16, 1886 ***





[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. 107.—VOL. III.      SATURDAY, JANUARY 16, 1886.      PRICE 1½_d._]




SIGNALLING AT SEA.


The wonderful improvements which have been effected in modes of
communication during the latter part of the present century have
resulted in bridging over space, and bringing the dwellers on this
planet into closer and more constant intercommunion. Submarine cables,
telegraphs, and telephones have each contributed their aid towards the
realisation of Puck’s idea of putting ‘a girdle round the earth;’ and,
as might have been expected, the inventive faculty has been directed,
in some measure at least, towards enabling those ‘who go down to the
sea in ships’ to communicate with each other on the ocean highways with
such facility as might be found practicable under the ever-varying
conditions which obtain at sea.

At no very remote date, the appliances at the command of a shipmaster
who might desire to convey a request to a passing vessel consisted
mainly of a pair of strong lungs and a speaking-trumpet. A variation
was occasionally attempted by the introduction of a plank and a lump of
chalk. The writer remembers having seen an English brig in the South
Atlantic, during a strong gale, attempting to convey to a stately
frigate an intimation that the brig’s chronometer was broken, and that,
in consequence, her worthy captain was at sea, in more senses than one.
The brig, which had been running before the wind, braced up on the
port tack, and ran as close under the frigate’s stern as was deemed
prudent under the circumstances. The captain, clinging to the weather
main rigging with one hand, and using the other as a speaking-trumpet,
yelled forth a sentence or two which met the fate of most utterances
under similar conditions. ‘I’—‘of’—and ‘the’ were faithfully re-echoed
from the hollow of the frigate’s mainsail, but the vital words of the
message were borne away on the wings of the gale. A similar attempt
failed; and finally it occurred to the skipper to write with chalk
upon a tarpaulin hatch-cover the words, ‘Chronometer smashed, bound
Table Bay.’ The tarpaulin with the foregoing legend was exhibited
over the side for a few brief seconds, till a fiercer blast than usual
whirled it high in air, and then bore it away to leeward. Fortunately,
the purport of the writing had been understood on board the frigate,
and no time was lost in displaying a black board with the latitude,
longitude, and magnetic course for Table Bay inscribed thereon. Now, if
the brig had been provided with the International Code of Signals, the
trouble and delay involved in the attempts to communicate by hailing
or by written signs, would have been obviated; and whilst holding on
her course, the hoisting of a few flags would have completed the entire
business in less than five minutes. The Code was certainly in existence
at the date referred to, but its use was neither general nor compulsory.

The peculiar requirements of the service upon which ships of war are
engaged, and the practice of cruising together in fleets or squadrons,
necessitate the establishment of a system of signalling which shall
be both rapid and effective. Such a system has been in operation in
the Royal Navy for many years. Numerous modifications have been made
latterly in the Admiralty signal books; those changes being rendered
necessary by the altered conditions of naval warfare and the scientific
precision which is desirable in the movements of a fleet of warships.
An admiral in command of a fleet has now at his disposal such an
effective equipment and complete organisation as would enable him to
manœuvre his ships in presence of the enemy with almost mathematical
exactitude. The ‘signal staff’ on board the ship which carries the
flag of the commander-in-chief consists of about twenty persons,
officers and men, whose duty it is to convey the admiral’s orders to
the captains under his command by the varied systems of signalling
prescribed for use in Her Majesty’s ships. The ‘staff’ is divided
into ‘three watches;’ and by day and night, in harbour and at sea, a
vigilant ‘lookout’ is kept, not only on board the flagship, but on
every vessel in the fleet. Each ship on being commissioned is provided
with a General Signal Book, Vocabulary Signal Book, and a semaphore.
For use at night, a flashing lamp, and recently, an electrical
apparatus, are supplied. By an ingenious arrangement, any of the
signals contained in the books may be made during thick weather by the
steam whistle or the fog-horn.

Before putting to sea, a ‘fleet number’ is assigned to each ship, the
admiral’s ship being No. 1, the remaining numbers being distributed
according to the seniority of the respective captains. If the
commander-in-chief wishes his squadron to sail in one line, he
makes the signal, ‘Single column in line ahead,’ by means of three
‘numeral’ flags. This signal, like every other evolutionary signal,
is kept flying at the mast-head until the signal officer reports,
‘All answered, sir.’ The fact that the admiral’s signal is seen and
understood is signified, in the case of tactical orders, by each ship
repeating the flags. When the proper moment arrives for executing the
movement, the flagship’s signal is swiftly hauled down, the helms are
put ‘hard over,’ the ships swing round in the admiral’s wake, and the
evolution is complete.

Communication between the vessels of the fleet is effected at night
by means of the flashing light worked on the short and long flash
principle, invented by Captain Colomb, R.N. There are few sights more
suggestive of the advance in modes of communication and the development
of the inventive faculty than that of the admiral ‘talking’ to his
captains by means of the flashing lamp in the darkness of the night and
far out on the trackless ocean. It may be necessary during the night
to alter the course of the squadron. If the course indicated at sunset
be due north, and it be required to alter the direction to west, all
lights on board the flagship, except the flashing light, are carefully
obscured, and the brilliant rays of a solitary lamp leap through the
darkness conveying the order, ‘Alter course to west.’

The instructions contained in the General Signal Book are varied and
comprehensive. Upwards of a thousand separate signals, adapted to every
probable change of condition and circumstance in times of peace and in
the exigences of battle, are concisely set forth, every tactical order
being elucidated by diagrams showing the direction to be taken and
the position to be assumed by each ship. The Vocabulary Signal Book,
as its name indicates, is a sort of dictionary, but possessing also
the character of a lexicon, as not only words in alphabetical order,
but phrases under their proper heading, are methodically arranged in
its pages. For example, under the heading of ‘Admiral,’ which word
is represented in ‘flag language’ by A.H.V., will be found, ‘Admiral
desires,’ ‘Admiral intends,’ and the cheerful announcement, ‘Admiral
requests the pleasure of your company to dinner.’

It will be seen from the foregoing observations that the signal system
adopted in the Royal Navy approaches as near to perfection as is
possible under the circumstances; and therefore, when the occasion
arose for a revision of the mercantile signal code, the Committee
appointed by the Board of Trade for that purpose had recourse to the
Admiralty Codes as a basis for the International Code of Signals,
which is now used by most of the maritime countries of the world.
This Code is the universal means of communication between the ships
and signal stations of all nations. Translations of it have been
made by France, Germany, Italy, Austria, Denmark, Holland, Spain,
Portugal, Sweden, and Norway. The captain of a British vessel being
desirous of conveying a message to an Italian ship, for example,
may do so by simply hoisting the flags indicating the letters which
are found opposite the words that express his meaning in the Code;
and, similarly, vessels of any nationality may communicate with
the utmost facility, although the parties so signalling may be
totally unacquainted with any language but their own. For signalling
purposes, eighteen flags and a copy of the Code are required. The
combinations which are possible with that number of flags amount to
the extraordinary number of seventy-eight thousand six hundred and
forty-two, using two, three, and four flags at one hoist. The Code is
divided into four parts: (1) Brief signals; (2) vocabulary; (3) distant
and boat signals; (4) an appendix containing the distinguishing letters
of every vessel to which a Code signal has been allotted. ‘Urgent
signals’ are made by means of two flags only, and in the following
manner: J.D., You are standing into danger; N.S., I have sprung a leak;
H.M., Man overboard; P.C., Want assistance; mutiny. The square shape of
the uppermost flag, and the number of flags used, indicate the urgent
character of the message, and its specific meaning is ascertained by
reference to the book. Latitude and longitude, geographical and time
signals, are made by three flags. A vocabulary message is transmitted
by using four flags, thus: D.R.Q.L., If you do not carry sail, we shall
part company.

The vocabulary section of the Code is frequently used for messages
which do not strictly refer to matters maritime. The valedictory
‘Farewell’ or the cheerful ‘Welcome’ may be transmitted with quite
as much ease as the purely nautical ‘Square your mainyard.’ Even in
departments of human activity so far removed from marine affairs
as art or politics, the Signal Code may find some application.
During the summer cruise of the British fleet in the Mediterranean
in 1869, and whilst the ships were steaming through the Straits of
Messina, a steamer flying the Turkish flag was sighted steering
towards the harbour. The Code ‘pennant’ hoisted under her ensign
indicated a desire to communicate; and on the signal being answered
from the flagship of the commander-in-chief, the Turkish vessel made
the following communication: D.G.N.H. = Irish; C.P.B.R. = Church;
C.S.L.P. = dislocated; D.J.K.P. = Her Majesty’s government; D.M.G.T.
= surplus. This being rendered into the vernacular, was understood to
mean that the Irish Church Disestablishment Act had been passed by
a large majority. The captain of the steamer, who was an Englishman
in all probability, was laudably anxious to communicate a piece of
information which could not fail to be full of interest to the people
of the English squadron. His use of the verb ‘dislocated’ was forced
upon him by the absence of the word ‘disestablished’ from the Code;
and a similar reason necessitated the substitution of ‘surplus’ for
‘majority.’ Having regard to the circumstances, it will probably be
admitted that the courteous captain’s arrangement, if not strictly
syntactical, was certainly apposite.

Strenuous efforts have been made by the Lords Commissioners of the
Admiralty, the Board of Trade, and the Committee of Lloyd’s Registry
to instruct the officers of the mercantile marine in the use of the
International Code. The Admiralty has ordered that all men belonging
to the Royal Naval Reserve shall receive instruction in its use; and
all candidates for officers’ certificates of competency are required by
the Board of Trade to pass a satisfactory examination in signalling.
Notwithstanding these regulations, there is good reason for believing
that many officers in the merchant service are not so well acquainted
with the working of the Code as they ought to be. Blunders are
frequently committed, either in selecting the wrong signal or confusing
the flags, which lead to serious inconvenience, not to say danger. A
very superficial acquaintance with the Signal Book led the captain
of an English steamer to neglect the ‘vocabulary’ part of the Code,
and have recourse to the singular expedient of using the flags as a
medium for spelling his communication. As read on board the New York
liner to which the signal was directed, it took the cabalistic form
of ‘MCHDRGDWNTW.’ As no flags denoting the vowels are contained in
the Code, the difficulties of spelling were obviously increased; and
it was only by the ingenuity of a passenger on board the liner that a
translation was effected in the shape of, ‘Machinery deranged; want
tow.’ On another occasion, the master of a timber-laden ship bound
from Quebec to Liverpool had been prevented by foggy weather from
taking solar observations for the purpose of verifying his position,
and having sighted a steamer bound to the westward, he hoisted the
prescribed signal, asking the steamer to indicate the latitude and
longitude at the time of meeting. Either through carelessness in
manipulating the flags or from an imperfect acquaintance with the
Code, a position was signalled which located the ship in the immediate
vicinity of Mont Blanc!

Upwards of thirty signal stations have been established at various
points on the coasts of the British Isles, where messages may be
transmitted from passing vessels by means of the International Code;
and there are twenty stations in various parts of the world, as widely
apart as Aden, Ascension, Malta, St Helena, the Cape of Good Hope, and
Skagen in Denmark, where communication may be effected by the same
means. Many of these stations have direct telegraphic connection with
London, so that shipowners may be kept acquainted with the movements
of their vessels, and may also transmit instructions for the guidance
of their captains. It is matter for wonder and regret, notwithstanding
the existence of a carefully elaborated system of signals and a
world-wide network of shore stations, that the use of the Signal Code
is not in any sense compulsory on the part of shipowners. Considering
the innumerable advantages which a speedy means of communication
must afford to all concerned, it is with surprise that one learns,
from a note prefixed to the official Maritime Directory for the past
year, that ‘cases have been reported in which officers at the signal
stations have hoisted the International Code Signals warning ships of
danger, and the ships have been afterwards lost, from the inability
of the masters to read the signals.’ This is a state of affairs which
ought not to be permitted to continue in the interests of the men whose
lives are at stake. Another and still more serious defect in a system
which is admirable in many respects, is the total absence from the Code
of any method of signalling at night. As we have seen, Her Majesty’s
ships are provided with appliances for this purpose which are skilfully
adapted to the end in view; but merchant vessels are absolutely without
the power of communicating after darkness sets in. It is true that by
private arrangement with the shore stations on several parts of the
coast, the steamers belonging to the great Companies may by the use
of certain lights indicate their names and the Company to which they
belong; but this cannot, save in the most elementary sense, be regarded
as a satisfactory method of communication. It is probable that the
night signals in use in the Royal Navy are too complicated in character
to permit of their being learned and worked efficiently without much
more study and practice than can reasonably be expected from the master
of a merchant vessel. Still, it ought to be within the power of science
to suggest some plan for enabling a vessel to signal to ship or shore
during the hours when the perils of the sea are rendered more terrible
by darkness.

In these days, when our ocean highways and harbours are crowded with
shipping, a collision between two of our large iron or steel vessels,
which might happen at any time, would send one of them to the bottom in
a few minutes. Two vessels, each going at a speed of twenty miles an
hour, and sighting one another at two miles off, with this joint speed
of forty miles an hour, would meet in about three minutes. Hence the
importance of a ready and efficient method of signalling.

By the present system, red and green lights are placed on each side of
the vessel, a green light on the starboard side, and a red light on
the port side, with a board shutting off each light from the opposite
side. An officer seeing a coloured light at a distance of two miles has
no indication what course the vessel is steering. Hence the importance
of the apparatus invented by The Right Hon. J. H. A. Macdonald, Q.C.,
M.P., Edinburgh, an Associate of the Society of Telegraph Engineers and
Electricians, which he calls the Electric Holophote Course-indicator,
for the prevention of collisions at sea.

By means of a powerful electric light, the approach of another vessel
is indicated, and information is given at the same time as to what
course she is on and what course she intends to hold to. The light is
also useful for illuminating the water immediately before the ship,
and is also valuable when passing down a river, through shoals, or
close to a lee shore. The instrument consists of a strong reflector,
with an arc light placed in the middle of it, which is affected by
every movement of the helm. As long as the helm is amidships, the
handle cannot be moved at all, but is held firm by two pegs. But if
the helm is moved from amidships, an electric circuit is formed, which
actuates an electro-magnet, and thereby removes one of the pegs. When
the helm is ported, the reflector is set free by the removal of one of
the pegs, so that by working the handle, the light can be swept from
amidships over the starboard bow, and brought back again. If the helm
be starboarded, the reflector is freed from the other peg, so that the
light can be swept from amidships over the port bow and back again. But
as this is a mere side-to-side movement, means are provided for giving
more intelligible information, such as a driver gives when waving his
hand to indicate his course, by a shutter connected with the reflector
in such a way that when the beam has completed its side-movement, the
shutter rises up and obscures the light, and does not drop again until
the reflector has been turned back to its middle position. The shutter
then falls down; and the light being again exposed, the process of
sweeping round to starboard, screening, and bringing back to amidships,
can be repeated as long as the helm remains at port. When the helm is
starboarded, the light can be swept round to port in the same way. The
light is immovable when the helm is amidships, and can be swept only
over the starboard bow when the helm is ported, and only over the port
bow when the helm is starboarded. In order to guard against the risk
of the reflector being carelessly worked by not completing its sweep
either way, the instrument is provided with two tell-tale bells, which
will enable the officer on the bridge to check the working of the
reflector.

In foggy weather, when the light would be ineffective, two steam
whistles can be shunted into action by the reflector handle, one giving
off a succession of short shrill notes, the other a succession of
deep long notes, according as the helm is to starboard or port. This
invention has been awarded a medal at three Exhibitions, including the
Inventories; while Admiral Bedford Pim, one of the nautical jurors, has
styled it an ‘excellent course indicator.’




IN ALL SHADES.


CHAPTER IV.

It was a brilliant, cloudless, tropical day at Agualta Estate,
Trinidad; and the cocoa-nut palms in front of the pretty, picturesque,
low-roofed bungalow were waving gracefully in the light sea-breeze that
blew fresh across the open cane-pieces from the distant horizon of the
broad Atlantic. Most days, indeed, except during the rainy season,
were brilliant enough in all conscience at beautiful Agualta: the sun
blazed all day long in a uniform hazy-white sky, not blue, to be sure,
as in a northern climate, but bluish and cloudless; and the sea shone
below hazy-white, in the dim background, beyond the waving palm-trees,
and the broad-leaved bananas, and the long stretch of bright-green
cane-pieces that sloped down in endless succession towards the beach
and the breakers. Agualta House itself was perched, West India fashion,
on the topmost summit of a tall and lonely rocky peak, a projecting
spur or shoulder from the main mass of the Trinidad mountains. They
chose the very highest and most beautiful situations they could find
for their houses, those old matter-of-fact West Indian planters, not so
much out of a taste for scenery—for their mental horizon was for the
most part bounded by rum and sugar—but because a hilltop was coolest
and breeziest, and coolness is the one great practical desideratum in
a West Indian residence. Still, the houses that they built on these
airy heights incidentally enjoyed the most exquisite prospects; and
Agualta itself was no exception to the general rule in this matter.
From the front piazza you looked down upon a green ravine, crowded
with tree-ferns and other graceful tropical vegetation; on either
side, rocky peaks broke the middle distance with their jagged tors
and precipitous needles; while far away beyond the cane-grown plain
that nestled snugly in the hollow below, the sky-line of the Atlantic
bounded the view, with a dozen sun-smit rocky islets basking like great
floating whales upon the gray horizon. No lovelier view in the whole of
luxuriant beautiful Trinidad than that from the creeper-covered front
piazza of the white bungalow of old Agualta.

Through the midst of the ravine, the little river from which the
estate took its Spanish name—curiously corrupted upon negro lips into
the form of Wagwater—tumbled in white sheets of dashing foam between
the green foliage ‘in cataract after cataract to the sea.’ Here and
there, the overarching clumps of feathery bamboo hid its course for
a hundred yards or so, as seen from the piazza; but every now and
again it gleamed forth, white and conspicuous once more, as it tumbled
headlong down its steep course over some rocky barrier. You could trace
it throughout like a long line of light among all the tangled, glossy,
dark-green foliage of that wild and overgrown tropical gully.

The Honourable James Hawthorn, owner of Agualta, was sitting out in
a cane armchair, under the broad shadow of the great mango-tree on
the grassy terrace in front of the piazza. A venerable gray-haired,
gray-bearded man, with a calm, clear-cut, resolute face, the very
counterpart of his son Edward’s, only grown some thirty years older,
and sterner too, and more unbending.

‘Mr Dupuy’s coming round this morning, Mary,’ Mr Hawthorn said to the
placid, gentle, old lady in the companion-chair beside him. ‘He wants
to look at some oxen I’m going to get rid of, and he thinks, perhaps,
he’d like to buy them.’

‘Mr Dupuy!’ Mrs Hawthorn answered, with a slight shudder of displeasure
as she spoke. ‘I really wish he wasn’t coming. I can’t bear that man,
somehow. He always seems to me the worst embodiment of the bad old days
that are dead and gone, Jamie.’

The old gentleman hummed an air to himself reflectively. ‘We mustn’t be
too hard upon him, my dear,’ he said after a moment’s pause, in a tone
of perfect resignation. ‘They were brought up in a terrible school,
those old-time slavery Trinidad folk, and they can’t help bearing the
impress of a bad system upon them to the very last moment of their
existence. I think so meanly of them for their pride and intolerance,
that I take care not to imitate it. You remember what Shelley says:
“Let scorn be not repaid with scorn.” That’s how I always feel, Mary,
towards Mr Dupuy and all his fellows.’

Mrs Hawthorn bit her lip as she answered slowly: ‘All the same, Jamie,
I wish he wasn’t coming here this morning; and this the English
mail-day too! We shall get our letter from Edward by-and-by, you know,
dear. I hate to have these people coming breaking in upon us the very
day we want to be at home by ourselves, to have a quiet hour alone with
our dear boy over in England.’

‘Here they come, at anyrate, Mary,’ the old gentleman said, pointing
with his hand down the steep ravine to where a couple of men on
mountain ponies were slowly toiling up the long zigzag path that
climbed the shoulder. ‘Here they come, Theodore Dupuy himself, and that
young Tom Dupuy as well, behind him. There’s one comfort, at anyrate,
in the position of Agualta—you can never possibly be taken by surprise;
you can always see your visitors coming half an hour before they get
here.—Run in, dear, and see about having enough for lunch, will you,
for Tom Dupuy’s sure to stop until he’s had a glass of our old Madeira.’

‘I dislike Tom Dupuy, I think, even worse than his old uncle, Jamie,’
the bland old lady answered softly in her pleasant voice, exactly as if
she was saying that she loved him dearly. ‘He’s a horrid young man, so
selfish and narrow-minded; and I hope you won’t ever ask him again to
come to Agualta. I can hardly even manage to be decently polite to him.’

The two strangers slowly wound their way up the interminable zigzags
that led along the steep shoulders of the Agualta peak, and emerged at
last from under the shadow of the green mango grove close beside the
grassy terrace in front of the piazza. The elder of the two, Nora’s
father, was a jovial, round-faced, close-shaven man, with a copious
growth of flowing white hair, that fell in long patriarchal locks
around his heavy neck and shoulders; a full-blooded, easy-going, proud
face to look at, yet not without a certain touch of gentlemanly culture
and old-fashioned courtesy. The younger man, Tom Dupuy, his nephew,
looked exactly what he was—a born boor, awkward in gait and lubberly
in feature, with a heavy hanging lower jaw, and a pair of sleepy
boiled fish eyes, that stared vacantly out in sheepish wonder upon a
hopelessly dull and blank creation.

Mr Hawthorn moved courteously to the gate to meet them. ‘It’s a long
pull and a steep pull up the hill, Mr Dupuy,’ he said as he shook hands
with him. ‘Let me take your pony round to the stables.—Here, Jo!’ to a
negro boy who stood showing his white teeth beside the gateway; ‘put up
Mr Dupuy’s horse, do you hear, my lad, and Mr Tom’s too, will you?—How
are you, Mr Tom? So you’ve come over with your uncle as well, to see
this stock I want to sell, have you?’

The elder Dupuy bowed politely as Mr Hawthorn held out his hand, and
took it with something of the dignified old West Indian courtesy; he
had been to school at Winchester forty years before, and the remote
result of that half-forgotten old English training was still plainly
visible even now in a certain outer urbanity and suavity of demeanour.
But young Tom held out his hand awkwardly like a born boor, and dropped
it again snappishly as soon as Mr Hawthorn had taken it, merely
answering, in a slow drawling West Indian voice, partly caught from his
own negro servants: ‘Yes, I’ve come over to see the stock; we want some
oxen. Cane’s good this season; we shall have a capital cutting.’

‘Is the English mail in?’ Mr Hawthorn asked anxiously, as they took
their seats in the piazza to rest themselves for a while after
their ride, before proceeding to active business. That one solitary
fortnightly channel of communication with the outer world assumes an
importance in the eyes of remote colonists which can hardly even be
comprehended by our bustling, stay-at-home English people.

‘It is,’ Mr Dupuy replied, taking the proffered glass of Madeira from
his host as he answered. Old-fashioned wine-drinking hospitality still
prevails largely in the West Indies. ‘I got my letters just as I was
starting. Yours will be here before long, I don’t doubt, Mr Hawthorn. I
had news, important news in my budget this morning. My daughter, sir,
my daughter Nora, who has been completing her education in England, is
coming out to Trinidad by the next steamer.’

‘You must be delighted at the prospect of seeing her,’ Mr Hawthorn
answered with a slight sigh. ‘I only wish I were going as soon to see
my dear boy Edward.’

Mr Dupuy’s lip curled faintly as he replied in a careless manner: ‘Ah,
yes, to be sure. Your boy’s in England, Mr Hawthorn, isn’t he? If I
recollect right, you sent him to Cambridge.—Ah, yes, I thought so, to
Cambridge. A very excellent thing for you to do with him. If you take
my advice, my dear sir, you’ll let him stop in the old country—a much
better place for him in every way, than this island.’

‘I mean to,’ Mr Hawthorn answered in a low voice. ‘God forbid that I
should ever be a party to bringing him out here to Trinidad.’

‘Oh, certainly not—certainly not. I quite agree with you. Far better
for him to stop where he is, and take his chance of making a living
for himself in England. Not that he can be at any loss in that matter
either. You must be in a position to make him very comfortable too, Mr
Hawthorn! Fine estate, Agualta, and turns out a capital brand of rum
and sugar.’

‘Best vacuum-pan and centrifugal in the whole island,’ Tom Dupuy put in
parenthetically. ‘Turned out four hundred and thirty-four hogsheads of
sugar and three hundred and ninety puncheons of rum last season—largest
yield of any estate in the Windward Islands except Mount Arlington. You
don’t catch me out of it in any matter where sugar’s in question, I can
tell you.’

‘But my daughter, Mr Hawthorn,’ the elder Dupuy went on, smiling,
and sipping his Madeira in a leisurely fashion—‘my daughter means to
come out to join me by the next steamer; and my nephew Tom and I are
naturally looking forward to her approaching arrival with the greatest
anxiety. A young lady in Miss Dupuy’s position, I need hardly say to
you, who has been finishing her education at a good school in England,
comes out to Trinidad under exceptionally favourable circumstances. She
will have much here to interest her in society, and we hope she will
enjoy herself and make herself happy.’

‘For my part,’ Tom Dupuy put in brusquely, ‘I don’t hold at all with
this sending young women from Trinidad across the water to get educated
in England—not a bit of it. What’s the good of it?—that’s what I always
want to know—what’s the good of it? What do they pick up there, I
should like to hear, except a lot of trumpery fal-lal, that turns their
heads, and fills them brimful of all sorts of romantic topsy-turvy
notions? I’ve never been to England myself, thank goodness, and what’s
more, I don’t ever want to go, that’s certain. But I’ve known lots of
fellows that have been, and have spent no end of a heap of money over
their education too, at one place or another—I don’t even know the
names of ’em—and when they’ve come back, so far as I could see, they’ve
never known a bit more about rum or sugar than other fellows that had
never set foot for a single minute outside the island—no, nor for that
matter, not so much either. Of course, it’s all very well for a person
in your son’s position, Mr Hawthorn; that’s quite another matter. He’s
gone to England, and he’s going to stay there. If I were he, I should
do as he does. But what on earth can be the use of sending a girl in my
cousin Nora’s station in life over to England, just on purpose to set
her against her own flesh and blood and her own people? Why, it really
passes my comprehension.’

Mr Dupuy’s forehead puckered slightly as Tom spoke, and the corners of
his mouth twitched ominously; but he answered in a tone of affected
nonchalance: ‘It’s a pity, Mr Hawthorn, that my nephew Tom should take
this unfavourable view of an English education, because, you see, it’s
our intention, as soon as my daughter Miss Dupuy arrives from England,
to arrange a marriage at a very early date between himself and his
cousin Nora. Pimento Valley, as you know, is entailed in the male line
to my nephew Tom; and Orange Grove is in my own disposal, to leave, of
course, to my only daughter. But Mr Tom Dupuy and I both think it would
be a great pity that the family estates should be divided, and should
in part pass out of the family; so we’ve arranged between us that Mr
Tom is to marry my daughter Nora, and that Orange Grove and Pimento
Valley are to pass together to them and to their children’s children.’

‘An excellent arrangement,’ Mr Hawthorn put in, with a slight smile.
‘But suppose—just for argument’s sake—that Miss Dupuy were not to fall
in with it?’

Mr Dupuy’s brow clouded over still more evidently. ‘Not to fall in with
it!’ he cried excitedly, tossing off the remainder of his Madeira—‘not
to fall in with it!—Why, Mr Hawthorn, what do you mean, sir? Of course,
if her father bids her, she’ll fall in with it immediately. If she
doesn’t—why, then, sir, I’ll just simply have to make her. She shall
marry Tom Dupuy the minute I order her to. She should marry a one-eyed
man with a wooden leg if her father commanded it. She shall do whatever
I tell her. I’ll stand no refusing and shilly-shallying. Let me tell
you, sir, if there’s a vice that I hate and detest, it’s the vice of
obstinacy. But I’ll stand no obstinacy.’

‘No obstinacy in those about you,’ Mr Hawthorn put in suggestively.

‘No, sir, no—not in those about me. Other people, of course, I can’t be
answerable for, though I’d like to flog every obstinate fellow I come
across, just to cure him of his confounded temper. O no, sir; I can’t
endure obstinacy—in man or beast, I can’t endure it.’

‘So it would seem,’ Mr Hawthorn replied drily. ‘I hope sincerely,
Miss Dupuy will find the choice you have made for her a suitable and
satisfactory one.’

‘Suitable, sir! Why, of course it’s suitable; and as to satisfactory,
well, if I say she’s got to take him, she’ll have to be satisfied with
him, willy-nilly.’

‘But she won’t!’ Tom Dupuy interrupted sullenly, flicking his boot with
his short riding-whip in a vicious fashion. ‘She won’t, you may take my
word for it, Uncle Theodore. I can’t imagine why it is; but these young
women who’ve been educated in England, they’ll never be satisfied with
a planter for a husband. They think a gentleman and a son of gentlemen
for fifty generations isn’t a good enough match for such fine ladies
as themselves; and they go running off after some of these red-coated
military fellows down in the garrison over yonder, many of whom, to
my certain knowledge, Mr Hawthorn, are nothing more than the sons of
tradesmen across there in England. I’ll bet you a sovereign, Uncle
Theodore, that Nora’ll refuse to so much as look at the heir of Pimento
Valley, the minute she sees him.’

‘But why do you think so, Mr Tom,’ their host put in, ‘before the young
lady has even landed on the island?’

‘Ah, I know well enough,’ Tom Dupuy answered, with a curious leer
of unintelligent cunning. ‘I know the ways and the habits of the
women. They go away over there to England; they get themselves
crammed with French and German, and music and drawing, and all kinds
of unnecessary accomplishments. They pick up a lot of nonsensical
new-fangled notions about Am I not a Man and a Brother? and all that
kind of humbug. They think an awful lot of themselves because they can
play and sing and gabble Italian. And they despise us West Indians,
gentlemen and planters, because we can’t parley-voo all their precious
foreign lingoes, and don’t know as much as they do about who composed
_Yankee Doodle_. I know them—I know them; I know their ways and their
manners. Culture they call it. I call it a precious lot of trumpery
nonsense. Why, Mr Hawthorn, I assure you I’ve known some of these fine
new-fangled English-taught young women who’d sooner talk to a coloured
doctor, as black as a common nigger almost, just because he’d been
educated at Oxford, or Edinburgh, or somewhere, than to me myself, the
tenth Dupuy in lineal succession at Pimento Valley.’

‘Indeed,’ Mr Hawthorn answered innocently—no other alternative phrase
committing him, as he thought, to so small an opinion on the merits of
the question.—‘But do you know, Mr Tom, I don’t believe any person of
the Dupuy blood is very likely to take up with these strange modern
English heresies that so much surprise you.’

‘Quite true, sir,’ Mr Dupuy the elder answered with prompt
self-satisfaction, mistaking his host’s delicate tone of covert satire
for the voice of hearty concurrence and full approval. ‘You’re quite
right there, Mr Hawthorn, I’m certain. No born Dupuy of Orange Grove
would ever be taken in by any of that silly clap-trap humanitarian
rubbish. No foolish Exeter Hall nonsense pertains to the fighting
Dupuys, sir, I can assure you—root and branch, not a single ounce of
it. It isn’t in them, Mr Hawthorn—it isn’t in them.’

‘So I think,’ Mr Hawthorn answered quietly. ‘I quite agree with you—it
isn’t in them.’

As he spoke, a negro servant, neatly dressed in a cool white linen
livery, entered the piazza with a small budget of letters on an
old-fashioned Spanish silver salver. Mr Hawthorn took them up eagerly.
‘The English mail!’ he said with an apologetic look towards his two
guests. ‘You’ll excuse my just glancing through them, Mr Dupuy, won’t
you? I can never rest, the moment the mail’s in, until I know that my
dear boy in England is still really well and happy.’

Mr Dupuy nodded assent with a condescending smile; and the master
of Agualta broke open his son’s envelope with a little eager hasty
flutter. He ran his eye hurriedly down the first page; and then, with
a sudden cry, he laid down the letter rapidly on the table, and called
out aloud: ‘Mary, Mary!’

Mrs Hawthorn came out at once from the little boudoir behind the
piazza, whose cool Venetian blinds gave directly upon the part where
they were sitting.

‘Mary, Mary!’ Mr Hawthorn cried, utterly regardless of his two
visitors’ presence, ‘what on earth do you think has happened? Edward’s
coming out to us—coming out immediately. Oh, my poor boy, my poor boy,
this is too unexpected! He’s coming out to us at once, at once, without
a single moment’s warning!’

Mrs Hawthorn took up the letter and read it through hastily with a
woman’s quickness; then she laid it down again, and looked blankly at
her trembling husband in evident distress; but neither of them said a
single word to one another.

The elder Dupuy was the first to break the ominous silence. ‘Not by the
next steamer, I suppose?’ he inquired curiously.

Mr Hawthorn nodded in reply. ‘Yes, yes; by the next steamer.’

As he spoke, Tom Dupuy glanced at his uncle with a meaning glance, and
then went on stolidly as ever: ‘How about these cattle, though, Mr
Hawthorn?’

The old man looked back at him half angrily, half contemptuously.
‘Go and look at the cattle yourself, if you like, Mr Tom,’ he said
haughtily.—‘Here, Jo, you take young Mr Dupuy round to see those Cuban
bullocks in the grass-piece, will you? I shall meet your uncle at the
Legislative Council on Thursday, and then, if he likes, he can talk
over prices with me. I have something else to do at present beside
haggling and debating over the sale of bullocks; I must go down to
Port-of-Spain immediately, immediately—this very minute.—You must
please excuse me, Mr Dupuy, for my business is most important.—Dick,
Isaac, Thomas!—some one of you there, get Pride of Barbadoes saddled
at once, very fast, will you, and bring her round here to me at the
front-door the moment she’s ready.’

‘And Tom,’ the elder Dupuy whispered to his nephew confidentially, as
soon as their host had gone back into the house to prepare for his
journey, ‘I have business, too, in Port-of-Spain, immediately. You go
and look at the bullocks if you like—that’s your department. I shall
ride down the hills at once, and into town with old Hawthorn.’

Tom looked at him with a vacant stare of boorish unintelligence.
‘Why, what do you want to go running off like that for,’ he asked,
open-mouthed, ‘without even waiting to see the cattle? What does it
matter to you, I should like to know, whether old Hawthorn’s precious
son is coming to Trinidad or not, Uncle Theodore?’

The uncle looked back at him with undisguised contempt. ‘Why, you fool,
Tom,’ he answered quietly, ‘you don’t suppose I want to let Nora come
out alone all the way from England to Trinidad in the very same steamer
with that man Hawthorn’s son Edward? Impossible, impossible!—Here,
you nigger fellow you, grinning over there like a chattering monkey,
bring my mare out of the stable at once, sir, will you—do you hear me,
image?—for I’m going to ride down direct to Port-of-Spain this very
minute along with your master. Hurry up, there, jackanapes!’




THE LAND OF FURS.


In 1867, the United States government, for a payment to Russia of
about a million and a half pounds sterling, received in exchange the
strange isolated country in the far north known as Alaska, separated by
one thousand miles of British colonial territory from the republican
frontier. For some years there were constant conflicts with the
Indians, and altogether the early history of the American occupation
of Alaska is not a bright one. The San Franciscan speculators who had
been attracted by hopes of gold and of untold wealth in forests and
fisheries were wofully disappointed, and the majority of them gradually
cleared out again.

A mere glance at the map hardly gives one an idea of the enormous
superficial extent of this outlying possession of our American
cousins. According to the special Report of the United States Census
Commissioners—to which we are mainly indebted for the facts given in
this article—the total area of Alaska is five hundred and thirty-one
thousand four hundred and nine square miles, or about one-sixth of
the entire area of the United States. But one hundred and twenty-five
thousand two hundred and forty-five square miles are wholly within the
arctic circle, an area which has rarely been traversed by the white
man, and upon the coast-borders of which are a few Eskimo villages.
The natives of these, it is sad to learn, are becoming rapidly
deteriorated by commerce with the crews of the whalers which resort
in summer to the neighbourhood, and seek only to barter what natural
produce, in the shape of furs, or oil, or ivory, they can collect for
the means of intoxication. The immense area of the northern division
of Alaska is left to the bear, the fox, the reindeer, and other polar
animals, and to somewhere about three thousand degraded Eskimos.

The largest geographical division of Alaska is that which the United
States officials have named the Yukon section. It is so called because
it comprises the valley of the river Yukon, said to be the largest
river in America, if not in the world, and which discharges into
Behring’s Sea a volume of water estimated at about one-third more
than that of the Mississippi. The Yukon division contains one hundred
and seventy-six thousand seven hundred and fifteen square miles, and
is peopled by four thousand two hundred and seventy-six Eskimos, two
thousand five hundred and fifty-seven Athabaskan Indians, eighteen
whites, and nineteen creoles—total, six thousand eight hundred
and seventy. The occupation of the natives is entirely in hunting
fur-skinned animals, which they barter with the whites for sugar,
flour, tea, cloth, hardware, &c. The money value of the skins bartered
is said to be about fifteen thousand pounds annually. Foxes are the
chief wealth-yielders of this district, and they are found of all
shades, from silver-gray and black to red and snow-white. Next to these
in importance are the skins of the martens (or sables) and land-otters;
and then, but in a much smaller degree, those of the black and brown
bears. The moose-skins and deerskins are all retained by the natives
for their own purposes, for clothing, bedding, &c.

The principal trading-post is called Saint Michael, and here are kept
stocks of coal for the use of the whaling-steamers which force their
way into the arctic seas every year.

The third largest geographical division is called the Kuskokvim
division, from the river which intersects it. The Kuskokvim division
lies to the south of the Yukon division, is bounded on the east by a
range of mountains, on the west by Behring’s Sea, and it comprises the
valleys of three large rivers and an intervening system of lakes. There
is a trading-station called Kalmakovsky, from which are brought down
from the unknown interior, by the natives, skins of beaver, marten,
and fox, which all appear to be very plentiful. This trade is carried
on by a race which appears to be a mixture of the Eskimos and Indians;
but below Kalmakovsky, down to the sea, and along the coast, the
Eskimos alone appear. These Eskimos support themselves mainly by seal
and salmon fishing. The salmon are caught in traps, and are dried upon
poles, which line both banks of the lower river from June to August.
The estuary is very wide, and the tide rushes in with tremendous
force, the rise and fall being very great, sometimes over fifty feet
when the wind is from the south-west.

The houses of the natives are much the same in all the divisions of
Alaska. These dwellings are thus described: ‘A circular mound of earth,
grass-grown and littered with all sorts of household utensils, a small
spiral coil of smoke rising from the apex, dogs crouching, children
climbing up or rolling down, stray morsels of food left from one meal
to the other, and a soft mixture of mud and offal surrounding it all.
The entrance to this house is a low irregular square aperture, through
which the inmate stoops, and passes down a foot or two through a short
low passage on to the earthen floor within. The interior generally
consists of an irregularly shaped square or circle, twelve or fifteen
feet in diameter, receiving its only light from without, through the
small smoke-opening at the apex of the roof, which rises, tent-like,
from the floor. The fireplace is directly under this opening. Rude beds
or couches of skin and grass mats are laid, slightly raised above the
floor, upon clumsy frames made of sticks and saplings or rough-hewn
planks, and sometimes on little elevations built up of peat or sod.
Sometimes a small hall-way with bulging sides is erected over the
entrance, where, by this expansion, room is afforded for the keeping
of utensils and water-vessels and as a shelter for dogs. Immediately
adjoining most of these houses will be found a small summer kitchen,
a rude wooden frame, walled in and covered over with sods, with an
opening at the top to give vent to the smoke. These are entirely above
ground, rarely over five or six feet in diameter, and are littered with
filth and offal of all kinds; serving also as a refuge for the dogs
from the inclement weather. In the interior regions, where both fuel
and building material are more abundant, the houses change somewhat
in appearance and construction; the excavation of the coast-houses,
made for the purpose of saving both, disappears, and gives way to
log-structures above the ground, but still covered with sods. Living
within convenient distance of timber, the people (inland) do not depend
so much upon the natural warmth of mother-earth.’

All the islands in Alaskan waters are mountainous, some of the
elevations rising from four thousand to eight thousand feet; but the
entire division is devoid of trees. The soil is a mixture of loam,
clay, and volcanic detritus; and grasses of all kinds grow in great
abundance. Coal has been discovered in the island of Ounga; but this is
the only mineral riches yet disclosed, although ‘prospecting’ has been
carried on for years. The coal is of very poor quality. The climate
of this division is more temperate than that of the other districts,
and at one time it was thought that the rich grasses might allow of
cattle-breeding on a considerable scale. The long winters, however,
have shown this to be impracticable; and it has been found that hay,
even, can be imported from San Francisco cheaper than it can be grown
and cured on the spot. The only part where cattle are kept by the
priests and white traders is at Oonalashka, and the fact is interesting
as indicating the danger of trusting to poetic descriptions of places.
Thomas Campbell, it may be remembered, speaks of ‘the pilot’ guiding
his bark where

    Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow
    From wastes that slumber in eternal snow;
    And waft across the wave’s tumultuous roar,
    The wolf’s long howl from Oonalashka’s shore.

As a matter of fact, the country here is neither ‘wastes,’ nor does
it ‘slumber in eternal snow.’ The summer is warm; the vegetation,
as we have said, is rich; and it may be doubted if the ‘wolf’s long
howl’ has ever been heard by the oldest inhabitant. At anyrate, we
can find no mention of wolves there now, although foxes are abundant
enough. The Aleutian islands are well peopled; and the people are
semi-civilised, the Russians having had relations with them and
settlements and missions among them for more than a century. There
are now schools at which both English and Russian are taught, and
‘stores’ at which the natives can provide themselves with the clothing
of civilisation. The Aleutian ladies, indeed, whose lords have grown
rich with their seal-fishing, can even sport silks on great occasions,
and at all times display a fondness for ribbons and ‘trade’ jewellery.
Only the exceptionally rich, however, can afford bonnets or hats; and
the Russian-peasant fashion of tying a handkerchief over the head is
the prevailing one. The men are especially fond of the broad-crowned,
red-banded caps of the Russian uniforms, which were the first examples
of civilised clothing ever seen on their shores. While the men devote
themselves to the fishing, the women make mats, baskets, cigar-cases,
and other articles of grass-cloth; and they turn out some very delicate
and beautiful work. The waters are rich in fish of all kinds; but the
most important industry is the seal-fishing that is now conducted under
leases from the United States government, which retains the monopoly.

The south coast of the eastern half of the Alaska peninsula, with
the adjacent islands and a portion of the mainland, forms another
geographical division called the Kadiak section. It comprises
altogether some seventy thousand eight hundred and eighty-four
square miles, and has a population of four thousand three hundred
and fifty-two, of which thirty-four are whites, and nine hundred
and seventeen creoles. This district is mountainous, well watered,
abounds in fur-clad animals, and the men, when not hunters, are
fishers. Several settlements and missions were founded by the Russians
in various parts of this district; and at one time there was even a
ship-building establishment in Resurrection Bay. The forests are dense,
and some of the timber is of immense size, especially the spruce.

A narrow strip of coast running from Mount St Elias to the
boundary-line of British Columbia, forms the last or south-eastern
division of Alaska. It covers twenty-eight thousand nine hundred and
eighty square miles, and it forms a wedge of some five hundred miles in
length between Canada and the western sea. In character, this section
of Alaska differs from all the rest, and is essentially similar to
that of the British possessions. It is mountainous and densely wooded;
the forests come quite down to the sea-line, and are very valuable;
the coast is indented by countless bays and fiords, and is sheltered
the greater portion of its length by a chain of islands, forming the
Alexander Archipelago. The spruce and the yellow cedar are the most
valuable of the forest-trees, and the timber of these is annually
exported in considerable quantity. Coal exists on several of the
islands, and at some places on the mainland, but has not been worked
yet to any great extent. Both copper and gold are known to exist,
and have been and are to some extent being mined. Other minerals are
supposed to exist, and the Americans expect that this division of
Alaska will in time become a great mining field. Already the mining
industry has thrown the fur-trade into the second place, and yet
the yield of fox, marten, otter, bear, and beaver skins is annually
very considerable. The hunting is carried on by the natives, who are
of the Thlinket Indian race; the rest of the population of seven
thousand seven hundred and forty-eight being made up of two hundred
and ninety-three whites and two hundred and thirty creoles. Salmon,
halibut, and herring fishing are carried on along the coast; and there
are two or three salting and canning establishments. There are also
factories for the production of oil from the herring, the dog-fish, and
the shark; and on the islands there is some seal-fishing.

The climate of this division is not very cold, the average mean
temperature being forty-three degrees twenty-eight minutes; but the
rainfall is heavy, ranging from eighty to one hundred inches per annum.
The principal settlement of this district is Sitka. Here are the
headquarters of the United States naval station for Alaska, and here
also resides the collector of customs, who is the civil representative
of the government of Washington in the territory. In the time of the
Russians, there were several schools and churches at Sitka, but now
there is only one church, and the teaching is left practically to the
missionaries of the Presbyterian and Roman Catholic bodies.

The total population of the whole of the enormous country called Alaska
is computed at only 33,426, and of this number, only four hundred and
thirty are whites; creoles number 1756; Eskimos, 17,617; Aleuts, 2145;
Athabaskans, 3927; Thlinkets, 6763; and Hydas, 788. Of the habits,
customs, and beliefs of these curious peoples, we may tell something on
another occasion.

To sum up, it may be said that the acquisition of Alaska by the
Americans has been a good deal of a disappointment to them. They
thought it would be an excellent district for extensive settlement
for agricultural purposes, and the country, as we have seen, is quite
unsuited almost everywhere for such purposes. Then they had glowing
dreams of rich mineral deposits; but although gold and silver and coal
have been found, and are being partially worked, the mining industry
is a secondary feature in Alaskan wealth. The extent of the forests,
however, has been found greater than was expected. On this point,
the United States Commissioner thus enlarges: ‘The timber of Alaska
... clothes the steep hills and mountain sides, and chokes up the
valleys of the Alexander Archipelago and the contiguous mainland: it
stretches, less dense, but still abundant, along the inhospitable reach
of territory which extends from the head of Cross Sound to the Kenai
peninsula, where, reaching down to the westward and south-westward as
far as the eastern half of Kadiak Island, and thence across Shelikhof
Strait, it is found on the mainland and on the peninsula bordering on
the same latitude; but it is confined to the interior opposite Kadiak,
not coming down to the coast as far eastward as Cape Douglas. From
the interior of the peninsula, the timber-line over the whole of the
great area of Alaska will be found to follow the coast-line at varying
distances of from one hundred to one hundred and fifty miles from
the seaboard, until the section of Alaska north of the Yukon mouth
is reached, where a portion of the coast of Norton Sound is directly
bordered by timber as far north as Cape Denbigh. From this point to
the eastward and north-eastward, a line may be drawn just above the
Yukon and its immediate tributaries as the northern limits of timber
to any considerable extent. There are a number of small watercourses
rising here, that find their way into the Arctic, bordered by hills and
lowland ridges, on which some wind-stunted timber is found, even to the
shores of the Arctic Sea.

But although the tree-clothed area is thus enormous, the market value
of the timber is not so great as one might imagine. The most valuable
is the yellow cedar; but this is not nearly so abundant as the spruce
or fir, and even that is not of the very best quality.

More important than the timber is the produce of the waters, for it
is said that in the seas which wash the shores of Alaska there are no
fewer than seventy-five species of food-fishes. Many of these, however,
are only considered as suitable for bait wherewith to catch the richer
kinds. The chief of these is the cod, which abounds off the whole of
the southern coasts, and the catching and curing of which promises to
become an important industry. The quality is said to be quite equal to
the cod of the North Atlantic. We have already spoken of the salmon,
the herring, and halibut, all of which swarm in the waters in shoals of
countless myriads; and there are also many valuable white-fishes, which
at present are caught for native consumption only. Fish, indeed, is the
chief diet in Alaska, and the consumption is enormous.

But the real wealth at present of Alaska rests in the abundance of
its fur-skinned animals. It was for the fur-trade that the Russians
occupied the country after it had been discovered by Behring, and
it was mainly for the fur-trade that the Americans acquired it from
Russia. The extent of the trade has proved greater even than was
expected at the time of the transfer. The shipments of sea-otter and
fur-seal skins alone have more than doubled since 1867, and now average
annually about three hundred thousand pounds in value. Of land-furs, as
they are called, the list is a long one, and in the order of wideness
of distribution may be thus given: land-otter, beaver, brown bear,
black bear, red fox, silver fox, blue and white fox, mink, marten,
polar bear, lynx, and musk-rat. Rabbits, marmots, and wolverines are
also common, but the skins are retained by the natives. The annual
value of the furs, sea and land, now obtained from Alaska is estimated
to average about half a million sterling, and there is no sign of
decrease in the yield. On the contrary, the competition of the traders
for skins has stimulated the natives to greater industry in hunting;
while the prices now paid to the hunters are from four to ten times
more than were current during the Russian rule.




A GOLDEN ARGOSY.

_A NOVELETTE._


CHAPTER IV.

Queen Square, Bloomsbury, is a neighbourhood which by no means accords
with the expectation evoked by its high-sounding patronymic. It is,
besides, somewhat difficult to find, and when discovered, it has a
guilty-looking air of having been playing hide-and-seek with its most
aristocratic neighbours, Russell and Bloomsbury, and lost itself.
Before Southampton Row was the stately thoroughfare it is now, Queen
Square must have been a parasite of Russell Square; but in time it
seems to have been built out. You stumble upon it suddenly, in making
a short-cut from Southampton Row to Bedford Row, and wonder how it got
there. It is quiet, decayed—in a word, shabby-genteel—and cheap.

On the south side, sheltered by two sad-looking trees of a nondescript
character, and fronted by an imposing-looking portico, is a
decayed-looking house, the stucco of which bears a strong likeness
to the outside of a Stilton cheese. The windows are none too clean,
and the blinds and curtains are all deeply tinged with London fog and
London smoke. For the information of the metropolis at large, the door
bears a tarnished brass plate announcing that it is the habitation of
Mrs Whipple; and furthermore—from the same source—the inquiring mind
is further enlightened with the fact that Mrs Whipple is a dressmaker.
A few fly-blown prints of fashions, of a startling description and
impossible colour, support this fact; and information is further added
by the announcement that the artiste within lets apartments; for that
legend is inscribed, in runaway letters, on the back of an old showcard
which is suspended in one of the ground-floor windows.

From the general _tout ensemble_ of the Whipple mansion, the most
casual-minded individual on lodgings bent can easily judge of its
cheapness. The ‘ground-floor’—be it whispered in the strictest
confidence—pays twenty-five shillings per week; the honoured
‘drawing-rooms,’ two pounds; and the slighted ‘second-floors,’ what the
estimable Whipple denominates ‘a matter of fifteen shillings.’ It is
with the second-floors that our business lies.

The room was large, and furnished with an eye to economy. The carpet
was of no particular pattern, having long since been worn down to the
thread; and the household gods consisted of five chairs and a couch
covered by that peculiar-looking horsehair, which might, from its
hardness and capacity for wear, be woven steel. A misty-looking glass
in a maple frame, and a chimney-board decked with two blue-and-green
shepherdesses of an impossible period, completed the garniture. In the
centre of the room was a round oak table with spidery uncertain legs,
and at the table sat a young man writing. He was young, apparently
not more than thirty, but the unmistakable shadow of care lay on his
face. His dress was suggestive of one who had been somewhat dandyish in
time gone by, but who had latterly ceased to trouble about appearances
or neatness. For a time he continued steadily at his work, watched
intently by a little child who sat coiled up in the hard-looking
armchair, and waiting with exemplary patience for the worker to quit
his employment. As he worked on, the child became visibly interested
as the page approached completion, and at last, with a weary sigh, he
finished, pushed his work from him, and turned with a bright smile to
the patient little one.

‘You’ve been a very good little girl, Nelly.—Now, what is it you have
so particularly to say to me?’ he said.

‘Is it a tale you are writing, papa?’ she asked.

‘Yes, darling; but not the sort of tale to interest you.’

‘I like all your tales, papa. Uncle Jasper told mamma they were all so
“liginal.” I like liginal tales.’

‘I suppose you mean original, darling?’

‘I said liginal,’ persisted the little one, with childish gravity. ‘Are
you going to sell that one, papa? I hope you will; I want a new dolly
so badly. My old dolly is getting quite shabby.’

‘Some day you shall have plenty.’

The child looked up in his face solemnly. ‘Really, papa! But do you
know, pa, that some day seems such a long way off? How old am I, papa?’

‘Very, very old, Nelly,’ he replied with a little laugh. ‘Not quite so
old as I am, but very old.’

‘Yes, papa? Then do you know, ever since I can remember, that some day
has been coming. Will it come this week?’

‘I don’t know, darling. It may come any time. It may come to-day;
perhaps it is on the way now.’

‘I don’t know, papa,’ replied the little one, shaking her head
solemnly. ‘It is an awful while coming. I prayed so hard last night for
it to come, after mamma put me in bed. What makes mamma cry when she
puts me to bed? Is she crying for some day?’

‘Oh, that’s all your fancy, little one,’ replied the father huskily.
‘Mamma does not cry. You must be mistaken.’

‘No, indeed, papa; I’se not mistook. One day I heard mamma sing about
some day, and then she cried—she made my face quite wet.’

‘Hush, Nelly; don’t talk like that, darling.’

‘But she did,’ persisted the little one. ‘Do you ever cry, papa?’

‘Look at that little sparrow, Nelly. Does he not look hungry, poor
little fellow? He wants to come in the room to you.’

‘I dess he’s waiting for some day papa,’ said the child, looking out
at the dingy London sparrow perched on the window ledge. ‘He looks so
patient. I wonder if he’s hungry? I am, papa.’

The father looked at his little one with passionate tenderness. ‘Wait
till mamma comes, my darling.’

‘All right, papa; but I am _so_ hungry!—Oh, here is mamma. Doesn’t she
look nice, papa, and so happy?’

When Eleanor entered the dingy room, her husband could not fail to
notice the flush of hope and happiness on her face. He looked at her
with expectation in his eyes.

‘Did you think mother was never coming, Nelly? and do you want your
dinner, my child?’

‘You do look nice, ma,’ said the child admiringly. ‘You look as if you
had found some day.’

Eleanor looked inquiringly at her husband, for him to explain the
little one’s meaning.

‘Nelly and I have been having a metaphysical discussion,’ he said with
playful gravity. ‘We have been discussing the virtues of the future.
She is wishing for that impossible some day that people always expect.’

‘I don’t think she will be disappointed,’ said Mrs Seaton, with a fond
little smile at her child. ‘I believe I have found it.—Edgar, I have
been to see Mr Carver.’

‘I supposed it would have come to that. And he, I suppose, has been
poisoned by the sorceress, and refused to see you?’

‘O no,’ said Eleanor playfully. ‘We had quite a long chat—in fact, he
asked us all to dinner on Sunday.’

‘Wonderful! And he gave you a lot of good advice on the virtues of
economy, and his blessing at parting.’

‘No,’ she said; ‘he must have forgotten that: he gave me this envelope
for you with his compliments and best wishes.’

Edgar Seaton took the proffered envelope listlessly, and opened it with
careless fingers. But as soon as he saw the shape of the inclosure,
his expression changed to one of eagerness. ‘Why, it is a cheque!’ he
exclaimed excitedly.

‘O no,’ said his wife laughingly; ‘it is only the blessing.’

‘Well, it is a blessing in disguise,’ Seaton said, his voice trembling
with emotion. ‘It is a cheque for twenty-five pounds.—Nelly, God has
been very good to us to-day.’

‘Yes, dear,’ said his wife simply, with tears in her eyes.

Little Nelly looked from one to the other in puzzled suspense, scarcely
knowing whether to laugh or cry. Even her childish instinct discerned
the gravity of the situation.

‘Papa, has some day come? You look so happy.’

He caught her up in his arms and kissed her lovingly, and held her in
one arm, while he passed the other round his wife. ‘Yes, darling. Your
prayer has been answered. Some day—God be thanked—has come at last.’
For a moment no one spoke, for the hearts of husband and wife were full
of quiet thankfulness. What a little it takes to make poor humanity
happy, and fill up the cup of pleasure to the brim!

Round the merry dinner-table all was bright and cheerful, and it is
no exaggeration to say the board groaned under the profuse spread.
Eleanor lost no time in acquainting her husband with the strange story
of her uncle’s property, and Mr Carver’s views on the subject—a view
of the situation which he felt almost inclined to share after a little
consideration. It was extremely likely, he thought, that Margaret
Boulton would be able to throw some light on the subject; indeed, the
fact of her strange rescue from her self-imposed fate pointed almost
to a providential interference. It was known that she had a long
conversation with Mr Morton the day he died, a circumstance which
seemed to have given Miss Wakefield great uneasiness; and her strange
disappearance from Eastwood directly after the funeral gave some
colouring to the fact.

Margaret Boulton had not risen that day owing to a severe cold caught
by her exposure to the rain on the previous night; and Edgar and his
wife decided, directly she did so, to question her upon the matter. It
would be very strange if she could not give some clue.

‘I think, Nelly, we had better take Felix into our confidence,’ said
Edgar, when the remains of dinner had disappeared in company with the
grimy domestic. ‘He will be sure to be of some assistance to us; and
the more brains we have the better.’

‘Certainly, dear,’ she acquiesced; ‘he should know at once.’

‘I think I will walk to his rooms this afternoon.’

‘No occasion,’ said a cheerful voice at that moment. ‘Mr Felix is here
very much at your service. I’ve got some good news for you; and I am
sure, from your faces, you can return the compliment.’


CHAPTER V.

Mr Felix was much struck by the tale he heard, and was inclined, in
spite of the dictates of common-sense, to follow the Will-o’-the-wisp
which grave Mr Carver had discovered. In a prosaic age, such a thing
as the disappearance of a respectable Englishman’s wealth was on the
face of it startling enough; and therefore, although the thread was at
present extremely intangible, he felt there must be something romantic
about the matter. Mr Felix, be it remembered, was a man of sense; but
he was a dreamer of dreams, and a weaver of romance by profession
and choice; consequently, he was inclined to pooh-pooh Edgar’s
half-deprecating, half-enthusiastic view of the case.

‘I do not think you are altogether right, Seaton, in treating this
affair so cavalierly,’ he said. ‘In the first place, Miss Wakefield
is no relation in blood to your wife’s uncle. If the property was in
her hands, I should feel myself justified in taking steps to have the
existing will set aside; but so long as there is nothing worth doing
battle for, it is not worth while, unless Miss Wakefield has the money,
and is afraid of proceedings’——

‘That is almost impossible,’ Eleanor interrupted. ‘You have really no
conception how fond she is of show and display, and I know no such fear
would prevent her indulging her fancy, if she had the means to do so.’

‘So long as you are really persuaded that is the case, we have one
difficulty out of the way,’ Felix continued. ‘Then we can take it for
granted that she neither has the money nor has the slightest idea where
it is.—Now, tell me about this Margaret Boulton.’

‘That is soon told,’ Eleanor replied. ‘Last night, shortly alter
eleven, I was crossing Waterloo Bridge’——

‘Bad neighbourhood for a lady to be alone,’ interrupted Felix, with a
reproachful glance at Seaton.—‘I beg your pardon. Go on, please.’

‘I had missed my husband at Waterloo Station, and I was hurrying home
as quickly as I could’——

‘Why did you not take a cab?’ exclaimed Felix with some asperity. Then
seeing Eleanor colour, he said hastily: ‘What a dolt I am! I—I am very
sorry. Please, go on.’

‘As I was saying,’ continued Eleanor, ‘just as I was crossing the
bridge, I saw a woman close by me climb on to one of the buttresses. I
don’t remember much about it, for it was over in less than a minute,
and seems like a dream now; but it was my old nurse, or rather
companion, Margaret Boulton, strange as it seems. Now, you know quite
as much as I can tell you.’

Felix mused for a time over this strange history. He could not shake
off the feeling that it was more than a mere coincidence. ‘Seriously,’
he said, ‘I feel something will come of this.’

‘I hope so,’ answered Eleanor with a little sigh. ‘Things certainly
look a little better now than they did; but we need some permanent
benefit sadly.’

‘I thought some day had come, mamma,’ piped little Nelly from her nest
on the hearthrug.

‘Little pitchers have long ears,’ said the novelist. ‘Come and sit on
poor old Uncle Jasper’s knee, Nelly, and give him a kiss.’

‘Yes, I will, Uncle Jasper; but I’m not a little pitcher, and I’ve not
dot long ears.—Mamma, are my ears long?’

‘No, darling,’ replied her mother with a smile. ‘Uncle Felix was not
speaking of you.’

‘Then I will sit upon his knee.’ Whereupon she climbed up on to that
lofty perch, and proceeded to draw invidious distinctions between Mr
Felix’ moustache and the hirsute appendage of her father, a mode of
criticism which gave the good-natured literary celebrity huge delight.

‘Now,’ continued Felix, when he had placed the little lady entirely
to her satisfaction—‘now to resume. In the first place, I should
particularly like to see this Margaret Boulton to-day.’

‘I do not quite agree with you, Mr Felix. It would be cruel, with her
nerves in such a state, to cross-examine her to-day,’ Mrs Seaton said
with womanly consideration. ‘You can have no idea what such a reaction
means.’

‘Precisely,’ Felix replied grimly. ‘Do you not see what I mean? Her
nervous system is particularly highly strung at present—the brain in
a state of violent activity, probably; and she is certain to be in a
position to remember the minutest detail, and may give us an apparently
trivial hint, which may turn out of the utmost importance.’

‘Still, it seems the refinement of cruelty,’ said Eleanor, her womanly
kindness getting the better of her curiosity. ‘She is in a particularly
nervous state. Naturally, she is inclined to be morbidly religious,
and the mere thought of her attempted crime last night upsets her.’

‘Yes, perhaps so,’ Felix said; ‘but I should like to see her now. We
cannot tell how important it may be to us.’

‘I declare your enthusiasm is positively contagious,’ laughed
Seaton.—‘Really, Felix, I did not imagine you were so deeply imbued
with curiosity. My wife is bad enough, but you are positively girlish.’

‘Indeed, sir, you belie me,’ said Eleanor with mock-indignation. ‘I
am moved by a little natural inquisitiveness; but I shall certainly
not permit that unfortunate girl to be annoyed for the purpose of
gratifying the whim of two grown-up children.’

‘_Mea culpa_,’ Felix replied humbly. ‘But I should like to see the
interesting patient, if only for a few minutes.’

Eleanor laughed merrily at this persistent charge. ‘Well, well,’ she
said, ‘I will go up to Margaret and ascertain if she is fit to see any
one just yet; but I warn you not to be disappointed, for she certainly
shall not be further excited.’

‘I do not think the curiosity is all on our side,’ Felix said, as
Eleanor was leaving the room.—‘You are a fortunate man, Seaton, in
spite of your troubles,’ he continued. ‘A wife like yours must make
anxiety seem lighter.’

‘Indeed, you are right,’ Edgar answered earnestly. ‘Many a time I have
felt like giving it up, and should have done so, if it had not been for
Eleanor.’

‘Strange, too,’ said Felix musingly, ‘that she does not give one the
impression of being so brave and courageous. But you never can tell. I
have been making a study of humanity for twenty years, and I have been
often disappointed in my models. I have seen the weakest do the work of
the strongest. I have seen the strongest, on the other hand, go down
before the first breath of trouble. I have seen the most acid of them
all make the most angelic of wives.’

‘I wonder you have never married, Felix.’

‘Did I not tell you my model women have always been the first to
disappoint me?’ he replied lightly. ‘Besides, what woman could know
Jasper Felix and love him?’

‘Your reputation alone’——

‘Yes, my reputation—and my money,’ Felix said bitterly. ‘Twenty years
ago, when I was plain Jasper Felix, I did—— But bah! I don’t want to
discuss faded rose-leaves with you.—Let us change the subject. I have
some good news for you. In the first place, I have sold the article you
gave me.’

‘Come, that is cheering. I suppose you managed to screw a guinea out of
one of your friends for me?’

‘On the contrary, I sold it on its merits,’ Felix replied, ‘and ten
pounds was the price.’

‘Ten pounds! Am I dreaming, or am I a genius?’

‘Neither; which is true, if not complimentary. There is the cheque
to prove you are not dreaming; and as to the other thing, you have
no genius, but you have considerable talent.—But I have some further
news for you. I have had a note from the editor of _Mayfair_, to whom
I showed your work. Now, Baker of the _Mayfair_ is about the finest
judge of literary capacity I know. He says he was particularly struck
with your descriptive writing; and if you like to undertake the work,
he wants you to visit the principal of the foreign gambling clubs in
London, and work up a series of gossiping articles for his paper. The
work will not be particularly pleasant; but you will have the _entrée_
of all these clubs, and the golden key to get to the working part of
the machinery. The thing will be hard and somewhat hazardous; but it is
a grand opportunity of earning considerable _kudos_. Will you undertake
it?’

‘Undertake it!’ said Seaton, springing to his feet. ‘Will I not? Felix,
you have made a new man of me. Had it not been for you, I don’t know
what would have become of us by this time. I cannot thank you in words,
but you know that I feel your kindness.’

‘I do not see why this should not lead to something like fortune;
anyway, it means comfort and ease, if I do not mistake your capacity,’
said Felix, totally ignoring the other’s gratitude. ‘If I were in your
place, I should not tell my wife I was doing anything dangerous.’

‘Poor child, how thankful she will be! But you are perfectly right as
regards the danger—not that I fear it particularly, though there is no
reason to make her anxious.’

‘What mischief are you plotting?’ said Eleanor, entering the room at
that moment. ‘You look on particularly good terms with yourselves.’

‘Good news, Nelly, good news! I have actually got permanent work to do.
You need not ask whose doing it is.’

‘No, no,’ said Felix modestly. ‘It is your own capability you must
thank.—What about the patient?’

‘I really must ask you to postpone your inquiry for the present,’ she
replied; ‘she is incapable of answering any questions just now. Indeed,
I am so uneasy, that I have sent for a doctor.’

‘Indeed! Well, I suppose we must wait for the present.—And now, I must
tear myself away,’ said Felix, as he rose and proceeded to button his
overcoat.—‘Seaton, you must hold yourself in readiness for your work at
any moment.—No thanks, please,’ as Eleanor was about to speak. ‘Now, I
must go.—Good-night, little Nelly; don’t forget to think of poor old
Uncle Jasper sometimes.’

‘Good-night, Felix,’ said Edgar with a hearty hand-shake. ‘I won’t
thank you; but you know how I feel.—Good-night, dear old boy!’




‘IN AT THE DEATH.’


There were three of us chumming together in a solitary little hole
in the jungle, not so very far—as one counts distance in India—from
Secunderabad. We were Cooper’s Hill young men; and fate and the
government had given us a chance of distinguishing ourselves, and
extinguishing our fellow-creatures, by the making of a branch railway
including a bridge and a tunnel. So there were three of us; and a right
jolly time we had on the whole. Our bungalow was a real work of art,
covered with creepers, by which I do not mean to insinuate centipedes,
of which, however, there were also a good few, but jessamine,
plumbago, a climbing moss—which one of us had rescued from the tangle
of the jungle, and coaxed to live in a more civilised position—besides
many other lovely specimens. To save our valuable time, we generally
addressed each other by our initials. Mine, unfortunately, spelt M. A. G.,
to which my companions, in moments of hilarity, sometimes added a
second course of P. I. E. I was the eldest of the trio.

We had not been very long at our branch-line work, when I was laid low
with an exhausting attack of jungle fever and ague. My friends E. S. P.
and H. F. by turns nursed me with a tenderness and care for which I can
never be sufficiently grateful. I pulled through, thanks to them; but
since that time, have been subject to rather severe fits of ague, from
one of which I was recovering, at the time the incident happened I wish
to tell you about.

It had been an absolutely broiling day, and we had been driven to the
verge of insanity between the heat and the flies. We were reclining,
after our day’s work, on our basket sofas, on the veranda, in the cool
of the evening, puffing away solemnly and silently at our brier-root
pipes, when it suddenly struck us that a group of native workmen, who
were superintending the cooking of their evening meal in a corner of
our very improvised sort of compound, must have received some exciting
intelligence. Being young and sportively inclined, we were all three
fellows of one idea, and that idea was, ‘tigers.’

‘Just call to that gaping fool and ask him what’s up,’ suggested I, in
a washed-out voice.

‘St John!’ shouted E. S. P., whose voice carried farther than either
of ours, clapping his hands loudly at the same time, to attract the
attention of the gabbling group; and up came the tallest, thinnest
native to be met in a very long day’s ride. We had christened this man
‘St John,’ first, because he wore the most fearfully and wonderfully
made camel’s-hair garment that civilised eyes ever looked upon; and
secondly, because he was so desperately lean and lanky, we were certain
that he must feed on either locusts or grasshoppers, which are both
supposed to be a very anti-fat diet.

Up, then, came this mysterious coolie; and, with many salaams, much
gesticulation and showing the whites of his eyes, he informed us that
there was a most bloodthirsty man-eater lurking in the neighbourhood,
close by, at our very door! I looked nervously round, not enjoying the
idea of being caught by Monsieur Maneater armed only with a brier-wood
pipe. E. and H. at once appeared to be seized with St Vitus’s dance, so
absurdly and hysterically active had they suddenly become.

‘Where was he last seen?’ ‘How large was he?’ ‘What village was the
scene of his last meal?’ ‘How many people was he known to have eaten?’
‘Who brought the news?’ ‘Send him up to be questioned!’

St John went away; and in a few minutes reappeared, accompanied by a
native postman, who, it seemed, knowing that the railway Sahibs were
partial to tiger, had kindly dropped in with the intelligence. We found
out all we could from the man, and rewarded him with some money and
tobacco.

The last victim was a poor native woman, who had crept into the corner
of the veranda of a bungalow some miles away, and fallen asleep, from
which, poor soul, she was roughly awakened, and then half-carried,
half-dragged to a clump of thick jungle-grass and bushes about two and
a half miles from where we were. The postman’s eyes and teeth glistened
with sympathetic pleasure, as he saw how keen and eager the other two
fellows were to be after the brute. I was out of it altogether, as I
could not trust my shaky hands with a rifle in such a case of life
or death, so I looked on and listened to all their suggestions and
arrangements with the deepest interest.

‘That poor old bag of bones is not likely to have afforded him much of
a “gorge,”’ said H. ‘He may turn up on _our_ veranda to-night, boys, to
see if he can find some light refreshment here.’

‘He will get some black pepper which may not agree with him,’ said
E. S. P., who had gone into what we called our armoury and brought
out his rifle, which he began to clean and make ready for very active
service.

By this time darkness had closed in round us, with that small respect
for twilight which so bothers the enterprising traveller in foreign
lands. The servants and workmen had dispersed to their various
habitations, and our white-headed native factotum was standing before
us announcing dinner.

‘Hush!’ said H., putting his finger up in a commanding way and
listening intently. ‘Didn’t either of you hear something leap over the
wall?’

‘Oh, bother your imagination—I’m off to dinner,’ said I, rising
abruptly, and disappearing through the open window. The other fellows
followed, and were soon busily employed in making the most of _the_
meal of the day and arranging about the morrow’s sport.

When ‘To Tum,’ as we irreverently called our venerable butler, brought
me my tea and biscuits at six the next morning, I had much to ask him,
for E. and H. had gone off without waking me, probably thinking that
the sight of them with two rifles in their hands, and a tiger in the
bush, would be too exciting and tantalising for me. I found that the
Massa Sahibs had departed after a very hasty breakfast, and had taken
St John with them, carrying a third gun, in case of accident. A railway
coolie reported distant shots, heard about an hour after the Sahibs had
left the bungalow; but nothing had since been seen or heard of men or
man-eater.

‘You can open that blind, To Tum,’ said I, pointing to one of the
windows looking towards the north, for I thought I should probably see
the conquering heroes returning that way, covered with glory and thorn
scratches. The butler had departed and left me to my meditations, and
good intentions of performing my toilet and going to see what was doing
on the line. I continued to lie, looking dreamily out of the window,
the jalousie of which To Tum had thrown back. It was not much of a
view, consisting only of a corner of the compound wall and the jungle
beyond; but a soft pinky haze beautified everything; and, fanned by a
most delicious cool breeze, I closed my eyes again and dozed for a few
minutes, utterly and blissfully ignorant that sudden death had just
cleared that compound wall, and was making, stealthily and wearily,
straight for my open window. I heard—in a dream as it were, so did not
heed—a curious scratching noise, followed by soft limping footsteps
across the veranda; then heavy breathing, almost gasping, which seemed
so unpleasantly near, that I opened my sleepy, dreamy eyes just in time
to see his most Serene Highness the Bengal tiger throw himself in an
utterly done-for condition by the side of my bed!

Here was a situation! My very marrow seemed to freeze in my bones, and
every hair on my head was alive with electrified fright. I lay as still
as a corpse, and in my heart thanked a considerate providence which had
made the beast turn its back to me, instead of its villainous face. I
was too paralysed even to think of what I could do to get out of the
room, which, perhaps, was fortunate. The animal had evidently run far
and fast, as its panting sides and foam-flaked jaws plainly showed;
so there was just a feeble chance of its going to sleep, and _then_
would be the time to cautiously escape. Its great murderous-looking
paws were stained with blood; and, though I could see that one of them
was wounded, the idea _would_ take possession of my weak and agitated
mind, that it was the blood of one of my companions, and not the
tiger’s own. Suddenly, to my horror, the brute lifted its head from
its paws, pricked up its ears, and listened intently. I also listened
as well as I could; but every nerve was throbbing, and the sound in
both ears was as the surging of stormy waves on a pebbly beach. I,
too, however, caught a distant ‘click,’ very faint and indistinct,
and I could not make out what it was. The tiger again composed itself
to sleep or watch; it was impossible to see if its eyes were open or
shut. After a lifetime of miserable sensations, I guessed, by the even
rise and fall of its sides, that it must be having what might not be
more than the proverbial forty winks; so now was my time, or never!
Not once taking my eyes off the object of my terror, I slipped out of
the bed, which gave a gentle creak, that, to my fevered imagination,
sounded like a death knell. He did not move! I wished I had more on, I
felt _so_ defenceless. I crept slowly to the door, not taking one foot
off the ground till I had carefully steadied myself on both. I reached
the only thing that divided me from comparative safety, softly turned
the handle. The door was locked! For one second I had taken my steady
gaze from the sleeping brute; when I looked again, what a change! Head
thrown back, ears flat, eyes glaring savagely, and flanks trembling and
quivering with the stealthy movement of an animal about to spring! But
not at me! I followed the tiger’s glance, and caught a glimpse of the
barrel of a rifle, just one second—then a flash—a roar—a struggle—and I
fell senseless on the floor.

When I came to myself, I was lying wrapped in my dressing-gown on a
sofa in the sitting-room. E. S. P. was kneeling beside me with a bottle
of something in his hand, and H. F. was standing at my feet with an
expression of the greatest solicitude.

‘Don’t talk just yet, old fellow,’ said he; ‘wait till you feel
stronger, and we’ll tell you all about it. By Jove! you _had_ a narrow
escape.’

After a few minutes’ quiet, my curiosity awoke in full force. ‘Tell
me,’ said I—‘did you kill him straight off?’

‘O yes,’ answered E. S. P. ‘He’s as dead as mutton. But we had no idea
that you were there. To Tum told us that you had gone to the line ages
ago; and we tracked the brute through your open window, where he had
taken refuge. H. wounded him in the off hind-leg, when we got our first
sight of him in the jungle; and instead of coming at us, he bolted,
and led us a precious dance. To Tum bolted your door on the outside,
thinking it would stand a charge better, in case the tiger made one;
but he thought that you were safe off the premises.’

‘Well,’ said I, shuddering at the recollection, ‘I really don’t think I
am more cowardly than most people, but may I never spend another such
_mauvais quart d’heure_!’




OCCASIONAL NOTES.


A NEW LIGHT.

The rise and progress of the mineral-oil industry are too well known
to need any special comment. In this and other countries, the supply
of hydro-carbon oils, both from shale-beds and springs, has of late
years received remarkable development. Nor will surprise be expressed,
viewing the enormous quantities of this material brought into the
market, and the low figure at which it can be supplied, that efforts
are continually being made, and experiments carried out, to utilise in
new forms the heat and light giving properties so eminently possessed
by this commodity.

Some little time back, we touched on heat-production from hydro-carbon
oil, and pointed out its adaptability for raising steam on board ships,
and similar cases where saving in space and weight forms an important
desideratum. Since then, matters have advanced considerably, and the
late voyage of a vessel in British waters propelled entirely by oil-fed
furnaces, sufficiently testifies to the progress already made.

Hydro-carbon oils promise, however, to find employment in another
direction—namely, for lighting purposes, and already at the great
Forth Bridge works a considerable number of the new lights are in
regular operation, and giving results in every respect satisfactory.
The essential principle involved in this method of lighting consists
in forcing air, compressed to about twenty pounds on the square inch,
through the heavy hydro-carbon oil. The oil issues from the burner
in a fine spray, which burns with a remarkably steady and brilliant
light, the oxygen of the air being thoroughly consumed. The absence
of smoke and smell is particularly noticeable. The oil is stored in
circular tanks of galvanised iron, holding some twenty gallons, or
about ten hours’ supply. A vertical tube extends upwards from the tank
and carries the burner; whilst an ingeniously contrived shade, arranged
to turn around the burner according to the direction of the wind,
affords shelter to the flame. A safety-valve is fitted to the tank to
obviate any undue increase of pressure in the air. The whole apparatus
is mounted on a stand some fifteen to twenty feet high, and sheds a
brilliant light for at least two hundred yards.

It may be added that the well-diffused light of the new system
contrasts very forcibly with the black dense shadows cast by the
electric light, and forms a strong argument in favour of the former.
The power required to supply air is not large, about one-eighth
horse-power being found sufficient for each light. Thus, a small
air-compressor of five horse-power can readily produce abundant
pressure for forty lights. When employed on a large scale, and laid
down permanently, other economies and conveniences can be effected, as,
for example, the erection of a central tank arranged to feed all the
burners.

Turning now to the oil employed, it may be noted that almost any oil
may be utilised, the crude and waste products of oil and gas works
being found to yield excellent results. This fact alone, enabling
products of small value to be rendered serviceable, should advance
the light in no small degree. There is beyond all question a large
field for any illuminating agent, which can be readily erected in
goods-sheds, ship-yards, or engineering works, and can be worked at
moderate cost. Whether or not this adaptation of hydro-carbon oil
will fulfil all the conditions necessary to render it a commercial
success and lead to its wide development, time alone can tell. We have,
however, shown that it has already done good work, and promises well
for the future.


MR G. A. SALA ON LABOUR IN AUSTRALIA.

Mr G. A. Sala, recently addressing the representative of an Australian
journal, said: ‘I recognise that labour is needed everywhere in
Australia—more working men, more domestic servants, more young men,
more intelligent men, more Scotsmen—as many more as ever you like. I
think I have also been able to discern the people who are not required
here. These are the black-sheep of good families, loafers, idlers,
young men who come out and spend their money, drift into dissolute
habits, get remittances to take them home again, where they do nothing
but abuse the colonies, of which they know nothing, and in which their
presence was likely to do more harm than good. I have been preaching
lay sermons for a good many years; and were I not too old and too
wicked, I would get into some pulpit at home and preach as a minister,
for certainly ministers have more influence over their congregations
than lecturers have over audiences. I would say to my hearers: “My
capable, hard-working, shrewd, intelligent brethren, go out to
Australia. You and your wives and your children, go out, work hard; and
be assured that, with or without capital, you will, by hard working,
frugality, and sobriety, greatly better your condition. Not only that,
but you will also better those whom you leave behind. You will give
more and more backbone, more and more muscle, more and more red blood,
to the body politic of Australia.” But I would also add: “My idle
brethren, my stupid brethren, my wicked, needy brethren, my vicious
brethren, my drunken brethren, stop at home and gravitate to your
natural refuge, the poorhouse. Do not go out to Australia to become a
nuisance and a pest there.” Then, in more forbearing language, I would
amicably advise young men in England of mere clerical attainments, who
can at best only hope to be bookkeepers or shop assistants, to think
twice, nay thrice, before they travel thirteen thousand miles to find
a country where the native youths equal, if they do not excel them in
the ability demanded by the requirements of the counting-house and
shop-counter.’


FOREIGN COMPETITION.

Sir John Brown, of the well-known firm of John Brown & Co., has
said that he ‘feared England had almost, if not altogether reached
the summit of her prosperity, and that she must not again look for
any material prosperity such as the last thirty or forty years had
displayed.’ English trade was being nibbled right and left by Germany,
Austria, Prussia, and the United States. Illustrating this, Sir John
stated that his large ship-building Company at Hull had recently taken
their supplies of steel plates from Germany at prices varying from
ten shillings to twenty shillings per ton below the prices at which
Sheffield could supply the material. The same was true of ship-building
firms at Newcastle and other places. Notwithstanding the cost of
carriage, rails were sent more cheaply from Germany, by Antwerp and the
German Ocean, to Hull and Newcastle than they could be made in England.
A process of cold-rolling is known only to certain French and American
houses; and it is curious, but not altogether creditable to ourselves,
that steel is sent to Paris to be cold-rolled, and is afterwards
returned to this country.




BONNIE DRYFE.


    Bonnie Dryfe, my native stream,
      I have loved thee lang and dearly,
    Glancing in the sunny beam,
      Glinting through the bracken clearly.

    Wayward, wandering, mountain bairn,
      Dancing down thy glen so grassy,
    Leaping light by cliff and cairn,
      Gleesome as a muirland lassie.

    Singing by the Roman moat,
      Neighbours ye’ve been lang together,
    Sadd’ning memories vex thee not,
      Lilting blithely through the heather.

    Seaward wandering, bright and free,
      Dreaming not of Old World story;
    Fallen empire’s nought to thee,
      Older thou than Roman glory.

    I have roamed by silver Tweed,
      Stately Clyde majestic rushing,
    Strayed where Highland rivers speed
      O’er their rocky channels gushing.

    Nane can sing a sang like thine,
      Nane can dance so light and airy,
    Nane can cheer this heart o’ mine
      Like thee, thou merry mountain fairy.

            WILLIAM GARDINER.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._