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diff --git a/old/66579-0.txt b/old/66579-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 1a98e5c..0000000 --- a/old/66579-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2256 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular -Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 46, Vol. I, November 15, -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. 46, Vol. I, November 15, 1884 - -Author: Various - -Release Date: October 20, 2021 [eBook #66579] - -Language: English - -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. 46, VOL. I, NOVEMBER 15, -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. 46.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._] - - - - -SCOTTISH DEER-FORESTS. - - -Deer-stalking has for many a long year been looked upon as the king -of sports; and in Scotland, a large area of land has from an early -period been occupied by the red-deer and the roebuck. At the present -time, as far as has been ascertained by a recent inquiry under Royal -Commission, the extent of all the deer-forests in Scotland amounts -to about two millions of acres. It is only, however, right to say -that the land devoted to these animals could not be more profitably -employed. It has been affirmed by practical men that it is scarcely -possible to feed even one hardy black-faced sheep on less than six -acres of such land, so scant is the herbage. Indeed, some intelligent -farmers maintain that it will take a hundred and sixty acres of -forest-land to graze a score of these sheep. No person who is even -tolerably familiar with the deer-districts of Scotland will gainsay -this. The contour, altitude, and climate of a deer-forest quite unfit -it for agricultural purposes—the range of ground occupied by these -stately animals is of the most miscellaneous description: hill and -dale, moor and morass, mountain and glen, with every here and there -rocky precipices, and small groups of trees naturally planted, and -chiefly of the hardy native birch. In the three chief deer-counties -of Scotland, the cultivable area is singularly small in proportion -to their total extent. Taking Argyll, Inverness, and Ross-shire as -examples, only three hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred -and ninety-eight acres are to be found under cultivation, out of an -area which covers six million eight hundred and twenty-three thousand -and two acres, leaving nearly six and a half millions of acres to be -inhabited by sheep, deer, and grouse, and as the site of lochs, rivers, -and mountains, and sterile places on which nothing grows and nothing -can live. - -No authentic statistics are collected in Scotland of the deer which are -annually slain in the way of sport; but we are enabled from records -which appear from time to time in the public prints, to estimate the -number of stags which are killed in the different forests. In the -county of Inverness—which may be called the deer-county of Scotland -_par excellence_, in the same way as Perthshire is looked upon as being -the representative grouse-producing county of the kingdom—probably -about sixteen hundred stags are annually killed. The figure which -represents the number of deer in all Scotland, counting animals of all -ages, must be very considerable, seeing that, as stated in evidence -before the recent Royal Commission, it yields to the sportsman’s rifle -four thousand six hundred and fifty stags per annum, and a nearly -equal number of hinds. Scrope the deer-stalker, when writing his -celebrated work some fifty years since, estimated that in the Forest -of Athole, which at that date contained an area of over fifty-one -thousand acres, there would be, young and old, between five and six -thousand deer. Calculating on that data, there ought now to be found -on the two million acres of land at present given over to stags and -hinds and their calves, as many as two hundred and twenty-five thousand -animals of the deer kind. Each stag which succumbs to the prowess of -the stalker has been estimated to cost fifty pounds to the lessee -or proprietor of a deer-forest. At that rate, the four thousand six -hundred and fifty stags annually killed in Scotland represent a sum of -two hundred and thirty-two thousand five hundred pounds paid in the -form of rent and other items of expenditure which are yearly incurred. -As to the rent paid for particular deer-forests, it varies considerably -according to extent and amenities. Some forests contain a large area of -ground; and although the rental per acre looks trifling enough—ranging -as it probably does from ninepence to double, or in some instances to -treble, that sum—the amount soon accumulates and becomes important. For -an area of twelve thousand acres, a thousand pounds will frequently be -paid. Many Scottish forests are, however, rented at double that sum; -and not a few at an even larger rent. In the county of Inverness, -for example, there are a dozen which yield a total amount of fully -thirty-three thousand pounds, including five of three thousand pounds -and upwards, and one of nearly six thousand pounds, of yearly rent. -In the counties of Ross, Argyll, Aberdeen, and Perth there are also -many forests which command a high price. In the first-named county, we -could name twenty that fetch an aggregate annual rent of upwards of -thirty-three thousand pounds, or an average of nearly seventeen hundred -pounds; while it is no secret that an American gentleman pays a yearly -rental for deer-ground in Inverness and Ross of nearly eleven thousand -pounds. - -Deer-stalking has been denominated ‘the pastime of princes;’ and it is -a sport that calls for pluck, patience, and endurance on the part of -those who undertake it. From daybreak to sundown has been often spent -in circumventing the monarch of the mountain; and often, after a hard -day’s work, the noble hart has got the better of his pursuers, and -found his way to a place of safety. The deer is difficult of access, -being a most suspicious and wary animal, with a wonderfully acute power -of scent and sense of hearing. The antlered stag has to be watched from -afar with a powerful telescope, the anxious stalker and his gillies -requiring to be circumspect in all their movements. As an intelligent -forester told the writer: ‘You have to creep on your stomach like a -serpent; you have to crouch as you go like a collier at work; while -to make sure of your prey, you may have to make a tour of a couple of -miles, even though you are just about within range. You must force your -way through the morass, and must, if necessary, walk for a few hundred -yards up to your middle in water—that is all in the way of business, -sir, when you go deer-stalking. A slight rustle, the displacing of -a stone on the mountain-side as you laboriously creep or climb to -overlook your quarry, and your chance is gone; the deer being perhaps -miles away before you can realise the fact that you have disturbed him.’ - -These words contain an epitome of the work of deer-stalking. A stag -will note a man a long way off, and will, when he does so, most -probably at once take alarm and run for his life. The sense of smell -which has been bestowed on these animals is wonderful; wind carries the -scent to them unbroken, and whenever they have ‘got the wind,’ as it is -called, of man, or any other source of disturbance, they are sure to -move off to a place of safety. When once a herd of deer is disturbed, -they will take themselves away to a distance; and it is generally a -considerable time before they settle down again to rest or feed in -quietness. The red-deer is excessively shy, and, as we have been trying -to show, easily frightened. The melancholy note of a flying plover, -the crowing of a cock-grouse, or the bustling past of a mountain hare, -will sometimes cause him to gallop in a state of alarm for a mile or -two before he pauses to see what has happened; and consequently, it -is generally the policy of the devoted deer-stalker to discourage -the rearing of grouse or hares in his deer-forest. The desire for -possessing ‘fine heads’ causes some of the best specimens of the tribe -to be shot at an early stage of the season, a stag-royal being a prize -greatly coveted. It is a somewhat curious feature of the economy of -a forest that so few horns are found. The deer sheds its horns every -year; but what becomes of most of those that are shed is not very -accurately known, the number found not being in anything like proper -proportion to the number that must be shed. The horns, as a general -rule, are given to the foresters who find them, as a perquisite; and -therefore it may be taken for granted they are well looked after; or -their scarcity may be partly due to the fact of their being eaten by -the deer themselves after being shed! This, to a certain extent at -least, seems certainly to be the case. - -It has been said of the Highland sports of deer-stalking and -grouse-shooting, that as they never can be made to ‘pay’ in a -commercial sense, so they never can be vulgarised. The deer-forests -in particular are sure to remain select; it is only men who have an -annual income of many thousands who can afford to indulge themselves -in the ‘pastime of princes.’ As regards the produce of these vast -areas of ground—the venison—it can hardly be said to have a marketable -value. To produce a haunch at table on the occasion of a dinner-party -is with some persons a matter of ambition; but table venison, except -in Highland shooting-lodges and hotels, is generally obtained from -park-bred fallow-deer, especially fed for the purpose, and which in its -season commands a very high price. Red-deer venison—that is, a haunch -from a Highland hart or hind—can only be assigned a secondary place -in the cuisine. Happily, some sportsmen have discovered that venison -does not require to be kept till it has begun to decay before it can -be brought to table, but can be used to the greatest advantage in the -space of two or three days after being killed, when its flavour is -excellent and the flesh presumably nutritious. The deer can also be cut -into chops, such cuts being delicious. Among sportsmen who thus utilise -their venison we may be allowed to name the father of them all—Horatio -Ross. There is, however, some probability that the Scottish red-deer -may yet cut a better figure at table than it has ever done, and pains -are being taken, we understand, to fortify the various breeds. The -deer is a rather local animal, and therefore there must be in the -various herds a certain amount of in-breeding; and to counteract the -deterioration which must result from such a circumstance, Sutherland -stags were some time ago placed in the forests of Ross and Cromarty -with gratifying results; the Queen, it was some time ago stated, had -forwarded some red-deer from Windsor to be crossed with the deer of the -Duke of Portland in the county of Caithness; and various gentlemen well -known in the deer-forest world of the Highlands have recently followed -these examples. It is to be hoped we may learn in time how these -experiments have succeeded. - -In conclusion, we have only to remark, that it is a fortunate -circumstance for the owners of Highland estates that they can be -rented for deer-forests. In no other way could the proprietors obtain -so good an income from their lands. Those engaged in the sport of -deer-stalking year by year expend a large amount of money; they -give remunerative employment to many hundred persons, and have done -much in many instances to improve the moral as well as the material -circumstances of the people by setting those employed by them a good -example. As to the question whether it would be more profitable to feed -sheep or deer, that must be left to settle itself by the inevitable -operation of economic law. It is a question of rental; persons having -moors and forests in their hands, naturally enough let them to those -who offer most money for them. It has been accurately ascertained by -the Royal Commission of Inquiry into the Crofting System, &c., that all -the deer-forests in Scotland—comprising about two million acres—are -capable of throwing on the market only about four hundred thousand -sheep per annum; and as there are in the United Kingdom nearly thirty -million sheep, it is at once seen how comparatively meagre is the -displacement of sheep by the Scottish deer-forests. - - - - -BY MEAD AND STREAM. - - -CHAPTER LVI.—UPHILL. - -She knew and he knew that they were something more to each other on -that white winter day than they had ever been before. What the degree -of the ‘something more’ might be, neither Madge nor Philip attempted -to calculate. They were conscious of it, and that was enough: yet -both wondered how there could be this sense of closer alliance, when, -looking back, they remembered how often they had thought that nothing -on earth could decrease or increase their affection. They were learning -the priceless lesson that _Love_ grows in suffering where mere passion -quickly withers and dies, and frequently turns to hate. - -An honest, promptly spoken word had saved them from folly—cleared the -mist from his eyes, and scoured the misery out of both hearts. And it -was Madge who spoke this magical word, as it is the loving woman—God -bless her—who always does. But then, says the cynic, ‘the loving woman’ -is so rare that she may be freely allowed all possible praise: vanity -and interest have generally much more to do in linking men and women -than affection. Read your newspaper, note the lives of those around -you, count the sores which the four walls of every house conceal, and -then you will know how rare she is.—Go, cynic; we will shut our eyes -and dream the beautiful dream of all romance, that women are fair, -self-sacrificing, and loyal in their love. - -Madge was insensible of any special heroism in taking the common-sense -view of her duty to Philip and acting upon it. So now, the happy end -being achieved, she turned calmly to think of what they had to do for -others. - -As they walked back towards the cottage, she spoke about Caleb Kersey, -and the perilous position in which he was placed by the accusation -of Coutts, supported as it was by the servant’s unintentionally -exaggerated account of the prisoner’s conduct at the door of the -Manor a few hours before the fire was discovered. She learned with -satisfaction that Philip had not forgotten his unlucky foreman. - -‘I have been to the court,’ he said, ‘and Caleb is remanded for a week, -in order to collect further evidence as to his movements on that night, -and to see how my father progresses.’ - -‘How did he look? What did he say?’ - -‘He looked as if he did not care what befell him; he said nothing more -than that he was innocent, and I am sure of it. The poor fellow has -been cruelly upset by Pansy’s conduct, and he has got into this scrape -because he could not take warning in time that Coutts was too cautious -a man to become his rival.’ - -‘But will he be able to prove his innocence?’ - -‘I hope so; and the next examination will enable us to form a clearer -idea of his chances than we can at present. Coutts has had a slight -disappointment in a business transaction, and is merciless towards -Caleb. I suppose he is relieved to find some one to vent his spleen on.’ - -Philip smiled faintly, and she was glad to see even the least sign of -his returning to his natural good-humoured way of viewing life. He did -not explain to her that the business transaction in which Coutts had -failed was his attempt to secure a snug place in Mr Shield’s will by -ousting his brother. - -‘Whatever we settle to do,’ Mr Shield had said with a shrewd twinkle in -his eyes, and referring to Coutts, ‘don’t let that gentleman into our -plans.’ - -Mr Beecham, with a grave bow, had acquiesced in this counsel, the -wisdom of which Philip could not dispute, although he was not at the -moment acquainted with the details of his brother’s design. - -‘Don’t see the dodge?’ continued Shield brusquely. ‘It’s plain as -daylight. He wanted to get you into a hole, reckoning that the rich -uncle would give him your place. He expected that bill would do it; for -if he didn’t know from the first that it was a forgery, he believed it -was, and made sure of getting his own and more out of the rich relative -somehow. But when he heard of things going wrong, and being sharp -enough to see that other people had their eyes open as well as him, -he got too anxious to hedge to be able to carry out his scheme as he -intended. Didn’t quite miss his mark either, though’—this was uttered -like a growl of disappointment—‘for, thanks to you, he has got his own; -but he’ll get no more.’ - -Philip remembered with what cynical frankness Coutts had explained the -ethics of business which guided him; but, until now, he had always -imagined there was more talk than practice in it. He certainly never -suspected him of being capable of putting such theories into practice -with a friend and relative. Pat upon this reflection, one of Coutts’s -favourite apothegms recurred to him—‘There are no friendships in -business.’ He owned with chagrin that the theories of Wrentham and -Coutts were identical, although the former was not so careful in -utilising them as to succeed. - -The brothers rarely met at this time, and then only exchanged a passing -‘How do you do?’ After Mr Hadleigh’s removal to Willowmere, Coutts -arranged with Dr Joy to send for him if there should be any marked -change for the worse in the patient’s condition. - -‘He wants quiet, you say,’ was the observation of this smart young man -of business; ‘and there is no use in my trotting out here when I can do -nothing. You’ll let me know if anything is required.’ - -He was punctual as ever in his attendance at the office; lunched -and dined at his club, where he spent the evening playing billiards -or cards, with an occasional diversion to one of those shady places -to which ‘baccarat’ was the fatal lure. But Coutts did not lose; -even here his usual caution protected him. He did not want to see -Philip at present; for although his money was safe, he felt mortified -by his inability to penetrate the mystery of the bill, and by the -consciousness that he had failed most egregiously in the attempt to -ingratiate himself with Mr Shield. - -Philip paid a brief visit daily to the farm, but it was very brief; and -in that first week of anxiety, Madge and he spoke little of themselves -or of their future. There was no need: everything was understood -between them now, and they were too deeply engaged in earnest duties -to allow themselves any relaxation until the immediate crisis in their -affairs had been passed. - -At the works, Philip laboured with all his might to pull things -straight, and he had frequent occasion to wish that he might have had -the assistance of Caleb Kersey. Mr Beecham, however, was at his elbow, -encouraging him with words of hope and sage advice. The accounts of -various firms as represented in their invoices were largely reduced -in consequence of Wrentham’s confessions. In most cases it turned out -that two sets of invoices had been prepared: one set gave the real -amounts which were to be paid to the dealers; the other set gave the -sums which Philip had to pay. The explanation given was that Wrentham -had represented himself as the buyer, and was therefore at liberty to -charge whatever price he could get when he sold. - -Even in the first transaction which Philip had entered into, namely, -the purchase of the land, a bold attempt had been made to mulct him in -a sum equal to double its value. He had, however, absolutely refused to -listen to the terms proposed; and Wrentham had been obliged to content -himself with what most people would have considered a very satisfactory -commission of twenty per cent. - -The details of these frauds—or should they be called merely ‘sharp -practice?’—were forced from Wrentham as much by the terror of Bob -Tuppit’s threat to give evidence in the matter of the forged bill as -by gratitude for the generosity of Philip and his uncle. One by one -the accounts were amended as far as they could be; and the amendment -represented a considerable amount. - -Wrentham gave his information with the air of a man who has simply -failed in what promised to be a good speculation. Two things distressed -him—he had been found out, and he had lost the whole of the money he -had schemed so elaborately to obtain, by mistakes on the turf and the -Stock Exchange. One important item, however, was safe. Despite his -gambling infatuation, he had invested the proceeds of the forged bill -in sound securities, so that the whole amount was recoverable. Yet the -man was so insensible to the criminality of his proceedings, that he -was secretly regretting the loss of the pleasure and excitement he -might have purchased with this money, if he had not been fool enough to -desire to have a nest-egg. - - * * * * * - -In this week of hard work and anxiety to Philip and Madge, Caleb Kersey -was again called on to answer the charge of malicious incendiarism. -The doctors were able to give a satisfactory report of Mr Hadleigh’s -progress; and that was so much in the prisoner’s favour. All the rest -told heavily against him, especially his apparent indifference as to -the result of the trial, which some honest country-folk regarded as -signs of the hardened sinner, who had caused so much disturbance in -the country by his demands for higher wages and better housing for the -agricultural labourers. - -He admitted the general accuracy of the statement made by Coutts -regarding their interview; whilst he refused to give any information -as to the grounds of their quarrel. He affirmed, however, that after -the door of the Manor had been closed against him, he had speech with -Coutts’s father, who, on hearing his complaint, had directed him to be -at the house early in the morning, and promised that justice should be -done him. He further admitted that it was true that he had only reached -his lodgings in the village a few minutes before the first alarm of -fire was raised. - -On his own showing, there seemed to be no alternative for the -magistrate but to commit him for trial. - -At this point, Mr Jackson, of Hawkins and Jackson, solicitors, who was -acting for the prisoner by the instruction of some friends, called -forward that astute detective, Sergeant Dier. He had been engaged -for several days investigating into the origin of the fire; and he -was now prepared with evidence which would not only establish the -prisoner’s innocence, but would show that he had behaved heroically on -the occasion, and was in fact the man who at the peril of his own, had -saved the life of Mr Lloyd Hadleigh, the proprietor of Ringsford. - -The face of Sergeant Dier was a picture of good-humoured satisfaction; -whilst preserving a proper degree of professional firmness and -equanimity, as the case was developed in court. Mr Jackson’s sharp -visage was aglow with self-complacency, as if he would say, ‘I alone -have done it.’ - -First there was the testimony of Mr Hadleigh, written down at his -bedside by a duly qualified gentleman—to the effect that he had made an -appointment to meet the prisoner as the latter had affirmed, and for -the purpose mentioned by him. Next Philip gave the man an excellent -character for intelligence, sobriety, and honesty. He was followed by -half-a-dozen witnesses who had seen Caleb’s brave rescue of Mr Hadleigh -when no one else would dare to attempt it. - -Last came a housemaid, who confessed what she had been too much -frightened to confess before. She had been sitting up late writing -a letter (to her sweetheart of course—these things occupy a great -deal of time), and hearing voices downstairs, she had gone into the -passage, curious to discover the cause of the disturbance. As she was -retreating hastily, she upset a paraffine lamp; but in her eagerness to -get back to her room, she did not observe any signs of fire, or think -of any danger until she heard the alarm. - -The result of this evidence was a severe reprimand to the girl, and the -instant discharge of Caleb Kersey without a stain on his character, and -with a high compliment from the bench on the gallantry he had displayed -in the rescue of Mr Hadleigh. - -Caleb thanked His Worship, and retired, but not before Mr Jackson -had whispered that it was a question whether he had not grounds for -an action against Coutts Hadleigh. Poor Caleb neither understood nor -heeded this suggestion in his present state of mind. He wanted to get -away from the place. He was stopped, however, by Philip, who grasped -his hand warmly, and asked him to come back to the works. - -‘Thank you kindly, sir; but it may not be. I am bound to cross the -water, and seek some place where I can forget the old land and—the old -friends.’ - -‘Hoots, man, what clavers,’ exclaimed the gardener, stepping forward. -‘You should not be headstrong. There’s as good living in the auld -country as in the new, if you would seek it in the right way.’ - -A kindly hand pressed Caleb’s arm, and a soft voice said in a tone of -intense relief: - -‘I am glad you are safe.’ - -Caleb pressed Pansy’s hand in his own, and held it firmly for a few -seconds. - -‘I’m obliged to you,’ he said quietly, although huskily. ‘I wish you -well.’ - -And with that he forced his way through the group of friends and -disappeared. - - - - -HOME-NURSING. - -BY A LADY. - - -FOURTH ARTICLE. - -Having fully considered the choice and management of a sick-room, we -now turn to those personal cares essential alike to the patient’s -comfort and well-being. - -We have already spoken of the need of absolute cleanliness in the -sick-room; and as regards the patient himself, it is hardly possible -to overestimate the importance of scrupulous attention to every detail -affecting the purity of his immediate surroundings. Not only should -bed and body linen be kept fresh and clean, but everything that has -become soiled in using must at once be removed from the room. It is -a very common practice in home-nursing to make a collection of dirty -things, to be carried downstairs when any one is going; in this way, I -have known a room to be fouled for hours, the patient being considered -whimsical for complaining of odours not perceptible to his nurse. Now, -any such complaint should receive immediate attention, and a nurse -should never rest satisfied till she has discovered and remedied the -evil. It not seldom happens that the patient’s sensitive condition -makes him extra quick to discern such warning of danger; and the nurse -who really desires to do her duty, instead of taking offence, will -gladly avail herself of the help thus given; for it must be borne in -mind that as surely as smoke indicates fire, so surely does a bad -smell indicate a foulness of air, which will never be remedied till the -cause has been removed. Remembering this, it will be seen how foolish -is the practice of drowning unpleasant odours by the indiscriminate use -of disinfectants; these have their special value—their proper sphere -we shall consider in dealing with infectious diseases; but in ordinary -illness, they are apt to be used simply as a covering-up of evils which -demand entire and immediate removal. - -As regards personal cleanliness, many people still retain the -old-fashioned fear of washing, which used to condemn the patient to a -state of dirt, equally uncomfortable and injurious. Of course, care and -discrimination are needful, and if there is any doubt on the matter, -it is better to ask the doctor’s opinion; but as a rule, daily washing -of face, neck, and arms is possible in all cases fit for home-nursing; -in addition, the legs and feet should be washed about every other day; -and whenever practicable, a weekly bath should be given. For the daily -wash, tepid water and a piece of flannel suit most patients best; but -where cold sponging is a refreshment, it may be used, provided due care -is taken to avoid a chill. - -In cases where there is great feebleness, much care must be exercised -in washing the patient and changing his body-linen. Before beginning, -the nurse should see that the room is properly warmed, and that _all_ -she is likely to need is ready to hand; she must be careful that no -draught shall reach her patient, and that he does not get a chill -through unnecessary dawdling; at the same time, she must not hurry him, -so as to increase the fatigue. - -Any amount of washing is tiring to the very weak, and therefore toilet -operations had better begin soon after breakfast. If possible, the -body-linen should be changed at the same time. It is a good plan -to keep two sets of under-linen going, so that the same may not be -worn day and night. If the patient perspires much, the linen must be -dried and warmed each time of changing; it is not enough that it has -been once aired; every time it becomes damp the same process must be -repeated. The same thing applies to towels, which are so often put away -damp and used again without airing; no wonder that illness, resulting -from cold, shivering or a fit of coughing, not seldom follows the -washing process, whilst the simple precaution of using a towel well -aired and warmed would do away with the discomfort. - -Sometimes lying in bed produces great irritability of the whole skin, -and the patient shrinks from any attempts at washing. In such cases, a -soft sponge should be used, in one direction only, and that downwards; -and a nice way of drying a sensitive part is to lay the towel smoothly -over the place and pass the hand over the towel three or four times, -very much as though drying a wet page with blotting-paper. - -During the process of bit-by-bit washing, the bedclothes must be -protected by a piece of mackintosh or thick towel; but should they -become wetted, they must be changed at once, for even if not damp -enough to do serious injury, there is sure to be some amount of -discomfort; and everything, however small, that causes annoyance must -be looked upon as a drawback to recovery, and treated accordingly. - -In addition to the regular washing, any portion of the patient’s body -that becomes accidentally soiled must be at once cleansed; and whenever -the confinement to bed becomes lengthy, the back and shoulders should -be washed every day with warm water and soap, thoroughly dried, and -lightly dusted over with finely powdered starch. The patient must also -be prevented from remaining too long in one position; and if too weak -to move himself, it will be part of the nurse’s care to turn him from -side to side every three or four hours. Where this is impracticable, -pressure must be relieved by the use of cushions, those with a hole -in the middle being most useful for the purpose. If these precautions -are not taken, the most prominent bones, exercising undue pressure on -soft parts, will cause them to give way, the skin will become tender -and inflamed, and if not stopped in time, a painful wound, difficult -to relieve or cure, will be the result. I have known cases where these -wounds have caused infinitely more distress and pain than the patient’s -actual disease; and yet, with few exceptions, it is only a question -of care and attention. So true is this, that a trained nurse looks -upon such wounds as a disgrace, and is constantly on her guard against -them; but the inexperienced nurse neglects this necessary watchfulness, -simply through ignorance of the danger to be avoided. But forewarned -should be forearmed; and by taking care to avoid dirt, pressure, and -creases in the bedding, even the most inexperienced stand a good chance -of success in this most troublesome part of nursing. At the same time, -if, in spite of care, any portion of the skin reddens or becomes -sensitive, the doctor should at once be informed of the fact, for this -is one of the best examples of the old saying, ‘Prevention is better -than cure,’ and it is too late to cry out when the mischief is done. - -If the patient is too weak to sit up and use a toothbrush, a piece of -lint should be tied to the end of a small stick such as a penholder, -and wetted with water to which a little Condy’s fluid has been added; -with this, the nurse can easily clean the teeth and gums. Brushing the -hair requires a certain amount of tact and gentleness; with female -patients the hair is apt to get into a troublesome tangle, unless -plaited up loosely and tied at the ends. Sometimes moistening the -brush with toilet vinegar will be liked, and in not a few cases gentle -brushing has a soothing effect. I remember one instance where, under -this influence, and this alone, restlessness would subside into quiet, -leading to refreshing sleep. The same effect may sometimes be produced -by sponging the face and hands with tepid water, with or without the -addition of a little vinegar or Eau de Cologne; and again, in other -cases, letting the hands lie in a basin and gently pouring cold water -on them will be found grateful. It is well worth a nurse’s while to -study her particular patient’s taste, and to find out some such simple -method of relieving the weariness and monotony of illness. - -To lift a helpless patient is by no means an easy task to inexperience, -and should never be attempted without help. When the patient is utterly -helpless, two long poles or broom-handles will be needed; these must -be tightly rolled round in the under sheet and blanket, and the patient -can then be moved, as in a stretcher, by four bearers. - -To move a patient from side to side, the draw-sheet alone is needed. -Rolling one end close to the body, the nurse goes round to the other -side of the bed, and by taking hold of the rolled-up part, will be able -to turn the patient gently over with perfect ease. Where the draw-sheet -is not being used, it is a good plan to let a heavy patient lie on a -strong roller-towel, which can be used as above; and if two people -grasp it firmly on each side, they will be able to move the patient -up and down in bed without fatigue or injury. This plan is especially -useful in dropsy, when the patient becomes a dead, heavy weight, and is -often restless to a painful extent. - -In many cases, a patient, otherwise helpless, will be able to move at -least his position by the use of a strong towel or cord tied to the -foot of the bed. Hospital-beds are almost invariably provided with a -cord and handle for the patient to grasp; but a better thing still -is a netted hammock, a simple contrivance consisting of a piece of -netting—of twine or coarsest knitting-cotton—four yards long by one -and a half wide, the loops at each end being drawn up with tape; these -tapes are tied to the foot of the bed; and the netting not only serves -as a cord, but, thrown over the patient’s head and drawn out across -his shoulders and back, forms a most easy, comfortable support. I -have seen patients sitting up thus, who had mournfully declared it an -impossibility, and whose delight at the change of position was a thing -to be remembered. - -In grasping any part of a patient’s body, be very careful not to -take hold with the finger-ends; the whole hand should be used, and -the fingers slightly spread out; anything like a hesitating touch -is exasperating, and indeed hesitation in any way must be carefully -avoided in dealing with the sick. It is well to remember that a -certain amount of work has to be done, and a certain amount of noise -must follow; make up your mind how much, and go to work thoroughly, -quickly, and quietly; quiet, though, must be natural, not laboured; the -tiptoe, whispering style is torture to sensitive nerves; a firm, even -tread and a distinct way of speaking should be cultivated; the latter, -especially, will make all the difference to a patient’s comfort. To be -constantly on the strain to hear is by no means soothing; and whispered -conversation as to the patient’s condition must never be indulged in. -Some people, realising this, will go out of the sick-room, to carry on -low-toned consultations just outside the door and within hearing of -the patient, who involuntarily strains every nerve in the endeavour to -catch what is being said. Such treatment is even worse than unnecessary -noise, and all discussion relating to the patient must be carried on -where there is no possibility of his hearing it. It is a safe rule -to avoid detailing the patient’s symptoms to relatives or friends; -sensitive, delicate minds are often made to suffer unnecessarily, from -the consciousness that sick-room details are being made the subject of -curious inquiry and remark. - -It not seldom happens that in delirium, or extreme weakness, the -patient will let out some cherished secret, and this should be as -jealously sacred to the nurse as though the confidence had been -voluntary, the only allowable violation being when the revelation -made throws any light upon the patient’s illness; in such a case, the -doctor must be told; and this brings us to a most important point—the -relations between doctor and nurse, a point which is seldom understood -by the inexperienced. - -The nurse’s responsibility is great; she has many duties to perform, -some of them apparently slight, yet really of vital importance; but -at the same time, she is only acting under orders, and when those -orders have been faithfully carried out, her responsibility ends; it -therefore follows, that whatever her private opinion, she must never -alter the treatment without the doctor’s express permission, and -whatever she may think, she should never, by word or deed, seek to -lessen the patient’s confidence in the patient’s doctor. It sometimes -happens that injudicious friends suggest remedies of their own, and -insist upon their being used; any such interference should be at once -reported to the doctor, for how else can he form a right opinion as -to the patient’s condition? Yet so often is this overlooked, that, I -believe, in many home-nursed cases the doctor’s treatment is never -allowed fair-play; and I have even known a prescription, that had been -torn up by the doctor as unsuitable, carefully pieced together after -his departure, and used. Perhaps in no other point is there such a -marked difference between the trained and untrained nurse. The former -has been taught that her power lies in obedience; the latter, ignorant -of her very ignorance, ventures to meddle in matters which, had she but -a little more knowledge, she would understand to be beyond her. - -Not a little of the nurse’s value depends on her ability to give the -doctor a proper report of how matters have been going during his -absence. A patient will often pull himself together and even feign -convalescence for the doctor’s visit, which is necessarily brief; -whilst the nurse, spending hours with him, sees every varying mood and -symptom; at the same time, she must remember that the doctor does not -want her opinion, but asks only _facts_, which will enable him to draw -his own conclusions. From this it will be seen that the nurse needs to -understand what to notice and how to report her observations. - -As to what to notice—each illness has its specific symptoms, about -which the doctor will make special inquiries, and he will also expect -to hear what effect has followed the use of remedies; but in addition -to these, there are general symptoms to be taken account of in all -illness. Amongst those most frequently overlooked by the inexperienced -nurse, are: _The appetite_, whether good, failing, fanciful, or -voracious. _The skin_, whether moist or dry, hot or cold; and whether -sensitive to touch. _Sleep_, its character and duration; whether -quiet, disturbed, broken, or uninterrupted, and whether the same by -day and night. _Posture_, whether the patient lies very flat, or likes -to be raised, or prefers to keep on one side; in going to sleep, the -easiest attitude will be chosen, and any marked change in this respect -should be noticed. _Temper and spirits_, whether equable or variable, -moody, cheerful, excitable, calm, depressed, or inclined to tears. -_Countenance_, whether liable to changes of complexion or expression. - -When visitors are allowed, the effect upon the patient should be noted; -and at any cost, in serious cases, those whose influence is depressing -or exciting must not be admitted. - -A nurse should also, without being fussy, keep an eye to any fresh -symptoms that may appear, and duly report them; but nothing is more -worrying than to be constantly teased with such questions as: ‘Are -you in pain?’ ‘Do you feel better now?’ ‘Will you let me look at your -tongue?’ Those who have endured the martyrdom, know what it means, and -know, too, how little information can be gleaned by such methods. Let a -nurse be sympathising by all means, but let her sympathy show itself in -caring for her patient’s wants, and in efforts to save him from worry -as well as from pain. - -I remember a trained nurse who was deeply hurt at being told that a -bell would be placed within her patient’s reach, in case he wanted -anything at night. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ was her reply; ‘my patient will -not need to ring.’ Nor did he, thanks to his nurse’s constant care to -anticipate his wants. A nurse thus watchful, will be quick to notice -any change in her patient; but it is quite one thing to notice, and -another to give a faithful report of what has been observed; and I -would urge every inexperienced nurse to be very particular in jotting -down at once all that strikes her attention. The simplest way of doing -this is to keep a sort of diary of all that happens. Take a piece of -writing-paper, keep one side for day and one for night, write the date -at the top, crease it down the middle, and note on one half, all the -patient takes and does, and on the other, anything you think demands -notice. The following is a specimen of the sort of chart I mean. - - October 4. - - A.M. | A.M. - 8. Cup of tea and toast. | - 10. Four ounces milk. | 10. Milk taken with difficulty - | and dislike. - 11. Medicine. | - 11.15. Poultice to chest and | - back. | - | - 11.30. Slept twenty minutes. | 11.30. Turned on right side - | before going to - | sleep. - 12. Four ounces beef-tea. | - 12.30. Mrs A. called, stayed | - quarter of an hour. | - | 12.45-1.30. Excited and - | depressed by Mrs - | A.’s call. - Are visitors to be allowed? - - The reverse side might read thus: - - October 4. - - P.M. | P.M. - 8. Four ounces milk. | - 9. Jacket poultice. | - 9.30. Dozed half-hour. | 9.30. Skin hot and dry, - | face flushed; woke - | excited and restless. - 10. Opiate as directed. | - 10.45. Slept two hours. | - | 11.30. Began to perspire, - | expression tranquil; - | woke refreshed. - 12.45. Four ounces milk. | - -To keep such a chart properly requires some practice, but it is the -only way of insuring accuracy, and it will also save a good deal of -questioning on the doctor’s part, a glance being enough to show him how -matters stand. - -At the bottom of the first page, it will be noticed there is a -question, which, unless so marked, would very likely be forgotten; and -whenever the nurse is in any difficulty or uncertainty, she must never -hesitate to ask for guidance. The doctor will not expect perfection -from inexperience, and even if he does not volunteer information, will -certainly not object to answering reasonable questions. Of course, -there is a great deal of difference in this as in all things, and there -are doctors who take for granted that everybody knows certain things, -of which even the intelligent, who have not had their attention called -to nursing, may be quite ignorant. But even when this is the case, the -nurse’s object being her patient’s good and not the support of her own -dignity, if she is not sure of her ground, it is her duty to ask for -instruction. - - - - -ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY. - - -CHAPTER VII. - -A few minutes later, Madame De Vigne and her sister came slowly up the -glen from that part of the valley where the wagonettes had been left -behind. Presently Clarice paused and gazed around. - -‘It looks exactly as it did that day last summer when we were here,’ -she said. ‘We might have been away only a few hours.’ - -‘And then, as now, you had no Archie to bear you company.’ - -‘I did not know him then; and yet it seems now as if I must have known -him all my life. I suppose that just about this time he will be engaged -with Sir William and those dreadful lawyers. And he has to go through -all this for the sake of me—of me, Mora!’ - -‘He would go through a hundred times more than that for your sake, -dear.’ - -‘I often feel as if I don’t deserve to be loved so much. I hope there -will be a telegram when we get back to the hotel. He promised to send -one as soon as he had any news; but, suppose his news should be bad -news!’ - -‘At your age you ought always to look at the sunny side of your apple.’ - -‘Thanks to you, dear, I have never had occasion to look at any other,’ -answered the girl with a caress in her voice. ‘And to-day I _will_ try -not to be down-hearted. I will try to hope for the best.’ They went -forward a few paces in silence, and then Clarice suddenly said: ‘What a -selfish girl I am! Tell me, dear, is your headache any better?’ - -‘A little. I will sit awhile under the shade of this tree. This seems -as pretty a spot as any. Perhaps by-and-by I may try to do a little -sketching.’ - -She sat down on a rustic seat that had been placed on a jutting spur -of rock nearly fronting the waterfall. The seat was partly hidden from -chance passers-by by a screen of shrubs, ferns, and natural rockwork. - -‘There! What a head I’ve got!’ exclaimed Clarice with something of -dismay in her voice. - -‘Mr Ridsdale thinks it a very pretty head. But what’s your trouble now?’ - -‘I’ve left your sketch-book behind in the wagonette.’ - -‘Is that all?’ - -‘It will not take me more than ten minutes to fetch it.’ - -‘It is of no consequence—not the slightest,’ answered Madame De Vigne a -little wearily. - -‘I prefer to fetch it. Some one will be prying into it who has no -business to. Besides, I recollect something that I want to say to Miss -Penelope.’ - -‘As you please, dear.’ - -‘You don’t mind my leaving you?’ - -‘Not in the least.’ - -‘I shall not be long away,’ cried Clarice as she turned and took the -road that led down the valley. - -The shadow on Mora De Vigne’s face deepened the moment she was left -alone. She was very pale this morning, and she had that look about the -eyes which tells of a sleepless night. Beyond her sister and Nanette, -no one knew of her fainting-fit of the previous night. Miss Gaisford -had not failed to notice the change in her looks, but had asked no -questions: she was assured that when the proper time should arrive she -would be told all that it was intended she should know. - -‘Alone at last! For a little while I can drop my mask,’ she said with -the same weariness in her voice. ‘Is it not like the act of a crazy -woman to come here to-day, among all these happy people?—I! Oh, the -mockery of it! And yet to have stayed all day indoors under the same -roof with _him_, not knowing from minute to minute what to expect, -would have been worse than all. And then, Harold promised to meet me at -this spot—the man whom I love—the man who loves me. Alas! alas! he can -never more be “Harold” to me after to-day.’ - -She rose and went forward to the edge of the rock, and stood gazing at -the waterfall with eyes that knew not what they were looking at. - -‘What to do?—what to do?’ she sighed. ‘The same question that kept -knocking at my heart all through the long, dreadful, sleepless night; -and here, with the summer sunshine all about me, it seems no nearer an -answer than it was then. Sometimes I think that what I saw and heard -can have been no more than a hideous nightmare fancy of my own. But -no—no! That voice—that face!’ She shuddered, and pressed her fingers to -her eyes, as if to shut out some sight on which she could not bear to -look. - -Presently, she moved slowly back to the rustic seat and sat down. - -‘Has he tracked me?’ she asked herself. ‘Does he know that I am here, -or is his presence merely one of those strange coincidences such as one -so often hears tell of? If I only knew! If he has tracked me, why did -he not make it his business to see me last night or this morning? What -if he does _not_ know or suspect? I must not go back to the hotel. I -must not give him a chance of seeing me. I must make some excuse and go -away—somewhere—straight from here. But first I must wait and see Harold -and—and bid him farewell. What shall I say to him? What _can_ I say?’ - -Her heart-stricken questionings were broken by the sound of voices -a little distance away. She turned her head quickly. ‘Clarice and a -stranger!’ she exclaimed. ‘And coming this way!’ A spasm of dread shot -through her. What if this stranger were another messenger of evil come -in search of her? - -And yet he looked harmless enough. He was a rather tall, thin, -worn-looking man of sixty-five years or thereabouts. He was dressed -in a high-collared swallow-tailed coat, pepper-and-salt trousers, -and shoes. His carefully brushed hat, of a fashion of many years -previously, had, like the rest of his attire, seen better days than -it would ever see again. He had short white whiskers, and rather long -white hair, which straggled over his coat collar behind. His thick, -bushy brows were still streaked with black; and his eyes, which were -very large and bright, seemed to require no assistance from spectacles -or glasses of any kind. - -‘Here is your sketch-book, dear,’ said Clarice as she came up. ‘This -gentleman is Mr Etheridge, Sir William Ridsdale’s secretary,’ she -added.—‘Mr Etheridge, my sister, Madame De Vigne.—Mr Etheridge has -travelled all the way from Spa, bringing with him an important letter -from Sir William addressed to his son. The hotel people sent him on -here after us.’ - -‘But’—— began Mora, half rising from her seat. - -‘I have already explained to Mr Etheridge that Mr Archie was summoned -by telegraph yesterday to meet his father in London this morning. It -seems very strange.’ - -Mr Etheridge smiled a little deprecatingly, and resumed his hat, which -he had doffed on being introduced to Madame De Vigne. - -‘No doubt, ladies,’ he said, ‘it must appear strange to any one who -is unacquainted with the peculiarities of Sir William. After writing -the letter which I have in my pocket, and sending me off with it -post-haste, he no doubt changed his mind (Sir William very often does -change his mind), and set off for London with the intention of seeing -Mr Archie in person, and never troubled himself more about me and the -letter. Just like him—just like him.’ - -‘And what do you propose to do now, sir?’ asked Madame De Vigne. - -‘My plan is a very simple one, madam. I shall telegraph to London that -I am here, and here I shall stop till I receive further instructions.’ - -‘You must be somewhat tired after your long journey, Mr Etheridge,’ -suggested Clarice. - -‘Well—well. So—so. But I’m an old traveller, and it don’t matter.’ - -‘Luncheon won’t be ready for some time; but if you would like some -refreshment at once, I’—— - -‘Not at present, thank you—not at present.’ Then he added: ‘This seems -a very pretty spot; and with your leave, I’ll just ramble about and -look round me a bit.’ - -‘Do so by all means, Mr Etheridge,’ said Madame De Vigne kindly, ‘only -don’t forget to be in time for luncheon.’ - -Clarice hesitated a moment, and then she said: ‘There’s a charming -view of the lake a little farther on; if you would like to see it, I -will show you the way.’ - -‘Thank you. Nothing would please me better. Only, I don’t want to be a -trouble.’ - -‘O Mr Etheridge, it will be no trouble!’ - -That gentleman made Madame De Vigne an old-fashioned bow, and moved a -few steps away. - -‘You won’t mind my leaving you for a little while?’ said Clarice to her -sister. - -‘Not in the least. Besides, I’m not in a talking mood this morning.’ - -‘It would be unkind to leave Mr Etheridge all alone.’ - -‘Of course it would. So now run off, and do your best to entertain him.’ - -‘This way, Mr Etheridge, please,’ said Clarice. And with that the two -went off together, crossing the bridge and taking the same path that -had been taken a little while previously by Lady Renshaw and her two -cavaliers. - -‘The transparent diplomacy of a girl in love!’ said Madame De Vigne -as her eyes followed her sister’s retreating figure. ‘Not having her -sweetheart with her to talk to, she must needs talk about him to some -one else. Happy, happy days!’ She turned away with a sigh. ‘And now? -Shall I sit here and wait for Harold, and try to think what I shall say -to him? No; I cannot rest anywhere till the worst is over. He may be -here at any moment. I will walk to the top of the hill and watch for -him as he comes up the valley. O Harold, Harold, won only to be lost in -one short hour!’ - -She took a narrow footpath to the right, which wound upwards through -the trees and undergrowth to a small plateau, from which the whole of -the valley was visible. - - * * * * * - -‘I did not think that I should be so fortunate as to have you all to -myself for so long a time this morning.’ - -The speaker was Mr Richard Dulcimer, and it need scarcely be said -to whom his words were addressed. They had been wandering about the -glen at their own sweet will, penetrating into all sorts of odd nooks -and corners, and now, emerging from the shade of the trees, found -themselves on a small rocky table close to the shallow basin into which -the stream fell and broke when it took its first leap from the summit -of the cliff. It was a pretty spot, and just then the two young people -had it all to themselves. - -‘You have my aunt to thank for that,’ answered Miss Wynter, as she -seated herself daintily on a fragment of rock. ‘It was she who sent me -to you.’ - -‘Dear old damsel! I could almost find in my heart to kiss her,’ -answered Richard as he deposited himself at his sweetheart’s feet and -drew the brim of his straw hat over his eyes to shade them from the sun. - -‘But of course she believes you to be a bishop’s son.’ - -‘Which I am, so far as having a bishop for a godfather goes. -Otherwise—woe is me!—I’m only a poor beggar of a quill-driver in the -Sealing-wax Office. Why wasn’t Providence kind to me? Why wasn’t I born -with a rich father, like Archie Ridsdale?’ - -‘Why weren’t we all born with rich fathers?’ - -‘That would have been much nicer, if it could have been so arranged.’ - -‘I don’t at all see how you are going to extricate yourself from the -awful scrape you have got into.’ - -‘I am not aware that I’m in any awful scrape, so far.’ - -‘But you will be, when my aunt finds out what a wicked impostor you -are.’ - -‘Her ladyship’s anger doesn’t matter two farthings to me. It’s her -influence over you that I’m afraid of.’ - -‘Her influence over me!’ - -‘The lessons she is continually preaching—the maxims she is for ever -dinning into your ears.’ - -‘Yes; I know she looks upon it as a sacred duty which I owe to Society -that I should marry myself to the highest bidder.’ - -‘And you?’ asked the young man as he sat up, pushed back his hat, and -gazed into the pretty face above him. - -She was drawing figures aimlessly with the point of her sunshade in the -gravel. For a moment or two she did not answer; then she broke out with -an emphasis that was full of bitterness: ‘What would you have? What can -you expect? From the day I left school, and even earlier than that, the -one lesson that has been instilled into my mind is, that I must marry -money—money. Even my mother—— But she is dead, and I will not speak of -her. And since then, my aunt. I am a chattel—a piece of bric-à-brac in -the matrimonial market, to be appraised, and depreciated, and finally -knocked down to the first bidder who is prepared to make a handsome -settlement. I hate myself when I think of it! I hate everybody!’ Sudden -passionate tears sprang to her eyes; she dashed them away impatiently. - -‘Not quite everybody, _ma belle_,’ said Mr Dulcimer as he possessed -himself of one of her hands. ‘There is one way of escape that you wot -of,’ he added in a lower voice. - -She turned on him with a flash: ‘By marrying you, I suppose?’ - -‘Even so, _carissima_.’ - -‘A government clerk on three hundred pounds a year.’ - -‘With another hundred of private income in addition.’ - -‘A truly munificent income on which to marry!’ she answered, not -without a ring of scorn, real or assumed, in her voice as she withdrew -her fingers from his grasp. ‘I think I know the kind of thing it -implies. A stuffy little house in Camden Town or Peckham Rye—wherever -those localities may be. Perhaps even furnished apartments. One -small servant, not overclean. No opera, no brougham in the Park, no -garden-parties, no carpet-dances, no more flirtations with nice young -men. Locomotion by means of a twopenny ’bus or tram.; long, lonely days -without a soul to talk to; now and then an order for the theatre; _au -reste_, my husband’s buttons to sew on and his socks to keep in repair. -Oh, I can guess it all!’ - -A tinge of colour had flickered into Dick’s cheeks while she was -speaking, but it now died out again. He was quite aware that nothing -would delight her more than to tease him till he should lose his -temper; therefore, he answered as equably as before: ‘Evidently Lady -Renshaw’s lessons have not been quite thrown away on you.’ - -One of her little feet began to tap the ground impatiently. ‘It seems -to me, Mr Richard Dulcimer, that the best thing you can do is to take -the next train back to town.’ - -‘Shan’t do anything of the kind.’ - -‘You are a very self-willed young man.’ To judge from her tone, she -might have been twice his age. It is a way her sex sometimes have. - -‘Obstinate as a mule,’ answered the philosophic Richard. - -‘Suppose I tell you that I have had enough of your society? Suppose I -order you to leave me here and at once?’ - -‘Shan’t go.’ - -‘Well, of all’—— She rose abruptly. ‘How much longer are you going -to keep me here?’ she demanded in an injured tone, as though he were -detaining her against her will. - -‘Not one minute longer than you wish,’ he answered as he sprang to his -feet. ‘Suppose we cross the stream.’ - -‘Cross the stream?’ - -‘By means of these stepping-stones. They are here for that purpose.’ - -‘Oh!’ With a slight accent of dismay. ‘Thank you very much, Mr -Dulcimer, but I’d rather not.’ - -‘Everybody crosses by them—except, perhaps, a few superfine young-lady -tourists who think more of wetting their boots and frills than of’—— - -‘Monster! Lead the way.’ - -‘Lend me your hand.’ - -‘Certainly not.’ - -Without another word, Dick stepped lightly from stone to stone till he -reached the middle of the stream. There he halted and turned. Bella, -not to be outdone, stepped after him on to the first stone and from -that to the second; then all in a moment her courage seemed to desert -her. ‘Dick, Dick, I shall slip into the water,’ she cried. ‘I know I -shall.’ - -Dick grinned. He had been addressed as ‘Mr Dulcimer’ only a minute -before. He went back and held out his hand, which Bella clutched -without a moment’s demur. Having assisted her as far as the middle of -the stream, he came to a stand. - -‘Why don’t you go on?’ she demanded. - -Dick ignored the question. ‘These stepping-stones, or others like -them,’ he remarked didactically, ‘are said to have been here for -hundreds of years. There is an old local rhyme in connection with them -which is known to all the country-folk about. Listen while I recite to -you that ancient rhyme.’ - -‘I am getting dizzy; I shall fall,’ remarked Bella, who, however, still -kept tight hold of his hand. - -Dick took no notice, but began: - - ‘Listen! listen! Every lass - That o’er these stepping-stones doth pass, - She shall clasp her sweetheart’s hand, - On the midmost stone shall stand, - And shall kiss him then and there’—— - -‘Oh, indeed,’ remarked Miss Wynter with a scornful sniff. - -Dick continued: - - ‘But should she her lips deny, - Then shall she unwedded die, - And he wed another fair: - Listen, maids—beware! beware! - -‘That is the midmost stone, _ma petite_, on which you are standing.’ - -Miss Wynter tossed her head. ‘Perhaps, sir, if you have quite done -attitudinising, you will allow me to cross.’ - -‘_Avec plaisir_—when you have paid the customary toll.’ - -‘The what?’ with a drawing together of her pretty eyebrows. - -‘The toll. When you have done that which every girl does who crosses -the stepping-stones with her sweetheart.’ - -‘You are not my sweetheart.’ - -‘But you are mine, which comes to the same thing.’ - -‘I will go back.’ - -‘You dare not.’ - -‘I will’—— - -‘Go forward? You dare not.’ And with that he withdrew his hand. - -Bella, finding herself without support, gave vent to a little shriek, -whereupon Dick put out his hand again, at which she clutched wildly. -Richard was hard-hearted enough to laugh. - -‘This is mean—this is cowardly—this is contemptible!’ cried Bella with -flaming eyes. - -‘It is—but it’s nice.’ - -‘I hear voices. There’s some one coming!’ - -‘Let them come.’ - -‘And find me in this ridiculous predicament? Never!’ - -‘Not for worlds,’ assented Mr Dulcimer in his sweetest tones. - -Bella gave vent to a little laugh: she could not help it. One of Dick’s -arms found its way round her waist. The situation was embarrassing. If -she were to push him away, she might slip into the water. Their faces -were not far apart. Suddenly she protruded hers and touched his cheek -lightly with her lips. ‘Wretch! There, then!’ she said. ‘And there,’ -quoth the unabashed suitor, as he returned the toll, twofold. ‘And -_there_!’ she added a moment after, as, with her disengaged hand, she -gave him a sounding box on the ear. - -Dick laughed and rubbed his ear. ‘For what we have just received’—— -he said, and then grasping both her hands, he helped her across the -remaining stepping-stones to the opposite bank of the stream. - - - - -ARTIFICIAL JEWELS. - - -The trade in artificial jewels has become very extensive during the -last half-century, and the chemical experiments in which various -qualities of imitation diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds are -produced have been recently carried on with an astonishing amount of -success. It is becoming more and more difficult, even to the eye of the -expert, to distinguish readily between the real and the false gem, when -they do not shine in too close proximity. - -The most distinctive feature of the real stone is its hardness, though -even this quality has been imitated with considerable success. The -term ‘hardness’ is used by the lapidary and mineralogist to denote the -power of one stone to scratch another; it must not be considered as the -power of resisting a blow, for many crystalline stones which are very -hard are also easily fractured. The diamond, which will scratch any -other stone, can be more easily broken than many stones which are less -hard. After the diamond come the ruby and sapphire, which are the next -hardest stones; then emeralds, topazes, and quartz or rock-crystal; and -finally, a number of other stones, and glass or artificial stones. - -The beautiful ‘French paste’ which imitates the diamond so well, -is a kind of glass into which a certain quantity of oxide of lead -is introduced. The more lead it contains the more brilliant is the -artificial stone; but the lead gives softness—so much so, that we have -known such artificial gems to become, by friction with other harder -substances, quite dull on the surface after being worn for some time. - -But the latest chemical experiments on the production of artificial -stones for use in jewellery point very clearly to the fact that further -success in this direction is likely to be forthcoming before long. The -imitation of the natural gems by means of various silicates and oxides -has already attained to a great degree of perfection, and no doubt -this ingenious branch of industry must interfere considerably with the -trade of the dealer in real precious stones. We can already purchase a -capital ‘diamond’ for about half-a-crown; and the imitation of the ruby -and the emerald is far easier, and more successful, than that of the -diamond. - -Careful choice in the substances to be melted together, good and -effective cutting, and careful artistic setting, have gone a long way -to reproduce, artificially, the brightness, brilliancy, and colour -of the real stone. Chemical analysis shows the sapphire to be pure -alumina, as it has shown the diamond to be pure carbon; but it does not -account for its colour, which is partly due to an optical effect, and -depends upon a peculiar molecular arrangement. This stone possesses -the singular property known as _dichroism_—that is, it shines with -two colours, blue and red. In a well-cut stone, a red cross often -appears in the midst of the sapphire blue. The ruby is also pure -alumina, and its vivid red colour, like the blue of the sapphire, is -thought by some to be due to a peculiar optical effect. In fact, no -chemical analysis has been able to account quite satisfactorily for the -red colour of the ruby or the blue colour of the sapphire, for pure -alumina is quite white, and the sapphire, as we have seen, shows two -colours. This peculiar optical effect noticed in the ruby and sapphire -has, strange to say, been accidentally reproduced not long since by -a French chemist, M. Sidot, who has been making some experiments on -artificial stones. He has produced a kind of glass by melting phosphate -of lime at a great heat, and the product possesses the blue colour of -the sapphire with the remarkable _dichroism_ before alluded to. The -experiment is so curious, that a few lines may be devoted to it here. - -By the action of heat on what is termed ‘acid phosphate of lime,’ it -is transformed into ‘crystallised pyrophosphate;’ and when heated to a -still higher temperature, it passes into the vitreous or glassy state. -It is supposed that in this condition it loses some of its phosphoric -acid by volatilisation, and passes into the state of ‘tribasic -phosphate.’ Such is the technical explanation of the changes which -occur. The phosphate of lime glass is produced by taking this substance -in a moist acid state, and heating it in an iron pot to a dark red -heat. During this operation it is worked about with an iron rod, in -order to prevent it swelling up and passing over the edge of the iron -crucible. The dark red heat is continued until the whole mass has -become glassy and transparent. At this moment it is run into another -crucible, in which it is heated to a white heat that is kept up for -about two hours, being stirred rapidly with a rod the whole time. At -the end of this period the molten mass is allowed to remain perfectly -quiet for about an hour, and is then run out of the crucible, either -on to a metallic slab or into a metal mortar. It is necessary to avoid -too rapid a cooling. The product may thus be run out into a sheet, -like plate-glass. A small sheet of such a nature was obtained by M. -Sidot in one of his experiments: it measured about three inches across, -by a quarter of an inch thick, and was large enough to be cut into a -considerable number of beautiful artificial sapphires. - -The ruby and sapphire have also been closely imitated in another way -by Fremy and Feil, two French chemists; and the chief interest in this -process is the fact that the artificial stones possess essentially the -chemical composition of the real ones. To produce these, equal weights -of alumina and red-lead are heated to a red-heat in an earthenware -crucible. A vitreous substance is formed, which consists of silicate of -lead, and crystals of white corundum. To convert this corundum into the -artificial ruby, it is necessary to fuse it with about two per cent. of -bichromate of potassium; whilst, to obtain the sapphire, a little oxide -of cobalt, and a very small quantity of bichromate of potassium, must -be employed. The stones so produced possess at least very nearly the -hardness of the real stones, as they scratch both quartz and topaz. - -The French ‘paste’ which imitates the diamond so closely is a peculiar -kind of glass, the manufacture of which was brought to a great degree -of perfection some fifty years ago by Donault-Wieland of Paris. -The finest quality of paste demands extreme care in the choice of -materials and in melting, &c. The basis of it, in the hands of the -expert manufacturer just named, was powdered rock-crystal or quartz. -The proportions he took were—six ounces of rock-crystal; nine ounces -two drams of red-lead; three ounces three drams of pure carbonate of -potash; three drams of boracic acid; and six grains of white arsenic. -The product thus manufactured was extremely beautiful, but rather -expensive, compared with the prices now charged for artificial jewels. -It has never been surpassed in brilliancy. But of late years the -greater purity of the potash and lead oxide used, and the improvements -in the furnaces and methods of heating them, have all tended to reduce -the price of the ‘diamonds’ thus manufactured. - - - - -THE MISSING CLUE. - - -CHAPTER V.—THE COLONEL’S DAUGHTER. - -Meanwhile, the subject of the previous conversation is seated in a -private room before a merry crackling fire, small reflections of which -lurk here and there in the dark polished oak with which the walls are -panelled. Everything in the apartment has an extremely comfortable -appearance save its living occupant, and his features wear an -expression totally at variance with his surroundings. He is twisting a -crumpled note between his fingers; while, judging from the expression -with which he regards it, his feelings can scarcely be of an agreeable -nature. The offending epistle is written in a bold decided hand, which -harmonises well with the short and haughty tenor of its contents. As a -perusal of this may enable the reader more clearly to understand the -ensuing narrative, a copy is here inserted: - - Colonel Thorpe presents his compliments to Lieutenant Ainslie, - and in reply to that gentleman’s letter of this morning, begs - to state that any overtures from him relating to Miss Thorpe - will receive an absolute negative. It is also requested that - Lieut. A. will discontinue his visits to Coombe Hall, as Col. - T. wishes him distinctly to understand that this decision is - final. - - _Dec. 22, 1760._ - -The exasperated recipient of this ungracious piece of writing makes -a movement as if to consign it to the hungry blaze which is roaring -up the chimney; but checking himself ere the action is performed, he -places the missive in a side-pocket, and falling back in his chair, -resigns himself to a long train of unenviable reflections. - - * * * * * - -Next morning, the sun, first a dull crimson, and then yellow as a -copper ball, slowly mounted above the horizon and pierced cloud and -vapour with its struggling rays. Snow-clad roofs and chimneys, whose -quaint outlines could scarcely be distinguished from the leaden sky -a short time before, now became flooded with a rich golden light, -contrasting strangely with the blue mist that lingered in the shadows. -As yet, it was only the high gables and towers which had caught the -cheering beams; the streets and lesser thoroughfares were gloomy, dark, -and silent, while ruts and gutters were fast bound with King Frost. The -good people of Fridswold had not the reputation of being early risers, -and with a few exceptions, the streets were almost totally deserted; -but our friend who figured last night as a guest at the _George_, at -least appeared to be no sluggard, for he was out, and walking quickly -along, the iron-tipped heels of his riding-boots bringing forth a smart -click from the frost-hardened ground. - -Lieutenant Ainslie was not bent upon sight-seeing; he had other matters -to attend to. The wintery beauties of the early morning seemed -completely lost upon the young officer, and he passed the great west -front of the minster—all flecked with ‘hoary flakes’—without bestowing -so much as a glance upon it. His course was continued until the -irregular outskirts of the town were left behind, when a large imposing -red-brick mansion came within sight. The grounds which surrounded it -were separated from the public highway by a substantial wall of rough -masonry; while parallel with this wall extended a belt of fine trees, -now leafless, and shivering as if with cold. Keeping to the road until -a turn shut out the palatial residence from view, the young officer, -after a hasty look around him, vaulted the wall, and then shaped his -way across the white stretch of private ground. - -Slowly and uncertainly he proceeded, often stopping to look back, and -more than once referring to his watch as well as to a dainty note, the -writing of which was in a delicate female hand. At length, after many -turnings and much doubtful wandering, he emerged from the underwood -and entered upon a small cleared inclosure containing a rustic -summer-house, now fretted with a glittering network of snow and ice. -Into this the lieutenant stepped, frequently looking out in a furtive -manner from the narrow doorway, as if in expectation of some one. - -After a long interval of anxious expectation, certain sounds were heard -which seemed to indicate the approach of a human being. The soldier -sprang eagerly forward, and then as quickly shrunk back again. A slight -crackling of dry twigs was followed by a hoarse cough, and the cough -was followed by the unwelcome appearance of a red-faced man with a gun -upon his shoulder, but fortunately not passing in the direction of -the arbour. The lieutenant knew him at once. It was the fiery-faced -man whom he had seen at the inn the previous evening. ‘Ah,’ said he -to himself, ‘I see it all. Colonel Thorpe’s gamekeeper—sent down last -night to play the spy upon me. It is well he has not seen me now.’ - -Not many minutes afterwards, a young lady burst into the arbour, with a -little cry, half of fear and half of pleasure. It could be nothing more -nor less than a lovers’ meeting after all. - -The lovers’ first tender greetings over, they seated themselves side -by side in the little arbour, and talked to each other in a low voice. -The state of alarm in which she evidently was, sent a brighter flush of -colour to her lovely face, and enhanced in her lover’s eyes the graces -of her person. - - * * * * * - -Some twelve months before the present meeting, Colonel Thorpe made a -sudden resolve to spend the winter in London; and fearing to leave -this his only daughter out of his sight for any length of time, he -determined to take her with him also. The season was a tolerably gay -one; but the colonel, an austere man, though much in request at the -houses of titled and wealthy friends, cared little for society, and -constantly refused invitations both on behalf of himself and his -daughter. Such a high pressure of circumspection could not last for -ever. Receiving an earnest request from Lady Hardy—a friend of many -years’ standing—that they would honour a fashionable entertainment with -their presence, Colonel Thorpe somewhat relented, and meeting Amy’s -wistful gaze with a smile which he intended to be severely pleasant, he -told her to prepare herself to accompany him on the following Thursday. -At this intelligence the young lady was naturally delighted; and even -her severe parent condescended to relax and bring himself to converse -about the forthcoming ball. This agreeable demeanour he sustained until -about the middle of the festive evening, when, as if by magic, his -spirits suddenly lowered to freezing temperature. He had observed that -a well-favoured, handsome young gallant had danced three times with -his daughter in the course of the evening. Now, the crusty old colonel -did by no means approve of this, and was not aware that his daughter -had more than once met the same young gallant since coming to London. -In answer to inquiries which he made as to the unknown partner of his -daughter, he learned that his name was Ainslie, that he was a subaltern -in the Guards, and the only son of a widow lady of title, once wealthy, -but now reduced in circumstances. His informant added, that though the -young officer was not rich, he was of prepossessing manners—a piece -of information which scarcely appeared to afford gratification to -the master of Coombe Hall. Immediately upon receipt of this news the -angry colonel sought out Miss Thorpe from among the dancers, and after -bidding a hasty adieu to his hostess, drove away with his daughter from -the house. - -Colonel Thorpe’s temper was not improved when, on the day following -the ball, he received a call from Ainslie; but in a short political -conversation which ensued, the visitor—strangely enough—contrived to -advance in his good graces considerably. Still, the colonel, who was -habitually suspicious, did not encourage the young officer. He had only -the doubtful satisfaction of knowing that the penniless son of Sir -Henry Ainslie, deceased, was a suitor for his daughter’s hand. - -‘Amy,’ he said to himself, ‘must return to Coombe Hall. The wiles of -this dangerous young man can be kept at a safe distance there.’ - -But railways were as yet things of the future, and the weather became -an unexpected ally in Ainslie’s favour, the colonel’s departure being -thus delayed for fully a week. During this time Reginald contrived to -see Miss Thorpe several times, as well as to ingratiate himself with -her father, who listened to his visitor’s conversation and wit with a -mingled feeling of approval and distrust. The time passed quickly; and -when Reginald parted from Amy Thorpe it was with many protestations of -eternal devotion, to which that young lady replied with equal warmth. -Colonel Thorpe wished Ainslie a formal ‘Good-bye,’ and the lovers were -separated from each other for a weary space of ten months. - -The interval was not unfraught with change. Reginald had the good -fortune to be raised in rank, and now entered upon his full grade of -lieutenant. Since the departure of Amy Thorpe he had endeavoured to -keep up a correspondence with her; but the age in which they lived, -though practically a fast one, was slow enough in some respects, and -the means of communication were so unsatisfactory, that long intervals -elapsed between an interchange of letters. - -At the close of October 1760, the tidings of King George II.’s death -became known throughout the greater part of the kingdom; and following -closely upon the spreading of this intelligence came a letter from Amy -to Reginald, containing the joyful news that Colonel Thorpe was on his -way to London to attend the opening of parliament by the new king, and -that his daughter was coming with him. Ainslie, after the expiration of -a few days, presented himself at Colonel Thorpe’s former apartments, -where the first person he encountered was that worthy officer himself, -stiff, irritable, and in a decidedly unpleasant temper. Their -conversation commenced with a formal exchange of civilities, and -Reginald seated himself on the chair which was pointed out to him, calm -and unruffled in countenance, but with a heart which he had steeled and -prepared for the worst. - -Colonel Thorpe was glad that Lieutenant Ainslie had called, as he -wished to have some serious conversation with him. There had been a—in -fact there had been a correspondence kept up with his daughter, an -interchange of letter-writing and—and that sort of thing, which must be -discontinued. - -‘Am I to understand, sir,’ said the young officer, with difficulty -repressing his growing wrath—‘am I to understand that you wish me to -resign all pretensions to Miss Thorpe’s hand?’ - -The colonel did not exactly say that; he said the correspondence must -be discontinued for—for a time. If at some future date Lieutenant -Ainslie could show satisfactory proofs that he would be able to -maintain his daughter in a position of comfort and dignity consistent -with that in which she had been brought up, he (Colonel Thorpe) might -feel disposed to listen to any advances Lieutenant Ainslie thought -proper to make. Till then, all interchange of sentiment must cease. -That was all; Colonel Thorpe had nothing further to say. - -Ere another week had passed, during which the lovers met but once, -the colonel’s apartments were again vacant, and Reginald Ainslie was -wondering at what remote period of his life he should again see Amy -Thorpe. Poverty was the bane of the young soldier, and the monotonous -round of barrack-life was by no means the royal road to wealth. -Reginald, however, had for some time been meditating over a deep-laid -purpose, the object of which was to recover an ancient property which -his immediate ancestors, by their Jacobite proclivities, had forfeited. -On obtaining leave of absence, therefore, shortly before Christmas, he -set out for Fridswold, and made a series of excursions to Coombe Hall, -to lay before his beloved Amy all his hopes and fears, and to receive -from her encouragement in his momentous quest. But his proposed visit -had been put a stop to by the colonel’s letter, and now this secret -meeting in the arbour was the next expedient of the faithful pair. - -For a while, the joy of meeting was so great that all other things were -forgotten; but Reginald could not long shut his eyes to the barrier -which destiny and the will of Colonel Thorpe had placed between the -lovers. He was still poor; he was not yet able to fulfil the colonel’s -stipulation. But he had hopes, and these he could now breathe into -Amy’s sympathetic ear. - -‘What would you say, Amy, if I were to tell you that I am the bearer of -good tidings?’ - -‘I should say the news might be too good to be true,’ replied Miss -Thorpe. ‘O Reginald, it cannot be; you do not mean it?’ - -‘I do, Amy,’ answered the lieutenant. ‘For what purpose do you suppose -I undertook this journey?’ he added, after a pause, and turning so as -to face his fair companion. - -The girl’s blue eyes opened to their fullest extent, and she answered -in a slight tone of wonderment: ‘To see me. Was it not so, Reginald?’ - -‘It was, dearest,’ said the lieutenant; ‘but if I were to say that I -came in search of you alone, my words would be false.’ - -‘Then pray, sir, may I not know your other reason?’ inquired Amy -laughingly. ‘Have you an appointment to meet some other distressed -damsel in these lonely parts?’ - -‘Nothing of the kind,’ replied Ainslie, more earnestly than the -question seemed to warrant. ‘You alone, Amy, I came to see, and it is -principally on your account that I am about to journey farther.’ - -‘On my account!’ - -‘Yes, Amy, yours; this journey is all for your sake. I will explain -myself. For some time past, I have been urged to take a singular step -by one who believes that our lost wealth may be actually regained. -The idea is a vague and most likely a visionary one, and had I never -met you, Amy, it is probable that the task of unravelling this coil -might not have been essayed. It was Colonel Thorpe who clenched my -half-hearted resolution by informing me that I must not hope to call -you mine until possessed of sufficient affluence to maintain you in a -position equal to that in which you had been brought up. Those words -struck home. I instantly formed a fixed determination, and am now -about to follow it up, for which purpose I intend to start this very -afternoon.’ - -‘This afternoon!’ echoed Amy. ‘Why so soon, Reginald? You have been -here no time at all. When did you arrive?’ - -‘The day before yesterday,’ replied Ainslie. ‘But do not blame me, -dearest, for not seeing you before. I repaired to Coombe Hall almost -directly after I got here, hoping to see both you and your father, and -having no thought that admittance would be refused.’ - -‘O Reginald, I am so sorry!’ faltered the girl. ‘What could I do? Did -they really refuse to admit you?’ - -‘They did,’ answered the young officer. ‘But I am perfectly aware it -was no fault of yours. I then wrote to your father, asking permission -to see you, telling him that I had some expectation of recovering what -my parent so unfortunately lost, when I hoped to be able to maintain -you in a manner worthy of our ancient house. But two hours afterwards, -my letter was returned!—yes, returned, Amy, and with it was inclosed -a note from your father forbidding me to enter the house or seek an -interview with his daughter. I disobeyed the latter part of his -injunction, and have succeeded, darling, in meeting you once more.’ - -As we intend to follow Reginald in his quest, it is needless to repeat -here the story of his hopes as he hastily unfolded them in the ears -of Amy Thorpe; enough that, after remaining together as long as, or -perhaps longer than prudence enjoined, the two tore themselves asunder, -with thrice-repeated vows of fidelity and affection. The remembrance of -their tender parting was to Reginald in after-years like a strain of -sweet, bygone music passing through his memory. - -That very evening the young lieutenant quitted Fridswold. His way -lay in a different direction from that leading to Coombe Hall, and -the farewell glance he gave back only showed him the black bulk of -the minster towering above a mass of smoky chimneys. The suburbs -of the town were speedily left behind, and soon a prospect lay -before Reginald’s eyes which for savage desolation he had never seen -surpassed. Extending as far as the eye could reach, stretched a dreary -waste of flooded fields, black peat, broken ice, and frozen sedge, -dotted at remote intervals with a few scanty willows. The wind was -rising again, bringing up with it heavy clouds, and its moaning voice -rustled among the patches of alder and withered rushes like a low, -dying murmur. Taking warning by these signs, Reginald urged his horse -forward to a quicker pace than hitherto, riding swiftly and eagerly -into the gathering darkness of the night. - - - - -THE RING-TRICK. - -A CURIOUS COINCIDENCE. - - -Some four years ago I was one of the many hundreds of somewhat -aspiring youths who were seeking positions as Civil servants under -our government. In order better to work up for the very difficult -examinations which it is necessary to pass in order to gain these -positions, I had joined the evening classes of a well-known London -college. These classes were held twice in every week, and it was on -my way to one of them from my home—I live in a northern suburb of the -metropolis—that the events I am about to relate took place. - -I had alighted, at about five o’clock on an autumn evening, from a -train at the King’s Cross terminus of the Great Northern Railway, and -was proceeding along the Euston Road, when, having half an hour to -spare, I turned off to the right to enter Euston Station. As I passed -under the heavy stone portico just to the south of this immense depôt, -I observed a man about two yards in front of me, who, just as I noticed -him, came to an abrupt halt and stooped down. So suddenly, indeed, did -he do this, that I stumbled over him, and tendered an apology for what -was not my error. As he regained his vertical position, he spoke to me, -and said in a confidential tone: ‘Did you see that?’ - -I asked him what he meant. - -‘Why, this diamond ring. I nearly trod on it. Just look here.’ And he -showed me what was apparently a gold diamond ring; and then went on -to say, that if I had seen it, I should have my share of the find; or -that, as he was a poor man, and as it might arouse suspicion for the -ring to be found in his possession, and since, as he could not get rid -of it, it would be useless to him, he would sell it to me for a trifle. - -I was not at that time—owing, I suppose, to my ignorance of London -ways—so cautious as I am now; and thinking, from the various government -stamps upon the ring, that it was indeed a valuable one, I told him I -would think about it, if the diamond were a good one. - -‘Come up here,’ said he, pointing to some back street, ‘and let us see -if it will cut glass.’ - -I walked with him in the direction he indicated, and with much coolness -he tested the stone upon a shop-window. Surely enough, it made a deep -incision in the glass. - -‘Well,’ I said, feeling now tolerably convinced of the genuineness of -the ring, ‘I would give you ten shillings for it, but I unfortunately -have a few pence only in my pocket.’ - -‘Ah, that’s a pity. Do you live far from here?’ - -‘Yes,’ I replied; ‘some twelve miles at least.’ - -‘Ah, well, there you are, you see; that’s a pity, because you are a -gentleman, and the ring would be all right with you; but I am only a -poor messenger—at this moment I am on one of my errands—earning a pound -a week, and if I tried to sell it, people would suspect me. However, -since you say you have not enough money, I will keep the ring and -attempt to get rid of it. At anyrate, we’ll part friends. Come and have -something to drink with me.’ - -I refused, for the man was not of a very attractive appearance, being -dreadfully pock-marked and squinting in his right eye. So we said -good-evening and separated, he to carry out his errand, I to walk on -into Euston terminus. - -On relating the adventure to my friends, we came to the conclusion -that the man was an impostor, and had purposely dropped the ring and -stooped to pick it up immediately in front and for the sole edification -of myself, evidently hoping that I should purchase it—probably a sham -one—from him. - -Two years after the above had occurred, my business—I had abandoned -the idea of the Civil service—led me one evening along that wondrous -thoroughfare the Strand. Proceeding westwards, about midway between the -Temple Bar memorial and Charing Cross, I collided somewhat violently -with a man immediately in front of me, who had stooped with the evident -intention of picking up something off the ground. He turned round -sharply and exclaimed: ‘Did you see that?’ at the same time showing me -a gold diamond ring, which he stated he had found on the pavement, and -on which he had nearly trodden. - -I will not weary the reader with a verbatim account of the conversation -which then ensued. Suffice it for me to say that I had recognised in -the man before me the pock-marked and squinting hero of the Euston Road -of two years before. In order, however, further to convince myself that -my impressions as to this were correct, I, apparently taking interest -in what he had found, allowed him to do and say, act for act and -word for word, all that he did and said on the first occasion of my -meeting him. He tested the diamond by cutting glass; said he was a poor -messenger earning a pound a week; was even then on one of his errands; -thought that the discovery of such a ring in his possession would -excite suspicion; and—— Well, I neither need, nor will I, rewrite the -whole of the first portion of this narration, for what now took place -was its precise counterpart. - -I taxed the swindler with having played the same rôle at Euston -Station, two years previously. - -He replied, in the most naïve manner: ‘Ah, then I was in Liverpool.’ -But he was, I suspect, somewhat astonished to find out that I knew him. -Again did he ask me to drink with him and to part friends. - -It is almost needless to add, that though I might have done the latter, -I certainly did not do the former, he being evidently a swindler. And -so we separated for the second time, he disappearing up one of the -tributary streets of the Strand, I proceeding about my business. - -It struck me as being very wonderful that this man, whose profession -it doubtless was to entrap people—young and unsuspecting—in the manner -I have described, should have on two separate occasions, between -which there was an interval of two years, singled out myself as an -intended victim to his fraud, since I am but one of tens of thousands -of the youth daily to be remarked walking in the London streets. The -remarkable blunder of the impostor proves how correct is the well-known -proverb, ‘A liar should have a good memory;’ and the facts here -narrated may perhaps serve to put others on their guard against the -wiles of London street swindlers. - - - - -OCCASIONAL NOTES. - - -INVESTIGATIONS ON LIGHTS AND LIGHTHOUSES. - -For some time past a series of observations and experiments have been -carried on under the auspices of a Committee of the Elder Brethren -of the Trinity House, at the South Foreland, chiefly relating to -the measurement of lights by means of a photometer—the invention of -Mr Vernon Harcourt—the standard light of which burns with wonderful -regularity and uniformity. The Committee are now engaged on a still -more interesting series of observations, which are made from the sea, -and which will more nearly concern sailors. These experiments and -observations for testing the capabilities of various lights will be -peculiarly remarkable, as craft of almost all descriptions will be -enlisted in this work: the mail-packets, the Peninsular and Oriental -liners, pilot vessels of different nationalities, trading-ships, and -French cruisers. The electric light, of course, is immensely superior -to either gas or paraffine oil; but even this, from its whiteness and -dazzling brilliancy, has not been found to be so very much better, in -thick hazy weather, than either oil or gas, the reddish-yellow of the -latter perhaps showing better through the haze of a sea-fog than the -white glare of the former. All these points will, however, be carefully -gone into, and every sort of test applied to discover the best and -safest light to direct mariners to and by our coasts; and when all is -completed, the Committee will record their useful labours in a full -Report to the Board of Trade, a document which will possess peculiar -interest for all who have at heart the welfare of ships and sailors. - - -LEVEL-CROSSING GATES. - -Level crossings on railways have always been considered dangerous to -the public, and are generally looked upon with disfavour; and yet, in -certain places and positions, it is next to impossible to avoid them. -Therefore, wherever a level crossing exists, gates must be provided to -arrest the traffic on the road when a train approaches the crossing; -and it is clear that the more perfect the arrangement for the opening -and closing of the gates, the better for the safety of the public. An -ingenious proposal has been made in France to call in the powerful -aid of electricity for the purpose of opening and closing gates of -this description. The gates are kept closed across the line by a catch -governed by an electro-magnet. An approaching train, by a simple -arrangement, is made to close the electric circuit at a stated distance -from the gates, and the catch is therefore released and the gates -are opened and kept open for the passage of the train. When the last -carriage has passed, the circuit is broken and the gates are made to -shut, when they are kept closed by the catch already referred to. The -same current also rings a bell to give warning of the approach of the -train. - - - - -A HAWTHORN STORY. - - - Pink and white in snowy shower, - Shade and light and leaf and thorn, - From the orchard gate the hawthorn bloom - Through diamond lattices scented the room, - When a child of the summer was born. - - Golden green and creaking swing— - Boy and girl are playmates now. - ‘Swing me higher—up to the sky!’ - ‘Nay; then I should lose you,’ he made reply, - Under the hawthorn bough. - - Oh, perfume sweet!—_she_ pulled the branch; - Flowers on her face fell tenderly; - At the orchard gate, ‘Good-night, dear love!’ - Light in the lattice and stars above, - And ‘Take this bloom from me.’ - - Summer again, and a last good-bye, - Fair head resting in sunset ray; - Beyond the window and western glow - Fancy flutters to long ago: - ‘Bring me one hawthorn spray.’ - - Childhood’s blossom and last good-bye— - ‘Ah! think of the dawn in the Fatherland!’ - Earthly morning—by flower-strewn bed, - Manhood’s tears from a drooping head - Trickling on still cold hand. - - Oh! fragrance of the hawthorn tree, - Where’er his lonely footsteps fly, - Arise and waft her memory sweet; - White blossoms whisper: ‘White souls meet - Beyond the last good-bye!’ - - * * * * * - -Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, -and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH. - - * * * * * - -_All Rights Reserved._ - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR -LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 46, VOL. I, NOVEMBER 15, -1884 *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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