Chapter II: Part 2

She readily agreed, and indeed had said much which I cannot stay to put down, which showed the bitterest animosity against the young man, whom she had seen several times, and who had evidently offended her. This, although of no great consequence, was to me a little strange, as, although I had only seen Godfrey Harleston twice, yet I should have said he was the last man in the world to deserve such hatred. Whatever his faults may have been, there was something open and pleasant in his manner at anyrate. However, Mrs Sam was very decided in her opinion, and while we waited at our post, gave utterance to a good many unflattering speeches regarding Mr Godfrey.

I had in my time been on the watch for six or eight hours at a stretch, and had never felt so uneasy as I did in the twenty minutes I passed in that entry in —— Street. My eyes now fairly ached with watching the never-ceasing streams of figures which came and went in the busy thoroughfare. More than one person came out of the house we were interested in, but I took no more notice of them than of the other strangers. I was looking only for one figure—a figure which I dreaded to see appear, as then I could make no further excuse for delay. Intently as I was watching the office, I thought I must for an instant have dozed, or lost consciousness in some way, for, suddenly, Mrs Sam pulled me sharply by the sleeve, and said: ‘There he is! He has just come out.—Don’t you see him?’ she added hurriedly, seeing me look confusedly from side to side. ‘You say you know him. Don’t you see him?—There—there!’ She pointed with her finger, as she almost angrily uttered these words.

‘No; I do not!’ I exclaimed, with equal sharpness. ‘Mr Harleston is not in sight, I am certain.’

‘Why, what do you mean?’ she cried, and again pointed across the road. ‘Don’t you see him just passing the public-house? He carries a small black bag.’

‘Aha! that—_that_ man!’ I exclaimed. ‘Is that Mr Godfrey Harleston?’

‘Of course it is,’ she retorted. ‘I know him as well as I do you.’

Then she started back in alarm, and no wonder, for I burst out laughing, and ended by wringing the little woman’s hand with a force which brought tears to her eyes.

‘It’s all right!’ I exclaimed. ‘If that is your Godfrey Harleston, I can understand everything.—Hi!’—this was to a passing cab—‘Mansion House, my good fellow!—Now, jump in, Mrs Sam, and we will settle the business in no time.’

We rattled away. What a load was off my mind! How deep and cunning the trick, and yet how easy to understand, when once the clue was supplied! The man she identified as Godfrey Harleston was no other than Mr George Picknell, my friendly clerk, who had taken so much interest in me, and who had so constantly, although without any seeming intention, directed suspicion to the step-son of Mr Thurles; and if Sam had not been ‘shopped,’ or if Picknell had had the honesty to behave fairly to Sam’s wife, his scheme might have been successful—so far as he was concerned.

We told our story at the Mansion House; and the case being one of importance, Mr Picknell was arrested that very afternoon, as he sat at his desk in the office. If he had not been taken then, we should not have had him at all, for he had a ticket in his pocket for his passage to the Cape, by a vessel sailing the next day.

But before all these things had been done and found out, you may be sure I had hurried off home in a cab. I dashed up the steps, opened the door with my key, and then into the parlour, where Winny was sitting, half distracted with suspense and anxiety. But there must have been something in my face which told a tale, for before I had spoken a word, she rose, and with a laugh, which was a sob before it was finished, threw her arms round my neck and exclaimed: ‘My dear father! Thank heaven!’ She could say no more just then for sobbing and tears; but she knew somehow that all was well. We should have made a pretty picture, if any one could have seen us, for I was as bad as Winny; but we were both brimming over with happiness.

Yet there was a great deal to be accounted for, which at another time would have checked anything like pleasure; but I had got over the worst; the most fatal difficulty had been mastered, and I did not care about anything else.

Mr Godfrey—the real Godfrey—called upon me that afternoon, and much was explained then; while the examination in Picknell’s case supplied most of the rest. What was still obscure was cleared by Godfrey’s mother and by the confession of the unlucky young fellow who had forged the bills and was apprehended about this time. The poor creature was at death’s door, and never lived to take his trial.

I daresay, however, that every one can see pretty nearly what had happened, so I will be very brief. Godfrey Harleston had really taken a fancy for betting on horseraces. Picknell had told the truth in saying this. Most of what he said was true, but so mixed up and coloured that it was worse than a lie. This, of course, is common enough; all mischief-makers resort to this trick.

Well, young Godfrey had bad luck from the first; and Smithers—I forget whether I mentioned his name before, but this was the party who absconded—being his chief adviser, Harleston applied to him to obtain the money to meet some heavy losses. Smithers was as bad off as himself, and had no one to look to for help; while Godfrey, if he chose to make any emergency known, could always get assistance. He trusted to his luck to bring him round, however, without applying to his mother—most novices would have felt the same—so was ready to agree, when Smithers suggested bills at two months, which he could get discounted on his own signature—so Godfrey understood.

Harleston drew up the bills; and Smithers, being unable to get a shilling on his own name, put in a fictitious firm, depending on Godfrey getting the money to meet the bills in time. But, by an awful stroke of luck, the bills were rediscounted, and afterwards paid to Thurles & Company, where some accidental circumstance caused the recognition of Godfrey’s writing, and then inquiry soon proved that the accepting firm was a sham.

Old Thurles was delighted at this, and spoke too freely as to what he would do. Picknell was either in the room at the time when the merchant uttered his threats, or—as I should say was more likely—he listened and skulked till he found out enough to give him his cue. He saw at once how, if the young man had committed forgery, the documents proving his guilt would be a valuable property, and he determined to get them into his possession. But it was not easy to do this and keep suspicion from himself. If stolen from the safe in any ordinary manner and during the day, a clerk must have been suspected. Some little time before, Mr Godfrey had a more serious quarrel than usual with his step-father, and had left the office. It was not until after this that he knew forgery had been committed, but he was aware that the bills had come into the possession of Thurles & Company. His absence suggested a brilliant idea to Picknell, who had a rather large circle of acquaintance of the shadiest character, and was himself, indeed, under a very demure aspect, about as bad a fellow as the Newgate calendar could show. He found out Sam, who was quite willing to undertake so profitable and easy a piece of work as Picknell represented the breaking into the office to be.

The clerk had secured impressions in wax of the keys of the outer safe—he could not get at those which opened the interior one—and Sam had no difficulty in finding an artisan who would make duplicate keys from those patterns. While dealing with his ‘professional’ friend, a splendid piece of strategy suggested itself to the clerk. He saw how to screen himself and throw suspicion on the quarter where it was already only too likely to fall, so he assumed the name of Godfrey Harleston. A tolerably correct account of what had occurred as regarded the forgery, fully satisfied Sam of the expediency of his new friend’s proceedings, and convinced him that he ‘had got hold of a good thing.’

The burglary came off successfully, but with much less immediate profit than Sam had hoped for; however, he anticipated a harvest from the bills. Of course Picknell had to tell his confederate much of his plan in regard to these documents, because they were in the burglar’s possession, and he was not likely to give them up without some inducement.

Without loss of time—for he knew how dangerous a path he was treading—the clerk waited on Mrs Thurles, and claiming to represent those who had discounted bills forged by her son—the lady knew nothing of the burglary—so wrought upon her fears, that she paid him a handsome sum on account, and promised a great deal more when the bills should be given to her. Had the poor lady had the courage to speak openly to her son, she would have found how little he had to do with the forgery. He was uneasy about it, and had been trying to raise money elsewhere to pay the firm who had originally discounted the bills. This he had succeeded in doing, which led him to tell Winny he had at last got over the difficulty he had spoken of. The young dog had more to think about than even the bills at the time, for he had just been married to my Winny; at anyrate, his mother could see he was in trouble, and naturally feared the worst.

So the way was clear for Picknell; but he was so covetous and so thoroughly dishonourable, that he could not act fairly to anybody. He gave Sam the paltry two pounds, which aggravated the burglar more than if he had received nothing. This first sum from Mrs Thurles was obtained on the night when I tracked Picknell to the public-house in the mews, so you may guess how my appearance startled Sam. Picknell had meant to abscond the moment he got the money, and till then, he thought he could put Sam off with excuses, especially as the latter supposed he was dealing with Godfrey Harleston, and the name of Picknell had never been mentioned.

Sam found out that his accomplice was cheating him; then, being arrested, and fearing that his wife and child would be left destitute, he sent for me. Mrs Thurles got nearly all her money back; while Sam and Picknell were each tried at the same sessions of the Central Criminal Court, and were each sentenced to penal servitude; Sam’s time being much the longer.

Mr Thurles paid the reward, and I shared it with Mrs Sam, who went away, soon after, to some relatives in the north of England. I never heard any more of her. But before she went, she brought me a queer, old-fashioned silver jug, as a present to Winny—at the wish of Sam, she said. I did not want to take this; but the little woman declared, most earnestly, that it was her grandmother’s or great-grandmother’s, and honestly come by. She said, too, that Sam had talked so much about his gratitude to me for speaking up for him at the trial, that he would be disappointed if his gift was refused. I recollected Sam’s promise then, and accepted the present, which Winny has on her sideboard; and a gentleman who knows about such things has told her that the jug is very curious and valuable.

Poor Mrs Thurles was so delighted to find her son free, that she would have welcomed his wife if she had been an Eskimo. She took kindly to Winny; and I am proud to say that there is not a happier wife in London than my daughter.

AN OLD LAMMAS REVEL.

The festival of the _Gule_ of August, on Lammas Day, was one of the four great pagan festivals of Britain. This _Gwyl_ (or festival) probably originated in the desire to celebrate the ingathering of the first-fruits of the earth, particularly that of the grain. Upon the introduction of Christianity into this country the festival continued to be observed on that account. The usual offering at church at this season of the year was a loaf (_hlaf_) of bread, hence the day became known as ‘Hlaf-mass,’ which became shortened into ‘Lammas.’

Several customs have been observed in various portions of the United Kingdom at Lammas. A very curious custom was practised in Scotland until about the middle of last century. This appears to be a relic of the ancient pagan festival of the _Gule_ of August, and was practised in some parts of the Lothians. We are informed that near the beginning of summer the herdsmen within a certain district associated themselves into bands, which in some instances numbered one hundred members, and occasionally more. It was agreed by each of these communities to build a tower (generally of sods) in some conspicuous place near the centre of their respective districts, to serve as their place of rendezvous on Lammas Day. The base of the erection was usually about four feet square. The tower, seven or eight feet high, was made to slope up to a point, above which floated the colours of the party who had erected it. From the commencement of its being built, the tower became an object of care to the whole community, for it was deemed a disgrace to suffer it to be defaced. Any attempt made to demolish it, either by fraud or force, was resolutely resisted. Each party endeavoured to circumvent the other, and laid plans to steal out unperceived in the night-time and to level the tower to the ground. A successful exploit brought great honour to the undertakers of the expedition. Although the tower was easily rebuilt, yet the news was quickly spread through the whole district by the successful adventurers, who filled it with shouts of joy and exultation, while their unfortunate neighbours were covered with shame. To ward off this disgrace, guard was kept at night at each tower, which was made stronger and stronger as the building advanced. Numerous petty skirmishes ensued; but the assailants seldom made an attack in force, preferring rather to succeed by surprise. As soon, therefore, as they saw they were discovered, they made off as best they could.

Dr James Ferguson—to whom we are indebted for the facts concerning the Lothian Lammas tower builders—states that in order to give the alarm on these and other occasions, every person was armed with a ‘tooting-horn,’ that is, a horn perforated in the small end, through which wind can be forcibly blown from the mouth so as to occasion a loud noise. As every one wished to acquire dexterity in the use of this instrument, the herdsmen practised upon it during the summer while tending their flocks or herds. Towards Lammas, they were incessantly employed answering to and vieing with each other, so that the whole country rang continually with the sounds.

Before the day of the ceremony came round, each community elected a captain; and a stand of colours was prepared for the great event. This consisted of a fine table-cloth of the largest size, decorated with ribbons. All things being ready, the band of herdsmen sallied forth on the morning of the first of August, attired in their best apparel, and armed with stout cudgels. Repairing to the neighbouring tower, the colours were displayed in triumph; then the assembly indulged in horn-blowing and in making merry until about nine o’clock, when they partook of breakfast as they sat upon the green-sward. Scouts were despatched to every quarter to watch the approach of any hostile party.

It frequently happened that on Lammas Day the herdsmen of one district proceeded to attack those of another locality, to bring them under subjection by force. On the approach of a hostile party the horns sounded to arms; the band immediately arranged itself in the best order that could be devised—the boldest and strongest in front, and those of inferior prowess behind. They seldom remained on the defensive, but generally rushed forward bravely to meet the enemy. The captains carried the colours and led the van. When both parties met, they mutually desired each other to lower their colours, in sign of subjection. When there appeared a great disproportion in the strength of the bands, the weakest usually submitted to this ceremony without difficulty, believing their honour was saved by the evident disproportion of the match. If the bands were nearly equal in strength, neither of them yielded; blows ensued, and sometimes bloodshed. It is said that on one occasion four herdsmen were killed and many disabled. If no opponents appeared, or if they themselves had no intention of making an attack, the bands took down their colours about mid-day from their towers, and marched, blowing their horns, to the largest village in the neighbourhood. Here they were met by the lasses and the people generally, who participated in the diversions of the day. Boundaries were marked out, and proclamation made that all who intended to compete in the foot-races should appear. Prizes were offered. The first prize, usually a bonnet ornamented with ribbons, was displayed upon a pole. Sometimes half-a-dozen competitors started, and ran with as great eagerness as if the prize had been a kingdom. A pair of garters was awarded to the victor of the second race; and the winner of the third gained a knife. After the races were over, the people amused themselves in such rural sports as suited their taste, and before sunset dispersed quietly to their respective homes.

In the case where two parties met and one of them yielded to the other, they marched together for some time in two separate bodies, the subjected body behind the other, and then they parted good friends, each holding their games at their own appointed place. Next day, the ribbons and tablecloth that formed the colours were returned to their respective owners; the tower was no longer a matter of consequence, and the country returned to its usual state of tranquillity.

THE LOTTERY OF DEATH.

AN EPISODE IN GUERRILLA WARFARE.

While on a trip to Europe last summer, I noticed in the smoking-room of the good steamer _Servia_ a rather portly, middle-aged gentleman, with a mild expression of countenance, and certainly no trace of the soldier in his bearing; and yet he was the hero of a thrilling adventure. I was introduced to him by one of the officers of the steamer, and found him to be an insurance agent in a large way, going abroad for needed rest—Mr Balcom by name. In the course of a conversation on personal courage, one evening, over our after-dinner cigars, my new-found friend related the following interesting adventure:

You know, in the late war between the North and South, nearly all our able-bodied men on both sides of the line were more or less soldiers of some sort. I was myself a Captain and ‘Commissary of Subsistence’ in the United States Volunteers, and was attached to a cavalry brigade in the army of the Potomac. In the Fall of 1864, my brigade was located in camp for the winter about four or five miles to the south of Winchester, Virginia. As a ‘commissary,’ I had constantly to pass with my train of wagons from the town to camp; but so confident was I that no danger could possibly befall me on that short jaunt, actually all within our own lines, that I carried neither sword nor pistol. Well, one pleasant afternoon in the latter part of November, as I was riding with my orderly, a good soldier, by the name of Leonard, at the head of the wagon-train, wearying of the slow progress made by the mule-teams, I placed the train in charge of the commissary sergeant, and rode on ahead, followed by my orderly only. I had gone little more than half-way to camp—the road we followed became wooded by young timber and underbrush—when, as I turned a bend in the road, I saw four or five mounted men about a quarter of a mile in advance of us. Calling my orderly to my side, I asked him what he thought of them.

‘I guess they are some of our boys, sir. They have our uniform on, and are too far inside of our lines to be “Johnnies”’ (a term applied to the Southerners).

This was my own idea; but still, I seemed intuitively to feel that all was not right. These men evidently saw or heard us, for, turning their horses’ heads toward camp, they marched slowly onward. This at once disarmed me of all doubt, for I knew camp was near, and if they were not ‘all right,’ they would hardly venture that way; so I resumed my canter, and soon overtook my fellow-travellers. When I approached, they filed to each side of the road, as if to let me pass, and I kept on. But no sooner was my orderly and myself past their last file of men, than in an instant we found ourselves confronted by half-a-dozen pistols and the sharp command, ‘Halt!’ (A sixth man had come out of the bush.)

‘Now, you Yanks want to keep your mouths shut, and do as you are told, or it will be all up with you,’ said the commander. ‘Forward—trot—march!’ and away we swept at a swinging trot, Leonard and I completely surrounded by this unwelcome bodyguard, and well covered by their pistols.

About a thousand yards we trotted on, and then swept into a narrow road, more bridle-path than road, along which we kept for a mile or so, when the command ‘Halt!’ was again given. Leonard and I were ordered to dismount and give up our arms. I had none; but my orderly was soon deprived of his. We were again put upon our horses and strapped to the saddles in not too gentle a manner. I ventured to ask where we were going to and who my captors were; and was told we were being taken to Mosby’s camp by some of his men; and furthermore, I was ordered to keep absolute silence on pain of death. From this I inferred that we had to pass very near some portion of our own camp or pickets, and for a moment I hoped some chance might yet arise for escape. But during the march we saw no soldier, or even camp-fire, and this road seemed specially devised to allow free passage from the front to the rear of our lines by any person who knew it. In about an hour or so we came once more upon the highway. Night had fallen, but a young moon partially illuminated the road.

The commander, a lieutenant of these free riders, reined his horse to my side, and said we had passed the Yankee lines, and I could now speak if I chose. I merely said the straps hurt me which bound me to the saddle. We halted, and Leonard and I were untied, with a caution that any attempt to escape would only end in our death. Two of the guerrillas still led our horses, and the commander gave the order to gallop. We moved rapidly, until about eight P.M. For some time we had been ascending, and then slackening our pace a little. Suddenly, before and below us, upon a plain of no great extent, I saw a camp of from five to six hundred men. ‘Here we are,’ said the lieutenant; and in a very short time Leonard and I found ourselves under strong guard in the headquarters of Colonel Mosby at Rectortown. Under the same guard were some score more of ‘Yankee’ prisoners. Supper being over, we were given a little cold ‘hoe’-cake and the run of a pail of water for our share.

I found that some of these my fellow-prisoners were infantry-men; and one lad of about fourteen was a drummer of infantry. The majority, however, were cavalry-men caught wandering too far from their commands. Apparently, I was the only commissioned officer; but as I wore a private’s overcoat, my rank was not known to my fellow-prisoners for some time.

The sentinels about us paced their beats; some of the men were asleep, and I was sitting on a log smoking, when, by the dim light of the fire, I saw a mounted figure approach. The figure halted at the guard; and presently the sergeant in charge called out: ‘Fall in—fall in, you Yankees. Hurry up. Get into line there.’ Finally, all being awake and placed to suit him, he turned, and saluting the horseman, said: ‘The prisoners are paraded, sir.’

‘How many have you?’ asked the rider.—‘Twenty-two in all, sir.’ And then I felt we were in the presence of that terror of the valley, Colonel John S. Mosby, the best provost-marshal Sheridan had in the Shenandoah.

As Mosby advanced nearer to the camp-fire, I was struck with the lack of daring in his face and manner; but I knew he had it, from his past career. His manner was not ferocious or tyrannical, and he quietly turned upon us his eye, which seemed to see the whole of us at a glance. He spoke as follows: ‘Men, your commander has seen fit to refuse all quarter to my soldiers when captured, and hangs or shoots them on the spot. I do not approve of this kind of warfare; but I must retaliate; and as I capture two of your army to every one you get of my command, that is not difficult. Just now, the balance is against you, and five of you twenty-two prisoners must die.’

You may imagine all were wide awake at this announcement.

‘It is not for me to order out any five of you to execution, so the fairest way will be for you to draw for your lives.’ Turning to the sergeant, he continued: ‘Get twenty-two pieces of paper prepared—five numbered from one to five. Let the other seventeen be blank, and have each man draw a ticket; and you supervise the drawing.’

The sergeant hastened away for the paper and a lantern. Hitherto, I had said nothing to any one of my rank; but now, throwing aside my overcoat, I stepped forward, and addressing the mounted officer, asked him if he was Colonel Mosby. The reply came: ‘That is my name, sir.’

I was boiling over with indignation at this bloody action of the guerrilla, and I said: ‘I am an officer and a gentleman; these men are regularly enlisted soldiers of the United States army; surely you are not going to treat them as spies or dogs, because they have fallen into your hands through the fortune of war. What you propose, sir, is not justice; it is assassination.’

I shall never forget the look on Mosby’s face as he turned toward me, and said: ‘What justice would I get if I fell into the hands of your soldiers? I tell you, sir, I value the life of the poorest of my comrades far more than that of twenty Yankees. But I shall only retaliate in kind—man for man, and that I will have. I was not aware, sir, that you were an officer; but surely you can ask no better treatment from me than I give your men?’

I said I wanted nothing more than he would grant to all, and stepped back into my place in the ranks.

The sergeant returned just then, and the awful ‘Lottery of Death,’ as I have ever since called it, began. When my turn came, I drew from the hat a piece of paper; but I could not look at it—my heart stood still, my knees trembled, my hand faltered; but suddenly, as from a horrible dream, I was awakened by the word ‘Blank!—Fall back, sir.’

I was not to die by rope or bullet, at anyrate for a time. I cannot describe to you my terror, my abject fear; nor do I know how I appeared to others; but I do know I shall never suffer the fear of death again so keenly.

The drawing was completed; the five victims separated from us; when, suddenly, a boy’s voice was heard piteously asking for pardon, mercy, anything but death. Colonel Mosby looked toward the little drummer-boy, for he it was, and said: ‘Sergeant, is that boy one of the condemned?’

‘Yes, colonel,’ replied the sergeant.

‘Send him back in the ranks again; he is too young to die yet.’—And, ‘Captain,’ turning to me, ‘since you are so much afraid to die, we will give you another chance.—Sergeant, place two papers—one numbered, the other blank—in your hat, and let the captain and the man next him draw again.’

At this second drawing, although I had only one chance in two of escaping, I did not feel that abject fear that first overcame me, and I stepped forward when ordered and drew another blank piece of paper. My feeling was one of intense pity for the poor fellow who drew the fatal number, and I hardly heard Mosby say: ‘Well, you are a lucky fellow, captain.’

We were removed from the condemned that night. After two or three days, with the aid of some friendly negroes and some burnt cork, I made my escape, reaching our own lines in nine days.

Of the five condemned, two escaped, one by feigning death after being shot, and the other was rescued by a friendly negro before death ensued. These two men reached our army later on, and corroborated my strange story of the ‘Lottery of Death.’ I think you will agree with me that I had cause for showing fear at least once in my life.

ABOUT WEEDS.

Somebody once characterised ‘dirt’ as matter in a wrong place. Now, a weed is a plant in the wrong place. It has a place in the economy of nature, no doubt, unprofitable or even noxious as it may appear to the farmer or gardener. It must not be forgotten, moreover, that even the humblest weed is worthy of patient examination, and is a marvel of physiological structure. Then, again, some of our hedgerow wildings vie in beauty of form and elegance of habit with the cherished garden plants. What have we more charming, for instance, than traveller’s joy (_Clematis vitalba_), bryony, dogrose, or the large white bindweed? And as to some other weeds, which of our garden plants figure so largely in pictures as the foxglove, purple loosestrife (_Lithrum salicaria_), the teasel, or the dock? Nevertheless, they are weeds, and as such, are entirely out of place on the garden or farm. Robbers and usurpers are they, to be ignominiously decapitated or uprooted, and consigned to the rubbish-heap or the flames.

Nature, it must be remembered, never sleeps; she either rewards the hand of the diligent with abundant harvests, or she scatters broadcast her thorns and thistles, as a punishment for man’s neglect. The seeds of many species of plants have wonderful vitality. We are not about to quote the ‘mummy wheat’ as an example; but well-authenticated instances are recorded of seeds that have preserved their vitality for upwards of half a century. The seeds of the charlock and others of the Cruciferous tribe are of an oily nature, and therefore capable of withstanding the effects of moisture, and will germinate after being buried for years. But the process of ‘soiling’ the banks of new railways affords evidence of the long-continued vitality of seeds. The surface soil which has been laid aside in heaps for the purpose, is thrown back and spread upon the banks; and among the multitude of grasses and weeds which spring up and form a dense emerald carpet, there are invariably species seldom if ever found in the immediate neighbourhood. In the case of forest fires in the Far West, almost an entire new vegetation succeeds. Occasionally, the extensive moorlands in the neighbourhood of Liphook, Hants, take fire, and burn for days. The heather is dotted over with seedlings of Scotch fir, which is indigenous in the locality. Many of these trees are consumed with the heather, and with them some inches in depth of the dried surface. Seeds from the fir-cones, dropped years ago, are partially relieved from the superincumbent pressure, germinate, and in a few years supply the places of those that are destroyed. But every summer breeze wafts the winged seeds of the thistle, dandelion, the coltsfoot, groundsel, and many others, far and wide. Borne aloft on their tiny parachutes, they sail along until a summer shower bears them down to a moist, warm, resting-place in the field or wild.

The great weed-army which infests farms and gardens in the British Islands numbers about one hundred and thirty species, and consists mainly of two great classes, namely, annuals (fruitful only once) and perennials (capable of producing flowers and fruit time after time). About a dozen, however, are biennials; four of these are thistles; and the most familiar of the remainder are the foxglove and the hemlock. Some of the most troublesome farm and garden pests are perennials, and among these, the most mischievous in their rapidity of growth and tenacity of life are the greater and lesser bindweeds (_Convolvulacea_) and the couch-grass (_Triticum repens_). Unless the soil be well dug and pulverised and thoroughly sifted, the attempt to eradicate either of these will be useless; every half-inch of the white crinkled roots of the bindweed or bit of couch-grass to which roots are attached will grow. The greater bindweed, perhaps, is the most difficult to get rid of, and is especially troublesome among evergreens. The tender, semi-transparent shoots stand quite erect under evergreens until they touch the lower branches; they then make rapid growth, and quickly cover the whole head of a laurel, bay, laurustinus, or rhododendron with a thick mantle of light-green leaves, twisted stems, and snow-white trumpet-shaped flowers. Beautiful in its way, no doubt; but what of the handsome shrubs it has stifled in its fatal caresses, and what of the weeks of hard labour that must be expended in the attempt to eradicate the pest?

In Italy, however, the white, underground stems of couch-grass are carefully gathered by the peasantry, taken to market in bundles, and sold as food for cattle and horses. They contain a considerable amount of starch. A variety of couch called matt grass is extensively used in Holland for binding together the sandy dunes and flats by the sea. Coltsfoot is a very troublesome weed; a variegated form of it, with handsome, bold, cream-edged leaf, is wonderfully persistent in forcing its way to other feeding-grounds. In one case under our own observation, its roots, which are tender and brittle, found their way from a bed, beneath a four feet margin of turf and an eight feet wide gravel path. The only place where one is not likely to find the root is where it was planted! In the case of the weeds hitherto particularised, it is useless to remove the part appearing above ground; and it is also so with several of the thistles; unless cut beneath the crown or collar, the result is simply to force the plant to make a fresh effort by throwing out numerous side-shoots.

A year or two ago, we were reminded by the Prime Minister, in one of his thoughtful and suggestive speeches at Hawarden, that ‘one year’s seeding is seven years’ weeding.’ One can appreciate the repetition of the adage when reflecting on the enormous increase of the common groundsel, or the still more extraordinary multiplication of the common poppy. All the year round, even when the temperature is below the freezing-point, the small yellow blossoms of the groundsel may be noticed, each with its bundle of winged seeds, while round the parent plant are a host of young seedlings. But such is the prodigious fertility of the common poppy, that a single plant will during its year of life produce forty thousand seeds! a rate of increase that would, it is computed, in the course of seven years cover the area of Great Britain; and furnish, we may further reckon, enough opium to lull the whole population into a last long sleep. The small seed escapes when ripe through the apertures at the base of the capsule.

Next to the poppy and groundsel we may place the charlock, chickweed, and corn marigold, all annuals, and to be easily got rid of before flowering by hoeing. Some years ago, I was told by an intelligent head-gardener in the island of Colonsay, in the west of Scotland, that seeds of the oxeye daisy arrived in some packages from London. In the course of a few years, oxeye had taken entire possession of the island. It is a perennial, and also seeds plentifully, and is therefore more difficult to destroy. Both the latter and the yellow corn marigold (_Chrysanthemum segetum_) are now affected by the æsthetic world, and are assuming importance as articles of commerce, thousands of bunches being disposed of on market-days at Covent Garden.

Americans inform us that about two hundred and twenty species of weeds have been imported into their country, mostly from the British Islands. In 1837, there were said to be only one hundred and thirty-seven. The common plantain is known among the Indians as the ‘Englishman’s foot,’ as though following the steps of the white settlers. The common yellow toadflax was, it is said, introduced by a Mr Ranstead as a garden flower, and is now known as the Ranstead weed. In 1788 it had overrun the pastures in the inhabited parts of Pennsylvania, and was the cause of bitter complaints. Chickweed is said to have been introduced as bird-seed, and the Scotch thistle arrived in a bedtick filled with thistle-down. Feathers being cheap, the bed of down was replaced by feathers, and the former thrown by the wayside. The seed soon found a congenial home. There is a troublesome American water-weed, however (_Anacharis alsinastrum_), which has avenged our transatlantic cousins threefold by choking our ponds, rivers, and canals. Another little intruder from the Cape (_Azolla pinnata_) may be troublesome. It is a charming little aquatic, and most interesting under the microscope. Some one had thrown a handful of it on a pond we wot of, where the common duckweed (_Lemna_) flourished; but azolla quickly monopolised the whole surface and crowded out the duckweed.

With regard to weeds generally, it must always be borne in mind by the farmer and gardener that they not only deprive the growing crops of the food intended for _them_ only, but their presence robs the young plant of the air, light, moisture, and heat essential for its healthy development. It is quite possible, however, that some of the plants we now condemn as weeds will some day be utilised as green crops and ploughed in. The entire constituents of the crop are in such case returned to the soil. It is unnecessary to allude here to another aspect of the weed question further than to remark, that a garden owes much of its charm and neatness to its order, cleanliness, and entire absence of weeds.

TECHNICAL EDUCATION AT GORDON’S COLLEGE, ABERDEEN.

A little over two years ago (March 22, 1884), under the title of ‘A Practical Science and Art School,’ we gave an account of the transformation that had taken place at Gordon’s College, Aberdeen, the old ‘hospital’ having been converted into a day and evening school, both possessing sections specially devoted to technical instruction. The first independent examination of the College (day-school) has just been made, the examiners being Professor Birrell of St Andrews, and Professor Kennedy of University College, London, who report highly on the appearance made and the work done by the pupils, and on the general condition of the College. They mention that the College has so prospered under its new constitution, that whereas the pupils in attendance previous to 1881 at no time exceeded two hundred, the number on the register for this session (1885-86) exceeds eight hundred. Of these, one hundred and twenty are foundationers, who are entitled to free education, books, and an allowance of £15, 12s. per annum for maintenance and clothing, &c.; and this is all that remains of the ‘hospital’ system. We excerpt the portion of the Report bearing on ‘Handicraft,’ as being of general interest:

‘A certain number of the most promising boys in the third division are allowed to receive workshop instruction for from one and a half to two hours a week; while in the fourth and fifth divisions of the Commercial School it forms a regular subject of instruction, to which about four hours a week are allotted. Some boys have only one year of this work, some (occasionally) over two years. A year and a half seems to be about the average. The work done by individual pupils depends upon their ability and probable future employment, each having free choice so far as it is practicable. All boys occupy themselves with simple woodwork for about a year after entering. Later on, they obtain practice in fitter’s work (filing, chipping, scraping, &c.), and in work at simple machine tools (simple and screw-cutting lathes and planing-machines), also in forging and greensand moulding. Those who require it are also taught something of tinplate and plumber’s work. From twenty to twenty-five lads work in the workshop at one time—there is not room for more. At present, about eighty lads in all are receiving practical instruction in four detachments. Earlier in the session (a large number of the more advanced boys having left for situations in the early spring), the total number was about one hundred and twenty-five, receiving instruction in five divisions.

‘For the purposes of inspection, we requested that boys at all the different stages might be put in the workshop simultaneously, in order that both elementary and advanced work might be examined. The younger boys were making wooden joints, half-lap, scarf, dovetail, &c.; and from this, various grades of work were represented up to the different parts of a slide-rest lathe which was in process of construction. There seemed no tendency to take the work as play; it was carried on as seriously and in the same spirit as every other part of the educational course. The results were correspondingly satisfactory. It is not intended or supposed that work of this kind will supersede the necessity of apprenticeship in practical work; but it is believed that it will send the boys to their apprenticeship much better prepared than they would otherwise be to take advantage of the opportunities they then have of learning, and much more likely to be soon useful to their employers. Carried on in the spirit in which the workshop at Gordon’s College is carried on, these results are certainly achieved, and can only be spoken of in terms of thorough commendation. The work turned out by the boys was not, of course, equal to that of journeymen; but judged from its own point of view, as the work of boys having had at most very little training, it was as satisfactory in execution as in intention.’

It may not be out of place to mention that Mr F. Grant Ogilvie, the Science teacher at Gordon’s College, has recently been appointed Principal of the Heriot-Watt College, Edinburgh; while Mr T. A. Clark, Superintendent of the workshop at Gordon’s College, has been appointed to the corresponding post at Heriot’s Hospital School.

AN EXPERIMENT IN CO-OPERATIVE FARMING.

We learn from a contemporary that the experiment in co-operative farming now being made by the Duke of Portland on his Gringley estate is exciting considerable attention in the country amongst all classes. The farm referred to, consisting of about four hundred and eighty-five acres, has been rilet, together with all the stock, horses, and implements upon it, and with all the rights of the tenant, to an association of six agricultural labourers. It is chiefly arable, there being only thirty-six acres of grass; and the soil is a deep peat, growing good wheat, and also oats, but not barley. The terms upon which the farm is let or leased are, it is said, a fixed rent, payable half-yearly. The tenant-right has been valued by parties mutually chosen, and three per cent. is to be charged on the amount, to be paid half-yearly with the rent. The horses, stock, and implements left upon the farm have also been valued by the same valuers, and three per cent. is to be charged thereon. The tenant-right, the stock, and implements are at all times to be kept up after a style of good husbandry, and the landlord, his agent, or servants are to have every facility shown them to ascertain that the capital is being in no way deteriorated. The shooting is not let with the farm. The agreement is the one usually in force on the Duke’s estate, but it has been found necessary, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, to enter into a subsidiary agreement giving power to resume possession at any time, and this document will necessarily come under the Bills of Sale Act. The amount of the valuation is said to be £2431, 10s. The farm buildings are in good order, and sufficient for the requirements of the farm. The live-stock on the farm has been valued, as also the farming implements and general stock, including sufficient seed-corn. There are four houses on the farm; but in order to meet the requirements of the six men and their families, two of the houses have been divided, and other alterations may also be made. A deed of partnership is being drawn up amongst the men, which shall be in force for seven years. Each man is to receive a wage of four pounds a month; accounts are to be balanced yearly; and after the rent, interest, and all other charges are deducted, the remainder is to be paid over towards reducing the amount of the valuation.

THE CONSUMPTION OF TEA.

The Australian colonies and New Zealand, according to one of the Indian journals, drink far more tea per head of population than the British Islands. The Australians come first, with 7.66 pounds per head; the New Zealanders next, with 7.23 pounds per head; while the people of Great Britain, though appearing third in the list, consume only 4.90 pounds each. Newfoundland and Canada come next; while in the United States the consumption is only 1.30 pound per head; and in Russia, which is always regarded as a great tea-drinking country, the consumption is only 0.61 pound per head. Belgium, Sweden, Austria-Hungary, and Spain consume less than the other European nations; but there is not one nation on the continent, with the exception of Holland, in which the annual consumption exceeds one pound per head. But in certain parts of the countries named, tea-drinking is much more common than in others. In certain Russian districts, especially, tea is drunk constantly and copiously, and it is this fact which has given rise to the notion that Russia is the most bibulous of all tea-drinking countries.

TO A CHERRY BLOSSOM.

O cherry blossom! have you loved?
I have loved.
A maiden sweet as summer skies,
With tender lights in hazel eyes,
I have loved.

O cherry blossom! you are fair.
She was fair.
Her thoughts were whiter than your face;
She wore no proud pretending grace,
All so fair.

O cherry blossom! can you weep?
I can weep.
Her frail white form is buried now,
And over it the lilies blow—
Blow, and weep.

O cherry blossom! you will die.
All things die.
The sweetest things that we receive,
Ah, these of us take soonest leave—
You will die.

W. D. F.

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