*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76956 ***





[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. 155.—VOL. III.      SATURDAY, DECEMBER 18, 1886.      PRICE 1½_d._]




JUST BEFORE WINTER.

BY RICHARD JEFFERIES, AUTHOR OF THE ‘GAMEKEEPER AT HOME,’ ETC.


A rich tint of russet deepened on the Forest top and seemed to sink day
by day deeper into the foliage like a stain; riper and riper it grew,
as an apple colours. Broad acres these of the last crop, the crop of
leaves; a thousand, thousand quarters, the broad earth will be their
barn. A warm red lies on the hillside above the woods, as if the red
dawn stayed there through the day; it is the heath and heather seeds;
and higher still, a pale yellow fills the larches. The whole of the
great hill glows with colour under the short hours of the October sun;
and overhead, where the pine-cones hang, the sky is of the deepest
azure. The conflagration of the woods burning luminously crowds into
those short hours a brilliance the slow summer does not know.

The frosts and mists and battering rains that follow in quick
succession after the equinox, the chill winds that creep about the
fields, have ceased a little while, and there is a pleasant sound in
the fir-trees. Everything is not gone yet. In the lanes that lead
down to the ‘shaws’ in the dells, the ‘gills,’ as these wooded depths
are called, buckler ferns, green, fresh, and elegantly fashioned,
remain under the shelter of the hazel-lined banks. From the tops of
the ash-wands, where the linnets so lately sang, coming up from the
stubble, the darkened leaves have been blown, and their much-divided
branches stand bare like outstretched fingers. Black-spotted sycamore
leaves are down, but the moss grows thick and deeply green; and the
trumpets of the lichen seem to be larger now they are moist, than when
they were dry under the summer heat. Here is herb-Robert in flower—its
leaves are scarlet; a leaf of St John’s wort, too, has become scarlet;
the bramble leaves are many shades of crimson; one plant of tormentil
has turned yellow. Furze bushes, grown taller since the spring, bear
a second bloom, but not perhaps so golden as the first. It is the
true furze, and not the lesser gorse; it is covered with half-opened
buds; and it is clear, if the short hours of sun would but lengthen,
the whole gorse hedge would become aglow again. Our trees, too, that
roll up their buds so tightly, like a dragoon’s cloak, would open them
again at Christmas; and the sticky horse-chestnut would send forth its
long ears of leaves for New-year’s Day. They would all come out in leaf
again if we had but a little more sun; _they_ are quite ready for a
second summer.

Brown lie the acorns, yellow where they were fixed in their cups; two
of these cups seem almost as large as the great acorns from abroad. A
red dead nettle, a mauve thistle, white and pink bramble-flowers, a
white strawberry, a little yellow tormentil, a broad yellow dandelion,
narrow hawkweeds, and blue scabious, are all in flower in the lane.
Others are scattered on the mounds and in the meads adjoining, where
may be collected some heath still in bloom, prunella, hypernicum, white
yarrow, some heads of red clover, some beautiful buttercups, three bits
of blue veronica, wild chamomile, tall yellow weed, pink centaury,
succory dock cress, daisies, fleabane, knapweed, and delicate blue
harebells. Two York roses flower on the hedge: altogether, twenty-six
flowers, a large bouquet for the 19th of October, gathered, too, in a
hilly country.

Besides these, note the broad hedge-parsley leaves, tunnelled by
leaf-miners; bright masses of haws gleaming in the sun; scarlet hips;
great brown cones fallen from the spruce-firs; black heart-shaped
bindweed leaves here, and buff bryony leaves yonder; green and scarlet
berries of white bryony hanging thickly on bines from which the leaves
have withered; and bunches of grass, half yellow and half green,
along the mound. Now that the leaves have been brushed from the beech
saplings, you may see how the leading stem rises in a curious wavy
line; some of the leaves lie at the foot, washed in white dew, that
stays in the shade all day; the wetness of the dew makes the brownish
red of the leaf show clear and bright. One leaf falls in the stillness
of the air slowly, as if let down by a cord of gossamer gently, and not
as a stone falls—fate delayed to the last. A moth adheres to a bough,
his wings half open, like a short brown cloak flung over his shoulders.
Pointed leaves, some drooping, some horizontal, some fluttering
slightly, still stay on the tall willow-wands, like bannerets on the
knights’ lances, much torn in the late battle of the winds. There is
a shower from a clear sky under the trees in the forest; brown acorns
rattling as they fall, and rich coloured Spanish chestnuts thumping
the sward, and sometimes striking you as you pass under; they lie on
the ground in pocketfuls. Specks of brilliant scarlet dot the grass
like some bright berries blown from the bushes; but on stooping to pick
them, they are found to be the heads of a fungus. Near by lies a black
magpie’s feather, spotted with round dots of white.

At the edge of the trees stands an old timbered farmstead, whose gables
and dark lines of wood have not been painted in the memory of man, dull
and weather-beaten, but very homely; and by it rises the delicate cone
of a new oasthouse, the tiles on which are of the brightest red. Lines
of bluish smoke ascend from among the bracken of the wild open ground,
where a tribe of gypsies have pitched their camp. Three of the vans
are time-stained and travel-worn, with dull red roofs; the fourth is
brightly picked out with fresh yellow paint, and stands a marked object
at the side. Orange-red beeches rise beyond them on the slope; two
hoop-tents, or kibitkas, just large enough to creep into, are near the
fires, where the women are cooking the gypsy’s _bouillon_, that savoury
stew of all things good: vegetables, meat, and scraps, and savouries,
collected as it were in the stockpot from twenty miles round. Hodge,
the stay-at-home, sturdy carter, eats bread and cheese and poor bacon
sometimes; he looks with true British scorn on all scraps and soups,
and stockpots and _bouillons_—not for him, not he; he would rather
munch dry bread and cheese for every meal all the year round, though he
could get bits as easy as the other and without begging. The gypsy is a
cook. The man with a gold ring in his ear; the woman with a silver ring
on her finger, coarse black snaky hair like a horse’s mane; the boy
with naked olive feet; dark eyes all of them, and an Oriental, sidelong
look, and a strange inflection of tone that turns our common English
words into a foreign language—there they camp in the fern, in the sun,
their Eastern donkeys of Syria scattered round them, their children
rolling about like foals in the grass, a bit out of the distant Orient
under our Western oaks.

It is the nature of the oak to be still, it is the nature of the
hawk to roam with the wind. The Anglo-Saxon labourer remains in his
cottage generation after generation, ploughing the same fields; the
express train may rush by, but he feels no wish to rush with it; he
scarcely turns to look at it; all the note he takes is that it marks
the time to ‘knock off’ and ride the horses home. And if hard want at
last forces him away, and he emigrates, he would as soon jog to the
port in a wagon, a week on the road, as go by steam; as soon voyage
in a sailing-ship as by the swift Cunarder. The swart gypsy, like the
hawk, for ever travels on, but, like the hawk, that seems to have no
road, and yet returns to the same trees, so he, winding in circles of
which we civilised people do not understand the map, comes, in his own
times and seasons, home to the same waste spot, and cooks his savoury
_bouillon_ by the same beech. They have camped here for so many years,
that it is impossible to trace when they did not; it is wild still,
like themselves. Nor has their nature changed any more than the nature
of the trees.

The gypsy loves the crescent moon, the evening star, the clatter of the
fern-owl, the beetle’s hum. He was born on the earth in the tent, and
he has lived like a species of human wild animal ever since. Of his own
free-will he will have nothing to do with rites or litanies; he may
perhaps be married in a place of worship, to make it legal, that is
all. At the end, were it not for the law, he would for choice be buried
beneath the ‘fireplace’ of their children’s children. He will not
dance to the pipe ecclesiastic, sound it who may—churchman, dissenter,
priest, or laic. Like the trees, he is simply indifferent. All the
great wave of teaching and text and tracts and missions and the produce
of the printing-press has made no impression upon his race any more
than upon the red-deer that roam in the forest behind his camp. The
negroes have their fetich, every nation its idols; the gypsy alone has
none—not even a superstitious observance; they have no idolatry of the
Past, neither have they the exalted thought of the Present. It is very
strange that it should be so at this the height of our civilisation,
and you might go many thousand miles and search from Africa to
Australia before you would find another people without a Deity. That
can only be seen under an English sky, under English oaks and beeches.

Are they the oldest race on earth? and have they worn out all the
gods? Have they worn out all the hopes and fears of the human heart in
tens of thousands of years, and do they merely live, acquiescent to
fate? For some have thought to trace in the older races an apathy as
with the Chinese, a religion of moral maxims and some few josshouse
superstitions, which they themselves full well know to be naught,
worshipping their ancestors, but with no vital living force, like that
which drove Mohammed’s bands to zealous fury, like that which sent
our own Puritans over the sea in the _Mayflower_. No living faith. So
old, so very, very old, older than the Chinese, older than the Copts
of Egypt, older than the Aztecs; back to those dim Sanskrit times that
seem like the clouds on the far horizon of human experience, where
space and chaos begin to take shape, though but of vapour. So old, they
went through civilisation ten thousand years since; they have worn it
all out, even hope in the future; they merely live acquiescent to fate,
like the red-deer. The crescent moon, the evening star, the clatter
of the fern-owl, the red embers of the wood-fire, the pungent smoke
blown round about by the occasional puffs of wind, the shadowy trees,
the sound of the horses cropping the grass, the night that steals on
till the stubbles alone are light among the fields—the gypsy sleeps in
his tent on mother-earth; it is, you see, primeval man with primeval
nature. One thing he gains at least—an iron health, an untiring foot,
women whose haunches bear any burden, children whose naked feet are not
afraid of the dew.

By sharp contrast, the Anglo-Saxon labourer who lives in the cottage
close by and works at the old timbered farmstead, is profoundly
religious.

The gypsies return from their rambling soon after the end of
hop-picking, and hold a kind of informal fair on the village green with
cock-shies, swings, and all the clumsy games that extract money from
clumsy hands. It is almost the only time of the year when the labouring
people have any cash; their weekly wages are mortgaged beforehand; the
hop-picking money comes in a lump, and they have something to spend.
Hundreds of pounds are paid to meet the tally or account kept by the
pickers, the old word tally still surviving, and this has to be charmed
out of their pockets. Besides the gypsies’ fair, the little shopkeepers
in the villages send out circulars to the most outlying cottage
announcing the annual sale at an immense sacrifice; anything to get
the hop-pickers’ cash; and the packmen come round, too, with jewelry
and lace and finery. The village by the Forest has been haunted by the
gypsies for a century; its population in the last thirty years has much
increased, and it is very curious to observe how the gypsy element has
impregnated the place. Not only are the names gypsy; the faces are
gypsy; the black coarse hair, high cheek-bones, and peculiar forehead,
linger; even many of the shopkeepers have a distinct trace, and others
that do not show it so much, are known to be nevertheless related.

Until land became so valuable—it is now again declining—these Forest
grounds of heath and bracken were free to all comers, and great numbers
of squatters built huts and inclosed pieces of land. They cleared away
the gorse and heath and grubbed the fir-tree stumps, and found, after
a while, that the apparently barren sand could grow a good sward. No
one would think anything could flourish on such an arid sand, exposed
at a great height on the open hill to the cutting winds. Contrary,
however, to appearances, fair crops, and sometimes two crops of
hay are yielded, and there is always a good bite for cattle. These
squatters consequently came to keep cows, sometimes one and sometimes
two—anticipating the three acres and a cow—and it is very odd to hear
the women at the hop-picking telling each other they are going to churn
to-night. They have, in fact, little dairies. Such are the better class
of squatters. But others there are who have shown no industry, half
gypsies, who do anything but work—tramp, beg, or poach; sturdy fellows,
stalking round with toy-brooms for sale, with all the blackguardism of
both races. They keep just within the law; they do not steal or commit
burglary; but decency, order, and society they set utterly at defiance.
For instance, a gentleman pleased with the splendid view, built a large
mansion in one spot, never noticing that the entrance was opposite
a row of cottages, or rather thinking no evil of it. The result was
that neither his wife nor visitors could go in or out without being
grossly insulted, without rhyme or reason, merely for the sake of
blackguardism. Now, the pure gypsy in his tent or the Anglo-Saxon
labourer would not do this; it was the half-breed. The original owner
was driven from his premises; and they are said to have changed hands
several times since from the same cause. All over the parish this
half-breed element shows its presence by the extraordinary and unusual
coarseness of manner. The true English rustic is always civil, however
rough, and will not offend you with anything unspeakable, so that at
first it is quite bewildering to meet with such behaviour in the midst
of green lanes. This is the explanation—the gypsy taint. Instead of the
growing population obliterating the gypsy, the gypsy has saturated the
English folk.

When people saw the red man driven from the prairies and backwoods of
America, and whole States as large as Germany without a single Indian
left, much was written on the extermination of the aborigines by the
stronger Saxon. As the generations lengthen, the facts appear to wear
another aspect. From the intermarriage of the lower orders with the
Indian squaws, the Indian blood has got into the Saxon veins, and now
the cry is that the red man is exterminating the Saxon, so greatly
has he leavened the population. The typical Yankee face, as drawn
in _Punch_, is indeed the red Indian profile with a white skin and
a chimney-pot hat. Upon a small scale, the same thing has happened
in this village by the Forest; the gypsy half-breed has stained the
native blood. Perhaps races like the Jew and gypsy, so often quoted as
instances of the permanency of type, really owe that apparent fixidity
to their power of mingling with other nations. They are kept alive as
races by mixing; otherwise, one of two things would happen—the Jew and
the gypsy must have died out, or else have supplanted all the races
of the globe. Had the Jews been so fixed a type, by this time their
offspring would have been more numerous than the Chinese. The reverse,
however, is the case; and therefore, we may suppose they must have
become extinct, had it not been for fresh supplies of Saxon, Teuton,
Spanish, and Italian blood. It is in fact the intermarriages that
have kept the falsely so-called pure races of these human parasites
alive. The mixing is continually going on. The gypsies who still stay
in their tents, however, look askance upon those who desert them for
the roof. Two gypsy women, thoroughbred, came into a village shop and
bought a variety of groceries, ending with a pound of biscuits and a
Guy Fawkes’ mask for a boy. They were clad in dirty jackets and hats,
draggle-tails, unkempt and unwashed, with orange and red kerchiefs
round their necks (the gypsy colours). Happening to look out of window,
they saw a young servant-girl with a perambulator on the opposite side
of the ‘street;’ she was tidy and decently dressed, looking after her
mistress’ children in civilised fashion; but they recognised her as a
deserter from the tribe, and blazed with contempt. ‘Don’t _she_ look a
figure!’ exclaimed these dirty creatures.

The short hours shorten, and the leaf-crop is gathered to the great
barn of the earth; the oaks alone, more tenacious, retain their leaves,
that have now become a colour like new leather. It is too brown for
buff—it is more like fresh harness. The berries are red on the holly
bushes and holly trees that grow, whole copses of them, on the forest
slopes—‘the Great Rough’—the half-wild sheep have polished the stems
of these holly trees till they shine, by rubbing their fleeces against
them. The farmers have been drying their damp wheat in the oasthouses
over charcoal fires, and wages are lowered, and men discharged. Vast
loads of brambles and thorns, dead firs, useless hop-poles and hopbines
and gorse are drawn together for the great bonfire on the green. The
5th of November bonfires are still vital institutions, and from the top
of the hill you may see them burning in all directions, as if an enemy
had set fire to the hamlets.




BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.


CHAPTER XIX.

Near one window stood a high Japanese screen, with plate-glass panels.
Isodore had barely time to conceal herself behind this, when Le Gautier
entered. He seemed somewhat hurried, but otherwise calm enough, as
he walked into the room and towards Enid. ‘Before I leave’—— Then he
stopped suddenly.

Sir Geoffrey was standing a little way back from the group, one hand
behind his back, the other pointing with unsteady forefinger to Linda
Despard, while he never moved his eyes from Le Gautier’s face. A little
flick of the nostrils, a quiver of the lip, and the Frenchman was
himself again. But Sir Geoffrey never moved; he merely opened his lips,
and snapped out one word, ‘Well?’

‘Is this a theatrical rehearsal?’ Le Gautier asked at length.

‘I am waiting,’ the baronet returned, ‘for some explanation. To a man
of your astuteness, I need not be explicit. This lady, monsieur, and
you, I hear, are old acquaintances.’

‘You talk in riddles, Sir Geoffrey.’

‘You are anxious to gain time. I, on the other hand, do not wish to
be too hard upon you. Let me explain. Miss Linda Despard—who has been
in my house for some time, the result of an accident, the details of
which you have probably heard—turns out to be an old friend of yours.
She is dressed this moment, you perceive, in a character which had been
rehearsed under your personal superintendence—the character of my late
brother.’

‘But what can this possibly have to do with me?’

‘A truce to this folly!’ Sir Geoffrey cried warmly. ‘I have heard
everything about the jugglery at Paddington—the mirrors, and Pepper’s
Ghosts, and the whole miserable machinery by which I was deluded.’

‘Then you no longer believe?’ Le Gautier asked, fixing his glittering
eyes upon the baronet’s face.

But the magnetic power was gone now; the glance was returned as
sternly. Sir Geoffrey seemed a new man. ‘I do not believe,’ he replied.

‘Then take the consequences—be a haunted, miserable man for the rest of
your days! You will not be warned. I have done all I can for you. If
you like to believe the tale you have heard, I will not prevent you. I
say again, take the consequences.’

‘On the contrary, my good sir, it is you who will be the principal
sufferer. I wish to make this interview as pleasant as possible, and
cannot do better than by making it brief. There was a little contract
between us, which you will consider at an end from this moment.’

‘And why?’ Le Gautier asked hotly. ‘You have proved nothing against me
at present. This Linda Despard, whose tale you have been listening to,
is no friend of mine.’

‘Can you look her in the face and say that she is wrong?’ Sir Geoffrey
interrupted. ‘Of course, you cannot deny the truth of her words. Then
why am I bound to fulfil my contract with you?’

‘Because I have your word it shall be so. On your word, and by the
power I hold over you, I claim my wife still.’

‘And in good time, you shall have her, Hector le Gautier.’

The group assembled there looked suddenly at Lucrece, as she spoke.
She came forward now, facing the Frenchman, who eyed her with an
undisguised sneer.

‘And what has the maid of Miss Charteris to do with me?’

‘Much,’ she answered quietly.—‘Do you know who I am?’

‘A servant who has got into the drawing-room by mistake. If I am wrong,
please enlighten me.’

Lucrece stepped forward, throwing her head back, and placing one hand
upon a table at her side. ‘I will enlighten you. Five years is a long
time in a lifetime like mine, but your memory will carry you back to
the Villa Mattio. Hector le Gautier, I am Lucrece Visci, sister of your
_friend_ Carlo Visci.’

‘And I am no wiser now.’

‘But I am,’ Enid exclaimed.—‘Father, you remember Signor Visci, the
artist who used to meet us at Rome?’

‘Yes, my dear’—with a glance at Le Gautier—‘a fine specimen of an
Italian gentleman. The only unpleasant recollection I have of him is,
that he first introduced me to Monsieur le Gautier.’

The Frenchman’s eyes flashed, and he moved as if to speak; but Lucrece
continued rapidly: ‘You may not remember me; but you have not forgotten
my sister, Genevieve.—Ah! I have moved you now!—Miss Charteris, you
were in Rome when she disappeared. Her false lover stands before you
now!’

‘It is false!’ Le Gautier exclaimed. ‘Prove that I’——

‘It is true.—Prove it? Look at your own face there!’ Lucrece cried,
pointing to a mirror opposite him. ‘Look there, and deny it if you can!’

‘True or false, I cannot waste words with you.—Sir Geoffrey, I hold you
to your promise.—Enid, you shall keep your word.’

‘We are not in the habit of bestowing the daughters of our house upon
adventurers,’ Sir Geoffrey replied. ‘I am sure your natural good sense
and a little calm reflection will show you the folly of your demand.’

‘My father has spoken for me,’ Enid said. ‘I have nothing to add.’

Le Gautier stepped across the room to her. She rose to her feet in
alarm. Lucrece stood between the two, and grasping Enid by the wrist,
and laying her hand upon the Frenchman’s shoulder, held him back. ‘Are
you mad that you ask this thing?’ she asked.

‘And wherefore? How does it concern you?’

She looked him steadily in the face as she replied: ‘Then I must
refresh your memory;’ and raising her voice, till it rang through the
lofty room, ‘because you have a wife already!’

Le Gautier staggered back; but he was not beaten yet. ‘Another of your
little fabrications,’ he said mockingly.

‘Look at him!’ Lucrece exclaimed, turning to the others, and pointing
at the detected man with infinite scorn. ‘Look into his face—mark his
dejected air, though he braves it out well, and tell me if I am wrong.’

‘Your word is doubtless a good one; but there is something better
than words, and that is proof. Do you not think I can see through
this paltry conspiracy which has been got up against me? But you have
the wrong man to deal with in me for that. I will have the compact
fulfilled; my power is not over yet; and, Sir Geoffrey, I give you one
more chance. Refuse at your peril.’

‘I do refuse,’ Sir Geoffrey answered icily. ‘Do your worst.’

‘That is your decision?—And now, as to these groundless accusations you
have brought against me. You have made them; prove them.’ He turned to
Lucrece with a gesture which was almost noble, all the actor’s instinct
aroused in him now. There was one desperate chance for him yet.

‘You had best take, care, if I accept you at your word.’

‘I wish to be taken at my word. I demand your proofs!’

‘And you shall have them!’ Saying these words, Lucrece glided swiftly
from the room.

An awkward silence fell upon the group. Le Gautier was the first to
speak. There was a kind of moisture in his eye, and an air of resigned
melancholy on his face. ‘You have misjudged me,’ he said sorrowfully.
‘Some day, you will be ashamed of this.—Sir Geoffrey, you are the
victim of a designing woman, who seeks, for some reason, to traduce my
fair fame. If I have a wife, let them bring me face to face with her
here.’

‘You have your wish, Hector, for I am here!’

Le Gautier bounded forward like a man who has received a mortal hurt,
and gazed at the speaker with glaring eyes. Valerie was standing before
him, not without agitation herself. A low cry burst from his lips, and
he drew his shaking hand down his white damp face. ‘What brings you
here?’ he asked, his voice sounding strangely to his own ears, as if
it came from far away. ‘Woman! why do you come here now, to destroy me
utterly?’

She shrank back—an eloquent gesture to the onlookers—a gesture seven
years’ freedom from thraldom had not obliterated. ‘You wished to see
me. Lo! I am here! Turn round to your friends now, and deny that I am
your lawful wife—deny again that you have ever seen me before, and put
me to the proof.—Why do you not speak? Why do you not show a little of
that manhood you used to have? Strike me, as you have done often in the
times gone by—anything better than standing there, a poor, pitiful,
detected swindler—a miserable hound indeed!’

There was a dead silence now, only broken by Le Gautier’s heavy
breathing, and the rustle of his sleeve as he wiped the perspiration
from his face.

‘There is the proof you demanded,’ Lucrece said at length. ‘We are
waiting for you to deny the witness of your eyes.’

But still Le Gautier did not speak, standing there like some stone
figure, his limbs almost powerless. He raised his head a moment, then
lowered it again swiftly. He tried to articulate a few words, but his
tongue refused its office.

Sir Geoffrey laid his hand upon the bell. ‘Have you nothing to say?’ he
asked.

‘I—I—— Let me go out—the place is choking me!’

Sir Geoffrey rang the bell sharply. ‘Then this interview had better
close. It has already been too long, and degrading.—James, show
Monsieur le Gautier out, if you please.—I have the honour to wish you
good-morning; and if we do meet again,’ he added in a stern undertone,
‘remember, it is as strangers.’

Le Gautier, without another word or look, left the room, Lucrece
following a moment later, and leading Valerie away. Isodore stepped out
from her hiding-place, her face alternately scornful and tender.

‘We owe you a heavy debt of gratitude indeed!’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed
warmly. ‘It is extremely good of you to take all this trouble for mere
strangers. Accept my most sincere thanks!’

‘We are not quite strangers,’ Isodore replied, turning to Enid.
‘Lucrece told you who she was; let me tell you who I am. I have never
met you, though once I hoped to do so. I am Genevieve Visci!’

‘What! Signor Visci’s sister—the girl who—who’——

‘Do not hesitate to say it. Yes, Isodore and Genevieve are one. Out of
recollection of old times, when you were so kind to my dear brother, I
have not forgotten you, knowing Le Gautier so well.’

‘But Lucrece, your sister, to come here as my maid. And Le Gautier—how
did you know? I am all at sea yet.’

‘It is a long sad story, and some day, when I know you better, I will
tell you all, but not now. But one thing, please, remember, that come
what will, Le Gautier cannot harm you now. He may threaten, but he is
powerless. I have only to hold up my hand’——

‘And Frederick—Mr Maxwell?’

‘Do not be impatient. You will see him to-morrow; for this evening I
have need of him. You have not the slightest grounds for anxiety. Le
Gautier will never harm any one more.’

‘How strangely, sternly, you speak,’ Enid replied.

Isodore smiled. ‘Do I? Well, you heard what Lucrece said, and I may
have planned a little retaliation of my own. The eastern eagle flies
slowly, but his flight is sure. Trust me, and fear not.’

Enid was bewildered. But the time was near when she was to understand.

       *       *       *       *       *

With baffled fury and revenge raging in his heart, Le Gautier turned
away in the direction of his lodgings, anywhere to get away from
himself for a time, nothing left to him now but to wreak his vengeance
upon Sir Geoffrey in the most diabolical way his fiendish ingenuity
could contrive—and Isodore. By this time, Maxwell was no more; there
was some grain of satisfaction in that; and he had Marie St Jean to
fall back upon.

He sat brooding in his rooms till nearly nine—time to attend the
meeting of the League, the last one he determined that should ever see
his face. Had he known how fatally true this was, he would have faced
a thousand dangers rather than gone to Gray’s Inn Road that night. It
was nearly ten when he lowered his gas, and struck off across the side
streets in the direction of Holborn. When he reached his destination,
he walked up-stairs, the only arrival as yet. Had he been less
preoccupied, he would not have failed to notice the glance bestowed
upon him by the custodian. He lingered about the room till one by one
the company came in.

They were not long in commencing business. Le Gautier did not occupy
the chair on this occasion; the proceedings of the evening were
important, and a Supreme Councillor was present. He greeted each man
coldly. To Le Gautier his manner was stern to the last degree. The
routine commenced, and was conducted quietly for some time in the
briefest, dryest fashion. Then the president for the evening rose, and
taking from his pocket the gold moidore, commanded every one there to
throw his upon the table. Presently, nine golden coins glittered on the
green baize. ‘One short,’ the president said sternly. ‘Whose?’

They looked round, each waiting for the other to speak.

‘It is mine,’ Le Gautier exclaimed. ‘I did not think it necessary.’

‘You have no right to think; it is not in your province. If you have
in any way parted with it’—— He stopped significantly, and Le Gautier
hastily intervened.

‘I humbly beg your pardon. I will fetch it immediately. I have not far
to go; I can return at once. In justice to myself, I am sure you will
permit me to fetch it.’

‘No!’ thundered the Chief Councillor with a glance in Le Gautier’s face
that made his heart beat thick and fast. ‘And as to justice, you shall
have it presently, to the uttermost scruple.—Gentlemen, there is a
traitor present!’

With one accord they sprang to their feet, suspicion and alarm in every
eye.

‘Who is it?’ they cried. ‘Death to the traitor!’

‘Look round among yourselves, and see if you can discover him.—No? Then
he wears a good mask who has a hard conscience.—Stand up, traitor!—ay,
the most despicable; stand up, and look us in the face! Who is the
man who has enjoyed our deepest confidences—the man we have to thank
Isodore for discovering?—Stand up, I say! Rise, Hector le Gautier!’

The Frenchman knew his last hour had come; he knew that such a bold
accusation as this could not be made without the most convincing proof.
But despite his failings, he was not the man to cower before such a
great danger. He braced his nerves till they were like steel; there was
no particle of fear in his face as he turned at bay.

‘I had expected something like this,’ he said. ‘It is not likely that
my promotion should pass by without incurring some jealousy. I will say
nothing about my long services, the years I have spent in the service
of the League. My accuser, and your proof!’

A murmur of applause ran round the table at this sentiment. There was
no appearance of guilt here.

‘Isodore is your accuser—the proofs she holds. You are charged with
conspiracy to overthrow the League, in conjunction with another person.
Your companion is one Marie St Jean.’

Even with his iron nerves under control as they were, Le Gautier could
not repress a start, which was not lost upon the Councillor.

‘Marie St Jean,’ he continued, ‘received from you certain papers
for the purpose of handing them over to the police. The information
contained therein is complete. Do you deny your handwriting?’

He threw a bundle of papers across the table to Le Gautier. As he read
them, his white face became corpse-like in its livid hue. But he was
fighting for his life now, and summoned all his self-command to his
aid, knowing full well that if he was condemned, he would never leave
that room alive. His calm air came back to him.

‘I admit the handwriting—private memoranda stolen from my apartments. I
am still waiting for your proof. Besides, Marie St Jean is a member of
the League; she restored to me’——

‘Your insignia, which you had the temerity to stake upon the colour at
Homburg.—Salvarini, I call upon you to say if this is not so?’

‘I would rather say nothing about this,’ Salvarini said. Le Gautier
noticed how distressed and agitated he was. ‘I fear—I much fear you
have too much proof, without calling upon me.’

‘You stand by a friend, Luigi!’ Le Gautier said bitterly. ‘Do not think
of me now. Every man must look to himself!’

‘Sufficient of this,’ the president interrupted. ‘My proofs are
overpowering. You are charged with packing the cards, to force the
Brother Maxwell upon a dangerous mission.’

‘Enough!’ the prisoner exclaimed; ‘confront me with my accuser!’

‘You shall see her.—Isodore!’

As he raised his voice, a breathless hush fell upon the assembly.
Presently, a woman entered; for a moment she looked at the group, and
then raising her veil, showed her beautiful face.

‘Marie!’ A deep, bitter cry, following this word, burst from Le
Gautier’s lips, and he fell forward upon the table, his head upon
his hands. There was no escape now, he knew full well. And the woman
he thought had loved him—the woman who knew all his plans to the
letter, was the Princess of the League, the most dangerous member,
Isodore herself! Salvarini looked into her face for a moment, and then
whispered one word—Genevieve; but she heard it, and smiled at him,
pleased that one man should remember—heard the little word which struck
a womanly chord in her heart, and was thankful. Then she made him a
sign to be silent.

Stunned by the crushing force and suddenness of the blow, Le Gautier
half lay there, with his head resting upon the table, no sound breaking
the solemn silence. The president addressed the wretched man, asking
him if he had anything to say.

He raised his head and looked dazedly around, then down again. ‘I? No!
I have nothing to say. My doom is sealed!’

‘Bind him!’

Rough hands were laid upon the doomed wretch, and fastened him in his
chair securely, taking care to make his bonds too tight for escape. Le
Gautier did not resist; he knew now that there was no escape in all the
wide world for him. They left him thus, trooping in to an adjoining
room to go through the mockery of the trial which the orders of the
League demanded.

When Le Gautier looked up, he was alone, save for Isodore. ‘You are
satisfied with your work now?’

‘Yes, I am satisfied now,’ Isodore echoed. ‘So you thought to play me
off against Enid Charteris, poor fool! Hector le Gautier, I am going to
tax your memory. Do you remember one evening in the Mattio woods when
you abandoned a lonely trusting girl, the sister of your friend? Do
you remember laughing at a vow of vengeance five years ago? Justice is
slow, but it is sure. Do you remember?’

‘Yes. Is it possible that you can be?’——

‘Yes, it is possible, for I am Genevieve Visci! It is my turn now.’ And
without another word she left him.

Presently, a desire to live took the place of his dull despair. In an
agony he tugged and turned, cutting his wrists with the keen rope till
the blood ran down his hands. He could hear the low monotonous voices
from the adjoining room, the hurrying footsteps in the road below; and
only that thin wall between himself and safety. Even the window leading
from the iron staircase was open, and the evening breeze fanned his
white despairing face. He struggled again till his heart nearly burst,
and then, worn out, broke into tears.

‘Hector!’

He turned round, hardly certain whether it was a voice or a fancy.
Gradually out of the mists a figure emerged, and creeping stealthily
across the bare floor, came to his side. It was Valerie.

‘So you have come to gloat over my misery too,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘Go, or, manacled as I am, I shall do you a mischief.’

For answer, she drew a knife from her pocket, and commenced, with
trembling fingers, to sever his bonds. One by one the sharp knife
cut through them, till at length he stood a free man. One grudging,
grateful glance at the woman, and he disappeared.




CHRISTMAS IN A DÂK BUNGALOW.


I have spent Christmas Day in England and abroad, in my own family, in
mess, and with three commanding officers; but till the year 1883, I
had never spent one absolutely alone. I had on this occasion another
opportunity of spending the day in mess, for I was in India at the
time; but I came to the conclusion that a bird in the hand is worth
two in the bush; and three days’ leave for certain is better than a
fortnight’s in prospect; and having had rather a trying share of work
for some time before Christmas, I decided to forego the usual ‘going
round the men’s dinners,’ with its concomitant drinking of curious
and, I hope, rare liquors, eating pieces of Christmas pudding, and
subsequently getting through the day in a manner more Sunday-like than
actually amusing. So, on the 23d December I found myself about seven
P.M. in the dâk bungalow of a river-side station in the Punjab, to
which I had been recommended by a messmate as a good spot for a few
days’ duck-shooting. My servant, a Madrassi, rejoicing in the name of
Zacharias—the ‘Madras-man every time liking Christian name, sah’—had
preceded me, and had got the principal agent for my three days’
shooting in the shape of a shikaree, who bore the very unchristian name
of Rukkum (Rook’em) Deen, in attendance to make arrangements for the
morrow.

Now, I am not going to enter into a discussion on the subject of
duck-shooting, for many reasons, of which I will mention, first, that
I might have conducted such operations on any other three days of the
year, if I could have got leave; second, that I am not very proud of
my own prowess with a gun; third, that I didn’t get much, though I
saw a great deal; and fourth, that the subject of wildfowl shooting
is not one to enter into in a light and frivolous spirit, but must be
approached with awe, and with a due appreciation of nice distinctions
of weights and measures, and a ready desire to hear all manner of
extraordinary asseverations, however fond of truth the listener may
be. Mine is a true story, and is only a collection of jottings and
thoughts. After this explanation, I can safely skip over my doings on
the 24th, which were confined solely to the region of the river and the
somewhat distant society of the wildfowl.

Christmas Day opened fine and clear. That is a matter not of much note
in India, where the weather is remarkable for its succession of fine
clear days; but in England, Christmas Day—if my recollection serves me
true—does not always open fine and clear. I was called at half-past
six A.M.; and by eight had put my cartridges together, dispensed with
a tub, had breakfast, and started for the river again. Outside the dâk
bungalow, as luck would have it, I met an Englishman—a terrible thing
on the continent, I know; but somehow in India we are not so painfully
exclusive. I wished him good-morning and the compliments of the season;
he returned the sentiments; and that was all the conversation I had
with a fellow-countryman on that day. I was on the river from half-past
eight till four; but skip that period for the third of my reasons for
making this no wildfowler’s story. Soon after getting in, cleaning my
gun, having my tub, and generally assuming a more civilised appearance,
I heard the church bells ringing; and hurried off to find a children’s
service being conducted by a very nice, benevolent-looking clergyman,
who had for his congregation about twenty children and a round dozen
of adults, parents and so on. The reverend gentleman was giving the
children a simple address as I entered, and I felt at home and happy.
The little voices joined in singing hymns and saying prayers; and when
the lines, ‘Guard the sailors tossing on the deep blue sea,’ were sung,
I let my thoughts wander over a good many leagues of land and sea to
where others were, as I felt sure, thinking of me in the midst of their
Christmas doings.

On my return to the bungalow, I found that there was an Englishman
living under the same roof, and felt that I should very much like to
have a companion at my dinner. I accordingly sent Zacharias to find
out who the Englishman was and what he was doing here; for I did not
want to bore him with an invitation if he had come here for the express
purpose of being alone with his thoughts. I imagine my faithful valet
found the inquiry difficult of prosecution, or, what is more likely,
that he gave it up in favour of seeing ‘master’s Christmas dinner’
being properly cooked. Anyway, it was not till Zacharias brought me
my soup that he brought the intelligence that ‘the English gentleman
having joint;’ so my intentions were frustrated, and the only attention
I could pay the mysterious stranger was to send him the following note:

                                          DÂK BUNGALOW, _Christmas Day_.

    DEAR SIR—I should be very proud if you would accept a glass of
    wine from my bottle, which I send by bearer, and drink with me to
    Absent Friends. I am very sorry I did not find out till too late
    that there was an Englishman in the bungalow, or I would have
    done myself the pleasure of asking if you would care to dine with
    a fellow-countryman on this occasion. Hoping you will excuse my
    intrusion, I am, sir, with all the compliments of the season, yours
    truly,

                                                           H. S.

I sent him at the same time an open bottle of ‘Sparkling Wine,’ and
soon after received my bottle back, with but very little gone, and at
the same time the following answer:

    DEAR SIR—Thanks very many. A merry Christmas to you. I drink your
    health.—Yours sincerely,

                                                             ——.

I am very sorry I cannot put in the name of an eminent politician or
other dignitary, by way of completing the story; but as I couldn’t read
it, my curiosity must remain for ever unsatisfied, and the mysterious
stranger of Christmas Day, 1883, will remain wrapped up in his mystery,
unless he chances to peruse these lines, and, remembering the incident,
discloses himself.

As for my Christmas dinner, I must say it was as good as any government
establishment, and much better than most dâk bungalows could produce.
The hand of Zacharias was betrayed in potato chips and cunning sauces.
I can here fairly bring in that I had a duck of my own shooting,
and the only thing wanting was bread. The forgetful _khansamah_ or
housekeeper had not warned the native baker, and I had to make the best
I could of _chupatties_, a poor substitute; and I am convinced that
its permanent institution on the English diet table would soon reduce
us to a very low ebb indeed. But being in a properly Christmas frame
of mind, good-will to all men, &c., I determined to make the best of a
bad business, and toasted them before a wood-fire, thus giving myself
an opportunity of introducing to Zacharias’ notice, à la Mr Barlow,
of _Sandford and Merton_ fame, ‘The Story of King Alfred and the
Chupattie, or the Indigent Monarch and the Haughty Swineherd’s Wife.’
Wishing to be understood, I endeavoured to put the simple narrative in
a somewhat Indianised language, and the following was the result:

‘One time in Englishman’s place, one King Alfred living.—Do you
understand “king?” _Mr_ Queen _subse burra rajah_’ (the biggest swell
of all).

_Zacharias._ Yes, sah.

‘One time Alfred Sahib young man, and wanting to study how the newly
franchised ones would vote.—No; I mean liking to see how his people’s
getting on _mallum_.—Do you understand?’

_Zach._ Yes, sah.

‘Very well; he went to house of one man looking after pigs (_Suir ke
kubberdarwallah_). That right?’

_Zach._ Yes, sah.

‘Pigman’s wife not knowing Alfred Sahib have much _Burra Bahadur_
(Great Panjandrum), giving him some chupatties to toast before fire,
same like Master doing now. Then pigman’s wife going out to see pigs.
Alfred Sahib besides being king of England, was a bit of a _Bajawallah_
(music-man). When pigman’s wife going out, Alfred Sahib playing
on his baja same like Master on banjo. Chupatties getting burned;
pigman’s wife coming back, getting plenty angry, then stick-striking
(_Lackri-marta_) Alfred Sahib.—Now, Zacharias, you understand all that?’

_Zach._ Yes, sah.

‘What do you understand?’

_Zach._ Master not liking raw chupatties.

‘Yes; and I would take this opportunity of impressing on you the many
advantages to be gained by entirely giving up chupatties in favour of
bread. Look at that piece of garbage I have got to eat! I warn you that
so long as you and your fellow-men in India continue to eat chupatties
and such-like nastiness, so long will you remain in that state of
degradation and darkness that England was in, in the days of Alfred
Sahib.—Do you understand?’

_Zach._ Yes, sah.

After this expression of sentiment, I went to dinner, and really
enjoyed my toasted chupattie, as I had converted it into a sort of
ship’s biscuit, than which there is nothing better. When I felt the
influence, benign and benevolent, of doing myself well, creeping over
me, I was at the stage of my first glass of wine, and this was a bumper
to Absent Friends. What a host of faces passed before my eyes as I shut
them and quaffed the time-honoured toast! How I could have moralised,
and become sentimental and maudlin! But as that was not my intention
at all, I wished all the dear good souls the ‘Best of luck—lots of it,
and may I soon be there to see!’ and resumed my lessons in civilisation
to Zacharias. I never before appreciated so thoroughly what a capital
thing it is to have an English-speaking servant in India. Did I say
English-_speaking_? I am afraid I did; but English-understanding
would be a better expression, for I never gave Zacharias a chance
of speaking till after dinner, when he came in capitally. I told
him how shameful it was that his fellows would use the poisonous
_dekskai_ (cooking-pot), with its bi-monthly demand for tinning or for
a substitute ‘leading,’ when kind English people tried to introduce
the more familiar saucepan of iron and enamel. I told him how much
better a slow-burning moderate fire was for cooking purposes than the
pot-destroying furnaces of charcoal over which everything is cooked in
India; how nothing was cooked through, but everything sodden inside and
burned outside. I ingratiated myself again by drinking his health. I
then attacked him on another point, and told him confidentially that if
it was not for his fellows’ silly ideas on the subject of caste, that
we should never have taken the country; and was rather glad that he put
a stop to this unwise disclosure and counsel by saying: ‘God is good,
sah. Gentlemens never knowing why caste, and not liking.’

At last I finished dinner; and then gave a few directions for the
morning—to be called at half-past six, to have breakfast ready at
seven A.M., and to shut up rooms and come with me. But the demon of
speechifying was on me, the _cacoëthes loquendi_, and nothing under an
eighteen-hundred horse-power steam fire-engine could quench the raging
fire that had mastered the movements of my tongue. The only consolation
was that I gave Zacharias more chances. I asked him questions. ‘When
Master going to the war’ (there was none in prospect), ‘what will
Zacharias do?’

‘I will always come with Master. Master good to me, sah.’

‘Has Zacharias ever heard of Russian peoples?’

‘Yes, sah. I was always hearing when I was little child in _i-school_,
Russian peoples coming—never come. God is good, and Russian peoples bad
peoples. If Russian peoples coming, then Queen’s peoples putting them
back to their own land; but never coming, sah.’

‘But the Baboos say they are not well treated sometimes; and they make
a lot of bobbery, and do plenty bad talking, and not liking English
peoples. I tell you, Zacharias, if the Russian people came, the Baboos
won’t have a chance of holding their silly meetings; they’ll be put to
clean the Russian gentlemen’s backyards, and do all the dirty work that
can be found for them.’

‘Yes, sah. These Baboos are fools. If English gentlemens not coming,
where is got Baboo? Only Bengal people talking that way. Madras peoples
always right.’

‘Bravo, Zacharias! Here’s a toast to Madras, the benighted presidency,
and may she always have as staunch countrymen as you!’

‘Thank you, sah.’

‘But about these Russians—tell me some more.’

‘Russian peoples got no money; Queen got plenty money. English soldiers
plenty strong, so Russian peoples not coming.’

‘That’s right. You stick to that; and when you hear the silly Baboos
saying they are downtrodden, you tell them, with my compliments, that
they are a pack of fools, and that they had better not wait for anybody
else to tread on them, when they hear the _Sahiblogues_ [Englishmen]
are going.’

‘Yes, sah; that is right. If English peoples not coming here, I would
never be wearing such clothes as these.’ (Zacharias is very well
pleased with himself when he has got on his clean dinner clothes, as he
had, to celebrate Christmas Day of 1883.)

‘Now, you understand what I say, eh?’

‘Yes, sah.’ (Here came the crushing blow, the long-deserved snub to my
loquacity.) ‘Master wants calling at half-past six, and breakfast at
seven.—Good-night, sah.’

I couldn’t help but take a hint so gently given; and so, bidding my
faithful Zacharias—I sincerely believe he is faithful—‘good-night,’
I knocked the ashes out of my pipe, and brought to a conclusion my
Christmas Day.




A NOVEL ADVENTURE.


It was always my conviction that a Briton ought never to go abroad to
seek beautiful scenery until he had travelled all over his own country,
and accordingly in early manhood I made a series of walking tours
until I had seen every variety of English, Welsh, Scotch, and Irish
scenery. It was in the course of one of these tours that I came across
the pretty little village of Ferneville. Hills softly undulating and
beautifully wooded surrounded the place; while two large ponds and
numerous brooks supplied fishing enough to satisfy the wants of even an
ardent angler like myself. The village was one of those little places
where the population seems never to increase and the trade of the
builder to be unknown. Visited by few strangers, this secluded village
was just the kind of place for a traveller to rest himself and recruit.
Here, then, I resolved to take my ease until such time as I felt
disposed to resume my journey. The village inn afforded comfortable
quarters, and here I ensconced myself, filling up part of my time in
posting up my diary and writing to relatives and friends, matters
which I had very much neglected. Much of my time was spent, too, in
taking long rambles into the country and exploring the district for
miles round; often, too, I took my fishing tackle with me, and seldom
returned empty handed.

One day, when I was about setting off on one of these rambles, a young
fellow arrived at the inn, having had apparently a pretty long walk.
He had started, he said, early that morning from the town of B——,
purposing to reach C—— in the afternoon; but having taken what he
understood to be a short-cut, he had lost his bearings—a thing people
often do when they take ‘short-cuts’—and now found himself some twelve
miles from his destination. From what he said, however, I found that
it was not really necessary for him to be in C—— before the next day;
and as he seemed an agreeable and companionable gentleman, I suggested
that he should keep me company for the rest of the day, sleep at the
inn that night, and resume his journey next morning. This he agreed
to do; and my bedroom having two beds, it was arranged that he should
share it with me.

Half an hour’s conversation with my new acquaintance confirmed my good
opinion of his sociable qualities, and I congratulated myself upon the
agreeable companionship I had secured for the better part of a day. We
dined together, and then set out for a stroll, returning in time for
supper, well pleased with each other’s society; at all events, I was
charmed with my companion, his light-heartedness and extreme vivacity
coming as a refreshing and an agreeable change after the rather dull
company of the few villagers whose acquaintance I had cultivated. A
chat and a pipe followed supper, and then, in good spirits, we retired
for the night.

As was usual with me, I was soon lost in slumber; but after being
asleep for what seemed a considerable time, I found myself awake
and dimly conscious of some one moving about the room. The day was
beginning to break, and sufficient light penetrated through the
window-blind to render objects in the room dimly visible. My ideas were
at first hazy, and no recollection of my companion crossed my mind;
hence I concluded that I was alone in the room with this burglar, as
I took him to be, and I resolved to watch him quietly. His back was
towards me; but he turned suddenly, and as the feeble light from the
window fell across his face, I recognised my companion of the previous
day. His expression was wild and savage, and in his right hand he held
a large, long knife, with which from time to time he struck fiercely at
the empty air, muttering rapidly words of which I could not catch the
import! I am not a timid man, but I must confess that a kind of sickly
feeling came over me as it flashed across me that I was alone with
a lunatic, and that, too, at a time when, the rest of the household
being asleep, the chance of any help was very remote. To be alone in
bed at night while an armed burglar is prowling about the room, is bad
enough; but when, in place of the burglar, you have a madman, the case
is infinitely worse; an attack might be made at any moment, and without
the least provocation.

My mind reviewed rapidly the incidents of the previous day. I had
noticed nothing in my companion’s demeanour which would lead any one
to suppose he was insane. True, I had been struck with his vivacity,
and rather astonished at the rapidity with which he would pass from
one topic to another; but this had simply pleased me as a trait of
originality. Through my half-opened eyes and by the increasing light,
I now saw him suddenly pause in his movements, bend forward, and gaze
half eagerly, half hesitatingly in my direction. My heart nearly
ceased to beat. Would he come forward? He advanced quickly a couple
of steps, his face lighted up with a fiendish anticipatory pleasure;
then he stopped for a moment. Should I spring from the bed and rush
upon him? There was still about half the length of the room between
us. No; the distance was too great for me to take him by surprise. He
again came quickly forward, stood for a moment by my bedside, and then,
with a savage scowl, the knife was thrown back to strike. But before
it could descend, I had darted from the bed and was upon him, my left
hand grasping his right wrist. ‘Madman!’ I hissed, as I forced him
backwards, ‘drop the knife!’ In another moment we had fallen heavily,
he undermost. His leg had caught against his own bed, and my weight
had forced him backwards. In falling, his head struck against a piece
of furniture with sufficient force to stun him. I took advantage of
this to possess myself of the knife, which I had scarcely done when
he opened his eyes. I planted myself firmly, expecting that he would
renew the struggle; but, to my surprise, he burst into a laugh, and at
length exclaimed: ‘Well, I have made a fool of myself, I must admit. I
am no more mad than you are; and I am sure I have no designs against
your life, however suspicious things may appear. Loose me, and I will
explain all, although I know that in doing so I shall lay myself open
to your ridicule.’

The laughter was so hearty and the tone so genuine, that I complied;
besides, I had the knife if the worst came to the worst.

‘The fact is,’ he commenced, ‘I am stage-struck (don’t laugh at me
more than you can help). I wanted to go on the stage, but to this my
father strongly objected. The craze was, however, too strong upon me
to allow of my quietly giving up the idea, and at last the opportunity
of realising my ambition presented itself. Near our town is a small
place where there is a little theatre—a poor affair, and visited only
by third or fourth rate companies. Well, I made acquaintance with a
party of travelling players there, and one of their number having
left them, it was arranged that I should take his place at the next
town they visited. I was walking on there, when, getting rather out
of my course, as you know, I met you. I had expected being alone last
evening and going over my part in private; but, of course, your being
with me stopped that. I woke very early this morning, and being full
of anxiety to make sure of my part, and imagining you to be fast
asleep—as I believe _now_ you really were at first—I could not resist
the temptation of trying a rehearsal _sotto voce_. In the play, I have
to murder my rival in his sleep; and your lying there in bed gave such
a realistic air to the thing, that I could not resist going through my
part of the play with you as the rival, seeing you were, as I thought,
safe asleep. Judge, then, of my feelings when, without a moment’s
warning, you suddenly sprang upon me! Surprised and confused, I knew
not for the moment what to do; but before I could collect myself,
I had stumbled and fallen; and I suppose I must have been stunned,
for I remember nothing more until I found myself on the floor, with
you kneeling upon my chest, and looking quite prepared for a deadly
struggle.—Now, you know all, and I hope you are none the worse off for
the little adventure than I am?’

My answer was that I was only too glad the affair had terminated in so
peaceable a manner, and that my sleeping companion, instead of being
a lunatic, was only afflicted with a mania for the stage. I added,
that I hoped the incident might cure him of the craze. And so it did.
My companion did not appear on the professional stage, though I have
often seen him to advantage in private theatricals, and have frequently
watched him rehearse, but never with the same uncomfortable feelings as
I did that night at the village inn.




SOME ASPECTS OF CANADIAN PROGRESS.


For those who cannot actually travel over the Canadian Pacific Railway
from Montreal to Vancouver, in British Columbia, perhaps the next
best thing is to look through the eyes of the _Times_ correspondent,
whose ‘Canadian Tour’ has just been reprinted from the columns of
that journal. Progress in the North-west is so rapid, that even this
journey, performed quite recently, will soon grow antiquated; but many
of the particulars are so full of interest for all who are concerned
in the progress of the Canadian Dominion, that we make no apology in
gleaning the most important facts therefrom, and from other sources,
for the general reader.

The completion of the Canadian Pacific Railway has been the signal
for embarkation in other comprehensive designs for opening up and
furthering the interests of the Dominion. The Hudson Bay Railway,
running from the heart of Manitoba to Port Nelson, on Hudson Bay,
is proceeding apace, and will open up a region hitherto almost shut
out from communication with commercial centres, besides giving an
opportunity of testing the feasibility of the proposed short sea-route
from Canada to Liverpool. This route by way of Hudson Bay, which will
save about one thousand miles as compared with the Quebec route, has
been reported upon by officials on behalf of the Canadian government,
and the various reports agree that it will be navigable for four months
of the year at least.

In the last session of the Canadian Parliament, an Act of Incorporation
was passed on behalf of a new railway scheme to be called the Winnipeg
and North Pacific Railway. Starting from Winnipeg, it has been planned
to run in a north-westerly direction, bending to the west, and to
strike the Pacific Ocean at Port Simpson, a point which is said to be
four hundred miles nearer Yokohama than Vancouver, the present terminus
of the Canadian Pacific. The country to be passed through is highly
fertile, with great mineral wealth; and it is expected that this saving
in distance will tell in its favour.

Meantime, the trade arrangements of the Canadian Pacific seem to
meet with growing favour. Mr Everett Frazar, who has been concerned
in more than one shipment of tea from China and Japan by this new
route, reports that tea-importers in Canada and the United States
are more than pleased with the quick despatch given to their orders,
and the excellent condition in which consignments have reached them.
One result has been that Chicago is rapidly overtaking New York as
a tea-distributing centre. Yokohama being about five hundred miles
nearer the western terminus of the Canadian Pacific than to San
Francisco, two or three days can be saved by the Dominion route. The
total tea imports for the season by the seven vessels already chartered
are reckoned at 7,878,033 pounds, of the value of half a million pounds
sterling. Suitable docks and wharfage have been prepared at Vancouver
for the growing trade, and a fine three-story stone and brick hotel,
which will be open for guests in the spring, is being erected.

The main characteristics of the line are thus described by the _Times_
correspondent. The first three hundred and fifty miles, carrying
the line westward from Montreal to Lake Nipissing, is through old
and well-developed country, commanding the timber traffic of the
Ottawa River valley. For the next one thousand miles to the edge of
the great prairie east of Winnipeg, the country passed through has
extensive forests, and lands abounding in copper, iron, and silver.
For nine hundred miles westward of Winnipeg there is a flat or rolling
prairie, which is being rapidly settled, and which comprises some of
the richest agricultural soil in the world. Nearly the entire length
of the land-grant of the railway is already located here. This rich
soil extends to the base of the Rockies. The railway now passes over
a rough country, through mountain ranges, with immense forests, and
splendid scenery. The best materials have been used in its construction
throughout; the bridges and trestles are built in the strongest
possible way; and the arrangements for traffic are efficient. The
manager of the line told the _Times_ correspondent that he could at
present undertake to transport eight thousand armed men a day from the
Atlantic to the Pacific, should any Eastern complication render this
necessary.

The distance from the eastern terminus at Montreal to the western end
at Vancouver is two thousand nine hundred and nine miles, or three
hundred and sixty-two miles less than the line between New York and San
Francisco. From Liverpool to Vancouver by the Canadian Pacific route
is five thousand one hundred and sixty miles. Across the Pacific Ocean
to Yokohama, by the Canadian route from Liverpool, is nine thousand
five hundred and forty-six miles, or eight hundred and eighty miles
less than by the New York and San Francisco route. The traveller may
choose the all-rail route westward, round the northern shore of Lake
Superior, or by way of Owen Sound and Lake Superior, in the new steel
steam-ships, the _Alberta_ or _Athabasca_.

No city in Canada has grown with greater rapidity than Winnipeg, the
capital of Manitoba, which has now from twenty-seven to thirty thousand
inhabitants, and no part of the country owes more for its development
to the railway than the Red River Valley. Butter, cheese, vegetables,
fruit, and grain, are now exported in large quantities. To further open
up the prairie region, an elaborate network of branch railways has been
arranged for, and town-lots have been laid off in connection therewith.
The Manitoba and North-western Railway runs north-west from Portage La
Prairie towards Prince Albert.

Regina, the capital of the North-west, stands on Pile of Bones River,
a tributary of the Qu’Appelle River, one thousand seven hundred and
seventy-nine miles west of Montreal. This place, of three hundred
houses and not more than one thousand people, is the residence of
the Governor of the North-west. Our correspondent likens the present
appearance of the place to a section cut out of the middle of the
Atlantic Ocean, with a few scattered rows of wooden houses set down
upon it. In a little square-built brick courthouse, outside the town,
Louis Riel, leader of the late rebellion in the North-west, was tried,
and afterwards hanged at the barracks, about two miles off. Here
are the headquarters of the mounted police, the constabulary of the
North-west, the entire force consisting of about one thousand men.

There are few places of any importance westward of Regina; the villages
and settlements are as yet in their infancy, and we hear such grotesque
names as ‘Moose Jaw,’ ‘Swift Current,’ and ‘Medicine Hat.’ The large
cattle ranges of Canada are situated in the south-western portion of
the province of Alberta, Fort MacLeod and Calgary being two great
centres for the ranchemen. Experienced cattle-men have pronounced the
eastern slope of the Rockies as furnishing the best grass and water for
large herds, in Western America. The winter there is less rigorous than
in Manitoba and the older provinces. When the Canadian Pacific reaches
Calgary, it runs along the valley of the Bow River, and crosses the
summit of the Rockies at an elevation of five thousand five hundred and
sixty feet.

At Donald, past which the Columbia River flows with a swift current,
house-building is going on for the settlers, who at first had to
live in tents and cabins. This place is destined to be an extensive
settlement, with railway repair shops. The surface is covered with
forests, except where clearings have been made. On leaving the
Columbia, the railway turns sharply to the south, into the cañon of
the Beaver River, a stream which rises from the centre of the Selkirk
Range. As the railway rises, all the slopes of the mountains are seen
clad with timber, and sawmills are busy. Trestle-bridges span the
gaps made by tributary streams, and one of these is two hundred and
ninety-six feet high, and four hundred and fifty feet long. The great
mountain ranges of the Selkirk passed, the Gold or Coast Range comes
next, where the traveller finds himself amongst the better-settled
districts of British Columbia.

Kamloops, a place of fifteen years’ growth, at the junction of the
North and South Thompson Rivers, is a prosperous town, with English
residents living in the centre, and the Chinese at either end. Burrard
Inlet lies to the north of the Fraser River, and here, at Port Moody,
the finished line ends at present. But an extension to Vancouver,
at the sea-entrance of Burrard Inlet, is being made, and will be
finished next year. There are several settlements on the banks of the
Inlet, where timber-mills are at work. One place is an Indian mission
settlement, and has three hundred inhabitants.

Vancouver, the western terminus of the Canadian Pacific Railway, has a
very hopeful outlook at present. Being a wooden town, it was almost
entirely burned in June 1886, but is now recovering from that serious
fire. Streets are laid out, a substantial wharf has been built, and the
trade in town-lots is described as brisk. Much of the cleared surface
of the town is covered with stumps of the ‘big trees,’ spruce, pine, or
cedar, which grew there; it costs from one hundred to one hundred and
fifty pounds per acre to clear the ground of these stumps. One large
pine, standing solitary in the town, was saved on the intercession
of the Princess Louise, and has been rightly named after her. The
Vancouver chief of police is a gigantic Highlandman, with a force of
five men under him. Wood-cutting is the chief industry of this section,
and Vancouver as a terminal city has great commercial possibilities.

In conclusion, the _Times_ correspondent does not hesitate to confirm
the statement, that the Canadian Pacific Railway has ‘more good
agricultural land, more coal, and more timber, between Winnipeg and the
Pacific coast, than all the other Pacific railways combined, and that
every part of the line from Montreal to the Pacific will pay.’




WAS IT MURDER?


I have thought it over and over, and cannot come to any definite
conclusion. Was I justified in killing the man? If I was, I am a
benefactor to some of my fellow-creatures; if I was not, I am a
murderer. My readers shall have an opportunity of judging, and I hope
their judgment may be lenient.

Some years ago, I was well off, and received the education and
bringing-up of a gentleman; but partly through my own folly, and partly
through unfortunate speculations, I gradually lost all my capital;
and about two years ago I found myself penniless, and saw starvation
grinning at me within measurable distance. Then I determined to attempt
no longer to keep up appearances, but to try and earn a bare existence
in any walk of life that was open to me. After some fruitless efforts
and a good deal of the ‘hope deferred’ which ‘maketh the heart sick,’
I obtained, through the kindness of a gentleman connected with the
Great Junction Railway, the position of stoker. I never was given to
drink, so that I was well enough able to fulfil the lowly duties of
my position. I am now a station-master; and it is during my few hours
of leisure that I prepare this plain narrative for the decision of a
discerning public.

It is a great point for a stoker to be on good terms with the
engine-driver, and I generally found little trouble in making friends
with my nearest travelling companion.

On the day when I went through the most disagreeable experience
of my life, I was travelling from Padlington to Cowchester on the
well-known—to railway employees—engine named ‘Pluto.’ She is a fine
upstanding, bold sort of engine, and when in good temper, does her work
right well. The engine-driver on this occasion was a man named John
Morgan. I had not often travelled with him before, only two or three
times, and I never could get on comfortably with him. He had been many
years in the Company’s service, and bore an excellent character for
steadiness, but was considered rather taciturn. He seemed to be always
in the sulks, and was, I suppose, of a surly temper. Before we started,
he hardly answered any remark I addressed to him, and seemed more surly
than usual. Once when I took up a cloth to brighten one of Pluto’s
taps, he called out to me in a savage tone: ‘Let her alone, can’t you.
I’ll make her travel to-day without your bothering.’

I made him no answer, as I did not see the good of having a quarrel in
the small space we were confined to. The train was to start at twelve
noon, and before that time, we on the engine were all ready; but it
was a quarter past twelve before we got the signal to move. There was
such a crowd of people of all classes on the platform, that room could
hardly be found for them in the train. However, at last the head-guard
gave us the signal, and Morgan turned the handle, and we moved slowly
and steadily out of the station. When we got well out into the country,
Morgan turned to me and said shortly: ‘More coal.’

Now, in my opinion, no more coal was wanted, as there was quite enough
in the fire to keep up the usual speed. However, as a stoker, I was
only an underling, and must obey reasonable orders. So I stoked as
bidden, and then curiously watched to see if the engine-driver would
turn on full speed. He did nothing of the sort, but sat with his back
to the boiler, and began to talk to me quite affably. Amongst other
things, he said he was quite tired of this perpetual travelling, and
that he meant to look out for a wife with a little money, and never set
foot on an engine again. There was nothing at this time peculiar in his
manner, except that he was more talkative than usual, and he would now
and then turn half-round to the engine and call out: ‘Get on, old girl,
get on!’ We had before us a run of an hour and a half, and by that time
we were due at Blinton, a big junction, at which every train must stop;
so we had plenty of time to talk.

About an hour after leaving Padlington, Morgan stopped suddenly in the
middle of a sentence, and said: ‘Well, I must get to work now.’ Then he
opened the firebox door and called out to me: ‘More coal.’

I expostulated with him, and pointed out that we were going at a high
rate of speed, and would not need more coal before Blinton; but this
seemed to excite him terribly. ‘Shovel it in!’ he roared, with an oath;
‘I’m going to make her travel.’

To pacify him, I took up a shovelful, and managed to upset a good deal
of it before I reached the firebox.

‘You clumsy fool!’ he called out; ‘here, give it to me;’ and snatching
the shovel out of my hands, he crammed on as much coal as he could get
in.

I was beginning to get alarmed; and looking out over the well-known
country—for I had travelled that journey many and many a time before—I
saw that we were much nearer to Blinton than we ought to be at that
hour. However, I thought it did not much matter, for the line was
signalled clear in front of us, and the damage done was, as yet,
simply a little waste of coal. In a few minutes, our speed increased
enormously, and I calculated we were travelling at the rate of seventy
miles an hour. I thought it was time to remonstrate; and turning to
Morgan, I noticed that the indicator showed full speed. I called his
attention to the fact, and begged him to reduce the speed, or we should
run into Blinton without being able to stop.

‘Ha, ha!’ he cried in reply. ‘Stop! I’m never going to stop again! I
told you I’d make her travel. What do you want to stop for?—Get on, old
wench, get on!’ Then he burst into a hideous peal of laughter.

A cold sweat of absolute terror broke out on me as I realised the state
of things. Here was a raving maniac, a far stronger man than myself, in
charge of a train full of people. I bit my lips and clenched my hands,
and tried to collect my scattered ideas and decide what was best to be
done. Meanwhile, Morgan sat on a rail near the boiler flourishing a
shovel and shouting uproariously. The train rushed on with incredible
speed, not steadily and evenly, but with leaps and bounds, that
threatened to cast the engine off the line at every yard. There was no
doubt the man was as mad as a man could be, and he was also master of
the situation. I made one effort to reach the handle by which the steam
is turned off; but the madman was too sharp for me. ‘No, you don’t!’ he
shouted. He brought his shovel down with a tremendous blow on the rail
at my side, just missing my head. It was plain I could do nothing by
force. Would stratagem be of any use?

I looked out to the country; time was running short; we were not
more than twenty miles from Blinton Junction; and if we did not stop
there, the whole train must inevitably be wrecked, and probably not
one passenger would escape uninjured, and but few with their lives. I
looked back to the train. Outside the windows were hands gesticulating,
and frightened, alarmed faces. At the end of the train, the guard was
waving a red flag. Something must be done, and by me, or we should all
be inevitably lost. I made up my mind. I turned to Morgan with a smile
on my face, and I said: ‘Old boy, you’re quite right; this is a fine
pace; but it ain’t quite fast enough. Look here!’ and I caught him by
the arm and led him to the side of the engine next to the double rail.
‘See!’ I cried; ‘there is another train coming up faster than us, and
she will pass us; we must go faster: but let’s see first who is driving
her; lean forward and look. Can you see?’

The poor maniac stepped outside the rail and leaned forward to look
for the imaginary train, when I gave him a sudden push, and he fell in
a heap on the side-rails and was killed on the spot. With a gasp of
relief I sprang back to the engine and turned off the steam. It was not
a moment too soon. We were well in sight of Blinton Junction before I
had the train properly under control. I pulled up at the platform all
right, and then I fainted.

When I came to, I was lying on a bench in the waiting-room, and the
inspector was standing over me, with his note-book in his hand,
prepared to take down my statement. What I stated was, that the
engine-driver had gone mad, and that, to save the lives of the
passengers, I had knocked him off the engine just in time to get
the train under control before running into the station. This was
corroborated by the guard and several passengers; and the case was
brought before the solicitors of the Company. I gave my evidence at the
inquest, and heard no more of the matter until one day the passenger
superintendent handed me ten sovereigns and a letter appointing me
station-master at Little Mudford. It was evident the directors condoned
my conduct; and I hope that my readers will agree with them, and, in
consideration of my having saved a train full of people, will acquit me
of murder, and bring in a verdict of justifiable homicide.




POPULAR LEGAL FALLACIES.[1]

BY AN EXPERIENCED PRACTITIONER.


_DEEDS OF GIFT AND WILLS.—II._

The making of a will is a much less formidable affair than the
preparation of a deed of gift. It requires no stamp; the rights of
the beneficiaries do not arise until the decease of the testator, and
therefore it does not in any way interfere with his power to manage and
dispose of his property as he thinks best in the interval during which
he retains physical and mental power to make a new will. In a case of
extreme simplicity, the testator may even dispense with professional
assistance altogether; but this is seldom advisable. As, however,
some testators _will_ make their own wills, it may be useful, while
adverting to the danger of that practice, to point out how the risk may
be lessened. It is always dangerous to use technical expressions—such
as ‘heirs,’ &c.—because a gift to the heirs of a testator has the
effect of cutting out the younger children in the same way and to the
same extent as if he had died intestate. In some cases, it may even be
worse than intestacy, depriving them of their shares of their father’s
personal estate. The intentions of the testator ought to have the
simplest form of expression possible applied to their setting forth in
the will. The names of the children who are to benefit ought in most
cases to be inserted, this having certain legal advantages in case of
death over the description of the children as a class. When property
is given to a child of the testator who dies before his father, the
gift takes effect as if he had survived his father and then died; while
in all other cases, if the beneficiary should die in the lifetime of
the testator, the devise or bequest in his favour lapses, or becomes
altogether void. Of course this might in any case be provided against
by express directions that in case of the death of the beneficiary, the
benefit intended for him should go to his children; but such provisions
are to some extent inconsistent with that simplicity which is essential
in home-made wills.

Other points requiring special attention in some cases are that the
subsequent marriage of the parents does not (in England) render
bastards legitimate, or capable of taking under the description of
‘children’ of the testator; and that the marriage of a man with
the sister of his deceased wife, or of a woman with the brother
of her deceased husband, is absolutely void, and the children of
such void marriage are illegitimate. In such cases, the difficulty
may be overcome by the use of appropriate words and full and clear
descriptions of the persons who are to be included in the will. In
many home-made wills, the distinction between the effect of the two
disposing words ‘devise’ and ‘bequeath’ appears to have been unknown.
Now, there is a real distinction here, the former word applying to real
estate (land), and the latter to personal estate (money, furniture,
&c.); and in cases within our own knowledge, the use of a word which
was not appropriate to one class of property, without any sufficient
description of what was intended to pass by the will, has occasioned
a partial intestacy, and to that extent has defeated the intentions
of the testator. The word ‘give’ is always sufficient, and has the
advantage of being safe. A common mistake is the omission of the
appointment of executors; and an equal impropriety is the appointment
of a tenant for life as sole executor. When everything which the
testator possesses is given absolutely to one person, that person
may well be appointed sole executor, in order that the power and the
beneficial interest may be combined in one and the same person; but
if an executor has only a life-interest in the income to arise from
the property, some other should be appointed to act with him as joint
executors.

The Wills Act, 1837, requires that certain formalities should be
observed as to the attestation of wills and codicils. The latter
instruments, however, scarcely come within the scope of this, as it
is very rare to find a conjunction of circumstances in which it would
be advisable for a testator to attempt to alter the effect of the
will itself by adding a codicil thereto. Although the Act does not
require the adoption of any special form of attestation, still it is
very desirable that a well-designed form should be used, because it
draws the attention of the parties to the statutory requisites, which
cannot be neglected without danger of the will becoming mere waste
paper. Such a form is the following, the insertion of which may be
allowed to supersede the necessity for a long explanation: ‘Signed by
the said A. B. C. as his last Will and Testament in the presence of
us, present at the same time, who, at his request, in his presence,
and in the presence of each other, have hereunto subscribed our names
as witnesses.’ Each witness should sign under this clause, and add his
address and occupation. Formerly, if any witness had any interest in
the will, the effect was to render the will void; but the inconvenience
of this led to an alteration of the law, whereby in case of a
beneficiary—or the wife or husband of a beneficiary—being one of the
attesting witnesses, the will remains valid, except that the witness
cannot take any benefit thereunder; nor can the husband or wife of
such witness.

Much misapprehension exists as to the effect of the marriage of a
testator on a will previously executed by him. It is generally known
that a will may be revoked by the making of a subsequent will; whether
the revocation be express—which it ought always to be—or merely by
necessary implication, the new will being inconsistent with the old
one, and not merely a codicil which is intended to be supplementary
thereto. But it is very difficult to persuade some people that _when a
man gets married, he ought to make a new will_, the marriage operating
as a revocation of the former will. There is no need to insist to any
great extent upon the fairness of this rule of law, for it scarcely
requires a moment’s consideration to see that a will which would be
quite proper for a bachelor, would be altogether unsuitable for the
altered status of the same man when, by his marriage, he had taken
upon him new duties and responsibilities. Few men would be so cruel
as to wish their wills to remain unaltered when their position had
so materially changed. Sometimes mischief is done by over-anxiety to
provide for an intended wife; a man makes a will before his marriage,
in order that his intended wife may be provided for in the event of
his decease before marriage; and in ignorance of the rule of law as to
revocation, he neglects to have his will re-copied, and then to re-sign
it, and have the new will duly attested after the nuptial ceremony
has been performed; in consequence of which neglect or omission, he
ultimately dies intestate; and his wife only becomes entitled to the
provision made for her by the law, although her husband intended her to
have a much larger share of his estate. It is only requisite for this
peculiarity to be known in order that the remedy, which is so easy, may
be applied.

As to the revocation of a will by destruction, the legal distinctions
often give rise to questions as difficult of solution as any which
affect the original validity of wills. A testator who is of sound and
disposing mind may cancel or revoke a will which he has previously
made, without making another will to supersede it; and the usual mode
of effecting this object is by the destruction of the will with the
intention of revoking it. Here, however, all the necessary conditions
must exist, or the will would not be revoked; and even if it were
destroyed so utterly that its contents were undecipherable, and so
destroyed by the testator himself, yet, if he did not intend to revoke
the will, or was mentally incapable of disposing of his property, if
the contents of the will could be proved in some other way, as from a
draft or copy, probate would be granted of such draft or copy, although
the expense of proving the will in that indirect manner would be
considerably more than an ordinary grant of probate would cost. A very
curious case was before the court some time since. A married man who
had made his will in favour of his wife, in a moment of passion arising
from his displeasure at something which she had done—nothing of any
importance—tore up his will and threw the pieces at her before leaving
the room where the quarrel had occurred. She was a wise woman, for
she gathered the fragments together and said no more on the subject
until after her husband’s decease, when probate was granted of the
pieces, the court being of opinion that the deceased had not seriously
intended to revoke his will, but had simply torn it when irritated to
the verge of madness; and in this view the fact of his not having made
a subsequent will was an important consideration.

The following brief observations as to the capacity of testators
must bring us to the end of our present subject. A married woman who
possesses any separate estate may dispose of it by will or otherwise
as if she were single. An infant cannot make a valid will, nor can a
person of unsound mind. But there are many cases in which a person
may be capable of transacting all ordinary business, and yet be so
much under the influence of some other person that his will may be set
aside in consequence of the undue influence which has been brought to
bear upon him. It is impracticable for us to enter at any length upon
this part of the subject, as we have already trespassed by exceeding
the space allotted to us. The simple rule is, that the will must be—as
its name implies—an expression of the unbiased will and mind of the
testator. Whenever the validity of the will of any deceased person is
disputed on any ground, the due execution and attestation thereof have
to be proved in court; but in ordinary cases the witnesses are not
called upon when the will is proved, unless there is some irregularity
or incompleteness in the attestation clause, or some erasure or
interlineation in the will.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] It should be understood that this series of articles deals mainly
with English as apart from Scotch law.




OCCASIONAL NOTES.


‘ATLANTIC GREYHOUNDS.’

The wonderful results achieved by the great Atlantic liners are only
stimulating men’s minds as to how the voyage may be still further
accelerated. There are torpedo boats that can steam at the rate of
twenty-two knots an hour, and enthusiasts now deem it possible to build
passenger vessels which would double that speed. Professor Thurston
proposes a steamer eight hundred feet in length, eighty feet beam,
and twenty-five feet draught of water, as the best form yet known for
quick sailing. The fast ships of to-day exert about one and a half
horse-power per ton to reach a speed of twenty sea-miles per hour;
but he anticipates some slight improvements which would reduce this
figure. Though his leviathan may be expected to demand thirty-five
thousand horse-power to make twenty knots an hour, he aspires to forty,
and at this speed the horse-power required would probably amount to
nearly two hundred and fifty thousand. The question is, whether the
time saved would compensate for the expenditure of so much extra fuel.
It appears that a vessel having a displacement of ten thousand nine
hundred and sixty tons, and an indicated horse-power of ten thousand
three hundred, consumes two hundred and five tons of coal per day;
while a smaller vessel, having only nine thousand eight hundred and
sixty tons displacement, and fourteen thousand three hundred and
twenty-one indicated horse-power, consumes three hundred and fifteen
tons of coal per day, and yet the larger vessel has accomplished the
passage in about eighteen hours longer than the smaller, and burned
about six hundred tons of coal less. The present difficulty of naval
architects is how to give greater speed with a low consumption of coal
and the same carrying capacity. If passenger vessels relied solely
on passengers, quicker voyages would be at once possible. However,
there seems a growing tendency towards divorcing goods from passenger
traffic, as railways have already done. Then light, yacht-like vessels
of modern size would, for speed, safety, and economy, probably meet all
the requirements of the passenger traffic. A high rate of speed, it
may be presumed, will not be overlooked, whatever else. Some sanguine
people believe that less than forty years will suffice to reduce the
seven days of an Atlantic trip to three and a half, and Professor
Thurston mentions about eighty hours. There are several arguments which
point to the possibility of a great reduction. If we go back forty-one
years, the _Great Britain_ made the passage from Liverpool to New York
in a little less than fifteen days, and though this was considered
good, in 1874 the _Britannic_ and _Germanic_ placed Queenstown and New
York within eight and a half days’ sail of each other. The _Etruria_
and _Umbria_ have since made the voyage in six days six hours. Again,
of the seven vessels engaged in the transatlantic trade which have
made the passage in seven days or under, not one has been fitted with
those latest aids to economy, triple expansion engines and forced
draught. As a matter of fact, there is enormous waste; and an authority
estimates that only one half of the total power exerted by the engines
is effective in propelling the vessel. In addition to this, a very
considerable portion of the heat energy of the fuel escapes through
the funnel, instead of producing steam. Something might be done here
towards securing greater economy; and by using high-pressure boilers
and triple expansion engines, there is said to be a saving of as much
as sixteen per cent. One thing seems to be pretty clear, that the fast
steamers of the future will owe their speed to the engineer more than
to the naval architect. The lines upon which modern racers are built
are scarcely likely to be much improved. When the engineer gets the
space at present devoted to cargo, for engines, boilers, and fuel,
swiftness will ensue, but at a greater cost, as a matter of course, as
may be gathered from the fact that on the Atlantic voyage a gain of
eighteen hours between two ships, in all respects equal, necessitates
an expenditure of five hundred tons of coal extra. As, however, we have
already predicted in these pages, oil may yet take the place of the
bulky and unwieldy coal.


‘ARMY PANICS.’

With reference to the article which appeared in a recent number of this
_Journal_ (No. 144), a Forfarshire parish minister sends us an incident
copied from the diary of his father, who was in the 92d Highland
Regiment, and which incident bears some likeness to that quoted from
Napier’s _Peninsular War_ in the article above referred to. The 92d
formed part of Lord Hill’s division, which seems to have included also
the 24th, the 50th, and 71st regiments, and a regiment of Guards. The
incident is told as follows:

‘Our division marched to a place within five leagues of Madrid, called
Aranjuez, where the king of Spain has a grand palace on the banks of
the Tagus. At this time, Lord Wellington was closely investing Burgos;
but the French, bringing a large army into the country, forced him
to raise the siege, and the whole of the English, Portuguese, and
Spanish troops had to fall back upon the frontiers of Portugal. Our
division, under Lord Hill, coming past Madrid in the course of our
retreat, had to cross a large bridge at midnight. It was then that a
very extraordinary thing occurred. In a moment and without any cause
for it whatever, all the troops were struck with a panic and driven
into great confusion. Some were thrown on their backs, and others had
their legs almost broken. Bonnets flew one way, and muskets another.
This unaccountable panic extended to the rear of the whole division.
A regiment that was lying asleep by the roadside was roused and
thrown into confusion at the same instant. It so happened that next
day the French came up to the bridge and a sharp contest took place.
Our artillery was at one end of the bridge, and the French at the
other. There was a very sharp fire on both sides with field-pieces and
small-arms.’




THE TWO SEAS.

  ‘When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee.’


    Each night we are launched on a sea of sleep;
    No doubts disturb us, no fears annoy.
    Though we plough the waves of the darkened deep,
    We know we are safe in the Master’s keep,
        And the morning brings us joy.

    What dread, then, should daunt us, what doubt distress,
    When on Death’s dark sea we are launched alone?
    In that deeper sleep, should we trust Him less?
    Shall we limit to earth His power to bless?
        Will the Father forsake his own?

    He made us His children; He bears us to bed;
    And whether our sleep be the first or last,
    What matters it where our souls are led,
    If our trust in the God of the living and dead
        Should only hold us fast?

            J. B. S.

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*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76956 ***