1884 ***




[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 8.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




OUR HEALTH.

BY DR ANDREW WILSON, HEALTH-LECTURER.


I. HEALTH AND ITS GENERAL CONDITIONS.

A broad and scientific view of life is that which regards it as being
composed, in its physical aspects at least, of a series of actions or
functions more or less defined in their nature. These functions, as the
physiologist terms them, are discharged, each, by a special organ or
series of organs; and health may therefore be viewed as the result of
the harmonious working of all the organs of which the body is composed.

Disturbances of health arise whenever the natural equilibrium
maintained between the functions of the body is disturbed. For example,
a broken bone being an infringement of the functions of a limb, is a
disturbance of health equally with the fever which runs riot through
the blood, and produces a general disturbance of the whole system. An
aching tooth equally with brain disorder constitutes a disturbance
of health. We may therefore define health as the perfect pleasurable
or painless discharge of all the functions through which life is
maintained.

Doubtless this bodily equilibrium of which we have spoken is subject
to many and varied causes of disturbance. Life is after all a highly
complex series of actions, involving equally complicated conditions for
their due performance. Like all other living beings, man is dependent
upon his surroundings for the necessities of life. These surroundings,
whilst ministering to his wants, may under certain circumstances become
sources of disease. Thus we are dependent, like all other animal forms,
upon a supply of pure air, and this condition of our lives may through
impurities prove a source of serious disease. The water we drink,
equally a necessity of life with air, is likewise liable to cause
disease, when either as regards quantity or quality it is not supplied
in the requisite conditions. Man is likewise in the matter of foods
dependent upon his surroundings, and numerous diseases are traceable
both to a lack of necessary foods and to over-indulgence in special
kinds of nourishment. The diseases known to physicians as those of
over-nutrition belong to the latter class; and there are likewise many
ailments due to under-nutrition which also receive the attention of
medical science.

In addition to these outward sources of health-disturbance, which
constitute the disease of mankind, there are other and more subtle and
internal causes which complicate the problems of human happiness. Thus,
for example, each individual inherits from his parents, and through
them from his more remote ancestors, a certain physical constitution.
This constitution, whilst no doubt liable to modifications, yet
determines wholly or in greater part the physical life of the
being possessing it. We frequently speak of persons as suffering
from inherited weakness, and this inherited weakness becomes the
‘transmitted disease’ of the physician. Each individual, therefore,
may be viewed as deriving his chances of health, or the reverse, from
a double source—namely, from the constitution he has inherited and
from the surroundings which make up the life he lives and pursues.
It is the aim and object of sanitary science to deal as clearly and
definitely as possible with both sources of health and disease. In the
first instance, Hygiene, or the science of health, devotes attention to
the surroundings amid which our lives are passed. It seeks to provide
us with the necessary conditions of life in a pure condition. It would
have us breathe pure air, consume pure food, avoid excess of work,
strike the golden mean in recreation, and harbour and conserve the
powers of old age, so as to prolong the period of life and secure a
painless death. In the second aspect of its teachings, this important
branch of human knowledge would teach us that with an inherited
constitution of healthy kind we should take every means of preserving
its well-being; and when on the other hand an enfeebled and physically
weak frame has fallen to our lot, the teachings of health-science are
cheering in the extreme.

Even when an individual has been born into the world, handicapped,
so to speak, in the struggle for existence by physical infirmity and
inherited disease, health-science is found to convey the cheering
assurance that it is possible, even under such circumstances, to
prolong life, and secure a measure of that full happiness which the
possession of health can alone bestow. In illustration of this latter
remark, we might cite the case of a person born into the world with
a consumptive taint, or suffering from inherited tendencies to such
diseases as gout, rheumatism, insanity, &c. Vital statistics prove
beyond doubt, in the case of the consumptive individual, that if his
life be passed under the guidance of health laws, if he is warmly
clad, provided with sufficient nourishment, made to live in a pure
atmosphere, and excess of work avoided, he may attain the age of
thirty-six years without developing the disease under which he labours,
and once past that period, may reasonably hope to attain old age.

In the case of the subject who inherits gout, a similar attention
to the special conditions of healthy living suited to his case may
insure great or complete freedom from the malady of his parent.
Strict attention to dietary, the avoidance of all stimulants, and the
participation in active, well-regulated exercise, form conditions which
in a marked degree, if pursued conscientiously during youth, will ward
off the tendency to develop the disease in question. In the case of an
inherited tendency to mental disorders, mysterious and subtle as such
tendency appears to be, it has been shown that strict attention to the
education and upbringing of the child, a judicious system of education,
the curbing of the passions, and the control of emotions, added to
ordinary care in the selection of food and the physical necessities of
life, may again insure the prolongation of life, and its freedom from
one of the most terrible afflictions which can beset the human race.

These considerations in reality constitute veritable triumphs of
health-science; they show us that in his war against disease and
death, man finds literally a saving knowledge in observance of the
laws which science has deduced for the wise regulation of his life. It
is ignorance or neglect of this great teaching which sends thousands
of our fellow-mortals to an early grave, and which destroys hopes,
ambitions, and opportunities that may contain in themselves the promise
of high excellence in every department of human effort.

The one great truth which health-reformers are never weary of
proclaiming, because they know it is so true, consists in the
declaration that the vast majority of the diseases which affect and
afflict humanity are really of _preventable_ nature. Until this truth
has been thoroughly driven home, and accepted alike by individuals
and nations, no real progress in sanitary science can be expected
or attained. To realise fully the immense power which the practical
application of this thought places in our hands, we may briefly
consider the causes of certain diseases, which in themselves though
powerful and widespread, are nevertheless of _preventable_ kind.
Amongst these diseases, those, popularly known as infectious fevers,
and scientifically as zymotic diseases, stand out most prominently.

We shall hereafter discuss the nature and origin, as far as these have
been traced, of those ailments. Suffice it for the present to say, that
science has demonstrated in a very clear fashion the possibilities of
our escape from those physical terrors by attention to the conditions
to which they owe their spread.

Typhoid fever, also known as enteric and gastric fever, is thus
known to be produced, and its germs to breed, amongst the insanitary
conditions represented by foul drains and collections of filth wherever
found. Experience amply proves that by attention to those labours
which have for their object the secure trapping of drains, flushing of
sewers, and abolition of all filth-heaps, the chances of this fever
being produced are greatly decreased. It has also been shown that
even where this fever has obtained a hold, attention to drains and
like conditions has resulted in the decrease of the epidemic. Again,
typhus fever is notoriously a disease affecting the over-crowded,
squalid, and miserable slums of our great cities. Unlike typhoid
fever, which equally affects the palace of the prince and the cottage
of the peasant, typhus fever is rarely found except in the courts and
alleys of our great cities. We know that the germs of this fever,
which in past days constituted the ‘Plague’ and the ‘Jail Fever’ of
John Howard’s time, breed and propagate amongst the foul air which
accumulates in the ill-ventilated dwellings of the poor. Attention to
ventilation, personal cleanliness, and the removal of all conditions
which militate against the ordinary health of crowded populations,
remove the liability to epidemics of this fever. Again, the disease
known as ague has almost altogether disappeared from this and other
countries through the improved drainage of the land; though it still
occasionally lingers in the neighbourhood of swamps and in other
situations which are wet and damp, and which favour the decay of
vegetable matter.

Man holds in his own hands the power both of largely increasing and
decreasing his chances of early death, and nowhere is this fact better
exemplified than in the lessened mortality which follows even moderate
attention to the laws of health; the words of Dr Farre deserve to be
emblazoned in every household in respect of their pungent utterance
concerning the good which mankind is able to effect by even slight
attention to sanitary requirements. ‘The hygienic problem,’ says Dr
Farre, ‘is how to free the English people from hereditary disease ...
and to develop in the mass the athletical, intellectual, æsthetical,
moral, and religious qualities which have already distinguished some of
the breed. There is a divine image in the future, to which the nation
must aspire. The first step towards it is to improve the health of the
present age; and improvement, if as persistently pursued as it is in
the cultivation of inferior species, will be felt by their children
and their children’s children. A slight development for the better in
each generation, implies progress in the geometrical progression which
yields results in an indefinite time, that if suddenly manifested would
appear miraculous.’

In 1872, Mr Simon told us that the deaths occurring in Great Britain
were more numerous by a third than they would have been, had the
existing knowledge of disease and its causes been perfectly applied.
He added that the number of deaths in England and Wales which might
reasonably be ascribed to causes of a truly preventable nature,
number about one hundred and twenty thousand. Each of those deaths
represents in addition a number of other cases in which the effects
of preventable disease were more or less distinctly found. Such an
account of a mortality, the greater part of which is unquestionably
preventable, may well startle the most phlegmatic amongst us into
activity in the direction of health-reform. In order that the nation at
large may participate in this all-important work, it is necessary that
education in health-science should find a place in the future training
of the young as well as in the practice of the old. And if there is
one consideration which more than another should be prominently kept
in view, it is that which urges that the duty of acquiring information
in the art of living healthily and well is an individual duty. It is
only through individual effort that anything like national interest in
health-science can be fostered. There is no royal road to the art which
places length of days within the right hand of a nation, any more than
there exists an easy pathway to full and perfect knowledge in any other
branch of inquiry. It is the duty of each individual, as a matter of
self-interest, if on no higher grounds, to conserve health; and the
knowledge which places within the grasp of each man and woman the power
of avoiding disease and prolonging life, is one after all which must in
time repay a thousandfold the labour expended in its study. It is with
a desire of assisting in some measure the advance of this all-important
work, that the present series of articles has been undertaken; and
we shall endeavour throughout these papers to present to our readers
plain, practical, and readily understood details connected with the
great principles that regulate the prevention of disease both in the
person and in the home.




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER XII.—A FAIR ARBITER.

There was a little uneasiness in Madge’s mind regarding the effect her
note might have on Mr Hadleigh. She had no doubt that she had given
the right answer, and was at rest on that score. But she had divined
something of the rich man’s desolation, and she was grieved to be
compelled to add in any way to the gloom in which he seemed to live.
She wished that she could comfort him: she hoped that there would come
a day when she would be able to do so.

It was a relief to her when at length she received this short missive:

‘I am sorry. I know that your refusal is dictated by the conviction
that what you are doing is best. I hope you will never have cause to
repent that you chose your way instead of mine.’

The foreboding which lurked in these words was plainly the reflection
of his own morbid broodings, but like all strong emotion, it was
infectious, and, reason as she would, she could not shake off its
influence entirely. At every unoccupied moment an indefinable shadow
seemed to cross the period between Philip’s going and return. There
was only one way of getting rid of this impression—to be always busy.
Fortunately that was the remedy nearest at hand; for with household
duties, her uncle’s accounts and correspondence—considerably multiplied
during harvest—and the preparation with her own hands of sundry useful
articles for Philip to take with him on his travels, she had plenty to
do, without reckoning the hours her lover himself occupied.

It was during one of those happy hours that Philip referred to the
proposal made by his father, and laughingly asked if she would agree to
it.

This was a trial which Madge had anticipated, and was yet unprepared
to meet. She could not make up her mind whether or not to tell Philip
about Mr Hadleigh’s letters. So, again she followed her maxim, and did
what was most disagreeable to herself—kept the secret.

‘You know what I think about it, Philip,’ she answered; ‘and I know the
answer you gave him.’

‘You are sure?’

‘Quite sure—you refused.’

‘And you are not sorry? Cruel Madge—you do not wish me to stay.’

‘What we wish is not always best, Philip.’

She looked at him with those quiet longing eyes; and he wished they
had not been at that moment walking in the harvest-field, with the
reaping-machine coming at full swing towards them, followed by its
troop of men and women gathering up the shorn grain, binding it into
sheaves and piling them into shocks for the drying wind to do its part
of the work. Had they only been in the orchard, he would have given her
a lover’s token that he understood and appreciated her sacrifice.

‘I am not prepared to give unqualified assent to that doctrine,’ he
said, thinking of the inconvenient neighbourhood of the harvesters.
‘However, in this instance I did not do what I wished.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘Oh, he gave me a lot of good advice.’

‘Did you take it?’ she demanded, smiling.

‘Well, you see if we were to take all the good advice that is offered
us, there would be no enterprise in the world.’

‘I am going to show you one man who will take good advice.’

‘Who is that?’

‘There he is speaking to uncle.’

‘Why, that is Caleb Kersey. I never heard of him taking advice, as he
is too much occupied in giving it; and a nice mess he is making of the
harvest at our place.’

‘That is what I am going to see him about. I promised your father to
make some arrangement with him; but he has been away in Norfolk, and I
have had no opportunity of speaking to him until now.’

This Caleb Kersey’s name had suddenly become known throughout the
agricultural district of the country—to the labourers as that of their
champion; to the farmers as that of their bane. He was a man of short
stature and muscular frame; bushy black hair; square forehead and chin;
prominent nose and piercing gray eyes. When in repose or speaking to
his comrades, his expression was one of earnest thoughtfulness; but it
became somewhat sulky when he was addressing his superiors, and fierce
with enthusiasm when haranguing a crowd.

He was not more than thirty; yet he had worked as a farm-labourer
in all the northern and in several southern counties, thus becoming
acquainted with the ways and customs of his class in the various
districts. On returning to Kingshope he caused much consternation in
the neighbourhood of that quiet village, as well as in the town of
Dunthorpe, by forming an Agricultural Labourers’ Union, the object of
which was to obtain better wages and better cottages.

The Union did secure some advantages to the mass of labourers; but it
brought little to Caleb Kersey. The farmers were afraid to employ him,
lest he should create some new agitation amongst their people; and a
large number of the men who had been carried away by the first wave of
this little revolution having profited by it, settled down into their
old ways and their old habits of respect for ‘the squire, the parson,
and the master.’ But Caleb remained their champion still, ready to
be their spokesman whenever a dispute arose between them and their
employers.

He had picked up a little knowledge of cobbling, and when he could not
obtain farmwork, he eked out a living by its help.

‘It’s ’long ov them plaguy schools and papers,’ said Farmer Trotman one
day to Dick Crawshay. ‘There ain’t a better hand nowhere than Caleb;
but it was a black day for him and for us that he larned reading and
writing.’

The stout yeoman of Willowmere was scarcely in a position to sympathise
with this lamentation, for he had been in no way disturbed by Caleb’s
doings. Most of his servants were the sons and daughters of those who
had served his father and grandfather, and who would as soon have
thought of emigrating to the moon, as of quitting a place of which they
felt themselves to be a part, even if it were only to move into the
next parish. So, Uncle Dick could say no more than:

‘I don’t have any trouble with my people. They seem to jog on pretty
comfortable; and I daresay you’d get on well enough with Caleb if you
only got the right side of him. I give him a job whenever there is
one to give and he wants it; and he’s worth two any ordinary men. I
wouldn’t mind having him all the year round if he’d agree. But that’s
somehow against his principles.’

‘Ah! them principles are as bad as them schools for upsetting ignorant
folks. Look at me: all the larning I got was to put down my name plain
and straight; and there ain’t nobody as’ll say I haven’t done my duty
by my land and cattle.’

This was a proposition to which Uncle Dick could cheerfully assent, and
his neighbour was satisfied.

‘I want to speak to Caleb for a minute, uncle,’ said Madge as she
advanced.

Uncle Dick nodded, and walked leisurely after the harvesters,
accompanied by Philip.

‘Yes, miss,’ was the respectful observation of the redoubtable champion.

‘I am glad to see you back, because I have been wanting you for several
days.’

‘What for, miss?’

‘Well, I want to know in the first place, are you engaged anywhere?’

‘Not at present.’

‘Then will you let me engage you for a friend of mine?’

‘I’d like to do anything to please you, miss; but maybe your friend
wouldn’t care to have me.’

He said this with a faint smile, as if regretting that she had given
herself any trouble on his account.

‘He is not only ready to take you, but is willing to let you select the
hands who are to work under you for the whole of the harvest.’

‘That would be agreeable, if there is no bother about the wages.’

‘They will be the same as here.’

‘We wouldn’t want more than Master Crawshay gives.’

‘When can you get the hands together?’

‘In a day or two. But you haven’t told me where the place is, and I
would have to know how much there is to cut.’

‘Now you are to remember that it is I who am engaging you, Caleb,
although the place is not mine; and I want you to get people who will
consent to do without beer until after work.’

‘You mean Ringsford,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I’m afeared’——

There she stopped him by laying her hand on his shoulder and saying
with a bright smile: ‘I know you don’t take beer yourself, and you
know how much the others will gain by dropping it. I want you to get
this work done, Caleb; and there is somebody else who will be as much
pleased with you for doing it as I shall be. Come now, shall I tell
_her_ that you refuse to be near her, or that you are glad of the
chance?’

Caleb hung his head and consented. He knew that she spoke of Pansy.


CHAPTER XIII.—THE CARES OF STATE.

The ladies of the Manor were in the element which delighted them most
when preparing for the dinner and the ‘little dance’ which were to
express the agony they experienced at the departure of their brother
for a distant land. But the truth was that they did not think of the
parting at all: their whole minds were occupied with the festival
itself and with the ambition to make it the most brilliant that had
ever been known at Ringsford.

There are people who, whilst desirous of cultivating a reputation for
hospitality, regard the preparations for the entertainment of their
friends as an affliction; and whilst distributing smiles of welcome to
their guests, are, without malice, secretly wishing them far enough and
the whole thing well over. There are others who send out invitations
which they calculate will not be accepted, and who feel chagrined if
they are. But these young ladies thoroughly enjoyed the bustle of the
necessary arrangements for a banquet—and the larger its scale, the
greater their pleasure; and although they did send some invitations
out of deference to social obligations, whilst hoping they would be
declined, such drawbacks affected neither their appetites nor their
enjoyment when the evening came.

On the present occasion, Miss Hadleigh was of course most anxious that
everything should be done in honour of Philip; but it was impossible
for her to escape a certain degree of gratification in anticipating the
impression which was to be made on her betrothed of the importance of
the Family. She had subscribed for a gorgeously bound copy of a county
history in which a page was devoted to Ringsford Manor and its present
proprietor. It was remarkable how frequently that book lay open on the
drawing-room table at that particular page.

Caroline and Bertha had their private thoughts, too, about the
possibilities of the forthcoming festival. They did not deliberately
speculate upon obtaining devoted lovers; but they did count upon
securing numerous admirers. And, then, they were all to have new
dresses for the occasion. This was no special novelty for them: but,
however many dresses she may possess, there is no woman who does not
find interest and excitement in getting a new one.

With light hearts they attacked the business of issuing invitations;
and although ‘the little dance’ was second in order, they began with
it first. They progressed rapidly and merrily: there were a few
discussions as to whether or not they should include Mrs Brown and
the Misses Brown, or only have Miss Brown; whether they should have
Miss Jones alone, or Miss Jones and Miss Sarah Jones; and so on. There
were no discussions about the gentlemen, even when it was discovered
that supposing two-thirds of those invited came, it would be necessary
to erect a marquee on the lawn to allow room for dancing. Indeed the
discovery enhanced the glory of the event and caused a marked increase
in the number of cards sent out.

This was all smooth enough sailing; but they had to haul in their
colours at the first attempt to make up the list of guests for the
dinner. They were limited to twelve or fourteen; and there were so many
of those asked to the second part of the programme, who would feel
slighted and offended on hearing that they had been passed over in the
first part, that the girls were appalled by the difficulty of arranging
matters so as to cause the least possible amount of heart-burning. It
was not as if this were an ordinary gathering: the degree of friendship
would be distinctly marked by the line drawn between those who were
invited to the dinner and those who were not.

Their father had only mentioned Mr Wrentham and the Crawshays: he left
his daughters to select the other guests.

Miss Hadleigh had a vague sensation that she wished she had not been
so ready to call everybody her ‘Dearest friend.’ That rendered her
position decidedly more awkward than it would have been otherwise.

‘Of course we must have Alfred,’ she said decisively, as if relieved to
have settled one part of the difficulty.

‘Of course we _must_ have him,’ chimed her sisters.

‘And ... we ought to have his people,’ she added meditatively; ‘they
are—in a sort of way—connections of the Family.’

‘Alfred’ was Mr Crowell, the young merchant to whom she was engaged.

‘Yes, we ought to ask them,’ observed Caroline, with a suggestion in
voice and look that she would not be sorry if something should prevent
them from accepting.

‘Then we must ask old Dr Guy—he is such a friend of Philip’s; and if we
ask him, I don’t see how we can avoid sending cards to Fanny and her
stupid husband.’

Dr Guy was the oldest medical man of the Kingshope district: Fanny was
his daughter, married to his partner, Dr Edwin Joy.

‘I have it!’ cried Bertha, clapping her hands with glee at the notion
that she had solved the problem: ‘we’ll go and find out the evenings
that the people we don’t want are engaged, and invite them for those
very evenings.’

‘Foolish child,’ said the eldest sister majestically; ‘they would not
be all engaged for the same evening, and our date is fixed.’

‘Oh!—I did not think of that,’ rejoined Bertha, crestfallen.

‘How many have we got, Caroline?’

Caroline was believed to have a head for figures; and being glad to
be credited with a head for anything, she endeavoured to sustain the
character by making prompt guesses at totals which were generally
found to be wrong. Nevertheless, the promptitude of her replies and an
occasional lucky hit sufficed to keep up the delusion as to her special
faculty. She was lucky this time, for she had been reckoning them all
the time.

‘Ten; and the vicar will make eleven.’

‘Ah, yes—I had almost forgotten the dear old vicar. Thank you,
Caroline. That leaves us with only three places; and I suppose Philip
and Coutts will want to have some of their friends at dinner.’

The list of particular guests occupied four days of anxious thought
and much re-arrangement, with the result that room for two additional
places had to be made at the table. Even when all this was done, they
had not quite made up their minds who were really the most intimate
friends of the Family.

(_To be continued._)




THE ‘KITCHEN KAFFIR.’


Fortune, for good or ill, has cast my lot in the little Crown colony
of Natal. Let me at once say that I have no intention of going over
ground already but too well trodden. What with wars and rumours of wars
upon its borders, Natal has lately been ‘written up’ to a considerable
extent by enterprising travellers and newspaper correspondents. Minerva
has been treading closely on the heels of Mars, and at the first blush,
there would seem but little more to tell. However, the hasty grasp at
things made by dashing ‘specials’ and travellers may have left some
grains of information that will perhaps prove interesting.

It is only necessary to my subject to state, by way of introduction,
that Natal has a population of about thirty thousand whites and three
hundred thousand blacks—the latter, as will be seen, in a proportion
of ten to one. These are, of course, round numbers. The city of
Pietermaritzburg, the capital of the colony—where my afore-mentioned
lot is cast—contains between six and seven thousand Europeans, a large
number of Indian coolies, and a much larger number of natives. A
considerable proportion of the last-named fall to be spoken of under
the heading of this article—the ‘Kitchen Kaffir.’ Most of the domestic
work of the colony is performed by the natives. They come into the
town from the surrounding country from distances of twenty, fifty, or a
hundred miles, sometimes farther. The Kaffirs, thanks to the indulgence
of our paternal government, are allowed to settle and thrive on the
available Crown lands of the colony, and their kraals form a frequent
feature of the up-country landscape. Though these natives enjoy the
protection of the British government, polygamy is allowed under the
Native Law. Wives have to be bought with bullocks. The young natives,
ambitious to wed, leave the ancestral kraal, and work for wages in the
town until they have saved enough money to buy the requisite oxen.
Hence the Kitchen Kaffir.

My wife is now sitting at my elbow, sub-editing my remarks. This is
needful; for although we have been three years in the colony, I stand
second to her in knowledge of Kaffir character, and particularly of
Kaffir language. This cannot, of course, be referred to any inferiority
in my mental calibre, but to the fact that I am engaged in business
in the town all day; while my wife is brought more in contact with
the domestic Kaffir. He is named Sam, and has been with us for over
two years and a half. Well do I remember the first time I saw him. He
was drawing water, for an ungracious mistress, out of the _sluit_ or
rivulet-gutter that runs down the side of the Pietermaritzburg streets
or roads. I thought I had never seen a happier mortal. He was dressed
in an old shirt and trousers. In the latter, appeared a great rent;
frayed patches were visible all over his raiment; yet his face beamed
with a grin unrivalled in expressive extent by anything outside of a
Christy Minstrel entertainment. Our hearts instantly warmed towards
Sam, and we invited him to our hearth at the munificent rate of one
pound a month. He posed as bashfully as a maiden receiving an offer
of marriage. He shoved the back of his horny hand into his capacious
mouth, coquettishly paddled in the dust with his right big toe, and
took sly, sidelong glances at us with his large and rolling left eye.
All this we took to mean ‘Yes.’ A few days afterwards, Sam appeared
at the back of our cottage, carrying his sticks—no Kaffir ever goes
about without two or three _knobkerries_ in his hand—a rolled-up mat to
sleep on, and a wooden pillow. His attire was as ragged as ever; but by
means of some of my old clothes he assumed a more respectable air. I
must explain that, to suit European ideas of decency, the Kaffirs are
not permitted to wear their kraal costume in the town. Whenever they
come within the municipal boundary, they have to doff the _moochee_ or
fur-kilt and don trousers. They do so with great reluctance. If you
happen to be on the outskirts of the town, you will see the departing
Kaffirs joyfully throwing off shirt and trousers, tying these in a
bundle, re-assuming their _moochee_, and trotting happily homewards.

The duties of the Kitchen Kaffir are multifarious and fairly well
performed. He chops the wood, lights the fire, serves at table, cleans
the rooms, goes messages, and nurses the baby. He has weaknesses, of
course; but these he possesses in common with the rest of the human
family. He smokes and snuffs, and is fully alive to the benefits of
frequent leisure. At periodic intervals, generally of six months,
he shows a strong desire to go home, to _hamba lo kaya_. But this
intermittent home-sickness, while the gratifying of it may entail
some inconvenience on the _baas_ (master) or the _meesis_, is not
an unpleasing feature in the native character. Kraal-life is very
patriarchal, and the Kaffirs have strong home-instincts. They are a
social race, and the sociality is abundantly visible in the manners and
habits of the Kitchen Kaffir. In the ‘Kaffir house’—the outbuilding to
be found in the rear of nearly all colonial villas and cottages—there
is many a jovial evening spent by the ‘boys.’ When the toil of day
is over—few domestic natives work after six or seven o’clock in the
evening—they gather together and gossip on the events of the day. They
retail all the private life of their masters and mistresses; for they
have a wonderful faculty, distinct from prying, of shrewdly finding
out everything that is going on. News travels with astonishing speed
amongst the native population. The ‘boys’ apparently take it in turn to
invite each other to spend the evening and share the porridge supper.
Concurrently with the gossiping, they smoke. The pipe is a small bowl
fitted into a bullock’s horn, partly filled with water, through which
the smoke is drawn. The ‘boys’ generally sit in a circle; and by the
light of a stump of candle stuck in a corner, you can see their forms
dimly through the stiff clouds which they are blowing. The smoke seems
to be continually getting into the Kaffirs’ air-passages, as a loud
chorus of coughs is incessantly kept up. So the night wears on. At nine
o’clock a bell rings at the police-station, the signal for all Kaffirs
to go home. Any native found on the streets after that hour, unless
he have a written ‘pass’ from his master, is apprehended and fined
half-a-crown.

Sam, when solitary, amuses his evenings by playing on what I may call a
one-stringed harp. It consists of a wire strung on a wooden bow about
four feet long, near one extremity of which is fastened a hollow gourd
to give resonance. It is played by being struck with a stick; and by
pressing the wire, Sam can increase the range of the instrument to
two notes—‘tim-tum, tim-tum,’ by the hour together. He also, to its
accompaniment, sings certain wild melodies, probably with impromptu
words. The Kaffirs are noted _improvisatores_. You cannot even send
one on an errand without his chanting the object of his mission in
loud tones all down the street. It certainly goes against all ideas of
fitness to hear your Kaffir, as he ambles along, singing out in Zulu,
with endless repetitions, and to an incoherent melody: ‘Oh! missis is
going to make soup, and I’m off to buy the peas;’ or, ‘We’re right out
of firewood, and I’m to borrow some from Mrs Jones;’ or, ‘Master’s
sick, and I’m hurrying for the physic!’ If these domestic revelations
were only heard by the Kaffir population, it would not matter so
much; but the words are almost equally patent to the white people.
However, as everybody’s Kaffir sings his errands, there is a certain
compensation!

It should now be remarked that Kitchen Kaffir is also the name of the
modified Zulu spoken by the domesticated native. It is as peculiar
in its way as ‘Pidgin English,’ or any other of those _langues de
convenance_ which have originated in the intimate relations existing
between the British and some ultra-continental peoples. The Zulu
language proper is a well-developed tongue, elaborate in mood, tense,
and case, as can be seen in the erudite volume of the late Bishop
Colenso, who was as great an authority in Ethiopian grammar as in
arithmetic. Here and there, one may find old colonists, traders, or
missionaries who have a thorough knowledge of ‘Zulu;’ but the settlers
in general have neither the opportunity nor perhaps the inclination to
learn it. The prevailing custom of England seems to be to restrict her
subject races to their own tongue.

The Kitchen Kaffir is slightly heterogeneous. A number of English
and Dutch words have crept into it, with certain modifications to
adapt them to the genius of the Zulu language. Amongst the former we
would cite _callidge_ (carriage), _follik_ (fork), _nquati_ (note, or
letter), _lice_ (rice), and so on, the pronunciation being governed by
the fact that the Kaffirs experience difficulty in articulating _r_.
The letter _x_ is also a stumbling-block. Hence ‘box’ is transformed
into _bogus_, and a popular English Christmas institution transplanted
to the colony is known as a ‘Kissmiss bogus.’ ‘Sunday,’ again, is
spoken of as _Sonda_ or _Sonto_; and ‘horse’ is _ihashi_. In denoting
money there are also some peculiar terms. A threepenny piece is known
as a _pen_, and the latter word is pretty generally used amongst
the Europeans themselves. I may here interject the remark that the
threepenny piece is about the lowest coin in circulation in the colony.
Pennies are scarce, and farthings an unknown quantity. I was told by a
Natal schoolmistress that one of the greatest difficulties she met with
was in teaching the children how many farthings made up a penny; and
a little colonial-born girl once said to me: ‘Oh! how I would like to
go to England to see farthings!’ The Kaffirs look down with contempt
upon coppers. A half-crown is called, by a strange phonetic twist, a
_facquelin_, and a florin—well, thereby hangs a tale. Some years ago, a
contractor in Natal, who hailed from the north of the Tweed, hit upon
a brilliant idea, which he thought would result in a great saving of
expenditure. In giving his Kaffir labourers their weekly payment, he
substituted two-shilling pieces—till then unknown among the natives—for
half-crowns, thinking the ‘untutored savage’ would not detect the
difference. They went away contented; but it was not long ere the
storekeepers had enlightened their minds as to the true value of the
money. I forget how the matter ended; but it is a sad fact that to this
day the Kaffirs always speak of a florin as a ‘Scotchman.’ Traces of
Dutch in Kitchen Kaffir are numerous.

As to the Zulu element in Kitchen Kaffir, I would premise that the
written Zulu bears no very great resemblance to the spoken language.
This is partly owing to the number of ‘clicks,’ which originally
formed no characteristic of the Zulu tongue, but were many years ago
borrowed from the Hottentots, who revel in these verbal impediments.
There are three clicks, represented on paper by _c_, _q_, and _x_.
The _c_ is made by pressing the tongue against the teeth, as when one
is slightly annoyed; while _q_ is like a ‘cluck,’ and _x_ like the
‘chick’ made to start a horse. These, however, are what musicians
would term ‘accidentals,’ and but little interrupt the sonorous,
melodic flow of Kaffir utterance. To those who know the Zulu language
only through books, such words as _gqugquza_ (to stir up) and _uqoqoqo_
(windpipe) may seem next to unpronounceable; but in the native’s lips
they lose much of their angularity. So, too, with such combinations as
_ubugwigwigwi_ (whizzing-sound) and _ikitwityikwityi_ (whirlwind).

But now to return briefly to Sam. In many respects he is an excellent
servant, and like most of the unsophisticated Kaffirs, could be trusted
with untold gold. The average Kitchen Kaffir is frequently left in
charge of a house during the absence of the family, and would no more
think of making away with the valuables than would a watch-dog. One
evening Sam asked and received permission to go to the ‘school,’ by
which is meant the mission-school, where the Kaffirs are taught to
read and write, and where they also receive religious instruction.
The effect upon Sam was instantaneous. He invested in a new coat and
trousers, a waistcoat, and a white shirt with long cuffs. Big boots
adorned his feet, and a felt hat his head. A few days later he had
acquired a paper collar, gloves, and leggings, and finally he blossomed
out into an umbrella. His evenings are now spent in laborious _vivâ
voce_ attempts to master the alphabet, and the rude scrawls upon the
whitewashed wall testify to his efforts at caligraphy.

There is much diversity of opinion in Natal as to the results attending
the religious training of the native, and perhaps it would be well if
a little more of the ‘sweet reasonableness’ of Matthew Arnold were
imported into the discussion. There is, however, the fact that many
of the Kaffirs are taught to read and write, and this cannot in the
long-run be an evil. What has yet been accomplished, even at such
institutions as that founded by Bishop Colenso at Bishopstowe, and that
at Lovedale in the Cape Colony, is perhaps comparatively small; but it
may be as pregnant with encouragement as the humble blue flower that
cheered the heart of Mungo Park in the African desert.




TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.

A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.


CONCLUSION.

Presently the nurse came and carried off Miss Lucy and her doll. Lady
Dimsdale rose and joined Mrs Bowood.

A minute later, a servant came and presented Captain Bowood with a
card. The latter put on his spectacles, and read what was written on
the card aloud: ‘“MR GARWOOD BROOKER, Theatre Royal, Ryde.” Don’t know
him. Never heard of the man before,’ said the Captain emphatically.

‘The gentleman is waiting in the library, sir,’ said the servant. ‘Says
he wants to see you on very particular business.’

‘Humph! Too hot for business of any kind. Too many flies about. Must
see him though, I suppose.’

The servant retired; and presently the Captain followed him into the
house. Mrs Bowood and Lady Dimsdale lingered for a few minutes, and
then they too went indoors.

As Captain Bowood entered the library, Mr Brooker rose and made him
a profound bow. He was a stoutly-built man, between fifty and sixty
years of age. He wore shoes; gray trousers, very baggy at the knees; a
tightly buttoned frock-coat, with a velvet collar; and an old-fashioned
black satin stock, the ends of which hid whatever portion of his linen
might otherwise have been exposed to view. A jet black wig covered his
head, the long tangled ends of which floated mazily over his velvet
collar behind. His closely shaven face was blue-black round the mouth
and chin, where the razor had passed over its surface day after day
for forty years. The rest of his face looked yellow and wrinkled, the
continual use of pigments for stage purposes having long ago spoiled
whatever natural freshness it might once have possessed. Mr Brooker
had a bold aquiline nose and bushy brows, and at one time had been
accounted an eminently handsome man, especially when viewed from before
the footlights; but his waist had disappeared years ago, and there was
a general air about him of running to seed. When Mr Brooker chose to
put on his dignified air, he was very dignified. Finally, it may be
said that every one in ‘the profession’ who knew ‘old Brooker,’ liked
and esteemed him, and that at least he was a thorough gentleman.

Having made his bow, Mr Brooker advanced one foot a little, buried one
hand in the breast of his frock-coat, and let the other rest gracefully
on his hip. It was one of his favourite stage attitudes.

‘Mr Brooker?’ said Captain Bowood interrogatively, as he came forward
with the other’s card in his hand.

‘At your service, Captain Bowood.’ The voice was deep, almost
sepulchral in its tones. It was the voice of Hamlet in his gloomier
moments.

‘Pray, be seated,’ said the Captain in his offhand way as he took a
chair himself.

Mr Brooker slowly deposited himself upon another chair. He would have
preferred saying what he had to say standing, as giving more scope for
graceful and appropriate gestures; but he gave way to circumstances. He
cleared his voice, and then he said: ‘I am here, sir, this morning as
an ambassador on the part of your nephew, Mr Charles Warden.’

‘Don’t know any such person,’ replied the Captain shortly.

‘Pardon me—I ought to have said your nephew, Mr Charles Summers.’

‘Then it’s a pity you did not come on a better errand. I want nothing
to do with the young vagabond in any way. He and I are strangers. Eh,
now?’

‘He is a very clever and talented young gentleman; and let me tell you,
sir, that you ought to be very proud of him.’

‘Proud of my nephew, who is an actor!—an actor! Pooh!’ The Captain
spoke with a considerable degree of contempt.

‘_I_ am an actor, sir,’ was Mr Brooker’s withering reply, in his most
sepulchral tones.

The Captain turned red, coughed, and fidgeted. ‘Nothing personal,
sir—nothing personal,’ he spluttered. ‘I only spoke in general terms.’

‘You spoke in depreciatory terms, sir, respecting something about which
you evidently know little or nothing.’

The Captain winced. He was not in the habit of being lectured, and
the sensation was not a pleasant one, but he felt the justice of the
reproof.

‘Ah, sir, the actor’s profession is one of the noblest in the world,’
resumed Mr Brooker, changing from his Hamlet to his Mercutio voice;
‘and your nephew bids fair to become a shining ornament in it. I know
of few young men who have progressed so rapidly in so short a time,
and the press notices he has had are something remarkable. Here are a
few of them, sir, only a few of them, which I have brought together.
Oblige me by casting your eye over them, sir, and then tell me what you
think.’ Speaking thus, Mr Brooker produced from his pocket-book three
or four sheets of paper, on which had been gummed sundry cuttings from
different newspapers, and handed them to the Captain.

That gentleman having put on his glasses, read the extracts
through deliberately and carefully. ‘Bless my heart! this is most
extraordinary!’ he remarked when he had done. ‘And do all these fine
words refer to that graceless young scamp of a nephew of mine?’

‘Every one of them, sir; and he deserves all that’s said of him.’

Like many other people, Captain Bowood had a great respect for anything
that he saw in print, more especially for any opinion enunciated by the
particular daily organ whose political views happened to coincide with
his own, and by whose leading articles he was, metaphorically, led by
the nose. When, therefore, he came across a laudatory notice anent his
nephew’s acting extracted from his favourite _Telephone_, he felt under
the necessity of taking out his handkerchief and rubbing his spectacles
vigorously. ‘There must be something in the lad after all,’ he muttered
to himself, ‘or the _Telephone_ wouldn’t think it worth while to make
such a fuss about him. But why didn’t he keep to tea-broking?’

‘I am much obliged to you, sir,’ said the Captain, as he handed the
extracts back to Mr Brooker.

‘I am afraid that I make but a poor envoy, sir,’ said the latter,
‘seeing that as yet I have furnished you with no reason for venturing
to intrude upon you this morning.’

‘You have a message for me?’ remarked the Captain.

‘I have, sir; and I doubt not you can readily guess from whom. Sir, I
have the honour to be the manager of the travelling theatrical company
of which your nephew forms a component part. I am old enough to be the
young man’s father, and that may be one reason why he has chosen to
confide his troubles to me. In any case, I have taken the liberty of
coming here to intercede for him. There are two points, sir, that he
wishes me to lay before you. The first is his desire—I might, without
exaggeration, say his intense longing—to be reconciled to you, who
have been to him as a second father, since his own parents died. He
acknowledges and regrets that in days gone by he was a great trouble
to you—a great worry and a great expense. But he begs me to assure you
that he has now sown his wild-oats; that he is working hard in his
profession; that he is determined to rise in it; and that he will yet
do credit to you and every one connected with him—all of which I fully
indorse. But he cannot feel happy, sir, till he has been reconciled to
you—till you have accorded him your forgiveness, and—and’——

Here the Captain sneezed violently, and then blew his nose. ‘I knew
it—I said so,’ he remarked aloud. ‘Those confounded draughts—give
everybody cold. Why not?’ Then addressing himself directly to Mr
Brooker, he said: ‘Well, sir, well. I have listened to your remarks
with a considerable degree of patience, and I am glad to find that my
graceless nephew has some sense of compunction left in him. But as for
reconciliation and forgiveness and all that nonsense—pooh, pooh!—not to
be thought of—not to be thought of!’

‘I am sorry to hear that, Captain Bowood—very sorry indeed.’

‘You made mention of some other point, sir, that Mr Summers wished you
to lay before me. Eh, now?’

‘I did, sir. It is that of his attachment to a young lady at present
staying under your roof—Miss Brandon by name.’

‘Ah, I guessed as much!’

‘He desires your sanction to his engagement to the young lady in
question, not with any view to immediate marriage, Miss Brandon being a
ward in Chancery, but’——

‘Confound his impudence, sir!’ burst out the Captain irately. ‘How dare
he, sir—how dare he make love to a young lady who is placed under my
charge by her nearest relative? What will Miss Hoskyns say and think,
when she comes back and finds her niece over head and ears in love with
my worthless nephew? Come now.’

‘It may perchance mitigate to some extent the severity of your
displeasure, sir,’ remarked Mr Brooker in his blandest tones, ‘when I
tell you that in my pocket I have a letter written by Miss Hoskyns, in
which that lady sanctions your nephew’s engagement to Miss Brandon.’

The Captain stared in open-mouthed wonder at the veteran actor. This
was the strangest turn of all. He felt that the situation was getting
beyond his grasp, so he did to-day what he always did in cases of
difficulty—he sent for his wife.

Mrs Bowood was almost as much surprised as her husband when she heard
the news. Mr Brooker produced Miss Hoskyns’ letter, the genuineness of
which could not be disputed; but she was still as much at a loss as
before to imagine by what occult means Master Charley had succeeded in
causing such a document to be written. Nor did she find out till some
time afterwards.

It would appear that our two young people had fallen in love with
each other during the month they had spent at Rosemount the preceding
summer, and that, during the ensuing winter, Charley had contrived to
worm his way into the good graces of Miss Hoskyns by humouring her
weaknesses and playing on some of her foibles, of which the worthy
lady had an ample stock-in-trade. But no one could have been more
surprised than the young man himself was when, in answer to his letter,
which he had written without the remotest hope of its being favourably
considered, there came a gracious response, sanctioning his engagement
to Miss Brandon. The fact was that, while in Italy, Miss Hoskyns had
allowed her elderly affections to become entangled with a good-looking
man some years younger than herself, to whom she was now on the point
of being married. The first perusal of Charley’s letter had thrown her
into a violent rage; but at the end of twenty-four hours her views had
become considerably modified. After all, as she argued to herself, why
shouldn’t young Summers and her niece make a match of it? He came of a
good family, and would incontestably be his uncle’s heir; and Captain
Bowood was known to be a very rich man. And then came in another
argument, which had perhaps more weight than all the rest. Would it be
wise, would it be advisable, to keep herself hampered with a niece who
was fast developing into a really handsome young woman, when she, the
aunt, was about to take a good-looking husband so much younger than
herself? No; she opined that such a course would neither be wise nor
advisable. Hence it came to pass that the letter was written which was
such a source of surprise to every one at Rosemount.

‘What am I to do now?’ asked the Captain a little helplessly, as Mrs
Bowood gave back the letter to Mr Brooker.

That lady’s mind was made up on the instant. ‘There is only one thing
for you to do,’ she said with decision, ‘and that is, to forgive the
boy all his past faults and follies, and sanction his engagement to
Elsie Brandon.’

‘What—what! Eat my own words—swallow my own leek—when I’ve said a
hundred times that’——

‘Remember, dear, what you said in the drawing-room last evening,’
interposed Mrs Bowood in her quietest tones.

Then the Captain called to mind how, in conversation the previous
evening with his wife and Lady Dimsdale, he had chuckled over the
tricks played him by his nephew, and had admitted that that young
gentleman’s falling in love with Miss Brandon was the very thing he
would have wished for, had he been consulted in the matter.

The Captain was crestfallen when these things were brought to his mind.

Mrs Bowood gave him no time for further reflection. Rightly assuming
that the young people were not far away, she opened a door leading to
an inner room, and there found them in close proximity to each other on
the sofa. ‘Come along, you naughty children,’ she said, ‘and receive
the sentence due for your many crimes.’

They came forward shamefacedly enough. Master Charles looked a little
paler than ordinary; on Elsie’s face there was a lovely wild-rose blush.

Mr Brooker rose to his feet, ran the fingers of one hand lightly
through his wig, and posed himself in his favourite attitude. He felt
that just at this point a little slow music might have been effectively
introduced.

The Captain also rose to his feet.

Charley came forward quickly and grasped one of the old man’s hands in
both of his. ‘Uncle!’ he said, looking straight into his face through
eyes that swam in tears.

For a moment or two the Captain tried to look fierce, but failed
miserably. Then bending his white head, and laying a hand on his
nephew’s shoulder, he murmured in a broken voice: ‘M—m—my boy!’

       *       *       *       *       *

Sir Frederick Pinkerton was slowly pacing the sunny south terrace,
smoking one cigarette after another in a way that with him was very
unusual. He was only half satisfied with himself—only half satisfied
with the way he had treated Lady Dimsdale. The instincts of a gentleman
were at work within him, and those instincts whispered to him that
he had acted as no true gentleman ought to act. And yet his feelings
were very bitter. Had not Lady Dimsdale rejected him?—had she not
scorned him?—had she not treated him with a contumely that was only
half veiled? Still more bitter was the thought that if he acted as his
conscience told him he ought to act, he would release Lady Dimsdale
from the promise he had imposed on her, and stand quietly on one
side, while another snatched away the prize which, only a few short
hours ago, he had fondly deemed would be all his own. But this was a
sacrifice which he felt that he was not magnanimous enough to make. ‘I
have done the man a great—an inestimable—service,’ he said to himself
more than once; ‘let that suffice. They are not lovesick children—he
and Lady Dimsdale—that they should cry for the moon, and vow there is
no happiness in life because they can’t obtain it. Why should I trouble
myself about their happiness? They would not trouble themselves about
mine.’

It was thus he argued with himself, and the longer he argued the more
angry he became. He was so thoroughly anxious to convince himself that
he was right, and he found himself unable to do so.

He was still deep in his musings, when one of the servants brought
him a letter which had been sent on from his own house to Rosemount.
He recognised the writing as soon as he saw the address, and his face
brightened at once. The letter was from his nephew—the one being on
earth for whom Sir Frederick entertained any real affection. He found
a seat in the shade, where he sat down and broke the seal of his
letter. But as he read, his face grew darker and darker, and when he
had come to the end of it, a deep sigh burst involuntarily from him;
the hand that held the letter dropped by his side, and his chin sank
on his breast. He seemed all at once to have become five years older.
‘O Horace, Horace, this is indeed a shameful confession!’ he murmured.
‘How often is it the hand we love best that strikes us the cruellest
blow! And Oscar Boyd, too! the man I dislike beyond all other men. That
makes the blow still harder to bear. He must be paid the five hundred
pounds, and at once. He has lost his fortune, and yet he never spoke
of this. What an obligation to be under—and to him! He saved Horace’s
honour—perhaps his life—but is that any reason why I should absolve
Lady Dimsdale from her promise? No, no! This is a matter entirely
separate from the other.—Why, here comes the man himself.’

As Sir Frederick spoke thus, Oscar Boyd issued from one of the many
winding walks that intersected the grounds at Rosemount. He had been
alone since he left Lady Dimsdale. He had vowed to her that if she
would not reveal to him the key of the mystery, he would find it for
himself; but in truth he seemed no nearer finding it now than he had
been an hour before. From whatever point he regarded the puzzle, he
was equally nonplused. Utterly unaccountable to him seemed the whole
affair. He was now on his way back to the house in search of Laura. He
would see her once more before she left; once more would he appeal to
her. On one point he was fully determined: come what might, he would
never give her up.

Sir Frederick put away his letter, rose from his seat, pulled himself
together, and went slowly forward to meet Mr Boyd. ‘You are the person,
Mr Boyd, whom I am just now most desirous of seeing,’ he said.

‘I am entirely at your service, Sir Frederick.’

The Baronet cleared his voice. He scarcely knew how to begin what he
wanted to say. Very bitter to him was the confession he was about to
make. ‘Am I wrong, Mr Boyd, in assuming that you are acquainted with a
certain nephew of mine, Horace Calvert by name, who at the present time
is residing at Rio?’

Oscar started slightly at the mention of the name. ‘I believe that I
had the pleasure of meeting the young gentleman in question on one
occasion.’

‘It is of that occasion I wish to speak. I have in my pocket a letter
which I have just received from my nephew, in which he confesses
everything. Hum, hum.’

‘Confesses—Sir Frederick?’

‘For him, a humiliating confession indeed. He tells me in his letter
how you—a man whom he had never seen before—saved him from the
consequences of his folly—from disgrace—nay, from suicide itself! He
had lost at the gaming-table money which was not his to lose. He fled
the place—despair, madness, I know not what, in his heart and brain.
You followed him, and were just in time to take out of his hand the
weapon that a minute later would have ended his wretched life. But you
not only did that; you took the miserable boy to your hotel, and there
provided him with the means to save his honour. It was a noble action,
Mr Boyd, and I thank you from my heart.’

‘It was the action of a man who remembered that he had been young and
foolish himself in years gone by.’

‘I repeat, sir, that it was a noble action. And you would have gone
away without telling me how greatly I am your debtor!’

‘It was a secret that concerned no one but the young man and myself.’

‘It is a debt that must be and shall be paid. I am glad indeed to
find that there is sufficient sense of honour left in my nephew to
cause him to beg that you may not be allowed to remain a loser by your
generosity. He has ascertained that you have returned to England; he
has even found out the name of your hotel in Covent Garden, where he
asks me to wait upon you. Hum, hum. My cheque-book is at home, Mr Boyd;
but if you will oblige me with your address in town, I’——

‘One moment, Sir Frederick. Am I right in assuming that a certain
anonymous letter which I received yesterday was written by you?’

‘Since you put the question so categorically—frankly, it was.’

‘You have done me a service greater than I know how to thank you for.
You have dragged me from the verge of an abyss. At present, I will not
ask you how you came by the information which enabled you to do this—it
is enough to know that you did it.’ He held out his hand frankly.
‘Suppose we cry quits, Sir Frederick?’ he said.

The Baronet protruded a limp and flaccid paw, which Oscar’s long lean
fingers gripped heartily.

‘But—but, my dear sir, the five hundred pounds is a debt which must and
shall be paid,’ urged Sir Frederick, who felt as if he had lost the use
of his hand for a few moments.

There was no opportunity for further private talk. Round a corner of
the terrace came Captain and Mrs Bowood, Miss Brandon and her lover
in a high state of contentment, and Brooker the benignant, nose in
air, and with one hand hidden in the breast of his frock-coat. A
servant brought out some of Lady Dimsdale’s boxes in readiness for the
carriage, which would be there in the course of a few minutes. Mr Boyd
went forward, leaving Sir Frederick a little way in the rear.

‘Quits—“let us cry quits,” he said,’ muttered the Baronet. ‘Yes, yes;
let it be so as regards all but the money. That must be repaid. The
service I did him was no common one—he admits that. Why, then, should I
not hold Lady Dimsdale to her promise?’

At this moment, Lady Dimsdale, dressed for travelling, appeared on the
terrace. ‘She is going, then. She means to keep her promise,’ said Sir
Frederick to himself. He drew a little nearer the group.

‘And must you really and truly leave us this afternoon?’ said Mrs
Bowood.

‘Really and truly.’

‘I am very angry with you.’

‘I have promised the children to be back in time to go blackberrying
with them, so that you will not lose me for long.’

‘I suppose we shall lose Mr Boyd as soon as you are gone. The house
will be too dull for him.’

‘I have no control over Mr Boyd’s actions,’ answered Lady Dimsdale
quietly, as she turned away.

‘Then he has not proposed! O dear! O dear!’ murmured Mrs Bowood.

Sir Frederick had seated himself on a rustic chair somewhat apart
from the others. He was still uneasy in his mind. ‘He saved Horace’s
honour—he saved his life; but he said himself that we are quits.’

‘Why, this is nothing but rank midsummer madness,’ said the Captain
to Lady Dimsdale. ‘But you women never know your minds for two days
together. You won’t have been settled down at Bayswater more than a
week, before you will want to be off somewhere else. Eh, now?’

‘Do you know, I think that is quite likely. But I am not leaving you
for long. I shall be back again to plague you by the time the leaves
begin to turn.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And now my adieux to all of
you must be brief. Time, tide, and the express train wait for no one.’

She saw Oscar coming towards her, and she crossed to meet him.

‘The crucial moment,’ said Sir Frederick to himself. ‘How bravely she
carries herself!’

Oscar took her hand. For a moment or two they looked into each other’s
eyes without speaking. Then Oscar said: ‘You are determined to go—and
without affording me a word of explanation?’

‘I cannot help myself.’

‘Do you really mean this to be farewell between us?’

‘Yes—farewell.’ There was a sob in her voice which she could not
repress.

‘O my darling!’

‘Not that word, Oscar—not that!’

‘And do you really think, Laura, that I am going to allow myself to
lose you in this way, without knowing the why or the wherefore? Not
so—not so.’

‘You must, Oscar—you must.’

‘Give me some reason—give me some explanation of this unaccountable
change.’

‘I cannot. My lips are sealed.’

‘Very well. I will now say good-bye for a little while; but I shall
follow you to London within three days. You are my promised wife, and I
shall hold you to your promise, in spite of everything and every one.’

‘No, Oscar, no—it cannot be—it can never be!’ She glanced up into his
eyes. There was a cold, clear, determined look in them, such as she had
never seen there before. It was evident that he was terribly in earnest.

At this moment Captain Bowood’s landau drove up. The footman descended,
and contemplated Lady Dimsdale’s numerous packages with dismay.

‘You needn’t bother about the luggage, George,’ said his master. ‘A man
from the station will fetch that.’

The moment for parting had come. As Oscar gazed down on Laura, all
the hardness melted out of his face, and in its stead, the soft light
of love shone out of his eyes, and his lips curved into a smile of
tenderness. ‘Farewell—but only for a little while,’ he whispered. He
lifted her hand to his lips for a moment, and then, without another
word, he turned on his heel and joined the Captain.

‘I actually believe Mr Boyd is in love with dear Lady Dimsdale!’
whispered Elsie to Mr Summers.

‘Of course he is, and she with him; only, she’s playing with him for a
little while.’

‘It seems to me that you know far too much about love-making, Master
Charley.’

‘Who was the first to give me lessons?’

The only answer to this was a pinch in the soft part of his arm.

Lady Dimsdale controlled herself by a supreme effort. Then she crossed
slowly towards where Sir Frederick was sitting.

He rose as she approached him. ‘You have kept your promise bravely,’ he
said in a low voice.

‘Why should not a woman keep a promise as bravely as a man?’

‘It is I who am driving you away.’

‘You flatter yourself, Sir Frederick.’

He shook his head in grave dissent. He seemed strangely moved. He gazed
earnestly at her. ‘There is a tear in your eye, Lady Dimsdale,’ he
said. ‘I am conquered. I revoke the promise I caused you to give me
yesterday.’

‘Oh, Sir Frederick!’

‘I revoke it unconditionally.’

‘Why did you not tell me this five minutes ago!’

‘Better to tell it you now than not at all. You will not leave us now?’

‘But I must, I fear—must.’ She gave him her hand for a moment, and then
turned away.

As the Baronet watched her retreating figure, he muttered to himself:
‘Mr Boyd said we were quits. He was mistaken. We shall be quits after
to-day. Hum, hum.’

As Lady Dimsdale was crossing the terrace, she dropped one of her
gloves—whether by design or accident, who shall say. Oscar Boyd sprang
forward and picked it up. Laura stopped, turned, and held out her
hand for the glove. As Oscar gave it back to her, his fingers closed
instinctively round hers. For a moment or two he gazed into her eyes;
for a moment or two she glanced shyly into his. I don’t in the least
know what he saw there; but suddenly he called out to the coachman:
‘Henry, you can drive back to the stables. Lady Dimsdale will not go to
London to-day.’




THE MONTH:

SCIENCE AND ARTS.


The interesting lecture upon Celtic and Roman Britain, which was
delivered last month at the London Institution by Mr Alfred Tylor,
F.G.S., was illustrated by several drawings of curious antiquities.
There was also shown a map prepared by the lecturer, which depicted
all the Roman roads which at the present time still form important
highways. A large number of these are seen upon this map to converge
at Winchester, which at one time formed a central depôt for the
metallurgical products of this country, before their dispersion abroad.
From Winchester the metals won from the earth in Cornwall, Wales, &c.,
were carried to Beaulieu, in Hampshire, thence to the Solent, close by.
Two miles across the Solent is Gurnard’s Bay, in the Isle of Wight,
whence there was an easy road to the safe harbour of Brading, where
the ores could be shipped for continental ports. It is believed, from
the existence of so many British sepulchral mounds along these routes,
that the roads were established and in constant use many centuries
before the Roman occupation. The lecturer also referred to the curious
Ogham inscriptions which are found nowhere except in the British Isles,
and which are written in a kind of cipher of the simplest but most
ingenious kind. A horizontal bar forms the backbone of this curious
system of caligraphy. Five vertical strokes across this line would
express the first five letters of an alphabet; the next five would
be expressed by like lines kept above the horizontal bar, and five
more by similar lines kept below it. Other five, making up a total of
twenty signs, corresponding to a twenty-letter alphabet, are expressed
by diagonal lines across the bar. This primitive method of writing is
due to the Irish division of the Celtic race, and indicates a proof
of early culture, which is seen in more enduring form in the artistic
skill evident in such metallurgical work as has been assigned to the
same period and people.

Professor Maspero’s recently issued new catalogue of the Boulak Museum,
Cairo, deals with antiquities compared with which those referred to the
Roman period in Britain seem but things of yesterday. Many of these
archæological treasures, but more particularly the funerary tablets or
_stelæ_, cover the enormous period of thirty-eight centuries, a period,
too, which ends two thousand years before the Christian era. As to the
object of these tablets, which are almost invariably found attached to
ancient Egyptian tombs, Professor Maspero gives a new theory. There
is no doubt that the ancient Egyptians believed in the immortality of
the soul, but coupled with this was a belief in the existence of a
something outside the soul and body—a kind of shade or double, called
the Ka. The preservation of this Ka was essential to the preservation
of the soul; and images of the defunct in which this spirit could dwell
were entombed with the mummy. The various scenes of domestic labour and
pastoral pursuits were not—as was until recently supposed—inscribed
upon the Egyptian tombs merely as records of manners and customs, but
were associated with the belief in the Ka. The pursuits carried on in
life could by these representations enable the spiritual double to
carry on the same line of conduct. Representations of various kinds
of food in baked clay, limestone, or other material, formed the food
of the Ka, and such things have been found in abundance. According to
Professor Maspero’s new theory, the _stela_ or tablet enumerated the
funereal offerings of the deceased, and contained a prayer for their
continuance. This prayer, repeated by a priest—or passer-by, even—would
insure the well-being of the Ka. The name and status of the deceased
were also inscribed upon the tablet; for, according to Egyptian ideas,
a nameless grave meant no hereafter for its inmate. The catalogue
referred to is intended to be a popular guide for the use of visitors,
but it contains very much which will be of value to the student.

Mr Petrie’s recently published book upon the Pyramids of Gezeh, while
it makes short work of many previously accepted theories as to the
intention and uses of those gigantic structures, gives much information
of a most interesting kind, and throws a new light upon many previously
obscure portions of the subject. Most interesting is that part of the
work devoted to the mechanical means employed by the builders of the
Pyramids. Mr Petrie traces in the huge stones of which the Pyramids
are built, the undoubted marks of saw-cutting and tubular drilling. He
believes that the tools employed were of bronze, and asserts that this
metal has left a green stain on the sides of the saw-cuts. Jewels, to
form cutting-points, he believes to have been set both in the teeth of
the saws and also on the circumference of the drills. (If this be true,
rock-boring diamond drills are no new things.) He has even detected
evidence of the employment of lathes with fixed tools and mechanical
rests.

There is now little doubt as to the value of ensilage as a food for
cattle, for there is abundant testimony from various parts of the
country, where the experiment has been tried of building silos,
that beasts thrive upon the compressed fodder that had been stored
therein. For instance, its value as a fatting food for cattle has been
demonstrated upon Mr Stobart’s estate at Northallerton, by a carefully
conducted trial. Twelve beasts were divided into two lots of six each.
All were alike given the same quantity of meal and cake. Besides this,
one lot received daily, each beast, twenty-four and a half pounds of
hay and ninety-five pounds of turnips; the other lot receiving in
lieu of hay and turnips each seventy-five pounds of ensilage. At the
beginning of the experiment, the animals were weighed separately. At
the end of one month they were again weighed. All of course showed a
great advance; but those fed on ensilage totalled up to a figure which
was forty-nine pounds better than the total exhibited by those fed in
the more orthodox style.

As we have on a previous occasion hinted, the principle of ensilage
has, after a manner, been applied for some years to fruit by the
jam-makers. In years of plenty, fruit is reduced to pulp, and can in
this state, if the air is carefully excluded, be made to keep well
until a time of scarcity occurs. Large quantities of apricot pulp finds
its way to this country from France, and realises a good price. In
America, a clever plan of rapid drying and evaporation of the watery
parts of fruit has come into vogue, and this industry gives employment
to many workers. A stove constructed for the purpose costs about
fifteen pounds. It is portable, and is used in many districts far from
towns where there is not a ready market for fresh fruit. As the water
slowly evaporates, the acid and starch in the fruit undergo a chemical
change, and grape-sugar is formed. When placed in water, these dried
fruits once more swell up to their original volume, and are in every
respect like fresh fruit, only that they require, when cooked, but
half the usual quantity of added sugar. All kinds of vegetables can be
preserved by this process.

A correspondent of the _Times_, writing from Iceland, gives some
interesting particulars of the present condition of that island. At
Reykiavik, its chief town, nothing was known of the reported volcanic
disturbances in the interior of the island; but this is hardly to
be wondered at, because a large portion of that area is occupied by
snow-covered mountains and glaciers which the natives never visit, and
which, it may be said, are never explored save by enterprising and
adventurous tourists. Professor Tromholt is in Iceland, pursuing his
researches on the aurora borealis, the frequency and brilliancy of
which, coupled with the exceeding clearness of the atmosphere, give him
every advantage. A large portion of Iceland still remains unexplored;
and its mineral resources, if we except the large quantities of
sulphur which are being worked by an English Company, are but slightly
developed. There is still room for a brisk trade in coal, borax,
copper, &c., which are abundant on the island. Besides these products,
the fisheries of Iceland are most prolific; and although fish and its
belongings form two-thirds of the total exports, it is believed that
they offer a promising field for the further employment of capital.

Among the wonderful engineering projects of the present day must be
mentioned the scheme for making Paris a seaport. This subject lately
engaged the attention of the Rouen Congress of the French Association
for the Advancement of Science, who gave to it two days’ discussion.
One of the chief promoters of the project explained that the proposed
way to carry it out was by transforming the river Seine, by dredging
operations, into a canal ninety-eight feet in width. The amount of soil
to be removed would measure close upon one hundred million cubic yards;
it would consist chiefly of gravel and alluvial earth. The cost of the
entire undertaking is estimated at four millions sterling.

Much attention has of recent years been called to the neglected art
of Irish lace-making. The beauty of design and careful execution of
old specimens of Irish lace contrast very remarkably with modern
productions, which are too often coarse and inartistic. An Exhibition
held last year at the Mansion House, London, and another still more
lately at Cork, have to some extent aroused popular interest in this
most beautiful class of work, and have given some impetus to the
Royal Irish School of Art Needlework. In addition to the labours
of this self-supporting Society, which is doing its best in the
dissemination of good patterns and the employment of trained teachers,
South Kensington has sent one of its emissaries, in the person of Mr
Alan Cole, who has made lace-work his particular study, to lecture
throughout the country. This gentleman is now in Ireland, travelling
about the country wherever his presence is required, and teaching the
application of artistic design to the technical requirements of the
beautiful fabric.

A pretty picture, exhibited some short time ago, represented a little
child looking up inquiringly to the intelligent face of a collie
dog, and was entitled ‘Can’t you Talk?’ Sir John Lubbock has lately
been asking this question of a little black poodle, and has been
endeavouring to teach it to make its wants known by the use of cards
with written characters upon them. Thus, one card bears the word
‘Food,’ another ‘Out;’ and the dog has been taught to bring either the
one or the other to his master, and to distinguish between the meanings
of the two. It seems doubtful whether the dog in this case uses the
faculty of sight or smell; and it would be a source of some interest
and amusement to those possessing an obedient dog, and with time at
their disposal, to carry out the same kind of experiments, using new
cards every time. It is constantly brought home to any observing owner
of a dog that the animal understands a great deal more than he is
generally credited with. In one case, we knew of a Dandy Dinmont who
became so excited when certain things were mentioned in which he was
interested, that French words had to be used in place of English ones
when he was present. Their intelligence is truly marvellous. The wife
of the editor of this _Journal_ possesses a terrier which, while his
mistress is out driving, will remain quietly in the parlour during
her absence, taking no heed of other vehicles that may come to the
front-door in the interval, but instantly recognising by some intuitive
perception the arrival of the carriage or cab that has restored his
mistress. Be it noted that the room in which Tim is confined during
these temporary partings is at the back of the house, apart altogether
from the front-door. This special power of discrimination on the part
of our favourite has always been a marvel to us.

Colonel Stuart Wortley, commenting upon Sir John Lubbock’s experiments,
tells an interesting story concerning a cat which he found during the
Crimean War. The poor creature was pinned to the ground by a bayonet
which had fallen and pierced its foot. The colonel released it; and the
animal attached itself to him, and remained with him to the end of the
war. The first two mornings of their acquaintance the cat was taken to
the doctor’s tent to have his wound dressed. The third morning, the
colonel was on duty; but the cat found its way to the doctor’s all the
same, scratching at the tent for admission, and holding up its paw for
examination.

Some months ago, when every one who had more money than scientific
knowledge was hastening to invest in electric-lighting schemes, we
gave a few words of warning as to the risks involved. That we were not
wrong is evidenced by the collapse of so many of the Companies which
were then issuing rose-coloured prospectuses. We now learn that so
many people have suffered loss in this way, that there is the greatest
difficulty in floating any scheme in which the word ‘Electricity’
occurs; and although inventors are still producing wonderful things,
they cannot get support. There seems, however, to be no doubt whatever
about the genuine success of the Edison Company in New York. The
annual Report of the Company recently issued says that the Pearl
Street Station in that city is working up to its full capacity. It has
nine thousand eight hundred and eleven incandescent lamps in use, and
the machinery has been kept running night and day without cessation
since September 1882. The Company has now two hundred and forty-six
installations at work, with a total of more than sixty thousand lamps.
It may be mentioned as a matter of interest that Edison has had two
hundred and fifteen patents actually granted him, and one hundred more
have been filed. Every small item of his mechanical contrivances forms
the subject of a patent specification.

There is just now such a great demand for handsomely marked leather,
such as that obtained from alligator and boa skin, that the supply
is not nearly equal to said demand. A large proportion of leather
sold as the product of the alligator is really a photograph of the
original article. It is managed in this way. The real skin, with its
curious rectangular spaces separated by grooved markings, is carefully
photographed. From the negative thus obtained a copy is produced in
bichromated gelatine, which has the property, under the action of
light, of affording images in relief. This is easily reproduced in
metal, which serves the purpose of a die. Common cheap leather is
now taken and placed with this die under heavy pressure, when all
the delicate markings of the alligator skin are indelibly impressed
upon it. The finished product can be stained in any way required, but
is more frequently preferred to remain the brown colour left by the
tanning operation. Such is the most recent trade-application of the
fable of the jackdaw and the peacock’s feathers.

An American paper calls attention to a theory of life which, it
asserts, was held by the great Faraday. This theory makes the duration
of life depend upon the time occupied in growth, leaving all questions
of disease or accident which may shorten life out of the question
altogether. Man occupies twenty years in the business of growing. This
number multiplied by five will give the age to which he ought, under
favourable circumstances, to live—namely, one hundred years. A camel,
occupying eight years in growing, ought to live by the same rule forty
years; and so on with other animals. Human life he divided into two
periods—growth and decline, and these were subdivided into infancy,
lasting from birth to the age of twenty; youth, lasting from twenty to
fifty; virility, from fifty to seventy-five; after which comes age.

‘A white-elephant’ has long been the common name of a gift which is
not only useless, but is likely to entail trouble and expense upon
its owner. The animal which has lately found a temporary home at the
Zoological Gardens, London, will not be considered so unwelcome a
guest, for it has drawn thousands of sightseers to the place. It is
reported to have been bought from the king of Burmah on behalf of Mr
Barnum, the American showman. But there seems to be a conflict of
opinion on the point. Those who ought to know say that the exhibited
animal has nothing very remarkable about it, and is certainly unlike
the sacred animals of Burmah. Moreover, it is said that the king of
Burmah would as soon part with his kingdom as with a _real_ white
elephant, which is the emblem of universal sovereignty, the parting
with one of which would forebode the fall of the dynasty.

One of the attractions of the forthcoming International Health
Exhibition will be an Indian village and tea-garden with the plant
actually growing—that is to say, if it can be deluded into growing in
the smoky atmosphere of London. In a tea-house, the beverage will be
served by natives of tea districts, who are to be brought over from
India for the purpose. There will also be exhibited a native pickle
establishment. We venture to assert that if the entire Exhibition is
carried on in this spirit, it is sure to be a success. In past times,
the tea industry would have been represented by a few dozen bottles
of the dried leaf with labels attached, which none would have read.
Our authorities are now learning that if they wish to interest the
multitude in an Exhibition, it must consist of something more than the
dry-bones of the various subjects which it includes.

At a meeting of the Linnæan Society, Mr J. G. Baker lately gave a
very interesting account of a potato new to this country, but common
in Chili, which he believes would thrive well on this side of the
Atlantic. There are known to botanists seven hundred species of
_solanum_. Only six of these produce tubers, and of these six only one
has been as yet cultivated by us, and this is the common potato.[1]
Its true home, according to Mr Baker, is found in those parts of Chili
which are high and dry; but there is another species which flourishes
in moister situations, which he believes might be made to rival its
familiar fellow. When cultivated, it grows most luxuriantly, so much
so, that six hundred tubers have in one year been gathered from two
plants. Some specimens of this same potato were brought to England so
long ago as the year 1826, but they met with little attention, having
been confounded with the more common species. Two other species of
_solanum_, natives of the eastern portion of South America, and found
at Buenos Ayres, &c., are also being cultivated experimentally in
France and in the United States.

A case lately occurred which is deserving of notice, if only as a
caution to those good people who are always ready to assist any
unfortunate who may be seized with a fit. A man acting in this way
the part of good Samaritan to a woman who had fallen in an epileptic
fit, was bitten by her in the hand. In three days the wrist had
swollen to such an extent as to need medical advice, and a few hours
afterwards the poor man died. There may, of course, have been something
exceptional in his state of health, which rendered this human bite more
rapidly fatal than that of a rabid dog; but the lesson to be learned
from the sad story is, that the greatest care should be taken in
dealing with epileptic patients.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Regents, Champions, Orkney Reds, &c., are mere _varieties_ of the
common species of potato.




OCCASIONAL NOTES.


TELEGRAPH EXTENSION.

The scheme for the extension of the telegraph system, in anticipation
of the meditated introduction of the sixpence rate, is a most
comprehensive one, and indicates that the Post-office authorities
anticipate a very considerable increase of work. The arrangements cover
the entire kingdom, and the sum to be expended is half a million,
part of the sum having been voted in the official year 1883-84, and
the remainder to be voted in the new estimates. From London, upwards
of eighty new wires are to be erected to the principal towns of the
kingdom, including four additional wires to Liverpool; two each to
Birmingham, Manchester, Leeds, Newcastle, and Newmarket; three to
Glasgow; two to Edinburgh; and one each to a large number of towns,
including, in Scotland, Aberdeen and Dundee. Within London itself, five
new pneumatic tubes are to be provided; about seventy new wires will
be erected; forty existing wires will be provided with instruments to
work ‘duplex’—that is, with the power of transmitting two different
messages by one wire from each end simultaneously; and a very large
number of offices will have simple apparatus substituted by other and
improved instruments. In the city of Liverpool, in addition to the
London wires named, three new wires to Manchester are to be put up;
and one new wire to Belfast, Birmingham, Blackburn, Bristol, Carlisle,
Glasgow, Hull, Leeds, and Newcastle. All those wires and all the new
London wires are to be ‘duplexed,’ and thus each new line practically
counts as two. A number of wires out of Liverpool and the other large
towns will be converted to duplex; and Liverpool is to have eight new
pneumatic tubes for its busier local offices. At Manchester, besides
the London and Liverpool communications already named, there will be
new wires to Birmingham, Chester, Edinburgh, Leeds, Newcastle, Bolton,
Burnley, Derby, Huddersfield, Hull, Isle of Man, and Nottingham,
all duplexed. At Newcastle, an evidence of the curious ramifications
of trade is seen in the fact that a new wire is to be put up between
that town and Cardiff. Bristol obtains new wires to London, Liverpool,
Birmingham, Swansea, and Cardiff; and a share of a new wire for news
purposes with Exeter, Plymouth, &c. Sheffield in the same way has a new
wire to London, and a share in a news circuit with Nottingham, Leeds,
and Bradford. At Birmingham, a number of new local wires, and the
duplexing of others, are provided in addition to the various new trunk
wires already named. In Scotland, a considerable number of new wires
fall to be erected. Edinburgh obtains two of the new London wires, and
wires to Manchester, Kelso, and Musselburgh, with the duplexing of some
important wires, such as those to Kirkcaldy and Perth. Glasgow, with
three London wires added, gets new wires to Dundee, Leeds, Liverpool,
Oban, Kilmarnock, Falkirk, &c.; while a large number of the existing
wires will be duplexed, and in some cases re-arranged to give more
suitable service. A considerable number of new local wires are to be
erected in both cities. In Aberdeen, besides the new London wire, the
principal change will be new wires to Wick and Lerwick—the last a most
important improvement, as Shetland messages will reach London with
two steps, instead of being, as now, repeated at Wick, Inverness, and
Edinburgh or Glasgow.

We observe that the French are about to increase enormously
their telegraphic system, and that the new wires are to be laid
_under_ground. It would be well if, remembering the ever-recurring
havoc wrought upon our overhead wires by gales and snow, we followed
the example of our Gallic neighbours.


AN OIL BREAKWATER AT FOLKESTONE.

A series of experiments has been made at Folkestone, with the result of
very satisfactorily demonstrating the value of the method of spreading
oil over troubled waters which has been devised by Mr John Shields,
of Perth, and which has been already described in this _Journal_.
Many years ago, Mr Shields, observing the effect of a few drops of
oil accidentally spilt on a pond in connection with his works, began
experiments with a view to determine if this property of oil could
not be turned to account on a large scale for the saving of life and
property at sea and on our coasts. He soon arrived at the conclusion
that the problem to be solved was ‘how to get the oil on troubled
waters when it was wanted and where it was wanted.’ By trying various
methods of solving this question, first at Peterhead and then at
Aberdeen, he has worked out the system which, with the co-operation of
the South-eastern Railway Company, has at his expense been placed in
readiness for use during stormy weather off the entrance to the harbour
at Folkestone.

On the 29th January, Mr A. Shields, son of the inventor, and Mr
Gordon, of Dundee, carried out a number of experiments at Folkestone
before a distinguished company. The weather, unfortunately, was not
all that could be desired; it was too moderate, and the wind blowing
from the west did not drive such breakers across the harbour bar as
a strong south-wester would have produced. Nevertheless, the channel
near shore was sufficiently rough to prove the efficiency of Mr
Shields’ arrangements for smoothing it. What was seen by the visitors
may be told in few words. Three large casks were lying on their
sides near the pier-end, and pipes inserted in these were connected
with small force-pumps, each worked by a man. Attention was first
directed to windward towards the unfinished new pier, which juts out
to the south-west. Those who have watched these experiments on former
occasions said they could see the oil rising from a submerged pipe laid
from the old pier-head towards the new pier for a distance of five
hundred feet. The flood-tide, however, was running so strongly that it
was not until the oil had passed the pier that its effects began to be
visible, and these effects were soon more distinctly seen as the two
men stationed at the other barrels began to pump oil into a couple of
pipes, also laid on the sea-bottom, and running across the entrance of
the harbour towards Shakspeare’s Cliff for about one thousand yards. A
fully-manned lifeboat, the _Mayer de Rothschild_, had been rowed out
of the harbour, and was lying off the pier-head, rolling a good deal,
but not getting a splash while in the wide glassy strip of oil-covered
waters that soon stretched away for half a mile or more, though to
seaward of this glistening streak the waves were curling and breaking
into foam. On the harbour-side the effects of the oil were noticeable
far in-shore, and few white caps were to be seen, the film, attenuated
as it must have been, and not more than one hundred feet in width,
acting apparently as an efficient breakwater. When the pumping was
stopped, it was estimated that rather over one hundred gallons of oil
had been used.

The trial, which was as satisfactory as the conditions of weather
permitted, was concluded about one o’clock; yet at four, when the
Boulogne boat came in, broad streaks of comparatively smooth, unbroken
water showed where the oil still lay on the surface. For this permanent
apparatus, lead-pipes of about one and a quarter inch diameter are
used, and at distances of one hundred feet apart there are fixed
upright pipes eighteen inches high, in each of which is a conical
valve, protected from silt by a rose. The oil used was seal-oil, some
kind of so-called fish-oil having been found by experiment to be better
for the purpose than either vegetable or mineral oils.

A second experiment was made at the same place with Mr Gordon’s
invention. This consists of firing shells filled with oil, which, when
the shells burst, spreads itself over the water. Each shell contains
about three-quarters of a gallon of oil. They are fired from mortars,
a charge of eight ounces of pebble powder being used. The shell is
simply an oil-flask, at the bottom of which is a recess for a fuse of
somewhat peculiar construction. It consists of two small chambers. In
these there is a projecting submarine fuse about an inch in length.
The fuse is capped with a composition which renders it absolutely
waterproof, and is so constructed as to secure its ignition with
unfailing certainty. Then the fuse is so timed that it bursts at the
time required, and just as the shell is touching the surface of the
water. The oil from each shell covers a very considerable area of
surface. Somewhere about a dozen of these shells were fired at a range
of from four hundred and fifty to five hundred yards. The effect was
wonderful. The hissing and raging waters were gradually allayed. For
a considerable space the sea was converted into a lake with a gentle
swell, in which a ship or a boat could ride with perfect ease. The
shells, of course, obviate the necessity of pipes, and the smallest
seaport in the kingdom might therefore, with an old mortar and a dozen
or two of gallons of oil, make a temporary harbour of refuge whenever
the necessity arose.




THE CHURCHYARD BY THE SEA.

A MEMORY.


    Across the waste of years I see
      One spot for ever soft and green,
    Which, shrined within my memory,
      In evening glow or morning sheen,
    Tells of the golden, vanished years,
    When smiles came oftener far than tears.

    A churchyard by the restless sea,
      Where, in deep calm and dreamless sleep,
    The Dead lay resting peacefully,
      Unheeding the tempestuous deep;
    Careless alike of sun and breeze,
    Or ebbing of those changeful seas.

    And oft when shipwreck and despair
      Came to the little sea-beat town,
    Pale women, with dishevelled hair,
      To the wild shore went hurrying down,
    And tenderly dead eyes would close,
    And smooth dead limbs for long repose.

    Full many a weary, storm-tossed wight,
      Year after year, in quiet was laid,
    Safe from the blustering storms of night,
      In this green spot, and undismayed,
    Slept close beside the breakers’ roar,
    Whose wrath should mar his rest no more.

    And over each low-sleeping head,
      Where thymy turf grew green and soft,
    The wild bee hummed, and rosy-red
      The brier-flower bloomed, and up aloft
    The fleecy clouds went drifting by
    Like shades, across the summer sky.

    And ever as the years go by,
      And one by one old memories creep
    From out the sweet Past solemnly,
      I seem to see, beside the deep,
    That little, lonely, silent spot,
    With many a childish dream enwrought.

            J. H.

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