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Chwiliwch 15 miliwn o erthyglau papurau newydd Cymru
6 erthygl ar y dudalen hon
Cuddio Rhestr Erthyglau
6 erthygl ar y dudalen hon
THE PRIESTS' HOLE. -...
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THE PRIESTS' HOLE. BY JOHN FiNNEMORE. Author of the "Red Men of the Dusk," The Lover Fugitives," Etc. CHAPTER I. MARGARET AND RICHARD Lieutenant and Commandar Richard Vil- liers, heme after four years oji the Ciiina station, strode up to the door of bprin^- meads, and mounted the .stepo. It v.iiid xiiS aunt's house, but had always meant h-oma to him for as long as he could remembe.r; cmd he turned the ponderous handle of the heavy door and entered the huge hall. At 1i.r,t glance there seemed no one about, and the early autumn afternoon was dusk with- in this vast apartment, panelled in black oak of immemorial age. A fire of logs crackled in the great cavern of a hearth, and gleams of red light fla&hed on stands of armour and trophies of weapons arranged upon the wails. ihe tall bronzed saiior walked towards tho hearth, the fall of his feet deadened upon the carpet which ran from the door up the liali. Suddenly lie stopped doad. Some- one was sitting in the huge chimney corner, and, as he recognised who it was, he drew a deep breath and gazed at her with all his heart showing in his brave eyes. She sa.t there, a half closed book on her knees, lier eyes fixed on the glowing core of heat in the heai't. of the bkaing logs. The light showed a lovely Kngiish girl of 0,0 iUiu-tw-ctity, brown haired, brown eyed,, brown cheeked as became one who icwieu neitiitsr wind uotr weather. Villiers stepped forward, and she looked up. toiie feiarisjd as the lirehgnt tell on Uie tallligme and sprang to her feet. "You!" she cried. "hy, itiehard, you have dropped from the skies. Wo did not expect you tdl to-morrow." "Ship got in ahead of time," murmured Villiers, as ho took her outstretched hand. "Landed last night and came on this morn- ing. How are you, Margaret?" "1 am very well," she said; "and you, how are you after your long stay abroad? Welcome home! it is a very quiet welcome after your absence. No one to meet you." lhe best of welcomes is good enough for me," said the sailer quietly, as she sat down again, and he .stretched his long legs in front of a wide elbow chair new at hand. "Then the telegram that camlê for Lady Anne about three hours ago was from you f" said &he. "Yes, I wired to my aunt before I Left Southampton," replied Richard. And she had gone out just before and has not returned," said Margaret. "o no one was expecting you. Are you hungry ? Shall I order something for you ? I think I may venture on that." 'I should think you may," laughed Rich. ,coni;hlormg you've been familiar wicii tne place almost as long as I have, out 1 won't take anytlutig, thank you. I lunched, on the train." ,1.ow, j0?.1 .into a quiet chat over old times and old friends, bringing up all sub- jects save one, though it was present in the minds of both. It could not fail to be ab- sent from lucnard's thoughts when he saw ior the first time the plain circlet of cold )icn glittered on her left hand, her wed. ding ring. Her hands were folded in her lap, and they wore no other ornaaiient, save the shining strip of yellow metal. But she made no sign of mentioning her marri- age, and under the circumstances, it was not for Richard to bring it up. So he stretched himself at ease in the great ohair, fealmg in every bone how good it was to be homo again, how delightful—after grilling in dry heat, stewing in damp, being ham- mered by typhoon and monsoon—was this grey English weather, and how perfect it was to sit by this roaring fire of English logs and chat to the woman he loved best- in the world. Margaret was altered; 'he saw that at once. She was quieter, her calm, steady look had deepened, her beautiful brown eyes no longer flashed with their old in- tecÜous gaiety, but to him the woma.n seemed a thousand times dearer and sweeter than the gay laughing girl of seventeen to Wiiam he had said good-bye four years ago. i suppose there is no party here at pro xemarked Richa.rd. Margaret laughed. "The house is full from top to bottom," she replied. "The hall is quiet for haif-an-hour, and you have hit upon that very instant. The Colonel is out at the head of the guns, and of the wome.n are there, too. The rest are driving or walking, or in their rooms. A p. pivaranc(\s are deceptive at this moment." So it seems," laughed Richard. "The place had a delightful air of quiet as I came In. The hall door was now thrust open and a stout man in tweeds, a gun in his hand, entered and walked towards the fire. "I thought I did not see you to-day, Mrs Levinge," he said to Margaret, "and as it got rather slow I came back." "Have you seen Lady Anne. Major Wal- asked Margaret. "She's just driving up to the doeir," re- plied the Major. Lpon hearing this, Richard sprang to his reet and went to meet his aunt. The lat- ter was on the steps as he showed himself at the entrance. .< x- Dick, my dear lad," she or led. 1 ou here already and, regardless of the bevy of people trooping up from the coverts, she saized him in hen- arms and hugged him as she had done when he was a little boy. Lady Anne was tall, stout, red-faced, five- and-fifty, and ordinarily a stately gentle- woman to her finger tips. But she cast dignity aside at sight of her only near rela- tion, the boy to whom she had been aunt and mother combined since he was three y-ears old, and embraced him warmly. i p"* i r<?°m have they taken your things to r" she asked. /pH'' traps down at the station." said Richard, and walked no "Someone shall fetob them at once," she Haul. I can t give you VOUr old room at present, my boy, you'll We to have the little red room opposite mine." "Anywhere will do for me," murmured Richard. Now a swarm of guests descended UT>» them, sonic of whom knew Villiors Lid some did not, and a chorus of greetings und introductions followed. When Richard entered the drawing-room &fter dinner his first glance was in seai-ch of Margaret. He saw her in the midst of a cluster of girls, guests in tha house, and, turning aside a little, lie sat. down to await <tn opportunity of joining her alone. He knü\v himself to be no great hand at small talk, and he had much to say to Margaret that was not small talk. Steady as was the he always maintained upon himself, it had stirred him deeply to into the, old hall that afternoon and find hor seated by the fire,as he had of ten seen her in otiier years, yeans when he had deemed her too young to speak of the deep affection which jdled his breast. It put the last perfect touch upon his home-coming that Margaret should be at Springmeads. True, there a number of chattering, frivolous, idle j*fOple in t-1 10 house as well, but he knew :!fr-a"'r t's haunts of old, and promised him_ ^°if in any a quiet half-hour with her, if she were not unwilling. He glanced round the familiar drawing- OOln with the pleasure one feels in revisit- ■ tig every apartment of a house to which ■<j .,s deeply attached. It.was a strange- °king place for a drawirg-room, lofty and "u'ted, with tall, narrow windows. The anntion was that the room bad p oe > 31 a chapel in long distant days, when the family who inhabited the house had wor- shipped at home, and often worshiped secretly, for they had been of the Roman Catholic faith. The holism of Snringmeads had been built between the years 1589 and 1595, as recordod in quaint figures on the tablet over the door of the hall. It was a time when Mizabeth and her ministers were cruelly severe on Reman Catholics, and, as com- monily found in houses of that date, Spring- meads was simply riddled with secret pas- sages and hiding places. The "priest's holes" in the mansion had been designed by that areheontriver Nicholas Owen him- self, the famous Jesuit, and were among the finest examples of his cunning and sKili. were three distinct ways of entering or leaving the secret chamber where the priest, his vestments and bouks. had been hidden more than once upon the arrival of officers and pursuivants to search the place. Passages ran through the immense thick- ness or the massive walls, the entrance^ a.nd exits being hidden in the old oak panelling, the latter much oider than the present building: it had been removed from the ancient house which formerly stood upon the site. When Lady Anne was fifteen years old the last representative of that branch of her family which had held Springmeads died. He had left the place to her, and, since her marriage, it had been her home. Presently Margaret strolled towards Rich, ard, chattering with a visitor an American girl, who had arrived a Springmeads three days before. They halted near Richard, and Miss Van Loo gazed up at a portrait a full length, painted on a long panel. Mrs Levinge, he looks fierce," murmured Miss Van Loo, eyeing a gentle- man with a very stiff peaked beard and w&rii ke moustaohios. Yes, he was the owner of this house at the time of the Civil War," replied Mar- garet. "He hid twenty Royalists in the place, and not one was found, tliough the Ironsides turned the house up- side down to discover them." Sa y. that sounds romantic," said Miss Van Leo. "I suppose there are secret chambers and hiding places by the half- dozen in a big old house like tliis. It's a puzzle to find your way about, I've lost myself twice in the corridors already: I suppose you call them galleries F" At this moment Miss Van Leo was called upon to sing, and Richard stood up. His movement caught Margaret's eve, and she turned and smiled when she saw who it was. "Won't you sit down?" he said. "You would hear Miss Van Loo admirably from here." "I would rather hear vou talk," said the girl frankly. "I was expecting to hea.r all about your adventures when we were dis- turbed this afternoon." "I couldn't help smiling to hear your companion speaking of the secret places while she was looking at that portrait," went on Richard. "She would have been surprised had you touched the sprinp- swung the panel back, and revealed the gloomy hollow behind." I was very glad she didn't push any questions home on the subject," said Mar- garet. "Lady Anne is intensely unwilling to allow any knowledge of the priests' holes ■■ and passages to get abroad. She says that it would permit untrustworthy people, par- ticularly servants, to play suoh pranks in the house." "She is quite right," replied Richard, though I fancy she knows very little of them herself." "At this moment, in this house, I be- lieve no one knows them except you and I," said Margaret. "What of old Bates, the butler?" asked Richard. if He knows them pretty fairlv, I think." "He was dismissed two years ago. for drunkenness," replied Margaret. "His besetting sin," remarked Richard. "I suppose it got too bad at last. Do you remember me finding the plan of the hid- ing-places?" he went on. Ii A large folded sheet of parchment, drawn u.p bv old Little John himself, and tucked away in the leather cover of that great copy of Froissart in the library. How we worked at it until we had mastered every nook and trick and spring." He paused abruptly, for a slight change had come over his companion's face, and he remembered that there had been three of them, two tall boys and a little girl, and the other boy had become her hus- band. He shot off at once to something else. "When do these people go away?" he asked, nodding to the groups which were scattered about the great room. "Mast of them, I believe, leave at the end of this week," replied Margaret. "But you are not going?" "I? Oh, no, I am here for a fortnight again." "That's capital," said Richard. "I feared to hear you were due somewhere else, and would wing your flight with this covey." Margaret laughed, and the talk now turn- ed upon the story of his doings abroad. That night, when the guests were dis- persing to their own rooms, the host,Colonel Blount, touched Villie.rs on the arm. "Where are you going, Dick? Smok- ing-room ?" "I thought so, uncle." "Come up to your aunt's sitting-room. She'll let us have a cigar there, and we can have a. quiet chat." They went up to Lady Anne's room, and found her sitting by the fire. You've captured him, have you, Frank?" said she looking up. "That's good. Now we can hear what he's been doing. There's no chance to get two words with anyone when so many psople are about. Draw your chairs up to the fire and light your cigars." In two minutes again the three were seat- ed comfortably about the blaze, and Rich- a.rd prepared to unfold the budget of his four years' doings in these interested ears, He had written regularly, but their was much to be talked of again. For a moment they spoke of other things. "This is your biggest shoot, isn't it?" remarked Richard, as he lighted his cigar. "Yes," said the Colonel, "that's why the plaoo is so full." "I'm afraid it's not very convenient, my marching on you now," said Villiers to his aunt. Hear the boy talk," laughed Lady Anne. Not convenient. Where on earth Should you go? You know very well the place is as good as your own, since and 1 nave neither chick nor child "Oh Aunt Anne," protested the young man, "I have never dreamt of such a tiling." "I knew you didn't," said that lady with a shrewd smile, or perhaps I shouldn't bo so quick to say it." Colonel Blount took his cheroot from his lips, blew a long cloud of smoke, and chuckled. "There's something in that, Anne," he remarked. Nearly an hour of busy conven&ation passed before Hicha,rd. managed to turn the talk to the subject nearest his heart. "When I came in this afternoon," -he re- marked, "I thought at first the place was deserted, then 1 found Margaret in the chimney corner." "You found her alone?" said Lady Anne. "Quite alone," returned Kichard. "We had a, chat before anyone else turned up." "Do you find her much altered?" asked his aunt. Well, of course, she seems much oider and quieter, "rephedRichard;" but that was to be expected. She was such a merry girl, and the shock of losing her husband as .he did must have been dreadful. It seemed the oddest thing to me as I looked at her to think that Margaret had become wife and widow-; while I was away. And Levinge lest bis life in the frightful .^a/aar lire in Paris ?" \es," said Colonel Blount slowly, "that was it. He was staying at the same hotel as Our neighbour, Captain Lowry; in fact, they went to the bazaar together. Lowry got out quite easily, but he missed Arthur Levmge, and Arthur was never seen again. 1 do not believe they really know how many lives were lost there: it was a terrible ousL ness. "Terrible indeed," murmured Richard, and for a moment there was silence. "I must admit," went on the sailor, "that I was surprised to hear of the mar- riage. I hardly thought Arthur Levinge the kind of Inan he hesitated and paused. n iou were not more surprised than 1, said Lady Anne, grimly. "And decidedly Aiti.ur Levinge was not the kind of man to mate any girl happy. He was not the man I incoiiaeci Aiargaiet to marry." She smootned her clown with both lianas ana gave a significant snili. Colonel is loan c passed a hand over his high, bald brow and iaugued. "On, you may laugh, Frank, said his wife. "1 know quite well what you mean, that I axil more a tiiiie of a ina'ieui- makor. Well, I aamit it. So I am. But I should never have made that match." "it was really made by iom Levinge, Arthur's father and Margaret's guardian, said the Colonel, "and tuough Tom Levinge is a right down good fellow, lie made a ter- rible hash of it that time, and did very wrong, as I think, in persuading Margaret to marry his son." "I remembar that Margaret was always passionately attached to Mr Levinge," said iiicnard. "That's just it," put in Lady Anne. "Without pressure from him I am sure she would never have married Arthur. But I believe the elder man thought the marriage would be the salvation of his son—a foolish enough idw-alld so he worked upon her till she consented." Was Levinge in need of salvation ?" asked Villiers. "You must remember I have seen little or nothing of him since we ran about this house as youngsters together." Was he not!" returned Lady Anne lott- ily. "He turned out a very unsatisfactory person. Debts!" She raised a horrified hand as if they were numberless. "I don't think I've heard anything of this," remarked the sailor. "Quite, possibly not, llW boy," said his aunt. "it was a sickening business, and it is very likely I did not blacken paper with it when writing to you. I was glad enough to put it out of my mind." "Then he was no great loss," commented Richard. "Loss?" cried Colonel Blount. "His death was the luckiest thing in the world. Why, at that very moment, bills which he had forged were maturing." "Forged?" cried Richard. "Forged, to be sure," replied the elder man, pulling his long, white moustache. "Within a month of his death one turned up for me, to the tune of twelve hundred pounds." "What did you do?" Your »••>(•; did nothing." reolied Lady Anne. "lie on id it and never said a word. The fellow was dead, and Tom Levinge was heartbroken, and, as it turned out. practi- cally ruined by the heavy drains his pro- digal son had made on his purse." "But mine was only a trifle," continued the Colonel; "there was a lad named Poole in young Levinge's regiment, a lad with plenty of money, and Levinge fleeced him pretty roundly at cards, Then he got the lad to back one or two bills, and, at Last, being very hard pressed for several heavy debts, he put Poole's na.me on a big bill, a bill for five thousand pounds." Richard gave a low whistle. Who found a, great sum like that?" he .exclaimed. "it hasn't been found," replied Colonel Blount. "Poor old Tom Levinge tried to meet it, but he could no more raise the money than he could fly. Then Margaret wanted to pay it. But she dees not come into control of her money till she is twenty- rive. Siie came to me—1 am the other trus- tee, you know—and pressed me very luard for the money, but I would not give my con- sent." "I never saw your uncle so determined in my life, said Lady Anne. "As a rule, Margaret can twist him round her finger, but this time he was. simply adamant." "WelL by George! Anne, what was I to to?" cried he. "if she likes to pay up when the money is absolutely her own, that's another affair. But I wasn't going to hand out her cash in order that she might shovel it into the hands of the sharks with whom Arthur Levinge hiad been dealing." Of course you were not, Frank, and you were perfectly right," replied his wife. "How did Margaret take his death?" asked Richard. "Well" said Lady Anno slowly, "Mar- garet is not a girl who parades here emo- tions. I have no right whatever to say that she found out the terrible mistake she had i.Le, but that she had found it out I am quite sure. I believe myself that within a very short time of the wedding she would have given anyting to be Margaret Harto again." At this moment Margaret Levinge was pacing the floor of her room, a large cham- ber at the other end of the gallerv upon which. Lady Anne's sitting-room opened. She had dismissed her maid, and had re- mained seated for a long time in deep thought by the wood fire piled in the deep hearth. Then she sprang to her feet, a.nd moved to and fro, for she loved motion when her mind was working fast. She, too, had booi stirred deeply on meeting her old companion again, and she had seen that in his eyes which she had seen without understanding four years ago when they parted, and which now she com- prehended only too well. She looked back on her husband, and felt a panp" that she should have become entangled with Arthur Levinge. And yet she did not blame her- self. With her present knowledge, she looked back and was very sorry for the in- nocently ignorant girl wh/j had fallen under the influence of Arthur Levinge, and, above all, had been implored-to marry him by the man sihe loved best in the world, Arthur Levinge s fathe.r. She knew now the in- jury that Thomas Levinge had done her, H ^orK,avc him, and believed through &1I toiat li^i liacl never of "t/ho man- nfr marriage would turn out, that ne ixiad never really known his son's character. Her thoughts now turned to her dead hus- band, dead without tears on her side, for there was not a grain of the hypocrite in Margaret's nature. She sighed thought- fully as she remembered how his death had oonie to her as little short of a relieif, though the days of marriage and widow- hood liad been separated but by a brief space. She knew now how easily such a man as Arthur Levinge, handsome, gay, with charming manners and the tongue of the old serpent, could ensnare a, girl's fancy, and she did not blame herself, only felt sorry for the innocent young creature who wont blithely into such a marriage without tho faintest idea what it meant. She oeased her light pacing to and :1', and threw herself into a c-hair otfore the large mirror on tilLI dressing +abio. She looked steadily at herself, and saw beneath the lines of experience on the woman's face, the smooth features of the girl of eighteen who had worn the bridal veil. She smiled sadly at herself as she recalled the few months of that disastrous marriage, the merciless manner in which her husband fleeced her of every shilling he could lay his hands on, his, groans to think how far off was the day on which her fortune came into her own disposal, his cruses upon the watch. tantCare Wl11dI had ^Pointed a day so dis- taut. mii?,0 W"an Saving steadily mto the muioi, e.bow on the arm of the ohair, when a strange sensation crept o\ or her. Something was mov- ing in the depths of the mirror, something was moving m the dusk of the room behind her. the room in tfhich she-believed hensod' all alone. A door seemed to lie opening in the wall where sh0 knew no door was, and a form was stepping into the room, the form of a man. Dimly in the dark depths of the mirror she saw his white face, his bright! hi vTb f ^oved swiftly forward to the her chair, and at every step his face Sffi ? advanced into the li-ht of the tall candle burning in tie sconce. He paused at her shoulder. She had not turned her head. Her wide eyes were fixed on the smooth sheet of glass where her pale features and the still whiter face of the intruder stood out sharply agamst tho ebony dusk of the distant panel led wall. In the mirror their glances met eyes fixed on eyes. (To be Continued.)
--LONDON PICTURES. ----
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LONDON PICTURES. FAMILY AND COMMERCIAL. I have never met the Family that. is sup- posed to stay at this hotel-whioh is within easy distance of Ludgate Hill Station. In- deed, what I am pleased to call my imagnia- tion boggles at the idea of meeting a curly- hetideci child (if a child's head ever does curl on a stairway where the strong-flavoured smell of ccnimercial dinners meets half-way the frowsy fragrance of the gentlemen's writing ream. Not that I have anything to say against the hotel, which is a highly respectable place, and excellent, for those who iike it, but it is really not the place for a. family. In that respect it is only one decree belter than the seaside apartments where Lnglish nuocLle-class families do pen- ance for tiheir sms in the summer tame. But as a.commercial hotel it is admirable. The comiaetroiai gentlemen who come here like its homely atmosphere (though 1 wonder if their homes have this aroma ol stale tobacco, i-cast jomts, and neel-taps which clings in a ghostly way to the window curtains and hoj-se-hair furniture. And they like the lady at the bar, who is always nleasant spoken," as they say (except in the early morning, when she has not yet fot the sleep out of her eyes nor her hair out of curling pins, and late at night when the gentlemen want "another whisky, please, miss," after the bar is closcd). She is an attractive looking young lady—she would take it as an insult to be called a woman—and she is very careful of her hair and teeth. She has a pretty wrist, which she shows to advantage when a thousand times a day she pats ner float hair before the little mirror which hangs betwen two bottles of old Scotch. And she has a pretty wit. For ready re- partec she is considered inimitable. For instance, when one of her customers re- marked thathor temper was rather shoit this morning, she said ouite readily that it mf*? °,er'ta-inly not so long as his tongue. I his ig generally considered among her ad- mirers as her most brilliant tefort, and it is repeated to newcomers in the Commerci- al Room as a thing worth rememherrng feno is also reported to have said other tilings nearly as good. She has a nabic cf giving nicknames to the customers. Thus, one gentleman in the artificial flower line, who has a bald head round which he care- fuJIy plasters one last remaining lock, is called "the greyhound," because, as Mias HLgglllS says with a peal of Laughter which sots the glassies rining, "He makes a little bare go a long way. It is this amiable badinage which gives a feeling of friendli- ness and familiarity to "the house," as the hotel is called by its inhabitues. • At the commercial dinner,after the gentle, men have drunk to the King, with that solemn loyalty which is a chana/jteristic of all gentlemen "of the road," and after each man has put down his penny (another un- failing custom) towards the Commercial "I ravellers' Schools, one toast is always pro- posed, seconded, and carried. The chairman — •the senior man o.n the road—rape on the table with his carving knife, clears his threat, and fixing his eyes on the gentleman opposite, at the end of the long table, riS>3S and says:— Mr Vice, I trust you will support mo in my opinion when I say that it is not meet that we should sit down to this good cheer without drinking the health of one who, by her beauty, by her charm, and by her wit, sets a.n example to the fair sex in general, and to bar-ladies in particular. Mr Vice, I shall be obliged if you will second me. when I propose the toast of 'Miss Hiijgins—God bless her! There is another member of the fair s.ex in tliis hotel not less popular with the gentlemen, though treated with loss defer- ence..Nobody knows her real name, be- cause the gentlemen whom site serves with ootid and pickles, split pel lies, and under- done cut and mashed, and other tilings take. a pleasure in giving her new names with every order. Thus the Chairman will ad- dress her aa "Ophelia, my darling," or "Hypatia, my well-beloved," or "Theodosia, dearest," or, if sho has twice forgotten his call for French mustard, will shout with such reproof as Come into the garden, Maud, with that mustard or Til end your precious life with a bare-bodkin." Other- wise she is officially known as the girl," though it must surely be a long time since sihe was entitled to call herself a woman. She" has a good hea.rt-. More than coioe she has advanced sundry shillings out of lieu- wages to young commercial men who have outrun their week's expenses and cannot find the fare back to the bosom of their family in Birmingham, or elsewhere. In her way she is a moralist of high principles. She sets her face severely against unparlia- mentary expressions, and has been known to box the ears of a Mr Vice who was more vicious in this respect than his office allowed. To the honour of the chairman it must DO said that lie upheld this drastic action, im- mediately passed a vot-e of censure upon the Vice, and a vote of thanks to the lady. After this incident, whenever strong language is absolutely necetssary for the purpose of enforcing an argument, the gentlemen give due warning. Beatrice, will you kindly leave the room for a minute or two while I expostulate with my friend yonder?" This delicacy is not onlv appre- ciated by "the girl," but gives additional weight to the words which fall from the lips of the gentleman whose emotion, needs instant relief. ft ft ft Tho busiest time of the day in what the chairman at dinner sometimes refers to as "this caravanserai of commerce" is at five o'clock, when the gentlemen come in from their day's work round the wholesale and retail houses, and sit down to write up the pest." There are a number of writing tables divided by partitions, and under each table is a pair of list slippers without heels pro- vided free of charge. Most of the gentle- men come in with black bags containing samples and tlie day's orders, which they rapidly run through before making out their daily reports to headquarters. For an hour there is comparative silence disturbed only by rustling sheets of flimsy and steadily driving pens, and occasional remarks of a pessimistic or inquiring character. "Always lose my blessed luck in London!" "Absolutely no business in this rotten city "Are there two p's in appear?" "I wouldn't sell my thirst for a fiver." At five minutes to six the boots" comes to take the letters to the post, and the com- mercial gentlemen retire to get out their frock-coats into easier dress, exce^f those who are not yet through with their writ- ing and can afford to wait for a later poet. At half-past six the Commercial Room is c'o'.vded with hungry fellows who defy all rules of health by drinking large quantities of strong tea while they eat underdone steaks or cold joints. They take the meal leisurely, and discuss the latest murder mystery of the political situation with an air of authority, and much intellectual dog- matism. Then they drift easily into "shop," and their conversation is of the quickest routes to every city and town in the United Kingdom, of hotels good and bad, of business that is slack or brisk. One by one they drift out to theatres and music halls, or to sharpen their wit with Miss Higgins at tlie bar. At half-past 11 ■some of tihem return, a little hilarious and the Commercial Room is filled with smoke and tho fumes of alcohol. At midnight the boots" comes in to know at what time the geaits are to bo called, and chalks the hour on the right boot of each of them. Then thei-e is the inevitable quarrel with MLs-5 Hlgains for the extra whisky after the h&r is closed, and, finding her inexorable, the gentlemen retire to bed to dream of cotton fabrics by the gross, of pearl buttons and artificial flowers, of prayer-booKs or Scotch whiskv, of playing cards and portmanteaux and of other commodities with which trey ¡ travel along the highways of emulation shops.—XHE T lUBUNE.
,AGRICULTURAL NOTES.
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AGRICULTURAL NOTES. BY A PRACTICAL FARMER. CONTENTED CATTLE. The old adage" Li..ugh and grow fat" is figuratively applicable to cattle as well as human beings, for there is nothing more certain in re- gard to the management of stock than that dis- turbance and discomfort interrupt the processes upon which profit depends. Whether it be flesh- making or milk, growing of frame, or healthy and profitable pregnancy, contentment, a fl- ing of comfort and satisfaction is half the battle. In stall feeding, the winter management of stock indoors, or the treatment of those kept under cover upon dry or green food supplied to them for any purpose, regularity in the time of feeding and in the sufficiency of rations dealt out is of immense importance. The animals know to a nicety how the time goes on and be- come restless, discontented, and more or less eour in their general temper if not fed regu- larly. The appetite of each animal should bo watched as far aa practicable, both with a view to the treatment of that particular animal for profit and to detect any approach of illnese. For the latter reason, too, the eyes, oars, noses, and coats of hair of the herd should be so under observation that a dull eye, an ear hanging back and coid to the touch, a dewless muzzle, or prickly hair may give timely warning of some- thing amiss, and the ailing animal be put under proper treatment at once. Delays are often dangerous. ABOTT MANTTP.ES. Any manure containing all the three neces- sary substances — nitrogen, phosphates, and potash—will work beneficially upon all crops and upon all soils which are cultivated, even if the latter are completely exhausted, and to avoid difficulties and trouble it would at first sight appear the best a.nd simplest plan to buy manures which arc mixtures of or contain these three ingredients. This, however, is an UD- economical practice, aB manufacturers invariably charge for each mixtures more than they are worth, and although their graM, corn, turnip and potato manures will always work. because they conis;;i all the necessary ingredients of plant food. they 6hould be avoided unleS6 a satisfactory report regarding reasonable cost is given by a tr:1stworthy chemist after analysL1. Plants can make no use of any food which is not soluble in water or in very weak acids. Manures' or food materials not soluble to begin witb must become soluble sooner or latn in the sod, or they cannot be of any use to the plant. Plants only absorb through their slender roota from the soil substances or food", which are easily dissolved. The more soluble manures are, the more readily they get into the plants, and, of cou, the more rapidly are thJ wll.t3hed out of the soil and lost if no plants are present or when growth is at a standstill. Slow-acting or lasting manures are those which are not soluble to begin with, but which in time become soluble. DEEP CULTIVATION FOR POTATOES. Deep working tends to increase a crop of pota- toes it is also conducive to good quality, as in times of drought the potatoes rarely receive such a check as to stop t-ubcration and harden the skins. When tho work is shallow a drought is soon felt, as the moisture rapidly evaporates; when this is the case tubers ripen prematurely, and when ram ultimately comes they develop second growth, the most common form of which is the bulging of one end, making them dumb-bell shape. Potatoes which have second- growth never cask weJJ, and c13:anot rnk. as first quality. The retention of moisture in times of drought is one of the most important points in potato growing, and it is for this reason that ex- ceptionally heavy drcsgjngs of fannyard manum, sometimes exceeding forty tons per acre, are employed on soils, such as sand or gravel, which are deficient in organic matter. Such heavy dressings supply far more manure than 19 re- quired by a crop of potatoes, and those who uso it are aware of the fact. but they supply them as an insurance against drought. PROVIDING FOB THE LAMES. In Wiltshire great efforts are made to bring the lambs to maturity. Professor Wrightson has explained how the succession of catch crop- ping has enabled the shepherd to give a change of cropping at least every day. Thus the lambs would work between roots and green rye, and later between ryo and water meadow, winter barley and trifolium, trifolium and vetches, vetches and rape, rape and cabbage, cabbago and turnips, until the period of the late summer fairs arrived. In fhe beight of the summer Iambs would receive three changes of food in the day, as, for example, vetches, rape and after- math, clover or rape, cabbage and clover. Dur- ing the same period they would receive mangold cut in troughs, a.nd various descriptions of arti- ficial foods, such as a mixture of linseed cake, begins, malt, peas, and maize. Thus these lambs might be receiving eight or nine descriptions of food. The use of the Iamb hurdle is an import- ant institution, bv which lambs are able to run forward and crop the choicest food before the ewes, and thus obtain tho advantage of open grazing and close folding at the same time. There are very few parts of the country where such energy is thrown into this branch of farming. DEEP AND SHALLOW-ROOTED CROPS. An important difference between crops lies in their range of roots. Deeply-rooted crops as lu- cerne, sainfoin, red clover, rape, and mangel; and among the oereals wheat and rye, are to a considerable extent subsoil feeders, and have a greater power of obtaining ash constituents from the soil than shallow-rooted crops, as white clover, potatoes, turnips, and barley. In accord- ance with this we find that superphosphate is a very effective manure for the last three crops, but is much less required by such crops as man- gel or wheat. By growing deeply-rooted crops as part of a rotation the subsoil is made to con- tribute to the general fertility. Shallow-rooted crops, on the other hand, nave generally a special faculty for appropriating food accumu- lated at the surface, and are often of great use in this respect, as when barley i made to follow turnips fed off on the land very little is definitely known as to the different capacity of various crop3 for assimilating various forms of plant food; but there can bo no doubt that this forma one of the most important distinctions between different crops, and ia one reason of the economy of a rotation. DIGESTIBILITY OF FOOD. If to a diet of hay and straw consumed by a ruminant animal &tpure albuminoid as wheat gluten be added, the added food is entirely with- out the rate of digestion of the original food being sensibly altered. The same result has been obtained, says Professor Warrington, in ex- periments with pigs fed on potatoes, to which variable quantities of meal flour were afterwards added; the albuminoids of the meal were en- tirely digested, while the proportion of the pota- toes digested remained unchanged. An addition of oil to a diet of hay and straw is also appar- ently without unfavourable influence on the rate of digestion; indeed, some experiments with email quantities of oil shew an improved diges- tion of the drv fodder. Oil supplied in moderate quantites is itself entirely digested. An addition of starch or sugar to a diet of hay or straw will, on the contrary, diminish its digestibility, if the amount added exceeds 10 per cent, of the dry fodder. The albuminoids of the fod sutler the greatest loss of digestibility under these circum- stances; the fibre also suffers in digestibility it the amount of carbohydrates added is consider- able. When starch has been added it is itselt completely digested if the ratio of the nuI^>" genous to the non-nitrogenous constituents of ins diet is not less than 1*8. These facts are of con- siderable practical importance. Nitrogenous foods such as oil cake and bean mes. may be given with hay and straw chaff without affecting their digestibility; but foods rich in carbony- drates, such as potatoes and mangels, cannot bo given in greater proportion than 15 per con-, of the fodder (both reckoned as dry food) without, more or less diminishing the digertibilty of the latter. This decrease in digestibility may, how- ever, be counteracted in a great measure by sup- plying with the potatoes or mangels some nitro- genous food. When this is done the proportion of roots or potatoes may be double that. men- tioned without a serious loss to digestibility. PROVING THE QUALITY OF SOIL. The "proof of the pudding is in the eating," and so the real testing of the quality of a soil is in the crops it growa. It is, however, neces- sary to distinguish between the crops which are good from the natural goodness of the soil and those which owe their bulk and appearance to the use of nitrate of soda or other temporary artificial manure. Liberal dressings of such may and will force up" a good cro6 on a poor or worn-out soil for one or two years, and are peculiarly liable to do so during the last years of a farmer's tenancy, so that this fictitious state of matters must be guarded against when choos- ing a fresh farm. In the absence of such indi- cations the natural plants of the farm are a very good criterion—well-grown healthy trees of vari- ous kinds, healthy fences of whitethorn, thick- bottomed pasture grass, with plenty of good white clover in the same, strong, healthy weeds, and the soil deep and of a dry colour and dry underfoot. The converse of all these may not indicate i. i, C( 8ha11 I give you gas, sir?" said the Scots dentist to ins patient from the country. r a-- f-wer, "I'm fo mane o' thae new rangled inventions. Just me paraffin OAL
--COOKERY FOR WORRIED HOUSEWIVES.
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COOKERY FOR WORRIED HOUSEWIVES. BY lHS. ALFRED PRAGA ("THE CAEEFUL COOK"). HOW TO USE UP THE SCRAPS. It is often easy to produce very dainty little made dishes at a cost practically nil, if only due care is taken of the odds and ends which will persist in accumulating in even the best-regulated larders. For example, let us suppose that the carcase of a chicken remains on hand, together with, perhaps, a couple of ounces of cold tongue. If every particle of meat be carefully picked off that carcase it will yield another 2oz. or 3oz., which, if added to the cold tongue, makes 4oz. or DOZ, of meat in all. Now, if turned into croquettes or rissoles this will make as dainty a dish as the heart of an economical housewife or the palate of a fastidious husband could desire. Here is the recipe itself CROQUETTES. Take 4oz. of any sort of cold meat, and chop it finely by hand. Reserve on a plate. Place half a pint of milk (skim milk will do) in a clean stewpan. Add to it a slice of onion, a slice of turnip, if obtainable a bit of celery, and a good-sized sprig of parsley. Cover the pan, and simmer very slowly until the milk tastes strongly of the herbs, but take care that it does not boil away even in the smallest degree; then strain it off into a clean stewpan. Note allow at least 15min. for tho simmering process. Place] oz. ot butter in another stewpan, and directly it melts add to it by degrees loz. oi well-dried and sifted fiour; stir rapidly for five minutes with a small wooden spoon, and then add; also very gently and by degrees, the flavoured milk; allow each portion of milk to become thoroughly mixed with the flour and butter before the next is added, as this is the only way to avoid lumps. Should any lumps form by chance, then the sauce must be well stirred until quite smooth and thick before the next lot of milk is added. It is the neglect of this simple precaution which is the cause of th? pasty, lumpy poultices which in England are served up under the misnomer of sauce. When all the milk has been added, continue to stir it until it comes to the boil, and then keep it boiling for five or six minutes, still stirring all the time. Add pepper and salt to taste, and if the flavour is liked a tiny grate of nutmeg. Remove from the fire, and allow the sauce to cool a little. Then mix it with the chopped meat, lightly but very thoroughly. Spread out the mixture upon a largo plate to the depth of an inch, and leave in the larder till quite cold. Then shape into balls about the size of a very small tangerine; egg and breadcrumb these. Place enongb clarified beef dipping in a deep stewpan to half fill it when melted. Put this on the fire and bring it to the boil. As soon as it is actually boiling, i.e., when the blue smoke is rising, but not before, add the croquettes, a few at a time" only, and fry till of a bright golden-brown hue. Take out quickly, drain carefully on clean kitchen paper, and serve at once. A dish of well-baked potatoes, each potato split open and a bit of butter and a little pepper and salt inserted, are nice with this dish or in summer-time a dish of green peas and new potatoes. Not only chicken and tongue, but cold game of any kind, or any sort of meat, may be used for these croquettes. CROQUETTES OF FISH are made in a similar way, and are almost equally nice. Take sufficient cold boiled or fried fish to yield 4oz. or 6oz. when freed from skin, bone, &c. Flake it into tiny pieces—it is not needful to chop it. Make half a pint of sauce as described in the foregoing recipe. Mix it with the fish -adding also a few drops of anchovy to the sauce if liked—lightly but thoroughly. Leave till cold. Shape into smell balls, and fry in boiling fat until of a light golden brown hue. Take out quickly, drain care- fully, and serve at once. A little tomato sauce, or, failing this, a little tomatc catsup made hot, may be handed separately, if liked, with these croquettes. Any scraps of white fish, either fried 01 boded, may be utilised in this fashion, but brown fish is not suitable, as it is too rich. Croquettes of salmon, however, are nice fox those who can digest very rich food. They are made as directed m the foregoing recipe. When a portion of cold boiled rice remains over from a curry it can be turned into an admirable dish for high tea as follows: CROQUETTES OF RICE. Make half a pint of sauce as directed in the foregoing recipe. Add to it 4oz. or 6oz. of cold boiled rice; mix very thoroughly, and spread out upon a large dish to the depth of an inch. Leave till perfectly cold, then shape into balls. Make an opening in the centre of each, and put in a spoonful of potted meat or fish, any sort best liked will do. Close up the croquettes again, and roll each in egg and breadcrumbs, then fry in boiling fat, as directed in the foregoing recipes, until of a bright golden-brown hue. Take out, drain carefully, and serve. MOCK KIDNEYS. When, as sometimes happens, there is "nothing in the house," try the following: Buy 6d. worth of chicken livers—these may be had at any poulterer's—wash them, and dry them well. Place loz. of butter or clarified beef dripping in a small ch an stewpan directly it melts add the livers, together with a teaspoonful of minced shallot and a teaspoonful of minced parsley. Dust with pepper and salt, and fry for live minutes. Then add a gill of stock, or bovril and water, and stew for another three or four minutes. Dredge in a little flour to thicken, and if possible add a spoonful of sherry or port. This is unnecessary, but is a very great improvement. Boil up; add a little m pepper and salt if thought needful. Dish upon a hot dish, garnish with a border of mashed potatoes. For the latter, mash lib. of freshly-boiled potatoes with a wineglassful of absolutely boiling milk and a bit of butter about the sjzr, of a walnut; whisk till quite white and light, and then use as directed. OLD MAID'S PIE. This, which is in a manner of speaking made entirely of scraps, is yet very good. Take 4oz. or Foz. of any sort of cold meat, poultry, or game—a mixture of one of these with a little chopped lean ham or bacon is perhaps best. Have ready some freshly-boiled mashed potatoes. Spread a layer of these at the bottom of a pie-dish, then put a layer of meat. Cover this with a layer of freshly-fried onions, then sprinkle with grated cheese and fried breadcrumbs. Continue these layers until the dish is full. Moisten with a little stock or gravy; strew the top very thickly with fried onions and breadcrumbs, and grate over the whole loz. of cheese (any scraps of dried cheese will do just as well as fresh for this); place a few bits of butter hero and there, and bake in a moderate oven until of a good golden brown hue. Take out and serve at once. Fish may be used iu place of meat if liked. The "Pioneer" is recognised as one of the most
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