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. 48.—VOL. I.    SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 1884.    PRICE 1½_d._]




IN BROMPTON CEMETERY.


‘In Memory of THEODORE. Died November the 20th, 18—, aged three
years,’ I am not going to tell you about the tragedy this little life
represented, and how much suffering and how many tears lie buried with
my darling. I put all that away—all useless regrets, all vain repining,
when I laid him under two great pine-trees, looking straight to the
south, where the morning sun peeps earliest in faint yellow streaks,
and the broad arms of the firs are ever held lovingly over the little
head, and shelter away alike the drifting snow and summer heat—where
the thrushes and blackbirds sing their matins and vespers. They and
the pink chaffinches, and bold-eyed sparrows, come half-timidly,
half-hardily, with their little shy feet, close to mine, where I sit
alone by my lamb—Rachel weeping for her dead.

As time, God’s true physician, softened my grief, and yet drew me to
spend many hours where all was buried that could have pieced together
a broken life and broken heart, I became gradually interested in the
great company of the dead lying round, and anxious to learn some word
of the lives and histories, even of those whose birth and death-date
make up all the world shall ever write of them.

Right and left of my baby lie an old man and a young girl; he, a
wealthy, honoured merchant, who had lived ninety years of prosperous
and successful existence. His tomb is of gray marble; the letters
are cut well and deeply; all its cold grandeur is perfectly kept
up in unsurpassed cleanliness and order; but no one ever comes to
put a flower on his grave. The other grave, young Bessie’s, is also
neglected, though in a different way. The letters are fading fast
from the crooked headstone; and the ivy that has crept round it is
so tangled, that before long the little tomb will be quite covered.
Bessie was sixteen years old, and went to her rest in the glowing July
of 1851, when the fairy palace of Hyde Park, sparkling in its glory,
promised, but did not fulfil, the commencement of a long reign of
peace and good-will to all the nations of the earth. Where are now
those, I wonder, who left Bessie here!

Hard by lies many a different life from the maid’s and the merchant’s.
Brompton is essentially a military cemetery, where sleep the veterans
of the Peninsula, the Crimea, and India, and the Cape. Truly, when the
last réveille sounds, no more gallant hearts shall answer to the call
than our dead English soldiers.

Close to my baby are Sir John Garvock and Sir James Anderson, the last
under a pyramid of cannon-balls; and on this February day, warm and
breezy, with flying rain-clouds, driving off the fogs that for days
past have hovered like unclean birds over London, there comes a wail of
fifes and muffled drums. The trees are dripping with water, the grass
is sodden, but through its muddy surface, here and there, are peeping
green blades—fresh promises of spring. Shrill over the long damp
walks under the yews comes the _Adeste Fideles_. It is ‘a soldier’s
funeral,’ the gardener tells me—two Guardsmen from the Tower, who
were drowned last week, having fallen into the river in the fog. The
procession winds slowly into view—the muffled drums, the gay uniforms,
the coffins, each covered with a black and white pall, and heaped
with wreaths. On each coffin lie the dead man’s bayonet and shako.
The chaplain commits earth to earth; and the volleys flash over our
brothers departed, and with cheery strains the band is back again into
the world.

Next in number to the soldiers lie the actors, with whom Brompton has
ever been a favourite burying-ground. Here is one of the greatest
actresses of our day, Adelaide Neilson, whose ‘glorious eyes’
closed—for us—too soon; for her, just as a first gleam of happiness
and repose was dawning upon a stormy, clouded life. The ‘beautiful
gifted’ is ‘resting’ under a tall hewn cross of roughened marble. The
noble head of Mellon the composer, conspicuously placed, looks out
upon us from a grove where lie Nellie Moore, the ‘Lancashire lass;’
T. P. Cooke, the sailor-actor; Keeley, Leigh Murray, and Planché,
whose coffin may be seen through the iron gates of the catacombs.
Albert Smith is here too. Near Mellon rests a lady whose story and
recollections must have been interesting—one Sarah Agnes, who died in
1846, ‘widow of General Count Demetrius de Wints, elected Prince of
Montenegro on the 1st of August 1795.’ I know nothing of this page of
the history of Montenegro; but for Sarah Agnes, it was, as Bismarck
said of the election of young Battenberg, ‘something to be remembered.’

Sydney Lady Morgan is here too, and makes us think of the Wild Irish
Girl, with her harp and green fan and _mode_ cloak, her quarrels with
her publishers, and her endless vanities, from the concealment of her
age, to the blue satin gown which made her ‘the best dressed woman in
the room;’ her ceaseless tormentings of the staid sensible husband,
who won her so hardly and loved her so patiently. One wonders if that
unquiet spirit sleeps soundly, and why her novels—novels that brought
the Dublin actor’s daughter from obscurity to be a leader of the
fashion she loved so dearly—should now be hardly remembered even by the
fact, that one beguiled the last hours of Pitt.

Jackson the pugilist, whose tomb by Baily, with its couching lion, is
one of the most conspicuous objects here, represents a science that is
now moribund. Near him is the humble grave of one of the sextons of the
cemetery, who a year or two ago was crushed by the falling-in of the
warm yellow gravel of the grave he was digging.

       *       *       *       *       *

The year has rolled away; it is Christmas eve; the snow is crisp and
sparkling in the low December sun, and groups are thronging in with
wreaths and crosses and bouquets, to tell their dear ones they are not
forgotten, and that to-morrow the vacant place by the fireside will be
haunted by

    The touch of a vanished hand,
    And the sound of a voice that is still.

Near the Brompton gate, where the porter, smiling, good-natured giant,
stands holding the gate open for loiterers like me—sleeps a dear old
friend, long passed away—an Indian doctor, the kindest heart for
young people, the most interested in their pleasures, I ever knew. A
Scotchman from Skye—even in his eightieth year with strength unfailed,
and the large limbs of the people of his race. ‘A strong lad, Samson;
sure he cam’ frae Skye,’ was the old woman’s commentary on the hero of
the Book of Judges. The merry days of girlhood on Richmond Hill and
Thames, clear Marlow water, childhood treats of strawberries at Kew,
rise up before misty eyes as I read your name, dear old William Bruce!
Many a happy Christmas eve have we spent at your kindly table, when
your dark beaming face and Scottish voice asked the ‘bit lassie,’ whose
tall toddy glass stood untasted at her side—‘Why, Miss Helena, Miss
Helena, are ye doing naught for the gude o’ the hoose?’ He used to say
the fifty years of perfect health he had spent in India were due to the
nightly toddy! I believe it was the kindly heart and cheerful mind.

Lie lightly, snow; shine red, ye holly-berries; and I pass out bidding
good-night to my baby, sleeping till his young eyes shall open, not on
the Christmas, but on the Resurrection morn. As I go, I see that even
the long-forgotten old merchant has at last been remembered, and on his
grave is a scroll of immortelles and berries inscribed, ‘Kind words and
deeds, they never die.’




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER LVIII.—CLEARING UP.

Philip with amazement not unmingled with displeasure recognised Mr
Beecham in the person who in this mysterious fashion intruded himself
on their privacy.

Madge was for a second startled by the sudden apparition; but that
feeling passed as the shadow of a swift-flying bird passes over the
breast of a clear pool, and her face became bright with hope. The
object which Philip had so longed for was accomplished—the distrust and
enmity of Austin Shield were extinguished. Remembering about the secret
recess of the Oak Parlour, and the legend of its having once served as
the hiding-place of a fugitive king, she did not pause to speculate how
it had been discovered, or how or why the man came to make use of it at
that moment, but waited eagerly for the upshot of this singular meeting.

The invalid, resting back on his cushions, stared at the intruder
with mingled emotions of astonishment, curiosity, and suspicion; then
he glanced inquiringly from Madge to Philip, seeking from them the
explanation at which the latter could no more guess than he.

The man himself advanced calmly.

‘I must ask you to pardon the odd way in which I present myself to you,
Mr Hadleigh,’ he said gravely, as he bowed with respect; ‘it is partly
due to accident, partly to design.’

‘I am your debtor, Mr Beecham,’ answered Philip coldly, ‘on my own
account and my uncle’s; but I am not conscious of anything you have
done which can justify you in playing the part of a’——

‘You would say the part of a spy and a hidden listener to what was not
intended for my ears,’ was the calm rejoinder, a smile of good-humoured
approval on the kindly face. ‘I have been both, but I shall not lose
all your respect when you understand the position. Be patient.—I was
waiting in the room until the girl who admitted me could find an
opportunity of telling Miss Heathcote that I wished to see her before
seeking an interview with your father. She returned immediately to say
that she had been unable to deliver my message, and that they were
bringing the sick gentleman in here. She left me hurriedly. I did not
wish to meet Mr Hadleigh until his leave had been asked, and I could
not go into the hall without meeting him.’

‘Why should you avoid him?’

‘There are circumstances which might have made an unexpected meeting
unpleasant. I am now aware that that was my mistake. At anyrate I
remembered the secret of this panel, which was explained to me years
ago by old Jerry Mogridge. He was then the only one who knew it. I
was aware of the misconceptions my conduct might give rise to, but
entered the place hoping to find the outlet to the garden. Some time
was occupied in searching for it without success. I would have endured
my ignominious imprisonment, however, had not Mr Hadleigh’s voice
confirmed Dr Joy’s assurance that I might speak to him freely.’

He paused, as if desirous of some sign from the invalid that he might
proceed. The latter assented with a slight movement of the head.

‘I do not regret my awkward position, Mr Hadleigh, since it has enabled
me to hear what you have said to these young people when you could have
no suspicion of my neighbourhood. Your treatment of them has done as
much as the proofs placed in my hands by Miss Heathcote to convince me
that, in the blind passion of youth and deceived by a scoundrel, I did
you gross injustice. You know me: is it too late to ask your pardon?’

There was silence. Philip, in much perplexity, was looking alternately
at the two men; Madge was watching with breathless interest, the dawn
of a joyful smile on her face. At length, Hadleigh:

‘I trust it is never too late to ask pardon—or to grant it. There is my
hand, Mr Shield.’

They clasped hands with the calmness of men who strike a mutually
advantageous bargain: there was no pretence of any other feeling in the
touch. But Madge placed her hands on theirs, and her face was radiant
with joy.

‘You are both my friends and Philip’s,’ she said; ‘he wanted you to
understand each other: he desired it and thought of it a great deal
more than of the fortune you tried to tempt him with, Mr Shield.’

‘I should like to understand this riddle,’ Philip broke in. ‘I have
known you as Beecham, and another as Austin Shield.’

Beecham drew from his pocket a pencil and note-book. He wrote: ‘I
am the Austin Shield you have known in correspondence—as this will
testify. The man you have met under my name is Jack Hartopp, who has
been my faithful ally and comrade for years past. For reasons—most
unhappy reasons, which shall be fully explained—I desired to test your
nature before you became the husband of Madge Heathcote.’

‘I recognise the writing,’ said Philip, ‘but am unable to comprehend
what authority you can pretend to have over Miss Heathcote.’

‘I will explain that,’ interrupted Madge; and she did so to his entire
satisfaction within a few hours.

Meanwhile, Philip was anything but satisfied. He was frowning as he put
the next question:

‘Then this report about the losses—the financial difficulties which
prevented Mr Shield from giving me the assistance I required?’

‘You have had the assistance you required; you have been rescued from
the clutches of a knave, who would have duped you out of everything;
you have had a lesson which will be worth thousands to you; and you
have still the opportunity of carrying out your plans to what I hope
will be a satisfactory issue.’ Shield said this in a tone of reproach;
but observing the changes on Philip’s face, he proceeded with his
usual kindliness of expression: ‘I could never have known what genuine
and generous stuff you were made of, Philip, unless I had seen you
in misfortune, and found that you are ready to give up everything to
support the man whose money you had lost.’

‘That was my duty.’

‘Yes, yes,’ was the smiling interruption; ‘but it was a duty from which
you might easily and without discredit have excused yourself. It was,
however, your brave acceptance of the duty which convinced me that she
would be safe in your keeping; and to secure her happiness as far as
it is in human power to do so, I was ready to sacrifice anything. I
am satisfied on that point, and you know that Miss Heathcote has been
satisfied for a long time.’

‘Then the story which this Hartopp told me about the losses—what of
that?’

‘You must not blame Jack Hartopp; he acted faithfully according to his
instructions; and it was only on account of his mania for drink that I
was obliged to keep him out of your way as much as possible. With that
pitiable drawback, he is as shrewd and brave as he is honest. To save
my life and property, he has stood up single-handed against a gang of
mutinous workmen on the diamond fields. He likes you, Philip, and you
will soon respect him as well as like him. As to our losses, they have
been heavy and sudden, owing to the failure of a gold-mining Company in
which I had invested and the fall in the price of Cape diamonds. But we
have still ample means to go on with comfortably.’

‘Is Mr Hartopp a son of our neighbours of the Chelmer Bridge farm?’
inquired Madge.

‘Yes; he was in California for a time, but hearing of the diamond
fields, thought he would try his luck in them. He was in a poor plight
when he reached my station; but he had a hearty welcome as soon as he
told where he came from.... And now, I should like to see Mrs Crawshay
and her husband. She would have recognised me at once, and that is why
I have kept out of her way.’

When, however, Madge brought him face to face with the dame, the latter
had to scrutinise his visage closely for several minutes before she
identified him.

‘Faces change with time,’ he said, as if excusing beforehand her
slowness of recognition.

‘And hearts too,’ she answered somewhat drily.

‘Not always,’ was his earnest comment; and the grasp of their hands,
the smile on their faces, proved that their hearts had not changed at
anyrate.

‘I am glad there is an end of this prank,’ she said by-and-by; ‘many a
weary thought it has cost me, for it is the only time I have ever held
anything back from Dick. But I knew thou wert meaning well, and it was
not in me to thwart thee in doing what seemed to thee right, for love
of Lucy. But it was a perilous adventure for all of us, and we have
reason to give thanks that it ends as we would have it.’

       *       *       *       *       *

Dick Crawshay could not easily grasp all the details of the
explanations which were given him; but he quickly comprehended that
Madge had been doing her best to make others happy at the risk of her
conduct being much misconstrued. So he took her in his arms.

‘Buss me, lass, and forget that I was ever angered with you. But it
wasn’t easy to keep temper when all things about the place seemed to be
going contrary, and everybody was more dunderheaded than another—not to
mention my temper was always known to be of the gunpowder sort, so that
one spark was enough to blow up the whole place.’

‘But the explosion is never very destructive,’ she said with a smile
and a kiss.

‘Dunno how you take it, Madge, but it always leaves me somehow
uncomfortable. Hows’ever, let that be, and come and see to the entries
for the Smithfield Club. I’ll be main vexed if we don’t get a prize;
they have got a clean bill of health, and I’ll go bail there are no
cows or steers in the country to beat them.’

He took Austin Shield as much into his favour as he had done when that
person had presented himself under the name of Beecham, and consulted
him about the cattle as if he had been the most famous of ‘vets.’ To
Jack Hartopp he gave a cordial welcome, and, unwisely, opened a case
of hollands, which had come from Amsterdam by way of Harwich, for his
delectation.

‘Never you mind,’ he said in answer to the dame’s remonstrance; ‘there
is nothing too good for a man that has been as faithful to his mate
or master as Jack Hartopp has been to Shield. Clever rogues, both of
’em—and they say, and Philip says, I’m sure of a red rosette at the
Smithfield show.’

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a great gathering at Willowmere this Christmas. The huge
barn was cleared for the occasion, and all the lads and lasses of the
village who had ever done a day’s work on the farm were invited. Gay
ribbons and happy faces, lamps and candles, made the place brilliant.
There was a huge bush of mistletoe and holly hanging from the centre of
the roof, and Uncle Dick led his dame forward and gave her a sounding
kiss under it, amidst the cheers and laughter of the lads, who whirled
their lasses along to follow this gallant example.

Then the fiddles struck up _Sir Roger de Coverley_, and yeoman Dick led
off the dance with his dame, both as young in heart as the youngest
present, and as joyful as if they had not those long reaches of the
past to look back upon. Madge and Philip followed, as if their young
lives were to fill the gap between youth and age.

All the guests agreed there had never been in their recollection such a
merry Christmas gathering in the county.


CHAPTER LIX.—GLIMPSES.

‘’Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus.’

The sun still bright on the hilltop; figures rising to its crest, and
there halting, with hands shading their eyes, to take a glad or sad
look backward.

See there; Dick Crawshay and his dame can look down and smile on the
road they have travelled, although there are sundry small black patches
that they would have wished away. But they can see Madge and Philip
in their joyous course, waving orange blossoms towards them, laughing
at the slips and hollows of the hillside, because they march hand in
hand, and when the one falters, the other possesses sustaining power
enough to keep both in the safe path.

‘Lucky dog, that Philip!’ says old Dick Crawshay, fumbling with his
fob-chain. ‘He has got the finest woman in the world to wife—bar my
missus.’

‘They are very happy,’ observed the dame contentedly; ‘and Austin was
not so far wrong as I fancied he was, when he said that the real test
of a man’s nature was money. I never liked it; for losing money makes
men mad or bad, and gaining it seems to do the same thing—but neither
way seems to have hurt Philip much, good lad.’

And Philip and Madge were walking quietly up the hillside, halting here
and there to give a friendly hand to those who were stumbling by the
way. Hadleigh, sitting in his easy-chair, is glad at last, for he has
found the Something which he had sought so long without avail, in the
fair-haired grandchild sitting on his knee. The love that was so slow
of growth in the man’s heart has blossomed in this child.

In the work which Philip had started, Austin Shield with his ally Jack
Hartopp was working with might and main; and the speculation promised
to be not only successful in a commercial way, but also in a moral
way. They had all the idea that in course of time it would come to be
the universal system of work—that men should be allowed to do as much
as they could, and that they should be remunerated in accordance with
the results, calculated by the market value of quality and quantity.
The men themselves were rapidly coming to understand that their real
advantage lay not in combinations which restricted the labour of one
who was quicker of wit and hand than the average labourer, but in doing
their best to keep up to him, and beat him if that were possible,
allowing the lazy and the stupid to fall back into their natural places.

Miss Hadleigh as Mrs Crowell was permitted all the joys she desired;
for she had grand dinner-parties; her dear Alfred became an alderman,
with every prospect of being chosen Lord Mayor in due course of time,
and the possibility of a baronetcy attached to the office.

But look down into one of the side-paths which leads into a jungle.
There is Coutts Hadleigh moving through a maze. Contrary to everybody’s
expectation, he has not married for money, but for a position in
society. He has led to the altar the Honourable Miss Adelaide
Beauchamp, the penniless daughter of a bankrupt peer. She uses his
wealth in the vain effort to re-establish the position of her family.
The master of the house is snubbed; and his presence is only required
to attend those entertainments where the presence of a husband is
supposed to give countenance and propriety to what is going forward.

On that merry racecourse down there is Wrentham, a white hat encircled
by a blue veil on his head, a note-book in his hand. He is one of the
most popular book-makers on the turf; and away in a quiet cottage
are his wife and daughter, happy in the belief that he is engaged on
important business, whilst he is drinking champagne, giving and taking
the odds on the next race. Bob Tuppit sees him often; but they pass
each other without recognition. Bob is content to turn an honest penny
by his juggling craft, and to bring up his family respectably.

By-and-by there comes a stranger man out of the wilderness of foreign
parts. He speaks to Sam Culver. The gardener knew him at once, and was
in great glee that his old pupil should have found fortune in another
land. So he took him to the cottage where Pansy was waiting on her
grandfather, who had been at last persuaded to give up his ‘business
rounds’ and settle down at Ringsford.

Caleb and Pansy were only a few minutes together when they came forward
to the gardener, and the light on their faces seemed to suggest the
burden of the rustic song—‘We’ll wander in the Meadows where the
May-flowers grow.’[1]

[1] The right of translation is reserved.

THE END.




ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.


CHAPTER IX.

Among other visitors in search of the picturesque who had found their
way to Stock Ghyll Force this morning was Mr Santelle, the stranger
who had held the mysterious conversation with Jules the waiter. When
half-way across the bridge, he paused to look at the waterfall, which
from this point was visible in all its beauty. While standing thus, he
was attracted by the sound of voices, and next moment his quick eyes
had discovered Colonel Woodruffe and Madame De Vigne on a jutting point
of rock half-way up the ravine. The lady he recognised, having seen
her start that morning from the hotel with a party of friends; but
the colonel was a stranger to him. Humming an air softly to himself,
he paced slowly over the bridge and began to climb the path on the
opposite side of the stream. When he had got about one-third of the way
up, he reached a point where a more than usually dense growth of shrubs
and evergreens shut out the view both of the waterfall and the ravine.
Pausing here, Mr Santelle with deft but cautious fingers proceeded to
part the branches of the evergreens till, from where he stood, himself
unseen, he obtained a clear view of the group on the opposite side of
the ravine. That group now consisted of three persons.

       *       *       *       *       *

The approaching footsteps, the sound of which had put an end to the
conversation between the colonel and Madame De Vigne, were those
of M. De Miravel. He had spied them before they saw him. ‘Ah ha!
Voilà le monsieur of the portrait!’ he said to himself. ‘What has my
adorable wife been saying to him? She turns away her face—he hangs his
head—neither of them speak. _Eh bien!_ I propose to myself to interrupt
this interesting _tête-à-tête_.’ He advanced, raised his hat, and
smiling his detestable smile, made one of his most elaborate bows.
‘Pardon. I hope I am not _de trop_,’ he said.—‘Will you not introduce
me to your friend, _chère_ Madame De Vigne?’

Superb in her icy quietude—the quietude of despair—and without a
falter in her voice, she said: ‘Colonel Woodruffe, my husband, Hector
Laroche, ex-convict, number 897.’

The fellow fell back a step in sheer amazement. ‘How!’ he gasped. ‘You
have told him’——

‘Everything.’

She sat down again on the seat from which she had just risen, and
grasping the fingers of one hand tightly with those of the other,
turned her face in the direction of the waterfall.

Laroche’s _sang-froid_ had only deserted him for an instant. ‘_Quelle
bêtise!_’ he muttered with a shrug. Then becoming aware that the
colonel’s cold, haughty stare was fixed full upon him, he retorted with
a look that was a mixture of triumph and tigerish ferocity. Turning to
his wife, and all but touching her shoulder with his lean claw-like
finger, he said with a sneer that was half a snarl: ‘My property,
monsieur—my property!’

Suddenly there came a sound of voices, of laughter, of singing. A troop
of noisy excursionists had invaded the glen.

Mr Santelle had apparently seen as much as he cared to see. He let the
parted branches fall gently together again, and went smilingly on his
way.


CHAPTER X.

It was the forenoon of the second day after the picnic. There was
thunder in the air, but the storm had not yet broken. Any moment the
clouds might part and the first bolt fall. What might have been the
result of the collision between Laroche and Colonel Woodruffe on the
day of the picnic, but for the opportune invasion of the glen by a
number of excursionists, who put privacy to flight, it is of course
impossible to say. It may be also that the Frenchman read something in
the colonel’s eye which warned him not to proceed too far. No sooner,
therefore, had the remark last recorded passed his lips, than he turned
abruptly on his heel, and striking into the same winding pathway that
Mora had taken earlier in the day, became at once lost to view in the
depths of the shrubbery.

‘Had you not better let me take you back to the hotel at once?’ said
the colonel to Mora after a little pause. ‘You can easily make an
excuse to your party for leaving them. There is an inn at the foot of
the valley at which we can hire a fly.’

Mora at once assented. Now that the worst was known, now that
everything had been told, her heart cried out for solitude: she wanted
to be alone with her despair.

On their way they encountered Miss Gaisford, to whom Mora made some
kind of an excuse. An hour later they alighted at the _Palatine_. As
they stood for a moment at the door, the colonel said: ‘I shall remain
here at the hotel for the present, in case you should need me. No one
can tell what may happen. Night or day I am at your service.’

She gazed into his eyes for a moment, pressed his hand tenderly, and
was gone.

From that hour, Madame De Vigne had ceased to appear in the general
sitting-room down-stairs. The bedrooms occupied by the sisters were
separated by a small boudoir. In this latter room Madame De Vigne now
passed her time, and here she and Clarice partook of their meals. Miss
Penelope and Nanette alone had access to their room.

Of all the people in the hotel Colonel Woodruffe alone was aware that
the polite and good-looking French gentleman who called himself M. De
Miravel had any acquaintance with Madame De Vigne, or had as much as
spoken a word to that lady. De Miravel, to all appearance, did not know
a soul in the place. He was very smiling and affable to every one, but
seemed to have no acquaintances. His sole occupation—if occupation it
could be called—seemed to be to lounge about the grounds and smoke.
Once, it is true, he went for an hour’s row on the lake, but that was
all. When he and Colonel Woodruffe chanced to meet, they passed each
other like utter strangers.

Another visitor who appeared not to care to make acquaintances was Mr
Santelle. He took his breakfast in the public coffee-room, and dined
at the _table-d’hôte_; his keen, watchful eyes saw everything and
everybody, but he rarely addressed himself to any one. He was not so
much _en évidence_ as M. De Miravel; but with a guide-book under his
arm and a field-glass slung over his shoulder, he took the steamer
from place to place, and seemed bent upon seeing all that there was to
be seen. Jules kept a furtive eye upon him at meal-times, but not the
slightest sign of recognition passed between the two men.

When Clarice got back to the hotel on the evening of the picnic, she
found a telegram from Archie awaiting her. ‘Governor not yet to hand,’
ran the message. ‘Probably fatigue of travelling has been too much for
him. May have broken journey somewhere. Can only await his arrival.
Hope he will turn up in the morning. Will telegraph again to-morrow.’

Clarice handed the telegram to Mr Etheridge. That gentleman read it
slowly and carefully, and handed it back with a smile. ‘I think it
very likely, as Mr Archie suggests, that Sir William has broken his
journey,’ he observed. ‘But I have long thought that Sir William
fancies himself more of an invalid than he really is, and that if he
chose to exert himself a little more, it might perhaps be all the
better for his health. But there is no accounting for the whims of
these rich people. I sometimes think that a little poverty would be a
good thing for some of them.’

There was more cynicism in this speech than in any that Clarice had
hitherto heard from the old gentleman’s lips. But it was not in her
province to make any reply to it. She had never even seen Sir William,
whereas Mr Etheridge had known him for years.

When not with her sister—and Mora seemed to prefer to be as much alone
as possible—Clarice spent most of her time with the old man. She could
talk to him about Archie, whom he seemed to have known from childhood,
and could listen with unfailing interest to all that he had to tell
about the eccentric baronet; while Mr Etheridge seemed quite as fond
of her society as she was of his. No message, either by telegram or
letter, had yet arrived for him, but he never failed to ransack the
letter-rack three or four times a day. ‘We can only wait,’ he said
once or twice to Clarice, as he turned from the rack with that faint,
patient smile which she was beginning to know so well. ‘Sir William is
a man who can never bear to be hurried in anything.’

Next afternoon there came a second telegram addressed to Miss Loraine:
‘No news of the governor yet. Most extraordinary. Would have started
back to-day, but Blatchett strongly advises to remain till morning.
Should there be no news by ten A.M., you may expect me at the
_Palatine_ in time for dinner.’

‘Just like Sir William—just like him; I’m not a bit surprised,’ was Mr
Etheridge’s curt comment when he had read the telegram.

‘He must indeed be a singular man,’ said Clarice. Then her eyes began
to sparkle, and a lovely colour flushed her cheeks. ‘Perhaps by this
time to-morrow Archie may be back again,’ she said, more as if speaking
to herself than addressing Mr Etheridge.

In the course of these two days Colonel Woodruffe and Mr Etheridge met
more than once. They talked together, walking side by side on the lawn
of the hotel. The chief part of the talking, however, seemed to be done
by the colonel, his companion’s share of it being mostly confined to
‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ a confirmatory nod of the head, or now and then a brief
question.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Lady Renshaw got back from the picnic on Wednesday evening, and
was in a position to have a quiet chat with her niece, she declared
that she had not spent so pleasant a day for a long time. Dr M‘Murdo
was really a most agreeable, well-informed man—a man whose talents
ought to make him a position in the world; and as for the poor,
dear vicar, he was nothing less than charming. ‘So simple-minded
and unworldly, my dear. He quite puts me in mind of the Vicar of
Wakefield.’ Then she added by way of after-thought: ‘But I cannot say
that I care greatly for that sister of his. There is something about
her excessively flippant and satirical—and I do dislike satirical
people, above all others.’

But Lady Renshaw’s real enjoyment—of which she said nothing to her
niece—arose from her thorough belief that both the doctor and the
vicar had been irresistibly smitten by her charms. If they were not
in love, or close on the verge of it, why had they followed her about
all day like two spaniels, each of them jealously afraid to leave her
alone with the other? It was delightful! As she sipped a cup of tea
after her return, she began to ask herself whether she might not do
worse than accept this clever, well-preserved Scotch doctor. She had
no doubt in her own mind that he would propose in the course of a few
days. With the help of her money, he might buy a first-class West-end
practice; and after that, there was no knowing what he might not rise
to in the course of a few years. Seven to ten thousand a year, so she
had been given to understand, was by no means an uncommon income for a
fashionable doctor to make nowadays. She would think the matter over in
the quietude of her own room, so that she might be prepared with her
answer, when the inevitable moment should arrive.

The fact was that Dr Mac had fooled her to the top of her bent, as Miss
Gaisford had prophesied he would do. Her vanity, as he soon found, was
insatiable; no compliment was too egregious for her to swallow. ‘I’ve
done my duty like a man,’ he remarked with grim humour to Miss Pen at
the close of the day; ‘but I hope you will never set me such a task
again: the creature’s self-conceit is stupendous—stupendous!’

The picnic took place on Wednesday. Thursday was ushered in with wind
and rain. The hills had wrapped thick mantles of mist about them, and
had retired into private life. Visitors shook their heads as they
peered out of the rain-streaked windows, and made up their minds to
settle down for the day to novels, gossip, and letter-writing. Despite
the wind and rain, Dr Mac set out for Kendal at an early hour with the
avowed intention of hunting up some old friends. The vicar, too timid
to tackle the widow by himself, kept to his own room, on the plea of
having a sermon to compose. Miss Wynter might have been justified that
day in her belief that her aunt’s temper was not invariably the most
angelic in the world.

Bella had enjoyed her picnic more, far more than her aunt was aware of.
And yet the girl was troubled in her secret heart. Dick had never made
love to her so audaciously before; in fact, the opportunity had never
been afforded him; while she herself had never quite known till that
day how dear he had become to her. Her training, almost from childhood,
and her mode of life since her aunt had taken charge of her, had all
tended to stifle the feelings natural to her age and sex, and to induce
her to regard the sacrament of marriage as a mere question of pounds,
shillings, and pence. Yet here, almost to her dismay, and very much to
her mortification, because she felt that she could not help it, she
found herself hopelessly in love with a man the amount of whose income
seemed in her eyes little more than an equivalent for semi-genteel
pauperism. What was to be done? Should she treat Dick after the fashion
in which she had treated more than one man already? Now that she had
brought him to her feet, should she turn her back on him with a little
smile of triumph, and bid him farewell for ever? But then, she had
never cared for those other men; while for Dick she did care very
much. Whatever she might decide to do must be decided quickly. Dick,
easy-going and full of fun as he might seem to be, was not a man to
stand any shilly-shallying nonsense. As he stood for a moment or two
on the dusky lawn with her hand in his after their return from the
picnic, he had given her plainly to understand that he should expect a
categorical ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ from her on Friday. And now Friday was here,
and her mind was no nearer being made up than it had been on Wednesday.
Not much appetite for her breakfast had Miss Wynter that morning.

As a matter of course, Mr Etheridge was introduced to Lady Renshaw. Her
ladyship was very gracious indeed, when she found in what relation the
pleasant-voiced, white-haired gentleman stood to Sir William Ridsdale,
and that he was the bearer of a letter all the way from Spa for Mr
Archie. With her usual penetration, her ladyship at once concluded
in her own mind that the story about a letter for Archie was a mere
blind, and that the real object of Mr Etheridge’s journey was to spy
out the weakness of the land. In other words, Sir William had deputed
him to ascertain all that could be ascertained respecting Madame De
Vigne and her sister, their mode of life, antecedents, &c.; which,
under the circumstances, was no doubt a laudable thing to do. In fact,
all her ladyship’s sympathies were on the side of Mr Etheridge, and she
would most gladly have assisted him in his task, had she only seen her
way clearly how to do so. She smiled to herself more than once, as she
remarked how innocently all these good people around her accepted Mr
Etheridge’s version of the reason of his visit to Windermere, not one
of them seeming to dream that there could possibly be anything in the
background. But then, it is not given to all of us to be so far-seeing
as the Lady Renshaws of this world.

As she rose from the breakfast-table this Friday morning she chanced to
spy Mr Etheridge pacing the lawn in front of the windows with his hands
clasped behind him. He was waiting for Clarice. The two were going on a
little excursion together; but not to any distance, as Clarice thought
that at any moment there might come a telegram from Archie. Lady
Renshaw, seeing Mr Etheridge alone, could not resist the temptation
of a little private conversation with him. She might perhaps be able
to glean some information as to how matters were progressing; besides
which, she had another motive in view.

‘I trust that you left dear Sir William quite well, Mr Etheridge?’
remarked her ladyship after the usual greetings had passed.

‘Tolerable, ma’am, tolerable. At the best of times his health is never
very robust; but there has been a considerable improvement in it of
late—or he fancies there has, which comes, perhaps, to pretty much the
same thing.—Probably Sir William has the honour of your ladyship’s
acquaintance?’

‘N-no; I have never yet had the pleasure of meeting him. You see, he
has lived so much abroad, otherwise I have no doubt we should have met
at the house of some mutual acquaintance in town.’

Mr Etheridge coughed a dry little cough, but said nothing.

‘Dear Archie, now, and I are old acquaintances. What a fine young
fellow he is! So clever, you know, and all that. I’m sure Sir William
must be proud of such a son.’

‘Possibly so, madam—possibly so.’

Her ladyship was anxious to touch on delicate ground, but scarcely saw
her way to begin. However, it was necessary to make a plunge, and she
did not long hesitate.

‘Between you and me, Mr Etheridge,’ she said insinuatingly, ‘don’t
you think it a great pity that a young man with Mr Archie’s splendid
prospects should seem so determined to throw himself away—no, perhaps
I ought not to make use of that phrase—but—to—to—in short, to take up
with a young lady like Miss Loraine, who, so far as any one knows,
seems to have neither fortune, prospects, nor antecedents? To me, it
seems a great, great pity.’ She glanced sharply at her companion as she
finished, anxious to note the effect of her words.

Mr Etheridge came to a halt, apparently engaged in deep thought
for a few moments before he replied. Then he said, speaking very
deliberately: ‘It does perhaps seem a pity, as you say, madam, that Mr
Archie should be so infatuated with this young lady, when he might do
so very differently, were he so minded.’

‘I was quite sure that you would agree with me,’ returned her ladyship
in her most dulcet tones. ‘But no doubt Mr Archie will listen to
reason. When Sir William places the matter before him in its proper
light, and proves to him how irretrievably he will ruin himself by
contracting such an alliance, he will surely see that, in his case at
least, inclination must give way to duty, and that his career in life
must not be frustrated by the mere empty charms of a butterfly face.’

What her ladyship meant by a ‘butterfly face’ she did not condescend to
explain.

‘As to whether Mr Archie will listen to what your ladyship calls reason
is a point upon which, as matters stand at present, I am scarcely
competent to offer an opinion.’

‘Sly old fox!’ muttered her ladyship. ‘He wasn’t born yesterday. But he
doesn’t take _me_ in with his innocent looks.’

She had another arrow left. ‘Then, as regards the sister of Miss
Loraine—this Madame De Vigne? A very charming person, no doubt; but
that is not everything. I daresay, Mr Etheridge, your experience will
tell you that the most charming of our sex are sometimes the most
dangerous?’

Mr Etheridge bowed, but did not commit himself further.

‘On all sides I hear people asking, “Who is Madame De Vigne? Where
did she spring from? Who was Monsieur De Vigne? What was he, when
alive?” Question after question asked, but no information vouchsafed.
Ah, my dear Mr Etheridge, where there’s concealment, there’s mystery;
and where there’s mystery, there’s—there’s—— Well, I won’t say what
there is.’ Possibly her ladyship had not quite made up her mind what
there was. ‘In any case, Mr Etheridge,’ she resumed, ‘were I in your
position, I should deem it imperative on me to make Sir William
acquainted with everything, down to the most minute particulars. You
are on the spot; you can see and hear for yourself. Of course, it would
be a dreadful thing if, after Mr Archie were married to the young lady,
something discreditable were to turn up—some family secret, perhaps,
that would not bear the light of day; some scandal, it may be, that
could only be spoken of in whispers. For Sir William’s sake, if not for
that of our dear, foolish Archie, everything should be made as clear as
daylight before it is too late. I hope you agree with me, Mr Etheridge?’

‘Quite, madam—quite.—What a splendid man of business your ladyship
would have made, if you will excuse me for saying so. Sir William shall
be made acquainted with everything. I will see to that; yes, yes; I
will see to that.’

‘He _is_ a spy, then, after all,’ said Lady Renshaw complacently to
herself.

At this moment, Clarice emerged from the hotel. Lady Renshaw greeted
her with a smile of much amiability. ‘I trust that dear Madame De Vigne
is better this morning?’ she said. ‘I have been so grieved by her
indisposition. But, really, on Wednesday I myself found the heat most
trying. I cannot wonder at her prostration.’

‘My sister is a little better this morning, thank you, Lady Renshaw,’
answered Clarice in her gently serious way. ‘I trust that by to-morrow
she will be well enough to join us down-stairs.’

‘I hope so, with all my heart,’ answered her ladyship with as much
fervour as if she were repeating a response at church.

After a few more words, Clarice and Mr Etheridge went their way. As her
ladyship turned to go indoors, Miss Wynter, escorted by Mr Golightly in
his boating flannels, emerged from the hotel. They had breakfasted an
hour before her ladyship, who was a somewhat late riser. Dick had said
to Bella at table: ‘I want you to go on the water this morning. It’s
going to be a bit cloudy later on, I think, and it’s just possible that
the perch may be in the humour for biting.’

‘As if he cared a fig about the perch!’ said Bella to herself. ‘The
wretch only wants to get me into a boat all to himself, and then he
thinks he can say what he likes to me.’ She trembled a little, feeling
that the crisis of her fate was at hand. She would have liked to mutiny
and say, ‘I shan’t go,’ as under similar circumstances she would have
said to any other man. But with Dick, poor Dick! who had run such risks
for her sake, and had done so much to win her, she felt that she could
not be so cruel. Besides, she had a woman’s natural curiosity to hear
what he would say. ‘And I needn’t say “Yes” unless I choose to,’ she
remarked to herself; but in her heart of hearts she knew that her ‘No,’
if uttered at all, would be a very faint one indeed. As it was, she
merely looked at him a little superciliously for a moment or two, and
then quietly assented.

‘I trust, dear Mr Golightly, that you are thoroughly competent to
manage a boat?’ remarked her ladyship, when she had been told where the
young people were going.

‘Rather,’ answered Richard a little brusquely. ‘I didn’t pull stroke in
the Camford Eight, seven years ago, for nothing.’

‘I only spoke because I’m told that the lake is most treacherous,
and that a year rarely passes without one or more fatalities.—Bella,
darling, I think you ought to have taken a warmer shawl with you. The
air on the water is often chilly.’ Then in an aside: ‘Be careful what
you are about. If he proposes, only accept him provisionally. This
affair of Archie Ridsdale’s is by no means at an end yet.’

Bella nodded. ‘Too late, aunty, too late,’ she said to herself. ‘I’m
very much afraid that I can’t help myself.’

Lady Renshaw, as she turned away, remarked to herself: ‘I’m not sure
that young Golightly is quite such a nincompoop as I took him to be at
first. But in any case, Bella ought to be able to twist him round her
finger.’

Clarice had not left her sister many minutes when Nanette entered her
mistress’s room carrying a note on a salver. It was simply addressed,
‘Madame De Vigne.’ One glance at the writing was enough. Mora
remembered it too well. She turned sick at heart as she took the note.
‘You need not wait,’ she said to Nanette. As soon as she was alone, she
sank down on the ottoman and tore open the envelope. The note, which
was written in French, ran as follows:

    ‘I have not troubled you since our last interview. I have left
    you alone, that you might have time to think over what I said
    to you. But I have had no message from you, and this long delay
    begins to irritate me. I must know at once what you intend to
    do. I propose to call upon you at seven o’clock this evening. I
    need not say more.—LAROCHE.’

Madame De Vigne sat staring at the letter for some minutes, as though
the reading of its contents had taken from her all power of sense or
feeling. Then waking up as if from a trance, she said to herself: ‘It
must be done; there is no other course.’ She touched the tiny gong at
her elbow. Nanette appeared. ‘Inquire whether Colonel Woodruffe is in
the hotel,’ she said. ‘If he is, tell him that I should like to see him
here at his convenience.’

(_To be concluded next month._)




THE MONTH:

SCIENCE AND ARTS.


It has long been understood that the vaults of the British Museum
contained many treasures for which no space could be found in those
parts of the building accessible to the public. But the removal of
the Natural History Collection to its new home at South Kensington
has placed a series of spacious galleries at the disposal of the
authorities, and these are now being filled with the hitherto hidden
antiquities. Among the most interesting of these is a collection of
tablets bearing inscriptions relating to Babylonian history. One is a
Babylonian Calendar, from which it would appear that in Babylon the
superstition existed of certain days in the year being either lucky
or unlucky. This book of fate had to be consulted before performing
various acts of domestic life. The same superstition is common to the
Chinese, and seems akin to the astrological fictions prevalent in
Europe a few centuries back.

Mr Petrie, whose excavations at San (Zoan) have been adverted to more
than once in these pages, has now returned to England, and has recently
given an account of his work at a meeting of the subscribers to the
Egypt Exploration Fund. He has examined more than twenty sites of
ancient cities and remains, and speaks of certain ground so thickly
strewn with early Greek pottery ‘that the potsherds crackled under
the feet as one walked over it.’ He pointed out that the main object
with regard to San—a city built seven years before Hebron—was to gain
knowledge of the unknown period of the Shepherd kings. But the work
will occupy several years, for the district to be explored covers some
square miles, and the remains are in many cases lying beneath eighty
feet of earth. The Exploration Fund shows a balance of two thousand
pounds, a circumstance partly due to the liberality of our American
cousins, who are greatly interested in the work.

It is proposed to found at Athens a British School of Archæology,
the aim of which will be to promote the study of Greek art and
architecture, the study of inscriptions, the exploration of ancient
sites, and to promote generally researches into Hellenic life and
literature. His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales is President of
the General Committee, which includes a large number of distinguished
representatives of our universities and schools. Sufficient money has
already been subscribed to start the enterprise, but more will be
required for its maintenance. Subscriptions may be sent to Mr Walter
Leaf, Old Change, London, or to Professor Jebb, at the University,
Glasgow.

The French Minister of Agriculture some time ago commissioned a
Professor of the Collège de France to experiment upon the best method
of destroying the winter eggs of the _Phylloxera_, it having been
ascertained that that line of attack was the most efficient in dealing
with that terrible scourge of the vineyard. After several trials, a
mixture of oil, naphtha, quicklime, and water has been tested on a
large scale with the most successful results. It was of course easy
enough to hit upon a chemical compound which would kill the eggs, but
not so easy to find one which would not destroy the vine at the same
time. The remedy is not only efficient, but cheap.

For some years, Dr Jaeger, of Germany, has been preaching a new
hygienic doctrine, which has quickly gained disciples in the
Fatherland and in other countries as well. Under the title of Sanitary
Clothing, this new creed teaches that our dress requires a far more
radical change than is indicated in the philosophy of so-called
dress-reformers. Here is the pith of the matter. Man being an animal,
should follow the dictates of nature by wearing only clothing made from
wool and similar animal products. Cotton, linen, &c., are harmful in
collecting the emanations from the skin, whilst animal textures assist
in their evaporation. At the same time, animal clothing is warmest in
winter, and coolest in summer, and by its adoption we might count upon
the same immunity from disease as is seen in well-cared-for domestic
animals. By night as well as by day we must shun contact with vegetable
fibres. Sheets must give place to wool and camel-hair coverings. It is
obvious that, besides revolutionising the Englishman’s innate regard
for ‘clean linen,’ the general adoption of these new tenets would cause
a revolution in trade, and would therefore at once court opposition;
but for all this, the doctrine seems to have a considerable amount of
common-sense about it.

A very pleasant and interesting ceremony was witnessed on Scarborough
sands the other day, where a large collection of donkeys and ponies
were assembled in review order. A few gentlemen have for the past two
years subscribed for prizes to be offered at the end of each season to
those drivers who can show their beasts in good condition and bearing
the signs of kind treatment. This was the second distribution of the
kind. There are many seaside places and other spots of popular resort
where this good example might be followed with much advantage.

Lord Brabazon utters a useful note of warning when he points out, what
has long been patent to many observers, that there is a deterioration
in physique of the inhabitants of the more crowded portions of our
cities. Want of food, exercise, and fresh air are the causes of this
decline. He points out that in this year’s drill competition of School
Board scholars it was clearly noticeable that those children from
the poorest and most crowded districts were of shorter stature than
the others. As a partial remedy for this lamentable state of things,
Lord Brabazon advocates more variety in the system of education, and
begs the authorities to remember that the body should be cared for as
well as the brain. He pleads also that cookery, needlework, and the
knowledge of a few simple rules for maintaining the body in health,
will be of more value to a girl than a smattering of French, and that a
boy will make a better citizen for having been trained to use his hands
as well as his head in honest labour.

It is stated that a Wild Birds’ Protection Act is much needed in
several parts of our Indian possessions. The birds have been hunted
down for the sake of their bright plumage, until in some districts
certain species are almost exterminated. The frightened agriculturists
are now calling out for protection for their feathered friends, for
insects of various kinds are increasing to an alarming extent, and are
playing sad havoc with the crops.

According to the _Building News_, another curious use has been found
for paper. At Indianapolis, a skating rink has been constructed of this
ubiquitous material. Straw-boards are first of all pasted together,
and are subjected to hydraulic pressure, and these when sawn into
flooring-boards are laid so that their edges are uppermost. After being
rubbed with glass paper, a surface is obtained so smooth and hard, and
at the same time exhibiting such adhesive properties, that it is well
adapted for the modern roller-skates. It is also stated that in Sweden
old decaying moss has been manufactured into a kind of cardboard which
can be moulded in various ways for the purposes of house decoration. It
is said to be as hard as wood, and will take an excellent polish.

When we read the account of some fatal gas explosion, we are always
prepared to find the oft repeated tale of the foolish one who goes to
look for the leak with a lighted candle. A recent explosion of this
kind in Paris has led to the appointment of a Commission to determine
the best manner of searching for gas-escapes. It has been now decided
that an electric incandescent light fed by an accumulator—or secondary
battery—shall be rendered obligatory for such operations, and suitable
apparatus has been selected and approved. It now remains to be seen
where the lamps are to be kept, how they are to be always charged ready
for use, and whether the foolhardy folk who court explosion with a
naked candle or match will ever trouble themselves at all about the
provision made for their protection.

Japan has the unenviable distinction of being the one spot on this
globe where earthquakes are most frequent, and therefore it may be
assumed that the Seismological Society of Japan has plenty of work to
do. In the last issue of the ‘Transactions’ of this useful body of
workers, there is a good paper by Professor Milne on Earth Tremors.
The study of these slight movements of our great mother is called
microseismology, and a number of exceedingly ingenious instruments have
been contrived for identifying and self-recording them. From the fact
that earthquakes are generally preceded by great activity in the way of
tremors, it is hoped that reliable means may be found of forecasting
those terrible occurrences. Professor Milne supposes earth tremors to
be ‘slight vibratory motions produced in the soil by the bending and
crackling of rocks, caused by their rise upon the relief of atmospheric
pressure.’ Another investigator thinks that they may be the result of
an increased escape of vapour from molten material beneath the crust
of the earth consequent upon a relief of external pressure. In other
words, these premonitory symptoms are developed when the barometer is
low.

Messrs Manlove and Company, engineers at Manchester, Leeds, &c., in
calling our attention to a paragraph which appeared some months back in
this _Journal_ descriptive of a street-refuse furnace or ‘destructor,’
point out that that title was given to an apparatus of their invention
some years ago, which is now in successful operation in various
parts of the kingdom. Owing to the word ‘destructor’ not having been
protected by copyright, it has been applied by other inventors to more
recent contrivances.

A New Jersey capitalist has lately planted a vast area in Florida with
cocoa-palms, and he expects in a few years to rival the most extensive
groves of these trees in other parts. The plantation covers one
thousand acres, and each acre numbers one hundred trees. They will not
yield any return for the first six years; but at the end of that time a
profit of ten per cent. on a valuation of two million dollars is looked
for, the original cost of planting being only forty thousand dollars.
The trees, we learn, will flourish only within a certain distance
of the sea-coast, and each full-grown tree produces annually sixty
nuts. We presume that the estimated profits take into consideration
the processes of oil-extraction and fibre-dressing, which necessarily
follow in the wake of cocoa-nut cultivation.

The International Health Exhibition has been even more financially
successful than its predecessor ‘The Fisheries,’ for the total number
of persons who passed its turnstiles is more than four millions, a
number equal to the population of London itself. The Exhibition of
Inventions which is to open next year has met with some unexpected
but not unnatural opposition from some of our great manufacturers.
These complain that competition with foreign countries is so keen just
now that it will be a national mistake to exhibit for the benefit
of others, machinery and processes which have deservedly earned for
Britain a proud pre-eminence in various manufactured products. They
point out that a patent is very little protection in such a case,
because of the ease with which, in other countries at least, it can
be infringed, and because of the difficulty and expense of tracing
the delinquents. It is probable that for this reason many of our
manufacturers will stand aloof, or will only exhibit such things as
comprise no trade secrets.

The dwellers in a certain part of suburban London have hitherto been
in the happy possession of artesian wells on their premises, from which
they could draw a never-failing supply of good water. They feared not
the calls of the water-rate collector, and looked with indifference
at the disputes with the Water Companies going on around them. But
suddenly they have been rudely awakened from their pleasant dream of
security, for their wells have run dry. An enterprising Water Company
has sunk a deeper well than any of the others; and as water will insist
on finding the lowest level, the smaller fountains have been merged
into the big one.

No one likes to pay exorbitantly, especially for such a necessary
as water, but the system of artesian wells is hardly suitable to a
crowded city. In London itself, many pumps have been closed because
of the dangerous contamination of the subterranean water by sewage
and proximity to graveyards, &c. As a case in point, the city of
New York, instead of drawing its water-supply from a hundred miles’
distance—as London does from the hills of Gloucestershire—has to seek
it underground. Lately, the cholera scare has frightened people into
a sense of insecurity; and inquiry shows that leakage of sewers has
rendered the New York water unsafe, and it has been condemned by the
city Board of Health. This is of course hard upon those who have sunk
wells at great expense; but we have all to learn the lesson that the
individual must occasionally suffer for the public weal.

A clever imitation of amber, which it is difficult to distinguish from
the genuine fossil gum, is made from a mixture of copal, camphor,
turpentine, and other compounds. It exhibits attraction and repulsion
on being rubbed, like real amber (_electron_), which because of the
same properties has given its name to the science of electricity. It
is now being largely manufactured into ornaments and mouthpieces for
pipes. It will not bear the same amount of heat that genuine amber will
withstand, and it softens in ether. These two tests are sufficient to
distinguish it from the genuine article.

The great ship-canal between St Petersburg and the small fortified town
of Cronstadt, which up to this time has been the actual port of Peter
the Great’s city for all vessels drawing more than nine feet of water,
has at last been opened, the work of construction having occupied about
six years. The canal is nearly twenty miles long, it has an average
width of about two hundred feet, and is twenty-two feet in depth. Apart
from its importance commercially both to Russia and the traders of
other countries, who before were subject to the cost of transhipment of
goods going to St Petersburg, the canal will have a strategical value.
Ships of war could now retreat up the canal if Cronstadt were attacked,
and could, if required, emerge from the security of the waterway fully
equipped and ready for action.

That small creature called the weevil, whose depredations were always
understood to be confined to grain and biscuits, has lately developed
a taste for tobacco. In America, smokers have found to their disgust
that both cigarettes and cigars are riddled through and through by this
pest, the creature confining his attention to the choicest brands. This
discovery has had a most prejudicial effect upon the cigarette trade
in New York and Philadelphia. It is said that in some factories the
weevil is swarming from cellar to garret.

The chairman of the Western Railway Company of France has lately
volunteered a statement respecting the behaviour of the Westinghouse
brake, which has been in use on that line for rather more than four
years. In this statement we find a list of accidents which have been
avoided by the use of the brake, and these accidents are classified
under different heads, such as Collisions, Obstacles on the Line,
Rolling-stock not removed in time, and so forth. Upwards of forty
disasters have been clearly avoided by the prompt use of the brake.
On the other hand, the brake itself will sometimes get out of order
and refuse to act at the critical moment. How many accidents, we
wonder, have already occurred from this cause! We may mention in this
connection, that a meeting of the friends of the killed and injured
in the Peniston disaster has been held, and that it has been resolved
that a test action should be brought against the Railway Company
concerned, on the ground that to send out a train with an insufficient
brake, after the Board of Trade have for seven years laid down certain
conditions, is a wrongful act. The necessary money has been raised
without difficulty.

The recent exhibition of the Photographic Society was a very
interesting one, the pictures shown, a large proportion of which were
by amateur photographers, indicating a very high average of excellence.
The modern gelatine dry-plate system, with its ease of working and its
cleanliness, has attracted a number of amateurs, who, a few years back,
under the old condition of things would never have dreamt of handling a
camera. Indeed, aspirants to photographic fame have become so numerous
of late, that a special journal, _The Amateur Photographer_, has been
started in their interests, and bids fair to attain a wide circulation.

The vexed question as to how long a gelatine plate can be kept
between the moment of exposure and its after-development, has been
partially answered in a satisfactory manner by a certain picture in the
Photographic Exhibition. It was taken in July 1880, and not developed
till four years afterwards. No one would guess, from looking at it,
that the plate which received the light impression had been kept so
long before that impression was made visible by development.

The _Times_ correspondent at the Philadelphia Exhibition gives an
interesting account of the electric lighting system in that city. The
Brush Company there supply arc-lights to the streets and the shops.
The charge amounts to as much as fifty pounds per light per annum; but
the people are content to pay this for a brighter light than gas will
afford. There are no fewer than fourteen towns in the States which are
lighted in this manner; and the writer of the account thinks that the
English public and the English manufacturers have perhaps been rather
hasty in condemning the light on insufficient grounds. We are disposed
to think that the light has had a very fair trial here. Many of our
railway stations and public thoroughfares have been illuminated by
electricity, and many of them have discarded it. In a word, it does
not pay. With improved appliances, which are sure to appear, we may
nevertheless still regard it as the light of the future.

It may interest many of our readers to know, since the ambulance
classes which have been established in most of our large towns have
drawn attention to the subject, that a small case or chest, containing
the requisites for ready treatment of injuries, may be had for a
moderate sum. This case, first introduced at the Sunderland Infirmary
Bazaar by the inventor, Mr R. H. Mushens of that town, is intended
for use in shipbuilding yards and large factories where accidents
are likely to occur. As in many instances the life of an injured man
depends on prompt and ready treatment, and as a considerable time may
elapse before the appearance of a doctor, the advantage of such a handy
means of assistance to employers of labour will be at once apparent.
The case is twenty-one inches long, nine broad, and seven deep, and
is furnished with a brass handle for carrying it about from place
to place. It contains a complete set of splints; roller and Esmarch
bandages for finger, hand, arm, head, and broken ribs; tourniquet for
arresting bleeding; strapping-plaster; sponge, scissors, Carron oil,
&c., with printed hints regarding the rendering of assistance to, and
the removal of the injured. The use of such simple appliances does not
do away with the necessity of the presence of a doctor, but it may save
the life of the injured person, and simplify matters very much for the
doctor by the time he has reached the sufferer.




THE MISSING CLUE.


CHAPTER VIII.—THE SEARCH—CONCLUSION.

Rising early in the morning, mine host’s solitary guest had ventured
out on foot for a walk through the village. Having passed the last of
the straggling cottages, he now stood beneath the frowning portal of
the ruined monastery. It was Christmas morning, and all was silent
here, silent as the voices of those who built the pile which they
vainly thought would have ‘canopied their bones till Doomsday.’ Of the
stately abbey church which had once lifted its head so proudly over
the fen, and beneath whose shadow slept the ill-fated baronet, but one
ruined wing remained, and in this the snowdrift had accumulated to the
depth of several feet. Straight from the north-east, soaring through
the dark mist that gathered thickly out to the seaward, a screaming
gull flapped on its way—a certain harbinger of more rough weather to
come. As it passed near, the bird’s discordant cry roused Ainslie from
the moralising train of reflections in which he had been indulging, and
turning back, he slowly retraced his steps to the _Saxonford Arms_.

Breakfast having been partaken of in the quaint old room up-stairs,
mine host saw no more of his visitor for the rest of the morning. A few
customers dropped in from the hamlet, and under the combined influence
of strong ale and lusty singing, the company—old Hobb included—got
quite merry. Dinner-time came at last, and Christmas cheer was
conveyed to the solitary guest above.

More of the villagers put in their appearance during the afternoon, and
the babel of tongues in the _Saxonford_ bar waxed somewhat deafening.
It is quiet enough up-stairs. As the evening draws on, the merry-makers
gather closely round the fire, and one of them—an uncouth figure with
restless eyes—relates a weird Jack-o’-lantern tale. Afterwards come
more songs, finishing with a right rousing chorus, and then the company
leave in a body, to return again later on for still more uproarious
merriment. Old Dipping, who is now left alone, steals to the foot of
the stairs and listens, inwardly hoping that his visitor has not been
disturbed by the confusion and noise which for the past two hours
have gone on beneath him. He does not wait there long. The sound of a
door opening is heard, and then an excited voice shouts from above:
‘Landlord!’

‘He must be in a temper,’ thinks old Hobb, as he slowly toils up the
staircase and enters his visitor’s dining apartment.

The lieutenant’s eye is wild and his manner strange. He motions to
Dipping to shut the door.

‘I’m sorry, sir’—— begins the landlord apologetically.

‘Sorry! What for?’ interrupts Reginald. ‘Look at that! Do you mean to
tell me you are sorry, now?’

On the table was the black box!

Old Dipping could only stand and gape. ‘Where did you find it, sir?’ he
at length falters out.

‘Find it!’ answers his excited guest ‘Why, under that loose board by
the window! I’ve been searching here all day long with scarcely a hope
of turning anything up. What a lottery life is!—Get me a knife, a
hammer, anything that will wrench the lid off. Quick, man, quick!’

Old Dipping disappeared and shortly returned with a chisel, that
being the only article he could find which was in any way likely to
suit his visitor’s requirements. Seizing upon it, Ainslie endeavoured
to force the lid off the mysterious box. His efforts are for some
minutes paralysed by his own precipitate violence, and old Hobb groans
impatiently. At length the fastenings can resist no longer; hinges and
locks give way, and the lid flies off, disclosing to view a quantity
of time-coloured papers and parchments. Beneath these, at the bottom
of the box, is a coarse canvas bag, which on being opened is found to
contain about a score of guineas in gold. These the lieutenant tosses
aside, much to the surprise of Hobb Dipping, who looks upon ready-money
as being far more valuable than any papers could possibly be. Various
documents are one by one read and laid aside. Many of them appear to be
letters of correspondence from persons of rank, and the greater portion
are expressed in language which is enigmatical to Ainslie, but which
he rightly conjectures as relating to the Jacobite plots in which his
scheming uncle had been engaged. Not the slightest hint can be twisted
out of any one that at all refers to the subject upon which our hero
had hoped to be enlightened. After all, the discovery appears to be
very much like a failure.

‘There—there’s somethin’ in that bag you’ve overlooked, sir,’ nervously
remarks the landlord, who has been watching his visitor’s actions with
a trembling kind of interest.

‘Ay, so there is.’ And a precious something it turns out to be. At the
bottom of the bag which Reginald had so carelessly tossed aside is an
old parchment cipher alphabet.

‘Landlord,’ says Ainslie, whose fleeting hopes have once more risen to
a fever-heat, ‘this may or may not be—I know not which—the very clue I
hoped to find here. Be it so, or be it not, at anyrate this money shall
go to you,’ and he thrust it across the table towards the wondering
innkeeper.—‘No thanks,’ he added, seeing that old Dipping was about to
speak. ‘Leave me alone now. I must be quiet.’

The landlord carefully gathers up the gold and goes out, amazed at such
unlooked-for generosity.

‘Now for it!’

At the top of the scrap of paper which Reginald had obtained when
he first entered the house was a bold, curious kind of monogram;
underneath this were two words, which, on being interpreted by means
of the cipher alphabet, read as NUMBER TWO. Thus far all was plain
sailing; but as our agitated hero proceeded with his task, his heart
sank within him, for the meaning of the translation seemed well-nigh
as obscure as the document was itself. When the whole of the intricate
writing which covered the paper had been followed up letter by letter,
it ran in ordinary language in this style:

                            Read the
    Second word of the first line.
    Third word of the second line.
    Fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth words of the third line.
    Seventh and eighth words of the fourth line.
    First word of the fifth line.
    First, fourth, and seventh words of the sixth line.
    Fifth word of the seventh line.
    Fourth and fifth words of the eighth line.
    First and sixth words of the ninth line.
    Second and third words of the tenth line.
    Tenth word of the eleventh line.
    First, second, and seventh words of the twelfth line.
    Fourth, sixth, and seventh words of the thirteenth line.
    Third word of the fourteenth line.
    Second, sixth, and seventh words of the fifteenth line.
    Sixth and seventh words of the sixteenth line.
    Sixth, seventh, and eighth words of the seventeenth line.
    Seventh word of the eighteenth line.
    Second and sixth words of the nineteenth line.
    First, second, and sixth words of the twentieth line.
    Fifth word of the twenty-first line.
    Eighth, ninth, tenth, and eleventh words of the twenty-second line.
    Sixth and seventh words of the twenty-third line.
    Second word of the twenty-fifth line.

            CARNABY VINCENT.

These incomprehensible lines would have the effect of reducing the
feelings of most persons to a depth of sickening disappointment.
But Reginald was not to be beaten so easily. A moment’s reflection
convinced him that this singular table could only be the key to some
letter or paper which had contained an important secret. Important it
must have been, else why should such scrupulous care have been taken to
effect its concealment?

What sudden half-formed thought is that which shoots across Ainslie’s
mind as he gazes on the monogram at the top of the paper? Quickly
unfastening the breast of his coat, the young officer takes therefrom
a strongly bound pocket-book, and opening it in the same hasty manner,
draws forth from among a miscellaneous collection of papers the
identical letter which Sir Carnaby had intrusted on the night of his
death to his servant Derrick’s charge.

By this letter hangs a tale. When Derrick, while still lingering
in the neighbourhood of the _Saxonford Arms_, was informed of Sir
Carnaby’s death by a labourer who had heard the facts from the mouth
of old Dipping himself, he resolved that, since he could no longer
help his master, he would at least execute his last commands. In this,
however, he was providentially disappointed. On arriving at the Grange,
after a long and wearisome ride, he received the startling news that
Captain Hollis—to whom he should have delivered the note—had been that
morning arrested on a charge of high-treason. Completely foiled in his
well-meant endeavours, Derrick now thought only of his own safety.
Sir Henry Ainslie’s country-seat on the borders of Suffolk, he chose
to be his next destination; and thither the attendant went, intending
to acquaint his unfortunate master’s relatives of the catastrophe
which had occurred. The journey was not accomplished without grievous
difficulty, due in a great measure to his wounded arm. A low lingering
fever followed immediately upon his arrival at the Hall; and when
Derrick at length recovered sufficiently to have some sense of his
situation, Sir Henry Ainslie was lying under the sod, having died
while in the act of imparting to his wife a secret of which he was the
sole remaining possessor. The attendant’s sad tale was briefly told;
but neither that nor the singular letter which he delivered, threw
a spark of additional information upon the subject. Notwithstanding
this, the peculiar character of Sir Carnaby’s epistle warranted its
being preserved; while, as Reginald grew towards manhood, and laid
Derrick’s tale more and more to heart, he not unfrequently carried his
uncle’s letter about with him, vaguely hoping that some clue might turn
up which would eventually solve the mystery. This was his object in
bringing it on the present occasion; and now he sits eagerly comparing
the translated document with the letter which he had kept for so many
years. The contents of the latter ran as follows:

    DEAR SIR—

            My son Harry informs me that your
    wager on my horse is taken. I have had
    much bad health lately, and have been forced
    to keep my bed. I have not seen your nag
    run in consequence, but hope to have the
    pleasure soon. Squire Norris left us yesterday;
    he only offered one hundred against Martin’s
    thousand; but Martin was too deep for that,
    and in the end the bet fell through. My wine
    is in a bad state just now, for the cellar is all
    under water. I regret purchasing this house,
    instead of the Hall, though I dare say the
    latter is not half so good. I do not think we
    shall return to the Grange, but shall know
    before long; if so, I trust you will come and
    stay there. Hunters are hard to get; it seems
    is if they were all going out of the county.
    The Meet saw nothing of me for some time
    after that accident I had, and Warton was
    greatly in want of help. My arm is better
    now; but I shall not be able to use it for
    some time. Remember to deliver our good
    wishes to the parson; may he never
    have cause to regret his choice.—Your sincere

            C. V. MORTON.

This very ordinary specimen of letter-writing was headed by a monogram
similar to that which Ainslie had noticed on the scrap of paper,
coupled with the words NUMBER ONE. Many speculations had been made
as to what these hieroglyphics might refer to, but up to the present
moment their meaning has remained unsolved. Will they be solved now?
Can there be any connection between the letter Derrick had failed to
deliver and this incomprehensible document marked NUMBER TWO? What does
the interpretation of the latter say?

                  Read the
    Second word of the first line.
    Third word of the second line.
    Fifth, sixth, &c. words of the third line.

Instinctively following these directions, Reginald applied them to his
unfortunate uncle’s letter, and produced therefrom, to his surprise and
delight, the sentence—‘Sir Harry is taken.’

The meaning of this was obvious. Reginald’s father, Sir Henry Ainslie,
was known in his lifetime among a circle of Jacobite acquaintances as
plain ‘Sir Harry,’ and the writer had evidently been alluding to his
apprehension in 1745.

Reginald pursued the method with as much deliberation as the excited
state of his feelings at the moment would admit of; and by means of
underlining such words as the key mentions, soon extracted the pith
from Sir Carnaby’s letter:

    _Sir Harry is taken. I have been forced to run, but have left
    one hundred thousand deep in the cellar under Waterhouse Hall.
    I dare not return, but shall trust you to get it out. Meet me
    after that, and help to use it for our good cause._

He had found the Missing Clue at last! Sir Carnaby’s scheme was as
clear as open daylight. The spell of this intricate labyrinth, which
the plotting baronet had formed to protect his secret message, had been
dissolved as if by the wave of an enchanter’s wand.

Roused to action by his discovery, and burning to know the truth of
it without delay, Ainslie at once descended to the room below, and
communicated to Hobb Dipping his intention of starting early the next
morning.

The whole story was plain to the young soldier. Sir Carnaby Vincent,
whose adherent loyalty to the House of Stuart greatly resembled that
of many of his Cavalier forefathers, had determined, like a true
subject, to expend his wealth in prospering the beloved cause. For
this purpose, the young baronet had combined the money he had raised
with that of Sir Henry Ainslie, and secreted the whole amount in a
small country-house known as ‘Waterhouse Hall,’ there to remain until
a favourable opportunity should present itself for using it according
to their wishes. The explosion of the Jacobite plot, however, occurred
before any measures could be taken for the removal of the money, and
Sir Carnaby in his flight was obliged to have recourse to Captain
Hollis, an intimate friend, and an ardent participator in his schemes
against the government. It was customary among these as among other
plotters in state affairs, to communicate with each other in what is
termed cipher; and here at last Reginald was in possession of the key
to the letter he had carried about for so many years. Most fortunately,
as it happened, Waterhouse Hall—the only piece of property which Sir
Carnaby had not parted with or mortgaged, but which he had reserved
mainly for the purpose mentioned—escaped any official sequestration
after the baronet’s death, so that his sister Lady Ainslie, to whom it
reverted, was able to take possession of this solitary remnant of the
family estates, which eventually became her home.

Next morning, Reginald left the _Saxonford Arms_, starting at dawn, and
checking not his horse’s stride until he beheld before him the towers
and pinnacles of Fridswold Minster.

       *       *       *       *       *

As the dissected parts of a puzzle are put together piece by piece,
so has this mystery been worked out until one part only remains to be
added before we bid adieu to the reader.

Sir Carnaby’s ‘hundred thousand’ had not left the cellar in which it
had been deposited fifteen long years before; but so deep down was it,
that considerable perseverance had to be expended in bringing this
precious sum to light. He was now able to fulfil the conditions which
had hitherto prevented him from claiming Amy Thorpe as his own; and the
stern old colonel, before many years had passed, was content to find
his happiness in that of his daughter and her husband, and among the
sturdy little grandchildren that clustered on his knees and clung about
his neck. Lieutenant Ainslie left the army and took to politics; and
ere long it was rumoured in the county that his loyalty and services to
his party were to be rewarded by the removal of the old attainder, and
the restoration of his family title. He was shortly thereafter spoken
of as Sir Reginald, and no one grudged him the restoration of the
ancient and honourable title of his family.




OCCASIONAL NOTES.


A NOVEL PEAL OF BELLS.

In many parts of England, bell-ringing has of late years made great
strides as an art, and has been taken up, studied, and practised by a
class of persons who, from their intelligence, education, and position,
are altogether very different from the ‘bell-ringers’ of the olden
day. We now constantly hear of the ‘Society of Diocesan Bell-ringers
for the Diocese of So-and-so;’ and on inquiry, we shall find that
the members of these Societies are mostly professional men, men in
business, respectable tradesmen, and suchlike, and very often clergymen
as well. A remarkable instance occurred recently where the ringers were
clergymen. This interesting exhibition took place on Thursday the 2d
of October, at the village of Drayton, near Abingdon, Berkshire, where
there happens to be a peal of eight fine bells in the parish church,
of which the Rev. F. E. Robinson is vicar, and to whose energy and
spirit this experiment is due. The clerical ringers were all members
of the ‘Ancient Society of College Youths of London,’ and the ‘Oxford
University Society of Change-ringers,’ both Societies being celebrated
for their skill in this art. The peal rung is technically described as
‘Thurstan’s peal of 5,040 Stedman Triples true and complete;’ and this
took nearly three hours to accomplish, and was conducted by the vicar,
who himself rang bell number seven.


A STEAM-FERRY ON THE THAMES.

The inhabitants of Woolwich and neighbourhood, with praiseworthy
energy, have determined to take the question of a bridge or ferry
across the Thames into their own hands and decide the matter for
themselves, as they were, we presume, pretty well tired out by the
endless talk and procrastination of the government authorities, who
have spoken for years of a swing-bridge below the Pool, without
anything ever coming of it. A steam-ferry is now proposed, by which
vans and carts of any weight can be transported without delay or
difficulty from one side of the river to the other, at a small cost.
Where the traffic will be greatest there will be one tidal, and two
travelling platforms, to be constructed on an improved principle; and
the stagings will be so arranged as to avoid any inclines for horses
and heavy loads. The tidal platform will be managed by machinery as
the tide rises and falls so as to bring its deck to a level with the
deck of the ferry-boat, and is to be worked automatically by means
of electricity. The ferry-boats will be fitted with double engines
and twin screws, and lighted with the electric light, and they will
run every twenty minutes throughout the day. Return tickets and
workmen’s tickets will be granted, and every facility provided for the
convenience of passengers. As the banks of the Thames near to both
North and South Woolwich are the centres of an enormous industry,
it is morally certain that the scheme of steam-ferries, where there
is no bridge for many miles, will pay well; and as the capital
required to start with is estimated at only fifteen thousand pounds,
it will doubtless be soon forthcoming, and the scheme speedily be
an established fact. This resolute energy, on the part of private
individuals, forms a striking contrast to the time-losing and
money-spending schemes of the Metropolitan Board of Works, who proposed
to lay out the modest sum of seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds on
one single swing-bridge!


UTILISATION OF SEWAGE.

To many large and growing towns, the disposal of the sewage is
becoming a serious matter, and while several large towns are just
now contemplating the expenditure of very large sums for the purpose
of getting rid of it, a Company has been formed, and works have been
erected at Shrewsbury with a view to utilising this valuable waste
material. The process by which this Company profess to be able, without
creating a nuisance, (1) to purify the sewage so that the effluent
water is sufficiently pure to be admitted into any river, within
the requirements of the Rivers’ Pollutions Prevention Act, and (2)
to produce ‘native guano,’ is very simple. As the sewage enters the
works, clay, charcoal, and blood are added as deodorisers; and after
thorough mixing, a solution of sulphate of alumina is added, by which
the dissolved and suspended impurities are quickly precipitated in one
or other of the settling tanks, from the fourth of which the water
runs without further treatment into the river. Dr Wallace reports
that the sewage as it enters the works contains 37.5 per cent. of
suspended organic and inorganic matter, but that in the effluent water
there were only the merest traces of either. By experiment it has been
found that in this water fish will live for months. The deposit is
then removed from the tank, and, by means of pressure and artificial
heat, is deprived of its moisture, till it obtains the consistency and
appearance of dry earth. It is then ready for market, and is in such
demand, that as yet the Company are unable to overtake all orders,
though seventy shillings per ton is charged.


ELECTRICITY AS A BRAKE.

A new electric brake, recently invented by an American, named Walcker,
and which is already in use in America, was lately tried on a tramway
between Turin and Piosassio, with remarkable results. It is reported
that by means of this brake two cars, running at a speed of about
twenty-two miles per hour, were stopped in the short space of six
seconds, and within a distance of twenty yards. This, if reliable, is
a great achievement certainly, and will doubtless lead to further and
more extensive experiment, and possibly to its general adoption. The
brake is at present being exhibited in the Turin Exhibition.


MAKING OF MUMMIES.

An extraordinary subject was brought forward at the recent meeting
of the Social Science Congress, namely, the actual making of modern
mummies. A paper was read on this question by Mr Thomas Bayley, of
Birmingham, going fully into the objections raised to cremation, the
most important, as far as legal points are concerned, being, that
cremation does away with all evidence of foul-play, which must be lost
the moment the body is destroyed. In the face of this grave difficulty,
the paper proposes a plan by which the dead may be easily preserved for
an indefinite time after death, so as to be at any moment recognisable
and in a fit state for analysis, examination, or otherwise as may be
necessary—the body, in fact, becoming a perfect mummy. This curious
position is arrived at by enveloping the body in cotton-wool; it is
then placed in an air-tight case, and exposed, in a subterranean
gallery lined with cement, to the action of cold air, which is dried
and purified from putrefactive bacteria. After this, air at a higher
temperature is used in the same way; and the result of the process is
the manufacture of a complete mummy, with the integument remaining
white, and the body entire. And herein this new process differs from
that adopted by the ancient Egyptians, who were specially careful to
remove the interior portions of both the trunk and the head, their
place being supplied with peppers, spices, and other aromatic herbs. It
is a somewhat delicate question to ask whether this curious suggestion
will ever become popular with Englishmen, or Europeans in general;
but there can be no doubt, in questions where suspicion of murder
has arisen and yet cannot be proved, that the preservation of the
body of the deceased in such an ingenious manner would be eminently
satisfactory to the relatives of the supposed victim, because the body
is always at hand, intact and ready for careful examination at any
moment, on the discovery of fresh evidence, or otherwise.


TURNING WOOD INTO METAL.

Our readers may not be aware of a process whereby wood can be almost
turned into metal; that is to say the surface becomes so hard and
smooth that it is susceptible of a high polish, and may be treated with
a burnisher of either glass or porcelain. The appearance of the wood is
then in every respect that of polished metal, and has the semblance of
a metallic mirror, only with this peculiar and important difference,
that, unlike metal, it is unaffected by moisture. The process by which
this curious fact is arrived at may be briefly described. The wood is
steeped in a bath of caustic alkali for two or three days, according
to its degree of permeability, at a temperature of between one hundred
and sixty-four and one hundred and ninety-seven degrees of Fahrenheit.
It is then placed in a second bath of hydrosulphate of calcium, to
which a concentrated solution of sulphur is added after twenty-four
or thirty-six hours. The third bath is one of acetate of lead at a
temperature of from ninety-five to one hundred and twenty-two degrees
of Fahrenheit, and in this the wood remains from thirty to fifty hours.
After a complete drying, it is then ready for polishing with lead, tin,
or zinc, finishing the process with a burnisher, as already mentioned,
when the wood, apparently, becomes a piece of shining polished metal.
This curious process we are told is the invention of a German named
Rubennick.


RELICS FROM THE HOLY LAND.

An admirable proposal has just been made for the foundation of a
Museum of Antiquities and Curiosities from the Holy Land, and of all
museums such a one as this would surely prove of the deepest interest.
Already there appears to be a room in the Louvre at Paris devoted to
this purpose, and containing about a couple of hundred objects. The
British Museum possesses various articles, such as lamps, vases, &c.;
but a very much larger collection is known to belong to the Palestine
Exploration Fund, and is partly in the keeping of that association both
in London and Jerusalem, and partly at the South Kensington Museum; the
whole collection probably may number about a thousand objects of all
kinds. Coins would of course form an important part of the collection.
Many very ancient and curious Jewish coins are still in existence; but
perhaps the three of the greatest antiquity and consequent interest—two
copper and one silver—bear the names of ‘Eliashib the Priest,’ four
hundred and thirty-five years B.C., and ‘Eleazar the Priest,’ two
hundred and eighty-one years B.C. To the coins might be added relics
of the crusaders, and memorials of the Christian occupation of parts
of Palestine, crests and arms of the Christian warriors, architectural
relics, and fragments of sculpture. The aid of plaster-casts and
photography, too, might be readily called in; and it may be reckoned
that few travellers visiting this sacred soil would fail to bring
back something with which to enrich the museum. Thus a good beginning
might easily be made; and in the end, a large and curious collection
of objects would be brought together, which would materially help to
illustrate and throw light upon the history of Palestine and the study
of the Holy Scriptures.




HOPE ON, HOPE EVER.


    Hope on, hope ever. Though dead leaves are lying
      In mournful clusters ’neath your wandering feet;
    Though wintry winds through naked boughs are sighing
      The flowers are dead; yet is the memory sweet
    Of summer winds and countless roses glowing
      ’Neath the warm kisses of the generous sun.
    Hope on, hope ever. Why should tears be flowing?
      In every season is some victory won.

    Hope on, hope ever, though you deck loved tresses
      With trembling fingers for the silent grave;
    Though cold the cheek beneath your fond caresses,
      Look up, true Christian soul; be calm, be brave!
    Hope on, hope ever. Though your hearts be breaking,
      Let flowers of Resignation wreathe your cross,
    Deep in your heart some heavenly wisdom waking,
      For mortal life is full of change and loss.

    Hope on, hope ever, for long-vanished faces
      Watch for your coming on the golden shore,
    E’en while you whisper in their vacant places
      The blessed words, ‘Not lost, but gone before!’
    Hope on, hope ever, let your hearts keep singing,
      When low you bend above the churchyard sod,
    And fervent prayers your chastened thoughts are winging,
      Through sighs and tears, to the bright throne of God!

    Hope on, hope ever. Let not toil or sorrow
      Still the sweet music of Hope’s heavenly voice.
    From every dawn some ray of comfort borrow,
      That in the evening you may still rejoice.
    Hope on, hope ever—words beyond comparing,
      Dear to the hearts that nameless woes have riven;
    To all that mourn, sweet consolation hearing.
      Oh, may they prove the Christian’s guide to heaven!

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

_3d._ MANUSCRIPTS should bear the author’s full _Christian_ name,
    Surname, and Address, legibly written; and should be written on
    one side of the leaf only.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber’s note—the following change have been made to this text.

Page 757: Voilâ to Voilà—“Voilà le monsieur”.

Page 761: Collége to Collège—“Collège de France”.]