CHAPTER I.

‘You are a rank heretic, Mac, neither more nor less,’ remarked the vicar, ‘to say that you don’t care for our lovely Lake scenery.’

‘But listen, my dear friend,’ protested the doctor; ‘I never said anything of the kind. What I did remark was, that your English Lake scenery was not to be compared to our Scotch scenery. It’s pretty—very pretty, but when you have said that, you have said all. If you want grandeur, if you want sublimity, you must go’——

‘To Switzerland and see Mont Blanc,’ broke in Miss Gaisford as she looked up for a moment from her writing.

The doctor shook his head. ‘I have reason to believe that the Swiss scenery has been very much overrated. And then, just consider the expense! I’m told that the innkeepers there are rogues—every man-jack of them. No—no. I’ve been half over the world in my time, and all I can say is, that old Scotia’s mountains and lochs are quite good enough for me.’

The scene was the lawn of the _Palatine Hotel_, overlooking a lovely stretch of Windermere, with the purple-buttressed hills that guard the head of the lake for an imposing background. The time was about four o’clock on a sunny afternoon. Of the three people who had engaged in the conversation just recorded, one was Dr M‘Murdo, an army surgeon, the greater part of whose life had been spent abroad. He had just retired from the service on a small fortune left him by a relative, but had not yet quite made up his mind where to settle for the remainder of his days. He and the vicar had been great friends when young men, but had not met for a number of years till to-day, the doctor having arrived at the _Palatine_ a few hours ago on a visit to his friend, who in his turn was spending a portion of his holiday with other friends at the hotel.

Dr M‘Murdo was well on towards his fiftieth year. His hair and beard were already grizzled, while his once fair complexion was deeply tanned by many years of torrid sunshine. He was a tall, lean, high-dried man, somewhat formal and old-fashioned in his attire, with an expression of mingled shrewdness and good-humour.

His friend, the Rev. Septimus Gaisford, was about the same age as himself, and had been the vicar of a small country parish in the Midlands for nearly a quarter of a century. He belonged to the homely, unobtrusive type of country parson of which, even in these days of unrest and innovation, specimens happily are still to be found. He looked after the needs of his poorer parishioners both spiritual and temporal, and left the well-to-do pretty much to themselves. He abounded in good works in a quiet unostentatious way, while his Sunday discourses were as homely as himself and such as could always be ‘understanded of the people.’ Like his friend the doctor, he had never ventured on the perilous sea of matrimony.

But the vicar was not without a worthy coadjutor and companion in his parochial labours. His sister, Miss Gaisford, who was ten years younger than himself, not only managed his small household, but looked after such portion of his parish duties as can often be performed better by a woman than a man, while it was even whispered that she occasionally wrote his sermons for him. So that, all things considered, it was no wonder the Rev. Septimus had more than once been heard to remark that ‘Pen’—short for Penelope, if you please—was far more useful to him than any curate he had ever had. For the rest, Miss Pen was a bright-eyed, vivacious little body, not in the least inclined to be sanctimonious, but fond of a joke and a laugh, yet with an innate fund of sympathy about her which by some attraction of its own seemed to draw all who were in trouble or difficulty to her side.

On this sunny afternoon, the doctor and the vicar were seated one at each end of a rustic bench in the shade of a leafy elm. The former had his thumb in the pages of a medical review, to which, however, he was paying but scant attention; while the latter was mending his fishing-tackle, for our worthy parson was a genuine brother of the angle. At a small rustic table a little distance away sat Miss Gaisford, busy with her writing, but not so busy as to preclude her from taking an interest in any topic which the others might introduce.

Presently she looked up, and as if in answer to the doctor’s last remark, she said: ‘I am quite aware that we poor mortals who have the misfortune to live south of the Tweed are very badly off as regards many things. Still, we do now and then manage to produce an article which even you cool-blooded Northerners can’t help admiring, and would find it difficult to excel.’

‘The application, my dear madam, the application. To what particular article do you refer?’

‘At present I refer to Madame De Vigne, the charming widow to whom you paid such very marked attentions at luncheon.’

‘Ah-ha. I noticed something of that myself,’ chuckled the vicar.

‘Everybody noticed it,’ said Miss Pen emphatically.

Dr Mac rubbed the end of his long nose with his review and laughed uneasily. ‘Ha, ha! Very good—very good indeed.’

‘Come now, Mac, you can’t say that you didn’t cast sheep’s-eyes at her,’ put in the vicar blandly.

‘Let the pawky Scot deny it if he dare,’ said Miss Pen with a shake of her little fat curls.

‘Very good, my dear friends; if you choose to make yourselves pleasant at my expense, you are welcome to do so. That I admire Madame De Vigne, I am quite willing to admit. From what little I have seen of her, she seems to me a very agreeable person, and if we could trace back her ancestry, I have no doubt we should find her to be of Scottish extraction.’

‘Oh, come, Mac, give us poor Southerners credit for something.’

‘Well, I don’t mind admitting to you, who are one of my oldest friends, and to Miss Penelope, that I am getting tired of a bachelor’s life. I want a home and I want a wife. I have a little money judiciously invested—and—and I thought, in fact—that—that’——

‘Don’t be bashful, Mac,’ chimed in the vicar softly.

‘You thought, in fact, that the charming widow would make you a charming companion for life,’ put in Miss Pen briskly.

‘Perhaps ay, and perhaps no,’ responded the doctor quietly.

‘All I can say is, that you may think yourself a particularly lucky fellow if you succeed in winning her,’ remarked the vicar.

‘Well, well; I know that both of you are friends of Madame De Vigne, and that she and her sister are parishioners of yours. What I should like you to do is to tell me all you know about her, and then leave me to consider what my future course ought to be.’

‘All that we know about Madame De Vigne is very little,’ remarked the vicar.

‘Very little indeed,’ assented his sister.

‘Still, my dear’—to Miss Pen—‘I am not aware that we should be abusing any confidence in telling our friend all that there is to tell, so far as we know it?’

‘There can be no possible harm in that. Besides, it will only be charitable to take pity on the poor man. And now, please not to interrupt me again for ten minutes at the least.’

‘It is now nearly two years,’ began the vicar, ‘since Madame De Vigne and her sister, Miss Loraine, came down to Oaklands, bringing with them a letter of introduction from my London lawyer, a certain Mr Railton, whom I have known for a dozen years or more. How Madame De Vigne came to be known to Railton, or what he knew with regard to her and her antecedents, I had not the curiosity to ask at the time, and I have never since made it my business to inquire. It is sufficient to say that Madame De Vigne had seen advertised as being to let a certain furnished cottage which she thought would suit her requirements; hence her visit to Oaklands. The cottage did suit her. She became its tenant, and there she and her sister have lived ever since, shunning rather than courting such society as our neighbourhood affords, but visiting a good deal among the sick and poor. One day about six months ago, while I was out fishing I encountered a young fellow who was similarly engaged. We met again and again, striking up an acquaintance as brother Piscators have a knack of doing, till finally I invited him to dinner at the vicarage, on which occasion Penelope there took quite a fancy to the young man.’

‘Of course I did,’ answered Miss Pen, looking up quickly. ‘Any one else placed as I was at the time would have taken a fancy to him. I was just in want of some one to sit for the hero of my next novel, and Archie came in very handy.’

Dr M‘Murdo started. ‘But, my dear Miss Gaisford, you don’t mean to say that you make a practice of introducing portraits of your friends and acquaintances into the stories you write?’

‘Don’t I though! I shall have your portrait jotted down in my note-book before you are many hours older. I have no doubt it will come in useful one of these days.’

‘Good gracious! I hope you won’t paint me in very dark colours.’

‘Not blacker than you deserve, you may rely upon it.’ Then to herself she said: ‘Where was I?—Yes—yes,’ and so went on with her writing.

‘Well, that first visit of young Ridsdale to the vicarage was but the forerunner of several others,’ resumed the vicar as equably as though he had not been interrupted. ‘It was there that he met Madame De Vigne and her pretty sister, and with the latter he at once fell desperately in love.’

‘And the young lady fell desperately in love with him?’

‘That is exactly what came to pass. But I’m nearly sure the affair might have been nipped in the bud had not Penelope, with true feminine perversity and reckless disregard of consequences, encouraged the two young nincompoops in their folly.’

‘What else could you expect me to do?’ asked Miss Pen, without looking up. ‘When I see a little romance of real life going on under my very nose, do you think I’m the one to try to put a stop to it? No, indeed. Besides, it supplied me with a lot of hints for love-making scenes; it was what the painters call “a study from the life.”’

The vicar shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say: ‘You hear the kind of arguments I am compelled to listen to.’ Then he again took up the thread of his narrative. ‘It was not till after young Ridsdale had become engaged to Clarice Loraine that we discovered he was the son of Sir William Ridsdale, a wealthy baronet of ancient family. The next thing was to obtain the baronet’s consent to the engagement. It would appear that the family estates are not entailed, and, as a consequence, should Master Archie run counter to his father’s wishes, the latter can dispose of his property in any way he may think best. Well, the all-important missive was written and posted to Mentone, where the baronet was at that time residing. The answer was—well, what do you think it was?’

‘A peremptory order by the first post to the young man to break off the engagement.’

‘Nothing of the kind; but a visit one afternoon at the vicarage from a certain Colonel Woodruffe, who had come as plenipotentiary from the baronet. Sir William was an invalid, and could not travel, so he had deputed the colonel to act in his stead. The father had no doubt in his own mind that his son had fallen into the toils of an adventuress, and the colonel’s instructions were to break off the engagement at any cost, and take Master Archie back with him.’

‘A sensible man that Sir William. And how did the affair end?’

‘In a way that you would hardly guess. The gallant colonel, instead of carrying out his instructions, and breaking off the engagement between the young people, ended by falling in love himself with the fascinating widow and proposing marriage.’

‘A change of front with a vengeance! And the answer?’

‘A rejection.’

‘Check for the colonel.’

‘But, old bachelor though you are, Mac, I daresay you know quite enough of the sex to be aware that a woman’s No is not always final. At anyrate, the colonel, who is really a very fine fellow, is evidently a believer in that doctrine, seeing that five days ago on his way to Scotland he stopped here for an hour, had an interview with Madame De Vigne and renewed his offer.’

‘And the answer to his second offer?’ queried the doctor eagerly.

The vicar shook his head. ‘Pen, perhaps, can tell you more about that than I.’

Miss Pen looked up quickly. ‘The answer is to be given him to-day.’

‘To-day!’

‘The colonel will call here this afternoon on his way back from Scotland, when Madame De Vigne has promised that he shall have her final decision—Yes or No.’

‘So that, my dear Mac,’ said the vicar with a smile, ‘all things considered, your chance of winning the widow does not seem a very promising one.’

‘Well, well,’ answered the doctor sturdily.

‘If a better man than Sandy M‘Murdo wins the fair prize, why then I’ll—I’ll be his best-man at the wedding.’

For a minute or two nothing was heard save the busy scratching of Miss Gaisford’s pen.

‘How will this do, Septimus?’ she asked presently, and with that she began to read from her manuscript.

‘“Her eyes of tenderest April blue glance up shyly into his dark volcanic orbs, in which there is a half-smothered fire that causes her heart to flutter like an imprisoned bird. A moment later, and her slender willowy form is swept up in a passionate embrace by those stalwart arms, and Love’s first burning kisses are showered on the sweet rosebud of her lips.”’

‘Rather tropical, is it not, my dear?’ hinted the vicar mildly.

‘Oh, there’s nothing namby-pamby about my readers, I assure you,’ answered Miss Pen with a merry laugh. ‘They like their love-making warm—and plenty of it.’

For ten minutes longer the busy scratching went on; then Miss Gaisford laid down her pen with a sigh of relief. ‘There—not another line to-day,’ she said. ‘Now that I have got my hero and my villain in the midst of a terrific encounter on the verge of a precipice, I can leave them there for a few hours in comfort.’

‘That seems rather cruel to the pair of them,’ remarked Dr Mac.

‘Oh, heroes and villains are used to that sort of treatment.—But I hope you will keep my little secret a secret still, doctor. If it were to reach the ears of any of the goody-goody people at home, that the parson’s sister writes foolish love-stories for young people, what hands would be uplifted in holy horror—what ejaculations over her backslidings would be whispered across half the tea-tables in the parish! Neither the squire’s wife nor Lady Pinchbeck would ever speak to me again, and what, oh! what would existence be worth under such terrible circumstances!’

‘My dear madam, you may rest assured that your secret is perfectly safe with me.’

‘It will be a bad day for the poor of my parish when Penelope gives up writing her love-stories,’ remarked the vicar, who was busy with his tackle book. ‘Every penny she earns goes to buy blankets, and coals, and such-like comforts for those who have no money to buy them for themselves.’

‘My dear Septimus!’ exclaimed Miss Gaisford with a flaming face.

‘My dear Pen!—Now that Mac has been taken into our confidence as regards one side of the question, it is only right that he should be made acquainted with the other.—But here come our two truants,’ added the vicar a moment later, as Mr Archie Ridsdale and Miss Clarice Loraine, looking somewhat conscious, emerged from one of the winding walks, and came towards the hotel, each of them laden with a quantity of wild-flowers, ferns and grasses.

‘The lovers, eh,’ said Dr Mac, half to himself. ‘A very bonnie young lady—very bonnie indeed.’

‘We were just thinking of sending the bellman round,’ said Miss Pen, as the truants came up. ‘Ting-ting-a-ling. Lost since early this morning, a pair of sweethearts. When last seen, he had his arm round the waist of she, and she had her head on the shoulder of he. Whoever will’——

‘Stop, do!’ cried Miss Loraine, as she dropped her ferns and grasses on the table and stuffed her fingers into her ears.

‘We have been botanising,’ observed Mr Ridsdale with the most innocent air imaginable.

‘And a pretty lot of rubbish you seem to have brought back,’ remarked Miss Pen.

‘Rubbish, indeed! And not one among them without a long and beautiful Latin name of its own.—Ask Archie.’

The vicar rose, and addressing the doctor, said: ‘Allow me the pleasure of introducing you to Miss Loraine.—Clarice, my dear, this is Dr M‘Murdo, a very old friend of mine.’

‘I had the pleasure of being introduced to your sister this morning, Miss Loraine, and now the pleasure is doubled,’ said the doctor with a touch of old-fashioned gallantry.

‘I am happy to make the acquaintance of any friend of Mr Gaisford,’ answered Clarice with a smile and a little blush.

‘Mr Archibald Ridsdale—Dr M‘Murdo,’ said the vicar. The two men bowed. ‘A capital fellow to know, so long as you are in good health, Archie, but a fellow to fight shy of the moment you begin to feel yourself out of sorts.’

Suddenly a shrill whistle was heard. ‘Here comes the steamer,’ exclaimed Miss Penelope. ‘I’m going by it as far as Bowness. Any one going my way?’

‘I will walk with you as far as the landing-stage, and see you safely on board,’ answered her brother.

‘That way will suit me as well as another,’ added Dr Mac.

As the two men turned to go, Miss Pen drew Clarice aside. ‘Any news?’ she whispered.

‘None,’ whispered back the girl with a doleful shake of the head. ‘If Archie and I only knew the best or the worst! It is this suspense that’s so hard to bear.’

‘It seems hard to bear at present, but it will be delightful to look back upon, by-and-by.’

‘O Miss Penelope! how can that be?’

‘Just now you are in the middle of the first volume of the romance of your life. Now, I should like to know how a romance can be worth anything without suspense, without mystery, without your being unable to guess what may happen from one hour to another.’

‘Penelope, you will certainly miss the boat,’ called out her brother, who was already some distance away.

‘We will talk more of this anon, my dear,’ said Miss Pen hurriedly. ‘Meanwhile, don’t get downhearted; all will come right at the end of the third volume: it always does.’ And with a nod and a smile, the bright little woman tripped off after her brother and the doctor, and presently the trio were lost to view down the winding path that led to the landing-stage and the lake.

POPULAR AMUSEMENTS IN GERMANY.

When one thinks of the downright substantial way in which English people amuse themselves, with cricket, football, lawn-tennis, rowing, foot-racing, leaping, &c., all over the kingdom, it is strange to find so little of active sport of the kind among our muscular cousins of the Vaterland. To be sure there are boating clubs and athletic societies, and gymnasia in the schools and elsewhere; and soldiers are exercised in gymnastics, but there is too much of military stiffness about it. Amusements of a passive character find most favour. To ‘make’ a walk in a leisurely fashion, to drive in an open conveyance, or to sit down in a shady grove to listen to a band playing, is the most acceptable mode of enjoying relaxation. With beer at a penny-farthing a glass, and a tolerable cigar for a halfpenny, and a military or string band discoursing sweet music, the time passes pleasantly enough. It makes a great difference when you have not to pay very dearly for your whistle, and they certainly know how to get the most for their money in the land of the Teuton. Many houses of refreshment, even in towns, have gardens or courtyards thickly planted with trees, so that their branches meet overhead and form a pleasant and inviting shade. A large shed, too, is provided, open on the garden-side, in case of rain. Frequently, music is introduced, and on these occasions, an extra halfpenny is charged on the beer, to cover the expense of the entertainment. On Sundays and festivals, there is music, beer, wine, and tobacco everywhere. And yet these people know how to amuse themselves without going to excess. Sometimes a tipsy man is seen, but rarely till very late at night, and the occurrence is so infrequent, that, compared with the usages of our own country, it is quite remarkable.

We have more than once asked the question: ‘Is it that the beer is weaker, or that the German heads are stronger than the English?’ and we have been told: ‘Perhaps it is a little of both.’ Perhaps, too, there is something in the fact that there is in some respects less class distinction in Germany, and the middle classes may be seen sipping their wine or coffee in the same place with their hard-working brethren. Perhaps the national and natural good opinion, self-respect, or self-esteem—call it what you will—of the German helps to keep him straight; and then he takes his creature-comforts in a staid, stolid, philosophic way. Noisy fellows there are, of course; but they do not squabble and fight, as a rule; the utmost they are guilty of being the national practice, even at midnight, of singing rollicking choruses, to the great disturbance of peace-loving, law-abiding, slumbering citizens. The fact that soldiers are permitted to wear their side-arms constantly, speaks volumes for the sobriety of the men as a class, and redounds to their credit.

A _Turnfest_ or athletic festival, generally held on a Sunday, is a great affair, often the event of the year in a small provincial town. There is a wonderful display of flags everywhere; and in the afternoon, a procession of the competitors and visitors with bands and banners and every variety of costume, the medals, badges, and ribbons of former contests being worn with great ostentation. The most is made of everything; and shouting and singing and cheering, and dust and noise, seem to be the order of the day.

Rowing-matches provoke immense enthusiasm, and a regatta is an affair that induces the keenest interest. A people with so much love for the wonderful and so much regard for themselves, cannot help throwing into such occasions an amount of enthusiasm and national pride as would do credit to the Oxford and Cambridge boatrace itself. The members of the Boat Club are the heroes of the hour, and their costumes the object of great admiration. Though not so peculiar as the French in this respect, our German neighbours are nevertheless great in their ‘get-up’ for every particular sort of occupation or sport that they engage in. If a man brings down only one snipe in a day, he looks tremendously cut out for business notwithstanding, and appears every inch of him a sportsman when going to or returning from the ‘hunt,’ as he calls it.

The exercise of riding cannot be properly accomplished without a complete and appropriate rig-out, so that even when he is not actually on his horse, the equestrian gives to all the world the assurance of a man at home in the saddle. If spurs and jack-boots do not make a rider, they at anyrate look very much in earnest. Never did a be-uniformed people more thoroughly believe in the dignity of dress and the necessity for effect than the Germans.

However we may smile at the eccentricities and oddities of the Germans, we must admit that they beat us in the provision of cheap music for the people, most of whom understand and appreciate it. Every school-teacher is bound to be a musician and to pass in music, so that the people have a chance of learning from childhood.

If the Prince of Wales succeeds as well in popularising the study of music as his father did in popularising art, we may hope to see before long a great reformation in the morals of our own people; and the wandering German bands, composed of the worst players in their own country—where they would not presume to play in public—will no longer be tolerated in England, because the taste of the people will be educated above such wretched performances. Good music, then, everywhere is what is wanted to enable the lower classes to enjoy themselves rationally, and no better means of promoting the sobriety of a nation can be devised. The more the masses are leavened with a knowledge and love of music, the more indeed we imitate the Germans in this respect, the less necessity there will be for restrictive measures in the way of ‘local option,’ and the lighter and easier will be the work of temperance reformers. A great reform will have been effected. If music can charm savages and snakes, it can do much more for our toiling, amusement-lacking countrymen and countrywomen.

The theatre is much patronised in Germany, the prices being cheap, the music good, and the performances fair. The play begins at seven, and ends about nine or half-past. Concerts, too, both instrumental and vocal, are frequent; every town has its Choral Society, and every district its Choral Union, so that there is never any lack of vocalists of both sexes for the performance of an oratorio or the celebration of any great occasion.

Where a people is satisfied with simple pleasures, these can, of course, be provided at little cost. Children have their swings, climbing-poles, bowling alley, merry-go-rounds, horizontal bars, &c., in the public gardens; and when one sees groups of officers deeply interested in the game of dominoes, it does not cause so much surprise to witness a huge whirligig worked by horses or steam, where servant-maids and soldiers are driven round and round upon painted wooden horses to the enlivening strains of a barrel organ, aided by a cornet or two and the universal drum. This sort of affair is a great attraction to the masses, and being generally placed near a beerhouse, admiring friends sit round on benches with their beakers of frothy beer, their cigars or large pipes, waiting to take a turn on the machine after a time. Music everywhere seems to be the rule—there can never be too much of it to please the people. Wherever there is a company of soldiers marching along the road without a band at their head, they make up for the deficiency by singing popular melodies and martial songs, keeping time with their feet; and this always gives strangers a favourable impression of the hearty, happy, and even merry German soldier.

A torchlight procession headed by a band of music is a favourite mode of making a demonstration on any particular festive occasion; and last, but not least, is the highly popular serenade. The Choral Societies of a town will unite—as was the case in Darmstadt on the night before the marriage of the granddaughter of Queen Victoria, the Princess Victoria of Hesse—to the number of three hundred men, and parade before the residence of the person they delight to honour, each member carrying a lighted Chinese lantern at the end of a stick. A selection of popular songs and glees suitable to the occasion is sung, and in many instances the melodies and words are peculiarly fitting. One might write a whole chapter about the amusements of the Carnival time, the masked balls and street displays; and although these affairs are somewhat stolid and quite decorous in character, they contain the elements of simple fun, innocent recreation, and hearty enjoyment. Here, again, music is an important factor, for it enters into everything, and forms the beginning and the ending of every variety of popular amusement.

PRINTERS’ ERRORS.

It must be, to say the least of it, annoying to the speaker or writer possessed of any degree of sensitiveness, when he finds his plainest statements, or it may be his most carefully prepared flights of fancy, turned into nonsense by the substitution or omission of a letter in the printing; and by some unhappy chance it often seems that the mistake is made in just such a manner and place as will do the most mischief. The unlucky poet who wrote,

See the pale martyr in his sheet of fire!

must have been completely crushed when the line appeared as—

See the pale martyr in his shirt of fire!

We can sympathise also with the poet who, writing of his love, asserted that he had ‘kissed her under the silent stars,’ and found the compositor made him state that he ‘kicked her under the cellar stairs.’ True, it has been doubted if these two poets ever existed; but others, of less mythologic fame, have suffered as badly at the hands of the printer. Burns, in a cheap edition of his works, is made to say,

Oh, gin my love were yon red _nose_.

A well-known temperance lecturer was indignant at finding the sentiment ascribed to him that ‘drunkenness was jolly,’ whereas he had declared that it was ‘folly.’

For the explanation of many of these blunders it is necessary to bear in mind that in setting up the type the compositor has the various letters arranged in separate divisions of his case and selects them one by one as required. Habit enables him to do this with extreme speed and accuracy; but it will easily be seen that the presence of a wrong letter in a division or a dip into the wrong box may occasion one of these unhappy blemishes. In this manner we find oats rendered ‘cats;’ songs, ‘tongs;’ poets, ‘posts;’ or as once happened in the report of a railway accident, ‘confusions of the limbs’ for ‘contusions of the limbs.’ And by the substitution of _n_ for _h_, a newspaper report was made to state that ‘the people rent the air with their ten thousand _snouts_.’

The blame, however, does not always rest with the compositor. Incorrect spelling and slovenly writing have much to answer for, especially in the case of proper names and quotations from foreign languages. Boerhaave becomes ‘Boershave;’ and _Et tu, Brute!_ ‘Eh, the Brute!’ Authors should remember that the proof-reader is fallible; he is not, as is sometimes expected, a ‘Universal Compendium’ of facts, people, places. If a passage reads clearly and grammatically, although conveying anything but the sense intended, it is not to be wondered at that the error is often undetected until too late. Much surprise was occasioned by Sir Archibald Alison, in his _History of Europe_, including amongst the persons present at the funeral of the Duke of Wellington the name of ‘Sir Peregrine Pickle.’ There can be little doubt that the author had made an unconscious slip, intending to name Sir Peregrine Acton. Sir Thomas Brassey having referred in a speech to the _Golden Treasury of Songs and Lyrics_, the compositor transformed the title into the ‘Golden Treasury of Soups and Cynics.’ A report in a Manchester paper of a recent dramatic performance mentioned the well-known farce of _No. 1 Round the Corner_ under the amusing and suggestive title of ‘_No One_ Round the Corner.’

Mistakes in punctuation, such as the omission or misplacing of a comma, may cause serious alteration to the sense of a passage. The contract made for lighting the town of Liverpool by wick lamps, during the year 1819, was rendered void by the misplacing of a comma in the advertisements, thus: ‘The lamps at present are about four thousand and fifty, and have in general two spouts each, composed of not less than twenty threads of cotton.’ The contractors would have proceeded to furnish each lamp with the said twenty threads; but this being only half the usual quantity, the Commissioners discovered that the difference arose from the comma following, instead of preceding, the word ‘each.’ In the following instance, it was no doubt a bachelor-compositor who, in setting up the toast, ‘Woman, without her, man would be a savage!’ got the comma in the wrong place, and made the sentence read, ‘Woman, without her man, would be a savage!’

All the above-mentioned errors may fairly be ascribed to carelessness and mischance. Others, however, are on record which have been committed knowingly and intentionally, and so can scarcely be classed as errors. They have been mostly connected with Biblical matters, and intended to further party interests. It is said that Field, a printer of the time of Charles I., was paid fifteen hundred pounds by the Independents to alter a single letter in the third verse of Acts VI., so as to make the word _we_ read ‘ye,’ and so give the right of appointing pastors to the people, and not to the apostles. The deplorable state of the press in Field’s time may be realised from the fact that Bishop Usher, on his way to preach at Paul’s Cross, asked at a stationer’s for a copy of the Bible; and on examining it, found, to his astonishment, that the text from which he was about to preach was not in the book! The well-known ‘Vinegar Bible’ was published in 1717, and obtains its name from the Parable of the Vineyard being printed as the Parable of the _Vinegar_. One of the most wilful alterations of the text, and one which cost its perpetrator her life, was committed by the widow of a German printer. One night, while an edition of the Bible was being printed in her house, she took the opportunity of altering the word _Herr_ into ‘Narr,’ making the verse read, ‘he shall be thy _fool_,’ instead of ‘he shall be thy _lord_.’

The celebrated Bibles of Sixtus V. are eagerly sought for by collectors. Their sole fame is the multitude of errata which crowd their pages, notwithstanding that His Holiness Sixtus V. carefully superintended every sheet as it passed through the press, and finally prefixed to the first edition a bull forbidding any alteration in the text.

A curious jumble appeared in a cabled critique of Mr Irving’s acting on one of his appearances in the States. Instead of saying that ‘the taste for Irving, like that for olives, must be cultivated,’ the critic was represented as giving utterance to the incomprehensible assertion that ‘the toast for Irving, like the toast for olives, must be cut elevated.’

A Glasgow divine, and one of Her Majesty’s chaplains in Scotland, was lately reported as saying that ‘personally he violated the Lord’s Day as much as any member of the Court.’ ‘Venerated’ was probably the word actually employed by the reverend gentleman.

Similarly, in an edition of _Men of the Time_ published in 1856, the then Bishop of Oxford is thus described: ‘Oxford, Bishop of (Rt. Rev Samuel). A more kind-hearted and truly benevolent man does not exist. A sceptic as regards religious revelations, he is yet an out-and-out believer in spirit manifestations.’ This description really belonged to ‘Owen (Robert) of Lanark.’ The edition was soon suppressed, but not before the Bishop had possessed himself of a copy for his private library.

Although both the chaplain and the bishop had reason to complain of their treatment, it must have been considerably more astonishing and mortifying for Herr Franz Liszt, who is still delighting his musical admirers with his productions, to find that in Haydn’s _Dictionary of Dates_ (1870) he is represented as dying in October 1868.

The Queen’s Speech at the opening of a recent session of parliament was hurriedly published in a Scotch newspaper without being revised by the press-corrector, and Her Majesty, instead of saying that certain negotiations ‘will, I doubt not, lead to satisfactory results,’ was reported as saying, ‘will, I doubt, not lead to satisfactory results.’ So much for the misplacing of a comma!

With increased literature have come better systems of ‘reading’ and correcting, and greater accuracy has been attained. Such mistakes as above quoted are exceptional, and the morning newspaper may now be read week after week with but few misprints. A good example of accuracy in printing tables of figures—in which it is so difficult to avoid errors—may be seen in _Bradshaw’s Railway Guide_, every monthly part of which contains from seven to eight hundred thousand figures. Astronomical and mathematical tables require great care in printing, and very few are issued which can be relied upon as absolutely correct. Charles Babbage superintended the production of a set of trigonometrical tables in 1827 which perhaps stand unrivalled in this respect. They were prepared for the Ordnance Survey of England and Ireland, and a limited number of copies printed—it is said only thirty. They consist of tables of logarithms and log. sines, tangents, cosines and cotangents, _to every second_. Roughly speaking, they contain about six millions of figures. The proof-sheets were revised by several sets of readers, and were carefully examined and compared with other tables no less than seven times. From Mr Babbage’s preface, we learn that after the final stereotyping, seven errors were found in the logarithms and one in the differences. These being corrected, the stereotyped sheets were hung up in the Hall at Cambridge University, and a reward offered to any one who could find an inaccuracy. Since their first issue in 1827, no error has been discovered, and it may reasonably be concluded that they are absolutely correct.

‘THE KING COUNTRY.’

The recent visit of King Tawhiao to this country has awakened a deep and widespread interest in New Zealand and its inhabitants. The Maori king has been fêted and feasted far beyond his desires, and has paid the penalty of greatness. But he has suffered martyrdom in a good cause; and if he has not succeeded in bringing the wrongs of the Maoris home to the Pakehas, he has certainly aroused a very general curiosity as to the character and resources of the mysterious ‘King Country’ of which he is the titular chieftain. The publication of Mr J. H. Kerry-Nicholls’s volume of travels—entitled _The King Country, or Explorations in New Zealand_ (London: Sampson Low)—in this unknown region is, therefore, peculiarly well timed. Until within the last few years, ‘the King Country’—as a vast tract of the finest land in North Island is still known—was a _terra incognita_ to Europeans. Rivalries of race constituted a barrier more impassable than the _aukati_ line itself, which separates the Maori lands from the European portion of the colony, and is marked on the one side by the farms and homesteads of the settlers, and on the other by the huts of the natives. In its vast forests, over its precipitous mountains, along its trackless plains, the natives alone wandered. It was an _imperium in imperio_, a fastness in which aboriginal sovereignty sat enthroned, deaf to all the offers of civilisation.

It was through this unknown country that Mr Kerry-Nicholls pushed his way in company only with an interpreter. With but three horses, which were ultimately reduced to two, he accomplished more than six hundred miles of travel, discovered many new streams, penetrated almost inaccessible regions of mountainous forest, found extensive plains, traced the sources of three of the principal rivers of the colony, examined the unknown shores of its largest lake, ascended one of its highest mountains, experienced degrees of temperature varying from eighty degrees in the shade to twelve degrees below freezing-point, and successfully traversed from south to north a territory with an area of ten thousand square miles, which had been, from the early history of the colony, rigorously closed to Europeans. It is scarcely necessary to add that the records of these wanderings constitute a singularly interesting volume of discovery and adventure, which can hardly fail to prove of some practical utility to the colony, and a welcome contribution to geographical science.

‘The King Country’ comprises one of the finest tracts of land not only in New Zealand, but in some respects in the southern hemisphere. It is much more than merely picturesque, and in this respect alone it can compete with the finest scenery the world can produce. Its natural advantages are of the highest order. It is throughout well watered, and in parts exuberantly fertile; while even the mountains are richly clothed with forest trees and shrubs. The southern portion is drained by the Whanganui River, which is fed by many tributaries, flowing from the highest mountain-ranges in the central and southern divisions of the island; while the Mokau River and its affluents flow from the central region to the coast. In the north, the Waipa and numberless minor streams flow from the mountains into the Waikoto River itself, which has from time immemorial been renowned in Maori fable and romance. Again, more than a dozen streams flow into Lake Taupo, an immense reservoir, some twenty-four miles long by fourteen broad, which lies almost in the midst of the central tableland; while the Waikoto is the only effluent river. During the rainy season, the waters of this lake, having only this one outlet, rise rapidly; and with the continuance of heavy winds, its waves are lashed into fury, and break upon its shores with all the force of a raging sea.

Geologically speaking, this district presents problems of surpassing interest. Here can be seen side by side the relics of the stupendous action of volcanic fires, and of the scarcely less potent force of the glacier. It is contended that the formation of North Island must be attributed to submarine volcanic eruptions, which, perhaps by slow degrees, perhaps rapidly, forced upwards the Taupo tableland. These fires bursting again through the plains, caused mountains to rise up in the form of serrated ridges and truncated cones, which poured out streams of lava and enormous deposits of pumice over the surrounding country. Probably the basin of the lake was once an active crater, from which the first vast pumice-plains flowed; while later, the mighty Ruapehu, and, when it became extinct, the still active Tongariro, became the outlet of the volcanic fire. That this element is still largely active in many parts of the country is shown by the geysers, solfataras, fumaroles, and hot springs which form one of the characteristic features of North Island. Thus the ‘lake country’—as the district round Lake Rorotua is commonly known—is ‘a region of eternal fire.’ The conditions of existence here are certainly novel. The natives bathe in such of the thermal springs as are of suitable temperature, at all times of the day, and in a very primitive fashion. In others, again, they cook their food and warm their houses by the same means.

These natural phenomena occur in many other districts, such, for instance, as that round Lake Rotokawa, and the districts near the native settlement of Tokanu, on the south side of Lake Taupo; while on the northern slope of Tongariro are some of the largest and most active boiling springs in the country. Moreover, the mountains possess all the rock formations in which gold, coal, iron, and other minerals are found to exist. Thus, the Kaimanawa Mountains, which are situated in almost the centre of the island, and stretch across the great central tableland to an extent of eighty miles, offer a peculiarly rich field to the geologist. Mr Kerry-Nicholls reports the existence of abundant auriferous indications, and confidently expresses his opinion that here lies a probable Eldorado.

It is not our purpose to do more than mention the adventurous journeyings recorded in this volume. Frustrated, owing to disputes between the natives and the colonial government, in an attempt to enter ‘the King Country’ from the north, the traveller successfully essayed to pass the southern boundary-line. By throwing himself upon the good-will of the natives, going fearlessly among them, respecting their customs, and following as nearly as possible their mode of life, and, in fact, for the time becoming a Maori, he succeeded at a time when many Europeans would not only have failed, but probably have paid the extreme penalty for their rashness. In one case, it is true, he only achieved his purpose by dint of exercising the greatest secrecy. Tongariro is _tapu_, or strictly sacred, in the eyes of the Maoris, and could only be ascended by a European without their knowledge. This is one of the most perfect volcanic cones in the world. But the resources of this rich district, from whatever point of view they may be considered, are still awaiting development. Its flora and fauna have still to be collected and classified. Its agricultural and industrial resources are still unknown; but we have evidence to show that these are worthy of attention.

THE MOULMEIN ELEPHANTS.

Some time ago there was a discussion in the learned journals regarding ‘intellect in brutes;’ and I thought then, as I think now, that much of the controversy depended on the definition we assign to the word ‘intellect.’ Some say that it is merely an exaltation of the natural instinct of the brute; others, that it is an exhibition of true reason. But then, what is instinct? Some arguers mystify their hearers, and exhibit their own ignorance of the subject by replying: ‘Instinct is only that in animals which we call reason in man.’ Well, this is not the place to argue the subject; but I shall exhibit certain facts, observed by myself, in the behaviour of the elephants employed in the Moulmein timber-yards, and leave my readers to judge whether they were due to instinct or reason.

Anchored abreast of Aga Synd Abdul Hosein’s timber-yard, and within bare swinging distance of the shore, I had ample opportunities of minutely observing and recording the marvellous illustrations of the elephant’s intelligence. These animals are largely employed in the timber-yards, and their functions consist in helping to embark and disembark the huge teak-logs, or move them about the yard; in fact, without them work would be at a stand-still. What struck me at once was the wonderful combination of enormous power with the gentlest, most loving docility. Here were huge logs being moved about as if they were matches, and yet with the utmost regard to any one in the way. A case in point. We were landing one day at the Aga’s wharf, and found that the ebbing tide had left a thick layer of treacherous slime on the wooden slope, rendering it impossible for a lady to land. Seeing this, the manager called out to a mahout or driver, and in a moment his elephant pushed a log down the slope, just stopping short of the boat, and affording the lady a dry surface to step out upon. There must have been intellect in this act; for the great log was not pushed down at random on the wharf, nor into collision with the boat, but exactly at the right spot and into the right place.

All elephant-work is performed either by the trunk or right foot in pushing; by trunk and tusks combined, as in carrying logs; or by the strength of the whole body in dragging. Dragging-elephants are furnished with a light wooden pack-saddle, on which the mahout sits sideways, and to which the traction-chain is attached. This is Y-shaped, the leg being greatly prolonged and ending in a hook. Let us watch the handling of this log—twenty feet long, by sixteen inches square—which has to be dragged across the yard. The chain is passed round it by an assistant and then firmly hooked; and now the elephant has to do the rest. His first action is to get his hind-legs well within the V of the chain, and then he starts, the log helplessly following. Arrived at its destination, the elephant disencumbers himself of the log by unhooking the chain with the finger of his trunk, and then pulling it from under the log, or pushing the latter to one side. Now, mark what was involved in this apparently simple operation, the sole guidance to which was either the voice of the mahout, a pat from his stick, or a tap from his heels. First, there was the getting inside the V. Why did the old fellow do that? He has learned from experience that if he did not, traction would be interfered with, and his legs rubbed by the chain. Was not his action, therefore, dictated by reason? Secondly, there was the unhooking of the chain, which instinct never could have prompted. Imitation was at work; the elephant had seen that the unhooking of the chain liberated the log, and had learned to follow the example; showing thereby the domination of reason.

Here are some logs being adjusted on the wharf-slope. Note the ease with which the elephant pushes each into its place with, apparently, the slightest movement of trunk or foot. Mark this one, which, by a greater than necessary exercise of force, has become tilted up against its fellow. The elephant has noted it too, and half-kneeling, and getting his tusks under it, he pulls the log backwards a little, and it drops square with its fellow. What dictated that action? Mathematical order and precision belong to the bee, and are said to be instinctively implanted in that humble animal; but could there have been anything in this elephant’s antecedents to have prepared it for rearranging a dislocated log? Surely the impulse seized it at the moment, and must have been due to a sense of order or tidiness implying the presence of reason. Odd lengths of log, varying from four to six feet, are carried about the yard by elephants, a species of work which is distasteful to them, as exhibiting their awkward points. Indeed, they evidently feel degraded by it, for they set to work with an air of resignation quite foreign to their shifting or dragging feats. There they rejoice in their great strength, and are fond of exhibiting it. Here, little strength is needed; but the operations involve roughish treatment of the nose, and we know that all animals, including man, are very particular as to how their noses are handled.

The elephant is proud of his strength, but sensitive with regard to his trunk, especially when that delicate organ is brought to bear upon any rough work; and as the securing of a log between the trunk and tusks necessitates a large amount of awkward movement, I noticed that the selected elephant approached the job with reluctance. Resigned to his fate, he half-kneels before the odious object, and gets the points of his tusks under it; then he wriggles it up the ivory tramway with his trunk, and secures it therewith _in situ_. His troubles now commence; for on rising to his feet, the hateful log, obeying the laws of gravity, at once tends to drop; and to obviate this, the poor brute has to raise his head on high. Thus constrained, he commences his march with slow stateliness, as if to make the best of a bad job, and not let the world at large know that he is virtually walking blindfold. And so he is; for the elevation of his head upsets the axis of his vision, and he has to walk more by touch than by sight.

I have thus attempted to describe the main duties which elephants have to discharge in the timber-yards, and I have mentioned that they are guided by the voice, stick, or heels of the mahout. Watching them from shipboard, you are quite close enough to note every movement of the animal, but not sufficiently near to catch the signal, so that the elephantine actions seem purely automatic, and therefore the more astonishing. But when you are alongside the animal, and can see and hear the simple signals under which he works, you are equally astonished at the thorough manner in which he understands what he is expected to do, and the very little prompting he requires.

On one occasion, I arranged with a mahout to bring up his elephant to where I was standing, that I might indicate the work to be done, the mahout to be absolutely silent. Standing by a six-foot log, I beckoned to the mahout, and up came the elephant. Arrived at the spot, and being without chains, he must have opined that dragging was not intended. There remained, then, pushing or carrying, the latter operation being the one which the sagacious creature saw was intended, for he proceeded at once with his awkward preparations for carrying it away. Throughout this test the mahout was absolutely silent, and, as far as I could see, quite passive. The result of it was that the elephant divined: what I, a stranger, wished it to do, and did it.

On another occasion, I applied the test to a difficult object, an eighteen-inch cube of teak, which the dear old fellow at once arranged to carry off; but how to do it, he could not at first determine. As his tusks diverged more than eighteen inches, they were no support, and the many sharp corners of the cube sorely tried the delicate trunk. After some failures, he managed to seize the fragment by the centre, and then raise it up below the tusks against his lower lip. As he had virtually accomplished the task, I discontinued the experiment, expressing my satisfaction and delight to the manager, who somewhat damped my ardour by informing me that the mahout, while abstaining from use of voice or stick, might have conveyed his wishes to the elephant by pressure with his heels!

But a moment’s reflection increased my admiration at the elephant’s intelligence, for, allowing that the mahout’s heels _had_ pressed his side, how could such pressure inform him that he was neither to drag nor push, but carry? Surely the mahout could not have possessed a code of pressure-signals with which he had indoctrinated the elephant in prospect of curious visitors. If he had, then it must have included voice and stick signalling as well, to either of which I might have resorted. No; I believe that the elephant acted independently of signals, and reasoned on what he had to do, by what was laid before him.

Hitherto, we have seen the elephant in the yard; let us follow him into the mill, and there admire the triumph of reason over instinct. We all know how naturally timid and nervous the elephant is, and how susceptible to noise. Well, watch this noble old fellow solemnly dragging in a huge log to the sawmill. Onward he moves, undismayed by the horrid panting of the engine or the screeching of the saws. Instinct would have tempted him to turn tail and flee from the noisy turmoil; reason keeps him at his task, confident that amid the uproar and apparent confusion, perfect order and safety prevail. And so, with flapping ears and swaying trunk, he yields up his log to the grip of the remorseless saw, and goes off unconcerned to find a fresh victim. It was very pleasing to see that the Aga’s elephants were kindly treated and well cared for; the goading _ánkūs_ (iron hook; and prod) was nowhere to be seen. A daily as well as a rigidly observed weekly rest was secured to them; besides, their cleanliness is well looked after; and morning and evening they are taken into the river to be well scrubbed, the termination of each bath being a triple dive, which they enjoy immensely.

On a second visit to Moulmein, I noticed another totally different illustration of confiding reason in the elephant. We were at anchor in the river in a strongly flowing tide, when a deeply sunk raft laden with green forage, two men, and two elephants, swept swiftly past. The elephants stood motionless and quite unconcerned, knowing that they were under secure pilotage, and quite safe as long as they remained quiet. If they had proved restless, the raft must have come to grief.

GUM-ARABIC AND THE SOUDAN.

According to the _Scientific American_, the gum-arabic supply appears to have been in a great measure cut off owing to the state of affairs in the Soudan. It says: ‘Gum-arabic comes almost exclusively from the Soudan, and owing to the operations of El Madhi, there have been no receipts of any consequence for a year past. In confectionery it makes about thirty per cent. of the best quality of gum-drops, marsh-mallow, and jujube paste. The annual supply from the Soudan has heretofore been from twenty to twenty-five thousand bags of four to six hundred pounds each, and there is usually a stock held in London about equal to one year’s receipts. This reserve is now about exhausted, and the gum has been steadily advancing in price from the ordinary figures of fourpence to fivepence per pound, until it now commands from one shilling and threepence to two shillings, according to quality.’

ONE BY ONE.

Though from the boughs to which they’ve long been clinging, The autumn leaves are dropping one by one, Yet from their dust, new forms of beauty, springing, Shall smile again in summer’s gentle sun.

Though one by one the pearly drops of morning, From drooping flowers, on viewless pinions rise, We’ll see them yet the gorgeous clouds adorning With glowing arches of celestial dyes.

Though one by one the stars are fading slowly That all night long kept vigil in the sky, The distant mountain-peaks, like prophets holy, Proclaim that morning’s light and song are nigh.

Though with slow step goes forth the sower weeping, And on earth’s lap his precious treasure leaves, Yet comes the harvest, with its joyous reaping, When shall be gathered home the ripened sheaves.

Though one by one the friends we fondly cherish Withdraw from ours, the cold and trembling hand, And leave us sorrowful, they do not perish— They yet shall greet us in a fairer land.

Yes; from all climes, where’er the faithful slumber ’Neath scorching suns, or arctic snow and frost, Stainless they’ll rise, in myriads without number; All, all, shall meet—there shall not one be lost.

A. M‘L.

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

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_All Rights Reserved._