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

SUNNY DAYS ON THE THAMES.

When city folk, weary of heat and dust, are
beginning to think of distant flights—to Switzerland
and its eternal snows; to the romantic legendary
Rhine; perhaps even farther afield, across
the great Atlantic to wondrous Niagara; or farther
yet, to that new old world on the shores of the
Pacific—I too tire of the closeness and turmoil of
the town, and turn my steps towards the pleasant
country. I am not going very far, scarcely more
than a few miles, but I doubt if any of the travellers
on their long journeys will see a lovelier spot.

It is late on an afternoon in early June as I
drive along the shady green lanes from the quiet
country station, and stop before the gate of a dear
old red brick house, which I know and love well.
The door stands hospitably open, and in the porch
I see kind and friendly faces framed in a wealth of
glorious roses and many-tinted creepers, which
cling lovingly to the time-stained walls. Good
old ‘Belle’ the black retriever comes to meet me,
wagging her tail affectionately; and looking up in
my face, seems to ask me what I have done with
the curly black puppy I ruthlessly stole from her
the last time I was here.

How pleasant the sunny garden looks! How
sweet the flowers smell! How delightful does
everything appear after the bricks and mortar I
have left behind me; and yet here are bricks and
mortar too, but ah! not town bricks and town
mortar. Time touches the old house with tender
hands, and mellows it year by year into richer tints.

A queer old house it is, with odd bits added on to
it here and there, in defiance of all the laws of architecture,
and startling you with unexpected corners
and angles; with quaint tall chimneys springing
from the moss-grown roof, out of which the smoke
curls lazily in blue-gray clouds, and round which
twine the Virginia creeper and purple clematis,
trying curiously to peep in at the top of them;
with ivy-framed windows flashing in the sun, and
overhanging eaves, beneath which the sparrows
chirp merrily. The rooms are low, but so comfortable;
whether great Christmas logs crackle on
the hearth, throwing sparkles of light here and
there, and leaving the distant corners all dim and
shadowy; or whether, as now, the windows stand
open to the summer air, and the rooms are invaded
by the sweet country scents and the perfume of
the mignonette borders outside.

But better than all else of beauty here do I love
old Father Thames, and I run rapidly through the
house on to the lawn on the other side. There
the river wanders at the foot of it, lying across the
verdant fields like a silver ribbon on green velvet.

‘Let us go to our drawing-room,’ says one of the
girls who has followed me. ‘We shall just have
time to do that before dinner.’ So we jump into
the boat and scull into a neighbouring back-water,
where we have christened by the name of ‘our
drawing-room’ a little creek which runs into the
bank, and is fringed with pollard willows, making
a pleasant shade overhead. We chat cosily there
for half an hour, the water licking the sides of the
boat with a refreshing sound. A dear little brown
water-rat comes and sits near us, and looks curiously
at us out of his bright eyes; a kingfisher
flashes by us like a sapphire; then the midges come
and dance gaily round us, singing a song of which
the ‘refrain’ is ever, ‘It will be fine to-morrow!’

To-morrow has come, and the midges have
foretold aright! The sun pours a brilliant flood
of light into my room, calling me to come to
the royal feast he has spread for me (poor
weary citizen), of flowers and sweet perfumes and
soft balmy breezes. I open the window with
welcoming hands as he streams in, and stand there
a moment listening to the birds chanting their
joyous matins, to the rooks clamouring cheerfully
in the tall elms, and to the busy sparrows who
twitter noisily just above my casement. Roses
have climbed the wall, and are peeping in at me,
some still shyly folding their petals around them
in virgin modesty, others already baring their
glowing hearts to the kisses of the amorous air.
The beds of scarlet geranium make brilliant spots
of flame on the diamond-studded grass; and the
river is no longer a silver ribbon, for it has caught{322}
the sun’s reflection, and flows like molten gold
between the meadows. It is still early when I
betake myself with a book to my favourite seat on
the lawn. But I cannot read. The great book of
Nature lies open before me, and dwarfs all other
literature into insignificance.

After breakfast (even on such a morning as this
we must breakfast), as is our wont, we load the
boat with books, work, sketching materials, and
lastly with ourselves. Two of us take the oars,
and to their lazy cadence we glide down the
sunlit river in the direction of one of our favourite
haunts. The boys, as we still call them, stalwart
young Britons though they are, have already disappeared
with their fishing-tackle in their canoes;
but we shall very likely meet by-and-by, as they
know all our pet nooks and corners.

We take our way past the green banks, on which
the wild-flowers make delicate jewelled mosaics;
by tall beds of graceful wandlike reeds, beneath
the shadows made by hanging woods bending to
kiss their own reflections in the stream, until we
come to a cool and shady retreat, hiding itself
away modestly from the sun’s bold and ardent
eyes. Here we fasten the boat to a willow-stump
and prepare to spend our morning happily in this
sanctuary of Nature’s own making. Some of us
begin to sketch a gnarled old tree crowned with a
diadem of feathery foliage; others take out their
work; and one among us lays hands on a book, as
an excuse for silent enjoyment.

Though what silence is there here? The merry
insects hum and whirl around us, saying: ‘Summer
has come, summer has come;’ the weary winds,
faint with their long winter’s strife, sigh softly in
the tall tree-tops; a moor-hen calls shrilly from her
nest among the rushes; a lark pours from the
stainless heavens a rain of melody; and the silence
overflows with music. The bright motes dance
in the still air, trying to get into our shadowy
abode.

Sol is in his kindliest humour to-day; not
harsh and fierce, as he will be later in the year,
smiting with cruel hands the tender flowers, until
they droop their sad heads beneath his hot anger;
but wooing them with warm and genial smiles
from their gentle mother’s breast, beneath which
they have been sleeping safely through the chill
winter. All things beneath his beams rejoice.
The river; the fields in their delicate green robes,
which, as they grow bolder under his gaze, they
will change for sweeping kirtles of ruddy gold; the
silver clouds cradled in the sky’s fair arms; even
the modest river-buds which scarcely lift their
shy eyes above the water. Around us float the
pure cups of the water-lilies. The banks by
which we sit are fringed with pale forget-me-not;
and delicate ferns push their tender fronds through
their beds of last year’s fallen leaves—life springing
from death. The pale pink water-grasses rear
their heads above the ripples, and the sun stares
them out of countenance, until by-and-by they
blush a celestial rosy red; kingfishers gleam by,
their blue wings flashing streaks of turquoise.

How sharp and clear the shadows lie in the
embrace of the soft stream! Which is the real
world, I wonder? The one shining so joyously
around and beyond us, or that other lying cool
and still beneath our keel? How I should like to
plunge down and see! But perhaps if I did, the
water-pixies might throw their spells around me,
and I might never return to the world above,
which after all is fair enough for me.

As I make this reflection, we see the bow of a
canoe peeping into our watery bower; and I am
brought back to earth by hearing a merry young
voice inquiring if we have any lunch to spare.
So we unpack our baskets, and landing, spread
our sweet country fare on the sward—crisp home-made
bread, pats of golden butter, fragrant honey,
and fresh creamy milk. Then the talk, which has
languished before, becomes brisk; and many a gay
jest is bandied round the fallen moss-clad tree
which forms our rustic table.

‘Read us something,’ says one of the merry
group—’something suited to the scene.’ So a
book is taken up by willing hands, and a voice
we all love reads us fair thoughts which have
arisen in poet-minds while gazing on Nature’s
lovely works. High and noble thoughts they are,
and to me they are dear familiar friends; but
to-day, my eyes wander to the poetry in God’s
creations round me, and I whisper to myself:

So the bright afternoon wears away, pleasant
talk alternating with snatches of luxurious silence,
and the evening draws on apace. The shadows
begin to lengthen, and lie like swartly-clad giants
along the grass. The birds hush their song, and
here and there the curious fishes spring from
their cool bed to take a last look at the dying day.
Reluctantly we turn our faces homewards.

Right before us the sun is sinking with passionate
glowing cheeks into the murky arms of Night.
The gates of heaven open to let Phœbus pass
through, and from out them streams a sea of
wondrous light, in which pearl and opal clouds
float in a lake of delicate green and amber. The
trees look inky black against the sky’s pure spiritual
face. An owl hoots mournfully from yonder,
stately poplar; the silent bat flits by on noiseless
wing; here and there a glow-worm is lighting
its tiny lamp; and the frogs croak us a cheery
‘Good-night!’ as our boat glides softly by the
rushes. But not yet do we return it. We say:
‘We will come out again when the moon is up.’

And so we do. In defiance of any rheumatic or
neuralgic future which our elders prophesy for us,
evening after evening we come out to watch the
fair Night lighting her beacon-fires overhead.

The mist-wreathed elms stand by the water like
rows of ghostly sentinel monks with gray cowls
drawn over their heads; the willows look like
silver trees transplanted from some far Peruvian
garden; and the water drops from the wet blades
of the oars in little showers of diamond dew.
Above our heads the nightingale is pouring his
liquid melody over the land. We listen, still and
hushed. Surely our hearts grow purified, and the
cares and sorrows of the world drop from us
unheeded as we listen.

Philomela’s song makes the silence round us
seem deeper and more calm. The flowers have
folded their delicate robes more closely around
them, and have lain down to dream beneath the
stars; even the river seems asleep, and the dark
shadows clasped so tightly to his breast. Slowly
the pale moon climbs the purple vault of heaven,
casts from her her gauzy veil, and looks down
on us with her pure and vestal eyes. The stars{323}
awaken one by one, and come forth to do her
homage. The gold-hearted cups of the water-lilies
drink long draughts of silver dew. The
willows, like Narcissus of old, gaze wistfully at
their own fair faces in the stream; and the aspens
quiver with eerie thoughts unknown to us. Surely,
riding on the moonbeam which rests on yonder
ripple, I see a water-pixie; and resting beneath the
shadow of the dock-leaves, I spy a wood-elf! But
some one speaks, and they are gone. We drift
silently homewards; silently, for our enjoyment
has become too deep for words. Silently we land,
and still silently I seek my chamber, and opening
my window, gaze into the moonlit garden
beyond.

The flowers have folded their leaves beneath the
soft kisses of the night, and lie sleeping placidly
in the dim and tender light; the air is laden with
their fragrant breath, which is always sweetest
when they lie dreaming beneath the summer stars.
The flame-coloured geraniums, the white and wandlike
lilies, and the many-tinted roses, are all alike,
misty and indistinct; and the sinuous and mossy
paths, touched here and there by the soft light,
lose themselves in darkness beneath the dusky
hedges. Beyond them lies my beloved river, on
which the starry river-buds float tremulously. The
earth is all at rest, and above it the moon hangs
like a silver lamp in the star-lit sky; and overhead
one nightingale, the last, for the rest have sunk
into silence, trills forth his Elysian chant, and
mingles with the dreams of the sleeping flowers.

What a fair world! Is it possible that sorrow
exists, that these, God’s ineffable works, can ever
be defaced by sin?

Such are the days and nights I spend when I
make holiday in the old house by the river. Alas!
that ever the day should dawn when turning my
back on its poetry, I return once more to the
prose of our work-a-day world.

THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.

CHAPTER XXV.—IN THE LANE.

I had had a motive, which I fancied she did not
perceive, in asking Lilian to accompany me on my
errand to the Home that morning. It was Arthur
Trafford’s wedding-day. Mrs Tipper and I had
done our best to keep the knowledge of it from
her until it was over, and flattered ourselves that
we had succeeded.

As we drew nearer home the sound of bells
ringing merrily in the distance reached my ears;
and in the hope of diverting her attention I talked
on, apropos of anything or nothing. I fancied
she was heeding, until she said gently: ‘It is fortunate
they have so fine a day, Mary.’

‘I suppose it is,’ I replied ungraciously. Then
I presently added more pleasantly: ‘But it is even
more fortunate that you can say so.’

‘Dear Mary, what did you expect me to say?’

I took the sweet face between my hands, and
looked into the clear eyes, which did not flinch
under my gaze, as she added in a low voice: ‘I
am not in love with another woman’s husband,
Mary.’

No; I came to the happy conclusion that she
was not. There was no cause for further anxiety
upon that score. Had I only been right in my
fancy about Robert Wentworth, how pleasantly
might things now have arranged themselves!

Again I felt obliged to postpone telling Lilian
about my coming happiness. It had seemed difficult
to talk of my engagement the night before,
how much more so now—on Arthur Trafford’s
wedding-day. I must still wait for a more fitting
season, I told myself.

Mrs Tipper had done her best to make the
little parlour appear as cheerful and home-like
as possible; and I saw that she watched Lilian
with loving anxiety. She had prepared quite a
feast for our favourite meal that day. If hot
cakes and everything else the dear little woman
could think of in the way of dainties had been
remedies for disappointed love, Lilian might have
owed her recovery to them, so plentifully were
they provided. She had the comfort of seeing
her niece partake of the good things with an
appetite which quite set her mind at rest.

If it really cost Lilian something so to gratify
her aunt, I believe it was very little. She shewed
too that her thoughts had not been absent during
our morning’s work, by joining very earnestly in my
narration of what had taken place, and giving a
very decided opinion about Mrs Gower. Before we
bade each other good-night, Lilian had succeeded
in satisfying Mrs Tipper, as she had satisfied me,
that she was ‘not in love with another woman’s
husband.’

As days passed on my news remained still
untold. Something seemed always to be intervening
to cause me to put off the telling it until
the morrow. Looking back, I see how very slight
were some of the causes which I allowed to prevent
me from opening my heart to my companions;
although at the time they appeared
sufficient.

Meantime we were occupied from morning till
night, Lilian and I working together as with one
mind. But we presently began to miss our master,
as Lilian laughingly termed him, and I grew
more than anxious as the days he had accustomed
us to expect him passed without our seeing him.
Not once had we heard from or seen him since
that never-to-be-forgotten night. Did he really
blame me? Could he not forgive me? I tormented
myself with all sorts of doubts and fears, in my
heart of hearts dreading something even worse
than his blame or anger. Robert Wentworth was
not the man either to judge harshly or to be
unforgiving.

It was nearly a fortnight since we had seen him,
when one evening Becky mysteriously beckoned
me out of the room. Lilian was playing one of
our favourite sonatas, and I made my escape
unobserved.

‘Another letter, Becky?’ I asked, putting out
my hand for it with a smile.

‘No, Miss; it’s a woman this time,’ returned
Becky. ‘She says that she wants to see you
alone, and she won’t come in. I was to tell you
she’s waiting down at the end of the lane, and to
be sure to say you are to go by yourself.’

{324}

‘What kind of woman is she, Becky?’ I asked,
my thoughts at once reverting to Nancy Dean.

‘A more disagreeable one I never see,’ very
decidedly returned Becky. ‘And as to behaviour,
she seemed just ready to snap my nose off when I
asked what name I should tell you. “No name at
all,” she said.’

‘I will go, Becky.’

‘Poor Nancy!’ was my mental ejaculation; ‘she
has got into trouble again. It was perhaps too
much to expect her to remain with people who
believe her to be so much worse than she really
is, just when she needs to be encouraged and
strengthened.’ I was stepping from the porch,
when Becky earnestly pleaded for permission to
accompany me.

‘Do, please, let me come too, Miss Haddon,
dear!’ she whispered. ‘I could stand a little way
off, so as not to hear; and if she touches you’——

‘She will not hurt me, Becky. Do not fear it.
I know who she is.’

Becky stood aside, silenced if not convinced.
I went out into the summer-scented air, and just
pausing by the way to gather a rose for Nancy,
passed on down the lane.

Not the slightest doubt as to whom I should
see for a moment crossed my mind. My surprise
was all the greater when I came in sight of a
woman standing erect by the stile with her arms
folded across her chest; who, a moment’s glance
told me, was not at all like Nancy—a tall thin
woman, dressed in a long old-fashioned cloak, and
what used to be termed a coal-scuttle bonnet.

Quite taken by surprise, I paused a moment to
reconnoitre before advancing. She turned her
face towards me, and although I did not immediately
recognise who she was, I knew that I had
seen her before.

‘Do you wish to speak to me? I am Miss
Haddon.’

‘Yes; I know you are.’

Then it flashed upon me who she was.

‘You are Mr Wentworth’s housekeeper?’

‘Yes.’

My heart sank with a foreboding of some evil,
and for a moment I could not utter a word. Then
screwing up my courage, I asked in as matter-of-course
a tone as I could assume: ‘He is quite
well, I hope?’

‘Nobody cares whether he’s ill or well, I expect.’

‘You are very much mistaken!’ I replied, in
some agitation. ‘Every one who knows him
would care a great deal! You ought to know
that they would.’

I suppose my face and tone satisfied her that I
was so far saying what I thought, though she only
shifted her ground of offence in consequence.

‘If he was ill he wouldn’t be wanting people’s
pity.’

‘But I hope—— Is he ill?’

‘Why should he be ill?’ she rejoined angrily.
Then endeavouring to command herself, she went
on: ‘But I haven’t come here to talk about that.
Ill or well, he doesn’t know I’ve come here, and
would be very angry if he did. You must please
to recollect that. I should have been here before,
but it took me two days, putting this and that
together, to find out where you live. You are
living with the ladies at the cottage down there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that can’t be much of a place; but I
suppose situations are not so plentiful, and anything
is better than’——

‘What is it you have come to say to me?’ I
asked shortly.

‘You are very masterful, and know how to get
your way when you want it. You two are a match
for each other; and I knew you would find that
out. I knew no good would come of it when I
let you get the better of me that day; and I’d
sooner do anything than come to you now. You
may be sure of that.’

‘I know that for some foolish reason you took
a prejudice against me; but being disliked before
one is known, ought not to distress one, though
I should prefer not being disliked.’

‘If you’re not hurt you needn’t complain,’ she
replied, as though determined not to yield an inch.

‘What have you come to say to me?’ I repeated.
‘I suppose you did not come all this way to
remind me that you are prejudiced against me?’

‘No.’ She looked over the hedge and around in
all directions before continuing; then said in a
low voice: ‘You thought my master’s looked but
a poor place for a gentleman born to live in, that
day. I saw how sharp you was to notice, and
how poor and shabby you thought it all was.’

‘You are too ready to ascribe thoughts to me,’
I replied.

‘But you did now; didn’t you? You can’t say
that you didn’t think things looked a bit poor?’

‘Mr Wentworth can afford to be more careless
about appearances than can most people,’ I said,
not in the least comprehending her drift. ‘It was
all well enough for a bachelor’s home.’

‘Ay, well enough for a bachelor’s home perhaps;
but not for a married couple, eh?’

‘Really!’

‘Try to keep your temper for another five
minutes, if you please, Miss. I know there’s no
love lost between us two; but I’ve come here
because I’ve got something to say; and proud and
masterful as you are, I know you are the sort to
be trusted, and I’m going to trust you. I carried
Master Robert in my arms when he was a baby,
and I know him and love him more than any
fine madam ever can. He was left very poor,
and he worked very hard, and a better master
or kinder gentleman—— But that’s not what
I’ve come to say; nobody will ever know his
goodness as I do’—jealously. ‘He was poor, and I
was poor, and I’ve had some ado to keep things
together for him. But about three years ago my
brother died, and things changed for me. He was
a small farmer down in Gloucestershire, and everybody
called him a miser; but it is not for me
to complain of his scraping and saving, for he left
all he had to me, and a nice little nest-egg it
turned out to be. It’s been down in my will for
Master Robert from the first day I had it; and it
has been ‘cumulating ever since; not a penny of
it have I ever touched. The pleasure has been to
think that there it was all ready for him, though
I was too proud to see how much he liked working
his way up in the world, to tell him about it
before he wanted it.’

‘I am sincerely glad to know he has so faithful
a friend,’ I said, holding out my hand to her.

‘Wait a bit, Miss; let me say my say. To-morrow
morning that money will be made over to
Master Robert, and he will be told that he’ll never
see no more of me if he won’t take it; and the{325}
lawyer he says it brings in pretty nigh ninety
pounds a year, now!’ Pausing a moment to give
me time to recover that.

What could I say? Growing hot and confused
and pained as her meaning began to dawn upon
me, I murmured: ‘It is a good sum—and’——

‘And that’s not all,’ she said eagerly. ‘You
must remember Master Robert is getting on now
and being talked about. I’ve brought this paper
down with me that you may see his name in it
for yourself;’ taking a newspaper from her pocket,
hastily unfolding it and pointing out with trembling
finger a short but eulogistic notice of a
pamphlet by R. Wentworth. ‘There’s no gainsaying
that, you know.’ Slipping it into her
pocket again, she earnestly went on, laying her
hand upon my arm, and seeing only him in her
increased anxiety: ‘I don’t say that prudence isn’t
a good thing; I’m not for foolish marriages when
there’s nothing to depend on; but there’s the
ninety pounds a year, and what he earns, besides
a house to live in, and my services for nothing;
and master says my bark’s worse than my bite;
bless you, his wife’s no call to be afraid of me!’

‘Hush, pray hush!’ I murmured, seeing all her
meaning now. ‘Do you think any one who loved
Robert Wentworth would care about all that!’

‘Then it is that he isn’t loved? God help him!’
The cold, hard, set look came into her face again—though
she would seem cold and hard now to
me never again—and she folded her cloak about
her.

‘Will you tell me how Mr Wentworth is?’ I
could not help asking.

‘Oh, he’s well enough; nobody need think he’s
going to die of a broken heart. And you must
please to remember that he knows nothing about
my coming here, ma’am. And perhaps it isn’t too
much to ask you not to mention what a foolish
old woman has been talking about?’

‘I should be as much grieved as you could
possibly be for him to know anything about it,
Hester,’ I replied in all sincerity.

‘Then I wish you good-night, Miss.’

‘Will not you shake hands with me?’

‘I’m never much for shaking hands, Miss, thank
you’—stiffly, both hands folded in her cloak.

‘Not for your master’s sake? Mr Wentworth is
my friend, and I think he would be sorry’——

‘He can’t be sorry about what he doesn’t
know.’

‘Well, you cannot prevent my respecting you,
and that I shall do as long as I live.’

She went on down the lane, and I turned away,
burying my face in my hands. Could I ever forgive
myself!

Something—for a moment I thought it was a
falling leaf—lightly touched my arm, and looking
round I saw a large bony hand put from behind.
I clasped it without a word; without a word it
was withdrawn, and I presently found myself
alone. I turned and walked slowly and thoughtfully
homewards. How completely though unconsciously
she had shewn me her motive for seeking
an interview with me! She had divined that her
master had had a disappointment, and must have
drawn the conclusion that he had been refused
solely from prudential motives. Consequently she
had come for the purpose of giving me a better
knowledge of his prospects than he himself could
have done, and was ready for his sake to try to
overcome her prejudice against me. Nevertheless,
my interview with old Hester tended to make me
more rather than less anxious respecting her
master.

SEA-EGGS.

The visitor to the sea-side must frequently in his
rambles along the beach have picked up specimens
of the curious animals which are popularly
known as ‘Sea-eggs’ and ‘Sea-urchins.’ The former
name is applied to these creatures when they
are found cast upon the shore and present the
appearance of rounded or ball-shaped objects,
each inclosed within a hard but brittle limy
shell. Whilst the term ‘urchin’ is given to the
same objects when they are seen in their more
natural and perfect state, and when the outside of
the shell literally bristles with spines. The name
‘urchin,’ in fact originally applied to the hedgehog,
has been extended to denominate the sea-eggs,
from their presenting the spiny appearance
so familiarly seen in the common tenant of our
woods and hedgerows. Thus the sea-egg is the
sea-urchin with its spines detached and rubbed off
by the unkindly force of the waves; and the
animal thus popularly designated is the Echinus
of the zoologist, and belongs to the large class of
animals of which the Star-fishes are well-known
representatives.

The entire history of the sea-egg is of so curious
a nature that the most casual reader may well
feel interested in the account of the animal’s
present and past life; whilst the feeling of mere
curiosity to know something of one of the most
‘common objects of the shore,’ should prompt
every sea-side visitor to make the closer acquaintance
of the Echinus.

Suppose that we begin our examination by
looking at the hard case or ‘shell’ in which the
soft parts of the animal are inclosed. We find on
referring to the development of the animal, that
this ‘shell’ actually represents the hardened skin
of the animal, and that viewed in this light, it
closely corresponds to the shell of the lobster
or crab. The shell is flattened at each pole,
and we can readily perceive that it is composed
of rows of little limy plates, which are disposed
in a regular manner from pole to pole, or after
the fashion of the meridian lines on a globe.
Counting the series of plates, we find the shell
to be composed of twenty rows; but we may
also perceive a difference between certain of the
plates of which the rows are composed. Thus
we find two adjoining rows of plates, which are
perforated with holes. The next two rows are
not so perforated; whilst the third two rows possess
holes like the first rows. We may, in fact, proceed
round the shell, and come back to the point at
which our examination began, with the result of
finding that we may group the whole of the
twenty rows of plates of this curious limy box
into two sets—those with holes and those without;
and we may further discover that there are
five double rows of perforated plates, and that
these alternate with other five double rows which
do not possess holes.

Each little plate of the sea-egg’s shell may be
most accurately described as being hexagonal or
six-sided in form; but this shape may be more
or less modified in certain regions of the shell.{326}
The five double rows of the shell which are perforated
with holes, it may be remarked, are those
through the apertures in which the small ‘tube-feet’
of the animal are protruded. And it may
also be noted that in some of the sea-eggs these
perforated rows do not extend from pole to pole
of the shell, as in the common species, but are
limited so as to form a rosette-like figure, on the
upper surface or at the upper pole of the shell.
This modification is well seen in a group of sea-eggs,
not uncommon round our coasts, and which
are popularly named ‘Heart-urchins’ from their
peculiar shape.

The outside of the shell presents us with some
curious features; the zoologist’s study leading him
thus to carefully note points which an ordinary
observer would hardly deem worthy his attention.
When we examine the outer surface of the shell,
we find it to be thickly studded over with little
rounded knobs or ‘tubercles,’ which are, if anything,
most numerous on those parts or rows of
plates which are not perforated. And if we carefully
study one of the spines we shall find that it
is hollowed out or is concave at its base. Clearly
then, the spines are meant to articulate by means
of these hollowed or cup-shaped bases with the
rounded knobs on the outside of the shell, and
in each case a true ball-and-socket joint is thus
formed. The spines are thus intended to be
moved, and they are not only firmly attached by a
ligament or band of fibres to the surfaces of their
tubercles, but appear to be moved by special
muscles, which form a thin investing layer on the
outer surface of the shell. The spines undoubtedly
serve as organs of defence, but in some species
they are employed as boring-organs to scoop out
holes in the sand or shallow beds in rocks, in
which their possessors lie snugly ensconced.

The outer surface of the shell also bears certain
very peculiar appendages, known as ‘Pedicellariæ.’
These little organisms also occur on the outer
surface of Star-fishes and other members of the
sea-egg’s class; but regarding their exact nature
and functions, zoologists are still in doubt. The
form of one of these pedicellarians may be best
imagined by figuring to one’s self a small or
minute stalk attached to the shell, and bearing
at its free extremity two or three little jaws,
which move actively upon one another, with a
quick snapping motion. These little jaws can be
seen to seize particles of food, and there is no
doubt whatever that they possess a life and vitality
independently of the sea-egg or other organism
upon which they reside; since their movements
are seen to continue after the death of the animal
which affords them lodgment. Some naturalists
have regarded them as ‘peculiarly modified spines;’
but the reasons or grounds for this belief are
anything but clear, since it is difficult to imagine
any reasonable explanation of the means whereby
a spine could acquire an active living and independent
nature. By good authorities, who have not
ventured to theorise so boldly, the pedicellariæ
have been regarded as parasites of some kind or
other; and they may also possibly represent
stages in the as yet unknown development of
some organisms. Whilst, assuming them to be
fully-grown beings, their function, as they exist
on the shell of our sea-egg, has been supposed
to be that of seizing particles of food, and of
removing waste or effete matters.

The internal structure of the sea-egg shews its
near relationship with the Star-fishes and Sea-cucumbers.
The mouth is the large orifice opening
at the lower pole of the shell; so that as our sea-egg
crawls slowly and mouth downwards over the
bed of the sea, or over the floor of its native pools,
it can procure food without any very great trouble
as regards its conveyance to the mouth. The
internal furnishings of the body include a stomach
and complete digestive system, along with a very
peculiar set of jaws or teeth, lying just within the
mouth, the points or tips of the jaws being usually
protruded from the mouth-opening. This arrangement
of teeth is named the ‘Lantern of Aristotle,’
and comprises five conical pieces, so arranged
together and so provided with muscles, as to be
perfectly adapted for bruising the sea-weeds and
other forms of nutriment on which the sea-eggs
subsist. Their near neighbours the Star-fishes do
not possess any teeth; although curiously enough,
the unarmed sea-stars prefer a richer dietary than
that which contents their sea-egg neighbours,
since they devour large quantities of oysters and
other molluscs. Our sea-egg possesses a heart for
circulating its blood, in the form of a simple tube;
and although no distinct breathing-organs are
developed, naturalists believe that the blood may
be purified by being circulated through a delicate
membrane which is named the ‘mesentery,’ and
which serves to suspend and support the digestive
organs to the wall of the shell. The fact that this
membrane is richly provided with the delicate
vibratile filaments known as ‘cilia,’ and that it is
bathed in the sea-water—necessarily containing
oxygen—and which is admitted within the shell,
would seem to favour the idea that it constitutes
the breathing-organ of these animals.

The sea-egg is not destitute of means for obtaining
some degree of knowledge regarding its surroundings;
and it obtains its quantum of information
through the same channel by which man
is brought into relation with the world in which
he lives—namely the nervous system. The sea-urchin
possesses no structure corresponding to a
brain—indeed in all animals of its nature, the
nervous system exists in a comparatively low and
unspecialised condition. We do not find, in other
words, that development and concentration of the
parts of the nervous system seen in the highest
groups of animals, and which enables these latter
to form definite ideas regarding their surroundings
and respecting the world at large. A cord of
nervous matter surrounds the gullet of the sea-egg,
and from this central portion five great nerves
are given off; one nerve-trunk passing along the
inner surface of each of the perforated double rows
of plates of the shell, to terminate at the upper
pole of the body. The only organs of sense
developed in the sea-eggs appear to consist of five
little ‘eyes’ of rudimentary nature, each consisting
of a little spot of colouring matter and a lens.
These eyes are situated on five special plates of
the shell, developed at the upper pole or extremity
of that structure. We thus remark that the parts
of the nervous system, along with other portions
of the sea-egg’s structure, are developed in a
kind of five-membered symmetry—if we may so
express it. And it is a singular fact that not only
throughout the sea-egg’s class do we find the number
five to represent the typical arrangement of
parts and organs—as is well exemplified in the{327}
five rays of the common star-fish—but we also discover
that this number is one exceedingly common
in the symmetry of flowers. This fact apparently
struck an old writer—Sir Thomas Browne—as
being a curious and noteworthy feature of the
Star-fishes and their allies, since we find him
inquiring ‘Why, among Sea-stars, Nature chiefly
delighteth in five points?’—although to this suggestive
query, the learned and eccentric author of
the Religio Medici gives no exact or satisfactory
reply.

The movements of our sea-egg are effected by
means of an apparatus, which forms one of the
most noteworthy parts of its structure. If a star-fish
be dropped into a rock-pool, it may be
seen to glide slowly but easily over the bottom
of the miniature sea in which we have placed it.
When we examine the lower surface of this
animal’s body, we at once perceive the means
whereby its movements are performed; for existing
in hundreds, in the deep groove which runs
along the under surface of each ray, we see the
little tube-feet or ambulacra, each consisting of a
little muscular tube, terminated in a sucker-like
tip. By means of an apparatus of essentially
similar kind, the sea-egg is enabled to crawl slowly
over the floor of the sea. The tube-feet existing
to the number of many hundreds in the sea-egg,
are protruded, as has already been remarked,
through the holes existing in each of the five
double rows of perforated plates of the shell. The
mechanism of their protrusion depends on the
presence of a special system of vessels, known as
the ‘ambulacral’ vessels, which carry water to the
little feet, for the purpose of their inflation and
distension.

Thus on the upper surface of the shell we find
a single large plate perforated with holes like the
lid of a pepper-box. This plate opens into a long
tube called the ‘sand-canal’—a name which is
decidedly a misnomer, since the function of the
plate resembling the pepper-box lid is to allow
water to enter this tube, but at the same time to
exclude particles of sand and like matters. The
sand-canal terminates in a circular vessel, which,
like the nerve-cord, surrounds the gullet; and from
this central ring a great vessel, like a main water-pipe,
runs up each of the five rows of perforated
plates in company with the nerve-cord. At the
base of each little tube-foot is a little muscular sac
or bag, and into these sacs the water admitted by
the sand-canal ultimately passes. When therefore
the sea-egg wishes to distend its feet for the
purpose of protruding them through the shell-pores,
and of thus walking by applying their
sucker-like tips to fixed objects, the water in the
little sacs is forced into the feet, which are thus
distended. Whilst conversely, when the feet are
to be withdrawn, the water is forced back, by the
contraction of the feet into the sacs, or may be
allowed to escape from the perforated tips of the
feet, so as to admit of a fresh supply being brought
in from the interior.

The development of the sea-egg may be briefly
glanced at by way of conclusion, along with a few
points in its economic history. The animal, solid
as it appears in its adult state, is developed from
a small egg, which gives origin to a little body,
usually named the ‘larva,’ but which, from its resemblance
in form to a painter’s easel, has received
the name of Pluteus. This little body does not in
the least resemble the sea-egg; possesses a mouth
and digestive system of its own, and swims freely
through the sea. Sooner or later, however, a
second body begins to be formed within and at the
expense of this Pluteus-larva; whilst as development
proceeds and ends, the sea-egg appears as the
result of this secondary development, and the now
useless remainder of the first-formed being is cast
off and simply perishes. Thus the development
of the sea-egg is by no means the least curious part
of the animal’s history, and presents a singular
resemblance to the production of the Star-fishes
and their neighbours.

The mere mention of the economic or rather
gastronomic relations of the sea-eggs may appropriately
form a concluding remark to our gossiping
remarks concerning these animals. With our
British prejudices in favour of eating only what
our forefathers were accustomed to consider wholesome,
it is not likely that the sea-eggs will appeal
with success to be included as culinary dainties.
Yet on the continent these animals are much
esteemed as articles of dietary and even of luxury.
The Corsicans and Algerians eat one species, whilst
the Neapolitans relish another kind; and in classic
times, when variety rather than quantity or quality
was the chief feature of high-class entertainments,
the Echini were esteemed morsels at the tables of
the Greeks and Romans. Here then is an opportunity
for another Soyer to tempt the modern
cultivated appetite with a new and wholesome
dish. Considering that crabs and lobsters are so
highly esteemed, the sea-eggs but wait a suitable
introduction to become, it may be, the favourite
tit-bits of future generations.

A wise philosopher—the great Newton himself—remarked
concerning the limitation of our knowledge,
that we were but as children, picking up at
most a few stray grains of sand on the sea-shore,
whilst around us lies the great region of the unknown.
Our present study may not inaptly be
related to Newton’s comparison, since it serves to
shew that even the brief and imperfect history of
a stray shell picked up on the sea-beach may teem
with features so curious and with problems so
deep, that the furthest science may be unequal to
the explanation of the one or the elucidation of
the other. Whilst the subject no less powerfully
pleads for the wider extension of the knowledge
of this world and its living tenants—knowledge
which in every aspect reveals things which are not
only wondrously grand, but also ‘fair to see.’

THE TWELFTH RIG.

IN SIX CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER V.—THE WORKING OF THE CHARM.

The theatre was crowded with an assemblage of
fashion and beauty, and many were the glances
directed towards the boxes, and numerous the
comments of those who came to see rather than
to hear, on the beauties who shone there like so
many stars striving to outsparkle each other.

In one of the side-boxes Eliza was seated with
her husband. Passionately fond of music, she
seemed to have forgotten her sorrows, till, on
turning to Charles to make some observation, she
perceived that some young men, acquaintances of
his, had entered and were conversing with him.
One of them was directing his attention to a{328}
particular box. Following their eyes, she observed
a young lady, all in fleecy white and pale blue,
with pearls glimmering in her dark hair. A most
radiant beauty, her eyes sparkling with extraordinary
brilliancy, and seeming to far outshine
the lustre of the diamonds that gleamed around;
the rich damask of her cheek putting to shame the
roses she held in her hand. Several gentlemen
stood around her, attentive to every word and
look, each striving to win her special regard. She
appeared in buoyant spirits, and conversed with
great animation, smiling often with singular sweetness.
But her smiles, though so bewitching, were
distributed carelessly, and she never distinguished
any one of those about her above the rest.

Eliza, struck with admiration, gazed at her
earnestly. The young lady looked in that direction.
Their eyes met. A thrill passed through
Eliza’s frame. All at once the gay assemblage
seemed to vanish from her sight, the lights burned
dim and lurid, and the air grew heavy as if with
death. The voices of the singers retreated far
away. She heard the murmur of mountain rivulets,
and the soughing of the wind over a wide
space. Before her eyes uprose a lonely field, with
the moonbeams shimmering over its dark ridges.
She saw herself, and fronting her a shadowy white
face and form, like the dim reflection in a stream,
of a human figure. Then, mingling with the
distant music, the words ‘Doomed, doomed!’ smote
on her ears like a wailing cry of agony, or the
scornful laugh of a mocking fiend.

With this scene before her, with these words
ringing around her, she sat on, as if in a dream.
Had she looked towards her husband, she would
have seen a dark cloud on his forehead and a
moody look in his eye. Could she have seen into
his mind, it would have troubled her more.

‘How lovely!’ he thought. ‘What grace, what
ease and animation! And she might have been
my wife. What a fool I was! Eliza is pretty
enough still, but compared to her’—he turned, that
he might make the comparison, but she was unconscious
of it. ‘Ah! mere country prettiness,
which loses half its charm out of its place. Vivacity
was her attraction, and that gone, what has
she? She looks now as if she did not know what
was going on around her. And for her I gave up
the beauty that brings all Paris to its feet, lost
a handsome fortune, alienated my family, and
endangered my prospects from them. Yet that
is not the worst. I see now that my marriage
with Eliza was a mistake in every way. I was
mad to throw away my prospects and happiness
thus; to forsake her whom I really loved, and
who loved me—then at least. Blind fool that I
was!’

There was a stir in that box towards which so
many glances were directed. The young lady had
risen, and pale as death, leaning heavily on the
arm of a middle-aged lady, prepared to leave the
theatre. ‘She is fainting; the heat is too much
for her,’ was whispered around. A dozen gentlemen
sprang forward to wrap her in her mantle
and call her carriage; she thanked them with a
faint sweet smile, but uttered no word. When
the carriage had driven away and all were out
of sight, she cast herself sobbing on her companion’s
breast, and trembled from head to foot.

‘Oh, do not bring me to these scenes any more!’
she cried; ‘I cannot bear it; indeed I cannot;
they are torture to me. I know you meant it
kindly, dear friend—thought to rouse and cheer
me; but it will not do; I cannot be gay like
others while my heart is breaking. Oh, take me
far away to some quiet spot, where I may pass
the short time that remains to me in peace and
seclusion!’

‘Darling, we shall leave Paris to-morrow, if you
really wish it,’ returned the middle-aged lady;
and her tone betrayed alarm, as if she feared for
the result of so much emotion.

‘Eliza!’ said Charles, somewhat roughly; ‘don’t
you see all is over and everybody is going away?
Are you dreaming?’

She started and looked up with a bewildered
air; then she saw how dark his brow was, and
the cause puzzled her.

All that night Eliza lay awake tossing feverishly;
she made an effort to dispel the thoughts that distracted
her and compose herself to sleep; but when
she closed her eyes, faces seemed to press close up
to hers, familiar faces, that she used to see every
day. It was useless to think of sleep, and she lay
watching wearily till dawn.

In the morning, Eliza was so feverish and ill
that she felt unable to rise. A doctor was sent
for. Before he arrived, she had become delirious,
and raved pitifully about her old home
and her father. Another name too was often on
her lips. The doctor, who was an Englishman, as
he stood by her bedside, supposed it might be that
of her husband. ‘Will! Will!’ she repeated over
and over, sometimes in tender loving accents,
then in tones of wild despair. When the physician
took her hand she seemed to become conscious
of who he was and of her own illness.

‘I shall die,’ she said in a sad quiet tone. ‘I
know I shall. There’s no use in your coming to
me. You may be the greatest doctor in Europe,
but all your skill won’t save me. I am doomed,
doomed!’

He thought her still raving, in spite of her calm
tone; but in reality she was not so now. Her
youth and beauty, joined to her piteous look and
tones, moved him. Some of her wanderings
seemed to shew that she had once been accustomed
to a sphere of life far beneath that in which he
found her. He thought some sorrow or trouble
weighed on her mind, and tried to discover if such
were the case. But in answer to his kind questioning
she only shook her head or moaned feebly.

On leaving his patient, the doctor sought
Crofton. He found him lounging, with a very
gloomy brow, over a late breakfast.

‘I have seen Mrs Crofton,’ he said. ‘I do not
apprehend any danger at present. It is a touch of
fever, which will pass. But I wish to mention that
change of air and scene are absolutely necessary for
her. I was told by her maid that she has been in
the habit of remaining very much within doors of
late, and that she has been depressed in spirits.’

‘She need not have remained within doors if
she did not choose,’ returned Charles coldly; ‘and
if she was depressed, it was totally without cause.’

The other looked at him. It was a strange tone
for the husband of one so young and beautiful; and
not long wedded, as he had been given to understand.

‘Well,’ he replied after a pause, ‘I recommend
that she should be removed to a quiet country{329}
place as soon as possible—to-morrow, if she is able
to bear the journey.’

‘As you say so, of course it shall be done. My
own arrangements do not permit of my leaving
Paris at present, but that need make no difference;
Mrs Crofton can go accompanied by her maid.’

Again the doctor looked at him, the tone was so
indifferent, as if he wished to dispose of the matter
at once, and be troubled no more. Merely mentioning
the place he thought most suitable for his
patient, a quiet little town in the south of France,
he bowed coldly, and withdrew.

Charles rose and sauntered to the mantel-piece.
‘She acts the fine lady well,’ he muttered to himself.
‘Ill and out of spirits! She has no cause to
be so. As much as I lost she has gained. Yet she
acts and speaks sometimes as if she had made a
sacrifice for me. I could almost fancy that she
regrets that clodhopping fellow. It is a pity, after
all, she was so ready to jilt him. She can’t expect
that I will coop myself up in a wretched dreary
place. We are not so very devoted now, either of
us, that we require no other company than that of
the other.’

In the evening Eliza was better; the feverishness
had passed, and it was thought she would be
able to leave next day; so Charles went to her
room to inform her of the doctor’s command, and
the fact that the journey was to be made without
him.

‘I have arranged to remain here yet, and can’t
alter my plans,’ he said. ‘But my presence could
do you no good; and when you are better you can
join me; that is, if you wish to do so.’

If she wished to do so! He would not then
care if she did not join him! His words and
manner implied that she had become a burden to
him, which he would willingly cast off, were it
possible; since it was not possible, absent himself
from her as much as he could. She turned, sighing,
away; and Charles left the room without
another word, without a kiss.

It had come now that he was actually estranged
from her! He could let her go from him alone,
ill as she was, and in a foreign land, the land he
had brought her to! It was not with any wild
passionate pang, such as she would have felt had
she loved him, that she thought this; but a dead
cold weight pressed on her heart, and a sense of
utter desolation came over her.

‘Alone, alone!’ she murmured. ‘Father, lover,
friends, home—I abandoned them all, and for
what?—for what?’

CHAPTER VI.—THE CHARM DISSOLVED.

Next day Eliza set out, accompanied only by her
maid. No one, to see her, would have fancied she
was not yet one year a wife.

In the sweet quiet spot to which she went her
illness passed away; but she was weaker than
before, and her health precarious. Her spirits
too sank daily, and the rich glow of her cheek,
dimmer during the last few months than it used
to be, faded more and more. The sparkling smile
of other days, or the discontented pout which had
always betrayed any little ‘temper,’ never dwelt on
her lips now. A softened subdued shade settled
on her countenance. In her sadness and loneliness,
forsaken by him to whom she would still have
clung even when love was gone, she turned, in her
sorrow, to thoughts which had never occupied her
before, to religion, the one source of consolation
that remains to the disappointed and unfortunate;
fortunate if they can embrace it, and find peace
and full satisfaction somewhere at last.

In a peaceful nook, embosomed among a grove
of beech-trees, there was a lonely little chapel.
Thither Eliza went every evening, and kneeling
among the few quiet worshippers, lifted her eyes
to the sculptured form above the altar, whose mild
angelic face and outstretched arms seemed to
speak of pity and sympathy with human woe.

One evening she lingered till dusk began to
gather in the quaint old place. It was now again
the eve of All-Hallows, and her thoughts reverted
to the past and all that had happened during one
short year. Looking up at last, she found that the
others had gone and she was alone. The pale
spectral rays of a rising moon, broken and intercepted
by the fluttering trees without, stole in at
the windows and crept with a kind of stealthy
motion across the floor. The silence was tomb-like.
It smote on Eliza’s heart. Part of the chapel,
where the moonbeams did not pierce, was veiled
in gloom, and in the darkness the draperies about
the altar seemed to stir and take strange form.
Indistinct masses, which looked as if they might
at any moment become endowed with animation,
filled the corners. Eliza could almost fancy that
the dim dead who slept in the vaults beneath
were rising round her. She turned to leave the
place, and then perceived that she was not alone.

A female figure knelt at a little distance, the
face buried in the hands. As Eliza moved down
the aisle it rose slowly and turned round. With
a low shuddering cry she sprang back, and
almost sank to the ground. She gasped for breath.
She tried to speak, but for some moments in vain.
At last, in a loud cry, her voice broke forth: ‘In
the name of the blessed God and by this holy
sign!’ (crossing herself rapidly), ‘speak! Who and
what are you, that twice before have crossed my
path? In the lonely field; in the crowded theatre,
suddenly changing from an aspect of light and
beauty to a ghastly corpse-like image; and now
again!’

The figure approached a few steps, the lips
moved, but no sound came. Eliza shrank back
to the wall, pressing against it as if she would
force herself through the stone. A low sigh
sounded, a faint tremulous voice spoke: ‘Twice
before have you started up to bewilder and affright
me: in the lonely field, when the night-wind was
sighing; in the gay assemblage; and here again, the
third time. Who and what are you, let me ask?’

Eliza rose. ‘One who is lonely and unhappy,’
she answered; ‘who, having deserted others, is
herself left alone now. If you would know my
name, it is Eliza Crofton.’

There was a pause, then in low, awestruck
tones, the last word was repeated: ‘Crofton! And
I am Ellen Courtney.’

‘And we meet thus, for the first time knowing
each other, though I have often heard your name,
and you mine! Did you too, then, go to the
Twelfth Rig last Hallow-eve night?’

‘Listen, and I will tell you. He did not come
home that evening—he, I mean, who is now your
husband. There was company at the house, and
he was expected. There was dancing and music,
but I could not join in it. I stole away to my{330}
own room, and afterwards wandered out into the
fields. I had heard of the charm of the Twelfth
Rig, but it was not with any settled intention of
trying it that I went out. When I got to the field,
overcome with sorrow and weariness, for I had
walked a long distance, I sank down; and thinking
that nothing stirred in that lonely spot but the
night-wind, gave loose to the grief and despair
that filled my heart. When at last I rose up, I
saw a figure wrapped in a cloak standing motionless
in the centre of one of the ridges, pale, with
wild eyes, and black dishevelled hair. As I gazed,
it uttered a dreadful scream, and turning, fled.
I had heard stories of the banshee, and I thought
this must be it, or some spirit of doom, that had
appeared to warn me of my approaching death.
I believe I sank down again on the ground. My
senses seemed to leave me. I know not what I
did, but I heard a voice crying “Doomed, doomed!”
and I think it was myself that uttered the words.’

‘I heard it,’ said Eliza. ‘It pursued me as I
fled, repeated, I suppose, by the mountain echoes.
Ah! how it has haunted me. I tried to crush
back the thought; but it was there still, though I
wouldn’t face it, and I felt in my heart that my
days were numbered. Has the clearing up come
too late? I have suffered so much, I scarcely feel
fit for life now.’

‘It comes too late for me. Though it was no
spirit that stood in the midst of the Twelfth Rig,
the charm will work still. I was ill after that night,
very ill, else we might have met before you left,
and recognised each other. Then came the shock
that tore up by the roots the last hopes that lingered
in my heart. You know to what I allude. I
may speak of it now with calmness, standing as I
do on the brink of the grave.—Why do you look
so shocked? Have you never heard that Ellen
Courtney was dying—dying of a broken heart?’

‘No, no! I never heard it, never dreamt of it.
O heaven!’—wringing her hands, and raising
them above her head, with a despairing gesture—’then
I am a murderess! The punishment has
descended in full force now. A curse could not
but attend my marriage. Did not friends warn me
again and again? and yet I persisted—persisted,
though faith had to be broken on both sides, a
heart cast aside, and trampled on. It was an
unholy marriage, and the blessing of heaven could
not sanctify it. It was that which made my
husband cease to love me, shrivelled up my own
heart, and made everything become valueless in
my eyes. I was content to suffer myself; it was
only reaping what I had sowed. But that you
should suffer—suffer and die; you, who never injured
any one, who must be gentle and good as an
angel. But oh!’ she pursued, dropping on her knees,
and raising her dark eyes pleadingly, as sinner
might to saint, ‘remove the curse before you die—if
heaven so wills—before I die, as perhaps I
shall, and give me back my husband’s love, the
only thing that remains to me now.’ The last
words were uttered in a piteous moan.

‘Do not speak so wildly,’ entreated Ellen,
sitting down on one of the seats, and raising her
hand (Eliza marked its transparency) to her damp
white forehead. ‘You are not so much to blame.
Life and happiness could never have been mine,
even had you not intervened. If he ceased to love
me, as he must have done soon, for he never loved
me truly, I could not have borne it. My heart
would have broke, and I should have died all the
same. You have my forgiveness fully and entirely—and
he has too. Do not fret yourself for the
lover you forsook. His wound is healed. He has
found happiness with one who long loved him in
secret. This was the appointed day for his marriage
with your cousin, Mary Conlan.’

Eliza started, and the blood rushed to her face.
He then had forgotten her; and the thought sent
a bitter pang through her heart; yet she thanked
heaven that it was so.

‘Part of the weight is lifted from my soul,’ she
said. ‘And I have your forgiveness too. Lay
your hand on my head, and say again that you
forgive me, and breathe a blessing on me.’

The shadowy white hand was raised. It lay like
a spotless lily, emblem of heaven’s pity and forgiveness,
on the dark bowed head.

‘I forgive you from my heart. If my earnest
wishes can make you happy, be so.—Now I must
go.’ She rose, but tottered as she attempted to
walk.

‘You are weak,’ exclaimed Eliza. ‘Let me go
with you.’

‘No, no; there is no need. I have not far to
go.’

‘But still, let me walk with you, and lean on
me. I shall think you cannot bear my presence
near you, if you refuse.’

‘Be it so then.’

They left the chapel together. Not a word was
spoken as they walked slowly on till Ellen paused
before the gate of a villa.

‘Good-bye, Eliza. We shall never meet again
on earth. This third meeting, in which each first
knows the other, is the last. Even if I lived, we
could not be friends, our paths should lie far
asunder; though your words, and still more your
looks, tell me how it is with you, that we are sisters
in disappointment and misfortune. But there’—she
lifted her eyes, calm and serene, to the sky,
where the moon, now fully risen, gleamed fair and
radiant—’there we may meet and be friends for
ever. Farewell, Eliza.’

Overcome with emotion, Eliza cast herself, weeping,
on the other’s breast. For a few moments
they mingled their tears together. ‘Farewell,
Eliza;’ ‘Farewell, Ellen.’ A faint breeze swept
through the beechen wood. It came wandering
by them, and seemed to murmur in unknown
tongue some sentence or benediction over their
heads.

There was silence. Eliza felt her companion
lean heavily on her. She grew alarmed. At last
she said: ‘It is not well for you to linger in the
night-air. Will you not go into the house now?’

Ellen replied not. Heavier and heavier she
leant, with a helpless weight that almost over-powered
the other. Eliza raised the drooping
head. A white, white face, a dim fast-glazing eye,
met her gaze. It was the dead that lay on her
bosom.

That night Eliza was very ill, so ill that a
telegram was despatched in haste to her husband
to come at once, if he wished to see her alive. He
arrived next day, but only in time to gaze on a
sweet marble face, that changed not even in the
presence of the dread remorse that then awoke in
his heart, and to clasp in his arms a fair but lifeless
child, whose tender eyes had never opened on this
world’s light—whose only baptism was tears.

{331}

A few days after Hallow-eve, Daly received a
black-sealed letter. It was that which Eliza had
written to him, but never sent.

So they both slept. The remains of Ellen
Courtney were conveyed to her own land; and on
a dark November morning, when all nature seemed
in mourning for the young and beautiful that had
passed with the summer flowers, she was laid with
her kindred, amidst streaming eyes and voices that
blessed her name—

But Eliza lay in a foreign soil, where the myrtle
waved above her head, instead of her own mountain-ash—an
exile even in death, from friends and
home.

LIFE IN ST KILDA.

CONCLUDING PAPER.

On the 16th August I ascended the hill called
Connaghar, where all the men had gone to catch
and the women to carry home fulmars, leaving the
village deserted. The weather was very warm, and
although I carried my coat over my arm, I was
fain to stop on my way up and cool myself in the
light sea-breeze. About half-way up I saw my old
friend Tormad, with his ruddy face and large white
beard, seated on the edge of the cliff, with his
attention fixed on the rope he held in his hands.
‘Who is below?’ I asked as I sat down beside him.
‘Neil,’ he answered. ‘Is he far down?’ ‘Far—far,’
he replied. Neil’s voice could be heard calling
from the abyss. In a little a crash sounds from
below. Tormad looks anxious, and with craning
head listens with deep attention; whilst two girls
who had joined us, step with their bare feet to the
very verge of the precipice and peer below. One of
them, who has a light graceful figure, looks very
picturesque as she stands poised on that stupendous
cliff. She has a Turkey-red handkerchief on her
head, and wears a coarse blue gown of a quaint
shape, girdled at the waist, and only reaching to
her knees. Her limbs are muscular and browned
with the sun. She is engaged to Neil, and naturally
feels anxious on his account. A shower of
large stones had fallen, any one of which would
have knocked his brains out had it chanced to hit;
but fortunately a projecting crag above his head
saves him. Tormad shifts his position to where
he thinks the rock is less frangible. I leave him,
and climb to where the cliffs form a lofty head or
promontory which commands a view of the face of
Connaghar. This hill rises one thousand two hundred
and twenty feet above the sea, and is a precipice
almost to the summit. The bottom of this
tremendous cliff had been cleared of fulmars the
previous day by men who had ascended from
boats. Now the work had to be done from above.

It is a dreadful trade. A sound like the
crack of a musket is occasionally heard, and
one sees a huge stone bound and rattle with
great leaps into the sea below. Parties of two or
three men, laden with birds on their shoulders,
are seen climbing by steep and perilous paths to
the summit. From the spot where I lie basking
in the sun, a path leads downwards to a steep
grassy brae bounded by a cliff. This is considered
a safe road for women, and a number of them go
by it to where the men can bring them fulmars.
Some of the girls can carry about two hundred
pounds’ weight, and seem rather proud of their
strength; but as they toil up the dangerous path
to where I recline, I hear them breathing heavily
and in apparent distress; but in a few minutes
they are all right again.

In the intervals of work a number of them
sit around me and offer me a share of their oat-cakes
and cheese, and hand me the little tub
covered with raw sheepskin in which they carry
milk: ‘Drink, drink! you have taken none!’ A
number of the men also come up the path with
coils of ropes and bundles of inflated gannets’
craws on their backs. They are all barefooted
and stripped to their underclothing. A pile of
fulmars has been collected beside us, and the men
whilst they rest economise time by extracting the
oil. The receptacle for holding the oil is the
stomach of a solan-goose, which is held open by one
man, while another takes a fulmar, and squeezing
the body, forces the oil in a stream from its
gaping bill. When the fulmars and oil are
carried home they are equally divided. The
birds are plucked, and the feathers are sold to the
factor for six shillings a St Kilda stone of twenty-four
pounds. The flesh is pickled and used as
food in winter and spring. The oil is sold to the
factor for one shilling a St Kilda pint, which
is equal to about five English pints. Over
nine hundred St Kilda pints were exported in
1875. I ought to mention that it is the young
fulmars that are caught in autumn. No art is
required to capture them, as they are unable to fly;
but they offer all the resistance in their power
by spitting their oil in the faces of the men. The
oil has a disagreeable odour. The old fulmars are
caught in summer when hatching; a noose tied
to the end of a rod being slipped over their heads.
About the end of August all the fulmars leave St
Kilda and take the young to sea for their education.
They are absent for about two months and a
half, and return lean and worthless.

On the 1st of September I began to be slightly
alarmed that I might be detained on the island
until the succeeding summer. No vessel had
called since my arrival on the 21st of June. My
stock of provisions had become exhausted, and I
had to give up tea and coffee, and subsequently
bread. The people began to pluck up their little
crops, neither sickle nor scythe being used. The
oatmeal supplied by the factor being done, the
islanders had to depend on the grain grown on
the island. The oats are thrashed with a flail;
are scorched in a pot or in a straw basket containing
hot stones, previous to being ground. The
grain is then ground with hand-mills by the
women, who work like furies.

On the 7th the new boat went to Stack Lee for
gougan or young solan-geese, and returned in the
evening with a few—about forty to each man.
As at the Bass and other fowling stations, so
also here are the gougan killed by blows on
the head with a stick. The flesh of the gougan
is wild and fishy in flavour; but when baked is
an article of food. Every morning when I went{332}
up the village the usual salutation included expressions
of fear that no ship would arrive. But
my anxiety about the arrival of a ship was naturally
less than theirs, for they were burning to
receive further intelligence about the boat that
was supposed to have been lost fourteen years ago.
‘Is my poor wife alive? Is my mother, my brother,
my son, my father, living or dead? Was my husband
saved in some mysterious way, like Donald
MacKinnon? Is he married again? Are all the
women black in Africa?’ Such were the agitating
questions that passed through the minds of the
people, and often found expression. Every time I
went up the hill with my glass I would be questioned
by some one on my return whether any
vessel was visible, and my answer that there was
not, was shouted from one end of the village to
the other. The poor people were straitened for
oatmeal, which was anxiously expected from the
factor.

On the 5th of October in the evening, whilst I
was sitting alone in a cloud of peat-smoke, gazing
at nothing by the dull light of an iron lamp, my
door was suddenly thrown open, and a woman in a
state of alarm bawled out that there were strangers
in the glen. I suggested that they were probably
shipwrecked sailors, whom it would not be right
to leave in the glen all night, cold, hungry, and
without shelter. This seemed to move the women;
and it was arranged that five men armed with
staves should go to the top of the hill that
separates the village from the glen and shout.
In an hour or two the five men returned wet to
the skin, and reported that, although they had
whistled and shouted loudly, they had got no
reply, and that they were sure there must be a
mistake. But the woman still insisted that there
were strangers in the glen. Next day a steamer
was seen bearing away from the island, and it
was no doubt her fog-whistle which had created
the alarm.

In October, when the nights were getting long,
spinning-wheels began to be busy in every house,
making the thread which the men afterwards wove
into cloth; and I spent the evening in one or other
of the cottages, chatting with the people, and
endeavouring to improve my Gaelic, and penetrate
into their unsophisticated minds. I tried to tell
them stories—such as Blue Beard—in which they
seemed to feel a deep interest; the women sometimes
improving my grammar, and helping me
out of any difficulty. They would also tell me
sgeulachdan or tales.

On the 21st October and for many days afterwards
all the inhabitants went down the cliffs to
pluck grass for their cattle. I saw the women
lying on the narrow sloping ledges on the face of
the rocks. A false step, and they would have
fallen into the sea, hundreds of feet below, or
been mangled on the projecting crags. About
this time I gave up all hope of getting off the
island until the following summer. My oatmeal
was done, and after that I was obliged to depend
on the people for a share of theirs. But I never
wanted, although I put myself on short allowance.

On the 7th November a meeting was held in
the church to return thanks for the harvest. A
sudden change occurred in the weather: the sky
became charged with thick vapour, and there was
a heavy fall of hail accompanied by thunder and
lightning. On the 8th December I went to the
top of the hills, and notwithstanding my light
diet, felt remarkably well; but slipping when
twenty yards from home, I sprained my ankle,
and lay for some time in torture. I crawled
into the house, and after a time succeeded in
cooking my dinner. I slept none; and next day
my room was filled with sympathising male friends
and ministering angels. Some brought me presents
of potatoes and salt mutton, turf and fulmar-oil.
On the 10th I held a levee, the whole people
coming to see me between fore and afternoon
services. The men about this time began to
weave the thread which the women had spun.
Both sexes worked from dawn of day until an
hour or two after midnight. Their industry
astonished me. I soon began to limp about in
the evening; and when the nights were dark I
got a live peat stuck on the end of a stick, to let
me see the road home. At this time I made a
miniature ship and put a letter in the hold, in
the hope that she might reach the mainland. I
was anxious that my friends should know that I
was alive. Shortly afterwards I made a lantern
out of a piece of copper that had come off a
ship’s bottom. A large limpet-shell filled with
fulmar-oil served for a lamp inside. This lantern,
a clumsy affair, was more admired than my
sketches. On the 12th of January, which is New-year’s-day
in St Kilda, service was held in the
church; and to celebrate the occasion, the minister
preached a sermon.

On the 17th the most remarkable event occurred
that had happened in St Kilda for many years.
The people had just gone to church when, happening
to look out at my door, I was startled to
observe a boat in the bay. I had been nearly
seven months on the island, and had never seen
any ship or strange boat near it all that time.
Robinson Crusoe scarcely felt more surprised
when he saw the foot-print on the sand, than I did
on beholding this apparition. I ran to the shore,
where there was a heavy sea rolling, and shouted
to the people in the boat; but my voice was
drowned by the roar of the waves. A woman who
had followed me gave notice to the congregation,
and all poured out of the church. The St
Kildans ran round the rocks to a spot where
there seemed to be less surf, and waved on
the boat to follow. I went with the others.
When we arrived at the place indicated, the
islanders threw ropes from the low cliffs to the
men in the boat; but the latter declined to be
drawn up, the captain bawling ‘Mooch better dere,’
pointing to the shore before the village, and putting
about the boat. All ran back; but before we got
to the shore the strange boat had run through the
surf. Instantly all the men in her leaped into the
sea and swam to the land, where they were grasped
by the St Kildans. In a few minutes their boat
was knocked to pieces on the rocks.

The strangers were invited into the minister’s
house and dry clothes given them. They proved
to be the captain and eight of the crew of the
Austrian ship Peti Dabrovacki, eight hundred
and eighty tons, which had left Glasgow for New
York five days before. The vessel had encountered
bad weather; her ballast had shifted, and she lay
on her beam-ends about eight miles west of St
Kilda. Seven men had remained in her, and no
doubt perished. The ship was not to be seen next
day. When the survivors had got their clothes{333}
shifted, they were distributed amongst the sixteen
families that compose the community, the minister
keeping the captain, and every two families taking
charge of one man, and providing him with a bed
and board and clean clothes. I myself saw one
man (Tormad Gillies) take a new jacket out of the
box in which it had been carefully packed, and
give it to the mate to wear during his stay, the
young man having no coat but an oilskin. The
oatmeal being done, the islanders took the grain
they had kept for seed and ground it to feed the
shipwrecked men. The hospitable conduct of the
St Kildans was all the more commendable when
one considers that their guests were all foreigners.
But long before the five weeks had elapsed during
which the Austrians lived on the island, they had
by their good behaviour removed the prejudice
that had prevailed against them at first. They
were polite and obliging to the women, and went
from house to house to assist in grinding the
grain.

On the 28th January 1877 the wind blew violently
from the north-west with heavy showers of sleet.
It was the worst day I had seen in St Kilda. The
huge waves came rolling into the bay against the
wind, which caught them as they fell on the shore
and carried them off in spin-drift. Yet many of
the women went to church barefoot.

On the 29th the captain and sailors called on me
and felt interested in seeing a canoe I had hewn
out of a log. They helped me to rig her and to
put the ballast right; but we had to wait until the
wind was favourable. We put two bottles in her
hold containing letters, which we hoped would
find their way to the mainland and be posted.

This canoe carried a small sail, and was despatched
on the 5th of February, the wind being in the north-west,
and continuing so for some days. I thought
she would reach Uist; but the Gulf Stream was
stronger than I calculated on, and she went to
Poolewe in Ross-shire, where she was found lying
on a sandbank on the 27th by a Mr John Mackenzie,
who posted the letters. Five days previous
to the date when we launched the canoe, we sent
off a life-buoy belonging to the lost ship. I
suggested that a bottle containing a letter should
be lashed to it and a small sail put up. This was
done; but no one had much hope that this
circular vessel would be of service. She was sent
off on the 30th January, and strange to relate,
drifted to Birsay in Orkney, and was forwarded to
Lloyd’s agent in Stromness on the 8th February,
having performed the passage in nine days.
During my residence in St Kilda, several canes
that the Gulf Stream had brought from some
tropical clime were picked up by the men. One
was hollow and several inches in diameter. The
St Kildans split these canes and make them into
reeds for their looms.

On 17th February the Austrian skipper offered
ten pounds for a passage to Harris in the new boat,
for himself and men. The St Kildans accepted the
offer, and arranged to send seven of their own men
to bring her back. They would not allow the
Austrians to go alone, being afraid that they (the
St Kildans) might be left without a boat, and have
no means of getting seed-corn and provisions.
They drew lots who were to go, and it was stipulated
that I was to be one of them. All was settled
except the weather. We were waiting for a promising
day, when, on the 22d, about seven in the
morning, as I was lying in bed and thinking of
getting up to make my breakfast, I was startled
by hearing the sound of a steam-whistle. I lay
back again muttering: ‘It was the wind;’ when
hark! the whistle is repeated. I leaped up, ran
to the door, and saw, sure enough, a steamer in the
bay! Huddling on my clothes, I rushed barefoot
up the village, rattling at every door, and shouting
‘Steamer—strangers!’ In a few minutes all the
people were astir and hurrying to the shore. I had
just time to throw the articles that lay handy into
my trunk and to get on board the steamer’s boat,
which I saw belonged to Her Majesty. Then I
discovered that I had left my purse and other
property in the house; but the surf was too great
to allow me to land again. I got on board the
steamer, which I found to be the Jackal. ‘How
did you know we were here?’ I inquired of one
of the officers who stood on the quarter-deck.
‘From the letter you wrote and put into the bottle
lashed to the life-buoy.’ I ran to the side of the
ship muttering to myself: ‘There is a Providence
that shapes our ends, rough-hew them as we will;’
and bawled to the St Kildans in the boat alongside:
‘It was the life-buoy brought this steamer
here, you incredulous people;’ for they had smiled,
although good-humouredly, at my efforts to send a
letter home. A small supply of biscuits and oatmeal
was given to them; and waving an adieu
to my good St Kildan friends, we were speedily
receding from the island.

I found all the officers extremely friendly and
agreeable, and here beg to return my hearty thanks.
I was made to feel quite at home. The shipwrecked
captain and I were accommodated in the
cabin. The Austrian sailors were well taken care
of forward, and seemed particularly delighted at
again having as much tobacco as they could use.
We had been all smoking dried moss.

The wind had risen and the sea become rough;
and if the Jackal had been half an hour later,
she would have been obliged to return with her
errand unexecuted; for it would have been impossible
for a boat to approach the shore. We reached
Harris the same evening, and anchored in the
Sound all night. But as this part of the journey
has appeared in the newspapers, I need not
repeat it. Suffice it that I arrived barefoot and
penniless, but in good health and spirits, in
Greenock on the 26th. Here my narrative ends.

[Many of the facts related in the foregoing narrative
were published in various newspapers in
the early part of the present year, and led to considerable
discussion. Stormy seasons, as we have
seen, may set in, and communication with the
proprietor or his factor be rendered impossible;
the most anxious efforts to transmit provisions
may be rendered abortive, and famine, if not
actual starvation, be the result. Various hints for
the melioration of the poor St Kildans have been
thrown out, amongst others that those isolated
beings should quit the island for good, and seek a
new home in the more civilised Hebrides or elsewhere.
One thing is sufficiently obvious, if the
people are to remain on the island, they should be
taught to speak and write English. Their adherence
to Gaelic condemns them to innumerable
privations, above all it excludes them from communication
with the outer world, on whose sympathy
they are forced to rely. Half a century ago,
Dr John Macculloch lamented this exclusive use{334}
of Gaelic; and we echo all he said on the subject.
We have no objection to Gaelic being made a
philological study, but its continuance as a spoken
language is in all respects to be regretted.—Ed.]

THE MONTH:

SCIENCE AND ARTS.

The ‘season’ is at its busiest: crowds of sightseers
are looking at the pictures in the Royal
Academy, the Grosvenor Gallery, and in other
resorts, and painting and sculpture are everywhere
talked about; while fine art rejoices in its
annual holiday, and ‘art sales’ (which are too
often artful) draw throngs of competing buyers.
The debates in parliament on reform of our universities
have revived the education question; and
sanguine talkers who believe that education can
do everything, have had to be reminded once
more that endowments however ample cannot
create genius; that our greatest achievements in
science, art, or literature have been wrought by
unendowed men, and that nature will not produce
a larger proportion of highest quality brain even
though schools be multiplied. Meanwhile the
experiment for the promotion of scientific research
initiated by government has advanced a stage,
and the investigators recommended by the Council
of the Royal Society have received grants of
money from the Paymaster-general to enable them
to carry on their work. As this experiment is
to be continued for five years, we may reasonably
expect that it will assist in resolving the endowment
question.

The cost of the expeditions sent out by this
country in 1875 to observe the transit of Venus
has been ascertained: it is forty thousand pounds;
the estimate was twenty thousand pounds. As
will be remembered, other nations engaged in the
work as well as ourselves; and we have it on
the authority of the Astronomer-royal that the
total expenditure ‘may amount to two hundred
thousand pounds.’ This is a large sum to pay
for the endeavour to solve the problem of the
earth’s distance from the sun; but the problem is
one of essential importance in astronomical science,
and there is reason to hope that when all the
computations are completed the true answer will
appear. Remembering as we do the eclipse expeditions
assisted by the Treasury and the Admiralty,
and the expensive and abortive Arctic expedition,
we agree with the learned functionary above
referred to that ‘the government has been very
liberal.’

By a method known to astronomers, observations
of the planet Mars can be made available for
determining our distance from the sun. Sir George
Airy speaks of this method as ‘the best of all;’
and as Mars is this year in the most favourable
position for these special observations, a private
expedition is to be sent to St Helena or to Ascension
to make them. The expense will be about
five hundred pounds; and this is to be provided
by gifts from scientific men, and by a contribution
from the Royal Astronomical Society.

The formation of meteorites is a question which
has long been discussed by mineralogists and
physicists. Professor Tschermak, after much study,
has come to the conclusion that the active agent
in the process is volcanic. He points out that the
meteorites which fall to the earth are angular in
form, that they have no concentric structure even
in their interior, that their external crust is not
an original characteristic, and that they are evidently
fragmentary. Examination of the crust has
shewn that during the later stages of flight, disruption
of the meteorite itself sometimes takes
place; and it is a fact worth record, that guided
by the appearance of the crust and peculiarity
of shape, Professor Maskelyne once succeeded in
reconstructing a meteorite from fragments which
had fallen miles apart.

From much evidence of this character Professor
Tschermak has been confirmed in his views. He
argues that ‘the finding of hydrogen in meteoric
iron is a proof that permanent gases and perhaps
vapours, which are the great agents in transmitting
volcanic energy, have played some part in the
formation of meteorites; and although it may ever
be impossible to obtain direct evidence of the
volcanic activity which is supposed to have hurled
these mysterious masses of stone and metal into
space, yet such evidence as the violent gaseous upheavals
on the solar surface; the action of our
terrestrial volcanoes; and the stupendous eruptive
phenomena of which the lunar craters tell the
history, lend powerful support to any theory
which assumes that meteorites owe their formation
to volcanic agency.’

Professor Boyd Dawkins in giving an account to
the Manchester Geological Society of his visit to
the crater of Vesuvius said: ‘A coating of yellow
sulphur about three inches thick covered the lip,
and beneath this the loose gray ashes gave out
aqueous vapour at every pore, which deposited on
them in some places white powdery sulphate of
lime, in others common salt, sal ammoniac, green
chloride of copper, and specular iron ore, which
looked like little pieces of shattered mirrors
scattered through their substance. It was obvious
that here we had a striking proof of the mode in
which water, in passing through heated rock, can
carry minerals in solution and ultimately deposit
them. In these deposits we could easily recognise
the mode in which the various metals were
brought up from deep down in the earth’s crust,
and deposited in holes and crannies in the rocks
which are accessible to man as mineral veins.’ In
this description we seem to have an approach
towards an answer to the oft-repeated question—Where
do metals come from?

Further particulars, which will be regarded as
surprising, have been published concerning the
Pennsylvania oil-wells. The Delameter well,
sixteen hundred feet deep, sends forth gas at
such a vehement pressure that a plummet-line
weighing sixteen hundred pounds can be pulled
out of the bore-hole by hand. The ascending
speed of the gas is seventeen hundred feet per
second; the quantity amounts to one million cubic
feet per hour, or more than fourteen hundred tons
a day; and the heating power is twenty-five per
cent. greater than that of good bituminous coal.
After this explanation it is easy to understand{335}
that the well, situated in a valley surrounded by
mountains, furnishes heat and light to the whole
neighbourhood. From one of its pipes, three
inches in diameter, a flame rushes, ‘the noise of
which shakes the hills, and is heard at a distance
of fifteen miles. For a distance of fifty feet around
the earth is burnt; but farther off, the vegetation
is tropical, and enjoys a perpetual summer.’

It is known to chemists that turpentine when
oxidised in a current of air in presence of water,
yields peroxide of hydrogen, camphoric acid, acetic
acid, camphor, and certain other less defined substances.
The progress of the oxidation is an interesting
study, and the solution produced is found to
have great power as an antiseptic and disinfectant.
White of egg, milk, and beer treated therewith
are kept fresh for some time. ‘From a series of
experiments undertaken with the view of ascertaining
to which constituents of the solution the antiseptic
and disinfecting property is to be ascribed,
the power was found to be distributed between the
peroxide of hydrogen and camphoric acid; but the
former of these is able to evolve large quantities
of oxygen, which in this state is nascent, and of a
powerful oxidising nature.’

A curious case of glass-making is published in
the Proceedings of the Newcastle-on-Tyne Chemical
Society. A large mass of esparto grass was
burnt by accident. Lumps which might be called
grass clinkers were found among the ashes; and
these on being properly treated in a kiln produced
glass which is described as ‘a very good
sample of bottle-glass.’ From this it is easy to
understand that in past ages some great bonfire of
vegetable matter may have led to the discovery of
glass. Farmers who are unfortunate enough to
have their stack-yards burned, might possibly find
straw clinkers among the débris. This would be
worth noting, for silica enters largely into the
composition of all grasses and cereals.

In South Russia, Hungary, parts of Italy, in
Egypt, India, and other parts of the world where
no coal is to be had, different kinds of vegetable
refuse are used as fuel for steam-engines. In a
paper read at a meeting of the Institution of Civil
Engineers a table is given of the heating value of
the refuse as compared with coal. It has been
found in Russia that a little more than four acres
can be cultivated with the waste straw of one acre,
which when compared with the results of steam-plough
trials at Wolverhampton shews that one
pound of coal is equivalent to four and one-sixth
pounds of straw. An engine to burn vegetable
waste requires a greater heating surface than an
ordinary engine; and those of the most improved
construction are self-feeding. In Egypt the stalks
of the cotton-plant and megass, or waste sugar-cane,
are the principal fuel; and the equivalent
quantity of these to one pound of coal is less than
of straw. But there are engines in England which
burn vegetable waste; and the author of the paper
above mentioned is of opinion that ‘as the demand
for mechanical appliances increases, so will the
difficulties increase of obtaining the best qualities
of fuel for steam-boilers in rural districts.’ And
he suggests that the only method of rendering
the use of steam-power universal, particularly for
agriculture, would be to construct the boiler of the
engine so as to utilise the local supplies of combustible
material of every kind.’

Among scientific novelties worthy of notice are
the Harmonograph, an instrument constructed by
Messrs Tisley and Spiller. It combines a series
of pendulums, susceptible of motion in every
direction, one of which carrying a pen, traces
curves of remarkable forms on a sheet of paper.
Some of these curves represent waves of sound as
given off by a musical instrument, and certain
waves of light. Thus the invisible is, so to speak,
made visible, with manifest advantage to natural
philosophy.—Next, the Otheoscope, a modification
of the radiometer designed by Mr Crookes. In
this little instrument the vanes do not rotate, but
are fixed near a horizontal disc free to move. The
influence acting on the vanes is thrown from them
upon the disc, and the disc spins round with
great rapidity. The useful applications of this
novelty have yet to be discovered.—And Mr N. J.
Holmes has invented a flaring projectile or shell
which when fired from a ship at sea falls into the
water at a distance of two miles if required; floats
for an hour, and throws out a powerful light, which
in dark nights would be useful in detecting the
position and watching the movements of a hostile
fleet.

The Registrar-general pursuing the even tenor
of his way amid the world’s excitements, has just
published his Report on the public health of 1876.
He tells us that the area of London (taking the
registration division) is one hundred and twenty-two
square miles, with fifteen hundred miles of
streets, about two thousand miles of sewers, and
417,767 inhabited houses. The population numbered
nearly three millions and a half; but taking
in the outlying districts, ‘greater London’ as the
Registrar calls it, contains 4,286,607 inhabitants,
among whom the births were 153,192, and the
deaths 91,171. Some of these inhabitants live in
the Plumstead Marshes, eleven feet below, while
the dwellers at Hampstead are 429 feet above high-water
mark. These differences of level imply
different conditions of health; but the death-rate
was not more than 21.3 per thousand; which contrasts
favourably with the death-rate in other towns
and cities within the kingdom and in other parts
of the world.

Economy is an important element in the maintenance
of health, and Dr Farr points out what
looks like a waste of resources. He says: ‘The
capital engaged in the gas and water companies
of London is L.22,492,157, which realised in the
year ending April 1876, a profit of not less than
L.1,676,542, or seven and a half per cent. all round.
Now, if this amount of capital were required to
construct all the works necessary to supply London
with the best gas and pure soft water at high-pressure,
it could probably be raised at four, or certainly
three and a half per cent. less than is now
paid in dividends. If the capital were raised at
four per cent. L.776,856 would be set free; out of
which, after the companies were adequately compensated,
there would be a large revenue for education
and many municipal purposes.’ The facts
set forth in this paragraph should be taken into
serious consideration by all concerned.

A paper on the Climate of Scarborough in the
Quarterly Journal of the Meteorological Society
is worth attention, as it sets forth the atmospheric
movements to which that fashionable watering-place
owes the amenity of its summer climate.
The highest summer temperature, we are informed,
is seventy degrees; and the temperature of the sea{336}
is commonly five degrees below the temperature of
the air. ‘Another noticeable fact is, that in hot
weather, with a tolerably clear sky and a temperature
between eight and nine A.M. of about sixty
degrees, rising to a maximum during the day of
nearly seventy, the wind, which in the morning is
blowing from south-west or west-south-west, generally
backs to the south-south-east by the middle
of the day, bringing in a cool refreshing breeze
from the sea. This backward movement of the
wind is easily accounted for, when it is remembered
that with such a high temperature and an
almost cloudless sky, the ground becomes much
heated, causing the lower stratum of warm and
rarefied air to ascend, while the cooler and heavier
air is then drawn in from the sea to supply its
place;’ and the moisture in this sea-breeze by
tempering the sunshine renders outdoor life the
more agreeable.

As Fiji is now one of our colonial possessions,
enterprising emigrants will perhaps resort thither.
They may find information concerning the productions
and weather of the group of islands in a
paper by Mr R. L. Holmes, published in the last
number of the Quarterly Journal of the Meteorological
Society. The first quarter of the year comprehends
the ‘hurricane months;’ from January
1 to March 28, 1875, ninety inches of rain fell;
an inch a day. The driest month is July; the
south-east trade-winds are then strong; so strong
indeed as to blow away the cotton, which then
‘breaks out with a rush,’ unless it be quickly
gathered. The climate generally is described as
healthy; fevers, liver-complaints, and cholera, diseases
almost always fatal in a tropical country,
being almost unknown. But a painful disease of
the eyes is common; and small wounds, even
mosquito bites, have a tendency to become serious
sores, very difficult to heal. The natives are a
decidedly healthy race, notwithstanding that they
prefer to build their villages on swampy ground.
That no harmful consequences ensue may be due
to the position of the islands in the region of the
trade-winds, whereby breezes always prevail. Emigrants
from Europe soon lose much of their fresh
ruddy appearance, their blood gets thin, and they
probably lose in weight; but if they will abstain
from indulgence in ardent spirits they may become
acclimatised with but little risk of health.

SICILIAN BRIGANDAGE.

A writer on this subject in the Edinburgh Review
for April more than confirms all that we stated on
Italian Brigandage in an article last January. We
have in particular from this writer a clear account
of that system of organised iniquity known as the
Mafia, with its kindred associations the Camorras.
The Mafia, in fact, has an endless ramification of
spontaneous and illegal societies, and it comes
pretty much to this, that society in Sicily, high
and low, official and non-official, is one great confederacy
to rob and murder at will, and otherwise
defy or circumvent the law in any way that seems
best. The curious thing is how any show of
orderly civilised usages can be maintained. Externally,
in Palermo and other places, there is an
aspect of peacefulness and honesty; but beneath
the surface nearly all proceedings are regulated by
force and deceit. The very attempt to seek protection
from the law brings down vengeance so
remorseless that well-disposed persons are fain to
be silent under extortion. There are three hundred
and sixty communes in Sicily, and every one
of them, says this writer, ‘has its own Mafia, of
which the character varies according to local
tendencies and interests. In one place its energies
are devoted to the conduct of the elections
and the manipulations of the ballot-box; in
another, to directing, by means of a Camorra, the
sale of church and crown lands; in a third, to the
apportionment of contracts for public works….
By a singular anomaly, the middle class—that
very class of which the absence is deplored in the
rest of Sicily as the absence of an element of
order—forms in Palermo the chief strength of the
Mafia. Its proverbial virtues of prudence, industry,
and foresight are here exercised in the calling of
crime. The so-called Capi-mafia are men of substance
and education. To them is due the consummate
ability with which the affairs of their
association are managed—the unity of direction,
precision of purpose, and fatality of stroke. They
determine with unerring tact all the nice points
of their profession; in what cases life may be
taken, and in what others the end in view can be
attained by mere destruction of property; when
an important capture is to be effected; when a
threatening letter sent, or a shot of persuasion
fired; when it is advisable to suspend operations,
and when to inspire terror by increased ferocity.
By them, relations are maintained with government
offices in Rome, whose intrigues are generally
successful in obtaining the dismissal or removal
of obnoxious officials; so that complicity
with crime is an almost necessary condition of
permanence in any responsible position.’

For this state of affairs, which violates all our
conceptions of a civilised community, the reviewer
offers no practical scheme for redress. Reform, in
the ordinary acceptation of the word, seems impracticable.
Society is leagued to maintain a
universal terrorism. Judges, magistrates, police-officers
are incorporated in the gang of evil-doers.
The military sent to preserve order are inefficient.
Whether from fear or favour, brigandage is
triumphant. Evidently the Italian government
is powerless to cure the disorderly condition of
Sicily. The very members of the government labour
under suspicion of complicity. More probably,
they are afraid to give offence by acting with persistent
vigour. Constitutionalism carried to excess
in a region wholly unprepared for it, even in a
moderate degree, might be described as the bane of
the country. It is in vain to appoint new native
magistrates and new police, for all are bad together.
The feeble military force sent to support
the law is out-manœuvred or laughed at. Without
denying that things may mend in the course
of ages, we should say, that what Italy wants is a
Cromwell with his Ironsides to stamp out by
military execution the ingrained villainy which
now afflicts one of the finest and most productive
islands in the world. As there is, however, no
chance of a soldier of the Cromwell type casting
up, Sicily, we presume, must continue to be a
disgrace to Italy and as great a scandal to Europe
as Turkey.

W. C.