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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 49237 ***</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_417" id="Page_417">{417}</a></span></p>

<h1>CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL<br />
OF<br />
POPULAR<br />
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.</h1>

<div>
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>

<p class='center'>

<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. -->

<a href="#STORY_OF_THE_FAIRBAIRNS">STORY OF THE FAIRBAIRNS.</a><br />
<a href="#THE_LAST_OF_THE_HADDONS">THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.</a><br />
<a href="#THE_STORY_OF_THE_QUIGRICH_OR">THE STORY OF THE QUIGRICH OR STAFF OF ST FILLAN.</a><br />
<a href="#COUSIN_DICK">COUSIN DICK.</a><br />
<a href="#A_TRIP_ON_LAKE_NYASSA">A TRIP ON LAKE NYASSA.</a><br />
<a href="#CURIOUS_PICK-UPS">CURIOUS PICK-UPS.</a><br />
<a href="#RUSTY_IRON">RUSTY IRON.</a><br />
<a href="#ON_A_PET_DOVE_KILLED_BY_A_DOG">ON A PET DOVE KILLED BY A DOG.</a><br />

<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. -->

</p>



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<img src="images/header.png" width="600" height="294" alt="Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art. Fourth Series. Conducted by William and Robert Chambers." />
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<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""  width="85%">
<tr><td align="left"><b><span class="smcap">No.</span> 706.</b></td><td align="center"><b>SATURDAY, JULY 7, 1877.</b></td><td align="right"><b><span class="smcap">Price</span> 1½<i>d.</i></b></td></tr>
</table></div></div>

<hr class="full" />

<div>
<h2><a name="STORY_OF_THE_FAIRBAIRNS" id="STORY_OF_THE_FAIRBAIRNS">STORY OF THE FAIRBAIRNS.</a></h2>




<p><span class="smcap">Towards</span> the end of last century, the family of
Andrew Fairbairn resided at the foot of the Woodmarket,
Kelso. Andrew was a man in humble
circumstances, but was intelligent and industrious,
and fond of reading. He had spent his early life
as a ploughboy, and afterwards as a gardener; by
which means, along with the perusal of books, he
gained a good knowledge of agriculture. Having
in the course of pushing his fortunes gone to
reside near a seaport in England, he was, during
the exigences of the American war, pressed on
board a frigate, from which he was draughted
into a ship of the line, and served under Lord
Howe at the destruction of the Spanish fleet off
Gibraltar. At the close of the war, he happened
to be present at Spithead, when the <i>Royal George</i>
sank, August 29, 1782, and assisted in saving
the survivors. Receiving his discharge, he returned
to Scotland, and settling in Kelso, married
Miss Henderson, daughter of a tradesman in
Jedburgh, and in due time had a family of sons
and daughters. That may be called the beginning
of the Fairbairns.</p>

<p>Andrew did not return to sea-life. He had had
enough of naval adventure. Kelso, where he
pitched his camp, is a pretty inland town on the
north bank of the Tweed, once celebrated for an
abbey, of which the ruins still exist, and having in
its immediate neighbourhood the palatial mansion
of Fleurs, the seat of the Dukes of Roxburghe.
All around is a fine fertile country, where there
is abundant scope for agricultural pursuits. To
these he addicted himself, though taking him six
days a week from home, and obliging him to
devolve the upbringing of his children in a great
measure to his wife, who was eminently suited for
this important duty. She was far from robust,
and her poor state of health would have offered a
good excuse for idleness; but possessing a spirit of
indefatigable industry, she toiled in a way that
reminds us of the singularly meritorious wife
mentioned in Scripture&mdash;'She seeketh wool and
flax, and worketh willingly with her hands....
She looketh well to the ways of her household,
and eateth not the bread of idleness.... Her
children arise up, and call her blessed.' The picture
is accurate in every detail. According to the
economy of the period, when as yet the domestic
spinning-wheel was in operation, Mrs Fairbairn
bought wool and flax, which she spun into yarn,
reeled into hanks, and gave out to a weaver to be
manufactured. From the varied materials so produced,
she provided shirtings, sheets, and blankets
for the family. And not only so, but for some
years she made all the coats, trousers, and other
garments for her husband and sons, besides all
the dresses required for her young daughters.</p>

<p>William Fairbairn, the eldest and most notable
of her sons, was born at Kelso, February 19, 1789.
There he received a plain elementary education at
the parish school, paddled like other boys in the
Tweed, and acquired a proficiency in climbing the
tall picturesque ruins of the abbey. In 1799, the
family were induced to remove to Moy, a farm a
few miles from Dingwall in Ross-shire. Here
commenced a desperate struggle to wring a subsistence
out of a piece of land plentifully dotted over
with whins, stones, rocks, and other obstructions.
Andrew, the father, had an opportunity of exercising
all the agricultural knowledge he possessed.
Like many Scotsmen in similar circumstances, he
did not despair. To remove the various impediments
to the plough, he adopted an ingenious
method. Having managed to draw the large stones
and rocks into heaps, he laid over them quantities
of dried whins, which he set on fire. The stones
and rocks became red-hot, and by the pouring on
them of cold water from a bottle, were fractured
and blown to shivers. By the wondering neighbours,
this cheap and ready method of ridding the
land of whins and rocks at the same time was considered
an extraordinary performance. Next was
instituted a system of draining; and in two or
three years, splendid crops of turnips and barley
were growing on land which had hitherto been
little better than a wilderness.</p>

<p>While the family were at Moy, William received
no addition to his education, and had to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_418" id="Page_418">{418}</a></span>
occupy much of his time as a nurse to his youngest
brother, Peter, then a child of fifteen months old.
To relieve himself of the trouble of carrying the
child on his back, he fell on the device of making
a little wagon with four wheels. It was a somewhat
difficult undertaking, for his only tools were
a knife, a gimlet, and an old saw. With these
and a red-hot poker to burn holes in the wheels
for the axles, he was able to knock up a small
wagon, which proved quite a success. He dragged
Peter about the farm, to the delight of the infant
and the satisfaction of his mother. Encouraged
by the success of the construction, he began to
make small boats and mills with his knife, that
were the admiration of neighbouring boys; such
performances giving, as is believed, a bent to his
mind as regards mechanical construction. Some
untoward circumstances led Andrew Fairbairn to
quit Moy and to become steward to a Highland
laird at Mullochy. In this situation he remained
only two years; and now, disgusted with the Highlands,
he removed with his family, in 1803, back
to Kelso. There he left them while he occupied
the position of farm-manager in Yorkshire. This
was a dark period in the history of the Fairbairns.
The father did his best to supply means
by transmitting part of his wages, but the wages
were irregularly paid, and sometimes the family
were on the brink of want. Being now a tall lad
of fourteen, William made an effort to get an employment
which would bring in a few shillings a
week. He considered himself fortunate in getting
work as a mason's labourer at the building of the
new bridge across the Tweed at Kelso&mdash;one of
Rennie's handsome structures. When only a few
days at this toilsome employment, William suffered
a dire misfortune. By the clumsy management of
a companion in carrying a hand-barrow, a heavy
stone fell on his leg, inflicting a deep wound, and
throwing him off work for nearly three months.
When the family were in the depths of penury,
the father succeeded in getting an appointment
at Percy Main Colliery, near South Shields, as
steward of a farm belonging to the coal-owners.
There was still the disadvantage of being absent
from his family, but the pay regularly administered
put him in comfort, and he had an opportunity
of getting some employment for his eldest
son.</p>

<p>The employment so secured was not much to
speak of: it was only that of driving a coal-cart,
but nothing better cast up, and was dutifully
endured amidst a dissolute and contentious population,
until, at the instance of the owners of the
colliery, William, in 1804, was bound apprentice
for seven years to Mr John Robinson, the engine-wright
of the establishment. Such was the start
in life of William Fairbairn as an engineer. At
first, his wages were five, afterwards rising to
twelve, shillings a week; but there was extra
work paid for separately, by which his small wage
was often doubled, and he was able to help his
parents, who were struggling with a very limited
income.</p>

<p>As we all know, there are two ways of pursuing
an industrial occupation in youth. One is to do
no more than what is immediately required, caring
little for the future; the other is to endeavour,
by every available means, to strike out a course
of self-improvement, not only for the pleasure of
doing so, but it may be in the hope of reaping
some future advantage. William Fairbairn adopted
the latter method of getting through his apprenticeship.
He laid down for himself a programme
of self-instruction, while most other lads about
him spent all their leisure time in coarse and
profitless amusements. His weekly programme
is worth the attention of young men placed
in similar circumstances. Every day had its
assigned work&mdash;Monday evenings, the study of
arithmetic and mensuration. Tuesday, reading
history and poetry. Wednesday, recreation, reading
novels and romances. Thursday, mathematics.
Friday, Euclid, trigonometry. Saturday,
recreation and sundries. Sunday, church,
reading Milton, &amp;c. These several exercises were
facilitated by books procured from the North-Shields
subscription library, for which his father
bought for him a ticket. Besides going through a
course of reading the best historical and other
works, which widened his knowledge and cultivated
his feelings, he in a period of three years
went through a complete system of mensuration,
and as much algebra as enabled him to solve
an equation; also a course of trigonometry, navigation,
and some other branches of science. At
times he devised pieces of machinery, which
taught him the necessity of arranging and concentrating
his ideas in matters of mechanical ingenuity.
Having a taste for music, he made a
violin, on which he taught himself to play familiar
Scotch airs, though never with any degree of
brilliance. His mind leaned towards more solid
acquirements. As a kind of promotion, he was
removed from the workshop to take charge of the
steam-engine and pumps. Now, he was more his
own master, and had intervals of time at his
disposal. No amount of leisure, however, diverted
him from his course of self-culture. His companions
spent not a little time and money in
beer-drinking, which kept them in poverty, and
effectually stood in the way of their advancement.
One of his early contemporaries was happily
superior to these debasing pursuits. This was
George Stephenson, with whom he became acquainted.
George had the charge of an engine at
Willington Ballast Hill, only a mile or two off,
and being recently married, was somewhat pinched
in the means of livelihood. To enable him to
earn a few shillings, Fairbairn frequently took
charge of his engine, while he took a turn
at heaving ballast out of the colliery vessels. It
is interesting to hear of facts like this of two
men who rose to eminence through self-culture
and unrelaxing perseverance.</p>

<p>At the close of his apprenticeship, and now
twenty-two years of age, William Fairbairn went
to London in search of employment as a millwright
or working engineer. At this time Rennie was
engaged in building Waterloo Bridge, and offered
work to William Fairbairn. But&mdash;and a sad 'but'
it was&mdash;the Millwrights' Society, which assumed
the right of determining who should be employed,
would not allow work to be given to him; and for
a time, along with a companion similarly situated,
he underwent serious privations. Unless for succour
from some hospitable relatives who gave him
a dinner on Sunday, he would have been well-nigh
starved. A brighter day at length dawned. A
number of workmen had the fortitude to resist the
monopoly of the Millwrights' Society, and banding
together, set up a Society of free and independent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_419" id="Page_419">{419}</a></span>
labourers, under whose auspices Fairbairn got
employment at a patent Ropery at Shadwell.
Here and elsewhere he wrought as a journeyman
two years in the metropolis, all the time realising
good wages of from two to three pounds a week,
and as formerly occupying his leisure hours mostly
in reading. As he lived moderately, he saved
some money, with which he hoped to push his
way forward. Unluckily, he fell in with a crazy
projector, who had devised a plan of delving land
by machinery. The thing was ingenious, but not
practicable. Induced to make a machine for the
inventor, Fairbairn's small savings were swept
away. He was more fortunate in his next order.
It was to make a machine for chopping meat for
sausages, for which he was promised thirty-three
pounds by a pork-butcher. The machine, constructed
with a fly-wheel and a double crank, with
a dozen knives crossing each other, did its work
admirably. The pork-butcher was delighted, and
paid handsomely for the machine.</p>

<p>Put in pocket by this piece of business, Fairbairn
proceeded to Dublin in quest of work,
and got employment in constructing nail-making
machinery. This lasted during a summer, and
back he came to England, the voyage by packet
to Liverpool occupying two days. A lucky thought
directed him to try Manchester as a field of operations.
Here he received employment from Mr
Adam Parkinson, for whom he worked two years,
and from his earnings was able to save twenty
pounds, a sum which he destined to set him up in
married life. For several years he had corresponded
with Dorothy Mar, daughter of a farmer
at Morpeth, and for whom he entertained an ardent
affection. Fortune, as he imagined, being now
propitious, marriage with Miss Mar could be discreetly
contemplated, and the marriage took place
June 16, 1816. The young pair commenced housekeeping
in a very small and modest domicile
at Manchester. William Fairbairn had still to
make his way in the world, and blest with this
good wife, set about doing it vigorously. For
certain spheres of usefulness, Manchester offers
better scope than even London. In partnership at
first with Mr James Lillie, he began an independent
career as a millwright, or in fact, a contractor
for any large undertaking from a bridge to a spinning-factory.
The two in setting up business had
hardly any money, but they had brains, which
had been pretty well exercised, and people were
disposed to throw work in the way of what
seemed to be two eager and clever young men.
A large job executed for Mr Murray, a cotton-spinner,
put them on their feet. Well-doing needs
only a beginning. Almost immediately followed
the works on a new cotton-mill for Mr John
Kennedy, partner in the firm of Messrs M'Connel
and Kennedy, then the largest spinners in the
kingdom. The skilful manner in which improvements
were introduced into the new mill brought
a press of orders. The business prospered so
greatly, that at the end of five years the two young
men found themselves with a stock and tools
worth five thousand pounds. Large and commodious
premises were erected, and contracts for
gigantic works were undertaken in England,
Scotland, and Switzerland.</p>

<p>Fairbairn lived at a time when the world was
startled with the marvels of steam-traction on
railways, and he fancied that a similar means of
propulsion could be adopted on canals. In this,
after several costly experiments, he found himself
mistaken, and the drainage of money was so great
as to lead to a dissolution of his partnership with
Mr Lillie. Now (1832), he rested entirely on his
own energies and resources; but strong in self-reliance,
he had no fears of the result. He turned his
attention to a new branch of engineering manufacture,
that of iron ship-building. For a time he
had two establishments, one in London, the other
in Manchester, and collectively employed two
thousand hands. In 1835 began his famous investigations
into the strength of iron, as regards
girders, beams, pillars, and so forth; his experiments
being of much scientific and mechanical
importance. This, indeed, might be described as
the great work of Fairbairn's life; for from his
discoveries has sprung that remarkable adaptation
of cast-iron in various forms&mdash;to house-building,
the construction of bridges, and other
works. About the same time, owing to a strike
of boiler-makers at Manchester, he invented a
method of riveting the plates of boilers by machinery,
which at once superseded hand-labour. No
longer were people assailed with the din of a
hundred hammers riveting together iron plates;
the machine of Fairbairn's invention substituted a
rapid, noiseless, and comparatively cheap method
of construction.</p>

<p>Until his fiftieth year, Mr Fairbairn wrote an
autobiographical account of his career, and the
projects with which he was concerned, which has
been incorporated in the recently issued work,
<i>The Life of Sir William Fairbairn, Bart.</i>, by W.
Pole (Longmans, 1877). Mr Pole continues the
narrative, but in so fragmentary and meagre a
form as to give us little insight into the private life
of the person to whom he refers, or of the family
to which he belonged. Happily we were honoured
with the friendship not only of Sir William, but
of his brother, Sir Peter Fairbairn of Leeds&mdash;the
brother whom when a child he drew about in a
little wagon of his own making, long ago in the
Highlands. Our last interview with Sir William
was shortly before his decease, when on what we
believe was his farewell visit to Scotland. From
both brothers we learned a variety of details
relative to their respective professional pursuits,
and on all occasions were struck with the strong
practical common-sense and tact which had guided
them through life. From the humblest possible
circumstances, each in his own way had attained
distinction by the exercise of sound judgment and
persevering industry connected with the manufacture
of machinery. The lesson which their lives
afforded was this: that success in life is less generally
due to genius than to indomitable diligence
along with integrity of character.</p>

<p>Sir William Fairbairn never, as we know, aimed
at being a great man. He wanted only to be useful
in his day and generation. His habits of
industry were extraordinary. Besides devoting
himself specially to new mechanical contrivances
and scientific researches, he spent much time in
his later years in writing papers for the British
Association and other public bodies. On one
subject he fastened keenly. It was the prevention
of smoke from factory chimneys, which he shewed
could be effectually done by a more perfect combustion
of fuel. The paper appeared in the Transactions
of the British Association for 1844. It is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_420" id="Page_420">{420}</a></span>
doubtful if it made many converts. There seems
to be a determination among manufacturers to disregard
all advice or remonstrance on the subject.
For more than thirty years we have used a plan
for consuming smoke with perfect success and considerable
economy of fuel, but our neighbours for
the most part perversely go on polluting the atmosphere
as usual.</p>

<p>As is well known, Sir William Fairbairn distinguished
himself by his invention of the tubular
iron bridge, sustained without stays, and, which
adopted by Stephenson, was employed in the
construction of the famous tubular iron bridge
across the Menai Strait, which is entitled to be
called the mechanical wonder of England. We
have never been shot along in a railway train
through that iron tube, formed by a succession of
square cells placed end to end, without thinking of
Fairbairn's bold ingenuity. The reputation he
acquired by this and other inventions of a useful
kind brought him honours from numerous quarters.
He had declined to accept a knighthood, and was
reserved for the higher dignity of a baronetcy,
which was conferred during Mr Gladstone's tenure
of office in 1869. Two years previously, he had
the misfortune to lose his eldest son, John, a blow
which was severely felt by him. Coming from a
long-lived family&mdash;his father dying in 1844 at the
age of eighty-six&mdash;and tall, robust, and active, he
enjoyed health till nearly the end of his days.
He died peacefully August 18, 1874, leaving three
sons and a daughter, also a widow, to mourn his
loss. He was succeeded in the baronetcy by his
son Thomas. Though the family wished the
funeral to be private, it was, as a voluntary mark
of respect, attended by upwards of fifty thousand
persons. Such was the end of one of the greatest
engineers of our day. His whole life pointed a
valuable moral which it is unnecessary to repeat.
His brother, Sir Peter Fairbairn of Leeds, predeceased
him, leaving likewise descendants to perpetuate
the reputation of the Fairbairns.</p>

<p class='right'>
W. C.
</p>

<hr class='chap' />
</div><div>

<h2><a name="THE_LAST_OF_THE_HADDONS" id="THE_LAST_OF_THE_HADDONS">THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.</a></h2>

<p class='ph3'>CHAPTER XXXI.&mdash;AT THE STILE.</p>


<p><span class="smcap">When</span> was I first conscious of it? When was the
first faint shadow of it perceived by the others?
It would be difficult to say precisely when; but
as days went by, some subtle change was taking
place and making itself felt amongst us. Gradually
an indefinable something was extracting the sunshine
out of our lives. None of us admitted so
much to each other; indeed I think we were all
equally anxious to have it thought that everything
was going on in precisely the same way as before.
And yet&mdash;where was the frank confidence and ease
which only a short time previously had so marked
our intercourse? It had given place to constraint,
and a restless anxiety to appear unconstrained.</p>

<p>I fancied that I could account for Lilian's nervousness
and constraint; but Philip's gaiety seemed
to be growing less and less spontaneous; and dear
old Mrs Tipper looked depressed, not to say
unhappy; whilst I myself felt uncomfortable without
being able to trace the cause, unless it arose
from sympathy with the others. In vain did I
try to account for the change. There was certainly
no unkindly feeling betwixt us; indeed I
think we were each and all more carefully considerate
of each other's feelings than we had hitherto
been, displaying a great deal more anxiety to prove
that the strength of our attachment to each other
was as undiminished as ever.</p>

<p>I felt no shade of difference in my own sentiments;
I knew that I felt towards them precisely
the same as before, although I was gradually adopting
their tone. What troubled me most of all was
the reserve growing up between Lilian and me. I
tried more than once to break through it; but her
real distress&mdash;her tears, as she clung to me, entreating
me to believe in her love, pained without
enlightening me. And when I a little impatiently
replied that it rather seemed as though she did not
believe in <i>my</i> love, it only brought more tears and
distress.</p>

<p>She now frequently excused herself from accompanying
Philip and me in our walks and excursions;
and shut herself up in her own room many
hours during the day. The explanation that she
had taken a fancy for studying French history, was
not a satisfactory one to me. True, there was
evidence that she was diligently plodding through
a certain amount of work; but why should that
separate us? The studies she had hitherto undertaken
had not shut me out of her confidence. She
had often declared that the greater part of the
enjoyment of such work was to compare notes
with me upon the subjects we were reading; and
why should French history be an exception?</p>

<p>I was beginning to lose patience&mdash;mystery has
ever been and ever will be provoking to me&mdash;and
one evening, when Robert Wentworth asked me
some questions about our work, I irritably replied
that he must ask Lilian; I could only answer for
myself now.</p>

<p>'I am only doing a little French history,' she
faltered, becoming very pale, and presently making
an excuse for leaving the room.</p>

<p>'What is it? What has so changed her?' I
asked, turning towards him.</p>

<p>'I do not observe any particular change,' he
replied, lowering his eyes before mine.</p>

<p>'Pray do not you become as mysterious as the
rest,' I said angrily.</p>

<p>But he <i>was</i> mysterious. Even Robert Wentworth,
who had always been so outspoken and
unsparing, was becoming considerate even to
politeness. He made no reply, standing before
the open window, apparently absorbed in thought.
I was about to add some little remark that I
had hitherto trusted to his friendship, in a tone
meant to be caustic, when I caught sight of his
face, and shrank into my shell again. What made
him look like that? What did it mean? And why
did he so hurriedly take his departure the moment
old Mrs Tipper came into the room, in a manner
as unlike the Robert Wentworth of the past as it
was possible to be?</p>

<p>But it must not be supposed that I was going
to succumb to this state of things. Before I succumbed,
I must know the reason why. It would
take a great deal yet to make me lose hope. I had
too much respect for them and belief in the power
of my own love, to be without hope of succeeding<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_421" id="Page_421">{421}</a></span>
in dissipating the clouds which had gathered about
us. The one thing to be done was to find out
<i>what</i> it was that had come between us. Could I once
find out that, I should not despair of the rest. After
some anxious reflection, I fancied that I had discovered
the cause of the alteration in Lilian's
bearing, and took Philip into my confidence.</p>

<p>He listened gravely, I thought even anxiously,
and yet he did not appear to think it necessary for
me to make any attempt to alter things.</p>

<p>'If&mdash;she prefers being more alone, I think&mdash;Wouldn't
it be best not to interfere, Mary?'&mdash;hesitatingly.</p>

<p>'If I did not care for her, perhaps it would be
better not to interfere, as you term it,' I hotly
rejoined. 'But as it happens, I do care for her,
and therefore I cannot see her so changed without
making some effort to help her.'</p>

<p>'No one could doubt your love for her, Mary,'
he replied in a low voice, laying his hand gently
upon mine.</p>

<p>'Then how can I help being anxious, especially
when I see that it is not good for her to be moping
alone? Any one might see that it is doing her
harm. Cannot <i>you</i> see the difference in her of
late?' He made no reply; and taking his assent
for granted, I went on: 'Do you know I am sadly
afraid that she is fretting'&mdash;&mdash; I did not like
to say plainly about Arthur Trafford, but added:
'She is beginning to look just as she did in the
first shock of finding that she had lost Arthur
Trafford!&mdash;Ah, spare my roses!'</p>

<p>He was mercilessly, though I think unconsciously,
tearing to pieces a beautiful bunch of light and
dark roses, which had been given to me by one of
the cottagers, scattering the leaves in all directions.</p>

<p>'I&mdash;beg your pardon.'</p>

<p>'I really think you ought, sir!' was my playful
rejoinder. 'If my path is to be strewed with roses,
we need not be so extravagant as that about it. I
shall not trust you to carry flowers again.'</p>

<p>He remained so long silent, standing in the
same position, that I was about to ask him what
he was thinking of, when he impetuously turned
towards me, and hurriedly said: 'Why should
there be any longer delay, Mary? Why cannot
our marriage take place at once&mdash;next week? For
God's sake, do not let us go on like this!'</p>

<p>'Go on like this!' I repeated, looking up into
his face. 'Go on like this, Philip?'</p>

<p>'Say it shall be soon&mdash;say when?' catching my
hands in both of his with a grip which made me
wince, as he hurriedly continued: 'Why do you
wish all this delay?'</p>

<p>Had it been spoken in a different tone&mdash;had he
only <i>looked</i> differently! I tried to believe that it
was the eagerness of happiness in his face; but alas!
it looked terribly like misery! For a moment my
heart stood still in an agony of fear; then I put
the disloyal doubt aside, telling myself that it was
my too exalted notions which had led to disappointment.
I had expected so much more than
any woman has a right to expect; and so forth.
Then after a moment or two, I honestly replied:
'I do <i>not</i> wish it, Philip. Of course I will say
next week, if you wish it; and'&mdash;with a faint
little attempt at a jest&mdash;'if you do not mind about
my having fewer furbelows to pack?'</p>

<p>'I do wish it; and&mdash;and&mdash;until then I must
ask you to excuse my not coming down quite so
regularly. So much to arrange, you know,' he
hastily continued, 'in case we should take it into
our heads to remain abroad some time.'</p>

<p>'Yes; very well,' I murmured, as one in a
dream. It was all so different&mdash;so terribly different
from anything I had expected.</p>

<p>But I soon persuaded myself that the fault, if
fault there were, must be mine. How could he be
changed&mdash;or if he were, why should <i>he</i> so eagerly
urge me to delay our marriage no longer?</p>

<p>As if to rebuke my doubt, he turned towards
me and gently said: 'God grant that I may be
worthy of you, Mary! You are a good woman. I
must hope in time to be more worthy of you.'</p>

<p>I was conscious that just then I could have
better borne a loving jest at my imperfections
than this little set speech of praise. I never before
cared so little about being a 'good woman' as I did
at that moment. But I told myself that I would
not be critical&mdash;how horribly critical I seemed to
be growing! So I looked up into his face with a
smile, as I said something about his being perfect
enough for me.</p>

<p>'You are good.'</p>

<p>'Oh, please do not say anything more about my
goodness!'</p>

<p>There was another pause; and then he said:
'I think you mentioned that you wished it to be
a quiet affair, Mary, and at the little church in the
vale&mdash;St John's, isn't it called?'</p>

<p>'Yes, Philip.'</p>

<p>'And you must let me know what I ought to do
besides procuring the ring and license. I am sure
you will give me credit for wishing not to be
remiss in any way, and will not mind giving me
a hint if I appear likely to fall short in any of the&mdash;proper
observances.'</p>

<p>Proper observances! How coldly the words
struck upon me!</p>

<p>'Shall you not come down <i>once</i>, Philip?' I murmured.</p>

<p>'Once? O yes, of course; and&mdash;you can give
me any little commission by letter, you know.'</p>

<p>Then looking at his watch, he found that he
might catch the eight o'clock train, and hastily
bade me good-night; asking me to excuse him at
the cottage, and tell them about our plans.</p>

<p>'Eh bien, Philippe,' I returned, more disappointed
than I should have cared to acknowledge
at his not asking me to accompany him the
remainder of the distance to the stile, to which
I always walked with him when Robert Wentworth
was not with us. Moreover, I thought that
the parting kiss was to be forgotten. I believe
that it <i>was</i> forgotten for a moment. But he turned
back and pressed his lips for a moment upon my
brow.</p>

<p>'Good-night, Mary. God grant I may be worthy
of you!'</p>

<p>'Good-night, Philip,' I faltered.</p>

<p>As in a dream I walked down the lane, entered
the cottage, and turned into the little parlour, not
a little relieved to find no one there.</p>

<p>The heat was almost stifling, the swallows flying
low beneath the lowering sky, and there was the
heavy stillness&mdash;the, so to speak, pause in the
atmosphere which presages a coming storm. The
windows and doors were flung wide open; and I
could hear Mrs Tipper and Becky talking to each
other in their confidential way, as they bustled in
and out the back garden, fetching in the clothes,
which the former always put out to 'sweeten,' as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_422" id="Page_422">{422}</a></span>
she termed it, after they were returned from the
wash. Lilian was, I suppose, in her own room, as
her habit was of late.</p>

<p>Throwing off my hat, I sat down, and with my
hands tightly locked upon my lap, I tried to think&mdash;to
understand my own sensations, asking myself
over and over again what was wrong&mdash;what made
me like this? half conscious all the while of a
discussion over a hole in a tablecloth, that ought
not to have been allowed to get to such a stage
without being darned.</p>

<p>'A stitch in time saves nine, you know, Becky;
never you leave a thin place, and you'll never
have a hole to mend;' and so on.</p>

<p>Suddenly, as my eyes wandered aimlessly about
the room, they fell upon some documents on the
table referring to the sale of Hill Side, which
Philip had brought down to shew us, and which
I knew he had intended to take away. Reflecting
that he was very desirous of completing the
purchase, that the delay of a post might make a
difference, and that I might yet overtake him if
I were quick, I hurriedly caught up the papers
in my hand and ran down the lane towards the
stile. Have I mentioned that there was a sharp
curve in the lane before it reached the stile, so
that you came close upon the latter before it was
in sight? I had just arrived at the curve when
the sound of voices reached me; and recollecting
that I had not waited to put my hat on, and not
wishing to be recognised by any one, I paused a
moment to draw the hood of my cloak over my
head.</p>

<p>Robert Wentworth and Philip! I had time for
a moment's surprise that the former should be
there when we had not seen him at the cottage,
before Philip's words reached me: 'And you have
been waiting here to say this to me. But I am
not so base as that, Wentworth! I have just
begged her to be my wife at once, and she has
consented. She suspects nothing.'</p>

<p>'Thank God for that!' ejaculated Robert Wentworth.</p>

<p>I could not have moved now had my life
depended upon it&mdash;though my life <i>did</i> seem to
depend upon it. 'Suspect what? What was there
to suspect?' I asked myself in a bewildered kind
of way.</p>

<p>'God grant that she may be always spared the
knowledge!'</p>

<p>'She shall be, Wentworth, if it be in my power
to spare her.'</p>

<p>'Great heavens! that it should be possible to
love another woman after knowing her! Man,
you never can have known her as she is, or it
would be impossible for another woman to come
between you. The other is no more to be compared'&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>'Respect her, Wentworth; blame me as you
will, but respect Lilian.'</p>

<p>'Lilian!' I muttered&mdash;'Lilian!'</p>

<p>'She is, I think&mdash;I trust, utterly unconscious
of my&mdash;madness. But if she knew, and if she&mdash;cared
for me, she would be loyal to the right.
You ought to be sure of that, knowing what her
love for Mary is, Wentworth.'</p>

<p>'Yes; she is true; she will try to be true.
But it is quite time that'&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>I knew that the voices sounded fainter and
fainter, and that the sense of the words became
lost to me, because they were walking on; I knew
that they were great drops of rain and <i>not</i> tears
pattering down upon me where I lay prone upon
the ground; and I could recollect that the papers
must not be lost; so I had kept my senses.</p>



<hr class="chap" />

</div><div>

<h2><a name="THE_STORY_OF_THE_QUIGRICH_OR" id="THE_STORY_OF_THE_QUIGRICH_OR">THE STORY OF THE QUIGRICH OR
STAFF OF ST FILLAN.</a></h2>


<p><span class="smcap">The</span> recent acquisition of that curious medieval
work of art called the Quigrich or crosier of St
Fillan by the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland,
and its final deposit in their National Museum at
Edinburgh, is in itself an incident of more than
ordinary interest. Apart from its historical associations,
the 'Cogerach,' 'Coygerach,' or 'Quigrich,'
as it is variously styled in writings of the fourteenth
and fifteenth centuries, is unsurpassed in
interest as a work of art of a class and period of
which no other Scottish specimen is now known
to exist. Briefly described, it is simply the massive
silver head of a pastoral staff of the form
peculiar to the Celtic Church in very early times.
Its shape resembles that of the bent head of a
walking-stick, with a slanting prolongation of the
outer end. The lower part of the crook expands
into a large bulbous socket, beautifully ornamented
with interlaced knot-work. A ridge or
crest, pierced with quatrefoils, rises from the
socket, and is continued over the back of the crook,
terminating in the bust of an ecclesiastic, probably
meant for St Fillan. The slanting front of the
staff-head is ornamented by a large oval setting
of cairngorm, and the terminal plate has an engraved
representation of the Crucifixion. The
body of the crook is covered with lozenge-shaped
plaques of filigree-work in floral scrolls.</p>

<p>What may be termed the private history of the
crosier commences in the early part of the eighth
century, when as the <i>bacul</i> or walking-staff of
St Fillan, it accompanied him in his missionary
journey to the wilds of Glendochart. The saint
came of a royal race. His mother, Kentigerna,
was a daughter of the king of Leinster; and
both she and her brother St Comgan are enrolled
among the saints of Celtic Alba. Placed often in
the darkest and wildest districts of the country,
solely with the view of reclaiming the people from
paganism and diffusing the benefits of Christian
civilisation, these monastic churches were truly
centres of light and progress. Such was the
famous church of Columcille at Hy. Such also
was the monastery of St Mund at the Holy
Loch, where St Fillan spent part of his days, and
in which he succeeded the founder as abbot.
Growing weary of its comparatively peaceful life,
he sought a desert for himself in the wilds of Glendochart,
where he might reclaim a new garden for
the church, and close his days among an ecclesiastical
family of his own uprearing. As founder and
first abbot of Glendochart his memory would be
fondly cherished by the community of clerics over
whom he had presided. Their veneration would
increase with time, as the traditions of his saintly
life became fixed by constant repetition; and there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_423" id="Page_423">{423}</a></span>
was no object around which that veneration and
these legends could more appropriately cluster
than around the staff which was the symbol of his
abbatial office, and the lasting memorial of his
presence among them.</p>

<p>Not the least interesting of the many picturesque
associations which gather round the crosier of St
Fillan is that which connects it with Scotland's
warrior-king, Robert Bruce, and assigns to it a
prominent part in the great struggle for Scottish
independence that culminated in the glorious victory
of Bannockburn. There is no evidence on
record by which we can positively prove the presence
of the crosier on the eventful field; but it is
the tradition of the Dewars, its hereditary keepers,
that it was there; and there is evidence that
certain other relics of St Fillan were brought to
the battle-field by the abbot of Inchaffray, the
ecclesiastical superior of the church of Strathfillan,
who was the king's confessor; and that this was
done, if not by the king's express desire, at least
in the knowledge that it would be consonant with
his personal feelings and belief in their efficacy.
If the narrative that was written by Boece is to be
accepted at all, it must be accepted to the extent
of establishing that there <i>was</i> a relic of St Fillan at
Bannockburn. He calls it the arm-bone of the saint,
and tells in his picturesque way that when the
king, being sorely troubled in mind on the evening
before the battle, had retired into his tent,
and was engaged in prayer to God and St Fillan,
suddenly the silver case which contained the arm-bone
of the saint opened of itself, and shewed him
the relic, and then 'clakkit to again.' The priest
who had charge of it immediately proclaimed a
miracle, declaring that he had brought into the
field only the 'tume cais' (empty case), being fearful
lest the precious relic should fall into the hands
of the English.</p>

<p>If we accept Boece's statement to the extent of
believing on the strength of it that any of the
relics of St Fillan were brought to the field, we
may believe that they were all there, and that
they were carried round the army on the morning
of the fight, when the abbot of Inchaffray
walked barefooted in front of the ranks bearing
aloft 'the croce in quhilk the crucifix wes hingin.'
That such practices were not uncommon is gleaned
from other instances, such as that of the crosier
of St Columba&mdash;the <i>Cath Bhuaidh</i> or 'Battle-Victory'&mdash;so
named because it used to give the
victory to the men of Alba when carried to their
battles. If then the crosier of St Fillan was
present at the battle of Bannockburn, and the victory
was ascribed to the saint's intervention, this
may have been the occasion of its being glorified
with such a magnificent silver shrine.</p>

<p>But if it had no public history and no picturesque
associations, the story of its transmission from age
to age, linked as it was with the chequered
fortunes of the religious foundation to which it
was attached, and of the strange and varied circumstances
in which it has been preserved by a
succession of hereditary keepers, through failing
fortunes and changes of faith, in poverty and
exile, is sufficient to invest it with surpassing
interest.</p>

<p>Since its arrival at Edinburgh the singular discovery
has been made that the gilt silver casing of
the crosier had been constructed for the purpose of
inclosing an older staff-head of cast bronze. This
has been taken out of its concealment, and is now
exhibited alongside the silver one. The surface
of this older crosier is divided into panels by raised
ridges ornamented with niello. These panels correspond
in number, shape, and size to the silver
plaques now on the external casing, and they are
pierced with rivet-holes which also correspond
with the position of the pins by which the plaques
are fastened. It is thus clear that when the old
crosier was incased, it was first stripped of its
ornamental plaques of filigree-work, which were
again used in making up the external covering so
far as they were available. Such of them as had
been either entirely absent, or so much worn as to
require redecoration, were renewed in a style so
different from the original workmanship, as to
demonstrate that it is a mere imitation of an art
with which the workman was unfamiliar. This
establishes two distinct phases in the history of
the crosier, and suggests that at some particular
period, a special occasion had arisen for thus
glorifying the old relic with a costly enshrinement.
What that occasion was may be inferred from
some considerations connected with its public
history.</p>

<p>We know nothing of the history of St Fillan's
foundation during the first five centuries, in which
the founder's staff passed through the hands of his
various successors as the symbol of office of the
abbot of Glendochart. But in the time of King
William the Lion, we find that the office had
become secularised, and the abbot appears as a
great lay lord, ranking after the Earl of Athole,
and appointed alternatively with him as the
holder of the assize, in all cases of stolen cattle
in that district of Scotland. Whether he held
the crosier in virtue of his office we cannot
tell; but the likelihood is that it was when the
office was first usurped by a layman, that the
crosier was placed by the last of the true successors
of St Fillan in the custody of a 'dewar'
or hereditary keeper, with the dues and privileges
which we afterwards find attached to this office.
Such an arrangement was not uncommon in connection
with similar relics of the ancient Celtic
church. We thus find the dewar of the Cogerach
of St Fillan in possession of the lands of Eyich
in Glendochart in 1336. In process of time the
official title of dewar became the family surname
of Dewar; and we have a curious instance
of the Celtic form of the patronymic in a charter
granted in 1575 by Duncan Campbell of Glenorchy
to Donald Mac in Deora vic Cogerach.</p>

<p>The inquiry is naturally suggested why a relic
with such associations, intrinsically so valuable,
and always so highly venerated, should have been
allowed to remain in the possession of laymen, and
to be kept in their private dwellings, often no
better than turf cottages in the glen. The crosier
was splendid enough to have graced the processional
ceremonials of the highest dignitary of the
Church, and thus to have been a coveted acquisition
to the richest monastery in the land. That
it was so coveted may be fairly inferred from the
fact that on the 22d April 1428, John de Spens of
Perth, Bailie of Glendochart, summoned an inquest
of the men of Glendochart to hold inquisition
regarding the authority and privileges of 'a certain
relick of St Felane called the Coygerach.'
Of the fifteen summoned, three were Macnabs,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_424" id="Page_424">{424}</a></span>
deriving their origin from the son of a former
abbot; three were of the clan Gregor; and one was
named Felan, after the saint. Their verdict sets
forth that the Coygerach was in the rightful possession
of the deoire, because the office of bearing
it had been given hereditarily by the successor of
St Fillan to a certain progenitor of Finlay, the
deoire at the time of the inquest; that the privileges
pertaining to the office had been enjoyed
and in use since the days of King Robert Bruce;
and that when cattle or goods were stolen or
taken by force from any inhabitant of the glen,
and they were unable to follow them from fear
or feud, the dewar was bound to follow the cattle
or goods wherever they might be found throughout
the kingdom.</p>

<p>We hear no more of the rights of the Cogerach
till 1487, when the dewar sought the sanction of
the royal prerogative to aid him in holding his
charge with all its ancient rights. In that year,
King James III. issued letters of confirmation
under the Privy Seal, in favour of Malice Doire,
who, as the document sets forth, 'has had a relic
of St Felan called the Quigrich in keeping of us
and our progenitors since the time of King Robert
Bruce, and of before, and has made no obedience
or answer to any person spiritual or temporal in
any thing concerning it, in any other way than
is contained in the auld infeftment granted by
our progenitors.' The object was to establish the
rights of the Crown in the relic, as distinguished
from the rights of the Church; and we may presume
that the royal infeftment to which it refers
may have been granted by Bruce on the occasion
when the old crosier was glorified by incasement
in a silver shrine, in token of the king's humble
gratitude to God and St Fillan for the victory of
Bannockburn.</p>

<p>We find traces of the dewars and their lands in
charters down to the time of Queen Mary. The
Reformation deprived them of their living, and
converted the relic, of which they were the
keepers, into a 'monument of idolatry,' fit only
to be consigned to the crucible. Still they were
faithful to their trust, although instead of emolument
it could only bring them trouble. In the
succeeding centuries their fortunes fell to a low
ebb indeed. In 1782 a passing tourist saw the
Quigrich in the house of Malice Doire, a day-labourer
in Killin. His son, a youth of nineteen,
lay in an outer apartment at the last gasp of
consumption; and the traveller was so moved by
concern for the probable fate of the Quigrich, in
the prospect of the speedy death of the heir to
this inestimable possession, that he wrote an
account of the circumstances, and transmitted it,
with a drawing of the crosier, to the Society of
Antiquaries of Scotland. At that time the Society
could not have acquired it; but fortunately their
intervention was not necessary for its preservation.
On the failure of the older line, by the
death of this youth, the relic passed into the
hands of a younger brother of Malice Doire's.
His son removed to Glenartney, where the Quigrich
was again seen by Dr Jamieson, and was
described by him in his edition of Barbour's
<i>Bruce</i>. Archibald Dewar removed from Glenartney
to Balquhidder, where he rented a sheep-farm;
but having suffered heavy losses at the
close of the French war in 1815, he emigrated to
Canada, where he died, aged seventy-five.</p>

<p>His son, Alexander Dewar, the last of the
hereditary dewars of the Crosier, is a hale old
man of eighty-eight, in comfortable circumstances,
the patriarch of a new race of Dewars,
rejoicing in upwards of thirty grandchildren, and
nephews and nieces innumerable. It is in consequence
of his desire to see the ancient relic
returned to Scotland before he dies, and placed
in the National Museum at Edinburgh, 'there to
remain in all time coming for the use, benefit,
and enjoyment of the Scottish nation,' that the
Society of Antiquaries has been enabled, partly
by purchase and partly by his donation, to acquire
the Quigrich, the most remarkable of all existing
relics associated with the early history of the
Scottish nation.</p>

<p>It was five centuries old before the light of
authentic record reveals it in 1336 in possession
of the dewar Cogerach, and since then it can be
traced uninterruptedly in the line of the Dewars
for five hundred and forty years. 'Its associations
with the Scottish monarchy,' says Dr Daniel
Wilson, 'are older than the Regalia, so sacredly
guarded in the castle of Edinburgh; and its more
sacred memories carry back the fancy to the primitive
missionaries of the Christian faith, when the
son of St Kentigerna, of the royal race of Leinster,
withdrew to the wilderness of Glendochart, and
there initiated the good work which has ever since
made Strathfillan famous in the legendary history
of the Scottish Church.'</p>

<hr class="chap" />
</div><div>

<h2><a name="COUSIN_DICK" id="COUSIN_DICK">COUSIN DICK.</a></h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Mr</span> and Mrs Woodford were enjoying a confidential
matrimonial chat over their <i>tête-à-tête</i>
dessert, and discussing at some length the antecedents
and probable future of a cousin, Mr Richard
Broughton, who had lately dropped down on them,
not from the clouds, but from a Liverpool express
train. This gentleman had in his youth been
'crossed in love.' Always a musical enthusiast, he
had become attached to an amiable girl, a young
concert-singer, who was the main stay of her
mother&mdash;the widow of a captain in the army&mdash;and
some younger sisters; and having himself not yet
made a fair start in life, the elders of both families
rose up in arms against the alliance.</p>

<p>Mrs Woodford, of nearly the same age as her
Cousin Dick, had been his confidante in their
boy and girl days, had sympathised warmly with
his disappointment, without very precisely understanding
how it had come about, and was now
assuring her husband that the attachment had
been a far more serious affair than very youthful
fancies commonly are. It was true the gentleman
had so far consoled himself as to marry another
lady; though it was reported he had wedded a
shrew, who had not made him supremely happy.
But he lost his wife some time before leaving
Australia; and now, after a sojourn of nearly
twenty years in the colonies, had returned to England
with something more than competence.</p>

<p>'But what became of Miss Clifton?' asked Mr
Woodford.</p>

<p>'That I do not know,' returned the lady.
'Clifton was only her professional name; her real
one I quite forget; therefore if from any circumstances
she passed into private life, it would not
be easy to track her. Dick only called her Alice
to me.'</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_425" id="Page_425">{425}</a></span></p>

<p>'Probably she also married,' said Mr Woodford.</p>

<p>'Possibly,' replied his wife; 'though women
are more constant than men; and though she
ceased to answer Dick's letters, and really brought
him to a state of misery which drove him out of
England, I never thought the fault was quite her
own.'</p>

<p>While Mrs Woodford was yet speaking, there
was a knock at the door, and Mr Broughton was
announced.</p>

<p>'Why did you not come to dinner?' cried Mr
Woodford, rising to greet the visitor. 'But we can
have the lamb brought back,' he added.</p>

<p>'Thanks, thanks,' said Mr Broughton; 'but I
dined at the hotel. I am sure I ought to apologise
for calling at such a time, and for having brought
Dandy with me.'</p>

<p>Dandy was a terrier, and his master's almost
inseparable companion.</p>

<p>'Now Dandy, behave!' continued his master;
'and go and beg pardon for both of us. Say we
know we are two unmannerly colonial boors, at
present unfit for good society.'</p>

<p>Very much as if the sagacious animal understood
every word of this address, he approached
Mrs Woodford, and sat on his haunches in a
begging attitude.</p>

<p>'He means biscuit,' said the lady with a laugh,
and suiting the action to the word by giving him
one, with a caressing pat into the bargain.</p>

<p>'Seriously, however,' said Mr Broughton, 'I
would not have come at such an hour, but I wanted
so much to tell you that at last I have found
lodgings which I think will just suit me. Or
rather I should say that Dandy found them for me.'</p>

<p>'Dandy! Well, he <i>is</i> a clever dog! He will
talk next, I suppose. But,' continued Mrs Woodford,
'at present his master must explain.'</p>

<p>'It sounds ridiculous perhaps to tell of such
trifles,' replied her cousin; 'but for the last three
or four days&mdash;ever since the hot weather set in, I
have felt quite interested in a shop in your neighbourhood&mdash;mainly,
I think, from the humanity
displayed by the owner in setting a large bowl of
sparkling water by the door for the convenience of
the poor panting dogs, for which Dandy has been
grateful more than once. It is a music warehouse
on a small scale; but where they also sell fire
ornaments and ladies' Berlin work and so on'&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>'I know the shop,' interrupted Mrs Woodford:
'it is kept by a widow and her maiden sister, who
seem very superior people.'</p>

<p>'Oh, I am glad you know the place,' continued
Mr Broughton. 'Well, this afternoon as usual I
waited, looking in at the shop window, while
Dandy quenched his thirst, and wishing I could
decide on something to purchase, by way of
liquidating my dog's debt, when I observed a card
which intimated there were apartments to let.
There were directions to knock at the private door;
but seeing me linger on the spot longer than
usual, Dandy had entered the shop, and when I
followed to look after him, I saw him planted
firmly near an inner door, and accepting the
caresses of a little girl of about seven years old as
if he had known her all his life. I made inquiries
about the apartments, and found they consisted of
the first floor, a nice bedroom, and pleasant sitting-room;
attendance with good cooking guaranteed,
and no other lodgers taken. Of course I went upstairs
to look at the rooms, Dandy leading the
way with the canine gravity which you remarked
in him the other day. He jumped on a chair to
look out of the window, and then on the sofa, as if
to examine the softness of the cushions, and finally
gave a little yelp, which was only half a bark, and
which seemed to say: "Master, this will do; here
we are quite at home." Even the mistress of the
house, Mrs Gray, laughed at the evident contentment
of the dog. But what charmed me was
there was no rebuke for my poor Dandy's jumping
on the furniture; and remembering besides
the bowl of water, I felt inclined to believe that
Dandy would be something more than tolerated in
the house. Accordingly it was with a good hope
that I intimated that my dog was my constant
companion, and that I trusted his presence would
not be objectionable.'</p>

<p>'O sir,' said the widow, 'we have only lost a
dear old dog within these three months; and for
our own poor pet's sake&mdash;if for nothing else&mdash;we
should be kind to a dog. As for my children, I
believe they take after their aunt; and my sister
dotes upon dogs.'</p>

<p>'Ah, it was the maiden sister, I daresay, who
was the mistress of the lamented dog,' exclaimed
Mrs Woodford. 'I have some recollection of
seeing a very old black retriever in the shop.'</p>

<p>'No doubt it was the same. I understand the
sister gives music lessons; though at present she
is taking a little holiday, staying at the seaside
with friends. There is another advantage in these
lodgings,' continued Mr Broughton; 'the house
being a music warehouse, and one of the family
evidently musical, I am in hopes they will not
object to my violin-practising any more than to
Dandy for an inmate. What I want now is
comfort, to enjoy myself after my own fashion,
and opportunity of doing some little good in the
world, when what seems to me the fitting occasion
offers. Five years more at the Antipodes
and I might have come home a richer man;
but perhaps in that time health would have
been shattered by over-toil, and I should have
been less able even than now to turn into new
grooves of life and resume habits of culture. As
it is, my means are ample for all I am likely to
want. With books and music and Dandy, I
expect to get on capitally. Besides I mean to
come and see you pretty often.'</p>

<p>'Indeed I hope you will,' ejaculated husband
and wife together.</p>

<p>'If we come too often, they must turn us out&mdash;must
they not, Dandy?' said Mr Broughton,
speaking to and petting his dog; and then he
added, turning to his cousin: 'By-the-bye, I ventured
to give you as a reference as to my respectability,
responsibility, &amp;c.'</p>

<p>'And I will give you a good character, Dick, I
promise you,' replied Mrs Woodford; 'and what
is more, I will recommend Dandy to Mrs Gray's
special regard. He certainly is the cleverest dog
I ever saw. Look at him now, wagging his tail
at me, as if he understood every word I was
saying!'</p>

<p>'Spoken just like the Cousin Maggie of early
days,' said Mr Broughton, with a certain tremor
in his voice which proved that his feelings were
touched. 'Always full of sympathy and thoughtful
kindness. Yet even you can hardly tell what
a friend Dandy has been to me through years of
loneliness.'</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_426" id="Page_426">{426}</a></span></p>

<p>'Yes, I can, Dick,' said Mrs Woodford; 'if I
had not a pack of children to think about, I am
quite sure I should want dogs or four-footed pets
of some sort.'</p>

<p class='tb_space'>Only a fortnight has passed, but 'Cousin Dick'
seems as completely installed in his new lodgings
as if he had occupied them for months. His most
cherished personal belongings were all unpacked
and arranged about his rooms according to his
own taste and fancy. A few well-worn books
which he had taken from England in his youth,
still held a place of honour, though they were
now flanked by many fresher-looking volumes;
and an old and cherished violin rested in one
corner, and helped to give the sitting-room its
inhabited look, though writing materials near the
window and newspapers lying about, contributed
to the effect.</p>

<p>Over the mantel-piece in his bedroom he had
arranged his store of warlike weapons&mdash;a sword,
which Richard Broughton had certainly never
used, but which he valued as the gift of a dead
friend; pistols and revolver which he had looked
on as protectors in many a perilous journey, and a
boomerang, brought to England as a curiosity.</p>

<p>Mr Broughton had finished his breakfast, and
was enjoying his morning newspaper; but he had
been to the opera the night before, and the melody
of an air which had delighted him still haunted
his ear, and even disturbed the rhythm of the very
didactic leading article he was reading. He was
not much disturbed by Mrs Gray's knocking at the
door; she came, as she usually did every morning,
to receive his orders for dinner.</p>

<p>'You manage my dinners so nicely for me,' said
Mr Broughton in answer to some suggestion of his
landlady, 'that I think I cannot do better than
leave all arrangements to you. But do sit down;
I want to thank you for taking care of my dog last
night. I hope he was not troublesome to you?'</p>

<p>'Not in the least,' returned Mrs Gray: 'when
once he ascertained that you really were not in the
house, he settled down quietly, and played with the
children till they went to bed.'</p>

<p>'I am so glad your children are not afraid of
him,' observed Mr Broughton.</p>

<p>'Oh, they are too well used to a dog and to pets
in general to be afraid of a gentle creature like
your Dandy. In fact my difficulty is keeping
them out of your rooms. Ally&mdash;you remember how
Dandy took to her from the very first&mdash;Ally wanted
to come in and see the dog just now. I daresay
she is near the door still.'</p>

<p>'Oh, pray let her in,' said Mr Broughton,
himself rising to open the door. 'I will not be
jealous because it is my dog she wants to see&mdash;not
me;' and there was a little laugh at the idea of
Dandy being such a favourite.</p>

<p>When the room-door opened, sure enough little
Ally was found waiting, but not alone; her brother,
a curly-headed urchin two years her junior, had
hold of her hand; and both were evidently in
expectation of being allowed some little frolic with
the dog.</p>

<p>'Come in, my dears&mdash;come in,' exclaimed Mr
Broughton; 'Dandy will be most happy to see
you, and will shew you some of his accomplishments,
if you like.'</p>

<p>Though a little shy at first with the 'strange
gentleman,' whom they had been taught in a vague
sort of way to reverence, and for whose comfort
they were told to refrain from noise, the shyness
soon wore off, when they found that Dandy's
master was as willing to be their playmate as
Dandy himself. For their delectation the dog
went through his most admired tricks: he jumped
over a stick, he allowed of mimic shooting and
acted the dead dog, he begged for a piece of bread,
but could not be induced to eat it till assured it
was paid for. Moreover, he howled a note in
unison with one his master played on the violin;
but probably without meaning to imply admiration
of the latter performance.</p>

<p>A less keen observer than a fond and widowed
mother was likely to be, might, if contemplating
this little scene, have felt pretty sure that fond as
Richard Broughton was of his dog, it had not exhausted
<i>all</i> his capacity of loving. By people who
have never had their hearts thrill to the mystery
of canine attachment he had often been ridiculed
for the intensity of his affection for Dandy, and
when he spoke of a 'dog's love' as being the only
ideal of his life that had ever been fully realised,
few persons understood him. But Mrs Gray saw
at a glance that he had a natural love for children,
and probably for all helpless creatures, and considering
all the circumstances of her household,
she thought herself most fortunate in her lodger.</p>

<p>It is astonishing how soon pleasant habits may
be formed. Before the next week had passed it
became quite the custom of the children to come
into Mr Broughton's rooms at least once a day,
ostensibly to play with Dandy; but also they
brought their toys to shew to Dandy's master, and
chattered away, as bright, eager, fresh-hearted children
are pretty sure to do with those whom, by some
subtle instinct, they at once recognise as friends.
Dandy's canine predecessor in the house, the much
lamented Topsy, was a frequent subject of conversation.
Her accomplishments were described,
though admitted to be fewer than Dandy's, and her
death and burial dwelt on with some pathos. And
one day little Ally came into the room hugging a
thick photographic album in her arms. She had
brought it for the express purpose of shewing poor
Topsy's likeness.</p>

<p>Topsy had been photographed a number of
times: once cosily curled up on a mat; once
occupying an easy-chair with something of the
dignity of a judge; another time as a conspicuous
member of a group; and lastly by the side of a
lady who had her hand on its head.</p>

<p>'And who is the lady?' inquired Mr Broughton,
trying to speak with a calmness he did not quite
feel. 'It does not look like your mother.'</p>

<p>'O no! Why, it is auntie!' exclaimed little
Ally in a tone which implied wonder that he could
for a moment have taken it for Mrs Gray.</p>

<p>'Then Topsy was fond of auntie, and auntie
was fond of Topsy, I suppose?' said Mr Broughton
wishing to discover all he could about this auntie.</p>

<p>The little girl nodded her head by way of reply,
and then she said: 'Auntie did cry so much when
Topsy died. She was auntie's own doggy.'</p>

<p>'And did <i>you</i> cry?' asked Mr Broughton.</p>

<p>Another nod of the head; but the child exclaimed:
'Not so much as auntie&mdash;auntie cried till
her eyes were quite red.'</p>

<p>'And is this portrait very like auntie?' asked
Mr Broughton.</p>

<p>'Yes; but she never wears such sleeves as those<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_427" id="Page_427">{427}</a></span>
now. I'll shew you her new photograph;' and
the little fingers rapidly turned over leaves and
found a likeness taken only the other day. Mr
Broughton recognised the same sweet face, though
it shewed that seven or eight years had probably
passed between the time the one photograph had
been taken and the other.</p>

<p>'And what is auntie's name?' inquired Mr
Broughton with forced composure.</p>

<p>'Auntie!' said the little girl, as if the word were
quite sufficient; but added a moment after, as if
the thought of more information being required
had just come to her: 'She is Alice, and I am
Alice; only they call me Ally. Auntie is so good,'
the child continued; 'mother says she is the best
auntie that ever lived. And I must try to be
good too, because I have got her name.'</p>

<p>'Quite right, my darling,' said Mr Broughton,
giving the child a fatherly kiss. 'But run away
now, for I have letters to write. Will you leave
me the album; I should like to look at Topsy
again&mdash;though I don't think she was much like
Dandy. Do you?'</p>

<p>'Not a bit!' cried the child, tripping off gleefully,
and leaving Mr Broughton with his heart stirred
in a manner it had not been for many years.</p>

<p>It was true that he had letters to write, but it
was half an hour before he took pen in hand.
The first thing he did was to draw forth a powerful
magnifying glass, and by its means to study
the face of the lady with the dog most narrowly.
Yes; he had not a shadow of doubt that this dear
'auntie,' the maiden sister of Mrs Gray of whom
he had heard, was the love of his youth, the Alice
Clifton of the concert-room, the Alice Croft of
private life. Photography revealed some lines of
care and suffering that had not belonged to the fair
young face he so well remembered; but such footmarks
of time must be expected in the course of
twenty years, even under happier circumstances
than had probably befallen the woman in question.
That she should have relinquished her professional
career without having married, puzzled him. But
he had incidentally heard from the children that
'auntie' was coming home to-morrow; and before
many days should pass, he would certainly find
out a thing or two which must greatly influence
his future.</p>

<p>As if to confirm his already strong belief beyond
the power of even momentary cavil, the next time
he went down-stairs he observed a letter on the
hall table, which, on looking if it were intended
for himself, he saw was addressed 'Miss Croft.'</p>

<p>The next day Alice Croft returned home; and as
Broughton was taking his coffee, he could hear the
children's merry shouts of welcome, at which,
by-the-bye, Dandy set up a short bark, as if he
thought he too had a right to join in the demonstration.</p>

<p>'I will do nothing hurriedly,' thought Mr
Broughton to himself; 'after twenty years of separation
I can wait for a few days surely. After all,
if we meet on the stairs she will not recognise in
me the slim smooth-faced boy I believe she
remembers.' And thinking thus, he glanced at
himself in the chimney-glass, noting the bronzed
weather-beaten face and long thick beard streaked
with white that it reflected. 'I wonder, though,
if my name will strike her?' he continued, pondering.
'Perhaps not; and yet it may.'</p>

<p>Now the fact was, Alice Croft had not as yet
heard the new lodger's name; for her sister
had at first misunderstood it, and had written it
'Rawton' in communicating the news that the
rooms were let. Three or four days passed away
before Alice had any inkling of the mistake.
Meanwhile Richard Broughton had seen her&mdash;unseen
himself&mdash;more than once; and had even
heard her voice speaking caressingly to the children.
How it thrilled on his ear and confirmed
his resolution!</p>

<p>It was the early twilight of a summer evening.
The shop was closed, and Mrs Gray had gone
out after seeing the children in bed. Broughton
felt that the hour was come, and ringing his bell,
asked the servant who answered it if Miss Croft
were at home and disengaged.</p>

<p>'Yes, sir,' said the maid; 'she is all alone in the
parlour.'</p>

<p>'Then be so good as to give her my card, and
ask if I may wait upon her.'</p>

<p>But Mr Broughton followed the servant down-stairs,
and was ready to avail himself of the permission
given, in a minute.</p>

<p>The servant thinking it her duty, lighted the gas
before leaving the room; but she left it burning
low, so that the lingering daylight prevailed over
it. Though the reception-room was but a little
parlour behind a shop, there was an air of refinement
about its appointments, and the outlook into
a mere yard was masked by a balcony full of
blooming and odorous plants. The door which
led into the shop remained open, probably for the
sake of air; but to such a passionate lover of
music as the visitor was, the sight of two or three
pianos and a harp and guitar was rather suggestive
of delightful ideas than of anything else.</p>

<p>Alice had risen from her chair, and advanced
with outstretched hand to meet her guest; but she
did not seem able to find a word of greeting.</p>

<p>'Alice!' exclaimed Mr Broughton, 'if I may
still call you so, do I seem like one risen from the
dead?'</p>

<p>'O no,' she replied; 'I never thought you were
dead.' But as she spoke there was a faltering of
her voice which shewed that she was agitated.</p>

<p>By this time both were seated, though a little
way apart. Mr Broughton drew his chair nearer,
and said softly: 'Alice, I come to ask you if it is
too late to mend our broken chain?'</p>

<p>'But you are married; I heard that long ago,'
exclaimed Alice with dignity. 'You have no
right to allude to the past.'</p>

<p>'I have been a widower these two years,' was the
rejoinder.</p>

<p>The explanations which followed need not be
described in detail.</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Letters kept back, false messages,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The tale so old and dark,<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p>had separated the lovers; and when Alice Croft
believed that she was forsaken, a severe illness
ensued; after her recovery from which, it was
found that her voice was seriously impaired.
Instead of resting it for a time, she was tempted
by the exigences of her profession to overstrain it;
the result being such a deterioration in its quality
that it was no longer powerful and certain enough
for the concert-room. Then followed many years
of arduous labour as a teacher of music; during
which time her mother's death and the death of
other members of the family reduced the little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_428" id="Page_428">{428}</a></span>
circle, till at last her youngest and widowed sister
Mrs Gray was the only one left.</p>

<p>Six weeks after the reunion just described, a
quiet but well-omened wedding took place, in
which Richard Broughton and Alice Croft were
the principal actors. Meanwhile, the bridegroom
and bride elect, living under the same roof, had
had abundant opportunities of riveting the 'broken
chain' to which allusion has been made; while
Dandy, no longer confined to one apartment, now
ran about the house, as if perpetually engaged in
taking messages from one person to another. Mr
and Mrs Woodford, early apprised of all that was
going on, had made the acquaintance of Miss Croft
and her sister, and being fond of children, had
frequently had the little Grays at their house. Mr
Woodford even consented to give the bride away,
and his two young daughters were the bridesmaids.
But as Broughton said, his cousin Maggie
was always a 'trump,' and her husband seemed
worthy of her.</p>

<p>It was the evening before the wedding. The
whole family had been visiting the Woodfords,
and it was evident that little Ally had something
on her mind to communicate. The young Woodfords
as well as their mother constantly called
Mr Broughton 'Cousin Dick,' and the term had
evidently struck the child much.</p>

<p>'What is it, Ally?' said Mr Broughton, drawing
the little girl on to his knee. 'What is it you are
wishing to say?'</p>

<p>'I should like to call you "Cousin Dick," like
those young ladies. May I? for I love you so
much.' And as she spoke, Ally raised her face
for a kiss, and put her arms round his neck.</p>

<p>'Will not "Uncle Dick" do as well?' cried
Broughton, giving the child a warm hug. 'Don't
you understand that I shall be really Uncle Dick
to-morrow?'</p>

<p>'Oh, how nice! Uncle Dick, dear Uncle Dick&mdash;yes,
I like that better.'</p>

<p class='tb_space'><i>N.B.</i>&mdash;We are commissioned to add that Dandy
accompanied the newly married pair on their
wedding journey. They considered they owed
him so much, that it would not be just to give
him the pain of even a temporary separation from
his master&mdash;and mistress.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
</div><div>

<h2><a name="A_TRIP_ON_LAKE_NYASSA" id="A_TRIP_ON_LAKE_NYASSA">A TRIP ON LAKE NYASSA.</a></h2>


<p><span class="smcap">As</span> many of our readers will doubtless recollect,
Mr E. D. Young, R.N., left this country in May
1875, with a small party, for the purpose of establishing
the Livingstonia mission, and of placing a
small steamer on Lake Nyassa, in the interior of
Africa; he and his friends being moved thereto by
an earnest determination to carry out one of the
dearest wishes of the late Dr Livingstone. Mr
Young has recently returned home; and on February
26th he delivered, before the Royal Geographical
Society, an interesting account of what
he did and what he saw on the Lake of Storms,
from which we condense the following brief
particulars.</p>

<p>We join Mr Young and his party at the Kongoné
mouth of the Zambesi, where the sections of the
little steamer <i>Ilala</i> were screwed together; and
although an extraordinary flood, early in 1875, had
altered the course of the rivers since her captain's
previous visit, nothing materially impeded her
passage to the foot of the Shiré cataracts. These
falls extend for some seventy-five miles, and are
a very formidable obstacle to navigation. In
the distance named, the waters of Lake Nyassa
leap down a staircase of rocks and boulders
for some eighteen hundred feet; and before the
traveller can reach the higher ground, he has
to traverse a most rugged road. Want of porters,
as a rule, is the most grievous obstacle to
be overcome; but thanks to the kindly recollection
existing among the natives of previous missionaries,
Mr Young experienced no difficulty on
this score; and in ten days the <i>Ilala</i> was taken
to pieces, and her sections, boilers, machinery, and
stores were conveyed to the upper end of the
cataracts. What, however, is thus told in a few
brief words, involved very great toil; and Mr
Young himself says that the carriage of the steel
plates, &amp;c., necessitated some of the most tremendous
exertion he ever witnessed, which was much
aggravated by the intense heat, in some places
reaching one hundred and twenty degrees in the
shade. We may certainly admit with him, that
the men who did this four days' work for six
yards of calico each (say one shilling and sixpence),
finding their own food too, without a grumble or
a growl, were not to be despised. The work of
reconstruction was soon accomplished, and steam
was up in a fortnight.</p>

<p>The little steamer entered Lake Nyassa at 7
<span class="smcap lowercase">A.M.</span> on the 12th of October 1875. After examining
several beautiful bays and inlets, which
did not afford the necessary shelter for the vessel,
Mr Young's party resolved to settle, at anyrate
temporarily, at Cape Maclear, whither, accordingly,
they transported all their stores. On November
19th Mr Young set off on a voyage round the lake,
in the course of which he discovered a large extension
of its waters, hitherto unknown. Making his
way northwards, he came in sight of the grand
range which towers over Chiloweela; in places
the mountains run sheer down into the lake, and
no bottom could be got at one hundred fathoms.
After weathering a furious gale which raged for
thirteen hours, the <i>Ilala</i> pursued her northward
voyage, passing the islands of Likomo and
Chusamoolo. On his right, Mr Young reports an
iron-bound coast stretching everywhere, excepting
only when some ravine came down to the
shore. In one spot, there were evident signs of
a dreadful massacre having taken place&mdash;the
result of a slave-raid. Mr Young's account of
what he saw here is curious and interesting.
Hardly any wood, he says, was to be procured,
in consequence of the forests being cleared, and
the only remnant of a large population was now
to be found on rocky patches jutting up from the
water of the lake, and on singular 'pile villages.'
It was found that the poor creatures had conveyed
earth in their canoes to these rocks, and
wherever a crevice afforded a hold, there would
a little patch of cassava or corn appear, grown
with infinite labour.</p>

<p>The platform villages reached by Mr Young
were exceedingly interesting; for the most part
they are built three or four hundred yards from
the shore, and in from eight to twelve feet of water.
Poles are driven down in rows, and on the top of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_429" id="Page_429">{429}</a></span>
them a wooden platform is constructed, forming
the foundation or floor of the village. To give
some idea of the extent of these, it may be mentioned
that one of them consisted of about one
hundred huts. With an abundance of fish round
them, the islanders hold their own against starvation.
Shortly after leaving these strange villages,
Mr Young met with some scenery, the description
of which is worth quoting. 'We were now abreast,'
he says, 'of some mountains that amongst the
parallel ranges which virtually make a mountain-basin
of Lake Nyassa, exceed them all in stupendous
grandeur. In no part of the world have I
seen anything to equal their peculiar magnificence.
With peaks apparently from ten to twelve thousand
feet high, they run perpendicularly down into the
lake. The rain was pouring upon them, and
numberless waterfalls hung like threads of white
floss-silk from crevices which ran out upon their
sides far up among the clouds. Baffled by the
raids of the Ma Viti in 1866, Livingstone could
not induce his men to go with him to the north
end of Nyassa, and thus he missed seeing that
which would have struck him as the most beautiful
feature of "his old home," as he called the lake.
There was but one name to give to these mountains.
At its northern end they stand like portals
to the lake, faced by the opposite mountains; and
as future travellers look upon the "Livingstone
Range," it may aid them to remember the man
who during his life, more than any other, added
to our knowledge of the hitherto unknown beauties
of the earth.'</p>

<p>A violent storm, more like what might be
expected on the Atlantic than on an inland sea,
prevented Mr Young from doing much in the way
of exploring the unknown region at the end of the
lake; but he saw there what he believed to be the
mouth of a wide river; and this opinion was confirmed
by what he learned from the natives when
he next landed after the storm referred to. They
averred that a River Rovuma or Röoma flows out
at the extreme north; and he inclines to believe
this to be the case for the following reasons: In
the first place, Dr Livingstone heard the same story
twenty years ago, when he discovered the lake,
and in quite a different quarter. It will be remembered
by many how sanguine he was that the
Rovuma River, which debouches on the east coast,
was identical with the Nyassa River, and that it
would prove to be a second outlet. It may yet
prove to be so; but the discovery can be of little
use, for the Rovuma ceases to be navigable a short
distance from the coast. The second reason for
believing the native report is, that in the stormy
time, when Mr Young was there, it was very easy
to see where rivers ran into the lake. A long
current of muddy water would trail out on the
dark-blue surface; in this case, however, there
was nothing of the kind; and it is consequently
tolerably clear that no inflow exists.</p>

<p>Cruising southwards along the western shore of
the lake, Mr Young observed, instead of the iron-bound
coast on the opposite side, exquisite park-like
glades between the mountains and the water's
edge; the herds of game merely looked up as the
steamer passed, just as sheep raise their heads to
gaze at a train, and then went on browsing. In
one place a remarkable detached perpendicular
rock stands four thousand feet high. The top
is flat, and the sides give it the appearance of a
pyramid from which a large slice of the top has
been removed in order to place in position a perfectly
square block of a greenish colour. Beneath
this singular summit there is a deep horizontal
band of white stone or quartz, succeeded by
another of clay apparently; and then comes one
of intense black, possibly coal, for this mineral is
known to all the natives.</p>

<p>Mr Young's story of his cruise furnishes undeniable
evidence of the justness of the name Dr
Livingstone gave to Nyassa, namely the Lake of
Storms, for he has constantly to record meeting
with them&mdash;one more terrible than the other. The
last he mentions must have been fearfully and
awfully grand in its wildness. 'At one time,' he
says, 'in the middle of a thunder-storm of great
fury, no fewer than twelve waterspouts appeared
around us, and we had literally to steer hither and
thither to avoid them, for had one overtaken us, it
would have sent us to the bottom without a doubt.'</p>

<p>Such are the salient features in Mr Young's brief
account of the first trip made by a steamer on the
stormy bosom of Lake Nyassa. It did not come
within the scope of his paper to describe the daily
life of the missionary party at Cape Maclear, the
insight they got into the native life, the intrigues
of the slave-traders, nor the marvellous effect which
the presence of Europeans produced on all sides,
more especially in attracting to them from the four
winds the scattered remnants of villages swept
away by slave-raids; but it will be interesting to
our readers to state in conclusion, that he hopes to
preserve these details for the public in another
form, which we feel sure will meet with the
welcome it cannot fail to deserve, as the record of
the establishment of the first British colony on
Lake Nyassa.</p>



<hr class="chap" />

</div><div>
<h2><a name="CURIOUS_PICK-UPS" id="CURIOUS_PICK-UPS">CURIOUS PICK-UPS.</a></h2>


<p><span class="smcap">The</span> pick-ups, the findings, from underground or
under-sea, or in hidden places above ground,
comprise a strange medley of the odd and the
choice, appealing to the tastes or the pockets of
persons filling widely diverse positions in society.</p>

<p>The drains and sewers, for instance: can a
more lowly and uncomfortable treasure-house than
these be found? Rat-killing by dogs, in an inclosed
space surrounded by the roughest of roughs,
is a savage exhibition unfortunately not yet quite
died out from amongst us. The exhibiters purchase
the live rats at so much per dozen from
men who grope along the filthy sewers in search
of them; and in Paris especially, dead rats are
brought up from the same unseemly regions, and
placed in the hands of skinners and tanners, who
manage to get out of them strong and good-looking
pieces of leather suitable for the manufacture of
gloves. The great changes made in recent years
in London by the extensive Main Drainage Works
have deprived the sewer-grubbers of much of their
chance; but in the old sewers the pick-ups were
often strange enough. Dead infants, a dead seal,
cats and dogs both alive and dead, spoons, tobacco-boxes,
children's playthings, bad half-crowns and
shillings, sets of false teeth, washing-bowls, mops,
human heads and limbs which had been thus<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_430" id="Page_430">{430}</a></span>
disposed of by body-snatchers or by anatomical
and medical students&mdash;all were met with by the
sewer-flushers. One party of these strangely
employed men came on a certain occasion to a
spot where the brickwork between the sewer and a
beer-cellar had broken through. What did they
do? They helped themselves.</p>

<p>On a former occasion, we presented a few illustrations
of the curious operation of the law concerning
<i>Treasure-trove</i>, the rights and the wrongs
of ownership connected with property picked up
from the ground or from a small depth below the
surface. Among the examples cited was one relating
to the finding of treasure near Stanmore in
Middlesex, and another connected with the locality
of Mountfield in Sussex. Let us present a few
jottings of similar pick-ups in more recent years.</p>

<p>A labourer, digging a drain in a farm on the
estate of the late Lord Palmerston, found a golden
torque or torgue, an ancient British necklace. It
was ascertained that the original grant of the
estate gave to the grantee, as lord of the manor,
a right to all treasure-trove found therein; the
veteran statesman established his claim, but took
care that the finder should not go unrewarded. A
ploughman, working near Horndean in Hants,
found more than a hundred old silver coins in an
earthen jar under the surface of the ground; the
lord of the manor gave to the finder the intrinsic
value of the coins as mere silver, and then had
to fight a battle with the Crown as to who ought
to possess the coins themselves. One find near
Highgate was very remarkable, on account of
the strange manner in which the veritable owner
made his appearance. Labourers, grubbing up a
tree in a field, found two jars containing nearly
four hundred sovereigns; they divided the money
amongst themselves, and were then taken aback
by the lord of the manor claiming it. Before
this claim could be investigated, a tradesman came
forward and stated that one night, under a temporary
delusion, he had gone out and buried
the money; when he awoke, and for some time
afterwards, he tried in vain to recollect the locality
he had selected, and only obtained a clue when
he heard a rumour of the finding of four hundred
sovereigns. He was able to bring forward sufficient
evidence in support of his singular story;
and his claim was admitted.</p>

<p>On different occasions in 1864 the Crown put
in claims for treasure-trove&mdash;a gold coin found
at Long Crendon in Buckinghamshire; sixty-two
gold coins found in an earthen jar in a field at
Stockerston, Leicestershire; no less than six thousand
silver pennies of the time of Henry III.
found at Eccles near Manchester; and seven
hundred and sixty silver coins earthed up near
Newark. The next following year gave the Crown
a claim to a hundred and eighty silver coins of
the reigns of Mary, Elizabeth, James I., and
Charles I., found at Grantham; and to a gold
cross and chain brought to light at Castle Bailey,
Clare, in Suffolk. The years 1866 and 1867 were
marked, among other instances, by the finding of
nearly seven thousand small gold and silver coins
at Highbury, near London; eighty guineas concealed
in the wall of an old house at East Parley,
near Christchurch, Hants; and two hundred and
sixty old silver coins in a house at Lichfield. In
other years there were nine hundred silver coins
found at Cumberford in Staffordshire; and eleven
rose nobles found in the cloisters of Westminster
Abbey. These several instances of treasure-trove
were settled in various ways. Some of the findings
were returned by the Crown to the finders;
some were sold to the British Museum, in a
manner to place an honorarium in the finder's
pocket; some were presented to museums, and
the money value given to the finders; some are
retained by the Crown, as antiquarian curiosities;
while one has been handed over to the descendants
of a former owner.</p>

<p>Seven or eight years ago two labouring men
found a very ancient gold chain, which they sold
to a dealer who knew the value better than they
did; the unlucky-lucky men fared badly in this
instance, seeing that they were punished for selling
the 'find' without giving notice to the authorities&mdash;rather
hard lines for rustics, who are not likely
to know much about the law of treasure-trove.
In another case a poor man found a pair of ancient
Irish silver bracelets; he sold them as old silver
to a silversmith, who melted them down at once&mdash;to
the great regret of an antiquary, who would
have given much more than their intrinsic value
for such relics of former days. During the multifarious
diggings which have been going on for
some years in and near Cannon Street and its
neighbourhood for the formation of new streets
and the construction of large commercial buildings,
the workmen lighted upon twenty-nine guineas and
twenty shillings nearly two centuries old; the men
got into trouble because they did not voluntarily
give them up. On one occasion when the fusty
and musty contents of a rag-dealer's heap were
being overhauled, somewhere in the neighbourhood
of Houndsditch, a diamond ring was espied.
A contest arose as to who should possess it: a
woman engaged in sorting the rags claimed it
because she had found it; the rag-dealer disputed
her claim; a pawnbroker who said he had advanced
money on the ring insisted on his prior
right; a dealer in old clothes who had sold a
garment for that money, and one or two other
persons of somewhat doubtful antecedents&mdash;all
came forward to shew that, for some reason or
other, the diamond ring ought to be considered
theirs. Whether the crown waived its claim, we
are not certain; but a magistrate eventually gave
a decision in favour of the rag-sorter.</p>

<p>Bank-notes, as well as coins, jewellery, and
articles in the precious metals, sometimes make
their appearance among the findings. A bundle
of notes was one day picked up outside the
counter of a retail shop: the finder claimed them
because he <i>was</i> the finder; while the shopkeeper
claimed them because it was on his premises that
the notes had been dropped. The real owner,
whoever he may have been, did not come forward,
and the law decided in favour of the finder. But
a much more remarkable case occurred two or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_431" id="Page_431">{431}</a></span>
three years ago. A packet containing no less than
ten thousand pounds' worth of bank-notes was
picked up from the pavement in one of the busy
streets near the Bank of England; ten notes of one
thousand pounds each. A young City clerk picked
up and pocketed the treasure. A friend advised
him, on consultation, to keep the notes until the
following day, when a handsome reward would
possibly be offered by the luckless person who
had inadvertently dropped the notes. A firm of
solicitors, in the names of the real owners, speedily
offered one hundred pounds to the finder. The
judicious friend overshot the mark here; he stipulated
that he should have nearly half the sum of
one hundred pounds as his reward for the advice
given; and at the same time coaxed sixty pounds
out of the owners by a fabricated story concerning
himself, the finder, and the finding. A sheriff
court had to decide the matter, and ordered the
'friend' to return part, at anyrate, of the money
he had received.</p>

<p>A queer story has lately found its way into the
newspapers, not exactly touching on the discovery
of treasure, but on a concealment which might
possibly lead to discovery if this or that were to
occur. One Adolfo de Garcilano (so runs the
story), a prisoner in Madrid, and lately a colonel
in the Carlist army, was instructed by Don Carlos
to take six million pesetas (about one franc each)
in English securities and Spanish notes to London,
inclosed in an iron box. This treasure he was to
bury in the earth in a particular locality, make a
sketch of the exact spot, and return to Spain. He
was next captured by the Alfonsists, thrust into
prison, and told that he would not be set free
except on the payment of a large sum of money
by way of ransom. Thereupon he wrote to some
one in England or Scotland, asking for the transmission
of a sufficient sum of money; this done,
the secret of the buried treasure would be communicated
to the liberal ransomer, who was to
retain one-third of it as a grateful reward. If
there had been only one such letter, some person
might possibly have been victimised; but there
were more than one, to different quarters, each
requesting the money to be sent to a third party
at an address named. We may hereby form a
tolerably true estimate of Don Adolfo de Garcilano.</p>

<p>Undoubtedly the most interesting recent discoveries
of small but valuable works in the precious
metals are those due to Dr Schliemann. Archæologists
have long recognised the probability that
buried beneath some of the ancient cities of the
world, there are not only architectural and sculptured
fragments of much historical importance still
remaining to be discovered, but also jewels and
other treasures which have not seen the light for
decades of centuries. Nineveh, Babylon, Jerusalem,
the more ancient parts of Rome, Pompeii,
Herculaneum, Egypt, Cyprus, the site of the
famous Troy, and those of the once important
cities of Asia Minor&mdash;all may perchance have
something to shew which the present age would
be prepared to welcome and appreciate. Concerning
Jerusalem, a conjecture has been brought forward
of a remarkable kind. After the rebuilding
of the second Temple, there were five occasions
on which precious metals, treasures, and artistic
ornaments might have been concealed by the
priests or servitors of the sacred edifice&mdash;namely,
during the abstraction and sale of the temple
furniture by the apostate high-priest Menelaus;
at the plunder and defilement of the Temple by
Antiochus Epiphanes; during the plunder by
Crassus; during that by Sabinus; and at the total
destruction by the Romans. On one or more of
these occasions, supposing the Jewish priests and
servitors should have placed valuables in the
Temple, the place of concealment may not have
been made known to others, and the secret may
have been carried with the priests to the grave.
Various facts have been adduced in support of this
surmise, sufficient to whet the curiosity of men
who would value such treasures, not for their
intrinsic worth as precious metals or precious
stones, but for their historical and ecclesiastical
connection with momentous events nearly two
thousand years ago.</p>

<p>Dr Schliemann, whose name we have just
mentioned, when making researches among mounds
and heaps of rubbish at or near the supposed site
of Troy in Asia Minor, has lighted upon the
foundations of cities which he supposes to have
been more ancient even than the Iliad.</p>

<p>But the discoveries more immediately connected
with our present subject are those which Dr
Schliemann has since made in Greece. With the
permission of the king he made excavations near
Mycenæ, on the site of what is believed to be one
of the most ancient cities in that classic land&mdash;far
more ancient than the renowned Athens. In
treasuries and tombs, which had not seen the light
for an untold number of centuries, he has disinterred
beautifully painted vases, whole or in fragments;
terra-cotta statuettes and busts of Juno,
horses' heads, lions, rams, elephants; knives and
keys of iron and bronze; fragments of lyres,
flutes, and crystal vases. But most striking of all
is the large quantity of gold vessels and ornaments,
undoubtedly of precious metal, and in many
instances artistically wrought. Sceptres, bracelets,
girdles, necklaces, rings, vases, caps, &amp;c. in plenty.
One of the Doctor's greatest triumphs was the
unearthing of two vases of solid gold, fourteen
centimètres (about six inches) high, richly ornamented.
Many of these relics, as well as many
inscriptions and bas-reliefs on extremely ancient
blocks of masonry, have excited the curiosity of
classical archæologists in a high degree. Their
thoughts go back to the epics and dramas which
treat of Agamemnon king of Mycenæ; of the
expedition to Troy; of Clytemnestra, Electra,
Ægisthus, Orestes; of the stories of some of the
Greek plays by Euripides, Sophocles, and Æschylus.
They think of these personages and these
events; and they lean strongly to the belief that
the disinterred ancient city near Mycenæ, and some
of the treasures brought to light by Dr Schliemann,
may be veritable tokens of the days of Agamemnon.
Some of the articles found were in triangular cells,
which he thinks may have been treasuries or
depositories for treasure and valuables. But his
principal 'finds' of wrought gold were in chambers
which were probably the tombs of Agamemnon,
Cassandra, and Eurymedon. The vases, the cups,
the diadems, the signet rings, were mostly found
in these tombs (if tombs they were); as likewise
were the bones of a man and a woman covered
with ornaments of pure gold. In short, the
discoveries have been of a most unusual, interesting,
and valuable kind, well calculated to attract
the attention of the learned in Europe, whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_432" id="Page_432">{432}</a></span>
learned in classical history or in artistic archæology.</p>

<p>Of discovering or recovering of treasures lying
beneath the waves of the ocean, we do not intend
to treat here. The reader will find some curious
notices on the subject in the article already
referred to; also in 'Submarine Treasure Ventures'
(May 1, 1869); and in 'The Story of La
Lutine' (July 8, 1876).</p>



<hr class="chap" />

</div><div>
<h2><a name="RUSTY_IRON" id="RUSTY_IRON">RUSTY IRON.</a></h2>


<p>If no difficulty, as yet unforeseen, bars the way,
Mr Barff's plan for rendering iron impenetrable by
rust promises to be of the highest practical importance.
Iron is by far the most useful of metals, but
it has an unfortunate propensity when exposed to
water or moist air for attracting oxygen, and this
oxygen eats into its substance, and forms the
familiar compound known as rust. The consequence
is that iron when exposed to the air,
especially in so damp a climate as ours, has to be
coated with paint, varnish, or tin. But even this
coating does not afford entire protection; the
slightest flaw in the armour lets in the enemy
oxygen, who often does his work all the more
surely because concealed from view. A vessel
made of iron and coated with some other substance,
may look sound to the eye, and yet be a mere
mass of crumbling rust. Mr Barff's remedy for
this state of things seems to be after the doctrine
of the hom&#339;opathists, that like is cured by like. If
a small degree of moisture affects iron with two
distinct species of oxide or rust, what will exposure
to a very excessive degree of moisture do? Well, it
appears that if iron is placed in a hot chamber and
exposed to the action of superheated steam, a new
kind of oxide, called the magnetic or black oxide,
forms on its surface. Not only does this benevolent
species of black rust refuse to penetrate any further
into the metal, but it forms an impervious coating
against all other influences; and articles thus
prepared have been exposed out of doors for weeks
this winter without a particle of rust appearing on
them. If careful experiments shew that iron is
lessened neither in strength nor in durability by
this process, its use will be greatly increased, as
for several purposes it will take the place of other
and more costly metals.&mdash;<i>The Graphic.</i></p>



<hr class="chap" />

</div><div>
<h2><a name="ON_A_PET_DOVE_KILLED_BY_A_DOG" id="ON_A_PET_DOVE_KILLED_BY_A_DOG">ON A PET DOVE KILLED BY A DOG.</a></h2>

<p class='ph3'>A GAELIC ELEGY.</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p><span class="smcap">The</span> following touching verses (as nearly as possible a
literal translation from the Gaelic) appeared in the <i>Scotsman</i>
of May 17, and were accompanied by a note, which
we have abridged, from the translator Mr Alexander
Stewart of Nether Lochaber. He says: 'I beg to send
you a translation of a Gaelic Elegy by Alastair MacDonald
the celebrated Ardnamurchan bard, on a pet dove
of his that was killed by a terrier dog. It is, in my judgment,
a composition of singular tenderness, pathos, and
beauty. Its quaint conceits and abrupt transitions, which
the reader cannot fail to notice, though they may
seem odd and out of place at first sight, form, in my
estimation, no small part of its merit. My translation is
about as literal as I could well make it, and I have
endeavoured to imitate, with what success let others
judge, the manner and measure, the rhyme and rhythm
of the original. The pet dove was a female, and at the
time of her death had under her care, as the poet fails
not to notice with an exquisite touch of tenderness in
the fourth line, the dove's usual brood of downy twins.
The reference in the poem to the bird's habitat in a wild
state shews that it was of the species known as the
blue or rock pigeon, thousands of which inhabit the
vast caves and precipitous crags of Ardnamurchan and
Moidart.'</p></div>


<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Mournful my tale to tell,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Though others heed not my sigh;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My gentle, my beautiful pet dove dead&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Must the callow twins too die?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Alas, for the death of the gentlest dove<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That ever in woodland coo'd,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Killed by a dog whose properer foe<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Were the otter that fights, and dies so slow<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In his cairny solitude.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Of all the birds that cleave the air,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Buoyant on rapid wing,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I mourn thee most, my pet dove fair,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Dear, darling thing!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Noah loved thee, dove, full well,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When a guilty world was drowned;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With thy message of peace thou cam'st to tell<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of solid ground;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He knew thy truth as the waters fell<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Slowly around.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The raven and dove good Noah sent<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Far over the heaving flood;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The raven wist not the way he went,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor back returned, for his strength was spent<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In the watery solitude;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But cleaving the air with rapid wing,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The dove returned, and back did bring<br /></span>
<span class="i2">His tale of the flood subdued.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">At first she found no spot whereon<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To rest her from weary flight;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And onward she flew, and on, and on,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till now at length she gazed upon<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The mountain tops in sight;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the dove returned with her letter&mdash;a leaf<br /></span>
<span class="i0">(Of mickle meaning, I trow, though brief),<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Which Noah read with delight.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Not easy to rob thy nest, thou dove,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">By cunning or strength of men;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On a shelf of the beetling crag above<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Was thy castle of strength, thy home of love,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Who dare come near thee then?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Harmless and gentle ever wert thou,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Dear, darling dove!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In the ear of thy mate with a coo and a bow<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Still whispering love!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Not in silver or gold didst thou delight,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Nor of luxuries ever didst dream;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pulse and corn was thy sober bite&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Thy drink was the purling stream!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Never, dear dove, didst need to buy<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Linen or silk attire;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor braided cloth, nor raiment fine<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Didst thou require.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy coat, dressed neat with thy own sweet bill,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Was of feathers bright green and blue,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And closely fitting, impervious still<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To rain or dew!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">No creed or paternoster thou<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Didst sing or say;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And yet thy soul is in bliss, I trow,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Be 't where it may!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That now withouten coffin or shroud<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In thy little grave thou dost lie,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Makes me not sad; but oh, I am wae<br /></span>
<span class="i2">At the sad death thou didst die.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p class='center'>Printed and Published by <span class="smcap">W. &amp; R. Chambers</span>, 47 Paternoster
Row, <span class="smcap">London</span>, and 339 High Street, <span class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>.</p>

<hr class="chap" />
<p class='center'><i>All Rights Reserved.</i></p>

<hr class="full" />

<p>Transcriber's Note&mdash;the following changes have been made to this text:</p>

<p>Page 418: subsistance to subsistence.</p>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 49237 ***</div>
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