The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 37, Vol. I, September 13, 1884
    
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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 37, Vol. I, September 13, 1884

Author: Various

Release date: September 7, 2021 [eBook #66236]
                Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 37, VOL. I, SEPTEMBER 13, 1884 ***

[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 37.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1884.      PRICE 1½ _d._]




JOINT-STOCK COMPANIES AND ‘LIMITED LIABILITY.’


Readers of newspapers must have frequently observed in the advertising
columns of most of the daily journals lengthy prospectuses setting
forth in roseate terms the why and the wherefore of various public
Companies. These prospectuses are published with the view of inducing
investors, or those having capital at command, to embark money in
the projected undertakings, the majority of which are new ventures,
formed, perhaps, to work a tin or silver mine; to manufacture some
patented article; to advance money on land and house property; to
conduct banking or insurance business; to construct tramways; to rear
and sell cattle on some prairie of the Far West; or some other of
the hundred-and-one openings that present themselves for commercial
dealings. Indeed, there is no end to the variety of objects that may
be selected as fitting media for joint-stock enterprise. The titles
of the Companies bear the word ‘Limited’ tacked on to them. It is the
purpose of this article to explain the meaning of the term, and at the
same time give a slight general exposition of the law affecting such
joint-stock Companies.

A Company of the nature indicated above is simply an association or
partnership entered into by a number of individuals—not fewer than
seven—who take shares, not necessarily in equal proportions, in the
joint-stock of the concern, the main object being the proportionate
division of possible profits. When the joint agreement complies with
the obligations laid down by statute, and is registered according to
law, the subscribers become a corporation, and their Company has a
common seal and ‘perpetual succession,’ to use a legal expression. It
is only recently, comparatively speaking, that joint-stock Companies
have existed in large numbers. Formerly, the formation of a Company
was a difficult and costly operation, as a Royal Charter had to be
specially obtained, or an Act of Parliament passed for the purpose.
In the year 1844, however, an Act came into force which enabled
joint-stock Companies to become incorporated by registering in a
particular way, after certain preliminaries had been gone through.
Still the manner of proceeding was inconvenient, and something simpler
was urgently required. Business men and investors wanted greater
facilities for launching joint-stock enterprises, and for the risking
of a certain sum of money, and no more, in such concerns, thereby
setting a limit to their liability. According to the old law of
partnership, each and every member of a corporation or Company was
liable to the utmost extent of his means for the liabilities that
might have been contracted on behalf of the undertaking. A recent and
peculiarly disastrous instance of this occurred in the ruinous downfall
of the City of Glasgow Bank, which with its collapse brought beggary to
families innumerable, the various shareholders being liable to their
last farthing for the enormous load of debt due by the bank at the time
of the crash.

What is now known as ‘limited liability’ was first introduced in
1855, parliament having slowly moved in the matter, and passed an Act
formulating the principle. It was, however, in the year following
that ‘limited liability’ was placed on a firm footing, the previous
Act being repealed, and a new one passed, which likewise embodied
procedure for what is called the ‘winding-up’ or dissolution of
Companies. Various laws affecting the constitution and proceedings of
joint-stock corporations had been passed previously and in addition
to those mentioned above; but there being much confusion, through
the many separate statutes, a successful attempt was made in 1862
to consolidate the various laws, and ‘The Companies’ Act’ was then
passed. This statute is now the recognised code applicable to the
joint-stock Companies of the United Kingdom; and new Companies, with
few exceptions, are incorporated under its provisions. This general
Act also enabled Companies then existent to register themselves under
the new order of things. It may not be generally known that this
statute prohibits the formation of partnerships exceeding a given
number of partners, unless such associations are incorporated under
the provisions of the Act, or by a special Act of Parliament, or by
letters-patent—modes so unusual that they may be almost laid out of
consideration. It would thus appear that partnerships of individuals
in excess of the number set down by law and not incorporated, are
illegal. As already stated, a Company must have not fewer than seven
shareholders; and not more than twenty people can enter into a business
with the object of gaining money, unless legally incorporated, though
exceptions are made if the business be mining within the jurisdiction
of the Court of Stannaries. The term ‘stannaries’ refers to the tin
mines and works of Devon and Cornwall. If the business be that of
banking, the number of persons is restricted to ten. One essential
feature of joint-stock investment is that the shares therein may be
transferred by any member holding them without the consent of the other
shareholders, unless, of course, the rules of the particular Company
provide otherwise. Now, in ordinary partnerships, a partner must obtain
the consent of his fellow-partners before disposing of his interest in
the concern.

All joint-stock Companies, even at the present time, are not
incorporated under the Act of 1862. When the object of a proposed
undertaking is a great public work, such as the construction of a
line of railway, canal or water works, and when compulsory powers
are required to purchase land, it is usual to obtain a special Act
of Parliament in order to establish the Company and regulate its
proceedings. As of old, such an endeavour is difficult and, as a rule,
costly to carry through successfully. Difficult from the fact that
most schemes of supposed public utility are sure to have a host of
opponents, who fight the matter inch by inch. Costly, too, because,
if a private bill is opposed in its passage through the Committees of
the Houses of Parliament, counsel—who require enormous fees—have to be
engaged to defend the interests of the promoters; witnesses to give
evidence as to the necessity for the line of railway, water-works, or
whatever it may happen to be, have to be sent to London and kept there
at much expense; and the solicitors who distribute the expenses retain
always a considerable share for themselves. It must not be forgotten,
too, that newspapers share to a certain extent in the spoil, as the
long parliamentary notices of private bills which appear generally
during the month of November in each year have to be paid for at a
goodly rate.

After the Act of 1862 became law, a great number of Companies were
originated, and each year sees them increasing, though the financial
panic of 1866 was a great check to the promoters of such concerns,
and a caution to enthusiastic believers in them. As may be supposed,
Great Britain is foremost in this mode of investment; though several
continental countries, notably France and the Netherlands, possess many
commercial associations based on the plan of limited liability. In the
United States, also, the method of limited responsibility has been long
adopted. The evil experiences of the ‘black year’ of 1866 resulted in
the passing of a short Act of Parliament in 1867, amending in some
degree that of 1862, and affording a certain amount of protection to
intending shareholders. These have been supplemented by other Acts,
the latest of which passed in 1880. It is far from creditable to our
commercial morality that many Companies started of late years have
proved to be worthless bubbles, profitable only to their promoters and
wire-pullers, and ruinous to the luckless investors. The legislature
protects the pockets of the public to some extent; but it remains for
intending shareholders in joint-stock Companies to aid themselves, by
first inquiring thoroughly into the merits of the undertaking into
which they propose embarking capital, and believing nothing that is not
put before them in clear, definite, unambiguous language.

Limited liability may be attained in two ways. The shareholders of a
Company can limit their liability either to the amount not paid up on
their shares—if there be any so unpaid—or to such sum as each may agree
to contribute to the assets of the Company, if it should require to
be wound up. In other words, the liability may be limited by shares
or limited by guarantee. Most Companies are limited by shares. By
this it is meant that a shareholder is liable to be called upon to
pay, if required, a sum of money regulated by the shares he holds.
Once the amount is paid, his liability is at an end, and he need not
pay a farthing more, however great the liabilities of the concern may
be. To put the matter on a plainer footing. If A B, a supposititious
shareholder, take a hundred shares in a limited Company, which has,
say, a capital of fifty thousand pounds in ten thousand shares of five
pounds each, he of course risks five hundred pounds in the concern,
and no more. The whole amount may not be paid up at once; but he is
required to make good the sum, should it be wanted. The usual plan in
applying for shares in a new Company with a share capital as indicated
above is to pay a portion—say ten shillings per share—on application,
other ten shillings on allotment, and the remainder of the five pounds
by calls of perhaps one pound each at intervals of probably three
months. However, the division of the payments depends greatly on the
nature of the undertaking; some Companies can be worked at first with a
comparatively small portion of the stated capital. If A B has only paid
two pounds per share, and the Company in which he is a part-proprietor
should unfortunately require to be wound up, he is liable to be called
upon by the liquidator in charge of the winding-up to pay the remaining
amount, so as to make his shares fully paid up. When the liability
is by guarantee, each member of the Company undertakes, in the event
of the concern being dissolved, to contribute a fixed sum towards
the assets and the winding-up expenses. This sum being fixed at the
formation of the Company, each member knows the utmost sum he will have
to contribute, should it prove a failure and liquidation be resorted
to. Some financiers think the latter plan of limited liability the
better of the two. In Companies constituted in the ordinary manner, it
is common to find that all the capital has been called-up, so that if
the evil day does arrive, and creditors, growing clamorous, institute
proceedings for winding-up, they may find the original capital
dissipated and nothing left to satisfy their demands, save, possibly, a
worked-out mine and a quantity of old-fashioned or worthless machinery.
Now, under the guarantee system there is always a fund, more or less
great, available for the payment of liabilities; and this fund cannot
be handled by directors or officials, but must remain intact, to be
used for its destined purpose. From the creditors’ point of view, this
is highly satisfactory; but the guarantee system is not likely to
recommend itself to shareholders where capital is required to carry on
the business.

When a Company is to be started, the first step is the drawing-up
of a Memorandum of Association. This document details the name of
the Company, its registered office, the objects of the undertaking,
whatever they may be, the manner of liability, the amount of capital,
and how it is to be divided into shares. Then the persons—not fewer
than seven—who are desirous of forming themselves into a Company
subscribe their names, stating the number of shares they agree to take.
All the law requires them to take is one share each, so that a Company
with a very large nominal capital of one-pound shares might begin and
perhaps carry on operations with a real capital of seven pounds only,
represented by the seven shares issued to the original septet forming
the Company. The fixing of a title is comparatively easy, though, of
course, it must not clash with that of any existing corporation. Once
named, it is seldom that a Company changes its cognomen; still, if
desirous of doing so, there are provisions in the Act for enabling
this to be done. The registered office of the Company demands some
explanation. A registered office of a joint-stock Company may be termed
its house or domicile, where legal documents may be served, where the
books required by Act of Parliament are kept, and where the association
is to be found ‘in the body,’ so to speak. The place of business or
works of the Company may be elsewhere—Timbuctoo, Colorado, or anywhere
else, if the Company’s sphere of operations be foreign; but the
registered office must be in Great Britain, that is, if the corporation
is one of British origin. It may be noted that once the office is fixed
in any one part of the United Kingdom—England, for example—it cannot be
shifted to Scotland or Ireland, though it may be removed to any other
place in England. The same rule applies to Scotland and Ireland. Thus,
if the office of a Scotch Company be registered as being at Dundee, it
could not legally be changed to Carlisle; though it could be removed,
should occasion require, to Wick or Edinburgh, or to any other city or
town in Scotland.

When the Memorandum of Association is properly settled, it is necessary
to consider whether the Company should be registered with Articles
of Association or without them. These Articles are the rules and
regulations for the management of the Company, the issuing of shares,
the holding of meetings, the auditing of books and accounts, and
such-like necessary business. Unlimited Companies, and also those
limited by guarantee, cannot be registered without special Articles of
Association; but for the ordinary class of Companies—that is, those
limited by shares—the Act gives a form of Articles which may be adopted
by promoters in whole or in part or not at all, and with or without
special articles in addition. If these are not adopted, it is necessary
to have special Articles for the guidance of the business. After the
Memorandum and Articles have been duly signed and witnessed, they are
next stamped and taken to the Registrar of Joint-stock Companies.
If the registered office is in England and Wales, the Registrar at
Somerset House, London, is the proper official to apply to; if in
Scotland or Ireland, then the respective Registrars at Edinburgh and
Dublin take the matter in hand. Should everything be in due legal form,
a certificate of registration is issued, and the Company becomes a
corporation.

A Company may begin business as soon as it is registered; but this is
not usual, as it is seldom that a sufficient number of shares have
been subscribed to afford the requisite capital. To procure this,
either before or after registration, the promoters issue a prospectus,
stating the objects and prospects of the undertaking, and inviting
investors to become shareholders in the Company. It may be taken for
granted that the objects and intentions of the Company are set forth in
very captivating style, and that the best face is put on the matter,
so that those having capital at command and on the outlook for media
for investment may be induced to subscribe. The great vehicle for
giving publicity to these prospectuses is the daily and weekly press,
though thousands of them, printed in quarto or folio, are sent through
the post to the private addresses of well-to-do persons throughout
the country. If the advertising has had due effect, and a sufficient
subscription has been obtained, the directors hold a meeting and
proceed to allot shares. Of course, it is not always the case that the
shares are subscribed by the public; in fact it is a matter of chance
whether they are ‘taken up’ or not. In the case of a failure of this
kind, it is said then that the Company has failed to ‘float,’ and the
heavy preliminary expenses thus fall upon the originators. In allotting
shares to subscribers, the directors may accept or reject applications,
or allot a smaller number of shares than that applied for; and they
are not compelled to allot in proportion to the applicants. Thus A B
may get the hundred shares he wanted; while X Y, who likewise desired
one hundred shares, only has fifty put down to his name. All these
preliminary matters being fairly and squarely gone through, the Company
can then proceed to business, though there are various forms to be
complied with, the description of which scarcely comes within the scope
of the present article.

The beginning of the ‘last scene of all, that ends, or may end, this
strange eventful history,’ is the winding-up proceedings. A joint-stock
Company once formed, can only be dissolved by means of ‘winding-up.’
The general grounds for winding-up may be stated as follows: whenever
the Company passes a special resolution to that effect—whenever
business is not commenced within a year from the incorporation of
the Company, or when business is suspended for one year—whenever the
members are reduced below the legal number of seven—whenever the
Company is unable to pay its lawful debts—and lastly, whenever the
Court deems it just and equitable that the Company should be wound-up.
The liquidating or winding-up is generally a tedious process; but it
will not be necessary to detail here the varied forms of procedure
which come under that head. What has been here set down is simply
the A B C of the subject, the varied ramifications of which cover a
deal of ground, and occasionally run into many dark thickets, some
of them dangerous to creditors, some to directors, but nearly all to
shareholders. These last ought always to walk warily, and never, if
possible, without full knowledge and the best procurable advice of
stockbrokers, bankers, lawyers, and others versed in the mysteries and
risks of speculation, whether ‘limited’ or otherwise.




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER XLVI.—DOWNHILL.

After that dumb leave-taking of Madge at the station, Philip returned
to his chambers, passing through the human torrent of Cheapside
without any sense of sound, touch, or feeling. The room in which she
had so lately stood looked desolate somehow; and yet her visit was
like an ill-remembered dream. Only the plaintive voice with the faint
‘Good-bye’ haunted his ears. The sound was still in them, move where he
would.

He tried to shake off the stupor which had fastened upon him as the
natural result of narcotics, overstrained nerves, and want of sleep.
One clear idea remained to him: so far as Madge was concerned, he had
acted as a man ought to act in his circumstances. Dick Crawshay would
speedily satisfy her on that score. There was a tinge of bitterness in
this reflection; and the bitterness brought a gleam of light, although
not sufficient yet to dispel the confused shadows of his brain. It
sufficed, however, to make him aware that it was Wrentham’s vague
whisperings about Beecham, and Madge’s strange association with that
person, which had urged him to act so harshly. For after all, there
was no reason why he should not work his way out of the mess and win
sufficient means to make Madge content, however far the position might
be below that in which he would like to place her. But the haunting
voice echoed its ‘Good-bye,’ and it seemed as if he had put away the
love which might have sustained him in this time of trial. ‘What a
fool, what a fool!’ And he paced the floor restlessly, repeating that
melancholy confession.

He wished Wrentham would come back, so that he might discuss the state
of affairs again, and obtain explanations of certain items in the
accounts he had gone over during the night. There he was at last, and
something particular must have happened to make him knock so violently.

He threw open the door, and Mr Shield entered in his hurried blustering
way, bringing with him a mixed aroma of brandy and gin. His bushy beard
and whiskers were tangled, and his somewhat bloodshot eyes stared
fiercely into space.

‘Pretty mess—horrible mess,’ he muttered in his jerky manner, as he
forced his way into the room and flung his huge form on the couch; ‘and
I can’t get you out of it. I’m in a mess too.’

The surprise at the appearance of Shield, his rough manner, and the
announcement he made, roused Philip most effectually from his own
morbid broodings.

‘You in a mess, sir—I do not understand.’ In his bewilderment, he
omitted the welcome which he would have given at any other time, and
did not even express surprise that Shield should have answered his
letter in person.

‘You’ll get it into your head quick enough.—Give me a drink
first—brandy, if you have it. Take a cigar. They’re first-rate. Drink,
smoke, and I’ll tell you.’

He threw a huge cigar on the table, and lit one himself in a furious
way. But, in spite of his rough reckless manner, he was watching Philip
narrowly from under his heavy eyebrows. Philip having mechanically
placed a bottle and glass on the table, stood waiting explanations.

‘Light up.’ (The command was obeyed slowly.) ‘Give us soda.... Ah,
that’s better. Take some—you’ll want it to keep your courage up.’

‘Not at present, thank you. I should be glad if you would tell me
at once the meaning of your strange statement that you too are in
difficulties. That fact makes my loss of your money so much the worse.’

‘It’s bad—bad. Easily told. Think of me doing it! Got into a bogus
thing—lost every available penny I had. That’s why there is no help for
you.’

Mr Shield did not look like a person who had fallen from the height of
fortune to the depth of poverty. He drank and smoked as one indifferent
to the severest buffets of fate.

‘Gracious powers—you cannot be serious!’ ejaculated Philip.

‘Fact, all the same. Not ruin exactly; but not a brass farthing to come
to me for a year or more.’

Philip paced the floor in agitation, unable to realise immediately the
horrible calamity which had befallen his uncle. But the severity of the
shock had the effect of rousing him to new life and vigour. All his
misfortunes dwindled to pettiness beside those of his benefactor. He
stopped before him, calm, and with an expression of firmness to which
the lines made by recent calamities added strength. There was no more
wildness in the eyes; he had suddenly grown old.

‘I understand, Mr Shield, that your present position is no better than
my own?’ he said slowly.

‘Not much—maybe worse.’

‘It shall not be worse, for whatever I can gain by any labour or skill
is yours.’

‘So?’ grunted Shield as he drank and stared at the man through clouds
of smoke.

‘Yes, my course is plain,’ Philip went on deliberately; ‘we must sell
the works and material for what they will fetch; they ought to fetch
more than enough to clear off the debts.’

‘Well?’

‘I believed—and still believe—that if you had been able to make the
necessary advances, we could have carried the scheme to a successful
issue, notwithstanding my blunders. My first mistake was in beginning
on too big a scale. That cannot be helped. Now we have to look the ruin
straight in the face, and whatever work can do to make you feel your
losses less, it shall be done.’

‘Don’t see how it’s to be done,’ muttered Shield, as if finding a
difficulty somewhere.

‘We’ll try our best at anyrate; and you will believe, Mr Shield, that
I should never have touched the money, if there had ever occurred to
me a suspicion that you might some day feel the loss of it. You will
remember that I always understood your wealth to be almost unlimited.’

‘_My_ wealth never was, and isn’t likely to be. Been a mighty fall in
diamonds lately.’

‘Well, I understood so.’ (The emphasis on the ‘my’ was not observed by
Philip.) ‘However, I hope you agree to accept the only return I can
make for all your kindness to me.’

‘Don’t see how it’s to be done,’ growled Shield, again finding a
difficulty somewhere.

‘We must find that out, sir,’ said Philip with quiet resolution.

‘Got to find your way out of this mess first. The works won’t
bring half enough to clear off your debts. You’ve been cheated all
round—paying the highest price for rubbish’——

‘Impossible!’ interrupted Philip. ‘Wrentham may have made mistakes; but
he is too much a man of business to have done that.’

‘Fact it was done, all the same. Then there’s no time to turn round.
That bill you drew on me falls due in a week or so.’

Philip had been about to say, ‘Wrentham must account to us, if the
materials have not been according to sample and order;’ but Wrentham
was driven from his mind by the last sentence, which Shield jerked out
before any interruption was possible.

‘Bill!—What bill?’

‘The one for six thousand—your brother Coutts discounted it, and’....
Here Shield made a long pause, looking steadily at Philip ... ‘but it
was not signed by Austin Shield.’

The huge fist came down on the table with a thump that made the
glasses rattle and the lamp shake. Philip stared for an instant,
thunder-stricken by this new revelation. He recovered quickly, and gave
a prompt answer.

‘If there is such a bill—I did not sign it either.’

Then they glared at each other through the smoke. Shield’s face with
its shaggy hair always looked like that of a Scotch terrier, in which
only the eyes give a hint of expression. Suddenly his hand was thrust
out and grasped Philip’s with hearty satisfaction.

‘Right! Was sure of it without a word from you; but your brother is not
sure that your signature is not genuine.’

‘Did he say so?’ (How the pale cheeks flushed with indignation at the
thought that Coutts should admit the one signature to be a forgery, and
doubt whether his was or not.)

‘Didn’t say it—looked it,’ answered Shield with jerky emphasis.

‘When did you see him?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Why did he not come to me then, as soon as he had seen you?’

‘Don’t know’—but there was a low guttural sound, as if Shield were
inwardly chuckling with self-congratulation that he understood very
well why Coutts had chosen to go to him and not to his brother.

Philip was annoyed and puzzled by this curious transaction. He had
always regarded his brother as such a keen trader, that it was
difficult to understand how a mistake of this magnitude could be made
by him.

‘Did he say how he came to deal with a bill for so large an amount
without mentioning it to me?’

‘Says he took it in the ordinary way of business from your manager
Wrentham. Had no reason to doubt its genuineness till afterwards when
he came to compare signatures. Then he called on me.’

‘Wrentham!’ Philip started to his feet. ‘Can the man have been cheating
me all along?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘He ought to be here now. I’ll send for him’——

‘Stop! There’s more in the affair and more to be got out of it than we
see at this minute. We have more than a week to work in. Let’s work.’

‘Willingly; but in this matter we have nothing more to do than
repudiate the forgery, and leave Coutts and the police to settle with
the forger.’

He felt bitter enough towards Coutts to have little regret for the loss
which was about to fall on him. He would have felt still more bitter
if he had known how eagerly Coutts had made use of this forged bill to
endeavour to ingratiate himself into the place which Philip held in
their uncle’s estimation.

Wrentham had assured Coutts, and given him what appeared to be
conclusive evidence, that Shield had realised fabulous sums out of
the diamond fields, and had it in his power to realise as much more
if he chose to work the ground. The greedy eyes of Coutts Hadleigh
had gleamed with wild fancies suggested by these disclosures of the
man who had been for a time one of Shield’s London agents; and who
must therefore be able to speak with certainty of his affairs; and the
greedy brain had been for months busy devising schemes by which he
might win the rich man’s esteem and confidence, with the prospect of a
share, at least, of his possessions. This forged bill afforded him the
opportunity he desired, and he made the most of it without committing
himself to any definite charge against his brother.

The cleverest men are apt to judge others in some degree by reflection
of their own natures, and so go wide of the mark. Coutts tried to reach
the good-will of Mr Shield through his pocket; and he went wide of his
mark. He was, however, at present happy in the idea that he had scored
a bull’s-eye.

‘That all you see to do?’ queried Shield after a pause, during which he
watched Philip.

‘So far as the forgery is concerned, that is all.’

‘Ah.... I see more. Maybe we can get back a little of the waste. No
saying. Worth trying. Anyhow, we can have a grin at the beggars who
thought us bigger fools than we looked. That’s what we’ve got to work
for.’

‘I don’t quite see what advantage we are to obtain in that way.’

‘Clear enough, though. We recover a part of what is lost—maybe the
greater part. Don’t give Wrentham or your brother a hint till you see
me again. Go on with your arrangements as if you had heard nothing.’

‘Very well, since it is your wish. Meanwhile, I shall get another bed
fitted up here, so that you can occupy it as soon as you are obliged to
leave the hotel. We’ll manage to keep on the chambers somehow.’

‘All right,’ said Shield, nodding his head heavily. ‘But you don’t know
what you are bringing on yourself. I’m fond of _that_.’

He pointed with his cigar to the brandy bottle. Philip gave his
shoulders an impatient jerk; he had no need for this confession.

‘I hope not too fond, sir; although it is easy to understand how a man
leading such a solitary life as yours has been may contract the habit
of looking for comfort from that false friend. But if it be so, then it
is better you should be with me than with strangers.’

‘Kind—very kind. I thank you. And now that I’ve given you all this bad
news, here’s a bit of good news. Found an old friend of mine—takes
interest in everything. Says he’ll make an offer for the works if on
investigation he finds anything practicable in your scheme. More; if
he finds that your failure is not due to negligence, he’ll make you an
offer for your services as manager of some sort.’

This was indeed good news, and Philip’s eyes brightened with pleasure;
but his first thought was for others.

‘Then we shall not starve, uncle, thank heaven; and if your friend has
capital enough, I may see my project carried out under my own direction
yet.’

‘Maybe. Don’t be too jolly over it. Beecham’s a crotchety cur, and may
change the whole thing.’

‘Beecham!—Is he the friend you mean?’

‘Yes. Says he knows you, and rather likes you.’

‘He is very kind,’ said Philip coldly; ‘but there is a possibility of
our not agreeing if brought into frequent contact.’

‘No fear of that, no fear of that.—I’m off. Good-night.’

But before going off, he helped himself from the brandy bottle again;
then, without the slightest indication of unsteadiness, strode out of
the room and got into the hansom which was waiting for him.




PENCIL-MAKING.


At the head of the beautiful valley of Borrowdale lies the little
hamlet of Seathwaite. Near a clump of historic yews, six or eight
whitewashed cottages nestle, a favourite haunt of artists, and the one
solitary place in England where plumbago is to be found in absolute
purity. Here the mountains converge on either side, until Glaramara
at last fills the gap and closes in the vale. Travellers who wish
to proceed farther, must go, either on horseback or on foot, over
Sty Head Pass, and so into Wastdale, or past Scafell, into Langdale.
Secluded little spot in Cumberland as this is, its hidden treasure was
well known to our ancestors at least two hundred years ago; nor did
any sentimental ideas of spoiling the lovely scenery deter them from
mining into the mountain-side in search of that peculiar form of carbon
commonly known as blacklead, plumbago, or graphite. The first and by
far the most generally used of these names is a decided misnomer, for
although there are many lead-mines in Cumberland, plumbago contains no
trace of lead, but is one of the two crystallised forms in which carbon
exists; the other being the diamond. Plumbago as found here lies in
nests or pockets—or _sops_, as they are locally named. These sops are
cavernous holes, varying in size from a few cubic inches to several
cubic feet, and occur in the solid rock, resembling on a large scale
what are known as air-holes in iron castings. The miners follow certain
veins of granite as a guide to the sops, and come upon them suddenly
in the heart of the mountain. It is in these that the plumbago—or
_wad_, as the workmen call it—is found, in the form of black lumps,
just like eggs in a nest. Some pieces are as small as peas, and others
as large as big melons. How that plumbago came there, is a great
puzzle to geologists. Odd pieces have been occasionally turned up by
husbandmen whilst delving the ground; but it is probable that these
were originally imbedded in the rocks, masses of which, having become
detached by frost and rain, fell into the valley, and in their descent
were broken up, and so laid bare the plumbago that was inside.

Owing to its power of standing great heat, our forefathers used
plumbago for crucibles, a large portion being sent to the Mint for
operations connected with coining. Pencils were also made of it; and
people who have been accustomed to hear of Cumberland lead-pencils,
may imagine that they are yet; but it is a mistake. A drawing-pencil
made of this virgin graphite cannot be manufactured to cost less than
a shilling; and who, except for some exceptional work, would give such
a price? The scientific chemist has stepped in and supplied a cheaper
article. Conté, a Frenchman, about the end of last century, was the
first to suggest a substitute, or rather a partial one; and since then,
his idea has been step by step worked out and perfected, until to-day
we are able to produce a commercial pencil at the wholesale price of
less than one farthing. Even crucibles are now rarely made from it; so
that, what with one thing and another, the Borrowdale mine has been
closed for the last five years. Many of the visitors suppose that the
stoppage of the works is caused by the mine having been exhausted.
This, however, is a mistake, as there is every reason to believe that
there are yet very large quantities of plumbago in the rock; but the
cost of production, and the discovery of cheaper substitutes, render
further mining impracticable as a commercial undertaking.

To give an idea of the difference in value of plumbago—the last lot
from this mine sold in London brought thirty shillings per pound; and
it has been known to sell for one hundred and sixty shillings; whilst
the price at present for best foreign is about forty shillings per
hundredweight, or, say, fourpence per pound. Inferior qualities, such
as are used for blackleading grates, &c., can be bought much cheaper.
Foreign plumbago is chiefly imported from Ceylon and Bohemia, where it
is found in veins in large quantities; but as this kind cannot be used
for pencils in its crude state, it has to be ‘manufactured.’ This is
done largely at Keswick; so that, after all, when a purchaser buys a
‘best Cumberland pencil,’ he is not altogether deceived; for although
the blacklead does come from Ceylon and the cedar from Florida, were
they not first introduced to each other by the Keswick workman, toiling
at his bench in the water-turned mills on the banks of the Greta? The
Borrowdale graphite varies much in degree of hardness; consequently,
in the old days when it was made into pencils, each lump was tested
and sorted according to the depth of colour it produced on a piece of
paper. The classification was from H.H.H. or very hard, to B.B.B.B.
or very soft and black. The graphite was then sawn by hand into
strips, which were inserted into a slot or groove in the wood, and the
whole glued together and turned in a lathe into a pencil. The method
of to-day is quite different, and there being great competition in
this trade, speed combined with good work is the principal end to be
attained to bring the cost as low as possible.

The three mills at Keswick employ about a hundred workpeople, males and
females. The men earn on an average about twenty-five shillings per
week, and the women about twelve. The blacklead—we are now speaking
of imported plumbago—is first crushed and then mixed with what is
technically called a _binding_, the composition of which is a trade
secret and varies at each mill. Its purpose is, as the term denotes,
to give a glutinous consistency to the powdered plumbago and also to
add to the blackness of its marking qualities. Lampblack, sulphuric
acid, gum-arabic, resin, and several other substances are used in this
binding. The whole is worked into a pulp between revolving stones. It
is then partially dried and again crushed. Whilst in this half-dry
state, it is forced through a mould under considerable pressure. These
moulds are of various sizes, from a very big one a quarter-inch square,
used for fancy walking-sticks—a mere catchpenny, and purchased only by
tourists as mementoes—to the little round ones used for putting into
pencil-cases and which are called ‘lead-points.’ The intermediate sizes
are known as Carpenters, Drawing, Pocket-book, and Programme. A workman
receives the thin strip of blacklead as it is slowly forced through the
mould, and at intervals breaks it off, carefully placing it on a board
between pieces of wood. By this means a large quantity can be kept
without fear of damage. When sufficient is moulded to compose a baking,
the oven is heated; and these long slips, which are exactly the size of
the lead in a pencil, are cut into lengths of about four inches, and
packed with care in cast-iron crucibles. These are then put into the
oven, and allowed to remain at a red heat for two hours. When gently
cooled, the leads are ready for pencils.

In another part of the manufactory, a different kind of work is going
on—that of preparing, or rather working the wood, for it undergoes
no change but that of shape. Cedar is universally used, except in
very low qualities and carpenters’ pencils. Most of this wood comes
from America; and Florida is one of the largest exporting States. The
chief reasons for using cedar are—that it is easily worked, is soft,
straight-grained, free from knots, and is sweet-scented. Am eminent
firm of toilet-soap makers have taken note of this last quality, and
purchase all the cedar sawdust that is made in these pencil-mills. A
minimum of waste is one of the sure signs of an advanced civilisation.
Many and various circular saws reduce the cedar logs into strips of
two sizes—one, about thirty inches long, an inch and a quarter wide,
and three-eighths of an inch thick; the other, of the same dimensions,
but only half the thickness. These are examined; and any having
defects, such as knots, cracks, &c., are laid aside, to be used in
shorter lengths, the bad places having been cut out. The thicker or
three-eighth-inch strips are then passed through the grooving-machine,
which cuts out three perfect and clean grooves up the whole length.
These are now ready to receive the strips of lead, which are first
dipped in glue and placed by girls into the grooves, which they exactly
fill. The wood has now the appearance of having three black lines
running parallel along the whole length. This surface is then brushed
over with hot glue and the thinner strip placed firmly on it. If any
pencil is looked at closely, the joining of these two pieces will be
easily noticed. The whole is placed, with many similar ones, in a
frame, where they are pressed firmly together until the glue has quite
set.

It will be understood that now each piece is composed of two strips
of wood, firmly glued together, inside which, three grooves, filled
with plumbago composition, run from one end to the other—about thirty
inches, or sufficient to make four pencils to each groove—that is,
twelve pencils in all. The length of a finished pencil is seven inches.
These pieces are then taken to a very curious machine and passed twice
through. The first time, the top surface is ploughed from end to end
into what resembles three distinct semicircular ridges; the piece is
then turned, and the other side treated in a similar manner. The result
of this second ploughing is that three perfectly circular and entirely
separate lengths are seen to emerge from the machine. On examining
any one of these, it will be found to be a pencil thirty inches long,
having the vein of blacklead exactly in the centre. This is an American
invention, and has done much to reduce the cost of the modern pencil.

The pencils, however, have to pass through many hands before they can
claim to be finished. Women rub them with fine sand-paper, other women
varnish and polish them, and then they are cut by a circular saw into
seven-inch lengths. For the first time, they could now be recognised by
a child as pencils. A thin shaving is taken off each end, which gives
them a finished appearance and causes the lead to shine, as the saw
does not cut clean enough for a fastidious public. Lastly, the pencil
is stamped, not necessarily always with the maker’s name, for nowadays
he occasionally sinks his individuality for the purpose of selling his
wares; and for an order of a gross, some makers will stamp any village
stationer’s name on each pencil.




MR PUDSTER’S RETURN.


CHAPTER II.

Mr Gideon Maggleby had been married rather less than two-and-twenty
hours, when at about nine o’clock on the morning of March 23, 1868, he
walked into the room in which he had so often breakfasted and dined
with his late friend and partner, Solomon Pudster. Mr Maggleby, who was
pre-eminently a man of business, had not seen fit to go to the Isle
of Wight or to Paris to spend his honeymoon; and Mrs Maggleby, who
was nothing if not a woman of sound sense, had loyally accepted the
decision of her third lord and master. They had agreed to stay in town,
and not to allow their new happiness to interfere with their material
interests in Mincing Lane. Mr Maggleby had determined, however, to make
a holiday of the day after his wedding; to stay at home in the morning
with his wife, to escort her to Madame Tussaud’s in the afternoon, and
to take her to the play in the evening.

With this comfortable programme in his mind’s eye, Mr Maggleby came
down to breakfast in his flowered dressing-gown. Mrs Maggleby, he knew,
would not be many minutes behind him, and he therefore rang the bell
for the coffee, and turned lazily towards the table, upon which lay
two piles of letters. The smaller heap chiefly consisted of missives
addressed to Mrs Pudster, for the marriage of the previous day had not
as yet been noised abroad in the country, and Mrs Maggleby had several
female correspondents who communicated with her much more often than
she communicated with them. The larger bundle was made up of letters
addressed either to Mr Maggleby or to Messrs Pudster and Maggleby, the
letters to the firm having been already brought down from Mincing Lane
by a confidential clerk.

It was a chilly morning; and Mr Maggleby, with the letters in his hand,
sank into an easy-chair by the fireside, and then began to polish
his spectacles. But ere he had time to complete that operation, one
envelope attracted the attention of his not very dim-sighted eyes.
It bore the post-mark ‘Plymouth,’ and was addressed in a familiar
hand-writing. Without waiting to put on his spectacles, Mr Maggleby
seized this envelope and tore it open. For an instant he stared at the
letter which it contained; then he turned white, and fell back with a
groan. But Mr Maggleby was a man of considerable self-command, and he
soon partly recovered himself.

‘Maria must not see me in this agitated state,’ he murmured, as he
rose. ‘I shall go back to my dressing-room, and decide upon some plan
of action before I face her.’ And with unsteady steps, he quitted the
dining-room, taking with him the letter that was the cause of his
emotion.

Almost immediately afterwards, a servant entered with the coffee and
some covered dishes, which she set upon the table; and no sooner had
she withdrawn than Mrs Maggleby appeared. Mrs Maggleby looked blooming,
and was evidently in capital spirits. She caught up her letters, sat
down smiling in the very easy-chair from which her husband had risen a
few minutes earlier, and began to read. The first letters to be opened
were, of course, those which were addressed to her in her new name.
They contained congratulations upon her marriage. Then she attacked
the envelopes that were addressed to Mrs Pudster. One contained a
bill; another contained a request for Mrs Pudster’s vote and interest
on behalf of Miss Tabitha Gabbles, a maiden lady who was seeking
admission into the Home for the Daughters of Decayed Trinity Pilots;
and a third brought a lithographed letter from the Marquis of Palmyra,
imploring the recipient to make some small subscription to the funds
of the Association for the Encouragement of Asparagus Culture in the
Scilly Islands. There were also letters from Miss Martha Tigstake
and Mrs Benjamin Bowery, dealing with nothing in particular and with
everything in general; and finally there was a letter bearing the
post-mark ‘Plymouth.’ Mrs Maggleby opened it carelessly; but a single
glance at its contents caused her to start up, grasp convulsively at
the mantelpiece, utter an exclamation, and tremble like a leaf.

‘Poor Gideon!’ she said. ‘What a fearful blow! He mustn’t see me in
this agitated state. I shall go up-stairs again, and decide upon some
plan of action before I face him.’ And Mrs Maggleby, letter in hand and
pale as death, quitted the room, leaving the coffee and the eggs and
bacon and the crumpets to get cold.

Three-quarters of an hour later, Mr Maggleby ventured down-stairs
again. He was dressed as if to go to the City, and in his hand he held
a letter which bore the simple address, ‘Maria.’ This letter he laid
upon his wife’s plate. It was worded as follows:

    MY DEAREST LIFE—I am suddenly and unexpectedly summoned to
    Mincing Lane on business of the greatest importance. I do
    not know exactly when I shall return, but you must not be
    anxious.—Yours devotedly,

            GIDEON.

Mr Maggleby hastily seized a tepid crumpet, and without the formality
of seating himself at the table, devoured the clammy dainty. Then,
hearing his wife upon the stairs, he rushed like a madman from the
room, and an instant afterwards, left the house and quietly closed the
front-door behind him.

Mrs Maggleby, whose face bore traces of recent weeping, entered the
dining-room as if she expected to find the place tenanted by a ghost.
Discovering, however, that it was empty, she resumed her seat by the
fire, and, with an hysterical outburst, buried her head in her hands.

‘Poor dear Gideon!’ she sobbed. ‘What will become of him and me? We
shall be imprisoned for life; I know we shall. The house will have to
be shut up; the business will go to ruin; the servants will have to
know all. Oh, it is too terrible! But I must compose myself. Gideon
will be coming down, and I must be prepared to break the news to him;’
and with great self-command, Mrs Maggleby wiped her eyes and seated
herself at the table. As she did so, she caught sight of her husband’s
note, which she eagerly opened.

‘He has gone!’ she exclaimed despairingly, when she had read it. ‘I am
left alone to bear the trial!—Ah, Gideon, you little know how cruel you
are. But I must follow you. We must concert measures at once.’

Once more she went up-stairs. She put on her bonnet and cloak; she
covered her flushed face with a thick veil; and without saying a word
to any of her servants, she left the house, and made the best of her
way to the nearest cabstand.

Meantime, Mr Maggleby had been driven to his place of business in
Mincing Lane. He entered his office, and sat down as if dazed, in
his private room. Hearing of his principal’s unexpected arrival, the
head-clerk, Mr John Doddard, almost immediately appeared. He too was
scared and breathless.

‘Read, sir, read!’ he gasped as he thrust an open letter into Mr
Maggleby’s hand.

Mr Maggleby mechanically took the letter, and read aloud as follows:

    _On board S.S. Camel, off Plymouth, Tuesday._

    DEAR MR DODDARD—As you are probably not expecting me, I send a
    line ashore to let you know that I hope to return in time to
    be at business at the usual hour on Thursday. Please take care
    that there is a good fire in my private room, as a visit to
    Demerara always, as you know, renders me particularly sensitive
    to cold and damp. I am writing to Mr Maggleby. We have had a
    capital voyage so far, but the weather in the Channel threatens
    to be rather dirty. I shall land at Gravesend; and if you can
    find out when the _Camel_ is likely to be there, you may send
    down some one to meet me.—Yours faithfully,

            SOLOMON PUDSTER.

‘I knew it!’ ejaculated Mr Maggleby. ‘I have just received the letter
that he speaks of.’

‘What does it all mean?’ asked Mr Doddard. ‘I seem to be dreaming, sir.
We buried poor Mr Pudster eight months ago, didn’t we?’

‘So I thought,’ murmured Mr Maggleby vaguely. ‘But this letter is
certainly in his handwriting. And look at the post-mark. There it is,
as plain as possible: “Plymouth, Mar. 22, 1868.” That was yesterday;
and to-day is Wednesday, March 23d.—Just read my letter, Mr Doddard!’
and he pulled from his pocket a missive, which he handed to his clerk.

Mr Doddard read as follows:

    _On board S.S. Camel, off Plymouth, Tuesday._

    MY DEAR GIDEON—Here I am almost at home again. I fancy that you
    didn’t expect to see me just at present; for I wasn’t able to
    write to you before we left Demerara; so, as we are now sending
    ashore here, I post you a few lines to prepare you for the
    surprise. It is, as you know, quite unusual for vessels of this
    line to call at Plymouth, and therefore I haven’t time to send
    you a long letter; though, if we also call at Southampton, I
    will write again from there. I have told Doddard to send some
    one to meet me at Gravesend; let him take down any letters that
    you may want me to see at once.—Yours affectionately,

            SOLOMON.

‘Well, I never did!’ cried Mr Doddard. ‘Yet I could swear to Mr
Pudster’s handwriting anywhere. It is a terrible thing for a man who
ought to be lying quietly in his coffin to come back like this, and
upset every one’s calculations.’

‘You are certain about the handwriting?’ asked Mr Maggleby anxiously.

‘Quite certain!’ replied Mr Doddard. ‘What a frightful thing for poor
Mrs Pudster!’

‘Mrs Maggleby, you mean!’ said Mr Maggleby. ‘Yes. I don’t know how to
break it to her. It’s a case of bigamy; isn’t it?’

‘Let us hope for the best, sir. Mr Pudster won’t prosecute, I fancy,
considering the peculiar character of the circumstances. It’s his
fault. That’s my opinion. I could swear, even now, that we buried
him. He must have revived in his coffin, and been dug up again by the
gravediggers; and must then have gone over to Demerara, in order to
avoid shocking his poor wife.’

‘I wonder our Demerara agents didn’t say something about it when they
wrote by the last mail,’ said Mr Maggleby.

‘Oh, of course he kept them quiet, sir. But it’s a cruel case—that’s
all I have to say. And though I have known Mr Pudster these thirty
years, and liked him too, I don’t hesitate to say that he’s not
behaving straightforwardly in this piece of business.’

‘Hush! Wait until you know of his motives,’ said Mr Maggleby.

‘He can’t excuse himself, sir, I tell you,’ rejoined Mr Doddard warmly.
‘If he comes back, I go. So there! And I say it with all respect to
you, sir. When a man’s once dead, he’s got no right to come back again.
It isn’t natural; and what’s more, it isn’t business-like.’

The bitterness of Mr Doddard’s remarks in this connection may be partly
accounted for by consideration of the fact that Mr Maggleby had a few
days previously announced his intention of taking the head-clerk into
partnership at an early date. Mr Pudster’s return would of course knock
this project on the head.

‘Well, Doddard,’ said Mr Maggleby, ‘we can’t mend matters by talking.
We can only wait; and perhaps, when we see Mr Pudster, we shall find
that’——

But Mr Maggleby’s philosophical remarks were suddenly cut short by the
unexpected arrival of Mrs Maggleby upon the scene. She rushed into
the private room, stretched forth a letter, and fell sobbing upon her
husband’s neck.

Mr Maggleby placed his wife in a chair, opened a cupboard, gave her a
glass of wine, took the letter, and read it. Like the others, it was
dated from on board the _Camel_, off Plymouth. ‘MY OWN DEAREST WIFE,’
it ran—‘In a few hours from this I shall, I hope, be with you once
more, never again to leave you. I ought to have already apprised you of
the probable date of my return; but at the last moment before starting,
I had no opportunity of writing. How glad I shall be to see you! My
long absence has been a great trial to me, and I feel sure that it has
also tried you; but it is now almost at an end. I will, if possible,
write again from Southampton, and tell you exactly when to expect me.
The sea in the Channel is so rough that at present it is difficult to
say when we shall get into the river.—Your ever loving husband,

            SOLOMON.’

‘It is most painful!’ gasped Mrs Maggleby. ‘What can we do, Gideon? You
must manage to meet Solomon at Gravesend. Look in the newspaper, and
see whether the _Camel_ has been signalled yet. He must hear first of
what has happened either from my lips or from yours; and I am really
not well enough to go myself. I thought that he was lying cold in
his coffin. Oh, that I should have committed bigamy! I ought to have
remained faithful to his memory. This is my punishment. But he must—he
shall forgive me.’

Mr Doddard had gone into the outer office, and had sent a clerk for
a copy of the _Times_. With this he now returned; and the paper was
opened on Mr Maggleby’s table, and eagerly scanned for news of the
_Camel_.

‘Here we have it!’ said Mr Doddard at last. ‘“Steamship _Camel_, from
Demerara to London, with cargo and passengers, was signalled off Dover
at one o’clock this morning.”—Then Mr Pudster will be at Gravesend in
an hour or two, sir.’

‘Go, Gideon, go!’ exclaimed Mrs Maggleby. ‘Lose no time. Take a special
train if necessary. Tell him all, and implore his forgiveness.’

‘Yes, I think I had better go, Maria,’ said Mr Maggleby. ‘I will send
a clerk home with you, and will telegraph to you as soon as I see
your—your late husband. In the meantime, try to be calm. Please tell
them to call a cab, Doddard.’

Mr Doddard returned to the outer office, and despatched a messenger for
two cabs. Mr Maggleby handed Mrs Maggleby into one of them, and a clerk
followed her. Then the unfortunate man went back for a moment to his
private room to study Bradshaw on the best and speediest route from
London to Gravesend. There was a train at a quarter past eleven. It was
then a quarter to eleven.

‘And when will he be at Gravesend?’ asked Mr Maggleby.

Mr Doddard turned again to the _Times_. But instead of at once lighting
upon the shipping news, his eye fell upon a paragraph that occupied
a not very conspicuous position at the foot of the page. Suddenly he
uttered a cry.

‘What’s the matter, Doddard?’ demanded Mr Maggleby, who was rapidly
growing impatient.

Mr Doddard replied by bursting into a paroxysm of laughter. ‘By Jove!’
he exclaimed, ‘this is too ridiculous! I never heard of such a thing in
my life! It is like a play! Ha, ha, ha!’

‘Your merriment is rather ill-timed,’ cried Mr Maggleby reproachfully.
‘Tell me when Mr Pudster will arrive at Gravesend; and be quick, or I
shall lose that train.’

‘A _pump_, too!’ continued the head-clerk hilariously.

‘You’re mad, I think,’ said Mr Maggleby. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, read this, sir,’ answered Mr Doddard, and he handed the _Times_
to his principal and pointed to the paragraph.

Mr Maggleby testily took the paper, adjusted his spectacles, and read:

‘EXTRAORDINARY DISCOVERY AT PLYMOUTH.—The corporation of Plymouth
recently decided to remove an old and disused pump which for many
years has stood handleless and dry on the Hoe. Yesterday morning,
some workmen proceeded to remove it, and in its interior they were
astonished to discover a number of letters, which had, it is supposed,
been put into the hole into which the handle formerly fitted, under the
delusion that the pump was a post-office pillar letter-box. The letters
were at once taken to the Plymouth post-office, and were without delay
forwarded to their destinations.’

‘Can it be true?’ ejaculated Mr Maggleby, with a great sigh of relief.
‘Then the fact of the _Camel_ having been signalled last night off
Dover is merely a coincidence?’

‘Most certainly,’ said Mr Doddard.

‘Thank Heaven!’ cried Mr Maggleby fervently. ‘Send the cab away,
Doddard. But no! I’ll go home again at once, and set my poor wife
at ease. Ha, ha! I do remember now, that when poor Mr Pudster came
home from his last voyage, he discovered that some letters which he
had posted at Plymouth had not been delivered. We didn’t miss them,
because, as you recollect, Doddard, he wrote again from Southampton.’

‘Of course he did, sir,’ said Mr Doddard. ‘Well, let us congratulate
ourselves. It would have been a fearful business for Mrs Maggleby to
have to go through.’

‘And it would have been bad for you, Doddard, for it would have spoilt
your chance of a partnership for some time to come. Now, I’m off.’

Mr Maggleby put the _Times_ in his pocket, and departed; and when he
reached his home and showed the paper to his wife, the couple sat
together for at least half an hour, talking over the extraordinary
nature of the adventure.

‘Well, we shall be able to go to Madame Tussaud’s and the theatre after
all, Maria,’ said Mr Maggleby at luncheon.

And go they did; and what is more, Mr Doddard became a partner a
fortnight later, the firm thenceforward being known as Maggleby and
Doddard.




THE FORESIGHT OF INSECTS FOR THEIR YOUNG.


In no manner is the mysterious influence of instinct over the insect
world more remarkably manifested than by the care taken by parent
insects for the future welfare of offspring which they are destined
never to behold. As the human parent upon his deathbed makes the best
provision he can for the sustenance and prosperity of his infant
children, whom death has decreed that he may not in person watch over,
so those insects which nature has decreed shall be always the parents
of orphan children, led by an unerring influence within, do their best
to provide for the wants of the coming generation.

The butterfly, after flitting through her short life, seeks out a spot
whereon to deposit her numerous eggs, not—as one might expect of a
creature devoid of mind—upon any chance plant, or even upon the plant
or flower from which she herself has been wont to draw her sustenance,
but upon the particular plant which forms the invariable food of the
larvæ of her species. The various kinds of clothes-moths penetrate into
our cupboards, drawers, and everywhere where furs, woollen garments,
&c., are stored, that they may there lay their eggs, to hatch into
the burrowing grubs which are the terror of our housekeepers. The
ichneumon tribe, one of nature’s greatest counterpoises to keep down
the too rapid increase of the insect world, lay their eggs in the larvæ
of other insects, which eggs when hatched develop into a devouring
brood, which ungratefully turn upon and devour the helpless creature
that sheltered them as a nest. The female ichneumon having discovered
a caterpillar or grub which her instinct informs her has not been
previously attacked, at once proceeds to thrust her ovipositor into the
writhing body of her victim, depositing one or more eggs, according
to the size of the living food-supply. When hatched, the larvæ devour
and live upon their foster-parent, avoiding in a marvellous way the
vital parts of their victim, whose life is most accurately timed to
last until its young tormentors are full grown, and not beyond. At one
time, we were led to believe in occasional instances of the instinct
of female ichneumons being at fault, by observing them apparently
ovipositing upon the dry shells of pupæ from which the butterflies
had escaped. This, however, we subsequently found to be an erroneous
idea, the fact of the matter being, that the caterpillar upon which the
parent ichneumon had laid her fatal egg, had had time, before the full
development of the young ichneumon grub, to turn to the pupal stage.
What, then, we saw was the young ichneumon fly just emerged from the
dry pupal case, the contents of which it had first devoured in its own
larval stage, then, itself turning to a pupa, it had lain, thus doubly
incased, until, having broken forth a perfect fly, it rested upon its
late prison, awaiting sufficient strength to come to its wings. What a
wooden horse of Troy such a chrysalis would prove, if introduced into
the breeding establishment of a collector!

Other members of the ichneumon tribe do not actually insert their eggs
into the destined food-supply of their young; but, as it were, going
deeper into calculation of future events, content themselves with
laying them in close proximity to the eggs of some member of the tribe
upon which it is their mission to prey.

There is an old saying—

    Big fleas have little fleas
      Upon their backs to bite ’em;
    Little fleas have smaller fleas,
      So on _ad infinitum_;

which is very true, inasmuch as from the great humble-bee down to
the tiniest corn-thrips—a mere speck of dust to the naked eye—all
insects have their parasites, and generally their own special species
of ichneumon, to prevent their over-increase and to preserve the due
balance of nature. There is a species of longicorn beetle, found
in Pennsylvania, which feeds upon the tender bark of young hickory
shoots. When laying-time arrives, the female, having deposited her eggs
in cavities perforated in the bark, carefully cuts a groove, about
one-tenth of an inch wide and deep, round the shoot just below where
her treasures lie. The object, or rather we suppose we ought to say
the consequence, of this act is the withering and decay of the shoot,
a provision for the sustenance of her young, which, when in their
larval state, live upon dead wood! This remarkable insect is called the
hickory girder from the above-mentioned habit, which, we think, is one
of the most extraordinary instances of foresight, through a mere blind
instinct, that have ever come under observation.

The gadfly (_Œustrus equi_), whose larvæ are the bots which inhabit
the intestines of the horse, gains for her progeny that comfortable
position by entrapping the animal itself into introducing her eggs
within its stomach. For this purpose, she lays her eggs upon such
portions of the horse’s body as he is in the habit of frequently
licking, such as the knees, shoulders, &c. The unerring nature of her
instinct is shown by the fact that she never chooses as a nidus any
portion of the body which the horse is unable to reach with its tongue.
Having thus been introduced into their natural feeding-grounds, the
bots there pass their larval existence, until, it becoming time for
them to assume the pupal form, they go forth with the animal’s dung
to reach the earth, burrow into it, and therein pass the insects’
purgatory.

Again, one of the grain-moths (_Gelechia cerealella_) shows remarkable
instinct in adapting itself to circumstances according to the time of
year when it has to deposit its eggs. The first generation of these
moths, emerging in May from pupæ which have lain in the granaries
through the winter, lay their countless eggs upon the as yet ungathered
corn, upon which their young play havoc until, having passed through
the necessary stages, they come out in the autumn as the second
generation amidst the now stored-up grain. Now, however, their instinct
prompts them, not, like the first generation, to go forth to the fields
to seek the proper nest and future nourishment of their young, but
bids them deposit their eggs upon the store of wheat ready at hand.
Thus, two following generations of the same insect are led by their
instincts to different habits to suit the altered and, in the last
case, unnatural position of their infants’ destined food-supply.

The interesting mason-wasp, having with great care and skill bored
out a cylindrical hole in some sunny sandbank, deposits at the bottom
of this refuge her eggs. Next, provident mother as she is, she seeks
out about a dozen small caterpillars, always of the same species, and
immures them alive in the pit, as food for her cruel children. In
making her selection of grubs to be thus buried alive, she rejects any
that may not have reached maturity; not, we imagine, upon the score of
their not being so full-flavoured, but because, when not full grown,
they require food to keep them alive; whereas, when of mature age, they
will live a long time without nourishment, ready to turn to chrysalides
when opportunity occurs.

These are but a few of the instances which might be adduced in
illustration of this foresight in insects, which compensates for
their not being allowed in person to superintend the welfare of their
offspring. In many cases, it would be better for human progeny were
their parents thus endowed with an unerring instinct, rather than with
an uncertain will.




A BREAK-NECK VENTURE.


It is more than thirty years since my medico-military lines were cast
in the little picturesque station of Badulla, the capital of Oovah,
in the interior of Ceylon. This district was the centre of very
considerable European enterprise in coffee-growing, and, both socially
and commercially, was an important unit of the Kandian provinces; hence
government, in addition to a small garrison of troops, had established
in it a staff of its Civil servants, for the administration of fiscal
and judicial affairs, and it is concerning one of these officials—the
assistant district judge, as he was called—that my story is now to be
told.

The judge was a young gentleman of good parts and attractive manners.
He was a dead-shot, an excellent angler, a perfect rider, a very Dr
Grace or Spofforth of a cricketer, and an intelligent, chatty, pleasant
companion to boot. He had also a sure foot and a steady head. He could
walk along the verge of a rocky precipice with a sheer descent of
hundreds of feet as unconcernedly as many a man trudges over a turnpike
road. Chaffingly, we were wont to tell him that he had entirely
mistaken his vocation in life, and that instead of being ‘an upright
judge,’ trying ‘niggers,’ he ought to have been another Blondin,
trundling wheelbarrows on a rope stretched across Adam’s Bridge from
Manaar to Ramisseram, and cooking a prawn curry in a stove when in
the very middle of the Straits. However, even in the capacity of the
aforesaid judge, this proclivity of being able to walk safely upon next
to nothing once stood him in good need, as I myself witnessed.

One afternoon he came into my quarters holding in his hand a letter,
which the post had just brought him. I ought perhaps to mention
that thirty odd years ago there were neither railroads nor electric
telegraphs in Ceylon, and that travelling was comparatively slow, and
to some extent uncertain. In the case of our station, however, we had
little to complain of. The postal authorities at Colombo forwarded
our mail-bags to Kandy—the first seventy-two miles of the way—by a
daily two-horsed coach; and from that city to their destination,
‘runners’ carried the letters. But these ‘runners’ now and again met
with accidents of various sorts, such as being killed by elephants
or tigers; and it so happened that something of the sort—I forget
what—having occurred to detain my friend’s letter, it was older by more
than twenty-four hours than it should have been, when he got it.

‘I must be off sharp to Colombo,’ said he, addressing me as he entered
my room. ‘I have had awfully bad news: it is a question of life or
death with a very dear friend there. I can’t lose a moment over my
departure. But get leave from the Commandant, and keep me company as
far as Attempyttia—it is only a dozen miles away—and we will talk over
things as we go along.’

‘All right,’ I said; ‘I’m your man.’

In a very few minutes the required permission was obtained; after
which my pony was saddled and we were off. After leaving me at the
travellers’ bungalow at Attempyttia, my companion would have to proceed
to Kandy, to catch the downward coach, leaving at daylight next morning
for Colombo. To accomplish this—some eighty odd miles—he would be
forced to ride all night, assisted stage by stage with fresh mounts,
which the kind-hearted coffee-planters, whether known or unknown to
him, would willingly place at his disposal.

‘Let’s see,’ said the judge. ‘I’ve a good fourteen or fifteen hours
before me to find that highly respectable rattle-trap of a royal
mail-coach drawn up at the post-office at gun-fire to-morrow morning.
Fourteen hours, six miles an hour, including stoppages—eighty-four
miles! A snail’s pace; but I won’t calculate upon more speed. Bar
accidents, I’m safe to do it, and do it I must.’

So on we galloped, little heeding the romantic scenery through which we
were hurrying, and the faster too, as the sun was becoming obscured by
thick, heavy, black rain-clouds, which were gathering over it and all
around.

‘We are in for a drenching,’ I remarked.

‘If a drenching were all,’ was the reply, ‘it would not much matter;
but’——

‘Well! But what?’

‘The Badulla Oya, the river which runs through the deep gorge between
the spurs of the hills you see yonder—I know that river well. In dry
weather, it is little more than a shallow streamlet, over the stones of
which an inch or two of water trickles. But when these sudden monsoon
downpours come on, it has the unpleasant knack of swelling, swelling,
until it becomes a large, wide, deep mountain torrent, tearing like mad
to empty itself somewhere. And you have no idea of the rapidity with
which this metamorphosis is accomplished. Let’s push on, for the river
crosses the highway; and by Jove, here is the rain and no mistake!’

A vivid flash of lightning, a loud clap of thunder right overhead, and
before its reverberations were half ended among the echoing mountains,
a deluge of rain was upon us. We were soaked to the skin in a few
seconds.

‘How far is the river?’ I asked.

‘Good five miles; and five miles with these flood-gates of the skies
opened, mean touch and go. Twenty to one, the Badulla Oya will be
swollen and impassable.’

‘Is there no canoe or bridge?’

‘Canoe! What on earth, in your Ceylon griffinage, are you dreaming
about? As for a bridge, well, metaphorically speaking, there is a thing
which the natives call a bridge; but practically, not what you and I
and the department of Public Works would class as one. However, it will
not be long before you see what sort of a concern the bridge is like.’

We now hastened as fast as the animals we rode could lay hoofs to
ground; but before the five miles were traversed and the banks of the
river reached, we distinctly heard it roaring.

‘It is down already,’ said my companion.

Down it was with a vengeance, as we presently realised. Over a bed of
rocky boulders it foamed and boiled and tumbled, a dark, deep, angry
chocolate-coloured torrent, sixty feet wide at least.

Squatting under a large tree on the bank opposite to us, accepting the
situation with that stolid indifference for which the Asiatic is so
very remarkable, and chewing betel, that panacea for all the ills which
Singhalese flesh is heir to, was a Kandian villager, well advanced in
years. The judge hailed him in his own language. ‘Hi! father! Did you
swim the river?’

‘Am I a fish, think you, my son?’ the man responded.

‘Did you cross it by the bridge, then?’

‘Does the English _mahatmeya_ [gentleman] take me for a Wanderoo
monkey, or for a jungle-cat, to walk upon broken twigs high up in the
air?’ he answered evasively.

‘How, then, did you manage to get over?’

‘I have not got over at all. I have come from my village on this side,
and I wait here until the flood subsides.’

‘How long will that be, think you?’

‘If the rain ceases, the river will be again fordable in three or four
hours. If the rain continues—who can tell? Buddha only knows!’

‘Three or four hours!’ muttered my companion despondingly. ‘Too long,
much too long for me.’ Then again speaking to the Kandian: ‘Is there
any possibility of crossing the bridge?’ he asked.

‘None, none, my master. Alas! it has been shattered for some time past,
and has not yet been repaired.’

‘Let’s go,’ said my friend to me, ‘and reconnoitre.’

We dismounted, gave our ponies to the horsekeepers, who had closely
followed us, and walked a short distance along the bank. Suspended in
the air, resting upon the forked branches of two forest trees, which
grew nearly opposite each other on either side of the stream, were
the relics of one of those primitive bridges which the Singhalese
villagers build to enable them to pass ravines and mountain torrents.
Bamboo and the withes of a ground creeper called waywel are the usual
materials they employ; but if they can get slabs of timber, they use
them as well. This was the case here: the rough-hewn trunk of a tall
but slender cocoa-nut palm spanned the river, its ends being firmly
fastened to the two trees which served to support it. Originally,
a sort of hand-rail of the waywel had been tied to uprights nailed
along the stem; and thus hemmed in, the bridge was safe enough to
traverse by any one not subject to dizziness on ‘giddy heights;’ but
as time and mischief had partly removed this protection, leaving long
gaps with nothing to hold on by, a more precarious, break-neck, risky
crossing, save for the monkeys, no one could possibly imagine. Picture
to yourself this tapering pole strung at a height over a deep rushing
whirlpool of a current, and you will comprehend what we saw and what I
fairly shuddered at.

Not so, my companion. He sprang up the tree, and stood for a moment
or two upon the end of the mutilated bridge. Then he said quite
determinedly: ‘I’ve made up my mind; I’m going over.’

‘Are you mad?’ I exclaimed; ‘going over that narrow, frail,
up-in-the-clouds thing? Why, it’s certain death if you fall.’

‘Even so, old man; but I have walked with sure steps narrower planks
than this.’

‘Perhaps so; but not with a torrent rolling under you.—Don’t attempt
it!’ I exclaimed; ‘wait until the waters go down.’

‘Wait! for four hours or more. Impossible! As I told you when we
started, my errand is a vital one. I must be in Colombo on Sunday
at the latest; and as to-day is Friday, to do that I must hit off
to-morrow’s coach in Kandy. Well, you and the other fellows have often
joked me about my Blondin-like propensities; I am going to try now how
nearly I can tread upon the heels of that worthy acrobat. Never fear; I
will get across safely enough. It is a pity, however, that the nigger
architects have not been a little more liberal in their breadth of
timber; but your Singhalese native is invariably a skinflint.’

Again I attempted to combat the foolhardiness of my friend; but he
threw me off, said half jocosely, half in earnest:

    ‘I have set my life upon a cast,
    And I will stand the hazard of the die;’

and with the words in his mouth, began the crossing.

I am not, generally speaking, a nervous man, and I have had to witness
some trying things in my time; but now I confess that fear and
trembling came over me, and that I could not look upon my friend in his
perilous transit. I half crouched and cowered behind a tree, my heart
in my mouth, and every nerve strung to its utmost degree of tension. I
expected every instant to hear a shriek, a splash, and then to see my
friend buffeting with and carried away by the boiling torrent. Now and
again, the voices of the old Singhalese and the Malabar horsekeepers,
who had crept up to the neighbourhood of the bridge, broke upon my
ears, first as if in tones of entreaty and warning, then in those
of astonishment, and lastly in shouts of admiration and joy. At the
jubilant sounds I roused myself, looked up, and hurrahed, too, at the
very top of my voice, for on the opposite bank the adventurous judge
stood safe and sound!

A weight such as I had never borne before was removed from my breast.
‘Thank goodness you’re all right!’ I called out.

‘Yes, as a trivet,’ he replied.—‘Now, screw _your_ courage to the
sticking-place and run over.’

‘Am I a jungle-cat, or a Wanderoo monkey, or even a district judge
in the Ceylon Civil Service, to walk upon a hair? No; my good sir.
If I took two steps upon that infinitesimally narrow palm’s trunk,
my doctoring occupation would be gone.—Thank you; no! I’ll return to
Badulla, and resume my physicking there.’

‘Good-bye, then. I’ll write to you from Kandy, if I can.’

He was gone. And it will no doubt satisfy the reader’s curiosity to
learn that, thanks to the mounts provided by friendly coffee-planters,
he caught the coach, went on to Colombo, and found the person for whom
he had risked his life out of danger and in a fair way of recovery.




CURIOUS ANTIPATHIES IN ANIMALS.

DOGS.


All sincere lovers of the animal creation are pleased to listen to the
recitation of anecdotes illustrating the love and affection of animals
for their lord and master, man. Many of these stories are deeply
interesting, as showing the wondrous intelligence and reasoning powers
so often exhibited; and others are deeply affecting, as proving an
amount of genuine, unasked, unselfish love, that we fear is not always
too abundant amongst educated bipeds. It is not unlikely that numbers
of such acts are never heard of; as many men—well-meaning enough in
other ways—are in the habit of looking on the dog or the cat as a
mere animal and nothing more; and therefore, whatever it might do, or
whatever sagacity it might display, the creature would be treated with
indifference and passed by without notice. Byron, who loved animals as
well as most folks, was quite aware of this, when he wrote, with so
much truth:

    But the poor dog—in life the firmest friend,
    The first to welcome, foremost to defend—
    Unhonoured falls—unnoticed all his worth,
    Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth.

Strongly deprecating this indifference, it has always been the writer’s
delight to record every well-authenticated instance of remarkable
sagacity in animals, in whatever way they have been brought under his
notice. The cases referred to have come under the immediate notice
either of the writer, or of friends on whose word he can rely.

Some years ago, a lady, who was a friend of our family, possessed a
beautiful black-and-tan ‘King Charles’ called Prinney. A most engaging
and affectionate creature, he never showed the smallest symptom of
temper, or anything disagreeable save in one thing, and that was, a
fixed aversion to a particular melody. Music generally, either vocal
or instrumental, he never took the smallest notice of, or exhibited
the slightest dislike to; but if any one played, sang, whistled, or
even hummed the well-known and popular duet from the opera of _Norma_
known by the name of ‘Si, fin’ al ora,’ no matter where he was or what
he was doing, he would start up and commence the most dismal howling,
with his nose elevated in the air. If the music did not cease on this
melancholy and earnest appeal, he would make frantic efforts to get
out of the room, rearing on his hind-legs, scratching violently at the
door, and continuing his howling until some one opened the door and let
him out. We took great pains to investigate this curious antipathy,
but could never arrive at anything like a satisfactory conclusion.
As before stated, the dog never objected to music generally, as many
dogs have been known to do, nor even to single airs closely resembling
the _Norma_ melody; but so soon as we commenced that one—even though
we purposely jumbled it up with some other—he would instantly detect
it, and take his part of the ‘howling obligato’ with an energy and
determination which nothing could stop.

It had been suggested that the dog had on some particular occasion been
severely beaten, or ill-treated, when this melody was either played or
sung, and thus it was painfully impressed on the dog’s mind and memory.
But this could not have been the case, for my friend had received him
as a puppy, and certainly never ill-treated him, or even whipped him.
What, therefore, could have been the peculiar connection in the dog’s
mind between this one particular melody, and some fear of ill-usage or
pain—for nothing but such a recollection could have caused his piteous
howling, which always indicated intense fear or dread—is a mystery,
and one which it seems impossible to solve, or even explain on any
reasonable grounds.

The following anecdote somewhat resembles the last, inasmuch as the
peculiar antipathy shown is also in connection with music, although not
to any particular melody, as in Prinney’s case. A little white terrier
belonging to my grandfather had a peculiar antipathy to the pianoforte,
for as soon as any one began to play, Rose would walk into the middle
of the room, and then, quietly seating herself, facing the instrument,
elevate her nose, and commence a long series of howlings, but without
any display of anger or temper, or any attempt to run away. It might
have been her own original way of expressing applause, or approbation
of pianoforte-playing in general, for it should be specially noted that
no other music, vocal or instrumental, ever affected the dog. Musical
friends, one with his flute, another with his fiddle, often came in,
but Rose never took notice of either of these until the pianoforte
began; then at once began her demonstration. Now, what could have
caused this curious antipathy—if it was an actual antipathy—to the
sound of one particular musical instrument? The dog was born and bred
at a farmhouse in Surrey, and farmhouses in those primitive days never
possessed such an unheard-of luxury as a pianoforte; and therefore,
until she came into my grandfather’s keeping—and she came direct from
Surrey—she could never have heard the sound of such an instrument.
How, then, are we to explain her singular procedure? I fear it is only
another ‘dog mystery,’ and must ever remain so.

A third, and certainly most remarkable, case of musical antipathy is
all the more singular because it was not exhibited towards any special
melody or instrument, but towards one particular person only—a lady.
The dog—a beautiful and very amiable Clumber spaniel—belonged to an
uncle of ours who always brought Wag with him whenever he paid us a
visit, for the dog was a universal favourite; but, unluckily, he had
always to be put out of the room when one of the ladies of our family
was going to sing, because he seemed to have a violent antipathy, not
to music or singing generally, but only to the voice of this lady;
and, what is perhaps still more odd, he always seemed, personally, to
be very fond of her; but the moment she began to sing, he would start
up and commence whining, growling, and at last barking, gradually
increasing in force, until he got to a grand _fortissimo_. He would
run up in front of the lady, and get so angry, that any one would have
supposed he was going to fly at her. But this he never attempted,
and as the Scotch say, ‘His bark was waur than his bite.’ This lady
possessed a brilliant soprano voice; and it has been suggested that
the clear, ringing, penetrating tones must have produced a peculiar
vibration or sensation, perhaps causing sharp pain, in the dog’s ears,
which might have occasioned his extraordinary action, for it must be
remembered that this lady’s voice, and hers alone, produced the effect
described.

The next case of unreasoning antipathy was that of a very handsome
half-bred bull-terrier, called Charley. He belonged to a friend of
ours, the vicar of a beautiful parish in Kent, and was an affectionate,
good-tempered dog, never known to bite, snarl, growl, or do anything
disagreeable to his friends. He would romp and play with the children
on the vicarage lawn by the hour together, and never lose his temper,
though often sorely tried by the thoughtless teasing of his little
playmates. Yet he, too, had his peculiarity, which was, that if any
one—master, friend, or stranger—approached him rubbing the palms of his
hands slowly together, and at the same time repeating his name very
deliberately, ‘Char-ley, Char-ley,’ the dog would instantly get into a
state of wild fury. He would bark violently, until the bark ended in
that peculiar sort of scream often noticed in small dogs when greatly
excited or angered. He would make a rush at the offending person, and
then suddenly retreat backwards, throwing out his fore-paws with sudden
jerks at each bark; and although the person might cease the action, yet
it would be some time before Charley recovered his usual equanimity,
going about the room uttering little short barks, and a sort of odd
sound between the end of a growl and the beginning of a whine!

When this curious antipathy was first noticed, it so much surprised
and interested the vicar—who was a devoted lover of animals—that he
took a great amount of trouble to try to find out what could have been
the original cause. He thought the dog might have been taught this
merely as a clever trick; but he could never procure any evidence to
show that such had been the case on the part of any one in the vicarage
or village. What could have caused these extraordinary bursts of
passion and anger at so simple an act as merely rubbing the palms of
the hands together? There was nothing in the act itself calculated to
irritate or frighten any animal, and therefore the greater the mystery
at the strange effect produced. As the vicar could discover nothing
through his investigations, he had to ‘accept the inevitable,’ and come
to the conclusion that it was unaccountable.




CURIOUS NEWSPAPERS.


That great engine that never sleeps, as Thackeray once described
the press, not unfrequently displays its energy and enterprise in
the performance of feats both novel and interesting. All are more
or less familiar with the daring and intrepidity of its ‘specials,’
who in their eagerness to supply those at home with full and graphic
descriptions of stirring scenes, expose themselves to the risk of
being shot; while the public spirit and enterprise of the different
journals are shown by the lavish way in which they spend their money
in the laying of special cables or in the hiring of special steamers
or trains. These are matters of every-day occurrence, on which plenty
has been, and will continue to be written; but at the present moment we
wish to confine the attention of our readers to the history of a few
novel and curious broadsheets which have appeared at different times.

In 1828 a paper was published called the _Cherokee Phœnix_, which is
interesting on more accounts than one. It was published in English and
Cherokee, the latter portion being printed with characters invented
after years of patient labour and thought by one of the Indians,
whose curiosity had been excited by the ‘speaking leaf,’ as he called
a newspaper which he one day heard a white man read with surprising
readiness and facility. After producing his alphabet, he taught it to
the other members of his tribe, and eventually, with the assistance of
government, was enabled to start the _Phœnix_. Very similar was the
_Sandwich Islands Gazette_, first started in 1835, and boasting of
wood-cuts, for which the publisher received a license from the king,
worded as follows: ‘_To STEPHEN D. MACKINTOSH._—I assent to the letter
which you have sent me. It affords me pleasure to see the works of
other lands and things that are new. If I was there, I should very much
like to see. I have said to Kivan, “Make printing-presses.” My thought
is ended.—Love to you and Reynolds.—_By KING KAINKEAGUOLI._’ This paper
was of eight octavo pages, and was published in English. The present
ruler of the Sandwich Islands shares the liberal views expressed in
the above letter of his predecessor. Since that time, the practice of
publishing papers in the native tongues has spread rapidly; and in
India alone at the present moment no fewer than three hundred and
thirty newspapers, with a total circulation of more than one hundred
and ten thousand, are printed in the languages spoken in the different
provinces.

A most curious paper is the official Chinese paper, called _King-Pan_,
which claims to have been started as early as 911, and to have appeared
at irregular intervals till 1351, when it came out regularly every
week. At the commencement of the present century, it became a ‘daily,’
at the price of two _kehs_—about a halfpenny. By a decree of the
emperor, a short time back, it was ordered that three editions were to
be printed every day—the first or morning edition, on yellow paper, is
devoted to commercial intelligence; the second or afternoon edition
contains official and general news; and the third, on red paper, is a
summary of the two earlier editions, with the addition of political
and social articles. The editorial duties are performed by six members
of the Scientific Academy, who are appointed by government. The
circulation is about fourteen thousand daily.

On board the _Hecla_, one of the ships belonging to Captain Edward
Parry’s expedition in search of the north-west passage, a paper was
printed called the _North Georgia Gazette and Winter Chronicle_. The
first number was dated the 1st November 1819, and its twenty-first and
last the 20th March 1820. The _Great Britain_ steamer, which started
for Australia on the 21st of August 1852, may claim to have inaugurated
the practice of publishing a newspaper on board ship, as a paper,
entitled the _Great Britain Times_, was published every week during the
voyage, and distributed amongst the passengers. At the present time,
these sea-born broadsheets are a source of considerable amusement, and
go a long way to relieve the monotony of the passage, as the passengers
not only read but supply the articles. Burlesque telegrams, jokes made
by the passengers, and all the news, whether social, nautical, or
personal, of the voyage, are published in their columns. One well-known
American journal has even purchased a steamer and fitted it up as
a regular floating newspaper office. The editors, sub-editors, and
journalists all live on board; and by this means, news which has been
picked up during the voyage can be set up without loss of time; whilst
the details of any incident can be fully authenticated by the steamer
calling at the scene of action. This steamer plies between Memphis and
New Orleans, distributing the papers on its journeys, and collecting
every item of news current along the banks of the Mississippi.

Before the 67th Regiment left England for British Burmah, the officers
spent a sum of money in purchasing a printing-press and types, with
which they published a paper called _Our Chronicle_, soon after
they landed at Rangoon. The editorial staff and compositors were
all connected with the regiment, and the journal was regarded as
a phenomenon in the annals of the press. Another military journal
deserving mention is, or was, the _Cuartal Real_, the official organ
of the Carlists, published during the war on the almost inaccessible
summit of the Pena de la Plata.

Though America is the land of big things, in newspaper matters it can
boast of possessing the smallest paper in the world. This diminutive
journal is the _Madoc Star_, which very properly has for its motto,
‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star.’ It is published weekly. Its dimensions
are three inches and a half by three inches; and it consists of
four pages, the first being devoted to foreign news, the second to
mining notes, the last two to local news. If we may believe the Paris
_Rappel_, America has recently issued two startling novelties combining
utility with entertainment. The first is a newspaper printed on cotton
cloth, and is called the _Pocket-handkerchief_, which at once explains
the purpose to which it is to be put when intellectual demands have
been satisfied. The other is called the _Necktie_, being printed with
gold letters upon silk, and is said to be highly ornamental and of
great elegance. This is practical literature with a vengeance.




THE DAWN OF PEACE.


    Sweet dawn of peace, how lovely is thy breaking!
      With summer blossoms round thy smiling brow,
    From troubled dreams of dead and dying, waking,
      Gladly we hasten forth to greet thee now.
    Heaven’s brightest gems are gleaming in thy tresses;
      Thy voice of melody bids discord cease;
    And ’neath the magic of thy fond caresses,
      All earth grows beautiful, fair dawn of peace.

    Earth’s feathered minstrels plume their wings with gladness,
      And hail thy coming with a burst of song;
    While weary Age, bowed down with care and sadness,
      Passes contented through life’s busy throng.
    What though the summer of our lives be over,
      Our steps may falter, but our hearts rejoice,
    When, o’er fair fields of fragrant crimson clover,
      Steals the dear music of thy heavenly voice.

    The nation kneels in humble adoration,
      For angels follow in thy glittering train,
    Singing sweet hymns of praise; while all creation
      Mingles its voice in the triumphant strain.
    No bloodstains mar thy robe of snowy whiteness,
      Though thou hast paused o’er many a gory bed,
    Shedding a halo of celestial brightness
      Round the still forms of the unburied dead.

    To the lone mother by her childless ingle,
      Bright as a star thy radiant face appears;
    And golden hopes, like morning sunbeams, mingle
      With the pure fountain of her joyous tears.
    Fades the dark memory of long nights of sorrow;
      Her worn cheek glows; her heart’s wild doubtings cease.
    To Love and Home, her boy shall come to-morrow,
      Borne in thy pitying arms, blest dawn of peace.

    Delighted childhood flings white chains of daisies,
      As Youth’s best offering, at thy gracious feet;
    The dome of heaven seems echoing forth thy praises;
      Where muffled drums made mourning, glad hearts beat;
    And while the merry lark is proudly soaring
      In joyous rapture from the emerald sod,
    Pæans of praise our grateful souls are pouring,
      For thou art welcome as a smile from God!

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 37, VOL. I, SEPTEMBER 13, 1884 ***


    

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