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diff --git a/old/65795-0.txt b/old/65795-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 9b6626e..0000000 --- a/old/65795-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2199 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, -Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 24, Vol. I, June 14, 1884, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, - Fifth Series, No. 24, Vol. I, June 14, 1884 - -Editor: Various - -Release Date: July 8, 2021 [eBook #65795] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Susan Skinner, Eric Hutton and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The Internet - Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR -LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 24, VOL. I, JUNE 14, -1884 *** - - - - -[Illustration: - -CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL - -OF - -POPULAR - -LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART - -Fifth Series - -ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832 - -CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS) - -NO. 24.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, JUNE 14, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._] - - - - -ST MARGUERITE AND ST HONORÂT. - -THE HOLY ISLES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN. - - -A melancholy interest is lent just now to the name of St Marguerite -by the fact that the last public act of the lamented Duke of Albany -was to sign a petition protesting against the sale of that island. -The thrilling tale of ‘the man with the iron mask,’ which used to be -a favourite in school-books, has since our childish days enveloped -the little island for us in a halo of mystery and awe. St Marguerite -and its companion island of St Honorât lie, like twin gems of ocean, -in the Golfe de Frejus, and form a romantic point in the seaward view -from Cannes; and among all the excursions which can be made from -that delightful centre, none is more charming than a sail to the -islands. Tradition tells us that they were first colonised by a noble -young knight from the land of the Gauls, who in the early ages of -Christianity embraced its tenets, and with a chosen band of friends, -sought a retreat from the sinful world in this distant islet. He had -one sister, the fair Marguerite, who loved him as her very life, and -who was so inconsolable for his loss, that she followed him to his -retreat in the southern sea. As Honorât and his brother-ascetics had -vowed themselves to solitude, he could not allow his sister to take up -her abode with him; but in compliance with her urgent desires, found -a home for her in the neighbouring island, now known by her name of -Marguerite. Yet this was only granted on the condition that he should -never see her but when the almond tree should blossom. The time of -waiting was very dreary to the lonely Marguerite, and with sighings and -tears she assailed all the saints, till the almond tree miraculously -blossomed once a month, and her poor heart was made glad by the sight -of her beloved brother! - -A little coasting-steamer plies daily between Cannes and the islands; -and passengers land at a little pier near the fortress, which is -built on steep cliffs at the eastern extremity of the island. Like -the old castles of Edinburgh and Stirling, it is in itself no very -imposing building, and owes its strength and its romantic air solely -to the rocky cliffs on which it is perched, and to the interesting -associations which cluster around it. - -It was a lovely day in April, like one of our most delicious midsummer -days, that we went with some French friends to visit the islands. The -water of the Mediterranean is so limpid that we could look down through -fathoms of it to the sand and see the shells and seaweed. It is of such -a true sapphire blue, that surely Tennyson must have had memories of it -and not of the gray North Sea when he spoke of the - - Shining, sapphire spangled marriage ring of the land. - -The view of the coast, looking backwards, as the boat nears St -Marguerite, is splendid: Cannes basking in the sweet sunshine, lying in -a white semicircle around the bay, and climbing up the hills behind, -with the gray olive groves making a silvery haze to tone down the -brilliant colours. In the distance, the dazzling white peaks of the -Maritime Alps form a noble background; while the picture is bounded -on the west by the sierra-like range of the Esterel Hills, painted -against the skyline in vivid blues and purples. Landing at the little -stone pier, we went up the causewayed road to the fort, which, with -its whitewashed walls and red-tiled roof, is built around a wide stone -court. Here we found the guide waiting, an old _cantinière_, very -ugly, but proportionately loud and eloquent—a very different being -from the pretty _vivandière_ of comic operas. She carried us along a -narrow passage to the dungeon where the unhappy ‘Masque de fer’ spent -fourteen long years of hopeless confinement. It is closed by double -doors of iron; the walls are of great thickness; and four rows of -grating protect the little window. From this cell the prisoner was -sometimes permitted egress to walk along the narrow corridor, at the -end of which is a niche in the wall, which in his time held a sacred -image. The ‘Masque de fer’ was never seen without his iron veil, even -by the governor of the prison; it was so curiously fitted as to permit -of his eating with ease. He was treated with all the deference due -to a royal personage; all the dishes and appurtenances of his table -were of silver; the governor waited on him personally; but one day -the prisoner succeeded in eluding his vigilance so far as to write an -appeal for help on a silver plate and throw it over the precipice on -which this part of the fortress stands. As the well-known story tells, -a fisherman found it, and brought it at once to the governor, who -turned pale and trembled on reading what was scratched thereon. ‘Can -you read, my friend?’ he said. ‘No,’ answered the fisherman. ‘Thank God -for that, for you should have paid for your knowledge with your life!’ -He dismissed him with the gift of a gold-piece, and the caution to -preserve a prudent silence as to what had passed. - -When the governor communicated the attempt to headquarters in Paris, -orders came for the prisoner to be removed to the Bastile. After some -years of close confinement, he died there, and was buried in his mask; -and the governor of the Bastile, who knew the secret of his august -prisoner’s name, died without divulging it. And thus ended the tale in -the old school-books: ‘The identity of the “Masque de fer” must remain -for ever a mystery.’ But it was no mystery to our old _vivandière_, or -indeed to any of the French people who were listening to the story of -his woes; for, in surprise at our ignorance, they all exclaimed: ‘Don’t -you know that he was the _frère aîné_ [elder brother] of Louis XIV.?’ -He was considered too weak in mind to govern France, and was therefore -always kept in seclusion, till an attempt which was made to bring him -forward was the cause of his being condemned to the life-long prison -and the iron mask. - -A very queer old gilded seat like an old Roman curule chair is shown in -the chapel as that used by the ‘Masque de fer.’ - -To this fortress, also, Marshal Bazaine was sent as a prisoner, after -what the French call his ‘betrayal of Metz.’ The places where he and -his family—who were permitted to follow him to the island—used to sit -in the tiny chapel were pointed out to us; also the terrace-walk where -he was allowed to promenade, unguarded, in the evenings; and the rock -down which he escaped, by means of a rope-ladder, to the little boat -which his wife had arranged to be in waiting below. Of course, it is -said that Macmahon connived at his escape, not wishing his old comrade -to be tried by a court-martial, which he knew would inevitably condemn -him. He sent him to a sham imprisonment in this pleasant island, till -the first wild wrath of the people of France against him had cooled -down. A Frenchman told us that he now lives at ease in Spain, having -saved his fortune from the wreck, but _tout déshonoré_ in the eyes of -France! - -From St Marguerite we crossed in less than half an hour to the smaller -island of St Honorât, now the property of the Cistercian order of -monks. The shore is fringed with the beautiful stone-pines which are so -conspicuous on the Riviera and in some parts of Italy. The first object -which strikes one on landing is a large new archway, made probably -as the gateway for a future avenue; behind it, at some distance, lie -the church and monastery. On a promontory at the western end of the -island stands an old ruined monastery of the thirteenth century. It -is very like the style of architecture of some of the old castles in -Scotland. There is a fine triforium in it with Gothic arches. In the -refectory we saw on a raised platform at the side the arch for the -lectern, from which it was the duty of a monk to read to his brethren -while at their meals. The view from the tower is magnificent: the deep -blue sea stretches to the southern horizon; the snowy line of the Alpes -Maritimes bounds the northern; on the right, the white waves break in -feathery foam on the Cap d’Antibes; while the purple Esterels, with the -jagged summit of Mont Vinaigrier, lie to the left; and Cannes, with -its picturesque old town on the hill of Mont Chevalier, and its modern -wings spreading far and wide, fills up the middle distance. Since the -young St Honorât sought a retreat here from the world in the fifth -century, this island has been usually held by monks, although it was -often ravaged by the Saracens. The ruins of the oldest monastery are -within the present cloisters. At a little booth outside the monastic -walls we found an English monk, who was deputed to sell photographs -of the island and the ruins, and to make himself agreeable to the -visitors. He told us that he had been in the Grande Chartreuse, near -Grenoble; but as his health was not strong enough to bear the keen -air on those rocky heights, he had been sent to spend the winter in -this convent of the sunny south. In his youth he had been stationed in -Edinburgh, and was much interested in speaking of it and hearing of the -changes which had taken place there. - -During the past century, St Honorât’s isle has passed through -strange phases. First of all, a Parisian _comédienne_ bought it, -meaning to build a summer villa there; then tiring of it, she sold -it to a Protestant clergyman. When it came again into the market, -the Cistercians bought it, built the new monastery, and settled a -congregation of their order in it. The Cistercian rule is not so severe -as that of the Trappists, but still, they are not allowed to speak -except during the hours of recreation and on Sunday. The lay brother -who showed us round told us he had a dispensation to speak, as he was -told off to the post of cicerone for that day. He said it was a very -happy life, as tranquil and blessed as in Paradise; and truly his -face beamed with heavenly light and peace. One of our company was a -gentleman from Grenoble, who came in the hope of seeing a young friend -who had lately joined the order. He hoped even to get some of us -invited to the ‘parloir’ to speak with him. Alas! the young monk would -not even see his old friend, but sent him a tender greeting, and thanks -for his kindness in coming. The English ‘father’ said he did this of -his own accord, fearing to be disturbed by old associations from his -hardly won tranquillity. However that might be, we had to bid adieu to -St Honorât without seeing the young recluse. - - - - -BY MEAD AND STREAM. - - -CHAPTER XXXIII.—HER PROBLEM. - -Madge in her own room; but it was evening and almost quite dark, so -that it was not at all like the pretty chamber which it appeared to be -in the bright sunshine of an autumn morning. Can there be any sympathy -between the atmosphere and our feelings? There must be. A bright -day helps us to meet sorrow bravely; a dull, dark day makes sorrow -our master: we bow our heads and groan because nature seems to have -entered into a conspiracy against us. The strong will may fling aside -this atmospherical depression, but the effort is needed: whereas when -the sun shines, even the weak can lift their heads and say without -faltering: ‘Let me know the worst.’ - -Madge held in her hand a letter—the same which Wrentham had seen on -Beecham’s desk, and of which he made due report to Mr Hadleigh. She -knew well where to find the matches and candle, and yet she stood in -that deep gloom looking at the window, as if she were interested in the -invisible prospect on which it opened. - -It is not instinct, but a telegraphic association of ideas which makes -us hesitate to open particular letters. That was her case. And yet, if -her face could have been seen in that gloom, no sign of fear would have -been found upon it; only a wistful sadness—the expression of one who -feels that some revelation of the inevitable is near. - -After the pause, she quietly lit the candle, and, without drawing -down the blind, seated herself by the window. Then, as methodically -as if it had been only one of Uncle Dick’s business letters, she cut -the envelope and spread the paper on her lap. She was very pale just -then, for there was no message from Beecham; only this inclosure of an -old letter, which seemed to have been much handled, and of which the -writing had become indistinct. - -There were only a few lines on the paper. She looked at the name at the -foot of them, and raised it to her lips, reverently. - -‘Poor mother!’ was her sigh, and she laid the letter gently on her lap -again, whilst she looked dreamily into the gloom outside. - -Should she read it? He had left her to answer that question for -herself. Yes; she would read, for there were so few words, that there -could be no breach of faith in scanning them. Moreover, the letter had -been sent to her for that purpose by the man who had received it, and -who, therefore, had the right to submit it to her. - -There was no need to raise any great question of conscience in the -matter; the words were so simple that they might have been written by a -mother to a child. No passion, no forced sentiment, no ‘make-believe’ -of any kind. Only this pathetic cry: - -‘Dear Austin, do not go away. I am filled with fear by what thou hast -said to me about the vessel. I know it is wrong, since God is with us -everywhere, and I am ashamed of this weakness. But thou art so dear, -and—— I pray thee, Austin, do not go away.’ - -Then followed in the middle of the page the simple name: - -‘LUCY.’ - -This was what she might have written to Philip, and had not. It was -all so simple and so like her own experience, with the difference that -the lover had not gone away. Few daughters are allowed to know the -history of their mothers’ love affairs, and there are fewer still who, -when they hear them, can regard them as anything more than commonplace -sketches of life, which they pass aside as they turn over the leaves of -a portfolio. - -But to Madge!—— - -What did all this mean? That, with the best intentions, she was -entering into a conspiracy against the man she loved, and her mother -was invoked as the inspiration of the conspiracy! - -Sitting there, the candle flickering in the strange draughts which came -from nowhere, the gloom outside growing quite black, and the shadows in -the little room growing huge and threatening, Madge was trying to read -the riddle of her very awkward position. - -A sharp knock at the door, one of those knocks which impudent and -inconsiderate females give when they have no particular message to -convey, and resent the necessity of carrying it. - -‘A man in the oak parlour wants to see you, if you ben’t too busy.’ - -Madge passed her fingers over the aching head. She could not guess -who the man might be, but presumed that he was one of Uncle Dick’s -customers. - -She found Mr Beecham in the oak parlour. This was the first time he had -been under the roof of Willowmere. He and Madge were conscious of the -singularity of the meeting-place. - -‘I trust, Miss Heathcote, you are not annoyed with me for coming here,’ -he said softly. ‘I did not mean to do so; but it occurred to me, after -despatching that letter, you might require a few words of explanation. -At first, my intention was to say nothing; but on consideration, -it seemed to me unfair to leave you without help in answering the -disagreeable questions which the situation suggests.’ - -Madge still had the letter in her hand; the tears were still in her -eyes. She tried to wipe them away, but still they would force their -presence on the lids. That was the real Madge—tender, considerate to -others beyond measure. - -‘Oh, if’—— - -Here the superficial Madge claimed supremacy, and took the management -of the whole interview in hand. Calm almost to coldness, clear in -speech and vision almost to the degree of severity, she spoke: - -‘I have considered all that you have said to me, and I do not like the -position in which you have placed me. I gave you my word that I should -be silent, believing that no harm could follow, and believing that my -mother would have wished me to obey you. You have satisfied me by this -letter that I have not done wrong so far. Take it back.’ - -She folded the letter, carefully replaced it in the envelope, and gave -it to him. - -‘Thank you,’ he said, with the shadow of that sad smile which had so -often crossed his face. - -‘You cannot tell how much that letter has affected me. You cannot know -what thoughts and impulses it has aroused. But you can believe that in -my mother’s blunder I read my own fate.... I know you are my friend: be -the friend of those I love. Help _him_, for he needs help very much.’ - -Mr Beecham had quietly taken the letter and placed it in a small -pocket-case, to which it seemed to belong. - -‘I feared you would not understand me, and the desire to save you from -uneasiness has brought me here. You have promised to be silent: I again -beg you to keep that promise for a little while.’ - -She bowed her head, but did not speak. - -‘In doing so,’ he added, anxious to reassure her, ‘you have my pledge -that no harm will come to any one who does not seek it.’ - -‘You cannot think,’ she said coldly, and yet with a touch of bitterness -that she seemed unable to repress—‘you cannot think any one purposely -seeks harm! It came to you and to my mother.’ - -For an instant he was silent. He was thinking that no harm would have -come to them if both had been faithful. - -‘That is a hard hit, and not easily answered,’ he said quietly. ‘Let me -say, then, that even if there had been no other motive to influence me, -I should be his friend on your account. But I am your friend above and -before all. For your sake alone I came back to England. For your sake -I am acting as I am doing, strange as it may seem. If he is honest and -faithful to you’—— - -‘There is no doubt of that,’ she interrupted, her face brightening with -confidence. - -Beecham inclined his head, as if in worship. He smiled at her -unhesitating assertion of faith, but the smile was one of respect and -admiration touched with a shade of regret. What might his life have -been if he had found a mate like her! The man she loved might prove -false, and all the world might call him false: she would still believe -him to be true. - -‘A man finds such faith rarely,’ he said in his gentlest tone; ‘I -hope he will prove worthy of it. But let him take his own way for the -present; and should trouble come to him, I shall do my best to help him -out of it.’ - -She made a quick movement, as if she would have clasped his hands in -thankfulness, but checked herself. - -‘Then I am content.’ - -‘I am glad you can say so, for it shows you have some confidence in me, -and every proof of kindly thought towards me helps me.’ - -He stopped, and seemed to be smiling at the weakness which had made his -voice a little husky. Looking back, and realising in this girl an old -dream, she had grown so dear to him, that he knew if she had persisted, -his wisest judgment would have yielded to her wish. - -She wondered: why was this man so gentle and yet so cruel, as it -seemed, in his doubts of Philip? - -‘Let me take your hand,’ he resumed. ‘Thanks. Have you any notion how -much it cost me to allow this piece of paper’ (he touched the pocket in -which her mother’s letter lay) ‘to be out of my possession even for a -few hours? Only you could have won that from me. It was the last token -of ... well, we shall say, of her caring about me that came direct from -her own hand. She was deceived. We cannot help that, you know—accidents -will happen, and so on’ (like a brave man, he was smiling at his own -pain). ‘The message came to me too late. I think—no, I am sure, that -if she had said this to me with her own lips, there would have been no -parting ... and everything would have been so different to us!’ - -Madge withdrew one hand from his and timidly placed it on his shoulder. - -‘I am sorry for your past, and should be glad if it were in my power to -help you to a happy future.’ - -His disengaged hand was placed upon her head lightly, as if he were -giving her a paternal blessing. - -‘The only way in which you can help me, my child, is by finding a happy -future for yourself. I am anxious about that—selfishly anxious, for it -seems that my life can gain its real goal only by making you happy, -since I missed the chance of making your mother so. I know that she was -not happy; and my career, which has been one of strange good fortune, -as men reckon fortune by the money you make, has been one of misery. Do -you not think that droll?’ - -‘You are not like other men, I think; others would have forgotten the -past, and forgiven.’ - -She was thinking of Philip’s wish that his father should be reconciled -to Austin Shield. - -‘I can forgive,’ he said softly; ‘I cannot forget.—Now, let us look -at the position quietly as it is. The only thing which has given me -an interest in life is the hope that I may be useful to you. When my -sorrow came upon me, it seemed as if the whole world had gone wrong.’ -(That was spoken with a kind of bitter sense of the humorous side -of his sorrow.) ‘Doctors would have called it indigestion. You see, -however, it does not matter much to the patient whether it is merely -indigestion or organic disease, so long as he suffers from the pangs -of whatever it may be. Well, I did not die, and the doctor is entitled -to his credit. I live, eat my dinner, and am in fair health. But there -is a difference: life lost its flavour when the blunder was made. When -your mother believed the false report which reached her, the man who -loved her was murdered.’ - -‘She could not act otherwise than she did,’ said Madge bravely in -defence. - -‘She should have trusted to me,’ he retorted, shaking his head sadly. -‘But that is unkind, and I do not mean to say one word of her that -could be called unkind. She would forgive it.’ - -‘How she must have suffered!’ murmured Madge, her hand passing absently -over the aching brow. - -‘Ay, she must have suffered as I did—poor lass, poor lass!’ - -He turned abruptly to the hearth, as if he had become suddenly -conscious of the ordinary duties of life, and aware that the fire -required attention. - -‘I want you to try to understand me,’ he said as he stirred the -embers, and the oak-log on the top of the coal started a bright flame. - -‘I wish to understand you—but that is not easy,’ she replied. - -He did not look round; he answered as if the subject were one of the -most commonplace kind; but there was a certain emphasis in his tone as -he seemed to take up her sentence and continue it. - -‘Because you stand on the sunny side of life, and know nothing of its -shadows. Pity that they will force themselves upon you soon enough.’ - -‘If you see them coming, why not give me warning?’ - -He turned round suddenly, his hands clasped behind him so tightly that -he seemed to be striving to subdue the outcry of some physical pain. - -‘It is not warning that I wish to give you, but protection,’ he said, -and there was a harshness in his voice quite unusual to him. - -The change of tone was so remarkable, that she drew back. There were in -it bitterness, hatred, and almost something that was like malignity. - -‘You must know it all—then judge for yourself,’ he said at length. - - - - -CURIOSITIES OF THE MICROPHONE. - - -It would be interesting to learn all the particulars relating to the -birth of some great invention; to know the inventor’s frame of mind at -the time the pregnant idea occurred to him, and the influences under -which he lived and laboured. This is usually an unwritten chapter of -biography; but sometimes we can learn a little about these things. -It is not always necessity, or the need of help, that is the mother -of invention. In the case of the microphone, it was the need of -occupation. Professor Hughes was confined to his chamber by an attack -of cold, and to beguile the tedium of the time, he began to experiment -with the telephone. This was in the early winter of 1877; and at that -time the transmitting and receiving parts of the Bell telephone system -were identical. The result was that the received speech was very -feeble; and Professor Hughes began to try whether he could not dispense -with the transmitting telephone, and make the wire of the circuit speak -of itself. Some experiments of Sir William Thomson had shown that the -electric resistance of a wire varied when the wire was strained; and -Professor Hughes thought that if he could get the vibrations of the -voice to strain a wire, so as to vary its resistance in proportion -to the vibrations, he might be able to make the wire itself act as a -transmitter. He therefore connected a battery and telephone together -by means of a fine wire, and pulled on a part of the wire in order to -strain it, at the same time listening in the telephone. But he heard -no sound at all until he strained the wire so much that it gave way. -At the instant of rupture he heard a peculiar grating sound in the -telephone; and on placing the broken ends of the wire in delicate -contact, he found that the slightest agitation of the ends in contact -produced a distinct noise in the instrument. - -This experiment, then, was the germ of the microphone. For the metal -ends of the wire in contact, he substituted carbon points, and -obtained a much more sensitive arrangement. When one of the carbon -pencils was lightly _pressed_ against the other in a stable position, -he found that the joint was sensitive to the slightest jar, and could -transmit the voice when spoken to direct. Pursuing his researches -further, he found that a loose and somewhat crazy metal structure, -such as a pile of gold-chain or a framework of French nails, acted in -a similar way, though not so powerfully as carbon. This material was -found so sensitive, that a fly walking on the board supporting the -microphone could be distinctly heard in the telephone, and each tap of -its trunk upon the wood was said by one observer to resemble the ‘tramp -of an elephant.’ - -The marvels of the microphone were published to the world in the early -summer of the next year; and many useful applications followed. The -most obvious was its use as a telephone transmitter; and as Professor -Hughes had made a public gift of his invention, a great many telephone -transmitters were based upon it. Edison, who had invented a carbon -transmitter which bore some resemblance to the microphone, laid claim -to having anticipated the invention; but the merit of the discovery -remains with Professor Hughes. - -It is through the help of the microphone that telephony has become so -practical and so extensively adopted. The Blake transmitter, the Ader, -and many others by which music and speech are now conveyed so many -miles, are all varieties of the carbon microphone. In some churches, -microphone transmitters are now applied to the pulpit, so that the -sermon can be transmitted by telephone to invalid members who cannot -leave home. At the Electrical Exhibitions of Paris, Vienna, and the -Crystal Palace, the music of an entire opera was transmitted from -the stage by wire to other buildings where great numbers of persons -sat and listened to it. The transport of music and other sounds in -no way directly connected with the wire, is frequently effected by -what is termed induction or leading-in. Over and over again, persons -listening into telephones for the purpose of hearing what a friend -is saying, have heard the strains of this music—aside, communicated -by induction from some neighbouring line to theirs. Not long ago, a -telegraph clerk in Chicago was listening in a telephone early one -morning, and to his surprise heard the croaking of frogs and the -whistling of birds. The explanation of the phenomenon is, that a loose -joint in the telephone wire where it passed through a wood, acted as a -microphone, and transmitted the woodland chorus to his ears. Messages -in process of transmission are sometimes drowned by the rumbling noise -of street-traffic induced by the wire. - -The microphone is not only useful as a transmitter of sounds, but also -as a relay of sounds received on a telephone. Professors Houston and -Thomson of America were perhaps the first to construct a telephonic -relay. They mounted a carbon microphone on the vibrating plate of a -telephone in such a way that the vibrations of the plate due to the -received speech would react on the microphone, and be transmitted -in this way over another line to another receiving telephone at a -distance. Thus the speech would be relayed, just as a telegraph -message is relayed, when it is weak, and sent further on its way. -Curiously enough, the microphone acts as a relay to itself, if placed -on the same table with the telephone with which it is in circuit. The -jar of placing the microphone on the table causes the telephone to emit -a sound; this sound in turn is transmitted by the microphone to the -telephone, which again repeats it. The microphone re-transmits it as -before, the telephone utters it, and so the process of repetition goes -on _ad infinitum_. - -Since the microphone can, as it were, magnify small sounds, and in -this respect has some resemblance to the microscope, which magnifies -minute objects, it might be thought that it would prove useful for -deaf persons. But though the microphone enables a person with good -ears to hear mechanical vibrations which otherwise would be inaudible, -the sounds that are heard are not in themselves very loud, and hence a -dull aural nerve might fail to appreciate them. M. Bert, the well-known -French physicist, constructed a microphone for deaf persons; but -its success was doubtful. Professor Hughes, however, has succeeded -in making deaf persons hear the ticking of a watch by means of the -microphone. In this case the telephone was placed against the bones -in the head, and the vibrations communicated in this way to the aural -nerve. The ‘audiphone,’ a curved plate held between the teeth, and -vibrated by the sound-waves, also acts in this way; and it is probable -that we hear ourselves speak not through our ears, but through the -bones of the head as set in vibration by the voice. - -Its power of interpreting small sounds has caused the microphone to -be applied to many other purposes. Professor Rossi, for example, uses -it to detect the earth-tremors preceding earthquakes and volcanic -eruptions. It has been employed in Austria to detect the trickling of -underground water; and its use has also been suggested for hearing the -signal-taps of entombed miners and the noise of approaching torpedo -boats. It is not, however, quite possible to realise all that has been -claimed for it. Thus the _Danbury News_ jestingly remarks that ‘with -a microphone a farmer can hear a potato-bug coming down the road a -quarter of a mile away, and can go out with an axe and head it off.’ - -In 1876, a year before the microphone was invented, a writer named -Antoinette Brown Blackwell foretold the use of such an apparatus. ‘It -remains,’ she said, ‘to invent some instrument which can so retard the -too rapid vibrations of molecules as to bring them within the time -adapted to human ears; then we might comfortably hear plant movements -carrying on the many processes of growth, _and possibly we might catch -the crystal music of atoms_ vibrating in unison with the sunbeam.’ -Without calling in question the writer’s theory, which does not apply -to the microphone, we may mention that Professor Chandler Roberts -attached a microphone to a thin porous septum, and on allowing hydrogen -gas to diffuse through the latter, he heard a rushing sound, as of a -wind, which became silent when the rapid diffusion ceased. The jar -of the atoms on the pores of the septum was probably the source of -this molecular sound. Again, Professor Graham Bell has found a metal -microphone joint sensitive to the impact of a beam of intermittent -light; and it is highly probable that a microphone with selenium -contacts would be still more sensitive to the sound of light falling -upon it. - -In medicine, the microphone has been usefully applied to enable a -physician to read the pulse better and auscultate the heart. - -Numerous experiments have been made recently with the microphone -by Messrs Stroh, Bidwell, and others. Not long after the original -invention of the apparatus, Professor Blyth found that the microphone -would act as a receiver as well as a transmitter of sounds in an -electric circuit. Thus, with two boxes of coke cinders (hard carbon) -connected together through a wire and battery, Professor Blyth found -that if words were spoken into one of the boxes, he could faintly hear -them by listening in the other. Mr Bidwell has constructed a receiving -microphone, composed of a pile of carbon cylinders resting on a mica -diaphragm, and this gives out distinct effects when a strong battery is -employed. On speaking to the transmitting microphone in circuit, the -words can be distinctly heard in the receiving one. - -By the use of the microscope, Mr Stroh has observed that the carbon -points of the microphone which were supposed to be in contact, are not -really so during the action of the instrument, but are separated by -a minute distance. It would appear, then, that there is a repulsion -between the points, and this repulsion accounts for the action of the -microphone as a receiver. Metal microphones are also reversible in -their action, and give out feeble sounds when used as receivers. The -probability is that the contacts vibrate rapidly on each other, either -in direct or very close contact, against a certain repulsive action of -the current, which operates like a cushion or re-acting spring. - -Metal microphones are in some respects more interesting theoretically -than those of carbon. For example, one has been constructed of two -different metals, zinc and iron, which when heated by the flame of -a spirit-lamp generates its own current by thermo-electric action. -Iron is one of the most useful metals for forming microphones; and -one of iron-wire gauze has been found to act with singular clearness -when inclosed in a high vacuum, such as that given by an incandescent -electric lamp. - - - - -SILAS MONK. - -A TALE OF LONDON OLD CITY. - - -IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II. - -That day in the city seemed to Walter as if it would never end. This -mystery about Silas Monk was now a matter to him of real interest. -Hitherto, the eccentricities of the old man had given him little or no -concern; for it had been so long the custom among the clerks to crack -their jokes about ‘Silas,’ that nothing which he might do, however -queer, could appear otherwise than perfectly consistent with his -character. For so many years had Silas Monk been a clerk in the House, -that his columns of pounds, shillings, and pence could be traced in the -oldest ledgers, it was said, even when books more than a hundred years -old were examined. There was no record extant which satisfactorily -settled the date of his engagement as a clerk by Armytage and Company. -The oldest partners and the oldest clerks, with this one exception of -Silas, were dead and buried many years ago. - -It was a very old-looking place, this ancient counting-house; it seemed -older even than the firm of Armytage, which had seen two centuries. -There were railings in front, broken in places, but still presenting -some iron spikes among them, standing up with an air of protection -before the windows, like sentinels on guard. The stone steps leading -up to the entrance were worn by the tread of busy men who had in their -time hurried in and out in their race for wealth, and who were now -doubtless lying in some old city churchyard hard by. - -Walter Tiltcroft having at last finished his ‘rounds,’ as he called -his various errands, came back to the old counting-house. The clerks’ -office was on the ground-floor. It was a dark and dusty room, with men -of various ages seated at long desks, all deeply engaged, with pens in -hand and heads bent low, over the business of the firm. No one looked -up when Walter entered; every one went on working, as though each -individual clerk was a wheel in the great machine which had been going -for nearly two hundred years. - -Within an inner room, smaller, darker, and more dusty, was seated alone -at his desk Silas Monk. The old clerk had several large ledgers before -him; he was turning over the leaves with energy, and making entries -in these books with a rapidity which seemed surprising in one who had -an appearance of such great age. With his white hair falling on his -shoulders, his long lean trembling fingers playing among the fluttering -pages, and his keen eyes darting among the columns of pounds, -shillings, and pence, he seemed, even by daylight, like an embodied -spirit appointed by the dead partners and clerks of Armytage and -Company to audit the accounts of that old mercantile House in Crutched -Friars. So at least thought Walter Tiltcroft as he sat at his own desk -watching Silas Monk, and revolving in his mind how he could best solve -the mystery which surrounded Rachel’s grandfather. - - * * * * * - -It was growing dusk when the old city clocks in the church towers began -to strike six, and the clerks in the office of Armytage and Company -began to show signs of dispersing. Silas Monk alone remained at his -post. Wishing to say a few words to the old man before taking his -leave, Walter Tiltcroft lingered behind; and when the last clerk had -gone, he went to the door of the ‘strong-room,’ as Silas Monk’s office -was called, and said in his usual cheerful tone: ‘Good-night, Mr Monk. -You’ll see, I suppose, that everything is safe and sound, as usual? -Won’t you?’ - -‘Ay, ay! safe and sound, Walter.—Good-night.’ - -But the young man lingered with his eyes curiously fixed on Silas. ‘The -evenings are getting short,’ continued he. ‘Can you see to work by this -light?’ - -‘Why, no—not well,’ Silas owned, with his eyes raised towards the -window; ‘and what makes it still more difficult is that scaffolding the -workmen have put up outside—that’s what makes it so dark. Ay, ay!’ he -added, ‘they’re repairing the old walls. Dear me, dear me!’ - -The old walls outside, which surrounded a courtyard, were black with -dust and age, and they had also in many parts a tumble-down aspect, -which appeared to plainly indicate that repairs were needed badly. Upon -the scaffolding, some half-dozen labourers were gathering together -their tools and preparing to go home, as the clerks had done already. -Silas was lighting an oil-lamp. ‘Give me a hand, Walter,’ said he, ‘to -close these shutters and put up the iron bar.’ - -‘All right, Mr Monk,’ said the young man, unfolding the old-fashioned -shutters in the walls and clasping the iron bar across them with a loud -clink. ‘All right and tight!—Shall you remain long at the office?’ he -added, moving towards the door. - -‘Not long; half an hour, perhaps—not more.’ - -Still the young man lingered. ‘Mr Monk,’ said he, walking a step back -into the strong-room, ‘I saw your grand-daughter Miss Rachel this -morning.’ - -Silas, who had reseated himself at his desk before the large ledgers, -looked round keenly at Walter, with the light from the shaded lamp -thrown upon his wrinkled face. ‘You see my grand-daughter Rachel pretty -often; don’t you, Walter?’ - -‘Pretty often, Mr Monk, I confess.’ - -Silas shook his long thin forefinger at the young man. ‘Walter,’ cried -he, ‘that’s not business!’ - -‘No; that’s true. But you see, Mr Monk, it’s not much out of my way. -And,’ he added, ‘besides, I thought you would like to know that she’s -well. You’re so busy here, that perhaps you don’t see so much of her as -you would like, and so I thought that news of her at any time would be -welcome.’ - -‘So it is, Walter!’ said the old man, his voice trembling slightly -as he spoke—‘so it is. She’s a good girl, and I love her dearly. But -you don’t pass that way, Walter, simply to bring me a word about my -grand-daughter. You’re not going to try and make me believe that, -surely?’ - -‘Not entirely, Mr Monk,’ said the young man, smiling. ‘I won’t deny -that it’s a very great pleasure to me to see Rachel at any time; -indeed, no one could admire her more than I do.’ - -The old man held out his hand. ‘Come, come! That’s more candid, -my boy,’ said he, as Walter took the hand in his and pressed it -affectionately. ‘So you admire Rachel, do you?’ - -‘Mr Monk,’ said the young clerk, ‘I more than admire her—I love her!’ - -The deep lines in Silas Monk’s face grew deeper at these words. ‘Well, -well,’ said the old man presently, with a heavy sigh; ‘it was to be. -Better now, perhaps, than later—better now. But you won’t take her from -me yet, Walter—not yet?’ - -‘Why, no, Mr Monk; I’d no thought of taking her away from you.’ - -‘That’s right!’ cried Silas—‘that’s right! You’re a good lad. Take care -of her, Walter; take care of her when I am dead.’ As Silas pronounced -the last word, the sound of footsteps, which seemed strangely near, -changed the expression on his face. ‘What’s that?’ asked he in a tone -of alarm. - -Walter listened. ‘Some one on the scaffolding above your window.’ - -‘If it’s a workman,’ said the old man, ‘he’s rather late. Will you see -that every one has left the premises; and then shut the front-door as -you go out?’ - -‘I’ll not forget.—Good-night!’ - -It was just sufficiently light in the passage for Walter to find his -way about the old house. Having promised Silas Monk to make sure that -every one had left the premises, he ran up the dark oaken staircase -to ascertain whether the partners, who occupied the floor above the -office, had gone. He found the doors to their rooms locked. The young -man threw a glance around him, and then descended the way he had come, -walking out into the court, behind the clerks’ offices, where the -scaffolding was erected. It was not a large court, and on every side -were high brick walls. The scaffolding reached from the ground almost -to the eaves. - -‘Any one there?’ Walter shouted. - -Not a sound came back except a muttering echo of his own voice. - -Walter Tiltcroft then turned to leave the house. But at this moment his -conversation with Rachel occurred to him, and he thought that he might -do something to clear up the mystery of her grandfather’s frequent -absence from home at all hours of the night. ‘Why not,’ thought Walter, -‘watch the old man’s movements? Some clue might be found to the strange -affair.’ He formed his plan of action without further delay. No moment -could have been more opportune. He closed the front-door with a slam -which shook the old house; then he crept back along the passage softly, -and, seating himself in a dark corner on the staircase, watched for the -figure of Silas Monk. - -The first thing he heard, very shortly after he had taken up his -position, was a step in the passage leading from the courtyard. He -sprang up with a quick beating heart, and reached the foot of the -stairs just in time to confront a tall, powerful man dressed like a -mason, and carrying in his hand a large basket of tools. - -‘Why, Joe Grimrood,’ said Walter, ‘is that you?’ - -The man, who had a hangdog, defiant air, answered gruffly, as he -scratched a mangy-looking skin-cap, pulled down to his eyebrows: -‘That’s me, sir; asking your pardon.’ - -‘Are you the last, Joe?’ - -‘There ain’t no more men on the scaffold, if that’s what you mean.’ - -Walter nodded. ‘Didn’t you hear me call?’ he asked. - -‘Not me. When?’ - -‘Not five minutes ago.’ - -‘How could I? I was among the chimneys.’ - -‘Repairing the roof, Joe?’ - -‘Fixing the tiles,’ was the reply. - -Having thus accounted for his tardiness, Joe Grimrood again scratched -his cap, in his manner of saluting, and moved along the hall, in the -semi-darkness, towards the front-door. ‘I wish you a very good-night,’ -said the man, as Walter accompanied him to the entrance—‘a very -good-night, sir; asking your pardon.’ - -Walter Tiltcroft closed the door, when the workman had gone out, with -as little noise as possible; for he feared that if any sound reached -Silas Monk in the strong-room, his suspicions might be aroused, and the -chance of solving this mystery might be lost. - -Again retiring to his retreat upon the staircase, Walter waited and -watched; but nothing happened. The twilight faded; the night became so -dark that the lad could not see his hand before him. The hours appeared -long; at endless intervals he heard the city clocks striking in the -dead silence. He filled up the time with thoughts containing a hundred -conjectures. What could Silas Monk be doing all this while? A dozen -times Walter descended to the door of the office to listen; but never -a sound! A dozen times his fingers touched the handle to turn it; yet -each time he drew back, fearing to destroy the object he had seriously -in view—the solution of this strange affair. - -Ten o’clock had struck, and the young clerk was growing weary of -waiting for the clocks to strike eleven. He began to imagine that -something must have happened to Silas Monk. Had he fallen asleep? Was -he dead, or—what? - -Presently, the notion entered his brain that perhaps a grain of -reassurance might be had by regarding the window of the strong-room -from the courtyard. Possibly, thought he, a ray of light might find -its way there through the shutters. He stepped out silently, but with -eagerness. When he reached the yard, there, sure enough, was a streak -of light piercing through a small aperture. Walter was drawn towards -it irresistibly. He mounted the scaffolding by the ladder at his feet, -and crept along the boarding on his hands; for the darkness, except -within the limits of this ray of light, was intense. He reached at -length the spot immediately above the window. The ray of light fell -below the scaffold, slanting to the ground. Grasping the board, upon -which he lay full length, he bent his head until his eye was almost on -a level with the hole in the shutter. To his surprise, the interior of -the strong-room was distinctly revealed. But what he saw surprised him -still more. Silas Monk was seated there at his desk, under the shaded -lamp. But he was no longer examining the ledgers; these books were -thrown aside; and, in their place, before his greedy eyes, was to be -seen a heap of bright sovereigns. - -The change which had taken place in the face of Silas Monk since the -young man had left him, was startling; and the manner in which he -appeared to be feasting his eyes upon the coins was repulsive. He -handled the sovereigns with his lean fingers caressingly; he counted -them over and over again; then he arranged them in piles on one side, -and began to empty other bags in their place. His look suggested a -ravenous madman; his attitude resembled that of a beast of prey. - -Walter was so fascinated by this unexpected scene in the strong-room, -that he found it impossible, for some minutes, to remove his gaze. The -mystery about Silas Monk had been solved. Rachel’s grandfather was a -wretched miser! - -Walter descended from the scaffolding, and went out quietly into -Crutched Friars. His lodgings were in the Minories, hard by. But he -could not have slept had he gone home without passing under Rachel’s -window. He hurried along through the dark and silent streets. What -he had witnessed, haunted him; he could not banish the scene of the -old man and his bright sovereigns. When he entered the street, and -was approaching Silas Monk’s house, he was astonished, though not -displeased, to see Rachel standing on the door-step. - -‘Why, Walter,’ cried she, ‘is that you? I thought it was grandfather.’ - -‘I wish, Rachel, for your sake that it was. But I’m afraid, late as it -is, that he won’t be back quite yet.’ - -The girl placed her hand quickly on Walter’s hand and looked up -appealingly. ‘Has anything happened? You have a troubled face. Don’t -hide it from me, if anything has happened to grandfather.’ - -The young man hastened to reassure her. ‘Nothing has happened. Silas -Monk is at the office still. I have just come away, Rachel. I left him -there deeply occupied.’ - -The girl threw a quick glance into Walter’s face. ‘Then grandfather -does work for Armytage and Company after six o’clock?’ - -‘I doubt that, Rachel, very much.’ - -‘Then why does he stay so late at Crutched Friars?’ - -‘To dabble in a little business of his own.’ - -‘What business is that, Walter?’ - -‘Well, something in the bullion line of business, to judge from -appearances.’ - -‘Explain yourself, Walter! I am puzzled.’ - -‘I’m afraid I can’t; I’m puzzled too,’ said the young man. ‘This -bullion business,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘is a strange affair.’ - -Rachel clasped her hands with an impatient gesture. ‘Walter, tell me -what you have seen!’ - -‘I’ve seen,’ said the young man reluctantly—‘I’ve seen, through a hole -in the shutter, an old man at a desk, under the light of a shaded -lamp, seated over handfuls of gold. The desk was Silas Monk’s, in the -counting-house of Armytage and Company. But the face of the man was not -the face of your grandfather; or if it was his, it was greatly changed.’ - -‘In what way changed, Walter?’ - -‘It was a face expressing dreadful greed. It was the face of a miser, -Rachel—nothing less!’ - -The girl, standing under the dim street-lamp above the doorway, looked -with wondering eyes into Walter’s face. ‘Does not all the money at the -counting-house belong to the firm?’ - -‘So I have always thought, Rachel.’ - -‘Then grandfather was balancing the cash?’ - -‘Not the hard cash of Armytage and Company. That is taken every day, -before the closing hour, to the bank.’ - -Looking still into the young man’s face, the girl said: ‘Then the money -must be his own.’ - -‘He certainly seemed to eye it, Rachel, as if every sovereign belonged -to him.’ - -The girl became pensive. ‘He must be rich,’ said she. - -‘Very rich, if all those sovereigns are his.’ - -‘And he loves gold more than he loves his grand-daughter!’ Rachel -complained, in a tone of deep disappointment, while tears started into -her eyes. - -Not being able to deny that there appeared some truth in the girl’s -words, Walter could answer nothing. He remained silent and thoughtful. -Suddenly the clocks of the old city began striking midnight. - -‘Your grandfather will soon be coming now, Rachel,’ said the young -man, ‘so I had better be off. It would never do to let him find me -here at this late hour.’ Taking leave of the girl tenderly, he quickly -disappeared into the darkness. - -Rachel re-entered the house, and threw herself into the old armchair, -stricken with surprise and grief at what she had learned. Since she was -a child, she had been taught to believe that she was struggling, beside -her grandfather, against poverty. She had been happy in the thought -that, although they were needy, nothing divided their affections. She -believed that her grandfather was slaving day and night for their -sake—slaving to keep the old house over their heads. But what was he -slaving for, after all? For gold, it was true; but for gold which he -hoarded up in secret places, hiding all from her, as though it were, -like a crime, something of a nature to be shunned. - -Meanwhile the clocks are striking the small-hours. But Silas Monk -does not come home. The candle on the table beside Rachel burns low. -The girl grows alarmed, and listens for the footsteps of her old -grandfather. She goes out and looks about into the dark night. No one -is to be seen, no one is to be heard. Four o’clock—five. Still no -footsteps—not even a shadow of the man. - -The dawn begins to break in a clear gray light above the sombre houses; -the roar of traffic in the streets hard by falls upon the girl’s ear. -Another busy day has commenced in the old city. ‘Is it possible,’ -thinks Rachel, ‘that her grandfather can still be at his desk, counting -and recounting his gold?’ - - - - -FAMILIAR SKETCHES OF ENGLISH LAW. - -BY AN EXPERIENCED PRACTITIONER. - - -II. PARENT AND CHILD. - -Children may be divided into two classes—legitimate and illegitimate; -and the liability of a father in respect of his children is widely -different in the case of the latter class from the ordinary duty and -responsibility of a parent. In order to clear the ground, we will first -dispose of the illegitimate class; and throughout this paper it must -be understood that the words parent and child, when used without any -qualifying terms, refer to those between whom that mutual relationship -lawfully subsists. - -An illegitimate child, or bastard, is one who is born without its -parents having been lawfully married; and in England, a bastard born is -illegitimate to the end of his or her life; but in Scotland, such child -may be rendered legitimate by the subsequent marriage of its parents, -provided that at the date of its birth and of their marriage they were -both free to marry. The father of an illegitimate child has no right to -its custody; but he may be compelled to contribute to its support by -means of an affiliation order. A bastard cannot inherit either real or -personal estate from either of its parents, nor from any other person; -neither can any person inherit from a bachelor or spinster who is -illegitimate. If, however, such a person marries, the husband or wife -and children have the same legal rights as if the stain of illegitimacy -had not existed. - -A legitimate child—with the exception noted above—is the offspring -of parents who were lawfully married before the time of its birth. A -posthumous child, if born in due time after the husband’s death, is -legitimate. - -The father has _primâ facie_ a right to the custody of his children -while under the age of sixteen years; after that age, if they are able -to maintain themselves, they may be emancipated from his control. -But a mother can apply to the court for an order that she may have -the exclusive care of her children while they are respectively under -seven years of age; and after that age, for leave of access to them -at reasonable times, in cases where husband and wife do not live -together. In case of the divorce of the parents, the court will give -directions as to the custody of the children of the marriage, taking -into consideration the offence against morality of the guilty parent, -but also what is best for the children’s education and upbringing and -prospects in life. - -A parent is bound to maintain and educate his children according to his -station; and if the father should neglect his duty in this respect, -the mother—if living with her husband—may, as his agent, order what is -necessary, and he would be responsible for the expense thus incurred, -which must be strictly limited to what is reasonably necessary. If a -child should become chargeable upon the poor-rates, both father and -grandfather are responsible for repayment of the cost incurred; the -former primarily, and the latter secondarily, in case of the absence -or inability of the father. In like manner, a child may be compelled -to repay to the poor-rates authorities the cost of maintenance of his -parents, if he have the means of doing so. - -A child while under the age of twenty-one years cannot enter into a -binding contract, even with the consent and concurrence of its parent, -except for special purposes. One of these purposes is the acquisition -of knowledge which will enable the child to earn its livelihood when it -arrives at maturity. Thus apprentices and articled clerks may be bound -in such a manner as to render it compulsory for them to serve until -they respectively attain the age of twenty-one years; but the binding -cannot be extended beyond that age. As soon as an apprentice attains -his majority, he may elect to vacate his indenture, and be free from -any further compulsory service. This is founded upon the well-known -principle, that a minor can only be compelled to perform contracts -entered into on his behalf during his minority; and that when he -attains the age of twenty-one years, he is free to enter into contracts -on his own behalf, which stand upon an entirely different footing, and -are entirely inconsistent with the former contract. It may also be -mentioned here that a minor, when he becomes of age, is free to elect -whether he will perform any other contracts which he may have entered -into during his minority. If any such contract be beneficial, he may -allow it to stand; and if it be otherwise, he may cancel it; but the -other party, if of full age, will be bound by his contract. - -In this connection we may notice the Infants Relief Act, 1874. Although -primarily aimed at the protection of ‘infants’ from the consequences -of their own imprudence, this statute, the operation of which extends -to the whole of the United Kingdom, has been found very useful in -relieving children against a cruel but not uncommon kind of pressure -by impecunious parents, who in many cases induced their children to -encumber their expectant property in order to assist them (the parents) -when in difficulties. The manner was this: The son would while under -age sign a promise to execute a valid charge, which would accordingly -be executed the day after he attained his majority; and though the -first promise was worthless, the deed was binding. But it was enacted -that all contracts entered into by ‘infants’ for the repayment of money -lent or to be lent, and all accounts stated with ‘infants,’ should be -not merely voidable, but absolutely void; and further, the ratification -when of full age of any such promise should be void also, and the -ratified promise should be incapable of being enforced. - -A parent may lawfully maintain an action on behalf of his child, -whether such child be an infant or of full age, without being liable -to be prosecuted for the offence of maintenance or champerty. In -like manner, a child if of full age may maintain an action on behalf -of his parent, even though he may have no personal interest in the -subject-matter of the action. - -A parent may also protect his child, or a child protect his parent, -from violence or assault, in such circumstances as would expose a -stranger to the charge of officiously intermeddling with strife which -did not concern him. - -The power of an Englishman to dispose of his property by will being -absolute, the consideration of a parent’s will as affecting his -children need not detain us long. The principal peculiarity is this: -In case of the death of a child or grandchild of a testator in the -lifetime of the latter, leaving lawful issue, any devise or bequest in -the will in favour of the deceased child or grandchild will take effect -in favour of his issue in the same manner as if he had survived the -testator and died immediately afterwards. In similar circumstances, a -gift in favour of any other person who died in the testator’s lifetime -would lapse, that is to say, it would altogether fail to take effect. - -But in Scotland, the power of a father to dispose of his property -by will is much more restricted, being confined to what is called -the ‘dead man’s’ part—namely, so much as remains after setting aside -one-third of the personal property or movable goods for the widow; and -one-third for the children of the testator. Or if there be no widow, -then the share of the children is one-half, which is divisible among -them equally. The rights of either widow or child may be renounced by -an antenuptial marriage contract, or for some equivalent provision -given in such a contract, or by will; and a child of full age may by -deed discharge his claim for _legitim_, as the children’s share of the -succession is called. - -In case of intestacy, the eldest son is by the common law his -father’s heir-at-law, subject to his mother’s dower, if not barred -or discharged. But in some localities, special customs exist, such -as Borough English—prevalent at Maldon in Essex and elsewhere, by -virtue of which the youngest son is the heir—and Gavelkind, which -affects most of the land in Kent, where all the sons inherit in -equal shares. Returning to the common-law rule, where there are both -sons and daughters, the eldest son inherits to the exclusion of his -younger brothers, and his sisters whether elder or younger. But if -the intestate had no son, but several daughters, they would take -as co-parceners in equal undivided shares. It will be understood -that heirs and co-heiresses take freehold houses and land; but that -leaseholds are personal property, and like money and goods, stocks and -shares, are distributable, subject as hereinafter mentioned, among the -widow (if any) and relatives of the deceased. Copyhold property is real -estate, and the descent is in each case regulated by the custom of the -manor of which the property is holden; Borough English and Gavelkind -being much more common as affecting copyhold than freehold estates, -though even in the case of copyholds the common-law rule is by far the -most general. - -The personal property of an intestate is the primary fund for payment -of funeral and other expenses, costs of administration, and debts. -When these have been paid, the widow (if any) is entitled to one-third -of what is left; and the other two-thirds are divisible among the -children. If there be no widow, the children take all, the collateral -relatives having no claim. If any of the testator’s children have died -before him, leaving issue, such issue take in equal shares the portion -which their parent would have taken if living. - -In England, the heir-at-law who takes his father’s freehold estates -is not thereby deprived of his share, or any portion of his share, of -the personalty. But in Scotland, the heir must bring into account or -collate the value of what he has received in that capacity, before he -can claim any part of the movables. - -If a son or daughter be possessed of real and personal estate, and -die unmarried, or widowed without children, and without making a -will, leaving a surviving father, he would take the real estate as -heir-at-law, and the personal estate as sole next of kin. If he were -dead, the mother would take a share of the personal estate with the -surviving brothers and sisters, and the eldest brother would inherit -the real estate as heir-at-law. If the mother were living, but no -brothers or sisters, nephews or nieces, she would have the personal -estate, but could not inherit the real estate so long as any heir could -be found on the paternal side. The children of deceased brothers and -sisters take equally amongst them the share of personal estate which -their deceased parent would have taken if living. - -The law of Scotland is not so favourable to the father and mother of -intestates. The father does not succeed to real or heritable estate -if there be a brother or sister, and in the same event his right is -limited to that of one-half the movable estate. When the father has -predeceased, and the mother survives, she takes one-third of the -movable succession, and the rest goes to brothers and sisters or other -next of kin. - -Having thus considered the rights, duties, and liabilities of parents -with respect to the persons, the necessities, and the property of their -children, and the corresponding rights and obligations of children -with regard to their parents, we must offer a few remarks on the -authority of parents over their children, and the extent to which that -authority may be delegated to others. - -A parent may control the actions of his children so long as they remain -under his roof, and may insist upon his regulations being observed -and his commands obeyed. While they are of tender years, he may -inflict any reasonable punishment for disobedience or other offence, -either by personal chastisement or otherwise; but he must not torture -them, nor endanger their lives or health. He may also instruct his -children himself; or he may send them to school; in the latter case, -delegating to the schoolmaster so much as may be necessary of his power -to restrain and correct the children so intrusted to his care. Since -compulsory education became law, he _must_ use reasonable means to get -them educated. If a child should prove incorrigible, the parent may -apply to the justices of the peace to send him or her to an Industrial -School; which they have power to do on being satisfied by evidence upon -oath that the child is altogether beyond the power of its parent to -manage or control; and an order may be made upon the parent to pay the -expense of the child’s maintenance and education in such school, if his -means are sufficient to enable him to do so. - -The liabilities imposed by marriage differ to some extent from the -responsibilities of actual parentage. Thus, a man may be compelled to -repay the expense incurred by the maintenance of his own father, but -not of his wife’s father, in the workhouse. And though a married man is -bound to keep his wife’s children, born before his marriage with her, -until they are sixteen years of age respectively, if his wife live so -long; yet, if she were to die while any of them were under that age, -his responsibility would immediately cease. And if any of them were to -become chargeable upon the poor-rates when more than sixteen years old, -the stepfather could not be required to contribute towards the expense -of their maintenance, even though their mother should be still living. - - - - -IN A FURNITURE SALEROOM. - -A DAY-DREAM. - - -I just missed by a neck, as they say in steeplechasing dialect—though -on second thoughts I think it must have been liker a full -horse-length—my lot being cast among second-hand furniture. I believe -I was of too philosophic a nature to make a practical auctioneer and -furniture-broker of. At least, such was something like the opinion held -by my employer—the old gentleman was a bit of a wag—who told my father, -when the latter went to see why this knight of the hammer had dispensed -with his son’s services, that my mind, like the late lamented Prince -of Denmark’s, was of too speculative a character ever to ‘mak’ saut -to my kail’ at his profession, and advised him to bring me ‘out for a -minister.’ I need not say that this advice was, for divers reasons, -never acted upon. - -I suppose it must have been my twelve-months’ sojourn in this old -worthy’s service which gives me to this day a certain meditative -interest in brokers’ shops and old furniture salerooms. I am not at any -time much of a stroller about the streets and gazer into shop-windows; -but next to looking into the windows of book or print and picture -shops, I have a weakness for sauntering into musty old salerooms, and -staring idly at the miscellaneous articles of second-hand furniture -huddled within their walls, and moralising on the mutability of human -hopes and possessions. A spick-and-span new furniture and upholstery -establishment has no more fascination for me than a black-and-white -undertaker’s. But out of the bustle of the street and the broiling heat -of the mid-day sun—which is my favourite time of indulgence—and in the -dusty and shadowy corners, festooned with cobwebs, of a broker’s shop -or old furniture saleroom, I forget how the time goes, as I join over -again the sundered human relationships to the pieces of furniture at -which I stand staring in half-reverie. I fancy it must have been this -same dreamy tendency which, peeping forth in my boyish career, led -my shrewd master to forecast my future with so much certainty to my -parent. I care not about purchasing any of the articles that so absorb -me. It is not the barren desire of possession which makes me haunt -these dusty salerooms. When the place becomes crowded with people, and -the auctioneer mounts his little pulpit, I gather my wandered wits -together and ‘silently steal away.’ - -I say I love to linger among the cobwebs and amid the silence of -old furniture salerooms—as fruitful a source of meditation to me as -loitering among tombs ever was to Harvey. That venerable eight-day -clock standing against the wall, behind those slim walnut chairs and -couch done up in the bright green repp, its mahogany almost as black -as your Sunday hat with age, turns on my thinking faculty just as the -‘auld Scots’ sangs’ moves my guidwife Peggy to tears. I think of all -the pairs of eyes that have gazed up at the hands and figures on its -olive-tinted face, and wonder how many of them have taken their last -look of earth. My imagination transports it to some well-to-do Scottish -cottage home, where I see, held up in fond arms, the marvelling -youngsters, in striped cotton pinafores, with their wide-open eyes -staring at the representatives of the four quarters of the globe, -painted in bright dazzling colours on each corner of the dial-plate. -Perhaps some of those same youngsters, to whose inquiring and wondering -minds the pictures were an every-day exercise, are settled down, old -men and women now, in one of these distant quarters of the globe, say -America, and are sitting at this very moment in their log-hut in the -backwoods, their minds’ eyes reverting to the familiar face of that old -clock tick-ticking away in their childhood’s home. - -Over against where it stood in that same old home, between the -room door and the end of the white scoured wooden dresser with its -well-filled delf rack, I picture to myself the wasted face of a sick -woman pillowed up in bed. What weary nights she has listened to its -tick-tack, and counted the slow hours as they struck, waiting for the -dawn! I know that her head aches no longer, and that she sleeps sound -enough now, with the summer breeze stirring the green grass on her -grave. - -Turning away from the venerable time-keeper, my eye falls on an -old-fashioned low-set chest of drawers, with dingy folding brass -handles, and little bits of the veneer chipped off here and there, -and the ivory awanting in some of the keyholes. Where are now, I ask -myself, the ashes of those bright household fires, which have winked in -the shining depths of their mahogany in the darkening gloaming, before -the blinds were drawn and the candles lit? What secrets and treasures -have not these same drawers been the repositories of! I see a pensive -female form, in striped shortgown and drugget petticoat, stop while -she is sweeping the kitchen floor, and, with palpitating heart, pull -out the centre small top drawer to take another look at the golden -curl, wrapped in a precious letter, in the corner beside two or three -well-worn toys. That bruised heart will throb no more with joy or pain; -neither will her tears fall any more like scalding lead on the blurred -parchment, as she lifts the bright curl to her lips before wrapping -it away out of sight again—till, mayhap, the next day, when the old -yearning returns, and she must needs go and unfold her treasure, the -sight of which brings the little chubby face—over which the curl used -to hang—once more before her brimming eyes. - -The little bookcase, with the diamond-shaped panes, on the top of the -chest of drawers is an object to me of even nobler regard than the -drawers themselves. My venerable uncle, who was an author too, had just -such a little bookcase on the top of his drawers, about three-fourths -filled with sombre-looking volumes. I remember I never looked up at it -as a boy, and beheld the dim dusty books, like gray ghosts, sitting -erect, or leaning against one another in the twilight shelves, but I -associated it in my fancy with the inside of his own gray head. Already -I see the titles on the backs of some of these children of dead brains -looming out of the empty gloom through the diamond-shaped panes; and I -can recognise many of my own favourites among them. The binding is more -faded and worn on the backs of some than others, as if they had been -more often in the hand and more dear to the heart of the reader. I am -almost tempted to stretch forth my hand and renew their acquaintance. -One in particular, in faded green-and-gold binding, looking out from -amongst a motley company of fiction, _The House with the Seven Gables_, -I have a covetous eye upon. - -How I should like to revisit the shadowy chambers of that old puritan -mansion, especially that low-studded oak-panelled room with the -portrait of the stern old Colonel looking down from the wall; and feel -the smell of its decaying timbers, ‘oozy’ with the memories of whole -generations of Pyncheons; to see poor perplexed old Hepzibah in the -midst of her first day’s shopkeeping, with her wreck of a resurrected -brother to care and provide for; and watch—not without reverence, even -though we are constrained sometimes to laugh—the miraculously minute -workings of her crazed old heart fighting—a kind of comic pathos, as -well as rarest heroism in her mimic battling—those troublesome spectres -of gentility which she has inherited with her Pyncheon blood. - -Alas for this most bewitching of romancers! Well might his friend -Longfellow exclaim of him: - - Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power, - And the lost clue regain? - The unfinished window in Aladdin’s tower - Unfinished must remain! - -Sitting on the shelf beneath _The House with the Seven Gables_ is the -king of all the magicians—the enchanter’s name printed in tarnished -gold letters on a faded square of scarlet morocco on its calf -back—‘Shakspeare.’ - -On this hot July forenoon, with dusty smelling streets, when the united -heart of our mighty Babylon is panting for the water-brooks, wouldn’t -it be a treat just to step into the forest of Arden? You don’t require -to change your clothes, or bolt a hurried luncheon, or run to catch -a train, or take your place on the crowded deck of a snorting greasy -steamboat under a vertical sun; but simply to open out the volume at -that most delightful of all comedies, _As You Like It_, and at once -fling yourself down ‘under the shade of melancholy boughs,’ and ‘lose -and neglect the creeping hours of time’ listening to the moralising of -a Jaques - - As he lay along - Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out - Upon the brook that brawls along this wood: - -or to an encounter of his wits with the sage fooleries of a Touchstone; -or the love-sick ravings of an Orlando; or the nimble pleasantries and -caustic humours of a Rosalind. - -But, to speak the truth, I don’t know whether I should not prefer at -this moment—to a lounge in the forest of Arden—a meditative ramble and -chat with the Wanderer in Wordsworth’s _Excursion_, which I spy leaning -against my old friend _The Vicar of Wakefield_, there, on the other -side of Shakspeare. How pleasant it would be, after toiling across the -bare wide common, baked with the scorching heat, to join that venerable -philosopher and retired packman just where the author himself meets -him by appointment, reposing his limbs on the cottage bench beside the -roofless hut of poor Margaret! - - His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut, - The shadow of the breezy elms above - Dappling his face. - -But the unceremonious porter is apparently unwilling to gratify me -so far, having, in his preparations for the sale, pushed a tall -half-tester bedstead right in front of my view of the chest of drawers -and bookcase. - -This alteration has brought to light an old armchair among a crowd -of odd window-poles and bed-bottoms, a kind of bewilderment and -shyness in its wrinkled features, as if it hardly felt at home in this -nineteenth-century saleroom, rubbing shoulders, so to speak, with -pompous old sideboards, and gouty old sofas and stuff-bottomed chairs, -and wishing it were back to the earthen cottage floor again. From its -shape and the colour of its wood, it looks more than a hundred years -old. My Aunt S——, who was a paralytic, had just such a chair, which she -sat in for ten years before she died. It had belonged to her mother’s -mother; and she took great pride in averring that Burns—who, her own -mother told her, was a crony of her father’s—had many a time sat in -it. I think I see herself sitting in it at this moment, with her great -black piercing eyes, and hear her clever critical tongue wagging as of -old. - -This ancient armchair, stuffed away amid the dust and lumber of the -saleroom, touches my feelings more nearly than any other object joined -together with hands. Its low, firm, but narrow seat, its solid curved -arms, its straight sloping back with three spars in the centre, recall -the tottering gait of silvery-haired grandfathers in knee-breeches and -‘rig-an’-fur’ stockings, and hale old grandmothers with white bordered -‘mutches’ or caps on their heads, and tartan napkins about their -stooping shoulders; and old-fashioned Scotch kitchens with eight-day -clocks, and wooden dressers, and clean-clayed roomy fireplaces with -big-bellied pots hanging from the links on the ‘swee’ or crane. - -But what household god is this which is the subject of whispering -criticism behind me? Turning round, I observe two women, evidently -intending purchasers from their remarks, and not idle dreamers like -myself, moving away from a large chest to inspect some dishes they have -suddenly caught sight of on a side-table at the further end of the -room. This chest I have seen before, especially about the term-time, -mounted on the footboard of a cab beside the driver, while its ‘sonsie’ -proprietress—unaccustomed as she is to ride in carriages—sits on the -edge of the cushioned seat inside, staring apologetically at the -foot-passengers on the pavement. It is the same kind of thing thrifty -housewives in the country used to keep their blankets in, before the -trunks and tin boxes came so much into vogue. It is painted an oak -colour, though to my mind it resembles more a musty gingerbread; and -it has a black line forming a square on each of its plain panels. -Instinctively I lift the lid and peep in. Its white wood is covered -with a wall-paper pattern of moss-roses. It has a ‘shuttle’ too, with -a little drawer underneath; the same as was in the chest I had when a -bachelor. I used to keep all my valuables in that little drawer, such -as love-letters. How those epistles accumulated! I remember I had to -press them down before the drawer would shut, when I happened to be -refreshing my memory with some of their pleasant sentiments. Peg’s -portrait used to lie here in a corner of this same charmed sepulchre. -If I were to tell my young readers how often I made an excuse to go -into my chest for something or other, and never withdrew my head -without taking a peep at Peg’s face, they would no doubt call me -spooney, though they know quite well they do the same thing themselves. - -The bustling old porter, who kept hovering in my vicinity—a kind of -astonished interest looking out of his not unkindly gray eyes—here cut -short my amorous reminiscences by shutting down the lid of the chest, -and, apparently with a view to economise space—for odd customers were -beginning to drop in—lifting a cradle on to the top of it. The cradle -is one of the old-fashioned wooden sort, with good solid rockers, which -used to be seen in the houses of plain folks in my young days, and was -usually of some antiquity, being considered an heirloom, and descending -from parent to eldest son. I remember another cradle just like this -one, in our old home. It was painted a bluish-green colour inside, and -a loud mahogany colour outside, interspersed with numberless artificial -black knots, more like figures in the hangings, or wall-paper, than -the grains of wood. That cradle had rocked no end of generations of -my progenitors; and when baby visitors gave over showing their chubby -little red pudding faces at our house, my sister and I used to play at -‘shop’ and ‘church’ in it on wet days. On these occasions, though I -allowed her—as I no doubt thought became her good-for-nothing sex—the -full management of the shop, yet I always insisted on being the -clergyman, turning the cradle on its end, and preaching from under its -hood, which served as a canopy. - -That oldest and ever newest tragedy which we must all, some time or -other, be witnesses of, or chief performers in, has been enacted in -this hollow little bed ere now. I see the worn and anxious mother -seated on a stool bending over the little sufferer in the cradle. She -has not had her clothes off for nearly a week, but she will not be -persuaded to lie down. She could never forgive herself if those glazed -little windows, so set-like now in their deep sockets, under the ashy -pale brow, were to be darkened for ever, and she not see the final -darkening. She wets continually the livid and senseless little lips, -and sighs as if her heart would burst, as she watches, in her own -words, ‘the sair, sair liftin’ o’ the wee breist, an’ the cauld, cauld -dew on the little face!’ The struggle will not last long now, and the -mother’s pent-up feelings will ere long get relief. - -Whether desirous of diverting my thoughts from this harrowing scene, or -merely thinking it a pity that I should be exercising my mind over a -lot of lifeless old sticks, the porter, with a delicacy of insight that -I would hardly have credited him with, has brought two pictures, and -without a word has put them up against the backs of two mahogany chairs -in front of me. If that porter had been my friend the biggest half of -his natural lifetime—which, judging from the furrows on his lean face -and the whiteness of his scant locks, was already anything but a short -one—he could not have selected two works of art more pat to my taste or -my present mood; and I inwardly blessed him for his thoughtful trouble, -though I had a vague suspicion that there might be a gentle touch of -irony in his ministrations. - -The largest picture, ‘Crossing the Sands,’ is a gloaming or twilight -subject, somewhere, I fancy, on the Ayrshire coast. Its features -are as familiar to me as the streets and houses in my native town. -It brings to mind the days of my childhood, when the old folks used -to hire a garret at the seaside for a few brief—for us youngsters -all too brief—days in the summer; and the lonely walks and talks of -later years, when the sun had gone down, and the newly awakened winds -blew all the stronger and fresher in our faces for their afternoon’s -slumber, and our voices mingled with the rhythmic murmur of the waves -as they broke at our feet. - -The artist, I suppose, has named his picture from the dim outline of a -horse and cart, with two figures sitting in it, crossing the darkening -sands. The tide is far out, and has left long zigzag shallow pools of -water lying in the uneven places on the sands, into which the swift -vanishing day, through a break in the dark saffron clouds, is casting -wistful looks. The same pale reflection is glimmering faintly along -the wave-broken verge of the distant sea; while the denser flood, -where it stretches out to meet the gray skyline, wears something of a -sad melancholy in its cold blue depth. In comfortable contrast with -this lonesomeness, sitting among the deepening shadows on a dark clump -of moorland, or bent, on the left-hand corner of the picture, is the -dreamiest little hut, with the rarest blue smoke rising out of its -crazy chimney, and floating like a spirit among the dark grays and -purples sleeping on the hillsides. - -The smaller upright picture is a street in Dieppe—the time, evening, -from the green tinge in the blue of the sky, and the roseate hue of -the low-lying clouds. It is just such an old French street as one -would delight in strolling through at that poetic hour, to feast one’s -eyes on the bewitching mixture of sunlight and shadow, reclining side -by side, or locked in loving embrace among the sombre reds, and rich -browns, and warm ochres on the quaint roofs and gables and walls; and -to note the leisurely figures of the picturesque women in white caps, -blue shortgowns, and red petticoats, chatting in the mellow sunlight -at the street corner, or moving along in the shadow under the eaves -of the overhanging gables; or the slow cart in the middle of the -street, its wheels resting on that streak of sunshine slanting from -the old gable at the corner; or the decrepit vegetable-woman at her -stand on the opposite side of that gutter, the fresh green colour of -her vegetables—all the fresher and greener against the daub or two of -bright red—wafting one’s thoughts away to cottage gardens and pleasant -orchards. - -But I must not tarry any longer in this old French street, or, indeed, -in this musty old saleroom, which has thrown off its pensive and -meditative humour, and taken on a brisk, practical, and business-like -air. Already the auctioneer and his spruce clerk have arrived, and -the faces of the knots of people scattered up and down the floor are -looking with expectancy towards the little pulpit. It is no longer a -place for an idle dreamer like myself, and so I saunter out to the -street. The sudden transition from the shadow of the saleroom to the -bright white sunshine on the bustling city thoroughfare, together with -the sight of the refreshing water-cart, with a group of barelegged, -merry children prancing in its cooling spray, instantly dispel my -illusions; and in another moment I am as completely in the midst of the -living present as I was before in the dead past. - - - - -SURGICAL SCRAPS. - - -There is a curious instrument in the _armamentarium_ of the surgeon -called a probang, employed for removing foreign bodies which have -become fixed in the esophagus or gullet. It consists of a flexible -stem, at one end of which is an arrangement of catgut fibres, and at -the other end a small handle. By moving the handle slightly, these -threads of catgut—which are stretched all round and parallel to the -stem at its lower end—can be bent outwards in a radiating manner, -which gives the instrument the appearance of a chimney-sweep’s broom -in miniature. When a person is so unfortunate as to get a piece of -bone stuck in his throat beyond the reach of the surgeon’s hand, the -probang is sometimes found very useful. It can be passed down the -gullet, in a closed condition, beyond the obstruction, then opened -somewhat like an umbrella, and drawn upwards, carrying with it—if all -goes well—the foreign body. The passing of such an instrument is far -from being pleasant to the patient; but if it be done with ordinary -care and judgment, it will not be attended with any harm. Every one who -has known the misery attendant upon getting a good-sized piece of bone -impacted in the food-passage, will understand that when the operation -has proved successful, the patient is likely to consider the pleasure -of seeing the offending fragment caught in the meshes of the probang -cheaply purchased by the discomfort attendant upon the passage of the -instrument. - -Another instrument employed for passing down the esophagus is used -for a different purpose. When the gullet has been severely burned -internally—as, for instance, from the accidental swallowing of -corrosive acids—after the ulcer produced has healed, there is a great -tendency to contraction in the scar, and consequent stricture of the -esophagus. This may threaten life, by tending to close the passage -altogether. To prevent this, instruments called bougies are passed -through the constriction from time to time. These bougies are simply -firm, smooth, slightly flexible rods with rounded ends, and are various -in size as regards their diameters. An instance of the passing of these -instruments being turned to account in a very curious way, occurred -some years ago in one of the London hospitals. A patient was suffering -from stricture of the esophagus, brought about in the manner above -described; and the tendency to contraction was in this case so great, -that it was only by the frequent passing of instruments that it could -be prevented from becoming to the last degree dangerous. Now, it was -impossible that the man could remain in the hospital permanently; it -was therefore decided to teach him to pass the instrument for himself. -He proved capable of this, after a certain amount of instruction; -and it then occurred to some one about the hospital that the daily -performance of this operation might be made the means by which the man -could earn a livelihood. Accordingly, the patient was advised to get a -bougie made as much as possible to resemble a sword. This he did; and -for a long time afterwards was to be seen about the streets of London -making money by what looked like the swallowing of a sword. In his -case there was really ‘no deception’ as regards the passing of a long -instrument down towards his stomach was concerned, the only deception -being that the instrument was not the weapon it represented. His -daily street performance thus served him in two ways—it supplied him -with food, and also kept open the passage by which that food could be -conveyed to his ‘inner man.’ - -The contraction about which we have spoken as taking place in scars -formed after burns of the gullet, and which is so dangerous there, also -occurs in burns on the surface of the body, and often leads to a good -deal of deformity. Burns, indeed, are a great source of trouble to -the surgeon in many ways. For instance, if a burn is very extensive, -there may be great difficulty in getting a cicatrice to form over the -whole of it. Cicatrisation only begins in the immediate neighbourhood -of living epidermis, and therefore a burn or ulcer must heal from the -circumference to the centre. But the further that the cicatricial -tissue extends from the margin of the burn, the more slowly and the -more imperfectly is it formed; and indeed it may fail altogether -to reach the centre. This difficulty has often been met by a small -operation called skin-grafting. A piece of sound skin about the size -of a split pea is pinched up—say, on the outside of the arm—and the -epidermis snipped off with a pair of curved scissors, the scissors just -going deep enough to cut slightly into the second layer of the skin -and draw a little blood. A special kind of scissors has been invented -for the purpose, that will only take up just the right amount of skin, -so that the operation is thus made even simpler still; and if it is -skilfully performed, it causes only very trifling pain. The little -fragment of skin thus separated is then placed gently, with its raw -surface downwards, on the unhealed surface of the burn. The same thing -is repeated again and again, till there are many grafts, if the burn -is a large one. Isinglass plaster, or some other similar material, is -employed to keep the grafts in position and preserve them from injury. -In about four days they should have taken root, and then the covering -can be removed. There is now a number of foci from which cicatrisation -can start; for, as before said, it will begin from where there is an -epidermal covering, and thence alone. After a time, a number of little -islands of scar tissue may be seen, which go on increasing until at -length they coalesce with one another, and also join that extending -from the margin of the burn. This is what happens if all goes well; -but, unfortunately, there is a very great tendency for a cicatrice -formed from grafts to break down and disappear, so that the result is -not by any means always so satisfactory as it at first promises to be. - -Another trouble with burns is the great pain which they invariably -cause; and numberless are the applications which have been recommended -for its relief. The great essential in all such applications is -that they should completely exclude the air; for the very slightest -irritation to the surface of a burn will give rise to the most -excruciating pain. To prevent irritation and to keep the parts at rest -is indeed one of the surest ways of relieving pain, not only in the -case of burns, but in the treatment of other forms of injury, and also -in many kinds of disease. An instance of this is found in the method -adopted to relieve the pain in certain joint diseases. Those who have -visited the Children’s Hospital in Ormond Street, or indeed any other -hospital for children, may remember having noticed that at the foot of -many of the beds there was fixed a pulley, over which ran a cord with -a weight attached to the end of it. This cord, it may further have -been noticed, was fixed at the other end to a kind of stirrup which -depended from the patient’s foot. Thus the weight—which consisted of -a tin canister partly filled with shot—had the effect of keeping the -child’s leg on the stretch continuously. In fact, the little patient -looked very much as though he was lying on a kind of rack; and if the -visitor could have heard the surgeon order more shot to be poured into -the canister, saying that he thought the patient was able to bear more -weight, the command would have sounded very like that of a torturer, -rather than that of one whose object it was to relieve pain. But the -truth is that this rack is a very humane one indeed. It is the rack of -modern times, as distinguished from that of past ages; it is the rack -of the surgeon, and not that of the inquisitor. The cases in which -this apparatus is used are almost always instances of disease of the -hip or knee joint. The object of this arrangement of pulley and weight -is, by making traction on the foot and leg, to keep the lower of the -bones, which go to form the diseased joint, away from the upper, and so -avoid the excruciating pain caused by the carious or ulcerated surfaces -touching one another. - -The benefit in such cases of having a weight drawing on the leg is -most marked at night, when the patient wishes to get to sleep. With -a good heavy weight, many a patient may sleep comfortably, who would -otherwise be in a most pitiable condition through the long watches of -the night. The position of such a person without any weight attached -would be this. Knowing from past experience what too often followed -on his dropping off to sleep, he would endeavour to keep himself from -doing so. This, however, would of course be impossible for long, and -at last the heavy eyelids would droop, the ward with its long rows of -beds would grow dimmer and dimmer, the breathing of the neighbouring -sleepers would sound fainter and yet more faint, until sight and -hearing failed him, and his long watching ended in sleep. But now -that he was no longer on his guard to keep his limb in a state of -perfect rest, the irritation of the diseased part would give rise to -spasmodic contraction of the neighbouring muscles. This contraction -of the muscles would bring the lower bone of the joint, with more or -less violence, against the upper; the two highly sensitive ulcerated -surfaces would touch, and with a shriek of agony, the child would -awake, quivering in every limb. And then, as the pain gradually grew -less, again the same terrible drowsiness would begin to oppress him; -and after another long spell of watching, he would fall asleep once -more, to be once more awakened in the same horrible manner as before. -But with a sufficient weight attached, the patient may go to sleep -confident of comparative ease; for the weight is too much for the -spasmodic action of the muscles to overcome, and the bony surfaces -therefore remain separated. And not only does the surgeon’s rack thus -save the patient from a terrible amount of pain, but, by allowing -him to get good rest of a night, it must increase enormously the -probability of ultimate recovery. - - - - -IN THE RHINE WOODS. - -CUCKOO! CUCKOO! - - - I hear it again! - An echo of youth from its far sunny shore; - Through the dim distant years it resoundeth once more. - How mingled the feelings that rise with the strain— - The joy and the pain! - - I hear it, but not - In the home of my childhood, the glorious and grand, - ’Mid the wild woody glens of my own native land. - Ah! dear to me still is each far distant spot, - And present in thought. - - I see them to-day! - The glory of Spring-time on valley and hill, - That struck to my heart with a rapturous thrill, - And friends in the sunshine of life’s early ray, - Young, happy, and gay. - - All vanished and gone! - Could I see it indeed as in spirit I see, - The home of my youth would be joyless to me; - Like a bird’s empty nest when the tenant has flown, - Deserted and lone. - - Soft, softly it rings! - O shades of the buried Past, slumber in peace! - O heart, bid thy sad, tender memories cease! - And welcome the Present, with all that it brings - Of beautiful things. - - How often in youth - I have dreamed of this land of the oak and the vine, - This green, lovely land on the banks of the Rhine, - With longing prophetic, that one day in sooth - The dream should be truth. - - Now gladly I rest - ’Mid its scenes of enchantment with those that I love; - Warm hearts are around me, blue skies are above; - And though distant are some of the dearest and best, - I am thankful, and blest. - - The years as they roll - Rob the cheek of its glow and the eyes of their light, - And much we have cherished is lost to the sight; - But one thing remains that they cannot control— - The youth of the Soul. - - I. 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