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Science, and Art, No. 696, by Various

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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 696
       April 28, 1877.

Author: Various

Editor: William Chambers
        Robert Chambers

Release Date: October 12, 2014 [EBook #47099]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

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[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 696. SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]




'MAKING PRETEND.'


Little girls play at 'Making Pretend,' often assuming some such form
as this: 'I'll be a lady, and you shall be my servant.' We all of
us unconsciously imitate these little folks in many of the daily
proceedings of life, not from a really dishonourable motive or wishing
to wrong others. 'The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth' is a proper maxim for a witness in a court of justice, and a
wholesome precept to be taught to all; but it is curious to watch
among the highest and purest in the land, as among the lowest and most
debased, how many are the obstacles to the absolute observance of this
precept.

Court-life is full of anomalies in this direction. The 'Queen's
Speech,' as we all know, is not the Queen's Speech; it is not written
by Her Majesty, and for many years past has seldom been spoken by her.
The prime-minister writes it, after conferring with his colleagues; the
Lord Chancellor reads it, as one of three commissioners named for that
special purpose. In earlier periods of our history, when the sovereign
was his own prime-minister, and his officials were dismissed at his
will and pleasure, his speech was really a speech; but now that the
ministers are responsible for all the public proceedings of the Crown,
the speech is a message, really theirs, although couched in the first
person singular, and read from a written paper by other lips. Once now
and then the present Queen has had to be furnished with lighted candles
to enable her to read her own gracious speech on the afternoon of a
foggy day! The Queen is loyally supposed to be present in every court
of justice, near the colours of every regiment, and on the quarter-deck
of every vessel belonging to the royal navy. To salute the colours
during a march-past is to salute a symbol of sovereign power; and
even on the darkest night, or when no human being sees him, a naval
officer touches his cap when stepping up to the quarter-deck. It is not
telling a little fib, but acting one; 'making pretend,' for a purpose
sanctioned by all and injurious to none.

The 'honourable member for ----' may not be distinguished for
particularly honourable conduct as a member of society; but it is
felt that the House of Commons must wink at this, and treat him like
the rest. The 'most reverend prelate,' the 'reverend occupants of the
spiritual bench,' the 'illustrious duke on the cross benches,' the
'noble marquis,' the 'noble and learned lord,' the 'honourable and
gallant member for ----,' 'my right honourable friend'--all these are
intended, not as mere flatteries, but to preserve decorum and courtesy
in the proceedings of the two Houses. If members mentioned one another
by name, or used the second person 'you,' unseemly wrangles would
almost inevitably occur; a little 'making pretend,' even if involving a
somewhat cumbrous form of circumlocution, is found useful here; many a
foreign Chamber of Deputies or House of Representatives suffers sadly
from the absence of some such rules.

'Your obedient servant;' this is a small fib; for generally speaking,
you are neither his servant nor are you obedient to him. 'Truly yours'
and 'Yours faithfully' are equally departures from strict verity; in
all probability your correspondent has never done anything deserving of
a gush of warm sentiment on your part. 'Yours always sincerely'--well,
there may be a little earnestness here; but 'always' is more than you
can honestly pledge yourself to. A fair lady is sometimes a little
embarrassed in this matter. She may be under the necessity of writing
to decline a tender offer made to her by a gentleman. How is she to
address him? 'Yours respectfully,' or 'obediently,' or 'truly'--why,
this is what he wishes her to be, but what she announces in the letter
her refusal to be; and 'your obedient servant' is no better; for as she
refuses to be his wife, she most certainly will not be his servant.
Turn the matter about how we may, there is no apparent escape from
'making pretend,' unless the subscription to the letter be limited to
the mere signature. But the 'making pretend' of respect or obedience
is a small courtesy which lessens the probability of giving offence.
And as with the subscription, so with the superscription; the word
'dear' is a fond and affectionate one; but how often do we _really_
mean 'Dear sir' when we write those words? While we write the little
word we may feel ourselves hypocrites for so doing, for reasons good
and sufficient; but we must keep up 'dear' for form's sake. A young
spendthrift heir writes to 'My dear father' for more supplies, and may
yet be willing to see 'dear father' in the grave for the sake of the
inheritance. The old man may suspect this all the way along, but still
he addresses 'My dear Tom.'

'Mr So-and-so is not at home.' Certainly not true this, for you
happened to catch a glimpse of his features over the parlour
window-blind. Apart from any supposition that he owes you money which
he is not prepared to pay, he may really have a good and sufficient
reason for declining an interview with you. But this degree of 'making
pretend' is a little too bad; 'Mr So-and-so declines to see you' would
be true, but rather discourteous; and so perhaps a compromise is hit
upon, 'Mr So-and-so is engaged at present.'

'Come and take pot-luck with us to-morrow--all in the rough, just as
you find us;' not quite true, for preparations are purposely made for
the reception of the visitor. 'Pray don't think of going,' you politely
say; although as a fact it might be convenient to you and your family
that your guest should go at once. 'Always glad to see you'--most
assuredly 'making pretend,' for at best you only mean 'sometimes.' When
a young lady at a party declares that she positively 'can't sing,' we
take the assertion with several grains of allowance. When healths are
drunk and thanks returned, we may do as we like about believing 'the
proudest moment of my life;' and when, as sometimes happens at men's
parties, 'He's a jolly good fellow' is sung after proposing the toast,
it may happen to be that the person thus honoured is neither very jolly
nor very good. All the little incidents of social intercourse, if
examined critically, display somewhat similar indications of the widely
diffused 'making pretend.'

We thank people or praise people in various ways, beyond our real
meaning, from a sense of the value of civilities. The Lord Chancellor
always assures the Recorder that Her Majesty very highly approves of
the selection which her faithful citizens of London have made, when
the Lord Mayor elect is presented; and the civic functionary, on that
occasion, invites Her Majesty's judges to the Guildhall banquet,
although the invitation card has been sent to each long before. 'I
bow to your ludship's superior judgment;' although it may be known
to both of them, and to the bench and the bar generally, that the
counsel really possesses greater knowledge and ability than the judge.
'Gentlemen of the jury' are much flattered by counsel; penetration
and sagacity are imputed to them in large measure; the advocate does
not mean what he says, but he hopes to wheedle a verdict out of them,
in duty to the client who employs and pays him. The judge, unspotted
in his impartiality (an inestimable advantage which we enjoy in this
country), has no temptation to indulge in such flatteries, and is free
from embarrassment in the matter. As to a counsel positively stating
his belief in the innocence of the prisoner he is defending, when he
knows that the man is guilty, this is a stretch of audacity on which
much has been written and said, and which leaves a painful impression
on conscientious minds; a skilful counsel generally manages to avoid
it, while using as much whitewash as he can for the accused, and
applying plentiful blackwash to the witnesses for the prosecution. The
'enlightened and independent electors' of a borough do not believe that
the candidate is altogether sincere in thus addressing them, while
he himself has probably the means of knowing that they are neither
enlightened nor independent; but the compliment is pleasing to their
vanity, and perchance they give him a few extra cheers (or votes) as
his reward.

'Making pretend,' in wholesale and retail trade, is now carried to
such an extent as to be a serious evil. Where woollen goods are sold
as 'all wool,' despite the shoddy and cotton which enter into their
composition; where calico is laden with chalk in order to augment its
weight; where professed flax and silk goods have a large percentage of
cotton, and alpaca goods are made of wool which was never on the back
of an alpaca--we are justified in doubting whether the fib comes within
the range of allowable 'making pretend;' the articles may possibly be
worth the price charged, but nevertheless they are put forth under
false names. The law-courts tell us that there are some millers,
'rogues in grain,' who do not scruple to mix up with their corn a cheap
substance known among them by the mysterious name of 'Jonathan.' Butter
is sold of which seventy per cent is _not_ butter. Tea, coffee, cocoa,
and chicory are rendered cheap by adulterants. London beer and London
gin (we will leave provincial towns to speak for themselves) are often
terribly sophisticated, to give apparent strength by the addition of
drugs little less than poisonous. The frauds of trade find their way
into a greater and greater number of departments and branches. 'Cream
of the valley gin,' the 'dew off Ben Nevis,' 'fine crusted port,' 'pure
dinner sherry'--we might excuse a bit of exaggeration in the names,
provided the liquids themselves were genuine. 'Solid gold chains,'
made of an alloy containing only six ounces of real gold to eighteen
of baser metal, are now displayed in glittering array in shop-windows;
and many 'real gold' articles have only a thin film of gold to cover a
substratum of cheap metal. Soon after the Abyssinian war, when some of
King Theodore's golden trinkets were exhibited in England, Birmingham
or London or both produced 'Abyssinian gold' chains, watches, and
jewellery in which real gold was conspicuous by its absence. Following
this precedent, the same or other makers introduced 'Ashanti' gold
jewellery after the little war in which Sir Garnet Wolseley was
engaged; and the auriferous quality of the one was about equal to that
of the other.

But apart from actual roguery, other modes of attracting customers are
noticeable for a kind of whimsical audacity. A hairdresser, who sells
bear's grease, buys or rents a small bear, which he placards profusely,
and writes up, 'Here, and at Archangel.' A furniture-dealer advertises,
for twelve or eighteen months together, that he is enlarging his
premises, and will sell off his stock at low prices, to prevent the
articles from being injured by dust and dirt--his stock being quietly
renewed from time to time, and the prices remaining pretty nearly
the same as before. A draper covers half the front of his house with
inscriptions relating to an alleged shipwreck or conflagration, to
denote how very cheaply he can sell the salvage. 'Dreadful depression
in trade,' 'bankrupt stock,' 'ruinous sacrifice,' are well-known
manœuvres. We hear of 'Hampshire rabbits' that never saw Hampshire,
and 'Newcastle salmon' that were certainly neither caught nor pickled
at Newcastle; 'Cheshire cheese' made in other shires; 'Melton-Mowbray
pies,' 'Bath buns,' and 'Banbury cakes' made in London--these we can
understand as extensions in the production of certain articles at one
time localised.

The artistic or fine-art world is much troubled with 'making pretend,'
often involving white-lies of considerable magnitude. 'Old Roman coins'
produced in an out-of-the-way workshop in London or Birmingham; 'Fine
old china' fabricated within a recent period; a 'Genuine Rubens' that
originated somewhere near Wardour Street; a 'Landscape after Claude'
(very much after)--are sorrowfully known to purchasers endowed with
more money than brains. At one of the Great Exhibitions, a French
firm displayed two pearl necklaces, of which one was valued (if we
remember rightly) at fifty-fold as much as the other, and yet none but
a practised observer could discriminate between them. The exhibitor
wished to shew, and did shew, how skilfully he could make mock-pearls
imitate real--but what a temptation to 'making pretend!'




THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.

CHAPTER XX.--MRS TIPPER AT HOME.


The next morning I took care to find employment for Lilian which would
require the use of her mind as well as her hands. Indeed we were all as
busy as bees, there being a great deal still to be done in the way of
putting our little home in order. Fortunately, as it happened for us,
the builder had been obliged to make the rooms larger and less formal
in shape than are the generality of cottage parlours, in order to carry
out the architect's design for the exterior of the building, so we
had two good sitting-rooms. Our _drawing-room_ gave ample opportunity
for the display of taste; and Mrs Tipper had begged me to select the
furniture, choose the paper for the walls, and so forth. I did my best,
in the way of endeavouring to make an effective background for the by
no means few works of art which had arrived from Fairview, and were
now to be unpacked and arranged by Lilian and me. Mrs Tipper had been
a little disappointed at my selecting sober tints such as French gray
for the walls, &c.; confessing that for her part she liked plenty of
colour. Indeed the dear little woman too fondly remembered the best
parlour in the little cottage at Holloway, where she informed me gay
plumaged birds wandered up and down the walls amidst roses and tulips,
to take kindly to more sober tints. And it required some diplomacy
gracefully to decline two heavy lumps of china, supposed to represent
Windsor Castle, which had been carefully preserved as relics of old
times, and which were now brought forth from their beds of wool and
presented as Mrs Tipper's contribution in the way of fine art for the
drawing-room mantel-piece, with the information that they had been
purchased at Greenwich fair and brought home as a surprise by 'John.'
But I contrived to make it apparent that we already had as many
ornaments as we knew what to do with; and the happy thought occurred to
me to suggest that perhaps she would like to have the gifts which had
been presented by her husband on the mantel-piece in her own room. At
which she was fain to confess that such had been her desire. 'Only I
thought you wanted a little more colour in the drawing-room, you know,
dears; and I should be sorry to be selfish.'

But as our work progressed she acknowledged that the effect was
'elegant;' though I knew that term did not mean the highest eulogy in
her estimation. The dainty collection of Sèvres and Dresden, which had
belonged to Lilian's mother, the pictures, few valuable books, and
the roses and lilies of the chintz, imparted quite colour enough to
the room to satisfy us two. But it gave us enough to do to arrange it
all. To the portrait of Lilian's mother, a really valuable painting,
the costly work of a celebrated Academician (another extravagance of
Mr Farrar's, deplored by Marian), was of course assigned the place of
honour. She must have been a very lovely woman, of the delicate refined
type of beauty, which expresses so much to certain minds, and the
artist had evidently worked _con amore_. He had seen the soul beneath,
and depicted what he had seen. I could well understand the thought
which had suggested the simple white flowing dress and loosened hair,
with no ornament save a star above the broad white brow, and which had
caused him so to pose the figure as to impart the idea that it was
floating upwards.

I have heard that Mr Farrar was not a little disappointed in the
picture, considering the style too severe, and that he regretted not
having stipulated for velvet and diamonds. But the picture had brought
fresh fame to the artist; crowds of admirers gathering round the
'Morning Star,' as it was called, when it was on view at the Academy,
though it was generally believed to be an ideal rather than a portrait.
To Lilian it was a priceless treasure.

Mrs Tipper was in the outset a little afraid lest Lilian should do too
much for her strength; but she presently took my hint and objected no
more. I kept Lilian at work with me until we were both too fairly tired
out to be able to indulge in any sentimental regrets. Two or three days
passed thus, hammering and nailing in the mornings, chintz-cover making
in the afternoons; in a steady, methodical, business-like fashion,
until it was evident that very soon there would be nothing left for us
to do, if Mrs Tipper and Becky remained firm in their determination not
to allow us to give them any assistance in the everyday work of the
house.

When our work was at length completed, we flattered ourselves that a
prettier room than the cottage parlour was not to be found in all the
country round. The pictures and china, Lilian's easel and pet books and
birds, the pretty chintz furniture, and the rare flowers which found
their way to us, did indeed form a very charming whole--a room which
looked a great deal more like the home of a gentlewoman than did any
of the rooms at Fairview; the latter being too gorgeous in the way of
gilding and upholstery to be fitting receptacles for works of art.

I was not a little amused at Miss Farrar's very openly expressed
astonishment, when, about a fortnight after our departure from
Fairview, she found time for making the promised call upon us.

'Well!' she involuntarily exclaimed; 'you _have_ made it look pretty!'
presently adding--'for a cottage, you know. I am sure you need not mind
any one coming to see you here. I shouldn't mind living here myself, I
really shouldn't! I cannot think how you have contrived to make it look
so _comy fo_!'

Then she a little curiously asked to be shewn the rest of the house.
And although all our art treasures had been gathered together in this
one room, she found that the other part of the house was well and
prettily furnished; an air of comfort if not of luxury pervading every
nook and corner; nothing being wanting from garret to cellar. In fact
there had been no lack of means; Mrs Tipper had money enough and to
spare for the furnishing, without drawing upon Lilian's two hundred
and fifty pounds received for the piano. It had turned out there were
some hundreds lying in Mrs Tipper's name at the banker's. She had
not taken her brother's words so literally as he intended them to be
taken; drawing barely sixty or seventy pounds a year of the two hundred
which had been settled upon her; and consequently it had been left to
accumulate; and as she smilingly explained, Mr Markham informed her
there was quite a little fortune awaiting her. 'So I've been saving up
a fortune without knowing it, you see, dears: it isn't everybody that
does that.' Then, in a softer tone: 'Poor Jacob would be glad to know
that his generosity to me will help his child.' Then seeing Lilian's
colour rise as she looked up with tear-dimmed eyes at her mother's
portrait, and perhaps perceiving something of the thought which
occasioned the emotion, the dear little woman went on pleadingly and in
a low voice: 'Sometimes I think that _her_ love will plead for him. I
am sure that his love and kindness to his sister will.'

Marian peeped in everywhere, and even found a gracious word for Becky,
though I am sorry to say it was most ungraciously received. I do
not wish to lower Becky in the eyes of my readers, and therefore I
will only say that for a few moments she returned to the manners of
_court-life_, in replying to Miss Farrar's gracious little speech.

'What a deal it must have cost!' again and again ejaculated Marian.
'And how hard you must have worked to get it to look like this!'

'It has amused us,' I smilingly replied.

'And a piano too!'

'Yes; that made its appearance yesterday; a present from an unknown
friend;' adding a little mischievously, for in truth I more than
guessed that friend to be Robert Wentworth: 'Was it a kind thought of
yours, Miss Farrar?'

She was obliged to confess that it was not; though she did not omit to
imply that she considered she had already done enough, and more than
enough, in the way of 'kind thoughts.' Lilian's quiet self-contained
bearing seemed not a little to astonish her. She had, I fancy, expected
to find her in a lachrymose state. So at a loss was she to account for
it, that she presently asked me in a whisper whether we had had a visit
from Mr Trafford. I replied in the negative; and in her satisfaction
she was so far off her guard as to say: 'Caroline said he hadn't
been.' And she turned to Lilian again more gracious than ever.

She really meant to be kind, and looked disappointed as well as
surprised at Lilian's persistent refusal to go to stay at Fairview,
though she had had time to feel the difference between her former home
and the cottage.

'But you really must not bury yourself in this small place; and it
would be so nice for you, you know, having drives and all that. And
there's your horse--I won't sell it, if you would like to ride again.
I wish I wasn't so frightened of horses. Caroline says I should look
splendid in a habit.'

'I should not care to ride now, thank you.'

'But you must come and stay. We are going to have all sorts of gaieties
by-and-by; as soon as the new servants are in training. Caroline knows
lots of great people; and we will have dinners, and balls, and fêtes,
and all sorts of things. Of course you must come.'

'No; you are very kind--I am sure you mean to be kind--but I could not.
I do not care for such things. I prefer the cottage and cottage-life,'
gently but decidedly returned Lilian.

But that was quite beyond Marian's comprehension. She was convinced
that there was some other cause for the refusal. It was impossible
to really prefer living in a small cottage. After a few moments'
reflection, she said: 'You are not annoyed about Caroline being with
me, are you? You know you all left me alone, and'----

'Annoyed? No, indeed!' very decidedly replied Lilian. 'Why should I be?'

'Well, of course it's rather awkward your having broken it off
with Mr--Trafford; Caroline says you have now, quite?' with a keen
questioning glance. Lilian made no reply. She had indeed done nothing
towards the 'breaking off,' only tacitly submitted to it. After waiting
a few moments, and waiting in vain, Marian went on: 'But if you do not
care about having him now, I don't see why you should object to meeting
him occasionally. Indeed I do not know how I can forbid him to come to
Fairview. There can be no objection to his coming to see his sister
sometimes.'

'I do not see any,' quietly returned Lilian.

Whereat Marian looked very much relieved; and became so extremely
gracious and affectionate towards us, that Mrs Tipper, who had not been
much noticed of late, was taken into favour again.

'And I shall expect to see you too, aunt. I know you do not care for
company; but you might come on the quiet days, when we are _quite_
alone. I will let you know, the first leisure'----

'You must excuse me,' put in Mrs Tipper with gentle dignity; 'I have
given up visiting. I may make an occasional call; but, like Lilian, I
very much prefer my present humble home to Fairview--now.'

'It's very good of you to bear it so well, I'm sure; but you can't
_really_ prefer it, I think. Besides, you are my real aunt now, you
know; and if you don't come it will look as if'----

'You must excuse me if I sometimes forget our relationship, Miss
Marian' (never could Mrs Tipper be induced to give her the name of
Farrar). 'My Lilian is the only niece I have known until very recently,
and my love was all given to her long ago.'

But _one_ thing had put Marian into a good-humour with herself and
us, and she was not to be discountenanced. I think she good-naturedly
made allowance for us, as disappointed and soured people, from whom a
little ungraciousness might cheerfully be borne, by one so much more
fortunate. So she took leave of us in the pleasantest way, and with a
pretty wonder at our philosophy under difficulties; which proved that
she had already become an apt pupil of Mrs Chichester's.

Aided by a natural self-complacency and obtuseness, and disturbed by
no misgiving respecting her own powers, she would probably very soon
become as perfect a specimen of fine-ladyhood as she could desire to
be. The difference between a fine lady and a gentlewoman would never be
perceived by Miss Farrar.

One return visit we decided that it was necessary to force ourselves to
pay. We felt _that_ much was only right and proper, if only to evince
that we harboured no unkindliness towards the new mistress of Fairview.
But it was not pleasant to anticipate; and in our desire to get it
over, we were as prompt as Miss Farrar could desire in returning her
call, setting forth for Fairview the next day. Could she have heard us
comforting and sustaining each other by the way, she would probably
have been less flattered.

We were admitted and ushered into the drawing-room by a strange servant
in very gorgeous livery. It was to be a greater trial for poor Lilian
than I had expected. I do not think that either of us had calculated
upon the possibility of finding Arthur Trafford upon familiar terms
at Fairview at so early a date as this after Lilian's departure. But
there he was; and as Marian was singing at the top of her voice when we
were ushered into the room, we had a momentary picture of them as they
certainly would not have chosen us to see them; her eyes being raised
to his, and his bent upon hers, with all the _empressement_ of lovers,
before they became conscious of our presence. Mrs Chichester was seated
at a sufficient distance, near one of the open windows, apparently
deeply immersed in the subject treated in a book she was reading.

'Good gracious!' ejaculated Marian, rising hastily from the music-stool
as she caught sight of us.

Lilian shrank back a moment, and for that moment I contrived to screen
her from observation. Fortunately the others were too much confused at
being so discovered, to notice how we bore ourselves; and Lilian very
quickly recovered herself again and advanced towards Marian. Presently
we were all shaking hands and saying the right thing for the occasion.

Marian was extremely effusive about our goodness in coming 'so very
_soon_;' partly, I fancied, to conceal a little embarrassment which she
had the grace to feel. 'We did not expect you to be _quite_ so good as
_this_, you know, dear!' she ejaculated, kissing Lilian.

Arthur Trafford was the least at ease. When the rest of us had
contrived to assume an everyday tone and manner, he seemed to be
growing still more confused and conscious. It was certainly rather
embarrassing, for a man so desirous as he of others' good opinion,
to be found thus--assuming the attitude of a lover towards Marian
Farrar, by the girl whom he had deserted; and so soon after that
desertion. The motive was too palpable to be glossed over by any amount
of sophistry. To add to his misery, he still loved the girl he had
deserted.

The sight of Lilian's white face and grave eyes--the traces of the
storm which had swept over her--was too much for him. He stood gazing
at her with miserable yearning eyes; and when she presently addressed
a few words to him with reference to a book of his to which Marian had
drawn her attention, thanking him for the loan of it, and asking him to
excuse her having in the hurry of leaving Fairview forgotten to return
it, he could endure the torture no longer.

Hurriedly thrusting aside his sister, who had perceived something
of what was going on in his mind, and was coming to the rescue, he
went out of one of the windows opening to the ground, and we saw him
striding down one of the garden paths, as though his only object was to
get out of sight as quickly as possible.

Marian looked uneasy as well as annoyed; and watched Lilian more
closely, not a little astonished, I think, at her self-possession.
There was an awkward silence for a few moments; until Mrs Chichester
came to the rescue, and steered us into the shallows again, making talk
about nothing, in easy society fashion, until we had all recovered our
equilibrium.

Dear little Mrs Tipper came out grandly again; no longer attempting
anything in the way of company manners, they saw her as she was, a
single-minded, true-hearted woman, with a great deal of natural dignity
and self-respect. Utterly disregarding Marian's shocked looks and Mrs
Chichester's half-suppressed smiles, she talked about her cottage home
and new life with very unmistakable thankfulness for the change which
had come about, so far as she was concerned. They had led to it by
their compassionate tone, and they could not doubt the sincerity of her
replies.

'You mean to be kind, no doubt, ma'am;' in reply to one of Mrs
Chichester's polite little speeches. 'But I assure you that as for
myself I am more happy and comfortable at the cottage than I have
been for many a long day. I was not brought up like gentlefolks, and
their ways never came easy to me. My father was a green-grocer, and a
very good father he was--I am proud of my father, Mrs Chichester--and
though he could not make his children like rich people's children, he
taught us not to be ashamed of being what we were. If you don't like
your station in life, get out of it as soon as you like; but don't
be ashamed of it while you _are_ in it. That is what father used to
say; and there was not a tradesman in Camberwell more respected than
father was. Jacob worked his way up in the world; but by the time he
had got rich it was too late to make _me_ any different.' Smiling at
Mrs Chichester's graceful little protest, she cheerfully went on: 'We
have none of us been brought up like gentlefolks; and we can't help
its shewing. Why any one might see that Lilian is a lady, like her
mother before her, and different from such as us, you know;' with a
confidential nod towards Marian. 'I once thought that learning French
and the piano would do it; but I know better now.'

Marian drew herself up with a few murmured words to the effect that the
mistress of Fairview was quite equal to the position she found herself
in. But it was of no avail. She was not a gentlewoman in Mrs Tipper's
eyes; and Mrs Chichester herself was but a poor imitation of one.

'It is not, I think, usual to find--Camberwell so ready to recognise
the claims of birth, Mrs Tipper,' said Mrs Chichester, with the extreme
softness which generally accompanied such little speeches from her
lips. 'Blue blood is not supposed to reign there.'

'I was not talking about blue blood, ma'am,' returned Mrs Tipper,
complacently regarding her. 'Lilian's mother was a gentlewoman;' at
which Marian, who had taken offence at Mrs Chichester's remark on her
own account, gave it as her opinion that 'blue' blood was all nonsense,
and she had never believed in it.

I sat silent, admiring the way in which Mrs Tipper and Lilian shewed
their ability to hold their own. Mrs Chichester was inclined to be
loftily condescending towards me; but as I met her with smiling
cheerfulness, shewing no sign of being aware of my inferiority, the
conversation soon languished between us.

Marian did her very best to be kind and conciliating towards Lilian.
'Now you have broken the ice, you will come very often, I hope, dear.
It is rather a fatiguing walk up the hill; but there's the carriage
always at your service. Of course you will let me send you back now;'
going towards the bell as we rose to take leave. 'What _I_ should do
without a carriage I really don't know,' she added languidly.

We hurriedly declined the carriage, each very decidedly affirming a
predilection for walking exercise; and finding that we were really in
earnest, she reluctantly allowed us to depart as we came.

'There; it is over; and we need not go again for ever so long, I am
thankful to say!' ejaculated Mrs Tipper with a sigh of relief as we
turned homewards.




SEA-SHORE RAMBLES.


'Where are you going this year?' is a question that meets every one
just now, and is suggestive of coming holidays, when the daily work,
be it what it may, is put by for a season, and the tired brain is to
be rested and refreshed by more or less change of scene and fresh air.
'Where are you going?' suggests to some perhaps the aspirations of
an Alpine climber; to the angler, the joys of uninterrupted days of
patient watching by the side or in the middle of a limpid stream in one
of our home counties, or in the rougher and more exciting rivers of
Scotland and Wales. The schoolboy thinks of long rambles in the fields
and woods, or a cruise on the river; whilst Pater and Mater familias
consider how best to give rosy cheeks and a month's delight to the
little faces clustering round their table. It is chiefly this class of
holiday-makers that we have in our minds whilst we cogitate the hints
in these pages.

Not that the enjoyment of a sea-side ramble is by any means confined
to the young of the household. Nothing is more refreshing to the
breadwinner of a family than the perfect absence of restraint and
sense of freedom which every well-chosen exodus to the sea-side should
produce. Instead of the daily hurried breakfast and rush to catch the
train or omnibus which takes him to his office or place of business,
there is the leisurely and comfortable meal by the side of the open
window, through which the sea-breezes waft, bringing health and vigour
with them. The voices of children from the beach, full of life and
joy, as they build their castles of sand and dig moats for the water
to undermine them, are music to the ears usually half-deafened by the
sound of cabs and wagons and the noise of crowded thoroughfares; and we
do not wonder that there are many who, though they might go farther if
they chose, prefer rather the perfect repose and pure sea-breezes of
one of our British sea-coast villages. Perhaps after a few days of this
delicious sensation of rest and no hurry, the very want of occupation
may pall on the spirit of an active man; and he may find that to sweep
over the horizon with a telescope, to sail in a boat, to lounge or
loll on a shingly beach, varied by trials of skill in throwing stones
into the sea, cannot bear constant repetition without a suspicion of
dullness, and that after all he wants something more to do.

The task we propose to ourselves is to suggest what can be done at
the sea-side likely to interest and please those who, though not
naturalists, are intelligent observers, and who believe in the old
proverb, that 'Change of work is as good as play.' The young ones of
the household soon become interested in fresh pursuits, and are eager
to collect materials for an aquarium, or to commence a botanical
collection; or perhaps to search for pebbles, shells, or fossils, if
their quarters lie in some favourable position. We will suppose an
intelligent mother and father who are not naturalists, who do not
boast of any scientific letters after their name, and who belong to
none of the learned societies of our land, who yet when at home read
the current journals and literature of the day, occasionally attend
lectures, and believe that the pursuit of science is interesting as
well as useful. Perhaps they may have a medical friend or neighbour
who is almost sure to possess a microscope, with which he not only is
wont to make pathological investigations, but to interest and amuse his
friends. He will often exhibit the circulation of sap in a fresh-water
plant leaf, perhaps even the circulation of blood in a frog's foot;
and many are the pretty objects afforded by the hairs of a leaf,
the sections of a stem, or the wings of a beetle. But if by chance
this same microscope be transported to the sea-side, with its proper
arrangements for the examination of living organisms, the variety and
charm to be derived from its use are endless. Almost every drop of
sea-water teems with animal life; and an inch of sea-weed will produce
tiny shells, animalcules, and curious forms under the microscope
invisible to the naked eye. Then the very water brought from the sea
and supplied fresh for the morning bath, or carried home by the little
ones in their tiny pails with such delight, half-filled with sea-weed,
will often afford such marvels in the shape of zoophytes, or tiny
jelly-fishes, as only those can imagine who can recollect their first
sight of such wonders under the microscope.

It is very possible that the young ones of such a household as we
imagine, are the first to excite inquiry as to the objects around them.
They are sure to make friends in their sea-side rambles. The boys
will be attracted by some gray-headed old gentleman who goes 'sugaring
for moths;' or some crusty old geologist who pulls down the cliffs to
get at some coveted fossil, or sits on the beach cracking flints to
examine their formation, and delights to give a history of their growth
to a youthful audience. The little girls of a family party will to a
certainty bring home sea-weeds and sea-shore plants in their baskets,
and delightedly take in anything they can learn about them. Father
and mother begin to think that after all there is a great deal at the
sea-side they do not understand, and ignorant as they are, it is not
pleasant to confess it all to the youngsters; so a visit is paid to the
bookseller for certain books of reputation, such as Gosse's _Year at
the Shore_; and study begins in earnest.

After a while, the superior intelligence of the elders enables them
to master many minor subjects of interest, and to put them in the
position of instructors to the children, who are sure to follow them
up with avidity. In a little time a sort of extempore aquarium is
likely to be formed in the sitting-room or on the outside balcony, if
there be one. We can see the row of soup-plates and pie-dishes which
serve as domestic rock-pools for their inhabitants. Paterfamilias gets
much interested in these, and is found to wait more patiently than
usual for the brewing of his morning cup of tea whilst he examines
the curious creatures thus imported into his presence. Poking up a
sluggish sea-anemone, clearing off dead bits of sea-weed, or removing
some unpleasant defunct mollusc, occupies these normally irritating
intervals of time. After breakfast, whilst placidly enjoying the
fragrant weed, so delicious to the smoker at the sea-side, the boys,
who have often seen the fun, inaugurate a battle-royal between two
hermit crabs, who, being the very cuckoos of the sea, spend their lives
in the shells of other creatures, and have no rightful dwelling-place
of their own. The scientific name of the hermit crab is _Pagurus_,
but unlike other members of his class, he has only a portion of his
body incased in armour. His hind-parts are soft, covered only by a
delicate membrane; but his nature is warlike; and could he not by his
own ingenuity supply the wrong done him by Nature, he would fare ill
in this combative world; accordingly, he selects an empty shell of
convenient size, into which he pops his tender tail, fastening on by
hooks on each side, and having thus secured his rear, he scuttles over
the sea-bed, a grotesque but philosophic marauder. The impossibility
of Pagurus living long without a covering to his extremity is taken
advantage of by young and fun-loving naturalists. Selecting two nearly
of a size, and removing them from their appropriated shells, they are
dropped into a vase of sea-water, and one of the shells, usually a
whelk-shell, is placed between them, first breaking off the point of
the shell. At once the skirmish begins. One makes direct for the shell,
and having first poked in an inquiring claw and found all safe, slips
in his tail, and fastening on by his hooks, scuttles away rejoicing.
In the case we recall, he was not left long in undisturbed possession.
His rival approached with strictly dishonourable intentions, and they
both walked round and round the vase, eyeing each other with malignity.
No exhibition ever produced more laughter than this amusing and after
all, harmless combat, which lasted a full half-hour. The skirmish only
terminated when another shell more perfect than the original one was
thrown into the water, and the tender tail of the inhabitant poked, so
as to make him vacate and enter the new abode, leaving the dilapidated
shell to shelter his enemy, who made the best of it, curled up his
tail, and reposed in peace after his fatiguing campaign.

In a very short time aquariums multiply, books are read, and excursions
are organised to various rock-pools and silent sea-caves, where it
is said curious creatures from the deep may be found and secured.
We have already in former papers said much about the inhabitants of
sea-water aquaria; but the variety that can be found and retained and
studied in a temporary arrangement at the sea-coast is much greater
than any collection which will bear transportation and town-life. At
the sea-side, if one lovely anemone should sicken and fade, it can be
removed at once, thrown back into its native element to have a chance
of recovery, and its place easily supplied. Queer little fishes which
lurk under stones will often live for a long time in a pan of water;
and one we once kept in this way had individual habits and ways which
were most amusing. After swimming about for some time in an inverted
propagating glass resting in a flower-pot, he would sink to the bottom,
and then curling his tail round him as a cat would do when making
herself comfortable, he would look up with his unabashed eyes and
pant away, as if fatigued with his gambols. It was in the evening we
caught him, and he was then in full black--evening costume; but next
morning we found him arrayed in an entire suit of light brown--cool
morning-dress. In the afternoon he again assumed his black appearance.

An excellent plan in the country or the sea-side is to persuade and
encourage the children of the household to keep a diary. Everything,
however humble in the scale of creation, is worth observing and
watching, and is worth recording for after-reference. The motions of
a beetle or a butterfly; the flight or song of a bird; the burrowing
habits of the mole; the evolutions of a shoal of porpoises; or the
commotion betrayed by sea-birds when the herring appear, are each and
all worthy a place in the observer's diary. For by such recordings
have great works on natural history been given to the world. There
are several hours in the heat of the day when to be on the beach or
indeed out of shelter is impossible, and we have often found, it
difficult to suggest employment for these hours at all consistent with
the holiday spirit which pervades everything at the sea-side. Lessons
are voted a nuisance and a bore; drying sea-weed and pressing plants
found in the evening walks soon becomes tiring; but keeping a diary and
chronicling the events of each day is something which seems to carry
the interest of the holiday-time with it, and is pleasant to refer to
afterwards. The capture of special sea-creatures, their habits and
progress, perhaps their death, may be recorded, besides the names of
other animals or plants seen or brought home. This, to be accurate,
necessitates a little search in such books as may be handy; and the
bodily rest so induced is often a great boon to the little folks,
who fancy they never feel tired, but get hot and feverish sometimes
through overdoing it. We have such a diary before us now, and the
first entry is suggestive: '_August 10._--Last night the sea was all
on fire; we were just going to bed when papa called out that we might
go on to the beach with him; and there were lines of bright light all
along the waves. We threw handfuls of pebbles in, and the light shot
out brighter, almost like fire-works. Papa called it _phosphorescence_;
and to-day we saw all about it under the microscope, and read about it
in Mr Gosse's book. It turns out not to be fire at all, but a curious
little jelly-fish, which makes this light. I ran with my pail and got
some of the water where the light was; and this morning papa put it
under the microscope, and we saw one of the tiny little jelly-fishes
which made the brightness.'

Of course this appearance is not uncommon on a smooth sea in hot
weather, and many have been the conjectures as to its cause. Our little
naturalist is right in the main; but phosphorescence is not caused
solely by the presence of one species of jelly-fish, but of various
kinds of decaying organisms.

A little hand-net made of muslin slung over the side of a boat will
often secure numbers of these lovely transparent creatures. 'A tiny
beautiful glass-drop!' cries one of the baby naturalists as she looks
at a perfect little _Beroe_ floating in the sea-water drawn up in her
little wooden pail. 'See!' says mamma, 'how the sunshine changes its
colours, and how curiously it is fringed with tiny hairs, which keep
moving to and fro.' Nothing can be more graceful than the movements of
this beautiful little creature. A little crystal sphere, delicately
striped, and marked with two long tentacles or filaments attached to
it, which are in truth its fishing apparatus, and are fringed with
slender fibres, which contract and expand apparently at will, seeking
for the delicate morsels of food which support the life of this
ethereal-like creature.

Then on our southern coasts, in the Isle of Wight and elsewhere, we
have found other forms of Medusæ, even more charming. The pretty little
_Turris neglecta_ was constantly caught in the muslin-net one year.
It is like a tiny crystal bell, with an elegant white fringe around
it and a bright red coral bead in its centre. The _Sarsia prolifera_,
so funnily described by that humorous and genial naturalist, the late
Professor Edward Forbes, is a remarkable instance of the way in which
the young ones bud or sprout off from the parent Medusa at certain
seasons of the year.

When Professor Forbes wrote his book on the Medusæ, much remained to be
worked out and discovered of their nature and organism. He threw out
hints of their probable nature, which have been followed up by later
naturalists; and no one would have rejoiced more than himself had he
lived to see that his own conclusions were not final, but merely the
beginning of discoveries which had to be carried on. The whole history
of their development would form an interesting subject of thought and
investigation for many a long day at the sea-side.

But in seeking for materials for the diaries of our young folks, much
that is new and interesting is sure to turn up. One child devotes
herself to sea-weeds. She brings them home in her little basket, floats
them out in a saucer of fresh-water, and gently introduces half a
sheet of note-paper underneath the spray of weed. Carefully lifting it
up out of the water, the sea-weed displays itself gracefully on the
white paper. If any of the little fronds are out of place, they are
gently arranged by means of a camel-hair pencil brush. A bit of linen
is laid over the sea-weed, and it is placed between sheets of botanical
drying-paper under a press or heavy weight; next day the drying-paper
is changed; and in a few days the sea-weed will have dried on its
sheet of note-paper and become quite fast. The piece of linen must
be carefully removed and the particular specimen named, if it can be
identified.

In the diary of our little sea-weed collector we find written: 'In
looking for sea-weeds to-day, I found a great many things which I
thought were sea-weeds at first, and I tried to dry them in the same
way. They were much thicker, however, and would not dry so easily; and
I was told they were zoophytes or animals, and not plants or sea-weeds
at all. One of them is quite fleshy, and is like a sponge, only very
small. I find in Patterson's book that very likely it is really a
sponge.' Well done! little naturalist; many an older and wiser head
than yours has puzzled over the plant-like appearance of a zoophyte;
and surely the history of a sponge from its first stage as a little
gemmule to its death and decay in the interior of a flinty sepulchre
formed by its own substance, would not be a wearisome lesson. Every
department of science is so dependent on another, that no one can now
claim to be a good geologist, or botanist, or anatomist who does not
know at least something of the other branches of natural history. The
rough sketch we have given of some of the occupations and pursuits
which may add to the charm of a sea-side visit, is but suggestive of
much that cannot be entered upon.

The botany of the sea-coast is special and peculiar, and will repay
careful attention. Nowhere else do we see the lovely tamarisk trees
forming bright green hedges with their pretty white flowers. The
horn-poppy too (_Glaucum luteum_), with its sea-green leaves and
brilliant yellow flower; the sea-holly (_Eryngium maritimum_) bristling
and prickling even through a sea-shore boot; and on the slopes and
sandy downs near the sea the beautiful _Convolvulus soldenella_, with
its trailing stem and pretty pink flowers; the tiny sea-shore rose
(_Rosa spinosissima_), the origin of all the garden varieties of Scotch
roses, its stems often not rising more than a few inches from the sand
in which it grows. Then there is the jointed and fleshy _Salicornia_,
so characteristic of the sea-shore; and the aromatic samphire, only
seen growing dangerously on almost inaccessible cliffs. Nowhere have
we ever studied the names and habits of plants with the pleasure and
enthusiasm we have at the sea-side; partly perhaps, owing to the
holiday sensation that must always be associated with the noise of the
rushing waves over their shingly bed, in the minds of those who never
hear it but when they have thrown work aside for a while. Memories
never to be forgotten crowd into the heart at the sight of some
well-remembered little plant, growing just where it did thirty years
ago, when we were young and enthusiastic, and ready to learn all that
we could of the beautiful world, which then seemed made for our delight.

If it ever were the case that the experience of one could be expected
to guide others, we would say: Let your young folks read but little
during their sea-side holiday; but observe much; write down what they
see, and confirm and correct their observations by reference to any
good recognised text-book, many of which are now published. The brain
will thus get rest, or at least change of work, and will return to its
ordinary duties with redoubled vigour and refreshment. The education
of our children is now more than ever a puzzling question, and how
best to teach them to use their hours of relaxation is involved in it.
The naturalist spirit engendered, perhaps, by early rambles on the
sea-shore is one to be preciously guarded and cultivated in future
life; and those who have most carefully and wisely studied human
nature and its tendencies agree as to its beneficial influence on the
character.

The suggestions we have thrown together, imperfect as they are, may
serve to shew that a sea-side ramble may be made just what the seeker
for pleasure chooses it shall be. For the schoolboy and philosopher
alike, there is something to be studied and much to be wondered at and
admired in every rock-pool, on every mountain-side.




SUNSHINE AND CLOUD.

IN TWO PARTS.

PART II.--CLOUD.


CHAPTER III.--TOO BAD OF MR SCAMPLIN.

Ten o'clock on the following morning found our party arrived at
Dambourne station. It had been arranged that Angela and her brother
should spend a long day with Isaac, and if nothing particular were
found to be the matter, that he should return with them to town in the
evening. On alighting from the train, they started off for Isaac's
lodgings at Dambourne End, with the intention of looking at the
cottages and garden-ground on their way. As they neared the entrance
to the court in which Isaac's property was situated, Herbert could not
but notice the sidelong glances which were bestowed upon them by the
neighbouring inhabitants. He concluded they were caused by the presence
of strangers. Isaac apparently did not observe them. But as the party
proceeded up the court itself, the manifestations of interest in their
presence became more striking. A group of children who were playing,
scampered off at their approach, calling at the top of their voices:
'Ere him come.'

Herbert glanced inquiringly at Isaac, who was looking very complacent.
Indeed he accepted this greeting as a sign of the welcome of his
tenants on his return to them. As for Angela, she was too busily
engaged in picking her way through the large amount of 'matter in
the wrong place' with which the court was encumbered, to have much
attention to spare for other purposes. For it must be confessed that
although its owner had always been an assiduous landlord so far as the
collection of rents was concerned, he had not been so assiduous in
the improvement of the property either by disbursement, precept, or
otherwise.

The children's shouts brought a number of slatternly women to their
doors, and poor Isaac's complacency was somewhat rudely disturbed by
one virago exclaiming: 'Well, you skinflint, are these some more agents
come to look after your dirty cottages?' And by another following up
with: 'Ah, you'll just have to dub up some of the money you've screwed
out of us, ye ugly stingy thief!'

Isaac was thunder-struck. He had always been received by his tenants
with civility, if not exactly with respect; and here was a position in
which to be placed before his intended bride! But matters it seemed
were not to stop here; for from every turning and from every door angry
and bold-faced women emerged. And if things assumed a more hostile
shape, as they appeared on the point of doing, the interior of the
court would not be a good place from whence to beat a retreat; for
if its owner was a Webb, this court was undoubtedly a labyrinth. So
with that discretion which is the better part of valour, Isaac hastily
muttering 'Let's get away from these blackguards,' fairly turned tail
and fled. And not a minute too soon; for he carried away two splashes
of mud upon his back, and Angela a portion of a pailful of soap-suds
upon her bonnet, as souvenirs of their (soon to be) joint estate.

Without further adventure, Mrs Clappen's shop was reached; and as
soon as that lady had got over her first shock of surprise at the
sight of Angela, who she imagined was Mrs Webb, and whom she addressed
accordingly, she proceeded to throw some light upon the cause of
Isaac's reception by his tenantry. Some of them were customers of hers,
and she had heard from them all the 'particularities,' as she called
them--namely, that Mr Scamplin had very soon after his arrival paid a
visit to the cottagers, had announced himself as Mr Webb's agent during
his absence from home, and had shewn a paper purporting to be signed by
that gentleman, authorising him to act as such; said he had received
instructions to give notice that from that day week all the rents were
to be raised; had diligently received the rents each week up to the
very day before his disappearance, sympathising apparently with the
tenants in what he called their harsh treatment by his employer, and in
their inability to give immediate notice to quit, owing to the scarcity
of cottages in the town; and had otherwise contrived that the onus of
these hard measures should fall upon Isaac's devoted head.

An inspection of the box shewed that everything had been turned out
of it and the cash removed, but that fortunately the title-deeds and
other documents had been replaced. A consultation was held, and it was
decided that Angela and her brother should return to town, and that
Isaac should remain to set matters right with his tenants. Herbert
advised that the robbery should be allowed to pass, since there was no
clue as to Mr Scamplin's movements on his leaving the neighbourhood,
and extra trouble and expense would be caused by communicating with the
police. So in the evening Isaac accompanied his friends to the railway
station, carefully choosing a route as distant as possible from the
obnoxious court. After their departure, he called on his friend Mr
Jones, and requested that gentleman to pay another visit to the tenants
and explain to them the mistake that had been made. This, after some
hesitation, Mr Jones consented to do.

But Isaac's cup was not yet full. He had no sooner arrived at his
lodgings than he received a visit from the sanitary officer, who
pointed out to him some very necessary alterations and improvements
which _must_ be made in the court and without loss of time; and at
Isaac's inquiry, estimating the probable cost at about a hundred pounds.

Poor Isaac! the cloud is rather heavy; but the sunlight of Angela and
an income of six hundred a year and more expectations, is streaming
behind it.


CHAPTER IV.--WEBB VICE ASHTON.

Isaac took no further notice of the robbery, and nothing more was
heard of the thief. Mr Jones's attempts at pacification were tolerably
successful, and the greater number of Isaac's tenants remained in their
cottages on the old terms. At the end of three weeks, Herbert paid
Isaac a visit, and received from him the five hundred pounds, for which
he gave a receipt, which our hero deposited in his box.

Isaac had wondered several times about young Ashton, and whether Angela
had seen or heard anything of him; so he asked Herbert about him.

'He left London,' he answered, 'immediately after he heard of Angela's
engagement with you; and the ball we were going to was given up.'

'Poor young man!' exclaimed Isaac compassionately.

'Depend upon it he envies you your success,' said Herbert. 'And now
what are you going to do with yourself all the time between this and
the wedding?' he asked.

'I have these alterations in the court to see after; and I want to have
matters straight for Jones, as I shall put the management of things in
his hands when I go away for good. But get over your preparations as
fast as you can, Herbert, for I shall be glad to be settled; and unless
you want me for anything, I will stay here until I go up to London for
the--the wedding.' Isaac brought the last word out with a jerk.

Herbert promised to make all possible haste, and said he would write to
Isaac in the course of a week or so. This latter promise he fulfilled
by sending Isaac word that he knew of a very desirable house at
Brixton; but it could only be obtained by the purchase of the lease. He
requested Isaac to let him know by return of post or the chance would
be lost, and it was such a bargain. He had spent the greater part of
the five hundred pounds on the furniture, which it was desirable to
get into its place soon. Angela had been to see the house, and was
delighted with it. To purchase the lease and fixtures, two hundred
pounds more would be required, and if Isaac liked to close with the
bargain, that day fortnight would be time enough for the money. While
on the subject of money, he would ask Isaac to lend him a hundred
pounds for Angela to make the necessary preparations for her marriage.
This he asked on the strength of a remark that Isaac had once made as
to his entire confidence in him.

Poor Isaac felt with many a twinge, that he was somehow getting
involved. But he felt that it would be over soon, and that when he and
Angela were married, and he was in possession of her jointure, he would
make up for all this great expenditure by a little judicious saving; so
he wrote to Herbert to strike the bargain, and said the three hundred
pounds should be ready for him in a week or ten days.

When Herbert came for the money, his sister accompanied him. She told
Isaac that it was such a delightful house, and that she was sure they
would be so happy there. She also told him how deeply she appreciated
his confidence in her brother and herself; and made on the whole so
great an impression upon Isaac, that for once his heart was really
touched. Before his visitors returned to town that evening, it was
decided that that day month should be the happy one. On their way to
the station the lovers were alone for a few minutes, when Isaac asked
about having the banns published.

'Oh, I shouldn't like that a bit,' said Angela gaily. 'How should you
like to hear me called spinster in church? No, no; Herbert must get a
license; you need not bother about that.'

To Isaac it was a matter of so little moment, that what suited her
suited him.


CHAPTER V.--WHERE IS THE LICENSE?

The time for the wedding sped quickly on. Mr Batfid's establishment
was again visited, and Isaac received a suit of clothes that fitted
him, their maker observed, 'like a gentleman.' Isaac received several
charming letters from his betrothed. She seemed so happy in the
anticipation of their approaching nuptials and their delightful home.
It was arranged that the wedding should be a very quiet one. No one was
to be present but the contracting parties themselves; Angela's brother
and a young-lady friend; Mr Jones (Isaac's best-man); and the officials
of the church. They were to spend their honeymoon in the isle much
frequented by such visitations--that of Wight; and Angela wrote word
that Herbert had engaged a respectable couple to take care of the house
at Brixton until their return home.

A few days before the eventful one fixed for the ceremony, Isaac packed
up what few things he wanted, bade good-bye to Mrs Clappen, told Mr
Jones to be sure to meet him in good time at the church, and finally
started off to his old lodgings--the coffee-house at Islington. The
next morning he visited New West Road and accompanied Angela and her
brother to Brixton. The house, as she had truly described it, was
delightful, and it was, moreover, most charmingly and tastefully
furnished. Isaac was surprised and pleased, though somewhat alarmed
at the (to him) vastness and grandeur of his new residence. On their
return, he spent the evening at New West Road, and was treated to some
of Angela's songs and (as a special favour) a private view of the
wedding-dress.

'There is one thing to be done, Isaac,' Herbert said, just as he was
leaving; 'you have to put your name to the transfer of the lease of
your house. However, that can be done when you come back here after the
ceremony.'

Early on his wedding morning, Isaac was up and dressed. He could not
indeed afford to be very late, for the ceremony was fixed for ten
o'clock. At nine he suddenly remembered that he wanted a wedding-ring,
so ran as fast as he could to the nearest jeweller's and bought one,
the size of which he was obliged to chance. His ruling passion was
strong even in these circumstances; for he contrived to beat the
jeweller down a point in price, and made him promise to exchange the
ring at any future time if it did not fit. He reached the church (which
was close to Miss Faithful's residence) in good time, and found Herbert
outside waiting to see him. Mr Jones was also in readiness, and the
clergyman had just arrived in the vestry.

'I am glad you are come, Isaac,' said Herbert. 'I did not ask you about
the license. I suppose you have it all right?'

'No; I haven't it,' answered Isaac.--'I understood that you would get
it.'

'I? Why, surely you know that it must be obtained by one of the persons
who are about to use it!'

Herbert was evidently vexed. 'Pray, have you only come here to make
fools of us? I don't see what other interpretation is to be put on your
conduct.'

'I am very sorry,' said poor Isaac meekly, 'but I didn't know about it.
What can I do?'

'Do!' Herbert returned. 'The only thing you can do is for you and your
friend to get a Hansom and go to Doctors' Commons as quickly as you can
and get a license, and to be back here as much before twelve o'clock as
possible. Meanwhile we will go back to the house and wait.'

So a cab was procured, and the bridegroom and his friend started off.
Fortunately Jones had been to Doctors' Commons before, so that not much
time was lost in its intricacies.


CHAPTER VI.--CHECKMATED.

On their return to the church the sexton was just about to lock the
door, but seeing two gentlemen approaching, he waited till they came
up; and not having seen them on their former visit there that morning,
he politely asked them if they wanted to see the church.

'My friend has come here to be married,' said Jones. 'Where are the
other members of the party?'

'Come to be married, has he? Who was he going to be married to?'

'Miss Angela Faithful,' said Jones.

'O come, that won't do, you know,' said the sexton, with a glance at
Isaac's tall but ungainly figure; 'you're not going to gammon _me_.
It's true she _was_ married this morning, and a pretty young woman she
is, and dressed very handsome too'----

'Yes,' Isaac broke in; 'and where did the money for it come from?'

'I didn't ask her, and she didn't tell me,' returned the man, half
cross, yet half amused.

'You must have made some mistake, my friend,' said Jones. 'To whom was
the young lady married?'

'I didn't hear his surname; but he was married in the name of Herbert.'

'That is her brother!' cried Isaac and Jones together.

'Ah, well; they're husband and wife too, now--a sort of double
relationship, you see. But I can't wait here while you take your fun
off me no longer,' the sexton continued. 'So here goes.' With that he
locked the door and walked away.

'Stay!' cried Jones; 'we are not making fun of you; the matter is far
too serious. Where can we find the clergyman who married them?'

'I can't tell you; he doesn't live hereabouts. He only took the duty
for our gentleman, who is away for a few days. I believe his name is
Smith; but I've never seen him before, and very likely shan't ever see
him again.'

'Which way did the two go when they left the church?' Jones asked.

'I was inside, so didn't notice,' answered the sexton.

Isaac followed his friend down the church path, and seemed utterly
bewildered. But now Jones appealed to him as to the probable
destination of the pair. Isaac blankly suggested New West Road; so
thither they went. Mrs Glubbs--Miss Faithful's care-taker--answered
them. She knew nothing of Angela's movements, except that she
understood she was gone to be married; to whom she did not know, but
supposed it was to the young man she was always with--Mr Herbert. Could
they see Miss Faithful? Yes; certainly, if they liked; but she would be
able to give them no information; for she could scarcely speak now, and
was well nigh idiotic.

The friends next proceeded to Brixton. A handsome phaeton was outside
Isaac's house, and a gentleman--a stranger--was inside. He received
them very urbanely, and just as though the place belonged to him.

Upon Jones asking him (for Isaac seemed as though he were in a dream)
his business there, the gentleman politely returned him the same
question.

'Sir,' said Jones, 'this is my friend's house: you are under some
misconception.'

'Sir,' said the stranger politely, 'you are apparently labouring under
the same difficulty. I bought this furniture as it stands, these
fixtures, and the lease of this house, the day before yesterday, and am
now legally in possession. Permit me, however, to remove any doubt by
shewing you these papers. No--pardon me--not in your own hands: you can
look over me.'

Yes; the documents were genuine enough; a proper lease and transfer,
and all the rest of it; but no sign of the name of Isaac Webb. The
stranger said the gentleman of whom he bought the lease, &c. was a Mr
Herbert Ashton, whom he had not the pleasure of knowing personally; but
the business had been properly conducted on both sides by respectable
solicitors. He believed the last owner, Mr Ashton, had held the lease
but a very short time.

The friends' next visit was to the police. They listened patiently
to the tale, and calmly said they did not think much of it. Had the
gentleman any witnesses or papers to prove it? No. Very well then; what
could they, the police, do? The gentleman _might_ be able to get a
warrant; but if the story were true, the persons who had got the better
of him would know how to keep out of the way of that; but it was a tale
almost impossible to prove; and for their part they didn't believe
a word of it. The gentleman looked as if he was insane. It may be
remarked that Jones did not form a very high opinion of the penetration
and intellectual capacity of the police in this matter. He next tried
to persuade Isaac to go and consult a respectable solicitor; but at
this he absolutely rebelled.

'No, no,' he said; 'it will only cost me a lot more money.' At that
word--so dear to him--he fairly broke down and sobbed aloud. A crowd
began to form; so Jones hailed a cab, and bore Isaac off to the railway
station _en route_ for Dambourne.


CHAPTER THE LAST.--THE MORAL.

Isaac stayed with his friend Jones until he began to get over in some
measure the shock he had experienced, when he resumed his old quarters
with Mrs Clappen. After he had been settled there about a week, he
saw in a newspaper the following announcement: 'On the 10th instant,
HERBERT ASHTON, Esq. to ANGELA, fifth daughter of the late VINCENT
FAITHFUL, Esq. of London. No cards.' This was supplemented at the end
of another week by the receipt of the following letter:

    DEAR MR WEBB--Possibly you may think that some sort of
    explanation is due to you from me. I must inform you then,
    that Herbert Ashton (whom you have known as Herbert Faithful)
    and I have been attached to each other for some years. The
    want of a little money as capital alone prevented our union.
    You remember, I daresay, our introduction at the Holloway
    ball. On that occasion the idea first came into my mind to
    play the part I have. It occurred to me as I listened to your
    conversation with Mr Hoppe, the Master of the Ceremonies,
    respecting me and _my expectations_. Thanks to you, they are
    certainly no worse now than they were then. I mentioned my
    idea to Herbert, and he has well helped me to carry it into
    effect. The shock to your self-conceit, pride, and cunning
    is no doubt severe, but time will assist you to get over it;
    and the lesson you have learned may perhaps be of value to
    you some day. Meanwhile endeavour to forget us. It will be
    idle to remember us; for we are--when this reaches you--far
    from the old country. We have left it and the old name in all
    probability for ever--unless indeed you should ever leave
    us the remainder of your property, in which case we might
    cross the seas to claim it. And if at any time chance should
    cause us to meet it will be but as strangers, for Herbert
    was careful to re-possess himself of all the receipts and
    documents, that could be of no use to us where they were.
    They are now destroyed. And do not trouble Miss Faithful
    with fruitless inquiries. She is not my aunt, but a distant
    relation of the same name as my father. Her property I may
    tell you goes at her death to her sister, Mrs Glubbs. We have
    met with Mr Scamplin, in whom my husband recognised an old
    acquaintance. He is now with us, and desires to be remembered
    to you. If you ever think of your monetary loss--eight hundred
    pounds, was it not?--remember with pleasure that it has
    conduced to my happiness. I am aware that you intended it to
    do so, but in a slightly different way. And now, Mr Webb,
    good-bye for ever; and believe me that I shall never forget
    you. My dear husband desires his remembrances to you, and
    wishes me to say that he forgives you your rudeness to me at
    all times, as do I,

    Yours never very truly,
        ANGELA ASHTON.




AFFECTION IN BIRD-LIFE.


Any one who will watch carefully may soon perceive that not only
pigeons in the court-yard, sparrows on the roof, crows and magpies in
the wood, and many other birds, always live together in inseparable
pairs; but also that swallows and various other small birds, when,
in the autumn, they fly about in great swarms previous to migrating,
always keep together affectionately in pairs. Starlings, crows, and
various others, collect together in the evenings in large numbers on
bushes, high trees, and church roofs for a night's rest; but in the
morning the company resolves itself into pairs, and during the entire
time of flight these pairs remain together. Several species are the
exceptions to this rule, inasmuch as the two sexes form into separate
companies to prosecute their migratory flight; this is the case with
most of our summer warblers. The males start, and also probably return,
some days earlier than the females; but whenever the two sexes have
returned, they mate, and the pairs then formed are supposed to be of
the same individuals as in previous years.

The fidelity and affectionate intimacy of married bird-life appears
most conspicuously in pairs of the Grosbeak family and in small
parrots. Here is perfect harmony of will and deed. The two sweethearts
appear unwilling to leave one another's company for a moment all their
life; they do everything together--eating and drinking, bathing and
dressing of feathers, sleeping and waking. Various degrees of affection
and harmony are discernible on close observation. Among the small
grosbeaks, pairs of which sit together, the intimate relation is never
disturbed; even over the feeding-cup there is no quarrelling. They
stand highest in this respect among birds. Love-tokens are exchanged
by pressing of beaks together--a veritable kissing, accompanied with
loving gestures. They are also more sociable, and even at nesting-time
more peaceable, than other birds. In the case of other grosbeaks,
when the male bird sits by the female in the nest, there are various
demonstrations of affection, but also slight occasional disputes,
especially about feeding-time. Next in order come the small parrots,
which also appear almost inseparable. The male bird feeds his companion
with seeds from the crop. This goes on quite regularly during the
hatching, and until the young are somewhat grown. During all this
time the hen-bird, which broods alone, never leaves the nest but for
a few minutes, and the cock shews such affectionate care, that the
whole day he seems to do nothing but take food and give it again. Yet
even this loving union is marred from time to time, even during the
hatching-time, with quarrels that even come to blows. Again, the male
bird of a pair of chaffinches only occasionally sits on the eggs or
young, but he watches the nest very carefully, singing to his mate the
while, accompanies the hen in flight, and helps her in feeding the
young.

The marriage unions of parrots present great differences. The
long-tailed Australian parrots, beautiful in plumage, but mentally
inferior, are not nearly so affectionate towards each other as the
little short-tailed species. M. Russ, a careful observer, tells us that
the male bird of the Australian Nymph Cockatoo generally remains by
night with the female, and during the day sits much more than she does.
Such parental care is rare. Many parrots, especially large species, are
by no means peaceable in their sexual relations, and appear somewhat
affectionate only at the time of nidification. Large parrots are
commonly very excited at brooding-time, and ferocious towards other
animals, and even men. All parrots shew affection by giving food out of
the crop.

A quite peculiar wedlock is observable in some of the finches and
other birds. 'In my aviary,' says M. Russ, 'I had a pair of saffron
finches, at whose behaviour I was for some time quite astonished. The
cock and the hen hunted and persecuted each other savagely for days
and weeks together; it was not, as in the case of some other birds,
mere sport and teasing, but a bitter strife; the end of which was
that the male bird, which appeared to have the worst of it, made his
escape altogether, and never returned. Yet these two birds nestled,
and actually reared four young, though I could not perceive whether
their hatred was laid aside, or at least abated, during the hatching.'
Similar phenomena, though not so pronounced, occur amongst finches,
parrots, birds of prey, &c.

We have already said that the grosbeaks express affection for one
another. The male frequently also performs a dance before the object of
his regard; he hops about in a droll courtesying manner, with outspread
tail and nodding head, warbling at the same time a melodious ditty. The
larger grosbeaks give forth peculiar sounds accompanied with a hopping
movement. These love-dances are frequently to be noticed in bird-life;
among the best known and most skilful in this respect are those of the
black-cock, the love-making of which is exceedingly interesting to
watch.

The strong pugnacity developed among birds at time of hatching is
remarkable. Even the little gentle grosbeak will endeavour, by violent
pecking, to drive away males of the same or closely related species
from the neighbourhood of his loved one. The larger finches are often
roused by the same zeal to a blind fury, which, in the case of the
chaffinch, is frequently taken advantage of by the bird-catchers. The
fights observed in nature between birds have most generally for their
cause the emotions of love.

We come to another expression of affection in bird-life--namely, song.
It is to a great extent of a purely emulative character, and not
seldom is the contention so strong and persistent, that one of the
two rivals, through over-exertion, falls lifeless to the ground. One
may observe such rivalry in spring, in the woods and fields, between
two neighbouring male finches, nightingales, and various other birds.
And in the aviary it is to be observed not only among the excellent
singers, such as the gray finches and red cardinals, but also in the
comparatively silent grosbeaks.

But the singing of birds has of course also another aspect--it is the
most potent means of wooing. And this is true not only as regards the
sweet plaint of the nightingale, the melodious warbling of the finch,
but also of the hoarse croaking of the crows, the ear-splitting
screech of the jay, the murmur of the pigeons, and the like--doubtless
the most bewitching tones they are able to produce. 'Hark! the lark at
heaven's gate sings;' so says Shakspeare. And for what does the lark
ascend and trill his cheerful lay in mid-air, but to sing in a spirit
of kindness to his mate nestling on the ground within hearing of his
notes; or as a versifier has pictured this delicate attention:

    The lark on high now mounts the sky,
      All hear his pipe a-ringing;
    His mate on nest whom he loves best,
      Sits listening to his singing.

It can hardly be doubted that the response awakened in the heart of
female birds in these circumstances is quite as genuinely tender as
the notes addressed to them. The very birds of the air might teach a
lesson to man--to the wretches who, in the bosom of civilisation, kick
wives to death, and leave their children to die under the accumulated
miseries of want and desolation!




THE MONTH:

SCIENCE AND ARTS.


At the meeting of the Iron and Steel Institute last month, Mr C. W.
Siemens, F.R.S., was elected President: to the honour of the Institute,
be it recorded. In his inaugural address he discussed a question on
which he has bestowed much thought, namely fuel. The coal-fields of the
globe, so far as at present known, comprise two hundred and seventy
thousand square miles, one hundred and ninety-two thousand of which
are in the United States, eighteen thousand in Nova Scotia, and eleven
thousand nine hundred in Great Britain. Mr Siemens is of opinion that
at our present rate of consumption, we have in this country coal enough
to last eleven hundred years; and that if the consumption should tend
to increase, it will be kept in check by the economical processes of
heating that remain to be discovered. And in many parts of the world
there are underground stores of gas that can be made available as
fuel, as exemplified by the seventy furnaces at Pittsburgh, which do
all their puddling and reheating by means of the gas flowing through
eighteen miles of pipe from its source in Pennsylvania.

As an example of the saving that can be effected by mere mechanical
contrivance, we take a new ship of the Inman line trading between
Liverpool and New York, in which the old style of engine has given
place to the 'modern double cylinder compound engines,' which leave
a much larger space for cargo than the old engines, and burn about
sixty-five tons of coal per day, instead of one hundred and fifteen
tons. The saving in the article of fuel is thus seen to be very great,
even for a single ship.

Of course iron and steel were prominent topics of discussion at
the meeting, and the conclusion to be drawn therefrom is, that in
ship-building and other mechanical operations steel will take the place
of iron. The torpedo vessel _Lightning_, which steams nineteen knots
an hour, is already an evidence of what can be done by the combined
lightness and strength of steel; another is promised by Admiral
Sartorius, which will cleave the water at the rate of twenty-four
knots, and steel ships of large size are building and to be built
for the government. In this way the peaceful arts become diverted to
warlike purposes, and heighten the cost of war to a prodigious extent.

The future of steel, said Mr Bramwell, F.R.S., in his lecture at the
Royal Institution, is to supersede iron for almost everything except
the forge-work of common blacksmiths; and further, that part of the
province of cast-iron, such as toothed-wheels and castings of complex
form, which now, thanks to Riepe's improved construction of moulds, can
be produced from molten steel.

Mr Siemens' process for the manufacture of steel leaves nothing to
chance. The quality of steel is always that which was foreseen and
desired; and the samples, when submitted to the severe tests imposed by
the Admiralty, are never found to fail.

But Professor Barff's discovery seems to shew that iron will not be
easily superseded. If iron can be produced that will not under any
circumstances get rusty, iron will become more useful than ever.
The discovery is this: that if hot iron is placed in a chamber of
superheated steam, it takes on a black coat which is magnetic oxide,
and this coat is so hard and impervious to atmospheric influences that
rust will not form upon it. The hotter the steam in which the process
is carried on, the harder is the coat: after an exposure of seven
hours to twelve hundred degrees, it will resist a file. Consequently
the strength of the iron is greatly increased, and it can never become
weakened by rust. The importance of this fact can hardly be overrated
in connection, for instance, with iron plates for boilers and ships, in
which unlimited strength would be highly prized.

We are told that the protecting coat can be put on at small cost,
and that it will probably be made use of for iron goods of every
description. 'Copper vessels will no longer possess any advantages for
cooking, and iron saucepans will no longer need to be tinned. Lead
pipes for the conveyance of water will in all probability be entirely
superseded; and there can be no doubt that new uses for incorrodible
iron will every day suggest themselves. Messrs Penn of Greenwich are
about to undertake a series of trials for the purpose of testing the
strength of the prepared articles, so that they may become able to
speak with authority upon the fitness of the protected iron for bridge
girders and architectural purposes.'

How to make iron without producing slag is a question which, if any
one can answer satisfactorily, his reward shall be great in fame and
fortune. In Yorkshire alone, the blast-furnaces pour out more than four
million tons of slag a year, from which fact the enormous quantity
produced throughout the kingdom can be judged of. Sixteen million tons
of refuse! What can be done with it? In some places, land has been
bought or hired to provide space for the ugly heaps, and many attempts
have been made to lessen the accumulation by finding uses for the slag.
It has been made into blocks and bricks for paving; into slabs, pipes,
brackets, and friezes; into cement; into sand for fertilising purposes;
and while in the molten condition, has been blown into a substance
resembling cotton-wool. But some of these attempts have failed, and
not one has sufficed to diminish the heaps of slag. And now another
suggestion, based on the fact that slag is vitreous, is put forth,
namely to convert it into glass. A mixture of sand, soda, and slag
melted in a furnace will come out as glass. The experiment would not be
expensive, for slag in any quantity may be had for nothing.

If some of those ingenious individuals who write so frequently to the
Admiralty or to the Royal Society announcing that they have discovered
the true place of the axis of the earth, or the true explanation of the
precession of the equinoxes, or the cause of compass deviation, would
only turn their attention to the questions in the foregoing paragraph,
they might perhaps make practical discoveries which would be capable of
proof, and potential of profit.

Last session a paper on the Best Method of Propelling Steamships
was read at the United Service Institution. In the discussion that
followed, Admiral Selwyn said experiment had shewn that whether you
divide the water by a very narrow fine bow, cleaving the fluid like an
axe, or whether you put that narrow fine bow flat on the water, and
drive it over the water, the resistance is for all practical purposes
the same: having fine lines there is no more resistance in the one case
than in the other. Experiment has shewn also that between the finest
vessel of deep draught and a vessel of similar tonnage, built in the
form of a segment of a sphere, there is no difference of resistance.
'But there is this remarkable difference in another way, that whereas
the sharp deep-keeled vessel plunges constantly under water, and makes
bad weather of it, the segment of the sphere always rides over the
water with perfect ease.'

And at the meeting of Naval Architects, Mr Reed explained that a
circular ironclad will float better and carry heavier weights than a
ship of the ordinary shape, and yet not be deficient in speed.

At last a parliamentary committee has been appointed to collect
evidence on the condition of the Thames and other rivers, on the best
means of regulating them, and of economising the rainfall so that there
shall be a sufficient supply of water at all seasons. This is a great
question: human requirements confronting the forces of nature with a
view to harmonious co-operation. According to a statement made at a
meeting of the Institution of Civil Engineers, the quantity of water
that flows daily over Teddington weir is 3,223,125 tons; hence the
Thames will count for something in the inquiry. Besides which, we may
remember that the commerce carried by the royal river amounts to nine
million tons annually.

At a recent meeting of the Franklin Institute, Philadelphia,
there were exhibited an Odontograph for laying out the teeth of
gear-wheels; an exhaust nozzle for quieting the noise of safety-valves
and escape-pipes; an aspirator for ventilating mill-stones, and a
horse-shoe intended to prevent slipping on a smoothly paved road.
Readers desirous of further particulars must write to Philadelphia; but
if that 'quieting nozzle' can only be made available, passengers at
railway stations and on board steamboats will be spared the deafening
roar that now annoys them, and will feel grateful accordingly.

The last published volume of _Transactions_ of the Royal Society
of Victoria contains a paper entitled, 'Is the Eucalyptus a
Fever-destroying Tree?' a question which, as our readers are aware,
is not less interesting here in Europe than in Australia. Baron von
Mueller, government botanist at Melbourne, has described more than
one hundred and thirty species of Eucalyptus: some grow into forests
of great extent both on high and low table-land, others form dense
desert scrub, while others are so distributed as to impart a park-like
appearance to the landscape. The leaves are evergreen, and so arranged
that the light and heat of the sun fall equally on each side; and the
roots are dispersive and drain water largely from the soil. Besides the
general constituents of a ligneous vegetation, the Eucalyptus contains
a gum-resin, a volatile acid, and a peculiar volatile oil. The finest
forests, _Eucalyptus amygdalina_, extend inland about one hundred
miles, beyond which the scrub species prevail. When by vicissitude of
season the seaward species are poor in volatile oil, then the scrub
is rich, and _vice versâ_. The extent of scrub and forest in the
three colonies of New South Wales, Victoria, and South Australia is
so great that the quantity of oil therein contained is estimated at
96,877,440,000 gallons. On this Mr Bosisto, the author of the paper
above referred to, remarks: 'Considering that the same condition
exists throughout the major part of Australia ... we cannot arrive at
any other conclusion than that the whole atmosphere of Australia is
more or less affected by the perpetual exhalation of those volatile
bodies.' The aroma thereof would be disagreeable, were it not that
'volatile oils have the power of changing oxygen into ozone while they
are slowly oxidising.' It can hardly be doubted that the influence on
climate must be important. 'Let,' says Mr Bosisto, 'a small quantity
of any of the eucalyptus oils, but especially the oil of _Eucalyptus
amygdalina_, be distributed sparingly in a sick-chamber, or over any
unpleasant substance, or add a small quantity to stagnant water, and
the pleasure of breathing an improved air will immediately be manifest.
The application of this to the climate of Australia has great force,
for it is acknowledged that we possess about us, both in bush and town,
a large amount of active oxygen, made frequently doubly so by our
vigorous vegetation.'

The conclusion from the whole series of facts is, that the Eucalyptus
_is_ a fever-destroying tree. Baron von Mueller states that the
_Eucalyptus amygdalina_ in favourable situations grows to a height of
four hundred feet, that it yields more oil than any other species, and
bears the climate of Europe. The species of quickest growth is the
_Eucalyptus globulus_.

In a communication to the Royal Astronomical Society, Mr W. M.
Williams points out that obscure heat, such as that radiated from
sun-spots, is much more largely absorbed by our atmosphere than the
heat from the luminous parts of the sun's surface. Consequently the
obscure heat exerts an influence on terrestrial climate as well as the
luminous heat: the former in preventing or modifying the formation of
clouds in the upper regions, and in producing thereby meteorological
results which would be an interesting study. An illustration of what
is meant by this is afforded by a well-known phenomenon, namely the
general clearness of the sky during full moon, the clouds having been
dissipated by the obscure heat-rays _reflected from the moon's surface_.

If observations of the difference of absorption between the two
kinds of heat could be made at different heights, we should have,
as Mr Williams says, 'a new means of studying the constitution of
the interior of the sun and its relations to the photosphere. Direct
evidence of selective absorption by our atmosphere may thus be
obtained, which would go far towards solving one of the crucial solar
problems--whether the darker regions are hotter or cooler than the
photosphere?'

St Bartholomew's Hospital Reports contain an article by Dr Hollis in
which an attempt is made to clear the study of mental physics of some
of its obscurity, and to shew what are the functions of the brain and
the way in which they may be studied. Examples are given of the effects
of disease: a letter-sorter in the Post-office had experienced a
failure of memory during two years, could not continue his employment,
and eventually died. A large tumour was found in the substance of the
left temporal lobe of the brain, which probably accounted for the loss
of memory and inability to retain a mental picture of the pigeon-holes
into which the letters were to be sorted. The organs of the brain were
there, but their proper action was disturbed by the growth of disease,
and the man of necessity ceased to be a letter-sorter. In concluding
his article, Dr Hollis warns 'students of this seductive branch of
medical science not to attempt to localise in the cortex too closely
the several faculties of the mind. It is preposterous,' he remarks, 'to
expect that similar cells are reserved for similar functions in all
human brains, knowing what we do of the great diversity in man's mental
nature, his various occupations, proclivities, and talents. Beyond the
fact that there exists in our brains a posterior or retentive system,
and an anterior or expressive system, our knowledge of this organ will
not at present permit us to go.'

The effect of ether and of chloroform as anæsthetics, is attracting
considerable attention. It is alleged that with chloroform, vascular
paralysis frequently precedes respiratory paralysis; and an amount
of chloroform insufficient to cause paralysis of respiration will
often produce vascular paralysis, accompanied by such a diminution
of blood-pressure as to render artificial respiration useless, since
interchange between the gases of the air and blood does not take
place. In this case artificial respiration does not recall life, and
respiration ceases when artificial aid is removed. Experiments made
with nitrite of amyl demonstrate its value as an antidote to the
dangerous effects of chloroform; for which reason an American physician
remarks: 'In the light of our present knowledge, it seems to me that
humanity and science alike require that, when chloroform is used as
an anæsthetic, the nitrite of amyl should be at hand, as one of the
remedies whose efficiency is to be tested in case of impending danger.'

Medical practitioners in Calcutta have had their attention called to
a species of parasite before undescribed, which has been found in
large numbers in the intestines of persons who have died of cholera.
According to a description recently published in the _Journal_ of the
Asiatic Society of Bengal, it is the _Amphistoma hominis_. 'I have
never seen such parasites,' writes Dr Simpson, 'and apparently they are
unknown to the natives. They are of a red colour, size of a tadpole,
adhering to the mucous membrane, by a circular open mouth which they
have the power of dilating and contracting.' It is to be hoped that
these somewhat mysterious tormentors will not make their appearance in
Europe. By way of precaution, we would just hint, 'See that you drink
pure water.'

Of petroleum furnaces of a small size suited for high temperatures we
find Quichenot's (lately noticed in these columns) is not the first
attempt made, one having been introduced some years ago by Griffin,
an English manufacturer. The difficulty with all petroleum furnaces
is to keep them lighted until the casing or crucible is sufficiently
hot to do this itself. The special liability which petroleum furnaces
have to blow out _at first_, is to a great extent if not entirely
overcome in Griffin's by the use of a wick. We are told by those who
are practically conversant with the subject, that there are many
difficulties in the use of petroleum as a fuel for furnace-work on a
small scale, which, however, may be in a measure overcome by skilful
management. But for small furnace operations it is now generally
admitted that there is no fuel so well adapted as gas. A gas furnace
of an entirely novel construction was introduced about a year ago by
Mr Fletcher, F.C.S., of Warrington, in which the gas is burnt by an
arrangement similar to Giffard's Injector, and requiring no more air
than an ordinary small foot blower will supply with ease. The whole
arrangement is exceedingly simple; and a refractory clay crucible
can be fused in less than half an hour by an apparatus which (blower
included) can easily be carried in one hand. Of gas furnaces not
requiring a blast, the pioneer was Gore, who made the first draft
furnace, burning gas, which would fuse cast-iron; and the principle
made use of by Gore--that is, the subdivision of a large flame by
air-spaces--has been since made use of successfully in many forms by
different makers; but the maximum temperatures obtained in Gore's
furnace have never yet been exceeded by any maker without the use of a
blast. The nearest approach to a draft furnace giving really intense
heats is, so far as we can ascertain, the Injector furnace of Mr
Fletcher, which requires only about one-fifth of the air consumed to be
supplied by blowing, the remaining part of the air being drawn in from
the surrounding atmosphere by the action of the furnace itself.




MORE MISSING ARTICLES.


A large party of merry people, old and young, were sitting on the
sands at Cromer one day, when one of the party, the youngest and
brightest, began for fun to 'make faces' with her fingers, and shewing
the rest how to copy her. The way in which she used her fingers and
handkerchief produced the most grotesque effects imaginable. Our
heroine, Mrs Reynolds, a young matron of the party, followed suit,
and soon succeeded; but, said Minnie the original starter of the
fun: 'Take off your rings; they spoil the effect.' Accordingly two
valuable rings--emerald and pearl--were slipped off and laid within an
open parasol. Soon after the party began to move, Mrs Reynolds took
up her parasol, thought no more of the rings, and passed on with the
rest home. Not till she reached the house and, preparing for lunch,
was about to wash her hands, did it suddenly flash upon her what she
had done. Alas, alas! those precious rings were lost on the sands,
already crowded with excursionists and bathers. Away flew Mrs Reynolds,
her hair streaming behind her (hung out to dry after bathing), her
heart panting, her head aching, down to the shore again. There was
the bathing woman calmly pursuing her calling all unconscious of the
trouble; there too was Captain Wardell, politely concerned; there the
groups of cousins warmly sympathetic; but alas! no trace of the jewels
lost. How should they ever be found in such an expanse of sand?--no
trace even left of the spot where the friends had sat. Still, resolved
not to be baffled (the rings were not only precious but full of
associative value), a place was fixed upon by Mrs Reynolds, and the
hunt began. The sand, loose and fine, was turned over and over and
sifted inch by inch, and the hapless owner was at length compelled to
abandon the search and return home. Her weary feet had hardly turned in
at the threshold when a panting voice behind caused her to turn. There
stood a kindly cousin, scarlet with excitement and running, almost
unable to speak, but holding up the emerald ring found by Captain
Wardell's little son Gordon, a child of five years of age. As a last
hope, his father had said to him: 'Come, Gordon, feel for it too in the
loose sand;' and as if by magic, the child thrust in his little fat
hand and pulled out the ring!

Of course this shewed they were on the right scent; and in
three-quarters of an hour more the pearl ring also turned up. They
had hunted in all for nearly two hours, in perfectly loose sand, on a
wide shore; and as a fisherman said, it was indeed like 'hunting for
a needle in a haystack.' The excitement throughout the little town of
Cromer had been immense, owing to the crier having been sent round; and
all the evening the story was being discussed by little groups of men
and women, no doubt growing in interest by the repetition.

Another curious instance of losing and finding is worth recording. A
gentleman walking along the shore of Hastings lost his ring. We think
he was stretching after a dog in the water, but at anyrate the ring
slipped off, and was not found again. A year after--it is even said
on the very anniversary--the same gentleman was again strolling along
the shore when a fisherman ran after him, and inquiring, 'Did you drop
this, sir?' held up to him his own ring, lost twelve months before.

One more incident. A gentleman bought an umbrella, and taking it into
his hand, put down a sovereign in payment. Presently the bill, having
been made out, was presented; but when the shopman put his hand forth
to take up the money, it could not be seen. The gentleman thought it
extraordinary--the shopman equally so. The former was sure he had
deposited the coin, the shopman equally certain that it had not reached
his hands. What was to be done? It ended in the gentleman again paying
the amount. Some little time after, the gentleman was again in the
shop, and being there, took occasion to ask if the sovereign had ever
been seen again. 'No,' said the young man; 'we never found it.' Just
then the gentleman, opening his umbrella to shew what he required
altered (some trifle or other), gave it a shake, when out rolled a
sovereign; the very one of course so long missing. The strangest part
of it is that the umbrella had been constantly used since the day it
was bought.

       *       *       *       *       *

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._





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