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. 46.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




SCOTTISH DEER-FORESTS.


Deer-stalking has for many a long year been looked upon as the king
of sports; and in Scotland, a large area of land has from an early
period been occupied by the red-deer and the roebuck. At the present
time, as far as has been ascertained by a recent inquiry under Royal
Commission, the extent of all the deer-forests in Scotland amounts
to about two millions of acres. It is only, however, right to say
that the land devoted to these animals could not be more profitably
employed. It has been affirmed by practical men that it is scarcely
possible to feed even one hardy black-faced sheep on less than six
acres of such land, so scant is the herbage. Indeed, some intelligent
farmers maintain that it will take a hundred and sixty acres of
forest-land to graze a score of these sheep. No person who is even
tolerably familiar with the deer-districts of Scotland will gainsay
this. The contour, altitude, and climate of a deer-forest quite unfit
it for agricultural purposes—the range of ground occupied by these
stately animals is of the most miscellaneous description: hill and
dale, moor and morass, mountain and glen, with every here and there
rocky precipices, and small groups of trees naturally planted, and
chiefly of the hardy native birch. In the three chief deer-counties
of Scotland, the cultivable area is singularly small in proportion
to their total extent. Taking Argyll, Inverness, and Ross-shire as
examples, only three hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred
and ninety-eight acres are to be found under cultivation, out of an
area which covers six million eight hundred and twenty-three thousand
and two acres, leaving nearly six and a half millions of acres to be
inhabited by sheep, deer, and grouse, and as the site of lochs, rivers,
and mountains, and sterile places on which nothing grows and nothing
can live.

No authentic statistics are collected in Scotland of the deer which are
annually slain in the way of sport; but we are enabled from records
which appear from time to time in the public prints, to estimate the
number of stags which are killed in the different forests. In the
county of Inverness—which may be called the deer-county of Scotland
_par excellence_, in the same way as Perthshire is looked upon as being
the representative grouse-producing county of the kingdom—probably
about sixteen hundred stags are annually killed. The figure which
represents the number of deer in all Scotland, counting animals of all
ages, must be very considerable, seeing that, as stated in evidence
before the recent Royal Commission, it yields to the sportsman’s rifle
four thousand six hundred and fifty stags per annum, and a nearly
equal number of hinds. Scrope the deer-stalker, when writing his
celebrated work some fifty years since, estimated that in the Forest
of Athole, which at that date contained an area of over fifty-one
thousand acres, there would be, young and old, between five and six
thousand deer. Calculating on that data, there ought now to be found
on the two million acres of land at present given over to stags and
hinds and their calves, as many as two hundred and twenty-five thousand
animals of the deer kind. Each stag which succumbs to the prowess of
the stalker has been estimated to cost fifty pounds to the lessee
or proprietor of a deer-forest. At that rate, the four thousand six
hundred and fifty stags annually killed in Scotland represent a sum of
two hundred and thirty-two thousand five hundred pounds paid in the
form of rent and other items of expenditure which are yearly incurred.
As to the rent paid for particular deer-forests, it varies considerably
according to extent and amenities. Some forests contain a large area of
ground; and although the rental per acre looks trifling enough—ranging
as it probably does from ninepence to double, or in some instances to
treble, that sum—the amount soon accumulates and becomes important. For
an area of twelve thousand acres, a thousand pounds will frequently be
paid. Many Scottish forests are, however, rented at double that sum;
and not a few at an even larger rent. In the county of Inverness,
for example, there are a dozen which yield a total amount of fully
thirty-three thousand pounds, including five of three thousand pounds
and upwards, and one of nearly six thousand pounds, of yearly rent.
In the counties of Ross, Argyll, Aberdeen, and Perth there are also
many forests which command a high price. In the first-named county, we
could name twenty that fetch an aggregate annual rent of upwards of
thirty-three thousand pounds, or an average of nearly seventeen hundred
pounds; while it is no secret that an American gentleman pays a yearly
rental for deer-ground in Inverness and Ross of nearly eleven thousand
pounds.

Deer-stalking has been denominated ‘the pastime of princes;’ and it is
a sport that calls for pluck, patience, and endurance on the part of
those who undertake it. From daybreak to sundown has been often spent
in circumventing the monarch of the mountain; and often, after a hard
day’s work, the noble hart has got the better of his pursuers, and
found his way to a place of safety. The deer is difficult of access,
being a most suspicious and wary animal, with a wonderfully acute power
of scent and sense of hearing. The antlered stag has to be watched from
afar with a powerful telescope, the anxious stalker and his gillies
requiring to be circumspect in all their movements. As an intelligent
forester told the writer: ‘You have to creep on your stomach like a
serpent; you have to crouch as you go like a collier at work; while
to make sure of your prey, you may have to make a tour of a couple of
miles, even though you are just about within range. You must force your
way through the morass, and must, if necessary, walk for a few hundred
yards up to your middle in water—that is all in the way of business,
sir, when you go deer-stalking. A slight rustle, the displacing of
a stone on the mountain-side as you laboriously creep or climb to
overlook your quarry, and your chance is gone; the deer being perhaps
miles away before you can realise the fact that you have disturbed him.’

These words contain an epitome of the work of deer-stalking. A stag
will note a man a long way off, and will, when he does so, most
probably at once take alarm and run for his life. The sense of smell
which has been bestowed on these animals is wonderful; wind carries the
scent to them unbroken, and whenever they have ‘got the wind,’ as it is
called, of man, or any other source of disturbance, they are sure to
move off to a place of safety. When once a herd of deer is disturbed,
they will take themselves away to a distance; and it is generally a
considerable time before they settle down again to rest or feed in
quietness. The red-deer is excessively shy, and, as we have been trying
to show, easily frightened. The melancholy note of a flying plover,
the crowing of a cock-grouse, or the bustling past of a mountain hare,
will sometimes cause him to gallop in a state of alarm for a mile or
two before he pauses to see what has happened; and consequently, it
is generally the policy of the devoted deer-stalker to discourage
the rearing of grouse or hares in his deer-forest. The desire for
possessing ‘fine heads’ causes some of the best specimens of the tribe
to be shot at an early stage of the season, a stag-royal being a prize
greatly coveted. It is a somewhat curious feature of the economy of
a forest that so few horns are found. The deer sheds its horns every
year; but what becomes of most of those that are shed is not very
accurately known, the number found not being in anything like proper
proportion to the number that must be shed. The horns, as a general
rule, are given to the foresters who find them, as a perquisite; and
therefore it may be taken for granted they are well looked after; or
their scarcity may be partly due to the fact of their being eaten by
the deer themselves after being shed! This, to a certain extent at
least, seems certainly to be the case.

It has been said of the Highland sports of deer-stalking and
grouse-shooting, that as they never can be made to ‘pay’ in a
commercial sense, so they never can be vulgarised. The deer-forests
in particular are sure to remain select; it is only men who have an
annual income of many thousands who can afford to indulge themselves
in the ‘pastime of princes.’ As regards the produce of these vast
areas of ground—the venison—it can hardly be said to have a marketable
value. To produce a haunch at table on the occasion of a dinner-party
is with some persons a matter of ambition; but table venison, except
in Highland shooting-lodges and hotels, is generally obtained from
park-bred fallow-deer, especially fed for the purpose, and which in its
season commands a very high price. Red-deer venison—that is, a haunch
from a Highland hart or hind—can only be assigned a secondary place
in the cuisine. Happily, some sportsmen have discovered that venison
does not require to be kept till it has begun to decay before it can
be brought to table, but can be used to the greatest advantage in the
space of two or three days after being killed, when its flavour is
excellent and the flesh presumably nutritious. The deer can also be cut
into chops, such cuts being delicious. Among sportsmen who thus utilise
their venison we may be allowed to name the father of them all—Horatio
Ross. There is, however, some probability that the Scottish red-deer
may yet cut a better figure at table than it has ever done, and pains
are being taken, we understand, to fortify the various breeds. The
deer is a rather local animal, and therefore there must be in the
various herds a certain amount of in-breeding; and to counteract the
deterioration which must result from such a circumstance, Sutherland
stags were some time ago placed in the forests of Ross and Cromarty
with gratifying results; the Queen, it was some time ago stated, had
forwarded some red-deer from Windsor to be crossed with the deer of the
Duke of Portland in the county of Caithness; and various gentlemen well
known in the deer-forest world of the Highlands have recently followed
these examples. It is to be hoped we may learn in time how these
experiments have succeeded.

In conclusion, we have only to remark, that it is a fortunate
circumstance for the owners of Highland estates that they can be
rented for deer-forests. In no other way could the proprietors obtain
so good an income from their lands. Those engaged in the sport of
deer-stalking year by year expend a large amount of money; they
give remunerative employment to many hundred persons, and have done
much in many instances to improve the moral as well as the material
circumstances of the people by setting those employed by them a good
example. As to the question whether it would be more profitable to feed
sheep or deer, that must be left to settle itself by the inevitable
operation of economic law. It is a question of rental; persons having
moors and forests in their hands, naturally enough let them to those
who offer most money for them. It has been accurately ascertained by
the Royal Commission of Inquiry into the Crofting System, &c., that all
the deer-forests in Scotland—comprising about two million acres—are
capable of throwing on the market only about four hundred thousand
sheep per annum; and as there are in the United Kingdom nearly thirty
million sheep, it is at once seen how comparatively meagre is the
displacement of sheep by the Scottish deer-forests.




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER LVI.—UPHILL.

She knew and he knew that they were something more to each other on
that white winter day than they had ever been before. What the degree
of the ‘something more’ might be, neither Madge nor Philip attempted
to calculate. They were conscious of it, and that was enough: yet
both wondered how there could be this sense of closer alliance, when,
looking back, they remembered how often they had thought that nothing
on earth could decrease or increase their affection. They were learning
the priceless lesson that _Love_ grows in suffering where mere passion
quickly withers and dies, and frequently turns to hate.

An honest, promptly spoken word had saved them from folly—cleared the
mist from his eyes, and scoured the misery out of both hearts. And it
was Madge who spoke this magical word, as it is the loving woman—God
bless her—who always does. But then, says the cynic, ‘the loving woman’
is so rare that she may be freely allowed all possible praise: vanity
and interest have generally much more to do in linking men and women
than affection. Read your newspaper, note the lives of those around
you, count the sores which the four walls of every house conceal, and
then you will know how rare she is.—Go, cynic; we will shut our eyes
and dream the beautiful dream of all romance, that women are fair,
self-sacrificing, and loyal in their love.

Madge was insensible of any special heroism in taking the common-sense
view of her duty to Philip and acting upon it. So now, the happy end
being achieved, she turned calmly to think of what they had to do for
others.

As they walked back towards the cottage, she spoke about Caleb Kersey,
and the perilous position in which he was placed by the accusation
of Coutts, supported as it was by the servant’s unintentionally
exaggerated account of the prisoner’s conduct at the door of the
Manor a few hours before the fire was discovered. She learned with
satisfaction that Philip had not forgotten his unlucky foreman.

‘I have been to the court,’ he said, ‘and Caleb is remanded for a week,
in order to collect further evidence as to his movements on that night,
and to see how my father progresses.’

‘How did he look? What did he say?’

‘He looked as if he did not care what befell him; he said nothing more
than that he was innocent, and I am sure of it. The poor fellow has
been cruelly upset by Pansy’s conduct, and he has got into this scrape
because he could not take warning in time that Coutts was too cautious
a man to become his rival.’

‘But will he be able to prove his innocence?’

‘I hope so; and the next examination will enable us to form a clearer
idea of his chances than we can at present. Coutts has had a slight
disappointment in a business transaction, and is merciless towards
Caleb. I suppose he is relieved to find some one to vent his spleen on.’

Philip smiled faintly, and she was glad to see even the least sign of
his returning to his natural good-humoured way of viewing life. He did
not explain to her that the business transaction in which Coutts had
failed was his attempt to secure a snug place in Mr Shield’s will by
ousting his brother.

‘Whatever we settle to do,’ Mr Shield had said with a shrewd twinkle in
his eyes, and referring to Coutts, ‘don’t let that gentleman into our
plans.’

Mr Beecham, with a grave bow, had acquiesced in this counsel, the
wisdom of which Philip could not dispute, although he was not at the
moment acquainted with the details of his brother’s design.

‘Don’t see the dodge?’ continued Shield brusquely. ‘It’s plain as
daylight. He wanted to get you into a hole, reckoning that the rich
uncle would give him your place. He expected that bill would do it; for
if he didn’t know from the first that it was a forgery, he believed it
was, and made sure of getting his own and more out of the rich relative
somehow. But when he heard of things going wrong, and being sharp
enough to see that other people had their eyes open as well as him,
he got too anxious to hedge to be able to carry out his scheme as he
intended. Didn’t quite miss his mark either, though’—this was uttered
like a growl of disappointment—‘for, thanks to you, he has got his own;
but he’ll get no more.’

Philip remembered with what cynical frankness Coutts had explained the
ethics of business which guided him; but, until now, he had always
imagined there was more talk than practice in it. He certainly never
suspected him of being capable of putting such theories into practice
with a friend and relative. Pat upon this reflection, one of Coutts’s
favourite apothegms recurred to him—‘There are no friendships in
business.’ He owned with chagrin that the theories of Wrentham and
Coutts were identical, although the former was not so careful in
utilising them as to succeed.

The brothers rarely met at this time, and then only exchanged a passing
‘How do you do?’ After Mr Hadleigh’s removal to Willowmere, Coutts
arranged with Dr Joy to send for him if there should be any marked
change for the worse in the patient’s condition.

‘He wants quiet, you say,’ was the observation of this smart young man
of business; ‘and there is no use in my trotting out here when I can do
nothing. You’ll let me know if anything is required.’

He was punctual as ever in his attendance at the office; lunched
and dined at his club, where he spent the evening playing billiards
or cards, with an occasional diversion to one of those shady places
to which ‘baccarat’ was the fatal lure. But Coutts did not lose;
even here his usual caution protected him. He did not want to see
Philip at present; for although his money was safe, he felt mortified
by his inability to penetrate the mystery of the bill, and by the
consciousness that he had failed most egregiously in the attempt to
ingratiate himself with Mr Shield.

Philip paid a brief visit daily to the farm, but it was very brief; and
in that first week of anxiety, Madge and he spoke little of themselves
or of their future. There was no need: everything was understood
between them now, and they were too deeply engaged in earnest duties
to allow themselves any relaxation until the immediate crisis in their
affairs had been passed.

At the works, Philip laboured with all his might to pull things
straight, and he had frequent occasion to wish that he might have had
the assistance of Caleb Kersey. Mr Beecham, however, was at his elbow,
encouraging him with words of hope and sage advice. The accounts of
various firms as represented in their invoices were largely reduced
in consequence of Wrentham’s confessions. In most cases it turned out
that two sets of invoices had been prepared: one set gave the real
amounts which were to be paid to the dealers; the other set gave the
sums which Philip had to pay. The explanation given was that Wrentham
had represented himself as the buyer, and was therefore at liberty to
charge whatever price he could get when he sold.

Even in the first transaction which Philip had entered into, namely,
the purchase of the land, a bold attempt had been made to mulct him in
a sum equal to double its value. He had, however, absolutely refused to
listen to the terms proposed; and Wrentham had been obliged to content
himself with what most people would have considered a very satisfactory
commission of twenty per cent.

The details of these frauds—or should they be called merely ‘sharp
practice?’—were forced from Wrentham as much by the terror of Bob
Tuppit’s threat to give evidence in the matter of the forged bill as
by gratitude for the generosity of Philip and his uncle. One by one
the accounts were amended as far as they could be; and the amendment
represented a considerable amount.

Wrentham gave his information with the air of a man who has simply
failed in what promised to be a good speculation. Two things distressed
him—he had been found out, and he had lost the whole of the money he
had schemed so elaborately to obtain, by mistakes on the turf and the
Stock Exchange. One important item, however, was safe. Despite his
gambling infatuation, he had invested the proceeds of the forged bill
in sound securities, so that the whole amount was recoverable. Yet the
man was so insensible to the criminality of his proceedings, that he
was secretly regretting the loss of the pleasure and excitement he
might have purchased with this money, if he had not been fool enough to
desire to have a nest-egg.

       *       *       *       *       *

In this week of hard work and anxiety to Philip and Madge, Caleb Kersey
was again called on to answer the charge of malicious incendiarism.
The doctors were able to give a satisfactory report of Mr Hadleigh’s
progress; and that was so much in the prisoner’s favour. All the rest
told heavily against him, especially his apparent indifference as to
the result of the trial, which some honest country-folk regarded as
signs of the hardened sinner, who had caused so much disturbance in
the country by his demands for higher wages and better housing for the
agricultural labourers.

He admitted the general accuracy of the statement made by Coutts
regarding their interview; whilst he refused to give any information
as to the grounds of their quarrel. He affirmed, however, that after
the door of the Manor had been closed against him, he had speech with
Coutts’s father, who, on hearing his complaint, had directed him to be
at the house early in the morning, and promised that justice should be
done him. He further admitted that it was true that he had only reached
his lodgings in the village a few minutes before the first alarm of
fire was raised.

On his own showing, there seemed to be no alternative for the
magistrate but to commit him for trial.

At this point, Mr Jackson, of Hawkins and Jackson, solicitors, who was
acting for the prisoner by the instruction of some friends, called
forward that astute detective, Sergeant Dier. He had been engaged
for several days investigating into the origin of the fire; and he
was now prepared with evidence which would not only establish the
prisoner’s innocence, but would show that he had behaved heroically on
the occasion, and was in fact the man who at the peril of his own, had
saved the life of Mr Lloyd Hadleigh, the proprietor of Ringsford.

The face of Sergeant Dier was a picture of good-humoured satisfaction;
whilst preserving a proper degree of professional firmness and
equanimity, as the case was developed in court. Mr Jackson’s sharp
visage was aglow with self-complacency, as if he would say, ‘I alone
have done it.’

First there was the testimony of Mr Hadleigh, written down at his
bedside by a duly qualified gentleman—to the effect that he had made an
appointment to meet the prisoner as the latter had affirmed, and for
the purpose mentioned by him. Next Philip gave the man an excellent
character for intelligence, sobriety, and honesty. He was followed by
half-a-dozen witnesses who had seen Caleb’s brave rescue of Mr Hadleigh
when no one else would dare to attempt it.

Last came a housemaid, who confessed what she had been too much
frightened to confess before. She had been sitting up late writing
a letter (to her sweetheart of course—these things occupy a great
deal of time), and hearing voices downstairs, she had gone into the
passage, curious to discover the cause of the disturbance. As she was
retreating hastily, she upset a paraffine lamp; but in her eagerness to
get back to her room, she did not observe any signs of fire, or think
of any danger until she heard the alarm.

The result of this evidence was a severe reprimand to the girl, and the
instant discharge of Caleb Kersey without a stain on his character, and
with a high compliment from the bench on the gallantry he had displayed
in the rescue of Mr Hadleigh.

Caleb thanked His Worship, and retired, but not before Mr Jackson
had whispered that it was a question whether he had not grounds for
an action against Coutts Hadleigh. Poor Caleb neither understood nor
heeded this suggestion in his present state of mind. He wanted to get
away from the place. He was stopped, however, by Philip, who grasped
his hand warmly, and asked him to come back to the works.

‘Thank you kindly, sir; but it may not be. I am bound to cross the
water, and seek some place where I can forget the old land and—the old
friends.’

‘Hoots, man, what clavers,’ exclaimed the gardener, stepping forward.
‘You should not be headstrong. There’s as good living in the auld
country as in the new, if you would seek it in the right way.’

A kindly hand pressed Caleb’s arm, and a soft voice said in a tone of
intense relief:

‘I am glad you are safe.’

Caleb pressed Pansy’s hand in his own, and held it firmly for a few
seconds.

‘I’m obliged to you,’ he said quietly, although huskily. ‘I wish you
well.’

And with that he forced his way through the group of friends and
disappeared.




HOME-NURSING.

BY A LADY.


FOURTH ARTICLE.

Having fully considered the choice and management of a sick-room, we
now turn to those personal cares essential alike to the patient’s
comfort and well-being.

We have already spoken of the need of absolute cleanliness in the
sick-room; and as regards the patient himself, it is hardly possible
to overestimate the importance of scrupulous attention to every detail
affecting the purity of his immediate surroundings. Not only should
bed and body linen be kept fresh and clean, but everything that has
become soiled in using must at once be removed from the room. It is
a very common practice in home-nursing to make a collection of dirty
things, to be carried downstairs when any one is going; in this way, I
have known a room to be fouled for hours, the patient being considered
whimsical for complaining of odours not perceptible to his nurse. Now,
any such complaint should receive immediate attention, and a nurse
should never rest satisfied till she has discovered and remedied the
evil. It not seldom happens that the patient’s sensitive condition
makes him extra quick to discern such warning of danger; and the nurse
who really desires to do her duty, instead of taking offence, will
gladly avail herself of the help thus given; for it must be borne in
mind that as surely as smoke indicates fire, so surely does a bad
smell indicate a foulness of air, which will never be remedied till the
cause has been removed. Remembering this, it will be seen how foolish
is the practice of drowning unpleasant odours by the indiscriminate use
of disinfectants; these have their special value—their proper sphere
we shall consider in dealing with infectious diseases; but in ordinary
illness, they are apt to be used simply as a covering-up of evils which
demand entire and immediate removal.

As regards personal cleanliness, many people still retain the
old-fashioned fear of washing, which used to condemn the patient to a
state of dirt, equally uncomfortable and injurious. Of course, care and
discrimination are needful, and if there is any doubt on the matter,
it is better to ask the doctor’s opinion; but as a rule, daily washing
of face, neck, and arms is possible in all cases fit for home-nursing;
in addition, the legs and feet should be washed about every other day;
and whenever practicable, a weekly bath should be given. For the daily
wash, tepid water and a piece of flannel suit most patients best; but
where cold sponging is a refreshment, it may be used, provided due care
is taken to avoid a chill.

In cases where there is great feebleness, much care must be exercised
in washing the patient and changing his body-linen. Before beginning,
the nurse should see that the room is properly warmed, and that _all_
she is likely to need is ready to hand; she must be careful that no
draught shall reach her patient, and that he does not get a chill
through unnecessary dawdling; at the same time, she must not hurry him,
so as to increase the fatigue.

Any amount of washing is tiring to the very weak, and therefore toilet
operations had better begin soon after breakfast. If possible, the
body-linen should be changed at the same time. It is a good plan
to keep two sets of under-linen going, so that the same may not be
worn day and night. If the patient perspires much, the linen must be
dried and warmed each time of changing; it is not enough that it has
been once aired; every time it becomes damp the same process must be
repeated. The same thing applies to towels, which are so often put away
damp and used again without airing; no wonder that illness, resulting
from cold, shivering or a fit of coughing, not seldom follows the
washing process, whilst the simple precaution of using a towel well
aired and warmed would do away with the discomfort.

Sometimes lying in bed produces great irritability of the whole skin,
and the patient shrinks from any attempts at washing. In such cases, a
soft sponge should be used, in one direction only, and that downwards;
and a nice way of drying a sensitive part is to lay the towel smoothly
over the place and pass the hand over the towel three or four times,
very much as though drying a wet page with blotting-paper.

During the process of bit-by-bit washing, the bedclothes must be
protected by a piece of mackintosh or thick towel; but should they
become wetted, they must be changed at once, for even if not damp
enough to do serious injury, there is sure to be some amount of
discomfort; and everything, however small, that causes annoyance must
be looked upon as a drawback to recovery, and treated accordingly.

In addition to the regular washing, any portion of the patient’s body
that becomes accidentally soiled must be at once cleansed; and whenever
the confinement to bed becomes lengthy, the back and shoulders should
be washed every day with warm water and soap, thoroughly dried, and
lightly dusted over with finely powdered starch. The patient must also
be prevented from remaining too long in one position; and if too weak
to move himself, it will be part of the nurse’s care to turn him from
side to side every three or four hours. Where this is impracticable,
pressure must be relieved by the use of cushions, those with a hole
in the middle being most useful for the purpose. If these precautions
are not taken, the most prominent bones, exercising undue pressure on
soft parts, will cause them to give way, the skin will become tender
and inflamed, and if not stopped in time, a painful wound, difficult
to relieve or cure, will be the result. I have known cases where these
wounds have caused infinitely more distress and pain than the patient’s
actual disease; and yet, with few exceptions, it is only a question
of care and attention. So true is this, that a trained nurse looks
upon such wounds as a disgrace, and is constantly on her guard against
them; but the inexperienced nurse neglects this necessary watchfulness,
simply through ignorance of the danger to be avoided. But forewarned
should be forearmed; and by taking care to avoid dirt, pressure, and
creases in the bedding, even the most inexperienced stand a good chance
of success in this most troublesome part of nursing. At the same time,
if, in spite of care, any portion of the skin reddens or becomes
sensitive, the doctor should at once be informed of the fact, for this
is one of the best examples of the old saying, ‘Prevention is better
than cure,’ and it is too late to cry out when the mischief is done.

If the patient is too weak to sit up and use a toothbrush, a piece of
lint should be tied to the end of a small stick such as a penholder,
and wetted with water to which a little Condy’s fluid has been added;
with this, the nurse can easily clean the teeth and gums. Brushing the
hair requires a certain amount of tact and gentleness; with female
patients the hair is apt to get into a troublesome tangle, unless
plaited up loosely and tied at the ends. Sometimes moistening the
brush with toilet vinegar will be liked, and in not a few cases gentle
brushing has a soothing effect. I remember one instance where, under
this influence, and this alone, restlessness would subside into quiet,
leading to refreshing sleep. The same effect may sometimes be produced
by sponging the face and hands with tepid water, with or without the
addition of a little vinegar or Eau de Cologne; and again, in other
cases, letting the hands lie in a basin and gently pouring cold water
on them will be found grateful. It is well worth a nurse’s while to
study her particular patient’s taste, and to find out some such simple
method of relieving the weariness and monotony of illness.

To lift a helpless patient is by no means an easy task to inexperience,
and should never be attempted without help. When the patient is utterly
helpless, two long poles or broom-handles will be needed; these must
be tightly rolled round in the under sheet and blanket, and the patient
can then be moved, as in a stretcher, by four bearers.

To move a patient from side to side, the draw-sheet alone is needed.
Rolling one end close to the body, the nurse goes round to the other
side of the bed, and by taking hold of the rolled-up part, will be able
to turn the patient gently over with perfect ease. Where the draw-sheet
is not being used, it is a good plan to let a heavy patient lie on a
strong roller-towel, which can be used as above; and if two people
grasp it firmly on each side, they will be able to move the patient
up and down in bed without fatigue or injury. This plan is especially
useful in dropsy, when the patient becomes a dead, heavy weight, and is
often restless to a painful extent.

In many cases, a patient, otherwise helpless, will be able to move at
least his position by the use of a strong towel or cord tied to the
foot of the bed. Hospital-beds are almost invariably provided with a
cord and handle for the patient to grasp; but a better thing still
is a netted hammock, a simple contrivance consisting of a piece of
netting—of twine or coarsest knitting-cotton—four yards long by one
and a half wide, the loops at each end being drawn up with tape; these
tapes are tied to the foot of the bed; and the netting not only serves
as a cord, but, thrown over the patient’s head and drawn out across
his shoulders and back, forms a most easy, comfortable support. I
have seen patients sitting up thus, who had mournfully declared it an
impossibility, and whose delight at the change of position was a thing
to be remembered.

In grasping any part of a patient’s body, be very careful not to
take hold with the finger-ends; the whole hand should be used, and
the fingers slightly spread out; anything like a hesitating touch
is exasperating, and indeed hesitation in any way must be carefully
avoided in dealing with the sick. It is well to remember that a
certain amount of work has to be done, and a certain amount of noise
must follow; make up your mind how much, and go to work thoroughly,
quickly, and quietly; quiet, though, must be natural, not laboured; the
tiptoe, whispering style is torture to sensitive nerves; a firm, even
tread and a distinct way of speaking should be cultivated; the latter,
especially, will make all the difference to a patient’s comfort. To be
constantly on the strain to hear is by no means soothing; and whispered
conversation as to the patient’s condition must never be indulged in.
Some people, realising this, will go out of the sick-room, to carry on
low-toned consultations just outside the door and within hearing of
the patient, who involuntarily strains every nerve in the endeavour to
catch what is being said. Such treatment is even worse than unnecessary
noise, and all discussion relating to the patient must be carried on
where there is no possibility of his hearing it. It is a safe rule
to avoid detailing the patient’s symptoms to relatives or friends;
sensitive, delicate minds are often made to suffer unnecessarily, from
the consciousness that sick-room details are being made the subject of
curious inquiry and remark.

It not seldom happens that in delirium, or extreme weakness, the
patient will let out some cherished secret, and this should be as
jealously sacred to the nurse as though the confidence had been
voluntary, the only allowable violation being when the revelation
made throws any light upon the patient’s illness; in such a case, the
doctor must be told; and this brings us to a most important point—the
relations between doctor and nurse, a point which is seldom understood
by the inexperienced.

The nurse’s responsibility is great; she has many duties to perform,
some of them apparently slight, yet really of vital importance; but
at the same time, she is only acting under orders, and when those
orders have been faithfully carried out, her responsibility ends; it
therefore follows, that whatever her private opinion, she must never
alter the treatment without the doctor’s express permission, and
whatever she may think, she should never, by word or deed, seek to
lessen the patient’s confidence in the patient’s doctor. It sometimes
happens that injudicious friends suggest remedies of their own, and
insist upon their being used; any such interference should be at once
reported to the doctor, for how else can he form a right opinion as
to the patient’s condition? Yet so often is this overlooked, that, I
believe, in many home-nursed cases the doctor’s treatment is never
allowed fair-play; and I have even known a prescription, that had been
torn up by the doctor as unsuitable, carefully pieced together after
his departure, and used. Perhaps in no other point is there such a
marked difference between the trained and untrained nurse. The former
has been taught that her power lies in obedience; the latter, ignorant
of her very ignorance, ventures to meddle in matters which, had she but
a little more knowledge, she would understand to be beyond her.

Not a little of the nurse’s value depends on her ability to give the
doctor a proper report of how matters have been going during his
absence. A patient will often pull himself together and even feign
convalescence for the doctor’s visit, which is necessarily brief;
whilst the nurse, spending hours with him, sees every varying mood and
symptom; at the same time, she must remember that the doctor does not
want her opinion, but asks only _facts_, which will enable him to draw
his own conclusions. From this it will be seen that the nurse needs to
understand what to notice and how to report her observations.

As to what to notice—each illness has its specific symptoms, about
which the doctor will make special inquiries, and he will also expect
to hear what effect has followed the use of remedies; but in addition
to these, there are general symptoms to be taken account of in all
illness. Amongst those most frequently overlooked by the inexperienced
nurse, are: _The appetite_, whether good, failing, fanciful, or
voracious. _The skin_, whether moist or dry, hot or cold; and whether
sensitive to touch. _Sleep_, its character and duration; whether
quiet, disturbed, broken, or uninterrupted, and whether the same by
day and night. _Posture_, whether the patient lies very flat, or likes
to be raised, or prefers to keep on one side; in going to sleep, the
easiest attitude will be chosen, and any marked change in this respect
should be noticed. _Temper and spirits_, whether equable or variable,
moody, cheerful, excitable, calm, depressed, or inclined to tears.
_Countenance_, whether liable to changes of complexion or expression.

When visitors are allowed, the effect upon the patient should be noted;
and at any cost, in serious cases, those whose influence is depressing
or exciting must not be admitted.

A nurse should also, without being fussy, keep an eye to any fresh
symptoms that may appear, and duly report them; but nothing is more
worrying than to be constantly teased with such questions as: ‘Are
you in pain?’ ‘Do you feel better now?’ ‘Will you let me look at your
tongue?’ Those who have endured the martyrdom, know what it means, and
know, too, how little information can be gleaned by such methods. Let a
nurse be sympathising by all means, but let her sympathy show itself in
caring for her patient’s wants, and in efforts to save him from worry
as well as from pain.

I remember a trained nurse who was deeply hurt at being told that a
bell would be placed within her patient’s reach, in case he wanted
anything at night. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ was her reply; ‘my patient will
not need to ring.’ Nor did he, thanks to his nurse’s constant care to
anticipate his wants. A nurse thus watchful, will be quick to notice
any change in her patient; but it is quite one thing to notice, and
another to give a faithful report of what has been observed; and I
would urge every inexperienced nurse to be very particular in jotting
down at once all that strikes her attention. The simplest way of doing
this is to keep a sort of diary of all that happens. Take a piece of
writing-paper, keep one side for day and one for night, write the date
at the top, crease it down the middle, and note on one half, all the
patient takes and does, and on the other, anything you think demands
notice. The following is a specimen of the sort of chart I mean.

                              October 4.

  A.M.                            | A.M.
  8.      Cup of tea and toast.   |
  10.     Four ounces milk.       | 10.    Milk taken with difficulty
                                  |          and dislike.
  11.     Medicine.               |
  11.15.  Poultice to chest and   |
            back.                 |
                                  |
  11.30.  Slept twenty minutes.   | 11.30. Turned on right side
                                  |          before going to
                                  |          sleep.
  12.     Four ounces beef-tea.   |
  12.30.  Mrs A. called, stayed   |
            quarter of an hour.   |
                                  | 12.45-1.30. Excited and
                                  |          depressed by Mrs
                                  |          A.’s call.
                      Are visitors to be allowed?

  The reverse side might read thus:

                              October 4.

  P.M.                            | P.M.
  8.      Four ounces milk.       |
  9.      Jacket poultice.        |
  9.30.   Dozed half-hour.        | 9.30.  Skin hot and dry,
                                  |          face flushed; woke
                                  |          excited and restless.
  10.     Opiate as directed.     |
  10.45.  Slept two hours.        |
                                  | 11.30. Began to perspire,
                                  |          expression tranquil;
                                  |          woke refreshed.
  12.45.  Four ounces milk.       |

To keep such a chart properly requires some practice, but it is the
only way of insuring accuracy, and it will also save a good deal of
questioning on the doctor’s part, a glance being enough to show him how
matters stand.

At the bottom of the first page, it will be noticed there is a
question, which, unless so marked, would very likely be forgotten; and
whenever the nurse is in any difficulty or uncertainty, she must never
hesitate to ask for guidance. The doctor will not expect perfection
from inexperience, and even if he does not volunteer information, will
certainly not object to answering reasonable questions. Of course,
there is a great deal of difference in this as in all things, and there
are doctors who take for granted that everybody knows certain things,
of which even the intelligent, who have not had their attention called
to nursing, may be quite ignorant. But even when this is the case, the
nurse’s object being her patient’s good and not the support of her own
dignity, if she is not sure of her ground, it is her duty to ask for
instruction.




ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.


CHAPTER VII.

A few minutes later, Madame De Vigne and her sister came slowly up the
glen from that part of the valley where the wagonettes had been left
behind. Presently Clarice paused and gazed around.

‘It looks exactly as it did that day last summer when we were here,’
she said. ‘We might have been away only a few hours.’

‘And then, as now, you had no Archie to bear you company.’

‘I did not know him then; and yet it seems now as if I must have known
him all my life. I suppose that just about this time he will be engaged
with Sir William and those dreadful lawyers. And he has to go through
all this for the sake of me—of me, Mora!’

‘He would go through a hundred times more than that for your sake,
dear.’

‘I often feel as if I don’t deserve to be loved so much. I hope there
will be a telegram when we get back to the hotel. He promised to send
one as soon as he had any news; but, suppose his news should be bad
news!’

‘At your age you ought always to look at the sunny side of your apple.’

‘Thanks to you, dear, I have never had occasion to look at any other,’
answered the girl with a caress in her voice. ‘And to-day I _will_ try
not to be down-hearted. I will try to hope for the best.’ They went
forward a few paces in silence, and then Clarice suddenly said: ‘What a
selfish girl I am! Tell me, dear, is your headache any better?’

‘A little. I will sit awhile under the shade of this tree. This seems
as pretty a spot as any. Perhaps by-and-by I may try to do a little
sketching.’

She sat down on a rustic seat that had been placed on a jutting spur
of rock nearly fronting the waterfall. The seat was partly hidden from
chance passers-by by a screen of shrubs, ferns, and natural rockwork.

‘There! What a head I’ve got!’ exclaimed Clarice with something of
dismay in her voice.

‘Mr Ridsdale thinks it a very pretty head. But what’s your trouble now?’

‘I’ve left your sketch-book behind in the wagonette.’

‘Is that all?’

‘It will not take me more than ten minutes to fetch it.’

‘It is of no consequence—not the slightest,’ answered Madame De Vigne a
little wearily.

‘I prefer to fetch it. Some one will be prying into it who has no
business to. Besides, I recollect something that I want to say to Miss
Penelope.’

‘As you please, dear.’

‘You don’t mind my leaving you?’

‘Not in the least.’

‘I shall not be long away,’ cried Clarice as she turned and took the
road that led down the valley.

The shadow on Mora De Vigne’s face deepened the moment she was left
alone. She was very pale this morning, and she had that look about the
eyes which tells of a sleepless night. Beyond her sister and Nanette,
no one knew of her fainting-fit of the previous night. Miss Gaisford
had not failed to notice the change in her looks, but had asked no
questions: she was assured that when the proper time should arrive she
would be told all that it was intended she should know.

‘Alone at last! For a little while I can drop my mask,’ she said with
the same weariness in her voice. ‘Is it not like the act of a crazy
woman to come here to-day, among all these happy people?—I! Oh, the
mockery of it! And yet to have stayed all day indoors under the same
roof with _him_, not knowing from minute to minute what to expect,
would have been worse than all. And then, Harold promised to meet me at
this spot—the man whom I love—the man who loves me. Alas! alas! he can
never more be “Harold” to me after to-day.’

She rose and went forward to the edge of the rock, and stood gazing at
the waterfall with eyes that knew not what they were looking at.

‘What to do?—what to do?’ she sighed. ‘The same question that kept
knocking at my heart all through the long, dreadful, sleepless night;
and here, with the summer sunshine all about me, it seems no nearer an
answer than it was then. Sometimes I think that what I saw and heard
can have been no more than a hideous nightmare fancy of my own. But
no—no! That voice—that face!’ She shuddered, and pressed her fingers to
her eyes, as if to shut out some sight on which she could not bear to
look.

Presently, she moved slowly back to the rustic seat and sat down.

‘Has he tracked me?’ she asked herself. ‘Does he know that I am here,
or is his presence merely one of those strange coincidences such as one
so often hears tell of? If I only knew! If he has tracked me, why did
he not make it his business to see me last night or this morning? What
if he does _not_ know or suspect? I must not go back to the hotel. I
must not give him a chance of seeing me. I must make some excuse and go
away—somewhere—straight from here. But first I must wait and see Harold
and—and bid him farewell. What shall I say to him? What _can_ I say?’

Her heart-stricken questionings were broken by the sound of voices
a little distance away. She turned her head quickly. ‘Clarice and a
stranger!’ she exclaimed. ‘And coming this way!’ A spasm of dread shot
through her. What if this stranger were another messenger of evil come
in search of her?

And yet he looked harmless enough. He was a rather tall, thin,
worn-looking man of sixty-five years or thereabouts. He was dressed
in a high-collared swallow-tailed coat, pepper-and-salt trousers,
and shoes. His carefully brushed hat, of a fashion of many years
previously, had, like the rest of his attire, seen better days than
it would ever see again. He had short white whiskers, and rather long
white hair, which straggled over his coat collar behind. His thick,
bushy brows were still streaked with black; and his eyes, which were
very large and bright, seemed to require no assistance from spectacles
or glasses of any kind.

‘Here is your sketch-book, dear,’ said Clarice as she came up. ‘This
gentleman is Mr Etheridge, Sir William Ridsdale’s secretary,’ she
added.—‘Mr Etheridge, my sister, Madame De Vigne.—Mr Etheridge has
travelled all the way from Spa, bringing with him an important letter
from Sir William addressed to his son. The hotel people sent him on
here after us.’

‘But’—— began Mora, half rising from her seat.

‘I have already explained to Mr Etheridge that Mr Archie was summoned
by telegraph yesterday to meet his father in London this morning. It
seems very strange.’

Mr Etheridge smiled a little deprecatingly, and resumed his hat, which
he had doffed on being introduced to Madame De Vigne.

‘No doubt, ladies,’ he said, ‘it must appear strange to any one who
is unacquainted with the peculiarities of Sir William. After writing
the letter which I have in my pocket, and sending me off with it
post-haste, he no doubt changed his mind (Sir William very often does
change his mind), and set off for London with the intention of seeing
Mr Archie in person, and never troubled himself more about me and the
letter. Just like him—just like him.’

‘And what do you propose to do now, sir?’ asked Madame De Vigne.

‘My plan is a very simple one, madam. I shall telegraph to London that
I am here, and here I shall stop till I receive further instructions.’

‘You must be somewhat tired after your long journey, Mr Etheridge,’
suggested Clarice.

‘Well—well. So—so. But I’m an old traveller, and it don’t matter.’

‘Luncheon won’t be ready for some time; but if you would like some
refreshment at once, I’——

‘Not at present, thank you—not at present.’ Then he added: ‘This seems
a very pretty spot; and with your leave, I’ll just ramble about and
look round me a bit.’

‘Do so by all means, Mr Etheridge,’ said Madame De Vigne kindly, ‘only
don’t forget to be in time for luncheon.’

Clarice hesitated a moment, and then she said: ‘There’s a charming
view of the lake a little farther on; if you would like to see it, I
will show you the way.’

‘Thank you. Nothing would please me better. Only, I don’t want to be a
trouble.’

‘O Mr Etheridge, it will be no trouble!’

That gentleman made Madame De Vigne an old-fashioned bow, and moved a
few steps away.

‘You won’t mind my leaving you for a little while?’ said Clarice to her
sister.

‘Not in the least. Besides, I’m not in a talking mood this morning.’

‘It would be unkind to leave Mr Etheridge all alone.’

‘Of course it would. So now run off, and do your best to entertain him.’

‘This way, Mr Etheridge, please,’ said Clarice. And with that the two
went off together, crossing the bridge and taking the same path that
had been taken a little while previously by Lady Renshaw and her two
cavaliers.

‘The transparent diplomacy of a girl in love!’ said Madame De Vigne
as her eyes followed her sister’s retreating figure. ‘Not having her
sweetheart with her to talk to, she must needs talk about him to some
one else. Happy, happy days!’ She turned away with a sigh. ‘And now?
Shall I sit here and wait for Harold, and try to think what I shall say
to him? No; I cannot rest anywhere till the worst is over. He may be
here at any moment. I will walk to the top of the hill and watch for
him as he comes up the valley. O Harold, Harold, won only to be lost in
one short hour!’

She took a narrow footpath to the right, which wound upwards through
the trees and undergrowth to a small plateau, from which the whole of
the valley was visible.

       *       *       *       *       *

‘I did not think that I should be so fortunate as to have you all to
myself for so long a time this morning.’

The speaker was Mr Richard Dulcimer, and it need scarcely be said
to whom his words were addressed. They had been wandering about the
glen at their own sweet will, penetrating into all sorts of odd nooks
and corners, and now, emerging from the shade of the trees, found
themselves on a small rocky table close to the shallow basin into which
the stream fell and broke when it took its first leap from the summit
of the cliff. It was a pretty spot, and just then the two young people
had it all to themselves.

‘You have my aunt to thank for that,’ answered Miss Wynter, as she
seated herself daintily on a fragment of rock. ‘It was she who sent me
to you.’

‘Dear old damsel! I could almost find in my heart to kiss her,’
answered Richard as he deposited himself at his sweetheart’s feet and
drew the brim of his straw hat over his eyes to shade them from the sun.

‘But of course she believes you to be a bishop’s son.’

‘Which I am, so far as having a bishop for a godfather goes.
Otherwise—woe is me!—I’m only a poor beggar of a quill-driver in the
Sealing-wax Office. Why wasn’t Providence kind to me? Why wasn’t I born
with a rich father, like Archie Ridsdale?’

‘Why weren’t we all born with rich fathers?’

‘That would have been much nicer, if it could have been so arranged.’

‘I don’t at all see how you are going to extricate yourself from the
awful scrape you have got into.’

‘I am not aware that I’m in any awful scrape, so far.’

‘But you will be, when my aunt finds out what a wicked impostor you
are.’

‘Her ladyship’s anger doesn’t matter two farthings to me. It’s her
influence over you that I’m afraid of.’

‘Her influence over me!’

‘The lessons she is continually preaching—the maxims she is for ever
dinning into your ears.’

‘Yes; I know she looks upon it as a sacred duty which I owe to Society
that I should marry myself to the highest bidder.’

‘And you?’ asked the young man as he sat up, pushed back his hat, and
gazed into the pretty face above him.

She was drawing figures aimlessly with the point of her sunshade in the
gravel. For a moment or two she did not answer; then she broke out with
an emphasis that was full of bitterness: ‘What would you have? What can
you expect? From the day I left school, and even earlier than that, the
one lesson that has been instilled into my mind is, that I must marry
money—money. Even my mother—— But she is dead, and I will not speak of
her. And since then, my aunt. I am a chattel—a piece of bric-à-brac in
the matrimonial market, to be appraised, and depreciated, and finally
knocked down to the first bidder who is prepared to make a handsome
settlement. I hate myself when I think of it! I hate everybody!’ Sudden
passionate tears sprang to her eyes; she dashed them away impatiently.

‘Not quite everybody, _ma belle_,’ said Mr Dulcimer as he possessed
himself of one of her hands. ‘There is one way of escape that you wot
of,’ he added in a lower voice.

She turned on him with a flash: ‘By marrying you, I suppose?’

‘Even so, _carissima_.’

‘A government clerk on three hundred pounds a year.’

‘With another hundred of private income in addition.’

‘A truly munificent income on which to marry!’ she answered, not
without a ring of scorn, real or assumed, in her voice as she withdrew
her fingers from his grasp. ‘I think I know the kind of thing it
implies. A stuffy little house in Camden Town or Peckham Rye—wherever
those localities may be. Perhaps even furnished apartments. One
small servant, not overclean. No opera, no brougham in the Park, no
garden-parties, no carpet-dances, no more flirtations with nice young
men. Locomotion by means of a twopenny ’bus or tram.; long, lonely days
without a soul to talk to; now and then an order for the theatre; _au
reste_, my husband’s buttons to sew on and his socks to keep in repair.
Oh, I can guess it all!’

A tinge of colour had flickered into Dick’s cheeks while she was
speaking, but it now died out again. He was quite aware that nothing
would delight her more than to tease him till he should lose his
temper; therefore, he answered as equably as before: ‘Evidently Lady
Renshaw’s lessons have not been quite thrown away on you.’

One of her little feet began to tap the ground impatiently. ‘It seems
to me, Mr Richard Dulcimer, that the best thing you can do is to take
the next train back to town.’

‘Shan’t do anything of the kind.’

‘You are a very self-willed young man.’ To judge from her tone, she
might have been twice his age. It is a way her sex sometimes have.

‘Obstinate as a mule,’ answered the philosophic Richard.

‘Suppose I tell you that I have had enough of your society? Suppose I
order you to leave me here and at once?’

‘Shan’t go.’

‘Well, of all’—— She rose abruptly. ‘How much longer are you going
to keep me here?’ she demanded in an injured tone, as though he were
detaining her against her will.

‘Not one minute longer than you wish,’ he answered as he sprang to his
feet. ‘Suppose we cross the stream.’

‘Cross the stream?’

‘By means of these stepping-stones. They are here for that purpose.’

‘Oh!’ With a slight accent of dismay. ‘Thank you very much, Mr
Dulcimer, but I’d rather not.’

‘Everybody crosses by them—except, perhaps, a few superfine young-lady
tourists who think more of wetting their boots and frills than of’——

‘Monster! Lead the way.’

‘Lend me your hand.’

‘Certainly not.’

Without another word, Dick stepped lightly from stone to stone till he
reached the middle of the stream. There he halted and turned. Bella,
not to be outdone, stepped after him on to the first stone and from
that to the second; then all in a moment her courage seemed to desert
her. ‘Dick, Dick, I shall slip into the water,’ she cried. ‘I know I
shall.’

Dick grinned. He had been addressed as ‘Mr Dulcimer’ only a minute
before. He went back and held out his hand, which Bella clutched
without a moment’s demur. Having assisted her as far as the middle of
the stream, he came to a stand.

‘Why don’t you go on?’ she demanded.

Dick ignored the question. ‘These stepping-stones, or others like
them,’ he remarked didactically, ‘are said to have been here for
hundreds of years. There is an old local rhyme in connection with them
which is known to all the country-folk about. Listen while I recite to
you that ancient rhyme.’

‘I am getting dizzy; I shall fall,’ remarked Bella, who, however, still
kept tight hold of his hand.

Dick took no notice, but began:

    ‘Listen! listen! Every lass
    That o’er these stepping-stones doth pass,
    She shall clasp her sweetheart’s hand,
    On the midmost stone shall stand,
    And shall kiss him then and there’——

‘Oh, indeed,’ remarked Miss Wynter with a scornful sniff.

Dick continued:

    ‘But should she her lips deny,
    Then shall she unwedded die,
    And he wed another fair:
    Listen, maids—beware! beware!

‘That is the midmost stone, _ma petite_, on which you are standing.’

Miss Wynter tossed her head. ‘Perhaps, sir, if you have quite done
attitudinising, you will allow me to cross.’

‘_Avec plaisir_—when you have paid the customary toll.’

‘The what?’ with a drawing together of her pretty eyebrows.

‘The toll. When you have done that which every girl does who crosses
the stepping-stones with her sweetheart.’

‘You are not my sweetheart.’

‘But you are mine, which comes to the same thing.’

‘I will go back.’

‘You dare not.’

‘I will’——

‘Go forward? You dare not.’ And with that he withdrew his hand.

Bella, finding herself without support, gave vent to a little shriek,
whereupon Dick put out his hand again, at which she clutched wildly.
Richard was hard-hearted enough to laugh.

‘This is mean—this is cowardly—this is contemptible!’ cried Bella with
flaming eyes.

‘It is—but it’s nice.’

‘I hear voices. There’s some one coming!’

‘Let them come.’

‘And find me in this ridiculous predicament? Never!’

‘Not for worlds,’ assented Mr Dulcimer in his sweetest tones.

Bella gave vent to a little laugh: she could not help it. One of Dick’s
arms found its way round her waist. The situation was embarrassing. If
she were to push him away, she might slip into the water. Their faces
were not far apart. Suddenly she protruded hers and touched his cheek
lightly with her lips. ‘Wretch! There, then!’ she said. ‘And there,’
quoth the unabashed suitor, as he returned the toll, twofold. ‘And
_there_!’ she added a moment after, as, with her disengaged hand, she
gave him a sounding box on the ear.

Dick laughed and rubbed his ear. ‘For what we have just received’——
he said, and then grasping both her hands, he helped her across the
remaining stepping-stones to the opposite bank of the stream.




ARTIFICIAL JEWELS.


The trade in artificial jewels has become very extensive during the
last half-century, and the chemical experiments in which various
qualities of imitation diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds are
produced have been recently carried on with an astonishing amount of
success. It is becoming more and more difficult, even to the eye of the
expert, to distinguish readily between the real and the false gem, when
they do not shine in too close proximity.

The most distinctive feature of the real stone is its hardness, though
even this quality has been imitated with considerable success. The
term ‘hardness’ is used by the lapidary and mineralogist to denote the
power of one stone to scratch another; it must not be considered as the
power of resisting a blow, for many crystalline stones which are very
hard are also easily fractured. The diamond, which will scratch any
other stone, can be more easily broken than many stones which are less
hard. After the diamond come the ruby and sapphire, which are the next
hardest stones; then emeralds, topazes, and quartz or rock-crystal; and
finally, a number of other stones, and glass or artificial stones.

The beautiful ‘French paste’ which imitates the diamond so well,
is a kind of glass into which a certain quantity of oxide of lead
is introduced. The more lead it contains the more brilliant is the
artificial stone; but the lead gives softness—so much so, that we have
known such artificial gems to become, by friction with other harder
substances, quite dull on the surface after being worn for some time.

But the latest chemical experiments on the production of artificial
stones for use in jewellery point very clearly to the fact that further
success in this direction is likely to be forthcoming before long. The
imitation of the natural gems by means of various silicates and oxides
has already attained to a great degree of perfection, and no doubt
this ingenious branch of industry must interfere considerably with the
trade of the dealer in real precious stones. We can already purchase a
capital ‘diamond’ for about half-a-crown; and the imitation of the ruby
and the emerald is far easier, and more successful, than that of the
diamond.

Careful choice in the substances to be melted together, good and
effective cutting, and careful artistic setting, have gone a long way
to reproduce, artificially, the brightness, brilliancy, and colour
of the real stone. Chemical analysis shows the sapphire to be pure
alumina, as it has shown the diamond to be pure carbon; but it does not
account for its colour, which is partly due to an optical effect, and
depends upon a peculiar molecular arrangement. This stone possesses
the singular property known as _dichroism_—that is, it shines with
two colours, blue and red. In a well-cut stone, a red cross often
appears in the midst of the sapphire blue. The ruby is also pure
alumina, and its vivid red colour, like the blue of the sapphire, is
thought by some to be due to a peculiar optical effect. In fact, no
chemical analysis has been able to account quite satisfactorily for the
red colour of the ruby or the blue colour of the sapphire, for pure
alumina is quite white, and the sapphire, as we have seen, shows two
colours. This peculiar optical effect noticed in the ruby and sapphire
has, strange to say, been accidentally reproduced not long since by
a French chemist, M. Sidot, who has been making some experiments on
artificial stones. He has produced a kind of glass by melting phosphate
of lime at a great heat, and the product possesses the blue colour of
the sapphire with the remarkable _dichroism_ before alluded to. The
experiment is so curious, that a few lines may be devoted to it here.

By the action of heat on what is termed ‘acid phosphate of lime,’ it
is transformed into ‘crystallised pyrophosphate;’ and when heated to a
still higher temperature, it passes into the vitreous or glassy state.
It is supposed that in this condition it loses some of its phosphoric
acid by volatilisation, and passes into the state of ‘tribasic
phosphate.’ Such is the technical explanation of the changes which
occur. The phosphate of lime glass is produced by taking this substance
in a moist acid state, and heating it in an iron pot to a dark red
heat. During this operation it is worked about with an iron rod, in
order to prevent it swelling up and passing over the edge of the iron
crucible. The dark red heat is continued until the whole mass has
become glassy and transparent. At this moment it is run into another
crucible, in which it is heated to a white heat that is kept up for
about two hours, being stirred rapidly with a rod the whole time. At
the end of this period the molten mass is allowed to remain perfectly
quiet for about an hour, and is then run out of the crucible, either
on to a metallic slab or into a metal mortar. It is necessary to avoid
too rapid a cooling. The product may thus be run out into a sheet,
like plate-glass. A small sheet of such a nature was obtained by M.
Sidot in one of his experiments: it measured about three inches across,
by a quarter of an inch thick, and was large enough to be cut into a
considerable number of beautiful artificial sapphires.

The ruby and sapphire have also been closely imitated in another way
by Fremy and Feil, two French chemists; and the chief interest in this
process is the fact that the artificial stones possess essentially the
chemical composition of the real ones. To produce these, equal weights
of alumina and red-lead are heated to a red-heat in an earthenware
crucible. A vitreous substance is formed, which consists of silicate of
lead, and crystals of white corundum. To convert this corundum into the
artificial ruby, it is necessary to fuse it with about two per cent. of
bichromate of potassium; whilst, to obtain the sapphire, a little oxide
of cobalt, and a very small quantity of bichromate of potassium, must
be employed. The stones so produced possess at least very nearly the
hardness of the real stones, as they scratch both quartz and topaz.

The French ‘paste’ which imitates the diamond so closely is a peculiar
kind of glass, the manufacture of which was brought to a great degree
of perfection some fifty years ago by Donault-Wieland of Paris.
The finest quality of paste demands extreme care in the choice of
materials and in melting, &c. The basis of it, in the hands of the
expert manufacturer just named, was powdered rock-crystal or quartz.
The proportions he took were—six ounces of rock-crystal; nine ounces
two drams of red-lead; three ounces three drams of pure carbonate of
potash; three drams of boracic acid; and six grains of white arsenic.
The product thus manufactured was extremely beautiful, but rather
expensive, compared with the prices now charged for artificial jewels.
It has never been surpassed in brilliancy. But of late years the
greater purity of the potash and lead oxide used, and the improvements
in the furnaces and methods of heating them, have all tended to reduce
the price of the ‘diamonds’ thus manufactured.




THE MISSING CLUE.


CHAPTER V.—THE COLONEL’S DAUGHTER.

Meanwhile, the subject of the previous conversation is seated in a
private room before a merry crackling fire, small reflections of which
lurk here and there in the dark polished oak with which the walls are
panelled. Everything in the apartment has an extremely comfortable
appearance save its living occupant, and his features wear an
expression totally at variance with his surroundings. He is twisting a
crumpled note between his fingers; while, judging from the expression
with which he regards it, his feelings can scarcely be of an agreeable
nature. The offending epistle is written in a bold decided hand, which
harmonises well with the short and haughty tenor of its contents. As a
perusal of this may enable the reader more clearly to understand the
ensuing narrative, a copy is here inserted:

    Colonel Thorpe presents his compliments to Lieutenant Ainslie,
    and in reply to that gentleman’s letter of this morning, begs
    to state that any overtures from him relating to Miss Thorpe
    will receive an absolute negative. It is also requested that
    Lieut. A. will discontinue his visits to Coombe Hall, as Col.
    T. wishes him distinctly to understand that this decision is
    final.

    _Dec. 22, 1760._

The exasperated recipient of this ungracious piece of writing makes
a movement as if to consign it to the hungry blaze which is roaring
up the chimney; but checking himself ere the action is performed, he
places the missive in a side-pocket, and falling back in his chair,
resigns himself to a long train of unenviable reflections.

       *       *       *       *       *

Next morning, the sun, first a dull crimson, and then yellow as a
copper ball, slowly mounted above the horizon and pierced cloud and
vapour with its struggling rays. Snow-clad roofs and chimneys, whose
quaint outlines could scarcely be distinguished from the leaden sky
a short time before, now became flooded with a rich golden light,
contrasting strangely with the blue mist that lingered in the shadows.
As yet, it was only the high gables and towers which had caught the
cheering beams; the streets and lesser thoroughfares were gloomy, dark,
and silent, while ruts and gutters were fast bound with King Frost. The
good people of Fridswold had not the reputation of being early risers,
and with a few exceptions, the streets were almost totally deserted;
but our friend who figured last night as a guest at the _George_, at
least appeared to be no sluggard, for he was out, and walking quickly
along, the iron-tipped heels of his riding-boots bringing forth a smart
click from the frost-hardened ground.

Lieutenant Ainslie was not bent upon sight-seeing; he had other matters
to attend to. The wintery beauties of the early morning seemed
completely lost upon the young officer, and he passed the great west
front of the minster—all flecked with ‘hoary flakes’—without bestowing
so much as a glance upon it. His course was continued until the
irregular outskirts of the town were left behind, when a large imposing
red-brick mansion came within sight. The grounds which surrounded it
were separated from the public highway by a substantial wall of rough
masonry; while parallel with this wall extended a belt of fine trees,
now leafless, and shivering as if with cold. Keeping to the road until
a turn shut out the palatial residence from view, the young officer,
after a hasty look around him, vaulted the wall, and then shaped his
way across the white stretch of private ground.

Slowly and uncertainly he proceeded, often stopping to look back, and
more than once referring to his watch as well as to a dainty note, the
writing of which was in a delicate female hand. At length, after many
turnings and much doubtful wandering, he emerged from the underwood
and entered upon a small cleared inclosure containing a rustic
summer-house, now fretted with a glittering network of snow and ice.
Into this the lieutenant stepped, frequently looking out in a furtive
manner from the narrow doorway, as if in expectation of some one.

After a long interval of anxious expectation, certain sounds were heard
which seemed to indicate the approach of a human being. The soldier
sprang eagerly forward, and then as quickly shrunk back again. A slight
crackling of dry twigs was followed by a hoarse cough, and the cough
was followed by the unwelcome appearance of a red-faced man with a gun
upon his shoulder, but fortunately not passing in the direction of
the arbour. The lieutenant knew him at once. It was the fiery-faced
man whom he had seen at the inn the previous evening. ‘Ah,’ said he
to himself, ‘I see it all. Colonel Thorpe’s gamekeeper—sent down last
night to play the spy upon me. It is well he has not seen me now.’

Not many minutes afterwards, a young lady burst into the arbour, with a
little cry, half of fear and half of pleasure. It could be nothing more
nor less than a lovers’ meeting after all.

The lovers’ first tender greetings over, they seated themselves side
by side in the little arbour, and talked to each other in a low voice.
The state of alarm in which she evidently was, sent a brighter flush of
colour to her lovely face, and enhanced in her lover’s eyes the graces
of her person.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some twelve months before the present meeting, Colonel Thorpe made a
sudden resolve to spend the winter in London; and fearing to leave
this his only daughter out of his sight for any length of time, he
determined to take her with him also. The season was a tolerably gay
one; but the colonel, an austere man, though much in request at the
houses of titled and wealthy friends, cared little for society, and
constantly refused invitations both on behalf of himself and his
daughter. Such a high pressure of circumspection could not last for
ever. Receiving an earnest request from Lady Hardy—a friend of many
years’ standing—that they would honour a fashionable entertainment with
their presence, Colonel Thorpe somewhat relented, and meeting Amy’s
wistful gaze with a smile which he intended to be severely pleasant, he
told her to prepare herself to accompany him on the following Thursday.
At this intelligence the young lady was naturally delighted; and even
her severe parent condescended to relax and bring himself to converse
about the forthcoming ball. This agreeable demeanour he sustained until
about the middle of the festive evening, when, as if by magic, his
spirits suddenly lowered to freezing temperature. He had observed that
a well-favoured, handsome young gallant had danced three times with
his daughter in the course of the evening. Now, the crusty old colonel
did by no means approve of this, and was not aware that his daughter
had more than once met the same young gallant since coming to London.
In answer to inquiries which he made as to the unknown partner of his
daughter, he learned that his name was Ainslie, that he was a subaltern
in the Guards, and the only son of a widow lady of title, once wealthy,
but now reduced in circumstances. His informant added, that though the
young officer was not rich, he was of prepossessing manners—a piece
of information which scarcely appeared to afford gratification to
the master of Coombe Hall. Immediately upon receipt of this news the
angry colonel sought out Miss Thorpe from among the dancers, and after
bidding a hasty adieu to his hostess, drove away with his daughter from
the house.

Colonel Thorpe’s temper was not improved when, on the day following
the ball, he received a call from Ainslie; but in a short political
conversation which ensued, the visitor—strangely enough—contrived to
advance in his good graces considerably. Still, the colonel, who was
habitually suspicious, did not encourage the young officer. He had only
the doubtful satisfaction of knowing that the penniless son of Sir
Henry Ainslie, deceased, was a suitor for his daughter’s hand.

‘Amy,’ he said to himself, ‘must return to Coombe Hall. The wiles of
this dangerous young man can be kept at a safe distance there.’

But railways were as yet things of the future, and the weather became
an unexpected ally in Ainslie’s favour, the colonel’s departure being
thus delayed for fully a week. During this time Reginald contrived to
see Miss Thorpe several times, as well as to ingratiate himself with
her father, who listened to his visitor’s conversation and wit with a
mingled feeling of approval and distrust. The time passed quickly; and
when Reginald parted from Amy Thorpe it was with many protestations of
eternal devotion, to which that young lady replied with equal warmth.
Colonel Thorpe wished Ainslie a formal ‘Good-bye,’ and the lovers were
separated from each other for a weary space of ten months.

The interval was not unfraught with change. Reginald had the good
fortune to be raised in rank, and now entered upon his full grade of
lieutenant. Since the departure of Amy Thorpe he had endeavoured to
keep up a correspondence with her; but the age in which they lived,
though practically a fast one, was slow enough in some respects, and
the means of communication were so unsatisfactory, that long intervals
elapsed between an interchange of letters.

At the close of October 1760, the tidings of King George II.’s death
became known throughout the greater part of the kingdom; and following
closely upon the spreading of this intelligence came a letter from Amy
to Reginald, containing the joyful news that Colonel Thorpe was on his
way to London to attend the opening of parliament by the new king, and
that his daughter was coming with him. Ainslie, after the expiration of
a few days, presented himself at Colonel Thorpe’s former apartments,
where the first person he encountered was that worthy officer himself,
stiff, irritable, and in a decidedly unpleasant temper. Their
conversation commenced with a formal exchange of civilities, and
Reginald seated himself on the chair which was pointed out to him, calm
and unruffled in countenance, but with a heart which he had steeled and
prepared for the worst.

Colonel Thorpe was glad that Lieutenant Ainslie had called, as he
wished to have some serious conversation with him. There had been a—in
fact there had been a correspondence kept up with his daughter, an
interchange of letter-writing and—and that sort of thing, which must be
discontinued.

‘Am I to understand, sir,’ said the young officer, with difficulty
repressing his growing wrath—‘am I to understand that you wish me to
resign all pretensions to Miss Thorpe’s hand?’

The colonel did not exactly say that; he said the correspondence must
be discontinued for—for a time. If at some future date Lieutenant
Ainslie could show satisfactory proofs that he would be able to
maintain his daughter in a position of comfort and dignity consistent
with that in which she had been brought up, he (Colonel Thorpe) might
feel disposed to listen to any advances Lieutenant Ainslie thought
proper to make. Till then, all interchange of sentiment must cease.
That was all; Colonel Thorpe had nothing further to say.

Ere another week had passed, during which the lovers met but once,
the colonel’s apartments were again vacant, and Reginald Ainslie was
wondering at what remote period of his life he should again see Amy
Thorpe. Poverty was the bane of the young soldier, and the monotonous
round of barrack-life was by no means the royal road to wealth.
Reginald, however, had for some time been meditating over a deep-laid
purpose, the object of which was to recover an ancient property which
his immediate ancestors, by their Jacobite proclivities, had forfeited.
On obtaining leave of absence, therefore, shortly before Christmas, he
set out for Fridswold, and made a series of excursions to Coombe Hall,
to lay before his beloved Amy all his hopes and fears, and to receive
from her encouragement in his momentous quest. But his proposed visit
had been put a stop to by the colonel’s letter, and now this secret
meeting in the arbour was the next expedient of the faithful pair.

For a while, the joy of meeting was so great that all other things were
forgotten; but Reginald could not long shut his eyes to the barrier
which destiny and the will of Colonel Thorpe had placed between the
lovers. He was still poor; he was not yet able to fulfil the colonel’s
stipulation. But he had hopes, and these he could now breathe into
Amy’s sympathetic ear.

‘What would you say, Amy, if I were to tell you that I am the bearer of
good tidings?’

‘I should say the news might be too good to be true,’ replied Miss
Thorpe. ‘O Reginald, it cannot be; you do not mean it?’

‘I do, Amy,’ answered the lieutenant. ‘For what purpose do you suppose
I undertook this journey?’ he added, after a pause, and turning so as
to face his fair companion.

The girl’s blue eyes opened to their fullest extent, and she answered
in a slight tone of wonderment: ‘To see me. Was it not so, Reginald?’

‘It was, dearest,’ said the lieutenant; ‘but if I were to say that I
came in search of you alone, my words would be false.’

‘Then pray, sir, may I not know your other reason?’ inquired Amy
laughingly. ‘Have you an appointment to meet some other distressed
damsel in these lonely parts?’

‘Nothing of the kind,’ replied Ainslie, more earnestly than the
question seemed to warrant. ‘You alone, Amy, I came to see, and it is
principally on your account that I am about to journey farther.’

‘On my account!’

‘Yes, Amy, yours; this journey is all for your sake. I will explain
myself. For some time past, I have been urged to take a singular step
by one who believes that our lost wealth may be actually regained.
The idea is a vague and most likely a visionary one, and had I never
met you, Amy, it is probable that the task of unravelling this coil
might not have been essayed. It was Colonel Thorpe who clenched my
half-hearted resolution by informing me that I must not hope to call
you mine until possessed of sufficient affluence to maintain you in a
position equal to that in which you had been brought up. Those words
struck home. I instantly formed a fixed determination, and am now
about to follow it up, for which purpose I intend to start this very
afternoon.’

‘This afternoon!’ echoed Amy. ‘Why so soon, Reginald? You have been
here no time at all. When did you arrive?’

‘The day before yesterday,’ replied Ainslie. ‘But do not blame me,
dearest, for not seeing you before. I repaired to Coombe Hall almost
directly after I got here, hoping to see both you and your father, and
having no thought that admittance would be refused.’

‘O Reginald, I am so sorry!’ faltered the girl. ‘What could I do? Did
they really refuse to admit you?’

‘They did,’ answered the young officer. ‘But I am perfectly aware it
was no fault of yours. I then wrote to your father, asking permission
to see you, telling him that I had some expectation of recovering what
my parent so unfortunately lost, when I hoped to be able to maintain
you in a manner worthy of our ancient house. But two hours afterwards,
my letter was returned!—yes, returned, Amy, and with it was inclosed
a note from your father forbidding me to enter the house or seek an
interview with his daughter. I disobeyed the latter part of his
injunction, and have succeeded, darling, in meeting you once more.’

As we intend to follow Reginald in his quest, it is needless to repeat
here the story of his hopes as he hastily unfolded them in the ears
of Amy Thorpe; enough that, after remaining together as long as, or
perhaps longer than prudence enjoined, the two tore themselves asunder,
with thrice-repeated vows of fidelity and affection. The remembrance of
their tender parting was to Reginald in after-years like a strain of
sweet, bygone music passing through his memory.

That very evening the young lieutenant quitted Fridswold. His way
lay in a different direction from that leading to Coombe Hall, and
the farewell glance he gave back only showed him the black bulk of
the minster towering above a mass of smoky chimneys. The suburbs
of the town were speedily left behind, and soon a prospect lay
before Reginald’s eyes which for savage desolation he had never seen
surpassed. Extending as far as the eye could reach, stretched a dreary
waste of flooded fields, black peat, broken ice, and frozen sedge,
dotted at remote intervals with a few scanty willows. The wind was
rising again, bringing up with it heavy clouds, and its moaning voice
rustled among the patches of alder and withered rushes like a low,
dying murmur. Taking warning by these signs, Reginald urged his horse
forward to a quicker pace than hitherto, riding swiftly and eagerly
into the gathering darkness of the night.




THE RING-TRICK.

A CURIOUS COINCIDENCE.


Some four years ago I was one of the many hundreds of somewhat
aspiring youths who were seeking positions as Civil servants under
our government. In order better to work up for the very difficult
examinations which it is necessary to pass in order to gain these
positions, I had joined the evening classes of a well-known London
college. These classes were held twice in every week, and it was on
my way to one of them from my home—I live in a northern suburb of the
metropolis—that the events I am about to relate took place.

I had alighted, at about five o’clock on an autumn evening, from a
train at the King’s Cross terminus of the Great Northern Railway, and
was proceeding along the Euston Road, when, having half an hour to
spare, I turned off to the right to enter Euston Station. As I passed
under the heavy stone portico just to the south of this immense depôt,
I observed a man about two yards in front of me, who, just as I noticed
him, came to an abrupt halt and stooped down. So suddenly, indeed, did
he do this, that I stumbled over him, and tendered an apology for what
was not my error. As he regained his vertical position, he spoke to me,
and said in a confidential tone: ‘Did you see that?’

I asked him what he meant.

‘Why, this diamond ring. I nearly trod on it. Just look here.’ And he
showed me what was apparently a gold diamond ring; and then went on
to say, that if I had seen it, I should have my share of the find; or
that, as he was a poor man, and as it might arouse suspicion for the
ring to be found in his possession, and since, as he could not get rid
of it, it would be useless to him, he would sell it to me for a trifle.

I was not at that time—owing, I suppose, to my ignorance of London
ways—so cautious as I am now; and thinking, from the various government
stamps upon the ring, that it was indeed a valuable one, I told him I
would think about it, if the diamond were a good one.

‘Come up here,’ said he, pointing to some back street, ‘and let us see
if it will cut glass.’

I walked with him in the direction he indicated, and with much coolness
he tested the stone upon a shop-window. Surely enough, it made a deep
incision in the glass.

‘Well,’ I said, feeling now tolerably convinced of the genuineness of
the ring, ‘I would give you ten shillings for it, but I unfortunately
have a few pence only in my pocket.’

‘Ah, that’s a pity. Do you live far from here?’

‘Yes,’ I replied; ‘some twelve miles at least.’

‘Ah, well, there you are, you see; that’s a pity, because you are a
gentleman, and the ring would be all right with you; but I am only a
poor messenger—at this moment I am on one of my errands—earning a pound
a week, and if I tried to sell it, people would suspect me. However,
since you say you have not enough money, I will keep the ring and
attempt to get rid of it. At anyrate, we’ll part friends. Come and have
something to drink with me.’

I refused, for the man was not of a very attractive appearance, being
dreadfully pock-marked and squinting in his right eye. So we said
good-evening and separated, he to carry out his errand, I to walk on
into Euston terminus.

On relating the adventure to my friends, we came to the conclusion
that the man was an impostor, and had purposely dropped the ring and
stooped to pick it up immediately in front and for the sole edification
of myself, evidently hoping that I should purchase it—probably a sham
one—from him.

Two years after the above had occurred, my business—I had abandoned
the idea of the Civil service—led me one evening along that wondrous
thoroughfare the Strand. Proceeding westwards, about midway between the
Temple Bar memorial and Charing Cross, I collided somewhat violently
with a man immediately in front of me, who had stooped with the evident
intention of picking up something off the ground. He turned round
sharply and exclaimed: ‘Did you see that?’ at the same time showing me
a gold diamond ring, which he stated he had found on the pavement, and
on which he had nearly trodden.

I will not weary the reader with a verbatim account of the conversation
which then ensued. Suffice it for me to say that I had recognised in
the man before me the pock-marked and squinting hero of the Euston Road
of two years before. In order, however, further to convince myself that
my impressions as to this were correct, I, apparently taking interest
in what he had found, allowed him to do and say, act for act and
word for word, all that he did and said on the first occasion of my
meeting him. He tested the diamond by cutting glass; said he was a poor
messenger earning a pound a week; was even then on one of his errands;
thought that the discovery of such a ring in his possession would
excite suspicion; and—— Well, I neither need, nor will I, rewrite the
whole of the first portion of this narration, for what now took place
was its precise counterpart.

I taxed the swindler with having played the same rôle at Euston
Station, two years previously.

He replied, in the most naïve manner: ‘Ah, then I was in Liverpool.’
But he was, I suspect, somewhat astonished to find out that I knew him.
Again did he ask me to drink with him and to part friends.

It is almost needless to add, that though I might have done the latter,
I certainly did not do the former, he being evidently a swindler. And
so we separated for the second time, he disappearing up one of the
tributary streets of the Strand, I proceeding about my business.

It struck me as being very wonderful that this man, whose profession
it doubtless was to entrap people—young and unsuspecting—in the manner
I have described, should have on two separate occasions, between
which there was an interval of two years, singled out myself as an
intended victim to his fraud, since I am but one of tens of thousands
of the youth daily to be remarked walking in the London streets. The
remarkable blunder of the impostor proves how correct is the well-known
proverb, ‘A liar should have a good memory;’ and the facts here
narrated may perhaps serve to put others on their guard against the
wiles of London street swindlers.




OCCASIONAL NOTES.


INVESTIGATIONS ON LIGHTS AND LIGHTHOUSES.

For some time past a series of observations and experiments have been
carried on under the auspices of a Committee of the Elder Brethren
of the Trinity House, at the South Foreland, chiefly relating to
the measurement of lights by means of a photometer—the invention of
Mr Vernon Harcourt—the standard light of which burns with wonderful
regularity and uniformity. The Committee are now engaged on a still
more interesting series of observations, which are made from the sea,
and which will more nearly concern sailors. These experiments and
observations for testing the capabilities of various lights will be
peculiarly remarkable, as craft of almost all descriptions will be
enlisted in this work: the mail-packets, the Peninsular and Oriental
liners, pilot vessels of different nationalities, trading-ships, and
French cruisers. The electric light, of course, is immensely superior
to either gas or paraffine oil; but even this, from its whiteness and
dazzling brilliancy, has not been found to be so very much better, in
thick hazy weather, than either oil or gas, the reddish-yellow of the
latter perhaps showing better through the haze of a sea-fog than the
white glare of the former. All these points will, however, be carefully
gone into, and every sort of test applied to discover the best and
safest light to direct mariners to and by our coasts; and when all is
completed, the Committee will record their useful labours in a full
Report to the Board of Trade, a document which will possess peculiar
interest for all who have at heart the welfare of ships and sailors.


LEVEL-CROSSING GATES.

Level crossings on railways have always been considered dangerous to
the public, and are generally looked upon with disfavour; and yet, in
certain places and positions, it is next to impossible to avoid them.
Therefore, wherever a level crossing exists, gates must be provided to
arrest the traffic on the road when a train approaches the crossing;
and it is clear that the more perfect the arrangement for the opening
and closing of the gates, the better for the safety of the public. An
ingenious proposal has been made in France to call in the powerful
aid of electricity for the purpose of opening and closing gates of
this description. The gates are kept closed across the line by a catch
governed by an electro-magnet. An approaching train, by a simple
arrangement, is made to close the electric circuit at a stated distance
from the gates, and the catch is therefore released and the gates
are opened and kept open for the passage of the train. When the last
carriage has passed, the circuit is broken and the gates are made to
shut, when they are kept closed by the catch already referred to. The
same current also rings a bell to give warning of the approach of the
train.




A HAWTHORN STORY.


    Pink and white in snowy shower,
      Shade and light and leaf and thorn,
    From the orchard gate the hawthorn bloom
    Through diamond lattices scented the room,
      When a child of the summer was born.

    Golden green and creaking swing—
      Boy and girl are playmates now.
    ‘Swing me higher—up to the sky!’
    ‘Nay; then I should lose you,’ he made reply,
      Under the hawthorn bough.

    Oh, perfume sweet!—_she_ pulled the branch;
      Flowers on her face fell tenderly;
    At the orchard gate, ‘Good-night, dear love!’
    Light in the lattice and stars above,
      And ‘Take this bloom from me.’

    Summer again, and a last good-bye,
      Fair head resting in sunset ray;
    Beyond the window and western glow
    Fancy flutters to long ago:
      ‘Bring me one hawthorn spray.’

    Childhood’s blossom and last good-bye—
      ‘Ah! think of the dawn in the Fatherland!’
    Earthly morning—by flower-strewn bed,
    Manhood’s tears from a drooping head
      Trickling on still cold hand.

    Oh! fragrance of the hawthorn tree,
      Where’er his lonely footsteps fly,
    Arise and waft her memory sweet;
    White blossoms whisper: ‘White souls meet
      Beyond the last good-bye!’

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

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_All Rights Reserved._