Chapter I: Part 1

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 32.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, AUGUST 9, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]

WATER.

Water bears a very important part in relation to the human system and preservation of health. It combines with the tissues of the body, and forms a necessary part of its structure. In the case of a man weighing one hundred and fifty-four pounds, one hundred and eleven would consist of water. It enters very largely into the composition of our food. Although water is so important a factor in our existence, and although its vitiation often gives rise to that deadly pestilence, typhoid fever, yet, strange to say, there are comparatively few people who possess any trustworthy information respecting its primary sources and purest forms. The object of this paper will be to afford our readers some useful hints respecting the various kinds of water and their relative purity, also to mention certain wise precautions requisite in order to avoid impure water.

The first great source of water is the ocean; the sun shining upon the surface, its heating rays combine with and send out a certain amount of vapour. The atmosphere, like a sponge, absorbs the vaporous water, forming clouds, which are driven by the wind east, west, north, and south. When the clouds arrive in a cooler atmosphere, the vapour condenses, and descends in the form of rain or snow, being ultimately absorbed into the earth, giving rise to different varieties of water; or it pours down the mountains, and forms rivulets, and ultimately rivers. Thus we have rain, spring, and river water. We may here mention that Dr Normandy discovered a process by which sea-water can be distilled and rendered fit to drink. In nature, water is never found perfectly pure, as that which descends in rain is to a certain degree contaminated by the impurities contained in the air, as spring-water is by contact with various substances in the earth. These impurities are not always perceptible. Thus, the clearest and brightest waters, those of springs and pellucid rivers, even when filtered, are never pure. They all contain a greater or less percentage of saline matter, often so much so, indeed, as to form what are termed mineral waters. Amongst the purest natural waters hitherto discovered is that of the Loka in North Sweden. It contains only one-twentieth of a grain (0.0566) of mineral matter per gallon. The water supplied to the city of Edinburgh contains from seven to fourteen grains in the gallon; whilst that of the Thames near London contains about twenty-one. Rain-water, if collected in the country, is the purest; but when obtained in or near large cities, becomes impure from passing through a vitiated atmosphere.

It is, however, on spring and river water that we depend for our daily supply, and a due consideration of these waters is manifestly a matter of no small moment.

Well-water, as also that of some springs, especially when obtained in or near towns, although cool and clear, and at times sparkling, is to be avoided. The solvent power of water being so great, it takes up many impurities from the soil through which it passes. In the neighbourhood of dwellings and farmyards, the water often is impure, and unfit to drink. Wells in the vicinity of graveyards are particularly to be avoided. Mr Noad found a hundred grains of solid matter to the gallon of water taken from a well in the vicinity of Highgate Church, London. Besides mineral substances, decaying vegetable impurities are usually found in wells. The water that supplies the surface-wells of London is derived from rain, which percolates through the gravel and accumulates upon the clay. Now, this gravel contains all the soakage of London filth; through it run drains and sewers, the surface also being riddled with innumerable cesspools.

River-water being derived from the conflux of many springs with rain-water, unless close to large towns, is decidedly preferable to well-water; but it is liable to a certain amount of contamination, by holding in suspension a considerable quantity of animal, vegetable, and earthy matters. This, according to Dr Paris, is unquestionably the case in water supplied from the Thames by the Grand Junction Water Company. Be it known that Thames water is never used in London breweries, but Artesian-well water, brought up from a depth of several hundred feet.

Besides vegetable and animal impurities in water, there are two other substances which are usually considered foreign to pure water—namely, saline and mineral. The saline are often present in such large proportions as to render water medicinal, as illustrated by those of Cheltenham, Leamington, and Harrogate, numerous other varieties existing on the continent. Brighton water, although sparkling, contains a great deal of bi-carbonate of lime, which, being soluble, filtering is ineffectual to remove. When boiled, however, the carbonic acid is driven off and the chalk precipitated. Such water when boiled is fit for drinking purposes.

A simple but not infallible test for ascertaining animal or vegetable contaminations in water is to put fifteen or twenty drops of permanganate of potash solutions, or Condy’s fluid, into a tumblerful of water. If the water is free from such impurities, the permanganate will retain its beautiful red colour. Should the water contain organic matter, the red hue soon disappears, and in proportion to its contamination will be the discoloration.

Bad water is far more dangerous than impure air; the air may be dispersed by ventilation and change of atmosphere; whilst water when vitiated is a constant source of mischief. Snow-water when collected in the open country equals rain-water in purity. It has been supposed by some to be unhealthy; but such belief is totally unsupported by any reliable evidence. The practical observations of Captain Cook on his voyage round the world demonstrate beyond all question its wholesomeness.

Lake-water is collected rain, spring, and occasionally river waters. Its transparency, however, is not to be relied on as evidence of purity. It is often contaminated by both vegetable and animal matter, which, owing to its stagnant nature, have become decomposed. According to Dr Paris and other authorities, endemic diarrhœa often arises from drinking lake-water, a circumstance which tourists would do well to bear in mind.

Should much lime be present in water, as in that supplied by the Kent Water Company, boiling alone will not soften it; but by the addition of a little soda during the boiling, the lime of the gypsum is precipitated. Marsh-water is certainly the most impure of all water, being loaded with decomposing vegetable matter. Many diseases have without doubt been occasioned by its use.

The receptacles in which even the purest water is kept are of the utmost importance in a hygienic point of view. The noted colic of Amsterdam was believed by Tronchin—who wrote a history of that epidemic—to have been occasioned by leaves falling into leaden cisterns filled with rain-water and there putrefying. Van Sweiten also mentions an instance where a whole family were affected with colic from a similar cause. The acidity arising from decomposing leaves in water dissolves part of the leaden receptacle, and such water ofttimes thus induces lead-colic.

The sources of contaminated drinking-water are very numerous, and may affect the water at its source, in its flow, in its reservoir, or during distribution. When stored in houses, it is especially exposed to risk, and this is the most important argument in favour of constant service. Cistern stowage lessens the risks incidental to intermissions; but at the same time the success of this plan entirely depends upon the receptacle being properly made and frequently cleansed. An eminent physician told the writer that he believed typhoid fever often originated from the stagnant water in dirty cisterns being used for drinking purposes.

We have now arrived at the most important part of this paper—namely, the most effectual means for obtaining pure water.

For the purification of water, various methods have from time to time been suggested, with more or less success. Perhaps the most efficient for attaining so desirable an end is by passing it through layers of charcoal, a substance eminently useful in preserving water from corruption, by abstracting therefrom both vegetable and animal matter. Nevertheless, where there is reason to suspect the presence of much injurious contamination, the process of boiling previous to filtration should never be omitted. The water subsequently must be agitated in contact with the atmosphere, with a view to the restoration of its natural proportion of air; otherwise, it is insipid and tasteless. In China, water is seldom drunk until it has been boiled. According to the advice of a distinguished court physician, those who travel on the continent should studiously avoid drinking water, especially that contained in the bedroom bottles of hotels. The same authority is also of opinion that typhoid fever is often thus caught whilst travelling. Natural mineral waters, such as Apollinaris, are, he considers, the best to drink whilst travelling. Lastly, those who are desirous of drinking the purest water should take distilled water, which possesses the following advantages: (1) Great purity; (2) High powers as a solvent of all animal and vegetable substances; and (3) The material assistance which its remarkable solvent properties exercise in favouring a healthy digestion. It also assists in eliminating calcareous matter from the system; hence its undeniable utility for vesical concretions. To those who are unable to obtain distilled water, we would most strongly urge the importance of boiling all drinking-water, and then filtering through charcoal, previous to use. The charcoal through which water is filtered ought frequently to be replaced by a fresh supply, as otherwise it becomes choked up in time by impurities, which at last escape into the water. Under such circumstances, even filtered water may become contaminated. Were this simple precaution more generally adopted, according to the latest teachings of science, many a life liable to be destroyed by typhoid fever would most assuredly be saved.

BY MEAD AND STREAM.

CHAPTER XLI.—PULLED UP.

‘The strain is proving almost too much for me,’ Philip wrote. ‘I have no doubt that my scheme is practicable; and even if I fail, somebody else will carry it out by-and-by. But at present the men do not understand it, and are suspicious that my promises will not be fulfilled. So that the harder I strive to put matters right, the more wrong they seem to go. The losses are bringing me to a crisis, and the worry which is the consequence of daily disappointment is driving me out of my wits. Sleepless nights and restless nervous days began long ago, although I have not told you; and I have been obliged to swallow all sorts of rubbish in the form of narcotics. At first they gave me sleep, and that was a gain, notwithstanding the muddled headachy feeling they left me next day.

‘O yes; I have seen the doctor. Joy is a capital fellow. He came in by accident, and when he saw me, gave me good advice—as usual, the advice which could not be followed. He told me that I ought to have absolute rest of mind and body, and to secure it, ought to throw up everything. A good joke that—as good as telling a soldier that he ought to run as soon as he sees the chance of catching a bullet in the wrong way!

‘Do not be afraid, though: I will take a long rest, when I get things a little straight here.

‘One of my present worries is that Kersey has deserted—as I feared he would. Says he is going to Australia or Manitoba, but will give no explanation. That girl Pansy is no doubt at the bottom of it, and I do not think even you can set it right. If my suspicions are correct, she is the fool of her own vanity. She has thrown over an honest fellow, because she is thinking of a man who has no more notion of having anything to do with her than of trying to jump over the moon. I am sorry for her—especially as she deprives me of the best man about the place.

‘As for Wrentham, he irritates me. He sees my anxiety, and yet he comes and goes as gaily as if the whole thing were a farce, which should not disturb anybody’s equanimity, no matter how it ended. And then he has that horrible look of “I told you so” on his face, whenever I attempt to make him seriously examine the state of affairs.

‘The fact is I begin to repent having ever asked for his assistance. He is much more interested in speculative stocks than in the business which ought to occupy his whole attention at this juncture.

‘But, there—I am in a highly excited condition at present, and no doubt misjudge him. He does everything required willingly enough, although not in the spirit which seems to me necessary to the success of my plans.’

The letter was not finished, and so far it did not give a full account of his sufferings mental and physical, or of the gravity with which Dr Joy had warned him that he must pull up at once, or prepare for insanity or death. The good little doctor had never before pronounced such a decided verdict, for, with professional discretion and natural kindliness, he avoided a decisive prognosis unless the result were inevitable. Philip had promised obedience as soon as he got over the present difficulty—promised to take whatever drugs the doctor prescribed, and begged him in the meanwhile not to frighten the people at Willowmere (of course the doctor understood he meant Madge) with any alarming reports.

Philip was writing in his chambers late at night, when he was interrupted by the arrival of Wrentham. The visit had been expected, and therefore excited no surprise. Philip was struck by a change in his visitor’s manner, which, although slight, was enough to render the description he had just written of him a little unfair.

Wrentham’s face was not that of one who was gaily taking part in a farce. Still his bearing suggested the careless ease of a man who is either endowed with boundless fortune or a sublime indifference to bankruptcy. It might be that, being conscious of Philip’s dissatisfaction, he assumed a more marked degree of nonchalance than he would have done if there had been confidence between them.

Philip did try to keep this rule in mind—that when your suspicions are aroused about any person, you should make large allowances for the exaggerations of the meaning of his or her actions, as interpreted by your own excited nerves, and for the altered nervous condition of the person who is conscious of being suspected. But somehow, the rule did not seem to apply to Wrentham. In favour or out of favour, he was much the same. He was a cool-headed or light-hearted gambler in the business of life, and took his losses as coolly as he took his winnings—or feigned to do so; and this feigning, if well done, has as much effect upon the looker-on as if the feeling were genuine.

‘Any news?’ Philip inquired, as he put his letter into the desk and wheeled round to the fire, by the side of which his visitor was already seated.

‘None; except that our friend appears to consume an extraordinary quantity of B. and S. But Mr Shield could not be seen by any one this evening. The man first told me he was out; so I left your note and said I should return in an hour. Then I marched up and down near the door, on the watch for anybody like your uncle. I did not see him, but I saw a friend of mine arrive.’

‘Who was that?’

‘You know him—Beecham, who has been living so long at the _King’s Head_.’

‘That was an odd coincidence.’

‘Yes, it seemed so,’ rejoined Wrentham, with the tone of one who sees more than he reports. ‘Very odd that the day after your uncle leaves the _Langham_ and takes up his quarters in this quiet private hotel, Beecham should bundle up his traps, quit Kingshope, and come to settle in the same house.’

‘Has he left our place, then?’

‘So he says—for of course I spoke to him. He does not know where he is going to, or whether he will return to Kingshope or not. I said it wasn’t fair to his friends to vanish from amongst them without a hint, or giving them a chance to express their regret at losing him. He said it was a way he had of making up his mind suddenly and acting on its decision instantly. He hoped, however, to have the pleasure of seeing me again. With that he shook hands and bustled into the hotel before it came into my head to ask him if he knew Mr Shield.’

‘How could he know him?’ muttered Philip a little impatiently, for this episode interrupted the account of Wrentham’s endeavours to obtain a reply from his uncle as to whether or not he would consent to see him on the following day.

‘Don’t know how exactly; but there are lots of ways in which they might have met. Beecham has travelled a bit in all sorts of odd corners of the earth. Anyhow, I think they know each other.’

‘Well, well, that is no business of ours.—Did you see Mr Shield at last?’

‘No; but I got this message from him with his compliments. He regretted that he could not see me, but the letter should have immediate attention.’

‘That is satisfactory,’ said Philip, relieved.

Wrentham looked at him critically, as if he had been a horse on which a heavy bet depended.

‘You are easily satisfied,’ he observed with a light laugh; but the sound was not pleasing to the ears of the listener. ‘Before being satisfied, I should like to have his answer to your note, for everything goes to the dogs if he declines to come down handsome.’

‘He will not refuse: he is pledged to it. But it is horrible to have to apply to him so soon.’

‘Ah, yes; it is nasty having to ask a favour. What do you mean to do if he should say “No” plump, or make some excuse?—which comes to the same thing, and is more unpleasant, because it kind of holds you under the obligation without granting you the favour.’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Philip rising and walking up and down the room uneasily.

‘Well, I have a notion,’ said Wrentham slowly, as he drew his hand over his chin; ‘but it seems scarcely worth mentioning, as it would take the form of advice, and you don’t care about my advice, or you wouldn’t be in this mess.... I beg your pardon: ’pon my honour, I didn’t mean to say anything that would hurt you.’

‘What were you going to say?’ was Philip’s abrupt response.

‘I was going to say that you ought to find out what Beecham has to do with him. Of course I have been pretty chummy with the old boy; but I never could get behind his eyes. _You_ can learn what he is up to without any trouble.’

‘Me!—how?’

‘By asking Miss Heathcote.’

‘Miss Heathcote! What nonsense you are talking. She knows no more about the man than I do.’

‘Oh!’—There was a most provoking tone of amused surprise in this exclamation.—‘You think so?’

‘I am sure of it.’

Wrentham, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his thumbs, whilst the tips of his fingers touched in front, stared at him seriously.

‘Then you don’t know what friends they are?—that they have been meeting daily—that they correspond?’

Philip did not immediately catch the significance of voice and manner, he was so much occupied with other matters.

‘I daresay, I daresay,’ was the abstracted answer; ‘he is always wandering about, and they like him at Willowmere.... Do you think we can manage to prepare the full statement of accounts by the morning?’

The mention of accounts did not please Wrentham. He jerked his head back with the grand air of one who, being accustomed to deal with large totals, could not think of giving his mind to petty details.

‘Oh, well, if you don’t mind, I have nothing more to say. As to the accounts, I don’t see what you want more than your books. They are made up, and the totals will be quite enough for Mr Shield. They are what, as you know, I always expected them to be—most confoundedly on the wrong side. I warned you’——

‘Yes, yes; I know you warned me, and others warned me, and the thing has turned out as bad as you croakers could wish. That is due to my mismanagement—to a blunder I have made somewhere, not to any weakness in the principle of my scheme. Taking the position as it is, I want to find out where I have blundered.—I do not mean to give in, and will go on as hard as ever, if we can only tide over the present mess.’

‘That’s right enough,’ ejaculated Wrentham with an outburst of good-natured admiration; ‘but in the meanwhile, the first thing to do is to get over the mess.’

‘Ay, how to do that,’ muttered Philip still marching up and down.

‘The shortest way is to make sure that Mr Shield’s mind is not prejudiced against you and your work at the same time.’

‘Oh, stuff. Who wants to prejudice him against me?’

‘I say, find out what Beecham is after. Maybe he is your friend: in that case, so much the better; and if he is not, then you will be able to deal with him more promptly, if you have discovered his trick in time. Ask Miss Heathcote about him. She ought to tell you all she knows.’

Philip halted, head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor, and the words buzzing through his brain—‘She ought to tell me all she knows.’ Certainly she ought, and would. Then, for the first time, there seemed to reach his ears as from a distance the voices he had heard behind him at the ‘dancing beeches,’ and he recalled Madge’s agitated face as she told him that she had been intrusted by this man with a secret which she must not at present share with him. He had disapproved of her conduct at the time; he disapproved of it still more strongly now, although he regarded it as nothing more than a mistake into which she had been betrayed by her sympathetic heart.

‘Very well,’ he said sharply, ‘I shall ask Miss Heathcote what she knows about him. What then?’

‘Why, then we shall know where we are,’ Wrentham answered gaily. ‘To be sure, if you receive a message from Mr Shield to-morrow morning that it is all right, there will be no necessity to trouble Miss Heathcote.’

It was one of the anomalies of his association with Wrentham—or one of the effects of the weakness which the strain upon his nerves had produced—that Philip was influenced by him on those very points on which he would have least expected himself to be subject to influence by any one. It is true that whilst he had been all along aware of his manager’s want of sympathy with his work, he had discovered no reason to suspect his honesty—and this might account for the anomaly.

So, it was Wrentham who had persuaded him that the time had come to apply to Mr Shield for assistance at a critical juncture in his speculation; and it was Wrentham who persuaded him that he ought to learn from Madge the nature of the secret confided to her by Beecham.

‘He won’t think much more about the accounts to-night,’ Wrentham was saying mentally as he went down-stairs. And his step was not so jaunty as usual when he got into the street.

MUSHROOMS FOR THE MILLION.

Is there any one in England who does not esteem mushrooms as delicious esculents? Their flavour commends them to most palates, and their value as food is quite on a par with many other vegetables. Few of the other varieties of edible funguses are approved of by English people, partly through ignorance and prejudice. Yet in many countries in Europe, about thirty kinds, closely allied to the mushroom in flavour and excellence, form the chief diet for thousands of the peasants during the summer months, either fresh from the meadows or preserved in vinegar and oil.

We may, then, be very thankful to any one who instructs us how to grow mushrooms so that they may be as plentiful as cabbages, and within the reach of any cottager who has a garden and can buy a load of manure. A very practical little treatise on Mushroom-growing has been published by Mr Wright (price one shilling) at the office of the _Journal of Horticulture_, 171 Fleet Street, London, from which we propose to give a slight sketch of his plan, recommending the purchase of the work to those who desire to follow out his directions. It would seem to be a most profitable investment in these days, when the farmers have so much reason for complaint, as the remuneration far exceeds that of any other vegetable. Fruit-crops as well as vegetables are seriously affected by winter-cold, high winds, and spring frosts; and from twenty to forty pounds an acre is an average value of the profits arising from either. In Cornwall and Devonshire, the early potatoes and valuable fruits may give from one to two hundred pounds an acre, but this is very exceptional. Yet mushroom-growing exceeds even this profit.

We will turn now to Mr Wright’s actual calculation, founded on the well-ascertained fact, that a mushroom-bed two and a half feet wide and one yard long, and situated in the open air, yields produce of the value of fifteen shillings, and that the cost of production is five shillings per yard. There have been seasons when the price was very high and an extraordinary crop produced, the returns having amounted to forty-five shillings the yard. The average price to be got in London is one shilling per pound-weight. Take the width of the beds at two feet and a half, with five feet of space between each bed, which is necessary for moving freely between the beds. There are four thousand eight hundred and forty square yards in an acre, which would allow of nineteen hundred and thirty-six yards for beds; these, at fifteen shillings a yard, give a profit of fourteen hundred and fifty-two pounds; from which deduct rent, eighteen pounds, and cost of production at five shillings a yard—leaving the very profitable balance of nine hundred and fifty pounds. The purchase of the spawn, if not grown on the ground, would be an additional cost of one shilling a yard. From October to July, seven thousand pounds-weight were really despatched to market from a length of five hundred yards, and sold for three hundred and sixty-seven pounds, besides the ketchup that was made from the overgrown specimens.

The next question is, how to grow this valuable article of commerce. First of all, the stable-manure (used as a basis) must be of the best kind, to which oak or beech leaves may be added, as they induce a steady heat; but the large soft leaves of the sycamore, &c., are unsuitable. A slight sprinkling of tan, with a very small quantity of salt and guano, may be advantageous; an ounce of each to a barrowful of the material will be sufficient. However, many successful growers use none of these things, but depend entirely on well-prepared manure and good spawn.

The best time for beginners to prepare their beds is towards the end of July or in August. In three weeks the manure will be ready for forming into ridges; in another week, spawn may be inserted. Eight weeks after, the mushrooms will appear, and continue bearing for three months. Now for the preparation. Take the manure as it comes from the stalls, the greater part consisting of straw more or less discoloured. When on the ground, fork it over, casting aside the long clean straw only; the remainder, forming a mixture of half and half, should be mixed and piled into a heap, as if for a hotbed for a frame. Very little water, if any, will be needed. In four or six days the fermentation should be in full force and the mass hot. The work of turning and purifying now begins. Every lock of straw and flake of manure must be separated and thoroughly incorporated, the outsides being placed in the centre. From four to six turnings on alternate days are necessary. Thus the mass is sweetened and the straw broken with the least possible loss of ammonia. A little practice will guide to the knowledge of when the beds are in a right condition; the appearance and the smell form the best indications. There should be an inseparable mass of straw and manure, a slightly greasy tinge, and a warm brown colour. A lump drawn from the interior should not smell offensively, but possess a pungent and somewhat agreeable scent, with a slight odour of mushrooms. If these features are not present, another turning is required. Texture, heat, purity, and moisture, are the four important requisites—sufficiently moist to be pressed into a mass, and yet not a drop of water to be squeezed from it.

The site for the bed is the next consideration. Shelter from cold winds is a great advantage; a garden-wall to the north and a hedge on the south is the best position; but by the use of wattled hurdles, admirable results have been obtained. The sheltered nook of any garden or homestead may be better used for this purpose than for any other kind of produce. If the soil be good in quality, it is well to remove it where the beds are to be made to the depth of several inches, and place it on a heap, to be laid afterwards on the top of the beds. The excavations can be filled with rubble, which insures a dry foundation, as water should never accumulate on the surface. As mentioned previously, the beds should be two feet and a half wide at the base, six inches at the top, and two feet and a half high. At this angle, the soil will adhere to the sides, and much of the rain will pass off freely. But where the rainfall is great, they must be protected with canvas coverings over the straw at the top. A couple of sticks a yard long will prove an easy guide to the form. Insert them two and a half feet apart, and draw the tops to within six inches of each other, and there is the outline of the bed. Soon, however, a line will only be needed; the eye can do all the rest. Larger beds may be made; but let the sides be as steep as possible, firm, and smooth, that the rain may not penetrate. In addition to its being heavily beaten with forks, it must be twice trodden down—once at the depth of eighteen inches, and again when three feet high. The appearance will be that of a thatched roof in miniature, and is quite a work of art for smoothness and outline. To prevent the bed drying in the centre, holes should be bored with an iron bar, about ten inches apart, along the ridge to the bottom of the bed, and a few sticks put in afterwards, to indicate the temperature.

There are many varieties of mushroom seed, or spawn, as it is termed. Large quantities are imported from France, where it is made up in flakes, instead of bricks, as with us. Good virgin spawn made up in bricks is decidedly the best, but the price is as high as two guineas a bushel. Mr Veitch, King’s Road, Chelsea, or Mr Barter, Harrow Road, London, and many others, may be relied on for the small quantity which would be required for a beginner. The lumps are nine inches long and six wide; sixteen of them make a bushel. They are composed of soil and manure. When partially dried, the spawn is inserted, and under a genial heat it penetrates the entire mass. Kept cool and dry, the vitality lasts for years. A good mushroom brick when broken should resemble a mass of silvery cobwebs. In growing these esculents for the market, it is most advantageous to use the spawn liberally and in large lumps. A brick may be divided into eight parts, and inserted about nine inches apart, level with the surface of the ridges. Holes should not be made, but the manure held up with the left hand, the lump pushed in with the right; there are then no interstices for the accumulation of steam, which is fatal to the mycelium. The time for sowing is when the heat of the bed is decreasing, but has not fallen below eighty degrees an inch below the surface.

If the bed be in the right condition, the spawn will begin to spread in three days, after which the top layer may be covered with soil. A little litter may cover the bed previously, if the heat requires it. The kind of soil is not an unimportant matter, and strong turfy loam yields the best produce, such as a gardener would use for growing chrysanthemums and roses. From this, mushrooms are frequently cut weighing half a pound. These are termed ‘broilers,’ and are much in demand in the foreign hotels in London. The top layer from a pasture in which buttercups rather than daisies are plentiful, forms an excellent soil. It may even be enriched with bone-meal, if light and sandy, but on no account with ordinary manure, as some unwelcome fungi might spring up. The thickness of this covering of soil must be from one to two inches. It may be slightly moistened before putting on, not after, lest dry fissures should form and the heat escape. The whole should be made firm and smooth, but not plastered like a cement floor. The temperature of September is a guide to the heat required to be kept up, as that is the month when mushrooms grow naturally in the open air. An average of fifty-eight degrees must be considered the highest, but they will be found among the grass meadows as low as forty-seven degrees. On a mild day in January, a bed was beginning to bear largely in the open air under a layer of straw nine inches thick. Cold does no real injury to mushroom beds; it only stops their growth, but does not destroy the spawn. They may even be frozen through, and yet, when the spring melts the frost, they will bear. Too high a temperature is much more destructive, and the cause of many failures.

After all this preparation is made, the routine of management consists in maintaining the beds at an equable temperature, watering them at the right time, and gathering the crops. Sufficient straw has been shaken from the manure when first brought in to cover the beds; it is the best that can be used, and when dry, its peculiar nature seems to agree with the mushrooms better than clean sweet straw or hay. If the weather be mild, six inches of litter will suffice; whilst during a prolonged frost, two feet or more, with mats, canvas, or some such material, will be required. The proper temperature can be determined by the hand; if there is the slightest warmth felt when placed on the soil under the straw, that is right; or if the thermometer be laid there at night and has risen to fifty degrees in the morning.

During fine weather in summer, autumn, and spring, the beds require frequent watering. The soil should never become dry, and the time chosen must be early in the afternoon on a sunny day. The covering on the beds will then be warm; and on this—not under it—water must be sprinkled in sufficient quantity to percolate through and gradually moisten the soil. Immediately after, the beds must be covered with mats, to prevent the evaporation, and the vapour that will be generated will result in a warm, humid atmosphere, so suitable for the growth of mushrooms. The mats may be removed in the morning. Beginners should endeavour to have beds beginning to bear in April or October; they are not profitable after June, as, owing to the nitrogen they contain, mushrooms speedily decay in hot weather, and become very indigestible.

When the beds are partially exhausted by continuous bearing, a free application of liquid manure, heated to a hundred degrees, may be given, and one or two ounces of salt added to each gallon. It is a well-known fact that sowing salt over grass and pastureland often produces an enormous crop of mushrooms, whilst on other parts of the same land not one is to be found. In a small farm the author is acquainted with, mushrooms grow abundantly among the potato and turnip crops, whilst none are found in the neighbourhood; the only difference being that the farmer sowed two hundredweight of salt per acre every year. Of course, the spawn is there, but the salt develops its growth.

After all this preparation, the pleasant time of gathering the crop will come; and here knowledge and care are alike requisite. The old plan was to cut off the mushroom above the soil; now, it is pulled by hand, and if the stump be left close to the surface, it is at once scooped out with a knife, leaving a round cavity as large as a walnut. This plan increases the productiveness of the beds; for if the threads of the mycelium are not broken, they expend their strength in masses of mould or fungus. On the other hand, when scooped out, small tubercles form, and develop into mushrooms, a fine ring appearing round each cavity. When gathering, a small portion only of the bed should be uncovered, especially in cold weather, and re-covered as quickly as possible. It is not unusual for nine or ten pounds to be gathered at once; and in the case of young beds, the crop may be cleared off twice a week. As a rule, a good bed will yield ten gatherings—seven large, the first and last two lighter. It is well to separate them into two baskets, if intended for the market—one for buttons and cups, the other for broilers, as it saves time at the weighing-table. The stems should always be retained, as the mushrooms keep sound for a much longer period. To the salesman, the packing is of consequence. One pound is put into each punnet—the baskets which every one knows, made of shavings. But few are aware what a large trade there is in these little articles, or where they are made. It is to Brentford or Hammersmith that we must go to see the juvenile population busy at work making these cheap and useful articles. They are sold in rolls of three dozens, of different sizes—‘deep pounds’ and ‘flat pounds,’ which may be bought for from four to six shillings the gross of Mr Nicholls, 377 Goldhawk Road, Hammersmith. After the loose soil has been taken from the stems, the mushrooms are neatly packed and tied down with raffia, the best and cheapest tying material, and then placed in wooden packing-cases for transmission to towns. Everywhere, in large centres, the greengrocers are glad to receive them, as the demand is greater than the supply, the price varying from one shilling to two shillings the pound from October to June.

Whenever the supply is too large, good unadulterated ketchup finds a ready market, and mushroom-growing is profitable if only for the juice alone. What is now sold as mushroom ketchup is rarely pure, bullocks’ liver being one of the usual component parts. The spent beds are most valuable for manure for the land or for potting the higher class of plants, and are by no means exhausted. The manure often lies for months during decomposition before it is fit for the land. Why should not this be utilised? It is a most suitable investment for market-gardeners who are not far from a town, and for cottagers who hold a few acres, keeping one or two horses and cows. If they can make poultry pay, much more mushrooms. Clergymen and professional men are not unwilling to add something to their income, and might do much in their parishes to improve the condition of the working-classes by thus making use of what too often lies wasting in the farmyards.

This is but a sketch of Mr Wright’s little book, which should be in the possession of all who intend to be mushroom-growers.

A YARN OF THE _P. AND O._

As there were but very few passengers on board the Peninsular and Oriental steamer _Sicilia_, outward bound for the Far East, we did not anticipate the usual amount of fun and festivity which are, strangely enough, more remarkable features of life on outward-bound than on homeward-bound steamers. But what we missed in frolic we certainly had made up to us in the shape of excitement. We numbered about a dozen in all; but of these, three only need individual description.

The principal personage, in accordance with the ancient dictum that a woman is at the bottom of everything, was a pretty young widow, a Londoner, who was on her way to join her friends living in Shanghai. The worship of the fair sex is nowhere more ardent than aboard ship, partly, perhaps, because its members contrive to put on under such exceptional circumstances their most captivating airs and graces; and chiefly, it must be admitted, although the admission is ungallant, because, beyond eating and sleeping, there is little else to do than to offer homage to whatever goddess presents herself. Hence Mrs Fuller, as she was named, reigned sole and unapproached monarch of the ship. Had she been other than she was, she would have occupied this position; but being tall and fair and graceful, she assuredly merited every tribute of admiration laid at her feet. The darts she unconsciously shot around fixed themselves most firmly in the hearts of the remaining members of the prominent trio to be described. The first was a young Englishman named Goodhew, going out to the consular service in Yedo; the other was a young Irishman named MacWhirter, going to the same city in the Japanese government Telegraph Department. Goodhew was as typical an Englishman as was MacWhirter a typical Irishman, indeed, more so, for Mac was a victim to a most un-Milesian failing—he could not take a joke. Goodhew was a big, broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced, blue-eyed, fair-haired fellow, who ate like an alderman, was always laughing when he was not eating or sleeping, and was half the life and soul of our little community. Terence MacWhirter was the other half. He could sing a capital song and tell a capital story, his story-telling powers eclipsing his song-singing, inasmuch as with the gravest conceivable demeanour he would endeavour to foist upon us the most palpable fiction as the most solemn truth. ‘As true as oi’m standing here,’ was a concluding phrase of his, which soon became a catchword on board, and synonymous with what was most extravagant and improbable.

The apple of discord which the fair Londoner was destined to throw amongst us fell between Goodhew and Mac, who, long before she joined us at Brindisi, had singled out each other as opponents upon the one particular question of belief or disbelief in ghosts. Strangely enough, Goodhew, who had won the Humane Society’s medal for saving life, was a firm believer in the theory that the departed from this life revisit their old haunts. Equally strange was it that Mac, although a fervid, imaginative Irishman, pooh-poohed ghosts and omens and visions and dreams and second-sight as being unworthy of the consideration of a practical nineteenth-century human being; and the more instances Goodhew quoted in support of his creed, the more violently would Mac exclaim: ‘Now, look ye here, Mister Goodhew; oi’ll stand the man an onlimited dinner up to a couple of sovereigns who can prove that he has ever seen a ghost; an’ if a man can show me a ghost, bedad, oi’ll show him what oi’ll do wid it!’

The arguing matches and disputes between the two opponents formed our principal amusement during the tedious passage from Southampton to Brindisi. Then Mrs Fuller came on board, and their antagonism assumed a new shape. Goodhew helped her on board. Score No. 1 for the Englishman. But Mac lent her his cane-chair, and equalised matters. Goodhew sat next to her at table; but Mac sat opposite, which was as good, for in talking to her, he was obliged to raise his voice, and by so doing obtained a monopoly of the conversation. To her credit it must be said that she behaved exactly as a young lady placed in such peculiar circumstances should behave. She showed no partiality to one more than to the other. She laughed heartily at Mac’s jokes, and listened attentively to Goodhew’s quiet common-sense and commonplaces. If one of them gained a trifling advantage one day, it was made up to the other the next; and so, whilst conscientiously she believed she was pleasing both, in reality she was stirring up a fire between the two which was fated ultimately to burst into a tragedy.

So matters went on. By the time Alexandria was reached, we, the audience, agreed that Goodhew held a slight advantage, inasmuch as the passage across the Mediterranean having been stormy, poor Mac spent the greater part of his time in his berth; whilst Goodhew, who was a good sailor, was brought into uninterrupted contact with Mrs Fuller, who was also _mal-de-mer_ proof.

It may be imagined that when we were sick of quoits and ‘bull-board’ and deck-cricket and walking-races, the little comedy played by the trio formed our chief amusement. Its ups and downs, its various phases, its situations, were subjects of attentive watchfulness on our part. We were like a party of special correspondents taking notes of an important campaign. We received from one another news of victory or defeat, of attacks foiled, of successful stratagems, of bold strokes, of new moves, with as much earnestness as if our own interests were at stake with the issue of the contest. If one of us hurried for’ard with a joyful face, it was not to tell of a confident prophecy on the part of the skipper that we should have an easy time in the monsoon, or that we should make Aden ahead of schedule-time; but to relate some splendid stroke on the part of Mac, or an admirable counter delivered by Goodhew. Occasionally, there were uninteresting lulls in the conflict, and during these periods we were driven to our wits’ end for amusement, and the time passed slowly and heavily; but when the battle was in full swing, the long hours of the tropical day sped but too quickly. Our doctor took an especial interest in the drama, and by virtue of his official position, was enabled to see far more of its ins and outs and by-play than we outsiders, and often when matters seemed to slacken a bit, would infuse fresh life and fire by some adroit, mischievous remark.

Open hostility soon became the order of the day between Mac and Goodhew. Hitherto, they had been simply cold and distant to one another, interlarding their conversation profusely with ‘Sirs’ and ‘I beg your pardons;’ but by the time we reached Penang, they were hardly civil to each other. The climax was reached at Penang. According to the usual custom, a party was made up to visit the celebrated waterfall. Most of us went: Skipper, Doctor, Mrs Fuller, Goodhew, Mac, and half a dozen of us outsiders. We arrived at the waterfall after the well-known broiling ascent, rhapsodised over it, sketched the joss-house, partook of a sumptuous tiffin beneath its roof, and were about to return to the quay, when Mrs Fuller espied a dead buzzard floating in the waters of the pool. ‘Oh, how I should like a few feathers from that beautiful bird!’ she exclaimed.

Mac and Goodhew rushed to execute the commission. We outsiders never dreamed of interference, as we foresaw an important scene in the drama. Mac was armed with his walking-stick, Goodhew had seized a long bamboo stem. Mac was upon one side of the pool, Goodhew on the other, and the buzzard floated in the middle between them.

The faces and figures of the two men were perfect studies of sternness and resolution; they stretched and craned, they knelt, they floundered, they hopped up and jumped down; for the time-being the entire universe of each of them was concentrated in that palm-shaded pool. But the bird stuck resolutely in the middle, in spite of coaxing and flopping and all sorts of cunning endeavours to waft it to one side or the other. Suddenly a puff of wind carried it towards Mac. His face lighted up with joy, and he uttered a smothered ‘Hooroo!’ In a moment his walking-stick was under it, he was slowly but surely pulling it towards him; when there was a vision of a sort of fishing-rod in mid-air, a momentary struggle and splash, and Goodhew triumphantly dragged it towards him. Mac made a desperate dash at the retreating spoil, missed his footing, and fell plump into the pool. Our long-restrained feelings were no more to be kept in, and the laughter which followed awakened the echoes of the solitary Penang waterfall. To emerge from the water, hatless, dripping, and vanquished, was humiliating enough for poor Mac; but when he looked at Mrs Fuller, and saw that she was endeavouring to stifle immoderate laughter with her pocket-handkerchief, his cup of misery was full, and without another word, he strode off ahead of us on the path leading to the Settlement, and was soon lost to view.

We sailed that evening for Singapore. Mac was not visible. Next evening, however, as we were sitting on deck after dinner smoking our cigars and gazing at the peerless panorama of the tropical heavens, we saw him come on deck. We hushed our talk, for we felt that something was pending. Goodhew was sitting by Mrs Fuller’s chair—that is, poor Mac’s chair—at some distance from us. Mac seeing this, strode up and down the deck behind them. Presently, Mrs Fuller rose, wished us good-night, and disappeared below. We nudged one another, watched round the corners of our eyes, and listened.

Mac strode up to Goodhew, who was approaching us. ‘Mister Goodhew,’ he said, ‘oi call that a dirty mane trick!’

‘What do you mean, sir?’ angrily retorted Goodhew, stopping short.

‘Oi mane what oi say, sir,’ said Mac. ‘It was a dirty mane trick. Mrs Fuller asked me to get the bird for her, and oi got it; and you come in with a pole like a mast, and you fish it out under me very oyes!’

‘Under your very stick, you mean, Mac,’ said Goodhew, laughing.

‘No matter what oi mane!’ exclaimed the infuriated Irishman. ‘Oi mane, that when one gintleman recaives a commission from a lady, and another gintleman executes it by a mane trick, the other gintleman’s no gintleman at all at all—but a cad, Mister Goodhew, a cad!’

‘I say, Mac, draw it mild,’ said Goodhew, in his turn irritated; ‘we’re not all bogtrotters here!’

‘Is it bogtrotter ye’re callin’ me!’ exclaimed Mac in a frenzy. ‘Bedad, oi’ll tache ye to call a MacWhirter a bogtrotter, ye spalpeen!’ And he sprang at Goodhew furiously.

Goodhew seized him by the waist, and in another minute would have certainly dropped Mac overboard, had we not all jumped up and interposed. Mac danced and kicked and struggled and used every vilifying expression he could. Goodhew also was endeavouring to wrest himself from our grasp; but we held on, and the opponents seeing that they could not get at each other, gradually desisted from trying.

‘Doctor!’ said Mac, after a breathing-space, ‘this is an affair for immadiate settlement.’

‘Pooh! my dear fellow,’ said the officer, ‘who can fight duels on the deck of a P. and O. steamer? Better wait till we get to Hong-kong; there’s plenty of room there.’

‘Hong-kong be it then,’ said Mac.—‘Mister Goodhew, oi’ll send ye me card in the morning.’

‘All right, Mac,’ replied Goodhew, who was recovering his good temper. ‘Send as many as you like. But don’t you think we’re a couple of fools, to be going on in this absurd way about a trifle?’

‘A trifle ye call it?’ roared Mac. ‘An’ if there’s a fool hereabouts, it isn’t Terence MacWhirter; but ye needn’t travel very far to find him.’

The doctor whispered in Goodhew’s ear. The latter nodded and smiled, and said: ‘All right, Mac. You challenge me to a duel. I accept it. Pistols?’

‘Of coorse,’ replied Mac. ‘Ye didn’t think oi mane fishing-rods? Insulting a MacWhirter’s no trifle, oi tell ye.’

So they separated.