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. 24.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, JUNE 14, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




ST MARGUERITE AND ST HONORÂT.

THE HOLY ISLES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN.


A melancholy interest is lent just now to the name of St Marguerite
by the fact that the last public act of the lamented Duke of Albany
was to sign a petition protesting against the sale of that island.
The thrilling tale of ‘the man with the iron mask,’ which used to be
a favourite in school-books, has since our childish days enveloped
the little island for us in a halo of mystery and awe. St Marguerite
and its companion island of St Honorât lie, like twin gems of ocean,
in the Golfe de Frejus, and form a romantic point in the seaward view
from Cannes; and among all the excursions which can be made from
that delightful centre, none is more charming than a sail to the
islands. Tradition tells us that they were first colonised by a noble
young knight from the land of the Gauls, who in the early ages of
Christianity embraced its tenets, and with a chosen band of friends,
sought a retreat from the sinful world in this distant islet. He had
one sister, the fair Marguerite, who loved him as her very life, and
who was so inconsolable for his loss, that she followed him to his
retreat in the southern sea. As Honorât and his brother-ascetics had
vowed themselves to solitude, he could not allow his sister to take up
her abode with him; but in compliance with her urgent desires, found
a home for her in the neighbouring island, now known by her name of
Marguerite. Yet this was only granted on the condition that he should
never see her but when the almond tree should blossom. The time of
waiting was very dreary to the lonely Marguerite, and with sighings and
tears she assailed all the saints, till the almond tree miraculously
blossomed once a month, and her poor heart was made glad by the sight
of her beloved brother!

A little coasting-steamer plies daily between Cannes and the islands;
and passengers land at a little pier near the fortress, which is
built on steep cliffs at the eastern extremity of the island. Like
the old castles of Edinburgh and Stirling, it is in itself no very
imposing building, and owes its strength and its romantic air solely
to the rocky cliffs on which it is perched, and to the interesting
associations which cluster around it.

It was a lovely day in April, like one of our most delicious midsummer
days, that we went with some French friends to visit the islands. The
water of the Mediterranean is so limpid that we could look down through
fathoms of it to the sand and see the shells and seaweed. It is of such
a true sapphire blue, that surely Tennyson must have had memories of it
and not of the gray North Sea when he spoke of the

    Shining, sapphire spangled marriage ring of the land.

The view of the coast, looking backwards, as the boat nears St
Marguerite, is splendid: Cannes basking in the sweet sunshine, lying in
a white semicircle around the bay, and climbing up the hills behind,
with the gray olive groves making a silvery haze to tone down the
brilliant colours. In the distance, the dazzling white peaks of the
Maritime Alps form a noble background; while the picture is bounded
on the west by the sierra-like range of the Esterel Hills, painted
against the skyline in vivid blues and purples. Landing at the little
stone pier, we went up the causewayed road to the fort, which, with
its whitewashed walls and red-tiled roof, is built around a wide stone
court. Here we found the guide waiting, an old _cantinière_, very
ugly, but proportionately loud and eloquent—a very different being
from the pretty _vivandière_ of comic operas. She carried us along a
narrow passage to the dungeon where the unhappy ‘Masque de fer’ spent
fourteen long years of hopeless confinement. It is closed by double
doors of iron; the walls are of great thickness; and four rows of
grating protect the little window. From this cell the prisoner was
sometimes permitted egress to walk along the narrow corridor, at the
end of which is a niche in the wall, which in his time held a sacred
image. The ‘Masque de fer’ was never seen without his iron veil, even
by the governor of the prison; it was so curiously fitted as to permit
of his eating with ease. He was treated with all the deference due
to a royal personage; all the dishes and appurtenances of his table
were of silver; the governor waited on him personally; but one day
the prisoner succeeded in eluding his vigilance so far as to write an
appeal for help on a silver plate and throw it over the precipice on
which this part of the fortress stands. As the well-known story tells,
a fisherman found it, and brought it at once to the governor, who
turned pale and trembled on reading what was scratched thereon. ‘Can
you read, my friend?’ he said. ‘No,’ answered the fisherman. ‘Thank God
for that, for you should have paid for your knowledge with your life!’
He dismissed him with the gift of a gold-piece, and the caution to
preserve a prudent silence as to what had passed.

When the governor communicated the attempt to headquarters in Paris,
orders came for the prisoner to be removed to the Bastile. After some
years of close confinement, he died there, and was buried in his mask;
and the governor of the Bastile, who knew the secret of his august
prisoner’s name, died without divulging it. And thus ended the tale in
the old school-books: ‘The identity of the “Masque de fer” must remain
for ever a mystery.’ But it was no mystery to our old _vivandière_, or
indeed to any of the French people who were listening to the story of
his woes; for, in surprise at our ignorance, they all exclaimed: ‘Don’t
you know that he was the _frère aîné_ [elder brother] of Louis XIV.?’
He was considered too weak in mind to govern France, and was therefore
always kept in seclusion, till an attempt which was made to bring him
forward was the cause of his being condemned to the life-long prison
and the iron mask.

A very queer old gilded seat like an old Roman curule chair is shown in
the chapel as that used by the ‘Masque de fer.’

To this fortress, also, Marshal Bazaine was sent as a prisoner, after
what the French call his ‘betrayal of Metz.’ The places where he and
his family—who were permitted to follow him to the island—used to sit
in the tiny chapel were pointed out to us; also the terrace-walk where
he was allowed to promenade, unguarded, in the evenings; and the rock
down which he escaped, by means of a rope-ladder, to the little boat
which his wife had arranged to be in waiting below. Of course, it is
said that Macmahon connived at his escape, not wishing his old comrade
to be tried by a court-martial, which he knew would inevitably condemn
him. He sent him to a sham imprisonment in this pleasant island, till
the first wild wrath of the people of France against him had cooled
down. A Frenchman told us that he now lives at ease in Spain, having
saved his fortune from the wreck, but _tout déshonoré_ in the eyes of
France!

From St Marguerite we crossed in less than half an hour to the smaller
island of St Honorât, now the property of the Cistercian order of
monks. The shore is fringed with the beautiful stone-pines which are so
conspicuous on the Riviera and in some parts of Italy. The first object
which strikes one on landing is a large new archway, made probably
as the gateway for a future avenue; behind it, at some distance, lie
the church and monastery. On a promontory at the western end of the
island stands an old ruined monastery of the thirteenth century. It
is very like the style of architecture of some of the old castles in
Scotland. There is a fine triforium in it with Gothic arches. In the
refectory we saw on a raised platform at the side the arch for the
lectern, from which it was the duty of a monk to read to his brethren
while at their meals. The view from the tower is magnificent: the deep
blue sea stretches to the southern horizon; the snowy line of the Alpes
Maritimes bounds the northern; on the right, the white waves break in
feathery foam on the Cap d’Antibes; while the purple Esterels, with the
jagged summit of Mont Vinaigrier, lie to the left; and Cannes, with
its picturesque old town on the hill of Mont Chevalier, and its modern
wings spreading far and wide, fills up the middle distance. Since the
young St Honorât sought a retreat here from the world in the fifth
century, this island has been usually held by monks, although it was
often ravaged by the Saracens. The ruins of the oldest monastery are
within the present cloisters. At a little booth outside the monastic
walls we found an English monk, who was deputed to sell photographs
of the island and the ruins, and to make himself agreeable to the
visitors. He told us that he had been in the Grande Chartreuse, near
Grenoble; but as his health was not strong enough to bear the keen
air on those rocky heights, he had been sent to spend the winter in
this convent of the sunny south. In his youth he had been stationed in
Edinburgh, and was much interested in speaking of it and hearing of the
changes which had taken place there.

During the past century, St Honorât’s isle has passed through
strange phases. First of all, a Parisian _comédienne_ bought it,
meaning to build a summer villa there; then tiring of it, she sold
it to a Protestant clergyman. When it came again into the market,
the Cistercians bought it, built the new monastery, and settled a
congregation of their order in it. The Cistercian rule is not so severe
as that of the Trappists, but still, they are not allowed to speak
except during the hours of recreation and on Sunday. The lay brother
who showed us round told us he had a dispensation to speak, as he was
told off to the post of cicerone for that day. He said it was a very
happy life, as tranquil and blessed as in Paradise; and truly his
face beamed with heavenly light and peace. One of our company was a
gentleman from Grenoble, who came in the hope of seeing a young friend
who had lately joined the order. He hoped even to get some of us
invited to the ‘parloir’ to speak with him. Alas! the young monk would
not even see his old friend, but sent him a tender greeting, and thanks
for his kindness in coming. The English ‘father’ said he did this of
his own accord, fearing to be disturbed by old associations from his
hardly won tranquillity. However that might be, we had to bid adieu to
St Honorât without seeing the young recluse.




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER XXXIII.—HER PROBLEM.

Madge in her own room; but it was evening and almost quite dark, so
that it was not at all like the pretty chamber which it appeared to be
in the bright sunshine of an autumn morning. Can there be any sympathy
between the atmosphere and our feelings? There must be. A bright
day helps us to meet sorrow bravely; a dull, dark day makes sorrow
our master: we bow our heads and groan because nature seems to have
entered into a conspiracy against us. The strong will may fling aside
this atmospherical depression, but the effort is needed: whereas when
the sun shines, even the weak can lift their heads and say without
faltering: ‘Let me know the worst.’

Madge held in her hand a letter—the same which Wrentham had seen on
Beecham’s desk, and of which he made due report to Mr Hadleigh. She
knew well where to find the matches and candle, and yet she stood in
that deep gloom looking at the window, as if she were interested in the
invisible prospect on which it opened.

It is not instinct, but a telegraphic association of ideas which makes
us hesitate to open particular letters. That was her case. And yet, if
her face could have been seen in that gloom, no sign of fear would have
been found upon it; only a wistful sadness—the expression of one who
feels that some revelation of the inevitable is near.

After the pause, she quietly lit the candle, and, without drawing
down the blind, seated herself by the window. Then, as methodically
as if it had been only one of Uncle Dick’s business letters, she cut
the envelope and spread the paper on her lap. She was very pale just
then, for there was no message from Beecham; only this inclosure of an
old letter, which seemed to have been much handled, and of which the
writing had become indistinct.

There were only a few lines on the paper. She looked at the name at the
foot of them, and raised it to her lips, reverently.

‘Poor mother!’ was her sigh, and she laid the letter gently on her lap
again, whilst she looked dreamily into the gloom outside.

Should she read it? He had left her to answer that question for
herself. Yes; she would read, for there were so few words, that there
could be no breach of faith in scanning them. Moreover, the letter had
been sent to her for that purpose by the man who had received it, and
who, therefore, had the right to submit it to her.

There was no need to raise any great question of conscience in the
matter; the words were so simple that they might have been written by a
mother to a child. No passion, no forced sentiment, no ‘make-believe’
of any kind. Only this pathetic cry:

‘Dear Austin, do not go away. I am filled with fear by what thou hast
said to me about the vessel. I know it is wrong, since God is with us
everywhere, and I am ashamed of this weakness. But thou art so dear,
and—— I pray thee, Austin, do not go away.’

Then followed in the middle of the page the simple name:

‘LUCY.’

This was what she might have written to Philip, and had not. It was
all so simple and so like her own experience, with the difference that
the lover had not gone away. Few daughters are allowed to know the
history of their mothers’ love affairs, and there are fewer still who,
when they hear them, can regard them as anything more than commonplace
sketches of life, which they pass aside as they turn over the leaves of
a portfolio.

But to Madge!——

What did all this mean? That, with the best intentions, she was
entering into a conspiracy against the man she loved, and her mother
was invoked as the inspiration of the conspiracy!

Sitting there, the candle flickering in the strange draughts which came
from nowhere, the gloom outside growing quite black, and the shadows in
the little room growing huge and threatening, Madge was trying to read
the riddle of her very awkward position.

A sharp knock at the door, one of those knocks which impudent and
inconsiderate females give when they have no particular message to
convey, and resent the necessity of carrying it.

‘A man in the oak parlour wants to see you, if you ben’t too busy.’

Madge passed her fingers over the aching head. She could not guess
who the man might be, but presumed that he was one of Uncle Dick’s
customers.

She found Mr Beecham in the oak parlour. This was the first time he had
been under the roof of Willowmere. He and Madge were conscious of the
singularity of the meeting-place.

‘I trust, Miss Heathcote, you are not annoyed with me for coming here,’
he said softly. ‘I did not mean to do so; but it occurred to me, after
despatching that letter, you might require a few words of explanation.
At first, my intention was to say nothing; but on consideration,
it seemed to me unfair to leave you without help in answering the
disagreeable questions which the situation suggests.’

Madge still had the letter in her hand; the tears were still in her
eyes. She tried to wipe them away, but still they would force their
presence on the lids. That was the real Madge—tender, considerate to
others beyond measure.

‘Oh, if’——

Here the superficial Madge claimed supremacy, and took the management
of the whole interview in hand. Calm almost to coldness, clear in
speech and vision almost to the degree of severity, she spoke:

‘I have considered all that you have said to me, and I do not like the
position in which you have placed me. I gave you my word that I should
be silent, believing that no harm could follow, and believing that my
mother would have wished me to obey you. You have satisfied me by this
letter that I have not done wrong so far. Take it back.’

She folded the letter, carefully replaced it in the envelope, and gave
it to him.

‘Thank you,’ he said, with the shadow of that sad smile which had so
often crossed his face.

‘You cannot tell how much that letter has affected me. You cannot know
what thoughts and impulses it has aroused. But you can believe that in
my mother’s blunder I read my own fate.... I know you are my friend: be
the friend of those I love. Help _him_, for he needs help very much.’

Mr Beecham had quietly taken the letter and placed it in a small
pocket-case, to which it seemed to belong.

‘I feared you would not understand me, and the desire to save you from
uneasiness has brought me here. You have promised to be silent: I again
beg you to keep that promise for a little while.’

She bowed her head, but did not speak.

‘In doing so,’ he added, anxious to reassure her, ‘you have my pledge
that no harm will come to any one who does not seek it.’

‘You cannot think,’ she said coldly, and yet with a touch of bitterness
that she seemed unable to repress—‘you cannot think any one purposely
seeks harm! It came to you and to my mother.’

For an instant he was silent. He was thinking that no harm would have
come to them if both had been faithful.

‘That is a hard hit, and not easily answered,’ he said quietly. ‘Let me
say, then, that even if there had been no other motive to influence me,
I should be his friend on your account. But I am your friend above and
before all. For your sake alone I came back to England. For your sake
I am acting as I am doing, strange as it may seem. If he is honest and
faithful to you’——

‘There is no doubt of that,’ she interrupted, her face brightening with
confidence.

Beecham inclined his head, as if in worship. He smiled at her
unhesitating assertion of faith, but the smile was one of respect and
admiration touched with a shade of regret. What might his life have
been if he had found a mate like her! The man she loved might prove
false, and all the world might call him false: she would still believe
him to be true.

‘A man finds such faith rarely,’ he said in his gentlest tone; ‘I
hope he will prove worthy of it. But let him take his own way for the
present; and should trouble come to him, I shall do my best to help him
out of it.’

She made a quick movement, as if she would have clasped his hands in
thankfulness, but checked herself.

‘Then I am content.’

‘I am glad you can say so, for it shows you have some confidence in me,
and every proof of kindly thought towards me helps me.’

He stopped, and seemed to be smiling at the weakness which had made his
voice a little husky. Looking back, and realising in this girl an old
dream, she had grown so dear to him, that he knew if she had persisted,
his wisest judgment would have yielded to her wish.

She wondered: why was this man so gentle and yet so cruel, as it
seemed, in his doubts of Philip?

‘Let me take your hand,’ he resumed. ‘Thanks. Have you any notion how
much it cost me to allow this piece of paper’ (he touched the pocket in
which her mother’s letter lay) ‘to be out of my possession even for a
few hours? Only you could have won that from me. It was the last token
of ... well, we shall say, of her caring about me that came direct from
her own hand. She was deceived. We cannot help that, you know—accidents
will happen, and so on’ (like a brave man, he was smiling at his own
pain). ‘The message came to me too late. I think—no, I am sure, that
if she had said this to me with her own lips, there would have been no
parting ... and everything would have been so different to us!’

Madge withdrew one hand from his and timidly placed it on his shoulder.

‘I am sorry for your past, and should be glad if it were in my power to
help you to a happy future.’

His disengaged hand was placed upon her head lightly, as if he were
giving her a paternal blessing.

‘The only way in which you can help me, my child, is by finding a happy
future for yourself. I am anxious about that—selfishly anxious, for it
seems that my life can gain its real goal only by making you happy,
since I missed the chance of making your mother so. I know that she was
not happy; and my career, which has been one of strange good fortune,
as men reckon fortune by the money you make, has been one of misery. Do
you not think that droll?’

‘You are not like other men, I think; others would have forgotten the
past, and forgiven.’

She was thinking of Philip’s wish that his father should be reconciled
to Austin Shield.

‘I can forgive,’ he said softly; ‘I cannot forget.—Now, let us look
at the position quietly as it is. The only thing which has given me
an interest in life is the hope that I may be useful to you. When my
sorrow came upon me, it seemed as if the whole world had gone wrong.’
(That was spoken with a kind of bitter sense of the humorous side
of his sorrow.) ‘Doctors would have called it indigestion. You see,
however, it does not matter much to the patient whether it is merely
indigestion or organic disease, so long as he suffers from the pangs
of whatever it may be. Well, I did not die, and the doctor is entitled
to his credit. I live, eat my dinner, and am in fair health. But there
is a difference: life lost its flavour when the blunder was made. When
your mother believed the false report which reached her, the man who
loved her was murdered.’

‘She could not act otherwise than she did,’ said Madge bravely in
defence.

‘She should have trusted to me,’ he retorted, shaking his head sadly.
‘But that is unkind, and I do not mean to say one word of her that
could be called unkind. She would forgive it.’

‘How she must have suffered!’ murmured Madge, her hand passing absently
over the aching brow.

‘Ay, she must have suffered as I did—poor lass, poor lass!’

He turned abruptly to the hearth, as if he had become suddenly
conscious of the ordinary duties of life, and aware that the fire
required attention.

‘I want you to try to understand me,’ he said as he stirred the
embers, and the oak-log on the top of the coal started a bright flame.

‘I wish to understand you—but that is not easy,’ she replied.

He did not look round; he answered as if the subject were one of the
most commonplace kind; but there was a certain emphasis in his tone as
he seemed to take up her sentence and continue it.

‘Because you stand on the sunny side of life, and know nothing of its
shadows. Pity that they will force themselves upon you soon enough.’

‘If you see them coming, why not give me warning?’

He turned round suddenly, his hands clasped behind him so tightly that
he seemed to be striving to subdue the outcry of some physical pain.

‘It is not warning that I wish to give you, but protection,’ he said,
and there was a harshness in his voice quite unusual to him.

The change of tone was so remarkable, that she drew back. There were in
it bitterness, hatred, and almost something that was like malignity.

‘You must know it all—then judge for yourself,’ he said at length.




CURIOSITIES OF THE MICROPHONE.


It would be interesting to learn all the particulars relating to the
birth of some great invention; to know the inventor’s frame of mind at
the time the pregnant idea occurred to him, and the influences under
which he lived and laboured. This is usually an unwritten chapter of
biography; but sometimes we can learn a little about these things.
It is not always necessity, or the need of help, that is the mother
of invention. In the case of the microphone, it was the need of
occupation. Professor Hughes was confined to his chamber by an attack
of cold, and to beguile the tedium of the time, he began to experiment
with the telephone. This was in the early winter of 1877; and at that
time the transmitting and receiving parts of the Bell telephone system
were identical. The result was that the received speech was very
feeble; and Professor Hughes began to try whether he could not dispense
with the transmitting telephone, and make the wire of the circuit speak
of itself. Some experiments of Sir William Thomson had shown that the
electric resistance of a wire varied when the wire was strained; and
Professor Hughes thought that if he could get the vibrations of the
voice to strain a wire, so as to vary its resistance in proportion
to the vibrations, he might be able to make the wire itself act as a
transmitter. He therefore connected a battery and telephone together
by means of a fine wire, and pulled on a part of the wire in order to
strain it, at the same time listening in the telephone. But he heard
no sound at all until he strained the wire so much that it gave way.
At the instant of rupture he heard a peculiar grating sound in the
telephone; and on placing the broken ends of the wire in delicate
contact, he found that the slightest agitation of the ends in contact
produced a distinct noise in the instrument.

This experiment, then, was the germ of the microphone. For the metal
ends of the wire in contact, he substituted carbon points, and
obtained a much more sensitive arrangement. When one of the carbon
pencils was lightly _pressed_ against the other in a stable position,
he found that the joint was sensitive to the slightest jar, and could
transmit the voice when spoken to direct. Pursuing his researches
further, he found that a loose and somewhat crazy metal structure,
such as a pile of gold-chain or a framework of French nails, acted in
a similar way, though not so powerfully as carbon. This material was
found so sensitive, that a fly walking on the board supporting the
microphone could be distinctly heard in the telephone, and each tap of
its trunk upon the wood was said by one observer to resemble the ‘tramp
of an elephant.’

The marvels of the microphone were published to the world in the early
summer of the next year; and many useful applications followed. The
most obvious was its use as a telephone transmitter; and as Professor
Hughes had made a public gift of his invention, a great many telephone
transmitters were based upon it. Edison, who had invented a carbon
transmitter which bore some resemblance to the microphone, laid claim
to having anticipated the invention; but the merit of the discovery
remains with Professor Hughes.

It is through the help of the microphone that telephony has become so
practical and so extensively adopted. The Blake transmitter, the Ader,
and many others by which music and speech are now conveyed so many
miles, are all varieties of the carbon microphone. In some churches,
microphone transmitters are now applied to the pulpit, so that the
sermon can be transmitted by telephone to invalid members who cannot
leave home. At the Electrical Exhibitions of Paris, Vienna, and the
Crystal Palace, the music of an entire opera was transmitted from
the stage by wire to other buildings where great numbers of persons
sat and listened to it. The transport of music and other sounds in
no way directly connected with the wire, is frequently effected by
what is termed induction or leading-in. Over and over again, persons
listening into telephones for the purpose of hearing what a friend
is saying, have heard the strains of this music—aside, communicated
by induction from some neighbouring line to theirs. Not long ago, a
telegraph clerk in Chicago was listening in a telephone early one
morning, and to his surprise heard the croaking of frogs and the
whistling of birds. The explanation of the phenomenon is, that a loose
joint in the telephone wire where it passed through a wood, acted as a
microphone, and transmitted the woodland chorus to his ears. Messages
in process of transmission are sometimes drowned by the rumbling noise
of street-traffic induced by the wire.

The microphone is not only useful as a transmitter of sounds, but also
as a relay of sounds received on a telephone. Professors Houston and
Thomson of America were perhaps the first to construct a telephonic
relay. They mounted a carbon microphone on the vibrating plate of a
telephone in such a way that the vibrations of the plate due to the
received speech would react on the microphone, and be transmitted
in this way over another line to another receiving telephone at a
distance. Thus the speech would be relayed, just as a telegraph
message is relayed, when it is weak, and sent further on its way.
Curiously enough, the microphone acts as a relay to itself, if placed
on the same table with the telephone with which it is in circuit. The
jar of placing the microphone on the table causes the telephone to emit
a sound; this sound in turn is transmitted by the microphone to the
telephone, which again repeats it. The microphone re-transmits it as
before, the telephone utters it, and so the process of repetition goes
on _ad infinitum_.

Since the microphone can, as it were, magnify small sounds, and in
this respect has some resemblance to the microscope, which magnifies
minute objects, it might be thought that it would prove useful for
deaf persons. But though the microphone enables a person with good
ears to hear mechanical vibrations which otherwise would be inaudible,
the sounds that are heard are not in themselves very loud, and hence a
dull aural nerve might fail to appreciate them. M. Bert, the well-known
French physicist, constructed a microphone for deaf persons; but
its success was doubtful. Professor Hughes, however, has succeeded
in making deaf persons hear the ticking of a watch by means of the
microphone. In this case the telephone was placed against the bones
in the head, and the vibrations communicated in this way to the aural
nerve. The ‘audiphone,’ a curved plate held between the teeth, and
vibrated by the sound-waves, also acts in this way; and it is probable
that we hear ourselves speak not through our ears, but through the
bones of the head as set in vibration by the voice.

Its power of interpreting small sounds has caused the microphone to
be applied to many other purposes. Professor Rossi, for example, uses
it to detect the earth-tremors preceding earthquakes and volcanic
eruptions. It has been employed in Austria to detect the trickling of
underground water; and its use has also been suggested for hearing the
signal-taps of entombed miners and the noise of approaching torpedo
boats. It is not, however, quite possible to realise all that has been
claimed for it. Thus the _Danbury News_ jestingly remarks that ‘with
a microphone a farmer can hear a potato-bug coming down the road a
quarter of a mile away, and can go out with an axe and head it off.’

In 1876, a year before the microphone was invented, a writer named
Antoinette Brown Blackwell foretold the use of such an apparatus. ‘It
remains,’ she said, ‘to invent some instrument which can so retard the
too rapid vibrations of molecules as to bring them within the time
adapted to human ears; then we might comfortably hear plant movements
carrying on the many processes of growth, _and possibly we might catch
the crystal music of atoms_ vibrating in unison with the sunbeam.’
Without calling in question the writer’s theory, which does not apply
to the microphone, we may mention that Professor Chandler Roberts
attached a microphone to a thin porous septum, and on allowing hydrogen
gas to diffuse through the latter, he heard a rushing sound, as of a
wind, which became silent when the rapid diffusion ceased. The jar
of the atoms on the pores of the septum was probably the source of
this molecular sound. Again, Professor Graham Bell has found a metal
microphone joint sensitive to the impact of a beam of intermittent
light; and it is highly probable that a microphone with selenium
contacts would be still more sensitive to the sound of light falling
upon it.

In medicine, the microphone has been usefully applied to enable a
physician to read the pulse better and auscultate the heart.

Numerous experiments have been made recently with the microphone
by Messrs Stroh, Bidwell, and others. Not long after the original
invention of the apparatus, Professor Blyth found that the microphone
would act as a receiver as well as a transmitter of sounds in an
electric circuit. Thus, with two boxes of coke cinders (hard carbon)
connected together through a wire and battery, Professor Blyth found
that if words were spoken into one of the boxes, he could faintly hear
them by listening in the other. Mr Bidwell has constructed a receiving
microphone, composed of a pile of carbon cylinders resting on a mica
diaphragm, and this gives out distinct effects when a strong battery is
employed. On speaking to the transmitting microphone in circuit, the
words can be distinctly heard in the receiving one.

By the use of the microscope, Mr Stroh has observed that the carbon
points of the microphone which were supposed to be in contact, are not
really so during the action of the instrument, but are separated by
a minute distance. It would appear, then, that there is a repulsion
between the points, and this repulsion accounts for the action of the
microphone as a receiver. Metal microphones are also reversible in
their action, and give out feeble sounds when used as receivers. The
probability is that the contacts vibrate rapidly on each other, either
in direct or very close contact, against a certain repulsive action of
the current, which operates like a cushion or re-acting spring.

Metal microphones are in some respects more interesting theoretically
than those of carbon. For example, one has been constructed of two
different metals, zinc and iron, which when heated by the flame of
a spirit-lamp generates its own current by thermo-electric action.
Iron is one of the most useful metals for forming microphones; and
one of iron-wire gauze has been found to act with singular clearness
when inclosed in a high vacuum, such as that given by an incandescent
electric lamp.




SILAS MONK.

A TALE OF LONDON OLD CITY.


IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.

That day in the city seemed to Walter as if it would never end. This
mystery about Silas Monk was now a matter to him of real interest.
Hitherto, the eccentricities of the old man had given him little or no
concern; for it had been so long the custom among the clerks to crack
their jokes about ‘Silas,’ that nothing which he might do, however
queer, could appear otherwise than perfectly consistent with his
character. For so many years had Silas Monk been a clerk in the House,
that his columns of pounds, shillings, and pence could be traced in the
oldest ledgers, it was said, even when books more than a hundred years
old were examined. There was no record extant which satisfactorily
settled the date of his engagement as a clerk by Armytage and Company.
The oldest partners and the oldest clerks, with this one exception of
Silas, were dead and buried many years ago.

It was a very old-looking place, this ancient counting-house; it seemed
older even than the firm of Armytage, which had seen two centuries.
There were railings in front, broken in places, but still presenting
some iron spikes among them, standing up with an air of protection
before the windows, like sentinels on guard. The stone steps leading
up to the entrance were worn by the tread of busy men who had in their
time hurried in and out in their race for wealth, and who were now
doubtless lying in some old city churchyard hard by.

Walter Tiltcroft having at last finished his ‘rounds,’ as he called
his various errands, came back to the old counting-house. The clerks’
office was on the ground-floor. It was a dark and dusty room, with men
of various ages seated at long desks, all deeply engaged, with pens in
hand and heads bent low, over the business of the firm. No one looked
up when Walter entered; every one went on working, as though each
individual clerk was a wheel in the great machine which had been going
for nearly two hundred years.

Within an inner room, smaller, darker, and more dusty, was seated alone
at his desk Silas Monk. The old clerk had several large ledgers before
him; he was turning over the leaves with energy, and making entries
in these books with a rapidity which seemed surprising in one who had
an appearance of such great age. With his white hair falling on his
shoulders, his long lean trembling fingers playing among the fluttering
pages, and his keen eyes darting among the columns of pounds,
shillings, and pence, he seemed, even by daylight, like an embodied
spirit appointed by the dead partners and clerks of Armytage and
Company to audit the accounts of that old mercantile House in Crutched
Friars. So at least thought Walter Tiltcroft as he sat at his own desk
watching Silas Monk, and revolving in his mind how he could best solve
the mystery which surrounded Rachel’s grandfather.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was growing dusk when the old city clocks in the church towers began
to strike six, and the clerks in the office of Armytage and Company
began to show signs of dispersing. Silas Monk alone remained at his
post. Wishing to say a few words to the old man before taking his
leave, Walter Tiltcroft lingered behind; and when the last clerk had
gone, he went to the door of the ‘strong-room,’ as Silas Monk’s office
was called, and said in his usual cheerful tone: ‘Good-night, Mr Monk.
You’ll see, I suppose, that everything is safe and sound, as usual?
Won’t you?’

‘Ay, ay! safe and sound, Walter.—Good-night.’

But the young man lingered with his eyes curiously fixed on Silas. ‘The
evenings are getting short,’ continued he. ‘Can you see to work by this
light?’

‘Why, no—not well,’ Silas owned, with his eyes raised towards the
window; ‘and what makes it still more difficult is that scaffolding the
workmen have put up outside—that’s what makes it so dark. Ay, ay!’ he
added, ‘they’re repairing the old walls. Dear me, dear me!’

The old walls outside, which surrounded a courtyard, were black with
dust and age, and they had also in many parts a tumble-down aspect,
which appeared to plainly indicate that repairs were needed badly. Upon
the scaffolding, some half-dozen labourers were gathering together
their tools and preparing to go home, as the clerks had done already.
Silas was lighting an oil-lamp. ‘Give me a hand, Walter,’ said he, ‘to
close these shutters and put up the iron bar.’

‘All right, Mr Monk,’ said the young man, unfolding the old-fashioned
shutters in the walls and clasping the iron bar across them with a loud
clink. ‘All right and tight!—Shall you remain long at the office?’ he
added, moving towards the door.

‘Not long; half an hour, perhaps—not more.’

Still the young man lingered. ‘Mr Monk,’ said he, walking a step back
into the strong-room, ‘I saw your grand-daughter Miss Rachel this
morning.’

Silas, who had reseated himself at his desk before the large ledgers,
looked round keenly at Walter, with the light from the shaded lamp
thrown upon his wrinkled face. ‘You see my grand-daughter Rachel pretty
often; don’t you, Walter?’

‘Pretty often, Mr Monk, I confess.’

Silas shook his long thin forefinger at the young man. ‘Walter,’ cried
he, ‘that’s not business!’

‘No; that’s true. But you see, Mr Monk, it’s not much out of my way.
And,’ he added, ‘besides, I thought you would like to know that she’s
well. You’re so busy here, that perhaps you don’t see so much of her as
you would like, and so I thought that news of her at any time would be
welcome.’

‘So it is, Walter!’ said the old man, his voice trembling slightly
as he spoke—‘so it is. She’s a good girl, and I love her dearly. But
you don’t pass that way, Walter, simply to bring me a word about my
grand-daughter. You’re not going to try and make me believe that,
surely?’

‘Not entirely, Mr Monk,’ said the young man, smiling. ‘I won’t deny
that it’s a very great pleasure to me to see Rachel at any time;
indeed, no one could admire her more than I do.’

The old man held out his hand. ‘Come, come! That’s more candid,
my boy,’ said he, as Walter took the hand in his and pressed it
affectionately. ‘So you admire Rachel, do you?’

‘Mr Monk,’ said the young clerk, ‘I more than admire her—I love her!’

The deep lines in Silas Monk’s face grew deeper at these words. ‘Well,
well,’ said the old man presently, with a heavy sigh; ‘it was to be.
Better now, perhaps, than later—better now. But you won’t take her from
me yet, Walter—not yet?’

‘Why, no, Mr Monk; I’d no thought of taking her away from you.’

‘That’s right!’ cried Silas—‘that’s right! You’re a good lad. Take care
of her, Walter; take care of her when I am dead.’ As Silas pronounced
the last word, the sound of footsteps, which seemed strangely near,
changed the expression on his face. ‘What’s that?’ asked he in a tone
of alarm.

Walter listened. ‘Some one on the scaffolding above your window.’

‘If it’s a workman,’ said the old man, ‘he’s rather late. Will you see
that every one has left the premises; and then shut the front-door as
you go out?’

‘I’ll not forget.—Good-night!’

It was just sufficiently light in the passage for Walter to find his
way about the old house. Having promised Silas Monk to make sure that
every one had left the premises, he ran up the dark oaken staircase
to ascertain whether the partners, who occupied the floor above the
office, had gone. He found the doors to their rooms locked. The young
man threw a glance around him, and then descended the way he had come,
walking out into the court, behind the clerks’ offices, where the
scaffolding was erected. It was not a large court, and on every side
were high brick walls. The scaffolding reached from the ground almost
to the eaves.

‘Any one there?’ Walter shouted.

Not a sound came back except a muttering echo of his own voice.

Walter Tiltcroft then turned to leave the house. But at this moment his
conversation with Rachel occurred to him, and he thought that he might
do something to clear up the mystery of her grandfather’s frequent
absence from home at all hours of the night. ‘Why not,’ thought Walter,
‘watch the old man’s movements? Some clue might be found to the strange
affair.’ He formed his plan of action without further delay. No moment
could have been more opportune. He closed the front-door with a slam
which shook the old house; then he crept back along the passage softly,
and, seating himself in a dark corner on the staircase, watched for the
figure of Silas Monk.

The first thing he heard, very shortly after he had taken up his
position, was a step in the passage leading from the courtyard. He
sprang up with a quick beating heart, and reached the foot of the
stairs just in time to confront a tall, powerful man dressed like a
mason, and carrying in his hand a large basket of tools.

‘Why, Joe Grimrood,’ said Walter, ‘is that you?’

The man, who had a hangdog, defiant air, answered gruffly, as he
scratched a mangy-looking skin-cap, pulled down to his eyebrows:
‘That’s me, sir; asking your pardon.’

‘Are you the last, Joe?’

‘There ain’t no more men on the scaffold, if that’s what you mean.’

Walter nodded. ‘Didn’t you hear me call?’ he asked.

‘Not me. When?’

‘Not five minutes ago.’

‘How could I? I was among the chimneys.’

‘Repairing the roof, Joe?’

‘Fixing the tiles,’ was the reply.

Having thus accounted for his tardiness, Joe Grimrood again scratched
his cap, in his manner of saluting, and moved along the hall, in the
semi-darkness, towards the front-door. ‘I wish you a very good-night,’
said the man, as Walter accompanied him to the entrance—‘a very
good-night, sir; asking your pardon.’

Walter Tiltcroft closed the door, when the workman had gone out, with
as little noise as possible; for he feared that if any sound reached
Silas Monk in the strong-room, his suspicions might be aroused, and the
chance of solving this mystery might be lost.

Again retiring to his retreat upon the staircase, Walter waited and
watched; but nothing happened. The twilight faded; the night became so
dark that the lad could not see his hand before him. The hours appeared
long; at endless intervals he heard the city clocks striking in the
dead silence. He filled up the time with thoughts containing a hundred
conjectures. What could Silas Monk be doing all this while? A dozen
times Walter descended to the door of the office to listen; but never
a sound! A dozen times his fingers touched the handle to turn it; yet
each time he drew back, fearing to destroy the object he had seriously
in view—the solution of this strange affair.

Ten o’clock had struck, and the young clerk was growing weary of
waiting for the clocks to strike eleven. He began to imagine that
something must have happened to Silas Monk. Had he fallen asleep? Was
he dead, or—what?

Presently, the notion entered his brain that perhaps a grain of
reassurance might be had by regarding the window of the strong-room
from the courtyard. Possibly, thought he, a ray of light might find
its way there through the shutters. He stepped out silently, but with
eagerness. When he reached the yard, there, sure enough, was a streak
of light piercing through a small aperture. Walter was drawn towards
it irresistibly. He mounted the scaffolding by the ladder at his feet,
and crept along the boarding on his hands; for the darkness, except
within the limits of this ray of light, was intense. He reached at
length the spot immediately above the window. The ray of light fell
below the scaffold, slanting to the ground. Grasping the board, upon
which he lay full length, he bent his head until his eye was almost on
a level with the hole in the shutter. To his surprise, the interior of
the strong-room was distinctly revealed. But what he saw surprised him
still more. Silas Monk was seated there at his desk, under the shaded
lamp. But he was no longer examining the ledgers; these books were
thrown aside; and, in their place, before his greedy eyes, was to be
seen a heap of bright sovereigns.

The change which had taken place in the face of Silas Monk since the
young man had left him, was startling; and the manner in which he
appeared to be feasting his eyes upon the coins was repulsive. He
handled the sovereigns with his lean fingers caressingly; he counted
them over and over again; then he arranged them in piles on one side,
and began to empty other bags in their place. His look suggested a
ravenous madman; his attitude resembled that of a beast of prey.

Walter was so fascinated by this unexpected scene in the strong-room,
that he found it impossible, for some minutes, to remove his gaze. The
mystery about Silas Monk had been solved. Rachel’s grandfather was a
wretched miser!

Walter descended from the scaffolding, and went out quietly into
Crutched Friars. His lodgings were in the Minories, hard by. But he
could not have slept had he gone home without passing under Rachel’s
window. He hurried along through the dark and silent streets. What
he had witnessed, haunted him; he could not banish the scene of the
old man and his bright sovereigns. When he entered the street, and
was approaching Silas Monk’s house, he was astonished, though not
displeased, to see Rachel standing on the door-step.

‘Why, Walter,’ cried she, ‘is that you? I thought it was grandfather.’

‘I wish, Rachel, for your sake that it was. But I’m afraid, late as it
is, that he won’t be back quite yet.’

The girl placed her hand quickly on Walter’s hand and looked up
appealingly. ‘Has anything happened? You have a troubled face. Don’t
hide it from me, if anything has happened to grandfather.’

The young man hastened to reassure her. ‘Nothing has happened. Silas
Monk is at the office still. I have just come away, Rachel. I left him
there deeply occupied.’

The girl threw a quick glance into Walter’s face. ‘Then grandfather
does work for Armytage and Company after six o’clock?’

‘I doubt that, Rachel, very much.’

‘Then why does he stay so late at Crutched Friars?’

‘To dabble in a little business of his own.’

‘What business is that, Walter?’

‘Well, something in the bullion line of business, to judge from
appearances.’

‘Explain yourself, Walter! I am puzzled.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t; I’m puzzled too,’ said the young man. ‘This
bullion business,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘is a strange affair.’

Rachel clasped her hands with an impatient gesture. ‘Walter, tell me
what you have seen!’

‘I’ve seen,’ said the young man reluctantly—‘I’ve seen, through a hole
in the shutter, an old man at a desk, under the light of a shaded
lamp, seated over handfuls of gold. The desk was Silas Monk’s, in the
counting-house of Armytage and Company. But the face of the man was not
the face of your grandfather; or if it was his, it was greatly changed.’

‘In what way changed, Walter?’

‘It was a face expressing dreadful greed. It was the face of a miser,
Rachel—nothing less!’

The girl, standing under the dim street-lamp above the doorway, looked
with wondering eyes into Walter’s face. ‘Does not all the money at the
counting-house belong to the firm?’

‘So I have always thought, Rachel.’

‘Then grandfather was balancing the cash?’

‘Not the hard cash of Armytage and Company. That is taken every day,
before the closing hour, to the bank.’

Looking still into the young man’s face, the girl said: ‘Then the money
must be his own.’

‘He certainly seemed to eye it, Rachel, as if every sovereign belonged
to him.’

The girl became pensive. ‘He must be rich,’ said she.

‘Very rich, if all those sovereigns are his.’

‘And he loves gold more than he loves his grand-daughter!’ Rachel
complained, in a tone of deep disappointment, while tears started into
her eyes.

Not being able to deny that there appeared some truth in the girl’s
words, Walter could answer nothing. He remained silent and thoughtful.
Suddenly the clocks of the old city began striking midnight.

‘Your grandfather will soon be coming now, Rachel,’ said the young
man, ‘so I had better be off. It would never do to let him find me
here at this late hour.’ Taking leave of the girl tenderly, he quickly
disappeared into the darkness.

Rachel re-entered the house, and threw herself into the old armchair,
stricken with surprise and grief at what she had learned. Since she was
a child, she had been taught to believe that she was struggling, beside
her grandfather, against poverty. She had been happy in the thought
that, although they were needy, nothing divided their affections. She
believed that her grandfather was slaving day and night for their
sake—slaving to keep the old house over their heads. But what was he
slaving for, after all? For gold, it was true; but for gold which he
hoarded up in secret places, hiding all from her, as though it were,
like a crime, something of a nature to be shunned.

Meanwhile the clocks are striking the small-hours. But Silas Monk
does not come home. The candle on the table beside Rachel burns low.
The girl grows alarmed, and listens for the footsteps of her old
grandfather. She goes out and looks about into the dark night. No one
is to be seen, no one is to be heard. Four o’clock—five. Still no
footsteps—not even a shadow of the man.

The dawn begins to break in a clear gray light above the sombre houses;
the roar of traffic in the streets hard by falls upon the girl’s ear.
Another busy day has commenced in the old city. ‘Is it possible,’
thinks Rachel, ‘that her grandfather can still be at his desk, counting
and recounting his gold?’




FAMILIAR SKETCHES OF ENGLISH LAW.

BY AN EXPERIENCED PRACTITIONER.


II. PARENT AND CHILD.

Children may be divided into two classes—legitimate and illegitimate;
and the liability of a father in respect of his children is widely
different in the case of the latter class from the ordinary duty and
responsibility of a parent. In order to clear the ground, we will first
dispose of the illegitimate class; and throughout this paper it must
be understood that the words parent and child, when used without any
qualifying terms, refer to those between whom that mutual relationship
lawfully subsists.

An illegitimate child, or bastard, is one who is born without its
parents having been lawfully married; and in England, a bastard born is
illegitimate to the end of his or her life; but in Scotland, such child
may be rendered legitimate by the subsequent marriage of its parents,
provided that at the date of its birth and of their marriage they were
both free to marry. The father of an illegitimate child has no right to
its custody; but he may be compelled to contribute to its support by
means of an affiliation order. A bastard cannot inherit either real or
personal estate from either of its parents, nor from any other person;
neither can any person inherit from a bachelor or spinster who is
illegitimate. If, however, such a person marries, the husband or wife
and children have the same legal rights as if the stain of illegitimacy
had not existed.

A legitimate child—with the exception noted above—is the offspring
of parents who were lawfully married before the time of its birth. A
posthumous child, if born in due time after the husband’s death, is
legitimate.

The father has _primâ facie_ a right to the custody of his children
while under the age of sixteen years; after that age, if they are able
to maintain themselves, they may be emancipated from his control.
But a mother can apply to the court for an order that she may have
the exclusive care of her children while they are respectively under
seven years of age; and after that age, for leave of access to them
at reasonable times, in cases where husband and wife do not live
together. In case of the divorce of the parents, the court will give
directions as to the custody of the children of the marriage, taking
into consideration the offence against morality of the guilty parent,
but also what is best for the children’s education and upbringing and
prospects in life.

A parent is bound to maintain and educate his children according to his
station; and if the father should neglect his duty in this respect,
the mother—if living with her husband—may, as his agent, order what is
necessary, and he would be responsible for the expense thus incurred,
which must be strictly limited to what is reasonably necessary. If a
child should become chargeable upon the poor-rates, both father and
grandfather are responsible for repayment of the cost incurred; the
former primarily, and the latter secondarily, in case of the absence
or inability of the father. In like manner, a child may be compelled
to repay to the poor-rates authorities the cost of maintenance of his
parents, if he have the means of doing so.

A child while under the age of twenty-one years cannot enter into a
binding contract, even with the consent and concurrence of its parent,
except for special purposes. One of these purposes is the acquisition
of knowledge which will enable the child to earn its livelihood when it
arrives at maturity. Thus apprentices and articled clerks may be bound
in such a manner as to render it compulsory for them to serve until
they respectively attain the age of twenty-one years; but the binding
cannot be extended beyond that age. As soon as an apprentice attains
his majority, he may elect to vacate his indenture, and be free from
any further compulsory service. This is founded upon the well-known
principle, that a minor can only be compelled to perform contracts
entered into on his behalf during his minority; and that when he
attains the age of twenty-one years, he is free to enter into contracts
on his own behalf, which stand upon an entirely different footing, and
are entirely inconsistent with the former contract. It may also be
mentioned here that a minor, when he becomes of age, is free to elect
whether he will perform any other contracts which he may have entered
into during his minority. If any such contract be beneficial, he may
allow it to stand; and if it be otherwise, he may cancel it; but the
other party, if of full age, will be bound by his contract.

In this connection we may notice the Infants Relief Act, 1874. Although
primarily aimed at the protection of ‘infants’ from the consequences
of their own imprudence, this statute, the operation of which extends
to the whole of the United Kingdom, has been found very useful in
relieving children against a cruel but not uncommon kind of pressure
by impecunious parents, who in many cases induced their children to
encumber their expectant property in order to assist them (the parents)
when in difficulties. The manner was this: The son would while under
age sign a promise to execute a valid charge, which would accordingly
be executed the day after he attained his majority; and though the
first promise was worthless, the deed was binding. But it was enacted
that all contracts entered into by ‘infants’ for the repayment of money
lent or to be lent, and all accounts stated with ‘infants,’ should be
not merely voidable, but absolutely void; and further, the ratification
when of full age of any such promise should be void also, and the
ratified promise should be incapable of being enforced.

A parent may lawfully maintain an action on behalf of his child,
whether such child be an infant or of full age, without being liable
to be prosecuted for the offence of maintenance or champerty. In
like manner, a child if of full age may maintain an action on behalf
of his parent, even though he may have no personal interest in the
subject-matter of the action.

A parent may also protect his child, or a child protect his parent,
from violence or assault, in such circumstances as would expose a
stranger to the charge of officiously intermeddling with strife which
did not concern him.

The power of an Englishman to dispose of his property by will being
absolute, the consideration of a parent’s will as affecting his
children need not detain us long. The principal peculiarity is this:
In case of the death of a child or grandchild of a testator in the
lifetime of the latter, leaving lawful issue, any devise or bequest in
the will in favour of the deceased child or grandchild will take effect
in favour of his issue in the same manner as if he had survived the
testator and died immediately afterwards. In similar circumstances, a
gift in favour of any other person who died in the testator’s lifetime
would lapse, that is to say, it would altogether fail to take effect.

But in Scotland, the power of a father to dispose of his property
by will is much more restricted, being confined to what is called
the ‘dead man’s’ part—namely, so much as remains after setting aside
one-third of the personal property or movable goods for the widow; and
one-third for the children of the testator. Or if there be no widow,
then the share of the children is one-half, which is divisible among
them equally. The rights of either widow or child may be renounced by
an antenuptial marriage contract, or for some equivalent provision
given in such a contract, or by will; and a child of full age may by
deed discharge his claim for _legitim_, as the children’s share of the
succession is called.

In case of intestacy, the eldest son is by the common law his
father’s heir-at-law, subject to his mother’s dower, if not barred
or discharged. But in some localities, special customs exist, such
as Borough English—prevalent at Maldon in Essex and elsewhere, by
virtue of which the youngest son is the heir—and Gavelkind, which
affects most of the land in Kent, where all the sons inherit in
equal shares. Returning to the common-law rule, where there are both
sons and daughters, the eldest son inherits to the exclusion of his
younger brothers, and his sisters whether elder or younger. But if
the intestate had no son, but several daughters, they would take
as co-parceners in equal undivided shares. It will be understood
that heirs and co-heiresses take freehold houses and land; but that
leaseholds are personal property, and like money and goods, stocks and
shares, are distributable, subject as hereinafter mentioned, among the
widow (if any) and relatives of the deceased. Copyhold property is real
estate, and the descent is in each case regulated by the custom of the
manor of which the property is holden; Borough English and Gavelkind
being much more common as affecting copyhold than freehold estates,
though even in the case of copyholds the common-law rule is by far the
most general.

The personal property of an intestate is the primary fund for payment
of funeral and other expenses, costs of administration, and debts.
When these have been paid, the widow (if any) is entitled to one-third
of what is left; and the other two-thirds are divisible among the
children. If there be no widow, the children take all, the collateral
relatives having no claim. If any of the testator’s children have died
before him, leaving issue, such issue take in equal shares the portion
which their parent would have taken if living.

In England, the heir-at-law who takes his father’s freehold estates
is not thereby deprived of his share, or any portion of his share, of
the personalty. But in Scotland, the heir must bring into account or
collate the value of what he has received in that capacity, before he
can claim any part of the movables.

If a son or daughter be possessed of real and personal estate, and
die unmarried, or widowed without children, and without making a
will, leaving a surviving father, he would take the real estate as
heir-at-law, and the personal estate as sole next of kin. If he were
dead, the mother would take a share of the personal estate with the
surviving brothers and sisters, and the eldest brother would inherit
the real estate as heir-at-law. If the mother were living, but no
brothers or sisters, nephews or nieces, she would have the personal
estate, but could not inherit the real estate so long as any heir could
be found on the paternal side. The children of deceased brothers and
sisters take equally amongst them the share of personal estate which
their deceased parent would have taken if living.

The law of Scotland is not so favourable to the father and mother of
intestates. The father does not succeed to real or heritable estate
if there be a brother or sister, and in the same event his right is
limited to that of one-half the movable estate. When the father has
predeceased, and the mother survives, she takes one-third of the
movable succession, and the rest goes to brothers and sisters or other
next of kin.

Having thus considered the rights, duties, and liabilities of parents
with respect to the persons, the necessities, and the property of their
children, and the corresponding rights and obligations of children
with regard to their parents, we must offer a few remarks on the
authority of parents over their children, and the extent to which that
authority may be delegated to others.

A parent may control the actions of his children so long as they remain
under his roof, and may insist upon his regulations being observed
and his commands obeyed. While they are of tender years, he may
inflict any reasonable punishment for disobedience or other offence,
either by personal chastisement or otherwise; but he must not torture
them, nor endanger their lives or health. He may also instruct his
children himself; or he may send them to school; in the latter case,
delegating to the schoolmaster so much as may be necessary of his power
to restrain and correct the children so intrusted to his care. Since
compulsory education became law, he _must_ use reasonable means to get
them educated. If a child should prove incorrigible, the parent may
apply to the justices of the peace to send him or her to an Industrial
School; which they have power to do on being satisfied by evidence upon
oath that the child is altogether beyond the power of its parent to
manage or control; and an order may be made upon the parent to pay the
expense of the child’s maintenance and education in such school, if his
means are sufficient to enable him to do so.

The liabilities imposed by marriage differ to some extent from the
responsibilities of actual parentage. Thus, a man may be compelled to
repay the expense incurred by the maintenance of his own father, but
not of his wife’s father, in the workhouse. And though a married man is
bound to keep his wife’s children, born before his marriage with her,
until they are sixteen years of age respectively, if his wife live so
long; yet, if she were to die while any of them were under that age,
his responsibility would immediately cease. And if any of them were to
become chargeable upon the poor-rates when more than sixteen years old,
the stepfather could not be required to contribute towards the expense
of their maintenance, even though their mother should be still living.




IN A FURNITURE SALEROOM.

A DAY-DREAM.


I just missed by a neck, as they say in steeplechasing dialect—though
on second thoughts I think it must have been liker a full
horse-length—my lot being cast among second-hand furniture. I believe
I was of too philosophic a nature to make a practical auctioneer and
furniture-broker of. At least, such was something like the opinion held
by my employer—the old gentleman was a bit of a wag—who told my father,
when the latter went to see why this knight of the hammer had dispensed
with his son’s services, that my mind, like the late lamented Prince
of Denmark’s, was of too speculative a character ever to ‘mak’ saut
to my kail’ at his profession, and advised him to bring me ‘out for a
minister.’ I need not say that this advice was, for divers reasons,
never acted upon.

I suppose it must have been my twelve-months’ sojourn in this old
worthy’s service which gives me to this day a certain meditative
interest in brokers’ shops and old furniture salerooms. I am not at any
time much of a stroller about the streets and gazer into shop-windows;
but next to looking into the windows of book or print and picture
shops, I have a weakness for sauntering into musty old salerooms, and
staring idly at the miscellaneous articles of second-hand furniture
huddled within their walls, and moralising on the mutability of human
hopes and possessions. A spick-and-span new furniture and upholstery
establishment has no more fascination for me than a black-and-white
undertaker’s. But out of the bustle of the street and the broiling heat
of the mid-day sun—which is my favourite time of indulgence—and in the
dusty and shadowy corners, festooned with cobwebs, of a broker’s shop
or old furniture saleroom, I forget how the time goes, as I join over
again the sundered human relationships to the pieces of furniture at
which I stand staring in half-reverie. I fancy it must have been this
same dreamy tendency which, peeping forth in my boyish career, led
my shrewd master to forecast my future with so much certainty to my
parent. I care not about purchasing any of the articles that so absorb
me. It is not the barren desire of possession which makes me haunt
these dusty salerooms. When the place becomes crowded with people, and
the auctioneer mounts his little pulpit, I gather my wandered wits
together and ‘silently steal away.’

I say I love to linger among the cobwebs and amid the silence of
old furniture salerooms—as fruitful a source of meditation to me as
loitering among tombs ever was to Harvey. That venerable eight-day
clock standing against the wall, behind those slim walnut chairs and
couch done up in the bright green repp, its mahogany almost as black
as your Sunday hat with age, turns on my thinking faculty just as the
‘auld Scots’ sangs’ moves my guidwife Peggy to tears. I think of all
the pairs of eyes that have gazed up at the hands and figures on its
olive-tinted face, and wonder how many of them have taken their last
look of earth. My imagination transports it to some well-to-do Scottish
cottage home, where I see, held up in fond arms, the marvelling
youngsters, in striped cotton pinafores, with their wide-open eyes
staring at the representatives of the four quarters of the globe,
painted in bright dazzling colours on each corner of the dial-plate.
Perhaps some of those same youngsters, to whose inquiring and wondering
minds the pictures were an every-day exercise, are settled down, old
men and women now, in one of these distant quarters of the globe, say
America, and are sitting at this very moment in their log-hut in the
backwoods, their minds’ eyes reverting to the familiar face of that old
clock tick-ticking away in their childhood’s home.

Over against where it stood in that same old home, between the
room door and the end of the white scoured wooden dresser with its
well-filled delf rack, I picture to myself the wasted face of a sick
woman pillowed up in bed. What weary nights she has listened to its
tick-tack, and counted the slow hours as they struck, waiting for the
dawn! I know that her head aches no longer, and that she sleeps sound
enough now, with the summer breeze stirring the green grass on her
grave.

Turning away from the venerable time-keeper, my eye falls on an
old-fashioned low-set chest of drawers, with dingy folding brass
handles, and little bits of the veneer chipped off here and there,
and the ivory awanting in some of the keyholes. Where are now, I ask
myself, the ashes of those bright household fires, which have winked in
the shining depths of their mahogany in the darkening gloaming, before
the blinds were drawn and the candles lit? What secrets and treasures
have not these same drawers been the repositories of! I see a pensive
female form, in striped shortgown and drugget petticoat, stop while
she is sweeping the kitchen floor, and, with palpitating heart, pull
out the centre small top drawer to take another look at the golden
curl, wrapped in a precious letter, in the corner beside two or three
well-worn toys. That bruised heart will throb no more with joy or pain;
neither will her tears fall any more like scalding lead on the blurred
parchment, as she lifts the bright curl to her lips before wrapping
it away out of sight again—till, mayhap, the next day, when the old
yearning returns, and she must needs go and unfold her treasure, the
sight of which brings the little chubby face—over which the curl used
to hang—once more before her brimming eyes.

The little bookcase, with the diamond-shaped panes, on the top of the
chest of drawers is an object to me of even nobler regard than the
drawers themselves. My venerable uncle, who was an author too, had just
such a little bookcase on the top of his drawers, about three-fourths
filled with sombre-looking volumes. I remember I never looked up at it
as a boy, and beheld the dim dusty books, like gray ghosts, sitting
erect, or leaning against one another in the twilight shelves, but I
associated it in my fancy with the inside of his own gray head. Already
I see the titles on the backs of some of these children of dead brains
looming out of the empty gloom through the diamond-shaped panes; and I
can recognise many of my own favourites among them. The binding is more
faded and worn on the backs of some than others, as if they had been
more often in the hand and more dear to the heart of the reader. I am
almost tempted to stretch forth my hand and renew their acquaintance.
One in particular, in faded green-and-gold binding, looking out from
amongst a motley company of fiction, _The House with the Seven Gables_,
I have a covetous eye upon.

How I should like to revisit the shadowy chambers of that old puritan
mansion, especially that low-studded oak-panelled room with the
portrait of the stern old Colonel looking down from the wall; and feel
the smell of its decaying timbers, ‘oozy’ with the memories of whole
generations of Pyncheons; to see poor perplexed old Hepzibah in the
midst of her first day’s shopkeeping, with her wreck of a resurrected
brother to care and provide for; and watch—not without reverence, even
though we are constrained sometimes to laugh—the miraculously minute
workings of her crazed old heart fighting—a kind of comic pathos, as
well as rarest heroism in her mimic battling—those troublesome spectres
of gentility which she has inherited with her Pyncheon blood.

Alas for this most bewitching of romancers! Well might his friend
Longfellow exclaim of him:

    Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power,
      And the lost clue regain?
    The unfinished window in Aladdin’s tower
      Unfinished must remain!

Sitting on the shelf beneath _The House with the Seven Gables_ is the
king of all the magicians—the enchanter’s name printed in tarnished
gold letters on a faded square of scarlet morocco on its calf
back—‘Shakspeare.’

On this hot July forenoon, with dusty smelling streets, when the united
heart of our mighty Babylon is panting for the water-brooks, wouldn’t
it be a treat just to step into the forest of Arden? You don’t require
to change your clothes, or bolt a hurried luncheon, or run to catch
a train, or take your place on the crowded deck of a snorting greasy
steamboat under a vertical sun; but simply to open out the volume at
that most delightful of all comedies, _As You Like It_, and at once
fling yourself down ‘under the shade of melancholy boughs,’ and ‘lose
and neglect the creeping hours of time’ listening to the moralising of
a Jaques

              As he lay along
    Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
    Upon the brook that brawls along this wood:

or to an encounter of his wits with the sage fooleries of a Touchstone;
or the love-sick ravings of an Orlando; or the nimble pleasantries and
caustic humours of a Rosalind.

But, to speak the truth, I don’t know whether I should not prefer at
this moment—to a lounge in the forest of Arden—a meditative ramble and
chat with the Wanderer in Wordsworth’s _Excursion_, which I spy leaning
against my old friend _The Vicar of Wakefield_, there, on the other
side of Shakspeare. How pleasant it would be, after toiling across the
bare wide common, baked with the scorching heat, to join that venerable
philosopher and retired packman just where the author himself meets
him by appointment, reposing his limbs on the cottage bench beside the
roofless hut of poor Margaret!

    His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut,
    The shadow of the breezy elms above
    Dappling his face.

But the unceremonious porter is apparently unwilling to gratify me
so far, having, in his preparations for the sale, pushed a tall
half-tester bedstead right in front of my view of the chest of drawers
and bookcase.

This alteration has brought to light an old armchair among a crowd
of odd window-poles and bed-bottoms, a kind of bewilderment and
shyness in its wrinkled features, as if it hardly felt at home in this
nineteenth-century saleroom, rubbing shoulders, so to speak, with
pompous old sideboards, and gouty old sofas and stuff-bottomed chairs,
and wishing it were back to the earthen cottage floor again. From its
shape and the colour of its wood, it looks more than a hundred years
old. My Aunt S——, who was a paralytic, had just such a chair, which she
sat in for ten years before she died. It had belonged to her mother’s
mother; and she took great pride in averring that Burns—who, her own
mother told her, was a crony of her father’s—had many a time sat in
it. I think I see herself sitting in it at this moment, with her great
black piercing eyes, and hear her clever critical tongue wagging as of
old.

This ancient armchair, stuffed away amid the dust and lumber of the
saleroom, touches my feelings more nearly than any other object joined
together with hands. Its low, firm, but narrow seat, its solid curved
arms, its straight sloping back with three spars in the centre, recall
the tottering gait of silvery-haired grandfathers in knee-breeches and
‘rig-an’-fur’ stockings, and hale old grandmothers with white bordered
‘mutches’ or caps on their heads, and tartan napkins about their
stooping shoulders; and old-fashioned Scotch kitchens with eight-day
clocks, and wooden dressers, and clean-clayed roomy fireplaces with
big-bellied pots hanging from the links on the ‘swee’ or crane.

But what household god is this which is the subject of whispering
criticism behind me? Turning round, I observe two women, evidently
intending purchasers from their remarks, and not idle dreamers like
myself, moving away from a large chest to inspect some dishes they have
suddenly caught sight of on a side-table at the further end of the
room. This chest I have seen before, especially about the term-time,
mounted on the footboard of a cab beside the driver, while its ‘sonsie’
proprietress—unaccustomed as she is to ride in carriages—sits on the
edge of the cushioned seat inside, staring apologetically at the
foot-passengers on the pavement. It is the same kind of thing thrifty
housewives in the country used to keep their blankets in, before the
trunks and tin boxes came so much into vogue. It is painted an oak
colour, though to my mind it resembles more a musty gingerbread; and
it has a black line forming a square on each of its plain panels.
Instinctively I lift the lid and peep in. Its white wood is covered
with a wall-paper pattern of moss-roses. It has a ‘shuttle’ too, with
a little drawer underneath; the same as was in the chest I had when a
bachelor. I used to keep all my valuables in that little drawer, such
as love-letters. How those epistles accumulated! I remember I had to
press them down before the drawer would shut, when I happened to be
refreshing my memory with some of their pleasant sentiments. Peg’s
portrait used to lie here in a corner of this same charmed sepulchre.
If I were to tell my young readers how often I made an excuse to go
into my chest for something or other, and never withdrew my head
without taking a peep at Peg’s face, they would no doubt call me
spooney, though they know quite well they do the same thing themselves.

The bustling old porter, who kept hovering in my vicinity—a kind of
astonished interest looking out of his not unkindly gray eyes—here cut
short my amorous reminiscences by shutting down the lid of the chest,
and, apparently with a view to economise space—for odd customers were
beginning to drop in—lifting a cradle on to the top of it. The cradle
is one of the old-fashioned wooden sort, with good solid rockers, which
used to be seen in the houses of plain folks in my young days, and was
usually of some antiquity, being considered an heirloom, and descending
from parent to eldest son. I remember another cradle just like this
one, in our old home. It was painted a bluish-green colour inside, and
a loud mahogany colour outside, interspersed with numberless artificial
black knots, more like figures in the hangings, or wall-paper, than
the grains of wood. That cradle had rocked no end of generations of
my progenitors; and when baby visitors gave over showing their chubby
little red pudding faces at our house, my sister and I used to play at
‘shop’ and ‘church’ in it on wet days. On these occasions, though I
allowed her—as I no doubt thought became her good-for-nothing sex—the
full management of the shop, yet I always insisted on being the
clergyman, turning the cradle on its end, and preaching from under its
hood, which served as a canopy.

That oldest and ever newest tragedy which we must all, some time or
other, be witnesses of, or chief performers in, has been enacted in
this hollow little bed ere now. I see the worn and anxious mother
seated on a stool bending over the little sufferer in the cradle. She
has not had her clothes off for nearly a week, but she will not be
persuaded to lie down. She could never forgive herself if those glazed
little windows, so set-like now in their deep sockets, under the ashy
pale brow, were to be darkened for ever, and she not see the final
darkening. She wets continually the livid and senseless little lips,
and sighs as if her heart would burst, as she watches, in her own
words, ‘the sair, sair liftin’ o’ the wee breist, an’ the cauld, cauld
dew on the little face!’ The struggle will not last long now, and the
mother’s pent-up feelings will ere long get relief.

Whether desirous of diverting my thoughts from this harrowing scene, or
merely thinking it a pity that I should be exercising my mind over a
lot of lifeless old sticks, the porter, with a delicacy of insight that
I would hardly have credited him with, has brought two pictures, and
without a word has put them up against the backs of two mahogany chairs
in front of me. If that porter had been my friend the biggest half of
his natural lifetime—which, judging from the furrows on his lean face
and the whiteness of his scant locks, was already anything but a short
one—he could not have selected two works of art more pat to my taste or
my present mood; and I inwardly blessed him for his thoughtful trouble,
though I had a vague suspicion that there might be a gentle touch of
irony in his ministrations.

The largest picture, ‘Crossing the Sands,’ is a gloaming or twilight
subject, somewhere, I fancy, on the Ayrshire coast. Its features
are as familiar to me as the streets and houses in my native town.
It brings to mind the days of my childhood, when the old folks used
to hire a garret at the seaside for a few brief—for us youngsters
all too brief—days in the summer; and the lonely walks and talks of
later years, when the sun had gone down, and the newly awakened winds
blew all the stronger and fresher in our faces for their afternoon’s
slumber, and our voices mingled with the rhythmic murmur of the waves
as they broke at our feet.

The artist, I suppose, has named his picture from the dim outline of a
horse and cart, with two figures sitting in it, crossing the darkening
sands. The tide is far out, and has left long zigzag shallow pools of
water lying in the uneven places on the sands, into which the swift
vanishing day, through a break in the dark saffron clouds, is casting
wistful looks. The same pale reflection is glimmering faintly along
the wave-broken verge of the distant sea; while the denser flood,
where it stretches out to meet the gray skyline, wears something of a
sad melancholy in its cold blue depth. In comfortable contrast with
this lonesomeness, sitting among the deepening shadows on a dark clump
of moorland, or bent, on the left-hand corner of the picture, is the
dreamiest little hut, with the rarest blue smoke rising out of its
crazy chimney, and floating like a spirit among the dark grays and
purples sleeping on the hillsides.

The smaller upright picture is a street in Dieppe—the time, evening,
from the green tinge in the blue of the sky, and the roseate hue of
the low-lying clouds. It is just such an old French street as one
would delight in strolling through at that poetic hour, to feast one’s
eyes on the bewitching mixture of sunlight and shadow, reclining side
by side, or locked in loving embrace among the sombre reds, and rich
browns, and warm ochres on the quaint roofs and gables and walls; and
to note the leisurely figures of the picturesque women in white caps,
blue shortgowns, and red petticoats, chatting in the mellow sunlight
at the street corner, or moving along in the shadow under the eaves
of the overhanging gables; or the slow cart in the middle of the
street, its wheels resting on that streak of sunshine slanting from
the old gable at the corner; or the decrepit vegetable-woman at her
stand on the opposite side of that gutter, the fresh green colour of
her vegetables—all the fresher and greener against the daub or two of
bright red—wafting one’s thoughts away to cottage gardens and pleasant
orchards.

But I must not tarry any longer in this old French street, or, indeed,
in this musty old saleroom, which has thrown off its pensive and
meditative humour, and taken on a brisk, practical, and business-like
air. Already the auctioneer and his spruce clerk have arrived, and
the faces of the knots of people scattered up and down the floor are
looking with expectancy towards the little pulpit. It is no longer a
place for an idle dreamer like myself, and so I saunter out to the
street. The sudden transition from the shadow of the saleroom to the
bright white sunshine on the bustling city thoroughfare, together with
the sight of the refreshing water-cart, with a group of barelegged,
merry children prancing in its cooling spray, instantly dispel my
illusions; and in another moment I am as completely in the midst of the
living present as I was before in the dead past.




SURGICAL SCRAPS.


There is a curious instrument in the _armamentarium_ of the surgeon
called a probang, employed for removing foreign bodies which have
become fixed in the esophagus or gullet. It consists of a flexible
stem, at one end of which is an arrangement of catgut fibres, and at
the other end a small handle. By moving the handle slightly, these
threads of catgut—which are stretched all round and parallel to the
stem at its lower end—can be bent outwards in a radiating manner,
which gives the instrument the appearance of a chimney-sweep’s broom
in miniature. When a person is so unfortunate as to get a piece of
bone stuck in his throat beyond the reach of the surgeon’s hand, the
probang is sometimes found very useful. It can be passed down the
gullet, in a closed condition, beyond the obstruction, then opened
somewhat like an umbrella, and drawn upwards, carrying with it—if all
goes well—the foreign body. The passing of such an instrument is far
from being pleasant to the patient; but if it be done with ordinary
care and judgment, it will not be attended with any harm. Every one who
has known the misery attendant upon getting a good-sized piece of bone
impacted in the food-passage, will understand that when the operation
has proved successful, the patient is likely to consider the pleasure
of seeing the offending fragment caught in the meshes of the probang
cheaply purchased by the discomfort attendant upon the passage of the
instrument.

Another instrument employed for passing down the esophagus is used
for a different purpose. When the gullet has been severely burned
internally—as, for instance, from the accidental swallowing of
corrosive acids—after the ulcer produced has healed, there is a great
tendency to contraction in the scar, and consequent stricture of the
esophagus. This may threaten life, by tending to close the passage
altogether. To prevent this, instruments called bougies are passed
through the constriction from time to time. These bougies are simply
firm, smooth, slightly flexible rods with rounded ends, and are various
in size as regards their diameters. An instance of the passing of these
instruments being turned to account in a very curious way, occurred
some years ago in one of the London hospitals. A patient was suffering
from stricture of the esophagus, brought about in the manner above
described; and the tendency to contraction was in this case so great,
that it was only by the frequent passing of instruments that it could
be prevented from becoming to the last degree dangerous. Now, it was
impossible that the man could remain in the hospital permanently; it
was therefore decided to teach him to pass the instrument for himself.
He proved capable of this, after a certain amount of instruction;
and it then occurred to some one about the hospital that the daily
performance of this operation might be made the means by which the man
could earn a livelihood. Accordingly, the patient was advised to get a
bougie made as much as possible to resemble a sword. This he did; and
for a long time afterwards was to be seen about the streets of London
making money by what looked like the swallowing of a sword. In his
case there was really ‘no deception’ as regards the passing of a long
instrument down towards his stomach was concerned, the only deception
being that the instrument was not the weapon it represented. His
daily street performance thus served him in two ways—it supplied him
with food, and also kept open the passage by which that food could be
conveyed to his ‘inner man.’

The contraction about which we have spoken as taking place in scars
formed after burns of the gullet, and which is so dangerous there, also
occurs in burns on the surface of the body, and often leads to a good
deal of deformity. Burns, indeed, are a great source of trouble to
the surgeon in many ways. For instance, if a burn is very extensive,
there may be great difficulty in getting a cicatrice to form over the
whole of it. Cicatrisation only begins in the immediate neighbourhood
of living epidermis, and therefore a burn or ulcer must heal from the
circumference to the centre. But the further that the cicatricial
tissue extends from the margin of the burn, the more slowly and the
more imperfectly is it formed; and indeed it may fail altogether
to reach the centre. This difficulty has often been met by a small
operation called skin-grafting. A piece of sound skin about the size
of a split pea is pinched up—say, on the outside of the arm—and the
epidermis snipped off with a pair of curved scissors, the scissors just
going deep enough to cut slightly into the second layer of the skin
and draw a little blood. A special kind of scissors has been invented
for the purpose, that will only take up just the right amount of skin,
so that the operation is thus made even simpler still; and if it is
skilfully performed, it causes only very trifling pain. The little
fragment of skin thus separated is then placed gently, with its raw
surface downwards, on the unhealed surface of the burn. The same thing
is repeated again and again, till there are many grafts, if the burn
is a large one. Isinglass plaster, or some other similar material, is
employed to keep the grafts in position and preserve them from injury.
In about four days they should have taken root, and then the covering
can be removed. There is now a number of foci from which cicatrisation
can start; for, as before said, it will begin from where there is an
epidermal covering, and thence alone. After a time, a number of little
islands of scar tissue may be seen, which go on increasing until at
length they coalesce with one another, and also join that extending
from the margin of the burn. This is what happens if all goes well;
but, unfortunately, there is a very great tendency for a cicatrice
formed from grafts to break down and disappear, so that the result is
not by any means always so satisfactory as it at first promises to be.

Another trouble with burns is the great pain which they invariably
cause; and numberless are the applications which have been recommended
for its relief. The great essential in all such applications is
that they should completely exclude the air; for the very slightest
irritation to the surface of a burn will give rise to the most
excruciating pain. To prevent irritation and to keep the parts at rest
is indeed one of the surest ways of relieving pain, not only in the
case of burns, but in the treatment of other forms of injury, and also
in many kinds of disease. An instance of this is found in the method
adopted to relieve the pain in certain joint diseases. Those who have
visited the Children’s Hospital in Ormond Street, or indeed any other
hospital for children, may remember having noticed that at the foot of
many of the beds there was fixed a pulley, over which ran a cord with
a weight attached to the end of it. This cord, it may further have
been noticed, was fixed at the other end to a kind of stirrup which
depended from the patient’s foot. Thus the weight—which consisted of
a tin canister partly filled with shot—had the effect of keeping the
child’s leg on the stretch continuously. In fact, the little patient
looked very much as though he was lying on a kind of rack; and if the
visitor could have heard the surgeon order more shot to be poured into
the canister, saying that he thought the patient was able to bear more
weight, the command would have sounded very like that of a torturer,
rather than that of one whose object it was to relieve pain. But the
truth is that this rack is a very humane one indeed. It is the rack of
modern times, as distinguished from that of past ages; it is the rack
of the surgeon, and not that of the inquisitor. The cases in which
this apparatus is used are almost always instances of disease of the
hip or knee joint. The object of this arrangement of pulley and weight
is, by making traction on the foot and leg, to keep the lower of the
bones, which go to form the diseased joint, away from the upper, and so
avoid the excruciating pain caused by the carious or ulcerated surfaces
touching one another.

The benefit in such cases of having a weight drawing on the leg is
most marked at night, when the patient wishes to get to sleep. With
a good heavy weight, many a patient may sleep comfortably, who would
otherwise be in a most pitiable condition through the long watches of
the night. The position of such a person without any weight attached
would be this. Knowing from past experience what too often followed
on his dropping off to sleep, he would endeavour to keep himself from
doing so. This, however, would of course be impossible for long, and
at last the heavy eyelids would droop, the ward with its long rows of
beds would grow dimmer and dimmer, the breathing of the neighbouring
sleepers would sound fainter and yet more faint, until sight and
hearing failed him, and his long watching ended in sleep. But now
that he was no longer on his guard to keep his limb in a state of
perfect rest, the irritation of the diseased part would give rise to
spasmodic contraction of the neighbouring muscles. This contraction
of the muscles would bring the lower bone of the joint, with more or
less violence, against the upper; the two highly sensitive ulcerated
surfaces would touch, and with a shriek of agony, the child would
awake, quivering in every limb. And then, as the pain gradually grew
less, again the same terrible drowsiness would begin to oppress him;
and after another long spell of watching, he would fall asleep once
more, to be once more awakened in the same horrible manner as before.
But with a sufficient weight attached, the patient may go to sleep
confident of comparative ease; for the weight is too much for the
spasmodic action of the muscles to overcome, and the bony surfaces
therefore remain separated. And not only does the surgeon’s rack thus
save the patient from a terrible amount of pain, but, by allowing
him to get good rest of a night, it must increase enormously the
probability of ultimate recovery.




IN THE RHINE WOODS.

CUCKOO! CUCKOO!


          I hear it again!
    An echo of youth from its far sunny shore;
    Through the dim distant years it resoundeth once more.
    How mingled the feelings that rise with the strain—
          The joy and the pain!

          I hear it, but not
    In the home of my childhood, the glorious and grand,
    ’Mid the wild woody glens of my own native land.
    Ah! dear to me still is each far distant spot,
          And present in thought.

          I see them to-day!
    The glory of Spring-time on valley and hill,
    That struck to my heart with a rapturous thrill,
    And friends in the sunshine of life’s early ray,
          Young, happy, and gay.

          All vanished and gone!
    Could I see it indeed as in spirit I see,
    The home of my youth would be joyless to me;
    Like a bird’s empty nest when the tenant has flown,
          Deserted and lone.

          Soft, softly it rings!
    O shades of the buried Past, slumber in peace!
    O heart, bid thy sad, tender memories cease!
    And welcome the Present, with all that it brings
          Of beautiful things.

          How often in youth
    I have dreamed of this land of the oak and the vine,
    This green, lovely land on the banks of the Rhine,
    With longing prophetic, that one day in sooth
          The dream should be truth.

          Now gladly I rest
    ’Mid its scenes of enchantment with those that I love;
    Warm hearts are around me, blue skies are above;
    And though distant are some of the dearest and best,
          I am thankful, and blest.

          The years as they roll
    Rob the cheek of its glow and the eyes of their light,
    And much we have cherished is lost to the sight;
    But one thing remains that they cannot control—
          The youth of the Soul.

            I. A. S.

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

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