The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 738, February 16, 1878
    
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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 738, February 16, 1878

Author: Various

Editor: Robert Chambers
        William Chambers

Release date: May 16, 2020 [eBook #62125]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, NO. 738, FEBRUARY 16, 1878 ***




Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net









[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 738.      SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1878.      PRICE 1½_d._]




SOCIABLE AND UNSOCIABLE.


The pleasures of social intercourse are amongst the best and truest
enjoyments in which we can participate—the desire for the friendship
of others is more or less inherent in human nature. There are
nevertheless thousands upon thousands who are surrounded by every
opportunity for realising these pleasures, and who yet fail to benefit
by their influence, either for temporary and healthy pastime, or for
permanent good. Most people have doubtless many amongst their circle
of acquaintance who are easily distinguished from others by the term
‘unsociable.’ It would, however, be both unfair and incorrect to
estimate that a large proportion of a given number of people have a
decided objection to and shun all society. The habitually unsociable
people are frequently those who would readily confess to a liking for
society, but who do not enter into it on account of the various and
numerous obstacles which, they will tell you, are in the way. It is
not so much on account of an innate and acknowledged indisposition
for social intercourse that the saying, ‘Some folk are as unsociable
as milestones,’ is proverbially correct, as that many barriers have
been erected by the suspicious imaginations of those concerned. People
are often heard to complain of the unsociability of others; but it is
not unseldom that the very people who adopt this standpoint are those
who, at the least approach from others, retire almost entirely within
their insignificant individuality, and assume a reserve of manner and
constrained mode of conversation, that of itself forbids any attempt to
cultivate their acquaintance. Something like a hedgehog which, should
you happen to catch sight of it, instead of making friends, rolls
itself up into a ball, and shews off its bristles to the best advantage.

Perhaps nothing constitutes so great a hindrance to what may be
termed natural and unadulterated social intercourse as the unnatural
appearance which many folk strive to put upon themselves and their
belongings for the benefit of the objects of their acquaintance.
For the entertainment of their visitors, some good folk will change,
as far as they possibly can, the entire face and features of their
houses and themselves—in short, for the time being they seem to be
somebody else—they go to great pains to make things unreal. On such
show-occasions a profusion of apologies is sometimes showered upon
the unhappy and disappointed guests; they are begged to excuse the
unceremonious and very ordinary preparation made for their reception
and entertainment; whilst it is apparent that every available resource
has been utilised to make an imposing appearance. It was, we think,
John Wesley, who having been invited out to dine, was asked, soon
after his arrival at the house of the host, to excuse the fact that no
preparation had been made. ‘Then,’ replied he rather sharply, ‘there
ought to have been;’ and without waiting to see whether there was
reason for such an apology, left the house forthwith.

Feelings of rivalry and jealousy, and the existence of an ultra spirit
of caste, are responsible for much of the unsociability which prevails.
Mr and Mrs Jones do not fraternise with Mr and Mrs Smith, who may live
next door, because they, Mr and Mrs Jones, have concluded that they
have ascended two or three more rounds of the ladder of social status.
It is quite probable, moreover, that Mr and Mrs Smith may be duly
impressed with precisely the same sense of superiority. Mr Jenkins does
not wish to be patronised, and therefore cares not to cultivate the
acquaintance of Mr Jones. Mr Jones having a paramount consciousness
of his pre-eminence, would deem it undignified to be friendly with
Mr Jenkins. Thus people sit in judgment upon themselves and other
people, and form what they deem a sound opinion as to the disposition
of others without ever having had the smallest opportunity of arriving
at an accurate estimate. Imagination, hearsay, and the impressions
derived from mere appearance at first sight, are often the sole
materials employed in producing what is intended to pass as a detailed
character-photograph. The estimates thus formed are frequently
circulated as genuine and reliable in every particular; and yet there
may be as much difference between such estimates and the truth, as
between a genuine and a base coin of the realm. The estimate which may
be given you by one man of another is only reliable in so far as he is
capable and has had the opportunities of forming an _accurate_ judgment.

As the tenor of a man’s life will to some extent be the reflection
of his associations, it is essential that some discrimination be
employed. But a man may be sociable and yet avoid careless promiscuous
friendships. By the same rule that you cannot touch pitch without being
defiled, neither can you have the friendship of sensible men and true,
without profit. Nor need a sociable man eschew the duties and comforts
of home-life. The association with friends, at home, may be made to
take the place of association with mere acquaintances, sometimes of a
questionable sort, abroad; and hence home may be made more homely.

The plea is sometimes advanced, ‘Oh, we cannot afford to have company.’
Here is where a great mistake is made. Surely we should not measure the
value of our friendships on the basis of a knife-and-fork calculation!
The friendship which is measured by the amount of money expended on
it is surely worth little. It is not so much the good dinner society
which we would advocate, as the propagation of simple and genuine
friendships. Formal parties and dinings-out are by reason of modern
usages acknowledged to be for the most part dreary affairs, both for
the givers and the guests. Dinners got up for display, arranged with an
object, invitations given for sundry reasons—to the man, for instance,
whose only qualification a guest may be his ability to be a source of
entertainment; or to the titled gentleman and lady whose style and
title shall grace the list in the newspaper columns. This amongst the
upper ten thousand may be perhaps regarded as a necessary evil. Such
state ceremonies have become fashionable amongst what has come to be
popularly designated the _élite_ of society.

We especially refer, however, to the sociable traits of the great
middle class, amongst whom a large dinner-party scheme is neither
practicable nor desirable, but to whom the more frequent exchange
of civilities with their neighbours would be a boon. But the way is
frequently barred by the comparisons which are made. The ladies are
generally desirous that the furniture of their houses should not
compare unfavourably with that in the houses of those with whom they
may be intimate. A source of the greatest concern is it if they have
not Brussels carpet as good and as new as that of their neighbours.
Then their furniture it may be is in green rep, that of their friends
in crimson plush. Further anxieties are created as to plate, the size,
style, and number of servants, and a dozen other considerations of a
kindred sort. This everlasting contest to keep up appearances is at
once the bane of our tempers and our pockets. It is the main thing on
which the unreality of our time is fed, and upon which it thrives so
well. Whatever may be the real impediment to sociability, we ourselves,
while fostering the evil, uncharitably and inconsistently plead that
the unsociable tendency exists more in others than ourselves!

Were there an utter absence of opportunity for benefiting by
the society of others, the fact would be deemed a hardship and a
misfortune; and yet there are plenty of individuals who live in crowded
cities but are the most lonely of beings. Not only are they never seen
to speak to others, but apparently never even see them; the social
faculties are thus rarely called into play, and are left to rust out.
What do such men lose as the result of this isolation? Their knowledge
of the best side of human nature is at a low ebb; while on the other
hand the association with and knowledge of those around us teach us
not only to misjudge others less, but to know ourselves better; and
hence there comes a development and expansion of our sympathies. More
freedom of intercourse must tend not only to increase our pleasures but
to alleviate our troubles, for as we see that others have their ‘ups’
and ‘downs,’ we learn to look upon our own as less burdensome. The man
who neither sees, hears, nor participates in anything beyond his own
immediate surroundings, can know little or nothing beyond the narrow
boundary of his own individuality—a very circumscribed sphere to live
and work in, certainly. People often need friends who, under given
circumstances, will afford the benefit of their own experience. The
person whose only acquaintance is himself, complains of the hardness
of his lot, and whilst estimating what difference he imagines the
cultivation of friendships would make to his pockets, fails to estimate
what he would gain by the sympathy and good-will of others, and how his
dreary path would be brightened by less isolation.

There is, however, an inborn craving in most people for society of some
kind, though occasionally it is sought for in directions which are
not beneficial in their tendency; and this, we fear, is the result of
the swarm of conventionalities which, for the most part, surround the
social life of our day, some healthy counteraction of which—especially
in the interests of the young—would be welcome.

Happily the habits of isolation and unsociability are more prevalent
in some places than in others. Those who have travelled most will
readily admit that they have frequently found themselves amongst a
circle of individuals whose freedom from conventionalities, and whose
unconstrained and hearty mode of intercourse, made them forget for
the time being that they were in the company of strangers. It is
possible that some readers of these words may almost shudder at the
idea of such freedom, such a want of decorum on the part of people
who had never met before, and had not gone through the formality of
a proper introduction. And yet there may be decorum without painful
fastidiousness. Who has not met with unsociable railway travellers,
some in whose company he has been for many weary hours, and with whom
he may have succeeded, after supreme effort, in breaking the ice, only
to receive a solitary monosyllable in response! Such an experience is
certainly not the rule, for sometimes we meet with those, the incessant
wag of whose tongue may be such as to compel us to leave unread both
our newspaper and any favourite book that we may have promised ourself
to get through. And yet it is well on such occasions to go on the
principle of give and take. Anything rather than the company of an
individual who looks suspiciously at you should you be venturesome
enough to express to him an opinion on so commonplace a topic as the
state of the weather.

As a valuable element in connection with our social life, music does
not occupy the position which it might and ought to do. The rapid
growth during recent years of a knowledge of this charming solace is
out of all proportion to the extent of its social enjoyment. It is
unfortunately too often treated as a mere accomplishment. The friendly
and informal musical parties such as were enjoyed years ago, do not
receive much encouragement. It is of course indisputable that as a
concert-giving power, rapid strides have been made in music; but what
we contend for is the propagation of home harmony; the social glee, the
favourite ballad, the instrumental quartette, with no objection to an
occasional sonata for the pianoforte.

It is no less amusing than disagreeable to see so many otherwise worthy
people possessed of such a paramount sense of gentility and importance
as to make themselves and their surroundings uncomfortable, and often
miserable. The great desideratum is that people should appear more like
themselves than somebody else. We hear and read a good many sermons
on ‘Morality;’ but, excellent in their way as these are, a series of
lectures on ‘Reality’ are quite as necessary.




HELENA, LADY HARROGATE.

CHAPTER IX.—SIR SYKES’S WARD.


There may be pleasanter positions in life than that of a dependant,
especially when the claim to make one of the household rests on
conditions which it is impossible to define. The governess, who is so
often held up by moralists as an object for our conventional pity,
needs not, surely, to forfeit her self-respect, inasmuch as she earns
her salary and its contingent benefits by honest labour. The companion
too gives valuable consideration in the shape of a perpetual offering
up of her own time, tastes, and wishes, for her pay and maintenance.
There are others sometimes however, kindred strangers within the rich
man’s gates, who have no ostensible tasks to perform, who cannot
give monthly or quarterly notice and go away, and yet whose bread is
sometimes made very bitter to them—white slaves who get no compassion
from the world at large.

Miss Willis at Carbery Chase was oddly situated. An orphan, she found
herself domiciled amongst those who were allied to her neither by blood
nor by the still more tenacious tie of common and early associations.
She was exempt of course under that roof from many of the annoyances
which fall to the lot of the motherless elsewhere. There was no
domineering mistress of the house to resent every attention shewn to
the interloper as something deducted from the rightful due of her
own matchless girls; no niggard to grudge her every meal of which
she partook at the stinted family table; or tyrant to pile upon her
submissive shoulders the never-ending load of petty cares, which some
genteel drudges perform unthanked.

At Carbery there was plenty and to spare. Sir Sykes was a gentleman
bland and courteous; the girls as kind good girls as could easily be
met with; and the servants sufficiently well trained to take their cue
from their employers, and to be civil to one who was smiled on by the
higher powers. Yet a sensitive young lady in the position which Sir
Sykes’s ward now occupied, might well have been excused if her heart
at times was somewhat heavy. All her old habits of life had been in a
moment uprooted. She had been suddenly transferred from familiar scenes
and people whose ways she understood, to a country every feature of
which must have been strange and new to her. Under the circumstances
and in spite of the good-nature of those around her, it is not
surprising if Ruth Willis at times looked sad and pensive.

‘You cannot think how wonderful it seemed to me at first,’ she said
one day to the younger Miss Denzil, ‘not to hear the drums beat tattoo
at sundown, or how often I have started from my pillow in the early
morning, fancying that I heard again the bugles sounding for the
parade. Then the trumpeting of the elephants beside the tank, and the
shrill voices of the dusky children at play beneath the peepul trees,
and all the sights and sounds about my old home in India—I can’t forget
them yet.’

Blanche was sympathetic; but she felt rather than reasoned that the
grief for a father’s loss, the regrets for friends abruptly quitted
and a mode of life abandoned, could not be assuaged merely by a kiss
and a kind word. Yet it was evident that Ruth was by no means disposed
to play the part of a kill-joy in the house beneath whose roof she was
now established, or to enact the martyr. Her manner was very soft and
gentle, not obtrusively sad or unduly deferential, but that of one who
sincerely wishes to please. She had a way of bending her will as it
were to that of those with whom she now associated, which was really
very pretty and graceful, and harmonised well with the modest drooping
of her eyelids when she spoke. There were times (so her ill-wishers
said, the latter being some of those vigilant critics who take our wage
and wear our livery, or it may be caps and aprons and cotton prints
such as we sanction, but who are not always too lenient censors of
our conduct) when her whole face seemed to change its expression by
the mere opening of the fine dark eyes fraught with a singular look,
which the same critics averred to be that of ill-temper. But if Miss
Willis had not, as Lucy and Blanche Denzil believed her to have, the
temper of a lamb, it must be admitted that she was capable of very
great self-restraint, since in general conversation she was only too
ready to acquiesce with the opinions of others. Jasper had observed the
singular brightening of Ruth’s eyes sometimes, when she turned them on
Sir Sykes, but never towards himself; while his unsuspecting sisters
saw no peculiarity in the bearing of the stranger whom they had learned
to like.

‘I could really believe,’ said Jasper to himself more than once, ‘that
my father is afraid of that girl—and no wonder after all!’ he added,
after a moment’s reflection. Certainly Sir Sykes did appear somewhat
over-anxious that his ward should be happy and comfortable at Carbery,
that her tastes should be studied, and her inclinations consulted. Yet
he never seemed at ease in her company, and always escaped from her
presence as early as politeness permitted; so that his own daughters
set down his behaviour as merely prompted by an over-strained sense of
hospitality.

There was a fascination in the guest’s bearing and conversation, to
which even Jasper, with all his predisposition to dislike her, could
not but succumb. No great talker, Miss Willis had the power, somehow,
of making what she did say more effective than what fell from other
lips than hers. What this art or this gift might be, Jasper Denzil, who
was no stranger to women and their ways, could not divine. The girl’s
voice was rich though low, and admirably modulated, although of music,
as she frankly confessed, she knew nothing whatever. And her eyes—the
one redeeming feature of a plain pale face—could flash and glitter
with wondrously changing play of light; eyes and voice and words all
blending together to convey the expression which their owner desired
that they should impart.

There was one person to whom the baronet’s ward appeared in the light
of an enigma, and this was Lord Harrogate, himself a frequent visitor
at the home of the Denzils, between whose family and his own there was
indeed some kind of connection. He had given up as preposterous the
idea that he had ever seen Miss Willis before. _That_ was of course
erroneous, and he must have been the dupe of a fancied resemblance.
But he was sufficiently quick-sighted to perceive, what was apparent
neither to his sisters nor to Jasper, nor to the Earl or Countess,
that a strong sharply marked character was concealed behind the gentle
half-bashful demeanour which it pleased Miss Willis to assume.

‘I never saw the iron hand,’ he thought to himself, ‘so well hidden
before by the velvet glove; but it’s there for all that. Yonder girl
looks capable of turning the whole family round her finger.’

Meanwhile Jasper at anyrate had other subjects for contemplation than
were presented by a psychological study of the orphaned daughter of
the late Major Willis, of the Honourable East India Company’s Service.
Gentlemen who own and gentlemen who are going to ride horses intended
to win a race which had so suddenly swelled into importance as the
forthcoming one at Pebworth, have need of frequent communication
with one another. Jasper during the next ten days was often in his
principal’s company, sometimes at Pebworth, now and then at Exeter,
when the routine of military duty held the other captain to his post.

In the interim, Captain Denzil could tell by the language of the
newspapers which were the accredited organs of the turf, how
considerable was the excitement evoked by the selection of Pebworth as
a place where might be matched against one another some of the finest
weight-carriers chronicled in the Stud Book. The wildest rumours were
afloat, and an April sky was not more changeable than were the odds,
as reported from the headquarters of gambling, London and Liverpool.
Sometimes the bookmakers were reported to be assured of triumph;
sometimes it was hinted that the great betting firms would be severely
hit, so unexpected would be the finish of the race.

‘Why,’ indignantly demanded one influential paper, ‘should Pebworth be
dragged into the daylight?’ Nor were the other organs of the sporting
press slow to swell the chorus of complaint that a cramped and hitherto
unheard-of course, situated in an obscure nook of the far west, should
be the arena for a struggle such as was anticipated. And then followed
dark innuendos and vague suggestions as to the motives of the noble
lord who owned The Smasher, and the scarcely less illustrious commoner
to whom Brother to Highflyer appertained. During the period preceding
the race, the most contradictory rumours were incessantly published
with reference to the rival favourites. They were ill; they were well;
they had met with all the accidents slight or serious to which the
equine genus is liable. One of these important animals had a cough.
The other was not quite sound of limb. Both had been overtrained. No.
Their training was insufficient, and any nameless outsider could reach
the winning-post before them. Once again both horses were in the very
perfection of bloom and beauty, and would compete fairly for the prize.

Strange faces, some of which were not calculated to inspire confidence
in those who had silver spoons in the pantry or linen drying on
garden-hedge, began to appear at Pebworth and the parts adjacent.
Lodgings were in such request that the meanest rooms were eagerly
disputed at fancy prices, while inn and beershop drove a brisker trade
than had been known since Pebworth had been disfranchised.

‘Sad business, Denzil, this!’ exclaimed Jack Podgers as he dashed into
the private parlour of the _De Vere Arms_. ‘Here’s a private telegram,
and here a special edition of a sporting paper. Both agree as to the
facts.’

Jasper glanced at the telegram and at the paragraph. Yes. A most
unfortunate accident, due to the carelessness of a porter, had occurred
to Brother to Highflyer, just as that noble horse was being led from
his box to the platform. Mr Splint, the eminent veterinary surgeon,
summoned in hot haste, had examined the off fore-leg, and had expressed
a positive opinion; in deference to which Mr John Knavesmire the
trainer and Mr Wylie the owner had reluctantly decided to withdraw the
name of Brother to Highflyer from the list.

‘The race naturally must be won by the other favourite, The Smasher,’
said Captain Prodgers with a grim smile.


CHAPTER X.—WHAT HAPPENED AT PEBWORTH.

From early morning the usually sleepy streets of quiet Pebworth had
been disturbed by the shouts of bawling hoarse-voiced vendors of
so-called ‘correct’ cards, purporting to furnish accurate information
as to the names, weights, and colours of the riders, the nomenclature
and ownership of the horses, and other particulars relating to the
forthcoming race. Some of these itinerants were in faded red jackets
that had felt the dust and the rain on every race-course in Great
Britain; others were in tattered fustian, stained by the wet grass of
the moorside, where the foot-sore wretches had been sleeping for a
few hours after their weary tramp across country. It might have been
opined that gold had been discovered in Dartmoor, and that diggers
were hurrying up like so many eagles to the prey, so many were the
uncouth groups that flocked in. Some of the pilgrims were the veriest
human vermin that cumber the earth. There was the thimble-rigger, whose
stock-in-trade consisted of the tiny board or slender table, which his
unacknowledged associate is carrying now, with the peas and the thimble
in his pocket. There were the proprietors of the roulette boards, and
the manipulators of the ‘three card trick,’ so dangerous to unwary
youth. There were gipsy fortune-tellers, dark-eyed, yellow-kerchiefed,
and long-haired gipsy men, laden with sticks to be pelted at cocoa-nuts
propped on an ash-wand, or at Aunt Sally with her time-honoured pipe.

All the beggars, street-singers, and sellers of toys or gingerbread
in the west of England seemed to have been drawn to Pebworth as
steel filings are attracted to a magnet; and with them arrived many
a scowling ruffian in baggy slop-suit, or slinking fellow in greasy
garments of threadbare black, whose object could hardly have been the
wish to witness a contest of strength and speed between two or more
gallant horses. Probably the man in black was one of those miserable
beings who bet with chance customers, and if they lose, pay in person
if not in purse, braving kicks, ducking, and ill-usage, in hopes of
five or ten ill-got sovereigns. As for the sturdier brute in nailed
boots and velveteen, with the knotted bludgeon beneath his arm, it will
go hard with him if some half-tipsy owner of a watch be not lightened
of it before bedtime.

In poured gigs and carts and carriages of every size and kind, some
full of honest holiday-makers, others of thoughtful devotees of the
Mammon that presides over the great green gaming-table that we know
by the name of a race-course. Among the last-mentioned, who in turf
phraseology are termed ‘bookmakers,’ were many, often of gentle birth
and nurture, whose feverish life for ten months of the year was one
of incessant locomotion, calculation, care, and toil. Some men,
sufficiently well educated to see themselves as others see them, yet
work harder at the dubious profession they have selected, than does
a prosperous doctor or barrister of many briefs—ever on the railroad
or in telegraph office, scrambling for make-shift lodgings, suing at
the doors of crowded hotels—chilled by the rain of Newmarket, broiled
by the sun of Chantilly—and incessantly on the wing to some new
race-meeting, goaded on by the _ignis-fatuus_ of Hope.

The carriages were drawn up three deep around the judge’s chair and
the stand. Small as the race-course of Pebworth was, it presented
a gay and animated appearance. There were the well-appointed drags
of every regiment within reach of the little Devonshire town, while
the equipages of the county aristocracy were there in unusual
numbers. There were the Fulfords, the Carews, the Trelawneys, and
the Tresyllians, the Courtenays, and the Penruddocks, all the rural
dignitaries of the district. The Earl of Wolverhampton was there with
two of his daughters, accompanied by Blanche Denzil, who was confident
of her brother’s success. Lord Harrogate too was there on horseback.

No carriage from Carbery was on the Pebworth course that day. Sir
Sykes had heard with displeasure that his son was about to take a
part in a steeplechase. Jasper’s promise, however, had been given.
His name was in print as the rider of Norah Creina, and the baronet
saw no help for it. He refused, however, to attend the race with the
ladies of his family, and gave but a reluctant consent to his younger
daughter’s petition to be allowed to accompany Lady Maud and Lady
Gladys to the festive scene. The course itself presented a lively and
not uncomely scene, the brilliant beauty of the day adding a witchery
to the homeliest objects. The dancing sunbeams gilded the tinker’s
squalid tent and the rags of the beggar-boys who ran, clamorous for
halfpence, after the horsemen cantering by. It was possible to forget
the gathering of bookmakers and betting-men, now hoarsely shouting out
their offers of a wager, possible to ignore the sordid greed that had
prompted the attendance of so many, and to imagine what the scene may
have been two hundred years ago, when races were a novelty, a mere
trial of merit between swift and strong horses, minus the thousand and
one degrading ingredients which now compose the saturnalia.

Jasper, his gay silken jacket concealed by the loose white overcoat
which he wore, elbowed his way through the crowd towards the place
where, hard by the weighing-stand, the nineteen horses which were the
practical residuum of the sixty-seven entries were being led to and fro.

‘Have a care there! Do mind his heels!’ exclaimed the reedy voice of
an attenuated being in drab gaiters and striped waistcoat, one of the
three body-servants in attendance on the magnificent Smasher, as that
superb animal began to lash out furiously amongst the mob.

‘Grand horse that!’ said Captain Prodgers, as with impartial admiration
he surveyed the formidable favourite. ‘See! what muscles those are that
swell beneath a skin as bright and supple as a lady’s satin! Does “My
Lord” credit.’

‘My Lord,’ a vacuous young gentleman in a suit of black and white
checks and a soft hat, stood a little way off, sucking the gold head
of a short whipstock, and contemplating society in general, through
his eyeglass, with a serene stare. Nobody could ever be quite certain
whether this aristocratic patron of the turf was unfathomably deep
or absurdly shallow. His Lordship was a man of few words, and never
committed himself in public to an opinion wise or foolish.

That ‘My Lord’s’ stud had a knack of winning was notorious. But then
the laurels, such as they were, may have been due to the florid,
well-shaven, middle-aged trainer, with a flower in his buttonhole, who
stood at his Lordship’s elbow.

The Smasher was a splendid black horse, over sixteen hands high, and
very powerful. His glossy coat shone like a looking-glass; but that
his temper was none of the best was evident, not only by the frequent
scattering of the crowd, to avoid his iron-shod heels, but by the
sidelong glance of his wicked eye and the irritable lashing of his
silken tail.

‘Shews the whites of them eyes of his, he do, this morning,’ remarked
one appreciative groom.

‘Bless ye! the captain won’t care,’ was the phlegmatic reply.

‘Rather the captain had the riding of him then nor me,’ returned the
other.

The captain in question was not Jasper Denzil. It was Captain Hanger,
pale and unimpassioned as ever, who now pressed up to speak for a
moment with the owner and trainer of the horse he was to ride. As he
stood, tapping his bright boots with his heavy whip, his gaudy silk
jacket peeping from beneath the loose overcoat, he was the object
of an inquisitive admiration that might well have been spent upon a
worthier object. In certain circles, now, your gentleman steeplechase
rider receives an amount of adulation singularly disproportioned to his
utility to the commonweal. Of the well-known Captain Hanger, once in
the army, then beggared, and now living by the deliberate risk of neck
and bones, it was popularly believed that he would die in the exercise
of his profession.

‘I don’t see the mare!’ said Jasper, looking around.

‘We’re keeping her quiet till the last minute,’ whispered his friend.
‘No use in letting her chafe here, teased by sun and flies. There,
though, is the bell for saddling; and here she comes.’

And as Captain Prodgers spoke, a Homeric burst of laughter from the
mob, peal upon peal, announced that something had tickled the fancy
of the populace. That something was soon seen to be no other than
Norah Creina, looking even uglier, as she was led into the inclosure,
than she had done in the stable; a lengthy, clumsy, ungainly creature
to look upon, and wearing a bridle of a peculiar and cumbrous
construction, fitted with a muzzle and blinkers, and somewhat similar
to that employed in horse-taming by the late Professor Rarey.

‘There’s a beauty for you!’ cried out, in the midst of ironical cheers
and merriment, a scoffer in drab gaiters.

‘Take care of her, gentlemen—she bites!’ bawled another voice; and
there was tittering among the spectators in carriages and unrestrained
guffaws amidst the populace.

‘Do you mean, seriously, that the mare is to run in that
hideous-looking contrivance?’ demanded Jasper sharply and with
displeasure in his face, of his ally. ‘I’m not a mountebank, I suppose,
that I should be made publicly ridiculous on the back of such a horse.
A man might as well stand in the pillory as’——

‘How many hundreds will be in your pocket, Denzil, and thousands in
mine, what with bets and stakes, if Norah Creina comes in first?’
interrupted Prodgers earnestly. ‘Let those laugh that win. They are
waiting for us yonder in the weighing-stand.’

Of all the candidates for success who, seated in their saddles, took
one by one their turn at the scales, the only two who attracted much
attention were Jasper Denzil and Captain Hanger; the latter because
he was to ride the favourite, the former because he had consented to
exhibit himself on so very extraordinary an animal as Norah Creina.

‘I’ve known a dark horse to win a race,’ remarked one veteran, as he
booked a trifling wager on the Irish mare.

‘Not with a muzzle though, George!’ replied a contemporary, with
twinkling eyes.

The riders were all mounted now, and taking, some of them, the
preliminary canter that is supposed to dissipate stiffness, and then
the glistening line of gaily attired horsemen marshalled itself for
the start. To the last moment Captain Prodgers, on foot, kept close to
Jasper’s stirrup. ‘There’s the bell!’ cried Norah Creina’s owner at
last. ‘Now bend your ear down, dear boy, and mark what I say.’

And as Jasper stooped his head to listen, the other captain whispered
to him cautiously but with emphasis. ‘Only if you’re hard pressed—but
she may win without that,’ added Prodgers more loudly.

Jasper’s suddenly compressed lips, arching brows, and dilated eyes told
that the communication had taken even him by surprise.

‘The curb-rein, eh?’ he said hoarsely.

‘Yes; but only as a last expedient. Leave it slack as long as you
can, and use the snaffle only; it’s as strong as a cable,’ called out
Prodgers; and Jasper nodded, and cantered up to take his place among
the rest.

A waving to and fro of the many-coloured line, the dropping of a flag,
a roar from the rabble, and they were off. It was like the effect
produced by some gigantic rocket bursting into a galaxy of variously
tinted spangles, pink, green, blue, and orange. Then most of these
colours seemed to gather themselves together in a group, while Jasper’s
yellow jacket and black cap, and Captain Hanger’s cherry colour and
white, crept clear of the crowd.

‘The Smasher’s third!’

‘He’s second now. Green’s in front.’

‘Ah! the captain’s a deal too wise to be first, so long as Green will
make running for him.’

‘Yes, but look at the ugly long-backed Irish mare! The Smasher can’t
shake her off, straight as he goes.’

The leading horses had got by this time over two-thirds of the
course—the first round only—and already the competitors were reduced
to seven. Gallant Green was yet in front, riding hard, but his horse
was much distressed; and as the second circuit of the course began, The
Smasher, skilfully handled by Captain Hanger, shot past him with no
apparent effort, and was for the moment first.

‘My Lord’s usual luck! The race is safe!’

‘Cherry and white wins!’ shouted hundreds.

But then uprose another roar of, ‘Yellow, Yellow for ever!’ as the
Irish mare, which had hitherto kept the third place, taking fence,
wall, brook, and rail with lamb-like docility, suddenly quickened her
pace, racing neck to neck, head to head, with the redoubtable Smasher.

‘A pretty race! A fine sight! A sheet would cover both of them!’ was
the general cry. The ladies in the carriages and on the stand waved
their handkerchiefs enthusiastically, and of the lookers-on there were
scores who forgot that their money was at stake, in genuine enjoyment
of the struggle. On the rivals went. Together they flew across the
brook, together they crashed through the hedges and fences in their
way. Then, thanks to his own skill or to the excellence of his horse,
Captain Hanger gained ground, and was in front as he prepared to ride
at a stiff line of rails, the last serious obstacle, save one, to be
encountered in the circuit.

Then it was that Jasper tightened the curb-rein that he had hitherto
left untouched, and the disfiguring blinkers dropped as if by magic
from before Nora Creina’s eyes! The result was startling. With a snort
and a scream, the fierce mare caught sight of her opponent in the act
of gathering himself together for the leap; and with a bound such as
a tigress might have given, she hurled herself upon him, striving—but
owing to the muzzle, ineffectually—to tear the other horse with her
teeth. There was a crashing of splintered timber, an outcry, a heavy
fall, and both horses and both men were down amidst the wreck of the
fence.

Jasper, bareheaded and dizzy, was the first to stagger to his feet and
regain his saddle. A hundred yards in front was the stone wall with its
double ditch, the so-called ‘sensation jump’ of the race, and which the
Committee had taken it upon themselves to heighten for this exceptional
contest. Beyond, there was the easy run home over smooth turf to the
winning-post.

‘Yellow! yellow! Yellow wins!’ shouted the crowd, as Jasper approached
the wall; but then there was a quick thunder of hurrying hoofs upon
the green-sward, and Captain Hanger swept past at whirlwind speed,
while cries of ‘Cherry and white! The Smasher’s first!’ rent the air.
Till that instant, the Irish mare had been going steadily; but now, on
seeing her rival outstrip her rapid pace, her fiendish temper again
kindled into flame, and with a shrill scream she darted forward. But
Captain Hanger knew his art too well to be surprised for the second
time. He had his own horse, sobered by the late fall, well in hand;
whereas he saw that the savage animal which Jasper rode was completely
freed from the control of her rider. By a quick and masterly motion of
the rein, he wheeled off, eluding the shock that threatened him, and
with a rare courage and coolness put The Smasher’s head straight for
the wall. The gallant horse rose like a bird, topped the obstacle on
which his hind-feet clattered, and recovering himself with an effort,
galloped in, the winner, amid the deafening applause of thousands.

Jasper was less fortunate. Panting, snorting with rage, in a lather
of heat and foam, the furious mare he rode rose at the wall, struck
it with her chest, breaking down the new masonry, and rolled over
upon the turf beyond, bearing down beneath her weight the unfortunate
rider. ‘A man killed!’ It needed but that cry to make the mob utterly
ungovernable; and in spite of the efforts of the police, gentle and
simple, and those who were neither the one nor the other, hurried
pell-mell to the spot where lay, beneath the broken wall, the hapless
form of Jasper Denzil. ‘He’s alive!’ cried fifty voices, with the
oddest mingling of gratification and disappointment. ‘The rider’s
living. It’s only the mare that’s dead,’ a verdict which turned out to
be correct. Then a doctor, one out of the half-dozen of doctors on the
course, jumped off the cob he rode and took possession of Jasper.

‘He’ll get over it!’ cried the surgeon, feeling first the heart and
then the wrist of the sufferer. ‘If we had but a carriage now, to get
him quietly to the inn.’

Sir Gruntley Pigbury, whose barouche stood near, willingly lent it for
such a purpose; and in it Jasper Denzil, under the doctor’s escort, was
duly removed to the shelter of the _De Vere Arms_.




OUR PET RAT.


An obliging correspondent writes to us as follows: An article in the
September number of _Chambers’s Journal_ entitled ‘Poppet’s Pranks’
having afforded much amusement to our young people, it has occurred
to me that a short account of one of our numerous pets might not be
unacceptable, especially as we have often said in our own circle, that
‘Billy’s doings ought to be immortalised in print.’

We have always considered it an important element in the education of
children that they should be taught to regard the brute creation with
kindly feelings, and in our own family we have fostered the love of
animals by encouraging them to keep pets; so at various periods, dogs,
cats, birds, rabbits, guinea-pigs, &c. have all in turn been domiciled
with us; and I believe we also harboured for a time a hedgehog and a
bat; but these last proving rather intractable, were soon restored to
their native freedom.

Those who have had experience in it, best know how interesting any
living intelligence becomes, when one is brought closely in contact
with it; and we elders, as well as the more juvenile members of our
family, have found both pleasure and instruction in observing the
habits and dispositions of the little creatures to whom we gave a
kindly shelter. Among these, none ever excited more interest or stood
higher in the family regards, than Billy our tame _rat_.

It was in the winter of 1874–5 that a friend who was coming to spend
Christmas with us, brought Billy as a new treasure for the children;
and for some months he afforded us great amusement. He arrived in
a cigar-box in which he usually slept, and on its being opened, he
sprang instantly inside our friend’s waistcoat, from which safe retreat
he ventured to peep out at the strange faces, which he seemed to
regard with terror; and this habit he retained, for although he soon
established friendly relations with us, he always darted behind the
piano or sideboard on the entrance of a stranger; yet his little head
with its bright bead-like eyes was sure to peep out presently, as if he
wanted to satisfy his own curiosity without being himself observed.

But here let me say, no one must suppose for an instant that Billy
resembled the repulsive-looking rat of our farm-yards and ditches.
He was of a much smaller size, not larger than a kitten of a month
old, and very prettily spotted in brown and white; his eyes were very
prominent, standing out like large black beads, and he was particularly
nice in his toilet, washing just as a cat does, and keeping his coat
always scrupulously clean.

Yet I confess it was some time before I could regard him with
equanimity: it was so hard to divest one’s self of the general
prejudice against his race; and his receding under jaw gave an
uncomfortable impression at first; so I used to shrink from him and
gather up my skirts at his approach, although my son declared that
if he had been introduced to me as a ‘rodent,’ I should have had no
objection to him, and that it was merely the name of ‘rat’ which
excited my aversion.

However, be this as it may, Billy soon won his way to favour in spite
of prejudice, and by his intelligence and good temper made himself
a general favourite. He especially attached himself to my eldest
daughter, and would come at the call of ‘Billy, Billy!’ from any of
his hiding-places, except at night, when he seemed to be quite aware
that he was wanted to go to bed (in the cigar-box before mentioned);
and then it was often with great difficulty she could entice him from
his lurking-place. Sometimes she would tempt him with a biscuit, and he
would dart out, snatch it from her fingers, and dart again behind the
sideboard before she could get hold of him.

We did not usually see much of him in the morning, as he liked to
conceal himself behind the heavy furniture. But at dinner-time he was
sure to appear, and generally placed himself on my knee, where from
time to time he was fed with small bits of bread and vegetables; and
if I was not sufficiently attentive to his wants, he would pass over
to one of the children’s plates, and watching his opportunity, would
make a seizure, and dart with the stolen morsel to his storing-place;
and this habit of storing was very curious, being evidently an instinct
belonging to very different surroundings. In a room appropriated
chiefly to the children there was an old sofa a good deal the worse
for wear, as what sofa would not be that had been carriage, omnibus,
or railway train to seven or eight youngsters successively? Under the
pillow, the haircloth had given way, so Billy found a hole conveniently
ready for him, and lost no time in appropriating it. Thither he carried
many of his stores; and it was most amusing to watch him nibble a
biscuit just like a squirrel, sitting back on his haunches and holding
it neatly between his fore-paws; and then when he had had enough for
immediate wants, he would spring with the remainder to this hole in the
old sofa.

But it was not only food he stored; he had a decided fancy for bright
colours; and if bits of ribbon or coloured silk were left in his way,
he would drag them along the floor, and then leap to the sofa with such
celerity that it was almost impossible to deprive him of his booty.
Once I looked up in time to see and seize one end of a blue necktie as
Billy disappeared with the other behind the sofa pillow. He came up
directly to see what detained it, and was very unwilling to give it
up; so he pulled and I held, until finding that I was the stronger, he
relinquished it, but with such impatient little squeaks! Yet neither
then nor at any other time did he ever attempt to bite or shew any
ill-temper towards any of us; though, like most pets, he had to bear a
fair amount of well-meant teasing, which no kitten would have stood as
well.

I recollect one day watching him with much interest. He had found on
the floor a large newspaper, which he seized by one corner and pulled
towards the sofa, up which he made several vain attempts to leap
with the paper in his mouth. He then dropped it, and jumped back and
forwards several times, as if he was measuring his distance, or making
calculations with an eye to future success. Then again catching hold of
the paper, he tried to leap with it, but again he failed; so at last I
took pity upon him, and tore one half of the paper away, when he was
able to manage the remainder, and carry it off in triumph to his den.

During the winter evenings, when the children were engaged with
their lessons, Billy was usually to be found on the table rummaging
among their books and catching at their pens; which latter amusement
he enjoyed very much after the manner of a kitten running after a
knitting-needle drawn quickly up and down the table; but as these
amusements rather interfered with the studies, Billy would occasionally
be dismissed to the kitchen, to which he had a great dislike. He never
stayed there longer than he could help, but on the first chance would
rush up the stairs and scratch, or rather I should say _gnaw_ for
admittance. Speaking of this gnawing, leads me to observe that one
objection I had to receiving him, was the fear that he would be very
mischievous; but fortunately I never found him so. He had free access
to a pantry where a variety of eatables, usually considered dear to a
rat’s heart, were to be found; but I never knew him to injure anything
or even to cut the paper covering of any parcel, no matter what it
contained. No doubt it was partly owing to his being so well fed that
he was not driven to theft by hunger. I generally scattered for him on
the shelves some grains of rice or pickles of starch, and to these he
helped himself when inclined. From soap or candles he turned away in
disgust, being far too well-bred a rat to indulge in such low tastes;
but he dearly loved a bit of plum-cake; and, shall I confess it? he
was by no means a teetotaler. If ale was used at dinner, he would rush
eagerly about the glasses until he was supplied with some in a spoon. I
believe, before he came to us, he had been accustomed to even stronger
potations, in which, however, we did not indulge him.

I have said he was not mischievous, neither was he, as mischief among
rats is generally understood; but there is no rule without exception,
and Billy had a decided penchant for kid gloves. If any were left
carelessly about, he was sure to get hold of them and have the fingers
eaten off in a few minutes. I cannot tell how many gloves he destroyed,
until repeated lessons of this sort enforced more tidy habits.

I must not omit to mention his love of music; when he heard the piano,
he would rush to the drawing-room and spring to the performer’s knee,
where he would remain perfectly quiet, evidently listening with much
pleasure. When he first came he was very restless, seeming to live in
a state of perpetual motion; but he soon learned to come upon the knee
to be caressed and have his head rubbed, which operation afforded him
intense enjoyment. He would have lain in a state of supreme delight for
an hour if any one would have rubbed his head for so long.

Very various were the opinions entertained of Billy by our friends.
Some of our young visitors would ask to see him when they called, and
with them he soon became familiar, and would run over their shoulders
and about their necks quite freely; but others had a perfect horror of
him; and I remember once, on going down to receive two ladies, I found
one of them standing on the piano-stool in dread of his attacking her;
and no declarations as to his perfect harmlessness were of any avail.
Another time an old lady and gentleman were spending the evening with
us, and knowing the latter to be of a very nervous temperament, I had
given strict orders that Billy should be kept down-stairs. But Billy
had no idea of losing his tea, and managing to escape from the servant
who had him in charge, in he rushed, as soon as the door was opened,
and made straight across the room, as usual for my knee. I gave him a
bit of cake to keep him quiet, and covered him up with my handkerchief.
‘What’s that, what’s that?’ exclaimed the old gentleman anxiously. I
replied as carelessly as I could: ‘Oh, it’s only a little pet of the
children’s;’ and hoped no more notice would be taken; but presently our
friend got up, and came round to where I sat just as Billy had finished
his cake and put up his head for more. Never shall I forget his look
of dismay as he exclaimed: ‘It’s a rat!’ while making hasty tracks for
the door. However, we succeeded in allaying his fears; and Billy was
allowed to run about freely, with only an occasional shudder from our
friend if he approached him too closely.

During the spring we had a lady staying with us who could not be
reconciled to seeing a rat run about the house, and who repelled all
friendly overtures on the part of our pet; so one morning, out of
consideration for her, Billy was banished to another room whilst we
were at breakfast; and lo! on going into the room afterwards, I found
my friend’s ball of cotton cut into shreds, which were piled in a
little heap on the floor. It really seemed as if he had done it from
revenge, for though I had had knitting about repeatedly, he often
rolled the balls on the carpet, but never injured them.

While enough has been said, I think, to shew that Billy was a very
interesting pet, candour compels me to admit that, like wiser and
better folk, he had his faults; and I am sorry to say his besetting
sin was jealousy. Although so thoroughly good-tempered with all the
members of our family, he would not tolerate another pet in the house.
He had not been long with us, when he killed a canary that had lighted
on his back. At first, there were threats of summary vengeance; but
on reflection, it was thought possible that he had been frightened by
its sudden descent upon him, and had killed the bird in an impulse
of self-defence; so it was decided to give him the benefit of this
supposition, and he was forgiven and restored to favour.

But when the midsummer holidays arrived, one of our boys brought home
a handsome young retriever, whom it was evident from the first Billy
regarded with no friendly eye. The children of course were much taken
up with the fresh arrival; and I presume Billy felt himself neglected,
and therefore lost no opportunity of revenging himself upon the new
favourite. It was wonderful to see the courage of the little creature
in venturing to attack an animal so much larger than himself. If the
dog were lying quietly on the rug, he would spring on him, and then
retreat so quickly that at first we did not know whether he had bitten
him or not, as the dog would merely utter a low growl and retire.
But one day at dinner, when our canine friend was being supplied
with pieces which probably had formerly fallen to Billy’s share, our
little pet was so enraged, that he rushed across the table and bit
the dog on the mouth severely. From that time his doom was sealed; it
was felt that either he or the dog must be dismissed, and the verdict
was unanimous in favour of keeping the retriever; so Billy was tied
up in his box and sent back to his former owner. Since then, we have
occasionally heard of his welfare; and the last news concerning him
was, that he had been taken into a garden, ‘but was evidently too much
awed by the immensity of the universe to enjoy it.’




THE HIGHLAND KEEPER.

IN TWO PARTS.


PART I.—INCHGARRY’S NARRATIVE.

Some years ago, while upon a professional visit at the mansion of a
well-known Highland gentleman, I was invited one morning by my host to
inspect his famous kennel of staghounds. On that occasion, I remember
well, my interest was curiously divided between the princely animals
themselves and the magnificent specimen of humanity who acted as
their custodian. Standing at least six feet, his finely proportioned,
athletic figure was displayed to advantage by a well-made knickerbocker
deer-stalking suit. His face was fair, full-bearded, and strikingly
regular in its features. In the quick blue eyes gleamed the rapidly
succeeding emotions of an intelligent, proud, sensitive nature. I
observed that he usually addressed the chief by the name of the estate
(a practice by no means uncommon in some parts of Scotland), and that
the word ‘sir’ was somewhat infrequent in his speech. There was nothing
decidedly disrespectful or assumptive in his manner, yet it was quite
unlike that of modern inferiors towards superiors generally. I had been
so struck during our inspection of the kennels with his appearance and
bearing, that on our return to Inchgarry Hall, I put several questions
to my worthy host respecting him. The result of these was, that after
informing me that the young fellow’s name was Donald Stewart, and that
he was a native of Badenoch, he entered upon the following curious and
instructive narrative of his first settlement at Inchgarry, and of
the tragedy in which it eventuated; pointing out as he did so, with
great frankness, the evils a landlord may create among his people by
delegating too largely to an inferior the personal supervision of his
interests.

James Forbes, the son of one of the chief’s humblest dependants, had
been reared upon the estate. Industry, a certain versatility of talent,
and above all, an uncompromising yet judicious sycophancy, had together
stood him in such good stead that, beginning his career as stable-boy,
he had passed rapidly to assistant-gardener, head-gardener, and manager
of the home-farm; until, at the time the events we are about to record
took place, he was his master’s factotum, holding the position and
title of sub-factor to the property. Residing for three parts of the
year in London or abroad, Inchgarry necessarily gave him large powers
in matters affecting his tenantry and servants; so that—the factorship
proper being then in the hands of an estimable but old and infirm
lawyer, with whom the wily Forbes had ingratiated himself—the authority
of the latter was almost boundless. Like all sycophants, he was also
a tyrant. The tenantry, who held their farms on long leases, and were
practically part and parcel of the soil, escaped the oppression to
which, under other circumstances, they might have been subjected.
Nevertheless, Forbes contrived in many ways to harass and annoy all who
in any way offended him. As for the immediate servants of the Hall and
home-farm, the foresters and keepers, the labourers and handicraftsmen
on the estate, his was to them strictly a reign of terror. None but
those who chose to do so by abject flattery and toadyism dared hope to
escape molestation.

Among those trucklers to whom Forbes extended his patronage, was one
John Sutherland—or Ian Dhu, as he was invariably styled—the idlest
and most worthless character in the district. It would be difficult
to conceive what bond could exist between this semi-pariah, poacher,
and vagabond, and the chief’s confidential agent, did we not remember
that men of the sub-factor’s stamp invariably make a henchman of some
unscrupulous master of their own weapon—sycophancy. Ian Dhu had not
only the skill to step into the good-will of Forbes by his fawning,
but to establish himself therein by acting as spy and reporter upon
all that was said and done upon the estate. Following no recognised
employment, though ostensibly odd-man about his patron’s private
grounds, he perverted his leisure by haunting the garden, workshops,
bothies, the keepers’ houses, and the kitchen of the Hall itself,
picking up scraps of information for the jealous ear of the sub-factor.
He was, in fact, a necessity of the pernicious system of control which
reigned; and he was, at the time our story commences, in the full light
of favouritism.

Inchgarry, my host, was a just, large-hearted, and clear-headed man;
of rather an indolent disposition no doubt, but, when roused to
interest, both prompt and strong-willed, brooking neither argument nor
persuasion. His brief occasional visits to the Hall were always marked
by some change in, or reversal of, his agent’s arrangements, as well
as by some considerate extension of privileges to his ‘people.’ In
one instance his wrath had been awakened by the neglected condition
of his garden and kennels; the latter perhaps his dearest subject
of pride. He spoke sharply and conclusively about these matters to
Forbes, whose minions both the head-gardener and chief-keeper were.
Ten days thereafter he announced that he had engaged a man from the
Lothians to superintend his garden-grounds, and a gamekeeper from
Badenoch to supplant the inefficient favourite; adding, however, with
characteristic kindness, that the superseded men might remain, if they
chose, as second-hands until they could better themselves. Forbes
received the news of these innovations with outward deference and
submission, but inward chagrin and rage. It was the beginning of the
end, as it proved.

Archie Guthrie, the new gardener, arrived first on the scene to form a
nine days’ subject of comment to the simple population of Inchgarry;
and a few weeks later Donald Stewart took possession of the roomy and
comfortable keeper’s cottage so picturesquely situated by the loch
side. He was accompanied by his sister, a few years his junior, who
undertook to act as his housekeeper, and by a powerful-looking young
serving-lass. Effie was as unlike her brother as well could be. She
was _petite_, of slight frame, with small delicate features. Lithe,
active, elfish, her dark hair and pale face, together with the general
grace and rapidity of her movements, soon acquired for her the pretty
sobriquet of _sheach_ or fairy. Cheerful, even volatile, this singular
creature had yet a depth of tenderness and sympathy so easily stirred,
so sensitive and all-pervading, that nothing animate appeared to
escape its influence. In character, then, as well as in appearance,
she presented a marked contrast to her handsome, really good-hearted,
but choleric and somewhat imperious brother. Yet never perhaps, the
chief informed me, was brotherly and sisterly affection more complete
and perfect than between these two. In a short time they had finished
their new domestic arrangements, and passed through the usual ordeal of
rustic criticism. Effie glided at once into the respect and confidence
of every woman on the estate—a feat which the student of womankind will
consider an all but impossible one. Her kind-heartedness and tact,
doubtless, were the means towards such a result, aided as they were by
the incessant and impartial distribution of favours, which her deft
fingers and clever little head enabled her to do with an expenditure
of nothing more than her redundant good-will and energy. The other sex
became her slaves to a man. Every one within a radius of ten miles in
that sparsely peopled district came under the spell of the _sheach_,
and loved or admired her secretly or openly, platonically or otherwise,
according to temperament or position. Inchgarry gave some most amusing
instances of her sway: of stalwart Highlanders seized by the ear and
marched off to perform some menial duty, or commanded to execute some
commission for herself or neighbours. It was said that even Forbes
himself, surly as he was, and imbittered from the first against her
brother, could never disguise the pleasure which Effie’s presence gave
him: probably the most harmless and respectable sentiment he ever
entertained. He refused nothing _she_ asked for herself or others, and
did not hesitate to proclaim his high opinion of her disposition and
character. I record this with pleasure as the one bright spot redeeming
a dark and contemptible nature.

Forbes and Stewart instinctively regarded each other as enemies from
the first. Frank and open to a fault, the new keeper chafed under the
reticence and duplicity of the sub-factor; and to every unreasonable
command he returned a hot and indignant refusal; to every malicious
word an angry, contemptuous retort. Thoroughly acquainted with his
own duties, he would brook no interference; and to Forbes’s utter
confusion, on one occasion, when that worthy had attempted to meddle
in some matter affecting the dogs, he boldly threatened, in presence
of several underlings, to report him to Inchgarry for obstructing his
work. Before two months had passed, it was war to the knife between
them. As was natural, the majority of the natives secretly rejoiced
to find that the young stranger meant to beard the tyrant; while the
great man’s favourites and the constitutionally envious nursed a bitter
enmity against him as an interloper. The despotism was now broken up
into two struggling factions; and the contest was a protracted and
unhappy one.

But more fierce and implacable even than Forbes’s hatred of the keeper
was that conceived by his henchman, Ian Dhu. To the keenness of
partisanship he added a violent personal animosity, which only ended
with the tragic event hereafter detailed. Ian had long been suspected
of deer-poaching; but hitherto the friendship of the sub-factor had
screened him from conviction if not from detection. At last Stewart
caught him red-handed in the act of ‘gralloching’ a stag in one of
the favourite ‘passes’ of the forest. He reported the fact at once to
Inchgarry, who, if not exactly claiming his ancestral power of ‘pit
and gallows,’ reserved to himself the right of deciding whether or not
any of his ‘people’ should be handed over to the civil authorities.
His decision was a most merciful one—merely requiring Sutherland to
surrender his gun to the keeper. The sentence nevertheless rankled with
deadly purpose in his heart; and but for one singular circumstance,
would doubtless have earlier taken the form of the terrible revenge he
ultimately sought.

That circumstance was his love for Effie Stewart. He too had been
smitten by the _sheach’s_ bewitching face and smile—smitten as only
such dark, troublous natures can be smitten. His love was to him a
terrible torture. The better thoughts which this new and powerful
passion awakened, only goaded and stabbed, being too intermittent to
subdue the darker passions which they illumined. From the moment he
first saw Effie, a marked change came over him, or, more properly
speaking, his idiosyncrasies became intensified. Always taciturn,
he was now morose and brooding; his surliness became vehement
irascibility, and his roving stealthy movements were now erratic and
purposeless. He would hang for hours around the kennels, pass and
repass the keeper’s cottage a dozen times a day, inventing trifling
excuses for calling there, that he might look upon the girl whose
unconscious influence had so strongly affected him. In her presence
his misery was complete. He would crouch on a settle by the fireside,
silent and burning with the unquenchable fire within him, his furtive
impassioned glances following her every movement, as Effie flitted
about the house. Whenever the little woman paused from her work, and
with piquant, gracious vivacity addressed some pleasant remark to
him, the heavy brows would unbend, and the dark eyes lift themselves
to her face with a transient gleam of supreme pleasure, only to be
averted again in increased gloom and depression. On those occasions
when the young neighbours extemporised a merry-making at one or other
of their houses, or, as was oftener the case, in the roomy cottage of
the keeper, Ian Dhu’s torture was beyond description. There he was
compelled to witness the object of his infatuation surrounded by a
number of youths, many of whom he instinctively knew were fascinated
by her. He listened entranced when she sung—but, then, other ears also
drank in the sweet sounds; he watched the slight elfish figure move in
the merry dance, but was she not observed with admiration by every one?
First one and then another of the strapping young Highlanders became
her partner, would hold her hands, clasp her waist, and whirl with her
in the freedom of the old-fashioned reels; every incident adding a
fresh torment to the jealous heart of Ian Dhu.

Time went on, and Ian Dhu was thus fain to curb the rebellious desire
for revenge upon Donald Stewart. The gratification of looking upon
Effie was only possible under conditions which his revenge would
entirely destroy. Like a hungry spaniel, he crouched and fawned when
he would otherwise have snapped. He submitted to obey many overbearing
behests of the haughty young keeper, to assist him about the croft or
go on messages; and acted generally so as to gain Stewart’s tolerance,
if not his confidence. These tactics were not unobserved by Forbes,
who, however, satisfied of the genuineness of the hatred with which his
henchman viewed Donald, for a time attributed them to crafty zeal in
his own service.

As for the sub-factor himself, time only increased his detestation of
the keeper. Inchgarry was in London attending to his parliamentary
duties; and Forbes did not neglect the opportunity of wreaking his
malice in every possible way upon his proud-spirited subordinate. In
his letters to the chief, the sub-factor conveyed many hints derogatory
to Stewart, and succeeded to some extent in his unworthy purpose.

The young man, who was not only conscious of his abilities, but
enthusiastic in his desire to acquit himself creditably in all that
concerned his craft, one morning received a cold sharp letter from
Inchgarry, recounting a charge of permitting poaching in the forest,
and commenting severely upon his negligence. The chief circumstantially
stated that the interior portions of a deer had been found in a
‘pass’ through a certain hill, where it had been ‘gralloched.’ The
astonishment of Stewart was for the moment fully equal to his chagrin.
He had had that very pass carefully watched by the under-keepers, and
especially by his favourite and friend, a young sandy-haired blue-eyed
lad from Lochaber, whose surname of Grant had been familiarised, in
Highland fashion, into ‘Grantoch’ on account of his popularity. After
the first burst of angry surprise, Stewart sought Grantoch, who in
his laconic way repudiated the possibility of the thing, and after a
deliberate study of the subject, as he leant upon his gun, quietly
delivered himself of his opinion. About ten days previous, he said,
while cutting open a hind, which in accordance with orders he had shot
for the dogs, Ian Dhu had been present. Chancing to return to the same
place about half an hour later in search of the knife which he had
dropped, he was not a little surprised to find the refuse portions
removed; and was completely puzzled when he observed, by the traces of
blood amongst the heather, that they had evidently been carried up the
forest. He was certain now that Sutherland had, with the connivance
of Forbes, taken this method of throwing suspicion of negligence upon
Stewart. The head-keeper’s quick intelligence grasped the whole affair
before Grantoch had finished. He directed his assistant to state the
facts as they were, in a letter to the chief; and wrote himself a
respectful but firm repudiation of the charge. The effect was this:
Forbes received a freezing order from Inchgarry to turn Ian Dhu out of
his service. Nothing further was said; no reflection made as to his
possible complicity in a design to injure the keeper’s character.

But the incident had rendered the sub-factor’s desire for revenge
incontrollable. He goaded on his discharged henchman to be the
instrument of wreaking their common hatred on the keeper. To his
surprise, Ian Dhu was sullenly intractable. Forbes was at first
furious, but incidentally learning the obstacle which existed in
Sutherland’s passion for Effie Stewart, he resolved to use this as
the very means of bringing him round to his purpose. He had heard,
amongst other gossip, that Archie Guthrie’s attentions to the girl
were received with favour. Ian was now completely under his control,
and accident unfortunately favoured the factor in working upon his
jealousy. Returning home from a visit to the post-town one evening in
his dog-cart, Forbes observed, on a part of the road near Stewart’s
cottage, the lovers standing together arm-in-arm, in the moonlight,
evidently transacting a lengthened and agreeable parting for the night.
Ian, whom he still sheltered, was waiting his arrival and assisted
him to alight. With a malignance worthy of the worst part of his evil
nature, he immediately despatched the unsuspecting Sutherland upon a
message which should take him past the spot where Archie and Effie
were standing. The effect was terrible. Ian Dhu on reaching the place
discovered the pair in the act of embracing; staggering for a moment
as if shot, he fled from the spot and disappeared, to return, after
several weeks, to consummate the tragedy which forms the sequel of the
tale.


PART II.—INCHGARRY’S NARRATIVE CONTINUED.

Three weeks elapsed, during which no one in Inchgarry had set eyes on
Ian Dhu. The story of his love for the _sheach_ was commonly known,
and speculation was rife as to his proceedings since the night of
his disappearance. This was set at rest one evening by his sudden
appearance in the kitchen of the sub-factor’s house, lean and gaunt as
a famished hound. His face was haggard and hunger-pinched, and a gleam
very like insanity lit up the dark scowling eyes. His hair and beard
were matted and tangled, and his clothes were soiled and rent. It was
conjectured that he had spent the interval since his flight, in the
fastnesses of the mountains—a prey to the throes of that passion which
his powerful nature had conceived. What a picture might not imagination
draw of the terrible human struggle enacted in those solitudes! Perhaps
some such thought occurred to the frightened women-servants as Ian
stood before them. At anyrate, they received him with silent sympathy,
and invited him to take refreshment. It does seem strange that the
revenge which succeeded his paroxysm of disappointed love should not
first have been directed against the young gardener and his sweetheart.
Various theories exist to account for this; one being that it really
was his purpose to include them among his victims. My informant,
however, held the very plausible opinion that Ian Dhu’s reason had
given way under the great strain on his feelings, that his love was
thereafter mercifully a blank to him, while the old grudge against
Stewart had assumed unnatural proportions.

Forbes had an interview that night in his own parlour with his quondam
henchman as the investigation which afterwards took place proved; and
it was late when Ian Dhu slunk from the house by the private door,
carrying with him a gun, and was seen to disappear in the belt of
firs that skirts the loch. It is mentioned, with that morbid zest for
details which a tragedy never fails to excite, that only a few minutes
previous to Ian’s plunging into the wood, Archie Guthrie and Effie
Stewart (now formally betrothed) had passed the sub-factor’s house
arm-in-arm. What would have been the consequences of a _rencontre_
between the lovers and Black Sutherland is a favourite topic for
surmise amongst the people of Inchgarry to this day.

On the following morning, Grantoch, who had returned from his rounds,
took his spy-glass from its case and directed it towards Bhein à
B’huachaill. A fire in the heather on this hill had been reported
earlier, and Stewart had gone to investigate the cause, telling
Grantoch to follow him when his other duties should leave him at
liberty. The burning of the heather in the month of July, and in the
centre of the ‘forest’ ground, was a serious matter in the eyes of the
keepers, driving the deer as it would, from a favourite haunt. Grantoch
now desired to make out, if possible, in what direction Stewart had
gone, that he might be able to join him by the shortest route. He
brought the glass to bear on every part of the mountain, its wood-clad
base, purple sides, gray scaurs, and shimmering water-courses—but
without result; and was just about to close it, when his glance
rested upon a human figure shewing on the near shoulder of Bhein à
B’huachaill. His practised eye told him at once it was not Donald
Stewart. He carefully scrutinised it for some minutes, until with
startled surprise he recognised Ian Dhu creeping over the watershed,
bearing a gun on his shoulder.

Grantoch quietly shut his glass, returned it to its case, examined
with professional caution the lock of his double-barrel to see that
it was at half-cock, and started at a swinging trot for the foot of
the hill. Its nearest point was only a mile and a half distant; but,
convinced that Ian was on another poaching expedition, he resolved
to get the assistance of a keeper whose cottage stood about a mile
farther up the loch. Here he was agreeably surprised to find Stewart
engaged in issuing some orders. The latter explained that he had come
direct to the cottage to learn whether the under-keeper knew anything
of the fire; and that he found he had visited the spot. It was merely
a patch which had soon burned out of itself, and Stewart had therefore
waited leisurely for his comrade’s appearance. He pricked up his
ears, however, when Grantoch told him of Ian Dhu’s movements, at once
suspecting him of having intentionally fired the heather. The thought
brought his hasty temper to such a heat that he resolved at once to
clear up the matter by giving chase to Ian Dhu.

The trio took the route which Grantoch had seen Sutherland take, and
their keen eyes kept them close on his track after it quitted the
watershed. At length they came in full view of him as he now strode
rapidly along the side of the hill. Their object was to detect him
in the act of poaching, confident that Inchgarry would this time
prosecute, and hopeful that the incendiarism would also be brought
home to him. To avoid being observed in their turn, they now crouched
along amongst the tall heather, till within a few hundred yards of
where they had seen Ian Dhu last halt. Stewart then proposed to advance
alone on all-fours to reconnoitre. As he thus cautiously approached
the poacher, he observed that he had leapt into the dry channel of
what is termed a winter stream, and was looking along the barrel of
his weapon—a rifle—which he held resting on the bank at the opposite
side of the channel to that on which Stewart now lay. Ian Dhu’s face
was if possible more haggard and wild than ever, while the hand which
grasped the rifle shook as if with ague or palsy. His glance was
directed towards a spot some hundred yards distant, where the heather
shewed blackened as if by recent fire. Now and again the maniac—for he
had every appearance of being bereft of reason—would start up with an
impatient cry and gesture, as though disappointed by the non-appearance
of some object for which he waited. At last, in view of the puzzled and
somewhat terrified keeper, he brought the rifle to his shoulder, and
with steady deliberate aim, fired at an object unseen by the keeper.
The echoes which the sharp report awakened were mingled with a piercing
cry!

Ian Dhu had not time to complete his attempted spring from the channel
of the stream before his shoulder was seized in the strong grasp of
Donald Stewart. He turned to face his captor; then with a scream of
terror, which for the moment paralysed the stout-hearted keeper, tore
himself free and dashed down the mountain like a hunted stag. Donald,
with the two under-keepers, who had rapidly approached, watched
him in silence as he sped from rock to rock. Pursuit was useless.
Following him with their eyes as he disappeared and reappeared among
the inequalities of the ground, they at last observed, with a thrill
of horror, that he did not turn aside in his descent from a well-known
point at which the hill sloped almost precipitously for several hundred
feet. With blanched faces and upraised hands they saw Ian Dhu pause for
a moment on the dangerous verge, and take the awful leap.

The three keepers resolved at once to make a detour to the spot where
he must have fallen, and for this purpose hastened down the shoulder of
the hill. They had not proceeded far when Grantoch called the attention
of the others to a groaning sound proceeding from some spot near them.
Stewart believing it to be the dying moans of a wounded stag, answered
his faithful comrade rather rudely and hurried on. His course happily
took him to the very spot where the man, whom Ian Dhu’s last bullet
had reached, lay bleeding and apparently dying. To the horror and
amazement of all, it proved to be Forbes the sub-factor. Stewart, with
a sensitiveness that did him credit, left the wounded man in the charge
of Grantoch and their companion, and hurried off himself to procure
assistance. With as much speed as the task would admit, he returned
to the spot, leading a sure-footed pony, and on this, supported
alternately by the keepers, Forbes was conveyed by easy stages to his
own house.

The wound proved mortal; but before his death he made a statement which
threw light upon the mysterious events of that fatal morning. Along
with Ian Dhu he had concocted a scheme for Stewart’s destruction. He
it was who had instructed Sutherland to fire the heather, calculating
shrewdly that the circumstance would unfailingly call the keeper to
the spot, in all likelihood alone, his trusty assistant being fully
employed at that early hour. Ian, lying in wait with Forbes’s rifle,
was to have shot the head-keeper whenever he appeared on the scene.
The explanation of his own unfortunate presence was extremely simple.
When he believed the dark deed accomplished, he had become anxious to
recover the rifle from Ian Dhu, seeing that, in the event of capture,
its possession would open up a suspicious inquiry respecting his own
share in the dastardly business. This motive sealed his own fate. The
impatient and vengeful Ian had not paused to reckon the chances of a
mistake, but had pressed the trigger the moment he saw a human figure
moving through the high heather towards the scene of the fire. Stewart,
so happily deterred from his first purpose of visiting the burning
hill, thus escaped the doom intended for him.

‘And what were the fortunes of the other characters in your sad story?’
I asked of the chief.

‘Oh! You see that cottage over there with the sweet bit of garden in
front, ornamented with rockeries and ferns? That is the home of Archie
Guthrie and his wife, _née_ Effie Stewart. The fairy scarcely deserves
the name now, having lost much of her elfish slenderness and activity,
but is after all, perhaps, a prettier heroine as the gardener’s wife,
and less dangerous to my young male subjects. A coquette she certainly
never was; but discreet and prudent to a rare degree. I am at a loss to
divine _what_ the source of her strange power was, but am thankful she
is now Mrs Guthrie.’

I laughed at the naïve remark.

‘As for Stewart,’ continued Inchgarry, ‘he has married well—the
daughter of one of my wealthiest tenants. Grantoch has got a chief
charge on an estate in the West Highlands, taking with him the buxom
servant whom Stewart brought from Badenoch. So you see they are all
doing well. And for my own part, the revelations which were made at the
time of the tragedy fully awakened me to the duty of weighing carefully
the complaints of my “people,” and of charily guarding against too
free an investiture of power over them to an ignorant, malicious,
or interested servant. I spend more time here than formerly, and am
gratified by the increased contentment and prosperity of those under my
care. The story, you will now perceive, though sad, is not without its
moral.’




BALLOON-TRAVELLING.


Aërial navigation, the faculty of locomotion through the air, the power
of soaring bird-like into the azure fields of space, has always been
tantalisingly seductive to the human imagination. So engrossing is the
theme, that although the subject has already been discussed from a
scientific point of view in these pages, a few additional words about
its more popular aspects may not be found uninteresting to our readers.

Great, and, as it has proved, baseless anticipations were evoked by the
advent of the first balloon. Aërostation was to disclose the secrets
of the atmospheric world, and by enabling men to predict rains and
droughts, secure by the proper cultivation of the soil abundant and
excellent harvests. The unmanageable nature of the new invention was
not taken into account at all, nor the fact, that although you might
ascend into the air from any point you chose, no one could predict
where or how you would descend. This charming uncertainty still attends
aërial voyages; no means have yet been discovered of guiding the
balloon in a horizontal direction; and it is always so much at the
mercy of currents of air, that the course it will follow is a matter of
chance, and not an affair of the aëronaut’s will or choice.

Attempts have been made to press this unmanageable machine into the
service of science, and with some success, although what has yet been
done is little more than a suggestion of discoveries which may at some
future time be practicable by its aid.

In 1862 Mr Glaisher, author of a history of _Travels in the Air_, made
a series of ascents from Wolverhampton, in order to verify a number
of scientific observations; the results of which are contained in the
annals of the British Association. A new balloon was provided for him,
which was not made of silk, but of American cloth, a stronger and more
serviceable material, and in this aërial machine he encountered sundry
mishaps and misadventures, on two occasions narrowly escaping with his
life.

Its very danger lends to balloon-travelling a sense of conscious
adventure, of thrilling excitement, peculiarly its own. Added to
this, the cloud-scenery through which the aëronaut glides is not only
novel, but is often, especially at sunrise and sunset, most gorgeously
beautiful; while the earth beneath, which seems to have motion
transferred to it, presents as it hurries past, a charming and varied
panorama. Woods and rivers, hamlets and towns, hills and valleys, and
wide-spreading downs, succeed each other in rapid succession. From the
immense height, all idea of the comparative altitude of objects is
lost; great cities appear like small models of towns, and the biggest
man-of-war looks like a boy’s toy ship. Morning up in cloudland is a
gloriously radiant spectacle. The balloon floats out of darkness into
a world of shadowy mountain ranges, colourless and unsubstantial at
first, but borrowing from the rising sun the softest, tenderest hues of
roseate pink and warmest crimson, glowing and blending and fading away
at last into a mellow flood of amber gold.

In France, for some time after their invention, balloons were quite the
rage, the first made for scientific purposes being that of July 1803,
and which was followed by several others having for their object the
solution of many physical problems, not a few of which remain problems
still. In 1850 two ascents were made for the purpose of investigating
certain atmospheric phenomena. One especially of these aërial voyages
was in the last degree unfortunate. Scarcely had the two philosophers
MM. Barral and Bixio taken their seats, than they made the unpleasant
discovery that their balloon was not in good working order; and while
they were hesitating about what should be done in the circumstances, a
violent gust of wind settled the question for them, and the balloon,
blown from the earth, shot into the air with the velocity of an arrow.
Becoming rapidly inflated, the machine then bulged out at top and
bottom, covering the car like a hood, and enveloping the unfortunate
aëronauts in total darkness. ‘Their position was most critical; and
when one of them endeavoured to secure the valve-rope, a rent was made
in the lower part of the balloon, and the hydrogen gas with which
it was inflated escaping close to their faces suffocated both of
them, causing a momentary exhaustion, followed by nausea and violent
vomiting.’

In this helpless condition they discovered that they were descending
rapidly; and on groping about for the cause they found that the balloon
was split open in the middle, and that there was a rent in it two
yards long. This was a cruel predicament in which to find themselves
thirty thousand feet up in the air, and very naturally they abandoned
all hope of life, although, like wise men, they did all in their power
to preserve it. To lessen the downward velocity of the balloon they
threw overboard all their ballast, then article after article of their
raiment even to their fur coats, preserving only their instruments,
with which they at last descended in safety in a vineyard near Lagny.

The motion in a balloon is scarcely perceptible. You are not conscious
of rising; but the earth appears to recede from you, and to advance
to meet you during a descent. In the higher regions of the air,
the intense solitude of the cloud-scape has something in it awful
and oppressive, as if the world were left behind for ever, and the
aëronaut were about to launch chance-driven into the vast infinitude of
shadowland. Amid these altitudes, if any sound is made by the aëronaut,
it is echoed back in ghostly tones by the vast envelope of the balloon,
which as it floats casts a shadow sometimes black and sometimes white;
but which is usually surrounded by an aureole or halo more or less
distinctly marked.

In throwing out ballast or any small article from a balloon, a certain
degree of caution is requisite, as a bottle or any similar object falls
with such velocity that if it were to strike the roof of a cottage it
would go right through it. We are told that Gay-Lussac, in an ascent
in 1804, threw out a common deal chair from the height of 23,000 feet.
It fell beside a country girl who was tending some sheep in a field,
and as the balloon was invisible, she concluded—and so did wiser heads
than hers—that the chair had fallen straight down from heaven, a gift
of the Virgin to her faithful followers. No one was sceptical enough to
deny it, for there was the chair, or rather its remains. The most the
incredulous could venture to do was to criticise the coarse workmanship
of the miraculous seat, and they were busy carping and fault-finding
with the celestial upholstery, when an account of M. Gay-Lussac’s
aërial voyage was published, and extinguished at once the discussion
and the miracle.

In 1868 M. Tissandier and a professional aëronaut made a voyage over
the North Sea in a balloon called the Neptune. The machine made a
splendid ascent, and was soon floating in mid air buoyant as a feather
at the height of four thousand feet, bound, as the aëronauts fondly
hoped, for the coast of England. But in this they soon found that they
had counted without their host; the Neptune, impelled by the wind,
was soaring away in the direction of the middle of the German Ocean.
This most inauspicious goal struck terror for a few moments into their
ardent souls; but they were soon reassured by observing that the wind
in the atmospheric regions below them was setting towards the shore,
and that by sinking into this lower current of air they could return
whenever they chose. Thus yielding to the current of their fate, they
allowed themselves to be carried out to sea, floating like gossamer
into the very heart of cloudland. Gorgeous scenes, more splendid,
more airy, more delicate than the most glowing visions of the Arabian
Nights, rose around them. It was like the enchantment of a vivid
dream. They took no note of time; every sense was absorbed in that
of vision; they even forgot to be hungry, but gazed, and gazed, and
gazed again upon the wide waste of waters that spread beneath them,
glowing like one vast molten emerald; its glories half seen, half hid
by the multitude of cloud mountains and valleys that rose fluctuating
and fantastic on every side, fair with luminous half-lights,
delicately lovely with pearly iridescence shading into silvery gray.
Thus hovering miles above the world and its commonplace cares, they
enjoyed an interval of transcendent delight, rudely broken in upon
by the professional aëronaut, a creature of appetite, who pulled the
valve-rope unbidden, thus causing them to descend from their cloudy
paradise into the grosser atmosphere that immediately surrounds the
earth, where they at length bethought themselves—of lunch. In spite of
thick thronging poetic fancies and transcendental raptures, they made a
very tolerable repast, M. Tissandier finishing his portion of the fowl
by tossing a well-picked drumstick overboard. For this imprudence the
professional was down upon him immediately. ‘Do you not know,’ quoth
he, ‘that to throw out ballast without orders is a very serious crime
in a balloon?’ M. Tissandier was at first inclined to argue the point;
but on consulting the sensitive barometer he was fain to admit that
in consequence of the disappearance of the chicken-bone, the Neptune
had made an upward bound of between twenty and thirty yards. Very fine
calculation—if true.

Luncheon satisfactorily over, they again soared upward out of sight and
sound of earth, and soon found themselves once more in their cloudy
Elysium, but with a change; mist and fog hemmed them round instead
of the breeze and sunshine, but did not make them less happy. The
Neptune was to them a little Goshen, a lonely floating temple of peace,
dedicated to contentment and ease. The serenity of their souls was
depicted in their faces. Tranquil and easy, they took no thought of the
morrow, no, nor of the next hour, when suddenly there broke upon their
ears, like a faint far-distant murmur, a sound subdued, monotonous,
and yet terrible. Was it the voices of the spheres? No, gentle reader;
it was a strain more awful still—it was the voice of the sea. In a
moment the listless ease, the sweet do-nothingness of those idlers in
cloudland was gone, clean washed away by the swish and swell of that
intrusive ocean, which stretched beneath them, painted by the sunset
with a thousand glowing tints of beauty, which they had neither leisure
nor tranquillity to admire. Fortunately the wind was setting inshore;
and amid the fast falling shades of night, the anxious aëronauts were
fortunate enough to descry a cape crowned with a lighthouse. Every
nerve was strained to reach it; and after a few moments of intense
anxiety and effort, the anchor was let go. It caught in a sandhill, and
the Neptune once more moored to earth, rolled over on its side, and was
after some difficulty secured.

The spot where they landed was curiously enough only a few yards from
the reef of rocks where the first aëronaut, Pilatre de Rosier, was
dashed to pieces in 1785.

Sometimes, like other bubbles, the balloon bursts; and when this
little accident happens, say four thousand feet up in the air, it is
of course attended with unpleasant and inconvenient consequences, as
was the experience of MM. Fonvielle and Tissandier, who with a party
of nine made an ascent in a veteran balloon called ‘the Giant.’ Merry
as larks they soared into the air, keenly enjoying the beauty of the
day, the novelty of the pastime, the sense of liberty, of entire
freedom from all wonted conventionalisms or accustomed restraints.
Then with what a keen school-boy edge of appetite they fell upon their
chicken, which seems the appropriate food for balloons, eaten from
newspapers, which served as plates, and washed down with soda-water
and Bordeaux. Champagne was inadmissible; an unruly cork might have
popped unawares through the silken tissues of the envelope, and thus
hastened a catastrophe. But let us not anticipate. The banquet was
over, the board, that is to say the newspapers were cleared, and
‘the feast of reason and the flow of soul’ had begun. All was bright
airy genial cordiality and mirth, when suddenly the attention of the
travellers was attracted to a white smoke issuing from the sides of
the balloon. Whence came this ominous mist, this preternatural cloud,
that began to enshroud them? One reckless youth said: ‘It is the Giant
smoking his pipe.’ And so it was with a vengeance! Then followed a few
terrible moments, in which each after his own fashion bade the world
farewell, and found it marvellous hard to do so. The clouds, the sky,
the pleasant sunlight, was that their last look at each? It seemed so;
but while they were still shivering dizzy and aghast upon that awful
threshold, the balloon fell, and strange to relate, fell safely, and
they were saved.

A few days afterwards Monsieur Tissandier made another ascent in the
Neptune with Monsieur de Fonvielle, and they were busily engaged
conducting some scientific experiments when a sharp crack like a
sudden quick peal of thunder fell upon their astounded ears, and the
professional aëronaut exclaimed in a loud startled voice: ‘The balloon
has burst!’ What followed, we give in Monsieur Tissandier’s own words:
‘It was too true; the Neptune’s side was torn open and transformed
suddenly into a bundle of shreds, flattening down upon the opposite
half. Its appearance was now that of a disc surrounded with a fringe!
We came to the ground immediately. The shock was awful. The aëronaut
disappeared. I leaped into the hoop, which at that instant fell upon
me, together with the remains of the balloon and all the contents of
the car. All was darkness. I felt myself rolled along the ground, and
wondered if I had lost my sight, or if we were buried in some hole or
cavern. An instant of quiet ensued, and then the loud voice of the
aëronaut was heard exclaiming: “Now come all of you from under there.”’
And one after another they emerged unhurt into the sunshine, in time to
bid farewell to a few fragments of the balloon which were floating away
upon the rising wind.

Such experiences must as a rule be trying to the nerves of most people,
and we must be so plain as say that travelling by balloon is at best an
act of extreme danger and temerity. In order to utilise balloons, it is
evident that some sure means of guiding them must be invented; and this
discovery or anything approaching to it has yet to be made. In fact,
a balloon is still, after about a hundred years’ experience, little
better than a toy.




LIGHTNING-CONDUCTORS.


Many of our readers may have wondered why tall buildings such as church
steeples and factory chimneys are provided with thin rods of iron
running down their sides; and may have been at a loss to understand
their meaning. Their use is to conduct lightning harmlessly to the
ground during thunder-storms. We have, however, had warnings enough
that a bad lightning-conductor is worse, as regards the security of
the building it is supposed to protect, than none at all. Unless the
electrical connection with the earth be perfect, the conductor may
invite the very danger which it ought to turn aside. Rusted chains,
imperfect fittings, and the absence of a sufficient thickness of
untarnished metal, are responsible for much mischief. Lightning,
properly dealt with, is robbed of much of its terrific power; but
when its natural path is blocked, and its swift circuit interrupted,
it inevitably rends and tears and burns, scathing and scattering all
substances before its resistless might.

Franklin meant the lightning-conductors which he invented to consist
of iron alone. Iron, however, has too strong an affinity for oxygen to
allow of this. All moisture, and all heat, corrode it more or less;
and thus grew up the custom of pointing the conductors with copper,
and in some cases with costly platinum, soldered to the iron rod. But
exposure to weather, and the weak galvanic currents which unavoidably
set in where metal of one sort is in contact with metal of another
sort, cause rapid decomposition at the joint, and encourage the rust to
eat into the substance of the rod. A heavy flash will melt or cripple
a conductor thus imperfect, and then woe to the structure! This defect
can now be cured by coating the iron rod completely with nickel, a
metal which defies rust, and which conducts electricity better than the
pure iron does. Bars and rods of this nickelised iron have been kept
under water for several days without tarnishing, and resist the effects
of the most powerful battery of Leyden jars.

It had been believed, until lately, that platinum was a metal with
which no rogue, however dexterous, could tamper. The platinum coinage
of the Russia of thirty years since was considered un-imitable by the
manufacturers of false money; while the capsules, crucibles, and
other apparatus required by scientific men were sold according to the
high market value of what is really a precious metal. Unluckily, fraud
has been found possible even in this case. The Director of the Royal
Italian Observatory on Vesuvius, M. de Luca, surprised at finding first
one and then another of the platinum points of his conductors melted by
the effect of lightning, made a careful investigation, and discovered
that the platinum had been adulterated with from ten to twelve per
cent. of lead, and thus rendered fusible. Platinum thus mixed with an
inferior metal can be identified by its lesser density, or more easily
by the blowpipe, before which a tell-tale green flame will reveal
the presence of the lead. Such a mixture would render the hitherto
resisting platinum absolutely worthless in the laboratory.




A SPRING BOUQUET.


    Rails the rude Wind-king through the surging sea
    Of swaying boughs, that bending to the blast
    Their countless arms, with murmurous rustling wave,
    In wood and forest; and the hedgerows burst
    Into the tender greenery of Spring.

    Now shew the clumps of golden crocuses
    Their crowns above the freshly scented mould;
    And quavering bells of snowdrops glimmer white,
    In roadside garden; purple violets
    Lurk mid their green leaves, heavy-eyed with dew,
    Their fragrant perfume scattering on the Dawn.

    The polyanthus in her velvet robe—
    Yellow and russet—nestles by the side
    Of proud auricula; the splendid stars
    Of periwinkle—palest lavender—
    Gleam from the ivied bank; ranunculus
    All-stately queens it o’er her satellites,
    The yellow daffodils; Narcissus scents,
    With his frankincense sweet, the keen March air,
    A flower of peerless beauty.

                                  Wall-flowers shew
    From bed and border, their brown-orange blooms;
    And under them lingereth a vestal pure,
    The last pale primrose. All the pear-trees bend
    Beneath their flower-snow; the almonds blush
    With roseate bloom; the young year’s minstrel sweet—
    The mellow thrush—his liquid carol pours
    From the old blackthorn.

                              Nature is astir;
    She wakes rejoicing from her Winter sleep,
    And with a thousand voices welcomes Spring!

       *       *       *       *       *

The Conductors of CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL beg to direct the attention of
CONTRIBUTORS to the following notice:

_1st._ All communications should be addressed to the ‘Editor, 339 High
    Street, Edinburgh.’

_2d._ To insure the return of papers that may prove ineligible,
    postage-stamps should in every case accompany them.

_3d._ MANUSCRIPTS should bear the author’s full _Christian_ name,
    surname, and address, legibly written.

_4th._ MS. should be written on one side of the leaf only.

_5th._ Poetical offerings should be accompanied by an envelope, stamped
    and directed.

_Unless Contributors comply with the above rules, the Editor cannot
undertake to return ineligible papers._


Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, NO. 738, FEBRUARY 16, 1878 ***


    

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