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. 116.—VOL. III.      SATURDAY, MARCH 20, 1886.      PRICE 1½_d._]




QUEEN VICTORIA’S KEYS.


The time-honoured ceremony that is still observed when the gates of Her
Majesty’s Tower of London are ‘locked-up’ is probably not unfamiliar to
the public. What actually occurs, however, can be witnessed by a very
limited number of persons who are not resident within the Tower; for a
night’s immurement in that celebrated feudal ‘strength’ is essential
in order that the proceedings of the ‘escort for the Keys’ may be
satisfactorily seen and heard, the verbal portion of the formalities
being by no means the least important. But the present writer having
frequently been called upon to accompany the Queen’s Keys in their
nightly perambulations, has enjoyed opportunities, not open to all, for
viewing the curious ceremony of ‘locking-up’ from the best possible
vantage-ground. A brief sketch of the somewhat unique details connected
with it may perhaps prove interesting to the uninitiated reader.

When not engaged in making their midnight or early-morning progresses,
the Queen’s Keys are deposited in the residence of the Deputy Constable
of the fortress. Not very remarkable from an architectural point of
view, this house stands almost in the shadow of the weather-beaten
walls of the White Tower—the famous Norman ‘keep’ that can boast of
eight centuries’ authentic history, and around which as a nucleus the
various other buildings now collectively known as the ‘Tower’ have
from time to time been erected. And the dwelling-place of the Keys
overlooks the spot—now inclosed by a railing—where so many political
offences, real or imputed, have been expiated on the block. The Keys,
when brought forth, are invariably carried by a warder, who is a
member of the corps of Yeomen of the Guard, or Beefeaters as they are
familiarly called. It may quite fairly be said that the antiquated,
but picturesque, costume of these men constitutes one of the ‘sights’
of the Tower; though in recent times the garments have been to a
considerable extent shorn of their medieval characteristics. Besides
the onerous duty of carrying the Queen’s Keys, the Beefeaters are in
other ways employed within the precincts of the Tower; among other
things, they exercise—or at least they used to exercise—a sort of
supervision over the visitors who flock into it on ‘open’ days. Beyond
its gates they take part in certain state ceremonials; and, as is well
known, assist in the periodical searching of the vaults underneath
the Houses of Parliament, thus materially helping to keep alive the
remembrance of Guy Fawkes and the celebrated ‘treason and plot’ in
which he was so deeply implicated. That neither the supervision nor the
search is wholly unnecessary, has been sufficiently well demonstrated
by events of recent occurrence.

By the Main Guard, which occupies a guardhouse distant about a stone’s
throw from the Constable’s quarters, the Keys are provided with an
armed escort on the occasions on which they venture into the open
air. This guard is ‘mounted’ daily by some thirty soldiers; they are
furnished by a regiment stationed in the adjacent barracks, which
were constructed to replace other buildings totally destroyed by the
great fire that made such havoc in the Tower nearly half a century
ago. Over and above attending to the royal Keys, the members of the
guard have other and perhaps equally responsible duties to perform,
being in a general way answerable for the security of the fortress
and its contents during the twenty-four hours they continue ‘on
guard.’ One very important item in their tour of duty may here be
mentioned—this is the protection of the Jewel House, within which are
kept articles of almost fabulous value, including the regalia and the
remarkable Kohinoor diamond. So low in the ceiling is the entrance to
this Eldorado, that soldiers of short stature are selected to stand
as sentries therein; for a tall man bearing arms would, under the
circumstances, be apt to excite the ridicule rather than the awe of
the visitors who are conducted into the place by the Beefeaters. The
Main Guard, as its title implies, is the principal one; but two other
distinct guards are maintained in the Tower; and it is necessary, in
order to understand what follows, to rapidly glance at these. One of
them mounts at the drawbridge—a structure that no longer exists, and
of which, indeed, the guard itself seems to be the sole memento. The
party is what is termed a ‘corporal’s’ guard. The other, known as the
Spur Guard, occupies a group of buildings which probably represent the
ancient barbican of the stronghold. It is a ‘sergeant’s’ guard, and is
intrusted with the keeping of the two outer gates, to which we shall
have to refer later on.

When the Main Guard enters upon its duties in the forenoon, certain
men are detailed to act when required as an escort for the Keys. Their
services in this respect are not, however, called upon till the near
approach of midnight. But when the clock on the White Tower begins to
chime a quarter to twelve, the word ‘Keys!’ uttered in a stentorian
tone by a sergeant rouses the soldiers, who are usually slumbering with
much apparent comfort on the wooden guard-bed. In a few moments they
are transferred to the exterior of the building, fully accoutred, and
accompanied by a youthful drummer, who bears a rather dusty lantern
which he has hastily lit. Perhaps the lantern may be regarded mainly
as a sort of relic of the times when it may be supposed to have
afforded the only available light on the route traversed by the Keys.
But the way is now amply illuminated by gas lamps of the ordinary
pattern; and the not very brilliant lantern might, without very serious
disadvantage, be dispensed with. Having drawn up his somewhat drowsy
men, the sergeant has now to wait for the officer, if that individual
in authority has not already appeared. The interval, if any, is
employed by the soldiers in yawning, or in bestowing a finishing touch
upon the adjustment of their accoutrements, which have no doubt become
slightly displaced during their owner’s late ‘changes of front’ on the
guard-bed. When present, the captain of the guard—having ascertained
that the escort is likewise ‘present,’ or complete in number—marches
off the little party towards the Constable’s house. There the soldiers
are met by the warder, suspended from whose hand, as he descends the
steps, the Queen’s Keys jingle merrily.

At this juncture, the sergeant commands his subordinates, whom he has
halted for a moment, to ‘present arms;’ and the Beefeater takes post
a little in advance of his protectors, who forthwith set off in the
direction of the gates. The first sentry to be passed stands expectant
under the veranda at the entrance to the guardroom, where is also the
whole guard not elsewhere engaged: it has been ‘turned out’ to do
honour to the Keys. When the sentry sees the escort, headed by the
lantern, coming very near to his post, he calls out: ‘Halt! who comes
there?’ not, ‘Who _goes_ there?’ the popular acceptation of a military
challenge, perhaps derived from the words used in like contingencies
by sentinels of certain continental armies. The advancing party is
brought to a stand-still by this summons; and the warder, who, as
a rule, is enveloped in the folds of an antiquated-looking cloak,
replies, in a kind of sepulchral tone of voice: ‘Keys.’—‘Whose keys?’
inquires the soldier, who is meanwhile standing with his piece at the
‘port’—an attitude preparatory to assuming that of the ‘charge.’ The
warder answers: ‘Queen Victoria’s Keys.’ But even now the escort is not
permitted to proceed on its journey; for the obdurate sentry, coming
down to the charge, makes the demand: ‘Stand, Queen Victoria’s Keys.
Advance one and give the countersign.’ The password, being well known
to the warder, is of course given, and the sentry cries: ‘Pass, Queen
Victoria’s Keys. All’s well.’ After the above dialogue has come to a
termination, the Keys are conveyed past the guardhouse, being in their
transit saluted by the assembled guard, which is then ‘turned in.’

Before the Beefeater and the escort have marched twenty yards, further
obstructions delay their progress. These fresh obstacles appear in the
forms of the vigilant sentinels at the Jewel House and at the Traitors’
Gate; which latter was once used for the admission of ‘traitors’
brought down the river from Westminster. In succession, each of the
soldiers challenges in the same way as his comrade at the Main Guard.
And when the Beefeater has satisfactorily answered both men, the party
moves onward for some little distance, and is a fourth time brought
to a halt by a sentry at the Byward Gate. This gate is on the inner
margin of the now dry ditch that encircles the Tower. It stands under
an arch, which is surmounted and flanked by turrets or fortifications
of a long obsolete design. Besides the soldier alluded to, a Yeoman
is at all hours on duty at this point. He is always to be found in an
apartment, with a quaint vaulted roof, close by the gate: the place
has obviously once been the quarter of a regular military guard. The
sentry here having been satisfied as to the character of the escort, it
passes on, traverses a causeway leading across the moat, and reaches
the Spur Guard. There, of course, it is stopped by a sentry belonging
to that body; and the Keys are eventually saluted by this soldier,
as well as by the guard of which he forms a unit. And now, after all
those impediments have been overcome, the Barrier Gate is at length
approached, its custodian having been appeased in the stereotyped
manner. The Barrier Gate is the outermost gate of the Tower, and it is
necessarily the first to be locked.

As already noticed, the warder marches a little in front of the escort.
When he is within some fifteen or twenty paces’ distance from the gate,
he halts. Then the men composing the escort advance, and under the
superintendence of the sergeant, line the sides of the road, facing
inwards towards its middle. The Beefeater, with considerable solemnity
of demeanour, now walks up between the ranks, selects the appropriate
key, and locks the gate, which in the meantime has been closed by a
corporal. This operation accomplished, and having given the gate a
shake, to assure himself of its being properly fastened, the Beefeater
resumes his position a few yards away, passing as before between the
lines of soldiers. Arms are presented to the Keys, both when they are
proceeding to the gate and when they are retiring from it, by word of
command from the sergeant; for the officer remains behind with the Main
Guard.

The party is now rearranged in the order of march, and at once retraces
its steps to the next gate to be secured—the one at the Barbican or
Spur Guard. On the outer side of the ditch, this portal is exactly
opposite the Byward Gate, which we have seen to be situated on its
inner bank. Having passed through the as yet open gate, the soldiers
are again drawn up in lines, and it is closed and locked; and as the
key is withdrawn from the lock, all present say, or are understood to
say: ‘God save Queen Victoria.’ The Spur Guard is turned out to salute;
and the Keys and their escort retreat across the moat to the Byward
Gate, where precisely the same ceremony takes place. This completed,
the three chief gates of the Tower have been made fast for the night.

But there exists a fourth gate, which may be accurately described as
a ‘back’ entrance to the fortress; it stands in the vicinity of the
ancient drawbridge, in the eastern portion of the outer wall of the
Tower. The gate in this somewhat remote region is locked in a slightly
less formal style than the other or ‘front’ gates; and the men of the
escort soon step out smartly on their return journey to the Main Guard.
There they are hailed by the sentry as at the outset, and to the echo
of his final ‘All’s well,’ the Queen’s Keys are carried into their
quarters.

No one, however high in rank or authority, can enter, or leave, the
Tower after midnight. But the sergeant in command of the Spur Guard is
authorised to admit residents as far as his guardhouse, where there
is a waiting-room for the accommodation of such belated persons. For
this purpose he is provided with keys—quite distinct from those of the
escort—wherewith to open, not the gates, but wickets alongside them.
And thus the people admitted do not enter the Tower proper; for it
will be remembered that the ditch intervenes between the Barbican and
the Byward Gate, where there is no wicket. The architects, ancient or
modern, who designed the waiting-room took pains that it should not
be a very attractive abode; and though it may compare favourably with
another apartment said to exist in the Tower, and called ‘Little Ease,’
there is yet but small encouragement held forth to the inhabitants of
the fortress to remain abroad subsequent to the hour appointed for
‘locking-up.’

At five o’clock in the morning, the sergeant again summons his men; on
this occasion, to open the gates of the Tower. The ceremony, though
essentially similar to the midnight one, is perhaps a little more
hurriedly performed in the unlocking than it is in the locking of the
gates; and the officer on guard does not appear in the morning, though
we may safely assume that he had to ‘turn out’ when the opening of the
Tower was a more significant matter than it happily now is. But besides
being present with his guard at midnight, he has other duties to carry
out: by day, he marches off the ‘relief’ at intervals of two hours; and
in the afternoon goes round the sentries, hearing them repeat their
orders—an almost obsolete custom, but still kept up in the Tower.
Previous to the hour appointed for this ordeal, the men may be seen
studiously reading their instructions, or committing them to memory
as they pace up and down. By night, the officer goes his ‘rounds’
accompanied by a small escort, including the drummer-boy and his rather
opaque lantern. In the course of this tour, every sentinel connected
with the garrison is visited; and by the time the rounds return to the
Main Guard, the members of that important body have usually been called
into activity by the loud cry of ‘Keys!’




IN ALL SHADES.


CHAPTER XIV.

Edward and Marian spent their first week in Trinidad with the Hawthorns
senior. Mrs Hawthorn was kindness itself to Marian—a dear, gentle,
motherly old lady, very proud of her boy, especially of his ability to
read Arabic, which seemed to her a profundity of learning never yet
dreamt of in the annals of humanity—and immensely pleased with her
new daughter-in-law; but nothing on earth that Marian could say to
her would induce her to unlock the mystery of that alarming telegram.
‘No, no, my dear,’ she would say, shaking her head gloomily and wiping
her spectacles, whenever Marian recurred to the subject, ‘you’ll find
it all out only too soon. God forbid, my darling, that ever I should
break it to you. I love you far too well for that. Marian, Marian, my
dear daughter, you should never, never, never have come here!’ And then
she would burst immediately into tears. And that was all that poor
frightened Marian could ever get out of her new mother-in-law.

All that first week, old Mr Hawthorn was never tired of urging upon
Edward to go back again at once to England. ‘I can depart in peace now,
my boy,’ he said; ‘I have seen you at last, and known you, and had my
heart gladdened by your presence here. Indeed, if you wish it, I’d
rather go back to England with you again, than that you should stay in
this unsuitable Trinidad. Why bury your talents and your learning here,
when you might be rising to fame and honour over in London? What’s the
use of your classical knowledge out in the West Indies? What’s the
use of your Arabic? What’s the use of your law, even? We have nothing
to try here but petty cases between planter and servant: of what good
to you in that will be all your work at English tenures and English
land laws? You’re hiding your light under a bushel. You’re putting a
trotting horse into a hansom cab. You’re wasting your Arabic on people
who don’t even know the difference between Greek and Latin.’

To all which, Edward steadily replied, that he wouldn’t go back as
long as this mystery still hung unsolved over him; and that, as he had
practically made an agreement with the colonial government, it would be
dishonourable in him to break it for unknown and unspecified reasons.
As soon as possible, he declared firmly, he would take up his abode in
his own district.

House-hunting is reduced to its very simplest elements in the West
Indian colonies. There is one house in each parish or county which
has been inhabited from time immemorial by one functionary for the
time being. The late Attorney-general dies of yellow fever, or drinks
himself to death, or gets promotion, or retires to England, and another
Attorney-general is duly appointed by constituted authority in his
vacant place. The new man succeeds naturally to the house and furniture
of his predecessor—as naturally, indeed, as he succeeds to any of his
other functions, offices, and prerogatives. Not that there is the
least compulsion in the matter, only you must. As there is no other
house vacant in the community, and as nobody ever thinks of building
a new one—except when the old one tumbles down by efflux of time or
shock of earthquake—the only thing left for one to do is to live in
the place immemorially occupied by all one’s predecessors in the same
office. Hence it happened that at the beginning of their second week
in the island of Trinidad, Marian and Edward Hawthorn found themselves
ensconced with hardly any trouble in the roomy bungalow known as
Mulberry Lodge, and he hereditarily attached to the post of District
Court Judge for the district of Westmoreland.

Marian laid herself out at once for callers, and very soon the callers
began to drop in. About the fourth day after they had settled into
their new house, she was sitting in the big, bare, tropical-looking
drawing-room—a great, gaunt, spare barn, scantily furnished with a
few tables and rocking-chairs upon the carpetless polished floor—so
gaunt, that even Marian’s deft fingers failed to make it at first look
home-like or habitable—when a light carriage drew up hastily with a
dash at the front-door of the low bungalow. The young bride pulled her
bows straight quickly at the heavy, old-fashioned, gilt mirror, and
waited anxiously to receive the expected visitors. It was her first
appearance as mistress of her establishment. In a minute, Thomas, the
negro butler—every man-servant is a butler in Trinidad, even if he is
only a boy of twenty—ushered the new-comers pompously into the bare
drawing-room. Marian took their cards and glanced at them hastily.
Two gentlemen—the Honourable Colonial Secretary, and the Honourable
Director of Irrigation.

The Colonial Secretary sidled into a chair, and took up his parable
at once with a very profuse and ponderous apology. ‘My wife, Mrs
Hawthorn, my wife, I’m sorry to say, was most unfortunately unable
to accompany me here this morning.—Charmingly you’ve laid out this
room, really; so very different from what it used to be in poor old
Macmurdo’s time.—Isn’t it, Colonel Daubeny?—Poor old Macmurdo died in
the late yellow fever, you know, my dear madam, and Mr Hawthorn fills
his vacancy. Excellent fellow, poor old Macmurdo—ninth judge I’ve known
killed off by yellow fever in this district since I’ve been here.—My
wife, I was saying, when your charming room compelled me to digress,
is far from well at present—a malady of the country: this shocking
climate; or else, I’m sure she’d have been delighted to have called
upon you with me this morning. The loss is hers, the loss is hers, Mrs
Hawthorn. I shall certainly tell her so. Immensely sorry.’

Colonel Daubeny, the Honourable Director of Irrigation, was a far
jauntier and more easy-spoken man. ‘And Mrs Daubeny, my dear madam,’ he
said with a fluent manner that Marian found exceedingly distasteful,
‘is most unfortunately just this moment down—with toothache. Uncommon
nasty thing to be down with, toothache. A perfect martyr to it. She
begged me to make her excuses.—Mr Hawthorn’—to Edward, who had just
come in—‘Mrs Daubeny begged me to make her excuses. She regrets that
she can’t call to-day on Mrs Hawthorn.—Beautiful view you have, upon my
word, from your front piazza.’

‘It’s the same view, I’ve no doubt,’ Edward answered severely, ‘as it
used to be in the days of my predecessor.’

‘Eh! What! Ah, bless my soul! Quite so,’ Colonel Daubeny answered,
dropping his eyeglass from his eye in some amazement.—‘Ha! very good
that—confoundedly good, really, Mr Hawthorn.’

Marian was a little surprised that Edward, usually so impassive, should
so unmistakably snub the colonel at first sight; and yet she felt there
was something very offensive in the man’s familiar manner, that made
the retort perfectly justifiable, and even necessary.

They lingered a little while, talking very ordinary tropical
small-talk; and then the colonel, with an ugly smile, took up his hat,
and declared, with many unnecessary asseverations, that he must really
be off this very minute. Mrs Daubeny would so much regret having lost
the precious opportunity. The Honourable Colonial Secretary rose at the
same moment and added that he must be going too. Mrs Fitzmaurice would
never forgive herself for that distressing local malady which had so
unfortunately deprived her of the privilege and pleasure.—Good-morning,
good-morning.

But as both gentlemen jumped into the dogcart outside, Edward could
hear the Colonial Secretary, through the open door, saying to the
colonel in a highly amused voice: ‘By George, he gave you as much as he
got every bit, I swear, Daubeny.’

To which the colonel responded with a short laugh: ‘Yes, my dear
fellow; and didn’t you see, by Jove, he twigged it?’

At this they both laughed together immoderately, and drove off at once
laughing, very much pleased with one another.

Before Marian and her husband had time to exchange their surprise and
wonder at such odd behaviour on the part of two apparently well-bred
men, another buggy drove up to the door, from which a third gentleman
promptly descended. His card showed him to be the wealthy proprietor of
a large and flourishing neighbouring sugar-estate.

‘Called round,’ he said to Edward, with a slight bow towards Marian,
‘just to pay my respects to our new judge, whom I’m glad to welcome
to the district of Westmoreland. A son of Mr Hawthorn of Agualta is
sure to be popular with most of his neighbours.—Ah—hem—my wife, I’m
sorry to say, Mrs Hawthorn, is at present suffering from—extreme
exhaustion, due to the heat. She hopes you’ll excuse her not calling
upon you. Otherwise, I’m sure, she’d have been most delighted, most
delighted.—Dear me, what an exquisite prospect you have from your
veranda!’ The neighbouring planter stopped for perhaps ten minutes in
the midst of languishing conversation, and then vanished exactly as his
two predecessors had done before him.

Marian turned to her husband in blank dismay. ‘O Edward, Edward,’ she
cried, unable to conceal her chagrin and humiliation, ‘what on earth
can be the meaning of it?’

‘My darling,’ he answered, taking her hand in his tenderly, ‘I haven’t
the very faintest conception.’

In the course of the afternoon, three more gentlemen called, each
alone, and each of them in turn apologised profusely, in almost the
very self-same words, for his wife’s absence. The last was a fat old
gentleman in the Customs’ service, who declared with effusion many
times over that Mrs Bolitho was really prostrated by the extraordinary
season. ‘Most unusual weather, this, Mrs Hawthorn. I’ve never known so
depressing a summer in the island of Trinidad since I was a boy, ma’am.’

‘So it would seem,’ Edward answered drily. ‘The whole female population
of the island seems to be suffering from an extraordinary complication
of local disorders.’

‘Bless my soul!’ the fat old gentleman ejaculated with a stare. ‘Then
you’ve found out that, have you?—Excuse me, excuse me. I—didn’t know——
Hm, I hardly expected that you expected—or rather, that Mrs Hawthorn
expected—— Ah, quite so.—Good-morning, good-morning.’

Marian flung herself in a passion of tears upon the drawing-room sofa.
‘If any one else calls this afternoon, Thomas,’ she said, ‘I’m not at
home. I won’t see—I can’t see them; I’ll endure it no longer.—O Edward,
darling, for God’s sake, tell me, why on earth are they treating us as
if—as if I were some sort of moral leper? They won’t call upon me. What
can be the reason of it?’

Edward Hawthorn held his head between his hands and walked rapidly up
and down the bare drawing-room. ‘I can’t make it out,’ he cried; ‘I
can’t understand it. Marian—dearest—it is too terrible!’




THE TURQUOISE.


There are few gems more commonly seen on jewelry than the blue
turquoise. Its beauty, its serviceable hardness, its pleasing contrast
with gold, and its moderate price, explain why it is so much esteemed.
Only a few exceptionally fine specimens of the stone rank with the
‘rich and rare’ gems. In the unlikely event of Persia being at war with
all the rest of the world, it would, no doubt, become scarce and dear
outside the dominion of the Shah, since it is only in that country
that the mineral in a state fit for the jeweller’s purpose is found.
Much and widely as the turquoise is used for personal ornaments, the
supply has for some time considerably exceeded the demand except for
fine stones of an uncommon size. But, as is the case with all precious
stones, unusually large pieces—those approaching the size of a hazel
nut, for example—when of good quality, are eagerly sought after, and
have a high intrinsic value.

The turquoise has in all likelihood been used as a gem from a very
remote antiquity, since the range of mountains where it is plentifully
found is situated at no great distance from the southern shore of the
Caspian Sea, near to, if not within, the area believed by many to have
been the cradle of the human race. By some scholars, it is thought
highly probable that the turquoise was used for inlaying the delicate
and beautiful gold-work of ancient Greece; and at all events, there
is a cameo portrait of a classic Greek prince in this mineral among
the specimens in the famous collection of Marlborough gems. There is
some doubt about the name this precious stone was known by in Pliny’s
time. He mentions that the _callais_, which was probably the turquoise,
was found in Asia, where it occurred projecting from the surface of
inaccessible rocks, whence it was obtained by means of slings; but
these were the days of fables. That it was known to the ancient Romans
is, however, proved by the fact that there still exist some, though
only a very few, of their works of art cut in this mineral.

Want of certainty about the name applied to the turquoise in classic
times leaves us in doubt as to what mystic virtues were then attributed
to it. But in the middle ages, the turquoise, like other gems, was
believed to have wonderful properties; indeed, it was credited with
more supernatural virtues than most of them. The wearer of it had both
his sight strengthened and his spirits cheered; he enjoyed immunity
from the consequences of a fall by the gem itself breaking, in order
to save his bones; and his turquoise, like himself, turned pale if he
became sick. When its possessor died, it entirely lost its colour;
but recovered it again on passing into the hands of a new owner. In
some mysterious way, when suspended by a string, it correctly struck
the hours on the inside of a glass vessel. Other precious stones have
lost all the marvellous powers that belonged to them for centuries:
the emerald no longer relieves the fatigued eyesight; the diamond
cannot now dispel fear; the sapphire, though still cold to the touch,
has ceased to be able to extinguish fire. In these perverse days, the
hailstorm comes down even upon the wearer of an amethyst, and bright
red coral attracts rather than repels robbers. But the turquoise still
retains one of its mysterious properties, and flaunts it in the face of
modern science. Sometimes slowly, sometimes suddenly, it unaccountably
turns pale, becomes spotted, or changes from blue to white; and
specimens that behave in this capricious manner are found more commonly
than those whose colour is distinctly permanent.

The turquoise is called in chemical language a hydrated phosphate of
alumina. This means that it consists mainly of phosphoric acid and
alumina, along with nearly twenty per cent. of water. It owes its
colour to small quantities of compounds of copper and iron. It occurs
blue, green, and bluish green; but the change to a pale, mottled, or
white colour, which inferior turquoises undergo, generally takes place
soon after they are taken from the mine. These colours are opaque,
or only very slightly translucent, and the stone has a somewhat waxy
lustre. It is only those of a fast ‘sky-blue’ colour that are prized
for jewelry; but at one time, a green turquoise was more highly valued
than a blue one. Nowadays, however, people have no patience with either
precious stones or precious metals that can be easily mistaken for
those of inferior value. Either green felspar, which is of the same
hardness, or malachite, which is softer, might be mistaken for green
turquoise, and both are more common minerals. But there is hardly
any other natural stone of the same, or even inferior, hardness that
can be confounded with a blue turquoise. The material of some fossil
teeth when coloured with phosphate of iron does, however, resemble it.
Still, there need be no confusion, because this substance is softer.
It is called odontolite or occidental turquoise; while the real stone
is known by jewellers as the oriental turquoise. Odontolite is easily
recognised under the microscope by the characteristic markings of
dentine. Opaque blue glass can be made to imitate the turquoise; but
the former differs in lustre and in the nature of its fracture.

Turquoises are found in Tibet, China, and the neighbourhood of Mount
Sinai; but, as has been already stated, the supply for jewellers’
purposes comes almost wholly from the celebrated Persian mines.
Very little was known about these till a remarkably interesting and
exhaustive Report upon them was recently furnished to the British
Foreign Office by Mr A. Hontum Schindler, who was for a short time
Director of the mines. They are situated in a range of mountains
bounding on the north an open plain in the Bâr-i-Madèn district,
thirty-two miles north-west of Nishâpûr, in the province of Khorassan.
Botanists tell us that the brightest blue is seen on alpine flowers. If
pure mountain air could be supposed to brighten the colour of a gem as
well as a flower, there is no want of it where these turquoise veins
occur. Their position is between five and six thousand feet above the
level of the sea, and a strong north wind blows almost continually over
the ridges of the hills, rendering the situation very healthy. Wheat,
barley, and mulberry trees grow well on the slopes at the lower of
these heights.

Geologically, the mountains are composed of sandstones and nummulitic
limestones lying on clay-slates and inclosing immense beds of gypsum
and rock-salt. But these stratified rocks are broken through and
metamorphosed by rocks of igneous origin, such as greenstones and
porphyries. The turquoise-bearing veins occur in the metamorphic
strata, and the mines proper consist of shafts and galleries in the
solid rock. There are also ‘diggings’ in the detritus of disintegrated
rock washed down towards the plain, and it is here that some of the
best turquoises are found. A number of the mines are ancient and very
extensive; and although most of them are now more or less in a state of
neglect, Mr Schindler states that the presence of many old shafts—now
filled up—for light and ventilation proves that they have at one
time been skilfully worked, and were probably then under government
control. But they appear to have been, for nearly two centuries,
farmed by the villagers, who only think of a quick return for their
money, and therefore cut away the rock wherever they see turquoises,
without leaving proper supports to prevent the falling in of the mine.
Several labourers have at different times been buried in the galleries
through the rubbish being badly propped up. The perpendicular depth
of one mine is one hundred and sixty feet, and others are nearly as
deep. The miners work with picks and crowbars in much the same way as
that in which vein-mining is carried on elsewhere; and it is a curious
illustration of how slowly long-established processes are altered in
the East, that gunpowder should have been used in these mines only
within the last thirty years. But it is not strange, as can be seen
by some examples of rock-blasting at home, to learn that the results
obtained by gunpowder are, in one view, less satisfactory than those
got by the pick. The powder does more work, but it is also more
destructive, as it breaks the turquoises into small pieces.

Here we may say a few words about how it fares with the people who
are occupied with the mining, cutting, and selling of the turquoises.
About two hundred men work in the mines or at the diggings, and some
thirty more—elders of the village—buy the turquoises and sell them
to merchants and jewellers. A certain additional number of hands cut
and polish the stones; but this work is done elsewhere, as well as
in the district where they are found. The population of the villages
in the neighbourhood of the mines is about twelve hundred, and the
inhabitants, as in most mining districts, are improvident. Nearly all
the men, and not a few of the women, are inveterate opium-smokers.
Agriculture is neglected. Turquoise-dealing and its gains make the
people careless of anything else. As a rule, the money is quickly
spent; and men who easily earn a sum fully equal to fifty pounds
sterling per annum, have often nothing to eat.

At the mines, the turquoises are roughly divided into three classes,
of first, second, and third qualities. All the stones of good and
fast colour and favourable shape belong to the first class. But how
curiously these vary in value will be best understood by quoting Mr
Schindler’s own words: ‘It is impossible to fix any price, or classify
them according to different qualities. I have not yet seen two stones
alike. A stone two-thirds of an inch in length, two-fifths of an inch
in width, and about half an inch in thickness, cut _peikâni_ (conical)
shape, was valued at Meshed at three hundred pounds; another, of about
the same size, shape, and cut, was valued at only eighty pounds.
Turquoises of the size of a pea are sometimes sold for eight pounds.
The colour most prized is the deep blue of the sky. A small speck of a
lighter colour, which only connoisseurs can distinguish, or an almost
unappreciable tinge of green, decreases the value considerably. Then
there is that undefinable property of a good turquoise, the _zât_,
something like the “water” of a diamond or the lustre of a pearl;
a fine coloured turquoise without the _zât_ is not worth much.’ He
subsequently adds: ‘The above-mentioned three hundred pounds Meshed
turquoise was bought from the finder by one of the Rish-i-Safîds
(elders of the village) for three pounds; the latter sold it still
uncut at Meshed for thirty-eight pounds. As soon as it was cut, its
true value became apparent, and it was sent to Paris, where it was
valued at six hundred pounds. The second purchaser, however, received
only three hundred and forty pounds for it; the difference was gained
by the agents.’ Among the fine turquoises in the possession of the
Shah, there is one valued at two thousand pounds.

The best stones of the second class are worth about ninety pounds per
pound; whilst the most inferior will scarcely bring a twentieth part of
this price. The latter are chiefly used in Persia for the decoration of
swords, horse-trappings, pipe-heads, and the common kinds of jewelry.
Small cut turquoises of a slightly better quality than these sell at
the rate of from two to three shillings per thousand. In the third
class are included stones unsaleable in Persia, as well as large flat
stones, some of which are esteemed for amulets, brooches, buckles, and
the like. The prices given there will be more than doubled when the
turquoises are sold in Europe.

The turquoise being an opaque stone, it would be useless to cut facets
upon it, as these would not reflect light in the same way as when
fashioned upon a transparent gem like a diamond or a sapphire. There
are three ways of cutting the turquoise, all much in the same style—the
flat or slightly convex form, the truncated cone, and the tallow
drop or _en cabochon_. The higher the conical and convex surfaces in
the two latter, the more the turquoises are prized. None but a fine
deep-coloured stone can be advantageously cut into a conical shape,
since one of pale colour would appear almost white at the apex.
Turquoises are cut by the hand on wheels made of a composition of emery
and gum. They are afterwards polished by being rubbed on a fine-grained
sandstone, and then on a piece of soft leather with turquoise dust.

Of the few mines which yield good turquoises, one or two are dangerous,
on account of the loose rubbish they contain. The one from which the
best of all are obtained yields very few. Some mines contain stones
which look well at first, but soon change their colour and fade. Mr
Schindler gives an instance of a recently found turquoise, as large as
a walnut and of fine colour, being presented to His Majesty the Shah,
which he had for only two days, when it became green and whitish, and
therefore of no value. Throughout Europe, there has been a great fall
in the price of this gem within the last few years, and it would seem
that this is owing to the fact that large quantities of stones which
appeared to be of fine quality, but were really of fugitive colour,
had been disposed of not long ago at good prices. Up to the time that
they were sold, their colour had been preserved by keeping them damp;
but when taken out of their moist packing, they slowly became white.
It need hardly be said that the colour of most precious stones is very
permanent. There is, however, a variety of opal occurring in Mexico
which is very beautiful when first found; but after a brief time it
entirely loses its bright play of colours. Both the turquoise and the
opal are peculiar in containing a considerable amount of water in their
composition.

The colour of a fine turquoise has not escaped the notice of
enamellers and potters. For centuries, an imitation of its
characteristic and lovely blue has been applied among other colours to
the exquisitely decorated pottery of Persia. On the most expensive and
perhaps also the most beautiful of all porcelain, the Sèvres ware of
soft body made in the latter half of last century, the turquoise blue
is often a conspicuous colour. Towards the end of the century, when
the directors of the far-famed _fabrique_ changed the character of the
china to that of a hard paste or body, its decoration with a turquoise
colour was no longer possible. But modern English porcelain, like the
old Sèvres, is of soft paste; and one of the feats on which our great
Staffordshire potters pride themselves is the successful production
upon it, in recent years, of a soft and clear turquoise blue.




THE HAUNTED JUNGLE.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.


CHAP. III.—THE BREAKING OF THE SPELL.

When the day dawned, it found the púsári still in the temple offering
prayers and supplications to the god for deliverance from the spell
he was under. As soon as it was sufficiently light for him to see his
way, he left the temple and went down into the village. A hope had
risen in his breast that his prayers may have been answered, and he
was anxious to ascertain whether he was still invisible. The hope was
soon dispelled. As he passed the door of a hut, an old man came out
yawning and stretching his arms, and though the púsári stood right
before him, took no notice of him. Filled with despair, the púsári
went to his own house and sat in the porch, a prey to the gloomiest,
most miserable thoughts. He occupied himself in watching Vallee. The
overwhelming grief and agitation of the preceding day had passed off,
leaving her listless, unhappy, and restless. She was trying to attend
to her household duties; but her thoughts were elsewhere, for she
sighed frequently and her eyes filled with tears very often. Every now
and then, she went to the door and glanced out. On one such occasion
she uttered an exclamation of surprise. On looking out, the púsári saw
several men and women whom he recognised as some of his relatives, who
lived in a village at some distance, coming towards him. On entering
the house, one or two of the new-comers saluted Vallee curtly and
coldly, but the rest took no notice of her. Abashed and pained by
their conduct, Vallee retired to a corner and waited to see what they
had come for. They made themselves quite at home at once. It was soon
evident they had heard of the púsári’s disappearance, and were come to
see about his property, being persuaded he would never come back. After
a while, they began to examine the house and to make a sort of rough
inventory of what it contained.

‘What are you doing, uncle?’ asked Vallee of one of them, a thin,
ferrety-faced man, who was her father’s brother.

The man made no reply. Presently, he caught sight of the púsári’s
strong-box in a corner of the hut, and turning to her, abruptly
demanded the key.

‘My father keeps it,’ she replied.

‘Do not name your father to us!’ said her uncle sharply. ‘We have cast
him off; we disown him!’

‘But not his property, it appears,’ retorted Vallee with spirit. ‘And
I tell you, Sinnan Ummiyán, it will not be well for you when my father
comes home and hears what you have said of him!’

‘Dare you mock me, daughter of a murderer!’ exclaimed her uncle, as he
gave her a sharp box on the ear.

Vallee did not cry out or burst into tears, but drawing herself up,
walked silently and proudly out of the house and disappeared into the
jungle.

Great was the disgust of the púsári at the conduct of his rapacious
and selfish relatives, and his indignation at their treatment of his
daughter. Muttering wrathfully to himself that he would make them
regret it, if he ever regained his human form, he got up and went out
after Vallee. As he entered the jungle at the spot where he had seen
her disappear, he heard a voice that he instantly recognised—it was
that of Valan Elúvan. Vallee had just met her lover.

‘What is the matter, sweet one?’ he heard Valan say. ‘Are you crying
for your father?’

‘Aiyo, aiyo!’ wailed the girl. ‘I shall never see him again!’

‘Do not give way to such thoughts, little one,’ replied Valan. ‘He
will certainly return. He has probably gone to some distant village on
sudden and important business.’

‘O Valan,’ exclaimed Vallee, ‘then you don’t think—you do not believe
that he—killed the headman?’

‘No; I do not, Púliya knows,’ returned her lover gravely. ‘’Twas some
stranger, no doubt, that did the rascally deed. Your father will
doubtless return soon and prove his innocence.—Were those some of your
people who came to your house just now?’ he added.

Vallee explained who they were, and told him of her uncle’s treatment
of her.

‘Never mind, child,’ he said soothingly, when she had finished
speaking. ‘Should anything have happened to your father, and he not
return, I will take you to my house as my wife; and we will go and live
in some distant village where nothing is known about either of us, and
no one can say malicious things of us.—What say you, sweet one?’

Vallee made no reply and no protest when he tenderly embraced her.
They continued to talk together for some minutes. When they separated,
the púsári followed Valan home, as he wished to see what his enemy was
doing. As they entered the house, the púsári saw Iyan hastily hide
some money he had been fingering, in his waist-cloth. Valan, too, saw
his brother’s action; he did not say anything, however, till he had
deposited his jungle-knife in a corner; then, without looking round, he
said quietly: ‘Elder brother, where did you get that money?’

‘What money?’ blustered Iyan.

‘That which you have in your waist-cloth.’

‘I have had a debt repaid,’ growled Iyan after a short pause.

‘What debt?’ persisted Valan. ‘I did not know any one owed you
anything.’

Iyan grunted angrily, but made no answer.

‘Where were you the day before yesterday, when the múdliya was
murdered?’ continued Valan in a stern, grave tone and looking keenly at
his brother.—‘And why,’ he continued, when he received no answer, ‘did
you change your cloth when you came home that night, and wash the one
you had been wearing? And why, too, did you——?’

‘Mind your own business!’ interrupted Iyan fiercely, as he got up and
walked out. ‘You had better not spy on me, Valan Elúvan, or I will make
you repent it!’

For some minutes after his brother had gone, Valan sat looking
thoughtfully out of the door, evidently turning something over in
his mind; then he got up and carefully searched the hut, examining
with great care a cloth he found in a corner. He appeared not to be
satisfied with what he saw, for he shook his head, and muttered two or
three times to himself in a tone of sorrow and misgiving.

The whole of that day the púsári wandered restlessly about, spending
most of the time, however, in and about his own house. By noon, his
relatives had quite settled down in his house. It was clear they had
no expectation of his ever returning, and had, therefore, constituted
themselves his heirs. They did not treat Vallee with cruelty or
harshness, but simply ignored her, or treated her as if she was
dependent on them. Early in the afternoon, the young headman whom the
púsári had seen at Mánkúlam the previous day, came to the village armed
with a warrant. He was accompanied by several men, who searched his
house carefully, but of course found nothing to incriminate him. They
seized, however, the púsári’s gun and two or three jungle-knives that
were in the house. Vallee’s distress and indignation at the action of
the headman and his satellites was great; but she restrained herself,
and made no protest or remark of any kind. The púsári learned from the
conversation of these unwelcome visitors that men had been sent to all
the neighbouring villages in search of him.

Night at length came on. The púsári hung about the village till every
one had retired to rest. Suddenly the idea occurred to him to go in
search of the pisási village in the haunted jungle. He started off
at once, and before long found himself in a part of the jungle which
he knew could not be very far from the scene of his dreadful night’s
adventure. But though he wandered about all night and climbed two or
three trees, in the hope of seeing the glare of the magic fires, he
found nothing. Though he knew himself to be invisible, and therefore
perfectly safe, he could not overcome the sensation of fear when he
heard the fierce cries of wild beasts in the dark, lonely forest.
He listened anxiously to the crashing and trumpeting of a herd of
elephants in the jungle near him, and to the grating roar of a leopard
seeking its prey. He fairly fled when he heard the whimpering of a
couple of bears coming along the path towards him. When the morning
broke, he returned to the village.

Several days passed, and the púsári remained invisible to mortal eyes.
He suffered neither from hunger nor thirst nor fatigue, and required
no sleep. Aimlessly and ceaselessly, he wandered about, sunk in the
lowest depths of misery and despair. His great wish was to find the
pisási village again, as he hoped that, in some way, the spell might
then be removed from him. Night after night he entered the forest and
wandered about till daybreak with eyes and ears open for any sign of
the presence of pisásis; but though, before long, he knew every path
and game-track, and almost every tree for miles round, he could not
find again the haunted jungle. Sometimes, when tired, of his fruitless
midnight wanderings, he would go to the rice-fields and sit by the
blazing fires in the watch-huts and listen to the talk of the men
and boys guarding the crops from the wild beasts. During the day, he
haunted the village, entering all the huts unseen, and listening to
the conversation of the villagers. Often he laughed to himself as he
overheard secrets disclosed, weaknesses exposed, and designs laid
bare, by men and women who thought themselves alone and safe from
eavesdropping. The excitement about the murder of the headman soon died
out, and it ceased to be the absorbing theme of conversation in the
village. The púsári was supposed to have got safely off to some distant
country with his booty.

During this time, the púsári watched his enemy unceasingly, his
feelings of hatred and desire for vengeance growing deeper every day.
Iyan was too cunning a villain to excite suspicion by showing his
ill-gotten wealth, and he had not as yet profited much by his crime.
Every evening, the púsári watched him go into the jungle and gloat over
the money and jewels he had hidden in the hollow tree.

The púsári also kept an untiring, loving watch over his daughter.
His brother and family had by this taken complete possession of his
house and property. Vallee felt keenly their rapacious proceedings and
unkind treatment of her, for her father more than once saw her, with
tears of mortification and indignation in her eyes, rush out of the
house into the jungle. But she very often met there one who dried her
tears quickly and easily. Valan appeared to be always on the watch
for her, and met her so often and so openly, that it soon became
the talk of the village. Many sneered at him for a fool to think of
marrying a portionless girl, as they now thought her, and also the
daughter of a murderer. It soon became clear to the púsári that matters
were coming to a crisis, and that Valan, stung into resentment and
defiance by the remarks of the villagers, and pitying Vallee’s distress
and unhappiness, would soon make her his wife and take her away.
Valan’s generous and honourable conduct towards his daughter, and his
expression of belief in his innocence, had completely won the púsári’s
heart. He saw with approval and pleasure the relations between the two,
and the thought that his daughter would soon be provided for, helped in
considerable measure to reconcile him to his unhappy lot.

It happened one night that the púsári in one of his nocturnal rambles
found himself at the river. It was now the height of the hot season,
and the river was almost dry. Near where the path crossed the river
was a small pool, the only water for miles around; to this the púsári
went, and seated on the bank above, watched the wild animals coming to
drink. It was a bright moonlight night, and the light reflected from
the white sandy bed of the river made everything clearly visible. First
came a pair of porcupines, which played about and chased each other,
rattling their quills noisily, till the sudden appearance of an old
she-bear with a cub on her back put them to flight. The bear drank and
shuffled off; and then, with noiseless, stealthy step, a leopard glided
out of the jungle into the moonlight. It looked about with its cruel,
round gleaming eyes for a few moments, and then, lying down on its
stomach, lapped its fill of water. Afterwards came a herd of wild-pigs,
suspicious and wary, followed by a number of graceful spotted deer. As
these were drinking, a slight noise in the distance caused them all
to throw up their heads and listen in attitudes of alarm, and then to
disappear in the jungle like shadows. A few moments later, with heavy
but silent tread, a herd of elephants came along the river and drank at
the pool, throwing copious showers of water over themselves with their
trunks afterwards. The púsári had by this time quite lost all fear of
wild animals, so he sat and watched them with pleasure and in perfect
security.

Suddenly the púsári started to his feet, and with staring eyes and
beating heart, gazed at something in the distance that had caught his
eye. It was a brilliant glare of light over the trees. It was the
pisási village at last! Without a moment’s hesitation, and breathless
with anxiety, he hurried off in the direction of the light, going
straight through the jungle towards it. Nearer and nearer appeared the
light, till at last, with joy and exultation in his heart, he stepped
out of the jungle into the well-remembered enchanted bazaar. But
instead of the unearthly silence that had reigned in the bazaar the
last time he was there, it was now filled with uproar. No particular
sounds were distinguishable; but horrid shrieks and yells, awful
execrations and hideous sounds of every sort, filled the air. Instead
of taking no notice of him as before, the pisásis glared balefully
at him, and seemed to snarl and show their teeth. The creatures in
the shape of cattle and dogs followed him threateningly; and numbers
of evil-looking birds and loathsome creatures with wings flapped and
fluttered about his head. But undaunted and undeterred, the púsári
walked steadily on, searching for the old she-pisási’s stall where he
had drunk the magic potion. At last he found it. There sat the old hag,
blinking and leering with the same hollow gourd of water before her.
Seizing it, the púsári raised it to his lips, and in spite of the awful
din that instantly arose, drained it to the bottom. As he put it down
empty, he fell to the ground insensible.

It was daylight when he recovered and staggered to his feet. He
remembered instantly what had happened during the night, and was filled
with intense anxiety to ascertain whether his experiment had broken the
spell that had bound him. He gazed at his arms and legs, and it seemed
to him that they were real flesh and blood. He pinched them, and was
sure he had felt the sensation. A thrill of joy passed through him,
for he felt certain that he had recovered his human form. Taking his
bearings by the sun, he made his way rapidly through the jungle to the
river. As he descended the bank, he came upon a herd of deer, and it
was with rapture that he saw them gaze in alarm at him and then dash
hastily away. As he walked along the bed of the river, he noticed with
intense satisfaction that he now had a shadow! There was no longer any
doubt, and in the gladness of his heart the púsári began to sing at the
top of his voice. As he turned into the path leading to Pandiyán, he
caught sight of a man coming towards him; a moment later, he saw it was
Valan Elúvan. On seeing the púsári, the young man stopped and looked at
him with astonishment. After a moment’s hesitation, he came forward.
‘Why, iya, where have you been?’ he exclaimed.

‘I cannot tell you now, Valan,’ replied the púsári. ‘I am anxious to
get to Pandiyán. Come with me, and I will tell you all.’

‘Then you are not afraid to go to the village, iya?’ said Valan
hesitatingly.

‘No. Why should I?’

‘Have you not heard, then, of the murder of the múdliya and what is
said about it?’

‘Yes, yes! I know all about it, and who the murderer is.’—Valan glanced
quickly and searchingly at the púsári.—‘Ay, and I know more than that,’
continued the púsári, returning his glance with a smile. ‘I know how
you have been making love to my daughter in my absence, and heard every
word you said to her!’

Valan looked puzzled and confounded, but said nothing; and the two
walked on together in silence, each buried in his own thoughts. Valan
was wondering whether the púsári could possibly have been hidden in the
jungle near his house all the time, and thus overheard his interviews
with Vallee. He was also trying to account for his friendly manner
towards him, so different from his former behaviour. He could not help
feeling that the púsári was only feigning friendliness, and that he had
some deep design in view, especially when he thought over his remark,
that he knew who was the murderer of the headman; and who that was
he felt only too sure—his own brother, and the other’s deadly enemy.
Meanwhile, the púsári, filled with joyful thoughts and anticipations,
strode along at such a rate that Valan could scarcely keep up with him.

At length they reached Pandiyán. A number of the villagers were
standing about, and they no sooner saw who it was that accompanied
Valan than the cry was raised; ‘The púsári has come back!’ and men,
women, and children came running out of the houses, filled with
astonishment and excitement. Vallee, however, was not to be seen,
though both the men looked round for her. Without taking notice of
anybody, the púsári walked through the village, past his own louse,
to Iyan Elúvan’s hut. Valan followed, grave and silent. The púsári’s
face was hard and stern as he entered the house. A glance round showed
him there was no one there; it was, however, in great disorder, and
something lying on the floor caught his eye. It was a torn fragment of
cloth, and near it lay a small knife, its point stained with blood.
The púsári picked them up and examined them; then, without a word, and
followed by Valan and an intensely curious and excited but silent crowd
of villagers, he left the hut, and entering the jungle at its back,
made his way to the hollow tree where Iyan had hidden the valuables he
had robbed the múdliya of. As the party neared the spot, a loud cry
rose from the villagers, for lying at the foot of the tree was a dark
object; it was the body of Iyan Elúvan!

Uttering an exclamation of horror, Valan knelt beside his brother and
laid his hand upon his heart. The body was still warm, but Iyan was
quite dead. His right hand was bound up with a strip of cloth. On
this being unwound by Valan, a couple of small punctured wounds were
discernible in the fleshy part near the thumb. Cries of, ‘It is a
snake-bite!’ ‘He has been bitten by a snake!’ rose from the villagers
crowding round, for they all recognised the marks. Meanwhile, the
púsári, with the assistance of a stick, had drawn the bundle out of
the hollow in the tree. With it came the freshly shed skin of a cobra,
and it was at once seen how Iyan had come by his death. A cobra had
taken up its abode in the hollow where Iyan had placed his ill-gotten
treasure, and on his attempting to withdraw it, had bitten him in the
hand. Iyan had then gone back to his house, and lanced and washed the
wound and bound up his hand; but feeling the approach of death, had
crawled back to the tree, but for what purpose was never known, and had
there expired.

Opening the bundle, the púsári displayed to the astonished gaze of
the villagers the money and jewels it contained. Every one of them
knew at once that it was the stolen property of the murdered headman;
but how it came to be hidden in the tree and what Iyan had to do with
it, they were at a loss to guess. And now the púsári spoke, and in a
few words told them all that had happened to him since they had last
seen him. They listened eagerly and attentively, and believed every
word. They frequently interrupted his story of what he had seen in the
pisási village, with exclamations of horror and amazement, and when he
finished, they one and all loudly expressed their satisfaction at his
return, and belief in his innocence.

The whole party then returned to the village, carrying the body
of Iyan, and taking with them the recovered treasure. The púsári
went at once in search of his daughter, and soon found her in the
thrashing-ground in the fields winnowing rice. The meeting was a very
happy one. Vallee’s delight and joy knew no bounds. Could it have
been possible to increase her happiness at her father’s return, the
assurance he now gave her of regard for Valan Elúvan and his approval
of him as her future husband, would have done so. The púsári’s next
step was to go home accompanied by Vallee, and in a few cold, bitter
words, to upbraid his relatives for their conduct and order them to
leave his house at once. Ashamed and abashed, they went away without
any attempt at explanation or apology. That afternoon, the young
headman who had before inquired into the murder arrived at Pandiyán
and at once instituted inquiries. The result was that the púsári’s
innocence was established and the dead man’s guilt proved. The headman
took charge of the stolen property.

‘Truly, iya,’ he said to the púsári as he departed, ‘you have much to
be thankful for. Only by the favour of Púliya have you escaped from
the wiles of the pisásis, and from the snare that Iyan Elúvan laid for
you. ’Tis well, indeed, to be a favourite of the god. May you be happy
and prosper!’

Before many days, Valan and Vallee were married, and went to live in
an adjoining village. Relieved by the death of his enemy from constant
worry and irritation, the púsári’s temper greatly improved. In course
of time he became so much respected and so popular, that he was elected
headman of the district. The secrets he learned when he wandered about
the village invisible, proved to be of great value to him, as he was
often able to turn his knowledge to account in his dealings with his
fellow-villagers. He became in time a man of substance.

The púsári’s adventure was the subject of conversation through the
whole country round for many weeks, and for a long time not a man,
woman, or child dared enter the jungle after nightfall. But though
in course of time the fear of the pisásis wore off, and on several
occasions villagers were lost in the forest and wandered about there
all night, no one ever found again the Haunted Jungle.




A STICK OF INDIAN INK.


Amongst familiar things that are of comparatively recent introduction
we must include that artistic article inaccurately known as Indian ink.
Even when the seventeenth century was more than half-spent, it was a
rarity; and in the folio volume, published in 1672, descriptive of the
Museo Moscarda, there is an engraving of a stick of Indian ink, which
was included with some ‘giants’ teeth’—in reality mammoth bones—as
amongst the chief curiosities of the collection. Notwithstanding its
usual English name of ‘Indian ink,’ it is a Chinese manufacture.
M. Maurice Jametel, a careful and accomplished French scholar, has
compiled from Chinese sources an interesting monograph on its history
and manufacture (_L’Encre de Chine, d’après des Documents Chinois_,
traduits par M. Jametel: Paris, 1882). The historians of the Celestial
kingdom, according to their usual custom in dealing with the affairs of
their own land, attribute high antiquity to the use of ink; they say
that it was invented by Tien-tchen, who flourished somewhere between
2697 and 2597 B.C. The Chinese at the time made use of a lacquer which
was spread upon silk by the help of bamboo sticks. That, at least, is
one interpretation of certain passages as to bamboo books. Next we are
told that they used a sort of black stone, to which water was applied.

About two centuries and a half before the birth of Christ, a new
departure arose in Kiang-si province, where they began to manufacture
balls of lampblack made of a mixture of lacquer, firwood, and size. The
new invention was warmly welcomed, and the processes rapidly improved.
A poet, Ouï-fou-jen, celebrating the novel aid to literature, mentions
with especial praise the ink that was made from the firs that grew on
the hillsides of Lou-chan, in the province of Kiang-si. This province
was celebrated for the fine quality of its ink; and under the Tang
dynasty, in the seventh, eighth, and ninth centuries of our era, there
was an overseer who was a government official and whose functions were
hereditary. Every year, a certain number of sticks of ink were sent to
the Emperor as tribute.

During the reign of the Tang dynasty, we are told that the ink grew
blacker with age, and that the size hardening, made the sticks as hard
as stone. This points to the early development of the industry; for
these characteristics of more than a thousand years ago are precisely
those which are still regarded as the true tests of excellence. There
is even some reason to think that there were state manufactories. The
names of Li-tsao, Tchou-feung—whose place was called the Fir-burning
Workshop—and of Li-tchao have been recorded as makers of excellence;
but the son of the last-named, Li-ting-kouei, is still regarded as the
most famous of ink-makers. He was an ingenious person, and moulded his
‘sticks’ of ink into a variety of quaint forms; and his ‘swords’ and
‘cakes’ were greatly admired. His reputation, however, rests on a more
solid basis than a talent for fancy shapes. The sterling character of
the man was reflected in his work; and the excellence and good quality
of his ink attracted general admiration. It was said that if you wanted
to test the genuineness of an ink-stick that professed to be from
his workshop, you must break it in pieces, and throw the bits into a
vessel of water. If the pieces at the end of a month remained intact
and undissolved, it was a proof that the ink had come from the works of
Li-ting-kouei.

There are points of contact between the manners of the East and West,
for an honorific syllable or title was granted by the Emperor to the
successful ink-maker, who thus became Lhi-ting-kouei. Another famous
ink-maker was Tchang-yu, who was furnisher to the household of the
Emperors under the dynasty of the Song, who flourished from 998 to
1023. The manufacture, however, declined in its artistic quality; but
sometimes a maker arose who gave it a fresh impetus and importance.
Two of these are named Pan-kou and Tchai-sin, the latter of whom is
said to have rediscovered some of the antique processes by which
Li-ting-kouei had gained his renown. A great variety of processes have
been employed, and nearly every kind of combustible has been used for
the production of the lampblack. The Emperor Hsiuan-tsong made use of
perfumed rice-powder steeped in a decoction of _Hibiscus mutabilis_.
At one locality where petroleum is used for lighting purposes, the
lampblack resulting from its combustion is said to make an ink which
for brilliance and blackness is superior to that made from firwood. The
latter was, however, formerly the great source of Indian ink. After
the lampblack or soot obtained by the burning of the wood, the most
important thing is the size by which the particles are held together.
This is frequently of animal origin. The horns of the stag and of
the rhinoceros are said to be laid under contribution; as also the ox
and various kinds of fishes. There is some reason to think that this
industry came to the Middle Kingdom from Corea. At the present time,
it is said that, instead of firwood, the oleaginous matters of the
_Dryandra cordata_ and grains of hemp are almost universally used. In
some places, the _Gleditschia sinensis_ is preferred, and even the
cane-flower and the haricot do not escape. It is curious that the
Chinese author Chen-ki-souen does not mention the _Sesamum orientale_,
which is generally regarded as the chief source from which the soot
of Indian ink is now obtained. The processes of the manufacture have
been elaborately described, and Chinese artists have exerted their
ingenuity to portray all the details of an industry so important both
to literature and art. In Europe, Indian ink is used for drawings only;
but in China, it is the instrument by which the poet writes his verses
and by which the judge records his sentences, as well as that by which
the artist embodies his fugitive fancies.

Chinese imagination has run riot in doing honour to ink. As there are
divinities to preside over almost every object, the instruments of
literature do not lack their supernatural guardians, and their place
and precedence are settled by strict rules of etiquette. The ‘Prefect
of the Black Perfume’ is the official style of the ink-deity, and
he ranks higher than the ‘Guardian Spirit of the Pencil;’ whilst on
a still lower level stands the ‘Genius of Paper.’ One day when the
Emperor Hiuan-tsong, of the Tang dynasty, was at work in his study,
suddenly there popped out from a stick of ink that lay upon his table
a quaint figure no larger than a fly, but having all the appearance of
a Taoist priest. The startled monarch was soon reassured by the words
of the apparition. ‘Behold,’ it said, ‘the Genius of the Ink. My title
is the Envoy of the Black Fir, and I have to announce to you that
henceforth, when a man of true learning or genius writes, the Twelve
Deities of Ink shall make their appearance to testify to the reality
of his powers.’ Alas for literature! From that day to this, the Twelve
Deities of Ink have remained invisible, although many centuries have
passed away.




THE GREAT JEWEL ROBBERY.


The little world of fashionable London society was startled a few years
ago by reports of a series of daring jewel robberies. The most costly
gems seemed to disappear as if by magic under the very eyes of their
owners. These robberies defied detection. A clue in one case was upset
by the facts in another. When my aid as private detective was called
in, I resolved to confine my attention to three distinct cases, though,
of course, if useful information came in my way concerning other
matters, I should know how to take advantage of it.

The first of the three on my list was the case of the Dowager Lady A.,
a somewhat eccentric old lady, who found her chief delight in arraying
herself in her most valuable jewels and visiting in regular rotation
all the West-end theatres. One night, when returning from one of these
expeditions, her carriage had been overturned by colliding with an
omnibus. The dowager was seriously injured, and within a few days she
was dead. Then, apparently for the first time, it was discovered that
the whole of the jewels worn by Lady A. on the night of the carriage
accident had mysteriously disappeared. Her maid was so overcome by the
sight of her injured mistress, that she failed altogether to remember
what was done with these jewels at the moment when her ladyship was
undressed. It was even a question whether they might not have been
actually lost in the street during the confusion of the accident. At
all events, no trace of them could be found, and it soon became evident
that in the excitement of summoning relatives, fetching doctors, and,
very soon, nurses and undertakers, half-a-dozen persons might have
entered the house and walked off with the jewels without any chance of
detection.

Then I turned my attention to the second case—that of the young
Countess of B. There seemed less room for doubt in this instance. The
fashionable wedding of the autumn had been that of the Earl of B.
with Miss Blank. There had been a churchful of people at St George’s,
Hanover Square, and a host of guests at the breakfast at the _Unique
Hotel_. On the morning of the wedding, the earl had presented his bride
with a magnificent tiara of diamonds. As the ‘happy pair’ were to
start almost immediately for the continent, these diamonds, inclosed
in a case, were hastily packed in a travelling bag, which the bride’s
travelling maid was never to let out of her sight. On arriving at
Paris, the bag was apparently intact; but on opening the jewel-case,
the tiara was amissing. Clearly, it must have been cleverly extracted
from the case while lying in the bride’s dressing-room, the empty case
then being placed in the bag. Who had stolen the countess’s diamonds?
The maid, the bride’s mother, and a younger brother had alone, as far
as it was known, entered the room where the jewels were lying. I don’t
mind saying I had some difficulty in believing that a _bonâ fide_
robbery had been committed. You may not believe it, but I am convinced
that many a startling robbery of jewels would be explained, if we knew
of all the private debts incurred by ladies of fashion, and of the
sacrifices sometimes made by them to screen from disgrace themselves or
some deeply involved connection.

Meanwhile, I made inquiries concerning robbery number three. This
was at Colonel C.’s. There the only thing missed was a very valuable
bracelet. There had been a dance at the house. During the evening, Mrs
C. had slipped and sprained her ankle so severely that a doctor had to
be summoned, and the party was somewhat prematurely brought to a close.
Mrs C. distinctly remembered wearing the bracelet; but whether she
had it on at the moment of falling, she could not remember. There had
been naturally some confusion in the ballroom, and the lady had been
carried to her own room. It was not for some hours that the loss of the
bracelet was noticed. Then a search was made, but altogether without
success.

In the first and third of these cases, suspicion seemed to point at
once to some member of the household; but all my inquiries failed to
find any trace of the missing property. The servants all willingly
consented, nay, even offered, to have their boxes searched, and for
some weeks I confessed myself baffled. The missing property had
disappeared as completely as though it had never existed.

Again and again I went over the whole circumstances as they had been
related to me. There was, I reflected, one circumstance common to all
three of the robberies, if robberies they were. There had been at the
time some unusual amount of confusion, all lending opportunity for a
theft to take place without immediate detection. The Dowager Lady A.’s
diamonds had been stolen during her illness, or about the time of her
death. The Countess of B. had lost her diamonds during the excitement
of a wedding breakfast at an hotel. At Colonel C.’s house, there had
been a ball on the night when the bracelet was lost. Was there any one,
I asked myself, who, by chance or intention, had been present at each
place at the time of the robbery? Any occasional waiter, for example,
or servant of any kind? I could not find that there had been. Yet, if
the thief were not one of the household, how was it that a stranger
should in three separate instances fix on an establishment where the
circumstances were favourable to a robbery of valuable property? In two
cases, there had been illness and a hasty summoning of doctors. That
led to another thought: was it possible that some experienced thief
or gang of thieves had laid themselves out to track the broughams of
fashionable West-end physicians, on the chance of finding hall doors
left open, and property somewhat loosely guarded?

I had not thought of such a thing seriously before; but it seemed
now to be an idea worth following up. Once more I resumed inquiries.
Who was the doctor summoned in the case of the Dowager Lady A.? I
easily ascertained. It was one of the best known men, at that time,
in London. He and his brougham would be familiar to every thief who
frequented West-end thoroughfares. I next inquired at Colonel C.’s. To
my satisfaction, I learnt that the same doctor had attended in this
case. ‘Here,’ I said to myself, ‘I begin to see daylight.’ Shortly
afterwards, I made a further discovery. The coachman who drove the
famous physician to Lady A.’s on the night of the accident, and to
Colonel C.’s on the night of the ball, had only been in his employ a
few weeks; and on the date of the Earl of B.’s wedding, the man had
driven the carriage of one of the guests at the breakfast.

The clue I felt was becoming strong. The thief, I grew convinced,
was a confederate of the grave-faced man in spotless black who drove
the fashionable doctor from one house of sickness to another. I
resolved to obtain an interview with the doctor, and after explaining
my suspicions, plan some mode of detecting so consummate a rascal.
Circumstances occurred to make me resolve to carry out my purpose
without delay.

My journey took me to one of the somewhat sombre-looking streets
that run down to the Thames, from the Chelsea side, between Chelsea
Bridge and Battersea Bridge. The name ‘Gideon West, M.D., Physician
and Surgeon,’ inscribed on a brass plate told me when I had reached
my destination. Dr West, I was informed, was still out, late though
it was; and the time of his coming home was most uncertain. I was
determined, however, not to return without seeing him; and after
assuring the tired-looking servant that I should certainly await Dr
West’s return, even if I had to spend the night on the doorstep, I was
shown into the consulting-room, where a wood-fire was still burning on
the hearth. Seating myself in an armchair with a high screen behind me,
I settled down to my vigil, however long it might be.

I had often noticed the house; for who did not feel some interest in
so famous a medical man as Gideon West? Why he had chosen such a house
I did not learn until afterwards; but I knew it was an old-fashioned,
rambling sort of place, with a room built on here at one time, and
there at another time. Windows had been blocked up at one place, and
windows had been let in at another. In fact, it was a house that seemed
to defy a stranger to explain upon what rule, or what want of rule, it
had been so constructed.

Those who first heard of Gideon West as one of the most famous
physicians in London, asked in astonishment how he could live in such
a ramshackle-looking building. Perhaps they forgot that even famous
doctors were not born famous. Gideon West, when he entered on his
professional career, was anything but famous, and he was as poor as he
well could be. Father and mother were dead, brothers and sisters he
had none. An almost forgotten god-mother had, to his surprise, left
him the old house at Chelsea. This was about the time he received his
diploma. Thereupon, Gideon West married, for love, a girl without a
penny, settled himself in his new possession, had the brass plate
affixed to the door, and awaited the patients who were to prove his
skill and make his fortune. It was a weary waiting; but the young
bride had unlimited trust in her husband, and Gideon West never for an
instant lost faith in himself. Slowly, very slowly, a small practice
grew upon his hands; but the struggle that only braced Gideon West
for the battle of life proved too terrible for the frail young wife.
But there was no complaining, no repining, no word to tell of doubt,
much less of despair, and Gideon West battled on. He knew, as though
it had already come, that he should at last prevail. He had measured
his own strength, and felt that he could trust it. But—and it was that
_but_ alone which troubled him—suppose he should have to wait years and
years—suppose, as those years went by, he should see the colour pale on
the face he loved; the brightness fade from the eyes he delighted to
gaze into—suppose his long years of waiting were marked in the lines
on his wife’s young face—suppose when the golden gates of fortune flew
open, he should find it was—too late!

How long I sat dreaming in Dr West’s room, I know not; but it is
certain I must have fallen asleep before the crackling embers. When I
awoke, I found myself in all but darkness. The gas had been lowered,
and only a flickering glow from the dying fire remained to cast drear
and fantastic shadows on the ceiling. Many hours must have passed. I
must have been forgotten when the servants retired to rest, and Dr West
either had not returned, or had not been made aware of my presence. My
position was embarrassing. To wake up in the middle of the night and to
find myself in a strange house, was a new experience. I groped about
the room and felt for the door by which I had entered. It was locked.
Bell of any sort I could find none. I tried to raise my voice; but the
death-stillness and darkness of the room seemed to stifle me. I found
the window, and looked out. It opened high above a courtyard closed in
by walls. Again I tried the door. Then I remembered that it was a sort
of passage-room; that there was a door leading from it to an apartment
beyond. I managed to find this door, covered as it was with heavy
tapestry hangings. Feeling very much like a thief, I tried the handle.
It turned in my hand, and the door yielded noiselessly. Beyond, I saw a
large square chamber, evidently a bedroom; but the bed was unoccupied.
It was a quaint and haunted-looking room, with high oaken skirting and
panelled ceiling. A couple of candles burned on the dressing-table, and
threw a faint light over the dark furniture and the tapestries that
hung against the walls.

Once more I tried to call out; but my tongue seemed dried up, and my
voice refused to be heard. Presently, to my relief I heard a human
voice. It evidently came from an apartment beyond the one into which
I had ventured. Impelled, I hardly knew how, I resolved to venture
farther; and as my footsteps fell noiselessly on the thick carpet,
I could hardly believe I was not wandering in a dream through the
mysterious chambers of the dead.

Yet more and more distinctly I heard the sad low voice that had
caught my ear; and I approached stealthily, and I confess with
something like awe, the door, which, as I perceived, opened from the
bedroom to the chamber whence the voice proceeded. Here, as before, a
curtain of antique tapestry, reaching from the ceiling to the floor,
concealed the aperture; and trying cautiously the door, I found that
it opened towards me. This gave me time to reflect before intruding,
with stealthy steps, in the dead of night, into the privacy of this
innermost chamber. Like a guilty creature, I stood and listened. The
voice—for there seemed to be but one—was close at hand. It was a
strangely melancholy voice, yet possessing a fascinating power that
chained me to the spot.

‘Will you never, never speak to me again, my darling, my darling!’
I heard the words too plainly to mistake or forget them. ‘Will you
never speak to me again! Year after year, as the day comes round, I
have prayed to God to grant me but one sweet word—one word to tell me
of your love! Oh, my darling, my darling, have I prayed in vain? Will
those lips never again open with a smile, those eyes never again look
into mine, even when I come to you on my knees, as I do this Christmas
morning!’

These strange words reproached me. Into what sacred precincts had I
intruded? What heart-breaking grief was I desecrating?

Suddenly the tone of voice changed. The sad pathos gave way to accents
of joy. ‘See! see, my beloved one; here are gifts worthy of a queen.
Did I not tell you the time would come when all our struggles would
be over; when there would be no more fighting for very bread; no more
daily care; no more dread of the future; no fears for success, because
it would be already mine! Ah, Gertrude, my wife, my darling, you were
good and patient to me in those days. If the clouds were dark, your
eyes were always bright; if the heavens were overcast, your smile drove
away the storm; your voice was the music of my life, your ceaseless
trust was my lodestar. But all has changed. Those days have passed.
I am rich now; they say I am famous. The day is now too short for my
work, and the night too short for rest. And yet I need rest. I feel I
cannot live much longer if I may not rest. My brain is ever reeling
with its weariness, yet I cannot sleep. Night after night is one long
vigil. No sleep, no rest, no peace! I have been waiting for this night,
for you, my love, for you! And now the hour has come. It is Christmas
morning.—Hark! already I hear the sound of the Christmas bells. Ah! no
wonder, for my wife, my beloved, has come back to me at last—come back
to me from the dead!’

In feverish excitement, I listened. But there was no answer—not a
sound, when that trembling voice ceased, to break the stillness of the
night.

Presently, it began again. ‘They tell me it is thirty years ago.
Nonsense! That is only a dream. It was yesterday—yesterday, that you
spoke to me for the last time—yesterday, that you bade me good-bye, and
kissed me when I went away. And to-day, you are as you were then. No
change, no change, none at all. You are as young and as fair as when I
first took your hand in mine and called you “wife.”’

Then there was a pause, and I was conscious of some movement beyond the
tapestry behind which I was guiltily hiding.

What followed startled me, but it called me back to life. With a voice
thrilling with emotion, the man once more broke the silence. ‘Gertrude!
These are yours. This is your birthday, and our old wedding-day, and
I have not forgotten you. You do not yet believe that I am rich and
famous, and that your husband has many friends. See! These are gifts
from those whom I have rescued from death! They are thank-offerings to
the “doctor’s wife.” Here is a bracelet. It is set with emeralds. No
rarer could be found. Ah! how charming it looks on that dainty wrist!
And here is something a princess might wear. It is a tiara of diamonds;
and it is yours. Ah, my wife, let me place it on your brow! Oh, my
queen, my queen!’

Unable to restrain myself longer, I cautiously drew aside the tapestry
and peered into the chamber beyond it. It was comparatively small,
but richly furnished, though in the fashion of olden times. It was,
I thought, a lady’s boudoir; but from where I was concealed, only a
portion of the room was revealed to my view. It was not the room that
arrested my attention, but what it contained. On a small table, almost
within reach, lay those very ornaments—the earrings, the necklet, the
pendant—of rubies and pearls, the loss of which had first led me to
unravel, if I could, the mystery of the great jewel robbery. I could
not be mistaken. The description given me had been most minute. An
exact counterpart of the set was not in existence; and here it lay on
the table before me.

As I looked on with astonishment, from the part of the room I could not
see there approached me, slowly and with pensive step and bowed head,
like one walking in his sleep, the man whom I now almost dreaded to
see—the famous doctor, Gideon West.

Could he be the author of these mysterious thefts? I could not
believe it, and yet the proofs of his guilt lay before me. No longer
hesitating, I stepped forward. So sudden and so unexpected was my
appearance, that the man was unconscious of my presence until I had
placed my hands upon his arm and gasped in trembling tones: ‘Dr
West—I—arrest’—— But the sentence was never completed.

With a cry that might have been heard almost in the grave, the unhappy
man shrank from me. At that instant, I turned in the direction to
which he was pointing, with that agonised look upon his face; and as I
did so, I loosened my hold and my hands fell powerless to my side. In
the corner of the chamber hitherto hidden from me, I saw one of those
old-fashioned bedsteads, with heavy draperies around it. The curtains
were of silk, once a pearly white, now dulled and faded by age. The
counterpane and pillow, once like driven snow, were white no more.
Lying on the bed, with her head on the pillow, and her body partially
concealed by the bed-linen, I saw the form of a woman—a woman who must
once have been fair and beautiful to behold. Her luxuriant hair fell
in wreaths on each side her face, and was then brought together over
the bare white throat. Her arms were uncovered by the counterpane, and,
clasping an infant child in their embrace, lay folded across her breast.

As I realised all the details of what seemed like a vision, I confess
that my nerves failed me. I could only look at that cold pale face,
lying so still on the pillow, with the child-face nestling beside it;
and as I looked, I realised that the stillness was the stillness of
death.

Like one entranced, I remained motionless for some moments, when again
I was aroused to action.

A figure clothed in white—the face scarcely less pale than the face of
the dead, the scanty locks of hair, white with age, hanging loosely
about her shoulders, the eyes fixed on the bed, and the hands stretched
out supplicatingly towards it—glided into the room. Then catching sight
of the prostrate figure of the man who had cast himself beside the bed,
with his hands spread out on the form that lay there, this apparition
of woe, turning on me a glance of reproach that will haunt me to my
dying day, exclaimed, amid streaming tears: ‘You have killed him! My
son, my son!’

       *       *       *       *       *

And now, how shall I finish my story without wearying you with
explanations? Let me go back to that old question once asked by Gideon
West: ‘What if success should come too late?’ For all the happiness
it could bring him, it did come too late. His struggle with fate, if
not a long, had been a bitter one. There fell a grievous sickness on
the neighbourhood; disease and death stalked abroad, and mowed down
their victims without counting the numbers. Against the grim tyrants,
Gideon West fought day and night; his energy was endless, his courage
undaunted; and he triumphed. No; not Gideon West; but the weapons of
science triumphed in his hands. Disease and death were driven from the
field; as they fled, they shot one last bolt at their victor—it glanced
off his armour, but left his wife and child dead at his side.

Yes; he had won. But what was the victory worth? Fame, reward, wealth,
all were his; but the one hope of his life was dead. Yet he never
spared himself—never ceased work for a day—never hesitated at any
sacrifice. He lived, he said, for only one object—it was to ‘wear out
his life.’ The old home knew him to the end, and one faithful and
devoted woman gave all her years to cheer the one hero of her life, the
poor struggling surgeon, the great physician—the man who for pure love
had married her only child: Gertrude’s husband!

But the end came suddenly at last, and outwardly there seemed to be no
signs of failing power. The mind seemed as fresh and as vigorous as
ever. Only in one direction did it give way. Years of never-ceasing
brooding over his dead wife and child did its work; and as the sad
anniversary of his wife’s birthday, her marriage, and of her death,
once more approached, the strain overpowered him. A mania seized him;
he must offer her the most costly treasures. Yet they must not appear
to come from him, but from others, from those who owed their health,
their life, to his skill. They must be proofs of his fame—proofs to
the dead wife of her husband’s triumph. The mania grew upon him.
Wherever he saw anything that was of peculiar value, he seemed to claim
it as his own, fully persuaded, as I believe, that it was a willing
offering to the memory of his dead wife. And so those once inexplicable
disappearances were explained. No one suspected, would dream of
suspecting, the great doctor; and sane in everything else, yet with
his brilliant intellect already ripe for decay, the unhappy man for
weeks past had been the victim of a mania he neither comprehended nor
was able to resist. I learnt afterwards that a medical conference had
taken him to the house where the countess’s diamonds were lost on that
particular morning, and he must by accident have entered the room where
the diamonds were momentarily left unguarded, and at once he had been
led, by an irresistible impulse, to possess them.

       *       *       *       *       *

Before I left that strangely haunted house at Chelsea on that Christmas
morning, the twice-stricken mother led me to the dread bedside and
placed my hands on the cold face. I looked at the mother, and then I
felt the white hands that lay clasped before me. The woman read my
thoughts.

‘No,’ she whispered; ‘it is not the flesh of mortal! It is but a
fearful counterfeit of death. It was modelled from the dead wife and
child, and was to have been reproduced in marble for Gertrude’s tomb.
But Gideon West would not have it removed. Call it a morbid fancy or a
passionate love, which you will; but for years he has spent the hours
of his solitude beside this poor image of his wife!—Now, tell me, was
yonder dead man a thief, or was he the victim to unconquerable mania?’

For Gideon West was dead, and his secret died with him.

We laid him on his own bed; and when the coroner’s jury said next day
that he died ‘by the visitation of God,’ they spoke the truth.

The lost jewels were restored to their owners with the simple
explanation that he who had taken them was beyond the reach of human
justice.

For my part in the restitution, I was generously rewarded; but it was
the last investigation I ever undertook. Many years have passed, and
the world soon forgets; but I thought it would interest some to learn
what I knew concerning the Great Jewel Robbery.




THE CULTIVATION OF CELERY.


Celery is an important and useful anti-scorbutic vegetable, which can
be prepared for table in many ways, or simply used in soup. It is also
by some held to be a good specific against rheumatism. Within the
last seven years, celery-growing has become quite a business in North
Notts and South Yorkshire. Within a radius of ten miles of Bawtry, in
the latter county, twenty-five acres of land sufficed for the crop in
1878; but during 1885, upwards of four hundred acres were devoted to
the cultivation of celery. Peat with a clayey or cool subsoil answers
better for growing celery than stronger land. Most kinds of crops
exhaust the land, but celery improves it.

The seed-beds are prepared in January and early in February, of leaves
or manure, or any kind of heating material at hand. We learn from a
communication by Mr C. M. Brewin, of Bawtry, that the earliest crops
are ready for taking up the first week in September, and realise from
two to three shillings per dozen roots retail price. The crop is worth
from fifty-five to sixty pounds per acre, often more for very good
crops; later crops from thirty-five to forty-five pounds per acre.
The number of plants required per acre is sixteen thousand. Cost of
labour in producing earliest crops on the ground: Average rent from
thirty-five shillings to two pounds per acre; rates, taxes, and tithe,
ten shillings per acre; manure, from nine to ten pounds per acre;
labour, ten pounds per acre; carting to stations, four pounds per acre:
leaving a profit for the best early crops of twenty-eight to thirty-two
pounds. For late crops, labour is two pounds less, bringing a profit
of ten to twenty pounds per acre. There are some failures, which are
generally in the first year. The average quantity sent away weekly from
various stations in the neighbourhood is two hundred tons.

Several labourers, very poor men, have started with small plots, and
worked them in early morning before their ordinary day’s work began,
and in the evenings, with the assistance of their wives and children.
These men have now, some one horse and cart, and others two, and grow
from two to five acres each.




SPRING’S ADVENT.


    I looked forth on the world to-day,
      As waked the rosy morn,
    And every budding leaf and blade
      Proclaimed the Spring was born.
    The southern wind’s seductive wiles
      My footsteps lured along
    Far from the town’s unlovely ways,
      Far from its madding throng.

    O sweet the first glad greeting is
      With nature, when the Spring
    Is spreading forth her tender charms,
      And flowers are blossoming!
    O sweet to tread the soft green earth
      When fresh the breezes blow,
    Untrammelled by a thought of care,
      And free to come or go!

    The lambs were bleating on the hills
      Where farmsteads nestling lie,
    Safe sheltered from the rude fierce blasts
      That storm the hill-tops high.
    The swallow’s glanced on flashing wing;
      Dear birds of promise they,
    That speak the reign of winter past,
      Dawn of a brighter day.

    Down from the heavens the poet-lark
      His numbers madly flung
    In liquid notes of purest joy,
      That through the valley rung;
    And leaping streams, from winter’s yoke
      So glad to be set free,
    Took up the jocund minstrelsy,
      And bore it to the sea.

    In sportive glee the children trooped
      The meadow-paths along,
    And carolled forth, in happy voice,
      A careless snatch of song.
    Ah, well they know the sunlit spot
      Where first the primrose sweet
    Looks out upon the wooded copse
      The waking earth to greet.

    O happy children! life to you
      Is full of light and flowers;
    Athwart whose skies of tender blue
      No threatening storm-cloud lowers.
    I wonder, do ye ever think
      Of children far away,
    Who only see through vistas dim
      God’s glorious light of day!

    Whose lives are spent in narrow streets,
      Or alleys foul with sin;
    Where squalor, poverty, and death,
      Alas! are rife within.
    No fresh pure winds their tresses blow,
      Green fields they never trod,
    Or plucked the nodding flowers that grow
      Fresh from the hand of God.

    O little children! young, yet old
      In life’s excess of woe,
    I dread for you the dreary ways
      Your faltering feet must go.
    O little eyes, that never yet
      Beheld a lovely thing,
    I wonder what your joy shall be
      Through God’s eternal Spring!

            CHARLES H. BARSTOW.

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

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_All Rights Reserved._