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

CONTENTS

TREATMENT OF ANIMALS.
FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.
A TYROLESE CATASTROPHE.
SINGING AND TALKING BY TELEGRAPH.
‘HELEN’S BABIES’ AND ‘OTHER PEOPLE’S CHILDREN.’
TEA-CULTURE IN INDIA.
PROFESSOR TYNDALL ON THE SPREAD OF DISEASE.

TREATMENT OF ANIMALS.

In our youthful days in the early years of the
present century, little consideration was given to
a systematic kindness to animals. Horses were
overwrought without mercy, when ill-fed and with
wounds which should have excited compassion.
If they sunk down in their misery, they were left
to die, the chances being that, in their last hours,
they were inhumanly pelted with stones by boys;—no
one, not even magistrates or clergymen, giving
any concern to the cruelties that were perpetrated.
All that we have seen, without exciting a word of
remonstrance. A wretch who habitually turned
out his old, overwrought, and half-starved horses
to die on the town-green, never incurred any check
or reprobation. His proceedings were viewed with
perfect indifference. People, while passing along
in a demure sort of way to church, would see a
crowd of boys pitching stones into the wounds of
a dying horse, and not one of these decorous
church-goers endeavoured to stop these horrid
acts of inhumanity. Like the Pharisees of old,
they passed on the other side. Such within
recollection is a small sample of the unchecked
atrocities of our young days. Cats were pelted
to death. Birds’ nests were robbed. Dogs had
kettles tied to their tail, and were hounded to
madness by howling multitudes. Oxen were
overdriven to an infuriated condition, and their
frantic and revengeful career formed an acceptable
subject of public amusement.

Barbarous in a certain sense as these comparatively
recent times were, there had already been
shewn instances of a kind consideration for animals.
The poet Cowper, it will be recollected,
wrote touchingly of the hares which he had
domesticated. Sir Walter Scott’s tender regard
for his dogs has been recently noticed in these
pages. There was here and there a glimmering
consciousness that animals had some sort of
claims on the mercy of mankind. What strikes
one as curious is that society had retrograded
in this respect. The oldest laws in the world,
found in the early books of the Old Testament,
enjoin a kind treatment of animals. If we see an
ass fall which belongs to some one with whom we
have a cause of difference, we are to throw aside
private feelings, and hasten to help the animal.
We are not to take a bird when sitting on its eggs,
or on its young; a most humane injunction. In
various texts the Hebrews were enjoined to have
due regard for the comfort of the ox, the ass, or
any other animal which laboured for them. In
these venerable records, mercy is enjoined towards
all living creatures.

The modern world, with all its pompous claims
to civilisation, strangely drifted into an entire
neglect of these beneficent obligations. Throughout
Christendom, any laws enforcing a kind treatment
of animals are few in number, and of very
recent date. Even within our remembrance,
clergymen were not usually in the habit of inculcating
that species of kindness to domesticated
creatures which we read of in the Old Testament;
nor were children ordinarily taught lessons of
humanity within the family circle. The oldest
statutory laws concerning animals are those for the
protection of game; but these laws proceeded on
no principle of kindness. They were intended only
to protect certain birds and quadrupeds during the
breeding season, with a view to what is called
‘sport,’ the pleasure of killing them by licensed
individuals—the license for indulging in this
species of luxury being, as is well known, pretty
costly. It is not our wish to hold up ‘sport’ of a
legitimate kind to ridicule. The chief matter of
regret is the coarse way in which game is sometimes
pursued and killed even by licensed sportsmen:
their operations in what is known as a
battue, when vast numbers of animals are driven
into narrow spaces, and shot down and maimed
without mercy, being, as we think, no better than
wholesale butchery; and not what might be
expected from persons of taste and education.

Although in the early years of the present
century there were no laws for the specific purpose
of preventing cruelty to animals, thoughtful
and humane persons were beginning to give
attention to the subject. In 1809, Sir Charles{546}
Bunbury brought into the House of Commons a
bill for the ‘Prevention of wanton and malicious
cruelty to Animals.’ Mr Windham, a cabinet
minister, little to his credit, opposed the bill, and
it failed to pass. The next attempt at legislation
on the subject was made by Lord Erskine in the
House of Lords in 1810. His measure was opposed
by Lord Ellenborough, and had to be withdrawn.
There the matter rested until 1821, when Mr
Richard Martin, member of parliament for Galway,
brought a bill into the House of Commons for the
‘Prevention of Cruelty to Horses.’ It encountered
torrents of ridicule, and after passing a second
reading in a thin house, was no further proceeded
with. Mr Martin, however, was not discouraged.
He felt he was right, and returned to the encounter.
In 1822, he introduced a new and more
comprehensive bill. Instead of horses, he used
the word ‘cattle;’ this bill passed through all its
stages, and became an act of parliament. This act
of 1822 was the first ever enacted against cruel and
improper treatment of animals. Let there be
every honour to the memory of Richard Martin
for his noble struggle on behalf of defenceless
creatures. In 1825, he brought in a bill for the
suppression of bear-baiting and other cruel sports.
Not without surprise do we learn that Sir Robert
Peel met the bill with determined opposition,
and that it was thrown out. To think that
so eminent a statesman as Peel should have been
a supporter of bear-baiting! No fact could better
present an idea of what was still the backward
state of feeling among educated persons on the
subject of cruelty to animals.

The year 1826 found Mr Martin still at his post.
He framed a bill to extend protection to dogs, cats,
and other domesticated animals from cruelty. In
this it might have been expected he would have
been successful. But no. His arguments to move
the House of Commons were unavailing. Mr
Martin died in 1834. Not until 1835, when more
enlarged ideas prevailed, was there an Act to
throw a protecting shield over cattle in the
market, on the way to the slaughter-house, and
in the roads and streets generally; over all such
animals as dogs, bulls, bears, or cocks, kept for
purposes of baiting or fighting; over all animals
kept in pounds or inclosures without a sufficiency
of food or drink; and over all worn-out horses,
compelled to work when broken down with weakness
or disease.

It was reserved for the beneficent reign of the
present Queen to see a comprehensive Act of Parliament
for the prevention of cruelty to animals.
This was the Act of 1849 (which was extended to
Scotland in 1850), that now forms the basis for prosecuting
cases of cruelty, and may be called the
charter which conferred on domesticated animals a
right to protection. Lamenting the backwardness
of England in establishing such a charter, it is not
without pride that one knows that England was
after all the first country in modern times to
enforce the principle that the lower animals are
entitled to be protected by law. That principle,
as we have shewn, is not new. It was recognised
by the ancient Hebrews, and it is pleasing to feel
that at length modern common-sense has legislatively
assumed its propriety. Latterly, there have
been several additional Acts of Parliament, chiefly
as concerns protection to sea-birds and small land-birds;
but while well meant, these Acts are very
imperfect. The eggs of sea-birds not being protected,
the nests of these animals may be rifled
with impunity. As regards small birds, a number
are left out in the list of protected animals—the
skylark for one. These deficiencies are unfortunate.
Sea-birds, though generally looked on with indifference,
are of great public utility. They benefit
agriculturists by eating the worms and grubs in
newly ploughed land; they hover over parts of the
sea and point out where there are shoals of herrings
and other fish; they are useful to the mariner in
foggy weather, by their warning cries near the
rock-bound coast. How beautiful that arrangement
of Nature, in making provision for birds to
live on shelving rocks by the sea-shore, there to
act like beacons, in warning off the bark of the
mariner from a coast that would cause its destruction!
Considering that wonderful provision, how
scandalous, how short-sighted the practice of rifling
the nests of sea-birds! A supplementary Act to
protect the eggs of sea-birds cannot, as a matter of
public duty, be too soon passed. Already, on some
parts of the coast, sea-birds are said to be rapidly
disappearing.

As every one knows, dogs are often lost in large
towns, and roam about miserably in search of their
master or mistress. A sight of them in such
circumstances is exceedingly pitiable. In the
Metropolis, a humane plan for succouring lost
dogs has been established. Some years ago, a
benevolent lady, Mrs Tealby, was enabled, by the
aid of public subscriptions, to set on foot a temporary
Home for Lost and Starving Dogs, which
has existed since 1860. It is situated at Battersea
Park Road. Any dog, when found and brought to
the Home, is taken in and succoured under certain
necessary conditions. If a dog, after being housed
and succoured, is applied for by the owner (with
satisfactory proof of ownership), the animal is
given up on payment of the expenses of its keep.
If no owner comes forward, every unclaimed dog
is sold for the benefit of the institution, or otherwise
disposed of according to circumstances. The
Home is growing in usefulness. In one year
recently more than three thousand three hundred
dogs were restored to their former owners or sent
to new homes. Many owners who recover their
favourites through the agency of this institution,
not only refund the expenses incurred, but assist
the funds by subscriptions in the name of their
recovered pets—as for instance, ‘In memory of
Pup,’ ‘For little Fido,’ ‘In name of darling
Charlie,’ ‘The mite from an old dog;’ and so on.
This deserving and well managed institution is
well worth visiting. Only, the visitor must be
prepared to see painful demonstrations from some
of the unhappy inmates. On the approach of the
visitor, each animal eagerly hastens to see if he be
his dear master. And when a sniff and a glance
render too evident the fact that you are not the
person wished for, something like a tear steals
from the poor doggie’s eye. The happiness
shewn when one of the animals finds his lost
master is equally expressive. Looking to the
great good done in the cause of humanity by this
meritorious Home for Lost and Starving Dogs, it
may be hoped that efforts will not be wanting to
establish similar institutions elsewhere.

There is another admirable establishment worth{547}
referring to. It is known as the Brown Institution,
from having been founded by the bequest in
1851 of a large sum of money by Mr Thomas
Brown. Its design was the advancement of knowledge
concerning the diseases of animals, the best
mode of treating them for the purpose of cure, and
the encouragement of humane conduct towards
animals generally. The Institution combines the
quality of an infirmary and a dispensary for
animals belonging to persons who are not well
able to pay for ordinary medical attendance, and
therefore does not trench on veterinary establishments.
Several thousands of animals are treated
annually. The Institution, which is under the
direction of the Senate of the University of London,
is situated in Wandsworth Road, near Vauxhall
Railway Station. As an hospital and dispensary
for poor horses, dogs, and other animals, the Brown
Institution is unique of its kind. As far as we
know, there is nothing like it in the world. What
a prodigious step in advance is the Home for Dogs,
and the Institution now described, from the condition
of things at the beginning of the nineteenth
century!

In speaking of the improved treatment of
defenceless creatures within recent times, a prominent
place is due to the Royal Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, located in
Jermyn Street, London. Standing at the head of
all organisations of the kind in the United Kingdom,
this Society may be considered the watchful
guardian of the rights of animals, and without
whose agency the laws we have enumerated would,
as regards England, stand a poor chance of being
enforced. The business of this Society is conducted
mainly by the employment of persons all
over the country to find out cases of cruelty, and
to bring the offenders to justice. The Society
diffuses hand-bills and placards in places where
they may come prominently under the notice of
persons likely to infringe the law. It further has
issued various publications calculated to stir up
the feelings in behalf of animals.

The hand-bills and placards deserve special
notice. Sheep salesmen are reminded that convictions
have been obtained against persons for ill-treating
sheep by cutting and lacerating their ears,
as a means of identifying them from sheep belonging
to other consigners. Shepherds are warned,
by a cited example, to abstain from a specified
mode of treating sheep for certain maladies;
because pain is inflicted, which a veterinary surgeon
knows how to avoid, but which an ignorant
though well-meaning shepherd may not. Farmers
are reminded that it is a punishable offence to
crowd too many sheep together on going to
market; instances being cited in which eleven
sheep were crammed into a small cart, with their
legs tied tightly together. Captains of freight
steamers are informed that penalties have been
enforced against a captain for so overcrowding his
vessel, on a voyage from Holland to the Thames,
as to cause the sheep much pain and suffering;
carriers and cattle-barge owners are under the
same legal obligations.

In regard to cows, one placard cautions persons
sending them to market with the udder
greatly distended with milk, and from which
the poor animals evidently suffer much pain.
Cattle rearers are told that penalties have been
enforced against one of their body for sawing off
the horns of fourteen heifers so close to the head
as to cause blood to flow in considerable quantity,
and to make the animals stamp and moan; the
object of such a mode of cutting being to increase
the market value of the horns. Butchers are
reminded that it is a punishable offence to bleed
calves to death merely for the sake of giving
additional whiteness to veal. Consigners and
carriers are alike reminded that the Act of 1849
imposes fines or imprisonment as a punishment
for conveying animals in such way as to subject
them to unnecessary pain or suffering; the neglect
to give proper food and water to the animals,
whether coming to market, at market, or in
removal from market, is announced in another
hand-bill to be an infringement of the same
statute.

Drovers, by another hand-bill or placard, are
cautioned against urging on cattle which by lameness
are unfitted to travel along the roads and
streets; and against striking animals on the legs so
violently as to lame them: both are practices to
which drovers are too prone, and both are punishable.
Farmers, graziers, and salesmen are alike
warned that the season of the year should be taken
into account in the transport of shorn sheep. ‘It
is hardly conceivable that respectable farmers and
graziers, merely for the sake of profit, can in the
months of December, January, February, March,
or April, cruelly strip a dumb animal of that warm
woollen coat which the goodness of God has provided
more abundantly in winter to protect it from
the cold weather; or that any English salesman
will lay himself open to a criminal charge of aiding
or continuing the offence by exposing shorn
animals for sale at such inclement seasons.’

Horses and donkeys find a place in the safeguards
which the Society endeavours to provide,
by disseminating placards and hand-bills pointing
out the penalties for cruelty or neglect. It is an
offence against the laws to work a horse in an
omnibus, cab, or other vehicle when in an infirm
or worn-out state. It is an offence to beat a horse
in a stable with a degree of severity amounting to
cruelty, merely to make it obedient, or still worse,
through an impulse of angry passion. It is an
offence to set a horse to drag a cart or wagon loaded
with a weight beyond his strength; many coal-merchants
and their carmen have been prosecuted
and fined for this unfeeling conduct. It is an
offence to cruelly beat and over-ride poor donkeys;
useful animals which seem fated to be the victims
of very hard treatment in the world. It is a
significant fact that one placard is addressed to
‘excursionists and others:’ those who have witnessed
the treatment of donkeys by their drivers,
at Hampstead Heath, Blackheath, and the humbler
grades of sea-side places where holiday people
assemble, will know what this means. The Society
aid the inspectors of mines, or are aided by them,
in bringing to justice truck-drivers and others for
working horses and ponies in an unfit state in
coal-pits.

It was not likely that dogs would be left out of
sight by the Society; the maltreating of such
animals is the subject of some of the cautionary
placards, especially in localities where rough
persons, prone to dog-tormenting, are known to be
numerous. Cats are the subjects concerning which
other warnings are given, in regard to torturing or
cruelly worrying. Fishmongers are reminded that{548}
it is a punishable offence which many persons
commit of ‘putting living lobsters and crabs into
cold water, and then placing them on a fire until
the water is heated to boiling temperature, thereby
causing them to endure horrible and prolonged
suffering.’

That the feathered tribes should share the protection
which the issuing of these placards is
intended to subserve, is natural enough; seeing
that the Sea-bird, Wild-bird, and Wild-fowl Acts
were due in great measure to the Society. One
placard states that it is a punishable offence to
kill or wound any such birds (including the young
in nests) within the prohibited period; and that
those who sell such killed birds are also punishable.
Another placard administers a similar warning
in regard to wild-fowl, enumerating thirty-six
species, all of which are to be safe from the gun,
the snare, and the net from the 15th of February
to the 10th of July, under penalties which
are prescribed in the Act of 1876. Bird-fanciers
are reminded that one of their fraternity was
imprisoned for fourteen days for depriving a
chaffinch of its sight as a means of improving its
singing. Poultry-dealers are, in another hand-bill,
cautioned against plucking live poultry, a cruel
practice which, if proved, subjects the offender to
three months’ imprisonment. Carrying live fowls
to market by their legs, with their heads hanging
downwards; and exposing fowls to hot sunshine
with their legs tied together—have brought the
offenders into trouble. In another placard the
patrons of pigeon-matches are warned that occasional
cruelties practised by them or their servants
come within the scope of the law. In one of the
Society’s publications, the cruelty of bearing-reins
for carriage-horses is significantly pointed out.

The Society has been encouraged in its benevolent
exertions by a letter from Her Majesty the
Queen, addressed in 1874 to the Earl of Harrowby,
in his capacity as President. There was an
assembly in London of foreign delegates representing
similar associations, on the occasion of the
holding of the half-century jubilee of the parent
Society. Her Majesty requested the President to
give expression publicly to her warm interest in
the success of the efforts made here and abroad for
the purpose of diminishing the cruelties practised
on dumb animals. ‘The Queen hears and reads
with horror of the sufferings which the brute
creation often undergo from the thoughtlessness of
the ignorant, and she fears also sometimes from
the experiments in pursuit of science. For the
removal of the former the Queen trusts much to
the progress of education; and in regard to the
pursuit of science, she hopes that the advantage of
those anæsthetic discoveries from which man has
derived so much benefit himself, in the alleviation
of suffering, may be fully extended to the lower
animals. Her Majesty rejoices that the Society
awakens the interest of the young by the presentation
of prizes for essays connected with the subject,
and hears with gratification that her son and
daughter-in-law shew their interest and sympathy
by presenting those prizes at your meetings.’

Looking to the distinguished patronage of the
Society from Her Majesty downwards, its vast
array of supporters, and the large number of
Societies which it has helped to originate at home
and abroad, we naturally rely upon it for promoting
a consolidation and expansion of the laws
against cruelty to animals. These laws, as has
been seen, are composed of shreds and patches,
brought into existence with difficulty, and in many
respects imperfect. The time appears to have
come when the whole should be combined in a
statute applicable to all parts of the United
Kingdom. That certain actions should be deemed
cruelties punishable by law in England and not
in Scotland, is anything but creditable, and not a
little ludicrous. This is a point to which the
attention of legislators should be seriously invited.
From the fragmentary and confused condition of
the statutes, we have experienced much difficulty
in ascertaining what, as a whole, the law really
is. This chaotic state of things detracts, we think,
not a little from the glory which may be freely
claimed by the English for their legislation in
behalf of animals. A consolidated Act with all
reasonable improvements, would be something to
point to with satisfaction, and probably go far to
insure a legalised system of kind treatment of
animals all over the globe.

W. C.

FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.

A STORY IN THREE PARTS.

By Alaster Græme.

INTRODUCTORY.

Every man loves the land where he got life and
liberty. The heart of the mountaineer is chained
to his rugged mountain-home; he loves the wild
and whirling blast, the snow-storm and the brooding
clouds. Every true heart beats truly for
country and for home. Thus the ‘children of
the peat-bog’ and the fen cling to the illimitable
wolds and the ‘level shining mere,’ beautiful even
now.

Beautiful then, when long ago, primeval forests
clothed the land. When in later times the bells
of minster towers sounded far and near, and the
deep bay of the Bruneswald hounds awoke the
echoes of the wold; when old Crowland’s towers
gleamed through mist; and the heights of that
far-famed isle, the Camp of Refuge, where,
amidst blood and battle, and beneath the ‘White
Christ’ uplifted, the gallant Saxon fought the
wild Viking; where the Saxon made his last
dread stand for England’s liberty, while men fell
dead, and bones lay bleaching on every island
and valley of the fen.

Beautiful now, O Fen-land! where still I seem
to hear the wild shout of your outlaw hunters,
hunting the red-deer and the wolf; where still
I seem to hear the war-cry of the men of
Danelagh, or imagine the great fires sweeping
the boundless plains. Wide are your marshes still,
and dark and deep your woods; the keen winds
bring the driving snow; dense fog and mist and
drenching rains sweep strongly from the sea;
dark and capricious are the autumn days, and
full of storm; yet overhead stretches a free
heaven, boundless and open; underfoot stretch
the free plains, wide and open; and over all
sweeps the magnificence of the cloud-scenery,
unbroken and unopposed; and the splendour of{549}
the sunrise and the sunset lights the low isles like
flame.

PART I.—DAWN.

CHAPTER THE FIRST.

Thus did the suns rise and set in glory across
the level lands of Enderby; old Enderby manor,
where the Flemings had dwelt for centuries; old
Enderby, with its ‘clanging rookery,’ its grand
timber, its turrets and its towers. Under that
arched gateway has swept many a gay cavalcade
with hawk and hound; has passed slowly many a
hearse with sable plumes and horses; has stepped
many a brave bridegroom leading his blushing
bride, while the far-famed bells of Enderby pealed
out loud and clear.

It is nearly two centuries ago, and it is evening;
the sun is setting. Sir Vincent Fleming stands
under the gateway; he is booted and spurred;
his jaded horse stands in the court-yard, and has
been ridden fast and far. Sir Vincent puts a
whistle to his lips and whistles loud and shrill;
he is looking across the wide holt with a smile—his
eyes laugh under his thick black brows, and
his long white hair is flowing free in the wind.
He opens his arms wide, and there come flying
towards him two little dark figures neck and
neck, shrieking with laughter and with glee.
Panting, breathless from their long run, a boy
and girl rush through the gateway, and leap
boisterously into Sir Vincent’s arms.

‘My two little pets of Enderby!’ he cries, and
there is a wail in his voice, half of sorrow and half
of joy.

‘An’ what have you brought us, father?’ asks
Deborah, leaping and dancing in her gladness. ‘I
see your flaps are full!—Nay, Charlie; get away;
you shall not have father all to yourself!’

But the boy fights hard. ‘You are a greedy
Deb!’ he cried. ‘Your thoughts are ever o’ sweetmeats
an’ o’ toys.’

‘Nay; it is not so,’ retorted Deborah shrilly and
scarlet as a rose. ‘I am glad when things come.—But
father, I am gladder to have you come.’

‘I believe thee, sweet heart!’ and Sir Vincent,
lifting little Deborah to his shoulder, and taking
his boy by the hand, turned towards the house.

In those days many a care pressed hard on Sir
Vincent Fleming. His beautiful wife, the mother
of his children, lay dead in the little churchyard.
For a short time the children had run wild; then
for a time Sir Vincent gave them a hard, hard
step-mother, and the children went from bad to
worse. Little Deborah cut her hair like a boy,
and the two ran away from home. But ere long
the hard step-mother died, leaving Sir Vincent
free and the children like two mad colts. Sir
Vincent tried the experiment no more. He could
not cope with his two wild ones; they were beyond
him; they were given over entirely to old
Dame Marjory, and she voted them ‘a handful.’
Never wilder youngsters trod the earth. The hot
blood of the Flemings and the Stuarts, with a dash
of cast not so easily pedigree’d, coursed in their
veins, and they could not brook a word of opposition
or reproof. Dearly did they love their
father, and dearly loved they one another—in a
wild way more intensely than either knew.

One day they were running in one of their mad
games, ‘Hare and Hounds,’ with all their village
crew behind them, when their course led straight
through the churchyard of Enderby. Vaulting
over the low wall, they rushed bounding over the
graves with yell and whoop and laughter. Soon
the whole gay thoughtless throng passed away.
But an hour after, in the twilight, a boy and
girl came gliding back alone hand in hand; half-wistful
and half-scared, they opened the churchyard
gate, Deborah urging forward Charlie.

‘What do you want?’ asked the boy half sullenly.
‘I’ll not come!’

‘I do want,’ said little Deborah, ‘to go to
mother’s grave! Dost know what we did, Charlie?
An’ my heart has ached ever since, nor could I hunt
the hare for thinkin’ of it. We trampled over
mother’s grave! When we jumped over yon wall,
I tell you, Charlie, we ran on mother’s grave!
Come with me, Charlie, an’ kneel down to her to
forgive you an’ me!’ In the highest state of excitement,
the little child caught his unwilling hand.

‘But she won’t hear us,’ said the boy; ‘mother’s
gone to heaven, Marjory saith. Thou art a girl!’
he cried, as they stood beside the grave. ‘These
be bones that lie here. It is like your fancies!
Mother’s gone to heaven, I tell you.’

‘That’s true,’ said Deborah; ‘but mother sees
her grave, an’ she looks down an’ has seen us run
over it this day, an’ laugh! Maybe she thinks we
have forgot her; maybe she thinks we have forgot
the prayers she taught us.—O mother, it is not
so!’ With unconscious and most exquisite fervour,
the little Deborah fell on her knees, and raised
her eyes and clasped hands to heaven: ‘We are
naughty, but we’ve not forgot you, sweet mother.
Charlie has not forgot you, mother; an’ Charlie an’
me look up to you as you are lookin’ down, an’
ask you to forgive us for treadin’ on your sweet
grave. Mother, dear mother, forgive us!’

The boy stood looking on in dogged silence, knitting
his brows; but when he saw Deborah’s tears,
tears rushed to his own bright eyes. With a cry of
passionate sorrow and remorse, he flung himself on
his mother’s grave and cried as if his heart would
break. Charlie Fleming had idolised his mother.
He was two years older than Deborah; he remembered
the mother better. He never forgot her
memory. Proud, reserved, and shy, he hid that
memory in his heart, and would let no hand drag
it forth. In his mad freaks, when old Dame
Marjory, driven to distraction, solemnly upbraided
him about his ‘poor dear mother’ and what she
would have thought, he mocked, and ran away
shouting his derisive laughter. Seldom would a
tear dim those bright roving eyes; neither rod, nor
threat, nor lecture made Charlie Fleming quail;
clenching his teeth and his hands, he stood his
ground like a little demon: his stubborn heart
would have broken rather than yield a whit.

And what of Deborah Fleming? she who, at
eight years old, cut her flowing locks like a boy,
and ran away from home. She was not behind
her brother in mischief, wit, or daring; wondrously
bold was the spirit of the little Fleming. But the
caprices of the child shall speak for themselves.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

One afternoon Deborah was playing by the
lodge-gates with little Margaret Dinnage, the
bailiff’s child, when a tall gipsy woman strode to{550}
the gate and looked through. Meg ran away with
a scream of terror, but Deborah stood and stared
up at the gipsy.

She was a tall woman, dressed in faded red, with
a yellow and scarlet shawl tied over her head;
long glittering rings in her ears, and black, black
eyes. Deborah never all her life forgot that
woman looking through the gate; the vision was
riveted on her childish memory.

‘Come to me, pretty one,’ said the woman,
tossing her head backward; then imperiously:
‘Come!’

‘Where?’ asked Deborah.

‘Over yonder—to the camp. We want a pretty
one like thee. I am gettin’ old, child, an’ I want
you to come run arrands an’ tell the fortunes o’
the qual’ty.’

‘I am the quality,’ said Deborah gravely.

‘You!‘ retorted the gipsy, with sudden and
savage scorn. ‘You are o’ the scum o’ the airth!’
Then in a moment the wild passion passed, she
resumed her half-coaxing, half-imperative manner:
‘Come, come, pretty love!’

Deborah had been half startled; now she knew
not what to make of the gipsy woman. Did the
gipsy really like her, and wish to be kind?
Deborah had never moved her large wondering
eyes from the gipsy’s face.

‘I will not come,’ she said, ‘without Charlie.’

‘Well, fetch Charlie, quick!’ answered the gipsy
with intense eagerness, and stooping forward to
whisper the words. Deborah drew back; something
within her rebelled; the woman was too
imperious and too bold.

‘Charlie will not come,’ she answered; ‘he
hates gipsies.’

‘Then thou shalt come alone.’ Quick as thought
the long arm was thrust through the half-open gate
and the iron hand round Deborah’s wrist, as if to
draw her out, when Deborah cried at the top of
her voice: ‘Jordan, Jordan, Jordan!’ An old
man in a red waistcoat and his shirt sleeves came
running round the lodge from the wood, and at the
same moment the gipsy woman, pushing Deborah
violently backward, darted away. Deborah was
thrown on the back of her head; she got up at
once, and stood looking up at old Jordan in
silence, with her hand at the back of her head.

‘She hath hurt thee, the jade!’ said the old
man indignantly. ‘What has she been a-sayin’
and a-doin’ to thee?’

Deborah gazed at her fingers: there was blood
on them; she raised her clear gray eyes to Jordan’s
face.

‘Why, she hath cut thy head open, my lassie,
and badly too! I know them cussed gipsies!
Spiteful demons! See ye never meddle with them
agen. This comes on it.’ And assuming a scolding
tone, the old man took Deborah’s hand and
hurried her angrily into the lodge. He was
frightened, very pitiful and very angry, all in one;
now he coaxed, now he threatened.

‘Let me bind up thy broken head, my lassie;
it is broken badly. But thou’rt a brave little
lady! This comes o’ meddlin’; thou’rt all too
inquisitive by half. Leave them gipsies alone;
or sure as thou’rt alive, I’ll tell the master. Now
then, thou’rt a brave little lady. Doth it pain
thee, Lady Deb?’ He stooped to peer anxiously
with his old gray eyes into his little mistress’s face.

Deborah was sitting on a high chair in the
middle of the table, looking very white and grave.
‘I should think it doth,’ she said; ‘you are a
gaby to ask it, Jordan Dinnage. Finish to tie
my head; and see that you do not tell father who
cast me down,’ she added with dignity.

The little Margaret was standing below, gazing
upward at the operation in affright, with her
round eyes and mouth wide open.

‘Tell thy father!‘ retorted old Jordan with
supreme disdain as he finished his surgery. ‘Why,
he would burn the camp and all the varmin in
it for this. Fine times there’d be for Enderby with
them revengeful cats. They’d be burnin’ Enderby.
Where wouldst thou be then?’

‘In the flames, Master Dinnage,’ said Deborah
coolly.

Old Jordan Dinnage laughed loud and long.
‘Thou art a little bold wench!’ he said; then turning
to his little daughter, added with mock gravity:
‘Mistress Dinnage, well mayst thou gape an’
stare. Thy young mistress will be the death o’
me; for floutin’ an’ for scorn, I never knew’d her
equal.’

The little maiden went quietly home, rather
proud of her bandaged head than not; and the
sight was so little novel to Dame Marjory’s eyes,
that well as she loved the child, she scarcely asked
a question. That night Deborah tossed in her
little bed and could not sleep. The pain in her
head she heeded not; her wild and fitful fancy
was conjuring up the gipsy camp. A hundred
tall figures went trooping by, all with yellow and
scarlet shawls tied over their heads; and tall
men with black eyes, and little children, little
boys with beautiful black eyes and curly hair.
Dogs were lying about, and great pots full of meat
were slung on poles over fires, and the red watch-fires
blazed over all. She fancied all these men,
women, and children came and kneeled to her,
and said she was their queen. One little boy, more
beautiful than the rest, said he was destined for
the king, and she would be his wife. Then they
hung about her necklets and bracelets, and set a
crown upon her head, and the little maiden saw
herself queen of the gipsies. Deborah loved
power, and knew the power of beauty. She
fancied herself dancing before the gipsies, in
the light of the fires, in a glitter and blaze of
beauty.

On the other side of the room slept Dame Marjory;
she was snoring loudly. Deborah, hot and
excited, sat up and gazed round; she could not
rest. She started up, and sped like a little ghost
into the next room, to Charlie’s bedside; she
seized his arm, and shook it: ‘Charlie, Charlie!’
The boy gave a cross snort. ‘Charlie, art well
awake? I have somewhat to tell, love. The
gipsy camp is out on the fen, an’ to-morrow I am
goin’ to visit them! You will come too Charlie,
for there be dogs an’ horses in plenty. An’ mayhap
you will be made the king. I mean to be
the queen; for the gipsy woman has been to the
gate this afternoon, an’ invited me to go an’ bring
you along.’

Charlie stared in the dim light, well awake then,
yet very cross. ‘You! You are always “bringin’
me along,” forgettin’ you are the youngest by two
years. You are very wise an’ grand. I am
not so fond o’ gipsy folk; they are sneaks and
cowards.’

‘Nay; they are not! If you are afeard, I’ll go{551}
alone; an’ I’ll ride on the vans from one end o’
the world to the other. So good-e’en.’

‘Stay!’ cried the boy. ‘You say I am afeard.
Then you know it is a lie! A Fleming never
knew fear. So father tells you. Dost say I am
afeard?’

But Deborah, feeling the grasp of his hands on
her arm, cried: ‘Nay, nay; you are not afeard!
Belike you are wise, an’ that is why. But I will
go alone.’

‘Nay; that you shall not!’ cried the boy, glad
to see a way to change. ‘Why, they would kill
you,’ he said, with an air of superior wisdom and
scorn. ‘If you will go, I go too. I will take my
big stick, an’ (say not a word) a knife under my
clothes, for the gipsy folk be sly as foxes, an’ in
one minute might stick you through. I must be
fully armed.’

‘An’ so must I,’ quoth Deborah.

‘You!‘ said the boy in loud derision; ‘you
are a girl; though I ne’er knew the like for
tomboyin’. Run to bed; an’ we will see what
to-morrow brings.’

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

The morrow saw Master Fleming and Mistress
Deborah speeding along the fields. Charlie carried
a mighty stick, cut from a tough ash-tree, and a
knife beneath his skirts; Deborah too, secretly,
had a long blade concealed, to her own heart’s
satisfaction. Drawn to danger like moths to
candle-flare, these little hardy Flemings sought
an adventure after their own hearts. When they
reached the level downs and the long expanse of
shining water, the gipsy camp burst full on view.
It was a sight familiar to their eyes; the dauntless
Charlie knew it well. Many an hour, when Dame
Marjory, shut in with her pickles and preserves,
thought Master Fleming intent over his books,
he was riding a bare-backed pony on the downs
amidst a ragged crew. Many a raid on those same
camps had Master Fleming dared; and twice,
hunted by them, had the bold boy fled for liberty,
or life. So that, knowing the gipsy nature, he
did not approach the camp with Deborah without
misgiving or unprepared for flight.

‘Now see; if the gipsies curse or hunt us,’ he
said to Deborah, as they paused, ‘that you do
not lay hold on me, but run for your life; you can
run like a hare; so can I. They may not be best
pleased to see us.’

With a heart that beat somewhat faster at her
brother’s words, Deborah gave assent, and they
advanced hand in hand. But in another moment
their approach was seen by one ragged sentinel,
and with shrill cries of delight they were surrounded
by a weird elfin band. Their eyes were
beautiful and black, as in Deborah’s vision; but
upon close quarters, they were all rags and dirt.
They swarmed round their old playmate, staring in
dumb amaze at Deborah’s fair loveliness. Charlie
clutched his stick.

‘Now stand back!’ he cried, in a loud authoritative
voice, ‘an’ I will give you copper pence.’
He struck his stick on the ground, and the ragged
boys and girls all started back and stood in a
circle round them. Deborah was abashed and
overwhelmed with admiration at her brother’s
potent sway; her eyes were riveted upon him. The
youthful captain was aware of this, and with added
dignity turned upon his troop: ‘First, first,’ quoth
he, ‘you must catch two ponies for Mistress
Deborah an’ for me, the biggest an’ the best, an’
we will race you. The first one who wins gets the
prize; an’ if I win or Mistress Deborah wins, we
win the prize, an’ give it to the first man in: an’
that is fair play, seein’ our ponies must be the
biggest an’ the best. But stay. Come on the
common, and let them not see us in the camp.
After the race is done, we will go an’ speak to
your grandam, old Dame Shaw, and stay the
night mayhap.’

With yells of glee the whole troop rushed
hooting over the common, tearing hither and
thither after colts as tameless. Deborah’s hat was
off and her hair flying, the soul of glee was dancing
in her eyes. They caught one restive steed; in a
moment she was across his back like a boy, and
in another minute they were off! Thus the hours
fled away, all too fast for them; all the largess of
the young captain was thrown away and scrambled
for. Deborah’s dress flew in tatters round her; she
looked the wildest gipsy of them all.

Night came, and vainly through the shades of
evening did old Dame Marjory, shading her
eyes in the doorway, look for her truants. Sir
Vincent was out, and not likely to return. At last
she sought Jordan Dinnage, her ancient lover and
Enderby’s right hand. ‘Jordan, hast seen Master
Charlie and Lady Deb? A pretty kettle o’ fish to
fry if they return not to-night, an’ the master
comes home i’ the mornin’. Go seek them, for
heaven’s sake, man. I am distraught!’

‘Why, this comes, Mistress Marjory, o’ lettin’
the young Master run wild; he’s a handful for
thee! I know’d how ‘twould end, when he’s day
an’ night out gipsyin’. There’s where they be, Mistress
Marjory, with the gipsies; an’ thank yer
stars if ye ever set eyes on them agen!’

Old Marjory turned as white as her apron.
‘Now, don’t ye be goin’ to frighten me, Jordan.
But if ye speak truth, man, run with all the men
you can get along, an’ hunt them gipsies down,
an’ find my two poor dears. O their poor mother!
O Jordan, Jordan, Jordan Dinnage!’ And Marjory,
with her apron to her face, cried as if her
true heart would break.

This was too much for Jordan; he was arming
already. Snatching a short rusty sword from
the wall, and with one comforting hand-thud on
Dame Marjory’s back, and a ‘Comfort thee, my
lass!’ the active old man was off. The hue-and-cry
was raised—all Enderby rang with it. But behold
the gipsy camp was gone! Smouldering fires blackened
the common; no other trace of the fugitives
was visible. But old Jordan rode and rode, with
all his men behind him; some on horseback, some
on foot, they scoured the country far and near.
In vain did Dame Marjory and the servants sit
up till morning dawn. It was only late on the
following day that the bailiff rode up the avenue
with another horseman, one carrying a boy before
him, the other a girl; the dresses of both men and
children were torn and travel-stained, and the head
of Jordan Dinnage tied up. At this sight Dame
Marjory ran forward and screamed, and all the
women screamed.

‘Here be thy childer,’ said Jordan; ‘an’ a hard
fight we made for it. Keep a tight hand on ’em,
Dame Marjory; but no scoldin’ yet.’

So Charlie and Deborah, looking penitent and
demure, but rejoicing madly in their hearts at{552}
seeing home again, ran in. They were feasted
royally in the servants’ hall that day!

For many days Sir Vincent did not return, and
Jordan Dinnage kept a sharp watch on the gate,
to see that the children did not stir beyond. The
old vicar called on the little culprits; he looked
to daunt them by his words and presence. He was
a sad-looking man with a long sallow face; yet
some quaint humour lurked in his nature too.
Severely he bade Dame Marjory send ‘Master
and Mistress Fleming’ to him. The boy stoutly
rebelled; but at last hand in hand, scrubbed and
ruffled, they were ushered into the room where the
awful vicar sat. Charlie was dressed in a little
black velvet doublet and hose, with silk stockings
and buckle-shoes, and ribbons at his knees; his
long red-brown hair was cut square on his white
forehead, and flowed loose on his shoulders; his lips
were set firm, his brown brows were knit, and his
eyes, large dark and sombre like a stag’s, glowered
defiantly beneath them. Mistress Deborah was
dressed in pale blue silk, pointed to her fairy
shape, and trimmed with rose-coloured ribbons;
her hair was in hue like her brother’s, and cut the
same in front, but falling lower behind, and tied at
the end with a bow; her lips were apart, and her
white teeth gleamed with irrepressible humour;
her large bright eyes, gray like a falcon’s, gleamed
with laughter too; she half hung behind her
brother, with her head upon his shoulder, saucy
yet shy.

The vicar, in his long black clothes, gazed upon
the pretty picture from a high-backed chair, stern,
melancholy, resigned. The little Flemings stood
before him just as they had entered. ‘Children,’
quoth the vicar of Enderby, ‘it hath afforded me
great grief to hear of thy misdeeds; they have been
reprehensible in the extreme. Thou hast encouraged
vagabondism, and run near becoming vagabonds
thyselves; in fine, thou hast outraged
propriety and set all social laws at defiance. To
thee, Charles, I should have looked, in thy father’s
absence, to set an example to thine inferiors, to
guard the house, and to protect thine infant sister
(or little better than an infant, either in years or
discretion). Thou hast proved thyself, Charles,
incapable of either charge; indeed, if thou art not
sent to school, to feel a master’s rod, I entertain
great fears for thy future, and so I shall inform thy
father. To thee, Mistress Deborah, I say little;
thou art young and inexperienced, though much
given to vanity, it is said, both in dress and person;
but though thou art as yet incorrigible, I would
have thee reform, and entertain some hopes of
thee. Thou art the future mistress of this house;
how then, when thou comest to years of discretion,
wilt thou fulfil thy duties of mistress and of
hostess, if thou dost now run wild amid grooms
and gipsies? Mistress Fleming, Mistress Fleming,
I have much against thee! What induced thee the
second time to run away from such a home as this?’

But Deborah only hung her head and smiled.

Then quoth Charlie sturdily, glowering with his
red-brown eyes: ‘She loves the gipsies, like to
me.’

‘Charles, Charles!’ said the vicar, ‘I will not
bandy words with thee. Forsake such evil company,
and stick to thy Latin more.’

‘I don’t love Latin, Master Vicar, an’ never
shall.’

‘Goodsooth, thou wilt and shall. What wouldst
thou be? Wouldst idle here all thy days?’

‘I’d be a soldier.’

‘A soldier? An ungodly set!’

‘Father says the priests are the ungodly ones.’

At this the vicar held his peace in despair.

‘I’d be a gipsy queen,’ chimed in Deborah’s
treble voice. ‘Dost not love the gipsies, Master
Vicar? When I am a woman grown I’ll run off
and travel over the world—I will! Charlie does
not love Latin; no more do I love Dame Marjory’s
lessons.’ And forgetting her fear, she nestled up
to the vicar’s side and gazed up with her laughing
dauntless eyes. At that moment the clank of
horse’s hoofs resounded on the stones of the court-yard.

A TYROLESE CATASTROPHE.

Many and varied are the calamities to which
those people are exposed who have their abodes
among the grim mountain fastnesses of Switzerland
and the Tyrol, or indeed who live in any
similarly situated region, where Nature still reigns
in undisputed majesty, and manifests her power
by those swift and awful catastrophes which strike
terror to the hearts of all who come within their
influence. In winter the snow falls heavily and
constantly, and forms a huge overhanging mass,
that overtops the often narrow pass below, and is
suspended, like the sword of Damocles, by the
slightest possible retaining hold; a trifling noise,
such as the discharge of a rifle or even the prolonged
blast of the Alpine horn, being sometimes
sufficient to dislodge the vast snow-wreath, and
send it gliding on its silent but deadly course
towards the valley beneath. The destruction
caused by the overwhelming avalanche is too well
known to need description. Scarcely a Swiss
hamlet or mountain pass but has its record of
some sad calamity caused by the resistless force of
those fatal snow-falls. Single travellers, parties
varying in number, châlets, and even entire
villages, have on different occasions been buried
under the snow; no warning having been afforded
to the hapless victims till the icy pall of death
descended relentlessly upon them, and hid them,
sometimes for long months, sometimes for ever,
from their fellow-men.

Those who live on the banks of the narrow,
swift-running torrents that intersect the valleys,
have another danger to encounter. Those little
streams, greatly swollen in summer by the melting
of the snow on the higher ranges of the mountains,
frequently overflow their boundaries and spread
destruction and death around. If, as occasionally
happens, the stream becomes choked by débris
from the overhanging precipices, it is turned aside
from its natural channel, and flows in quite another
direction; sometimes forming in its progress a lake
or a small tarn, which never again subsides, and
which may destroy in a moment the long and
arduous labour of the husbandman.

A third and even more tremendous catastrophe
is that known as a berg-fall or mountain land-slip;
when an overhanging portion of some steep
precipice becomes loosened from its foundations,{553}
and on some unusual impetus being given to
it, topples suddenly over and hurls itself upon
the plain beneath it. These berg-falls occur very
frequently in the Tyrol, sometimes occasioning
comparatively little damage, and even adding an
element of picturesqueness to the great natural
beauty of the region; while on other occasions
they are followed by widespread havoc and
destruction.

In 1771 a terrible calamity of this nature befell
the little village of Alleghe, situated on the banks
of the river Cordevole, not far from the town of
Caprile in the Tyrol. The district was a fertile
and beautiful one, with several scattered villages
surrounded by orchards and corn-fields, and protected
from the fierce blasts of winter by the
range of high mountains, which were at once its
safeguard and its peril. At the base of one of the
loftiest of this great range, called Monte Pezza,
stood the little village of Alleghe. In the month
of January, when the mountains around were all
covered with heavy snow, a charcoal-burner was
at his work in the woods of Monte Pezza, when
his attention was suddenly arrested by a distinctly
tremulous movement of the ground, and by the
frequent rattling down of stones and débris from
the rocky precipices behind him. These were
sufficient indications of danger to the practised
ear of the mountaineer. He knew too well the
portents of those overwhelming catastrophes that
are continually to be dreaded; and on listening
more attentively, he became convinced that serious
peril was impending. Even as he watched, several
large boulders became detached from the face of
the mountain, and rolled down to a considerable
distance; while at intervals the trembling motion
of the ground was too evident to be mistaken.
It was growing late in the afternoon, and darkness
would soon fall on the valley; so hastily quitting
his work, he made the best of his way down to
the nearest village, and with the excitement naturally
caused by anxiety and fear, he told the
inhabitants of the alarming indications he had
just witnessed, and urged them to make their
escape without loss of time from the threatened
danger. Strangely enough, they seem to have
attached no value to the signs of approaching
mischief which the man described to them; and
it would appear that they considered the falling
débris to be attributable to some accidental snow-slip,
caused possibly by the warm rays of the
noonday sun.

Whatever they may have thought, they paid
no heed to the warning; and the charcoal-burner
having done all he could to save them from the
threatened calamity, went on as fast as possible to
carry his terrible news to three other villages, which
were all directly exposed to the like danger. But
they also utterly disbelieved in it, and laughed
at the fears of the poor man, whose breathless and
agitated condition clearly testified to the truth
of his conviction that a very great peril was
close at hand. One and all, they refused to quit
their dwellings; and the charcoal-burner, having
vainly endeavoured to awaken them to a sense
of their danger, quitted the spot himself, and
sought shelter elsewhere. Hours passed, and no
further disturbance of any kind taking place, the
villagers concluded the whole thing to have been
a false alarm, and at night all retired to rest as
usual, without apparently a shadow of misgiving.
Suddenly, in the midst of the silence and darkness,
a fearful crash of falling rocks sounded far and
wide through the valley; and when the first rays
of the sun lighted up the mountain peaks, a
terrible scene of ruin and death was revealed.
The four little hamlets had entirely disappeared;
two of them, those that lay nearest to the slopes
of Monte Pezza, were completely buried under an
immense mass of fallen earth and rocks; the
other two were submerged beneath the waters of
the river Cordevole, which had been driven from
its coarse by the berg-fall, and had spread out
into what is now known as the Lake of Alleghe.
None of the unhappy victims had a moment’s
time for escape, even had escape been possible.
The rushing down of the mountain was instantaneous,
and buried them as they lay sleeping;
and the water flowed with impetuous rapidity into
the unprotected villages, not one inmate of which
survived to relate the experiences of that awful
night.

Some months passed; and the first horror of
the catastrophe had a little faded, when another
berg-fall took place, again followed by lamentable
consequences. It occurred in the month of May
and in daylight; but a much smaller loss of life
was the result, though the destruction of property
was even greater than on the previous occasion.
Owing to the tremendous force exerted by the
falling débris, the waters of the lake, which had
never subsided since its formation, instantaneously
rose into an enormous wave, and rushed violently
up the valley; wrecking houses and farm-buildings,
destroying the flourishing orchards and corn-fields,
and carrying away a portion of the parish church
of a village which had been re-called Alleghe,
after the submersion of the first of that name.
The organ of this church was forcibly swept to a
considerable distance; and a tree borne along on
the mighty wave was dashed into an open window
of the curé’s house, while he was sitting at dinner,
the servant who was attending on him being killed
on the spot. Many lives were lost during this
second great berg-fall, and terrible consternation
was created in the minds of the inhabitants of the
district, which seemed to have been so specially
singled out for misfortune.

Since that time, however, no other serious disaster
has befallen them; the huge mountains of
the neighbourhood have not again hurled death
and ruin on the smiling valley at their feet; and
the little lake of Alleghe, the principal memorial
of the catastrophe, is only an added beauty to the
lovely scenery which surrounds it, and lies there
in serene tranquillity, all unconscious of the beating
hearts for ever stilled beneath its waters, of the
happy homes rendered dark and desolate by its
cold cruel wave. More than a hundred years have
passed since then; many generations of villagers
have lived and died, and the recollection of the
great berg-falls of 1771 has faded into a mere
tradition of the place; but yet, looking down into
the clear depths of the lake, on a day when there
is no wind to raise ripples on its surface, the outlines
of the submerged villages can be distinctly
traced. Roofs and walls of houses can yet be
distinguished; it is even said that the belfry of
the church is visible, flights of stairs, and many
other relics of the past life of the drowned inhabitants.

On the 21st of May in each year, the date of{554}
the second of those great disasters, a solemn commemorative
service is celebrated in the little
church of Alleghe, and masses are performed for
the souls of those who perished in the two fatal
berg-falls of 1771.

SINGING AND TALKING BY TELEGRAPH.

People are already to a certain extent acquainted
through the newspapers with what is called the
Telephone, or instrument for transmitting musical
sounds to a distance. We wish to say something
of this novelty. The conveyance of sound by
means of an electric wire, has been practised
through the instrumentality of the bell telegraph,
used occasionally, though much less frequently
than apparatus of a different kind. The signaller
does not himself ring a bell, but sets in vibration
a bell at the further or receiving end of the
wire. The electric current, passing through the
wire, acts upon a small magnet, and this in its
turn acts upon a small bell or its hammer. By a
preconcerted arrangement, one single sound is
understood to denote a particular letter or word;
two denote another letter or word; three quickly
repeated, have a separate meaning; three separated
by unequal intervals of silence, another—and
so on. The receiver must have a quick
ear, and much practice is necessary for a due
fulfilment of his duties. Although the plan has
an advantage in enabling him to understand a
message in the dark as well as in the light, it has
more than equivalent disadvantages; among which
is the fact that it leaves no permanent record.

But talking by electricity conveying the actual
sounds of the voice for many miles—what are we
to think of this? And a song—the words, the
music, and the actual quality of the singer’s voice;
does not this seem almost beyond the powers of
such a mode of transmission? Who first thought
of such a thing is not now known. Very likely,
as in most great inventions, the same idea occurred
to many persons at different times, but was laid
aside because the mode of realising it was not sufficiently
apparent.

It was about 1860 that Reis invented a contrivance
for employing a stretched membrane
vibrating to a particular pitch or note; a contact-piece
was adjusted near the membrane; and a
series of rapid contacts sent a series of clicks along
an electric wire to an electro-magnetic receiver at
the other end. But the apparatus could only
convey one note or musical sound.

Four or five years ago, Mr Edison, a telegraphic
engineer at Newark in New Jersey, made an
attempt in this direction. It is known that, in
one form of automatic chemico-electric telegraph,
signals are recorded by sending an electric current
through prepared paper saturated with a chemical
agent which changes in colour wherever the current
touches it; the paper is moved on equably,
and a pen or stylus rests upon it, conveying the
impulse received from the electric wire. Mr
Edison has tried to devise an arrangement for producing
sound as well as discoloration, something
for the ear to hear as well as something else for
the eye to see. We are not aware whether his
experiments have been sufficiently successful to
produce a practically useful result.

In 1874, M. La Cour sent audible signals from
Fredericia to Copenhagen, by means of a tuning-fork,
a contact-piece, a telegraphic wire, and a key
to set the fork in vibration.

Mr Elisha Gray appears to have made a more
definite advance in this direction. He has transmitted
the pianoforte sounds of a concert through
the wire of an electric telegraph. The performer
played at Philadelphia, to an audience at New
York, ninety miles distant. The apparatus may
be called a telephonic piano; it transmits the
sounds of that instrument, but of no other. Public
performances of this kind were given in the early
months of the present year. On one evening the
instrument was played at Chicago, and the music
heard at Milwaukee, eighty-seven miles distant.
The Last Rose of Summer, Yankee Doodle, The Sweet
By-and-by, and Home, Sweet Home are named as
the tunes thus played. On a second occasion the
apparatus triumphed over a distance of no less
than two hundred and eighty-four miles, from
Chicago to Detroit; not much was attempted in
actual music, but the sounds were audible at this
great distance. Two instruments are required, a
transmitter and a receiver. There is a keyboard
of two octaves (available therefore only for simple
melodies), a tuning bar, an electro-magnet, and an
electric circuit. The play on the keys with the
fingers produces vibrations, thuds, molecular movements,
in rhythmical succession; these are transmitted
by the electric wire to the receiving apparatus
at the other end. This receiving apparatus
is a large sounding-box, on which is mounted an
electro-magnet. The box intensifies the sounds by
its sonorousness, through the medium of the slight
touches which the magnetised iron gives to the
box at every expansion or elongation which the
electro-magnetism gives it. Delicate experiments
have shewn that there is a minute difference in the
length of a bar of iron when magnetised and
demagnetised; and Mr Gray appears to have taken
advantage of this property in causing his magnetised
bar to give a succession of taps to the
resonant box. We believe that the apparatus
requires wholly new setting for each tune. If so,
the system bears the same relation to real pianoforte
playing as the barrel organ does to the church
organ; it does not lend itself to the spontaneous
or extempore effusions of the player.

More comprehensive, so far as the scientific
descriptions enable us to judge, is Bell’s telephone,
for the transmission of talk and sing-song as well
as of instrumental sounds. If present indications
should be really justified by future results, the
imagination can scarcely picture the number of
practical applications that may ensue. The inventor,
Mr Graham Bell, went to America in 1871.
He is the son of Mr Alexander Melville Bell,
whose system of ‘Visible Speech’ has attracted a
good deal of notice on both sides of the Atlantic.
Both father and son have been practically engaged
in perfecting a system for teaching the dumb to
speak; and Mr Graham Bell set himself the task
of accomplishing something which would justify
him in saying: ‘If I can make a deaf-mute talk,
so can I make iron talk.’[A]

Mr Bell, when at Salem in Massachusetts, began{555}
to turn his attention to this subject, the telegraphy
of sound, or telephony, in 1872; but three years
elapsed before the matter assumed such a form as
to enable him to send a little musical message
through a two-mile wire. Securing his invention
by a patent, he gave his first public exhibition of
the system in the autumn of 1876. The talk or
speaking of an operator at Cambridge, Massachusetts,
was heard at Boston, in the ordinary
conversational tones. It does not appear that the
actual quality or timbre of the voice was distinguishable,
but only a voice, speaking certain
words. Early in the present year, however,
further improvements were made in the apparatus
which enabled it to shew even this kind of delicacy;
that is, it transmitted not merely the words
in sound, but also the tones and inflections of
different voices. Singing being, in regard to
acoustics, only one variety of speaking, it follows
almost as a matter of course that if the apparatus
can talk it can also sing. Accordingly, a lady
sang The Last Rose of Summer, and was distinctly
heard at the distant station; the sounds ‘had
about the same effect as if the listeners were at
the rear of a concert-hall, say a hundred feet from
the singer.’ The sounds of laughter and applause
were similarly transmitted, with the proper rhythm
and key or musical pitch. In instrumental music
a violin could be distinguished from a violoncello;
a test more delicate than would be supposed by
many persons.

In all the earlier experiments of Professor Bell,
he employed galvanic batteries to produce the
current; but these were afterwards dispensed with,
and their place supplied by permanent magnets.
With this improved arrangement, sounds were
conveyed through a wire to a distance of a hundred
and forty-three miles, from Boston to North Conway
in New Hampshire. Last February a lecture
was delivered, on the subject of Telephony, by
Professor Bell at Salem, and was audible, word for
word, at Boston. In order to shew that the transmission
is equally available in both directions,
provided the proper apparatus is at both ends, the
lecture from Salem to Boston was followed on the
same evening by singing and speech-making from
Boston to Salem.

From the patent specifications and from the
descriptions in American scientific journals, it
would appear that a phonographic reporter of
some skill is needed, to translate the audible
sounds into words and write them down. We
must first comprehend, however, the mode in
which the sonorous transmission through the wire
is brought about; for this it is which really constitutes
the principle of the telephone. Ordinary
telegraphic coils of insulated wire are applied to
the poles of a powerful compound permanent
magnet; and in front of these is a thin vibrating
diaphragm or membrane, with a metallic contact-piece
cemented to it. A mouth-piece or
trumpet mouth, fitted to collect and intensify
waves of sound, is placed near the other surface
of the diaphragm. It is known that the motion
of steel or iron in front of the poles of a magnet
creates a disturbance of electricity in coils surrounding
those poles; and the duration of this
current will coincide with the vibratory motion of
the steel or iron. When, therefore, the human voice
(or any other suitable sound) impinges through
the tube against the diaphragm, the diaphragm
itself begins to vibrate, and the contact-piece
awakens (so to speak) electrical action in the coils
of wire surrounding the poles of the magnet; not
a current, but a series of undulations, something
like those produced by the voice in the air around
us. The undulations in the coil produce a current
in the ordinary telegraph wire with which it is
placed in connection. A similar apparatus at the
other end is hereby set in action, but in reverse
order; that is, the wire affects another coil, the
coil another diaphragm, and the diaphragm
another tube, in which the sounds are reproduced
in audible vibrations.

It is said that even a whisper can in this way
be reproduced at a distance, the maximum extent
of which may possibly be much greater than has
yet been achieved. At one of the exhibitions
given to illustrate this system, Professor Bell
stationed himself in the Lyceum at Salem; Mr
T. A. Watson at Boston. An intermittent current,
sent through the eighteen miles of telegraphic
wire, produced in the telephone a horn-like sound.
The Morse alphabet was then transmitted in
musical sounds, audible throughout the lecture-hall.
Then the sounds of an organ were made to
act upon the apparatus, and these in like manner
were transmitted; two or three tunes being distinctly
heard in succession at Boston. Professor
Bell then signalled to Mr Watson to sing a song;
this was done, and the words as well as the tune
of the song heard. A speech was then made at
Boston in the simple words: ‘Ladies and gentlemen,
it gives me great pleasure to be able to
address you this evening, although I am in Boston
and you in Salem.’ This speech was heard distinctly
in the Lyceum at Salem, and was followed
by many questions and answers sent to and fro.

If monotones be adopted instead of those variations
in pitch which belong to ordinary music, it
is believed that several telephonic messages may
be sent through the same wire at the same time.
It would be agreed on beforehand that all sounds
in C (for instance) shall be intended for one station
alone; all those in D for another station, and so
on; each diaphragm would vibrate in the manner
belonging to the sound-waves impinging upon it;
but each station would attend only to those in a
particular pitch. Such is the theory. Whether
it can be practically carried into effect, the future
must shew.

Mr Cromwell Varley, during his researches in
duplex telegraphy, produced an apparatus which
he is now trying to apply to telephonic purposes.
A limited amount of success was achieved in July
of the present year, through an electric wire connecting
two concert-halls in London; but the
apparatus requires further development. It comprises
among other details a series of tuning-forks,
one for each note.

There does not, so far as description goes, appear
a probability that telephones would be so applicable
as the machines already in use for ordinary
telegraphic purposes; for reasons which we need
not detail here. The conveyance of sound is the
novelty; and whimsical suggestions have been put
forth concerning the possible results, such as the
following: ‘One of the first steps which a young
couple, upon their engagement, would naturally
take, would be to have the speaking-wires laid down
to their respective rooms, and then, at any time, far
from the curious eye of the world, they would be{556}
able to indulge in sweet converse.’ Another: ‘The
extension of the system might not prove so pleasant
in other cases. Thus, for example, university
authorities might take it into their heads to attach
an instrument to every room in the college, in
order that the young men might report that they
were steadily at work every quarter of an hour.’
Another: ‘It is hardly going too far to anticipate
the time when, from St James’s Hall as a centre,
Mr Gladstone will be able to speak to the ears of
the whole nation collected at a hundred different
towns, on Bulgarian atrocities, or some other topic
of burning interest. Nor need we despair of
seeing Herr Wagner, from his throne at Bayreuth,
dispensing the “Music of the Future” in one monster
concert to St Petersburg, Vienna, London,
New York—in short, to all the musical world at
once.’

‘HELEN’S BABIES’ AND ‘OTHER PEOPLE’S
CHILDREN.’

The two small volumes which give the title to this
article, afford an amusing account of the troubles
that befell Mr Burton in ten days, during which he
somewhat rashly undertook the supervision of his
sister Helen’s Babies, the best children in the world
(so their mother assures him), and of the vicissitudes
through which his young wife subsequently
passed, while endeavouring to manage ‘Other
People’s Children.’ To many, the incidents will
appear too ridiculous; but it is to be kept in mind
that the children are American, who for the most
part are allowed to do pretty much as they like,
and who, amongst other tastes, possess an untiring
voracity for ‘candy.’

When we first make his acquaintance, Harry
Burton, a salesman of white goods in New York,
is a bachelor aged twenty-eight, and is in some
doubt as to where he shall spend a short holiday,
so as to secure a quiet time for reading; when he
receives a letter from his married sister, Mrs
Lawrence, asking him to go to her house, while
she is absent with her husband on a few days’
visit to an old school-fellow. She admits that she
is not quite disinterested in making the request,
as she shall feel easier about her two small boys
Budge and Toddie, aged respectively five and three,
if there is a man in the house; but promises him
undisturbed quiet, and leisure for improving his
mind.

Mr Burton accepts with alacrity, having a vivid
recollection of a lovely house, exquisite flowers,
first-rate horses, and unexceptionable claret and
cigars; to which the remembrance of the pure
eyes and serene expression of his elder nephew
(whom he has only seen on flying visits to his
sister) lends an additional charm. It occasions
him a slight misgiving when the driver of the fly
in which he proceeds from Hillcrest Station to
Mrs Lawrence’s house, alludes to his young
relatives as ‘imps;’ and it is not without some
heart-sinking that he meets them on the road, in
torn and disreputable garments, each bearing a
dirty knotted towel, which Budge promptly informs
his uncle are not towels, but ‘lovely dollies.’
Mr Burton is self-sacrificing enough to hoist the
boys into the carriage; and it is rather hard on
him that, just as Toddie raises an awful yell, on
being forbidden to try and open a valuable watch,
they should meet another carriage containing
Miss Mayton, a charming lady, whose presence at
Hillcrest, we imagine, may have had something
to do with determining Mr Burton’s movements.
However, the lady is gracious in spite of the dusty
and heated appearance of her admirer, caused by
his contest with Toddie, and he arrives at his
destination in a celestial frame of mind.

He is rather dismayed when left alone with
his nephews at the supper-table, feeling that he
will get nothing to eat while he is called upon
to supply the inexhaustible demands of the two
young cormorants; and at the conclusion of the
meal he hastily rids himself of them, as he fondly
hopes, for the night. Vain hope! As he strolls
in the garden smoking a cigar, dreaming of Alice
Mayton, enjoying the fragrance of the roses, and
above all the perfect stillness of everything
around, he is roused from his reverie by hearing
Budge’s voice overhead, and is met by a demand
from a little white-robed figure for ‘stories.’ Mr
Burton is too tender-hearted to resist the wistful
expression of Budge’s countenance, and he complies;
but he fails to compare favourably as a
raconteur with the absent papa; and Budge
assuming the position of narrator himself, gives
his version of the history of Jonah. We cannot
help laughing at his description of the prophet,
who ‘found it was all dark inside the whale, an’
there wasn’t any fire there, an’ ’twas all wet, an’
he couldn’t take off his clothes to dry, cos there
wasn’t no place to hang em.’ Songs succeed to
stories, and at length Uncle Harry thinks he is
free; but he reckons without his host. Budge
insists that his uncle shall hear him say his
prayers in the exact manner in which ‘papa
always does;’ concluding his devotions by an
immediate and pressing request for candy. But
Toddie’s prayer must be said first, in which a
special petition is offered for the welfare of his
‘dolly.’ Then, the candy being forthcoming, there
arises a clamour for pennies, drinks, and finally for
the ‘dollies;’ which tiresome objects being found,
Uncle Harry once more beats a retreat, and settles
himself for a little serious reading, experiencing,
however, one more interruption from Budge, who
appears before him and requests his blessing before
he finally turns in. Papa says ‘God bless everybody,’
persists the boy, when his uncle endeavours
to satisfy him with a simple ‘God bless you;’ and
we fully echo Mr Burton’s sentiment: ‘Bless your
tormenting honest little heart, if men trusted God
as you do your papa, how little business there’d be
for the preachers to do!’ The remainder of the
night is tranquil enough, for we pass over such
minor incidents as shrieks from Toddie for his
dreadful ‘dolly,’ which has been mislaid among
the bed-clothes, and the very early rising of Budge,{557}
who is up with the lark, doing his best to rouse
his uncle (whose room communicates with that of
the boys) from his morning sleep. Who could find
the heart to be angry with the small sinner who
apologises for his misdeeds by saying: ‘I was only
a lovin’ you cos you was good an’ brought us candy.
Papa lets us love him whenever we want to—every
mornin’ he does.’

We draw a veil over Mr Burton’s feelings when,
on the following morning, it becomes manifest that
Toddie (whom his mother believes to have an
artistic and poetic soul) has been seized with a
passion for investigation, and has dived deep into
the mysteries of all his uncle’s most precious
belongings, the result being—chaos. That after
this Mr Barton should insist upon locking the
door of communication, can scarcely be a matter of
surprise; and accordingly an expedition is made
into the neighbouring town to obtain a new key—Toddie
having dropped the one belonging to the
door down the well—during which the conduct of
the two boys is simply angelic. The more spiritual
part of their nature comes to the surface; their
childish imaginations are impressed by the lovely
panorama of the distant city which lies outspread
before them glistening in the sunshine; and as the
pure young voices speak familiarly of the other
world and of the dead baby-brother Phillie who is
up there with God, we feel how near those white
souls are to heaven. The uncle finds their conversation
so improving that the drive is prolonged
to the ‘Falls,’ where, suddenly becoming all boy
again, they nearly madden their unhappy guardian,
who has turned away for a moment to light a
cigar, by hanging as far as possible over the cliff,
trying hard to overbalance themselves. As he
drags them away, his heart is in his mouth. Budge
screams: ‘Oh, Uncle Harry, I hunged over more
than Toddie did.’ ‘Well, I—I—I—I—I—I hunged
over a good deal anyhow,’ says Toddie in indignant
self-defence. To chronicle all the sufferings inflicted
by the two dreadful yet irresistible young
‘imps’ on their unfortunate uncle, would be
impossible. Our deepest sympathies are aroused
when he despatches to Miss Mayton a box containing
a lovely bouquet, and he finds it is delivered
to her containing only Toddie’s remarkable
‘dolly,’ which he has contrived to substitute for
the flowers. We groan in concert with Mr Burton
when his nephews dance frantic war-dances on his
chest, a proceeding which with cruel sarcasm they
call a ‘froolic;’ and our pity follows him through
the day, as he is alternately ordered by those imperious
young gentlemen to produce candy and
pennies, to tell them Scripture stories (the imaginative
Toddie evincing a decided leaning towards
the ghastly), to sing songs, to cut whistles, and to
gather ‘jacks,’ a plant which grows where there is
plenty of mud, and whence they all emerge with
their Sunday splendour considerably dimmed, in
which condition of course they meet Miss Mayton.

In spite of their incessant mischief, their overpowering
activity of mind and body—which must
have induced the feeling in Mr Burton of being
permanently located on a barrel of gunpowder
lighted match in hand—it is impossible not to
love the honest little souls, whose worst sins often
proceed from the very best intentions; and accordingly
we do love Budge dearly, when, on the
following day, he surpasses all his previous
achievements and covers himself with glory.
Uncle Harry announces his intention of taking the
boys to see Miss Mayton, and adjourns to the
garden to arrange another bouquet, which Toddie
is to present as a propitiatory offering. The
children take great interest in the proceedings, and
learning that Miss Mayton is the destined recipient
of the nosegay, Budge asserts that she is ‘just like
a cake;’ and announcing that he ‘just loves her,’
puts to his uncle the embarrassing query: ‘Don’t
you?’ ‘Well, I respect her very highly, Budge,’
replies that individual; and in answer to his
interrogator, explains the meaning of the word
respect as applied to Miss Mayton in such fashion,
that that dreadfully acute infant comes to the conclusion
that ”spect and love means just the same
thing.’ Mr Burton at this point judges it prudent
to break off the conversation, and the trio start on
their expedition. The bouquet is delivered without
contre-temps; Miss Mayton is graciousness itself;
and the visit proceeds so satisfactorily that they
agree to remain to dinner. Uncle Harry has his
misgivings; but beyond the upsetting of the contents
of a plate into Miss Mayton’s lap, his nephews’
conduct is so very blameless, that it is with no
feeling but that of lover-like ecstasy, that he finds
himself seated in the deepening twilight by the
side of the woman he adores, his eyes making confession
of his weakness. Suddenly a voice from
between them murmurs in sweet tones: ‘Uncle
Harry ‘spects you, Miss Mayton.’

‘Suspects me! Of what, pray?’ asks the lady.

‘Budge!’ exclaims the horrified uncle—and we can
well believe his statement that his voice rose nearly
to a scream—’Budge, I must beg of you to respect
the sanctity of confidential communications.’ But
Miss Mayton’s curiosity is aroused; and Budge is
not to be silenced, even when his uncle explains to
her that ‘respect’ is what the boy is trying to say,
owing to his endeavour to explain to him the
nature of the respect in which gentlemen hold
ladies. ‘Yes,’ says Budge; ‘only Uncle Harry
don’t say it right. What he calls ‘espect, I calls
love.’

After this, what can happen but that the confession
should pass from the eyes to the lips? And
Budge is forgotten and left out in the cold, until,
waxing impatient, he gives his version of how he
would behave under the like circumstances: ‘I—I—when
I loves any one, I kisses them.’

We feel that from this moment the lives of
those blessed boys will be made all sunshine by
their grateful uncle, and so doubtless they would
have been but for one persistently wet day, during
which we are sure no mortal power could have
sustained Mr Burton, had it not been for the
recollection of Budge’s recent good deeds. How he
lives through the rainy day—how Toddie twice
places his own life in imminent peril—how Mr
Burton provides employment for his restless
nephews—how the artistic Toddie evinces a decided
talent for wall-decoration—how he scalds his arm,
and devours the curative poultice—and how on the
following morning poor little Budge lets us peep
into his childish heart and see the yearning for the
mother who is away (being comforted by his uncle
in a manner which induces us to offer to Miss
Mayton our warmest congratulations), we advise
our readers to discover for themselves. That Budge{558}
should be the first to inform Mrs Mayton of her
daughter’s engagement, we, knowing that young
man, find only natural; and we are glad to be able
to state that it is done with the same tact which
distinguished his efforts to bring the young couple
together. Toddie once more endeavours to put a
period to his existence by swallowing a bottle of
paregoric, but is fortunately cured in time to meet
his father and mother at the station on their
return, by a process which causes him more to
resemble the whale than his favourite Jonah.

For a time Mr Burton has been too busily occupied
to chronicle any more of the doings of the
amusing ‘babies.’ He has married, bought a
house, and settled in the neighbourhood of Tom
and Helen Lawrence. We feel sure that Mrs
Burton will prove no less admirable than Miss
Mayton; indeed, recently breaking silence, her
adoring husband has assured us that so it is; but
as there are spots on the sun, so do we find that
Mrs Burton has one slight weakness—namely, a
conviction that she thoroughly understands how
to manage ‘Other People’s Children.’ Entirely
disapproving of the manner in which her husband
had allowed those two ridiculous children
to tyrannise over him, and turning a deaf ear to
his energetic assertion that all his time was occupied
in saving their own lives and their parents’
property from destruction, that admirable woman
announces her views on the subject of their training.
‘You should have explained to them,’ she
says, ‘the necessity for peace, order, cleanliness,
and self-restraint. Do you imagine that had you
done so, their pure little hearts would not have
received it all and acted upon it?’ Mr Burton
seems doubtful; but his scepticism only makes
her rejoice still more in the prospect of speedily
having Budge and Toddie under her own hands,
during their mother’s unavoidable seclusion in
her own room on business of the utmost importance.
Budge and Toddie presently arrive with
the exciting news that there is a new little sister-baby
at home, and that they have come to stay a
few days. Mrs Burton is determined that her
system of education shall begin at once, being
anxious to prove its efficacy to her lord and master;
but the boys have immediately disappeared, probably
in pursuit of the dog Jerry (who has judged
it prudent to retire into private life on their
advent), and are discovered pickling tomatoes for
their aunt by means of ‘Mexican Mustang Liniment’
and ‘Superior Carriage Varnish.’ We imagine
Budge may have had some reason for his remark:
‘I don’t think you act very nice about presents
and surprises.’ Toddie spends the morning in a
praiseworthy effort to hatch some chickens; but
although he sits down ‘ever so soffaly’ because he
‘hasn’t got fessers,’ the result is such as to necessitate
a visit to the bath-room.

Undismayed by these beginnings, Mrs Burton,
on preparing to go out in the afternoon, leaves the
boys as it were in charge of the house, appeals in
touching words to their sense of the beautiful not
to disarrange anything, telling them that people
should always try to make the world prettier,
and departs with a quiet mind. Whether she
thinks her method is attended with unequivocal
success when she finds, on her return, that they
have acted on her hint, and endeavoured to ‘make
the world prettier’ by manufacturing—of stones,
road-dust, and a noxious smelling weed—a fernery
in her best drawing-room (it narrowly escaped
being watered), we will not too curiously inquire.

Our author’s account of her numerous encounters
with Toddie—theological and other—from which
she invariably issues worsted, and with increased
respect for the force of character which Mr Burton
had long since recognised in that young gentleman,
is most laughable. She tells the boys interesting
anecdotes and stories full of moral purpose, containing
hints for their guidance, which the young
logicians never fail to act upon in a way which
leaves her powerless to reprove (if she does not
wish to have her own lessons quoted against her),
and with a dismayed sense of failure. She eulogises
generosity, and forthwith the boys steal some hot-house
grapes from a neighbour with which to
present her on her birthday. She gives them
lessons on the duty of making others happy, and
they try to please her by lighting a bonfire in
the cellar; a proceeding which disperses her birthday
party. She sends them out of the room with
a lecture on being quiet when Uncle Harry has
the toothache. ‘Even the sound of a person talking
is annoying to him,’ she says. ‘Then you’s a
baddy woman to stay in here an’ keep a-talking
all the whole time,’ says the irrepressible Toddie,
‘when it makes poor old Uncle Harry supper so.
G’way.’

She gives them instruction on the duty of
working for others, the moral of which is pointed
by two small itinerant Italian musicians, who,
she informs the children, with beautiful enthusiasm,
are doubtless toiling for sick parents who
are far away; the result of which lesson on the
dignity of labour is, that the two young monkeys
perambulate the streets with Uncle Harry’s precious
violin and a whistle; and earn nearly a
dollar with which to buy him a horse and carriage,
which they have been told he cannot afford to
purchase. It is with a sorrowful heart that Budge
complains in his evening devotions that he has
‘been scolded again for tryin’ to do somethin’
real nice for other people;’ and that Toddie expresses
his opinion that ‘Aunt Alish ought to be
ashamed of herself;’ adding a hope that she may
be made so. Poor Aunt Alice is gradually beginning
to understand, having arrived at the knowledge
by a thorny path, how very little she really
knows about the management of other people’s
children. She tries to find out from Budge why
their uncle succeeds better with them than she does,
and learns a lesson on the art of making other
people happy in their way and not in ours, which
she takes to heart, if we may judge by the buns
and candy which are manufactured by two small
cooks in the Burton establishment, not without
many perils to life and property. Perhaps the
creature most to be pitied during the visit is the
dog Jerry, who suffers many things at the hands
of the boys. At all events he seems to be the only
rejoicing member of the family at their approaching
departure. Aunt Alice begs for another day,
in which they distinguish themselves by ascending
a precipice to get her a fern as a parting gift.
Fortunately a kind Providence watches over them,
and nothing worse occurs than a sprained ankle
for Toddie. They are returned comparatively
safe and sound to their father and mother, for
which mercy we should imagine Mrs Burton
offered a devout thanksgiving.

The last chapter is devoted to a conversation in{559}
which Mr Lawrence favours us with his views on
the bringing up of children. Surely he is right
when he says that ‘love never faileth.’

We feel certain that, to those who have babies
like Helen’s to manage, and who have wit to read
between the lines, these two little volumes will
prove as instructive as they are amusing. We
can accord them no higher praise.

TEA-CULTURE IN INDIA.

The author of an anonymous tract printed in 1689,
and obtainable gratis ‘up one pair of stairs at the
sign of the Anodyne Necklace, without Temple
Bar,’ rather anticipated events in describing tea to
be the leaf of a little shrub growing plentifully in
the East Indies. No Indian tea found its way to
Europe at that time, when haters of innovation
were beginning to complain that through drinking
of tea Englishwomen were no longer equal to
eating beef of a morning. It was not until 1823
that a Scotsman, bearing the historical name of
Robert Bruce, discovered there were tea-drinkers
in Assam, who brewed their beloved beverage
from the leaves of a native tree growing to a
height of forty and even sixty feet; of which a
few plants and seeds were subsequently carried by
his brother, Mr C. A. Bruce, to Calcutta, to excite
a transient curiosity, and that was all.

Time, however, brought Mr C. A. Bruce his
reward. In 1834 a committee was appointed to
consider the question of introducing tea cultivation
in British India, and a scientific party under Dr
Nathaniel Wallich—a Danish gentleman, whose
botanical industry had won him the post of Superintendent
of the Botanical Gardens at Calcutta—was
sent to explore the newly acquired province
of Assam, and make special inquiry respecting
the tea-growing there practised. The result was
that the committee reported favourably as to the
feasibility of cultivating tea in John Company’s
dominions, Mr Bruce being selected to superintend
the formation of government nurseries; and with
the aid of Chinese seeds, Chinese plants, and
Chinese cultivators, he set the possibility of producing
good tea in India beyond all doubt. One
consequence of the happy experiment was the
establishment in 1839 of the Assam Tea Company,
which took over the greater portion of the government
gardens, started new ones on a larger scale,
set about the cultivation of tea in good earnest,
and after various vicissitudes, is now a flourishing
concern.

The profitable industry is now fairly established
in several of the provinces of the Indian empire,
but Assam still maintains its pride of place, being
credited with one half of the tea produced; the tea
districts of Cochin and Tibet supplying twenty-six
per cent., Darjeeling thirteen per cent., the
Himalayan districts six per cent., and British
Burmah the remaining five per cent. Darjeeling
prides itself upon the superior delicacy and aroma
of its leaf; but the rough, pungent, malty flavoured
product of Assam, which owes its character to the
use of native in place of Chinese seed, is the recognised
standard Indian tea. If the Assam planters
may congratulate themselves upon overcoming
the old-time prejudice in favour of Chinese seed,
they have equally good reason to rejoice at having
found a way to dispense with Chinese labour, once
a grievous necessity. By offering high wages and
constant employment, they are able to tempt
Bengalese coolies to leave their beloved villages,
and by providing comfortable huts with garden-ground
in which they can install their wives and
families, insure their staying in their new home.
That they may not be saddled with useless hands,
the tea-growers employ native foremen familiar
with the work to act as recruiting officers.

Twelve or thirteen years ago a violent tea-growing
mania suddenly set in. Companies were
formed by the dozen. The value of available
land rose beyond all reason. Some unscrupulous
schemers sold uncleared forest-lands as plantations;
others, more unscrupulous still, obtained payment
for plantations utterly non-existent in any shape,
and genuine ‘gardens’ of forty acres fetched from
twenty to thirty thousand pounds. Things have
long since found their level again; but the possession
of a tea-garden even now presupposes the
possession of a capital of at least three thousand
pounds, a smaller sum being deemed insufficient
to start with, since no return is to be expected from
a new plantation for the first three years, and it
takes six years for the plants to attain maturity;
then they will allow of eight or nine gatherings
being made in a year, and yield four hundred
pounds of leaves per acre. They improve with
age; but planters of seedlings have little chance of
seeing their trees at their best, if the Chinese and
Japanese speak truly when they say the tea-tree
lives to be five hundred years old, and grows better
as it grows older.

For very many years after its introduction
into England, tea was the subject of a double
monopoly. The Chinese were the only manufacturers,
the East India Company the only importers.
The opening of the trade deprived the
consumer of the benefit of the strict supervision
exercised by the Company’s agents, and left the
Chinese merchants master of the situation. A
deterioration in the quality of the teas sent into
the English market quickly followed; and every
reduction in the duty tended to the same end,
by encouraging the importation of low-priced
leaf of little use save to mix with that of better
class; and so it is almost impossible to obtain at
any price what those who can remember it call
‘old-fashioned tea.’ At a late meeting of the
Indian section of the Society of Arts, Mr Burrell,
after remarking that India produced tea superior
to any in the world in flavour, strength, and
purity, complained that it was rarely used in this
country except to mix with the inferior growth of
China; and urged his hearers in their own interests
and as a duty they owed to their countrymen in
India, who had long toiled and struggled to meet
their wants, to a more direct and extended use of
Indian tea, and thereby afford a fair harvest of
profit to its cultivators, for which nothing was
now wanting but an increased consumption of
their produce in this country.

Mr Burrell, we think, should rather have appealed
to the sellers of tea; for unless they bestir
themselves in the matter, but few of the millions{560}
of British tea-drinkers can have the chance of
tasting pure Indian tea. We are aware that ‘the
trade’ declare pure Indian teas unsuited to the
national palate; but we have no faith in their
judgment. If dealers in adulterable articles are to
be believed, the British public’s taste is a monstrously
depraved one, preferring chicory to coffee,
publican’s to brewer’s beer, turmeric and flour to
mustard, and clever concoctions of all kinds to the
things they pretend to be. It may be taken for
granted that the Yankee vender of wooden nutmegs
was ready to swear his customers preferred
the ingenious imitation to the genuine article.

The tea-growers of India, however, have a hopeful
prospect before them. The consumption of
the produce of their gardens has risen prodigiously,
since the arrival of eight chests of tea from Assam
caused such a sensation in the London market that
the importers obtained from sixteen to thirty-four
shillings a pound for it, or an average per pound
of twenty-four shillings and sixpence. In 1851
the exportation of Indian tea amounted to 262,839
pounds; by 1863 it had risen to two and a half
million pounds; in 1876 English buyers were
found for 28,126,100 pounds. Every year sees an
increase in the consumption of Indian tea; and
unless their Chinese competitors look to it, they
will gradually be beaten out of the field, for India
possesses vast reserves of land fit for conversion
into tea-gardens, and could, if need be, supply the
wants of the whole world.

PROFESSOR TYNDALL ON THE SPREAD
OF DISEASE.

We copy the following from our able contemporary,
Nature. The views propounded have been already
noticed in our paper on the ‘Germ Theory.’

‘In proposing a vote of thanks to Dr Corfield for
his recent lecture on Infectious Diseases, Professor
Tyndall paid a high compliment to the lecturer
for the thoroughly sound instruction which he had
so clearly conveyed. He had made it plain that
contagion consisted, not of gas or vapour, but of
definite particles, sometimes floating in gas, in the
air we breathed, or in the water we drank; and
that, like organic seeds in the soil, they multiplied
themselves indefinitely in suitable media, the great
probability being that these disease-producing particles
were living things. A close study of the
subject, extending now over several years, enabled
him to agree entirely with the lecturer in the
parallelism which he had declared to exist between
the phenomena of contagious disease and the phenomena
of ordinary putrefaction. The case of flies,
for example, to which the lecturer ascribed the
power of communicating disease from one person
to another, was exactly paralleled by phenomena
in putrefaction. Chop up a beefsteak, steep it in
water, raise the temperature a little above the
temperature of the blood, pour off the water, and
filter it; you get a perfectly clear liquid; but
that liquid placed in a bottle and exposed to the
air soon begins to get turbid, and that turbid
liquid, under the microscope, is found to be swarming
with living organisms. By suitably heating
this perfectly clear beef-tea, it can be sterilised,
everything being killed which is capable of generating
those little organisms which produce the
turbidity; and by keeping it from coming in contact
with the floating particles of the air, it might
be preserved transparent for years. He had now
some sterilised beef-tea of this sort which had
been preserved for eighteen months in a state of
perfect transparency. But if a fly dipped its foot
into an adjacent vessel containing some of the
turbid fluid, and then into the transparent fluid,
that contact would be sufficient to infect the
sterilised infusion. In forty-eight hours the clear
liquid would be swarming with these living organisms.
The quantity of the turbid liquid which
attaches itself to the finest needle-point suffices to
infect any amount of the infusion, just as the vaccine
lymph taken up on the point of a surgeon’s
lancet spreads disease through the whole body.
Here, also, as in the case of contagious disease,
there was a period of incubation. In proof of
what the lecturer had stated that the contagion of
these communicable diseases was not gaseous or
liquid, but solid particles, he would describe an
experiment he had made only a few weeks since.
Eighteen months ago he had a chamber prepared
from which all floating particles of dust were
removed, and in it he placed a number of vessels
containing animal and vegetable refuse which soon
fell into putrefaction, and also two or three vessels
containing perfectly clear beef-tea and mutton-broth,
as transparent as water, in which the infective
particles had been killed by heat. Although
all these vessels had stood for eighteen months
side by side there had been no communication of
contagion from one to the other. The beef-tea
and mutton-broth remained as transparent as when
put in, though the other vessels emitted a most
noisome stench. But if a bubble were produced
in one of the putrefying masses by blowing into it,
and if on rising to the surface and bursting, the
spray of the bubble was allowed to fall into the
transparent beef-tea or mutton-broth, in two days
it became as bad as its neighbours.

‘Referring to another point on which the lecturer
had insisted—namely, that there was no power
of spontaneous generation of the germs or contagion
of diseases, Professor Tyndall said that,
though at present great names were opposed to
that view, he would venture to predict that ten
years hence there would be very few great names
opposed to the lecturer on that matter. With
regard to the power of specific contagia to be
generated in decomposing animal matter, he
would say that for the last twenty-one years
he had been in the habit of visiting the upper
Alpine valleys, where, amongst the Swiss châlets,
there was the most abominable decomposition
going on from day to day, and exceedingly bad
smells, but there these contagious diseases were
entirely unknown. If, however, a person suffering
from typhoid fever were transported there, the disease
would spread like wildfire from this infected
focus, and probably take possession of the entire
population. It might be taken, therefore, that any
of these special diseases required its special germ
or seed for its production, just as you required a
grape-seed to produce a vine. He entirely agreed
with all that Dr Corfield had stated as to these
diseases ‘breeding true.’ He never found the virus
of small-pox producing typhoid, or vice versâ. The
subject was one of the most important which could
engage the attention of the scientific physician.’