CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

CONTENTS

SCOTTISH DEER-FORESTS.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
HOME-NURSING.
ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.
ARTIFICIAL JEWELS.
THE MISSING CLUE.
THE RING-TRICK.
OCCASIONAL NOTES.
A HAWTHORN STORY.

Chambers’s Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art. Fifth Series. Established by William and Robert Chambers, 1832. Conducted by R. Chambers (Secundus).

No. 46.—Vol. I.

Price 1½d.

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1884.

SCOTTISH DEER-FORESTS.

Deer-stalking has for many a long year been looked upon as the king of sports; and in Scotland, a large area of land has from an early period been occupied by the red-deer and the roebuck. At the present time, as far as has been ascertained by a recent inquiry under Royal Commission, the extent of all the deer-forests in Scotland amounts to about two millions of acres. It is only, however, right to say that the land devoted to these animals could not be more profitably employed. It has been affirmed by practical men that it is scarcely possible to feed even one hardy black-faced sheep on less than six acres of such land, so scant is the herbage. Indeed, some intelligent farmers maintain that it will take a hundred and sixty acres of forest-land to graze a score of these sheep. No person who is even tolerably familiar with the deer-districts of Scotland will gainsay this. The contour, altitude, and climate of a deer-forest quite unfit it for agricultural purposes—the range of ground occupied by these stately animals is of the most miscellaneous description: hill and dale, moor and morass, mountain and glen, with every here and there rocky precipices, and small groups of trees naturally planted, and chiefly of the hardy native birch. In the three chief deer-counties of Scotland, the cultivable area is singularly small in proportion to their total extent. Taking Argyll, Inverness, and Ross-shire as examples, only three hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred and ninety-eight acres are to be found under cultivation, out of an area which covers six million eight hundred and twenty-three thousand and two acres, leaving nearly six and a half millions of acres to be inhabited by sheep, deer, and grouse, and as the site of lochs, rivers, and mountains, and sterile places on which nothing grows and nothing can live.

No authentic statistics are collected in Scotland of the deer which are annually slain in the way of sport; but we are enabled from records which appear from time to time in the public prints, to estimate the number of stags which are killed in the different forests. In the county of Inverness—which may be called the deer-county of Scotland par excellence, in the same way as Perthshire is looked upon as being the representative grouse-producing county of the kingdom—probably about sixteen hundred stags are annually killed. The figure which represents the number of deer in all Scotland, counting animals of all ages, must be very considerable, seeing that, as stated in evidence before the recent Royal Commission, it yields to the sportsman’s rifle four thousand six hundred and fifty stags per annum, and a nearly equal number of hinds. Scrope the deer-stalker, when writing his celebrated work some fifty years since, estimated that in the Forest of Athole, which at that date contained an area of over fifty-one thousand acres, there would be, young and old, between five and six thousand deer. Calculating on that data, there ought now to be found on the two million acres of land at present given over to stags and hinds and their calves, as many as two hundred and twenty-five thousand animals of the deer kind. Each stag which succumbs to the prowess of the stalker has been estimated to cost fifty pounds to the lessee or proprietor of a deer-forest. At that rate, the four thousand six hundred and fifty stags annually killed in Scotland represent a sum of two hundred and thirty-two thousand five hundred pounds paid in the form of rent and other items of expenditure which are yearly incurred. As to the rent paid for particular deer-forests, it varies considerably according to extent and amenities. Some forests contain a large area of ground; and although the rental per acre looks trifling enough—ranging as it probably does from ninepence to double, or in some instances to treble, that sum—the amount soon accumulates and becomes important. For an area of twelve thousand acres, a thousand pounds will frequently be paid. Many Scottish forests are, however, rented at double that sum; and not a few at an even larger rent. In the county of Inverness, for example, there are a dozen which yield a total amount of fully thirty-three thousand pounds, including five of three thousand pounds and upwards, and one of nearly six thousand pounds, of yearly rent. In the counties of Ross, Argyll, Aberdeen, and Perth there are also many forests which command a high price. In the first-named county, we could name twenty that fetch an aggregate annual rent of upwards of thirty-three thousand pounds, or an average of nearly seventeen hundred pounds; while it is no secret that an American gentleman pays a yearly rental for deer-ground in Inverness and Ross of nearly eleven thousand pounds.

Deer-stalking has been denominated ‘the pastime of princes;’ and it is a sport that calls for pluck, patience, and endurance on the part of those who undertake it. From daybreak to sundown has been often spent in circumventing the monarch of the mountain; and often, after a hard day’s work, the noble hart has got the better of his pursuers, and found his way to a place of safety. The deer is difficult of access, being a most suspicious and wary animal, with a wonderfully acute power of scent and sense of hearing. The antlered stag has to be watched from afar with a powerful telescope, the anxious stalker and his gillies requiring to be circumspect in all their movements. As an intelligent forester told the writer: ‘You have to creep on your stomach like a serpent; you have to crouch as you go like a collier at work; while to make sure of your prey, you may have to make a tour of a couple of miles, even though you are just about within range. You must force your way through the morass, and must, if necessary, walk for a few hundred yards up to your middle in water—that is all in the way of business, sir, when you go deer-stalking. A slight rustle, the displacing of a stone on the mountain-side as you laboriously creep or climb to overlook your quarry, and your chance is gone; the deer being perhaps miles away before you can realise the fact that you have disturbed him.’

These words contain an epitome of the work of deer-stalking. A stag will note a man a long way off, and will, when he does so, most probably at once take alarm and run for his life. The sense of smell which has been bestowed on these animals is wonderful; wind carries the scent to them unbroken, and whenever they have ‘got the wind,’ as it is called, of man, or any other source of disturbance, they are sure to move off to a place of safety. When once a herd of deer is disturbed, they will take themselves away to a distance; and it is generally a considerable time before they settle down again to rest or feed in quietness. The red-deer is excessively shy, and, as we have been trying to show, easily frightened. The melancholy note of a flying plover, the crowing of a cock-grouse, or the bustling past of a mountain hare, will sometimes cause him to gallop in a state of alarm for a mile or two before he pauses to see what has happened; and consequently, it is generally the policy of the devoted deer-stalker to discourage the rearing of grouse or hares in his deer-forest. The desire for possessing ‘fine heads’ causes some of the best specimens of the tribe to be shot at an early stage of the season, a stag-royal being a prize greatly coveted. It is a somewhat curious feature of the economy of a forest that so few horns are found. The deer sheds its horns every year; but what becomes of most of those that are shed is not very accurately known, the number found not being in anything like proper proportion to the number that must be shed. The horns, as a general rule, are given to the foresters who find them, as a perquisite; and therefore it may be taken for granted they are well looked after; or their scarcity may be partly due to the fact of their being eaten by the deer themselves after being shed! This, to a certain extent at least, seems certainly to be the case.

It has been said of the Highland sports of deer-stalking and grouse-shooting, that as they never can be made to ‘pay’ in a commercial sense, so they never can be vulgarised. The deer-forests in particular are sure to remain select; it is only men who have an annual income of many thousands who can afford to indulge themselves in the ‘pastime of princes.’ As regards the produce of these vast areas of ground—the venison—it can hardly be said to have a marketable value. To produce a haunch at table on the occasion of a dinner-party is with some persons a matter of ambition; but table venison, except in Highland shooting-lodges and hotels, is generally obtained from park-bred fallow-deer, especially fed for the purpose, and which in its season commands a very high price. Red-deer venison—that is, a haunch from a Highland hart or hind—can only be assigned a secondary place in the cuisine. Happily, some sportsmen have discovered that venison does not require to be kept till it has begun to decay before it can be brought to table, but can be used to the greatest advantage in the space of two or three days after being killed, when its flavour is excellent and the flesh presumably nutritious. The deer can also be cut into chops, such cuts being delicious. Among sportsmen who thus utilise their venison we may be allowed to name the father of them all—Horatio Ross. There is, however, some probability that the Scottish red-deer may yet cut a better figure at table than it has ever done, and pains are being taken, we understand, to fortify the various breeds. The deer is a rather local animal, and therefore there must be in the various herds a certain amount of in-breeding; and to counteract the deterioration which must result from such a circumstance, Sutherland stags were some time ago placed in the forests of Ross and Cromarty with gratifying results; the Queen, it was some time ago stated, had forwarded some red-deer from Windsor to be crossed with the deer of the Duke of Portland in the county of Caithness; and various gentlemen well known in the deer-forest world of the Highlands have recently followed these examples. It is to be hoped we may learn in time how these experiments have succeeded.

In conclusion, we have only to remark, that it is a fortunate circumstance for the owners of Highland estates that they can be rented for deer-forests. In no other way could the proprietors obtain so good an income from their lands. Those engaged in the sport of deer-stalking year by year expend a large amount of money; they give remunerative employment to many hundred persons, and have done much in many instances to improve the moral as well as the material circumstances of the people by setting those employed by them a good example. As to the question whether it would be more profitable to feed sheep or deer, that must be left to settle itself by the inevitable operation of economic law. It is a question of rental; persons having moors and forests in their hands, naturally enough let them to those who offer most money for them. It has been accurately ascertained by the Royal Commission of Inquiry into the Crofting System, &c., that all the deer-forests in Scotland—comprising about two million acres—are capable of throwing on the market only about four hundred thousand sheep per annum; and as there are in the United Kingdom nearly thirty million sheep, it is at once seen how comparatively meagre is the displacement of sheep by the Scottish deer-forests.

BY MEAD AND STREAM.

CHAPTER LVI.—UPHILL.

She knew and he knew that they were something more to each other on that white winter day than they had ever been before. What the degree of the ‘something more’ might be, neither Madge nor Philip attempted to calculate. They were conscious of it, and that was enough: yet both wondered how there could be this sense of closer alliance, when, looking back, they remembered how often they had thought that nothing on earth could decrease or increase their affection. They were learning the priceless lesson that Love grows in suffering where mere passion quickly withers and dies, and frequently turns to hate.

An honest, promptly spoken word had saved them from folly—cleared the mist from his eyes, and scoured the misery out of both hearts. And it was Madge who spoke this magical word, as it is the loving woman—God bless her—who always does. But then, says the cynic, ‘the loving woman’ is so rare that she may be freely allowed all possible praise: vanity and interest have generally much more to do in linking men and women than affection. Read your newspaper, note the lives of those around you, count the sores which the four walls of every house conceal, and then you will know how rare she is.—Go, cynic; we will shut our eyes and dream the beautiful dream of all romance, that women are fair, self-sacrificing, and loyal in their love.

Madge was insensible of any special heroism in taking the common-sense view of her duty to Philip and acting upon it. So now, the happy end being achieved, she turned calmly to think of what they had to do for others.

As they walked back towards the cottage, she spoke about Caleb Kersey, and the perilous position in which he was placed by the accusation of Coutts, supported as it was by the servant’s unintentionally exaggerated account of the prisoner’s conduct at the door of the Manor a few hours before the fire was discovered. She learned with satisfaction that Philip had not forgotten his unlucky foreman.

‘I have been to the court,’ he said, ‘and Caleb is remanded for a week, in order to collect further evidence as to his movements on that night, and to see how my father progresses.’

‘How did he look? What did he say?’

‘He looked as if he did not care what befell him; he said nothing more than that he was innocent, and I am sure of it. The poor fellow has been cruelly upset by Pansy’s conduct, and he has got into this scrape because he could not take warning in time that Coutts was too cautious a man to become his rival.’

‘But will he be able to prove his innocence?’

‘I hope so; and the next examination will enable us to form a clearer idea of his chances than we can at present. Coutts has had a slight disappointment in a business transaction, and is merciless towards Caleb. I suppose he is relieved to find some one to vent his spleen on.’

Philip smiled faintly, and she was glad to see even the least sign of his returning to his natural good-humoured way of viewing life. He did not explain to her that the business transaction in which Coutts had failed was his attempt to secure a snug place in Mr Shield’s will by ousting his brother.

‘Whatever we settle to do,’ Mr Shield had said with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, and referring to Coutts, ‘don’t let that gentleman into our plans.’

Mr Beecham, with a grave bow, had acquiesced in this counsel, the wisdom of which Philip could not dispute, although he was not at the moment acquainted with the details of his brother’s design.

‘Don’t see the dodge?’ continued Shield brusquely. ‘It’s plain as daylight. He wanted to get you into a hole, reckoning that the rich uncle would give him your place. He expected that bill would do it; for if he didn’t know from the first that it was a forgery, he believed it was, and made sure of getting his own and more out of the rich relative somehow. But when he heard of things going wrong, and being sharp enough to see that other people had their eyes open as well as him, he got too anxious to hedge to be able to carry out his scheme as he intended. Didn’t quite miss his mark either, though’—this was uttered like a growl of disappointment—‘for, thanks to you, he has got his own; but he’ll get no more.’

Philip remembered with what cynical frankness Coutts had explained the ethics of business which guided him; but, until now, he had always imagined there was more talk than practice in it. He certainly never suspected him of being capable of putting such theories into practice with a friend and relative. Pat upon this reflection, one of Coutts’s favourite apothegms recurred to him—‘There are no friendships in business.’ He owned with chagrin that the theories of Wrentham and Coutts were identical, although the former was not so careful in utilising them as to succeed.

The brothers rarely met at this time, and then only exchanged a passing ‘How do you do?’ After Mr Hadleigh’s removal to Willowmere, Coutts arranged with Dr Joy to send for him if there should be any marked change for the worse in the patient’s condition.

‘He wants quiet, you say,’ was the observation of this smart young man of business; ‘and there is no use in my trotting out here when I can do nothing. You’ll let me know if anything is required.’

He was punctual as ever in his attendance at the office; lunched and dined at his club, where he spent the evening playing billiards or cards, with an occasional diversion to one of those shady places to which ‘baccarat’ was the fatal lure. But Coutts did not lose; even here his usual caution protected him. He did not want to see Philip at present; for although his money was safe, he felt mortified by his inability to penetrate the mystery of the bill, and by the consciousness that he had failed most egregiously in the attempt to ingratiate himself with Mr Shield.

Philip paid a brief visit daily to the farm, but it was very brief; and in that first week of anxiety, Madge and he spoke little of themselves or of their future. There was no need: everything was understood between them now, and they were too deeply engaged in earnest duties to allow themselves any relaxation until the immediate crisis in their affairs had been passed.

At the works, Philip laboured with all his might to pull things straight, and he had frequent occasion to wish that he might have had the assistance of Caleb Kersey. Mr Beecham, however, was at his elbow, encouraging him with words of hope and sage advice. The accounts of various firms as represented in their invoices were largely reduced in consequence of Wrentham’s confessions. In most cases it turned out that two sets of invoices had been prepared: one set gave the real amounts which were to be paid to the dealers; the other set gave the sums which Philip had to pay. The explanation given was that Wrentham had represented himself as the buyer, and was therefore at liberty to charge whatever price he could get when he sold.

Even in the first transaction which Philip had entered into, namely, the purchase of the land, a bold attempt had been made to mulct him in a sum equal to double its value. He had, however, absolutely refused to listen to the terms proposed; and Wrentham had been obliged to content himself with what most people would have considered a very satisfactory commission of twenty per cent.

The details of these frauds—or should they be called merely ‘sharp practice?’—were forced from Wrentham as much by the terror of Bob Tuppit’s threat to give evidence in the matter of the forged bill as by gratitude for the generosity of Philip and his uncle. One by one the accounts were amended as far as they could be; and the amendment represented a considerable amount.

Wrentham gave his information with the air of a man who has simply failed in what promised to be a good speculation. Two things distressed him—he had been found out, and he had lost the whole of the money he had schemed so elaborately to obtain, by mistakes on the turf and the Stock Exchange. One important item, however, was safe. Despite his gambling infatuation, he had invested the proceeds of the forged bill in sound securities, so that the whole amount was recoverable. Yet the man was so insensible to the criminality of his proceedings, that he was secretly regretting the loss of the pleasure and excitement he might have purchased with this money, if he had not been fool enough to desire to have a nest-egg.

In this week of hard work and anxiety to Philip and Madge, Caleb Kersey was again called on to answer the charge of malicious incendiarism. The doctors were able to give a satisfactory report of Mr Hadleigh’s progress; and that was so much in the prisoner’s favour. All the rest told heavily against him, especially his apparent indifference as to the result of the trial, which some honest country-folk regarded as signs of the hardened sinner, who had caused so much disturbance in the country by his demands for higher wages and better housing for the agricultural labourers.

He admitted the general accuracy of the statement made by Coutts regarding their interview; whilst he refused to give any information as to the grounds of their quarrel. He affirmed, however, that after the door of the Manor had been closed against him, he had speech with Coutts’s father, who, on hearing his complaint, had directed him to be at the house early in the morning, and promised that justice should be done him. He further admitted that it was true that he had only reached his lodgings in the village a few minutes before the first alarm of fire was raised.

On his own showing, there seemed to be no alternative for the magistrate but to commit him for trial.

At this point, Mr Jackson, of Hawkins and Jackson, solicitors, who was acting for the prisoner by the instruction of some friends, called forward that astute detective, Sergeant Dier. He had been engaged for several days investigating into the origin of the fire; and he was now prepared with evidence which would not only establish the prisoner’s innocence, but would show that he had behaved heroically on the occasion, and was in fact the man who at the peril of his own, had saved the life of Mr Lloyd Hadleigh, the proprietor of Ringsford.

The face of Sergeant Dier was a picture of good-humoured satisfaction; whilst preserving a proper degree of professional firmness and equanimity, as the case was developed in court. Mr Jackson’s sharp visage was aglow with self-complacency, as if he would say, ‘I alone have done it.’

First there was the testimony of Mr Hadleigh, written down at his bedside by a duly qualified gentleman—to the effect that he had made an appointment to meet the prisoner as the latter had affirmed, and for the purpose mentioned by him. Next Philip gave the man an excellent character for intelligence, sobriety, and honesty. He was followed by half-a-dozen witnesses who had seen Caleb’s brave rescue of Mr Hadleigh when no one else would dare to attempt it.

Last came a housemaid, who confessed what she had been too much frightened to confess before. She had been sitting up late writing a letter (to her sweetheart of course—these things occupy a great deal of time), and hearing voices downstairs, she had gone into the passage, curious to discover the cause of the disturbance. As she was retreating hastily, she upset a paraffine lamp; but in her eagerness to get back to her room, she did not observe any signs of fire, or think of any danger until she heard the alarm.

The result of this evidence was a severe reprimand to the girl, and the instant discharge of Caleb Kersey without a stain on his character, and with a high compliment from the bench on the gallantry he had displayed in the rescue of Mr Hadleigh.

Caleb thanked His Worship, and retired, but not before Mr Jackson had whispered that it was a question whether he had not grounds for an action against Coutts Hadleigh. Poor Caleb neither understood nor heeded this suggestion in his present state of mind. He wanted to get away from the place. He was stopped, however, by Philip, who grasped his hand warmly, and asked him to come back to the works.

‘Thank you kindly, sir; but it may not be. I am bound to cross the water, and seek some place where I can forget the old land and—the old friends.’

‘Hoots, man, what clavers,’ exclaimed the gardener, stepping forward. ‘You should not be headstrong. There’s as good living in the auld country as in the new, if you would seek it in the right way.’

A kindly hand pressed Caleb’s arm, and a soft voice said in a tone of intense relief:

‘I am glad you are safe.’

Caleb pressed Pansy’s hand in his own, and held it firmly for a few seconds.

‘I’m obliged to you,’ he said quietly, although huskily. ‘I wish you well.’

And with that he forced his way through the group of friends and disappeared.

HOME-NURSING.

BY A LADY.

FOURTH ARTICLE.

Having fully considered the choice and management of a sick-room, we now turn to those personal cares essential alike to the patient’s comfort and well-being.

We have already spoken of the need of absolute cleanliness in the sick-room; and as regards the patient himself, it is hardly possible to overestimate the importance of scrupulous attention to every detail affecting the purity of his immediate surroundings. Not only should bed and body linen be kept fresh and clean, but everything that has become soiled in using must at once be removed from the room. It is a very common practice in home-nursing to make a collection of dirty things, to be carried downstairs when any one is going; in this way, I have known a room to be fouled for hours, the patient being considered whimsical for complaining of odours not perceptible to his nurse. Now, any such complaint should receive immediate attention, and a nurse should never rest satisfied till she has discovered and remedied the evil. It not seldom happens that the patient’s sensitive condition makes him extra quick to discern such warning of danger; and the nurse who really desires to do her duty, instead of taking offence, will gladly avail herself of the help thus given; for it must be borne in mind that as surely as smoke indicates fire, so surely does a bad smell indicate a foulness of air, which will never be remedied till the cause has been removed. Remembering this, it will be seen how foolish is the practice of drowning unpleasant odours by the indiscriminate use of disinfectants; these have their special value—their proper sphere we shall consider in dealing with infectious diseases; but in ordinary illness, they are apt to be used simply as a covering-up of evils which demand entire and immediate removal.

As regards personal cleanliness, many people still retain the old-fashioned fear of washing, which used to condemn the patient to a state of dirt, equally uncomfortable and injurious. Of course, care and discrimination are needful, and if there is any doubt on the matter, it is better to ask the doctor’s opinion; but as a rule, daily washing of face, neck, and arms is possible in all cases fit for home-nursing; in addition, the legs and feet should be washed about every other day; and whenever practicable, a weekly bath should be given. For the daily wash, tepid water and a piece of flannel suit most patients best; but where cold sponging is a refreshment, it may be used, provided due care is taken to avoid a chill.

In cases where there is great feebleness, much care must be exercised in washing the patient and changing his body-linen. Before beginning, the nurse should see that the room is properly warmed, and that all she is likely to need is ready to hand; she must be careful that no draught shall reach her patient, and that he does not get a chill through unnecessary dawdling; at the same time, she must not hurry him, so as to increase the fatigue.

Any amount of washing is tiring to the very weak, and therefore toilet operations had better begin soon after breakfast. If possible, the body-linen should be changed at the same time. It is a good plan to keep two sets of under-linen going, so that the same may not be worn day and night. If the patient perspires much, the linen must be dried and warmed each time of changing; it is not enough that it has been once aired; every time it becomes damp the same process must be repeated. The same thing applies to towels, which are so often put away damp and used again without airing; no wonder that illness, resulting from cold, shivering or a fit of coughing, not seldom follows the washing process, whilst the simple precaution of using a towel well aired and warmed would do away with the discomfort.

Sometimes lying in bed produces great irritability of the whole skin, and the patient shrinks from any attempts at washing. In such cases, a soft sponge should be used, in one direction only, and that downwards; and a nice way of drying a sensitive part is to lay the towel smoothly over the place and pass the hand over the towel three or four times, very much as though drying a wet page with blotting-paper.

During the process of bit-by-bit washing, the bedclothes must be protected by a piece of mackintosh or thick towel; but should they become wetted, they must be changed at once, for even if not damp enough to do serious injury, there is sure to be some amount of discomfort; and everything, however small, that causes annoyance must be looked upon as a drawback to recovery, and treated accordingly.

In addition to the regular washing, any portion of the patient’s body that becomes accidentally soiled must be at once cleansed; and whenever the confinement to bed becomes lengthy, the back and shoulders should be washed every day with warm water and soap, thoroughly dried, and lightly dusted over with finely powdered starch. The patient must also be prevented from remaining too long in one position; and if too weak to move himself, it will be part of the nurse’s care to turn him from side to side every three or four hours. Where this is impracticable, pressure must be relieved by the use of cushions, those with a hole in the middle being most useful for the purpose. If these precautions are not taken, the most prominent bones, exercising undue pressure on soft parts, will cause them to give way, the skin will become tender and inflamed, and if not stopped in time, a painful wound, difficult to relieve or cure, will be the result. I have known cases where these wounds have caused infinitely more distress and pain than the patient’s actual disease; and yet, with few exceptions, it is only a question of care and attention. So true is this, that a trained nurse looks upon such wounds as a disgrace, and is constantly on her guard against them; but the inexperienced nurse neglects this necessary watchfulness, simply through ignorance of the danger to be avoided. But forewarned should be forearmed; and by taking care to avoid dirt, pressure, and creases in the bedding, even the most inexperienced stand a good chance of success in this most troublesome part of nursing. At the same time, if, in spite of care, any portion of the skin reddens or becomes sensitive, the doctor should at once be informed of the fact, for this is one of the best examples of the old saying, ‘Prevention is better than cure,’ and it is too late to cry out when the mischief is done.

If the patient is too weak to sit up and use a toothbrush, a piece of lint should be tied to the end of a small stick such as a penholder, and wetted with water to which a little Condy’s fluid has been added; with this, the nurse can easily clean the teeth and gums. Brushing the hair requires a certain amount of tact and gentleness; with female patients the hair is apt to get into a troublesome tangle, unless plaited up loosely and tied at the ends. Sometimes moistening the brush with toilet vinegar will be liked, and in not a few cases gentle brushing has a soothing effect. I remember one instance where, under this influence, and this alone, restlessness would subside into quiet, leading to refreshing sleep. The same effect may sometimes be produced by sponging the face and hands with tepid water, with or without the addition of a little vinegar or Eau de Cologne; and again, in other cases, letting the hands lie in a basin and gently pouring cold water on them will be found grateful. It is well worth a nurse’s while to study her particular patient’s taste, and to find out some such simple method of relieving the weariness and monotony of illness.

To lift a helpless patient is by no means an easy task to inexperience, and should never be attempted without help. When the patient is utterly helpless, two long poles or broom-handles will be needed; these must be tightly rolled round in the under sheet and blanket, and the patient can then be moved, as in a stretcher, by four bearers.

To move a patient from side to side, the draw-sheet alone is needed. Rolling one end close to the body, the nurse goes round to the other side of the bed, and by taking hold of the rolled-up part, will be able to turn the patient gently over with perfect ease. Where the draw-sheet is not being used, it is a good plan to let a heavy patient lie on a strong roller-towel, which can be used as above; and if two people grasp it firmly on each side, they will be able to move the patient up and down in bed without fatigue or injury. This plan is especially useful in dropsy, when the patient becomes a dead, heavy weight, and is often restless to a painful extent.

In many cases, a patient, otherwise helpless, will be able to move at least his position by the use of a strong towel or cord tied to the foot of the bed. Hospital-beds are almost invariably provided with a cord and handle for the patient to grasp; but a better thing still is a netted hammock, a simple contrivance consisting of a piece of netting—of twine or coarsest knitting-cotton—four yards long by one and a half wide, the loops at each end being drawn up with tape; these tapes are tied to the foot of the bed; and the netting not only serves as a cord, but, thrown over the patient’s head and drawn out across his shoulders and back, forms a most easy, comfortable support. I have seen patients sitting up thus, who had mournfully declared it an impossibility, and whose delight at the change of position was a thing to be remembered.

In grasping any part of a patient’s body, be very careful not to take hold with the finger-ends; the whole hand should be used, and the fingers slightly spread out; anything like a hesitating touch is exasperating, and indeed hesitation in any way must be carefully avoided in dealing with the sick. It is well to remember that a certain amount of work has to be done, and a certain amount of noise must follow; make up your mind how much, and go to work thoroughly, quickly, and quietly; quiet, though, must be natural, not laboured; the tiptoe, whispering style is torture to sensitive nerves; a firm, even tread and a distinct way of speaking should be cultivated; the latter, especially, will make all the difference to a patient’s comfort. To be constantly on the strain to hear is by no means soothing; and whispered conversation as to the patient’s condition must never be indulged in. Some people, realising this, will go out of the sick-room, to carry on low-toned consultations just outside the door and within hearing of the patient, who involuntarily strains every nerve in the endeavour to catch what is being said. Such treatment is even worse than unnecessary noise, and all discussion relating to the patient must be carried on where there is no possibility of his hearing it. It is a safe rule to avoid detailing the patient’s symptoms to relatives or friends; sensitive, delicate minds are often made to suffer unnecessarily, from the consciousness that sick-room details are being made the subject of curious inquiry and remark.

It not seldom happens that in delirium, or extreme weakness, the patient will let out some cherished secret, and this should be as jealously sacred to the nurse as though the confidence had been voluntary, the only allowable violation being when the revelation made throws any light upon the patient’s illness; in such a case, the doctor must be told; and this brings us to a most important point—the relations between doctor and nurse, a point which is seldom understood by the inexperienced.

The nurse’s responsibility is great; she has many duties to perform, some of them apparently slight, yet really of vital importance; but at the same time, she is only acting under orders, and when those orders have been faithfully carried out, her responsibility ends; it therefore follows, that whatever her private opinion, she must never alter the treatment without the doctor’s express permission, and whatever she may think, she should never, by word or deed, seek to lessen the patient’s confidence in the patient’s doctor. It sometimes happens that injudicious friends suggest remedies of their own, and insist upon their being used; any such interference should be at once reported to the doctor, for how else can he form a right opinion as to the patient’s condition? Yet so often is this overlooked, that, I believe, in many home-nursed cases the doctor’s treatment is never allowed fair-play; and I have even known a prescription, that had been torn up by the doctor as unsuitable, carefully pieced together after his departure, and used. Perhaps in no other point is there such a marked difference between the trained and untrained nurse. The former has been taught that her power lies in obedience; the latter, ignorant of her very ignorance, ventures to meddle in matters which, had she but a little more knowledge, she would understand to be beyond her.

Not a little of the nurse’s value depends on her ability to give the doctor a proper report of how matters have been going during his absence. A patient will often pull himself together and even feign convalescence for the doctor’s visit, which is necessarily brief; whilst the nurse, spending hours with him, sees every varying mood and symptom; at the same time, she must remember that the doctor does not want her opinion, but asks only facts, which will enable him to draw his own conclusions. From this it will be seen that the nurse needs to understand what to notice and how to report her observations.

As to what to notice—each illness has its specific symptoms, about which the doctor will make special inquiries, and he will also expect to hear what effect has followed the use of remedies; but in addition to these, there are general symptoms to be taken account of in all illness. Amongst those most frequently overlooked by the inexperienced nurse, are: The appetite, whether good, failing, fanciful, or voracious. The skin, whether moist or dry, hot or cold; and whether sensitive to touch. Sleep, its character and duration; whether quiet, disturbed, broken, or uninterrupted, and whether the same by day and night. Posture, whether the patient lies very flat, or likes to be raised, or prefers to keep on one side; in going to sleep, the easiest attitude will be chosen, and any marked change in this respect should be noticed. Temper and spirits, whether equable or variable, moody, cheerful, excitable, calm, depressed, or inclined to tears. Countenance, whether liable to changes of complexion or expression.

When visitors are allowed, the effect upon the patient should be noted; and at any cost, in serious cases, those whose influence is depressing or exciting must not be admitted.

A nurse should also, without being fussy, keep an eye to any fresh symptoms that may appear, and duly report them; but nothing is more worrying than to be constantly teased with such questions as: ‘Are you in pain?’ ‘Do you feel better now?’ ‘Will you let me look at your tongue?’ Those who have endured the martyrdom, know what it means, and know, too, how little information can be gleaned by such methods. Let a nurse be sympathising by all means, but let her sympathy show itself in caring for her patient’s wants, and in efforts to save him from worry as well as from pain.

I remember a trained nurse who was deeply hurt at being told that a bell would be placed within her patient’s reach, in case he wanted anything at night. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ was her reply; ‘my patient will not need to ring.’ Nor did he, thanks to his nurse’s constant care to anticipate his wants. A nurse thus watchful, will be quick to notice any change in her patient; but it is quite one thing to notice, and another to give a faithful report of what has been observed; and I would urge every inexperienced nurse to be very particular in jotting down at once all that strikes her attention. The simplest way of doing this is to keep a sort of diary of all that happens. Take a piece of writing-paper, keep one side for day and one for night, write the date at the top, crease it down the middle, and note on one half, all the patient takes and does, and on the other, anything you think demands notice. The following is a specimen of the sort of chart I mean.

October 4.
A.M. | A.M.
8. | Cup of tea and toast.
10. | Four ounces milk. | 10. | Milk taken with difficulty and dislike.
11. | Medicine.
11.15. | Poultice to chest and back.
11.30. | Slept twenty minutes. | 11.30. | Turned on right side before going to sleep.
12. | Four ounces beef-tea.
12.30. | Mrs A. called, stayed quarter of an hour.
| 12.45-1.30. | Excited and depressed by Mrs A.’s call.
Are visitors to be allowed?

The reverse side might read thus:

October 4.
P.M. | P.M.
8. | Four ounces milk.
9. | Jacket poultice.
9.30. | Dozed half-hour. | 9.30. | Skin hot and dry, face flushed; woke excited and restless.
10. | Opiate as directed.
10.45. | Slept two hours.
| 11.30. | Began to perspire, expression tranquil; woke refreshed.
12.45. | Four ounces milk.

To keep such a chart properly requires some practice, but it is the only way of insuring accuracy, and it will also save a good deal of questioning on the doctor’s part, a glance being enough to show him how matters stand.

At the bottom of the first page, it will be noticed there is a question, which, unless so marked, would very likely be forgotten; and whenever the nurse is in any difficulty or uncertainty, she must never hesitate to ask for guidance. The doctor will not expect perfection from inexperience, and even if he does not volunteer information, will certainly not object to answering reasonable questions. Of course, there is a great deal of difference in this as in all things, and there are doctors who take for granted that everybody knows certain things, of which even the intelligent, who have not had their attention called to nursing, may be quite ignorant. But even when this is the case, the nurse’s object being her patient’s good and not the support of her own dignity, if she is not sure of her ground, it is her duty to ask for instruction.

ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.

CHAPTER VII.

A few minutes later, Madame De Vigne and her sister came slowly up the glen from that part of the valley where the wagonettes had been left behind. Presently Clarice paused and gazed around.

‘It looks exactly as it did that day last summer when we were here,’ she said. ‘We might have been away only a few hours.’

‘And then, as now, you had no Archie to bear you company.’

‘I did not know him then; and yet it seems now as if I must have known him all my life. I suppose that just about this time he will be engaged with Sir William and those dreadful lawyers. And he has to go through all this for the sake of me—of me, Mora!’

‘He would go through a hundred times more than that for your sake, dear.’

‘I often feel as if I don’t deserve to be loved so much. I hope there will be a telegram when we get back to the hotel. He promised to send one as soon as he had any news; but, suppose his news should be bad news!’

‘At your age you ought always to look at the sunny side of your apple.’

‘Thanks to you, dear, I have never had occasion to look at any other,’ answered the girl with a caress in her voice. ‘And to-day I will try not to be down-hearted. I will try to hope for the best.’ They went forward a few paces in silence, and then Clarice suddenly said: ‘What a selfish girl I am! Tell me, dear, is your headache any better?’

‘A little. I will sit awhile under the shade of this tree. This seems as pretty a spot as any. Perhaps by-and-by I may try to do a little sketching.’

She sat down on a rustic seat that had been placed on a jutting spur of rock nearly fronting the waterfall. The seat was partly hidden from chance passers-by by a screen of shrubs, ferns, and natural rockwork.

‘There! What a head I’ve got!’ exclaimed Clarice with something of dismay in her voice.

‘Mr Ridsdale thinks it a very pretty head. But what’s your trouble now?’

‘I’ve left your sketch-book behind in the wagonette.’

‘Is that all?’

‘It will not take me more than ten minutes to fetch it.’

‘It is of no consequence—not the slightest,’ answered Madame De Vigne a little wearily.

‘I prefer to fetch it. Some one will be prying into it who has no business to. Besides, I recollect something that I want to say to Miss Penelope.’

‘As you please, dear.’

‘You don’t mind my leaving you?’

‘Not in the least.’

‘I shall not be long away,’ cried Clarice as she turned and took the road that led down the valley.

The shadow on Mora De Vigne’s face deepened the moment she was left alone. She was very pale this morning, and she had that look about the eyes which tells of a sleepless night. Beyond her sister and Nanette, no one knew of her fainting-fit of the previous night. Miss Gaisford had not failed to notice the change in her looks, but had asked no questions: she was assured that when the proper time should arrive she would be told all that it was intended she should know.

‘Alone at last! For a little while I can drop my mask,’ she said with the same weariness in her voice. ‘Is it not like the act of a crazy woman to come here to-day, among all these happy people?—I! Oh, the mockery of it! And yet to have stayed all day indoors under the same roof with him, not knowing from minute to minute what to expect, would have been worse than all. And then, Harold promised to meet me at this spot—the man whom I love—the man who loves me. Alas! alas! he can never more be “Harold” to me after to-day.’

She rose and went forward to the edge of the rock, and stood gazing at the waterfall with eyes that knew not what they were looking at.

‘What to do?—what to do?’ she sighed. ‘The same question that kept knocking at my heart all through the long, dreadful, sleepless night; and here, with the summer sunshine all about me, it seems no nearer an answer than it was then. Sometimes I think that what I saw and heard can have been no more than a hideous nightmare fancy of my own. But no—no! That voice—that face!’ She shuddered, and pressed her fingers to her eyes, as if to shut out some sight on which she could not bear to look.

Presently, she moved slowly back to the rustic seat and sat down.

‘Has he tracked me?’ she asked herself. ‘Does he know that I am here, or is his presence merely one of those strange coincidences such as one so often hears tell of? If I only knew! If he has tracked me, why did he not make it his business to see me last night or this morning? What if he does not know or suspect? I must not go back to the hotel. I must not give him a chance of seeing me. I must make some excuse and go away—somewhere—straight from here. But first I must wait and see Harold and—and bid him farewell. What shall I say to him? What can I say?’

Her heart-stricken questionings were broken by the sound of voices a little distance away. She turned her head quickly. ‘Clarice and a stranger!’ she exclaimed. ‘And coming this way!’ A spasm of dread shot through her. What if this stranger were another messenger of evil come in search of her?

And yet he looked harmless enough. He was a rather tall, thin, worn-looking man of sixty-five years or thereabouts. He was dressed in a high-collared swallow-tailed coat, pepper-and-salt trousers, and shoes. His carefully brushed hat, of a fashion of many years previously, had, like the rest of his attire, seen better days than it would ever see again. He had short white whiskers, and rather long white hair, which straggled over his coat collar behind. His thick, bushy brows were still streaked with black; and his eyes, which were very large and bright, seemed to require no assistance from spectacles or glasses of any kind.

‘Here is your sketch-book, dear,’ said Clarice as she came up. ‘This gentleman is Mr Etheridge, Sir William Ridsdale’s secretary,’ she added.—‘Mr Etheridge, my sister, Madame De Vigne.—Mr Etheridge has travelled all the way from Spa, bringing with him an important letter from Sir William addressed to his son. The hotel people sent him on here after us.’

‘But’—— began Mora, half rising from her seat.

‘I have already explained to Mr Etheridge that Mr Archie was summoned by telegraph yesterday to meet his father in London this morning. It seems very strange.’

Mr Etheridge smiled a little deprecatingly, and resumed his hat, which he had doffed on being introduced to Madame De Vigne.

‘No doubt, ladies,’ he said, ‘it must appear strange to any one who is unacquainted with the peculiarities of Sir William. After writing the letter which I have in my pocket, and sending me off with it post-haste, he no doubt changed his mind (Sir William very often does change his mind), and set off for London with the intention of seeing Mr Archie in person, and never troubled himself more about me and the letter. Just like him—just like him.’

‘And what do you propose to do now, sir?’ asked Madame De Vigne.

‘My plan is a very simple one, madam. I shall telegraph to London that I am here, and here I shall stop till I receive further instructions.’

‘You must be somewhat tired after your long journey, Mr Etheridge,’ suggested Clarice.

‘Well—well. So—so. But I’m an old traveller, and it don’t matter.’

‘Luncheon won’t be ready for some time; but if you would like some refreshment at once, I’——

‘Not at present, thank you—not at present.’ Then he added: ‘This seems a very pretty spot; and with your leave, I’ll just ramble about and look round me a bit.’

‘Do so by all means, Mr Etheridge,’ said Madame De Vigne kindly, ‘only don’t forget to be in time for luncheon.’

Clarice hesitated a moment, and then she said: ‘There’s a charming view of the lake a little farther on; if you would like to see it, I will show you the way.’

‘Thank you. Nothing would please me better. Only, I don’t want to be a trouble.’

‘O Mr Etheridge, it will be no trouble!’

That gentleman made Madame De Vigne an old-fashioned bow, and moved a few steps away.

‘You won’t mind my leaving you for a little while?’ said Clarice to her sister.

‘Not in the least. Besides, I’m not in a talking mood this morning.’

‘It would be unkind to leave Mr Etheridge all alone.’

‘Of course it would. So now run off, and do your best to entertain him.’

‘This way, Mr Etheridge, please,’ said Clarice. And with that the two went off together, crossing the bridge and taking the same path that had been taken a little while previously by Lady Renshaw and her two cavaliers.

‘The transparent diplomacy of a girl in love!’ said Madame De Vigne as her eyes followed her sister’s retreating figure. ‘Not having her sweetheart with her to talk to, she must needs talk about him to some one else. Happy, happy days!’ She turned away with a sigh. ‘And now? Shall I sit here and wait for Harold, and try to think what I shall say to him? No; I cannot rest anywhere till the worst is over. He may be here at any moment. I will walk to the top of the hill and watch for him as he comes up the valley. O Harold, Harold, won only to be lost in one short hour!’

She took a narrow footpath to the right, which wound upwards through the trees and undergrowth to a small plateau, from which the whole of the valley was visible.

‘I did not think that I should be so fortunate as to have you all to myself for so long a time this morning.’

The speaker was Mr Richard Dulcimer, and it need scarcely be said to whom his words were addressed. They had been wandering about the glen at their own sweet will, penetrating into all sorts of odd nooks and corners, and now, emerging from the shade of the trees, found themselves on a small rocky table close to the shallow basin into which the stream fell and broke when it took its first leap from the summit of the cliff. It was a pretty spot, and just then the two young people had it all to themselves.

‘You have my aunt to thank for that,’ answered Miss Wynter, as she seated herself daintily on a fragment of rock. ‘It was she who sent me to you.’

‘Dear old damsel! I could almost find in my heart to kiss her,’ answered Richard as he deposited himself at his sweetheart’s feet and drew the brim of his straw hat over his eyes to shade them from the sun.

‘But of course she believes you to be a bishop’s son.’

‘Which I am, so far as having a bishop for a godfather goes. Otherwise—woe is me!—I’m only a poor beggar of a quill-driver in the Sealing-wax Office. Why wasn’t Providence kind to me? Why wasn’t I born with a rich father, like Archie Ridsdale?’

‘Why weren’t we all born with rich fathers?’

‘That would have been much nicer, if it could have been so arranged.’

‘I don’t at all see how you are going to extricate yourself from the awful scrape you have got into.’

‘I am not aware that I’m in any awful scrape, so far.’

‘But you will be, when my aunt finds out what a wicked impostor you are.’

‘Her ladyship’s anger doesn’t matter two farthings to me. It’s her influence over you that I’m afraid of.’

‘Her influence over me!’

‘The lessons she is continually preaching—the maxims she is for ever dinning into your ears.’

‘Yes; I know she looks upon it as a sacred duty which I owe to Society that I should marry myself to the highest bidder.’

‘And you?’ asked the young man as he sat up, pushed back his hat, and gazed into the pretty face above him.

She was drawing figures aimlessly with the point of her sunshade in the gravel. For a moment or two she did not answer; then she broke out with an emphasis that was full of bitterness: ‘What would you have? What can you expect? From the day I left school, and even earlier than that, the one lesson that has been instilled into my mind is, that I must marry money—money. Even my mother—— But she is dead, and I will not speak of her. And since then, my aunt. I am a chattel—a piece of bric-à-brac in the matrimonial market, to be appraised, and depreciated, and finally knocked down to the first bidder who is prepared to make a handsome settlement. I hate myself when I think of it! I hate everybody!’ Sudden passionate tears sprang to her eyes; she dashed them away impatiently.

‘Not quite everybody, ma belle,’ said Mr Dulcimer as he possessed himself of one of her hands. ‘There is one way of escape that you wot of,’ he added in a lower voice.

She turned on him with a flash: ‘By marrying you, I suppose?’

‘Even so, carissima.’

‘A government clerk on three hundred pounds a year.’

‘With another hundred of private income in addition.’

‘A truly munificent income on which to marry!’ she answered, not without a ring of scorn, real or assumed, in her voice as she withdrew her fingers from his grasp. ‘I think I know the kind of thing it implies. A stuffy little house in Camden Town or Peckham Rye—wherever those localities may be. Perhaps even furnished apartments. One small servant, not overclean. No opera, no brougham in the Park, no garden-parties, no carpet-dances, no more flirtations with nice young men. Locomotion by means of a twopenny ’bus or tram.; long, lonely days without a soul to talk to; now and then an order for the theatre; au reste, my husband’s buttons to sew on and his socks to keep in repair. Oh, I can guess it all!’

A tinge of colour had flickered into Dick’s cheeks while she was speaking, but it now died out again. He was quite aware that nothing would delight her more than to tease him till he should lose his temper; therefore, he answered as equably as before: ‘Evidently Lady Renshaw’s lessons have not been quite thrown away on you.’

One of her little feet began to tap the ground impatiently. ‘It seems to me, Mr Richard Dulcimer, that the best thing you can do is to take the next train back to town.’

‘Shan’t do anything of the kind.’

‘You are a very self-willed young man.’ To judge from her tone, she might have been twice his age. It is a way her sex sometimes have.

‘Obstinate as a mule,’ answered the philosophic Richard.

‘Suppose I tell you that I have had enough of your society? Suppose I order you to leave me here and at once?’

‘Shan’t go.’

‘Well, of all’—— She rose abruptly. ‘How much longer are you going to keep me here?’ she demanded in an injured tone, as though he were detaining her against her will.

‘Not one minute longer than you wish,’ he answered as he sprang to his feet. ‘Suppose we cross the stream.’

‘Cross the stream?’

‘By means of these stepping-stones. They are here for that purpose.’

‘Oh!’ With a slight accent of dismay. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Dulcimer, but I’d rather not.’

‘Everybody crosses by them—except, perhaps, a few superfine young-lady tourists who think more of wetting their boots and frills than of’——

‘Monster! Lead the way.’

‘Lend me your hand.’

‘Certainly not.’

Without another word, Dick stepped lightly from stone to stone till he reached the middle of the stream. There he halted and turned. Bella, not to be outdone, stepped after him on to the first stone and from that to the second; then all in a moment her courage seemed to desert her. ‘Dick, Dick, I shall slip into the water,’ she cried. ‘I know I shall.’

Dick grinned. He had been addressed as ‘Mr Dulcimer’ only a minute before. He went back and held out his hand, which Bella clutched without a moment’s demur. Having assisted her as far as the middle of the stream, he came to a stand.

‘Why don’t you go on?’ she demanded.

Dick ignored the question. ‘These stepping-stones, or others like them,’ he remarked didactically, ‘are said to have been here for hundreds of years. There is an old local rhyme in connection with them which is known to all the country-folk about. Listen while I recite to you that ancient rhyme.’

‘I am getting dizzy; I shall fall,’ remarked Bella, who, however, still kept tight hold of his hand.

Dick took no notice, but began:

‘Listen! listen! Every lass

That o’er these stepping-stones doth pass,

She shall clasp her sweetheart’s hand,

On the midmost stone shall stand,

And shall kiss him then and there’——

‘Oh, indeed,’ remarked Miss Wynter with a scornful sniff.

Dick continued:

‘But should she her lips deny,

Then shall she unwedded die,

And he wed another fair:

Listen, maids—beware! beware!

‘That is the midmost stone, ma petite, on which you are standing.’

Miss Wynter tossed her head. ‘Perhaps, sir, if you have quite done attitudinising, you will allow me to cross.’

‘Avec plaisir—when you have paid the customary toll.’

‘The what?’ with a drawing together of her pretty eyebrows.

‘The toll. When you have done that which every girl does who crosses the stepping-stones with her sweetheart.’

‘You are not my sweetheart.’

‘But you are mine, which comes to the same thing.’

‘I will go back.’

‘You dare not.’

‘I will’——

‘Go forward? You dare not.’ And with that he withdrew his hand.

Bella, finding herself without support, gave vent to a little shriek, whereupon Dick put out his hand again, at which she clutched wildly. Richard was hard-hearted enough to laugh.

‘This is mean—this is cowardly—this is contemptible!’ cried Bella with flaming eyes.

‘It is—but it’s nice.’

‘I hear voices. There’s some one coming!’

‘Let them come.’

‘And find me in this ridiculous predicament? Never!’

‘Not for worlds,’ assented Mr Dulcimer in his sweetest tones.

Bella gave vent to a little laugh: she could not help it. One of Dick’s arms found its way round her waist. The situation was embarrassing. If she were to push him away, she might slip into the water. Their faces were not far apart. Suddenly she protruded hers and touched his cheek lightly with her lips. ‘Wretch! There, then!’ she said. ‘And there,’ quoth the unabashed suitor, as he returned the toll, twofold. ‘And there!’ she added a moment after, as, with her disengaged hand, she gave him a sounding box on the ear.

Dick laughed and rubbed his ear. ‘For what we have just received’—— he said, and then grasping both her hands, he helped her across the remaining stepping-stones to the opposite bank of the stream.

ARTIFICIAL JEWELS.

The trade in artificial jewels has become very extensive during the last half-century, and the chemical experiments in which various qualities of imitation diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds are produced have been recently carried on with an astonishing amount of success. It is becoming more and more difficult, even to the eye of the expert, to distinguish readily between the real and the false gem, when they do not shine in too close proximity.

The most distinctive feature of the real stone is its hardness, though even this quality has been imitated with considerable success. The term ‘hardness’ is used by the lapidary and mineralogist to denote the power of one stone to scratch another; it must not be considered as the power of resisting a blow, for many crystalline stones which are very hard are also easily fractured. The diamond, which will scratch any other stone, can be more easily broken than many stones which are less hard. After the diamond come the ruby and sapphire, which are the next hardest stones; then emeralds, topazes, and quartz or rock-crystal; and finally, a number of other stones, and glass or artificial stones.

The beautiful ‘French paste’ which imitates the diamond so well, is a kind of glass into which a certain quantity of oxide of lead is introduced. The more lead it contains the more brilliant is the artificial stone; but the lead gives softness—so much so, that we have known such artificial gems to become, by friction with other harder substances, quite dull on the surface after being worn for some time.

But the latest chemical experiments on the production of artificial stones for use in jewellery point very clearly to the fact that further success in this direction is likely to be forthcoming before long. The imitation of the natural gems by means of various silicates and oxides has already attained to a great degree of perfection, and no doubt this ingenious branch of industry must interfere considerably with the trade of the dealer in real precious stones. We can already purchase a capital ‘diamond’ for about half-a-crown; and the imitation of the ruby and the emerald is far easier, and more successful, than that of the diamond.

Careful choice in the substances to be melted together, good and effective cutting, and careful artistic setting, have gone a long way to reproduce, artificially, the brightness, brilliancy, and colour of the real stone. Chemical analysis shows the sapphire to be pure alumina, as it has shown the diamond to be pure carbon; but it does not account for its colour, which is partly due to an optical effect, and depends upon a peculiar molecular arrangement. This stone possesses the singular property known as dichroism—that is, it shines with two colours, blue and red. In a well-cut stone, a red cross often appears in the midst of the sapphire blue. The ruby is also pure alumina, and its vivid red colour, like the blue of the sapphire, is thought by some to be due to a peculiar optical effect. In fact, no chemical analysis has been able to account quite satisfactorily for the red colour of the ruby or the blue colour of the sapphire, for pure alumina is quite white, and the sapphire, as we have seen, shows two colours. This peculiar optical effect noticed in the ruby and sapphire has, strange to say, been accidentally reproduced not long since by a French chemist, M. Sidot, who has been making some experiments on artificial stones. He has produced a kind of glass by melting phosphate of lime at a great heat, and the product possesses the blue colour of the sapphire with the remarkable dichroism before alluded to. The experiment is so curious, that a few lines may be devoted to it here.

By the action of heat on what is termed ‘acid phosphate of lime,’ it is transformed into ‘crystallised pyrophosphate;’ and when heated to a still higher temperature, it passes into the vitreous or glassy state. It is supposed that in this condition it loses some of its phosphoric acid by volatilisation, and passes into the state of ‘tribasic phosphate.’ Such is the technical explanation of the changes which occur. The phosphate of lime glass is produced by taking this substance in a moist acid state, and heating it in an iron pot to a dark red heat. During this operation it is worked about with an iron rod, in order to prevent it swelling up and passing over the edge of the iron crucible. The dark red heat is continued until the whole mass has become glassy and transparent. At this moment it is run into another crucible, in which it is heated to a white heat that is kept up for about two hours, being stirred rapidly with a rod the whole time. At the end of this period the molten mass is allowed to remain perfectly quiet for about an hour, and is then run out of the crucible, either on to a metallic slab or into a metal mortar. It is necessary to avoid too rapid a cooling. The product may thus be run out into a sheet, like plate-glass. A small sheet of such a nature was obtained by M. Sidot in one of his experiments: it measured about three inches across, by a quarter of an inch thick, and was large enough to be cut into a considerable number of beautiful artificial sapphires.

The ruby and sapphire have also been closely imitated in another way by Fremy and Feil, two French chemists; and the chief interest in this process is the fact that the artificial stones possess essentially the chemical composition of the real ones. To produce these, equal weights of alumina and red-lead are heated to a red-heat in an earthenware crucible. A vitreous substance is formed, which consists of silicate of lead, and crystals of white corundum. To convert this corundum into the artificial ruby, it is necessary to fuse it with about two per cent. of bichromate of potassium; whilst, to obtain the sapphire, a little oxide of cobalt, and a very small quantity of bichromate of potassium, must be employed. The stones so produced possess at least very nearly the hardness of the real stones, as they scratch both quartz and topaz.

The French ‘paste’ which imitates the diamond so closely is a peculiar kind of glass, the manufacture of which was brought to a great degree of perfection some fifty years ago by Donault-Wieland of Paris. The finest quality of paste demands extreme care in the choice of materials and in melting, &c. The basis of it, in the hands of the expert manufacturer just named, was powdered rock-crystal or quartz. The proportions he took were—six ounces of rock-crystal; nine ounces two drams of red-lead; three ounces three drams of pure carbonate of potash; three drams of boracic acid; and six grains of white arsenic. The product thus manufactured was extremely beautiful, but rather expensive, compared with the prices now charged for artificial jewels. It has never been surpassed in brilliancy. But of late years the greater purity of the potash and lead oxide used, and the improvements in the furnaces and methods of heating them, have all tended to reduce the price of the ‘diamonds’ thus manufactured.

THE MISSING CLUE.

CHAPTER V.—THE COLONEL’S DAUGHTER.

Meanwhile, the subject of the previous conversation is seated in a private room before a merry crackling fire, small reflections of which lurk here and there in the dark polished oak with which the walls are panelled. Everything in the apartment has an extremely comfortable appearance save its living occupant, and his features wear an expression totally at variance with his surroundings. He is twisting a crumpled note between his fingers; while, judging from the expression with which he regards it, his feelings can scarcely be of an agreeable nature. The offending epistle is written in a bold decided hand, which harmonises well with the short and haughty tenor of its contents. As a perusal of this may enable the reader more clearly to understand the ensuing narrative, a copy is here inserted:

Colonel Thorpe presents his compliments to Lieutenant Ainslie, and in reply to that gentleman’s letter of this morning, begs to state that any overtures from him relating to Miss Thorpe will receive an absolute negative. It is also requested that Lieut. A. will discontinue his visits to Coombe Hall, as Col. T. wishes him distinctly to understand that this decision is final.

Dec. 22, 1760.

The exasperated recipient of this ungracious piece of writing makes a movement as if to consign it to the hungry blaze which is roaring up the chimney; but checking himself ere the action is performed, he places the missive in a side-pocket, and falling back in his chair, resigns himself to a long train of unenviable reflections.

Next morning, the sun, first a dull crimson, and then yellow as a copper ball, slowly mounted above the horizon and pierced cloud and vapour with its struggling rays. Snow-clad roofs and chimneys, whose quaint outlines could scarcely be distinguished from the leaden sky a short time before, now became flooded with a rich golden light, contrasting strangely with the blue mist that lingered in the shadows. As yet, it was only the high gables and towers which had caught the cheering beams; the streets and lesser thoroughfares were gloomy, dark, and silent, while ruts and gutters were fast bound with King Frost. The good people of Fridswold had not the reputation of being early risers, and with a few exceptions, the streets were almost totally deserted; but our friend who figured last night as a guest at the George, at least appeared to be no sluggard, for he was out, and walking quickly along, the iron-tipped heels of his riding-boots bringing forth a smart click from the frost-hardened ground.

Lieutenant Ainslie was not bent upon sight-seeing; he had other matters to attend to. The wintery beauties of the early morning seemed completely lost upon the young officer, and he passed the great west front of the minster—all flecked with ‘hoary flakes’—without bestowing so much as a glance upon it. His course was continued until the irregular outskirts of the town were left behind, when a large imposing red-brick mansion came within sight. The grounds which surrounded it were separated from the public highway by a substantial wall of rough masonry; while parallel with this wall extended a belt of fine trees, now leafless, and shivering as if with cold. Keeping to the road until a turn shut out the palatial residence from view, the young officer, after a hasty look around him, vaulted the wall, and then shaped his way across the white stretch of private ground.

Slowly and uncertainly he proceeded, often stopping to look back, and more than once referring to his watch as well as to a dainty note, the writing of which was in a delicate female hand. At length, after many turnings and much doubtful wandering, he emerged from the underwood and entered upon a small cleared inclosure containing a rustic summer-house, now fretted with a glittering network of snow and ice. Into this the lieutenant stepped, frequently looking out in a furtive manner from the narrow doorway, as if in expectation of some one.

After a long interval of anxious expectation, certain sounds were heard which seemed to indicate the approach of a human being. The soldier sprang eagerly forward, and then as quickly shrunk back again. A slight crackling of dry twigs was followed by a hoarse cough, and the cough was followed by the unwelcome appearance of a red-faced man with a gun upon his shoulder, but fortunately not passing in the direction of the arbour. The lieutenant knew him at once. It was the fiery-faced man whom he had seen at the inn the previous evening. ‘Ah,’ said he to himself, ‘I see it all. Colonel Thorpe’s gamekeeper—sent down last night to play the spy upon me. It is well he has not seen me now.’

Not many minutes afterwards, a young lady burst into the arbour, with a little cry, half of fear and half of pleasure. It could be nothing more nor less than a lovers’ meeting after all.

The lovers’ first tender greetings over, they seated themselves side by side in the little arbour, and talked to each other in a low voice. The state of alarm in which she evidently was, sent a brighter flush of colour to her lovely face, and enhanced in her lover’s eyes the graces of her person.

Some twelve months before the present meeting, Colonel Thorpe made a sudden resolve to spend the winter in London; and fearing to leave this his only daughter out of his sight for any length of time, he determined to take her with him also. The season was a tolerably gay one; but the colonel, an austere man, though much in request at the houses of titled and wealthy friends, cared little for society, and constantly refused invitations both on behalf of himself and his daughter. Such a high pressure of circumspection could not last for ever. Receiving an earnest request from Lady Hardy—a friend of many years’ standing—that they would honour a fashionable entertainment with their presence, Colonel Thorpe somewhat relented, and meeting Amy’s wistful gaze with a smile which he intended to be severely pleasant, he told her to prepare herself to accompany him on the following Thursday. At this intelligence the young lady was naturally delighted; and even her severe parent condescended to relax and bring himself to converse about the forthcoming ball. This agreeable demeanour he sustained until about the middle of the festive evening, when, as if by magic, his spirits suddenly lowered to freezing temperature. He had observed that a well-favoured, handsome young gallant had danced three times with his daughter in the course of the evening. Now, the crusty old colonel did by no means approve of this, and was not aware that his daughter had more than once met the same young gallant since coming to London. In answer to inquiries which he made as to the unknown partner of his daughter, he learned that his name was Ainslie, that he was a subaltern in the Guards, and the only son of a widow lady of title, once wealthy, but now reduced in circumstances. His informant added, that though the young officer was not rich, he was of prepossessing manners—a piece of information which scarcely appeared to afford gratification to the master of Coombe Hall. Immediately upon receipt of this news the angry colonel sought out Miss Thorpe from among the dancers, and after bidding a hasty adieu to his hostess, drove away with his daughter from the house.

Colonel Thorpe’s temper was not improved when, on the day following the ball, he received a call from Ainslie; but in a short political conversation which ensued, the visitor—strangely enough—contrived to advance in his good graces considerably. Still, the colonel, who was habitually suspicious, did not encourage the young officer. He had only the doubtful satisfaction of knowing that the penniless son of Sir Henry Ainslie, deceased, was a suitor for his daughter’s hand.

‘Amy,’ he said to himself, ‘must return to Coombe Hall. The wiles of this dangerous young man can be kept at a safe distance there.’

But railways were as yet things of the future, and the weather became an unexpected ally in Ainslie’s favour, the colonel’s departure being thus delayed for fully a week. During this time Reginald contrived to see Miss Thorpe several times, as well as to ingratiate himself with her father, who listened to his visitor’s conversation and wit with a mingled feeling of approval and distrust. The time passed quickly; and when Reginald parted from Amy Thorpe it was with many protestations of eternal devotion, to which that young lady replied with equal warmth. Colonel Thorpe wished Ainslie a formal ‘Good-bye,’ and the lovers were separated from each other for a weary space of ten months.

The interval was not unfraught with change. Reginald had the good fortune to be raised in rank, and now entered upon his full grade of lieutenant. Since the departure of Amy Thorpe he had endeavoured to keep up a correspondence with her; but the age in which they lived, though practically a fast one, was slow enough in some respects, and the means of communication were so unsatisfactory, that long intervals elapsed between an interchange of letters.

At the close of October 1760, the tidings of King George II.’s death became known throughout the greater part of the kingdom; and following closely upon the spreading of this intelligence came a letter from Amy to Reginald, containing the joyful news that Colonel Thorpe was on his way to London to attend the opening of parliament by the new king, and that his daughter was coming with him. Ainslie, after the expiration of a few days, presented himself at Colonel Thorpe’s former apartments, where the first person he encountered was that worthy officer himself, stiff, irritable, and in a decidedly unpleasant temper. Their conversation commenced with a formal exchange of civilities, and Reginald seated himself on the chair which was pointed out to him, calm and unruffled in countenance, but with a heart which he had steeled and prepared for the worst.

Colonel Thorpe was glad that Lieutenant Ainslie had called, as he wished to have some serious conversation with him. There had been a—in fact there had been a correspondence kept up with his daughter, an interchange of letter-writing and—and that sort of thing, which must be discontinued.

‘Am I to understand, sir,’ said the young officer, with difficulty repressing his growing wrath—‘am I to understand that you wish me to resign all pretensions to Miss Thorpe’s hand?’

The colonel did not exactly say that; he said the correspondence must be discontinued for—for a time. If at some future date Lieutenant Ainslie could show satisfactory proofs that he would be able to maintain his daughter in a position of comfort and dignity consistent with that in which she had been brought up, he (Colonel Thorpe) might feel disposed to listen to any advances Lieutenant Ainslie thought proper to make. Till then, all interchange of sentiment must cease. That was all; Colonel Thorpe had nothing further to say.

Ere another week had passed, during which the lovers met but once, the colonel’s apartments were again vacant, and Reginald Ainslie was wondering at what remote period of his life he should again see Amy Thorpe. Poverty was the bane of the young soldier, and the monotonous round of barrack-life was by no means the royal road to wealth. Reginald, however, had for some time been meditating over a deep-laid purpose, the object of which was to recover an ancient property which his immediate ancestors, by their Jacobite proclivities, had forfeited. On obtaining leave of absence, therefore, shortly before Christmas, he set out for Fridswold, and made a series of excursions to Coombe Hall, to lay before his beloved Amy all his hopes and fears, and to receive from her encouragement in his momentous quest. But his proposed visit had been put a stop to by the colonel’s letter, and now this secret meeting in the arbour was the next expedient of the faithful pair.

For a while, the joy of meeting was so great that all other things were forgotten; but Reginald could not long shut his eyes to the barrier which destiny and the will of Colonel Thorpe had placed between the lovers. He was still poor; he was not yet able to fulfil the colonel’s stipulation. But he had hopes, and these he could now breathe into Amy’s sympathetic ear.

‘What would you say, Amy, if I were to tell you that I am the bearer of good tidings?’

‘I should say the news might be too good to be true,’ replied Miss Thorpe. ‘O Reginald, it cannot be; you do not mean it?’

‘I do, Amy,’ answered the lieutenant. ‘For what purpose do you suppose I undertook this journey?’ he added, after a pause, and turning so as to face his fair companion.

The girl’s blue eyes opened to their fullest extent, and she answered in a slight tone of wonderment: ‘To see me. Was it not so, Reginald?’

‘It was, dearest,’ said the lieutenant; ‘but if I were to say that I came in search of you alone, my words would be false.’

‘Then pray, sir, may I not know your other reason?’ inquired Amy laughingly. ‘Have you an appointment to meet some other distressed damsel in these lonely parts?’

‘Nothing of the kind,’ replied Ainslie, more earnestly than the question seemed to warrant. ‘You alone, Amy, I came to see, and it is principally on your account that I am about to journey farther.’

‘On my account!’

‘Yes, Amy, yours; this journey is all for your sake. I will explain myself. For some time past, I have been urged to take a singular step by one who believes that our lost wealth may be actually regained. The idea is a vague and most likely a visionary one, and had I never met you, Amy, it is probable that the task of unravelling this coil might not have been essayed. It was Colonel Thorpe who clenched my half-hearted resolution by informing me that I must not hope to call you mine until possessed of sufficient affluence to maintain you in a position equal to that in which you had been brought up. Those words struck home. I instantly formed a fixed determination, and am now about to follow it up, for which purpose I intend to start this very afternoon.’

‘This afternoon!’ echoed Amy. ‘Why so soon, Reginald? You have been here no time at all. When did you arrive?’

‘The day before yesterday,’ replied Ainslie. ‘But do not blame me, dearest, for not seeing you before. I repaired to Coombe Hall almost directly after I got here, hoping to see both you and your father, and having no thought that admittance would be refused.’

‘O Reginald, I am so sorry!’ faltered the girl. ‘What could I do? Did they really refuse to admit you?’

‘They did,’ answered the young officer. ‘But I am perfectly aware it was no fault of yours. I then wrote to your father, asking permission to see you, telling him that I had some expectation of recovering what my parent so unfortunately lost, when I hoped to be able to maintain you in a manner worthy of our ancient house. But two hours afterwards, my letter was returned!—yes, returned, Amy, and with it was inclosed a note from your father forbidding me to enter the house or seek an interview with his daughter. I disobeyed the latter part of his injunction, and have succeeded, darling, in meeting you once more.’

As we intend to follow Reginald in his quest, it is needless to repeat here the story of his hopes as he hastily unfolded them in the ears of Amy Thorpe; enough that, after remaining together as long as, or perhaps longer than prudence enjoined, the two tore themselves asunder, with thrice-repeated vows of fidelity and affection. The remembrance of their tender parting was to Reginald in after-years like a strain of sweet, bygone music passing through his memory.

That very evening the young lieutenant quitted Fridswold. His way lay in a different direction from that leading to Coombe Hall, and the farewell glance he gave back only showed him the black bulk of the minster towering above a mass of smoky chimneys. The suburbs of the town were speedily left behind, and soon a prospect lay before Reginald’s eyes which for savage desolation he had never seen surpassed. Extending as far as the eye could reach, stretched a dreary waste of flooded fields, black peat, broken ice, and frozen sedge, dotted at remote intervals with a few scanty willows. The wind was rising again, bringing up with it heavy clouds, and its moaning voice rustled among the patches of alder and withered rushes like a low, dying murmur. Taking warning by these signs, Reginald urged his horse forward to a quicker pace than hitherto, riding swiftly and eagerly into the gathering darkness of the night.

THE RING-TRICK.

A CURIOUS COINCIDENCE.

Some four years ago I was one of the many hundreds of somewhat aspiring youths who were seeking positions as Civil servants under our government. In order better to work up for the very difficult examinations which it is necessary to pass in order to gain these positions, I had joined the evening classes of a well-known London college. These classes were held twice in every week, and it was on my way to one of them from my home—I live in a northern suburb of the metropolis—that the events I am about to relate took place.

I had alighted, at about five o’clock on an autumn evening, from a train at the King’s Cross terminus of the Great Northern Railway, and was proceeding along the Euston Road, when, having half an hour to spare, I turned off to the right to enter Euston Station. As I passed under the heavy stone portico just to the south of this immense depôt, I observed a man about two yards in front of me, who, just as I noticed him, came to an abrupt halt and stooped down. So suddenly, indeed, did he do this, that I stumbled over him, and tendered an apology for what was not my error. As he regained his vertical position, he spoke to me, and said in a confidential tone: ‘Did you see that?’

I asked him what he meant.

‘Why, this diamond ring. I nearly trod on it. Just look here.’ And he showed me what was apparently a gold diamond ring; and then went on to say, that if I had seen it, I should have my share of the find; or that, as he was a poor man, and as it might arouse suspicion for the ring to be found in his possession, and since, as he could not get rid of it, it would be useless to him, he would sell it to me for a trifle.

I was not at that time—owing, I suppose, to my ignorance of London ways—so cautious as I am now; and thinking, from the various government stamps upon the ring, that it was indeed a valuable one, I told him I would think about it, if the diamond were a good one.

‘Come up here,’ said he, pointing to some back street, ‘and let us see if it will cut glass.’

I walked with him in the direction he indicated, and with much coolness he tested the stone upon a shop-window. Surely enough, it made a deep incision in the glass.

‘Well,’ I said, feeling now tolerably convinced of the genuineness of the ring, ‘I would give you ten shillings for it, but I unfortunately have a few pence only in my pocket.’

‘Ah, that’s a pity. Do you live far from here?’

‘Yes,’ I replied; ‘some twelve miles at least.’

‘Ah, well, there you are, you see; that’s a pity, because you are a gentleman, and the ring would be all right with you; but I am only a poor messenger—at this moment I am on one of my errands—earning a pound a week, and if I tried to sell it, people would suspect me. However, since you say you have not enough money, I will keep the ring and attempt to get rid of it. At anyrate, we’ll part friends. Come and have something to drink with me.’

I refused, for the man was not of a very attractive appearance, being dreadfully pock-marked and squinting in his right eye. So we said good-evening and separated, he to carry out his errand, I to walk on into Euston terminus.

On relating the adventure to my friends, we came to the conclusion that the man was an impostor, and had purposely dropped the ring and stooped to pick it up immediately in front and for the sole edification of myself, evidently hoping that I should purchase it—probably a sham one—from him.

Two years after the above had occurred, my business—I had abandoned the idea of the Civil service—led me one evening along that wondrous thoroughfare the Strand. Proceeding westwards, about midway between the Temple Bar memorial and Charing Cross, I collided somewhat violently with a man immediately in front of me, who had stooped with the evident intention of picking up something off the ground. He turned round sharply and exclaimed: ‘Did you see that?’ at the same time showing me a gold diamond ring, which he stated he had found on the pavement, and on which he had nearly trodden.

I will not weary the reader with a verbatim account of the conversation which then ensued. Suffice it for me to say that I had recognised in the man before me the pock-marked and squinting hero of the Euston Road of two years before. In order, however, further to convince myself that my impressions as to this were correct, I, apparently taking interest in what he had found, allowed him to do and say, act for act and word for word, all that he did and said on the first occasion of my meeting him. He tested the diamond by cutting glass; said he was a poor messenger earning a pound a week; was even then on one of his errands; thought that the discovery of such a ring in his possession would excite suspicion; and—— Well, I neither need, nor will I, rewrite the whole of the first portion of this narration, for what now took place was its precise counterpart.

I taxed the swindler with having played the same rôle at Euston Station, two years previously.

He replied, in the most naïve manner: ‘Ah, then I was in Liverpool.’ But he was, I suspect, somewhat astonished to find out that I knew him. Again did he ask me to drink with him and to part friends.

It is almost needless to add, that though I might have done the latter, I certainly did not do the former, he being evidently a swindler. And so we separated for the second time, he disappearing up one of the tributary streets of the Strand, I proceeding about my business.

It struck me as being very wonderful that this man, whose profession it doubtless was to entrap people—young and unsuspecting—in the manner I have described, should have on two separate occasions, between which there was an interval of two years, singled out myself as an intended victim to his fraud, since I am but one of tens of thousands of the youth daily to be remarked walking in the London streets. The remarkable blunder of the impostor proves how correct is the well-known proverb, ‘A liar should have a good memory;’ and the facts here narrated may perhaps serve to put others on their guard against the wiles of London street swindlers.

OCCASIONAL NOTES.

INVESTIGATIONS ON LIGHTS AND LIGHTHOUSES.

For some time past a series of observations and experiments have been carried on under the auspices of a Committee of the Elder Brethren of the Trinity House, at the South Foreland, chiefly relating to the measurement of lights by means of a photometer—the invention of Mr Vernon Harcourt—the standard light of which burns with wonderful regularity and uniformity. The Committee are now engaged on a still more interesting series of observations, which are made from the sea, and which will more nearly concern sailors. These experiments and observations for testing the capabilities of various lights will be peculiarly remarkable, as craft of almost all descriptions will be enlisted in this work: the mail-packets, the Peninsular and Oriental liners, pilot vessels of different nationalities, trading-ships, and French cruisers. The electric light, of course, is immensely superior to either gas or paraffine oil; but even this, from its whiteness and dazzling brilliancy, has not been found to be so very much better, in thick hazy weather, than either oil or gas, the reddish-yellow of the latter perhaps showing better through the haze of a sea-fog than the white glare of the former. All these points will, however, be carefully gone into, and every sort of test applied to discover the best and safest light to direct mariners to and by our coasts; and when all is completed, the Committee will record their useful labours in a full Report to the Board of Trade, a document which will possess peculiar interest for all who have at heart the welfare of ships and sailors.

LEVEL-CROSSING GATES.

Level crossings on railways have always been considered dangerous to the public, and are generally looked upon with disfavour; and yet, in certain places and positions, it is next to impossible to avoid them. Therefore, wherever a level crossing exists, gates must be provided to arrest the traffic on the road when a train approaches the crossing; and it is clear that the more perfect the arrangement for the opening and closing of the gates, the better for the safety of the public. An ingenious proposal has been made in France to call in the powerful aid of electricity for the purpose of opening and closing gates of this description. The gates are kept closed across the line by a catch governed by an electro-magnet. An approaching train, by a simple arrangement, is made to close the electric circuit at a stated distance from the gates, and the catch is therefore released and the gates are opened and kept open for the passage of the train. When the last carriage has passed, the circuit is broken and the gates are made to shut, when they are kept closed by the catch already referred to. The same current also rings a bell to give warning of the approach of the train.

A HAWTHORN STORY.

Pink and white in snowy shower,

Shade and light and leaf and thorn,

From the orchard gate the hawthorn bloom

Through diamond lattices scented the room,

When a child of the summer was born.

Golden green and creaking swing—

Boy and girl are playmates now.

‘Swing me higher—up to the sky!’

‘Nay; then I should lose you,’ he made reply,

Under the hawthorn bough.

Oh, perfume sweet!—she pulled the branch;

Flowers on her face fell tenderly;

At the orchard gate, ‘Good-night, dear love!’

Light in the lattice and stars above,

And ‘Take this bloom from me.’

Summer again, and a last good-bye,

Fair head resting in sunset ray;

Beyond the window and western glow

Fancy flutters to long ago:

‘Bring me one hawthorn spray.’

Childhood’s blossom and last good-bye—

‘Ah! think of the dawn in the Fatherland!’

Earthly morning—by flower-strewn bed,

Manhood’s tears from a drooping head

Trickling on still cold hand.

Oh! fragrance of the hawthorn tree,

Where’er his lonely footsteps fly,

Arise and waft her memory sweet;

White blossoms whisper: ‘White souls meet

Beyond the last good-bye!’

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.

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