Chapter I: Yesterday—bondage

I was sitting one day looking disconsolately out of window at a landscape almost blotted out by rain and mist, a landscape almost hatefully familiar to me. My mind was as cheerless as the prospect, as blank as the sheet of paper stretched before me to receive its impressions. I looked on that sheet of paper with disgust, with loathing. There was no idea in my head, and I felt that anything I might attempt to write would turn out meaningless verbiage. But my invisible task-masters were behind me—I heard the crack of their many-thonged whips—I saw Messrs Butcher and Baker sitting joyfully on the car which was destined to crush me if I once slackened the rope.

Yes, I was a writer; neither a successful one nor the reverse. I made a living by it, but it was an irregular living. Sometimes I was comparatively rich, at others I was superlatively poor. At the date of which I write I was decidedly in the latter condition. In purse and in health I was at the lowest of low-water; one reacted on the other; my poverty increased my physical weakness, which in its turn prevented any effective effort to fill the exchequer. Everything I wrote somehow missed fire. A rest and a change might have set me up. I had no means of taking either. Nor was I the only sufferer in the house. My wife was ill and depressed; the children were out of health. Everything was out of gear.

Under these doleful conditions I was sitting in a sort of comatose state, brooding over all the uncomfortable possibilities of existence or non-existence—without a friend to take counsel with, or even an acquaintance who might help to move the stagnant waters of life—when I was aroused by the unwonted sound of wheels. A fly drove up to the gate, horse and driver shivering and dripping with wet. The man jumped down and rang the bell. The servant brought up a card; ‘Mrs Collingwood Dawson.’

I knew the name well enough. Dawson was a successful writer of fiction, a man whose novels were in demand at all the circulating libraries. But what could his better-half want with me? Time would shew. The lady entered.

Mrs Collingwood Dawson was a pleasant-looking woman of uncertain age, not much over thirty probably, and certainly under forty, with dark luminous eyes and an expressive face.

‘It is rather bold of me,’ she said, ‘to come here and take you by storm, without introduction or anything. I can only plead the fellowship of the craft.’

I replied in an embarrassed way with some meaningless commonplace; and after a few preliminary civilities, she came to the real purpose of her visit.

‘My husband is,’ she said, ‘a very ill-used man. Everybody is worrying him to write this and that and the other. If he had a dozen pairs of hands he could keep them going. Unfortunately, he is a sad invalid, and is really incapable of undertaking more than the little he has in hand.’

I expressed a decent grief at the ill-health of Mr Collingwood Dawson.

‘I have long been urging him,’ she went on, ‘to take a partner, a coadjutor, a _collaborateur_, some one who will relieve him from the laborious part of the business, who will work in his style and on his ideas, and whose work should in effect be his, and appear under his name.’

‘You will have difficulty,’ said I, ‘in finding a competent person who would be willing to sacrifice his literary identity.’

‘Yes; there is a difficulty certainly; but I have taken the liberty of hoping that you would help us to obviate it. You are yet young comparatively, and have ample time hereafter to gather a crop of bays on your own account.’

‘What induced you, madam, to think of me in the matter?’

‘Simply a study of what you have written, the style of which seemed suitable to our purpose. If I am offending you, say so, and I will apologise, and go no further.’

I replied that I was willing to hear her offer; that I had no opinion of literary partnerships, but that my means would not allow me to reject point-blank any advantageous proposal.

‘There is nothing derogatory at all, you will acknowledge, in working on other people’s lines; the greatest authors have done it.’

‘Oh, if I can do it honestly, I shall have no scruples on any other score.’

‘Is there any difference between working for us and say for a magazine which publishes your work anonymously? Or in writing under a _nom de plume_. If there is any deceit in the matter, it rests with us, not with you. But if it be a deceit, then all the old masters were cheats, when they sold as their own, pictures which were in parts done by their scholars, or sculptors who sell as their work, statues of which all the rough work has been done by pupils or workmen. No, indeed; it is your own pride that stands in the way. And pride you know is a sin, and ought to be repented of.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘let me hear the terms.’

The terms were liberal enough. A certain sum per sheet at a higher rate than I could earn elsewhere, and with the certainty of a market for all I wrote, which at that time I did not possess. But the bait which finally took me was the offer of an immediate cheque for fifty pounds on account and to bind the transaction.

I took counsel of my wife.

‘Can you hesitate?’ she said. ‘Here we hardly know where to look for to-morrow’s food, and you are offered a certain income and fifty pounds as earnest-money.’

I closed with the offer and accepted the retaining fee; and I felt as Dr Faustus might have done when he sold his soul to the Evil One.

Mrs Collingwood Dawson seemed pleased at my compliance, and sketched out to me the part she wished me to take. We were to manufacture novels solely—about three a year. The plot was to be drawn out for me with indications of the points to be worked out. I was to fill in dialogue and description. The ‘author’ was to be at liberty to add, cut out, amend, and put in finishing touches.

‘I shall give you,’ she said, ‘a packet which I have left in the fly, containing the various works of my husband. Read them over critically, and adapt your style to his. I know you are a skilful workman, and will have no difficulty in the matter.’

Business over, my employer joined our family dinner. She was bright and cheerful, and her gaiety was infectious. My wife was charmed with her; the children could not make enough of her. Her presence had all the effect upon me of sparkling wine. When she was gone, I sat down to read Mr Dawson’s works with as little appetite for their perusal as a grocer has for figs. But I was surprised to find that though uneven in quality and often carelessly written, there were abundant traces of a vivid imagination, and an intimate knowledge of the workings of the human heart in morbid and unhealthy developments. These qualities, I may say, appeared only by fits and starts, and were overlaid by a good deal of very commonplace work. The strong point of his fiction, and that which gained, no doubt, the approval of the public, was the plot. His plots were always ingenious and well combined, and kept the interest going to the very fall of the curtain.

Time passed on. I got fairly to work on my new business. I had no fault to find with my employers, and they on their part seemed well satisfied with my services. I had as much work as I could manage; but I found it much easier than of old, inasmuch as I had definite lines to work upon and a distinct object in view. Then the payment was regular, and in virtue of that, our household assumed an aspect of comfort and tranquillity to which it had long been a stranger. As it was no longer necessary for me to live within reach of London, I determined to carry out a plan that had been in my head for some time, and settle for a while in some quiet place in Normandy, where one could have good air, repose, and tranquillity, without the appalling dullness that mantles over an English country town.

All this time I had never seen Mr Collingwood Dawson, and the only address I knew was at his chambers in the Temple; but all business matters were arranged with a Mr Smith, who, I understood, was his agent. My removal involved only a trifling extra cost in postage, and I had work on hand that would keep me going for several months.

We settled in a pleasant picturesque little town on the banks of the Seine, and after giving myself a few weeks’ holiday, to make acquaintance with the neighbourhood, I began to plod on steadily at my task.

I had just despatched a parcel of manuscript, and was strolling homewards from the post-office along the quay, when I stopped to watch some people fishing from the steps that lead down to the water-side. The tide was low, the evening tranquil. The setting sun was blinking over the edge of the wood-crowned heights behind; but all this side of the view was in shadow, while the aspens and poplars on the further bank were glowing in golden light. A little brook that escapes into the river hereabouts through a conduit of stone was splashing and bubbling merrily. In the eddy formed by the brook and the big river were swimming the light floats of the fishermen, every now and then pulled down, more often by some drowning weed or twig, but sometimes by a fish, whose eager darts from side to side, and struggles as it was hauled in by main force, afforded great amusement and excitement to some half-dozen boys.

A more than commonly vigorous pluck at one of the floats, and a strenuous tug at the line belonging to it, which made the rod curve and wave under its strain, shewed that a big fish had been hooked. The sensation among the spectators was great. It is always an awkward matter to land a fish of any size when the river-bank is perpendicular and there is no landing-net. Our friends here, however, were not disposed to create unnecessary difficulties. A companion of the successful fisherman seized the line and began to haul it in hand over hand. It is a capital way this if everything holds and the fish is hooked beyond possibility of release. In this case, however, although the line was pulled in vigorously, all of a sudden the resistance ceased and the hook came naked home. The baffled fisherman bowed and smiled politely at his friend. It was a little _contre-temps_ inseparable from the amusement of fishing.

‘Clumsy!’ growled a voice close to my elbow in good English. I turned round quite startled, for there were no English residents in the town, and the accents of my native tongue were becoming unfamiliar. A man stood by my side of somewhat strange appearance. He was short and thick-set, and had a massive strongly marked face, with bushy overhanging eyebrows, a heavy gray moustache, and stubbly beard of only a few weeks’ growth. His arms were folded, the left one over the other; but as he changed his position, I saw that he had lost his right hand, and that its place was supplied with an iron hook. He was dressed in a blouse made of some kind of coarse blanket-stuff of a huge cheque pattern, trousers of dirty-white flannel, stuffed into boots that came halfway up his calf. A Turkey-red handkerchief was twisted carelessly round his throat, there being no sign of any shirt beneath; and a bonnet of the Glengarry shape was cocked rather fiercely on his head. In his hand he held a packet of whity-brown paper, made up as it seemed for transmission by post. I could not help seeing that the packet was addressed ‘London’ in a bold rough hand.

He seemed to wince at the look full of curiosity that I gave him. His face, which had been lighted up with interest in watching the progress of the fishing, now turned dull and dark. He went off at a short shambling trot in the direction of the post-office, and I saw no more of him just then.

I was not long, however, in finding out something about him. His name it seemed was Houlot, and although eccentric, he was inoffensive, and was on the whole rather respected by the townspeople. He was a _savant_—a character, in their eyes, that excused a good deal of moroseness and roughness of manner. He had resided in the neighbourhood for some years, and occupied a single room in a house upon the hill overlooking the town. Here he lived—hermit-fashion—keeping no domestic, buying his own provisions in the market and cooking them himself. His kitchen, however, I was given to understand, was the least important part of his establishment; and the juice of the grape or of the apple, or of the potato haply, distilled into strong waters, formed the chief of his diet. For many weeks at a time he would scarcely stir from his room, only coming out when his bottle of brandy was empty, or on market-days to buy provisions. After this period of seclusion, he would be seen walking about the country with a pipe in his mouth, a thick oaken stick under his arm, and a book in his solitary hand, still morose and unsociable. There was yet a third stage, during which he would haunt the cafés and wine-shops, drinking a good deal, and chatting away with all comers. At these times he was apt to get quarrelsome, and he was known in consequence to be on bad terms with the inspector of police.

I daresay that if I had chosen to apply to the last-named functionary, I should have got still more ample information; but there was nothing to justify me in pushing inquiry any further. It was generally thought that Houlot was English in origin; but his French was not distinguishable as that of a foreigner, and he spoke German as well as he did English.

A week or two afterwards I met Monsieur Houlot walking on the heights overlooking the Seine, with his pipe and stick, and with his nose in a tattered volume. I raised my hat in passing; but he turned his head away with a scowl, and did not return my salute. Decidedly, I said to myself, he is English.

One morning the postman brought me a registered letter containing a remittance from England, and placed before me his book to receive my signature. When I had signed, he handed me a letter; but it was not for me, it was for M. Houlot; and yet, curiously enough, the address was in the handwriting of Mr Smith, the business agent of Collingwood Dawson, from whom I was expecting a remittance.

‘Ah, I have given you the wrong letter,’ said the postman. ‘They are both just alike, and I have made a mistake; pardon, Monsieur;’ and he handed me a similar letter addressed to myself.

I noticed that from this date Houlot seemed to assume his third stage of habits—that in which he haunted the cafés and wine-shops. Every one agreed that he was much less inaccessible at such times, and could even make casual acquaintanceship with strangers. I had a great desire to know more about him, and took a little pains to throw myself in his way. I ascertained that he usually spent his afternoons in one particular café—the _Café Cujus_—thus called from the name of its proprietor; and I made a point of taking coffee there every day at the hour at which he was usually to be met with. But I did not advance my purpose by that. He would bury his head in the _Journal de Rouen_, turn his back persistently upon me, and leave the café at the earliest possible moment.

‘You will come and visit us this evening?’ said Mademoiselle Cujus graciously to me one day, as I paid my score at the counter of the elegant little platform whence she dispensed her various tinctures. ‘We shall have a very genteel concert tonight.’

Mademoiselle is a charming little Frenchwoman, with a piquant retroussé nose, a full and softly rounded chin, and dark eyes with a veiled fire about them, most attractive. She wears the prettiest little boots in the world, and is always charmingly dressed. It is difficult to refuse Mademoiselle Cujus anything, and I undertook to be present at the concert. Admission was free, and thus I did not commit myself to any great outlay.

When I entered the café that evening, I found it well filled with a miscellaneous but respectable company. Everybody is talking, coffee-cups and glasses are clinking, dominoes are rattling. At one end of the room, on an extemporised platform, formed of a few rough boards, the prima-donna, a rather bony lady in a very low dress, stands with a roll of music in her hand, and surveys the company in a somewhat dissatisfied way. She has cleared her throat once or twice, and the pianist bangs out an opening chord or two. Her voice is a little husky—perhaps with the singing of anthems; but she has plenty of confidence and ‘go’ about her, and the wit to please her audience.

When the rattle of applause that greeted the end of the lady’s song had ceased, there followed a comic man dressed as a peasant, carrying a tobacco-pipe, which he was always trying, though ineffectually, to light with a match from his trousers-pocket. He counterfeits the Norman peasant in a state of semi-intoxication excellently well, and his song is much applauded and called for again.

‘Yah!’ growled a voice behind me in an angry tone; and looking round I saw M. Houlot standing by the doorway, his thick stick under his arm. He seemed to be a little obscure in his faculties, and to have resented the last performance as a personal insult to himself. His brows were knitted, and his eyes gleamed angrily whilst he grasped the thin end of his stick in a menacing way. Mademoiselle Cujus saw him at the same moment as myself, and descended quickly from her Olympus to appease him, laying her hand upon his arm as if to beg him to retire. He shook it roughly off; and Mademoiselle looked imploringly at me, as being the only one of the company who had noticed this little scene. At the sight of beauty in distress I at once came forward. I took Houlot kindly but firmly by the arm, and led him out into the kitchen at the back, where, among the many brightly shining vessels of tin and copper, we endeavoured to pacify him and explain matters.

No one could possibly withstand the winning ways of Miss Cujus. Houlot was appeased, and went quietly out into the street. I had had enough of the concert, and followed him. He lurched a little in his gait, and every now and then stopped and looked fiercely round at the stars overhead, as if he objected to their winking at him in the manner they did. I accosted him once more, and in English, saying that I understood that he spoke the language perfectly, and would he favour me with his company for half an hour. He made no reply at first, but wrinkled his brows and puckered his lips.

‘Come along!’ he said at last with a suddenness that startled me. ‘Let me have a talk with you, then.’

I occupied a furnished house, with a little pavilion in the garden looking out on the river, which I used as my writing and smoking room; and to this pavilion I took my friend and called for lights and cognac. He seemed restless and disturbed at the idea of being my guest. He would not sit down, but as soon as he had swallowed a glass of brandy he grasped his stick once more to take his departure.

‘If you would like any English books,’ I said, ‘I have some magazines and so on.’

He shook his head. ‘I never read English; I have read none for ten years,’ he said. ‘I like to get things at first-hand; so that if I want to know anything, I go to the Germans; if I want to feel anything, to the French. But what have you here?’ taking up a book. It was a volume of Dawson’s last novel, which had been sent over to me.

‘Hum!’ he cried. ‘Is this a good author?’

‘A popular one,’ I replied, modestly remembering the share I had, if not in his fame, at least in his fortunes.

‘I’ll take this, if you’ll let me have it,’ he said.

‘Take the three volumes.’

‘No; I’ll only take one. I don’t suppose I shall get through the first chapter.’

Next day, however, he came back to borrow the second volume, and the day after the third. I felt a little flattered that a work in which I had taken so good a share had the power to captivate such a dour and sullen soul.

‘What do you think of it?’ I said, when he brought back the last volume. He was standing leaning against the doorway with his stick under his arm. He would never sit down; he seemed to have made a vow against it.

‘Think of it?’ he cried. ‘Why, it is my own—my own story!’

‘Yours!’ I said astonished. ‘How do you make that out?’

‘It is mine! the framework, the skeleton of it. Some fool has been at work upon it and taken out all the beauties of it! The burning fiery dialogue, the magnificent glowing descriptions, all are gone, and in their stead some ass has filled it all up with pulp!’

This was pleasant for me to hear. My blood boiled with indignation, but I was obliged to smother my rage and put on a sickly smile. ‘You must be mistaken,’ I said. ‘How could he possibly have got hold of your story?’

‘How? He must have got it from a man named Smith, to whom I sent it. Write? Yes, I have written ever since I was breeched! It is a disease with me; I can’t help it. Romances, novels, all that trash!’

‘And you send what you write to London?’

Houlot nodded. But he seemed all at once to have repented of his freedom of speech, and took refuge in his usual taciturnity. Then once more hugging his stick, he started off at his usual shambling trot.

THE CAT—ANCIENT AND MODERN.

Cruel and treacherous, a lover of the night and darkness, the cat, with its distrustful gaze and marked attachment to localities, was very naturally the animal selected, in the middle ages of superstition and witchcraft, to represent the familiar companion, in which was embodied the evil spirit supposed to attend all those who practised the black art in former times. Long before this time, however, as some people are probably aware, the cat was one of the most highly favoured animals living; petted, pampered, carefully protected, and actually worshipped by the then most civilised people in the world, the ancient Egyptians. How this reverence came to be paid to the cat in particular by this extraordinary people it is quite impossible to determine; but by some it is supposed to have originated from the benefits conferred on mankind by its destruction of vermin and reptiles; at anyrate, if the Egyptian cats were as useful as they are represented to have been, the care taken of them is easily accounted for. Though it seems somewhat difficult to understand how the sportsmen of the Nile trained their cats not only to hunt game but to retrieve it from the water, the hunting scenes depicted on walls at Thebes and on a stone now in the British Museum, afford proof of the Egyptian cat’s services in this respect. In one of these representations Puss is depicted in the act of seizing a bird that has been brought down by the marksman in the boat; while in the other scene, as the sport has not begun, the cats are seen in the boat ready for their work. Thus it appears from these ancient illustrations of field and other sports, that the Egyptians were able to train their domestic cats to act in the same way as our modern retriever dogs do.

It is generally supposed that nothing will induce a cat to enter water; but this is clearly a fallacy, like many other popular notions about the animal world. The tiger is an excellent swimmer, as many have found to their cost; and so the cat, another member of the tiger family, can swim equally well if it has any occasion to exert its powers, either in quest of prey, or to effect its escape from some enemy. As cats are exceedingly fond of fish, they will often drag them alive out of their native element whenever they get the chance. They have even been known to help themselves out of aquaria that have been left uncovered; and on moonlight nights they may be seen watching for the unwary occupants of a fish-pond, during the spawning season especially. Again, a cat will take the water in the pursuit of a rat, a fact that was proved by a friend of ours a few years ago. On one occasion being accompanied by one of his pets, a rat was started, which the cat not only pursued, but chased into the water close by, eventually swimming to an island some little distance from the bank, where it remained a short time and then swam back again.

Diana or Pasht, as that goddess was called in Egypt, was the tutelary deity of cats. Various reasons are assigned for this curious selection of the cat as the animal worthy of being dedicated to the moon. We find that according to Plutarch, the cat was not only sacred to the moon, but an emblem of it; and that a figure of a cat was fixed on a sistrum to denote the moon, just as a figure of a frog on a ring denoted a man in embryo. And further, it was supposed that the pupils of a cat’s eyes always dilated as the moon got towards the full, and then decreased as the moon waned again. This has been given by some as the reason why cats were held sacred to the goddess Diana.

As before stated, the Egyptians treated these animals with unusual care and attention during their lifetime; hence it is not surprising to find that the death of a cat was regarded as a family misfortune, in consequence of which the household went into mourning. Their regret for the defunct cat was displayed then by the curious custom of shaving off the eyebrows before attending the funeral, which they invariably conducted with great pomp. Previous to interment, the bodies of these pets were embalmed, and then, when it was possible, conveyed to the city of Bubastis, where they were placed in the temples sacred to Pasht.

The wilful destruction of a cat in Egypt is looked upon as a very serious offence even now; but in the good old days (for cats) at Bubastis the offence, even supposing it to have been accidental, was punished with prompt severity. The unfortunate offender, as in the case of a Roman soldier whose story is told by Diodorus, was taken prisoner, tried, condemned, and sentenced—to death. Puss had fine times of it in those early years of superstition and animal worship; but unfortunately for her, other people formed very different notions concerning her character and occupations generally; for in the middle ages cats got the reputation of being the only animals that ill-famed old women could induce to live in their houses; consequently they naturally became associated with witchcraft and all that was diabolical and uncanny by the credulous people of those times. In the Isle of Thanet a carving still exists on one of the _misereres_ of the church which represents an ugly old woman sitting in a chair and holding a distaff in her hand, while two cats sit close to her, one of them indeed in the chair itself, looking as if it wished to spring on to her shoulder. It seems, however, that old women did not monopolise the cats even in those days, for it is known that in the thirteenth century one of the rules of the English convents was, that the nuns should keep no other ‘beast’ but a cat; hence we may infer that cats were looked upon more favourably by the religious orders than by the people generally.

The cat has been connected with many curious superstitions in various parts of the world. In some localities, for instance, it is believed that witches in the shape of cats are in the habit of roaming about the roofs of the houses during the month of February; hence they are promptly shot. In Germany also a similar notion prevails respecting black cats; in consequence of which they are never allowed to go near the cradles of young children; though it is not easy to understand why the young should be more exposed to danger from these supposititious witches than those more advanced in years. But numerous instances might be given of the incredible nonsense that has been believed, and is believed still in some places about the diabolical attributes of the cat, especially a black one. In Sicily, where the cat is looked upon as sacred to St Martha, there is a superstition that any one who wilfully or accidentally kills a cat will be punished by the serious retribution of seven years’ unhappiness. So if any credit is attached to this, the life of Puss in Sicily must be as secure from harm as in the palmy days of Egyptian cat-worship. In Hungary there is a curious superstition that before a cat can become a good mouser it must be stolen. The familiar nursery story of Whittington and his Cat, as well as the favourite children’s fable of Puss in Boots, can be traced some hundreds of years back.

It is perhaps an unfortunate thing that the habits of cats are not more carefully observed, as it is by no means certain that their peculiarities are fully understood. By some their intelligence is very much underrated, and they are often looked upon as lazy uninteresting animals, only to be tolerated in a house so long as they devote themselves to nocturnal raids against mice or rats, as the case may be. However, they cannot be put on a par with the dog, for as far as present as well as past experience shews, the cat, with certain honourable exceptions, is neither as useful, as faithful, nor as intelligent as our canine friend.

The dog knows its owner, and will always make itself comfortable in any place that the owner chooses to take it, provided he is there himself. The cat, on the other hand, knows its owner’s house and furniture, attaches itself to them, and seldom troubles itself at all about the presence or absence of its owner; hence the great difficulty of removing cats from one home to another. Sometimes they may be induced to take kindly to new quarters, but very rarely. If Puss be taken to a strange house, it will first of all examine and smell every article of furniture in the rooms it is allowed to enter; if it finds the same things that it has been accustomed to, perhaps the discovery may reconcile it to remain; but if all is strange, the creature exhibits symptoms of positive distress, and will even make efforts to return to the old home; and this may perhaps account for the stories told of Egyptian cats rushing back into blazing houses after they had been once brought out of them with difficulty; for it has been gravely asserted that the Egyptian cats preferred to perish with their homes when fires broke out, rather than abandon them.

Some years ago _The Times_ gave an account of a remarkable incident, illustrating in a striking way the sagacity and kindness of a dog; the account had appeared in two other newspapers, but we have not the means of verifying it. A cat named Dick was one day enjoying a meal of scraps, when a needle and thread became entangled in his dinner; the poor animal unconsciously partook of these adjuncts, which stuck in his throat. Carlo, a dog on very friendly terms with Dick, observed that something was wrong, hurried up to him, and seemed to receive some kind of communication from him. The dog and the cat became physician and patient. Carlo commenced operations by licking Dick’s neck, the cat holding its head a little aside to give Carlo a fair chance. This licking operation continued with short intervals of rest for nearly twenty-four hours, Carlo occasionally pausing to press his tongue against his friend’s neck, as if trying to find some sharp-pointed instrument thrust from the inside to the outside. At length Carlo was seen, his whole body quivering with excitement, trying to catch something with his teeth. In this he succeeded. Giving a sudden jerk, he pulled the needle through the hide of the cat, where it hung by the thread which still held it from the inside. A by-stander then finished the surgical operation by drawing out the thread; and Carlo looked as if he were saying: ‘See what I did!’

We have just been told of a very remarkable instance of intelligence displayed by a cat belonging to one of our contributors. After having waited in vain outside a rat’s hole for the appearance of the occupant, puss hit upon the plan of ‘drawing’ her prey, by _fetching a piece of meat and placing it near the hole as a bait_, after which she hid behind a box and waited for results. Whether the bait took or not, we are not informed, but the wily scheme deserved success.

For the following instances of affection and sagacity in cats, we are indebted to a lady correspondent.

‘Last October,’ she says, ‘I was staying a few days with a friend in a small country village not many miles from Edinburgh. One morning I was about to leave my bedroom, and had just opened the window, when I saw a large yellow cat wandering about in the grass which surrounded the house. The creature had a timid scared look, as if not much in the habit of associating with human beings. I spoke to it in a tone of encouragement, however; on hearing which it leaped up on the window-sill and began to purr in a friendly way. I told my friend the lady of the house about the cat, when she gave me the following account of it. “This poor animal belonged to my deceased father. It came to our house a very small kitten, and was accustomed from time to time to receive food from my father’s hand, with now and then a little caress or kindly word. But my father was not a cat-fancier, and as a general rule did not take any great notice of the creature. About a year and a half ago my father grew seriously ill, and after a few weeks of suffering, died. During his illness the cat went up and down stairs like a distracted creature, refusing food, and mewing again and again in a mournful way. Sometimes it came into the sick-room, and jumped on the bed; but its master was too ill to notice it, and it went away with a disappointed look. When all was over, and the last attentions had been paid to my father, and all was quiet in the death-chamber, the poor cat came in and took up its position on the bed at his feet. From this place nothing would induce the creature to move; and feeling astonished at its fidelity and affection, we let it lie during the day; though strange to say, it manifested a desire to leave the room at night, returning always about nine in the morning, and if the door was shut, mewing till it gained admittance. On the funeral-day, the faithful creature did not seem to understand the absence of its master; it left the room upon the removal of the body; but the first thing we saw when the mourners returned was the poor pussie lying at the door of the chamber. It was long,” said the lady in conclusion, “before the affectionate animal recovered its usual sprightliness; and I would not like anything to happen to a creature which has testified such a strong affection for one so dear to me.”’

Another story is as follows: ‘A cousin of mine had a cat which had just brought into the world some fine healthy kittens. According to the usual custom on these occasions, some of the kittens were drowned, while two were retained for the mother to rear. These were kept in a compartment of an old kitchen table or “dresser.” This snug retreat had a little door which was kept closed by means of a bolt. One day a young visitor desired to see the kittens, which were accordingly taken to the drawing-room by one of the daughters of the house. During the absence of the kittens, the cat, which had been in the garden, came into the kitchen, and went as usual to repose beside her little ones. She looked into the dresser, and finding no kittens there, _“clashed” to the door_ in a rage, and left the kitchen, her tail thick with indignation! This fact was told me by one of the young ladies of the household, who was busy in the kitchen at the time and saw the whole thing. The cat’s furious manner of slamming the door resembled so closely an irate housewife’s way of doing so, that my informant was exceedingly amused, and regarded the cat henceforth as a sort of wonder!’

SPECIMENS OF HINDU ENGLISH.

Among the great changes which are now passing over our gigantic dependencies in the Indian peninsula, not the least noteworthy is the rapid spread of a knowledge of the English language among the native population. In certain districts of the Madras Presidency, this knowledge of English may almost be said to be extending like wild-fire. The English civil officer riding through a native village will sometimes be greeted with a ‘Good-morning, sar,’ from a small boy whose sole costume may be a string tied round the waist, and whose English education may have extended no further than a few such interjectional phrases. But among the school-boys, college lads, and a heterogeneous collection of half-taught young men in search of employment, we meet with most extraordinary feats in the use of our language. A well-known story is told of a native clerk who, being detained at home by a boil, wrote to his employer to say that he could not attend his duties ‘owing to the suffering caused by one boil as per margin.’ And in the margin of his letter was delineated with accuracy the form and appearance of the offending growth!

The following was the amusing though pertinent answer of a student in the University of Madras to a question about earthquakes and volcanic action: ‘A month or two ago, says the _Times_, a violent eruption of an unusual kind took place in Peru and Chili in South America; smokes, flames, and hot melted matter were thrown with great violence on the neighbouring districts from the hollow tops of the volcanic mountains. Thousands of people of all orders and sexes were destroyed. When this was the case an abominable earthquake took its part. Magnificent houses, huge piles, largest trees, splendid temples, different kinds of people with their relatives, and even large mountains were swallowed up and goes on.’

The letters of native applicants for employment are often couched in most comical terms. The writer once received a letter from a clerk who thought he had not received the promotion he deserved. The missive began: ‘HONORED SIR—Fathomless is the sea of troubles in which I sail for 1 year.’ This mixture of poetic fervour and numerical accuracy is unique of its kind. The following petition speaks for itself; the style is common enough; but the writer is glad to say that it is the only instance he has known of such an offer of apostasy as is here disclosed; the proper names are suppressed: ‘The humble petition of —— most respectfully sheweth; I am a Tanjorean [that is, native of Tanjore]. My name is ——. My age is 20. I came here to my uncle’s house. My uncle is the Police Inspector of ——. I want to be a Christian. There are two Police Inspectors are vacant. Please recommend me to be one of these Inspectors. As soon as I received the Inspector’s employment, at once you may take me in Christian. There is no a single doubt at all. If you want to see me tell a word to your Head Constable.... I heard that you are mild, simplicity, and probity. I don’t know to write more than this to you. Please excuse me if you find any mistakes. Shall ever pray.—I am your most obedient and humble servant, ——.’

The next letter was sent by a clever hard-working native clerk who had fallen ill. The signature alone is in his own handwriting, and the letter was probably dictated to a friend. ‘MOST HONORED SIR—I have been suffering from severest fever and bile for the last 10 days and I am quite unable to move or to do anything. I lay quite prostrate on my bed senseless (now and then)—continually painting—my sight fails—not a drop of water I drank—no food—and having been under imminent danger day before yesterday, my lucid intervals are very few, dangerous symptoms frequently appear and I am not sure whether I will be able to see the days before me—My case is very doubtful, precarious and dangerous. I therefore most humbly pray that your Honor will be most graciously pleased to grant one month’s privilege leave.... I beg to remain, ——.’

The following petition reads somewhat as though Lord Dundreary had helped to compose it. It is from a pleader or attorney in a petty civil court applying for the post of cashier in a government treasury. Such cashiers have to give security in a considerable sum for the due performance of their duties, and as a precaution against fraud. It is this security (L.500) which is meant by the word ‘bail’ in the petition. ‘MOST HONOURED SIR—This application is with great humility presented to your honour by ——. The gazette reads that such as have a wish to find themselves suffered to occupy the room of cashier, now in vacancy, should undergo a greatly advanced bail of Rupees 5000. He is appointed a pleader on the 11th D. day 1869, and by the civil judge in character with his petitionally implored request, and he attends since the heresaid down to the present age very punctually indeed his dearly bought post.... He is, here he does very hopefully indeed state, ready no matter at any while to give the here-demanded bail, Rs. 5000. Your humble and very punctual petitioner implores your of course very widely diffused charity to point to him his most humbly requested employ, or otherwise, if ever so, any other one not far below it. Your honour’s petitioner in requital and in duty bound very closely, will perhaps never add even a second, while to diligence without bending his whole heart to pray to the universal God to take care of and to cherish, your honour together with all your family members for ever and anon. He remains very affectionately truly yours, humble waiter, ——.’

The following curious epistle was addressed to an officer holding an important post. It is hardly necessary to add that he was neither Duke nor Lord. It will be observed that the writer does not directly ask for monetary aid to relieve him from his difficulties, but simply his ‘Lordship’s’ protection, and as a relief to his own feelings and troubles. ‘MY LORD DUKE—I have the honor to inform to your Lordship’s information that I will always obey your Lordship’s order ten thousand tims do not be angry my Lord Duke upon me. I beg that your Lordship that should excuse my faults it is my duty to get your Lordship’s favor ten thousand times excuse my all faults my Lord Duke. I am much fearfull I am very poor men my poor family requires to your Lordship’s favor. My family is very poor family. I got a Mother Grandmother Daughterinlaw and my family &c. I had a debt twenty-five thousand Rupees. I am suffering much trouble for debtors. I believe that you are my father and mother for my part only I want your Lordship’s kind favour. If your Lordships be angry or even little angry immediately I and my family must die at once, certainly it is my opinion I have no protector but your Lordship. If your Lordships angry I must die at once. I am much fearfull. If I had your Lordship’s favor It is quite enough for me. You are Governor I am poor men. If your Lordship be angry upon me it is quite my misfortune and my family therefore do not be angry. This is not Government memorial. I thought that your Lordship is my father and mother for my part therefore I have written all my poor affairs to your gracious informations. Hereafter I never write any letter to your Lordship nor I did not require any answer. only remember me with kindness it is ten thousand profits for me. excuse the trouble I have given your Lordships most valuable time. I have, &c.... _P.S._ I beg your Lordship will continue your favor towards me and my family. Protect my Lord Duke. This is not memorial only for your Lordships Gracious information. Protect me my Lord. This is First Mistake. Execuse me my Lord, hereafter I never do any mistakes. I remain, &c. ——.’

Some years ago a great flood carried away a fine bridge over the river Tambrapurni, near the chief town of the province of Tinnevelly. This bridge had been built some thirty years before by a rich native gentleman named Sulochana Mudaliar, to whom a memorial was erected at one of the approaches to the bridge. The magistrate and collector—as the ruler of the province is termed—by dint of great exertions raised in subscriptions about seven thousand pounds; a sum sufficient to pay for the restoration of the bridge. When the work was at last completed, a grand opening ceremony took place, which gave occasion for a number of poetic effusions in Tamil and in English by native aspirants. The translation from the Tamil is the work of a native, and the following is the reply of a great feudal landholder, who had been invited to attend the opening ceremony: ‘MY DEAR SIR—I received your affectionate ticket wanting my company on the occasion of the reopening of Sulochana Mudaliar’s bridge on the 2d December. I was quite pleased to come down for the occasion but I regret to inform you that I and —— are prevented from coming from being a little sick. You will I humbly trust possibly forgive me.—I beg to remain, Sir, Yours most obediently, ——.’

Extract from a translation of a Tamil poem:

Who is to judge of the might of Mr ——. He and Messrs —— and ——
of the eminent Tinnevelly District have had the pleasure of
constructing the bridge so as to be praised by the world and
allowed the people to pass over it freely. May they live for
ever.

The bridge fell down in the evening of Sunday, 18th November
1869. By the noise of which I swooned away and trouble came
also.

How can I describe your pains O Mr ——. You worked as diligently
at the words of Mr —— as the swinging of a swing and
constructed the bridge with success and very soon and completed
it within the fixed time. You beauty!...

I have sung upon you in my adversity and hunger. I pray you
eminent men to place your mercy upon me at your pleasure.

While you are all occupying this eminent world with great fame,
I undergo troubles like bees that tumbled down in honey. What
can I do. Cause some employment to be given me without failure
through the hand of —— with certainty.

We will conclude with a specimen of female composition in the form of a letter sent home by a good old nurse or ayah named Martha, who had accompanied her employers to England in charge of a baby, and who had then been sent back to her native village in India. Both in its sentiment and diction the missive is extremely touching.

‘To the Presens of —— and —— most Respected and Honored sheweth The under Signed your Honor’s obediend The Mortha Ayah with due Respectfully Begs to in form you about my considerations which I hope will meet of your honor’s kidest aprovall. Respected Master and Misters I and my Relations are all well By thanks of God and Faver of your Honor’s while in this Time I hope you will be all right By thanks of All mighty’s. This Poor and Obediend servend wrote a letter to your honor when I came to —— I hope you may Receive it, I am doing Nothing Since I left you by the Reason of no any Respected Place to work. here is great Chalara in this year and all so Greatest Famine. 3 mesures of Rice per a Rupee [between three and four times the usual price]. I hope Dear Baby will speek and Walk at this Time I am very angshes to see her and I lovely Thousan kisses to the Dear Baby, Respected Madam will you kindly send me the Picture of the Baby’s to keep with me as you Promist me. I humbly begs you to say my meny Thanks to the Mr and Mrs —— and the childrens of them. Please tell my thanks to Miss Lysa and Miss Looois [servants Eliza and Louise]. I hope I can see you very soon Back in this Place. Therefore I humbly Begs to Remain Most Honored Madam and Sir Yours truely most obediend servent Mortha Ayah. Misis —— she looking to get me a Employmend anywhere. They are all well. The Dobin [a favourite horse called Dobbin] he all right. Madam That this Poor widdowe was Very much hapy at the Lost Year By your Exalend honor’s kindness. But this new year I pased very miserably.’

CURIOUS CASES OF SLEEP-WALKING.

On the above curious subject a retired naval officer obligingly sends us the following notes.

One bright moonlight night I was on deck, as was frequently my wont, chatting with the lieutenant of the middle watch. It was nearly calm, the ship making little way through the water, and the moon’s light nearly as bright as day. We were together leaning over the capstan, chatting away, when W—— suddenly exclaimed: ‘Look! H——, at that sentry,’ and pointing to the quarter-deck marine who was pacing slowly backwards and forwards on the lee-side of the deck.

‘Well,’ I replied, after watching him somewhat inattentively as he passed once or twice on his regular beat, ‘what of him?’

‘Why, don’t you see he is fast asleep? Take a good look at him when he next passes.’

I did so, and found W—— was right. The man, although pacing and turning regularly at the usual distance, was fast asleep with his eyes closed.

When next the man passed, W—— stepped quickly and noiselessly to his side, and pacing with him, gently disengaged the bunch of keys which were his special charge—being the keys of the spirit-room, shell-rooms, store-rooms, &c.—from the fingers of his left hand, to which they were suspended by a small chain; he then removed the bayonet from his other hand, and laid it and the keys on the capstan head. After letting him take another turn or two, W—— suddenly called ‘Sentry!’

‘Sir?’ replied the man, instantly stopping and facing round as he came to the ‘attention.’

‘Why, you were fast asleep, sentry.’

‘No, sir.’

‘But I say you were.’

‘No, sir. I assure you I was not.’

‘You were not, eh? Well, where are the keys?’

The man instantly brought up his hand to shew them, as he supposed; but to his confusion the hand was empty.

‘Where is your bayonet?’ continued W——.

The poor fellow brought forward his other hand, but that was empty also. But the puzzled look of astonishment he put on was more than we could stand; both burst out laughing; and when the keys and bayonet were pointed out to him lying on the capstan, the poor fellow was perfectly dumfounded. W—— was too merry over the joke, however, to punish the man, and he escaped with a warning not to fall asleep again.

Sentries and look-outs must be very liable to fall asleep from the very nature of their monotonous pacing, and this may in some degree account for the facility with which sentries have at times been surprised and secured before they could give an alarm. In this instance, the most curious fact, I think, was the regularity with which the man continued to pace his distances and turn at the right moment. I have known other instances of sentries and others walking in their sleep, though the end has not always been so pleasant to the victims. In one case, the quarter-deck sentry, in the middle of the night, crashed down the wardroom hatchway with musket and fixed bayonet, with a rattling that startled us all out of our cabins. The fellow fell on his back upon the top of the mess-table, but not much the worse for his exploit. On another occasion a messenger boy paid us a visit in the night: he fell upon a chair, which he smashed to pieces, but the sleeper escaped unhurt.

These can hardly be considered true cases of somnambulism, but shew how men may continue their occupations when overcome by sleep. Nothing but seeing his bayonet and the keys lying on the capstan could have ever convinced the marine that he had been sleeping; no mere assertion to that effect would ever have influenced him.

POURING OIL ON THE TROUBLED WATERS.

The idea expressed in the above heading, though commonly held to be of sacred origin, or as merely a poetical manner of expressing a commonplace occurrence, may nevertheless be taken literally as well as figuratively, it being, as a matter of fact, a saying which has satisfactory groundwork in natural facts. It was recently stated in evidence before the Commissioners appointed to inquire into the Herring Fisheries of Scotland, that the practice of pouring a quantity of oil from a boat on to the surface of the sea during heavy weather had the immediate effect of calming the waters and relieving the boat from the danger of heavy broken water. ‘But,’ added one of the witnesses, ‘although the oil has this effect for a time, the sea becomes rougher afterwards, and so the advantage of adopting the plan is practically not very great.’ It is more than probable that this latter statement can be explained by the law of comparisons. The oil cast out on the weather-side of the boat effectually assuages the violence of the waves, which instead of breaking over it, glide smoothly under it. Presently the film of oil becomes dispersed, and the waves, again unchecked, appear, by comparison with the late calm, to be still more formidable. A fresh dose of oil would, however, again prove advantageous, but the experiment is seldom repeated, and so the efficacy of the remedy is called into question. The best way of adopting it is to throw overboard a barrel or skin filled with oil, and pierced in two places, to allow of the gradual escape of the contents. This reservoir should be secured by a rope, and kept on the weather-side of the boat, and renewed as often as necessary. The plan is frequently adopted, with the best results, by native boatmen in the Persian Gulf and in parts of the Indian Ocean, where sudden squalls are apt to spring up.

LOVE UNSUNG.

Glide on, sweet purling stream,
And mingle with the sea;
Adown each glen thy waters gleam,
In merry dance and free.
Sing on, sweet bird; the blue expanse
Of heaven’s vault is thine;
O lap thy soul into a trance;
Pour forth thy song divine;
But I must not give forth my strain;
I love a maid, but love in vain.

The blithesome bird that haunts the vale
Will bear but half her grief;
She floats her sorrow on the gale,
And gives her soul relief;
The meanest floweret on the field
Basks in the noonday sun;
And every creature hath a rest,
When daily toil is done;
I to myself make bootless moan,
And bear my burden all alone.

A grief that links two hearts in bliss,
Is but a hidden treasure;
What’s but a thorn when singly borne,
When shared becomes a pleasure;
The finer feelings of the soul
Are known by mutual union;
Each spirit hath its counterpart,
With whom to hold communion;
But she is gone, and leaves with me
The rest of the unsleeping sea.

Æ. P.

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

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_All Rights Reserved._

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[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 162: glyphograpy to glyphography—“executed in glyphography”.]