The Philadelphia Photographer, Volume 7
About this book
Terms of Service
373 – 377
bing it well every now and then with clean cotton. Finish with Prussian blue what the pencil fails to remove (J. F. Ryder, Cleveland, Ohio, March number, 1870). Use a magnifying lens, as described by C. A. Winsor, October number, page 3-59, Philadelphia Photographer. It is of the greatest assistance. The negatives and prints before the Association will give some idea of how near they approach the Berlin cartes.
UNDER THE SKYLIGHT.
ar ROLAND VANwBIKE. No. IV.
WHAT’S that noise, Focus?
“ It’s a baby do zit.”
Goodness! they must have started without its breakfast, to get here so early and have it cry so. Perhaps no better opportunity will offer, Focus, than to fulfil my promise, and give you a lesson on babies today. The baby is a peculiar subject, and its little individualities and freaks of temperament need to be studied and humored as much as in older persons.
“Seebs to be it must be hard work to dake babies.” .
There are some photographers, Focus, that won’t make pictures of babies at all; at least, I have heard of those who did not, and I know they were not successful in the business. The baby is often the key that unlocks the purse for the whole family, to the benefit of the photographer. Besides, operating with them is a good school for self-government; it gives a man an opportunity to practice keeping his temper—for of course no man would get into a passion with a child—and as patience is, or should be, part of a photographer’s profession, nothing, perhaps, will make him exercise this virtue more than making pictures of children. I have become satisfied, however, that one of the best means to help one to understand their dispositions and work into their good graces, is to have some of the little pets—I don’t mean pests—of his own in his own home. But you need not be discouraged, Focus, there’s time enough for you yet, and a love for children is, after all, the great thing necessary to operating with them successfully. A kind word or look ,
impresses itself upon the tender, sensitive nature of the child, and you oftentimes gain its confidence at once.
We may be perplexed with business, or have more serious matters occupy our minds, butwhen it comes to this, we must, for the time being, come down to the child; we must forget all other things, and enter, as far as possible, into sympathy with this little sprig of humanity before us.
If you do not succeed with one trial, try again, and continue to try so long as there is any possibility of success. If the child is neither frightened, cross, or tired, keep your temper and persevere. If you cannot get it one way, try another; your success will depend much upon your resources, as well as your patience; and when, alter failing again and again, the fifth, sixth, eighth, or dozenth trial, you succeed, you feel amply repaid for all your efforts.
“ The baby is ready.” ‘
Very well, we will proceed. This being a little one, we will sit it in this chair. The arms prevent its falling over, and as it rests against the back, we do away with the necessity of using the head-rest. The rest, however, is almost useless with small children, as it is very diflicult to get them to keep the head against it. A smaller chair than this even, might be better, as some of the subjects are so small that there seems to be more chair than child. But it won’t do to be too fastidious in this respect, for whatever means we employ to catch a perfect impression of the little one, with the greatest certainty, will insure us the greatest success. This little fellow seems to have been somewhat out of sorts this morning, but appears to be feeling better now, and if we proceed gently with him, there will be no trouble. Be very careful about making any sudden noise, or having any loud talk or calling. Let the mother stand near him, so as to be out of the picture, and he will not be so likely to be frightened. We must work lively, Focus, with these subjects; see that he rests against the chair, get your focus, adjust your plate, fix his attention with some toy that has motion without being noisy, and make your exposure.
“ The dext is a little buppy.”
Well we’ll see about that. It’s a child just can tottle, with a doll almost as large as she is, and a poodle dog. They want the child standing, with the doll and poodle in some “ pretty position.” The doll may do, but the poodle never, especially such an animal as that, that is never still the tenth part of a second unless asleep. The only way in cases of this kind, is to say firmly and decidedly, if they want a good picture of the child, the dog must be left out; unless you have nothing else to do but experiment.
Now here is the mother, father, grandmother,and I presume, old maiden aunt,and there’s a perfect Babel ; we shall be bewildered, if the child is not. The first thing to be done, is to send out all but the mother, and then see what we can do.
“She’s afraid uv be.”
She seems to be afraid of everything. We can’t get her standing.
Now this is a case that requires peculiar treatment. We must gain her confldence and get her interested. Examine and praise her boots, the locket on her neck, the ring on her finger, her doll, its dress, feet, and everything about it, and finally, propose to make dolly ‘5 picture. She seems suspicious no longer, but readily assents to the suggestion. Now, the matter of making her picture must not be hinted, but everything that’s done is for dolly. She is perfectly willing to sit with dolly to keep her still, and even consents to having her own head against the rest, when told it is necessary to get agood picture of dolly. We will show dolly this little singing bird, and our shy little miss has a good picture without her knowledge or suspicion. It is not often necessary to resort to as much strategy as in this case, but I have found it well always to keep the child’s attention as much as possible away from what you are doing; say nothing about taking its picture.
“ What do you do when they won’t have their bicture daken? Here’s one says she won’t.”
Well she’s probably been told about it over and over, and in the mean time, perhaps, has been to the dentist, or been frightened somewhere. She seems a sweet little girl, and not much afraid. I think 1 can soon get acquainted with her. I take her
in my arms, and carry her about the room, show her the pictures, and playthings, with kind words, and a few kisses, and now I think we may try a sitting. No, she won’t sit. No amount of coaxing or persuasion will avail. She is good enough anywhere else but near that chair. Her mother gets out of patience and threatens to whip her. Now this will never do, and the mother must be given to understand, that threats or abuse will render it impossible for us ever to get a picture of her child. I can readily understand the style of treatment that child has at home, and what is the principle of government for the household. If we allow it to be practised here, this place will have as much terror for the little one as, no doubt, many others have.
Love and kindness must rule the baby here; compulsion is entirely out of the question, for even if the child should be compelled through fear, to sit, we can readily imagine what kind of an expression such a state of mind would produce. No, if the child will not sit willingly, we must decline any further attempts at this time. We want her to go away with pleasant recollections of this place, and next week if she comes again to see our birdies, and all the pretty things we have, saying nothing about the picture, I have no doubt we shall succeed without difliculty.
The next is a wide-awake youngster that don’t care for anything. Now this type is generally as diflicult to manage as any we have. He can only be kept in place in the chair by holding him, and he seems ready to explode at every noise or motion you make. Now there are two ways of fixing the attention of this kind—by keeping perfectly quiet, he watches for a few seconds, apparently waiting for something to turn up, and you can catch an impression; again, you may astonish him by the most violent demonstrations, bringing out your whole collection of birds and animals, and turning clown yourself.
“ But I didn’t know there was zuch a variety of babies. I tho’t they were all alike.”
O no, Focus, there is just as much difference in babies as there is in anybody; and finding such a variety we will not have time to go into details with them all, .but will note some of the more prominent peculiarities. Those that we have no trouble with we need not dwell upon; but it is the diflicult ones, or impossibles, that I want you to practice on. Now here is the baby only four weeks old, that don’t take notice ofanything, and you are expected to make a brilliant, wide-awake picture of it. Another, its mother says, is afraid of strangers, and won’t let you come near it. She has no faculty for arranging its position or doing anything with it, so you must catch it as you can, arms and legs flying, making a perfect caricature on your idea of grace and propriety.
This one wants three different sizes and styles of pictures, and when it comes to the trial we can’t get anything.
The next they want taken with the great red, freckled-faced nurse, because they think it would take better that way.
Here’s onejust can walk; they want it standing. It won’t stand still; it don’t stay a moment where you put it. They don’t want it sitting; its grandmother wants it standing, and if they cannot get it that way they don’t want it. They’ve had it taken a great many times before, and never had any trouble. The only way is to prove to them by trying that the thing cannot be done, and then they may have it sitting, as it has always been done before.
A youngster in a black velvet suit, the blackest of all black things to photograph.
“Why! I always thought black took best.”
It does in some cases, but not for a child four years old, when it is often diflicult to keep it still long enough for light drapery.
Some measures ought to be taken to educate people in this direction, so they may not presume so much, but proceed from a knowledge of the facts in the case. We should lose no opportunity to impress upon customers the fact that light drapery is always best for children.
A group of three children, from three to seven years old. Their mother wants them all standing side by side; thinks they would take better that way, as she “intends to send’the picture to Europe; she wants it taken good.”
Now, when people come with such notions
as these, we must try and persuade them out of them.
Three children standing in a row!
I don’t want to make any such picture, much less to have it go to Europe as a specimen of American photography. By showing the mother the absurdity of such an arrangement, she is willing to leave it entirely with us.
They may be grouped around a table. two ‘
standing and one sitting, or but one standing; or they may be all sitting; let the oldest be in the middle, and the others seated lower on each side, so as to give a good form to the group. It is well to group children with books or toys, as though they were doing something. Nothing is prettier than to put them on the floor among their playthings, with as little formality or order as possible.
Our next lesson: Focus, I think I will devote to groups.
Photographs of the Protuberances on the Sun without an Eclipse.
O:: Thursday, September 29th, Prof. C. A. Young. of Dartmouth College, assisted by Mr. H. O. Bly, photographer at Hanover, N. H., succeeded in making photographs of the “flames” or protuberances on the sun. And we are indebted to those gentlemen for prints from the negatives, and the details which follow of this most interesting and invaluable accomplishment. But a year ago, the idea of the possibility of such a performance was barely entertained or credited, and now, by one of our own men of science, it has been done. With many thanks to the gentlemen named, we quote what they say.
“ The arrangementof apparatus by which the photographs of the solar ‘flames’ or protuberances were obtained, were as follows:
“ A spectroscope of peculiar construction and great dispersive power, was attached to the eye-end of the equatorial telescope of 6,!“ inches aperture, and about 9 feet focal length, belonging to Dartmouth College.
“The eye-piece being taken out of the telescope, its object-glass forms an image of
the sun, about one inch in diameter, upon the slit of the spectroscope. Directing the telescope in such a manner that the edge of this image falls very near and tangent to the slit, an observer looking into the eyepiece of the spectroscope, will probably see, if the instrument be properly adjusted, what looks like a bright sunset cloud seen through a nearly closed door; this is the ‘flame’ or protuberance.
“To obtain a photograph, the eye-piece of the spectroscope was slightly drawn out, and fitted with an extemporized camera, merely a wooden tube 6 inches long and 1} inches in diameter, carrying at its upper end a light frame in which was placed the shield, containing for a sensitive plate a little slip of glass, such as is used for microscopic slides. The eye-piece of the spectroscope acted as the lens to the camera, throwing an image upon the plate.
“ The telescope was driven by clock-work, in such a manner as to keep the object, once adjusted, exactly upon the slit (at least it ought to have done so), during the whole exposure, which lasted from three and a half to five minutes, according to circumstances.
“ Ordinary portrait collodion was used. There was no time to prepare something more sensitive, as the equatorial was just on the point of being dismounted, in order to be sent off with the Eclipse Expedition to Spain.
“ The negatives are of little value as pietures, since a perceptible maladjustment of the axis of the instrument and the unsteadiness of the air caused,during the long exposure, so much shifting of the image on the plate as to destroy the definition of details, but the success obtained was suflicient to prove that, with proper and attainable means, and the necessary precautions, photographs can be made as satisfactory as those obtained during an eclipse of the sun.”
BY JOHN I. BLAKE.
III‘ we attempt to stop development on a fully exposed plate, before it has reached its full intensity, streaks and stains will be sure to form if we do not pour on an abundance of water, and keep the plate wholly
covered until the oily appearance of the film has nearly disappeared, and there is no longer any difliculty in keeping the film covered with a small quantity of water.
In photographing landscapes, it is often of the first importance to carry as little weight of material as possible, and the necessary supply of water adds greatly to the load. The appearance of the plate spoken of is caused by the difliculty with which pure water mixes with a solution containing alcohol. The remedy is simple. Ifan equal amount of alcohol is added to the washwater to that contained in the developer, one-quarter drachm per ounce or more, then with practice and care, one ounce can be made to go as far as a pint of ordinary water, for the purpose indicated. The “crawling” of the developer, or of the wash water, will be increased by adding too much aleohol. Where the use of gelatine in acetic acid is indicated, as in copying drawings, the developer flows over the plate without a break. though no alcohol is added. In this case alcohol is not required in the washwater.
I had devised this expedient for landscape photography before the publication of Robinson’s method with golden syrup. There are some difliculties with the latter that make it well to combine the two methods. First, if the plate has had a full exposure, it is impossible to cover its whole surface at once with the preservative, and thus stop development on all parts alike, and stains result unless we dash it over the plate, and thus use more bulk of it than we would have to of the water and alcohol mixture, on account of the viscid nature of the syrup; even if it contains its proper proportion of alcohol. There is a second difliculty; many samples of commercial molasses, perhaps all, contain chlorides. In two samples this was so much the case, that a curdy precipitate of chloride of silver was formed when it was poured on the film, and this remained in part, firmly adherent, and became discolored by diffused light, and left numerous dark spots after fixing. The best plan, under the circumstances, seemed to be to first wash off the developer with the alcohol and water, then to flow on the syrup mixture, when no curds formed, since the silver had
A HOLDER FOR DEVELOPMENT AND REDEVELOPMENT. sir I. cARsr LEA.
VARIOUS forms of holder have been proposed, for supporting the plate during its development and redevelopment, where this last is required, in order to save the hands from the silver stains, which are apt to be caused. None of those that have come in my way, have proved satisfactory. Pneumatic holders are not altogether safe. I have used them both in the form with handle and without, and though they generally held the plate pretty well, especially if the precaution be tnken to keep them well wet, still accidents will once in a while happen, and these are very disagreeable. Another form, which I imported from England some years ago, in which the plate was held between two guides, acted upon by a coiled spring, proved altogether useless.
About a year ago, an idea occurred to me, which Mr. Zentmayer carried into execution for me, and which has proved after very thorough trial, to be free from all objection. The cut will give a clear idea ofit. A brass rod, just stout enough to have the necessary stiffness without being heavy, is inserted into a wooden handle, also another similar piece, much shorter. Each of these carries an arm about three inches long, the upper part of brass, but the lower half of solid silver. At the bottom this silver piece is bent short at right angles. The two arms are connected by a rod passing through both. In one, it simply turns roundI in the other hole there is a screw-thread cut, with a corresponding thread on the rod. This last has at its right-hand end, a millhead. It is evident that by turning this mill-head the arms are made to approach or separate.
The space between the arms is such as to correspond with the size of the plate most frequently used. A holder can, however, be used for two sizes of plates, taking the larger size by its breadth, and the smaller by its length, as the construction admits of a certain degree of play. Thus, the writer’s takes a 6} by 8Q plate the long way, and an 8 by 10 the short way, there being but half an inch difference.
From the form given to this instrument, the plate is secured absolutely. It cannot get out until the screw is loosened, and may be raised to the light in a perpendicular posi
tion with absolute safety. Nor have I ever’
had a film injured, or a plate broken by the pressure.
Another advantage of this holder, and in my opinion, no small one, is, that if one prefers, as I do, to use a bath if one wishes to redevelop with pyrogallic acid and silver, the plate can be plunged into the redeveloping bath without getting the fingers into the mixture. It can be lifted out any number of times for examination and returned to the bath again, thus completely saving the fingers from the most disagreeable source of staining.
In working the collodio-bromide dry process, this instrument eliminates the principal source of silver stains. In that process the alkaline development gives in nine cases out often, all the density that is needed. But if a material mistake has been made in exposure, or if the development has been stopped by mistake too soon, so that the density is insufficient; in these rare cases a silver redevelopment may become necessary, and then this holder comes into play, and enables one completely to save the fingers.
A firmer grip of the holder is obtained by partly squaring the round handle, which could not be very clearly shown in the figure.
0N KEEPING SENSITIZED PAPER FROM DISCOLORING. m‘ an: sARnwnn. THERE is agreat deal being said in the transatlantic journals about washed paper, paper that will keep in its sensitized condi
MY LAND OF BEULAH.
TOE man must have been mnd!” The speaker was my Aunt Idumea, otherwise Mrs. Bertie Lnmley.
We were all assembled in the long library at Hazledene, where the books papa had loved lined the walls from floor to ceiling. An empty chair stood in the recess formed by the oriel window, and in vain I strove to banish from my thoughts the picture of the dear presence that had been wont to fill it.
The family lawyer had just finished reading the will of Charles Lewis Vansitart, Bart., of Hazledene Hall—by which will all his personal effects were left, without reservation or exception, to “Eulalie, my dearly loved wife.”
The only dower my own mother had brought to her husband had been her beauty and her love; and now I was commended to the loving care of the woman who had been her successor, and all provision for my future welfare was left in her hands. Hazledene itself passed to a cousin of my father’s, but all else was Eulalie’s—not absolutely, but for her life-time, after which it reverted to me. If I married, she would make a fit provision for me. So ran this will that set the county talking for many a long day to come.
A graceful, pathetic, and perfectly beautiful figure of chastened woe, Eulalie sat on the couch near the fire, supported on her right hand by the tender and sympathetic Lettie, smelling-bottle and fan in hand. On the other side of the fire-place sat Aunt Idninea, and my place was close beside her, with my hand in hers.
At the time of his second marriage, papa had “had words” (on paper) with this his only sister. She was a little woman, capable of much fierceness; but loving of heart, and true to the core. She had spoken (on paper) what he chose to consider hard words of Eulalie, had been even less measured in her language of himself, telling him that she looked upon him as a ” fool,” of which
genus there was no specimen so pronounced as an “old” one. After this the old lady, for Aunt Ida was many years her brother’s senior, had gone off, with a maid as peppery as herself, and a pug dog as peppery as the two put together, to a foreign wateringplace, and had never, by word or letter, acknowledged the existence of Sir Charles and Lady Vansitart.
Papa was not a man to stand the interference of relatives, and so the matter had rested, until one eventful morning when the cross maid had found her mistress lying back in bed sobbing and shivering, with an English paper clutched in her hand, and the pug harking like mad to try and attract some one’s attention to the sad state of affairs.
The day after the funeral Aunt Ida arrived in our midst, and as I threw myself into her arms I lielt that God had sent me a friend in my desolation, and no longer let me mourn alone.
On her head was a huge bonnet, with huge bows, and this erection she removed and held upon her knee while I told her the story of our bereavement.
Her ejaculations, the wonderful way in which she jerked her body to this side and that, as I stumbled through my narrative, were marvelous things to hear and see; and the fact that tears were falling fast and thick down her small high-featured face did not detract iifthe smallest degree from the sternness of her aspect as she denounced the heartless conduct of Eulalie and her “accomplice.” In vain I represented to her that the term was one we had no right to use to Lettie Dove. From that time up to the present day the old lady never has spoken of that admirable maiden by any other sobriquet. She also persists in talking of papa’s marriage as ” a plot,” and her first meeting with Eulalie was an occasion upon which I never look back without a shudder.
That I had to rouse mvself from those stupors of grief that at times seemed to turn me into the likeness of a stone, to endeavor to keep the peace between these two, was perhaps a good thing. No one knew how the death of poor old Roland had affected me. I had fancied I should have found some comfort in reading a wistful longing for one that came not in his great brown eyes; and now there was nothing but the empty kennel, and the chain coiled up upon the stones!
But I am drifting sadly from the thread of my story.
Where was I?
In the library, that was dim in the gray misty light of the Autumn day, sitting close by Aunt Ida’s side; and Mr. Chitty, the lawyer, had just stopped reading.
“The man must have been mad!” said Aunt Idumea; and she gave such a jerk as she spoke, that even I, accustomed as I was to her vehemence, could not repress a start. Miss Dove turned a reproachful face upon the speaker, pulled the stopper from tiie scent-bottle in her hand, and then blinked pleadingly at Mr. Chitty..
“I think some consideration might be shown to my feelings,” began Eulalie, raising the beautiful head that had hitherto been bent like a drooping flower.
“Your feelings are very unmanageable things, apparently; and I should advise you to get them into better order,” began Aunt Ida. But Mr. Chitty coughed so long and so persistenly that she had to give in and leave the rest of her advice to the widow unuttered.
“I may state,” said Mr. Chitty, still troubled with a tickling sort of cough, ” that I—er—ventured to remonstrate with—er— my esteemed client, the late Sir Charles Vansitart, upon the—er—extraordinary nature of the document which I have just had the—er—honor of reading.”
“You remonstrated, did you, sir?” said Aunt Ida. “You should have told my brother that he was mad—besotted—fooled by a woman’s witcheries.”
“I really can not stay to listen to such language,” said Eulalie, rising lo her feet and to the occasion at the same time; “my
husband had the most perfect trust in me; he considered me the fittest guardian for his daughter; he felt that she would be safe under my control; I trust I may prove myself worthy of his confidence.”
Here Miss Lettie made an effort to put in a word for her cousin; but as Aunt Ida totally ignored her existence at all times ami seasons, the effect proved somewhat futile. It is always a difficult thing to contend with a person who makes believe neither to see you nor hear you, and looks stonily over your head in your most eloquent moments.
“My brother, madam,” said Aunt Ida, rising also, and taking up a position that entirely prevented Lady Vansitart’s intended flight, ” was, like many another man before him, besotted by a woman’s beauty; the world has seen such things before, I believe. Paris—Antony—a dozen more—”
“Really,” said Eulalie, sinking down upon the couch once more, while Miss Dove hovered about — a ministering angel with smelling-bottle all ready uncorked for action—”such examples are not very correct as applied to— No one ever yet breathed a word—”
“Against a person of your immaculate reputation?” interrupted Aunt Ida. “Pray do not believe for a moment that I wish to cast a doubt upon your perfect respectability; I feel quite sure you are far too calculating lo injure yourself by following any imprudent impulse whatever; but in my experience of life I have found, madam, that the most correct women in the world are often the bitterest enemies to those about them; that those who plume themselves upon the clear lines in which their own lives have run often make the greatest havoc in the lives of others; and though they scorn the frail and the tempted, think nothing of sundering those who love one another, or betraying the confidence reposed in them, and are, in fact, to be shunned, as you, madam, shunned the disease that killed my brother.”
Happily, at this point the spe.’iker’s breath failed her; and Lady Vansitart, seeing a vague surprise upon the lawyer’s sharpfeatured face, felt called upon to enter into some protest in her own beluilf.
“You can not regret more tlian I do,” she said, with the old pitiful pleading in her soft brown eyes—the look I knew so well, and of which I too had once felt the power— “my inability to tend the dying bed of my dear and generous husband; niy own state of health—so very virulent a disease—” she murmured, brokenly, gradually subsiding into a handkerchief deeply edged with black. “My physician said that the risk was too—”
“Your physician, madam, is a knave or a fool, or both combined, if he said any thing of the kind,” broke in Aunt Ida. “The only place for any respectable woman wheu her husband is ill is by his bedside.”
“I have never been spoken to in this way before,” moaned auntie’s victim, whom Miss Dove was by this lime assiduously funning.
“I dare say not,” snapped the enemy; “if your mother, or somebody, had spoken a little plainly to you long ago it would have been all the better for you, and people wouldn’t have had such a scandal to tear to bits, us that my brother died with no one near him but that faithful old man—that faithful old man.”
Down streamed the tears over Aunt Ida’s cheeks, falling hot and fast upon my bowed head. Her words brought’ all the cruel scene before me in strunge and terrible distinctness.
The faint light struggling through the gloom; the gray ashen face on which it fell; the poor chill fingers groping for some hand to clasp them. I clung to auntie, she to me, and we wept anew together.
I thought at the time, and I think still, that Mr. Chitty had a certain grim enjoyment in this unseemly altercation between the sister and the widow of his lale client. I fancied I saw a twinkle in his little keen eyes as he glanced at Eulnlie’s drooping head, crowned with its snowy widow’s cup. I think he knew more than he ever told, more than any of us ever knew, how that strange will came about. He made a vast pretense of putting up p:ipers, and inducing them with much humoring to go into a blue
bag he had on the table beside him; but I am sure I caught the faintest reflection of a grin upon his countenance as Aunt Ida— not looking one whit less stern for the tears that washed her wrinkled cheeks—look up her parable again.
“I hear you shut yourself up in your room, when the man who loved you, and took you from a life of toil and poverty, lay dying. You would not even send for this dear child to All the place that, to your shame, was vacant. No, no; thut would hardly have done, would it? He might have had some misgiving if he had seen her bending over him; he might have made a fresh will—he wsis not too far gone to sign his name. Oh!” she moaned, rocking herself to and fro, and clasping me close iu her trembling arms, “it’s all my wicked temper; if I hadn’t been so stiff with him—if I ‘d forgiven my poor boy for his folly, he would never have died with no one but poor old Terence—whom may God bless!—near him. So they kept you away, my dearie, did they ?” she went on, pulling back my hair from my forehead, and patting my cheek tenderly; “they kept you away, my dearie, did they?”
It may have been that Lady Vansitart saw the ugly look of things in general; it may have been that some spark of remorse came to life in her heart. I know not; but she evidently felt called upon to put in a word for herself.
“I was quite helpless in the matter,” she said, letting her clasped bunds full upon her lap, and raising her lovely pleading eyes to Mr. Chitty, as being the only man present, and therefore the most likely person to feel their power. “I had no choice; Sir Charles himself did not wish— Nothing can be more unseemly than that my husband’s actions should be questioned in my presence,” she added, suddenly quilling her ground, and taking her stand on the matter of the will.
“No one questions my brother’s actions, madam,” replied Aunt Ida promptly. “Sir Charles was nu honorable gentleman, and he thought he hud good reason for what he did; I am well assured he thought he was acting for his girl’s good; but he was mnd nt the time.”
“Mad!” gasped Euialie; and Mr. Chitty screwed up liis mouth very tiglit indeed, and made a sort of whistling noise through his teeth.
“Auntie, auntie I” I whis|>ered, putting up my face to hers, and hugging her fast in my arms; “don’t speak to her like that; remember how papa loved her; and indeed, indeed, it doesn’t matter one bit.”
How can any tiling matter now? was the thought that tore at my heart. I never blamed papa for w hat he had done then; I have never blamed him since. There was Borne reason for it that I did not know—that I never shall know. Tliey knew what it was, those two; and if they had wronged me to him—if here and there a sentence in liis loving letters puzzles me still—he knew all the truth when for him the clear light of eternity beat upon the shrouded things of time.
When, two days after the reading of the will, Aunt Ida proposed that I should go with her to London for a time, Euialie made no demur.
A cessation of open hostilities had taken place subsequent to the grand engagement in the library. Euialie posed herself as a martyr to circumstances, Lettie as the confidante of the said martyr. Aunt Ida was mostly in her room, and I—what did I do with the days that seemed so empty? For one thing, I wandered about the house, gathering, as it were, posies of memories, to be laid by like sweet-scented herbs for use and solace in the future.
Hazledene would pass into the hands of one who was almost a stranger to me; new lives would begin to live their little day in the old rooms that were so sacred to me; perhaps a new dog would guard the house, and live in Roland’s kennel.
It is so in life: the scenery remains much the same; it-is the players that change.
It is cheering to me even now to look back upon those last trying days at Hazledene, and call to mind the dear and tender words of comfort that came to me from my Land of Beulah. The first letter of Miss
Mary’s that I put into Aunt Ida’s hands swiftly melted that warm-hearted creature into tears. “Oh, my dear,” she said, ” what must the heart be like from whence come such thoughts of love and peace!”
If there was one room in the old home more endeared to me by precious association, it was the library. Among the vast store of books that enriched its shelves were one or two volumes specially dear; for could I not remember on the occasion of my first holiday at home, sitting on papa’s knee in the mellow light that shimmered in from the oriole window, and looking at the quaint illuminations round the pages? Did I not fall into little ripples of laughter at the droll figures of birds and beasts here and there to be found among exquisitely tinted foliage, and gorgeous flowers such as never yet grew in any earthly garden? Was I not awed into admiring silence by the still loveliness of some saintly figure, or the calm, awful joy of the maiden mother’s face? I knew that the library was not mine, and might never lie; but 1 made up my mind to ask Euialie to give me the old illuminated missals that I loved.
Going listlessly enough one day just before iny departure, into the dear old room, I saw one of my favorites lying upon a side table, and near it a bag, from whose gaping mouth protruded silks innumerable; in a word, Miss Dove’s Dorcas-work. I sat down on the piled velvet cushions in the window, and laying the book upon my knee, opened it, and read the following inscription, “Lettie Dove; from dear Sir Charles Vansitart” Then came a date of some months back. A little, just a little pang contracted my heart Papa had often called those quaint old books “Miss Nell’s property,” and laughed to see me stagger with one of them across the slippery polished floor; and now the funny creatures in the trees, the calm-eyed saints, the sweet, sad Madonnas were all Miss Dove’s. It was only a little thing, but it brought the tears to my eyes.
Before I could clear my sight from that mist of piteous regret, Miss Lettie came gliding in, decorously robed in sable of the deepest dye. A dye that was of quite another shade rose in lier plump cheeks as she glanced at the hook on my knee.
“So papa gave you this, Lettie?” I said sadly, with a sort of hope rising in my mind that when I told her how I valued the hook she would offer to give it hack to me.
“Yes,” she said, fumbling with her silks; “ever such a while ago, on my birthday.”
“Why, you told me your birthday was in August,” I said, opening my eves wide, “and the date in this is December.”
I laid my finger upon the writing in the book as I spoke, and a faint, very faint smear became visible.
“Why, look! one would think it was hardly dry—and—yes, it has made a mark upon the page opposite.”
I spoke in perfect good faith. I was never a good hand at double meanings.
“Such insinuations—” began Miss Dove, her face now literally in a blaze.
But she stopped short, for at that moment Aunt Tdumea came sailing in, with Frizzle at her heels.
Gathering up her Dorcas-work, Miss Dove prepared to leave the room; but lingered, casting uneasy glances round about, as lfshe had mislaid something. She always retreated in disorder before Mrs. Bertie Luinley; and if yon met her hurrying along a passage you were pretty sure to see Aunt Ida appear in the distant vista of the same. On this present occasion, as on all others, the little old lady, whose graceful dignity of carriage exceeded that of the tallest of women, simply and wholly ignored Miss Dove’s presence, and looked up as the door closed upon her retreat as though rather wondering who had passed through it. In these days little Frizzle was about the only cheerful thing in Hazledene, and now he appeared to be possessed by the very spiritof frolic. He worried Auntlda’s dress, making believe she was hiding a lively young rat in its folds; he made rushes at me when I tried to remonstrate with him; finally he dived under the couch by the writing-table, and came out again with an absurdly pompous demeanor and a violently agitated tail, carrying a crumpled-up ball of paper in his mouth.
“What is that the rogue has got?” said
Aunt Ida, peering through her eye-glass. I took the paper from Frizzle, opened it, saw with untold thankfulness that my companion’s attention was claimed by something outside, and stuffed the paper into my pocket.
It was the fly-leaf of the old missal; and on it, in the dear, bold handwriting that I loved, was papa’s own name above our family crest and motto.
That day was a busy one, for Aunt Idumea and I were to leave for London to-morrow. Terrence too and Frizzle were to go with us.
“And it’s a bad sort of a time I’ll be after having with the doaty beast, I’m thinking,” quoth the old man with a sigh; “he’ll be for looking out o’ the window all the blessed way, and barking like mad at every cratur that he sees.”
There was plenty to do; and, hardest work of all, to stifle the expression of the bitter sorrow in my heart. When night closed in, and I need fear no watchers, I stole to the church-yard, where the voice of the sea upon the beach below seemed ever keening a dirge over the quiet dead. I made my way to the railed vault of the Vansiiarls. I stretched out my hands towards the place where my dead lay.
Could papa see me? I wondered, as I knelt there by that cruel rail. Could he see the passion of grief that shook me from head to foot as I murmured through pale lips: “Good-bye, good bye; your little girl is very, very lonely without you; the world seems so large and desolate; there is such a terrible silence come into my life since you left me? O papa, papa!”
Some one — could it be Terence?—came stealing over the graves to where I lay huddled on the damp ground. Yes; it was that faithful servitor.
“I missed ye, Miss Ellen, and thought it would be just by here I ‘d find ye. Ah, now, what would the master say if he could see ye lying here, and the dew falliu’ ljke rain?”
So I rose to my feet, steadied myself by the vault-rail for a moment, and took my way home, followed by poor Terence, scarcely less grief-stricken than his mistress.
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Hallberger’s Illustrated Magazine: 1876, Volume 2
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many inches of water. All the finery was spoiled. Ladies crept into corridors; matadores ran under shelter; and the deserted bull, with eight or ten barbs in his flesh, stood bellowing in his pain and fury, as the deluge smote his head and swelled about his knees. In agony, the Mayor announced the closing of the ring, on which King Amadeo left the royal box without a cheer. With slow and sullen steps the crowd dispersed. “God grant that it may pour like this till night,” said the Minister sadly, as we drove into the town; “if not, there may be fighting in the streets.” Don Ruy passed his budget and proposed his loan. The monarchy hung on that loan, but the “compromise” effected by his too clever agents -in London had destroyed the confidence of lenders, and his contract with the French and Netherlands banks led to nothing. The issue failed. One evening I was leaning on the balcony of my hotel, looking down on the excited crowd in the Puerto del Sol, when I heard a cry as of a pedlar vending broadsides, followed by shouts of laughter and contempt. At first I thought the man was selling bills of the play, the singing-room, or the bull-ring; but on listening with a closer ear I caught the ominous words—“Who will assassinate the
stranger?” “Stranger!” I repeated to myself, “that means the King! Have we already reached this pass, that pedlars can ask for the King’s assassination in the Puerto del Sol, under the eyes of his guards, Ministers, and his police?” I stepped into the square, and bought a copy of the broadside for a couple of cents. It was a serious, not a comic, paper. On the following day I mentioned the fact to an ambassador in Madrid. He, too, had heard the pedlar’s cry, and bought a copy of his paper in the crowd—as an extraordinary illustration of the times. The sale was carried on so impudently, that when a policeman came nigh, the pedlar only moved across the square and gathered up another crowd, who bought his wares and treated his defiance of authority as an excellent joke. The lion of the constitutional monarchy . o to have lost his teeth as well as his tail. Don Ruy’s loan having failed, the Minister retired from office, a discredited and broken medicine-man. The Cabinet of Zorilla could not stand without Don Ruy’s loan, and when King Amadeo found himself with an empty treasury, and without a Ministry, he took the train to Portugal, escaping his imperial cou
sin’s fate. —The Gentleman’s Magazine.
A SKETCH IN PARIS.
“: ELL, sir, I am glad to meet you here,” W. said Mr. Armstead. “Ha, ha! thanks, thanks, thanks very much, thanks,” muttered Mr. Airey in reply. Mr. Airey had but lately arrived in Paris from Bond Street, Mr. Armstead from Beacon Street. The Londoner had run against the Bostonian at the corner of the Rue de la Paix. “Are you going my way?” asked Mr. Airey, lightly. “I am at your service, sir,” said Mr. Armstead, with a courteous motion of the hand. As they moved along the broad pavement, the Englishman entertained his friend with a thousand remarks on men and things. Paris always loosed his tongue; for while he tasted with delight the gaiety and sparkle of the place, he found at the same time much solid food for the moralist. When he was moralising, he felt that he was doing his duty. And so with sense gratified and conscience in repose, a pleasant sun above him, and a good listener by his side, the sprightly gentle
man would comment for hours on the frivolity of the Parisians. When he had brought to an end a nimble discourse on the probable haunts and customs of a passing Petit-gras, he found that for the moment he was without another subject on which to dilate. So turning to his companion, like an amiable social Inquisitor, he asked, “Now what do you find to do with yourself in Paris?” Mr. Armstead, whose share in the conversation had consisted of occasional solemn bows of acknowledgment, now coughed, meditated for some moments, and then answered thoughtfully, “Well, I come down town and I walk around.” “But surely,” cried the other, “for a man of your active habits—why, my dear Colonel Armstead, I ** “Pardon me for interrupting you, but drop the colonel, if you please.” Mr. Airey was vastly astonished. “I beg your pardon—Ibeg your pardon,” he said, “but surely—why I always thought that you Americans were particularly fond of military titles.”
“Well, sir, we have had some pretty serious killing lately, and some of us don’t take quite so humorous a view of the profession as we did when it was confined to Indians and Mexicans.” “But still it is the custom in England and everywhere for a man who has served to keep his title. And you, who where distinguished —you surprise me, you surprise me very much.” Mr. Armstead acknowledged the compliment by bending his head and slightly waving his right hand. After a pause, during which his companion watched him with much curiosity, he said, “It was found that there was a certain awkwardness in sending out your superior officer for a bag of nails or a 2-cent stamp.” Mr. Airey felt that like a second Columbus he had discovered a new America. This novel and interesting specimen must be drawn out, to be afterwards described and commented upon at all his clubs. He assumed an insinuating manner as he asked the leading question, “How do you like Paris?” Mr. Armstead took time to reply. “I like it,” he said; “but I fear there is a little too much of the New Englander in my composition.” “And a capital good thing too,” observed the other encouragingly. “The Pilgrim Fathers would not have appeared to advantage on the Boulevards.” “Certainly not. And yet your countrymen are, as a rule—are they not?—devoted to Paris. You know, of course, the saying, ‘Good Americans when they die go to Paris, eh?” The Bostonian bowed gravely at the quotation. “Some like it,” he said, and added profoundly after a pause, “The American in Paris is too often a Parisian hampered by morality.” The Englishman would doubtless have commented at some length on this remark; but his eye was at the moment caught by something which would serve him even better for a text. Above a large window, which was modestly covered by muslin curtains, appeared the name and title of Madame Lalouette Ex1ére de M–. Over the name of the gentleman who had had the honour of employing Madame Lalouette, a piece of blank paper was carefully pasted. “Look, look!” cried Mr. Airey, in great excitement; “just look at the woman’s ingenuity. She must have been threatened with legal proceedings, don’t you see? So she sticks up that paper, which blots out the cause of offence, while it catches every eye and appeals to every imagination. ‘Sophie, my child,’ says one woman, ‘of whom was this Madame Lalouette the Première?’ ‘For me I cannot conceive,’ says the other; ‘but Madame de Corsaye is sure to know.’ So they rush off to a third lady, and the milliner is advertised all over Paris by a single square of blank paper. It is magnificent!” Here Mr. Airey paused for breath, and was
straightway thrilled by the delightful consciousness of having been unusually brilliant. “I know it,” said Mr. Armstead; “Mr. Blank is an excruciating mystery to women, like the veiled prophet of Khorassan.” “Ha, ha! capital! capital! and, by Jove! she is a clever woman. Just look at that other dodge!” “I have observed it,” said the American. The large window of the ingenious artiste was draped with muslin, as if the mysteries of La Mode were sacred as those of the Bona Dea; but at one side of the window was placed a tall sheet of looking-glass, some two feet wide. While the two friends were gazing at the temple of fashion, the one bubbled over with remarks on the pretty ingenuity of French women, the other watched them in silence as they passed that looking-glass. He remembered a method of snaring birds by like means, and smiled grimly. One lady just touched her bonnet in front, another her braids behind. One stopped and deliberately arranged the lace at the throat, another glanced hurriedly at the glass and then darted across the road a mute defiance of the observer. Even a bonnetless work-girl caught a look, as she slipped back to her work; and a large nurse, whose beauty was no more than health and amiability, shifted her small burden tenderly, while she laid some large fingers on the crisp border of her cap. The two gentlemen were still staring across the street, when a tiny brougham drove quickly up to the veiled window. “Who is she? who can she be?” cried Mr. Airey, and added in a breath, “upon my word, remarkably pretty. One can see in a moment the French woman of the world—grace, elegance, wit.” “It is my wife,” said Mr. Armstead, drily. The Englishman was overwhelmed with confusion: “I beg your pardon—I beg your pardon; I had no idea, I ** “Won’t you allow me the pleasure of presenting you to Mrs. Armstead?” . “Thanks, thanks; delighted, I’m sure. Burt do you think we may go in—two men, you know?” “I am not afraid for myself,” said the Bostonian. The front room of Madame Lalouette was tenanted only by gowns, erect upon wire frames. “Dress-extenders, eh?” said Mr. Airey. “Average women,” observed Mr. Armstead; but there was a twinkle in his eye which softened the severity of his remark. From an inner apartment, which was seen through open folding-doors, came the rattle of two shrill French voices, one voluble in the language of the country, the other almost equally effective in a mixture of French and fantastic English. They were the voices of Madame Lalouette and of “Mees,” so called in the establishment in recognition of her almost miraculous knowledge of our barbarous language. The double stream of persuasion, declamation, and exclamation was occasionally interrupted by a third voice, high but not loud, and with a very pleasant pronunciation of French. Evidently the lady was not yet satisfied, for her tone was a little pathetic. Mr. Airey hung back in alarm; but Mr. Armstead, courteously waving him forward, stalked through the open doors with the unruffled calm of a Red Indian. “Prudence,” he said, “will you permit me to present to you my friend, Mr. Airey?” “I am afraid, I really am awfully afraid that I am intruding here,” said the polite Englishman. “Why, no,” said the lady, with a slight delay on each word to emphasise her negative; and she added, “you can help me to choose a winter jacket. Do you like that?” and she pointed to a garment, which was floating up and down the room on a most elegant young person, who had risen in life by the remarkable fall in her back. “Charming, charming! upon my word exceedingly pretty!” “Which do you mean?” asked the lady, demurely. Mr. Airy was delighted. These little American women have so much self-possession and so much spirit. They are so friendly without being fast. His heart warmed to her, as it does to all pretty women. He enjoys their society, as he delights in Paris. In their presence he feels himself kindled to wit: when they are gone, he will moralise on them by the hour. He is ever ready “to break a comparison or two” on a charming lady. “It must be a strange life,” he observed, lowering his voice, “this sweeping up and down and bending of the body under other people’s jackets.” “My figure is my fortune,” remarked Mr. Armstead, who was standing very upright by his wife, and staring at the gliding garment. “Why, it must be delightful!” exclaimed Mrs. Armstead. “Only fancy being always sure to have on the very latest thing!” “Good gracious! how frivolous!” thought Mr. Airey. “It is evident that I must go to my banker,” said the lady’s husband. “Shall I have the pleasure of your company, sir, or do you remain among the jackets?” The lady looked an invitation prettily. “How charming!” thought Mr. Airey; and he said, “I think, if Mrs. Armstead will allow me, I will stop and put her into her carriage.” The lady smiled, and her husband stalked off alone to his banker. The Englishman now bloomed into talk with so much sprightliness and vivacity, that Madame Lalouette was reduced to a fixed smile of appreciation, and Mees could no longer display her unique power of language. Mrs. Armstead rewarded her ca
valier with occasional smiles and nods, while she gave her undivided attention to the business before her. She liked a prattle at her ear, and had the rare gift of seeming to understand it. Having finally decided how the jacket was
to be cut, how it was to be decorated, and what it was to cost, she became light-hearted, and for conversation’s sake began to babble of her doubts. She wondered if she had chosen right. Did he think that the shape would go with the latest gowns? Was it too heavy? Was is not too light? Would it be very be-, coming? To all these questions she waited for no answer, but stepped daintily into her brougham. Then she gave the gentleman some fingers beautifully gloved through the window, and said smiling, “I have half a mind to go back and countermand it. Would you be so good as to tell me the time? Thank you so much. How late! And I have forgotten little Bobby’s medicine again. I guess I won’t go back about the jacket. Home!” Thereupon she was swept away, leaving Mr. Airey with his hat in his hand. He stood holding his hat and staring after the carriage, until a fat French lady of fashion pushed him off the
pavement, while her little darling of a dog
ran between his legs. Having unwound himself from the animal’s chain, and murmured an apology to its owner, Mr. Airey put on his hat and heaved a sigh. “I have forgotten little Bobby’s medicine again!” he repeated, as he moved away. “And they talk of the frivolity of French women! Poor little Bobby!” This moralist has a tender heart, and delights to exercise it. Pathetic were the pictures which he conjured up of the little innocent. He thought of Tiny Tim and little Paul Dombey. He fancied the sick child lying like a faded flower on his small bed, and lisping blessings on his mother, whose whole mind was concentrated on the choice of a winter jacket. She had forgotten the medicine again. How often had she forgotten it? Perhaps for months that little blighted child had been sighing for the lively tonic, or the dark-brown cod-liver oil; but the hand which should have administered the draught, whilst its fellow smoothed the pillow of the sufferer, was poising bonnets or fingering fringes. Perhaps at that moment poor little Bobby was looking his last look into his mother’s eyes, and whispering, “Never mind, mother, it’s too late. I shan’t want the physic now. You may take it all yourself.” “But this is weakness,” said Mr. Airey to himself, as he found the tears in his eyes. He went home like a man bent on discharging a duty, and springing light as a French thinker from the particular to the general, wrote in his diary, “American women have even less feeling than Parisian.” A week passed, and Mr. Airey had not called upon his Boston acquaintances. It was no small sacrifice. Had anyone ever told him that he was in love with a married woman, his neatly-arranged hair would have risen and betrayed the thin places. Nevertheless, on some of those platforms which in countless number lie between the abyss of love and the heights of sublime indifference, the estimable gentleman moved with ease and grace. The pleasure which he felt in the society of a charming woman was, to some extent, unlike that which he derived from the conversation of his maiden aunt or his former tutor. The unlike element, whatever it may be, never troubled his conscience; but when he was forced to disapprove of an attractive woman, he manfully resisted his inclination for her company. He resisted his tendency to call upon the Armsteads for a full week. “Unmothered mother!—heartless, pitiless!” he frequently repeated to himself, recalling the words of Telemachus, and thereby raising himself to a heroic elevation. Yet he was decidedly bored. He had walked daily on the Boulevard des Capucines, the Rue de la Paix, the Rue de Rivoli, and the Champs Elysées. He had stared into all the chocolate-shops, and gaped at the allegorical works of Rubens in the Louvre. He had moralised before the ruins of the Tuileries, and had scanned with approval that costly triumph of indigestible gingerbread, distant cousin of our own Albert Memorial, the new Opera-House. He had laughed under protest at M. Lecocq’s last opera, and stared with blank amazement at the newest social problem of M. Dumas—a problem on the immediate solution of which the existence of society evidently depended, while he and the majority of mankind had been completely ignorant of its existence. Mr. Airey was bored; but still he would not yield. It is strange, if we consider his fixed determination, that he remembered the Armstead’s number so clearly; yet more strange that on the eighth day after their former meeting he had his hand on the bell of their apartment. Perhaps he went to moralise, perhaps to offer medicine. The door was opened by a French maid, who was crying in a most becoming fashion. The visitor’s imagination was roused. “Is it Bobby” he gasped. She nodded prettily. She could not speak for weeping. She led the way into the first room; and after a moment’s hesitation he followed her. The sight which he beheld was indeed surprising. On the table stood a bottle of physic, and by it the most delicate of sweet-breads untasted. Mr. Armstead, his somewhat rugged face softened by emotion, was bending like a breech-loader with the charge withdrawn, over a comfortable sofa. Opposite to him was his wife, who had sunk upon the floor, and with tears pouring down her cheeks was soothing the little sufferer. The little
sufferer! Between husband and wife, propped by the softest pillows, draped by the softest shawls, important and deeply conscious of his importance, reclined the prince of pugs. Mr. Armstead came forward. “How do you do, sir?” he said, “I hoped that you were the physician. Have you any acquaintance with the maladies of dogs?” “None whatever,” said Mr. Airey, tartly; “and indeed I am glad to see that you can interest yourself in a dog at such a moment.” “At such a moment,” repeated the other slowly. “When little Bobby,” began the Englishman, visibly affected. “Why, sir, this is little Bobby.”
At the sound of his name, uttered in that measured tone which he knew so well, the sufferer turned a plaintive eye upon the intruder. “Behold how the great-minded suffer,” he seemed to say. His skin was so loose, that it would have been well had an accomplished workwoman gathered it in at his waist. His coat was stary, and his tail, that sign of his nobility, uncurled. The lines about his ebon visage were deepened by illness. The face told of suffering, but of a certain pride in the interest which it excited. The large dark eye was turned upon Mr. Airey, but awoke no pity in his breast. That he should have expended a whole week’s sentiment upon a sick dog! As well sit down in the ditch with the great Mr. Sterne to lament over a dead donkey. “I think I had better go,” said the moralist, with a glance at Mrs. Armstead. “I am afraid that my wife is not equal to conversation at present. I trust that we shall have the pleasure of seeing you under happier circumstances.” “Ah, thanks, I’m sure, ah,” murmured the visitor, and he glanced again at the lady. She was wholly unconscious of his presence. She was holding the limp right hand of the patient in her own, and was bathing it with her tears. Mr. Airey departed abruptly.
The next morning, as the moralist was toying with his breakfast, and meditating fitfully on the New England character, a curious note was brought to him. It was shaped like a fan. He opened it with a sniff of scorn. “Another novelty!” he exclaimed testily. “Our mustard-pots are made like beer-jugs; we shall soon have beer-jugs in the shape of baths, and baths disguised as hansom cabs. Marvellous powers of invention truly!” He spread out the sham fan, and read the nimble-pointed characters:—
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parties. The favourite hound of the Duc d’Aumerle, La Marquise de Baldefée’s famous Spaniels (of course you remember M. Casimir’s brilliant mot), and M. Baretta’s new poodle Fraternité, are among his patients. He says that our little Bobby has no serious malady, but recommends a warmer climate. So we start at once for the south, and shall winter at Nice. I should prefer the Nile, but hear that the boats are so irritating for dogs. Will you do me a great favour, and send me some cleansing tablets when you go back to London? I would not trouble you, but they are
invaluable for Bobby’s skin. My husband is
in despair at having to leave without return
ing your visit. Perhaps we may meet some
where in the South. –Very cordially yours, – PRUDENCE ARMSTEAD.”
“I buy tablets for that cur!” cried Mr. Airey. “Well, I suppose I shall,” he added. He could eat no more breakfast. He took down his diary, and wrote in it with the air of one who fulfills an important duty—“American women are absurdly over-sensitive.” —Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine.
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”) HEN Lieutenant Cameron had finished W. his exploration of Lake Tanganyika, – 3 he started from Ujiji in May 1874, and between that date and November 1875 made his wonderful tramp to the Atlantic, through regions in most parts of which the foot of white man had never trodden. He was fortunate enough to be well received by King Kasonga, whom he ascertained to be the most powerful native chief in that part of Afrika. When the narrative of his travels appears, written by his own hand, it will, perhaps, be illustrated with drawings from his own pencil; but meanwhile it is pleasant to know that some of his sketches had been sent to the Illustrated London News, and have been engraved in the pages of that periodical. These sketches are valuable, inasmuch as they give an insight into the manners and customs of a nation now introduced to us for the first time. In one we see the dress levée of King Kasonga of Urua, when he formally received Lieutenant Cameron. Lesser chiefs prostrated themselves before the great man, each giving his dagger or short sword to be held by an attendant. . The official executioner, with axe in hand, stood ready for immediate work. Kasonga wore a European dress-coat, purchased from traders on the west coast, and a shirt, but no trousers! A long straight feather was stuck in the top-knot of his twisted hair. Two Amazons of his bodyguard, in very airy costume, and armed each with an axe, stood near him; like the king Dahomey, he has a penchant for a guard of lady-soldiers. All, men and women alike, had droll little apologies for pigtails at the back of the head. On another occasion, Cameron
met a native wedding-party. The dusky bride was lifted as high as possible on the shoulders of a stalwart man, and upheld there by another; they jumped or danced about in a grotesque way, to the music of a kind of kettledrum thumped with the fist, and a sort of double pipe (such as has been known in Africa and the East ever since the old classical days). The assembled friends shewed the bride to the bridegroom, and congratulated him on the occasion. The costumes—well, there was not much to speak of. A third sketch presents to us an Urua medicine-man, peripatetic doctor, or conjuring priest, clad in grotesque pomp of attire, with his implements of mystification, and followed by his servitors. King Kasonga appears to be a good sort of fellow, as African princes go; nevertheless, he does a little more in slave-catching and slave-trading than is creditable. All our travellers in these African regions, however, agree that the Arab and Portuguese dealers—the former hailing from the east coast and the latter from the west—intensify the evil by encouraging it; and Cameron speaks of a certain Portuguese half-caste named Coimbra as being the worst of the lot. The lieutenant met a slave-gang of fifty or sixty wretched women, bearing on their heads heavy loads of plunder they had been forced to bring from the despoiled and destroyed villages. These poor creatures were all that were left out of five or six hundred, the rest having been killed in the villages, or starved in the jungle. All were roped together, some carrying their
miserable infants at their back; while the
whip of a slave-driver urged forward those who were nearly exhausted with fatigue. These unhappy women were sent, not to the coast, but to various parts of the interior, where