Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 143, vol. III, September 25, 1886

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74223 *** [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. 143.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._] A YEAR’S POSTAL WORK. Government Blue-books, to an ordinary reader, are tedious and uninteresting enough; but even to the most ordinary of readers, the annual Report of the Postmaster-general is at once curious and interesting. Baron von Liebig once affirmed that the commercial prosperity of a country was to be gauged by the sale of chemicals. This may or may not be true; but we think the growth of the postal system in all its multifarious branches—the amount of the deposits in the savings-banks; the purchase of annuities and life policies; the amount of money transmitted by means of postal orders; the correspondence, growing by leaps and bounds, with all parts of the globe; the countless telegrams—those flashing messengers of joy and despair, good and ill—and last, but by no means least, the thousands of millions of letters annually delivered in the United Kingdom alone—all these are a sure index, not only of the commercial growth and prosperity of the nation, but also of the spread of education. A brief résumé of the Postmaster-general’s Report for the year ending March 31, 1886, may prove interesting to our readers. The number of letters delivered in the United Kingdom alone reaches the astounding total of 1,403,547,900, this being an increase of 3.2 per cent., and giving an average to each person of 38.6. If we add to this the post-cards, book-packets, circulars, newspapers, and parcels transmitted by the postal authorities, we have a grand total of 2,091,183,822, an increase of 4.2 per cent.; and an average to each person of 57.5. Of this total, 84 per cent. were delivered in England and Wales (27.4 per cent. being delivered in the London postal district alone), 9.6 per cent. in Scotland, and 6.4 per cent. in Ireland. It will be at once seen that the necessary staff for the successful carrying out of such a colossal undertaking must be on a like scale; and this is the case, the total number of officers on the permanent staff being about 51,500, showing an increase during the past year of 3310. Of this small army 3456 are women. In addition to these there are, it is estimated, about 45,000 persons of private occupations, who are employed to assist in carrying on the operations of the department during a portion of the day. An increase of business brings a decrease in charge, this again inducing a fresh increase; thus, it has become possible to reduce the rate of postage on letters exceeding twelve ounces in weight, from one penny per ounce to a halfpenny per two ounces; a letter thus weighing fifteen ounces formerly cost 1s. 3d., whereas it can now be sent for 5d. The natural result is a large increase in the number of such letters. We now come to the latest branch from the parent stem—the parcel post. It is highly satisfactory to learn that there has been an increase in the parcels carried of about three and a half millions, giving an increase in money of £84,000. In England and Wales, 22,198,000 parcels were despatched; in Scotland, 2,690,000; and in Ireland, 1,527,000. The list of provinces and countries to which parcels can be sent has also been enlarged. We learn that the first despatch of foreign and colonial parcels took place on the 1st of July 1885; and by the 1st of January 1886, arrangements had been completed for the interchange of parcels with twenty-seven different countries. The total number despatched up to the 31st of March was 71,900, and the number received, 40,800. The largest business was transacted with Germany, with which country in six months 46,000 parcels were exchanged. India shows a business at the rate of 36,000 parcels in the six months; and the smallest business recorded is one parcel in three months for the island of Tortola. An amusing article might very well be written on postal curiosities, and the authorities might make a most interesting museum of the various articles committed to their care. This museum, we venture to suggest to the Postmaster-general, might be thrown open to the inspection of the public at a small fee, and might help to swell the receipts of the department. We read that at the commencement of the parcel post with Belgium, several cages of live birds were received; but the despatch of live birds being contraband, a veto was put upon the practice. On other occasions, a live pigeon, a live fowl, and no fewer than a hundred and fifty live frogs, passed through the postal hands; while such unpleasant, not to say aggressive, passengers as wild bees and snakes were transmitted in numbers apparently ‘too numerous to mention.’ In all these cases the contents of the parcels were detected and retained; but it is fair to assume that many other packages containing other curiosities passed through unchallenged. Among the contents of parcels received in the Returned Letter Office in Dublin, having been stopped as contraband, were two hens, eight mice, and two hedgehogs. One of the hens was an invalid, and in a bad state of health; and was addressed to a veterinary surgeon in London, whom, doubtless, she wished to consult. Every possible care was taken of the interesting invalid, but all efforts were unavailing;—she died in the office! Let us turn to the brighter side of the picture—the remaining hen, as also the mice and hedgehogs, were delivered to their owners ‘safe and sound in wind and limb.’ Possibly the moribund fowl was sent to the ‘Dead Letter’ Office. A few amusing incidents which have occurred in the Returned Letter Office are given in the Report. They are so curious and few, that they but serve to whet our appetite. The number of returned letters, &c., received in the office was 12,822,067, an increase of 4.7 per cent. over the previous year. Of this number, 441,765 were hopelessly unreturnable, as many as 26,928 being posted _without any address_, and of the latter number, 1620 contained in cash and cheques the astonishing amount of £3733, 17s. 5d. This reveals a carelessness which is as extraordinary as it is culpable. Should any letter or package go astray, the department is invariably blamed, and the honesty of the letter-carriers impugned; but the following instance shows where the blame should sometimes be laid. ‘Complaint was made last year at Liverpool that a packet containing a bottle of wine and a box of figs had been duly posted, but not delivered. Upon further inquiry, the sender ascertained that the person to whom the packet was intrusted to post, had eaten the figs and drunk the wine.’ Again, the department was blamed because a certain letter addressed to ‘Mrs Jones, Newmarket, near Blyth,’ did not reach its destination. It appeared, however, that no less than twenty-nine ladies residing at that place, owned that interesting but by no means uncommon name, and the postal authorities were unable to decide which was _the_ Mrs Jones. Another letter was received in Glasgow addressed as follows: ‘Mrs ——, 3 miles from where the cattle is sold on the Duke of Buccleugh’s ground.’ Two letters were alleged to be missing in Scotland. Inquiry was made at the address of the first letter, which, being registered, was undoubtedly delivered; when, after half an hour’s search, it was discovered amongst an accumulation of twelve months’ letters heaped upon a desk. The second letter was put into the box at the correct address; this box was cleared by a charwoman every Monday. Having failed to notice it one Monday, it lay till the following Monday. Another charge was more serious. A letter containing a cheque for a considerable sum of money and duly posted was missing; the postal authorities were accused of the theft. The charge was, however, cleared up, and the letter-carrier’s honesty vindicated in so strange a manner, that we quote the Report itself for authority. ‘It was ultimately found amongst the straw of a kennel, torn into fragments, but no pieces missing. The postman had duly delivered the letter, having, at the request of the addressee, pushed it with others under the front-door; and some puppies had carried it to the kennel and torn it.’ Moral—Do not be quick to accuse, lest thereby you condemn the innocent; and be careful to have a proper letter-box. Perhaps, to the political economist, the most interesting portion of the Report is that which deals with the Post-office Savings-bank. It is highly satisfactory to learn that the business of this department shows a considerable increase during the year. The total amount due to depositors on the 31st of December was £47,697,838, an increase of £2,924,065 over the previous year. In addition to this, the balance of government stock held by depositors at the close of the year was £2,452,252; making the total amount due to depositors £50,150,090, this being distributed over 3,535,650 separate accounts. The greatest _number_ of deposits made in one day was 48,568, on the 31st of January, amounting to £99,913; but the largest _amount_ deposited in one day was on the 1st of January, and amounted to £124,843. The greatest number of withdrawals in one day, 20,835, amounting to £60,643, was on the 22d of December; but the largest amount, £66,981, was withdrawn on the 16th of December. The average amount of each deposit was £2, 6s. 5d.; of each withdrawal, £5, 15s. 10d. The number of accounts remaining open at the end of the year is thus divided: Av. balance Number. Prop. to Pop. due to each depositor. £ s. d. England and Wales 3,272,701 1 to 8 13 10 8 Scotland 127,172 1 to 31 7 12 6 Ireland 135,777 1 to 36 17 19 2 The life-insurance business shows an increase during the year of 109 in number, and of £13,003 in amount. The inland money-order business continues to diminish; this is owing to the introduction of postal orders, which took place in 1880, since which date the annual number issued has been decreased by about six millions. On the other hand, with the colonies, and in both directions with foreign countries, there has been a ‘satisfactory increase.’ The Report recommends the use of money orders in preference to postal orders, in spite of their involving more trouble, on the ground of the greater security. It appears there is ‘a frequent or almost universal omission on the part of the public to take so ordinary a precaution as to fill in the name of the person to whom the order is payable, and the office at which it should be cashed.’ It goes on to add that a proposal to reduce the rates will shortly be under consideration. The orders issued in India and the colonies show an increase of 29,000 in number, amounting to £18,000; while the increase in the orders issued on board Her Majesty’s ships is as many as 67,900, or, in cash, £43,400. The telegraph department’s figures do not so readily lend themselves to comparison, as during the last six months the sixpenny rate has been in force. Comparing the last six months with the corresponding period in the year 1884-85, we have an increase of 48 per cent., and a decrease of £40,233 in the revenue; but against this loss must be placed the sum of £18,214 received on account of the large additional number of abbreviated telegraph addresses; this reduces the loss caused by the reduced rate to £22,019. The increase in the number of local messages in London alone was no less than 74 per cent. The twenty-seven telephone exchanges have now 1255 subscribers; and since the 1st of April 1883 we are told that some 1400 miles of line have been laid, for which some 29,000 miles of wire and £64,000 worth of red fir poles from Norway have been used. The pneumatic-tube system, too, is coming still more into use, and a rate of speed has been attained varying between seventeen and thirty-four miles an hour according to circumstance. The gross revenue for the year was £10,278,865; while the gross expenditure was £7,569,983; the net revenue, therefore, was £2,708,882, being an increase of £62,584 on the previous year. New post-offices have been opened in 371 places in the United Kingdom, and about 860 letter-boxes been added. Not only have Her Majesty’s lieges had their letters carried and their parcels delivered with speed and almost unfailing accuracy, but, after all expenses have been deducted, the postal arrangements have been so satisfactorily carried out, that the public purse has been swelled by a profit of over £2,700,000. IN ALL SHADES. CHAPTER XLVII. When Mr Dupuy heard from his daughter’s own lips the news of her engagement to Harry Noel, his wrath at first was absolutely unbounded; he stormed about the house, and raved and gesticulated. He refused ever to see Harry Noel again, or to admit of any proffered explanation, or to suffer Nora to attempt the defence of her own conduct. He was sure no defence was possible, and he wasn’t going to listen to one either, whether or not. He even proposed to kick Harry out of doors forthwith for having thus taken advantage in the most abominable manner of his very peculiar and unusual circumstances. Whatever came, he would never dream of allowing Nora to marry such an extremely ungentlemanly and mean-spirited fellow. But Mr Dupuy didn’t sufficiently calculate upon the fact that in this matter he had another Dupuy to deal with, and that that other Dupuy had the indomitable family will quite as strongly developed within her as he himself had. Nora stuck bravely to her point with the utmost resolution. As long as she was not yet of age, she said, she would obey her father in all reasonable matters; but as soon as she was twenty-one, Orange Grove or no Orange Grove, she would marry Harry Noel outright, so that was the end of it; and having delivered herself squarely of this profound determination, she said not a word more upon the subject, but left events to work out their own course in their own proper and natural fashion. Now, Mr Dupuy was an obstinate man; but his obstinacy was of that vehement and demonstrative kind which grows fiercer and fiercer the more you say to it, but wears itself out, of pure inanition, when resolutely met by a firm and passive silent opposition. Though she was no psychologist, Nora had hit quite unconsciously and spontaneously upon this best possible line of action. She never attempted to contradict or gainsay her father, whenever he spoke to her angrily, in one of his passionate outbursts, against Harry Noel; but she went her own way, quietly and unobtrusively, taking it for granted always, in a thousand little undemonstrative ways, that it was her obvious future rôle in life to marry at last her chosen lover. And as water by continual dropping wears a hole finally in the hardest stone, so Nora by constant quiet side-hints made her father gradually understand that she would really have Harry Noel for a husband, and no other. Bit by bit, Mr Dupuy gave way, sullenly and grudgingly, convinced in his own mind that the world was being rapidly turned topsy-turvy, and that it was no use for a plain, solid, straightforward old gentleman any longer to presume single-handed upon stemming the ever-increasing flood of revolutionary levelling sentiment. It was some solace to his soul, as he yielded slowly inch by inch, to think that if for once in his life he had had to yield, it was at least to a born Dupuy, and not to any pulpy, weak-minded outsider whatever. So in the end, before the steamer was ready to sail, he had been brought, not indeed to give his consent to Nora’s marriage—for that was more than any one could reasonably have expected from a man of his character—but to recognise it somehow in an unofficial dogged fashion as quite inevitable. After all, the fellow was heir to a baronetcy, which is always an eminently respectable position; and his daughter in the end would be Lady Noel; and everybody said the young man had behaved admirably on the night of the riot; and over in England—well, over in England it’s positively incredible how little right and proper feeling people have got upon these important racial matters. ‘But one thing I will _not_ permit,’ Mr Dupuy said with decisive curtness. ‘Whether you marry this person Noel, Nora, or whether you don’t—a question on which it seems, in this new-fangled order of things that’s coming up nowadays, a father’s feelings are not to be consulted—you shall not marry him here in Trinidad. I will not allow the grand old name and fame of the fighting Dupuys of Orange Grove to be dragged through the mud with any young man whatsoever, in this island. If you want to marry the man Noel, miss, you shall marry him in England, where nobody on earth will know anything at all about it.’ ‘Certainly, papa,’ Nora answered most demurely. ‘Mr Noel would naturally prefer the wedding to take place in London, where his own family and friends could all be present; and besides, of course there wouldn’t be time to get one’s things ready either, before we leave the West Indies.’ When the next steamer was prepared to sail, it carried away a large contingent of well-known residents from the island of Trinidad. On the deck, Edward and Marian Hawthorn stood waving their handkerchiefs energetically to their friends on the wharf, and to the great body of negroes who had assembled in full force to give a parting cheer to ‘de black man fren’, Mr Hawtorn.’ Harry Noel, in a folding cane-chair, sat beside them, still pale and ill, but bowing, it must be confessed, from time to time a rather ironical bow to his late assailants, at the cheers, which were really meant, of course, for his more popular friend and travelling companion. Close by stood Nora, not sorry in her heart that she was to see the last that day of the land of her fathers, where she had suffered so terribly and dared so much. And close by, too, on the seat beside the gunwale, sat Mr and Mrs Hawthorn the elder, induced at last, by Edward’s earnest solicitation, to quit Trinidad for the evening of their days, and come to live hard by his own new home in the mother country. As for Mr Dupuy, he had no patience with the open way in which that man Hawthorn was waving his adieux so abominably to his fellow-conspirators; so, by way of escaping from the unwelcome demonstration, he was quietly ensconced below in a corner of the saloon, enjoying a last parting cigar and a brandy cocktail with some of his old planter cronies, who were going back to shore by-and-by in the pilot boat. As a body, the little party downstairs were all agreed that when a man like our friend Dupuy here was positively driven out of the island by coloured agitators, Trinidad was no longer a place fit for any gentleman with the slightest self-respect to live in. The effect of this solemn declaration was only imperceptibly marred by the well-known fact that it had been announced with equal profundity of conviction, at intervals of about six months each, by ten generations of old Trinidad planters, ever since the earliest foundation of the Spanish colony in that island. Just two months later, Mr Dupuy was seated alone at his solitary lunch in the London club to which Harry Noel had temporarily introduced him as an honorary guest. It was the morning after Nora’s wedding, and Mr Dupuy was feeling naturally somewhat dull and lonely in that great unsympathetic world of London. His attention, however, was suddenly attracted by two young men at a neighbouring table, one of whom distinctly mentioned in an audible tone his new son-in-law’s name, ‘Harry Noel.’ The master of Orange Grove drew himself up stiffly and listened with much curiosity to such scraps as he could manage to catch of their flippant conversation. ‘O yes,’ one of them was saying, ‘a very smart affair indeed, I can tell you. Old Sir Walter down there from Lincolnshire, and half the smartest people in London at the wedding breakfast. Very fine fellow, Noel, and comes in to one of the finest estates in the whole of England. Pretty little woman, too, the bride—nice little girl, with such winning little baby features.’ ‘Ah!’ drawled out the other slowly. ‘Pretty, is she? Ah, really. And pray, who was she?’ Mr Dupuy’s bosom swelled with not unnatural paternal pride and pleasure as he anticipated the prompt answer from the wedding guest: ‘One of the fighting Dupuys of Trinidad.’ But instead of replying in that perfectly reasonable and intelligible fashion, the young man at the club responded slowly: ‘Well, upon my word, I don’t exactly know who she was, but somebody colonial, any way, I’m certain. I fancy from Hong-kong, or Penang, or Demerara, or somewhere.—No; Trinidad—I remember now—it was certainly either St Kitts or Trinidad. Oh, Trinidad, of course, for Mrs Hawthorn, you know—Miss Ord that was—wife of that awfully clever Cambridge fellow Hawthorn, who’s just been appointed to a permanent something-or-other-ship at the Colonial Office—Mrs Hawthorn knew her when she was out there during that nigger row they’ve just been having; and she pointed me out the bride’s father, a snuffy-looking old gentleman in the sugar-planting line, over in those parts, as far as I understood her. Old gentleman looked horribly out of it among so many smart London people. Horizon apparently quite limited by rum and sugar.—O yes, it was a great catch for her, of course, I needn’t tell you; but I understand this was the whole story of it. She angled for him very cleverly; and, by Jove, she hooked him at last, and played him well, and now she’s landed him and fairly cooked him. It appears, he went out there not long before this insurrection business began, to look after some property they have in the island, and he stopped with her father, who, I daresay, was accustomed to dispensing a sort of rough-and-ready colonial hospitality to all comers, gentle and simple. When the row came, the snuffy old gentleman in the sugar-planting line, as luck would have it, was the very first man whose house was attacked—didn’t pay his niggers regularly, they tell me; and this young lady, posing herself directly behind poor Noel, compelled him, out of pure politeness, being a chivalrous sort of man, to fight for her life, and beat off the niggers single-handed for half an hour or so. Then he gets cut down, it seems, with an ugly cutlass wound: she falls fainting upon his body, for all the world like a Surrey melodrama; Hawthorn rushes in with drawn pistol and strikes an attitude; and the curtain falls: tableau. At last, Hawthorn manages to disperse the niggers; and my young lady has the agreeable task of nursing Noel at her father’s house, through a slow convalescence. Deuced clever, of course: makes him save her life first, and then she helps to save his. Has him both ways, you see—devotion and gratitude. So, as I say, she lands him promptly: and the consequence is, after a proper interval, this smart affair that came off yesterday over at St George’s.’ Once more the world reeled visibly before Mr Dupuy’s eyes, and he rose up from that hospitable club table, leaving his mutton cutlet and tomato sauce almost untasted. In the heat of the moment, he was half inclined to go back again immediately to his native Trinidad, and brave the terrors of vivisection, rather than stop in this atrocious, new-fangled, upsetting England, where the family honours of the fighting Dupuys of Orange Grove were positively reckoned at less than nothing. He restrained himself, however, with a violent effort, and still condescends, from summer to summer, fitfully to inhabit this chilly, damp, and unappreciative island. But it is noticeable that he talks much less frequently now of the Dupuy characteristics than he did formerly (the population of Great Britain being evidently rather bored than otherwise by his constant allusions to those remarkable idiosyncrasies); and some of his acquaintances have even observed that since the late baronet’s lamented decease, a few months since, he has spoken more than once with apparent pride and delight of ‘my son-in-law, Sir Harry Noel.’ It is a great consolation to Tom Dupuy to this day, whenever anybody happens casually to mention his cousin Nora in his presence, that he can rub his hands gently one over the other before him, and murmur in his own peculiar drawl: ‘I always told you she’d end at last by marrying some confounded woolly-headed brown man.’ THE END. REBEL-CATCHING. We were in camp, and our chief was a very distinguished officer of middle age, who had won his first spurs in the Indian Mutiny, and had been winning additional spurs ever since. We were a small party, which perhaps partly accounted for the chief’s communicativeness, for to induce him to narrate any of his own experiences under ordinary circumstances was well nigh an impossibility. Be this as it may, on this occasion he did abate a little of his habitual reserve, and though he would not even hint at one of the score of incidents in which his coolness and gallantry had been almost historical, still, what he did tell us may be of some general interest. Moreover, to the best of my knowledge—and I can claim something more than a nodding acquaintance with the literature of the Sepoy Revolt—the two following stories have never been even alluded to in print. I am sorry I cannot recollect the exact words in which they were told; but I will do my best, and will only ask that any deficiencies in the narrative may be attributed to me, and not to the anonymous speaker. ‘Talking of catching rebels reminds me that I had a good deal to do in that line in the Mutiny days. I was only a youngster, not much more than a boy at the time; but I suppose I was rather zealous and active, for I was given a small independent command, a troop of native cavalry and a handful of infantry, and posted near the Nepal frontier to look out for rebels. This was quite at the fag-end of the Mutiny; and my chief duty was to catch, if possible, one or two noted scoundrels who had hitherto escaped, and who, it was supposed, might try to take refuge in the Nepal valley. Amongst the objects of my especial solicitude was a subahdar [native officer] who had taken a prominent part in the massacre of women and children at Cawnpore. I had full permission to shoot this hound if only I could catch him; and I waited longingly for some tidings of his whereabouts. At last, one evening a native arrived at my post, and declared that the subahdar was lying hid in a village some little distance off, on the Nepal side of the frontier. I had got my chance, and I was not going to lose it by delay. Getting together my troop of cavalry, I made a night-march to the village, and in the very early morning, before any of the inhabitants were astir, I drew a _cordon_ round it, and waited. When day broke, I sent a message to the head-man of the village and explained matters. I called upon him to deliver up the subahdar, and pointed out that I was master of the situation. To my disgust, the head-man declared that he could not give up the subahdar, for the simple reason that he was not in the village at all. However, my information had been trustworthy, and I did not like the idea of having had a long and troublesome march for nothing, so I ordered a search. This was accordingly made, but with no results except that of putting me into a rather bad temper. Finally, I said to the head-man that every single inhabitant of the place should turn out by a given time that day, or I would burn the village over their heads. The head-man sorrowfully consented; and man, woman, and child evacuated the huts, after which the troopers scoured the village in their endeavours to find their man. But not a sign of him was present, and I began to feel that I had been befooled. Somewhat sick at heart, I ordered my troopers to stop searching and to prepare for the return march. ‘As the troopers were trotting up to fall in, one of them happened to pass a small hut in which was a heap of most innocent-looking but not very savoury rubbish. Through the doorway the trooper casually poked his lance at this heap, more for swagger or to show his zeal than with any hope of making a discovery. Suddenly, up from the rubbish jumped a scared figure, who was promptly caught and brought to me. It was the subahdar!’ The speaker went on to say that they made short work of the scoundrel, who had reddened his foul hands with the blood of English ladies and children. He had his trial; but the evidence was conclusive, and mercy was out of the question. The subahdar was shot; and when one reads the details of the two massacres at Cawnpore, one is tempted to think that the death was too good for him. Our chief concluded this episode by noting that he subsequently had no difficulty in explaining to the Nepalese authorities his conduct towards the villagers, which had been, to say the least, somewhat brusque. These authorities looked upon the matter as rather humorous than otherwise, and certainly not worthy of serious notice. ‘Another curious thing happened to me,’ continued the chief, ‘during the time that I was rebel-hunting. One day I caught a criminal with a very peculiar face, one that I could not help remembering rather more clearly than I generally remember the countenances of natives. This particular rebel had done something particularly bad, and had to be shot without delay. I gave the necessary orders for a firing-party to be formed, and the execution was duly carried out. Something prevented me from being actually present on the ground, but there was a native officer, and my men were presumably to be trusted. I remember distinctly hearing the volley delivered by the firing-party, and when I subsequently inquired whether everything had been all right, it was reported to me that the man was dead. ‘About a fortnight afterwards, a man was brought in to me whose face seemed strangely familiar. Suddenly it flashed on my mind that this was the very man whose death-knell I had heard only a few days ago. Looking at him closely, I said: “How is this? Who are you? Surely I had you shot a fortnight ago?” “It is true, sahib,” said the poor wretch. “I am the man your soldiers caught, and I was brought before your honour, and you ordered me to be shot. I was taken out, and they stood me on the edge of a _nala_ [a dried-up watercourse], and fired. Sahib, they hit me; but I was not dead, and I dropped into the _nala_ and crept away. Your soldiers never came to look for me, and I escaped. By evil chance, I have been captured again. But, sahib, do not order me to be shot again.” “No,” said I; “I will not do that—not this time, at anyrate. You are free, and had better make the best use of your legs. But if I catch you again, I shall really be obliged to have you shot in downright earnest. Be off, and take care you don’t fall a third time into my hands.” ‘And he didn’t.’ Our chief commented on the native’s tale of his hairbreadth escape as being what Yankees would call ‘rather thin.’ He seemed himself to think that the firing-party had been tampered with, a contingency which he had, in his subsequent rebel-catching adventures, taken care to avert. BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE. CHAPTER III. Le Gautier was not far wrong in his estimate of Carlo Visci. The game the former was playing was a dangerous one. He had met the youthful Genevieve in one of his country excursions, and, struck by her beauty, conceived the idea of finding some slight amusement in her society. It was not hard, in that quiet place, with his audacity and talents, to make himself known to her; nor did the child—for she was little more—romantic, passionate, her head filled with dreams of love and devotion, long remain cold to his advances. Friendship soon ripens into love in the sunny South, where temperaments are warmer, and the cold restraints of northern society do not exist. The Frenchman had no sinister intentions when he commenced his little flirtation—a mere recreation _pour passer le temps_ on his side; but alas for good intentions; the moth may not approach too near the flame without scorching its wings. Begun in playfulness, almost sport, the thing gradually ripened into love—love such as most women never know, love encountered by keen wit and a knowledge of the evil side of life. When the story opens, Genevieve had known Le Gautier for six months—had known him, loved him, and trusted him. But Le Gautier was already tired of his broken toy. It was all very well as a pastime; but the gilded chains were beginning to chafe, and besides, he had ambitious schemes into which any calculations of Genevieve never entered. He had been thinking less of dark passionate eyes lately than of a fair English face, the face of Enid Charteris; so in his mind he began to revolve how he could best free himself from the Italian girl, ere commencing his campaign against the heart and fortune of Sir Geoffrey Charteris’ heiress. Come what may now, he must file his fetters. Filled with this virtuous and manly resolution, he set out the following afternoon for the Villa Mattio. It was Visci’s whim to keep his sister there, along with a younger sister, a child as yet, little Lucrece, both under the charge of a sleepy old _gouvernante_. In spite of his faults, Visci was a good brother, having too sincere an affection for his sister to keep her with him among the wild student spirits he affected, fearing contamination for her mind. And so she remained in the country; Visci running down from the city to see her, each time congratulating himself upon the foresight he had displayed in such an arrangement as this, little thinking he had thus caused the greatest evil he had to fear. Le Gautier walked on till the white façade and stucco pillars of the villa were in sight, and then, striking across a little path leading deep into a thick shady wood, all carpeted with spring flowers, threw himself upon the grass to wait. There was a little shrine here by the side of a tiny stream, with the crucifix and a rude stone image of the Virgin in a dark niche; evidently a kind of rustic woodland sanctuary. But Le Gautier did not notice these things as he lay there; and there was a frown upon his brow, and a thoughtful, determined look upon his face, which boded ill for some one. He had not long to wait. Pushing the branches of the trees aside and coming towards him with eager, elastic step, was a girl. She was tall and slight; not more than seventeen, in fact, and her dark eyes and clear-cut features gave promise of great beauty. There was a wistful, tender smile upon her face as she came forward—a smile tinged with pain, as she noted the moody face of the man lying there, but nevertheless a smile which betokened nothing but perfect, trusting, unutterable love. Le Gautier noted this in his turn, and it did not tend to increase his equanimity. It is not easy for a man, when he is going to commit a base action, to preserve his equanimity when met with perfect confidence by the victim. For a moment she stood there, looking at him, neither speaking for a brief space. ‘How ridiculously happy you look, Genevieve,’ Le Gautier said irritably. ‘It is a great compliment to me, but’—— The girl looked at him shyly, as she leant against a tree, the shafts of light through the leaves playing upon her lustrous coronal of dusky hair and showing the happy gleam in her eyes. ‘I am always contented when you are here, Hector,’ she answered softly. ‘And never at any other time, I suppose?’ ‘I cannot say that. I have many things to do, but I can always find time to think of you. I dwell upon you when you are away, and think what I should do if you were to leave me. Ah, yes, I know you will not do that; but if you did, I should die.’ Le Gautier groaned inwardly. Time had been when he had dwelt with pleasure on these outpourings of an innocent heart. ‘You are not one of the dying order of heroines, Genevieve. By no means. And so you often wonder what you would do if I were to leave you?’ The girl half started from her reclining position, with her scarlet lips parted, and a troubled expression on her face. ‘You speak very strangely to-day, Hector,’ she exclaimed. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Precisely what I say. You are anxious to know how you would feel if I left you. Your curiosity shall be gratified. I am going to leave you.’ ‘To leave me! Going away, Hector, and without me?’ Genevieve wondered vaguely whether she heard the words aright. She started and pressed her hand to her heart, as if to still its rebellious beating. Going away? The warmth seemed to have departed from the scene, the bright light grew dim as gradually the words forced themselves upon her; and the cold numbness of despair froze her trembling limbs. ‘Yes, I am going away,’ Le Gautier repeated in a matter-of-fact manner, but always with his eyes anywhere but on the girl’s face. ‘Indeed, I have no alternative; and as to taking you with me, it is impossible.’ ‘I have dreamt of something like this,’ Genevieve intoned in a low vague voice, her look seemingly far away. ‘It has been forced upon me, though I have tried not to think so, that you have been growing colder day by day. And now you come and tell me that you are going to leave me! There is no regret in your voice, no sorrow in your face. You will go away and forget, leaving me here in my sorrow, mourning for my lost love—leaving me here heartbroken—deceived!’ ‘You should go on the stage,’ Le Gautier replied sardonically. ‘Your talents are wasted here. Let me assure you, Genevieve, speaking as a man who has had a little experience, that if you can get up a scene like this upon the boards, there is money in it.’ ‘You are cruel!’ the girl cried, dashing her tears away impetuously—‘you are cruel! What have I done to deserve this from you, Hector? You wish to leave me; that you will not come back again, my heart assures me.’ ‘Your heart is a prophetic organ, then, _caro mio_. Now, do look at the thing in a rational light. I am under the orders of the League; to disobey is death to me; and to take you with me is impossible. We must forget all our little flirtations now, for I cannot tell when I may be in Italy again. Now, be a sensible girl; forget all about unfortunate me. No one possibly can know; and when the prince appears, marry him. Be assured that I shall tell no foolish tales.’ Gradually, surely, the blood crept into the girl’s face as she listened to these mocking words. She drew herself up inch by inch, her eyes bright and hard, her head thrown back. There was a look of infinite withering scorn upon her as she spoke, sparing not herself in the ordeal. ‘And that is the thing I loved!’ she said, each word cold and clear—‘that is the thing to which I gave all my poor heart! I understand your words only too well. I am abandoned. But you have not done with me yet. My turn will come, and then—beware!’ ‘A truce to your histrionics,’ Le Gautier cried, all the tiger aroused in him now, and only too ready to take up the gage thrown down. ‘Do you think I have no occupation, nothing to dwell upon but romantic schoolgirls one kills pleasant hours with in roaming about the world! You knew well enough the thing could not last. I leave for London to-morrow; so, be sensible, and let us part friends.’ ‘Friends!’ she echoed disdainfully. ‘You and I friends! You have made a woman of me. From this moment, I shall only think of you with loathing!’ ‘Then why think of me at all? It is very hard a man cannot have a little amusement without such a display of hysterical affection as this. For goodness’ sake, Genevieve, do be sensible!’ Stung to madness by this cruel taunt, she took one step towards him and stopped, her whole frame thrilling with speechless, consuming rage. It would have gone hard with him then, could she have laid her hand upon a weapon. Then all at once she grew perfectly, rigidly calm. She stepped to the little sanctuary, and took down the wooden cross, holding it in her right hand. ‘Before you go, I have a word to say to you,’ she said between her clenched white teeth. ‘You are a man; I am a poor defenceless girl. You are endowed with all the falseness and deceit that flesh is heir to; I am ignorant of the great world that lies beyond the horizon. You fear no harm from me now; I shall evoke no arm in my defence; but my time will come. When you have nearly accomplished your most cherished schemes, when you have your foot upon the goal of your crowning ambition, when fortune smiles her brightest upon your endeavours—then I shall strike! Not till then shall you see or hear of me; but the hour will come. Beware of it!’ ‘Perfection!’ Le Gautier cried. ‘You only want’—— ‘Not another word!’ the girl commanded. ‘Now, go!—mean, crawling hound, base deceiver of innocent girls! Go! and never look upon my face again; it shall be the worse for you if you do! Go! and forget my passionate words; but the time will come when they shall come back to you. Go!’ With steady hand she pointed to the opening in the wood; and without another word he slunk away, feeling, in spite of his jaunty air, a miserable, pitiful coward indeed. As he turned to go, Genevieve watched him down the long avenue out of sight, and then, sinking on her knees, she sobbed long and bitterly, so full of her grief and care that she was oblivious to her surroundings. Her face was deadly pale, her white lips moved passionately, as she knelt there weeping, half praying, half cursing herself in her despair. ‘Genevieve!’ The word, uttered in a tone of wonder and alarm, was repeated a second time before the agitated girl looked up. Salvarini was standing there, his usually grave face a prey to suspicion and alarm, a look which did not disguise entirely an expression of tenderness and affection. Genevieve rose to her feet and wiped away her tears. It was some moments before she was calm enough to speak to the wondering man at her side. ‘I have chosen an unfortunate moment for my mission,’ Salvarini mournfully continued; ‘I am afraid my presence is unwelcome here.—Genevieve, there is something behind this I do not understand. It must be beyond an ordinary grief to move you like this.’ ‘There are some sorrows we dare not think of,’ Genevieve replied with an air of utter weariness.—‘Luigi, do not press me now. Some day, perhaps, I will ask you to help me.’ ‘I am afraid a brother is the fittest confidant in a case like this. Pardon me, if I am wrong; but when I hear you talking to a man—for his voice came to me—and then I find you in such a plight as this, I must think.—O Genevieve! my only love, my idol and dream since I first saw your face, to have given your heart to some one unworthy of you. What will Carlo say, when he hears of it?’ ‘But he must not hear,’ Genevieve whispered, terrified. ‘Luigi, you have surprised me; but you must keep my secret—I implore you.’ ‘I can refuse no words of yours. But one thing you must, nay, shall do—you must tell me who this man is; you must have an avenger.’ ‘Luigi,’ the girl said, laying her hand gently upon his arm, ‘I shall be my own avenger—that I have sworn by the cross I hold in my hand. If it is for years, I can wait—and hope.’ ‘That is a wrong spirit,’ Salvarini replied sorrowfully. ‘You are mad just now with your wrongs. Stay here at home, and let me be your champion. I love you too well to admire such sentiments from you yet. I shall not press you now; but all time, for good or for evil, I shall wait for you.’ ‘Luigi, you are a good man, far too good for me. Listen! I must gratify my revenge; till then, all must wait. Things alter; men change; but when the time comes, and you are still the same, say “Come to me,” and I shall be by your side.’ ‘I shall never change!’ he replied as he touched the outstretched hand with his lips gently. Slowly and sadly they walked back towards the house—Genevieve calm and collected now; Salvarini, mournfully resigned; pity and rage—pity for the girl, and rage against her deceiver—alternately supreme in his heart. For some time neither spoke. ‘Will you come in?’ she asked. ‘Not now,’ he replied, feeling instinctively that his presence would only be an unwelcome restraint. ‘I had a message to bring from Carlo. He and Sir Geoffrey and Miss Charteris are coming to-morrow.—And now, remember, if you want a friend, you have one in me.—Good-bye.’ ‘Good-bye, Luigi,’ she said mechanically. ‘You are very good. I shall remember.’ Strangers coming to-morrow. The words bear on her brain like the roar of countless hammers. Strangers coming; and how was she to meet them now, with this wild sense of wrong burning within her vengeful Italian heart, bruised but not crushed? She walked slowly up-stairs and sat down in her room, thinking, till the evening light began to wane, and the lamps of distant Rome to twinkle out one by one. The very silence of the place oppressed her. ‘Are you coming down to supper, Genevieve?’ She aroused herself at these words, and looking up, saw a child standing there before her. She was regarding her sister somewhat curiously, and somewhat pitifully too; the latter, child as she was, did not fail to notice the pale face and dark-ringed eyes. She approached the older girl, throwing her arms round her neck and kissing her gently. ‘What is the matter, _caro_?’ she asked in her soft liquid Italian. ‘Have you one of your headaches again, sister? Let me comfort you.’ ‘I have something more than headache, Lucrece—some pain that no soft words of yours can charm away. Run away down-stairs, child; I am not fit to talk to you now.’ ‘Please, Genevieve, I would rather stay with you.’ Genevieve looked out again across the landscape, lit here and there now by twinkling lights, reflected from the happy firesides, till it was too dark any longer to see aught but the ghostly shadows. ‘Lucrece!’ she exclaimed suddenly, ‘come here.’ The child hesitated for a moment, and obeyed, taking her sister’s cold damp hand in her own, and waiting for her to speak. ‘Do you remember, Lucrece, the Golden City I used to tell you about when you were a little one, the blessed place far away, where there is no strife and no care, and every heart can rest?’ ‘Yes, I remember, sister.’ ‘And should you care to go with me?’ ‘O yes, please. I would go anywhere with you and not be afraid.’ ‘Then you shall go. When you go to your room to-night, do not take off your clothes, but lie awake till I come for you. Only, mind, if you say a word of this, you will not see the beautiful city.’ Through the rest of the hours, Genevieve moved about mechanically, getting through the evening meal she scarcely knew how. Gradually time passed on, one by one the members of the household retired. It was an hour later when Genevieve entered her little sister’s room. ‘Lucrece, are you awake?’ she whispered. ‘Yes, sister; I am waiting for you. Are we going now?’ ‘Yes, we are going now. Walk softly, and hold my hand. Come, let us hasten; we have far to go, and the way is weary.’ Silently they passed down the stairs, and out into the night-air, along the path to Rome, walking on till they were lost in the darkness of the night; Genevieve’s face stern and set; the little one’s, bright and hopeful. * * * * * Gradually the east flushed with the golden splendour of the coming dawn; the birds awoke to welcome up the sun; and after them, the laggard morn. The orb of day saw strange things as he rose in the vault of heaven: he saw two tired wayfarers sleeping on the roadside; and then, later, the anxious faces of a party gathered at a pretty villa by the Tiber. As he sank to rest again, he went down upon a party searching woods and streams far and near; and as he dipped behind the shoulder of the purple hills that night, his last red glimpse flushed the faces of the stern sad-visaged group on their way to Rome. When he rose again there were no wayfarers by the roadside, but a brother on his knees praying for his lost darlings and strength to aid him in his extremity. In Sol’s daily flight he saw hope lost, abandoned in despair; but as came each morn, he brought a gentle healing, but never Genevieve back to the Mattio woods again! And so time passed on, bringing peace, if not forgetfulness. (_To be continued._) THE MONTH: SCIENCE AND ARTS. The armour-plated ship _Resistance_ was lately the subject of some interesting and highly practical experiments at Portsmouth. The ship’s armour is four and a half inches in thickness, and this armour was backed up in various places—for the purpose of experiment—with india-rubber and asbestos, in order to see how far these materials might be relied upon as automatic leak-stoppers. A little fleet of gunboats now fired upon the vessel at short range, sending shot after shot completely through the armour, and penetrating the india-rubber backing, which measured an inch and a half in thickness. The armour when protected with an outer jacket of india-rubber fared no better. Much the same results were obtained when the shots were directed to that part of the hull of the vessel which had been provided with a backing of asbestos. The water poured so freely through the shot-holes, that they had to be plugged, to obviate the risk of the vessel sinking. In the sequel, it was unanimously agreed that both india-rubber and asbestos are quite valueless as additions to armour-plating. Mr Mallet, of the University of Virginia, describes a most unusual phenomenon which occurred in the laboratory of that institution last winter, in the shape of explosive ice. The ice in question formed in the glass vessel of a gasogene—the familiar apparatus for charging water with carbonic acid gas. The expansion of the ice burst the vessel, after which the ice itself exploded repeatedly, and threw off fragments with a crackling sound. The effect is attributed to the pressure of the gas contained in the ice, which in the case of water would appear as simple effervescence. Steel sleepers for railways, in lieu of the rough wooden ones formerly employed, are now coming into greatly extended use, and there are few railways where they are not being tried either experimentally or adopted permanently. In the underground workings of collieries, the maintenance of wooden sleepers forms an important item of expense, and there is every hope that steel sleepers will take their place. Mr Colquhoun, the general manager of the Tredegar Iron and Coal Company, has invented a form of steel sleeper for this particular purpose. Its sides are corrugated, and it has two projecting fangs at each end, which clutch the ground upon which it is laid. The complete weight of the sleeper and its fittings is only sixteen and a half pounds. It has been on trial in some of the South Wales collieries, and has given every satisfaction. The _Lancet_ lately called attention to a singular tradition bearing upon infant mortality, which is widely circulated and believed in. An inquest was held upon a child five weeks old which had been found in bed suffocated beside her mother. Death was attributed to a cat getting on the bed and sucking the breath of the child. There seemed to be no evidence against the cat; indeed, the animal did not appear upon the scene. The _Lancet_ points out that death was no doubt due to overlaying by the parent, and that ‘breath-sucking’ is probably a myth, or it would ere now have been proved by observation. An American inventor, Mr A. Hardt, has patented an arrangement for using very small slack coal as fuel for boiler-firing. The apparatus consists of two fireclay retorts—very much after the pattern of the retorts used in gas factories—which are placed immediately above the ordinary firebox. Each retort has a slide in the bottom, which can be withdrawn so as to empty it of its contents. In addition to this, each has a tube of fireclay reaching from the back part of the retort into the fire beneath. The action of the apparatus is as follows: The retorts are charged with slack, which by the heat of the fire is gradually coked, while the gas evolved from it is carried to the fire beneath. When all the gas has been driven off, the sliding bottom of the retort is withdrawn, and the coke falls into the furnace, to form fresh fuel. Two retorts are employed, so that one can always remain at work while the other is being recharged. Mr F. Siemens has invented a new method of repairing furnace-linings while at a white-heat, which will be found very useful in steel and glass furnaces where high temperatures are necessarily employed. Under such temperatures, the sides of furnaces become softened, and quartz powder or sand projected against the soft places will readily adhere. Mr Siemens’ apparatus for compassing this end consists of a small wagon, upon which are mounted a fan and a movable pipe like a fire-hose, which can be made to direct a blast in any required direction. The nozzle attached to the pipe is introduced into the furnace-doors, and the sand is blown against the particular part of the furnace-lining which may require reparation. The tricycle is being gradually applied to so many different purposes, that it can no longer be regarded as a means merely of healthy exercise. Traders use it largely for the delivery of small parcels; postmen in country districts depend upon it as a useful steed; the military genius of the Germans is turning it to account for the battlefield; and in many ways its value is receiving increased recognition. Its last application is in the form of an auxiliary to the fire brigade. The tricycle in question embodies the following parts: It contains a hosereel, with a quantity of hose specially constructed to wind up into a very small compass; a light double-pump fire-engine, capable of throwing twenty-five gallons of water per minute; a collapsible cistern to hold water; and a simple fire-escape with descending ropes and bag. Two men can run the tricycle at full speed, and the pedal action can afterwards be applied to pumping. The apparatus has been introduced by Mr Glenister, chief of the volunteer fire brigade of Hastings, in conjunction with Mr J. C. Merryweather of London. The French scientific journal _La Nature_ describes and illustrates a machine for making a product which is coming into favour in various different employments under the name of wood-wool. As its name implies, this material is simply wood cut into such fine shavings that it answers many of the purposes to which wool is commonly applied. Although it was at first intended merely as a packing material, it was soon found that it had a much more extended field of usefulness. It is being employed for stuffing mattresses, as bedding for cattle, for the filtration of liquids, &c. It is elastic like horsehair, and is beautifully clean in use. The wood used by preference is Riga fir; and the machine will produce, without any necessity for skilled labour, more than fifteen hundred pounds of ‘wool’ per day of ten hours. A cart-wheel without axle, axle-boxes, grease-boxes, and journals, seems to be something akin to an impossibility; but such a thing has been produced and exhibited at the Palace of Industry, Paris, by M. Suc. Its principle is this: Suppose that we have two grooved rails, and that we place one on the ground with its groove uppermost. In this groove we then place a number of steel balls, and above them we place the other rail with its groove downwards. Thus placed, the two grooves are facing one another, while the balls are embraced by both, so that if we push the upper rail, it will slide over the lower one, owing to the simple rotation of the balls. Imagine the two rails to be bent into a circle, with the balls still between them, and we have the principle of M. Suc’s axleless wheel. The inner part is fixed to the wagon; and the outer part, consisting merely of a grooved rim, works round it with the balls between. The thing seems to be wonderfully ingenious; but we doubt whether it would work so well as the old-fashioned form of wheel. A dusty road would try its powers to the utmost. A somewhat elaborate plan for keeping railway foot-warmers hot has been devised by M. Tommasi, a French electrician. He proposes that after the foot-warmers have been charged with their hot solution of acetate of soda—as is commonly done on the French railways, and on some few lines in Britain—the heat should be kept up by electricity. The current to maintain this heat would be obtained from a dynamo driven off an axle of the carriage-wheels, and would be carried to all the foot-warmers throughout the train. We should think that it would be a far easier and less expensive plan to utilise some of the waste heat from the locomotive, which might be applied to the carriages by means of pipes. Has this plan ever been tried? The cultivation of tobacco in Kent is an experiment which many agriculturists are observing with keen interest. So far, the experiment has been a success, and this in spite of very unfavourable weather, and the presence of unusual quantities of destructive pests in the shape of insects. We are told that earwigs have done a great amount of damage to the plants, for they have been chewing tobacco ever since the leaves came to maturity. According to the opinion of experts, Kent is the most suitable place in this country for the culture of tobacco. Not only is the soil suited to the growth of the plant, but the same oast houses which are used for drying the hops, and whose conical tops form such a noteworthy feature of the Kentish landscape, can be readily adapted to drying the tobacco leaves. It is thought, indeed, that hops and tobacco might be grown on the same land, and form a combined industry which would pay well. M. l’Hoste, the French aëronaut who recently crossed the Channel by means of a balloon, made use of a piece of apparatus which seems to represent some advance in the art of aërial travelling. This contrivance was dragged in the water of the Channel from a rope attached to the balloon. By this means the aërostat was kept at a certain height above the water. But it served a further purpose than this. By its means water was drawn up into the car and utilised as ballast. Formerly, ballast once thrown out of the car could not be recovered; but by this invention it can be picked up when the balloon is travelling over water. We may note that Mr Green, one of the most celebrated balloonists, made use of an inverted cone, attached to a rope, when travelling over water. This cone acted as an anchor to the balloon, keeping it a certain height above the water, and at the same time allowing it to drift along. A Report was lately read at the French Academy of Medicine referring to an operation which was successfully conducted by the help of a magnet. A patient who was by profession a sword-swallower at fairs, had, while at a restaurant, amused some companions by hiding a steel fork in his throat. By an accident, the fork reached to a lower point than the experimenter had reckoned for, and a surgical operation became imperative. By means of a strong magnet, the fork was moved to a position, where a simple incision soon relieved the sufferer of this unwelcome intruder. The divers employed on the wreck of the ill-fated _Oregon_ have almost finished their labours. Six men have been at work upon the wreck, each man remaining under water for from half an hour to one hour at a time. The cargo of the vessel chiefly consisted of bales of cotton; and the divers were furnished with hooks, like workmen employed in the same business on dry land, with which they could grasp and handle the bales. These were attached to steam pulleys, and hauled on board the wrecking vessel. To get at the mail-room, the side of the submerged vessel had to be blown in with dynamite, but much of the mail-matter was spoilt by the water before this was done. The divers report that the vessel is fast breaking up; her bow has fallen over into the sand, and she is broken in two between the mainmast and the foremast, although some of her spars are still visible above water. Dr H. J. Fox announces in the _St Louis Medical Journal_ that creosote is almost a certain cure for erysipelas, for he has treated some hundreds of cases with only one fatal result. The affected parts are kept constantly covered with cloths soaked in a solution of creosote in water—six to twenty drops of creosote to one ounce of water; or a poultice may be formed by stirring ground elm into the solution so as to make a paste. At the Birmingham Art Gallery, a new method of illuminating the pictures is being tried. In the centre of the room is a suspended ring of ninety-six Swan incandescent lamps, each of twenty candle-power. Within this ring is a series of silvered glass reflectors bent to such a curve as will insure the pictures being well illuminated without any reflection from their surfaces. The arrangement has been devised by Messrs Chamberlain and Hookham. A Report has recently been published by Mr Verbeck, who was deputed to inquire into the origin and character of the terrible volcanic outburst at Krakatoa, in the Straits of Sunda, two years ago. He calculates that the amount of matter ejected from the volcano was equal to a mass measuring at least ten cubic miles, and that the velocity with which this matter was thrown into the atmosphere was greater than the projecting power of the biggest of big guns. He considers that the ejected matter must have reached a height of thirty miles; that is, about six times the height of the highest mountain in the world. The explosions were heard over a fourteenth part of the earth’s surface; and an atmospheric wave travelled from the scene of disturbance, and spread itself over the surface of the globe in thirty-six hours. We are glad to see that a Society for the Protection of Birds has been instituted in New York. It seems to be akin to the Plumage League recently incorporated in our own country, while its aims are more comprehensive. Its chief object is to protect birds not used for food from destruction for mercantile purposes, and it will also endeavour to secure and publish information relative to the present enormous destruction of birds for the purposes of dress, decoration, and general adaptation to fancy articles. It will also point out in its teachings the bad results which must in time accrue to agriculture from the wanton destruction of birds which prey upon insect life. The robbing of birds’ nests and the destruction of eggs will also be discouraged by the Society. Among the papyri which have recently been brought to Vienna from El Fayoum was one which, according to those who have deciphered it, mentioned the existence of a city in Lower Egypt which seems to have completely vanished. The document in question is a papyrus four feet long by one foot wide. It contains a marriage contract between one Theon and his bride Maria, with the signature of witnesses and a notary. All these people are described as belonging to the city of Justianopolis. No mention of this place can be found among any lists of places which exist. The papyrus is supposed to date from the sixth century. The dispute as to the permanence or non-permanence of water-colour drawings has received a fresh contribution from the pen of Mr E. A. Goodall, whose father engraved a certain drawing of Turner’s which is now in the national collection. It had been pointed out, as a proof of the fugitive nature of the pigments which the great painter employed, that many details which appear in the engraving in question are not now visible in the original drawing. Mr Goodall, however, says that these details never were visible in the painting, it being the custom of Turner, when proofs were submitted to him for approval, to touch up those proofs and to introduce new effects—clouds, figures, &c., which were not in the original work. Mr W. A. Gibbs, whose name in connection with hay-drying apparatus will be remembered, has lately turned his attention to a machine for ‘withering’ tea after the leaves have been curled and twisted in the rolling-mill. This is brought about by submitting the damp leaves to a current of dry air, which speedily desiccates the mass. The machine consists of a revolving fan in an iron casing mounted on a pair of wheels, with a small coke-fire in a box in front of it. There is a hand-wheel to drive the fan, and handles attached to the casing, so that the contrivance can readily be moved from place to place. There is an inlet and outlet for the air, the latter passing over the fire. In front of the inlet there is a cage, in which are placed lumps of chloride of calcium, a salt which has the property of absorbing all moisture within its reach, and which when saturated can easily be restored to its former state by heating. It can thus be used over and over again, so that first cost is the only expense. By this apparatus a dry air can be delivered without the employment of any excessive heat, and such conditions give the best results in the desiccation of tea. Mr Gibbs has also devised a machine for the rapid drying of fibrous materials, which will doubtless be found valuable in many branches of trade and manufacture. A TALE OF TWO KNAVERIES. IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION. Uncle Franklin drew towards his end. It soon became evident that that grim churchyard experiment which he had suggested would in his case be entirely unnecessary. As he sank lower and lower, and the cruel, icy grasp clutched his labouring heart more often and more fiercely, Lucy found herself almost a fixture at his side. He could hardly bear her absence, however short; and when the fits of palpitation were upon him, he seemed to hold on to life by her hand alone. He would talk to her when he was able—talk of business, nothing but business and money, always money, until the gold seemed to jingle in her brain as though it were the inside of a till. It was very trying and wearing; but tenderness of heart and compassion for this unloved and desolate old money-worshipper, whose idol had failed him at his need, this spoiler whom a hand more ruthless than his own was spoiling, kept her staunch to her post. She thought little of her expectations, and that only for her husband’s sake; in the presence of this aimless, endless money-babble from the lips of a suffering and dying man, the idea of her possible and probable inheritance had grown almost distasteful to her; and Uncle Franklin had not as yet broached the subject of his will. There came, however, a day when, with the last words he ever spoke, he for the first time broke his silence in this respect. The doctor had paid his daily visit, and had gone away with that shake of the head and significant look which tells that human skill has done its utmost. The patient was lying in a half-doze, and Lucy was sitting by the bedside, when he suddenly opened his eyes and fixed them full upon her. ‘It’s nearly over, my girl,’ he said. ‘You have done your duty by me, and I thank you. You’ll find I have kept my promise. When the time comes, send to my solicitor, Blackford of Southampton Buildings—he’ll know what to do.’ He closed his eyes after speaking these words, and seemed to sleep again. That night he died, quietly and without a struggle. It was in the third week after the making of the second will. Those were days of anxious reflection for Mr Blackford. Business was more than commonly ‘slack’ with him, so that he was able to give his undivided attention to his little scheme. Even Willoughby had failed to renew his visits, a circumstance which almost escaped the lawyer’s notice, so preoccupied was he with things of greater moment. What course should he now adopt? How should he best use his advantage? Nobody save himself knew of the hiding-place, or even of the existence of the later will, unless the testator should have altered his mind. Somehow or other, he must manage to substitute the earlier will for the later. But how? There appeared to be but one way in which to do what must be done; it was a way which demanded courage, self-possession, and unflinching nerve; for a moment’s faltering or bungling would in all probability bring about a shameful and disastrous failure. That way Mr Blackford determined to take; and so waited as patiently as he might for the news of Mr Franklin’s death and the expected summons to the house. Both came together; the latter in a form which he did not expect, and which discomposed him a good deal—in the form, namely, of an invitation to the funeral. Lucy said in her letter that Mr Franklin had stated that his solicitor would know how to act with reference to his affairs; and that both she and her husband felt that it would be more seemly to defer any such action until the dead man had been laid in his grave. But on reflection, Mr Blackford was less dissatisfied than at first with this arrangement. It was a delicate and difficult operation which he had to perform; possibly it might be carried out with greater ease in the confusion and excitement of a crowd, than under the undistracted scrutiny of only two pairs of eyes. All that he had to do was to slightly amend his plan of action to suit the altered circumstances. He replied to the letter with graceful condolence, asking that, in pursuance of the testator’s wishes as communicated to himself, all the family might be summoned to hear the will read after the funeral. This was done accordingly; and when the company had returned from the ceremony, Mr Blackford found himself in the presence of a tolerably numerous and not too good-tempered assemblage, in Tom Wedlake’s dining-room. By this general invitation, vanished hopes had been revived, almost forgotten jealousies and suspicions had blossomed anew; and in every face, repressed truculence and ready defiance were thinly varnished over with the expression proper to the occasion. The general hostility brought itself to a focus upon Tom and Lucy, who were treated by all but the latter’s own parents with severely guarded affection. The solicitor rose from his chair and addressed the expectant relatives with decorous gravity. He had carefully weighed and rehearsed every word which was to be spoken, for he had to pass through an ordeal which would test his coolness and readiness to the utmost. It was necessary in the first place to clear his way—to make sure that there was no unsuspected information in the possession of any present which might upset all his calculations in a moment. ‘It is now my duty,’ said he, ‘to read the will of the late Mr Franklin. But may I first ask, whether any one here happens to be aware of the intentions of the deceased with regard to the disposition of his property?’ There was no reply. All eyes were turned significantly and mistrustfully upon Tom and Lucy; but neither felt inclined to speak the word which should let loose upon them the pent-up storm. ‘Mr and Mrs Wedlake,’ said the solicitor—and a preparatory tremor of indignation ran through the listening group—‘were, as we know, in closer communication of late with their uncle than any other members of his family; perhaps they would be able to tell us something?’ Tom answered by a shake of the head, which might signify either refusal or unwillingness. But there was an air of composure about him and his wife which was in marked contrast with the flushed expectancy generally prevalent, and which was calculated to give rise to exasperating auguries. Mr Blackford proceeded: ‘I regret this very much, for it renders my task all the more difficult and unpleasant. But that I cannot help. It is by no fault or interposition of my own that things are—as they will presently appear. Neither is it for me to question the testator’s wisdom or his right to do as he pleased with his own. I can only say that I used all my powers of persuasion to divert Mr Franklin from his purpose, but unavailingly; therefore, I could only act as I was instructed.’ Curiosity was excited by these words to the highest pitch; it was evident that they portended some disaster, and an angry buzz began to make itself heard. ‘The first thing to be done,’ continued the solicitor, ‘is to produce Mr Franklin’s will. It is in his bedroom; and, with the permission of Mr and Mrs Wedlake, I will now go and fetch it.’ The words were hardly out of his mouth when, with a brisk and business-like step, he left the room, and was half-way up the stairs before any one had the presence of mind to follow him. As he went, he drew a paper from his breast-pocket and carried it cautiously just within his coat. He was in the room scarcely a quarter of a minute before Tom and Lucy, followed by the whole of the company, came hurrying after him; but those precious seconds served his purpose. They found him looking up at the shelf of books in the recess, rather pale, a little out of breath, but entirely self-possessed. The master of the house was about to comment sharply on his strange behaviour; but the solicitor gave him no time. ‘The will,’ said he, ‘is in one of the largest of these books; but upon my word I don’t exactly remember which. Cruden’s _Concordance_—yes, I think it must have been Cruden’s _Concordance_. I think I should prefer, under all the circumstances, that some one else should make the search.—Mr Wedlake, perhaps, would oblige us by trying Cruden’s _Concordance_?’ Tom took down the big book, held it by its covers, and shook it vigorously, producing no other result than a shower of dust. ‘Dear me!’ said Mr Blackford, ‘it is very strange.—Will you try the next book, Mr Wedlake? It is a Prayer-book, I think.’ The same process was repeated; this time a folded paper fell to the floor. The solicitor picked it up. ‘We are right this time,’ he answered, reading the indorsement. ‘Will of William Franklin, Esquire.—And now, I think, we may go down-stairs again.’ The excited crowd, angrily expectant of they knew not what, rustled and fluttered down the stairs once more, and settled on the dining-room chairs like a flight of crows. Standing at the table, Mr Blackford opened and read the will with dignified deliberation, but with a slight tremor in his voice, and an almost imperceptible catching of the breath which he could not control, and which were perhaps excusable under the circumstances. It is not easy to describe the scene which followed. Decency was thrown to the winds; poor human nature stood out in startling nudity from under the conventional trappings of woe. There was a perfect storm of ejaculations and threats; the women cried, the men raved; one reverend gentleman of hitherto irreproachable behaviour actually shook his fist in Mr Blackford’s face. ‘It is a fraud, a forgery!’ cried Dr Franklin, a younger brother of the deceased. ‘William would never have made such a will. He might have left his money to some public body, rather than to his own flesh and blood; but to a lawyer—never!’ Meanwhile, Tom Wedlake, who, having consistently expected nothing, was the less disappointed, and therefore able to keep his head, had taken the document in his own hands and carefully inspected the signature. He now raised his voice above the general hubbub. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen! I think we are rather forgetting what we have been doing to-day. If you have no respect for the dead, perhaps you will be good enough to show a little for my wife’s dining-room.’ These words, sharply spoken, produced a sudden lull, of which Tom took advantage. ‘One thing is certain—this is no forgery. Most of you know Mr William Franklin’s writing better than I do. Look for yourselves. It is a perfectly genuine signature.’ A dozen necks were instantly craned over the paper. There was nothing to be said. Every one had to confess that Tom was right; but the fact only added fuel to the family wrath, as rendering their chances all the more desperate. Tom continued: ‘My wife’s uncle has lived with us, as you know, for some months past, and my wife has taken care of him and nursed him in his last illness. He was grateful, or seemed so; and he promised to provide for her. He repeated his promise in the last words he ever spoke.’ ‘I suppose, sir, that _you_ will consequently consider yourself entitled to contest the will?’ fiercely interrupted the angry clergyman. ‘One moment, if you please. I shall do nothing of the kind; neither will my wife, with my consent. Mr Franklin had a right to do as he chose with his money; and I must say I never put any faith in his promises. This gentleman is welcome to what he has got, if he can arrange with his conscience—which I daresay he can. How and why he has got it, I don’t profess to understand; but I shall certainly not endanger my peace of mind by trying to take it from him.’ Mr Blackford had felt himself a little overborne by the general animosity; but he did not want for spirit, and now spoke up coolly and defiantly. ‘If anybody thinks fit to waste his time and money in trying to upset this will, he is quite welcome. I shall defend my rights.—And my conscience is quite easy, thank you, Mr Wedlake.’ Mr Blackford, having fired his shot, took himself off with his prize. Tom had to devote the rest of the day to consoling his wife, who was fairly broken down by the revelation of Uncle Franklin’s cruel duplicity. ‘I can’t think he would have done it, Tom,’ she said. ‘I really believe he did get to like me at last; and what object could he have had in behaving in such a wicked way? I am quite certain that that Mr Blackford has cheated us, somehow. Did you notice how his voice shook, and how pale he was? and what made him run up-stairs as he did, without waiting for our leave?’ Tom was silent for a few seconds. ‘There is a great deal about the whole business that is strange and unaccountable,’ said he—‘a great deal that I can’t understand—and I don’t mean to try, Lucy dear. We needn’t break our hearts about Uncle Franklin’s money. We love one another—we are young and strong—let us put all this away from us like a bad dream, and settle down once more in the old happy way.’ Meanwhile, Mr Blackford was walking fast and far through London streets in a perfect delirium of self-gratulation, unshadowed by one thought of remorse or any dread of retribution. All was safely over; everything had fallen out well for him and his wicked scheme. The prize was fairly in his clutches at last, apparently beyond the power of any man to wrest it from him. The will by which he benefited was no clumsy forgery; it bore the testator’s genuine signature; it had been executed in the presence of disinterested witnesses, and, for all those witnesses could say, on the very date which it purported to bear. No wonder that Mr Blackford exulted in the impregnability of his position, and indulged in castle-building to a considerable extent. He could not bring himself to return at present to his dull and dingy office, gloomy with the recollections of failure and poverty. In a very short time he would leave it for ever; he would continue his career in more cheerful quarters and under very different conditions. A professional man with plenty of money has no need to run after patients or clients; they, on the contrary, will run after him. His fortune should double and treble itself in his careful hands; municipal distinctions should be his; some day, perhaps, a seat in parliament. He would make a good marriage; he would shake hands with lords—most fascinating of dreams to him as a professed Radical—his working hours should be spent in easy and pleasant labour, and his leisure in carefully regulated dissipation. And so he strode through the lighted streets, intoxicating himself with the pleasures of imagination. * * * * * Another man, at the same time, was prowling about London streets, not through the broad and blazing main thoroughfares, but by gloomy byways, half lit by the feeble glimmer of thinly scattered lamps, where only an occasional footstep sounded upon the flags—a man who shrank from the presence of his kind, whom he insanely imagined were all leagued in a cruel and inexplicable conspiracy against his reputation and his life—a man accompanied wherever he went by mocking persecutors, who dinned into his ears, themselves unseen, furious denouncings, hideous blasphemies, fiendish jests; daring him to face them, and eluding his every effort to do so; threatening him continually with exposure and punishment for impossible crimes; taunting him with the universal enmity of mankind. And one name formed the ever-recurring burden of this diabolical chant—the name of the man in whom he had trusted, and who had betrayed him to his foes; the name of the man who was in their secrets, and was helping them to bring their victim to ruin; who had taken his money for pretended aid, only to join his persecutors in laughing at his misery. The unhappy wretch stood still and listened, like a hare to the yelping of the pack. Presently he turned and went away, no longer with the uneven and desperate gait which had caused several passers-by to look curiously after him, but with the rapid and determined step of a man who had a thing to do and was on his way to do it. Mr Blackford dined sumptuously in a well-known restaurant. Afterwards, he thought, he would go to his office, there in secrecy and safety to put the finishing stroke to his fortunes by destroying, carefully and completely, the second will. He had not cared to do this anywhere else; something might be seen and suspected; a bird of the air might carry the matter. Where so much was at stake, it was not worth while to leave anything to chance. When he had dined, he sat awhile and smoked his cigar with the air and sensations of a millionaire; while his visions of the future grew yet more roseate under the influence of a bottle of old Tokay. At last he took his hat and coat and departed. The outer door of the house in which his offices were situated was closed; all the other occupants, with the exception of the old housekeeper, had long since gone home. He knocked and rang. ‘Law! Mr Blackford, sir, I couldn’t think who it could be at this time o’ night,’ said the woman, as she peered into his face by the light of her flaring and guttering candle. ‘Are you goin’ to your rooms? I’m afraid the fire’s out, some time. Shall I light it up again, sir?’ ‘No, thank you, Mrs Smith,’ returned the solicitor. ‘I shall not be very long; I have a few letters to write, that’s all. Give me two or three matches to light the gas; I shall want nothing else.’ ‘There’s been a gentleman here for you, about half an hour ago, sir,’ said Mrs Smith, as she lighted him up the stairs. ‘He seemed disappointed that you were gone; but I told him you wouldn’t be back to-night, and he went away.’ ‘I should think he might have known that this was no time to find a man at his office. What sort of gentleman was he?’ inquired Mr Blackford carelessly. ‘Well, sir, I really couldn’t say; the wind blowed out my candle as I opened the door,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘He was a tallish gentleman, I think; but I didn’t notice no more than that.’ ‘Ah—well, I daresay I shall know him when I see him. I suppose he will call to-morrow.’ And the solicitor entered his office and closed the door. He opened it again almost directly. ‘Mrs Smith, what has become of the key?’ he called sharply. ‘Mr Jobson took it away with him, sir, to get a new one made. The lock is that stiff, he twisted the handle off the key trying to turn it, and he had a job to get it out again.’ Mr Blackford seemed much annoyed. ‘Very careless of him. The lock has always gone well enough before. However, it can’t be helped.—Mind, you don’t come up here to disturb me, do you hear? My letters are important, and I want to be very quiet while I write them.’ ‘I’ll take care, sir,’ answered the housekeeper humbly; and the door closed once more. The old woman set down her candle and put her head out into the street. A sudden desire had come over her to solace her loneliness with the luxury of a bloater for supper. There was a dried-fish shop just round the corner. She could get there and back in a minute, and she would leave the door on the latch, to save herself the trouble of fetching her key. No harm could come to the house in that time; so she set off at a shuffling run along the pavement. A tall figure came from the shadow of the opposite houses into the middle of the road. It paused and looked up for a moment at the now lighted windows of the solicitor’s office; then it advanced to the door, cautiously pushed it open, and disappeared within. The housekeeper returned almost immediately. She did not notice that the door was a little wider ajar than she had left it; had she done so, the same high wind which had already extinguished her candle once that evening would have sufficiently accounted for the fact. Taking her light, she vanished into the subterranean region where she lived, whence presently arose the savoury odour of the toasting bloater. Mr Blackford, on entering his inner room, sat down at his table. He left the door slightly open behind him, in order that he might hear any footstep on the landing, any attempt to enter the outer office. Taking both the wills from his pocket, he spread them before him. Again a wild feeling of exultation surged through his brain and made his pulses bound; he could not resist the pleasure of reading through the document so unavailingly designed to rob him of his hopes, before he put it for ever beyond the power of mischief. After that, he read the will which was in his favour; then he fell once more into a delicious reverie. There was no reason for hurry; he was quite alone and in safety. He was so absorbed that he did not hear the outer door open with a caution which might well have escaped greater watchfulness. Neither did he hear the catlike step which crossed the floor of the clerks’ office, nor the tiny creak as his own door was pushed open. After this, the silence was deathlike; it was only accentuated by the slight hiss of the burning gas over his head. Mrs Smith had long finished her bloater, and sat yawning by the dying fire in the nether regions, wondering how long it would be before ‘her gentleman’ took his departure, so that she might lock up and go to bed. Once already she had heard, as she thought, a footstep on the stairs, and the street door quietly closed; so sure had she been of this, that she had gone up to the first floor to see that all was right. But Mr Blackford’s gas was still burning; and through the outer and inner doors, both of which, a little to her surprise, were open, she could see the figure of the solicitor seated in his chair with his back towards her, bending low and intently over his desk; so she had concluded that her old ears had deceived her, and mindful of Mr Blackford’s warning, had stolen back to the basement. That was nearly two hours ago, and her patience was becoming exhausted. At last she thought that he must either have fallen asleep over his writing, or that he had left without her hearing him; so she once more went up-stairs. He was sitting just as she had last seen him; but this time she thought that there was something strange about his unaltered posture. He must certainly be asleep. She walked gingerly into the outer office, and spoke to him—no answer. She spoke louder—still silence. Then she went up to the motionless figure and touched it on the shoulder. The next instant, she jumped back with a ringing shriek, stumbled out on to the landing, and got herself down the stairs and into the street with an agility which would have done credit to a younger and lighter woman; and in fifteen minutes the house was in the occupation of the police. Mr Blackford had fallen forward on his desk, the papers on which were spattered with his blood. The top and back of his head were smashed in by blows from some heavy blunt instrument. He had been horribly murdered; and before dawn the murderer was in the hands of the police—a raving maniac, flourishing the blood-incrusted life-preserver with which he had done the deed, and boasting of having silenced for ever the most dangerous of all his foes. It was ascertained that his name was Charles Willoughby; and from the papers found at his lodgings, it was easy to communicate with his friends. He is now in a lunatic asylum, hopelessly incurable, and his property is in the hands of trustees. Both wills were found on the dead man’s table; and before many hours were over, Tom and Lucy Wedlake were informed of the interposition which had taken place in their favour. When the first shock at the terrible nature of that interposition was over, Lucy could not help triumphing a little over her husband at the complete fulfilment of her prophecy, and Uncle Franklin’s exoneration from the suspicion of ingratitude and treachery. Tom was beyond measure astonished, and confessed to his wife’s superior acumen. They lost no time in putting themselves in competent professional hands; and the will which constituted Lucy sole legatee was established without much difficulty. There was a little trouble at first with the dead man’s relations; but they were fairly respectable people, and when the hopelessness of their case was made apparent to them, they withdrew their opposition to the document which bore the clear impress of the testator’s real intentions. Tom Wedlake has purchased a partnership in a flourishing commercial house, and is now richer than Uncle Franklin ever was, and a far greater object of respect to his own and his wife’s families. Towards them, however, he by no means enacts the old gentleman’s ill-conditioned part, being open-handed and generous to the last degree; and he is at this moment the head of as happy a household as can be found within the four-mile radius or outside it, a fact which he prizes far beyond all his wealth. OCCASIONAL NOTES. THE HESSIAN FLY. The following suggestions have been prepared by Mr Charles Whitehead, F.L.S., F.G.S., at the request of the Lords of the Committee of Council for Agriculture, for the information of agriculturists: The Hessian fly is terribly destructive to corn crops in the United States, Canada, and parts of Germany. In some years it has almost entirely destroyed the wheat crops in large districts in these countries. In the upper counties of Georgia Packard States ‘the fly has committed such ravages upon the wheat as scarcely to leave enough seed for another year.’ It had not been found in Great Britain until this present year, though in 1800 fears were entertained that it had been introduced. In 1788 the importation of wheat from America was prohibited by the British government until it was ascertained that it was not likely that the insect could be brought over in this way. Now, however, without any doubt it has appeared here, and all effort must be made, and at once made, to stamp out this dangerous intruder. To effect this, if possible, information is given below as to the nature of the attack of the Hessian fly, and a description of it in its various stages, as well as methods of preventing it from spreading in this country. The plants of wheat and barley infested with this insect turn yellow, and become stunted and unhealthy. Plants upon sharp gravelly patches, ‘pinnocky places,’ ‘stone-brash,’ or ‘stone-shatter,’ and upon the poorest parts of fields, show the attack first and most seriously. As the plants ripen, the straw becomes root-fallen and scrawled, the ears are small, and the grains misshapen and shrivelled. Corn-plants thus affected should be carefully examined, especially their leaves or blades, just at the points where they cover the second points of the stems from the ground. Upon corn-plants thus injured, either the larvæ of the Hessian fly or its pupæ will be found close to the lower joints between the stems and the leaves or blades. The larvæ, which are the authors of the mischief, as they suck out the juices of the plants, are clear, white, or translucent maggots about the fifteenth of an inch long, having stripes of a greenish hue under their skins. They remain in this state from four to six weeks, and then assume the pupal or semi-pupal form. The pupæ are called ‘flax-seeds’ in America, because they are like small elongated flax-seeds. They are a little longer than the larvæ, and are of a chestnut colour. It is in this state alone that the Hessian fly has been seen in England. These pupæ are unmistakable, and when once discovered, immediate steps should be taken to prevent them from transforming into flies, which would lay eggs upon the corn-plants either in the coming autumn or in the spring. Crops of wheat and barley in whose straw the ‘flax-seeds’ have been found should be cut above the second joint, either by setting the reaping-machines high, or by reaping them by hand, so as to leave a long stubble. Where barley is short and must be cut with scythes, the mowers should be instructed to keep them as high as possible. Land upon which the crops have been infested should be cultivated or broad-shared immediately after harvest. The stubble and rubbish should be collected most carefully and burnt; after this the land should be deeply ploughed, or the stubble might be ploughed in at once deeply. Straw from infested fields should be closely inspected when thrashed. If pupæ are found, the straw should be used on the spot if possible for litter, and all passed through ‘mixens,’ that heat may destroy them. The chaff and ‘cavings’ from such straw should be burnt, and the corn screened in the most careful manner. Corn from infested fields should on no account be used for seed. Where manure is obtained from the cow-sheds and stables of London and other cities and towns, it should be ‘mixened’ for some time, as it is very probable that the pupæ of the insect might be imported in packing-cases and with straw crates from America and Canada. Wheat-plants and barley-plants that show yellowness and other signs of disorder in the autumn or spring should be closely examined for larvæ or pupæ of the Hessian fly. Should it be discovered that the larvæ or maggots are injuring young wheat-plants in November, or that pupæ—‘flax-seed’—are present upon these, it would be well to feed them down hard with sheep. THEORIES OF DEW. Referring to our recent article on ‘A New Theory of Dew’ (No. 126), a correspondent at Beaumaris writes as follows: ‘You will see from the following experiment, one of many carried out by Mr Du Fay in Paris towards the end of last century, that Mr Aitken’s ideas regarding the origin of dew are not strikingly new, and only go to prove the old adage that “There is nothing new under the sun.”—“Mr Du Fay, at Paris, placed two ladders against one another, meeting at their upper ends, and spreading wide asunder below. Their height was thirty-two feet. To the several steps of these he fastened large panes of glass, so disposed as not to overshade one another. With this apparatus exposed to the air, he found that the lower surface of the lowest pane of glass was first wetted with dew, then its upper surface, then the lower surface of the pane next above it was wetted, and so on, until all the panes to the very top of the ladders became covered with dew. Mr Du Fay maintained that this was an unanswerable proof that dew was formed from vapours ascending from the earth during the night, rather than from the descent of such as had been raised in the course of the day.” Dr Wells’s theory is doubtless the more generally accepted; but many men, more especially such as have sojourned in tropical climes, hold to Du Fay’s opinion, namely, that the moisture causing dew emanates more from the soil than from the circumambient air.’ SOLITUDE. Not in the deepest tangles of the wood, The turtle’s haunt, the timid squirrel’s lair; Not on the ocean beaches, rough and bare With never-ending battles, unsubdued In war of winds and waters hoar and rude; Not in the mountain-passes, where the air Sobs low, and life is like a long despair— Thy home is not in these, O Solitude! But in the busy concourse, long and loud, Where not one pulse of human sympathy Beats through the grasping spirits of the crowd— Where each is rapt in snatching greedily His brother’s portion—’neath a shallow shroud, We know thy truest haunt, and weep for thee. ARTHUR L. SALMON. * * * * * The Conductor of CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL begs to direct the attention of CONTRIBUTORS to the following notice: _1st._ All communications should be addressed to the ‘Editor, 339 High Street, Edinburgh.’ _2d._ For its return in case of ineligibility, postage-stamps should accompany every manuscript. _3d._ To secure their safe return if ineligible, ALL MANUSCRIPTS, whether accompanied by a letter of advice or otherwise, _should have the writer’s Name and Address written upon them_ IN FULL. _4th._ Offerings of Verse should invariably be accompanied by a stamped and directed envelope. _If the above rules are complied with, the Editor will do his best to insure the safe return of ineligible papers._ * * * * * 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 74223 ***