Chambers’s Journal, December 11, 1886

In these days of enlightenment, the signs displayed by our inns, taverns, and public-houses are not matters of great or urgent importance to us in the ordinary routine of our daily life. But in times past the case was widely different. For several centuries at least, signs and signboards were matters not only of convenience, but even of necessity. During this time they played a by no means unimportant part in the busy world of trade and commerce, and were of great service to mankind in general in a way they are no longer capable of being. Under these circumstances, it will be easily understood that they gathered around them no small amount of interest, not only of a commercial, but also of a domestic, and even of an historical kind. Many, even of our modern inn-signs, are able to speak instructively to those who trouble to decipher their now somewhat indistinct and illegible meanings. They tell us of the customs of our forefathers, of the superstitious beliefs they held, of the wares they made and dealt in, and of the party strifes in which they engaged. They speak to us also of the great men who had so large a share in the making of English history in bygone times, and are able in many other ways to remind us of the pursuits, the pleasures, the manners, and the customs of our ancestors. It will therefore be worth while to devote some attention to the subject of our modern inn-signs, especially as comparatively little has hitherto been written about them.

The use of signs as a means of distinguishing different houses of business is a custom which has come down to us from times of great antiquity; nevertheless, it is not now at all difficult to discover the reasons which first led to their being employed. During the last and preceding centuries, only an infinitesimally small proportion of the people was able to read and write. In those times it would obviously have been useless for any tradesman to have inscribed his name and occupation, or the number of his house, over his door, as is now done. The words ‘W. & R. Chambers, Publishers,’ would then have conveyed very little meaning, or none at all, to the popular mind. But if each tradesman suspended before his house some easily recognisable device of a pictorial nature, the case would obviously have been different. If the sign thus displayed indicated the nature of the wares sold within, it would answer a double purpose; but in any case, it would serve to mark the particular house displaying it. Signs, too, would be especially useful in distinguishing different establishments in times when many members of the same craft dwelt together in a particular street or quarter. This they used formerly to do, very much more than now; and in the various large cities of the East the custom still to a great extent survives.

In speaking of the origin of the use of signs, it must never be forgotten that in past times they were not confined, as now, almost exclusively to ‘public-houses.’ We have still the sign of the Pole for a barber, the Black Boy for a tobacconist, the Rod and Fish for a tackle-dealer, the Golden Balls for a pawnbroker, and some others; but formerly, almost all houses of business displayed their signs, just as inns and taverns do now. Evidence of this fact is afforded by the imprint of almost any old book published in the seventeenth century. Such books were generally either printed or sold by an individual dwelling at the White Hart, the Red Lion, the Green Dragon, the Golden Tun, or some such sign. Most of Shakspeare’s works, it may be noted, were first issued from houses displaying devices similar to the above, and situated in or near to St Paul’s Churchyard. Were an imprint, like that which each of these works bore, to appear on any modern book, it would certainly convey to many the idea that the volume had been printed at an ordinary ‘public-house.’ In Paris, moreover, to the present day, it is almost or quite as common for ordinary tradesmen to display signs, as it is for hotel-keepers and liquor-sellers to do so. In that city, too, all vendors of firewood and coals have the {786}fronts of their houses painted so as to convey the idea that they are built of rough logs of wood. This device, though not displayed upon a signboard, is in every way of the nature of a modern tradesman’s sign.

In the times when signs were in general use by all tradesmen, it was only natural that each man should endeavour to outdo his neighbours in the obtrusiveness of his signboard. Those firms who advertise on street hoardings do precisely the same kind of thing at the present day; each endeavours, by means of brilliancy of colour or novelty of design, to obtain, through his posters, greater publicity for the wares he deals in, and to attract more attention than his neighbours. Just so, a century or more ago, many ingenious devices were made use of to force into notice the signboards of those days. Some of the boards were made of enormous size; others were painted in flaring colours; others bore striking or amusing objects, likely to be remembered by those who saw them; while others were projected far out into the street, or suspended within elaborate, and often really ornamental, frameworks of iron. When each tradesman thus endeavoured to eclipse the signboards of his neighbours, it may well be imagined that inconvenience was caused to the general public. Complaints that the size and prominence of the signboards prevented the access of sunlight and the free circulation of the air in the narrow London streets, first began to be heard, we are told, as early as the beginning of the fifteenth century, when an order was made to abate the nuisance. In the course of time, however, the evil grew again, till Charles II., in 1667, directed that no signboards were thereafter to hang across the streets, but that they were to be fixed against the sides of the houses. Again, however, as years passed by, the nuisance reappeared. In 1762, large powers were once more granted, and there was a general and final clearing away of the too obtrusive signboards. Old prints and engravings of the last century often give a good idea of the way in which the public streets, both of London and other towns, were once disfigured by these overgrown signboards.

This general demolition in 1762 gave a blow to the use of signboards from which those evidences of past ignorance have never since recovered. But had the conditions which first brought them into existence remained the same, there can be no doubt that the signboards would have again risen, phœnix-like, from their own ruins. Happily those conditions have not remained the same. That knowledge of reading and writing which during the present century has become widespread among all classes, has, it may be truly said, given a death-blow alike to the universal use of signs and to the art of the sign-painter. This, to be sure, is not a matter to call for regret on its own account; nevertheless, the great decline in the use of the old-fashioned pictorial signboards is to be regretted for many reasons. The signs our forefathers used have—as already pointed out—largely interwoven themselves with our history. In losing them, we are losing one of the well-known landmarks of the past. The signs of the Woolpack and the Golden Fleece, for instance, which are still common in the Eastern Counties, are mementos of the time when the woollen trade flourished in that part of England. The sign of the Coach and Horses, still a very frequent sign everywhere, calls to mind the old coaching-days. Our numerous Arms, our many Lions, Bulls, Dragons, Bears, and Horses—red, blue, black, green, or white—and divers other strangely coloured animals, most of which are quite unknown to men of science, are all relics of medieval times, when heraldry was cherished and understood by every one. Many similar instances might be pointed out, did space permit.

Most of the signboards now displayed by our inns and taverns bear strong evidence of their own degradation from the high position they once occupied. Inasmuch as they now usually bear the name of the house in written characters, they show most clearly how entirely forgotten are the reasons which originally led to the adoption of the use of signs. Only now and then do we see a pictorial signboard of the real old-fashioned sort.

This decay in the use of inn-signs, however, is no greater than the decline in importance of the inns themselves. These have, within little more than the last half-century, descended from a position of great importance and prosperity to one of comparative degradation. Few persons of the present day have an adequate idea of the extent to which tavern-life influenced thought and manners fifty, one hundred, or two hundred years ago. Then each man had his tavern, much as we now have our clubs and reading-rooms; there he nightly met his friends, heard the high-priced London newspapers read aloud, and discussed the political and business topics of the time. Dickens, in Barnaby Rudge, has well sketched the select village company which for many years had met nightly at the old Maypole to tipple and debate. Ale was the universal beverage on these occasions; and in days when there were no colossal breweries at Burton, Romford, or elsewhere, the fame of any tavern was great or small according to the skill of the landlord or his servants in producing this beverage. Inns, too, formed the stopping-places of the many coaches of a hundred years ago, and at them were kept the numerous horses then required for the traffic. In the old coaching-days, indeed, many a small town or village on any main road consisted largely or chiefly of inns; and supplying the necessaries for the passing traffic may be said to have formed the ‘local industry’ by which the inhabitants of such places lived. Thus the inns of olden times combined to a large extent within themselves the various uses to which modern clubs, reading-rooms, institutes, railway stations, eating-houses, hotels, public-houses, livery stables, and the like, are now severally put. Then they were the centres round which most events of the time revolved; now they are little more than tippling-houses for the lower classes.

The various devices used as signs are of infinite variety and varying degrees of interest, from the Heads, or portraits, of modern political, naval, or {787}military celebrities, to such signs as the Rose and Crown, the Fleur-de-Lys, the Spread Eagle, the Cross Keys, our numerous Arms, fantastically coloured animals of all kinds, and many other similar devices. Signs of the former kind require little or no explanation; they are usually modern and uninteresting vulgarisms, and their meanings are self-apparent. With signs of the latter class, however, the case is generally far different, and a search for their original significance, often much obscured by the mists of antiquity, is usually an interesting one. As a rule, such signs will be found to have been derived from the armorial bearings of some sovereign, noble, or other historical personage.

From the quaint and now almost forgotten science of heraldry, indeed, has been derived a large majority of our oldest and most interesting signs. This fact need cause no surprise when it is remembered that in former days every one was familiar with this so-called ‘science.’ The incomprehensible jargon, spoken of as ‘blazon’ by heraldic writers, and the various devices appearing on all modern coats of arms, though little more nowadays than grotesque hieroglyphics to most, were once read and perfectly understood even by the common people. A knowledge of heraldry was once, probably, as general as a knowledge of the ‘three Rs’ is now. It was no wonder, therefore, that the idea early suggested itself to the minds of tradesmen and others to use their own coats of arms—when they had any—or those of the great trade guild to which they belonged, or those of their landlord, or some patron, as signs. This convenient custom, once established, would be sure to be largely followed; there can, indeed, be no question that in this way arose the custom of naming houses the ‘So-and-so Arms.’ At the present time, the custom itself remains, though its origin has been almost entirely lost sight of. Many inns have in consequence come to be known as the Arms of persons, trades, places, and things which never did, and never could bear, a coat of arms. Such signs, for instance, as the Lilliput Arms, the Cricketers’ Arms, and the Libra Arms, are modern and meaningless absurdities. Clearly the origin of the sign of the King’s Arms had never occurred to the simple clodhopper of whom it is related that he once walked many miles to see King George IV. on one of his journeys, and who came home greatly disappointed; for he found the king had arms like other men, while he had always understood that His Majesty’s right arm was a lion, and his left a unicorn. Arms of various kinds form a large proportion of our modern signs, often as much as ten per cent., and sometimes double that in particular districts. As a general rule, where a house has displayed for many years together an armorial sign, the ‘coat’ will be found to be that of the largest landowner or most prominent personage in the district.

When the general knowledge of heraldry began to decline, and armorial bearings fell largely into disuse, many houses, formerly known as the ‘Somebody’s Arms,’ probably came gradually to be called after, and distinguished by, the most prominent ‘charge’ in the coat, or after the ‘crest’ or one of the ‘supporters,’ which might have been, in heraldic blazon, a lion gules (red), a boar azure (blue), a white hart, or a rose crowned. Thus undoubtedly originated many strange signs which are still common.

The personal ‘badges’ adopted by kings and great nobles in early times, and worn on the arm by their servants and retainers, have also given origin to many similar signs. Thus, the White Hart—one of our very commonest signboard devices—represents the favourite badge of King Richard II., although the white hart has also a legendary existence. The Rose and Crown—another extremely abundant sign—owes its existence to the fact that most of the earlier English sovereigns used a rose crowned as a badge. The Blue Boar, the badge of the once powerful De Veres, Earls of Oxford, is to this day commoner in the county of Essex, where lay the family seat, than anywhere else. The Red Lion, another of our very commonest signs, is probably in the same way derived from the personal badge of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, though it doubtless represents also the lion in the arms of Scotland. As a rule, fantastically coloured animals will be found to have had an heraldic origin. Creatures in their natural colours either may or may not have been derived from heraldry; thus, the Greyhound, though it has figured both as the badge, and one or both of the ‘supporters’ of the arms of several English sovereigns, may owe its frequent appearance on the signboard to its modern use in the coursing-field. In the case of the White Horse, too, a very common sign, it is difficult now to decide whether it represents the White Horse of the Saxons, or that of the House of Hanover, or one of the many white horses to be seen in our streets.

The number Three, it will be found, occurs on signboards in most districts more than twice as often as all other numbers put together. This may be partly explained by the fact that three has been regarded as a lucky number from very early times. It is, however, extremely common for three ‘charges’—that is, objects—to appear on coats of arms; and there can be no doubt that very many of our modern Threes have had, either directly or indirectly, an heraldic origin. Among signs which have, in all probability, been derived directly from heraldry, may be mentioned the Three Cups, taken from the arms of the Salters’ Company; the Three Tuns, from the arms either of the Brewers’ or the Vintners’ Companies; the Three Compasses, from the armorial bearings of the Carpenters’ Company; the Three Pigeons, probably derived from the arms of the Tallow-chandlers’ Company; the Three Fleurs-de-Lys—formerly, though not now, a common sign—taken from the arms of France; and many others. To this class also belongs the sign of the Three Golden Balls, still displayed by every pawnbroker. The balls, it is said, represent certain round gilt objects, technically known as ‘bezants,’ which formed part of the coat of arms of the dukes of Medici, from whose states and from Lombardy most of the early bankers came. These capitalists advanced money on valuable objects, and thus gradually became pawnbrokers. The custom of naming houses the ‘Three Somethings’ still survives, although the origin of that custom has been lost sight of. Thus, we get such meaningless absurdities as the Three Jolly Wheelers (whatever they may be), the Three Mariners, the {788}Three Loggerheads, and various others, which may be said to have had an indirectly heraldic origin.

Many signs, too, once formed a ‘rebus’ or pun on the names of the persons who displayed them; such signs are not now common, though they appear frequently on the ‘tokens’ issued so numerously by tradesmen in the seventeenth century. Most of these bore the sign under which their issuers traded. Thus, we find Three Conies, or rabbits, on those of Hugh Conny; a Finch on those of John Finch; a Hand and Cock representing Hancock; and a Babe and Tun representing Babington.

Many most absurd and altogether incongruous combinations still appear on our signboards, though these are not so abundant as formerly; thus, we have the Sun and Whalebone, the Dog and Gridiron, the Plough and Sail, the Crown and Blacksmith, the Bull and Horseshoe, and numerous others. In some cases, a connection between the two objects is obvious; every one, for instance, will be able to see what brought together on a signboard the Cat and Fiddle, the Eagle and Child, the Dog and Partridge, George and the Dragon, &c. But in the case of the examples given above, there is no connection between the two objects referred to, and their combination is quite meaningless. They have in most cases arisen from an ancient custom of adding the sign of the old house to that of the new, when a tradesman has been removing from one place of business to another; or else an apprentice, when beginning business on his own account, has added some sign of his own selection to that of the master under whom he formerly served.

Not a few signs for which no likely meaning or derivation can be found are in all probability corruptions; that is to say, they were originally set up to commemorate some person, object, or event of, perhaps, only local celebrity. In the course of time, this became forgotten; and under vulgar pronunciation—or, possibly, on the advent of a new landlord, who knew nothing of the original meaning of the device—the sign was changed to something else which it seemed to imply or nearly resemble. Thus, it is said the sign of the George Canning has become changed into the George and Cannon, and that of the Island Queen into the Iceland Queen. In Oxfordshire there is a house with the sign of the Sheep and Anchor, which probably was once the Ship and Anchor. Another house, in Hertfordshire, formerly had a ship in full sail represented on its signboard; of late years, however, the board has merely been inscribed the Ship; and quite recently, on the advent of a new landlord who had been a cattle-dealer, the sign was changed to that of the Sheep.

Inn-signs have in some cases been painted by artists of considerable eminence. An interesting account of various instances in which this has been the case will be found in the volume of this Journal for 1881, page 107.

Want of space obviously prevents any attempt being here made to explain in detail the origin and meanings of all our innumerable existing signs. The last edition of the London Directory enumerates no fewer than seventeen hundred and forty-two distinct devices as appearing in the metropolis alone. All that it is possible to do here is to indicate in a general way the manner in which most of our modern signs originated, and that has now been done.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Enid stood looking at her mysterious visitor in some perplexity. There was something almost weird about the strange woman’s beauty; but in obedience, she seated herself to listen.

‘I have a strange story to tell,’ Isodore commenced. ‘For a long while now I have been watching over your welfare. Do not think me personal or rude in any questions I may ask. Believe me, I do not for one moment wish to pain you; indeed, on the other hand, I wish to do you a great service.’

Enid inclined her head gently. ‘Perhaps it will be as well to have as perfect confidence between us as possible. You already know my name. Will you be so good as to tell me to whom I owe this visit?’

Enid looked at her visitor in interest and admiration. This, then, was the beautiful mystery about whom Maxwell had often spoken, the princess to whom the fatal Brotherhood owed allegiance. Then she grew frigid. Had it not been for her and such as her, Frederick would have been with her now.

‘You misjudge me,’ Isodore continued sadly, for she had read the other’s thoughts as easily as an open book. ‘Believe me, had I known, Mr Maxwell would never have been sent to Rome. But if I am to continue, I must have your confidence. What if I tell you your lover is in England now?’

‘In England, and never came to see me!’ Enid exclaimed with a little gasp. ‘Impossible! He would surely have written.’

‘Nevertheless, it is perfectly true, though he only arrived yesterday. He would have come to you, or written, had I not forbidden him.’

‘Because things were not ready,’ Isodore replied calmly. ‘I did not take a journey to Rome at the hazard of my life, to rescue him from a great danger, to have my plans upset at the last moment. If it had not been for me, Mr Maxwell would not be alive now.’ Isodore could not restrain herself sufficiently to conceal this touch of womanly feeling.

Enid’s face softened strangely. ‘I have heard of you. Forgive me, if I seem cold, but I have been severely tried lately,’ she said. ‘You do not know what a load you have taken off my mind; and yet, perhaps’—— She stopped abruptly; her thoughts turned in the direction of Le Gautier, and wondering how she could face her lover now.

‘And yet,’ Isodore replied—‘and yet you would see a way out of the difficulty into which {789}the miserable schemes of Le Gautier have placed you? Do I speak plainly, or shall I be more explicit?’

The random shot went home; Enid’s face flushed crimson to the fair curls lying on her forehead. ‘You speak plainly enough,’ she faltered. ‘You need say no more. I am dazed and bewildered by your wonderful knowledge.’

‘It will be clear enough presently. The clouds are dark now; but I see rays of light here and there. Do you study spiritualism?’

‘No,’ Enid answered, puzzled by the abruptness and inconsequence of the question. ‘I cannot say that I have. But why?’

‘If your father is in the house, I shall be glad to see him. Will you be good enough to ascertain if he can be seen?’

‘If I tell him he is wanted on supernatural affairs, he will come.’ Enid smiled as she rang the bell. ‘It is his craze.’

After a little pause, the baronet entered the room, and, like his daughter, stood inthralled by the visitor’s perfect beauty. He bowed low; in spite of his age, he was a lover of the beautiful still. He looked up admiringly in the perfect eyes, and waited for her to speak.

‘Bless me!’ the startled baronet exclaimed at this unceremonious opening. ‘Swindled, deluded, I? Who by? Impossible!’

Sir Geoffrey stared in open-mouthed amazement; even the breeding of the Charterises did not rise to this occasion. Enid’s heart gave one leap, and then began to beat violently. She was conscious of some coming revelations of the deepest interest to her, and waited with impatience for Isodore to speak.

‘Some time ago, you went to a house near Paddington. You will please correct me if I am in error, Sir Geoffrey. During your presence there you saw several startling manifestations: you were commanded to do certain things, one of which affected deeply your daughter’s happiness, and which, by some happy accident, were equally acceptable to Le Gautier. Am I right?’

‘Perfectly,’ the baronet gasped. ‘And I need not say they will be carried out to the letter. I believe’——

‘I beg your pardon,’ Sir Geoffrey interposed politely, ready to do battle in defence of his pet scheme. ‘I cannot agree with you. Le Gautier’——

‘Is a low adventurer. I am not talking idly; I can prove every word I say. This very morning, I was at Paddington, and saw the manifestation room, or whatever you may choose to call it. At the back of the room is a large mirror; over the window is another. Preparations for the manufacture of visions to suit any taste were manifest. And one thing in conclusion: the girl who personated your better self and your dead brother, who never was married, is at present under your roof. She is Linda Despard, the girl who met with the accident in Piccadilly.’

Sir Geoffrey began to feel uncomfortable, and moreover experienced a twinge of common-sense. There was something so horribly realistic about the beautiful stranger’s story, that it shook his faith to its foundation. ‘But really, such an extraordinary tale,’ he stammered, ‘and everything appeared so real. I cannot doubt, the likeness to my brother was so perfect. Am I mad that I should believe this?’

‘If you will excuse me for a moment and permit me to see this Linda Despard, I will introduce you to your brother in a few moments.—Miss Charteris, have I your permission?’

‘You have my permission to do anything which will clear up the wretched mystery,’ Enid cried passionately. ‘Even now, I am totally at a loss to know what you are speaking of. Go! Do anything you may desire, so that we can have a little quietness hereafter.’

Without another word, Isodore vanished, leaving Sir Geoffrey pacing the drawing-room in great perturbation and casting uneasy glances in Enid’s direction. He was not convinced yet, but his doubts were troublesome. ‘It is all nonsense,’ he exclaimed. ‘I saw with my own eyes’——

The baronet looked up, and there, standing in the doorway, saw Isodore, holding by the hand a figure dressed in a slouch-hat and enveloped in a cloak. For a moment, he staggered back in amazement: it was the lost Ughtred to the life!

‘This is the long-lost brother,’ Isodore continued.—‘Linda, throw your hat away, and tell Sir Geoffrey the tale you told Lucrece.—Listen, Sir Geoffrey, and you will hear something entertaining, and Miss Charteris something that will restore the bloom to her cheeks.’

Linda Despard pushed her hat aside, and stood, half-boldly, half-timidly, before the startled baronet. There were tears in her eyes as she looked at Enid.

‘But what can this possibly have to do with Le Gautier?’ Sir Geoffrey demanded.

Isodore waved him aside haughtily. ‘Much, if you will have patience,’ she said.—‘Linda, you had best commence. We are trifling.’

There was an air of command in these words there was no disputing. Enid sank into a chair pale but collected, the baronet standing behind her, looking anything but comfortable. Lucrece took up her place beside her mistress. Isodore stood through the interview.

‘Well, I will do anything to help that angel of mercy who has been so good and kind to me!’ the actress commenced, with a grateful glance at Enid. ‘I tried to do her a great injury; but, thank heaven, I am not too late to save her yet. I am much to blame; but this is a hard world, and there are times when a few shillings are a godsend to me. It is not a long story. Lucrece here, and Isodore, knew my husband, and how he used to treat me, beating, half-starving me, and taking all my earnings to spend at the cafés. Well, I put up with that life as long as I could; and then, after one awful night, I left him. I came to England, and brought my boy with me. After some hardships, I contrived to get a situation in a London theatre under a new name. It was only a small part, for my imperfect English was against me. One night, some months ago, as I was coming out of the theatre, I met Le Gautier. I had known {790}him in better days, and though I was not ignorant of his character, it was pleasant to hear the old familiar tongue again. It appeared he had been in the theatre, and recognised me, and waited to say a few words as I came out. Time went on, and he was really kind to me. Through his influence I obtained a rise of salary, and I was grateful. What he really wanted with me you shall hear presently.’ The narrator paused a moment here, and looked round in the eager faces. Every sound could be heard distinctly—the ticking of the clocks, and Sir Geoffrey’s heavy breathing. ‘One night he came to my lodgings,’ the speaker resumed, ‘and then he asked me if I had forgotten the old spiritualism tricks. I must tell you that once on a time I travelled the continent with a company that played ghostly pieces, such, for instance, as translations of Dickens’ Christmas Carol, a simple thing, a mere optical illusion, what you call Pepper’s Ghost. I told him I thought I could remember, and then he made a proposal to me. I never hesitated; the pay was too good for that. I was to meet Le Gautier at a house near Paddington one night, and go through the old tricks for a gentleman deeply interested in spiritualism. I learnt my lesson well. I was first to personate the better self of the spectator, and afterwards the spirit of his brother.’

‘I interest you now. I thought I should. I knew at the time, to my shame let me confess it, from the things I had to say, that the spectator was to be got into Le Gautier’s power. Well, the night came; the simple apparatus was fixed; everything promised well. I was a bit nervous, for I was out of practice, and I wanted to see what sort of a man the victim was. While they were at dinner, I looked into the room, and there I saw the gentleman whom I now know to be Sir Geoffrey Charteris. When I saw your credulous face,’ the narrator continued, addressing the baronet, ‘I was no longer afraid. Presently, when it became dark and they sat over their wine, I listened till a word agreed upon was uttered by Le Gautier, and I commenced. First, there was some music, sounding strangely enough in the room, but not to me, for I played it. That was simple to an unbeliever with ordinary nerves; then came flashes of light, also easy enough; and when I deemed I had created a sufficient sense of fear, I entered the room. It was quite dark by that time, and I was dressed from head to foot in close garments. I touched Sir Geoffrey on the face and whispered in his ear; and once when he showed signs of unbelief, I clutched him by the throat and nearly strangled him.—Sir Geoffrey, if I make a mistake in a single particular, correct me.’

‘You are perfectly correct,’ the baronet answered, flushing scarlet. ‘Pray, continue. You do not know what the suspense is to me.’

‘Had you been quick and strong of nerve, you would have found it out then, for, as it was, you grasped my arm, covered in wet eel-skins, a creepy thing to touch in the dark, even if you know what it is. That was the first part of the performance, and then the real business commenced in earnest. Le Gautier led you to a room at the back of the house, a room draped in black cloth, and seated you in a certain spot, daring you to move at your peril. I wonder I did not laugh at this; I did once or twice, I know, so that I had to finish with an hysterical scream, which had the advantage of relieving me and heightening the effect. Well, the jugglery commenced—the meanest trickery, hardly sufficient to deceive a child. It was easy enough to work it under cover of the incense and smoke; for behind your chair, Sir Geoffrey, the curtains were pulled back and a mirror exposed. I stood upon a pedestal in the window, behind another mirror. The illusion is perfect, and all I had to do was to ask and answer questions. I got through the first part of the performance well enough; but when I had to personate Sir Geoffrey’s brother, the case was different. Had you, sir, been calm and collected, you must have discovered. I personated the spirit of your brother, desiring penance for some fancied wrong done to my children; and to heighten the effect, two ragged little boys were introduced to personate the dead man’s starving and abandoned family. Frightened almost to death by the fear of being haunted, Sir Geoffrey, you promised me anything. You promised to join some League, the meaning of which I do not know, to carry out your dead brother’s work; and last, but not least, that my good angel and preserver there should become Le Gautier’s wife. The illusion was perfect, and a little of Le Gautier’s matchless ventriloquism completed it.—And now,’ the speaker continued, running forward and falling at Enid’s feet, ‘let me implore your forgiveness! My benefactress, how grateful I am that I have been able to serve you!’

‘I have nothing to forgive,’ Enid replied. ‘You have taken far too great a load off my mind for me to reproach you now.’

‘But the whole thing is inexplicable to me,’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed. ‘How did you manage to impersonate my late brother so accurately?’

Linda Despard smiled and pointed to a photograph album. ‘Easy enough with plenty of these about. What simpler than to abstract a likeness from one of these books and give it me! With my theatrical training and knowledge of make-up, the task was nothing.’

‘I am all the more astonished,’ Isodore remarked, ‘that the audacity of the command relating to Miss Enid did not open your eyes.’

‘But you understand Le Gautier professed to know nothing of what had taken place,’ Sir Geoffrey explained. ‘I even had to broach the subject to him. He never by any chance alluded to it.’

‘Such cunning as his always proves too deep for simple honesty. I need not ask if you believe what you have heard, Sir Geoffrey?’

‘Indeed, I do.—Enid, my child, come and kiss me, and say you forgive your foolish old father. Take me away into the country, where people cannot find me. I am not fit to mix with men of sense; and, O Enid, as soon as it is convenient, tell Varley to go into the library and pick out all the works he can find on spiritualism and burn them.’

‘From the bottom of my heart. You have done me a service to-day which I cannot forget, or indeed ever repay.—And to you, Isodore, if {791}I may call you so, I am grateful. You will pardon me if I seemed harsh or hard when you came here, but I have distrusted every one of late.’

‘You have no cause to thank me,’ Isodore replied simply. ‘I am afraid I must confess that it is not entirely upon your behalf I have done this thing.’

Isodore turned quickly from the window. ‘Le Gautier is coming up the steps,’ she exclaimed. ‘He must not see me here now, or everything will be ruined. I must see you again before I leave the house. Where can I hide? I would not have him discover me now for ten thousand pounds!’

So much praise has been lavished on dogs and horses, as exceptionally favoured friends, that scant measure of justice is meted to equally deserving if less popular animals. Notably is this the case towards one animal which Shakspeare, with all his marvellous knowledge of creation, has denominated the ‘harmless, necessary cat.’ Persons most familiar with the feline race will indeed plead their cause enthusiastically; but such honourable exceptions are few and far between. Those who consider no luxury too costly for the indulgence of a dog, think it no sin to tacitly countenance—if not worse—any amount of harsh treatment or indifference that may under the same roof be accorded to a cat. The origin of so unfair and ignorant a prejudice is somewhat difficult to trace; for, in point of fact, one is no more faultless than the other, although their failings are very differently judged and condoned. At the generality of houses, cats are merely tolerated—as a choice between two evils—lest rats and mice should abound; and supposed to fare sumptuously on such prey, even where, through ill-requited service, none are to be found. When theft or destruction of fragile articles is discovered, blame is usually awarded in one convenient quarter only; whereas the accused thereby is too often made a scapegoat for the shortcomings of others. An animal may be driven by sheer hunger to purloin food, because, through inhumanity, none has been given. A clear case of justifiable larceny! Dumb plaintiffs, unable to employ counsel, can tell no tales. Could they contradict plausible but false evidence, how many high and hitherto unimpeachable reputations for honesty and veracity would perish!

Cats, in the abstract, might well exclaim with Shylock, ‘Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.’ They nevertheless have numerous estimable qualities, from which little credit is derived. They are devoted mothers as a rule, guarding their young at the risk of life itself; facing opponents on their behalf from which, by nature, they would fly in abject terror; playing juvenile games, even at an advanced age, to amuse their kittens; keeping them sleek and glossy as satin, while patiently teaching those accomplishments that they will need when left to their unaided resources in after-life. A pattern for the imitation of too many parents. Notwithstanding such creditable traits of character, kittens are mercilessly destroyed; though some of all other progeny are spared, out of consideration for maternal affection and well-being. A cat is vulgarly said to have ‘nine lives;’ but, in sober truth, the single existence it can lay claim to is seldom open to envy. Without entering here upon details of many cruelties almost too barbarous for belief, it cannot be ignored that boys, and even men, not otherwise supposed to be utterly devoid of common humanity, think nothing of allowing this most unoffending animal to be deliberately tortured to death by dogs, or similarly revolting practices. They appear to be under a delusion that there is something manly in expressing detestation of cats, while professing fondness for animals in general, and choosing for pets very uninviting specimens. Sundry so-called ‘sports’—save the mark!—are now happily illegal; offenders in brutality towards cats are rarely convicted; and—under the present imperfect state of the law for the protection of dumb animals—can then be only very inadequately punished.

Cats are tolerably popular in stables, where they are able to render good return for their lodging at little cost for board. They become greatly attached to horses, their favourite sleeping-place being frequently on a horse’s back; a strange selection, which yet appears to be mutually agreeable. It has been widely said that cats are incapable of any great degree of affection, and that the small amount evinced is for their home, and not its inmates. They are, in addition, considered unable to learn tricks and actions which make dogs such amusing companions. It is also thought to be much more difficult to cure the former of faults and natural aversions. Too great reliance may, however, be placed on these assertions. A bad name is easily acquired where champions are few and little intimacy is allowed. ‘Leading the life of a cat and dog,’ for instance, is popularly supposed to represent the reverse of harmony; yet some cats and dogs—which have not been made enemies—become devoted friends, affording an illustration of peaceful unanimity that many of their biped detractors might profitably imitate. Again, cats, though they have a decided instinct for killing birds, have been taught to abstain from molesting those in cages. Two cases came under the writer’s notice where cats were left constantly in places filled with birds, yet never injured any, having been early impressed by the idea that there are birds and birds, some species requiring even protection from harm. The home of one conscientious creature was at a bird-fancier’s shop, and no breach of faith resulted from the watchman’s being left nightly on guard. The experiment might be hazardous to quote, but other examples could be mentioned. A few well-authenticated anecdotes may clear away some mistaken notions, and tend to the saving of helpless animals from cruelty and neglect.

A military chaplain, when living with his family at Madras, had a favourite cat. Having to change his residence, he removed to another side of the city, a distance of several miles. The in-coming tenant’s wife took a great fancy to the cat, and begged that it might be transferred with the house. Through fear that it {792}would be lost in going so far from familiar haunts, added to the knowledge that a good home would be given, and, more especially, because poor Puss was then in delicate health, she was, after much hesitation, allowed to remain. About three weeks afterwards, the chaplain’s wife sitting in the drawing-room of her new home, was amazed to see their old friend enter the veranda, spring into her lap, overwhelming her with caresses, and showing every possible demonstration of delight at their reunion. It was assumed that she had, in an unaccountable manner, come to take up her quarters where an unequivocal welcome was received. Towards evening, the visitor disappeared, as mysteriously as she had arrived, returning the following day, but this time not alone, for in her mouth was a very small kitten, which she gently laid at the feet of her mistress with a pleading and most eloquent expression, as though craving for sanctuary. It need hardly be said that both refugees were incorporated into the household. Upon inquiry, it was ascertained that one kitten only had been spared out of a family born at the former residence. With this ‘sole daughter of her house and heart,’ the faithful creature had travelled to those she had ‘loved and lost a while.’ How such a journey could have been thrice accomplished, through the intricate and wholly unknown streets of so large and populous a city as Madras, bringing on the last occasion so young a kitten safely with her, surmounting all the difficulties and dangers of such a formidable transit, is inexplicable, and must certainly be deemed a marvellous feat. No member of the chaplain’s family had visited their old home, not even a servant had passed between the two localities, nor had the new tenants called on the original inhabitants. The extraordinary reflection and foresight shown in first taking the journey alone to insure success, and then fetching the fragile little being prudently left behind, is perhaps the most curious part of this ‘owre true tale.’ It will be conceded readily that this strong attachment could only have been for those with whom she had so long and happily dwelt. Truth is again stranger than fiction.

A lady living near Eton College—close to that memorable spot, dear to the heart of Eton boys, ‘Chalvey Ditch’—possessed, amongst her children’s many pets, a beautifully marked tortoiseshell cat, whose ‘lot had fallen in a fair ground,’ amidst ‘the smooth stones of the stream.’ When the lady’s sons left college, she removed to London—where the cat would not only have led an unhappy life, after roaming about of her own free will, but would probably have been lost—she was, to the sincere regret of her young companions, presented to some friends living at a considerable distance in Windsor Forest, where a luxurious home was offered. A family from elsewhere took the remainder of the lady’s lease off her hands, through which arrangement the following story came to light. When writing on business, the question was asked if the lady while living near Eton had amongst her pets a beautifully marked tortoiseshell cat; which being answered in the affirmative, a striking proof of intelligence was narrated. Not long after possession was taken, such a cat—identified by minute description—arrived during the night, and was found next morning, with a newly born family of kittens, in an outhouse—her chosen lodging on previous interesting occasions—having found her way from far in the Forest, whither she had been taken after dark, through or round Eton and Windsor, and thence to her once happy home. It may be a disputed point in this instance whether such fidelity to old associations might be attributed to love for the house or its former owners. Nevertheless, from the warm affection shown by the cat towards the latter, no doubt was felt on the subject by those best able to decide. They were gone beyond her reach, but she had done her utmost, in loving memory of them.

Some boys were observed in a Welsh village carrying a very small snow-white kitten, with ‘eyes of most celestial blue,’ and being asked its destination, stated that they were about to consign the pretty little creature to an early and a watery grave; from which cruel fate it was promptly rescued by right of purchase. The kitten being too young to quit its bereaved parent, was temporarily returned to her charge, she having in the interim been placed on board-wages. This presumably equitable plan, from some hidden reason, did not answer, and the juvenile pensioner seemed far from thriving. Taffy’s peculiar notions as to meum and tuum may have had something to do with the failure. Prematurely removed to its proprietor’s care, the junior member was patiently reared by hand. This Samaritan-like deed brought fairly earned reward, for the foundling grew into a very handsome cat, and became a highly prized favourite. So great was the love of ‘Jenny Lind’ for those who had saved her from death, subsequently, under domestic difficulties, bringing her to full years of discretion, that although accompanying them in several long journeys, and living in many temporary homes, she never once offered to leave them. Petted and coveted by newer friends, she remained loyal in her allegiance to the end of her days. Another proof of attachment to persons, not places.

A cat belonging to a gentleman resident about eight miles from London, was given to a brewer living at a distant part of the metropolis; taken there after dark in a closed basket placed in a covered wagon. A fortnight had elapsed, when the poor animal, weary and footsore, walked into her former master’s kitchen, and lay down in its accustomed corner by the fire, purring with joy at having reached the old home. Such fidelity was deservedly rewarded.

A lady visiting a bird-fancier’s shop, was struck by the beauty and size of an Angora cat exhibited for sale, imprisoned in a large parrot’s cage. The captive effectually pleading for pity by licking her hand, was purchased and taken home. After some years, the cat was removed with his mistress to Brighton, though under protest as to future reformation. Tom was then probably one of the largest of his species, and universally admired. He had adopted an apparently incurable habit of sharpening his claws on a highly polished dining-room table; and also committed sad havoc amongst the flowers in the garden of his new abode, spending {793}a great portion of leisure time luxuriously lying in the sunshine, amidst mignonette, &c. A decree of banishment was at length unwillingly issued, and poor innocently erring Tom forthwith departed to a country rectory, where he was much valued. Every kindness that could conduce to his comfort was shown, all his special tastes as to diet consulted; but the exile remained inconsolable. He never attempted to return, not seeming to have sufficient energy left to attempt aught in self-defence; he simply gave himself up to despair. It was vainly hoped that time would reconcile the mourner to his changed lot, but matters only grew worse, the cat pining and fretting till he became the shadow of his former self. He could not twine ‘fantastick garlands,’ or utter an altogether ‘melodious lay,’ like ‘the fair Ophelia,’ but wandered aimlessly about the garden, eating little except green fruit and such strange fare; dying, after a brief period, literally of a broken heart. The chief object of this devoted love was the cook he had left behind him. The attachment, unlike that of Shakspeare’s ill-starred heroine, may not have been a romantic one; still, it was purely disinterested, unwavering amidst all mere worldly temptations.

Poor faithful Tom gave the sole offering he had to give—his life. If it be true that ‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,’ it was in the above case proved to be a cat’s ‘whole existence.’

As an illustration of maternal devotion, the ensuing fact was contributed by a relative. A little girl had set her heart on capturing a wild kitten, which resolutely refused to enter human habitations, neither would it allow any one to go near it, having thus from its birth led a truly Bohemian life. An old gardener told the child, in forcible language, that she might as well try to catch Lucifer himself. Children are not easily daunted in such kindred pursuits, acting confidently on the understanding that everything comes to those who wait. By very slow degrees the waif was first cautiously approached, next timidly caressed, then borne triumphantly home, and finally installed there as a favoured guest. From having been literally in a savage state, it soon became remarkably gentle and domesticated, by the same principle that no rabbit grows so thoroughly tame as the wild species. She was also, during after-years, extremely fond of her young, several of which were reared without disaster; but upon one occasion the cat came to her mistress in a sadly distressed state of mind, eagerly trying to induce her to follow it. Compliance being for the moment put off, the suppliant left in dire grief; presently coming back carrying a dead kitten, which was laid before her friend with bitter lamentations. This being taken away, she brought, one by one, every member of a luckless family, none of which had seen the light. They were then buried, the mother remaining a picture of sorrow. It was hoped the curtain had fallen over the final scene of a domestic tragedy; but the interment could not have been properly carried out, for she dug them up, and again brought each successively into the house, after which they were more effectually disposed of. A long time elapsed before the poor creature could be consoled for their loss.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.

Another week passed by, Edith growing more and more prostrate each day, and I was very anxious to hear from Dr Archer. At last arrived a letter, in a hand disguised as a lady’s, on girlish light-blue note-paper, with ‘Helen’ stamped on it. These precautions would have made me smile, had I not known how necessary they were. All the letters which entered the house had first to undergo Mrs Morrell’s scrutiny.

‘I am utterly baffled,’ he wrote, in a very shaky hand. ‘The experiment from which I hoped so much has turned out an utter failure. All the substances submitted to me have been subjected to the most minute and delicate tests known to science, without discovering in any one of them the slightest trace of arsenic, or any other poison. I am in despair. I know that somehow my darling’s life is being undermined by poison, and yet I cannot trace it. I am powerless to interfere. I have nothing but suspicion to go upon, and dare not apply for a magistrate’s warrant. My only hope is in you, Miss Armitage!’

I knew I was but a slender reed to trust to; and I went up-stairs to the sickroom, feeling miserable to the last degree. Mrs Morrell was seated by the bedside. Edith looked paler and thinner than ever. She moaned out, when she saw me, that she was ‘so thirsty;’ and had hardly been supplied with a cooling draught, when the racking cramps from which she had lately suffered so terribly, came on, and she writhed in every limb. I wiped the cold dews from her forehead, afraid at the moment that she was dying, the attack was so terribly severe, and seemed to exhaust her so much. By-and-by, she fell into a doze, and Mrs Morrell went out of the room. Feeling perfectly desperate, I commenced a thorough search through the apartment for anything suspicious, without finding the smallest thing which could serve as a clue. Probably I aroused the invalid, for, in returning to the bedside, I found her staring at me with the fixed gaze of a sick person.

‘Edith, dear, tell me, have you ever seen Mrs Morrell—or anybody—put any powder or liquid into your medicine or your food? Have you ever noticed that it had a disagreeable taste, or a sediment at the bottom?’

‘No, never,’ she answered, with evident surprise. Her brain was clear enough between the paroxysms. ‘Never, Alice.’

Just then, a tap sounded at the door, and purblind old Dr Stevens came tottering in, nearly upsetting a small table, and seeming scarcely able to hold his patient’s wrist firm in his shaky old fingers. I watched him with the maddening feeling, that if ever two unscrupulous poisoners had the very medical man most desirable in their case, it was these two. Mrs Morrell came into the room, as usual during his visits, and followed him down-stairs.

I waylaid her later on in the day and asked her what Dr Stevens had said. She replied, that unfortunately their darling was very ill, but while there was life there was hope. Then summoning all my nerve, I boldly asked that I might be allowed to sit up with Edith that night. She looked rather astonished, then, thanking me warmly for my ‘kind offer,’ declined on the plea of not robbing me of my rest. I replied that it was not fair that she should have all the night-nursing; but all I got was a very decided ‘No.’

I went away convinced that the danger, whatever it was, was reserved for the night. When the invalid was left alone with her traitorous nurse, in some form the poison was administered.

‘Does Mrs Morrell sit beside you all night?’ I asked Edith, next time we were alone.

‘O no. She would, if I wanted her; but I don’t like it. It fidgets me to see her. Besides, I generally sleep pretty well the first part of the night. She puts on her dressing-gown and lies on the bed in the next room, ready to come if I call her.’

The mystery only seemed to grow the more inscrutable, the further I pursued it. I went thoughtfully to my room, in search of a book I was reading aloud to Edith, promising to return immediately. As I stooped to lift the volume from a low shelf, the one ring I wore, which had always been a great deal too large for me, slipped from my finger and rolled away across the floor, to disappear underneath the hangings of my large, old-fashioned bedstead. Much annoyed, and anxious to recover it, for it was priceless to me as my dear mother’s engagement ring, I went down on my hands and knees and tried to find it; but in vain. The darkness under the massive draperies was complete, and I could see nothing in the shadow.

I looked round for a light. But there was no gas at the Hall, and my candlestick was carried down-stairs every morning by the housemaid, to reappear no more until late in the evening, on the slab in the hall. I scarcely liked to ring for it, for my position disposed me to trouble the servants as little as possible. All at once, I recollected that the candlesticks were never taken out of Edith’s room, and that I could borrow one of hers. I did so, and lighted it, and setting it on the floor, I soon found my ring.

‘How badly that candle burns, to be sure!’ I remarked to myself as I rose to my feet. ‘The wax cannot be good.’ The light was anything but pure, being of a peculiar reddish colour; and the flame sputtered so much, that more than once I thought it was going out. At the same time it gave off a fine white smoke.

I stood watching the sputtering flame for some minutes, much puzzled, until I remembered that the invalid was alone all this time. So I carried the candle, still burning, back to her room. To explain my delay, I pointed out what I had noticed, saying that I thought the servants must have substituted some inferior articles of their own for good wax candles, either from carelessness or dishonesty.

‘The servants never meddle with my candlesticks,’ said Edith languidly. ‘They are not sent down to the kitchen; but when they want refilling, Mrs Morrell puts fresh ones in here. She keeps them in that cupboard; look, and you’ll see.’

I opened the cupboard for the first time—for I had never had occasion to go to it before—and there, sure enough, were three or four wooden boxes, which proved to be full of wax candles; thirty pounds-weight at least. Before I closed the door again, Mrs Morrell entered the room. I fancied that her face changed and she turned pale as she saw me standing by the cupboard; but if so, she quickly recovered, and when I made some remark about there being a large stock of candles, composedly answered: ‘Yes; she found it best to keep plenty ready at hand, so as not to have to disturb dear Edith by leaving the room to search for lights in the middle of the night.’

I made no further remark, as something warned me it was better to say no more; so I opened my book and began to read.

The next morning, as I was on my way to the invalid’s room about eleven o’clock, I became aware of high voices in the hall, and came upon Mrs Morrell and the housemaid Jane engaged in altercation. Jane, who was generally a civil and obliging girl, was flushed with anger, whilst her mistress was paler than usual.

‘Very well, then, ma’am, I’ll go somewhere else, where I shan’t be called to account for every paltry little bit of candle,’ said the housemaid as I approached.

‘You know perfectly well that it is not the candle I care about, but the disobedience to my express orders, Jane. A month to-day you leave my service.’

‘I’ll go to-day, ma’am; I don’t care if I do lose a month’s wages,’ returned the girl independently.

‘Very well. You need never refer to me for a character,’ said Mrs Morrell, biting her lips, as she followed me to Edith’s room. She said nothing to me in explanation, beyond merely stating that Jane had been very impertinent.

I found Edith in a terribly prostrate condition, and I could see that Dr Stevens, when he came, had very little hope. I watched Mrs Morrell as she hung over the invalid, and wondered whether I ought not to believe that she was the most tender, loving, and devoted of nurses; for I really almost thought that Dr Archer might be mistaken after all, and that her guardians were as anxious for her recovery as I was. She herself evidently realised her danger, for she asked to have the Bible read to her, and would insist upon pressing a valuable diamond ring upon me as a keepsake. My gentle little friend had so won my heart by her unvarying sweetness, that I could not restrain my tears, and retreated to my own room, where I could give free vent to my feelings.

By-and-by, a knock came at my door, and opening it, I confronted Jane in hat and jacket, ready for departure. ‘You’ve always treated me well, miss, and I thought before I go I’d like to tell you why I’m turned out like a thief, without a character, after being here three years!’ began the girl in honest indignation. ‘Mrs Morrell’s sure to take care you hear her story; so, if you please, you shall have mine first!’

‘But I would rather not. You know I am not my own mistress here. Mrs Morrell might not like’——

‘Oh, but, please, miss, do listen. It’s all on account of the candlesticks in Miss Edith’s room. You know, miss, Mrs Morrell never lets us servants touch them—they never go down to the kitchen. But this morning, when I went in at eight to see to the fire, I noticed that one candle had been guttering awfully, and the wax had run down over the sides, and made such a mess as you never saw! Mrs Morrell wasn’t there, and Miss Edith was asleep; so I took the candlestick down with me to clean it, meaning no harm. But I had the breakfast to get ready; and to tell you the truth, Miss Armitage, I forgot about it. By-and-by Mrs Morrell came down-stairs, looking reg’lar pale, and wanting to know who took one of the candlesticks away out of Miss Edith’s room. I said I had. Then Mrs Morrell went on at me awful, and wanted to know how I dared do such a thing; and I was to bring it back at once. Sarah had washed it; but when we came to look for the piece of candle that was in it, nowhere could we find it. I suspect Sarah threw it into the fire. I told Mrs Morrell it was only a little piece, not so long as my finger. But if you’ll believe me, Miss Armitage, she made as much fuss over losing that paltry bit of candle-end as some folks would over a diamond necklace. I really didn’t think missis was so mean. I suppose my temper got up, and when she said I was impertinent and should leave, I told her I’d go to-day.’

But she went on: ‘The queerest thing of all, Miss Armitage, is, that when Mrs Morrell first came into the kitchen she was as white as a sheet. I should have said she was frightened—only it seems ridiculous that any lady could ever be afraid of losing a candle-end! I can’t make it out at all, miss. She always is so mortally stingy with those candles of Miss Edith’s. Do you know, is there anything about them, miss, that makes them more valuable than other candles?’

‘Well, really, do you know, miss, I’ve sometimes thought there must be something odd about them,’ said Jane, turning to go. ‘I know, for one thing, they’re not bought with the rest from the grocer at Beecham, but come all the way from London; so perhaps that’s why Mrs Morrell sets such store by them.—And now, miss, I’ll say good-bye.’

I gave the honest girl a little silk handkerchief as a parting gift, and sat down to ruminate on what I had just heard. A drowning man clutches at a straw; and in my terrible distress of mind, I was ready to clutch at any theory, however absurd, for solving the mystery of Edith’s illness. Jane’s casual remark about there being something queer about the candles so lavishly burned in the sickroom, had set me thinking whether after all there might not be something deleterious in them, intended to act injuriously upon the invalid. It was certain they burned very badly, as if there were some foreign substance incorporated in them. On the other hand, I had never, in my wildest dreams, imagined that there could be such things as poisonous candles. I had never heard of them before. The theory seemed to me at best a very wild one; but Edith’s life was at stake, and I was bound to do my very uttermost to aid her. Mrs Morrell’s conduct about the candles seemed odd and suspicious all through. The jealous watch she kept over them; her dread of losing them; her unwillingness to let me be in Edith’s room by candle-light—surely all these extraordinary precautions meant something.

Feeling perfectly desperate, I went back to the sickroom. Edith was lying back on her pillows in utter exhaustion, and Mrs Morrell was softly reading a chapter of St John’s Gospel. Seeing no other way out of the difficulty, I said boldly: ‘Mrs Morrell, if you will go down-stairs into the dining-room, I think Mr Foster wants to speak to you.’

It was an untruth; but I could not afford to be too scrupulous. Mrs Morrell disappeared. I sprang to the cupboard, and took two candles out of a box, and at once went to hide them in my room. When the widow came back, saying she could not find her brother anywhere—I had seen him leave the house some time before—I apologised, and professed to have misunderstood the message. She resumed her reading, whilst I slipped out of the room and hastily put on my outdoor garments. I knew that in going out without leave at such a moment, I risked losing my situation; but I did not care; I was in no mood to stand upon etiquette.

I made my way to the village, to the cottage of a trustworthy man who was sometimes employed to do odd jobs about the Hall. He readily promised to take my small parcel to Dr Archer at once. Had the distance not been three miles, I should have taken it myself.

I heard nothing from Dr Archer during the whole of the next day; and in a perfect torment of doubt and apprehension, I waited and waited, too agitated to eat or sleep, seeing Edith grow worse every hour, and fearing that after all she would die before the mystery of her illness could be solved. She was in a state of prostration fearful to witness. Restless and miserable, I sat in the sickroom or wandered about the house, and had the further trial of seeing that my behaviour had at last aroused suspicion in my employers’ minds, and that a quiet surveillance was kept upon my movements. Although I had made no appointment, and scarcely expected to meet Dr Archer, I endeavoured to be in the afternoon in the fir plantation which had already been the scene of several interviews; but Mr Foster so decidedly intimated his intention of accompanying me if I took a walk, that I abandoned the attempt. I detected under the mask of grief so cleverly assumed by both brother and sister, a subdued eagerness and restlessness, attributable no doubt to anxiety as to the success of their scheme.

I felt that all was as good as lost, when, on entering the sickroom on the second morning, I found Edith pallid and almost lifeless, and learned that Mrs Morrell, in real or pretended alarm, had already sent off a messenger for Dr Stevens.

Sick at heart, I sat down by the bedside, and watched the invalid, who was too far gone to recognise me, as she usually did. There came a tap at the door, and ‘Please, ma’am, you’re wanted,’ in the voice of one of the maids; and the widow rose and noiselessly glided out of the {796}room. My ears were quickened by anxiety, and my curiosity was intense at hearing a short sharp scream, a scuffle, and the sound of an authoritative man’s voice on the landing outside. Edith was too languid to notice anything; and even when the door opened again and Dr Archer and an elderly gentleman entered the room, she never opened her eyes.

‘My darling! Have the wretches brought you to this?’ was the young doctor’s quick exclamation; and hurrying to the window, which Mrs Morrell had always religiously kept closed, he opened it, and a stream of chilly but life-giving air came rushing in. The other doctor, who was, I afterwards found, an eminent physician from London, bent over the patient, examining her pulse and administering restoratives. I glanced interrogatively at Dr Archer and murmured one word.

‘Those candles? Poisoned. Thoroughly impregnated with arsenic. A very few nights more of breathing the poisoned air, and nothing could have saved her.—I don’t know how you came to hit upon the clue so cleverly, Miss Armitage; but I shall bless your sagacity all my life long.’

‘Are safely in charge of two policemen, and on their way to the county jail. I analysed those candles at once, and then applied for a magistrate’s warrant, telegraphing to Dr Weston to meet me here. Two policemen in plain clothes were detailed for the arrest, and the affair was managed very quietly, so that even the servants do not know precisely what has happened. Mr Foster was arrested in his study, and made no resistance, although he assumed a high tone of injured innocence.—Do you know, Miss Armitage, where the rest of the poisoned candles are kept?’

In reply I opened the door of the cupboard and pointed to the rows of boxes. He and Dr Weston then carefully locked and sealed up the door, until the state of the invalid should permit a fuller investigation of the apartment. Dr Archer then informed me that a nurse had been telegraphed for from the Nurses’ Home at the county town, and that I need feel no apprehension lest Edith should suffer from the want of skilled attendance.

Nurse Mary soon after arrived, and proved invaluable. All her care and skill, however, were needed to counteract the effects of the poison upon Edith’s delicate frame. For days she hung between life and death. Her convalescence was long and tedious; but at length she recovered sufficiently to leave Gorton Hall for the Isle of Wight, where the pure sea-breezes soon brought back the colour to her cheeks.

Investigation proved that the candles similar to those which had been burned nightly in the sickroom for over two months, were highly deleterious. The wax was pure, but the wicks were impregnated by a strong solution of arsenic. The remainder were analysed, and from them much of the poisonous drug was extracted. The closest research, however, failed to discover from whom they had been originally procured. Beyond the fact that the boxes came from London, their origin remains a mystery to this day. The plans of the conspirators had been so cleverly laid that it was almost impossible to bring their wrongdoing home to them.

I wish I could say that both Edith’s treacherous guardians received an exemplary punishment; but unfortunately, punishment in this world does not always overtake the criminal. Mr Foster maintained the assertion of his innocence to the last; nor was there one tittle of evidence, direct or indirect, against him. Ably defended by a most skilful advocate, he escaped absolutely scot-free. Mrs Morrell maintained the same line of conduct, and was merely sentenced to imprisonment for two years. Dr Archer and I were aghast and bitterly disappointed at such an obvious failure of justice. But we had one small consolation—that Edith’s fortune was secured to her, and that the scheming adventurers who had risked all to grasp her gold were not benefited, after all their trouble, by one farthing.

The Thorndyke family interfered, and her affairs were placed in trustworthy hands until her coming of age. Her twenty-first birthday was also the day of her marriage to Dr Archer; and they are indeed a united pair. I will not write down here all the expressions of gratitude I received from Edith, her lover, and her relatives, for my ‘courage’ and ‘sagacity’ in defeating her step-father’s murderous designs. I declined Edith’s offer of a home with her, for I believed that married people are happiest by themselves; but, though still working for my living, I spend all my holidays with her, and little voices already call me ‘Auntie.’

Their home is perfect in all its appointments; but one fact, which is never explained to casual visitors, sometimes strikes new-comers as strange: nothing will induce Dr Archer to have a wax candle in his house. They set it down as a fad and singular fancy; only Edith, he, and I know the truth.

These two terms, appendant one to the other, are now to most people somewhat vague, and seem to point out a state of things a little strange. Of course, we all know what a guest is; but we associate that term more with the friendly interchange of courtesy than with the relation between innkeeper and guest in modern times. The usage is derived from a condition of things that has to a great extent disappeared—when the means of communication between one part of the country and another were less rapid and more limited than now. The roads also were far from good; indeed, about the reign of Queen Elizabeth they were so bad that there were only a few coaches existing; and everything had to be done by means of packhorses and light gigs. To many places, especially in Cumberland, Westmorland, North Lancashire, Wales, and many of the western counties, there were no roads, only a beaten path over a huge lonely common, often a long way above the level of the sea, and extending for many hours’ journey. To get to Cumberland out of Westmorland was practically almost impossible, except with the aid of a guide who knew the various passes and the many dangers that lay in the route, including those from the footpad and mounted highwayman. If a traveller visited these lonely places, he would get {797}rest and refreshment at the village inn; and if he came on horseback, his horse was fed and well taken care of.

In those remote times, therefore, the business of an innkeeper was an important accessory to every country village. His house was usually situated on the high-road, and was called by a variety of names, quaint and funny; and sometimes his sign bore the telling legend, which he did well to follow—that he

Thus the duty of an innkeeper came to be recognised as one which was most important to the state, one which it was the bounden duty of judges of the high courts to look well after.

It is long since the duty of an innkeeper to his guest or traveller was regulated by the common law of the land, while the abuses into which he is liable to fall, have also been made the subject of statute law regulation. The whole law on this subject in England and Scotland is derived from the famous Edict of the Roman prætor, beginning with the words: ‘Nautæ caupones.’ Here is a brief outline of what the innkeeper has to do, and what he has to guard against. Before he is allowed to have a license, his house must be proved to be substantial, and to have sufficient accommodation for man and beast. In fact, anything that a traveller may need or reasonably demand, he should and must supply him with. If the innkeeper refuses without any good or justifiable reason, he is liable to be sued for any damages that the traveller may think due to him for such refusal, and for the annoyance and inconvenience caused thereby. The innkeeper is compelled to let into his house at any time of the night any person who is a bonâ fide traveller; immediately to supply him with refreshments, according to his needs, and to put up his horse and vehicle. When he takes the traveller into his house, the latter immediately becomes his guest, and the innkeeper himself is transformed into ‘mine host.’ Here begins the proper employment of the innkeeper. He takes care of his guest’s luggage, houses his carriage, feeds his horse, and does everything for the care and safety of the accompaniments of his guest. If the latter has servants, he puts them up, sees to their welfare and ease, and indeed becomes one of the most hospitable of men. Of course he knows he will be paid for his trouble—perhaps well paid—and this urges him to make everybody as comfortable as possible. It will be kept in view that a coffee-house, a boarding-house, or a lodging-house, is not an inn.

Let us suppose that some of the property of the guest is stolen; some village rogue has noticed the wealth of the traveller or the abundance of luggage, and has secretly—perhaps during the night—entered the house of the innkeeper and made off with something belonging to the traveller. Or, again, the inn might be set on fire, and except the inmates who would escape, everything within it would be destroyed and consumed. Who, then, is responsible for the traveller’s goods? If this had occurred in a friend’s house, or anywhere else, of course the owner would be the loser; but it happened in the house of an innkeeper, amenable to certain precedents of our common law, and he is liable to the full extent of the loss. But in Scotland, a loss by fire is regarded as damnum fatale, and the innkeeper is not liable unless a case of fire-raising by the servant of the inn is proved.

You may say this seems hard, and we answer it does; but still it is an exceptional case. At the same time, it shows what an innkeeper is bound to do, and gives additional security to the goods of a person, seeking the assistance of another unknown to him. The case is different from a person taking upon himself the custody of goods for a premium or charge according to the value of the goods so left with him; for it is not necessary that the innkeeper should even know that his guest had any property with him; and for what might appear to be the absurd carelessness of the owner, he is in many cases responsible.

But perhaps it will be better to give a few of the cases which have occurred on this subject, as proving definitely this peculiar feature of our law. We will first take a case which was tried at the Lancaster assizes in 1793, in which it appeared that a merchant called Bennet was accustomed to send his servant with goods to the market at Manchester. At the time in question, this man had bought certain goods, but had not been able to dispose of them. He consequently endeavoured to find a place where he could leave them until the next market-day. He went to an inn, and there asked the wife of the innkeeper—whose name was Mellor—if he might leave them there; but she replied that she could not tell, for they were full of parcels. The servant then sat down, put behind his chair the parcels of goods he had brought, and had some drink. After sitting a little while, he got up, and found that the parcels were missing. Bennet, the master of the servant and owner of the goods, then sued the innkeeper for their value, and obtained a verdict in his favour.

This case certainly gives the idea that the servant was very careless in allowing his goods to be stolen just behind him; but the matter was well argued out on a rule for a new trial of the cause, which was discharged, the judges holding that the man had immediately upon his entry and asking for something to drink become a guest; and the innkeeper was responsible for the care of the goods brought with him into the house, even though his wife had refused to take care of them until the next market-day, for that was a separate transaction.

But let us cite another case, in which a verdict was given for the innkeeper, it being proved that there were suspicious circumstances, which ought to have been guarded against by the owner of the goods sued for. Some seventy years ago, a Birmingham factor in the course of his business stopped at an inn in Oxford, having with him three boxes of valuable goods, chiefly jewellery. As he desired to show his wares to customers, he asked for a private room, which was provided him. The landlady also gave him the key to the room, so that he might lock the door when he went out. The boxes were removed into this room; and a customer calling, the factor opened his boxes and displayed his goods. Several purchases were made. During this time, the door of the room was twice opened; a stranger looked {798}in, begged pardon, and immediately withdrew. The door was then bolted, to prevent further interruption. After they had completed their business, the customer left, and the factor packed up his goods, but did not lock the door. What was stranger still, he said afterwards that he did not know whether he had shut it or left it open. The door also opened into a gateway which led to the street, and on the outside of this door there was found a key. The result of this carelessness was that two of the boxes with their contents were stolen. The factor then endeavoured to recover their value from the innkeeper, but failed. The matter was brought before the superior courts, the judges of which, although they held that the giving of the key to the factor was not sufficient of itself to absolve the innkeeper from his liability, yet they decided he could not be held responsible, after the gross carelessness shown by the plaintiff.

Another case happened at Brighton in 1830, in which a gentleman named Kent sued to recover the value of a reticule and a number of bank-notes which were in it at the time it was stolen. The plaintiff, his wife, and a young lady called Miss Stratford, took a sitting-room and two bedrooms at an hotel in Brighton, so situated that when the door of the sitting-room was open, a person could see the entrances into both bedrooms. Mrs Kent, shortly after they had taken possession, went into one of the bedrooms, laid the reticule on the bed, and afterwards returned into the sitting-room, leaving the door open. After she had been there for about five minutes, she sent Miss Stratford for the reticule; but it was not to be found. Here the jury had no difficulty in finding a verdict for the plaintiff; the only question being, whether money came within the scope of the writ, in the same way as goods undoubtedly did. It being decided in the affirmative, the plaintiff succeeded.

There is no doubt that the liability of the innkeeper is excluded by the contributory negligence of the guest; but the innkeeper must show not only that the guest did not show the ordinary care that might be expected from a prudent man, but also that the loss would not have happened if such care had been shown. But as the guest is entitled to rely on the common-law obligation of the innkeeper, these cases of contributory negligence seldom arise, except where it may be inferred, from the acts or words of the parties, that the innkeeper’s liability has been qualified or superseded, or where the guest is put on his guard by suspicious circumstances. The usual notice on a bedroom wall about locking the door will not protect the innkeeper, unless the guest actually read it and made no objection. The only other case in which an innkeeper is not liable is that of damnum fatale, as where the goods are destroyed by a tempest.

Let us take three other cases, which will show a little diversity, but will further explain our subject. A man came to an inn with a horse, and left it under the innkeeper’s care to be fed. The latter put the horse into a field, whence it was stolen; and for this the innkeeper was held to be liable. In the same way, a gentleman, whilst taking refreshments within the house, left his carriage in the care of the hostler, who placed it, as was his custom, in the road; and it was stolen. The innkeeper was held to be responsible.

The peculiarity of these cases is not only in the fact that the place whence the horse and carriage were severally stolen was not in the inn, but also in the circumstance that they were put in a certain place without the sanction or knowledge of the owner. In a similar case, however, in which the owner had asked that the horse should be put out to pasture beyond the precincts of the inn, the innkeeper was exonerated from all liability in respect of its loss.

We think we have shown by these cases that the responsibility of an innkeeper is by no means a light one, and that it may be taken as a fact, that in ordinary and unexceptional cases, he is liable for the goods of his guest. Here we may add in parenthesis, that he is not liable for the person of his guest beyond his own actions; that is, if the guest is assaulted or in any way maltreated on his premises, the innkeeper is not liable beyond what he may himself personally have contributed to such maltreatment. There are, however, many points which may be, and have been, raised, according to the particular circumstances of the case, as where there is attached to the inn an ordinary refreshment bar, and the owner of the goods only makes use of that part of the house; in which case he cannot recover. Again, the innkeeper is only responsible for what happens in his own house—with the exceptions we have before noticed—and by his default, or by that of his servants. He is protected, if the theft is committed by the servants or companions of the traveller. If his house is full, but a person says he will shift for himself among the guests, then he is not responsible for anything that is lost; neither is he, unless the relation of landlord and guest is established.

On this latter point, we will give one more case, which was tried at the last summer assizes at Carlisle. The plaintiff was a traveller for a firm of wine-merchants, and in the course of his journeys he alighted from the train at Carlisle station, to which is connected the County Hotel. He at once intrusted his luggage to the hotel porter, with the intention of staying until the next day and sleeping in the hotel. He went up the covered passage into the hotel; but there received a telegram, which he considered necessitated his going to Manchester that day. Before doing so, he asked for some refreshments, and was shown into the refreshment room, which was legally not part of the inn, and not endowed with the same liabilities as the other part, the inn proper. On his way to this room, he met the hotel porter, who asked the number of his room. He said that he did not know whether he was going to stay overnight or not. The porter then locked the luggage in a room in the passage used for that purpose. When the traveller required the luggage, part of it could not be found. For this he sued the innkeeper, but failed, as it was not considered to be satisfactorily proved that he had become a guest of the innkeeper.

By an Act passed in 1863 (26 and 27 Vict. c. 41), the liability of innkeepers for the goods of their guests was limited to the sum of thirty pounds, except in two cases: (1) where the goods were {799}deposited for safe custody; (2) where the goods were stolen, lost, or injured through the wilful act or neglect of the innkeeper. The innkeeper must put up a notice of the Act in the hall of the inn, and he is entitled to require that deposited goods shall be in a sealed box. This Act does not apply to horses and carriages.

The collection of rents in Ireland is often an unpleasant duty; but amusing incidents sometimes arise. Last year, a farmer in the county of Cavan came to me on the rent-day and said he could not pay more than half the sum he owed. He had much to tell of losses, bad times, and low prices, and I listened with patience until he had finished. I then reminded him that his rent had been reduced under the Land Act, and that I had voluntarily cancelled a considerable arrear; and I firmly refused to accept less than the full amount. Mickey Sheridan—that was his name—was married, and I knew his wife ruled the roast.

‘Now, Mickey,’ said I, ‘you ought to be ashamed of yourself! After what has been done to relieve you, I did expect you to behave better. I am sure your wife would not approve of your conduct.’

Mickey had frequently confided to me that ‘herself’—his wife—gave him ‘a sore life;’ and I desired to learn how far she had meddled in this matter.

After some hesitation, he replied: ‘Well, sir, if ye won’t discover on me, I’ll tell ye the thruth. Herself advised me to pay only half the rent. She’s a good scholar, an’ reads the papers; an’ she tells me a new Land Act will soon be passed an’ all arrears wiped out.—Will yer honour take the half-year?’

‘No, Mickey, I cannot. Be honest, and pay the money you owe. I feel sure you have it all in your pocket.’

That was a hit; for Mickey, with an Irish peasant’s quick sense of the humour of the situation, replied: ‘Begorra, it’s in two pockets! Herself made up the two half-years in separate parcels, an’ put thim into different pockets, to purvint any mistake; an’ I was only to give yer honour one of thim, if I could manage it. But here’s the full money, an’ maybe it’s best to keep out of debt.’

A few weeks later, when I was collecting rents in the county of Longford, one of the principal tenants came forward, before any money had been paid, as the spokesman of thirty others who were present, and asked for an abatement.

‘Why, Pat Molloy,’ said I, ‘you and all here hold your farms at reduced rents, which you agreed to pay under an amicable arrangement made only two years ago and according to the provisions of the Land Act. I cannot do what you ask; but if you really have not the full year’s rent, I will accept three-fourths of it and give you a reasonable time to pay the remainder.’

‘How much did you give me?’ said I, after I had carefully twice counted the bundle of notes.

‘Thirty pounds, sir; an’ all in one-pound notes; an’ shure, it’s the hard work I had to make it!’

‘Och, thrue for ye, Pat Molloy!’ said a voice behind him; ‘faith, it’s not aisy to make the rint those times!’

‘Well, Pat,’ said I, ‘you have given me thirty-nine pounds; and I now have the pleasure of handing you the receipt for the same.’

Whether the ten-pound note had been paid to Pat Molloy in mistake for one pound, and its value was unknown to him, or that he had omitted to take it out of the bundle, could only be matter of conjecture. He kept a close mouth, and left the room.

The misadventure of their leader broke up the concerted union of the tenants; and when I announced, after Molloy departed, that I should insist on full payments—seeing ten-pound notes were apparently plentiful in the district—nearly all the tenants came forward and paid.

It is well known that a great part of the thirty million of deposits held by the Irish joint-stock banks have been lodged by farmers. I have often received deposit receipts when collecting rents. I remember a thrifty man who used to lodge his savings when they reached even five pounds. On the rent-day, it was his annual custom to enlarge on the badness of the times and the low prices; but he invariably supplied the best refutation of his statements by producing a number of deposit receipts for small sums and indorsing them with much pride.

When the land agitation was at its height a few years ago, a friend of mine was collecting rents one day in a town in the county of Leitrim. He was seated in a large room of a hotel, and nearly fifty tenants were present. Very little money had been paid. Abatements were asked which the agent had no power to make, and there was more conversation than business going on. But my friend understands the Irish character and its love of talk, and he knew that if he permitted the men to expatiate on the reasons why they could not pay, he would be more likely finally to get the money; so, he patiently listened to the usual jeremiades, and bided his time. But fortune favoured him. The ringleader, or chief Land-Leaguer, amongst the assembled tenants was Denis Lynch. He held a small farm, but was also a cattle-dealer, and his time was of value to him; and finding he could extract no further concession from the agent, who had offered a fair abatement, he announced that he would pay a half-year’s rent.

‘I must be off,’ he said, ‘to the fair of Boyle, sir, an’ can’t delay here, like those men. Here is a deposit receipt for ten pounds, an’ the half-year’s rint is nine pounds. But be all the saints, yer honour, I made the little thrifle by dealing, an’ not out of the farm!’

‘Well, Denis,’ said the agent, ‘you could not deal in cattle without a farm to feed and rest your stock; and I have told you that I am instructed not to accept less than a year’s rent. But’—glancing at the deposit receipt, which he had taken from the man, and turning it down on the table—‘indorse this receipt, and I will consider your case.’

Lynch wrote his name across the back of the {800}document; and the other adding his own signature, said to his clerk: ‘Take this receipt to the bank up the street and fetch me pound-notes for it.’ He then proceeded to fill a form of receipt for a year’s rent, and handed it to Lynch, who was astute enough to see that he might profit by what he supposed was an error, and quietly folded up the receipt and put it into his pocket.

When the clerk returned, the agent said: ‘Now, Denis, here is your change;’ and he began counting and pushing across the table, to the astonished tenant, note after note.

‘Why, Denis,’ replied the other, ‘I am paying what is due to you. You gave me a deposit receipt for one hundred pounds; you have got a receipt for a year’s rent; and here are eighty-two one-pound notes, together with eighteen shillings in silver, which is five per cent. discount on your rent. You can’t blame me for retaining a year’s rent—you accepted a receipt for it. And indeed, when a man has hundreds at his banker’s, he may fairly be required to pay his rent in full. Yet, I make you an allowance. You cannot suppose, after what has taken place, and your readiness to avail yourself of what you believed to be an error in the rent receipt, that you should receive the ten per cent. abatement offered to the tenants generally. I have given you half of it, not wishing to be severe. But your tricks have not succeeded; and I hope you won’t forget the lesson of to-day, and that you will remember in future that honesty is the best policy.’

All eyes in the room were turned on Lynch, who hastily gathered up the notes and stuffed them into his pockets; and as he made his way to the door, he was heard to murmur, ‘Begorra, ’twas the wrong receipt!’

He departed, feeling he had lost all title to leadership; and as men will still worship success, even when accidental, many voices joined in complimenting ‘his honour, who was too sharp for Denis Lynch, who thought to act the rogue, but met wid a mistake, glory be to God!’

‘His honour’ was soon busily employed in receiving the full rents, which nearly all the tenants had brought with them. But he believes his collection on that day would have been a very small one, if Denis Lynch had not presented the ‘wrong’ deposit receipt.

Dr Thomas Whipham, M.B., F.R.C.P., physician to St George’s Hospital, and in charge of the department for Diseases of the Throat there, claims to have discovered the origin of ‘clergyman’s sore throat,’ a disorder which often proves so troublesome to ministers of religion. He was struck, it appears, by the circumstance that barristers—from whom as great oratorical efforts are exacted as from clergymen—do not suffer from this highly painful and inconvenient form of sore throat. He looked around for an explanation, and endeavoured, at first, to trace it to adverse atmospheric conditions. But he early decided that the air of a crowded court of law must be more injurious than that of an ordinary place of worship; and hence he was forced to seek elsewhere a satisfactory solution of the problem he had set himself. At length the different positions, in relation to their auditors, from which clergymen and barristers spoke, suggested itself for consideration. While a barrister slightly threw back his head in addressing the judge and jury who were seated above him, the clergyman depressed his in addressing the congregation seated below him. Experiments were made with a man reading aloud with his head in the two positions. In the first, the tone of his voice was clear and penetrating, and phonation was practised with a minimum of exertion; in the second, the tone grew muffled, and the previous distinctness could only be approximated with additional effort. Nor was indistinct utterance the only result recorded of the experiment in the second position. The friction of the air passing through the throat of the reader was very much increased. Thus, says Dr Whipham, hyperæmia was established in the parts affected by this excessive friction; and temporary hyperæmia, if frequently encouraged, soon becomes chronic congestion. Dr Whipham was satisfied that he had arrived at the true cause of ‘clergyman’s sore throat;’ and facts soon came to confirm his impression. Two clergymen, hailing from different parts of the country, placed themselves under treatment for the disorder, which had long held a hold on them. They were directed, in speaking from the pulpit, for the future to hold their heads well up, instead of allowing them to droop forwards and downwards. Both soon reported ‘a speedy relief from their suffering.’

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 154, VOL. III, DECEMBER 11, 1886 ***

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 154, vol. III, December 11, 1886

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

CONTENTS

INN-SIGNS—THEIR ORIGIN AND MEANINGS.

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

CHAPTER XVIII.

STORIES OF CATS.

WANTED, A CLUE.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.

THE LAW OF INNKEEPER AND GUEST.

INCIDENTS OF RENT-COLLECTION IN IRELAND.

‘CLERGYMAN’S SORE THROAT.’

IN THE DISTANT YEARS.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 154, vol. III, December 11, 1886

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

CONTENTS

INN-SIGNS—THEIR ORIGIN AND MEANINGS.

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

CHAPTER XVIII.

STORIES OF CATS.

WANTED, A CLUE.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.

THE LAW OF INNKEEPER AND GUEST.

INCIDENTS OF RENT-COLLECTION IN IRELAND.

‘CLERGYMAN’S SORE THROAT.’

IN THE DISTANT YEARS.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.