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﻿Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 698 - May 12, 1877
Author: Various
Language: English







Fourth Series


NO. 698.      SATURDAY, MAY 12, 1877.      PRICE 1½_d._]




In a certain district of Ireland, at the foot of a tall mountain, and
well sheltered from the wind, stood the comfortable farm-house of
Patrick Daly, who, though not much raised above that class, so numerous
in Ireland, called small farmers, had by thrift and industry, aided no
doubt by good fortune, attained to a position of some consideration,
and was accounted a wealthy man in the neighbourhood. His farm was well
stocked and his barns well filled.

The dwelling was a long low building, substantial and roomy, planted
in front with some fine trees, among which the scarlet berries of the
mountain-ash peeped forth, giving to the place a picturesque as well as
comfortable air.

One source of Daly's wealth above others might perhaps be found in the
fact that, beyond a daughter, he had no family. His wife had been dead
many years; and this only daughter, now aged nineteen, ruled all within
the house, not excepting her father. As the farm would be her undivided
property, and it was known besides that Daly paid occasional visits
to a certain bank in the nearest town, she was looked upon as a great
heiress. Be that as it might, she was reckoned the loveliest girl in
that part of the country.

On a mellow October afternoon, Eliza stood in the garden before her
father's house engaged in lopping off branches from the mountain-ash
trees. The finest and richest with berries were those she selected,
as if they were destined for some festive occasion. The garden still
presented a very pleasant appearance, though November was almost at
hand; but the season had been a particularly mild one, and few signs of
winter were yet apparent.

As Eliza stood thus, her head thrown back, the light straw-hat she wore
fallen over her shoulders, and displaying the glossy coils of her raven
hair, she made a charming picture. She had placed some of the crimson
berries in her bosom and hair, and they became admirably her rich,
sparkling brunette beauty. Had she arranged them so bewitchingly with
any reference to some one who might chance to pass that way?

'Good-evening, Miss Daly,' said a voice at the gate; but it was the
cracked tone of an old woman.

Eliza advanced, her arms laden with branches. An old woman, apparently
about ninety years of age, stood there. Her form was bowed almost
double, her face yellow and one mass of wrinkles; but the dark eyes
were still keen and clear. She held a basket in her hand filled with
small-wares, which she hawked about among the farm-houses in the
neighbourhood, and thus earned her livelihood.

'Oh, it's you, Catty; and how are you?' she returned carelessly, while
her bright black eyes darted a quick glance up the road.

'Very well, thank you kindly, Miss Daly. I see you're busy preparin'
for to-morrow evenin'. If I'm not mistaken, it's the last Hallow-eve
you'll spend as Miss Daly. If we may b'lieve all we hear, it's a happy
bride you'll be long afore a year's over.'

She paused, as if expecting some confirmation or denial of this
statement. Eliza, however, was engaged plucking off some withered
leaves from the branches she held, and made no answer.

'He's a good, steady gorsoon, an' a handsome too, well worthy your
choice; an' I'm sure'----

'_Who's_ good and worthy my choice? Who is it you're talking about?'
interrupted the girl, lifting her head quickly and speaking sharply,
while the colour deepened on her cheek.

'Why, Mr Hogan, iv coorse. Sure, doesn't everybody know all about it;
an' it's only waitin' they all are every Sunday to hear you an' him
called in chapel.'

'Maybe then, they'll have to wait long enough. I might take it into my
head to disappoint them and him, after all. Suppose I shouldn't marry
at all; or suppose--suppose'---- She stopped.

'Suppose there is some one else you like better. But sure, didn't
you give the go-by to all the boys in the place? an' aren't you an'
Mr Hogan always constant together? at laste used to be till the last
month or so, when young Mr Crofton cum home from foreign parts. But you
wouldn't be so foolish as to be afther thinkin' of a gintleman like
him. An' you know, besides, don't you, that he's been plighted since
both were childer to his father's ward, Miss Ellen Courtney, that's
come to live at the Hall?'

'I neither know nor care whether he is or whether he isn't,' returned
Eliza, with a haughty little toss of her head and a touch of defiance
in her tone. 'He's not married to her yet, at all events, no more than
am I to Will Hogan. But tell me, Catty, have you seen Miss Courtney
yet? I hear she's very beautiful.'

'Yis, I have; an' a sweeter, lovelier-lookin' craythur never lighted on
this earth--so gentle an' kind to all in her manner too, an' ready to
help them that's in trouble. The folks are all jist delighted to think
Crofton Hall will have sich a misthress.'

'Maybe she'd never be that, after all.'

'Well, maybe not. But tell me honey, is there anythin' rale at all
betune you an' Mr Crofton, or is it jist a little divarsion you're
havin', to thry Will Hogan's temper?'

Eliza broke into a ringing laugh. 'Settle it whichever way you please,'
she answered. 'Call a jury of twelve of your gossips, and do you state
the case to them.'

The old woman shook her head, and her strangely undimmed eyes shot
forth a flash of anger. She was ill accustomed to be spoken to thus
pertly; for old Catty was looked upon with reverence and some awe, and
considered as a kind of oracle in the neighbourhood, both on account of
her extreme age and the wisdom of her sayings, which it was declared
never failed to come true.

'Woe be to them that part plighted lovers! Woe be to them that break
their own plight, woe an' bitter wailin'!' she exclaimed; then drawing
her cloak round her, she moved on without a word of parting.

The smile instantly faded from Eliza's lips. 'That old creature sends
a chill through me,' she muttered in a tone of annoyance. 'Would it be
for my woe? Oh, if I could read the future!' Suddenly throwing down her
boughs, she opened the gate and ran up the road after the old woman.
'Forgive me,' she said, coming up with her. 'I didn't mean to be rude.
Now tell me, Catty--they say you know everything--what will be my fate?
Shall I be happier next Hallow-eve than I am now? Or--or--shall I do
anything to bring misfortune on me?'

'Sure, how can I tell?' returned the other.

'You are angry with me still. Come now, do tell me. You know you can,
if you like. You've told others, and weren't you always right?'

'If you want to know your fate, try the charm o' the Twelfth Rig.'

'And what is that? Tell me what I must do.'

They were standing beneath a wall. The old woman seated herself on a
stone, and leant her arms on her knees. As she sat thus, her red cloak
drawn closely about her, her spare gray locks hanging loose, her eyes
glancing restlessly about with a strange kind of motion, as if they
were set in work by mechanism, she looked like some weird sibyl of
ancient days. Eliza had to repeat her question before an answer came.
Then, in a mysterious undertone, but so distinct that not a word was
lost, the other said: 'You must go to a field wid furrows stretchin'
from north to south. Go in at the western side, an' walk slowly over
the ridges till you come to the twelfth, then stop in the middle, an'
listen. If you hear merry music an' dancin', there's a long an' happy
life afore you; but if mournful cries an' groans, you'll die afore a
year's over.'

'How frightful!' murmured Eliza, shuddering. 'And should one go alone?'

'Yis, entirely alone, an' unknownst to any livin' sowl.' As she uttered
these words, she rose and walked on with a rapidity astonishing in one
so old and feeble.

Eliza gazed after her. She wanted to ask more questions, but fearing to
do so, she too turned and walked away in the opposite direction.

The wall they had stood beside inclosed a spacious park. But behind
that wall there had been a listener to their words, of whose presence
they were not aware.

In the centre of the smoothly gravelled side-path a young lady stood
still. She seemed to have been taking an evening saunter when the
voices outside arrested her attention. As she now walked slowly on,
she appeared to be sunk in deep reflection, evidently of no cheerful
nature. The deep dark-blue eyes, whenever the snowy lids with their
fringe of long black lashes allowed them to become visible, were full
of mournful expression. It was a beautiful face, a perfect oval in
contour, with features more strictly regular than those of the rustic
beauty Eliza Daly; but wanting in the brilliancy and richness of
colouring which made the great charm of that sparkling little brunette.
The full white forehead was very thoughtful. One could see that
melancholy would be at any time the characteristic of her countenance,
as it indeed frequently is of thoughtful faces. But there was so much
sweetness and gentleness in it, and the charm of its pensiveness was
such, that you would not have wished to change it for a gayer look.

'How will it all end?' murmured the lady. 'How will things be with _me_
in a year? If I believed in presentiments I would say that this weight
that presses on me boded evil. Which of the two fates is to be mine?
To die, or to live and be _his_ wife. One or the other, I think; but

Suddenly she again stopped, and listened with her head bent down. No
sound seemed to break the silence of the evening; but after a few
minutes, footsteps on the road without became distinctly heard, a
light elastic tread, with a firmness in its fall that told it was
that of a man. She listened with suspended breath, standing perfectly
motionless, the colour suffusing her pale cheek, her hands clasped
tightly, as if in intensest agitation and suspense. The steps came
nearer and nearer, went by the park wall, reached the gate, and as they
receded, the colour faded slowly from the expectant face, the hands
unlocked themselves, and drooped by her side, while her breath returned
with a low gasping sigh.

The next moment a thought seemed to strike her; she sprang towards the
wall, and stepping on the trunk of a fallen tree, looked over it down
the road. The figure of a young man was visible at a little distance,
and while he walked, as if in careless mood, he passed his cane lightly
through the wayside grass and flowers, striking off their heads as he
went by. She watched him till he disappeared from view, taking the turn
which led to Daly's farm.

'I knew it, I knew it!' she murmured; and in that passion of sorrow
which seems as if it must take hold of and cling to something, she
wound her arms tightly about the young elm that stood by her side,
striving to choke back the sobs that rose in her throat. The evening
breeze went moaning through its topmost boughs, mingling its sighs with
hers. A shower of yellow leaves, shaken by her convulsive grasp, fell
around her to the ground, like the faded hopes for which she lamented.


The house of Patrick Daly was ever a favourite resort on festive
occasions; he was himself much liked for his hospitality and genial
manner; and wherever Eliza was, there the male portion of the
population of the place were eager to go; although many amongst them
had given up their claims to her hand in favour of the young farmer
Hogan, they now stood by to see whether he who had defeated them would
himself be defeated by any still more powerful rival.

There was a merry gathering at the farm on the eve of All-Hallows. Many
bright pretty faces were present that might well have consoled the
disappointed ones; but beside the radiant young hostess who, in more
than usual beauty, dispensing smiles and hospitality at the head of the
table, they all paled into insignificance. At least so thought Hogan,
as he sat by her and watched her graceful movements, and listened with
rapture to her sweet ringing laughter; the merriest and most silvery of
all, it seemed to him.

On his other side a fair gentle-looking girl was seated, who divided
with Eliza the duties of hostess-ship. But though her soft blue eyes
rested often on his face, and she evidently listened to him with more
attention than the other, he seldom turned to address her. This was
Eliza's cousin, Mary Conlan, who lived at the farm. Daly had risen
to his present comfort by his own efforts, but had relations who
were in a very different position; and Mary's parents when living,
had occupied a very poor cottage. On their death Daly brought her to
reside with him. Though her attractions of person, and still more
so those of fortune, could bear no comparison with Eliza's, she was
still not without her admirers; but notwithstanding her gentleness,
it seemed that she could be saucy too, for none had as yet succeeded
in winning her. Daly, however, was not anxious for her marriage, for
she was invaluable in his household. Though Eliza had decorated the
room and filled the vases with autumn flowers, Mary it was who had
made the cakes which the company seemed to appreciate so highly, and
whose skill as a housewife had in a great measure won for the farm its
reputation of always having everything of the best description. That
Mary Conlan would make a model farmer's wife, everybody declared. Eliza
was unusually gracious this evening, smiling upon Hogan almost as of
old, and playing off a hundred arch little tricks at his expense. Daly
looked on well pleased, for there was nothing he desired so much as a
marriage between his daughter and the young farmer. Whispers went round
that 'to be sure it was no one but Will Hogan Eliza would marry after
all, and it was only nonsense to think she'd ever had any other idea in
her head.'

Thus pleasantly, amidst talk and laughter, the tea and cakes were
passing round, when suddenly the door was thrown open, and a young man,
whose dress and bearing unmistakably stamped him as belonging to a very
different class from any of those assembled, appeared on the threshold.
He started as if surprised, on seeing the company; but a close observer
might have noticed something a little studied in the movement, as if
the intruder were not altogether so taken aback as he would have it
appear. He advanced easily, however, and going up to the young hostess,
apologised gracefully for his intrusion, requesting at the same time
that as chance had led him there, he might not now be excluded from
so pleasant a gathering. Eliza, blushingly, but with warmth, gave the
desired permission that he should remain; whereupon he drew a chair
to her side, heedless of one, farther removed, offered him by Daly,
who did not seem by any means so flattered as might be expected by the
condescension of his landlord's son in thus honouring his house.

There was a constrained pause. Charles Crofton, however, leant back in
his chair, conversing with Eliza, and throwing out two or three general
remarks of a nature to provoke laughter, soon contrived to restore
things to their former state. But for Hogan all enjoyment was gone. He
sat moody and silent, a frown knitting his usually open brow.

The two competitors for Eliza Daly's favour were as great contrasts in
appearance as in rank. Hogan was the taller of the two, being above
six feet, and of more powerful and vigorous, though less graceful
build. Could he have settled his claim to Eliza by personal combat, it
is likely that the other would have fared but ill at his hands. Both
were handsome--Crofton particularly so; and it is probable that the
cultivated expression of his features and the play of his handsome
eyes, which he knew well how to make the best use of, would have a
greater charm for Eliza than the frank sun-burnt countenance and
straightforward untutored orbs of her rustic lover.

'All-Hallows eve, is it not?' inquired the new-comer, bending close to
Miss Daly. 'Has any one got a ring? Have you?'

'No, indeed; no one has yet, I believe.'

'Then I'm in luck, for here is one in my cake; and there, Miss Daly,
why you have the other half.'

'Well now,' whispered some of those near, 'if that isn't an omen, to
get a ring the same minute!'

''Tisn't the right half,' exclaimed Hogan, somewhat roughly. 'I have
that.--Don't you know, Eliza,' he whispered, 'I got one before.'

'This fits exactly,' said Crofton, trying his own and Eliza's together.
And so they did; but it seemed that seeing was not believing, in
Hogan's case.

'No,' he persisted; 'they aren't fits at all. Let me try.' He stretched
out his hand, and almost snatched the little shining crescent from
the white fingers of Crofton, who relinquished it quietly, and with a
provoking smile watched the other's vain efforts to make it fit.

'You see now it won't do,' he said banteringly. 'What haven't been made
for each other won't go together, no matter how you may try. But cheer
up; you'll find the match yet.'

The young farmer, however, returned his smile with a very black frown,
and stood up. As he did so he perceived Crofton whisper to Eliza, who
laughed merrily and glanced at him. He could willingly have struck the
young gentleman at that moment. He determined, however, not to let him
have altogether his own way if possible; and when the tea was removed
and dancing begun, he went up to Eliza and requested her hand. But
Eliza was engaged, and told him so.

'Dance the next with me then, won't you?' he pleaded earnestly.

'No; I won't: I don't want such a sulky partner,' answered she with a
saucy laugh.

'I am not sulky, Eliza; indeed I am not. I'm only sorry and vexed
that you should turn from me so, and for a stranger. It is not fair

'Not fair treatment indeed!' returned the girl, with a queenly toss
of her graceful little head and a curl of her rosy lip. 'Ah, now say
no more, Will Hogan.' And away she went round and round with Crofton,
while the fiddles struck up a merry tune.

Hogan stood still between two minds whether he would go away at once;
but he was reluctant to let his rival see him abandon the field. When,
however, the dance was finished, and the burning of nuts and other
Hallow-eve rites began, he still found no opportunity of approaching
Eliza; and all the omens which in other years had been favourable to
his cause were against him. At last, when Eliza's nut being placed
beside his, instantly bounded away and fell into the fire, there was
silence for a moment, and glances were exchanged.

Dancing having recommenced, several came round Eliza requesting her
hand; but she answered hurriedly that she could not take part in this
dance, but would in the next. She had things to look after just now,
and must leave them for a little while. Saying which, she quietly
quitted the room.

A few minutes after, a slight figure wrapped in a cloak might have
been seen gliding through the farm-stead. On emerging by the back-gate
on the road, it stood still for a moment and looked behind. The pale
moonbeams gleamed on the face; but so blanched were the features, so
altered the expression, that even had any of her friends been near they
might almost have failed to recognise Eliza. With a shiver, as if the
chill wind pierced her after the heated room she had left, she drew
the hood of her cloak closer over her face and began to speed rapidly
along. Nor did she pause or again look around till, some distance from
home, she at last stopped, breathless, at the gate of a potato-field.
For a minute or two she stood before it, as if irresolute.

'Shall I go back without trying it after all?' she murmured. 'No; I
will go on, and see what comes of it.'

She entered the field and began to walk slowly across the ridges,
counting them as she went till she had numbered TWELVE; then she stood
still and listened intently. The wind, which was high, swept over the
wide unsheltered space around. Was that its murmur she heard? She held
her breath. Low moans and sobbing sighs seemed to mingle with it.
Surely no wind ever wailed with such human anguish as that. Louder
and clearer it rose, swelling on the breeze, full of more piercing
passionate sorrow. She remained rooted to the spot, terror-stricken,
her heart almost ceasing to beat. The sounds seemed to come along the
ground. As she listened, a slender figure rose up slowly, as if from
off the earth, confronting her in the uncertain light, and gazing upon
her with a cold sorrowful eye. Shrieking, Eliza rushed back, stumbling
and sometimes falling over the ridges as she ran. How she gained the
road, she scarcely knew, but she found herself flying along it, with
the cry of 'Doomed, doomed!' ringing in her ears. She had heard it, low
and despairing, as she left the field, as if wrung from some soul in
mortal terror and anguish; now it seemed repeated by a hundred voices
exclaiming: 'Doomed, doomed!' She flew before it, pressing her hands to
her ears, to shut out the sound.

The farm-house was reached in a shorter time than one could have
imagined possible. She wrenched open the gate, rushed up the
garden-path, and with trembling hands knocked loudly at the door. The
summons rang through the house, above the music and dancing, and the
buzz of laughing voices. Everybody flew into the hall. On the door
being opened, Eliza rushed in, and would have sunk fainting on the
threshold if Hogan had not caught her in his arms. She was carried into
the room and laid on the sofa, while every remedy for fainting was
procured. Where had she been? was the question each asked the other.
Her hair, damp and dishevelled, hung about her, her dress was torn
and soiled, her hands covered with clay, and bleeding. At length the
remedies had effect; consciousness began to return, and when it did,
it came quickly. She opened her eyes and gazed earnestly round, as if
seeking for some face. If it was Crofton she sought, he was not there,
having left some time before.

'What has happened, dearest Eliza?' whispered Hogan, close by her side.
'Where have you been?'

'I went out, and was frightened,' she murmured.

'And what frightened you, mavourneen?' asked he coaxingly, as if
speaking to a wayward child.

But she made no reply, nor could any questioning draw from her an
explanation. The party broke up, and each went home indulging in all
manner of conjectures as to what had happened. It was whispered by some
that Eliza had gone to the Twelfth Rig.


Though we have not the slightest conception of what life is in
itself, and consequently could not define it, we may, for the sake of
convenience, think of it in this paper as some kind of force.

'In the wonderful story,' says Professor Huxley in his _Lay Sermons_,
'of the _Peau de Chagrin_, the hero becomes possessed of a magical wild
ass's skin, which yields him the means of gratifying all his wishes.
But its surface represents the duration of the proprietor's life; and
for every satisfied desire, the skin shrinks in proportion to the
intensity of fruition, until at length life and the last handbreadth
of the _peau de chagrin_ disappear with the gratification of a last
wish. Protoplasm or the physical basis of life is a veritable _peau de
chagrin_, and for every vital act it is somewhat the smaller. All work
implies waste, and the work of life results, directly or indirectly,
in the waste of protoplasm. Every word uttered by a speaker costs
him some physical loss; and in the strictest sense, he burns that
others may have light--so much eloquence, so much of his body resolved
into carbonic acid, water, and urea. It is clear that this process
of expenditure cannot go on for ever. But happily, the protoplasmic
_peau de chagrin_ differs in its capacity of being repaired and
brought back to its full size, after every exertion. For example, this
present lecture is conceivably expressible by the number of grains of
protoplasm and other bodily substance wasted in maintaining my vital
processes during its delivery. My _peau de chagrin_ will be distinctly
smaller at the end of the discourse than it was at the beginning.
By-and-by I shall have recourse to the substance commonly called
mutton, for the purpose of stretching it back to its original size.'

This explanation may be very philosophical, but it is only a roundabout
way of saying that, within reasonable bounds, we can recover the
effects of exhaustion by proper food and rest; which, as a fact, people
are pretty well acquainted with. The error to be avoided is, in any
shape to make such a pull on the constitution as to be beyond the reach
of recovery. Life-force, or call it protoplasm, is an inherent quantity
not to be heedlessly wasted; and this truth becomes more apparent the
older we grow. Why is one man greater, in the sense of being more
powerful than another? Because he knows how to get out of himself a
greater amount of work with less waste of life-force.

We see from experience that the more men have to do the more they
can do. And this paradox is only reasonable, for it is the necessity
of great work that forces upon us systematic habits, and teaches us
to economise the power that is in us. With the cares of an empire on
their shoulders, prime-ministers can make time to write novels, Homeric
studies, anti-papal pamphlets. It is the busy-idle man who never loses
an opportunity of assuring you that 'he has not a moment in the day to
himself, and that really he has no time to look round him.' Of course
idle people have no time to spare, because they have never learned how
to save the odd minutes of the day, and because their vital energy is
expended in fuss rather than in work.

'He hath no leisure,' says George Herbert, 'who useth it not;' that is
to say, he who does not save time for his work when he can, is always
in a hurry. One of the most sublime conceptions of the Deity we can
form is that He is never idle, and never in a hurry.

The following words from a newspaper description of the sublime
calmness of power manifested by the huge hydraulic crane used to lift
Fraser's celebrated eighty-one ton gun, we take as our type of the
powerful man who knows how to economise his vital force instead of
wasting it by fussing: 'Is there not something sublime in a hydraulic
crane which lifts a Titanic engine of destruction weighing eighty-one
tons to a considerable height above the pier, with as noiseless a
calm and as much absence of apparent stress or strain as if it had
been a boy-soldier's pop-gun? When we further read of the hydraulic
monster holding up its terrible burden motionless in mid-air until it
is photographed, and then lowering it gently and quietly on a sort
of extemporised cradle without the least appearance of difficulty,
one can readily understand that the mental impression produced on the
bystanders must have been so solemn as to manifest itself in most
eloquent silence.' With the same freedom from excitement and difficulty
does the strong man who saves his force for worthy objects, raise up
morally and physically depressed nations, take cities, or what is
harder to do still, rule his own spirit. It is the fashion nowadays
to say that people are killed or turned into lunatics by overwork,
and no doubt there is much truth in the complaint. Nevertheless it
would seem that vital force is wasted almost as much by the idle man
as by him who overworks himself at high-pressure for the purpose of
'getting on.' It is indolence which exhausts, by allowing the entrance
of fretful thoughts into the mind; not action, in which there is health
and pleasure. We never knew a man without a profession who did not seem
always to be busy. It may be he was occupied in worrying about the
dinner or the place where he should spend his holiday--which he did not
work for--in correcting his wife, in inventing pleasures, and abusing
them when found, in turning the house upside down by doing little jobs
foolishly supposed to be useful. And women too, when stretched on the
rack of a too-easy chair, are they not forced to confess that there
is as much vital force required to enable them to endure the 'pains
and penalties of idleness,' as would, if rightly directed, render them
useful, and therefore happy? The fact is there are far more who die of
selfishness and idleness than of overwork, for where men break down by
overwork it is generally from not taking care to order their lives and
obey the physical laws of health.

Let us consider a few of the many ways in which we waste the stuff
that life is made of. It has been well said that 'the habit of looking
on the bright side of things is worth far more than a thousand pounds
a year;' and certainly it is a habit that must add many years to the
lives of those who acquire it. Really every fit of despondency and
every rage take so much out of us, that any one who indulges in
either without a great struggle to prevent himself doing so should be
characterised as little less than--to use an American expression--'a
fearful fool.' How silly it seems even to ourselves after cooling, to
have acquired a nervous headache, and to have become generally done
up, stamping round the room and shewing other signs of foolish anger,
because the dinner was five minutes late, or because some one's respect
for us did not quite rise to the high standard measured by our egotism!
As if it were not far more important that we should save our vital
energy, and not get into a rage, than that the dinner should be served
exactly to the moment.

One day a friend of Lord Palmerston asked him when he considered a man
to be in the prime of life; his immediate reply was 'Seventy-nine.
But,' he added with a playful smile, 'as I have just entered my
eightieth year, perhaps I am myself a little past it!' How is it that
such men work on vigorously to the end? Because they treasure their
ever-diminishing vital force. They studiedly refrain from making a pull
on the constitution. Reaching the borders of seventy years of age,
they as good as say to themselves: 'We must now take care what we are
about.' Of course, they make sacrifices, avoid a number of treacherous
gaieties, and living simply, they perhaps give some cause of offence,
for the world does not approve of singularity. But let those laugh who
win. They hold the censorious observations of critics in derision, and
maintain the even tenor of their way. In other words, they conserve
their vital force, and try to keep above ground as long as possible.
Blustering natures forgetful of the great truth, that 'power itself
hath not one-half the might of gentleness,' miss the ends for which
they strive just because the force that is in them is not properly

Then as regards temper: any man who allows that to master him wastes
as much energy as would enable him to remove the cause of anger or
overcome an opponent. The little boy of eight years old who in the
country is often seen driving a team of four immense dray-horses, is
one of the innumerable instances of the power of reason over mere
brute-force, which should induce violent tempers to become calm from
policy, if from no higher motive.

Many people squander their life's energy by not living enough in the
present. They enjoy themselves badly and work badly, because they are
either regretting mistakes committed in the past, or anticipating
future sorrows. Now, certainly no waste of force is so foolish as this,
because if our mistakes are curable, the same energy would counteract
their bad effects as we expend in regretting; and if they are
incurable, why think any more about them? None but a child cries over
spilt milk. The mischief is done, and let it be forgotten, only taking
care for the future. Sometimes people keep fretting about troubles that
may never take place, and spend life's energy on absolutely nothing.
Real worry from Torturations of various sorts is quite enough, and
causes a greater draught on our vital force than hard work. Let us not,
therefore, aggravate matters by anticipations of troubles that are
little better than visionary.

In looking ahead, it is of immense importance not to enter into any
transaction in which there are wild risks of cruel disaster. There we
touch on the grand worry of the age. A violent haste to get rich!
Who shall say how much the unnaturally rapid heart-beats with which
rash speculators in shares in highly varnished but extremely doubtful
undertakings receive telegraphic messages of bad or good fortune, must
use up their life's force? Hearts beating themselves to death! Rushing
to trains, jumping up-stairs, eating too fast, going to work before
digestion has been completed--these are habits acquired naturally in
days when it is the fashion to live at high-pressure; but such habits
are surely not unavoidable, and would be avoided if we thoroughly
valued our vital force.

There are persons of a nervous temperament who seem to be always upon
wires. Nature has given them energy; but their physique is in many
cases inadequate to supply the demands made upon it. The steam is
there, but the boiler is too weak. Duke d'Alva, according to Fuller,
must have been of this nature. 'He was one of a lean body and visage,
to fret a passage through it.' The same thought was wittily expressed
by Sydney Smith when he exclaimed: 'Why, look there, at Jeffrey; and
there is my little friend ----, who has not body enough to cover his
mind decently with; his intellect is improperly exposed.' Now these
are just the sort of people who should not kill themselves, for though
wrapped in small parcels, they are good goods. They owe it as a duty
to themselves and others not to allow their fiery souls 'to fret their
pygmy bodies to decay'--not to throw too much zeal into trifles, in
order that they may have a supply of life-force for things important.
He who desires to wear well must take for his motto 'Nothing in
excess.' Such a one, as we have had occasion more than once to urge,
avoids dinners of many courses, goes to bed before twelve o'clock, and
does not devote his energy to the endurance of overheated assemblies.
When young men around him have got athletics on the brain, he keeps his
head and health by exercising only moderately. He is not ambitious of
being in another's place, but tries quietly to adorn his own. 'Give me
innocence; make others great!' When others are killing themselves to
get money, and to get it quickly, that with it they may make a show,
he prays the prayer of Agur: 'Give me neither poverty nor riches,' for
he thinks more of the substance than of the shadow. This is the truly
wise and successful man, and to him shall be given, by the Divine
laws of nature, riches (that is, contentment) and honour (that is,
self-respect), and a long life, because he did not waste the steam by
which the machine was worked. In homely proverb, he 'kept his breath to
cool his porridge,' and most probably was a disciple of Izaak Walton.

At this point, perhaps the secret thoughts of some who have not yet
learned how 'it is altogether a serious matter to be alive,' may take
this shape. 'What after all,' they may ask, 'is the good of economising
life's force? Often I hardly know what to do with myself, nor have I
much purpose in life beyond eating, drinking, and sleeping.' To such
thoughts we should give somewhat of the following answer: There is a
work for every single person in the world, and his happiness as well
as his duty lies in doing that work well. This is a consideration
which should communicate a zest to our feelings about life. We should
rejoice, as experience teaches us that each of us has the means of
being useful, and thus of being happy. None is left out, however humble
may be our position and limited our faculties, for we all can do our
best; and though success may not be ours, it is enough if we have
deserved it. Certainly if there be any purpose in the universe, a day
will come when we shall all have to answer such questions as these:
'You were given a certain amount of life-force; what have you done
with it? Where are your works? Did you try to make the little corner
in which you were placed happier and better than it was before you
came into it?' It is said that Queen Elizabeth when dying exclaimed:
'My kingdom for a moment;' and one day we shall all think nothing so
valuable as the smallest amount of that force without which we cannot



The moon was but just rising, and the shadows were getting deep when I
drew near to a clump of trees at the end of the long lane, as it was
not inaptly called. I was a little sobered by my walk, and perhaps the
least bit disappointed at having come upon no living creature for whom
I might do some kindness in Philip's name. I stood hesitating a moment;
not liking to go on, yet still more averse to turning back with my
purpose unfulfilled, when suddenly the opportunity came.

I saw something or some one moving amongst the trees; presently I
became aware that it was a woman, retreating more into the shade, as
though to avoid notice. Her movements appeared so mysterious that I
stood silent a moment, my pulses throbbing a little quicker than usual;
then I advanced a few steps, and said: 'Have you lost your way? Can I
be of any service?'

No answer.

'Can I help you in any way?'


I approached a little nearer towards the spot whence the voice issued;
angry and discordant, or it sounded so to me in contrast with the
solemn peaceful stillness around. 'Do not shrink from me; I am only a
woman; and as you see, alone,' I said.

'What do you want here--and what do you want with me?'

She had come out from the shadow now; and stood looking at me in the
soft gray evening light, defiantly, sullenly, but a little curiously
too. I returned her gaze, and saw enough to know that if ever a human
soul needed sympathy and help, this one did now.

'What do you want?' she repeated.

'I want you, and I think you want me. Thank God for bringing us

She stared at me for a moment, then sullenly replied: 'I'm not one for
thanking Him; and I'm not the one for such as do.'

'You are the one for me,' I said, answering her in her own short
decided manner; perceiving that she would bear it better than anything
approaching to softness.

She uttered a little defiant laugh.

'You're a lady; and I suppose you want to play at reforming me and all
the rest of it. You all like to shew off your goodness that way! But
it's all been tried on me over and over again. Ladies as was so good,
it a most made their hair stand on end to look at me, have tried, and
it was all no use; they always had to give in.'

'_I_ do not mean to give in.'

'Don't be too sure;' adding with another hard laugh: 'Why, I was
the very worst they had up there; and if they as was so perfect

'Let a woman who is not perfect be your friend.'

'Friend! What do you mean? How can you be my friend--unless'---- She
shrank back a moment, then bent eagerly forward again, gazing wildly
into my face. 'You must have done something wrong yourself, to make you
talk like that,' she whispered hoarsely.

Of course I had done wrong many and many a time, and not at the moment
perceiving her whole meaning, I quietly replied: 'Yes.'

'And that brought you here to-night!' she ejaculated, adding in a
low voice a vow, which seemed almost a curse, against herself if she
betrayed me. 'Tell me what it is you've done; and tell me how I can
help you?'

'I will tell you about myself presently; and we shall be able to help
each other; do not doubt it,' I returned, drawing her towards a fallen
tree, and getting her to sit down by my side, holding her hand fast
locked in mine the while.

'You can't help me, as I can see,' she musingly replied. 'I've been up
there for three months and more; but nothing come of it.'

'Up there?' I asked, beginning now to apprehend her meaning. 'Do you
mean at the Home for the reception of poor women who have yielded to

'Yes; though I never heard it put _that_ way before. You need not tell
me you are not one of the good ones, any more. Well, I was one of the
thieves they take in to reform. I'd been to jail six months; and one of
the ladies on the watch for girls when they come out, got hold of me,
and persuaded me to go up there for a time and be made different.'

'How'--I was going to say--'kind of her;' but I saw the time had not
come for that. She did not notice my interruption, and went on.

'Well, then, I run away, and got caught again, and persuaded to go back
to the Home, as they call it, once more. So I made one more try. But it
was no use. To-night I run away again; and I don't mind what becomes of
me now. Who cares?'

'I care.' It was no use, I thought, attempting to talk of the Eternal
love until she could believe in the human. Whether the fault was her
own or not, I could not at this juncture tell; but one thing was
plain, being 'cared for' was what this woman craved more than anything
besides. The misery of that half-defiant 'Who cares?' appealed direct
to my heart.

'How can you care for me when you have never known me?'--suspiciously.
'How can that be?'

'I do not know how it can be; I only know that it _is_; and I mean to
make you believe it. You are exactly the woman I was seeking to-night.
I want you.'

'What for? Do you really want some one to help you?' she eagerly asked,
turning her wild eyes suddenly upon me again. Even the moon, which was
shedding its silvery light upon us, could not soften the wild sadness
of her eyes.

'Are they after you? What is it you have done?'

I placed my fingers on her lips for a moment, to prevent her once more
repeating the oath that she might be trusted.

'Tell me,' she whispered.

I reflected a moment, then replied: 'Yes, I will tell you why it was
absolutely necessary to find some one like you to-night, if you will
first give me a promise to be my friend afterwards, and let me be

She promised. Then with a trembling voice I told her that night had
brought a letter to me from my lover abroad, whom I had not seen for
nearly ten years, and that in it he told me that he had at last earned
enough to make us independent for the future, and that he was on his
way home to marry me.

'And your trouble is that you haven't been true to him? You have gone
wrong, and want to hide away, and'----

'I have been true to him, and I have nothing to hide. But--my happiness
was so much more than I deserved--it was greater than I could bear,
unless I could lighten some heavy heart to-night, and I shall always
believe that I was led here to you.'

'Are you mad?'--struggling to free herself.

But I held fast. 'You promised--you promised!'

'More fool me. How can I be your friend? How can you be mine? What do
you mean? Let me go.'


'You'll have to. What tie could there be between you and me?'

'Our womanhood.'

'You don't know!'--with a bitter laugh. 'And you're but a fine lady
after all, talking about things you don't understand.'

'I am certainly not a _fine_ lady. I am better off now; but I have
lived upon bread-and-water as well as you have.'

'Without deserving it?'--eagerly.

'I cannot say as much as that. I have not the slightest doubt I did
deserve it, in one way or another. At anyrate it did me no harm
whatever to go into training a little. A great deal depends upon one's
way of taking things, you know.'

'I can't make you out.'

'Never mind about making me out. Try to trust me; do try.'

'I've a good mind to trust you--in real earnest. There's something
about you that makes me feel---- I _should_ like you to know,' she
said musingly. Then after a few moments, during which I left her
undisturbed, she added: 'Yes, you _shall_ know; though there isn't
another soul I'd tell as much to. I never took that ring at all!'

'A ring you were supposed to have taken?'

'Yes; they thought I stole it. I was in service, Miss'----

'My name is Haddon--Mary Haddon.'

'And mine is Nancy Dean.'

'Go on, Nancy.'

'Well I was in service, me and another young girl who was nursemaid;
and one day the mistress missed a ring. I know now that Emma had the
ring, and when there was a fuss about it, she slipped it into my box.
She came to worse afterwards, and told me the truth about it when I
saw her after I left prison. _She_ hadn't stolen the ring either. It
was given her by mistress's son. But when one of the children said she
saw her with it, and she was suspected of stealing it, she slipped it
into my box, rather than get Master James in trouble, never believing
that my box would be searched too; and meaning to tell me about it
afterwards. But Master James he had a grudge against me, because I
hadn't been so ready to listen to his love-talk, and I think he _meant_
the ring to be found in my box. I know he told Emma to put it there,
and made her think he wouldn't have anything more to do with her if she
confessed the truth. Besides he threatened to deny that he had given it
to her, and then she would have to go to prison instead of me. Well I
didn't say much to her then; she was a poor miserable creature already,
and didn't want hard words from me to beat her down any lower.'

'It was very hard for you, poor Nancy; but'--laying my hand gently on
hers again--'it might have been harder. I mean if you had really done
what you were believed to have done.'

'It was harder for another reason,' she replied grimly. 'Wait till
I've told you all. My mother lived away down in Leicestershire, a
respectable shepherd's wife, who prided herself upon bringing her girls
up honest and good. The first letter I got in prison came from my
married sister, to tell me that my wickedness had broke mother's heart,
and saying that it was no use my ever going back there again, for not
one of them would own me; and father he would never forgive me for
being the death of mother. My sister had married a well-to-do farmer,
and was ashamed of me before she thought I had done wrong, for being in
service; so she did not spare me afterwards. A disgrace to the family,
she called me, and said they one and all hoped never to see nor hear
from me again. I came out of prison a desperate woman! As I just told
you, when I came out of prison I was met by one of the ladies on the
watch for such as me, and I was brought down to the place up there.'

'You could not at anyrate doubt _her_ motive,' I said cheerfully.

A half-smile played about her lips as she went on without noticing my
interruption: 'Then they begun at me. I was dressed up in them things.
You've seen us parading off to church, I warrant--people never forget
to stare--so you know what it is out of doors, walking along two and
two with the matron in front dressed up fine to shew the difference!
But indoors it's worse--worse a deal than ever prison was. Mrs Gower
(that's the matron) has it all to herself, and---- There; I don't
think it has ever done any good to them as are as wicked as they are
thought to be, and it just drove me wild. Out of fifteen of us, there
wasn't many who could say they were better for being there. The sharp
ones pretend to be reformed straight off; it is the only thing to do
if you want to come off easy and get sent off to a situation with a
character. I gave them a great deal of trouble. I knew I wasn't quite
so bad as they thought me; but I didn't care about setting up for
good in the way some of them did neither. So I soon got to be thought
the worst character they had in the place; and then they shewed me
off as the bad one to the visitors--a sort of curiosity. Mrs Gower
liked to have a wicked one to shew among the good ones, I think. So
I began to feel a bit proud of it, and did little pranks on purpose
to amuse them. There wasn't so very much harm in them neither, only
they were against the rules. But to-day I was fetched in to be shewn
to the committee. I didn't mind them; making up a face all ready for
them; and they put up their glasses to look at me, and I think they
was satisfied that no place could have a wickeder one nor me to shew.
I was laughing to myself, when all in a moment I saw a face among them
that I knew. It was my old mistress's son, who had tried so hard to
make me go wrong, and then took his revenge by making me out to be a
thief. The thought came into my head to tell them that he had been the
cause of all my trouble. But I'd hardly begun when I was ordered to
stand down as a liar as well as a thief. Of course they wasn't going
to believe that a respectable gentleman like him could do anything so
wicked. Besides, there was his face to look at; there wasn't a gentler
and kinder-looking gentleman there than he was. And he called me "Poor
thing," and said he hoped they wouldn't have me punished, for he did
not mind--everybody knew _him_! Well, I managed to give them a bit
of my mind before I was got out of the room. I could ha' borne the
punishment and all that easy enough, if there had been anything to
come of it. But I knew it was no use; I should only get more and more
hardened, as they called it; so I got out of the window of the room I
was locked up in and cut. That's my story, and the whole truth.'

'Poor Nancy! The story is a very sad one; all the sadder because you do
not see where you, as well as others, have been to blame.'

'Do you think I stole the ring, then?'

'No; not for a moment. I believe you.' I hurriedly thought over what
was the next best thing to say, so as to do justice to those who,
however mistaken in their way of treating her especial case, had meant
to benefit her, and at the same time be true to her. I saw what they
had apparently failed to see--she _could_ be touched.

'Then how have I been to blame, Miss?'

'It is a private undertaking, is it not, Nancy; almost entirely
supported by one lady, although managed by a committee?'

'Yes, Miss; and the committee is managed by Mrs Gower. They all do what
she tells 'em; though if they knew'----

'And costs a great deal of money; does it not? I think that I have
heard this lady subscribes between fifteen and eighteen hundred a year
to it.'

'Yes, Miss; I suppose she do. They say Mrs Gower the matron has two
hundred a year besides lots of perquisites,' replied Nancy, a little
surprised at what appeared to her the irrelevancy of the question.

'And this lady spends all that in the hope of benefiting her
fellow-women! How much she must feel for them--nay, how much she must
_love_ them, Nancy! Think of feeling so much love for women who have
done wrong as to spend all that upon the bare chance of benefiting
them! In spite of their want of gratitude too!'

There was a new startled look in Nancy's eyes, as she murmured in a low
voice: 'I never thought of that--I never thought about _her_ caring.'

'But she must, you know; and it must be a great grief and
disappointment to her to feel that all she does is in vain. It is, you

'I am afeard it is--a most'--hesitatingly began Nancy. 'We've all on
us been thinking about Mrs Gower, and she's'----

'A moment, Nancy! It is quite evident that Mrs Gower has not the same
feeling towards you all which her employer has, or you would have
experienced _some_ good effects from it. But it is equally evident that
those whom the benevolent lady is seeking to help have no gratitude
towards _her_--not even gratitude enough to acknowledge her good-will
towards them.'

'I--never thought of _her_,' repeated Nancy, more to herself than to
me. 'I only saw her once; a pale thin lady, who looked so sorry--yes,
she _did_ look sorry, even for me, though she thought I was the worst
there! If I'd only thought she cared!'--turning her eyes regretfully
in the direction of the house again. Then drawing a heavy breath:
'But there; she thought it was all my wickedness! I let her think so;
and--it's done now, and can't be undone. There's no hope for me now--I
told you so--everything's against me.'

'Nonsense! No hope indeed! There's every hope for one with your keen
sense of right and wrong, if you will only act up to it. Do you think I
will ever give you up?'

'What can you do for such as me, Miss?'--I was glad to see a little

'Lots of things. Let me think a moment.' Presently I went on: 'There
are two ways to begin with, Nancy. One will require more moral strength
and courage than the other; but you shall choose which you think best;
and whichever course you take, I promise to hold fast to you.'

'What is it to do, Miss?'--eagerly.

'One plan I propose is, for you to come at once with me to the place
where I am staying, and remain there until I am married, which I shall
be shortly, when you should live with me as housemaid; none but us two
knowing anything about the past, and'----

'I choose that!' she hastily began, her eyes brightening and her colour

'Listen a moment, before you quite decide, Nancy. The other course is
more difficult, I know; but I want you to decide fairly between the
two. It is to go back to the Home, take your punishment, whatever it
may be, and stay there, with me for your friend, until I am ready for
you to come to live with me. I am quite aware it would require a great
deal of courage and self-control to do that; but I think you could do

'Which would you like me to do best, Miss?'--anxiously.

'If you succeeded in doing the more difficult thing of the two, I
should of course have greater respect for you, Nancy; but I should not
be less your friend for your being weak. I am not sufficiently perfect
myself, to insist upon perfection in my friends.'

'That's it, Miss; that's just where it is! If Mrs Gower our matron
only had some faults--ever such little ones--of her own, she might get
nearer to us. It's the terrible goodness which makes it so impossible
for her to understand us, and us to understand her. She seems to be
always a-thinking about the great difference there is between her and
us. It only makes us more spiteful against the goodness, when we see
how hard it makes people. Why, the bad ones are ever so much more sorry
for one another, and ready to help!'

'And you judge all others--the lady who has done so much to prove her
love and unselfishness, as well as every one else--by this matron. She
is probably not suited to the office; but I do not see'---- I paused,
recognising that it was not just then the best moment for advancing any
argument in vindication of what she termed 'goodness.' All that would
be suggested by a better experience, by-and-by. So I merely added:
'Whether she feels it so or not, it is very sad for Mrs Gower to have
so utterly failed in reaching your hearts, as she appears to have done.
But we must not forget that it is our own defects, and not hers, which
are in question just now, you know, Nancy.'

'I know what you mean, Miss; and I'm sorry as I did not'----

'Never mind about the past. There is plenty of time before us, I hope.
Which is it to be, Nancy? Will you come with me now, or go back to the

'I will go back, Miss; and if you hear'----

'If I hear! Of course I shall go to see you to-morrow. You ought to
know that.'

She rose, looked steadily towards the Home, now darkly and sharply
defined against the moonlit sky, then turned her eyes upon my face,
grasped my hand with a strong firm grip for a moment, and walked
swiftly and silently away.


Cricket is a pastime so extensively and deservedly popular as to
rank among the foremost of English institutions. It is physically an
excellent test of wind, strength, and endurance, and is intellectually
attractive from the opportunities it affords for the exercise of
scientific skill. In a social respect the advantages it confers are
great, because men of different grades are brought together without
prejudice to the distinctions custom has created, and many genial
consequences remain from such meetings. In a moral point of view
cricket may be said to inculcate the cardinal virtues. And it is mainly
in relation to this last aspect and the results, psychologically
speaking, that we here propose to consider the game.

In the remarks we shall offer we will generally assume some knowledge
of cricket on the part of readers; but still, for the benefit of the
uninitiated, will here record a few brief particulars. Apart from
preparing and keeping the ground in order, the material essentials of
the game, as everybody knows, are simple and inexpensive, consisting
of merely bats, stumps, and ball. It is usually played by two sides,
each composed of eleven men, and subject to certain recognised rules.
These sides alternately assume the position of the attacking and
the attacked. The object of the former is to effect the fall of the
wickets, which the other side defends, and to frustrate the endeavours
of the latter to make or score 'runs.' It is on the superiority
established in this respect that the issue of a game depends. This
is a scanty and necessarily imperfect description; but taken with
what we shall say incidentally as we proceed, it will be enough for
the illustration of the points we have in view. Let us now observe
that a member of each of the eleven is elected as captain; and by
the two captains all the preliminaries of a game are arranged. Each
then assumes entire control over the members of his own side. It is
the captain who appoints the bowlers, assigns to the other men their
different positions in the field, and settles the order in which his
side are to take their innings. Throughout the game it is necessary
that he should remain as watchful as a general directing the movements
of a battle-field, and that he should be prepared with prompt measures
to meet the varying exigences of the encounter in which he takes so
prominent a part. In a word his duties are manifold and arduous. He
must, according to circumstances, study and maintain the _morale_ of
his men under depressing prospects, or moderate their too sanguine
anticipations in the face of approaching triumph, lest they beget
carelessness, and so end in mortification and defeat.

A captain must at the same time infuse a spirit of contentment into his
men, and also inspire them with thorough confidence in himself. It is
probable there may be three or four men of tolerably equal pretensions
as bowlers, or two or three equally ambitious to fill some other post
in the field. The captain will have to select between these rival
candidates, without condemning those he disappoints to the pangs of
secret vexation and annoyance. Thus, in framing his dispositions for
a game, he will have to consider each individual's special capacity
for filling a particular post, not merely as it actually exists, but
also in some degree as it exists in the estimation of the individual
himself. He may otherwise leave room for petty heartburnings, and for
the feeling that an injustice, or at least a slight, has been suffered.
Should this unhappily prove the case, it will, even unconsciously to
himself, mar a man's usefulness in the field, by inperceptibly or
otherwise curtailing his activity of either mind or body, or both. As
to the former, it is almost needless to observe that attention is the
great watchword of cricket.

Now, to enable the captain to acquit himself satisfactorily on the
foregoing heads, and to secure the results we have indicated, with
a perfect knowledge of cricket, he should combine both a knowledge
of character and the exercise of considerable tact and _Prudence_.
The latter being the point with which we are immediately concerned,
let us see how it is exemplified in the _rôle_ the players are all
successively required to perform--that of batsman. At each wicket
stands a batsman, and both are obliged to keep within spaces extending
four feet from the stumps, the spaces being marked by lines transverse
to that in which the wickets are pitched. The 'runs' before alluded
to, which it is the great object of the game to make, are obtained
by the occupiers of the wickets running the distance between them as
often as possible in the interval taken in returning the ball to the
hands of either the bowler or wicket-keeper, after it has once left the
bowler's hand, during which time it is said to be _in play_. But they
cannot do so, nor indeed go out of their 'ground' at all, demarcated
as described, while the ball is in play, except at the risk of the
wickets being put down. This may be done by a batsman's being either
'run' out, or 'stumped' out. He necessarily exposes himself to a risk
of the former contingency when making runs in the manner explained.
Consequently, under such circumstances, a man has not only to be very
watchful and quick in his movements, but has also to make the best use
of the judgment at his command. The penalty of error in this respect is
fatal, unless some fortunate accident should intervene.

Now in regard to the second of the risks referred to, the occasion
is one for the exercise of both judgment and considerable prudence.
In order that this point may be properly understood, it should be
remembered that the balls bowled to the batsman are either 'lengths' or
the reverse--that is, they are such that he can best play them either
by waiting in his ground or by stepping out a little to meet them.
When he should so step out and when he should forbear--for there is
at all times a great temptation in the matter--is the pivot on which
his prudential considerations in this connection revolve. Should he,
after advancing, fail to hit or stop the ball, the wicket-keeper, who
stands in readiness behind the wicket, will have most probably picked
it up, and put down the wicket before the batsman can return to his
ground. But with prudence in the ascendant, and a nice calculation of
chances, the risk to which the batsman exposes himself becomes reduced
to a minimum, or is altogether avoided. And with the same principle
governing his play throughout, he delays or postpones the calamity
which finally compels his retirement from the wickets until he has
at least placed a fair amount of runs to his credit; or as happens
in exceptional cases, he entirely averts the calamity, and achieves
the honour of 'carrying' out his bat. But self-evidently, there is no
honour attending this performance if a score beyond the average has not
been made.

Now let us see in what respect it behoves a bowler to exercise this
virtue of prudence. Many batsmen have a favourite stroke with which
they succeed better than with any other. Thus a man may be able to
hit effectively to 'leg' who does not succeed so well at 'off.' In
cricketing parlance, he is in that case stronger on his leg than on his
off-stump. But the actual circumstances in any given case may of course
vary, and they may be just the reverse of the foregoing. We shall,
however, suppose them to be as we have stated. Well, the respective
points of strength and weakness of the batsman soon become apparent
to the bowler; and ordinary consideration or prudence then naturally
suggests to the bowler the advisability of avoiding the delivery of
balls likely to pass to 'leg' or the near side, and of directing the
ball as much as possible, consistently with the main object in view,
to 'off' or the far side, of the batsman. This would both preclude
the negative result of the ball being hit away, and afford a fairer
prospect of the positive result of the wicket being lowered, since it
would be assaulted on the weaker side. But these circumstances really
represent only certain elemental conditions of the game, and are here
brought forward simply for illustration's sake. Still, without a due
observance of them, and of such points as varying the length of a ball,
and bowling so that a catch may result--which are all to be attained
by the study prudence would suggest--cricket would cease to be the
scientific game that it is; and a bowler would deserve the reproach we
sometimes hear applied to him of bowling only with his hand, instead of
bowling with both hand and _head_, as he is invariably bound to do.

The necessity of _Temperance_ for the satisfactory prosecution of
cricket is altogether too obvious to call for argument. The habit
itself is not only essential to the unimpaired preservation of wind
and limb, but even a solitary occasion of deviation from it may be
productive of baneful effects. What cricketer of experience cannot
recall the incident of a good 'bat' prematurely returning to his
comrades, to make their sympathising bosoms the willing repository of
his confession, that the disaster by which he has just been overwhelmed
is due to either the salmon or champagne he took overnight; in
consequence of which he unhappily 'saw double!'

Then as to _Fortitude_, there is perhaps no other single quality
adorning manhood which takes so wide and active a range in cricket.
There is the fortitude which sustains the bowler as he finds his best
efforts fail in making an impression upon the wicket, and teaches him
to persevere with a heart that is still composed and undaunted. He
in truth calms the flutter which will occasionally seize him at such
a time; and despite the conviction painfully forced upon him again
and again, that his bowling has been mastered, he still manfully
endeavours, and frequently succeeds, in pitching the ball on the one
spot which above all others serves to afford a crucial test of his
opponent's mettle and prowess. But the latter meets the effort each
time with unswerving steadiness and marvellous effect. With what ease
and perfection he stops the ball, with what consummate grace and vigour
he hits it away when a chance offers! Immense indeed is the fortitude
which enables the bowler to bear up against soul-crushing vicissitudes
of this kind. And fortunate, too, for him is it that in such a
crisis the captain comes to his relief, and institutes a change of
bowlers. This change is sometimes admittedly from good to bad. But it
nevertheless often produces immediate benefits; and so well recognised
is the fact, that it has almost passed into an axiom of the game.

Let us now picture to ourselves the batsman in circumstances contrary
to what we have supposed above. He is confronted by a bowler who sends
him, we shall suppose, a succession of 'overs,' comprising balls which
are, with few exceptions, all perfectly straight and of excellent
length. He occasionally plays the ball away; but it is quickly returned
by a smart 'point' or active 'mid-wicket,' so that he cannot obtain a
single run. Oftener he only succeeds in merely staying the progress
of the ball, and his resistance does not go beyond that. Now, every
time the ball rises against the body, or perhaps the shoulder, of the
bat, the consciousness of a deliverance from danger rushes through the
possessor's mind, which is naturally enough followed by a thrill of
delight and self-congratulation; for however accomplished be a player,
he for some time at least feels that his fate is not in his own hands.
This is owing to the possibility of some subtlety, such as a twist
or bias, being suddenly developed by the bowler in the course of a
well-directed and well-maintained attack, which takes the defender
of the wicket by surprise, and occasions his fall. Such an event may
easily happen, and is to be reckoned among the uncertainties of the
game, in regard to which we shall have a word or two to say. It will
meanwhile, from the circumstances we have stated, be seen that the
sensibilities of the batsman are subjected to short but severe fits of
tension, as they rapidly undergo the alternate forms of a vague fear
or anxiety on the one hand and of joy on the other. So decided indeed
is this fact, that numbers of spectators very commonly sympathise, to
judge from the expressions which spontaneously escape them, as they
watch the events of the game. Fortitude alone enables the hero of the
bat, with stout heart, to live through so trying an ordeal. And all
honour to him when he at length succeeds in turning the tables on the
foe, and finally punishes the bowling to his own satisfaction and to
the admiration of the by-standers!

Now, in regard to this quality of fortitude, which is essentially
heroic in its nature--consisting in the patient resolute endurance of
suffering--the wicket-keeper and long-stop frequently furnish notable
examples. The wicket-keeper's duties inevitably entail that condition
of martyrdom as their allotted burden; while as to long-stop, the
degree in which he is called on to bear the buffets of fortune and of
the ball very much depends upon the precise circumstances in which he
is placed. Nor, in this connection, must we omit to notice the possible
case of some stout gentleman standing at 'long-field,' whom the energy
of the batsman constantly despatches in pursuit of the ball. In the
course of each rapid excursion he makes, with the prospect of four or
five runs resulting to the striker, what is it nerves him with spirit
and determination, and despite his shortness of breath and quivering
limbs, impels him to struggle on, but that heroic quality of which
cricket teaches us so sound and useful a lesson!

The love of _Justice_ is undeniably one of the sublimest instincts
of the human mind, and it is not too much to say that, so far as it
goes, cricket directly tends to foster and promote it. In a primary
or fundamental sense, the rules which have been instituted for the
management of the game are a provision for its being conducted on
fair and equitable principles; and they are, moreover, administered
by umpires appointed for the purpose, who adjudge all doubtful and
disputed points. The associations of the game are in general so healthy
that a wrong decision wilfully given is a thing almost unknown; and
one reason why the umpires should discharge their duties in a strictly
scrupulous and conscientious manner is, that they themselves are very
much under the cognizance of those who observe the progress of the
game purely for their own pleasure, so that any glaring inaccuracy, or
deviation from truth or principle on their part (allowing the last to
be possible), would be at once detected, and lead to public remark and

How it is that others should be so easily able to note points which it
is the duty of the umpires to decide, will be apparent when it is borne
in mind that, however important their effects, the casualties which
occur in cricket are of a very simple nature, and are all referable
to a particular condition or stage of progress of the ball. Aided by
a knowledge of the rules, which are clear and explicit, the eye has
therefore merely to fix itself closely on the ball. To take now an
introspective view of the matter, or to look say to secondary and
internal effects, the desire to do justice to one's companions, or in
other words to see the fullest possible scope given to the cricketing
abilities they may possess, is an essential ingredient of the spirit
which animates a side. The hopes and calculations of success in a game
of cricket are based on the united exertions of the eleven men who
form a side, though special faith may often be placed in particular
individuals who have proved themselves conspicuously good players. But
in the inevitable nature of things, such 'stars' are apt to undergo
a sudden eclipse when least expected, to the manifest ruin of any
calculations which may have been made with exclusive reference to them.
Hence policy and experience combine to indicate the above mentioned as
the only course which is to be relied on as perfectly sound and safe.
It is consequently a wish with every member of an eleven that every
other member should do the utmost of which he is capable, both in his
place in the field and in the way of making runs and contributing to
the general score. This wish is bound up in the breast of each member
with the personal interest he takes in the success of the side to
which he belongs. But this feeling is even extended, as it is only
right it should be, to the opposite eleven; to whom, collectively and
individually, the opportunities of a free exercise of their powers
and the chance of winning on their merits, are never grudged by any
true-hearted cricketer. But it may be argued that all this indicates
only an absence of selfishness and a love of fair-play. Yet what are
those feelings but the concomitants or essential characteristics of
that divine attribute which springs from the cultivation of cricket,
and by a healthy reactionary influence, expands and purifies in the

Among the other advantages of the game, a moment's consideration will
determine that it is directly opposed to the growth of arrogance and
self-assumption. There is this to be said of it, that as the battle
is not always to the strong nor the race to the swift, so the victory
in cricket does not always go to the eleven who may, on a comparative
estimate with their rivals, be reasonably regarded as of superior
merit. This is to be accounted for by the fact, that the forces the
two elevens represent act not merely in opposition, but also in some
respects in correlation with each other. Therefore the result of a
game of cricket, though in the main due to the relative strength of
the sides engaged, is somewhat _eccentric_ in its nature; like the
direction a movable body assumes when operated on by forces acting from
separate quarters. And this affects not only the collective fortune of
a side, but also the individual fortune of each player. Accordingly in
other games and sports the expert may revel in the proud consciousness
of superiority, and in weak moments betray that fact in his demeanour;
but the cricketer can venture on no such dangerous exhibition of
conceit. He may in the early stage of his career, but experience soon
teaches him the folly of his conduct. The reverses he meets with, often
when least expected, induce in him an air of becoming humility, or at
least of modesty, under all circumstances.

This then, in plain language, is the consequence of those uncertainties
of cricket which have been spoken of before; and so it arises that when
the contending sides are tolerably well matched--a condition embodied
in the framework of the several propositions we have advanced--even
the greatest and surest run-getters approach the wickets with a secret
sense of diffidence, and with their minds already troubled by that
vague sense of apprehension to which allusion has elsewhere been made.
Probably so eminent and successful a batsman as Mr W. G. Grace may be
exempt from the influence of these feelings; but he is certainly not
exempt from the operation of that law of contingencies which produces
them in less gifted individuals. In order to prove this we have only to
compare some of the enormous scores made last season by him with his
failure at other times. But not to strain the comparison too far, it
will be enough to state that in the match, Gentlemen _versus_ Players,
played in the beginning of July, Mr Grace was caught for ninety in
his second innings; while in his first he was bowled by Emmet for the
traditional duck's-egg (0)!

Indeed, taken in the aggregate, the uncertainty of cricket equals,
if it does not surpass, the uncertainty which alike proverbially
characterises love and war. But so far from that being in any way
a drawback, it gives a special zest and charm to the game, as it
is impossible to predicate the issue in any case in the light of a
foregone conclusion. Despite the blankest prospects consequently, the
hope of a possible turn of events, or at least of luck, and with it
the hope of winning, always continues till the last. From this arises
an expression current in cricketing circles, that a game is never lost
till it is won.

No doubt, too, it is owing to this uncertainty which attends the
game that cricket has hitherto afforded so little encouragement to
the vicious practice of betting, which would only have the effect,
if it existed to any greater extent than it does, of detracting from
its beauties and pleasing sensations. All genuine lovers of the game
will therefore here cordially unite with us in the wish that gambling
may never, like an evil spirit, further obtrude its presence in the
sanctuary, where honour and probity dwell in peaceful union with
generous emulation and manly love and sympathy.


Though great progress has been made during the last five-and-twenty
years in the pursuit of apiculture, much remains to be done,
particularly in spreading far and wide a knowledge of recent
discoveries, and attempting to induce a more general adoption of this
most profitable and interesting occupation. It would be difficult to
refer to a pursuit in which larger returns are yielded, considering
the limited outlay; and as profit is a consideration with the majority
of those who have bees, we propose to keep it chiefly in view in the
present paper.

It cannot be too often impressed upon beginners that bees require
attention. Many people seem to think that they have only to purchase
a few hives and place their bees in them, and that a large yield of
surplus honey will be the natural result, without rendering the little
workers any assistance at all. It is not by this happy-go-lucky method
that profits are made by apiculture. It is certainly true that in
spite of neglect bees often do answer remarkably well; but the skilful
apiarian, by means of certain acts, to which we shall presently allude,
performed in the proper manner and at the right time, will _command_

Our remarks will be founded on the assumption that the pernicious
custom of 'smothering' bees is extinct. Those acquainted with the rural
districts know, however, that the agricultural labourers, and others
who ought to know better, do continue to burn their bees; but the
practice has long been abandoned by every one worthy of the name of

Many people are bewildered in commencing apiculture by the large number
of hives whose particular merits are forced upon their attention.
There is only one golden rule in this matter, carefully to consider
the habits and requirements of the bee, and decide whether pleasure or
profit is the _desideratum_. For example, observatory hives, as they
are termed, are all very well as a means of studying the habits of the
insect, but are not to be recommended when 'supers' of surplus honey
are the result aimed at.

In order to take advantage, however, of the various methods perfected
by distinguished apiarians for obtaining complete control over the
denizens of a hive, we strongly recommend the adoption of hives on
the _movable-comb_ system, invented by Francis Huber, perfected by
Langstroth in America, and by Woodbury, Abbott, Jackson, Raynor,
and others in England. By means of the various hives made on this
principle, perfect command may be obtained at any time over the bees,
and the most difficult operations may be conducted with an ease and
certainty marvellous to the uninitiated. For example, natural swarming
need not occur, and thus the frequent loss of swarms will be prevented;
stocks which have lost their queen from any cause may have one at once
supplied without the delay consequent upon waiting for the bees to
rear one; and the interior of the hive may be examined frequently, to
ascertain if the colony is healthy and in good working order.

For this reason we reject straw hives; but if these are used, let them
be large. There cannot be a greater mistake than to use the small straw
_skeps_ one sees in cottage gardens. Years ago, when people did not
understand the enormous egg-producing power of the queen, this was
allowable; but when modern researches have proved that her majesty can,
and will if she has room, lay more than two thousand eggs a day, the
absurdity of preventing her from doing so is inexcusable.

Mr Pettigrew, whose father was one of the largest bee-keepers in
Scotland, uses _large_ straw hives only, and speaks of hives weighing
from one hundred to one hundred and sixty-eight pounds. He observes,
in his _Handy-book of Bees_ (1875), that 'it would take three ordinary
English hives, if not more, to hold as much honey as one of these
hives--it would take three or more of them to hold bees enough to
gather as much in the same space of time.' His chief objection to
wooden hives appears to be their liability to dampness. This evil has,
however, been neutralised in the best varieties of the movable comb
or bar-frame hives by the adoption of an almost perfect system of

Mr Pettigrew goes on to say that his father once realised twenty
pounds profit from two hives in one season, and nine pounds twelve
shillings from another. The profits came from the honey gathered by
the bees, and not from swarms sold at large prices. He continues: 'The
adoption of large hives by many of the bee-keepers of Aberdeenshire
and Banffshire put them last year in the van of the advancing hosts.
In a private letter which lies before us it is stated that the first
swarms, obtained last year about the middle of July, rose to great
weights. One belonging to Mr Gordon rose to one hundred and sixty-four
pounds. Swarms belonging to other bee-keepers rose to one hundred and
twenty-eight, one hundred and twenty-six, one hundred and twenty, one
hundred and nine, and one hundred and four pounds. Mr G. Campbell
got four swarms from one hive; their united weight (including the
mother-hive, which was ninety-three pounds) was three hundred and
seventy-three pounds. The profit from this hive must have been very
great. Three sizes have been recommended: the first, twenty inches wide
by twelve inches deep, inside measure; the second, eighteen inches by
twelve inches deep; and the third size sixteen inches by twelve inches.
The first size contains about three thousand cubic inches; the second
size, about two thousand seven hundred cubic inches; and the third size
about two thousand cubic inches.' He advises the use of the three sizes
according to the extent of the swarms and the return of the season, and
after detailing the profits from his bees in a village in Lanarkshire
he adds, that for 'gaining great profits in a favourable season,
and for continued prosperity for a succession of years, the system
of having strong hives and early swarms is far before all the other
systems of managing bees.'

If we were asked to name the most important desideratum in apiculture,
we should say feeding. Judicious feeding at a proper time will
save many stocks. We have not only to contend against the absolute
destruction during winter of a feeble or ill-supplied stock, but the
principle always before the eye of the apiarian should be to be able to
commence the season with strong stocks, able to take due advantage of
the honey season directly it arrives. By having this always before him,
he can easily double the working power of his colonies. It will readily
be seen that in a short or inclement honey-gathering season it is
important to make the most of every opportunity of collecting stores,
and this can only be done if the workers are in a fit condition to do

Feeding not only consists in giving them honey, sugar, sugar-candy,
or like sweet substances, if they need it, but in supplying them
with water, salt, and rye or wheat meal. Let us briefly notice these
in detail. Mr Langstroth, an American apiarian, who has written an
excellent work on the bee, quotes the following remarks by Mr Kleine
in the _Bienenzeitung_: 'The use of sugar-candy for feeding bees gives
to bee-keeping a security which it did not possess before. Still we
must not base over-sanguine calculations on it, or attempt to winter
very weak stocks, which a provident apiarian would at once unite with
a stronger colony. I have used sugar-candy for feeding for the last
five years, and made many experiments with it, which satisfy me that it
cannot be too strongly recommended. Sugar-candy dissolved in a small
quantity of water may be safely given to bees late in the autumn, and
even in winter if absolutely necessary. It is prepared by dissolving
two pounds of candy in a quart of boiling water, and allowing about
half a pint of the solution to evaporate; then skimming and straining
through a hair-sieve.'

It is astonishing what may be done with bees when they are in a good
humour. In order to produce this desirable state it is only necessary
to sprinkle them with sugar and water. This peculiarity is taken
advantage of by the wise apiarian when he wishes to conduct the process
of artificial swarming, taking away young queens for other hives,
removing honey, &c. Bees when swarming rarely sting, and the reason is
this: when they leave their hives they naturally think it prudent to
take a supply of honey with them, and accordingly pocket all they can.
In this state they are very peaceable. In order to make them take honey
and produce the desired state, apiarians puff smoke into the hives; the
bees gorge themselves, thinking their honey is to be taken from them,
and pass to the upper part of the hive. This method is pursued when it
is considered desirable to make an examination of the interior of a

Bees will freely take salt during the early part of the breeding
season; but water is absolutely necessary for them, and should be
regularly supplied in troughs near the entrance, with straws floating
in it, so that the bees may drink without fear of drowning. To
ascertain whether bees are sustaining injury from want of water, it is
only necessary to examine the bottom of the hive. If candied grains of
honey appear, no time must be lost in supplying water, _for the bees
are eating up their honey in order to obtain it_. This is one cause
of the starvation of bees; for lack of water they have too rapidly
consumed their stores. Bees work in the dark because the admission
of light would candy the honey, and they could not seal it up in its
proper liquid state. Glass hives, in which they are made to work in the
glare of light, are therefore unnatural. An indication of their dislike
to light appears in the attempts they make to obscure the small windows
often placed in hives for purposes of examination.

Some people think it possible to overstock a district with bees; but
we do not think it ever has occurred in Great Britain. Think of the
square miles of orchards, fields of clover and beans, and tracts of
heather and other honey-producing plants this country contains, and of
the thousands of tons of that substance which must pass from them into
the atmosphere, much of which might be gathered for the use of man! How
many agricultural labourers and railway porters in country districts
might double their earnings by keeping bees! Farmers who grow clovers
for seed would find that the multiplication of bees around them would
be of immense advantage, for these plants depend to a great extent upon
the visits of the bee for fertilisation and consequent production of
seed. This simple fact ought to be generally known.

It is a good plan to grow borage, thyme, mignonette, heliotrope,
heather, and other honey-containing flowers in the neighbourhood of
the apiary; infirm or young bees will not then have to fly far in
search of honey. Fields of beans contain large quantities of honey. Mr
Pettigrew estimates that a twenty-acre field of grass well sprinkled
with the flowers of white clover, yields to bees every fine day at
least one hundred pounds of honey; and that twenty acres of heather
in flower yield two hundred pounds of honey per day. White clover has
been called the queen of honey-plants. Heather is more appreciated for
bees in Scotland than in Yorkshire, Derbyshire, and Cheshire, where
it also abounds. Bees will not as a rule fly far in search of honey,
but a circle with a radius of four miles will almost everywhere yield
abundant pasturage. If there are cultivated fields within two miles it
will be all the better.

We think there can be no doubt that the variety of bee called
_Ligurian_ will enable the apiarian to obtain more profit than if
he kept the common kind. These bees may be readily purchased now at
about two pounds a swarm, or twelve shillings a queen, to Ligurianise
a colony. (See _The British Bee Journal_, published by Messrs Abbott,
Fairlawn, Southall, W.) To Ligurianise an apiary of common bees, it
is only necessary to remove the queens and introduce those of the new
kind, after a proper interval. This species, which is also called the
Italian bee, was introduced into England from Tamin-by-Chur in the
canton of Grisons, Switzerland.

Another quality in which the Ligurian bee exceeds the English variety
is in its peacefulness of disposition. Respecting the purity of race,
Dzierzon says: 'It has been questioned even by experienced and expert
apiarians whether the Italian race can be preserved in its purity in
countries where the common kind prevail. There need be no uneasiness on
this score. Their preservation could be accomplished even if natural
swarming had to be relied on, because they swarm earlier in the season
than the common kind, and also more frequently.' Even if the breed is
not kept pure, little harm is done; indeed we know one skilful apiarian
who thinks that a cross between the common and Ligurian varieties is a
decided advantage.

The fact that Ligurian bees are less sensitive to cold has been pointed
out by the Baron Berlepsch; but he also noticed that they are more
inclined to rob the hives of other bees than the common variety. He
succeeded in obtaining one hundred and thirty-nine fertile young queens
from one Italian queen. Ligurian bees begin work earlier in the morning
and leave off later than the common bees.

If the apiarian decides to manage his bees on the swarming or natural
method, he must be prepared to give a good deal of attention to his
bees, or employ a person to do it for him. Many swarms are lost
when the apiarian is away for any length of time, particularly if
he possesses an extensive apiary. Besides this, two or more swarms
sometimes come out of the hive at the same time and cluster together.
In such a case it has been found advantageous to hive them together
in a large hive, as it is a somewhat delicate operation to divide the
aggregated swarms and hive them separately.

Occasionally a swarm alights on the high branch of a tree, and can
only be secured with difficulty. Some apiarians place an old hat or
black stocking in a low bush near at hand, and this is said to induce
the bees to alight. We have heard of one ingenious gentleman who never
lost a swarm, by making a large ball of bees by stringing dead ones
together, and placing this upon a string, in its turn affixed to a
stick, which he placed in front in a conspicuous situation.

The old queen quits with the first swarm, leaving royal cells ready
to supply another after her departure. The second swarm will depart
about sixteen days after the first swarm. Bees, however, do not always
think it desirable to send out a second swarm. To ascertain this, the
apiarian should place his ear at the hive occasionally during that
period, in order to ascertain if the young queens are _piping_. When
the old queen has left with the first swarm, the first hatched queen is
allowed to kill all the embryo queens in the royal cells, if the bees
have decided not to send out another swarm. If an exodus is, however,
arranged, the bees prevent the queen from killing the young ones in the
cells. These begin to pipe after a certain interval; and hence if the
apiarian hears the curious notes, he knows that a second swarm may be

The uncertainties of natural swarming have induced many apiarians to
dispense with it altogether. The facilities for examination afforded
by hives on the principles we have before described, render it easy
to ascertain when a hive is ripe for swarming. By contracting the
entrance of the hive the exit of the queen may be arrested; and this
is a capital plan to pursue when the apiarian is unable to watch his
colonies, but does not want to take the swarm from the hive before it
is necessary. Our limits will not allow us to go into detail respecting
the various processes of artificial swarming. One simple method, after
the necessity for taking the swarm has been ascertained, is to puff
some smoke (that made by burning a piece of corduroy rolled up, is the
best) into the hive, take the top off, after stopping up the entrance,
and getting the surplus bees into an empty box or hive placed on the
top, by drumming on the hive. In nine cases out of ten the queen goes
with them. In that case the parent stock will require another queen,
which may be supplied from another hive with a great saving of time.
If the queen has remained below, the forced swarm must have a queen
supplied in the same manner; or if this is not practicable, the bees
will soon rear one themselves.

The advantage of giving a fertile young queen to the mother-stock
is thus detailed by Mr Langstroth: 'It sometimes happens that the
mother-stock when deprived of its queen perishes, either because it
takes no steps to supply her loss, or because it fails in the attempt.
If the mother-stock has not been supplied with a fertile queen, it
cannot for a long time part with another colony without being seriously
weakened. Second swarming--as is well known--often very much injures
the parent stock, although its queens are rapidly maturing; but the
forced mother-stock may have to start theirs almost from the egg.
By giving it a fertile queen and retaining enough adhering bees to
develop the brood, a moderate swarm may be safely taken away in ten
or twelve days, and the mother-stock left in a far better condition
than if it had parted with two natural swarms. In favourable seasons
and localities this process may be repeated four or five times, at
intervals of ten days; and if no combs are removed, the mother-stock
will still be well supplied with brood and mature bees. Indeed the
judicious removal of bees at proper intervals often leaves it at the
close of the summer better supplied than non-swarming stocks with
maturing bees.'

We trust that the observations we have made in the present paper may
induce some persons to commence this interesting pursuit who have
hitherto been strangers to it. Those who feel inclined to do so, we
advise to purchase one of the numerous manuals on the subject, and
to begin with a few hives at first. The best cheap work on bees with
which we are acquainted is _Practical Bee-keeping_, by Frank Cheshire,
Editor of the Apiary Department of _The Country_. (_Bazaar_ Office, 32
Wellington Street, Strand.) Price 2s. 6d.


At the present moment two notable schemes of travel are before the
world, to which we will briefly advert. One is simply and purely a
pleasure excursion of a somewhat luxurious nature, announced as a
'Yachting Voyage Round the World.' It is proposed, 'should sufficient
inducement offer,' to despatch from London, on August 15th, _a large
and fast steamer_ (_Sumatra_, 2400 tons), fitted with every comfort, to
all the principal seaports of the world. After calling at Southampton,
Bordeaux, Corunna, and Lisbon, the passengers are to _do_ the
Mediterranean ports in the most thorough manner, and then Egypt, India,
Ceylon, Burmah, the Straits' Settlements, and Manila. From Hong-kong
the steamer is to proceed to Amoy on the Chinese coast, to enable the
travellers to visit Nanking and Peking: at least so the programme has
it; but either its author or printer has made a slip here, for of
course it must be intended that these very interesting trips should
be made from Shanghai, the next port of call. Having thus skirted the
Celestial Empire, the travellers will be spirited across the Yellow
Sea to Japan, there to behold the wonders of a budding civilisation.
Then after a three weeks' voyage across the Pacific, they will commence
their experience of the New World at San Francisco; and calling here
and there at places of interest on their south-ward voyage, they will
be taken through the Straits of Magellan to the Falkland Islands; after
leaving which they will visit successively Monte Video, Rio de Janeiro,
Bahia, Trinidad, Havana, and New York. The fare for this pleasure
excursion will be five hundred pounds with extras; which, considering
the promised accommodation of every description set forth in the
prospectus, does not appear very excessive for a voyage calculated to
last ten months or thereabouts. We recommend the idea to the attention
of those who want something more exciting and novel in the way of
travel than can otherwise be got within a thousand miles of St Paul's.
One objection only occurs to our mind in regard to the route proposed,
and that is the fact of our great colonies being entirely ignored.
Full information may be had by applying to Messrs Grindlay & Co., 55
Parliament Street, London, S.W.; or of the Hon. Secretaries of the
Association, Messrs Hide & Thompson, 4 Cullum Street, Fenchurch Street,

The other scheme to which we would allude is one put forward by the
_Société des Voyages d'étude autour du Monde_, which has been formed at
Paris with the avowed object of organising annual steam-voyages round
the world. The Society aims higher than the promoters of the 'Yachting'
Cruise, and desires to combine the _utile_ with the _dulce_, and to
provide for respectably connected young men who have finished their
ordinary studies a still more complete finish in the shape of '_un
complément d'instruction supérieur_.' The Society states that its plan
has met with the approval of the Geographical Societies of Paris and
London and several learned bodies in France; and it has appointed a
Council of Administration to carry it out, as well as a committee of
_savants_ to organise the courses of study which are to form a special
feature of the expeditions, and are to embrace scientific, economic,
and commercial subjects. After a considerable period of incubation,
the views of the Society have just been enunciated in some detail in
a pamphlet entitled _Le Tour du Monde en 320 Jours_ (Round the World
in three hundred and twenty Days), (Paris: Ch. Delagrave). From this
we learn that the itinerary of the 'Yachting' Cruise will, broadly
speaking, be reversed, and that some additional places will be visited,
notably Auckland, Melbourne, and Sydney; which in our humble opinion
is a great improvement from an educational point of view. Our readers
would hardly thank us for diving into all the minutiæ of the scheme,
which, with the usual fondness of the French for petty detail, are
laid down in the pamphlet at considerable length under the four heads:
_Organisation générale du prémier voyage_, _Organisation matérielle_,
_Organisation morale_, and _Conditions du passage_.

The arrangements made under the third head of those just noted
(_Organisation morale_) constitute the distinguishing feature of the
expedition. They include a large library of all descriptions of works
on foreign countries, and a collection of the most interesting of their
products, especially those which are or can be turned to an account
from an industrial point of view. Atlases and charts will be provided,
to enable the passengers to make themselves acquainted with the various
countries and to follow with exactness the course of the ship. In order
to provide an educational staff, the Society offers free passages to
three professors, who will be charged with the superintendence of the
following branches of study and the delivery of lectures thereon:
Economic science, including the commercial products of the various
countries visited, their manners and customs, historical sketches, &c.;
Natural sciences, under which will come the race of the inhabitants,
animal life, plants, geology, mining, &c.; and Physical science and
climatology, in which category meteorology, winds and currents,
geographical details, seasons, &c. will be dealt with. We have said
sufficient, we think, to shew the peculiar features of this proposed
series of annual voyages round the world for educational purposes; and
we shall watch the result with much interest, though, from our own
personal experience of long voyages in hot climates, on board even
comfortable steamers, we should have thought that they were the last
places in which serious studies on a large scale could be conducted
with advantage.

Full particulars may be had from the _Société_, 8 Place Vendôme,
Paris; or from Trübner & Co., Ludgate Hill, London. June 30th is the
day fixed for sailing; but, strange to say, '_les dames ne seront pas
admises à prendre part au voyage_.' (No ladies allowed to accompany the

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and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

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