Chapter I: Part 1

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 10.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, MARCH 8, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]

NETTLE-CLOTH.

Some little time ago, when one of our most distinguished botanists was asked his opinion about the desirability of forming a collection of all the vegetable substances which are or have been used in medicine both by civilised and savage races, he replied that it would take a large building to hold it. Although a series of fibre-yielding plants would be much less in number, the list would still be a long one, provided we knew all those in use by savage tribes. Very few of these, however, are extensively used for clothing. Putting aside wool and silk, which are animal products, we have only cotton and flax of prime importance. Hemp of fine quality is largely grown in Italy, and there woven into cloth for ordinary purposes; but as yet this use of hemp in other civilised countries appears to be limited, though the fibre is everywhere employed for cordage. With the exception of jute, which is chiefly made into coarse fabrics, all other vegetable fibres believed to be suitable for important textile industries may be said to be as yet only on their trial. But a number—such as the so-called New Zealand flax (_Phormium tenax_), Manila hemp (_Musa textilis_), pine-apple (_Bromelia ananas_), American aloe (_Agave Americana_), and some yielded by certain species of palms—are known to possess very valuable properties. We have omitted to mention any members of the Nettle tribe—to which, however, the hemp-plant is closely allied—as we propose to say a few special words about them.

Growing both wild and cultivated in suitable localities scattered over a large area in South-eastern Asia, there is a species of nettle to which a peculiar interest is attached. The reason of this is that the liber or inner side of its bark yields a fibre excelling every other derived from the vegetable kingdom for fineness, strength, and lustre combined. In China, this fibre is called by English-speaking people, China grass; in India it is called _rhea_; and in the Malayan Archipelago by the name of _ramie_. It was some time before botanists discovered that the material which was known in commerce by three different names was the produce of the same plant—a stingless nettle. For more than half a century, much attention has now been devoted to the _Urtica nivea_ or _Bœhmeria nivea_ (a newer name), as the China grass plant is called in scientific language. Long in use in China and Japan for making ropes and cloth—much of the latter being of very fine quality—it was introduced into England for manufacturing purposes soon after Mr Fortune the well-known botanist returned in 1846 from his travels in China. Small quantities had, however, been sent to England long before this. Even as early as 1810, some bales of the Indian-grown fibre were received at the India House, London, and its great strength as a rope-making material ascertained. Indeed, it is stated on high authority, that this fibre has been in use in the Netherlands since the sixteenth century.

In Messrs Marshall’s great flax-mill at Leeds, China grass was spun to some extent for about ten years after 1851, and its snow-white silky yarn is more or less constantly in use in some kinds of Bradford fabrics. But unlike the jute fibre, which has created in the course of a single generation a gigantic industry, the trade in China grass has scarcely advanced at all. The value of the latter is admitted on all hands; there is practically an unlimited demand for it; plenty of it could be grown in India, and yet it is not cultivated to any extent. This is solely owing to the great amount of manual labour required to separate the fibre and bark from the stem, and then the fibre from the bark, no machine having been yet invented which will do this at once efficiently and cheaply.

The Indian government have long been vexed that the latent wealth of the plant yielding this much-prized rhea fibre cannot be realised. In 1869 they offered a prize of five thousand pounds for the best, and another of two thousand pounds for the second-best machine which would separate and prepare the fibre, at a cost of fifteen pounds per ton in India, in such a way that it would fetch fifty pounds per ton in England. It may here be mentioned that it sometimes sells as high as eighty pounds per ton, and even higher; while the highest price for jute rarely exceeds twenty-five pounds, and for flax of fine quality, forty pounds. Naturally, the Indian administration hoped that the offer of these handsome prizes would bring forward as competitors some of the ablest machinists in Europe. But whether it was owing to the inherent difficulty of the problem, to the expense of taking out heavy machines to India, or to that apathy with which it is frequently said we in this country regard everything Indian, practically nothing came of the competition. Mr John Greig of Edinburgh sent a machine for trial which so far met the conditions that he received a douceur of fifteen hundred pounds. About thirty competitors applied to have their machines tried; but eventually Mr Greig alone put in an appearance. It was found that by his method it cost fully fifteen pounds per ton to prepare the fibre in India; and when this was sent to London, it was valued at only twenty-eight pounds per ton.

In 1875, Dr Forbes Watson—one of a small band of scientific men who have done much to bring under notice the industrial resources of India—suggested that, in order to save the expense of freight, trials of machines should be made in England instead of India. Green stems of the plant grown in the south of France were promised for the purpose; and towards the end of that year, several inventors had entered their machines for competition; but owing to unforeseen difficulties, it was found impossible to hold the trials. Unwilling to abandon the hope of attaining their great object, the government of India issued a new notification to inventors in 1877. This time the prizes offered were five thousand pounds for the best, and one thousand pounds for the second-best machine or process for preparing rhea fibre which would be worth forty-five pounds per ton in London, at a cost of not more than fifteen pounds per ton laid down at any port of shipment in India. The trials having been arranged to take place, as before, at Saháranpur in September 1879, ten competitors appeared; but only seven had their machines tested. When the fibre prepared by each arrived in London, it was found that the highest value put upon any of the samples was twenty-six pounds per ton. Accordingly, none of the competitors could claim the full amount of either of the prizes; but Messrs Van der Ploeg and Nagoua, two textile machinists well known on the continent, were each awarded five hundred pounds, and Mr Cameron one hundred pounds. On the failure of this second competition, it was determined not to renew the offer of a prize until it could be proved by private enterprise that the rhea plant could be cultivated with profit in India. The unfavourable reports on the best samples prepared at the second trial at Saháranpur seem to have convinced the Indian government that at present the prospect of producing Indian rhea which would successfully compete with the fibre of the same plant grown and prepared in China, is not very hopeful.

Notwithstanding this second failure on the part of the government of India to obtain by rewards a machine capable of turning the cultivation of the rhea plant in that country into a commercial success, so confident are many good judges of the great value of China grass as a textile material, that the interest in it is increasing from year to year. Its cultivation is spreading over Southern Europe, considerable areas being now laid out into plantations of China grass in Italy and the south of France. Spain and Portugal are beginning to grow it; and on the south side of the Mediterranean, Algiers and Egypt are also moving in the same direction. It is believed that this recent development of ramie culture in the Mediterranean region—to call the plant by the name our French neighbours appear to prefer—is to some extent owing to Favier’s recent method of treating the fibre, the patent for which is owned by a Company located at Avignon. This plan is very simple, and considering how much the use of steam—we do not mean as a motive force—has quickened many processes, even in the textile industries, it is wonderful that it had not been thought of before. M. Favier merely exposes the stems of the plant to the action of steam for about twenty minutes in a closed wooden trough, after which the bark and fibre are easily stripped from the stem. By the retting process, or steeping in cold water, it takes days, sometimes weeks, to effect the decortication of the stems; and we have seen how difficult it has been found to do this by machinery. But although M. Favier’s process greatly simplifies matters in this early stage of the preparation of the fibre, the gummy substance and outer skin still require to be removed from it.

Only the other day, it was announced that Professor Frémy, a distinguished French chemist, has, after an elaborate series of experiments, found out a method of readily separating the fibre from these extraneous matters. He takes up the ribbons of bark with attached fibre, as obtained by M. Favier’s plan, and subjects them to a peculiar treatment, which mainly consists in boiling them under pressure in an alkaline solution. During the operation, everything deleterious is removed from the useful portion of the fibre, which is then ready for the ordinary operation of the spinner. There seems good grounds for believing that the combined processes of Messrs Favier and Frémy, which are about to be tried on a scale of some magnitude in France, will prove a commercial success. It will be curious to watch the future history of a plant which has so long baffled every attempt to raise it into conspicuous importance as an article of commerce, about which volumes have been written, and the fibre of which is now well known by its valuable properties to those engaged in textile industries in every civilised country.

There is another Indian nettle, called _Urtica heterophylla_, which produces a strong, fine, white, glossy fibre. Best known by the name of the Neilgherry nettle, it is nevertheless widely diffused over India. The stem, branches, and leaves are covered with stiff sharp bristles, which give it a formidable, or, as some say, a ferocious appearance. These also inflict acute pain if they should happen to be touched, but fortunately the effect of the sting soon passes away. The prepared fibre of this plant is sometimes called vegetable wool; and it is better suited, from its appearance, for mixing with real wool than rhea fibre, which has been a good deal used for this purpose. In some parts of India, the fibre of the Neilgherry nettle is used by the natives in the manufacture of cloth. It has been partially experimented upon for textile purposes in England; but there seems to have been a difference of opinion as to its merits. Owing to its sting, there are even greater difficulties in separating its fibre than is the case with rhea; but these might be overcome by some mechanical or chemical treatment. It is a quick-growing plant, and could be cultivated to any extent, should a demand for it arise.

We must pass over other species of _urtica_, and come to the common stinging nettle of Europe. As is well known, this plant furnishes a nutritious food for swine and some other animals, and in Scotland is occasionally used for making a kind of soup termed nettle kail; and in default of a better, its roots will furnish, along with alum, a yellow dye. The tenacity of its fibre has long been known. It has been woven into cloth in past times, but no doubt only on a limited scale, in nearly every country where the plant grows. Nor have its properties as a textile material been altogether overlooked in modern times, at least in the British Islands, since lace, parasol covers, and other fancy articles made of common nettle fibre have been on exhibition in the Museums of Economic Botany at Kew and Dublin for the last thirty years, besides having been occasionally brought under the notice of the public in various other ways. At Dresden, Herr F. C. Seidel has recently established a manufactory for nettle-cloth, in which, according to what seems to be an authentic report, he uses fibre of the common species; but the significant remark is added, that he prefers to get his material from the Chinese nettle.

Some persons think that they see a great nettle industry looming in the future, if only a process of readily separating the useless parts of its stem without injuring the fibre could be discovered. We are of course speaking of the common nettle. A statement has been published which one can very readily believe—namely, that the profitable extraction of its fibre is possible only when it is cultivated. In the wild state, the plant is branchy; but when grown on suitable soil at regular distances of from five to eight inches apart, it forms single stems from four to fully seven feet high. Even if they would serve as well as cultivated plants, and could be economically gathered from many widely scattered localities, all the wild nettles growing in our waste places and old churchyards would be a bagatelle in the sense of furnishing material for many large spinning-mills.

Whatever sanguine people may think, other things besides skilful cultivation and an easy process of preparing the fibre will determine whether nettle crops will be profitable; or, to put the matter in another way, whether a great industry is likely to be established by the manufacture of nettle-cloth. There is no difficulty in cultivating or in dressing flax, nor any lack of demand for it; yet shrewd Scotch farmers have found out that other crops are more profitable, and therefore the blue-blossomed flax fields which many of us saw in our boyhood in Central Fife and the Lowlands of Scotland have entirely disappeared. If nettle-cloth is ever to be anything but a curiosity, it will require to have attractions in quality and price which will enable it to compete with other textiles. During the American civil war, the jute-mills of Dundee were turning out many thousands of yards of cheap but serviceable fabrics to be used instead of calico, because the cost of the latter had gone up a little. For some of the purposes to which it was applied, the jute did as well as the cotton. But the war having ended, calico of a certain ‘make’ and quality became once more a trifle cheaper than its rival, and so jute was quickly beaten out of the field again. This is an example of the kind of battle which any fibre new to commerce will have to fight, unless it possesses some property of quite exceptional value.

To many persons, it seems a pity that we cannot utilise a plant which yields something useful. But the nettle is by no means the most striking example of a native plant which might be and yet is not used in the arts. One or two species of fern, such as the common bracken, are greatly more abundant in this country than the nettle—whole hillsides in many districts being covered with them. Yet although a very serviceable paper can be made from ferns, paper manufacturers prefer to send to the shores of the Mediterranean for a species of wild grass to supply their mills. For several years past, an ingenious Glasgow chemist has been trying to make a marketable gum or jelly from the common seaweed, thrown up in great abundance on the western coasts of Scotland. We hope he may succeed; but meanwhile we are sending elsewhere for what we require of seaweed jelly—even to far Japan. The peat-mosses of Ireland—and of Scotland too, for that matter—would furnish an endless number of beautiful paraffin candles, if some great Company with limited liability would only take the business up—and make the candles at a trifling loss per pound.

Some of our readers will probably suppose that we have given them a too humble estimate of the value of the common nettle as a textile material. There is no denying the fact that the tenacity of its cortical fibres is scarcely if at all inferior to those of flax or hemp. But how to grow, spin, and weave them into a saleable cloth, is a problem which has not yet been solved. Just now, there is a partial revival of what may be almost called the ancient art of manufacturing hand-made paper for printed books. In these days, too, many of the fair sex have apparently discovered that embroidery when worked by hand is really more interesting and beautiful than when it is done by a machine, supposing that in both cases the design is of nearly equal merit. It seems also to be dawning on many persons that earthenware dishes painted by the fingers have, even when a little dauby, a kind of attraction about them not possessed by those which have their patterns printed from an engraved copper-plate, and are therefore all rigidly alike. Possibly, ‘fashion’ may carry matters a little farther in this direction, and revive the use of textile fabrics spun by the distaff and spindle, and woven on handlooms. But by the help of machinery, the labour of one woman can nowadays make clothing for more than a thousand others. A hundred years ago, nearly every woman had to spin the material required for the clothing of her family; but at that same time, or at least not long before it, those in the upper ranks had a knowledge of many useful and ingenious arts which they no longer possess. If it were possible but in part to resuscitate the state of matters which obtained in these old days, before spinning-jennies, or powerlooms, or lace-making machines were dreamed of, there would be fully more hope than there is of people keeping themselves warm by an external application of the stinging nettle, in a less heroic way than we are told the Romans did of old.

Nettle-cloth is undoubtedly an excellent fabric, but—Will it pay the manufacturer? The answer to this is, Not yet.

BY MEAD AND STREAM.

CHAPTER XVI.—LIGHT HEARTS AND SAD.

The buzz of conversation continued as the party descended the broad staircase.

‘Rather bad of Phil to keep us waiting all this time,’ said Coutts as he gave Madge his arm.

‘Perhaps he could not help it,’ she suggested.

‘Ah, perhaps not. But you see Wrentham hasn’t turned up yet either, and I daresay they have been lunching together,’ rejoined Coutts with a smile, which was to her a very unpleasant one.

They had only taken their places at table, when Philip and Wrentham quietly entered. There was an agreeable murmur of satisfaction at the arrival of the gentleman in whose honour they had met, and his greeting was as cordial as if nobody were hungry on his account.

No one except Madge appeared to observe the singular alteration in his appearance. He was pale, his eyes seemed heavy like those of one wakening from sleep, and the smile with which he responded to the welcome of his friends was forced—his expression altogether unlike what she had expected it to be. His walk, too, was that of one who was carefully measuring each step. For an instant, the ugly suggestion of his brother, that he had been taking too much wine at lunch, occurred to her.

He took his seat by her side; dinner proceeded. Presently general conversation was resumed, and the cause of the temporary delay of the banquet appeared to be forgotten.

But to Madge the brilliant light of the room and the merriment around them only made that pale-faced man beside her the more unlike Philip.

‘I am sorry I could not get here sooner,’ he said in an undertone, and his voice sounded unusually feeble.

‘What is the matter, Philip? Why are you so pale?’

‘You cannot expect me to be taking leave of all my friends without feeling queer,’ he answered with an attempt to smile.

‘That is not it—you are ill.’

‘I am—a little; and don’t bother about it just now. I’ll tell you how it happened, by-and-by.’

‘How what happened?’

‘I have hurt myself. There now; don’t be alarmed—it is nothing. You see I am here; and I don’t want to spoil the evening by letting our friends know it. Look at the girls; they would go into fits if things didn’t come off just as they planned them.’

‘How did you do it?’ she asked calmly.

‘That mare Wrentham bought from Uncle Dick tumbled over me; that’s all. I’ll be as well as ever, when I’ve had a little rest.’

‘Have you seen a doctor?’

‘Not yet. The fact is, I was taking a nap at Wrentham’s, to brace me up for the evening.’

‘You mean that you were insensible?’

‘Perhaps that was it. But don’t think about it. Have some wine?’

When the ladies were retiring, Philip opened the door for them; but that was the last effort his strength allowed him to make. He felt giddy and faint.

‘Help me up-stairs,’ was all he could say to Dr Joy, who was at his side.

Edwin Joy was a little dark man, but he was sinewy and active. He wheeled Philip round so that he placed him easily in a chair near the table.

‘Don’t stir, anybody,’ he said quickly to the astounded guests.

‘Drink this,’ he said to Philip, holding a glass to his lips.... ‘Better?’

Philip nodded.

‘Take a little more. I have been watching you, and knew there was something wrong. What have you been doing?’

All this was uttered rapidly, but in a low and cheery tone, not to alarm the hearers.

‘Riding. The mare was fresh and skittish. The man warned me that she had been at high feeding for some days, and getting little to do. But I knew the mare, and thought I could manage her. She tried to throw me—then stood bolt upright—lost balance, and fell back over me.’

‘Ah! Feet and legs all right. Where were you hurt?’

‘I don’t know. I was slipping off; but there is a queer sensation here.’

The little doctor passed his hands rapidly over the side to which Philip pointed, and beckoned to Dr Guy.

The guests had obeyed the doctor’s injunction not to leave their seats. His words acted like a charm in a fairy tale, and they were suddenly spell-bound in the position they occupied when it was spoken. They looked in dumb astonishment at the principal actors in this unexpected scene. The spell was broken by Dr Guy rising from his seat.

‘What mare was it?’ asked Crawshay, turning sharply to Wrentham.

‘The one I had from you.’

‘And you were giving her high feed and nothing to do!... Humph! I used to think you knew something about horses.’

The yeoman rose with an expression of contempt and advanced to Philip.

‘What’s the matter, lad? Art sore hurt? It went against the grain to part with that mare; and I fervently wish she had eaten her head off at Willowmere, rather than she should have done this. I wouldn’t have parted with her, neither, only I thought she was going into safe hands.’

‘Get him into bed,’ said Dr Guy decisively.

‘For any sake, don’t spoil the fun to-night,’ said Philip feebly. ‘My father will make some excuse for me. I fancied I could hold out for a little longer; but it’s no use.’

‘Do not trouble yourself about that, Philip,’ said Mr Hadleigh. ‘Our friends here will say nothing to-night, and the young people shall enjoy themselves as if nothing had happened.’

‘Thanks. Maybe I shall be able to come down before the fun is all over.’

Supported by Uncle Dick and Dr Guy, and followed by Dr Joy, Philip proceeded to his bedroom.

‘This is most unfortunate,’ muttered Wrentham, looking much distressed. ‘I had no idea the brute would play such a trick.’

Mr Hadleigh apparently paid no attention to this. Taking his place at the table, he spoke quietly:

‘You all heard what my son said, and I need not ask you to aid me in carrying out his wish.—Pass the wine, Mr Crowell.’

* * * * *

And so the crowd of young people who had been invited to the ‘little dance’ had no hint of the accident to mar their pleasure. Outside, the brilliant light shining through the canvas of the marquee contended for precedence with the ruddy harvest-moon. Inside, the place was like an illuminated hall of flowers and plants. Sam Culver and Pansy with assistants had been at work for two days here. The dresses, the wreaths, the feathers, the jewels of the girls and matrons, with their faces brightened by the excitement of the moment, formed a living kaleidoscope, as they moved and mingled in the dance or promenade. The strains of the band were heard in the village; and little groups of village lads and maidens hung around the gates of Ringsford to listen to the music.

‘I suppose I must be Phil’s deputy for a time here as well as in the house,’ said Coutts in his suavest manner to Madge. ‘I hope you don’t mind very much?’

‘I do mind a great deal,’ she answered with a frankness which would have been rude in any one else, and yet in her appeared to be the kindliest answer to his question. ‘But I suppose I must go through the first quadrille.’

And reluctantly she did so. When it was over, and Coutts would fain have retained his position as deputy, she said:

‘Will you take me to Mr Hadleigh, please? He is there speaking to the vicar, near the entrance.’

Mr Hadleigh advanced to meet them, and she, relinquishing the arm of Coutts, took that of his father.

‘She requires taming. Poor Phil,’ was the reflection of the practical-minded Coutts, as he turned away to bestow his attentions on beauties who would appreciate them more.

Mr Hadleigh understood why she desired to speak to him, and they went outside, walking slowly across the lawn towards the house.

‘There is no great danger,’ he assured her at once; ‘but he will probably be a prisoner for a few weeks. At present his chief idea is that we should say nothing about it.’

‘I should like to see him—if the doctors will allow me,’ she said after a brief pause, her head bowed as if she were studying the long shadows on the grass.

‘We can ask them.... Are you sorry that he will not be able to go with the _Hertford Castle_?’

‘How can I be otherwise?’

He did not speak for a few seconds—Then:

‘You sometimes puzzle me very much, Miss Heathcote.’

‘Why?’ she asked, looking up, and the moon shone full on her face. His was in darkness.

‘You seem to wish him to go away.’

‘I have already explained,’ she answered with a degree of constraint.

‘Yes, I understand,’ he said dreamily. ‘Mine is a selfish way of considering the matter. I grudge every moment that what I—prize most, is out of sight. I suppose it is because we feel how short the time is we can possess our treasures, that in growing old we grow selfish.’

‘But you are not an old man, Mr Hadleigh.’ She was trying to find something gentle to say.

He shook his head.

‘I know men who are nearly twice my age in years and yet are boys compared with me. I feel very old just now.’

‘But you know his absence will not be long.’

‘True—his absence will not be long.... Here is Dr Guy.—Well, doctor, what news do you bring us now?’

They had entered through the conservatory, and encountered the doctor on the way to seek his host.

‘He has had a rest, and there is not much harm done. But it was foolish of him not to lie up at once and send for us.’

‘Miss Heathcote would like to see him.’

‘Well, it won’t do him any harm for her to see him—especially as it is his wish that she should; but he ought to be kept as quiet as possible. I have been sent for; but Joy will stay as long as may be necessary.’

Mr Hadleigh himself took Madge to the door of Philip’s room, and it was opened by Mrs Picton, the housekeeper.

‘That’s her now,’ said Philip. He was lying on his right side on the bed, his back towards the door.—‘Now, doctor, give us the ten minutes you promised.’

‘I trust to you, Miss Heathcote,’ said Dr Joy, ‘not to allow him to move from his present position until I return; and not to let him speak too much.’

She bowed. The doctor and Mrs Picton left the room.

‘Isn’t this a nuisance, Madge?’ began Philip, by an effort refraining from turning round to look at her. ‘It upsets everything.’

‘But there is no danger, Philip,’ she answered, laying her hand soothingly on his head.

‘That’s just it—if it had been a real knock-up, one could have said, “There’s no help for it,” and settled down to enjoy a month or two in bed. But with a mere scratch like this, which only threatens to be troublesome if you don’t behave yourself, it’s—well, it’s irritating.’

‘What was it you wanted to say to me, Philip? You know, we have only a few minutes, and you heard what the doctor said to me.’

‘O yes, of course.... Are they having a good time out there?... I can hear the music—there, they are at the Lancers now—and it makes my feet go in spite of me. I did hope to have such a jolly time with you, Madge. I had put my name down for nearly every dance in the programme.’

‘I am afraid we should both have been rather tired,’ she said, smiling, glad to find him in such good spirits.

‘The next dance is a waltz.—Ah!’

He had moved his arm incautiously, and a sharp pang reminded him of his condition. With that little cry he had uttered, Madge felt the pang too.

‘I am going away now,’ she said, trying to speak firmly; ‘I am only doing you harm by staying.’

‘No, no; don’t go, Madge—the touch of your hand has done me more good than all their bandages. I will be quiet. There is something very particular you have to do for me. (What a capital band they have got.)’

‘If you speak again about anything except what you want me to do, I shall leave the room.’

That quieted him, and he kept still for a little.

‘I want you to write to Uncle Shield,’ he said at length tranquilly. ‘If you write to-morrow, it will be in time for the next mail.’

‘What am I to say to him?’

‘Say that I have attended to all his instructions, and have everything ready to start in the _Hertford Castle_ on the sixth, and that I still hope to do so.’

‘Oh, that isn’t possible, Philip.’

‘We’ll see. Tell him next about this accident, which the doctors say will prevent me from getting on to my feet for some weeks. I hope to prove they are wrong; but send him this warning through you, so that he may not be disappointed.’

‘Would it not be better that your father or your brother should send this message?’

‘Not at all. He would not open a letter from either of them, as he has warned me; and they would not write one, as I know. I hope to set that old misunderstanding between my father and him right some day. Meanwhile, I very much want you to do this for me.’

‘As you please, Philip.’

‘Thanks, Madge, thanks. Then tell him particularly that Wrentham’s affairs are all right.... He’s a good fellow, Wrentham. You remember, I did not like him at first; since I have come to know him better, I have altered my opinion. He is a real good fellow, and made everything in this troublesome business quite smooth and easy for me. Only I wish he hadn’t asked me to try that mare to-day, or that I hadn’t been so unlucky as to agree to do it.’

‘Uncle is very angry about it. He says the mare has been shamefully treated, for she had no vice at all when she left him, and he intends to buy her back.’

‘I hope he won’t.... Now let me see; was there anything else? No; I have told you all that I want to say. You will find an envelope with his full address on the table over there.’

As she was getting the envelope, there was a tap at the door.

‘That’s the doctor, I suppose,’ muttered Philip disappointedly. ‘Why, you can’t have been five minutes here. You won’t be worrying yourself about this, Madge. I’ll be all right in a few days.’

‘Don’t speak any more,’ she said, bending over and touching his somewhat feverish brow with her lips. ‘I shall be here to-morrow. We are going home now. Good-night.’

Dr Joy was at the door, waiting to enter.

‘Will you look at him, doctor, and tell me how he is before I go?’ said Madge softly. The doctor went in, and after feeling his patient’s pulse, returned.

‘He has been a little excited. Don’t leave for half an hour, and I will send a message to you.’

In half an hour Mrs Picton brought her the message: Philip was sleeping.

SOME PARLIAMENTARY MAIDEN SPEECHES.

There have probably been very few members of parliament who have risen in their place for the first time without an unpleasant nervous tremor. Even if a parliamentary neophyte be not, as the familiar phrase has it, ‘unaccustomed to public speaking,’ he has certainly been unaccustomed to such an audience; and to hear himself called upon by the Speaker to address the first legislative assembly in the world, is an ordeal which is none the less trying because it has been voluntarily courted. Seeing that in past times so large a number of those returned to parliament have been comparatively unpractised speakers, the fact that absolute break-downs in maiden speeches are rare must be attributed to the sympathetic encouragement which the House always accords to the new member. Audiences at St Stephen’s are fastidious, but they are also kindly; the maiden speech which is a notorious failure is generally made such by over-confident fluency rather than by nervous hesitation; and, to mention one example only, Lord Beaconsfield’s early _fiasco_, the story of which has been told a hundred times, was not due to nervous timidity, but to the ambition of a young and clever man, conscious of power, to achieve a parliamentary reputation by a single _coup_.

There are, of course, a few early failures on record which cannot be thus accounted for. The maiden speech of Sheridan, who was destined to become one of the greatest of British orators, was not exactly a break-down, but its escape from being such was very narrow. In Sheridan’s case, the audience was more than usually sympathetic, for his literary reputation had excited curiosity and interest; but his indistinctness of utterance and hesitancy of manner impressed his hearers with the belief that, great as were his mental powers, he had not the physical qualifications for effective speech, and that—to quote the words of one verdict—‘nature never intended him for an orator.’ Woodfall, the celebrated parliamentary reporter, was fond of telling how, at the conclusion of his speech, Sheridan came up to him, and asked with evident anxiety what he thought of his first attempt. Woodfall’s reply was: ‘I am sorry to say I do not think this is your line; you had much better have stuck to your former pursuits.’ This was discouraging; but Sheridan was not easily discouraged; and his subsequent career justified the confident boldness of his reply to the depreciatory estimate: ‘It is in me, however, and it shall come out!’

The failure of another distinguished man of letters, Joseph Addison, was much more complete. He sat for Malmesbury, in the House of Commons which was elected in 1708, and rose once to make a speech; but his diffidence completely silenced him, and he never made a second attempt. In the Irish parliament, where Lord Wharton’s influence procured him a seat for the borough of Cavan, he made another failure, the story of which is told by Mr O’Flanagan, whom we quote at second-hand from Mr G. H. Jenning’s _Anecdotal History of the British Parliament_, a capital compilation, to which we acknowledge a general indebtedness. ‘On a motion before the House,’ writes Mr O’Flanagan, ‘Addison rose, and having said, “Mr Speaker, I conceive,” paused, as if frightened by the sound of his own voice. He again commenced, “I conceive, Mr Speaker,” when he stopped, until roused by cries of “Hear, hear,” when he once more essayed with, “Sir, I conceive.” Power of further utterance was denied, so he sat down amidst the scarcely suppressed laughter of his brother-members.’

The name of Addison recalls that of Steele; and one of the most interesting incidents in Steele’s first brief parliamentary career was the maiden speech of his young friend Lord Finch, which began as a break-down, and ended as a success. In Queen Anne’s time, shortly after Steele’s election for Stockbridge, a motion was made to expel him from parliament, on the ground that in one of his periodical publications he had ‘maliciously insinuated that the Protestant succession in the House of Hanover was in danger under Her Majesty’s administration.’ It so happened that very shortly before this time a libel directed against Lord Finch’s sister had been scathingly denounced and exposed in Steele’s paper the _Guardian_; and the young nobleman felt that he could not be silent when Steele in his turn was attacked. He leaped to his feet, determined to do his best; but though his heart was in the right place, he found it very difficult to get his words there, and after managing to get out a few confused sentences, he sat down, utterly discomfited. The failure would have been unredeemed, had it not been that as he resumed his seat he exclaimed: ‘It is strange I cannot speak for this man, when I would readily fight for him.’ The words were heard all over the House; and Lord Finch’s audience, though hostile to Steele, was one which could be trusted to respond at once, the moment an appeal was made to its chivalrous instincts. From both sides of the House came a spontaneous burst of cheering, which so encouraged the young speaker, that he rose again to his feet; and this time made a telling and eloquent speech, which was the beginning of a successful parliamentary career.

Many years before the occurrence of this incident, another failure had been turned into a success by a happy thought on the part of the speaker himself, which proved that his break-down could hardly be attributed to want of presence of mind. During the latter part of the seventeenth century, a young man, who was afterwards to become celebrated as third Earl of Shaftesbury, and author of _Characteristics_, sat in the House of Commons as Lord Ashley. A bill was introduced to grant the services of counsel to prisoners tried for high-treason; and though the proposal was based on the commonest principles of justice, it found many and bitter opponents. Lord Ashley, however, was among its warmest supporters, and rose to argue in its defence; but, unfortunately, after saying a few words, he found himself unable to proceed. A little time was given him to collect his thoughts; but at last the patience of his hearers was exhausted, and they called loudly upon him to go on, when, looking at the Speaker, he said: ‘If, sir, I, who rise only to give my opinion on the bill now depending, am so confounded that I am unable to express the least of what I proposed to say, what must the condition of that man be who, without any assistance, is pleading for his life, and is apprehensive of being deprived of it?’ It may safely be said that the most elaborately prepared and eloquently delivered oration could hardly have been more rhetorically effective than this happily extemporised argument.

A record of oratorical triumphs is less entertaining than a record of failures; but the stories of one or two maiden speeches which owed their success to simple assurance are amusing enough. Modesty and timidity have not been characteristics of _all_ the members who have ever sat in parliament. They do not, for example, seem to have been very prominent in Mr Lechmere, afterwards Lord Lechmere, who, on his election for Appleby, turned round to address the House immediately after having taken the oath, and before he had gone through the formality of taking his seat. Mr Cowper, made Lord Chancellor in 1707, was not quite so precipitate, but much more copious in his rhetorical outpourings, for he spoke three times during his first evening in the House; and even he was excelled by the notorious ‘Orator Hunt,’ who on a similar occasion gave his fellow-members no fewer than six samples of his peculiar eloquence. The hero of one of the amusing stories just referred to was the well-known Thomas Slingsby—generally shortened to Tom—Duncombe. The speech itself was an extraordinary affair, being an all-round attack upon various prominent statesmen, delivered in a manner which may be described as fascinatingly impudent; but the funniest thing about it was the story of its production, which has been told by Mr Greville. ‘The history of Tom Duncombe and his speech,’ says this collector of gossip, ‘is instructive as well as amusing. Tommy came to Henry de Ros, and told him that his constituents at Hertford were very anxious that he should make a speech, but that he did not know what to say, and begged Henry to provide him with the necessary materials. He advised him to strike out something new; and having received his assurance that he should be able to recollect anything that he had learned by heart, and that he was not afraid of his courage failing, Henry composed for him the speech which Duncombe delivered.’ What it was in this story which Mr Greville found instructive, is not so clear; but its amusing quality may be readily conceded.

Teetotalers have so many good anecdotes, that those who take the other side in the great alcoholic controversy have doubtless made the most of a tremendous maiden speech which was delivered in the House of Lords in the year 1678 by the Lord Carnarvon of that period, and which was said to have been inspired entirely by claret. Lord Carnarvon had been dining, not wisely but too well, with the Duke of Buckingham; and the Duke, seeing his condition, induced him, by combination of raillery and flattery, to pledge himself to address his brother peers that night upon any subject they happened to be discussing. The Duke of course regarded the thing as a capital practical joke, and doubtless anticipated immense enjoyment from the flounderings of a half-intoxicated man, who had never spoken before, and who was not supposed to have any oratorical gifts even when sober. The debate was on the impeachment of the Earl of Danby, then Lord Treasurer; and as soon as an opening occurred, up rose Lord Carnarvon. ‘My lords,’ he said, ‘I understand but little of Latin, but a good deal of English, and not a little of English history; from which I have learned the mischiefs of such kind of prosecutions as these, and the ill fate of the prosecutors. I could bring many instances, and those very, ancient; but, my lords, I shall go no farther back than the latter end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, at which time the Earl of Essex was run down by Sir Walter Raleigh; and your lordships very well know what became of Sir Walter Raleigh. My Lord Bacon, he ran down Sir Walter Raleigh; and your lordships know what became of my Lord Bacon. The Duke of Buckingham, he ran down my Lord Bacon; and your lordships know what happened to the Duke of Buckingham. Sir Thomas Wentworth, afterwards Earl of Strafford, ran down the Duke of Buckingham; and you all know what became of him. Sir Harry Vane, he ran down the Earl of Strafford; and your lordships know what became of Sir Harry Vane. Chancellor Hyde, he ran down Sir Harry Vane; and your lordships know what became of the Chancellor. Sir Thomas Osbourn, now Earl of Danby, ran down Chancellor Hyde; but what will become of the Earl of Danby, your lordships best can tell. But let me see the man that dare run the Earl of Danby down, and we shall soon see what shall become of him.’ The assembled peers must have felt as if they were being swept from their feet by an historical avalanche, riddled by a fusilade of facts; and the Duke of Buckingham could only exclaim: ‘The claret has done the business!’ And indeed it looks like it, for Lord Carnarvon never had another such success.

Of course, maiden speeches which are in any way memorable either for their matter or their manner, the greatness of their success or the completeness of their failure, are comparatively rare. As a rule, the first speech of any member in either House resembles closely all his succeeding speeches; it may lack the force and fluency given by practice, but in its general characteristics there is nothing exceptional. The able man shows at least something of his ability; the dull man lets his hearers into the secret of his dullness. When Cobbett, the very first night he sat in the House, began his maiden speech with the words, ‘It appears to me that since I have been sitting here I have heard a great deal of vain and unprofitable conversation,’ his fellow-members probably thought that here was a unique display of self-sufficient assurance; but when Cobbett had delivered his second speech, the first was unique no longer, and when he had spoken half a dozen times, it had come to be regarded as comparatively mild. Brougham and Canning, who both became parliamentary speakers of the first rank, may perhaps, with Sheridan and Disraeli, be considered as exceptions to the general rule just given, for their maiden speeches were described as failures; but in their cases, all that probably was meant by the word failure was that they did not fulfil the expectations which had been formed. None of Lord Palmerston’s early speeches seem to have had the brilliance of his later utterances; but that he made a favourable impression at starting is proved by the fact that Mr Perceval offered him the Chancellorship of the Exchequer when he had only spoken once in the House; while Earl Grey, Lord Castlereagh, Lord Macaulay, and the late Lord Derby, who began their political careers in the House of Commons, delivered maiden speeches which immediately gave them a reputation.

During the last half-century, there has been such a change in the conditions of public life, that no maiden speech can excite the same curiosity as of old. One result of the lowering of the franchise has been to diminish the chances of any parliamentary candidate who has not some measure of ease and ability in speaking; and public meetings of all kinds are so numerous, that the quality and amount of oratorical talent possessed by every prominent man become well known long before he has a chance of displaying it upon the floor of the House of Commons. This change is not one to be regretted on the whole; but of course parliamentary life has lost one element of interest which it possessed in the days when a maiden speech might be looked forward to as a revelation of all kinds of unsuspected possibilities.

THE MINER’S PARTNER.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.

On a morning only a couple of days after the opening of our story, the sun had not yet risen high enough to strike the plains, which stretched as far as the eye could reach; but the mountains were all bright with his rays, from their peaks down almost to the ‘foothills,’ which, tolerable eminences in themselves, projected like so many capes out on the level ground, when a man came to the opening of a tent and looked out. Although he gazed across the rugged intervening ground and out upon the plain, and although sunrise in Colorado is worth seeing from a position of vantage, yet it was evident that it was from no appreciation of the scenery that the man stood there. From the spot, an irregular line of tents and huts—or ‘shanties’—led to the centre of Flume City; while the trenches cut in all directions, and the odd implements and vessels lying about, gave ample evidence that this was a mining camp, or town.

The man was dressed in buckskin—as were many others, who by this time began to show themselves—was tall and dark; of an eager, not to say cunning aspect; while from beneath his shapeless hat, his long hair hung straight and untidy. This description might serve for nine-tenths of the denizens of the camp, whether of high or low degree; but there was something in the aspect of this miner which would have prevented any expert from classing him with the lowest and coarsest of his calling. He was evidently deep in thought, and his meditation found support in a fashion very common in the United States—he drew a cake of tobacco from his pocket, and bit off a corner, as though it had been a biscuit; then, chewing vigorously, he remained with his absorbed gaze apparently fixed on the distant plains.

Presently the canvas of the tent was pushed aside, and another man came out. This second man was somewhat shorter than the first, although yet a tolerably tall man. He was fairer, as could be seen in spite of his sunburnt and weather-beaten countenance. His beard was brown, and was longer and fuller than the first comer’s; and he was altogether of a thicker, stronger build. These brief descriptions will serve to introduce the two partners Rube Steele and Ben, whose jarring took up so much time at the miners’ convention two or three nights before, and whose relation to the whole camp had grown to be of the most unfriendly character.

‘How long have you been cooling yourself here?’ asked the second man, who was of course Ben; ‘and why did you not wake me up?’

‘Reckon I have not been here six minutes,’ replied the other, taking no notice of the second query. ‘I expect we had better see now about fixing the breakfast.’

‘You might have done something, instead of loafing around,’ muttered Ben, who was clearly in no pleasant mood, although his features bespoke him a frank, good-tempered fellow enough. ‘Here! I will light the fire.’

In a few minutes the fire was blazing, the kettle on, and the men, who had scarcely interchanged another word, were seated, waiting for the water to boil.

‘Now, Rube,’ suddenly exclaimed Ben, ‘you know this is my last day here; I mean clearing out; so this is our time to have a settlement. If we don’t fix things straight now, we shall not fix them at all.’

‘They air fixed, ain’t they?’ retorted Rube. ‘You have done considerable as you please; so, if you don’t like the position, I can’t help it.’

‘You shift too much in your argyment, you do,’ continued Ben. ‘But say now, right away, do you mean to pay me those fifteen hundred dollars or not?’

‘You air unreasonable altogether,’ returned Rube. ‘Why should I pay fifteen hundred dollars, because a man who robbed us both has gone off with twice as much?’

‘Don’t tell me about robbing us both—you can’t fool me like that!’ angrily exclaimed the other. ‘I never would trust the man with dust—you knew it—although he was your friend, and you could not say enough in his favour. It was through you he hung around here; and even if you did not get your half from him, with a big profit, you are bound in honour to pay me my share.’

Rube’s eyes assumed for a moment a very ugly and dangerous look, as his comrade spoke. ‘Seems to me, pardner Ben,’ he said, ‘that you are gone wrong altogether in this connection. Two or three citizens saw the order, and thought it was in your writing; so did I. Then where does the blame come in? Fix it how you like, it was only a mistake, not a fault. And as to my having shared the plunder with this stranger’——