No. 8.—Vol. I.
Price 1½d.
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1884.
{113}
OUR HEALTH.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
THE ‘KITCHEN KAFFIR.’
TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.
THE MONTH: SCIENCE AND ARTS.
OCCASIONAL NOTES.
THE CHURCHYARD BY THE SEA.
No. 8.—Vol. I.
Price 1½d.
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1884.
BY DR ANDREW WILSON, HEALTH-LECTURER.
A broad and scientific view of life is that which regards it as being composed, in its physical aspects at least, of a series of actions or functions more or less defined in their nature. These functions, as the physiologist terms them, are discharged, each, by a special organ or series of organs; and health may therefore be viewed as the result of the harmonious working of all the organs of which the body is composed.
Disturbances of health arise whenever the natural equilibrium maintained between the functions of the body is disturbed. For example, a broken bone being an infringement of the functions of a limb, is a disturbance of health equally with the fever which runs riot through the blood, and produces a general disturbance of the whole system. An aching tooth equally with brain disorder constitutes a disturbance of health. We may therefore define health as the perfect pleasurable or painless discharge of all the functions through which life is maintained.
Doubtless this bodily equilibrium of which we have spoken is subject to many and varied causes of disturbance. Life is after all a highly complex series of actions, involving equally complicated conditions for their due performance. Like all other living beings, man is dependent upon his surroundings for the necessities of life. These surroundings, whilst ministering to his wants, may under certain circumstances become sources of disease. Thus we are dependent, like all other animal forms, upon a supply of pure air, and this condition of our lives may through impurities prove a source of serious disease. The water we drink, equally a necessity of life with air, is likewise liable to cause disease, when either as regards quantity or quality it is not supplied in the requisite conditions. Man is likewise in the matter of foods dependent upon his surroundings, and numerous diseases are traceable both to a lack of necessary foods and to over-indulgence in special kinds of nourishment. The diseases known to physicians as those of over-nutrition belong to the latter class; and there are likewise many ailments due to under-nutrition which also receive the attention of medical science.
In addition to these outward sources of health-disturbance, which constitute the disease of mankind, there are other and more subtle and internal causes which complicate the problems of human happiness. Thus, for example, each individual inherits from his parents, and through them from his more remote ancestors, a certain physical constitution. This constitution, whilst no doubt liable to modifications, yet determines wholly or in greater part the physical life of the being possessing it. We frequently speak of persons as suffering from inherited weakness, and this inherited weakness becomes the ‘transmitted disease’ of the physician. Each individual, therefore, may be viewed as deriving his chances of health, or the reverse, from a double source—namely, from the constitution he has inherited and from the surroundings which make up the life he lives and pursues. It is the aim and object of sanitary science to deal as clearly and definitely as possible with both sources of health and disease. In the first instance, Hygiene, or the science of health, devotes attention to the surroundings amid which our lives are passed. It seeks to provide us with the necessary conditions of life in a pure condition. It would have us breathe pure air, consume pure food, avoid excess of work, strike the golden mean in recreation, and harbour and conserve the powers of old age, so as to prolong the period of life and secure a painless death. In the second aspect of its teachings, this important branch of human knowledge would teach us that with an inherited constitution of healthy kind we should take every means of preserving its well-being; and when on the other hand an enfeebled and physically weak frame has fallen to our lot, the teachings of health-science are cheering in the extreme.
Even when an individual has been born into{114} the world, handicapped, so to speak, in the struggle for existence by physical infirmity and inherited disease, health-science is found to convey the cheering assurance that it is possible, even under such circumstances, to prolong life, and secure a measure of that full happiness which the possession of health can alone bestow. In illustration of this latter remark, we might cite the case of a person born into the world with a consumptive taint, or suffering from inherited tendencies to such diseases as gout, rheumatism, insanity, &c. Vital statistics prove beyond doubt, in the case of the consumptive individual, that if his life be passed under the guidance of health laws, if he is warmly clad, provided with sufficient nourishment, made to live in a pure atmosphere, and excess of work avoided, he may attain the age of thirty-six years without developing the disease under which he labours, and once past that period, may reasonably hope to attain old age.
In the case of the subject who inherits gout, a similar attention to the special conditions of healthy living suited to his case may insure great or complete freedom from the malady of his parent. Strict attention to dietary, the avoidance of all stimulants, and the participation in active, well-regulated exercise, form conditions which in a marked degree, if pursued conscientiously during youth, will ward off the tendency to develop the disease in question. In the case of an inherited tendency to mental disorders, mysterious and subtle as such tendency appears to be, it has been shown that strict attention to the education and upbringing of the child, a judicious system of education, the curbing of the passions, and the control of emotions, added to ordinary care in the selection of food and the physical necessities of life, may again insure the prolongation of life, and its freedom from one of the most terrible afflictions which can beset the human race.
These considerations in reality constitute veritable triumphs of health-science; they show us that in his war against disease and death, man finds literally a saving knowledge in observance of the laws which science has deduced for the wise regulation of his life. It is ignorance or neglect of this great teaching which sends thousands of our fellow-mortals to an early grave, and which destroys hopes, ambitions, and opportunities that may contain in themselves the promise of high excellence in every department of human effort.
The one great truth which health-reformers are never weary of proclaiming, because they know it is so true, consists in the declaration that the vast majority of the diseases which affect and afflict humanity are really of preventable nature. Until this truth has been thoroughly driven home, and accepted alike by individuals and nations, no real progress in sanitary science can be expected or attained. To realise fully the immense power which the practical application of this thought places in our hands, we may briefly consider the causes of certain diseases, which in themselves though powerful and widespread, are nevertheless of preventable kind. Amongst these diseases, those, popularly known as infectious fevers, and scientifically as zymotic diseases, stand out most prominently.
We shall hereafter discuss the nature and origin, as far as these have been traced, of those ailments. Suffice it for the present to say, that science has demonstrated in a very clear fashion the possibilities of our escape from those physical terrors by attention to the conditions to which they owe their spread.
Typhoid fever, also known as enteric and gastric fever, is thus known to be produced, and its germs to breed, amongst the insanitary conditions represented by foul drains and collections of filth wherever found. Experience amply proves that by attention to those labours which have for their object the secure trapping of drains, flushing of sewers, and abolition of all filth-heaps, the chances of this fever being produced are greatly decreased. It has also been shown that even where this fever has obtained a hold, attention to drains and like conditions has resulted in the decrease of the epidemic. Again, typhus fever is notoriously a disease affecting the over-crowded, squalid, and miserable slums of our great cities. Unlike typhoid fever, which equally affects the palace of the prince and the cottage of the peasant, typhus fever is rarely found except in the courts and alleys of our great cities. We know that the germs of this fever, which in past days constituted the ‘Plague’ and the ‘Jail Fever’ of John Howard’s time, breed and propagate amongst the foul air which accumulates in the ill-ventilated dwellings of the poor. Attention to ventilation, personal cleanliness, and the removal of all conditions which militate against the ordinary health of crowded populations, remove the liability to epidemics of this fever. Again, the disease known as ague has almost altogether disappeared from this and other countries through the improved drainage of the land; though it still occasionally lingers in the neighbourhood of swamps and in other situations which are wet and damp, and which favour the decay of vegetable matter.
Man holds in his own hands the power both of largely increasing and decreasing his chances of early death, and nowhere is this fact better exemplified than in the lessened mortality which follows even moderate attention to the laws of health; the words of Dr Farre deserve to be emblazoned in every household in respect of their pungent utterance concerning the good which mankind is able to effect by even slight attention to sanitary requirements. ‘The hygienic problem,’ says Dr Farre, ‘is how to free the English people from hereditary disease ... and to develop in the mass the athletical, intellectual, æsthetical, moral, and religious qualities which have already distinguished some of the breed. There is a divine image in the future, to which the nation must aspire. The first step towards it is to improve the health of the present age; and improvement, if as persistently pursued as it is in the cultivation of inferior species, will be felt by their children and their children’s children. A slight development for the better in each generation, implies progress in the geometrical progression which yields results in an indefinite time, that if suddenly manifested would appear miraculous.’
In 1872, Mr Simon told us that the deaths occurring in Great Britain were more numerous by a third than they would have been, had the existing knowledge of disease and its causes been perfectly applied. He added that the number of deaths in England and Wales which might reasonably{115} be ascribed to causes of a truly preventable nature, number about one hundred and twenty thousand. Each of those deaths represents in addition a number of other cases in which the effects of preventable disease were more or less distinctly found. Such an account of a mortality, the greater part of which is unquestionably preventable, may well startle the most phlegmatic amongst us into activity in the direction of health-reform. In order that the nation at large may participate in this all-important work, it is necessary that education in health-science should find a place in the future training of the young as well as in the practice of the old. And if there is one consideration which more than another should be prominently kept in view, it is that which urges that the duty of acquiring information in the art of living healthily and well is an individual duty. It is only through individual effort that anything like national interest in health-science can be fostered. There is no royal road to the art which places length of days within the right hand of a nation, any more than there exists an easy pathway to full and perfect knowledge in any other branch of inquiry. It is the duty of each individual, as a matter of self-interest, if on no higher grounds, to conserve health; and the knowledge which places within the grasp of each man and woman the power of avoiding disease and prolonging life, is one after all which must in time repay a thousandfold the labour expended in its study. It is with a desire of assisting in some measure the advance of this all-important work, that the present series of articles has been undertaken; and we shall endeavour throughout these papers to present to our readers plain, practical, and readily understood details connected with the great principles that regulate the prevention of disease both in the person and in the home.
There was a little uneasiness in Madge’s mind regarding the effect her note might have on Mr Hadleigh. She had no doubt that she had given the right answer, and was at rest on that score. But she had divined something of the rich man’s desolation, and she was grieved to be compelled to add in any way to the gloom in which he seemed to live. She wished that she could comfort him: she hoped that there would come a day when she would be able to do so.
It was a relief to her when at length she received this short missive:
‘I am sorry. I know that your refusal is dictated by the conviction that what you are doing is best. I hope you will never have cause to repent that you chose your way instead of mine.’
The foreboding which lurked in these words was plainly the reflection of his own morbid broodings, but like all strong emotion, it was infectious, and, reason as she would, she could not shake off its influence entirely. At every unoccupied moment an indefinable shadow seemed to cross the period between Philip’s going and return. There was only one way of getting rid of this impression—to be always busy. Fortunately that was the remedy nearest at hand; for with household duties, her uncle’s accounts and correspondence—considerably multiplied during harvest—and the preparation with her own hands of sundry useful articles for Philip to take with him on his travels, she had plenty to do, without reckoning the hours her lover himself occupied.
It was during one of those happy hours that Philip referred to the proposal made by his father, and laughingly asked if she would agree to it.
This was a trial which Madge had anticipated, and was yet unprepared to meet. She could not make up her mind whether or not to tell Philip about Mr Hadleigh’s letters. So, again she followed her maxim, and did what was most disagreeable to herself—kept the secret.
‘You know what I think about it, Philip,’ she answered; ‘and I know the answer you gave him.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Quite sure—you refused.’
‘And you are not sorry? Cruel Madge—you do not wish me to stay.’
‘What we wish is not always best, Philip.’
She looked at him with those quiet longing eyes; and he wished they had not been at that moment walking in the harvest-field, with the reaping-machine coming at full swing towards them, followed by its troop of men and women gathering up the shorn grain, binding it into sheaves and piling them into shocks for the drying wind to do its part of the work. Had they only been in the orchard, he would have given her a lover’s token that he understood and appreciated her sacrifice.
‘I am not prepared to give unqualified assent to that doctrine,’ he said, thinking of the inconvenient neighbourhood of the harvesters. ‘However, in this instance I did not do what I wished.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Oh, he gave me a lot of good advice.’
‘Did you take it?’ she demanded, smiling.
‘Well, you see if we were to take all the good advice that is offered us, there would be no enterprise in the world.’
‘I am going to show you one man who will take good advice.’
‘Who is that?’
‘There he is speaking to uncle.’
‘Why, that is Caleb Kersey. I never heard of him taking advice, as he is too much occupied in giving it; and a nice mess he is making of the harvest at our place.’
‘That is what I am going to see him about. I promised your father to make some arrangement with him; but he has been away in Norfolk, and I have had no opportunity of speaking to him until now.’
This Caleb Kersey’s name had suddenly become known throughout the agricultural district of the country—to the labourers as that of their champion; to the farmers as that of their bane. He was a man of short stature and muscular frame; bushy black hair; square forehead and chin; prominent nose and piercing gray eyes. When in repose or speaking to his comrades, his expression was one of earnest thoughtfulness; but it became somewhat sulky when he was addressing his superiors, and fierce with enthusiasm when haranguing a crowd.
{116}
He was not more than thirty; yet he had worked as a farm-labourer in all the northern and in several southern counties, thus becoming acquainted with the ways and customs of his class in the various districts. On returning to Kingshope he caused much consternation in the neighbourhood of that quiet village, as well as in the town of Dunthorpe, by forming an Agricultural Labourers’ Union, the object of which was to obtain better wages and better cottages.
The Union did secure some advantages to the mass of labourers; but it brought little to Caleb Kersey. The farmers were afraid to employ him, lest he should create some new agitation amongst their people; and a large number of the men who had been carried away by the first wave of this little revolution having profited by it, settled down into their old ways and their old habits of respect for ‘the squire, the parson, and the master.’ But Caleb remained their champion still, ready to be their spokesman whenever a dispute arose between them and their employers.
He had picked up a little knowledge of cobbling, and when he could not obtain farmwork, he eked out a living by its help.
‘It’s ’long ov them plaguy schools and papers,’ said Farmer Trotman one day to Dick Crawshay. ‘There ain’t a better hand nowhere than Caleb; but it was a black day for him and for us that he larned reading and writing.’
The stout yeoman of Willowmere was scarcely in a position to sympathise with this lamentation, for he had been in no way disturbed by Caleb’s doings. Most of his servants were the sons and daughters of those who had served his father and grandfather, and who would as soon have thought of emigrating to the moon, as of quitting a place of which they felt themselves to be a part, even if it were only to move into the next parish. So, Uncle Dick could say no more than:
‘I don’t have any trouble with my people. They seem to jog on pretty comfortable; and I daresay you’d get on well enough with Caleb if you only got the right side of him. I give him a job whenever there is one to give and he wants it; and he’s worth two any ordinary men. I wouldn’t mind having him all the year round if he’d agree. But that’s somehow against his principles.’
‘Ah! them principles are as bad as them schools for upsetting ignorant folks. Look at me: all the larning I got was to put down my name plain and straight; and there ain’t nobody as’ll say I haven’t done my duty by my land and cattle.’
This was a proposition to which Uncle Dick could cheerfully assent, and his neighbour was satisfied.
‘I want to speak to Caleb for a minute, uncle,’ said Madge as she advanced.
Uncle Dick nodded, and walked leisurely after the harvesters, accompanied by Philip.
‘Yes, miss,’ was the respectful observation of the redoubtable champion.
‘I am glad to see you back, because I have been wanting you for several days.’
‘What for, miss?’
‘Well, I want to know in the first place, are you engaged anywhere?’
‘Not at present.’
‘Then will you let me engage you for a friend of mine?’
‘I’d like to do anything to please you, miss; but maybe your friend wouldn’t care to have me.’
He said this with a faint smile, as if regretting that she had given herself any trouble on his account.
‘He is not only ready to take you, but is willing to let you select the hands who are to work under you for the whole of the harvest.’
‘That would be agreeable, if there is no bother about the wages.’
‘They will be the same as here.’
‘We wouldn’t want more than Master Crawshay gives.’
‘When can you get the hands together?’
‘In a day or two. But you haven’t told me where the place is, and I would have to know how much there is to cut.’
‘Now you are to remember that it is I who am engaging you, Caleb, although the place is not mine; and I want you to get people who will consent to do without beer until after work.’
‘You mean Ringsford,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I’m afeared’——
There she stopped him by laying her hand on his shoulder and saying with a bright smile: ‘I know you don’t take beer yourself, and you know how much the others will gain by dropping it. I want you to get this work done, Caleb; and there is somebody else who will be as much pleased with you for doing it as I shall be. Come now, shall I tell her that you refuse to be near her, or that you are glad of the chance?’
Caleb hung his head and consented. He knew that she spoke of Pansy.
The ladies of the Manor were in the element which delighted them most when preparing for the dinner and the ‘little dance’ which were to express the agony they experienced at the departure of their brother for a distant land. But the truth was that they did not think of the parting at all: their whole minds were occupied with the festival itself and with the ambition to make it the most brilliant that had ever been known at Ringsford.
There are people who, whilst desirous of cultivating a reputation for hospitality, regard the preparations for the entertainment of their friends as an affliction; and whilst distributing smiles of welcome to their guests, are, without malice, secretly wishing them far enough and the whole thing well over. There are others who send out invitations which they calculate will not be accepted, and who feel chagrined if they are. But these young ladies thoroughly enjoyed the bustle of the necessary arrangements for a banquet—and the larger its scale, the greater their pleasure; and although they did send some invitations out of deference to social obligations, whilst hoping they would be declined, such drawbacks affected neither their appetites nor their enjoyment when the evening came.
On the present occasion, Miss Hadleigh was of course most anxious that everything should be done in honour of Philip; but it was impossible for her to escape a certain degree of gratification in anticipating the impression which was to be made on her betrothed of the importance of the{117} Family. She had subscribed for a gorgeously bound copy of a county history in which a page was devoted to Ringsford Manor and its present proprietor. It was remarkable how frequently that book lay open on the drawing-room table at that particular page.
Caroline and Bertha had their private thoughts, too, about the possibilities of the forthcoming festival. They did not deliberately speculate upon obtaining devoted lovers; but they did count upon securing numerous admirers. And, then, they were all to have new dresses for the occasion. This was no special novelty for them: but, however many dresses she may possess, there is no woman who does not find interest and excitement in getting a new one.
With light hearts they attacked the business of issuing invitations; and although ‘the little dance’ was second in order, they began with it first. They progressed rapidly and merrily: there were a few discussions as to whether or not they should include Mrs Brown and the Misses Brown, or only have Miss Brown; whether they should have Miss Jones alone, or Miss Jones and Miss Sarah Jones; and so on. There were no discussions about the gentlemen, even when it was discovered that supposing two-thirds of those invited came, it would be necessary to erect a marquee on the lawn to allow room for dancing. Indeed the discovery enhanced the glory of the event and caused a marked increase in the number of cards sent out.
This was all smooth enough sailing; but they had to haul in their colours at the first attempt to make up the list of guests for the dinner. They were limited to twelve or fourteen; and there were so many of those asked to the second part of the programme, who would feel slighted and offended on hearing that they had been passed over in the first part, that the girls were appalled by the difficulty of arranging matters so as to cause the least possible amount of heart-burning. It was not as if this were an ordinary gathering: the degree of friendship would be distinctly marked by the line drawn between those who were invited to the dinner and those who were not.
Their father had only mentioned Mr Wrentham and the Crawshays: he left his daughters to select the other guests.
Miss Hadleigh had a vague sensation that she wished she had not been so ready to call everybody her ‘Dearest friend.’ That rendered her position decidedly more awkward than it would have been otherwise.
‘Of course we must have Alfred,’ she said decisively, as if relieved to have settled one part of the difficulty.
‘Of course we must have him,’ chimed her sisters.
‘And ... we ought to have his people,’ she added meditatively; ‘they are—in a sort of way—connections of the Family.’
‘Alfred’ was Mr Crowell, the young merchant to whom she was engaged.
‘Yes, we ought to ask them,’ observed Caroline, with a suggestion in voice and look that she would not be sorry if something should prevent them from accepting.
‘Then we must ask old Dr Guy—he is such a friend of Philip’s; and if we ask him, I don’t see how we can avoid sending cards to Fanny and her stupid husband.’
Dr Guy was the oldest medical man of the Kingshope district: Fanny was his daughter, married to his partner, Dr Edwin Joy.
‘I have it!’ cried Bertha, clapping her hands with glee at the notion that she had solved the problem: ‘we’ll go and find out the evenings that the people we don’t want are engaged, and invite them for those very evenings.’
‘Foolish child,’ said the eldest sister majestically; ‘they would not be all engaged for the same evening, and our date is fixed.’
‘Oh!—I did not think of that,’ rejoined Bertha, crestfallen.
‘How many have we got, Caroline?’
Caroline was believed to have a head for figures; and being glad to be credited with a head for anything, she endeavoured to sustain the character by making prompt guesses at totals which were generally found to be wrong. Nevertheless, the promptitude of her replies and an occasional lucky hit sufficed to keep up the delusion as to her special faculty. She was lucky this time, for she had been reckoning them all the time.
‘Ten; and the vicar will make eleven.’
‘Ah, yes—I had almost forgotten the dear old vicar. Thank you, Caroline. That leaves us with only three places; and I suppose Philip and Coutts will want to have some of their friends at dinner.’
The list of particular guests occupied four days of anxious thought and much re-arrangement, with the result that room for two additional places had to be made at the table. Even when all this was done, they had not quite made up their minds who were really the most intimate friends of the Family.
(To be continued.)
Fortune, for good or ill, has cast my lot in the little Crown colony of Natal. Let me at once say that I have no intention of going over ground already but too well trodden. What with wars and rumours of wars upon its borders, Natal has lately been ‘written up’ to a considerable extent by enterprising travellers and newspaper correspondents. Minerva has been treading closely on the heels of Mars, and at the first blush, there would seem but little more to tell. However, the hasty grasp at things made by dashing ‘specials’ and travellers may have left some grains of information that will perhaps prove interesting.
It is only necessary to my subject to state, by way of introduction, that Natal has a population of about thirty thousand whites and three hundred thousand blacks—the latter, as will be seen, in a proportion of ten to one. These are, of course, round numbers. The city of Pietermaritzburg, the capital of the colony—where my afore-mentioned lot is cast—contains between six and seven thousand Europeans, a large number of Indian coolies, and a much larger number of natives. A considerable proportion of the last-named fall to be spoken of under the heading of this article—the ‘Kitchen Kaffir.’ Most of the domestic work of the colony{118} is performed by the natives. They come into the town from the surrounding country from distances of twenty, fifty, or a hundred miles, sometimes farther. The Kaffirs, thanks to the indulgence of our paternal government, are allowed to settle and thrive on the available Crown lands of the colony, and their kraals form a frequent feature of the up-country landscape. Though these natives enjoy the protection of the British government, polygamy is allowed under the Native Law. Wives have to be bought with bullocks. The young natives, ambitious to wed, leave the ancestral kraal, and work for wages in the town until they have saved enough money to buy the requisite oxen. Hence the Kitchen Kaffir.
My wife is now sitting at my elbow, sub-editing my remarks. This is needful; for although we have been three years in the colony, I stand second to her in knowledge of Kaffir character, and particularly of Kaffir language. This cannot, of course, be referred to any inferiority in my mental calibre, but to the fact that I am engaged in business in the town all day; while my wife is brought more in contact with the domestic Kaffir. He is named Sam, and has been with us for over two years and a half. Well do I remember the first time I saw him. He was drawing water, for an ungracious mistress, out of the sluit or rivulet-gutter that runs down the side of the Pietermaritzburg streets or roads. I thought I had never seen a happier mortal. He was dressed in an old shirt and trousers. In the latter, appeared a great rent; frayed patches were visible all over his raiment; yet his face beamed with a grin unrivalled in expressive extent by anything outside of a Christy Minstrel entertainment. Our hearts instantly warmed towards Sam, and we invited him to our hearth at the munificent rate of one pound a month. He posed as bashfully as a maiden receiving an offer of marriage. He shoved the back of his horny hand into his capacious mouth, coquettishly paddled in the dust with his right big toe, and took sly, sidelong glances at us with his large and rolling left eye. All this we took to mean ‘Yes.’ A few days afterwards, Sam appeared at the back of our cottage, carrying his sticks—no Kaffir ever goes about without two or three knobkerries in his hand—a rolled-up mat to sleep on, and a wooden pillow. His attire was as ragged as ever; but by means of some of my old clothes he assumed a more respectable air. I must explain that, to suit European ideas of decency, the Kaffirs are not permitted to wear their kraal costume in the town. Whenever they come within the municipal boundary, they have to doff the moochee or fur-kilt and don trousers. They do so with great reluctance. If you happen to be on the outskirts of the town, you will see the departing Kaffirs joyfully throwing off shirt and trousers, tying these in a bundle, re-assuming their moochee, and trotting happily homewards.
The duties of the Kitchen Kaffir are multifarious and fairly well performed. He chops the wood, lights the fire, serves at table, cleans the rooms, goes messages, and nurses the baby. He has weaknesses, of course; but these he possesses in common with the rest of the human family. He smokes and snuffs, and is fully alive to the benefits of frequent leisure. At periodic intervals, generally of six months, he shows a strong desire to go home, to hamba lo kaya. But this intermittent home-sickness, while the gratifying of it may entail some inconvenience on the baas (master) or the meesis, is not an unpleasing feature in the native character. Kraal-life is very patriarchal, and the Kaffirs have strong home-instincts. They are a social race, and the sociality is abundantly visible in the manners and habits of the Kitchen Kaffir. In the ‘Kaffir house’—the outbuilding to be found in the rear of nearly all colonial villas and cottages—there is many a jovial evening spent by the ‘boys.’ When the toil of day is over—few domestic natives work after six or seven o’clock in the evening—they gather together and gossip on the events of the day. They retail all the private life of their masters and mistresses; for they have a wonderful faculty, distinct from prying, of shrewdly finding out everything that is going on. News travels with astonishing speed amongst the native population. The ‘boys’ apparently take it in turn to invite each other to spend the evening and share the porridge supper. Concurrently with the gossiping, they smoke. The pipe is a small bowl fitted into a bullock’s horn, partly filled with water, through which the smoke is drawn. The ‘boys’ generally sit in a circle; and by the light of a stump of candle stuck in a corner, you can see their forms dimly through the stiff clouds which they are blowing. The smoke seems to be continually getting into the Kaffirs’ air-passages, as a loud chorus of coughs is incessantly kept up. So the night wears on. At nine o’clock a bell rings at the police-station, the signal for all Kaffirs to go home. Any native found on the streets after that hour, unless he have a written ‘pass’ from his master, is apprehended and fined half-a-crown.
Sam, when solitary, amuses his evenings by playing on what I may call a one-stringed harp. It consists of a wire strung on a wooden bow about four feet long, near one extremity of which is fastened a hollow gourd to give resonance. It is played by being struck with a stick; and by pressing the wire, Sam can increase the range of the instrument to two notes—‘tim-tum, tim-tum,’ by the hour together. He also, to its accompaniment, sings certain wild melodies, probably with impromptu words. The Kaffirs are noted improvisatores. You cannot even send one on an errand without his chanting the object of his mission in loud tones all down the street. It certainly goes against all ideas of fitness to hear your Kaffir, as he ambles along, singing out in Zulu, with endless repetitions, and to an incoherent melody: ‘Oh! missis is going to make soup, and I’m off to buy the peas;’ or, ‘We’re right out of firewood, and I’m to borrow some from Mrs Jones;’ or, ‘Master’s sick, and I’m hurrying for the physic!’ If these domestic revelations were only heard by the Kaffir population, it would not matter so much; but the words are almost equally patent to the white people. However, as everybody’s Kaffir sings his errands, there is a certain compensation!
It should now be remarked that Kitchen Kaffir is also the name of the modified Zulu spoken by the domesticated native. It is as peculiar in its way as ‘Pidgin English,’ or any other of those langues de convenance which have originated in{119} the intimate relations existing between the British and some ultra-continental peoples. The Zulu language proper is a well-developed tongue, elaborate in mood, tense, and case, as can be seen in the erudite volume of the late Bishop Colenso, who was as great an authority in Ethiopian grammar as in arithmetic. Here and there, one may find old colonists, traders, or missionaries who have a thorough knowledge of ‘Zulu;’ but the settlers in general have neither the opportunity nor perhaps the inclination to learn it. The prevailing custom of England seems to be to restrict her subject races to their own tongue.
The Kitchen Kaffir is slightly heterogeneous. A number of English and Dutch words have crept into it, with certain modifications to adapt them to the genius of the Zulu language. Amongst the former we would cite callidge (carriage), follik (fork), nquati (note, or letter), lice (rice), and so on, the pronunciation being governed by the fact that the Kaffirs experience difficulty in articulating r. The letter x is also a stumbling-block. Hence ‘box’ is transformed into bogus, and a popular English Christmas institution transplanted to the colony is known as a ‘Kissmiss bogus.’ ‘Sunday,’ again, is spoken of as Sonda or Sonto; and ‘horse’ is ihashi. In denoting money there are also some peculiar terms. A threepenny piece is known as a pen, and the latter word is pretty generally used amongst the Europeans themselves. I may here interject the remark that the threepenny piece is about the lowest coin in circulation in the colony. Pennies are scarce, and farthings an unknown quantity. I was told by a Natal schoolmistress that one of the greatest difficulties she met with was in teaching the children how many farthings made up a penny; and a little colonial-born girl once said to me: ‘Oh! how I would like to go to England to see farthings!’ The Kaffirs look down with contempt upon coppers. A half-crown is called, by a strange phonetic twist, a facquelin, and a florin—well, thereby hangs a tale. Some years ago, a contractor in Natal, who hailed from the north of the Tweed, hit upon a brilliant idea, which he thought would result in a great saving of expenditure. In giving his Kaffir labourers their weekly payment, he substituted two-shilling pieces—till then unknown among the natives—for half-crowns, thinking the ‘untutored savage’ would not detect the difference. They went away contented; but it was not long ere the storekeepers had enlightened their minds as to the true value of the money. I forget how the matter ended; but it is a sad fact that to this day the Kaffirs always speak of a florin as a ‘Scotchman.’ Traces of Dutch in Kitchen Kaffir are numerous.
As to the Zulu element in Kitchen Kaffir, I would premise that the written Zulu bears no very great resemblance to the spoken language. This is partly owing to the number of ‘clicks,’ which originally formed no characteristic of the Zulu tongue, but were many years ago borrowed from the Hottentots, who revel in these verbal impediments. There are three clicks, represented on paper by c, q, and x. The c is made by pressing the tongue against the teeth, as when one is slightly annoyed; while q is like a ‘cluck,’ and x like the ‘chick’ made to start a horse. These, however, are what musicians would term ‘accidentals,’ and but little interrupt the sonorous, melodic flow of Kaffir utterance. To those who know the Zulu language only through books, such words as gqugquza (to stir up) and uqoqoqo (windpipe) may seem next to unpronounceable; but in the native’s lips they lose much of their angularity. So, too, with such combinations as ubugwigwigwi (whizzing-sound) and ikitwityikwityi (whirlwind).
But now to return briefly to Sam. In many respects he is an excellent servant, and like most of the unsophisticated Kaffirs, could be trusted with untold gold. The average Kitchen Kaffir is frequently left in charge of a house during the absence of the family, and would no more think of making away with the valuables than would a watch-dog. One evening Sam asked and received permission to go to the ‘school,’ by which is meant the mission-school, where the Kaffirs are taught to read and write, and where they also receive religious instruction. The effect upon Sam was instantaneous. He invested in a new coat and trousers, a waistcoat, and a white shirt with long cuffs. Big boots adorned his feet, and a felt hat his head. A few days later he had acquired a paper collar, gloves, and leggings, and finally he blossomed out into an umbrella. His evenings are now spent in laborious vivâ voce attempts to master the alphabet, and the rude scrawls upon the whitewashed wall testify to his efforts at caligraphy.
There is much diversity of opinion in Natal as to the results attending the religious training of the native, and perhaps it would be well if a little more of the ‘sweet reasonableness’ of Matthew Arnold were imported into the discussion. There is, however, the fact that many of the Kaffirs are taught to read and write, and this cannot in the long-run be an evil. What has yet been accomplished, even at such institutions as that founded by Bishop Colenso at Bishopstowe, and that at Lovedale in the Cape Colony, is perhaps comparatively small; but it may be as pregnant with encouragement as the humble blue flower that cheered the heart of Mungo Park in the African desert.
A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.
Presently the nurse came and carried off Miss Lucy and her doll. Lady Dimsdale rose and joined Mrs Bowood.
A minute later, a servant came and presented Captain Bowood with a card. The latter put on his spectacles, and read what was written on the card aloud: ‘“Mr Garwood Brooker, Theatre Royal, Ryde.” Don’t know him. Never heard of the man before,’ said the Captain emphatically.
‘The gentleman is waiting in the library, sir,’ said the servant. ‘Says he wants to see you on very particular business.’
‘Humph! Too hot for business of any kind. Too many flies about. Must see him though, I suppose.’
The servant retired; and presently the Captain followed him into the house. Mrs Bowood and Lady Dimsdale lingered for a few minutes, and then they too went indoors.
{120}
As Captain Bowood entered the library, Mr Brooker rose and made him a profound bow. He was a stoutly-built man, between fifty and sixty years of age. He wore shoes; gray trousers, very baggy at the knees; a tightly buttoned frock-coat, with a velvet collar; and an old-fashioned black satin stock, the ends of which hid whatever portion of his linen might otherwise have been exposed to view. A jet black wig covered his head, the long tangled ends of which floated mazily over his velvet collar behind. His closely shaven face was blue-black round the mouth and chin, where the razor had passed over its surface day after day for forty years. The rest of his face looked yellow and wrinkled, the continual use of pigments for stage purposes having long ago spoiled whatever natural freshness it might once have possessed. Mr Brooker had a bold aquiline nose and bushy brows, and at one time had been accounted an eminently handsome man, especially when viewed from before the footlights; but his waist had disappeared years ago, and there was a general air about him of running to seed. When Mr Brooker chose to put on his dignified air, he was very dignified. Finally, it may be said that every one in ‘the profession’ who knew ‘old Brooker,’ liked and esteemed him, and that at least he was a thorough gentleman.
Having made his bow, Mr Brooker advanced one foot a little, buried one hand in the breast of his frock-coat, and let the other rest gracefully on his hip. It was one of his favourite stage attitudes.
‘Mr Brooker?’ said Captain Bowood interrogatively, as he came forward with the other’s card in his hand.
‘At your service, Captain Bowood.’ The voice was deep, almost sepulchral in its tones. It was the voice of Hamlet in his gloomier moments.
‘Pray, be seated,’ said the Captain in his offhand way as he took a chair himself.
Mr Brooker slowly deposited himself upon another chair. He would have preferred saying what he had to say standing, as giving more scope for graceful and appropriate gestures; but he gave way to circumstances. He cleared his voice, and then he said: ‘I am here, sir, this morning as an ambassador on the part of your nephew, Mr Charles Warden.’
‘Don’t know any such person,’ replied the Captain shortly.
‘Pardon me—I ought to have said your nephew, Mr Charles Summers.’
‘Then it’s a pity you did not come on a better errand. I want nothing to do with the young vagabond in any way. He and I are strangers. Eh, now?’
‘He is a very clever and talented young gentleman; and let me tell you, sir, that you ought to be very proud of him.’
‘Proud of my nephew, who is an actor!—an actor! Pooh!’ The Captain spoke with a considerable degree of contempt.
‘I am an actor, sir,’ was Mr Brooker’s withering reply, in his most sepulchral tones.
The Captain turned red, coughed, and fidgeted. ‘Nothing personal, sir—nothing personal,’ he spluttered. ‘I only spoke in general terms.’
‘You spoke in depreciatory terms, sir, respecting something about which you evidently know little or nothing.’
The Captain winced. He was not in the habit of being lectured, and the sensation was not a pleasant one, but he felt the justice of the reproof.
‘Ah, sir, the actor’s profession is one of the noblest in the world,’ resumed Mr Brooker, changing from his Hamlet to his Mercutio voice; ‘and your nephew bids fair to become a shining ornament in it. I know of few young men who have progressed so rapidly in so short a time, and the press notices he has had are something remarkable. Here are a few of them, sir, only a few of them, which I have brought together. Oblige me by casting your eye over them, sir, and then tell me what you think.’ Speaking thus, Mr Brooker produced from his pocket-book three or four sheets of paper, on which had been gummed sundry cuttings from different newspapers, and handed them to the Captain.
That gentleman having put on his glasses, read the extracts through deliberately and carefully. ‘Bless my heart! this is most extraordinary!’ he remarked when he had done. ‘And do all these fine words refer to that graceless young scamp of a nephew of mine?’
‘Every one of them, sir; and he deserves all that’s said of him.’
Like many other people, Captain Bowood had a great respect for anything that he saw in print, more especially for any opinion enunciated by the particular daily organ whose political views happened to coincide with his own, and by whose leading articles he was, metaphorically, led by the nose. When, therefore, he came across a laudatory notice anent his nephew’s acting extracted from his favourite Telephone, he felt under the necessity of taking out his handkerchief and rubbing his spectacles vigorously. ‘There must be something in the lad after all,’ he muttered to himself, ‘or the Telephone wouldn’t think it worth while to make such a fuss about him. But why didn’t he keep to tea-broking?’
‘I am much obliged to you, sir,’ said the Captain, as he handed the extracts back to Mr Brooker.
‘I am afraid that I make but a poor envoy, sir,’ said the latter, ‘seeing that as yet I have furnished you with no reason for venturing to intrude upon you this morning.’
‘You have a message for me?’ remarked the Captain.
‘I have, sir; and I doubt not you can readily guess from whom. Sir, I have the honour to be the manager of the travelling theatrical company of which your nephew forms a component part. I am old enough to be the young man’s father, and that may be one reason why he has chosen to confide his troubles to me. In any case, I have taken the liberty of coming here to intercede for him. There are two points, sir, that he wishes me to lay before you. The first is his desire—I might, without exaggeration, say his intense longing—to be reconciled to you, who have been to him as a second father, since his own parents died. He acknowledges and regrets that in days gone by he was a great trouble to you—a great worry and a great expense. But he begs me to assure you that he has now sown his wild-oats; that he is working hard in his profession; that he is determined to rise in it; and that he will yet do credit to you and every one connected with{121} him—all of which I fully indorse. But he cannot feel happy, sir, till he has been reconciled to you—till you have accorded him your forgiveness, and—and’——
Here the Captain sneezed violently, and then blew his nose. ‘I knew it—I said so,’ he remarked aloud. ‘Those confounded draughts—give everybody cold. Why not?’ Then addressing himself directly to Mr Brooker, he said: ‘Well, sir, well. I have listened to your remarks with a considerable degree of patience, and I am glad to find that my graceless nephew has some sense of compunction left in him. But as for reconciliation and forgiveness and all that nonsense—pooh, pooh!—not to be thought of—not to be thought of!’
‘I am sorry to hear that, Captain Bowood—very sorry indeed.’
‘You made mention of some other point, sir, that Mr Summers wished you to lay before me. Eh, now?’
‘I did, sir. It is that of his attachment to a young lady at present staying under your roof—Miss Brandon by name.’
‘Ah, I guessed as much!’
‘He desires your sanction to his engagement to the young lady in question, not with any view to immediate marriage, Miss Brandon being a ward in Chancery, but’——
‘Confound his impudence, sir!’ burst out the Captain irately. ‘How dare he, sir—how dare he make love to a young lady who is placed under my charge by her nearest relative? What will Miss Hoskyns say and think, when she comes back and finds her niece over head and ears in love with my worthless nephew? Come now.’
‘It may perchance mitigate to some extent the severity of your displeasure, sir,’ remarked Mr Brooker in his blandest tones, ‘when I tell you that in my pocket I have a letter written by Miss Hoskyns, in which that lady sanctions your nephew’s engagement to Miss Brandon.’
The Captain stared in open-mouthed wonder at the veteran actor. This was the strangest turn of all. He felt that the situation was getting beyond his grasp, so he did to-day what he always did in cases of difficulty—he sent for his wife.
Mrs Bowood was almost as much surprised as her husband when she heard the news. Mr Brooker produced Miss Hoskyns’ letter, the genuineness of which could not be disputed; but she was still as much at a loss as before to imagine by what occult means Master Charley had succeeded in causing such a document to be written. Nor did she find out till some time afterwards.
It would appear that our two young people had fallen in love with each other during the month they had spent at Rosemount the preceding summer, and that, during the ensuing winter, Charley had contrived to worm his way into the good graces of Miss Hoskyns by humouring her weaknesses and playing on some of her foibles, of which the worthy lady had an ample stock-in-trade. But no one could have been more surprised than the young man himself was when, in answer to his letter, which he had written without the remotest hope of its being favourably considered, there came a gracious response, sanctioning his engagement to Miss Brandon. The fact was that, while in Italy, Miss Hoskyns had allowed her elderly affections to become entangled with a good-looking man some years younger than herself, to whom she was now on the point of being married. The first perusal of Charley’s letter had thrown her into a violent rage; but at the end of twenty-four hours her views had become considerably modified. After all, as she argued to herself, why shouldn’t young Summers and her niece make a match of it? He came of a good family, and would incontestably be his uncle’s heir; and Captain Bowood was known to be a very rich man. And then came in another argument, which had perhaps more weight than all the rest. Would it be wise, would it be advisable, to keep herself hampered with a niece who was fast developing into a really handsome young woman, when she, the aunt, was about to take a good-looking husband so much younger than herself? No; she opined that such a course would neither be wise nor advisable. Hence it came to pass that the letter was written which was such a source of surprise to every one at Rosemount.
‘What am I to do now?’ asked the Captain a little helplessly, as Mrs Bowood gave back the letter to Mr Brooker.
That lady’s mind was made up on the instant. ‘There is only one thing for you to do,’ she said with decision, ‘and that is, to forgive the boy all his past faults and follies, and sanction his engagement to Elsie Brandon.’
‘What—what! Eat my own words—swallow my own leek—when I’ve said a hundred times that’——
‘Remember, dear, what you said in the drawing-room last evening,’ interposed Mrs Bowood in her quietest tones.
Then the Captain called to mind how, in conversation the previous evening with his wife and Lady Dimsdale, he had chuckled over the tricks played him by his nephew, and had admitted that that young gentleman’s falling in love with Miss Brandon was the very thing he would have wished for, had he been consulted in the matter.
The Captain was crestfallen when these things were brought to his mind.
Mrs Bowood gave him no time for further reflection. Rightly assuming that the young people were not far away, she opened a door leading to an inner room, and there found them in close proximity to each other on the sofa. ‘Come along, you naughty children,’ she said, ‘and receive the sentence due for your many crimes.’
They came forward shamefacedly enough. Master Charles looked a little paler than ordinary; on Elsie’s face there was a lovely wild-rose blush.
Mr Brooker rose to his feet, ran the fingers of one hand lightly through his wig, and posed himself in his favourite attitude. He felt that just at this point a little slow music might have been effectively introduced.
The Captain also rose to his feet.
Charley came forward quickly and grasped one of the old man’s hands in both of his. ‘Uncle!’ he said, looking straight into his face through eyes that swam in tears.
For a moment or two the Captain tried to look fierce, but failed miserably. Then bending{122} his white head, and laying a hand on his nephew’s shoulder, he murmured in a broken voice: ‘M—m—my boy!’
Sir Frederick Pinkerton was slowly pacing the sunny south terrace, smoking one cigarette after another in a way that with him was very unusual. He was only half satisfied with himself—only half satisfied with the way he had treated Lady Dimsdale. The instincts of a gentleman were at work within him, and those instincts whispered to him that he had acted as no true gentleman ought to act. And yet his feelings were very bitter. Had not Lady Dimsdale rejected him?—had she not scorned him?—had she not treated him with a contumely that was only half veiled? Still more bitter was the thought that if he acted as his conscience told him he ought to act, he would release Lady Dimsdale from the promise he had imposed on her, and stand quietly on one side, while another snatched away the prize which, only a few short hours ago, he had fondly deemed would be all his own. But this was a sacrifice which he felt that he was not magnanimous enough to make. ‘I have done the man a great—an inestimable—service,’ he said to himself more than once; ‘let that suffice. They are not lovesick children—he and Lady Dimsdale—that they should cry for the moon, and vow there is no happiness in life because they can’t obtain it. Why should I trouble myself about their happiness? They would not trouble themselves about mine.’
It was thus he argued with himself, and the longer he argued the more angry he became. He was so thoroughly anxious to convince himself that he was right, and he found himself unable to do so.
He was still deep in his musings, when one of the servants brought him a letter which had been sent on from his own house to Rosemount. He recognised the writing as soon as he saw the address, and his face brightened at once. The letter was from his nephew—the one being on earth for whom Sir Frederick entertained any real affection. He found a seat in the shade, where he sat down and broke the seal of his letter. But as he read, his face grew darker and darker, and when he had come to the end of it, a deep sigh burst involuntarily from him; the hand that held the letter dropped by his side, and his chin sank on his breast. He seemed all at once to have become five years older. ‘O Horace, Horace, this is indeed a shameful confession!’ he murmured. ‘How often is it the hand we love best that strikes us the cruellest blow! And Oscar Boyd, too! the man I dislike beyond all other men. That makes the blow still harder to bear. He must be paid the five hundred pounds, and at once. He has lost his fortune, and yet he never spoke of this. What an obligation to be under—and to him! He saved Horace’s honour—perhaps his life—but is that any reason why I should absolve Lady Dimsdale from her promise? No, no! This is a matter entirely separate from the other.—Why, here comes the man himself.’
As Sir Frederick spoke thus, Oscar Boyd issued from one of the many winding walks that intersected the grounds at Rosemount. He had been alone since he left Lady Dimsdale. He had vowed to her that if she would not reveal to him the key of the mystery, he would find it for himself; but in truth he seemed no nearer finding it now than he had been an hour before. From whatever point he regarded the puzzle, he was equally nonplused. Utterly unaccountable to him seemed the whole affair. He was now on his way back to the house in search of Laura. He would see her once more before she left; once more would he appeal to her. On one point he was fully determined: come what might, he would never give her up.
Sir Frederick put away his letter, rose from his seat, pulled himself together, and went slowly forward to meet Mr Boyd. ‘You are the person, Mr Boyd, whom I am just now most desirous of seeing,’ he said.
‘I am entirely at your service, Sir Frederick.’
The Baronet cleared his voice. He scarcely knew how to begin what he wanted to say. Very bitter to him was the confession he was about to make. ‘Am I wrong, Mr Boyd, in assuming that you are acquainted with a certain nephew of mine, Horace Calvert by name, who at the present time is residing at Rio?’
Oscar started slightly at the mention of the name. ‘I believe that I had the pleasure of meeting the young gentleman in question on one occasion.’
‘It is of that occasion I wish to speak. I have in my pocket a letter which I have just received from my nephew, in which he confesses everything. Hum, hum.’
‘Confesses—Sir Frederick?’
‘For him, a humiliating confession indeed. He tells me in his letter how you—a man whom he had never seen before—saved him from the consequences of his folly—from disgrace—nay, from suicide itself! He had lost at the gaming-table money which was not his to lose. He fled the place—despair, madness, I know not what, in his heart and brain. You followed him, and were just in time to take out of his hand the weapon that a minute later would have ended his wretched life. But you not only did that; you took the miserable boy to your hotel, and there provided him with the means to save his honour. It was a noble action, Mr Boyd, and I thank you from my heart.’
‘It was the action of a man who remembered that he had been young and foolish himself in years gone by.’
‘I repeat, sir, that it was a noble action. And you would have gone away without telling me how greatly I am your debtor!’
‘It was a secret that concerned no one but the young man and myself.’
‘It is a debt that must be and shall be paid. I am glad indeed to find that there is sufficient sense of honour left in my nephew to cause him to beg that you may not be allowed to remain a loser by your generosity. He has ascertained that you have returned to England; he has even found out the name of your hotel in Covent Garden, where he asks me to wait upon you. Hum, hum. My cheque-book is at home, Mr Boyd; but if you will oblige me with your address in town, I’——
‘One moment, Sir Frederick. Am I right in assuming that a certain anonymous letter which I received yesterday was written by you?’
{123}
‘Since you put the question so categorically—frankly, it was.’
‘You have done me a service greater than I know how to thank you for. You have dragged me from the verge of an abyss. At present, I will not ask you how you came by the information which enabled you to do this—it is enough to know that you did it.’ He held out his hand frankly. ‘Suppose we cry quits, Sir Frederick?’ he said.
The Baronet protruded a limp and flaccid paw, which Oscar’s long lean fingers gripped heartily.
‘But—but, my dear sir, the five hundred pounds is a debt which must and shall be paid,’ urged Sir Frederick, who felt as if he had lost the use of his hand for a few moments.
There was no opportunity for further private talk. Round a corner of the terrace came Captain and Mrs Bowood, Miss Brandon and her lover in a high state of contentment, and Brooker the benignant, nose in air, and with one hand hidden in the breast of his frock-coat. A servant brought out some of Lady Dimsdale’s boxes in readiness for the carriage, which would be there in the course of a few minutes. Mr Boyd went forward, leaving Sir Frederick a little way in the rear.
‘Quits—“let us cry quits,” he said,’ muttered the Baronet. ‘Yes, yes; let it be so as regards all but the money. That must be repaid. The service I did him was no common one—he admits that. Why, then, should I not hold Lady Dimsdale to her promise?’
At this moment, Lady Dimsdale, dressed for travelling, appeared on the terrace. ‘She is going, then. She means to keep her promise,’ said Sir Frederick to himself. He drew a little nearer the group.
‘And must you really and truly leave us this afternoon?’ said Mrs Bowood.
‘Really and truly.’
‘I am very angry with you.’
‘I have promised the children to be back in time to go blackberrying with them, so that you will not lose me for long.’
‘I suppose we shall lose Mr Boyd as soon as you are gone. The house will be too dull for him.’
‘I have no control over Mr Boyd’s actions,’ answered Lady Dimsdale quietly, as she turned away.
‘Then he has not proposed! O dear! O dear!’ murmured Mrs Bowood.
Sir Frederick had seated himself on a rustic chair somewhat apart from the others. He was still uneasy in his mind. ‘He saved Horace’s honour—he saved his life; but he said himself that we are quits.’
‘Why, this is nothing but rank midsummer madness,’ said the Captain to Lady Dimsdale. ‘But you women never know your minds for two days together. You won’t have been settled down at Bayswater more than a week, before you will want to be off somewhere else. Eh, now?’
‘Do you know, I think that is quite likely. But I am not leaving you for long. I shall be back again to plague you by the time the leaves begin to turn.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And now my adieux to all of you must be brief. Time, tide, and the express train wait for no one.’
She saw Oscar coming towards her, and she crossed to meet him.
‘The crucial moment,’ said Sir Frederick to himself. ‘How bravely she carries herself!’
Oscar took her hand. For a moment or two they looked into each other’s eyes without speaking. Then Oscar said: ‘You are determined to go—and without affording me a word of explanation?’
‘I cannot help myself.’
‘Do you really mean this to be farewell between us?’
‘Yes—farewell.’ There was a sob in her voice which she could not repress.
‘O my darling!’
‘Not that word, Oscar—not that!’
‘And do you really think, Laura, that I am going to allow myself to lose you in this way, without knowing the why or the wherefore? Not so—not so.’
‘You must, Oscar—you must.’
‘Give me some reason—give me some explanation of this unaccountable change.’
‘I cannot. My lips are sealed.’
‘Very well. I will now say good-bye for a little while; but I shall follow you to London within three days. You are my promised wife, and I shall hold you to your promise, in spite of everything and every one.’
‘No, Oscar, no—it cannot be—it can never be!’ She glanced up into his eyes. There was a cold, clear, determined look in them, such as she had never seen there before. It was evident that he was terribly in earnest.
At this moment Captain Bowood’s landau drove up. The footman descended, and contemplated Lady Dimsdale’s numerous packages with dismay.
‘You needn’t bother about the luggage, George,’ said his master. ‘A man from the station will fetch that.’
The moment for parting had come. As Oscar gazed down on Laura, all the hardness melted out of his face, and in its stead, the soft light of love shone out of his eyes, and his lips curved into a smile of tenderness. ‘Farewell—but only for a little while,’ he whispered. He lifted her hand to his lips for a moment, and then, without another word, he turned on his heel and joined the Captain.
‘I actually believe Mr Boyd is in love with dear Lady Dimsdale!’ whispered Elsie to Mr Summers.
‘Of course he is, and she with him; only, she’s playing with him for a little while.’
‘It seems to me that you know far too much about love-making, Master Charley.’
‘Who was the first to give me lessons?’
The only answer to this was a pinch in the soft part of his arm.
Lady Dimsdale controlled herself by a supreme effort. Then she crossed slowly towards where Sir Frederick was sitting.
He rose as she approached him. ‘You have kept your promise bravely,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Why should not a woman keep a promise as bravely as a man?’
‘It is I who am driving you away.’
‘You flatter yourself, Sir Frederick.’
He shook his head in grave dissent. He seemed strangely moved. He gazed earnestly at her. ‘There is a tear in your eye, Lady Dimsdale,’ he{124} said. ‘I am conquered. I revoke the promise I caused you to give me yesterday.’
‘Oh, Sir Frederick!’
‘I revoke it unconditionally.’
‘Why did you not tell me this five minutes ago!’
‘Better to tell it you now than not at all. You will not leave us now?’
‘But I must, I fear—must.’ She gave him her hand for a moment, and then turned away.
As the Baronet watched her retreating figure, he muttered to himself: ‘Mr Boyd said we were quits. He was mistaken. We shall be quits after to-day. Hum, hum.’
As Lady Dimsdale was crossing the terrace, she dropped one of her gloves—whether by design or accident, who shall say. Oscar Boyd sprang forward and picked it up. Laura stopped, turned, and held out her hand for the glove. As Oscar gave it back to her, his fingers closed instinctively round hers. For a moment or two he gazed into her eyes; for a moment or two she glanced shyly into his. I don’t in the least know what he saw there; but suddenly he called out to the coachman: ‘Henry, you can drive back to the stables. Lady Dimsdale will not go to London to-day.’
The interesting lecture upon Celtic and Roman Britain, which was delivered last month at the London Institution by Mr Alfred Tylor, F.G.S., was illustrated by several drawings of curious antiquities. There was also shown a map prepared by the lecturer, which depicted all the Roman roads which at the present time still form important highways. A large number of these are seen upon this map to converge at Winchester, which at one time formed a central depôt for the metallurgical products of this country, before their dispersion abroad. From Winchester the metals won from the earth in Cornwall, Wales, &c., were carried to Beaulieu, in Hampshire, thence to the Solent, close by. Two miles across the Solent is Gurnard’s Bay, in the Isle of Wight, whence there was an easy road to the safe harbour of Brading, where the ores could be shipped for continental ports. It is believed, from the existence of so many British sepulchral mounds along these routes, that the roads were established and in constant use many centuries before the Roman occupation. The lecturer also referred to the curious Ogham inscriptions which are found nowhere except in the British Isles, and which are written in a kind of cipher of the simplest but most ingenious kind. A horizontal bar forms the backbone of this curious system of caligraphy. Five vertical strokes across this line would express the first five letters of an alphabet; the next five would be expressed by like lines kept above the horizontal bar, and five more by similar lines kept below it. Other five, making up a total of twenty signs, corresponding to a twenty-letter alphabet, are expressed by diagonal lines across the bar. This primitive method of writing is due to the Irish division of the Celtic race, and indicates a proof of early culture, which is seen in more enduring form in the artistic skill evident in such metallurgical work as has been assigned to the same period and people.
Professor Maspero’s recently issued new catalogue of the Boulak Museum, Cairo, deals with antiquities compared with which those referred to the Roman period in Britain seem but things of yesterday. Many of these archæological treasures, but more particularly the funerary tablets or stelæ, cover the enormous period of thirty-eight centuries, a period, too, which ends two thousand years before the Christian era. As to the object of these tablets, which are almost invariably found attached to ancient Egyptian tombs, Professor Maspero gives a new theory. There is no doubt that the ancient Egyptians believed in the immortality of the soul, but coupled with this was a belief in the existence of a something outside the soul and body—a kind of shade or double, called the Ka. The preservation of this Ka was essential to the preservation of the soul; and images of the defunct in which this spirit could dwell were entombed with the mummy. The various scenes of domestic labour and pastoral pursuits were not—as was until recently supposed—inscribed upon the Egyptian tombs merely as records of manners and customs, but were associated with the belief in the Ka. The pursuits carried on in life could by these representations enable the spiritual double to carry on the same line of conduct. Representations of various kinds of food in baked clay, limestone, or other material, formed the food of the Ka, and such things have been found in abundance. According to Professor Maspero’s new theory, the stela or tablet enumerated the funereal offerings of the deceased, and contained a prayer for their continuance. This prayer, repeated by a priest—or passer-by, even—would insure the well-being of the Ka. The name and status of the deceased were also inscribed upon the tablet; for, according to Egyptian ideas, a nameless grave meant no hereafter for its inmate. The catalogue referred to is intended to be a popular guide for the use of visitors, but it contains very much which will be of value to the student.
Mr Petrie’s recently published book upon the Pyramids of Gezeh, while it makes short work of many previously accepted theories as to the intention and uses of those gigantic structures, gives much information of a most interesting kind, and throws a new light upon many previously obscure portions of the subject. Most interesting is that part of the work devoted to the mechanical means employed by the builders of the Pyramids. Mr Petrie traces in the huge stones of which the Pyramids are built, the undoubted marks of saw-cutting and tubular drilling. He believes that the tools employed were of bronze, and asserts that this metal has left a green stain on the sides of the saw-cuts. Jewels, to form cutting-points, he believes to have been set both in the teeth of the saws and also on the circumference of the drills. (If this be true, rock-boring diamond drills are no new things.) He has even detected evidence of the employment of lathes with fixed tools and mechanical rests.
There is now little doubt as to the value of ensilage as a food for cattle, for there is abundant testimony from various parts of the country,{125} where the experiment has been tried of building silos, that beasts thrive upon the compressed fodder that had been stored therein. For instance, its value as a fatting food for cattle has been demonstrated upon Mr Stobart’s estate at Northallerton, by a carefully conducted trial. Twelve beasts were divided into two lots of six each. All were alike given the same quantity of meal and cake. Besides this, one lot received daily, each beast, twenty-four and a half pounds of hay and ninety-five pounds of turnips; the other lot receiving in lieu of hay and turnips each seventy-five pounds of ensilage. At the beginning of the experiment, the animals were weighed separately. At the end of one month they were again weighed. All of course showed a great advance; but those fed on ensilage totalled up to a figure which was forty-nine pounds better than the total exhibited by those fed in the more orthodox style.
As we have on a previous occasion hinted, the principle of ensilage has, after a manner, been applied for some years to fruit by the jam-makers. In years of plenty, fruit is reduced to pulp, and can in this state, if the air is carefully excluded, be made to keep well until a time of scarcity occurs. Large quantities of apricot pulp finds its way to this country from France, and realises a good price. In America, a clever plan of rapid drying and evaporation of the watery parts of fruit has come into vogue, and this industry gives employment to many workers. A stove constructed for the purpose costs about fifteen pounds. It is portable, and is used in many districts far from towns where there is not a ready market for fresh fruit. As the water slowly evaporates, the acid and starch in the fruit undergo a chemical change, and grape-sugar is formed. When placed in water, these dried fruits once more swell up to their original volume, and are in every respect like fresh fruit, only that they require, when cooked, but half the usual quantity of added sugar. All kinds of vegetables can be preserved by this process.
A correspondent of the Times, writing from Iceland, gives some interesting particulars of the present condition of that island. At Reykiavik, its chief town, nothing was known of the reported volcanic disturbances in the interior of the island; but this is hardly to be wondered at, because a large portion of that area is occupied by snow-covered mountains and glaciers which the natives never visit, and which, it may be said, are never explored save by enterprising and adventurous tourists. Professor Tromholt is in Iceland, pursuing his researches on the aurora borealis, the frequency and brilliancy of which, coupled with the exceeding clearness of the atmosphere, give him every advantage. A large portion of Iceland still remains unexplored; and its mineral resources, if we except the large quantities of sulphur which are being worked by an English Company, are but slightly developed. There is still room for a brisk trade in coal, borax, copper, &c., which are abundant on the island. Besides these products, the fisheries of Iceland are most prolific; and although fish and its belongings form two-thirds of the total exports, it is believed that they offer a promising field for the further employment of capital.
Among the wonderful engineering projects of the present day must be mentioned the scheme for making Paris a seaport. This subject lately engaged the attention of the Rouen Congress of the French Association for the Advancement of Science, who gave to it two days’ discussion. One of the chief promoters of the project explained that the proposed way to carry it out was by transforming the river Seine, by dredging operations, into a canal ninety-eight feet in width. The amount of soil to be removed would measure close upon one hundred million cubic yards; it would consist chiefly of gravel and alluvial earth. The cost of the entire undertaking is estimated at four millions sterling.
Much attention has of recent years been called to the neglected art of Irish lace-making. The beauty of design and careful execution of old specimens of Irish lace contrast very remarkably with modern productions, which are too often coarse and inartistic. An Exhibition held last year at the Mansion House, London, and another still more lately at Cork, have to some extent aroused popular interest in this most beautiful class of work, and have given some impetus to the Royal Irish School of Art Needlework. In addition to the labours of this self-supporting Society, which is doing its best in the dissemination of good patterns and the employment of trained teachers, South Kensington has sent one of its emissaries, in the person of Mr Alan Cole, who has made lace-work his particular study, to lecture throughout the country. This gentleman is now in Ireland, travelling about the country wherever his presence is required, and teaching the application of artistic design to the technical requirements of the beautiful fabric.
A pretty picture, exhibited some short time ago, represented a little child looking up inquiringly to the intelligent face of a collie dog, and was entitled ‘Can’t you Talk?’ Sir John Lubbock has lately been asking this question of a little black poodle, and has been endeavouring to teach it to make its wants known by the use of cards with written characters upon them. Thus, one card bears the word ‘Food,’ another ‘Out;’ and the dog has been taught to bring either the one or the other to his master, and to distinguish between the meanings of the two. It seems doubtful whether the dog in this case uses the faculty of sight or smell; and it would be a source of some interest and amusement to those possessing an obedient dog, and with time at their disposal, to carry out the same kind of experiments, using new cards every time. It is constantly brought home to any observing owner of a dog that the animal understands a great deal more than he is generally credited with. In one case, we knew of a Dandy Dinmont who became so excited when certain things were mentioned in which he was interested, that French words had to be used in place of English ones when he was present. Their intelligence is truly marvellous. The wife of the editor of this Journal possesses a terrier which, while his mistress is out driving, will remain quietly in the parlour during her absence, taking no heed of other vehicles that may come to the front-door in the interval, but instantly recognising by some intuitive perception the arrival of the carriage or cab that has restored his mistress. Be it noted that the room in which Tim is confined during these temporary partings is at the back of the house, apart altogether from the front-door.{126} This special power of discrimination on the part of our favourite has always been a marvel to us.
Colonel Stuart Wortley, commenting upon Sir John Lubbock’s experiments, tells an interesting story concerning a cat which he found during the Crimean War. The poor creature was pinned to the ground by a bayonet which had fallen and pierced its foot. The colonel released it; and the animal attached itself to him, and remained with him to the end of the war. The first two mornings of their acquaintance the cat was taken to the doctor’s tent to have his wound dressed. The third morning, the colonel was on duty; but the cat found its way to the doctor’s all the same, scratching at the tent for admission, and holding up its paw for examination.
Some months ago, when every one who had more money than scientific knowledge was hastening to invest in electric-lighting schemes, we gave a few words of warning as to the risks involved. That we were not wrong is evidenced by the collapse of so many of the Companies which were then issuing rose-coloured prospectuses. We now learn that so many people have suffered loss in this way, that there is the greatest difficulty in floating any scheme in which the word ‘Electricity’ occurs; and although inventors are still producing wonderful things, they cannot get support. There seems, however, to be no doubt whatever about the genuine success of the Edison Company in New York. The annual Report of the Company recently issued says that the Pearl Street Station in that city is working up to its full capacity. It has nine thousand eight hundred and eleven incandescent lamps in use, and the machinery has been kept running night and day without cessation since September 1882. The Company has now two hundred and forty-six installations at work, with a total of more than sixty thousand lamps. It may be mentioned as a matter of interest that Edison has had two hundred and fifteen patents actually granted him, and one hundred more have been filed. Every small item of his mechanical contrivances forms the subject of a patent specification.
There is just now such a great demand for handsomely marked leather, such as that obtained from alligator and boa skin, that the supply is not nearly equal to said demand. A large proportion of leather sold as the product of the alligator is really a photograph of the original article. It is managed in this way. The real skin, with its curious rectangular spaces separated by grooved markings, is carefully photographed. From the negative thus obtained a copy is produced in bichromated gelatine, which has the property, under the action of light, of affording images in relief. This is easily reproduced in metal, which serves the purpose of a die. Common cheap leather is now taken and placed with this die under heavy pressure, when all the delicate markings of the alligator skin are indelibly impressed upon it. The finished product can be stained in any way required, but is more frequently preferred to remain the brown colour left by the tanning operation. Such is the most recent trade-application of the fable of the jackdaw and the peacock’s feathers.
An American paper calls attention to a theory of life which, it asserts, was held by the great Faraday. This theory makes the duration of life depend upon the time occupied in growth, leaving all questions of disease or accident which may shorten life out of the question altogether. Man occupies twenty years in the business of growing. This number multiplied by five will give the age to which he ought, under favourable circumstances, to live—namely, one hundred years. A camel, occupying eight years in growing, ought to live by the same rule forty years; and so on with other animals. Human life he divided into two periods—growth and decline, and these were subdivided into infancy, lasting from birth to the age of twenty; youth, lasting from twenty to fifty; virility, from fifty to seventy-five; after which comes age.
‘A white-elephant’ has long been the common name of a gift which is not only useless, but is likely to entail trouble and expense upon its owner. The animal which has lately found a temporary home at the Zoological Gardens, London, will not be considered so unwelcome a guest, for it has drawn thousands of sightseers to the place. It is reported to have been bought from the king of Burmah on behalf of Mr Barnum, the American showman. But there seems to be a conflict of opinion on the point. Those who ought to know say that the exhibited animal has nothing very remarkable about it, and is certainly unlike the sacred animals of Burmah. Moreover, it is said that the king of Burmah would as soon part with his kingdom as with a real white elephant, which is the emblem of universal sovereignty, the parting with one of which would forebode the fall of the dynasty.
One of the attractions of the forthcoming International Health Exhibition will be an Indian village and tea-garden with the plant actually growing—that is to say, if it can be deluded into growing in the smoky atmosphere of London. In a tea-house, the beverage will be served by natives of tea districts, who are to be brought over from India for the purpose. There will also be exhibited a native pickle establishment. We venture to assert that if the entire Exhibition is carried on in this spirit, it is sure to be a success. In past times, the tea industry would have been represented by a few dozen bottles of the dried leaf with labels attached, which none would have read. Our authorities are now learning that if they wish to interest the multitude in an Exhibition, it must consist of something more than the dry-bones of the various subjects which it includes.
At a meeting of the Linnæan Society, Mr J. G. Baker lately gave a very interesting account of a potato new to this country, but common in Chili, which he believes would thrive well on this side of the Atlantic. There are known to botanists seven hundred species of solanum. Only six of these produce tubers, and of these six only one has been as yet cultivated by us, and this is the common potato.[1] Its true home, according to Mr Baker, is found in those parts of Chili which are high and dry; but there is another species which flourishes in moister situations, which he believes might be made to rival its familiar fellow. When cultivated, it grows most{127} luxuriantly, so much so, that six hundred tubers have in one year been gathered from two plants. Some specimens of this same potato were brought to England so long ago as the year 1826, but they met with little attention, having been confounded with the more common species. Two other species of solanum, natives of the eastern portion of South America, and found at Buenos Ayres, &c., are also being cultivated experimentally in France and in the United States.
A case lately occurred which is deserving of notice, if only as a caution to those good people who are always ready to assist any unfortunate who may be seized with a fit. A man acting in this way the part of good Samaritan to a woman who had fallen in an epileptic fit, was bitten by her in the hand. In three days the wrist had swollen to such an extent as to need medical advice, and a few hours afterwards the poor man died. There may, of course, have been something exceptional in his state of health, which rendered this human bite more rapidly fatal than that of a rabid dog; but the lesson to be learned from the sad story is, that the greatest care should be taken in dealing with epileptic patients.
The scheme for the extension of the telegraph system, in anticipation of the meditated introduction of the sixpence rate, is a most comprehensive one, and indicates that the Post-office authorities anticipate a very considerable increase of work. The arrangements cover the entire kingdom, and the sum to be expended is half a million, part of the sum having been voted in the official year 1883-84, and the remainder to be voted in the new estimates. From London, upwards of eighty new wires are to be erected to the principal towns of the kingdom, including four additional wires to Liverpool; two each to Birmingham, Manchester, Leeds, Newcastle, and Newmarket; three to Glasgow; two to Edinburgh; and one each to a large number of towns, including, in Scotland, Aberdeen and Dundee. Within London itself, five new pneumatic tubes are to be provided; about seventy new wires will be erected; forty existing wires will be provided with instruments to work ‘duplex’—that is, with the power of transmitting two different messages by one wire from each end simultaneously; and a very large number of offices will have simple apparatus substituted by other and improved instruments. In the city of Liverpool, in addition to the London wires named, three new wires to Manchester are to be put up; and one new wire to Belfast, Birmingham, Blackburn, Bristol, Carlisle, Glasgow, Hull, Leeds, and Newcastle. All those wires and all the new London wires are to be ‘duplexed,’ and thus each new line practically counts as two. A number of wires out of Liverpool and the other large towns will be converted to duplex; and Liverpool is to have eight new pneumatic tubes for its busier local offices. At Manchester, besides the London and Liverpool communications already named, there will be new wires to Birmingham, Chester, Edinburgh, Leeds, Newcastle, Bolton, Burnley, Derby, Huddersfield, Hull, Isle of Man, and Nottingham, all duplexed. At Newcastle, an evidence of the curious ramifications of trade is seen in the fact that a new wire is to be put up between that town and Cardiff. Bristol obtains new wires to London, Liverpool, Birmingham, Swansea, and Cardiff; and a share of a new wire for news purposes with Exeter, Plymouth, &c. Sheffield in the same way has a new wire to London, and a share in a news circuit with Nottingham, Leeds, and Bradford. At Birmingham, a number of new local wires, and the duplexing of others, are provided in addition to the various new trunk wires already named. In Scotland, a considerable number of new wires fall to be erected. Edinburgh obtains two of the new London wires, and wires to Manchester, Kelso, and Musselburgh, with the duplexing of some important wires, such as those to Kirkcaldy and Perth. Glasgow, with three London wires added, gets new wires to Dundee, Leeds, Liverpool, Oban, Kilmarnock, Falkirk, &c.; while a large number of the existing wires will be duplexed, and in some cases re-arranged to give more suitable service. A considerable number of new local wires are to be erected in both cities. In Aberdeen, besides the new London wire, the principal change will be new wires to Wick and Lerwick—the last a most important improvement, as Shetland messages will reach London with two steps, instead of being, as now, repeated at Wick, Inverness, and Edinburgh or Glasgow.
We observe that the French are about to increase enormously their telegraphic system, and that the new wires are to be laid underground. It would be well if, remembering the ever-recurring havoc wrought upon our overhead wires by gales and snow, we followed the example of our Gallic neighbours.
A series of experiments has been made at Folkestone, with the result of very satisfactorily demonstrating the value of the method of spreading oil over troubled waters which has been devised by Mr John Shields, of Perth, and which has been already described in this Journal. Many years ago, Mr Shields, observing the effect of a few drops of oil accidentally spilt on a pond in connection with his works, began experiments with a view to determine if this property of oil could not be turned to account on a large scale for the saving of life and property at sea and on our coasts. He soon arrived at the conclusion that the problem to be solved was ‘how to get the oil on troubled waters when it was wanted and where it was wanted.’ By trying various methods of solving this question, first at Peterhead and then at Aberdeen, he has worked out the system which, with the co-operation of the South-eastern Railway Company, has at his expense been placed in readiness for use during stormy weather off the entrance to the harbour at Folkestone.
On the 29th January, Mr A. Shields, son of the inventor, and Mr Gordon, of Dundee, carried out a number of experiments at Folkestone before a distinguished company. The weather, unfortunately, was not all that could be desired; it was too moderate, and the wind blowing from the west did not drive such breakers across the{128} harbour bar as a strong south-wester would have produced. Nevertheless, the channel near shore was sufficiently rough to prove the efficiency of Mr Shields’ arrangements for smoothing it. What was seen by the visitors may be told in few words. Three large casks were lying on their sides near the pier-end, and pipes inserted in these were connected with small force-pumps, each worked by a man. Attention was first directed to windward towards the unfinished new pier, which juts out to the south-west. Those who have watched these experiments on former occasions said they could see the oil rising from a submerged pipe laid from the old pier-head towards the new pier for a distance of five hundred feet. The flood-tide, however, was running so strongly that it was not until the oil had passed the pier that its effects began to be visible, and these effects were soon more distinctly seen as the two men stationed at the other barrels began to pump oil into a couple of pipes, also laid on the sea-bottom, and running across the entrance of the harbour towards Shakspeare’s Cliff for about one thousand yards. A fully-manned lifeboat, the Mayer de Rothschild, had been rowed out of the harbour, and was lying off the pier-head, rolling a good deal, but not getting a splash while in the wide glassy strip of oil-covered waters that soon stretched away for half a mile or more, though to seaward of this glistening streak the waves were curling and breaking into foam. On the harbour-side the effects of the oil were noticeable far in-shore, and few white caps were to be seen, the film, attenuated as it must have been, and not more than one hundred feet in width, acting apparently as an efficient breakwater. When the pumping was stopped, it was estimated that rather over one hundred gallons of oil had been used.
The trial, which was as satisfactory as the conditions of weather permitted, was concluded about one o’clock; yet at four, when the Boulogne boat came in, broad streaks of comparatively smooth, unbroken water showed where the oil still lay on the surface. For this permanent apparatus, lead-pipes of about one and a quarter inch diameter are used, and at distances of one hundred feet apart there are fixed upright pipes eighteen inches high, in each of which is a conical valve, protected from silt by a rose. The oil used was seal-oil, some kind of so-called fish-oil having been found by experiment to be better for the purpose than either vegetable or mineral oils.
A second experiment was made at the same place with Mr Gordon’s invention. This consists of firing shells filled with oil, which, when the shells burst, spreads itself over the water. Each shell contains about three-quarters of a gallon of oil. They are fired from mortars, a charge of eight ounces of pebble powder being used. The shell is simply an oil-flask, at the bottom of which is a recess for a fuse of somewhat peculiar construction. It consists of two small chambers. In these there is a projecting submarine fuse about an inch in length. The fuse is capped with a composition which renders it absolutely waterproof, and is so constructed as to secure its ignition with unfailing certainty. Then the fuse is so timed that it bursts at the time required, and just as the shell is touching the surface of the water. The oil from each shell covers a very considerable area of surface. Somewhere about a dozen of these shells were fired at a range of from four hundred and fifty to five hundred yards. The effect was wonderful. The hissing and raging waters were gradually allayed. For a considerable space the sea was converted into a lake with a gentle swell, in which a ship or a boat could ride with perfect ease. The shells, of course, obviate the necessity of pipes, and the smallest seaport in the kingdom might therefore, with an old mortar and a dozen or two of gallons of oil, make a temporary harbour of refuge whenever the necessity arose.
A MEMORY.
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FOOTNOTES
[1] Regents, Champions, Orkney Reds, &c., are mere varieties of the common species of potato.