Chambers’s Journal, August 28, 1886

To do at Rome as the Romans do is sage advice, not always nor often followed by those of us who wander afield. Voluntarily placing ourselves among people whose ways and habits are different from our own, and whose principles of action are as sacred to them as ours are to us, we ‘fling our five fingers’ in the face of rules and regulations which are to them the very sign and substance of social decorum. Principles which are stricter than our own we call prejudices; and pooh-pooh as valueless those virtues in which we are wanting, while condemning as unpardonably immoral everything whatever which is of laxer fibre and looser holding than the corresponding circumstance at home. Thus, we fall foul of the southern nations for their want of straightforwardness, their sweet deceptive flatteries, their small short-sighted dishonesties; yet we count it but a little matter that they should be sober, abstemious, kind-hearted, and charitable; that they should not beat their children nor kick their wives to death; nor spend on one gross meal of beef and beer half the earnings of the week. We forget, too, that if we are ‘done’ in the vineyards and the orange groves, others are as much ‘done’ in the hop gardens and the hay-fields; and that: ‘Here is a stranger—come, let us rob him,’ is the rule of life all the world over. We deride the costly political efforts made by young nations struggling to obtain a place in European councils; but we have not a word of praise for the patience with which the people bear their heavy burden of taxation, that their country may be great with the great, and strong with the strong. In short, we find more barren land than fertile, all the way from Dan to Beersheba; and, once across the silver streak, very few points, if any, attract our admiration, while fewer still compel our adhesion.

One of the most striking acts of unconformity lies in the charter of liberty given to our girls, compared with the close guard enforced among the bold wooers and jealous possessors of the fervid south. An amount of freedom, which is both innocent and recognised here, is held as dangerous and improper there; but few English girls will submit to more personal restraint in Palermo or Madrid than that to which they have been accustomed in Cornwall or Cumberland. And indeed, they often launch out into strange license, and do things in foreign cities which they would not dare to do in their own native towns. They think they are not known; and what does it signify what people say of them?—the honour of the English name not counting. If you reason with them, and tell them that such and such things are ill thought of by the natives, they look at you blankly and answer: ‘What does it matter to us? Their ways are not ours, thank goodness! and we prefer our own. Besides, they must be very horrid people to think evil when there is none.’ Mothers and chaperons are no more sensitive, no more conformable, than their charges, and quite as resolute to reject any new view and trample under foot any rule of life to which they have not been accustomed. Tell one of them that, in a purely foreign hotel, the girl must not be let to sleep in another corridor—on another floor—or away from her own immediate vicinity, and she asks: ‘Why? My daughter is not a baby; she can take care of herself. And what harm should happen to her?’ Tell her that the girl must not wander unaccompanied about the passages, the gardens, the public rooms of the hotel, nor sit apart in corners of the salon talking in whispers with the men, nor lounge on the benches with one favoured individual alone—and she scouts all these precautions as foolish if not insulting. Say that it is not considered correct for the young lady to come to table-d’hôte by herself at any time of the meal it may suit her to appear—perhaps dashing into dinner in her hat, breathless, heated, excited—and again the advice is rejected. Her daughter has been accustomed to be mistress of her own time as well as actions, and lawn-tennis is a game which cannot be interrupted nor determined by one person only. She did just the same last year at Scarborough, and no one made{546} unpleasant observations; so, why should she be under more control now? Yes, she did all these things at home, where they are compatible with ‘well-and-wise-walking.’ But in a foreign hotel, tenanted by men who respect young women only in proportion to the care that is taken of them, they are not well nor wise; nay, more, they are looked on as criminal acts of neglect in those who have the guidance of things.

Manners are special to countries as to classes, and are accepted as so much current coin, which passes here, but would not run out of the limits of the realm. Jermimer, down at Margate, giggles back to ’Arry, making lollipop eyes at her over the old boat, while sucking the knob of his sixpenny cane. From giggling and making lollipop eyes, the pair soon come to speech; from speech to association; from association to love-making in earnest, and mayhap to marriage. In any case, no harm is done; and Jermimer and ’Arry are as little out of the right course, judged from their own stand-point, when they make acquaintance in this primitive manner, as is Lady Clara Vere de Vere when she is whirled away in Lord Verisopht’s arms on a first introduction. The coin is good where it is minted. But Lady Clara Vere de Vere would be but base metal at Tangier and Tunis; and Jermimer is not understood, say at Palermo, when she comes there in force, trailing her Margate manners at her heels. Consequently, when three pretty girls alight at that fair city, and ‘carry on’ as if they were in ’appy ’Ampton, they naturally excite some attention, not of a flattering kind, among people to whom girlhood is at once brittle ware and a sacred deposit. A showy triad, dressed in the fluttering fashion dear to the tribe of Jermimer—bows here, ends there—colours which dazzle, and shapes not to be overlooked—they make themselves still more conspicuous by their millinery than nature has already made them by her gift of milkwhite skins and flaxen hair. They make themselves more conspicuous by their manners than by either millinery or colour. They care nothing for sight-seeing, and all for flirting, or what in their vernacular is ‘larking.’ Like their prototype giggling back to ’Arry over the old boat, they look back and laugh and beckon and nod to the young officers who follow them through the streets, thinking that here is sport made to their hand, and that to reject the roasted larks which fall from the sky would be a folly unworthy a rational human being. From looking they pass into speech; and, by aid of a dictionary and their fingers, make appointments and go off on expeditions, unchaperoned, with these young men, to whom they have no more clue than is given by their uniform and the number of their regiment. When warned by experienced compatriots, they treat the warning as envy of their enjoyment. When advised by the handsome general who takes his own share of the cake, liberally, they treat his advice as jealousy of the younger men; and so, following their own course, they become the town’s talk, the shame of the English colony, the indignation of their hotel companions, and the standing marvel of the whole native population. They put, too, a stone in the hand of the reactionary and exclusive; and: ‘See to what your dangerous liberties lead your girls!’ is a reproach which no one can ward off. This is an instance of unconformity known to the writer of these lines as having taken place last winter in Palermo.

English and American girls flirt in a way which the fervid south neither permits nor understands. So far that fervid south is more real and more intense than we, who yet pride ourselves on both our sincerity and our depth. A painful little drama took place not long ago, founded on these cross lines of violated custom. Down on the Gulf of Naples a quite young girl, precocious in character and appearance and given up by her mother to the care of her maid, flirted with a young Italian as a foolish child would, given the chance, and only a venal servant to accept bribes for not looking after her. The young fellow took her seriously. When the trying moment came, she opened her large blue eyes and said with the candid air of a cherub: ‘I meant nothing but fun. I do not love you, and I am too young to marry.’ The youth shot himself as his commentary on her answer.

Again, no kind of warning as to the untrustworthiness of certain plausible scoundrels, known to be mere cacciatori or fortune-hunters, will do any good to certain women determined to ruin themselves. A girl not long ago fell in love with a Sicilian scamp of handsome presence and desperate character. In vain her friends warned her of his reputation, and besought her to conquer her suicidal passion—in vain! in vain! She would not, and she did not; but, like the poor foolish moth, flew right up to the candle, and proved too fatally what the flame was like. She married; and then learnt what a torturer and a tyrant could do when put to it. Before the year was out she had to escape by stealth from a man who starved her and beat her; who slept with a revolver under his pillow, with which he threatened her at dead of night—waking her from her sleep to terrify her into almost madness—and who made her regret too bitterly that she had not taken advice when it was given her, and believed in the truer knowledge of the more experienced.

In health it is the same story. We, who go on a visit of a few weeks, know so much better what is good for us than the natives of the place, who have had the experience of a lifetime and the traditions of centuries to guide them! We laugh at their precautions, and refuse to be ‘coddled.’ Hence, we go straight into the jaws of danger, and then wonder that we are bitten. We hang over the malarial waters stagnating in{547} the Colosseum, when we go there to ‘enthuse’ by moonlight. We lie on the rank grass in the Campagna, cooling our flushed faces on the earth which teems with the germs that slay and the emanations that destroy. We whip our blood to fever-heat by violent exertion under the burning sun, then get chilled to the marrow when the great orb sinks to darkness and the cold damps rise like malignant spirits from the tomb; and we think the inhabitants lazy because they take their exercise doucely, and effeminate because they avoid the half-hour of sundown as they would avoid a tiger crouching in the jungle. We eat and drink in feverish Italy and exciting Spain as we eat and drink in damp, depressing England; and we refuse to do at Rome as the Romans do, to the damage of our liver and the ruin of our nerves. We know best—are we not free-born Britons?—and our flag of unconformity is the sign of our superiority. We despise the religion of the countries we visit, and will not believe that the worshippers of the saints have more respect than have we ourselves for the faith into which they have been born and bred. A friend of our own carries this feeling to its last development, not being able to understand, nor to believe, that the old Greeks and Romans had any respect for Zeus or worship for Minerva. The grandeur and multiplicity of their temples, the magnificence and frequency of their processions, say nothing to him. Their ways are not his, and he cannot accept them as true for them if not for him. All people who have been abroad, and who respect the habits and feelings of those among whom they have placed themselves, know how painful it is to meet certain of their countrymen and women in the churches during service. These nonconformists pay no more respect to the place than if it were a barn cleared out for a play-night. They walk about making comments in audible voices, and stepping over the obstructive feet of the kneeling worshippers as unconcernedly as if they were picking their way among so many bales of cotton and wool. Why should they not? When faith and habits clash, are not our own those which we must consider? At a funeral service in St Roch, when the nave was draped in black and occupied by the mourners gathered round the coffin, there came up the side aisle, arm-in-arm, a young Englishman and, perhaps, his bride, joyous, happy, talking, laughing. What to them, in the flush of their youthful bliss, was the sorrow of the widow, the grief of the children, the loss of a good man and a useful life? They were on one plane, and all these weeping mourners were on another; and their own was predominant.

In a smaller matter than this, we show the same want of conformity. We go to a theatre in full dress where the ladies of the place go in bonnets, and to the opera in ulsters and travel-worn hats where the élite are in their diamonds and plumes. But so it is all through. We are British, and may do as we like, not being slaves nor wearing wooden shoes like those others, and Britannia ruling the seas—a cross between Neptune and Minerva. We eat and drink and dress and flirt and live independent of the rules by which the people of the country are guided and checked. But if any one does not conform to our ways, he is anathematised, and we wonder how such bad taste is possible with a well-conditioned person! It is the stiff Anglo-Saxon neck, which, were it to bend, would not lose in power, but would gain in grace.

CHAPTER XLII.

Marian was behind in the dining-room and bedrooms with Aunt Clemmy, helping to nurse and tend the sick and wounded as well as she could, in the midst of so much turmoil and danger. When she and Edward had been roused by the sudden glare of the burning cane-houses, reddening the horizon by Orange Grove, and casting weird and fitful shadows from all the mango-trees in front of their little tangled garden, she had been afraid to remain behind alone at Mulberry, and had preferred facing the maddened rioters by her husband’s side, to stopping by herself under such circumstances among the unfamiliar black servants in her own house. So they had ridden across hurriedly to the Dupuys’ together, especially as Marian was no less timid on Nora’s account than on her own; and when they reached the little garden gate that led in by the back path, she had slipped up alone, unperceived by the mob, while Edward went round openly to the front door and tried to appease the angry negroes.

The shouts and yells when she first arrived had proved indeed very frightening and distracting; but after a time, she could guess, from the comparative silence which ensued, that Edward had succeeded in gaining a hearing: and then she and Aunt Clemmy turned with fast beating hearts to look after the bleeding victims, one of whom at least they gave up from the first as quite dead beyond the reach of hope or recovery.

Nora was naturally the first to come to. She had fainted only; and though, in the crush and press, she had been trampled upon and very roughly handled by the barefooted negroes, she had got off, thanks to their shoeless condition, with little worse than a few ugly cuts and bruises. They laid her tenderly on her own bed, and bathed her brows over and over again with Cologne water; till, after a few minutes, she sat up again, pale and deathly to look at, but proud and haughty and defiant as ever, with her eyes burning very brightly, and an angry quiver playing unchecked about her bloodless lips.

‘Is he dead?’ she asked calmly—as calmly as if it were the most ordinary question on earth, but yet with a curious tone of suppressed emotion, that even in that terrible moment did not wholly escape Marian’s quick womanly observation.

‘Your father?’ Marian answered, in a low voice.—‘Dear, dear, you mustn’t excite yourself now. You must be quite quiet, perfectly quiet. You’re not well enough to stand any talking or excitement yet. You must wait to hear about it all, darling, until you’re a little better.’

Nora’s lip curled a trifle as she answered almost disdainfully: ‘I’m not going to lie here and let myself be made an invalid of, while those murderers are out yonder still on the piazza.{548} Let me get up and see what has happened.—No; I didn’t mean papa, Marian; I know he’s dead; I saw him lying hacked all to pieces outside on the sofa. I meant Mr Noel. Have they killed him? Have they killed him? He’s a brave man. Have the wretches killed him?’

‘We think not,’ Marian answered dubiously. ‘He’s in the next room, and two of the servants are there taking care of him.’

Nora rose from the bed with a sudden bound, and stood, pale and white, all trembling before them. ‘What are you stopping here wasting your care upon me for, then?’ she asked half angrily. ‘You think not—think not, indeed! Is this a time to be thinking and hesitating! Why are you looking after women who go into fainting-fits, like fools, at the wrong moment? I’m ashamed of myself, almost, for giving way visibly before the wretches—for letting them see I was half afraid of them. But I wasn’t afraid of them for myself, though—not a bit of it, Marian: it was only for—for Mr Noel.’ She said it after a moment’s brief hesitation, but without the faintest touch of girlish timidity or ill-timed reserve. Then she swept queen-like past Marian and Aunt Clemmy, in her white dinner dress—the same dress that she had worn when she was Marian’s bridesmaid—and walked quickly but composedly, as if nothing had happened, into the next bedroom.

The two negresses had already taken off Harry’s coat and waistcoat, and laid him on the bed with his shirt front all saturated with blood, and his forehead still bleeding violently, in spite of their unskilful efforts to stanch it with a wet towel. When Nora entered, he was lying there, stretched out at full length, speechless and senseless, the blood even then oozing slowly, by intermittent gurgling throbs, from the open gash across his right temple. There was another deeper and even worse wound gurgling similarly upon his left elbow.

‘They should have been here,’ Nora cried; ‘Marian and Clemmy should have been here, instead of looking after me in yonder.—Is he dead, Nita, is he dead? Tell me!’

‘No, missy,’ the girl answered, passively handing her the soaked towel. ‘Him doan’t dead yet; but him dyin’, him dyin’. De blood comin’ out ob him, spurt, spurt, spurt, so him can’t lib long, not anyway. Him bledded to death already, I tinkin’, a’most.’

Nora looked at the white face, and a few tears began at last to form slowly in her brimming eyelids. But she brushed them away quickly, before they had time to trickle down her blanched cheek, for her proud West Indian blood was up now, as much as the negroes’ had been a few minutes earlier; and she twisted her handkerchief round a pocket pencil so as to form a hasty extemporised tourniquet, which she fastened bravely and resolutely with intuitive skill above the open wound on the left elbow. She had no idea that the little jets in which the blood spurted out so rhythmically were indicative of that most dangerous wound, a severed artery; but she felt instinctively, somehow, that this was the right thing to do, and she did it without flinching, as if she had been used to dealing familiarly with dangerous wounds for half her lifetime. Then she twisted the hasty instrument tightly round till the artery was securely stopped, and the little jets ceased entirely at each pulsation of the now feeble and weakened heart.

‘Run for the doctor, somebody!’ she cried eagerly; ‘run for the doctor, or he’ll die outright before we can get help for him!’

But Nita and Rose, on their knees beside the wounded man, only cowered closer to the bedside, and shook with terror as another cry rose on a sudden from outside from the excited negroes. It was the cry they raised when they found Delgado was really struck dead before their very eyes by the visible and immediate judgment of the Almighty.

Nora looked down at them with profound contempt, and merely said, in her resolute, scornful voice: ‘What! afraid even of your own people? Why, I’m not afraid of them; I, who am a white woman, and whom they’d murder now and hack to pieces, as soon as they’d look at me, if once they could catch me, when their blood’s up!—Marian, Marian! you’re a white woman; will you come with me?’

Marian trembled a little—she wasn’t upheld through that terrible scene by the ingrained hereditary pride of a superior race before the blind wrath of the inferior, bequeathed to Nora by her slave-owning ancestors; but she answered with hardly a moment’s hesitation: ‘Yes, Nora. If you wish it, I’ll go with you.’

There is something in these conflicts of race with race which raises the women of the higher blood for the time being into something braver and stronger than women. In England, Marian would never have dared to go out alone in the face of such a raging tumultuous mob, even of white people; but in Trinidad, under the influence of that terrible excitement, she found heart to put on her hat once more, and step forth with Nora under the profound shade of the spreading mango-trees, now hardly lighted up at all at fitful intervals by the dying glow from the burnt-out embers of the smoking cane-houses. They went down groping their way by the garden path, and came out at last upon the main bridle-road at the foot of the garden. There Marian drew back Nora timidly with a hand placed in quick warning upon her white shoulder. ‘Stand aside, dear,’ she whispered at her ear, pulling her back hastily within the garden gate and under the dark shadow of the big star-apple tree. ‘They’re coming down—they’re coming down! I hear them, I hear them! O God, O God, I shouldn’t have come away! They’ve killed Edward! My darling, my darling! They’ve killed him—they’ve killed him!’

‘I wouldn’t stand aside for myself,’ Nora answered half aloud, her eyes flashing proudly even in the shadowy gloom of the garden. ‘But to save Mr Noel’s life, to save his life, I’ll stand aside if you wish, Marian.’

As they drew back into the dark shadow, even Nora trembling and shivering a little at the tramp of so many naked feet, some of the negroes passed close beside them outside the fence on their way down from the piazza, where they had just been electrified into sudden quietness by the awful sight of Louis Delgado’s dead body. They were talking earnestly and low among themselves, not, as before, shrieking and yelling and{549} gesticulating wildly, but conversing half below their breath in a solemn, mysterious, awe-struck fashion.

‘De Lard be praise for Mr Hawtorn!’ one of them said as he passed unseen close beside them. ‘Him de black man fren’. We got nobody like him. I no’ would hurt Mr Hawtorn, de blessed man, not for de life ob me.’

Marian’s heart beat fast within her, but she said never a word, and only pressed Nora’s hand, which she held convulsively within her own, harder and tighter than ever, in her mute suspense and agony.

Presently another group passed close by, and another voice said tremulously: ‘Louis Delgado dead—Louis Delgado dead! Mr Hawtorn is wonderful man for true! Who’d have tought it, me brudder, who’d have tought it?’

‘That’s Martin Luther,’ Nora cried almost aloud, unable any longer to restrain her curiosity. ‘I know him by his voice. He wouldn’t hurt me.—Martin, Martin! what’s that you’re saying? Has Mr Hawthorn shot Delgado?’ As she spoke, with a fierce anticipatory triumph in her voice, she stepped out from the shadow of the gate on to the main bridle-path, in her white dress and with her pale face, clearly visible under the faint moonlight.

Martin flung up his arms like one stabbed to the heart, and shouted wildly: ‘De missy, de missy! Dem done killed her on de piazza yonder, and her duppy comin’ now already to scare us and trouble us!’

Even in that moment of awe and alarm, Nora laughed a little laugh of haughty contempt for the strong, big-built, hulking negro’s superstitious terror. ‘Martin!’ she cried, darting after him quickly, as he ran away awe-struck, and catching him by the shoulder with her light but palpable human grasp, ‘don’t you know me? I’m no duppy. It’s me myself, Missy Nora, calling you. Here, feel my hand; you see I’m alive still; you see your people haven’t killed me yet, even if you’ve killed your poor old master.—Martin, tell me, what’s this you’re all saying about Mr Hawthorn having shot Delgado?’

Martin, shaking violently in every limb, turned round and reassured himself slowly that it was really Nora and not her ghost that stood bodily before him. ‘Ha, missy,’ he answered good-humouredly, showing his great row of big white teeth, though still quaking visibly with terror, ‘don’t you be ’fraid; we wouldn’t hurt you, not a man of us. But it doan’t Mr Hawtorn dat shot Delgado! It God Almighty! De Lard hab smitten him!’

‘What!’ Nora cried in surprise. ‘He fell dead! Apoplexy or something, I suppose. The old villain! he deserved it, Martin.—And Mr Hawthorn? How about Mr Hawthorn? Have they hurt him? Have they killed him?’

‘Mr Hawtorn up to de house, missy, an’ all de niggers pray de Lard for true him lib for ebber, de blessed creature.’

‘Why are you all coming away now, then?’ Nora asked anxiously. ‘Where are you going to?’

‘Mr Hawtorn send us home,’ Martin answered submissively; ‘an’ we all ’fraid, if we doan’t go straight when him tell us, we drop down dead wit Kora, Datan, an’ Abiram, an’ lyin’ Ananias, same like Delgado.’

‘Marian,’ Nora said decisively, ‘go back to your husband. You ought to be with him.—Martin, you come along with me, sir. Mr Noel’s dying. You’ve killed him, you people, as you’ve killed my father. I’ve got to go and fetch the doctor now to save him; and you’ve got to come with me and take care of me.’

‘Oh, darling,’ Marian interrupted nervously, ‘you mustn’t go alone amongst all these angry, excited negroes with nobody but him. Don’t, don’t; I’ll gladly go with you!’

‘Do as I tell you!’ Nora cried in a tone of authority, with a firm stamp of her petulant little foot. ‘You ought to be with him. You mustn’t leave him.—That’s right, dear.—Now, then, Martin!’

‘Afraid! Nonsense. You’re a pack of cowards. Am I afraid? and I’m a woman! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Come along with me at once, and do as I tell you.’

The terrified negro yielded grudgingly, and crept after her in the true crouching African fashion, compelled against his will to follow implicitly the mere bidding of the stronger and more imperious nature.

They wound down the zigzag path together, under the gaunt shadows of the overhanging bamboo clumps, waving weirdly to and fro with the breeze in the feeble moonlight—the strong man slouching along timorously, shaking and starting with terror at every rustle of Nora’s dress against the bracken and the tree ferns; the slight girl erect and fearless, walking a pace or two in front of her faint-hearted escort with proud self-reliance, and never pausing for a single second to cast a cautious glance to right or left among the tangled brushwood. The lights were now burning dimly in all the neighbouring negro cottages; and far away down in the distance, the long rows of gas lamps at Port-of-Spain gleamed double with elongated oblique reflections in the calm water of the sleepy harbour.

They had got half-way down the lonely gully without meeting or passing a single soul, when, at a turn of the road where the bridle-path swept aside to avoid a rainy-season torrent, a horse came quickly upon them from in front, and the rapid click of a cocked pistol warned Nora of approaching danger.

‘Who goes there?’ cried a sharp voice with a marked Scotch accent from the gloom before her. ‘Stop this minute, or I’ll fire at you, you nigger!’

With a thrill of delight, Nora recognised the longed-for voice—the very one she was seeking. It was Dr Macfarlane, from beyond the gully, roused, like half the island, by the red glare from the Orange Grove cane-houses, and spurring up as fast as his horse could carry him, armed and on the alert, to the scene of the supposed insurrection.

‘Don’t shoot,’ Nora answered coolly, holding her hand up in deprecation. ‘A friend!—It’s me, Dr Macfarlane—Nora Dupuy, coming to meet you.’

‘Miss Dupuy!’ the doctor cried in astonishment. ‘Then they’ll not have shot you, at anyrate, young leddy! But what are you doing out{550} here alone at this time of night, I’m wondering? Have you had to run for your life from Orange Grove from these cowardly insurgent nigger fellows?’

‘Run from them!’ Nora echoed contemptuously. ‘Dr Macfarlane, I’d like to see it. No, no; I’m too much of a Dupuy ever to do that, I promise you, doctor. They can murder me, but they can’t frighten me. I was coming down to look for you, for poor Mr Noel, who’s lying dangerously wounded up at our house, with a wound on the arm and a terrible cut across the temple.’

‘Coming alone—just in the very midst of all this business—to fetch me to look after a wounded fellow!’ the doctor ejaculated half to himself, with mingled astonishment and admiration. He jumped down from his horse with a quick movement, not ungallantly, and lifted Nora up in his big arms without a word, seating her sideways, before she could remonstrate, on the awkward saddle. ‘Sit you there, Miss Dupuy,’ he said kindly. ‘You’re a brave lass, if ever there was one. I’ll hold his head, and run alongside with you. We’ll be up at the house again in ten minutes.’

‘They’ve killed my father,’ Nora said simply, beginning to break down at last, after her unnatural exaltation of bravery and endurance, and bursting into a sudden flood of tears. ‘He’s lying at home all hacked to pieces with their dreadful cutlasses; and Mr Noel’s almost dead too; perhaps he’ll be quite dead, doctor, before we can get there.’

‘Have you seen the Purple Sandpiper at Mr Walton’s, telegraphed near here?’ The above sentence in a friend’s letter, a keen ornithologist, set me thinking. How many species of birds do I know of that have been ‘telegraphed?’ or, in other words, killed by flying against the telegraph wires? On looking up notes which extend over several years’ observations, I found the list not a long one, but somewhat varied. As my own knowledge of this subject extends over only a small district, yet one thickly set with wires, and taking into consideration the destruction of birds by this peculiar means in this particular portion of the kingdom, and the thousands of miles of wires which extend over the rest of the British Islands, the thought crosses my mind that there must be an immense death-rate among birds through this modern invention, now a necessity of our present life.

But to return to our Purple Sandpiper (Tringa maritima). What brought it so far inland?—above twenty miles from its usual haunts by the shore, being purely a bird of the littoral. Was it merely a straggler lost or blown out of its course? Or was it accompanied by other Sandpipers, which escaped the fatal wires? on some line of autumnal migration which is certainly new to us, or, rather, only just suspected; and which will take some years of careful study and note-taking before being fully established.

One of the birds most commonly ‘telegraphed’ with us, both in its spring and autumn ‘flittings,’ is the Landrail (Crex pratensis), or perhaps better known as the Corncrake; indeed, in the spring migration I have known of its presence among us through this means, some time before its well-known call-note was heard; although, occasionally, individual birds stay all the winter with us. Lately, a new line of wires has been put across a common near us, to join others on one of the great north roads. These wires were put up to meet the increase of work which was expected through the introduction of the sixpenny telegrams. The first Sunday after these wires were stretched, I found a Corncrake which had met its death by them. But it had suffered considerably from the attentions, presumedly, paid to it by a pair of Carrion Crows (Corvus corone), which flopped away from its immediate neighbourhood on our approach. Shortly after, I picked up a fine cock Blackbird (Turdus merula) alive, but in sore condition. The skin of the breast, by the force of the blow, was rolled backward down to the thighs, one of which was broken. The contrast between the blackness of its plumage and the golden brown of the fallen beech-leaves on which it lay was something startling. I stood looking at it some time before attempting to lay hold of it, wondering what was the matter, as it lay perfectly still, looking at me with its fearless black eyes. It made no effort to get away when I laid hold of it, though it bit as well as it could. Blackbirds are common victims to this form of death: I have seen three in one week, and it is really difficult to explain why. The habit they have, might account for it, of flying about and alarming the neighbourhood by their warning note till nearly dark, long after most light-loving birds have gone to roost. A rare stranger was ‘telegraphed’ among us, Leach’s or the Fork-tailed Petrel (Procellaria leucorrhoa), just after the heavy gales near the end of last October. Most of the British specimens of this bird have been obtained inland, after heavy gales blown to us, I suppose, across the Atlantic, from the Banks of Newfoundland. Snipes, both the Common and Jack, often come into collision with the wires, thus showing that they also fly after dark. A very beautiful specimen of the Common Snipe, in full breeding plumage, was brought to a friend of mine on the last day of February by a tramp, who had picked it up by the roadside, ‘telegraphed.’ That Owls should meet with this fate, seems very curious, as they are so specially adapted for seeing in a dull light; but such is the case. I know of several, both Barn (Strix flammea) and Wood (Strix stridula) Owls, which have been picked up dead beneath the wires. One can only account for it on the supposition that they are intent on looking for prey beneath them, perhaps watching some particular mouse or shrew at the moment the fatal contact takes place.

The Peewit or Green Plover (Vanellus cristatus) is another common victim to this form of death, sometimes in great numbers. Three winters ago, large flocks of plovers used to frequent particular fields at night-time, flying to and from the coast morning and night. In these daily migrations they had to pass, at one particular place, a perfect network of wires; and though odd birds had been got from time to time, yet great was the astonishment of the signalman at a box near at hand, when daylight broke one morning after a stormy night, to see the ground near his box strewn with Peewits. I should not like to say how many there were, but it took him at least twice to carry them to the nearest gamedealer’s. Golden Plovers (Charadrius pluvialis) occasionally fall victims to the same means; and I have seen a young bird of this species killed, while on its way to the coast, as early as the 9th of July, and many miles from the nearest breeding-ground. The Missel Thrush (Turdus viscivorus) in its short autumnal migrations often shares the same fate; and at the same period I once saw that hideling bird, the Spotted Crake (Porzana maruetta). I know of no instance of any of the hawks being done to death in this manner, though other observers may have been more fortunate as regards these birds. Instead, the Kestrel (Falco tinnunculus) often makes use of the wires as a post of observation, mice being very plentiful as a rule along railway sides; and in winter they often come out of their holes to feed on the horse-refuse on the highways. Wild-ducks also escape, as far as my knowledge goes, and we might naturally expect to see them occasionally; but that may be accounted for by their flying too high in their passage from coast to coast or to inland feeding-grounds.

Of the orthodox bird, as Sydney Smith called the Pheasant, it is in some places a very common victim. I think I could pick out one stretch of railway which at certain seasons of the year produces for the surfaceman who goes along it in early morning a never-failing supply of wounded and dead birds. On one side of the railway is a long belt of plantation, where the birds are turned into after being hand-reared, on the other side a river with cornfields stretching down to it; and it is in the passage from the covers to the cornfields, when the grain is ripe or standing in stook, that the accidents occur. Partridges also often fall victims to the wires, as also did the Red Grouse where the telegraph crossed their native heaths. In more than one instance have the wires been laid underground, where crossing grouse-moors, to prevent the birds killing themselves; but even when crossing these moors in the usual style from post to post, grouse after a time get to beware of them, and deaths through this cause get fewer and fewer. One instance of this peculiar adaptation of themselves to new circumstances came very forcibly under the writer’s notice. A wire-fence was put across a very good grouse-moor in Cumberland, dividing the fell into two allotments. For some time after this was done, dead or dying birds were picked up daily, until it was well known that whoever was first along the fence was sure of a grouse-pie. It was amusing to see the different stratagems employed by the shepherds and others to get along the fence without seeming to do so. Indeed, I have seen two farmers meet at the ‘Townfoot,’ and after a short gossip, separate, going in different directions and away from the fell; and an hour after, I have heard of them meeting about the middle of the fence, both intent on dead or wounded birds. While for some time this slaughter of grouse went on, another fellow put in his appearance, this time with four legs, and made a track by the side of the fence to replenish his larder; and Mr Stoat had even the temerity to dispute the claim in one instance with the two-legged hunter. But the grouse in time got to know the dangers of the fence, and now the victims, like angels’ visits, are few and far between.

The ‘vermin,’ as weasels and stoats are generally called, have often a regular track beneath the wires, for the purpose of looking for dead and wounded birds. The other day I found beneath the new wires I have already mentioned a lot of scattered feathers belonging to a Redwing (Turdus iliacus), but no bird. Thinking it might only be wounded, I set to look for it, and after some patient hunting, found a few more feathers farther on the common. These traces I followed diligently, finding them every four or five yards apart, till in a hedge-bank fifty yards from the wires I found them thick about a small hole—no doubt the burrow of a weasel, not an uncommon animal in that same old hedge. One would have liked to have seen the weasel carrying or dragging its prey, whichever it was, the former more likely, from the traces of the feathers being left at such regular intervals. A friend informs me that he has seen the Carrion Crow regularly hunting along the wires in his district.

Another victim has just come to hand in the shape of a young Guillemot (Uria troile) in its first year’s dress; and in the month of May I saw a Sanderling (Calidris arenaria) which had partially put on its nuptial garb, and was no doubt making north to the arctic regions as fast as wings could carry it, when arrested by the stretched wire.

If it were possible to get authentic statistics of all the different species and numbers of birds ‘telegraphed,’ we should have a mass of information which no doubt would greatly assist our ornithologists in their study of the migration of the feathered tribes. This, I am afraid, is impossible, as birds mostly fall during the hours of darkness or semi-light; and there are others, both quadrupeds and birds, which have the advantage of the genus homo in hunting propensities, and who are at work before he is out of bed. They are not in search of information; their hunting is prompted by something keener than even a search for knowledge. The cravings of an empty stomach must be satisfied if possible, and who can tell how many a rare bird—which an ornithologist would have tramped miles to see—has formed a breakfast dish for a lot of hungry young weasels, or swelled out the crop of some gaunt carrion crow!

Any one living near a line of wires will find something to interest him, if he is an early riser, by searching underneath the wires in his morning walk. And when a specimen is found, a note should be taken of its name, the date, direction of wind during night, and weather; and thus{552} in time a quantity of information would be gathered which would materially assist our migration committees. The death-rate through being ‘telegraphed’ is generally greatest during the spring and autumn migrations.

CHAPTER IV.—THE BURGLARY.

The noise of the disturbance in the library had already attracted the attention of the Squire and his guests, who had just then reached the door of the drawing-room. When Parker announced that Major Dawkins was arrested for burglary, there was a general exclamation of incredulity; but the mention of the handcuffs elicited a little scream from Miss Euphemia and an exclamation of indignation from the Squire.

‘This is too absurd. It is some rascal’s practical joke; but it is one that I shall punish, for it is a disgrace to me that such a thing should be perpetrated on a guest of mine.—Friends, come with me.’ He led the way to the library; and the ladies, unable to restrain their curiosity, followed the gentlemen. Perhaps they also felt some timidity at the idea of being left alone; for the numerous burglaries committed of late during the dinner hour at country-houses were trying the nerves of everybody who had property to lose.

‘What is the meaning of this outrage in my house?’ exclaimed the Squire. ‘Release this gentleman at once. He is my guest.’

‘I told you so,’ ejaculated the Major, still too angry to realise fully the humiliating as well as ludicrous position in which he stood.

The detective answered the Squire respectfully and firmly: ‘This is my card, sir; my name is Kidman. I am a police officer, and was sent down here to watch the movements of a man known to the police under various aliases. This is the person I have been seeking. He is pretty well disguised with his dyed hair’ (the Major shuddered: the thunderbolt had fallen at last!); ‘but his height and figure correspond precisely with this photograph.’ He displayed the portrait of a man whose figure was certainly like the Major’s, and, allowing for the effect of disguise, there might even be discovered some resemblance in the features.

‘I tell you this is preposterous,’ the Squire said impatiently. ‘I will be responsible to you for this gentleman.’

‘Well, sir, of course the affair must be disagreeable to you, only you are not the first gentleman he has taken in.’

‘I say, release him at once. If you refuse, it will be at your peril. I am a justice of the peace.’

‘So much the better, sir; and in that case you will permit me to tell you the circumstances under which I arrest this—gentleman. I have been on the lookout for him; and from information received that an attack was to be made upon your house, I came here this evening to watch. I posted myself in the shrubbery; and not half an hour ago, whilst you were at dinner, I saw him look from that window to spy if the coast was clear’——

‘I couldn’t guess how he had got in without me seeing him, but that is explained by his being a guest of yours. I knew he was at work, and so stepped quietly in after him. I found him so busy at one of the drawers of this table that I managed to slip these ornaments on his wrists before he could turn round.’

‘At the drawers of the table!’ ejaculated several voices, whilst all looked in amazed horror at the culprit.

‘Yes,’ continued Mr Kidman complacently, finding that he had at last made an impression; ‘and this sort of thing’ (holding up the jemmy) ‘is not exactly what you would expect to find in a gentleman’s dressing-case. I found it here on the table, and the middle drawer has been forced open with it.’

‘You will find it so, and done by an experienced hand too. Will you oblige me by examining the contents of the drawer and letting me know what has been abstracted?’

‘This is horrible!’ said the Major, becoming calmer as the situation became more serious.

It was indeed most horrible to every one present. Miss Euphemia afterwards declared to Mrs John that she felt ready to sink through the floor, and fervently wished that she could have done so.

‘The drawer has certainly been rummaged by some one,’ the Squire said gravely.

‘Ah, I daresay our friend will be able to give us an account of the notes and gold,’ was the playful comment of Mr Kidman.

‘This indignity is insufferable,’ said the Major stiffly; ‘and I cannot understand, Elliott, why you should hesitate for a moment to release me from this degrading position. You know me; you know how easily my identity can be established. You know nothing of this man beyond his own assertion. How can you tell that he is not a confederate of the thieves, and his present action a ruse to give them time to escape?’

‘That’s not bad, captain,’ rejoined the detective with an admiring smile. ‘But these letters—which you will excuse me taking from your pocket—will show that one part of my statement is correct.—Do they belong to you, sir?’

He handed the three fatal letters to the Squire, who hastily glanced at them, whilst his wife stood on one side of him and Mrs John on the other.

‘Why, that is the letter which I received!’ observed Mrs Joseph with acerbity.

‘And that is mine; and the other is the one which has upset poor dear Nellie so much!’ cried Mrs John.

‘It was to ask you again to allow me to{553} destroy those confounded letters, that I came to seek you, Squire, thinking that I might find you here alone after dinner,’ the Major explained. ‘I heard some one moving about the room, and, concluding that it was you, knocked two or three times. Getting no answer, I entered, but found nobody here. As the window was open, it occurred to me that you might have stepped out on the terrace, and I looked for you. Of course you were not there, but it must have been then that this man saw me.’

‘No doubt,’ answered the Squire slowly; ‘but he found you at my drawer.’

‘My anxiety to prevent a scandal to the family tempted me to take back my letters—for they are mine—and burn them without your leave. I knew that you would pardon me when you heard the explanation which you will have to-morrow.’

‘According to your own statement, Major Dawkins, your conduct has not been creditable to you as an honourable man.’

‘I acted for the best, as you would see if you would give me leave to speak to you in private.’

They were interrupted and startled by the report of two pistol-shots in the grounds. Presently a footman rushed in with the information that they had caught a man who had jumped out of one of the windows, and he had fired upon them.

‘I see the whole thing,’ exclaimed the Major excitedly. ‘It was the thief who was in here when I knocked; and whilst you, sir, you, have been insulting me and making a fool of yourself—if you are a detective—you have given him the opportunity to ransack the house!’

Mr Kidman looked puzzled, but he acted promptly. He removed the handcuffs, saying humbly: ‘I beg pardon, sir; but mistakes will happen. I must catch that man—he is a desperate card, and uses his revolver freely.’ He darted out to the terrace and disappeared.

The Squire and Maynard immediately followed. John Elliott was too timid, and the Major too indignant at the treatment to which he had been subjected, to take any part in the pursuit. After pulling himself and his ruffled garments together, he addressed his hostess, Mrs Joseph: ‘I presume, madam, I may now retire?’

The lady bowed a little awkwardly, feeling some compunction for his sufferings. She hoped that a good night’s rest would enable him to laugh at this painful incident, if not to forget it.

‘An affair of this sort does not readily become a subject of mirth to the victim. But thanks for your kind wishes.’

‘It’s all right, Major. They have got the scoundrel fast bound, and he has hurt no one but himself. There are my notes and gold, which we have just taken from his pocket.’

‘It happened exactly as the Major surmised; and we have to thank Nellie’s headache, or whatever has kept her upstairs, for the timely discovery of the burglar. She was going into her dressing-room, and on opening the door, saw a man busy with her jewel-case. She knew what that meant—closed the door and locked it. She ran to the window and screamed out “Thieves!” The fellow took the alarm, and having the window open in readiness for such an emergency, he flung out a bundle which he had prepared. Then he slipped over the ledge, and let himself drop to the ground; but he had miscalculated the distance, and broke his leg in the fall. Two of our men, who had heard Nellie scream, were upon him before he could attempt to rise. He fired, but they had got his arms up in the air; so no harm was done; and he is safe for ten or fifteen years.’

‘A lot of trinkets and things, which are scattered all over the place, as the bundle in falling struck the branch of a hawthorn and was torn open. I have sent Parker to look after them; but we must go out ourselves.’

The ladies, whose looks of deep concern indicated how much they were interested in the search, eagerly proposed to accompany the gentlemen. Hats and shawls were quickly procured, and the whole party went forth. Nellie stole shyly down from her room and joined her friends—much to the delight of Maynard, although he endeavoured to appear cold and indifferent. She, too, wore a mask of indifference. But both were conscious that it was a mask, and that each was at heart earnestly wishing that the other would say something which would lead to an explanation. Without words, however, they somehow knew that the reconciliation would come in the morning.

The Major’s presence was taken as a matter of course; for, in the excitement of the moment, his banishment was forgotten by every one except himself. He silently took his place as the special attendant of Miss Euphemia, who received his attentions as graciously as if the incident of the morning had not occurred. He was peculiarly fortunate in being the finder of most of her stolen valuables, which won him additional favour. Nearly everything was found, and a further search was to be made in the morning. So, everybody retired to rest that night with feelings of thankfulness for having had such a singular escape from heavy loss.

In the morning, there were general inquiries for the Major. His misfortunes of the previous night had toned down the anger which had been felt regarding him, and the idea now was that they had been too hard upon the well-meaning little man. All—and especially the Squire—would have been pleased to see him in his usual place at table. But as he did not appear, the only inference that could be drawn was that he felt too much hurt to make any advances.

They were rising from the table and preparing for the unpleasant business of the day, when there was a sound of carriage-wheels, followed by a loud ring at the hall-bell.

‘That’s Willis,’ said the Squire, moving to the window and looking out, after casting a glance{554} of satisfaction at his wife and at his sister-in-law.

His assertion was immediately confirmed by the entrance of Parker to announce the visitor, who, without ceremony, had closely followed the butler.

After hurried greetings were over, Willis said abruptly: ‘I want to get back to town to-night, and I have come down here in consequence of a telegram from Dawkins, who tells me that you have all got into a nonsensical squabble owing to his interference with the intention of setting you right.’

‘I thoroughly agree with you, Willis—it is a nonsensical squabble, but who the deuce is to blame for it?’ said the Squire with a good-natured laugh.

‘Glad to hear you ask the question,’ rejoined Willis, who, being a plain and practical person, came to the main point at once. ‘The first thing you have got to understand is that Dawkins is not to blame; the next thing you have got to understand is that I am the party you have got to blow up. But before you begin with me, you had better take my good-natured brother-in-law to task, and before you do that, I want to have a few words with you, John Elliott.’

‘You had better speak out whatever you have to say here,’ muttered Elliott of Arrowby with a painfully feeble assumption of haughtiness.

‘I think I understand the whole position, Matt,’ she replied. ‘Indeed, I think we all understand it now. The poor Major blundered about his letters; we all got the wrong ones, and misinterpreted their meaning. We need not go into the details, for, as you know, they would be painful to me as well as to John. Take Joe away with you, and get him to express to the Major the regret that we all feel for the annoyance we have caused him.’

‘Come along,’ said the Squire promptly. ‘We’ll pacify him somehow.’ As he was passing his wife, he whispered to her: ‘I hope you are satisfied now, Kitty;’ and she gave an approving nod. ‘But I wish he had been down with us to breakfast.’

The Squire and Matt Willis proceeded to the library; and there a very few additional words satisfied the former that the unfortunate friend of the family had been trying to discharge a disagreeable duty which he thought himself bound to undertake.

The Major was hurt enough by the awkward position in which he was placed; but that was not the reason why he kept to his chamber. He was not thinking of breakfast or the misunderstanding with his friends. Still, in his dressing-gown he was pacing the floor in a state of cruel distress. His hair was tossed about wildly and—it was of a ghastly gray-green colour! That wicked burglar had taken away the precious Russian leather case—no doubt thinking it contained jewelry—and it had not been amongst the articles found last night. Without it, the Major could not perform his toilet. This was the cruellest blow of all to the poor man. It was impossible for him to appear before any one in his present guise; and he even avoided the mirrors, lest he should catch sight of his own head. Hollis had been despatched to make diligent search in every spot where the case might have fallen; and his master was waiting in agony for the result. A knock at the door.—Ah, there he is at last! No, it was only Parker to say that Mr Willis had arrived, and was with the Squire in the library waiting for Major Dawkins.

‘Make my excuses, please, and say that I cannot go down yet, but will be with them as soon as possible.’

A quarter of an hour elapsed, and another message came; then another more urgent, and a fourth more urgent still. The Major wished he could shave his head; it would be more presentable then than as it was now. He was bemoaning the ill-luck or stupidity of Hollis, when the Squire himself arrived at the door.

‘Not just now, not just now. I’ll come and shake hands with you as much as you like, in half an hour or so,’ was the agitated response.

‘Well, as you please; but I want to ask you to forget yesterday. Willis has explained everything, and your letters are correctly understood now. My wife is sorry that she did not take in the right meaning of the one which fell into her hands; Nellie appreciates your desire to forewarn her against any stupid gossip that fool Cousin John might spread; Mrs John thinks it was kind of you to wish to put her husband right, and he has got a lesson which he will not forget in a hurry. But she regards the whole affair as a good joke. You see, all is well; so come away at once and complete the party.’

‘I am delighted; but please do excuse me, Squire. I can’t come at once,’ groaned the Major, passing his hand shudderingly through the besmirched hair.

‘Very well, then, as soon as you can; you will find us somewhere about the lawn.’ And the Squire, wondering what the Major’s curious malady could be, rejoined his friends.

At last Hollis did knock at the door, bringing the joyful tidings that he had found the case—sticking between two branches of the hawthorn which had wrecked the burglar’s bundle. He had been about to abandon the search, when, happening to look up, he saw it where he never would have thought of looking for it.

The Major dressed with more than usual care, gave Hollis orders to pack up, as they were to leave that day; and then, holding himself as erect as if on parade, he proceeded in the direction of the lawn with the firm determination to bid his host and hostess good-bye. But on his way he encountered Miss Euphemia, whose gold-rimmed pince-nez glittered with pleasure at sight of him. ‘I am so delighted to see you, Major. I—we were all afraid, that you were seriously ill.’

‘No; not seriously ill, but considerably bothered,’ he responded uncomfortably.

‘Of course you must have been; but thank goodness it is all over now. The Squire and all the others are most anxious to make amends{555} to you for the vexation you have endured so nobly. He wants you to stay, and has sent me to persuade you not to say no.’

‘Oh, but you really must not bear malice—they made a mistake, and everybody does so sometimes.’ She was smiling coaxingly, and looked a different being from the lady who had surveyed him through her glasses so severely yesterday.

He looked at her and fancied he saw a blush. ‘To please you, I would stay for ever,’ he answered gallantly; ‘but’——

He opened his eyes. Did he understand her? Could she be serious? Had the time come for him to speak?

‘Do you mean that it would be a particular pleasure to you if I remained—for your sake?’

‘Then I understand,’ he said, taking her hand, ‘this is my consolation for all the afflictions of yesterday?’ She did not say no; and he, drawing her arm within his, continued: ‘I am a happy man, although again a captive.’

The announcement of their engagement added much to the happiness which everybody felt in the reconciliations effected that morning. There was a merry twinkle in the Squire’s eyes. He was a cunning fellow when prompted by his wife, and had guessed what would happen when he chose Miss Euphemia as his ambassador to the Major. The only person who felt in the least uncomfortable was John Elliott of Arrowby, who was now confessedly the originator of all the mischief. The only reproach he had to endure from his wife was the expression accompanied by a pitying smile, ‘Poor John!’

There were festivities on a grand scale at Todhurst when Nellie and Maynard were wedded; but the marriage of Euphemia Panton and Major Dawkins was a very quiet affair—as the lady thought. She had only three bridesmaids and about twenty other friends to witness the ceremony. The Major was content to be supported by an old companion in arms and Matthew Willis.

The happy couple disappeared for six months. On returning to England, their first visit was to Todhurst. For a moment the Squire and his wife found it difficult to recognise their old friends. The Major was now a quiet elderly-looking gentleman with gray hair and moustache; and Mrs Dawkins was a subdued-looking lady, whose hair suggested that she had certainly arrived at years of discretion. They had both come to accept with resignation the inevitable signs that time passes and old age draws on; and they were happy. They had not been so in the days when they vainly struggled to hide the progress of years. The Major could never forget that morning of agony when the Russian leather case could not be found. Probably his account of it, combined with the fact that it was no longer possible to hide from each other their dabblings in the fine arts, helped his wife to agree with him that it was best to make no attempt to improve upon nature. The Major had given up all his youthful ways, much to his own comfort; and he was firmly resolved never again to play the part of the officious friend of the family.

One of the most important applications of photography is the production of printing-blocks, which, under various names, are in great request for book and newspaper illustration. It is not generally known that some of the finest illustrations which adorn high-class magazines are produced without the intervention of the engraver at any stage of the process. They are photographed direct from drawings, in some cases even from nature; and from the photograph a printing-block ready for the press is produced automatically. Oil-paintings and water-colour drawings can also be thus reproduced with the greatest fidelity. A few years back, this was impossible, for the photograph did not translate the colours in their true tone-relation to one another. Thus, yellow and red would be reproduced as black, while blue would photograph white. All this has been changed by the introduction of what is known as the isochromatic process, by which colours are rendered as a skilful artist working in Indian ink or blacklead pencil would render them.

As an outcome of this capacity of the photographic chemicals, the Royal Academy of Arts has made a new departure in the issue of an Illustrated Catalogue of the principal works exhibited at Burlington House. This is a handsome folio volume, containing one hundred and fifty fac-similes of pictures by Royal Academicians and outsiders. It is not only precious as a work of art, for every touch of the painter’s brush is recognised and reproduced, but it forms a valuable record for future reference. The particular system adopted is that known as the Goupil photogravure process, which is worked by Messrs Boussod Valadon & Company of Paris and London. This firm have published in a similar manner selected pictures from the Paris Salons of the last two years; and we are glad that our Academy authorities have followed such a good example.

Four crematory furnaces are in course of erection at the far-famed Parisian cemetery, Père Lachaise, and will be ready for operation in a short time. These furnaces, which have the outward appearance of ornamental ovens, are built on the model of those in use at Rome and Milan. The cost of cremation will be fifteen francs only—to rich and poor alike. It is said that already sculptors and metal-workers are busy in designing and producing cinerary urns for the preservation of the ashes from these furnaces. These vessels will, at the option of the relatives of the dead, be removed to family vaults, or will be deposited in a building which is to be erected by the city of Paris for their reception.

The late discussion in the Times as to the permanence of water-colour drawings has led the Lords of the Committee of Council on Education to appoint a Commission to inquire into the whole subject, under the efficient chairmanship of Sir F. Leighton, the President of the Royal Academy. With him will work several well-known artists. Captain Abney and Dr Russell, who for some time have been engaged in testing the action of light upon pigments, will act as scientific advisers to the Commission.

It is reported that the recent revival of archæological research in Italy is continually being hampered by the extortionate demands of proprietors on whose lands excavations are desirable. It is also alleged that a large trade has been organised in the manufacture of sham antiquities. Senator Fiorelli, the head of the Archæological Department, seeks to put a stop to these abuses by the passage of a law which will place excavations under state supervision and by official permission only. It is also suggested that the smaller antiquities should only be admitted to be genuine after due examination and the attachment of some form of official stamp or seal.

The London Chamber of Commerce have under their consideration the establishment in the metropolis of Commercial Museums, or, as they might be termed, permanent exhibitions, such as are found in Holland, Belgium, Germany, France, Switzerland, and other countries. With this view, they have deputed their secretary, Mr Kenrick Murray, to visit the Museums of the chief commercial centres on the Continent. They have instructed him to report to them upon the area of the buildings used for the purpose, their financial organisation and annual expenditure, the number of visitors they receive, and their presumed effect upon the trades of the country in which they are situated. Mr Murray will bear Foreign Office introductions to the Queen’s representatives in the different countries which he will visit, and will, therefore, have every facility for carrying out a most important commission.

The most fearful outbreak of volcanic force which the world has experienced since the eruption of Krakatoa in the Straits of Sunda, has recently laid waste many miles of the fairest part of New Zealand. It is not yet known how many human lives have been sacrificed in this terrible visitation, but it is certain that several Maori settlements have been completely destroyed, and that the country for many miles round the centre of disturbance has been literally devastated. The outbreak commenced at midnight on the 9th of last June with a succession of fearful earthquake shocks. Then, for the first time within living memory, Mount Tarawera suddenly became an active volcano, and belched forth torrents of stones and boiling mud mingled with fire and smoke. The once fertile district is covered with a layer of mud and ashes, so that those who have survived the terrible ordeal have starvation and ruin before them. One minor effect of the disaster will be regretted all the world over by those who have visited or have read of the wondrous scenery of New Zealand. The far-famed pink and white terraces have ceased to exist. These terraces were unique, and had they been known in ancient times, must have been counted with the wonders of the world. Boiling water heavily charged with silica issued from the ground, and as it tumbled over the hillside and gradually cooled in its descent, it deposited its silica as a glittering crystallisation. Mr Froude, one of the last visitors who has written upon the subject, says: ‘Stretched before us we saw the white terrace in all its strangeness: a crystal staircase, glittering and stainless as if it were ice, spreading out like an open fan from a point above us on the hillside, and projecting at the bottom into a lake, where it was perhaps two hundred yards wide.’

This hot-lake district was becoming a great sanatorium, and tourists flocked to it from all countries, for the warm water was credited with wonderful healing powers. From this circumstance alone, it was believed that the district had a great future before it. The Maoris thought not a little of the natural wonders of which they were the stewards, and took care to levy blackmail on all their visitors. All this is now at an end, for the wonders have gone, until possibly new ones are gradually developed in their stead.

Much has been written on the subject of mysterious noises, which in most cases, if intelligently inquired into, would be found to have no mystery at all about them. A Professor at Philadelphia recently recorded that at a certain hour each day one of the windows in his house rattled in the most violent manner. On consulting the local railway time-table, he could find no train running at the hour specified. But on examining another table, which included a separate line, he found that a heavy train passed at the time at a distance of several miles from his house. He then referred to the geological formation of the ground between the two points, and at once saw that there was an outcropping ledge of rock which formed a link of connection between the distant railway line and his home. It was the vibration carried by this rock from the passing train that rattled the window.

Dr Marter of Rome has discovered in many of the skulls in the different Roman and Etruscan tombs, as well as in those deposited in the various museums, interesting specimens of ancient dentistry and artificial teeth. These latter are in most cases carved out of the teeth of some large animal. In many instances, these teeth are fastened to the natural ones by bands of gold. No cases of stopped teeth have been discovered, although many cases of decay present themselves where stopping would have been advantageous. The skulls examined date as far back as the sixth century B.C., and prove that the art of dentistry and the pains of toothache are by no means modern institutions.

The city of Hernosand, in Sweden, can boast of being the first place in Europe where the streets are lighted entirely by electricity to the exclusion of gas. It has the advantage of plenty of natural water-power for driving the electric engines, so that the new lights can actually be produced at a cheaper rate than the old ones.

Although many investors have burnt their fingers—metaphorically, we mean—over the electric-lighting{557} question in this country, it seems to be becoming a profitable form of investment in America. A circular addressed by the editor of one of the American papers to the general managers of the lighting Companies has elicited the information that many of them are earning good dividends—in one case as much as eighteen per cent. for the year. As we have before had occasion to remind our readers, the price of gas in this country averages about half what it does in New York, and this fact alone would account for the more flourishing state of transatlantic electric lighting Companies.

At a half-demolished Jesuit College at Vienna, a dog lately fell through a fissure in the pavement. The efforts to rescue the poor animal led to a curious archæological discovery. The dog had, it was found, fallen into a large vault containing ninety coffins. The existence of this underground burial-place had hitherto been quite unsuspected. The inscriptions on the coffins date back to the reign of Maria Theresa, and the bodies are of the monks of that period, and of the nobles who helped to support the monastery.

In an interesting lecture lately delivered before the Royal Institution on ‘Photography as an Aid to Astronomy,’ Mr A. A. Common, who is the principal British labourer in this comparatively new field of research, described his methods of working, and held out sanguine hopes of future things possible by astronomical photography. Speaking of modern dry-plate photography, he said: ‘At a bound, it has gone far beyond anything that was expected of it, and bids fair to overturn a good deal of the practice that has hitherto existed among astronomers. I hope soon to see it recognised as the most potent agent of research and record that has ever been within the reach of the astronomer; so that the records which the future astronomer will use will not be the written impression of dead men’s views, but veritable images of the different objects of the heavens recorded by themselves as they existed.’

Two remarkable and wonderful cases of recovery from bullet-wounds have lately taken place in the metropolis. In one case, that of a girl who was shot by her lover, the bullet is deeply imbedded in the head, too deep to admit of any operation; yet the patient has been discharged from the hospital convalescent. The other case was one of attempted suicide, the sufferer having shot himself in the head with a revolver. In this case, too, the bullet is still in the brain, and in such a position as to prevent the operation of extraction. In spite of this, the patient has been discharged from hospital care, and it is said that he suffers no inconvenience from the consequences of his rash act. A curious coincidence in connection with these cases is that both shots were fired on the same day, the 19th of June, and that both cases were treated at the London Hospital. ‘The times have been,’ says Shakspeare, ‘that, when the brains were out, the man would die.’ The poet puts these words into the mouth of Macbeth, when that wicked king sees the ghost of the murdered Banquo rise before him. In the cases just cited, we have a reality which no poet could equal in romance. People walking about in the flesh with bullets in their brains are certainly far more wonderful things than spectres. These marvellous recoveries from what, a few years ago, would have meant certain death, must be credited to surgical skill and the modern antiseptic method of treating wounds.

Magistrates are continually deploring the use of the revolver among the civil community, and hardly a week passes but some terrible accident or crime is credited to the employment of that weapon. That it is a most valuable arm when used in legitimate warfare, the paper lately read before the Royal United Service Institution by Major Kitchener amply proved. According to this paper, every nation but our own seems to consider that the revolver is the most important weapon that cavalry can be armed with. In Russia, for instance, all officers, sergeant-majors, drummers, buglers, and even clerks, carry revolvers. In Germany, again, there is a regular annual course of instruction in the use of the weapon. In our army, however, the revolver seems to be in a great measure ignored, excepting by officers on active foreign service.

A new method of detecting the source of an offensive odour in a room is given by The Sanitarian newspaper. In the room in question, the smell had become so unbearable that the carpet was taken up, and a carpenter was about to rip up the flooring to discover, if possible, the cause. By a happy inspiration, the services of some sanitary inspectors in the shape of a couple of bluebottle flies were first called into requisition. The flies buzzed about in their usual aggravating manner for some minutes, but eventually they settled upon the crack between two boards in the floor. The boards were thereupon taken up, and just underneath them was found the decomposing body of a rat.

The extent to which the trade in frozen meat from distant countries has grown since the introduction, only a few years back, of the system of freezing by the compression and subsequent expansion of air, is indicated by the constant arrival in this country of vast shiploads of carcases from the antipodes. The largest cargo of dead-meat ever received lately arrived in the Thames from the Falkland Islands on board the steamship Selembria. This consisted of thirty thousand frozen carcases of sheep. This ship possesses four engines for preserving and freezing the meat, and the holds are lined with a non-conducting packing of timber and charcoal.

A new system of coating iron or steel with a covering of lead, somewhat similar in practice to the so-called galvanising process with zinc, has been introduced by Messrs Justice & Co. of Chancery Lane, London, the agents for the Ajax Metal Company of Philadelphia. Briefly described, the process consists in charging molten lead with a flux composed of sal ammoniac, arsenic, phosphorus, and borax; after which, properly cleansed iron or steel plates will when dipped therein receive a coating of the lead. The metal so protected will be valuable for roofs, in place of sheet-lead or zinc, for gutters, and for numberless purposes where far less durable materials are at present used with very false economy.

It would seem, from the results of some experiments lately conducted on the Dutch state railroads in order to discover the best method of{558} protecting iron from the action of the atmosphere, that red-lead paints are far more durable than those which owe their body to iron oxide. The test-plates showed also that the paint adhered to the metal with far greater tenacity if the usual scraping and brushing were replaced by pickling—that is, treatment with acid. The best results were obtained when the metal plate was first pickled in spirits of salts (hydrochloric acid) and water, then washed, and finally rubbed with oil before applying the paint.

The latest advance in electric lighting is represented by the introduction of Mr Upward’s primary battery, the novelty in which consists in its being excited by a gas instead of a liquid. The gas employed is chlorine, and the battery cells have to be hermetically sealed, for chlorine is, as every dabbler in chemical experiments knows, a most suffocating and corrosive gas. In practice, this primary battery is connected with an accumulator or secondary battery, so that the electricity generated by it is stored for subsequent use. The invention represents a convenient means of producing the electric light on a small scale for domestic use, where gas-engines and dynamo-machines are not considered desirable additions to the household arrangements. The battery is made by Messrs Woodhouse and Rawson, West Kensington.

Mr Fryer’s Refuse Destructor has now been adopted in several of our large towns. Newcastle is the latest which has taken up the system, and in that town thirty tons of refuse are consumed in the furnaces daily. The residue consists of between seven and eight tons of burnt clinker and dry ashes, which are used for concrete and as a bedding for pavement. There is no actual profit attached to the system, but it affords a convenient method of dealing with some of that unmanageable material which is a necessary product of large communities, and which might otherwise form an accumulation most dangerous to health.

After three years of constant work, the signal station on Ailsa Craig, in the Firth of Clyde, is announced, by the Northern Light Commissioners, to be ready for action. In foggy or snowy weather, the fog-horns which have been placed there will utter their warning blasts to mariners, and will doubtless lead to the prevention of many a shipwreck. The trumpets are of such a powerful description, that in calm weather they will be audible at a distance of nearly twenty miles from the station; and as the blasts are of a distinctive character, the captain of a ship will be easily able to recognise them, and from them to learn his whereabouts.

Mr Sinclair, the British consul at Foochow, reports that the manufacture of brick tea of varieties of tea-dust by Russian merchants, for export to Siberia, is acquiring considerable importance at Foochow. The cheapness of the tea-dust, the cheapness of manufacture, the low export duties upon it, together with the low import duties in Russia, help to make this trade successful and profitable. The brick is said to be beautifully made, and very portable. Mr Sinclair wonders that the British government does not get its supplies from the port of Foochow, as they would find it less expensive and more wholesome than what is now given the army and the navy. He suggests that a government agent should be employed on the spot to manufacture the brick tea in the same way as adopted by the Russians there and at Hankow.

The advantages of a fine physical form are under-estimated by a large class of people, who have a half-defined impression that any considerable addition to the muscles and general physique must be at the expense of the mental qualities. This mistaken impression is so prevalent, that many professional literary people avoid any vigorous exercise for fear that it will be a drain upon their whole system, and thus upon their capacity for brain-work. The truth is that such complete physical inertness has the effect of clogging the action of the blood, of retaining the impurities of the system, and of eventually bringing about a host of small nervous disorders that induce in turn mental anxiety—the worst possible drain upon the nervous organisation. When one of these people, after a year of sick-headache and dyspepsia, comes to realise that healthy nerves cannot exist without general physical health and activity, he joins a gymnasium, strains his long-unused muscles on bars and ropes, or by lifting heavy weights. The result usually is that the muscles, so long unaccustomed to use, cannot withstand the sudden strain imposed upon them, and the would-be athlete retires with some severe or perhaps fatal injury.

But occasionally he finds some especial gymnastic exercise suited to him, and weathers the first ordeal. He persists bravely, and is astonished to find that his digestion improves, his weight increases, and his mind becomes clear and brighter. He exercises systematically, and cultivates a few special muscles, perhaps those of the shoulder, to the hindrance of the complex muscles of the neck and throat; or perhaps those of the back and groin, as in rowing, to the detriment of chest, muscle, and development; and although his condition is greatly improved, he is apt to become wearied from a lack of physical exhilaration, or a lack of that sweetening of mental enjoyment which gives cycling such a lasting charm. If a man has no heart in his exercise, he will not persist in it long enough to get its finest benefits.

In the gentle swinging motion above the wheel, there is nothing to disturb the muscular or nervous system once accustomed to it; indeed, it is the experience of most cyclists that the motion is at first tranquillising to the nerves, and eventually becomes a refreshing stimulus. The man who goes through ten hours’ daily mental fret and worry, will in an hour of pleasant road-riding, in the fresh sweet-scented country, throw off all its ill effects, and prepare himself for the effectual accomplishment of another day’s brain-work. The steady and active employment of all the muscles, until they are well heated and healthily tired, clears the blood from the brain, sharpens the appetite, and insures a night’s refreshing sleep.

In propelling the wheel, all the flexor and extensor muscles of the legs are in active motion; while in balancing, the smaller muscles of the{559} legs and feet and the prominent ones of the groin and thighs are brought into play. The wrist and arms are employed in steering; while the whole of the back, neck, and throat muscles are used in pulling up on the handles in a spurt. Thus the exertion is distributed more thoroughly over the whole body than in any other exercise. A tired feeling in any one part of the body is generally occasioned by a weakness caused by former disuse of the muscles located there, and this disappears as the rider becomes habituated to the new motions of the wheel. With an experienced cyclist, the sensation of fatigue does not develop itself prominently in any one part of the body, but is so evenly adjusted as to be hardly noticeable.

The wretched habit of cyclists riding with the body inclined forward has produced an habitual bent attitude with several riders, and gives rise to a prejudice against the sport as producing a ‘bicycle back.’ Nearly all oarsmen have this form of back; it has not proved detrimental, but it is ungainly, and the methods by which it is acquired on a bicycle are entirely unnecessary. Erect riding is more graceful, it develops the chest, and adds an exercise to the muscles of the throat and chest that rowing does not.

The exposure to out-of-door air, the constant employment of the mind by the delight of changing scenery or agreeable companionship, add their contribution, and make cycling, to those who have tried practically every other sport, the most enjoyable, healthful, useful exercise ever known. Most cyclers become sound, well-made, evenly balanced, healthy men, and bid fair to leave to their descendants some such heritage of health and vigour as descended from the hardy old Fathers to the men who have made this country what it is.

FLAX-CULTURE.

The depressed condition of agriculture, consequent on the low prices obtainable for all kinds of produce, has led the British farmer to turn his attention to the growth of crops hitherto neglected or unthought of. This is exemplified by the interest now taken in the cultivation of tobacco and the inquiries being made regarding it, with a view to its wholesale production in England. It is doubtful, however, if in this case the British farmer will be able to compete successfully with his American rival, the latter being favoured by nature with soil and climate specially suited for the growth of the ‘weed.’

There are other plants, however, which claim our attention, and amongst these the flax plant. This is perfectly hardy and easily cultivated, and is free from the bugbear of American competition. It is grown largely in Ireland, especially in the north, and at the present time is the best paying crop grown in the island. The following figures show the quantity of fibre produced during the year 1885: Ireland, 20,909 tons; Great Britain, 444 tons. As far as the British Islands are concerned, Ireland has practically a monopoly in the production of this valuable article of commerce. It was formerly grown to a large extent in Yorkshire and in some parts of Scotland; but of late years, was given up in favour of other crops. It can now be produced to show much better results than formerly, flax not having fallen in price so much in proportion as other farm produce. Compared with the requirements of the linen manufacturers, the quantity grown in the British Isles is very small, and had to be supplemented by the import from foreign countries, during 1885, of over eighty-three thousand tons, value for three million and a half sterling. Two-thirds of this quantity is imported from Russia, the remainder principally from Holland and Belgium.

The manufacturer will give the preference to home-grown fibre provided that it is equal in all respects to the foreign. We can scarcely hope to compete successfully with Holland and Belgium, as flax-culture has been brought to great perfection there; but we can produce a fibre much superior to Russian, and if we can produce it cheap enough, can beat Russia out of the market. The average price of Irish flax in 1885 was about fifty-two pounds per ton; the yield per acre, where properly treated, would be from five to six hundredweight on an average. In many cases the yield rose far above these figures, reaching ten to twelve hundredweight, and in one instance which came under the writer’s personal observation, to eighteen hundredweight. A new scutching-machine—a French patent—is now being tested in Belfast, and it is stated that by its use the yield of fibre is increased by thirty per cent. Should this apparatus come into general use, it will add greatly to the value of the flax plant as a crop. In continental countries, the seed is saved, and its value contributes largely to the profit of flax-culture there. Any difficulty that might exist in this country with regard to the preparation of the fibre for market might be met by farmers in a district banding together to provide the requisite machines, which can now be had cheaper and better than before.

If flax-culture is profitable in Ireland, it can be made so in Britain; and if only half of the eighty-three thousand tons annually imported could be grown at home, a large sum would be kept in the country which now goes to enrich the foreigner.

THE RIGHTS OF DESERTED WIVES.

‘It has long been felt to be a defect in the English law that if a man deserted his wife without any cause or otherwise, she had no direct remedy against him in respect of the expense of her maintenance and the bringing up of the children (if any) of the marriage. In case the wife so deserted could carry on any business, or in any other way acquire the means of livelihood, she could obtain a protection order so early as the year 1858, long before the passing of the first Married Women’s Property Act. But if she were not so fortunately situated, and had no near relatives to whom she could look for assistance, she must go into the workhouse, and leave the poor-law officers to look after her husband. This has often been productive of great hardship, for it{560} is no light thing for a woman delicately nurtured to become an inmate of the refuge for the destitute. But by an Act passed in the recent session, this defect has been remedied to a considerable extent in an easy and practical way. Thus, if an innocent woman has been deserted by her husband, she may have him summoned before any two justices of the peace in petty sessions or any stipendiary magistrate; and thereupon, if the justices or magistrate should be satisfied that the husband, being able wholly or in part to maintain his wife, or his wife and family, as the case may be, has wilfully refused or neglected so to do, and that he has deserted his wife, they or he may order that the husband pay to his wife such weekly sum not exceeding two pounds as may be considered to be in accordance with his means, taking also into account any means which the wife may have for the support of herself and family, if any. Power is given for the alteration of the order whenever it should appear to be necessary or just, in case of any alteration in the circumstances of the husband or of the wife. And any such order may be discharged on the application of the husband, if it should appear just to do so. Writers in some of the legal journals have expressed the opinion that this change in the law goes too far; but the present writer has long advocated such a change, and it appears to be altogether an improvement upon the previous state of the law in this respect.’

THE GREAT SPHINX.

An interesting work has been going on, under the direction of M. Maspéro, at the great Sphinx of Gizeh, which has been buried, all but the head, for centuries. M. Maspéro, while we write, had got down as far as the paws, on the right of which are a number of Greek inscriptions. The paws appear to be cut out of the solid stone, and afterwards built round with masonry, the surface of which is painted red with yellow additions. Bryant is of opinion that the Sphinx was originally a vast rock of different strata, which, from a shapeless mass, the Egyptians fashioned into an object of beauty and veneration. Although the excavators have now reached a lower level than Carglia and others, yet much remains to be done before the whole of this wondrous specimen of ancient art is entirely uncovered; for, if we are to believe Pliny’s statements, the head of the Sphinx was one hundred and two feet in circumference, and sixty-two feet high from the belly; whilst the body was one hundred and forty-three feet long, and was, moreover, supposed to be the sepulchre of King Amasis, who died 525 B.C. But, according to Herodotus, the body of this monarch was buried in the Temple of Sais; and on the defeat and death of his son by the Persians, it was taken from its tomb, brutally mangled, and then publicly burnt, to the horror of the Egyptian people. If the Sphinx is really found to be a solid rock, Pliny’s story of its having been a tomb falls to the ground. M. Maspéro has been working in layers of hard sand which has lain undisturbed for probably eighteen hundred years. This is found to be so close and hard, that it is more like solid stone than sand, and requires a great amount of labour to cut through. The work is, however, progressing with energy and determination, and it is to be hoped that it will not be suffered to stop abruptly for want of funds.

NOVEL USE OF ELECTRICITY.

Electric power has been applied in a very novel manner of late on the estate of the Marquis of Salisbury at Hatfield, where it has been in operation for some time past in various ways and works; but the last is perhaps the most peculiar of all. On one of the farms, ensilage has been stored in large quantities, a farm-building being turned into a silo for this purpose; and it being decided that the green food shall be ‘chaffed’ before placing it in the silo, a chaff-cutter has been erected about twenty feet above the ground. This machine is not only driven by electric power, but the same motor is employed to elevate the grass to the level of the chaff-cutter. This is done so effectually that about four tons of rough grass are raised and cut per hour. A sixteen-light ‘Brush’ machine is the generator, driven by a huge water-wheel, and both are on the banks of the river Lea, a mile and a half distant. The power is transmitted to one of Siemens’ type, specially constructed to work as a motor with the ‘Brush’ machine. Nor is this all, for the same electric power is ingeniously applied to work the ‘lifts’ in use at the many haystacks on the estate.

The Conductor of Chambers’s Journal begs to direct the attention of Contributors to the following notice:

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

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

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 139, vol. III, August 28, 1886

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

CONTENTS

OUR WAYS AND THEIRS.

IN ALL SHADES.

CHAPTER XLII.

‘TELEGRAPHED.’

A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY.

CHAPTER IV.—THE BURGLARY.

THE MONTH:
SCIENCE AND ARTS.

CYCLING AS A HEALTH-PRODUCT.

OCCASIONAL NOTES.

FLAX-CULTURE.

THE RIGHTS OF DESERTED WIVES.

THE GREAT SPHINX.

NOVEL USE OF ELECTRICITY.

PICCIOLA.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 139, vol. III, August 28, 1886

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

CONTENTS

OUR WAYS AND THEIRS.

IN ALL SHADES.

CHAPTER XLII.

‘TELEGRAPHED.’

A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY.

CHAPTER IV.—THE BURGLARY.

THE MONTH: SCIENCE AND ARTS.

CYCLING AS A HEALTH-PRODUCT.

OCCASIONAL NOTES.

FLAX-CULTURE.

THE RIGHTS OF DESERTED WIVES.

THE GREAT SPHINX.

NOVEL USE OF ELECTRICITY.

PICCIOLA.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

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

THE MONTH:
SCIENCE AND ARTS.