Chapter II: Part 2

It would be out of place to enter into a fully detailed account of the manufacture of the various wares known by the generic name of _china_; but a few particulars may not be unnecessary, as an introduction to the special process of embellishment. Most of us are familiar with the earlier difficulties in the plastic processes--from the potter's wheel to the mould--with which Wedgwood had to contend. We know the components of the superior wares, and have at length discovered the Chinese secret--that it is the ingredient of _bone_-dust which imparts the semi-transparent quality; while the properties of the shining surface are well understood; therefore it is with the _bisque_, or unglazed ware that we shall commence, after it has been withdrawn from the _bottle_-shaped oven to the _dripping_-house.

In this latter department, the fresh-baked ware is immersed in a silicious solution, and thence conveyed, in bandbox-shaped _seggars_, to the 'glost' (glaze) oven to be fired. But should it be desired to ornament it with _printed_ paper patterns laid upon the surface, this is effected before it is dipped. The ware is now _fired_ until the glaze becomes transparent; after which it is removed to the 'glost' warehouse, where the various articles are assorted by classification, and then transferred to female artists skilled in the 'stencilled ground-laying,' as the process is locally termed, of the metallic colours, each of which is brought to a perfectly uniform tint with a 'boss' or pad.

Passing from their hands to the kiln, the ware is again fired, after which it is transferred to the fair 'paintresses' (a local word), whose superior intelligence, or taste, qualifies them to embellish it with what they call 'enamel' paintings of birds, flowers, and other familiar objects. It is then fired for eight hours; and finally transferred to the gilders and burnishers, who, with their agate implements, bring the process of ornamentation to its last stage.

But before this has been arrived at, many busy heads have been at work in the selection of materials and in their manipulation; for in the work of ordinary painters and 'paintresses,' rapidity of execution, as well as artistic dexterity, is required in order to earn a livelihood. On an average, one penny is the price allowed for the central floral pattern of an ordinary plate--such as a pink-rose with buds and leaves, a convolvulus, or any other simple flower. Each colour must be laid on with firmness and precision; and where the light is to fall, as on the convex petal of a rose, the effect must be produced by a rapid touch of the finger removing the colour. With a convolvulus, however, it may be remarked, the colour is dashed on rapidly, and with each dash the hair-pencil is swept to a point, more or less fine, according to the style of flower; and with _blue_ flowers especially, the rule well known to watercolourists in painting an azure sky is never departed from.

The bisque or unglazed ware is now but seldom embellished with painting, for colours are found to have little brilliancy on its porous surface; consequently, this kind of ware is chiefly used where _form_ alone is the paramount consideration.

In the manipulation of metallic colours, the superior porcelain-painter has to calculate the ultimate effect with the same care as the fresco or destemper painter; and yet it is surprising how limited is the fame of those who decorate our drawing-room and dessert ware with their artistic work, in which a few masterly touches in birds and flowers, figures and landscapes, give life to the cold clay; for with certain exceptions these artists are not allowed even to add their initials to their work.

Considerable nicety, only to be acquired by practice, is requisite in mixing the metallic colours; and for this purpose spirit of turpentine, combined with a thick oil obtained from exposure to the air for a certain length of time, of ordinary turpentine (called _fat_), is used; but should more _body_ be required, tar is added. The mixed colour is then applied to the porcelain in the same manner as in ordinary oil-painting, but with one marked and important difference, namely, that in porcelain painting the colour must never be _worked_, but must be applied with a _full_ brush, carried with a clean and precise sweep to lighter gradations of tint. Thus, the greatest depth of colour indicates the first impact of the full charged brush. Inattention to this dominating rule would be productive of clogginess and opacity.

Lastly, the brush or hair-pencil does not seem to be regarded as of such importance as one would imagine by the ordinary artists of our 'pot-banks;'[1] and it is not a little surprising, even to one long accustomed to the use of the pencil, to observe with what dexterity the most apparently intractable tuft of hair on the end of a quill can be brought into subjection by those who can get no better, and whose living depends upon their ingenuity.

Various kinds of brushes are used. Fine lines are expressed with a very long-haired thin camel-hair; while ordinary subjects are readily mastered with a medium size. But for more careful and minute work, such as heraldic-painting--as less liable to clog--the mounted sable (No. 1, 2, or 3) is the best.

Having satisfied myself that to a certain extent the art of painting on porcelain may be readily acquired by any one of ordinary intelligence; its _niceties_, like those of wood-engraving or any similar accomplishment, are nevertheless to be learned only by long practice. The mere application of colour within prepared outlines is often supposed to constitute 'the art of painting,' and there can be no doubt that, according to dictionary definition, it is _painting_; but as there is no _art_ in it, so is there no credit due to the purely mechanical action of the painter's hand. As an amusement, where practised on artistic principles, porcelain-painting might, amongst amateurs, lead to pleasing results; but to 'take it up' merely as a fashion of the day is scarcely worth the trouble, and would be of comparatively little benefit to those who contribute materials.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] China and earthenware manufactories in Staffordshire are invariably called _Banks_.

THE STRONG-MINDED WOMAN.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.--CHAPTER I.

'Do you mean to go to the Woman's Rights affair, Earle?' asked one young man of another from out a cloud of smoke. The two were sitting one evening in December in the smoking-room of Wilfred Earle, a rising young artist of the modern school of figure-painters.

'Yes, I do,' replied the one addressed, a fine-looking man of some five-and-thirty years, with thoughtful dark-blue eyes, a good forehead, from which the curly brown locks were departing fast, and a fine tawny beard and moustache. 'I shall go out of mere curiosity though, for of all offensive articles, to my taste a strong-minded woman is the worst. Just imagine the horrible bore of being tied for life to a woman who travelled about the country spouting on woman's rights! As if all women were not tyrants by nature, without developing the art into a system. Ugh!' and Earle shuddered.

'I should like to see your ideal woman, Earle,' said his companion. 'You are such a fastidious fellow.'

'Well, I suppose every man _has_ some sort of ideal; mine is a very vague one. I should not like a heroine of romance, but a comfortable everyday wife.'

'To darn your stockings, let you smoke all over the house, give you good dinners; eh?'

'That's rather a low standard, my good fellow. If that were everything, why not take a good-tempered domestic servant? No, I should like my wife to be intelligent at least; if not intensely intellectual, well read, graceful, feminine. I don't mind so much about beauty. I can get paid models when I want them. One thing she must have--some sense of humour. That's what I complain of in these spouting females--they are so grimly in earnest! In short I want a jolly, unaffected, sensible girl, who will believe in me, make my friends welcome, my house comfortable, and be a pleasant companion to me after hard work. That's what my ideal comes to, Jack--not a very lofty one after all.'

'I don't know but that the clever women make the best housewives after all,' remarked Roberts, puffing thoughtfully away. 'My brother now--he married a girl just because she was a sweet, soft, amiable little thing; thinking that after knocking about the world a good deal, he should like a quiet comfortable home. He was not violently in love with Amy, but had a notion of settling down to domestic life. Well, she turned out the most incapable idiot; is given over to nerves, hysterics, all sorts of fancies; cries when he's out after ten, faints if he finds fault with her. It isn't her fault--there's no vice in her; she hasn't the _stuff_ in her, that's all. My sister Maude, again--you remember her, Earle?'

'Yes. A fine girl; lots of go in her.'

'Rather too much, we thought. She was a bit of a flirt--but as clever as she could be. Well, she married a quiet, steady-going fellow we all said she would henpeck. I tell you, Will, they are a model couple! Maude makes a splendid wife, and it's the pleasantest house to stay in that I know. The husband always says the "clever women" are the cleverest all round.'

'Well, it's time we were off. Let's postpone the discussion _sine die_.'

* * * * *

Shortly after the foregoing dialogue, Wilfred Earle and his friend found themselves in the midst of a pretty considerable number of people entering the doors of a certain Literary Institute in one of the Surrey suburbs of London. The audience was mostly composed of well-dressed people; but there was also a tolerable gathering of trades-people and artisans in the back of the room. Earle and Roberts took their seat in a corner of one of the windows, intending to be unobserved; but they soon perceived a little lady, of a lively appearance, with bobbing gray curls and very small hands, which she kept in perpetual motion. One of these hands--incased in an exquisite glove--was waving and beckoning to them in an agitated manner. Simply bowing in return was no avail, the waving got more energetic, and Earle perceived he would have to obey the summons. The little lady was not going to lose the chance of catching even an incipient lion; and Earle was a rising man, and was beginning to be talked about.

'Bother it!' he murmured; 'there's that bore, Mrs De Lacy! I shall have to go to her. She is the most persistent woman I know, and the most crotchety. I believe woman's rights and wrongs are her latest craze. Come along, Roberts, and protect me.'

So the two men made their way to the front row, where sat Mrs De Lacy and her satellites. As for Mr De Lacy, no one ever thought about him. He was Mrs De Lacy's husband, and did very well at the foot of the table at dinner-parties, offering good wine to his guests. This, by the way, was the sole point where he dared act independently.

Mrs De Lacy was a rigid teetotaler, as well as a spiritualist, mesmerist, anti-vaccinationist, phrenologist, all the rest of it--a woman of theories; worked upon by every novelty, and the easy prey of any plausible adventurer. She had her virtues, shallow, conceited, egotistical as she was. She was kind-hearted and benevolent, only, unfortunately, her benefactions were generally wrongly directed.

'Here you are at last, naughty man!' she cried, giving Earle both her hands at once, to his no small embarrassment, as he did not know what to do with them, and would gladly have passed one on to Roberts, who was trying to hide a smile. 'What have you to say for yourself? I am very, very angry with you!'

'Indeed! I am deeply grieved! What have I done now, Mrs De Lacy?'

'Need you ask? Pray, how long is it since you were in Pembroke Terrace, sir?'

'You must really forgive me. I have been very much pushed with finishing a commission picture.'

'Well I will on two conditions, grant you pardon.'

'Pray name them.'

'One is that you dine with us to-morrow; to meet--but I won't tell you whom.'

'Is that a punishment? It is a very merciful one.'

'Ah, you have not heard the second condition. Mr De Lacy is foolish enough to want to have a portrait of my poor faded face, and I only agreed on condition that _you_ painted it.'

It was as much as Earle could do to keep up an expression of complacency. He could not refuse; but it was no light penance to him--who disliked mere portrait-painting at the best--to be condemned to make a picture of Mrs De Lacy's little foolish face. However, he consented, as he could not well get out of it.

'Now that is settled,' continued the lady, 'sit down here and be charmed. Stay; I do believe you are one of the unconverted--of the old school in that respect, though your pictures are of the new. Well then, prepare to be converted. I shall give you up for ever if you are not enchanted with my Silvia.'

'Your Silvia! May I ask who she is?'

'Look at your prospectus, sir: "Miss Stirling will address the meeting."'

'And is Miss Stirling your Silvia?'

'Yes; to be sure. She is staying with me, and---- Oh, I have let out the secret of whom you are to meet! She is the dearest, most delightful---- Hush! It is time to begin. The chairman is rising. Now allow your stubborn soul to yield.'

Earle felt at once amused and annoyed. He savagely determined to detest Mrs De Lacy's 'Silvia.'

The chairman made a few introductory remarks; then another gentleman, who persisted in talking of 'females;' then a certain Mrs Leighton, who spoke well and pleasantly, as even Earle could not but acknowledge. She did not say anything strikingly new; but her manner was easy and ladylike, and she was sensible and straightforward.

When she had sat down, the chairman rose and announced that: 'Miss Stirling will now make some remarks on another aspect of the question--on the effects that the extension of the franchise to women might be expected to produce on the community.'

Earle had identified Miss Stirling with a tall slight figure sitting in the background. 'Now for a display of extraordinary self-possession,' he thought.

The lady came forward simply, but not with that air of coolness which he looked for. Miss Stirling might be six or seven and twenty. She was handsomely and becomingly dressed in rather a picturesque style, though not in the least _outré_, in black velvet trimmed with gray fur, made very plainly, and falling in heavy graceful folds round her slender figure. A black velvet hat and long gray plume suited her face to perfection; and that face, Earle could not but acknowledge, was a striking one. It was perhaps not actually beautiful, though the deep soft brown eyes and the sweet curved mouth were undeniably so; but full of character, and womanly withal. What struck Earle most, as being least expected, was the perfect simple unconsciousness of her manner. She was nervous; that was plain enough; her hands trembled, her colour was high, and she spoke rather falteringly at first; but there was a noble directness in her honest open glance that said volumes for the simplicity of her motive. She evidently spoke not to display her powers nor to impress herself upon her audience, but because she had a love for and belief in the cause she was advocating. After speaking a minute or two, Miss Stirling threw off her nervousness. Her voice--a singularly pleasant one, with the intonation of a well-bred lady--strengthened and grew animated; her words were well chosen and to the purpose. Each one told, and yet there was not the slightest oratorical display or straining after effect.

'Very well done. Yes; very well,' thought Earle. 'But I should like to see her at _home_, if such an exploded word forms part of a strong-minded woman's vocabulary.'

There was a slight good-humoured sarcasm and irony underlying the seriousness of Miss Stirling's speech, if speech it could be called, which prevented it from becoming wearisome, and no one was anxious for her to bring what she had to say to a close. She ended amidst quite a storm of applause.

Mrs De Lacy turned to Earle in a high state of delight: '_Now_, Mr Earle, what do you say to her? Surely, surely you are converted now.'

'To what, Mrs De Lacy?'

'Oh! to--to--woman's right to the suffrage.'

'I did not doubt before that she had a right to the suffrage.'

'Did not you? Well, now, I thought you were an enemy to woman's progress.'

'I assure you, you thought quite wrong.'

'Really! Well, then, what is it you object to?'

'I have an objection--a very decided objection--I own, to women speaking in public,' said Earle emphatically.

'Hush, hush!' breathed Mrs De Lacy; and turning round, he saw Miss Stirling close behind him. She must have heard him; and indeed a slight arch smile told him she had.

'Mrs De Lacy,' she said quietly, 'are you ready? If you are, would you be so kind as to let me go now? I have such a headache.'

'To be sure, dear one!--Good-night, you bad prejudiced man!' she whispered to Wilfred. 'Remember to-morrow.'

Earle watched the velvet dress out of the doorway, admiring the graceful walk of its wearer, and then he and his friend returned through the cold foggy streets to their respective homes.

* * * * *

The next evening, when Wilfred entered the De Lacy's drawing-room, he found a party of about twenty persons assembled. The room was furnished, as might be expected from the character of its mistress, in a heterogeneous and peculiar manner--a little of every style, marking different periods of taste. Mrs De Lacy herself was bobbing about in the excited way that always reminded Earle of a canary-bird hopping from perch to perch--a resemblance heightened by the cap with yellow ribbons and feathers she wore, perched jauntily on one side. After having paid his addresses to the host and hostess, his eye involuntarily sought for Miss Stirling; she sat rather behind the rest, and was well dressed as on the previous evening. Her costume was of silk, of a cloudy aquamarine colour, with square-cut bodice. Her hair, coiled up in a large knot, was adorned with natural flowers; the bracelet and necklet she wore were of plain dead gold.

'She looks uncommonly well in evening dress,' thought Earle; 'not much of the coat-and-waistcoat style there! What finely formed arms and shoulders. I should like to paint her.'

Ponderous, stiff-looking Mr De Lacy bore down upon him and whispered mysteriously: 'You are to take Miss Stirling in to dinner. Come and be introduced.'

'But isn't she rather formidable?' remonstrated the artist.

'Formidable! Dear no; one of the pleasantest girls I know.'

In another minute Earle found himself part of the procession filing down to dinner, with a shapely hand upon his arm. After his remark of last night he felt unaccountably ill at ease, and was racking his brain for something to say; for 'I daren't talk weather to a strong-minded woman,' he thought; but when they were seated at table she relieved him by saying in her straightforward way: 'Are you Mr Earle the artist? Mrs De Lacy runs on so fast one does not carry away clear ideas from her.'

'Yes, I am. You did not hear then that I am pledged to paint her portrait?'

As he spoke he made so rueful a face that Miss Stirling laughed outright, but checked herself, saying with compunction: 'It is not nice of me to laugh at my hostess! And she really has been very kind to me.'

'O yes, she is good-natured enough! Still--in this instance allow me to say--the obligation is more on her side than yours.'

'Why? I don't see that.'

'Have you not found out then, yet, that our friend has a weakness for collecting celebrities at her house?'

'But then I am not one; so that does not apply. I suppose,' she added, looking up at him with an arch expression, he was quite ashamed of finding most winning, 'that accounts for _you_ being here!'

'Do you really mean you do not consider yourself a celebrity?' he asked rather sarcastically.

'I don't say what I don't mean,' she answered coldly. 'You think, I suppose, whenever a woman "speaks in public" it is to shew herself off?'

'So you bear me a grudge for the unlucky speech you heard last night?'

Miss Stirling coloured. 'It is small of me to be vexed, I know,' she said, after a moment's pause, in her frank direct way; 'but we get a good many snubs, you must know, and we--or I, rather--are stupid enough to feel somewhat sensitive.'

'Well, please to forgive me. I spoke principally out of contradiction to Mrs De Lacy.'

'But you _did_ disapprove. I saw it in your face. I believe most of your countrymen share your prejudice.'

'_My_ countrymen? What! are you not my countrywoman?'

'I was born and bred in America. My mother is an Englishwoman; and we came over seven years ago, when my father died. So you did not detect the Yankee twang, then?'

Earle was taken aback. This young lady seemed determined to unsettle his old prejudices. If there were one thing he disliked more even than a strong-minded woman, it was an American. She was both, and yet he found it hard to dislike Silvia Stirling.

'An American!' he said.

'Yes;' and she smiled at his expression. 'Isn't that dreadful? Almost worse than public speaking! I see I am lost in your good opinion.'

'Miss Stirling,' Earle said honestly, 'I won't conceal from you, even if I could, that I have a prejudice against women taking part in public affairs; but I am quite willing to have it dispelled. I must tell you too, that though I came last night to scoff, I ended by admiring.'

'You are not flattering me?'

'Indeed I am not. You are the last woman I should dare to flatter!'

The beautiful clear eyes fell under his earnest gaze, and the colour rose into her face, which Earle thought at that moment almost a perfect one.

After a pause she said: 'Now, _I_ think that both men and women would get on better if they helped each other more on common ground. The sense of superiority on your side produces aggressiveness and self-assertion on ours. Why not leave off quarrelling about who is the best, and agree to be different and yet friends?'

'People say friendship is incompatible between men and women.'

'People talk a great deal of nonsense,' she said a little positively: '_I_ have several men-friends.'

Somehow Earle felt nettled at this assertion, and would gladly have done battle with all these disagreeable men-friends at once. He only said, however: 'I hope one day to be happy enough to make one of them; but meanwhile, how am I to see you again?'

'Are you not coming to paint Mrs De Lacy?' said Silvia, with her eyes on her plate, but the faint trace of a smile on her lip. 'I am staying here, you know!'

'To be sure!' he cried eagerly; 'I forgot that. I'll come to-morrow and begin. But after you leave here?'

'We live at Eaglemore Gardens,' she said simply. 'I will be glad to see you, if you like to call.'

This calm invitation slightly astonished Earle; he forgot that in America young ladies receive visitors in their father's house.

'Thank you,' he got out in some confusion.

Silvia seemed to read his thought. '_My mother_ too, I daresay, will be glad to see you; but I suppose you have very little time for calls,' she said haughtily.

He recovered himself. 'You are very, very good,' he replied. 'It would be the greatest pleasure to me.'

For a few minutes there was a trace of stiffness in her manner, but it soon passed away; and the rest of the time they spent at the table was taken up with animated talk on all sorts of subjects.

In the drawing-room up-stairs there was music; and very soon Mrs De Lacy pounced upon Silvia, who was comfortably ensconced in a corner with Wilfred.

'Dear child,' she cried, 'it is your turn now. Don't waste more time on converting that prejudiced mortal.'

Silvia looked a little bit annoyed, and getting up quickly, moved to the piano, while Mrs De Lacy murmured: 'Sweet girl! Always so obliging!'

Wilfred stood behind her.

'What shall I sing?' she said, half to herself, looking round.

'You have _Love and Death_ there, I see,' Earle said, stooping down. 'Please, _not_ that.'

'Why not? It is a great favourite of mine.'

'So it is of mine. That is the reason I didn't want you to sing it to all these people. Some day I shall ask you for it.'

Without replying, she put the _Sands o' Dee_ before her and sang.

Earle waited almost breathlessly for the first note. He was passionately fond of music, and he felt somehow as if an untrue or unsweet note from Silvia Stirling would have jarred him more than he could bear. But the voice and the manner of singing satisfied his fastidious ear absolutely. The sympathy which made her face so interesting thrilled in the pathetic tone of her voice, and Earle had never been affected by music before as he was now by her rendering of this simple song.

As she rose from the piano, she raised her eyes a moment to his: that strange meeting glance that strikes down into the soul, and in which thought seems to answer thought, passed between them like a revelation. It was only an instant, but it was a momentous one to each.

Wilfred Earle walked home through Dreamland. He was fascinated past control, and yet was angry with the fascination, and half wished for the spell to be broken. What strange fate had attracted his life suddenly towards this other, against whom all his prejudices revolted? Why did those clear eyes haunt him so? Had he, after all his sham fancies, struck on the true vein of love? _Was_ this love, or only a half-willing fascination, that had changed the face of the world to-night?

'This is too absurd!' he exclaimed angrily. 'Here I have met just with what I most disapprove of--a public speaker and an American, and I can't get rid of the idea of her! I must go to-morrow and be disillusionised.'

ON WASTE OF LIFE.

What is our life given us for? If this inquiry were addressed to each one of our acquaintance, what curious diversities of opinion would be evinced by the replies, differing as they all would according to the various characteristics of each individual. Some would say their lives were given them for enjoyment, and by their actions lead one to believe that they value them exactly in proportion to the amount of pleasure they can obtain. Others, again, seem to think life is a necessary evil, which must be endured with philosophy and resignation; and to these it never appears to occur that there is a higher purpose in life than merely to exist.

A few there are--but these are unhappily very few--who regard life as a precious gift, every moment of which it is their bounden duty to turn to good account. To these last, the waste of life they see around them is perfectly inexplicable, and many are the quiet unobtrusive efforts they make, amongst their own acquaintance, to lead them to take higher and nobler views of the duties of existence. This, however, is a most thankless and generally most useless task. If the wish for superiority is not implanted by nature, it is almost impossible to supply the deficiency by art or argument. Those who are content to spend their lives in idleness and frivolity, can seldom be persuaded to alter their mode of life by the most powerful logic that can be used.

The present age no doubt can boast of greater progress in science and learning than can be claimed by the past generation, and yet it cannot be denied that the wish for mental superiority, and the industry necessary to attain it, is only possessed by the comparatively few, and that far too many persons are content with a kind of dead-level of existence--without ambition or desire to excel in any way. It is nevertheless true, and a fact for which we ought to be thankful, that the means for intellectual cultivation are now more than ever within the reach of all, and are eagerly taken advantage of by vast numbers; that schools of art, music, science, &c. are established in many places, and every encouragement given to study. And yet there are hundreds who voluntarily and systematically neglect every opportunity, and are content to spend their lives in ignorance and uselessness.

It is curious to note the line of demarcation that always seems to exist between those who habitually waste their lives and those who endeavour to redeem the time, and are ambitious of cultivating and improving their talents to the utmost of their opportunities. The former often allude to the latter with a kind of pitying scorn, and declare that 'life would not be worth having, in their opinion, if they had to spend it in that way.'

There is also a numerous class of persons who appear to consider that intellectual pursuits, and a desire to excel in them, ought to be left to those who prefer to spend their time in such (to them) laborious and uninteresting occupations, and that there is no law, human or divine, which requires them to fulfil the duties of existence in any other way than that which is recommended to them by their own frivolous inclinations. Their argument is probably one which they consider unanswerable--namely, that their parents 'got on very well without all those ideas, and why should not they.'

Certainly, if living day after day in one hum-drum round of existence, without one spark of ambition, or one idea elevated above the most ordinary intelligence, can be called 'getting on,' such persons succeed admirably. Surely, however, the promptings of Nature are sufficient to prove that life is given us for some better purpose than to be spent in contented ignorance and mental inactivity, or in a hollow round of gaiety and amusement?

Many times we have been surprised by an observation or a wish from one who, to all outward appearance, was entirely devoted to a life of uselessness and gaiety, without a thought beyond. By that one remark or wish, a gleam of light is thrown upon the inner workings of the mind, and we cannot help regretting that in so many cases these promptings to do something different from their ordinary life--these first symptoms of intellectual life and activity, first sparks of ambition, which would, if carefully fanned, develop into a passion for excellence and utility, should so often be quenched by the fear of the ridicule and discouragement that they will inevitably meet with in the world. Nothing causes so great an isolation from human companionship as a consciousness of mental superiority. The sources of enjoyment and interest to some are weariness and disgust to others whose aims are higher, and whose thoughts are deeper, and who regard life as a gift to be spent in noble labour, and in improving the talents God has given them.

How often do we witness the sad spectacle of a mind deteriorated by indulgence and weakened by excess and frivolity; the saddest kind of waste of all! How often does one see in one's own circle of acquaintance the vigour of the intellect gradually declining under the adverse influences brought to bear upon it? But here the grave question ought to arise in our minds: Have we had anything to do with this deterioration? Has our want of sympathy and encouragement accelerated the fall of the lofty edifice? Could we not by timely advice, encouragement, and perchance by the much-needed assistance, have saved the tottering pillars of the mind from crumbling into dust at our feet? Let us remember that we have two important duties in life that we ought to fulfil: one is, to cultivate the intellect to the utmost extent in our power; and the other, to guide, assist, and encourage any who, less fortunate than ourselves, may be struggling under want of sympathy, want of advantages, and consequent depression. Mental cultivation increases our appreciation of every enjoyment of life. The more educated the mind, the greater our appreciation of higher forms of enjoyment. With what a different eye, for instance, does the botanist look upon the beauties of nature, to the country farmer, who has no idea beyond the probable price of wheat at the coming harvest! How interesting to an entomologist the various forms of insect life, which are regarded with apathy by those who are ignorant of their ways and habits. A cultivated mind renders its owner independent of many of the outward circumstances of life; and if his time is spent in useful and elevating pursuits, its tranquillity will be less disturbed than in the case of those who are dependent upon exterior amusements. _An aim in life makes ennui a thing unknown._

It seems scarcely necessary to remark that this part of our argument applies only to those whose circumstances have placed them above the necessity of manual labour. We each have our duties in life to fill according to our different stations; and it would be as wrong and absurd in the tradesman, clerk, or mechanic to insist on spending the whole of his time in intellectual pursuits and scientific studies, as it is for those who perhaps have the greater part of the day at their own disposal, to waste its precious hours in uselessness and idleness. At the same time, it redounds greatly to the credit of those whose avocations allow them but little time for self-culture, that the few leisure moments they have are in numerous cases devoted to useful study.

LION KINGS, QUEENS, AND TRAINERS.

The craving for excitement which shews itself in so many grades of society, and under such manifold forms--some innocent and some vicious--is strikingly displayed in connection with exhibitions of wild beasts. There is eagerness to see them because the animals are savage and dangerous in their native forests and jungles; eagerness to know how far they can be tamed when caged; still more eagerness to watch the perilous exploits of those performers who assume the majestic designations of lion kings and queens.

The training of wild beasts for exhibition purposes is an art requiring much patience and discretion to insure success. The trainer commences by feeding the animal from the outside of the den or cage; then ventures to enter, keeping his face steadily towards the animal, and avoiding any violence. Rough usage is abstained from as much as possible, as it rouses the 'dormant demon' in the creature. Lions like tickling and stroking, and may be tickled into submission when they could not be compelled. An old trainer once said: 'To get a lion to lie down and allow the trainer to stand on him, is difficult. It is done by tickling the beast over the back with a small whip, and at the same time pressing him down with one hand. By raising his head, and taking hold of the nostril with the right hand, and the under lip and lower jaw with the left, the lion by this pressure loses greatly the power of his jaws; so that the man can pull them open, and put his head inside the beast's mouth. The danger is, lest the animal should raise one of his forepaws and stick his claws in the venturesome trainer. If he does, the man must stand fast for his life till he has shifted the paw.'

About sixty years ago, when Ballard's Menagerie was halting on the road one night near Salisbury, a lioness escaped from one of the caravans, and before she could be recaptured, attacked and tore one of the horses of the Exeter mail; but she _was_ recaptured nevertheless, by the coolness and daring of the keepers. Soon after this, Ducrow, the accomplished equestrian, engaged Atkins's lion, tigress, and hybrid cubs as an additional attraction to his circus. This achievement of rearing the progeny of a lion and tigress was much talked of at the time. The novel family were exhibited before royalty at Windsor Castle, and then at Bartholomew Fair; where a keeper lay down in the den, with the lion on one side, the tigress on the other, and the cubs disporting near him, ending by lying down on the lion, with the tigress lying on the man. The next excitement of the kind, which from its cruelty could not be endured now-a-days, was connected with the once-renowned _Nero_ and _Wallace_. Wombwell advertised, when his menagerie was at Warwick, a combat between his lion Nero and six bull-dogs. It was a poor tame affair, for none of the animals shewed any desire for the encounter. A second attempt, with Wallace, gave rise to more of that morbid excitement for which such exhibitions are got up; the lion killed or disabled all the dogs, the last of which he carried about in his mouth as a rat is by a terrier or a cat. The affair brought money for a time, and then gave place to other sensational exhibitions. A trainer and performer known as 'Manchester Jack' was wont, at Bartholomew Fair, to take visitors with him into Nero's cage; many persons invested sixpence each in this risky adventure; but the poor beast had had his native spirit so quelled that the danger was perhaps not much after all. This Manchester Jack was rather a notable fellow in the profession; he trained Wombwell's lions to suffer him to sit upon them, keep their mouths wide open, &c. The newspapers more than once announced his death as a victim of some savage animal; but he belied them all, and died quietly in his bed as a taverner--notwithstanding that he had been credited by one paragraphist with having had his head bitten off by a lion.

The historically famous 'Lions in the Tower' gradually ceased to be a source of wonderment when Zoological Gardens became familiar; and the collection was dispersed about forty years ago. It had been a custom in the old times to name the Tower lions after the reigning sovereigns of Europe; and indeed the lion has generally been regarded as a royal beast. Lord Mahon, in his _History of England_, quotes a passage from the Earl of Chesterfield, tending to shew that there was a bit of superstition mixed up with this matter. Under date 1758 the Earl wrote: 'It was generally thought His Majesty would have died, and for a very good reason; the oldest lion in the Tower, near about the king's age, died about a fortnight ago.' But the king outwitted the lion, by living two years longer. A printer of ballads, not many years back, tried to make a little money by a smart bit of April Fooling. Knowing that many country people are still ignorant of the fact that the lions have long been removed from the Tower, he printed penny tickets purporting to admit the holder to witness the annual ceremony of washing the lions in the Tower on the First of April; how many ninnies were taken in by the trick, the record does not say.

Van Amburgh, the most renowned, perhaps, of all the lion-kings, came to England a year or two before the beginning of the reign of her present Majesty. He was a native of Holland, well-formed and handsome; and his collection of trained lions, tigers, &c. drew immense numbers of spectators. Van Amburgh's cool daring was remarkable; and when Edwin (afterwards Sir Edwin) Landseer exhibited at the Royal Academy his picture of the lion-king in the midst of his trained quadrupedal pupils, the excitement spread to a class of society above that which is usually supposed to be weak on such points. Van Amburgh's career in England continued on and off for some years. One of his exhibitions included a black tiger, a colour rarely met with in that animal; and a sort of drama was got up in which the lion-king personated Moroff, a brute-tamer. Among the bits of gossip which cannot well be traced to an authentic source, is one to the effect that the Duke of Wellington (who is known to have had a liking for the performances of Van Amburgh) once asked him whether he was ever afraid; to which the brute-tamer replied: 'The first time I am afraid, your Grace, or I fancy that my pupils are no longer afraid of me, I will give up.' Van Amburgh was killed more than once by the newspapers, as 'Manchester Jack' had been; but Mr Frost (whose curious volume, _The Old Showman_, is a veritable storehouse of gossip on these subjects) states that the hero retired with a competency, and lived till a recent date.

About the time of Van Amburgh the visitors at a country fair were invited to witness a man-and-tiger fight; but by all accounts it was a poor tame affair--it being somewhat doubtful whether the quadruped really was a tiger. Almost in the same year too, a bit of sensationalism was got up in the form of a spectacle, in which a Greek captive was thrown into an arena to be devoured by wild beasts, with (of course) the due accompaniment of terror and agony. Carter the lion-king, who was little if anything behind Van Amburgh in coolness, daring, and presence of mind, played in a drama as a lion-tamer, drove a pair of lions in harness, and maintained a 'desperate combat' with a tiger.

Directly it was found, that the public were willing to pay for admission to displays of this kind, menagerie-keepers and circus-proprietors sought about for lion-kings wherever they could find them; and as a demand usually creates a supply, so was it in this instance: heroes sprang up in various obscure corners, each tempted by the high salary offered. A solatium of ten or fifteen pounds a week is no trifle to a man in a humble station. Crockett, who had been a bandsman at Sanger's Circus, won fame at Astley's Amphitheatre, not only by his performance before the public, but by an exercise of great courage at a perilous moment. One night the lions got loose. Crockett, to whose lodgings a messenger was quickly despatched, came and hastened into the arena. The lions were roaming about the auditorium, and had just killed one of the grooms. Crockett went amongst them, and with only a switch in his hand, drove or enticed them into their cage without receiving a scratch. The rumour of this bold and successful achievement brought him offers at an augmentation of salary. Just about a quarter of a century ago the proprietor of Manders's Menagerie wanted a lion-king to increase the attractiveness of his exhibition. A gingerbread stall-keeper offered; but proved to be not worth his salt, and the manager was disappointed in his hope of eclipsing a rival exhibition. One day a black sailor came to him and asked for employment as a brute-tamer; he was accepted; and soon afterwards the visitors at Greenwich Fair were invited to witness the heroic deeds of Macomo the African lion-king. Macomo (whatever may have been his real name) appears to have been a daring fellow, well adapted for the work he undertook. On one occasion an unusually savage tiger, newly purchased, was put into a cage already tenanted by another tiger. The animals began to fight furiously. Macomo, armed only with a small riding-whip, entered the cage; both tigers turned fiercely upon him and lacerated him severely; but (covered with blood as he was) he continued to whip them into submission. Not for one instant did he keep his eyes off them, and they knew it. Macomo had other narrow escapes; but like most of the lion-kings, he died quietly in his bed at last. Not so Macartney, an Irishman, whose habits were not sufficiently temperate for this perilous kind of work. He often turned his back on the animals, and was lacerated by them more than once. At length, when exhibiting at Bolton about fifteen years ago, he attempted to imitate Macomo's lion-hunt. He chased several lions around a large cage; one sprang at him, seized him by the right hip, and dragged him to the ground; then the others joined in the attack. The unfortunate man endeavoured to beat them off with a sword, but lost his life in the attempt.

These exhibitions have varied in some of their characteristics from time to time. In one instance hyenas and tigers were trained as performing animals--a feat not often ventured upon, as these animals are less to be trusted than the lion. After the death of Wombwell, his extensive menagerie was divided into three sections--each of which claimed, of course, to be the real successor to the original. One section gloried in a lion-king known as Lorenzo. A drama was got up, with Lorenzo and a lion as the performers, representing the classical story of Androcles. We all know the story. A Greek slave, flying from the cruel tyranny of his Roman master, plunged into a forest; he encountered a lion who was pained by a thorn in his foot. Androcles extracted the thorn, and won the animal's gratitude. Being recaptured, Androcles was condemned to be torn to pieces by a lion. The veritable lion which he had befriended happened to be the one caught and brought to the amphitheatre for this dread purpose. The lion knew Androcles instantly, came up to him, licked his hand, and shewed unmistakable signs of satisfaction. This bit of classicality was in a humble way imitated by Lorenzo and the menagerie lion. A lion-keeper, not a lion-king, was killed at Astley's some fifteen or sixteen years ago. A lion that had been honoured with the name of _Havelock_ one night wrenched off the bars of his cage, and with three others escaped into the arena. Havelock sprang at the unfortunate keeper, and killed him instantly.

It is one feature in exciting exhibitions that if men are attractive when placing themselves in much peril, the so-called pleasure is enhanced when women are the possible victims. As it is in _trapèze_ and acrobatic performances, so is it in those connected with the exhibition of wild or semi-wild animals. It is among the gossip of the theatres that one visitor attended night after night, in order that he might not be absent when Van Amburgh's head was bitten off (as many expected it would be) by a lion; and so the idea that something fatal might happen to one of the gentler sex lends an additionally unhealthy interest to the scenes we are now considering. As soon as lion-king exhibitions were found to be profitable, the proprietor of Hilton's Menagerie bethought him of bringing forward his niece as a lion-queen; he paid her well, the public paid him well, and thus an impetus was given to a new kind of speculation. A rival soon appeared at another circus or place of exhibition, and two lion-queens were starring before the public at one time. A third aspirant tried the enterprise once too often. Miss Blight, daughter of a member of Wombwell's band, was one evening in 1850 managing a performance of trained animals at a fair. One of the tigers was sullen and wayward; she incautiously struck him with a whip; the animal sprang at her, seized her by the throat, and put an end to her hapless existence before effective aid could arrive. The authorities prohibited such exhibitions after this melancholy catastrophe. Yet such is the contagion of ambition and love of a good salary, that other women were willing to offer their services as successor to the poor girl. A very tame lion was at another menagerie taken out of his cage and taught to crouch at the feet of a lady who personated Britannia.

Some of the animals thus exhibited are rather valuable. When a menagerie was sold by auction at Edinburgh in 1872, the lions brought individually eighty pounds, ninety pounds, one hundred pounds, one hundred and forty pounds, two hundred pounds, and one as much as two hundred and seventy pounds. One of these had performed with Lorenzo in the spectacle of Androcles. The highest-priced lion was purchased for the Bristol Zoological Gardens; he was regarded as the largest and finest at that time in England. A magnificent tigress was an object of eager competition; and an unusually fine elephant--very much renowned as a 'performing' elephant--brought six hundred pounds. Another menagerie was sold by auction in London more recently; the chief interest centred around two lion-cubs born in the menagerie eighteen months previously; they brought one hundred and fifty pounds.

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