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Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 10, Vol. I, March 8, 1884, by Various

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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art,
       Fifth Series, No. 10, Vol. I, March 8, 1884

Author: Various

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Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 10, VOL. I, MARCH 8,
1884 ***




[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 10.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, MARCH 8, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




NETTLE-CLOTH.


Some little time ago, when one of our most distinguished botanists was
asked his opinion about the desirability of forming a collection of all
the vegetable substances which are or have been used in medicine both
by civilised and savage races, he replied that it would take a large
building to hold it. Although a series of fibre-yielding plants would
be much less in number, the list would still be a long one, provided we
knew all those in use by savage tribes. Very few of these, however, are
extensively used for clothing. Putting aside wool and silk, which are
animal products, we have only cotton and flax of prime importance. Hemp
of fine quality is largely grown in Italy, and there woven into cloth
for ordinary purposes; but as yet this use of hemp in other civilised
countries appears to be limited, though the fibre is everywhere
employed for cordage. With the exception of jute, which is chiefly made
into coarse fabrics, all other vegetable fibres believed to be suitable
for important textile industries may be said to be as yet only on their
trial. But a number—such as the so-called New Zealand flax (_Phormium
tenax_), Manila hemp (_Musa textilis_), pine-apple (_Bromelia ananas_),
American aloe (_Agave Americana_), and some yielded by certain species
of palms—are known to possess very valuable properties. We have omitted
to mention any members of the Nettle tribe—to which, however, the
hemp-plant is closely allied—as we propose to say a few special words
about them.

Growing both wild and cultivated in suitable localities scattered
over a large area in South-eastern Asia, there is a species of nettle
to which a peculiar interest is attached. The reason of this is that
the liber or inner side of its bark yields a fibre excelling every
other derived from the vegetable kingdom for fineness, strength, and
lustre combined. In China, this fibre is called by English-speaking
people, China grass; in India it is called _rhea_; and in the Malayan
Archipelago by the name of _ramie_. It was some time before botanists
discovered that the material which was known in commerce by three
different names was the produce of the same plant—a stingless nettle.
For more than half a century, much attention has now been devoted to
the _Urtica nivea_ or _Bœhmeria nivea_ (a newer name), as the China
grass plant is called in scientific language. Long in use in China and
Japan for making ropes and cloth—much of the latter being of very fine
quality—it was introduced into England for manufacturing purposes soon
after Mr Fortune the well-known botanist returned in 1846 from his
travels in China. Small quantities had, however, been sent to England
long before this. Even as early as 1810, some bales of the Indian-grown
fibre were received at the India House, London, and its great strength
as a rope-making material ascertained. Indeed, it is stated on high
authority, that this fibre has been in use in the Netherlands since the
sixteenth century.

In Messrs Marshall’s great flax-mill at Leeds, China grass was spun
to some extent for about ten years after 1851, and its snow-white
silky yarn is more or less constantly in use in some kinds of Bradford
fabrics. But unlike the jute fibre, which has created in the course of
a single generation a gigantic industry, the trade in China grass has
scarcely advanced at all. The value of the latter is admitted on all
hands; there is practically an unlimited demand for it; plenty of it
could be grown in India, and yet it is not cultivated to any extent.
This is solely owing to the great amount of manual labour required to
separate the fibre and bark from the stem, and then the fibre from the
bark, no machine having been yet invented which will do this at once
efficiently and cheaply.

The Indian government have long been vexed that the latent wealth of
the plant yielding this much-prized rhea fibre cannot be realised. In
1869 they offered a prize of five thousand pounds for the best, and
another of two thousand pounds for the second-best machine which would
separate and prepare the fibre, at a cost of fifteen pounds per ton
in India, in such a way that it would fetch fifty pounds per ton in
England. It may here be mentioned that it sometimes sells as high as
eighty pounds per ton, and even higher; while the highest price for
jute rarely exceeds twenty-five pounds, and for flax of fine quality,
forty pounds. Naturally, the Indian administration hoped that the
offer of these handsome prizes would bring forward as competitors some
of the ablest machinists in Europe. But whether it was owing to the
inherent difficulty of the problem, to the expense of taking out heavy
machines to India, or to that apathy with which it is frequently said
we in this country regard everything Indian, practically nothing came
of the competition. Mr John Greig of Edinburgh sent a machine for trial
which so far met the conditions that he received a douceur of fifteen
hundred pounds. About thirty competitors applied to have their machines
tried; but eventually Mr Greig alone put in an appearance. It was found
that by his method it cost fully fifteen pounds per ton to prepare the
fibre in India; and when this was sent to London, it was valued at only
twenty-eight pounds per ton.

In 1875, Dr Forbes Watson—one of a small band of scientific men who
have done much to bring under notice the industrial resources of
India—suggested that, in order to save the expense of freight, trials
of machines should be made in England instead of India. Green stems of
the plant grown in the south of France were promised for the purpose;
and towards the end of that year, several inventors had entered their
machines for competition; but owing to unforeseen difficulties, it was
found impossible to hold the trials. Unwilling to abandon the hope of
attaining their great object, the government of India issued a new
notification to inventors in 1877. This time the prizes offered were
five thousand pounds for the best, and one thousand pounds for the
second-best machine or process for preparing rhea fibre which would be
worth forty-five pounds per ton in London, at a cost of not more than
fifteen pounds per ton laid down at any port of shipment in India. The
trials having been arranged to take place, as before, at Saháranpur
in September 1879, ten competitors appeared; but only seven had their
machines tested. When the fibre prepared by each arrived in London,
it was found that the highest value put upon any of the samples was
twenty-six pounds per ton. Accordingly, none of the competitors could
claim the full amount of either of the prizes; but Messrs Van der Ploeg
and Nagoua, two textile machinists well known on the continent, were
each awarded five hundred pounds, and Mr Cameron one hundred pounds. On
the failure of this second competition, it was determined not to renew
the offer of a prize until it could be proved by private enterprise
that the rhea plant could be cultivated with profit in India. The
unfavourable reports on the best samples prepared at the second trial
at Saháranpur seem to have convinced the Indian government that at
present the prospect of producing Indian rhea which would successfully
compete with the fibre of the same plant grown and prepared in China,
is not very hopeful.

Notwithstanding this second failure on the part of the government of
India to obtain by rewards a machine capable of turning the cultivation
of the rhea plant in that country into a commercial success, so
confident are many good judges of the great value of China grass as a
textile material, that the interest in it is increasing from year to
year. Its cultivation is spreading over Southern Europe, considerable
areas being now laid out into plantations of China grass in Italy and
the south of France. Spain and Portugal are beginning to grow it;
and on the south side of the Mediterranean, Algiers and Egypt are
also moving in the same direction. It is believed that this recent
development of ramie culture in the Mediterranean region—to call the
plant by the name our French neighbours appear to prefer—is to some
extent owing to Favier’s recent method of treating the fibre, the
patent for which is owned by a Company located at Avignon. This plan is
very simple, and considering how much the use of steam—we do not mean
as a motive force—has quickened many processes, even in the textile
industries, it is wonderful that it had not been thought of before. M.
Favier merely exposes the stems of the plant to the action of steam for
about twenty minutes in a closed wooden trough, after which the bark
and fibre are easily stripped from the stem. By the retting process, or
steeping in cold water, it takes days, sometimes weeks, to effect the
decortication of the stems; and we have seen how difficult it has been
found to do this by machinery. But although M. Favier’s process greatly
simplifies matters in this early stage of the preparation of the fibre,
the gummy substance and outer skin still require to be removed from it.

Only the other day, it was announced that Professor Frémy, a
distinguished French chemist, has, after an elaborate series of
experiments, found out a method of readily separating the fibre from
these extraneous matters. He takes up the ribbons of bark with attached
fibre, as obtained by M. Favier’s plan, and subjects them to a peculiar
treatment, which mainly consists in boiling them under pressure in
an alkaline solution. During the operation, everything deleterious
is removed from the useful portion of the fibre, which is then ready
for the ordinary operation of the spinner. There seems good grounds
for believing that the combined processes of Messrs Favier and Frémy,
which are about to be tried on a scale of some magnitude in France,
will prove a commercial success. It will be curious to watch the future
history of a plant which has so long baffled every attempt to raise
it into conspicuous importance as an article of commerce, about which
volumes have been written, and the fibre of which is now well known by
its valuable properties to those engaged in textile industries in every
civilised country.

There is another Indian nettle, called _Urtica heterophylla_, which
produces a strong, fine, white, glossy fibre. Best known by the name of
the Neilgherry nettle, it is nevertheless widely diffused over India.
The stem, branches, and leaves are covered with stiff sharp bristles,
which give it a formidable, or, as some say, a ferocious appearance.
These also inflict acute pain if they should happen to be touched, but
fortunately the effect of the sting soon passes away. The prepared
fibre of this plant is sometimes called vegetable wool; and it is
better suited, from its appearance, for mixing with real wool than rhea
fibre, which has been a good deal used for this purpose. In some parts
of India, the fibre of the Neilgherry nettle is used by the natives in
the manufacture of cloth. It has been partially experimented upon for
textile purposes in England; but there seems to have been a difference
of opinion as to its merits. Owing to its sting, there are even greater
difficulties in separating its fibre than is the case with rhea; but
these might be overcome by some mechanical or chemical treatment. It is
a quick-growing plant, and could be cultivated to any extent, should a
demand for it arise.

We must pass over other species of _urtica_, and come to the common
stinging nettle of Europe. As is well known, this plant furnishes a
nutritious food for swine and some other animals, and in Scotland is
occasionally used for making a kind of soup termed nettle kail; and in
default of a better, its roots will furnish, along with alum, a yellow
dye. The tenacity of its fibre has long been known. It has been woven
into cloth in past times, but no doubt only on a limited scale, in
nearly every country where the plant grows. Nor have its properties as
a textile material been altogether overlooked in modern times, at least
in the British Islands, since lace, parasol covers, and other fancy
articles made of common nettle fibre have been on exhibition in the
Museums of Economic Botany at Kew and Dublin for the last thirty years,
besides having been occasionally brought under the notice of the public
in various other ways. At Dresden, Herr F. C. Seidel has recently
established a manufactory for nettle-cloth, in which, according to what
seems to be an authentic report, he uses fibre of the common species;
but the significant remark is added, that he prefers to get his
material from the Chinese nettle.

Some persons think that they see a great nettle industry looming in
the future, if only a process of readily separating the useless parts
of its stem without injuring the fibre could be discovered. We are of
course speaking of the common nettle. A statement has been published
which one can very readily believe—namely, that the profitable
extraction of its fibre is possible only when it is cultivated. In the
wild state, the plant is branchy; but when grown on suitable soil at
regular distances of from five to eight inches apart, it forms single
stems from four to fully seven feet high. Even if they would serve as
well as cultivated plants, and could be economically gathered from
many widely scattered localities, all the wild nettles growing in our
waste places and old churchyards would be a bagatelle in the sense of
furnishing material for many large spinning-mills.

Whatever sanguine people may think, other things besides skilful
cultivation and an easy process of preparing the fibre will determine
whether nettle crops will be profitable; or, to put the matter in
another way, whether a great industry is likely to be established by
the manufacture of nettle-cloth. There is no difficulty in cultivating
or in dressing flax, nor any lack of demand for it; yet shrewd Scotch
farmers have found out that other crops are more profitable, and
therefore the blue-blossomed flax fields which many of us saw in our
boyhood in Central Fife and the Lowlands of Scotland have entirely
disappeared. If nettle-cloth is ever to be anything but a curiosity, it
will require to have attractions in quality and price which will enable
it to compete with other textiles. During the American civil war, the
jute-mills of Dundee were turning out many thousands of yards of cheap
but serviceable fabrics to be used instead of calico, because the cost
of the latter had gone up a little. For some of the purposes to which
it was applied, the jute did as well as the cotton. But the war having
ended, calico of a certain ‘make’ and quality became once more a trifle
cheaper than its rival, and so jute was quickly beaten out of the field
again. This is an example of the kind of battle which any fibre new to
commerce will have to fight, unless it possesses some property of quite
exceptional value.

To many persons, it seems a pity that we cannot utilise a plant which
yields something useful. But the nettle is by no means the most
striking example of a native plant which might be and yet is not used
in the arts. One or two species of fern, such as the common bracken,
are greatly more abundant in this country than the nettle—whole
hillsides in many districts being covered with them. Yet although a
very serviceable paper can be made from ferns, paper manufacturers
prefer to send to the shores of the Mediterranean for a species of
wild grass to supply their mills. For several years past, an ingenious
Glasgow chemist has been trying to make a marketable gum or jelly from
the common seaweed, thrown up in great abundance on the western coasts
of Scotland. We hope he may succeed; but meanwhile we are sending
elsewhere for what we require of seaweed jelly—even to far Japan. The
peat-mosses of Ireland—and of Scotland too, for that matter—would
furnish an endless number of beautiful paraffin candles, if some great
Company with limited liability would only take the business up—and make
the candles at a trifling loss per pound.

Some of our readers will probably suppose that we have given them a
too humble estimate of the value of the common nettle as a textile
material. There is no denying the fact that the tenacity of its
cortical fibres is scarcely if at all inferior to those of flax or
hemp. But how to grow, spin, and weave them into a saleable cloth, is
a problem which has not yet been solved. Just now, there is a partial
revival of what may be almost called the ancient art of manufacturing
hand-made paper for printed books. In these days, too, many of the
fair sex have apparently discovered that embroidery when worked by
hand is really more interesting and beautiful than when it is done by
a machine, supposing that in both cases the design is of nearly equal
merit. It seems also to be dawning on many persons that earthenware
dishes painted by the fingers have, even when a little dauby, a kind of
attraction about them not possessed by those which have their patterns
printed from an engraved copper-plate, and are therefore all rigidly
alike. Possibly, ‘fashion’ may carry matters a little farther in this
direction, and revive the use of textile fabrics spun by the distaff
and spindle, and woven on handlooms. But by the help of machinery,
the labour of one woman can nowadays make clothing for more than a
thousand others. A hundred years ago, nearly every woman had to spin
the material required for the clothing of her family; but at that same
time, or at least not long before it, those in the upper ranks had
a knowledge of many useful and ingenious arts which they no longer
possess. If it were possible but in part to resuscitate the state of
matters which obtained in these old days, before spinning-jennies, or
powerlooms, or lace-making machines were dreamed of, there would be
fully more hope than there is of people keeping themselves warm by an
external application of the stinging nettle, in a less heroic way than
we are told the Romans did of old.

Nettle-cloth is undoubtedly an excellent fabric, but—Will it pay the
manufacturer? The answer to this is, Not yet.




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER XVI.—LIGHT HEARTS AND SAD.

The buzz of conversation continued as the party descended the broad
staircase.

‘Rather bad of Phil to keep us waiting all this time,’ said Coutts as
he gave Madge his arm.

‘Perhaps he could not help it,’ she suggested.

‘Ah, perhaps not. But you see Wrentham hasn’t turned up yet either, and
I daresay they have been lunching together,’ rejoined Coutts with a
smile, which was to her a very unpleasant one.

They had only taken their places at table, when Philip and Wrentham
quietly entered. There was an agreeable murmur of satisfaction at the
arrival of the gentleman in whose honour they had met, and his greeting
was as cordial as if nobody were hungry on his account.

No one except Madge appeared to observe the singular alteration in
his appearance. He was pale, his eyes seemed heavy like those of one
wakening from sleep, and the smile with which he responded to the
welcome of his friends was forced—his expression altogether unlike
what she had expected it to be. His walk, too, was that of one who was
carefully measuring each step. For an instant, the ugly suggestion of
his brother, that he had been taking too much wine at lunch, occurred
to her.

He took his seat by her side; dinner proceeded. Presently general
conversation was resumed, and the cause of the temporary delay of the
banquet appeared to be forgotten.

But to Madge the brilliant light of the room and the merriment around
them only made that pale-faced man beside her the more unlike Philip.

‘I am sorry I could not get here sooner,’ he said in an undertone, and
his voice sounded unusually feeble.

‘What is the matter, Philip? Why are you so pale?’

‘You cannot expect me to be taking leave of all my friends without
feeling queer,’ he answered with an attempt to smile.

‘That is not it—you are ill.’

‘I am—a little; and don’t bother about it just now. I’ll tell you how
it happened, by-and-by.’

‘How what happened?’

‘I have hurt myself. There now; don’t be alarmed—it is nothing. You
see I am here; and I don’t want to spoil the evening by letting our
friends know it. Look at the girls; they would go into fits if things
didn’t come off just as they planned them.’

‘How did you do it?’ she asked calmly.

‘That mare Wrentham bought from Uncle Dick tumbled over me; that’s all.
I’ll be as well as ever, when I’ve had a little rest.’

‘Have you seen a doctor?’

‘Not yet. The fact is, I was taking a nap at Wrentham’s, to brace me up
for the evening.’

‘You mean that you were insensible?’

‘Perhaps that was it. But don’t think about it. Have some wine?’

When the ladies were retiring, Philip opened the door for them; but
that was the last effort his strength allowed him to make. He felt
giddy and faint.

‘Help me up-stairs,’ was all he could say to Dr Joy, who was at his
side.

Edwin Joy was a little dark man, but he was sinewy and active. He
wheeled Philip round so that he placed him easily in a chair near the
table.

‘Don’t stir, anybody,’ he said quickly to the astounded guests.

‘Drink this,’ he said to Philip, holding a glass to his lips....
‘Better?’

Philip nodded.

‘Take a little more. I have been watching you, and knew there was
something wrong. What have you been doing?’

All this was uttered rapidly, but in a low and cheery tone, not to
alarm the hearers.

‘Riding. The mare was fresh and skittish. The man warned me that she
had been at high feeding for some days, and getting little to do. But
I knew the mare, and thought I could manage her. She tried to throw
me—then stood bolt upright—lost balance, and fell back over me.’

‘Ah! Feet and legs all right. Where were you hurt?’

‘I don’t know. I was slipping off; but there is a queer sensation here.’

The little doctor passed his hands rapidly over the side to which
Philip pointed, and beckoned to Dr Guy.

The guests had obeyed the doctor’s injunction not to leave their seats.
His words acted like a charm in a fairy tale, and they were suddenly
spell-bound in the position they occupied when it was spoken. They
looked in dumb astonishment at the principal actors in this unexpected
scene. The spell was broken by Dr Guy rising from his seat.

‘What mare was it?’ asked Crawshay, turning sharply to Wrentham.

‘The one I had from you.’

‘And you were giving her high feed and nothing to do!... Humph! I used
to think you knew something about horses.’

The yeoman rose with an expression of contempt and advanced to Philip.

‘What’s the matter, lad? Art sore hurt? It went against the grain to
part with that mare; and I fervently wish she had eaten her head off
at Willowmere, rather than she should have done this. I wouldn’t have
parted with her, neither, only I thought she was going into safe hands.’

‘Get him into bed,’ said Dr Guy decisively.

‘For any sake, don’t spoil the fun to-night,’ said Philip feebly. ‘My
father will make some excuse for me. I fancied I could hold out for a
little longer; but it’s no use.’

‘Do not trouble yourself about that, Philip,’ said Mr Hadleigh. ‘Our
friends here will say nothing to-night, and the young people shall
enjoy themselves as if nothing had happened.’

‘Thanks. Maybe I shall be able to come down before the fun is all over.’

Supported by Uncle Dick and Dr Guy, and followed by Dr Joy, Philip
proceeded to his bedroom.

‘This is most unfortunate,’ muttered Wrentham, looking much distressed.
‘I had no idea the brute would play such a trick.’

Mr Hadleigh apparently paid no attention to this. Taking his place at
the table, he spoke quietly:

‘You all heard what my son said, and I need not ask you to aid me in
carrying out his wish.—Pass the wine, Mr Crowell.’

       *       *       *       *       *

And so the crowd of young people who had been invited to the ‘little
dance’ had no hint of the accident to mar their pleasure. Outside, the
brilliant light shining through the canvas of the marquee contended
for precedence with the ruddy harvest-moon. Inside, the place was
like an illuminated hall of flowers and plants. Sam Culver and Pansy
with assistants had been at work for two days here. The dresses, the
wreaths, the feathers, the jewels of the girls and matrons, with their
faces brightened by the excitement of the moment, formed a living
kaleidoscope, as they moved and mingled in the dance or promenade. The
strains of the band were heard in the village; and little groups of
village lads and maidens hung around the gates of Ringsford to listen
to the music.

‘I suppose I must be Phil’s deputy for a time here as well as in the
house,’ said Coutts in his suavest manner to Madge. ‘I hope you don’t
mind very much?’

‘I do mind a great deal,’ she answered with a frankness which would
have been rude in any one else, and yet in her appeared to be the
kindliest answer to his question. ‘But I suppose I must go through the
first quadrille.’

And reluctantly she did so. When it was over, and Coutts would fain
have retained his position as deputy, she said:

‘Will you take me to Mr Hadleigh, please? He is there speaking to the
vicar, near the entrance.’

Mr Hadleigh advanced to meet them, and she, relinquishing the arm of
Coutts, took that of his father.

‘She requires taming. Poor Phil,’ was the reflection of the
practical-minded Coutts, as he turned away to bestow his attentions on
beauties who would appreciate them more.

Mr Hadleigh understood why she desired to speak to him, and they went
outside, walking slowly across the lawn towards the house.

‘There is no great danger,’ he assured her at once; ‘but he will
probably be a prisoner for a few weeks. At present his chief idea is
that we should say nothing about it.’

‘I should like to see him—if the doctors will allow me,’ she said after
a brief pause, her head bowed as if she were studying the long shadows
on the grass.

‘We can ask them.... Are you sorry that he will not be able to go with
the _Hertford Castle_?’

‘How can I be otherwise?’

He did not speak for a few seconds—Then:

‘You sometimes puzzle me very much, Miss Heathcote.’

‘Why?’ she asked, looking up, and the moon shone full on her face. His
was in darkness.

‘You seem to wish him to go away.’

‘I have already explained,’ she answered with a degree of constraint.

‘Yes, I understand,’ he said dreamily. ‘Mine is a selfish way of
considering the matter. I grudge every moment that what I—prize most,
is out of sight. I suppose it is because we feel how short the time is
we can possess our treasures, that in growing old we grow selfish.’

‘But you are not an old man, Mr Hadleigh.’ She was trying to find
something gentle to say.

He shook his head.

‘I know men who are nearly twice my age in years and yet are boys
compared with me. I feel very old just now.’

‘But you know his absence will not be long.’

‘True—his absence will not be long.... Here is Dr Guy.—Well, doctor,
what news do you bring us now?’

They had entered through the conservatory, and encountered the doctor
on the way to seek his host.

‘He has had a rest, and there is not much harm done. But it was foolish
of him not to lie up at once and send for us.’

‘Miss Heathcote would like to see him.’

‘Well, it won’t do him any harm for her to see him—especially as it is
his wish that she should; but he ought to be kept as quiet as possible.
I have been sent for; but Joy will stay as long as may be necessary.’

Mr Hadleigh himself took Madge to the door of Philip’s room, and it was
opened by Mrs Picton, the housekeeper.

‘That’s her now,’ said Philip. He was lying on his right side on the
bed, his back towards the door.—‘Now, doctor, give us the ten minutes
you promised.’

‘I trust to you, Miss Heathcote,’ said Dr Joy, ‘not to allow him to
move from his present position until I return; and not to let him speak
too much.’

She bowed. The doctor and Mrs Picton left the room.

‘Isn’t this a nuisance, Madge?’ began Philip, by an effort refraining
from turning round to look at her. ‘It upsets everything.’

‘But there is no danger, Philip,’ she answered, laying her hand
soothingly on his head.

‘That’s just it—if it had been a real knock-up, one could have said,
“There’s no help for it,” and settled down to enjoy a month or two in
bed. But with a mere scratch like this, which only threatens to be
troublesome if you don’t behave yourself, it’s—well, it’s irritating.’

‘What was it you wanted to say to me, Philip? You know, we have only a
few minutes, and you heard what the doctor said to me.’

‘O yes, of course.... Are they having a good time out there?... I can
hear the music—there, they are at the Lancers now—and it makes my feet
go in spite of me. I did hope to have such a jolly time with you,
Madge. I had put my name down for nearly every dance in the programme.’

‘I am afraid we should both have been rather tired,’ she said, smiling,
glad to find him in such good spirits.

‘The next dance is a waltz.—Ah!’

He had moved his arm incautiously, and a sharp pang reminded him of his
condition. With that little cry he had uttered, Madge felt the pang too.

‘I am going away now,’ she said, trying to speak firmly; ‘I am only
doing you harm by staying.’

‘No, no; don’t go, Madge—the touch of your hand has done me more good
than all their bandages. I will be quiet. There is something very
particular you have to do for me. (What a capital band they have got.)’

‘If you speak again about anything except what you want me to do, I
shall leave the room.’

That quieted him, and he kept still for a little.

‘I want you to write to Uncle Shield,’ he said at length tranquilly.
‘If you write to-morrow, it will be in time for the next mail.’

‘What am I to say to him?’

‘Say that I have attended to all his instructions, and have everything
ready to start in the _Hertford Castle_ on the sixth, and that I still
hope to do so.’

‘Oh, that isn’t possible, Philip.’

‘We’ll see. Tell him next about this accident, which the doctors say
will prevent me from getting on to my feet for some weeks. I hope to
prove they are wrong; but send him this warning through you, so that he
may not be disappointed.’

‘Would it not be better that your father or your brother should send
this message?’

‘Not at all. He would not open a letter from either of them, as he
has warned me; and they would not write one, as I know. I hope to set
that old misunderstanding between my father and him right some day.
Meanwhile, I very much want you to do this for me.’

‘As you please, Philip.’

‘Thanks, Madge, thanks. Then tell him particularly that Wrentham’s
affairs are all right.... He’s a good fellow, Wrentham. You remember,
I did not like him at first; since I have come to know him better, I
have altered my opinion. He is a real good fellow, and made everything
in this troublesome business quite smooth and easy for me. Only I wish
he hadn’t asked me to try that mare to-day, or that I hadn’t been so
unlucky as to agree to do it.’

‘Uncle is very angry about it. He says the mare has been shamefully
treated, for she had no vice at all when she left him, and he intends
to buy her back.’

‘I hope he won’t.... Now let me see; was there anything else? No; I
have told you all that I want to say. You will find an envelope with
his full address on the table over there.’

As she was getting the envelope, there was a tap at the door.

‘That’s the doctor, I suppose,’ muttered Philip disappointedly. ‘Why,
you can’t have been five minutes here. You won’t be worrying yourself
about this, Madge. I’ll be all right in a few days.’

‘Don’t speak any more,’ she said, bending over and touching his
somewhat feverish brow with her lips. ‘I shall be here to-morrow. We
are going home now. Good-night.’

Dr Joy was at the door, waiting to enter.

‘Will you look at him, doctor, and tell me how he is before I go?’
said Madge softly. The doctor went in, and after feeling his patient’s
pulse, returned.

‘He has been a little excited. Don’t leave for half an hour, and I will
send a message to you.’

In half an hour Mrs Picton brought her the message: Philip was sleeping.




SOME PARLIAMENTARY MAIDEN SPEECHES.


There have probably been very few members of parliament who have risen
in their place for the first time without an unpleasant nervous tremor.
Even if a parliamentary neophyte be not, as the familiar phrase has it,
‘unaccustomed to public speaking,’ he has certainly been unaccustomed
to such an audience; and to hear himself called upon by the Speaker
to address the first legislative assembly in the world, is an ordeal
which is none the less trying because it has been voluntarily courted.
Seeing that in past times so large a number of those returned to
parliament have been comparatively unpractised speakers, the fact that
absolute break-downs in maiden speeches are rare must be attributed
to the sympathetic encouragement which the House always accords to
the new member. Audiences at St Stephen’s are fastidious, but they
are also kindly; the maiden speech which is a notorious failure is
generally made such by over-confident fluency rather than by nervous
hesitation; and, to mention one example only, Lord Beaconsfield’s early
_fiasco_, the story of which has been told a hundred times, was not due
to nervous timidity, but to the ambition of a young and clever man,
conscious of power, to achieve a parliamentary reputation by a single
_coup_.

There are, of course, a few early failures on record which cannot be
thus accounted for. The maiden speech of Sheridan, who was destined
to become one of the greatest of British orators, was not exactly
a break-down, but its escape from being such was very narrow. In
Sheridan’s case, the audience was more than usually sympathetic, for
his literary reputation had excited curiosity and interest; but his
indistinctness of utterance and hesitancy of manner impressed his
hearers with the belief that, great as were his mental powers, he had
not the physical qualifications for effective speech, and that—to quote
the words of one verdict—‘nature never intended him for an orator.’
Woodfall, the celebrated parliamentary reporter, was fond of telling
how, at the conclusion of his speech, Sheridan came up to him, and
asked with evident anxiety what he thought of his first attempt.
Woodfall’s reply was: ‘I am sorry to say I do not think this is your
line; you had much better have stuck to your former pursuits.’ This
was discouraging; but Sheridan was not easily discouraged; and his
subsequent career justified the confident boldness of his reply to the
depreciatory estimate: ‘It is in me, however, and it shall come out!’

The failure of another distinguished man of letters, Joseph Addison,
was much more complete. He sat for Malmesbury, in the House of Commons
which was elected in 1708, and rose once to make a speech; but his
diffidence completely silenced him, and he never made a second attempt.
In the Irish parliament, where Lord Wharton’s influence procured him a
seat for the borough of Cavan, he made another failure, the story of
which is told by Mr O’Flanagan, whom we quote at second-hand from Mr G.
H. Jenning’s _Anecdotal History of the British Parliament_, a capital
compilation, to which we acknowledge a general indebtedness. ‘On a
motion before the House,’ writes Mr O’Flanagan, ‘Addison rose, and
having said, “Mr Speaker, I conceive,” paused, as if frightened by the
sound of his own voice. He again commenced, “I conceive, Mr Speaker,”
when he stopped, until roused by cries of “Hear, hear,” when he once
more essayed with, “Sir, I conceive.” Power of further utterance was
denied, so he sat down amidst the scarcely suppressed laughter of his
brother-members.’

The name of Addison recalls that of Steele; and one of the most
interesting incidents in Steele’s first brief parliamentary career was
the maiden speech of his young friend Lord Finch, which began as a
break-down, and ended as a success. In Queen Anne’s time, shortly after
Steele’s election for Stockbridge, a motion was made to expel him from
parliament, on the ground that in one of his periodical publications
he had ‘maliciously insinuated that the Protestant succession in the
House of Hanover was in danger under Her Majesty’s administration.’
It so happened that very shortly before this time a libel directed
against Lord Finch’s sister had been scathingly denounced and exposed
in Steele’s paper the _Guardian_; and the young nobleman felt that he
could not be silent when Steele in his turn was attacked. He leaped
to his feet, determined to do his best; but though his heart was in
the right place, he found it very difficult to get his words there,
and after managing to get out a few confused sentences, he sat down,
utterly discomfited. The failure would have been unredeemed, had it not
been that as he resumed his seat he exclaimed: ‘It is strange I cannot
speak for this man, when I would readily fight for him.’ The words were
heard all over the House; and Lord Finch’s audience, though hostile to
Steele, was one which could be trusted to respond at once, the moment
an appeal was made to its chivalrous instincts. From both sides of the
House came a spontaneous burst of cheering, which so encouraged the
young speaker, that he rose again to his feet; and this time made a
telling and eloquent speech, which was the beginning of a successful
parliamentary career.

Many years before the occurrence of this incident, another failure
had been turned into a success by a happy thought on the part of
the speaker himself, which proved that his break-down could hardly
be attributed to want of presence of mind. During the latter part
of the seventeenth century, a young man, who was afterwards to
become celebrated as third Earl of Shaftesbury, and author of
_Characteristics_, sat in the House of Commons as Lord Ashley. A bill
was introduced to grant the services of counsel to prisoners tried
for high-treason; and though the proposal was based on the commonest
principles of justice, it found many and bitter opponents. Lord Ashley,
however, was among its warmest supporters, and rose to argue in its
defence; but, unfortunately, after saying a few words, he found himself
unable to proceed. A little time was given him to collect his thoughts;
but at last the patience of his hearers was exhausted, and they called
loudly upon him to go on, when, looking at the Speaker, he said: ‘If,
sir, I, who rise only to give my opinion on the bill now depending,
am so confounded that I am unable to express the least of what I
proposed to say, what must the condition of that man be who, without
any assistance, is pleading for his life, and is apprehensive of being
deprived of it?’ It may safely be said that the most elaborately
prepared and eloquently delivered oration could hardly have been more
rhetorically effective than this happily extemporised argument.

A record of oratorical triumphs is less entertaining than a record of
failures; but the stories of one or two maiden speeches which owed
their success to simple assurance are amusing enough. Modesty and
timidity have not been characteristics of _all_ the members who have
ever sat in parliament. They do not, for example, seem to have been
very prominent in Mr Lechmere, afterwards Lord Lechmere, who, on his
election for Appleby, turned round to address the House immediately
after having taken the oath, and before he had gone through the
formality of taking his seat. Mr Cowper, made Lord Chancellor in 1707,
was not quite so precipitate, but much more copious in his rhetorical
outpourings, for he spoke three times during his first evening in the
House; and even he was excelled by the notorious ‘Orator Hunt,’ who on
a similar occasion gave his fellow-members no fewer than six samples
of his peculiar eloquence. The hero of one of the amusing stories just
referred to was the well-known Thomas Slingsby—generally shortened to
Tom—Duncombe. The speech itself was an extraordinary affair, being
an all-round attack upon various prominent statesmen, delivered in
a manner which may be described as fascinatingly impudent; but the
funniest thing about it was the story of its production, which has been
told by Mr Greville. ‘The history of Tom Duncombe and his speech,’ says
this collector of gossip, ‘is instructive as well as amusing. Tommy
came to Henry de Ros, and told him that his constituents at Hertford
were very anxious that he should make a speech, but that he did not
know what to say, and begged Henry to provide him with the necessary
materials. He advised him to strike out something new; and having
received his assurance that he should be able to recollect anything
that he had learned by heart, and that he was not afraid of his courage
failing, Henry composed for him the speech which Duncombe delivered.’
What it was in this story which Mr Greville found instructive, is not
so clear; but its amusing quality may be readily conceded.

Teetotalers have so many good anecdotes, that those who take the other
side in the great alcoholic controversy have doubtless made the most
of a tremendous maiden speech which was delivered in the House of
Lords in the year 1678 by the Lord Carnarvon of that period, and which
was said to have been inspired entirely by claret. Lord Carnarvon had
been dining, not wisely but too well, with the Duke of Buckingham;
and the Duke, seeing his condition, induced him, by combination of
raillery and flattery, to pledge himself to address his brother peers
that night upon any subject they happened to be discussing. The
Duke of course regarded the thing as a capital practical joke, and
doubtless anticipated immense enjoyment from the flounderings of a
half-intoxicated man, who had never spoken before, and who was not
supposed to have any oratorical gifts even when sober. The debate was
on the impeachment of the Earl of Danby, then Lord Treasurer; and as
soon as an opening occurred, up rose Lord Carnarvon. ‘My lords,’ he
said, ‘I understand but little of Latin, but a good deal of English,
and not a little of English history; from which I have learned the
mischiefs of such kind of prosecutions as these, and the ill fate of
the prosecutors. I could bring many instances, and those very, ancient;
but, my lords, I shall go no farther back than the latter end of Queen
Elizabeth’s reign, at which time the Earl of Essex was run down by Sir
Walter Raleigh; and your lordships very well know what became of Sir
Walter Raleigh. My Lord Bacon, he ran down Sir Walter Raleigh; and your
lordships know what became of my Lord Bacon. The Duke of Buckingham, he
ran down my Lord Bacon; and your lordships know what happened to the
Duke of Buckingham. Sir Thomas Wentworth, afterwards Earl of Strafford,
ran down the Duke of Buckingham; and you all know what became of him.
Sir Harry Vane, he ran down the Earl of Strafford; and your lordships
know what became of Sir Harry Vane. Chancellor Hyde, he ran down Sir
Harry Vane; and your lordships know what became of the Chancellor. Sir
Thomas Osbourn, now Earl of Danby, ran down Chancellor Hyde; but what
will become of the Earl of Danby, your lordships best can tell. But let
me see the man that dare run the Earl of Danby down, and we shall soon
see what shall become of him.’ The assembled peers must have felt as
if they were being swept from their feet by an historical avalanche,
riddled by a fusilade of facts; and the Duke of Buckingham could only
exclaim: ‘The claret has done the business!’ And indeed it looks like
it, for Lord Carnarvon never had another such success.

Of course, maiden speeches which are in any way memorable either for
their matter or their manner, the greatness of their success or the
completeness of their failure, are comparatively rare. As a rule,
the first speech of any member in either House resembles closely all
his succeeding speeches; it may lack the force and fluency given
by practice, but in its general characteristics there is nothing
exceptional. The able man shows at least something of his ability;
the dull man lets his hearers into the secret of his dullness. When
Cobbett, the very first night he sat in the House, began his maiden
speech with the words, ‘It appears to me that since I have been sitting
here I have heard a great deal of vain and unprofitable conversation,’
his fellow-members probably thought that here was a unique display of
self-sufficient assurance; but when Cobbett had delivered his second
speech, the first was unique no longer, and when he had spoken half a
dozen times, it had come to be regarded as comparatively mild. Brougham
and Canning, who both became parliamentary speakers of the first rank,
may perhaps, with Sheridan and Disraeli, be considered as exceptions to
the general rule just given, for their maiden speeches were described
as failures; but in their cases, all that probably was meant by the
word failure was that they did not fulfil the expectations which had
been formed. None of Lord Palmerston’s early speeches seem to have had
the brilliance of his later utterances; but that he made a favourable
impression at starting is proved by the fact that Mr Perceval offered
him the Chancellorship of the Exchequer when he had only spoken once
in the House; while Earl Grey, Lord Castlereagh, Lord Macaulay, and
the late Lord Derby, who began their political careers in the House
of Commons, delivered maiden speeches which immediately gave them a
reputation.

During the last half-century, there has been such a change in the
conditions of public life, that no maiden speech can excite the same
curiosity as of old. One result of the lowering of the franchise has
been to diminish the chances of any parliamentary candidate who has not
some measure of ease and ability in speaking; and public meetings of
all kinds are so numerous, that the quality and amount of oratorical
talent possessed by every prominent man become well known long before
he has a chance of displaying it upon the floor of the House of
Commons. This change is not one to be regretted on the whole; but of
course parliamentary life has lost one element of interest which it
possessed in the days when a maiden speech might be looked forward to
as a revelation of all kinds of unsuspected possibilities.




THE MINER’S PARTNER.


IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.

On a morning only a couple of days after the opening of our story,
the sun had not yet risen high enough to strike the plains, which
stretched as far as the eye could reach; but the mountains were all
bright with his rays, from their peaks down almost to the ‘foothills,’
which, tolerable eminences in themselves, projected like so many capes
out on the level ground, when a man came to the opening of a tent and
looked out. Although he gazed across the rugged intervening ground and
out upon the plain, and although sunrise in Colorado is worth seeing
from a position of vantage, yet it was evident that it was from no
appreciation of the scenery that the man stood there. From the spot,
an irregular line of tents and huts—or ‘shanties’—led to the centre
of Flume City; while the trenches cut in all directions, and the odd
implements and vessels lying about, gave ample evidence that this was a
mining camp, or town.

The man was dressed in buckskin—as were many others, who by this time
began to show themselves—was tall and dark; of an eager, not to say
cunning aspect; while from beneath his shapeless hat, his long hair
hung straight and untidy. This description might serve for nine-tenths
of the denizens of the camp, whether of high or low degree; but there
was something in the aspect of this miner which would have prevented
any expert from classing him with the lowest and coarsest of his
calling. He was evidently deep in thought, and his meditation found
support in a fashion very common in the United States—he drew a cake of
tobacco from his pocket, and bit off a corner, as though it had been a
biscuit; then, chewing vigorously, he remained with his absorbed gaze
apparently fixed on the distant plains.

Presently the canvas of the tent was pushed aside, and another man came
out. This second man was somewhat shorter than the first, although
yet a tolerably tall man. He was fairer, as could be seen in spite of
his sunburnt and weather-beaten countenance. His beard was brown, and
was longer and fuller than the first comer’s; and he was altogether
of a thicker, stronger build. These brief descriptions will serve to
introduce the two partners Rube Steele and Ben, whose jarring took up
so much time at the miners’ convention two or three nights before, and
whose relation to the whole camp had grown to be of the most unfriendly
character.

‘How long have you been cooling yourself here?’ asked the second man,
who was of course Ben; ‘and why did you not wake me up?’

‘Reckon I have not been here six minutes,’ replied the other, taking
no notice of the second query. ‘I expect we had better see now about
fixing the breakfast.’

‘You might have done something, instead of loafing around,’ muttered
Ben, who was clearly in no pleasant mood, although his features bespoke
him a frank, good-tempered fellow enough. ‘Here! I will light the fire.’

In a few minutes the fire was blazing, the kettle on, and the men, who
had scarcely interchanged another word, were seated, waiting for the
water to boil.

‘Now, Rube,’ suddenly exclaimed Ben, ‘you know this is my last day
here; I mean clearing out; so this is our time to have a settlement. If
we don’t fix things straight now, we shall not fix them at all.’

‘They air fixed, ain’t they?’ retorted Rube. ‘You have done
considerable as you please; so, if you don’t like the position, I can’t
help it.’

‘You shift too much in your argyment, you do,’ continued Ben. ‘But say
now, right away, do you mean to pay me those fifteen hundred dollars or
not?’

‘You air unreasonable altogether,’ returned Rube. ‘Why should I pay
fifteen hundred dollars, because a man who robbed us both has gone off
with twice as much?’

‘Don’t tell me about robbing us both—you can’t fool me like that!’
angrily exclaimed the other. ‘I never would trust the man with dust—you
knew it—although he was your friend, and you could not say enough in
his favour. It was through you he hung around here; and even if you did
not get your half from him, with a big profit, you are bound in honour
to pay me my share.’

Rube’s eyes assumed for a moment a very ugly and dangerous look, as
his comrade spoke. ‘Seems to me, pardner Ben,’ he said, ‘that you are
gone wrong altogether in this connection. Two or three citizens saw the
order, and thought it was in your writing; so did I. Then where does
the blame come in? Fix it how you like, it was only a mistake, not a
fault. And as to my having shared the plunder with this stranger’——

‘I can’t say you did for certain, of course,’ interrupted Ben. ‘But you
have been out of camp till midnight ever since, and where have you been
all the time? Anyhow, I am fifteen hundred dollars short; that is a
sure thing, and I want it made up. And what do you mean to do about it?’

The altercation seemed likely to grow into a violent quarrel; but
one or two miners from the neighbouring huts came in on matters of
business, and the dispute died out, leaving, however, to judge from
the countenances of the principals, no great amount of good-will on
either side. It was evident from the conversation of these visitors,
that as Ben was about to leave the camp, and as the partnership which
had existed between himself and Rube would of necessity cease, they
had resolved to sell their equipment of tools, mining ‘fixings,’ and
tent furniture, all of which were known to be very complete. This was
what drew the miners to the tent; and among the visitors, there was a
general understanding that the partners were not separating on good
terms; indeed, most of those who came showed, by their addressing
themselves almost exclusively to one or the other, a partisanship
in the matter. Various bargains were struck by either partner; but
whatever was done by Ben invariably produced unfavourable comment from
Rube; while Ben did not attempt to conceal his dislike of nearly all
transactions managed by his partner.

So the day wore on, with no increase of good-will in the tent; and
the interchange of conversation grew less and less, while it became
more irritating in its tone. Had the men remained together all day, a
quarrel must certainly have arisen; but this was not the case, one or
other being absent from the tent for the greater part of the time.

It was while Rube was absent towards the close of the afternoon, that
a miner drew near to the tent, and from the repeated glances he threw
around him, and the deliberate manner in which he approached, he seemed
to be on his guard against some danger. At last, when he was very close
to the tent, Ben came to the opening, and being busied in arranging
some of the household gear which he was removing from the interior,
would not have noticed this new-comer, but that the latter, in a lower
voice than appeared to be requisite, exclaimed: ‘Ben! hist! Are you
alone, Ben?’

Ben looked up, and apparently recognised the man, for he smiled as he
replied: ‘Yes, Absalom, I am alone; and quite at your service, if you
want me upon any business.’

The stranger was a little spare man, with a sufficiently comical cast
of features; yet he did not respond to Ben’s smile, but with a very
grave face, came closer.

‘Why, Absalom!’ exclaimed Ben with a grin of amusement spreading over
his face, as he noticed the little man’s gravity, ‘what is the matter
now? Been playing at “monté” again, I suppose?’

This allusion to the gambling weakness which was known to be a feature
in poor Absalom’s character, also failed to diminish the serious cast
of the little man’s countenance.

‘Let us go into the tent and talk,’ said the stranger, still without
any responsive smile on his lips; and as, with the freedom of
camp-life, he led the way, Ben followed him, wondering and smiling
still at Absalom’s important air.

‘Now, then, Ab,’ he continued, ‘what is it? Let us have your news
first; then we will take a drink.’

‘Do you know that Bill Dobell is in camp?’ asked Absalom, putting more
mystery and importance into his manner than before.

‘No; I guess I did not know it,’ replied Ben. ‘If so, he had better
clear out soon; or before I go, I will leave a message which will send
a dozen of the boys after him, and will teach him that the Vigilantes
are not dead yet.’

‘It will be too late,’ said the other.—‘Now tell me, Ben, has not
Indian Peter offered to buy the mules and wagon that you have in
Fandango Gulch? And are you not to meet him there at sundown to settle
the trade?’

‘Certainly,’ replied Ben, still wondering, but with much less
disposition to smile. The little man’s earnestness had impressed him,
and he, moreover, began to regard the conjunction of names as ominous.

‘Well, then, Ben,’ continued Absalom, glancing nervously around him
and dropping his voice to a whisper, ‘it is all a planned thing with
Rube, your pardner, and these other two. You will go to Fandango Gulch;
but you will never leave it alive! Bill Dobell is to have five hundred
dollars in gold-dust for shooting you; and Indian Peter is to have
something for trapping you down there.’

‘And Rube?’ asked Ben, in a voice which told how far he was from
doubting this strange story.

‘Wal, Rube of course is to be the paymaster. He says you have a sight
of plunder in—in those two valises,’ said Absalom, pointing to a couple
of old but strong travelling-bags in a corner of the tent. ‘You know
best if he is right.’

‘How do you know all this?’ demanded Ben sternly.

‘I have been having drinks with the boys at Rattlesnake Claim,’
returned Absalom, ‘and so have not gone to my own shanty lately. You
know that is a long way outside the city. Two nights ago, I slept at
Big Donald’s. Last night, I felt real bad, and so I got into Indian
Peter’s shanty. I thought he had left the camp for a day or two, so I
crept under some buffalo robes to have my sleep. I was woke by some men
talking, and I was about to crawl out, when I recognised Bill Dobell’s
voice; and you know he has threatened to shoot me at sight, for telling
how he broke the stamp-mill. So I lay low, and heard Rube settle with
them other two. Of course I made up my mind to tell you, and have been
hanging around here all day to get a chance of seeing you by yourself.
And it is my belief, Ben, that Rube met Californy Jones on the night
that scallawag went off with your gold-dust.’

‘I feel considerable certain he did,’ returned Ben; ‘and I have told
Rube as much.’

‘I saw Rube meet a man at the Big Loaf Rock, in the cañon,’ continued
Absalom. ‘I knew the man somewhere, but could not remember him at the
time, and I only saw his back. He had a dog with him too, which was
a good deal on the growl, so I daren’t go nigh.’ And here Absalom
detailed the adventure with which the reader has been made acquainted.

‘Bill Dobell in camp! Rube in league with him and Indian Peter! and
Californy Jones hanging about the cañon!’ exclaimed Ben. ‘Then my first
suspicion was right, and Rube _did_ send some men into the cañon to
shoot me! I thought he was a long time getting his posse together;
and a pretty collection they were! He had plenty of time to send his
desperadoes on first, and they were Dobell and Indian Peter, you bet.’

‘I think it’s very likely,’ returned Absalom; ‘for Rube is a bad man;
and if he ever knows what I have told you to-day, he will mark me.’

‘All right, Absalom. The span of mules and the wagon in Fandango Gulch
are yours; you can fetch them in the morning. I reckon Rube won’t
interfere with you then, said Ben. ‘It is near sundown now; so do you
clear out, and send Van Boldvert from Pennsylvania Claim up here, and
the Englishmen from Happy Jack Gulch. Go quickly.’

The little miner vanished; and Ben waited until the arrival of the men
whom he had summoned, casting many a glance meanwhile in the direction
from which his treacherous partner should appear.

Looking out westward across the plains, the broad red disc of the sun
was seen just touching the horizon, and everything bathed in his last
rays was golden, yet not dazzlingly bright. A peculiar softness and
repose was in the light of the setting orb. It was almost the time
at which he was to keep his appointment; so, when the men arrived,
wondering at the urgent summons delivered, he hastily told them the
gist of the information he had received, and suggested that some steps
should be taken to get rid of Bill Dobell, who was acknowledged to be
the most desperate ruffian of all who infested the mines.

Van Boldvert, who, with all the phlegm and external apathy of the
genuine Pennsylvanian Dutchmen, had their quiet resolution too, said a
few words indicative of the treatment he intended to adopt—a process
which boded no good either to Dobell or his accomplice Indian Peter.

‘And how about Rube?’ said one of the Englishmen from Happy Jack Gulch.
‘What is to be done with him? It seems to me that he is the worst of
the lot; and if there is to be any stringing-up, why, string him up
first, _I_ say.’

‘You sees how it is,’ responded the Dutchman. ‘Rube is de vorst; dere
is not no doubt about dat; but he has had a good character as yet,
and so far as the miners knows, it is his first offence. So ve shall
shust varn him off; and if he comes more closer nor sixty miles to dese
diggings, ve shtrings him up. But dese oders—vell, dey are shust de two
vorse men ve ever had here, and ve settles dem anyhow.’

As it was Ben’s own case, it was thought better that the Vigilantes
should work without him. Had they decided otherwise, not his intended
departure or anything else would have been allowed to stand in the way;
on forfeit of his own life, he must have accompanied them.

The visitors disappeared; and so short a time had the conference
occupied, that the last rays of the sun still brightened the evening
clouds, when Ben saw, from the door of his tent, fourteen or fifteen
men leave the city, and stealthily and in several parties take the
line which he well knew would lead them to Fandango Gulch, where the
treacherous ambush was to have been set for him.

Taking with him the two valises to which Absalom had made so startling
a reference, Ben strode across to a hut, mean-looking enough, but which
was somewhat larger than common, and which was dignified by the words
‘Bank, Post-office, Mail Depôt,’ being inscribed on boards as large as
the front and sides of the building would conveniently hold. Having
deposited his luggage with the clerk, he was about to return to his own
tent, when he muttered: ‘I will have a last look at the old place;’
then turning at once into one of the numerous ravines which ran close
up to the town, he was speedily at the foot of the low hills; and a few
score yards, easily threaded by him, amid the intricacies of trenches,
mounds, and pools, brought him to the scene of his last speculations.

The moon was rising. It is hardly possible to say so much without
adding that it had risen, as the full-moon, of a size and splendour not
seen in northern climates, would rise there completely in five minutes;
while its light, although softer and less penetrating than it would be
when the disc was high in the heavens, was enough to render even the
smallest objects visible.

‘I guess there is a deal more metal in this placer than has ever come
out,’ half-murmured Ben, as he looked at the spot; ‘and I am leaving a
good thing. But it is all for the best. I have realised more dollars
than I shall ever spend, and I am not so young as I was; and some of
the people here are getting a little tired of me. That p’isonous Rube
was the first, maybe; but he would not be the last, if I stayed here,
to try how thick my skin is. And I remember that, more ’n a month ago,
a bullet was sent through my hair by accident. There would be another
such accident soon, I reckon, and as before, no one could guess whose
bullet it might be. Wal, this is the last time I shall take a survey of
this or any other mine. The water is high to-night.’ He turned, as he
spoke, to look at the pool by which he was standing; but as he did so,
he suddenly ceased his speech, and instinctively recoiled.

The pool was a little below where he stood—only some two or three feet;
but a kind of beach or margin lay between him and the water; and as he
turned round, the figure of a man, coming from behind a mound of earth,
which lay on this margin like a small cliff, emerged into the full
moonlight. The start and broken exclamation of Ben were repeated by the
other.

‘Wal, is that Ben?’ exclaimed the voice of Rube. ‘Why, hadn’t you got
to meet Indian Peter at the Gulch, to settle about them mules?’

‘Yes,’ returned Ben briefly; ‘I had.’

‘Ha! you have not been, I estimate,’ continued Rube. ‘Is the trade off?’

‘I have sent some friends to transact my share of the business for me,’
said Ben; and either the ambiguous character of the reply, or its tone,
roused Rube’s suspicions; for he glanced quickly up at the speaker,
with the same cunning, dangerous look which his face had worn earlier
in the day.

‘I see there’s a good many handles and broken tools about here, Ben,’
he said, changing the subject. ‘Before I take another pardner, I shall
have a clearing-up.’

‘I think it’s very likely,’ said Ben drily, and his tone again caused
the quick, dangerous look to come on Rube’s face. The latter had by
this time approached almost to where Ben stood, and he turned to look,
as it seemed, across the pool and out over the deserted diggings,
to the rising moon; but as he did so, with an almost imperceptible
movement he brought his revolver further to the front. To any but a
practised eye, the movement would have been entirely concealed; but Ben
saw it, and knew its meaning.

‘Air you going to Fandango Gulch, Ben?’ asked Rube, turning again to
his ex-partner. ‘I reckon Peter will be considerably riled if you
don’t.’

‘As you say, there’s a sight of useful things lying about here,’
returned Ben, stooping, and looking at some of the broken implements;
‘and I had no idea we had left so much. Indian Peter won’t miss me.’

‘Ain’t you going to meet him, then, and why?’ demanded Rube, with
another sinister glance upward, and another slight hitch forward of his
scabbard—as revolver holsters are usually termed in the west.

‘Because Indian Peter is in the hands of the Vigilantes by this
time, you traitor and hound!’ burst forth Ben, his smothered passion
appearing to overcome him. ‘So is Bill Dobell; and so’——

His sentence was never finished, for both men dashed savagely at each
other at the same moment. Rube, when he heard the words which told him
that his plot was discovered and defeated, with a bitter oath jerked
his pistol from its scabbard, cocked, and fired; but though he did it
almost instantaneously, the hawk-eye of Ben was too quick for him, and
the aim, which must have been deadly, so close were they together, was
balked by a powerful stroke with the handle of a pick, which Ben had
secured under the feint of examining the refuse implements. As Rube
levelled his pistol, Ben dealt him a desperate blow on the back of
the head. The weapon exploded harmlessly in the air; and Rube, with a
single groan, stumbled forward and fell senseless and motionless on his
face.

He lay on the margin or beach described as being between the elevated
ledge and the pool; and there was something in the helpless, inanimate
figure which convinced Ben that his stroke had taken deadly effect.

‘I believe he is dead,’ he said, after a pause, during which he grasped
his club in readiness for another blow. ‘I was sorry I had left my
six-shooter behind, when I saw what he was after; but this has done as
well. Let me make sure.’

He lifted up the prostrate man’s arm; and when he released it, it fell
heavily and clod-like, just as it was dropped. He turned the body half
round and placed his hand over the heart, but could feel no pulsation.

‘The Vigilantes have been saved some trouble, either now or at another
time, anyhow,’ he continued. ‘I hope they have caught Indian Peter
and Bill Dobell, and then the camp has got quit of the three worst
characters in it. I shall say nothing about this before I clear out. I
have so many dollars in my satchels, that a very little would serve as
an excuse to Rube’s friends for lynching me.’

Acting on this determination, he quietly returned to the camp, or
city, where he soon learned that justice had overtaken Bill Dobell and
Indian Peter. In further confirmation, the driver of the mail, as he
drove from the town, some hours later in the night, showed him, as an
object of interest, two figures pendent from the boughs of a solitary
tree some hundred and fifty yards from the roadside, which tree had, it
appeared, often served such a purpose before.

The driver, having come on from a distant station with the coach,
was not so well acquainted with the antecedent particulars of this
demonstration of justice, as was the passenger who sat by his side on
the box; nor did he know the latter’s interest in the matter.

‘I do hear,’ continued the driver, ‘that Rube Steele was looked for to
make a third; but it is calculated he made tracks in time. It is a good
thing to get rid of such desperadoes as Bill Dobell and Indian Peter;
but it’s an awful pity they missed Rube.’

The outside passenger kept his own counsel, being very well satisfied
that his partner’s fate should remain unknown until he had placed at
least a hundred leagues between himself and the mining town.




CONCERNING LOVE.


IN TWO PARTS.—PART I.

Love is a stupendous paradox. You cannot elaborate a theory with
regard to it which shall be at once entirely consistent in itself and
all-comprehensive in its application. You may note its manifestations,
estimate its force, trace its progress, and speculate upon its
potentialities; but how can you hope to reduce to a self-consistent
philosophy its thousand-and-one contrarieties and its endless shades of
diversity—its glowing triumphs, its merry comedies, its sad irrevocable
catastrophes—its sweet reasonableness, its wild infatuation, and its
incomprehensible eccentricities? There is perhaps no subject under
the sun which has been a more constant theme of poets, essayists, and
philosophers; but what is the net result of all that these have told
us? It is a long category of heterogeneous and conflicting dicta or
speculations, comprising, it is true, many sage reflections, accurate
observations, and charming fancies, but, as a whole, presenting rather
the aspect of a kaleidoscopic view than that of an intelligible and
harmonious picture.

Though the praise of love has been more common than its disparagement,
there are not wanting those who have been disposed to treat the
subject with irony and ridicule. It was Laurence Sterne who said that
the expression ‘fall in love’ evidently showed love to be beneath a
man. This was no doubt intended for nothing more than a facetious play
upon the words; but there are numerous writers, both before and after
Sterne, who have ridiculed the votaries of the tender passion and
disparaged the god Cupid. Bacon speaks of love as ‘this weak passion,’
and quotes with approval the remark, that ‘it is impossible to love and
be wise.’ Cervantes satirises the extravagances of the amorous passion
to the top of his bent in the adventures of his mad hero Don Quixote,
in whose fantasy and mock-heroic panegyrics love is a never-absent
theme; indeed, it is an essential element of his madness, for he is
made to declare that ‘the knight-errant that is loveless resembles a
tree that wants leaves and fruit, or a body without a soul.’

Certain of Shakspeare’s creations also join in this detraction, and
the lover and the lunatic are placed in the same category, as—with the
poet—‘of imagination all compact;’ while one of his characters—the fair
Rosalind—declares: ‘Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves
as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.’ The affinity of love
and madness has formed the subject of much learned disquisition, and
the general testimony would seem to show that there must be numerous
instances in which it might be said, adapting Dryden’s couplet on the
subject of ‘great wits:’

    Great love is sure to madness near allied,
    And thin partitions do the bounds divide.

Carlyle remarks that ‘love is not altogether a delirium; yet it has
many points in common therewith.’ From the illustrations that are
constantly set before us, it would appear that the chief point in
common between love and madness or delirium is that in both cases the
victim becomes more or less devoid of the power of self-control, and,
in his or her infatuation, indulges in the most serious or ludicrous
extravagances.

The evidence would seem to indicate that Reason, in the presence
of Love, is obliged to descend from her throne, and pay tribute to
what has become the dominating motive. When Love takes possession,
it subsidises and controls the judgment, tastes, faculties, and
inclinations of the individual, and is not to be argued down, even by
the subject himself, much less by others. In the words of Addison:

    Love is not to be reasoned down, or lost
    In high ambition, or a thirst of greatness;
    ’Tis second life—it grows into the soul,
    Warms every vein, and beats in every pulse.

From whatever point of view we approach this theme, we soon encounter
what is, perhaps, after all, the most prominent and least dubitable
characteristic of love—namely, its far-reaching, all-pervading potency.
Bacon, with all his philosophical acumen, is obviously wrong when he
describes love as a ‘weak passion;’ indeed, the phrase itself is a
contradiction in terms. Voltaire is much more just in his estimate when
he says: ‘Love is the strongest of all the passions, because it attacks
at once the head, the heart, and the body.’

What Bacon evidently intended to refer to was the weakness, not of the
passion, but of the will which could not repel or subdue it. This view
is borne out by the context, which is, that ‘great spirits and great
business do keep out this weak passion.’ This contention, however, is
no more tenable than his characterisation. All the evidence goes to
prove that love is not to be conquered by great spirits, or smothered
by great business, any more than it is to be reasoned down. As the
French proverb says: ‘Close the door in Love’s face, and he will leap
in at the window;’ and the aphorism is equally applicable to mental and
material obstructions. In the same way Shakspeare teaches that ‘stony
limits cannot hold love out;’ that ‘the more thou dam’st it up, the
more it burns;’ and that ‘Love is your master, for he masters you.’

There is, indeed, no aspect of this passion regarding which so great
unanimity prevails as that expressed in those last quotations. It is
Scott who declares that

    He who stems a stream with sand,
    And fetters flame with flaxen band,
    Has yet a harder task to prove,
    By firm resolve to conquer Love.

Southey, who is convinced that ‘love is indestructible,’ goes so far as
to assert that

    They sin who tell us Love can die.

If further evidence of the vitality and power of this passion were
required, an appeal might be made to the language of Hebrew Scripture,
which teaches that ‘Love is strong as death.... Many waters cannot
quench love, neither can floods drown it.’

In view of testimony like this, one might be pardoned for supposing
the point in question satisfactorily established. We shall not,
however, have proceeded far in the consideration of other phases of the
subject, before we shall come upon views which it is by no means easy
to reconcile with the above conclusions. Take, for example, the theory
that a man or a woman can truly love but once. This would seem to be
the natural corollary of the belief that love is indestructible. The
argument, of course, is that the love which departs is not love at all.
As the old lines run:

    Pray, how comes Love?
      It comes unsought, unsent.
    Pray, how goes Love?
      That was not love that went.

Carlyle homologates this view. In _Sartor Resartus_, he says: ‘As your
Congreve needs a new case or wrappage for every new rocket, so each
human heart can properly exhibit but one love, if even one; the “first
love which is infinite” can be followed by no second like unto it.’

This is certainly a strong case for the first-and-only-love theory.
But let it not be supposed that we shall here miss the inevitable
differences of opinion. Among others who raise a strong protest against
this view is George Eliot, who believes there is a second love which is
greater, because more mature, than the first. ‘How is it,’ she asks,
‘that the poets have said so many fine things about our first love, and
so few about our later love? Are their first poems the best? or are
not those the best which come from their fuller thought, their larger
experience, their deep-rooted affections? The boy’s flute-like voice
has its own spring charm; but the man should yield a richer, deeper
music.’ Many other quotations to a similar purport might be given; but
the whole argument is a futile one. It is simply reasoning in a circle,
because, whatever may be advanced on this side of the question, it is
of course perfectly open to those who maintain the opposite to fall
back upon the contention that the love which was vanquished was not
love at all, and that its subjugation sufficiently proves that it was
spurious.

It may be said that this is a somewhat rough-and-ready method of
disposing of a profound and delicate psychological problem, and the
point may be further raised in connection with the kindred proposition,
that love is not incurable. Those who hold that love is indestructible
must also, in consistency, maintain that it is likewise incurable, and
inconsolable when scorned and rejected. Then, of course, they are met
with declarations like that of Shakspeare when he says: ‘Men have died
from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love;’ or
like that of Thackeray, when he remarks that ‘Young ladies have been
crossed in love, and have had their sufferings, their frantic moments
of grief and tears, their wakeful nights, and so forth; but it is only
in very sentimental novels that people occupy themselves perpetually
with this passion; and, I believe, what are called broken hearts are
very rare articles indeed.’

At the same time, there are not many who agree that

    ’Tis better to have loved and lost,
    Than never to have loved at all.

Guarini, in his _Faithful Shepherd_, expresses a directly opposite
opinion, holding that it is far harder to lose his lady-love than never
to have seen her or called her his own. Hamlet speaks heavily enough of
‘the pangs of despised love;’ and it would be idle to deny that a large
proportion of the tragedies of real life, as well as of fiction, have
turned upon love rejected, abused, or betrayed. When Dryden says that

    Pains of love be sweeter far
    Than all other pleasures are,

he must not be supposed to refer to the love that has been blighted by
cold neglect or open disdain. Burns describes the pains of love when
parted from its object in very different language—as ‘A woe that no
mortal can cure.’ Dryden’s reflection is rather in the same strain as
that of the love-sick Hibernian who said it was ‘a moighty recreation
to be dying of love. It sets the heart aching so delicately there’s
no taking a wink of sleep for the pleasure of the pain.’ Moore gives
a less paradoxical and more serious exposition of the case than his
love-sick compatriot:

    Yes—loving is a painful thrill,
    And not to love more painful still;
    But surely ’tis the worst of pain
    To love and not be loved again.

Various specifics have been prescribed for the cure of love, and among
these, matrimony has been suggested as an infallible cure. A grim joke,
my masters! but one in which there is only a certain modicum of truth.
Whether, because the love is spurious, or because its fire is less
unquenchable than the poets would have us believe, it is yet too true,
and one of the saddest facts of human experience, that the love which
glows so bright and radiant on the wedding morn, may, before many years
have flown, be cold and dead as the ashes of a fire that has long gone
out.

When the idol is shattered, and love neither dies nor breaks the heart,
it sometimes—and here is another enigma—changes its nature; becomes,
in fact, the opposite of itself. The operation is not without analogy.
The arch-fiend himself was once an angel of light, and so we may find
adoring love become venomous hate.

It is a profitless task to apply the why and the wherefore to
love-affairs. Byron, who himself knew so much about love, says:

    Why did she love him? Curious fool, be still;
    Is human love the growth of human will?

To assume that it is, would only remove the problem still further from
the point of solution, and would seem, in many instances, to bring
the lover and the madman into still closer relationships. It is the
infatuation of love, and not the prompting of reason, that causes men
and women—but how much more frequently the latter!—to give up, often
for a worthless object, friends, happiness, reputation, wealth, and all
that life holds dear—even, in some cases, life itself. ‘The hind,’ says
Shakspeare, ‘that would be mated with the lion, must die for love;’ yet
such unions and such sacrifices are by no means uncommon—not in the
lower animal kingdom, but in the more exalted and more tangled scheme
of human affairs. Still, despot as he is, with all his huge blunders
and strange tyrannies, Love is perhaps the most welcome and beneficent
guest that knocks at the door of the human heart. Reason has her own
place and her own functions; but it is to Love, after all, that we must
look for the most generous impulses, the noblest inspirations. It is
Love that redeems our life from cold prosaic dullness, that sweetens
and enriches all its springs. There is no more refining and ennobling
influence in the life of man than that of a pure unselfish love. From
such flows every kind of mutual sympathy, mutual comfort, mutual
helpfulness. It is the highest realisation of human bliss.




A NEW PROCESS OF WHITE-LEAD MANUFACTURE.


In two former articles (June 16 and November 10, 1883) we noticed
the dangers to life and health which accompany the manufacture of
white-lead as at present carried on, and we reviewed the several
attempts made to find a substitute. We are still of opinion that such
substitutes will prove effectual in their measure; but we cannot shut
our eyes to the fact that the enormous production and consumption of
ordinary white-lead must nevertheless continue, chiefly on account of
its cheapness, for its enduring qualities, and for its capability for
purposes in jointing, calking, machinery and hydraulic use, which other
substances fail to fulfil. In these circumstances it is interesting
to know that almost coincident with the Report of Mr Redgrave, C.B.,
Her Majesty’s chief Inspector of Factories—to which we alluded in a
former article (June 16), and which so forcibly shows the evils under
the old ‘stack’ process of white-lead manufacture, as usually carried
on—there has been discovered, and brought into full operation, a
process by which white-lead of the purest and best quality is produced
in one-sixth the time, and at considerably less cost than under the
old process. The necessity for the work of women is also avoided, and
the operatives completely secured from contact with the dangerous
white-lead dust.

It may help our readers to an understanding of the subject if we quote
first a brief description of the ‘stack’ process, from a _previous_
Report by Mr Redgrave: ‘The lead is received in “pigs.” These are
melted in a furnace, and then cast in water or in moulds of various
forms best suited for the action of the acetic acid. The acid is placed
in pots of earthenware, on which the moulded lead is placed; and the
pots are then arranged in large chambers, called “stacks,” and covered
with tan. Row after row of pots and tan are placed one above the
other, until the stack is full, in which condition the stack remains
for about three months. Carbonic acid gas is evolved during this time,
escaping through the ventilators, and causes the deposit of white-lead
on the moulds of lead. If the above were the only process, it would be
comparatively innocuous; but it is the work that succeeds from which
the evil of lead-poisoning arises. The tan is carefully removed from
layer after layer; white-lead is found caked upon the moulds of lead;
but a very little motion causes it to break up into powder. The lead,
loaded with this deposit, is then carried in trays, and emptied into
cisterns of water, through which, by agitation, the white-lead passes
to the grinding-mills, and the blue lead is raked out of the cisterns
for further use. After being ground in the wet state, the material
is placed in pans and carried into the ovens to be dried; it is then
carried from the ovens to the warehouse, to be packed in barrels. Such
are the principal processes in which females are employed, and which
are most prolific of disease and death. The injuries to health arise
from the external contact with the skin of the white-lead, whether in
the dry or moist condition, and the inhalation of the dust or powder
into the lungs, or its being imbibed into the stomach through the
mouth. As for the prevention, external or internal, no means have yet
been discovered by which this could be attained. The mitigation of
the evil lies in excessive and enforced cleanliness, with the use of
special clothing and appliances when at work.’

When, however, the testimony given in Mr Redgrave’s _later_ Report
is considered, it will be seen that the ‘excessive and enforced
cleanliness, with the use of special clothing and appliances,’ fail to
accomplish their object, the chief reason being, as testified by one
sufferer: ‘The air of the factory was always full of white-lead dust.’
Another, speaking of her clothes, said: ‘Dust came from them like a
miller, and used nearly to choke me.’ And managers of factories state
to Mr Redgrave: ‘Respirators are provided, but work-people as a rule
will not wear them. The respirators are troublesome.’ The fact is,
there is this dilemma: without the respirators, lungs and stomach get
filled with the dangerous white-lead dust; with the respirators, the
perspiring, half-choked women cannot work. The problem really is how
to produce white-lead without raising this poisonous dust, as it is
well known that the grinding in oil is with any ordinary care perfectly
innocuous. The very stringent legislation lately authorised does not
touch this point.

Attempts have been made to produce white-lead by precipitation, and
thus to avoid some of the dangers; but the product is an inferior
one, being composed of minute crystals which will not blend with the
oil, and are deficient in the most important qualities necessary for
paint, and for the other purposes for which true white-lead is largely
used. The precipitated lead has also to be washed and stored, as the
white-lead from the stack process.

Happily, just at this juncture a simple but wonderful process has been
discovered, perfected and patented by Professor E. V. Gardner, of 44
Berners Street, London, W., for many years Director of the Scientific
Department, and Professor of Chemistry to the Royal Polytechnic
Institution, and who marches with the age in the application of the
wonderful power of electricity to this branch of manufacture. He avails
himself to the full of that great representative of all energy in
forming what is called a galvano-electric combination in the process of
manufacture of white-lead, as follows:

The metallic lead, cast into the form of gratings, and bent into
narrow arches, is closely ranged in order upon wooden trays covered
with pure sheet-tin—the most practically useful electro-negative to
be had. Dipped by mechanical contrivance into a certain acid mixture,
to give a chemically clean surface, and to promote the after-process
of corrosion, they are placed in chambers built of brick, from
twelve feet square and upwards, having a glass roof and windows for
observation, and having a floor of the electro-negative and highly
electro-conductive tin heated from beneath by steam to the necessary
temperature of about one hundred and twenty degrees Fahrenheit.
These chambers may each contain as small a quantity as from eight to
ten tons of lead, and range up to eight hundred or a thousand tons.
Gases, composed of a mixture of acetic acid vapour and atmospheric
air at a similar temperature, are introduced by stoneware pipes from
an ingenious apparatus where they are generated; and passing through
holes in the pipes a few inches from the tin-covered floor of the
chamber, they pass upward, and permeating the whole chamber, electric
action commences. At the end of the second day, there is a beautifully
white surface. On the third day, carbonic acid vapour is introduced
by the same means, hastening still more the formation of white-lead.
This goes on for two weeks, at the close of which time, so active has
been the action of the substances engaged, by reason of the electrical
energy, that there is more white-lead formed than under three months’
working of the same amount of lead by the old process. The gases are
then shut off, the chamber cooled, ventilated, opened, and the contents
withdrawn, the trays being emptied through a special hopper into the
‘agitator,’ a horizontal cage of round iron bars revolving in a closed
case. After being rotated a few minutes, the whole of the white-lead
is disengaged, and falls into a pit underneath, leaving the cores that
have not been converted in the cage, from which they are collected and
remelted for further use. From the pit, the white-lead is conveyed
to the mill by an endless band, on which are fixed a number of small
buckets, which, filling themselves with the white-lead as they pass
through the pit at the bottom, discharge it into the mill as they turn
over at the top, whence, after passing through the crushing-rollers,
the white-lead falls into the mixer, and issues forth, when combined
with oil, in the shape of white-lead of one unfailing quality, being
of perfect character as to body and testing powers, and of the purest
colour.

The work is continuous from first to last. As all the apparatus
is carefully closed in, there is no dust, nor do the hands of the
operatives once touch the material. _The Sanitary Record_ (October
1883) says: ‘Professor Gardner has completely revolutionised the
manufacture of white-lead. Not only has he rendered it a comparatively
innocuous industry, but he has made it a much simpler process,
and reduced the time hitherto required for its production in an
extraordinary manner, and so facilitated its rapid make, and at a much
lessened cost of production. But these great advantages of the process
sink into insignificance when compared with its hygienic working in
rescuing hundreds of poor creatures from lingering illness, not taking
into account the attendant expense of their treatment and support,
which falls on various local authorities.’

Mr Redgrave, having carefully inspected the working of the process,
has written to Professor Gardner as follows: ‘I think it right to
state that having carefully inspected your works at the bottom of Rolt
Street, Deptford, it appears to me that the process of the manufacture
of white-lead there is free from nearly all the objections on the score
of exposure of the persons employed to the injurious effects, hitherto
deemed to be inseparable from the occupation. The material and the
product are alike isolated, there is an absence of dust, and handling
or manipulating is unnecessary.’

As the white-lead manufacturers of our country are not only an
influential and wealthy body, alive to their own interest, but also
most anxious for the welfare of their operatives, they must hail this
new process with much interest, and adopt it gladly. The general public
will rejoice to be assured that the valuable and useful white-lead is
no longer prepared at the cost of life and health to many, especially
women, as has hitherto been the case.




THE SENSITIVE PLANT.


The singular phenomenon exhibited by this well-known exotic has long
been the admiration of the curious, a puzzle to the botanist, and a
standing marvel in the vegetable kingdom. The plant has the property
of contracting certain parts of its structure when touched, and is not
only sensible to the application of force, but appears to be influenced
by the surrounding elements. Sudden degrees of heat or cold, steam from
boiling water, sulphur-fumes, the odour of volatile liquids, in fact
anything that affects the nerves of animals, appears also to affect
the sensitive plant. It is in the highest degree a nervous subject,
and, like that species of the genus _homo_, is in this country a
thorough hothouse habitant. The subject of our present consideration
was originally introduced from Brazil, and, along with other varieties
possessing the same faculty in different degrees, is common to other
parts of South America. The stem of the plant is cylindrical, and
of a green or purplish colour, with two spines at the base of each
leaf, besides a few others scattered about the branches. The leaves
are pinnatifid, or divided into pairs, supported on long footstalks,
and each pinnule is furnished with fifteen or twenty pairs of oblong,
narrow, and shining leaflets. From the base of the leaf-stalks proceed
the peduncles or flower-stalks, each of which supports a bunch of very
small white or flesh-coloured flowers. The seed-vessels are united in
packets of twelve or fifteen each, and are edged with minute spines,
each husk containing three little seeds.

Dr Hook, Dufay, Duhamel, and other naturalists, have studied this plant
with equal attention, and from their observations we learn that it is
difficult to touch a leaf of a healthy mimosa—under which name the
sensitive plant is also known—even in the most delicate manner without
causing it to close. The great nerve which passes along the centre of
the leaf serves as a hinge for the sides to close upon, and this they
do with great exactness, the two sides exactly opposing each other.
If the pressure is made with considerable force, the opposite leaf of
the same pair will be affected at the same time and moved in the same
manner. Upon squeezing the leaf still harder, all the leaflets on the
same side close immediately, as if resenting the affront. The effect
may be even carried so far that the leaf-stalk will bend to the branch
from which it issues, and the whole plant collect itself as it were
into a bundle.

As soon as evening approaches, the sensitive plant begins to lower
its leaves, till at length they rest upon the stem. With the morning
light, they gradually re-open. When the leaves have even faded and
turned yellow, the plant still continues this action, and retains its
sensibility when agitated by external influences. A fine rain will
not disturb the mimosa at all; but should the rain fall heavily, and
be accompanied by wind, the plant becomes immediately affected. When
irritated and made to close by force, the time necessary for the leaves
to recover their usual position varies from ten to twenty minutes,
according to the season and the hour of the day.

Though heat and cold contribute greatly towards its alternate motion,
yet the plant is more sluggish in its movements and less sensitive
in winter than in summer. After a branch has been separated from the
shrub, the leaves still retain their sensibility, and will shut on
being touched. If the end of the detached branch is kept in water, the
leaves will continue to act for some time.

If the sensitive plant be plunged into cold water, the leaves will
close, but will afterwards re-open; and if touched in this state, will
again shut themselves, as if in the open air, but not so quickly. This
experiment does not seem to injure the plant. If the extremity of a
leaf exposed to the rays of the sun is burned with a lens or a match,
it closes instantly; and at the same moment, not only the leaflet
which is opposite to it follows its example, but all that are upon the
same stalk. If a drop of sulphuric acid is placed upon a leaf so as
to remain stationary, the plant is not immediately affected; but when
it begins to spread, the irritation is communicated from one leaflet
to another, till the whole of them on the affected stalk are closed.
Although a branch of this wonderful plant be cut through three-fourths
of its diameter, yet the leaves belonging to it retain the same degree
of sensibility, and open and shut with their usual freedom. The vapour
of boiling water affects the leaves in the same manner as if they were
burned, and for several hours they appear benumbed—in fact, seldom
recovering during the remainder of the day.

These are some of the principal phenomena connected with this very
singular plant. No doubt, other experiments have been made; but these
will serve to show how much akin is the delicate organisation of this
plant to that of the animal kingdom.

Many conjectures have been formed and many theories raised to account
satisfactorily for the working of this exquisite machine; but the
mainspring is still hidden, and has, as far as we know, eluded the
search of the naturalist. It has been supposed by some that the mimosa
is endued with a power of perception which actuates all its motions,
and is the connecting link between the animal and vegetable kingdoms.
But at least an equally rational theory is, that its movements are
purely mechanical. To enter into a discussion as to the relative merits
of these and other theories would exceed the limits of this article. We
can only contemplate the plant as one of those natural wonders which
add to our admiration of mother Nature and her products.




LOVE LIGHTS.


    Pretty dreamer, far away,
      Where the sheaves are golden,
    Listen to a tiny lay
      Puck hath late unfolden.

    Once a brier loved a rose,
      At her feet adoring;
    Sweet she glanced from high repose,
      Deaf to his imploring.

    Came a certain one, yclept
      Eros, heaven’s grafter,
    Stole a rose-twig, and adept
      Fashioned it with laughter—

    Fixed it soft with cunning whim
      On that hopeless brier,
    Till the season saw his stem
      Lordly grow, and higher.

    Then the maid-rose loved him true,
      Wedded to her glory:
    Sleep, Mellilla’s eyelids blue;
      I have told my story.

            B. C.

       *       *       *       *       *

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR
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1884 ***

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