Amongst familiar things that are of comparatively recent introduction we must include that artistic article inaccurately known as Indian ink. Even when the seventeenth century was more than half-spent, it was a rarity; and in the folio volume, published in 1672, descriptive of the Museo Moscarda, there is an engraving of a stick of Indian ink, which was included with some ‘giants’ teeth’—in reality mammoth bones—as amongst the chief curiosities of the collection. Notwithstanding its usual English name of ‘Indian ink,’ it is a Chinese manufacture. M. Maurice Jametel, a careful and accomplished French scholar, has compiled from Chinese sources an interesting monograph on its history and manufacture (L’Encre de Chine, d’après des Documents Chinois, traduits par M. Jametel: Paris, 1882). The historians of the Celestial kingdom, according to their usual custom in dealing with the affairs of their own land, attribute high antiquity to the use of ink; they say that it was invented by Tien-tchen, who flourished somewhere between 2697 and 2597 B.C. The Chinese at the time made use of a lacquer which was spread upon silk by the help of bamboo sticks. That, at least, is one interpretation of certain passages as to bamboo books. Next we are told that they used a sort of black stone, to which water was applied.
About two centuries and a half before the birth of Christ, a new departure arose in Kiang-si province, where they began to manufacture balls of lampblack made of a mixture of lacquer, firwood, and size. The new invention was warmly welcomed, and the processes rapidly improved. A poet, Ouï-fou-jen, celebrating the novel aid to literature, mentions with especial praise the ink that was made from the firs that grew on the hillsides of Lou-chan, in the province of Kiang-si. This province was celebrated for the fine quality of its ink; and under the Tang dynasty, in the seventh, eighth, and ninth centuries of our era, there was an overseer who was a government official and whose functions were hereditary. Every year, a certain number of sticks of ink were sent to the Emperor as tribute.
During the reign of the Tang dynasty, we are told that the ink grew blacker with age, and that the size hardening, made the sticks as hard as stone. This points to the early development of the industry; for these characteristics of more than a thousand years ago are precisely those which are still regarded as the true tests of excellence. There is even some reason to think that there were state manufactories. The names of Li-tsao, Tchou-feung—whose place was called the Fir-burning Workshop—and of Li-tchao have been recorded as makers of excellence; but the son of the last-named, Li-ting-kouei, is still regarded as the most famous of ink-makers. He was an ingenious person, and moulded his ‘sticks’ of ink into a variety of quaint forms; and his ‘swords’ and ‘cakes’ were greatly admired. His reputation, however, rests on a more solid basis than a talent for fancy shapes. The sterling character of the man was reflected in his work; and the excellence and good quality of his ink attracted general admiration. It was said that if you wanted to test the genuineness of an ink-stick that professed to be from his workshop, you must break it in pieces, and throw the bits into a vessel of water. If the pieces at the end of a month remained intact and undissolved, it was a proof that the ink had come from the works of Li-ting-kouei.
There are points of contact between the manners of the East and West, for an honorific syllable or title was granted by the Emperor to the successful ink-maker, who thus became Lhi-ting-kouei. Another famous ink-maker was Tchang-yu, who was furnisher to the household of the Emperors under the dynasty of the Song, who flourished from 998 to 1023. The manufacture, however, declined in its artistic quality; but sometimes a maker arose who gave it a fresh impetus and importance. Two of these are named Pan-kou and Tchai-sin, the latter of whom is said to have rediscovered some of the antique processes by which Li-ting-kouei had gained his renown. A great variety of processes have been employed, and nearly every kind of combustible has been used for the production of the lampblack. The Emperor Hsiuan-tsong made use of perfumed rice-powder steeped in a decoction of Hibiscus mutabilis. At one locality where petroleum is used for lighting purposes, the lampblack resulting from its combustion is said to make an ink which for brilliance and blackness is superior to that made from firwood. The latter was, however, formerly the great source of Indian ink. After the lampblack or soot obtained by the burning of the wood, the most important thing is the size by which the particles are held together. This is frequently of animal origin. The horns of the stag and of the rhinoceros are said to be laid under contribution; as also the ox and various kinds of fishes. There is some reason to think that this industry came to the Middle Kingdom from Corea. At the present time, it is said that, instead of firwood, the oleaginous matters of the Dryandra cordata and grains of hemp are almost universally used. In some places, the Gleditschia sinensis is preferred, and even the cane-flower and the haricot do not escape. It is curious that the Chinese author Chen-ki-souen does not mention the Sesamum orientale, which is generally regarded as the chief source from which the soot of Indian ink is now obtained. The processes of the manufacture have been elaborately described, and Chinese artists have exerted their ingenuity to portray all the details of an industry so important both to literature and art. In Europe, Indian ink is used for drawings only; but in China, it is the instrument by which the poet writes his verses and by which the judge records his sentences, as well as that by which the artist embodies his fugitive fancies.
Chinese imagination has run riot in doing honour to ink. As there are divinities to preside over almost every object, the instruments of literature do not lack their supernatural guardians, and their place and precedence are settled by strict rules of etiquette. The ‘Prefect of the Black Perfume’ is the official style of the ink-deity, and he ranks higher than the ‘Guardian Spirit of the Pencil;’ whilst on a still lower level stands the ‘Genius of Paper.’ One day when the Emperor Hiuan-tsong, of the Tang dynasty, was at work in his study, suddenly there popped out from a stick of ink that lay upon his table a quaint figure no larger than a fly, but having all the appearance of a Taoist priest. The startled monarch was soon reassured by the words of the apparition. ‘Behold,’ it said, ‘the Genius of the Ink. My title is the Envoy of the Black Fir, and I have to announce to you that henceforth, when a man of true learning or genius writes, the Twelve Deities of Ink shall make their appearance to testify to the reality of his powers.’ Alas for literature! From that day to this, the Twelve Deities of Ink have remained invisible, although many centuries have passed away.
THE GREAT JEWEL ROBBERY.
The little world of fashionable London society was startled a few years ago by reports of a series of daring jewel robberies. The most costly gems seemed to disappear as if by magic under the very eyes of their owners. These robberies defied detection. A clue in one case was upset by the facts in another. When my aid as private detective was called in, I resolved to confine my attention to three distinct cases, though, of course, if useful information came in my way concerning other matters, I should know how to take advantage of it.
The first of the three on my list was the case of the Dowager Lady A., a somewhat eccentric old lady, who found her chief delight in arraying herself in her most valuable jewels and visiting in regular rotation all the West-end theatres. One night, when returning from one of these expeditions, her carriage had been overturned by colliding with an omnibus. The dowager was seriously injured, and within a few days she was dead. Then, apparently for the first time, it was discovered that the whole of the jewels worn by Lady A. on the night of the carriage accident had mysteriously disappeared. Her maid was so overcome by the sight of her injured mistress, that she failed altogether to remember what was done with these jewels at the moment when her ladyship was undressed. It was even a question whether they might not have been actually lost in the street during the confusion of the accident. At all events, no trace of them could be found, and it soon became evident that in the excitement of summoning relatives, fetching doctors, and, very soon, nurses and undertakers, half-a-dozen persons might have entered the house and walked off with the jewels without any chance of detection.
Then I turned my attention to the second case—that of the young Countess of B. There seemed less room for doubt in this instance. The fashionable wedding of the autumn had been that of the Earl of B. with Miss Blank. There had been a churchful of people at St George’s, Hanover Square, and a host of guests at the breakfast at the Unique Hotel. On the morning of the wedding, the earl had presented his bride with a magnificent tiara of diamonds. As the ‘happy pair’ were to start almost immediately for the continent, these diamonds, inclosed in a case, were hastily packed in a travelling bag, which the bride’s travelling maid was never to let out of her sight. On arriving at Paris, the bag was apparently intact; but on opening the jewel-case, the tiara was amissing. Clearly, it must have been cleverly extracted from the case while lying in the bride’s dressing-room, the empty case then being placed in the bag. Who had stolen the countess’s diamonds? The maid, the bride’s mother, and a younger brother had alone, as far as it was known, entered the room where the jewels were lying. I don’t mind saying I had some difficulty in believing that a bonâ fide robbery had been committed. You may not believe it, but I am convinced that many a startling robbery of jewels would be explained, if we knew of all the private debts incurred by ladies of fashion, and of the sacrifices sometimes made by them to screen from disgrace themselves or some deeply involved connection.
Meanwhile, I made inquiries concerning robbery number three. This was at Colonel C.’s. There the only thing missed was a very valuable bracelet. There had been a dance at the house. During the evening, Mrs C. had slipped and sprained her ankle so severely that a doctor had to be summoned, and the party was somewhat prematurely brought to a close. Mrs C. distinctly remembered wearing the bracelet; but whether she had it on at the moment of falling, she could not remember. There had been naturally some confusion in the ballroom, and the lady had been carried to her own room. It was not for some hours that the loss of the bracelet was noticed. Then a search was made, but altogether without success.