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[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 148.—VOL. III.      SATURDAY, OCTOBER 30, 1886.      PRICE 1½_d._]




THE MATTERHORN, AND ITS VICTIMS.


The Matterhorn, or Mont Cervin, a peak of the Pennine Alps, fourteen
thousand seven hundred and eighty feet high, is unique amongst the
mountains of the Alps, for elsewhere throughout their length and
breadth there is no single peak that approaches to it in massive
grandeur of shape. Standing alone, apart from the neighbouring peaks,
holding itself proudly aloof, as it were, from the common herd, it is
truly a monarch among mountains. To look upon it is to realise at once
the feeling of awe and reverence with which, even to this day, the
peasants of the valley regard it—a feeling which in former years had
perhaps more to do with its reputed inaccessibility than anything else;
whilst other peaks whose ascent is now thought to be more difficult,
were falling one by one before the early pioneers of the Alpine Club.
In that time—with very few exceptions—even the boldest hunters of
Zermatt and the Val Tournanche shrank from attempting the ascent, for
time-honoured legends said that the Matterhorn was haunted, that evil
spirits made it their trysting-place; and when the storm raged high,
and the lightning played about its crags, danced and shrieked around
it in unholy glee. Then, too, the Matterhorn has a history of its own,
such as no other mountain save Mont Blanc possesses.

Every one who has read Mr Whymper’s _Scrambles amongst the Alps_—a book
which has probably done more to stimulate the love of climbing than
any written before or since—knows how he alone—when other mountaineers
tried and failed, coming back always with the same tale, that the
summit was inaccessible—persisted that it could be reached; and how,
though driven back many and many a time, he refused to accept defeat,
till at length, after an expenditure of time and money which some
would deem completely thrown away in such a cause, his indomitable
perseverance met with its due reward. As Mr Whymper’s adventures in
connection with the ascent of the Matterhorn have been already related
in this _Journal_ under the title ‘Ascent of the Matterhorn,’ January
10, 1880, we need only refer to them here in so far as is necessary for
the sequence of the narrative.

There were several attempts made to ascend the Matterhorn previous
to 1858; but the first known were those of the four Val Tournanche
guides—Jean Antoine Carrel, J. J. Carrel, Victor Carrel, Gabriel
Maquignaz, with the Abbé Gorret, in that and in the following year.
These attempts were all made on the Italian side, from Breuil; and
it does not appear that at any time a greater height than twelve
thousand six hundred and fifty feet was attained. Very little definite
information, however, has ever been obtainable on the subject.

The next attempt of which we have record was a remarkable one, for
it was made by three brothers, the Messrs Parker of Liverpool, _and
without guides_. The attempt was made in 1860 from Zermatt, and these
daring climbers attacked the eastern face, looked upon at that time as
quite beyond the powers of any human being to climb. They succeeded
in ascending to a height of some twelve thousand feet, and were then
driven back by bad weather. In the same year, another attempt was made
from Breuil by Professor Tyndall and Mr Vaughan Hawkins, with the
guides J. J. Carrel and Bennen; but they did not make much advance upon
what had been done during the attempts of the Val Tournanche guides;
and it is doubtful if a greater height than thirteen thousand feet was
reached.

In 1861, the Messrs Parker tried again, but did not succeed in getting
much higher than they did in the previous year; while on the Italian
side, the two Carrels, J. A. and J. J., made another attempt, which was
unsuccessful.

Then began the attempts of Mr Whymper, and from that moment until
the last successful expedition, with two exceptions, his name was
associated with all the attempts that were made upon the mountain. The
two exceptions were those of Mr T. S. Kennedy and of Professor Tyndall
in 1862. The first was unique, as having been made in the winter—on
the 7th of January. Mr Kennedy seems to have thought that the ascent
might prove practicable in winter, if not in summer; but his experience
was a severe one. A fierce wind, bitter cold, and a superabundance
of snow, prevented his getting very far; and, like all the rest, he
returned completely discomfited. The attempt of Professor Tyndall on
the Italian side, in July of that year, was perhaps the nearest to
success of any that had yet been made. He had two celebrated Swiss
guides with him, Bennen and Walter; and he also took, but only as
porters, three Val Tournanche men, of whom J. A. Carrel was one. This
expedition was only stopped when within eight hundred feet of the top.
Professor Tyndall came back so deeply impressed with the difficulties
surrounding the ascent, that he made no effort to renew his attempt.
In fact, he does not appear to have gone on the mountain again till he
ascended it in 1868, three years after the first ascent had been made.
Professor Tyndall’s want of success appears in great measure to have
been due to the jealousy existing between the guides of the two rival
nationalities, Swiss and Italian.

The first attempt by Mr Whymper was made from Breuil on the 29th of
August 1861, the same day as the attempt by the two Carrels. Mr Whymper
was accompanied by an Oberland guide, who proved a somewhat inefficient
companion; and they failed to get higher than the ‘Chimney,’ twelve
thousand six hundred and fifty feet above the sea-level. He made other
five attempts in 1862, one in 1863, and two in 1865. In the ninth and
last, he was successful.

In Mr Whymper’s ninth and successful attempt the united party
consisted of Lord Francis Douglas, Mr Hudson, Mr Hadow—a friend of Mr
Hudson’s—and the guides Michel Croz and the two Taugwalders, father and
son. They started from Zermatt on July 13, 1865, and camped out above
the Hörnli ridge. The weather was fine and with everything in their
favour, next day, they climbed with ease the apparently inaccessible
precipices, and reached the actual summit at 1.40 P.M.

In the account of the expedition which Mr Whymper has given to the
world, he graphically describes the wild delight which they all felt
at a success so much beyond their hopes, and how for a full hour they
sat drinking-in the sweets of victory before preparing to descend.
It is almost needless to re-tell a story which we have previously
related, and which is so well known as the terrible tragedy which took
place during the descent—how Mr Hadow slipped, struck Croz from his
steps, and dragged down Mr Hudson and Lord Francis Douglas; how the
rope snapped midway between Lord Francis Douglas and old Taugwalder;
and how Mr Whymper and the two Taugwalders watched, horrified, whilst
their unfortunate companions slid rapidly downwards, spreading out
their hands in a vain endeavour to save themselves, till they finally
disappeared over the edge of the precipice, falling a distance of four
thousand feet on to the glacier below! The bodies of Messrs Hudson,
Hadow, and Croz were subsequently recovered, and now lie buried in the
graveyard of the Zermatt village church; but of Lord Francis Douglas,
nothing could be seen. Beyond a boot, a pair of gloves, and the torn
and bloodstained sleeve of a coat, no trace of him has ever since been
found. What became of his body is to this day a mystery.

It is strange how the memory of this the most dramatic—if it may be
so termed—of all the accidents which have ever happened in the Alps
is still indelibly impressed on the minds of climbers, guides, and
amateurs alike. It is the commonest thing to hear it discussed, and the
theories put forward as to the cause of the rope giving way where it
did are various and ingenious. Unfortunately for the reputation of old
Taugwalder, the report of the official investigation held by the local
authorities after the accident has never to this day been made public.
As a consequence, old Taugwalder has suffered irretrievably from a
report mischievously circulated by his fellow-villagers to the effect,
that at the moment of the slip, he sacrificed his companions to save
himself, by severing the rope! And in spite of Mr Whymper’s assertions
that the thing was impossible, there are some who still persist in
maintaining that he cut it. The suspicion under which he laboured so
preyed upon his spirits that he quitted the scene, and for many years
never returned to his native village. The younger Taugwalder became one
of the leading guides of the valley.

Thrice again has the Matterhorn been the scene of death in a terrible
form. In 1879, the mountain claimed two more victims. In the one case,
an American, Dr Moseley, disregarding the most ordinary precautions,
slipped and perished horribly, falling a height of some two thousand
feet, on to some rocks a little way down the Furggen Glacier. Dr
Moseley, accompanied by Mr Craven and the well-known Oberland guides,
Christian Inäbnit and Peter Rubi, left Zermatt on the night of August
13, with the intention of making a one-day ascent of the Matterhorn.
Both gentlemen were members of the Alpine Club, and mountaineers
of considerable experience. The summit was reached successfully at
nine o’clock on the morning of the 14th; and after a short halt, the
descent was commenced. Dr Moseley, who was a skilful rock-climber,
and possessed of great confidence in his own climbing powers, soon
after passing the most difficult bit of the mountain, complained
that the rope was a considerable hindrance; and notwithstanding the
remonstrances of Mr Craven and the guides, insisted on detaching
himself from the other members of the party. At some little distance
from the old hut, the party had to cross a projecting ledge of smooth
rock. Rubi crossed first, and planted his axe so as to give Dr Moseley
a firm foothold; but Dr Moseley, declining the proffered assistance,
placed his hand upon the rock and endeavoured to vault over it. In an
instant, his foot slipped, his axe flew out of his hand, and he fell
on to some snow beneath, down which he commenced to slide on his back.
The snow was frozen, and he dropped on to some rocks below. With a
desperate effort, he turned himself round and tried to grasp the rocks
with his hands; but the impetus attained was too great, and he fell
from rock to rock till lost to his companions’ sight. The body was
subsequently recovered; and from the terrible nature of the fall, death
must have ensued long before the bottom was reached.

Here was a case of a valuable life absolutely thrown away, for, had Dr
Moseley remained on the rope, the accident would never have happened.
It was the same over-confidence that cost the life of the Rev. J.
M. Elliott on the Schreckhorn, and it is to be feared will cost the
lives of others yet, if the warning conveyed by the fall of these
two accomplished mountaineers continues to be disregarded. There was
another circumstance, too, which had a bearing on the accident, and
which is an additional proof of a want of carefulness on the part of
the unfortunate man—his boots were found, on examination, to be almost
entirely devoid of nails, and were, therefore, practically useless for
mountaineering purposes.

In the other case, a death occurred under circumstances which are
happily without a parallel in the annals of mountaineering. Two
members of the Basle section of the Swiss Alpine Club—a body in no
way connected with our own Alpine Club—engaged three guides—J. M.
Lochmatter and Joseph Brantschen, both of St Nicolas, and P. Beytrison
of Evolena—to take them over the Matterhorn from Breuil to Zermatt.
They left the first-named place on the morning of August 12, and in the
afternoon reached the hut which the Italian Alpine Club have built at
an elevation of some thirteen thousand feet, amidst the wildest crags
of the Matterhorn, intending to sleep there, and cross the mountain
to Zermatt in the course of the following day. During the night, the
guide Brantschen was taken ill, and by morning had become so weak
as to be quite unable to move. Now, under these circumstances, it
might have been supposed that Brantschen would have been the first
consideration; but the two Swiss gentlemen thought otherwise. Instead
of at once abandoning the expedition, and sending down for help to
Breuil, after a brief consultation they announced to Lochmatter their
intention of proceeding to Zermatt, and ordered him and Beytrison to
get ready to start. They were conscious of the fact that Brantschen
had become dangerously ill, and appear to have demurred at first, but
weakly gave in on their employers insisting. A blanket was thrown over
the sick man, a little food placed beside him, and then the party filed
out of the hut, and the door was shut. It is possible that in their
leaving Brantschen they were scarcely alive to the consequences of
their act; it is to be hoped, at all events, that they were not; but
from the moment that the hut was left, they deliberately condemned the
sick man to at least thirty-six hours of absolute solitude. In fact,
by the adoption of this course, the nearest succour—at the pace of the
party—was nineteen and a half hours off, whereas Breuil would have been
only eight. They crossed the mountain safely, but being bad walkers,
did not reach Zermatt till half-past one the following morning. They
then caused a relief party of guides to be sent out; but it was too
late. On reaching the hut, the unfortunate man was found to be dead.
The conduct of his employers did not escape criticism both at home and
abroad.

There have been accidents on the Matterhorn since 1879; but although in
more than one instance there has been a narrow escape, only once has
any further life been sacrificed.

Within a few days of the first ascent of the Matterhorn, on July 18,
1865, J. A. Carrel and Bich succeeded in reaching the summit from the
Italian side, by a feat of rock-climbing scarcely equalled for daring
in the annals of mountaineering. Since then, ascents of the Matterhorn
have multiplied year by year; but for every one ascent by the Italian
route, there must be twenty at least by the Zermatt. In fact, the
former route is scarcely adapted for any but good mountaineers. The
Matterhorn has also been climbed from the Zmutt side; but this route
has never become popular. The first traveller to ascend the Matterhorn
from Breuil was Mr F. Craufurd Grove, the present President of the
Alpine Club; and of other remarkable ascents may be mentioned those of
Miss Walker, accompanied by her brother and Mr Gardiner—Miss Walker
being the first lady to climb the Matterhorn—of the Misses Pigeon, who
were weather-bound for three days in the hut on the Italian side; and
in descending to Zermatt, after crossing the summit, were benighted,
and had to remain on the open mountain-side till daybreak; of Messrs
Cawood, Colgrove, and Cust, who made the ascent from Zermatt without
guides; of the ill-fated expeditions in which the lives of Dr Moseley,
the guide Brantschen, and Mr Borckhardt were lost; and of Mr Mummery
and the late Mr Penhall, who each discovered a new route from the Zmutt
side.

The Matterhorn has likewise been ascended in the winter; as the writer
can assert from experience, having accomplished the feat—such as it
was—in the days when it had not become the everyday affair that it is
now. With two guides, one of whom was the well-known Joseph Imboden
of St Nicolas, I arrived at Zermatt one fine afternoon in August,
resolved upon a one-day ascent of the Matterhorn. A start was to be
made at midnight; and soon after that hour, we were picking our way
over the stones which paved the deserted village street in the darkness
of a moonless night. Leaving the village behind us, we commenced to
ascend through the meadows beyond the village, Imboden leading, and
never for a moment pausing, although, in that uncertain light, it was
difficult to distinguish a track of any kind. We reached the barren
Hörnli Ridge, and as we commenced to traverse it, the sky grew lighter
with the dawn of day. We were close to the foot of the Matterhorn now,
and it loomed upon us, towering high into the sky, and seeming to my
eyes one mighty series of precipices from base to summit. There was a
solemn grandeur about the scene which seemed even to have its influence
upon my companion, for not a word was spoken as we strode on towards
the mountain. But when once we were upon the rock itself, I found that
the difficulties which I had pictured to myself as likely to arise had
little existence in fact; the series of precipices resolved themselves
into a rocky surface, much broken, and yielding capital hand and foot
hold everywhere. The incline, too, was very much less steep than it
had appeared at a distance. No difficulty indeed presented itself;
and climbing upwards rapidly, in two hours from the Hörnli we were at
the hut which in those days was generally made use of for passing the
night previous to an ascent. This hut is built beneath the shelter
of an overhanging cliff, on a narrow rock platform, and its position
does not give one an idea of security. It is cramped, and when I saw
it, was very dirty, and indeed looked altogether so uninviting, that
I congratulated myself on having avoided a night in it. We found the
stove useful, though, for cooking our breakfast. This hut has now been
superseded by a larger building, erected lower down the mountain. We
finished our breakfast, and set out once more.

Hitherto, the work had been quite easy; but now came something stiffer,
our first experience being on an ice-slope at an angle of perhaps
forty-five degrees, overhanging the route by which we had ascended,
and by which, had any false step been made, we should have returned
somewhat hastily. A party that had gone up the day before spared us
any step-cutting, for they had done their work so satisfactorily that
quite a staircase remained for our use. We reached the top of the
slope in safety; a knife-edge of snow led us to the right, and almost
immediately we found ourselves upon the most difficult bit of the
mountain, the northern face. Rounding the edge of the mountain, you
look down, and below you, the face of the cliff falls away steeply,
till it terminates in a drop of three thousand feet or more. Above,
rises perpendicularly almost a succession of knobs of rock, overlapping
one another, and more or less coated with snow and ice. The position
may be rendered exciting enough to please any one by the addition of
one or two incompetent individuals to the party.

Our progress was slow but steady. Imboden would scan the face of the
cliff, climb up a few feet, and when firmly fixed, call to me to
follow, the operation then being repeated with the second guide. We
sighted the summit at fifteen minutes past eight; and in less than two
hours after leaving the hut we were on the highest point. The summit
varies much, differing in shape with each successive season; and when
we were there, it was a ridge of snow, narrow in places, broader in
others, though nowhere was it possible to walk three abreast. We had a
glorious view; but in this respect the Matterhorn is perhaps inferior
to some of its neighbours, notably to Monte Rosa and the Dom.

During the descent, Imboden exercised even greater care, and we
reached the hut again safely. From there, we made our way leisurely
down to Zermatt, where we arrived soon after three o’clock in the
afternoon, after an unusually quick ascent, thanks to the splendid
weather and the easy state of the northern face, which, while it cost
us only two hours, has sometimes given a party seven hours or more of
hard work. On the way down, Imboden pointed out to me two blanched
fragments of rope trailing from the rocks far up on the northern face.
They were left there by Mr Whymper after the accident, and marked the
spot close by where it occurred. There they remained as cherished
relics till last year, when a traveller sent his guide to cut them down
and bring them away. It is sad to think that it was an Englishman who
was guilty of this wanton act.

As far as the actual ascent of the Matterhorn goes, it is far from
being the formidable affair which it was once considered to be; but at
the same time it is certainly not an expedition to be recommended to
every one. It is not that the ascent is dangerous in itself, though
some may have their own opinion about that, but it cannot be too
strongly insisted on that, under certain conditions, it ought not to
be attempted. Every experienced climber knows how weather can affect
a mountain, and how ascents which, under ordinary conditions, are
easy enough, are apt after bad weather to become difficult—sometimes
impossible; and for a party of novices, with possibly guides not of the
best class, to attempt the Matterhorn in a bad state is to run a risk
such as no one in the pursuit of pleasure is justified in running.

The latest accident upon the Matterhorn, up to date of writing, has
perhaps more than any other Alpine accident illustrated the folly of
attempting great mountains without a proper mountaineering training
beforehand. On the morning of the 17th of August, at three A.M., a
party, consisting of Messrs F. C. Borckhardt and T. Davies, with
Zermatt guides, Peter Aufdemblatten and Fridolin Kronig, left the
lower Matterhorn hut, and in fine weather reached the summit about
nine A.M. Soon after leaving it, the weather, with one of those sudden
changes which must always more or less constitute a danger in Alpine
climbing, became very bad, and it began to snow. The progress of the
party was very slow, for neither of the two gentlemen seems to have
been a good walker, and both were exhausted; and by seven o’clock that
same evening they had only reached the spot near where Dr Moseley made
his fatal slip. Here they halted. It continued to snow all that night
and till past noon on the following day, by which time travellers
and guides were reduced to a pitiable condition. And now comes the
saddest part of the story. Of the party, Mr Borckhardt was by this time
the most helpless, and as such, ought to have received the greatest
consideration; but the guides persuaded Mr Davies that the only chance
of saving their own lives was to leave their helpless companion, and
make a push to the nearest point whence help could be obtained. At
that moment, it so happened that a rescue party was on its way from
Zermatt, and they met it about half-way down to the hut. On hearing of
the abandonment of Mr Borckhardt on the open mountain-side, the relief
party pushed on to his aid with all haste; but it was of no avail; they
only arrived to find that the unfortunate gentleman was past all human
help.




BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.


CHAPTER X.

Besides the consolation of recovering the precious insignia, the spice
of romance in the affair appealed to Le Gautier’s natural sentiment.
He might, it may be thought, have had something similar made; but it
must be remembered that he had no fac-simile in his possession; and he
knew, or suspected, that the coin bore private marks known only to the
Supreme Three. At all hazards, therefore, the device must be recovered,
and perhaps a little pleasant pastime enjoyed in addition.

After long cogitation, Le Gautier decided to keep the appointment,
and, in accordance with this determination, walked to Charing Cross
the following night. He loitered along the broad stone platform for
some time till the clock struck nine, idly speculating upon the
people hurrying to and fro, and turning over the books and papers on
the bookstall. At a few minutes after the hour he looked up at the
clock, and then down again, and his heart beat a shade more quickly,
for there, standing by the swinging door leading to the first-class
waiting-room, was a long cloaked figure, closely veiled. Walking
carelessly in the direction, and approaching, he looked at his watch as
he muttered: ‘Past nine—no sign of the Eastern Eagle.’

By way of answer, the mysterious stranger raised her hand to the clasp
of her cloak, and there, in the centre of the fastening, was a gold
moidore.

Le Gautier’s eyes glistened as he noticed this. ‘You wish to see me?’
he said at length. ‘I must thank you for’——

‘If your name is Le Gautier,’ she interrupted, ‘I do want to say a few
words to you.—Am I right, sir?’

Le Gautier bowed, thinking that, if the face matched the voice and
figure, he had a treasure here.

‘This is no place to discuss this matter. If you can suggest any place
where we can hold a few minutes’ conversation, I shall be obliged.’

Le Gautier mused a moment; he had a good knowledge of London, but
hesitated to take a lady to any place so late. The only suggestion
he could make was the Embankment; and apparently this suited his
companion, for, bowing her head, she took the proffered arm, walked out
from the station, down Villiers Street, and so on to the waterside. Le
Gautier noticed how the fingers on his arm trembled, attributing this
to natural timidity, never dreaming that the emotion might be a warmer
one. He began to feel at home now, and his tongue ran on accordingly.
‘Ah! how good of you,’ he exclaimed, pressing the arm lying in his own
tenderly—‘how angelic of you to come to my aid! Tell me how you knew I
was so rash, so impetuous?’

‘Men who carry their lives in their hands always are,’ Isodore replied.
‘The story does not need much telling. I was in the Kursaal at the
time, and had my eyes on you. I saw you detach the insignia from your
watchchain; I saw you hand it to a woman to stake; in short, I can put
my hand upon it now.’

‘My protector, my guardian angel!’ Le Gautier cried rapturously; and
then, with a sudden prosaic touch, added: ‘Have you got it with you?’

Isodore hesitated. If he could only have seen the smile behind the
thick dark veil which hid the features so tantalisingly!

‘I have not your insignia with me,’ she said; ‘that I must give you at
some future time, not now. Though I am alarmed for you, I cannot but
admire your reckless audacity.’

‘I thought perhaps you might,’ Le Gautier observed in a disappointed
tone, and glancing at the clasp of his companion’s cloak.

‘That is mine,’ she explained, noting his eager look. ‘I do not part
with it so recklessly as you. I, too, am one of you, as you see. Ah,
Monsieur le Gautier, how truly fortunate your treasure fell into a
woman’s hands!’

‘Indeed, yes,’ he replied gravely, a little puzzled, nevertheless,
by the half-serious, half-mocking tone of these last words. ‘And how
grateful I am! Pardon me if, in my anxiety, I ask when I may have it?’

‘It may be some days yet. It is not in my hands; but be assured that
you shall have it. I always keep my promises—in love or war, gratitude
or revenge, I never forget.—And now I must leave you.’

‘But you will at least tell me the name of my benefactor, and when I
shall have the great felicity of seeing her again.’

‘If I disclose myself to you, my secret must be respected. Some time,
when I know you better, I will tell you more. I live in Ventnor Street,
Fitzroy Square. You may come and see me any night at ten. You must
inquire for Marie St Jean.’

‘I will come,’ Le Gautier exclaimed, kissing the proffered hand
gallantly. ‘Nothing save the sternest duty shall keep me from Fitzroy
Square.’

‘And you will respect my secret? I, too, am on the business of the
League. You will guard my secret?’

‘On my life!’ was the fervid response.—‘Goodnight, and _au revoir_.’

‘On his life,’ Isodore murmured as she walked rapidly away in the
direction of the Temple Gardens.

It was a beautiful night, the moon hanging behind Westminster, and
throwing a glowing track along the swift rushing river, dancing like
molten silver as it turned and switched under the arches of Waterloo.
It was getting quiet now, save for the echoing footfall from a few
hurrying feet or the shout of voices from the Surrey shore. Soft and
subdued came the hoarse murmurs of the distant Strand; but Isodore
heeded them not. In imagination, she was standing under the shadow of
the grape-vines, the sunny Tiber down at her feet, and a man was at
her side. And now the grapes were thorns, the winding Tiber the sullen
Thames, and the hero standing by her side, a hero no longer, but a man
to be despised—and worse. As she walked along, busy among the faded
rose-leaves of the past, a hand was laid upon her arm, and Valerie
stood before her.

‘I thought you were going to walk over me,’ she said. ‘I knew you would
return this way, and came to meet you.—Have you seen him?’

‘Yes, I have seen him; and what I have heard, does not alter my
feelings. He is cold and vain, callous and unfeeling as ever. And to
think I once loved that man, and trusted him! The poor fool thinks he
has made another conquest, another captive to his bow and spear. Under
cover of my veil, I have been studying his features. It is well he
thinks so; it will help me to my revenge.—Valerie, he is going to call
upon me to-morrow night at ten o’clock.’

‘But consider what a rash thing you are doing. Besides, how is this
going to benefit you or injure him? He will boast of it; he will talk
of it to his friends, and injure you.’

‘Not while I have this,’ Isodore cried triumphantly, touching the clasp
of her cloak.—‘Do not you see how he is within my power? Besides, he
can give me some information of the utmost value. They hold a Council
to-morrow night; the business is pressing, and a special envoy is to go
to Rome. The undertaking will be one of extreme danger. They will draw
lots, but the choice will fall upon Frederick Maxwell.’

‘How do you know this?’ Valerie asked. ‘I do not understand your
mission; but it seems to me that where every man has a stake at issue,
it is his own interest to see the matter conducted fairly.’

‘You may think so; but perhaps you will think differently when I tell
you that Le Gautier is, for the evening, President of the Council. It
does not need a vast amount of discrimination to see how the end will
be. Le Gautier is determined to marry this Enid Charteris; and much as
she despises him, he will gain his end if he is not crossed.’

‘But what are you going to do?’ Valerie asked, horrified at the
infamous plot. ‘You will not allow an innocent man to go to his death
like this?’

‘I shall not, as you say, allow a good man to be done to death,’
Isodore replied with the calmness of perfect conviction. ‘The pear is
not yet ripe. Le Gautier is not sufficiently hoist with his own petard.
This Maxwell will go to Rome; but he will never execute the commission
allotted to him; I shall take care of that.—And now, mind you are out
of the way, when Le Gautier comes to-morrow night.’

Valerie silently shivered as she turned over the dark plot in her mind.
‘Suppose you fail, Isodore,’ she suggested—‘fail from over-confidence?
You speak of the matter as already accomplished, as if you had only
to say a thing and it is done. One would think, to hear you, that
Frederick Maxwell’s safety, my husband’s life even, was yours.’

‘Yes,’ she answered calmly; ‘his life is mine. I hold it in the hollow
of my hand.’


CHAPTER XI.

In one of those quiet by-thoroughfares between Gray’s Inn Road and
Holborn stands a hairdresser’s shop. It is a good enough house above
stairs, with capacious rooms over the shop; below, it has its
plate-glass windows and the pole typical of the tonsorial talent
within; a window decorated with pale waxen beauties, rejoicing in wigs
of great luxuriance and splendour of colour; brushes of every shape and
design; and cosmétiques from all nations, dubbed with high-sounding
names, and warranted to make the baldest scalp resemble the aforesaid
beauties, after one or more applications. But the polite proprietor of
‘The Cosmopolitan Toilette Club’ had something besides hair-cutting to
depend upon, for Pierre Ferry’s house was the London headquarters of
the League.

As he stood behind a customer’s chair in the ‘saloon’ snipping and
chatting as barbers, especially if they be foreigners, always will,
his restless little black eyes twinkled strangely. Had the customer
been a man of observation, he would have noticed one man after another
drop in, making a sign to the tonsorial artist, and then passing into
an inner room. Salvarini entered presently, accompanied by Frederick
Maxwell, both making some sign and passing on. Pierre Ferry looked
at the newcomer keenly; but a glance of intelligence satisfied his
scruples, and he resumed his occupation. Time went on until Le Gautier
arrived, listless and cool, as was his wont, and in his turn passed in,
turning to the barber as he shut the door behind him. ‘This room is
full,’ he said; ‘we want no more.’

Ferry bowed gravely, and turning the key in the lock, put the former
in his pocket. That was the signal of the assembly being complete. He
wished his customer good-night, then closing the door, seated himself,
to be on the alert in case of any threatened danger.

As each of the conspirators passed through the shop, they ascended
a dark winding staircase into the room above; and at the end of the
apartment, a window opened upon another light staircase, for flight in
case of danger, and which led into a courtyard, and thence into a back
street. The windows looking upon Gray’s Inn Road were carefully barred,
and the curtains drawn so as to exclude any single ray of light, and
talking quietly together were a few grave-looking men, foreigners
mostly. Maxwell surveyed the plain-looking apartment, almost bare of
furniture, with the exception of a long table covered with green cloth,
an inkstand and paper, together with a pack of playing-cards. The
artist’s scrutiny and speculations were cut short by the entrance of Le
Gautier.

To an actor of his stamp, the change of manner from a light-hearted man
of the world to a desperate conspirator was easy enough. He had laid
aside his air of levity, and appeared now President of the Council to
the life—grave, stern, with a touch of hauteur in his gait, his voice
deliberate, and his whole manner speaking of earnest determination of
purpose. Maxwell could not but admire the man now, and gave him credit
at least for sincerity in this thing.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, in deep sonorous tones, ‘we will commence
business, if you please. I shall not detain you long to-night, for I
have business of grave importance myself. Will you take your seats?’

The men gathered round the table, drawing up their chairs, Le Gautier
at the head, and every eye turned upon him with rapt attention. From
an inside pocket he produced a packet of papers and laid them before
him. ‘Brothers,’ he asked, ‘what is our first duty to the League?’

‘The removal of tyrants!’ came from every throat there in a kind of
deep chorus. ‘And death to traitors!’ added one, low down the board.

‘You are right, my friend,’ Le Gautier continued. ‘That is a duty to
which none can yield. I hold evidence in my hand that we have a traitor
amongst us—not in the room, I mean, but in our camp. Does any Brother
here know Visci, the Deputy at Rome?’

The assembly looked one to the other, though without speaking; and
Maxwell noted the deathly pallor upon Salvarini’s face, wondering what
brought it there. The President repeated the question, and looked round
again, as if waiting for some one to speak.

‘Yes, I know him. He was my friend,’ Salvarini observed in melancholy
tones. ‘Let us hear what his fault is.’

‘He is a traitor to the Order,’ Le Gautier continued; ‘and as such,
he must die. His crime is a heavy one,’ he went on, looking keenly at
Maxwell: ‘he has refused to obey a mandate of the Three.’

‘Death!’ shouted the voices in chorus again—‘death to the traitor!’

‘That is your verdict, then?’ the President asked, a great shout of
‘Ay’ going up in reply.—‘It is proper for you to see his refusal; we
must be stern in spite of our justice. See for yourselves.’ Saying
these words, he passed the papers down the table from hand to hand,
Maxwell reading them in his turn, though the whole thing was a puzzle
to him. He could only see that the assembly were in deadly earnest
concerning something he did not understand. He was destined to have a
rude awakening ere long. The papers were passed on until they reached
the President’s hands again. With great care he burnt them at one of
the candles, crushing the charred ashes with his fingers.

‘You are all agreed,’ he asked. ‘What is your verdict to be?’ And like
a solemn echo came the one word, ‘Death!’ Salvarini alone was silent,
and as Le Gautier took up the cards before him, his deathly pallor
seemed to increase.

‘It is well—it is just,’ Le Gautier said sternly, as he poured the
cards like water from one hand to the other. ‘My friends, we will draw
lots. In virtue of my office as President, I am exempt; but I will not
stand out in the hour of danger; I will take my chance with you.’

A murmur of applause followed this sentiment, and the cards were passed
round by each, after being carefully examined and duly shuffled.
Maxwell shuffled the cards in his hands, quite unconscious of what they
might mean to him, and passed them to Salvarini.

‘No,’ he said despondingly; ‘there is fate in such things as these. If
the lot falls to me, I bow my head. There is a higher Hand than man’s
guiding such destinies as ours; I will not touch them.’ Saying these
words with an air of extremely deep melancholy, he pushed the cards
in Le Gautier’s direction. The latter turned back his cuffs, laid the
cards on the palm of one hand, and looked at the assembly.

‘I will deal them round, and the first particular card that falls to a
certain individual shall decide,’ he said. ‘Choose a card.’

‘The dagger strikes to the heart,’ came a foreign voice from the end
of the table; ‘what better can we have than the ace of hearts?’ He
stopped, and a murmur of assent ran round the room.

It was a thrilling moment. Every face was bent forward eagerly as the
President stood up to deal the cards. He placed one before himself, a
harmless one, and then, with unerring dexterity, threw one before every
man there. Each face was a study of rapt attention, for any one might
mean a life, and low hoarse murmurs ran round as one card after another
was turned up and proved to be harmless. One round was finished,
containing, curiously enough, six hearts, and yet the fatal ace had not
appeared. Each anxious face would light up for a moment as the owner’s
card was turned up, and then be fixed with sickening anxiety on his
neighbour’s. At the end of the second round the ace was still absent.
The excitement now was almost painful; not a word was spoken, and only
the deep breathing gave evidence of the inward emotion. Slowly, one by
one, the cards dwindled away in the dealer’s hands till only seven were
left. It was a sight never to be forgotten even with one chance for
each; and when the first of the seven was dealt, a simple two, every
envying eye was bent upon the fortunate one as he laughed unsteadily,
wiped his face, and hastily filled and swallowed a glass of water. Six,
five, four; the last to the President, and there only remained three
cards now—one for Salvarini, one for Maxwell, and one for the suggester
of the emblem card. The Frenchman’s card was placed upon the table; he
turned it up with a shrug which was not altogether affected, and then
came Salvarini’s turn. The whole room had gathered round the twain,
Maxwell calm and collected, Salvarini white and almost fainting. He had
to steady one hand with the other, like a man afflicted with paralysis,
as he turned over his card. For a moment he leaned back in his chair,
the revulsion of feeling almost overpowering him. His card was the
seven of clubs.

With a long sweeping throw, the President tossed the last card in
Maxwell’s direction. No need to look at it. There it lay—the fatal ace
of hearts!

They were amazed at the luckless man’s utter coolness, as he sat there
playing with the card, little understanding as yet his danger; and
then, one by one shaking his hand solemnly, they passed out. Maxwell
was inclined to make light of this dramatic display, ascribing it to a
foreigner’s love of the mysterious. He did not understand it to mean a
last farewell between Brothers. They had all gone by that time with the
exception of Le Gautier and Salvarini, the latter looking at the doomed
man sadly, the Frenchman with an evil glitter and a look of subdued
triumph in his eyes.

‘Highly dramatic, at anyrate,’ Maxwell observed, turning to Le Gautier,
‘and vastly entertaining. They seemed to be extremely sorry for me.’

‘Well, you take the matter coolly enough,’ the Frenchman smiled. ‘Any
one would think you were used to this sort of thing.’

‘I should like to have caught some of those expressions,’ Maxwell
replied. ‘They would make a man’s fortune if he could get them
on canvas. What do you think of an Academy picture entitled “The
Conspirators?”—And now, will you be good enough to explain this little
farce to me?’

His cool, contemptuous tones knocked Le Gautier off his balance for a
moment, but he quickly recovered his habitual cynicism. ‘There will be
a pendant to that picture, called “The Vengeance;” or, if you like it
better, “The Assassination,”’ he replied with a sneer. ‘Surely you do
not think I dealt these cards for amusement? No, my friend; a life was
at stake there, perhaps two.’

‘A life at stake? Do you mean that I am to play the part of murderer to
a man unknown to me—an innocent man?’

‘Murder is not a pleasant word,’ Le Gautier replied coldly. ‘We prefer
the expression “remove,” as being more elegant, and not so calculated
to shock the nerves of novices—like yourself. Your perspicacity does
you credit, sir. Your arm is the one chosen to strike Visci down.’

‘Gracious powers!’ Maxwell exclaimed, falling back into his chair faint
and dizzy. ‘I stain my hand with an unoffending man’s blood? Never! I
would die first. I never dreamt—I never thought—— Salvarini, I did not
think you would lead me into this!’

‘I warned you,’ the Italian said mournfully. ‘As far as I dared, I told
you what the consequences would be.’

‘If you had told me you were a gang of callous, bloodthirsty murderers,
I should not have joined you. I, like every Englishman, am the friend
of liberty as much as you, but no cowardly dagger-thrust for me. Do
your worst, and come what may, I defy you!’

‘A truce to these histrionics,’ Le Gautier exclaimed fiercely; ‘or we
shall hold a Council, and serve you the same. There are your orders.
I am your superior. Take them, and obey. Refuse, and’—— He stopped,
folding his arms, and looked Maxwell full in the face for a moment;
then turning abruptly upon his heel, quitted the room without another
word.

Maxwell and his friend confronted each other. ‘And who is this Visci I
am to murder?’ the artist demanded bitterly.

Salvarini bowed his head lower and lower till his face almost rested
upon his breast. ‘You know him,’ he said. ‘He was a good friend of mine
once, and his crime is the one you are contemplating now—disobedience
to orders. Is it possible you have not guessed the doomed man to be
Carlo Visci?’

‘Carlo Visci—my friend, my more than brother? I must be mad, mad
or dreaming. Lay foul hands upon the best friend man ever had—the
noble-hearted fellow whose purse was mine, who taught me all I know,
who saved my life; and I to stab him in the dark because, perchance,
he refuses to serve a companion the same! Never! May my right hand rot
off, before I injure a hair of Carlo Visci’s head!’

‘Then you will die yourself,’ Salvarini put in sadly.

‘Then I shall die—death comes only once,’ Maxwell exclaimed proudly,
throwing back his head. ‘No sin like that shall stain my soul!’

For a moment the two men were silent.

Salvarini broke the silence. ‘Listen, Maxwell,’ he said. ‘I am in a
measure to blame for this, and I will do what I can to serve you. You
must go to Rome, as if you intended to fulfil your task, and wait there
till you hear from me. I am running great risks in helping you so, and
you must rely on me. One thing is in your favour: time is no particular
object. Will you go so far, for your sake and mine?’

‘Anything, anywhere!’ burst out the Englishman passionately.

(_To be continued._)




PITMEN, PAST AND PRESENT.


The coal-trade of Scotland dates from the early part of the thirteenth
century. In its earliest stages it embraced only the shallowest
seams, and those without water, or any other difficulty requiring
machinery to overcome. The digging of coal, therefore, is one of our
oldest industries; and it may be interesting to look at some phases
of the work from the miner’s point of view. Taking this stand-point,
we will see that the improvement in the miner’s condition—physical,
intellectual, moral and spiritual—is almost inconceivable. When
machinery became necessary for pumping water from coal-pits—about the
beginning of the seventeenth century—there appears to have been a
demand for workmen greater than the supply, and power was granted to
colliery owners ‘to apprehend all vagabonds and sturdy beggars’ and set
them to work. This shows that the life of a miner was not at all an
attractive one; and this is not to be wondered at, as will be seen from
some of the allusions made in this article as we proceed. The one fact,
that colliers were, for two centuries after the date referred to—that
is, till near the end of the eighteenth century—bought and sold with
the collieries in which they wrought, is sufficient to stamp mining as
a most undesirable kind of employment, even in those early and more or
less barbarous times. One can easily understand, from this instance
of hardship, how it became necessary to keep up the supply of miners
from the criminal classes. An analogous case still presents itself in
Russia, where one of the most hopeless sentences that can be passed on
political and other offenders is banishment to the Siberian mines.

Some time after the repeal (about 1790) of the laws enslaving miners,
there would appear to have been experienced a similar difficulty
to recruit the ranks of pit-workers, and one of the means adopted
to procure workmen was only a few degrees less objectionable than
slavery itself. This was what was termed the ‘Bond’ system. A man,
more especially when he had a family, some of them coming to be
helpful at his calling, had the bait held out to him of a bounty if he
signed the bond. By this bond he obliged himself to continue in the
employment of his master for a fixed period, varying from one year to
four years. In return for this, he received the immediate payment of
a bounty, variable in amount in proportion to the period engaged for,
and also regulated by the value of the man’s services. As much as five
pounds might be given. Should the bond be faithfully carried out by
the workman, the master had no claim upon the money; but should the
engagement be brought prematurely to an end, he often retained the
power to claim the amount as a debt, besides having the right to sue
the workman for desertion of service. Of course, the bounty formed a
payment over and above the ordinary wages.

At the period referred to, it was the practice amongst many classes of
workmen in Scotland to leave their usual avocations during the summer
months, and fee themselves to farmers in the times known familiarly as
‘hay and hairst.’ From this custom, it was often a serious matter for a
coalmaster to find that his workmen had deserted him. The ‘bond’ system
was intended partly to counteract this practice, as well as to meet the
prevailing unpopularity of the work. The system was a thoroughly bad
one for the workmen, as it practically lengthened the period of actual
slavery, though nominally that had disappeared. The inducement to sign
the bond was very much the same as it now is to join the militia—the
bounty-money gave the prospect of a ‘spree’ in both cases, and in this
way the system operated badly.

We may well be astonished at the statement, that in the memory of men
still living it was the regular thing for miners in some districts
to go to and from the pits with bare feet. The wages were small and
the hours long. We have heard it said by a miner that the grandfather
of a companion a little older than himself wrought in the mines for
twopence a day, he at the time being man grown. This case would take us
back to about the close of the last century, when miners were employed
compulsorily under an Act of Parliament. In any case it is an extreme
instance of the small wages earned for a long time by miners. In regard
to the hours of employment, even till a period well advanced in the
present century, the usual time to begin work was four A.M.; whilst the
hour for allowing the men to quit the mine was six o’clock at night—a
length of day’s work that left little time even for sleep. No wonder
that such a joke should be in circulation that miners’ children in
those days did not know their fathers, as the children were asleep all
the time the father was at home.

Not only had miners in times past hard work with long hours and small
wages, but even the scanty earnings were settled up only at long
intervals, and on this fact hangs a series of abuses that required a
long and determined struggle to remove. Monthly pays were considered
frequent; and it could hardly be expected that mining human nature
could endure for a month even at a time without some temporary means
being provided. Out of this arose some of the most indefensible
hardships suffered by the miner. ‘Truck’ and ‘Poundage’ in all their
various forms were the foul growths from the system of long delayed
pays. The truck system had many developments. Let us begin with one
of its earliest—namely, ‘lines.’ A workman wants an advance, and goes
to the pay office for that purpose; but instead of getting hard cash,
he receives a line to the following effect: ‘Please give bearer goods
to the value of ____________.’ This line was addressed to a person
owning a general provision and dry-goods store, who had entered into
an arrangement to honour these lines; and when they were brought to
the colliery proprietor at stated intervals, the shopkeeper received
payment of their amount, less an agreed upon commission, varying from
five to ten per cent. But, supposing the storekeeper did not keep some
of the goods required by the workman for his family or personal use,
the workman could obtain a part of the sum marked on the line in money,
less a discount of usually one penny per shilling. As time went on,
however, another development of the truck system took place, and on
the whole it was a little better than that described. The mine-owner
provided a store, managed under his own charge, in which was sold
everything from the proverbial ‘needle to an anchor.’ One of the sore
points in the management of many of these works-stores was that the men
were terrorised into buying all their goods there, and there alone.
Indeed, where advances were given under the line-system, the poor miner
had usually to spend nearly all his money in the master’s stores. Even
in the comparatively rare instances where workmen waited until the end
of the pay without accepting advances, some of the colliery proprietors
used a sort of tyrannical power over the men to force them to buy from
the works-store, and that alone. Under the line-system, barter pure and
simple obtained full play. And yet since the passing in 1831 of what is
popularly known as the Truck Act, this barbarous method of payment was
fully provided against, though the criminality of unscrupulous masters
was not brought home to them until the Truck Commission sat in 1870.
This Commission fully investigated the wholesale evasion of the law of
1831, and brought such a flood of light on the disgraceful proceedings
of many masters, as to at once bring to an end the hateful truck or
tally system. It forms a curious comment on the manner of administering
our laws, that the Truck Act of 1831 only became operative in 1870,
after a most exhaustive inquiry.

Whilst ‘truck’ was an attempt on the part of some masters to pay
wages in kind and not in sterling money, what is known as ‘poundage’
was a different system of making a large profit off the poverty of
the workmen—a system, unfortunately, which is not altogether dead
yet. Under the system of poundage, the monthly or larger pays were
continued—short pays would have been its death—but the privilege was
granted to employees of receiving advances in cash during the currency
of the pay. But this was done, let it be noted, for a ‘consideration,’
that consideration being the grand and simple system of five per
cent.—a shilling a pound. This is how the calculation would work
out: In a four-weekly pay, let us presume that there are only three
advances made—if there were more it would not alter the principle at
work—one made each week for three weeks, and each advance amounting to
one pound. The first advance is twenty shillings for three weeks, the
second for two weeks, and the third for one week—the whole advances
during the currency of the pay amounting to three pounds, and costing
the workman three shillings. This looks a very simple charge—five per
cent.; but when we look at it in the light of being interest on lent
money, we find the first pound has cost 83⅔ per cent. per annum; the
second, 130, and the third, 260 per cent. per annum—or an average of
nearly 160 per cent. per annum on the whole. It must be remembered too
that this was the rate of interest charged, not for an unsecured debt,
but rather for wages actually earned by the employee, though settlement
was deferred for a month through the system of long pays. The writer
has known a firm derive from this one source of income as much as a
thousand pounds a year up to the time a more enlightened policy was
adopted.

Another system from which unscrupulous employers derived some income,
more trifling in amount than the annoyance and irritation it produced,
was that known as ‘Fines.’ In remote collieries, fines were of regular
occurrence under one pretext or another. It is quite likely that the
system was a survival of feudal jurisdiction exercised by the superior
all over the country, and finally put an end to, as it was supposed, by
Act of Parliament passed in 1747. Instead of the workman being brought
before a magistrate for an alleged offence, a court-martial was held
upon him by the employer or manager, and a fine was usually exacted.
It mattered not whether the offence related to the man’s employment or
to his conduct with his neighbours, whether it had a criminal or only
a civil origin—the court-martial was held, and the result invariably
the same—a fine. The curious thing was that these fines were taken
as a matter of course, the decisions being usually respected after a
little necessary grumbling. The amount of money gained annually from
these fines was not large, so that their justification must have been
that this was the only available method of keeping law and order. In
this view, ‘fines’ may have suited an earlier state of civilisation;
but the system is too rough and ready to be consonant with modern ideas
of justice. The miner has suffered under slavery, and its twin-brother
the bond system; but he has seen these totally disappear, not, however,
very many years before slavery was abolished amongst the aborigines of
our colonies. Truck or the tally system has also become a thing of the
past, though we have seen how hard it was to kill. Fines likewise have
given place to the ordinary operation of the law; and the exaction of
poundage is now only made by a small residuum of coal-masters, on whom
the action of public opinion is slow and uncertain; but the system is
doomed, and must, sooner or later, follow the other abuses we have
enumerated.

We will now look for a short time at a different phase of the subject,
‘Pitmen, Past and Present;’ and in this no less than in the past,
already treated, it will be found that there is a strong contrast
between the past and the present in the miner’s condition. Take as an
example the ventilation of mines. The benefits brought about in the
miner’s health by the greater quantities of fresh air now forced into
the pits are almost incalculable. A ‘wheezing’ miner of thirty is now
a very rare phenomenon; indeed, apart from the inevitable danger from
accidents—and that is even greatly lessened—the miner has now nearly as
good a chance of long life as any other class of workmen. At a period
within the memory of not very old colliers still living, the pit was
merely a hole in the ground, having no separate upcast and downcast
division, so essential to proper ventilation. In short, there was
absolutely no attempt at the artificial ventilation of the mines. The
only agent at work was the wind on the surface, and this was as often
as not adverse to the pitman. In the heat of summer, the mine became
quite unworkable from the rarefied and polluted nature of the air. From
the operation of various causes, this state of things has been altered
to the great benefit of the miner. An air-tight mid-wall is now made
in each pit: the one side of the shaft being used for drawing out—by
fans or otherwise—the foul air; and the other for the introduction into
the mine of a current of fresh air, which finds its way through all
the workings until it reaches the upcast shaft, and there obtains an
outlet. In addition to this, every shaft has now a communication pit,
either expressly made for that purpose, or advantage may be taken of
some old pit for giving pitmen a certain means of exit and entrance in
the event of a shaft being blocked up through accident.

The year of the famous battle of Waterloo is one that should ever
be remembered gratefully by miners. It was then that Humphry Davy
perfected his safety-lamp, that has done so much for mankind. How much
it has done to prevent accidents no one can say. Being a preventive,
all we can claim is that it must have rendered the annals of mining
comparatively free of the records of accidents, and given a degree
of comfort and safety in the fieriest mines that otherwise would be
impossible, besides making available for public use a vast amount of
coal that without it would be unworkable.

In regard to the age of those engaged in mines, thirty, forty, or
fifty years ago it was the rule rather than the exception to send boys
to work at eight or nine years of age. The Mines Act of 1872 wholly
prohibits the employment below ground of women or girls of any age, and
fixes for boys the minimum age at twelve for a full day’s employment,
and that only when a certain educational standard has been reached.
Curiously enough, however, a boy _above_ ground cannot be engaged
full time until he is thirteen years old. Surely it is one of the
unintentional anomalies of the Mines Act that in the open air boys are
precluded from working till they are a year older than they may be at
work underground. A warning note may be sounded in regard to the age at
which boys are engaged. We know that many are employed in mines at the
minimum age of twelve, irrespective of their educational standard. If
the Education Act and the Mines Act are here at variance, or if there
is the want of a public prosecutor to see them enforced, the wants
should be without waste of time supplied, and not cause beneficial
clauses to be inoperative.

Respecting the education of miners’ children, the Education Acts
have been highly advantageous in giving compulsory powers to School
Boards and managers; but even before their introduction, this class of
children had many comparative benefits in a much less degree enjoyed
by others. The works-schools have always been a feature in Scotch
mining centres. We have not seen any pointed allusion to the fact that
these schools, long before the introduction of Education Acts, solved
the problem of free education in a way satisfactory to all concerned.
Happily, in many places these schools are still left under the old
management, though nominally connected with School Boards. Under the
works-school system, all the workers, whether married or single, agreed
to pay a weekly sum, say, of twopence. This insured the education of
the workman’s family, however large it might be. The unmarried suffered
by this voluntary sacrifice on their part, but they did so at a time
of life when they were least burdened; but the struggling married man
reaped the full benefit when he most needed assistance. In the case
of a workman with four children of school-age at one time, the almost
nominal cost of a halfpenny per week paid for each child’s education.
Small though this sum is, we have known schools self-supporting
under the system for years, with no other aid than the government
grant earned at the annual inspection, besides being able to supply
night-school education in the winter months to the elderly youths of
the place.

Besides a school, it is one of the evidences of the improved state
of mining communities that they usually have all the adjuncts of
civilisation amongst them. There is the church, where the rich and
the poor meet together, and in this connection it may be said that
miners are as a class either very zealous religionists, or they go to
the other extreme, and care for none of these things. The clergy of
our day is largely recruited from mining villages; whilst the list of
miners who have become home missionaries is a long one. Then there is
the Temperance Society, either a Good Templars’ Lodge, or an offshoot
from some of the other anti-alcohol societies; there is the Library of
well-selected books, which are much read. There is the Savings-bank;
the Reading-room, with a full supply of daily newspapers and other
periodical literature; the String and Reed Bands; the Bowling Green,
Football and Quoiting Field—the amusements of the miners of our day
being all on a higher level than those of forty years ago, when
cock-fighting and dog-fighting monopolised attention. Nor can we omit
to mention that Sick and Funeral and other benevolent Societies are
marked associations in every colliery village worthy of the name.
Miners are indeed remarkably considerate to each other, when any
special emergency occurs to call forth their active sympathy, being
ever ready to subscribe for a brother-worker who has been unfortunate
beyond the common lot.

The prospect of the temporary nature of a mining village at the
best, forms a strong temptation for nothing but necessary house
accommodation, and that of the barest kind, being provided for workmen.
The mining proprietor takes a lease of a mineral field, in the middle
of a moor it may be, where no houses exist, and where everything has
to be erected and provided. Accommodation for the workpeople has to
be erected whether the field proves successful or not; and when the
field is exhausted, he is in the power of the landlord whether he must
remove the buildings and restore the ground, or leave them as they are.
In either of these cases, the mineral lessee receives no compensation
for his outlay, usually of many thousands of pounds. Hence, as we
have stated, there is much temptation for the colliery lessee to erect
flimsy houses in keeping with the possible shortness of their use. But
colliery owners often rise superior to this evident temptation, and
in spite of the possible unremunerative nature of the mineral field,
excellent houses, with copious water-supply, are provided. Where this
is done, naturally a better class of workers settle down; and when
there is a fairly good prospect before the lessee, it is doubtless
nothing but justice to himself and his workmen to afford the men every
comfort.

It is not too much to say that in the best collieries, the interests
of the workmen are cared for in the most enlightened manner. Situated
as are many colliery villages, beyond the oversight of regularly
constituted municipalities, the whole onus of sanitary and other
regulations falls upon the master, and he does not shirk his duty
in such cases. Means of social enjoyment are provided—the physical,
intellectual, moral, and spiritual well-being of the populace are cared
for, and the colliers of to-day are in consequence an intelligent
and respectable class of men. Crime is proportionately small amongst
mining villages, and those who best know the miner are aware that he is
possessed of much kindness of heart, and that in the prosecution of his
dangerous calling he often exhibits true heroism.




GEORGE HANNAY’S LOVE AFFAIR.


CHAPTER V.—THE EDITOR’S SANCTUM—A DISCLOSURE.

Alfred Roberton felt the smart of Nan’s summary dismissal more than he
could have expected, or even than he owned to himself. His vanity was
sorely hurt, and he lost a good deal of that audacious _insouciance_
in his manner towards the opposite sex for which he had been before
remarkable. He sent back Nan’s letters honourably enough, and set
himself to forget her, as she had him. In order to effect this, he
determined to supplant the old love by a new; and commenced paying
marked attentions to Miss Curtiss, the twenty-thousand-pound young
lady. His suit prospered, and the fair one capitulated; but the terms
of the surrender were to be fixed by her friends. They made objections
to the smallness and uncertainty of his income. On the other hand,
Alfred’s solicitor found the young lady’s properties were so heavily
mortgaged as only to leave a very small margin of income; and the
result was the negotiations were broken off. Then, somehow or another,
his society was no longer so eagerly sought after. A young violinist
had taken the place he formerly held in Mrs Judson’s social circle,
and when that gentleman was present, Alfred was cast entirely in the
shade. But there was worse than that: he could no longer find a market
for the remainder of his manuscripts. The publishers and editors who
had patronised him before were desirous of seeing what course the
_Olympic_ took with regard to him. It was very singular, they thought,
that there never was any second article from his pen inserted in it.
Some ill-speaking folks even went the length of hinting that he wasn’t
‘Ariel’ at all; that the claim he made to that _nom de plume_ was a
mere ruse to get into society, and get some of his trashy manuscripts
palmed off on unsuspicious editors and publishers.

He felt these things very grievous to bear: the only hope that buoyed
him up was, that when the editor of the _Olympic_ returned to town, all
would be put right. He would go straight to him and say: ‘I am Ariel!
and here is a much superior sketch to the one I first sent you. Insert
it, and I will not haggle with you about the amount of the honorarium,
for I know you are a generous paymaster.’ Then all would again be well;
he would resume his proper place in society, and his writings would be
as eagerly sought after as ever.

It was towards the end of March when Mr Hannay returned from his
prolonged continental tour. Allowing him a day or two to get settled
down, one blowy, blustering forenoon, Alfred sallied forth to call on
him. He sent in his card, and in a few minutes was in the editor’s
sanctum.

‘Pray, be seated, sir,’ said Mr Hannay politely. ‘I—I do not remember
your name, Mr Roberton.’

‘Ah, I daresay not,’ he replied, smiling. ‘You’ll know me better by my
_nom de plume_. I am Ariel!’

Alfred was gratified to see the slight start which followed this
important announcement, and he likewise became conscious that he was
being inventoried by a pair of keen black eyes. He put a favourable
interpretation on these indications of interest.

‘And what then, Mr Ariel, can I have the pleasure of doing for you?’
said Mr Hannay after a brief pause.

‘Well, sir, I have an excellent little paper here,’ Alfred replied,
producing a manuscript from his coat-pocket. ‘It is entitled “A Week’s
Yachting on the Rhine.” It is very carefully written; and I can vouch
for its accuracy in details, as it is extended from notes I made when
yachting there with a friend.’

‘Oh, very well, sir,’ said the editor, laying the paper aside. ‘I’ll
take a look at it. But I can hold out hardly the least hope of being
able to accept it. We are literally deluged with that sort of matter,
and can’t find room for one in fifty of the manuscripts that are sent
us.—At anyrate,’ he added, laughing, ‘it would require to be a little
better than your “Ramble in Kirkcudbright.”’

What could all this mean? thought the bewildered Alfred. Was the editor
making a fool of him? At the very suggestion, he flushed red, and it
was with an effort he was able to stammer forth: ‘And pray, sir, if the
article was so worthless, why did you accept it? And why did you send
me so handsome an honorarium?’

The editor looked both surprised and puzzled. Instead of replying to
the question, he asked one: ‘Are you the gentleman who is engaged to be
married to Miss Anne Porteous?’

‘No!—Yes! That is to say, I was engaged, but am not so now.’

‘Indeed! And how is that?’ said the editor, with an air of interest.

‘Well, you see,’ said Alfred, who had now regained his self-possession,
‘my friends advised me to break off the connection. You know, between
ourselves, it wouldn’t do for a literary man of any standing to marry a
common innkeeper’s daughter; although I must say the girl herself was
well enough, and might have passed muster after a little training.’

The editor’s eyes became blacker, keener, and sharper—they seemed
almost to flash fire as he said; ‘You would know what she was, I
suppose, when you sought her love.—Yes? Then what right had you to
avail yourself of that as an excuse for casting her off? It’s about the
most unmanly thing I ever’——

‘Hold, hold!’ cried Alfred, who saw he had gone on the wrong tack for
conciliating the editor’s favour. ‘You misunderstand the matter. My
friends wanted me to break off the marriage; but I never proposed such
a thing to the young lady. I meant to marry her in two or three years
honourably. But she wrote to me; and I went down to see her—and we had
a quarrel, and she broke off the engagement herself—upon my honour, she
did!’

The editor’s features relaxed their tension; there was almost the
suggestion of a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, Mr
Roberton, I am glad you have cleared your character so well.—You are
anxious to know why I accepted your first paper. This, I think, will
explain it,’ he added, unlocking a private drawer and handing him a
manuscript.

Alfred looked at it with a stupefied air. Here were a dozen sheets of
foolscap covered with Nan’s neat lady-like writing, and signed Ariel;
reply to be addressed, Ariel, Glenluce post-office.—To lie till called
for.

He felt as if he were listening to a voice in a dream, as the editor
went on to say: ‘You see, sir, I heard that Nan was going to be married
to a young student she had met in Brussels. Now, students, as a rule,
are not over-burdened with ready cash; and when I got the manuscript
in her handwriting, I readily came to the conclusion that it was a
production of her lover’s, and that she had copied it out in her own
handwriting, thinking that, for old acquaintance’ sake, I would stretch
a point, and give it admission to our pages, and pay handsomely for it.
This I did; for I thought that, as her father would be certain to be
opposed to the match, a little ready cash would be useful to her and
her lover in taking up house. In fact, I may say I sent the little sum
as a marriage present! But I cannot understand how you are not aware of
all this.’

The whole truth was now made plain to the unfortunate lover. He
remembered now her snatching the letter from his hand and running
up-stairs with it. He remembered now her red and sleepy-looking eyes
the next morning. He knew now the cause—the devoted girl had sat up all
night copying his manuscript, so that it might have the better chance
of acceptance! How carefully she had kept the knowledge to herself of
the great service she had done him, and that in spite of his foolish
gasconading talk! To her and her alone he owed his little brief season
of popularity and success: and that popularity and success was the
cause of his looking down on her! Oh, what a blinded fool he had
been—blinded by his own selfish vanity!

He mumbled a few words of explanation to the editor, and left the
office a sadder and, it is to be hoped, a wiser man. He thought of
flying to Nan, throwing himself at her feet, and entreating her
forgiveness and love. But remembering the proud white face, the
outstretched arm pointing to the door, and the clear emphatic ‘Go!’
twice repeated, he shook his head sadly, and muttered, ‘Too late—too
late.’ It may be said here that he gave up literature for good and all,
obtained a situation as a surgeon in an emigrant ship, fell in love
with a lady-patient during the voyage, married her on their arrival at
Sydney, and starting the practice of his profession, settled down there.

As for the editor of the _Olympic_, he went down as usual the following
September to Lochenbreck, repeated a question he had asked before, and
got a different reply. Nan is now his wife.




THE MONTH: SCIENCE AND ARTS.


The late meeting of the British Association at Birmingham has proved
a success with regard both to the attendance of members and to the
importance of the various papers read in the several sections. Next
year the Association will meet at Manchester, and the year after at
Bath. The suggestion from Sydney, that the Association should in 1888
visit New South Wales and hold its meeting there in the January of that
year, cannot, on account of many difficulties which are foreseen, be
accepted in its entirety. But it is intended that about fifty members
shall form a representative delegation to our Australian colony, their
expenses being liberally defrayed by the government of New South Wales.
It is very pleasing to record this little sign of the good-fellowship
which exists between far-off Australia and the mother-country.

We expressed a hope some months ago that an institution of a permanent
nature might grow out of the splendid Indian and Colonial Exhibition at
South Kensington, which in a few days will close its prosperous career.
It has now been proposed by the Prince of Wales that the Jubilee of
Queen Victoria’s reign shall be commemorated by an Institute which
should represent the Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce of Her Majesty’s
Colonial and Indian Empire, and which should be at once a Museum, an
Exhibition, and the proper locality for the discussion of Colonial and
Indian subjects.

Very little is heard now of tempered or toughened glass for domestic
purposes, although, a year or two back, such glass was much advertised
and its praises constantly sung. We understand that the reason why it
has at present disappeared from public notice is that its efficiency
does not last. When fresh from the factory, it can be dropped from
a height on to the floor and knocked about with impunity. But some
gradual and not understood change occurs in its constitution, for
after a short time it will fly to pieces without any apparent cause.
It is said, too, that unscrupulous traders who have a stock of the
faulty material are selling it as ordinary glass. Those, therefore,
who experience unaccountable breakages, will know to what cause to
attribute them. A really unbreakable glass would be such a boon, that
it is to be hoped that further experiment will soon show how it can be
manufactured.

From some recent experiments in New York, it would seem that the danger
of using dynamite as a charge for explosive projectiles has been
obviated. The weapon used was a four and a half inch rifled gun, with
a charge of three and a quarter pounds of gunpowder, the experimental
shells holding each more than one pound of dynamite. To avoid any
risk from concussion, and premature explosion of the shell in the
bore of the gun, the cartridge and shell were separated by wads made
of asbestos. Twenty-seven shells were fired with such safety to the
gunners, that the extraordinary precautions observed during the first
rounds were ignored during the later ones.

The boat which the other day twice crossed the Channel between Dover
and Calais affords an example of the rapid progress which has lately
been made in the science of electricity. This little craft, which
is only thirty-seven feet in length, glided over the water with no
visible means of propulsion. The voyage was an experimental one, and
was designed to show that this plan of electrical propulsion was as
practicable on the sea as before it had been proved to be on inland
waters. Such a boat could, say her promoters, be carried hanging to
the davits of a ship, and be ready for immediate use. The required
electrical current is derived from accumulators, or secondary
batteries, stored and acting as ballast beneath the deck floor of
the little vessel. These require to be charged by a dynamo machine
at intervals, and such a charge this Channel trip amply proves will
suffice for a run of between forty and fifty miles. Supposing that the
system were adopted for torpedo vessels, it is obvious that this amount
of storage capacity would be far more than sufficient for ordinary
needs.

Another vessel which obtains its motive-power from a very different
source, but which must also be looked upon as an experimental boat,
has been invented and built by Messrs Secor of Brooklyn. Unlike the
electric boat, it possesses no screw propeller or other moving parts.
But it is furnished on each side with open ports below the water-level,
which are in communication with an ‘exploding chamber.’ This chamber is
constructed of steel, and is capable of sustaining an enormous internal
pressure. It is filled with charges of petroleum vapour and air under
pressure, and this explosive mixture is ignited by electricity. It
will therefore be seen that the propelling apparatus of this boat may
be compared to a gas-engine; but the explosions, which occur several
times in a minute, instead of forcing forward a piston to act upon a
fly-wheel, impinge upon the water at the stern of the vessel, and so
push the boat forward. Should this method of driving a vessel through
the water prove efficient, it will certainly be economical, for little
more than half a barrel of petroleum will suffice for a twenty-four
hours’ run.

Another invention from Brooklyn is of far greater importance than
the one just recorded, for it is of a life-saving character, and is
designed to prevent those collisions at sea which seem to be so greatly
on the increase. It consists of a marine brake, and is the contrivance
of Mr John M‘Adams. The experimental vessel, _The Florence_, which
is fitted with the brake, has been reported upon officially, and the
behaviour of the apparatus is highly commended. The brake consists
of two wings made of steel, one on each side of the vessel and below
water-level. These have the appearance of flat boards about eight feet
square, hinged to the stern-post, and which when not in action fold
forwards, secured by hidden chains, close to and touching the vessel’s
sides. In case of danger of collision, the touch of a button by the
captain on the bridge will loosen these chains, and cause some springs
to act upon the wings, so that they fly out at right angles to the
sides of the ship. In this position they are held by the now lengthened
chains, and form an obstacle to the water, which checks the motion of
the vessel immediately, even if the engines continue to work. If the
engines are stopped at the moment the brake is put into action, the
ship is brought to a standstill in twenty-two seconds. If, again, the
engine be stopped and reversed at the moment of working the brake, the
vessel commences to go astern in the remarkably short space of twelve
seconds. It will be seen from these results that the invention gives
every promise of being of great use. Besides being efficient, it is
simple in character, and, from its nature, cannot be a very expensive
additional fitting to a ship.

The lamentable accident at the Crarae Quarries, by which seven persons
lost their lives, is happily a most unusual one, although in character
it is closely allied with those fatalities from ‘choke-damp’ by
which so many poor colliers have been killed. The explosion of gas
underground, or of gunpowder above ground, leads to the evolution of
a quantity of carbonic acid gas, or, to call it by its proper name,
carbon dioxide, the principal product of combustion in either case. In
the workings of a mine, this gas fills every available space, and has
no outlet. In the quarry, on the occasion referred to, much the same
condition of affairs existed, for there was no wind to carry off the
deadly vapour, and its natural heaviness made it cling to the place of
its creation. The surviving relatives of the victims of this accident
have our heartfelt sympathy. They will be comforted by knowing that
death under such conditions is supposed to be painless. It is a sending
to sleep, but a sleep, unfortunately, from which there is no awakening
in this world.

The little town of East Moulsey is now lighted, so far as its public
lamps are concerned, by paraffin instead of gas, as heretofore. The
reason of this apparent retrogression is found in the excessive demands
of the Gas Company, who required the local board to pay at the rate of
four guineas per annum for each lamp. This the local board refused to
do, and provided the district under their care with paraffin lamps.
They are rewarded for their pluck by finding that the cost of the
oil-lamps is but one half of the charge demanded by the Gas Company,
and by hearing the generally expressed opinion of the people that the
place had never before been so well lighted.

The recent earthquakes, which have caused such fearful havoc and loss
of life both in Southern Europe and in America, remind us that our
knowledge of the causes of such terrible phenomena is very meagre, and
that science has not yet discovered any means by which their occurrence
may be predicted. But, in spite of these admitted facts, there are
not wanting on occasions of earthquake self-styled prophets, who will
boldly declare what the morrow will bring forth. Such mischievous
charlatans do much harm, for they terrify the ignorant at a time when
men’s nerves have been already unstrung by recent calamities. In
the year 1750, when London felt a sharp earthquake shock, a prophet
announced the immediate coming of the judgment day. Another predicted
a terrible earthquake for a certain night, with the result that the
people encamped in thousands in Hyde Park. Coming nearer to present
times, we may note the destructive earthquake in 1881 in the island
of Ischia. Here, again, there was a prophecy that there would not be
another visitation of the kind for eighty years. But only two years
after this the beautiful island was shaken to its foundations, and many
lives were lost. During the late disaster at Charleston, a prediction
was made that upon the 29th of September a fearful catastrophe was to
take place. The originator of this mischievous statement should be
severely punished.

We have lately received from Messrs Burton Brothers of Dunedin,
New Zealand, a set of most interesting photographs, taken in the
neighbourhood of Tarawera and Rotomahana, immediately after the late
volcanic eruption. Were we not aware of the terrible facts, we should
suppose that these were winter scenes, for the trees are stripped of
their foliage, and everything is covered with a white ash, which in the
photographs looks likes snow. The ruins of M‘Rae’s hotel at Wairoa, of
which there are front and back views, exhibit such a mass of broken
masonry and twisted iron-work, that one can hardly believe that the
place has not been bombarded.

We are glad to learn, from the _New Zealand Herald_, that the layer of
ashes which covers so many miles of the country, will not, as was at
first feared, choke and kill every blade of grass, but will probably in
time act as a valuable fertilising agent. Already the grass is in many
places growing up through the dust; but the ash has been submitted to
experiment, and is found to be really nourishing to plants grown in it.
Mr Pond, a resident analytical chemist, obtained several samples of the
volcanic dust, and sowed in it grass and clover seeds, and kept them
moistened with distilled water. In each case, we are told, the seedling
plants have come up well and are growing vigorously; it is therefore
hoped that those districts which have received only a light covering of
this dreaded dust will find that the visitation will in the end prove
beneficial to their crops.

As we stated last month, the armour-plated ship _Resistance_ has
lately formed a target for various experiments with different types
of guns. The unfortunate old ship is now being subjected to attacks
by torpedoes, the object being to determine the nearness at which one
of those submarine mines can be exploded without injury to a vessel
when protected by wire-netting. It is proved that if the defensive
netting is supported on booms thirty feet from the ship, it forms
a good protection from torpedoes, and that though a torpedo should
explode on touching the netting, as it will do if fitted with the new
form of pistol trigger, which is very sensitive, the explosion will
do no great harm. The distance of the netting from the ship will be
gradually reduced until the _Resistance_ can resist no longer, and must
be destroyed.

A strange sight was lately witnessed at Salzburg, in the shape of
a vast procession of butterflies, which passed over the city in a
south-westerly direction. They seemed to fly in groups, and while
preserving one line of direction in flight, the groups revolved round
that line. This aërial insect army must have numbered millions of
individual butterflies. From those which fell to the ground, it was
seen that they were of the kind known as willow-spinners.

Photographic tourists—and their name now is legion—will all admit
that their greatest drawback is represented by the weight of the
glass plates which they must carry from place to place in addition to
their other apparatus. This difficulty has just been obviated by the
introduction of a material as a support for the photographic image
which is as light as paper, so that in the compass of an ordinary
two-shilling railway novel, the tourist can carry with him the
sensitised material for a couple of hundred pictures. This material
is known as Woodbury tissue, and was the last invention of the late
eminent experimenter who gave his name to the beautiful Woodburytype
process of photography. His successors have brought the tissue to
marketable perfection, and produce a material as translucent as
glass and one-twentieth part of its weight. The tissue is used in a
singularly ingenious form of dark slide or double back, which can be
readily adjusted to existing forms of cameras.

In the _Camera_ magazine, a very curious phenomenon in connection
with photography is recorded by the person who observed it. He took a
portrait of a child apparently in full health and with a clear skin.
The negative picture showed the face to be thickly covered with an
eruption. Three days afterwards, the child was covered with spots due
to prickly heat. ‘The camera had seen and photographed the eruption
three days before it was visible to the eye.’ Another case of a
somewhat similar kind is also recorded where a child showed spots on
his portrait which were invisible on his face a fortnight previous to
an attack of smallpox. It is suggested that these cases might point to
a new method of medical diagnosis.

The Severn tunnel, one of the greatest engineering undertakings of
modern times, is at last finished, and will be shortly open for
passenger traffic, as it has been some weeks for the conveyance of
goods. The total cost of this great work is estimated at two millions
sterling. The cost has been greatly augmented by the unlooked-for
difficulties which have cropped up during the progress of the works.
Commencing in 1873, the contractor had made steady progress for the
following six years, when a land spring was accidentally tapped,
and the partially constructed tunnel was flooded. Again, in 1881 the
seawater found out a weak place on the Gloucestershire side of the
works, and poured in in torrents. Once more, in 1883 the old land
spring again filled the works with water, which had to be pumped out;
and finally, about the same time, a tidal wave brought about a great
amount of destruction to the works; so we may look upon the completed
tunnel not only as a great monument of engineering skill, but as
an example of unusual difficulties well grappled with, and finally
overcome.




OCCASIONAL NOTES.


PHARAOH’S HOUSE.

It is but a month or two ago that people of an archæological turn of
mind were delighted with the tidings sent home by the Egypt Exploration
Fund of the discovery of Pharaoh’s House in Tahpanhes. An account of
the wonderful old ruin and its reliques of a past civilisation has
been already given; but it may interest many to know that a number of
antiquities have been collected and sent home, and have recently been
on view at the Archæological Institute at Oxford Mansion. It will be
remembered that the ruins were as much those of a military fortress as
of a royal residence, and the objects recovered are almost entirely
those which would be likely to be found in either of two such places.

The first things of interest are the foundation deposits, from under
the four corners of the castle, which consist of small vessels, little
tablets engraved with the name and titles of the royal founder,
Psammetichus I., specimens of ore, &c. The chief articles of jewelry
are earrings, rings, amulets, and engraved stones bearing traces of
Greek workmanship, having been probably manufactured by Greek jewellers
in the town of Tahpanhes, or Daphnæ. Numbers of small weights have been
turned up while digging among the ruins, which it is thought were for
weighing the gold and precious stones previous to purchase.

Rome, too, has left her mark among the charred remains of this ancient
stronghold, and some rings with names inscribed upon them, and ten gems
of good Roman work, prove an intercourse with that nation. There is
a little silver shrine case in which is a beautiful statuette of the
Egyptian war-god, Mentu. Possibly, it may have once been a talisman
belonging to Pharaoh Hophra. A silver ram’s head and gold handle
complete the list of the most important specimens of jewelry.

Among the domestic treasures are a long knife, fourteen inches long
and quite flat; this comes from Pharaoh’s kitchen; so also do the
small frying-pans, and some bowls, bottles, dishes, plates and cups,
all of which date from B.C. 550, and were probably used daily by the
royal household. An old brasier and some ring-stands have also been
brought home. From the butler’s pantry come amphoræ stoppers, stamped
with the cartouches of Psammetichus I., Necho, Psammetichus II., and
Aahmes. These were clay stoppers, sealed by the inspector, and then
plastered over and stamped with the royal oval. Ten specimens of these
Mr Petrie has sent home. Arrow-heads, a sword-handle and part of the
blade, a horse’s bit of twisted pattern, some spikes from the top of
a Sardinian mercenary’s helmet, knives and lances, and some fragments
of scale-armour, show that the old castle had once been a military
stronghold.

This is but an outline, showing the kind of specimens found among the
ruins of El Kasr el Bint el Yahudî (the Castle of the Jew’s Daughter),
and serve to add to the innumerable proofs—if proof were needed—of the
advanced civilisation of the ancient Egyptians. It is believed that
those antiquities will eventually be divided between the Museum at
Boulak (Cairo), the British Museum, the Museum of Fine Arts at Boston,
U.S., and several of the provincial museums of Great Britain.


THE EMIGRANTS’ INFORMATION OFFICE.

It is satisfactory to know that government has at last opened an
office for the dissemination of authentic information to intending
emigrants. The emigration schemes before the country are legion; but
those who apply here will be safe to receive information as to the
British colony to which they propose to emigrate, which does not spring
from any interested motive. At the same time it is always safe for
intending settlers to supplement any knowledge received in this way by
authoritative handbooks, books of travel, and the experiences of former
settlers. Now that there is a prospect of the Indian and Colonial
Exhibition becoming a permanent institution in our midst, we will be
kept pretty well informed as to the position and prospects of our
different colonies. The premises of the Emigrants’ Information Office
are at 31 Broadway, Westminster, London, S.W. The office will be open
every day from twelve noon to eight P.M., except on Wednesdays, when
it will be open from ten A.M. to one P.M. The circulars issued by the
office will be sent to the secretaries of any societies or institutions
who will send in their addresses to the chief clerk.


INCREASED CONSUMPTION OF BRITISH-COLONIAL TEAS.

In a paper read by Mr L. J. Shand of the Ceylon Court at the Colonial
and Indian Exhibition, the present position of the Indian tea-trade was
reviewed. British-colonial teas, which in 1865 formed but three per
cent. of the total quantity consumed in the United Kingdom, amounted
to sixteen per cent. in 1875, and to thirty-three per cent. in 1885.
India had two hundred and fifty thousand acres under tea-cultivation,
and produced seventy million pounds of tea; the capital invested in
the industry was sixteen million pounds; and a quarter of a million
of Her Majesty’s subjects, who indirectly contributed to the income
tax of Great Britain, were engaged in it. The tea-plant was introduced
to Ceylon from China about the year 1842; but it was not till coffee
was stricken by disease that attention was generally directed to the
cultivation of tea in Ceylon. In 1873, a small parcel of twenty-three
pounds of tea was exported from Ceylon; this year, nine million
pounds would be exported, and, estimating the acreage now planted with
tea, the exports in 1890 would be forty million pounds. Proceeding to
consider why British people should drink British-colonial teas, Mr
Shand said that these teas came into the London market pure; there
was no recorded evidence of adulteration having been discovered. The
adulteration of China tea, on the other hand, had been the subject of
several volumes and of special legislation. The purity of Indian and
Ceylon teas made them more sensitive than the ordinary China mixture.
It was not necessary to put such large quantities into the teapot, but
it was all the more necessary that the water should be boiling and that
the tea should not be allowed to stand too long. Disappointment should
not be felt because the liquor was not black; that was in consequence
of the tea being quite pure and unmixed with blacklead or indigo. If
Indian and Ceylon teas were fairly tried and carefully treated, they
would be found more economical than China teas.




IF THIS WERE SO.


    O Love, if I could see you standing here,
      I, to whom the memory of a scene—
    This lane, tree-shadowed, with the summer’s light
      Falling in golden showers, the boughs between,
    Upon your upturned face—shines out as clear,
    Against the background dark of many a year,
    As yonder solitary starlet bright
    Gleams on the storm-clad bosom of the night.

    If this were so—if you should come to me
      With your calm, angel face, framed in with gold,
    And lay your hand in mine as long ago
      You laid it coldly, would the love untold
    Hidden within my heart, set my lips free
    To speak of it and know the certainty
    Of love crowned or rejected—yes or no?
    O Love, I could not speak if this were so.

    But if you came to meet me in the lane
      With footsteps swifter than you used of yore—
    And if your eyes grew brighter, dear, as though
      They gladdened at my coming back once more—
    If, when I held your little hand again,
    Your calmness grew less still, then not in vain
    My heart would strive to speak, for it would know
    What words to utter, Love, if this were so!

            KATE MELLERSH.

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[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 693: Villiars to Villiers—“down Villiers Street”.]



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75329 ***