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. 30.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, JULY 26, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




A SCOTTISH MARINE STATION.


The ocean has been watched and studied for ages in innumerable
aspects—it has been looked at from points of view wide asunder as the
poles—it has been sung of by poets, and fished in by fishermen, and
sailed over by sailors for thousands of years; but it is still a region
of mystery and wonder. There are very many things about the sea which
are quite unknown to this day; in fact, the science of marine phenomena
is yet in its early youth, only emerging from its infancy. The study of
the physical, chemical, and biological conditions of the sea has always
been surrounded by a sort of halo of romance, a scientific glamour that
almost led men to believe that such research was like fishing—valuable
results might be looked for in return for little labour, if the proper
opportunity could be found. But the opportunity only occurred at wide
intervals, and then the happy few who were fortunate enough to form the
scientific staff of such expeditions as that of the _Challenger_ were
regarded with unmixed envy by the many who were eager to do similar
work if they could get the chance.

The wonders discovered by the chief scientific cruises of recent years
have greatly increased the interest of the public in the science of
the sea, and this public interest has quite lately assumed a tangible
form in the foundation of the Scottish Marine Station for Scientific
Research at Granton, near Edinburgh. To understand the importance and
value of this Station, one must know something of the difficulties
presented to any one who wishes to solve some special problem connected
with the life which swarms in the waters around our coasts. He must
rely on the help of fishermen for collecting specimens; and if he
cannot go to the expense of hiring a boat and crew, he requires to
content himself with any selection of their ‘rubbish’ which they may be
pleased to make. Should he wish to examine any locality minutely, he
must purchase a dredge and tow-nets, leads and lines, and bottles and
boxes to contain the specimens which may be obtained. The difficulty
is only half overcome when the work of collecting is over. It is
impossible to convey the creatures alive to any distance; and after
a few attempts to do so, the naturalist either hires a room in the
fishing-village for his work, or gives up the study of marine life
altogether; unless he steer a middle course, and content himself
with a bare enumeration of species and a description of the external
appearance of his specimens.

The individual who is desirous of making chemical or physical
observations on the wide sea is in a still more evil case. His
apparatus is more costly and more complicated than that of the
biologist; it is less easy to manage in a boat not specially adapted
for the purpose; and the immediate vicinity of a laboratory is of
the first importance. The obstacles, in fact, are so numerous, that
observations of this nature have been almost entirely neglected in
Great Britain. Now and then, it is true, the fire of scientific
enthusiasm burns strong enough in a man to enable him to overcome
all difficulties, and to carry on a brilliant research with complete
success to a satisfactory conclusion. The work of such men is
monumental; but they do not appear many times in a century. The name of
one marine chemist is associated with Edinburgh; it is that of Dr John
Murray, who in the year 1816 made a series of researches on sea-water
collected at Trinity. His work settled a most important point of
theoretical chemistry, and it is referred to as of value to this day.

That the progress of marine research was hindered by the trouble and
expense of carrying it out—and in honesty it must be said that the
latter was always the more powerful deterrent—has long been apparent;
and for many years attempts, more or less successful, have been made
to remedy this state of affairs. In response to energetic appeals
from various learned Societies, government has repeatedly lent
gunboats for scientific purposes, and the _Porcupine_, _Lightning_,
_Triton_, and other ships have done much good work. The culmination
of government enterprise was reached in 1873, when the _Challenger_
was fitted out for an entirely scientific cruise, and circumnavigated
the world investigating the phenomena of the ocean everywhere. How
much was accomplished by the three years’ voyage can only be realised
by those who are familiar with the thirteen large volumes which have
been already published describing the collections and observations;
but the general reader may form an idea of the magnitude of the work
done by reflecting that specialists have been engaged in examining and
describing the collections since the return of the ship in 1876, and
that this work is still in progress.

Since the return of the _Challenger_, a number of short scientific
trips have been made in the vicinity of the British coast by gunboats
and hired vessels; and the results of these have been such as to show
the extreme advisability of something more permanent being set on foot.
The success of the Marine Observatories at Naples and at Marseilles,
and of the small movable laboratory kept up for two summers by the
university of Aberdeen, proved that Marine Stations were practicable
and desirable. It was the consideration of the difficulties in the
way of young men who wished to devote themselves to the examination
of marine phenomena, but who were unable of themselves to meet the
great expense of such work, that led Mr John Murray, Director of the
_Challenger_ Expedition Commission, to start a Marine Station in the
neighbourhood of Edinburgh. A submerged quarry on the shore at Granton,
which quarry has been in communication with the sea for nearly thirty
years, was selected as the site, and a floating laboratory was formally
opened there during the festivities of the Edinburgh University
Tercentenary celebration this spring.

The Marine Station has now been open for several months, and the
working arrangements have attained a certain degree of completeness.
The accommodation which exists at present includes a floating
laboratory, ‘the Ark,’ where zoological, botanical, and chemical work
is being carried on by the permanent staff and other investigators.
There is also a steam-yacht, the _Medusa_, fitted out with all the
arrangements for trawling, dredging, sounding, and taking the other
necessary observations. She is manned by an efficient crew, and has the
advantage of the services of an engineer who was on the _Challenger_
during her scientific cruise. The _Medusa_ is a capital seaboat,
though, from her small size, when in rough weather, she sometimes tries
the sea-going capabilities of the workers. The creatures brought up
by the dredge or trawl are kept alive in boxes, the water in which
must be changed at intervals, though, when there is a heavy sea and a
head-wind, as often happens, this service is performed by the waves,
which break over the bows in magnificent spray showers, very beautiful
to watch from the dry security of the after-cabin. On arriving at
the Ark, the animals are transferred to aquaria or glass dishes, in
which a constant current of thoroughly aërated sea-water can be kept
up, and in these they live very happily. The larger specimens are
usually placed in wire cages moored to the Ark, where they enjoy all
the advantages of life except freedom. For short excursions in the
neighbourhood of Granton, there is a good sailing-boat, the _Raven_;
and work in the haven in which the Ark lies can also be carried on
by the little _Dove_, and the two Norwegian skiffs belonging to the
Station, whose names, _Appendicularia_ and _Asymptote_, are mystifying
to the uninitiated. A row round the quarry at low water reveals the
immense richness of the vegetable and animal life which inhabits
its waters. There are growths of sponges of different colour, with
gracefully interlacing branches like a coral grove, where bright-hued
sea-anemones spread their tentacles, and crabs and other crustacea
crawl and swim about at their pleasure. And not only are the commoner
forms of marine life abundant; rarer species may be found frequently.
The beautiful nudibranch mollusc _Eolus_ lives in the quarry; and the
great fifteen-spined-stickleback builds its nest there, and it has
been seen keeping guard over its door while its mate and young remain
comfortably within.

The work which is being carried on at the Marine Station at present is
divided between four workers. Mr J. T. Cunningham, the naturalist in
charge, is making a research into the development of the Teleostian
fishes, the great group to which most of our food-fishes, such as the
cod, herring, and haddock, belong. Mr J. R. Henderson has commenced to
form a collection of all the animal life of the Firth of Forth; while
Mr John Rattray is proceeding with a similar collection of the algæ or
seaweeds, and is also making a detailed study of the diatoms of the
district, a piece of work which has never previously been attempted. Mr
Hugh Robert Mill has charge of the daily meteorological observations at
the Station, and he is working at the chemical and physical study of
estuary-water, examining the variations in saltness and in temperature
which occur from the fresh water to the open sea, and comparing them at
different seasons. The work at the Station is thus seen to be purely
scientific; and the results which will ultimately be obtained must
be of great practical importance. Any scientific man is welcomed to
work at the Station on special problems, without charge, and several
gentlemen have taken advantage of the privilege.

It may give a better idea of the working of the various departments if
the actual methods employed be shortly described.

Zoological specimens are collected in various ways. The ‘trawl’ is a
wide-meshed net tied up at one end. The net’s mouth is attached above
to a stout wooden beam that unites two iron runners; the lower side
is a strong cable, the ground-rope, which rubs along the sea-bottom.
The fish, alarmed by the ground-rope, rise up and are caught in the
net, which is carried along so rapidly that escape is impossible. In
using the trawl the vessel must steam quickly, and the ground trawled
over must be free from rocks. It is only employed for the capture of
the larger kinds of fish, such as flounders, haddock, and cod. The
‘dredge’ is the true naturalist’s implement. It is a small-meshed net,
closed at one end, and fixed to a rectangular iron frame at the other.
When drawn along, it scrapes the bottom, and brings up everything
that it encounters, mud and shells, and all living creatures that are
not quick enough to get away. After a run over good ground, when the
dredge is hauled up—an operation that is performed on the _Medusa_
by a gun-metal wire-rope and a steam winch—and emptied on deck, the
profusion of animal life that lies in a struggling heap before one is
quite bewildering. There are pectens and oysters, alcyonarians (usually
known as ‘dead-men’s-fingers’), sea-anemones of all sizes and colours,
swimming-crabs and spider-crabs and soldier-crabs, whelks and mussels,
zoophytes and algæ, ascidians (commonly called ‘sea-squirts’), sponges,
sea-urchins, star-fishes of every kind from the magnificent sun-star,
‘rose-jacynth to the finger-tips,’ to the common brittle-star and
‘five-fingers;’ and there are other things more than can be numbered.
The dredge and trawl explore the bottom, but are useless for collecting
specimens from the surface or intermediate depths; and ‘tow-nets’—bags
of muslin or canvas sewn on hoops and drawn after the vessel—are
employed for this purpose. The creatures caught in the tow-net are
usually small; when the contents of the net are placed in a bottle, the
water seems full of bright spots darting about in all directions; but
under the microscope the specks discover themselves to be beautifully
formed crustaceans shining in glassy armour. But the tow-net often
catches larger things. An exquisite transparent _medusa_ or jelly-fish,
its umbrella several inches in diameter, rayed with purple, and
carrying a fringe of graceful pendent tentacles, is often brought on
board its namesake; and hosts of smaller species of these beautiful
creatures are always to be found. It is in the tow-net, too, that the
floating ova of fishes, about which there has been so much discussion
recently, are caught.

The chemical and physical work done at sea is chiefly the collection
of samples of water and the observation of temperature. Water from any
moderate depth is collected by lashing a bottle to the sounding-line
and lowering it to the proper point; the stopper is then pulled out
by a cord and the bottle allowed to fill. The water in the bottle
is not changed in its ascent, as the mouth is narrow and it always
hangs vertically. When the sea is rough or the depth is great, it
is necessary to employ some other means. The ‘slip-water-bottle’ is
convenient for most purposes. It consists of a brass disc covered
with india-rubber, and supporting a central column to which the line
is attached. This is lowered to the required depth, and then a hollow
brass cylinder, open below, but closed above except for a hole that
just allows the line to pass, is allowed to slip down the line. The
base of the cylinder strikes on the rubber-covered disc, and securely
incloses a sample of the water, which is run off by a stop-cock into
a bottle after the whole has been hauled on board. The water must
always be brought to the laboratory in stoppered bottles, which are
entirely filled, and have had the stoppers tied down from the moment of
collecting.

The temperature of surface-water is usually taken by drawing a
bucketful and placing an ordinary bath-thermometer in it for a few
minutes. The precautions of hanging the thermometer in the centre of
the bucket and placing it in the shade must be observed. Temperature
at greater depths may be observed in several ways. Three methods
have been tried at the Marine Station. The first is by means of a
‘cistern-thermometer,’ used by the late Sir Robert Christison for
ascertaining the temperature of the water in the deep Scottish lochs,
which was presented to the Station by Sir Alexander Christison. It
consists of a thermometer, the bulb of which is in the centre of a
conical copper vessel capable of containing about five pints. When
this is lowered into the sea, the water passes through the instrument;
but on hauling up, the valves on the upper side are closed, and it
is brought on board full of water from the greatest depth it had
reached. Experiment shows that the water has not had time to change
its temperature in the few minutes that elapse between collecting it
and reading the thermometer. A more common instrument, though one not
found so suitable for use in shallow water, is the Miller-Casella
thermometer, the form chiefly employed on the _Challenger_. It is
a self-registering thermometer with a maximum and minimum arm,
which register the highest and lowest temperatures met with in each
immersion. As the temperature of the sea almost invariably decreases
with increase of depth, the lowest temperature is considered to be that
of the lowest point reached.

The third form of thermometer has been found the most convenient, and,
with some modification, the best for the purposes of the Station. It
is Negretti and Zambra’s deep-sea thermometer, and its principle is
that when the temperature of the water is attained by the thermometer
the instrument is made to turn over; the mercury column always breaks
at the same point, a contraction near the bulb; the part which
had been beyond the bulb remaining in the inverted tube, which is
graduated so as to show the temperature at the moment of inversion.
Its great advantage is that no subsequent change of temperature
affects the instrument until it is set again. Its great defect is that
it is difficult to be sure when it has turned over. The simple and
ingenious inverting mechanism of Magnaghi is hardly trustworthy; but an
improvement has been effected, in consequence of the experience gained
at the Scottish Station, which makes the turning of the thermometer, or
of any number of thermometers on the same line, a matter of certainty.

The transparency of the water is measured roughly by noting the depth
to which a large white disc continues visible when immersed. In the
course of a trip from Grangemouth to the Isle of May, the colour of the
water was observed to vary from dirty yellow to clear blue-green; and
the disc, at first visible only three feet below the surface, was seen
at a depth of six feet at Inchgarvie, at fifteen feet off Inchkeith,
and at no less than sixty feet a little east of the May. Although the
water of the upper reaches of the firth has been rendered muddy by the
admixture of river-water, that at the May Island remains beautifully
clear.

The routine-work of a biological and chemical laboratory is not of
much interest to most people. For every day of collecting, with its
fresh sea-air and new sea-sights, there must be several spent on the
Ark in preserving the specimens, pressing plants, dissecting, mounting
microscopic objects, observing densities, analysing water, calculating
results, and such things; and all this work does not always tend to
preserve an odourless atmosphere.

It is not intended that the Marine Station shall long continue of its
present small dimensions. The experiment, so far as it has gone, has
been so successful that it is now proposed to erect a large house on
shore near the quarry, where there will be commodious laboratories,
large aquaria, and rooms for the accommodation of the workers. In
the meantime, Mr Irvine of Royston has generously given the use of
an old manufactory which stands close to the sea beside the quarry.
It was formerly used as a tannery, and so contains a number of large
water-tight tanks built in the ground. There is a steam pumping-engine;
and a very simple modification of the existing pipes will secure
the supply of abundance of sea-water. The tanks will be used for
experiments on fish-breeding; and the buildings in the works can be
employed as laboratories without much alteration.

The Marine Station is intended to be a centre from which branches will
extend to other parts of the country. It is in contemplation to erect
a permanent marine observatory on the Clyde; and there will also be a
portable station, probably a floating laboratory on the plan of the
Ark, which can be taken to any part of the coast where it is desirable
to make an extended series of observations.

The Granton Station is, with the exception of an annual grant of three
hundred pounds from the Scottish Meteorological Society, entirely
supported by voluntary subscription; and the heartiness with which the
appeals to the public have been responded to by donations of money,
apparatus, and material, shows how thoroughly the people of Scotland
realise the importance of the work which is being done. The Government
Grant Committee of the London Royal Society has made certain allowances
to the members of the scientific staff for special researches; but this
is not in any sense a government endowment of the Station, the Treasury
having definitely refused to give any money for such a purpose.
Although government support is an extremely desirable thing, the
willing aid of an enlightened public is still better, and the Scottish
Marine Station at Granton has this aid.[1]


FOOTNOTES:

[1] We will be glad to receive and acknowledge any donations in aid of
the Granton Marine Station.—ED. _C. J._, Edinburgh.




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER XXXIX.—THE OTHER SIDE.

It seemed very curious to Madge that she should become the confidant
of those two men, with whose fate that of her mother had been so sadly
associated. She was thrust into the ungracious position of arbiter
between them; she had to decide whether or not the one was false and
treacherous, or the other the victim of his own hasty passion and
self-deceived in his accusations. She was satisfied that Mr Beecham had
spoken under the conviction of the truth of what he told her; and Mr
Hadleigh had just shown her that—if innocent—he could be magnanimous,
by his willingness to meet in friendliness one whom he had so long
regarded as his implacable foe.

The position involved so much in the result to her and to Philip, that
she felt a little bewildered, and almost afraid of what she was about
to hear. But she could forgive: that knowledge steadied her.

Mr Hadleigh with his formal courtesy asked her to be seated. He stood
at the window, and she could see that the white gloom of the coming
snowstorm was reflected on his face.

‘May I inquire where you have met Mr Shield?’

She was obliged to reply as she had done to a question put by Philip,
which, although different, was to the same purport: ‘I may not tell you
yet.’

‘Philip knows that you have met him?’

‘No.’ It was most uncomfortable to have to give these evasive answers,
which seemed to make her the one who had to give explanations. She
observed that Mr Hadleigh’s heavy eyebrows involuntarily lifted.

‘I ought not to have asked. Pardon me.’

Something in his tone and manner plainly showed that he had penetrated
her secret and Mr Beecham’s.

‘I am sorry not to be able to give you a direct answer.’

‘It does not matter,’ he said with a slight movement of the hand, as
if he were putting the whole subject of her acquaintance with Shield
aside. ‘I know, from the exclamation you made a little while ago, that
he has told you with all his bitterness why he and I have not been
friends.’

‘There was no bitterness, Mr Hadleigh, but much sadness.’

‘I am pleased to hear it, and I will try to give you my explanation in
the same spirit. First about George Laurence. I never heard his name
until after my marriage; and it is therefore unnecessary to say that
when I did hear it, and learned the nature of his former relations with
my wife, it was not possible for me to receive him in my house, or for
him to regard me as a desirable acquaintance. There were unfortunate
consequences following upon this peculiar position; but they may pass.
They made my life a hard and solitary one.’

He paused, and as he looked out into the dull atmosphere, the vague
stare in his eyes, as if he were seeking something which he could not
see, became pathetic. Madge began to understand that expression now,
and the meaning of the melancholy, which was concealed from others
under a mask of cold reserve. She sympathised, but could say nothing.

‘I never spoke to the man, and saw him only a few times. But
acquaintances of mine, who thought the news would be agreeable to me,
told me of his ways of life and predicted the end, which came quickly.
The mistake made by Philip’s mother and Mr Shield was in believing
that it was not until after her marriage that Laurence neglected his
business and took to dissipation. Men who had known him for several
years previous to that date informed me that his habits were little
altered after it. Nights spent in billiard-rooms and other places;
days wasted on racecourses and his fortune squandered. He attempted to
retrieve all by one daring speculation. Success would have enabled him
to go on for a longer or shorter time, according to the use he made of
the money; failure meant disgrace and a charge of fraud. He failed, and
escaped the law by taking poison.’

‘Are you sure of this?’ ejaculated Madge, startled and shocked by this
very different version of the sentimental story she had heard.

‘I will show you the newspaper report of the inquest, and a copy of the
accountant’s report to the creditors on what estate was left. They will
suffice to satisfy you that there is no error in anything I have said.’

‘Why was it that Mr Shield, who was his most intimate friend, knew
nothing of this?’

‘He must have known something, but not all. His ways were quiet and
studious, and what he did see, he did not regard with the eyes of
experience. I do not think that Laurence attempted to deceive him; for
men who fall into his course of life soon become blind to its evils and
consequences; and so, without premeditation, he did deceive him. Mr
Shield, being a man as passionate in his friendships as in his hates,
would listen to no ill of his friend. But there is one thing more which
I have never repeated, and never until now allowed any one over whom I
had influence to repeat. You, however, must learn it from the lips of
one who witnessed the scene.’

He rang the bell, and Terry the butler appeared. It was one of Mr
Terry’s strict points of discipline in his kingdom below stairs that
without his sanction no one but himself should answer the drawing-room
bell. Obeying a motion of the master’s hand, he advanced with a portly
gravity becoming the dignity of his office.

‘You were an attendant in the Cosmos Club about the date of my
marriage?’ said the master.

‘I was, sir, then, and for six months before, and a good while after.’

‘You recollect what was said about the marriage a few evenings after it
took place?’

‘Perfectly, sir, because you told me to write it down, as you thought
some day it might be useful to you.’

‘The day has come. Tell us what you heard.’

‘There was a small dinner-party in the strangers’ room, and I had
charge of it. The gentlemen were particularly merry, and in fact
there was a remarkable quantity of wine used. Your marriage, sir, was
mentioned; and Mr Laurence, who was the gayest of the company, although
he took less wine than any other gentleman, proposed the health of the
happy couple. I recollect his very words, sir. He says: “I was in the
swim for the girl myself; but this beggar, Hadleigh, cut me out; that
was luck for me, so here’s luck to them;” and the toast was drunk with
perfect enthusiasm. Mr Laurence made away with himself some time after;
and I heard the gentlemen whisper among themselves, when referring to
the sad event, that it was a question of doing that or of doing a spell
of penal servitude. That’s all, sir.’

The master nodded: Mr Terry bowed and retired with the portly gravity
with which he had entered.

Mr Hadleigh turned to Madge. The butler’s story produced the effect
desired: she was convinced, for she felt sure that no man who loved
could speak so lightly—or speak at all—of the woman he loved in a
company of club bacchanalians.

‘But why did you not tell this to Mr Shield?’ was her reproachful
exclamation.

‘Because he would not listen to anything I had to say. From the time
of the marriage until after the death of Laurence, we never met. Then
he came to me, mad with passion, and poured out a volley of abuse. I
was patient because he was her brother; and silent because it was as
hopeless to expect a man drunk with rage to be reasonable as one drunk
with alcohol. In his last words to me he accused me of murder. We have
never spoken together since.—Do you think me guilty?’

‘I do not believe it,’ she replied decisively; ‘nor would he have
believed it, if what you have told me had been made known to him in
time.’

‘I am grateful to you,’ said Mr Hadleigh, bending his head; ‘but I
perceive you do not know Mr Shield. Time and solitude alter most men,
and they must have had a peculiar effect upon him to have enabled him
to make such a deep impression on you. He used to be obstinate to the
last degree, and once he had formed an opinion, he held to it in spite
of reason.’

‘He must be changed indeed, then, Mr Hadleigh. I am sure that when he
had had time to think, he would have understood it all but’——

She paused; and his keen eyes rested searchingly on her troubled face.

‘I know what you would say, and I see that you have doubted me. Ah
well, ah well; it is a pity; but that, too, shall be made clear to you,
I trust.’

She looked up again hopefully.

‘Oh, if you will do that!’ The tone was like that of an appeal.

‘It can be done, I think.... You have been told that it was I who, in
my enmity to Shield, took advantage of his long absence and silence to
set abroad the report that he was married. I did not. The story was on
the tongue of everybody hereabouts for months, and I, like the rest,
believed it. There are only two men who would have said that I spoke
the falsehood—the one is the man who invented it; the other is Shield
himself.’

‘You knew the man?’

‘I did.’

‘Then why, why did you not denounce him in time?’

‘Because I did not know him until after your mother’s wedding; and then
I thought she would learn the truth only too soon for her peace of
mind.’

‘How did you discover him, then?’

‘The scoundrel revealed himself. He came to me, and insolently told me
that, knowing the state of affairs between Shield and me, he thought
he would do me a good service. So he had given him a blow which he
would not get over in a hurry. I knew something of the man, and at once
suspected his meaning. I inquired how he had struck the blow; and he
explained that it was he who had brought about matters so that when
Shield came home he found his sweetheart already married to somebody
else.’

Poor Madge was weeping bitter tears in her heart, but there were none
in her eyes: they were full of eagerness and wonder. She was drawing
nearer and nearer to the truth, which would enable her to effect the
purpose Philip so much desired.

‘It is the advantage of my nature,’ Mr Hadleigh went on calmly, ‘that
I can listen to a scoundrel without losing temper. On this occasion, I
asked how he knew that Shield had returned. “I have seen him,” he said;
“and he is cut up enough to please even you. Now, having done this
job for you, I expect you to give me something for my trouble.”—“How
much?”—“A hundred is not too much to ask for the satisfaction of
knowing that your bitterest foe has got it hot.”—I asked him to write
down that he had been the first to report in the village that Austin
Shield was married, although at the time he had no authority for the
statement.—“That looks like a confession,” he said.—“Exactly. I mean it
to be one.”—After thinking for a moment, the fellow said: “All right;
it won’t matter to me, for to-morrow I am off to the diggings.”’

Mr Hadleigh stopped and looked out at the window again, as if the scene
he was recalling even now filled him with indignation. He resumed:

‘When he had written the memorandum and signed it, I told him my
opinion of his villainous transaction, and threatened to have him
horsewhipped through the village. At the same time I rang the bell.
Although disappointed, “Bah!” said he; “I always thought you were a
sneak, without the pluck to give the fellow who hates you a hiding.
Shield has the right stuff in him; he gave me the money for telling him
that you employed me to tell the lie. That paper you swindled out of
me isn’t worth a rap. You have no witnesses.”—He got out of the room
before I could reach him, and escaped pursuit.... He was right; the
paper was useless to me.’

‘Who was the man?’

‘Richard Towers. Your aunt will tell you what a scamp he was.’

‘But what motive could he have for such a cruel wrong?’

‘Unknown to Shield, he was his rival; and it was his own satisfaction
he sought in spreading the falsehood, as it was his own interests he
served by endeavouring to make capital of it out of both Shield and me
by playing upon the unfortunate misunderstandings between us.’

Madge was now calm and thoughtful. She, too, saw what a powerless
instrument the villain’s memorandum was unless it could be proved that
he had written it. Who would not say Mr Hadleigh himself had written
it, to escape blame?

‘Have you got the memorandum still?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Will you give
it to me?’

‘But it is useless, except to satisfy those who trust me that I had no
part in the disgraceful affair.’

‘It is not quite useless, Mr Hadleigh. There are letters bearing that
man’s name amongst my grandfather’s papers, and Mr Shield can compare
the handwriting. That will be enough to assure him that you are
blameless, even if he be so ungenerous as you imagine. Give me the
paper.’

A clever thought; and Mr Hadleigh was struck by her quickness in seeing
it and the energy with which she took up his cause. He did not know
that she was working for Philip.

‘You will make a good advocate,’ he said with that far-off look in his
eyes. ‘You shall have the paper. It is in the safe in my room.’

‘Thank you, thank you! I will wait here till you send it to me.’

(_To be continued._)




THE LARGEST STATUES IN THE WORLD, ANCIENT AND MODERN.


A piece of interesting news comes to us from Egypt regarding a
discovery recently made in Lower Egypt, by Mr Flinders Petrie, of
the fragments of a colossal statue of King Rameses II., which,
calculating the height from the fragments which remain, must have stood
considerably over one hundred feet in height! The material employed
is granite; and the executing of such a work in such a material, and
when completed, rearing it into position, must have involved a profound
knowledge not only of high art but of engineering skill. Is it possible
that the statue could have been cut out whole in one piece? If so, what
lever-power did the Egyptians possess to raise such an enormous weight
into a perpendicular position?

Certain it is that these ancient builders knew well how to get over,
and did get over, prodigious difficulties, as witness their obelisks,
and the enormous stones which compose the platform of the magnificent
Temple of the Sun at Baalbec. As there is no stone quarry near, how
these vast stones could possibly have been conveyed thither in the
first place, and then raised to their position, has been an enigma
to all modern architects and engineers by whom the temple has been
critically examined, and who have freely confessed that, even with all
our modern science of steam-cranes, hydraulic jacks, and railways,
the transport and raising of such immense cyclopean masses would have
undoubtedly presented many serious difficulties, if indeed it could be
accomplished at all.

Many of our readers will doubtless remember Mr Poynter’s grand picture
in the Royal Academy of London, a few years ago, entitled ‘Israel in
Egypt.’ It represented an enormous mass of sculpture mounted on a
wheeled truck, dragged along by hundreds of the unfortunate captive
Israelites, who are smarting under the whips of their cruel drivers.
Mr Poynter had good authority for his ‘motive-power’ as shown in his
picture. So far as we can discover from ancient works or ancient
sculptures, the hugest stone masses were transported mainly by force of
human muscles, with few mechanical expedients. Levers and rollers seem
to have been almost, if not altogether, unknown. The mass was generally
placed on a kind of sledge, the ground over which it was to pass
lubricated with some oily substance, and the sheer strength of human
shoulders was then applied.

The most colossal and by far the most remarkable statue of modern
days is that most elaborate and rather eccentric gift of the French
nation to the people of America. Not only is it remarkable for its
enormous height and gigantic proportions, but for the very singular
and ingenious manner in which it has been constructed, so singular,
indeed, that at first sight it is somewhat difficult to comprehend the
manner in which it has been built up piece by piece, especially when
we mention that the several pieces of copper composing the figure have
_not_ been cast. How, then, have they been made? This we will try to
explain.

The statue is a female figure of Liberty, having on her head a crown,
and holding aloft in her hand a torch. The figure is one hundred and
five feet high; but, reckoning the extreme height to the top of the
torch, the marvellous altitude of one hundred and thirty-seven feet
nine inches is reached. The statue is to be reared on a pedestal of
solid granite eighty-three feet high, so that the entire work will
rise to the immense height of two hundred and twenty feet nine inches!
The artist is M. Bartholdi (the family name, by-the-bye, of the great
composer best known as ‘Mendelssohn’).

Having first carefully constructed a model in clay about life-size,
this was repeatedly enlarged until the necessary form and size were
obtained. The next step was to obtain plaster-casts from the clay,
and these casts were then reproduced by clever artists in hard wood.
The wooden blocks were then in their turn placed in the hands of
coppersmiths, who by the hammer alone, it is stated, gave the copper
sheets the exact form of the wooden moulds or models; and thus, in this
peculiar and laborious manner, the outside copper ‘skin’ of the statue
was formed and, to all outward appearance, completed. But as the copper
is only one-eighth of an inch thick, an inner skin is also provided,
placed about a foot behind the first, whilst the intermediate space
will be filled in with sand, especially at the lower extremities, to
give the whole a steadfast foundation.

The stability of the figure will not, however, be left to depend
solely on these sheets of thin copper and loose sand; and therefore
the interior, from top to bottom, will be strengthened by a framework
of girders and supports, by which the whole will be knit together in
one firm, compact, unyielding mass. As the sheets of copper and the
interior framework are simply secured in the ordinary manner by rivets,
when it is desired to remove this metallic mountain, all that has to
be done is to unrivet the several plates, take down, and pack on board
ship for New York.

It is proposed to place this gigantic ‘Liberty’ on Bedloe’s Island,
a very small islet lying about two miles south of the Battery and
Castle Garden, the lowest point of the island of Manhattan on which
the city of New York is built, so that travellers approaching the city
by water on that side will get a fine view of the statue of ‘Liberty
enlightening the World.’

This mighty work of art, after many years of close and anxious
labour, has recently been formally handed over by M. Jules Ferry to
the minister of the United States, as a free gift from the people of
France to the people of America—a token of love and admiration from
the one republic to the other—and measures are being adopted to take
the statue to pieces, with a view to its immediate transmission to New
York, in which go-ahead city we shall doubtless soon hear of its final
erection.

If Mr Flinders Petrie’s discovery of the remains of the gigantic statue
of Rameses II. in Lower Egypt, one hundred feet high of solid granite,
is the largest statue of antiquity, the ‘Liberty’ of M. Bartholdi may
certainly take rank as the most colossal production of modern days.




A GREENROOM ROMANCE.


IN THREE SCENES.—SCENE I.

Mr Percy Montmorency was seated in front of a looking-glass in his
dressing-room at the Pantheon Theatre, habited in the costume of
Charles Surface, with the perruquier in attendance. The name of
‘Montmorency’ was merely a _nom de théâtre_ assumed by Harry Stanley
when he adopted the somewhat singular resolution of ‘fretting and
strutting his hour’ on the boards of a metropolitan theatre; for
Mr Stanley was the only child of his father Colonel Stanley, and
consequently heir to that gallant officer’s estates in Yorkshire
and elsewhere. For the rest, he was three-and-twenty, undeniably
good-looking, and endowed with considerable abilities. Having completed
the arrangement of the powdered wig, the perruquier withdrew a pace and
contemplated the effect with well-simulated admiration. ‘Mr Charles
Mathews never looked the part better, sir.’

The actor seemed to coincide in the opinion of his flattering
attendant, for he rose, and surveyed himself in the glass with
admiration, which he made no attempt to conceal.

‘A good house, Jackson?’

‘Capital, sir. But a little cold. They’ll warm up when _you_ go on,
sir.’

‘Tell the call-boy I want him, Jackson.’

Jackson withdrew; and Montmorency surrendered himself to a mental
soliloquy, which assumed somewhat of this form: ‘I wonder what my
father wishes to see me about? The same old story, I suppose—the folly
and wickedness of the step I have taken. Well, of one thing I am
certain: I am much better off in my present position, than wedded to
that Barbadoes girl, Miss Anstruther, in spite of her money-bags, and
whom I have never seen.’

These reflections were put an end to by the entrance of the call-boy.

‘If a gentleman giving the name of Colonel Stanley should call, show
him in here.’

‘He is outside, sir,’ replied the boy.

‘Show him in at once,’ whereupon there entered a small wizen-faced old
gentleman, with snow-white hair, and supporting himself on a stick.
Montmorency advanced, shook hands with a great show of cordiality, and
placed a chair, on which Colonel Stanley slowly seated himself, gazing
round the small apartment with an unfeigned expression of curiosity.
‘So this is a theatrical dressing-room. You are pretty snug.’

The room certainly deserved the encomium of the old colonel. Paintings
in oil and water colours nearly covered the walls; fancy pipes and
cigar-boxes and scent-bottles littered the tables; a case of champagne
reposed in one corner, while in the other was a small pile of seltzer
water.

The colonel, after indulging in a sigh, proceeded: ‘I have called,
Harry, before I return to Yorkshire, to make one more appeal to you to
give up your present mode of life, settle down as a landed proprietor
in your native county, and marry Miss Anstruther.’

It was now the turn of the young man to sigh as he replied:
‘Impossible, my dear sir. I am already wedded—to the stage.’

‘That may be; but unions can easily be dissolved by a divorce,
especially in these days.’

‘Not where the contracting parties are so attached to each other as
I am to my profession. No, sir. If a man could take a wife on lease,
for seven, fourteen, or twenty-one years, the case would be different.
But the feeling that my lot in life was fixed—cut and dried, so to
speak—the matter won’t bear a thought.’ The young man felt strongly
inclined to indulge in a stage-walk, but the limited area of the
apartment forbade such a physical relief. If the reader should consider
the remarks of the actor somewhat flippant, it must be borne in mind
that no one whose character did not fall under that definition would
have acted as Harry Stanley had done.

The old man scowled as he resumed: ‘I wonder you can respect yourself,
dizened out and painted like a mummer at a pantomime.’

‘I am of the same calling as the glory of England, Shakspeare the
actor’——

‘And poet—you forget that, sir—poet, sir,’ sharply retorted the colonel.

‘I can assure you, sir, we have men of good family playing very
small parts to-night. Trip took honours at Oxford, and Backbite is a
Cambridge man.’

‘Pray, sir,’ replied the colonel, ‘if that be the case, why do you all
sail under false colours? Why resign the honoured name of Stanley for
the Frenchified one of Montmorency?’

The young man bowed as he responded: ‘Out of deference to the shallow
scruples of the narrow-minded portion of Society.’

‘Of which I constitute a member, eh?’

It was in a more conciliatory tone that his son took up the argument.
‘Pray, sir, let me ask you a question. Do poets and novelists never
adopt a _nom de plume_? Did not Miss Evans style herself “George
Eliot;” the late Governor-general of India, “Owen Meredith;”
Mademoiselle de la Ramée, “Ouida;” Dickens, “Boz?”’

‘That’ll do,’ interrupted the colonel. ‘Then one fine day you will be
falling in love, as you call it, with one of these artful and painted
sirens, and I shall find myself grandfather to a clown or a pantaloon!
For, of course, you will bring up your offspring to _the_ profession,
as you call it, as if there were no other profession in the world.’

His son and heir drew himself proudly up as he replied: ‘No, sir; I
trust I shall never forget that I own the honoured name of Stanley.’

The colonel remained silent for several moments ere he observed: ‘I
shall never understand why you declined even to see Miss Anstruther.’

‘Because the very fact that the lady was labelled my future wife,’
replied his son, ‘would have caused me to detest her at first sight.’

The old colonel rose from his seat. ‘I can see very plainly that I am
wasting both your time and my own.—I suppose you will have to do a
little “tumbling” presently?’

‘I do not make my first entrance till the third act. If you will go in
front, you can have my box.’ Montmorency rang the bell as he spoke, and
when the call-boy appeared, directed him to show his visitor into box A.

The actor was indulging in a sigh of relief, when a head appeared at
the half-closed door, and a voice exclaimed: ‘May I come in?’

Montmorency bounded from his chair as he seized hold of the extended
hand and drew the owner into the room. The new-comer was a young man
of about the same age as the actor, and was habited in modern evening
dress. Montmorency wrung the hand of his friend Vallance, and forced
him into a seat. ‘Delighted to see you, Jack! Have a weed and a
seltzer?’

In a few seconds the two young men were similarly occupied, and
immersed in the consumption of a couple of choice Partagas.

The actor opened the ball. ‘You must have met an elderly party in the
passage. That was the governor. He is very irate because I won’t fall
in love by word of command, and marry Miss Anstruther, whom I have
never seen.—By-the-bye, _you_ have seen her. What is she like?’

‘A lovely girl,’ replied Vallance. ‘I met her at a ball at Scarborough,
soon after her arrival from the West Indies. Faith, Harry, you might do
worse.’

‘And might do better; eh, Jack? But your ideas of beauty are so
opposite to mine, as I remember of old. Now, if you wish to see a
perfect vision of loveliness, go in front and see Fonblanque, the Lady
Teazle of to-night.’

‘You mean _Miss_ Fonblanque, I presume?’

‘Exactly. The prefix “Miss” is frequently omitted in theatrical
parlance. She is bewitching!’

Vallance shakes his head. ‘Have a care, Harry. It would be a pity if
you allied yourself with some unknown adventuress, after refusing the
rich Miss Anstruther.’

‘Well, to be candid, Jack, I _am_ afraid of myself. If I did not
constantly call to my mind the fact that I am a Stanley, I should
speedily succumb to the charms of the divine Fonblanque, so there is
some benefit arising from birth after all.’

‘And how long do you mean to pursue this mad freak of yours?’ inquired
Vallance.

‘Till I hear on good authority that the troublesome Miss Anstruther is
engaged, or married.’

‘And then?’

‘Why, then I quit the mimic stage as suddenly as I entered upon it.’

‘Meanwhile!’ ejaculated Vallance with an incredulous smile.

‘Meanwhile,’ replied Montmorency loftily, ‘I contribute to the “gaiety
of nations,” as Johnson said of Garrick; and therefore consider myself
a far better member of society than a successful general, who has
killed so many hundreds of his fellow-mortals; or a lawyer, who has set
whole families by the ears in order to fill his pockets; or a doctor,
who, as Tobin says, spends the greater part of his time in writing
death-warrants in Latin.’

Vallance examined his finger-nails for a few seconds, and after an
embarrassing pause, said: ‘Harry, I am about to make a confession.’

‘I cannot promise you absolution, Jack.’

Vallance proceeded: ‘On the memorable night when I first beheld Miss
Anstruther at the ball at Scarborough, I fell over head and ears in
love with her.’

‘You fell in love with her, did you!’ repeated Montmorency, in a tone
of some annoyance. ‘You mean with her banking account. Remember, you
are in the confession box.’

‘On my honour, no!’ replied Vallance. ‘As you are aware, I could not
afford to marry a penniless girl; but if I were as rich as Rothschild,
and Miss Anstruther a pauper, I would marry her to-morrow, if she would
have me.—You do not seem to like the idea?’

‘Humanity is a strange compound, Jack. It grates upon my sense of
propriety that any one else should step into my shoes and wed the woman
intended for my wife, yet whom I have vowed never to marry.’

‘Why, what a dog in the manger, you are!’

‘I would not so much mind if a stranger were to win the heiress; but
to know her as your wife, Jack, for the remainder of my existence, to
repent probably of my obstinacy—— You are not in earnest, Jack?’

‘Ah, but I am!’ replied Vallance, inwardly murmuring: ‘May I be
forgiven the lie!’

After a brief mental struggle, Montmorency continued: ‘Well, success
attend you. You are a lucky fellow to walk off with such a prize; while
I—I shall remain a humble stage-player.’

‘Remember the peerless Fonblanque, Harry.’

‘Ah! you are right. There is beauty, talent, wit, elegance, refinement,
all enshrined in the admirable Lady Teazle of to-night. I shall now no
longer hold back. To-night I shall know my fate. You have applied the
touchstone.’

The shrill voice of the call-boy now uttered the words ‘Charles
Surface.’

‘There is my call. So adieu for the present. Go in front, and call for
me at the end of the show; and we will have a steak at the _Albion_
together, and drink to the speedy nuptials of my _bête noire_, Miss
Anstruther.’

‘With whom?’

‘Any one! I care not—no offence, Jack—so I am free.’

Vallance proceeded straight to box A, and having tapped at the door,
found himself face to face with Colonel Stanley, who eagerly exclaimed:
‘Well, Vallance, has my plan succeeded?’

‘I fear not, sir.’

‘Give him a second dose the first opportunity. I never knew it fail.
If you want to make a man fall in love with a particular woman, tell
him she is half engaged, and she will instantly go up twenty per cent.
in his estimation. That is how I came to marry his mother. Directly
my father told me that Fred Spencer was mad after her, and that she
was half inclined to marry him, I rushed to the attack, stormed the
fortress, and carried off the prize! _I_ wasn’t going to let that puppy
Spencer march off with her. A fellow with not a tithe of my personal
recommendations.’ Here the colonel paused, as he beheld the countenance
of his auditor completely engrossed with the scene; for in the lovely
Lady Teazle of the play, Jack Vallance had recognised the West Indian
heiress, Emily Anstruther!


SCENE II.

Along one of the tortuous passages leading to the dressing-rooms, a
gentleman is conducting a lady, preceded by the dresser. They have
evidently come from the audience part of the theatre, as they are
both in modern evening dress. Presently the dresser pauses at a door,
and after tapping, enters; and returns to invite the lady to invade
the sacred precincts of the dressing-room of Miss Fonblanque, the
representative of Lady Teazle. After a few whispered words to her
escort, the lady accepts the invitation, and in another moment is
clasped in the embrace of the actress. ‘My dear Julia!’

‘My darling Emily!’

Certainly, Lady Teazle fully deserved the rapturous praises of
Montmorency. Her lovely dark eyes shone all the brighter from the
contrast to the powdered wig; while her splendid figure was displayed
to the utmost advantage by means of her handsome brocaded dress.

‘And so you recognised me under these tinsel robes, Julia?’

‘Your voice is unmistakable; I should have known it anywhere,
Emily.—When do you intend to return to your own sphere?’

‘First tell me, Julia, how you managed to penetrate these sacred
precincts?’

‘Oh! my husband, who knows everybody, said he could at once accomplish
it, directly I told him you were my old schoolfellow at Barbadoes.—Now,
answer me my question, there’s a dear!’

‘I _have_ found my proper sphere; I am free, popular, and admired.
Instead of one admirer, I have hundreds, and the number is increasing
nightly. What can woman wish for more?’

‘I’ll tell you, Emily: a nice husband, and domestic bliss.’

The actress indulged in a scarcely audible sigh. ‘That might have been
my lot. I mean the domestic bliss part of the affair, if I had not had
it dinned into my ears from morning till night that there was only one
road to happiness—a union with Mr Stanley, whom I have never seen.’

‘You might have liked him very much.’

‘Impossible, my dear Julia. The very fact of a man being ticketed like
a prize animal at a show, and then his being introduced to you as your
certain and future husband, would be quite sufficient to make me detest
him.—No, Julia; when _I_ marry, I will myself make the selection, and
he must be one who is ignorant that his intended is a rich heiress.’

‘That will not be a very easy matter to accomplish, Emily.’

‘Listen, Julia, and I’ll tell you a secret. There is a young man
acting in this company—a Mr Percy Montmorency. He is all I could
wish—handsome, clever, accomplished, and vastly agreeable.’

‘Then you have _made_ your selection?’

‘Not so, Julia. His profession renders our union impossible. He may
be heir to a peerage; he may be a lawyer’s clerk. There is the most
delightful mystery as to our antecedents, we play-actors! For instance,
who would suppose that I was the rich West Indian heiress, who utilised
her amateur theatrical talents, and adopted her present profession? And
all in order to escape being pestered into an unwelcome and distasteful
marriage. Heigh-ho! I wish I had never seen this captivating fellow.’

Mrs Sydney sighed as she rejoined: ‘Ah, Emily, there is the danger
of your present mode of life. Before you know where you are, finding
yourself over head and ears in love with some handsome fellow, even of
whose very name you are ignorant. As to the position in society of his
progenitors, that is a point which would require the research of the
Society of Antiquaries.’

The actress looked solemnly in the face of her friend, and taking both
her hands within her own, replied: ‘Julia, there is a fascination in
the life of a successful actress, of which you can form no conception.
There is the delight of selecting the costume you are to wear on
the eventful evening. No trifle to a woman, as you will admit. Then
there is the actual pleasure of wearing it, not for the sake of some
half-dozen friends, whose envy in consequence is a poor reward, but the
object of admiration to hundreds of spectators nightly! Then, instead
of monotonous domesticity, executing crewel-work to the accompaniment
of the snoring in an armchair of a bored husband, we have the nightly
welcome from a thousand pair of hands, and the final call before the
curtain amidst an avalanche of flowers! Your name on every tongue,
your photo. in every print-shop in London, and your acts and deeds the
subject of conversation at every dinner-table in the metropolis!’

Mrs Sydney shook her head with a melancholy smile as the actress
finished her oration. ‘I am still unconverted, Emily.’

‘Quite right, Julia. If we were all actresses, there would be no
audiences.’

The inexorable call-boy here put a compulsory finish to the interview
between the two friends, with the words ‘Lady Teazle.’


SCENE III.

Montmorency was seated in the greenroom at the conclusion of the play,
engaged in that absent train of thought known as a brown-study. The
more he saw of the fascinating Fonblanque, the more he was captivated.
Every hour spent in her society but served to rivet more closely the
chain which bound him to her. Should he condescend and make her an
offer of his hand, she would naturally be influenced by a profound
sense of gratitude, when she discovered that she had married a man
of fortune and a Stanley! Whereas, if he had married the rich Miss
Anstruther, he would have had her money-bags perpetually thrown in his
face. A silver-toned utterance fell on his ears. Looking up, he beheld
the subject of his cogitations.

‘Allow me to congratulate you, Mr Montmorency, on your Charles Surface
this evening. A double call before the curtain, and well deserved.’

‘You are pleased to flatter me. The plaudits of the house to-night
render any praise on my part of your Lady Teazle unnecessary. I regret
that I am fated to lose so charming a compatriot.’

Was it fancy that Montmorency imagined he detected a paler tint on the
cheek of the actress, as she replied: ‘You are not going to leave us?’

‘I fear so.’

‘Wherefore?’

‘You are the last person to whom I can confide the cause of my sudden
departure.’

Lady Teazle cast down her lovely eyes for a brief space, and then,
in a voice in which the smallest possible _tremolo_ was perceptible,
whispered: ‘Are you not happy here?’

‘I fear, too much so,’ sighed Montmorency. ‘I have been living in a
fool’s paradise lately.’

‘How? In what way, Mr Montmorency?’

‘I am in love.—You start. You do not believe in an actor, who is always
simulating affection, ever falling under the influence of a real and
veritable passion.’

‘You wrong me; indeed, you do. The artistic nature is, and must be,
more acutely sensitive than that possessed by ordinary mortals. Do I
know the lady?’

‘You see her every day—when you contemplate those charming features
in the glass. Yes; it is _you_, Miss Fonblanque, whom I love, whom I
adore!’

How can we describe the flood of sensations which agitated the bosom of
the heiress, as she listened to the avowal of affection from the lips
of the only man she had ever loved! In low and trembling tones, she
managed to reply: ‘Mr Montmorency, you are not rehearsing a scene in
some new comedy?’

‘I was never more serious in my life.’

By this time, the pride of the Anstruthers had come to the assistance
of the heiress. ‘I grieve very much that I cannot accept your offer. It
is impossible.’

‘Impossible! Why?’

‘That I cannot explain.’

‘We are both members of the same profession, and so far equal.’

‘Pardon me,’ said Lady Teazle. ‘You know nothing of my antecedents,
and’——

‘And you know nothing of mine, you would say. Charming equality! Say,
Miss Fonblanque, may I hope?’

It was now the turn of the actress to sigh. ‘It would be cruel to raise
hopes which can never be realised.’

Montmorency let fall the hand which in his ardour he had seized, and
drew himself proudly up. ‘That is your fixed answer?’

‘It is.’

Montmorency once more took possession of her taper fingers, and raising
them to his lips, uttered the word ‘Farewell!’ and hastily left the
greenroom.

The dark melting eyes of the heiress gazed after his retreating figure,
and large drops of moisture gathered in them. ‘I have half a mind to
call him back,’ she mentally whispered.—‘No! I must remember I am an
Anstruther.’

Sinking on a couch, Lady Teazle felt her brain spinning round; then
presently raising her eyes, she beheld—Mr Vallance!

‘Have I not the honour of speaking to Miss Anstruther?’

‘Since you recognise me, it would be affectation to deny my identity.
Mr Vallance, may I ask you to preserve my secret?’

‘From all save one individual—Mr Montmorency. Surely you knew that in
the Charles Surface of this evening you beheld your rejected lover, Mr
Stanley?’

A film came slowly over the eyes of Miss Anstruther. ‘You are not
joking, Mr Vallance?’

‘The matter is too serious for jesting. But I will break a confidence.
He loves you. He told me so half an hour ago.’

The heiress could scarcely forbear a smile, as she reflected that
her ears had drunk in the soft confession only five minutes ago. ‘Mr
Vallance, will you do me a favour? Will you ask Mr Stanley to step
here for a few minutes? But remember, you must on no account reveal my
identity.’

‘You may rely upon me, Miss Anstruther. I do not know what steps you
mean to adopt; but there is no time to lose, for old Colonel Stanley is
in front, and will, if he has recognised you, at once inform his son.’

‘That is my fear; so haste.’

Almost before the heiress could mature her plans, the rejected one
appeared before her. He was very grave, and bowed with an air of deep
humility, as the actress thus addressed him: ‘Mr Vallance and I are
old acquaintances, so I commissioned him to ask you to return for a
short time. I feel very anxious about our scenes in the _Hunchback_
to-morrow. Would you mind running through the Modus and Helen scenes? I
mean the second one.’

Montmorency bowed. ‘With pleasure.’

It would have been a lesson for half the actresses on the stage, could
they have beheld the manner in which the saucy coquette of the play
coaxed her lover, lured him on, fascinated him, and enveloped him in
such a spell of witcheries, that no Modus that ever breathed could have
been proof against her seductive wiles. The scene came to an unexpected
termination, for Montmorency suddenly caught her in his arms, and as he
held her clasped tight to his breast, exclaimed in rapid and excited
tones: ‘This is not acting! If it be, you are the greatest actress that
ever trod the boards. You love me! I see it in your sparkling eye; I
read it in your blushing cheek! Say, am I not right?’

Emily Anstruther remained perfectly passive in the arms of Harry
Stanley, as she murmured ‘Yes!’

The enraptured couple were so completely absorbed in reading love in
each other’s eyes, that they had not observed the entrance of two
gentlemen, Colonel Stanley and Mr Vallance.

The old colonel was the first to speak. ‘Speak, sir! Is this a scene
from a play?’

By this time the heiress had left the sweet anchorage of her lover’s
arms, and advancing to the old man, said: ‘Do you not recognise your
godchild, Emily Anstruther?’

But surprise had taken away the power of speech from the colonel.

His son interposed. ‘I trust Miss Anstruther will acquit _me_ of any
guilty knowledge of this fact—will believe that _I_ believed she was
merely Miss Fonblanque the actress.’

Emily Anstruther here cast down her eyes, while a deep blush mantled
over her face and neck. ‘I am afraid _I_ am not equally innocent; for
Mr Vallance informed me that I had refused my hated lover. But I have
enough confidence in _his_ love for me, to hope for his belief in my
unselfish love for _him_.’

‘So you see, dad,’ exclaimed the younger Stanley, ‘Love not only rules
the court, the camp, the grove, as the poet says, but does not disdain
to flutter his wings in the greenroom.’

    _Author’s Note._—This story having been dramatised, and the
    provisions of the law as regards dramatic copyright having been
    duly complied with, any infringement of the author’s rights
    becomes actionable.




HUMOROUS DEFINITIONS.


A smart, pithy, or humorous definition often furnishes a happy
illustration of the proverbial brevity which is the soul of wit. Wit
itself has not inaptly been called ‘a pleasant surprise over truth;’
and wisdom, often its near ally, is, in the opinion of a clever writer,
‘nothing more than educated cunning.’ ‘Habits are what we learn and
can’t forget,’ says the same author, who also defines silence as ‘a
safe place to hide in,’ and a lie as ‘the very best compliment that
can be paid to truth.’ ‘Show him an egg and instantly the air is full
of feathers,’ said a humorist, defining a sanguine man. ‘A moral
chameleon’ is a terse reckoning-up of a humbug. Man’s whole life has
been cynically summed up in the sentence, ‘Youth is a blunder; middle
life, a struggle; and old age, a regret.’

Whimsical definitions are sometimes quite as neat and telling as those
of a smarter kind. Dr Johnson confessed to a lady that it was pure
ignorance that made him define ‘pastern, the knee of a horse;’ but he
could hardly make the same excuse for defining pension, ‘an allowance
made to any one without an equivalent.’ A patriot, some writer tells
us, is ‘one who lives _for_ the promotion of his country’s union and
dies _in_ it;’ and a hero, ‘he who, after warming his enemies, is
toasted by his friends.’

Of juvenile definitions, ‘dust is mud with the juice squeezed out;’
scarcely so scientific as Palmerston’s definition of dirt as ‘matter
in the wrong place.’ A fan, we learn, is ‘a thing to brush warm off
with;’ and a monkey, ‘a small boy with a tail;’ ‘salt, what makes your
potatoes taste bad when you don’t put any on;’ ‘wakefulness, eyes all
the time coming unbuttoned;’ and ‘ice, water that stayed out too late
in the cold and went to sleep.’

A schoolboy asked to define the word ‘sob,’ whimpered out: ‘It means
when a feller don’t mean to cry and it bursts out itself.’ Another
defined a comma as ‘a period with a long tail.’ A youngster was asked
to give his idea of the meaning of ‘responsibility,’ so he said: ‘Well,
supposing I had only two buttons on my trousers, and one came off, all
the responsibility would rest on the other button.’

‘Give the definition of admittance,’ said a teacher to the head-boy.
This went from the head to near the foot of the class, all being
unable to tell the meaning of it, until it reached a little boy who
had seen the circus bills posted about the village, and who exclaimed:
‘Admittance means one shilling, and children half-price.’

‘What is a junction, nurse?’ asked a seven-year-old fairy the other day
on a railway platform.—‘A junction, my dear?’ answered the nurse, with
the air of a very superior person indeed: ‘why, it’s a place where two
roads separate.’

To hit off a jury as ‘a body of men organised to find out which side
has the smartest lawyer,’ is to satirise many of our ‘intelligent
fellow-countrymen.’ The word ‘suspicion’ is, in the opinion of a
jealous husband, ‘a feeling that compels you to try to find out
something which you don’t wish to know.’ A good definition of a
‘Pharisee’ is ‘a tradesman who uses long prayers and short weights;’ of
a ‘humbug, one who agrees with everybody;’ and of a ‘tyrant, the other
version of somebody’s hero.’ An American lady’s idea of a ballet-girl
was, ‘an open muslin umbrella with two pink handles;’ and a Parisian’s
of ‘chess, a humane substitute for hard labour.’ Thin soup, according
to an Irish mendicant, is ‘a quart of water boiled down to a pint, to
make it strong.’

Of definitions of a bachelor—‘an un-altar-ed man,’ ‘a singular being,’
and ‘a target for a miss,’ are apt enough. A walking-stick may be
described as ‘the old man’s strength and the young man’s weakness;’
and an umbrella as ‘a fair and foul weather friend’ who has had ‘many
ups and downs in the world.’ A watch may be hit off as a ‘second-hand
affair;’ spectacles as ‘second-sight’ or ‘friendly glasses;’ and a
wig as ‘the top of the poll,’ ‘picked locks,’ and ‘poached hare.’ And
any one who is troubled with an empty purse may be comforted with the
reflection that ‘no trial could be lighter.’

‘Custom is the law of fools,’ and ‘politeness is half-sister to
charity’—the last a better definition than that which spitefully
defines polite society as ‘a place where manners pass for too much,
and morals for too little.’ ‘Fashion’ has been cleverly hit off as ‘an
arbitrary disease which leads all geese to follow in single file the
one goose that sets the style.’ An idea of the amusement of dancing is
not badly conveyed by the phrases ‘embodied melody’ and ‘the poetry of
motion.’

The ‘Complete Angler’ as a definition of ‘a flirt’ is particularly
happy. Beauty has been called ‘a short-lived tyranny,’ ‘a silent
cheat,’ and ‘a delightful prejudice;’ while modesty has been declared
‘the delicate shadow that virtue casts.’ Love has been likened to
‘the sugar in a woman’s teacup, and man the spoon that stirs it up;’
and a ‘true-lover’s-knot’ may not inaptly be termed ‘a dear little
tie.’ Kisses have variously been defined as ‘a harmony in red,’ ‘a
declaration of love by deed of mouth,’ and ‘lip-service.’

‘Matrimony’ was defined by a little girl at the head of a confirmation
class in Ireland, as ‘a state of torment into which souls enter to
prepare them for another and better world.’

‘Being,’ said the examining priest, ‘the answer for purgatory.’

‘Put her down!’ said the curate, much ashamed of his pupil—‘put her
down to the foot of the class!’

‘Lave her alone,’ quoth the priest; ‘the lass may be right after all.
What do you or I know about it?’




THE MONTH:

SCIENCE AND ARTS.


Nearly seven millions sterling have been already expended upon the
Panama Canal works, and according to all accounts, there is plenty
to show for the money. The channel is being dredged out by enormous
machines, which scoop out the softer earth and operate upon the
debris of harder rocks, after the latter have been blasted. Colon,
the Atlantic terminus of the canal, has, from the miserable and dirty
little village which it presented some years ago, sprung into a
prosperous town. The dry season has unfortunately been an unhealthy
one, and there has been an epidemic of marsh-fever; but altogether we
may take the general report of the Canal works as a satisfactory one.
There is little doubt that the great work of uniting the Atlantic and
Pacific Oceans will be accomplished within very few years.

News has been received by the Geographical Society that their intrepid
explorer, Mr Joseph Thomson, whose departure some months ago on an
expedition to the region east and north-east of Lake Victoria Nyanza
we briefly chronicled at the time, has safely returned to Zanzibar.
Little is at present known as to what he has done, further than that he
has successfully carried out his programme with the most satisfactory
feature that the work has been done without any loss of life except
from disease. We may look forward with great interest to Mr Thomson’s
account of this his third successful expedition, the more so, as this
time he has journeyed in a region of Africa untraversed by any previous
explorer, and about which, therefore, the knowledge possessed by our
best geographers is open to improvement.

From a paper recently read before the Institution of Civil Engineers,
by Mr G. H. Stayton, upon the Wood-pavements of London, we glean the
following interesting particulars: The metropolis comprises nearly
two thousand miles of streets, of which only fifty-three miles are
at present laid with wood. Most of the wood used is in the form of
rectangular blocks of yellow deal, principally Swedish. Neither elm nor
oak will stand changes of temperature sufficiently well to fit them for
this purpose; but pitch-pine answers well, and so does larch; though
the supply of the latter limits its use. Creosoting the blocks has no
value as a preservative, and the wood is now used plain, the joints
being filled in with cement. The average cost of laying wood-pavement
is about ten shillings and sixpence per square yard, and the expenses
of maintenance compare very favourably with Macadam and other systems
of pavement. ‘There is nothing new under the sun,’ even in the matter
of wood-pavements, for we find, on reference to a _Mechanic’s Magazine_
dated 1858, that wood-blocks, placed grain uppermost, as in all modern
systems, are distinctly advocated as having many advantages over
granite roads, diminution of cost and durability being among those
stated.

It has become customary to speak of the present epoch as the ‘Iron
Age,’ in order to distinguish it from those two long periods of human
interest known respectively as the Stone Age and the Bronze Age. But
future historians may well be tempted to substitute the word steel
for iron, for it is an undoubted fact that improved processes of
manufacture, and the resulting easy and cheap production, are causing
steel to be widely substituted for its parent metal. In railways,
steel rails are now almost entirely replacing iron ones, and that
modification of the metal known as ‘mild steel’ is finding great
favour just now among shipbuilders. The Board of Trade have lately had
representations made to them that the superiority of steel over iron
for shipbuilding purposes should be officially recognised; and that
this request is well grounded, the following instances will go far to
prove. A steamer wrecked on the coast of the Isle of Wight remained
for ten days in stormy weather perched on a ledge of rocks without
breaking up. ‘If,’ says the engineer’s Report, ‘she had been built of
iron instead of steel, there is not a doubt that she would have gone to
pieces. The agent of another vessel wrecked at New Zealand last year
reports to the owner that the vessel was eventually released from her
rocky bed; ‘but, with a large number of passengers, would have been
lost, had it not been for the beautiful quality of the material of
which she is built, known as mild steel.’

But there is one branch of the metal trade which shows a continually
increasing activity, and which need not fear any rivalry from steel,
and that is the tinplate trade. Many thousands of tons of this tinned
iron—that is, thin sheets of iron coated with tin—are annually exported
from this country, our best customers being the United States. We
may presume that a large quantity of this metal comes back to us in
the form of tins containing preserved meats, fish, and fruit. In
Philadelphia, there are a number of factories for utilising these tins
after they have been used. They are collected from the ash-heaps,
the hotels and boarding-houses. The solder is melted and sold, to be
used again; the tops and bottoms of the tins are turned into window
sash-weights; the cylindrical portions are rolled out flat, and are
made into covers for travelling trunks, and are used for many other
purposes. The industry is said to be a very profitable one, for the
expense of gathering the tins is covered by the sale of the solder, and
the capital required is small. Such ingenious applications of waste
materials most certainly deserve to succeed.

What is known as ‘flashed glass’ consists of common white glass blown
with a layer of coloured glass superposed on its surface, which surface
can afterwards be eaten away in parts by the application of fluoric
acid, so that any ornament or lettering can be executed upon it. The
same principle in an extended form has lately been applied by Messrs
Webb of Stourbridge to the production of most beautiful vases in what
has been aptly called cameo glass. The vase is first blown in glass of
three different descriptions, fused together, forming eventually three
distinct layers of material—the innermost of a semi-opaque colour, the
next white, and the outside of a tint to harmonise with the first or
innermost. Now comes the artist’s work. The design being drawn upon the
surface, the outer colour is removed so as to leave but a tint, deep or
light as may be wanted in certain parts; next, the white is cut into
so as to show up where required the ground colour behind. In this way
the most intricate design is produced with the most artistic results.
The operator employs not only fluoric acid, but makes use of the steel
point, and also the ordinary emery wheel commonly used for engraving
and cutting glass. Two of these vases are, as we write, on view at Mr
Goode’s, South Audley Street, London.

The first cable tramway laid in Europe has been opened on the steepest
bit of road near London—namely, Highgate Hill, and is pronounced on
all hands a complete success. It is to be hoped that the system will
become as common in this country as it is in America, where not only
steep gradients are thus dealt with, but level roads, such as our horse
tramcars already traverse. The boon to horses would be immeasurable.
At the present time, on British tramways more than twenty thousand
horses are at work. The labour is so hard, that about one quarter of
this number have annually to be replaced. This annual loss absorbs
forty-three per cent. of the gross earnings, a consideration which will
appeal more eloquently to the feelings of many than will the sufferings
of the poor horses.

Referring to the epidemic of smallpox in London, a correspondent of
the _Times_ gives a valuable suggestion. He tells how an epidemic
of the same dreaded disease was quickly stamped out in a South
American village some years ago, and although our great metropolis
bears but small resemblance to a village, the remedy in question
might nevertheless be tried. Huge bonfires of old creosoted railway
sleepers were made in the streets, and gas-tar was added occasionally
to stimulate the flames. In the meantime, every house where a death
or recovery occurred was lime-washed. With these precautions, which
are manifestly applicable to other zymotic diseases, the visitation
speedily vanished. Concerning this all-important subject we may have
something further to say in a special paper.

Meanwhile, there is no kind of doubt that the spread of infectious
disease is attributable in great measure to personal ignorance,
commonly called carelessness, as well as to that entire indifference
as to the welfare of others which is so common to human nature. Some
time since, an advertisement appeared to the following effect: ‘Should
this meet the eye of the lady who travelled (by a particular train)
with her two boys, one of whom was evidently just recovering from an
illness, she may be pleased to learn that three of the four young
ladies who were in the carriage are very ill with the measles.’ This is
surpassed by a statement contained in a recent letter in the _Times_.
A lady, finding that her boys, on recovering from a severe attack of
scarlatina, suffered much from dandruff (the scales which separate from
the scalp, and which, in fever, are a prolific source of contagion),
took the sufferers to a leading West End hairdresser’s, so that their
heads could receive a thorough cleansing with the machine-brush!

We would in this connection draw attention to a novel system of
providing for smallpox cases with the least amount of risk to others,
which is established by the Metropolitan Asylums Board of London, and
which will undergo in time further development. In addition to the
five hospitals in different parts of London which have been opened
whenever a fresh epidemic has broken out, there is a very elaborate
ambulance system, by which a suitable carriage with a nurse and
porter is despatched, as soon as notice is received, to the patient’s
place of residence and removes the patient to the nearest hospital.
This has been at work for some years; but in addition there are
three ships moored on the Thames opposite Purfleet, two of which are
hospital ships, the third being used as a residence for the staff,
and containing offices, kitchens, workshops, &c. Some four miles
inland there is a convalescent camp, consisting of tents for about one
thousand patients, each heated and lighted by gas, and suitably fitted
for the purpose in every way.

To convey patients to the ships, an ambulance steamer runs as often
as required, being fitted up as a travelling hospital, with beds,
&c., and having a medical and nursing staff. Patients are removed to
the river-side either direct from their homes, or from the hospitals,
usually on comfortable beds, and carried on board the steamer, and
thence down the river. Another steamer brings the recovered cases back;
and when landed, they are conveyed in special carriages to their homes,
free from infection in person and clothing.

So far the problem of how to provide for an epidemic of smallpox in
London is in a fair way of being solved, by a system which, though
still in its earliest stage, is daily undergoing development and
improvement. When yet another steamer is fitted out, there will be
no difficulty in coping with a much larger epidemic than has visited
London for many years, and at the same time treating patients with an
amount of attention almost unknown till now.

The proposal to revive the art of lacemaking in Ireland, to which
we adverted some months ago, has now received more definite form. A
scheme has been framed under the auspices of many influential persons,
the chief features of which are as follows: Original designs are to
be purchased under the advice of the best authorities on the subject.
These designs will be sent to the lacemaking centres for execution. The
specimens will then be exhibited and offered for sale. The expenses to
set this machinery at work will amount to about five hundred pounds,
much of which is already subscribed. Full information as to the project
can be obtained from Mr Alan Cole, of the South Kensington Museum.

Dr Von Pettenkofer has, according to the _Lancet_, been lately paying
attention to the poisonous action of coal-gas on the human system, and
a few notes of authenticated cases may be serviceable to those who
pay little heed to an escape of gas so long as it does not in their
opinion assume dangerous dimensions. The cases quoted all refer to
escapes of gas into dwelling-houses after passing through a layer of
earth, and we may note that such escapes are difficult of detection,
for the earth robs the gas in great measure of its tell-tale odour.
At Roveredo, three women were killed in their sleep by an escape
from a broken pipe under the roadway thirty-five feet distant. At
Cologne, three of one family were carried off by a similar escape at
a distance of ninety-eight feet. At Breslau, a case is reported where
the escape was no less than one hundred and fifteen feet away from
its victim. It would seem that the dangerous constituent of coal-gas
is carbonic oxide, which usually forms about eight per cent. of the
vapour conveyed to our houses. Whether this noxious ingredient can,
like other impurities, be eliminated in the process of purification at
the gas-works, we do not know, but the question is certainly worth the
attention of the authorities.

The Observatory on the summit of Ben Nevis, which our readers will
remember was opened in October last, will be completed this summer. The
observations already made confirm the anticipations as to the value of
a high level station, and the completion of the structure will add to
the efficiency of the work done, for hitherto the observers have been
cramped for space. A shelter for tourists forms part of the scheme,
and travellers will be able to obtain light refreshment there, and if
they desire it, can telegraph from the highest point in Britain to
their friends below. The cost of completion will absorb about eight
hundred pounds; but this estimate does not include the heavy outlay
for carriage of materials on horseback up the bridle-path already
constructed. It has been suggested that visitors on horseback using
this path should pay a toll of five shillings—a modest sum, when it is
considered that the expenses of maintenance are much increased by the
soil being loosened by the horse’s hoofs, especially when the ground is
in a soft condition.

The small Chinese colony established at the International Health
Exhibition is one of the principal attractions of the place. Visitors
have now the opportunity of tasting various strange dishes which before
they had only heard of by report. The much extolled bird-nest soup can
be had here, together with shark-fins, _beches de mer_ (sea-slugs),
edibles made of different seaweeds, shredded cucumber peels mixed with
vinegar, and various other delicacies, which, we trust, are nicer
than they seem to be by mere description. We may note that the South
Kensington executive have already arranged for an Exhibition to follow
on the present one. It is to be called the Exhibition of Inventions,
and will include all kinds of appliances, one entire division being
devoted to musical instruments.

A long-felt want by paper-rulers and others has now been supplied by
the new Patent Automatic Paper Feeding-machine. It has been invented
by Mr William Archer, 204 Rose Street, Edinburgh—a paper-ruler who
has spent his spare time during the last ten years in working it
out, and who has now succeeded in patenting a Ruling-machine which
is allowed to be the most accurate in use for feeding the paper in a
continuous stream, or feeding to grippers at given intervals. It can be
worked either by hand or steam-power, and it renders unnecessary the
employment of boys or girls as paper-feeders. It can also be applied to
hot rolling-machines; and it is expected that it will also be turned to
use in connection with printing, &c.




OCCASIONAL NOTES.


THE NEW ORGAN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

The old-new, or the new-old, organ of Westminster Abbey was formally
tried on the 24th of May, at the usual afternoon service, after which
a recital, which served to exhibit the extreme beauty and power of
some of the new work, was given. The new organ has fifty-six speaking
stops, besides many mechanical stops, couplers, &c., and is placed in
two lofty blocks, like the one in St Paul’s Cathedral, at the west
end of the two choir screens, only that in this case the player sits
between the two over the doorway of the choir. The magnificent oak
case, designed by Mr Pearson, has not yet been erected, because the
funds for the purpose—about fifteen hundred pounds—are not, as we
write, yet collected. The principal bellows are blown by a gas-engine,
and are placed in a vault below the cloisters, the pipes conveying the
air being nearly one hundred feet in length. A curious arrangement
exists to connect the keys with the pipes, which is done by tubes,
through which, on the key being pressed, wind, under heavy pressure, is
admitted, and acts instantly on a small bellows at the other end of the
tube. This, on being inflated, pulls down the pallet or valve under the
sound-board, and thus gives air to the pipe. This clever system is said
not to get out of order or to be affected by changes of temperature.

It may be interesting to state that this organ was in the first
instance built by Schreider and Jordan so far back as 1730. Exactly a
hundred years after (1830) it was added to by Elliott; and again in
1848 and in 1868, Hill made many additions; and it has now been almost
completely reconstructed by Messrs Hill and Son, of the same well-known
firm. It may fairly be considered, with that in St Paul’s Cathedral,
and All Saints, Margaret Street, to take rank as one of the finest
church organs in London.


THE ANTHROPOMETRICAL LABORATORY AT THE HEALTH EXHIBITION.

Without intending the smallest disrespect to our numerous readers, we
will venture to say that more than one will be inclined to ask the very
obvious question, ‘What is anthropometry?’ Well, this fine-sounding,
Greek-adapted name signifies the art of describing and recording, in a
schedule provided for that purpose, the particulars appertaining to the
condition, functions, powers, and capabilities of the human body and
limbs. Every person visiting the Laboratory at the Health Exhibition
can have his or her schedule filled up with a statement, ascertained
on the spot, of his name or initials, age, sex, occupation, place of
birth, colour of hair and eyes, height standing and sitting, weight,
length of span of arms, strength of squeeze and of pull, swiftness and
weight of direct fist-blow, capacity of chest, lungs, and breathing,
as measured by a spirometer, acuteness of vision as measured by a
test type, conditions of colour-sense, and acuteness of hearing. The
ascertaining of these particulars, and any others of a like nature
bearing immediately on the principal question, seems to be the especial
business of the art of anthropometry. It may be objected that the
collecting of these facts, though interesting enough to the individual
practised upon and his family, can be of no possible use beyond that
limit, or indeed anywhere else; but the gentleman who has originated
this novel and ingenious scheme (Mr Francis Galton) proposes to keep a
duplicate of the filled-up schedule which each person operated on will
receive; and by this means he hopes to obtain a very large number of
facts and statements, which will doubtless be ultimately arranged and
tabulated, and made good use of by the originator, who may possibly
submit them to the Registrar-general, or to the Statistical Society,
for enrolment amongst their curious records. It is, at anyrate, in
spite of its somewhat alarming Greek name, an interesting experiment.


ADVICE TO INTENDING EMIGRANTS.

A correspondent in New South Wales writes to us as follows: ‘Australia
offers a wide field for the capitalist and the manual labourer, but
I should not advise others to try their fortunes here. For educated
persons, male or female, without capital, Australia is a death-trap.
Such persons would, according to my observation, do far better in
America, or in the English settlements in China. In China, young
gentlemen possessing no other fortune than a good education, are soon
employed in the warehouses and stores by the Chinese merchants, who
value Englishmen whenever they can get them to take charge of the more
responsible parts of their businesses. The Chinese Customs’ Departments
also are open to educated young Englishmen. But in Australia, brains
are not a marketable commodity; strong arms are more sought for.
The streets of Sydney are thronged with hundreds of educated young
Englishmen, who have come out here persuaded by their friends that work
is easily got, as well as money, which is not the case, except in one
or two kinds of labour. I know of scores of temperate young gentlemen
out here who have done all they could to find employment, and failed;
and at last have had to seek relief in the Refuge. Some commit suicide
out of sheer despair.

‘No one, unless he can swing a pickaxe well and is possessed of plenty
of muscular strength, with not too much refinement in him, should think
of coming out here to earn his bread, much less make his “pile,”
unless he has some capital, say a few thousands, to start a warehouse,
or take up land and go in for sheep-farming. Sometimes young educated
men, who bring good letters of introduction and good characters also,
are given government situations, as I am thankful to say was the case
with me. But I should warn any educated young man who has no friends
here or capital, against coming to Australia. Even where he brings
letters, he often has great trouble to get a situation, as there are
so many colonials’ sons hanging about doing nothing. The towns are
overloaded with men, and the country is left untouched for want of
capital in the majority of those who come out here.

‘Servants of all classes do well here; ten shillings per week and board
and lodging is the usual wage for female servants good or bad; and one
pound per week with board and lodging for male servants. Governesses
are an utter failure; hundreds are doing nothing here now; and when
they do get employed, they don’t do much better than at home; sixty
pounds with board and lodging is the usual salary; but they have to act
as nurses often as well, for that sum.

‘My advice to young gentlemen and ladies who are thinking of giving up
their situations at home and emigrating to Australia in the hopes of
getting work and good salary, is—Don’t.’


A CURIOUS DISEASE.

The _London Medical Record_ quotes some information regarding a strange
disease that is met with in Siberia, and known to the Russians by the
name of ‘Miryachit.’ The person affected seems compelled to imitate
anything he hears or sees, and an interesting account is given of a
steward who was reduced to a perfect state of misery by his inability
to avoid imitating everything he heard and saw. One day the captain
of the steamer, running up to him, suddenly clapping his hands at the
same time, accidentally slipped, and fell hard on the deck. Without
having been touched, the steward instantly clapped his hands and
shouted; then, in helpless imitation, he, too, fell as hard, and almost
precisely in the same manner and position as the captain. This disease
has been met with in Java, where it is known as ‘Lata.’ In the case
of a female servant who had the same irresistible tendency to imitate
her mistress, the latter, one day at dessert, wishing to exhibit this
peculiarity, and catching the woman’s eye, suddenly reached across the
table, and seizing a large French plum, made pretence to swallow it
whole. The woman rushed at the dish and put a plum in her mouth, and,
after severe choking and semi-asphyxia, succeeded in swallowing it; but
her mistress never tried the experiment again.


ANOTHER UPHILL RAILWAY.

The _Hôtel des Alpes_ at Chillon, and the _Hôtel de Mont Fleury_
at Montreux, Switzerland, are situated at no great distance apart;
but the difference of elevation between the two is over two hundred
feet, and the incline very steep. To get over this difficulty, it is
intended to call in the aid of that mighty power which has of late
so prominently come to the front—electricity. After a long series of
carefully conducted experiments, it has been determined that an uphill
railway shall be constructed between the two hotels named, to be driven
by electricity. An electric motor will be placed on a car to drive a
cog-wheel; this wheel will gear into a central cogged rail, and by this
means draw or pull the car up the ascent. Conductors placed beside the
central rail will convey the current of the generator, which will be
kept going by a five-horse-power locomotive engine. It is, however, in
contemplation to drive the dynamo not by steam, but by water-power,
abundance of which, descending from the hills, can be had close by, and
only requires utilising. This railway will in many points resemble that
up the Righi, only that electricity will be its driving-power instead
of the odd-looking little engine so well known at the latter place; and
when it is completed, it will certainly be a great boon to travellers
frequenting these beautiful spots.




EVENING ON THE LAKE.


    Upon the mountain-top the purple tints
    Fade into mist; and the rich golden glow
    Of the low-setting sun sinks to a gray
    Subdued and tender.

                              Home the eagle hies,
    Swift, to his eyrie, his broad pinions stretched,
    Bearing him onwards, seeming motionless
    The while with rapid wing he cleaves the air,
    As ship the waters: now the grousecock crows
    On heathered knoll his vesper lullaby
    To his dear mate.

                      And from the silver lake,
    Cradled in mountain-setting, echoing comes,
    With rippling music on the air, the plash
    Of dipping oars; and voices deep and low,
    Mingled with women’s trebles, tuneful break
    The evening silence!

                          Grand indeed it is
    To be amid these mountain solitudes;
    And yet there is a sense of rest and calm,
    Soothing the spirit—stealing o’er the heart
    Like the soft notes of an Æolian harp,
    Falling like balm upon the troubled soul,
    And making the most worldly man to feel
    That there is over earth a higher heaven!

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The Conductor of CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL begs to direct the attention of
CONTRIBUTORS to the following notice:

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

_2d._ For its return in case of ineligibility, postage-stamps
    should accompany every manuscript.

_3d._ MANUSCRIPTS should bear the author’s full _Christian_ name,
    Surname, and Address, legibly written; and should be written on
    white (not blue) paper, and on one side of the leaf only.

_4th._ Offerings of Verse should invariably be accompanied by a
    stamped and directed envelope.

_If the above rules are complied with, the Editor will do his best to
insure the safe return of ineligible papers._

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._