The Strand Magazine, Volume V, Issue 28, April 1893
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Various >> The Strand Magazine, Volume V, Issue 28, April 1893
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[Illustration: OLD CLO'.]
[Illustration: WELSHERS.]
For anybody who has been bitten by a cobra, or a rattlesnake, or a
puff-adder, there are many remedies, but few people who can recommend
them from personal experience. It is to be feared that most of them
unfortunately die before writing their testimonials. Perhaps they were
too long deciding which thing to take. The most famous of these
remedies, and probably the best, on the whole, is to get excessively
drunk. It is expensive to get drunk after a poisonous snake-bite,
because something in the veins fortifies the head against the first
bottle or two of whisky. Getting drunk before the bite won't do,
although there would appear to be a very widely prevalent impression
that it will, and a very common resolve to lay up a good store of cure
against possible accidents in the future. This may be misdirected
prudence, and nothing else, but there is often a difficulty in
persuading a magistrate to think so.
[Illustration: DRUNK TOO SOON.]
[Illustration: RESULT.]
The snake _will_ be eccentric, even in the matter of its eggs. Most
snakes secure originality and independence in this matter by laying eggs
like an elongated tennis-ball--eggs covered with a sort of white
parchment or leather instead of shell. All the rest go further, and
refuse to lay eggs at all.
[Illustration: FIRST THIS TIME, I THINK!]
[Illustration: LOR!]
The snake insists on having his food fresh; you must let him do his own
killing. Many carry this sort of fastidiousness so far as to prefer
taking it in alive, and leaving it to settle matters with the digestive
machinery as best it may. A snake of this sort has lost his dinner
before now by gaping too soon; a frog takes a deal of swallowing before
he forgets how to jump.
[Illustration: THE SNAKE THAT GAPED: A MORAL LESSON.]
It is well to remember what to do in case of attack by a formidable
snake. If a boa constrictor or a python begin to curl himself about you,
you should pinch him vigorously, and he will loosen his folds and get
away from you. Some may prefer to blow his head off with a pistol, but
it is largely a matter of taste, and one doesn't want to damage a good
specimen. The anaconda, however, who is the biggest of the constrictors,
won't let go for pinching; in this case the best thing is not to let him
get hold of you at all. Tobacco-juice will kill a puff-adder. If you
come across a puff-adder, you should open his mouth gently, remembering
that the scratch of a fang means death in half an hour or so, and give
him the tobacco-juice in a suitable dose; or you can run away as fast as
possible, which is kinder to the snake and much healthier for yourself.
By far the biggest snake here is the python, in the case opposite the
door; he is more than twenty feet long, and is seriously thinking of
growing longer still. Tyrrell picks him up unceremoniously by the neck
and shoves him head first into a tank of water, when he seems to need a
little stir and amusement. I think, perhaps, after all, the most
remarkable being exhibited in the reptile house is Tyrrell. I don't
think much of the Indian snake-charmers now. See a cobra raise its head
and flatten out its neck till it looks like a demoniac flounder set on
end; keep in mind that a bite means death in a few minutes; presently
you will feel yourself possessed with a certain respect for a
snake-charmer who tootles on a flute while the thing crawls about him.
But Tyrrell comes along, without a flute--without as much as a
jew's-harp--and carelessly grabs that cobra by the neck and strolls off
with it wherever he thinks it ought to go, and you believe in the
European after all. He is a most enthusiastic naturalist, is Tyrrell.
He thinks nothing of festooning a boa constrictor about his neck and
arms, and in his sanctum he keeps young crocodiles in sundry
watering-pots, and other crawling things in unexpected places. You never
quite know where the next surprise is coming from. I always feel
doubtful about his pockets. I shouldn't recommend a pickpocket to try
them, unless he really doesn't mind running against a casual
rattlesnake. Tyrrell is the sort of man who is quite likely to produce
something from his cap and say: "By-the-bye, this is a promising
youngster--death adder, you know. And here," taking something else from
his coat or vest pocket, "is a very fine specimen of the spotted
coffin-filler, rather curious. It isn't _very_ poisonous--kills in an
hour or so. Now, this," dragging another from somewhere under his coat,
"_is_ rather poisonous. Deadly grave-worm--kills in three seconds.
Lively little chap, isn't he? Feel his head." Whereat you would probably
move on.
[Illustration]
_Types of English Beauty._
FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY ALEX. BASSANO, 25, OLD BOND STREET, W.
[Illustration: Lady CHARLES BERESFORD
Miss ARCHER
Miss BRANSON.]
[Illustration: Miss Flo Beresford.
Miss Nellie Simmons.
Miss Ripley]
[Illustration: Miss LLOYD.
Mrs. BRATE.
Miss DECIMA MOORE]
THE NANKEEN JACKET
(FROM THE FRENCH OF GUSTAVE GUESVILLER.)
"The young are eager for martyrdom."
A STORY FOR CHILDREN.
My friends make fun of my weakness for the colour of _yellow_.
I confess that I adore it, notwithstanding that I have good reason to
detest it. Truly, human nature is a bundle of contradictions!
I love yellow because of a certain episode in my life which occurred
when I was but eight years of age. I love nankeen above all on account
of a jacket of that material, which played in that episode an important
part.
Ah! that jacket of nankeen!
How came it about that I was smitten with the insane desire of
possessing such a thing? The cause is not far to seek. It was _Love_!
Love in a child of eight? Why not? You will see presently that I speak
without any exaggeration.
At that now distant time we resided at Auxerre.
I knew how to read, write, and count. For the further progress of my
education I was sent to a small day-school, kept by two maiden
ladies--humble, gentle souls, who in affectionate care for their pupils
satisfied in some degree their instinct of maternal tenderness.
Poor Demoiselles Dulorre!
Our school, which had been placed under the pious patronage of Saint
Elisabeth, was a mixed one. That is to say, up to the age of ten years,
boys and girls worked and played together. In spite of occasional
quarrels, the system, on the whole, worked very well.
I had not been eight days at Saint Elisabeth's before I fell in love. Do
not laugh! I loved with all the strength of my child-nature, with a love
disinterested, simple, sincere.
It was Georgette whom I loved, but, alas! Georgette did not love me.
How much I suffered in consequence! I used to hide myself in corners,
shedding many tears, and racking my brains to find some means of
pleasing the obdurate fair one. Labour in vain, a thankless task, at
eight years of age or at thirty!
To distinguish myself in my studies, to win by my exemplary conduct the
encomiums of the sisters Dulorre--all this made no impression upon cruel
Georgette. She made no secret of her preference for a dull, idle,
blustering fellow of nine years old, who won all the races, who could
fling a ball farther than anyone else, carry two huge dictionaries under
his arm, and administer terrible thumps.
This hero was rightly nicknamed _Met-a-Mort_.
I knew what his blows were like, having been the involuntary recipient
of some of them. Some, do I say? I had received more than a dilatory
donkey on the road to the fair!
And Georgette had only laughed!
[Illustration: "MY REDOUBTABLE RIVAL."]
Obviously, it was absurd to think of employing physical force against my
redoubtable rival, and intellectual superiority in this case availed me
nothing. I determined, therefore, to annihilate _Met-a-Mort_ by my
overpowering magnificence.
Naturally, our parents did not send us to school attired in our best
clothes. On the contrary, most of us wore there our oldest and shabbiest
garments. Consequently, I opined that it would be no difficult
achievement to outshine all my schoolfellows.
I should have to coax my parents into loosening their purse-strings, and
get them to buy me a beautiful new jacket.
It took me a very long time to decide what colour this jacket should be.
I mentally reviewed all the colours of the rainbow. Red tempted me; but
I doubted whether a jacket of that colour would be attainable. Should it
be blue, green, indigo, violet? No! Not one of these colours was
sufficiently striking.
I paused at yellow. That might do. It is a rich colour; there is
something sumptuous and royal about it. Summer was approaching. I
decided finally upon a jacket of nankeen.
Without delay, I set to work on my school garments. It was a work of
destruction, for I wanted to make them appear as disreputable as
possible. I slyly enlarged the holes, wrenched off the buttons, and
decorated my person lavishly with spots and stains of all kinds. Day by
day I watched, with a secret joy, the rapid progress of this work of
dilapidation.
In what I judged to be an opportune moment, I timidly expressed my
desire.
I had to do more--much more than that--before I could obtain my will. I
begged, stormed, grumbled, sulked. I became almost ill with hope
deferred. At length, for the sake of peace, my parents granted my
eccentric wish.
It was a proud moment for me when, for the first time, I arrayed myself
in that resplendent nankeen jacket, won at the cost of so many struggles
and persevering efforts. Standing before the mirror, I surveyed myself
admiringly for a full hour. I was grand! superb!
"Ah! my Lord _Met-a-Mort_! You will find yourself ousted at last! My
shining jacket will soon snatch from you the _prestige_ acquired by your
stupid, brute force. Georgette, astonished, fascinated, dazzled, and
delighted, will run towards me, for I shall now be the handsomest boy in
the school. _Met-a-Mort_ will weep for chagrin, as I have so often wept
for jealousy and mortification."
Such were my complacent reflections as, with the stride of a conqueror,
I entered the precincts of our school.
Alas for my rose-coloured anticipations! I was greeted with a broadside
of laughter. Even our gentle mistress, Ermance Dulorre, could not
repress a smile, and, above all other voices, I heard that of Georgette,
who cried mirthfully:--
"Oh! look at him! Look at him! He is a canary-bird!"
The word was caught up instantly. All the scholars shouted in chorus:
"He is a canary! A canary!"
Words fail me to describe my bitter disappointment, my burning shame and
chagrin. I saw my folly now. But it was too late--the awful deed was
done! Worse than all, in order to obtain this now odious jacket, I had
spoiled all my other jackets, and had nothing else to wear! When, on the
evening of that most miserable day, I told my troubles to my father and
mother, they were merely amused, and said to me:--
"It is entirely your own fault. You insisted upon having the jacket, and
now you must put up with it!"
Thus was I condemned to the perpetual wearing of my yellow jacket, which
entailed upon me no end of petty miseries.
Every day, at school, I was jeered at and insulted. Even the babies of
three years--sweet, blue-eyed, golden-haired cherubs--pointed at me with
their tiny fingers, and lisped, "Canary! Canary!"
[Illustration: "I WAS JEERED AT AND INSULTED."]
How was I to extricate myself from this extremely unpleasant situation?
One upper garment still remained to me--an old, thick, heavy, winter
mantle. The idea occurred to me that I might utilize this to conceal my
too gorgeous plumage. We were now in the month of June, and the weather
was tropical. No matter! In class and playground, I appeared buttoned up
in my big cloak, bathed in perspiration, but happy in having hidden my
shame.
To Mademoiselle Ermance's expression of surprise, I answered that I had
a cold. I did not deviate widely from the truth. Two days later, thanks
to this over-heating, I had a very real one.
The device did not serve me long. My parents found me out, and promptly
deprived me of my protecting shell, thus obliging me to attend school
again in the costume of a canary. The former annoyances re-commenced.
Vacation time was at hand, and Georgette, of whom I was more enamoured
than ever, remained still cold and indifferent.
One day we were playing the game of brigands and gendarmes. I was one of
the gendarmes, who were invariably beaten.
_Met-a-Mort_ had nominated himself captain of the brigands, and chose
Georgette for his _vivandiere_.
Presently, for a few minutes there was a suspension of hostilities.
Brigands and gendarmes fraternized, as they quenched their thirst, and
expatiated upon the joys of the fray. Suddenly Georgette, with her
accustomed vivacity, broke in upon our little group. She bore in her
hands a glass ink-bottle.
"See!" said her sweet voice. "Whoever will drink this ink shall,
by-and-by, be my little husband!"
_Met-a-Mort_ and the rest exploded with laughter.
When we resumed our game, I discovered that I had lost all interest in
it. Georgette's words haunted me.
Cries of joy arose from our camp. The enemy's _vivandiere_ had been
captured. I was told off to guard the prisoner; you may guess whether I
was happy!
Georgette tried bribery.
"Oh! let me go! let me go! and I will give you ten pens."
Much I cared for her pens!
"Did you mean what you said just now, mademoiselle?" I timidly inquired.
"What?"
"That whoever would drink the ink should be your little husband?"
"Yes, stupid! But let me go--"
"Then it is true?"
"Of course it is. Let me go!"
She was growing impatient. For a moment I hesitated; then I said:--
"Run away quickly! nobody can see us."
She did not need telling twice. As swiftly as her feet could carry her,
she ran off to the enemy's camp.
[Illustration: "SHE WAS GROWING IMPATIENT."]
I was a double-dyed traitor. After conniving at my captive's escape I
deserted.
"Can it indeed be true?" I pondered. "Have I only to drain that phial of
ink in order to become Georgette's husband some day? She said so, and
she must know!"
I went to look for the ink-bottle, which the child had carried
back into the schoolroom. There I stood contemplating the black,
uninviting-looking liquid.
Not for a single moment did I dream of swallowing the loathsome stuff in
the girl's presence. It did not occur to me that she ought to be a
witness of my sacrifice, or that she had demanded it as a proof of love.
My idea was rather that the beverage was a sort of love-philtre, such as
I had read of in my book of fairy tales. She had said: "Whoever will
drink the ink shall be my husband."
Faugh! the bottle was full to overflowing. How nasty it looked! Never
mind! So much the better! I should have liked it to have been nastier
still.
I closed my eyes, and raised the bottle to my lips.
"What are you about, you dirty little thing?" exclaimed a voice from
behind me, at the same instant that I received a smart blow upon my
uplifted arm.
Covered with confusion, I turned, and beheld Mademoiselle Ermance, who
had surprised me in my singular occupation.
"What is the meaning of this nonsense?" said she, with unwonted
severity.
I had no time to explain. Just at that moment my schoolfellows came
trooping in. Georgette seeing me standing there, ink-stained and
disgraced, and already--the coquette!--forgetful of her promise,
exclaimed, with a face of disgust:--
"Oh, the dirty boy! The nasty, dirty boy!"
[Illustration: "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS NONSENSE?"]
Everything, however, has its bright side. Mademoiselle Ermance's tap and
my own start of surprise, had jerked the ink-bottle from my grasp; my
yellow jacket was literally flooded! I was rid of it at last!
It was to Georgette that I owed this happy deliverance. I thank her for
it to-day! What has become, I wonder, of that lovely child? Does she
ever think now of those old times? How often have I dreamed of her! I
have forgiven her for the tears which she caused me to shed. Her
charming face dwells always in my mind as a pure ray from the bygone
light of youth. I am not her husband, and probably never shall be. I am
resigned to my fate, which I richly deserve, because--
_I did not drink the ink!_
_The Queer Side of Things._
OLD JOE'S PICNIC
[Illustration]
It was all old Joe Wilkings's notion, every ounce of it: you see, there
never was anybody anywhere to compare with old Joe for "go." He _was_
goey, was old Joe--but I'll tell you.
Old Joe had been laid up with rheumatism and gout--ah! and asthma,
that's more--for a matter of eleven weeks; pretty bad he'd been too, and
everybody had said he would never pull through, being, you see,
ninety-seven, and a wooden leg in, that he'd lost in the Crimean War; at
least, not the wooden one, for he'd found that in the loft over the
stable years ago and taken to it.
Well, old Joe was sunning himself in his wicker chair in the front
garden, propped up with pillows and things; and he'd just finished his
beef-tea, when he begins to chuckle so, in an internal kind of manner,
that the last drop going down got startled and separated from the others
on ahead, and tried to turn back, and got in a panic, so that it nearly
choked old Joe, who got purple in the face, and had to be thumped.
He'd no sooner got right than he began to chuckle again, but luckily
that last drop had got further down now, and wedged in among its
comrades, so that it only heard the chuckles faintly, and kept quiet
this time.
"Whatever _is_ the matter, grandfather?" said Kate.
"Matter?" said old Joe. "Nothing's the matter. You don't understand the
ways of young 'uns, nor their methods neither. When youth chuckles, it's
a sign of good spirits and healthy. If you _must_ know, I was thinking
we might have a picnic--just like we used to have sixty years back--"
"Ah! that _would_ be nice," said Kate.
"Not _you_," said old Joe. "No young 'uns in it--they're too slow. No; I
and Georgie Worble, and his aunt Susan, and her mother, and--"
"Why," said Kate, "Mr. Worble hasn't walked from one room to another
without assistance for--"
"I know--seven years," said old Joe, "and he's seventy-six; and his aunt
Susan's seventy-one; and his aunt Susan's mother's ninety-two, and
bedridden--but I tell you what: it's all fudge and the undue influence
of imagination--that's the whole story. Georgie W. can get up if he
likes; and his aunt Susan's bronchitis and paralytic strokes are all
fudge; and as to her mother being bedridden--pooh! we'll just see; and
if she doesn't dance just as well as me----"
"Dance!"
"Ah--we'll have a dance, of course--we _used_ to have a dance always;
finished up with a dance. I've been thinking--and I don't mind telling
you--that this imagination and fudge is making us all old before our
time; and I'm not going to stand any more of it, and that's all about
it."
With that old Joe Wilkings waved his stick and jumped up--that's what he
did; and he ninety-seven years and nine weeks! Talk about greyness!
Kate stared, and all the neighbours stared, and Mrs. Widdlcombe's pug
next door stared so that its eyes nearly fell out, as old Joe trotted
quickly out of the garden and down the street, and trotted up Mr.
Worble's steps, and tapped at the door like a boy that means to run
away; and when they opened the door, up he ran to old Worble's room, and
toddled in.
[Illustration: "OLD JOE TROTTED QUICKLY OUT OF THE GARDEN."]
And now comes in old Joe Wilkings's other remarkable quality--his
influence over others. It was all the outcome of his wonderful
determination--the influence of mind over matter. He could bamboozle
anyone, could Joe--it was for all the world like magic.
Old Worble was drooping over the fire in his big chair, into which he
had been put hours before.
What did old Joe do but go right up and slap him on the back in that
hearty way that old Worble went as near screaming as his weak state
would let him!
"Get up, Georgie Worble," shouted old Joe," and come round with me to
Sam Waggs to arrange about that picnic!"
Old Worble crooned and doddered, and feebly repeated "Picnic?"
"Ah, picnic, young 'un; and you've just hit it. But GET UP, I say!"
And, if you'll believe it, the third time old Joe Wilkings shouted "Get
up" in that voice of his, a-staring straight at Worble all the time, old
Worble _did_ slowly get up and stood, doddering, but without support.
"Don't you stand a-doddering at me like that as if you were a decrepit
old idiot instead of a boy; but just reach down your hat and bustle
along," said old Joe; and if Worble, after looking feebly and hopelessly
up at the hat on the high peg--the hat he had not worn for years--didn't
hop up on a wooden chair and fetch it down, and dash it on his head, and
then toddle downstairs and into the street arm-in-arm with old Joe!
If people had stared when old Joe came out of his garden, what did they
do _now_ when he and old Worble went dancing down the street arm-in-arm,
both of 'em chuckling like mad and chattering like magpies?
At the corner they met old Peter Scroutts in a bath-chair. Peter had a
paralyzed leg, and was so feeble that he could hardly wink his eye, and
so deaf that it was all he could do to hear with an ear-trumpet as big
as the cornucopia belonging to the wooden young lady over the provision
stores.
"Just you step out and walk!" roared old Joe in the ear-trumpet. And the
queer thing is that old Peter did begin to get out; and not only began,
but went on; and stood on the pavement; and then took Joe's arm; and the
three went careering down the street together!
The whole place came out to stare open-mouthed at those three old boys
bouncing down the street together.
Half-way down old Joe Wilkings stopped with a jerk, and turned on old
Peter.
"What, in the name of goodness, _do_ you want with that trumpet
machine?" he roared. "A young 'un like you! Lookee here--let's get rid
of it." And Joe snatched the ear-trumpet out of his hand, and jerked it
over a shed into the field behind. It was a good long jerk; and most of
the young men of the place would have been proud to do it.
"Can hear just as well as I can; that's what _you_ can do! Can't he,
young George?"
Old Peter looked dazed; but old Joe stood nodding at him so decisively
that old George took it up and nodded decisively too; and they were so
convincing about the matter that old Peter began to believe he _could_
hear; and from that moment, if you'll believe me, he _did_ hear quite
comfortably!
[Illustration: "THE THREE WENT CAREERING DOWN THE STREET."]
Then the inhabitants collected in little knots, and talked the matter
over; and decided that there must be something wrong, in the witchcraft
line; and shook their heads doubtfully; but those three old boys trotted
into the "Bun and Bottle" and ordered--ah! and drank off--a pint of beer
apiece; a thing they had not done those ten years. Drank it off at a
draught, if you'll believe me.
Well, then they went the round and beat up all the old folks of that
place to bid them to the picnic. Those old people stared, and shook
their heads, and scoffed; but old Joe Wilkings hadn't talked to them for
five minutes before they were up on their feet and trotting about as if
they were acrobats, though perhaps it's hard to believe.
"We'll have a row on the river," said old Joe; "and then we'll picnic on
the bank, and see who can climb trees best; and then we'll have a room
at an hotel, and finish up with a dance, and just show 'em how it ought
to be done."
[Illustration: "AUNT SUSAN'S MOTHER."]
I tell you he had to busy himself, had old Joe, to keep them up to it;
for as soon as he had been away from any one of them a few hours that
one would begin to collapse again, and think he or she was as weak as
ever; but Joe wouldn't allow this; all day long he was here and there
among them applying the spur, bullying them into getting up and dancing,
and roaring with indignation at the idea of their being old. He made
them practise their steps, and while those who possessed crutches were
doing it, he sneaked off with the crutches and concealed them. He
wouldn't even allow them sticks, wouldn't old Joe--not he.
Old Worble's aunt Susan got quite young and skittish; and as for old
Worble's aunt Susan's mother, who was bedridden, up she had to get on
old Joe Wilkings's third visit, and had to toddle across the room. He
drilled her--kept on at it; he was there twice a day; and every time she
had to get out of bed and toddle across the room. Had to live in her
dressing-gown, and could get no peace for the life of her; but, bless
you, in ten days she had begun to believe that she had never been
bedridden at all, and that it was all fancy! And all in consequence of
that strange influence of old Joe Wilkings; that awful determination of
his.
Then there were the provisions to prepare for that picnic; and old Joe
would insist upon the old folks preparing them. He wouldn't have any
young people in it--not he. He was here, there, and everywhere,
compelling them to superintend the cooking of the joints and pies--for
he was not going to have any beef-tea or arrow-root or pap at the
picnic, but all good solid food for robust people.
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