Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 148, Vol. III, October 30, 1886
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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 148, Vol. III, October 30, 1886

Author: Various

Release date: February 9, 2025 [eBook #75329]

Language: English

Original publication: Edinburgh: William and Robert Chambers, 1853

Credits: Susan Skinner, Eric Hutton and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 148, VOL. III, OCTOBER 30, 1886 ***

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

CONTENTS

THE MATTERHORN, AND ITS VICTIMS.
BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.
PITMEN, PAST AND PRESENT.
GEORGE HANNAY’S LOVE AFFAIR.
THE MONTH: SCIENCE AND ARTS.
OCCASIONAL NOTES.
IF THIS WERE SO.

No. 148.—Vol. III.

Price 1½d.

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 30, 1886.

THE MATTERHORN, AND ITS VICTIMS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

CHAPTER X.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘On my life!’ was the fervid response.—‘Goodnight, and au revoir.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a moment the two men were silent.

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

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

(To be continued.)

PITMEN, PAST AND PRESENT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GEORGE HANNAY’S LOVE AFFAIR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE MONTH:
SCIENCE AND ARTS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OCCASIONAL NOTES.

PHARAOH’S HOUSE.

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

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

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

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

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

THE EMIGRANTS’ INFORMATION OFFICE.

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

INCREASED CONSUMPTION OF BRITISH-COLONIAL TEAS.

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

IF THIS WERE SO.

O Love, if I could see you standing here,

I, to whom the memory of a scene—

This lane, tree-shadowed, with the summer’s light

Falling in golden showers, the boughs between,

Upon your upturned face—shines out as clear,
Against the background dark of many a year,
As yonder solitary starlet bright
Gleams on the storm-clad bosom of the night.

If this were so—if you should come to me

With your calm, angel face, framed in with gold,

And lay your hand in mine as long ago
You laid it coldly, would the love untold
Hidden within my heart, set my lips free
To speak of it and know the certainty
Of love crowned or rejected—yes or no?
O Love, I could not speak if this were so.

But if you came to meet me in the lane

With footsteps swifter than you used of yore—

And if your eyes grew brighter, dear, as though

They gladdened at my coming back once more—

If, when I held your little hand again,

Your calmness grew less still, then not in vain

My heart would strive to speak, for it would know

What words to utter, Love, if this were so!

Kate Mellersh.

The Conductor of Chambers’s Journal begs to direct the attention of Contributors to the following notice:

1st. All communications should be addressed to the ‘Editor, 339 High Street, Edinburgh.’

2d. For its return in case of ineligibility, postage-stamps should accompany every manuscript.

3d. To secure their safe return if ineligible, All Manuscripts, whether accompanied by a letter of advice or otherwise, should have the writer’s Name and Address written upon them IN FULL.

4th. Offerings of Verse should invariably be accompanied by a stamped and directed envelope.

If the above rules are complied with, the Editor will do his best to insure the safe return of ineligible papers.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.

All rights reserved.

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

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

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 148, VOL. III, OCTOBER 30, 1886 ***

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Table of Contents

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

- CONTENTS

- THE MATTERHORN, AND ITS VICTIMS.

- BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- PITMEN, PAST AND PRESENT.

- GEORGE HANNAY’S LOVE AFFAIR.

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

- THE MONTH: SCIENCE AND ARTS.

- OCCASIONAL NOTES.

- PHARAOH’S HOUSE.

- THE EMIGRANTS’ INFORMATION OFFICE.

- INCREASED CONSUMPTION OF BRITISH-COLONIAL TEAS.

- IF THIS WERE SO.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE