« FöregåendeFortsätt »
proved what the effect of the process would sant this may be to M. Rossignol and other be upon high-class costly wines. M. Ros- wine dealers, the new discovery cannot fail signol, however, a large wine merchant at to press 'hard in this respect upon wineOrleans, says that since he has adopted the drinkers. One of their safeguards is broken heating system all complaints from his cus-down; occasional bottles may no longer tomers have ceased. Another point is that I spoil, as they do now in the best regulated the experiments have only extended over cellars, but then the new wine that is put a brief period of years. Time alone can into old bottles will henceforth have all the show whether the discovery will result in appearance, and, it is to be feared, will be depriving old wines of their rarity, and so charged at the price, of the venerable arreducing their high prices. One result is ticle. proximate and perhaps inevitable. In all M. Pasteur has published a considerable the trials it was found that the heated wines work, “ Etudes sur le Vin” (Paris and soon assumed the pale and mellow tinge London, Baillière, 1866), in which the subhitherto due to age alone. However plea-'ject is fully treated..
COUNTRY LIFE IN FRANCE. Although it has | at the Ministry of Marine, and Ministry of Foreign been only a hundred years since French fashion- Affairs, and balls at the Tuileries are at this able people began to spend any time in the coun- price — so courage! It will be January before try, (Arthur Young speaks of the mode as just the fishionable people come up to town. The commencing, and he travelled in France shortly. Legitimist families of the Faubourg St. Germain before the revolution,) everybody now goes early remain in the country till after the 21st of Januand stays late at their rural residence. Rural life ary, to spend the anniversary of “the King's in France, however, is not like rixal life in Eng- execution” (Louis XVI.) in their rural home, land, Frenchmen's homes are not in the coun- where they may celebrate mass for his soul's retry. The rural residence is a retreat, a penance pose with as much pomp as they choose. A great becoming annually more necessary in conse- many, and a constantly increasing number of quence of the expense of living in Paris. The wealthy families, do not spend a winter's day in rural residende is not merry with the boisterous Paris. They remain at their country seat till the mirth of neighbors. No table groans under temperature becomes disagreeably cold, and then the cheap luxuries of garden, orchard, pond, they follow the swallows to some well sheltered and field. No horses paw the gravel before the nook on the French Mecliterranean shore where chateau's door, no dogs gambol on the withered winter never comes except in the almanue. grass, no troops of children are spending exuber- There they stay till mid April. They catch mid ant spirits around the house. The lord of the Lent in Paris and spend all Many here, which is, chateau, habited in old clothes, lounges in the perhaps, the most delightful month of the capibilliard-room, tossing the balls against each tal’s year. other and smoking a pipe. His wife sits mood
Paris Correspondent N. Y. World, ily in the drawing-room, her eyes fixed on her embroidery, her mind wandering to Paris, or counting the long and heavy hours which separate her from it. Children, they have none. Their only child, if a boy, is with his father, if a girl, is with her mother, and as listless as its Many of the cheap insignificant newspapers parents. All superfluous expense is interdicted. that circulate in small provincial towns and subThe dinner is as plain as a country dinner can urban districts, are partly, some of them wholly, be. The wine drank is the ordinary wine of printed in London. It is generally thought that the place. If the chateau be in Norinandy, cider, this is a modern innovation, but Pulleyn, in bis not wine, is served on the table. Bed is sought “ Etymological Compendium,” records the fact soon after dinner's close, and the pillow is dim- that, as early as 1750, a Leicester journal was pled with a “thank heaven, we are a day nearer printed in London, and sent down to Leicester Paris !” No interest is taken in neighborhood for publication. He also relates that the editor,
The poor are unvisited. There is no having a certain amount of space to fill up, had ouriosity about the village library or school. recourse to the Bible for “copy,” there being at Government forbids societies, lest under old this time a great dearth of news. It wils not unclothes, harvest home, or some such lamblike as- til the country journalists had given “Genesis.” sociation, the wolf, politics, might creep in. The and “Exodus” in weekly instalments that news Church, too, dreads such flocks.
came in sufficiently varied and interesting to To the Parisian, country life is retreat occupied render any further reprint of the Suriptures unwith economical expedients. Truffled partridges, necessary “ to help him out.” iced champagne, the box at the opera, fancy balls
BY A CITY MAN.
From The Sunday Magazine. muted like an alchymist the greasy brass THE BLIND ORGANIST.
rods and rings from which they hung. And in the very core of the brightness there
were two faces, striking in themselves, but SILENCE and solitude may be found in glorified by the light in which they gleamed. the desert and the bush; but there they One was young and one was old, but there are expected. Silence-and-solitude lovers was a strong family likeness between the of the haut gout class should taste them in two, which — to make use of an oxymoron a City side-street on a Saturday night. - the moonlight brought out with a soft The narrow roadway, choked with waggons vividness. A grey-haired, grey-bearded throughout the week, winds along as, empty old man was playing the organ. He was as a dry water-course. Instead of jostling, blind; but he ran down the keys, lifted his or being jostled into the gutter, and swing- long fingers from one keyboard to the ing round lamp-posts and side-posts, you other, pulled out and pusbed in the stops, have the whole little ledge of footpath to and placed his feet upon the pedals, with yourself. Manchester warehouses and piles the deft certainty that is so startling in the of offices are as dark and voiceless as sealed blind; it seems as if unseen guardian-angels pyramids. The squat tavern at the middle must be guiding them. With long curls corner, whose plate-glassed luncheon-bar is that made a drooping glory about her head, thronged from twelve till two, recovers its a beautiful little girl, but with an expression ald-fasbioned look on Saturday night, and of face that, perhaps, can best be described seems, indeed, to have become sceptical as “old-fashioned," sat on a bassock watchas to its raison d'être in that hive by day ing the old man. He was the church organ(except Sundays), but sepulchre by night ist, practising his next day's tunes, and she (especially Saturday night), as it mopes was his grand-daughter, at once bis protégée customerless and with its gas half turned and protectress. I got to know them afterdown. The only living creatures that you wards (they lived in lodgings at Dalston, come across are, perhaps, a sauntering po- where the old man eked out the salary be liceman trying doors and shutters and pad- had from the church with his earnings as a locked bars, and one or two old men and tuner of pianos), and at different times I women feebly beating old mats outside the learnt the old man's history. I remember old church portalş. Open, and with the enough of his turns of speech to put it cleaners' dim light or two inside, the dusty- into his own mouth with tolerable fidelbrown, pepper-and-salt, and grey-white old ity:churches are the liveliest-looking buildings “I lost my sight when I was ten years in the locality. They have woke up into old. It was one Fisth of November night, semi-consciousness after their week-long and I was letting off
' fireworks with other trance. After all, it is a very flickering boys on Hackney Downs. A jack-in-thelife they have recovered; but the oppres- box wouldn't light, and, like a foolish lad, sively busy places about them have gone to I kneeled down to blow the spark on the sleep until Monday morning, and so the blue paper. All of a sudden it went off old churches pluck up courage to remem- bang in my face, almost stifling me with ber the days when Wren built them because the smoke. I didn't wonder at first that I they were wanted.
couldn't see; but when two or tbree minSome years ago, on a moonlight Saturday utes bad gone by, and still I couldn't see, night, I stopped at the open door of a church and my eyes burned as if a red-hot poker in a bushed City street. Luther's Hymn was being bored into them, an awful fear was pealing out into the quiet little thor- came over me. I felt almost certain then oughfare through which no one fared except that I should never see again. One of the myself. There is fact in the old fables about boys led me home. It was so strange to the leading influences of music. Something have to be led — to go groping about as if in the way in which that tine .old tune was I was playing at blindman's buff where I played led me into the dark porch, and had been running along so full of fin just along the dim aisles, and up the moon- before. I heard the crackers going off, flecked gallery-stairs, and so to a pew next and the squibs banging, and the people the organ-loft. It was an island of bright- rushing about and laughing and shouting ; ness in the dusky old church. A broad and I felt angry. slant of moonlight through a side-window • My father and mother weren't rich burnished the heavy organ-case, with its folks by any means; but still they weren's swollen-cheeked cherubs and tarnished gilt exactly poor folks. Father had regular pipes; shot with silvery tissue the faded work at some nursery gardens at Homerfolds of the curtains of the lost; and trans- ton, and mother used to send us to school and take us to church, and keep the house younger than me) would get ahead of me respectable. I was poor mother's pet, and in learning, now I didn't go to school; so father was very fond of me too. I was get- when Tom learnt his lessons in the evening ting on at school, and he was fond of books, father made him say them out loud, and I and so he was proud of me. When I went could soon learn them quicker than Tom in, and mother heard what had happened, with the book before him. Father read she gave a scream, and then she hugged books to me, too; and, after he had guided me till I could hardly breathe, and then my hand a bit, I could write without feeling she fell a sobbing and saying, "How ever where the paper ended. Of course I don't shall I tell father?' Father came in whilst know how my writing looks, but I can write she was saying it, and at first he was quite as easily, I expect, as if I had my eyes, savage with mother. I never heard him and people seem to be able to make it out. speak to her in that way before. He said “I always had an ear for music. Before that she had no business to let me go out; I had my accident, I used to pick up tunes but poor mother called out, 'Oh, don't, and play them on a whistle and the jew'sdon't! I do wish I hadn't; but then I harp. The first birthday I was blind father thought it would pleasure the poor boy:' gave me a little fiddle -- at least be left it And then father said, kinder, “Well, at home for mother to give me, that it mother, don't cry like that that won't might seem to come from her too. He had mend it,' and went out to fetch a doctor, picked it up secondhand at a pawnshop, and A doctor's young man came and bathed it really was a famous little fiddle. "That my eyes, and told me to get to bed and go little fiddle first made me feel as if I could to sleep. Father and mother got me into be quite happy again. There was a man bed as if I had been a baby; but it wasn't next door who taught me which finger I so easy to go to sleep. My eyes burned as ought to use, but I seemed to know by naif I had two coals in my head, and I was ture how high up the string I ought to go. thinking whether I should be able to see He had played the fiddle all his life, but he the daylight when it came.
couldn't bring out as true notes, or keep as “Next morning mother dressed me and good time, as I could when I had been at it fed me —
it wasn't much breakfast I could six weeks. Of course it's nothing to boast eat — and put a shade over my eyes, and of, but it's something to be thankful for. took me to a regular doctor in Mare Street. God is very good, even when we poor He said he wasn't much used to such cases, creatures presume to think him unkind. I but would give mother a note to a clever do know what I've lost in my eyes, but I've eye-doctor in Finsbury Square. We went no wish now to have them back. I've got to this gentleman's half-a-dozen times and so used to being blind, that I should have more, and he told mother what she was to to begin all over again if I could see. As get made up at the chemist's, but at last he the kind doctor said, I can wait for that till said it was no use our going any more I
open my eyes in heaven. the norve was quite destroyed. He was a
was talking about my little fiddle, kind Christian gentleman. He patted me I soon picked up all the tunes I heard in on the head and said, “You may be very the street, and all I heard at church. Behappy, my poor little fellow, though you'll fore I got my fiddle, I used to like to listen never see again till you open your eyes in to the organ at church. People who had heaven. Jesus will guide you there if you got eyes, I thought, couldn't enjoy that ask him, though he doesn't go about now more than I did. But after I got my fiddle giving sight to the blind. Try to be good, I didn't feel so sore about other people beand make up your mind to be able to do ing better off than I was. I can't help something well
, though you can't see.' thinking that it was a God's messenger. “ For a long time after that I did nothing God bas put the music into things, and if but mope at home. I must have been a sad He is good enough to give you the power trial to poor mother, but she was always to bring it out, you ought to be grateful ingentle with me, and wouldn't let the chil- stead of bragging. The miners don't make dren cross me in anything. They were what they dig up. very sind, too, but they couldn't be ex- “I was ever so much better tempered pected to put up with my peevishness as she after I had got my fiddle. I began to think did. Father always had me by him, and whether I couldn't earn something to help made much of me when he was at home, father and mother. I knew how to net and tried to get me to take an interest in cabbage-nets, and father was pleased when something, instead of sulking in a corner. he saw I wanted to do something, and got I soon learnt to find my way about. Father me some fruit-nets to do for his master. saw I was afraid that my brother (a year Sometimes I went out for a walk with Tom
and Sissy over Hackney Common, or on to Shoreditch, because I knew those parts
"From the time I turned eleven till I But when the other lodgers found it out,
" I got on very well in Hackney at first. shame to play just to encourage people to The people knew something about me, and get drunk. Music wasn't meant for that. always gave me pennies. But at last they “I lived by my fiddle till I was thirty, got tired, and I had to work out to Kings- and about that time I fell in with my dear land and Stoke Newington, and up Stam- wife. How she came to marry a blind man ford Hill, or else along Hackney Road into I don't know (except that God sent her to
bless me), for she was five years younger ions he had got amongst led him astray, than me, and had a good place, and was a and he ran off. From the time he was very beautiful woman. You seem to won- twelve, I never heard anything of him till der bow I know that, but I can tell what he was dying. That was a sore trial to people look like by running my hand over me, for I was very fond of my poor Jack, their face. To touch hers was like play- for his own sake,
as his dear ing. She had seen me at church, and took mother's. pity on me, I suppose, because I had no- “I was lonelier than ever for many a body else to care for me. Anyhow, we year after that - lonelier, that is, in one were married, but she did not like me to way; but I learned what was worth being go about fiddling, and so before we mar- lonely for, and that was to see that God ried I managed to learn basket-making at was my friend, and that He'd taken my odd times. I could have made more by wife and child away to make me go to my fiddle sometimes, but she did clear Him. Sometimes I went on basket-makstarching, and so we managed to get on. We ing, and I had picked up mat-making too, lived at Tottenham, and I never was so and now and then I did a bit of netting, happy in my life. It would have been But I went out playing at times. I learned pleasant, after having been lonely so long, the harp about five years after poor Jack to have any one to care for me, but my went away, and a man that used to come poor dear Jane was as sweet-tempere as to play the fiddle with me put me up to the an angel. We had one boy, little Rosie's way of tuning pianos, though it was no use father, and both his mother and I doated to me then, because I hadn't any connecon him. He was such a fine-spirited, tion. I used to blow the bellows, too, for handsome little fellow - I am afraid we an organist on the other side of the water, spoiled him, poor lad. When he was six and when he found that I bad a taste for years old, his poor mother died. She had music, he taught me how to finger, and let been sitting up with a sick neighbour of me play a bit wken he went to practice. ours, and got her feet wet coming home. He was very kind, and it was through him If it hadn't been for Jack, I am afraid that I got my organ in the City. I should have been wicked enough to kill But now I have to tell you how I got myself. I felt over again just as I did my little Rosie. I had been playing the when I was struck blind. But there was harp every Monday night for four or five little Jack to look after, and I soon grew weeks in the Old Kent Road, when one ashamed of those wicked feelings. I night up came a woman and asked me couldn't live in' Tottenham any longer, whether my name was John S- • Yes,' though. Her grave in the churchyard was I said. Well, then,' she said, you must the only thing homelike, and I could go to come with me, for your son wants you, and that wherever I lived. I moved first to he's a-dyin'.' She led me out of the road, Highgate to be near, and little Jack and I and round a corner or two, and up some used to walk over the meadows to Totten- stairs, and into a little room, and told me to ham churchyard on Sunday afternoons. I sit down on the bed. Presently I heard my had got work at Highgate, but after a bit poor Jack say, “Oh, father, I've come to I was obliged to give up basket-making. no good, and I'm dying, and there's no one Į had sent little Jack to à dame's school, to look after my poor Rosie if you won't.' and when I sat twisting the sticks in and out I didn't know who Rosie was till I felt a all by myself, without hearing Jane going little curly head in my bands, and then a about and stopping to talk to me as she little wet face against 'mine. She took to used, I felt as if I should go mad. I me from the first, dear heart. Poor little hardly liked to take to fiddling again, be- thing, she'd been lying crying with her cause she hadn't liked it, but it wouldn't arms round her father's neck. I kissed harm her now, I thought, and there didn't her, and I kissed him, and I promised to seem anything else I could do. If I didn't take care of Rosie. Oh, how glad I was keep on moving about and playing, I felt to get her! She seemed somehow to tie so lonely that I was afraid of myself. Jack me on again to my poor boy and my dear and I lived in one place and another; but, wife. My Jack died about half-an-hour wherever we were, I tried to do the best I after I went in, and he hadn't strength to could for bim; and paid the people we speak again. I buried him at Nunbead. lived with extra to look after him when I All bis money was gone, poor boy. The
But I oughtn't to have left him people of the house couldn't tell me anyto himself so much. He got into scrapes, thing about him, except that he'd been with and when I came back, I hadn't the beart them for a month and more, and had seen to punish him. At last, the bad compan-Ime in the road, but was ashamed to speak