Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 124, vol. III, May 15, 1886

PARLIAMENTARY TITBITS.

Edmund Burke, the distinguished orator and writer, at the close of an election in 1774, in an eloquent speech, thanked his constituents for electing him as their member. He was followed by his colleague, Mr Cruger, a merchant, who, after the orator’s remarks, contented himself by exclaiming: ‘Gentlemen, I say ditto to Mr Burke!’

Two stories are told of Lord Brougham. On being offered the post of Chief Baron of the Exchequer, Brougham refused it, alleging that its acceptance would prevent the continuance of his parliamentary duties. ‘True,’ rejoined Canning; ‘but you will be only one stage from the woolsack.’—‘Yes,’ said Brougham; ‘but the horses will be off.’

The second is contained in a remark of Sydney Smith, who, seeing Brougham in a carriage on the panel of which was the letter B. surmounted by a coronet, observed: ‘There goes a carriage with a B outside and a wasp inside.’

Lord Erskine had the following unique form of replying to begging letters: ‘Sir—I feel honoured by your application, and I beg to subscribe’—here the recipient had to turn over the leaf—‘myself, your very obedient servant.’

Lord Palmerston’s good-humour as a distinct element of his character is well known. We find it even during his last illness, when his physician was forced to mention death. ‘Die, my dear doctor!’ he exclaimed; ‘that’s the _last_ thing I shall do.’

When Shiel had learned by heart, but failed to remember, the exordium of a speech beginning with the word ‘Necessity,’ which he repeated three times, Sir Robert Peel continued: ‘Is not _always_ the mother of invention.’

Some good sayings are attributed to George Selwyn, who was called ‘the receiver-general of wit and stray jokes,’ and was a silent member of parliament for many years. When told that Sir Joshua Reynolds intended to stand for parliament, Selwyn replied: ‘Sir Joshua is the ablest man I know on a canvas.’

Horace Walpole, when complaining one day of the existence of the same indecision, irresolution, and want of system, in the reign of George III. as had been witnessed in that of Queen Anne, remarked concerning the continuance of the Duke of Newcastle as First Lord of the Treasury after the accession of George III.: ‘There is nothing new under the sun.’—‘Nor under the grandson,’ added Selwyn, George III. being the grandson of George II.

George III. one day alluded to Selwyn as ‘that rascal George;’ on which Selwyn asked: ‘What does that mean?’ Immediately adding: ‘Oh, I forgot; it is one of the hereditary titles of the Georges.’

The Duke of Cumberland on asking Selwyn how a horse he had lately purchased answered, received the reply: ‘I really don’t know; I have never asked him a question.’

When it was proposed at one time to tax coals instead of iron, Sheridan objected to the proposal on the ground that ‘it would be a jump from the frying-pan into the fire.’

Many other examples might be given of Sheridan’s wit; we shall mention three. On meeting one day two royal dukes, one of them said that they had just been discussing whether Sheridan were a greater fool than knave. The wit, placing himself between them, quickly replied: ‘Why, faith, I believe I’m between the two.’ His son said that were he in parliament, he would write on his forehead, ‘To let.’—‘Add “unfurnished,”’ suggested the father. On another occasion, when asked by his tailor for at least the interest of his bill, Sheridan replied: ‘It is not my interest to pay the principal, nor my principle to pay the interest.’

With this last we may compare Talleyrand’s method in dealing with creditors. When asked by one when he should receive payment, the only answer given was: ‘_Ma foi_, how inquisitive you are!’

We shall draw this paper to a close by quoting from _The Anecdotal History of Parliament_ the following:

‘_An Irish Election Bill._—The following bill was sent by an innkeeper at Trim to Sir Mark Somerville, who had given an order that all persons who voted for him in a contested election for Meath should be boarded and lodged at his expense. The bill, it is said, is still kept in a frame at the family seat.

_April 16, 1826._

MY BILL—

To eating 16 freeholders above-stairs for Sir Marks, at 3s. 3d. a head, is to me £2, 12s.

To eating 16 more below-stairs, and 2 priests after supper, is to me, £2, 15s. 9d.

To 6 beds in one room, and 4 in a nother at 2 guineas every bed, and not more than four in any bed, at any time cheap enough, God knows, is to me, £22, 15s.

To 18 horses and 5 mules about my yard all night at 13s. every one of them, and for a man which was lost on the head of watching them all night, is to me, £5, 5s.

For breakfast on tay in the morning for every one of them and as many more as they brought, as near as I can guess, £4, 12s.

To raw whisky and punch, without talking of pipes, tobacco, as well as for porter, and as well as for breaking a pot above-stairs and other glasses and delf for the first day and night, I am not sure, but for the three days and a half of the election as little as I can call it, and to be very exact, it is all or thereabouts as near as I can guess, and not to be too particular, is to me at least, £79, 15s. 9d.

For shaving and cropping off the heads of the 49 freeholders for Sir Marks, at 13d. for every head of them by my brother had a wote, is to me, £2, 13s. 1d. For a womit and a nurse for poor Tom Kernan in the middle of the night, when he was not expected, is to me ten hogs.

I don’t talk of the piper, or for keeping him sober as long as he was sober, is to me, £0.

THE TOTAL.

2 12 0 0 2 15 0 9 Signed 22 15 0 0 in the place of JEMMY CARS wife 5 5 0 0 his 4 12 0 0 BRYAN × GARRATY 79 15 0 9 Mark. 2 13 0 1 10 10 0 0 £110, 18s. 7d.,

you may say £111, 0s. 0d. So your Honour, Sir Marks, send me this eleven hundred by Bryan himself, who and I prays for your success always in Trim, and no more at present.’

BREAD FROM THE BARK OF THE FIR-TREE.

The present century is marked by a great social improvement in the position of the lower or working classes; the days of famine, from which they suffered so severely, have passed away, and they can now rely upon bread made wholly from corn, free from husk and chaff, and of that fine quality which a century ago was a luxury only indulged in by the upper or wealthier classes. This improvement has been brought about by a fuller cultivation of the land and by a general development of trade—great social changes which are the spirit or essence of civilisation.

In England, the white bread of the poor man is a thing of this century; whole-meal or brown-bread, barley-bread, and oatcake being their old form of food.

In the last century, when the wood-trade of the Baltic was confined to the Russian ports, the now thriving towns in the Gulf of Bothnia were poor fishing-villages, and the bread of the people was commonly made from the inner bark of the fir-tree. Their staple grain was oats and rye; but in time of scarcity, bark-bread was used; at other times, bark-meal was mixed with corn-meal, as a matter of economy. As the making of bark-bread may now be termed a lost art, we propose to give a few notes upon it, which cannot fail to be of interest to the general reader.

Until recently, the making of bark-bread from the fir-tree was common in the north of Sweden and Norway and in the north-western parts of Finland. The bark was stripped from the trees in the spring, the only time of the year it is easily removable; that of the trunk of large trees was most preferred, as it was less strong than the bark of small trees or branches. Linnæus, the great naturalist, when passing through the woods of Helsingland, in Sweden, in 1732, says: ‘The common and spruce firs grow here to a very large size. The inhabitants had stripped almost every tree of its bark.’ The outer or hard scaly bark was carefully removed, as the inner bark was the only part required. The bark was then dried in the sun, and stored for winter use, a season that embraces six or seven months of the year. Preparatory to grinding, the bark was rendered friable, thick, and porous by being warmed over a slow fire. It was then in part given to their swine in a granulated form, by way of economising corn, the swine by this food being rendered extremely fat. Other parts were cut up obliquely and given to their cows, goats, and sheep. When ground, this bark-meal, as it was called, was stored in barrels.

The following is an old recipe for making it into bread: ‘The meal is moistened with cold water into a paste or dough, without being allowed to go into a state of fermentation, and without any yeast. Cold water is preferred to warm, the latter rendering the dough too brittle. The dough being of a soft consistence, is then well kneaded on a table. A handful is sufficient to make one cake, though no person would suppose that so small a quantity could make so large a cake as afterwards appears. This lump of dough is spread out on a flat table, not with a rolling-pin, but with the hands, and a flat trowel or shovel; a considerable quantity of flour is sprinkled over the surface, and the whole mass is extended until it becomes as thin as a skin of parchment. It is then turned by means of a very large shovel, after being previously pricked all over with an instrument made on purpose, and composed of a large handful of the wing feathers of ptarmigan, partridge, or some such birds. The other side, when turned uppermost, is subsequently pricked in the same manner. The cake is then put into the oven, only one being ever baked at a time. The attendance of a person is necessary to watch the cake, and move or lift it up occasionally, that it may not burn. Much time, indeed, is not required for the baking. When sufficiently done, the cake is hung over some kind of rail, and the two sides hang down parallel to each other. Other cakes when baked are hung near to, or over, the first. When the whole are finished, they are laid by one upon another in a large heap, until wanted.’

The dough was said to be more compact than barley, and almost as much so as rye; but the bread was noted as being rather bitter in taste.

Mr Laing, in his _Journal of a Residence in Norway_, states that he had been disposed to doubt the use of fir-bark for bread; but he found it more extensive than is generally supposed. In Norway, it is the custom to kiln-dry oats to such a degree that both the grain and the husks are made into a meal almost as fine as wheaten flour. In bad seasons, the inner bark of young Scotch pines is kiln-dried in a similar manner to the oats, and ground along with them, so as to add to the quantity of the meal. The present dilapidated state of the forests in districts which formerly supplied wood for exportation, is ascribed to the great destruction of young trees for this purpose in the year 1812. The bread baked of the oat and pine meal is said to be very good. It is made in the form of ‘flat cakes, covering the bottom of a girdle or frying-pan, and as thin as a sheet of paper, being put on the girdle in nearly a fluid state.’ When used at table, these cakes are made crisp by being warmed a little.

It would appear that the inner bark of the silver birch-tree is also used for grinding into bark-meal. Loudon says in his _Arboretum Britannicum_: ‘In Kamtschatka, the inner bark of the birch is dried and ground, like that of the Scotch pine, in order to mix it with oatmeal, in times of scarcity. It is also said to be eaten in small pieces along with the roe of fish.’ The Rev. Dr Brewer, in his _Dictionary of Phrase and Fable_, says: ‘In the fifteenth century, Christopher III. of Scandinavia, in a time of great scarcity, had the bark of birch wood mixed with meal for food, from which circumstance he was called “The King of Bark.”’

It is quite clear that the birch is wholesome, for in the Baltic Provinces it is customary for women in the streets to sell birch-sap in pails to the cry of _birk vatten_ (birch-water); and we are told in the _Penny Cyclopædia_ that ‘during the siege of Hamburg by the Russians in 1814, almost all the birch-trees in the neighbourhood were destroyed by the Boshkirs and other barbarian soldiers in the Russian service, by being tapped for their sap.’

In the old home of bark-bread, wheat and oats are practically unknown, the shortness of the summer not admitting of the ripening of these cereals. The inhabitants are consequently confined to barley and rye, the latter being their staple food. This rye-bread is dark in colour, but very sweet and wholesome.

We have seen the bakers of Sweden drawing batches of rye-bread; and from the sweetness of it and its appearance as it lined the floor of the bakehouse, we could scarcely disabuse our minds that it was not a batch of English plum-loaf.

The making of bark-bread may now be said to be a thing of the past; but its use even so late as the first half of this century, points to a primitive age, and an intensity in the struggle for life with which we in England are wholly unacquainted.

THE STANHOPE GOLD MEDAL.

In this _Journal_ for June 6, 1885, we gave our readers some account of the ‘Heroes of Peace’ whose gallant acts had been rewarded in the course of the previous year by the Royal Humane Society. The Stanhope Gold Medal—‘the “blue ribbon” of the Society’—is awarded early in each year to the hero of the most praiseworthy instance of bravery brought to the notice of the Society during the preceding twelve months. In the beginning of this year, then, the Stanhope Medal was awarded to Alfred Collins, a young fisherman of Looe, Cornwall, for an act of bravery of such signal daring as to deserve special notice here. On a dark stormy night of December 1884, a boy named Hoskings fell overboard from the fishing lugger _Water Nymph_, then seven or eight miles south-east of the Eddystone lighthouse. The captain of the boat, Alfred Collins, immediately jumped overboard, hampered though he was by his oilskins and sea-boots, and holding on to his boat with one hand, endeavoured to clutch the boy with the other. He failed in this attempt; but clambering into the boat again, he secured the end of a line, and carrying this with him, he jumped overboard once more, and swam in the direction of the sinking lad. There was a heavy gale blowing, and the night was dark, with heavy rain. By the time Collins reached the boy, he was eighty feet from the _Water Nymph_, and already three feet under water; but Collins managed to clutch him, and the two were with great difficulty pulled on board. Such self-sacrificing heroism as this needs no commendation; but the Royal Humane Society do well to recognise it by the award of their medals. In addition to the Stanhope Medal, the Society awarded during last year fifteen silver medals, and one hundred and thirty-nine bronze ones; and to ten heroes who already wore the medal for previous acts of bravery, the clasp was given; while the minor awards, of testimonials on vellum and parchment and of money, numbered no fewer than two hundred and twenty-seven. In the cases reported to the Society during the twelve months, out of four hundred and thirty-nine persons attempted to be rescued, four hundred and six were actually saved.

AT THE MILL.

Swallows, skimming o’er the shallows, Where, above the reeds and mallows, May-flies hover light, As ye course o’er flood and lea, Twitter of my love to me— Cometh he to-night?

Insect-mazes, softly droning O’er the mill-stream’s fitful moaning, In your wayward flight, Murmur o’er the bridge’s cope Lullabies to dreaming Hope— Cometh he to-night?

Weave your flaming splendours o’er me, Evening clouds that float before me, Rosy, gold, and white; Flood my soul with pearly rays, Harbingers of halcyon days— Cometh he to-night?

Flowers that lade the zephyr’s fleetness With the burden of your sweetness, Cheer me, calm and bright. Sweet as you my thoughts shall spring, When his soft-tongued whispering Breathes o’er me to-night.

Fickle he as swallow’s glancing; Wavering as the May-fly’s dancing In the waning light! Flimsy as the clouds above, Frail as petals all his love! Where is he to-night?

He is here! my homebound swallow; True to me as May-flies follow Streamlets to alight. Fair as skies in sunset hours, Sweeter far than honeyed flowers, Comes my love to-night!

F. H. WOOD.

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