{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_48221/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_48221","id":"gutenberg_48221","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48221","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Chambers's Edinburgh Journal","Periodicals"],"text":"[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL\n\nOF\n\nPOPULAR\n\nLITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.\n\nFourth Series\n\nCONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.\n\nNO. 704.      SATURDAY, JUNE 23, 1877.      PRICE 1\u00bd_d._]\n\n\n\n\nSEVENTY YEARS SINCE.\n\n\nThe last representatives of our grandfather's generation having passed\naway, there is no reason why the following true stories of an old\nScotch house should not be made public, for the entertainment of others\nbesides those members of the family to whom only they have hitherto\nbeen known. I have slightly changed the names of persons and places,\nbut not a detail of the stories has otherwise been altered from the\nfirst-hand accounts given us by those who were themselves their heroes\nand heroines.\n\nOn a winter's afternoon in the year 1816 three young officers were\nriding 'within a mile of Edinboro' toun;' they were pushing on in\nadvance of their regiment, which was that day marching into new\nquarters, hoping to reach the city in time to choose lodgings for\nthemselves, to whom rooms in barracks had not been allotted. Suddenly\na gaunt gipsy woman of the Meg Merrilies type darted out upon them,\nand laid her detaining hand upon the bridle of Lieutenant T---- (my\ngrandfather). He tried to shake his rein free, but without effect, and\nthe little cavalcade was brought to a halt by her persistence; then\naddressing the gentlemen collectively, but keeping her eyes upon my\ngrandfather, she offered to tell their fortunes. The young men laughed\nat the suggestion, and the gipsy wife waxed angry. 'Ye'll do little\ngood in Edinboro' or elsewhere,' she retorted roughly to the two\ncaptains who had declined her services. 'But for ye' (speaking only to\nLieutenant T----), 'there's a bonnie bride waiting in the first house\nye enter!'\n\nMy grandfather threw her a shilling and galloped on with his\ncompanions, enduring for some time their good-natured raillery about\nthe spae-wife's prediction; but when they reached the city they were\ntoo much engaged in observing the outsides of the houses which might\nafford them the desired lodgings, to think further of the prophecy. In\nthe dim light, one large house with closed shutters looked as if it\nwere untenanted and likely to suit their requirements; while a light\nfrom a lower kitchen window shewed that some one was left in charge\nwho could attend to Lieutenant T----'s loud summons at the knocker.\nBut the young man, accounted a gallant soldier enough, who had seen\nsome service in the late wars, was entirely routed and discomfited\nby the furious reception his modest inquiry after lodgings met with\nfrom the stalwart maid-servant who answered the door. 'Lodgings! What\nwas the world coming to when a daft young fool asked if her mistress\nlet lodgings? The family was away in the north, and this would be a\npretty tale to tell them on their return,' stormed the cross maid; and\nmy grandfather, leaving a torrent of rough language behind him, made\nhis escape down the steps of the house over whose threshold he had\nso mistakenly intruded. He remounted his horse amid the jeers of his\ntwo friends, who reminded him of his fate predicted by the gipsy, and\nbegged him, if this were a sample of the 'bonnie bride's' usual temper,\nto exchange into another regiment as soon as he married. Eventually the\nyoung men found rooms to suit them, and in a few days became quite at\nhome in the pleasant capital of the north, which was just beginning its\ngay winter season.\n\nAbout a week after their arrival the officers were present at an\nAssembly ball, and Lieutenant T---- lost his heart at first sight to\na lovely young _d\u00e9butante_ of fifteen, with whom he danced the whole\nevening. At the close of the ball he was introduced to a grand turbaned\nlady, his partner's mother; and on seeing the ladies to their carriage\nhe asked leave to do himself the honour of calling for them next day.\nThis permission and their address were given him, and the latter noted\nin his pocket-book. The next morning he eagerly sought out their house,\nwhich he did not recognise as the scene of his first adventure till\nAilie, the same stalwart maid, opened the door, and this time admitted\nhim graciously.\n\nThis visit was followed by many others; and before a year had passed my\ngrandfather won the 'bonnie bride' of the spae-wife's prediction from\nthe very house across whose threshold he had first set foot on entering\nEdinburgh. They were a very young pair; he only twenty-one and my\ngrandmother just sixteen at their marriage; and how their housekeeping\nmight have prospered or the reverse I do not know, had not Ailie\ndecided to take service with the young couple, and maintained their\ninterests during the wanderings of the next thirty years as faithfully\nas she had previously guarded the honour of her mistress's house. She\nwas one of the now extinct race of family servants, a sort of factotum\nin the house, where she did her own work and a good part of every\none else's in a wonderfully indefatigable fashion, only reserving to\nherself the privilege of keeping every one in order, from the master\nand mistress down to the kitchen wench.\n\nTo three out of the four generations of our family whom she served, she\nwas 'old Ailie;' and her flowered chintz bedgown and mob-cap survived\nunaltered far into the era of crinoline and chignon. What stories she\nhad to tell of Madam our great-grandmother, a very grand dame indeed,\nand well-known card-player; and of a certain Mistress Jean, her\nfavourite heroine, whom some of us recollect as Aunt Moir, a little\nsoft-faced, pink-and-white lady, not so imposing to look upon as the\nminiature of her powdered mamma, but a beauty nevertheless in her day.\nShe lived at a time when it was the acknowledged fate of all Edinburgh\nbelles to fall a prey to dyspeptic old East Indians, who having been\ndrafted off as raw lads to India, were heard of no more till they\nreturned as nabobs half a century later, to take their pick of the\nblooming lassies for whom the Scottish capital has ever been justly\ncelebrated.\n\nAunt Moir would describe how she and her mother went every Sabbath\nmorning to 'sit under' Dr M'----; and how, as they mounted the high\nsteps to the entrance of the place of worship, the beaus young\nand old--some in blue swallow-tailed coats buttoned tight across\nthe chest, and frilled _jabots_ like protruding fins; others with\nmilitary pigtails and riding-boots--stood on each side of the door\nand criticised their figures (a lady's face in those days being\npretty well hidden by her telescopic bonnet), and more particularly\ntheir feet and ankles, incased in sandalled shoes and silk stockings.\nAunt Moir admitted that her feet passed their examination creditably\nenough, though the criticism was sometimes more severe than gallant;\nand one of her young-lady friends went by the name of 'Flat-foot Meg.'\nBut Aunt Jean's were evidently of a different order, and were swift\nand light enough to do even more than please the fastidious taste of\nthe Edinburgh bucks. Some years after her marriage with an old and\ninvalid husband, who had carried her away from Edinburgh to a country\nhome, Mistress Moir, little more than a girl still, one day going over\nher domains started a hare from a barley-stook, and throwing all her\nmatronly dignity to the winds, she pursued Puss through a couple of\nmeadows, and eventually captured and brought him struggling to the\nhouse. Whether she kept maukin as a pet and proof of her agility, or\nconverted him into the excellent soup for which she has left us her\nrecipe, labelled in a pointed Italian hand-writing 'Mistress Moir's\nHare Broth,' history does not relate. Let us hope the former fate was\nhis, for the recipe says in conclusion, 'Without the meat of _two_\nhares is the broth poor and meagre.'\n\nAunt Moir had no children of her own; but her heart and home were\nalways open to the numerous members of the T---- family, her nephews\nand nieces. She found queer old ornaments, Indian beads and tartan\nscarfs, in her store-boxes for the girls; and the town-bred boys\nfound rare opportunities for healthful delightful mischief when the\nHigh School released them for their holidays at Moir. One species of\nentertainment was specially sacred to Aunt Jean's kail-yard: to mount\nastride upon tall, well-grown, firm-hearted cabbages, and rock gently\nto and fro, with short leather-breeched, gray-stockinged legs sticking\nout straight like a cavalry officer's, until a warning crack in the\nstalk, or the sudden appearance of Aunt Jean's Tam rushing round some\nunexpected corner, with his climax of threats: 'I'll tell Mistress\nAlice,' drove the boys from their position.\n\nA gray-headed, cross-grained old fellow was Tam, affecting to\ndisapprove highly of the annual summer incursion of boys and girls into\nthe Moir fruit-gardens, trampling among his strawberries that were\ndestined for Mistress Jean's preserves, and rifling his bushes for\n'honeyblobs.' But he had a soft spot in his heart for my mother, Anna\nT----, who reminded him, he fancied, of his little daughter Kirsty,\ndead thirty years before; and many a Sunday afternoon did Tam give\nmother a helping hand through her portion of the Shorter Catechism,\nimposed as a becoming exercise for the mind by Aunt Moir on each of\nthe children. Tam was a rigid Sabbatarian of course, and even his\nfavourite Anna was not exempted from blame when one Sabbath evening the\nwhole young party were discovered in pursuit of a marauding rabbit who\nhad for days past ravaged their gardens. Ananias and Sapphira, Korah,\nDathan, and Abiram were somewhat irrelevantly cited as cases in point,\nor at least as fellow-sinners; but he ended by muttering to himself, as\nhe left the abashed T---- children to meditate over his sermon: 'An'\nthe Lord spare me till the morn's morn, I'll shoot that deil mysel.'\n\nTam had been with Aunt Moir's parents at Portcorry before they migrated\nsouthwards to Edinburgh, to settle the boys in life and the girls in\nmarriage. She had a queer story to tell us of her childhood connected\nwith Tam's wife Kirsty, who lived as nursery-maid in her father's\nhouse, and had somewhat indifferently, and in the spirit of the lass\nwho sang,\n\n    If it's ordained I maun tak him,\n    Wha will I get but Tam Glen?\n\nmarried Tam the 'gairdner lad,' and retired with him to the lodge.\nWhen her little Kirsty was born, however, she gladly accepted the post\nof wet-nurse to the contemporaneous baby just arrived at the house,\nand returned to her old position in the nursery, bringing all her\nnewly awakened maternal love, as well as her boundless devotion and\nrespect for 'the family,' to lavish upon little weakly Uncle Donald.\nBaby Kirsty at the lodge flourished upon oatmeal porridge administered\nby Tam's clumsy hands, and was soon 'creeping' about everywhere with\nthe big collie dog as her sole attendant; while up at the house Master\nDonald took all the devotion of two mothers to rear him, and was\nall-sufficient to Mrs Kirsty, who forgot husband, child, and home in\nher tendance of her foster-son.\n\nAt last, almost a year afterwards, the boy being weaned and fairly\nstrong, it was thought time to dismiss the foster-mother to her home\nduties; and accordingly, after a violent and distressing parting, she\ntore herself away from the child and returned to the lodge for good.\nThat same night Aunt Jean, a child of nine, who slept in the same room\noccupied by the head-nurse and the baby brother, woke suddenly without\nany particular reason, and saw by the dim light of the nursery lamp,\nKirsty's well-known figure walking to and fro through the room with the\nlittle white bundle of a Donald in her arms. Presently she laid the\nquieted child down in his cot again; and then catching the wide-open\neyes in the next bed, she made a sign to be silent, turning her head\nin the direction of the sleeping head-nurse. Aunt Jean, well aware of\nvarious little nursery jealousies between Mrs Macnab and Mrs Kirsty,\ngave a nod of acquiescence, and lay quite still, watching Kirsty as she\nsoftly bent over the little boy, settled him comfortably, and kissed\nhim again and again. She was still there hovering round the cot with\nnoiseless footsteps when the little girl fell asleep again.\n\nNext morning, the first news that came to the house was that poor\nMistress Kirsty had died suddenly in the night in her own bed of a\nsudden attack of heart complaint; brought on, the doctor said, by the\nexcessive grief to which she gave way on parting from her adopted\nson. Tam and little Kirsty did not miss her much, I believe; nor,\nsad to say, did the little lad for whom she had spent her strength\nso willingly; but Aunt Jean held persistently to her story of the\n'vision;' and the tale of 'faithful Kirsty' is still a beloved\ntradition in our nursery. Thanks to her care, Uncle Donald grew up a\nstrapping lad, and when only fifteen served at the battle of Waterloo,\nand was present at the entry of the allied powers into Paris. There is\nstill extant a funny etching, executed by some wit of the regiment, in\nwhich Ensign Donald is represented 'looting' a confectioner's shop,\nwith drawn sword in one hand and immense half-demolished _brioche_ in\nthe other; the young ladies of the counter, attired in the classical\ncostumes of the First Empire, flying every way from the onslaught of\nthis hero from the Land o' Cakes.\n\nThey were a kindly race these Scotch relations of ours; less\nextravagant in their habits, customs, and ways of thought than their\ndescendants of the present generation; handsomer and healthier too,\nperhaps, if we judge from the bright eyes and rosy smiling faces of\nthe portraits they have left us; though even in these degenerate days,\na return to the early hours, simple habits, and oatmeal porridge of\nthe last century might yet make our lads and lassies, who inherit the\nfriendly Scottish nature, as handsome, healthy, and happy as their\ngrandfathers and grandmothers were seventy years since.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAST OF THE HADDONS.\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.--PHILIP AND ROBERT.\n\n\nWe found Robert Wentworth with Mrs Tipper, and he too, I saw, very\ncuriously examined Philip as they were introduced to each other.\nEach eyed the other curiously and critically for a moment or two, as\nthey uttered the first few words; and I think each was as favourably\nimpressed towards the other as I could desire them to be. They\nwere kindred spirits, and soon recognised that they were, making\nacquaintance in easy, undemonstrative, manly fashion.\n\nRobert Wentworth was like an elder brother of Philip's, and there was\njust sufficient difference between their minds to give a zest to their\ncompanionship. Philip's was a more mercurial temperament; whilst there\nwas a vein of satire in the other, lacking in him. Lilian thought that\nRobert Wentworth had not the same poetical perception which Philip\npossessed; but that did _not_ I, for whom the former had unfolded\nthe hidden meaning, the subtle essence of some of _the_ poet's most\ndelicate imagery. Of course I could not suppose Robert Wentworth to be\nPhilip's superior; but neither would I do him the injustice of calling\nhim inferior. They were different.\n\nOne thing puzzled me not a little as time went on. Whether it was that\nmy love for Philip made me shyer and more reticent with him, or whether\nhe did not look for certain things in me, I know not; but one part\nof my mind, which was as an open book to Robert Wentworth, remained\nundiscovered and even unsuspected by my lover. Once when Philip made\na little jest about Lilian's romance and enthusiasm, Robert Wentworth\nsmilingly opined that there were graver offenders in that way than\nLilian; but I knew that I was the only one to perceive his meaning.\nIf Philip had any suspicion that the allusion was intended for me, he\ndid not perceive its application. Would it have made any difference\nif I had been able to let my thoughts flow into words when alone with\nhim? When I was his wife--when this foolish shyness, reticence, or\nwhatever it might be, was once overcome--I knew that he would find me\na much more attractive companion than now. But while I longed to give\nmore expression to my feelings, I nervously shrank from doing so. I\nalmost wished that he would _force_ me to shew my thoughts, as Robert\nWentworth used to take so much delight in doing.\n\nWhat girl could love as I did? What love could be deeper and more\nintense than mine? Yet the consciousness that I was _not_ a girl kept\nme silent whilst my soul vibrated to every look and word of his. Ah\nme--ah Philip! would it have been wiser to let you see? That night when\nwe stood together in the moonlight--when you good-naturedly jested me\nabout my matter-of-fact way of regarding things--would it have been\nbetter to let you see the volcano hidden beneath the snow? Ah Philip,\nwhen you feared I had caught a chill, and wrapped my shawl closer about\nme, would it have been wiser to let you know _why_ I was trembling\nbeneath your touch?\n\nI have learned to say: 'No; better as it was.'\n\nBut I have been anticipating. This first evening of the meeting between\nRobert Wentworth and Philip, all was _couleur de rose_, and my mind\nwas at rest. I sat more silent than usual, congratulating myself\nupon the prospect of the great desire of my heart being gratified.\nThey two would be friends, even according to my somewhat _exigeante_\nnotion of what friendship should be. Then it was pleasant to listen to\nRobert Wentworth's few words respecting his appreciation of Philip, so\nhonestly and heartily spoken.\n\n'You must not forget that it is a brother's right to give you away,\nwhen the time for giving away comes, Mary,' he said gently, as he\nand I stood together by the open window a few minutes, whilst Philip\nwas turning over the music for Lilian, who was singing some of his\nfavourite airs for him.\n\n'Will you? It is kind to wish it,' I murmured, feeling that it was a\ngreat deal more than kind.\n\n'Mr Dallas is, I believe, worthy of any man's sister, Mary.'\n\n'I am glad you think so'--I paused a moment, then, as a sister should,\nadded--'Robert.'\n\nHe smiled, and talked pleasantly on, contriving to set me quite at ease\nrespecting the state of his own mind. I was now able to persuade myself\nthat he had been deceived, and that his friendship for me had never\nreally developed into a stronger feeling. Presently he said in his\nabrupt friendly fashion: 'Why do _you_ not sing, Mary?'\n\n'Oh, Lilian sings that so much better than I; and it is a favourite of\nPhilip's.'\n\n'Well, come now and enchant our ears;' going towards the piano as\nLilian ceased, and looking out a song which he always said I sang well.\n'Now, do your best.'\n\nBut although Philip and Lilian were more than satisfied, Robert was\nnot. He and I knew that it was not my best, their kind speeches\nnotwithstanding. He seemed to have quite changed his tactics with\nregard to me--doing everything in his power to make me appear to\nadvantage in Philip's eyes. But he unconsciously deprived me of the\npleasant termination of the day, which I had been looking forward to.\nPhilip and he set forth together to walk to the railway station, and of\ncourse there was no moonlight walk for me that night.\n\nBut there was the morrow--many a happy morrow to come, now, I told\nmyself, looking after them as they went down the lane together. The\nmore they saw of each other, the sooner they would become friends.\nLilian, who stood beside me at the gate, slipped her arm round my\nwaist, and laid her head against my shoulder in eloquent silence.\n\nIt was fortunate that the day had come round for paying my promised\nvisit to Nancy Dean. I felt that I needed some kind of reminder that\nI did not live in a world all flowers and sunshine. I set forth the\nnext morning alone, thinking that Nancy might possibly feel less under\nconstraint than if Lilian were present during our interview. Philip had\nsome banking business to transact which would prevent his getting down\nto us until late in the afternoon; and I had therefore ample time for\nmy errand before his arrival.\n\nThis time I found no difficulty in obtaining admittance; and was\ninformed that the rules allowed me to remain an hour, if I chose so to\ndo, with my friend Nancy Dean. That hour we were at liberty to spend\nin either the dining-hall or exercise-ground, as we chose. We gazed\nearnestly and curiously at each other as we shook hands; and I hope she\nwas as pleased with me by daylight as I was with her.\n\nWithout being handsome or even pretty, Nancy Dean's was a face which\npleased me much. If expressing a shade too much self-will and the\nfirmness which, untrained, is so apt to degenerate into obstinacy,\nthere was no trace of meanness, deceit, or dishonesty.\n\n'You expected me to-day of course, Nancy?'\n\n'I shouldn't be here if I hadn't, Miss,' she returned with a grave\nsmile. We had elected to spend the hour in the open air; and with\nmy arm linked in hers, we paced slowly up and down part of the old\ncourt-yard, or exercise-ground as it was called.\n\n'In that case, I ought to be thankful that no accident occurred to\nprevent my coming. It might have, you know, and then poor I should have\nhad to bear the blame for anything which followed.'\n\n'How could you have been to blame if an accident had happened, Miss?'\n\n'My dear Nancy, if you had fallen back, _some one_ would have been in\nfault, since we could hardly throw the blame upon an accident.'\n\n'You mean _I_ should have been to blame, if I had gone wrong again\nbecause you did not come?'\n\nI smiled. 'I am not altogether sure which of us would have been _most_\nin fault, Nancy.'\n\n'But how could you'----\n\n'One thing is clear. I did not succeed in giving you faith in me,\nalthough I had faith in you.'\n\nShe looked dubiously at me a moment, then her eyes slowly filled with\ntears. 'Perhaps I haven't been ready enough to believe in people. Till\nnow, nobody ever seemed to believe in _me_.'\n\n'It is not for me to judge, Nancy. I can only say I am pleased that\nyou had the strength and courage to return here and remain, under the\ncircumstances.'\n\n'You seem to know exactly the best thing to say to encourage me, Miss!'\nejaculated Nancy. 'And even when you hit hard, as you sometimes do, I\ndon't seem to mind it so much from you as I do from other people--it's\ndifferent, somehow! You don't seem to enjoy thinking about my\nwickedness.'\n\n'If I thought you wicked, I certainly should not enjoy thinking so; and\nif you were, you would not have come back here. Poor Nancy, I am afraid\nit has been rather hard for you!'\n\n'If you could only know _how_ hard it has been!' she murmured. 'Think\nof never being spoken to by any of the others for a week; kept in\nsilence and solitude, and looked upon as the worst creature that ever\nbreathed!'\n\n'All the more credit to you for bearing it. But we will not talk about\nthat. Let us rather think about the future. I told you I am going to\nbe married shortly--in a month or two probably--and then we are going\nabroad for a time.'\n\n'Shall I have to stay here till you come back, Miss?' she asked\nanxiously, her face falling at the thought.\n\n'No; I do not wish it; that would be too much to expect. I am sure I\nshall be able to make some arrangement for you; possibly I may arrange\nfor you to stay with a dear old friend of mine, who has only one young\nservant, until my return; but I promise you shall not remain here much\nlonger.'\n\nThis was better; she brightened up wonderfully again, and we spent\nthe rest of the allotted time very cheerfully. What was perhaps most\ncheering of all to poor Nancy was my little speech about hoping\nby-and-by to set things right with her relations.\n\n'It's too late for that, Miss,' she replied sadly; 'they know I've been\nin prison, and poor mother's gone.'\n\n'Too late, indeed! Why, there is almost a lifetime before you in which\nto prove your innocence! Besides, after you have lived with me long\nenough to enable me to speak from experience, I will take the matter\nin hand, and write to your father and sister. In the meantime, we must\nseek for the poor creature for whom you suffered, and if we can, get\nher to give evidence that she put the ring into your box.'\n\nShe threw up her head and faced the sky. 'Thank God!'\n\n'You see now where thanks are due, Nancy,' I said softly.\n\n'Yes;' drawing a deep breath.\n\nWhen a loud clanging bell warned us that the time for my leaving her\nhad come, I was more demonstrative in my manner than is customary with\nme. Several of the other inmates and their visitors were congregated in\nthe yard, and I chose them to see that Nancy Dean had at anyrate one\nfriend who believed in her. The sudden flush which covered her face,\nthe expression of the eyes turned towards the other women, as though\nto say 'You see!' sufficiently thanked me. It was a very pleasant walk\nhome.\n\nI was not a little surprised as well as disappointed to find that\nPhilip did not take kindly to the idea of my last prot\u00e9g\u00e9e. He came\ndown with Robert Wentworth towards the evening, and Lilian mentioned my\nafternoon's errand to the Home to the latter, who had been extremely\ninterested in Nancy's case.\n\nPhilip asked several questions about it; but I could not get him to\nshew any interest in Nancy, if he felt any. Indeed I could not help\nseeing that the idea of my visiting the Home was distasteful to him.\nIt was all the more noticeable because Robert Wentworth had entered so\nwarmly into the subject, taking my proceedings quite for granted.\n\n'What led you to go there, Mary?'\n\nWhat led me to go there?--what but the happiness his own letter had\nbrought me. But that was not a question to be replied to just then,\nif ever; so I murmured something about having met Nancy in a state of\ndesperation, and persuaded her to return to the Home, &c.\n\nHe said very little; his disapproval was more expressed in his manner\nthan anything else. Seeing that he objected, and did not care to give\nhis reasons for so doing, I did not attempt to discuss the point with\nhim. I must trust to Nancy. If by-and-by she proved to be a success,\nit would be a better argument in my favour than any I could advance.\nBesides, I was too happy to allow a slight divergence of opinion\nbetween us to disturb me. Of course he knew that he would find me\nready enough to yield whenever he shewed me a reason for so doing; he\nwould find too, that in my heart of hearts I preferred his gaining the\nvictory when it came to reasoning, though it must be a fair field and\nno favour between us.\n\nBut if Philip did not very favourably regard my visits to Nancy, he\nentered warmly enough into our scheme for improving the cottage homes.\nHe not only approved but helped us in workmanlike fashion with a\nlittle carpentering and what not, which we had been unable to compass,\nbeginning with a bracket and shelves, and launching out into more\nambitious attempts. We began to contemplate improving the architectural\neffect with porches to the doors, over which climbing plants were to\nbe trained, placing a seat at the side, and so forth; and if it was\nnot all of the very highest art as to shape and make, it would be, we\nflattered ourselves, picturesque and comfortable-looking. If the porch\nproved as attractive as the village ale-house to sit and smoke in, in\nthe summer evenings, it would be something gained.\n\nWith regard to the interior arrangements, we were altogether satisfied.\nOur prot\u00e9g\u00e9s were beginning to take some little pride in their homes,\nand to brighten up such parts of them as did not match well with our\nefforts. We still always took care to leave some part of the room as\nwe found it, to serve as a contrast; and the challenge was now more\ngenerally accepted than at first. It must, however, be acknowledged\nthat we still met with occasional opposition. When Jemmy Rodgers, for\ninstance, found that his tobacco jar was not refilled after being\nsuggestively placed in our way, he began to shew his independence\nagain; taking to his old ways and using the table for a kettle-stand.\nBut we looked upon ourselves as successful enough to be as independent\nas he was now, and we took no further trouble about him or his table.\nAt which Sally Dent informed us he gave it as his opinion that we had\nmore 'grit' in us than he had given us credit for having; and that he\nwasn't sure he should not give in and clean the table himself. To his\nastonishment a clean table did not open our hearts; the tobacco jar\nremained unfilled.\n\nIn all our other schemes Philip joined heartily with purse and hand,\nand yet he so markedly stopped short when Nancy and the Home were in\nquestion. How was it? Was his remark about 'the impossibility of a\nwoman retaining the delicate grace and refinement of thought--the, so\nto speak, bloom of her nature--which is her greatest charm, if she\nbecame too familiar with scenes of misery and sin,' intended as a\ngentle warning to me?\n\nFor whomsoever it was intended, she found a ready and able advocate in\nRobert Wentworth. He very decidedly gave it as his opinion that the\ndelicate grace and bloom and all the rest of it could not be got rid of\ntoo quickly, if they were to prevent a woman holding out her hand to\nany of her own sex who needed help. 'But fortunately, or unfortunately,\nsince there are not too many possessed of it, it is just the delicate\ngrace of a refined woman which is required in such cases.'\n\n'All very well in theory, Wentworth; but if it came to practice? I am\nsure you would be as desirous as I should be to guard a wife or sister\nfrom contact with the degraded?'\n\n'My dear fellow, not I; unless I feared the possibility of some of her\nvirtues being rubbed off by the contact; in that case she would of\ncourse require very careful guarding. But I should be very proud of a\nsister who could go _safely_ amongst those who needed her, be they whom\nthey might.'\n\nPhilip waived further discussion with a 'By-and-by, Wentworth.' I\nbelieve he thought that it was not complimentary to Lilian and me to\ncarry on the conversation in our presence.\n\nI could not but be grateful for the chivalrous respect which both\nshewed towards women, though I could not help contrasting their very\nopposite ways of shewing it. One seemed to represent the chivalry\nof the past, and the other that of the present. I could appreciate\nboth: the poetry and romance of the old chivalry, and the reason and\nrespect in the new; and I did not ask myself which was most really\ncomplimentary to women, or whether each was not a little the worse for\nbeing so dissevered from the other. It might be that in my heart I\nshould have preferred Philip representing the present rather than the\npast; but I did not acknowledge so much to myself.\n\nBut all this was only a faint ripple on our stream, not sufficient to\nprevent the current from running smooth.\n\n\n\n\nGOOD MANNERS\n\n\nAre nothing less than little morals. They are the shadows of virtues,\nif not virtues themselves. 'A beautiful behaviour is better than a\nbeautiful form; it gives a higher pleasure than statues and pictures;\nit is the finest of the fine arts.' How well it is then that no\none class has a monopoly in this 'finest of fine arts;' that while\nfavourable circumstances undoubtedly do render good manners more common\namong persons moving in higher rather than in lower spheres, there\nshould nevertheless be no positive hindrance to the poorest classes\npractising good manners towards each other. For what is a good manner?\nIt is the art of putting our associates at their ease. Whoever makes\nthe fewest persons uncomfortable, is the best-mannered man in a room.\n\nVanity, ill-nature, want of sympathy, want of sense--these are the\nchief sources from which bad manners spring. Nor can we imagine an\nincident in which a man could be at a loss as to what to say or do in\ncompany, if he were always considerate for the feelings of others,\nforgot himself, and did not lose his head or leave his common-sense\nat home. Such a one may not have studied etiquette, he may be chaotic\nrather than be in 'good form,' as the slang expression is; and yet\nbecause his head and heart are sound, he will speak and act as becomes\na gentleman. On the other hand, a very pedant in form and bigot in\nceremonies may be nothing better than the 'mildest-mannered man that\never cut a throat.' As we can be wise without learning, so it is quite\npossible to be well-mannered with little or no knowledge of those rules\nand forms which are at best only a substitute for common-sense, and\nwhich cannot be considered essential to good manners, inasmuch as they\nvary in every country, and even in the same country change about with\nthe weather-cock of fashion. Vanity renders people too self-conscious\nto have good manners, for if we are always thinking of the impression\nwe are making, we cannot give enough attention to the feelings and\nconversation of others. Without _trying_ to be natural--an effort that\nwould make us most artificial--we must be natural by forgetting self in\nthe desire to please others. Elderly unmarried ladies, students, and\nthose who lead lonely lives generally, not unfrequently acquire awkward\nmanners, the result of self-conscious sensitiveness.\n\nShyness was a source of misery to the late Archbishop Whately. When\nat Oxford, his white rough coat and white hat obtained for him the\nsobriquet of 'The White Bear;' and his manners, according to his own\naccount of himself, corresponded with the appellation. He was directed,\nby way of remedy, to copy the example of the best-mannered men he met\nin society; but the attempt to do this only increased his shyness. He\nfound that he was all the while thinking of himself rather than of\nothers; whereas thinking of others rather than of one's self is the\nessence of politeness. Finding that he was making no progress, he said\nto himself: 'I have tried my very utmost, and find that I must be as\nawkward as a bear all my life, in spite of it. I will endeavour to\nthink about it as little as a bear, and make up my mind to endure what\ncan't be cured.' In thus endeavouring to shake off all consciousness\nas to manner, he says: 'I succeeded beyond my expectations; for I not\nonly got rid of the personal suffering of shyness, but also of most of\nthose faults of manner which consciousness produces; and acquired at\nonce an easy and natural manner--careless indeed in the extreme, from\nits originating in a stern defiance of opinion, which I had convinced\nmyself must be ever against me; rough and awkward, for smoothness and\ngrace are quite out of my way, and of course tutorially pedantic; but\nunconscious, and therefore giving expression to that good-will towards\nmen which I really feel; and these I believe are the main points.'\n\nVanity again is the source of that boasting self-assertion which is\nthe bane of manners. He is an ill-mannered man who is always loud in\nthe praises of himself and of his children; who boasting of his rank,\nof his business, of achievements in his calling, looks down upon lower\norders of people; who cannot refrain from having his joke at the\nexpense of another's character, whose smart thing must come out because\nhe has not the gentlemanly feeling that suggests to us\n\n    Never to blend our pleasure or our pride\n    With sorrow to the meanest thing that lives.\n\nThe habit of saying rude things, of running people down, springs not\nso much from ill-nature as from that vanity that would rather lose a\nfriend than a joke. On this point Dr Johnson once remarked: 'Sir, a\nman has no more right to _say_ an uncivil thing than to _act_ one--no\nmore right to say a rude thing to another than to knock him down.' The\nvain egotism that disregards others is shewn in various unpolite ways;\nas, for instance, by neglect of propriety in dress, by the absence of\ncleanliness, or by indulging in repulsive habits. Some think themselves\nso well-born, so clever, or so rich, as to be above caring what others\nsay and think of them. It is said that the ancient kings of Egypt used\nto commence speeches to their subjects with the formula, 'By the\nhead of Pharaoh, ye are all swine!' We need not wonder that those who\ntake this swine-theory view of their neighbours should be careless of\nsetting their tastes and feelings at defiance. Contrast such puppyism\nwith the conduct of David Ancillon, a famous Huguenot preacher, one of\nwhose motives for studying his sermons with the greatest care was 'that\nit was shewing too little esteem for the public to take no pains in\npreparation, and that a man who should appear on a ceremonial day in\nhis night-cap and dressing-gown could not commit a greater breach of\ncivility.'\n\n'Spite and ill-nature,' it has been said, 'are among the most expensive\nluxuries of life;' and this is true, for none of us can afford to\nsurround himself with the host of enemies we are sure to make if, when\nyoung, we allow ill-nature to produce in us unmannerly habits. Good\nmanners, like good words, cost nothing, and are worth everything. What\nadvantage, for instance, did the book-seller on whom Dr Johnson once\ncalled to solicit employment get from his brutal reply: 'Go buy a\nporter's knot and carry trunks?' The surly natures of such men prevent\nthem from ever entertaining angels unawares.\n\nIt is want of sympathy, however, much more than a bad nature that\nproduces the ill-mannered hardness of character so well described by\nSydney Smith: 'Hardness is a want of minute attention to the feelings\nof others. It does not proceed from malignity or carelessness of\ninflicting pain, but from a want of delicate perception of those\nlittle things by which pleasure is conferred or pain excited. A hard\nperson thinks he has done enough if he does not speak ill of your\nrelations, your children, or your country; and then, with the greatest\ngood-humour and volubility, and with a total inattention to your\nindividual state and position, gallops over a thousand fine feelings,\nand leaves in every step the mark of his hoofs upon your heart. Analyse\nthe conversation of a well-bred man who is clear of the besetting sin\nof hardness; it is a perpetual homage of polite good-nature. In the\nmeantime the gentleman on the other side of you (a highly moral and\nrespectable man) has been crushing little sensibilities, and violating\nlittle proprieties, and overlooking little discriminations; and without\nviolating anything which can be called a _rule_, or committing what\ncan be denominated a _fault_, has displeased and dispirited you, from\nwanting that fine vision which sees little things, and that delicate\ntouch which handles them, and that fine sympathy which this superior\nmoral organisation always bestows.'\n\nOf course we must not judge people too much by external manner, for\nmany a man has nothing of the bear about him but his skin. Nevertheless\nas we cannot expect people in general to take time to see whether we\nare what we seem to be, it is foolish to roll ourselves into a prickly\nball on the approach of strangers. If we do so, we cannot wonder at\ntheir exclaiming: 'A rough Christian!' as the dog said of the hedgehog.\n\nIt is difficult to see how the 'natural-born fool'--to use an American\nexpression--can ever hope to become well mannered, for without good\nsense, or rather tact, a man must continually make a fool of himself\nin society. Why are women as a rule better mannered than men? Because\ntheir greater sympathy and power of quicker intuition give to them\nfiner tact. Nor is talent which knows what to do of much use, if the\ntact he wanting which should enable us to see how to do it. He who has\ntalent without tact is like the millionaire who never has a penny of\nready-money about him. Mr Smiles illustrates the difference between a\nman of quick tact and of no tact whatever by an interview which he says\nonce took place between Lord Palmerston and Mr Behnes the sculptor.\nAt the last sitting which Lord Palmerston gave him, Behnes opened the\nconversation with: 'Any news, my lord, from France? How do we stand\nwith Louis Napoleon?' The Foreign Secretary raised his eyebrows for an\ninstant, and quietly replied: 'Really, Mr Behnes, I don't know; I have\nnot seen the newspapers!' Behnes, with much talent, was one of the many\nmen who entirely missed their way in life through want of tact.\n\nNowhere is there room for the display of good manners so much as in\nconversation. Well-mannered people do not talk too much. Remembering\nthat the first syllable of the word conversation is _con_ (with), that\nit means talking with another, they abstain from lecturing, and are as\nready to listen as to be heard. They are neither impatient to interrupt\nothers nor uneasy when interrupted themselves. Knowing that their\nanecdote or sharp reply will keep, or need not find utterance at all,\nthey give full attention to their companion, and do not by their looks\nvote him a bore, or at least an interruption to their own much better\nremarks. But beside the rule, that we should not be impatient to get in\nour word, that a few brilliant flashes of _silence_ should occur in our\nconversation, another rule is, not to take for our theme--ourselves.\nWe must remember that, as a rule, we and our concerns can be of no\nmore importance to other men than they and their concerns are to us.\nWhy then should we go over the annals of our lives generally and of\nour diseases in particular to comparative strangers; why review the\nhardships we have suffered in money matters, in love, at law, in our\nprofession, or loudly boast of successes in each of these departments?\nWhy, lastly, should the pride that apes humility induce us to fish for\ncompliments by talking _ad nauseam_ of our faults? We need not say that\nlow gossip or scandal-bearing is quite incompatible with good manners.\n'The occasions of silence,' says Bishop Butler, 'are obvious--namely\nwhen a man has nothing to say, or nothing but what is better unsaid;\nbetter either in regard to some particular persons he is present with,\nor from its being an interruption to conversation of a more agreeable\nkind; or better, lastly, with regard to himself.'\n\nA well-mannered man is courteous to all sorts and conditions of men. He\nis respectful to his inferiors as well as to his equals and superiors.\nHonouring the image of God in every man, his good manners are not\nreserved for the few who can pay for them, or who make themselves\nfeared. Like the gentle summer air, his civility plays round all alike.\n'The love and admiration,' says Canon Kingsley, 'which that truly brave\nand loving man Sir Sidney Smith won from every one, rich and poor,\nwith whom he came in contact, seems to have arisen from the one fact,\nthat without, perhaps, having any such conscious intention, he treated\nrich and poor, his own servants, and the noblemen his guests, alike,\nand alike courteously, considerately, cheerfully, affectionately--so\nleaving a blessing and reaping a blessing wherever he went.' Certainly\nthe working-classes of England, however respectful they may be to\nthose whom--often for interested reasons--they call 'their betters,'\nare far from being sufficiently polite to each other. Why should not\nBritish labourers when they meet take off their hats to each other, and\ncourteously ask after Mrs Hardwork and family? There is not a moment of\ntheir lives the enjoyment of which might not be enhanced by kindliness\nof this sort--in the workshop, in the street, or at home.\n\nWe know that extremes meet, and there is an over-civility that becomes\nless than civil, because it forces people to act contrary to their\ninclinations. Well-mannered people consult the wishes of others rather\nthan their own. They do not proceed in a tyrannical manner to prescribe\nwhat their friends shall eat and drink, nor do they put them in the\nawkward position of having to answer a thousand apologies for their\nentertainment. When guests refuse an offered civility, we ought not\nto press it. When they desire to leave our house, it is really bad\nmanners to lock the stable-door, hide their hats, and have recourse to\nsimilar artifices to prevent their doing so. As, however, this zeal of\nhospitality without knowledge is a good fault, and one not too common,\nthere is perhaps no need to say more about it. It leans to virtue's\nside.\n\nWe must not confound etiquette with good manners, for the arbitrary\nrules of the former are very often absurd, and differ in various\nages and countries; whereas good manners, founded as they are on\ncommon-sense, are always and everywhere the same. It would be invidious\nto illustrate this assertion from the society of our own country, so\nwe shall import a _reductio ad absurdum_ of etiquette from Japan. In\n_The Gentle Life_, the following account is given by a resident at the\nJapanese court. 'When one courtier was insulted by another, he who bore\nthe insult turned round to the insulter, and quietly uncovering the\nstomach, ripped himself open. The aggressor, by an inexorable law of\netiquette, was bound to follow the lead, and so the two die. The most\nheart-rending look ever witnessed was one given by a Japanese, who,\nhaving been insulted by an American, carried out the rule, expecting\nhis opponent to follow suit. But the Yankee would do nothing of the\nsort; and the Japanese expired in agonies--not from the torture of\nhis wound, but from being a sacrifice to so foolish and underbred a\nfellow--whilst the American looked at him in a maze of wonder.' If\nit were not so sad, we might laugh at such accounts of self-torture,\nas well as at people of our own acquaintance who, worshipping\nconventionality, are ever on the rack about 'the right thing to do,'\nabout 'good form.'\n\nBut this sort of folly should not blind us to the value of good manners\nas distinguished from etiquette.\n\n    Manners are not idle, but the fruit\n    Of noble nature and of loyal mind.\n\nWere it not for the oil of civility, how could the wheels of society\ncontinue to work? Money, talent, rank, these are keys that turn some\nlocks; but kindness or a sympathetic manner is a master-key that can\nopen all. If 'virtue itself offends when coupled with a forbidding\nmanner,' how great must be the power of winning manners, such as steer\nbetween bluntness and plain-dealing, between giving merited praise and\nflattery.\n\nMen succeed in their professions quite as much by complaisance\nand kindliness of manner as by talent. Demosthenes, in giving his\nwell-known advice to an orator--that eloquence consisted in three\nthings, the first 'action,' the second 'action,' and the third\n'action'--is supposed to have intended manner only. A telling preacher\nin his opening remarks gains the good-will of his hearers, and makes\nthem feel both that he has something to say and that he can say\nit--by his manner. The successful medical man on entering a sick-room\ninspires into his patients belief in himself, and that hope which is\nso favourable to longevity--by his manner. Considering that jurymen\nare scarcely personifications of pure reason unmixed with passion or\nprejudice, a barrister cannot afford to neglect manner if he would\nbring twelve men one after another to his way of thinking. Again, has\nthe business man any stock-in-trade that pays him better than a good\naddress? And as regards the 'survival of the fittest' in tournaments\nfor a lady's hand, is it not a 'natural selection' when the old\nmotto 'Manners makyth man' decides the contest? At least Wilkes, the\nbest-mannered but ugliest man of his day, thought so. 'I am,' he said,\n'the ugliest man in the three kingdoms; but if you give me a quarter\nof an hour's start, I will gain the love of any woman before the\nhandsomest.'\n\nIf kindliness of disposition be the essence of good manners, our\nsubject is seen at once to shade off into the great one of Christianity\nitself. It is the heart that makes both the true gentleman and\nthe great theologian. The apostle Paul (see speech delivered on\nMars' Hill) always endeavoured to conciliate his audience when he\ncommenced addressing them. And his letters, as well as those of his\nfellow-apostles, are full of sympathy and consideration for every one's\nfeelings, because he had learned from Him whose sympathy extended to\neven the greatest of sinners.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DUKE'S PIPER.\n\nA STORY Of THE WEST HIGHLANDS.\n\n\nIN FOUR CHAPTERS.--CHAPTER II.\n\n'Oh, Angus!' Maggie held out her hand to him on the pier, and he held\nit as in a vice. 'It iss your own poat, then, Angus?'\n\n'No; she iss not,' said Angus.\n\n'No?'\n\n'No! She iss yours, Maggie! I built her for ye--every inch of her grew\nunder my own hand--and she's no a pad poat at all, though it iss me\nthat says it----'\n\n'Well, Angus----'\n\n'Don't say another word, but go aboard,' said Angus, proceeding down\nthe steep slippery steps to the loch, leading Maggie gallantly by the\nhand. Speedily the rope was unloosed, the white sail spread to the\nbreeze, and the boat moved gracefully and rapidly, under a glorious\nsunset sky, out into the loch. Maggie sat holding the tiller silently\nwhile Angus adjusted the ropes. The loch was radiant from shore to\nshore in the rich evening light; quickly the white houses of the town\nwere left in the distance; and hardly a movement but the delicious\nripple of water cleft by the boat's bow, or the cry of a sea-gull\nsailing lazily overhead, disturbed the stillness. Here and there in the\npools among the boulders in lonely parts of the shore, a heron stood\nsilent as its own shadow and solitary as a hermit; from the grassy\nhollows by the beach a thin white mist rose, softening the green wooded\nslopes, and adding a sense of distance to the heathery ridges in the\nbackground, glorified by the red autumn sunset. Maggie was supremely\nhappy. When the sail was fairly set, Angus came and stretched himself\nby her side.\n\n'And ye think she iss a nice poat, and ye like her?' he said, looking\ninto Maggie's face.\n\n'It wass fery kind of ye to think of giving me such a present as this,\nAngus; but I cannot possibly take it.'\n\n'Maggie,' said Angus, taking her disengaged hand in his, 'I hef long\nwanted to tell you something--indeed I hef, Maggie--not that I'm a goot\nhand at telling anything I want, but--all the time I wass building her,\nand that wass longer than ye might think, Maggie--I hef looked to this\nmoment as a reward--when I would see you sitting there, looking that\nhappy and that peautiful--yes, Maggie, peautiful, and pleased with my\nwork--and proud am I to see ye so pleased wi' a trifle'----\n\n'But it iss _not_ a trifle,' said the maiden interrupting him; 'it wass\na great undertaking! I nefer saw anything I liked half so much.'\n\n'But it iss nothing, I tell you, Maggie, to what I would gif you if you\nwould be willing to take it--nothing! I would like you, Maggie, to take\nall I hef--and myself too. It iss true I am only a common sailor, but\nMaggie, my heart iss fery warm to you. Many's the time, when I wass a\nhundred and maybe thousants of miles away from here, I wad pe thinking\nof you--many a time in the middle of the night, when I wass on the deck\nalone, watching and looking at the stars under a foreign sky, I would\nsingle out a particular star and call it Maggie's eye, and watch it\nlovingly, cass I thocht you might pe looking at it too, even if you\nwass not thinking of me thousants of miles off; and it makes me fery\nunhappy when I'm a long way off, to think that maybe I am forgotten,\nand some other man iss trying to get your love, and maybe I losing my\nchance of happiness for life, cass, like a fool, I held my peace, when\nby speaking a word my happiness and yours might pe secure.'\n\nAngus's arm had stolen round the girl's waist as he proceeded in the\nspeech that was a direct outflow from his heart. She did not try to\nspeak for a little. Angus saw that her eyes were filled with tears.\n\n'It wass wrong of ye, Angus, efer to think I would forget ye,' she said.\n\n'Then ye do think sometimes apoot me when I am not near you?'\n\n'Angus, how can you pe speaking nonsense like that!'\n\n'But it iss not nonsense to me, Maggie,' said her lover seriously; 'I\nlove you, Maggie, as I love no woman in the world; and Maggie, if you\nwere to--to--it wad break my'----\n\nIt was the old story. Two human souls meeting under the light of\nheaven, each recognising in the other that which each yearned for, to\ngive completeness to life; the spoken word being the outward force\nimpelling them towards each other, as two dewdrops merge into one by\na movement external to both. The Highland girl had no desire to break\nher lover's heart; nay, she was ready to give her own in exchange\nfor his love with all the impulsiveness of a simple and true nature.\nAs the boat sped on they noted not that twilight was deepening into\nevening, that the stars were myriad-eyed above them, and the crescent\nmoon glimmered over the hills and shone in quivering tracks along the\nloch. So it came about that at the same moment of time when the piper\nin the clachan was apostrophising Angus's father in the words already\nrecorded--'Nae doot your son Angus will pe wanting me to learn him to\nplay the pipes too; and nae doot, when he comes for that purpose, he\nwill look to have his crack wi' Maggie,' &c.--his daughter's arms were\nbeing thrown impulsively about Angus's neck, and Angus himself was the\nhappiest man in the Western Highlands.\n\nMaggie reached Glen Heath with a joyous heart. She was there before\nthe piper. She speedily girt on her apron, and with tucked-up sleeves\nproceeded to the more prosaic duty of baking 'scones' that might be\nwarm and palatable for the piper's supper; and as she rolled out the\ndough, and patted and rolled and kneaded it, and turned it before the\nfire until an appetising browniness covered each surface, she sang\nmerrily one of the merriest of the sad Gaelic melodies.\n\nBut the piper was late. The white cloth was spread, and the scones had\ntime to cool, before Diana leaping to her feet, stretched herself,\nyawned, and went to the door sniffing. Maggie opened the door\nimmediately; the piper swung along the path unsteadily. The dog went to\nmeet him without enthusiasm, half-doubtful of her reception, and only\nnarrowly escaped the kick which the piper aimed at her.\n\n'Get out, ye prute!' he said, as he came in; and when the animal still\ncame fawning towards him, he hurled his bagpipes with great force\nat her head, only with the result, however, of breaking the pipe's\nmouthpiece. 'O the prute!' he cried when he saw what had happened; 'she\nhas proken my favourite shanter--the shanter that I've played wi' for\nfifteen years. O the prute! I'll cut her throat, to teach her to keep\noot o' my way. My best shanter too!'\n\n'Come, dad, you are late,' said Maggie cheerily, going to meet him;\n'you hef had a long walk. I hef boiled some eggs for ye, and baked some\nscones; come, hef some supper before ye go to bed.'\n\n'Ay, ay, ye are a praw lass, Maggie, one o' the right sort,' the piper\nsaid. 'But to think my poor shanter's broken. I will nefer see her like\nagain whatefer!'\n\nThe piper sat down to supper with an enormous appetite, and Maggie\nwaited upon him devotedly, uncertain whether she should reveal her\nsecret or not in the present dubious state of her father's temper.\n\n'Anypody peen here for me the day?' he asked between mouthfuls.\n\n'Yes, Angus MacTavish wass here in the afternoon; and he'----\n\nThe piper laid down his knife, looked straight in his daughter's face\nwith a fierceness that startled her, saying: 'Hang Angus MacTavish and\nefery man i' their black clan! A MacTavish nefer darkens my threshold\nagain! If Angus MacTavish efer comes to my house he will live to rue\nit. I _hate_ efery living MacTavish!'\n\nMaggie looked in her father's face amazed. To violent language she was\nwell accustomed; but sober or otherwise, she had never heard him utter\na word against the MacTavishes until now.\n\n'Come, dad,' she said after a short silence, during which time she\ndecided it would be better to say nothing of what was uppermost in her\nmind until morning--'come, dad; something has vexed you to-night. You\nwill be petter in the morning. Angus iss the best friend either you or\nI hef in the wide world.'\n\n'I tell you,' burst out the piper, 'I will not hef his name mentioned\nin my hoose, not by you or any other! And if you go apoot with him,\nMeg, as I hef seen ye do lately, I'll--I'll maybe pack you out of doors\ntoo!'\n\nThe tears were in poor Maggie's eyes, but she comforted herself as she\nput up the bolt in the door for the night, by assuring herself, as she\nheard the piper stumbling up-stairs to his room: 'Poor dad, he iss\nworse than usual to-night.' And when she slept, she dreamed of Angus.\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nThe piper's anger seemed to be modified on the following morning; but\nhe still growled when his daughter introduced the name MacTavish as he\nsat before a steaming bowl of porridge and a basin of milk, which he\nattacked with a large horn spoon and an appetite comparable only to\nthe giant's who fell a victim to the adroitness of Jack the celebrated\nGiant-killer. Maggie's enthusiastic account of Angus's gift of the boat\nwas received with a critical coldness that made her heart sink within\nher.\n\n'O ay, Maggie; it iss no doot a peautiful poat--she wass sure to\npe that if Angus built her; but it iss fery easy to see what Angus\nMacTavish iss driving at. Maybe he'll find he has peen counting without\nhis host mirofer, if he thinks he iss going to get you for his wife\nby gifing you a fishing-poat; what wass a fishing-poat to a lass like\nyou?--as if ye wass a poor lass! Ye're no to pe fashing your head apoot\nAngus MacTavish, lass--no; he iss no doot a cood lad, but no for the\nlike o' you! There iss Sandy Buchanan noo, the lawyer's clerk mirofer,\na far more likely lad to make ye a cood man, and willing?'\n\n'O dad, and how can ye pe saying such things to me on the happiest day\no' my life, for Angus asked me yesterday to be his wife; and I--I'----\n\n'Ye what?' said the piper, laying down his spoon and eyeing his\ndaughter sternly.\n\n'Weel, dad, I--I--didna say No.'\n\n'Then I'm thinking ye'll hef to go this fery day whatefer and say \"No,\"\nmy lass, for I'm telling ye I won't hef it!'\n\nMaggie was not generally one of the tearful sort, but the sudden\nemphasis of her father's words filled her eyes with tears and drove\nher to silence. She did not trust herself to speak, but lifted her\npail hurriedly with a flushed face, and went sorrowfully to milk the\n'kye,' whose deep impatient lowing from the byre was urgently demanding\nattention. When she was half across the court-yard she heard her father\ncalling her back. She turned and went to him.\n\n'Maggie,' he said, drawing her to his knee and holding her brown face\nbetween his rough hands tenderly, 'it iss not crying ye are, my bonny\nlass? No; I wad not hef my lass crying for any MacTavish that efer\ndrank a dram! Not that Angus iss a pad lad--no, I will not say he\niss that--he plays the pipes petter than any lad of his years I efer\nsaw--but the MacTavishes---- Ah weel, they're no jist the clan that the\nCamerons should marry into. Noo, dry your eyes, lass, and pe off to\nyour milking mirofer--Crumple iss moaning as if her udder wass going to\ncrack.'\n\nThe maiden said, nothing; she kissed him, but the smile was all\nvanished from her face as she stooped to relieve Crumple of her milky\nburden.\n\nThe piper went to the stable, and the sound of his whistling rang over\nthe place as he brushed down his horses and gave them their morning\nfeed.\n\nMaggie was in strong hopes, as the morning advanced, that before\nnightfall, when she expected Angus to come, the tempest would be\nover, and Angus hailed by her father in his old manner. This hope\nwas dispelled, and poor Maggie made miserable beyond bearing when\nher father returned to his mid-day meal. The piper had early in the\nforenoon taken his fishing-rod and gone to a favourite spot of his\nknown as 'the Black Hole,' on the stream, where he had wiled away many\nan hour and tempted to the bank many a fat spotted trout. When he\nreturned to dinner, his daughter saw with surprise that he brought no\nfish with him, and that his fishing-rod was broken into half-a-dozen\npieces; and moreover, that he was white with anger. Fingal his collie\nwas following with dejected tail and a torn ear, apparently in as bad a\ntemper as his master, judging from the snarling greeting he gave Diana\nwho went to meet them.\n\n'Py the powers, but I'll put the law on him; I'll hef him put in the\njail,' cried the piper, as he went into his kitchen and tossed the\nfragments of his fishing-rod into a corner. 'The plaguard, to preak my\nfishing-rod and steal my fish mirofer; but I'll hef the law on him! He\nshall go pefore the shirra as sure as my name iss John Cameron!'\n\nMaggie did not know that Mr MacTavish was at the same moment on his way\nhome with a swollen black eye, carrying with him a goodly fish that\nought to have been in the piper's basket, 'Jet' limping behind his\nmaster very much bruised indeed.\n\n'And it iss the Teuk that wull pe told all apoot it; the prood teffle,\npoaching the salmon like a common thief, and knocking a man apoot as\nif he wass a lower animal,' said the game-keeper, recording _his_\ngrievance indignantly to his buxom wife, in answer to sympathetic\nejaculations as to the state of his eye, when he returned to his dinner.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTrue to his word, the piper sent the herd-boy to the lawyer's office to\ntell Sandy Buchanan, with the piper's compliments, &c., that Mr Cameron\ndesired to see him at Glen Heath on important business.\n\n'Well, dad,' Maggie had said impetuously when she heard this message\ngiven to 'Geordy,' as they sat at dinner, hardly understanding from\nwhat motive her father sought the presence of the detested Sandy\nBuchanan, 'I can only say that I shall not bide in the hoose if that\nred-headed, ill-looking man comes to the hoose; I won't inteed!'\n\n'Ye are red-headed yourself!' said the piper abruptly.\n\n'No; I'm not.'\n\n'Yes, ye are. The man canna help himself if the Almichty gef him a red\nhead. The best o' folks iss red-headed. I'm red-headed; and ye are red\nas a fox or a squirrel yourself, I tell ye'----\n\n'Well, well, dad, we'll no quarrel apoot that; maybe I am; but'----\n\n'I tell ye what it iss, Maggie, ye will bide at home when Mr Buchanan\ncomes, and ye'll pehave yourself civilly, or maybe it may pe worse for\nye. Angus MacTavish hass turned your head; but he'll get a bit o' my\nmind maybe yet, as his father hass pefore him mirofer, and that pefore\nthe set o' sun too!'\n\n'O dad, dad! ye'll break my heart, so ye will, inteed and inteed ye\nwill, dad, if it iss in that way ye speak o' Angus.'\n\n'I'll not hef him come apoot my hoose longer! He iss a wanderin' rake;\nefery sailor iss that, and no fit to make a cood huspand to the like o'\nyou.'\n\n'He iss not a rake! Ye are no speaking the words of truth, father!'\nexclaimed the girl passionately.\n\n'Efery sailor iss a rake, Maggie; eferypody knows that; and I daresay\nhe iss none better than his neibors.'\n\nStung by the cruel words, Maggie ran to the dairy, where she shut\nherself in and burst into a flood of tears. The Highland maid had few\nhatreds; she had the impulsive almost passionate temperament of every\ntrue Celt, but her impulsiveness ran in loving channels. But if she\ndid hate, she hated warmly--also after the Celtic manner. And the one\nliving object for whom she felt undying scorn was this Sandy Buchanan,\nwho knew more of her father's affairs than any man in Inversnow; and\nwhose studied civility to her on all occasions, and attentions more or\nless marked, were resented by her as she would have resented another\nman's insults. Perhaps he was all the more despised because he kept\nat a respectful distance when Angus was at home; a peculiarity that\nMaggie attributed to a certain dread of physical consequences, that was\nnot to be wondered at in a weak-legged milksop fellow like him. But\nwhenever the Duke's yacht was away, Mr Sandy danced attendance upon her\nassiduously, insisting upon seeing her safely home from the kirk on\nSunday evenings, and otherwise thrusting his obnoxious presence upon\nher in ways which she considered offensive.\n\nAnd sure enough, just as the sun was veering round to the west, the\npiper was seated at the table of his best parlour with a bottle of\nwhisky and glasses, and a plate of Maggie's crisp oatmeal bannocks\nbetween him and the detested Sandy Buchanan, whose breath blew forth\ngales of peppermint--an odour that Maggie always associated with him,\nand put the worst construction upon--as he listened patiently to\nthe rather confused statement of the piper's grievance. Sandy tried\nhonestly to look at the case from the piper's stand-point; but put\nin any form, it appeared that if any legal action was to be taken\nthe decision could hardly take the only form which would satisfy the\nirate piper--namely the immediate arrest, trial, conviction, and\nimprisonment of Mr MacTavish for an undefined number of months in the\ncounty jail. Sandy gathered that the piper had succeeded in hooking\na 'cood seven-pound grilse;' that while he was landing the same, Mr\nMacTavish appeared on the scene threatening to report him to the\nDuke for poaching; words passed between them, not of a complimentary\nnature, ending ultimately in one of two catastrophes--the piper could\nnot clearly remember which--either the game-keeper had seized the\npiper's rod with result of breaking it to pieces, or the piper had\nbroken his fishing-rod over the game-keeper's back; and then a struggle\nhad ensued, the upshot of which was that the latter walked off with\nthe 'grilse' and a black eye, while the former did the like with his\nshattered fishing-rod and empty basket, each vowing to lay the matter\nbefore 'the shirra.'\n\nThe Sheriff, as represented by Sandy Buchanan the fiscal's clerk,\nthought, much to the delight of the piper, that he had good ground for\nan action for assault against Mr MacTavish; and presently father and\ndaughter (poor Maggie was compelled to remain in the room to hear the\nbrutal manner in which he, a Cameron, had been treated by a MacTavish)\nwere thrown into a state of mental confusion by the adroit manner in\nwhich Sandy now addressing the piper as 'our client,' now as 'the\nplaintiff;' both of which phrases the piper received and acknowledged\nin the light of a personal compliment, and also by liberal but not very\ncoherent allusion to Act of Queen Victoria this, and chapter of Act\nQueen Victoria that; all tending to prove the piper the most abused and\ninjured of men.\n\nIn the midst of the conference Angus MacTavish appeared at the door. He\nindiscreetly opened it and looked in without knocking. The piper, who\nwas feeling at the moment keenly alive to his own importance, with the\ndelightful sense that he had matter to bring before the 'shirra' (as\nhe called the Sheriff), looked up and frowned, fingering his glass of\nwhisky the while.\n\n'What idiot iss it that walks into a shentleman's hoose withoot\nknocking at the door, and withoot waiting to be asked to come in?'\n\n'Come, piper,' said Angus, walking boldly into the room, somewhat\nsurprised to see Buchanan there, but holding an outstretched hand\nto the piper; 'it iss not the first, nor the second, nor maybe the\ntwentieth time I hef bed your hospitality, and I am thinking it will\nnot pe the last time--and that without claiming it.'\n\n'My name is Maister Cameron--Maister Cameron of Glen Heath, Maister\nAngus MacTavish! And apoot its peing the last time or not depends\nupon more consiterations than one!' The piper spoke with a sternness\nand pomposity of manner that made his visitor allow his hand to drop\nquickly to his side, and brought an indignant flush to the young face.\n\n'What does it all mean?' said Angus in a bewildered way, turning to\nMaggie.\n\nMaggie stood behind her father's chair the personification of misery.\nThe man of law sat looking stolidly before him with the most wooden of\nexpressions on his pale face.\n\n'It means,' said the piper in the same harsh sharp key, 'that _that_ is\nthe door, that yonder is the road, that the quicker ye are there the\npetter it will pe for you, and the petter pleased too will all in this\nroom pe.'\n\n'Iss that it?' said Angus slowly, looking still at Maggie, and turning\nagain towards the door.\n\n'No, Angus, no! It iss not true that all in this room will pe petter\npleased that ye should go. It iss not true!' burst out the girl in the\nfullness of her heart.\n\n'But it _shall_ pe true!' shouted the piper, bringing his hand firmly\ndown upon the table. Angus did not stay to argue the matter, but\nsorrowfully went his way.\n\n'Stop that whining, Maggie--stop that foolish whining; I will not hef\nit!' said the piper, turning upon his daughter fiercely, who tried in\nvain to repress a sob as Angus disappeared.\n\n'O Sandy Buchanan, it iss muckle that ye'll hef to answer for, if ye'll\nmake me that I'll hate my own father too,' said the poor girl, storming\nout into open mutiny.\n\n'Leave the room, Maggie!' cried the piper, waving his hand. The maiden\ngladly availed herself of her dismissal, and fled to the solitude of\nher own room. 'Cott has not gifen to women the brains to understand\npusiness,' he continued, generalising apologetically to his guest.\n\nA week passed, and the piper's wrath against the clan MacTavish\nendured. The feud was not one-sided. Mr MacTavish replied to a letter\nfull of nothing, expressed in the bitterest legal phraseology, written\nby Sandy Buchanan on the piper's behalf, by a document of elaborate\ncounter-charges, written by the banker-lawyer of the town, breathing\nthreatenings and lawsuits. And the case promised to be profitable to\nboth of these astute gentlemen, as such cases generally manage to be.\n\n\n\n\nHINTS TO SICK-NURSES.\n\n\nTrying as are many, indeed we may truly say most of the duties of the\nsick-room, nothing renders them so much so as the fact that the disease\nunder which the patient is suffering is of an infectious, or of a\ncontagious nature.\n\nThere is a great deal to be said on the head of avoidance of infection\nor contagion, while nursing a sufferer through disease of either one\nnature or the other. In this as in all other matters connected with\nsick-nursing, heroic, would-be-martyr-like conduct is absurd and\nblamable, for prudence goes for a great deal, and indiscretion brings\ntrouble and suffering on others as well as yourself. 'I don't mind\n_what_ risk I run; I am too anxious to think about myself!' always\nseems to us a feeble and (to use a strong northern word) a very\nfeckless sort of remark, only made, in nine cases out of ten, to exact\nthe tribute of a surprised or admiring look. On the contrary, the aim\nand end of every sick-nurse should be to do as much good and be as much\ncomfort as possible _with the least possible risk_. To achieve this,\nthe smallest and most apparently trivial precautions are worth taking,\nin order to prevent the friends and relatives about you having the\nadditional trouble and anxiety of nursing you as a second invalid, just\nwhen 'number one' is recovering.\n\n'I am so anxious I can't eat! I haven't touched a morsel to-day!' are\nby no means uncommon remarks to hear from the lips of some one who is\nnursing, or assisting to nurse a case of infectious disease. Yet this\nabstinence is just the very worst thing you can possibly do under such\ncircumstances, and the most calculated to render yourself an easy prey\nto that unseen influence pervading the air, and like the seeds of some\npoisonous plant, ready to take root if soil be found favourable to its\ngrowth. Feebleness, over-weariness, exhaustion, want of sufficient\nnourishment--all these things aid in preparing this suitable soil,\nand woo the disease germs that are floating about in the air to take\nroot and bring forth bitter fruit. A vigorous cheerful person, capable\nof strong self-control, often seems able to defy the closest contact\nwith disease; and even if some _malaise_ (often closely allied to the\ndisease of the patient) knocks over the willing nurse for a time, the\nelastic constitution of body and mind seems to throw off the poison,\nand no serious illness results. Nothing is more common than the\noccurrence of these spurious attacks of illness, allied to that from\nwhich the person nursed is suffering, and the following case is an\nexample.\n\nA lady nursing a friend in small-pox, after lengthened attendance in\nthe sick-room, was attacked by faintness, shivering, a sensation of\nnausea, and violent headache. Both the nurse and her friends concluded\nthat a seizure of the loathsome disease from which the patient was\nsuffering was inevitable. However, the following day several large\nblotches appeared on various parts of the body; all unpleasant symptoms\ngradually disappeared; and in a day or two--without the original\nsufferer having had any idea that her nurse was kept away by anything\nmore serious than need of rest--she was able to return to her duties,\nand never suffered any further deterioration of health. In the same\nway we have known those who were nursing cases of fever to be suddenly\nattacked by sore throat, headache, and vertigo, these symptoms passing\noff after twenty-four or forty-eight hours, and no further evil\nresulting. A vigorous constitution, care while nurse-tending as to diet\nand exercise, joined to a mind calm and equable, and ready to face all\npossibilities without flurry, feverish excitement, or fear, will in\nmany cases enable the sick-nurse to throw off the seeds of disease. But\na malignant influence which floats in the atmosphere of the sick-room,\npervading the breath of the sick person, and hanging like a bad odour\nabout the bed-clothes, carpets, and even the wall-paper of the room,\nis necessarily a difficult enemy to evade--and such is infection. And\nany one who has a timorous dread of it is far better away from the\nsick-room.\n\nThis is, we think, a matter that cannot be too strongly insisted upon.\nTo watch for symptoms is often to develop them; and constant dwelling\nupon the condition of any one organ of the body, and apprehension as\nto disease in that organ, will often produce at all events functional\nderangement if no greater evil. By this we do not mean that neglect\nof one's self is ever justifiable, but only that fearful and timorous\napprehension is deleterious.\n\nSo strongly has this fact impressed itself upon us with regard to\ninfection, that we even think it would be well to strain a point,\nand encourage a person to absent herself from the sick-room, rather\nthan run the risk of having a nurse of this temperament near a\npatient suffering from disease of a catching nature. In sickness the\nperceptions are often rendered painfully acute, and the mind naturally\nmuch concentrated on itself, is therefore ready to take offence\nor be troubled by trifles. We have seen a patient shrink from the\nministrations of a person whom he _felt_ to be in a state of fear.\n\nJust in the same way, if the duties of the sick-room are (as they\noften must be) unpleasant, a _look_ of aversion or disgust is enough\nto wound the sufferer beyond the power of caress or words to heal! A\nwoman who turns sick, or is obliged to put a handkerchief to her nose\nat a foul smell--who shudders at the sight of blood, ought never to\nbe in a sick-room. The same may be said of one who is always feeling\nher own pulse, or (as we once saw) looking at her own tongue in the\nglass (by no means a graceful proceeding), to see if symptoms are\n'declaring themselves.' All or much of this sort of nervousness may be\naffectation; but at the same time we must not judge unkindly of those\nwho from natural temperament dread infection, and are therefore likely\nto fall a prey to it.\n\nAnd now, taking it for granted that we have a tolerably sensible woman\nto deal with, and that she is called upon to nurse a case of fever,\nsmall-pox, diphtheria, or any such-like unpleasant ailment, what\nprecautions are best calculated to reduce the risk of infection to a\nminimum?--a risk which we cannot do away with, but are certainly called\nupon to guard against to the utmost in our power. Attention to diet, so\nas to ward off great exhaustion _at any time_, and taking at least half\nan hour's exercise in the open air, are excellent rules to observe.\nNever go into the sick-room _fasting_. And here we must strongly urge\nupon every sick-nurse the value of coffee as a restorative. In times\nof cholera epidemics among our soldiers, the first precaution the\nauthorities invariably take is to order a cup of strong coffee to be\nserved out to each man the first thing in the morning. The effects of\nthis plan are known to be admirable.\n\nTake a brisk walk shortly after your breakfast; order a cup of hot\nstrong coffee to be ready when you come in, and take it _before going\ninto the patient's room_. Nothing helps to throw off the weariness of\na night's watching like this turn in the fresh air (even if taken of\nnecessity under an umbrella), and the coffee braces the nerves and\ninvigorates the system.\n\nTo speak of the avoidance of alcoholic stimulants is to enter upon\ndelicate ground; though we are of opinion that in _serious_ cases the\nnurse should seldom touch anything stronger than coffee throughout the\nwhole time. This abstaining gives a power of recovering with great\npromptitude from the effects of long-continued watching and heavy\nduties in the sick-room. Depend upon it that the recurring glass of\nsherry, the oft-repeated 'nip' of brandy-and-water, do a world of harm\nboth in the sick-room and out of it.\n\nThat wine and brandy are valuable restoratives in weakness, cannot\nbe denied; and it is certain that there are many constitutions which\n_need_ a moderate amount of stimulant; but that stimulants are taken\nto a perfectly needless and most pernicious extent, even by those who\nby no means come under the term 'drunkard,' and that among these are\nnumbered women as well as men, is a stubborn and unhappy fact. One of\nthe many evils resulting from this over-use of stimulants is this: when\nsevere illness and prostration call for wine or brandy, the system is\nso used to their action that but little benefit accrues; at all events,\nlittle when compared to that prompt answer the constitution gives to\neven small doses, when that constitution has either made very sparing\nuse, or no use at all, of such whips and spurs to the energies of life.\n\nThe proper ventilation of a sick-room is a most important means of\nlessening the danger of infection; and this more particularly in such\ndiseases as fever, small-pox, or diphtheria--that is, diseases coming\ndistinctly under the head infectious. In those which are contagious,\nventilation is of course also important, but not equally so. And this\nleads us on to speak of the difference between infection and contagion.\nInfection is subtly diffused through the atmosphere, the patient's\nbreath, the clothes, hangings, walls, &c. Contagion consists in the\ndisease being propagated by the emanations of the sick person. It is\ntherefore obvious that the latter (contagion) is more easily guarded\nagainst by a prudent person than the former (infection). The plentiful\nuse of disinfectants seems to be one of the best preventives against\ncontagion; but of course all such details are generally regulated by\nthe medical man in attendance, and no better advice can be given to the\namateur sick-nurse than to follow his directions _implicitly_.\n\nWe will, before leaving this subject, quote one passage from Dr\nAitken's excellent work, _The Science and Practice of Medicine_. In\nvolume one, page 222, he says: 'Ill-health of any kind therefore\nfavours the action of epidemic influences.' Thus then, we see how one\nof our highest medical authorities bears out the truth of what we have\nsaid--namely that for the sick-nurse to neglect her own health--to go\nwithout sufficient and regular food--in a word, to lower by any means\nwhatever the standard of her own physical condition, is to intensify\nthe risk of infection or contagion for herself, and trouble and anxiety\nfor those belonging to her.\n\nWe have no belief in the disinfecting of clothes that have been worn\nduring attendance on cases of an infectious nature. It is far better to\nwear an old dress, wrapper, shawl, &c., and when the illness is over\n_have them burned_. The same thing applies to clothing worn by the\npatient.\n\nWe remember one most lamentable case where (as was supposed) everything\nwas disinfected, washed, and exposed to the air; yet the gift of a\nnight-dress to a poor woman resulted in virulent small-pox, and the\nsufferer, a young married woman, was cruelly disfigured in spite of the\nbest care and nursing an hospital could give.\n\nIt comes then to this: infection cannot be evaded; but risk may be\nreduced to a minimum by an observance of the precautions we have noted,\nby the exercise of plain common-sense, and by the _reality_--not\nromance--of devotion to the work undertaken by the sick-nurse.\n\n\n\n\nINDIAN MILITARY SPORTS.\n\n\nFor the following amusing account of some of the more popular of\nEastern regimental sports we are indebted to an officer in India. He\nproceeds as follows:\n\nThe sports of the native Indian cavalry, commonly called _Nesi Basi_,\nare much encouraged by the authorities, as to excel in them requires\nsteady nerve and good riding. I believe it is the custom in most\nregiments to devote one morning a week to these essentially military\ngames. They are most popular with the men, it is easy to see, for\nbesides the hundred or so who generally turn out to compete, the\ngreater part of the regiment is present on foot as spectators.\n\nThe proceedings generally commence with tent-pegging pure and simple.\nA short peg is driven into the ground, while some two hundred yards\ndistant the competitors are drawn up in line, each on his own horse;\nfor the native _sowar_, like the vassal of our own past times, comes\nmounted and armed to his regiment. While off duty the native soldier\ncan dress as he pleases, so on occasions like the present, individual\ntaste breaks forth in showy waistcoat or gorgeous coloured turban.\nEach man carries a bamboo spear in his hand. At a signal given by the\n_wordi major_ or native adjutant, the first man, his spear held across\nhis body, starts at a canter; his wiry little country-bred knows as\nwell as he does what is in hand, and as the speed quickens to a gallop,\nthe pace is regular and measured, enabling his rider to sit as steady\nas a rock. When about fifty yards from the object the sowar turns his\nspear-point downward, bends well over the saddle till his hand is\nbelow the girth, and then, when you almost think he has gone past, an\nimperceptible turn of the wrist and--swish--the spear is brandished\nround his head, with the peg transfixed on its point. Another is\nquickly driven into the ground, and the next man comes up; he too hits\nthe peg, but perhaps fails to carry it away to the required distance,\nfor it drops from his spear-point as he is in the act of whirling it\nround his head. This does not count, and he retires discomfited. The\nthird misses entirely; the fourth strikes but does not remove the peg\nfrom the ground; while after them in quick succession come two or three\nwho carry it off triumphantly. With varying fortune the whole squad\ngoes by; and it is interesting to note the style of each horseman as\nhe passes, some sitting rigid till within a few yards of the mark;\nothers bending over and taking aim while still at a distance; some\nsilent, others shouting and gesticulating; while one no sooner has his\nsteed in motion than he gives vent to a certain _tremolo_ sound, kept\nup like the rattle of a steam-engine, till close upon the peg, which\nhaving skilfully transfixed, he at the same time throws his voice\nup an octave or two, in triumph I suppose, as he gallops round and\njoins his comrades. Two or three men now bring up their horses with\nneither saddle nor bridle, and with consummate skill, guiding them by\nleg-pressure alone, carry off the peg triumphantly, amid well-deserved\ncries of '_Shabash!_' from the spectators.\n\nThe next part of the programme is 'lime-cutting.' Three lemons are put\nup on sticks about twenty yards apart; and as the sowar gallops past,\ntulwar in hand, he has successively to cut them in two without touching\nthe sticks--a by no means easy feat. Then three handkerchiefs are\nplaced on the ground; and a horseman, riding barebacked a good-looking\nbay, flies past in a very cloud of dust, and on his way stoops, picks\nup, and throws over his shoulder each handkerchief as he comes to it.\n\nAnd now we come to the most difficult feat of all. A piece of wood a\nlittle larger than a tent-peg is driven into the ground, and a notch\nhaving been made in the top, a rupee is therein placed so as to be\nhalf hidden from view. The feat is to ride at this, lance in hand,\nand to knock out the rupee without touching the wood--a performance\nrequiring rare skill and dexterity; yet it is generally accomplished\nsuccessfully, once or twice, by the best hands of the regiment.\n\nPerhaps the proceedings may close with something of a comic nature,\none man coming past hanging by his heels from the saddle, shouting and\ngesticulating; others facing their horses' tails, firing pistols at a\nsupposed enemy, with more antics of a like nature, often ending in an\nignominious cropper, though the nimble _fareem_ generally succeeds in\nlanding on his feet.\n\nThe sports of the infantry are of a totally different nature. The last\ntime I had an opportunity of being present at a _tamasha_ of this kind\nwas a pleasant breezy day on the banks of the Ganges. A space about\ntwelve yards by fifteen was prepared by picking up and softening the\nground till it presented the appearance of a minute portion of Rotten\nRow. One side of this space was reserved for the European officers\nand their friends; while round the other three stood or squatted the\nsepoys and any of their acquaintances from the neighbouring villages\nwhom they chose to invite. In the rear were booths, whose owners were\ndoing a brisk trade in native sweetmeats, while some twenty tom-toms\nkept up a discordant and never-ending din. Every native present, from\nhavildar to sepoy, was clothed only in the _langoti_ or loin-cloth, to\ngive free play to the muscles of the limbs and chest. At each corner of\nthe arena stood a man in authority, like a Master of the Ceremonies,\nto see that the sports were carried on in a proper manner and that\nnobody allowed his temper to get the better of him. One of these was a\nremarkably fine-looking man, who, had he been of somewhat lighter hue\nand clothed in the garments of civilisation, might have passed as an\nEnglish aristocrat of the first-water; while another, of powerful build\nand with mutton-chop whiskers, was the very image of an eminent City\nman of my acquaintance.\n\nWe arrived on the scene a little late, but were immediately shewn to\na seat, one of the native officers coming up to hand us a plateful of\ncut-up almonds and cocoa-nut, with raisins and spices intermixed. Of\ncourse we took some, as this was the native welcome. We were hardly\nseated when two wiry-looking young men stepped into the arena. First,\nthey each bent down and raised to the forehead a little earth in\nthe right hand. This was _poojah_, or a request for help from their\ndeity in the approaching struggle; though I suspect in most cases it\nwas a meaningless performance; for I saw a little Christian boy who\nplayed first-cornet in the band, go through the same man\u0153uvre. The\ntwo wrestlers then went to opposite corners, and began some of the\nqueerest antics I ever saw, slapping their chests, thighs, and arms;\nfirst hopping on the left, then on the right foot; bending over and\njumping back, and recalling in some degree the movements of the ballet;\nand then, after a few feints, they clutched each other by the arms\nclose to the shoulder, while their two bullet-heads met together and\nacted as battering-rams. This went on till one man presented a chance\nby incautiously lifting his foot, when down he went in a trice, his\nadversary falling on him. This, however, was not a 'fall.' While on\nthe ground, they turned and twisted and writhed like snakes, their\nlean legs curling round each other in a manner marvellous to behold,\ntheir efforts being greeted every now and then by applause, led by the\nMasters of the Ceremonies aforesaid, given in a sing-song way, and\nalways ending in a long-drawn 'Tee' (Victory). It was almost wearisome\nto watch them, until at length the bout was brought to an end by one\nman being fairly thrown on his back, his adversary keeping clear. This\nwas a true 'fall.'\n\nCouple after couple set to in the same way, sometimes a raw youth\nrequiring the friendly admonition of the watchful M. C. to make him\nkeep his temper, though I must say the friendly way in which these\nexceedingly rough sports were carried on was deserving of the highest\npraise.\n\nI could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the aristocrat and the\nmutton-chop whiskers man, throwing aside their dignity, enter the arena\nand go through the same antics, the latter's pirouettes and _pas de\nZ\u00e9phir_ resembling the gambols of a young elephant; but nevertheless\nthey went through the affair as their predecessors had done.\n\nBetween times the little boys from the neighbouring villages would\nrush in as they saw their opportunity, and seizing a long sword with\na handle that covered the arm to the elbow make cuts and points\ninnumerable at a supposed enemy, dancing the while, and never leaving\nthe spot where they commenced. The meaning of this I could not divine,\nbut it pleased the spectators, for they did not withhold their\napplause, the aristocrat himself on one occasion prolonging the usual\n'Tee' in a sonorous voice after every one else had finished.\n\nI was told that this sort of thing went on from early morning till\nsunset; but though interesting for an hour, it soon begins to pall on\nthe ordinary European; so, after seeing a little single-stick and club\npractice, excellent of their kind, we took our departure.\n\nI think nothing can speak better for the class of men we have in our\nnative army than the genuine interest they take in these thoroughly\nmanly sports. While engaged in them, the habitual mark of deference\nworn by the native soldier in the presence of his officer drops from\nhis face, and we can see him as he is, with all his keen appreciation\nof fun and skill, in which he is not one whit behind his white comrade\nin the regular army.\n\n\n\n\nA PROMISING FIELD FOR EMIGRANTS.\n\n\nAmong the colonial papers just laid before parliament will be found\nan account, by the governor of Tasmania, of a tour recently made by\nhim, in company with the Minister of Lands and Works, through the\nnorth-eastern and eastern districts of that very fine island, worthy to\nbe called the England of the southern hemisphere, which seem to us to\nmeet the requirements of the class of emigrants alluded to; and it is\nto these localities that the following brief notes refer.\n\nThe north-eastern districts of Tasmania are only now attracting\ngeneral attention, owing to the recent discoveries of tin; and Mr Weld\nundertook his long journey on horseback because he was desirous of\nseeing for himself enough to enable him to judge of their capabilities\nboth as mining and agricultural districts. The result, as will be seen,\nsufficed to convince him that the future of Tasmania will be materially\naffected by the development of these regions. The north-eastern corner\nof the island is chiefly hilly, and even mountainous; but it contains\nlarge tracts estimated at fully seventy thousand acres of undulating\nand almost level land of very superior quality, and the soil of a great\npart of the hills themselves is exceedingly rich. Mr Weld describes\nthe country as being almost entirely clothed with the most luxuriant\nvegetation. The Eucalypti on the flats and rich hill-sides attain a\ngreat size; and the valuable blackwood, the native beech or myrtle, the\nsilver wattle (_Acacia dealbata_), the sassafras, and the tree-ferns\nand climbers, add beauty to the forest. The tree-ferns are most\nremarkable for the great profusion and luxuriance with which they grow,\nreaching occasionally a height of thirty feet, and being thickly spread\nover the whole district.\n\nThe region, Governor Weld says, may be described from a settler's\npoint of view as a 'poor man's country;' that is, it is best adapted\nfor settlement by men who will labour with their own hands, and who\nhave sons and daughters to work with them. The following anecdote is\nsuggestive, and is worthy of reproduction in its entirety: 'In the\nheart of the district I remained a day at the comfortable homestead\nof a most respectable settler, a native of Somersetshire, named Fry,\nwho, with the assistance of his wife, four sons, and five daughters,\nhad in eight years cleared and laid down in grass about two hundred\nand fifty acres of the three hundred acres he owns, milks fifty cows,\nand lately obtained a prize for cheese at the Melbourne Exhibition. I\ncould not but be struck at the indomitable energy of this family, which\nhad penetrated alone into a then pathless forest, and attacked its\nhuge trees with such determination, doing everything for themselves,\nworking hard all day, and at night taught lessons, prayers, and even\nmusic by the father.' Capitalists, Mr Weld adds, would find such a\ncountry too expensive to clear; but the man who can always be cutting\ndown or ringing a tree himself, by degrees sees the light of day break\nlargely into the forest, and though he will not make a fortune, he\nwill make a home and an independence, and all his simple wants will be\nsupplied.\n\nThe district alluded to is capable of keeping thousands of such\nfamilies in health and plenty. Surely then we are right in looking\nupon this as a promising field for the class of emigrants of which we\nhave spoken. In addition too to its capabilities from an agricultural\npoint of view, the country is not without mineral wealth; and a region\nroughly estimated at some fifteen hundred square miles, and but\npartially prospected, has been found to contain tin in such quantities\nas to warrant its being called 'a rich tin-bearing country.' Fair\nprofits are being made in working this mineral; some of the claims\nare worked by men on their own account, others in part by working\nproprietors and in part by men employed by them on wages; and again\nthere are two or three companies of capitalists employing managers and\nlabourers. Labour is scarce and dear, and labourers are being imported\nfrom Melbourne; wages range from fifty shillings a week for the best\nlabourers downwards; and on farms men get twenty shillings a week and\nrations. The great difficulty the north-eastern districts labour under\nis want of roads; the tin has consequently to be carried--at a cost of\nten to thirteen pounds a ton--to Bridport on the north and George's\nBay on the eastern coast, on the backs of horses, by bush-tracks over\nsteep hills and across ravines and water-courses. The population is at\npresent comparatively sparse, but there cannot be much doubt that it\nwill rapidly increase as means of communication improve; and steps are\nalready being taken to that end as far as the limited resources of the\ncolony will allow.\n\nOn the east coast, Governor Weld saw some fine land, good farms, and\nneat villages, especially in the Fingal and Avoca districts; but as a\nrule he considers that this region is more remarkable for climate and\nscenery than for any continued extent of good land; coal exists in this\npart of the colony, and there are some fine stone quarries at Prosser's\nBay, from which the Melbourne post-office was built.\n\nIn conclusion, and to render our brief remarks regarding this colony as\na field for emigration more complete, we add the opinion expressed with\nrespect to the stretch of country lying between the Ramsay River and\nthe west coast of the island, by Mr Charles P. Sprent, who was sent to\nexamine it in the spring of last year. He thinks that it is of little\nuse for agricultural purposes, and that it does not contain any large\namount of valuable timber; but he adds in his Report to the colonial\ngovernment, there are sure indications that this part of Tasmania\nabounds in mineral wealth, although it may be that the search will be\narduous and slow. As in the case of the Hellyer River, so it is with\nthe Pieman; wherever the softer schists occur, gold is found in small\nquantities; and Mr Sprent has not the slightest doubt that in both\nrivers gold will be found in paying quantities, both alluvial and reef\ngold. Tin and gold occurring together in some spots near the Pieman in\nwhat is called 'made' ground, would indicate that the country higher up\nthe river is worthy of examination, and he would recommend prospectors\nto try the neighbourhood of Mount Murchison and the Murchison River. As\nan inducement to prospecting the western country, it may be mentioned\nthat over three hundred ounces of gold have been obtained in one\nseason from the Hellyer River, and that a party of Chinamen have done\nexceedingly well there since that time. Copper has been discovered on\nthe Arthur River in several places; and copper, lead, tin, gold, and\nplatinum have been found in the vicinity of the Parson's Hood and River\nPieman, not to mention the discoveries at Mount Bischoff and Mount\nRamsay.\n\nThe Report upon which this brief account is mainly based will be\nfound in 'Papers relating to Her Majesty's Colonial Possessions, Part\nI. of 1876;' which may be obtained from the offices for the sale of\nParliamentary Papers. The agents of the Board in London are 'The\nEmigrants' and Colonists' Aid Corporation (Limited),' 25 Queen Anne's\nGate, Westminster, to whom all applications for 'Land Order Warrants,'\nas well as general information about the colony, should be made.\n\n\n\n\n'EVER BELIEVE ME AFFECTIONATELY YOURS.'\n\n\n    Ever believe you true? Dear friend,\n      Your words so precious are that I\n    Can but repeat them o'er and o'er,\n      And kiss the paper where they lie.\n    How shall I thank you for this pledge,\n      This sweet assurance, which destroys\n    The doubt that you my love repaid,\n      And changes all my fears to joys?\n\n    Ever believe you true? I _will_!\n      I hold you to this written gage!\n    This shall console me, now you're gone;\n      Still next my heart I'll bear the page;\n    By day and night, where'er I go,\n      It shall my prized companion be;\n    And if a thought would 'gainst you rise,\n      This from all blame shall set you free.\n\n    Ah, need I say, believe _me_ true?\n      You know how tender, yet how strong,\n    This heart's emotions are, how half\n      Of all its throbs to you belong;\n    How fain 'twould burst its prison-walls\n      To nestling beat against your own;\n    How joyous 'twas when you were near,\n      How sadly yearning, now, alone.\n\n    Ay, till the weary life is done,\n      Though we again may never meet,\n    Let's not forget the by-gone days\n      That like a dream passed, swift and sweet;\n    Still let thy knowledge of my love\n      Thy faith in humankind renew,\n    Let that great love still for me plead,\n      And, to the last, believe _me_ true!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPrinted and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,\nand 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_All Rights Reserved._","title":"Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 704: June 23, 1877","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":17431}