as a comet,’ was told by a wealthy friend very bluntly, ‘I couldn’t
afford to keep that nose of thine.’ Another friend assured him he had
no cause for fear of not living comfortably, for should all other means
of subsistence fail, he could easily hire himself out as a railway
danger-signal.
Amongst the South Sea islanders, the nose is made to be a medium of
expression of affection and amity. Tribes swearing everlasting peace,
seal the compact with a promiscuous rubbing of noses against noses; by
the same frictional process, maidens declaim their woes at parting and
joys on reunion with other maidens, the action being attended by—so
said an eye-witness—‘the shedding of a power of tears.’ Lovers make
their amatory declarations through their noses, their courtship being a
protracted series of rub-rub-rubbing of nose to nose.
We recall an interruption Dr Binney had whilst he was preaching on one
occasion. He saw opposite to him in the gallery a countryman making
elaborate preparations for putting his handkerchief to the common usage
appointed to it. The doctor became interested, and stayed expectant in
his discourse just before the crisis. The countryman blew a terrible
blast, awakening the echoes, and almost perceptibly shaking the
building to its foundations. The doctor, having
Met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow,
waited for the fainting echoes to die, and then said with impressive
gravity: ‘Let us now resume.’
Charles Lamb’s rebuke to a man who by self-assertion pronounced himself
devoid of any peculiarity, ought not to be omitted. ‘Wh-which hand do
you b-b-blow your n-n-nose with?’ inquired Lamb.
‘With my right hand, to be sure.’
‘Ah!’ said Lamb pensively, ‘that’s your pe-pe-pe-peculiarity. I
b-b-blow mine with my hand-kerchief.’
The nose is quite a proverbial topic; for example, ‘To turn up the
nose,’ ‘Put his nose out of joint,’ ‘Paid through his nose,’ and
‘Putting his nose to the grindstone,’ ‘Led by the nose,’ with many
others equally felicitous. ‘Driving hogs over Swarston Bridge’ is a
Derbyshire polite way of expressing snoring; and several stories are
told respecting pig-drivers. A small boy was once asked: ‘Is your elder
brother musical?’
‘Yes, sir; ’e is that.’
‘Can he play?’
‘O yes, sir; ’e plays beautiful.’
‘On what instrument does he perform?’
‘Why, sir, ’e plays on his nose!’
A celebrated divine was preaching before the king and court in Stuart
times, when the monarch and several noblemen ‘nodded gentle assents’
to all he said, for ‘they slumbered and slept.’ The divine, wishful to
reprove, but fearful to offend, at last summoned courage to shout to
one of the somnolent nobles: ‘My lord, my lord, don’t snore so loud, or
you’ll waken His Majesty!’
The subject has not commended itself generally to poets, yet there are
few who would be inclined to say that there is nothing poetical about
the nose. Here and there, we do find pointed references in poetry to
the homely feature more or less poetical in expression. We can easily
fancy Cowper’s picture of ‘the shivering urchin, with dewdrop at his
nose;’ whilst our poet-laureate indulges in a higher flight over a
maiden’s nose ‘tip-tilted like the petal of a flower,’ which sounds
very refined indeed. Henry, Lord Brougham, whose nose was somewhat of
this latter order, did not feel flattered by a similar reference to it.
In conducting a case in Yorkshire, he was bothered in cross-examining a
witness by a constant repetition of the word ‘humbug.’ ‘Humbug,’ said
Lord Brougham—‘humbug, what do you mean by humbug?’—‘Whoy,’ returned
the Yorkshireman, ‘if I wer to tell ye ’at ye’d getten a nice nose, I
should be humbugging ye.’
_Punch_ frequently alludes to the subject, and in its pages is to be
found a description of what some suppose to be a masonic sign, under
the terms of ‘taking a sight’ and ‘taking a double sight.’ ‘In taking a
sight’ the thumb of one hand is placed to the extreme tip of the nose,
with the fingers extended to their straightest utmost capacity; whilst
‘taking a double sight’ involves the addition of the second hand to the
first, the thumb to the little finger, and action as before. The action
is more varied and considered more expressive when a slight undulatory
movement is observed by the fingers. The London newsboy appreciates
the practice of taking a sight, especially favouring it when he has
managed to sell, under the cry of ‘Third edition,’ a day but one before
yesterday’s paper to a passenger upon an omnibus.
Nursery rhymes are not complete without a nose or noses, and they are
constantly being quoted, for instance:
Says Moses to Aaron:
‘Thy nose is a rare un!’
Says Aaron to Moses:
‘Let us _swap_ noses!’
And we cannot forget:
The servant in the garden hanging out the clothes,
By came a dickey bird and popped off her nose!
‘I am satisfied on every point but one,’ said a gentleman to an
applicant for service—‘I cannot get over your nose.’
‘That is not to be wondered at, sir,’ replied the applicant, ‘for the
bridge is broken.’
This last incident gives us a moral wherewith to adorn our paper, that,
out of all noses collective, defective, conceptive, or reflective, it
is better to have an ill-shaped nose than no nose at all.
SMOKING AND SNUFFING IN CHURCH.
Amongst the ‘things not generally known’ to the present generation is
that smoking has been indulged in in the churches of Great Britain, in
various parts of ‘the continent’—particularly in the Netherlands—and
in South America. It is nevertheless true. It must not, however, be
inferred from this statement that the practice was so general amongst
the male portion of the congregation as it is in the ‘smoking concerts’
of our day, or that the fairer sex participated in the ‘weed’ during
the performance of divine worship. The practice prevailed, let us hope,
to only a very limited extent; but that it had been carried on in
church during the delivery of the sermon, in the church immediately
after service, and in the vestry during the holding of service, and
at other times, there is reliable evidence to prove. In England and
Scotland, smoking in religious edifices was practised more or less
during the greater portion of last century, if not the whole of it, and
down into the present century. In Dutch and South American churches,
smoking has been indulged in down to a very recent period. Snuff-taking
in churches is a practice which is common throughout the European
continent. It has also prevailed in the churches of both England and
Scotland for a long period; but the snuff-takers in places of worship
of to-day are not so demonstrative as were those of ‘the good old
times,’ of which we read and hear about, but fail to realise.
Readers of Sir Walter Scott may remember that mention is made in _The
Heart of Midlothian_ of a smoker of considerable local importance,
named Duncan of Knockdunder. Of him it is written: ‘So soon as the
congregation were seated after prayers, and the clergyman had read his
text, the gracious Duncan, after rummaging the leathern purse which
hung in front of his petticoat, produced a short tobacco-pipe made
of iron, and observed almost aloud: “I hae forgotten my spleuchan
[tobacco-pouch], Lachlan; gang down to the clachan and bring me up a
pennyworth of twist.” Six arms, the nearest within reach, presented,
with an obedient start, as many tobacco-pouches to the man of office.
He made choice of one with a nod of acknowledgment, filled his pipe,
lighted it with the assistance of his pistol-flint, and smoked with
infinite composure during the whole time of the sermon. At the end of
the discourse, he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, replaced it in his
sporran, returned the tobacco-pouch to its owner, and joined in the
prayer with decency and attention.’
In a volume of letters written by the Rev. John Disney of Swinderby,
Lincolnshire, to James Grainger, is a communication bearing the date
December 13, 1773, in which this passage occurs: ‘The affair happened
in St Mary’s Church in Nottingham, when Archbishop Blackbourn (of
York) was there on a visitation. The archbishop had ordered some of
the apparitors, or other attendants, to bring him pipes and tobacco
and some liquor into the vestry, for his refreshment after the fatigue
of confirmation. And this coming to Mr Disney’s ears, he forbade
their being brought thither, and with a becoming spirit remonstrated
with the archbishop upon the impropriety of his conduct, at the same
time telling His Grace that his vestry should not be converted into a
smoking-room.’ Mr Disney was grandfather to the writer of the letter
above quoted, and was the vicar of Nottingham; local writers, however,
who refer to this matter attribute the desire to drink and smoke in
St Mary’s to the Rev. Dr Richard Reynolds, who was consecrated to the
bishopric of Lincoln in 1723, and died in 1744.
The Rev. S. Parr, LL.D., was an everlasting smoker. ‘Morning, noon, and
night,’ might he have been seen enveloped in clouds of tobacco-smoke.
Neither time nor place seemed to him to be inappropriate for the
indulgence. When he was perpetual curate of Hatton, in Warwickshire
(1783-90), he regularly smoked in the vestry whilst the congregation
were singing, immediately before the delivery of his sermon. For
this purpose, the hymns selected were lengthy. The doctor frequently
remarked: ‘My people like long hymns; but I prefer a long pipe!’ In all
probability, his pipes on such occasions (to be somewhat in character
with the place) were of the kind known as ‘churchwardens.’ The Rev.
Robert Hall, the distinguished Baptist preacher, indulged in profuse
smoking in the intervals of public worship.
A well-known writer to periodical literature tells us that only last
autumn he spent a few hours at Edam, one of the so-called ‘Dead Cities
of the Zuyder Zee,’ though a quietly active and bustling little place,
and a great centre of the Dutch cheese-trade. The minister, in pointing
out and explaining the various matters of interest about the interior,
smoked a cigar and offered our informant one.
Respecting the practice of smoking in churches in South America, Mr J.
M. Cowper of Canterbury writes: ‘I remember three instances of smoking
in church in Lima, Peru. In the church of La Merced, I saw a layman
surreptitiously enjoying his cigar while service was going on. In the
vestry of the same church I saw a full-robed bishop smoking before
going into the pulpit to preach. In his case, a friendly layman put a
handkerchief under the episcopal chin, to keep the ashes from falling
on the smoker’s robes. In the cathedral vestry, I saw the “Master of
the Ceremonies” (an Englishman) smoking a cigar. A spittoon is placed
in the stall of each cathedral dignitary.’
The Vice-chancellor of Cambridge issued some regulations previous to
the visit of King James I. in 1615, in which it was enjoined ‘That
noe graduate, scholler, or student of this universitie presume to
take tobacco in St Marie’s Church uppon payne of finall expellinge
the universitie.’ This most probably referred to snuffing rather than
smoking. ‘It is hardly possible that a prejudice, in no degree abated,
against smoking in church could have been defied so openly at such
an early stage in the introduction of tobacco. On the other hand, a
pinch of snuff is easily conveyed to the nostrils with a fair degree
of secrecy.’ It must be remembered that at this period snuffing was
in great favour with the faculty, who recommended it as the best
preventive as well as cure for cold in the head.
A late rector of Hackney, the Rev. Mr Goodchild, used to refresh
himself in the middle of his sermon with a tremendous pinch of snuff,
which he conveyed, from his chamois-leather-lined waistcoat pocket,
to his nose. A Free Church minister in Glasgow, one Sunday morning
gave out as the morning lesson the fourth section of the hundred and
nineteenth psalm. While his congregation were looking out the ‘portion
of scripture’ in their Bibles, the Doctor of Divinity (or of Laws,
we know not which) took out his mull, and seizing a lusty pinch with
finger and thumb, regaled his nose with the snuff. He then began the
lesson—‘My soul cleaveth unto the dust!’ The titter that ran round
the church, and the confusion of the minister, showed that both the
congregation and he felt the Psalmist’s ‘pinch.’
An English lady, on a visit to Scotland, attended public worship in
a parish church at no great distance from Crathie. In the same pew
were about a dozen persons—farmers, their wives, and herdsmen. Shortly
before the beginning of the sermon, a large snuff-mull was passed to
the occupants of the pew. Upon the lady-visitor declining to take a
pinch, an old man, who was evidently a shepherd, whispered, in a very
significant manner: ‘Tak’ the sneeshin’, mem—tak’ the sneeshin’. Ye
dinna ken oor meenister; ye’ll need it afore he’s dune!’
ABOUT DEATH’S-HEADS.
Probably, at some time or other, the reader has found feeding upon
the leaves of potatoes a large green, yellowish green, or brown
creature about the thickness of his finger, with seven dark purple
and yellow-margined streaks upon the sides, and the dorsal portion
decorated with black dots; the tail-end, moreover, being adorned with
a ‘caudal appendage’ somewhat resembling a lamb’s tail in miniature,
save that it is rigid, and not woolly; or it may be that in digging up
the crop, if the owner of a garden, he has turned up a reddish-brown
‘grub,’ which, beyond a jerk or two with the pointed tail segments,
seemed incapable of motion. The fate of these creatures is generally
a sad and sudden one, if the finder happen to be the rustic unlearned
in insect-life. ‘Here be a locust; dang the beast!’ and down comes
the merciless iron heel, and behold, a shapeless mass! Yet the poor
things were harmless enough, and known to the entomologist as, in the
one case, the larva or caterpillar, and in the other, the pupa, of the
Death’s-head Moth (_Acherontia atropos_).
Most years seem remarkable for the prevalence of some particular forms
of insect-life. For instance, in 1877, clover fields teemed with golden
butterflies, which soon spread into high-roads, and even town gardens.
These were the Clouded Yellow (_Colias edusa_), since which only
sparingly has the butterfly been seen. Then, in 1879, came swarms of
Silver Y Moths (_Plusia gamma_), the caterpillars of which played sad
havoc with the farmer’s peas, completely stripping them of leaves—to
plants, both as lungs and stomach—so that the peas never ripened in
the pod. But nature, as we speak, had provided a remedy in the form of
flocks of thrushes, which ‘fared sumptuously every day’ upon the larvæ;
and yet so ignorant was the farmer of the help his little feathered
friends were rendering him, that he attributed the mischief to ‘them
rascally birds,’ and was for ‘shooting them all off.’
Some seasons, the beans in our gardens are thickly covered with
insects (_Aphis rumicis_), and ants may be watched busily plying their
antennæ, and milking their aphis cows, and sipping up the exuded
nectar-like fluid with a gusto an epicure might envy. Or, it may be the
pendulous racemes of the Sycamore (_Acer pseudoplatanus_) look as if
dipped in ink from the swarms of a sable dipteron, or fly (_Dilophus
febrilis_), thickly aggregated thereon. And last year we had clouds
of green-flies—another species of aphis—migrating, in some places
even almost stopping traffic, and, in one little town in the south of
England, extinguishing the lights in the post-office, and filling eyes,
ears, noses, and mouths of the officials to the serious impediment of
their duties. So, too, the season of 1885 proved a good one, as the
lepidopterist would say, for the larvæ of the Death’s-head Moth, in
fact, it is doubtful if it had ever been so abundant. It is a grand
species—the largest of our native _Sphingidæ_, or Hawk Moths, and
interesting in all stages of its existence. It is the only lepidopteron
that we possess capable of making any cry; but the caterpillar, pupa,
and moth of _Atropos_ can all squeak. In putting the moths into a
comatose state, prior to consigning them to the ammonia bottle—when
needing to kill them for the cabinet—I have applied a camel-hair brush
dipped in chloroform to the proboscis, holding them by finger and thumb
by the under side of the wings, so as not to disfigure their beauty,
I have been surprised at the muscular power exhibited, it being all I
could do to prevent their escaping, the insect the while squeaking as
loudly as a poor mouse whilst suffering from the tender mercies of Puss.
The caterpillars are not easy to find. We may go over ridge by ridge
of the potatoes and not see one, so well hidden are they by protective
resemblance to the plants upon which they feed; the colours of the
leaves and flowers of the potato, for example, the dark violet petals,
and yellow anthers, all being reproduced in the caterpillar. The best
and quickest way to discover them is to search for the traces of
their repasts, which are collected in little heaps at the bottom of
the plant; and if these be fresh, we may be confident that a little
scrutiny will speedily reveal an obese, soft larva tightly clasping the
stem. The larvæ are found throughout August; and about the beginning
of September are full-fed, when they bury beneath the soil, forming a
cell in which they turn to pupæ. Sometimes the moth emerges in October
or November; but such specimens are generally barren females, and the
insect usually remains in pupa condition throughout the winter, coming
out about midsummer of the following year.
The moth or imago of _Acherontia atropos_ is very handsome; the upper
wings have a velvety appearance, the colours being an extremely rich
mixture of browns and black and gray, thickly powdered with whitish
dots. The lower wings are orange, with two dusky bands crossing from
the inner to the hind margin. In the centre of the dark plush-like
thorax is a mark curiously resembling a skull, from which the moth
takes its name. The body is very thick, with six or seven black
transverse bands, and a broad bluish-gray one down the middle. They
have a strong penchant for honey, to secure which, they will enter
beehives, putting the bees to flight by their bold front, although
perfectly defenceless themselves. There is a superstition still
lingering in some parts of the New Forest that the Death’s-head Moth
was not seen in England till after the execution of Charles I.
THE PIG PEN.
The question of pig-breeding is one that should force itself on the
attention of the farmer, and the many lessons which the situation
forces upon the country impressed on his mind. At our agricultural
census last year, we found not only that our stock of swine showed a
decrease of something like two hundred thousand head since 1884, and of
over three hundred thousand head since 1883, but also that the country
was understocked in a branch of our agriculture that even in these
times leaves a profit. We believe that a corn-mill and a few extra pigs
would prove a far better market for inferior corn than any other that
can be named. An American writer has told us that ‘Cincinnati owes its
wealth to the discovery of a method of putting fifteen bushels of corn
into a three-bushel barrel and transporting it to distant markets. This
has been accomplished by means of the pig. He converts seven bushels
of corn into one hundred pounds of pork.’ This is a lesson that the
English farmer might well lay to heart; and if this were the case, we
are sure that we should not find the pig-stock of the country declining
at a time when prices for corn have just been at the lowest ebb in the
memory of man.
That we can find a market for an increased production of pork and
bacon is certain. Last year, we paid the foreigner—and chiefly the
Yankee—some three millions sterling for dead pig-meat, sent to us
in the shape of hams, bacon, and pork. There is no reason why we
should not this season increase our breeding-herds of swine and make
some attempt to wrest from the foreigner this market. It lies at our
doors; and the pig himself is perhaps the most profitable of all the
meat-making machinery of the farm. The fecundity of the pig is such
that the breeding-stock may be increased almost at will. At one of the
prize-farms of the Royal Agricultural Society, last year, the judges
report that from nine to ten sows are kept every year, and that from
these from fifty to sixty pigs are sold every year. Their prolificness
is a source of profit, but not the only one. Mr J. C. Morton points
out some other reasons why, in fattening pigs, more profit might be
expected than in fattening oxen or sheep. One is, that the carcase
of the pig includes the head—so much additional weight—which in the
case of the ox or sheep is part of the offal. Another is, that the pig
is a feeder on all manner of vegetable and animal refuse, extracting
nourishment from matter which other animals refuse; and it is useful,
therefore, as a scavenger and utiliser of waste food.
There can be only one answer—and it is one often given in times past to
amateurs, who have been so struck with the fecundity of the pig, that
they have wondered how it is not more largely bred—that can be given to
these claims of the pig to greater attention. ‘Oh,’ it may be retorted,
‘you forget that with the pig, like all other farm-stock, it is a
question of how much the land will carry. For his feeding, crops of
mangolds, cabbage, carrots, and such-like are required; and in summer,
cut clover is wanted.’
That may oftentimes be a good answer, but not in a season when all
kinds of corn can be bought cheap, and when farmers oftentimes are
unable to sell their cereals except at a figure at which it is far
more profitable to manufacture it into pork, and send it in that
form—fifteen bushels in a three-bushel measure—to market. This is a
matter well worthy the attention of farmers at the present moment, and
a thought that ought to lead to a large increase in the pig-stock of
the country.
THE MINSTRELS.
The minstrels in the gallery,
The revellers in the hall:
Across the pauses of the feast
The singers’ voices fall,
But in the tide of mirth below,
They have no share at all.
They sing of battle and of joust,
Of deeds of high emprise;
They sing of honours bravely won,
Of lovers’ happy sighs,
Of banquet when the fight is o’er,
And light of ladies’ eyes.
Their stirring thoughts, their tender words
Float down on music’s wing.
Alas! the joys, the gallant deeds
Wherewith their verses ring,
They know not. Those who hear the song,
Have known, but cannot sing.
Thus every day, in every age,
Throbs on the world’s fierce heart,
In passion-heat of joy or grief
At banquet, fight, or mart;
But there the minstrel has no place—
He needs must stand apart.
Too soft his flesh to bear life’s storms,
Too keen his restless brain,
His heart too ready to perceive
Joy’s inmost heart of pain;
But the lone sorrow of his lot
Makes sad his merriest strain.
And in his darker hours, the wish
Consumes him like a fire,
To cast away for evermore
The burden of the lyre,
To share the life of other men,
Its fullness, its desire.
In vain! The gladness of the loved,
The conquest of the strong,
Life’s heavy tasks and fair rewards,
Not unto him belong.
He sighs; and as it leaves his lips,
The sigh becomes a song.
CATHERINE GRANT FURLEY.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._
* * * * *
[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text:
Page 419: occured to occurred—“has occurred during”.]