23, 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. 108.—VOL. III.      SATURDAY, JANUARY 23, 1886.      PRICE 1½_d._]




AN ANGLER’S IDYLL.


I am once more at the water’s edge. It is the Tweed, silver-voiced,
musical, its ripples breaking into liquid crystals as the rushing
stream leaps into the breast of the softly-circling pool. Here, in its
upper reaches, amid the pastoral hills of Peeblesshire, its volume of
fair water is untainted by pollution. It has miles and miles yet to
run ere it comes up with the floating scum and dismal discoloration of
‘mill-races’ and the refuse of the dye-house. And, there!—is not that
Drummelzier Castle on the opposite bank above, its gray walls powdered
with the yellows and browns of spreading lichens, and its shattered
bastions waving here and there a crest of summer’s greenest grass? The
fierce old chieftains who wrangled Border-fashion in its halls are
silent to-day; the wild Tweedies and Hays and Veitches have had their
rough voices smothered in the churchyard dust. From the shady angle of
the old tower steps out a great brindled bull, leading his following
of milky dames to where the pasture is juicy in the haughs below. I
am thankful the broad deep stream is between us, for as he lifts his
head and sees me where I stand, he announces his displeasure in a short
angry snort and a sudden lashing of his ponderous tail. Perhaps it is
only the flies tormenting him. In any case, it is well to be beyond his
reach.

Above me and around are the great brown hills of Tweed-dale. They have
this morning a dreamy look. The soft west wind plays about them, and
the sunlight weaves a web of mingled glory and gloom over their broad
summits and down their furrowed sides. The trees wave green branches
in the soft warm air; but I hear them not—only the swish and tinkle of
the waters. The sheep that feed upon the long gray slopes move about
in a kind of spectral stillness; I almost fancy I hear them bleat, but
may be mistaken, so far-off and dream-like is the sound. A distant shot
is heard, and a flock of white pigeons rise with swift wing from the
summit of the battered old keep, and wheel quick circles round the
tower, then settle down as still and unseen as before. And something
else is moving on the farther side. It is a milkmaid, tripping down the
bank towards the river, her pitchers creaking as she goes. She pauses
ere dipping them in the stream, and looks with level hand above her
eyes across the meadows now aflame with the morning sun. Perhaps she
expects to see some gallant Patie returning from the ‘wauking o’ the
fauld,’ or some bashful Roger hiding mouse-like behind the willows.
Her light hair has been bleached to a still lighter hue by the suns
and showers of many a summer day, but these, though they have bronzed
her broad brow and shapely neck, have left undimmed the rosy lustre
of her cheek. Light-handed, red-cheeked Peggy, go thy way in sweet
expectation! When the westering sun flings purple shadows over the
hills, he whose rustic image stirs thy glowing pulses shall steal to
meet thee here.

And I?—what have I to do? There is the tempting stream; the pliant rod,
with its gossamer line and daintily busked lures, is ready to hand.
Deft fingers have mounted it for me without ostentation or display.
There has been no struggling with hanked line or tangled cast; I have
been served like a prince among anglers, and am ready-equipped to step
into the stream. And yet at the moment I am all alone; for round me
only are the silent hills, and beneath me the broadly-flowing Tweed.

I have never fished so before. I feel as light as if the normal fifteen
pounds to the square inch of atmospheric pressure no longer existed
for me. Ah, with what delight I feel the cool water lapping round my
limbs, as I fling the light line far across the rippling stream, and
watch the ‘flies’ as they drop and float downwards with the current.
The broad brown hills, the dewy woods, the gray tower, are forgotten
now. The brindled bull and his milky following have gone, with the
rosy milkmaid, out of sight and out of mind. The pigeons high on the
shattered keep may wheel fleet circles as they choose, and spread white
wings in the orient sun, but they cannot draw my eyes from the charmed
spot. Down there, in the haugh beneath, near to where Powsail Burn
joins the Tweed, the thorn-tree is shading the wizard’s grave; but gray
Merlin, sleeping or waking, living or dead, is nothing to me. Yonder,
up the river, is Mossfennan Yett, and the Scottish king, for all I
know, may once more be riding round the Merecleugh-head, ‘booted and
spurred, as we a’ did see,’ to alight him down, as in days of old, and
‘dine wi’ the lass o’ the Logan Lea;’ but to me that old royal lover is
at this moment a thing of nought. Border story and Border song, tale
of love and deed of valour—what are they now to me, with the soft wind
sighing round my head and the swift river rushing at my feet?

A splendid stream, indeed! For a hundred yards it sweeps with broken
and jagged surface, from the broad shallow above to the deep dark pool
below. In the strong rush of its current, it is not easy keeping your
feet. The bottom is of small pebbles, smooth and round, gleaming yellow
and brown through the clear water, and they have an awkward knack of
slipping cleverly from beneath your feet, giving you every now and
then a queer sensation of standing upon nothing. But this is only for
a moment, or ever so much less than a moment. For if it were longer
than the quickest thought, it might bring you a bad five minutes. To
lose your footing in this swift-hurrying stream, might be to have a
fleet passage into the great pool that hugs its black waters beneath
the shadow of yonder gloomy rock over which the pine-trees wave their
sunless boughs. But really, after all, one has no fear of that. Usage
gives security. The railway train in which you sit quietly reading the
morning paper, might at any moment leave the rails, or break an axle,
or collide with the stone bridge ahead; but you do not think of that,
or anticipate it—or, if you did, life would not be worth living. So is
it here in the broad Tweed. With the faculties engrossed in the work of
the moment, foot and hand are equally and instinctively alert. Slowly
and securely you move over the shining pebbles, making cast after
cast—wondering if ever you are to have a rise.

I must work here with cautious hand and shortened line. For a belt
of trees borders the river on the farther side, and a long-armed ash
is pushing his boughs far out over the stream, as if seeking to dip
his leaf-tips in the cool-flowing water. To hank one’s line on these
quivering boughs would lead to a loss of time and probably of temper,
and this morning everything is too beautiful and bright for any angry
mood. As yet I have no success. Not a fin is on the rise; not a single
silvery scale has glittered. Still, what beauties I know to be lurking
there. You see that point, where the ground juts out a little into
the stream, and a ragged alder hangs with loosened roots from the
crumbling bank? It is being slowly undermined by the stream, and one
day will slip down and be carried away. But as yet, it affords a rare
sheltering-place for the finny tritons. It was but last season I hooked
one at that very spot, and after a long and stubborn fight got my net
beneath him, and went victor home.

And I know that others are there still, as brave and as beautiful as
he. In fancy’s eye I can see them even now, lying with head up-stream,
and motionless but for now and then a quick jerk of the tail sideways,
their yellow flanks gleaming in speckled radiance when a sunbeam
reaches them through the fret-work of the overhanging leaves. That
sharp jerk of the tail sideways means that they are keeping their
weather-eye open. Being, among other things, insectivorous, they know
if they would secure their prey they must be quick about it, hence they
are ever on the alert. And yet, the flies which I am offering must have
passed close by them a dozen times, but still they have stirred not,
except in that knowing way which indicates they are not to be taken
in. They have learned a thing or two, these Tweed trout, since the
time of the Cæsars. Speak about animals not having reasoning powers?
Let any one who deludes himself with this vain fallacy, purchase the
best angling apparatus going, and then try his hand upon Tweed trout.
Three hours afterwards he will not feel quite so satisfied as to the
immeasurable superiority of man over the lower creatures. He may even
have some half-defined suspicion that it is himself, and not the other
party, that has been taken in. And not without cause. These Tweed trout
can pick you out an artificial fly as skilfully as a tackle-maker.

The thought disheartens me for a moment, as I stand here, lashing away,
middle-deep in the stream. But it is only for a moment. The wind is
soft; the air is bright, but not too bright, with sunshine; a luminous
haze is gathering between me and the distant mountains, and the skies
have now more of gray than of blue in their airy texture. Everything is
beautiful, from the soft contour of the rounded hills to the glitter
and sparkle of the silvery stream.—But, there! My reel is whirring off
with a sound that seals the senses against everything else. He is _on_!
I saw him rise, and as he turned to descend I struck—and there he is!
It was all quicker than thought. He has rushed up-stream a dozen yards,
but is turning now. As I reel in, I begin mentally to calculate the
ratio of his weight to his strength of pull. This is a useful thing to
do; because if you should happen to lose your fish, you are then in
a position to assure your friend Jones, who is higher up the water,
and very likely has done nothing, that you had one ‘on’ which was two
pounds if it was an ounce. Jones will of course believe it, and condole
with you upon your loss—perhaps with a secret chuckle.

But this is digressive. I have other work than to talk about Jones at
present. Master Fario is not taking kindly to the bridle which I have
put in his mouth, and is having another run for it. There he goes,
swish out of the water a couple of feet. What an exhilarating moment!
Another leap and whirl, and off he goes careering towards the pool
below in a way you never saw. But the line is running out after him,
and still he is fast. The fight is keen, but he is worth fighting for.
With the point of the rod well up, and a considerable strain upon the
line, he must soon either yield—or break off. The alternative is
dreadful to contemplate. So I renew my caution, and play him gently.
By-and-by I feel he is yielding. Reeling in once more, I soon draw him
within range of eyesight. What a beauty he is! Plump and fat, the very
pink of trouts! Moving uneasily from side to side—boring occasionally
as if he would make his way down to catch hold of something, but
with a swinging and swaying motion about him indicative of failing
power—he comes nearer and nearer to me where I stand, breathless with
excitement, dreading lest, even at this last stage of the struggle,
I may yet lose him. The supreme moment is at hand! He is almost
at my feet. I hold the rod with one hand, and with the other undo
the landing-net. He circles round me at as great a distance as the
shortened line will allow, and though I have tried once or twice to
pass the net beneath him, he has hitherto managed to baffle me. But
now, at last, the net is under him—and, there——

       *       *       *       *       *

Tap, tap!—‘Come in!’—And enter two or three little ones to hid papa
good-night. Ah, little sweethearts, what a vision you have undone! The
flowing stream, the overhanging trees, the old gray tower, the silent
hills, have all, at the touch of your tiny fingers, vanished!

I was not dreaming—no, nor yet asleep. My hook lies turned face down
on my knee, and my pipe, extinguished, is still between my lips. It
is towards the end of December; the Christmas bells have already rung
out their message, and the New Year is waiting, in a few days to be
ushered in. Outside, the wind is blowing in loud noisy gusts through
the darkness, scattering the snow-flakes before it in a level drift.
Here, in my bookroom, as I sat with foot on fender, watching the
glowing embers in the grate, thoughts of summer days had stolen over
me. I was once more by silvery Tweed, under sunny skies, plying ‘the
well-dissembled fly’—the storm and the snow-drift without, being as
if they were not. To you, reader, I have uttered aloud the reverie of
those brief five minutes of swift fancy; to you, brother anglers, may
that phantasmal expedition be the harbinger of coming sport; and with
each and all of you I now will part, bidding you reverently, as I bid
my little ones, Good-night!




IN ALL SHADES.


CHAPTER V.

The letter from Edward that had so greatly perturbed old Mr Hawthorn
had been written, of course, some twenty days before he received
it, for the mail takes about that time, as a rule, in going from
Southampton across the Atlantic to the port of Trinidad. Edward had
already told his father of his long-standing engagement to Marian; but
the announcement and acceptance of the district judgeship had been so
hurried, and the date fixed for his departure was so extremely early,
that he had only just had time by the first mail to let his father
know of his approaching marriage, and his determination to proceed at
once to the West Indies by the succeeding steamer. Three weeks was all
the interval allowed him by the inexorable red-tape department of the
Colonial Office for completing his hasty preparations for his marriage,
and setting sail to undertake his newly acquired judicial functions.

‘Three weeks, my dear,’ Nora cried in despair to Marian; ‘why, you
know, it can’t possibly be done! It’s simply impracticable. Do those
horrid government-office people really imagine a girl can get together
a trousseau, and have all the bridesmaids’ dresses made, and see about
the house and the breakfast and all that sort of thing, and get herself
comfortably married, all within a single fortnight? They’re just like
all men; they think you can do things in less than no time. It’s
absolutely preposterous.’

‘Perhaps,’ Marian answered, ‘the government-office people would say
they engaged Edward to take a district judgeship, and didn’t stipulate
anything about his getting married before he went out to Trinidad to
take it.’

‘Oh, well, you know, if you choose to look at it in that way, of course
one can’t reasonably grumble at them for their absurd hurrying. But
still the horrid creatures ought to have a little consideration for a
girl’s convenience. Why, we shall have to make up our minds at once,
without the least proper deliberation, what the bridesmaids’ dresses
are to be, and begin having them cut out and the trimmings settled this
very morning. A wedding at a fortnight’s notice! I never in my life
heard of such a thing. I wonder, for my part, your mamma consents to
it.—Well, well, I shall have you to take charge of me going out, that’s
one comfort; and I shall have my bridesmaid’s dress made so that I can
wear it a little altered, and cut square in the bodice, when I get
to Trinidad, for a best dinner dress. But it’s really awfully horrid
having to make all one’s preparations for the wedding and for going
out in such a terrible unexpected hurry.’ However, in spite of Nora,
the preparations for the wedding were duly made within the appointed
fortnight, even that important item of the bridesmaids’ dresses being
quickly settled to everybody’s satisfaction.

Strange that when two human beings propose entering into a solemn
contract together for the future governance of their entire joint
existence, the thoughts of one of them, and that the one to whom the
change is most infinitely important, should be largely taken up for
some weeks beforehand with the particular clothes she is to wear on the
morning when the contract is publicly ratified! Fancy the ambassador
who signs the treaty being mainly occupied for the ten days of the
preliminary negotiations with deciding what sort of uniform and
how many orders he shall put on upon the eventful day of the final
signature!

At the end of that short hurry-scurrying fortnight, the wedding
actually took place; and an advertisement in the _Times_ next morning
duly announced among the list of marriages, ‘At Holy Trinity, Brompton,
by the Venerable Archdeacon Ord, uncle of the bride, assisted by
the Rev. Augustus Savile, B.D., EDWARD BERESFORD HAWTHORN, M.A.,
Barrister-at-law, of the Inner Temple, late Fellow of St Catherine’s
College, Cambridge, and District Judge of the Westmoreland District,
Trinidad, to MARIAN ARBUTHNOT, only daughter of General C. S. Ord,
C.I.E., formerly of the Bengal Infantry.’ ‘The bride’s toilet,’ said
the newspapers, ‘consisted of white broché satin de Lyon, draped with
deep lace flounces, caught up with orange blossoms. The veil was
of tulle, secured to the hair with a pearl crescent and stars. The
bouquet was composed of rare exotics.’ In fact, to the coarse and
undiscriminating male intelligence, the whole attire, on which so much
pains and thought had been hurriedly bestowed, does not appear to have
differed in any respect whatsoever from that of all the other brides
one has ever looked at during the entire course of a reasonably long
and varied lifetime.

After the wedding, however, Marian and Edward could only afford a
single week by way of a honeymoon, in that most overrun by brides and
bridegrooms of all English districts, the Isle of Wight, as being
nearest within call of Southampton, whence they had to start on their
long ocean voyage. The aunt in charge was to send down Nora to meet
them at the hotel the day before the steamer sailed; and the general
and Mrs Ord were to see them off, and say a long good-bye to them on
the morning of sailing.

Harry Noel, too, who had been best-man at the wedding, for some reason
most fully known to himself, professed a vast desire to ‘see the last
of poor Hawthorn,’ before he left for parts unknown in the Caribbean;
and with that intent, duly presented himself at a Southampton hotel on
the day before their final departure. It was not purely by accident,
however, either on his own part or on Marian Hawthorn’s, that when
they took a quiet walk that evening in some fields behind the battery,
he found himself a little in front with Nora Dupuy, while the newly
married pair, as was only proper, brought up the rear in a conjugal
tête-à-tête.

‘Miss Dupuy,’ Harry said suddenly, as they reached an open space in the
fields, with a clear view uninterrupted before them, ‘there’s something
I wish to say to you before you leave to-morrow for Trinidad—something
a little premature, perhaps, but under the circumstances—as you’re
leaving so soon—I can’t delay it. I’ve seen very little of you, as yet,
Miss Dupuy, and you’ve seen very little of me, so I daresay I owe you
some apology for this strange precipitancy; but—— Well, you’re going
away at once from England; and I may not see you again for—for some
months; and if I allow you to go without having spoken to you, why’——

Nora’s heart throbbed violently. She didn’t care very much for Harry
Noel at first sight, to be sure; but still, she had never till now had
a regular offer of marriage made to her; and every woman’s heart beats
naturally—I believe—when she finds herself within measurable distance
of her first offer. Besides, Harry was the heir to a baronetcy, and
a great catch, as most girls counted; and even if you don’t want to
marry a baronet, it’s something at least to be able to say to yourself
in future, ‘I refused an offer to be Lady Noel.’ Mind you, as women
go, the heir to an old baronetcy and twelve thousand a year is not
to be despised, though you may not care a single pin about his mere
personal attractions. A great many girls who would refuse, the man
upon his own merits, would willingly say ‘Yes’ at once to the title and
the income. So Nora Dupuy, who was, after all, quite as human as most
other girls—if not rather more so—merely held her breath hard and tried
her best to still the beating of her wayward heart, as she answered
back with childish innocence: ‘Well, Mr Noel; in that case, what would
happen?’

‘In that case, Miss Dupuy,’ Harry replied, looking at her pretty little
pursed-up guileless mouth with a hungry desire to kiss it incontinently
then and there—‘why, in that case, I’m afraid some other man—some
handsome young Trinidad planter or other—might carry off the prize on
his own account before I had ventured to put in my humble claim for
it.—Miss Dupuy, what’s the use of beating about the bush, when I see
by your eyes you know what I mean! From the moment I first saw you,
I said to myself: “She’s the one woman I have ever seen whom I feel
instinctively I could worship for a lifetime.” Answer me yes. I’m no
speaker. But I love you. Will you take me?’

Nora twisted the tassel of her parasol nervously between her finger
and thumb for a few seconds; then she looked back at him full in the
face with her pretty girlish open eyes, and answered with charming
naïveté—just as if he had merely asked her whether she would take
another cup of tea:—‘Thank you, no, Mr Noel; I don’t think so.’

Harry Noel smiled with amusement—in spite of this curt and simple
rejection—at the oddity of such a reply to such a question. ‘Of
course,’ he said, glancing down at her pretty little feet to hide his
confusion, ‘I didn’t expect you to answer me _Yes_ at once on so very
short an acquaintance as ours has been. I acknowledge it’s dreadfully
presumptuous in me to have dared to put you a question like that, when
I know you can have seen so very little in me to make me worth the
honour you’d be bestowing upon me.’

‘Quite so,’ Nora murmured mischievously, in a parenthetical undertone.
It wasn’t kind; I daresay it wasn’t even lady-like; but then you see
she was really, after all, only a school-girl.

Harry paused, half abashed for a second at this very literal acceptance
of his conventional expression of self-depreciation. He hardly knew
whether it was worth while continuing his suit in the face of such
exceedingly outspoken discouragement. Still, he had something to say,
and he determined to say it. He was really very much in love with Nora,
and he wasn’t going to lose his chance outright just for the sake of
what might be nothing more than a pretty girl’s provoking coyness.

‘Yes,’ he went on quietly, without seeming to notice her little
interruption, ‘though you haven’t yet seen anything in me to
care for, I’m going to ask you, not whether you’ll give me any
definite promise—it was foolish of me to expect one on so brief an
acquaintance—but whether you’ll kindly bear in mind that I’ve told you
I love you—yes, I said love you’—for Nora had clashed her little hand
aside impatiently at the word. ‘And remember, I shall still hope, until
I see you again, you may yet in future reconsider the question.—Don’t
make me any promise, Miss Dupuy; and don’t repeat the answer you’ve
already given me; but when you go to Trinidad, and are admired and
courted as you needs must be, don’t wholly forget that some one in
England once told you he loved you—loved you passionately.’

‘I’m not likely to forget it, Mr Noel,’ Nora answered with malicious
calmness; ‘because nobody ever proposed to me before, you know; and
one’s sure not to forget one’s first offer.’

‘Miss Dupuy, you are making game of me! It isn’t right of you—it isn’t
generous.’

Nora paused and looked at him again. He was dark, but very handsome. He
looked handsomer still when he bridled up a little. It was a very nice
thing to look forward to being Lady Noel. How all the other girls at
school would have just jumped at it! But no; he was too dark by half
to meet her fancy. She couldn’t give him the slightest encouragement.
‘Mr Noel,’ she said, far more seriously this time, with a little sigh
of impatience, ‘believe me, I didn’t really mean to offend you. I—I
like you very much; and I’m sure I’m very much flattered indeed by what
you’ve just been kind enough to say to me. I know it’s a great honour
for you to ask me to—to ask me what you have asked me. But—you know, I
don’t think of you in that light, exactly. You will understand what I
mean when I say I can’t even leave the question open. I—I have nothing
to reconsider.’

Harry waited a moment in internal reflection. He liked her all the
better because she said _no_ to him. He was man of the world enough to
know that ninety-nine girls out of a hundred would have jumped at once
at such an eligible offer. ‘In a few months,’ he said quietly, in an
abstracted fashion, ‘I shall be paying a visit out in Trinidad.’

‘Oh, don’t, pray, don’t,’ Nora cried hastily. ‘It’ll be no use, Mr
Noel, no use in any way. I’ve quite made up my mind; and I never change
it. Don’t come out to Trinidad, I beg of you.’

‘I see,’ Harry said, smiling a little bitterly. ‘Some one else has
been beforehand with me already. No wonder. I’m not at all surprised
at him. How could he possibly see you and help it?’ And he looked with
unmistakable admiration at Nora’s face, all the prettier now for its
deep blushes.

‘No, Mr Noel,’ Nora answered simply. ‘There you are mistaken. There’s
nobody—absolutely nobody. I’ve only just left school, you know, and
I’ve seen no one so far that I care for in any way.’

‘In that case,’ Harry Noel said, in his decided manner, ‘the quest will
still be worth pursuing. No matter what you say, Miss Dupuy, we shall
meet again—before long—in Trinidad. A young lady who has just left
school has plenty of time still to reconsider her determinations.’

‘Mr Noel! Please, don’t! It’ll be quite useless.’

‘I must, Miss Dupuy; I can’t help myself. You will draw me after you,
even if I tried to prevent it. I believe I have had one real passion in
my life, and that passion will act upon me like a magnet on a needle
for ever after. I shall go to Trinidad.’

‘At anyrate, then, you’ll remember that I gave you no encouragement,
and that for me, at least, my answer is final.’

‘I _will_ remember, Miss Dupuy—and I won’t believe it.’

       *       *       *       *       *

That evening, as Marian kissed Nora good-night in her own bedroom at
the Southampton hotel, she asked archly: ‘Well, Nora, what did you
answer him?’

‘Answer who? what?’ Nora repeated hastily, trying to look as if she
didn’t understand the suppressed antecedent of the personal pronoun.

‘My dear girl, it isn’t the least use your pretending you don’t know
what I mean by it. I saw in your face, Nora, when Edward and I caught
you up, what it was Mr Noel had been saying to you. And how did you
answer him? Tell me, Nora!’

‘I told him _no_, Marian, quite positively.’

‘O Nora!’

‘Yes, I did. And he said he’d follow me out to Trinidad; and I told him
he really needn’t take the trouble, because in any case I could never
care for him.’

‘O dear, I _am_ so sorry. You wicked girl! And, Nora, he’s such a nice
fellow too! and so dreadfully in love with you! You ought to have taken
him.’

‘My dear Marian! He’s so awfully black, you know. I really believe he
must positively be—be _coloured_.’




OUR DOMESTICATED OTTER.


One fine day in early autumn, while straying along the banks of one
of the sparkling little trout streams which appear to be at once the
cause and the purpose of those lovely winding valleys so numerous in
Northern Devon, our attention was drawn, by a faint distressed chirping
sound, to a small dark object stirring in the grass at some distance
from the stream. We hurried to the spot, and there saw, to our great
surprise, wet, muddy, and uneasily squirming at our feet, a baby otter!
Poor infant! how came it there? By what concatenation of untoward
circumstances did the helpless innocent find itself in a position so
foreign to the habits of its kind? Its appearance under conditions so
utterly at variance with our experience of the customs and manners of
otter society, was so amazing, that we could scarcely believe our eyes.
However, there the little creature undoubtedly was; and congratulating
ourselves on this unlooked-for and valuable addition to our home
menagerie—for these animals are rare in Devon, and to light upon a
young scion of the race in evident need of a home and education was
quite a piece of good luck—the forlorn bantling was promptly deposited
in a coat-pocket and proudly borne homewards.

Introduced to the family circle, ‘Tim’—as he was afterwards duly
christened—became at once the centre of domestic interest and unceasing
care. To feed him was necessarily our first consideration. A feline
or canine mother deprived of her young was suggested as a suitable
foster-mother; but, unfortunately, no such animal was at hand, and
meantime the creature must be fed. We therefore procured an ordinary
infant’s feeding-bottle, and filling it with lukewarm cow’s milk,
essayed thus to make good the absence of mamma-otter. At first the
little stranger absolutely declined even to consider this arrangement,
and in consequence pined somewhat; but in the end the pangs of hunger
wrought a change in his feelings, and after several energetic though
unscientific attempts, he overcame the difficulties of his new feeding
apparatus, and was soon vigorously sucking. For a time, all went well.
Tim, with commendable regularity, alternately filled himself with milk
and slept peacefully in his basket of sweet hay. But at the close of
the second day, a change came over our interesting charge; he was
restless and uneasy during the night, and in the morning, refused to
feed, and appeared to be suffering pain. Finally, his respiration
became laboured and difficult, and for a whole day and night our hopes
of rearing him were at the lowest ebb. But at the end of that time, to
our great satisfaction, the distressing symptoms began to abate, and in
a few hours had disappeared, and the convalescent returned _con amore_
to his bottle. Believing his attack was attributable to over-feeding,
we henceforth diluted the cow’s milk with warm water, and removed his
bottle at the first sign of approaching satiety, nor did we again
administer it until his demands for sustenance became vociferous and
imperative. On this system we were successful in rearing him in the
face of many prophecies of failure.

At this early stage of his existence, being exhibited to admiring
friends, he crawled laboriously and flatly about on the carpet, with
a decided preference for backward motion; but if he encountered
a perpendicular surface, such as the sides of his hamper or a
trouser-leg, he would, with the aid of his claws, climb up it with
considerable agility. He distinctly showed a love of warmth, and gave
us to understand that he appreciated caresses, by nestling down in
feminine laps, and ceasing his plaintive cry while our hands were about
him. On awakening from sleep, he would begin, as do ducklings and
chickens, with a gentle reminder of his existence and requirements.
If no notice were taken of this, the note—which was something between
the magnified chirp of a chicken and the very earliest bark of a
puppy—would steadily increase in power and insistence, until it became
an absolute clamour. When his bottle was given to him, he would seize
on the leather teat and tug at it, and plunge about with a violence and
impatience which defeated its own end, and woe to the unwary or awkward
fingers which came in the way of the tiny fine white teeth at this
moment!

Obstacles overcome and success attained, Tim settled down to steady
sober enjoyment; the webbed paws were alternately spread and closed
like a cat’s when thoroughly content, and the tail curled and uncurled
and wagged to and fro, as does a lamb’s when happily feeding. After the
lapse of a few days, our new pet showed decided signs of intelligence
and a sense of fun: he would run round after one’s finger in a
clumsy-lively way, and a jocular poke in the ribs would rouse him to an
awkwardly playful attempt to seize the offending digit. In less than
three weeks he knew his name, and scuttled across the room when called,
followed us about the garden, and endeavoured to establish friendly
relations with a pet wild rabbit, which was furiously jealous of the
new favourite, and administered sly scratches, and ‘hustled’ him on
every possible occasion.

About this time, he also acquired a charming habit of beginning, the
moment the sun rose, a clamour which deprived half the household of
further sleep, and which was only to be quieted by his being taken
into some one’s bed, where he would at once ‘snuggle’ down and lie
motionless for hours. At first we resisted this importunity on the
part of Tim, partly because an otter is not exactly the animal one
would select as a bedfellow, and partly because we could not think it
a desirable or wholesome habit for the creature itself. But Master Tim
was too much for us. ‘If you won’t let me sleep with you, you shan’t
sleep at all!’ he declared in unmistakable language, and by dint of
sticking to his point he carried it.

At the end of the first month of his civilised life, some one gave him
a scrap of raw meat; and after that, though he ate bread and milk very
contentedly between times, he made us understand that his constitution
required the support of animal food, and was never satisfied without
his daily ration of uncooked flesh. Fish, strange to say, he seemed to
prefer cooked. When we were seated at meals, a hand held down would
bring Tim quickly to one’s side with an eager look in the small yellow
eyes; his cold nose sniffed at one’s fingers with rapid closing and
unclosing of the curiously formed nostrils; the softly furred head
would be thrust into the palm in search of the expected dainty morsel.
If none were to be found, his temper would be sadly ruffled, sometimes
to the extent of inflicting with his teeth a sharp reminder that not
even an otter’s feelings should be trifled with!

As he grew older, he developed an amount of intelligence scarcely to
be expected from the small brain contained in the flat and somewhat
snake-like head; he showed decided preferences for some members of
the family over others; if permitted, he would follow everywhere at
our heels like a dog, and played with the children after the manner
of one, but with awkward springs and jumps that put us in mind of a
particularly ungraceful lamb. He occasionally made quite energetic
assaults on the ankles of some of the ladies of the family; and if he
perceived that the owner of unprotected ankles went in fear of him,
showed a malicious pleasure in renewing the attack at every favourable
opportunity.

When the children went for a country ramble, Tim frequently accompanied
them, taking the greatest delight in these excursions. He would be
carried until beyond danger from wandering dogs, and then being set at
liberty, the fun would begin. Master Tim, all eagerness, trotting on
before in search of interesting facts, the children take advantage of a
moment when all his faculties are engaged with some novelty attractive
to the otter mind, to vanish through a neighbouring gate or behind a
haystack. The unusual quiet soon arouses Tim’s suspicions; he looks
round, and finds himself alone. The situation, from its strangeness,
is appalling to him; he utters a shriek of despair, and scurries back
as fast as his legs can take him, squeaking loudly all the time. If
he should chance, in his fright, to pass by the hiding-place of his
young protectors without discovering them, great is their delight.
One little face after another peers out and watches, with mischievous
glee, poor Tim’s plump and anxious form trundling along as fast as is
possible to it in the wrong direction! But very soon the humour of the
situation is too much for some young spirit, and a smothered laugh or
a half-suppressed giggle reaches the tiny sharp ears, and Tim quickly
turns, and with another shriek of mingled satisfaction and indignation,
gives chase to his playful tormentors. Once arrived in the open
meadows, where this novel game of hide-and-seek is not possible, it is
Tim’s turn. Still, he follows obediently enough, frisking and gamboling
in the fresh soft grass, until one of the innumerable small streams is
approached. As soon as he catches sight of the water, he is off. At a
rapid trot he hurries to the brink, and with swift and noiseless dart,
in a flash he has disappeared in the current, and in another reappeared
some yards away. Rolling over, turning, twisting, diving, he revels
in his cold bath, and it is sometimes a matter of no small difficulty
to get him out of the water. A cordon of children is formed—the two
biggest with bare feet and legs, to cut off his retreat up and down
stream—which, gradually closing in on him, seizes him at last; and
reluctantly he is compelled to dry himself in the grass preparatory to
returning to the forms and ceremonies of civilised life.




A GOLDEN ARGOSY.

_A NOVELETTE._


CHAPTER VI.

‘How do you feel now, Margaret?’

‘Nearly over, Miss Nelly. I shall die with the morning.’

A week later, and the patient had got gradually worse. The constant
exposure, the hard life, and the weeks of semi-starvation, had told
its tale on the weak womanly frame. The exposure in the rain and cold
on that eventful night had hastened on the consumption which had long
settled in the delicate chest. All signs of mental exhaustion had
passed away, and the calm hopeful waiting frame of mind had succeeded.
She was waiting for death; not with any feeling of terror, but with
hopefulness and expectation.

Up to the present, Eleanor had not the heart to ask for any memento
or remembrance of the old life; but had nursed her patient with an
unceasing watchful care, which only a true woman is capable of. All
that day she had sat beside the bed, never moving, but noting, as hour
after hour passed steadily away, the gradual change from feverish
restlessness to quiet content, never speaking, or causing her patient
to speak, though she was longing for some word or sign.

‘You have been very good to me, Miss Nelly. Had it not been for you,
where should I have been now!’

‘Hush, Margaret; don’t speak like that. Remember, everything is
forgiven now. Where there is great temptation, there is much
forgiveness.’

‘I hope so, miss—I hope so. Some day, we shall all know.’

‘Don’t try to talk too much.’

For a while she lay back, her face, with its bright hectic flush,
marked out in painful contrast to the white pillow. Eleanor watched her
with a look of infinite pity and tenderness. The distant hum of busy
Holborn came with dull force into the room, and the heavy rain beat
upon the windows like a mournful dirge. The little American clock on
the mantel-shelf was the only sound, save the dry painful cough, which
ever and anon proceeded from the dying woman’s lips. The night sped on;
the sullen roar of the distant traffic grew less and less; the wind
dropped, and the girl’s hard breathing could be heard painfully and
distinctly. Presently, a change came over her face—a kind of bright,
almost unearthly intelligence.

‘Are you in any pain, Madge?’ Eleanor asked with pitying air.

‘How much lighter it is!’ said the dying girl. ‘My head is quite clear
now, miss, and all the pain has gone.—Miss Nelly, I have been dreaming
of the old home. Do you remember how we used to sit by the old fountain
under the weeping-ash, and wonder what our fortunes would be? I little
thought it would come to this.—Tell me, miss, are you in—in want?’

‘Not exactly, Madge; but the struggle is hard sometimes.’

‘I thought so,’ the dying girl continued. ‘I would have helped you
after _she_ came; but you know the power she had over your poor uncle,
a power that increased daily. She used to frighten me. I tremble now
when I think of her.’

‘Don’t think of her,’ said Eleanor soothingly. ‘Try and rest a little,
and not talk. It cannot be good for you.’

The sufferer smiled painfully, and a terrible fit of coughing shook her
frame. When she recovered, she continued: ‘It is no use, Miss Nelly:
all the rest and all your kind nursing cannot save me now. I used to
wonder, when you left Eastwood so suddenly, why you did not take me;
but now I know it is all for the best. Until the very last, I stayed in
the house.’

‘And did not my uncle give you any message, any letter for me?’ asked
Eleanor, with an eagerness she could not conceal.

‘I am coming to that. The day he died, I was in his room, for she was
away, and he asked me if I ever heard from you. I knew you had written
letters to him which he never got; and so I told him. Then he gave
me a paper for you, which he made me swear to deliver to you by my
own hand; and I promised to find you. You know how I found you,’ she
continued brokenly, burying her face in her hands.

‘Don’t think of that now, Margaret,’ said Eleanor, taking one wasted
hand in her own. ‘That is past and forgiven.’

‘I hope so, miss. Please, bring me that dress, and I will discharge my
trust before it is too late. Take a pair of scissors and unpick the
seams inside the bosom on the left side.’

The speaker watched Eleanor with feverish impatience, whilst, with
trembling fingers, she followed the instructions. Not until she had
drawn out a flat parcel, wrapped securely in oiled paper, did the look
of impatience transform to an air of relief.

‘Yes, that is it,’ said Margaret, as Eleanor tore off the covering. ‘I
have seen the letter, and have a strange feeling that it contains some
secret, it is so vague and rambling, and those dotted lines across it
are so strange. Your uncle was so terribly in earnest, that I cannot
but think the paper has some hidden meaning. Please, read it to me.
Perhaps I can make something of it.’

‘It certainly does appear strange,’ observed Eleanor, with suppressed
excitement.

Turning towards the light, Eleanor read as follows:

[Illustration: _Darling, we must now be friends. Remember, Nelly, in
the garden you promised to obey my wishes. Under the care of Miss
Wakefield I hoped you would improve but now I see it was not to be, and
as prudence teaches us that all is for the best I must be content. Ask
Edgar to forgive me the wrong I have done you both in the past, and
this I feel his generous heart will not withhold from me. Now that it
is too late I see how blind I have been, and could I live my life over
again how different things would be. Times are changed, yet the memory
of past days lingers within me, and like Niobe, I mourn you. When I am
gone you will find my blessing a gift that is better than money._]

The paper was half a sheet of ordinary foolscap, and the words
were written without a single break or margin. It was divided
perpendicularly by five dotted lines, and by four lines horizontally,
and displayed nothing to the casual eye but an ordinary letter in a
feeble handwriting.

The tiny threads of fate had begun to gather. All yet was dark and
misty; but in the gloom, faint and transient, was one small ray of
light.

Eleanor gazed at the paper abstractedly for a few moments, vaguely
trying to find some hidden clue to the mystery.

‘You must take care of that paper, Miss Nelly. Something tells me it
contains a secret.’

‘And have you been searching for me two long years, for the sole
purpose of giving me this?’ Eleanor asked.

‘Yes, miss,’ the sufferer replied simply. ‘I promised, you know.
Indeed, I could not look at your uncle and break a vow like mine.’

‘And you came to London on purpose?’

‘Yes. No one knew where I was gone. I have no friends that I remember,
and so I came to London. It is an old tale, miss. Trying day by day
to get employment, and as regularly failing. I have tried many things
the last two bitter years. I have existed—I cannot call it living—in
the vilest parts of London, and tried to keep myself by my needle; but
that only means dying by inches. God alone knows the struggle it is for
a friendless woman here to keep honest and virtuous. The temptation
is awful; and as I have been so sorely tried, I hope it will count in
my favour hereafter. I have seen sights that the wealthy world knows
nothing of. I have lived where a well-dressed man or woman dare not
set foot. Oh, the wealth and the misery of this place they call London!’

‘And you have suffered like this for me?’ Eleanor said, the tears now
streaming down her face. ‘You have gone through all this simply for my
sake? Do you know, Madge, what a thoroughly good woman you really are?’

‘_I_, miss?’ the dying girl exclaimed in surprise. ‘How can I possibly
be that, when you know what you do of me! O no; I am a miserable sinner
by the side of you. Do you think, Miss Nelly, I shall be forgiven?’

‘I do not doubt it,’ said Eleanor softly; ‘I cannot doubt it. How many
in your situation could have withstood your temptation?’

‘I am so glad you think so, miss; it is comfort to me to hear you say
that. You were always so good to me,’ she continued gratefully. ‘Do you
know, Miss Nelly dear, whenever I thought of death, I always pictured
you as being by my side?’

‘Do you feel any pain or restlessness now, Margaret?’

‘No, miss; thank you. I feel quite peaceful and contented. I have done
my task, though it has been a hard one at times. I don’t think I could
have rested in my grave if I had not seen you.—Lift me up a little
higher, please, and come a little closer. I can scarcely see you now.
My eyes are quite misty. I wonder if all dying people think about their
younger days, Miss Nelly? _I_ do. I can see it all distinctly: the old
broken fountain under the tree, where we used to sit and talk about the
days to come; and how happy we all were there before she came. Your
uncle was a different man then, when he sat with us and listened to
your singing hymns. Sing me one of the old hymns now, please.’

In a subdued key, Eleanor sang _Abide with me_, the listener moving her
pallid lips to the words. Presently, the singer finished, and the dying
girl lay quiet for a moment.

‘Abide with me. How sweet it sounds! “Swift to its close ebbs out
life’s little day.” I am glad you chose my favourite hymn, Miss Nelly.
I shall die repeating these words: “The darkness deepens; Lord, with me
abide.” Now it is darker still; but I can feel your hand in mine, and I
am safe. I did not think death was so blessed and peaceful as this. I
am going, going—floating away.’

‘Margaret, speak to me!’

‘Just one word more. How light it is getting! Is it morning? I can see.
I think I am forgiven. I feel better, better! quite forgiven. Light,
light, light! everywhere. I can see at last.’

It was all over. The weary aching heart was at rest. Only a woman, done
to death in the flower of youth by starvation and exposure; but not
before her task was done, her work accomplished. No lofty ambition to
stir her pulses, no great goal to point to for its end. Only a woman,
who had given her life to carry out a dying trust; only a woman, who
had preserved virtue and honesty amid the direst temptation. What an
epitaph for a gravestone! A eulogy that needs no glittering marble to
point the way up to the Great White Throne.


CHAPTER VII.

Mr Carver sat in his private office a few days later, with Margaret’s
legacy before him. A hundred times he had turned the paper over. He
had held it to the light; he had looked at it upside down, and he
had looked at it sideways and longways; in fact, every way that his
ingenuity could devise. He had even held it to the fire, in faint hopes
of sympathetic ink; but his labour had met with no reward. The secret
was not discovered.

The astute legal gentleman consulted his diary, where he had carefully
noted down all the facts of the extraordinary case; and the more he
studied the matter, the more convinced he became that there was a
mystery concealed somewhere; and, moreover, that the key was in his
hands, only, unfortunately, the key was a complicated one. Indeed, to
such absurd lengths had he gone in the matter, that Edgar Allan Poe’s
romances of _The Gold Bug_ and _The Purloined Letter_ lay before him,
and his study of those ingenious narratives had permeated his brain
to such an extent lately, that he had begun to discover mystery in
everything. The tales of the American genius convinced him that the
solution was a simple one—provokingly simple, only, like all simple
things, the hardest of attainment. He was quite aware of the methodical
habits of his late client, Mr Morton, and felt that such a man could
not have written such a letter, even on his dying bed, unless he had a
powerful motive in so doing. Despite the uneasy consciousness that the
affair was a ludicrous one to engage the attention of a sober business
man like himself, he could not shake off the fascination which held him.

‘Pretty sort of thing this for a man at my time of life to get mixed
up in,’ he muttered to himself. ‘What would the profession say if
they knew Richard Carver had taken to read detective romances in
business hours? I shall find myself writing poetry some day, if I
don’t take care, and coming to the office in a billy-cock hat and
turn-down collar. I feel like the heavy father in the transpontine
drama; but when I look in that girl’s eyes, I feel fit for any lunacy.
Pshaw!—Bates!’

Mr Bates entered the apartment at his superior’s bidding. ‘Well, sir?’
he said. The estimable Bates was a man of few words.

‘I can _not_ make this thing out,’ exclaimed Mr Carver, rubbing his
head in irritating perplexity. ‘The more I look at it the worse it
seems. Yet I am convinced’——

‘That there is some mystery about it!’

‘Precisely what I was going to remark. Now, Bates, we must—we really
must—unravel this complication. I feel convinced that there is
something hidden here. You must lend me your aid in the matter. There
is a lot at stake. For instance, if’——

‘We get it out properly, I get my partnership; if not, I shall have
to—whistle for it, sir!’

‘You are a very wonderful fellow, Bates—very. That is precisely what I
was going to say,’ Mr Carver exclaimed admiringly. ‘Now, I have been
reading a book—a standard work, I may say.’

‘Williams’s Executors, sir, or——?’

‘No,’ said Mr Carver shortly, and not without some confusion; ‘it is
not that admirable volume—it is, in fact, a—a romance.’

Mr Bates coughed dryly, but respectfully, behind his hand. ‘I beg
your pardon, sir; I don’t quite understand. Do you mean you have been
reading a—novel?’

‘Well, not exactly,’ replied Mr Carver blushing faintly. ‘It is, as I
have said, a romance—a romance,’ he continued with an emphasis upon the
substantive, to mark the difference between that and an ordinary work
of fiction. ‘It is a book treating upon hidden things, and explaining,
in a light and pleasant way, the method of logically working out a
problem by common-sense. Now, for instance, in the passage I have
marked, an allusion is made, by way of example.—Did you ever—ha, ha!
play at marbles, Bates?’

‘Well, sir, many years ago, I might have indulged in that little
amusement,’ Mr Bates admitted with professional caution; ‘but really,
sir, it is such a long time ago, that I hardly remember.’

‘Very good, Bates. Now, in the course of your experience upon the
subject of marbles, do you ever remember playing a game called “Odd and
Even?”’

Bates looked at his principal in utter amazement, and Mr Carver,
catching the expression of his face, burst into a hearty laugh, faintly
echoed by the bewildered clerk. The notion of two gray-headed men
solemnly discussing a game of marbles in business hours, suddenly
struck him as being particularly ludicrous.

‘Well, sir,’ Bates said with a look of relief, ‘I don’t remember the
fascinating amusement you speak of, and I was wondering what it could
possibly have to do with the case in point.’

‘Well, I won’t go into it now; but if you should like to read it for
yourself, there it is,’ said Mr Carver, pushing over the yellow-bound
volume to his subordinate.

Mr Bates eyed the volume suspiciously, and touched it gingerly with
his forefinger. ‘As a matter of professional duty, sir, if you desire
it, I will read the matter you refer to; but if it is a question of
recreation, then, sir, with your permission, I would rather not.’

‘That is a hint for me, I suppose, Bates,’ said Mr Carver with much
good-humour, ‘not to occupy my time with frivolous literature.’

‘Well, sir, I do not consider these the sort of books for a place on a
solicitor’s table; but I suppose you know best.’

‘I don’t think such a thing has happened before, Bates,’ Mr Carver
answered with humility. ‘You see, this is an exceptional case, and I
take great interest in the parties.’

‘Well, there is something in that,’ said Mr Bates severely, ‘so I
suppose we must admit it on this occasion.—But don’t you think,
sir, there is some way of getting to the bottom of this affair,
without wasting valuable time on such stuff as that?’ and he pointed
contemptuously at the book before him.

‘Perhaps so, Bates—perhaps so. I think the best thing we can do is to
consult an expert. Not a man who is versed in writings, but one of
those clever gentlemen who make a study of ciphers. For all we know,
there may be a common form of cipher in this paper.’

‘That is my opinion, sir. Depend upon it, marbles have nothing to do
with this mystery.’

‘Mr Seaton wishes to see you, sir,’ said a clerk at this moment.

‘Indeed! Ask him to come in.—Good-morning, my dear sir,’ as Seaton
entered. ‘We have just been discussing your little affair, Bates and I;
but we can make nothing of it—positively nothing.’

‘No; I suppose not,’ Edgar replied lightly. ‘I, for my part, cannot
understand your making so much of a common scrap of paper. Depend upon
it, the precious document is only an ordinary valedictory letter after
all. Take my advice—throw it in the fire, and think no more about it.’

‘Certainly not, sir,’ Mr Carver replied indignantly. ‘I don’t for one
moment believe it to be anything but an important cipher.—What are you
smiling at?’

Edgar had caught sight of the yellow volume on the table, and could not
repress a smile. ‘Have you read those tales?’ he said.

‘Yes, I have; and they are particularly interesting.’

‘Then I won’t say any more,’ Edgar replied. ‘When a man is fresh from
these romances, he is incapable of regarding ordinary life for a time.
But the disease cures itself. In the course of a month or so, you will
begin to forget these complications, and probably burn that fatal
paper.’

‘I intend to do nothing of the sort; I am going to submit it to an
expert this afternoon, and get his opinion.’

‘Yes. And he will keep it for a fortnight, after reading it over once,
and then you will get an elaborate report, covering some sheets of
paper, stating that it is an ordinary letter. Who was the enemy who
lent you Poe’s works?’

‘I read those books before you were born, young man; and I may tell
you—apart from them—that I am fully convinced that there is a mystery
somewhere. ’Pon my word, you take the matter very coolly, considering
all things. But let us put aside the mystery for a time, and tell me
something of yourself.’

‘I am looking up now, thanks to you and Felix,’ Edgar replied
gratefully. ‘I have an appointment at last.’

‘I am sure I am heartily glad to hear it. What is it?’

‘It was the doing of Felix, of course. The editor of _Mayfair_ was
rather taken by my descriptive style in a paper which Felix showed him,
and made me an offer of doing the principal continental gambling-houses
in London.’

‘Um,’ said Mr Carver doubtfully. ‘And the pay?’

‘Is particularly good, besides which, I have the entrée of these
places—the golden key, you know.’

‘Have you told your wife about it?’

‘Well, not altogether; she might imagine it was dangerous for me. She
knows partly what I am doing; but I must not frighten her. I have had
two nights of it, and apart from the excitement and the heat, it is
certainly not dangerous.’

‘I am glad of that,’ said Mr Carver; ‘and am heartily pleased to hear
of your success—providing it lasts.’

‘Oh, it is sure to last, for I have hundreds of places to go to.
To-night I am going to a foreign place in Leicester Square. I go about
midnight, and think I may generally be able to get home about two. I
have to go alone always.’

‘Well, I hope now you have started, you will continue as well,’ Mr
Carver said heartily; ‘at anyrate, you can continue until I unravel the
mystery, and place you in possession of your fortune. Until then, it
will do very well.’

‘I am not going to count on that,’ Edgar replied; ‘and if it is a
failure, I shall not be so disappointed as you, I fancy.’


CHAPTER VIII.

It wanted a few minutes to eleven o’clock, the same night when Seaton
turned into Long Acre on his peculiar business. A sharp walk soon
brought him to the Alhambra, whence the people were pouring out into
the square. Turning down —— Street, he soon reached his destination—a
long narrow house, in total darkness—a sombre contrast to the
neighbouring buildings, which were mostly a blaze of light, and busy
with the occupations of life. A quiet double rap for some time produced
no impression; and just as he had stood upon the doorstep long enough
to acquire considerable impatience, a sliding panel in the door was
pushed back, and a face, in the dim gas-light, was obtruded. A short
but somewhat enigmatical conversation ensued, at the end of which the
door was grudgingly opened, and Edgar found himself in black darkness.
The truculent attendant having barricaded the exit, gave a peculiar
whistle, and immediately the light in the hall was turned up. It was
a perfectly bare place; but the carpet underfoot was of the heaviest
texture, and apparently—as an extra precaution—had been covered with
india-rubber matting, so that the footsteps were perfectly deadened;
indeed, not the slightest footfall could be heard. Following his guide
in the direction of the rear of the house, and ascending a short
flight of steps, Edgar was thrust unceremoniously into a dark room,
the door of which was immediately closed behind him and locked. For a
few seconds, Edgar stood quite at a loss to understand his position,
till the peculiar whistle was again repeated, and immediately, as if
by magic, the room was brilliantly lighted. When Edgar recovered from
the glare, he looked curiously around. It was a large room, without
windows, save a long skylight, and furnished with an evident aim at
culture; but though the furniture was handsome, it was too gaudy to
please a tasteful eye. The principal component parts consisted of glass
gilt and crimson velvet; quite the sort of apartment that the boy-hero
discovers, when he is led with dauntless mien and defiant eye into the
presence of the Pirate king; and indeed some of the faces of the men
seated around the green board would have done perfectly well for that
bloodthirsty favourite of our juvenile fiction.

There were some thirty men in the room, two-thirds of them playing
rouge-et-noir; nor did they cease their rapt attention to the game for
one moment to survey the new-comer, that office being perfectly filled
by the Argus-eyed proprietor, who was moving unceasingly about the
room. ‘Will you play, sare?’ he said insinuatingly to Edgar, who was
leisurely surveying the group and making little mental notes for his
guidance.

‘Thanks! Presently, when I have finished my cigar,’ he replied.

‘Ver good, sare, ver good. Will not m’sieu take some refreshment—a
leetle champein or eau-de-vie?’

‘Anything,’ Edgar replied carelessly, as the polite proprietor
proceeded to get the desired refreshment.

For a few minutes, Edgar sat watching his incongruous companions, as
he drank sparingly of the champagne before him. The gathering was
of the usual run of such places, mostly foreigners, as befitted the
neighbourhood, and not particularly desirable foreigners at that. On
the green table the stakes were apparently small, for Edgar could see
nothing but silver, with here and there a piece of gold. At a smaller
table four men were playing the game called poker for small stakes;
but what particularly interested Edgar was a young man deep in the
fascination of écarté with a man who to him was evidently a stranger.
The younger man—quite a boy, in fact—was losing heavily, and the money
on the table here was gold alone, with some bank-notes. Directly Edgar
saw the older man, who was winning steadily, he knew him at once; only
two nights before he had seen him in a gambling-house at the West End
playing the same game, with the same result. Standing behind the winner
was a sinister-looking scoundrel, backing the winner’s luck with the
unfortunate youngster, and occasionally winning a half-crown from a
tall raw-looking American, who was apparently simple enough to risk his
money on the loser. Attracted by some impulse he could not understand,
Edgar quitted his seat and took his stand alongside the stranger, who
was losing his money with such simple good-nature.

‘Stranger, you have all the luck, and that’s a fact. There goes another
piece of my family plate. Your business is better’n gold-mining, and
I want you to believe it,’ drawled the American, passing another
half-crown across the table.

‘You are a bit unlucky,’ replied the stranger, with a flash of his
white teeth; ‘but your turn will come, particularly as the young
gentleman is really the better player. I should back him myself, only I
believe in a man’s luck.’

‘Wall, now, I shouldn’t wonder if the younker is the best player,’ the
American replied, with an emphasis on the last word. ‘So I fancy I
shall give him another trial. He’s a bit like a young hoss, he is—but
he’s honest.’

‘You don’t mean to insinuate we’re not on the square, eh?’ said the
lucky player sullenly; ‘because, if that is so’——

‘Now, don’t you get riled, don’t,’ said the American soothingly. ‘I’m a
peaceable individual, and apt to get easily frightened. I’m a-goin’ to
back the young un again.’

The game proceeded: the younger man lost. Another game followed, the
American backing him again, and gradually, in his excitement, bending
further and further over the table. The players, deep in his movements,
scarcely noticed him.

‘My game!’ said the elder man triumphantly. ‘Did you ever see such luck
in your life? Here is the king again.’

The American, quick as thought, picked up the pack of cards and turned
them leisurely over in his hand. ‘Wall, now, stranger,’ he said, with
great distinctness, ‘I don’t know much about cards, and that’s a fact.
I’ve seen some strange things in my time, but I never—no, never—seed a
pack of cards before with two kings of the same suit.’

‘It must be a mistake,’ exclaimed the stranger, jumping to his feet
with an oath. ‘Perhaps the cards have got mixed.’

‘Wall, it’s not a nice mistake, I reckon. Out to Frisco, I seed a
gentleman of your persuasion dance at his own funeral for a mistake
like that. He didn’t dance long, and the exertion killed him; at least
that’s what the crowner’s jury said.’

‘Do you mean to insinuate that I’m a swindler, sir? Do you mean to
infer that I cheated this gentleman?’ blustered the detected sharper,
approaching the speaker with a menacing air.

‘That _is_ about the longitude of it,’ replied the American cheerfully.

Without another word and without the slightest warning, the swindler
rushed at the American; but he had evidently reckoned without his host,
for he was met by a crashing blow full in the face, which sent him
reeling across the room. His colleague deeming discretion the better
part of valour, and warned by a menacing glance from Edgar, desisted
from his evident intention of aiding in the attack.

By this time the sinister proprietor and the players from the other
tables had gathered round, evidently, from the expression of their
eyes, ripe for any sort of mischief and plunder. Clearly, the little
group were in a desperate strait.

‘Have it out,’ whispered Edgar eagerly to his gaunt companion. ‘I’m
quite with you. They certainly mean mischief.’

‘All right, Britisher,’ replied the American coolly. ‘I’ll pull through
it somehow. Keep your back to mine.’

The proprietor was the first to speak. ‘I understand, sare, you accuse
one of my customer of the cheat. Cheat yourself—pah!’ he said, snapping
his fingers in the American’s face. ‘Who are you, sare, that comes here
to accuse of the cheat?’

‘Look here,’ said the American grimly. ‘My name is Æneas B. Slimm,
generally known as Long Ben. I don’t easily rile, you grinning little
monkey; but when I do rile, I rile hard, and that’s a fact. I ain’t
been in the mines for ten years without knowing a scoundrel when I meet
him, and I never had the privilege of seein’ such a fine sample as I
see around me to-night. Now you open that door right away; you hear me
say it.’

The Frenchman clenched his teeth determinedly, but did not speak, and
the crowd gathered more closely around the trio.

‘Stand back!’ shouted Mr Slimm—‘stand back, or some of ye will suffer.
Will you open that door?’

The only answer was a rush by some one in the crowd, a movement which
that some one bitterly repented, for the iron-clamped toe of the
American’s boot struck him prone to the floor, sick and faint with the
pain. At this moment the peculiar whistle was heard, and the room was
instantly in darkness. Before the crowd could collect themselves for a
rush, Mr Slimm passed his hand beneath his long coat-tails and produced
a flat lantern, which was fastened round his waist like a policeman’s,
and which gave sufficient light to guard against any attack; certainly
enough light to show the hungry swindlers the cold gleam of a revolver
barrel covering the assembly. The American passed a second weapon to
Edgar, and stood calmly waiting for the next move.

‘Now,’ he said, sullenly and distinctly, ‘I think we are quits. We air
going to leave this pleasant company right away, but first we propose
to do justice. Where is the artist who plays cards with two kings of
one suit? He’d better come forward, because this weapon has a bad way
of going off. He need not fancy I can’t see him, because I can. He is
skulking behind the brigand with the earrings.’

The detected swindler came forward sullenly.

‘Young man,’ said Mr Slimm, turning towards the boy who had been losing
so heavily, ‘how much have you lost?’

The youngster thought a moment, and said about twenty pounds.

‘Twenty pounds. Very good.—Now, my friend, I’m going to trouble you for
the loan of twenty pounds. I don’t expect to be in a position to pay
you back just at present; but until I do, you can console yourself by
remembering that virtue is its own reward. Come, no sulking; shell out
that money, or’——

With great reluctance, the sharper produced the money and handed it
over to the youth. The American watched the transaction with grave
satisfaction, and then turned to the landlord. ‘Mr Frenchman, we wish
you a very good-night. We have not been very profitable customers, nor
have we trespassed upon your hospitality. If you want payment badly,
you can get it out of the thief who won my half-crowns.—Good-night,
gentlemen; we may meet again. If we do, and I am on the jury, I’ll give
you the benefit of the doubt.’

A moment later, they were in the street, and walking away at a brisk
pace, the ungrateful youth disappearing with all speed.

‘I am much obliged to you,’ Edgar said admiringly; ‘I would give
something to have your pluck and coolness.’

‘Practice,’ replied the American dryly. ‘That isn’t what I call a
scrape—that’s only a little amusement. But I was rather glad you were
with me. I like the look of your face; there’s plenty of character
there. As to that pesky young snip, if I’d known he was going to slip
off like that, do you think I should have bothered about his money for
him? No, sir.’

‘I fancy he was too frightened to say or do much.’

‘Perhaps so.—Have a cigar?—I daresay he’s some worn-out roué of
eighteen, all his nerves destroyed by late hours and dissipation, at a
time when he ought to be still at his books.’

‘Do you always get over a thing as calmly as this affair?’ asked Edgar,
at the same time manipulating one of his companion’s huge cigars. ‘I
don’t think dissipation has had much effect on _your_ nerves.’

‘Well, it don’t, and that’s a fact,’ Mr Slimm admitted candidly; ‘and
I’ve had my fling too.—I tell you what it is, Mr—Mr’——

‘Seaton—Edgar Seaton is my name.’

‘Well, Mr Seaton, I’ve looked death in the face too often to be put
out by a little thing like that. When a man has slept, as I have, in
the mines with a matter of one thousand ounces of gold in his tent for
six weeks, among the most awful blackguards in the world, and plucky
blackguards too, his nerves are fit for most anything afterwards.
That’s what I done, ay, and had to fight for it more than once.’

‘But that does not seem so bad as some dangers.’

‘Isn’t it?’ replied the American with a shudder. ‘When you wake up and
find yourself in bed with a rattlesnake, you’ve got a chance then;
when you are on the ground with a panther over you, there is just a
squeak then; but to go to sleep expecting to wake up with a knife in
your ribs, is quite another apple.—Well, I must say good-night. Here is
Covent Garden. I am staying at the _Bedford_. Come and breakfast with
me to-morrow, and don’t forget to ask for Æneas Slimm.’

‘I will come,’ said Edgar, with a hearty handshake.—‘Good-night.’




SNOW-BLOSSOM.


Under the above title, Professor Wittrock, in _Nordenskjöld’s Studies
and Researches in the Far North_, has given us a wonderful and
exhaustive account of the lowest order of plants—those which have their
existence on the surface of the snow and ice, and colour the monotonous
white or dirty gray of the everlasting snowfields with the warmest and
most lovely rosy red and crimson, vivid green, and soft brown, until it
almost appears as if these frigid zones have also their time of spring
and blossom.

Late researches go to show that the snow and ice flora is far greater
and richer than was at one time supposed. Formerly, people had only
heard of ‘red snow’—which Agardh poetically calls ‘snow-blossoms’—and
‘green snow,’ first discovered by the botanist Unger—specimens of which
were brought from Spitzbergen by Dr Kjellmann, and from Greenland
by Dr Berlin. But a closer examination has discovered in the ‘green
snow’ about a dozen different kinds of plants, and these not merely
comprising the _lowest_ order, but also including some mosses. The
latter, however, were only in their germinating state, looking like the
green threads of algæ, and therefore showing a much inferior degree
of development to that which they would have if growing on a warmer
substratum. The flora of the loose snow, too, is generally far richer
than that of the solid ice; already forty different varieties of plants
having been found, which number will no doubt be greatly increased by
every fresh expedition to the arctic zone. On the solid ice, only ten
different kinds have been observed.

There is a great difference between the real ice and snow plants
which grow exclusively on the snow-line and those hardened children
of the sun which only grow on the snow. The latter all belong to the
one-celled microscopic algæ of the lowest order, which increase by
partition, possessing no generic character, and generally appearing
in large horizontal masses of vegetable matter. They are also
distinguished by seldom having the pure green chlorophyll colour of
other plants, but instead display shades of red, brown, and sap green,
whence they have been named coloured algæ.

Some botanists suppose that the chief and most numerous of all the
algæ, the red snow, only represents a lower state of a higher class
of algæ which has never attained to full development in the region of
perpetual snow; and this supposition is the more remarkable, as the
brilliant red granules of this species—about the four-thousandth part
of an inch in diameter—probably surpass in reproductive powers every
other plant. They cover enormous tracts of snow in such dense masses
that it sometimes appears as if the snow was coloured blood-red to the
depth of several feet. Ever since it was first found, red snow has
greatly exercised the minds of the learned. It is often mentioned in
old writings, though whether the red snow referred to took its colour
from the red algæ or from the meteor-dust which contains iron, is not
certain. But there is no doubt that it was the real red-snow algæ
which De Saussure found in his Alpine expeditions. He mentions this
phenomenon several times in 1760, and states that he had found the
most beautiful species on Mont St Bernard, but had thought it must be
pollen, wafted thither by the wind, although he knew of no plant that
had that kind of red pollen.

The knowledge that the red snow of the polar regions and mountains owes
its colour to a living plant, only dates from the year 1818, when Ross
and Parry made their celebrated polar expedition, and Ross discovered
the ‘crimson cliffs’ of the coast of Greenland, six hundred feet above
the level of the sea. Here the red snow coloured the rocky walls of
Baffin’s Bay a rich glowing crimson, reaching in some parts to a depth
of nine or ten feet, and close to Cape York extending over a distance
of eight nautical miles. Various were the surmises and conjectures as
to the origin and nature of the phenomenon. Bauer was the first to
examine it under a microscope, and he fancied the organic red granules
represented a species of fungus. The same year, Charpentier, the great
Alpine explorer, started the idea that the red appearance was caused
by some meteoric matter, which, falling from the sky, spread over the
immense tracts of snow. Hooker was the first who recognised the true
nature of this new plant, and compared it to the red slime algæ which
are found floating in blood-red masses in water or damp places; while
Wrangel declared the granules had apparently no organic substratum, and
they must therefore be of the lichen tribe, suggesting also that the
germs were generated by the electricity in the air, for he had once
seen a rock split in two by lightning, the sides of which were thickly
covered with a red dust similar in nature to the ‘red snow.’ Two more
botanists agreed that the red granules were ‘red powder that had become
organic matter in the oxidised snow;’ the stern hard rock as it decayed
had defied death, and come to life again in a new form. It remained for
Agardh to put an end to these various fancies by proving the undoubted
algal nature of the plant, and to give it, besides, its poetical name
of ‘snow-blossom,’ the scientific one of crimson primitive snow-germ
(_Protococcus Kermesina nivalis_). In 1838, Ehrenberg watched the
development of this new species by sowing some specimens he had brought
with him from the Swiss Alps, on snow, and noting how they developed
first into green and then into red granules, joined together like a
chain; he called it snow granulæ (_Sphærella nivalis_), which name it
still bears.

Even now, the wild theories about the red snow were not yet ended.
Seeing that the young spores of the algæ moved incessantly backwards
and forwards in the water, the idea arose that they were animalcula,
and ‘red snow’ only the lowest form of animal life. By degrees,
however, it came to be an accepted fact that this voluntary motion
does not belong exclusively to animal life, and that the young spores
of the lower plants, although they move freely about in the water, and
are plentifully provided with fine hair-like threads like the real
infusoria, still remain plants, and never turn into animals. And thus
the plant-nature of the ‘snow-blossom’ was finally settled.

The red-snow alga found on the Alps, Pyrenees, and Carpathians, and
also on the summits of the North American mountains as far down as
California, is not, however, such a determined enemy to heat as its
having its home in the ice-region would imply. In the arctic circle,
as well as on our own mountains of perpetual snow, especially on
Monte Rosa, the red snow is seen in summer like a light rose-coloured
film, which gradually deepens in colour, particularly in the track
of human footsteps, till at length it turns almost black. In this
state, however, it is not a rotten mass, but consists principally of
carefully capsuled ‘quiescent spores,’ in which state these microscopic
atoms pass the winter, bearing in this form the greatest extremes
of temperature. Some have been exposed to a dry heat of a hundred
degrees, and were found still to retain life-bearing properties; while
others, again, were exposed with impunity to the greatest cold known in
science. This proves that the reproductive organs in a capsuled state
can hear vast extremes of temperature without injury; a significant
fact, in which lies the secret of the indestructibility of those germs
which are recognised as promoters of so many diseases.

Time, too, that great destroyer of most things, seems to pass
harmlessly over this capsuled life. If the spores find no favourable
outlet for their development, they do not die, no matter how long
a time they may remain thus; and so the dried remains of red snow
brought home from various polar expeditions have, even after the
lapse of several years, fructified. During the uninterrupted light
of the arctic summers, the ‘snow-blossom’ develops itself so rapidly,
that at last it covers vast and endless tracts of snow. Although the
sun does not rise very high above the horizon even at midsummer,
yet, owing to the great clearness and dryness of the atmosphere in
those high regions, it has a considerable degree of warmth at noon,
and Nordenskjöld observed that one day in July, at mid-day, the
temperature just above the snow was between twenty-five and thirty
degrees centigrade. But it must not be supposed that the red alga
vegetates in the pure snow; this would not be possible, as, according
to chemical analysis, its body contains numerous mineral substances.
The outer skin or membrane, particularly, in which the granulæ are
stored seems to hold a quantity of silicon; but chalk, iron, and other
mineral substances peculiar to the vegetable world, are also not found
wanting in the ashes of the red snow. In fact, the upper surface of the
snow and ice always shows, whenever it has lain long enough, a thin
coating of inorganic dust, which brings to the snow alga the mineral
constituent parts it requires.

Nordenskjöld gives some very interesting details about this dust,
from observations made during his various expeditions. At one time
it was supposed to be a slimy mass carried down from the hills which
pierce the snow, and lodged on the lower stretches of its upper
surface; but Nordenskjöld found this same dust in like quantity on the
interior ice-fields of Greenland, where for miles around there were
no mountains near, and also on ice-hummocks that quite surmounted the
ice-plains, as well as on the nearest hills. During their long sojourn
in the land of ice, they searched very carefully for any traces of
small stones even as large as a pin’s head; but they could find none;
while many square miles were covered by this fine dust, gray in its
dry state, and becoming black when moist. It was therefore at last
decided that this dark-coloured matter must be a precipitate from the
atmosphere, and that the summer sun melting the snows, had allowed
numerous dust-showers to accumulate thus, one on the top of the other.
Nordenskjöld further thinks that it is not exclusively earth-dust
wafted thither by currents of air, but that it contains a number of
metallic particles, that can be extracted by a magnet, consisting, like
the metallic meteor-stones, of iron, nickel, and cobalt. This metallic
cosmic dust, which has been noticed previously in our pages, and which
is spread over the whole world, is best observed and gathered on these
vast snow and ice fields, and as it also bears a similitude to our
ordinary earth-dust, Nordenskjöld has given it the name of Kyrokonit,
or ice-dust.

At first, the alga of the red snow was looked upon as the sole
inhabitant of the ice-lands of the polar regions; but in 1870, Dr
Berggren, botanist of Nordenskjöld’s expedition, discovered a second
or reddish-brown alga. It is allied to the ‘snow-blossom,’ but has
this peculiarity, that it is never found on _snow_, but combined with
the kyrokonit, it covers enormous tracts of _ice_, giving to them
a beautiful purple brown tint, which greatly adds to their beauty.
Besides growing on the surface of the ice, this red-brown alga was also
found in holes one or two feet deep, and three or four feet across,
in some parts so numerous and close together that there was scarcely
standing-room between them. A closer examination showed that this very
alga was the cause of these holes, as wherever it spreads itself, it
favours the melting of the ice. The dark-brown body absorbs more heat
than either the gray dust or the snow, therefore it sinks ever deeper
into the hollows, until the slanting rays of the sun can no longer
reach it.

Thus these microscopic algæ play the same part on the ice-fields of
Greenland that small stones do on European glaciers. By creating holes,
they give the warm summer air a larger surface to take hold of, and
thus materially assist the melting of the ice. Perhaps it is to these
microscopic atoms that we owe some of the vast changes that our globe
has experienced; it may be by their agency that the vast wastes of snow
that in the glacial period covered great tracts both of the European
and American continents for some distance from the poles, have melted
gradually away and given place to shady woods and fields of grain. It
is indeed a remarkable instance of the power and importance of even the
smallest thing in nature; all the more interesting in this case, that
the sun creates for itself in these tiny dark atoms, the instruments
for boring through the ice.

One important fact we must not forget to mention in conclusion,
namely, that these microscopic plants have tempted many insects—to
which they serve as food—into these inhospitable regions. A small
black glacier flea lives principally on the red snow; and even in the
arctic regions we find many tiny insects subsisting entirely on the
red and green algæ. These insects, too, possess the same property
as the algæ, of shutting themselves up in capsules during the long
winter, and like them too, remain alive even when in a dried condition.
When Professor Wittrock, in the winter of 1880 to 1881, placed the
dried spores of the red snow in water to germinate, a number of tiny
colourless worms appeared, still living. Thus even the stern, rigid
north pole cannot prevent the universal spread of life; and if those
cosmological prophets are right who declare that the whole surface
of the earth will one day be covered with snow and ice, then these
minute insects will have an ample store of food in the red, green, and
brown algæ, and as the last of living beings, will be able to mock
at the general stagnation; ay, perhaps even become the foundation of
a fresh development of life on our earth, should any cosmical cause
sufficiently increase the temperature.




OCCASIONAL NOTES.


EXTENDED USE OF GAS COOKING-STOVES.

We have repeatedly called attention to the practical utility and
convenience of gas-stoves for cooking purposes, and facts to hand
seem to show that these are being largely taken advantage of by the
public. Many gas Companies now lend them out at a cheap rate, and they
may be had for purchase at a price to suit most buyers. Since the
Corporation Gas Company of Glasgow introduced the system of hiring out
these stoves, about three thousand five hundred had been lent out in
six months, and the demand continues unabated. In hotels, restaurants,
and many a private home, they are found doing their work with economy,
ease, and a great saving of labour.

Dr Stevenson Macadam, speaking of gas-cooking in its sanitary aspects,
says: ‘The wholesomeness of the meat cooked in the gas-stoves must be
regarded as beyond doubt; gas-cooked meat will be found to be more
juicy and palatable, and yet free from those alkaloidal bodies produced
during the confined cooking of meat, which are more or less hurtful,
and even poisonous.’ A joint cooked in a gas-oven weighs heavier than
the same joint cooked in a coal-oven, from the fact, that in the case
of the gas-cooked joint the juices are more perfectly preserved.

At the East London Hospital, where the entire cooking for an enormous
number of patients is done by gas, the managers calculate that
fully six hundred pounds is saved yearly since the introduction of
gas-cooking.

For the extended use of gas-stoves in Scotland, the public is greatly
indebted to R. and A. Main, Glasgow, who are ever ready to adopt
everything new in gas-apparatus. Gas is also now largely used in
connection with washing by means of steam. When we noticed Morton’s
Steam-washer, probably not more than half a dozen had adopted this easy
and economical method of washing, in Scotland, and now those who do so
may be counted by the hundred.


AUTOMATIC RAILWAY COUPLING.

For several months past, some of the goods-wagons working the traffic
on the South Dock Railway lines of the East and West India Dock Company
have (says the _Times_) been fitted with a new form of coupling, which
possesses several important advantages over the ordinary coupling. Not
the least of these are simplicity in construction and automaticity,
combined with certainty in action. The coupling is the invention of Mr
J. H. Betteley, of 42 Old Broad Street, London, and consists of a long
shackle which is attached to the drawbar, and stands out at a slight
angle of depression from the carriage or wagon. Connected with this
shackle is a hook of special shape, which is attached to a bar running
across the carriage front, and having a short lever fixed on either end
just outside the buffers. To couple the vehicles, they are run together
in the usual way, and, on meeting, the shackle on one carriage runs up
the shackle on the other and instantly engages with the hook. Thus the
shunter has no dangerous work whatever to perform. To uncouple, he has
simply to depress the lever, which action raises the hook and releases
the shackle. The hook is so formed that no matter how much bumping of
the carriages there may be, it cannot be freed from the shackle without
the intervention of the lever, and the combination therefore forms a
perfectly safe and reliable coupling. In fact, the whole train could
be coupled up automatically, and the engaged hook and shackle then
constitute a locking apparatus which prevents the carriages becoming
accidentally detached. The coupling can, moreover, be used on any kind
of railway vehicle, and it is of no moment if the couplings are not all
on the same level, as the higher shackle will always travel up the
lower one and engage with the hook of the latter. The apparatus has
been examined and the trucks fitted with it have been severely tested
by General Hutchinson and Major Marindin, of the Board of Trade, who
have given it their united approval. It certainly appears to be well
fitted to supersede the ordinary coupling, which has cost so many lives.


CHARLES DICKENS AT WORK.

An unpretentious volume entitled _Charles Dickens_ has been issued in
the ‘World’s Workers’ series (Cassell & Co.), written by the eldest
daughter of the great novelist. It is simply and pleasantly compiled,
and though it may be read through at a sitting, it gives a good idea
as to what manner of man Dickens was, and how he lived, talked, wrote,
and spoke. As Forster’s Life of Dickens is beyond the reach of many,
this book, which has been specially written for the young, will form
a good introduction to his writings, of which there is a complete
summary at the end of the volume. It forms an affectionate tribute from
a daughter to a father, and, as was to be expected, exhibits the more
human side of his character. A sketch of his demeanour in his study,
as witnessed by one of his daughters, who had been taken there after
an illness, will have the charm of novelty to many people. ‘For a long
time there was no sound but the rapid moving of his pen on the paper;
then suddenly he jumped up, looked at himself in the glass, rushed
back to his desk, then to the glass again, when presently he turned
round and faced his daughter, staring at her, but not seeing her, and
talking rapidly to himself, then once more back to his desk, where he
remained writing until luncheon-time.... It was wonderful to see how
completely he threw himself into the character his own imagination had
made, his face, indeed his whole body, changing, and he himself being
lost entirely in working out his own ideas. Small wonder that his works
took so much out of him, for he did literally _live_ in his books while
writing them, turning his own creations into living realities, with
whom he wept, and with whom he rejoiced.’


PLASTERING MADE EASY.

Architects and those interested in the erection of new houses have
frequently looked upon the application of plaster as one of the
greatest drawbacks of modern building, showing, besides, a marked
deterioration from old plaster-work, such as that found on walls of
ancient buildings, some of which, of a highly decorative character,
may still be found almost as sound as when first executed. In
Hardwick Old Hall, Derbyshire, though roof and floor are gone, the
decorative friezes still remain in wonderful preservation. Many ancient
manor-houses and farm-buildings show specimens of fine and enduring
plaster-work.

A new cement has been invented, and patented, which appears to have
the qualities of both cement and plaster, and greatly simplifies the
process. The patentees are Joseph Robinson & Co., of the Knothill
Cement and Plaster Works, near Carlisle, who have been engaged in the
manufacture of plaster for the past sixty years. From the almost
inexhaustible products of their alabaster quarries in Inglewood Forest,
this new cement is made. It is claimed for it that, while being equal
to the Keene’s and Parian cements now in use, it is cheap enough to be
used as they are, and also as a substitute for ordinary plastering.

In the erection of new buildings, the plasterer’s pit takes up much
room, and is often looked upon as a necessary evil. In putting on the
common three coats of plaster, the second and third can only be laid on
when that before it is sufficiently dry. Owing to the unequal shrinkage
of the different materials, it is often an uncertain method of doing
good work. When using the cement we speak of, the plasterers can be
put into a room with the requisite quantities of sand and cement, and
work straight away. There is no delay required for drying, for as fast
as one coat is done, the finishing coat can be run on and the whole
completed. It has the merit, also, of neither shrinking nor expanding,
is impervious to absorption and infection, and its hard surface affords
facilities for washing or taking on paint.

As to its fire-resisting qualities, Captain Shaw, of the Metropolitan
Fire Brigade, is of opinion that it ‘would be much more effectual in
preventing the spread of fire than any other of the common plasters or
cements generally used in this country.’




AT WAKING.


    I bore dead Love unto his grave,
      Beneath a willow, in winter’s rain,
    Where he might feel the branches wave,
      And hear me, if he woke again.

    One withered rose-tree on his tomb
      I planted, so that, by-and-by,
    If he should wake, the rose might bloom,
      And I should know, and hear him cry.

    I decked his breast with rosemary,
      Laid on his lips one violet,
    That once he kissed; I think if he
      Should wake, he will not quite forget.

    I set a crown about his brow,
      The crown affection weaves and wears;
    At waking, he will hardly know,
      I fear, whose diadem he shares.

    I placed a lily in his hand—
      Sceptre of his dead sovereignty;
    At waking, will he understand
      _Who_ placed it there, to bloom or die?

    I laid my heart, that for his sake
      Remembers now no old sweet strain,
    Close to his ear; he, if he wake,
      Perchance may tune its strings again.

    If he should wake! Till death be dead,
      Till life begin, and sleep be past,
    Till on his breast he lay thy head,
      And flowers begin to bloom at last—

    O soul, remember! lest by thee
      That unknown sweetness be forgot
    Which now thou lookest for, and he
      Bid thee ‘Depart! I know thee not.’

            SIDNEY R. THOMPSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._