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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 39, Vol. I, September 27, 1884

Author: Various

Release date: September 11, 2021 [eBook #66267]

Language: English

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. 39, VOL. I, SEPTEMBER 27, 1884 ***




[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 39.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




HOME-NURSING.

BY A LADY.


THIRD ARTICLE.

In our last paper we spoke of the choice of a sick-room; we shall
now proceed to discuss its management. In commencing to nurse a case
that promises to be anything like lengthy, it is well to consider
how to save unnecessary dust and unnecessary labour, whilst keeping
the room in its proper state of cleanliness. With this end in view,
heavy woollen draperies, retaining dust and bad smells, should be
avoided; and if curtains are used at all, they should be of lace, or
some light, washing material. The best chairs are those with simple
wooden frames and cane seats and backs. Should a sofa be necessary,
and a regular invalid couch not procurable, nothing is better than a
chair-bed—provided it does not creak—fitted with washing-covers to its
cushions. Much has been said for and against the use of carpets in a
sick-room; and taking all into consideration, we see no reason for
changing our opinion that, in ordinary cases, it is better to let them
remain; they make a room pleasanter and more natural, and do away with
the noise of scrubbing, incidental to a boarded floor.

If there are cupboards, they should be cleaned out before beginning
to nurse, and in no case must they be used as receptacles for food or
for anything that has become soiled in using. A chest of drawers is a
comfort if used with discretion; but in home-nursing, it often proves
the reverse of useful, and serves as a treasury for all sorts of things
which have no business in a sick-room.

Pictures have a brightening effect, but they must hang straight, or
your patient may worry himself with endless efforts to make them fit in
with the pattern of the paper; though, if possible, the paper should be
without those decided markings which so often add to the distress of
unduly sensitive nerves.

Growing-plants have a cheerful look, and are not deleterious, as many
suppose; cut flowers may also be indulged in, with the exception of
those which have a heavy, sickly smell; but it is better to remove them
at night. In summer, it is necessary to take precaution against the
patient’s being disturbed by the buzz of insects; a fly-catcher at the
open window will generally be sufficient; but such things in the room
itself are worse than useless.

Small washable ornaments may be allowed to remain, but not to a greater
extent than suffices to give the room its customary appearance, for it
must be remembered that all useless articles increase the number of
dust-receptacles and make the process of tidying-up more lengthy. I
have seen mantel-boards and brackets covered with cloth, and literally
crowded with ornaments, which have not been properly dusted for weeks
because it made the patient sneeze! Such instances point the moral in
regard to cloth-coverings as well as superfluous ornaments.

A folding-screen is an almost indispensable article of sick-room
furniture; it not only serves to keep off draughts and the glare of the
fire, but in convalescence is useful for putting round the invalid’s
chair. By its help, too, ventilation is made so much easier, that,
if nothing pretty and ornamental is to be had, it is worth while to
extemporise a screen with an ordinary clothes-horse and sheet; but a
chintz or holland cover, bound with braid and made to tie on, is much
more cheerful than the dull expanse of a sheet.

And now for the most important article of furniture, the bed, on which
depends so much of the patient’s comfort or discomfort. If possible,
have a light iron frame without a foot-rail, or with only a low one.
For an adult, the bed should measure not less than six feet three
inches in length and about three feet in width. Greater width increases
the difficulty of reaching the patient, and it is astonishing the
journeys such a thing as a handkerchief will make over a large surface
of bed. The height of the bed is another serious consideration, for
should it be too low, the nurse will find it add considerably to
the back-aching tendency of nursing; and if too high, the constant
straining up to the patient will be quite as bad. The rule then,
is, that the bed when made shall be so proportioned to the nurse’s
height as to enable her to lift and attend to the patient without any
undue effort. In home-nursing, the bed question is often overlooked
altogether, or made much more of a difficulty than it need be; and
though that relic of unenlightened days, the four-poster, is almost
extinct in some households, most of the beds are large, and to alter
the furnishing of a room seems beyond the imagination of the ordinary
housekeeper. But surely, in time of illness, the first consideration
should be how best to mitigate the patient’s sufferings and lighten
the nurse’s labours; and in all but quite slight cases, it is worth
considerable effort to secure the right kind of bed and bedding.
This brings us to another home-nursing difficulty; for in spite of
recent progress in hygienic knowledge, there are still not a few
individuals who are foolish enough to prefer the unwholesome softness
of a feather-bed to the healthy firmness of a good hair mattress. Yet
few victims to this enervating habit fail to complain of the lumps,
only to be got rid of by a large expenditure of strength and time. And
if this be so in ordinary life, how much more complicated do matters
become when the patient is too weak to bear to be removed for the
necessary shaking, and is yet in a state to feel every discomfort
with added force. Indeed, so true is this, that in serious illness,
a feather-bed may be reckoned as an invincible enemy to comfort and
cleanliness; and it is better not to allow your patient to remain under
such unfavourable circumstances, even though it involve a few hours
of dissatisfied grumbling. It may make things easier if the change is
ushered in by allowing the feather-bed to remain under the mattress
till the patient has become accustomed to the new order of things, when
it will be well to substitute flock for feathers.

If the nurse’s height will allow of two mattresses, it is a good plan
to alternate them so that the under one of yesterday shall be the upper
one of to-day. Those who have not tried this simple way of securing
a change, will hardly believe the comfort it affords to a helpless
patient.

On the same principle, it is a great alleviation to the monotony of
long illness if the room will allow of two beds, one for day, the other
for night; and this arrangement permits the thorough airing of bed and
bedding, which it is otherwise so difficult to secure.

Bed-hangings are happily following the lead of the ancient four-poster,
and will soon be only remembered as things of the past; and in illness,
even the valance, still in use, had better be banished. Pillows should
be firm and not too soft; and bolsters should have covers of their own,
and not be rolled round in the under-sheet, according to a common and
very shiftless process. I have known the sheet to be tucked round the
bolster in such a careless way that by the patient’s merely getting
into bed it has been pulled out of place, and has continued a fruitful
source of irritation for the rest of the day.

How to keep the under-sheet smooth and free alike from crumbs and
wrinkles is one of the professed nurse’s arts, and is just one of those
apparently small matters, neglected as such by inexperience, which
make home-nursing the unsatisfactory thing it often is. Yet those who
have gone through a tedious illness can hardly fail to remember the
discomfort of what a tiny patient used to call ‘rucks.’ To him, poor
little man, rucks made stopping in bed a misery; and his incessant
demands to have them removed, suggested to even his inexperienced
nurse the idea that there might be a right and a wrong way to such
a commonplace thing as bed-making. The right and only proper way of
arranging a bed for illness is to give special, minute attention to
the placing of under-blanket and sheet. If the former can be dispensed
with, especially in summer-time, it will be well; but very few patients
will agree to this, and it is hardly of sufficient importance to argue
about, except in special cases, when the doctor will probably give his
veto.

In an ordinary way, be careful to choose a thin blanket, without holes
of course, but one that has been pretty well worn, and that, therefore,
will not greatly add to the heat of the patient’s body. Then—more
important still—the blanket must be considerably larger than the bed,
in length as well as width. The mattress being arranged as evenly as
possible, the under-blanket should be laid upon it, and well tucked
in at top and bottom, as well as sides, till there is not a crease or
wrinkle of any sort. The under-sheet must now be put on in the same
way, and the nearer it resembles a drum in tightness the better. A few
minutes spent in extra care at this point will save the patient hours
of discomfort later on.

Should there, unfortunately, be no covered bolster, the sheet, after
being securely tucked in at the bottom, must be drawn tightly upwards,
and the bolster rolled round in the free end and then placed well
up against the bed-head. The difficulty is to get the sheet tightly
stretched without pulling the bolster away from its proper place. The
number of pillows must be regulated by the nature of the patient’s
malady and partly by his previous habits. In ordinary cases, one large
pillow is enough, and it is a good plan to place it lengthways, one
end resting against the bed-head, and the other on the mattress, thus
avoiding the hollow between the patient’s shoulders and the bed, which
is a fruitful source of uneasiness and restlessness. In convalescence
and in many forms of illness, pillows play an important part, and we
shall have more to say about them later on.

We now return to the bed, furnished as far as the under-sheet and
pillow. Should the patient be quite helpless, it will be necessary to
place next, the contrivance known as a draw-sheet, which should consist
of old linen or calico that has been washed to extreme softness. It
should be folded lengthways till just long enough to reach from below
the patient’s shoulders to his knees. This, with an under-piece of
mackintosh, is carefully put in place and tucked in with the same care
and tightness as the under-sheet.

In regard to the upper bed-clothes, they too require care in tucking
in, especially at the bottom; and if so long as to need folding back,
the folding must on no account be done at the top. I have seen patients
with chest complaints literally labouring under the weight of clothes
placed in exactly the wrong place. In illness, as a rule the feet need
extra covering, and the breathing organs no more weight of clothes than
is absolutely necessary. The upper-sheet being light, may be allowed to
turn over for neatness, but blanket and counterpane must only come up
to the patient’s neck. This folding back is such a common error, that
it needs special notice, and in ordinary life, as well as in illness,
should never be tolerated. The number of upper-clothes to be put on
the patient’s bed will vary with circumstances; but, as a rule, in a
room with a fire, one blanket and a counterpane will be enough. The
great point is to secure warmth without weight, and for this purpose,
the ordinary cotton counterpane is about as bad as possible. An
excellent substitute is the kind of blanket known as the ‘Austrian,’
which is cheerful in appearance as well as light and warm. In cases of
exhaustion, nothing is better than a chintz-covered down, which can be
shifted or removed without disturbing the patient.

A good many amateur nurses err on the side of over-heating a patient,
and do not understand its connection with restless tossing and broken
sleep. Should these symptoms occur at night, especially if accompanied
with a flushed face and moist skin, it is well to gradually reduce the
number of coverings, carefully noticing the effect of so doing.

On the ground of their greater warmth, cotton sheets and pillow-cases
are preferable to linen; but some people have a decided fancy for the
latter, and it may safely be used, provided the sheets are warmed just
before being put on the bed. Simple airing is not enough; I have known
the chill of linen set a patient off into a shivering fit, although the
nurse has been particularly strong in the airing line.

It is absolutely necessary that all the bedding used in illness shall
be thoroughly aired, but, of course, it should never be done in the
sick-room. Unhappily, it is by no means rare to find the fire screened
from a patient by clothes-horse or chairs, covered with damp things,
the vapour from which ought to be sufficient warning of the folly of
such a practice. A good rule in this connection is that everything,
down to cups and saucers, shall be removed from the sick-room as soon
as soiled, and only returned to it in a condition for immediate use.

Re-making the patient’s bed is our next consideration. If well enough
to go into another room, he should either be carried there, or laid on
a sofa and wheeled in. As soon as he is out of the way, the window of
the sick-room should be thrown open to its widest, and the bed-clothes
taken off one by one, well shaken, and left so exposed that the air
can circulate freely around them. The mattresses should share the same
treatment, and if possible, be left for a few minutes before being
replaced. The patient will indeed be peculiar who does not enjoy the
refreshment of a bed thus aired.

But in helpless illness, the changing of bedding is a more complicated
matter, and needs practice to make perfect. There are two ways of
changing the under-sheet The first may be used when the patient is
not quite helpless, and the nurse has to work alone. The soiled sheet
is freed at the top, and after the removal of pillows and bolster, is
rolled up to the patient’s head; the clean sheet, after being well
tucked in at the top, is loosely rolled in such a way as to lie close
against the soiled one; they must now be worked down together, rolling
the soiled, and unrolling the clean, the patient raising himself on
elbows and feet just enough for the nurse to pass the sheets under
him. In this way it is possible to get the under-sheet smooth and
tight; but it is not an easy thing, and an assistant should be had if
possible. If help is to be had, and in all cases where the patient
is quite powerless, it is better to adopt the second plan. Remove
the pillows and bolster, so that the patient lies quite flat in bed;
turn him over on his side with his back to you. Loosen the sheet
lengthways, and proceed with the rolling and unrolling as before, till
the rolls come close up to the patient’s back. Depress the mattress
under him, whilst the assistant draws the sheet through, and in so
doing, slowly turns the patient on his back. He will now be lying on
the clean sheet, and the difficulty is over. The trained nurse will be
able to do this without removing the upper clothing, and in no case
should all the coverings be taken away. Draw-sheets may be removed in
the same way, but being small, are easier to manage. Some people tack
or pin the clean to the dirty, and draw through whilst an assistant
keeps the patient raised. Changing the upper clothes is not such a
serious undertaking, though seldom properly managed by amateurs. The
counterpane and blanket may be taken quite off the bed, and given to
an assistant to shake, outside the room; but the sheet must never be
removed without an immediate substitute. A good plan is to loosen the
soiled sheet all round, tuck the clean one well in at the foot, and
draw the free end upwards, under the dirty sheet, which is gradually
drawn away or rolled up. As a general rule, the patient’s bed should be
made and his night-shirt changed at least once a day, and cases where
this is not feasible ought not to come within the scope of home-nursing.

If a pair of clean sheets a day cannot be managed, one may be made to
do, by letting yesterday’s clean upper sheet be to-day’s lower one; but
draw-sheets must be changed as soon as soiled, irrespective of number.
Where mackintosh is used, it should also be frequently changed, washed
over, and thoroughly dried, in the open air if possible.

The patient’s bed, it will be seen from the directions for making it,
must never stand so that one side is against the wall, nor must it be
in a direct current of air; but it is well if it can be so arranged
as to face the fire and at the same time allow the patient to amuse
himself by looking out of window. In badly finished houses, there is
often considerable draught from cracks in door or window frame, and
from this the patient must be carefully guarded by the judicious use of
screens.

We now turn to consider how the sick-room may be kept in that state
of perfect cleanliness essential alike to the patient’s comfort and
recovery; and of all neglected points, this is perhaps the one most
frequently forgotten or ignored; not one in a hundred of home-nurses
having a conception of her duty in this respect. Difficult it
undoubtedly is; but where the patient can be removed to another
room for an hour or two once a week, it is quite possible for even
inexperience to be successful.

We will suppose the weekly removal has taken place, and the nurse has
to make hay while the sun shines. She first strips the bed, sending the
clothes into another room to be aired; and throwing the window open
to its widest, she directs her attention to the grate. The best way
of removing the ashes is to carefully collect all the large pieces of
coal and cinder, and then very gently draw the ashes away into a piece
of stiff paper, which folded over them, will prevent any dust rising
in their transit. After cleaning grate and fire-irons and making up
the fire, the nurse turns her attention to the carpet, which, after
being well strewn with damp tea-leaves, should be briskly swept with a
hand-broom. If the furniture is simple, it may be washed over with a
wet cloth and dried, all cushions or stuffed furniture being beaten out
of the room. The window, often overlooked, should be nicely cleaned;
and then the bed being re-made, the patient may be brought back into
a room thoroughly well cleaned and aired. It is not necessary that a
nurse should herself perform all menial work; indeed, it is much better
she should not; but she ought to see that the above directions are
faithfully carried out. For the rest of the week, the carpet should
be wiped over with a damp (not wet) cloth, tied to the end of a long
broom, and the furniture well and quickly dusted. It is not enough to
merely wipe over furniture and let the dust loose; the duster should
be folded over bit by bit as it becomes soiled, and once or twice
during the process of dusting, shaken out of a window in another room
or in the staircase. A room thus treated will keep in perfect order
for some time; but should the illness be long, an effort must be made
to take the carpet up about every six weeks or two months, that it may
be beaten and thoroughly aired. If carpets are made in the sensible
fashion of squares, secured by brass nails with broad heads, there will
be little difficulty in managing this; but it will not hurt the carpet
to let it remain loose.

In cases where the weekly removal is impossible, the floor must be
wiped over carefully every day with a damp cloth, and tea-leaves used
now and then, the patient being protected from the dust by screens; but
this plan is only for use as a last resource in extreme cases. Under
such circumstances, it is not a bad plan to have a small portion of the
furniture, say a chair or table and an ornament or two, removed each
day and thoroughly cleaned, out of the room; otherwise, it is almost
impossible to keep things in proper order, in spite of daily dusting.




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER XLVIII.—ANXIETIES.

Madge wakened with the weary sensation of one who has passed through
a long nightmare. It was some minutes before she could recall the
incidents of the previous day; still longer before she could realise
the unhappy meaning of the scene with Philip, and the fact that
Uncle Dick and Aunt Hessy had found in her conduct cause for grave
displeasure.

Surely she had been acting very wickedly, when those three, who
were dearer to her than all the world beside, turned from her, and
were vexed as well as pained by what she was doing, so far as they
understood it. Surely Mr Beecham must be mistaken in the course he was
pursuing—she did not even now doubt the goodness and generosity of his
motives. There was only one way in which she could set the minds of
her friends at ease; and that she must adopt, no matter what it might
cost herself. She dare not hope that Philip would be readily satisfied
and come back to her; but at least he should understand that she had
been thinking of his interest more than of herself. And Uncle Dick and
Aunt Hessy would be relieved from anxiety on her account, and then—who
could tell?—maybe they would influence Philip. Maybe Uncle Dick would
overlook his loss of fortune, and tell him that he never meant to
separate them on such a sorry score as that.

The one way which she saw to bring about this desirable consummation
was to inform Mr Beecham that she could no longer keep his secret; and
that, if he did not come to Willowmere within the week to release her,
she would take back the pledge she had given him and explain everything
to her relatives.

Having arrived at this resolution, she was restored to a calm state
of mind which was wonderful in contrast with the fever of the night.
Morning is the time of hope and energy to a healthful nature; and Madge
felt this, although the atmosphere was cold and the sky white with its
load of snow, which was presently to descend in thick flakes, covering
up the last patches of earth and shrub left bare by the glimpses of
sunshine that had succeeded the previous fall.

She went about her duties quietly and resolutely; but it was hard to
meet the wistful eyes of Dame Crawshay without throwing herself into
the arms that would have received her so gladly, and at once tell all.
She had, however, made a bargain, and she would keep to it. Aunt Hessy
would approve of what she was doing, when the time for explanation
came. Uncle Dick was surly at breakfast, and he scarcely spoke to her
at dinner. He did not once refer to the cattle show, and he went out to
inspect his stock, a discontented and unhappy man.

Madge felt assured that Philip would say nothing more unless he heard
from Uncle Dick; nevertheless, she was all day looking out for some
sign from him. Old Zachy the postman came twice, and she saw him
approach, her heart pausing, then beating quick with excitement. But
Zachy brought nothing from her lover. And she was pained as well as
disappointed, although she assured herself again that she had not
expected anything, and that she had no right to expect anything until
Philip received some token of Uncle Dick’s kindly intentions. Besides,
she argued, it was needful to bear in mind the distracted state he
was in about his affairs, and how many things he must have to attend
to which could not be postponed on any account. Indeed, she did
remember all this, and was so keenly sensible of the cruel effect his
misfortunes were producing on his mind, that she was frightened about
him—more frightened than she had been even on the occurrence of the
accident with the horse.

So, when postman Zachy had made his second and last round in the
afternoon, she could not rest until she had consulted Dr Joy regarding
Philip’s health. Having explained to Aunt Hessy where she was going and
why, she started for the village, although the snow had begun to fall
in a way which would have made any town-miss who understood what the
signs meant glad to stay at home. What the snow meant was to fulfil
the threats it had been making for several days, and to come down more
heavily than it had done for years.

Dr Joy was surprised to see her on such a gloomy afternoon; but he
understood the nature of her visit, after a few words of such necessary
explanation as she was at liberty to give.

‘And I want you to tell me plainly what his condition is, doctor,’ she
concluded, ‘for I—that is, we are all very anxious about him.’

The good little doctor looked at her earnestly for a moment, as if to
assure himself that she was not only desirous of hearing the truth but
also able to bear it, and then made reply frankly, but was unable even
then to dismount entirely from the hobby which he and his wife rode so
diligently in theory.

‘You will agree with me, my dear Miss Heathcote, that economy is the
great principle which should regulate our lives—not merely economy in
finance, but likewise in work, in strength, and (most important of all)
in health. I daresay our friend has told you that I spoke to him on
this subject.’

‘When writing, he mentioned that you had visited him,’ she answered,
with some nervous anticipations assailing her.

‘Well, I warned him then that his condition was extremely precarious.
It is, in fact, that condition which when a man has fallen into, it
requires him directly to throw up everything, if he cares to live. It
requires him to sacrifice fortune, prosperity, and to run away anywhere
and do anything to escape it.’

‘But how can he do that?’

Her own observations of Philip’s changing moods recently, formed a
convincing argument in favour of the importance of what the doctor
said. The doctor shook his head and smiled regretfully.

‘That is precisely what he asked; that is what every man to whom the
advice is given asks. My answer is—_don’t_ ask how, but go at once.
Your affairs will be settled much more satisfactorily to all parties
in a year or two if you go, than they can be if you remain and die in a
month or two.’

‘But surely Philip is not so bad as that!’

‘You asked me to speak plainly, and I am quoting extreme cases,’ said
Dr Joy, anxious to mitigate the alarm which he saw his verdict had
created, whilst at the same time holding to his point. ‘Philip is
not quite so bad as that yet; but he will be in a few months, unless
something occurs to relieve him from his present anxieties.’

The doctor’s last words gave her more encouragement than he could have
expected, or perhaps intended to give; and the terror which had made
her pulse seem to stop, was changed to confident hope. She had every
reason to believe that in a few weeks, it might be in a few days,
Philip would be relieved of all his anxieties. But this did not lessen
in any degree her eagerness to have direct and frequent information
as to the state of his health. Dr Joy readily agreed to call at the
chambers in Gray’s Inn on the following day, and report to her on his
return; then they were to arrange about further visits. Thus being
relieved to some extent on this important point, she prepared to take
leave; but Dr and Mrs Joy suggested that she should have a fly to take
her home, as the snow was falling fast, and already lay three or four
inches deep on the ground, whilst it had drifted into an embankment
against the opposite houses.

‘I should not think of your hiring a conveyance,’ said the doctor; ‘but
we have had a long and heavy day, and both my horses are fagged out.’

But Madge would not hear of this kindly proposal. ‘I like the snow,’
she answered, ‘and a brisk walk will do me good.’ At another time, she
would have smiled at the timidity of her friends on account of the
weather.

‘You will catch your death of cold, my dear,’ said Mrs Joy, ‘and then
you will not be able to come to Edwin’s lecture next week. I assure you
it is the most interesting one he has yet delivered.’

Even the danger of missing the doctor’s lecture was not enough to
deter her from walking home. As she was passing the _King’s Head_, the
Ringsford carriage drew up at the door, and out of it jumped Coutts
Hadleigh, in the full uniform of a captain of Volunteers. He was taken
by surprise, and uttered a natural exclamation:

‘Why, what brings you so far from home on such an evening as this?
There is going to be a regular out and outer of a snowstorm, and I
would not be here myself, only this is the night of the feed I give
every year to my men, and all the arrangements were made.’

She was more pleased to meet him than she was generally, for he might
be able to give her some news of Philip. So, without troubling to
answer his inquiries, she put her own.

‘Don’t know anything about him,’ he answered—callously, as she thought,
‘except that he has got into a precious scrape, and will disgrace our
family, unless that uncle of his helps him out of it.’

‘Disgrace?—How is it disgrace to fail in a noble enterprise?’

‘Ah, it’s something worse than failing in a noble enterprise,’ answered
Coutts, returning to his habitual tone of cynical indifference. ‘But
don’t let us talk about it, if you please. I would rather not, even to
you, until all the ins and outs are known.’

‘When will you know about your brother’s affairs?’

‘I cannot say; but he will tell you all about them; and if he doesn’t,
I will. Meanwhile, let me do him a service—get into the carriage,
and Toomey will drive you home. I am sure that is what Phil and the
guv’nor, too, would say, if they found you trudging along the road in
such weather. Do get in, or they will both have me down in their black
books. The carriage is not to come back for me, so you won’t give the
horses any extra work.’

She consented; and Toomey, who was glad enough to turn homeward for
his own comfort as well as that of the horses, wheeled round, and
drove off at a good pace. A little way out of the village they nearly
ran over a man, who, walking in the same direction, had not heard the
carriage making up on him, either on account of the preoccupation of
his thoughts or the thick carpeting of snow on the road.

‘All right,’ growled the man, having saved himself, and Toomey drove on.

Madge recognised the voice of Caleb Kersey. She would have liked to
speak to him, but it was too late. She supposed, however, that he was
on his way to visit Sam Culver, from whom he would learn the cause of
Pansy’s disappearance. Caleb was on this quest, as she surmised, and he
was going to Ringsford, but not to seek information from the gardener.


CHAPTER XLIX.—AT MIDNIGHT.

Coutts Hadleigh relished good wine; but he was cautious in his cups,
as in everything else. On this evening, however, he ‘drank fair,’ as
it is called, with his comrades; and those who were acquainted with
his habits noted the fact with increasing curiosity as the evening
advanced. This was the fifth annual dinner he had given to ‘his men’
since the captain’s commission had been thrust upon him, and he had on
no previous occasion displayed so much hilarity or provided so many
cynical anecdotes for the entertainment of the company. His lieutenant
and sub.—both proprietors of the land they farmed—concluded that the
captain must have made some exceptionally lucky stroke in business
recently. Coutts believed he had.

The members of the Kingshope Volunteer corps were mostly young farmers
and the sons of farmers, who should have possessed the physical
proportions which would have specially qualified them for the soldier’s
career. But it was surprising to observe how few of them presented
these qualifications. When Dick Crawshay first saw them mustered, he
exclaimed in loud indignation, his huge form towering over the whole
troop: ‘What! is that all our county can show in the way of Volunteers?
Why, half a dozen of our old yeomen would scare them into the middle
of next week without a tussle! They are more like a set of town
scarecrows than country-bred lads.... Ah, this comes ov givin’ the land
to people that have money and no muscle, and meddle with things they
know nothing about.’

He was right in a certain degree, for these youths were the sons of
wealthy merchants who take up farming as a hobby, and leaving the work
to hired labourers, are indifferent to losses, and therefore able to
pay rents which the working farmer has struggled for a time to compete
with, and given up in despair, or emigrated. This was a sore subject
with yeoman Dick, and although regularly invited by Coutts to this
annual feast, he regularly refused to go—and even kept within his own
bounds whenever he knew there was a parade. The prejudice prevented him
from learning that a goodly number of these young fellows made up for
physical deficiencies by skill as marksmen and efficiency in drill; so
that the Kingshope Volunteer corps formed a by no means unsatisfactory
body of men for home defence. But had any one dared to hint that
even in some respects they might be favourably compared with the old
yeomanry, he would have made Dick his foe.

On the present occasion, Captain Hadleigh’s company showed that they
had improved slightly on one of the yeomanry practices by keeping up
their revels to a late hour without all getting drunk. The lieutenant
having to pass Ringsford on his way home, and having his gig with
him, drove the captain to the gates of the Manor. The snow had only
ceased falling a little while before the company at the _King’s Head_
broke up, and now it lay deep on the roads, houses, and fields. The
old church looked like a huge snow-house; and the meadows in the dim
moonlight presented a white surface, apparently on a level with the
hedgerows.

The lieutenant’s powerful cob had its work to do, for at every step
its hoofs sank deep in the snow-covered road. But the travellers were
merry, and did not mind the slowness of their progress. Their chief
trouble was to keep the road and avoid the open ditches. They succeeded
in this, and also succeeded in distinguishing the point where the Manor
gates broke the white wall.

Coutts made his way through the side-gate, which shook large pancakes
of snow down upon him as he opened it.

The avenue being guarded by its long arch of tree-branches, the path
was comparatively easy to traverse, and Coutts was soon in front of the
house, which, like the church, was a shapeless white mass, broken by a
few points of light. Underneath these few lights was dark shadow. As
Coutts ascended the steps of the portico, a man stepped out from the
shadow.

‘I want to speak to you a minute, Mr Coutts Hadleigh; I’ve been waiting
all evening for you.’

Coutts was no coward, although his brain was somewhat muddy with wine;
but this sudden apparition made him spring to the top of the steps and
ring the bell, as he exclaimed fiercely:

‘Who are you, and what do you want with me at this hour?’

‘I want to know where is Pansy Culver?’ said the man with enforced
calmness, which contrasted to his advantage with the blustering ire of
the other.

‘Confound your impudence—how should I know?’

‘I saw you with her at the London station. Where has she gone to? Where
did you send her to?’

‘She didn’t tell me where she was going to, and I didn’t send her
anywhere.’

Caleb Kersey’s calmness broke bounds, and he next spoke with savage
determination:

‘You are lying, and you shall tell me the truth.’

‘You’re an insolent fool.’

As Caleb swiftly ascended the steps, he received a vigorous buffet on
the breast, which tumbled him backward on the snow. The door was open;
Coutts entered; the door was instantly closed, bolted, chained, and
locked.

‘Tell that fellow Kersey to go about his business,’ said Coutts to the
attendant who had been waiting up for him; ‘he is drunk or mad. If he
has any business with me, he knows where to find me at proper hours.’

With that he went up-stairs in a furious temper with the man who had
insulted him, and had evidently intended to offer violence to his
person. Before he had reached the first landing, there was an impatient
but not a very loud knock at the door. The servant repeated his young
master’s message, put out the hall lights, and gladly enough went off
to bed.

Caleb stood in the portico hesitating as to what he should do. He had
been waiting there for hours; he had been told that Mr Coutts Hadleigh
was not at home—the servant declined to say where he might be found.
The snow and the cold did not appear to affect him. He waited, and at
last the man had come, but had not given the watcher any satisfaction.
Caleb was aware that his application was untimely: but that was not
his fault: the circumstances were exceptional. He must know from this
villain what he had done with Pansy, and then he would seek her father,
whose authority would rescue her from the evil influence under which
she had fallen.

The poor fellow never thought that his first step ought to have been
to consult Pansy’s father. A natural delicacy, rude and earnest, made
him shrink from the idea, because he felt sure it would cause him pain.
He learned from his friends in the village that Pansy had gone away
somewhere; and as the gardener had no special need or liking to speak
of her grandfather, he had not mentioned to any of his gossips whither
she had gone. So Caleb, sitting in a train which was just starting,
having caught sight of Pansy and Coutts Hadleigh talking together on
the platform at Liverpool Street Station, instantly concluded that
there was something wrong. He would have jumped out of the carriage;
but the other passengers prevented him, and he had to endure cruel
torments of speculation and rage until he reached his destination.

He had no hope of winning Pansy; but he might save her from the fate
to which she seemed to be hasting. He had no doubt she had been taught
to repeat some falsehood to her father, which kept him quiet about
her absence, and he had no doubt of her danger. Then with a sullen
resolution, in which the anxiety of a lover was combined with the
suppressed fury of a maniac, he sought Coutts Hadleigh, determined to
force the truth from him.

In those cold weary hours when he was hanging about the Manor waiting,
the words of Philip frequently recurred to him: ‘Trust her, man;
trust her.’ He imagined that he did trust her; he was sure that she
did not mean to do wrong. But at the same time the wicked comment of
Wrentham also presented itself, reminding him that trust gave the woman
opportunity to deceive. He did not like the man who spoke or the words
he uttered; but the remembrance made him uneasy.

‘Ah, if Master Philip had not been in such a pickle with his own
affairs, I’d have gone to him now, and he would have told me what was
best to do, even though the villain be his own brother. But it would
be a mortal shame to put more trouble on him when he’s down enough
already. I’ll go my own way.’

All these things were careering through his mind, as he stood under the
portico wondering how he should act. He heard a casement open above—it
seemed to be directly over his head—and Captain Hadleigh shouted:

‘You’d better move off quietly, Kersey, or I’ll call our fellows and
send for the police.’

The casement was closed violently, the two sides banging together, the
principal windows of the Manor opening on hinges like doors, in the
French fashion.

Caleb stepped out from beneath the portico and looked up. There was a
ruddy glow—the effect of the light shining through deep maroon-coloured
curtains—in two windows on the first floor. One of these windows opened
on to the top of the portico which formed part of a balcony. That was
the one from which Hadleigh must have spoken, thought Caleb; and was
immediately satisfied on the point by seeing the shadow of a man who
was passing slowly between the light and the curtains.

‘The stable ain’t far off, and I can find a ladder there,’ muttered
Caleb, moving away from the front of the house.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr Hadleigh, sen., was seated at his writing-table, his back towards
the windows. Before him lay those sheets of manuscript which he had
written at intervals during the past year. The broad shade on the lamp
cast the soft light down on the table, and had it not been for the
bright glow of a huge fire, the rest of the room—and especially the
upper part—would have been in comparative darkness. As it was, the
flickering flame of the fire made the shadows above and around him
flutter and change like living things.

He was not writing. He was carefully separating certain pages from the
others; having done so, he fastened them together neatly, and with his
hand covering them, as if to hide the words from himself, he leaned
back on his chair. Suddenly he rose and paced the floor slowly in
melancholy reflection.

When he resumed his seat, there was a placid expression on his face,
like that of one who, after a long mental struggle, has come to a
final decision and found peace.

With as much sad deliberation as if he were committing a dear one to
the grave, he placed the separate packets of manuscript in different
envelopes. The first and largest he addressed in a bold clear hand,
‘_To Mrs Philip Hadleigh. To be opened after my death._’

Over the second packet his pen was poised for some moments, and his
hand was not so steady as before when he began to write.

‘_To my son, Philip Hadleigh. To be opened after my death and read by
him alone. When he has read, he shall decide whether to burn at once or
first to show it to his wife. The secret of my life is here._’

As his pen stopped, a chill blast passed through the room, making the
lamplight waver, as if it were about to be extinguished. Mr Hadleigh,
surprised, raised his head slowly, and slowly looked round.

The window behind him was open, and before it stood a tall,
rough-looking, muscular man. Mr Hadleigh’s sallow cheeks became more
sallow, his eyes started, and his lips trembled slightly. He recovered
himself instantly, and rising calmly from his seat, and at the same
moment lifting the shade from the lamp, his eyes remaining fixed all
the time on the intruder, burglar, intending murderer, perhaps.

When the light was uncovered, the man drew back a pace with a kind of
growl of surprise. Mr Hadleigh retained perfect self-possession; but he
was not much relieved from apprehension by recognising in his midnight
visitor the leader of the agricultural agitators who had on various
occasions openly declared antagonism to the master of Ringsford.

(_To be continued._)




A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE _NOT_ DANGEROUS.


A remarkable circumstance recently occurred which brings out strongly
the fact that scientific teaching in medical and surgical matters has
made giant strides of late. On the 8th of July an accident happened
to a ‘marker’ at the ranges of the Civil Service Rifle regiment at
Wimbledon when marking at the five hundred yards’ range. According
to the report, a rifle-bullet seems ‘to have bounded off the corner
of the target and to have entered the marker’s breast.’ Fortunately,
the great annual meeting of the National Rifle Association was to
commence in a day or two, and the Field Hospital prepared for the
meeting was being got ready under the charge of Sergeant Monaghan
and Corporal Melville, both of the Army Hospital Corps. Thither the
wounded man was immediately carried; but there was no surgeon present
or anywhere near. Seeing, however, the serious nature of the case, the
two soldiers, without a moment’s hesitation, took steps to extract the
bullet, which had entered the right breast just under the collar-bone.
Having carefully examined his patient and found the exact locality of
the bullet, Sergeant Monaghan, with the assistance of the corporal,
made an incision in the back and was enabled at once to extract the
bullet from the spot where it had lodged, just opposite to the point
of entry in the breast. The injured man, a member of the corps of
Commissionaires, expressed himself much gratified with the prompt
attention he had received, as well as with the skilful operation by
which, without a moment’s loss of time, the important act of removing
the bullet had been accomplished. Too much praise cannot be given to
the two soldiers, who by their ready and intelligent action, saved
their patient not only from prolonged suffering, but perhaps even from
death itself.

The well-known saying of ‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,’
is here singularly confuted, for it was just the ‘little knowledge’
applied with sagacity and intelligence that probably saved the life of
a fellow-creature.

Many of our readers will doubtless remember a melancholy occurrence
which took place last year on one of the Swiss mountains, when a
valuable young life was lost for the want of a ‘little knowledge,’ and
in itself, very simple knowledge too. A German engineer and two guides
were ascending one of the famous Swiss mountains, when the younger
of the guides appears to have had a very bad fall, by which either a
bottle or a lamp-glass was broken, the fractured part entering the
young man’s thigh and dividing the femoral artery. It would not, we
should suppose, have required very profound surgical knowledge to know
that the man would inevitably bleed to death unless this great artery
could be immediately compressed; but incredible as it may appear,
neither the German nor the other Swiss guide knew anything about the
matter. They tried to stop the spouting blood with their handkerchiefs,
which of course was of no avail. Neither thought of tying the
handkerchief or other ligature round the upper part of the limb, and
then twisting it tight by the application of a stick; and so the poor
young fellow quickly bled to death. Now, if the bleeding could have
been arrested by ligature until surgical assistance was procured, the
young guide would doubtless have recovered, for the injury, as a mere
flesh-wound, was in itself by no means serious. Here, then, a ‘little
knowledge’ would have done a vast amount of good.

One of the best, most useful, and practical associations of the present
day is the St John’s Ambulance Society, which teaches all who care
to learn how to act in such emergencies as that related, and to take
instant action _on the spot_, until surgical aid can be obtained—a
ticklish and anxious time, often fraught with serious danger, when
there is not a minute to spare, and where loss of time means loss of
life.

Let every one, therefore, who has any real love for his fellows, and
who feels that he or she has the nerve requisite for the work—for
this is a _sine quâ non_—at once learn how to act in cases of sudden
accident, illness, faintness, drowning, or any other of the many
unlooked-for ills and mishaps that ‘flesh is heir to’—a species of
knowledge that will improve the mind of the possessor, and may be
productive of infinite good.




THE LAST OF THE STUARTS.

A MODERN ROMANCE.


III.—KING CHARLES III.

There were great preparations at Balquhalloch Castle for the worthy
reception of the king; and but for the fact that the editor, who was
also the sole reporter, of the Aberdumble _Warder_ was at the time
confined to his house from indisposition, the whole matter would no
doubt have found its way into the papers. The Princess spared neither
trouble nor expense. Two Aberdumble carpenters arrived, and erected
opposite the porter’s lodge a wooden triumphal arch. An Aberdumble
painter followed after them, and inscribed upon the arch, in large red
letters on a blue ground, a legend welcoming His Majesty to his own
again. And when the painter had departed, the Princess, accompanied by
Tom Checkstone and Father M‘Fillan, drove into Aberdumble and hired
all the flags in the town. She also subsidised the local brass band,
the members of which she instructed to be at the castle at a given
hour, prepared to play at her behest the stirring strains of _Who’ll
be King but Charlie_, and as many other Jacobite tunes as they knew or
could learn meanwhile; and she further engaged four pipers, who were to
stand just within the castle gate and salute her royal nephew in their
most tremendous style. It must be confessed that the Princess was a
trifle indiscreet. She undoubtedly laid herself open to a prosecution
for treason-felony, if not indeed for treason of the highest and most
deadly type; but fortunately for her, the Aberdumble people had grown
accustomed to her eccentricities, and not a soul dreamt of gainsaying
her will and pleasure in the matter. She therefore returned with a
carriage-load of flags, which she caused to be festooned from the
battlements. In her own boudoir and with her own fingers, she had
long since worked in silk a faithful copy of the old royal standard
of Scotland, and this she ordered to be run up on the flagstaff that
surmounted the keep, whenever the king should set foot within the
castle walls. Furthermore, she directed that at that auspicious moment
her head-butler, assisted by one of her stable-boys, should begin
the firing of a royal salute from an old brass gun that stood upon
the western wall; and in order to provide for this, she purchased
in Aberdumble, Archie M‘Pherson the ironmonger’s entire stock of
sporting-powder.

Betimes there came a telegram for the Princess. ‘Shall be with you,’ it
ran, ‘at noon to-morrow;’ and it had been despatched by Charlie from
the telegraph office in Fleet Street, London.

The Princess passed the night in a state of the utmost excitement.
Instead of retiring to rest, she paced to and fro until daylight
began to dawn; and it was only at Tom’s urgent entreaty that she then
consented to repair to her boudoir and lie down for a few hours. She
had talked of attempting to raise the country side, and of going to
the railway station at the head of her kilted and armed retainers,
to welcome her nephew; but Father M‘Fillan’s more sensible counsel
prevailed. He pointed out that nothing could be gained by undue haste,
and that any ill-advised display of force would probably end in the
speedy collapse of the movement long ere it could ripen and bear good
fruit. The fact is that, but for the common-sense of the chaplain, the
Princess would have done a thousand rash deeds. Fortunately, he had
constituted himself her temporal as well as spiritual adviser; and
being a man of extraordinary kindness and goodness, he had easily won
the Princess’s confidence. He regarded her as a harmless maniac, and
believed that there would be no danger in humouring her within due
bounds; nor did he conceal his opinions from Tom Checkstone, who, while
professing to coincide with them, fully made up his mind to carry on
the game until it should bring some decided advantage to himself and
his friend Charles Stuart.

The Princess, accompanied by Father M‘Fillan, and by Tom, who rode,
drove to Aberdumble Station without the retinue of armed tenants; and,
punctual to the appointed hour, the king’s train arrived. The Princess
would have respectfully kissed His Majesty’s hand; but Charlie, with
right royal condescension, embraced his aunt and kissed her upon both
cheeks. Then, having graciously shaken hands with Tom and the priest,
he entered the carriage, which was driven rapidly back to Balquhalloch.
A few children followed it for a short distance, but they were soon
left behind, and it was not until the castle was well in sight that any
further signs of excitement and expectation became visible.

The first loyal greeting came from Daft Andy M‘Gregor, an old fellow
of eighty-seven. He had heard from his grandfather of the great doings
of the ’45; and fully believing that patriotism required it of him,
he stood at his cottage door waving a rusty claymore, and flang his
bonnet into the air as the carriage rolled quickly by. A more formal
welcome awaited the king at the gateway of the castle. The porter’s
eldest son, in his Sunday clothes, walked gravely forward, bearing on
a cushion the castle keys, and, with profound obeisance, presented
them to Charlie, who as gravely received them and gave them into Tom’s
custody. At that moment the four pipers struck up; and the carriage, as
it passed through the gateway, was saluted by a boom from the old brass
gun. Tears stood in the Princess’s eyes, as, giving her hand to Father
M‘Fillan, she alighted. ‘Thank heaven for this day!’ she exclaimed
devoutly; while in a louder voice she added: ‘God save the king!’

The cry was taken up by all the servants and tenants who had collected
in the courtyard, and was accentuated by a second boom from the brass
gun. Thus acclaimed, the king, supported by Tom, walked into the great
hall, and was thence conducted by the Princess herself to his private
apartments.

‘The first thing,’ she whispered to him, ‘will be to hold a council.’

‘Of course!’ assented Charlie. ‘We must hold a council at once. Let me
see. May Tom—I mean Mr Checkstone—act as my private secretary until I
can appoint some one else to the post?’

‘Most certainly! Your Majesty’s wishes are commands. I will send Mr
Checkstone to you.’ And the amiable Princess respectfully kissed her
nephew and retired.

A minute later, Tom peeped in at Charlie’s door and entered his room.
The two young men at once burst into fits of suppressed laughter.

‘It is really too bad!’ exclaimed Charlie. ‘You can’t imagine how
difficult it has been for me to keep my countenance.’

‘Never mind; you have done very well so far,’ returned Tom. ‘I am to
be your private secretary _pro tem._, and you are to hold a council.
I must therefore beg your Majesty to graciously nominate your
councillors.’

‘Whom shall I nominate? There is Father M‘Fillan.’

‘And Alexander Gordon, the factor; he is a presentable sort of fellow.’

‘And my aunt, the Princess.’

‘Ah, the constitution doesn’t permit you to nominate women.’

‘Well, then, we four can hold the council, if the council must be
held,’ said Charlie.—‘Now, how am I to comport myself?’

‘Father M‘Fillan understands, of course, that we are only masquerading;
but you mustn’t let him know that you have even the most distant
designs on your aunt’s money-bags, for he would spoil the game in an
instant if he did know it. As for Sandy Gordon—to him you must be the
king, the whole king, and nothing but the king. If I were you, I should
knight him. It would consolidate his loyalty.’

‘I’ll make him a baronet, if you like,’ assented Charlie. ‘It won’t
cost any more.—But what are we to do in council?’

‘To decide upon your plan of action,’ said Tom. ‘And we may as well
settle that here. The decision must be that no public steps are to be
taken at present.’

‘Quite so.—But don’t, Tom, push matters too far. I only want to be able
to marry Kate, you know; and really five hundred a year from my aunt
would satisfy me.’

‘All right, old fellow; you shall have a thousand.—But now to business.
I will go and announce the nomination of councillors. The council
will meet in the drawing-room in half an hour. Shave yourself, and
make yourself look as royal as possible. There was to be a valet to
wait upon you, but he hasn’t yet arrived from Edinburgh.—How they are
pounding away with that absurd brass gun! Fortunately, the powder has
almost run out, so you won’t be troubled with your full salute.’ And
Tom disappeared.

The first sitting of King Charles III.’s council was not a long one.
The decision at which Charlie and Tom had already arrived was, of
course, adopted. Sandy Gordon was offered, but modestly declined, the
honour of knighthood; and Father M‘Fillan was commissioned to inform
the Princess that the king did not deem it expedient for the present
to take any public steps to assert his authority beyond the loyal
precincts of Balquhalloch.

The Princess, who for nights had been dreaming of rebellion, was
grievously disappointed, and sought to bend her nephew’s determination.
After dinner, when for a short time she was alone with him, she talked
the matter over.

‘Well, my dear aunt,’ said the king at last, ‘I need not tell you
that if we organise a rising, I must put myself at the head of it.
And if I put myself at the head of it, I must of necessity risk my
life. At present, as you know, I am not married. I am the last male
of our house. Ought I not, before facing the danger, to look to the
interests of my race, and indeed of the country? If I had a son, or
even a daughter, I could go forth with a lighter heart to battle; for
in that case my death would not mean the inevitable extinction of all
our hopes. You, it is true, would succeed me, but only for a few short
burdensome years; and with you the line would pass out of existence.’

‘True,’ assented the Princess; ‘you certainly ought to marry, and to
marry quickly. But whom can you marry? Who is worthy of you? Your
royal grandmother was a Tudor, a worthy spouse for my father of sacred
memory. But there are no Tudors now; and besides, you ought not to
marry a cousin. I fear that you must seek an alliance on the continent,
among the Bourbons or the Hapsburgs.’

‘Why not among the English Plantagenets?’ asked the king.

‘Would that some remained,’ ejaculated the Princess.

‘But one does remain,’ said Charlie. ‘The fact is that I have had the
good fortune to make the acquaintance of one whom I have determined to
wed; and, my dear aunt, she is a Plantagenet. Mr Checkstone, who has
the honour of her acquaintance, will tell you about her.’

‘Indeed!’ exclaimed the Princess. ‘This news greatly rejoices me. Let
Mr Checkstone write to her at once in my name and ask her to come and
visit me. I will judge of her worthiness.’

‘You had better write,’ suggested the king. ‘Why not write informally,
as my aunt. You must remember that we cannot yet afford to risk
anything by publicly hinting at my pretensions, much less by boldly
proclaiming to the country and the powers that be that I intend to
seize the crown.’

The Princess reflected; but she gave way, and, for once in her life,
signed herself simply Henrietta Maria Stuart.

In due course Kate received the invitation. It was accompanied
by a private letter from Charlie; and when she had read the two
communications, she forfeited a month’s salary and quitted her
situation. A few days had to be spent in preparing for the visit to so
large and grand an establishment as she knew Balquhalloch to be; but in
less than a week after hearing from Miss Stuart, Catharine Plantagenet
left London for Scotland.


IV.—THE COLLAPSE.

The Princess was charmed with Catharine Plantagenet, who, in truth, was
as gentle and true-hearted a girl as could be met with anywhere; but
when she became fully aware of the deception to which she was a party,
it was with the greatest difficulty that Charlie persuaded her to
refrain from telling her proud hostess the secret of her birth.

‘Well,’ said Catharine, ‘under any circumstances I won’t consent to
take advantage of your aunt’s weakness. I hate false pretences. Your
aunt ought to do something for you, I confess, but let her do it with
her eyes open.’

Ere long, however, the Princess, upon her own initiative, made a
proposition to which even Catharine saw no objection.

‘My dear,’ she said one morning, ‘I am getting old, and since you have
been here with me, I have begun to feel that I should not like to be
without you. Now I know perfectly well that Charles will be glad to
stay here for the present; so, why don’t you make up your minds to
marry and stay here together? When I die, the castle and everything
belonging to it will be his. You need never regard yourselves,
therefore, as trespassers upon my hospitality.’

‘And you really like to have me with you?’ asked Catharine.

‘Certainly, my dear.’

‘For my own sake, I mean?’ added Catharine.

‘Yes, for your own sake, and quite apart even from the fact that
Charles loves you. I shall speak to him about it.’ And speak to him she
did.

‘You will be quieter and better off here than in London,’ she said;
‘and you will be able to mature your plans for the future. You and
Catharine shall have a separate establishment for yourselves; there is
plenty of room for all of us. And if you have any hesitation on the
score of money matters—which, after all, trouble the highest as well as
the lowest—I may set your mind at ease, my dear Charles, by telling you
that I have determined to give Catharine on her wedding-day a hundred
thousand pounds by way of jointure. When I die, the rest will be yours.’

‘You are very good, aunt,’ exclaimed the king, who was fairly overcome
by his relative’s liberality. ‘Yes; nowhere can we be happier than
here. But let us be married quietly.’

‘By all means! Father M‘Fillan shall perform the ceremony in the
chapel. Get Catharine to name a day—the sooner the better.’

Charlie talked over the matter that very evening with his sweetheart,
and an arrangement was soon come to between them. The wedding was
fixed for an early date; a few favoured guests were invited; and in
due course Charlie and Catharine became man and wife, Tom acting as
best-man, and Sandy Gordon, who, on account of his age and patriarchal
beard, seemed to be peculiarly fitted for the part, giving away the
bride. There was, of course, a feast for the tenantry; and the brass
gun on the wall was again fired—this time until it burst; but, as the
Princess regretfully said, the ceremony was not worthy of the event. It
ought to have taken place at Holyrood or Westminster Abbey.

Charlie and Catharine went to Edinburgh for their honeymoon; and when
they returned to Balquhalloch, the castle settled down once more into
its normal condition of peace and quietness. Tom and the Princess spent
much of their time in the library, working hard at the family history;
and the young couple, with nothing to worry them, and only themselves
to think about, passed a delightful existence, which seemed as if it
could never become wearisome.

But matters could not go on for ever in this way. The Princess in time
began to ask Charlie about his plans. ‘Will arms be required?’ she
wanted to know. ‘Will there be uniforms for the troops? What hope is
there of foreign assistance? Can the officers and men throughout the
country be bribed?’ And above all, ‘When are you going to rise and
strike for your rights?’ In short, the situation threatened to become
critical. And when, nearly a year after his wedding, Charlie found
himself the proud father of a boy, he realised that he must either act,
or permit his good aunt to scorn him as a weak-kneed, cowardly shadow
of a king.

The auspicious event caused the Princess to be unusually active. She
desired, ere the grand stroke should be dealt, to be in a position to
publish abroad a full and complete pedigree, tracing the descent of the
Stuarts of Balquhalloch from the royal Stuarts of Scotland; and hearing
that a number of old records bearing upon the question were for sale in
London, she despatched Tom Checkstone thither with _carte blanche_ to
buy whatever he could lay his hands upon. Tom was absent for ten days;
and when he reappeared, he had with him a large chest full of dusty,
mouldy, discoloured documents. These treasures were conveyed to the
library, and for a week the Princess almost lived among them.

One day Charlie and Catharine, who was now convalescent, were sitting
at luncheon, when, without warning, the Princess burst into the room.
She was very violently excited. Her gray hair had fallen loose, her
cheeks were pallid, and her hands were clenched convulsively.

‘What is the matter?’ exclaimed Charlie and Catharine, both rising
together and rushing to support their aunt.

‘Matter!’ she cried—‘matter?’ and she began to weep hysterically.

‘Tell me,’ implored Catharine. ‘What can we do?’

But Tom, who had followed the Princess, and who now appeared in the
open doorway, soon explained the cause of the outbreak.

‘Look here!’ he said, as he held out a yellow parchment. ‘It is a
terrible blow to your aunt, Charlie. There has been some mistake. You
are not descended from the royal Stuarts at all. A similarity of names
and some careless copying are responsible for the error.’

Charlie seized the manuscript, and having hastily glanced at it, threw
it aside, and went to his aunt, who was already being attended to by
Catharine.

The Princess had fainted; but ere long she recovered, and was able to
tell her version of the story. She had been completing the pedigree;
she had almost arrived at the last link, when the whole chain had been
snapped by this hideous discovery. She would never get over the shock.
To think that after all she was a nobody! It was too dreadful!

They led her to her own room, and in time succeeded in calming her.
Then, in order to convince himself, Charlie carefully examined the
parchment. Its statements could not be gainsaid. The Stuarts of
Balquhalloch had no connection with royalty; and he would not now be
required to seize the throne of Great Britain. To him the revelation
came, it must be remarked, as a welcome relief; but for days and weeks
it made his poor aunt miserable; and when she finally reconciled
herself to her lot, it seemed as if her energy and pleasure in life had
departed for ever. Indeed, she never entirely got over the blow, and at
the beginning of this year she died.

Charlie and Catharine were with her to the last, and she bequeathed
everything to them. Balquhalloch, therefore, is now theirs; and Tom
Checkstone, who, rightly or wrongly, regarded himself as Charlie’s good
genius, holds sway as his friend’s secretary, man of business, chum,
and general factotum.




THE MONTH:

SCIENCE AND ARTS.


On the 27th of August, the British Association commenced its
fifty-fourth annual meeting—not this year, however, on British soil,
but at Montreal in Canada. Some hundreds of members travelled from this
country to be present at the meeting. Both on the part of the city and
of the Dominion, the reception of the Association has been everything
that could be desired by its members. Montreal itself raised forty
thousand dollars towards defraying the expenses of the visit, and three
hundred of the members were, besides, received as guests into private
houses. The new President, Lord Rayleigh, Professor of Experimental
Physics in the University of Cambridge, delivered the opening address,
in which he sketched the progress that had been made in certain
important branches of science. The final meeting of the Association was
held on the afternoon of September 3, and was largely attended, about
two thousand persons being present. Lord Rayleigh in addressing the
assembly, said that no meeting had been held in which the Association
had been provided with such spacious rooms. Resolutions in favour of
the erection of a free public library in Montreal, as a memorial of the
visit, were then passed, and a large amount of money was immediately
promised in aid of this object, among the donations being one of
ten thousand pounds. The total money grants in favour of scientific
investigations made at the Montreal meeting were fifteen hundred and
fifty pounds. The tickets issued for members of the Association for
this session numbered seventeen hundred and thirty, and the money
received amounted to eighteen hundred pounds.

Within the last twenty-five years, and more especially since the
Franco-German war, when the French made such good use of balloons,
there have been somewhat frequent rumours that the problem of aërial
navigation, comprised in the possibility of guiding and propelling a
balloon in a given direction, had been solved. The machine in each
case is carefully described, and generally it is represented as
having risen gracefully in the air, travelled about a little, and
then returned to its starting-point. Then, nothing more is heard of
it. Such an event is said to have occurred last month in France. The
gas-vessel—it can hardly be called a balloon, for it is cigar-shaped—is
nearly two hundred feet long. A platform is hung below, upon which is
a screw propeller, worked by a dynamo-machine and a large rudder. This
description tallies almost exactly with the form of so-called steerable
balloons which have been constructed, tried, and found useless by
M. Giffard, M. Tissandier, and others in previous years. The French
government have spent much money in experimental ballooning, and this
last achievement is the result. Perhaps the authorities were obliged
to show something for the money that was being spent, but we fear that
that something is not anything new or profitable. Until an aërial
machine be produced which shall make its way _against_ strong currents,
balloon navigation will remain as it has hitherto been.

Here is a clever American notion, and one which will probably have
a wide application. It consists of a noiseless door-closer. In the
ordinary metal or india-rubber spring, so commonly fixed to doors,
the greatest energy is exerted at first, and the door generally slams
with a noise which is very distressing to any one with nerves. In the
new arrangement, the spring is fixed to the piston attached to a small
air-cylinder, so that as the door closes, the resistance of the air
in the cylinder checks its motion before the terrible bang arrives. A
small opening in the cylinder then lets in the air, so that the spring
once more asserts its authority with sufficient persuasion to gently
close the door.

After the terrors excited by the alleged danger of using arsenical
wall-papers, it is rather a relief to read the opinion of Mr R.
Galloway, who has written an article upon the subject in the _Journal
of Science_. ‘Has it,’ he asks, ‘ever been proved that persons
who inhabit rooms the wall-paper of which is stained with emerald
green, suffer from arsenical poisoning?’ He then points out that the
injurious effects, if any, must be due to the mechanical detachment
of the pigment from the paper, and that such homœopathic doses of the
substance as could be carried by the air, would be totally different
from the effects which arise from larger doses of arsenic. Moreover,
he has made inquiry as to any cases of poisoning occurring during the
packing of this finely divided pigment—during which operation the
packers are surrounded by clouds of its dust—and could hear of none. Mr
Mattieu Williams, a well-known writer on Science, is also of opinion
that ‘arsenical wall-papers’ are practically harmless. We are glad to
record these opinions, for the tendency of the present time is to point
out lurking dangers in every direction, until one is apt to wonder how
our forefathers, in their happy ignorance of sanitation, ever contrived
to reach adult age.

At Reading, this autumn, a honey-fair is to be held, when prizes
will be distributed to beekeepers who work on humane and advanced
principles, and also to those who can show the greatest amount of
unadulterated honey raised in a Berkshire hive. Such a show as this is
worthy of every encouragement, for honey fetches a high price, and so
does wax, even in these days of cheap sugar and composite candles. It
thus becomes possible for the intelligent cottager to add considerably
to his scanty means; and if he can be taught that honey can be won
without periodical destruction of bees and comb, so much the better.
There is some complaint that the newfangled hives, efficient though
they be, are too expensive to supersede the old straw skep. The British
Beekeepers’ Association might well turn their attention to this aspect
of the matter.

Last year, Professor Huxley stated it as his opinion that no act of
man could possibly influence the increase or decrease in the number of
sea-fish. This was in answer to the gloomy anticipations of many that
the herring and other fisheries would be gradually annihilated unless
our fishermen were compelled by law to observe certain conditions. So
far as herrings are concerned, the recent enormous catches have shown
that there are fish as good and plentiful in the sea as ever yet came
out. Last month, we saw these fish in splendid condition being sold at
the Farringdon Fish Market, London, at one penny per dozen. By the way,
can any one explain why, in these days of refrigerators and cheap ice,
eighty-six tons of fish should be allowed in one month to become—at
Billingsgate—unfit for human food?

At a flower-show at Frome the other day, prizes were offered by Miss
Ormerod, the consulting entomologist to the Royal Agricultural Society
of England, for the best collection of food-plants injured by insects,
accompanied by samples of the injurious creatures themselves, and a
short written account of the nature of their depredations and the
preventive measures to be adopted in dealing with them. There was only
one competitor, Mr Herbert Haley of Frome; but the collection which he
showed was a very complete one, and was most highly commended by Miss
Ormerod. As this was the first injurious-insect competition in this
country, and was probably known to comparatively few persons, we need
not be surprised at the want of competitors. Ten years ago in Paris, a
similar Exhibition took place, in which nearly four hundred competitors
took part. The exhibits included useful as well as injurious insects,
which were divided into separate classes. Such competitions ought to be
productive of a great amount of good.

Recent experiments have led to the adoption of many alterations in the
torpedo system, which is likely to play such an important part in naval
operations of the future. Hitherto, the torpedo—a huge fish-like case
to hold explosives, and containing within itself an air-engine for
propelling it through the water—was thrust from a ship’s side below
the water-line. But it was found in practice that it was impossible to
fire the agent of destruction in a straight line, especially if its
mother-ship were under way. In the new method, the torpedo, which is
sixteen feet long and fourteen inches in diameter, is fitted into a
steel tube just large enough to contain the projectile. The pressure
of a key admits highly compressed air to this tube, and the torpedo
is shot out of an open port on exactly the same principle that a pea
is projected from a pea-shooter. But in the case of the torpedo, its
little but powerful engine is set to work the moment it reaches the
water, and away speeds the torpedo on its terrible errand.

Professor Tuck of New York has constructed an electric torpedo boat,
which will render submarine warfare very terrible, if the hopes raised
by its recent trial are fulfilled. It is made of iron, in the shape of
a cigar, or rather pointed at each end, and is thirty feet in length.
It can travel on the surface of the water, or several feet below,
at the will of its commander. The torpedoes are carried outside the
vessel, and can be detached by the action of an electro-magnet, when it
is desired to let one rise to the surface against any ship that may be
lying overhead. By means of attached wires, the torpedo can be exploded
when the submarine boat has retired to a position of safety. Jules
Verne’s clever romance _Thirty Thousand Leagues under the Sea_, seems
here to come into play.

Under the supervision of Mr Preece, the well-known electrician to
the Post-office, an experiment of great interest has been recently
conducted at Wimbledon, near London. The object of the experiment was
to ascertain the best method of lighting streets by electricity, the
lamps employed being the incandescent pattern advocated by Edison,
Swan, and others. Some of the lamps were placed singly, others on poles
twenty feet high, while at the same time the efficiency of different
kinds of reflectors was tested. The cost is calculated to amount to
one farthing per lamp per hour for each unit of light, valued at
ten candles. Now, the cost of gas for a similar amount of light is
one-fifth of a penny, so that the difference in expense between the two
systems is not very great. On the other hand, the advantages of the
electric light in the open air, where no question of impure products
of combustion need come in, almost disappear; gas, therefore, still
fulfils the required conditions.

It is to be hoped that the new regulations for the prevention of
collisions at sea, which have just been published, will have the effect
of reducing those calamities, which have of late become fearfully
familiar. The twenty-seven articles contained in these regulations
refer to lights, sound-signals for fog, steering and sailing rules,
precautions to be adopted, and special rules for squadrons and
convoys. We may call particular attention to article nineteen, which
indicates how one vessel can signal to another by a steam-whistle.
Thus—one short blast to mean, ‘I am directing my course to starboard;’
two short blasts, ‘I am going to port;’ three to mean, ‘I am going
full speed astern.’ Any one will readily remark how such signals
could be added to almost indefinitely. Indeed, it is simply the
method adopted in the army for flash-signalling with the heliograph,
adapted to sound-signalling with the steam-whistle. In such a system,
unfortunately, there are few, in moments of danger, who can keep their
heads cool enough to avoid making perilous mistakes. It is somewhat
like talking quietly when the house is on fire.

About four years ago, the startling scheme of carrying ships upon a
specially constructed railway track bodily across that little neck of
land which ties together the two Americas was conceived by Mr Eades.
This scheme was communicated to the British Association at York in
1881, and although the idea seems a novel one, like most engineering
enterprises it can be doubtless accomplished if investors can be made
to believe in its power of paying a good dividend. The suggested
route would require a track one hundred and thirty-four miles in
length, which must be laid with a compound railway of extremely solid
construction. The worked-out details of the method of raising a ship
on a pontoon, transferring it to a travelling cradle, and finally
committing it to the deep once more, after its journey on dry land, are
most ingenious. Mr Eades, who hails from the United States, is now in
England, endeavouring to interest capitalists in his proposals.

The demolition of the old law-courts which adjoined Westminster Hall,
has brought into view one of the most interesting pieces of stonework
belonging to Norman times that can be found in London. The state of
preservation of the wall of the old hall, upon which the marks of the
mason’s tools are still visible, is due to the circumstance, that
from a very early time it was under cover, for a cloister extended
along the whole length of the building on this side. Mr Pearson, the
architect, was lately requested to report upon the subject, and to
suggest the best method of restoration compatible with the preservation
of this unique relic of the reign of William Rufus; and it has been
determined to restore the cloister as it originally stood. According to
the opinion of Mr Shaw-Lefevre, the First Commissioner of Works, the
edifice when completed will, with the Houses of Parliament and the old
abbey adjacent, form one of the grandest groups of buildings in Europe.

The attractions of South Kensington Museum have lately been added to by
the opening of a room containing a collection of antique casts, which
have been collected and arranged by Mr W. C. Perry. This collection
numbers about three hundred specimens, which illustrate the whole
historical range of ancient art. Such a record of the plastic art of
ancient times is of deep interest to the archæologist, as well as of
immense value to the art student. The arrangement of the specimens is
mainly chronological, and where one or two casts are, on account of
inconvenient size, not shown in their right place, it is in consequence
of want of space. We may venture to hope that at some not distant date,
better accommodation will be found for this valuable and interesting
collection.

The Great Western Railway has always been famed for the wonderful
engineering difficulties which were grappled with by the daring Brunel,
and many evidences of his skill are apparent to the traveller on that
line. But even Brunel did not conceive the bold idea of piercing a
tunnel twenty-six feet in diameter, and four and a half miles in
length, beneath the bed of the Severn. But this great work has now
been in progress for some years, and the operations latterly have
been pushed forward with such rapidity by three thousand busy men,
that its completion may soon be looked forward to. The tunnel will
shorten considerably the distance between London and South Wales. It
is constructed so as to dip considerably towards the centre, to which
point any water will naturally gravitate. Here it will enter a drainage
subway, which will carry it to the Welsh side, to be pumped up into the
river. The great difficulty which the workers have had to contend with
is the irruption of vast bodies of water from local springs. The crown
of the tunnel lies at a depth of from eighty to a hundred feet beneath
the bed of the river.

In these days of quick communication by telegraph and telephone, it
is strange to see how it becomes occasionally convenient to employ
‘the bird of the air’ to ‘carry the voice.’ In Haddingtonshire, at the
Penston Colliery, messages are carried from the pits to the offices, a
distance of more than six miles, by pigeons, and they accomplish the
work in about as many minutes. Telegrams are found to take about an
hour in executing the same business, and telephones are inadmissible,
because as yet no plan has been found by which the sounds can be
permanently recorded.

In a recent lecture on Cholera and its Prevention, Professor de
Chamont called attention to the very common and erroneous idea that
tobacco-smoke, camphor, and other strongly smelling compounds act as
disinfectants. He pointed out that although chlorine, sulphurous acid
gas, and carbolic acid may under certain conditions be safely regarded
as true disinfectants, the best and most efficient known is _fire_. He
also, in speaking of sulphurous acid gas, generated by burning sulphur,
showed that a ready way of facilitating combustion was first of all to
pour upon the brimstone a little alcohol.

Mr Graham, who recently gave an account of his mountaineering
experiences in the Himalaya, seems to have negatived some of our
preconceived notions regarding the difficulty of breathing at high
altitudes. At an elevation of more than four miles above the sea-level,
Mr Graham and his companions felt no inconvenience in breathing
except what might be expected from the muscular exertion they had
gone through. Loss of sight, nausea, bleeding at the nose or ears,
and other unpleasant symptoms often described by travellers, were
entirely absent. But the heart was sensibly affected, its rapid pace
being easily perceptible, and its beatings quite audible. It may
be remembered that Mr Glaisher and Mr Coxwell, in the course of an
experimental balloon ascent some years ago, nearly lost their lives
by the effect upon their breathing organs of the highly attenuated
atmosphere to which they had risen. But the altitude then reached was
about double that attained by Mr Graham in the Himalaya.

A scheme has been proposed for the construction of an Indo-European
railway, the chief novelty of which is the adoption of a route along
the south shore of the Mediterranean. The line would utilise the
railroads of France and Spain. Then there would be steam-transit from
Gibraltar Bay to Ceuta in Morocco. Here would be the terminus proper of
the international railway, which would be in connection with the lines
already laid in Algeria and Tunis. The route would be continued through
Tripoli to join the Egyptian lines, and eventually along the coast of
the Persian Gulf to Kurrachee in India. Here, of course, contact would
be made with the great Indian railway system. Preliminary surveys have
been already made, and the nominal capital of the undertaking is fixed
at ten millions sterling.

At the late meeting of the British Association in Canada, a very
curious contribution to our knowledge of carnivorous plants was made
by Professor Moseley, as a result of certain experiments he has made
with the water-weed _Utricularia vulgaris_. This plant is furnished
with small pear-shaped bladders, which at certain seasons are charged
with air, and cause the weed to rise to the surface of the water. This
movement has hitherto been supposed to be connected with the phenomenon
of fertilisation. But Professor Moseley points out that each bladder
has an opening closed by an elastic door, which will easily yield to
the pressure of a small fish; and that any unfortunate intruder is
either caught bodily, or can be securely held a prisoner by head or
tail until dead. That there is here anything analogous to digestion as
seen in other carnivorous plants, such as the _Dionæa_, &c., does not
appear; but it is thought probable that the decomposing animal matter
may contribute eventually to the life of the weed.

An invention of considerable importance in connection with the
probability of saving life at sea has made its appearance during the
month. This consists of an adaptation of the use of oil at sea to the
ordinary life-buoy. Round the inside of the buoy is a brass reservoir
filled with oil. This is so arranged that when the buoy is hung upon
the vessel’s side no oil can escape; while the moment it assumes a
horizontal position, as, for instance, when it is thrown into the sea,
the oil flows freely, and the water all around the buoy is rapidly
covered with a thin film. This soon widens into a large circle, within
which, of course, the waves are unbroken, which enables persons to be
the more easily secured by the ship’s boats. Since it is a well-known
fact that in rough weather, when the cry ‘Man overboard!’ is oftenest
heard, life-buoys are frequently useless, as even the strongest men are
commonly washed off them, this practical adaptation of the use of oil
at sea will probably prove of signal importance. It could, we imagine,
also be readily applied to many of those improvised sea-rafts and
similar appliances, and render them of great value in rough weather.
It was the fault of many of those ingenious contrivances of this kind
which were to be seen at the Fisheries Exhibition last year, that no
one could possibly live on them in broken water, and this objection
the use of oil in this way would certainly obviate. It should be
noticed, however, that the chief value of the invention consists in the
arrangement for the oil to flow automatically.

In addition to the electrically lighted colliery in South Wales,
noticed in last ‘Month,’ we hear of another in Lanarkshire belonging
to Mr John Watson, Earnock, near Hamilton. There may possibly be other
workings thus illuminated throughout this country; and there is no
doubt that ere long the brilliant and comparatively safe electric light
will be generally adopted underground.

In Prussia also, as we learn from a contemporary, the electric light
at the Mechernich Mines has now had a fair trial for more than three
years, and has proved a complete success. The expectation that it would
both facilitate the operations and increase their security, has fully
been realised, and an extension of the plant is now being carried out.
An open working two thousand feet long, one thousand feet wide, and
over three hundred feet deep, in which three hundred men and twenty
horses are continually occupied, was first to be supplied with the
electric light, and it was a question whether arc lamps would answer
for this purpose in the smoky atmosphere caused by blasting operations.
For the first experiments, arc lamps of three thousand and one thousand
candles were used, with the positive carbon in the lower holder. The
effect was brilliant, yet the light did not penetrate the white smoke
cloud which collects at the upper wall immediately after the shot. But
as the smoke settles within ten minutes, it was thought advisable to
acquiesce in this interruption of a few minutes, and to use smaller
lamps of three hundred and fifty candles, which proved quite efficient.
Of these, there are ten in use, with about ten thousand feet of lead
cable, the cable being partially elastic, as the lamps with their
wires have to be removed when the blasting is to take place. The lamps
were originally supplied with hexagonal lanterns with obscured glass
to protect the eyes of the miners. The glasses were, of course, soon
broken, but no complaints are said to have been made about the naked
electric lights.

The speech-recorder would appear to be an instrument of no small
importance, if it is able to do in a practical manner that which the
title of a patent recently applied for by Mr W. E. Irish would lead
us to suppose. The title of the patent is as follows: ‘A system or
method and means of receiving and recording articulated speech and
other sounds transmitted telegraphically, telephonically, or otherwise,
by the aid of electricity.’ The transmitting, as by telephone, and
recording of speech in characters which may be easily read, would be
of incalculable value. If this instrument fulfils what is claimed
for it, the anticipations once hoped for in the phonograph will be
realised, and in the future we may expect to see business-men talking
their correspondence into a box in which mechanism, by the aid of
electricity, records the same on paper, which may be forwarded as a
letter. Moreover, literary men will be saved the drudgery of the pen,
and have their thoughts recorded as rapidly as they can convey them
to the instrument. The system of natural phonetic signs, which we
should expect this instrument to describe, may also be the means of
influencing spelling and of simplifying the phonographic difficulties
of the language. Applications innumerable suggest themselves to us to
which such an apparatus may be applied; the verifying and duplicating
of orders received and sent telephonically, would form no small item in
the advantages to be derived from such a system.

According to the _Journal de Rouen_, quoting from the _Polytechnische
Zeitung_, the recent invention of M. Verk, by which is produced the
effect of any metal on felt, is likely to become extremely useful when
applied to theatrical stage properties, as, besides being inexpensive,
the articles so treated are not materially increased in weight. The
things intended to assume a metallic appearance are first of all
covered with a layer of felt, which is coated over with a resinous
substance mixed with plumbago or blacklead. This is left to dry,
and is then passed over with a hot iron. The article is next rubbed
with pumice-stone, which produces the effect of burnished steel. If
copper, bronze, or silver is wished to be imitated, the felt—which is
rendered a conductor by its coating—is covered readily by immersion in
a galvano-plastic bath.




OCCASIONAL NOTES.


TELEGRAPHING EXTRAORDINARY.

A contemporary supplies some interesting particulars as to the number
of words transmitted by telegraph to all parts of the kingdom on the
occasion of the Prime Minister’s recent visit to Edinburgh. On the
evening of Mr Gladstone’s arrival, press messages containing over
seventeen thousand words were handed in at the telegraph department of
the General Post-office; but the actual number of words transmitted
was over sixty-seven thousand, owing to the fact of the same report
being sent to more than one newspaper. Mr Gladstone’s visit to the
Forth Bridge works led to the transmission of twelve thousand words,
and his movements on the following day to nineteen thousand. On the
occasion of his first speech on Saturday evening (August 30) in the
Corn Exchange, sixty-two thousand four hundred and seventy-one words
were handed in, and one hundred and thirty-eight thousand four hundred
and forty-five transmitted. The number would have been greater had not
Sunday intervened, allowing of the transmission of many messages by
train. On Monday evening (September 1) the press messages reached the
enormous number of one hundred and seventeen thousand words, causing
the transmission of about four hundred and twenty-seven thousand words,
the largest number ever transmitted on any one night from Edinburgh.
After the Waverley Market speech of Tuesday night (September 2), one
hundred and seventy-two thousand eight hundred and twenty-one words
were transmitted.

On Monday evening, when the strain was heaviest, one hundred and
thirty operators were at work, and in spite of the constant stream of
messages the department kept abreast of the reporters. As many as four
towns in the same telegraphic circuit were enabled to read almost the
same message at the same time. The message having been ‘punched’ on
long slips of prepared paper, the plan was adopted, instead of running
it entirely through one machine, of taking the slip out of the first
machine after it was three yards clear, and running it into a second
and a third.


CASUALTIES ON THE BRITISH COAST.

A blue-book on sea-casualties to British vessels from July 1, 1882 to
June 30, 1883, contains the Report of the Marine Department of the
Board of Trade, showing that the total number of vessels belonging
to the United Kingdom to which casualties occurred (total losses and
serious and minor casualties) was 5409. This is higher by one hundred
and eleven than in 1881-82, when it was 5298, and higher than any year
since 1876-77, when it was 5801. The number of total losses was eight
hundred and ten (tonnage 277,490). This is lower than the previous
two years, but higher than in either of the four years preceding.
The decrease in the last two years is in sailing-vessels (classed
and unclassed) and in unclassed steamships. There is, however, a
large increase (twenty-five per cent.) in the total losses of classed
steamships. The number of serious casualties not amounting to total
losses was 1268, and was lower than any of the previous six years,
except 1879-80, when it was slightly higher. The decrease is entirely
confined to sailing-vessels. The number of steamships (five hundred
and seventy-one) to which serious casualties occurred is larger than
in any of the previous six years, and the tonnage of the vessels
affected is nearly one hundred and fifty thousand more than in 1876-77.
From 1877-78 there is a steady annual rise in serious casualties
to steamships from four hundred and six in 1877-78 to five hundred
and seventy-one in 1882-83. In 1876-77 they were four hundred and
ninety-three. The loss of life in vessels belonging to the United
Kingdom was 2501 in 1882-83, or seven hundred and seventy-six less
than in 1881-82, but was more than the loss in each of the five years
preceding 1881-82, and was three hundred and thirty-one more than
the average for the six years. Of these 2501 lives, 1463 were lost
in missing vessels. The number of missing ships was one hundred and
fifty-two, namely: Sailing-ships, 133; tonnage, 32,995; lives lost,
1080: steamships, 19; tonnage, 14,626; lives lost, 383—total lives
lost, 1463.




‘YES.’

    A little rain,
    The sun again,
      A shadow;
    A summer day,
    Some new-mown hay,
      A meadow.

    A girlish face,
    A matchless grace,
      And beauty;
    We spend the day
    In making hay—
      Sweet duty.

    Some fading flowers,
    Some happy hours,
      But fleeting.
    A week of rain,
    And then again
      A meeting.

    One quick shy look,
    A rippling brook,
      Some clover;
    A sky of gold,
    The story old,
      A lover.

    A fair sweet maid,
    A short word said;
      What is it?
    I try my fate,
    And not too late
      To miss it.

    The years have gone,
    And still loves on
      That lover;
    He loves always,
    As days and days
      Pass over.

    A loving wife,
    A long, long life
      Together,
    Have made him bless
    That shy sweet ‘Yes’
      For ever.

            NORA C. USHER.

       *       *       *       *       *

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._ MANUSCRIPTS should bear the author’s full _Christian_ name,
    Surname, and Address, legibly written; and should be written on
    white (not blue) paper, and on one side of the leaf only.

_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._



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 39, VOL. I, SEPTEMBER 27, 1884 ***


    

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