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<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75211 ***</div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_673">{673}</span></p>
<h1>CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL<br>
OF<br>
POPULAR<br>
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.</h1>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2>
</div>
<p class="center">
<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. -->
<a href="#THE_MAORIS_FIGHT_FOR_LIFE">THE MAORIS’ FIGHT FOR LIFE.</a><br>
<a href="#BY_ORDER_OF_THE_LEAGUE">BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.</a><br>
<a href="#NAPOLEON_IN_TOR_BAY">NAPOLEON IN TOR BAY.</a><br>
<a href="#GEORGE_HANNAYS_LOVE_AFFAIR">GEORGE HANNAY’S LOVE AFFAIR.</a><br>
<a href="#LONDON_CHARITY_ORGANISATION">LONDON CHARITY ORGANISATION SOCIETY.</a><br>
<a href="#THE_DENSCHMANS_HAD">THE DENSCHMAN’S HAD.</a><br>
<a href="#AN_ELECTRICAL_FURNACE">AN ELECTRICAL FURNACE.</a><br>
<a href="#WHO_KNOWS">WHO KNOWS?</a><br>
</p>
<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. -->
<hr class="full">
<div class="chapter">
<div class="figcenter" id="header" style="max-width: 37.5em;">
<img class="w100" src="images/header.jpg" alt="Chambers’s Journal of Popular Literature, Science,
and Art. Fifth Series. Established by William and Robert Chambers, 1832. Conducted by R. Chambers (Secundus).">
</div>
<hr class="full">
<div class="center">
<div class="header">
<p class="floatl"><span class="smcap">No. 147.—Vol. III.</span></p>
<p class="floatr"><span class="smcap">Price</span> 1½<em>d.</em></p>
<p class="floatc">SATURDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1886.</p>
</div></div></div>
<hr class="full">
<div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_MAORIS_FIGHT_FOR_LIFE">THE MAORIS’ FIGHT FOR LIFE.</h2>
<p class="ph3">BY A NEW ZEALANDER.</p></div>
<p><span class="smcap">An</span> absorbing struggle is going on in New
Zealand at present—a struggle of life and death
to a gallant and interesting people. The Maoris
are apparently making a last stand for existence.
Like all savage peoples, they have hitherto
been ‘melting away’ at the approach of the
whites, until now it is believed they number
barely forty thousand throughout the entire
colony; whereas in 1835, before English colonisation
had commenced in earnest, careful observers
estimated that nearly two hundred thousand
natives ranged the woods and navigated the
rivers and seas of the colony. Captain Cook,
probably less accurately, placed his estimate at
four hundred thousand. Certain it is that from
the time we have first known them, the Maoris,
like the Kanakas of the South Sea Islands and
the Red Indians of North America, have gone
on steadily and even rapidly diminishing in
numbers. Just now there is reason to hope that
this process of extinction has received a check,
and the race seems gathering together all its
energies to make one last struggle for existence.
Will it be successful?</p>
<p>In the first place, let us glance at the causes
leading to the extinction of the aboriginals of
New Zealand. These have been very ably set
forth in a paper read before the Wellington
Philosophical Society by Dr Newman, President
of the Society. This gentleman is of opinion that
the Maoris were a disappearing race before the
English came to New Zealand. One of the
principal causes is the natural sterility of the
people. While the birth-rate among the European
inhabitants of New Zealand is the highest in the
world, and while the prolificness of animal life
generally in this fertile land is a matter of constant
wonder to the naturalist, a birth in a Maori
family is, as a rule, of less frequent occurrence
than a death; and the absence of children in
the native villages is absolutely startling to those
who have just seen the troops of rosy-cheeked
youngsters that swarm in the European towns.
There are various causes for this unfruitfulness of
the race; but the principal source assigned by
the writer I have quoted is intermarrying, the
Maoris being nearly always married either in
their own or some nearly adjacent tribe. The
rate of mortality, also, is considerably higher
among Maoris than with Europeans, consumption
being responsible for the greatest ravages
in their ranks. The Maoris, who formerly lived
in lofty, well-aired, and well-drained hill-forts,
now dwell on the oozy soil of the valleys,
where the air is stagnant and moisture-laden,
while their <i>whares</i> or huts are close and unventilated—forming,
in fact, hotbeds of lung disease
and rheumatism.</p>
<p>Dr Ginders, the medical officer at the government
sanatorium at Rotorua, which is situated
in the middle of a large native district, gives,
in a Report recently presented to parliament, a
graphic and at the same time horrifying account
of ‘How the Maoris live.’ Referring to their
sleeping-huts, he says: ‘Being curious to know
something of these hotbeds of disease, I entered
one at seven <span class="allsmcap">A.M.</span> before the occupants had turned
out. I have no wish to repeat the experience.
This was quite a small family affair, fifteen feet
long by ten feet wide. It contained twenty
individuals of both sexes and all ages, who had
spent the night—say ten hours—in it. The cubic
air-space per head was about such as would be
afforded by a comfortable full-sized coffin. How
they can exist under such circumstances is one
of the mysteries of Maori nature. Fortunately
for them, these sleeping-places are built of
pervious material, through which the outer air
must filter, and all the more rapidly from the
fact of the great difference of temperature between
the external and internal air.’</p>
<p>After reading this extract, most people will be
inclined to say that it is not necessary to look
any further for the cause of the gradual dying
out of the Maoris. It is some satisfaction to
reflect that the imported diseases and vices are
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_674">{674}</span>playing only a minor part in decimating the race.
Of the diseases introduced by Europeans, typhoid
and measles seem to have been the most destructive,
especially the former. The only imported
vice, according to Dr Newman, that has in the
least degree helped to hasten the disappearance of
the race is drunkenness. The mortality among
children, from the neglect or ignorance of parents
and the insanitary conditions in which they live,
is appalling, and until something can be done to
check it, any hope of preserving the race must of
course be abandoned. The advent of Europeans
has undoubtedly brought with it many causes
likely to operate unfavourably on their dark-skinned
brethren. Some of these have already
been mentioned, drink unquestionably occupying
a bad pre-eminence.</p>
<p>There is also no doubt among medical men
that a partial adoption of European habits
and customs, accompanied by a retention of
various features in their barbarous mode of
living, is the cause of much sickness and even
mortality. Dr Newman points out one very
characteristic fact: formerly, when the natives
entered their <i>whares</i> with their wet mats on,
they flung them aside; now, when they get
wet in their European clothing, they keep it
on, thus laying the foundation of many diseases.
On the other hand, civilisation has introduced
undoubted benefits. For example, the Maoris
formerly subsisted on fern-root and such hard
fare, and found that difficult to get at times.
Now, they have an abundance of wholesome
food, and can live in comfort on the revenue
derived from their lands, if they do not spend
their money in debauchery. As the result of
the labours of the West Coast Royal Commission,
for instance, every native in the confiscated
territory in the North Island who has any right
to be there, now has an interest in some reserve
or other which will provide him with a settled
homestead and the means of maintenance, and
in many cases a considerable pecuniary income
besides. Naturally, in not a few instances these
material advantages are demoralising to the Maoris,
who, when able to live in independence and
luxury, will not work.</p>
<p>Many of them, however, especially on the east
coast and in the north, are devoting themselves
industriously to such occupations as sheep-farming,
maize-planting, tobacco-growing, &c. I read, in
the Reports of the native officers, that one tribe
started farming with a flock of four thousand
sheep, and divided the year’s profits, which actually
amounted to seven hundred pounds. Another
party of natives did better still at whale-fishing,
securing spoil from the deep to the extent of
two thousand six hundred pounds.</p>
<p>Among all the elevating influences brought to
bear upon the Maoris, the means of education
appears to be the most promising; and if they
succeed in avoiding the fate of extinction, to
which so many savage tribes seem doomed when
brought in contact with a higher civilisation,
education will be the chief agent in bringing
about the happy result. With the advance of
education, it may reasonably be hoped that the
Maoris—who are naturally a very receptive people—may
be brought to see the evils of consanguineous
marriages, to adopt more rational sanitary
measures both as regards their children
and themselves. At present, they have very erroneous
and mischievous ideas of disease. When
an epidemic of typhoid fever broke out among
some of them recently, they were utterly regardless
of the danger of infection, and ridiculed
the idea of taking any precautionary measures
to prevent the spread of the disease, saying it
was not fever, but simply a Maori complaint
brought on by <i>makutu</i> or witchcraft. When a
native is attacked by illness, he frequently succumbs
through sheer fright. It may easily be
imagined how these facts increase the mortality
of the race, and what improvement may be
effected in these respects by the advancement of
education.</p>
<p>It is satisfactory to note that the government
are alive to the importance of the subject.
According to a recent official Return, it appears
that there were sixty-nine native schools in full
working order, and over two thousand Maori children
receiving the elements of a good English
education. The great advantage of these schools,
it has been very well pointed out, is not so
much that the young people learn to speak
the English language, but that they learn to
appreciate our customs, to value time, and to
gain a desire for improvement, both mental and
social, which, doubtless, they will transmit to
their descendants, who will then become fitted
to hold a fair position in the future. The natives
generally appear to be alive to these facts, and
not only send their children to the schools, but
give sites for school-buildings, and show their
interest in the movement in other ways. They
elect their School Committees in the same way
that the Europeans do, and on the whole do
the work very well.</p>
<p>The Blue Ribbon movement appears to have
taken a singularly firm hold among the race. The
so-called ‘king’ himself donned the badge with
great ceremony at the solicitation of Sir George
Grey, before leaving for England in 1884; and
in every village are to be seen numbers of the
young Maori ‘braves’ wearing the ‘bit of blue’
as among the most cherished of their decorations.</p>
<p>The outlook, then, as regards the conflict in
which the race is at present engaged, is so
far satisfactory. The question will, however,
naturally be asked, whether the beneficial effects
of the educative process are permanent, or
whether, after the Maoris leave school, they
relapse into their old habits and customs. The
savage nature, we know, is very apt to reassert
itself. Miss Bird tells us how the Ainos
of Japan educated at Tokiô relapsed into barbarism
on returning to their own people, retaining
nothing but a knowledge of the Japanese
language. Another writer recounts how an
Indian girl, one of the most orderly of the pupils
at a lady’s school, has been known, on feeling
herself aggrieved, to withdraw to her room, let
down her back hair, paint her face, and howl.
Something of the sort, it must be confessed, is
not altogether unknown in New Zealand. I once
went to see a Maori <i>haka</i> or dance, interesting
in its way, but not more edifying than native
dances usually are. To my amazement, I saw
among the performers a young lady whom I
had known as a well-educated Maori girl, living
in good circumstances, possessing excellent taste
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_675">{675}</span>in dress, and who had been in the habit of taking
her place with advantage in European ballrooms.
On this occasion her costume, although not more
<i>décolletée</i> than European evening dress frequently
is, would have created considerable sensation in
an English gathering, consisting as it did simply
of a loose calico gown. A very handsome, well-informed
half-caste, one of the most lady-like
persons I ever met, once confessed to me that
she could never look on at a Maori <i>tangi</i> or
wake without feeling an irresistible inclination
to rush in and tear her hair and howl like the
rest. In fact, she admitted that she had to leave
such scenes, or her emotions might have become
too strong for her self-control. Again, I shall
not soon forget the surprise created, a few years
ago, when one of the most promising young
Maoris in Wellington, who had been brought
up with Europeans from childhood, who was
being educated for a barrister, and who promised
to be one of the ornaments of the profession,
suddenly disappeared, and was next heard of as
having flung off his European clothes and joined
the fanatical followers of a half-demented Maori
prophet known as Te Whiti. No inducements
could prevail on him to return to civilisation,
and he became one of the most devoted and
credulous of the prophet’s adherents.</p>
<p>These, however, are exceptions, and not the
rule. We have Maori members both of the
Upper and Lower House who are a pattern to
some other legislators in many respects, and
can take their place in any European society.
We have Maori clergymen both Anglican and
Wesleyan who appear to make pastors of the
most exemplary kind. There is as yet no Maori
lawyer in practice, but some native lads are
being trained in solicitors’ offices, and there is
every prospect of their naturally keen wits
enabling them to take a good position in the
profession. So far as I am aware, they are
not ambitious of becoming doctors; and some
malicious people may be cruel enough to suggest
that as regards the longevity of the race
this is rather an advantage than otherwise.</p>
<p>Some of them are being trained to trades; and
it is suggested by the organising inspector that
every boy, after he has gone through the village
school course, should, if his parents wish it,
be apprenticed to some trade by the government,
so as to insure his obtaining a proper
industrial training. With the Maoris grounded
in a proper knowledge of social and sanitary
laws, with their moral and intellectual instincts
properly guided and cultivated, there seems yet
to be a hope that the prophecy so often made,
that the race must speedily die out, may be
falsified. This is the opinion of a medical man to
whom I have already referred. In his Report to
the native Minister, Dr Ginders, after mentioning
the prevalent diseases among the Maoris, says:
‘In my opinion, the production, and severity,
and the spread of these diseases are determined
by two main factors: first, the influence of the
<i>wharepuni</i> (sleeping-hut), and secondly, the consumption
of putrid food. Compared with these
two gigantic evils, alcohol is nowhere. Were
there no <i>wharepunis</i>, I believe the Maori would
be a successful rival of his European neighbour in
sobriety and industry; but with his blood vitiated
by the foul air of these hotbeds of disease,
he has neither strength nor inclination to work,
and it would be odd, indeed, if he had no craving
for stimulants. I am inclined to credit the
<i>wharepuni</i> with more than half the infant mortality.
Not only is the child injured directly
by this devitalising influence, but indirectly
through the mother, whose milk is diminished
in quantity and impoverished in quality by
the same cause. I believe the growing intelligence
of the rising generation of Maoris has
already checked the rapid decadence of the
race. I believe, too, that these evils will gradually
die out, and we shall find the native population
increasing <i>pari passu</i>.’</p>
<p>New Zealand at the present time, it will be
seen, has a grand opportunity for assisting in
the achievement of a civilising feat which, if
successful, will go very far to confute those
pessimists who declare that our modern civilisation
is a delusion and a snare, utterly destructive
to the weaker races with whom it is brought
in contact.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak x-ebookmaker-important" id="BY_ORDER_OF_THE_LEAGUE">BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.</h2></div>
<h3>CHAPTER VIII.</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> first act in the drama was about to be
played—the puppets all arranged, all acting for
themselves, never heeding the hand of fate in
it. Hector le Gautier triumphant, but troubled
occasionally by the loss of his device, yet trusting
to his own good fortune and matchless audacity
to pull him through.</p>
<p>The curious in such matters, the idle folks
who dream and speculate, had food for reflection
in their <i>Times</i> next morning, for on the
front sheet on the second column appeared an
announcement. It was vague; but one man
understood it. It ran:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><span class="smcap">Moidore.</span>—How reckless of you to throw away
a life on the hazard of a die. They are all
safe but yours. Where is that? In two months
you will have to deliver, and then beware of
the wrath of the Crimson Nine. It is not too
late yet. Under the clock at C. × at nine—any
night. Use the sign, and good will come of
it.—<span class="smcap">Eastern Eagle.</span></p>
</div>
<p>The <i>Times</i> containing this announcement lay
upon Isodore’s breakfast-table in Ventnor Street,
Fitzroy Square. As it rested upon the table,
the words were readable, and Isodore smiled
when they caught her eye as she entered. She
took up an album from a side-table and turned
over the leaves till she came to the portrait of
a pretty dark girl of about seventeen. At this
she looked long and intently, and then turned
to scrutinise her features in the glass. There
was nothing coquettish about this—no suspicion
of womanly vanity, but rather the air of one
who strives to find some likeness. Apparently
the examination pleased her, for she smiled
again—not a pleasant smile, this time, but one
of certainty, almost cruelty; and a vengeful look
made the eyes hard for a moment.</p>
<p>She turned to the photograph again, and then
once more back to the mirror, as if to be absolutely
certain of her convictions, that there might
be no mistake.</p>
<p>While absorbed thus, Valerie le Gautier
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_676">{676}</span>entered the room and looked at Isodore in
astonishment. ‘You have a grand excuse,’ she
said archly, ‘though I did not know that vanity
was one of your failings, Isodore.’</p>
<p>Isodore blushed never so faintly, not so much
by being taken in the little act, as by the appearance
of the thing. ‘It is not on any account of
mine,’ she said; ‘rather, on yours.—Valerie, look
here carefully and tell me if you know that face.’
She indicated the portrait in the album; and her
friend looked at it earnestly.</p>
<p>After a few moments she looked up, shaking
her head doubtfully. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘It is
a strange face entirely to me.’</p>
<p>‘Then I have altered since that was taken five
years ago.’</p>
<p>‘Is it possible that innocent, childish-looking
face could have once been you?’ Valerie asked in
unfeigned astonishment.</p>
<p>‘Indeed, it is. There is nothing like sorrow
and hardship to alter the expression of features,
especially of women. Yes, Valerie, that is what
I was when I met him. You would not have
known me?’</p>
<p>‘No, indeed. They might be two different
faces.’</p>
<p>‘So much the better for me—so much the
worse for him,’ Isodore observed without the
slightest tinge of passion in her tones.—‘Read that
paragraph in the <i>Times</i>, and see if you can make
anything of it.’</p>
<p>‘It is Greek to me,’ Valerie replied, when she
had perused the advertisement with a puzzled air.—‘Has
it any allusion to my—to Hector?’</p>
<p>‘To your husband? Yes. He will understand
it in a moment, and only be too eager to regain
his insignia. There will be a happy union of
two loving hearts some night in Charing Cross
Station. Little will the spectators know of the
passions running riot there.’ She laughed bitterly
as she said these words, and threw the paper
upon the table again. She was in a strange
mood this morning.</p>
<p>‘Then I suppose that C. × means Charing
Cross?’ Valerie asked, ‘and you expect Hector
to come there?—I do not quite comprehend your
plan, Isodore. It will be dangerous to have
another in the secret, and I suppose some one
will have to meet him.’</p>
<p>‘Some one will,’ was the calm reply. ‘And
who, do you think, is the proper one to do
that? Who better than his old friend and once
passionate admirer, Isodore?’</p>
<p>‘<i>You</i> meet him?’ Valerie cried. ‘How daring!
Suppose he should recognise you, how then?
All your schemes would be thrown to the winds,
and we should be defeated. It is madness!’</p>
<p>‘You forget I have his badge of membership;
besides, I have a duty to perform beyond my
own feelings in the matter—my duty to the
League. But he will not recognise me after the
lapse of years, and I must get to the bottom
of his traitorous designs.’</p>
<p>‘You are reckoning upon certainties, Isodore.
Suppose you are wrong—suppose he is, after all,
no traitor, and that your ideas are only fancies.
How then?’</p>
<p>‘He is a traitor—instinct tells me that. Wait
and see what Lucrece has to say, when she comes.
She is sure to have gleaned some information by
this time.’</p>
<p>Hot revenge is apt to burn itself out quickly,
from its very fierceness; but such hate as this
never dies. There was a cool deliberation in
Isodore’s words which struck her hearer with
great force; and much as she herself had suffered,
she could not realise a passion such as this. It
is probable that had she met her recalcitrant
husband, a few words would have obtained for
him forgiveness; but she was under the spell
now, and her weaker will was swallowed up
in a strong one.</p>
<p>‘Do you expect Lucrece this morning?’ Valerie
asked.</p>
<p>‘I am expecting her every moment,’ Isodore
replied. ‘She promised me to come to-day and
let me have her report.’</p>
<p>They sat in silence for a few moments, when
Lucrece entered. She was quietly, almost plainly
dressed, and wore an air of extreme meekness.</p>
<p>‘You look the character,’ Isodore said approvingly.
‘You might have been a menial all your
lifetime.—I am all impatience. Begin!’</p>
<p>‘In the first place,’ Lucrece began without
further preamble, ‘I like my situation; and as
to my new mistress, to know her is to love her.
You have no idea how gentle and thoughtful she
is. Now, to begin with her. The dear Hector
has a rival, and a powerful one; his name is
Frederick Maxwell, and he is an artist. From
what I can see, they are engaged.—Isodore, this
Maxwell has joined the League, and will be introduced
by Salvarini.’</p>
<p>‘Frederick Maxwell! Carlo’s old friend! Poor
fool! Le Gautier has tools enough.’</p>
<p>‘He is a fine handsome Englishman; honour
and honesty stamped in every line of his face;
just the sort of man to be made useful.—But
to continue. Le Gautier is <i>l’ami de la famille</i>. He
has a wonderful influence over Sir Geoffrey, and
has succeeded in fascinating Enid—and she hates
him notwithstanding. Isodore, Le Gautier is at
his old spiritualistic tricks again.’</p>
<p>‘Ah!—Tell me something of Sir Geoffrey.’</p>
<p>‘I am coming to that. Last night, my mistress
was out very late, not getting home till past one.
It has been my habit to wait for her in the back
dining-room, and last night I was sitting there
in the dark, dozing. I was awakened by the
entrance of Sir Geoffrey. I could see his face
was ghastly pale, and he kept muttering to himself,
and some words at intervals I caught. “I
wonder if it was jugglery,” I heard him say—“if
it was some trick of Le Gautier’s?—No; it could
not be; and yet, if I am to have any peace, I
must fulfil the compact—I must join this Brotherhood.
And Enid, what will she say, when she
knows? What will Maxwell think of me?—But
perhaps Le Gautier is already married.” I could
not catch any more. What do you think of
it?’</p>
<p>Isodore was following the speaker so intently,
and so engrossed in her thoughts, that she did
not reply for a moment. ‘You can help us here,
Valerie. Tell us what you think.’</p>
<p>‘Lucrece is perfectly right,’ Valerie replied. ‘I
have hitherto told you that my husband used
to dabble in such things; nay, more, as a conjurer
he was probably without a rival. He made
a great reputation at Rome before the thing
exploded; and indeed, to a weak mind, some of
the séances were awe-inspiring.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_677">{677}</span></p>
<p>‘It seems to me,’ Isodore put in reflectively,
‘that Le Gautier has worked upon Sir Geoffrey’s
superstitious fears till he has him bound fast
enough. And you say he is to join the Brotherhood.
Really, I begin to feel an admiration
for the man I am pledged to destroy. It is
clear that he has promised his daughter to Le
Gautier. Is she weak?’</p>
<p>‘On the contrary, though she is gentle and
tractable, there is much determination of purpose
underlying her gentleness.’</p>
<p>‘You have done wonders in this short time,
my sister. But do not relax your vigilance
now; let nothing escape you that may be of
use to us.’</p>
<p>‘I must return,’ Lucrece explained, looking at
her watch, ‘or I shall be missed. I will not
fail to bring you such information as falls in
my way from time to time.’</p>
<p>After she was gone, the women sat quietly
for a time, each pondering over what they had
heard. The information was not much; but it
sufficed to show them in what way the influence
over the weak baronet had been obtained,
and every detail of Le Gautier’s movement might
be of use. A wild plan formed itself in Isodore’s
busy brain, as she sat thinking there. ‘Why
should it not be?’ she thought.</p>
<p>‘Do you think it would be possible for any
one to love me?’ she asked.</p>
<p>Valerie looked into the beautiful face and
smiled. ‘How otherwise?’</p>
<p>‘Then it shall be so. Valerie, I am going
to make Hector le Gautier love me as he never
loved woman before!’</p>
<h3>CHAPTER IX.</h3>
<p>Hector le Gautier, all unconscious of the plot
against his safety and peace of mind, sat over
his breakfast the same morning. He was on
remarkably good terms with himself, for all his
plans were prospering, and for him the present
outlook was a rosy one. His plans were well
laid. He intended to keep his present position
in the League, to go to Warsaw if necessary;
and now that he had Sir Geoffrey in his hands
beyond all hope of extrication, it was easy enough
to send Maxwell upon some dangerous foreign
mission, where, if he escaped with his life, he
would henceforth be an outlaw and a fugitive.
Sir Geoffrey, too, had bound himself to join;
and with this lever, he could work upon Enid’s
fears to perfection.</p>
<p>He was in no hurry; he was far too consummate
a rogue, too accomplished a schemer,
to ruin the delicate combination by any premature
move, preferring for the present to renew
his forces and calculate his advance, as a chess-player
might when he knows the game is in
his hands. Then should come the crowning act,
by which he should rid himself of the irksome
chains which bound him to the League. All his
plans were prepared for delivering the leaders
into the hands of justice, always with a care to
his own escape. As he turned these things over
in his mind, he whistled a little air gaily, resumed
his breakfast, and opened the broadsheet of the
<i>Times</i> to see the news of the day.</p>
<p>Fortune seemed to be smiling upon him, he
thought, as he read the mystic announcement
in the second outside column. Here was the
thing which had caused him so much anxious
thought as good as delivered again into his hands.
Some friend, perhaps, had discovered his loss,
and had determined to return it thus. Perhaps—and
here he showed his white teeth in a dazzling
smile—some fair one, who had taken this way
to show her admiration; for Le Gautier was,
like most vain men, a great admirer of the sex,
and fully impressed with the all-conquering
fascination of his manner. He was not the first
clever man who has held such opinions, and
found, when too late, the fatal error of underrating
the power of an injured woman.</p>
<p>He perfectly understood the advertisement.
It was not the first time that newspapers had
been employed to do work for the League; nor
did he hesitate to avail himself of this golden
opportunity. He had scarcely finished his breakfast
and made up his mind to meet the mysterious
Eastern Eagle, when Salvarini entered. He was
moody and preoccupied, with a sombre frown
upon his face, telling of much inward uneasiness.</p>
<p>‘I do not like these new arrangements,’ he
commenced abruptly, in answer to Le Gautier’s
florid greeting. ‘There is great danger in them,
and they cannot lead to any good results. I
shall oppose them.’</p>
<p>‘Pray, explain yourself, my good Luigi; I
am in Cimmerian darkness,’ Le Gautier replied
carelessly. ‘You are so dreadfully in earnest;
absolutely, you view life through the gloomy
spectacles of the League.’</p>
<p>‘It is folly, madness!’ Salvarini replied passionately.
‘Heaven knows, we have had bloodshed
enough. What do you think the last proposal
is?—Nothing less than the removal of
ministers: dynamite is to be the agent, and a
special mission arranged to Rome. Visci—our
dear old friend Visci—is doomed!’</p>
<p>‘They must be mad,’ Le Gautier returned
calmly. ‘But tell me, Luigi, what of Visci?’
he continued, inspired by a sudden thought.
‘I presume you have been holding a Council
this morning. Visci used to be a friend of
yours. How do they propose to get rid of
him?’</p>
<p>‘The dagger!’ Salvarini answered with great
agitation. ‘Visci was once a friend of mine,
as you say, and yours too, for that. Heaven
save me from the task!’</p>
<p>‘But why need it be you? We have new
members, new blood as yet untried. Let them
show their mettle now. There is no reason
why we should always be in the van of battle.
But why this sudden determination?’</p>
<p>‘The old story,’ Salvarini continued bitterly—‘private
grudges brought in; personal ends to be
served where all should be of one accord, all
striving for the good of the cause. I am heartsick
and weary of the whole affair. Is our path
always to be defiled with innocent blood?’</p>
<p>‘So long as I can keep my hands clean, it is
nothing to me,’ Le Gautier replied with a careless
shrug; ‘not that I hold with the present
system.—But abandon your Cassandra vein, and
be yourself for a moment. See what you think
of that, and congratulate me upon a stroke of
fortune I have not altogether deserved.’</p>
<p>‘I congratulate you,’ Salvarini grimly replied,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_678">{678}</span>when he had perused the paragraph. ‘You
always contrive to fall upon your feet. Did I
not tell you that night in the Kursaal you
would hear of this again? Of course it is a
woman. No man would have taken such trouble,
especially if he happened to be a Brother,’ he
concluded with significant emphasis.</p>
<p>Le Gautier drew his fingers airily across his
throat, intending by this little playful action to
allude to his own sudden death. In his petty
vanity, he was not altogether displeased that his
friend should hint at a conquest.</p>
<p>‘Undoubtedly from a woman,’ he said. ‘Mark
the mystery and romance underlying it all. Some
fair dame of the Order, perhaps, who has seen
me only to become a victim to my numberless
charms.—Luigi, my friend, this little affair promises
amusement.’</p>
<p>‘I might have known that,’ Salvarini retorted
with some little contempt. ‘I believe you could
be turned aside from the most pressing mission
by a glance from a pair of melting eyes.—Bah!
your thoughts run on such things to the detriment
of the Order.’</p>
<p>‘In such a charming situation as you mention,
confusion to the Order!—Now, do not look so
melodramatic! Pardieu! do you think a man
should have no amusements? Now, as a penance,
you shall bore me with the order of this morning’s
proceedings.’</p>
<p>‘A woman will ruin you eventually.’—Le
Gautier smiled; the sententious words read the
wrong way.—‘We had not much transaction this
morning, save what I have told you, and the
initiation of a few members.’</p>
<p>‘Converts to the noble cause of freedom.—Any
one I know?’</p>
<p>‘Several. Do I understand it is your intention
to introduce Sir Geoffrey in person?’</p>
<p>Le Gautier nodded assent; and the friends proceeded
to discuss other matters connected with
their mission. When Salvarini had left, long
and earnestly did Le Gautier sit silently there.
Then he rose, and taking a pack of cards from
a drawer, began to cut and shuffle them rapidly.
He dealt them round six times, bringing the
knave of clubs on the same heap each time. He
put the cards away; an evil smile was on his face.</p>
<p>‘My right hand has not lost its cunning,’ he
muttered. ‘Frederick Maxwell shall go to Rome,
and—— Well, fate will do the rest.’</p>
<p>With this humane remark, he put on his hat,
struggled into a pair of very tight-fitting gloves,
and passed out from Hunter Street into the
Euston Road; for it is almost needless to say
that the house beyond Paddington where we
last saw him was not his ordinary lodging, his
abode being a much humbler one, as consisted
with his limited means; for Hector le Gautier,
though moving in good society, and always faultlessly
attired, was not endowed with that wealth
that smooths so many paths in this vale of tears.
Like other men of his class, he contrived to
keep his head above water, though how it was
done was alike a mystery to himself and his
friends.</p>
<p>It was past two as he turned into Grosvenor
Square and up the broad flight of steps which
led up to the Charteris’ mansion. He had come
here with more purposes than one: in the first
place, to see Enid—this attraction a powerful one;
and secondly, to have a talk upon general matters
with the baronet, and perhaps get an invitation
to luncheon. Sir Geoffrey he found in the
dining-room, just sitting down to his mid-day
meal in solitary state; and in answer to an invitation
to join, asked after Enid, who, he learned,
had gone with Maxwell and a kindly chaperon to
a morning-party at Twickenham. He was, however,
too much a cosmopolitan to allow this to
interfere with his appetite, so, with a few well-chosen
words of regret, he settled himself quietly
to his lunch, discussing in turn the weather,
politics, the last new beauty, anything—waiting
for his host to speak upon the subject nearest his
heart. Sir Geoffrey’s patience being by this time
exhausted, he commenced.</p>
<p>‘I think I am free, Le Gautier,’ he said at
length.</p>
<p>The listener affected not to comprehend this
enigmatic remark.</p>
<p>‘Free from what, Sir Geoffrey?’ he asked
carelessly. ‘Is it gout, or headache, or a marvellous
escape from dining with a notorious bore?
Which of these things are you free from?’</p>
<p>‘I was thinking of nothing so worldly,’ was
the serious reply. ‘I allude to the marvellous
manifestations recently vouchsafed to me. Since
you so kindly showed me through yourself the
path of duty, I have felt like a different man.
They are gone, I trust for ever. Tell me, do
you think there is any possible chance of their
recurring?’</p>
<p>‘So long as you fulfil your part of the contract,
certainly not.—But, my dear Sir Geoffrey,’ the
Frenchman continued gaily, ‘let us have no
serious conversation now, I beseech you. Let us
forget for the time we are anything but friends.
I am too light and frivolous to talk seriously.
The last new play, a fresh picture, anything but
the supernatural.’</p>
<p>Despite this appearance of <i>bonhomie</i>, Le Gautier
had no intention of changing the conversation,
though it was not his cue to introduce the subject
himself; besides, an appearance of good-naturedly
yielding to the other’s news seemed to tell better,
and create a deeper feeling of obligation.</p>
<p>‘The longer I put the matter off, the more
difficult my task seems to be,’ the baronet continued,
not without hesitation. ‘Certain restrictions
were laid upon me, certain commands given,
which I am bound to carry out. If you had
heard the conversation, my task would be less
difficult; but as you did not, I must do my best
to explain.’</p>
<p>Le Gautier drummed with his fingers upon the
table, shrugged his shoulders, and sighed gently,
as a man yielding against his will upon the
sacred ground of friendship, tempered with politeness.</p>
<p>‘If you have anything to say, it is perhaps
better to say it. But if it pains you, if it gives
you the slightest mental agony or discloses family
affairs, then, my dear sir, be dumb;’ and the
speaker glanced out of the window, as if he considered
the matter settled.</p>
<p>‘But I must tell you. It is impossible I can
fulfil my promises without your assistance. In
the first place, I am commanded to join your
League or Brotherhood; and here, you see, I
cannot get any further without your good advice
and countenance.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_679">{679}</span></p>
<p>‘You distress me,’ Le Gautier replied mournfully.
‘I wish that matter could have been
settled without such a step being necessary.
Our work, though a noble one, is attended at
times with great hardship and danger. Think,
my dear Sir Geoffrey—think if there is no
middle course by which such an action may be
avoided.’</p>
<p>The speaker created the impression he was
most anxious to make. To the baronet, full of
his scheme, this advice was unpalatable, the more
that, like most spoilt, weak-minded men, he was
intensely fond of his own way. He grew stubborn.
Le Gautier was perfectly at ease as he
studied the other’s face.</p>
<p>‘I see no middle course. The injunction was
very strict. I dare not disobey, if I would. I
must become a member of your League, whatever
the danger may be; and if called upon, I must
take my part in the work. Do you not remember
the vision?’——</p>
<p>‘You forget my state,’ Le Gautier interrupted
softly—‘that during the time I heard nothing,
comprehended nothing going on around me. My
faculties for the time being were torpid.’</p>
<p>This adroit interruption only served to increase
the baronet’s uneasiness. He writhed in his
chair, unable to continue.</p>
<p>‘And there is another thing,’ he stammered,
‘which I must tell you, though I scarcely know
how. I daresay you have noticed my daughter?’</p>
<p>‘Is it possible to see her and not be conscious
of her beauties!’ Le Gautier cried—‘to be in
her presence and not feel the charm of her
society! Ah! Sir Geoffrey,’ he continued blandly,
throwing out a strong hint, ‘he will be a happy
man who wins the treasure of her heart!’</p>
<p>At this helping of the lame dog over the stile,
Sir Geoffrey looked grateful. ‘Has she ever
impressed you, Le Gautier?’</p>
<p>‘Alas, yes,’ was the melancholy reply, but with
some feeling too, for, as far as he was concerned,
the passion was genuine. ‘Why should I strive
to conceal my honest love? I may be poor and
unknown, but I am at least a gentleman, and I
offer the greatest compliment man can pay a
woman—an ardent, loving heart.—But I am rambling;
I dream, I rave! That I should aspire
to an alliance with the House of Charteris!’</p>
<p>The baronet was somewhat moved by this
display of manly emotion, and, moreover, his
pride was tickled. The young man evidently
knew that what he aspired to was a high honour
indeed.</p>
<p>‘But, Sir Geoffrey,’ he continued brokenly,
‘you will not breathe a word of this to a soul!
In a moment of passion, I have been led to
divulge the master-passion of my life. Promise
me you will forget it from this hour;’ and
saying these words, he stretched out a hand
trembling with suppressed emotion to his host
and friend. A good actor was lost to an admiring
world here.</p>
<p>‘But bless me!’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed, taken
aback by this display, and, sooth to say, somewhat
irritated that the necessary explanation must
come from him after all, ‘I <i>want</i> you to marry
the girl.’</p>
<p>‘Is it possible, or am I dreaming?’ Le Gautier
cried in a delirium of rapture. ‘Do I hear
aright? Oh, say these words again!’</p>
<p>Le Gautier was slightly overdoing the thing
now, and Sir Geoffrey knew it. ‘I mean what
I say,’ he added coldly. ‘You are the man
for Enid.’</p>
<p>‘Who is talking about Enid?’ asked a fresh
clear voice at that moment, as the subject of
discourse, accompanied by her escort, glided into
the room. Le Gautier, in love as he was,
thought he had never seen her look so fair as
she did then, her face slightly tinged with colour,
her eyes all aglow with pleasurable excitement.
For a moment the conspirators were abashed,
and it took all the Frenchman’s cool equitable
nerve to solve and explain what appeared to be
a truly awkward question.</p>
<p>‘When we are not with the rose, we love to
talk of her,’ he replied with one of these bold
glances for which Maxwell longed to kick him
on the spot.—‘I trust you have spent a pleasant
morning?’</p>
<p>Enid answered as coldly as the dictates of
breeding would allow. The man’s florid compliments
were odious to her, and his presence
oppressive. Le Gautier, accustomed to read men
and faces like open books, did not fail to note
this.</p>
<p>‘I have important news,’ he whispered to
Maxwell, after he had made his graceful adieux
to Enid and his host. ‘I want to say a few words
to you, if you happen to be walking my way.’</p>
<p>Maxwell answered with studious politeness.
‘With pleasure,’ he said. ‘If you will allow me,
I will drive you in my cab.’</p>
<p>Enid’s quick ears caught the whisper, and a
feeling of approaching evil seemed to come over
her—a cloud passed over the sun, and, to her
fancy, for a moment Le Gautier looked like
Mephistopheles tempting Faust. As the two men
passed out, she called Maxwell back. ‘Be careful,’
she urged. ‘Beware of that man; he will
do you a mischief.’</p>
<p>Maxwell smiled down in the pretty fearful
face tenderly. ‘All right, little woman,’ he
answered carelessly. ‘I shall take care. He is
not likely to do any harm to me.’</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="NAPOLEON_IN_TOR_BAY">NAPOLEON IN TOR BAY.</h2></div>
<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is all but impossible to realise the scene of
excitement which the calm blue waters of Tor
Bay, crested with the bright sunshine of the
summer of 1815, presented, when the Emperor
Napoleon arrived on board the <i>Bellerophon</i>, soon
to be transferred to the <i>Northumberland</i>, in which
he was conveyed to St Helena. After the
world-earthquake Waterloo, when the allies
entered Paris, and the French army declared for
Louis XVIII., Napoleon made his way to Rochefort,
where he arrived on the 3d of July, and
whence his attempts at escape were frustrated by
the moonlight and the vigilance of the English
cruisers. Two frigates had been placed at his
disposal to facilitate his flight to America, and
arrangements likewise made with a Danish smack
which was to await him out at sea; but to
reach her under the circumstances was deemed
an attempt too hazardous. At last, on the 14th
of July, Count Las Cases and General Allemand
came on board the <i>Bellerophon</i>, then lying in
the Basque Roads, with a proposal to Captain
Maitland that he should receive Napoleon, who
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_680">{680}</span>desired to proceed to England for the purpose
of throwing himself upon the generosity of the
Prince Regent. Captain Maitland clearly explained
that it was out of his power to grant
terms of any sort, and that his instructions only
permitted him to convey Napoleon and his
attendants to England; on which understanding,
the ex-Emperor, with his baggage, embarked the
following morning on board a French brig,
which conveyed them to the <i>Bellerophon</i>, where
he was received with the honours due to a
crowned head. On gaining the quarter-deck, the
Emperor said in French to the captain: ‘I am
come, sir, to claim the protection of your Prince
and of your laws.’ In appearance he is described
as about five and a half feet in height, strongly
made, decidedly stout, with a sallow complexion,
and dark-brown hair, as yet untouched with
gray. He wore a green uniform coat with
epaulets and a red collar, a broad red sash, star
on the left breast, white waistcoat, boots and
pantaloons, and a large cocked hat with the tricoloured
cockade.</p>
<p>The passage, by reason of adverse winds, was
slow, so that it was the 24th ere the <i>Bellerophon</i>
arrived in Tor Bay, when Captain Maitland
was signalled to stand out three leagues from
shore, and there await further orders from the
Admiralty. It is said that on first beholding
the Devonshire coast, Napoleon could not conceal
his admiration, exclaiming: ‘At length here is
this beautiful country! How much it resembles
Porto Ferrajo, in Elba.’</p>
<p>No sooner was it known that the disturber of
the peace of Europe, against whom they had so
long and so sternly striven, was actually on
board ship at anchor in Tor Bay, than from
Dartmouth, Paignton, Dawlish, Teignmouth, and
by-and-by from ports more distant still, the
country-folk thronged in boats of every size and
shape, struggling to approach the <i>Bellerophon</i> to
catch a glimpse of the fallen Emperor. So inconvenient
and dangerous was the crowding of
these innumerable craft with their cargoes of
sightseers, that it became necessary to order the
<i>Bellerophon’s</i> boats to row round the ship to
keep them at a respectful distance. No fewer
than a thousand boats daily put off from the
shore; and Napoleon exhibited no little pleasure
and amusement at the interest excited by his
presence. From London and all parts of the
country, people flocked down to Tor Bay during
the time necessarily occupied in determining
Napoleon’s final destination, well pleased if they
succeeded in catching an occasional glimpse of
him as he walked backwards and forwards in
the stern gallery with his hands behind him, or
surveyed through an opera glass the varied
texture of the crowd in the vessels below. As
he paced the quarter-deck in conversation with
one or other of his followers, he would frequently
approach the ship’s side and acknowledge
the salutations of his visitors. Two or
three French ladies, wives of members of the
suite, dressed in the height of the prevailing
fashion, were frequently seated on deck, with
whom, as he paused in his walk and stooped
to look through the ports at the vessels alongside,
Napoleon would now and again exchange
a word. At six o’clock the dinner-bell rang,
when the Emperor with his attendants went
below, the sailors with great good-humour putting
out a board on which was chalked, ‘He’s gone
to dine.’ He usually remained about half an
hour, when another board announced his reappearance
on deck. It was about the 1st of
August when his ultimate destination became
known to him through the newspapers, and he
was shortly afterwards observed at the cabin
window tearing up papers, which he threw into
the sea. Fragments of some of these, being seized
upon as relics, turned out to be translations of
speeches in the last session of parliament, and a
letter addressed to the Empress Maria Louisa
immediately after his abdication.</p>
<p>But of all the incidents which occurred while
Napoleon was in Tor Bay, the most remarkable
was a farewell visit paid him by a lady of
foreign appearance and surpassing loveliness.
Cloaked and veiled, to escape observation, she
carried with her a bouquet of choicest flowers,
peculiarly arranged in rows, which, when her
boat arrived at a convenient distance from the
<i>Bellerophon</i>, was despatched in charge of her
servant. As the token of unchanged affection
reached the quarter-deck, the lady was observed
to raise her veil, disclosing features of exceeding
beauty. At first, the bouquet seemed to awaken
no memories in Napoleon’s breast, but after a
moment, he hastily approached the ship’s side,
and steadfastly gazing awhile on the fair form
disclosed to view, he waved a last farewell.</p>
<p>On Wednesday the 2d of August, the <i>Bellerophon</i>
and <i>Tonnant</i> sailed for Plymouth, where
it had been intended that the transfer to the
<i>Northumberland</i> should be carried out. But in
consequence of the loss of life which occurred
from the vast concourse of boats in the Sound,
as well as to avoid a writ of habeas corpus,
under which it was desired to obtain the evidence
of Napoleon in a case at the time pending
in the Queen’s Bench, it was deemed advisable
to return to Tor Bay, where, on Sunday the 6th
of August, the three vessels (the <i>Northumberland</i>
having meantime come round from Portsmouth)
cast anchor. No sooner were the ships brought
up, than Sir Henry Bunbury, accompanied by
Mr Bathurst, proceeded on board the <i>Bellerophon</i>,
and announced to the ex-Emperor the resolution
of the cabinet, that he should be transported to
St Helena, accompanied by four of his friends
and twelve servants. The information was received
without surprise; but in a speech of three-quarters
of an hour’s duration, delivered in a
manner the most impressive, Napoleon protested
against the determination which had been arrived
at.</p>
<p>The same afternoon, Lord Keith and Sir
George Cockburn proceeded in the admiral’s
yacht to the <i>Bellerophon</i>. Napoleon was on deck
to receive them. After the usual salutations,
Lord Keith addressed himself to Bonaparte, and
acquainted him with his intended transfer to the
<i>Northumberland</i> for passage to St Helena. After
much expostulation, Napoleon finally refused to
go; but upon Lord Keith expressing the hope
that no coercion would be necessary to carry out
the orders of government, he replied: ‘O no,
no! you command, I must obey! Only, recollect,
I do not go of my own free-will.’ He then
formally handed to Lord Keith a written protest
against his transportation to St Helena, in which
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_681">{681}</span>it was contended, that having come voluntarily
on board the <i>Bellerophon</i>, he was the guest and
not the prisoner of England. ‘I appeal,’ he
concluded, ‘to history, whether an enemy who
comes deliberately in his misfortunes to seek an
asylum under the protection of English law, can
give a more convincing proof of his esteem and
confidence. But how have the English answered
such confidence and magnanimity; they pretended
to extend a friendly hand to this enemy;
and when he relied on their good faith, they
sacrificed him.’</p>
<p>It was afterwards arranged that the transfer
should take place the following morning (Monday)
about eleven o’clock. Early next day, Sir
George Cockburn superintended the inspection
of the baggage, consisting of services and toilet
sets of plate, several articles in gold, books, beds,
&c., which were sent on board the <i>Northumberland</i>,
four thousand gold napoleons being sealed
up and detained. The baggage having been
removed, the parting scene commenced, Napoleon
handing to several of his officers a certificate
of fidelity and good service. About eleven
o’clock, the barge of the <i>Tonnant</i> proceeded to
the <i>Bellerophon</i> to receive the fallen Emperor
and those who were to be the partakers of his
exile: General and Madame Bertrand with their
children, Count and Countess Montholon and
child, Count Las Cases, General Gourgaud, nine
men and three women servants. At the last
moment, Napoleon’s surgeon refused to accompany
him, whereupon the surgeon of the <i>Bellerophon</i>,
Mr O’Meara, consented to supply his place.
Shortly afterwards O’Meara was offered a salary
of five hundred pounds per annum, but this he
rejected, with the remark that the pay of his
king was sufficient to satisfy him.</p>
<p>Before entering the barge which was to
convey him to the <i>Northumberland</i>, Bonaparte
addressed himself to Captain Maitland and the
officers of the <i>Bellerophon</i>, not forgetting to take
off his hat to them again after descending the
ladder into the barge. It was about noon on
the 7th of August when the barge of the <i>Tonnant</i>
approached the starboard side of the <i>Northumberland</i>.
Bertrand was the first to go over the
side, and standing with his hat off, upright as
a sentinel, announced his master. Napoleon
instantly followed, and taking off his hat,
remarked to Sir George Cockburn, who received
him: ‘Monsieur, je suis à vos ordres.’ At
once moving forward on the quarter-deck, he
desired to be introduced to Captain Ross, who
commanded the ship, a ceremony which was
immediately performed, the guard of marines,
drawn up on the port side, receiving the ex-Emperor
with the compliment due to his rank
as a general officer. To Lord Lowther and Mr
Lyttleton, who stood near the admiral, Napoleon
bowed and spoke a few words, remarking also
to an artillery officer who was by, that he himself
had originally served in that arm. The
introduction to the eight lieutenants of the
ship, not one of whom could speak a single
word of French, was sufficiently ridiculous; they
were drawn up in line on one side of the cabin;
and after gazing and smiling for a moment on
Napoleon, who, in his turn, gazed and smiled
at them, they bowed and defiled before him out
of the cabin door. The after-cabin on board
the <i>Northumberland</i> was not, as on the <i>Bellerophon</i>,
the private room wherein Napoleon was not to
be intruded upon by any unbidden guest, but
was shared equally by the admiral and his
friends; a small cabin being besides appropriated
for the sole accommodation of the ex-Emperor,
and elegantly furnished, the toilet being of
silver, and the bed linen of exquisite fineness.
The party were also permitted to supply themselves
from shore with any articles they might
desire wherewith to add to their comfort and
amusement, a permission of which they availed
themselves by purchasing a billiard-table, an
immense supply of playing-cards, chessmen, &c.,
besides a number of the best books in the English
language.</p>
<p>After waiting for the <i>Weymouth</i> storeship
and some other vessels destined to complete the
miniature squadron, the whole finally sailed out
of Tor Bay on Friday the 11th of August; and
Napoleon passed away from the shores of Europe
to end his days in exile on a solitary rock in
the Atlantic.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="GEORGE_HANNAYS_LOVE_AFFAIR">GEORGE HANNAY’S LOVE AFFAIR.</h2></div>
<h3>CHAPTER IV.—DISENCHANTMENT.</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">Fortune</span> seemed to smile on Alfred’s London
enterprise. He called personally on the editors
of several of the society magazines and journals.
‘A Summer Ramble in Kirkcudbright’ was now
in all the glory of print; and when he assured
the editors that he was really the ‘Ariel’ who
penned the sketch, he found them willing,
nay, anxious to look over the manuscripts he
left with them. The letter from the <i>Olympic</i>
accepting the manuscript and inclosing so handsome
an honorarium was of great help to him.
Mr Hannay had a reputation for ‘discovering’
talent, and his protégés hardly ever failed in
taking some rank in the profession. He got four
or five accepted at fairly remunerative prices.
Then he was proposed at a minor literary club,
and passed the ballot. As a new contributor to
the <i>Olympic</i>, he ranked well there among his
brother scribes, who looked on him as a rising
man, and one whose good opinion was worth
courting. These new friends indeed treated him
with great cordiality, and made him as one of
themselves; some even going the length of
borrowing from him small sums of money.</p>
<p>Nor was this all. One of the members, the
sub-editor of a Sunday paper, volunteered to
introduce him to London ‘society.’ Behold our
friend, then, at a grand reception at Mrs
Judson’s. This lady was the widow of a
wealthy London pawnbroker (financial agent
she preferred the lost one to be called). Her
sole ambition in life was to secure a following
of literary ‘stars,’ even if they were of
infinitesimal magnitude; and in her circle, ‘Ariel’
appeared as one of the first. His handsome
figure and genial manners constituted him a
great favourite with the ladies; and his presence
was eagerly sought for at all these little
reunions which compose the ‘fringe’ of London
literary and artistic society. He found this kind
of life both pleasant and profitable; for he was
brought in contact with many editors and proprietors
of third and fourth rate periodicals,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_682">{682}</span>and was able to dispose of half his rejected
manuscripts among them, with fairly satisfactory
pecuniary results to himself.</p>
<p>His banker now held one or two hundred
pounds to his credit, and he began to look
upon the success of his literary venture as
<i>un fait accompli</i>. There was just one little
thing that annoyed him: his newly found
literary friends were extremely solicitous to
know when his further productions would
appear in the <i>Olympic</i>. This was a poser, for
he had not the least idea himself. He got
out of the difficulty, however, by saying that
the principal editor being on the continent, there
would be nothing definitely arranged until his
return. As will be remembered, Nan’s restrictions
did not prevent him from contributing to
the <i>Olympic</i> in his own name; so, immediately
after his arrival in London, he set to work and
wrote a sketch called ‘Student Life in Brussels.’
The manuscript was duly sent, and duly
returned in a few days with a printed note
indicating the editor’s regret at being unable
to make use of the paper. This was discouraging;
but then he reflected that taste in
literary things was very fickle; so he wrote a
heavy article on Fair Trade, and sent it on; but
the result was the same.</p>
<p>About this time, he heard that Mr Hannay
had gone to St Petersburg with a friend
to enjoy the winter festivities of the gay
northern capital. As he was not expected
home for two or three months, Alfred had a
good excuse till then for the non-appearance
of any further work of his in the <i>Olympic</i>.
In the meantime he gave himself up to the
charming gaieties and pleasant little dissipations
of the circle that had made quite a lion of him.
He rather liked the homage these people paid
him; true, they were mentally his inferiors, he
thought; but then they had money, position,
and influence, and might be made useful to
him in the future. He began to think—sometimes
with a feeling bordering on regret—of
his engagement to the innkeeper’s daughter.
How much better he could do now, if he were
free! However, he would be true to his
engagement. Only, Nan must be reasonable,
and wait; at the end of two or three years,
when his name was famous and his position
thoroughly assured, he would marry her. To
do so now would be extremely prejudicial to
his interests, and must not be thought of for
a moment. O no; she must wait patiently
till it suited his convenience; and wouldn’t she
gladly do so? Of course, for wasn’t the girl
madly in love with him?</p>
<p>And what about Nan? Well, things were
going on in their usual jog-trot course at
Lochenbreck. The winter was their dull season,
and she had plenty of time at her disposal,
which she employed in sewing, reading, practising
her music, and occasionally taking part in the
quiet social gatherings of her country neighbours.
She was, of course, delighted to hear of her lover’s
success in London. ‘Well, after all,’ she thought,
‘he seems to have known best.’ Then she
thought smilingly of the time when he would be
coming to claim the fulfilment of her promise;
and she hoped she could induce him to spend
part of the year at least at Lochenbreck. The
parting with her father was the only drawback
in her fair future; and she hoped this might
be partially at least averted. She sometimes
thought of her old and trusted friend the editor,
and a shadow would come over her countenance
for a moment. It passed quickly away, however,
for she never thought but that he had long since
forgotten her, amid the gaieties of the continent
and his literary pursuits; for though far from
London, he still held the editorial reins and
wrote his usual articles for the <i>Olympic</i>.</p>
<p>This pleasant, tranquil state of matters lasted
for some weeks. Her lover still corresponded
regularly with her; but his letters began to get
shorter, and were, perhaps, not quite so profuse
and warm in their amatory expressions. Then
after a bit they came more irregularly and
seldomer. Still Nan paid no heed to what
another maiden might have taken as indications
of their lover’s failing allegiance. Hers was a
happy, contented disposition, with no morbid
desire to conjure up possible future evils. She
loved Alfred sincerely, and with all the warmth
and fervour of a girl’s first love. That he had
failings, her strong, keen sense showed her plainly
enough; but then he was only a fallible mortal
like herself and other people. She was not blind
to the vanity he displayed in writing to her
about his social triumphs. If there was anything
that troubled her, it was the frequent
references he made to Mrs Judson. She resented
the control which this woman seemed to have
acquired over her lover’s doings. True, the widow
was almost old enough to be his mother, and had
been very kind to him; but a man should have
a mind of his own, and hold his future in his
own hands; if he did consult with any one, it
should be with her who was soon to be his
wife.</p>
<p>Things went on in this fashion for some time
longer, and Nan began to feel a vague, chilling
feeling in her heart that all was not as it
should be between Alfred and herself. She was
scarcely prepared, however, for a letter she received
from him one morning after a longer silence than
usual. It was dated from a Sir Hew Crayton’s
shooting-lodge down in Essex. The high-born
though impecunious—and, if the truth must be
told, rather disreputable—baronet had been a
client of the late Mr Judson, and was heavily indebted
to his widow. He was a constant attender
at her house, and it was there Alfred had formed
his acquaintance. Nan smiled when she saw
the ostentatious way he dated the blazoned note-paper
from Crayton Lodge. Before she finished
reading, however, her eyebrows became knit, and
an angry frown settled on her whilom smiling
visage. The letter commenced by saying that as
he felt rather out of sorts with his protracted
course of social enjoyments, he had accepted his
friend Sir Hew Crayton’s kind invitation to spend
a few days’ pheasant-shooting with him down in
Essex. Then he gave a general account of what
he had been doing since he last wrote—the dinner-parties,
balls, routs, conversaziones, and what not
he had been at; the compliments that had been
paid him, and the pleasing prophecies of the
grand future before him which flattering tongues
had whispered in his ears. All this she read
with an amused smile. But near the end she
came to a paragraph which ran as follows: ‘Do
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_683">{683}</span>you know, Nan, I have got a splendid chance of
making my fortune just now? A young lady
with twenty thousand pounds in her own right
has fallen in love with me! I was introduced
to her at an afternoon tea at Mrs Judson’s.
Of course, I made myself agreeable enough,
but I never thought she would have taken
my little civilities so seriously. Yet she did so.
Mrs Judson gave me a plain hint to that
effect, and I then had to tell her about our
engagement, and that such a thing was impossible.
She was surprised, and advised me strongly to
keep the thing secret, as, if it were known, it
would damage my prospects greatly in society,
and even in my profession. She has an excellent
knowledge of the world, Mrs Judson, and has been
very kind to me; her idea is, that we should
not think of getting married for two or three
years yet. By that time I will be in an assured
position, able to marry any one I like, and not
care a pin what the world says.’</p>
<p>Nan could scarce believe her eyes. Who was
this Mrs Judson who had thrust herself between
them? And did the prospective ‘not caring a
pin what the world said about marrying her,’
mean that he was afraid and ashamed to marry
her <i>now</i>? The very thought brought the hot
blood tumultuously to her cheeks. Her impulse
was to write breaking off the engagement at once;
however, when the first burst of natural indignation
was past, her practical good sense asserted
itself, and she wrote a short note, requesting
him to hasten down to Lochenbreck, as something
of the most vital importance to them both
had to be at once decided. This she posted,
and awaited her lover’s arrival—with impatience
certainly—but not of a pleasing kind.</p>
<p>When Alfred got the letter, he was a little
startled. Justly enough, he attributed it to something
he had said in his last epistle to her; and
in going over its contents in his mind, he had
no difficulty in fixing on the paragraph just
quoted as being the cause of offence. ‘Poor Nan!’
he thought. ‘A case of jealousy, I suppose—the
twenty-thousand-pounds young lady. How ridiculous
of her! Didn’t I say the thing was impossible!
However, I must run down and see her.
A kiss, a caress, and a few soft words, will put
her all right. Really, now, I do like Nan; and
I’ll make things all right for her one of these
days. But she must have patience: she forgets
what a sacrifice I am making, all for her sake.
To marry an innkeeper’s daughter! when, I may
say, I have the pick and choice of the eligibles
of London society, seems like lunacy. Oh, but
I’ll be true to her, all the same! But she
must learn her position; give up any selfish
ideas of an early foolish marriage, and learn to
wait patiently till it suits my convenience and
interest.’</p>
<p>He arrived at Lochenbreck railway station by
the morning express. The wagonette was there
to meet him, but no Nan. He jumped in; and
whirling through the keen frosty air, cracking
jokes with the driver the while, he arrived in
excellent spirits at the little old-fashioned inn.
To Nan’s great relief, her father had gone to
Castle Douglas market; she hated ‘scenes’ of
any kind and under any circumstances; but she
thought she could bear the one before her better,
if her father was not present and was never to
hear of it afterwards. After having dinned
the praises of his prospective son-in-law in his
ears for months, how could she now turn round
and say she had discovered him to be a vain,
conceited, selfish coxcomb? She had little hope
of this interview putting matters right between
them, and, to be prepared for the worst, had
collected all his letters—all the little nicknacks
he had given her—and parcelled them up ready
to hand to him.</p>
<p>She submitted gravely and coldly to the customary
salute with which he greeted her, and
led the way to the coffee-room, where breakfast
lay ready for him. In the occasional presence
of the waiting-girl, private conversation was impossible;
so he rattled on in an agreeable manner
about his experiences in London, giving brilliant
sketches of the varied private and public entertainments
in which he had participated. Nan
listened with lady-like composure, putting in an
occasional word; and when the meal was over
they retired to the private parlour. They sat
down opposite to each other, and then Anne
commenced her invective. She pointed out that
he had deliberately chosen literature as a profession,
and having gained a slight success, was now
idling away his time in London, among a set
of people who could do him no good, and who
were, she thought, but of very doubtful reputation.</p>
<p>‘Wrong there, Nan!’ he interrupted. ‘I admit
I don’t quite move in the inner circle. Still the
people I know seem to have plenty of money,
and are respectable enough; and I find them
useful. I meet with journalists among them, and
have been able to dispose of a good many of
my manuscripts. And you would notice I was
staying for a few days with Sir Hew Crayton.
Now, you know it does a literary man a deal
of good—in public estimation—to be taken notice
of by a baronet.’</p>
<p>‘I am sorry to hear you talking in that way,’
she replied sadly, ‘for it shows me your vanity
has got the better of your good sense. Do you
not see it was entirely through your article appearing
in the <i>Olympic</i> that you got your rejected
manuscripts disposed of? As for your baronet,
I don’t think you need boast of him. He stayed
with us for a month, four years ago, and left
without paying his bill. Papa made inquiry
about him, and found he made a swindling living
by lending his name as director to bogus Limited
Companies. Likely he would borrow money from
you?’</p>
<p>Alfred was forced to admit that he had obliged
him with a loan.</p>
<p>‘Now, Alfred,’ she continued gravely, ‘I have
decidedly made up my mind that it would be
better for us both that our engagement should
come to an end. If you continue in the life
you are leading, I have no hope for your future;
but even if you were successful, I could never
marry you. Doubtless, you would expect me to
mix with your new friends; that I could never
do—if they are like what you describe them—and
certain unhappiness would be the result.
It is well for us both I have come to know
this in time.’</p>
<p>This was different sort of talk from what he
had come to hear. It was tears and entreaties
for their immediate union which he had expected.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_684">{684}</span>Still his vanity blinded him to the true import
of her words. She had said she never could
mix with his new friends; well, it was but proper
modesty for her to say that. He would reassure
her on that score, and all would be well yet.</p>
<p>‘My dear Nan, I think you are talking a little
hastily. No doubt you would feel a little awkward
among the London ladies at first, but that
would soon pass away. And Mrs Judson promised
me to chaperon you a bit, and’——</p>
<p>‘I wish to hear nothing more, sir, about Mrs
Judson,’ she answered curtly.</p>
<p>‘Well, Nan, she’s a good friend of yours. I
told her all about our little affair. She said
of course it would be a great sacrifice on my
part; but she applauded my intention of acting
honourably towards you, even although you were
only an innkeeper’s daughter. Of course, it may
be two or three years before I’——</p>
<p>‘Stop!’ she cried, rising to her feet, her lips
quivering and her cheeks as pale as death—‘stop,
sir! I did not send for you here to insult me.
Surely I have spoken plainly enough; but your
head is so stuffed with selfish vanity, you cannot
comprehend me. Our engagement is at an end.
Here are all your letters and presents! You’ll
return mine when you get to London.—Now,
go!’</p>
<p>As she said the last words, she drew herself
up to her full height and pointed to the door.
The action was perhaps a little theatrical; but
when he looked at her white set face and flashing
eyes, he saw plainly enough that she was acting
no part. He fancied he had never seen her looking
so handsome before; and he felt a sinking
at his heart at the thought of having by his
foolish letters and talk lost for ever this woman.</p>
<p>‘You—you—are—angry just now, Nan. Do
take time to’——</p>
<p>‘Go!’ she repeated firmly, her hand still pointing
to the door. Her face was marble in its
inflexibility; he knew his doom was sealed.
Making a poor show of indifferent self-possession,
he rose and quitted the room.</p>
<p>When he was fairly gone, Nan broke down
entirely. Shutting herself up in her bedroom,
she made use of the safety-valve provided by
nature for her sex, and had a thoroughly good
cry. Next morning, she was calm and self-possessed,
although her eyes were red and heavy
looking. Her cherished idol had crumbled into
dust; and it became her, she thought, as a
prudent damsel to sweep away the smallest trace
of it from her heart.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="LONDON_CHARITY_ORGANISATION">LONDON CHARITY ORGANISATION
SOCIETY.</h2></div>
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Society for Organising Charitable Relief and
Repressing Mendicity, or, as it is popularly called,
the Charity Organisation Society, has for its
object the scientific supervision of charity dispensation,
in the deep-rooted conviction that slovenly
and indiscriminate almsgiving is a most pernicious
bane to society, and calculated to foster rather
than diminish indigence. Personal inquiry is
the keynote of the Society’s mode of operation.
Trained, experienced, and apt persons—both
honorary and paid—exhaustively investigate all
cases of indigence brought under the Society’s
notice. In each instance, one important point
is established at the outset of the investigation,
namely, whether the individual concerned must
of necessity—through physical or other disability—habitually
depend for sustenance upon the
resources of others, or whether he or she possesses
the latent means of self-support, which may be
brought into action—under the fostering influence
of personal guidance in moral and material things—after
the temporary condition of poverty has
been met by the judicious application of charity.
Cases of the former description are relegated to
the action of the poor-law—therein lying its
true function; cases of the latter kind are taken
in hand by the Society. But its action is not
that of an individual charitable institution concerned
merely with the distribution of its own
resources. It acts as an intermediary between
those who need charity and those who are anxious
to devote money to charitable purposes. Hence,
in the discharge of its functions, it places itself
in connection both with benevolent individuals
and benevolent bodies, seeking to secure the best
relief for the different cases of destitution which
come under its notice and at the same time to
prevent ‘overlapping’ in charity dispensation.
Where, however, it finds that a case of destitution
cannot effectively be relieved from other sources,
the Society brings its own funds into requisition.
As to its function of ‘repressing mendicity,’ this
it discharges by promoting the detection and
prosecution of impostors.</p>
<p>And now for a word or two about the mechanism,
if we may so call it, of the Society. The
organisation consists of a federation of forty district
committees—one or more being established
in each of the poor-law divisions of London—and
of a Central Council, at which every committee
is represented. The committees comprise, where
it is possible, ministers of religion, guardians of
the poor, and representatives of the principal
local charities. Their function is to receive,
investigate, and deal, according to the general principles
of the Society, with all cases of alleged
want or distress referred to them; and each
is intended to form a common meeting-place—a
centre of information and charitable work—for
persons in the district desirous of benefiting
the poor. The Central Council supervises besides
endeavouring to strengthen and consolidate the
work of the district committees, taking into consideration,
as well, all questions of principle and
all matters relating to the general action of the
Society. Of course the scene of the Society’s
main operations is the metropolitan poor-law
district; but it is glad to give general assistance,
by sending information to agencies outside that
area. We may add that the example set by the
Society has given birth to many foreign and
provincial organisations of identical aims and
action.</p>
<p>It may be interesting to glance briefly at the
broad method of investigation pursued by the
inquiry officers—be they paid or honorary—of
the Society. In treating a family, then,
the following facts are in the first place arrived
at: The ages of the parents; the amount of
their earnings at the time of application and
previously; the cause of their leaving their last
employment; the ages of their children; and
whether those children go to school (and if so,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_685">{685}</span>where)—or, if they are employed, what they earn.
The previous addresses, with the references of the
family, are next learned; and it is ascertained
whether they belong to a club or have relatives
who ought to assist them. Then inquiry is made
as to whether the family have any debts hanging
over them; what their rent is; how they are
obtaining a living at the time of application; and,
finally, how they think they can be thoroughly
helped. Subsequently, it is the inquiry officer’s
duty, among other things, to ascertain for himself
the cause of the family’s distress, verifying the
information they have supplied to him; to search
out the best mode of helping; to familiarise himself
with the character of the family, and find on
whom, if its natural head be weak or incompetent,
reliance can be placed to re-establish the family
fortunes; and, lastly, to settle what means of
future thrift and self-support can be fostered
into life.</p>
<p>Did space permit, we should like to give some
characteristic examples of instances where the
indigent have been raised to a state of independence
by the well-advised action of the Society,
and tell how the workhouse itself has been made
to yield material with which to work so happy a
transformation. Some reference, too, would be
justified to the numerous special questions in
connection with which the Society has seen cause
to take action. But we have said enough perhaps
to effect our immediate purpose and indicate
the nature of the Society and the scope of its
operations. A considerable literature has grown
around the Charity Organisation Society, and
this is accessible to all who visit the central office
of the institution, 15 Buckingham Street, Adelphi,
London, whither all communications to the
Secretary, Mr C. L. Loch, should be addressed.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_DENSCHMANS_HAD">THE DENSCHMAN’S HAD.</h2>
<p class="ph3">A LEGEND OF SHETLAND.</p></div>
<p><span class="smcap">From</span> Widwick to Hermaness the cliffs rise
steep and high from a deep ocean, so deep that
a large ship might float alongside of the crags
without danger of scraping her keel. What
would be the fate of such a vessel, if she were
carried by the might of that sea against that
iron wall, I leave you to imagine. The rocks
are broken all along their range by fissures and
caves, inaccessible from the land, and scarcely
approachable from the sea. He is a bold voyager
who brings even a boat to thread the ‘baas’
and ‘stacks’—submerged rocks and needle-crags—which
guard the way to those haunts of sea-fowl
and seals. One of the caves is named the
Denschman’s Had. I ought to explain that a
‘had’ means the den of a wild beast, his stronghold;
and ‘Denschman’ is ‘Dane.’</p>
<p>In old days, Shetland (or Hialtland) was
nothing more than a ‘had’ of vikinger, those
pirates of the North who have so often been
confounded with the noble sea-kings of Scandinavia;
but while the islands belonged to Norway,
their inhabitants were under powerful protection,
and suffered little inconvenience from
the uses to which the sea-rovers turned the
sheltered voes and secluded islets. It was only
when Scottish rule came in that the vikinger
of Norway and Denmark turned their weapons
against their brother-Norsemen of the Shetland
Isles. During the times of the Stuarts, Scotland
had enough to do to look after itself, far less
to extend protection to an outlying dependency
that was more plague than profit. Indeed, the
Scottish kings and nobles seem to have regarded
Hialtland as fair game, and robbed and oppressed
the people after as cruel a method as that of
the northern pirates. Between the two, those
islands had a hot time of it; and the islanders,
once a prosperous community, sank into poverty
and hopeless serfdom.</p>
<p>About the time of Mary Stuart, the isle of
Unst was harassed by a noted viking whose
name and lineage were unknown. He and his
daring crew were believed to be Danes, and
his swift barque—appropriately named the <i>Erne</i>—and
his stalwart person were familiar to
the affrighted eyes of the islanders. When the
Denschman swooped upon the isle, its inhabitants
fled to the hills and rocks, leaving their
homes as spoil for the lawless rover. What
else could they do? The enemy were strong,
reckless, brave, well armed and well disciplined.
The islanders, groaning and disheartened under
the yoke of an alien power, were at the mercy
of might, and could neither resist nor make
treaty; so the Denschman came and went like
the fierce bird of prey whose name his vessel
bore, and no man dared oppose him.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>One midsummer evening, a westerly squall
arose which sent the fishing-boats flying to the
shelter of their voes and vicks. Those storms
rise and fall with tropical rapidity and violence.
Six hours after it was at its height, the wind
had fallen to an ordinary fresh breeze, the sky
was smiling as before, and only the wrathful
surf, rolling white and broken under the influence
of a changing tide, remained to tell of the
tempest. All the boats had returned in safety,
and there should have been rejoicing in Unst;
but instead, men frowned and women trembled,
for the fishers had brought news that the
Denschman was on the coast: his well-known
sail had been seen hovering beyond the holms
of Gloup; he was coming upon the wings of
the westerly wind; he would be on the Westing
Bicht ere long. There was no landing-place
available—with such a heavy sea—on that side
of the island; but the Denschman knew what
he was about, doubtless. He would scud to the
nor’ard, fly round the Flugga skerries and Skau,
would lay-to, and bide his time till dusk drew
down; then he would alight on the eastern
shore, and work his wild will upon the defenceless
isle. Such had been his tactics aforetime.
The people ran to the high lands of Vaalafiel
and Patester to mark the Denschman’s course,
for where he meant to land, <i>there</i> they must
not be.</p>
<p>Soon the <i>Erne</i> was descried emerging from a
mist of spindrift, and bearing swiftly towards
Unst, heading straight for the isle, and not—as
the folk had supposed—skirting the coast.
Did the vikinger mean to bring their vessel to
harbour among those crags, where the sea was
in such a turmoil? Was the <i>Erne</i> a demon-ship
that could dare everything and perform such a
feat? On he came right before the wind with
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_686">{686}</span>a following tide; but when well in the Westing
Bicht, some experienced seamen affirmed that
there must be something wrong aboard, for the
<i>Erne</i> did not rise on the waves with its usual
buoyancy; he seemed to plunge madly forward,
as if in fierce conflict with the ocean he had
ruled so long. By-and-by it was seen that the
vessel laboured more and more, yet carried full
sail, as if on speed depended salvation.</p>
<p>‘I would not say but he’s sprung a leak, or
the like,’ said an old udaller among the onlookers.
‘Who but a madman would bring a ship
in-shore like yon, if all was taut aboard!’</p>
<p>‘That is so,’ remarked a seaman. ‘Without
doubt, he’s in straits; and he’s going to try to
beach on the Aire of Widwick. It’s his only
chance, and a poor one.’</p>
<p>‘Pray the powers he may not make the Aire,’
replied the old man; ‘and I’m thinking,’ he
added, ‘that the powers will hear us. There
is something fatal amiss with that evil one.
See yon! He’s not obeying his helm; he’s
just driving with wind and tide. He’s in a
mighty strait, praise the Lord!’</p>
<p>‘If he misses the Aire, he’ll go in <i>shallmillens</i>
[the fragments of eggshell] upon the baas of
Flübersgerdie,’ said a fisherman, with a grim
smile; and all cried out: ‘Pray the powers it
may be so!’</p>
<p>As if the powers thus invoked were ready to
prove their immediate willingness to answer the
cry of the oppressed, the wind veered more to
the west, and carried the disabled ship against
the holm of Widwick, a small islet which lies
off the creek, and wards from it the full force
of the North Atlantic. If the <i>Erne</i> had stranded
on the holm, some of his crew might have
effected a landing there; but that was not the
end of the viking’s barque; she reeled back from
the holm with a gash in her side that was a
death-wound indeed, and drifted onwards once
more. Now, would she gain the creek? No!
In a few moments the <i>Erne</i> was carried past
the little harbour, where lay the sole chance
of deliverance, and then crashed among the rocks
of Flübersgerdie.</p>
<p>‘Praise to the powers that are above all!’ cried
the men of Unst, and even gentle-hearted women
rejoiced as the Denschman, barque and crew, disappeared
among the breakers.</p>
<p>The people returned to their homes, happy in
the thought that the rocks of Fatherland had
proved able protectors, and that Unst was for
ever rid of its most dreaded foe.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>Two days and two nights passed. No trace of
the storm was left. A boat put off from Widwick
with the intention of saving such portions of the
<i>Erne</i> as would certainly be drifting among the
skerries near Flübersgerdie. The men could tell
by the state of the tides and the wind exactly
where the wreckage was to be found, and they
made for the spot, never doubting that some spoil
would be there to reward them. As they
approached the submerged reef where the <i>Erne</i>
finished her career, the skipper, alluding to the
dreaded Denschman, said: ‘Well did he deserve
what he met here! Think our isle would give
him foothold!—our isle, that he has harried this
ten year and more! No, no!’</p>
<p>Scarcely were the words spoken, when one of
the fishermen called out excitedly: ‘Lord be
about us, men, what’s yon?’—and he pointed to
a cave situated in the cliff opposite the reef.</p>
<p>All gazed, and were struck dumb, for, on a
ledge within the mouth of the helyer (cave) stood
a man—the man! the Denschman, alive, stalwart,
terrible as ever, and brandishing his sword, as if
defying mortal to molest him.</p>
<p>The boat was instantly backed, and when the
islanders had put what they considered a safe
distance between themselves and their dreaded
foeman, the men consulted together. Should
they make a bold attack? The Denschman was
alone; they were six in number. Surely, they
could overpower him, tired and despairing as he
must be. Yes. But one, or even two of their
number were likely to fall before his sword ere
he could be conquered. Who was patriot enough
‘to lead such dire attack?’ No one of that crew!
Then should they leave him to die of exhaustion,
as he must ere long? There was no way of
escape. The lofty precipice overhung the cave,
precluding any scheme of climbing upwards; on
either side, the <i>aiguille</i> crags rose from a seething
depth of sea; in front, a reef of sunken rocks
covered with fretful surf, dared the bravest
swimmer that ever breasted waves to pass
alive.</p>
<p>The Denschman had evidently reached his
present refuge by aid of a large plank belonging
to the <i>Erne</i>, which still floated near the cave.
When they had recovered every vestige of the
wreck which floated, he could not escape. It
was beyond the power of man to leave that
cave unaided from without. Help must come
from ropes lowered from the land above, or
boats brought to the cave. And who was there
in Unst would bring rope or boat to aid the
Denschman? None!</p>
<p>‘Let him die the death!’ said the men whose
homes the viking had devastated. So they
ventured nearer, and removed every floating spar
or plank, then returned to Widwick; and it
was told in the isle that the Denschman had
survived his barque and crew only to meet a more
terrible death. No man pitied him; no man
dreamt of giving him succour. Those were days
when the gentler feelings had little part in
men’s warfare, and no red cross of healing
followed battle ensigns to the field of fight.</p>
<p>Next day, a number of boats put off, that men
might feast their eyes on the dead or dying
viking; and many saw him. That day, he was
seated on the ledge of rock glowering at them;
but he made no sign of either submission or
defiance. ‘He grows weak,’ they said, and
wondered that even the Denschman’s tough and
giant frame had so long withstood the exposure
and starvation.</p>
<p>A third time the islanders sought the rocks of
Flübersgerdie and saw the pirate chief as before.
Then they began to fear, and to say that he must
be allied to potent powers of evil; for how, otherwise,
could he have survived there so long? The
interior of the helyer could be seen from a little
distance: no food or clothing had been saved
from the wreck to be secreted there. The
prisoner was always seen sitting on the cold
bare ledge where he had been first discovered,
and the people were satisfied that the cave held
no means of sustenance.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_687">{687}</span></p>
<p>Day by day for a whole fortnight boats were
guided to Flübersgerdie, and men gazed in awe,
but did not venture to molest the Denschman,
who merely returned their stare with haughty
glances, and never deigned to bespeak their compassion.
Dread of the supernatural added its
paralysing effects to the terror which the viking’s
fame had implanted, and there was not a man
found brave enough to attack the Denschman in
his ‘had.’</p>
<p>Then heaviness fell on the men’s spirits, for
wives and mothers upbraided them as cowards;
their little ones shrieked and hid their faces
when it was told that the bugbear of their dreams
was making his ‘had’ in an Unst helyer; and
at last, driven by shame and a remnant of manly
courage, the islanders determined on attacking
their enemy. They would discover if he were
immortal; they would prove if the powers of evil
were above those of good.</p>
<p>A fleet of boats was got ready, laden with sharp
stones, which were to be cast at the foe—a safe
mode of onslaught! The islanders armed themselves
with staves and axes. Nets were prepared,
in whose toils the Denschman should fall if he,
by any strange chance, came to close quarters.
The oldest udaller in the isle ordered his best
boat to be launched and consecrated, to lead the
attack. A day was fixed upon. It had been
ascertained on the previous evening that the
Denschman was still in his ‘had,’ alive and strong.
No one doubted by that time that there he would
remain while the island remained, if not ousted
by force and the help of holy powers; or if not
aided by demons to rise and blight the isle.</p>
<p>‘Pray,’ said the old udaller to his three fair
daughters, who stood to see him embark in the
consecrated boat—‘pray that I bring the Denschman’s
dishonoured corpse back with me.’</p>
<p>‘We will pray,’ said the golden-haired maidens.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>But what consternation there was on the Aire
of Widwick, a few minutes later, when it was
found that the old man’s boat—the largest and
best in the isle, the skiff that was to have led
the attack—had disappeared! She had not sunk
into the pellucid water, else she had been easily
recovered; she had not floated out to sea, for the
tide was running landwards; yet she had gone
as completely as if she had owned feet to carry
her over earth, or wings to fly through air. To be
sure, the boat had both feet and wings of a kind,
but these were of use on the ocean alone. And
she was gone—oars and sails too! Doubtless, her
flight had been on her native element; but some
man’s hand must have spread her wings or moved
her feet. Then who had stolen the udaller’s boat?
No Hialtlander, be sure! Robbery was never
the vice of those islanders; moreover, such a
theft could have been brought home to a native
easily.</p>
<p>One fisherman, more acute than his neighbours,
whispered: ‘None but the Denschman has done
this;’ and with common assent, all echoed: ‘The
Denschman has done this.’</p>
<p>Boats instantly put off and sped to Flübersgerdie,
where confirmation of those suspicions was
not wanting. The Denschman was no longer in
the cave. He had been there, hale and terrible,
on the previous evening; he had vanished that
morning, and left no trace behind. ‘It must
have been the Evil One himself,’ said the folk;
and there was gloom in the isle, trembling, and
much fear, for all expected that ere long the
Denschman would descend upon Unst, and, fired
by revenge, deal worse havoc than even that of
former days.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>But days and weeks went past, and nothing
further was known of the Denschman or the
udaller’s boat, and still the people feared their
ancient foe and looked for his return. None
doubted that he survived. The man who could
live in unabated vigour through a fortnight without
food or fire in a dark ocean cave, who could
find means of leaving his prison, and could spirit
away a large boat—such a one was not likely
to have perished on the sea. Yes, without doubt,
the Denschman would return to Unst; ‘and
heaven help us when he comes!’ said the
islanders.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>Then it happened one autumn afternoon that
a stranger vessel was seen, on the Westing Bicht,
making tacks for the isle. The people had always
cause to suspect an unknown sail, and they
watched the stranger’s approach with some fear.
As he drew nearer, it was observed that he closely
resembled the <i>Erne</i> of old, but carried the white
flag of peace. The Norland pirates ever scorned
to conceal their true character, which was never a
treacherous one, but flaunted their ruthless blood-red
colours in the face of day. If a viking hoisted
the white banner, he meant peace; and so well
was this known, and so thoroughly could all men
trust in the good faith of a viking, that the
islanders instantly sent off a boat to the vessel,
though they suspected it was a pirate ship. The
stranger had a boat in tow, and when the islanders
came near, he lay-to and allowed them to come
alongside of his convoy. What was the fishermen’s
astonishment to find that the boat was no
other than that of the Unst udaller!</p>
<p>Then a stern voice spoke from the ship.
‘Come not nearer,’ it said, in a patois half-Danish,
half-English, which the Hialtlanders
could interpret well enough. ‘Come not nearer;
but undo the tow-line, and take that boat to
its owner. It is freighted with goodly gifts for
the udaller’s three fair daughters, who will know
whence those tokens come.—And know, ye hinds
of Unst, that ye owe your lives and all that
makes life precious to the golden-haired maidens.—Begone!’
Then the speaker—easily recognised
as the Denschman—made imperious sign to his
mariners, who speedily put the vessel on another
tack, and before many minutes he was running
out to sea again.</p>
<p>The islanders towed the laden boat ashore,
where a throng was waiting their return. Numerous
questions were asked, numerous conjectures
made. The udaller and his daughters were
summoned and the precious cargo displayed.
Table utensils of silver, personal ornaments of
gold, silken stuffs and snowy linens, rich wines
and fruits, and precious grain, whatever could
please feminine taste, were spread before the
wondering people, while the three sisters stood
mute and blushing, now cowering with strange
shame, anon glancing with curious pride at all
around.</p>
<p>Presently, their old father addressed them in
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_688">{688}</span>grave and troubled tones: ‘Tell us the meaning
of this strange <i>güdic</i> [riddle].’</p>
<p>At that, the two younger girls fell on their
knees and clasped his hands entreatingly, while
the eldest sister cried: ‘O father, do not be
angered, and I will tell ye all. We heard you
speak of the Denschman in his sore strait with
nobody to pity him. It’s true he had dealt
cruelly by our isle; but—but, O father, it lay
heavy on our hearts that a man—and such a
man, with such a goodly presence and such a
bold spirit—should die like an otter trapped in
a snare; and so, we—we went to the rock in
the dark hour of nicht, and we lowered a <i>keschie</i>
[basket] to him with food and cordials and clothes—everything
to keep in life. And then—when we
knew that our men meant to stone the poor
defenceless captive to death, our souls were
melted with pity; so we took the boat and
helped him to escape. <i>We</i> were not afraid
of the Denschman; and, truth to tell, he
can be kind and gentle like other men. Or
ere he left the isle—all in the mirk hour—he
promised that, because of what we had done,
he would never harry Unst again. No doubt,
it was wrong of us, father; but then, oh, be
mindful that the plight he was in could not
fail to touch lasses’ hearts. And if good instead
of harm come of it—nay, <i>has</i> come of it—ye
need not trouble yourself more, but forgive us,
and trust the Denschman to keep his word. He
will do so. We all know that a viking stands
to his promise, whate’er betide.’</p>
<p>‘The lass has spoken words of wisdom,’ said
a prudent matron, eyeing the viking’s royal
gifts; and a laughing seaman added: ‘Ay, and
what would come of us poor men if lasses were
not pitiful, and not just altogether wise at
times!’</p>
<p>So the old udaller forgave his daughters, and—as
legend says—‘after that Unst was often benefited,
and never more harried, by the Denschman,’
whose ‘had’ is still pointed out to the
inquiring stranger.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak smalltext" id="AN_ELECTRICAL_FURNACE">AN ELECTRICAL FURNACE.</h2></div>
<p>Some of the enormous power which runs waste
at the Falls of Niagara is about to be utilised at
last, and, strangely enough, the first work required
of the water will be the smelting of refractory
ores. This new undertaking is to be carried
out by the Cowles Electrical Furnace Company,
the inventors of the process being Messrs Eugene
H. and Alfred H. Cowles. Their experimental
works at Cleveland, Ohio, have been so successful,
that they were awarded the John Scott
premium and the Elliot Cresson medal of the
Franklin Institute. While labouring under various
disadvantages, the Company was yet able
to produce metallic combinations that promise
to be of great importance, such as aluminium
bronze, aluminium silver, aluminium brass, and
silicon bronze in ingots, castings, wire, and rolled
metal. Some of these alloys were manufactured
into different articles in every-day use. They
exhibited screws of aluminium brass; knives
with blades of aluminium silver, and handles of
aluminium bronze; together with a number of
other manufactured articles. Aluminium bronze
is stronger than steel, is not so liable to rust,
and, being elastic and ductile, if it can be produced
at a cheap enough rate, it should have a
great future before it. For instance, cycles made
of it would be lighter, stronger, and more easily
kept clean than those made of steel. This industry
alone should create a large demand.
Silicon bronze, also, from its electric conductivity,
tensile strength, lightness, and non-corrosiveness,
will be a desirable substitute for iron and copper
in telegraphy; while aluminium silver—an alloy
containing the special bronze with nickel—will
be serviceable for cutlery and fancy articles.
Pure aluminium, however, has this great disadvantage,
that it tarnishes readily, and unless
something can be done to remedy the defect, its
usefulness will be considerably restricted. At
the same time, these alloys bid fair to supplant
steel and other metals in the manufacture of
light articles where strength and appearance are
desirable.</p>
<p>A dynamo larger than any yet constructed is
at present being made for the Company at
Lockport, New York. As already stated, it
will be driven by water, acting on turbines.
The contemplated works will, it is estimated,
yield about three hundred thousand horse-power,
and this only represents a fraction of the power
that is running to waste at Niagara.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="WHO_KNOWS">WHO KNOWS?</h2></div>
<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0"><span class="smcap">I grant</span> her fair, ay, passing fair,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">As lovely as a budding rose;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">But is there soul behind that face,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">A beauty ’neath that outward grace?</div>
<div class="verse indent6">Who knows—who knows?</div></div>
<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Does light of love beam from those eyes?—</div>
<div class="verse indent2">The love that in her bosom glows?</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Or is the light that lingers there</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Delusive, though it shine so fair?</div>
<div class="verse indent6">Who knows—who knows?</div></div>
<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Does that fair form a fairer charm,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">A tender, loving heart inclose?</div>
<div class="verse indent0">A heart whose tendrils, like the vine,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Would round the heart that loved it twine?</div>
<div class="verse indent6">Who knows—who knows?</div></div>
<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">And should life’s sky be overcast,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And gathering clouds around thee close,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Should fortune frown and false friends flee,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Would that heart still cling close to thee?</div>
<div class="verse indent6">Who knows—who knows?</div></div>
<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Or is she, can she ever be,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">As fickle as the wind that blows,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And veers as if it were at play,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Trifling with all who own her sway?</div>
<div class="verse indent6">Who knows—who knows?</div></div>
<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">But why a prey to doubt remain?</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Why halt ’twixt hope and fear?—propose.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">She may be waiting till you dare,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">To crown with love that beauty rare.</div>
<div class="verse indent6">Who knows—who knows?</div></div>
<div class="attrib"><span class="smcap">John Napier.</span></div>
</div></div>
<hr class="full">
<p class="center">Printed and Published by <span class="smcap">W. & R. Chambers</span>, 47 Paternoster
Row, <span class="smcap">London</span>, and 339 High Street, <span class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>.</p>
<hr class="full">
<p class="center"><i>All rights reserved.</i></p>
<hr class="full">
<p>[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.</p>
<p>Page 676: du to de la—“l’ami de la famille”.]
</p>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75211 ***</div>
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