Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 136, vol. III, August 7, 1886
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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 136, vol. III, August 7, 1886

Author: Various

Release date: February 12, 2024 [eBook #72935]

Language: English

Original publication: Edinburgh: William and Robert Chambers

Credits: Susan Skinner, Eric Hutton and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 136, VOL. III, AUGUST 7, 1886 ***

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

CONTENTS

WINDS OF HEAVEN.
IN ALL SHADES.
JEWEL AND GEM ROGUERIES.
A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY.
CHILDREN’S PLAY.
AFTER AN EXPLOSION.
OCCASIONAL NOTES.
‘MISSING.’

No. 136.—Vol. III.

Price 1½d.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 7, 1886.

WINDS OF HEAVEN.

BY RICHARD JEFFERIES.

The window rattled, the gate swung, a leaf rose, and the kitten chased it, ‘whoo-oo’ the faintest sound in the keyhole. I looked up, and saw the feathers on a sparrow’s breast ruffled for an instant. It was quiet for some time: after a while it came again with heavier purpose. The folded shutters shook; the latch of the kitchen door rattled as if some one were lifting it and dropped it; indefinite noises came from up-stairs: there was a hand in the house moving everything. Another pause. The kitten was curled up on the window-ledge outside in the sunshine, just as the sleek cats curled up in the warmth at Thebes of old Egypt five or six thousand years ago; the sparrow was happy at the rose-tree; a bee was happy on a broad dandelion disc. ‘Soo-hoo!’—a low whistle came through the chink; a handful of rain was flung at the window; a great shadow rushed up the valley and strode the house in an instant as you would get over a stile. I put down my book and buttoned my coat. Soo-hoo! the wind was here and the cloud—soo-hoo! drawing out longer and more plaintive in the thin mouthpiece of the chink. The cloud had no more rain in it, but it shut out the sun; and all that afternoon and all that night the low plaint of the wind continued in sorrowful hopelessness, and little sounds ran about the floors and round the rooms.

Still soo-hoo all the next day and sunlessness, turning the mind, through work and conversation, to pensive notes. At even, the edge of the cloud lifted over the forest hill westwards, and a yellow glow, the great beacon-fire of the sun, burned out, a conflagration at the verge of the world. In the night, awaking gently as one who is whispered to—listen! Ah! All the orchestra is at work—the keyhole, the chink, and the chimney; whoo-hooing in the keyhole, whistling shrill whew-w-w! in the chink, moaning long and deep in the chimney. Over in the field the row of pines was sighing; the wind lingered and clung to the close foliage, and each needle of the million, million leaflets drew its tongue across the organ blast. A countless multitude of sighs made one continued distant undertone to the wild roar of the gable close at hand. Something seemed to be running with innumerable centipede feet over the mouth of the chimney, for the long deep moan, as I listened, resolved itself into a quick succession of touches, just as you might play with your finger-tips tattooing on the hollow table. In the midst of the clangour, the hearing settled down to the sighing of the pines, which drew the mind towards it, and soothed the senses to sleep.

Towards dawn, awake again—another change: the battering-ram at work now against the walls. Swinging back, the solid thickness of the wind came forward—crush! as the iron-shod ram’s head hanging from its chains rushed to the tower. Crush! It sucked back again as if there had been a vacuum—a moment’s silence and crush! Blow after blow—the floor heaved; the walls were ready to come together—alternate sucking back and heavy billowy advance. Crush! crash! Blow after blow, heave and batter and hoist, as if it would tear the house up by the roots. Forty miles that battering-ram wind had travelled without so much as a bough to check it till it struck the house on the hill. Thud! thud! as if it were iron, and not air. I looked from the window, and the bright morning star was shining—the sky was full of the wind and the star. As light came, the thud, thud, sunk away, and nothing remained but the whoo-hoo-hoo of the keyhole and the moan of the chimney. These did not leave us; for four days and nights the whoo-hoo-hoo-whoo never ceased a moment. Whoo-hoo! whoo! and this is the wind on the hill indoors.

Out of doors, sometimes in the morning, deep in the valley, over the tree-tops of the forest, there stays a vapour, lit up within by sunlight. A glory hovers over the oaks—a cloud of light hundreds of feet thick, the air made visible by surcharge and heaviness of sunbeams, pressed together till you can see them in themselves and not reflected. The cloud slants down the sloping wood, till in a moment it is gone, and the beams are now focused in the depth of the narrow valley. The mirror has been tilted, and the glow has shifted; in a moment more it has vanished into space, and the dream has gone from the wood. In the arms of the wind, vast bundles of mist are borne against the hill; they widen and slip, and lengthen, drawing out; the wind works quickly with moist colours ready and a wide brush laying broadly. Colour comes up in the wind; the thin mist disappears, drunk up in the grass and trees, and the air is full of blue behind the vapour. Blue sky at the far horizon—rich deep blue overhead—a dark-brown blue deep yonder in the gorge among the trees. I feel a sense of blue colour as I face the strong breeze; the vibration and blow of its force answer to that hue, the sound of the swinging branches and the rush—rush in the grass is azure in its note; it is wind-blue, not the night-blue, or heaven-blue, a colour of air. To see the colour of the air, it needs great space like this—a vastness of concavity and hollow—an equal caldron of valley and plain under, to the dome of the sky over, for no vessel of earth and sky is too large for the air-colour to fill. Thirty, forty, and more miles of eye-sweep, and beyond that the limitless expanse over the sea—the thought of the eye knows no butt, shooting on with stellar penetration into the unknown. In a small space there seems a vacuum, and nothing between you and the hedge opposite, or even across the valley; in a great space the void is filled, and the wind touches the sight like a thing tangible. The air becomes itself a cloud, and is coloured—recognised as a thing suspended; something real exists between you and the horizon. Now, full of sun and now of shade, the air-cloud rests in the expanse.

It is summer, and the wind-birds top the furze; the bright stonechat, velvet-black and red and white, sits on the highest spray of the gorse, as if he were painted there. He is always in the wind on the hill, from the hail of April to August’s dry glow. All the mile-long slope of the hill under me is purple-clad with heath down to the tree-filled gorge where the green boughs seem to join the purple. The cornfields and the pastures of the plain—count them one by one till the hedges and squares close together and cannot be separated. The surface of the earth melts away as if the eyes insensibly shut and grew dreamy in gazing, as the soft clouds melt and lose their outline at the horizon. But dwelling there, the glance slowly finds and fills out something that interposes its existence between us and the further space. Too shadowy for the substance of a cloud, too delicate for outline against the sky, fainter than haze, something of which the eye has consciousness, but cannot put into a word to itself. Something is there. It is the air-cloud adhering like a summer garment to the great downs by the sea. I cannot see the substance of the hills nor their exact curve along the sky; all I can see is the air that has thickened and taken to itself form about them. The atmosphere has collected as the shadow collects in the distant corner of a room—it is the shadow of the summer wind. At times it is so soft, so little more than the air at hand, that I almost fancy I can look through the solid boundary. There is no cloud so faint; the great hills are but a thought at the horizon; I think them there rather than see them; if I were not thinking of them, I should scarce know there was even a haze, with so dainty a hand does the atmosphere throw its covering over the massy downs. Riding or passing quickly, perhaps you would not observe them; but stay among the heathbells and the sketch appears in the south. Up from the sea over the cornfields, through the green boughs of the forest, along the slope, comes a breath of wind, of honey-sweetened air, made more delicate by the fanning of a thousand wings.

The labour of the wind: the cymbals of the aspen clashing, from the lowest to the highest bough, each leaf twirling first forwards and then backwards and swinging to and fro, a double motion. Each lifts a little and falls back like a pendulum, twisting on itself; and as it rises and sinks, strikes its fellow-leaf. Striking the side of the dark pines, the wind changes their colour and turns them paler. The oak leaves slide one over the other, hand above hand, laying shadow upon shadow on the white road. In the vast net of the wide elm-tops, the drifting shadow of the cloud which the wind brings is caught for a moment. Pushing aside the stiff ranks of the wheat with both arms, the air reaches the sun-parched earth. It walks among the mowing-grass like a farmer feeling the crop with his hand one side, and opening it with his walking-stick the other. It rolls the wavelets carelessly as marbles to the shore; the red cattle redden the pool and stand in their own colour. The green caterpillar swings as he spins his thread and lengthens his cable to the tide of air, descending from the tree; before he can slip it, the white throat takes him. With a thrust, the wind hurls the swallow, or the still grander traverser of air, the swift, fifty miles faster on his way; it ruffles back the black velvet of the creepy mole peeping forth from his burrow. Apple-bloom and crab-apple bloom have been blown long since athwart the furrows over the orchard wall; May petals and June roses scattered; the pollen and the seeds of the meadow-grasses thrown on the threshing-floor of mother-earth in basketfuls. Thistle down and dandelion down, the brown down of the goat’s-beard; by-and-by the keys of the sycamores twirling aslant—the wind carries them all on its back, gossamer web and great heron’s vanes—the same weight to the wind; the drops of the waterfall blown aside sprinkle the bright green ferns. The voice of the cuckoo in his season travels drowsily on the zephyr, and the note comes to the most distant hill, and deep into the deepest wood.

The light and fire of summer are made beautiful by the air, without whose breath the glorious summer were all spoiled. Thick are the hawthorn leaves, many deep on the spray; and beneath them there is a twisted and intertangled winding in and out of boughs, such as no curious ironwork of ancient artist could equal; through the leaves and metal-work of boughs the soft west wind wanders at its ease. Wild wasp and tutored bee sing sideways on their course as the breeze fills their vanes; with broad coloured sails boomed out, drifts the butterfly alee. Beside a brown-coated stone in the shadowed stream, a brown trout watches for the puffs that slay the Mayflies. Their ephemeral wings were made for a more exquisite life; they endure but one sun; they bear not the touch of the water; they die like a dream dropping into the river. To the amethyst in the deep ditch the wind comes; no petal so hidden under green it cannot find; to the blue hill-flower up by the sky; it lifts the guilty head of the passionate poppy that has sinned in the sun for love. Sweet is the rain the wind brings to the wallflower browned in the heat, a-dry on the crumbling stone. Pleasant the sunbeams to the marigold when the wind has carried the rain away and his sun-disc glows on the bank. Acres of perfume come on the wind from the black and white of the bean-field; the firs fill the air by the copse with perfume. I know nothing to which the wind has not some happy use. Is there a grain of dust so small the wind shall not find it out? Ground in the mill-wheel of the centuries, the iron of the distant mountain floats like gossamer, and is drunk up as dew by leaf and living lung. A thousand miles of cloud go by from morn till night, passing overhead without a sound; the immense packs, a mile square, succeed to each other, side by side, laid parallel, book-shape, coming up from the horizon and widening as they approach. From morn till night the silent footfalls of the ponderous vapours travel overhead, no sound, no creaking of the wheels and rattling of the chains; it is calm at the earth, but the wind labours without an effort above, with such ease, with such power. Gray smoke hangs on the hillside where the couch-heaps are piled, a cumulus of smoke; the wind comes, and it draws its length along like the genii from the earthen pot; there leaps up a great red flame shaking its head; it shines in the bright sunlight; you can see it across the valley.

A perfect summer day with a strong south wind: a cloudless blue sky blown pale, a summer sun blown cool, deep draughts of refreshing air to man and horse, clear definition of red-tile roof and conical oast, perfect colour of soft ash-green trees. In the evening, fourteen black swifts rushing together through the upper atmosphere with shrill cries, sometimes aside and on the tip of one wing, with a whirl descending, a black trail, to the tiled ridge they dwell in. Fine weather after this.

A swooning August day, with a hot east wind, from which there is no escape, which gives no air to the chest—you breathe and are not satisfied with the inspiration; it does not fill; there is no life in the killed atmosphere. It is a vacuum of heat, and yet the strong hot wind bends the trees, and the tall firs wrestle with it as they did with Sinis, the Pine-bender, bowed down and rebounding, as if they would whirl their cones away like a catapult. Masses of air are moving by, and yet there is none to breathe. No escape in the shadow of hedge or wood, or in the darkened room; darkness excludes the heat that comes with light, but the heat of the oven-wind cannot be shut out. Some monstrous dragon of the Chinese sky pants his fiery breath upon us, and the brown grass stalks threaten to catch flame in the field. The grain of wheat that was full of juice dries hard in the ears, and water is no more good for thirst. There is not a cloud in the sky; but at night there is heavy rain, and the flowers are beaten down. There is a thunder-wind that blows at intervals when great clouds are visibly gathering over the hayfield. It is almost a calm; but from time to time a breath comes, and a low mournful cry sounds in the hollow farmhouse—the windows and doors are open, and the men and women have gone out to make hasty help in the hay ere the storm—a mournful cry in the hollow house, as unhappy a note as if it were soaked February.

In April, six miles away in the valley, a vast cloud came down with swan-shot of hail, black as blackest smoke, overwhelming house and wood, all gone and mixed with the sky, and behind the mass there followed a white cloud sunlit dragging along the ground, like a cumulus fallen to the earth. At sunset, the sky cleared, and under the glowing rim of the sun, a golden wind drove the host of vapour before it, scattering it to the right and left. Large pieces caught and tore themselves in the trees of the forest, and one curved fragment hurled from the ridge, fell in the narrow coomb, lit up as it came down with golden sunset rays, standing out bright against the shadowed wood. Down it came slowly, as it were with outstretched arms, loth to fall, carrying the coloured light of the sky to the very surface of the earth.

IN ALL SHADES.

BY GRANT ALLEN,
Author of ‘Babylon,’ ‘Strange Stories,’ etc. etc.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Half-way down to the blazing trash-houses, Mr Dupuy and his little band of black allies, all armed only with the sticks they had hastily seized from the stand in the piazza, came on a sudden face to face with the wild and frantic mob of half-tipsy rioters. ‘Halt!’ Mr Dupuy called out in a cool and unmoved tone of command to the reckless insurgents, as they marched on in irregular order, brandishing their cutlasses wildly in the flickering firelight. ‘You black-guards, what are you doing here, and what do you mean by firing and burning my trash-houses?’

By the ruddy light of the lurid blaze behind him, Louis Delgado recognised at once the familiar face of his dearest enemy. ‘Me fren’s,’ he shrieked, in a loud outburst of gratified vindictiveness, ‘dis is him—dis is him—dis de buckra Dupuy we come to kill now! De Lard has delibbered him into our hands witout so much as gib us de trouble ob go an’ attack him.’

But before even Delgado could bring down with savage joy his uplifted weapon on his hated enemy’s bare head, Mr Dupuy had stepped boldly and energetically forward, and catching the wiry African by his outstretched arm, had cried aloud in his coolest and most deliberate accents: ‘Louis Delgado, put down your cutlass. As a magistrate for this island, I arrest you for riot.’

His resolute boldness was not without its due effect. For just the swing of a pendulum there was a profound silence, and that great mob of strangely beraged and rum-maddened negroes held its breath irresolutely, doubting in its own six hundred vacillating souls which of the two things rather to do—whether to yield as usual to the accustomed authority of that one bold and solitary white man, the accredited mouthpiece of law and order, or else to rush forward madly and hack him then and there into a thousand pieces with African ferocity. So instinctive in the West Indian negro’s nature is the hereditary respect for European blood, that even though they had come there for the very purpose of massacring and mutilating the defenceless buckra, they stood appalled, now the actual crisis had fairly arrived, at the bare idea of venturing to dispute the question openly with the one lone and unarmed white man.

But Louis Delgado, African born that he was, had no such lingering West Indian prejudices. Disengaging his sinewy captive arm from Mr Dupuy’s flabby grasp with a sudden jerk, he lifted his cutlass once more high into the air, and held it, glittering, for the twinkling of an eye, above the old man’s defenceless head. One moment, Uncle ’Zekiel saw it gleam fearfully in the red glare of the burning trash-houses; the next, it had fallen on Mr Dupuy’s shoulder, and the blood was spurting out in crimson splashes over his white tie and open shirt-front, in which he had risen but a few minutes before so unsuspectingly from his own dinner-table.

The old planter reeled terribly before the violent force of that staggering blow, but kept his face still turned bravely with undiminished courage toward the exultant enemy. At the sight of the gushing blood, however—the proud buckra blood, that shows so visibly on the delicate white European skin—the negroes behind set up a loud and horrid peal of unearthly laughter, and rushed forward, all their hesitation flung away at once, closing round him in a thickly packed body, each eager not to lose his own share in the delightful excitement of hacking him to pieces. A dozen cutlasses gleamed aloft at once in the bare black arms, and a dozen more blows were aimed at the wounded man fiercely by as many hideous, grinning rioters.

Uncle ’Zekiel and the household negroes, oblivious and almost unconscious of themselves, as domestic servants of their race always are in the presence of danger for their master or his family, pressed around the reeling white man in a serried ring, and with their sticks and arms, a frail barrier, strove manfully to resist the fierce onslaught of the yelling and leaping plantation negroes. In spite of what Mr Dupuy had just been saying about the negroes being all alike cowards, the petty handful of faithful blacks, forming a close and firm semicircle in front of their wounded master, fought like wild beasts at bay with hands and arms, and legs and teeth, and sticks and elbows, opposing stoutly, by fair means and foul, the ever-pressing sea of wild rioters. As they fought, they kept yielding slowly but cautiously before the steady pressure; and Mr Dupuy, reeling and staggering he knew not how, but with his face kept ever, like a fighting Dupuy, turned dauntlessly toward the surging enemy, retreated slowly backward step by step in the direction of his own piazza. Just as he reached the bottom of the steps, Uncle ’Zekiel meanwhile shielding and protecting him manfully with his portly person, a woman rushed forth from the mass of the rioters, and with hideous shrieks of ‘Hallelujah, hallelujah!’ hacked him once more with her blunt cutlass upon the ribs and body.

Mr Dupuy, faint and feeble from loss of blood, but still cool and collected as ever, groped his way ever backward up the steps, in a blind, reeling, failing fashion, and stood at last at bay in the doorway of the piazza, with his faithful bodyguard, wounded and bleeding freely like himself, still closing resolutely around him.

‘This will do, ’Zekiel,’ he gasped out incoherently, as he reached the top landing. ‘In the pass of the doorway. Stop them easily. Fire rouse the military. Hold the house for half an hour—help from the governor. Quick, quick! give me the pistol.’

Even as he spoke, a small white hand, delicate and bloodless, appearing suddenly from the room behind him, placed his little revolver, cocked and loaded, between the trembling fingers of his left hand, for the right lay already hacked and useless, hanging idly by his side in limp helplessness.

‘Nora, my dear,’ the old man sobbed out in a half-inarticulate gurgling voice, ‘go back—go back this moment to the boudoir. Back garden; slip away quietly—no place for you, Orange Grove, this evening. Slight trouble with the plantation blacks. Quell the rioters.—Close up, ’Zekiel.—Close up, Dick, Thomas, Jo, Robert, Emilius, Mark Antony!’ And with a quivering hand, standing there alone in the narrow doorway, while the mob below swarmed and pressed up the piazza steps in wild confusion, the wounded planter fired the revolver, with no definite aim, blank into the surging midst of the mob, and let his left hand drop as he did so, white and fainting by his side, with his vain endeavour.

The bullet had hit one of the negro women full in the thigh, and it only served still further to madden and enrage the clamouring mob, now frantically thirsty for the buckra blood.

‘Him wounded Hannah—him wounded Hannah!’ the negroes yelled in their buzzing indignation; and at the word, they rushed forward once more with mad gesticulations, those behind pushing those in front against the weak yielding wall of Orange Grove servants, and all menacing horribly with their blood-reddened cutlasses, as they shrieked aloud frantically: ‘Kill him—kill him!’

The servants still held firm with undaunted courage, and rallied bravely round their tottering master; but the onslaught was now far too fierce for them, and one by one they were thrust back helpless by the raging mob, who nevertheless abstained so far as possible from hurting any one of them, aiming all their blows directly at the detested white man himself alone. If by chance at any moment a cutlass came down unintentionally upon the broad backs of the negro defenders, a cry arose at once from the women in the rear of ‘Doan’t hit him—doan’t hit him. Him me brudder. Colour for colour! Kill de buckra! Hallelujah!’

And all this time, Nora Dupuy looked on from behind, holding her bloodless hands clasped downward in mute agony, not so much afraid as expectant, with Aunt Clemmy and the women-servants holding her and comforting her with well-meant negro consolation, under the heavy mahogany arch of the dining-room doorway.

At last, Delgado, standing now on the topmost step, and half within the area of the piazza, aimed one terrible slashing cut at the old planter, as he stood supporting himself feebly by a piece of the woodwork, and hacked him down, a heavy mass, upon the ground before them with a wild African cry of vengeance. The poor old man fell, insensible, in a little pool of his own blood; and the Orange Grove negroes, giving way finally before the irresistible press of their overwhelming opponents, left him there alone, surrounded on every side by the frantic mob of enraged insurgents.

Nora, clasping her hands tighter than ever, and immovable as a statue, stood there still, without uttering a cry or speaking a word—as cold and white and motionless as marble.

‘Hack him to pieces!’ ‘Him doan’t dead yet!’ ‘Him only faintin’!’ ‘Burn him—burn him!’ A chorus of cries rose incoherently from the six hundred lips of the victorious negroes. And as they shouted, they mangled and mutilated the old man’s body with their blunt cutlasses in a way perfectly hideous to look at; the women especially crowding round to do their best at kicking and insulting their fallen enemy.

‘Tank de Lard—tank de Lard!’ Delgado, now drunk with blood, shouted out fiercely to his frenzied followers. ‘We done killed de ole man. Now we gwine to kill de missy!’

JEWEL AND GEM ROGUERIES.

That old saying which tells us there are ‘tricks in all trades,’ would appear from recent exposures and explanations to be almost more applicable to jewellers than to other traders; and if only one half of the misdemeanours with which they are charged be true, they deserve to be placed in the front rank of trade tricksters. There are, however, jewellers and jewellers, and although, happily, as a class they are above suspicion, yet, as our courts of justice occasionally reveal, there are also not a few black-sheep in the flock—men who do not scruple to deal in ‘doublets’ and paste, and who pass off gems and jewels as genuine, that they know to be either altogether false, or to possess some hidden flaw sufficient greatly to lessen their value. Every now and then we find in the newspapers a paragraph or longer article concerning ‘mystery gold,’ ‘forged gems,’ or ‘false jewels.’ Recent examples of this kind of news have appeared to the effect that an important discovery had been made regarding the crown of a foreign potentate, as well as the diamond necklace of a lady of rank, many of the gems in the latter article being made of paste; whilst the diadem of the king is announced to be little better than a theatrical bauble, most of the real stones having been extracted and their places filled with imitation ones. Another announcement of the kind calls attention to the fact of several imitation stones having been found in a jewelled collar hitherto supposed to be of very great value, and which had been sold by an illustrious person in ignorance of the fact.

‘What is paste?’ asked a London magistrate, in the course of his examination into a charge of selling imitation stones for real ones. ‘Paste, sir,’ replied the witness, ‘means a mixture of violin glass and borax;’ from which, as we have been informed, the closest imitations of diamonds and other precious stones can be made (see ‘Artificial Jewels,’ Chambers’s Journal, Nov. 15, 1884). Visitors to Paris who have feasted their eyes on the made-up gems so lavishly displayed in the jewellers’ windows of the Rue de la Paix and the Palais-Royal, feel surprised when they are told that four-fifths of the glittering baubles are composed of paste, and are of little value as compared with real gems. It used to be said that most of the jewelry shown in the Palais-Royal was manufactured for use on the stage; but the actresses of to-day, unless obliged to wear paste, will, when they can afford it, adorn their persons with none but real gems. The names of several artists might easily be given who are reputed to be passing rich in diamonds and rubies, and who are possessed besides of pearls of great price. Some actresses, indeed, seem to draw audiences nowadays as much by the aid of their jewels as their talents. When a female star visits the provinces, pains are frequently taken to proclaim the number and value of her gems and jewels. Who, then, wears the paste diamonds and other imitation gems which are manufactured? To this question, an answer of rather a startling kind has more than once been given, and one of the latest may here be noted. A gentleman who was deeply involved in the pursuits of the turf requiring a considerable sum of money to pay his debts of honour, stole his wife’s jewels in order to pawn them. To his consternation, the pawnbroker refused to look at them. ‘Why?’ was feverishly asked. ‘Because they are paste.’—‘Paste! My wife’s jewels paste?’—‘Yes. I supplied her with them. The originals are in my safe; I advanced thirteen hundred pounds upon them.’ Unfortunately, the gentleman’s wife was as great a gambler as her husband, and she had been obliged to pawn her diamonds to meet her own liabilities.

The ingenuity of persons who ‘get up’ precious stones and mock-pearls for ‘the trade’ has been often commented upon and frequently censured. A London lapidary who works in the groove indicated was called upon, a few months ago, in a court of law to explain his mode of procedure. ‘I make all my imitations out of real stones,’ was his reply to the judge. On being asked to be more explicit, he said: ‘Perhaps I possess some pale stones which are of small value: these I split by the aid of my tools; then introducing a deeper tone of colour, I join them together again, having considerably increased their saleable value.’ In this manner the colours of many stones are said to be intensified, such as emeralds, sapphires, amethysts, and others. Diamonds are constantly utilised by being split, each half of a gem perhaps doing duty on a paste foundation on which it has been carefully mounted. A stone which may be of the value of ten pounds having been split at little cost, is carefully mounted, and becomes transformed into two gems, each affirmed to be worth that sum. It requires a clever expert to detect such frauds when they are cleverly executed, or to discover that the ‘fire’ imparted to certain stones that would otherwise be dull of hue and greatly deficient in sparkle, is conferred by so simple an expedient as a backing of tinfoil.

The invention of what are called ‘doublets’ in diamond-dealing can be traced back for centuries. One mode of getting up false stones has been described by Jerome Cardan, who has published in detail the method of the inventor, one Zocolino. This person’s way of working was to procure a thin flake of a very inferior and cheap example of the stone he desired to ‘improve,’ choosing those which had little colour, and might in consequence be procured at a nominal price. As a bottom for his ‘make-up’ he took a bit of crystal which he had shaped to his purpose; covering this with a transparent glue with which he had mixed the necessary colouring material, so as to be like the finest specimen of the gem he intended to forge, he carefully fixed on the flake of stone, and concealed the joining of the two so deftly by careful setting as to make purchasers fancy that his gems were not only genuine, but really finer than those of other jewellers. For a time Zocolino flourished, and was enabled by means of his cunning workmanship to deceive the cleverest lapidaries; but detection came at last, and put an end to his fraudulent practices in gem-making.

It may be mentioned as a warning to travellers that the Singhalese at Colombo are experts in such frauds, and frequently persuade persons to purchase cleverly set up doublets, or pieces of rock-crystal cut and polished. Doublets in many cases, especially when both parts are really diamonds, are somewhat difficult to detect even by men who have had great experience in the gem and jewel trades. Before leaving the diamond, we may mention another kind of fraud connected with it. Often, when these gems have been set in a cluster, it has been found on examination that at least one of the stones is made of paste, or is perhaps a doublet. A rather curious story went the round of the press some years ago, when, on the death of a lady of title, it was found that more than one-third of the family diamonds were composed of false stones. These imitations had been so beautifully executed that none but the cleverest dealers were able to detect them; while in the case of some of the stones, it was not till their specific gravity had been tested that a decision could be arrived at. It has been found on examination, we believe, that necklaces of so-called real diamonds have often contained twenty per cent. of doublets or other stones of questionable quality. Respectable dealers in jewelry maintain that it is the public who are to blame for the production of false jewels, knowing well enough that genuine gems could not be given at the prices offered for them. Retail jewellers are not seldom deceived themselves, not being, perhaps, so well versed in the technical knowledge incidental to their trade as they ought to be. Tradesmen of repute, however, are exceedingly careful in their selection of stock, no gem being offered for sale unless it is known to be genuine.

Many gems are really gems of a kind, although not the gems they are pretended to be, but in all probability are composed of pieces of quartz ‘got up’ for the market, quartz being selected as being able to stand the test of the file, which glass cannot do. There are varieties of topaz and other stones which are as hard as the diamond; and being entirely colourless, they are often cut and polished and successfully palmed off as diamonds. This colourless gem material is costly in consequence of the use to which it can be turned. Recipes for the production of imitation stones have been often given; the following is the formula for a ruby: five hundred parts of strass, twenty of glass of antimony, a half each of purple of Cassius and of gold. Strass is a specially manufactured kind of glass which has been long used in connection with the fabrication of gems; it usually contains a much larger percentage of oxide of lead than the commoner sorts of glass. Aventurine is another kind of gem glass, which is chiefly manufactured in Venice, and brings a high price. The best thing is a quartz of varying shades of colour, which is much prized. One of the scarcer varieties is known as sunstone, and is much sought after, being valuable for such purposes as have been referred to.

Attempts by chemists to produce diamonds have, commercially speaking, usually resulted in failure. The most successful of the early experiments tried in the way of diamond production was that worked out by Gannal, a Frenchman, who in the year 1828 succeeded in producing a substance that was affirmed by a practical jeweller of great repute to be a diamond; but after much controversy, the opinion came to be ultimately entertained that even Gannal had failed. Another famous Frenchman, M. Desprets, made several endeavours in the same direction with partial success; he produced matter at all events with which it was found to be possible to cut and polish the harder gems. A Monsieur de Chaud Courtois has also entered upon various experiments with a view to the production of ‘real’ diamonds, but, so far as we know, without having achieved success. Mr MacTier’s experiments at the St Rollox chemical works in Glasgow have been so recently discussed as not to require farther reference.

The so-called ‘Scottish Jewelry,’ made from cairngorms, cinnamon stone, &c., is largely manufactured in Germany, where most of the stones required are quite plentiful. It is common enough to impose the cairngorm on ignorant purchasers as Brazilian or Mexican topaz. Edinburgh lapidaries are able to prepare and mount the cairngorm and pebbles of Scotland with taste and skill. Crystals of smoky quartz are found in every part of the globe, and can be so skilfully dealt with by lapidaries and experts as to be made deeper or lighter in colour as may be demanded. Each manipulator is of course careful to preserve his particular mode of procedure secret from his fellows; and some of them are very clever in their various manipulations of Scottish stones, which can be set with fine effect in brooches, snuff-mulls, dirks, and powder-horns.

‘Mock-pearls’ are the subject of frequent discussion. The wonderful lustre and exquisite polish of the real gem of the sea have been more than once imitated with almost the power of nature. But there is a something about this beautiful and mysterious production which in the end tells against all attempts at fraud. The imitation when tested with the real gem provides one source of detection, and the brittle nature of the manufactured article is another. Another matter is that the exquisitely drilled holes which are characteristic of the pearls of the East are wanting in all imitations, the drilling in the latter case being usually clumsy and blunt-edged. The scales of a small fish known as the bleak have been successfully used in the formation of false pearls; but as it requires some eighteen thousand of these fish to provide one pound-weight of the pearl-making material, it seems superfluous to say that only a very limited number of gems can be made from the scales of the bleak.

Here we pause, not having space left in which to discuss the ‘manufacture’ of cameos, or the production of that ‘mystery gold’ which two years ago afforded so much material for newspaper discussion. At the present time, when pictures and pottery, old furniture, articles of virtu of all kinds, coins, and even birds’ eggs, are forged, it is not a matter for surprise that spurious diamonds, mock-pearls, and imitations of many of our more precious gems should be foisted on the public by unscrupulous tradespeople. Nevertheless, so long as a lady can purchase for a few pounds a necklace or other adornment which, if genuine, would have cost hundreds or perhaps thousands of pounds, the imitation gem trade will continue to flourish.

A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY.

BY CHARLES GIBBON.

CHAPTER I.—THE MAJOR’S PREDICAMENT.

Even his enemies admitted that Major Dawkins was one of the kindliest-natured of men. If anybody was in a difficulty, he would take infinite pains to help him or her out of it—provided the difficulty was not financial. In that case he had all the will, but not the means to assist otherwise than with good advice; and the fact was so well known, that nobody ever thought of borrowing from him. Most of his friends were in comfortable circumstances, and therefore above the need of troubling him about pecuniary matters. But his happiness in having wealthy friends was owing to his good luck; certainly not to any careful selection on his part, for he was such a chatty, pleasant little man, so frank and easy in his ways, that he picked up acquaintances everywhere. In a train or on a steamer, he would be in five minutes conversing with his immediate fellow-passengers; in half an hour, they would be discussing subjects of personal interest; and in an hour, they would be talking and laughing together as if they had been intimate for years.

He had sympathy enough to comprehend all beings and all things. He mourned with those who were mourning; he rejoiced with those who were rejoicing. One day he would be at a funeral with visage as lugubrious as his garb; and the day following he would be at a wedding, the gayest of the gay, ready with pretty speeches for the bride, the most flattering prophecies for the bridesmaids, and the heartiest congratulations for the bridegroom on the fortune which had given him what Solomon had declared to be the greatest blessing on earth—a good wife.

The Major was perfectly sincere in his sympathetic sorrow and in his sympathetic joy; consequently, he was a favourite with both sexes, old and young, and was the confidant of all in many delicate affairs which could have been intrusted only to one who had proved himself able to keep a secret as well as to sympathise. His little foibles were overlooked, or, at most, provoked a quiet smile at his innocent faith in their invisibility. For instance, nobody ever displayed the slightest consciousness that his well-trimmed black hair and moustache were dyed, although the fact was patent to every one. On this subject the Major was peculiarly sensitive; and for years he cherished the fond delusion that even his man Hollis believed black to be the natural colour of his hair. But accident betrayed the mystery, and from that hour the master was held in bondage by the man.

Hollis had been in several good places at one time as valet, and subsequently as butler. As a matter of principle, he considered himself bound to test the quality of all the liquors in his master’s cellar and sideboard; and he had carried this principle of self-sacrifice to his employers’ interests to such a degree that he was at length glad to accept the moderate salary which Major Dawkins could afford to pay him for his services as general factotum. Of course, Hollis regarded his new position as a downfall in the world, for here he had to combine the duties of butler, valet, and footman, and there was no cellar at all! But he had a considerate master, and during their frequent stay at country-houses, Hollis’s appetites were amply satisfied, whilst he discovered various ways of securing ‘tips’ which materially added to his income. He might have been as contented as a man of his character ever could be, if it had not been for one grievance.

His master had a nice little box covered with Russian leather and supplied with a Bramah lock. The Major took this box everywhere with him; he always opened it and locked it himself and kept the key in his own pocket. It was not a jewel-case or a cash-box, for Hollis had seen it open on several occasions, and noted that its chief contents were a small green glass and a bottle of peculiar shape without any label. The principle which regulated the life of Hollis was touched: he had no doubt that the bottle contained some special liqueur—in colour it somewhat resembled yellow Chartreuse, as far as he could make out—and he felt much aggrieved that his master would allow him no opportunity of testing its quality. That it must be something very special was evident from the care with which it was guarded.

He watched and waited, and his opportunity came, as it comes to all who wait. The Major was out later than usual one night, and next morning he rose late, which caused him to be much hurried with his toilet, in order to keep an important engagement.

‘Back about three,’ he said as he hastened away.

When the door closed behind him, Hollis, as was his custom, instantly entered his master’s room.—Did his eyes deceive him? No; the key was in the lock of the little Russian leather case, for once forgotten by its keeper. The man’s eyes glistened with satisfaction, and his mouth watered in anticipation of the treat in store for him, as he removed the stopper and filled the dainty glass with the contents of the bottle. It looked nice, but he did not quite relish its faint odour. There was a suspicion of almonds and something else, which he could not liken to anything he had smelt before. Doubtless it was some Indian liqueur, good for the liver; people did drink strange stuffs as well as eat strange stuffs in foreign parts. Hollis was not the person to shrink from his duty; he had tasted almost everything in the way of wines and liqueurs, and he was bound to discover the character of this fluid. He raised the glass to his lips.

‘Good heavens! man, what are you doing?’ shouted the voice of the Major, raised in extreme alarm. ‘That is deadly poison—it is hair-dye!’

The glass dropped from the servant’s trembling hand, and he stood abashed.

The Major having discovered his oversight when only a little way from his chambers, had hastily returned, and his latchkey admitted him. Without heeding the broken glass, he angrily locked the case and put the key in his pocket. He was chagrined that in his excitement he had blurted out the carefully guarded secret of the black hair and moustaches; whilst he was relieved by the thought that he had been in time to save the man from the consequences of his folly. He was as much confused as Hollis, and his confusion lasted longer, for the worthy factotum was quick to perceive the advantage he had gained.

Instant dismissal was the penalty that the master first thought of; and the next moment he felt that he dared not inflict it. The man would talk, and in a few hours the scandal would fly up the back-stairs of every house in town. Very likely there would be a smart paragraph in the ‘Society’ journals making fun of him.

‘Dawkins dyes his hair!’ everybody would be saying. ‘Could you have believed it?’

The poor little Major shuddered at the bare thought of the ridicule which would ensue.

‘I’ll look over this, Hollis,’ he said, drawing up his stiff military collar, in order to appear more dignified and to render his words more impressive. ‘You ought to be thankful for that; but understand, if you try anything like this again, or if any hint of this morning’s business reaches my ears, you go. You understand?’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

‘Very well. We start for Todhurst Grange to-morrow. Get my things ready to-day.’

Hollis bowed and retired without attempting explanation or apology.

The Major was much perturbed as he drove along the crowded streets to keep the appointment, for which he was now a quarter of an hour late. That was disturbing enough to a man of his punctual habits; but it was not the main cause of his present vexation. The main cause was his sense that from this day forth he was, metaphorically, under his servant’s thumb.

Observing Dawkins approach for the first time, you would have fancied that he was a youth of about twenty-five, although he was several years more than double that age. His slim figure, below the average height, was always arrayed in the latest style affected by young men about town. There were a few decorous modifications, certainly, but they were so slight as to be scarcely observable. Then there was a vivacity about his movements which only occasionally suggested a degree of stiffening about the knee-joints, and thus an appearance of juvenility was produced until he was subjected to close inspection. The wrinkles on his brow and under the gray eyes, and the yellow complexion resulting from the touch of liver which he had brought home with him from India, set a stranger speculating whether he was a prematurely aged boy or a very vain old man. But as soon as he began to speak, all speculation on the subject ceased—he was so young in thought, so interested in everything he saw and in every one he met.

The fact was that the Major had not yet realised the truth that he was a grown man and had passed the equator of middle age. He had never been married; he had never suffered under any absorbing attachment to maid or widow; and although he had been twenty years in the army, he had never been in action. A petty riot was the only approach to a battle in which he had ever been privileged to take part. Whilst he bore his disappointment cheerfully, as a general rule, there were times when he lamented the ill luck which had attended him so far as war was concerned. His soul had been always eager for the fray; but fate had denied him any opportunity to distinguish himself on the field. During his twenty years of service in India, there had been battles enough fought and won; but he had no share in any of them. To satisfy his ambition, he had twice exchanged into regiments which were under orders for active service. In the first instance, the orders were countermanded; and in the second—the war was over before his regiment reached the front. So he was gazetted Major, and was ‘retired’ on half-pay without having sustained a scratch in his country’s cause, and without any experience of the proud pomp and circumstance of the big war that makes ambition glorious. He lived in hope, however, that a time would come when the offer of his sword might be acceptable to the War Office. He was then a rabid Jingo, and a resolute advocate of armed opposition to every step made by Russia in the direction of our Indian empire. But he kept these sentiments very much to himself, and only ventilated them when much provoked by some peace-at-any-price man.

The Major’s cab rushed along the Strand, along Fleet Street, and up Ludgate Hill, and stopped in Godlenian Street, one of the dingy, narrow thoroughfares which represent the wealth of England. He ascended two flights of dark and well-worn staircases, stopping at a door on the glass portion of which was printed the legend, M. Willis & Co. Entering the office, he was at once shown into the room with the principal, who started to his feet to welcome him with a hearty shake of the hand, although he looked as if his mind were very much disturbed.

‘It is very good of you to come so promptly, Major,’ he said earnestly, and at the same time endeavouring to assume a careless manner; ‘but I know that you have a regard for the Elliotts, and I am compelled to ask you to help them out of a confounded mess.’

‘The Elliotts in a mess!’ exclaimed Major Dawkins in amazement. ‘Which of them do you mean, the Elliotts of Todhurst or of Arrowby?’

‘Arrowby, of course,’ replied Willis, with an undercurrent of irritation. ‘They are staying at Todhurst just now, and Nellie and Stanley Maynard are there too. You know what a fool my sister’s husband John Elliott is, and he has worked himself up into a fit of the most ridiculous jealousy about Maynard and my sister. He is so wild about it that he spoke to me, and wanted me to interfere. I won’t, for he is a—— Well, I was going to make use of a strong expression; but you can put it down on your own account.’

‘He must have been making fun of you,’ returned the Major. ‘He knows that Maynard is engaged to Nellie.’

‘There was no fun at all about it. The fellow was as serious as a man could be. I laughed at him, and tried to reason with him; but it was no use, as you can understand. I should have left the thing to be settled between themselves—for I know Sophy can take care of herself—but he hinted something about having a detective to watch her; and you can guess what a general upset that might mean.’

‘The man must be mad.’

‘That is my opinion—at least, if he is not mad, he is on the borders of madness. I shouldn’t mind a bit if he himself were to suffer the consequences of this nonsense; but, you see, my sister Nellie and Maynard are all likely to get into trouble through his insanity. Will you help them out of it?—I can’t. If I say or do anything, it will be misunderstood.’

The Major was silent for a moment. He wished to serve his friends, and yet he was afraid that he, too, might be misunderstood. But he had such a sincere regard for the Elliotts, that he bravely resolved to do what he could to bring about an amicable arrangement.

‘I wish you had agreed to do it yourself,’ he said reflectively; ‘but as matters stand, perhaps it will be better for me to do it. I shall write at once to your sister—Mrs John—to her husband, and to Nellie. Then I shall get down to Todhurst as quick as possible; and I have no doubt that a few words of explanation will set everything right.’

The Major went to his club, and hurriedly wrote several letters. But whilst he was placing them in the envelopes, he was in deep perplexity, for who could tell what might be the result of this correspondence?

The result of the important engagement to which the Major hastened after the scene with his servant was of a most distressing nature. The happiness of friends whom he regarded with profound esteem was in peril, and he had been told that the catastrophe could only be averted by his immediate interference. The information and the intimation were so astounding that he was bewildered. What could he do? How could he find the opportunity, or rather how could he find a sufficiently delicate method of saving those friends from the folly to which they were being hastened by misunderstanding and passion?

The friends referred to were Joseph Elliott, J.P. of Todhurst, to whose place the Major was to proceed on the following day; and the cousin of that gentleman, John Elliott, of Arrowby. The conduct of the latter threatened a domestic imbroglio, in which an outsider’s interference was more likely to do mischief than render service. The whole trouble sprang from a foolish misunderstanding, which a sentence of explanation would set right. It seemed very hard to have the power of speaking that sentence, and to remain silent out of selfish considerations of prudence. Nay, was it not wicked to stand by and see the whole fabric of domestic bliss fall into ruins, when by simply giving a timely halloo the calamity might be prevented?

Still, the matter was so delicate that the Major wisely hesitated to meddle with it, although appealed to by the near relative of the two families. Then came the upbraiding question: ‘Was he not a friend of the family, respected by them all, and having no interest one way or another, except to do a generous act of service to people who had temporarily lost control of their tempers and judgment?’ Yes, he was a friend of the family, the Major admitted with something like a sigh, and there was no doubt it was his duty to open their eyes, and he must do it.

There was a merry party on the large bowling-green of Todhurst Grange playing at lawn-tennis in the sunshine of the autumn afternoon. The players had no intention of making a business of the game by too strict adherence to rules. Blunders were not regarded by this blithe party as serious offences, but were laughed at, and explained to the inexperienced. The young folk of both sexes were particular in regard to correct costume, but beyond that they had come out to amuse themselves, to display their graces, to laugh, to flirt—or it might be to make love—but not to strive for any prize except the amusement of each other.

The Major had taken his place amongst the young people, and in his light kerseymeres looked as youthful as his competitors. He was the worst player on the ground, and in that respect distinguished himself by affording the greatest degree of enjoyment to the company. He was perfectly aware of his own incapacity; but, cheerfully declaring that it was never too late to learn, he laughed cordially with those who laughed at him. He, undoubtedly, would have been less buoyant had he been aware that much of the mirth he provoked was due to the droll effect of his earnest efforts to skip hither and thither with the same lightness and ease as his youthful rivals. Of this he was happily unconscious, and so he flourished his racket gaily, and began to think that he would soon be a first-class player. He skipped the more when he observed that Miss Euphemia Panton, the wealthy spinster, was watching his movements from the terrace.

He had made what was, for him, a most dexterous stroke, and stood complacently waiting his turn to play, when a servant approached him and presented a note.

‘Beg pardon, sir, but I was told to ask your immediate attention to this.’

‘Thank you,’ said the Major, putting the note carelessly in his pocket, as he stood smiling on his pretty partner, Miss Helen (in home circles, Nellie) Carroll, who was understood to be engaged to the stalwart young fellow on the other side of the net, and at present her opponent.

The Major admired the clever competition of the lovers; they were so gay and energetic in it, that his mental reflection was that they were really trying the question as to which should be master in the future.

‘I was told to wait an answer, sir,’ was the respectful reminder of the attendant who had brought the note.

‘In a minute,’ replied the Major, as he made one of his funny stiff-kneed skips to meet the ball which came flying in his direction. He managed to catch it on the hop, and sent it far beyond bounds, the feat eliciting loud shouts of applauding laughter. The hero was complacent: he had evidently done something—he did not know what, but it allowed him another pause. So he looked at the note, and the racket dropped from his hand. The deep lines of his visage, which had almost disappeared in his boyish enjoyment of the game, became suddenly prominent in the expression of alarm which took the place of smiles.

‘Gracious powers! I have put the letters into the wrong envelopes!’

He looked with anxious inquiry into the bright flushed face of Miss Carroll. No, she had heard nothing yet. He begged that she would excuse him, as he was obliged to hasten up to the house—a message of importance had come for him, and he had no alternative but to curtail the happy privilege of being her partner during the rest of the game. Then, to the attendant: ‘Tell Mrs Elliott I shall be with her immediately. Hurry, like a good fellow.’

The man bowed and departed. The Major wiped his brow as he followed, at first with quick steps, but soon more slowly. He was trying to collect his thoughts, and to comprehend the possibilities of the dilemma into which he had fallen.

‘She must have got the letter intended for Mrs John; and in that case, what has become of the others? This is a mess. The thing seemed to be so easy to settle: only a little explanation required, and all would have gone smoothly as ever; and now—who knows what mischief may come of my idiotic bungling!’

He had never before found himself in such a desperate position; but he promptly resolved to take the straight way out of it. He would at once explain his mistake, ask forgiveness, and trust to Mrs Joseph Elliott’s good sense and good-nature to keep her silent about the matter which had been accidentally revealed to her.

Accordingly, he entered Mrs Joseph’s boudoir with a dejected air, but with the firm step of one resolved to do his duty at any cost. He found the lady standing by her writing-table, with cheeks flushed and eyes uncomfortably bright with excitement. She held an open letter in her hand. She was a plump, fair woman, with soft pretty features, and rather small gray eyes. She was easy-going and good-tempered to a degree, because she had a supreme dislike to be bothered about anything; but, like these easy-going people in general, once she was roused, she held obstinately to the idea which possessed her, and would not be convinced by any argument that a mistake had been made and that indignation was uncalled for.

‘I regret having been obliged to call you away from your amusement, Major Dawkins,’ she said, controlling her voice with an evident effort; ‘but here is a letter of a most extraordinary nature, which has apparently reached my hands without being intended for them. If I am not very much mistaken, I believe you can give me some explanation of its contents.’

‘My dear Mrs Elliott,’ the Major answered nervously, ‘I gathered from the note I received on the lawn that some blunder had been made. Allow me to assure you’——

‘Don’t you think it would be as well if you looked at the letter before you proceed further?’ was Mrs Joseph’s cold interruption. ‘I wish to know if this was written by you; and if it was, I shall understand how to proceed.’

The Major held out his hand for the letter; but Mrs Joseph laid it on her desk and held it down, as if unwilling to trust it out of her hand. He glanced at the paper and groaned. It was not necessary to read more than the first words. As he had expected, the letters had somehow got into the wrong envelopes.

‘Yes, this was written by me, but it was not intended for you.’

‘Of course not,’ she exclaimed with a slight hysterical laugh.

‘I really do wish you would allow me to explain: there is a mistake—a cruel blunder’——

‘I shall seek my husband and ask him to explain.’

‘For heaven’s sake, don’t. He has nothing whatever to do with it. If you would allow me’——

‘But I shall not allow you, Major Dawkins, to say another word. You, having made this mistake, wish to screen your friend. But that will not do for me. Whatever you may have to say must be spoken in his presence.’

‘If you would only allow me’——

She bowed contemptuously, and passed out of the room, leaving the Major standing with eyes and mouth wide open in hopeless bewilderment. He clasped his brow, stared at the door and at the desk where the letter had lain.

‘Why did I not snatch it from the foolish woman, and so compel her to hear me? What mischief have I done! I must get those letters back at any cost. I must see both the Elliotts and explain. They must understand—they must excuse me, for they know my eagerness to serve them. I must get hold of Joe before she sees him.’ And he hurried away in search of his host.

The letter which caused so much commotion contained nothing more terrible than this:

My dear Friend—Let me implore you to act with more consideration towards Mrs E. The incident which vexes you is capable of the simplest explanation; and if you persist in your present unreasonable suspicions, there is no saying what havoc you may make of your own and other people’s happiness. I understand the whole position, and will be glad to set things right—as I believe it is now in my power to do as soon as we meet, if you will only confide in me.—Yours faithfully,

A. Dawkins.

This letter had been intended for Mr John Elliott, a morbidly nervous and suspicious man, and it had been placed in an envelope addressed to Mrs J. Elliott, Todhurst. Such a blunder was most irritating; but after all, it could be explained, and the good-nature which had prompted his action could not be understood.

He had himself received a letter intended for another fellow, although bearing his (the Major’s) address in full on the envelope. He had even received an epistle from a man of education and intelligence, in which the writer, instead of putting down his own signature, had written the name of the addressee. It was not such a very uncommon blunder for a person who was sending off a number of missives in a hurry. The salve of these reflections afforded only momentary relief to the poor Major’s disturbed conscience. The instances of blunders such as he had perpetrated had occurred on trivial occasions, and afforded merriment to all parties when discovered. But in his own case, the happiness of half-a-dozen people was involved, and he was stung by remorse for his carelessness, whilst feeling that he was walking in a dense fog of confusion.

As the Major was rushing in the direction of the stables, in the neighbourhood of which he was most likely to find his horse-loving host at that time of day, he was pounced upon by a troop of young Elliotts. He was a special favourite with the young folk—for who so young as he when amongst them? He was saluted with a chorus of invitations to different games; and it was a little time before he could impress upon them the fact that he could not join them, as he had very serious business with their father. Where was he?

He was half-deafened by the variety of responses, all spoken simultaneously: ‘I saw him near the duck-pond; come along, Major.’—‘He’s in the orchard’—‘He’s looking at the new mare in the meadow’—‘He’s giving physic to Tally-ho in the stable.’

In desperation, the Major pranced off at random. There was a brief pause among the young folk; then, struck by the idea that their friend was only making fun after all, they gave the view-halloo and followed in full chase, girls and boys competing to be first to run down the quarry. The Major in his gay tennis suit, now somewhat disarranged, panting and flushed, followed by the merry troop, was like a big schoolboy playing at Hare and Hounds—the hare getting very much the worst of it.

‘Major Dawkins—Major Dawkins!’ called a lady who was standing in his path as he approached her. ‘Do, please, stop playing with the children; I want to speak to you.’

It was Mrs John Elliott of Arrowby.

The Major, even if politeness had not compelled him to obey, was very glad to halt. He could not have run much farther. The children were around him in a moment, clinging to his sleeves, and laughing in gleeful triumph.

‘My dears,’ said the Major, gasping for breath, ‘I really am in earnest. I do want you to let me off to-day.’

‘And I have something particular to say to the Major,’ added Mrs John, as she took the gentleman’s arm and led him away from the disappointed group.

Mrs John was a lady endowed with the blissful nature which without effort can under any circumstances realise the spirit of the old saw—

A merry heart goes all the way,

A sad tires in a mile-a.

She seemed to be always laughing; she was as fond of bonbons as a child; and although turned thirty, she was still one of those ‘giddy young things’ who quite innocently find great satisfaction in attracting the attention of men’s eyes. She did not try to do this by extravagance of dress, although it obtained special care. Indeed, she did not try at all; but her blithe, frank ways magnetised men, and she was alike to all, old or young, handsome or otherwise. It had, therefore, caused much amazement that she should have given her hand to John Elliott. Had she mated with his cousin Joseph, the burly, jovial, red-haired, fox-hunting squire of Todhurst, the fitness of things would have been appreciated. But John!—it was incomprehensible.

He was the antithesis of his cousin: bilious, sallow, narrow-chested, and with stooping shoulders. He had no interest in field-sports; he did not keep more than ten acres of his land under his own management; but he was strict with his agent and tenants about rents. He was a dilettante archæologist, a dilettante book-hunter, and a dilettante philanthropist. He believed that he was in earnest. He regarded his wife as a jewel so precious that every one envied him the possession; and when he came to understand that people wondered why she had married him, he began to wonder too, and the result was much mental torture. He was conscious that she might have had a much more suitable mate, and that consciousness rendered him the more jealously fond. She, although at moments incensed at his folly and want of faith, maintained her good spirits and retained her good looks.

‘Now, Major,’ she said in her sprightly way, as soon as they had got beyond earshot of the children, ‘I want you to tell me all about this mysterious note you have sent me. I can guess that you mean my husband by “our mutual friend.” But who is the “lady,” and what is the nonsense to which you ask me to pay no heed?’

The Major absolutely groaned inwardly; for he knew by her allusions that his worst fears were realised, and she had got the note intended for Nellie. So, then, each of the three letters had been delivered to the wrong person! Confound that hurry—confound that fellow Hollis, who had been the cause of it by his mischievous interference with the hair-dye. Had it not been for that incident, the Major was convinced he could never have made such a gross mistake as this. And here was the happiness of a household imperilled by a bottle of hair-dye!

‘It may be monstrously absurd to others,’ groaned the miserable Dawkins; ‘but to me it is monstrously distressing.’

‘What is so absurd and at the same time so distressing?’ inquired Mrs John gaily, restraining within due bounds her inclination to laugh at the extraordinary contortions of his features.

‘My dear madam, I assure you, it is all a stupid and most lamentable mistake on my part. That letter’——

‘I am quite satisfied that it is a mistake,’ she interrupted. ‘Pray, do not feel any uneasiness on that account, and do not bother about the letter. But, concerning the lady, I should like to know something, and you promise here to tell me.’ She held the unlucky letter open in her hand.

‘My dear Friend,’ it ran—‘That is the most appropriate form of address for me to use on the present occasion, which is in my eyes an important one. I beseech you to give no heed whatever to any nonsense you may hear about our “mutual friend” and a certain lady. There is not the slightest foundation for it, and of that I shall convince you immediately after my arrival at Todhurst.—Believe me, your most faithful servant,

Alfred Dawkins.’

‘You were never intended to receive that letter,’ ejaculated the Major with a resolute effort to pull himself together.

‘I am sure my husband did not intend it,’ she rejoined, smiling confidentially; ‘but I thank you for putting me on my guard against idle rumours. It was your duty to do so, as the friend of the family, and I for one am grateful. But it was scarcely necessary; for although John is peculiar in some ways, I have perfect confidence in his discretion, and know that he is incapable of entangling himself with any lady, except through others misunderstanding one of his philanthropic crazes.—Ah, I see what it is,’ and here her expression changed from that of half-indifferent curiosity to one of serious interest. ‘He has been kind to some wretched creature, and she is trying to take advantage of him. That is what you mean by warning me not to heed any nonsense I might hear. Thanks, thanks! I must go at once and relieve his mind of any uneasiness as to my views of the case.’

The Major had endeavoured several times to interrupt her without avail. Now, when he saw her turning quickly away, he cried vehemently: ‘Stop, my dear madam; you are quite wrong—you misunderstand the whole affair. Do give me time to tell you exactly what is the matter.’

‘I know enough, Major; thank you very much. I must learn the rest from John himself. Here are some friends coming—I do not wish them to see me in this anxious state. We can have a chat in the afternoon.’ With a bow she walked quickly away.

He would have followed, but was arrested by a musical voice calling: ‘Major Dawkins, I wish particularly to speak to you.’

He turned, and beheld Nellie Carroll advancing hurriedly towards him. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with indignation, and her sharp firm step betokened that she was in a temper. Behind her was Stanley Maynard, looking troubled, and evidently trying to persuade her to refrain from some rash action.

CHILDREN’S PLAY.

‘O papa, when will you die?’ asked one of the youngest of my children. A strange question, thought I.

‘Why do you ask, my dear?’

‘Oh, because it will be such fun burying you.’

This little experience of the author of Olla Podrida originated in the death of a pet canary which caused the young people great tribulation. ‘To amuse them,’ he says, ‘we made them a paper coffin, put the defunct therein, and sewed on the lid, dug a grave in the garden, and dressing them out in any remnants of black we could find for weepers, made a procession to the grave where it was buried.’ This little divertissement quite took their fancy, and led them to wish for a repetition on a larger scale.

The memory of a back-garden little cemetery of pet birds and kittens, over whose graves the writer had erected head-slates with appropriate epitaphs, occurs to him after hearing of the late obsequies of a pet rabbit at Southport. Little Amy’s bunnie went the way of all rabbits, and her playmates, sympathising with her affliction, determined to give it an appropriate funeral. They arranged a catafalque out of a soap-box, and with great solemnity dragged it in procession to the grave. The children, feeling that a service of some kind ought to be performed, but instinctively recognising the unfitness of the ordinary religious ritual, joined hands around the bier, and sang with dignified pathos the well-known old song, Oh, bring back my Bunnie to me. They did it so seriously, and with such child-like good faith, that even the grown-up listeners behind the blinds forgot the bathos of the situation, and involuntarily sympathised with the young mourners in their grief. A ‘stepping-stone,’ as one of the pall-bearers afterwards described it, was placed over the grave, and the ceremony was over; but even the gorgeousness of the funeral pageant and the impressive burial service could not wholly console the owner for the loss of her rabbit.

A little girl who witnessed the capture of a rat in a trap, exclaimed, with the relentless thoughtlessness of childhood: ‘Me wants you to dead him, so me can see him all buried in the seminary’—this playing at funerals being evidently a fascinating amusement with many little folks.

Much has been said about the power of imagination in the young; but their knowledge and experience being so incomplete, is it not rather the imitative faculty that makes a boy with a wooden gun act the hero or hunter, and a girl with a rag doll, an affectionate though rather capricious mother? On their Lilliput stage children imitate the doings of adults, who are mainly interesting to them as furnishing subjects for representation. They value the reproduction more highly than the realities of life, on which they look callously, and will parody a funeral, an execution, or a prayer-meeting with remarkable cheerfulness. One of the writer’s schoolfellows, by way of appropriate ‘Sunday play,’ once raised an altar of books, placed lighted candles thereon, and tried to persuade some of his companions to join him in further mummeries, which, however, partook much less of levity than earnestness on his part.

A famous American author, who makes some observations which are very apposite, says: ‘During a walk from St Nicholas in the shadow of the majestic Alps, we came across some little children amusing themselves in what seemed at first a most odd and original way; but it wasn’t; it was in simply a natural and characteristic way. They were roped together with a string; they had mimic Alpenstocks and ice-axes; and were climbing a meek and lowly manure-pile with a most blood-curdling amount of care and caution. The “guide” at the head of the line cut imaginary steps in a laborious and painstaking way, and not a monkey budged till the step above him was vacated. If we had waited, we should have witnessed an imaginary accident, no doubt, and we should have heard the intrepid band hurrah! when they made the summit, and looked around upon the magnificent view, and seen them throw themselves down in exhausted attitudes for a rest in that commanding situation.’ The same writer says: ‘In Nevada, I used to see the children play at silver-mining. Of course the great thing was an accident in a mine; and there were two “star” parts—that of the man who fell down the mimic shaft; and that of the daring hero who was lowered into the depths to bring him up. I knew one small chap who always insisted on playing both these parts—and he carried his point. He would tumble into the shaft and die; and then come to the surface and go back after his own remains.’

If half the accounts of American children are true, they must be intolerable little precocities, hard to manage and difficult to please. Japan appears to be the children’s paradise, from recent accounts. In no other country, we are told, are the young people treated with such consideration. The third day of the month is the girls’ festival. In every family you will find dolls in large numbers arranged in one of the rooms reserved for that purpose. The boys’ holiday is the fifth day of the fifth month. After passing under the barber’s hands, the boys, dressed in their best clothes, first go to the temple and offer a prayer, after which the fun of the day begins.

The ways of children are, it seems, beginning to be studied from a scientific standpoint. An American lady has elicited from two hundred and twenty-seven Boston schoolboys particulars of their tastes in collecting. Out of the entire number, only nineteen had abstained from making collections. Stamps were the most popular objects; then marbles, business cards, minerals, woods, leaves or flowers, autographs, buttons, birds’ nests, and many other articles.

There is often a great contrast between the ways in which boys and girls try to amuse themselves. Games which demand small exertions are generally girls’ favourites, though the more active take kindly to rounders, whiptop, and even cricket. But as a rule they are soon tired; everything ‘isn’t fair,’ and they ‘won’t play.’ Boys’ games are more successful. Boys stick much more to rules, and are less careful of their clothes. Their games are often accompanied by loud threats and fierce recriminations, threats which if executed would speedily make the playground present the appearance of a battle-field.

It is the grown-up people who write the stories, and the children carefully preserve the text. What boy has not had his Crusoe raft or cave, or has not attempted to build a log-hut? The business, pleasures, misfortunes, and adventures of life are all rehearsed by the romantic little people. There is a story of Michael Angelo making a statue of snow in a garden, the beauty and proportion of which delighted his companions and gave promise of the genius he was afterwards to display. Charles Dickens tells us of wandering through rooms when a child, armed with a club, in the make-belief that he was an African traveller expecting to be attacked at any moment by wild beasts or savages, and therefore holding himself ready to sell his life as dearly as possible.

This innate tendency to mimicry is sometimes even displayed amongst the melancholy surroundings of a hospital. It must, indeed, be sadly dull for the poor little patients in a children’s hospital, but there are rays of sunshine that gleam upon the scene. A kind-hearted visitor to one of these institutions says: ‘Among the boys, I saw one merry little fellow gravely putting out his tongue, while another felt his pulse. Playing at doctors seemed a fit game for a children’s hospital, and I could picture to myself how mock prescriptions were made up with sham solemnity of manner, and how fanciful experiments with imaginary stethoscopes were attempted by young actors, to beguile the weary time. One little girl I spoke to seemed quite proud of her acquaintance with the ailments of her neighbours, and seriously took me to a bed to see a bad case of “broncheetus;” and to a cot contiguous, where what she called “new-money-here” was waiting to be cured. To lisp out big words like “toobercoolcrosus” appeared to give great pleasure to the solemn little doctress, and I fancied the patients felt some pride in being pointed out as victims of such fine-sounding complaints.’

Children who have few toys are thrown on their own resources for amusement, and frequently develop great ingenuity and cleverness in their play. We have examples in the young Brontës, busy at their desks and playing at being editors, like the girls in Little Women when producing their weekly paper The Pickwick Portfolio. But when our little actors, in their eagerness to secure properties, develop the bump of destructiveness, the results are not so amusing. Captain Marryat remarks that children are a great blessing when they are kept in the nursery; but they certainly do interfere with the papa who has the misfortune to be an author. He little thought, when his youngest girl brought him a whole string of paper dolls, hanging together by the arms, that they had been cut off his memoranda. But so it was; and when he had satisfactorily established the fact, and insisted upon an inquisition to recover his invaluables, he found that they had had an auto da fé, and that the whole string of dolls, which contained on their petticoats his whole string of bewitching ideas, had been burnt like so many witches.

The monkey-like propensity for imitation which makes an infant try to shave himself on getting hold of papa’s razors, when developed in boyhood, takes the form of surreptitious smoking and swaggering, more for the purpose of acting the man than for anything else. The same idea of acting the woman is shown when little girls improvise a long train out of a newspaper or shawl, and sweeping in a dignified way about the room, exclaim, ‘I’m mamma!’

The importance of a child when lent any article of dress, a stick, or an umbrella to play with, is very noticeable. ‘Little boy,’ said a gentleman, ‘why do you hold that umbrella over your head? It’s not raining.’ ‘No.’—‘And the sun is not shining.’ ‘No.’—‘Then why do you carry it?’ ‘’Cause when it rains, father wants it; and when the sun shines, mother wants it; and it’s only when it’s this sort of weather that I can get to use it at all.’

Children possessed of mimetic qualities are happier without any playthings than are their opposites, even when possessed of the costliest scientific toys. Town boys are fond of imagining themselves to be trains and horses, the noise of the former and motions of the latter being often very amusingly represented. Mark Twain has given a lively description of an American lad imitating a river steamer with all proper accompaniments of bell-ringing, going ahead and astern, and whirling one arm round for an imaginary forty-feet side-wheel coming alongside the wharf. The same humorist’s description of some boys camping out on an island, and covering their bare bodies with mud to represent Indian war-paint, will probably occur to our readers.

Any one who has ever watched street boys at play, must have been struck with the power of mimicry many of them possess. The writer was once greatly amused by the antics of a London lad, who along the kerbstone was ‘taking off’ the motions of a tight-rope performer, with most ludicrous attempts at balancing, and a perfect burlesque of reality, that elicited roars of laughter from his admiring companions, some of whom whistled an appropriate accompaniment. Stage struggles and combats, and the ways of heavy tragedians, clowns, nigger minstrels, and acrobats, are often travestied by these youngsters in a way that denotes remarkable cleverness and keen observation. A Volunteer review which the writer witnessed in Cheshire was almost turned into ridicule by the absurd antics of some scores of the street arab genus. As a long line of riflemen advanced, firing, clouds of young ragamuffins kept retreating at some distance in front, and at every volley threw themselves on the ground into all kinds of grotesque attitudes, representing the killed and wounded. Boys’ sham-fights amongst themselves sometimes become rather serious, through the actors waxing too earnest in their enthusiasm. It is not long since a boy was wounded by a pistol-shot when enacting one of the Soudan battles with his companions. Newspaper readers are familiar with accounts of the lamentable results of children playing at hanging not wisely, but too well.

AFTER AN EXPLOSION.

An opportunity was recently afforded us of exploring the workings of a colliery in which, a day or two previously, an explosion had occurred. Commonly, the results of these catastrophes are so widespread, and the havoc they cause is so tremendous, that it is impossible to take a calm survey of the separate effects of fire and concussion: all is mere ruin and confusion. But in this particular instance the area affected had been very limited; and so little damage had been done to the roofs and roads, that it was safe and easy to investigate the way in which the imprisoned forces had effected their deadly purpose; for nearly half the men at work in the vein of coal had been killed, and, of the rest, several narrowly escaped with their lives. And yet the mine had always been considered a perfectly safe one; no death from fire-damp had ever before happened; and, with the full approval of the government inspectors, naked lights had always been used. All at once, without any warning, the lightning-swift flame darted forth, none knew whence, and many a miner’s home was filled with desolation and sorrow.

We were, of course, provided with safety-lamps before we reached the branch road which leads to the workings where so lately such awful scenes had been enacted. Even here, nearly two hundred yards away, we were shown a hole which had been blown through eighteen inches of solid masonry; and were told that two men who were at the outside of this wall had been severely burned, one of them, after lingering for a week, having succumbed to the injuries received. Just round the corner, only a few yards away, we saw the ghastliest sight of all that met our eyes in this memorable round. A dark stain on one of the upright supports of the roof marked the place where a man’s head had been crushed by a loaded tram, which the concussion of air had lifted off the rails and dashed against the hapless trammer. Nothing could give one a more vivid conception of the terrific force of these gaseous explosions, and of the enormous expansion of air which they occasion.

But we proceed along the level road through which so recently that fiery blast rushed, and reach the door which opens into the actual scene of the disaster. It was from this point that the gallant band of rescuers—who in such emergencies are always ready to risk their lives in helping others—carried on their operations. Outside this door, all was safe after that one momentary onrush of flame was over. Inside lay the deadly choke-damp, hardly less fatal than the fire itself. Yet, for all that, one by one the injured colliers were carried hither and placed in the freer air. Then the heroic searchers bore out also the bodies of the dead; and not till then, yielded to the numbing, stifling influence of the poisonous vapours, which left them aching and ill for days.

What a contrast to all this was the quietude of these deserted workings as we saw them! Save for such repairs as were needed to restore proper ventilation, nothing had been touched; and, strewn on the ground, as they had been taken off by their owners—since dead, or, it might be, struggling for life—lay the coats and other garments discarded as too cumbersome to work in; while from the roof hung the miners’ ‘tommy-bags,’ containing their day’s food. One had fallen on to the ground, and the mice had got at it. After biting a hole through the covering, they had gnawed away all the crumb out of a huge hunch of bread. Where, one wondered, could these tiny creatures have taken refuge from fire and suffocation? Mysterious indeed! Not a singe, not even the smell of fire, on these trivial things; and yet, hereabouts, a man was found fearfully scorched, his clothes literally torn off him by a tornado of flame!

Passing on to a heading where several men met their death, we noticed one larch-post out of which the resin had been drawn by the intensity of the heat; while everywhere, one side of the props was coked over by the rush of burning coal-dust, which had been driven furiously along, now in one direction, now in another; and yet, among it all was a pale-green shoot sprouting from an ash-pole in the roof, turning upwards, as if some instinct taught it that that way shone the sunlight—even though a quarter of a mile of rock lay between!

Another example of the incomprehensible manner in which these fatal forces act. A door which opened inwards, and so offered full resistance to the concussion, was smashed into splinters; and yet, twenty yards farther on, a miner was at work with a candle in his cap; and this was not blown out, nor was the man at all hurt! This particular doorway, the door being fortunately demolished, let in a quantity of pure air, and so the lives of a number of men who were in that level were saved. One specially touching incident occurred here. Two men and a boy started to crawl to a place of safety, following, with their hands, the rails as a guide in the darkness. The road they took is in the shape of a Y. When they reached the fork, two of them took the right turning, and escaped unscathed. The third man went to the left, and wandered on till, in the very thickest of the afterdamp, he sank down and died. There he was found, as soon as it was possible to penetrate through the smoke and heavy fumes, with that placid look on his face which all those wear who are suffocated by carbonic acid gas. One of the explorers explained that, in this poisonous atmosphere, he felt himself failing, and yet, though he knew perfectly what was in store for him if he sank down, could not resist the pleasant stupor that was creeping over him. He was dragged away to pure air just in time.

Our guide tried, with his testing-lamp, all round the place for gas; but only once, in a hole in the roof of the highest level, did a tiny blue cap within the wire-gauze demonstrate the lingering presence of that explosive vapour. This fact may to some extent explain the unwillingness of the workmen to use safety-lamps. Such is the ignorant prejudice which prevails among them, and so true is it of them, as of all people engaged in hazardous occupations, that familiarity breeds contempt for danger. They were perfectly ready to go down with candles, but not with lamps, to which they had never been accustomed. But we owe too much to these toilers underground, to indulge in harsh criticism of their conduct. As the poor fishwife described her herrings, so we may call the coals which blaze upon our hearths, ‘the lives of men.’

From this account of what, after all, was but a slight explosion, one may perhaps more readily realise the awfulness of those more extensive disasters, which, with equal suddenness and mystery, plunge whole districts into bitterest grief and direst want. If any stimulus to sympathy and practical charity were required, it would but be needful to stand, as we did, among that eager crowd which, at the tidings of evil, thronged round the pit top; and to see those agonised women who were weeping for their sons or husbands, and ‘would not be comforted, because they were not.’ But the hearts of Englishmen ever beat fast, and their hands are always open, when they are asked to help the ill-fated colliers’ widows and orphans—‘after an explosion.’

OCCASIONAL NOTES.

INTERESTING DISCOVERIES.

A report reaches us through a Greek paper of the accidental discovery, in the island of Syros, of three graves, the structure and contents of which would point to a very early prehistoric date. It was during the digging for the foundations of a new building in the town of Hermonopolis that these graves were brought to light. The vessels found in them are in good preservation, and are, with one exception, of wood or earthenware, and this exception is a vase of metal, in which are the ashes of a dead man. The other graves also exhibit, without any exception, unburned bones, thus showing a curious combined system of ordinary burial and cremation, the bones in the vase having been burned, and the others not so. Votive offerings were placed about the skeletons in every case, those which were apparently of the greatest value being found in the dead men’s hands. It is to be hoped that the vessels may be secured for the Athens Museum, already so rich with many such curious relics. This Museum has been lately enriched with the remains of the pediment sculptures of the Temple of Athene Alea at Tegea. These precious fragments, consisting of two heads of youths and one head of a boar, are the only pieces of sculpture which can be affirmed, with confidence, to be the work of Scopas; and it is a satisfaction to know that archæologists and antiquaries who desire to view the relics of highly refined art of past ages, may see them in this Museum without the trouble of going to Tegea. It is also reported that the missing half of one of the other heads lately discovered has been found, and is now safe in the same Museum. Another exquisitely beautiful head of a female, found some years ago at Lerna, has been procured for the National Museum, thanks to the zeal and energy of the Director, Dr Kabbadias. The head is life-size, of Parian marble, and evidently, from the flat unworked state of the back, formed part of a group in high relief, and dates probably from the third century before Christ. The learned are in much doubt as to whom the head is intended to represent, many inclining to the opinion that it is Demeter, from its charming expression and pathetic beauty; but as no part of the figure remains, this is, after all, mere speculation.

METROPOLITAN PUBLIC GARDENS’ ASSOCIATION.

North, south, east, and west, the growth of London proceeds rapidly. Not only is the city’s area increased, but the brick and mortar maze of which it consists tends to grow denser and denser, as the nice arts of surveyor and architect combine to wrest from space its fullest building possibilities. And hence springs a great evil. Fresh air and light—necessary conditions of healthy life—are meted out to the population with an ever-increasing meagreness. But, happily, counteracting influences have now existed for some time. A notable one is embodied in a philanthropic Association, which spends a considerable income and great activity in obtaining for the people of London open spaces, or gardens, and other machinery for recreation. Old churchyards and other disused burial-grounds, inclosed squares, and vacant plots of ground of all sorts, are the ‘prey’ of the Metropolitan Public Gardens’ Association. Finding them, it at once agitates obstinately for their consecration to public use. Parochial and ecclesiastical local authorities, and in some cases private individuals, are appealed to, to devote the land to the desired purpose—the Association offering to lay out the inclosure at its own expense, and provide the necessary implements, plants, mould, drains, seats, &c., or making such overtures as the individual circumstances of the case may justify. Though securing public recreation-grounds is the chief aim of the Association, it adopts other means for promoting the health and physical well-being of the people. Thus it agitates for the establishment of gymnasia in elementary schools, and for the opening of school playgrounds during all but scholastic hours to the children of the surrounding locality; it plants trees and places seats in the wilder thoroughfares; it uses its influence to obtain the erection of baths and washhouses; and, collecting reliable information respecting all the poorer districts of the metropolis, it directs public attention to overcrowding and other social evils. Since the Association’s formation in 1882, it has succeeded in eighty-three of its efforts to provide public recreation-grounds, &c., disbursing in the work £8595, 15s. 5d. Lord Brabazon is the chairman, Miss I. M. Gladstone, the honorary Secretary, and Miss F. Wilkinson, the landscape gardener of the Association, the address of which is 83 Lancaster Gate, London, W.

‘MISSING.’

’Twas after Talavera, on an evening dark and gray;

We had returned from the fight, after a bloody day;

And we called the muster over; but one answered not the call:

’Twas the youngest, and the noblest, and the bravest of us all.

He had dared the direst dangers of that dread and dear-bought day,

For he had been the foremost in the fury of the fray;

But a solemn silence answered when we called him on the roll,

And we knew that we had lost him—and that heaven had gained a soul.

The night was closing chill and dim, and stars were in the sky,

When forth we went to look for him—the battle-field was nigh;

The moon shone out to aid us in our grim and ghostly quest,

As we turned the brave men over that were lying there—at rest.

Where the fight had waxed the fiercest, on the margin of the field,

We found him, grasping hard the sword he never more might wield!

There was glory on his visage, like a rosy light, or flood,

Though his golden hair was dabbled with his swiftly-flowing blood.

Oh, rev’rently we lifted him, and wiped away the stain

That marred the bright young forehead, where a mother’s kiss had lain.

We loosed the things about his breast, but turned aside—for there

We saw a maiden’s picture, and a tender lock of hair!

He was not dead: he strove to smile; he lifted up his hands—

But Death had turned the hour-glass, and was counting out the sands!

We were rough and hardened soldiers, and we could not mourn, because

He was dying for his country—like the hero that he was.

We laid him on the litter; but he neither spoke nor moved;

And tenderly we bore him to the comrades that he loved.

He was dead long ere we laid him on the mossy patch of ground—

But we hoped he did not suffer—for he died without a sound!

We have bled in many a battle, we have fought in many a fray,

But that night at Talavera is as fresh as yesterday;

And his name upon the muster-roll in fancy oft we call,

For we loved him, as the noblest and the bravest of us all.

Nannie Power O’Donoghue.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.

All Rights Reserved.

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Table of Contents

- CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

- CONTENTS

- WINDS OF HEAVEN.

- IN ALL SHADES.

- CHAPTER XXXIX.

- JEWEL AND GEM ROGUERIES.

- A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY.

- CHAPTER I.—THE MAJOR’S PREDICAMENT.

- CHILDREN’S PLAY.

- AFTER AN EXPLOSION.

- OCCASIONAL NOTES.

- INTERESTING DISCOVERIES.

- METROPOLITAN PUBLIC GARDENS’ ASSOCIATION.

- ‘MISSING.’

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE