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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 692

Author: Various

Editor: Robert Chambers
        William Chambers

Release date: October 6, 2014 [eBook #47065]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, NO. 692 ***




Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net










[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 692.     SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1877.      PRICE 1½_d._]




'LIVES O' MEN.'


The stranger who sails for the first time up the Firth of Forth must
be struck with the numerous villages that stud its picturesque shores.
These for the most part are fishing-villages, inhabited by a race of
hardy men, who at times run fearful risks at sea. Though the morning
may look settled, and the prospects of a good 'take' induce the boats
to venture forth far out to sea, the afternoon may prove so boisterous
that all hands are glad to beat a retreat, and leaving lines or nets
to look after themselves, make for some harbour of refuge. Sometimes,
as was prominently the case last year, the weather may come on so
suddenly violent that the best appointed boats, handled by experienced
men, run dreadful risks, and reach the sheltering haven only by a
hair's-breadth. At times no skill can avail, and wives and mothers--and
as we had occasion to shew in a recent article on the Hebrides,
sweethearts--are left lamenting. It is unfortunate that many of the
harbours on the Firth of Forth are dry or nearly so at low-water, so
that a boat at sea _must_ wait outside before the crew can venture in;
for thus are doubtless lost many boats and their hapless crews that
otherwise might 'make the run' and be out of danger. Unable to make
harbour from want of water, there is no alternative but to lie off
under close-reefed sail till the tide makes, or be dashed to splinters
on a lee-shore. This will assist the reader of the following story in
understanding the anxiety felt by those on shore for the boats at sea,
even when the boats appeared in sight. Having braved the open sea in
all its fury, the attempt to take the harbour at the ebb might have
been disastrous to all.

With this preface we offer to our readers a description of such a scene
as witnessed by one who has kindly placed it at our disposal. His story
runs as follows:

'It's a sair, sair nicht, sir. God help them out on the sea!' With
these words was I greeted as, through the darkness of that awful night
of the 3d of August last, I groped my way to the harbour of the small
fishing-village on the east coast of Scotland where I was then staying,
being interested in the herring-fishing there.

On the evening of the night above mentioned a number of the boats
had gone to sea, even though the weather (to say the least of it)
looked threatening. The fishing up to this date had been a comparative
failure; but signs of herring on the coast had been met with on the
previous night; and with time wearing on, little doing, and a number of
mouths to fill, the hardy weather-beaten fishermen were loath to lose a
chance; so to sea they went, some few boats being providentially kept
on shore.

The night, from being threatening, grew bad, with gathering clouds and
rain, and gusts of wind from the sea. Wives kept up good fires against
their husbands' return, as all expected the boats back. The _last_ boat
that went out _did_ return, but no others; and the fishermen on shore
were of opinion that with the wind they had had, the boats would be
'weel at sea an' sweer' (unwilling) 'to turn!'

Eleven o'clock comes, and the weather not much worse. Opinions are
hazarded that it will 'maybe tak aff wi' the tide;' and I turn in and
am soon asleep. Not to sleep long, however. One o'clock, and I am
awakened with the howling wind, blast after blast, battering the rain
against the windows, and rattling and banging windows and doors; and
the noise of that dread continuous, seething, inexpressible _hus-sh_
from the now storm-tossed angry sea. Out of bed at once, and into
clothes and oilskins, then out into the night. Dark? Yes; black! Wind
like to tear you off your legs, and rain blinding; but worst of all,
that raging sea outside.

I struggle down to the harbour; and there, under the lee of an old
boat, I find two or three fishermen, and am greeted with the words I
commenced with. I could merely make out the indistinct forms of the
men, but I knew the voice of the one who spoke. He was an old man now,
past going to sea; but out there, somewhere in the darkness, were two
sturdy young men, his sons, for whom he had worked in their childhood,
and who now worked for him in his old age. Well might he pray: 'God
help them out on the sea!' A month or two later than this, last year,
his youngest, bonnie son was one of a crew of five drowned in that very
sea, before his old father's eyes.

During temporary lulls, we could hear that there were others about; and
often a sad pent-up wail, choked with a sob, told of 'wives and mithers
maist despairin'' wandering past through the darkness and rain.

The cold gray dawn comes at last, only to shew us a widespread army
of fighting waves dashing wildly on to the shore, and making a clean
breach over the protection breakwater of the little harbour; plainly
shewing the impossibility of any of the boats taking _that_ harbour,
even should they make shoreward. The safety of the boats inside the
very harbour even has to be looked after, for when the tide makes, the
run will be likely to snap everything.

As the morning advances and no boats heave in sight, the question
arises, Where will they be? Some say they will make this or that
harbour farther north; while others say they will be riding out the
storm at sea, 'hanging by'[1] their nets. Already, by break of day,
between twenty and thirty dripping half-clad women have started to walk
along the coast to the next fishing-ports. They cannot wait here till
the telegraph opens; and when it does open it finds plenty of work
without them.

Some men have taken the road also, promising to telegraph back, should
they find any tidings of friends or neighbours. Those of us left here
gather together at sheltered corners and peer out to sea and hazard an
opinion now and then. The old man before spoken of tells how he was at
sea the night of the great loss twenty-nine years ago, but doubts if it
was as bad a night as this has been. Another--even older-looking--tells
how that night is as fresh in his memory as yesterday, for, as he said,
he had then thought his last night on land or sea had come. He too is
sure this has been a wilder night; but then he hopefully adds: 'Look at
the boats they've got to work wi' noo!' Then with a sigh: 'But a' will
no tell their tale o' this nicht.'

Morning grows into noon, and the rain has now settled down into a dark
drizzle, occasionally clearing a little and allowing at times a better
look-out to sea.

During one of these breaks a boat heaves in sight, evidently making
straight for the harbour, under a small patch of sail, and labouring
heavily in the trough of the sea. Instantly the village is in a
commotion, for well do all know what will be the fate of that boat and
crew should they get too far in-shore. The cries of the poor women
are heart-rending as they rush hither and thither through cold and
wet clasping their bewildered little bairnies to their breasts. Away
there goes a stalwart young fellow with a tar-barrel on his shoulder,
followed by others carrying wood and shavings; and in a few minutes a
warning flame bursts from the hillside; up goes a white flag on the
end of the pier, a signal of too much sea on for taking the harbour;
and there also from a schooner inside the harbour waves the Union-jack
half-mast high, with ensign reversed--a world-wide understood signal
of danger. Soon also another fire blazes from another point higher up,
from where it is considered it will be better seen by those in the
boat; and the old boat-builder (from whose yard the barrel, chips, and
shavings have been got) stands by with a flagon of oil, from which,
from time to time, he pours a little over the fire, making it shoot
forth a flashing, brighter flame.

Now all has been done that can at the moment be thought of, and it only
remains to wait. The boat still seems to be making for the shore; and
from that it is surmised that those on board of her are strange to this
part of the coast. 'He's keepin' her awa.' 'Na; he's only jibing her
end-on to the seas.' 'She's gaun aboot.' 'Na, na; the Lord hae mercy on
them; he's gaun to try the harbour!' Such are a few of the exclamations
from the anxious group round, or rather behind that danger-fire; and
there also from the lips of a bonnie fisher lass about fifteen or
sixteen I hear the earnest muttered prayer: 'The Lord be at the helm.
O Lord, be at the helm!' Her father and three of her brothers went to
sea last night in the same boat, and strange to say--though not known
to her or any on shore at the time--that boat for whose guidance she
prayed _was_ her father's. Still the boat holds on--until again, and
this time almost with a shout, it is announced that 'she's gaun aboot'
(shifting her course). Yes, and this time it is right. She _is_ about.
There is a sigh of relief from all, and many a hearty 'Thank God.'
Tongues seem loosened now, and criticisms are passed on how 'she's
behavin',' and how 'he' (the steersman) 'works her.' All agree that
those in the boat will make for a port about fifteen miles farther
north, which it is thought will be possible to be entered with safety.
At least all are relieved that for the present the boat seems out of
danger.

The Telegraph Office immediately on its being opened, and ever since,
has been completely besieged. What a picture, and how impossible to
picture it! A little wayside railway office crushed full of dripping,
crying women, with a sad-faced man here and there. Not a sound, except
occasionally a smothered sob or whisper, and the tic-tic-tic of the
instrument, meaning joy or grief perhaps to some of these poor women,
all eagerly watching that lad, or rather boy, the only one there who
understands that tic-tic-tic.

Then when news _does_ come of this or that boat's safety, watch the
brightening faces of those to whom it is good news; their long-drawn
thankful sigh of relief, and their again saddening look as they think
of others around them who have got no news yet. Quietly they pull their
shawls over their heads and slip out, only to make room for others who
have been standing outside in the rain waiting their turn.

But hollo! There goes the fire on the hill again. What does it mean?
Another boat? No; but the same one is about. Again all is consternation
and wonder, until the old boat-builder says quietly: 'He's weel
acquaint. It's ane o' oor ain folk, an' he's gaun to dodge aboot
expeck'n the wind to tak aff.' And he is right too; for the boat only
comes near enough not to be _too_ near, then 'bout ship and out again.
After a time another boat heaves in sight, then another, until, by
about five o'clock in the evening, there are eleven boats tossing about
out there on that wild sea, in sight of home, waiting for the storm to
abate and the sea go down. News has also come to hand of the safety of
other six of the thirty boats that went out from here last night, so
that there is still about half of them to be heard of yet, should those
in the offing turn out to belong to the place.

Well, it did 'tak aff;' and by nine o'clock that night fourteen boats
managed to get safely into the harbour, though with great difficulty
and danger.

What a sight was that also! A well-manned salmon coble kept afloat
in the fairway ready for an emergency, and at the same time giving
confidence to those in the boats taking the harbour. The pier crowded
with men, women, and children, anxiously, silently, watching each boat
through the peril. Then the greetings and questionings of the tired,
starving fishermen, whom the sea seems to have given up.

Still lots of the boats have yet to be heard of, and many a one wanders
the whole night through, unable to rest in his anxiety for the missing
ones. Next day, however, all are accounted for. All safe, except one
boat with a crew of five, swamped out at sea, in that dreadful August
storm, and all hands drowned; and it has proved a 'sair, sair nicht'
for the poor old fisherman with whose words I began this sketch, for
one of his stalwart sons was one of that crew of five, who leave four
widows and thirteen 'faitherless bairns;' proving how appropriate it is
in regard to the pursuit of the 'caller herrin'' that

    Wives and mithers maist despairin'
          Ca' them _lives o' men_.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Herring boats frequently ride out a gale at sea by being made fast
by stout ropes to the nets, which answer the purpose of an anchor. In
this position the boat is said to be 'hanging by' the net.




A MORNING IN A LONDON HOSPITAL.


'If you will meet me at ---- Hospital at half-past ten on Monday
morning, I shall be happy to shew you anything in my power.' So ran a
note I received some little time since from a privileged visitor at one
of the largest London hospitals. An hour's ride brought me to the gates
of the institution, which is in the very heart of busy London, and yet,
as far as noise goes, might be miles away from all its life and bustle.
A little world by itself it stands, having its own laws and customs,
its chiefs and subordinates, and certainly its own joys and sorrows.
Crossing a stone yard and up a flight of steps, the first obstacle
presented itself in the shape of an ever-watchful porter; but the name
of my correspondent had a magical effect in quieting his fears. Friends
of the patients are allowed to visit them on three days in the week at
stated hours; but beyond this, without private interest, it is by no
means easy to obtain admission to any hospital.

Passing through the porter's gate, I found myself in a stone hall,
where my friend joined me; and opening a door at one end, she led me
into the accident ward. Down each side of the long room were arranged
beds at short intervals, each with its coverlet of blue check and
curtains to match. Yet there was little monotony in the appearance of
the whole, each bed taking different shapes according to the nature of
its inmate's accident. Skilled hands know how to place sufferers in
the position that causes least pain; and light frames are fixed over
injured limbs to prevent contact with the bed-clothes. Each bed too
has a chain suspended from the top, with a handle attached; by which
simple contrivance patients are enabled to raise and in some measure
help themselves much sooner than would otherwise be possible. Some of
the worst 'cases' are too ill to notice us as we go round; but from the
greater number we get something of a smile.

Our next step was to mount the stairs on the other side of the hall.
We now came to a large male surgical ward, holding about fifty beds
arranged as before described. Here the dressers or house-surgeons
were beginning their duties. The first bed at which we paused was
tenanted by a boy of twelve or fourteen years old, with a bright and
not unhealthy looking face; but a terrible abscess had formed on
the calf of the leg, so affecting the bone that a serious operation
was necessary to prevent amputation. This had been performed a few
days before our visit; but useful as chloroform is at the time of an
operation, it by no means saves all the pain. The first dressing is
much dreaded, and even in the case of which I write the poor boy's
sufferings were very great; but he was a true Briton as to endurance.
I did not know which to admire most, his bravery or the steady hand
and eye of the surgeon, who did not shrink from inflicting necessary
pain, whilst with bright words of encouragement he helped his poor
patient to 'be a man.' The air of cheerfulness about the ward was
surprising; round the fireplaces were groups of patients, just well
enough to be up. Gaunt and ill they looked, but as ready as possible
for a bit of fun. The Sister of the ward comes out of her cheery little
room just as we turn to go away, so we stop for a few minutes' chat
with her. She tells us that in addition to the services of Chaplain
and Scripture-readers, each ward is visited once a week by ladies, who
talk to the patients one by one, reading to them, and trying to shew
sisterly sympathy with their sorrows. Sister says that the patients
look forward to the visiting afternoon with great pleasure, and my
friend remarks: 'No wonder; poor things! They must find it very dull
lying here day after day and week after week.'

Sister breaks into a merry laugh, and utterly scouts the notion
that her ward could be anything but bright and pleasant. 'You see,'
she said, 'mine are surgical cases. It may be dull perhaps on the
medical side; but here the patients are well as a rule, except in one
particular thing.'

To our inexperienced minds 'one particular thing' seemed quite enough.
Asking the same Sister whether she found it difficult to obtain
permission from one of the authorities to do something she wished, she
answered with an amused smile: 'I never have any difficulty in getting
anything for anybody.' It certainly would be difficult to refuse
anything to such a bonnie face and pleasant manner. One could not but
be thankful that she and others like her shed their sunshine where
there must of necessity be so much shadow.

In the next ward (female) we had a few words with a motherly
night-nurse. She goes to bed after dinner (about 1 P.M.), and comes on
duty again at nine in the evening; but turning night into day seems to
agree capitally with her. Seeing several cots with tiny inmates, we ask
her whether they give her much trouble: her prompt answer is: 'Not a
bit; not half so much as some of the grown-ups.'

'And the medicine; have you difficulty with that?'

'Never; however nasty it is, they drink it up without a word.'

One case of a poor woman is both medical and surgical--a terrible
string of maladies; but another nurse, in answer to the question, 'Can
she recover?' answers heartily and with real interest: 'Indeed, we hope
she will.' She certainly would not without great care and the best of
nursing. Near her is a cot, and my friend asks the four-year-old inmate
what is the matter. A tiny voice pipes out in the very highest of high
trebles: 'I'se here tawse I tarn't walt.' A dislocated thigh will
prevent the poor baby from walking for several weeks. In the next cot
is a girl of five, injured in the same way. 'Run over,' nurse tells us;
and adds: 'Half of them are.'

A few more visits on the surgical side, and we come down-stairs again,
and go through a door at the opposite end of the hall from the porter's
lodge. The medical cases are in a block of buildings quite distinct
from the surgical. The first ward we entered was chiefly occupied by
consumptive patients. On opening the door, a most pitiful wail greeted
us. Going up to the cot from whence it proceeded, we found a tiny child
lying with its eyes fixed on the ceiling and giving utterance to the
most heart-rending cries. The Sister, nurses, and patients were alike
almost in despair about her. One nurse told us that little Jessie was
eighteen months old, though not so big as some children of as many
days. She had been brought to the hospital a week before, _starved_.
Her limbs were so rigid that they could scarcely bend them. A patient
told us that she nearly _bit through_ the spoon when first fed. The
doctor considered her much better; but she cried or rather wailed the
whole night and all day, unless nursed or fed. Nurse had taken her into
her own bed for three nights with little avail; and all the inmates
of the ward were feeling worn out with worry and want of sleep. At a
subsequent visit I found her still wailing, and tried the experiment of
nursing her for some hours. She was perfectly good in my lap, and went
to sleep. Flattering myself that I had done a good work in securing a
quiet morning for the other patients, I put my lady down in her cot.
She lay for just one minute, and then opened her eyes with a shriek
that made me glad to bundle her up and quiet her at any cost. At my
last visit I found that Sister had been obliged to send her away, after
trying what having the mother in at night would do, and finding it of
no use. One poor woman, very ill in the next bed, said to me: 'I do
love little children, and I have a baby of my own, so I don't mind some
crying; but it was dreadful to hear that child cry day and night, and
no sleep for any of us.'

There seems to be no special ward set apart for children; but cots are
sprinkled about in the female wards for those under the age of seven.
As a rule, the patients like this, and the little ones get a good deal
of notice and petting; but I am afraid no one regretted poor Jessie
excepting a deaf and dumb boy in a cot near, who could not hear her
cries, and delighted in clapping his hands at her. He was a handsome
child of five, with a wonderfully bright smile, and very quick at
catching the meaning of the slightest sign. At this first visit, his
only amusement was to fold up the bed-clothes and throw them on the rod
over his crib. His little tray had no toys on it; and notwithstanding
his sunny face, one could not but fancy the days must have been very
long and uninteresting. The last time I saw him he was rejoicing over
some bright pictures, pointing out their beauties to his kind nurse,
and making all sorts of inarticulate sounds of joy. One nurse had a
rather quaint idea of the use of pictures. In answer to my question,
'Would No. 7 understand these?' she said: 'O yes; he'd know how to tear
them up!'

After speaking to several of the patients, our attention was drawn to a
woman, who looked so much a picture of health, that it needed quite an
effort of faith to believe her when she said that, two or three weeks
before, she had been so dangerously ill that she scarcely expected
to leave the hospital alive; but under treatment she had improved so
rapidly that she was hoping to go to a Convalescent Home in a few days.
Several of the patients were well enough to be about. Whenever this
is the case, they take what share they can in waiting on those too
ill to help themselves. One or two are so ill that they cannot put a
foot to the ground, need to be lifted in and out of bed and waited on
like children. The Sister of this ward is most admirably suited to her
post. She has the gift of governing, and nurses, as well as patients,
are completely under her control. One of her duties is to go round the
ward administering medicine to each patient (the medicine is kept on a
shelf over the bed); and certainly the way they took it bore out the
statement of the nurse spoken of at the first: however disagreeable,
it was swallowed at once without the shadow of a grimace. Sister too
presides over the distribution of the smaller articles of food, kept
in little movable cupboards, of which there is one to each bed. The
bread is baked in small tempting loaves, and brought into the ward
in what looks likes a clothes-basket. Two patients carry this up the
middle, whilst Sister asks each in turn how much they feel equal to.
The amount they then receive lasts them till the following morning. A
stated allowance of butter is given in the same way. A bill of fare
hangs over each bed; eggs and all other extras being only given under
the doctor's orders. In addition to this diet-card, a form is suspended
from the bed's head, filled in with the name, age, address, and disease
of the patient, together with the names of his or her doctor and
house-surgeon, also the date of admission.

Going up another flight of stairs, we entered a ward for what a nurse
called 'difficult cases;' by which she meant diseases that require
special attention, and that do not shew themselves so decidedly as
to leave no doubt of their nature. The ward is large, holding about
fifty beds; but evidently it was not built originally for an hospital.
Several rooms seem to have been thrown into one by removing the doors;
but the projections of the division walls remain and serve to break
the monotony of appearance. Of the same size and build was the next
we entered, which was privileged in possessing the society of two cats
as pets. Here we found another baby of the same age as Jessie, and
like her, _starved_; but here the likeness ended. This little creature
seemed the darling of the ward; nurses and patients vied with each
other as to who should nurse her, and all declared 'she never cries,
and gets _so_ fat.' Whilst talking about her we saw one of the saddest
of hospital sights. On entering, we had noticed one bed with a curtain
drawn round it. 'Very ill indeed,' was the explanation given. At the
other end a bed stood surrounded by a screen. Standing with my back
to the door, I suddenly saw a change come over the patients' faces.
Turning quickly, I was surprised and shocked to see two men bearing on
their shoulders a coffin. They had to walk the whole length of the ward
to take away the body of a patient who had died the night before in the
screened bed. As the bearers walked past, it was painful indeed to see
the strained gaze fixed by the patients on their sad burden. Even the
children seemed to feel the possibility of their being the next to be
so carried. It seems strange that this practice of not _immediately_
removing the dead (to be coffined apart from the wards) should be
continued, especially at this particular hospital, where the comfort
and cheerfulness of the inmates are so constantly kept in view.

There are pretty fern-stands scattered about in different parts of the
building; suitable texts in neat frames hang over the beds; and the
fireplaces give a specially pleasant look to the wards. Some of them
are really handsome. Coloured tiles of nice design extend a foot or
more beyond, and above the fire itself, so that even in summer-time the
fireplace is a pretty spot, and in winter the reflection of flame in
the china is most cheery. Then each ward has its couches and chairs.
In one we noticed a comfortable crimson sofa, looking most tempting
with its white crochet antimacassars. 'Sent just as it is, by a lady,'
we are told. Near it were several American chairs with holland covers
bound with crimson. The effect was really good; and in this respect the
hospital contrasts well with those where no effort is made to enliven
the inevitable gloom of so much suffering and sorrow. The Sisters
dress in black, with white lace or muslin caps; and the amount of
taste exhibited in their arrangement shews no indifference to personal
appearance. The nurses are suitably dressed in uniform of print dress
and plain cap. Both Sisters and nurses are, as a rule, sunny and kind,
and nothing could exceed the courtesy with which I was received,
nor the pleasant way in which information was volunteered. The
house-doctor, who was spoken of most affectionately by the patients,
gave me kind permission to come again and see what I had that day
missed--the early morning work.

We were about leaving the hospital, when my friend exclaimed: 'You must
see this ward.' So saying, she led me to a small building by itself
in the garden, where the patients take exercise when convalescent.
Certainly it was a pleasant spot. The sun shining in, made it seem the
brightest of the wards. It is divided into two rooms, one for male, the
other for female patients. The cases are chiefly bronchitis and similar
acute diseases. It is presided over by a sweet-looking Sister. She has
her little establishment all to herself including a separate room for
any desperate case. She is an enthusiast at her vocation, and tells us
she gets all the best cases. Asking for an explanation of 'best,' she
says: 'My gentlemen' (students) 'are the most advanced, and so they
pick out all the most interesting, I mean dangerous cases.'

On our way out, my friend shewed me the block of buildings set apart
for the use of out-patients. Pointing to one room, she said: 'That is
where they do any _little_ thing--such as taking out a tooth.' I am
afraid most of us are in the habit of looking upon that operation as
anything but little; and to tell the truth, the patients we encountered
coming up the steps seemed to share the popular notion, and did not
look particularly joyful in their anticipations. So we left the
hospital, feeling thankful that, though suffering and poverty must
always be, so much is done to alleviate the sorrows of the suffering
poor.




THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.

CHAPTER XVI.--MARIAN'S RISE IN LIFE.


In the garden I found Mr Wentworth pacing one of the side-walks.

'How does she bear it?' he asked, advancing towards me.

'I do not fear for her--eventually. But it is very terrible.' Striking
my hand upon the arm of a garden-seat, I angrily added: 'And he dares
to call it love! Thank God, the more she sees of it the less she will
believe in it!'

'He is trying to persuade her not to act upon that paper. I saw that
was his intention.'

'But you were not so blind as to suppose he would succeed?' I retorted.

'No; I was not so blind as that.'

'He will only succeed in making her suffer more; though there may be
some use in that. Her eyes may be opened to his selfishness and--and
utter worthlessness, at last. Indeed, I am proud to say I never called
that man my friend.'

'Sit down, Miss Haddon; you will want all your nerve presently,' he
said gently. 'What should we do without you?'

I sat down, and gave way to a few tears.

'There; that's all right: done you good; hasn't it?'--in a relieved
sort of tone; but looking as though he were not a little puzzled at
my getting relief in that fashion. I could not help feeling that he
regarded my tears indulgently--as less to be dreaded than fainting, but
as curious, decidedly curious, _man_ that he was!

The Fates were certainly against my impressing Robert Wentworth with
the notion that I was above feminine weakness; he so naturally, and
I now believe quite unconsciously, shewed a vein of satire upon such
occasions. Yet I do not think that he intended to be satirical, when
he appeared most so; it simply arose from contrast--his inability to
comprehend certain forms of weakness, and his ludicrous gentleness
towards it. But be the cause what it might, his gentleness had now the
good effect of putting me upon my mettle.

Seeing that I was beginning to recover my dignity, he went on more
securely: 'She needs all the help you can give her. Poor Lilian! it
is terribly hard for her to lose her lover as well as her name and
fortune, Mary' (from this time I was never again 'Miss Haddon' to him).
'But if she can keep her faith in friendship, she will in time get over
the loss of the rest.'

Yes; she would lose her lover as well as her name and fortune. Robert
Wentworth saw as clearly as I did that sooner or later what had
happened would separate them. We saw them step from the window; and
hastily bidding me good-bye, my companion was turning away.

'Please do not leave me just yet,' I pleaded.

'It is better I should go--for you all. The fewer witnesses of the
humiliation the better. By-and-by--in a day or two;' and laying his
hand for a moment on mine, as it rested passively on the seat, he
walked quickly on down the path to go out by the door leading from the
lower grounds.

As Lilian drew nearer, followed by Arthur Trafford, his lowering brows
and angry eyes told me that the beginning of the end had already taken
place. But she was not drooping now. She placed her hand in mine,
and held it with a firm hold, which I thought intimated that she had
not succumbed under pressure. Nay, she was growing stronger rather
than weaker under it. But she left him to explain; and if I had hoped
anything from Arthur Trafford, the way in which he spoke would have
destroyed my hope.

'Miss--Farrar' (there was a sufficiently long pause between the words
to bring the colour rushing to her cheeks) 'seems determined to take
your advice, Miss Haddon. She means to recognise that marriage, cost
what it may.'

There was something peculiarly offensive, and I saw that he meant it to
be so, in imputing the 'advice,' as he termed it, to me. But this was
not a time for me to retort, so I merely replied: 'You are angry, Mr
Trafford.'

'Angry! Is it to be expected that I could stand quietly by and make
no protest, while such a sacrifice was being made? I suppose you have
persuaded Lilian to believe that the consequences to her are nothing to
me; you have tried to make her believe that I do not love her.'

'I believe that you _do_ love her, Mr Trafford,' I replied. It was not
his love, but its quality, which I doubted. Looking steadily at him, I
added: 'And now is the time to prove the worth of your love.'

'I can best do that by protecting her interests, Miss Haddon.' Turning
pleadingly towards Lilian again, he added: 'If you would only promise
me to delay making it known for a few days--for a day--while we talk it
over, and--and take further advice. For Heaven's sake, do not do such a
rash thing on the impulse of the moment, Lilian! Say you will think it
over?'

'It needs no thinking,' she murmured.

'And my wishes are nothing to you?'

'I hoped--I believed--that you would help me to do what I am doing,
Arthur,' she replied in a low broken voice.

'Is it possible that you can think that I should help you to sacrifice
your mother's good name, and disobey your father's wishes, to gratify a
sentimental and very doubtful feeling, such as this? It will not even
be of any real benefit to the girl herself, who is already much better
off than she had any right to expect, and happy enough as she is. I say
nothing of the entire disregard of _my_ wishes--the cruel injustice to
me--after being so long led on to believe in your love for me.'

'Spare me!'

'How have you spared me?'

'I _cannot_ act differently--I dare not!' she ejaculated, wringing her
hands.

'Not though you cast away my love in doing it?'

She was silent; her clasped hands tightening painfully over each other,
as she bowed her head in an agony of suffering, which his own nature
was too shallow to understand.

I think that he once more imagined that he had found the way to
influence her, and he impetuously went on: 'You cannot mean to cast me
off. Dearest Lilian, I know that your love for me is true, and'----

'I _must_ do what is right. O Arthur, it is so hard to bear, and I need
help so much: for our love's sake, help me!' putting out her hands
towards him with a last appeal.

'You call it right to bring shame upon your dead mother and to be
untrue to me?'

'You are pitiless, Mr Trafford!' I put in, losing all patience. 'And
you do not know Lilian, or you would see that you are adding to her
suffering to no purpose; for you will not alter her determination: she
will act according to her perception of what is right in the matter,
suffer what she may.'

'Then let her take the consequences!' he exclaimed, losing all
self-command, and without another word turning away and walking off in
a towering passion; as I afterwards found, going through the house and
straight down to the railway station.

Lilian clung sobbing to me a few moments: 'God help me! Pray for me,
Mary!'

'You are helped, dear Lilian. Strength _has_ been given to you, and the
rest will come easier.'

'Yes; nothing can be very painful now'--wearily.

A servant came to tell us that tea was taken in, and that Mrs Tipper
and Miss Reed were waiting for us.

'Have you quite decided to make it known at once, dear?'

'Yes; the sooner it is over the better.'

'Perhaps it is. Would you like to go to your room, and leave me to
prepare them a little, dear Lilian?'

'Yes; I should be very glad--if you do not mind--if you think it is
best, Mary.'

'I think it best for you to be present,' I replied, reflecting that it
would at least be better for her than brooding over the miserable scene
which had just been enacted. 'But if you do not feel equal to it, and
would like me to act for you, I will of course do so.'

'I will come with you,' she quietly replied, putting her hand into mine.

I stopped for a moment to kiss the pure brow, then we went together to
the morning-room.

'Excuse my sending, dears; but we thought that you had perhaps
forgotten,' said the kind little lady. 'But where are the gentlemen?
James said that Mr Wentworth had arrived.'

'They are gone,' I replied, trying to nerve myself for what was to come.

'Gone, dear?' Then she nervously added, taking note of Lilian's white
face: 'Is there anything the matter? Is not Lilian well, Mary?'

I placed Lilian on a couch, and took my seat beside her; then replied:
'She has had a very great' (I was going to say shock, but substituted)
'surprise. Something has occurred which will affect her whole future
life.'

I saw that Marian's interest was awakened now.

'Affect her whole future life!' she slowly repeated. Then with a sudden
unholy light in her eyes, she eagerly went on: 'You don't mean to say
that there's been a quarrel, and that it's all broken off between Mr
Trafford and her?'

'Be good enough to listen quietly,' I sternly replied. 'Lilian wishes
me to tell you, and I will do so in as few words as possible. In
looking over the contents of a cabinet which had belonged to her
father, Lilian found a paper purporting to be an agreement, which,
being signed in Scotland, constitutes a marriage between Mr Farrar--and
your mother.'

'Ma!'

'And after ascertaining that it is genuine, for that kind of thing'
(I could not help putting in the last little tag, though I might just
as well have left it unsaid, so little did it trouble her), 'Lilian
has decided to act upon it. She intends to recognise your mother's
marriage, though it be at the sacrifice of everything she most cares
for in the world.'

Mrs Tipper hurriedly rose from her seat, and crossed over to Lilian's
side.

'Married to Ma!' ejaculated Marian, gazing at us with dilating eyes
and parted lips. 'My gracious! And if Ma was his wife, I must be his
daughter--his eldest daughter, and I've as good a right'---- She
paused, for the moment quite dazzled by the light which was breaking
in upon her; then presently added, a little more doubtfully: 'But you
forget; Ma died only fifteen years ago, and Lilian is over seventeen.
How could he have two wives, unless'----

'It is Lilian's mother who was wronged,' I explained, feeling that the
sooner it was all said the better, if I wished to spare Lilian as much
as possible from hearing the other's comments.

'My goodness!' In her surprise and excitement, forgetting company
manners and her usual fine-ladyism, as well as being entirely oblivious
of Lilian's position and consequent feelings in the matter. 'Then that
was what you meant when you questioned me so closely the other day
about the exact time of Ma's death. You _were_ sharp!'

Mrs Tipper had Lilian in her arms, murmuring tender love-speeches over
her. Marian might go on as she pleased now.

It did please her to go on. 'To think of Ma being Mrs Farrar after all!
I should like to hear what Mr Pratt will say to _that_, after talking
about being able to tell a lady when he saw her! Mrs Farrar! And I'm
the eldest daughter, and'---- A new thought occurred to her, and she
went on with raised colour: 'Why, if I'm the eldest daughter, the real
Miss Farrar, and there was no will, everything must be mine!'

'Everything you most care for will most probably be yours.'

My words brought back the recollection of Arthur Trafford, and she
eagerly whispered: 'Does he know, Miss Haddon? Will it make any
difference to him, do you think?'

I turned away in disgust, and went towards Lilian.

'Come, Lilian; you need rest and quiet: come to your room, dear.--You
will come with us--will you not, Mrs Tipper?'

'Certainly I will,' returned Mrs Tipper promptly, rising to accompany
us: 'my place is with her.'

There was no necessity to apologise for leaving Marian alone. She was
for the moment too entirely absorbed in the contemplation of the great
change in her prospects to take any notice of our proceedings. 'Miss
Farrar!' I heard her repeating to herself, as she stood gazing out of
the window at the Fairview terraces and gardens, whilst we made our way
towards the door--'Miss FARRAR!'

Well, we were not entirely comfortless; we three could wonderfully help
each other. Mrs Tipper had at once returned to her allegiance; and from
thenceforth, I knew that Lilian would reign alone in her heart. Indeed
I think it was some time before the dear little woman could forgive
herself for being so disloyal to Lilian as to allow the other to reign
with her, even for a time. Marian's reception of the news had shocked
her a great deal more than it had shocked me, because she was less
prepared to see the former as she really was.

We were sitting together, and were already I was thankful to find
beginning to be able to face the worst and talk over the event with
some degree of calmness, when Lydia the housemaid tapped at the door
with a message from 'Miss Farrar.'

'If you please, ma'am, Miss Farrar wishes to know if you will come to
tea, or if you would prefer its being sent up here?' said the girl,
staring at us with all her eyes, astonishment depicted in every line of
her face.

Truly Marian had lost no time in making the change in her fortune
known. But that was, I suppose, to be expected. Obeying a sign from
Lilian and her aunt, I bade Lydia bring us some tea there.

We none of us went down again that night, although two or three very
gracious messages were sent up by 'Miss Farrar.' The repetition of the
name, and the girl's whole manner very evidently shewed that she had
been taken into Marian's confidence. I could see by her hesitating
reply to a question of Lilian's, that she had been informed that
her young mistress had no right to her father's name; and this made
me at length decide to give Lydia the true version of the story for
circulation. There was now no helping its getting about, and therefore
I determined that Lilian's unhesitating justice should be made known.
Following her out of the room, I rapidly gave Lydia an account of what
had happened. It was not necessary to dwell upon Lilian's unswerving
truth and justice. I just related the facts, and they spoke for
themselves.

Lydia was astounded; too much so to pick and choose her words, or to
assume a higher morality than she really felt.

'My! Give up all that, when she might so easily have kept it all! Oh,
Miss Haddon, an angel straight down from heaven couldn't do more than
that! It's almost _too_ good, it really is' (regretfully), 'giving up
this beautiful house, and thousands and thousands a year, when she
might have just torn up that paper, and nobody ever been the wiser!
One wouldn't mind if a bad person had to give it up; but it don't seem
right for dear Miss Lilian to suffer--it really don't.'

'Do not you think she is better able to endure suffering than a bad
person would be, Lydia?'

'I suppose she is, Miss; I suppose that's religion; but---- There; I
can't bear to think of it! That Miss Reed, who isn't fit to hold a
candle to her for goodness, leave alone ladified ways, to be set up
above over Miss Lilian! A pretty mistress _she_ will make; though,'
added Lydia, gradually awakening to the possibility of certain
consequences accruing to herself, 'I shan't be here long to see it.
I've let her see what I think of her, a good deal too plain for that;
and for the matter of that, so has every one of us, though she's only
got herself to thank for it.'

I had had my suspicions that Marian was not liked amongst the servants;
indeed Becky had more than once given me a hint that the former was
just as much disliked in the house as Lilian was beloved. The first
thing the next morning, Becky shewed me something else.

'Why, what is the matter, Becky?' I inquired, when she entered the
room, her swollen eyelids and red nose betokening recent and violent
emotion, which I could not wholly attribute to her attachment to
Lilian, and consequent sympathy with her suffering. Though Lilian was
growing in Becky's favour, the growth was slow.

'Please, don't ask me, Miss'--lugubriously. Then, after a struggle
against herself, she put down the jug of water she was carrying, and
burst forth into a wail of sorrow.

'I must ask you, Becky, and of course you must tell me your trouble.'

'You've got to go,' she sobbed out. 'You're going to be sent away the
very first! She told Lydia so this morning. But I'll go too; I told her
so. You will let me go with you; won't you, Miss Haddon, dear? You've
always been my real mistress in my heart; and it won't make scarce any
difference to you, till we can get another place. I can live on as
little as you can; and there's another quarter's wages nearly due.'

'Hush, Becky! Don't cry so, child!' I murmured, not a little touched,
and trying to wipe her tears away. 'It is not so bad as you think--not
for me. I should very much prefer leaving Fairview now, I assure you,
indeed---- What if I tell you a secret, Becky; something which no one
else, not even Miss Lilian, knows, though I love her so much? I think I
can do very well without taking another situation, and I mean to have
you with me.'

'Do without!' she ejaculated, her thoughts, I think, reverting to my
small success in 'doing without' at Mrs Sowler's. 'Don't try that
again, for'----

'Listen a moment, Becky. In three or four months I am going to be
married.'

'Married! Oh, Miss Haddon, dear!' she ejaculated, her mouth expanding
and her whole face brightening. 'And may I guess who he is? I think I
can.'

'Yes.'

'It's that gentleman, Mr Wentworth, who comes here so often, and looks
at you so. Isn't it? Mr Saunders said he knew it would come. And I
don't believe there's another gentleman in all the world as is so fit
for you, that I don't; for I know a little about him too. I did not
like to tell you before, but that time as'----

'Stop, stop, Becky!' I ejaculated, laughing outright. 'What in the
world put such an idea into your head? Mr Wentworth indeed! Certainly
not; _quite_ a different kind of gentleman.'

'Oh!' said Becky, her face falling.

'But I do not wish it mentioned, Becky. I only tell you that you may
have the pleasure of feeling that you and I need have no anxiety about
the future; for of course you will be with me.'

There was only one little drawback to Becky's happiness now--the
regret that Robert Wentworth was not to be my husband; and I thought
his being so great a favourite of hers quite sufficiently accounted
for her disappointment. I, in turn, was a little disappointed that the
face I had shewn her in the locket was so difficult to connect with the
idea of my happiness; though I told myself Philip must look much more
manly now. But having set Becky's fears at rest, I was a great deal too
anxious about Lilian's future to think much about my own.




FOSSIL MEN.


Men of science in their eagerness to support a theory are apt to fall
into mistakes. They reason honestly enough, but from too narrow a
basis of facts. For example, the skeleton of a man is found imbedded
in limestone. That man must have lived in the geological period, long
before the commencement of human record. This theory looks well, but is
not satisfactory. We do not know at what time the limestone, which was
originally a loose substance, assumed the rocky form. There is a case
in point.

At the western end of the geological galleries of the British Museum
may be seen a human skeleton imbedded in a block of limestone brought
from Guadeloupe. At first sight this would seem to be a silent
but unimpeachable witness to the remote antiquity of our race. On
investigation, however, the fossil man is found to be in this point
of view a bearer of most unreliable testimony. All fossils are not
necessarily very old, and this skeleton is comparatively a modern
one. The limestone in which it is imbedded is a very rapidly formed
deposit of corals and small shells bound together by a kind of natural
calcareous cement. The remains are those of an Indian, whose death
is placed by some authorities at as recent a period as two hundred
years ago. The same rock often contains remains of unmistakably recent
origin. In England a coin of Edward I. has been found imbedded in it;
in France a cannon buried in this hard stone was quarried out of a
deposit on the lower Rhone.

Another 'fossil man' was found at Denise in Auvergne. The bones were
beneath the hardened lava stream of an extinct volcano, and it was
alleged that the volcanoes of Auvergne had not been active since the
Christian era, as Julius Cæsar had actually encamped among them. This
view was put forward more than thirty years ago. Since then, a more
careful investigation of local history has proved that there were
serious volcanic disturbances in Auvergne as late as the fifth century;
and further, it appears that the original position of the buried man is
very doubtful, as there has been a landslip on the spot.

In 1848 some human bones were found imbedded in the rocks on the shores
of Lake Monroe in Florida. It was reported at the time that the rock
was a coralline limestone; and on this basis Agassiz and Lyell assigned
to the fossil men an age of at least ten thousand years. But the claim
to this venerable antiquity was unfortunately exploded by a discovery
which shewed that the evidence on which it rested was false. Pourtalès,
the original discoverer, came forward to rectify the mistake. The rock
in which the bones lay was not the old coralline limestone of Florida,
but a recent fresh-water sandstone, which contains (besides the bones)
large numbers of shells of precisely the same species as those still
indigenous to the lake.

So far we have dealt only with errors resulting from imperfect
information or too hastily drawn inferences. But there are cases in
which, as we have said, an uneducated man has succeeded in deceiving
a geologist in his own special line of study. The well-known jaw of
Moulin Quignon is a case in point. Every one has heard of M. Boucher
de Perthes' careful exploration of the gravels of the Somme Valley,
which resulted in the discovery of thousands of flint implements, the
handiwork of primitive man in Western Europe. But up to 1863 M. Boucher
de Perthes had found no human remains in the gravel, though it had
been predicted that such would be found; and he was naturally anxious
to make the discovery. He had offered a reward for this purpose to the
workmen of the different gravel-pits in the valley. Several attempts
had been made to deceive him with false discoveries, but in every case
his special knowledge had saved him from falling into a trap. At length
he and many others with him were completely deceived by the cunning
of a workman. In 1863 a quarryman at Moulin Quignon, near Abbeville,
came to M. Boucher de Perthes with the news that he had laid bare a
human bone in the gravel. He had left it undisturbed, in order that
the professor might himself examine it _in situ_, and explore the
surrounding deposit for further remains. M. de Perthes and some of his
friends went to the spot. Half imbedded in the gravel--a bed of pebbles
stained a dull red by the presence of iron in the deposit--they found a
human jawbone with several teeth still in position, the whole stained
like the surrounding gravel. Close by was a flint hatchet.

As soon as the news of the discovery reached England, a number of
English men of science visited Abbeville. To the doubts which they
expressed as to the genuineness of the discovery, M. de Perthes
replied that he had himself removed the jawbone from the undisturbed
bed of gravel, and that the workmen who had uncovered it were men
of irreproachable character. Two conferences of French and English
geologists were held, one at Paris, the other at Abbeville; the bone
and teeth were carefully examined; and though many were not fully
satisfied, the general impression was that the discovery was a genuine
one. M. de Quatrefages expressed his opinion that it might be regarded
as 'the first human fossil ever discovered except in a cave.' But
among the English geologists there were some who were not so easily
convinced. One of the teeth was brought to London and subjected to
microscopical examination; and it was shewn that there were no signs of
mineral infiltration into its structure. The tooth was like one from
a recent grave. The jawbone when sawn across at Paris had emitted the
odour of fresh bone. It was pointed out that the edges of the flints
found with it were quite sharp and fresh; there were no signs of
rounding or rolling in an ancient river. The workmen were watched. It
was discovered that they occasionally found means to introduce flint
implements of modern manufacture into the gravel. It was observed too
that the reddish deposit on the bone could easily be imparted to the
surface of bones and flints by artificial means. Suspicion was thus
aroused in many quarters, when Mr Busk opened a Celtic grave not far
from Moulin Quignon, and there found the skeleton of a Gaulic warrior
_minus the lower jawbone_. The famous jaw of Moulin Quignon was all
that was needed to make the skeleton a perfect one. For most men this
has settled the question of the non-authenticity of the discovery. But
some still believe in it.

Another famous fossil is the 'Calaveras Skull,' alleged to have been
found one hundred and fifty feet deep in the shaft of a gold mine at
Angelos, in Calaveras County, California. The skull is said to have
come from the gold-bearing gravel; and in the strata above are no less
than five beds of lava and other volcanic rocks. Professor Whitney
secured the skull for the Museum of the Californian Geological Survey;
but he was not the actual discoverer, and there is a pretty general
impression that he was 'hoaxed.' Dr Andrews of Chicago investigated
the matter, and gives evidence that the skull was taken by two of the
miners from a _cave_ in the valley, and placed in the gravel where it
was found with a view to hoax the officers of the Survey; and this
would explain the fact that there are well-marked traces of stalagmite
upon the skull. This 'discovery' it was that suggested to the
Californian humorist Bret Harte the idea of his amusing _Address to a
Fossil Skull_. Many of our readers are doubtless already familiar with
it; they will pardon our quoting a few lines for those who are not. The
poet's exordium is a solemn one:

    Speak, O man less recent! fragmentary fossil!
    Primal pioneer of pliocene formation,
    Hid in lowest depths below the earliest stratum
                        Of volcanic tufa.

    Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium;
    Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami;
    Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions
                        Of earth's epidermis!

He begs the skull to tell its story: what was its epoch; did its former
possessor behold 'the dim and watery woodland' of the carboniferous
times; or did he live when 'cheerful pterodactyls' might have circled
over his head. An answer was vouchsafed to him.

    Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla,
    And a lateral movement of the condyloid process,
    With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication
                        Ground the teeth together;

    And from that imperfect dental exhibition,
    Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian,
    Came those hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs
                        Of expectoration:

    'Which my name is Bowers! and my crust was busted
    Falling down a shaft in Calaveras County;
    But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces
                        Home to old Missouri!'

The bone-caves have of course yielded numbers of ancient skulls--most
of them, be it noted, very well developed, and many superior to
savage skulls of the present day. The strangely deformed skull of the
Neanderthal Valley (found near Düsseldorf) is thought by many to have
been that of an idiot. It stands unique among ancient skulls. Even
the famous skull of the Engis cavern near Liège, is said by Professor
Huxley to have 'no mark of degradation about any part of its structure.
It is in fact,' he continues, 'a fair average skull, which might have
belonged to a philosopher, or might have contained the thoughtless
brains of a savage.'

But we must stop here, or we shall drift into the controversy on
primitive man--rather too wide a subject to enter upon here. Let us
merely note that among all the remains that we possess of primitive
man, we have no vestiges of that ape-man or man-ape which figures so
prominently in certain modern theories of the origin of man.




SUCH OLD FRIENDS.

A STORY.


CHAPTER I.--COUNTRY LIFE.

The century was much younger, but it had passed its stormy infancy.
Just as after a stormy night we take down the shutters and let in the
light and rejoice in the calm of the dawn, so the country was beginning
to breathe freely after the long years of agitation it had known. Peace
was turning men's thoughts homewards, and there were even spirits
daring enough to suggest that the very constitution of England itself
needed patching up, or perhaps entirely renovating; scientific men
were talking of the wonderful power of steam; but meantime ordinary
mortals were content with the road, and were very proud of their
'High-flyers.' People were not so used to novelties then as we are
now, and 'newfangled' was frequently the verdict on them, given with
severity and even distrust. The far-spreading ocean of Time rubs off
points and sharp corners, and leaves them smooth and rounded, and
ready to fit in. But the eddies had scarcely yet stirred our far-off
west county village. Once a week indeed, the Squire had a newspaper,
which he lent to the Rector, who gave the benefit of it to some of his
parishioners in his calls before passing it on to the doctor; and so
news slowly circulated. It was such a quiet spot; the Parsonage and the
Hall nestled lovingly together, with the Church like a link between; a
small apology for a village was tucked close under the hill; and a few
farms and homesteads scattered here and there completed the parish.
But such a wealth of broad fair meadows and laden orchards lay around!
The upland fields were bleaker and more stubborn, but the growth of
purple heather covered many deficiencies, at least to the eye of the
lover of beauty; and the all-bountiful Hand that planted the earth had
crowned the ridges of hills with trees. Such trees, so grand and calm
and stately in their growth! Winter had the hardest possible fight to
rob them of their last robes; even November, whose sky is proverbially
'chill and drear'--November, whose 'leaf is red and sear,' found them
in a perfect sunset glory, from gold to deepest purple.

'I do not believe there are any trees like ours,' exclaimed Dorothy
Linley; and I think she ought to know, for she had lived with them all
her life--not that it was a very long life either when our, or rather
her story begins. She had scarcely seen a score of years; but things
look bright and sharply defined seen through the clear atmosphere of
youth. It was no wonder that she thought so on this afternoon as she
stood at the open window, looking up the long avenue of pink-and-white
horse-chestnuts, while the air was fragrant with the May from the tree
on the lawn. It was not a mere afternoon tea, but the real meal that
was laid in the Rectory drawing-room. In those days the article itself
was costly but good, and they drank it out of tiny cups. Some had been
handed down from a former generation and had no handles, others of more
modern make had. Dorothy's mother was sitting at the table, surveying
with a little pleased satisfaction its hospitable spread of country
dainties prepared under her own eye, if not with her own hands. They
were expecting a guest--Madam from the Hall. Mrs Linley's hands were
never idle; the whole parish could bear witness to her 'notableness;'
and her daughters were considered models of 'bringing up.'

'You would not have liked to live in the town where you were born, my
dear,' she said in answer to Dorothy's exclamation; then suffering
her work to drop into her lap, she looked beyond the slight figure at
the window, away through the chestnuts, far back into the past. 'I
thought as you do when first I walked up this avenue carrying you, an
infant, in my arms. Your father and I had had a hard struggle--his
means were so small as a curate, and he tried in vain to increase
them by teaching--those were such terrible times; bread was almost at
famine price; and I have sat with windows and doors bolted and barred,
trembling to hear the people in the streets, for bread-riots were not
uncommon. Everything was taxed, even the light that came in at the
windows; so many of them were closed up, making the houses dark and
gloomy. We could hardly believe it, when your father's cousin Kent
Linley, whom he had not seen for years, wrote to say that the family
"living" was vacant, and sooner than give it to a stranger, he offered
it to him.'

'It must have been like a glimpse of Paradise, mother.'

'It was; for your father's health was giving way under the strain. He
would have it that you, our first child, born just when our troubles
were greatest, were the herald of the peace that was coming; and when
he gave you his mother's name, he called you also Olive. You were the
first he christened at the little church here, and "Dorothy Olive" the
first name he wrote on the parish register.'

'Was Madam at the Hall then?' asked her daughter.

'No; the Squire brought home his bride two years later, before your
sister was born; and Mrs Melton used to come and see us very often. As
you know, she gave Juliet her own name. We thought it rather fanciful,
but could not refuse so kind a friend.' Mrs Linley looked up and smiled
as the owner of it entered the room--a younger copy of herself, small,
and with the same sweet tender eyes.

'Mother dear,' said the new-comer, seating herself beside her, 'do you
know what it is my godmother is coming to talk about this afternoon?'

'No, my child: perhaps some parish matter.'

'Perhaps,' said Dorothy from the window, 'it may be the long-talked-of
visit to London.'

'Oh, if it should!' cried Juliet, her face flushing with delight at the
thought.

'Well, we shall not have long to wait,' answered their mother, laying
down her work; 'for I hear the wheels coming up the avenue;' and the
Squire's large roomy carriage, drawn by its two sleek well-fed horses,
drawing up to the door, they all rose to receive their guest.


CHAPTER II.--VISITS.

And so it proved. Around the tea-table the purpose was unfolded; for
the warm-hearted mistress of the Hall _had_ come to ask to carry
off her favourite. 'Mr Melton and I have been thinking lately,' she
explained, 'that if we put it off much longer we shall not care to
undertake such a journey; and we should like to take Juliet to see
London: it is an old promise; and we like to have young folks about us.'

A slight sigh escaped the speaker, and it found an echo in the gentle
hearts round her. They knew that easy and comfortable as her lot was,
it did not lack its sad memories, and in three little graves in the
churchyard on the side of the hill were buried the dearest hopes of the
Squire and his wife.

Juliet took her godmother's hand and kissed it gratefully. 'How good
you are to me!' she whispered. The hand was passed softly over the fair
cheek, and then the broken thread of talk was taken up.

'We have another reason also. We think' (they were always one, the
Squire and his wife) 'that we ought not to remain strangers to the
next heir, who you know is my husband's great-nephew' (here the voice
trembled slightly); 'so we have arranged to meet him in London, and
hope to bring him back. We should like him to make acquaintance with
the old Hall before going abroad, as he talks of doing.'

We will not follow the ladies in all the plans that were necessary to
prepare for so great an event; female requirements were much the same
then as now, only the journey was a more considerable undertaking,
occupying several days, as they were to post. Presently they were
joined by the Rector, who gave a pleased adherence to the whole scheme.
'But,' he added, looking fondly at his younger daughter, 'will this
small head bear the weight of so much dissipation? She has never left
the nest before.' The thought of the separation brought a cloud over
Juliet's brow; but Madam said in her sweet way: 'Such birds will always
wing their way back;' and the shadows beginning to lengthen, she rose
to go. It was but a short walk across the fields, the houses being
within sight of each other, and the Rector accompanied her back to the
Hall.

Before the chestnut blossoms had faded, Dorothy found herself at home
alone; but time did not hang heavily; more little services fell upon
her, and there were little surprises to prepare, like small flints
with which to strike light even out of a loved one's absence; and the
parent hearts fearing she might be dull without her sister, devised
many little pleasures. There were long rounds with her father, and
kindly welcomes in many lowly homes; then came the sweet hay-time, and
hospitable teas in comfortable farm-houses; two or three visits were
even made to the nearest town, a two hours' drive, and there she found
many who claimed and valued the Rector's friendship. She always looked
back upon it as a time of peace. How often we are allowed to find an
Elim before resuming the weary desert march!

Letters then did not appear at the breakfast-table on the wings of the
penny postage, but waited for the cover of a friendly frank; and the
absence not being a long one, those from our travellers were few and
far between. Juliet spoke of the great city and the sights she had
seen; but the streets seemed dark and dull; people too did not seem
so cheerful as at home; and the Squire and his friends in their talks
often shook their heads and said: 'The times were so bad,' that it
sometimes gave her a frightened feeling as they drove slowly home at
night through the dark streets with flaring links. She liked best when
they went a day in the fine Park at Bushy, and Stafford Melton had
taken them upon the river. Yes; they had met the future heir of Melton
Hall, and he was to return with them.

Swiftly the days flew by, till one evening the Squire's carriage waited
at the Rectory gate to take them to meet the newly arrived travellers,
and father, mother, and Dorothy gladly obeyed the summons.

In the joy of the sisters' meeting, Dorothy was scarcely conscious
of the presence of a stranger, until she heard the Squire's voice
addressing her father: 'Our newly found nephew, Stafford Melton; we
want him to come and be at home among us; and as the Rectory and the
Hall have always been such old friends, we trust he will follow suit.'
The two gentlemen shook hands cordially; and then Dorothy in turn found
herself face to face with the new guest: 'Another young friend--Miss
Dorothy Olive Linley.' (The Squire, like the Vicar of Wakefield, loved
a full sounding name.)

So they all sat down to supper in the old wainscoted parlour, Mr and
Mrs Melton declaring there was no place like home. Dorothy found
herself wondering a little at Juliet's merry flow of talk with the
grave-looking stranger; but there was not time for reflection; indeed
there was so much to hear and tell, that when the sisters were once
more together in their own room, it was not until Juliet's pretty head
sank on the pillow for very weariness that the eager strains ceased;
they died away in a last question: 'Dorothy, what do you think of
Stafford Melton?'

'He has a good face,' replied Dorothy, musingly recalling it.

'Yes; but you should see his friend, Gilbert Strange.'


CHAPTER III.--VISITORS.

It was not long before Stafford Melton became quite at home; his grave
manner was only the indication of a thoughtful mind, and in nowise
implied a want of cheerfulness. Cordial as his relations with his uncle
became, it was at the Rectory he found the most sympathy. The Squire
was a politician of the old school, with a wholesome dread of anything
newfangled, while the young man had imbibed some of the rising spirit
of the age. '_I_,' Mr Linley was wont to say, 'am a man of peace, and
to avoid storms, eschew politics;' but he lent a willing ear to all
that was stirring men's minds--social questions, new inventions, and
the wonders beginning to be worked by the marvellous power of steam.
There was often another listener too; Dorothy followed these new tracks
of thought, and it was in the light of a new experience, every day
becoming deeper. She never asked herself what it might be that made
her feel such gladness, only when Stafford spoke of his travels in
prospect, her heart sank at the thought of what life would be like when
he had gone.

September came, and then she saw Gilbert Strange, Stafford's close
friend, whom the Squire had cordially invited to come and join their
sport when the vacation should set him free, for he was a young
barrister. Used to a life in town, he threw himself with almost boyish
ardour into their country pursuits; and his high spirits and courteous
ways soon endeared him to the little circle. He won the Squire's heart,
and many a cover they shot over together, for often Stafford, who was
no sportsman by choice, abandoned the gun for more peaceful rambles
with the Rector and deep discussions on the new theories of Culture.

'You see, Mrs Linley,' said Gilbert, as he joined them one evening to
find his truant friend, 'Fortune committed an error in casting our lots
in life. Stafford ought to have worn my wig and gown; while I--can you
not fancy the country Squire I should have made?'

Dorothy, who was sitting near, looked up from her work. 'Do you not
think, Mr Strange,' she asked, 'that it is better to improve your acres
than to shoot over them?'

'Miss Dorothy,' he said, in mock-appealing tones, 'I always remark that
you are severe upon my follies, and the worst part is, your arguments
are unanswerable. Stafford is happy in having so staunch a supporter.'
It was a random shot, but Dorothy felt the colour rise to her face; and
her mirthful adversary continued: 'I must retire from the field.--Miss
Juliet, will you be more lenient, and accord me a shelter?' Juliet
moved her seat to allow him to take one near, with a smile of welcome,
but said nothing. I think Gilbert was beginning to read even her
silences, and another heart too guessed their meaning.

Days flew by, but still the young men lingered. October was dying out
with such a flush of glory, it seemed like the last kiss of Summer.
'Oh, must it ever change to winter?' sighed Dorothy as from their
window she watched Juliet start on some kindly errand to a cottage
near. Only a little while she stepped out of the every-day world into
the ideal; her youth's golden dreams were passing away as swiftly as
that autumn time. Presently, her sister was again in sight, but this
time not alone. Oh, cruel picture set against the fair sky! what sharp
instinct like a quivering stab made it so clear? The little downcast
figure lifting its softened eyes in mute apology for the pain it gave,
and Stafford's well-known form bending towards it with sad earnest
pleading. They pause at length, and he crushing his hopes in a last
grasp of the little hand, turned and walked quickly away. Dorothy's
heart went out to him in pity and unknown sympathy--those two, so far
apart, and yet both passing through their baptism of fire. She could
not stand idle; she would go to meet her sister; there was nothing
strange in that; they often did so to each other; and swiftly she
hurried down the avenue into which Juliet had turned. She was met
almost sharply.

'Why, Dorothy, why did you come? Do you not see it is raining?'

Yes, the sun had gone down, and a soft October shower was dropping on
the dead leaves.

'I thought it would be dusk, dear, and you were alone.'

'Yes, at least now. But,' faltered Juliet, 'I met Stafford;' and with a
sudden outburst, she almost sobbed: 'Why should he love me? He wanted
me to be his wife!'

'And you could not?'

'I! O no--of course not.' Dorothy could not see the reason so plainly;
but Juliet seemed to do so very conclusively. 'I am so sorry,' she went
on. But her auditor cared to hear no more; she knew it now, and wanted
only to take up her steely shield of womanly pride. 'Had we not better
hasten in?' she said gently. Already the pretty frilled cape on her
shoulders hung limp with the damp.


CHAPTER IV.--IN DESOLATION UNREPINING.

That evening Juliet was tired, and sat quietly working; but Dorothy
read aloud and talked and went through the little home duties with the
iron entering her soul. O true words! None others so fitly express the
cold hard pressure of a hopeless pain. But such brave hearts do not go
through the conflict unaided; and often a passing shelter is provided,
into which they may creep till the worst is over.

The next day Dorothy's limbs ached, and her throat pained her. 'She
must have taken a chill last evening,' Juliet said; and for several
days she kept her room, waited on by loving hands. Even a mother's eyes
cannot always discern how much is ailment of the body and how much of
the mind. But Dorothy was almost thankful for the pain that laid her
quietly by, when nothing was expected of her; the trial could be faced,
the burden adjusted for every-day bearing, and she was spared even the
sight of Stafford. She heard the horses' feet beneath her window when
they came to take leave, and received their kindly messages. To Juliet
she never again spoke of that autumn afternoon. Perhaps Gilbert guessed
his friend's secret, and generously forbore to wound him further by
the sight of his own success; or perhaps he read his fate so surely
in Juliet's eyes that he felt secure in waiting. Certainly it was
not until some months after, when Stafford was away in foreign lands,
that he came to ask her to be his wife. It was not a long engagement.
There being no obstacles, they were soon married, and he took her away
to his London home. They sorely missed the bright young girl at the
Rectory, and father and mother drew more closely to the one daughter
left. Dorothy had passed into the bloom of womanhood before the blow
came that broke the little circle; the kindly Rector was laid in the
village churchyard, and then Mrs Linley and her daughter removed into
the neighbouring town.

As if to compensate for some things denied to Dorothy's lot in life,
Fortune's gifts were cast into her lap. The same cousin who years
before had bestowed the family living, dying childless, again benefited
his far-away relatives; and when the dear old Squire was gathered to
his fathers, he had not forgotten the children of his old friend. Thus
spared the thorn of poverty herself, Dorothy lightened it to many
another; and as time rolled on, was numbered in the ranks of those dear
maiden ladies (what should we do without them?) in whose lives are hid
many an unwritten story, and who make the sweetest aunties and such
dear old friends.

And did Dorothy lose all sight of Stafford Melton? No; bear witness,
years of kindly intercourse and loyal friendship. It has been said that
the hopes of the past are the best seed-bed of the future--even crushed
and broken ones bear their fruit.

When at length _he_ became master of Melton Hall, and brought home his
young bride, to whom should she, strong and proud in her husband's
love, turn so warmly as to his old friends Dorothy and her mother; and
when gentle Mrs Linley was laid beside her husband, the young mistress
at the Hall grieved for her almost like a daughter.

Dorothy Linley and Stafford Melton lived, in their respective walks
down the pathway of life, to see the ripening century roll its wealth
of marvels at the feet of another generation, and rejoiced in the
development of many of the theories of their youth; yet sometimes, as
they looked on the old spots, they spoke of years gone by, for they
were such old friends.




RABBITS IN NEW ZEALAND.


We already have had some remarks on the disastrous increase of rabbits
in South Australia; and now comes to us information from New Zealand,
that describes the alarming spread of the creatures in that colony,
into which they had been imprudently introduced about twenty years ago,
under a fancied notion of doing good.

It appears, says our authority, that it is about twelve years since the
rabbits began to attract attention by their numbers and the increasing
extent of their ravages in the district of Southland. In the immediate
neighbourhood of Invercargill, a tract of grass-land was first found
to be colonised by a large number of these rodents; and settlers in
more remote parts of the country came from time to time to trap a
few of the animals, and carry them away to various localities in the
interior. By this means new centres of reproduction were created;
and with the idea of conferring a benefit upon their neighbourhood
the colonists were unwittingly spreading and multiplying what has now
proved a uniform pest. The rabbits themselves gradually moved onwards,
in ever-increasing numbers, leaving what was once a country of rolling
sward and valuable grass-land a complete desert. During the last two
years the greatest impulse seems to have been given to their migration,
and they may now be found in suitable localities swarming on the banks
of rivers, in the sunny grassy uplands, and surmounting the highest
ranges of hills.

It has been calculated that, from the number of times they breed, the
number of their progeny, and the early age at which the young begin
to reproduce their species, a pair of rabbits will multiply to the
amount of a million and a quarter in the space of four years! When
the exceptional advantages which they meet with in New Zealand are
considered, in the absence of enemies, the sparse population of the
country, and the abundance of food which they can obtain, it is not
surprising that they have increased enormously.

The matter indeed is becoming one of very great danger to the welfare
of the colony; so much so, that a special Commission has been appointed
by the government to inquire into the subject. Without quoting an array
of figures to prove the harm which has been wrought in a few short
years, it may truly be said that large tracts of rich pasture-land
have been converted into a veritable wilderness. The sheep-farmers and
cattle-raisers find their occupation is becoming impossible. The yield
of wool is falling off fifty and sixty per cent. in quantity, while
its quality is deteriorating. The lack of food has caused many farmers
who used to kill two thousand five hundred animals out of a stock of
sixteen thousand, to reduce their stock to a few hundreds, hardly any
of which are fit to be killed. The number of lambs in proportion to the
ewes kept has fallen from sixty-five or seventy per cent. to in some
cases twelve and a half per cent.

It must not be imagined that no efforts have been made to keep down
the pests. Large numbers of men and dogs are employed specially for
the purpose of shooting and trapping the rabbits. In one run, where
scarcely a rabbit was to be seen three years ago, there are now sixteen
men and one hundred and twenty dogs employed; costing the lessee
twopence for each rabbit-skin brought in, and ten shillings per week
for each man, besides the expense of keep and powder and shot. And the
numbers killed are enormous. On this run, says the official Report,
the average number of rabbits killed weekly is between four and five
thousand; and though thirty-six thousand were killed in 1875, yet the
report is that there is no appreciable decrease. On another run, close
on sixteen thousand rabbits were killed during the first three months
of the year 1876 at a cost of twopence a skin. On a third, the expense
each week averages twenty-seven pounds; and fifty thousand rabbits
were killed in the first four months of 1876. On a fourth run, nine men
are employed with sixty dogs, killing at the rate of two thousand per
week.

One landowner, in despair of reclaiming a large tract of land infested
by these destructive rodents, inclosed an area of ten thousand acres
with a solid masonry wall, the foundations of which were dug down to
the hard rock, to prevent any chance of the rabbits burrowing under it.
Seven years were occupied in erecting this 'great wall'--an undertaking
comparable with the ancient walls built in the north of England to
keep out the Picts and Scots--and thirty-five thousand pounds were
expended in the course of the work. What a happy family the countless
myriads of rabbits in that area must be, if they have not already
starved themselves to death! This heroic remedy was adopted not only in
New Zealand but in Victoria; for others of our Australasian colonies
besides New Zealand have (as we have already shewn in the former
article) suffered from a scourge of conies. Tasmania and Victoria and
South Australia have been made the victims of a misplaced confidence in
the virtues of the rabbit. The chief inspector of sheep in Tasmania,
writing in 1875, stated that at that time the rabbits were consuming
sufficient food to support two hundred and fifty thousand sheep, and
thus causing a direct annual loss to the colony of sixty-two thousand
pounds, without taking into account the money expended in keeping them
down. In all these colonies special laws have been made for the purpose
of dealing with these troublesome inhabitants. The main feature of the
system adopted is that trustees are appointed, who have power to levy
a rate on the lands in 'proclaimed districts,' the proceeds of which
are expended in a specially organised campaign against the rabbits;
and generally good results have followed these operations. There are
runs in Tasmania on which a good shot could bag three to four hundred
bunnies in a day six years ago, but where half-a-dozen could not now be
seen in the same time.

Some enterprising individuals have put into practice the old motto
that 'Out of evil cometh good,' by buying up the slaughtered hosts
of rabbits, cooking their bodies, and preserving them in tins as an
article of food, and preparing their skins for the market. Nearly half
a million rabbit-skins were exported from Hobart-Town in 1874, valued
at three thousand seven hundred and twenty-five pounds.

What has been done in Australia and Tasmania ought _primâ facie_ to
be as easily accomplished in New Zealand. So urgent, however, are
the representations of the farmers--and so great the fear of the
government, which derives a large revenue from the rents paid for
land, that this source of income will fail, as the land threatens soon
to become worthless--that it is proposed to supplement such measures
by a state grant in aid of the war against the invaders, and by the
introduction of natural enemies, such as stoats, weasels, ferrets, and
hawks; and means have already been taken to send a few of our surplus
stock of these invaluable animals from England. If ordinary measures of
this kind are not sufficient to keep in check the inordinate increase
of an animal which will reproduce itself a million and a quarter times
in the space of four years, extraordinary means must be adopted.




THE MONTH:

SCIENCE AND ARTS.


'On the Transport of Solid and Liquid Particles in Sewer Gases,' is
the title of a short paper by Dr Frankland, read at a meeting of the
Royal Society. That particles of many kinds are constantly floating
in the atmosphere, even at great heights, is well known. At times
noxious or deadly particles are diffused among the mass, and disease
and death are the consequence. Dr Frankland has proved by experiment
that noxious particles can be conveyed long distances, and he sums
up his conclusions thus: '1. The moderate agitation of a liquid does
not cause the suspension of liquid particles capable of transport by
the circumambient air, and therefore the flow of fresh sewage through
a properly constructed sewer is not likely to be attended by the
suspension of zymotic matters in the air of the sewer. 2. The breaking
of minute gas bubbles on the surface of a liquid is a potent cause of
the suspension of transportable liquid particles in the surrounding
air; and therefore when, through the stagnation of sewage, putrefaction
sets in, and causes the generation of gases, the suspension of zymotic
matters in the air of the sewer is extremely likely to occur. 3. It is
therefore of the greatest importance to the health of towns, villages,
and even isolated houses, that foul liquids should pass freely and
quickly through sewers and drain-pipes, so as to complete their
discharge from the sewerage system before putrefaction sets in.'

The Birmingham Corporation sewage-works comprise a farm of two hundred
and sixty-six acres in the valley of the Tame. The outflow of the two
main sewers is treated with lime, which throws down the solid matters;
and after the sewage has crossed a few tanks, the liquid portion flows
into the Tame in a condition much less impure than the water of the
river itself. The deposited sludge amounts to nearly four hundred tons
a day. Great part of this is utilised by 'double-digging' of it into
the land, three years being required to dig the whole farm. Another
part is converted into Roman cement by General Scott's process.

The results appear to be satisfactory, for we are informed that 'the
rye-grass grown on the farm averages from thirteen to fourteen tons
an acre at each cutting, and several cuttings are obtained each year.
After each cutting the land is immediately irrigated thoroughly with
sewage, and in about three weeks the next crop is generally ready for
cutting.'

At Manchester the Health Committee collect the excrementitious matters
and other house-refuse in properly constructed vans, which are cleansed
after each journey to the yard in the outskirts. There the whole mass
is sorted; and what that sorting involves may be judged of from the
fact that the quantity collected each week amounts to about three
thousand tons, comprising 'paper, one ton; rags, three tons; dead
dogs, cats, rats, guinea-pigs, and other animals, two tons; stable
manure, seventeen tons; meat tins and old tin and iron, thirty-three
tons; refuse from slaughter-houses and fish-shops, sixty tons; broken
pots, bottles, and glasses, eighty tons; vegetable refuse, door-mats,
table-covers, floor-cloths, and old straw mattresses, one hundred tons;
fine ashes, one thousand two hundred and thirty tons; cinders, one
thousand four hundred tons.'

In a communication to the Scientific and Mechanical Society of
Manchester, from the _Proceedings_ of which these particulars are
taken, it is further stated that 'not only is patent manure produced,
but disinfecting powder, mortar, fuel, and other useful commodities,
all from the vilest refuse; and another matter for wonder is that all
this abominable stuff is worked up with so little offensive smell
arising from it. In addition to these works, there are workshops in
which the Corporation make their own vans, pails, harness, and other
requisite appliances for dealing with the new system of treating
town-refuse.' No coal is bought: the cinders brought in furnish
fuel enough for all the furnaces and heating apparatus, and for the
'destructors,' in which the absolute refuse which was formerly piled in
huge heaps in different parts of the city, is burnt into harmlessness,
while the heat is communicated to a neighbouring 'concretor.' 'The
spent fuel,' we are told, 'is carted to the mills, and is there
converted into mortar, a mortar too of the best description, as the
samples of brickwork built with it abundantly testify.' Some of the
most offensive refuse is passed through the 'carbonisers,' and 'is
resolved into a perfectly harmless material.' From all this we learn
that the art of keeping a town thoroughly clean may be made to occupy a
high place among the useful arts.

The manufacture of iodine by distillation of seaweed, established a few
years ago in the isle of Tyree and other parts of the West Highlands,
still goes on, and as is stated, with tenfold increase. The selling
price, which used to be 1s. 3d. per ounce, is now not more than 5¾d.

In America it has been discovered that the canker-worm, which infests
fruit-trees to a mischievous extent, can be effectually checked and
destroyed by smearing the stem and branches with printers' ink. It is
interesting to know that there are two ways in which printers' ink can
be made use of for the suppression of pests. And in France experience
has proved that the _Phylloxera_ can be destroyed by planting red maize
between the rows of vines. The insects quit the vines and attack the
maize-roots.

Meteorologists are well aware of the fact, that as a rule the
barometer rises and falls twice within the twenty-four hours. Wherever
observations are made, this movement is seen; and attempts have been
made to refer it to the influence of tides in the air. But what causes
the aërial tides? Some observers say magnetism, others say heat and
differences of temperature. Mr Blanford, meteorological reporter to the
government of India, has studied the subject; and in a communication
to the Asiatic Society of Bengal, he remarks: 'It appears in a high
degree probable that a great part of the diurnal irregularity of the
barometric tides is due to the transfer of air from land to sea, and
_vice versâ_, and to a similar transfer which may be proved to take
place between the plains and the mountains. But the phenomenon is
very complex, and much study and labour are yet required to unravel
its elements, consisting as they do partly of elastic and reactionary
pressure, partly of dynamic pressure, and partly of variations in
the static pressure of the atmosphere. Till this shall have been
done, and it shall be found, after all, that heat and its effects are
insufficient to explain the phenomenon, it seems premature to resort to
magnetic and electrical phenomena for the explanation of the barometric
tides.'

Amateur meteorologists would do well to remember that the
trustworthiness of the anemometer as a measurer of the force of the
wind is seriously affected by the presence of trees; even a single tree
will exert a disturbing influence. For wind-observations, the more open
the space the better. We hear that the Meteorological Office is about
to place at a high elevation an anemometer which will indicate its work
to the observer below by telegraph. In the study of the weather, it
would often be of advantage to know the rate and force of the wind on
the top of St Paul's or Ben Lomond.

It had been noticed that ozone was developed by the spray of water
when under pressure; Signor Bellucci was thereby induced to make
observations at the Falls of Terni 'to ascertain if ozone was produced
by the natural pulverisation of the water, especially as he had often
noticed there the characteristic odour of ozone.' The tests employed
completely demonstrated the presence of ozone, and that the quantity
varied with the volume of water rushing over the Falls. From this
result Signor Bellucci concludes that wherever water is converted into
powder or spray, whether by a cascade, a torrent, or by the rolling
of waves, there ozone is produced. 'It is noteworthy that the air
over the surface of the ocean is richer in ozone than that collected
on land. Hence the production of ozone may be due to the electrical
state induced by the friction of the minute drops of water against one
another, which is increased by the mineral matter suspended or even
dissolved in the water.'

Land flooded by the sea generally remains barren many years. The
_Journal_ of the Chemical Society gives a German chemist's explanation
of the reason why. The land is charged with too large a proportion
of chlorine salts; it has a tendency to remain damp; and there is
a formation of ferrous sulphate, which, as is known, exerts a very
prejudicial influence on plant-growth. Land when brought into this
condition by an inflow of the sea, should be drained as quickly as
possible, and sown with grass or clover and allowed to rest. Experience
shews that it recovers its fertility sooner if treated in this way,
than when cultivated all the year round as arable land.

In the course of a lecture on the Motion of Waves in Air and Water, by
Professor Guthrie, a light, hollow india-rubber ball was floated on
water, and a vibrating tuning-fork was held near it. The ball moved
towards and followed the fork. Why? Some people might say that the
fork attracted the ball; but the lecturer decided that attraction had
nothing to do with it. Each oscillation of a wave is followed by a
reflection: in this case, the reflection pushed the farther side of the
ball; from which the conclusion was drawn 'that there is no such thing
as attraction--that the apparent pull will be found to be a push from
the opposite direction. The approach,' said Professor Guthrie, 'need
not necessarily be called attraction, and it is better in all cases to
substitute the word approach, which is a fact, for attraction, which is
a theory.'

Mr Siemens' paper on the Bathometer, which we noticed some months ago,
is now published in the _Philosophical Transactions_. Objections have
been made to the instrument as an indicator of the depth of the sea,
because the sea-level is disturbed by the attraction of large masses of
land. Mr Siemens answers that he is aware of the objection; that the
bathometer is not expected to do more than indicate comparatively small
variations in total terrestrial attraction, which the hydrographer or
navigator using the instrument will have to interpret according to the
circumstances of the case. If the zero-point of the instrument varies
with the latitude, or in consequence of special geological causes, we
must bear in mind that these causes are of a permanent character, and
that when an ocean has been once surveyed by means of the bathometer,
the special local conditions become observed facts, and would thus
serve to increase the value of the bathometer as an instrument for
measuring the depth of the sea without the use of the sounding-line.

At a meeting held at Salem, Massachusetts, a lecture on 'Visible
Speech' was delivered by Professor Graham Bell, who, by means of
the drum in a human ear cut from a dead subject, has succeeded in
producing a phonautograph. The ear is placed in the end of an ordinary
speaking-trumpet; on speaking into the trumpet the drum is set in
motion; this moves the style; the style traces the effect on a plate
of smoked glass; and by means of a camera the curves and lines can be
exhibited to a large number of spectators. The five vowels make five
different curves; and according to Mr Bell, there is no such thing as a
sound or tone pure and simple, but each is a composite of a number of
tones; and the wavelets by which these are produced can also be shewn
on a screen. Tables of the various symbols have been drawn up, and
found useful for educational purposes, as was demonstrated by a young
deaf and dumb pupil from the Boston Institution, who interpreted the
symbols at sight.

Professor Bell has improved the method devised by his father, formerly
of University College, London, for rendering speech visible; and
as is well known, membranes have long been used for experiments in
acoustics. Some of our readers may remember the experiments of Mr W. H.
Barlow, F.R.S., described in his paper 'On the Pneumatic Action which
accompanies the Articulation of the Human Voice,' read two years ago
at the Royal Society, and published in vol. 22 of their _Proceedings_.
And within the past few weeks we learn that the telephone has been so
far improved that an account of a public meeting was talked into one
end of a wire and was distinctly heard and understood at a distance of
eighteen miles.

There is good news for eaters of fish, for the government of
Newfoundland have recently ascertained from the survey made by
Professor Hind, under their authority, that the fishing-grounds off
the coast of Labrador cover an area of more than seven thousand
geographical square miles; about a thousand more than the Newfoundland
fisheries. And there is good prospect of duration, for the Arctic drift
brings down infinite quantities of the infusorial animals on which the
cod-fish delight to feed. Owing to the higher latitude, the fishing
season varies from that of Newfoundland; and it is found that the cod
approach the shore one week later for every degree of latitude, going
northwards. The coast of Labrador is described as similar to that of
Norway, bare and rocky, and cut by fiords, some of which penetrate
seventy miles inland. A summer cruise along that coast would be an
interesting adventure for some of our yachtsmen.

The Smithsonian Institution at Washington does not confine itself
exclusively to science, but makes itself useful in other ways. One of
these ways is fish-culture; and we find from a recent Report, that in
three years 1873-75, the Institution distributed forty millions of
fish. Among these, shad and two kinds of salmon were the most numerous.
The distribution is carried on under the superintendence of Professor
Baird, an American naturalist of high repute.

A recently published part of the Royal Asiatic Society's _Journal_
contains a report of a meeting held some months ago in which Sir H.
Rawlinson stated that from the further investigations that had taken
place there was reason to believe 'that the Hittites were really the
chief people intervening between Egypt and Assyria, and that to them we
owe the intercommunication of the art of those two countries.'

At the same meeting, Professor Monier Williams, in giving an account of
his visit to India, mentioned that while there he had heard the learned
men speak Sanscrit with astonishing fluency; and that in his opinion
the day is approaching when Sanscrit will be as much studied in England
as Greek.

One of the English delegates who took part in the International
Statistical Congress held last September at Buda-Pesth, remarks on
the disadvantage under which the Hungarians lie in their isolation
from other nations by their language. It is a serious obstacle to
their development; and as antipathies of race prevent their adoption
of German, he recommends that they should take to English. In this he
says: 'There would be no race difficulties, and the use of English
would aid the Hungarians in more ways than one, and secure for them a
predominance on the Lower Danube.'

If the present enthusiasm for African travel should continue, Africa
will, before many years are over, cease to be an unknown country.
Travellers from Germany, France, Belgium, Italy, and Portugal, are
either actually at work or about to commence their explorations, in
addition to the Englishmen who are always pushing their way into the
interior. And now that Colonel Gordon (Gordon Pasha) has been appointed
by the Khedive of Egypt governor of Sudan, facilities for travel in the
equatorial regions may be looked for, and Æthiopia will cease to be a
mystery.

We are informed that the use of leather belts for transmission of power
in factories is more widely spread in the manufacturing districts than
is implied in our paragraph on that subject (_ante_, p. 63), and that
in the Anchor Thread Works at Paisley, where the belts were adopted
four years ago, two thousand five hundred horse-power are transmitted
by means thereof.

We take this opportunity of correcting an error in our recent article
on _Austrian Arctic Discovery_. Lieutenant Payer's farthest point north
ought to have been 82° 5′ instead of 85° 5′.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._







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