Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 694

Miss 'Fany' is but one of many aspirants to the doubtful honours of mediumship, who, anxious as they may be to receive an affirmative answer to the question, 'Shall I become a medium?' are not prepared to accept it as a full equivalent for their two dollars. A would-be clairvoyant writes to his father: 'I would like to know how you are. What have they done with your property in Bray? Will I ever get any portion of it? Please give me advice on business matters. Give me all the help you can.' Another affectionate son asks his father for 'points' in the patent business. Nathan Crane is desired to instruct his nephew whether it were best to sell his business or hold on. Fred Felton wants his brother to tell him if his partner may be trusted, and if the firm would do wisely to decline giving credit to customers; while a gentleman 'engaged in making Nature's Hair Restorer,' entreats Brother William to give his personal attention to the matter, and inform him what is the best plan to adopt to make the Restorer pay a profit very soon; although he betrays a sad want of faith in the virtues of that article, by pestering a number of denizens of the spirit-world for recipes for the manufacture of hair restoratives, in the expectation of obtaining valuable information at a trifling cost; like a litigant who asks the shade of Daniel Webster for legal assistance concerning certain lawsuits; as if it were likely that even a disembodied lawyer would give professional advice gratis!

A lady sends a loving greeting to her departed cousin Phœbe, fully believing the lost one watches over her, and asks: 'Can you see mamma and I in our daily life here? Can you see my dear loved George? How long before he will be free from the unlawful bond now entangling and oppressing him? Will Georgie return to me this autumn? How soon will we be wedded?' A widower propounds a few 'live questions' to his dead 'wife in heaven,' and wants to know if she is happy; if she can come back to earth, or desires to do so; if dear little baby is with her; and if she can find any medium in Philadelphia through whom he could communicate with her. Another widower, not without hope of finding consolation for his loss, wishes his lamented wife to tell him if he had better sell his business and go to Europe with his patent rails, or remain where he is and marry Miss Boyd. Jealousy is not supposed to exist in the spirit-world, or Camilla Stick would scarcely invite her defunct husband to enlighten her as to the intentions of a certain gentleman by informing her whether Mr W – loves her and will marry her, or whether he rather inclines to 'Cora,' and will visit that damsel when he goes to Philadelphia. Less excuse for his inquisitiveness respecting other folk's feelings has Mr Key, who writes to his brother: 'Can you tell me if my niece Marie will recover and be a well and strong girl; and who she is in love with? What are my prospects in New York, and had I better remain here, or go home to my father? Also if my tickets in the Louisville lottery will gain me a prize, and what do you think of cotton declining? Will Mr Zoborowski do anything for me, and does he really like me? Does my sister feel sorry for what she has done? Will Anna Zoborowski marry a foreigner? Does she love any other person? Does Alexander love Marie? and does Alores love Anna? Good-bye, my dear brother. Can you give me the names of some friends in the spirit-world?' The credulity demonstrated in these and such other ridiculous questions almost exceeds belief. And this in a country boasting of its education and its shrewdness!

AN IRISH MISTAKE

For more than twenty years it has been my custom to recruit myself every autumn with a walking tour of over a month's duration. By this means I have seen more of these islands than any one of my acquaintance, and have had peeps into the inner life of the people such as few tourists obtain.

In doing this, I never overstrained myself, as is now too often the fashion. I walked just so far as I pleased, and rested when nature or my inclination gave me the hint. Sometimes my journeys were made in the cool of the evening, sometimes in the early morning; often I slept in the cabin of some labourer, and not once or twice, but a dozen times, have been forced to make my lodging under the lee of some friendly hay-rick.

One of these autumns, over ten, and less than twenty years ago, I made the west of Ireland the field of my operations. Starting from Galway, in a little less than three weeks' time I beheld the broad waters of Corrib, Mask, and Conn – had lost myself in the wildernesses under the shadow of Croagh Patrick – and looked with awe at the bold headlands of Mayo, against which the restless Atlantic beats with a ceaseless roar.

By the evening of the twenty-first day, I found myself at Ballina, my mind full of indecision as to how I should occupy the week or ten days I had yet to spare. To go back over the same ground, I looked on as a waste of time; to plunge inland was to doom myself to days of weary trudging through rather uninteresting country. After deliberation, I decided to head for Sligo, feeling sure that the beauties of Lough Gill would well repay me my long walk thither.

Next morning I was up early, and, knapsack on back and stick in hand, started off on my journey.

For the first mile or two, the road was level and easy; but presently its character changed, and the country around grew poor and wild. It seemed a land drenched with constant showers, and beat upon by constant gales. There was nothing to charm me in anything I saw, so I hurried on.

After ten hours' almost constant walking, the country began to improve, and presently I found myself in the little village of Ballysadare. Here I halted, for, as may be expected, I was both tired and hungry.

A good dinner, however, soon made a wonderful change in me for the better. There were still a couple of hours to pass before dark, and how better could I employ them than by attempting to cover in an easy way the five miles yet between me and Sligo? Once there, I could make up by a day's idleness for this day of extra exertion. So, after a short rest, I shouldered my knapsack, grasped my stick, and started off again.

Once clear of the village, the country began rapidly to improve, and the scenery at one or two spots was so pleasant, that I was tempted to loiter. I was not more than half the way, when I suddenly wakened to the fact that night was beginning to fall about me fast.

'I cannot reach Sligo now before dark; that's certain,' I muttered, as I hoisted my knapsack an inch or two higher, and began to cover the ground at my best rate. 'However, the sooner I get there the better.'

Presently, I reached a spot where four roads met, and while I stood doubtful which to take, a gig driven by some one singing in a loud key overtook me. At sight of my lonely figure, the gig was halted suddenly, and the driver ceased his song.

'Ah, thin, may I ask, is your honour goin' my way?' said a full round voice. 'It's myself that's mighty fond of company o' nights about here.'

'I don't know what your way may be,' I replied. 'I wish to go to Sligo.'

'Ah, thin, an' it's that same Sligo, the weary be on it, that I'd be afther goin' to myself,' answered the driver. 'But your honour looks tired – manin' no offince – an' perhaps you'd take a lift in the gig?'

'Thank you; I will take a lift,' I replied, as I stepped forward and sprang quickly to the seat. 'The truth is, I feel rather tired, as you say.'

'An' has your honour walked far?' asked the driver, as the gig rolled on towards the town.

'I've walked from Ballina since morning,' I replied quietly.

'From Ballina! There, now, the Lord save us!' cried the man, as he half turned in his seat and gazed at me in astonishment. 'Why, that's a day's work for the best horse in the masther's stables.'

'Your master must keep good horses, if I may judge by the one before us,' I answered.

'The best in all the county, your honour, though I say it. There isn't a gossoon in the three baronies but knows that.'

'Your master's a bit of a sportsman, then?'

'Yes, your honour; an' if he'd stick to that, it's himself'd be the best liked man from Ballina to Ballyshannon. You wouldn't find a better rider or a warmer heart in a day's march. But thim politics has been his ruin with the people.'

'Oh, ah; I have heard that Sligo is rather a hot place during elections,' I replied. 'But surely the people don't turn upon their friends at such a time?'

'They'd turn upon their own father, if he wint agin them,' replied the driver solemnly. 'See now, here I am, drivin' the masther's own gig to town just be way of a blin', ye see, while he's got to slip down the strame in Jimmy Sheridan's bit of a boat. Ah, thim politics, thim politics!'

'Oh, then, there's an election about to take place, I presume?'

'Thrue for ye, your honour, thrue for ye,' replied the man dolefully. 'There nivir was such a ruction in Sligo before, in the mimiry of man. Two lawyers a-fightin' like divils to see who's to be mimbir.'

'Then I'm just in time to see the fun.'

'Fun, your honour?' echoed the man. 'It's not meself that'id object to a bit of a scrimmage now an' agin. But it's murther your honour'll see before it's all over, or my name isn't Michael O'Connor. Whist now! Did ye hear nothin' behin' that hedge there?'

At this moment we were about the middle of a rather lonesome stretch of the road, one side of which was bounded by a high thin hedge. The dusk of the evening was fast giving way to the gloom of night.

'I – ah – yes, surely there is something moving there,' I replied. 'It's some animal, most likely.'

'Down in the sate! down, for your life!' cried the driver, as in his terror he brought the horse to a halt. 'I' —

His speech was cut short by a couple of loud reports. A lance-like line of fire gushed from the hedge, and one if not two bullets whizzed close past my ear.

As I sprang to my feet in the gig, the driver slid down to the mat, and lay there in a heap, moaning. 'Are you hurt?' I asked, as I strove to get the reins out of his palsied hands.

'I'm kilt, kilt intirely!' he moaned.

'Aisy now, aisy there, your honour!' cried a voice from behind the hedge just as I had gained the reins. 'It's all a mistake, your honour, all a mistake!'

'Give the mare the whip! give the mare the whip!' cried the driver, as he strove to crawl under the seat; 'we'll all be murthered!'

Instead of taking his advice, however, I held the mare steady, while a man pressed through the thin hedge and stood before us, a yet smoking gun on his shoulder.

'What's the meaning of this?' I asked coolly, for the new-comer's coolness affected me. 'Did you want to murder a person you never saw before?'

'I'm raale downright sorry, your honour,' replied the man in just such a tone as he might have used had he trod upon my toe by accident; 'but ye see you're in Wolff O'Neil's gig, an' I took ye for him. – Where's that fellow Michael?'

As he said this, the man prodded the driver with the end of his gun, while I – I actually laughed outright at the strangeness of the affair.

'Go away with ye, go away!' moaned the driver. 'Murther! thaves! murther!'

'Get up with ye, an' take the reins, you gomeril you,' said the man, as he gave Michael another prod that brought him half out. 'You're as big a coward as my old granny's pet calf. Get up, an' take the reins, or I'll' —

'Oh, don't; there, don't say nothin', for the love of heaven!' cried the driver, as he scrambled into his seat again and took the reins in his shaking hands. 'I'll do anythin' ye till me, on'y put that gun away.'

'There,' replied the man, as he lowered the gun till its mouth pointed to the ground; 'will that plase ye? Now, tell me where's Squire O'Neil?'

'He's in the town be this,' replied the driver. 'O thim politics, thim politics!'

'Hum; so he's managed to get past us, after all. Well, tell him from me, Captain Rock, that if he votes for the sarjint to-morrow, it's an ounce of lead out of this he'll be after trying to digest. Now, mind.'

'I'll tell him, captain, dear! I'll tell him,' replied the driver, as he fingered the reins and whip nervously. 'But mayn't we go on now? mayn't we go on?'

'Yis, whiniver the gentleman plases,' replied the man. 'An' I'm raale sorry, as I told your honour, I'm raale sorry at the mistake.'

'Well, I'm pleased, not sorry,' I replied, laughing, 'for if you'd hit me, it wouldn't have been at all pleasant. But let me advise you to make sure of your man next time before firing. Good-night.'

'Good-night, your honour, good-night,' cried the man, as Michael gave the mare the whip, and sent her along at the top of her speed to the now fast-nearing lights of the town. In less than a quarter of an hour we had dashed through the streets, and halted opposite a large hotel. Here Michael found his master, as he expected; and here I put up for the night, very much to the astonishment of every one. Soon after my arrival, I asked to be shewn to my room; but it was one o'clock in the morning before the other guests ceased their noise and allowed me to go to sleep. Next day I slept rather late, and might have slept even later, but that I was rudely shaken out of a pleasant dream by a wild howl, as of a thousand demons just let loose. Starting up quickly, and looking out on the street, I saw that it was filled with a fierce-looking crowd, out of whose many mouths had proceeded the yell that wakened me. Dragging on my clothes, I rushed down to the coffee-room. There I learned that the people outside had just accompanied Squire O'Neil back from the polling-place, where he had been the first to vote for 'the sarjint.' Now that this fact had become generally known, they were clamorous that he should be sent out to them, 'to tear him limb from limb.' Presently, while their cries rose loud and long, the squire entered the room – a tall, military-looking man, with a little of a horsey tone, nose like a hawk, eyes dark, yet glowing like fire.

'They don't seem over-fond of me, I see,' he said with a smile, as he bowed to those in the room, and advanced to one of the windows and coolly opened it. Waving his hand, the crowd became instantly silent.

'Now, don't be in a hurry, gentlemen,' he said in a clear voice that must have been distinctly heard by every one. 'You shall have the honour of my company so soon as my horse can be harnessed, I assure you.'

'Eh, what! what does he mean?' I asked of a person next me. 'Surely he will not venture out among these howling fiends?'

'That is just what he is going to do,' replied my companion. 'There is no use talking to him. He has given orders for the mare and gig to be got ready, and it's as much as any one's life is worth to try to stop him. Wolff by name, and wolf by nature; he's enraged at having to steal down here last night like a thief. Ah, there the fun begins! Look out!'

As my companion spoke, he griped me by the arm, and dragged me close against a space between two windows. Next moment, a shower of stones crashed through the windows, leaving not a single inch of glass unbroken. Then, at longer or shorter intervals, volley followed volley, till the floor of the room was completely covered with road-metal and broken glass. Presently, there was a lull in the storm, and the crowd became all at once as silent as the grave. In the hush, I could distinctly hear the grating sound of the opening of some big door almost under us. I looked inquiringly at my companion.

'It's the entry doors being opened to let the wolf out,' he said in reply. 'Ah, there he is.'

I glanced out of the window, and saw the squire alone in his gig, a smile on his face, his whole bearing as cool and unconcerned as if there was not a single enemy within a thousand miles. Then I heard the great doors clang to, and as they did so, the crowd gave vent to a howl of delighted rage.

At the first appearance of the squire in his gig, the people had swayed back, and left an open space in front of the hotel. Now they seemed about to close in on him, and one man in the front stooped to lift a stone. Quick as lightning, the hand of the squire went to his breast, and just as the man stood upright to throw, I heard the sharp crack of a pistol. The man uttered a wild shriek of pain, clapped his hands to his cheeks, and plunged into the crowd. The bullet had entered at one cheek and gone out at the other, after tearing away a few teeth in its passage. The man was the very person who had made the mistake in shooting at me over-night.

'A near nick that for our friend,' said the squire in his clear voice, while the crowd swayed back a pace or two. 'But the next will be nearer still, and I've nearly half-a-dozen still left. Now, will any of you oblige me by stooping to lift a stone?'

He paused and glanced round, while every man in the crowd held his breath and stood still as a statue.

'No? you won't oblige me,' he said presently, with a sneer. Then fierce as if charging in some world-famous battle: 'Out of my way, you scoundrels! Faugh-a-ballagh!'

At the word, he jerked the reins slightly, and the mare moved forward at a trot with head erect, and bearing as proud as if she knew a conqueror sat behind her. Then, in utter silence, the crowd swayed to right and left, leaving a wide alley, down which the squire drove as gaily as if the whole thing were some pleasant show. When he had disappeared, the crowd closed to again, utterly crestfallen. Then for a short time the whole air was filled with their chattering one to another like the humming of innumerable bees; and presently, without a shout, and without a single stone being thrown, the great mass melted away.

Next morning, at an early hour, I left Sligo as fast as a covered conveyance could carry me. I did not care to wait for the slower means of escape by foot, fearful that next time a mistake was made with me the shooting might possibly be better than it was at first.

PROCESSIONARY CATERPILLARS

'While out for a walk the other day we came across a curious incident in natural history. At Cap Martin, about two miles from Mentone, our attention was attracted by something by the roadside which looked at a little distance like a long thin serpent. At first we thought it best not to go very near, but curiosity prevailed, and upon closer inspection we found it was a long line, consisting of ninety-nine caterpillars, crawling in single file close after one another. Our curiosity led us to remove one from the middle, a little distance from the others, and we found his place was soon filled up; but he crawled back to them and edged his way into the line again. Then we removed the leader: this brought them for a time to a standstill. After a little while they began to move on, and then we put the original leader in his proper place, but this brought them again to a standstill; and from the way they moved their heads from side to side, a great deal of talking seemed to be going on, and they decided their original leader was not fit to lead, and they chose another, while he had to make his way into the line lower down. A little farther on we saw another line of forty-four coming up in the opposite direction, and we were curious to see what would happen when they met, imagining they might perhaps have a fight; but such was not the case: they joined the others by degrees, and so made a much longer line and marched on.

'We have since heard they climb some particular kind of trees, and make their nests in them, which has a very injurious effect, and often kills the trees, unless the branches are cut off which hold the nests.'

In an interesting little work on Insect Architecture, published in 1830, mention is made of these social caterpillars, the construction of their nests, and their processionary habits. The writer says: 'It is remarkable that, however far they may ramble from their nest, they never fail to find their way back when a shower of rain or nightfall renders shelter necessary. It requires no great shrewdness to discover how they effect this; for by looking closely at their track it will be found that it is carpeted with silk, no individual moving an inch without constructing such a pathway both for the use of his companions and to facilitate his own return. All these caterpillars, therefore, move more or less in processional order, each following the road which the first chance traveller has marked out with his strip of silk carpeting.' Further remarks are made of two species 'more remarkable than others in the regularity of their processional marchings.' 'These are found in the south of Europe, but are not indigenous in Britain. The one named by Réaumur the Processionary (Cnethocampa processionea) feeds upon the oak; a brood dividing, when newly hatched, into one or more parties of several hundred individuals, which afterwards unite in constructing a common nest, nearly two feet long and from four to six inches in diameter. It is not divided into chambers, but consists of one large hall, so that it is not necessary that there should be more openings than one; and accordingly, when an individual goes out and carpets a path, the whole colony instinctively follow in the same track, though, from the immense population, they are often compelled to march in parallel files from two to six deep. The procession is always headed by a single caterpillar; sometimes the leader is immediately followed by one or two in single file, and sometimes by two abreast. A similar procedure is followed by a species of social caterpillar which feeds on the pine in Savoy and Languedoc, and their nests are not half the size of the preceding; they are more worthy of notice from the strong and excellent quality of their silk, which Réaumur was of opinion might be advantageously manufactured. Their nests consist of more chambers than one, but are furnished with a main entrance, through which the colonists conduct their foraging processions.'

The lady whose remarks are recorded above has since written that the species she observed feeds upon the pine-trees in the neighbourhood of Mentone. – S. W. U. in Hardwicke's Science-Gossip.

THE TOMB AND THE ROSE

(TRANSLATION, FROM VICTOR HUGO.)The tomb asked of the rose:'What dost thou with the tears, which dawnSheds on thee every summer morn,Thou sweetest flower that blows?'The rose asked of the tomb:'What dost thou with the treasures rare,Thou hidest deep from light and air,Until the day of doom?'The rose said: 'Home of night,Deep in my bosom, I distilThose pearly tears to scents, that fillThe senses with delight.'The tomb said: 'Flower of love,I make of every treasure rare,Hidden so deep from light and air,A soul for heaven above!'A. J. M.

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