thing about it was the story of its production, which has been
told by Mr Greville. ‘The history of Tom Duncombe and his speech,’ says
this collector of gossip, ‘is instructive as well as amusing. Tommy
came to Henry de Ros, and told him that his constituents at Hertford
were very anxious that he should make a speech, but that he did not
know what to say, and begged Henry to provide him with the necessary
materials. He advised him to strike out something new; and having
received his assurance that he should be able to recollect anything
that he had learned by heart, and that he was not afraid of his courage
failing, Henry composed for him the speech which Duncombe delivered.’
What it was in this story which Mr Greville found instructive, is not
so clear; but its amusing quality may be readily conceded.
Teetotalers have so many good anecdotes, that those who take the other
side in the great alcoholic controversy have doubtless made the most
of a tremendous maiden speech which was delivered in the House of
Lords in the year 1678 by the Lord Carnarvon of that period, and which
was said to have been inspired entirely by claret. Lord Carnarvon had
been dining, not wisely but too well, with the Duke of Buckingham;
and the Duke, seeing his condition, induced him, by combination of
raillery and flattery, to pledge himself to address his brother peers
that night upon any subject they happened to be discussing. The
Duke of course regarded the thing as a capital practical joke, and
doubtless anticipated immense enjoyment from the flounderings of a
half-intoxicated man, who had never spoken before, and who was not
supposed to have any oratorical gifts even when sober. The debate was
on the impeachment of the Earl of Danby, then Lord Treasurer; and as
soon as an opening occurred, up rose Lord Carnarvon. ‘My lords,’ he
said, ‘I understand but little of Latin, but a good deal of English,
and not a little of English history; from which I have learned the
mischiefs of such kind of prosecutions as these, and the ill fate of
the prosecutors. I could bring many instances, and those very, ancient;
but, my lords, I shall go no farther back than the latter end of Queen
Elizabeth’s reign, at which time the Earl of Essex was run down by Sir
Walter Raleigh; and your lordships very well know what became of Sir
Walter Raleigh. My Lord Bacon, he ran down Sir Walter Raleigh; and your
lordships know what became of my Lord Bacon. The Duke of Buckingham, he
ran down my Lord Bacon; and your lordships know what happened to the
Duke of Buckingham. Sir Thomas Wentworth, afterwards Earl of Strafford,
ran down the Duke of Buckingham; and you all know what became of him.
Sir Harry Vane, he ran down the Earl of Strafford; and your lordships
know what became of Sir Harry Vane. Chancellor Hyde, he ran down Sir
Harry Vane; and your lordships know what became of the Chancellor. Sir
Thomas Osbourn, now Earl of Danby, ran down Chancellor Hyde; but what
will become of the Earl of Danby, your lordships best can tell. But let
me see the man that dare run the Earl of Danby down, and we shall soon
see what shall become of him.’ The assembled peers must have felt as
if they were being swept from their feet by an historical avalanche,
riddled by a fusilade of facts; and the Duke of Buckingham could only
exclaim: ‘The claret has done the business!’ And indeed it looks like
it, for Lord Carnarvon never had another such success.
Of course, maiden speeches which are in any way memorable either for
their matter or their manner, the greatness of their success or the
completeness of their failure, are comparatively rare. As a rule,
the first speech of any member in either House resembles closely all
his succeeding speeches; it may lack the force and fluency given
by practice, but in its general characteristics there is nothing
exceptional. The able man shows at least something of his ability;
the dull man lets his hearers into the secret of his dullness. When
Cobbett, the very first night he sat in the House, began his maiden
speech with the words, ‘It appears to me that since I have been sitting
here I have heard a great deal of vain and unprofitable conversation,’
his fellow-members probably thought that here was a unique display of
self-sufficient assurance; but when Cobbett had delivered his second
speech, the first was unique no longer, and when he had spoken half a
dozen times, it had come to be regarded as comparatively mild. Brougham
and Canning, who both became parliamentary speakers of the first rank,
may perhaps, with Sheridan and Disraeli, be considered as exceptions to
the general rule just given, for their maiden speeches were described
as failures; but in their cases, all that probably was meant by the
word failure was that they did not fulfil the expectations which had
been formed. None of Lord Palmerston’s early speeches seem to have had
the brilliance of his later utterances; but that he made a favourable
impression at starting is proved by the fact that Mr Perceval offered
him the Chancellorship of the Exchequer when he had only spoken once
in the House; while Earl Grey, Lord Castlereagh, Lord Macaulay, and
the late Lord Derby, who began their political careers in the House
of Commons, delivered maiden speeches which immediately gave them a
reputation.
During the last half-century, there has been such a change in the
conditions of public life, that no maiden speech can excite the same
curiosity as of old. One result of the lowering of the franchise has
been to diminish the chances of any parliamentary candidate who has not
some measure of ease and ability in speaking; and public meetings of
all kinds are so numerous, that the quality and amount of oratorical
talent possessed by every prominent man become well known long before
he has a chance of displaying it upon the floor of the House of
Commons. This change is not one to be regretted on the whole; but of
course parliamentary life has lost one element of interest which it
possessed in the days when a maiden speech might be looked forward to
as a revelation of all kinds of unsuspected possibilities.
THE MINER’S PARTNER.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.
On a morning only a couple of days after the opening of our story,
the sun had not yet risen high enough to strike the plains, which
stretched as far as the eye could reach; but the mountains were all
bright with his rays, from their peaks down almost to the ‘foothills,’
which, tolerable eminences in themselves, projected like so many capes
out on the level ground, when a man came to the opening of a tent and
looked out. Although he gazed across the rugged intervening ground and
out upon the plain, and although sunrise in Colorado is worth seeing
from a position of vantage, yet it was evident that it was from no
appreciation of the scenery that the man stood there. From the spot,
an irregular line of tents and huts—or ‘shanties’—led to the centre
of Flume City; while the trenches cut in all directions, and the odd
implements and vessels lying about, gave ample evidence that this was a
mining camp, or town.
The man was dressed in buckskin—as were many others, who by this time
began to show themselves—was tall and dark; of an eager, not to say
cunning aspect; while from beneath his shapeless hat, his long hair
hung straight and untidy. This description might serve for nine-tenths
of the denizens of the camp, whether of high or low degree; but there
was something in the aspect of this miner which would have prevented
any expert from classing him with the lowest and coarsest of his
calling. He was evidently deep in thought, and his meditation found
support in a fashion very common in the United States—he drew a cake of
tobacco from his pocket, and bit off a corner, as though it had been a
biscuit; then, chewing vigorously, he remained with his absorbed gaze
apparently fixed on the distant plains.