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. 45.—VOL. I.       SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1884.       PRICE 1½_d._]




THE STORY OF A VAST EXPLOSION.


The greatest physical convulsion of recent times occurred on the
morning of the 27th of August last year, the scene of the catastrophe
being a small island in the Sunda Straits, which separate Sumatra and
Java. It is a region which there is much reason to regard as one of the
intensest foci of volcanic activity on the earth’s surface. The main
facts connected with this event, although slow in coming to hand, are
now fairly within the records of science. Krakatoa, the volcanic island
which a year or two ago was seven miles long by five broad, is about
thirty miles from the Java coast. When surveyed in 1868-69, the island
was found to be clothed from base to summit with a luxuriant growth of
forest and tropical vegetation, but uninhabited. A few weeks prior to
the eruption, the volcano, which had been dormant for two centuries,
gave signs of an awakening. On the 20th of May several shocks,
accompanied by loud explosions and hollow reverberations, startled the
inhabitants of the towns of Batavia and Buitenzorg, about ninety miles
distant.[1] These disturbances continued for the next three months with
more or less activity. On the 11th and 18th of August the energy of the
volcano increased, and there were symptoms of a crisis. On the 26th and
the night following, several eruptions took place, until the climax was
reached on the following morning. The submarine base of the mountain
then seems, according to all available evidence, to have literally
‘caved in.’ This was apparently accompanied by an influx of the sea
into the molten interior, the instantaneous development of superheated
steam, and then an explosion which, for its colossal energy, is
unparalleled in the annals of volcanic outbreaks.

The enormous power of this eruption can only be adequately understood
by its effects; these we now briefly summarise. The explosion itself,
according to Dr Verbeek, one of the Dutch Commission appointed to
investigate the nature and results of this catastrophe, caused the
north part of the island to be blown away, and to fall eight miles to
the north, forming what is now named Steer’s Island. Moreover, the
north-east portion of the island of Krakatoa was also hurled into the
air, passed over Lang Island, and fell at a distance of seven miles,
forming what is now known as Calmeyer Island. In proof of this, we have
the fact elicited by the newly made marine survey of the Straits, that
‘_the bottom surrounding these new islands has not risen_.’ This would
have been the case had they been upheaved in the usual way. Not only
so, but the bottom round these new islands shows a slightly _increased
depth_ in the direction of the submarine pit, nearly one thousand feet
deep, which now marks the place the peak of Krakatoa occupied prior
to the convulsion. But out of the midst of this deep depression there
rises ‘like a gigantic club’ a remarkable column of rock of an area
not more than thirty-three square feet, which projects sixteen feet
above the surface of the sea. The southern part is all that is now left
of the island of Krakatoa, and this fragment on its north side is now
bounded by a magnificent precipitous cliff more than two thousand five
hundred feet high. It has been thought by some, however, that the first
portion of the island was blown away on the evening of August 26th, and
that on the following morning the larger mass, answering to Calmeyer
Island, was shot out by an effort still more titanic.

The shock of the explosion was felt at a distance of four thousand
miles, being equal to an area of one-sixth of the earth’s surface—that
is, at Burmah, Ceylon and the Andaman Islands to the north-west, in
some parts of India, at Saigon and Manila to the north, at Dorey in
the Geelvink Bay (New Guinea) to the east, and throughout Northern
Australia to the south-west. Lloyd’s agents at Batavia, in Java, stated
that on the eve of this vast explosion, the detonations ‘grew louder,
till in the early morning the reports and concussions were simply
deafening, not to say alarming.’ So violent were the air-waves, due to
this cause, that walls were rent by them at a distance of five hundred
miles, and so great the volume of smoke and ashes, that Batavia, eighty
miles off, was shrouded in complete darkness for two hours. Nearly four
months after the eruption, masses of floating pumice, each several
acres in extent, were seen in the Straits of Sunda.

Paradoxical as it appears, the sound was sometimes better heard in
distant places than in those nearer the seat of disturbance. This
singular effect has been thus explained—assuming, for example, the
presence of a thick cloud of ashes between Krakatoa and Anjer, this
would act on the sound-waves like a thick soft cushion; along and above
such an ash-cloud the sound would be very easily propelled to more
remote places, for instance, Batavia; whereas at Anjer, close behind
the ash-cloud, no sounds, or only faint ones, would be heard. Other
explanations seem to be less probable, though not impossible.

Dr Verbeek states that within a circle of nine and a-half miles’
radius (fifteen kilomètres) from the mountain, the layers of volcanic
ash cover the ground to a depth of from sixty-five to one hundred
and thirty feet, and at the back of the island the thickness of the
ash-mountains is in some places even from one hundred and ninety-five
to two hundred and sixty feet, and that the matter so projected
extends over a known area of seven hundred and fifty thousand square
kilomètres (285,170 square miles), or a space larger than the German
Empire with the Netherlands and Belgium, including Denmark and Iceland,
or nearly twenty-one times the size of the Netherlands. Moreover, he
calculates that the quantity of solid substance ejected by the volcano
was eighteen cubic kilomètres, or 4.14 _cubic miles_. To give some
idea of the enormous volume this represents, we may take the following
illustration: the largest of the Egyptian pyramids has upwards of
eighty-two millions of cubic feet of masonry; it would therefore take
about _seven thousand three hundred and sixty of such structures_ to
equal the bulk of matter thrown out by this eruption. Some of this
matter was found to contain smooth round balls from five-eighths to two
and a-quarter inches in diameter, and composed of fifty-five per cent.
of carbonate of lime.

As may well be imagined, the final outburst by its awful energy gave
rise to a succession of air-waves. These we now know went round the
earth more than once, and recorded themselves on the registering
barometers or barograms at the Mauritius, Berlin, Rome, St Petersburg,
Valencia, Coimbra (Portugal), and other far-distant places. At
some points, as many as seven such disturbances were noted; other
instruments not so sensitive gave evidence of five, by which time the
wave had pretty well spent itself.

Having collected the observations made at all the chief meteorological
stations, General Strachey recently read a paper before the Royal
Society which, in his opinion, conclusively shows that an immense
air-wave started from Krakatoa at about thirty minutes past nine A.M.
on August 27th. Spreading from this common centre, the wave went three
and a-quarter times round the globe, and those parts of it which had
travelled in opposite directions passed through one another ‘somewhere
in the antipodes of Java.’ The velocity of the aërial undulations
which travelled from east to west was calculated at six hundred and
seventy-four miles per hour, those moving in the reverse direction at
seven hundred and six miles per hour, or nearly the velocity of sound.

But another effect of the eruption was a series of ‘tidal waves,’
so called—although the term is objected to because not strictly
scientific—which, like the air-wave, passed round the world. Whether
this was synchronous with the final explosion, it is not possible to
say. The highest of these seismic sea-waves, which was over one hundred
feet high, swept the shores on either side of the Straits, and wrought
terrible destruction to life and property. More than thirty-five
thousand persons perished through it; the greater part of the district
of North Bantam was destroyed, the towns of Anjer, Merak, Tjeringin,
and others being overwhelmed.

The initial movement of this destructive agent was undoubtedly of the
nature of a negative wave; but the best testimony to this is lost,
since those who witnessed it were its victims. The sudden subsidence
of so large an area of the sea-bottom in the Straits caused the sea to
recede from the neighbouring shores. This negative wave was, however,
seen by Captain Ferrat from his vessel, as she lay at anchor at Port
Louis. He states that towards two P.M. he saw the water in the harbour
roll back and suddenly fall four or five feet; and that, a quarter of
an hour afterwards, the sea returned with great violence to its former
level, causing his own and other vessels to roll terribly. The best
witness of this remarkable phenomenon, however, is Captain Watson, of
the British ship _Charles Ball_. His vessel was actually within the
Straits, and he states that he and his helmsman ‘saw a wave rush right
on to Button Island, apparently sweeping right over the south part, and
rising half-way up to the north and east sides fifty or sixty feet,
and then continuing on to the Java shore. This was evidently a wave of
translation and not of progression, for it was not felt at the ship.’
This latter movement, beyond question, must have coincided with the
great ‘tidal wave’ above mentioned, and which was felt at Aden, on the
Ceylon coast, Port Blair, Nagapatam, Port Elizabeth, Kurrachee, Bombay,
and half-way up to Calcutta on the Hooghly, the north-west coast of
Australia, Honolulu, Kadiall in Alaska, San Celeto near San Francisco,
and the east coast of New Zealand.

In this as in most other cases of volcanic disturbance, electrical
phenomena were observed. One vessel in particular, while passing
through the Sunda Straits, exhibited ‘balls of fire’ at her masthead
and at the extremities of her yardarms. Further, it was noticed at
the Oriental Telephone Station, Singapore, a place five hundred miles
from Krakatoa, that on raising the receiving instrument to the ears, a
perfect roar as of a waterfall was heard; and by shouting at the top
of one’s voice, the clerk at the other end of the wire was able just
to hear something like articulation, but not a single sentence could
be understood. On the line to Ishore, which includes a submarine cable
about a mile long, reports like pistol-shots were heard. These noises
were considered due to a disturbance of the earth’s magnetic field,
caused by the explosion, and reacting on the wires of the telephone.

We have now to refer to what has been a much debated question. From
about September to the beginning of the present year, remarkable
coronal appearances and sunglows were noticed in different parts of
the world, and especially the somewhat rare phenomena of red, green,
and blue suns. Observers such as Norman Lockyer, Dr Meldrum, and
Helmholtz maintained that the phenomena were due to volcanic dust at
a great altitude; others, and notably meteorologists, rejected this
hypothesis, and urged that the coloured suns were due to unusually
favourable atmospheric conditions, such colours being probably due
to the refraction and reflection of light by watery vapours. But the
theory that volcanic dust caused these appearances is fast gaining
ground, if it be not already an incontrovertible fact. The spectroscope
has shown that dust of almost microscopic fineness floating in the air
caused the sun to appear red. Such dust has already fallen, and the
microscope reveals the existence in it of salt particles. This, then,
is fairly conclusive evidence of the volcanic origin of such dust. That
ash particles were actually carried very far in the upper air-currents,
has already appeared from snow which fell in Spain and rain in Holland,
in which the _same components_ were found as in the Krakatoa ashes.
Dr Verbeek estimates that the height to which this fine matter was
projected ‘may very well have reached’ forty-five to sixty thousand
feet.

In a letter addressed to the _Midland Naturalist_ by Mr Clement Wragge,
of Torrens Observatory, Adelaide, South Australia, and dated July 17,
1884, the writer remarks that recently, when there were magnificent
sunsets, he obtained ‘a perfectly sharp, clean spectrum without a trace
of vapour-bands.’ And further, he is strongly of opinion that the
Krakatoa eruption is the primary cause of these wondrous pictures in
the Kosmos.

There can now be little doubt but that the green and blue suns and
exceptional sunsets observed in Europe, India, Africa, North and South
America, Japan, and Australia, were due to the Krakatoa eruption. The
enormous volume of volcanic dust and steam shot up into the higher
atmospheric zones by this convulsion are adequate to furnish the
chromatic effects above mentioned.

But we have better evidence still: these peculiar solar effects
followed a tolerably straight course to one which was in fact chiefly
confined to a narrow belt near the equator; the data now collected show
that on the second day after the eruption they appeared on the east
coast of Africa, on the third day on the Gold Coast, at Trinidad on the
sixth, and at Honolulu the ninth day. Finally, in a paper read by Dr
Douglas Archibald at the late British Association meeting at Montreal,
it was stated that ‘observations showed that the dates of the sunglows
began _earlier_ in Java, then apparently spread gradually away, the
dust being so high as to be in the upper currents, of which we know
little. These sunset glows were not seen before the eruption.... The
dust appeared to have travelled at a uniform rate, over two thousand
miles daily.’ ‘The topic,’ says Mr S. E. Bishop, writing from
Honolulu, ‘is an endless one. Many ask what is the cause of frequent
revivals of the red glows, such as the very fine one of August 19. It
seems merely to show an irregular distribution of the vast clouds of
thin Krakatoa haze still lingering in the upper atmosphere. They drift
about, giving us sometimes more, sometimes less, of their presence.
It is also not unlikely that in varying hygrometric conditions the
minute dust-particles become nuclei for ice crystals of varying size.
This would greatly vary their reflecting power, and accords with some
observations of Mr C. J. Lyons, showing that the amount of red glow
varies according to the prevalence of certain winds.’ Further facts are
coming to hand respecting this great natural convulsion.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] The eruption of May was noticed in a previous article (Nov. 24,
1883).




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER LV.—SWEET ARE THE USES OF ADVERSITY.

Soon after reading Mr Shield’s letter, Madge walked to Ringsford with
Pansy. There had been a thaw during the night, and the meadows and the
ploughed lands were transformed into sheets of dirty gray, dirty blue,
and reddish slush, according to the character of the soil, dotted with
patches of snow like the ghosts of islets in a lake of puddle. But the
red sun had a frosty veil on his face; by-and-by this puddle would be
glazed with ice, and the heavy drops of melting snow which were falling
slowly from the trees would become glittering crystal pendants to their
branches.

The two girls, their cheeks tingling with the bite of the east
wind, tramped bravely through the slush, with no greater sense of
inconvenience than was caused by the fact that they would be obliged to
perform the journey by the road instead of taking the short-cut through
the Forest.

They spoke little, for each was occupied with her own troublous
thoughts; Pansy did not know much of the sources of her friend’s
anxieties, and Madge had already exhausted the consolation she could
offer to her companion. On arriving at Ringsford they found Sam Culver
attending to his plants and greenhouses as methodically as if the
mansion stood as sound as ever it had done and the daily supply of
fruit and flowers would be required as usual.

Madge left Pansy with her father, and went on to the cottage. In the
kitchen she found Miss Hadleigh fast asleep in the gardener’s big
armchair. She would have left the room without disturbing her, but at
that moment Miss Hadleigh yawned and awakened.

‘Don’t go away; I am not sleeping.—Oh, it’s you, Madge. Isn’t this a
dreadful state of things? I haven’t had a wink of sleep for two nights,
and feel as if I should drop on the floor in hysterics or go off into a
fever.’

Miss Hadleigh had been relieved by a good many ‘winks’ during the
period specified, although, like many other nurses, she was convinced
that she had not closed her eyes all the time. Madge accepted the
assertion literally, and was instantly all eagerness to relieve her.

‘You must get away to Willowmere at once, and take a proper rest. You
are not to refuse, for I will take your place here and do whatever may
be required. You are looking so ill, Beatrice, that I am sure Philip
and—somebody else would consider me an unfeeling creature if I allowed
you to stay any longer.’

‘But it is my duty to stay, dear,’ said Miss Hadleigh a little faintly,
for she did not like to hear that she was looking ill.

‘And it is my duty to relieve you. Besides, Dr Joy has given us some
hope that it may be safe to remove your father to our house to-day; and
then you will be there, refreshed and ready to receive him.’

‘I suppose you are right—I am not fit for much at present,’ said Miss
Hadleigh languidly; ‘and you can do everything for him a great deal
better than I can. But I must wait till Philip comes—he promised to be
here early.’

‘You have heard from him, then?’

‘Heard from him!—he was here last night as soon as he could get away
from that nasty business he has been swindled into by our nice Uncle
Shield. He ought to have taken poor papa’s advice at the beginning, and
have had nothing to do with him.’

This was uttered so spitefully, that it seemed as if there were an
undercurrent of satisfaction in the young lady’s mind at finding that
the rich uncle who would only acknowledge one member of the family, had
turned out a deceiver.

Madge was astonished and chagrined by the information that Philip had
been out on the previous evening and had made no sign to her; but in
the prospect of seeing him soon, she put the chagrin aside, remembering
how harassed he was at this juncture in his affairs. There should
be no silly lovers’ quarrel between them, if she could help it. She
would take the plain, commonplace view of the position, and make every
allowance for any eccentricity he might display. She would help him in
spite of himself, by showing that no alteration of circumstances could
alter her love, and that she was ready to wait for him all her life if
she could not serve him in any other way. To be sure, he had said the
engagement was at an end; and Uncle Dick had not yet said that it was
to stand good. But she loved Philip: her life was his, and misfortune
ought to draw them nearer to one another than all the glories of
success—than all the riches in the world.

When he came, there was no sign of astonishment at her presence in the
temporary refuge of his father: he seemed to accept it as a matter of
course that she should be there. Neither was there any sign that he
remembered the manner in which they had last parted. To her anxious
eyes he seemed to have grown suddenly very old. The frank joyous voice
was hushed into a low grave whisper; the cheeks and eyes were sunken;
and there was in his manner a cold self-possession that chilled her.
Yet something in the touch of his hand reassured her: love was still
in his heart, although the careless youth, full of bright dreams and
fancies, was changed into the man, who, through loss and suffering, had
come to realise the stern realities of life.

They were for a time prevented from speaking together in private
because the doctors had arrived only a few minutes before Philip, and
he waited to hear their report. Dr Joy came out of the invalid’s room
with an expression which was serious but confident.

‘Our patient goes on admirably,’ he said. ‘You need have no fear of
any immediate danger; and in six months there will be only a few scars
to show the danger he has passed through. I am to stay here for a
couple of hours, and then I shall know whether or not we can move him
to Willowmere. By that time, too, I expect the ambulance we wrote for
last night will be here.—And you, Miss Hadleigh, you really must take
rest. I insist upon it. You will not make your father better by making
yourself ill. Go and get to bed. Philip and Miss Heathcote will do
everything that is necessary, and I shall be their overseer.’

Philip went to the stables to tell Toomey to bring the carriage
round for his sister. As he was crossing the little green on his way
back to the cottage, Madge met him. Although he had not observed her
approaching, his head being bowed and eyes fixed on the ground, he
took the outstretched hands without any sign of surprise, without any
indication that he understood the cruel significance of the ‘good-bye’
which had caused them both so much pain. Whatever hesitation she might
have felt as to the course she was to pursue was removed by his first
words.

‘You want to speak to me, Madge,’ he said in a tone of gentle gravity;
and then with a faint smile: ‘I am better than when you saw me last,
for I am free from suspense. My position is clear to me now, and I
feel that a man is more at ease when the final blow falls and strikes
him down, than he can be whilst he is struggling vainly for the goal
he has not strength enough to reach. It is a great relief to know that
we are beaten and to be able to own it. Then there is a possibility of
plodding on to the end without much pain.’

She was as much alarmed by this absolute surrender to adversity as she
had been by the strange humour which had prompted him to say that she
was free.

‘Yes, Philip, I want to speak to you,’ she said tenderly, and a
spasmodic movement of the hand which grasped hers, signified that the
electric current of affection was not yet broken. She went on the more
earnestly: ‘I am not going to think about the foolish things you have
said to me: I am going to ask you to give me your confidence—to tell me
everything that has happened during the last two days. Tell it to me,
if you like, as to your friend.’

‘Always my friend,’ he muttered, bending forward as if to kiss her
brow, and then drawing slowly back, like one who checks himself in the
commission of some error.

‘Always your friend,’ she echoed with emphasis, ‘and therefore you
should be able to speak freely.’

‘There is not much to tell you. The ruin is more complete than even I
imagined it to be, and the fault is mine. Your friend—I ought to say
our friend—Mr Beecham has made a generous offer for the business, and,
with certain modifications, will allow it to be carried on under my
management. This relieves us from immediate difficulties; and in a
short time Mr Shield expects to have recovered sufficiently from his
recent losses to be able to assist me in redeeming all that has been
lost.’

‘What gladder news could there be than this?’ she exclaimed with cheeks
aglow and brightening eyes; ‘and yet you tell it as if it gave you no
pleasure. Philip, Philip! this is not like you—it is not right to be so
melancholy when the future is so bright.’

‘Is it so bright? Are you forgetting how long it must be before I can
repay Mr Shield? before’——

He was going to say, ‘before I can ask you to risk your future in mine,
and what changes may take place meanwhile!’

The earnest tender eyes were fixed upon him, and they were reading his
thoughts, whilst she appeared to be waiting for him to complete the
interrupted sentence. She saw the colour slowly rising on his brow, and
knew that he was feeling ashamed of the doubt implied in his thought.

‘I want to tell you something,’ she said in her quiet brave way, ‘and
I hope—no, I _believe_ that it will take one disagreeable fancy out of
your head. I know that you did not mean what you said to me on that
dreadful evening.’

‘What else could a ruined man say?’ (This huskily and turning his face
aside.)

‘He could say that he trusted his friends. Even Uncle Dick is angry
with you for imagining that your misfortune could make any difference
in his feelings towards you. And for me, you _ought_ to say ... but
there, I am not going to speak about what you ought to say to me; I am
only going to tell you what I shall do.’

He looked quickly at her, and the eager inquiry on his pale face
rendered the words ‘What is that?’ superfluous.

‘I shall wait until you come for me; and when you come, I shall be
ready to go with you where you will, whether you are poor or rich. No
matter what anybody says—no matter what _you_ say, I shall wait.’

‘O Madge!’

He could say nothing more; the man’s soul was in that whisper. Their
hands were clasped: they were looking into each other’s eyes: the world
seemed to sink away from them; and the woman’s devotion changed the
winter into summer, changed the man’s ruin into success.

He drew her arm within his; and they walked past the blackened walls of
the Manor, and along the paths where they had spent so many pleasant
hours during his recovery from the accident with the horse, to the
place where he had thrown off the doctor’s control and got out of the
wheel-chair.

‘I am not so sorry now for what has happened,’ were his first words.
‘It is worth losing everything to gain so much.’

‘But you have not lost everything, Philip.’

‘No; I should say that I have won everything. I am glad to have saved
Wrentham from penal servitude, for his frauds have enabled me to
realise the greatest of all blessings—the knowledge that come what may
you can make me happy.’

‘And I am happy too,’ she said softly, their arms tightening as they
walked on again in silence.

By-and-by he lifted his head, and seemed to shake the frost from his
hair.

‘The doctor said I ought to have rest. I have got it from you, Madge.
I can look straight again at the whole botheration—thank you, my
darling.’ (A gentle pressure on his arm was the answer, and he went
on.) ‘The arrangement offered by Beecham is a very good and kind one,
which will enable me in course of time to clear myself whilst carrying
out my scheme; we can take a small house; Mr Shield will live with us,
and we must try to make him comfortable. Then we need not wait for the
end of next harvest, unless you still insist’——

‘No, Philip; when you bid me come to you, I am ready.’




CIGARS.


It has been abundantly shown by various writers that the Indians of
North America as well as elsewhere looked upon tobacco as having a
divine origin, as being a peculiar and special gift designed by the
‘Good Spirit’ for their delectation, and that it held a prominent place
in their visions of a future life in the ‘happy hunting-grounds.’ In
the present day, there seems to be an ever increasing dependence on—we
might almost say slavery to—the plant, whose soothing influences are
called in quest to counteract the effects of this high-pressure age.
There are not a few of its devotees who are quite at one with Salvation
Yeo in _Westward Ho_, who, when speaking of tobacco, says: ‘For when
all things were made, none was made better than this; to be a lone
man’s companion, a bachelor’s friend, a hungry man’s food, a sad man’s
cordial, a wakeful man’s sleep, and a chilly man’s fire. There’s no
herb like unto it under the canopy of heaven.’ We do not, however,
propose to discuss the opposing views held by the smoker and the
anti-smoker, but intend to restrict ourselves to some remarks on the
manufacture of cigars, which have been suggested by a recent visit to
the West Indies.

Of the endless varieties of cigars which are met with in various
tropical localities, the majority are used for local consumption, and
only find their way into England in very small quantities. The bulk of
our cigars are either Havana or Manila, European or British, and of
these it has been computed that considerably over two hundred million
are consumed annually in the United Kingdom. It is evident, therefore,
that the manufacture of this luxury is a business of great magnitude,
irrespective of the other forms of tobacco used; and if we remember
that the duty obtained from tobacco of all kinds puts nearly nine
millions per annum into the national exchequer, it becomes possible to
realise how much the comfort and happiness of a large number of Her
Majesty’s subjects depend on the products of the tobacco crop.

An Havana cigar of a good brand is deservedly looked upon as the _crême
de la crême_ of cigars; but, unfortunately, the number of good makers
as well as the possible production of first-class cigars is necessarily
limited. Thus the manufacture of the ‘Villar y Villar’ brand is stated
to be never more than twenty-five thousand daily; while that of ‘Henry
Clays’ is fully three times as many. For some time back there has
been a deterioration in Havanas, which has been variously accounted
for. It is asserted that, from the exhaustive nature of the crop,
guano or other artificial stimulants are largely used, and that the
flavour of the leaf has suffered in consequence. Besides, owing to the
increasing demand, tobacco has been grown on poor land unsuitable for
the production of the finest leaf, and even has been largely imported
into Cuba for the manufacture of ‘genuine’ Havanas. To those, however,
who cannot afford to buy the best brands, it is satisfactory to know
that a new source of supply is being opened up with great energy. The
climate and soil of some parts of Jamaica very closely resemble those
of Havana, and are well suited for the growth of the finest leaf. As
the Jamaica planters open up their virgin soil, it is safe to predict
that with growing experience they will improve in their manufactures,
while already they produce a cigar which compares favourably with any
but the best of Cuban make.

British cigars, like all other varieties, may be good, bad, or
indifferent. By British we mean cigars manufactured in this country
from the imported leaf; and as English capital can command the markets,
there is no reason why the best tobacco should not be obtainable for
importation. Using the same quality of leaf, a cigar can be produced
in this country at a much lower cost than if imported ready made.
We venture to think, notwithstanding popular prejudice, that a good
British cigar is preferable to an inferior foreign make. Pay a fair
price, and you will get a good article—home made, in spite of the
Spanish labels, which are always used either from affectation or in
order to deceive the ignorant. Much is heard about adulteration by
means of cabbage-leaves, &c.; but we believe that it is almost unknown
in this country. The fact that inferior tobaccos are so very cheap
makes fraud both unlikely and unnecessary. Adulteration, however, is
not unknown on the continent, where cigars can be obtained six and ten
for a penny; but the duty of five shillings per pound is fortunately a
bar to their importation into Great Britain. It is needless to say more
about continental cigars than we do about all cheap cigars, and that is
to recommend smokers to avoid them.

The manufacture of the finished article requires highly skilled
labour, and long practice gives the workman an amount of accuracy and
dexterity in producing cigar after cigar, alike in shape and size,
with a rapidity that is truly wonderful. After the leaves have been
properly cured, they are sorted according to size and colour. The
centre rib is then extracted, an operation requiring great care. Each
workman is seated before a flat board, and is supplied with a bunch
of perfect leaves and a pile of broken tobacco. With his fingers, he
quickly rolls up some broken pieces, inclosing them in one of the less
perfect leaves, forming what is called ‘the bunch.’ This he proceeds to
cover with the wrapper or perfect leaf, which he has already cut with
his knife to the required size. The most difficult part of the process
has now to be completed, namely, closing in the point. This he does by
modelling it with his fingers, quickly twisting the wrapper round it,
and fixing the end with a drop of gum. With one sweep of his knife—his
only implement—he trims the broad end, and the cigar is ready to be
carried to the drying-room, afterwards to be sorted and packed in boxes.

It is easier to know a good cigar when you smoke one than to describe
the points by which a good cigar may be selected. A good cigar,
however, should have a good wrapper or exterior; it should have a faint
gloss, not amounting to greasiness, due to the essential oil contained
in it; and it should have a fine hairy ‘down’ on its surface. In
addition to this, it should be firmly rolled, and yet not be hard, or
it will not draw well. When lighted it should burn evenly, and not to
one side; it should carry a two-inch ash without endangering your coat,
and if laid aside for three or four minutes, should still be alight
when taken up again. It is worth remembering the golden rule known to
the lovers of the fragrant weed, namely, when holding a lighted cigar,
always to keep the burning end turned upwards, so that the smoke may
escape into the air—never downwards, as that causes the smoke to pass
through the body of the cigar.

In concluding these brief remarks, it may not be amiss to say a word
or two about the markings which will be found on the boxes, and about
which a good deal of ignorance exists. On most boxes there are four
distinct markings, which have each their own significance. First comes
the brand proper, which consists either of the maker’s name or of some
fancy name adopted by the firm; such, for example, as Partagas, Villar
y Villar, Intimidads, Henry Clays, &c. The quality of the tobacco is
next indicated by Flor Fina, first quality; Flor, second quality, &c.
Various names, such as Infantes, Reinas, Imperiales, &c., are used to
represent the size or shape of the cigar. The fourth mark gives us an
idea of the strength or colour of the tobacco contained in the box; and
for this purpose the following terms are used—Claro, Colorado claro,
Maduro, &c. To attempt to give any advice to our readers as to the best
brands to buy would be beyond the scope of this paper. Experience will
soon teach them what to accept and what to avoid; what suits their
tastes and their pockets, and what does not.




ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.


CHAPTER VI.

‘Phew! There’s not a breath of air in this valley. One had need be a
salamander to appreciate a morning like this. But what a lovely nook it
is—eh, Mac? Quite worth coming half-a-dozen miles to see.’

‘That it’s very pretty, I’ll not attempt to deny; but still’——

‘By no means equal to what you could show us t’other side of the
Border,’ said the vicar with a twinkle. ‘That’s understood, of course.’

The time was the forenoon of the day following the evening on which
Madame De Vigne had been so startled by the sudden appearance of one
whom she had every reason to believe had died long years before.

The scene was a small but romantic glen. Over the summit of a cliff, at
the upper end of a rocky ravine, a stream, which took its rise among
the stern hills that shut in the background, leapt in a cascade of
feathery foam. After a fall of some fifteen or twenty feet, it reached
a broad, shallow basin, in which it spread itself out, as if to gather
breath for its second leap, which, however, was not quite so formidable
as its first one. After this, still babbling its own liquid music, it
fretted its way among the boulders with which its channel was thickly
strewn, and so, after a time, left the valley behind it; and then, less
noisily, and lingering lovingly by many a quiet pool, it gradually
crept onward to the lake, in the deep bosom of whose dark waters lay
the peace for which it seemed to have been craving so long.

A steep and somewhat rugged pathway wound up either side of the glen to
the tableland at the summit, overhung with trees and shrubs of various
kinds, with a rustic seat planted here and there at some specially
romantic point of view. Ferns, mosses, flowers, and grasses innumerable
clothed the rocky sides of the ravine down almost to the water’s
edge. At the foot of the glen the stream was spanned by a quaint old
bridge, on which the vicar and Dr M‘Murdo were now standing. It was
the day of the picnic of which Madame De Vigne had made mention to
Colonel Woodruffe, and the party from the _Palatine_ had driven over
in a couple of wagonettes, which, together with the hampers containing
luncheon, were stationed in a shady spot a quarter of a mile lower down
the valley.

‘Look, Mac, look!’ exclaimed the vicar, ‘at those two speckled darlings
lurking there in the shadow of the bridge. I must come and try my luck
here one of these days.’

‘You look just a bit feckless this morning without your rod and basket.’

‘Where was the use of bringing them? No trout worth calling a trout
would rise on a morning like this, when there’s not a cloud in the
sky as big as one’s hand, and not breeze enough to raise a ripple on
the water. I’ve brought my hammer instead, so that I shan’t want for
amusement. Ah, Mac, what a pity it is that you care nothing either for
angling or geology!’

‘I could not be fashed, as we used to say in the North. Every man to
his likes. I’ve got a treatise in my pocket on _The Diaphragm and its
Functions_, just down from London, with diagrams and plates. Now, if I
can only find a shady nook somewhere, I’ve no doubt that I shall enjoy
myself with my book for the next two or three hours quite as much as
you with your rod or hammer.’

‘So that’s your idea of a picnic, is it?’ The question came from Miss
Gaisford, who had come unperceived upon the two friends as they were
leaning over the parapet of the bridge. ‘To bury yourself among the
trees, eh,’ she went on, ‘and gloat over some dreadful pictures that
nobody but a doctor could look at without shuddering? Allow me to tell
you that you will be permitted to do nothing of the kind. You will just
put your treatise in your pocket, and try for once to make yourself
sociable. Perhaps, if you try very hard, you may even succeed in making
yourself agreeable.’

‘My poor Mac!’ murmured the vicar as he settled his spectacles more
firmly on his nose.

The doctor said nothing, but his eyes twinkled, and he pursed up his
lips.

‘I have arranged my plans for both of you,’ said Miss Pen with emphasis.

‘For both of us!’ they exclaimed simultaneously.

‘Yes. Lady Renshaw’——

‘O-h!’ It was a double groan.

‘Don’t interrupt. Lady Renshaw will be here presently. As soon as she
appears on the scene, you will take charge of her. I have special
reasons for asking you to do this, which I cannot now explain. You
will amuse her, interest her, keep her out of the way, and prevent her
generally from making a nuisance of herself to any one but yourselves,
till luncheon-time.’

‘My dear Pen,’ began the vicar.

‘My dear Miss Gaisford,’ pleaded the doctor.

‘You will do as you are told, and do it without grumbling,’ was the
little woman’s reply as she shook a finger in both their faces. ‘I’ve
arranged my plans for the day, and I can’t have them interfered with.’

‘My dear Pen,’ again persisted the vicar, in his mildest tones, ‘that
your plan is a perfectly admirable one, I do not for one moment doubt,
only, as you know very well, I am not and never have been a ladies’
man, and that in the company of your charming sex I’m just as shy
at fifty-five as I was at eighteen. But with Mac here the case is
altogether different. All doctors know how to please and flatter the
sex—it’s part of their stock-in-trade, so that Mac would be quite at
home with her ladyship; whereas I—well, the fact is I had made up my
mind to walk as far as’——

‘Blackstone Hollow,’ interrupted his sister, ‘in order that you might
have another look at that big trout about which you dream every night,
but which you will never succeed in catching as long as you live.’

‘The traitor! eh, Miss Penelope?’ cried the doctor. ‘This is neither
more nor less than prevarication—yes, sir, prevarication—there’s no
other word for it—and you the vicar of a parish, whose example ought to
be a shining light to all men! Septimus Gaisford, I’m ashamed of you!
As for Lady Renshaw’—— He ended with a snap of his fingers.

‘Neither of you is afraid of her. Of course not,’ remarked Miss
Penelope. ‘You would scorn to acknowledge that you are afraid of any
woman. But why run any risk in the matter? Why allow her ladyship to
attack you separately, when, by keeping together and combining your
forces, you would render your position impregnable?’

‘Impregnable!’ both the gentlemen gasped out.

Miss Gaisford’s merry laugh ran up the glen. ‘What a pair of delicious,
elderly nincompoops you are!’ she cried. ‘Septimus, you dear old
simpleton, haven’t you discovered that this woman would like nothing
better than to bring you to your knees with an offer of marriage?’

‘Good gracious, Pen!’ cried the vicar with a start that nearly shook
the spectacles off his nose.

‘Doctor, did you not see enough of her ladyship’s tactics last evening
to understand that her plan with you is to induce you to believe that
she has fallen in love with you? and when one of your sex gets the
idea into his head that one of our sex is in love with him, why, then,
a little reciprocity of sentiment is the almost inevitable result.’

‘The hussy!’ exclaimed Mac. ‘I should like her to be laid up for a
fortnight and let me have the physicking of her!’

‘I noticed that she did press my arm rather more than seemed needful,
when we were walking last evening by the lake,’ remarked the vicar.

‘And I remember now that she squeezed my hand in a way that seemed to
me quite unnecessary, when she bade me good-night on the steps of the
hotel.’

‘Gentlemen, let there be no jealousy between you, I beg,’ said Miss Pen
with mock-solemnity. ‘If you decline to combine your forces, then make
up your minds which of you is to have her ladyship, and let the other
one go and bewail his sorrows to the moon.’

‘By the way, who _is_ Lady Renshaw?’ asked the vicar. ‘I never had the
pleasure of hearing her name till yesterday.’

‘Her ladyship is the widow of an alderman and ex-sheriff of London,
who was knighted on the occasion of some great event in the City. Her
husband, who was much older than herself, left her very well off when
he died. That pretty girl, her niece, who travels about with her, has
no fortune of her own, and one of her ladyship’s chief objects in life
would seem to be to find a rich husband for her. At the same time, from
what I have already seen of her, it appears to me that Lady Renshaw
herself would by no means object to enter the matrimonial state again,
could she only find a husband to suit her views.’

‘A dangerous woman evidently. We must beware of her, Mac,’ said the
vicar.

The doctor shook his head. ‘My dear friend, your caution doesn’t apply
to me,’ he said. ‘Lady Renshaw is just one of those women that I would
not think of making my wife, if she was worth her weight in gold.’

They had begun to stroll slowly forward during the last minute or two,
and leaving the bridge behind them, were now presently lost to view
down one of the many wooded paths which intersected the valley in every
direction.

But a few minutes had passed, when Lady Renshaw and Miss Wynter
appeared, advancing slowly in the opposite direction. They halted on
the bridge as the others had done before them.

‘What a sweetly pretty place!’ exclaimed Miss Wynter. ‘I had no idea it
would be half so lovely. I could wander about here for a week,’ adding
under her breath, ‘especially if I had Dick to keep me company.’

‘Pooh! my dear; you will have had quite enough of it by luncheon-time,’
responded her aunt, who had seated herself on the low coping of the
bridge with her back to the view up the glen.

‘I always thought you were an admirer of pretty scenery, aunt.’

‘So I am—when in society. But now that we are alone, there’s no need
to go into ecstasies about it. On a broiling day like this, I would
exchange all the scenery of the Lakes for an easy-chair in the veranda,
a nice novel, and the music of a band in the distance.’ Then, as if
suddenly remembering something, she gazed around and said: ‘By-the-bye,
what has become of Mr Golightly?’

‘I saw him strolling in this direction a few minutes ago,’ was the
innocent answer. ‘I have no doubt that he is somewhere about.’

‘Now that Archie Ridsdale has been called away, you will be able to
give him the whole of your attention. There seem plenty of quiet nooks
about where you will be able to get him for a time all to yourself. He
certainly seems excessively infatuated, considering how short a time he
has known you, and I should not be a bit surprised if that waterfall
were to lead him on to make violent love to you before you are six
hours older.’

‘Aunt!’

‘Oh, my dear, I’ve known stranger things than that happen. When a
susceptible young man and a pretty girl sit and watch a waterfall
together, he is almost sure before long to begin squeezing her hand,
and then what follows is simply a question of diplomacy on her part.’

‘If—if—in the course of a few days—Mr Golightly were to propose?’——

‘He may do it this very day for aught one can tell. He seems
infatuated enough for any thing. When he does propose, you will accept
him—conditionally. You will take care to let him see that you care for
him—a little. You have known him for so short a time that really you
scarcely know your own feelings—&c., &c. Of course, before finally
making up your mind, we must have some more definite information as to
the position and prospects of the young man, and what his father the
bishop has in view as regards his future. Besides, Mr Archie Ridsdale
may possibly be back in the course of a day or two.’

‘But in what way can Archie’s return affect me?’

‘You stupid girl! have I not already told you that Sir William is
nearly sure to refuse his consent, and that Archie’s engagement with
this Miss Loraine may be broken off at any moment. Then will come your
opportunity. Archie seemed very fond of you at one time, and there’s no
reason why he should not become fond of you again. Young men’s fancies
are as changeable as the wind, as you ought to know quite well by this
time.’

Bella only shrugged her shoulders and sauntered slowly over the bridge.

The expression of Lady Renshaw’s face changed the moment she found
herself alone, and her thoughts reverted to a topic over which they had
busied themselves earlier in the day.

‘So this high and mighty Madame De Vigne—this person whom nobody
seems to know anything about—could not condescend to come in the same
wagonette with us poor mortals! She and her sister must follow in a
carriage by themselves, forsooth! Last evening, when we got back from
the lake, she had retired for the night; this morning, she breakfasted
in her own room. I feel more convinced than ever that there’s some
mystery about her. If I could but find out what it is! Of course, in
such a case it would become my duty at once to communicate with Sir
William.’

Miss Wynter came back over the bridge, but much more quickly than she
had gone. ‘Oh, look, aunt!’ she exclaimed; ‘I declare there’s D—— I
mean Mr Golightly, standing yonder, gazing at the water, and all alone.’

Lady Renshaw took a survey of the young man through her glasses.
Feeling safe in his disguise, Richard had now discarded some portions
of the clerical-looking costume he had worn yesterday, and was attired
this morning more after the style of an ordinary tourist.

‘You had better stroll gently along in the same direction,’ remarked
her ladyship. ‘Poor young man, he looks very lonely!’

‘But I can’t leave you alone, aunt.’

‘Never mind about me. Besides, I see that dear vicar and Dr M‘Murdo
coming this way.’

Lady Renshaw turned to greet Miss Gaisford and the two gentlemen, who
were still a little distance off.

‘Here they come. To which of my two admirers shall I devote myself
to-day?’ she simpered. ‘Why not endeavour to play one off against the
other, and so excite a little jealousy? It is so nice to make the men
jealous. Poor dear Sir Timothy never would be jealous; but then he was
so very stupid!’

Miss Gaisford was the first to speak. ‘We were just wondering what had
become of you, Lady Renshaw.’

‘I lingered here to drink in this fairy scene. It is indeed too, too
exquisitely beautiful.’

‘If they would only turn on a little more water at the top of the cliff
it would be an improvement,’ answered Miss Pen.—‘Septimus, you might
inquire whether they can’t arrange it specially for us to-day.’

‘My dear!’ protested the vicar with mild-eyed amazement.

‘Maybe, like myself,’ remarked the doctor, ‘your ladyship is a
worshipper of beautiful scenery?’

‘O yes. I dote on it—I revel in it. After I lost poor dear Sir Timothy,
I went to Switzerland, in the hope of being able to distract my mind by
travel. Those darling Alps, I shall always feel grateful to them!’

‘What did the Alps do for you, Lady Renshaw?’ queried Miss Pen with the
utmost gravity.

‘They gave me back my peace of mind; they poured consolation into my
lacerated heart.’

‘Very kind of them—very kind indeed,’ answered Miss Pen drily.

Lady Renshaw threw a quick, suspicious glance at her. ‘What a very
strange person!’ she murmured. The vicar’s sister was a puzzle to her.
It could not be that she was covertly making fun of her, Lady Renshaw!
No; the idea was too preposterous.

Dr Mac had not gone about for fifty years with his eyes shut. He
had discovered that many persons, both male and female, who plume
themselves on their knowledge of the world and their shrewdness in
dealing with the common affairs of life, are yet as susceptible to
flattery, even of the most fulsome kind, and just as liable to be
led away by it into the regions of foolishness, as their far less
sophisticated fellow-mortals. What if this woman, with all her
worldly-mindedness and calculating selfishness, were one of those
individuals who may be dexterously led by the nose and persuaded to
dance to any tune so long as their ears are judiciously tickled? A
peculiar gleam came into the doctor’s eyes as these thoughts passed
through his mind. He cleared his voice and turned to her ladyship.

‘It appears to me, Lady Renshaw,’ he began, ‘speaking from a
professional point of view, that you are gifted with one of those
highly-strung, super-sensitive, and poetical organisations which
render those who possess them peculiarly susceptible to all beautiful
influences whether of nature or of art. Hem.’

‘How thoroughly you understand me, Dr M‘Murdo!’ responded her ladyship,
beaming on him with one of her broadest smiles.

The vicar took off his spectacles and proceeded to rub them vigorously
with his handkerchief. ‘Mac, you are nothing better than a barefaced
humbug,’ he whispered to himself.

‘It would seem only natural, my dear madam,’ resumed the unblushing
doctor, ‘that a temperament such as yours, which throbs responsive to
beauty in all its thousand varied forms as readily as an Æolian harp
responds to the faintest sigh of the summer breeze, should—should find
an outlet for itself in one form or other. Have you never, may I ask,
attempted to pour out your thick crowding fancies in verse? Have you
never, while gazing on some such scene as this, felt as if you could
float away on—on the wings of Poesy? Have you never, in brief, felt as
if you could only find relief by rushing into song? Hem.’

The poor vicar fairly gasped for breath.

‘Yes, yes; that is exactly how I have felt a thousand times,’ gushed
her ladyship. ‘At such moments I seem to exhale poetry.’

‘Dear me! rather a remarkable phenomenon,’ murmured Miss Pen.

‘I long to be a dryad—or a nymph—or one of Dian’s huntresses in some
Arcadian grove of old.’

‘A nymph! Hum,’ remarked the vicar softly to himself.

‘But I have never yet ventured to—to’——

‘Gush into song,’ suggested Miss Pen.

‘To attempt to clothe my thoughts in rhythmic measures,’ went on
her ladyship with a little wave of the hand, as though deprecating
interruption, ‘although I have often felt an inward voice which
impelled me to do so.’

‘Let me advise you to try, my dear madam,’ resumed the doctor with his
gravest professional air. ‘If I may be allowed to say so, you have the
eye of a poet—dreamy, imaginative, with a sort of far-away gaze in it,
as though you were looking at something a long way off which nobody but
yourself could see.’

‘Ought I to listen to these things in silence?’ asked the vicar of
himself with a sudden qualm of conscience.

‘You are a great, naughty flatterer, Dr M‘Murdo,’ said the widow,
shaking a podgy finger archly at him.

‘Madam, that is one of the points on which my education has been
shamefully neglected.’

She turned with a smile. ‘I trust that our dear vicar is also a
worshipper of the beautiful?’

‘With Lady Renshaw before my eyes, it would be rank heresy to doubt
it,’ stammered the dear old boy with a blush that would have become a
lad of eighteen.

‘Pass up one, Septimus,’ whispered his sister in his ear.

‘If you talk to me in that strain, I shall begin to think you a very,
very dangerous man,’ simpered her ladyship.

‘There’s a charming view of the lake from an opening in the trees a
little farther on,’ remarked Dr Mac. ‘Would not your ladyship like to
walk as far?’

‘By all means, though I am loath to tear myself from this exquisite
spot.’

‘We shall find our way back to it later on.’

‘With your permission, I will leave you good people for a little
while,’ remarked Miss Pen. ‘I’ve other fish to fry.’

Her ladyship stared. ‘What an excessively vulgar remark!’ was her
unspoken thought.

Miss Gaisford turned to her. ‘Lady Renshaw, I must intrust these two
young sparks into your hands for a time.’

‘You could not leave us in more charming captivity,’ remarked the
gallant doctor.

The vicar, as he fingered the hammer in his pocket, looked imploringly
at his sister, but she pretended not to see.

‘Au revoir, then, dear Miss Gaisford,’ said her ladyship in her most
affable tones.

‘Au revoir, au revoir.’

As the three went sauntering away, the vicar lagging a little behind
the others, Miss Pen heard the doctor say: ‘You know the song, Lady
Renshaw, _When I view those Scenes so charming_,’ after which nothing
but a murmur reached her ears.

She turned away with a little laugh. ‘The doctor will fool her to
the top of her bent. Who would have thought that high-dried piece of
buckram had so much quiet fun in him?—And now to look after my hampers.
If I trust to the servants, by luncheon-time the ice, like Niobe, will
have wept itself away, the corkscrew will have taken a ramble on its
own account, the vinegar and salt will have gone into housekeeping
together, and the mustard will be making love to the blanc-mange. My
reputation is at stake.’




AMERICAN NEWSPAPERS ON THEMSELVES.


It has been fairly proved in previous numbers of this _Journal_ that
so long as advertising continues, a newspaper can rarely be altogether
dull, for the curiosities of the advertisement columns often exhibit
strange freaks and fancies of human nature, which may afford amusement
when the news columns are at their grimmest and dreariest. But the
place of all others which may be regarded as the headquarters of the
advertising genius is the land across the Atlantic, and the papers
which are the medium of the greatest enterprise in this line are the
_Tribunes_ and _Suns_ of the United States; and most entertaining of
all are the announcements by which the American journals draw attention
to their own brilliant pages. An English newspaper directory is not
very attractive, except to the business portion of the community;
but an American publication of the kind is of a much more amusing
character; and in two bulky and comprehensive volumes, an indomitable
transatlantic publisher has issued a universal gazetteer, wherein the
newspapers of every part of the globe may be studied.

In the first place, it is enough for an English paper, as a rule, to
state the town and county it represents; but young America must do
more than this, if readers outside her various regions are to estimate
the value of her press. Jacksonville or Euteroga must be set forth as
indisputably the most thriving city in the richest district of the
most prosperous State. Magnolia, advertisers are ‘notified,’ is a
‘flourishing town with more than twenty-five business-houses;’ Augusta
‘is growing and has a bright future;’ Westfield is ‘a thriving town
of above a thousand inhabitants,’ clearly affording scope for a large
circulation.

Manchester (United States), we learn, in a sentence racy of the soil,
‘is a large, live, and growing city, makes one hundred and seventy-nine
miles of cloth per day, can build fifteen locomotives a month, and
fifty steam fire-engines a year, and an endless variety of other
products of skill and industry.’ Another rising spot has ‘fourteen
grocery, three hardware, and five dry goods stores, four tailor-shops,
six butcher-shops, two banks, four hotels, three grist-mills, two
stave-factories, foundry, planing-mills, &c., and six churches, one of
which cost about sixteen thousand dollars, and has a spire one hundred
and forty-eight feet high.’ But this edifice is outdone in a third town
which ‘points with just pride to its magnificent iron bridge, costing
over forty thousand dollars, and other evidences of public enterprise.’
Middle Loup Valley is, we are told, ‘one of the largest and most
productive valleys in the State, which is from its picturesque scenery
and fertility of soil poetically called the “Rhine of America.”’
Another touch of poetry is come across unexpectedly: ‘A belt of fire
from thousands of coke ovens surrounds Mount Pleasant, the centre of
the great Connellsville Coke County, and the place where the _Times and
Mining Journal_ is published;’ and there is a rhythmical swing about
the remark that the _Honey Grove Independent_ ‘is published in the land
where cotton grows rank and tall, and where cattle grow fat in the
wild prairies.’ But Honey Grove with its cattle is nothing to Hancock
County, where ‘the people have become so corpulent, that the druggists
are all becoming independently rich from the sale of Allen’s Anti-Fat;’
and the Blue Grass Valley of Kentucky ‘is famous all over the world for
its handsome women, thoroughbred horses, rich soil, and fine climate.’

To be worthy of a land like this, the newspapers also possess rare
attractions for readers and advertisers, the latter especially. They
are ‘alive and growing’ ‘newsy! pithy! spicy!’ one is a ‘paper for all
mankind,’ another ‘overflows with local gossip,’ and a third ‘discusses
public questions with lively respectability, and feeds its readers with
no less than four and often five columns of spicy local matter each
week;’ a fourth has ‘everything first-class;’ you can get ‘a bright and
newsy wide-awake local paper,’ or ‘a live thirty-two column weekly;’
and the _Eaton Rapids Journal_ will be found, appropriately to its
name, ‘a live paper in a live town.’ Yet more richly descriptive is the
account of the ‘red-hot local paper that feeds twenty thousand people
every week and makes them fat; advertisements can reach millions of
hungry minds through this medium.’ Again, we learn that ‘Life on the
ocean wave is nothing compared with reading the _Plymouth Pantograph_.’
The _Sacramento Bee_ is ‘the spiciest, ablest, most brilliant, and
most independent journal published on the Pacific coast;’ while for
‘talking large,’ honourable mention should also be accorded to one
of Cincinnati’s lights, which is ‘the best paper ever published. All
its news is first-hand from upwards of fifteen hundred reporters and
correspondents in every part of the United States and Europe.’

But these are mere outward characteristics and generalisations.
Politics denote more distinctly the paper’s line of action, whether
‘stalwart Republican,’ ‘sound Democratic,’ or ‘Independent in all
things, neutral in nothing.’ Independence is the cry of many; they are
‘bold and fearless,’ express a hatred of party, rings and ringsters.
‘Now in its third volume,’ exults one banner of freedom, ‘and has
never halted by the way nor wearied of the fight. Always ready to take
up the cause of the poor and oppressed, and never ready to surrender
its independence to party, clique, or ring.’ ‘Has no axe to grind
other than the advancement of every social reform,’ a second patriot
proclaims. ‘Therefore it hits a head whenever that head is seen in
opposition to true advancement.’ For the extremes of party violence we
must go to a Southern journal, which does not, it may well be hoped,
‘speak as the masses of our people feel and talk;’ if it does, so much
the worse for the people. ‘If the Yankees,’ this rodomontade begins,
‘want to know the real sentiments of our people; if they want to have a
realising sense of the utter madness of trying to govern the grand old
sovereign States of the Confederacy, they will close their ears to the
lying professions of our policy-bumming politicians and subscribe to
the _Bartlett News_.’ Perhaps some such rant as that of the _Bartlett
News_ a certain _Labor Standard_ had in view while stating itself to be
‘not a blowing, blustering, black-mail sheet which has to be read in
private because its contents are unfit to be seen in the family,’ but
‘a clean live weekly paper, devoted entirely to the interests of the
working-classes.’

A Texan organ ‘will seek to be a photograph of all the resources
and needs of Texas; a mirror of her markets; a barometer of pure
principles, sound public faith, and private honour. Democratic, but
conservative, independent and outspoken in the exalted interests
of just criticism—no panderer to partisan men or measures, whether
right or wrong!’ This is independence with a vengeance, ahead even of
the gazette which ‘favours immigration, morality, and the Christian
religion; and unflinchingly opposes shams, rings, rogues, and enemies
to the people. It exposes villainy and crime wherever found, and hence
is read by the more intelligent classes of people in the field where it
circulates.’

The conjunction of immigration and the Christian religion reminds one
of the much bemourned lady who ‘painted in water-colours and of such
is the kingdom of heaven.’ But there is a still more frank linking
together of things temporal and spiritual in the ‘only Democratic
out-and-out paper in Western Iowa,’ which sails under the motto, more
Yankee than reverent, ‘Fear God, tell the truth, and make money;’
the editor further announcing that if he ‘is allowed to live under a
Republican administration another year, he will carry your advertising
at five cents per line, fifty dollars per column, or furnish his paper
for one dollar fifty cents per year.’

The _Horseheads Journal and Chemung Co. Greenback_ ‘exposes
rascality everywhere, and aims to give something to interest and
instruct everybody every week,’ from which it may be surmised that
the _Horseheads Journal and Chemung Co. Greenback_ is happier in
its object than in its title. Many of these ‘wide-awake and spicy’
representatives of Western culture are not remarkable for the elegance
of their names, the admixture of Indian and American resulting in
some curious compounds, such as the _Petrolea Topic_, the _Klickitat
Sentinel_, the _Katahdin Kalendar_, the _Waxahachie Enterprise_, and
the _Coshocton Age_. Yankee, pure and simple, reigns in the _Weekly
Blade_, _Jacksonian_, _Biggsville Clipper_, _People’s Telephone_, and
_New Haven Palladium_; but there is a charm of euphony about the _Xenia
Sunlight_ and _Golden Globe_, and the brevity which may be the soul of
wit in the _Call_, _Item_, _Plaindealer_, and _Editor’s Eye_.

The editors, as is well known, come much more to the front than is
the case in England; they do not remain the invisible and mysterious
‘we’ of the editorial sanctum; their names are frequently advertised
with those of the publishers, occasionally, indeed, accompanied by
a portrait or other additional recommendation; one paper ‘is edited
by two of the ablest newspaper men in the State, and it will be hard
to find a better team in the editorial harness.’ ‘The most important
feature,’ we learn, ‘of the _Free Press_ is its funny squibs by the
editor, “Driftings from Dreamland,” which are original and spicy;’ and
as appropriately named, surely, is ‘a humorous department, “Tea and
Toast,”’ to be found in another print. A Texas editor offers ‘upon
justifiable encouragement to visit any county or city in Texas or
Mexico and make a statistical “write-up” of their every interest and
advantage,’ indicative of lively and reliable information for intending
immigrants; and a _Highland Recorder_, with an affection for the Land
o’ Cakes one can but sympathise with, says that ‘every page breathes of
Clan-Alpine freshness.’

Great stress is laid upon the home-printing of the small journals—‘no
patent outside or inside;’ ‘almost every sentence is of home
manufacture, little clipping is done;’ ‘the only paper that does
all its work at home,’ &c. A further noticeable feature is the
frequent use of certificates and testimonials as to circulation from
public and private individuals or from contemporary prints, or of
self-recommendations such as that of the paper which ‘has a very fine
list of country subscribers,’ or of the journal ‘published by a genuine
Jayhawker,’ which ‘goes to every post-office in the northern part of
the State.’

It is when we come to the direct announcements to advertisers,
however, that we get perhaps the queerest hints from our American
cousins. ‘Advertising rates cheerfully furnished’ appears frequently;
‘Advertisers love it’ is a short and sweet statement regarding one
paper; ‘Should be patronised by every live advertiser;’ ‘Advertisers,
do you want some return for your money? Read our inducements,’
say others. Then, ‘The modesty of the publishers deters them from
mentioning the peculiar merits of the _Courier_ as an advertising
medium’—a modesty rivalled by the remark, ‘Rates of advertising so
low that we are almost ashamed to announce them,’ which differs from
the standpoint of a third, ‘Advertising rates held high enough to
make a living for the publisher;’ and the latter appears upon the
whole to be the more general sentiment, as may be testified by ‘Don’t
send offers under price,’ ‘We only advertise _for money_.’ The last
sentence alludes to a species of exchange evidently less popular among
the publishers than with their clients. ‘No advertising solicited,’
says the _Westfield Pantograph_, ‘except for cash, or what may be as
good. No space to give away or let at half-price.’ More decisive is the
_Calhoun Pilot_, which ‘is choice in the admission of advertisements
in its columns, and those it does admit, “due bills” of no character
will settle for them. Must be in hard cash quarterly in advance, unless
good references are given. Save your paper and postage, ye advertisers
who have nothing to offer us for our space than your wares and due
bills. We don’t want ’em. We have a good article to retail, and nothing
but the almighty dollar will buy it. But,’ adds the _Pilot_ more
amiably, ‘while this is strictly our rule, our rates are low, and we
give value received for all the lucre you place in our possession.’
Still more downright is the declaration, ‘No three-cornered patent
pills, second-hand clothing, skunk-hunting machines, or hand-organs
taken in payment for advertising.’ ‘The _News_ publishes no dead
ads., and gives no puffs;’ ‘No half-cash advertisements accepted, no
swindling or bogus patrons wanted.’ ‘Dead-beat, swindling advertisers,’
sarcastically announces the _Troy Free Press_, ‘can have their matter
chucked carefully into the stove by sending them to our office. Our
space is for sale, and must be paid for at living rates.’ But there
is encouragement for honest advertisers given by a _Clipper-Herald_
through whose columns announcements ‘go to that class of people who
are honest and intelligent and who pay for what they get;’ and in an
equally straightforward assertion elsewhere, the _mens conscia recti_
of the editor rises superior to grammar into the realms of wit: ‘Has a
good circulation among a prompt-paying class of people—these be facts!’

Facts or not, there is a distinctive character about Jonathan’s
advertisements equal to some of the fiction with which he has supplied
us.




THE MISSING CLUE.


CHAPTER III.—THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT.

Down-stairs in the public room, the faithful Derrick is engaged in a
seemingly interesting conversation with mine host Hobb Dipping and two
or three other jolly good fellows, who are all drinking at his expense.
No sign yet had the attendant discovered that had served to arouse his
suspicions. No word had been spoken which in any way showed that the
natives of this desolate place were anxious to know more about his
master or himself. A suspicion of danger often arouses our fears and
doubts when there is perhaps the smallest occasion for either. The
honest countrymen troubled themselves much less about the matter than
even the worthy host, who was happily indifferent to everything but the
fact that Mr Morton and his servant were rare and profitable customers.
The lumbering knot of labourers at length departs, and mine host locks
and bars the door; while Derrick, not a little fatigued with the
harassing events of the day, is left standing alone, surveying a row of
empty benches which the retiring fenmen have just quitted. Burly Hobb
comes back puffing and blowing, his red face glowing like the setting
sun, and his bald skull spotted with perspiration through the exertion
he has undergone in securing the strongly built outer door.

‘Landlord, I’m going to bed,’ says Derrick, who has suddenly returned
to his original gruffness.

‘Very good, sir,’ is the reply of the host, who forthwith trims and
lights an atom of a lamp which he fishes out of a cupboard by the
fireplace. ‘I hope you will sleep well, sir.’

Derrick’s eyes are watching the innkeeper from under his beetling
brows, and he answers gruffly: ‘I hope so.’

‘I’ve heard it said,’ goes on the loquacious host, ‘that a good sleep
is worth a fortune to an over-tired man. I see nothing to prevent you
sleeping well here, sir.’

‘Not much likelihood of being roused in the night, eh?’ remarks the
attendant.

‘Why, no, sir,’ answers Dipping, wondering what motive his guest could
have in asking such a question. ‘There’s no one to disturb you here,
unless, indeed, it be your master himself.’

‘Many visitors here?’ inquired Derrick, as old Hobb leads the way up
the dusky, creaking staircase with the flickering lamp in his hand.

‘None at all, sir,’ replied the landlord in a melancholy tone. ‘There
never is any one here—leastways, very, very seldom. I haven’t had a
visitor stopping in this house for a matter of—I can’t rightly say
how long; but I know it’s a mortal long while, for since my poor wife
died’——

‘Is this my room?’ interrupts Derrick, as the innkeeper halts before a
solid-looking black door at the head of the staircase.

‘It is,’ answers old Dipping. ‘You are pretty close to your master,
sir.’

‘I know,’ is all that the attendant deigns to say, as he pushes open
the door and enters with the light, leaving the landlord to stumble
down-stairs in the dark as best he may. Having carefully fastened the
door, Derrick sets down the light, and approaches the window with the
intention of getting a breath of fresh air. The casement is somewhat
hard to unfasten, and when at length he succeeds in opening it, the
lamp which he has brought is blown out under the sudden influence of
a gust of air which is admitted. No matter; he does not want it. The
night-breeze is cool and refreshing, a favourable contrast to the hot
stifling room below, and Derrick, as he leans upon the window-ledge,
begins to appear more contented and at ease. All afterglow of the
twilight has long disappeared, and the moon is shining with a sickly
light upon a low layer of mist which covers the marshy flats. Above
the thin watery fog which has arisen from the sluggish stream and
enshrouded the village as in a winding-sheet, the great shattered
tower of the monastery rises ghostlike and dim, while the silence of
the vast solitude is unbroken by a single sound. Even Derrick is not
insensible to the peculiar beauty and stillness of the scene, and he
lounges there, humming a tune, and watching the silvery trickle upon
the watery marsh long after mine host has retired to rest. At length he
closes the casement and divests himself of his heavy boots. Tired as
he is, he does not attempt to remove his clothes. The man had seen a
deal of sharp service, and experience had taught him long ago that in
cases where he might be wanted at any moment, it were better to sleep
in them. He merely places his pistols within reach, and then throwing
himself upon the bed, endeavours to sleep.

Every one knows what it is to arrive at that dreamy state of
semi-unconsciousness when the weary senses, failing at once to engage
the attentions of the drowsy god, find a sort of relief in a long train
of most disconnected thought. It was thus with Derrick. The fatigues
of the day had proved too much for even that hardy individual, so
that, instead of falling at once into a sound refreshing sleep, he
was drowsily conning over the different events which had occurred,
his rambling imagination colouring them with a variety of indistinct
pictures and incidents. These weird fancies at length grew fainter
and fainter, and the attendant was fast sinking into slumber, when
suddenly, and as it seemed without a cause, he awoke. Through the
casement the moon was staring down upon him like a pale still face,
and the greater part of his recumbent person lay bathed in its cold
light. All was still; there seemed not the slightest reason why he
should be thus aroused. The silence was profound, and the very beating
of Derrick’s heart sounded like a hammer thumping time in his head.
Scarcely knowing what he does, he sits up on the edge of his bed and
listens. Yes; he was not mistaken, there seemed to be a faint noise
approaching the old inn—a low measured tramp. The hammer-like beating
grows louder as Derrick, with every nerve strained to the utmost
pitch, silently rises and once more opens the casement. There can be
no mistake now; some persons are approaching; and in that low tramp,
distant as it is, he recognises the marching of a body of soldiers.
He closes the window softly, and taking his heavy riding-boots in his
hand, unfastens the door, and glides softly along the gallery towards
his master’s apartment. Owing to the pitchy darkness in which the
gallery is enveloped, he experiences some difficulty in groping his
way without stumbling; but reaching the further end at last, he feels
his way to his master’s door and gives the required signal. It is
answered with unexpected suddenness, the door being instantly thrown
open, and Sir Carnaby appearing on the threshold. He is fully dressed,
like Derrick; he has not even removed his outer clothing, and in his
hand is a short broad-bladed knife. The saddle-bags lie upon the table,
and a portion of their contents, discernible by a dim night-light, is
scattered about; but the black box is gone.

In a very few words, the trusty henchman explains what is the reason
of his coming, and urges his master to hold himself in readiness to
escape, should it be necessary. Sir Carnaby looks at him while he
speaks as if he does not quite understand his hurried explanation;
but when the attendant has finished, he looks around the room with an
anxious air, and then says: ‘If it be so, Derrick, we must get off
somehow as quickly as we can. This window, I think, looks towards the
back of the house. Can you not manage to descend into the courtyard and
get out our horses? Lead them down the bank of the stream towards that
tall beacon by the dike. You must remember the place; we remarked it as
we passed the mill on our journey here.’

‘I remember the place, Sir Carnaby; but I am not going to make off
there, and leave you alone here.’

‘I shall be safe enough, I tell you, Derrick,’ said the baronet as he
hastily motioned to the attendant to go. ‘I cannot come yet; I cannot;
it is impossible.’

‘I will wait below, then,’ is the stubborn reply of his servant, who is
already half out of the window.

‘Derrick,’ says Sir Carnaby, laying his hand upon the attendant’s
shoulder, ‘do what I tell you. I cannot come now; and if you wait below
for me, as you say, we shall both be discovered. More lives than our
own depend upon your obeying me at this moment. Go, as I tell you, and
wait for me by the beacon; and I will join you as soon as I possibly
can.’

The man clasps his master’s hand, and, with something like tears in
his eyes, makes his way to the ground. The fugitive baronet has no
emotion expressed on his countenance, for he fears not for himself; his
thoughts are centred upon that black box which has now so strangely
disappeared. With the broad-bladed knife still in his hand, he goes
towards a corner of the room, kneels down, and appears to busy himself
with the planking of the floor.

       *       *       *       *       *

Fortunately for himself, Derrick had found his way to the shed where
the horses had been stabled; and his efforts to saddle and bring them
out had proved successful. The great gates leading out of the courtyard
of the old inn were fastened; but this did not deter the attendant’s
movements for an instant. Leading the horses through a gap in the fence
at the back of the _Saxonford Arms_, he crossed a small cultivated
inclosure, and emerged from the cover of a hedge upon the open highway.
Stopping for a moment to listen, he plainly distinguished the measured
tramp of soldiers approaching the inn, mingled with the low peculiar
clank of arms and accoutrements. One circumstance which particularly
alarmed Derrick was that the sound plainly came from the direction
in which he had to go. There was no time for thought, however; the
warning tramp which broke the stillness of the night came nearer and
nearer, and over the old timber bridge which crossed the stream came
a dim file of figures—eleven of them. Derrick could easily count the
number as they passed over the bridge and came straight towards the old
_Saxonford Arms_, their fixed bayonets flashing and glittering in the
moonlight.

There was but one course he could take; he must move forward and pass
them. No opportunity for making a detour, for the military were not
one hundred yards from the house, and the attendant knew that he had
been seen. Muttering a prayer for his master’s safety, Derrick put the
horses to a slow trot, and advanced towards the soldiers with a feeling
of fear at his heart which he had never before experienced. He had not
covered half the distance before a sharp word of command came from the
front, and a line was drawn up across the road, evidently with the
intention of disputing his further progress. A dash for it now; delay
meant capture both for himself and his master. Digging spurs into his
horse’s sides, the attendant laid the flat of his broad blade over the
flanks of Sir Carnaby’s charger which he led, and tore down the road
like a whirlwind. It was all over in a minute. A sheet of flame shot
forth as the bold horseman broke through the line, and then, without
a check, he found himself ascending the steep bank close against the
bridge. The soldiers, however, who had taken the initiative, had
no intention of letting their suspected quarry escape. Before Sir
Carnaby’s servant could head the bank, he was surrounded, and a hoarse
cry to stop and surrender came from his pursuers. In this they had
mistaken their man. Derrick entertained no such idea. He indeed hoped
that the firing would alarm his master, and allow him time to make his
retreat in safety; but not a thought had he of yielding. Once more
clapping spurs to his horse, and striking right and left with his drawn
blade, the attendant partially succeeded in clearing himself from the
press.

At this moment, a random shot from one of the military dropped his
master’s horse, which he had been leading. Derrick had scarcely time to
disengage his arm from the bridle before the poor animal went crashing
down, breaking the worm-eaten railing of the bridge like matchwood, and
throwing one of his assailants headlong into the stream below. In the
confusion, Derrick received a bayonet-wound in the left arm, and he was
nearly pulled from his saddle; but shaking himself free with almost
superhuman strength, he applied his spurs, and galloped across the old
bridge for dear life.

Although there appeared to be no attempt at pursuit, Derrick did not
judge it prudent to ride straight for the spot where he hoped to meet
his master. After making a considerable circuit, the trusty henchman,
faithful to the last, reined in his reeking steed, and gazed across the
flat misty space in the direction of the _Saxonford Arms_. The silence,
however, was as complete as when he had sat at that open window looking
over the fen. Not a soul was anywhere near him. Putting his horse once
more in motion, the man rode slowly along the bank until he reached
the place of rendezvous. It was as he both feared and suspected. Sir
Carnaby was not there. He must wait. The clear night clouded, and the
hours passed by, but yet his master came not. Derrick might wait until
the crack of doom, but he never would meet his master again on earth.
The devoted courage of the servant was useless now, for, pierced by a
musket bullet, Sir Carnaby Vincent lay lifeless across the stairs of
the old _Saxonford Arms_.


CHAPTER IV.—AFTER FIFTEEN YEARS.

It wanted but a few days to Christmas 1760—a seasonable Christmas,
and in keeping with that festive season of the year. Snow and sharp
north-east winds had been plentiful for nearly a week past. The flat
country all around the time-honoured cathedral city of Fridswold had
been covered with a vast sheet of drifted snow, which had found its
way into every nook and crevice, filling up all the ditches and dikes
until they were level with the surrounding country. The minster tower
was embellished with an innumerable number of white patches, and the
minster roofs were hidden under a thick covering of frozen snow. It was
evident that King Christmas had things to his liking this time, and
was bent upon enjoying his own particular time in his own particular
way. Meanwhile the wind roared on, roared and whistled, and whisked
the sharp frozen snowflakes round and round, dashing them, as if in
impotent rage, against the sturdy walls of the minster. The air was so
thick that, although the hour was not late, darkness had set in with
a density that obscured every object from view, while the tolling of
the great vespers-bell was drowned by the distracting uproar of the
elements.

It was during one of the uncertain lulls which occurred from time to
time, that a figure emerged from the protecting shelter of one of the
cathedral buttresses, and wrapping himself in the folds of a horseman’s
cloak, strode hastily forward, evidently intending to take advantage
of the brief calm and reach some haven of shelter. Scarcely a single
person was to be seen in the deserted streets, through which the blast
tore with such mad fury that the buffeted wayfarer staggered again.
Visions of glowing fires, dry clothes, and comfortable shelter rose
before his imagination as he passed a brightly lighted window. But
there was no stopping for him; he must on and fight this tough battle
with the pitiless wind as best he may. His destination is at length
reached. The weather-beaten traveller descends a couple of steps,
passes through an open doorway, and emerges from the outer darkness
into a warm, cosy-looking bar—his clothes half-frozen, and crusted
with patches of snow. He is apparently known here, for he is instantly
relieved of his cloak and hat by a neat-looking damsel, who up to the
present moment has been engaged in a light and refreshing flirtation
with a large, hot-visaged man lounging before the fire.

‘Sharp weather this, sir,’ remarked that worthy, slightly moving from
his place.

‘Sharp indeed!’ returned the other in a deep voice, as he shook some
loose particles of snow from his person.

‘Ah, this’ll be a bad time for many people,’ was the next remark the
large man ventured upon.

A muttered exclamation dropped from the lips of the last comer, but was
too indistinct to be heard.

‘There’ll be many a person remember this night,’ continued he of the
fiery countenance, with an insane notion that he was getting along
capitally.

The individual addressed turned sharply round, fixing a pair of dark
eyes upon the other’s face, but he did not speak.

Somewhat discouraged, the large man paused for a minute ere he spoke
again. The person he seemed so wishful to converse with was a tall,
handsome, young fellow, dressed in a sort of half-military costume, and
with a bold dashing look, sufficient in itself to attract notice. By
his side was a silver-hilted rapier, the ordinary weapon of a gentleman
of the day; and the martial look of the wearer was sufficient proof
that he would be prompt to use it in any emergency. Seemingly not
satisfied with the long inspection he had thought fit to take, our
red-faced friend once more endeavoured to enter into conversation; but
the gentleman, after giving the maid some orders, quitted the room.

‘Is that gentleman staying in the house, Peggy, my dear?’ asked the
red-faced one of the waiting-maid.

‘Yes; he came here last night,’ replied the girl, who was perfectly
ready to resume the aforesaid flirtation, which had been interrupted by
the entrance of the visitor.

But the man with the fiery face now seemed to be persistently
interested in the stranger. ‘What may his name be, Peg?’ he asked in a
tone of affected carelessness.

‘That’s no business of yours, Mr Goff,’ retorted the damsel a trifle
tartly, for the swain’s indifference somewhat nettled her.

‘Now, Peggy, my chuck, don’t get crusty,’ said the big man in wheedling
accents. ‘What’s that you’ve got in your pretty hand?’

‘It’s the gentleman’s hat,’ replied the fair maid, somewhat relaxing.
‘I’m going to dry it by the fire with his cloak. They’re sopping wet,
now the snow’s melted on them.’

‘He’s not likely to lose his headpiece, whoever he may be,’ remarked
Mr Goff. ‘I can see “R. Ainslie” on the lining quite plain, as you’re
holding it now.’

‘You seem to take a deal of interest in the gentleman,’ laughed Peggy
as she turned the hat away.

‘It’s mighty little interest I take in any one except you, my beauty,’
returned Mr Goff. ‘I only thought the young fellow looked wonderful
weary and tired like.’

‘He looked that yesterday,’ said Peggy, warming to the subject. ‘I felt
quite sorry for him when he rode up. It wasn’t fit weather to turn a
dog out in.’

‘And he’s been out again to-day?’ hazarded the big man.

‘Yes,’ replied Peggy, depositing the hat and cloak in front of the
roaring blaze. ‘He went out early on foot, leaving his horse in the
stable, and we saw nothing more of him till two o’clock. He came back
then, and ordered something to eat; but, as I’m a living creature, I
think he scarcely touched it. After that, he went out again, and did
not return till just now.’

‘It seems wonderful curious,’ said Mr Goff slowly, as he buttoned up
his coat and prepared to go—‘seems wonderful curious that a young gent
should go on in that fashion. When I see ’em a-doing so, I always have
a sort of notion that they’ve got something on their minds, and are
going to act rash.’

‘That’s your experience, is it?’ said the girl with a laugh. ‘I don’t
think much of it.’

‘Possibly not,’ returned the other. ‘Good-night.’




A SOLITARY ISLAND.


The government of Iceland have commissioned Mr Thoroddsen to undertake
systematic explorations of that island, with a view to investigating
its physical features and describing its natural history. While on a
visit to Grimsey, a small island twenty-two miles due north of Iceland,
he found it inhabited by eighty-eight human beings, debarred from all
communication with the mainland, excepting once or twice every year,
when, at great risk, the natives contrived to visit the mainland in
their small open boats.

After describing the flora and meteorology of this secluded islet,
Mr Thoroddsen informs us that the ‘pastor of the island, M. Pjetur
Gudmundsson, has for many years been engaged in exceedingly careful
meteorological observations on behalf of the Meteorological Institute
of Copenhagen. This most worthy gentleman, living here in conspicuous
poverty, like a hermit divorced from the world, though he has the
comfort of a good wife to be thankful for, is not only regarded as
a father by his primitive congregation, but enjoys, moreover, the
reputation of being in the front rank among sacred poets in modern
Iceland.

‘The inhabitants derive their livelihood for the most part from
bird-catching, nest-robbing, and deep-sea fisheries. The precipices
that form the eastern face of the island are crowded with myriads of
various kinds of sea-fowl. On every ledge the birds are seen thickly
packed together; the rocks are white with guano, or green-tufted with
scurvy-grass; here everything is in ceaseless movement, stir, and
flutter, accompanied by a myriad-voiced concert from screamers on the
wing, from chatterers on domestic affairs in the rock-ledges, and
from brawlers at the parliament of love out at sea, the surface of
which beneath the rocks is literally thatched at this time of the year
with the wooing multitudes of this happy commonwealth. If the peace
is broken by a stone rolled over the precipice or by the report of
a gunshot, the air is suddenly darkened by the rising clouds of the
disturbed birds, which, viewed from the rocks, resemble what might be
taken for gigantic swarms of bees or midges.

‘The method adopted for collecting eggs is the following: Provided with
a strong rope, some nine or ten stalwart men go to the precipice, where
it is some three hundred feet high, and one of the number volunteers
or is singled out by the rest for the perilous _sig_, that is, “sink”
or “drop,” over the edge of the rocks. Round his thighs and waist,
thickly padded generally with bags stuffed with feathers or hay, the
_sigamadr_, “sinkman” or “dropman,” adjusts the rope in such a manner
that he may hang, when dropped, in a sitting posture. He is also
dressed in a wide smock or sack of coarse calico, open at the breast,
and tied round the waist with a belt, into the ample folds of which
he slips the eggs he gathers, the capacity of the smock affording
accommodation to from one hundred to one hundred and fifty eggs at a
time. In one hand the sinkman holds a pole, sixteen feet long, with a
ladle tied to one end, and by this means scoops the eggs out of nests
which are beyond the reach of his own hands. When the purpose of this
“breath-fetching” sink is accomplished, on a given sign the dropman is
hauled up again by his comrades. This, as may readily be imagined, is
a most dangerous undertaking, and many a life has been lost over it in
Grimsey from accidents occurring to the rope.

‘For the pursuit of the fishery, the island possesses fourteen small
open boats, in which the men will venture out as far as four to six
miles cod-fishing; but this is a most hazardous industry, owing both
to the sudden manner in which the sea will rise, sometimes even a
long time in advance of travelling storms, and to the difficulty of
effecting a landing on the harbourless island.

‘Now and then the monotony of the life of the inhabitants is broken by
visits from foreigners, mostly Icelandic shark-fishers, or English or
French fishermen.

‘Of domestic animals the islanders now possess only a few sheep.
Formerly there were five cows in the island; but the hard winter
of 1860 necessitated their extermination, and since that time, for
twenty-four years, the people have had to do without a cow! Of horses
there are only two at present (1884) in the island! Strange to say, the
health of the people seems on the whole to bear a fair comparison with
more favoured localities. Scurvy, which formerly was very prevalent,
has now almost disappeared, as has also a disease peculiar to children,
which, in the form of spasm or convulsive fit, used to be very fatal to
infant life in former years.

‘Inexpressibly solitary must be the life of these people in winter,
shut out from all communication with the outer world, and having
in view, as far as the eye can reach, nothing but arctic ice. The
existence of generation after generation here seems to be spent in
one continuous and unavailing arctic expedition. The only diversion
afforded by nature consists in the shifting colours of the flickering
aurora borealis, in the twinkling of the stars in the heavens, and
the fantastic forms of wandering icebergs. No wonder that such
surroundings should serve to produce a quiet, serious, devout, and
down-hearted race, in which respect the Grimsey men may perhaps be
said to constitute a typical group among their compatriots. However,
to dispel the heavy tedium of the long winter days, they seek their
amusements in the reading of the Sagas, in chess-playing, and in such
mild dissipations at mutual entertainments at Christmas-time as their
splendid poverty will allow.’




FORESTRY AND FARMING.


At one of the evening lectures in connection with the late Edinburgh
Forestry Exhibition, Mr J. Meldrum spoke of the ‘Johore Forests’ which
are situated in the Malayan Peninsula between the British settlements
of Singapore and Malacca. The greater part of the interior, he said,
consisted of a virgin forest, and abounded in timber trees of a large
size, no fewer than three hundred and fifty specimens of which were to
be seen in the Forestry Exhibition. About three hundred kinds awaited
the advent of the papermaker, who would be able to convert them into
useful wood-pulp at a very low cost. Railways were required to make
this wealth of timber available for commercial purposes.

Another lecture by Mr Cracknell at the model of the Manitoba Farm
embodied some interesting information regarding the Canadian
north-west. The Bell Farm in Qu’appelle he described as the largest
farm in the world. There were eight thousand acres under crop, five
thousand under wheat, and a portion of the remainder under flax. From
this farm, ten thousand bushels of wheat had been exported at a good
price last year; and this year’s crop was estimated to be forty per
cent. better. The estimated wheat acreage this year in Manitoba is
three hundred and fifty thousand; and in the north-west territories
sixty-five thousand, with an estimated yield of twenty-three bushels
an acre. There was thus a total of four hundred and fifteen thousand
acres, and nine million five hundred and forty-five thousand bushels;
but deducting two million seven hundred and sixty thousand bushels for
home consumption and seed, there remained a surplus of six million
seven hundred and eighty-five thousand bushels. There is little
consolation here for the British farmer, who finds wheat-growing at the
present low prices positively unremunerative.




A LOVE-THOUGHT.


    If thou wert only, love, a tiny flower,
      And I a butterfly with gaudy wings,
    Flitting to changing scenes each changing hour,
      Careless of aught save that which pleasure brings—
    Not even I could leave the lowliest glade
    That held thy loveliness within its shade.

    If thou wert but a streamlet in the vale,
      And I a sailor on a stormy sea,
    Flying through whirling foam beneath the gale,
      Chartless in all that wild immensity—
    Thy murmuring voice would echo in my soul
    Through howling storm or crashing thunder-roll.

    If, darling, thou wert but a far-off star,
      And I a weary wanderer o’er the plain,
    Unwitting of celestial worlds afar,
      And knowing naught of all the shining train—
    My glance would single out thy ray serene,
    Though blazing suns and planets rolled between.

    Yet, dear one, thou art these to me, and more:
      My flower, whose radiance passeth all decay;
    My streamlet of sweet thoughts in endless store;
      My star, to guide my steps to perfect day;
    My hope in earth’s dark dungeon of despair;
    My refuge ’mid life’s weary noonday glare.

            H. ERNEST NICHOL.

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and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

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