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. 29.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, JULY 19, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




SOME CHEERING ASPECTS OF MORTALITY.


When eminent men die, we are accustomed to say that the world has lost
something; that their country or party is poorer; that none are left
to fill their place, and other such expressions. But very seldom do we
hear it said that the world gains when great men die; yet we have no
hesitation in saying that the world often gains more by the death of
leading men than it would do by their living indefinitely, or even much
beyond ‘the allotted span.’ Again, it is not our custom to look forward
to the day of our own death as a gain either to ourselves or the world.
We somehow think that no one could exactly fill our shoes or act the
part we have done; but as a matter of fact, our shoes may be better
filled and our part better acted by the generation which follows. This
fact ought to humble us a bit; and perhaps we need humbling, for there
is just the trace of a tendency among moderns to underrate the men who
have immediately preceded them, or who may be going off the far end of
the stage as we take our places at the near.

Noble lives have often been spent to little purpose so far as their
contemporaries were concerned. The fact is, ‘No man is a hero to his
valet,’ nor is any man ‘a prophet in his own country;’ and as ‘distance
lends enchantment to the view,’ it is only when the world’s best men
have been hid from sight in the greedy grave, that their influence has
been felt in all its power. We are apt to hold even the oldest and best
of our contemporaries in light esteem; but we reverence the ancients.
Nay, many of earth’s noblest sons have been bitterly blamed, and held
up to scorn and derision in their lifetime; and not till death stepped
in and took them away, did the world discover its mistake.

A poor shoemaker rises while others sleep, and searches among the
wayside weeds of his native lanes, his only inspiration being his
thirst for knowledge, and the joy of adding a few plants to the known
flora of his native land. His neighbours deride him, are doubtful of
his sanity, and think his life a sad warning to the peasant lads around
who may show signs of leaving the beaten path of the monotonous life
their fathers trod. Unmindful of scorn, in defiance of fate, he goes
forward in the thorny path he has chosen for himself, gaining knowledge
that is quite new, making discoveries that were reserved for such as
he, and at last becomes possessed of an herbarium famous for containing
specimens to be found in no other. All the while he is unheard of,
or heard of unfavourably; but when he grows old, and, tottering on
the brink of the grave, hands over his precious scraps to the nearest
university, he becomes famous. A coterie of appreciative men in
far-away London collect something to relieve his pressing necessities,
and—the matter ends. But he dies, and _then_ the world gains—not the
blood and toil stained herbarium, but the stimulating example of a
hero’s life, which, though it repelled the youth of his own time and
district, becomes a burning and a shining light to lighten the path
and fire the noble ambition of every youth who reads the story of the
heroic struggles which bore him above the swamping waves of prejudice,
of poverty, and of scorn.

When that amiable young man the Prince Imperial fell, done to death by
Zulu assegais, there arose from nearly every heart in the civilised
world a sigh of sympathy for his bereaved mother, and a tear was
dropped by many, as they thought of the far-reaching possibilities
blotted out by African savages. Yet who can doubt that that tragedy
saved a whole nation of men, perhaps for generations, from a host of
plotters against the destiny of their own country, not for Bonapartism,
but for ends at once selfish, unpatriotic, and unworthy.

In the backwoods of America is born the son of a struggling farmer, who
dies ere his son can earn a crust to sustain life. A noble woman, his
mother, has a hard battle to fight in the rearing of her family; but
bitter though the conflict is, her heroism gains the victory for her
in the unequal contest with want and weakness. Her son, sharing his
mother’s hard lot, showing her nobleness of character, determines to
‘be somebody;’ to serve the world in his day and generation; and, by
efforts such as only heroes make, rises step by step in learning and in
every art that dignifies man. From being a backwoodsman’s son and from
a condition of penury, he rises ‘from high to higher,’ till he fills
the seat of a great Republic, and becomes

    The pillar of a nation’s hope,
    The admiration of the world.

His influence for good is immense, and he promises to use it well.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, a ruffian’s shot lays him on his deathbed. The
world, first shocked, and then moved by pity, cannot help exclaiming
that this is indeed a kingly man. Bright as shone his light, it only
lighted one nation before; but the flash of that pistol made him the
observed of distant peoples. He dies; and the dead Garfield wields an
influence for good such as a thousand living Garfields never could.

But it is not alone by the rich legacies of well-spent lives which
men leave us when they die, that we gain. It is often necessary that
even good men should be removed, to allow of the world’s progress—much
more bad men, especially if they wield a far-reaching influence. Of no
men is this more true than of statesmen. When in Europe one man once
heads a party, he generally remains leader while he lives. The world
would not suffer from this, if the leaders of parties would move as the
world moves; but they are apt to lag behind. When this is the case—and
it is constantly occurring—a country may be brought to the very brink
of revolutionary overthrow. At times, nations and dynasties have been
saved, simply because death stepped in and removed the obstacle with
which the body-politic threatened to come into collision.

Sometimes men pursue a certain course, not that it is right, not even
that they think it is right, but because they stand committed to it.
Oftener, men hold upon a course that everybody but themselves sees is
wrong, believing it to be right; but it is only prejudice that blinds
them. This is very apt to be true of us all. When once we have chosen
our way, we generally keep on till death stops us. Our religion, our
politics, our very prejudices, we rarely modify; and we seldom inquire
why we hold certain religious or political creeds. Occasionally, a more
than ordinarily strong-minded man has courage to think for himself,
and even goes the length of acting for himself; but such cases are
comparatively rare. Were men not mortal, were men even to live as long
as did the antediluvians, progress in the world would be very slow.
Threescore years and ten we may hold the world back, but no longer. We
hold very different opinions from our grandfathers; but had they lived
till now, it is doubtful if they would have greatly modified theirs.
Enlightened as we think ourselves, it is quite probable that the
generation that acts a century hence may wonder how we managed to rub
along in our benightedness!

Many men are morbidly fearful of being thought inconsistent, and will
rather hide their opinion than run the risk of being thought so.
Though a man may cling thus to what he may have reason to believe is
not quite correct, for fear of being inconsistent, nobody will blame
his son, far less his grandson, for maintaining exactly the opposite to
his father’s opinion. Thus, as men die, errors die; as they are swept
from the stage of life, their opinions are replaced by more forward
ones, held by the men who fill the shoes of those that went before.

As the Angel of Death is the destroyer of prejudices, so is he the
healer of national animosities. The Scotsmen and the Englishmen who
fought so fiercely and hated so bitterly at Bannockburn and at Flodden
are long since gone, and in their place there is a living race of
Scotsmen and Englishmen who belong to one nation, and are proud of each
other. Eighty years ago, Frenchmen and Englishmen hated and fought
as fiends hate and fight; but death has taken the haters away, and a
new race of Englishmen and a new race of Frenchmen to-day regard each
other in a very different way. To-day, the Frenchman spends his surplus
hate on the Prussian, and the Prussian returns it with not a little
insolence, by way of interest. But Death has a drug that is potent
enough to quench even _their_ animosities; and when he has had time
to practise his art, there will remain Germans and Frenchmen ready to
acknowledge that there is room enough in Europe for both; to respect
the greatness of each other, and to exchange, not rifle-shots, but
friendly greetings.

For centuries, misgovernment has sown evil seed in unhappy Ireland,
and the result is a race of Irishmen smarting under a sense of wrong,
and crying out accordingly. Were men to live for ever, were memories
to live for ever, Ireland never would be pacified. Bit by bit, justice
is being done to Ireland, and man by man, death is removing those in
whose breast the sense of wrong swelled till it has developed into
fury. By-and-by their hatred will be extinguished; in course of time,
the animosities between landlord and tenant will be buried. Death sits
final arbiter in many a strife.




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER XXXVIII.—WHIRLWINDS.

Miss Hadleigh was always effusive in her welcomes, and on the present
occasion she was more effusive than ever in her reception of Madge.

‘I have been dying with anxiety to see you, dear; and if you had not
come to-day, I should have gone to Willowmere, or sent for you.’

‘I am glad to have come at the proper moment, then—when you wanted me.’

‘Oh, it is most, most fortunate!’ (She found a difficulty in
discovering a sufficient superlative, and so doubled the one at her
command.) ‘And it concerns you as much as us, for it is about Philip
and his uncle.’

Madge had not been excited with curiosity about the cause of Miss
Hadleigh’s anxiety to see her; and even now she was not disturbed,
although more interested, when she learned that Philip had something to
do with it.

‘Has anything particular happened?’

‘We don’t know yet, dear; that is what vexes us. Philip has not been
here for—oh, ever so long; and such strange things are being said
about them in the city, that a friend of mine’ (a pretty simper here)
‘considered it to be his duty to come out expressly to tell me and ask
if I knew anything.’

‘But what is being said and who has told you?’ inquired Madge, still
undisturbed, and even inclined to smile, having experience in the young
lady’s way of revelling in exaggerations on the most trivial occasions.

‘Alfred—that is Mr Crowell, you know.’

The correction was made with a little self-conscious smile, as if she
were saying: ‘Of course you know that I have the right to call him
Alfred.’

Madge bowed.

‘Well, Alfred tells me that people are saying that Mr Shield’s great
fortune is a great bubble swindle; and something about bulls and bears,
that I don’t understand; and that poor Philip will never be able to
meet the engagements he has made in the belief that this man possessed
millions. He has been dreadfully deceived; but nobody will believe
that; and Philip will have to suffer all the blame, because the thing
has been so cunningly done that nobody can touch Mr Shield. He is not a
partner, and is in no way responsible for what Philip said or did....
It is perfectly frightful, and has made me so nervous that I really
don’t know what I am doing ever since Alfred went away. Alfred is so
generous and so brave—he has gone to search for Philip, and see if
anything can be done to help him out of the mess.’

Making all allowance for probable and possible exaggerations, this
news was startling, and it was rendered more so by the excited
interjectional manner in which it was conveyed. But it obtained
additional significance when she remembered what Philip himself had
said of his worries, and what had passed between her and Mr Beecham.
No doubt, Philip, desiring to spare her anxiety, had made too little
of his difficulties, had avoided details, and left her to believe that
they were only of such a nature as to involve temporary embarrassment,
which could be overcome by coolness and resolution. Alfred Crowell,
being under no constraint, had blurted out the truth—or rather, he had
found the rumours of such importance as to induce him to make a special
journey to Ringsford to inquire into their truth. That he should make
the rumours an excuse for an extra visit to his betrothed was out of
the question. He came and went at will.

If it were true, then, that Philip had fallen into or been led
into such desperate trouble, what was she to think of Mr Beecham’s
assurances that no harm should come to him? And she had pledged herself
to remain silent!

These things passed through her mind as the panorama of a whole life
appears in one picture to the eyes of a man who is drowning. But with
the same rapidity came the suggestion of what should be done.

‘You ought to seek the advice of your father.’ The voice was a little
husky, but the manner was decisive.

Miss Hadleigh moved her hands—they were neat hands, and she was fond of
displaying them—gently upward and stared in despondent astonishment.

‘We dare not speak to papa about anything connected with Mr Shield. You
can’t know how badly papa has been treated by him, or you would never
think of such a thing.’

‘Then I must do it.’

She rose and made a pace towards the door as she spoke.

‘Oh, you must not do it, dear, for your own sake!’ cried Miss Hadleigh,
alarmed at the idea of anybody venturing to speak to her father on a
subject which he had absolutely forbidden to be mentioned. ‘You will
bring us all into trouble if you do. You _do_ know that papa did not
want Philip to have any dealings with this dreadful person, and Philip
would take his own way. You could not expect papa to be pleased with
his disobedience; and you _cannot_ expect him to be ready to give
advice now, when his former advice was neglected. If you have any
notion of papa’s way, you must understand that he would only be angry,
and say that he spoke at the right time, and it was no use speaking
now.’

‘I shall not bring any trouble upon you,’ said Madge quietly; ‘and
although I see how unpleasant the subject must be to your father, I
wish to speak to him. Do not be afraid, Beatrice.’

She took Miss Hadleigh’s hand in both her own and looked kindly in the
flushed face. But although Miss Hadleigh was afraid of her father, she
could not endure to be assured by another that she need not be so.
Consequently, her shoulders went up, and her chin went up, and her
brows came down a little, whilst her tone became slightly supercilious.

‘Oh, it is not on my own account that I advise you not to speak to him
about this most painful business. _I_ was thinking of _you_; for it
_will_ be a little awkward if you make him angry and refuse to help
Philip, even when he has got rid of this most extremely disagreeable
relative. But of _course_ you can please yourself. I do not think my
brother will be grateful to you afterwards, when he learns how careful
I was to warn you.... Shall I inquire where papa is?’

‘If you please,’ said Madge, attempting to smile; ‘but you are not to
be vexed with me, Beatrice.’

‘Not at all, dear,’ was the response, in a slightly hysterical note, as
the bell was rung with emphasis; ‘my anxiety is entirely to save you
disappointment.’

‘I must risk that.’

The servant who answered Miss Hadleigh’s summons informed her that Mr
Hadleigh was in the library.

‘He spends nearly all his time there now,’ said Miss Hadleigh, when
the servant had departed with his message; ‘he goes to town seldom, and
often does not go out of the house all day.’

She was interrupted by the appearance of her father; and he was so
rarely seen in the drawing-room, except for a few minutes before
dinner—and not always then, unless when there were guests present—that
she was startled by the sudden apparition. Moreover, she had calculated
that he would send a message to the effect that he was engaged, or that
he would see the visitor in the library, and in either case, she would
have been protected from the suspicion of having any share in bringing
about the interview. She was determined that she should not be forced
to take any active part in it, and not being prepared with an excuse,
she said plainly: ‘Madge wants to speak to you,’ and went out of the
room.

Mr Hadleigh’s cold face never indicated the emotions of his mind or
heart; but his eyes, which followed Miss Hadleigh until the door closed
upon her, turned slowly to Madge, met hers, and noting her disturbed
expression, seemed to ask for explanation.

‘You so rarely ask to see me, Miss Heathcote, that I am afraid
something unpleasant has occurred.’

‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ she began quietly, but the undercurrent of
agitation was revealed by the hesitating awkwardness of her manner.

‘You ought rather to say that you know I am willing to be disturbed
whenever you wish to see me,’ he rejoined, with that suggestion of a
smile which appeared at times to her and to no one else.

‘Thank you—thank you. But have you not heard that Philip is in
difficulties?’

‘What kind of difficulties—about money?’

‘Yes, yes; and his uncle, it is said, will not help him, or cannot. But
you can, and will, if it should be true.’

Her hand touched his arm trustfully, as if to signify that her hope of
safety lay in him. He placed his hand on hers.

‘I know nothing of Philip’s affairs, and have forbidden any one in the
house to speak about them to me. He and I have settled matters between
us: he has chosen his course, and is to abide by it. You are aware that
it is not the course I should have liked him to follow; and being as it
is, I cannot interfere with him.’

‘But if you learn that he has been deceived and is on the brink of a
great misfortune—of ruin, which will bring disgrace with it—you would
not refuse to guide him!’

For an instant there was a gleam in the man’s eyes, as if he rose in
triumph over a fallen foe.

‘You must tell me what you mean,’ he said, controlling whatever evil
passion had stirred within him and speaking in his ordinary measured
tone. ‘What you say would be very alarming, if I did not think that you
must be mistaken in regard to Mr Shield. As for Philip’s speculation, I
did not think it had much chance of success, although it seemed to me
worth trying, if it afforded him pleasure, and if—as I understood—the
success or failure of his project was provided for. Has he told you
that the failure has come so quickly?’

‘No; he has not told me that failure has come upon him, but that he
feared it. The men, the work, and all the calculations of expenses
seemed to have gone wrong when he last spoke to me. Within this hour,
I learned that it was reported in the city that he would be unable to
meet the engagements he has made.’

‘You must not mind city reports about new concerns, Miss Heathcote,
for they are frequently the result of nothing more than the whispers
of rivals who speak of what they wish to happen. Rumours are seldom
circulated about an old established business without some good grounds
for them. But for Philip’s business, you will have to prepare yourself
for all sorts of ridiculous rumours. You must admit that his experiment
is peculiar enough to provoke them.’

‘Then you do not think they can be true,’ she said, drawing a long
breath of relief.

‘That would depend upon their source, as I am trying to make you
understand. You need not in any case be anxious until you have definite
information from Philip himself. I do not like to speak about Mr
Shield; but, eccentric as he is, I do not think he would leave him in
the lurch, when he knows that so long as Philip continues to hold the
position of his heir, I shall do nothing for him.’

‘Not even if Philip had been deceived?’

‘Not even then.... But I will do anything for you.’

‘And that will be the same thing,’ she said, her face brightening.

‘Not quite,’ he observed with a coldness that was almost harsh.

But she did not observe the difference of tone and manner: she
only felt that here was the opportunity to make Philip’s rumoured
misfortunes the means of bringing about what Philip most desired—the
reconciliation of his father and Austin Shield.

‘You say you would do anything for me,’ she said after a moment’s
reflection, her expression becoming very serious as she lifted her eyes
to his with pensive inquiry.

‘I have said it.’ The coldness had left his voice, and in its stead
there was a subdued fervour, which indicated how much he was in earnest.

Then she looked at him steadily for a minute—still with that pensive
inquiry in her eyes.

‘You were kind—most kind and generous to me, when you desired that I
should stop Philip from going to Mr Shield. You were kind, too, in the
calmness with which you accepted my explanation why it was that I could
not comply with your request. I am grateful.’

‘Do not speak in this formal way,’ he interrupted—a very unusual breach
of manners for him. ‘Tell me what it is you want, and if it is in my
power, it shall be done.’

‘It is quite within your power’—she was speaking very slowly—‘but as I
understand, you will find the task a most disagreeable one.’

‘That does not matter. Try me.’

‘Your readiness to promise makes me afraid to speak.’

‘That is not fair to me, when you say that the task is quite within my
power.’

‘It is, it is; and it has been in my mind for months to ask you to do
it.’

‘If it is to serve you, have no hesitation in asking.’

‘It will be a great service to me, because it will add very much to
my happiness and to Philip’s. I know—I have been told by yourself and
others—that your relations with Mr Shield were of an unpleasant nature.’

As she made an awkward pause, he bowed his head slightly, and the cold
expression was beginning to appear on his face again. Her voice was not
quite so steady as at first when she continued:

‘Well, will you prove to me that there was something more than a mere
good-natured desire to please, when you said that you were ready to
do anything for me? Will you agree to forget, or forgive, whatever
misunderstandings there were between you in the past, and consent to
offer your hand in friendship to your wife’s brother?’

Mr Hadleigh stood quite still and silent for a little. Whatever
surprise or displeasure he might be feeling, there was no indication
of either on his face. He was again the hard stern man he appeared
to the people around him. Madge did not like this change, and became
pale as she remembered the terrible charge which was laid against him.
She almost trembled with fear lest she should find it true; and then
there was a flush of anger with herself for pitying one who could be so
heartlessly cruel.

‘Do you know the man?’ he asked quietly by-and-by.

‘Yes; I have met him.’

‘And like him?’

‘I do; and believe him to be our friend, no matter what may be said
about him.’ Even in her present excitement she was surprised at the
singular coincidence in the nature of the questions asked by Mr Beecham
and Mr Hadleigh about her acquaintance with them.

‘Is it at his suggestion that you have made this proposal to me?’

‘He is entirely ignorant that I had any such intention.’

‘And if you had told him, he would have scoffed at the idea that I
was capable of saying—even for your sake—Yes; I am ready to give him
my hand in all friendliness, if he is willing to accept it.’ The sad
smile which lightened and softened his features appeared again. ‘Have I
satisfied you that I am ready to do anything for you?’

She was astounded by his sudden change of manner and ready consent to
become reconciled to his enemy. Then her face brightened, and there was
something approaching to an hysterical note of joy in her voice as she
exclaimed: ‘Then you are innocent! It is not true that you had any part
in the ruin of his friend George Laurence—it is not true that you had
anything to do with the report of Mr Shield’s marriage which destroyed
my mother’s happiness! Oh, I am glad—glad and grateful!’

And in the impulse of her gladness, she would have clasped his hands;
but he looked startled and drew back, as a guilty man might do. Her
astonishment took another turn: was it possible that he yielded so
readily to her proposal because he wished to make atonement for the
past?

He recovered himself instantly, and took her hand.

‘I see, Miss Heathcote, that Mr Shield has told you his version of
these unhappy events,’ he said anxiously; ‘and in justice to myself, I
must tell you mine.’




ELECTRICITY FOR NOTHING!


We recently received an invitation to witness, in London, a new method
of producing electricity for lighting and other purposes ‘free of
cost.’ The announcement that anything, with the exception, perhaps,
of the air we breathe, can in these days be had for nothing, tempted
us without delay to pay a visit to 31 Lombard Street, where, at the
offices of Mr H. A. Fergusson, the new system was to be seen at
work. Here we found a number of the now familiar incandescent globes
dispersed about a large room, together with some small motors for
driving sewing-machines, &c., the whole or any number of which could
be put into operation by the turn of various switches. These lamps
and motors all derived their electrical energy from a primary battery
contained in a cupboard. Upon looking into this cupboard, we saw a
number of wooden trays, lined with sheet-copper, piled one above
the other like a nest of drawers; and we were told that each tray
represented one cell of the battery. Further examination showed that
the constituents of each cell were a plate of zinc, placed horizontally
above a dark layer of oxide of copper in a solution of caustic potash.
Coming to the question of cost, or rather of alleged freedom from cost,
we learned that the cells were easily charged in the first instance,
and that when once charged, would remain without attention for at least
a month. During this time the battery would furnish a current. In the
process, the copper would be gradually exhausted; but by a simple
operation, could be brought back to its pristine state, and would be
ready once more for another month’s work. Meanwhile the zinc would
gradually be dissolved to form oxide of zinc. Now, one ton of metallic
zinc can be transformed in this way to a ton and a quarter of oxide—a
valuable white pigment—and as the oxide sells for a greater price than
the original zinc, the promoters have some ground for their statement
that electricity can be produced by this battery free of cost.

Unfortunately, recent experience of electric-lighting schemes has
made the public very cautious in their reception of any new thing of
an electrical nature, and there is little doubt that for some time
really promising schemes will suffer for the shortcomings of their
predecessors. It is, too, by no means the first time that a battery has
been brought forward with the intimation that it will pay its own cost
by the value of its by-products. But the effect upon the price of such
by-products of glutting the market with them, is generally omitted from
the calculations. Hitherto, such schemes have proved illusory; though
it by no means follows that they must always do so. We have the example
of gas manufacture before us, where, by careful working, the cost of
the gas could be more than covered by the value of the other products
of the coal.

A great deal of valuable information on the subject of primary
batteries for electric lighting may be gleaned from a paper recently
read before the Society of Arts, London, by Mr Isaac Probert, and
which has since been published in that Society’s _Journal_. (We may
here point out that the word ‘primary,’ as applied to batteries,
has become necessary in quite recent times, to distinguish those
which furnish a direct current from those which, under the name of
accumulators, storage or secondary batteries, require charging, in the
first instance, from another battery, or dynamo-machine. The current so
stored can be afterwards utilised, as convenience may dictate.) This
paper records in a lucid manner the numberless attempts which have
been made to utilise primary batteries; but, except for experimental
purposes, the cost has always proved prohibitive. The unhealthy fumes
given by such batteries as those of Grove and Bunsen—which were, until
lately, practically the only forms that could be used for electric
lighting—also limited their use to situations where the fumes could
do no harm. In process of time, Faraday’s grand discovery, that
electricity could be generated by a magnet, and the ultimate outcome of
that discovery—the introduction of the Gramme machine and its hosts of
fellows—gave for a time the _coup de grace_ to battery projects, and
for a long time they were heard of no more. But why was this? Let the
question be answered by the practical illustration given by Mr Probert,
which we must quote—for want of space—in a very condensed form.

Let it be supposed that a house is furnished with one hundred
incandescent lamps, the electric energy for which is provided by
a dynamo-machine and its necessary companion, a steam-engine. The
mechanical energy required for the work is, say, twelve and a half
horse-power. This is of course derived from the combustion of so much
coal; and if there were such a thing as a perfect engine where no heat
was wasted, the amount of fuel required would be very small indeed.
But, as a matter of fact, with an ordinary engine the weight of coal
required to furnish the power given would be about fifty-six pounds
per hour—costing, say, sixpence. Giving the lights a working period of
five hours a day all the year round, we have a cost for fuel alone of
forty-five pounds. Then we have to take into account the first cost
of the machinery, the interest on that cost, annual depreciation, and
attendance. We need not dwell on the separate estimate for each item,
but may state the total yearly cost of the installation at one hundred
and forty-seven pounds, or nearly thirty shillings per lamp.

Now, let us assume that instead of a dynamo-machine and its motor, a
galvanic battery is employed, and that the amount of energy furnished
is the same as before. In this case, we shall owe our energy to the
combustion of zinc in lieu of coal; and instead of obtaining the oxygen
for the process from the air, which costs nothing, we must of necessity
get it from an acid, which costs a great deal. The total amount of zinc
dissolved per hour in the acid, to furnish the current required for our
one hundred lamps, will be about thirteen pounds-weight, the cost being
nearly three shillings. Added to this sum must be the amount expended
on acids, the cost of attendance, prime cost of apparatus, interest,
depreciation, &c., bringing up the total annual charge to seven
hundred and fifty-nine pounds ten shillings, or seven pounds eleven
shillings and eightpence per lamp.

These figures will be both interesting and instructive to many persons
who wish to have some idea of the probable cost of changing their old
lamps for new ones; but they serve our present purpose in pointing out
the reason why the battery current has been superseded for lighting
purposes by the far more economical dynamo-machine. Still, it is not
every one who requires so many as a hundred lamps; and for smaller
installations, an efficient, easily managed, and cheaply working
battery would have a wide application. But it must be remembered that
electricity can now be had at comparatively little cost to light a
dozen lamps or so by employing a small dynamo-machine driven by a
gas-engine. Inventors of batteries must, therefore, remember that they
have rivals in the field, and that if they would successfully compete
with them, they must offer something as cheap and efficient. Hitherto,
this something has not appeared. But human nature is sanguine, and
the most sanguine of mortals perhaps is one in whom the inventive
faculty is highly developed. In spite of previous failures, no fewer
than one hundred and fifty patents for primary batteries have been
taken out during the past three years. Some of these are acknowledged
improvements upon past models. Many batteries now before the public
cannot be critically examined, for they employ fluids the nature of
which are kept secret. (Of course this objection cannot apply to a
patented invention, for one of the conditions of granting protection is
that the invention must be so described in the specification that any
intelligent workman can understand its nature and construction.) Others
cannot be well described without diagrams and technical details of no
interest to the majority of our readers.

To return to the primary cell of Mr Fergusson—which, by the way, is
called the Domestic Primary Battery—and putting aside all its claims to
produce electricity for nothing, we may broadly state that it possesses
many advantages. It is compact enough to be put away in any odd corner;
it is constant in its action; it seldom requires recharging, and such
recharging is a simple operation; and lastly, it has the very rare
merit of giving off no fumes whatever.




TERRIBLY FULFILLED.


IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER III.

Thursday evening came, and with it Captain Ferrard; and the two shook
hands with a certain guarded cordiality, as of prize-fighters about
to ‘get to business.’ But the dinner was a good one; Ferrard thawed
considerably under the influence of a bottle of old Johannisberg, and
enjoyed himself more than he had anticipated. His host treated him with
much deference, and seemed considerably impressed by his conversation.
The captain was consequently in great good-humour with himself and all
the world, and exerted himself—as, to do him justice, he well knew
how—to be agreeable and amusing and to make a favourable impression.
He was surprised also to find that this auctioneering father-in-law
of his was really a very entertaining fellow. He overflowed with
anecdote of a certain highly flavoured kind, and was full of curious
experiences; he talked a good deal of ‘shop,’ about pictures and
precious stones and such matters in the way of his trade, but it was
amusing ‘shop,’ and served to introduce many strange and out-of-the-way
facts and incidents.

The truth was that Mr Cross was taking a good deal more wine than
usual, whereby he was ably seconded in his loyal resolve to think
as well of his son-in-law and to be as friendly and open with him
as possible. The pleasingly insinuating ways of the gallant captain
were not without their effect, and the auctioneer began to feel more
favourably disposed towards him than he had at one time thought
possible. He appeared, now that one knew him, to be an open-hearted,
good-humoured sort of fellow, one who was nobody’s enemy but his own,
who was more sinned against than sinning, and so on. In his then
condition, it seemed to Mr Cross that he had perhaps been rather too
hasty and prone to think evil. His daughter, as he well knew, had her
‘little tempers,’ and might herself to some extent have contributed to
her wedded unhappiness. No doubt the young man would be amenable to
reason, and with judicious management and some outlay, might make a
tolerable son-in-law after all.

The talk at last centred itself upon diamonds, and Ferrard was in the
midst of an animated description of those belonging to certain family
connections of his own, when the auctioneer interrupted him.

‘I know all about the Frayer diamonds,’ he said—‘no one better. But I
wouldn’t mind laying you a wager that I could show you some, and not
far off either, that would beat them hollow.’

‘I think you would lose your money,’ said Ferrard.

The auctioneer regarded him with vinous solemnity. ‘Look here, my boy,’
he suddenly said; ‘I’ve taken a fancy to you, and I’m sorry we should
have been at odds so long. Perhaps I may have something else to say to
you to-morrow, and perhaps you may be glad to hear it—I can’t tell.
Anyhow, to prove to you that I’m in earnest, I’ll show you to-night
what I wouldn’t show to any other man alive. Just you come with me.’

‘Are you going to let me have a sight of the wonderful diamonds?’
laughed Ferrard, as he followed his host into the hall.

‘That’s just what I am going to do, and a little more besides. But
first of all, you give me your word as an officer and a gentleman that
you’ll tell nobody about anything you may see to-night. Promise!’

‘By all means—of course,’ assented Ferrard carelessly. He was becoming
a little bored, and had no expectation of seeing anything out of the
common.

‘That’s all right. Put on your hat,’ said Mr Cross, taking his lantern
from a cupboard and opening the hall-door.

They were absent about half an hour. When they returned, Ferrard was
in a state of dazzled amazement. He did not in truth know which most
to wonder at—the number and beauty of the gems, the ingenuity of their
safe keeping, or the fatuous folly of the man who, even under the
influence of wine, could impart such a secret to a person of whom he
knew next to nothing, except that—as the captain frankly confessed to
himself—he did not bear the best of characters. And he fairly hugged
himself at the thought, that if he played his cards well, the wealth
which was capable of affording such surprises as this might one day be
his own.

‘I am glad we did not bet, Mr Cross,’ he said, ‘for I cannot afford to
lose. They are far the most splendid diamonds I have ever seen. I must
really thank you for giving me such a sight, and especially for the
confidence you have placed in me, which I hope is an earnest of our
future friendship.’

‘Wait till to-morrow—that’s all I say—wait till to-morrow,’ said the
auctioneer thickly. ‘I’m hardly fit to talk business just now. But I
_will_ say,’ he continued, laying a heavy hand on Ferrard’s shoulder,
‘though I always knew, of course, that you were quite the gentleman,
I never thought I should have taken to any man, least of all to you,
as I have done. We had best be going to bed—it’s late; and I must
have an hour in the City to-morrow, before I meet Amy at London
Bridge.—Good-night, and pleasant dreams, my boy.’

Some men, the worship of Bacchus visits with heavy and dreamless
slumber; others it renders wakeful and uneasy. This latter was the case
with Mr Cross. He tossed and turned, courting sleep in vain; and thirst
and dyspepsia supervened on excitement. His thickly crowding thoughts
took a gloomy and despondent tone. Now that he was sober and sorry, he
anathematised his folly in betraying the secret of his safe, so closely
guarded through long years, even from his nearest friends, only to be
blurted out in a moment of ill-judged confidence to a mere stranger,
of whom he knew nothing but ill. All his old dislike and distrust of
Ferrard returned, intensified by the consciousness that that gentleman
had gained a distinct advantage over him. He determined that, although
he would not altogether go back from his implied promise, he would
hedge its fulfilment about with such conditions as should insure an
entire change in Ferrard’s habits and mode of life, and should oblige
him to cast in his lot with the class to which his wife belonged. In
this way alone, he considered, could he ascertain whether it would be
possible to trust the man and to secure peace, if not happiness, for
Amy; and at the same time to patch up to some extent her husband’s
shattered plans. At last he rose from an almost sleepless bed, feeling
ill and worried, and more disposed than ever to repeat his wish for
Captain Ferrard’s speedy dissolution.

When guest and host met at the breakfast-table, the manner of the
latter, to Ferrard’s surprise, had totally changed. He was nervous
and irritable; he complained that he was growing old, and said that a
bottle or two of wine overnight would not once have affected him in
this way. He ate little, but drank a good deal of coffee, and kept
fussing nervously with several keys which lay beside his plate, putting
them into his pockets, taking them out again, dropping them on the
floor, and grumbling at his own awkwardness; altogether, behaving like
a man considerably off his balance.

‘I’ve been up and about, for all I took too much last night,’ he said;
‘and sent my traps off to the cloak-room at London Bridge before you
were out of your bed, young man. I’ve found time to take a look at the
sparklers too,’ he added, holding up two of the keys, fastened together
by a ring. ‘Always do, every day of my life, before I leave in the
morning, and the last thing at night. Wouldn’t leave it undone for
anything you could mention. These diamonds—I meant them for Amy, poor
girl; and if—— But never mind about that just now.’

‘As I understood you last night,’ said Ferrard, who was growing
impatient, ‘you had something of importance to say to me this morning
touching our mutual relations.’

‘Well, I don’t know—I don’t know,’ replied the auctioneer. ‘You mustn’t
take everything for gospel a man says when he’s had a glass.’

The captain’s face grew long.

‘Oh, you needn’t look so glum. I’m not going back upon what I intended,
though perhaps it may not be all you were expecting. I have felt
uncommon sore about this business, Ferrard, I can tell you; and if you
and I are to patch up a bad job, you’ll have to make a fresh start
altogether, and that’s flat.’

Ferrard remained silent.

‘I’m pretty plain-spoken, and I tell you straight that I can’t bear
an idle man, and won’t have anything to do with one, if I can help
it. All the same, I want to be friends with you, and let bygones be
bygones; and so this is what I offer. Cut the West End, and racing and
billiards and gallivanting, and come into the City. I’ll employ you in
the business. If you give your mind to it and work hard, you’ll soon
find your feet; and then I’ll take you into partnership. When I go,
you will have it all to yourself; and a very pretty penny it will be
in your pocket. Your father will stop your allowance, of course; but
you and Amy can live here with me, free; that’ll save you a good bit;
and giving up your expensive habits will save you a lot more. Till you
are in the business, I’ll allow you—ah, I’ll allow you three hundred
a year; and altogether, you’ll be better off in this way than you’ve
been for some time.—Don’t say anything now’ (not that the captain had
any such intention, being stricken literally dumb); ‘think it over, and
make up your mind by the time I come back.’

He gathered his keys together with a good deal of unnecessary clatter,
and locked them into a leathern wallet, muttering something about
leaving them at his bank. Then he looked at his watch. ‘Hillo! I have
not got another minute. You must excuse me, captain—don’t hurry over
your breakfast, but I must leave you at once—there’s a deal to be seen
to before we start. Good-bye; don’t move; and think it over—think it
over.’

He had shaken hands, talked himself into the hall, and slammed the
front-door, before the captain had been able in the slightest degree
to grasp the situation, so utterly confused and astounded was he at
this sudden wreck of his hopes. Anger had no place whatever in his
mind. At another time, he might have been both amused and indignant
at the offer which had been made him and at the manner of its making.
The picture of himself as an auctioneer’s clerk, with the prospect of
becoming in time, if he were good, a real auctioneer, might have struck
him as exquisitely ludicrous; yet, though a gambler, a spendthrift, a
debauchee, he was no fool; and it was just possible that, considering
the splendid reward in prospective, he might at anyrate have seemed
to assent, in the hope of making better terms after a while. But now,
there was no room for any such speculations, for absolute ruin stared
him in the face. The auctioneer had supposed him to be hard pressed for
money; but what was the real nature of the pressure, he was far from
imagining. In a short while, a certain acceptance for a heavy amount
would fall due, renewal of which had been definitely and decidedly
refused on the very day of Amy’s visit to her father. Unless that
acceptance were taken up on presentation, it would forthwith be known
that the signature of one of the indorsers had never been written by
that gentleman; and in that case, the career of the Honourable James
Ferrard would be most unpleasantly terminated. This was more than
suspected by the holders of the bill; it was their reason for refusing
renewal; and it was their intention to use it as a lever for extorting
from the captain or his family, not only payment of the debt, but a
goodly sum, by way of hush-money, into the bargain. Money he must
have somehow, and that immediately, even if he had to appeal to his
father; a last resource which, though audacious enough in general,
he could not contemplate without dismay. Besides, the earl’s affairs
were themselves so desperate, and the amount was so large, that he had
little expectation that assistance would be possible, even if the will
to afford it were good. A faint hope of escape had been held out to
him by the auctioneer’s visit; and last night, from the friendliness
of his host’s manner and the extraordinary mark of his confidence, he
had fully expected that, with a little management, the money would be
forthcoming. But this chance was now utterly gone; and flight, suicide,
or penal servitude seemed to be the only alternatives left to him.

At this stage of his meditations, he became aware of three keys in a
ring which were lying under the edge of his host’s plate. He continued
to gaze abstractedly at them for some moments, half-unconsciously
noting certain peculiarities in the shape of the larger of them. All
at once he came to himself with a start. They were the keys of the
strong-room and the iron box; overlooked, of course, by the auctioneer
when he put the others into the locked-up wallet. To do him justice,
Ferrard’s first thought was to snatch them up, take a cab into the
City, and restore them to their owner. Mechanically he stretched out
his hand, then drew it quickly away, and fell back in his chair,
horrified at the thought which had at that moment seized upon him. He
had written the name of another man; it was done in a minute, and was
comparatively easy. But it is not easy, for the first time at least, to
take the goods of another man—to steal.

There they lay, close to his hand as it were, utterly in his power.
All that sweet and desirable money, frozen into a few crystals, the
property of this plebeian, who had so poor an idea of enjoying it, so
hateful an objection to parting with it. He tingled with envious rage
at the thought. Why, a poor dozen of them, like angels of light, would
put to the rout his persecuting demons of difficulty and danger; yet to
help himself to them would be—theft. He looked at his watch. Half-past
ten. The train was to leave at ten minutes to eleven. No doubt Cross
would discover his oversight, and return with all speed to remedy it.
He sat on and on, and gazed at the fatal keys until they seemed to
fill his eye and brain. Once a footstep approached the door of the
room. Without knowing why, he hastily moved the plate so as completely
to hide them. A servant looked in, and seeing him still there, begged
pardon and withdrew, wondering when he would have finished breakfast.
Then he softly moved the plate back, and again sat looking at the keys.
One thought ebbed and flowed continually in his mind, flowing more
and more fiercely, ebbing with surely decreasing force. To take the
diamonds—theft. Not to take them—ruin.

Half-past eleven. No cab at the door, no hurried step in the hall.
Cross must now be well on his way to Brighton, and under the idea that
the keys were safe at his bank. At anyrate, the things must not be left
lying there. Clearly, it was his duty to take charge of them until they
could be restored to their owner.

Ferrard presently rose from his chair, and put the keys in his
waistcoat pocket. Then he left the house, stealthily, like one in fear.

That night, or rather the next morning, for it was between one and two
o’clock, a figure came round the corner of the street from the square
and walked a few paces past the iron door. Then the figure stood still
for a moment and peered up and down the road. Not a sound, save the
distant rattle of a night-cab—not a movement anywhere around. The
figure turned and walked back. It stood in the shadow of the wall,
glanced round once more, seemed to listen, opened the door, entered,
and closed it gently from within.

The few hours of night wore out, the bright summer morning was come.
The blinking policeman drifted slowly up the street, and as usual
inspected the door. All well. He thought he heard a distant cry, and
raised his head to listen. The cry was repeated. Satisfied that it
was very far off—nowhere near _his_ beat—he smote his chilled hands
together and sauntered away, to meet his welcome relief.


CHAPTER IV.—CONCLUSION.

Amy did not greatly enjoy herself at Brighton. Her father was kind
to her, but he was not the jovial, light-hearted companion whom
she remembered of old. He was dull, heavy, and irritable, and was
constantly engrossed in thought, muttering anxiously to himself. He
did not sleep well, for she heard him walking about his room in the
night; and he grew more haggard and weary-looking every day. He was
clearly not benefiting by the sea-air. He spoke but little; and on the
question of her relations with her husband, he, much to her surprise
and disgust, declined to speak at all. When she once began to babble
of her wrongs, he turned upon her with positive anger; told her that he
had come there for rest, not to be worried; that it would no doubt all
be arranged comfortably on their return; and that, till then, she was
to preserve silence on the subject. All this made Mrs Ferrard extremely
dignified and sulky; but being a young person of no great depth, she
simply concluded that Pa had a fit of indigestion, and contrived to
amuse herself fairly well with shopping, drives, and promenades, in
the company of certain friends of her maiden days who chanced to be at
Brighton, and who were by no means averse to the society of a lady of
title. At all events, the life was a pleasant contrast to that which
the Honourable Mrs Ferrard had enjoyed of late in the company of her
lord and master.

The truth was that Mr Cross was very ill both in body and mind. He had,
though he knew it not, been ailing ever since his daughter’s flight;
and the perplexity and distress he was now enduring were telling upon
him fearfully. He had quite lost faith in the success of his plans;
calmer reflection told him that it would be vain to hope that the
leopard could change his spots in the manner he had proposed. Ferrard’s
blank silence at the breakfast-table, and the fact that no letter had
been received from him since, bore out this opinion.

But what caused him greater trouble and alarm than anything else was
the manner in which the idea of Ferrard’s death had taken hold upon
his mind, to the exclusion of all other thoughts, until it had assumed
the pitiless tyranny of a fixed idea. Night and day it was all before
him—the uselessness of the man’s existence, the evils which would
cease with it, the chances for and against its duration, the various
causes which might perhaps terminate it. And through all, a fierce
and devouring longing for its termination, such as he dared not now
acknowledge to himself. He was maddened at the difficulties in his way,
horrified at the tendency of his thoughts; and there were times when he
felt that the safest and easiest thing to do would be to row himself
out a mile or two from the beach and hide his troubles and temptations
for ever under the careless waves.

They had only been at Brighton five days, when Mr Cross, to his
daughter’s surprise and chagrin, announced his intention of returning
to town at once. Amy expostulated, but in vain; he declared that he was
sick of the place; that it was doing him no good—which was quite true;
that he must get back to work and occupy his mind. Finding opposition
useless, Mrs Ferrard made her preparations with the best grace she
might, and they took the noon-train to London the same day.

On arrival, they drove first to the lodgings in Duke Street, and the
auctioneer entered the house with his daughter. To their surprise, they
found that Ferrard was not only absent, but had not been seen or heard
of since the day of his wife’s departure, when he had remained indoors
until ten o’clock at night, and had then gone out; leaving, according
to his wont, no word as to when he should return. The people of the
house had after a time concluded that he also must be at Brighton. Amy,
being used to these absences, though never before of such duration,
was less surprised than her father, who was not only astonished, but
greatly cast down at what seemed to be an additional evidence of
Ferrard’s rejection of his plans, and determination to continue the old
courses.

‘There, it’s no use talking,’ he said at last. ‘He’ll come home some
time, I suppose; and when he does, send him on to me at once, d’ye
hear, Amy? Tell him—ay, tell him that I’ve altered my mind—that I have
proposals to make to him which will suit him much better than the last.
I must try and hit on something else. And if he’s not back to-morrow,
come over and let me know in the evening, will you? There, good-bye;
and keep up your spirits, my pet—father’ll see you all right, don’t you
fear.’

He kissed her and departed. He must get home, and quietly think matters
over. Suppose the fellow had bolted for good and all? What was to be
done in that event? It required careful consideration, and should have
it at once.

He called at the bank on the way home, to get his keys. The parcel,
tied with string and sealed with his own seal, was delivered to him
just as he had left it. He drove to his house, where he found several
letters awaiting him. Like a good man of business, he set to work
to dispose of all lighter matters, before addressing himself to the
consideration of the weightier. He opened and glanced at the letters;
he took up the parcel, once more examined the seal, tore off the paper,
unlocked the wallet, and spread the keys on the table. All right. Was
it? Surely there was something wrong?

What could it be?

He puzzled over the keys again and again, but without result. He seemed
to be constantly on the verge of detecting the deficiency, whatever it
was; but the clearness and readiness of his thinking powers had of late
in great measure departed, and it continued to escape him. At last he
thought that he must be the victim of a nervous delusion, and with an
effort, turned his thoughts to other matters. He would first, according
to custom, visit his diamonds; then he would answer such of the letters
as required a reply; then he would be at leisure to reflect upon the
next step to be taken with regard to his son-in-law. And once more the
dominant wish rose in his mind, filling it like a poisonous mist.

He took his lantern and the keys, and went to the strong-room, which
he entered, closing the doors as usual carefully behind him. What was
it, as he turned towards the safe, that sent him staggering back to the
wall, his eyes starting from his head, his hair crisping with horror?
The drawer full of papers lay on the table. The iron semicircular
handle projected from the orifice. It was in an upright position—it had
not been turned to the horizontal one. And the safe was closed.

He saw the whole sequence of events in one agonising second of time,
as drowning men are said to review instantaneously the whole course
of their past lives. It was the absence of the duplicate keys which
had puzzled him in the study; and their absence at once explained the
absence of Ferrard. He now remembered how, while at breakfast, just
before leaving the house, he had placed all his keys, as he had then
supposed, into his wallet; how he had then and there put the locked
wallet into his pocket, and had driven straight to the bank, where,
without opening it, he had made it into a parcel, sealed it with his
signet, and handed it to the manager, taking his receipt. The parcel
had been given back to him exactly as he had left it—of that he had
assured himself. Only one thing could have happened. The duplicates
had never been in the wallet at all. Unused to their presence, he
had doubtless left them behind; and the wretched man whom he had so
insanely trusted had stolen them, had the same night entered the
strong-room and the safe, and——

What would he have to face, when that massy door should glide away? The
dingy face of the picture, guardian of the deadly trap and its awful
secret, seemed to sneer and gibe at him, daring him to seek an answer
to the question.

Stay! There was one hope. He might have carried away the keys in his
hand or his pockets, and dropped them in the street, or left them on
the bank counter. If this were so, some common marauder might have met
with his deserts—or, if he had recently entered, might even now be
waiting to make a dash for liberty!

He approached the door, and listened. All was silent. He called in
a quavering voice, which rang weirdly in the vaulted roof, ‘Who is
there?’ No reply—no movement.

He sat down in the one chair, and tried to remember whether on that
fatal night he had withheld from his guest the ultimate secret, of the
necessity for half-turning the handle before withdrawing it. In vain.
All was confused and dream-like. Either he had disclosed the secret, or
he had not. If he had not——

He dragged the table desperately to the corner of the room and mounted
upon it. Pushing at one end a stone seemingly as firmly fixed as its
fellows, it revolved on a pivot. Thrusting his hand through the gap, he
withdrew the second handle, and the safe-door glided back. One look was
enough. The next moment, he was groping blindly for the door—for escape
from the horror which was behind him.

His wish was terribly fulfilled! His daughter was a widow!

He crept into the sunlit street, with difficulty closing the heavy
door. White and ghastly, he leaned one hand on the wall as he went, and
gasped for breath. Two or three passers-by stopped and looked after
him, expecting to see him fall. He did not do so, but gained the house,
let himself in, staggered into the dining-room, dropped into a chair,
and, for a space, knew no more.

When he regained his senses, he contrived to get to the cellaret and
to swallow a heavy dose of brandy. This restored him sufficiently
to enable him to think over his discovery and to settle his plan of
action. He rang the bell.

‘Something dreadful has happened,’ he said to the parlour-maid, who had
uttered an exclamation on seeing him. ‘No, no; I’m not ill—only a bit
upset. Get me a pen and ink and paper, and send John for a cab. I want
him to take a letter.’

He wrote a line or two with difficulty, and addressed it to the Earl of
Englethorpe. Having despatched his messenger, he remained in a kind of
stupor until wheels were heard at the door and the earl was announced.
Their greeting was of the briefest kind, though they remained together
for a considerable time. Then they repaired to the strong-room. The
auctioneer on his return was more composed than he had hitherto been,
but his visitor was terribly agitated. Again they were closeted
together. Various deputations from the kitchen, which by this time
was in a ferment of the most unendurable curiosity, failed, in spite
of enterprising approaches to the keyhole, to hear more than a low
murmuring within. At length the earl departed; and then the dreadful
event which had happened became known to the amazed and awe-stricken
household. Mr Cross had, it was said, met Captain Ferrard just outside
the door, and had been accompanied by him to the strong-room, where
he had fallen down—in a fit, as the auctioneer had at first supposed;
stone-dead, as he had perceived immediately afterwards. Without delay,
Mr Cross had gone for a doctor, who had stated that death had been
instantaneous—cause, apoplexy; and would in due course formally certify
to that effect.

The body was put into a coffin within two hours, and removed to the
Englethorpe town-house. The father of the deceased was the only mourner
at the very plain and quiet funeral which took place soon after. There
was no inquest, for the necessary medical certificate was actually
obtained; how obtained, it is no concern of ours to relate. Money is
powerful; in every profession and calling, there are those with whom it
is all-powerful.

There was a little talk at first over James Ferrard’s death. People
were found to say that there was something queer about the matter,
and to comment on the fact that nothing had been seen of the dead man
for some days before his death. But it was speedily known that he was
a defaulter on the turf, which fully accounted for his disappearance
from his usual haunts. Nothing, therefore, came of these suspicions,
though others of a different kind were rife enough, if rather vague.
The earl sternly forbade all reference to the subject, even in his own
household; it was understood that something awkward was behind, which
for family reasons was to be hushed up. Hushed up it accordingly was;
and in a fortnight’s time James Ferrard, except to his creditors, was
as though he had never been.

All this was, of course, distinctly wrong, and contrary to public
policy. Yet a coroner’s jury could only have dragged to light matters
the disclosure of which would have inflicted cruel shame and disgrace
upon a noble and hitherto stainless house. The blame of the death could
have attached to no one save the dead man himself; least of all to Mr
Cross. His evidence would have been that he had shown the diamonds
and explained the mechanism, but that he could not remember, owing to
his state at the time, whether he had called attention to the secret
connected with the handle. It would have been clear, either that he
had not done so, or that Ferrard had forgotten it. Beyond this, there
would have been absolutely nothing to connect him with the matter. He
was in a different part of the kingdom during the whole period of the
occurrence, as would have been conclusively proved. ‘Accidental death’
would have been the only possible verdict; and it would have been as
clear as daylight that the felonious intention of the deceased had
brought with it its own terrible punishment.

The auctioneer followed his son-in-law to the grave in little more
than a year, a broken-hearted man. It was said that he never got over
the shock received on the morning of his return from Brighton. This
was undoubtedly the truth; yet, as we know, it was not all the truth.
Though without his knowledge or design, yet in accordance with his
morbid wish, and indirectly by his act, had Ferrard died a miserable
death; and the auctioneer regarded himself as a murderer, though
unpunishable by the laws of this world. An already enfeebled body
was unable to resist the effect of the mental torture of ceaseless
self-reprobation, and the end was not long in coming.

But he lived to see Amy married to such a husband as he would have
chosen for her in the old happy days, and to bestow upon her by will
the bulk of his fortune. This did not, however, include the diamonds or
the proceeds of their sale, which he distributed before his death among
the London hospitals. Amy and her husband lived in the house in the
square; but the safe was sold, its ingenious mechanical arrangements
destroyed, and the fatal vault and its ghastly associations bricked up
together.

With much diminished hopes, owing to the death of the acceptor, the
holders of the forged bill made their first cautious advances, in the
hope that consideration for the honour of the family might still induce
the relations of the deceased to pay a good price for silence. To their
surprise, their exorbitant demands were paid in full without cavil or
hesitation, and the acceptance redeemed. Where the money came from was
a mystery; but it was observed that the earl always thenceforth spoke
of the auctioneer as a most respectable and worthy man, to whom he was
under the greatest obligations.




LIFEBOAT COMPETITION.


The success of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution in the recent
lifeboat competition will give general satisfaction. It is in the
first place very gratifying that it should have won the substantial
prize of six hundred pounds which was offered by the Committee of the
International Fisheries Exhibition for ‘the best full-sized lifeboat,
fully equipped, and on a carriage, adapted to aid stranded or wrecked
vessels from the shore in gales of wind, and through heavy broken seas
and surf;’ since it is now certain that the sum in question has been
devoted to the best of all possible objects. It is also reassuring to
know that the model boat of an English Institution which has not only
earned a world-wide reputation for saving life at sea, but in a great
measure makes up for our national shortcomings in this respect, should
have held its own against all comers.

The competition was carried out under difficult circumstances, and
frequent postponements were necessary before the judges could declare
the state of wind and weather to be satisfactory. The successful boat
had to contend with two formidable competitors—the Hodgson Patent
Lifeboat, and one built by Messrs Forrest and Son, of Limehouse; and
the public interest in the experiment was considerably heightened by
the fact that all three boats were exhibited in the International
Fisheries Exhibition and had been examined by many thousands of
persons. The Hodgson Patent Lifeboat in particular excited general
curiosity from its novel construction; and the fact that it was claimed
for it that it was uncapsizable, unimmergible, and reversible, gave
additional interest to its behaviour in the water. It should be added
that the boat in question was built as a ship’s boat, and that it
therefore had to contend under a disadvantage against the heavier and
more serviceable pattern of the Institution. It was, however, almost a
foregone conclusion that both of these boats would fail to wrest the
palm of superiority from the model built on those familiar lines which
have earned such a wonderful reputation off all our coasts and under
the identical conditions of the competition.

Few boats can stand the terrible test of being launched from an exposed
beach through mountains of surf, and fewer still prove manageable
under either oars or sails in broken water. Further, the boats of the
National Lifeboat Institution possess seven qualities which experience
has proved to be essential, and in each of these they have some claim
to be regarded as being as nearly perfect as possible. Thus they are
buoyant, self-discharging, self-righting, stable and with great power
of ballasting; and they possess speed, stowage-room, and strength of
build. It is perhaps in this last respect that they especially excel.
One of the greatest dangers to which lifeboats are exposed is that
of being stove-in against wreck or rocks; and the present pattern of
boat is designed so as to possess the greatest possible strength and
elasticity compatible with portability.

It is, of course, only too true that lifeboat service is, and always
must be, terribly hazardous. Nearly every winter some of the heroes who
man our lifeboats lay down their lives in attempting to save those of
others; but this is happily but seldom the fault of the boat. It may
fairly be contended that human ingenuity has exhausted its resources
in this direction, and that, with certain modifications to suit local
requirements, the pattern of the Lifeboat Institution is the best
possible; and that even when it has to yield the palm in some one or
two particulars, the rare combination of qualities which it possesses
still entitles it to be considered _facile princeps_.

Now that the loss of life at sea is attracting general attention,
the work of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution seems to again
call for marked recognition. At a time when the national conscience
is being awakened to the inefficiency of the shipping laws to secure
a reasonable measure of safety for seamen, it is refreshing to turn
to the sixtieth annual Report of this inestimable society. Practical
benevolence is always attractive; and the facts and figures which the
Institution adduces in order to justify its claim to public support,
certainly point to a vigorous usefulness. Last year, lifeboats were
launched two hundred and eighty-three times, saving seven hundred
and twenty-five lives, and thirty vessels. It may be added that the
number of vessels would doubtless have been greatly increased but
for the imperative orders that the saving of life shall be the first
consideration; and it is only on those comparatively rare occasions
when it can be done without endangering the safety of the crew, that
lifeboats render salvage services. Two hundred and thirty lives were
also saved last year by shore-boats and other means, rewards being
bestowed by this Institution; and this brings up the total of lives
rescued to nine hundred and fifty-five. Further, in the sixty years
ending 31st December 1883, the Institution has been instrumental in
saving thirty thousand five hundred and sixty-three lives, and has
recompensed these noble services by the payment of seventy-seven
thousand nine hundred and eighty-four pounds as rewards, and the
distribution of gold and silver medals. These figures are a sufficient
testimonial to secure a substantial increase of support from a nation
which is nothing if not maritime. Yet it is impossible to regard the
present state of things as wholly satisfactory. It is a great thing
that some hundreds of lives should be saved off our coasts every year;
but it should not be forgotten that some thousands are annually lost.
Thus, in the year 1880-81, two thousand nine hundred and twenty-three
lives were lost in British or colonial vessels off British coasts; and
in the year 1881-82, this number was increased to three thousand nine
hundred and seventy-eight. Later figures are not yet available; but
there is little hope that they will show a decrease. Again, a recent
Board of Trade return shows that the total number of lives lost in
British merchant-ships in the twelve years from 1871 to 1882 inclusive
amounted to thirty-eight thousand seven hundred and twenty-two. These
figures are simply appalling. Doubtless a large proportion of these
poor fellows perished far away from help; but it is within common
knowledge that much can be done, by strengthening the resources of the
Lifeboat Institution, to diminish this terrible mortality.

Let any one take the wreck-charts for a few years past, and note those
districts where clusters of black spots appropriately mark the scene
of fatal wrecks. Let him then turn to the Reports of the Lifeboat
Institution, and see what lifeboats were stationed there, and he
will find that the number of fatalities are in an inverse ratio to
the number of lifeboats. Thus, many stretches of coast which bore a
terrible reputation only a few years back have, chiefly owing to the
increased number and efficiency of the lifeboats stationed upon them,
lately become much less fearful. But the total number of lifeboats
now under the management of the Institution is only two hundred and
seventy-four; and although we have the best reasons for believing that
no effort is spared in this direction, it is notorious that a certain
number of them are very old, if not unseaworthy, craft, which should be
at once replaced by new ones. Indeed, no inconsiderable proportion of
the funds of the Institution is necessarily devoted to these purposes.
Thus, last year, old lifeboats were replaced by new ones at Caister,
Cardigan, Margate, Padstow, Swansea, Winchelsea, and Withernsea; while
wholly new stations were established at Llanaelhaiarn, Mablethorp, Port
Erin, and Aranmore Island. Others are in course of formation. But,
turning to the wreck-chart, it is easy to see at a glance how much
remains to be done.

Legislation of a drastic character, with a view to diminishing
sea-risks, is in contemplation; the necessity of new harbours of
refuge is attracting more attention, and the very recent official
Report in favour of building a harbour at Peterhead commends itself
to everybody. But both these are matters which involve delay. In
the meantime, with our enormously increased tonnage, and with the
heightened competition which practically compels steamships to travel
in any state of weather under the significant orders, ‘Full speed
ahead,’ with the result that collisions are year by year becoming more
frequent and more fatal, it is idle to hope for a decrease in the loss
of life at sea. Our lifeboats have done good work, and will do good
work in the storms to come; but it is a question which will sooner
or later have to be answered, whether the time has not come when, at
every point on the English, Scotch, Welsh, and Irish coasts, fully
equipped and serviceable lifeboats should be ready for use. This is not
only perfectly feasible, but it is a national duty. The time has gone
by when we can afford to be satisfied with an open verdict upon our
drowned sailors and fishermen; and, apart from other considerations,
such as the overloading of vessels, until we have done all that can be
done to render rescue possible, we cannot be content with the selfish
excuse that ‘no one’s to blame.’




IN QUEER COMPANY.


IN TWO PARTS.—PART II.

In the company to which I had been introduced, it was exceedingly
difficult to ask any questions respecting the details, or working, of
what I may call the profession to which all present belonged. But as
the evening wore on, those present became much more communicative than
they had been at first. Welsh-rabbits, devilled kidneys, and other
supper-dishes were called for; and were followed by potations, which,
if not intoxicating, had the effect of loosing men’s tongues, and of
making them talk of what they regarded as past triumphs, and of future
success, which they hoped and believed would come to pass. Some of the
stories related I remembered, and made rough notes of when I went home
that night; but many more I forgot; for with the most earnest intention
in the world, it is almost impossible to recollect tales that are told
one after another, and with not a few interruptions between them.

There was one member of this respectable society to whom I happened
to sit next, and who told me in an undertone that he had once held a
commission in the Indian army. Without appearing to do so, I put in the
course of the evening some half-dozen leading questions to him, and
found that not only was he telling me the truth, but that I remembered
perfectly well the circumstances, some fifteen years previously, which
caused him to be tried by a general court-martial and cashiered. He was
evidently a leading spirit amongst those present. What his real name
is—or rather was, for I learned by accident, a short time ago, that
he was dead—I don’t care to mention. Under the peculiar circumstances
which brought me amongst those I spent the evening with, there may well
be applied the old adage of ‘honour amongst thieves.’ And although
only the younger son of a younger son, this man belonged to a family
of which the head is a respectable baronet, not unknown in either the
political or the fashionable world. But never once, throughout the
whole evening, was this individual addressed by his right name, of
which I am certain the rest of the company were ignorant. In fact, he
never told me in so many words who he really was; it was only when he
mentioned the circumstances connected with his court-martial and said
to what corps he had belonged, that I remembered all about him. He
appeared to be not only very popular, but quite a leading man, and an
authority amongst those present. But it certainly seemed wonderful to
see him, a well-born, well-brought-up man, who had been educated at
Harrow, had afterwards held a commission for some years in the Indian
army, and had risen to the rank of captain, so fallen as to have become
not only a professional thief, but even to glory in his shame.

Throughout the evening, he told stories of his adventures in
rascal-land, which were always listened to, and invariably applauded.
In one of these tales he related how he had, some years previously,
taken lodgings in a well-known street near St James’s Square, calling
himself Lord So-and-so. A ‘pal’ of his, who was ‘in the swim’ with
him, had gone to a certain wealthy gentleman in South Kensington and
had asked for the place of butler, giving a reference to the so-called
‘lord,’ who told the tale with great glee. The gentleman who had
advertised for a butler was known to have in his house a considerable
quantity of plate, and his wife to have a great deal of valuable
jewellery. They were wealthy people, having lately returned from one
of the colonies, where the gentleman had acquired a large fortune. The
latter called upon the would-be nobleman to ask about the character of
the butler.

‘I received him,’ said he who told the tale, ‘with a kindly
condescension and consideration which seemed to please him, and yet to
make him very respectful. I gave Tommy’—the sham-butler—‘an excellent
character, saying that I had only parted with him because I was going
to travel in the East for a couple of years. The party was quite
satisfied, and quite agreeable to take him. Tommy got the place, was
much liked, and remained there about two months. Then’—winking his
eye—‘there was a robbery of plate and jewels to a large amount. Tommy
beat a speedy retreat, and I went to the States; and there Tommy met
me. It was a good thing, a very good thing, was that plant, and a very
simple one too. To this day, I don’t believe the party has any idea
that the noble lord in the West End lodgings was a deceiver. He wrote
to me to say how he had been robbed, and that he feared the butler had
had a hand in the business. I replied—on paper with a coronet, if you
please—that I was very sorry, but could hardly believe my old servant
would have been guilty of such a crime. In these days the police were
not very fly, and the whole affair was soon forgotten.’

Another little adventure of the same kind which this ex-officer related
of himself did not turn out quite so fortunate; or rather, as he
expressed himself, he had ‘very nearly come to grief.’ He had gone to
Paris, put up at a very good hotel, paid his way regularly, and had
purchased from time to time a considerable quantity of jewellery at a
fashionable shop; for which he had, as he expressed it, ‘parted with
the ready’ to the extent of some two hundred pounds. When he thought
that he had won the confidence of the shopkeeper, he ordered a number
of bracelets, necklaces, and earrings, all of great value, to be
sent to the hotel, intending to play off the old trick of taking the
goods into another room for an imaginary lady—who was said to be ill
in bed—to select from, and then to make off with the whole parcel.
But the shopman who took the things to the hotel seemed to have some
misgiving about the intending purchaser, and insisted upon following
the latter into the inner room, where there was no lady at all, either
sick or well. As the individual who told the story said of himself, he
blundered over the affair, and did not deserve to succeed, for he ought
to have secured assistance to work the affair properly. The shopman
got angry and went away, threatening to expose him. But the intending
thief was too sharp for him. He had already paid his hotel bill and had
ordered a cab, so as to be ready for a start. He now took advantage
of these preparations, and drove off to the Calais railway station,
remained there a short time; then ordered another vehicle, made his way
to the St Lazare station, got to Havre, and arrived safely in London.

But his regrets, when he told the story, at having expended two
hundred pounds without making any profit, were curious to hear. Any
one who listened to him, without hearing the first part of his story,
would have imagined that he had lost the money in the most legitimate
speculation. The company who heard his tale condoled with him, as if
he was a merchant who had been unfortunate in some venture that he had
tried and failed.

I was anxious to know what the company I was amongst thought of the
London as compared with the French police in the work of detecting
crime. But under the circumstances, it was a difficult matter to
question them about. I was afraid to ask questions on the subject,
lest I should be thought to display too much curiosity, and should
awaken the suspicions of those amongst whom I was, and so cause them
to suspect I was not one of themselves. But it so happened that I
found the subject made easy for me. The newspapers had very lately
been discussing the details of a robbery of bullion that had taken
place on one of the French railways. To the company amongst whom I
found myself, such a subject was as interesting and as certain to be
discussed as the Two Thousand or the Derby would be at a sporting
club. In this affair the thieves had been successful at first; but so
soon as it became known, the French police had telegraphed to every
seaport in France, and had set themselves to work in Paris to find out
the culprits. They were successful, and managed to lay their hands upon
the three men who had carried out the robbery. But this had been done
in a manner which the company I was amongst that evening stigmatised as
‘sneaking’ and ‘cowardly.’

‘In England,’ said one of those present, ‘the police are hard upon
a fellow when they catch him. But when they are trying to find the
men they want, they are fair and above-board. They have no dirty
spies; they act honourably. You can always tell pretty well when a
plain-clothes officer is after you. But the French have a low, sneaking
way of going to work. You never know but what the landlord of the
hotel, or the waiter, or the porter, or the shopman who brings you a
parcel, may not be a detective in disguise. No; give me Old England to
do business in! Everybody here, even the police, is on the square.’

To this patriotic sentiment (!) there was a universal assent given.

‘Yes,’ said one of the party, who talked a good deal about Paris, and
seemed, from what he said, to have ‘done business’ in that city to some
extent; ‘and that’s not the worst of it. Why, I have known these French
police employ women to spot down a fellow. There was two years ago a
big affair in the Champs-Elysées. The chief hand in it was a New-Yorker
called Johnson. He would have got clean away with everything, had it
not been for a female with whom he associated. He was caught, and got
what they call _travaux forcés_ for ten years. He never could find out
who it was that peached on him. But one of his French pals discovered,
after he was taken, that this woman had been all along in the pay of
the police, receiving money from them as well as from Johnson.—Do you
call _that_ fair-play?’ he asked indignantly; to which a universal cry
of ‘Shame! shame!’ was set up in reply.

There was one thing which struck me very forcibly throughout the
evening I spent in what Frenchmen would call this eccentric company;
and that was, how none of those present ever once compromised
themselves by talking of any future ‘business.’ At anyrate, such
matters were never made a subject of general conversation. For some
time after I first joined the party, I noticed that some one or other
of them would go and talk to another individual in a low tone of voice;
but those who thus spoke to one another evidently took great care that
what they said should not be heard.

In England, we set great value upon the publicity given by the press
to everything that takes place. The company in which I found myself
on this memorable evening—or at anyrate those with whom I spoke on
the subject—praised this national peculiarity as much as, or even
more than, most of us do. They said that the newspaper reports about
‘plants’ and the manner in which robberies are carried out, are, as a
rule, the most utter rubbish; and that the daily accounts of what the
police had or had not done in any particular case were of the utmost
service to them, and virtually kept them informed of what their
enemies, the guardians of society, were doing. The more publicity
given to all cases in which they were concerned, the better prepared
were they to avoid places and persons that might be dangerous to their
safety, from arrest and other troubles. Several of the party expressed
themselves very earnestly to the effect that the English newspapers
would always be allowed to publish the fullest details of what the
police knew in cases of robbery. On the other hand, they abused the
French government in no measured terms for not allowing similar
intelligence to be made public; one of the company asking in a very
sarcastic tone and manner, whether _that_ was republican liberty, which
put a stop to the press telling people facts which had really happened.
From what was said on this subject, it would seem that the gentlemen
who follow the profession of those amongst whom I found myself that
night look upon publicity in all police inquiries as of the greatest
use to them.

In the course of the evening I got my friend who had brought me to the
place to ask one of the party, in a sort of offhand manner, whether he
and his friends were not afraid of a detective officer coming amongst
them and giving information to the authorities of all he saw and heard.
The question was purposely put in a rather loud tone of voice, and at
a moment when there was a lull in the general conversation, so that
others might hear it. For answer, there was returned a general laugh;
and then a burly, somewhat elderly man—who, if I may judge from his
talk, must have had considerable experience in the profession—spoke up.

‘Detectives!’ said he. ‘We don’t fear no detectives here, in London.
We know them all in their plain clothes, just as well as if they wore
uniform. They acts on the square with us. _They_ don’t go a-making of
themselves up to be what they ain’t. They don’t _tell_ us what they
are; but we know ’em well. Just let any one with eyes in his head go
a-loafing round the police courts for a minute or two, and he’ll know
every detective in London.’ After a short pause, this individual—who
was evidently a sort of oracle amongst his fellows—continued: ‘There’s
one thing I will say for the plain-clothes officers, you can’t “square”
them; and it’s no use trying to do so. But then you have them in
another way; you know them at first sight; and it would only be a
duffer of the first water that would allow hisself to be taken in by
them.’

To this my friend replied: ‘Well, there _are_ people who get taken in
by them.’

‘More fools they,’ was the rejoinder. ‘I don’t think you’ll find one of
this ere company who has ever come to trouble through them, unless it
were his own fault.’

As the night advanced, the persons who formed this assembly began to
leave the place, singly and by twos and threes, bringing to a close the
most extraordinary evening it was ever my lot to pass. On leaving the
place, my friend linked his arm in mine, and took me through several
narrow streets, none of which I recognised—crossing and turning very
often—until all of a sudden we found ourselves on the south side of
Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and in a few minutes more were in Fleet Street.
My companion, knowing that I wrote for newspapers and periodicals,
asked me, as a personal favour, not to give any account of the affair
until at least a couple of years should have passed. This I promised
to do. And as more than seven years have elapsed since I passed that
evening amongst the agents of thieves, my promise has not been broken.
As for the person who was my guide that night, I only saw him once or
twice afterwards. He came to call on me in the winter of 1878, and told
me he was about to sail for America, but would not be away more than
four or five months. But from that day to this I have never heard a
word about him, and cannot tell whether he is dead or alive.




SOME INSTANCES OF EASTERN TRADING.


The inevitable necessity that a Levantine or Asiatic feels to ask more
than double the actual value of his goods, and allow himself afterwards
to be beaten down to something less than half what he originally
asked, is a cause of bewilderment to the untravelled Briton, and a
continual sore rankling in the bosom of the unwary tourist who has
fallen a victim. It is not only the unlicensed hawker who takes his
wares on board ships as they put in to the various ports along their
route, and whose prices are merely a speculation as to how great an
extent his customer may be imposed upon; but in the regular shops
and markets, this system of haggling is perfectly recognised; and
a trader who fixed a fair price on his goods, and kept to the one
price, would run considerable risk of losing his entire custom, as
the satisfaction of having beaten down a tradesman, and forced him to
strike off something from his original price, gives an appreciable
flavour to the transaction. As an instance of how ingrained is this
idea of trading, I remember a story a friend of mine in the navy told
me of a Greek messman on board his ship, who was paying his first visit
to England. The first time he went on shore to buy provisions, he was
in a butcher’s shop, and inquired the price of some prime beef he saw
hanging up. ‘Fourteenpence a pound,’ was the reply. ‘I will give you
eightpence,’ said he, in perfect good faith, and without a minute’s
hesitation. This somewhat startled the butcher; and it was only after a
considerable amount of difficulty that the Greek was made to understand
that his system of trading was not in accordance with English ideas.
For long afterwards, he spoke of English shopkeepers as ‘wonderful
people—they have but one price.’

But the ship’s hawker or the small shopkeeper in the East is different.
For a good thorough-paced scoundrel in trade, he carries off the
palm. He looks at his customer, making up his mind how much he may
ask him, which is usually about three times as much as he thinks he
may get, that being about five hundred per cent. beyond the actual
value of the article. The year before last, when I was quartered in
Alexandria, I went into a small _boutique_ to buy a trifle I saw in the
window. I asked the price. ‘Ten francs.’ ‘Nonsense!’ I said. ‘Five,
sir’—‘Two’—‘One franc only.’ Eventually, I bought it for two large
piastres (fourpence-halfpenny). Not a bad instance that of a sudden
fall in the prices.

But it is the passengers by the Peninsular and Oriental Company’s
steamers who are the most readily recognised objects for fleecing
purposes; so much so, that a special expression has been strung
together to denote one of this highly favoured victim band. A few
days after I was sent out to Aden, I had the imprudence to go out
shopping on the day that the Peninsular and Oriental boat called into
that port. I inquired the price of a few ostrich feathers. ‘Seventy
rupees,’ the man said. ‘Do you take me for a Peninsular and Oriental
passenger-fool?’ I asked, having been instructed by old hands as to the
little ways of these innocent Arab dealers, and the proper responses
with which to meet them. ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he replied, and
offered them to me for twenty-five rupees. I got them eventually for
five.

But of all the stories of imposture of this description, none excels
the following, which was told me by my naval friend mentioned above.
Being on his way home from China, the ship put in at one of the Ceylon
ports, and the usual crowd of hucksters invaded the ship. My friend had
gone on shore, and only returned on board about half an hour before
the time fixed for sailing. Coming out on deck, he was accosted by a
be-turbaned, venerable old gentleman, who said he had some valuable
stones for sale, if my friend would only look at them. He opened
his case, and presented for inspection a small number of rubies and
emeralds of various sizes, a fine collection of stones unset—the usual
condition in which they are offered for sale in Ceylon—and said that
the price was thirty pounds, apparently about their actual value out
there. This was a large sum to my friend; so, after admiring the stones
for some time, he said he was afraid he could not spend so much money.
After considerable hesitation, and declaring that he should not make a
penny by the transaction, the dealer lowered his price to twenty-nine
pounds. My friend still considered, and was on the point of offering
twenty-five pounds, as the stones would then have been a really good
bargain, when the trader went down to twenty-eight pounds. My friend
waited, and eventually twenty pounds was reached. A slight suspicion
dawned over my friend’s mind, and on the chance, he looked straight
into the man’s face and said: ‘I will give you a shilling.’ ‘Very good,
sir,’ said the man, pocketed his shilling, handed in his ‘precious
stones,’ and was over the side just in time before the ship got under
weigh. The precious stones were mere glass.




‘JERRY-BUILDING’ IN THE MIDDLE AGES.


It has been generally thought that this peculiar style of building,
that is outward show and inward rottenness, was a modern invention;
but the public will be somewhat astonished to hear that a specimen
of genuine jerry-work has recently been discovered in Peterborough
Cathedral, of all places in the world. It will be remembered that early
in 1883 certain ominous-looking rents and cracks showed themselves in
the great central tower, and in the two eastern of the four great piers
which supported it. After a careful survey by Mr Pearson, the architect
of Truro Cathedral, it was determined at once to take down the tower
itself and these two piers; and it was during this operation that the
amazing discovery was made that these great massive piers, which, with
the two corresponding piers on the west, had to carry the enormous
weight of the tower above, and which, of course, every one had supposed
were of solid masonry, were found to be mere hollow shams—cases, in
fact, so to speak, of Barnack ragstone, with no solid interior beyond a
quantity of loose stones and rubble just thrown in, without mortar or
packing, by which the outer casing of the piers was really weakened,
instead of being in any way strengthened. This system was continued
from top to bottom. Further investigations brought to light the fact
that these great piers did not even rest on proper or firm foundations,
but on sand and loose stones thrown in upon gravel, when a fine
foundation on the solid rock might easily have been secured only two
feet below. The two western piers were now examined, and were found to
have been constructed in the same shameful manner; and it is almost
a miracle that the tower has not collapsed long ago without sign or
warning. Nothing but the strength and tenacity of the Barnack ragstone
prevented so terrible a catastrophe.

All these four piers are now being rebuilt in the most substantial
manner, and founded on the solid rock. The sum of twenty-one thousand
pounds has already been secured for these restorations; but sixty-one
thousand pounds will be required for the entire work, which it is
proposed to raise by general subscriptions.




JULY.


    Scarcely a whisper stirs the summer leaves,
    Or bends the whitening barley; sultry-fierce,
    The July sunshine beats upon the sward,
    The brown-parched sward, whose scorching grass-blades thirst
    For the life-giving rain!
                              The fuchsias droop;
    The full-blown roses drop their withering leaves;
    The thrush sits mute upon the apple-bough;
    A drowsy silence, an unnatural calm,
    Pervades the face of nature!
                                  In the fields,
    The cattle idly lie beside the hedge,
    Seeking for shelter from the sweltering heat;
    The blackbird, tenant of the farmhouse porch,
    Listless and dumb, sits in his wicker cage;
    The house-dog, curled, lies blinking in the sun,
    Careless of passing tramps.
                                Hark! What is that?
    A threatening rumble, muttered, sullen, low,
    In the far-distant sky; a thunder-peal,
    Telling of welcome rain!
                              Anon the drops,
    The thick big drops, in quick succession fall
    Upon the parching earth: the flowers revive;
    The house-dog rises; and the cattle crowd
    Beneath the meadow trees; a gentle breeze
    Springs up, and rustles through the barley-ears;
    The sultry air is cooled: the fresh earth owns
    The power beneficent of healing rain!

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._