Chapter II: Part 2

I learned next morning, how Harden, after trying in vain to light his pipe on that memorable evening, had wandered for hours through the hard-hearted streets, until at daybreak he had found himself in the docks, looking at a large ship preparing to drop down the river with the tide. How he had managed to slip aboard unseen and stow himself away in the hold, with some idea of bettering his not over-bright fortunes in foreign parts. How he had supported his life in the hold with stray fragments of biscuit, which he happened to have in his pockets, until, after a day or two of weary beating about against baffling winds, when they were out in mid-channel, the usual search for stowaways had unearthed him. How the captain, after giving him plenty of strong language and rope’s-end, had at length agreed to allow him to work as a sailor on board the vessel. How on landing at Sydney he had gone into the interior, taken service with his present master—under another name than his own, wishing to disconnect himself entirely with his former life—and by honestly doing his duty had attained his present position.

By the light of this narrative, that which had puzzled me became perfectly clear—namely, how it was that he had contrived not only to get so entirely lost in spite of the hue and cry after him, but also to remain in ignorance of his aunt’s fate.

My client was tried, convicted, and executed in due course; his plea of guilty and voluntary surrender having no weight against the cruel and cowardly attempt to put an innocent man in his place.

When I last saw John Harden, he was married to a serious lady, who had been his late master’s housekeeper, and was possessor of a prosperous general shop in a country village, stocked by means of the money which Mr Slocum had generously left him.

COIN TREASURES.

Man is a collecting animal. It would be absurd to ask what he collects; more to the point would it be to ask what he does _not_ collect. Books, pictures, marbles, china, precious stones, hats, gloves, pipes, walking-sticks, prints, book-plates, monograms, postage-stamps, hangmen’s ropes; the list might be increased indefinitely.

What is it that impels us to heap up such treasures? We say ‘us,’ because we are convinced that few escape untouched by the disease. It may be dormant; it may possibly never show itself; but it is there, and only wants a favourable conjunction of circumstances to bring it to life.

Of all the forms of the collecting mania, few have been so long in existence as that of coins, and few seize us so soon. The articles are portable, nice to look at, and of some intrinsic value. Every one knows what a coin is, and when a lad happens to get hold of one struck, say, two hundred years ago, he naturally is impressed by the fact. Every one knows how easily the very young and the ignorant are taken by the mere age of an article. The writer dates his acquaintance with numismatics (the history of coins) from his receiving in some change a half-crown of Charles II. when he was eleven years old. It was worn very much, but it was two hundred years old, and that was enough. After that, a good deal of pocket-money went in exchange for sundry copper, brass, and silver coins, with the usual result. The collection was discovered to be rubbish; but experience had been gained, and that, as is well known, must be bought.

The numismatist can head his list of devotees by the illustrious name of Petrarch, who made a collection of Roman coins to illustrate the history of the Empire. He was followed by Alfonso of Aragon; Pope Eugenius IV.; Cosmo de’ Medici; Matthias Corvinus, king of Hungary; the Emperor Maximilian I. The man dear to all book-lovers, Grolier, had his cabinet of medals; Politian was the first to study them with reference to their historical value. Gorlaeus succeeded him. Early in the sixteenth century, Goltzius the engraver travelled over Europe in search of coins, and reported the existence of about one thousand cabinets. Our own collections appear to have begun with Camden; he was followed by Sir Robert Cotton, Laud, the Earl of Arundel, both the Charleses, the Duke of Buckingham, and Dr Mead in the early part of last century. Later on, we come to the celebrated William Hunter—not to be confounded with his still greater brother, John—who left to the university of Glasgow his magnificent collection of Greek coins. Archbishop Wake, Dr Barton, Dr Brown, and Dr Rawlinson formed cabinets of considerable extent and value, all of which found a resting-place in the colleges of Oxford. All these, however, were surpassed by Richard Payne-Knight, who was born in the middle of the last century, and formed the finest collection of Greek coins and bronzes that had ever been brought together. It was valued at fifty thousand pounds, and he left it to the nation. The catalogue drawn up by himself was published in 1830 by the Trustees of the British Museum.

At the date of this magnificent legacy, our national collection of coins was of no importance; but since then, by purchase and bequest, it has so greatly increased its stores, that it undoubtedly stands on an equality with the French national collection, long above rivalry. Donations during the lifetime of the owner, too, are not unknown. In 1861, Mr De Salis made the nation a present of his extensive cabinet of Roman coins. In 1864, Mr E. Wigan called one morning on Mr Vaux, the keeper of the coins and medals, and producing a case, told him that was his cabinet of Roman gold medals. Would he be good enough to examine it carefully, and choose for the Museum what he thought best? Needless to say, no scruples were made by the head of the department; consultations were held with the staff, with the result that two hundred and ninety-one were chosen, representing a value, at a modest computation, of nearly four thousand pounds. In 1866, Mr James Woodhouse of Corfu left to the nation five thousand six hundred and seventy-four specimens of Greek coins, mostly in the finest preservation; of these, one hundred and one were gold, two thousand three hundred and eighty-seven silver, three thousand one hundred and twenty-eight copper, and fifty-eight lead. That year was particularly fruitful in acquisitions, for no fewer than eleven thousand five hundred and thirty-two coins were placed in the national cabinets.

But it is impossible that mere donations could be depended on. In every sale, the British Museum is a formidable competitor, and if, as not unfrequently happens, it is outbidden by a private collector, it has the advantage of an institution over a person, in that it lives longer, and often has the opportunity of acquiring what it wants at the dispersal of the cabinet of its rival. One of the most important purchases ever made was that of the collection of the Duc de Blacas in 1867, for which government got a vote of forty-five thousand seven hundred and twenty-one pounds. Amongst its treasures were some two thousand Greek and Roman coins, chiefly gold.

All good and rare specimens gravitate naturally to the chief museums of Europe, which would thus stand in the way of a private individual forming a cabinet, were it not for the fact, that finds are continually taking place, either unexpectedly or in consequence of excavations in ancient countries. Only the other day, we noticed the sale of a large lot of medieval coins at Paris, which had been discovered when pulling down some ancient buildings. During the German excavations at Olympia, extending over six years, some six thousand pieces of all ages from 500 B.C. to 600 A.D. were brought to light. These, however, became the property of the Greek government, and are not likely to come into the market. Some of the finds are most extraordinary. In 1818 were fished up out of the river Tigris two large silver coins of Geta, king of the Edoni; a Thracian people of whom we know only the name, and whose king’s name is all that we have to tell us of his existence. These are now in the British Museum, and are especially interesting as being the earliest pieces we have stamped with a monarch’s name. Their date is placed prior to 480 B.C. We have seen a coin of Philip Aridæus, successor of Alexander the Great, struck at Mitylene, which was found in the roots of a tree which was being grubbed up in a park in Suffolk. The incident was inquired into at the time, and no doubt seems to have arisen as to the fact of its having been found as alleged. Nearly twenty years ago, General Philips discovered at Peshawur twenty milled sixpences of Elizabeth. There was a tradition in the place that an Englishman had been murdered there a very long time before, and the tomb was shown. It is naturally inferred, therefore, that the coins had belonged to him, or how else explain the find? When the railway was being made from Smyrna to Aidin, a few dozen very ancient coins were turned up, which were all sold at once at a few shillings each; but the dealers hearing of this, soon appeared on the spot, and the original buyers had the satisfaction of reselling the coins at four or five pounds apiece.

Smyrna is, as the most important city of Asia Minor, naturally the headquarters of the dealers in Greek antiquities. Mr Whittall, a well-known merchant there, had formed a very fine collection of coins which was dispersed in London in 1867, and fetched two thousand seven hundred and twenty-nine pounds. When excavating at the base of the colossal statue of Athena, in her temple at Priene, Mr Clarke found five tetradrachms of Orophernes, supposed to be the one who was made king of Cappadocia by Demetrius in 158 B.C. These were absolutely unique. In Cyprus, some years ago, the British consul at Larnaca obtained a large hoard, which had been discovered during some building operations. This was a particularly rich find, as amongst them happened to be no fewer than thirty-four undescribed pieces of Philip, Alexander the Great, and Philip Aridæus. Mr Wood, when excavating on the site of the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, came upon a lot of more than two thousand coins of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. In 1876, some workmen, when digging, came upon a vase containing, amongst other relics of antiquity, some fifty electrum staters of Cyzicus and Lampsacus, all of the end of the fifth century B.C. Only a few years ago, in that most out-of-the-way part of Central Asia, more than a hundred miles beyond the Oxus, was discovered a hoard of coins chiefly of the Seleucidæ, dating from the third century B.C.—showing how far, even in those early days, trade had been carried. A few of them, too, were unknown pieces of Alexander the Great. Without being prepared to go into exact particulars, we should imagine that a find in 1877 of twenty-nine thousand eight hundred and two Roman coins in two vases in Blackmoor Park, Hampshire, was one of the most extensive ever known.

That coins are interesting, as giving us portraits of those who have made some show in the world, is undoubted. It is equally true that by their means we are made acquainted with the existence of kings and kingdoms of whom history has left no records. The fact of a Greek kingdom of Bactria occupying that even yet comparatively unexplored region, half-way between the Caspian and the Himalaya, was revealed to the world only some fifty years ago by the finding of coins bearing portraits and legends of the Greek-speaking rulers. An extremely large silver piece in the British Museum, supposed to belong to a period anterior to 480 B.C. and struck by the Odomanti of Thrace, a tribe of whom we know nothing, was found at Ishtib. In the same collection is a large silver coin of the Orrescii, an unknown Macedonian people, which was found in Egypt, along with a very early drachma of Terone, and a large decadrachm of Derronikos, a king unknown to history. These are supposed to have been carried to Egypt by some of the soldiers of Xerxes, during their retreat from Greece after the battle of Platæa.

The greatest sale of coins by public auction, we should imagine, was that of Lord Northwick, in December 1859, and April 1860. The former consisted of Greek coins only, and produced eight thousand five hundred and sixty-eight pounds; the latter, of Roman and later pieces, fetched three thousand three hundred and twenty pounds. The Greek coins were especially fine and rare, and some of them unique. One, a large piece of Camarina, bearing as reverse a nymph carried by a swan, a specimen of highest Greek art, went for fifty-two pounds to the British Museum. A splendid piece of Agrigentum, with reverse of the monster Scylla, fetched one hundred and fifty-nine pounds. A coin of Cleopatra, queen of Syria, daughter of Ptolemy VI. of Egypt, and wife successively of Alexander I., Demetrius II., and Antiochus VII., and mother of Seleucus V., and the sixth and seventh Antiochi—all kings of Syria—was bought by the British Museum for two hundred and forty pounds. It is said to be the only one known. Altogether our national collection obtained one hundred specimens at a cost of nine hundred pounds. Lord Northwick had lived to a great age; but up to the last he preserved his faculties, and indulged his passion for ancient art by buying and exchanging objects. His pictures, statuary, everything, in fact, came to the hammer after his death. The years between 1790 and 1800 were spent by him in Italy, and he gained his early initiation into antiquities under the eye of Sir William Hamilton, the well-known ambassador at Naples. His first purchase is said to have been an after-dinner frolic in the shape of eight pounds for a bag of Roman brass coins. He and Payne-Knight bought and divided the fine collections of Prince Torremuzza and Sir Robert Ainslie—for the latter of which they gave eight thousand pounds. Since his lordship’s sale, there has been nothing to approach it. Fine though small cabinets have not been wanting, however, and the enthusiast can always find something with which to feed his passion. At Huxtable’s sale, in 1859, the collection fetched an unusually large sum. Hobler’s Roman cabinet of brass coins was sold for one thousand seven hundred and fifty-nine pounds; Merlin’s, containing one hundred and forty-one lots of Greek and Roman, produced eight hundred and seventy-eight pounds; Sheppard’s Greek, nineteen hundred pounds; Huber’s, containing some hundreds of unpublished Greek, three thousand; Ivanoff’s, three thousand and eight pounds; Bowen, one thousand five hundred and fifty-three pounds; Brown, three thousand and twelve pounds; Sambon, three thousand one hundred and forty-eight pounds; Exereunetes, containing several supposed to be unique, one thousand four hundred and twenty-one. The Sambon sale is memorable for the fact that a brass medallion of Geta, of the intrinsic value of twopence, was knocked down at five hundred and five pounds!

Every one who has read the _Antiquary_, whether bibliomaniac or not, can enjoy the glowing description by Monkbarns: ‘Snuffy Davie bought the _Game of Chess_, 1474, the first book ever printed in England, from a stall in Holland, for about two groschen, or twopence of our money. He sold it to Osborne for twenty pounds and as many books as came to twenty pounds more. Osborne resold this inimitable windfall to Dr Askew for sixty guineas. At Dr Askew’s sale, this inestimable treasure blazed forth in its full value, and was purchased by royalty itself for one hundred and seventy pounds.—Could a copy now occur,’ he ejaculated with a deep sigh and lifted-up hands—‘what would be its ransom!’

The progress of intelligence has affected coins in these days no less than books. It is only in the very out-of-the-way places that coins are to be picked up for a song. The chief hunting-ground, Asia Minor, is well looked after by the dealers, and the private collector has, of course, to pay them their profit. The increase in value may be gauged by the following instance: A gold coin of Mithridates, the size of our half-sovereign, fetched twenty-five guineas in 1777. In 1817 it came to the hammer, and was knocked down at eighty pounds to a well-known collector. Unfortunately for him, a duplicate soon afterwards appeared in a sale, and he had to pay ninety pounds for that. Later on still, a third turned up, and that fell to his bid at a hundred pounds. Yet a fourth came to light in 1840. The owner of the three bid up to a hundred and ten pounds, but had to give in to a bid of a hundred and thirteen pounds from a rival. Fancy his feelings! The rare brass medallions of Commodus, intrinsic value twopence or threepence, fetch up to thirty pounds, and the large pieces of Syracuse, the finest coins perhaps that we know of, regularly run up to fifty and sixty pounds. It is evident, therefore, that it is not every one who can indulge the passion for coin-collecting. At a little expense, however, electrotypes which are absolute facsimiles can be obtained from the British Museum, and this fact, which is not generally known, should result in the spread of a knowledge of Greek art; for it must not be forgotten that in the early coinage of the Greek race the progress of art can be traced as completely as in any now existing remains.

MY FELLOW-PASSENGER.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER I.

To say that the real zest of an Englishman’s delight in England and English home-life is only attained after residence or travel in other countries, is to quote something like a truism. To this influence at least was owing in great measure the feeling of quite indescribable pleasure with which, after a not altogether successful six months of big-game hunting in the interior of Africa—a very far-away country indeed in those days, when no cable communication existed with England—I found myself on board the good ship _Balbriggan Castle_ (Captain Trossach), as she steamed slowly out of the Cape Town Docks on a lovely June evening in 187-, homeward bound. I had come from one of the eastern ports of the colony in sole occupation of a cabin; and though I knew we had taken on board a large number of passengers that afternoon, I was not a little put out to find, on going below, that the berth above mine had been filled, and that the inestimable blessing of solitude was to be denied me for the next twenty days or so. However, there was no help for it; and with the best grace I could command, I answered my fellow-traveller’s courteous expressions of regret with a hope that the voyage would be a pleasant one. The new-comer was a tall, slightly-built, and strikingly handsome man, of about thirty, remarkable for a slow deliberative manner of speech, with which an occasional nervous movement of the features seemed oddly at variance. On a travelling-bag, as to the exact disposition of which he was especially solicitous, I caught sight of the letters P. R. in big white capitals. These being my own initials, the coincidence, though commonplace enough, furnished a topic of small-talk which sufficed to fill up the short time intervening before dinner, and ended, naturally enough, in the discovery of my new friend’s name—Paul Raynor—given, as I afterwards remembered, with some little hesitation, but producing a much finer effect of sound than my own unmelodious Peter Rodd.

At dinner, I found my place laid opposite to Raynor; and thus, notwithstanding the claims of an excellent appetite and the desire to take stock of other passengers, I had again occasion to observe the painful twitching of the fine features, recurring with increased frequency as he, too, looked round at those about him, and seemed to scan each in turn with more than ordinary deliberation. The man interested me greatly; and as I listened to his conversation with some Englishmen near, and noted the dry humour with which he hit off the peculiarities of the worthy colonists we were leaving behind, I saw at once that here at least was promise of relief to the monotony of the voyage, of which I should be constantly able to avail myself.

A sea like glass, and a temperature of unusual mildness for a June evening in those latitudes, drew every one on deck, and ensconcing myself in a pleasant corner just behind the too often violated legend, ‘No smoking abaft the companion,’ I proceeded to illuminate a mild Havana cigar, when I was joined by Raynor, with whom, after a good-humoured joke anent my unsuccessful attempt to obtain that solitude which the cabin could no longer afford, I renewed our conversation of the afternoon, passing from generalities to more personal matters, and sowing in a few hours the seeds of a friendship destined to grow and ripen with that marvellous rapidity only to be attained by the forcing process of life on board a passenger-ship.

Nothing could exceed the frankness of Raynor’s own story, as he told it me in brief before we turned in that night. One of a large family of sons, he had conceived an unconquerable dislike to the profession of teaching, to which, in lieu of one of a more lucrative nature, he had found himself compelled to turn. The suggestion of a friend, that he should try his luck in the colonies, was hardly made before it was acted upon; and a few weeks found him in an up-country town at the Cape, where his letters of introduction speedily brought him employment in a well-known and respected house of business. Here he rose rapidly; and having, by care and occasional discreet speculation, saved a few hundreds, was now on his way home, with four months’ leave of absence, professedly as a holiday trip, but really, as he admitted to me, to see what chances presented themselves of investing his small capital and procuring permanent employment in England. In answer to my question, whether his absence after so short a time of service might not conceivably affect his prospects in the firm, he replied, that his intention of remaining at home had not been communicated to any one; and that, should no suitable opening offer in England, he would, upon returning to the colony, resume his former position with Messrs ——, whose word to that effect had been given.

‘Do you know any one on board?’ said I carelessly, when his short narration was over, and after I had in turn imparted to him a few dry and unrefreshing facts as to my own humble personality.

‘Why do you ask?’

I was taken aback at the sharp, almost angry voice in which the words were uttered; but, strong in the harmless nature of my question, I replied: ‘Because I thought I saw a man at the next table to ours at dinner trying to catch your eye, as if he knew you.’

‘Daresay he did. One gets to know such an unnecessary lot of skunks in the colonies!’ Uttering these remarkable words hurriedly and in a tone of intense irritation, Paul Raynor strode away, and I saw him no more that night.

* * * * *

Our cabin was on the starboard side of the ship, and the morning sun streamed in and laid his glorious mandate upon me and all sluggards to be up and stirring. Raynor, who had the berth above me, seemed to have obeyed the call still earlier, for he was gone. Mounting, a little later, to the poop-deck, I arrived just in time to find him in conversation with the odd-looking little Dutchman I had noticed watching Raynor at dinner, and to hear the former say, in that queer-sounding Cape English, which, at a few paces distant, is hardly to be distinguished from Cape Dutch: ‘My name is Jan van Poontjes; and I remember better as anything ’ow I met you six or five months ago by Pieteraasvogelfontein with young Alister of the Kaapstadt Bank, eh?’ To which Raynor replied: ‘I can only assure you again, sir, that you are mistaken. My name is Paul Raynor, and I have never had the honour of seeing you in my life before.’ Turning on his heel, Mynheer van Poontjes shuffled away, expressing _sotto voce_ his readiness to be immediately converted into ‘biltong,’ if he wasn’t right about the ‘_verdomd Englischmann_.’

Directly he caught sight of me, Raynor left his seat, and coming hastily forward, said: ‘Mr Rodd, I owe you many apologies for my unpardonable rudeness of last night. I am blessed with the vilest of tempers, which, after years of effort, is not yet under my control. Will you forget the episode? Believe me, I shall not offend again.’

My answer need not be recorded. But it struck me as odd at the time, that when our reconciliation was complete, and we were pacing the deck for the short half-hour before breakfast, my companion made no reference whatever to the Dutchman’s mistake, not even evincing the slightest curiosity to know whether Poontjes was the same man whose regards I had observed so intently fixed upon him. Possibly he was not aware that I had been a witness of the interview, or, as seemed more probable, he avoided alluding to a subject so directly tending to recall his extraordinary outburst of the previous night.

The voyage was a quiet one enough, in spite of the very large number of passengers. Three really charming sisters were undergoing a well-sustained siege at the hands of a dozen or so of the most presentable young men, and at least one engagement was shortly expected. Theatricals were projected; but fortunately the ‘company’ would _not_ attend rehearsals, and we were spared. One or two concerts were got up, at which feeble young men complacently rubbed fiddle-strings with rosined bows, and evoked flat and melancholy sounds, expressing no surprise when subsequently complimented on their ‘violin-playing.’ An opulent but unlovely Jew from the Diamond Fields created a diversion by singing, without notice given, a song of the music-hall type—refrain, ‘Oh, you ridic’lous man, why dew yer look so shy!’ &c.; and was genuinely hurt when the captain suggested his ‘going for’ard next time he wanted an audience for _that_ song.’ Several ladies, of several ages, displayed their varied musical acquirements; and Raynor surprised everybody one day by giving us the _Village Blacksmith_ in a round clear baritone, of which no one imagined him to be the possessor.

During these first ten days at sea, Raynor had, apparently without any striving after popularity, established himself as a universal favourite. The children adored him from the first, thereby securing him a straight road to the mothers’ hearts, who in their turn spoke warmly in his praise to the younger ladies on board. These last felt strongly his superiority to the other very ordinary young men, enjoyed his conversation greatly, and were perhaps the least bit afraid of him.

Raynor’s fondness for and influence with children were altogether remarkable. Early in the voyage, a tiny trot of four had tripped and fallen sharply on the deck at his feet. As he lifted her ever so tenderly in his arms and stroked the poor little hurt knee, the child looked up at him through her tears and asked: ‘Is you _weally_ sorry?’ ‘Yes, indeed—I am, Nellie.’ ‘Then me’s better,’ came the little sobbing answer; and forthwith she nestled closer to him, and was comforted. This incident evidently produced a profound effect upon the other children playing near, who thereafter lost no opportunity of showing ‘the tall man’ that he might consider himself entirely one of themselves.

My own intimacy with him grew daily stronger, and our mutual friendship became so firm that we began to project various plans of business and pleasure for months to come in England. How often, in after-days, did I stop to think wonderingly of the man’s earnestness, the intense absorption with which he would ponder upon the relative merits of different undertakings, each more certain than the last to make our fortunes! Was he for the moment actually deceiving himself? or did the habit of concentrated thought forbid him to discuss otherwise than gravely, projects of whose very initiation he alone knew the impossibility?

Raynor spent his money freely, though without ostentation; and I hardly knew whether to be surprised or not when he applied to me one day for a loan of twenty-five pounds, explaining that he had lost rather heavily at cards during the past few days, and having only brought a limited supply of ready cash for the voyage, he found himself for the moment rather inconveniently short. Fortunately, I was in a position to supply his needs; and when we went ashore at Madeira the next afternoon, he invested a small fortune in sweets, toys, and native gimcracks for his army of little friends on board, including an exquisite model of one of the quaint little Funchal carts, destined for a poor crippled lad amongst the passengers in the fore-part of the ship.

* * * * *

Four or five days later, and signs of the approaching end began to be visible in the shape of Railway Guides on the saloon tables, great ease in the procuring of hitherto impossible luxuries from the stewards, and the appearance on the scene of certain towzled officials not previously observed, but with ‘backsheesh’ writ plain on each grimy feature. Raynor and I had during the last few days matured our plans for the immediate future. These were to include a week in town, another on the river, some visits to friends, and, if possible, a few days with the grouse towards the end of August. After this, a tentative negotiation with a City House with a view to the fruition of a certain scheme upon which my friend built great hopes.

Musing pleasurably upon these and other prospective delights, I turned in at ten o’clock, determined to get a few hours’ good sleep before reaching Plymouth—where we expected to put in at four or five o’clock in the morning, to land mails and some few passengers—the rest going on with the ship to Southampton. I had not slept more than an hour or two at most, when I was awakened by a sensation, known to even the soundest of sleepers, as if something were going on near me of which I ought to know. Looking out half-dreamily from my berth, I saw that Raynor was standing in the cabin, a lighted taper placed on a small shelf near him. I was about to close my eyes, when I became aware that there was something unusual in his appearance and actions. Instead of undressing himself for the night, he stood half bent over a locker opposite, upon which was lying open the travelling-bag I have referred to as being the object of his special care at the outset of the voyage. From this he drew one after another a number of small brown packets, in size and look not unlike gun-cartridges—which, indeed, in the dim light of the taper, I took them to be—hurriedly passing them into the various pockets of a light overcoat I now noticed him to be wearing. Still drowsily watching his movements, I was surprised to see him unroll from a bundle of wraps a thick heavy ulster, and putting it on, proceed to transfer more of the queer little brown-paper parcels to the pockets of this second garment. I was now fairly awake, and with a perhaps rather tardy recognition of the unfairness of my espionage, I coughed an artfully prepared cough, so toned as to convey the impression that I had that moment come from the land of dreams.

‘Hullo!’ I said, with the uneasy drawl of somnolence, ‘is that you?’

He started, and made a movement as if trying to stand full between me and the valise, as he answered: ‘Yes; I am just putting away one or two things.’ Then, after a moment’s pause, during which I heard him lock and fasten the bag, ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘you will think me a terribly shifty fellow, Peter, but the fact is, I know those old people in Cornwall will never forgive me if I don’t go and see them whilst I’m at home; and I’m equally positive that if I put it off now, I shall never get anywhere near them’——

‘And so you’ve suddenly made up your mind to get out at Plymouth, and leave me to go on to town alone,’ said I, interrupting, with a feeling of keener disappointment than I cared to show. ‘I see it all. Never mind. I can bear it. I was born to suffer.’

‘So you will say when I have finished,’ was the laughing reply. ‘After all, though, it is only putting off our little jaunt for a few days. Meanwhile, will you do me a favour? I cannot descend upon the old folks with a heap of luggage; and besides, this concern’—pointing to the valise—‘holds everything I am likely to need. Therefore, I want you, like a good boy as you are, to pass through the Customs with your own things, my two portmanteaus which are in the hold, and take them up to town with you. Go to the rooms you spoke of, and I will join you in a week from to-day.’

‘All right, you unblushing deserter. Have it as you will. But remember, if you are not at No. 91 Savile Street by Thursday evening next, I shall “cause your goods to be sold to defray expenses, and reserve to myself the right of deciding what to do with the proceeds,” as the Tipperary lawyers have it.’

‘Do; only keep something to remind you of the biggest scoundrel you are ever likely to know,’ he replied, laughing again, but with a curious ring in his voice, of which, I think, I shall never quite lose the memory. Its effect at the moment was to set me thinking whether this new move of Paul’s might not portend the upsetting of all our schemes.

‘Here, Peter,’ he went on—‘here is what I owe you, with many thanks. You don’t mind having it all in gold, do you? Those fellows have been giving me a very decent revenge at loo the last night or two, and this is the result!’ holding up a handful of sovereigns, and proceeding to pour twenty-five of them with a horrible clatter into my washing-basin.

‘Haven’t you got any English notes?’ I asked, wondering sleepily what I should do with all these sovereigns in addition to an existing small supply of my own.

‘Not one,’ answered Raynor. ‘Now, go to sleep; and I’ll come down and awake you when we’re within anything like reasonable distance of Plymouth. It’s no use turning in for the short time that’s left, so I shall go up and smoke a pipe and watch for the first sight of the land of my birth.’ He then went out into the soft air of the July night, looking strangely uncouth in a superfluity of wraps such as no man would throw about him only to meet the light breeze that just precedes a summer dawn.

A few hours afterwards, I was leaning over the taffrail waving good-bye to my friend as he stood near the wheel of the little tender that bore him and some half-dozen others to the shore. There had been a deep sadness in his eyes at parting; and the foreboding of the night before changed now to a chill conviction that Paul Raynor and I should meet no more.

* * * * *

‘So your friend has just now landed already, eh?’ said the voice of Mr van Poontjes, a gentleman with whom I had not exchanged a dozen words during the voyage, but who now, planting himself heavily on the deck-chair next mine, gave evidence of his intention to put a full stop to my enjoyment of the book which I was struggling to finish before delivering it to its owner that evening.

‘Yes,’ I replied wearily, wondering a little whether this worthy but slightly repulsive individual was going to stay long, and mentally laying plans of escape to meet the contingency.

‘Well, now,’ he continued, ‘I dessay you consider your Mister Raynor a jolly fine feller, eh?’

Suppressing the instantaneous impulse to take the little boer by the collar and shake him, I answered: ‘Mr Raynor is a friend of mine, as you are aware; and as I am not in the habit of discussing my friends with strangers, perhaps you will leave me to my book!’

‘Strangers, eh! Stranger to you, per’aps, yes! but not stranger to Mister—what do you call ’im?—Raynor! Eh, I could tell you something’——

‘Now, look you here, Mr van Poontjes,’ I burst out; ‘you have courageously waited to speak like this until Mr Raynor is no longer here to answer you. But I happen to have heard that gentleman inform you with his own lips that he had never set eyes on you until the day you met on board this ship; and therefore to say that you are not a stranger to Mr Raynor is equivalent to the assertion that Mr Raynor has told a lie. You had better not dare to repeat that statement either to me or to any other passenger on board.—Now, good-morning; and take care that mischievous tongue of yours doesn’t get you into trouble yet!’

As the little crowd that these angry words had brought about us moved away, a few clustering inquisitively round the little Dutchman, my reading was once more postponed by Jack Abinger, the second officer, a man with whom Raynor and I had struck up something of a friendship. ‘Hullo, Rodd,’ he said, strolling up to where I sat, ‘what’s all the row about? I saw you from my cabin standing in the recognised attitude of the avenger, apparently slating Mynheer van Poontjes as if he were a pickpocket.’ After listening to my story of what had occurred, he said: ‘Ah, a clear case of mistaken identity! But, I say, talking of Paul Raynor, it was a pity, as far as he was concerned, that we couldn’t have got to Plymouth a day or two earlier.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked surprisedly.

‘Only, that he would have gone ashore a richer man by a good bit. Surely he told you what a bad time he’s been having of it lately? Anybody else would have been stone-broke long ago. And last night, by way of a finish, that unspeakable little reptile, Barnett Moss, took a lot of money out of him at écarté. Never saw a man hold such cards in my life!’

‘It’s a good thing Paul was able to pay the little beast,’ I said, trying to speak easily, and miserably failing, as I recalled what had passed between us the night before.

‘Pay!’ replied Abinger; ‘I believe you! Why, Paul must have brought a perfect bank on board with him! I only hope he hasn’t lost enough to spoil his holiday.’

‘Never mind, Jack; he’ll be all right. He has gone to stay with friends in Cornwall for a week—to economise, I expect.’

‘A week!’ shouted Jack. ‘Why, I know I shouldn’t be able to go ashore for the next year or two, if I had had his bad luck!’ And he ran off on some duty or other, leaving me in perplexed and restless cogitation. If, as Abinger said, Paul had ‘brought a perfect bank on board with him’—the words ran in my head—what could have been his object in seeking to produce exactly the opposite impression upon myself—even going so far as to borrow money during the voyage ostensibly to replace his losses—repaying the amount, too, at the very moment when his ill-luck had reached a climax, with a few light words about the ‘revenge’ which, as it now appeared, he had been so very far from obtaining? The whole affair was inexplicable and disquieting; and I was glad when the necessity for making my final preparations left me little further time for thoughts which, do what I would, kept crossing the border-line into the hateful regions of doubt.

A SKATING REGIMENT.

BY A NORWEGIAN.

The following account of a Norwegian corps of soldiers, called in their language _skielober-corpset_, as they existed some years since, will no doubt be interesting to readers of your _Journal_. Whether any changes have been made of late years, the writer is unable to say. The denomination _skielober_ (skater) comes from _skie_, which signifies a long plank, narrow and thin, fastened upon the feet for sliding on the snow.

It is well known that during four or five months of the year Norway is covered with snow, which at a few leagues’ distance from the borders of the sea is driven into such heaps as to render it impossible for the traveller to go out of the beaten track, either on foot or on horseback. It is even found necessary to clear this road after every fall of snow, which is done by means of a machine in the form of a plough, pointed at the front, and of a triangular shape. It is drawn by horses. It pierces and levels the snow at one and the same time, and thus opens a passable road. Notwithstanding these difficulties, hunting has at all times been the great sport and exercise of that country, formerly abounding in fierce animals, and still in deer and most kinds of smaller game. Hunting is indeed an occupation which appears to be in a peculiar manner prescribed to the inhabitants by the shortness of the days and the length of the winters. It is therefore natural that the Norwegian should have occupied himself from the earliest period about the means of quitting his hut and penetrating into the forest in every direction and with all possible speed. The _skier_ or skates presented these means.

Let us figure in our minds two planks of wood as broad as the hand, and nearly of the thickness of the little finger, the middle underneath being hollowed, to prevent vacillation, and to facilitate the advancing in a direct line. The plank fastened under the left foot is ten feet in length; that intended for the right is only six, or thereabouts; both of them are bent upwards at the extremities, but higher before than behind. They are fastened to the feet by leather straps, attached to the middle, and for this purpose are formed a little higher and stronger in that part. The plank of the right foot is generally lined below with the skin of the reindeer or the sea-wolf, so that in drawing the feet successively in right and parallel lines with skates thus lined with skins, and very slippery in the direction of the hair, the skater finds them nevertheless capable of resistance, by affording a kind of spring when he would support himself with one foot in a contrary direction, as by such movements he raises up the hair or bristly part of the skin. It is affirmed that an expert skater, however loose and uncompact the snow may be, will go over more ground in an open place, and will continue his course for a longer time together, than the best horse can do upon the trot over the finest and best paved road. If a mountain is to be descended, he does it with such precipitation, that he is obliged to moderate his flight, to avoid losing his breath. He ascends more slowly, and with some trouble, because he is compelled to make a zigzag course; but he arrives at the summit as soon as the best walker or foot-soldier, with this advantage, that however little consistence the snow may have acquired, he can never sink into it.

Experience has proved that in spite of the multiplied obstacles produced by the rigour of the winter, the Norwegians have often been attacked by their enemies in precisely such seasons; and from the above manner of going out to hunt, and undertaking long journeys, it was not at all surprising that the forming of a military corps of skaters should be thought of. The whole body consisted of two battalions, one stationed in the north, the other in the south. Its strength was nine hundred and sixty men. The uniform consisted of a short jacket or waistcoat, a gray surtout with a yellow collar, gray pantaloons, and a black leather cap. The skater’s arms were—a carabine, hung in a leather belt passing over the shoulder; a large _couteau de chasse_; and a staff three yards and a half long, to the end of which is affixed a pointed piece of iron. At a little distance from the extremity it is surrounded by a circular projecting piece of iron, which serves principally to moderate his speed in going down-hill. The skater then puts it between his legs, and contrives to draw it in that manner; or he drags it by his side; or uses it to help himself forward, when he has occasion to ascend a hill; in short, he makes use of it according to the occasion and the circumstances in which he may be placed. Besides this, it affords a support to the firelock, when the skater wishes to discharge its contents. With such a rest, the Norwegian peasant fires a gun dexterously, and very seldom misses his aim.

The corps of skaters, to this service adds that of the ordinary chasseurs, of which they might be considered as making a part; they fulfil all the functions of those troops, and only differ from them by marching on skates. This gives them a considerable advantage over others. The skaters, moving with great agility, and, from the depth of the snow, being out of the reach of the pursuit of cavalry as well as infantry, are enabled with impunity to harass the columns of the enemy in their march, on both sides of the road, running little or no danger themselves. Even cannon-shot could produce little effect upon men spread here and there at the distance of two or three hundred paces. Their motions are besides so quick, that at the moment when it is believed they are still to be aimed at, they have disappeared, to come in sight again when least expected. Should the enemy be inclined to take his repose, this is the precise time for the skater to show his superiority, whatever may have been the precautions taken against him. There is no moment free from the attack of troops which have no need of either roads or bypaths; crossing indifferently marshes, lakes, and rivers, provided there be but ice and snow. No corps could be more proper in winter for reconnoitring and giving accounts of the enemy, and, in short, for performing the functions of couriers. It may be conceived, however, that they find great difficulty in turning, on account of the length of their skates. This, however, is not the case; they make a retrograde motion with the right foot, to which the shortest plank is attached, and put it vertically against the left. They then raise the left foot, and place it parallel to the right, by which movement they have made a _half_-face; if they would face about, they repeat the manœuvre.

In the ordinary winter exercise, the skaters draw up in three ranks, at the distance of three paces between each file, and eight paces between each rank, a distance which they keep in all their movements—whenever they do not disperse—in order that they may not be incommoded in the use of their skates. When there is occasion to fire, the second and third ranks advance towards the first. Their baggage—kettles, bottles, axes, &c.—is conveyed upon sledges, or carriages fixed on skates, and easily drawn by men, by the help of a leather strap passing from the right shoulder to the left side, like that of a carabineer.

ECHOES.

Ofttimes when Even’s scarlet flag
Floats from the crest of distant woods,
And over moorland waste and crag
A weary, voiceless sorrow broods;
Around me hover to and fro
The ghosts of songs heard long ago.

And often midst the rush of wheels,
Of passing and repassing feet,
When half a headlong city reels
Triumphant down the noontide street,
Above the tumult of the throngs
I hear again the same old songs.

Rest and Unrest—’tis strange that ye,
Who lie apart as pole from pole,
Should sway with one strong sovereignty
The secret issues of the soul;
Strange that ye both should hold the keys
Of prisoned tender memories.

It maybe when the landscape’s rim
Is red and slumberous round the west,
The spirit too grows still and dim,
And turns in half-unconscious quest
To those forgotten lullabies
That whilom closed the infant’s eyes.

And maybe, when the city mart
Roars with its fullest, loudest tide,
The spirit loses helm and chart,
And on an instant, terrified,
Has fled across the space of years
To notes that banished childhood’s fears.

We know not—but ’tis sweet to know
Dead hours still haunt the living day,
And sweet to hope that, when the slow
Sure message beckons us away,
The Past may send some tuneful breath
To echo round the bed of death.

L. J. G.

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

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