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

CONTENTS

SEA-MONSTERS.
FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.
SKETCHES IN VANCOUVER ISLAND.
THE ADMIRAL’S SECOND WIFE.
A LEGEND OF ‘THE FORTY-FIVE.’
THE MONTH: SCIENCE AND ARTS.
A STRANGE PAIR.

SEA-MONSTERS.

Whether the sea contains any creature at all
answering to the popular idea of a ‘sea-serpent’—that
ophidian monster which is annually reported
to have been interviewed by various crews and
persons—is a problem which will only be solved
by the actual capture of one of those visitors.
There are, as will presently be pointed out, certain
well-known true sea-snakes, the Hydrophidæ
of the Indian Ocean, which swim by means of their
compressed fin-like tails; but whether these marine
serpents will correspond to the ‘sea-serpents’ of
popular tales, is a matter deserving further investigation.
The wide ocean presents features well
suited to tempt the imagination to stray into the
wildest flights. Its vastness; the difficulty of exploring
even a small portion of its surface, as well
as its enormous depths; its capacity for containing
the strangest and most gigantic objects that fancy
can picture: these are attributes of the mighty
deep that have ever attracted the attention and
prompted the weird imaginings of man.

It is a curious fact that recent scientific research
has revealed the existence in the sea, at the greatest
depths, of most minute and wonderfully formed
organisms, the beauty and rarity of which necessarily
secure our admiration; but instances of
animals of enormous size being met with beyond
those already known, are few and far between.
This fact may be accounted for by the circumstance
that while it is easy to construct instruments
for capturing the smaller creatures living in
the deep, it is a very different matter to entrap and
secure an unseen monster, whose very size must
endow him with enormous strength. The whale,
so far as we know, is the largest denizen of the
deep. Whether it is possible that it can be
equalled by giants of some other order or race,
is the point which public curiosity is very keen
to have settled.

The appearance of great snakes at sea is
recorded by more than one old voyager; but it
would seem to have been only of late years
that the idea of their existence has been generally
confined to one, familiar to us all as the ‘Great
sea-serpent.’

In Opuscula Omnia Botanica, Thomæ Johnsoni,
1629, we have an account of a great serpent
captured off Sandwich by two men, who found it
stranded among the shoal water by the sea-shore.
It is described as being fifty feet long, and of a
fiery colour. We are also told that they conveyed
the carcase home, and after eating it, stuffed the
skin with hay, to preserve it ‘as a perpetual
remembrance of the fact.’

In David Crantz’s History of Greenland, published
in 1766, we have an extract (illustrated by a drawing)
concerning the kraken, from the narrative of
a Captain Paul Egede, supposed to be the brother
of a famous Danish missionary of the same name.
The kraken, it is however necessary to remark,
is the northern name for a giant cuttle-fish, the
existence of such a monster being now a matter of
scientific fact.

‘On the 6th of July 1734,’ says this old seaman,
‘as I was proceeding on my second voyage to
Greenland, in the latitude of the Cape of Good
Hope, a hideous monster was seen to raise its body
so high above the water that its head overtopped
our main-sail. It had a pointed nose, and spouted
out water like a whale; instead of fins it had
great broad flaps like wings; its body seemed to
be grown over with shell-work, and its skin was
very rugged and uneven; when it dived into the
water again, it threw up its tail, which was like
that of a serpent, and was at least a whole ship’s
length above the water; we judged the body to
be equal in bulk to our ship, and to be three
or four times as long.’

Eric Pontoppidan, Bishop of Bergen, celebrated
in his days as a naturalist, though he never actually
saw it or met any one who had seen it,
believed implicitly in the great sea-serpent existing
somewhere; and in his writings has a good
deal to tell us about its ways and habits; and it
is upon record that Sir Lawrence de Ferry, commander
of the old castle of Bergen, not only saw
the monster, but shot at it on the high seas,
wounded it, was pursued by it, in its pain and{674}
fury, so closely that he narrowly escaped with
his life.

In 1801 there was cast ashore on the coast of
Dorsetshire a snake twenty-eight feet in length
and twenty feet in circumference; but this has
since been alleged to have been a Basking-shark;
and the same has been said of a great snake-like
carcase that was beaten to pieces by a tempest,
and cast ashore on one of the Orkney Isles in the
autumn of 1809, and some fragments of which,
the Scots Magazine for that year states, were
lodged in the Museum of the Edinburgh University.

A very distinct description of the sea-serpent
occurs in Dr Hooker’s Testimony respecting it, and
communicated to Dr Brewster’s Journal of Science.
About half-past six o’clock on a cloudless evening
at sea, the doctor heard suddenly a rushing
noise ahead of the ship, which at first he supposed
to be a whale spouting, but soon found to be a
colossal serpent, of which he made a sketch as it
passed the vessel at fifty yards’ distance, slowly,
neither turning to the right nor left. ‘As soon as
his head had reached the stern, he gradually laid it
down in a horizontal position with his body, and
floated along like the mast of a vessel. That there
was upwards of sixty feet visible, is shewn by the
circumstance that the length of the ship was a
hundred and twenty feet, and that at the time his
head was off the stern, the other end had not
passed the main-mast…. His motion in the
water was meandering, like that of an eel; and the
wake he left behind him, was like that occasioned
by a small craft passing through the water….
The humps on his back resembled in size and
shape those of a dromedary.’

Dr Hooker states further, that the description
precisely accorded with that of a serpent seen five
years before by Captain Bennet of Boston. At a
later period, three officers in Her Majesty’s service—namely,
Captain Sullivan, Lieutenant Maclachlan,
and Ensign Malcolm of the Rifle Brigade—beheld
a similar creature gambolling in the sea near
Halifax; but they asserted that it was at least one
hundred and eighty feet in length, and thicker
than the trunk of a moderately sized tree. Nor
must we forget the official account which was
transmitted in 1848 to the Lords of the Admiralty,
by Captain Peter M’Quhae of Her Majesty’s
ship Dædalus, past which, he and his crew saw
the great sea-serpent swimming merrily—a document
which produced, or provoked, a learned
paper in the Westminster Review; while Professor
Owen asserted that what was seen from the deck of
the Dædalus, would be nothing more than a large
seal borne rapidly southward on a floe or iceberg.

Recently, the appearances of the serpent have
been amusingly frequent and clearly detailed. He
has been seen in the north seas and the south seas,
and in many places nearer home; in the Firth of
Forth, off Filey Bay and the North Foreland, off
Hastings and the Isle of Arran, the Menai Strait
and Prawle Point; and in 1875, a battle between
it and a whale was viewed from the deck of the
good ship Pauline of London, Captain Drevar,
when proceeding with a cargo of coals from Shields
to Zanzibar, destined for Her Majesty’s ship
London. When the Pauline reached the region of
the trade-winds and equatorial currents, she was
carried out of her course, and after a severe storm,
found herself off Cape Roque, where several sperm-whales
were seen playing about her. While the
crew were watching them, they suddenly beheld a
sight that filled every man on board with terror.
Starting straight from the bosom of the deep, a
gigantic serpent rose and wound itself twice in two
mighty coils round the largest of the whales,
which it proceeded to crush in genuine boa-constrictor
fashion. In vain did the hapless whale
struggle, lash the water into foam, and even bellow,
for all its efforts were as nothing against the
supernatural powers of its dreadful adversary,
whose strength ‘may be further imagined,’ says a
leader in the Daily Telegraph, ‘from the fact that
the ribs of the ill-fated fish were distinctly heard
cracking one after the other with a report like that
of a small cannon. Soon the struggles of the
wretched whale grew fainter and fainter; its
bellowings ceased, and the great serpent sank with
its prey beneath the surface of the ocean.’

Its total length was estimated at fifty yards, and
its aspect was allowed to be simply ‘terrific.’
Twice again it reared its crest sixty feet out of the
water, as if meditating an attack upon the Pauline,
which bore away with all her canvas spread. Her
crew told their terrible story. But critics there
were who averred that what they had seen was
no serpent at all, but only a bottle-nosed whale
attacked by grampuses!

In a letter to the London prints concerning this
affair, we have another description of our old
friend the serpent, as he appeared off St David’s
Head, to John Abes, mate of a merchantman, in
1863. ‘I was the first who saw the monster, and
shouted out. A terrible-looking thing it was!
Seen at a little distance in the moonlight, his two
eyes appeared about the size of plates, and were very
bright and sparkling.’ All on board thought his
length about ninety feet; but as he curled and
twirled rapidly, it was a difficult matter to determine.
Captain Taylor ordered him to be noosed
lasso-fashion with a rope; which John Abes tells
us he got on the bowsprit to throw, but in the
attempt, threw himself overboard. ‘The horror of
my feelings at the moment I must leave you to
imagine,’ continues this remarkable epistle (which
is dated from Totterdown, Bristol, September 19,
1875). ‘The brute was then within a few yards
of me, with its monstrous head and wavy body,
looking ten times more terrible than it did on
board the brig. I shiver even now when I think
of it. Whether the noise made by throwing the
ropes over to save me scared him, I cannot say;
but he went down suddenly, though not more so
than I came up. After a few minutes he appeared
some distance from us, and then we lost him.’

When next we hear of the sea-serpent after his
adventure off Cape Roque, he was beheld by the
crew of no less a ship than Her Majesty’s yacht the
Osborne, the captain and officers of which, in June
1877, forwarded an official Report to the Admiralty,
containing an account of the monster’s appearance
off the coast of Sicily on the 2d of that month.
‘The time was five o’clock in the afternoon. The
sea was exceptionally smooth, and the officers were
provided with good telescopes. The monster had
a smooth skin, devoid of scales, a bullet-shaped
head, and a face like an alligator. It was of
immense length, and along the back was a ridge of
fins about fifteen feet in length and six feet apart.{675}
It moved slowly, and was seen by all the ship’s
officers.’

This account was further supplemented by a
sketch in a well-known illustrated paper, from the
pencil of Lieutenant W. P. Hynes of the Osborne,
who to the above description adds, that the fins
were of irregular height, and about forty feet in
extent, and ‘as we were passing through the water
at ten and a half knots, I could only get a view of
it “end on.”‘ It was about fifteen or twenty feet
broad at the shoulders, with flappers or fins that
seemed to have a semi-revolving motion. ‘From
the top of the head to the part of the back where it
became immersed, I should consider about fifty
feet, and that seemed about a third of the whole
length. All this part was smooth, resembling
a seal.’

In the following month, the Scottish prints
reported, that when the Earl of Glasgow’s steam-yacht
Valetta was cruising off Garroch Head, on
the coast of Bute, with a party of ladies and
gentlemen on board, an enormous fish or serpent,
forty feet in length and about fifteen in diameter,
suddenly rose from the sea. Under sail and steam
the Valetta gave chase. A gentleman on board
speared it with a salmon ‘leister;’ on which the
serpent dived, and after a time reappeared with
the iron part of the weapon sticking in its back.
The monster scudded along for some minutes,
again dived, and was not seen afterwards. There
is little doubt, however, that the animal which
figured in this instance was a very large basking-shark
(Selache maxima).

An animal of exactly similar shape and dimensions
was reported as being seen in the subsequent
August by twelve persons in Massachusetts Bay;
and soon after on three different occasions in the
same quarter by the crew of a coasting vessel.

In May 1877, the ‘sea-serpent’ would seem to
have shifted his quarters to the Indian Ocean,
which it must be remarked is the habitat of the
true sea-snakes. On the 21st of that month, in
latitude 2° north and longitude 90° 53′ east, the
monster was alleged to have been seen by the crew
of the barque Georgina, bound from Rangoon to
Falmouth. It seemed to be about fifty feet long,
‘gray and yellow in colour, and ten or eleven
inches thick. It was on view for about twenty
minutes, during which time it crossed the bow, and
ultimately disappeared under the port quarter.’
A second account of this affair stated, that ‘for
some days previously the crew had seen several
smaller serpents, of from six to ten feet in length,
playing about the vessel.’

Strange as all these stories seem, it is difficult
to suppose they are all quite untrue, for nautical
superstition apart, we have the ready testimony of
various men of education and veracity. That there
is only one serpentine monster in the ocean, is an
idea which the great disparity in the various descriptions
would seem to contradict; and certainly
the most astounding aspect presented by this supposed
and most ubiquitous animal, was his form
and size when seen by the officers of the Queen’s
yacht off the coast of Sicily; though it is somewhat
singular that these gentlemen made no
attempt to kill or capture the mighty fish, or
whatever it was they saw.

By way of conclusion to these remarks we may
briefly summarise the chief facts presented by
‘sea-serpent tales’ as they appear under the light
of scientific criticism. There is, it must firstly be
remarked, nothing in the slightest degree improbable
in the idea that an ordinary species of sea-snake,
belonging to a well-known group of reptiles,
may undergo a gigantic development and appear
as a monster serpent of the deep. The experience
of comparative anatomists is decidedly in agreement
with such an opinion. Largely developed
individuals of almost every species of animals and
plants occasionally occur. Within the past few
years new species of cuttle-fishes—of dimensions
compared with which the largest of hitherto known
forms are mere pigmies—have been brought to
light. And if huge cuttle-fishes may thus be
developed, why, it may be asked, may not sea-snakes
of ordinary size be elevated, through
extraordinary development, to become veritable
‘leviathans’ of the deep? That there is a strong
reason for belief in the veracity of sea-serpent
tales, is supported by the consideration of the
utter want of any motive for prevarication, and
by the very different and varied accounts given of
the monsters seen. That the appearances cannot
always be explained on the supposition that lifeless
objects, such as trees, sea-weed, &c. have been
seen, is equally evident from the detailed nature
of many of the accounts of the animals, which
have been inspected from a near distance. And
it may also be remarked that in some cases, in
which largely developed sea-snakes themselves
may not have appeared, certain fishes may have
represented the reptilian inhabitants of the ocean.
As Dr Andrew Wilson has insisted, a giant tape-fish
viewed from a distance would personate a
‘sea-serpent’ in a very successful manner; and
there can be no doubt that tape-fishes have occasionally
been described as ‘sea-serpents.’

On the whole, if we admit the probability of
giant-developments of ordinary species of sea-snakes;
or the existence (and why not?) of
enormous species of sea-snakes and certain fishes
as yet unknown to science, the solution of the sea-serpent
problem is not likely to be any longer a
matter of difficulty.

FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.

CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH.

Strange and terrible tidings reached Enderby
the day after that. As Deborah Fleming was
standing in the red sunset, she saw old Jordan,
in his scarlet waistcoat and shirt sleeves, running
bare-headed towards her under the archway.
Deborah went quietly forward to meet him,
dreading and yet hoping, she knew not what.

‘Master Sinclair’s shot!’ gasped the old man.
‘Killed a-duelling!’

‘Who shot him?’ asked Deborah, with the
blood coursing in a fierce wild tide of joy through
her veins, and yet a sure foreboding of the truth.
‘Who? Who?’

‘Need ye ask, Mistress Deborah?’ asked Jordan,
shaking his gray head, and regarding her with a
wild reproachful gaze. ‘Why, Master Charlie.
Who else?’

‘But he killed him in fair fight, Jordan?’ panted
Deborah, with her hands pressed over her beating
heart, and a loud ringing in her ears. ‘No one{676}
can blame him or touch him for that! O Charlie,
O my brother!’ and she fell in a dead-faint at old
Jordan’s feet. He caught her up, and bore her in
to Marjory; with anxious earnest tenderness they
cared for her. But Deborah was soon herself.
Rousing, she saw the two old sorrowful faces; and
with a hand on a shoulder of each ancient lover,
burst into a wild laugh of joy. ‘Free! free!’ she
cried. ‘Free to act and think, and laugh and
weep! Charlie has set me free! The old man is
dead! Oh, poor sad old man, whither has fled his
soul?—Jordan, is Charlie hurt? Tell me truly; is
my poor, sweet, gallant, faithful Charlie hurt?’
And she sat up, erect and resolute.

‘No, no, my lamb; he ain’t hurt; he’s safe
enow; only he must be off for a time out o’ this.
Master Charlie has done for the “old fox,” Mistress
Deborah!’ and Jordan began to chuckle triumphantly.
Deborah laughed too, aloud. Marjory
looked on scared and scandalised.

‘Oh, am I mad?’ quoth Deborah, as she started
up and began to pace the stone hall like a wild
creature. ‘Am I mad, that I care not for bloodshed,
or that old man’s hereafter, or anything, so
long as I get freedom? Free! free!’ she cried
aloud in ecstasy, as she ran from one window to
another laughing wildly; and then, while the
two old servants stood half-aghast, she sped away
into the open air, into the sun—and liberty!
There, alone, on the green turf, under the waving
trees, under the blue and boundless sky;
where chased the little white clouds like winged
spirits; while through all the beautiful demesne,
where the birds were singing melodiously, and all
nature was glad, Deborah Fleming wept her wild
heart calm.

But Mistress Fleming? Young Mistress Margaret
Fleming? She shed not a tear that day. With a
heart relieved of a mighty weight, yet overcharged
with anxiety, love, and fear, she watched till darkness
fell, ever thinking of Deborah’s wild and
radiant face, till, late on in the night, or rather
early morning, tidings were sent her of her love.

And where was Charlie Fleming then? Far, far
away—hunted by the dogs of vengeance and the
law. Mounted on his good bay horse, he passed
through Enderby that night, in his wild flight;
and as he fled, looked back, with hand uplifted to
the high dim lights of Enderby, and bade it—a
long adieu. Turrets, towers, and trees passed
from him, like shadows in a dream….

Deborah’s trials were not ended. Where was
her poor unhappy father? Gone, gone again, ere
she knew of it; and she was terribly anxious
about him—as to how he would take this news;
terribly anxious too, now that reason and calmness
had returned to her, about her exiled brother,
though Mistress Margaret had told her that he
was safe out of England. Thoughts, wild and
vague too, of her lover and kinsman haunted her.
Where was he? She had enough to drive her
distraught; but Deborah possessed a bold heart
and iron will, and would not be subdued; and
ever the glorious sense of recovered freedom made
her heart throb with ecstasy of joy.

Some days after the duel at Lincoln, while
Deborah was restlessly pacing the great lonely
saloon, the outer bell rang. What now? Tidings
good or evil? She felt prepared for anything
that might befall. Old Marjory came to the
door.

‘Master Parry, Mistress Deborah;’ and a small
thin wizened man entered, with a bag in his hand.
Deborah Fleming, from her stately height, looked
down on the sly crafty face and shrinking figure,
and with a woman’s swift instinctive judgment,
disliked and distrusted him. She bowed, ever so
slightly. He, the cunning man of law and of the
world, was half abashed and wholly uneasy at the
full gaze bent upon him, and at the girl’s bold and
easy bearing. She waited for him to speak.

‘Mistress Fleming,’ he said with a low bow, ‘at
this sad time I must humbly apologise for this
intrusion. I would have spoken with Sir Vincent;
but he is away, I find. May I venture then to
address his daughter in his stead? For my
business, Mistress Fleming, is with you.’

‘Certainly. Sit down, Master Parry, and say
what you have to say.’

With another low bow he drew up a chair, and
placing his hat on the table, and glancing first at
the closed door, said in a mysterious tone: ‘I
come to you, Mistress Fleming, as the bearer of
two great good pieces of intelligence; one, I am
sure will afford Mistress Fleming’s generous heart
great joy, and that I will reserve till last.’

Deborah bowed in silence; her instinctive
thoughts uttered ‘Hypocrite!’

‘Mistress Fleming,’ continued the lawyer, still
uneasy under that steady gaze, but still overflowing
with polite urbanity and humble deference,
‘I, as the sole executor of the late Adam Sinclair’
(and his countenance lengthened visibly and his
eyelids fell), ‘have the pleasure of informing you
that “Deborah Fleming” is left by his will the
sole inheritor of all his property, landed and
personal, unconditionally and without reserve.’

There was silence for a moment; Deborah had
started and then kept still and calm, while first
a great horror of the dead man’s gold, and then
thoughts of her father and brother and Enderby,
coursed through her startled mind. In that moment
the lawyer Parry shot one furtive glance from his
crafty eyes, and perceived her deep in abstracted
thought; and marvelled at her coolness and
dignity, little guessing the combative thoughts
that were surging in her breast.

‘This was generous of Master Sinclair,’ said
Deborah. ‘You have something else to tell me?’
She turned her eyes on him. He fidgeted; he
avoided her gaze; he looked down, he looked out
on the sky, he looked up at the carved chimney-piece,
where grotesque faces grinned down at him;
he looked anywhere but at Deborah. It was but
a slight tremor, a slight hesitation, only very
quick eyes would have discerned it, under the
flow of ready words: ‘Yes, Mistress Fleming; it
relates to your brother, Master Charles Fleming;{677}
and though it is a proof sure and convincing that
will clear him from a foul aspersion which has
incidentally (incidentally, mind you) come to my
knowledge; at the same time—and with deep
reluctance I say it—it shews Master Sinclair in
ill colours, and casts bitter blame on his memory.
But mark, Mistress Fleming; Master Sinclair was
my oldest friend, my benefactor; what I tell you
now, I tell you in confidence, and the secret had
best perish between your family and myself. But
first I will shew what I mean.’ He then drew
some papers from a bag, and spread them before
Deborah’s eyes, with his hands upon them. ‘See,
see!’ he muttered, apparently trembling with
sudden excitement, ‘what Adam Sinclair and his
myrmidons have done! And to get you in his
power, Mistress Fleming! All to win your favour!
I swear it, for I discovered them in the act! This
writing you would say is your brother’s? There
too is his signature. But I hereby swear it to
be a base forgery, and no more Master Fleming’s
writing than it is mine. This was a plot to throw
dust in Sir Vincent’s eyes, and disgrace on his
son’s name, by proving that Master Fleming had
secretly raised money on this estate.’

‘I know it—I know it all,’ said Deborah, very
white and calm. ‘Cannot you tell me who wrote
this?’ And she laid her finger on her brother’s
name, and fixed her clear eyes upon the wrinkled
crafty being before her, till they seemed to read
his soul.

‘I cannot inform you of that, Mistress Fleming,’
he answered with sorrowful regret, and looked
away, and up at the grinning faces that seemed to
mock him, so that he glanced quickly away from
them again.

‘You are generous,’ said Deborah; but a look
of unutterable disdain was clouding those clear
eyes with passion and with scorn. ‘You will tell
me thus far, but no further, not even this creature’s
name. Why, I would give all my new possessions,
Master Parry, just to bring him to justice for this.
But what is your purpose in bringing this paper to
me? Am I to buy it of you, as Master Sinclair
would have done, had not death taken him? I
heard your name and his in connection with this
matter; no other.’

Master Parry wished himself away from Enderby,
and well out of it all, with a heavy purse.
‘Mistress Fleming,’ he said, ‘what you suspect,
or what charge you would bring against me, I know
not. I only swear to you that I got possession of
this paper by great and grievous trouble, and no
small exercise of talent. The villain’s name who
compassed this forgery I cannot divulge; but if ye
would shield the dead man’s memory, save the
honour of your name, and that of your father and
brother, and prevent this paper for ever from seeing
light—take it of me.’

‘Ye do trade on it then?’ said Deborah, still
with those eyes and lips of ineffable disdain.

‘Mistress Fleming, another trades with me,’
answered the man of law, with a semblance of
grave and dignified reproof and a glance of injured
innocence. ‘I have suffered much already in this
cause, and small thanks I get. If I am not well
paid therefore, this paper must go back to the
owner, and he makes it public. If I am well paid,
it is mine—it is yours—to burn, to do with it
what you will.’

‘I see now, Master Parry, why it is more convenient
to negotiate with Mistress Fleming than
with Sir Vincent. I am a woman. You can
threaten me, and think to daunt me; but you
shall find yourself mistaken. If ye are not this
arch-villain himself, ye are playing into his hands.
Why, I tell ye, girl as I am, and ignorant, I know
the emptiness of your threats! To what end
would this forged paper be published? What
harm could it do Charles Fleming? To publish
this‘—and Deborah rose with a laugh of scorn,
and struck her hand upon it—’would be but to
bring disgrace on him who published it—disgrace!
ay, and death! My brother’s innocence would
be proved, and this man brought to the gallows.
Now, would ye have me buy it, Master Parry?
Nay, you had better not, for I would have no
mercy on the author of this villainy. Destroy it!
Nay; I would publish it to all the world.’

‘Ah Mistress, ye know little of the world then,
or of the result of such a trial. It might go hard
with Master Fleming, I warn ye. But if ye will
have it so, I’ll e’en give this back, and let him
work his will. He’s not a man to be made a foe of
with impunity. I sadly fear ye will rue this rash
act. I might have saved you. But be it, Mistress
Fleming, as you will.’

With a savage consciousness of having been
worsted, nay, utterly defeated, by a young and
dauntless maiden, Master Parry stood with hat
and bag in hand. Mistress Fleming had read him
through. He had won neither gold nor favour
from the future Mistress of Lincoln, only stern
defiance and proud disdain.

How he hated her, but how blandly he smiled!

‘I am not afraid,’ quoth haughty Mistress
Fleming; and looking beyond the lawyer and
over his head, she bowed him calmly to the door.

One low reverence and a muttered curse between
his teeth, and the doors of Enderby closed for aye
on Master Parry.

Deborah was herself then. With thoughts collected
and brows lowering she threw open all the
windows; then standing on the hearth, she muttered:
‘He has done it himself. I am trembling
now with passion—only I would not vent it on a
thing so mean—though my hands ached to be at him,
woman as I am! Have I acted and judged aright?
Oh, I know not; I know naught o’ business; I cannot
abide it. But I have acted a woman’s part in
this; not from pity, but because it would shame
me to drag the name of Fleming through such mud.
Only I was fain to shew the worm what I could
do. O King, King! where art thou? O dear
father; and poor, brave, gallant, honourable
Charlie! Where, where is father, that I may tell
him this great good news? O my precious brother,
to think we should e’er have doubted thee! Well-a-day!
I am a rich heiress—I am a great lady; I
will pay all our debts; and Enderby—Enderby is
mine! to give away to father and to Charlie! O
wretched Adam Sinclair—poor perjured soul!
Would your wealth not do such untold good, I
would none of it. Honour and charity together
shall wipe the stains from off your gold, and make
it good for use.’

Sir Vincent came home late one evening, some
days after Adam Sinclair’s death. Some one, some
careless tongue had told him suddenly that Adam
Sinclair had met his death at the hand of Charles
Fleming. He stopped at the lodge, and got off his
horse feebly.

{678}

‘Mistress Dinnage,’ said he, ‘where is my boy
Charlie?’

She gazed at him earnestly, then answered:
‘He is gone away on a journey, Sir Vincent. He’ll
be home again before long.’

‘Before long! Ah, he’s a good boy to the old
man, with all his faults, whatever they may say.
Where’s Adam Sinclair?’

She evaded that question. ‘Come home with
me,’ she said tenderly; and unwonted tears lurked
in the dark splendour of her eyes.

So, arm in arm, proud young Mistress Fleming
and the poor broken-down master of Enderby
walked slowly home.

Deborah saw them pass the window; and started
forward and met them. But the glorious tidings
of Charlie’s unstained honour, the proud consciousness
of power and position, the brightness in her
eyes, and the bright colour in her cheeks, left her,
on looking on her father. He stretched out his
hands; there was terrible pathos in that feeble but
impassioned gesture, and a sad and wandering
smile replaced the light of intellect.

‘Deb, little Deb! O my darling! I have
been looking for thee. They told me thou wert
dead! It shook me terribly. Thank God, thou’rt
alive and well. And how is it with thee, my
dove?’

‘He is wandering,’ whispered Margaret below
her breath. ‘We must nurse him, Mistress
Deborah dear; he will soon be well.’

For Deborah, leaning her brave heart on her
father’s breast, was trembling like a leaf, and
tears of agony were gathered in her eyes. Was
that strong mind, that tender father’s care, dead to
her for ever? Would he never, never know the
innocence of his darling, whose imagined treachery
had stricken him thus? ‘Father!’ she cried, in
piercing accents of despair, ‘father! Charlie is
innocent. Charlie never wrote that paper, father
dear; but a bad man did it, forging Charlie’s
name! Charlie never, never raised money upon
Enderby! He is as guiltless and as true to thee as
Deborah! Dost hear me, father? Dost hear me?
Dost understand?’

He smiled at her vehemence, and stroked back
her hair. ‘Ay; I understand thee. Charlie is a
good fellow, and our own dear brave boy. Though
that running off from school, Deb,’ he whispered,
‘was the wild blood cropping up! Ha, ha, ha!
that was a mistake; eh, Deb?’ and he laughed
vehemently again.

‘O Mistress Fleming,’ said Deborah, with her
hand to her brow, ‘this is harder to me than
all. Margaret, Margaret! what shall we do?
This is death in life.—O father, dear father!
dost not know me? We have stood side by
side in all our troubles, and now all trouble is at
an end. We are rich! and Enderby, Enderby,
father, is ours! We have money, father—riches,
plenty! Charlie shall come home to thee—come
home and live at Enderby! O sweet father, be
thyself! Be calm, love, and God will restore thee,
make thee well. Father, father, I am little Deb!
Be my own dear father. Be thyself. Look! better
times are coming, father, for Charlie and for thee!’
Wild, sweet, impassioned were Deborah’s words
and tones and looks.

Sir Vincent Fleming raised his hand to his head,
and gazed all round, and gazed at her and Margaret.
‘Deb,’ he said, ‘I am tired, very tired of
this world, dear love. Take me home, home to
thy mother and to Enderby. I must rest.’

Pale and tearless, Deborah glanced at Mistress
Fleming, and led the old man to his chair by the
fireside. But for Mistress Fleming, she could see
no more; her eyes were blind with tears.

CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH.

That night Charlie’s secretly made wife Meg
Dinnage wrote and despatched a letter to Kingston
Fleming, in this wise: ‘Master Kingston
Fleming, we are in a sore strait. Master Sinclair
is dead; ye may have heard it. Master Charles
Fleming is gone away. My Lady Deb is all
alone, for her poor father is helpless on our hands.
As ye are kind and true, come with speed to
Enderby. You will be welcome.’

That same night Mistress Fleming and Deborah
conferred long together, and talked themselves
light-hearted about the future. Then said Mistress
Fleming: ‘Let me brush your lovely long hair,
Lady Deb; for soon you will have a maid for
this and a maid for that. Lady o’ Lincoln Castle!
Oh, who would have thought on such luck! I
no longer hate the poor fox who has died and left
you all, but pity him from my heart. Ah, Lady
Deb, I wish Master Fleming could hear o’ this.’

‘You know where he is hiding, Mistress Dinnage,
but will not tell me.’

‘Nay; I am under oath. But why should Master
Fleming tell “Mistress Dinnage” his hiding-place?’

‘Ye cannot blind me, Margaret; you are also a
maiden; you are happy. Nay; come round to me,
dear. The time has come. But my own selfish
sorrows have kept me dumb hitherto. Margaret,
you love him! He has spoken!’ Deborah leaned
back in her chair, gazing up, with her hair falling
like a golden shower behind her.

Mistress Fleming, dark-haired, dark-eyed, blushing,
drooped, till she sank and laid her head on
Deborah’s knees. The action was eloquent.

‘And ye have kept this from me?’ whispered
Deborah, drooping over her. ‘O Mistress Dinnage,
Mistress Dinnage! but you shall be wedded now
as soon as ever Lincoln tragedy is blown over,
and poor Adam Sinclair’s fate forgot. Meantime,
what doeth Charlie, dear? Speak! I will guard the
secret.’

‘He has gone to fight. He has ‘listed with the
Irish to fight against England. Ye have driven
me to add to your sorrows, Lady Deb; lightening
my own heart to tell you this.’

‘O Margaret, Margaret! what could induce him
to do this mad thing? Has he really joined?’

‘A week ago.’

‘And a private! O Charlie Fleming, this is a
sore trouble, yet no disgrace. But you thought
yourself a ruined man.’

‘We must pray for him, Lady Deb. Oh, night
and day he is my prayer. God guard him!’

‘It is well father cannot know of this;’ and
Deborah fell into deep thought.

‘Mistress Dinnage,’ said she suddenly, ‘I was
happy this morning: I heard from May Warriston.’

‘I saw you did.’

‘She told me news. Mistress Blancheflower was
married a month ago at Naples to Count Mazzini.
There was a very grand wedding.’

‘What! Did she desert Master King Fleming
then, for this foreign count?’

{679}

‘Ay, she did!’ said Deborah bitterly. ‘I would
not have believed it. And I taunted him, and
called him false and a traitor, Mistress Dinnage,
when he came over last and told me he was free.
And now I hear that she threw him over so soon
as the rich count appeared. Heaven forgive her!
She has cost me much.’

‘For naught,’ added Mistress Fleming fiercely;
and then Mistress Fleming thought, and laughed
to herself. ‘When Master King Fleming comes
again,’ she continued softly, ‘you will not chide
him then. No; you will be kind, for sake of those
hard words. I like Master King Fleming dearly.’

‘Nay,’ answered Deborah, speaking coldly and
blushing warmly; ‘I have more to forgive than he.
We both spoke hotly; but King said a hard thing
of me anent my wedding Master Sinclair. We
were both hot. But take my word for it, Mistress
Dinnage, he will come no more to Enderby.’

‘He will, and will be welcome too. He would
make the Master his old self again; so father says,
and I well believe it.’

‘O hush, Mistress Dinnage, hush! He will
come no more to Enderby, nor do we need him
now.’

One long day passed; but another dawn brought
Kingston Fleming. Mistress Margaret, eagerly
watching from her window, saw him ride up, and
was out before Marjory. As she stood in the
early sun, he wondered at her beauty, though his
soul was in another’s. She held his horse; he
wondered at her graciousness, little wotting that
the girl’s proud heart was all subdued by the same
subtle shaft that quivered in his own. She thought
of herself no more.

‘Thank ye,’ said Kingston. ‘And thank ye,
dear Mistress Dinnage, for the little letter. Did
Deborah know of that?’

‘Nay; I writ without her knowledge. But she
will welcome ye. Only try.’

‘O Mistress Dinnage, I was hard and brutal
with her.’

‘She has forgot. Only try.’

‘Where is she? And the poor old master?’

‘They are in the house. I will run to him; and
Lady Deb shall go into the garden, unwitting you
are here. It is best so. Go round.’

‘But stay, Mistress Dinnage, one moment.
Where is Charlie Fleming?’

‘How can I tell you?’ replied Mistress Margaret
with her old hauteur. ‘His sister would better
know;’ and turned away, as the scarlet blood dyed
face and throat and hands.

So Kingston sauntered round, just as if his
heart were not knocking against his side with
tumultuous love and desperate longing hope.

There soon walked his sweet love into the
garden. Little did Kingston, there watching
through the trees, know of the great fortune that
had befallen her, or he would have seen himself far
enough away before seeking Deborah Fleming’s
ear. Hark! she is singing. She is passing close to
him while she sings, his first—last—only love!
She was looking pale and sorrowful, that sweet
Rose of Enderby. O to pluck that fair Rose from
the thorny stem of Enderby, and wear it for ever
on his breast! As he gazed, Kingston Fleming
felt himself capable of anything for her dear sake.
His heart swelled with joy and triumph, to think
that she was poor and lonely, and that he could
hew a place for her amongst the great ones of
the earth. He stepped forward, and faltered—’Deborah!’

Deborah was taken aback. She stood, and first
faded to a white rose and then flushed to a red,
and not a word to say.

‘Deborah,’ said Kingston Fleming, ‘don’t resent
my coming. I heard of my uncle Vincent’s illness—and,
of Master Sinclair’s death. Love! I will not
offend by word or look or deed; only bid me serve
thee!’

‘And hast forgiven me, Kingston?’ faltered the
girl, her passionate love pleading wildly within
her breast, and quelling all else beside, forgetting
utterly that she too had thought herself aggrieved.

‘Forgiven thee, Deb?’ asked Kingston, paling.
‘Hast thou forgiven me? I did thee grievous
wrong; I knew my words were base and false, my
noble one!’

‘Ah, speak not of that, for heaven’s sake! We
were mad, King, and both maybe have been to
blame in our past lives. We know all now; there
is no secret between us.’

‘No. If I know of Master Sinclair’s death, you
know of Mistress Blancheflower’s wedding.’

‘Dost know all, King?’ asked Deborah suddenly,
and tears and laughter were lurking in her upraised
eyes.

‘Nay; what more? Naught will surprise me.’

‘Charlie has cut himself off from England, and
enlisted with the Irish rebels. Master Sinclair,
little knowing my brother would kill him, has left
me all his wealth and lands.’

Kingston started; he had frowned at the first
tidings, but the last overclouded his brow like
night. ‘I knew naught of all this,’ he answered
calmly.

‘Yes, King,’ continued Mistress Fleming, with
her old gaiety, ‘I am a great lady now! It
seems so strange for poor Deborah Fleming to be
an heiress. But bethink ye: this will save Charlie;
we will have him back soon!’

‘Ay; it will save Charlie,’ muttered Kingston
thoughtfully.

‘Why, you are not glad at my good fortune!
Father, dear father, when he is himself, will be
right glad to hear it. King, you once told me you
would be proud of me if I were a grand lady.
Now, ye have not a word o’ congratulation to
offer me, though I am Lady of Lincoln!’

‘I wish ye were aught else. Deb, I would ye
were a beggar!’

‘O loving wish! I have been beggar long
enough. Why dost wish this? Tell me.’

‘Because it is Adam Sinclair’s gold; because ye
owe all to him. But Deb, I must bid ye adieu,
love, when I have seen your father. I came but
for a few hours; I have business at Granta.’

‘Always going! always gone! King, ye are
like a wreath of smoke—ever evanishing in thin
air.’

He wrung her hand, and turned away; yet he
saw that tears were in her eyes. Deborah felt that
if he went, he went for ever. The truth flashed upon
her: he loved her still, but her fortune sundered
them in his eyes. What should she do? Woo him?
He knew not even of her love. She plucked a
daisy from the grass, and gave it him: ‘King,
rememberest thou? “He loved me not?”‘

‘Who loved thee not?’ And he stood and gazed
upon her.

Trembling like an aspen leaf at her own boldness,{680}
she answered tremulously: ‘Why, Kingston
Fleming.’

‘Didst love Kingston Fleming then?’

‘Then—now—and always!’ And she sank upon
his breast.

(To be concluded next month.)

SKETCHES IN VANCOUVER ISLAND.

Vancouver Island, which forms part of British
North America, and stretches a length of three
hundred miles along the coast of the Pacific, is
still little known, although singularly attractive
for its picturesque beauty, its fine climate, and its
many interesting objects in natural history. The
writer of this happened to be a resident in that
beautiful island in 1876, and is able to say something
of its scenery and products.

We were particularly struck with the grandeur
of the forests. The huge dimensions of some of
the trees fill one with amazement; nor is there
less surprise at the profusion of gem-like berries
of many varieties. The moist alluvial soil produces
the delicious salmon-berry, in appearance a
glowing jewel of gold; these, with cranberries,
bramble-berries, currants, and a small black gooseberry,
are very abundant. The most arid and
rocky situations are often fairly black with grape-like
bunches of the sweet sellal berry, which
grows on a low hardy evergreen, and defies frosts
until late in the season. Another variety of
the gooseberry, larger than the black ones, with
a skin covered with a bitter and glutinous secretion,
grows very abundantly on the dryer soils.
Its pulp when ripe is similar to cultivated varieties.
The red huckleberry, strawberry, and raspberry,
with some others, abound in the gravelly
pine-lands. Man’s constant need of timber is
abundantly met in these forests. The Douglas or
red fir, a tough dense wood, attains a great size, and
prevails almost universally. The red cedar, hemlock,
spruce, white pine, balsam pine, and other useful
conifers, are plentiful; while among deciduous
trees may be mentioned maples, beeches, cherries,
and oaks, which are more sparsely distributed.

To the lover of natural scenery few things are
more delightful than a canoe cruise along this
coast and among the intricate avenue-like channels
which surround the adjacent islands. The
rocky shores, mostly of a sandstone formation, are
for miles wrought and carved by ocean tides and
sands until they resemble fantastic Gothic architecture.
The lofty snow-clad peaks of the neighbouring
continent afford a sublime background to
the clear azure sea and verdant graces of the nearer
coasts, whose inviting bays and tiny coves seem to
bid the voyager to land and explore.

Both Siwash and Cloochman, as the males and
females of Vancouver Island are respectively
styled, ply the paddle and sail with great dexterity.
Canoeing is their forte. Many families
spend more than half their lives on the water,
travelling immense distances, and boldly crossing
wide straits in seas that are often boisterous.
Most picturesque in its details is an Indian encampment,
as seen every day in the vicinity of
Nanaimo, Comet, and other settlements on the
eastern coast. The capacious canoe is hauled
beyond reach of tides, and if in sunny weather,
carefully shaded, to prevent cracking. Everything
needed for use is removed to the camping-ground.
A few poles and rush-mats form the necessary
shelter. In making the mats the squaws (women)
are very skilful, and form an ever-present and
prominent adjunct to the Indian household. If the
family have just returned from a successful hunt,
they will probably have four or five deer to skin
and dress; besides a dozen or two of grouse, a few
ducks and geese; and often a seal, or elk, or black
bear adds variety to the bill of fare. The skins of
the animals are stretched, dried, and sold, together
with such superfluous meat as can be disposed of.
Two or three small wolfish dogs are generally to
be seen tied up and eyeing the butchering operations
with keen interest. Towards evening, presuming
the necessary tasks have been accomplished,
men, women and children recline lazily
upon their mats, and for hours make the night
hideous with their peculiar clucking language.

Besides the substantial supplies already enumerated,
Ocean furnishes with no niggardly hand
his gleaming luxuries, of which the salmon forms
the chief. In a fragile bark which holds but one,
and can be lifted with one hand, Siwash or Cloochman
starts for the salmon-grounds, often a mile or
two from the village. Trolling a line of about
twenty yards with a spoon bait or natural fish
attached, he or she paddles at a moderate pace,
carefully avoiding entanglement with sea-weed.
The line being held with the paddle, each stroke
of the latter gives the bait a spasmodic and life-like
movement, highly conducive to success. Many
salmon (of inferior quality) are taken in the rivers
by spearing; and though the river-banks are frequently
offensive from the number of fish that
have died from injuries received in ascending to
and returning from the spawning-ground, hungry
bears and sea-fowl innumerable perform the scavenger’s
cleanly offices.

The natives have a peculiar mode of catching
a small fish which resembles a herring, but is
inferior to it in size. Taking a lath-like stick of
tough wood, the edge of the end not handled being
armed for several feet with thin iron spikes, they
proceed slowly in search of their prey, using their
implement like a paddle, and darting it rapidly
through the finny droves. By this manœuvre a
dozen or two are frequently impaled at a stroke,
and adroitly transferred to the canoe to be used as
bait. Herring and herring-spawn are largely eaten,
both fresh and dried, the spawn being obtained by
placing fir branches in the quiet bays which the
herring frequent. As soon as the branches are
covered, the spawn is collected and dried in the
sun. Halibut and rock-cod are also caught in
these waters. Among shell-fish may be mentioned
a poor apology for the oyster, which seldom
attains a diameter exceeding an inch. Its near
neighbour the clam atones for this deficiency, and
is frequently got upwards of a pound in weight.
Very dear to the heart of Siwash is this mud-loving
crustacean, which plays an active part in rustic
repasts. The bivalve is often smoked, dried, and
put on long skewers; and together with dried
salmon, forms an unfailing adjunct to the Indian
cuisine. Besides the oyster and clam, the mussel,
razor-fish, cockle, and a few others are found on
these coasts.

The Vancouver Islanders are a broad-shouldered,
stalwart race, though perhaps a trifle below
the medium stature. On their ‘reservations’
a few families raise stock, grain, and potatoes.{681}
This result, however, has not been obtained
without much official encouragement. A few are
employed as occasional day-labourers about the
Nanaimo coal-mines, and some are employed more
steadily by the miners underground. The storekeepers
avail themselves of their services when
they need porters. Many households also employ
the women for washing, &c. A language called
Chinook is learned both by whites and reds,
for mutual convenience in trading and ordinary
intercourse. This mixture of many tongues
was introduced by the Hudson Bay Company,
but can scarcely be called a classical language,
being far more useful than elegant, English,
French, and native dialects being among its constituent
parts. Another remaining mark of Hudson
Bay influence is found in the curious currency
existing among these people. Probably no race
has ever had so bulky a circulating medium as the
ordinary blanket, which in the rude lodges of the
richer chiefs is stored up by hundreds, and is
everywhere acknowledged to be the token of
wealth.

The squaws are cunning in the manufacture
of water-tight baskets, which are used for
many household purposes. Their bark canoe-balers
are also unique though simple in construction.
Not only in canoe-building do the Siwashes
display their handicraft, but many of the villages
are ornamented with grotesque carvings, apparently
of heathen deities. At Comox and Nanaimo might
be seen a short time ago poles two or three feet in
diameter with fantastic figures carved one over the
other nearly to the top. At the latter place a
colossal painting of a fish resembling a salmon,
though perhaps intended for a whale, confronted
us as we approached the village from the water.

Weird and ghostly in appearance is the Indian
burial-ground hard by this spot. Steering up
towards the head of the broad Nanaimo Bay
until the rising ground with its heavy forests casts
darkling shadows over the waters, one sees two
strange goblin-like figures, hideous with paint and
ghastly protruding eyeballs, apparently keeping
guard over this ‘city of the dead.’ By the side
of each of these wooden figures are poles supporting
white flags, which may be intended as emblems of
that truce to evil thoughts which all humanity
observes towards the dead. These simple children
of Nature, like some who claim more refinement,
seem sadly loath to be placed underground, many
of the Indian corpses being laid upon beds and
covered with blankets, while a rude wooden hut is
erected around. Within reach of the dead Indian’s
hand is often placed a piece of tobacco; and food
and water are added by loving survivors. The
Methodists have laboured devotedly here, together
with Episcopalians and Roman Catholics.

The aboriginal tribes of the island, now that
they are being brought face to face with modern
civilisation, are rapidly disappearing. Small-pox
has reaped its thousands, and vice and intemperance
their tens of thousands, among these and
neighbouring races. In Victoria and other of the
towns and settlements, one remarks the comfortable
European attire of many of the Indians,
particularly the younger ones, who seem to prize
such apparel more than most of the Pacific tribes
do. During the long winter evenings, men, women,
and children will gather together in one of their
capacious halls and hold their sports far into the
night. The hall, often more than one hundred feet
in length and fifty broad, is brilliantly lighted and
warmed by huge fires of bark or pitch pine;
the fires being built on the earthen floor, three in
a row on each side of the interior, and having an
attendant specially detailed to look after them.
Seldom more than one person dances at once.
If a Siwash is performing, he is often decorated
with a garland of feathers, with perhaps a panther
or bear skin loosely thrown across the shoulders,
and bells fastened around the ankles. His movements
are agile rather than graceful, a succession
of high leaps and bounds being often accompanied
with dumb-show and singing, in which latter the
audience join strenuously. When the broad-faced,
good-humoured Cloochman (the literal meaning in
Chinook of the last word is goodman!) appears in
the arena, her dress is often of the usual cotton
fabric, her features are daubed with paint, and her
thick raven locks absurdly smothered in white
downy feathers. She sometimes jingles an instrument
like a tambourine, and from her movements
appears deeply impressed with the motto ‘Excelsior;’
but alas! her vast superfluity of adipose
tissue and the forces of gravity combine to extinguish
her lofty aspirations. If mortal eyes could
behold a well-fed duck striving earnestly for
gymnastic fame, its performances would probably
resemble those of our lady-friend. No conventional
ideas bid her to use the toe more than the heel
in dancing. Upon making careful inquiries, the
spectator will discover that the performers in these
dances are generally in a kind of delirium, the
result of severe fasting extended over many days.
Their utterances are regarded as the inspirations
of the Great Spirit, and the dancers doubtless
obtain a tribute of reverence from their comrades
in return for their privations.

Another peculiar custom is to hold a potlatch,
or free distribution of gifts, at the principal
villages every summer. Potlatch in Chinook signifies
‘to give,’ or ‘a gift.’ These meetings of
many tribes are the scenes of much festivity. Clad
in the skins of the bear, panther, wolf, beaver, eagle,
or elk, Indians represent the respective animals,
imitating their peculiar cries and other characteristics
with wonderful fidelity to nature. When
the time arrives, the chief and principal men
among the hosts proceed to distribute large supplies
of blankets and muskets, the latter being
often thrown into the sea and dived for. Much
honour is accorded to the greatest giver, and the
chiefs need to be large-hearted as well as wealthy
to retain their dignity.

When the writer of this sketch left the island,
its mineral wealth was very considerable, and
still continues to be so. Many thousand tons of
the best coal on the Pacific coast were exported
every month from Nanaimo and vicinity. Other
large veins known to exist, were not worked,
from a lack of capital and for other reasons
best known to the proprietors. The Texada iron
mountain, in the Straits of Georgia, together
with other metallic deposits, may in the future
claim the attention they deserve. When finished,
the Canadian Pacific Railway will bring the right
kind of emigrants to these shores, and doubtless
more extensive quantities of arable land than
are now cultivated will be found in the interior,
when the demand for it is increased. The present
race of settlers are a hardy, hospitable class of{682}
men, expert with the axe, daring and dexterous
canoeists, and very ingenious in meeting the
continual difficulties and vicissitudes of backwoods
life. Keen hunters are often to be met
among them, men who are so successful with the
rifle that their families keep a full larder without
the aid of butcher or poulterer.

An enlightened system of free schools enables
the widely scattered children of this island and
of the other portions of British Columbia to
obtain a substantial education at the public expense;
and much credit is due to the energy
and ability of the school superintendent, whose
task it has been to organise and perfect the present
satisfactory educational arrangements. We
shall be glad if these sketches help to stir up an
interest concerning this beautiful and productive
island.

THE ADMIRAL’S SECOND WIFE.

CHAPTER IX.—TANGLED THREADS.

There is another listener to the song, and every
word of it falls on his heart with intense meaning.
It seems to him a lamenting wail of despair
wrung out from aching hearts. The Admiral has
returned from an official dinner-party, and when
he reaches the drawing-room door, the duet is just
begun. Rather surprised, and a good deal vexed
at seeing Walter Reeves so soon installed as a
familiar guest at Government House, he pauses,
and the words of the song fall distinctly on his ear.

In bygone days, Captain Reeves was the only
one amongst all Katie’s admirers who really gave
him uneasiness; and if truth must be confessed,
he had often felt a pang of jealousy at the great
attention Walter paid her, and by his unconcealed
admiration of the young lady. He had made up
his mind there was an end to all that now. His
wife would henceforth be far removed from such
influence; and when she and Walter should chance
to meet, their acquaintanceship would be strictly
ceremonious.

Yet now, they have taken up the old strain,
and are already deploring in doleful song the hard
fortune that has divided their lives. Sir Herbert
has no idea of pretence or mere acting or of
singing for effect. He is true to the ‘heart’s core’
himself, and would not deign to seem other than
he is. The words come to him with terrible
meaning, and rouse him to sudden awakening.
Has he spoiled their lives? While he would
shield his wife from every rough wind and from
all that could vex and annoy, has he only been
driving her to despair? The guests are all so
occupied that they do not notice the Admiral at
the door, nor do they see him turn away with
bowed head and a weight like an added ten years
pressing on his heart.

Are Laura’s words proving true? Has Katie
only married him for wealth and position, while
her heart has been given to Walter Reeves? Is
she growing weary already, and pining in her
gilded chains? Terrible thoughts these! They
eat into his very soul, and crush him down as he
has never been crushed before. He is only thankful
no one sees the storm of agony that sweeps
over him, while the merry music still goes on
up-stairs.

Why did he not tell Katie then? She would
have flown to his arms, and assured him, truthfully
enough, that she has grown to love him
better than any one else in the world. Pleasure-loving,
thoughtless, she may be, but no thought
of disloyalty to her husband has ever entered her
heart. But the Admiral asks no question, gives
no sign, only shrouds himself up with a proud
man’s reticence and reserve. Though deeply hurt
and wounded, he goes on his way silently, and
Katie never for a moment suspects that she is
making him wretched.

The next morning Walter arrives, and all the
others who are to take part in the entertainment
arrive also; so the rooms are again crowded, and
the rehearsal goes on with spirit. There is a
sound of music and talk, of song and discussion.
Peals of silvery laughter burst forth; snatches of
various airs are heard; Major Dillon’s voice loud
and prompt; Liddy Delmere’s, clear and ringing.
All are excited; and Walter Reeves, from his experience
on the subject, is voted by all, chief
authority and general manager.

Nothing loath to bear the honour, he makes
even the consequential Major play second-fiddle to
him. He flirts with Liddy, while she purposely
goes wrong, to be set right by him; and Katie
smiles more than ever at the rapid friendship
springing up between the two. It is on this scene
of distracting confusion that Sir Herbert looks, as
he returns home an hour earlier than usual. He
glances gravely round on the busy groups, who
are all talking and laughing together, and cannot
understand what they are about in the broad daylight,
turning the quiet matter-of-fact noonday
into the revelry of night. His greeting to the
guests is rather formal; there is a faint compression
on his lips, a slight furrow on his brow, as he
listens to the allusions and watches the proceedings.
In fact the guests, his wife, and all seem to
him to have gone a little out of their senses. At
last the visitors decide it is time to depart, and
they go off in high spirits, promising to meet again
there in the evening.

Sir Herbert has all that morning been taking
himself to task for his hard thoughts about Katie;
but resolves to atone by paying her more devoted
attention. What would he not do to win her
back! No sacrifice can be too great, he thinks;
so he begins by coming home an hour earlier than
usual, only to find fresh annoyance and disappointment.
When the guests are gone, he turns his
grave inflexible face to Katie, and says: ‘I came
back early, my darling, on purpose to drive you to
Belton Park.’

Lady Dillworth is gathering up the pen-and-ink
sketches of costumes, glancing at each, and mentally
considering what jewels she will use to adorn
the highly ornamented stomacher of Lucy Ashton’s
blue dress, so she replies quickly: ‘I’m sorry you
fixed on this morning for a drive, Herbert, for I
cannot possibly get away; I’ve no end of music to
try over.’

‘Perhaps there will be time in the afternoon
then. Lady Ribson leaves Belton Park in a few
days, and I promised to introduce you to her.’

‘Does she return to Scotland?’

‘Yes. Had she not been so old and feeble, she
would have come here to call for you.’

‘Oh, I am so sorry about it, Herbert; but every
minute of to-day is portioned out: I’ve a hundred
things to do.’

{683}

‘Katie, I very much wish you to know Lady
Ribson.’

‘I know, I know; and I wish it also; but our
meeting can’t be to-day. Don’t urge me, Herbert.
This afternoon I’m to call at Madame Darcy’s my
dressmaker; she is to try to make some wonderful
medieval robes for me.’

‘Surely you are not thinking of having a fancy
ball here?’

‘No, no; only a charade party. But we are all
to appear in apropos costume. There! that’s the
luncheon bell.—Liddy, are you ready?’

Miss Delmere has wandered off to the music-room,
and has not heard the matrimonial conversation.
She comes out radiant and gleeful, a
smile on her lip, as she thinks of the pleasant
morning she has passed, the pleasant evening still
in prospect.

‘Won’t the charade party be nice, Sir Herbert?
I wish you were to take a part in it.’

‘Thank you, Miss Delmere; but my days of
masquerading are over. Allow me to take you
down to luncheon.’

He walks gravely down the broad stairs with
the ladies. As far as the Admiral is concerned,
the meal is a gloomy one. He eats but little
himself, and joins but rarely in the conversation
Liddy and his wife are keeping up. Sir Herbert
does not like Miss Delmere. There is a mocking
satirical manner about her, a tone of banter in
her voice, an expression of raillery in her clear
blue eyes, and a love of badinage in her thoughtless
little heart, that he cannot understand. He
can never distinguish whether she is in jest or
earnest, and he is not the man to probe deeply into
the character of one for whom he cares so little.
He would fain see the friendship between Liddy
and his wife die out; but with his morbid shrinking
from interfering with his wife’s plans or thwarting
her wishes, he does not put his wish into words.
When luncheon is over, Sir Herbert does not
again allude to the proposed drive to Belton Park,
and the subject appears to have passed from Katie’s
mind also, for when he goes out, she and Liddy
decide about driving at once to Madame Darcy’s.

After this, preparations for the charade party
go on with great energy. Liddy is in her element,
for Walter comes every day to consult and
rehearse. The expensive dresses are ordered; invitations
are sent out; the drop-scene is being
painted by a local artist; and the erewhile solemn
stately shades of Government House re-echo at all
hours with unwonted strains of melody and mirth.

(To be continued.)

A LEGEND OF ‘THE FORTY-FIVE.’

The news of the expected landing of Prince Charles
Edward Stuart in Scotland to attempt to recover
the crown of his forefathers had reached a secluded
glen, and many were the hopes and fears that
animated the breasts of the Highlanders.

There dwelt in a small sheeling on the hill-side
a young girl of eighteen, the only daughter of a
Highlander. Her rare beauty and gentle manners
had won her the admiration and approval of
both young and old in the glen; many were the
suitors that had sought young Flora’s hand, and
many were the sad hearts that had left the sheeling
with the gentle yet firm refusal of the Highland
lassie. Her companion from childhood had been
young Donald of the clachan. The children had
grown up together from their earliest years, had
wandered among the bonnie heather braes, and sat
beside each other in the primitive school of the
glen, for years before either had known the meaning
of the word love. On stormy days, when winds
were high and the blinding snow-drift swept over
the glen, young Donald would wrap the pretty
child in his plaid, and though only two years her
senior, seemed to consider himself the guardian of
the mitherless bairn.

Thus years had passed away in all the innocent
attachment of childhood. When the hours for play
came, these children, instead of romping with the
others in the school, would wander to some sunny
brae and twine the purple heather in a necklet for
the fair white neck of the little Flora, or to deck
the blue bonnet of young Donald. Their natures
seemed formed in the same mould—calm loving
natures, cheerful and sunny, yet not impulsive, nor
boisterous, nor cruel. Years had fled without a
cloud to darken the sky of their young existence;
Flora had fulfilled the promise of her childhood,
and had grown in beauty both of person and mind.
Hers was the same innocent and loving nature that
had nestled in childhood beneath the plaid of the
young Donald, who had now grown to manhood.
A finer specimen of a young Highlander could not
be seen; strength, agility, comeliness, and the proud
bearing which is so native to the mountaineer,
were his; but the artless confidence of childhood
had been usurped by the deep strong power of love,
and they met with more reserve as time went on.

Flora’s father was proud of his only child, who
so reminded him of her mother, his first and only
love, that he had laid in the grave years ago.
Proud of the admiration and respect that his child
met with on all hands, he reasoned with himself
that it was his duty as a father to endeavour to get
his daughter to make a good match, which to his
idea was a wealthy one. He had liked Donald,
and encouraged him when they were children in
the care he took of young Flora. But Donald was
a shepherd, the only son of a widowed mother; and
why should any foolish feeling on the part of Flora
prevent her marrying some one of the well-to-do
farmers who had sought her hand?

It was a winter’s night; the fire was burning
brightly on the hearth; and Donald, who had been
spending the evening with them, had just left,
when the first shadow came over young Flora’s
life. Her father spoke words which went like
arrows to her heart, and brought tears to her
glorious eyes. Donald was forbidden to come to
the house again; and the name of a wealthy man
whose suit she had rejected, but who had again
asked her father for her hand, was pronounced
with the sternness of parental authority to be the
one he had selected for her future husband.

Flora loved her father, and at first only gazed
at him with a look of incredulity; but the words
were repeated, harsher and more stern than formerly.
The tears were gone; there was an expression
in Flora’s eyes, not of anger, but it spoke
volumes. She rose, kissed her father’s forehead,
and left the room.

Long hours passed ere sleep closed the tear-dimmed
eyes of young Flora. Her love, her duty to
her father on one side; her deep, pure, and virgin
love for young Donald on the other: hard fate to{684}
have to choose between. But the conflict was over;
her decision was made. She had been truthful as
the sun from childhood; and without thinking of it
perhaps, her father had asked her to swear a lie at
the altar of God, in pronouncing the marriage vows
to a man whom she did not even respect, when
her heart, her life, her love, were given to young
Donald. It could not be.

‘What am I to say to Errick of the Bracken
Braes, Flora?’ said her father, in his most winning
way, the following morning.

‘Tell him, I hae nae heart to gie him, and that
my heart and my hand gang thegither,’ was the
reply.

The Highlander swore an oath, and muttering
he would have his own way, left the sheeling.

Next day was Sunday, and Donald and Flora
met at the little chapel in the glen. He observed
that his lassie looked sad, and was even more
reserved than usual. ‘Meet me at the Eagles’
Cairn to-morrow, Donald, when I gang to milk the
goats; ye ken the hour;’ and with a smile she
passed on.

At the Eagles’ Cairn young Flora told her lover
the stern decree her father had made. ‘So ye
mustna be coming again, Donald,’ she said, struggling
in vain to hide her emotion.

At the Eagles’ Cairn there was a tableau: the
distant mountains, the murmuring burn, the goats
grouped around, and the collie dogs reposing
amongst the heather; in the centre a youth and a
maiden, his arm round her waist, her head resting
on his breast. The first kiss of love had been
given; their troth was plighted, and the fire-god
shone on the scene.

The standard of the Stuarts had been raised,
and the clans were marshalling to strike the most
chivalrous blow that was ever struck on behalf of
a fallen dynasty. Every sheeling was sending
forth its men capable of bearing arms; and with
heavy hearts, yet with all the pride of their race,
the Highland wives, mothers, and sweethearts
were placing the white cockade in the bonnets of
their darlings. Sad was the heart of young Flora
when Donald told her the news; she made his
white cockade in secret, and gave it to him with a
parting kiss at the Eagles’ Cairn the night before
that sad morning that saw all that was dear to her
in this world, her father and lover, march down
the glen.

Donald has asked Flora to take care of his
mother, now that she would be left alone; and she
had gone to live with the poor old widow, whose
heart was nearly broken; but she shed not a tear
as her handsome boy, arrayed in his tartan,
marched away to fight for bonnie Prince Charlie.

Donald’s Highland pride had felt bitterly the
conduct of Flora’s father, but for the sake of his
heart’s idol, he could not hate him. They fought
side by side in the first battle at which the
Highland army encountered the English forces.
At a critical period of the fight, Donald beheld the
stalwart form of Flora’s father engaged in a hand-to-hand
encounter with an English soldier; he had
little doubt of the result of the contest, and the
smoke that enveloped the scene hid them from his
sight; as it for a moment cleared away, he saw
the brave Highlander hard pressed by three of the
enemy, and he rushed to his assistance. Ere he
reached the scene of conflict, two of the English
soldiers were lying on the ground; but in giving
the blow that felled the second, the brave Highlander
had lost his footing; and before he could
recover himself, the third closed with him and
had him down. With a wild Highland yell,
Donald sprang forward like a tiger, and buried
his dirk between the shoulders of the English
soldier, as he was in the act of using the prostrate
Highlander’s dirk, while he firmly grasped
his throat with the right hand. It was the
work of a moment to hurl the dead soldier off
the Highlander; and Flora’s father sprang to his
feet, to recognise in the boy he had so harshly
treated, the saviour of his life. ‘Donald!’ he
exclaimed; but the brave boy had not waited for
thanks, but hurried on to join his clan, in pursuit
of the now routed and disorganised English army.

Time passed on, and Highland pride on both sides
had maintained the coldness that existed between
the two Highlanders. It was a lovely morning
when the two armies were again drawn up in
order of battle, eager for the coming fray; the
wild slogan of the bagpipe, the waving plumes, and
flowing tartans on the one side, and the serried
ranks and scarlet uniforms of the English army on
the other. Its tale has oft been told. The fight
was over; the impetuous charge of the Highlanders
had carried everything before it, and the English
army was in full retreat.

Beside a rude couch sat young Donald, who with
the exception of a sabre-cut on the shoulder, had
come scathless through that day of battle and victory.
Not so Flora’s father; he lay mortally
wounded, his handsome features pale, and his broad
chest heaving. He had clasped the boy’s hand in
his own, and spoke with difficulty: ‘Donald, forgive
me,’ he exclaimed. ‘I am wearing away: never shall
I see the bonnie glen and the sheeling, or clasp
again to my breast my ain dear lassie. Tell her
that my dying words were seeking forgiveness from
her, from you. Tell her that in health and strength,
I thought mair o’ riches than her happiness. God
forgive me! Tell her that you saved my life; I, the
wretch that would have wrecked both your young
lives for gold; I that was so harsh with you. O
Donald! tell her you gladdened the dying moments
of her father, and that he gave her to you, with a
dying man’s blessing, as freely as she gave herself.’
Here a spasm convulsed his paleness, and he ceased
from exhaustion. Donald sat with tear-dimmed
eyes; his heart was full, and his thoughts were far
away.

The dying Highlander’s lips moved; his voice for
a moment regained its old tone: ‘Tell them in the
glen that Alister died the proudest death a Highlander
can die—fighting for his chief, his Prince,
and Scotland.’ A slight tremor over his frame, and
the brave heart had ceased for ever.

We will not trace the varying fortunes of the
Highland army; the sun of Culloden had set in
disaster, the Prince was a wanderer, the clans
routed and dispersed.

A young Highlander, pale and haggard, with his
arm in a sling, was resting on a bed in the clachan;
an old woman counting her beads, and a young and
beautiful girl, were the only inmates of the room.
The sad tale of death and defeat had been told.
‘Yes, Flora,’ said young Donald (for he it was);
‘he gied ye to me on his death-bed. Will ye still
hae me?’ Young Flora’s lips pressed those of the
wounded soldier in reply. And Donald and Flora
parted no more, till Death called one away; but the{685}
parting was not for long—within three days Death
called the other. Stalwart lads and bonnie lasses
laid their parents beneath the old rowan-tree in
the glen, full of years, and mourned by the
country-side.

THE MONTH:

SCIENCE AND ARTS.

The usual holiday quiet has been animated by
news of the discovery that the planet Mars has
two moons—that a star in the constellation Cygnus
is changing into a nebula—that Mr Stanley has
made his way down the Congo to the sea—that
Sir William Thomson has invented a chemical
indicator which when attached to a sounding-line
will tell the depth without stopping the ship, and
that the ancient obelisk which has been talked
about from the beginning of the present century,
is at last on its way from Egypt to England. And
now the quiet time is over; for colleges, schools,
and hospitals have begun their scientific lectures;
the learned Societies are resuming their evening
meetings and discussions; the Royal Society have
given notice that applications for aid from the
funds for promotion of science voted by parliament
must be sent in before December 31; and soon the
men of philosophy and science will be as busy as
the men whose talk is of merchandise.

Planetary satellites are a characteristic of our
solar system, and now that the able astronomers at
Washington have shewn that Mars has two moons,
that mythological deity ceases to be exceptional.
Neither in rate of motion nor in distance from the
planet is there agreement between the two; for
we are informed by Mr Christie of the Greenwich
Observatory, that ‘the outer satellite revolves once
in less than a day and a quarter, and the inner
three and a quarter times in one day. The phenomena,’
he continues, ‘presented to an inhabitant
of Mars must be very remarkable, for the outer
satellite will remain above the horizon for two and
a half days and nights, and the inner will rise in
the west and set in the east twice in the course
of the night. The lunar method of determining
longitudes must be singularly easy with such a
rapidly moving satellite, which is equivalent to
the addition of a minute-hand to the celestial
clock, which in our case has to be read by the
hour-hand alone.’

Mr Christie tells us further that the two moons
have been seen by observers at Greenwich, Paris,
and other places; and he remarks, that if they
‘have been in existence for ages, it seems strange
they have not been discovered before, especially
at the opposition of 1862, when Mars approached
the earth as closely as this year; but it is naturally
much easier to see an object that has once been
found than to discover it independently. The
satellites must be much smaller than any of the
minor planets hitherto discovered. Can Mars have
picked up a couple of very large meteorites, which
have approached him closely?’

Leaving this question to the experts, we add, in
passing from the subject, that the orbital velocity
of one of the moons is seventy-nine miles a
minute; of the other, fifty miles; and that their
discovery has enabled astronomers to determine
the mass of Mars, and thus settle what has been to
them an important and long-standing problem.

As a reverse to this astronomical triumph, we
have to record the death of Le Verrier, an astronomer
pre-eminent among the astronomers of the
century, with such insight and such capacity for
work as have rarely been equalled. He will be
known through coming ages by his theory of the
motions of the planets, and the tables founded
thereon; for provided with these, astronomers all
over the world are enabled to carry on their work
with an accuracy hitherto unapproachable, and to
widen its application. France has lost one of her
greatest sons, and Science one of her most distinguished
elaborators; but he lives in his works,
and through them will continue to guide and
instruct the mariner, the astronomer, and the
physicist.

Mr Stanley’s exploit in turn settles an interesting
geographical question, for embarking on the
Lualaba, he followed that river down to the Congo,
and the Congo down to the sea. Thus the drainage
of the lake-region of Central Africa finds its way into
the Atlantic. The voyage proved fatal to some of
the party through conflict with hostile natives, and
accidents among the cataracts, which on the equator
impede navigation for a distance of thirteen miles.
The river is described as from two to ten miles
wide: it drains an area of one million four hundred
thousand square miles; and now with the Congo
and the Nile, Africa may claim two of the largest
rivers in the world.

It often happens in dark weather that the position
of a ship can be ascertained only by sounding;
and when near the land, the soundings should be
frequent if danger is to be avoided. But as the
depth cannot be accurately measured without
bringing the ship to a stand-still, the seaman is apt
to prefer risk to loss of time; and the consequence
is at times—a wreck. Sir William Thomson, to
whom navigation is indebted for an important
improvement in sounding apparatus, has recently
proved by experiment that by adding thereto a
chemical appliance the sounding may be taken
while the ship is in motion. This appliance consists
of a copper tube, attached to the lower end of
the sounding wire, and inclosing a slender glass
tube, and a small quantity of sulphate of iron.
As the tube descends, the pressure of the water
forces the sulphate into the glass tube: it leaves a
stain on the glass; and according to the height
of the stain, as indicated on a scale, such is the
depth of the water. We are informed that this
ingenious instrument has been tried on board the
Minotaur with satisfactory proof of its ‘absolute
accuracy and extreme handiness.’

H.M.S. Téméraire is appropriately named, for
she is big enough and heavy enough to do battle
with any antagonist that may venture to face her
in the Mediterranean, whither she is bound. The
engines are 7697 horse-power. No wonder that
the mighty vessel when under way pushes up a
ten-foot wave at her bow! The diameter of the
principal cylinders is seventy inches; of the crank
shaft, twenty-two inches; from which an idea may
be formed of the bulk of the ponderous mass. To
reduce the weight as much as possible, wrought-iron
and brass are largely used in the construction of
the engines and fittings, in place of cast-iron,
so that in the condensers there are more than
eleven thousand brass tubes, which make up a cooling
surface of fourteen thousand square feet. To
assist the movements and facilitate the working of{686}
this giant among war-ships, there are on board
thirty-four small engines, thus distributed: two
turning, two starting, four feed, two circulating,
four fan, two bilge, one capstan, one steering, four
pumping, four ashes lifters, two hydraulic gear
workers, one torpedo reservoir charger, one to work
the electric machine which feeds the lights on the
bridge, and four others. In all this there seems
something of complication; but we may hope that
everything will work well even in the worst of
weather, so that the ship may justify her name and
the merits of her builders.

The Iron and Steel Institute held their annual
meeting at Newcastle-on-Tyne, where, and in the
neighbourhood, the manufactures and other mechanical
operations abound in which the members
take most interest. That these are mines, coking
furnaces, brick-works, iron-works, and foundries,
may easily be imagined. One of the papers read
shewed that cast-steel could be produced without
compression, and as readily as cast-iron; which if
confirmed by further experiment, will prove of
great value in the manufacture of heavy cannon.

In a visit to Sir William Armstrong’s works at
Elswick, the members saw the welding of coils for
guns under the great steam-hammer, which weighs
thirty tons, and falls upon an anvil of one hundred
and twenty tons, with a stroke of twelve feet six
inches; and yet so perfect is the hydraulic moving
machinery, that it can be easily worked by one
man. The four cranes too by which the ponderous
masses of red-hot metal are lifted, are ‘under
the command of one man, who can sling them
right and left, or move the load up or down just as
he pleases without moving from his post.’ Another
example of what can be done by water was shewn
at the swing-bridge across the Tyne, which has
four spans of about one hundred feet each. The
portion which opens weighs fifteen hundred tons.
‘The hydraulic machinery for actuating it, is contained
in the hollow pier which forms the pivot on
which it turns. The pier is surmounted by a
watch-tower, in which are the levers for opening
and shutting the bridge. It takes just one minute
to swing the bridge from its closed position across
the river to the open one in line with the stream.’

Mechanists have pointed out that water-engines
use the same amount of water when merely driving
themselves (which is next to doing nothing) as
when exerting their entire power. If it be true
that there should be a proportion between the
amount of work and the quantity of water, this, as
we are informed, is provided for by Hastie and
Company of Greenock in an invention by means
of which an automatic lengthening or shortening
of the stroke of the engine takes place, in accordance
with the work to be done. No sooner does
the engine become, so to speak, aware of the
demand on its power, than it immediately adapts
itself thereto without external assistance.

To revert to the Institute: A description was
given of the coking coal-field of South Durham;
it is thirteen miles long by eleven miles wide, and
assists in supplying the present demand for fourteen
and a half million tons of coke yearly. At
one of the collieries there used to be a waste of
three hundred tons of coal every week; but now
by means of improved coking ovens, and intercepting
the waste heat, this loss is prevented. It is
found too that the large deposits of inferior coal
can be utilised, by crushing, washing, and then
coking: a very important fact, for there is in all
our coal-fields a large breadth of coal which has
been hitherto rejected as worthless, but which will
now be worked and converted into coke.

A paper was read which shews that ways are
opening for the utilisation of slag: it is now converted
into bricks, cement, mortar, concrete, glass,
and cotton or wool. This wool is an excellent
material for covering boilers and pipes to prevent
waste of heat. Four million bricks have been
made, which looks promising.

The Journal of the Institute contains descriptions
of machinery with which we may fitly
supplement the foregoing: At Smethwick near
Birmingham, there is a screw-factory which, with
its clever mechanical contrivances, is something to
wonder at. All the sizes of screws used in carpentry
and cabinet-making are made of iron wire
chopped into lengths, and shaped in a series of
self-acting machines. A blow on one end forms
a head, which is speedily turned true in a revolving
chuck, the nick is cut by a small circular saw,
a revolving jaw then seizes the head, and the
‘worm’ or screw is turned in a twinkling; and in
this way half a million screws an hour are produced.
This seems almost incredible; but the
screwing-shed alone covers nearly an acre and
a half, and contains two thousand machines. These
being self-acting, five or six can be kept going
by one woman.

Another example from the same source shews
the application of machinery to soft goods and
tailoring: At a wholesale clothing establishment
in Leeds, more than a thousand hands and three
hundred sewing-machines are employed. The
cutting-out is done by means of knife-machines
driven by steam, which cut through thirty-five
layers of thick or a hundred and twenty layers
of thin cloth at once, the pattern being marked
on the topmost piece. The pile, as is stated, is
manipulated around the knife-blade, just as a
block of wood is moved when being cut by a band-saw.
Pressing-machines heated by gas are used
in place of the old tailor’s goose, and as they are
worked by a treadle, the workman’s hands are
at liberty to guide the heated iron over the seams.

As our readers know, experiments with continuous
brakes for railway trains have been made in
England and America. We now learn from a
published Report that similar experiments have
been made in Germany, and that generally preference
is given to the Westinghouse brake. All
other things being equal, that must be the best
brake which will stop a train within the shortest
distance, and that this is done by the Westinghouse
appears to be clearly established. This
brake has been adopted for the state railways by
the Belgian government; and that the question
should be settled without delay is regarded as
essential in all the countries where it has been
tried. The Board of Trade in a recent Report
take an unusually decided tone on this point. As
the Times remarks: ‘They not only constantly refer
to continuous brakes as the great railway want
of the day, but they also lay down, for the first
time, the qualities which a continuous brake ought
to possess. The chief of these are instantaneous
action when applied either by driver or guard,
automatic action, regular use in daily work, and
uniformity upon different lines, so that when
vehicles from one line are connected with the{687}
trains of another the same brake-power may be
available for both.’ We are further informed that
the Board have sent a circular to the railway
companies with intimation that the sooner the
requirements implied in the foregoing description
are put into practice the better will it be for all
concerned. There is common-sense in this: it
will be read with satisfaction by all who travel by
railway.

Social Science this year ventured into a high
latitude, and held its Congress at Aberdeen, where
the usual endeavours were made to promote health,
wealth, and morality, which includes law. A
paper read by Mr Caird on ‘Economy and Trade,’
chiefly as regards agriculture, will comfort those
timid folk who are always looking for that
troublous time when all our foreign supply of
‘bread-stuffs’ shall be cut off. ‘We grow at
present,’ he said, ‘nearly one million acres less
wheat than we did twenty years ago. We have
only to revert to the acreage of 1856 to meet
such a deficiency as would be caused by all
Europe being shut against us. And beyond that,
we possess in our immense breadth of pasture-land
a never-failing resource of stored-up agricultural
power, which could be at once applied to the
production of corn, if from any circumstance that
course became at the same time necessary and
profitable.’

Mr Edwin Chadwick, a veteran among sanitary
reformers, read papers on Cleanliness and Health
and on ‘House Accommodation,’ which deserve
wide diffusion and careful consideration. But it
may be said of these, as well as of many other
topics brought forward for discussion, that ‘it is
better to be in possession of a few important
principles than a host of facts; then reflection and
reason have elbow-room, and are not hampered
and brought to a dead-lock, by cramming a disorganised
mass of knowledge into the brain.’

Mr H. C. Russell, government astronomer for
New South Wales, has published a descriptive,
historical, and tabular account of the climate of
that colony in an octavo volume of more than
two hundred pages, with a map and diagrams.
Although the colony is not yet a hundred years
old, Mr Russell has been unable to fill up the gaps
which unfortunately exist in the record of its winds
and weather; but his book is interesting and valuable
nevertheless. He discusses the whole range
of meteorological phenomena; he tells us about
the hot winds and where they come from; about
thunder and hail-storms; about lakes, floods, and
tides; about droughts; about the rains, and why they
vary; and about the great swarms of moths which
at times come in clouds and infest miles of country.
In his description of the physical characteristics
of New South Wales, he gives particulars which
will be quite new and perhaps surprising to many
readers. ‘Within the colony,’ he says, ‘may be
found all climates, from the cold of Kiandra, where
the thermometer sometimes falls eight degrees
below zero, and frost and snow hold everything in
wintry bonds for months at a stretch, and where
upwards of eight feet of snow sometimes falls in a
single month, to the more than tropical heat and
extreme dryness of our inland plains, where frost is
never seen, and the thermometer in summer often
for days together reads from one hundred to one
hundred and sixteen degrees, and sometimes in hot
winds reaches one hundred and thirty degrees, and
where the average annual rainfall is only twelve
to thirteen inches, and sometimes nil for a whole
year.’ Clearly there is more scope than was
thought for settlers who like ‘bracing weather.’
In discussing the observations, Mr Russell is of
opinion that a periodicity, or a tendency to cycles
of phenomena, is discoverable.

How to prevent famine, will be for some time to
come a very serious question in India; and while
charity seeks to palliate the misery, science is
trying to discover the laws of the rainfall, and
to devise means of storing large supplies of water
against seasons of drought. Examples are not
wanting. More than a thousand years ago one of
the kings of Ceylon erected a tank, Kanthalai, on a
scale so enormous, that were it to be built now
it would cost a million sterling. This tank is to be
repaired and made available for irrigation. In
another district the tank of Kalowewa was twelve
miles long and thirty miles in circumference,
inclosed by embankments sixty feet in height,
and was kept full by two rivers which flowed into
it from the hills. In the district of Manaar the
Giant’s tank offers a further resource, and makes
us aware of the pains taken by the natives to
secure a sufficient water-supply in former ages. If
India has not tanks enough for her wants, they
must be built, for periodical famines are an opprobrium
to Christian civilisation.

As regards Ceylon, we learn from an address
delivered by Sir W. H. Gregory, the governor, that
great improvements have been made in that fertile
island: jungle and swamp have been converted
into rice-fields or lakes: in Kandy there is a
constant water-supply: fountains are set up in the
villages: laws are in force for preservation of the
forests, of the deer, buffalo, and elephant: the
pearl-oyster, after some years’ disappearance, has
returned to the shores: a breakwater is in course
of building which will convert the open roadstead
of Colombo into a safe harbour, accessible to large
ships at all seasons, and it is thought that in time
Ceylon will become the great free port of the
East.

Pitury is a stimulant said to be of marvellous
power, and known to be used by the aborigines
of Central Australia; but its origin has hitherto
remained undiscovered. Last February, however,
after vainly endeavouring for many years to obtain
a specimen of the plant, Baron Ferdinand von
Müller, Director of the Botanical Gardens at Melbourne,
succeeded in getting some leaves; and after
careful microscopic examination, he has shewn that
they are derived from the Duboisia Hopwoodii, which
he described in 1861. This bush extends from
the Darling River and Barcoo to West Australia,
through desert scrubs, but is of exceedingly sparse
occurrence anywhere. In fixing the origin of the
pitury, a wide field for further inquiry is opened
up, inasmuch as a second species of Duboisia,
extends in the forest-lands from the neighbourhood
of Sydney to near Cape York, and has also
been traced in New Caledonia, and more recently
in New Guinea. In all probability the latter
shares the properties of the former, as Baron von
Müller finds that they both have the same burning
acrid taste. The natives of Central Australia
chew the leaves of the pitury, just as the Peruvians
and Chilians masticate those of the coca, to invigorate
themselves during their long foot-journeys
through the deserts. Baron von Müller is not{688}
certain whether the aborigines of all districts in
which the pitury grows are really aware of its
stimulating power; but those living near the
Barcoo travel many days’ journey to obtain this, to
them, precious foliage, which they always carry
about with them, broken into small fragments and
tied up in little bags. The blacks use the pitury
to excite their courage in warfare, and a large dose
has the effect of infuriating them. It is by no
means improbable that experiments may shew that
by this discovery a new and perhaps important
medicinal plant has been gained.

A STRANGE PAIR.

About half-way between Martinsville and Liberty
Corner, Pennsylvania, hidden from inquisitive eyes
by tall trees and dense-growing shrubs, stands a
neatly built house of ancient date; the home of
a pair of lovers of a quiet life, who, the world
forgetting, by the world forgot, have dwelt there
in a semi-hermit way for nigh upon forty years.

Samuel and Joseph Pooley, brothers in mind as
well as in blood, claim kindred on their mother’s
side with one of England’s wealthiest nobles, and
boast direct descent paternally from a follower of
the Norman, who settled in Kent. In 1828 they
set up in business together in New York; and in
the same year Samuel, the elder of the two,
coming over to England, fell in love with a beautiful
girl, and wooed and won her; at least it was
settled that she should become Mrs Pooley so soon
as the success of the New York establishment was
assured. A second visit to the old country in
1834 proved less happy in result. Samuel was
not prepared to take a bride home with him;
and tired of living upon hope deferred, the lady
declared off; and not very long afterwards put the
renewal of the engagement beyond possibility by
marrying a readier suitor.

From that time Samuel Pooley became another
man. The brisk man of business, the ardent
politician, the lively companion, lost all liking for
society, politics, and trade. His brother sympathised
with his altered mood; and when, a few
years later, a legacy fell to them, they resolved to
retire far from the busy city and its restless
crowd, and live as men whom man delighted not,
nor women either.

Four thousand dollars made the Pennsylvanian
homestead and its hundred and five acres their
own; and there they have abided ever since, never,
except when necessity compelled, finding their
way even so far as the neighbouring village.
Twenty years ago a sister-in-law spent a day or two
at the farm; but from that time to this no woman’s
foot has crossed its threshold. A New York
reporter describes Joseph Pooley as a ruddy-complexioned
merry man, with large round wide-open
eyes, a long pointed white beard, and
snow-white locks bristling up nearly three inches
from his scalp. Samuel, better known as ‘the
Squire,’ is seventy-three years old—two years older
than his brother, and not so stoutly built. He
sports a short tuft of iron-gray beard, jutting out
abruptly between his chin and throat.

As the inquisitive caller came upon the pair
enjoying the cool evening air in the garden, the
raggedness of their raiment struck him as something
simply perfect. Joseph was arrayed in a woollen
shirt (or rather enough of one to suggest what it once
had been), a considerable portion of a jacket, and a
very fair representation of the leading features of a
pair of pantaloons; a pair of stout shoes and a
gray felt hat of no particular shape completing his
costume. As to the Squire’s outfit, the facilities for
ventilation were even greater than those enjoyed
by his brother. His skin gleamed through innumerable
rips and rents, to the great convenience of
the mosquitoes, which he did not seem to notice;
and his black felt hat was a more antique effort
of the hatter’s art than the gray one decking
Joseph’s head.

‘It is unjust to say of them,’ writes the note-taking
visitor, ‘as some do say, that they have not
washed their faces or hands for ten years; they
wash themselves when they feel like doing it. But
seeing them, one would not find it difficult to
believe that they had not felt like it for five years.
At all events, this does not seem to be their year
for ablutions.’

The consumption of water at the hermitage is
not calculated to cause a scarcity of that article.
‘On the table were standing a number of dishes
of coarse yellow and blue and white delf, which
had evidently just been used for supper. They
always stand there, and they always have evidently
just been used. Dish-washing is looked upon as a
superfluous frivolity and waste of exertion. If
perchance a sudden freak takes one of the hermits,
just as he is sitting down to eat, that he would
like to put on a little extra style, he wipes his plate
with a bunch of grass or a piece of paper. But
they are men of settled habits and seldom have
freaks.’ These Pennsylvanian disciples of Zimmerman
would be at home among the dirt-loving
Eastern Christians, whose domestic arrangements
lately wrung from a special correspondent the
declaration, that he would rather dine off a Turkish
floor than a Bulgarian plate.

Like recluses in general, the Pooleys seem to be
physically none the worse for contemning cleanliness,
being troubled with fewer infirmities than
most men at their time of life; while, unlike the
common run of solitarians, they have kept their
mental faculties in working order by the constant
use of a first-rate collection of books, their library
counting up eight hundred volumes. Neither
miserly by nature, nor compelled to be so by
poverty, they are by no means anchorites; and if
they do go raggedly clad, it is not from economical
motives, but because they are comfortable in their
tatters, and have no reason to study appearances,
since those who know them care not how they are
dressed; and for the opinion of those who do not
know them they care nothing.

Said Joseph to the New Yorker: ‘It may seem
strange to you that we should exile ourselves in
this way from the life of the big town, after such a
busy life as ours used to be; but I assure you we
see enough of life to content us here. The life of
the birds, the bees, the waving branches over our
heads, the flowers blooming about us, and the grass
beneath our feet—all these fill our hearts with
a quiet content; and here we are truly happy.’
It is something to know that two men in the
world have succeeded in attaining this degree
of contentment, though not quite to be generally
admired.