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

CONTENTS

CAVE-HUNTING IN YORKSHIRE.
BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.
KENTISH HOPS.
GEORGE HANNAY’S LOVE AFFAIR.
A HUMBLE SPRIG OF NOBILITY.
A1 AT LLOYD’S.
DESTRUCTIVE INSECTS.
A NURSE.

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

No. 146.—Vol. III.

Price 1½d.

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1886.

CAVE-HUNTING IN YORKSHIRE.

The finest county in all England is the great shire of York, with its rugged coast, and its rolling plains dotted with many a noble church, its wild moorlands and lofty fells, its fertile valleys with their monastic ruins and crumbling castle-keeps. Every Yorkshireman is proud of his county, whether he be foxhunting Squire, lord of thousands of its acres, or merchant-prince—a brawny artisan, toiling in one of its great manufacturing towns, or a stalwart dalesman—a miner drifting for lead in the north-west, or a pitman burrowing for coal in the south—the sturdy yeoman-farmer of the wolds, or bluff fisherman on the shores of the wild North Sea—for is it not a very epitome of his country?

Micklefell, Whernside, Ingleborough, Penyghent, and many a mountain crest on the west, the bold chalk headland and wondrous caverns of Flamborough, with the romantic stretch of cliffs round Robin Hood Bay to eastward, afford scenery of the grandest description. Swaledale, Teesdale, Wensleydale, Nidderdale, and Wharfedale, with the rich plain of York beyond stretching away to the tilled slopes of the wolds and Hambleton Hills, are gems of softer beauty. The big towns of Leeds, Sheffield, Bradford, Wakefield, are seats of busy commerce, whose black smoke pollutes the air, whilst the snorting engine and thundering steam-hammer resound both night and day. The broad Humber bears on its tide-ruffled bosom great fleets from Hull and Goole, which carry their wares to every corner of the world. Fountains, Bolton, Rievaulx, Kirkstall, Pervaulx, and lesser abbeys, tell of past glories; whilst York, Ripon, Selby, Beverley, and Bridlington minsters are still glories of to-day. The castles of York, Bolton, Knaresborough, Wressle, Conisbrough, Pontefract, Helmsley, Scarborough, and other relics of troublous times yet look down upon this peaceful nineteenth century. The battlefields of Stamford Bridge, Northallerton, Wakefield, Towton, and Marston Moor still speak of the share Yorkshire had in making England’s history; and grand old York, with its ancient churches and minster, its frowning Bars, and encircling city walls, recalls past fame and grandeur, when the legions garrisoned it as ‘Eboracum,’ the chief seat of the Roman power in Britain (when London was an insignificant village) long before Saxon and Dane fought in the narrow streets for possession of it as ‘Eoforwic.’ For the archæologist, the botanist, the painter, and the sportsman, old ‘Eurewicshire’ is a happy hunting-ground indeed; the antiquary and philologist alike find it a rich storehouse of quaint customs and strange dialects; whilst to the geologist and physiographist, it is a charming text-book, written in bold graceful language, with many beautiful and wondrous illustrations.

But besides all this, Yorkshire offers vast delights to the explorer and lover of adventure, in the curious subterranean water-courses and awesome caverns which abound in the limestone ranges of the north-west. Less famous than the underground chambers of Derbyshire, they are yet more numerous, and, with two or three exceptions, are utterly free from the desecrating presence of the inveterate ‘guide,’ who rushes you through them, working unseemly havoc the while with Queen’s English, as he waves his tallow candle, and bids attention to the features of the show. It is true that Clapham Cave and Stump Cross Caverns are regular stock tourist properties, where the lessees give admission and provide illuminants at a fixed charge per head; but he who would see the weird, lonely passages of Ingleborough and Penyghent must find his own way, and carry a goodly supply of candles with him, for the Great ‘Alum Pot’ is not a Poole’s Cavern which glares bravely when the gas is turned on; and no urchin hastens before to stick torches in the crevices and fissures of Catknot Hole. The real cave-hunter will rejoice at this, and fixing his headquarters at one of the little inns in the neighbourhood, will don his canvas overalls and stiff felt hat, and go forth jubilantly, well stocked with ‘dips’ and matches, not forgetting luncheon and the cheering pipe. Of course, if the caves are only to be viewed and peeped into, the ‘overalls’ are needless; but if a thorough exploration is intended, then, in addition, a stout rope some twelve yards long at least, and two companions, should be taken, for abrupt descents occur which are impassable without a rope and strong arms to hold it.

Ingleborough, with its younger brother Simon Fell, is the central landmark of the great cave district—a district lying between Penyghent and Gragreth, Cam Fell, and the village of Clapham, and measuring roughly nine miles square, which contains all the chief Yorkshire caves and ‘pot holes,’ with the exception of a group in the limestone at the head of Nidderdale—one or two at Settle and Kilnsey, and the famous ‘Stump Cross’ Cavern, which lies a little off the mountain road running over from Pateley Bridge into Wharfedale. The picturesque village of Ingleton is a pleasant headquarters from which to see Clapham and Yordas Caves, and whence Ingleborough and Whernside may be ascended; but if intent on systematically doing the district, the lonely Gearstones Inn, which stands on the moors some seven or eight miles on the road which runs up Chapel-le-dale over to Hawes in Wensleydale, is the best place to put up at. Here, within easy reach, are Douk Caves, long water-worn tunnels piercing the limestone scaurs which flank the Ingleborough range, wherein is nothing curious except a circular opening like a well, which brings down a beam of light, and gives a glimpse of blue sky thirty feet up through the rock.

Higher up the scaurs are the curious holes, or ‘pots’ as they are locally termed, ‘Meregill,’ Barefootwives, and Hardrawkin. The first is a slit in the ground about forty yards long, ranging from two to nine, and bridged now and again by stones and turf; and you can plumb it to a depth of a hundred feet, fifty at least being under water. Hardrawkin is a pot or fissure nine yards deep, which lies between two narrow caves, both of which may be explored, though water often covers the floors. Near the little gabled church of Chapel-le-dale, rendered notable by Southey’s Doctor, is Wethercote, and its complements Jingle and Hurtlepots, one of the sights of the district. The top of Wethercote is level with the ground, about fifty yards long and sixteen wide, though it narrows towards the ends. Descending fifty feet we come upon a rough arch of rock, and passing under it, are in the middle of the pot, and again descend until the bottom is reached, forty good yards below the surface of the ground. Right in front and eighteen yards above is an opening in the wall of rock; and from it a stream of water leaps in a thundering cascade, filling the pot with spray, and then diving with a shuddering rush into a low cave, disappears on its underground course to Jingle and Hurtle Pots, three hundred yards lower down the dale. The first of these is twenty yards long, and ten to three broad and fifteen deep; and the last, twenty-five yards by fifteen, and about twenty-five deep, with a sullen black pool nine or ten yards deep, from which no outlet is apparent. When the stream is low, it flows far out of sight; but after heavy rain, it can be heard and seen swirling in the dark depths of these pots; and it ‘hurtles’ out of, and thus gives name to, the larger of the two. But when the ‘floods are out,’ the sight is grand and terrible, for then Wethercote fills entirely, and overflowing, foams a torrent down the mossy ravine which scores the land above the unseen water-course below. In the hillside at the back of Gearstones is a winding passage, Catknot Hole, which a guide-book says ‘contains romantic cascades and precipices, and is near four hundred yards long.’ Three of us struggled again into our thick wet boots one evening, after dining sumptuously in the inn kitchen upon ham and eggs, and having cajoled the buxom hostess into presenting us each with a tallow dip of yellow hue and evil savour, we forded the stream in the darkness, and groped our way into the cavern’s mouth to view the said cascades. A stream flowing a foot deep suggested the advisability of doffing boots and stockings in view of a long tramp on the morrow. So, barefooted and with sputtering candles, we began the ascent, and toiled on for fifty minutes, until the dips being nearly used up, and the long passage—which was so narrow that it was difficult to force an onward way—seeming to wind on for ever, the retreat was sounded, and we struggled back, counting nine hundred paces till we reached the entrance, with an ounce of candle among the three. Of ‘cascades and precipices’ we saw never a sign; but on squeezing past sharp bends, we plentifully plastered ourselves with soft calcareous deposits, which our jackets showed next morning to be strongly impregnated with oxide of iron.

On the slopes of Penyghent are some half-dozen ‘pots,’ besides numerous openings into the ground, each with a streamlet issuing from or else plunging into it. The whole of this limestone district is, in fact, completely honeycombed by hidden passages and water-worn channels, and often a fall of roof lets daylight and the explorer into the dark passages which pierce the hillsides in all directions. ‘Hull’ and ‘Hunt’ Pots are the finest and chief of the Penyghent series; the former a huge quarry-like hole with perpendicular sides, some seventeen yards long by thirty deep, and from ten to thirty wide, into which a stream—or beck, as the local term is—leaps, making in floods a fine fall. Hunt Pot is more curious, and really is a pot in the floor of a pot; the upper one being about thirty yards by eighteen and ten deep, and having in the centre a narrow chasm, five or six yards across at the widest part, narrowing to three at a depth of twelve yards. Into the narrow end, a beck from Penyghent’s bold crest falls, filling the black depths with mist, till it reaches the bottom of the pot, sixty-five yards below; and then it flows in darkness, crossing—so tradition says—the stream from Hull Pot, until it issues in the valley as Bransil Beck, and finds its way into the infant river Ribble.

But the grandest of all these Ingleborough pots and caves, and the one which offers the most risk, and needs withal a steady nerve as well as a fearless heart if it is to be really seen and properly known, is ‘Alum Pot,’ lying on the north-west shoulder of Simon Fell, a mile above the ruined and deserted village of Selside, whose roofless and crumbling cottages and farmsteads are a fit prelude to the weird loneliness and awesomeness which seem to cling about this great chain of gloomy caverns. A rough stone wall has been built to protect the main chasm, or Alum Pot proper; and clambering over its jagged edges, we are face to face with a tremendous cleft, which can only be described by the word awful—sixty yards long by from ten to twenty wide. At the southern end, a beck comes sliding over the mossy edge, and then leaps shuddering into unseen depths, whilst a thin cold mist rises up out of the blackness. Across the pot, near the narrow end, are two balks of timber, fixed years ago, when a party of gentlemen descended this shaft; and carefully walking along them, we reach the middle, and look down into the tremendous hole, and see nothing but slimy walls of rock covered with lichens, and here and there great hartstongues hanging in the gloom, and waving in a chill upcurrent of air which blows steadily from the sunless depths. The first impression is one of nameless dread and shrinking, an effect only heightened when a large stone is dropped into the yawning gulf, and we strain ears for six long seconds before it strikes at all; and then, for several moments after, hear it falling still, rebounding lower and lower in unknown abysses beneath the plank which holds us up. After gazing steadily downwards until the eye becomes used to the chill gloom, we catch sight of a sloping dark-green plain far below, from which a stone will roll into deeper depths beneath, and see, some thirty yards down the northern side, a huge dark arch, which ends a passage coming in from the hillside.

Without a very long stout rope, it is impossible to descend Alum Pot from the bridge-balks; and to swing freely over a visible gulf which is in all three hundred yards deep is a stiff trial for ordinary nerves. So, rescaling the wall, we climb some hundred and fifty yards westward up the hillside, until we come upon several openings in the ground known collectively as Longchurn and Diccan Pots. Dropping into the hollow, we see two passages leading in different directions, and can hear in the unseen distance the roar of water on its way to Alum Pot. About ten yards down, the lower passage joins one in which a stream is foaming; and a piece of burning magnesium ribbon lights up a goodly cavern, and shows a small cascade seven or eight feet high which glistens milk-white in the brightness; and plunging into the cold waters hurrying onwards, we follow them in their winding channel, often down abrupt descents and tiny falls, for, say, sixty yards or more, until a roomier passage strikes off to the right. The stream flows straight on for some score yards, and then joins one which flows at right angles on a lower level, coming from a more westerly direction. If wading be a weakness, this route may be followed; but as underground becks are decidedly cold, even in July, the drier and loftier channel offers decided advantages. After many windings and one or two steep drops, passing lesser openings which branch off on either hand, a large and lofty chamber is reached, studded with rough rocks, terminating in a black and apparently bottomless abyss, across which a gleam of twilight struggles in from the Great Alum Pot through the arch, which is seen when looking down from the bridge. This gulf is about thirty-six yards deep, and is curiously divided down the middle by a long thin rock, which is reached after a descent of some ten or twelve yards, and affords a precarious resting-place before descending the other fifteen yards, which brings us to the mossy sloping rock visible from the top of the pot, and which crosses it at the northern end. About thirty yards along this is a break where a rock slopes down to a lower level, and forms a bridge over a depth of at least thirty-five yards; but past this, the way is easy to the south end, where the waterfall comes down from the edge of the pot, seventy yards above, to fall still twenty yards before it strikes the rocks. Descending to this level, a series of steps down yet six or seven yards leads to two further falls of some thirty and ten feet each, and then the water goes onward along a passage and disappears in darkness.

The great descent of Alum Pot was made many years ago, when the balks of timber already mentioned were thrown across at the top by several gentlemen in the neighbourhood, and the engineers who were constructing a line of railway near Settle. Upon the bridge thus formed a winch was fixed, and the explorers were let down in a bucket, two at a time, plumb seventy yards to the rocks where the waterfall strikes, thus avoiding the long tiring descent of the passage from Longchurn. The last fifty feet gave each bucket-load a drenching, for it brought them directly under the falling water—a very effective douche-bath. Leaving the pot, they followed the stream for forty yards down the passage until they came into a lofty cavern where was a waterfall forty feet in height, formed by another subterranean streamlet; and passing through this, and continuing for thirty yards further, they reached a circular hole where the water sank in a miniature whirlpool; and that was the end of the mysterious Alum Pot. Where the water goes to, is uncertain; it is said to flow under Selside village, and come to light again either in a muddy pot called Footnaws, twelve yards deep; or else to pass under the bed of the Ribble, and reappear in Turn Dub, a quiet pool ten yards across, out of which a goodly stream flows steadily into the river. One reason why the country-people hold Turn Dub to be the outlet is that, when a marble quarry which lies just above Longchurn Pot was being worked, the water in the Dub was milky and muddy like the stream which flowed into Alum Pot.

The next most curious group of caverns lies out of the Ingleborough district altogether, at the head of Nidderdale, about the hamlets of Middlesmoor and Lofthouse, where comfortable quarters may be had in their unpretentious inns. On Howsteanbeck, which comes down a romantic gorge, are several chambers easy of access; and in a field on the Middlesmoor side is an opening which leads into a long underground passage known as Eglin’s Hole, of unknown extent. The roof is in many parts so low that crawling is an absolute necessity; and as the floor is often covered with soft mud, and there is nothing particular to see, no large chambers or curious formations, the time required for this tunnel may be far more advantageously spent in exploring the most famous and interesting cavern of all, ‘Goyden Pot,’ which lies two miles above Lofthouse, close to the farmstead of Limley, and which carries the river Nidd mysteriously underground to below Lofthouse Church. The mouth of this miscalled ‘pot’ is at the foot of a cliff seven or eight yards high, on the boulder-filled bed of what was the river before it broke its way into the hillside, and which is swept by a noisy torrent still in heavy floods, when the waters fill the cavern to overflowing. A passage varying in height from two to five yards, and about one hundred yards long, with offshoots running right and left, leads, after several descending turns, into a huge chamber, filled with the roar and unseen spray of falling waters; and magnesium ribbon reveals a weird and frightful scene—a deep abyss in front and below, a dome of blackness overhead, on the left a plunging cascade of flashing water, twenty feet at least in height. Opposite and across the yawning gulf, a dark archway marks where a passage leads higher up into the mountain; whilst to right, the stream still foaming after its leap, gurgles and rushes round a bend into a lower pitch-dark tunnel. In dry weather, a descent can be made by the aid of a rope down the side of the chasm, and the stream can be followed often waist-high for a long distance. No one, in the memory of living man, has succeeded in following the water into daylight; but it certainly has yet to be proved that it cannot be done, and though twice baffled, we only wait a favourable opportunity to make another determined attempt. Long settled dry weather is absolutely necessary, as, owing to the steepness of the sides of the narrow valley, a single thunder-shower will raise the level of the river several feet in half an hour; and the tree-roots and other massive debris which are plentifully wedged in the crevices of the roof of the cavern are sufficient evidence of the undesirability of being caught by the tide, so to speak, in Goyden Pot.

Such are some of the Yorkshire caves; and those fond of adventure and rough healthy scrambling will find many a day’s enjoyment therein, and spend, moreover, many a pleasant hour amongst the sturdy dalesmen, hearing quaint country legends, told in a dialect homely and rough, and seeing something of what life is like unaffected by the hurry of the great world outside the hills around. But let not the fastidious venture in those wilds, for ham and eggs—eggs and ham—become monotonous when doing duty daily for breakfast, luncheon, dinner; and though hospitable and open-hearted enough, yet the dalesfolk look upon all, even Yorkshiremen who are not natives, as ‘furiners.’

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

CHAPTER VII.

It was a little after five on the following afternoon that Sir Geoffrey walked from his house into the square. He seemed, by his uneasy air, as if he was afraid of having his movements watched, for he stopped, hesitated, and finally walked away quickly in the direction of Upper Brook Street. Calling a hansom, he was driven to one of the quiet approaches, half town, half country, beyond Paddington, where he dismissed his cab. He then walked quickly on till he reached his destination—a well-appointed though sombre-looking establishment; and there, after some hesitation, he knocked. The room he was shown into was laid out with preparations for dinner; and just as the little clock over the mantel struck the half-hour after six, Le Gautier entered. He greeted his guest quietly, almost coldly, and rang the bell to order the meal. It was a quiet little dinner, really irreproachable in its way—the appropriate wines being perfect, for Le Gautier by no means despised the pleasures of the table, and, moreover, was not the man to spare where he had a purpose to serve.

‘Well, Sir Geoffrey,’ he said, toying with his glass, when the meal had concluded—it was past eight now, and the light was beginning to fail—‘do you feel equal to the coming trial?’

‘O yes,’ the baronet replied eagerly, though his face was perturbed and the glass in his hand shook. ‘Let us get it over; this suspense is killing me. Sometimes I fancy you are playing some devilish arts upon me. I doubt the evidence of my senses.’

‘You do not doubt,’ Le Gautier answered sternly. ‘Listen!’

The light in the room was fading, and nothing distinctly could be seen save the glimmer of the waning day upon glass and silver. At the moment, the strains of music were heard, low and soft at first, then swelling louder, but always melancholy. It was quite impossible to tell whence it came—it seemed to strike the ear as if the earth was full of the sweet sounds. Suddenly it ceased, and a sigh like a mournful wind broke the stillness.

‘It might be my dead brother himself playing,’ Sir Geoffrey said, in great agitation. ‘The organ was his favourite instrument. Strange that the music should be so familiar to me!’

‘Do you doubt now? Le Gautier asked. ‘Does your unbelieving mind still run upon trickery or mechanism, or are you convinced?’

‘I must believe,’ the weak old man replied; ‘I have no alternative. I put myself in your hands. Tell me what I am to do.’

‘Your own conscience must guide you, and what the spirits will to-night must be obeyed. It is no question for me to decide; I am merely the humble instrument, the medium between one world and another. I dare not advise you. When your nerves are sufficiently braced to meet the dead, I will restore the communication.—Are you afraid?’

‘No, no!’ cried the baronet; ‘I am not afraid.’

A cold, icy hand touched him on the cheek, and a low voice whispered in his ear the words: ‘You are!’ Trembling, frightened, he rose from his chair; and then suddenly the room was filled with a great light, showing the baronet’s set face, and Le Gautier’s pallid features wearing a sardonic smile. Hardly had the light appeared, when it was gone, leaving the room in double darkness at the change. A yell of harsh, discordant laughter rang out, dying away to a moan.

‘What is that, Le Gautier?’ Sir Geoffrey asked. ‘Is this all real, or am I merely dreaming?’

‘The spirits laugh at your audacity. You boasted you were not afraid, whilst you are trembling in every limb. You dare not say it again!’

‘I am alarmed, mystified,’ he said; ‘but I am not afraid.’

A mocking shout of laughter followed this speech, and the words, ‘You lie!’ as if uttered in chorus, were distinctly heard. A cold hand clutched Sir Geoffrey by the throat, holding him till he could hardly breathe. In his intense agitation, he snatched at a shadowy arm, and suddenly the hand relaxed its grip. Le Gautier struck a match and lighted the candles.

‘Are you afraid now?’ he asked quietly.

‘O yes, yes; anything to save me from that horrid grasp! My throat is aching with the pressure.’

Le Gautier looked at the finger-marks calmly. He was acting splendidly, not overdoing the affair in the slightest, and, on the other hand, not appearing altogether indifferent. He was playing for a high stake, and it required all his cunning, all his cool audacity, to win. To the casual observer, he might have been an enthusiastic believer.

‘You have seen enough,’ he commenced quietly, but with an air of the most profound conviction—‘you have seen enough to know that the time for delay is past, and the hour for action has arrived. The spirits to-night are incensed with you; they are furious at this delay; and unless you solemnly promise to carry out my proposals, I shall not risk our lives by any manifestation to-night.’

‘What am I to do?’ Sir Geoffrey cried piteously. ‘I put myself entirely in your hands. Tell me my duty, and I promise to follow it.’

‘So much the better for you,’ quoth Le Gautier sternly. ‘Listen! You know I am a member of a great Secret Society. In the first place, you must join that; and let me tell you, your late brother was a member, and took the keenest interest in its movements. You must join!’

‘I knew my brother was embroiled in some rascally Socialist plots,’ said Sir Geoffrey incautiously; ‘but I really do not see why I’—— He stopped abruptly, for the same mournful sigh was heard, and a voice whispered in the air, ‘Beware!’ With increased agitation, he continued: ‘If that is part of my penance, I must do so; though it is on the strict understanding that I’——

‘It is on no understanding at all!’ Le Gautier thundered. ‘Who are you, poor mortal, that you should make stipulations? We must have all or nothing. Take it, or leave it!’

He looked straight across into the other’s face, his eyes burning with their intensity. For a moment they sat thus, striving for the mastery. Then Sir Geoffrey looked away. He was conquered.

‘Let it be so,’ he said. ‘Your will has conquered mine. Proceed, for I see you have something more yet to say.’

Again the sigh was heard, and a voice said distinctly: ‘It is well.’ The music burst out again triumphant this time. When the last pealing strains died away, Le Gautier continued: ‘Your brother died at New York, as you know; but at that time, he was on the business of the Society. No man had his heart so firmly set upon the cause as he, no man has been so missed. You would never be able to take his place; but you can help us indirectly; you can aid us with what we most need, and that is money. You shall see the shade of Sir Ughtred presently, and hold converse with him; but, on the peril of your life, do not move from the spot where I shall place you.’

‘Let us go now,’ Sir Geoffrey cried eagerly. ‘Why should we waste any more time talking here?’

‘Because things are not prepared. The shades from another world do not come forth at a moment’s bidding to show themselves to mortal eyes, though the air is full of them now.’

Sir Geoffrey looked uneasily around for any traces of these ghostly visitors, though he could see nothing; nevertheless, the idea of a chamber full of supernatural bodies was by no means pleasant.

‘Then our pact is complete,’ Le Gautier continued. ‘Briefly, it stands thus: I am to show you such things as you wish to see; and in return, you become a member of our Brotherhood, swearing to promote its welfare by all the means in your power. Quick! say the word, for I feel the unseen influence upon me.’

‘Yes, yes—agreed; only show me my brother.’

As Sir Geoffrey spoke, a change came over Le Gautier’s face; the baronet watching him, perfectly fascinated. The medium’s eyes grew larger and more luminous, his features became rigid, and he moved like a man who walks in a dream. His gaze was fixed upon the other, but there was no sense of recognition there—all was blank and motionless. He rose from his chair, moving towards the door, his hands groping for it like the action of the blind, and he beckoned to Sir Geoffrey to follow him out along the dark passage.

‘Come!’ he said in a strange hollow voice—‘come with me! The spirits are abroad, and have need of me!’

The room they entered was situated at the back of the house, having a large old-fashioned bay window of the shape and form one sees in the banqueting-room of old country-houses—a long narrow room, draped entirely in black; and the only light in the place proceeded from two small oil-lamps held by white Parian statues. As the twain entered, the draperies were violently agitated, as if by a sudden wind; an icy current seemed to strike them full in the face. A chair, impelled forward by an unseen hand, was pushed across the bare floor, and Sir Geoffrey, at a motion from his companion, seated himself therein. Le Gautier stepped forward towards the window, and lighted a flat brasier, sprinkling some sort of powder upon it, and immediately the room was filled with a dense violet mist, through which the oil-lamps shone dimly. The weird music commenced again, and as it died away, a loud report was heard, and the curtains across the window were wrenched apart, disclosing an open space. As Sir Geoffrey gazed into it, a form began to appear, misty at first, then getting gradually clearer, till the watcher saw the figure of a girl, dim and slight, for he could see the woodwork of the window behind, but clear enough to see she was fair and young, with thick masses of long yellow hair hanging over her shoulders, and half hiding her face from sight. There was a look of sadness on the brow.

‘You may speak,’ the strange hollow tones of Le Gautier came through the mist. ‘If you have any questions to ask, put them; but, at the peril of your life, do not attempt to move.’

With the most reverent and holy belief in the reality of the scene before him, Sir Geoffrey gazed at the downcast features. To his diseased mind, he was on the borderland of another world, and the very thought of speaking to the bright vision was full of awe.

‘Who are you?’ he said at length in tremulous tones. ‘Let me know who it is with whom I speak.’

‘I am your better self,’ the vision spoke; and the voice sounded faint and distant, yet very sweet, like music on the waters. ‘I am your good spirit, your guardian angel. I stand by you night and day, the presiding deity of the honour of the House of Charteris.’

This artful stroke gave the listener confidence, and flattered his family pride. ‘Has every man a spirit such as you?’ he asked.

‘Every man who is by nature noble—yes. To every one who has courage and genius, one of my sisters belongs. I am the guiding star of your House. I have stood by you and yours in the hour of need. I saw your father die. I saw your brother’s deathbed. It is of him you would speak?’

‘It is,’ the baronet cried boldly. ‘What of him?’

‘You owe him a heavy debt of reparation,’ the vision continued sadly. ‘In life, you were not always friends; in death, you were not with him. He left a family. Are you aware of that, selfish mortal?’

‘I did not know; I never knew. But it is not yet too late to atone. Tell me where they are, and I will go to them.’

‘It is too late!’ the figure replied in tones of deepest sorrow. ‘They are dead—dead of neglect; nay, more, starvation. They will not dispute your sway now. While you had flattery and adulation, while you lived in luxury and splendour, your kith and kin lacked bread.’

‘But surely some atonement can be made?’

‘Too late—too late! Nothing can avail them now, no specious sophistry, no outward appearance of remorse. You can atone, though slightly, by completing the work your brother began in life. Know that at your very door, proud man, thousands of your fellow-creatures are starving, ground down in the dust by injustice and oppression. You can help to lighten this burden; you can help these men, who, poor and savage as they are, are yet men, and brothers.’

‘I will!’ Sir Geoffrey cried eagerly—‘I will! Only show me how; and let me see my brother, if only for a brief moment.’

‘That is well,’ the figure replied with a radiant smile. ‘As for the means, I must leave that to you. But you shall see your brother, if only for a moment.—And now, farewell.’

‘But stay another minute. I’——

The farewell was repeated, coming to the listener’s ears as from afar off, fainter and fainter, as the violet mist rose again, filling the room with a dense fragrant smoke, through which the rigid figure of Le Gautier could be dimly seen erect and motionless.

When the mist cleared away again, the figure of a man grew visible. Perfect, yet intangible, he stood there, muffled in a long cloak, and his features partially hidden by a soft broad-brimmed hat. At this spectacle, Sir Geoffrey’s agitation increased, and great drops stood upon his forehead.

‘It is he—my brother!’ he groaned, starting from his feet; but again the word ‘Beware!’ seemed to be hissed in his ear. ‘My dear brother, do not look at me like that. It was no fault of mine, I swear.’

The figure answered not, but looking the wretched man in the face, pointed down to his feet, where two thin, emaciated children crouched, evidently in the last stage of disease and starvation.

‘What atonement can you make for this?’ was asked in the stern tones the listener knew so well. ‘Man! in the enjoyment of what should, under happier auspices, have been mine, what do you say to this?’ He pointed down to the crouching children again, sternly yet sadly.

‘Anything,’ the baronet exclaimed—‘anything, so that you do not torture me like this! It is no fault of mine. I did not know. But anything in my power I will do, and do gladly.’

‘Well for you that you have spoken thus! You shall complete the work I began in life, and the man called Hector le Gautier shall help you with his aid and counsel.—You have a daughter?’

‘I have—your niece Enid. What do you know of her?’

‘Much; perhaps more than you.—Listen! and interrupt me at your peril. You may have views for her; perhaps she has chosen for herself. Am I right? But this must not be! Hector le Gautier must wed her!’

‘But I have other views. There is already’——

‘Do you dare to cross me?’ the vision sternly asked. ‘Have not I and mine suffered enough at your hands? Promise, or’——

He stopped abruptly, and again the sighing voice whispered ‘Beware!’ In an agony of terror, the baronet looked round; but the dark eyes never seemed to leave him. So frightened was he, so stricken by this cunningly devised display, that he dared not defy the figure standing there before him.

‘I promise,’ he shouted at last—‘I promise.’

‘’Tis well,’ the vision said. ‘From this moment, you are free. You will see me no more; but if you dare swerve a hairbreadth from our compact, then you shall find my vengeance swift and terrible. Geoffrey, farewell!’

‘But, Ughtred; one moment more—I’——

A deep shuddering sigh broke the silence, and the figure was gone. Almost distracted, Sir Geoffrey rushed forward to the curtains, which had again fallen, but nothing was there. The smoke cleared away, and once again the room was quiet.

Le Gautier opened his eyes, and gradually life and motion came back to him, as he awoke like a man from a trance. ‘Are you satisfied,’ he asked, ‘with what you have seen?’

‘Wonderful!’ the trembling baronet replied. ‘It was my brother to the life—the very voice even. You heard the compact?’

‘I, my dear Sir Geoffrey? No, indeed,’ Le Gautier exclaimed in a voice of great surprise. ‘Recollect, I heard nothing; my faculties were torpid; they formed the medium through which sights and sounds were conveyed to you.’

‘And you heard absolutely nothing?’

‘Absolutely nothing.—But, of course, if there happened to be anything which concerned me, you can tell me at your convenience.—And now, I think we have had enough of spirits for one night, unless you would like something to steady your nerves?’

Sir Geoffrey declined the proffered refreshment, pleading the lateness of the hour and his desire to get home. Le Gautier did not detain him; and after a few words, they parted; the one to dwell upon the startling events of the evening, and the other to complete his plans. It was a neat stroke of Le Gautier’s to disclaim any knowledge of the conversation, the rather that the delicate allusion to his relations with Enid were mentioned, and besides which, it acquitted him from any awkward confidences.

‘The game is in my hands,’ the schemer mused an hour later, as he sat over his last cigar. ‘Would any one believe that a man of education, I almost said sense, could be such a fool?—Hector, mon ami, you will never starve as long as there is a Charteris in the world. The opportunity has long been coming, but the prize is mine at last;’ and with these words, the virtuous young man went to bed, nothing in his dreams telling him that his destruction was only a question of time, and that his life was in the hands of two vengeful women.

KENTISH HOPS.

The country can show few prettier pictures than a hop-garden in a sunny August. The bines twine vigorously round the rustic poles, while the side-shoots hang down in graceful festoons or from pole to pole in tasteful wreaths. Rich clusters of burr hanging from every joint bend down the slender tendrils, until it seems that every moment they must break; and but for tying and stringing, break they often would. But if the graceful plants are picturesque in themselves, it is when viewed as a whole that the hop-garden has its greatest charm. Stretching away in endless succession, until lost in the narrowed distance, is bower upon bower, in which Robin Goodfellow and all his merry crew would be at home. Everywhere there is a wanton luxuriance which seems to belong to nature rather than to industry. The artificial stiffness of the long lines of poles is hidden by their wealth of greenery. In many gardens, too, the hops are still planted in the good old-fashioned style—in groups of three on ‘hills’—festooned in irregular triangles, each of them a verdant arbour. Through the masses of foliage, the sunshine gleams merrily, lighting up the bright yellow catkins, and creating a thousand contrasts of light and shade. The pungent sweetness of the air gives an added charm to the picture, which appeals to the several senses with a rare witchery. We have little need, while we have our hop-gardens, to envy the vineyards of more sunny climes; and it may be a national prejudice, but we take leave to doubt whether in point of the picturesque they do not bear the palm. But the comparison is superfluous.

We, as a nation, are proud of our hop-growing counties. We point triumphantly to the ‘fruit,’ which is, or ought to be, the staple of our national beverage. In one respect, however, the culture of the hop sadly resembles that of the grape. Both are terribly hazardous. Not even the dreaded phylloxera is more devastating than the red spider. The oidium is not more deadly than mould, and both diseases, curiously, require to be treated by sulphuring. Hops, like vines, are subject to plagues of vermin. The hop-fly is a terrible pest, and when, as often happens, it attacks the bines at the same time as mildew, the case is almost hopeless, for sulphuring cannot be employed. According to the popular theory, sulphur, although it revives the blighted bines, makes the fly more vigorous; so that, as the fresh sap rises, it effects such a lodgment in the plant that recovery becomes hopeless. No more dismal spectacle can be imagined than a blighted hop plantation. The blackened bines cling listlessly to the poles. Here and there, a few young but sickly shoots give proof of a vain effort to throw off the pestilence, which seems to threaten the very existence of the parent stem.

Hop-culture, indeed, has manifold dangers in our treacherous climate. In dry seasons, the crop is often so light as hardly to pay for the picking; while, unless there be sunshine and to spare, and, above all, a long spell of warm nights, the burr hardly ripens, and the hops cannot be got in anything like condition. It is not perhaps generally known that although this is a special branch of agriculture, and calls for a high degree of skill and care, there are many varieties of hops which are suited to many different soils, and will thrive under different conditions. It is a common saying in hop counties that one good crop every seven years will pay; so that it may well be asked whether, notwithstanding the risk, a much greater area could not be advantageously put under hops in England? On soils and in situations where the famous ‘Goldings’ or ‘Whitebines’ will not do well, ‘Grapes’ often thrive. Then a kind known by the familiar name of ‘Jones’s’ have long been profitably grown on light and poor land; and on stiff soils, ‘Colegates,’ a late and very hardy variety, have done well. Flemish red bines, too, although an inferior sort, often succeed in bad years, since they are less susceptible to blight. So there is plenty of choice for agriculturists.

There is good reason for believing that hops were known to the Anglo-Saxons, whether or not they introduced them into Britain; for the name is admittedly derived from the Anglo-Saxon hoppan, ‘to climb.’ There is, however, a distich:

Turkey, carps, hoppes, pickard, and beer,

Came into England all in one year—

whence has arisen the notion that the plant was not known in this kingdom until the time of Henry VIII. But although the method of cultivating the plant in vogue in the Low Countries may then have been first introduced into England, as early as the year 1428 Parliament was petitioned against the hop as a ‘wicked weed,’ showing that it was then coming into use. It was not, however, until a century later that it became a general ingredient in the manufacture of malt liquors, and it was long chiefly imported; for the plant was not extensively cultivated with us until the beginning of the seventeenth century. The city of London did not look with favour upon the new industry, for they petitioned the Long Parliament against ‘two nuisances or offensive commodities which were likely to come into great use and esteem; and that was Newcastle coal in regard of their stench, and hops in regard that they would spoyl the taste of drink and endanger the people.’ The petition, however, does not seem to have met with very great success, for both industries soon increased to prodigious proportions. Hops were presently taxed, and became a source of considerable revenue.

Kent was always the chosen hop county. Some seventy thousand acres are now under this crop, and of these, forty thousand are in Kent alone. Farnham is the centre of the hop district of Surrey. Then parts of Hants and Sussex, Essex and Suffolk, Hereford and Worcester, and even so far north as Notts, have long been cropped with hops; and although success has been checkered with failure, the returns as a whole have proved fairly remunerative. The yield is, of course, very variable, ranging from eight to ten hundredweight per acre in a good season, the heaviest crop on record being twenty-five hundredweight, to five and even three or less in a bad one. The prices realised, too, depend so much upon condition and quality that it is only possible to give here the slightest indication. As much as twenty-five pounds per hundredweight has been paid for the first ‘pockets’ on sale in the Borough; but this is, of course, a phenomenal price. Owing to the immense quantities of foreign hops in the market, prices in an ordinary year seldom rule higher, for all but the very finest sorts, than from nine to thirteen pounds per hundredweight. But although hop cultivation is steadily on the increase in England, it by no means keeps pace with the import trade. Every year we import many hundred thousand hundredweight, of which about half comes from the United States, and the remainder from Australia, Belgium, France, Würtemberg, Central Germany, and Holland. Against this we export only a few thousand hundredweight to India and some of the colonies.

From all this, it will be seen that there is room for a considerable increase in the land under hop cultivation in this country. Nor, if the culture of the plant be strictly subordinated to that of other crops, need the risk be prohibitive. Moreover, a variety of uses have lately been introduced for the waste of the crop. Little, for instance, has hitherto been made out of the bines in this country; but within the last few years they have been experimentally converted into ensilage and found to form at once a valuable feeding material and a useful tonic. Other uses have been found for them abroad. Thus, in Sweden, they have long been treated so that they could be woven into a rough kind of cloth. The process was formerly very tedious, consisting chiefly of soaking them in water all the winter; but it has been greatly expedited by treating them successively with alkaline lye and acetic acid, when the fibre is at once ready for bleaching. This use for hopbine has, however, for some unknown reason, never attracted much attention in Great Britain. An English patent was once taken out for using the plant for tanning purposes; but, so far as we know, it has never been very successfully used; and the bine is still to a large extent regarded as a waste product, or at best used as litter.

GEORGE HANNAY’S LOVE AFFAIR.

CHAPTER III.—SUCCESS AT LAST.

Alfred Roberton was too politic to make known the full extent of his discomfiture. He made light of the matter: most authors had had their difficulties at first, and why should he expect to escape? He made himself very agreeable to the old gentleman. The short experience he had had of trying to earn money had led him to reflect that a man having a snug going business and a farm worth four or five thousand pounds might not be such an undesirable father-in-law after all, even though he was an innkeeper. He threw greater fervour than ever into his manner towards Anne, and talked in a gay and hopeful way of the future. But she was too keen-sighted to be deceived; she read the secret of his crushed hopes in his sunken eyes and cheeks, and was not at all misled by his forced cheerfulness of manner. She forbore to annoy him with prying questions, and affected in the meantime to see as roseate a prospect as he himself did. When the colour came back to his cheeks and he began to look more like his former self, she spoke to him seriously. Would he allow her to see the returned manuscripts?

‘You know, Alfred,’ she said, ‘I have been a great reader of what is called “light literature” in my day, and perhaps I might—from a reader’s point of view, you know—happen to light on the secret of your want of success. Give me two or three of your stories, and I will have a look at them before I go to bed to-night.’

He was astonished! To think of this simple country girl proposing to criticise his literary work!

‘Well, Nan, I’ll select two or three of my best,’ he said; ‘but I fear you will prove far too indulgent a critic to be a just one.’

‘No, Alfred,’ the girl replied gravely; ‘you need not fear that. You may depend that any faults that I may perceive will be carefully pointed out to you. Don’t look for any kidglove treatment at my hands; and be prepared, in any case, to keep your temper.’

The next morning, after breakfast, she handed him his papers back. He could not possibly guess from her countenance what her impression had been. Her face had an earnest, but not an altogether unhopeful look about it; certainly, it did not show any signs at all of a wondering admiration for his genius.

‘Well, sir, I’ve read your stories, as I promised I would. I will say all my disagreeable things about them first. To begin: I think they lack the narrative power which leads a reader on, once he has commenced a story, and almost compels him to read it to the finish. Of course he is disappointed at the denouement; but he is equally ready to be cheated again by the next book he takes up, provided the author has the same power to lure him on. I think the first aim of a magazine writer should be to make his stories readable.’

‘And are not mine readable?’ he said, biting his lips and a frown overshadowing his brow.

‘Ah, I see you are wincing, Alfred! But didn’t I warn you I would be a severe critic? No; I did not say your stories were not readable; but they might be made much more so.’

And to his amazement, this young girl launched into a critical analysis of the plots, characters, and treatment of his three stories; and her remarks, strange to say, pretty closely agreed with those expressed by the ignorant London editors! Nan had verily profited by her old lover’s literary conversations; but Alfred knew nothing at all of that. She was then graciously pleased to say a few words of commendation.

‘Your style of composition is far too even for that sort of work. It lacks eccentricity’——

‘Pardon, Nan!’ he interrupted; ‘but are you serious? I have hitherto understood eccentricity was considered a blemish in any author’s style.’

‘Nonsense!’ she said. ‘If not overdone, it lends a piquancy to writings that without it would attract no attention and be passed by as prosy. When an author happens to hit on a good original phrase, he should “ring the changes” on it. The reader recognises it as an old friend met under new circumstances, and is not at all displeased. An author who can originate a few phrases, put them in his mental kaleidoscope, so to speak, and sprinkle the resulting combinations through his book, is said to have acquired “a style,” and his books are sought after.’

‘By Jove, Nan, but you surprise me!’ he cried, looking at her with a puzzled air. ‘What, then, would you advise me to do?’

She was prepared for this question, and had been framing an answer to it in her mind for some days past. Obviously, the most sensible advice was for him to abandon his literary dreams, and settle down to the pursuit of his profession. But then sensible advice is rarely palatable, and still more rarely adopted. That he was determined to make a mark of some kind in literature, was evident, and she rather admired her lover’s indomitable pluck, in refusing to accept as final the unfavourable criticisms of London editors. If he hadn’t been her lover, she would probably have called it ‘stupid obstinacy.’ She therefore determined to urge him on in his literary projects; he was undoubtedly clever, and was certain, sooner or later, to see his productions in print. When he reached that goal, the glamour which possessed him would probably vanish; and he would then most likely return to his profession, as a surer road to success and distinction.

‘Did you ever try the Olympic, Alfred?’ she said.

‘O no,’ he rejoined. ‘You see, it is more of a review. Besides, it is a very high-class, exclusive magazine, and one not at all likely to encourage beginners like me.’

‘I know they don’t publish stories,’ continued Nan; ‘but they have often short descriptive articles. Now, I was thinking if you were to send the editor a short sketch of some kind in your very best style, he might perhaps put it in.’

‘And what kind of sketch would you propose?’ he inquired.

‘What would you think of “A Summer Ramble in Kirkcudbright?” she replied. ‘The editor belongs to that quarter; and if the description of the scenery and folks were well done, I think he might put it in.’

‘A capital idea, Nan. Why, I’ll set about it at once,’ he said impetuously.

Alfred went to work with renewed hope and vigour. After ten days’ alternate rambling and writing, he one evening announced that his paper was finished, and read it over to Nan in the parlour. On the whole she gave a favourable verdict on its merits; and it was sealed up and duly addressed to the editor of the Olympic. She had insisted on him using a nom de plume. He chose that of ‘Ariel;’ and the address was: ‘Post-office, Glenluce.—To lie till called for.’

The evening passed pleasantly in chat and song; and when Nan rose to bid good-bye for the night, she said: ‘By-the-bye, Alfred, you had better give me your letter with the manuscript. I will see the postman as he passes in the morning, and hand it to him.’

‘Nonsense, Nan!’ he returned. ‘Why, the mail-gig passes before six o’clock. There’s no use in disturbing you so early. I will hand it to him myself.’

She was inexorable in her request, however, and ended the dispute by playfully seizing the letter, and tripping up-stairs before he could prevent her. Once in the privacy of her own room, a strange change came over her. With knitted brow and compressed lips, she slowly paced the apartment. Evidently, she was making up her mind on some important resolve. At last she clasped her hands and whispered to herself: ‘Yes; I’ll do it—but is it fair?’

She had a tired and drowsy look next day; and when Alfred asked if she had been in time to give the postman the all-important letter, she answered somewhat petulantly in the affirmative. After a time he took to walking to Glenluce daily to see if there were any letters for ‘Ariel.’ For ten days he came back empty-handed and dispirited; on the eleventh he bounced into Nan’s private parlour in a state of wild delight.

‘I knew it—I was sure of it, Nan!’ he cried, ‘that the moment my writings came before a competent judge they would be fully appreciated. Look! here is a bank draft for twenty pounds. It only took me ten days to write the sketch. Why, it is payment at the rate of six hundred a year!’

‘Was there a note with it?’ she asked quietly.

‘Yes; a precious short one, though. “The editor of the Olympic acknowledges receipt of Ariel’s manuscript, which he accepts, and begs to inclose bank draft for twenty pounds as an honorarium.” That is all.’

‘The editor has remunerated you very handsomely, I think,’ she said, continuing her sewing. ‘But mind that one swallow does not make a summer. Don’t be too sanguine. Other editors may not be so generous to you.’

‘Stuff!’ he replied loftily. ‘Do you mean to say he would have sent so much unless he knew he had got value, good value for it too? Do you know, Nan, I made up my mind, after getting the letter, to start for London to-morrow? I’ll call on the editor of the Olympic—perhaps he may’——

‘On no account must you do that, Alfred!’ she cried, dropping her sewing, and with a terrified look in her face. ‘Go to London, if you think proper; though I think you would be foolishly spending money in doing so. But you mustn’t call on the editor.’

‘And why mustn’t I call on him?’ he said in a displeased tone of voice.

‘I have reasons—private reasons of my own, Alfred, to wish you to refrain from doing so,’ she replied a little awkwardly. ‘I cannot explain them to you just yet; perhaps I may again. Meantime, you must promise me solemnly not to call on him, or send him any more contributions, unless you choose to do so in your own name. On no account must he be made aware that you are “Ariel.” Remember, it was through my advice you scored this first success; continue to follow it, for I can assure you it is for your own good.’

He grumbled a good deal, but in the end agreed to the restriction imposed on him. He held firm, however, to his intention of going to London; and Anne did not press her objections further. He could not understand why she was not more elated at this auspicious beginning of his literary career. In fact, he fancied he saw a pained expression passing over her countenance, when, in the exuberance of his spirits, he enlarged on the brilliancy of his prospects in the metropolis. Somehow or another, the success of ‘A Summer Ramble in Kirkcudbright’ detracted from rather than added to the happiness of the lovers. The slightest possible degree of coldness sprung up between them. He was annoyed, and even felt some distrust at the prohibition put on him regarding the Olympic. That Nan was annoyed at something, was apparent; but whether it was his anxiety to leave her and be off to the scene of his future triumphs, or what it was, was not very apparent. The only one who enjoyed unalloyed satisfaction from the event was old Mr Porteous. The bank draft convinced him more than a thousand arguments that there was money in literature, and that his proposed son-in-law possessed the Open Sesame to its stores. He had far too high an opinion of his old friend the editor’s sense than to suppose he would have given twenty pounds for a short sketch unless it was of real merit. These reflections made him a trifle more cordial to Alfred than he had yet been; and when he and Nan drove him to the railway station, they all parted the best of friends, the lovers promising to correspond punctually as before.

A HUMBLE SPRIG OF NOBILITY.

A RED RIVER STORY.

Towards the close of the last century, Mr Beauchamp, a young Englishman of good family—a friend of Pitt, Fox, Burke, and Sheridan—entered a large mercantile house in London with a view, it was supposed, of ultimately becoming a partner therein. With this firm he passed the earlier years of his manhood. With the single exception of having lost both his parents in his youth, he was regarded as a singularly fortunate individual; and at the age of nineteen he formed a matrimonial engagement with Julia Middleton, a young lady of considerable prospective wealth, and of remarkable personal attractions. But just at the time when an announcement of the marriage was expected by the friends on both sides, Mr Beauchamp disappeared in a mysterious manner; and neither the parents nor Miss Middleton had any explanation of the cause of his disappearance, or whither he had gone. It was, however, but a nine days’ wonder; and all minds, but one, ceased to trouble themselves further about the matter. That one was the poor girl herself, who was deeply attached to her lover. Whenever any hint was thrown out which cast a doubt over the moral rectitude of Henry Beauchamp’s character, she indignantly repudiated the idea, and would believe no evil concerning him that originated in mere conjecture on the part of the speaker.

It must be borne in mind that at the period of which we are writing, international communication was not carried on with the same speed and facility as in these days, and a considerable time elapsed ere it became known that Henry Beauchamp had embarked for Canada. But of his real whereabouts nothing was known for years. The facts we are about to record were divulged to us by a lady to whom we shall hereafter refer. He had, it appeared, entered into business with a Fur Trading Company, and with them he passed many years in a country called ‘The Kepigong,’ between Lake Superior and James Bay. Half a century ago, traders were often men of low type, who led lax and vicious lives. As ill-luck would have it, it was amongst such a class that the young adventurer chanced to fall. Out in that wild territory, with no sort of restraint on his actions, in the midst of lawless and strange companions, he often fell a victim to their evil influence and example, and his very weakness and ignorance made him an easy prey to their wiles and cupidity. If he made money, they cheated him out of it. He was often reduced to the brink of starvation; and at one period he subsisted for two months on a miserable species of fish called ‘suckers.’

After countless trials and vicissitudes, he obtained employment at Lake Winnipeg, where he passed another decade; but even there his evil genius seemed to pursue him, for he received accidentally the contents of a loaded gun in his leg, which wound caused him at times great suffering throughout his whole life. But he was a man of pluck and courage, and would never yield to any obstacle which perseverance could overcome. Having resolved to try his fortunes on his own account in a district involving several hundred miles of travel, he provided himself with a couple of horses, and set out attended by one serving-man. On they went till nightfall through a wild uninhabited region, where nature asserted her right to repose in their wearied limbs and failing spirits. So, having first picketed their horses, they lay down to rest in the best shelter they could find. Feeling amply refreshed by daybreak, they determined to continue their journey with no further halt till eventide. But alas for their horses! The animals had either decamped or been stolen, probably the former. After some cogitation as to the next step to be taken, Mr Beauchamp decided to send his servant in quest of the animals, whilst he remained at his post. The day passed, the night pressed onwards, and morning dawned without either horses or man having appeared. Unprovided with a compass, chart, or guide of any description, Mr Beauchamp then felt how futile his hopes must prove—that the poor man had probably lost his way, and that there would be no more meeting between them.

For a while utterly disconsolate, the solitary traveller bethought him of retracing his steps; but when he attempted to walk, he found himself so broken down by fatigue and over-exertion that he could only limp along, or drag his wearied body on all-fours. Finally, ‘worn out,’ as he himself expressed it, ‘both in body and mind,’ and when within but ten miles of his trading-post, he lay down with the fervent hope that death would put an end to such torture; but not liking the idea of his body being devoured by wild animals, he crawled about to get together branches of trees wherewith to cover himself. But in spite of all the man had suffered, death was still to be balked of its prey. Some Red Indians fortunately came upon him, and by his discoverers he was kindly cared for and nourished, and taken to his post, where, after some weeks, he gradually recovered.

Was it retribution or destiny, or what, that made him again such a cruel martyr to circumstances in the next episode of his career? After Lord Selkirk began to colonise the Red River, Mr Beauchamp gave up his prospects in the Fur Company and turned settler. In opposition to the Hudson’s Bay Company, another had been formed, called the North-West Company. Between the two there was great rivalry and jealousy. At the instigation of some of its people, Mr Beauchamp was made prisoner, thrown into a dungeon in Fort-William, and from thence taken to Montese, where his alleged trial was to take place, without his ever having been told of the crime whereof he was accused. After weeks of weary waiting and dread expectation, he was set at liberty without a single question having been put to him, the sole object of his oppressors having been to detach him from Lord Selkirk’s interest, which they considered was synonymous with that of the Hudson’s Bay Company.

Lord Selkirk’s agents having meanwhile discovered that a plot was hatching at M‘Gillivray’s house in Montreal—and the nucleus of the North-West Company—to upset altogether the infant settlement at Red River, Mr Beauchamp volunteered to set off at once and convey the first intelligence of this Guy Fawkes business to the poor unsuspecting colonists. To this end, he started for Moose Factory, in James Bay, in an Indian canoe. When about midway, he was overtaken by the rigours of a Canadian winter, with all its impediments to continued and safe travel. He had to walk to the above-named Factory, and thence along the coast of Hudson’s Bay to Albury, Severn, and York factories, and on to Red River—a journey of two thousand miles, a feat which only a nature inured to privation and hardship such as we have described, together with the substratum of an iron constitution, could possibly have performed.

On the night of Mr Beauchamp’s arrival at his destination, there happened to be some kind of bacchanalian revelries going on in true military style, got up by the commandant at Fort Douglas, Red River. In these our adventurer took part, but in a way that did not greatly redound to his credit. Nothing, it may be presumed, was known there of his antecedents, and as he was heart and soul devoted to Red River, he was advised to find a wife amongst the native women of Caledonia residing on the spot. The choice was soon made of a widow, and in the absence of any clergyman, the knot was tied by the civil magistrate. Shortly after, his pecuniary affairs being now in a satisfactory condition, he resolved to return to England. Whilst there, a longing came over him to see once more the love of his youth and to ask her forgiveness for the past and the boon of her friendship in his declining years. More than thirty years had elapsed since they parted, but the lady had never married. After the death of her parents, she had come into possession of a fortune, and had a handsome establishment in Portman Square. There she resided for the rest of her life, and there, too, she saw again the friend of her youth, and received his explanation. What that explanation was, never passed her lips. We may be sure that no man of birth, fortune, and social position would have sacrificed all for a trifle, and become to all intents and purposes an outlaw.

It was during this sojourn in England that he formed the plan of a ‘Buffalo Wool Company,’ making himself the managing partner. It turned out a miniature South Sea Bubble, for it left Mr Beauchamp minus six thousand pounds. He had returned to Canada in 1820, and an occasional interchange of letters with Miss Middleton followed. In his perfect diction and finished phrases there was still much to remind her of the fascinating polished friend of her youth, from whose pen she had received an unvarnished account of his strange career. In testimony of this, a touching record was found amongst her papers at her decease, which took place some years after that of Mr Beauchamp. When the news reached him in 1826 of the failure of his last venture, the shock it gave him reduced his fine athletic form in a few weeks to a shadow. He was first attacked by delirium, and then fell into a state of absolute despondency. But his mental faculties completely recovered their power; and just at the most critical period of his illness, he was received and cared for by the English chaplain and his wife. When sufficiently restored, he sought some new means of employment which involved neither risk nor outlay. His last occupation was the mastership of a private boarding-school for the families of the Company’s officers at the Red River. In this way he managed to support himself and his family until his death. He used to speak of himself to the clergyman’s wife as ‘a humble sprig of nobility,’ and had ingeniously drawn out a genealogical tree—still in the possession of this lady’s family—tracing his descent from Richard Cœur-de-Lion.

A1 AT LLOYD’S.

A1 at Lloyd’s is a sufficiently familiar expression; it meets our eye in the newspaper paragraph; it stares at us from the wall-placard; and it haunts us in Fenchurch Street, E.C., Water Street, Liverpool, and other chosen homes of shipowners. Every one recognises in it a nautical equivalent for ‘first quality;’ but here information on the subject usually ends. As Lloyd’s Register of British and Foreign Shipping, the institution granting the title in question, has not long since celebrated its jubilee, we believe a short account of the origin of that undertaking and of the work in which it is engaged may prove of interest.

The business of underwriting or insuring against marine risks is of very ancient date; to say that it existed among the Phœnicians takes us back a long way in the world’s history; and as a necessary preliminary to legitimate underwriting, as distinguished from mere chance-work, lies, and must ever have lain, in knowing that the vessel proposed to be insured is seaworthy, we may also claim for the business of the ship-surveyor a respectable antiquity.

The primitive underwriter was probably a man with a practical knowledge of ships, and who, when asked to insure a certain vessel, surveyed it himself. As business increased, however the inconvenience attending this system would soon make itself felt, and the obvious expedient of the underwriter employing a skilled man to make the survey for him and send in a report, would be adopted. From an underwriter receiving reports of the condition of individual ships, to his arranging these in tabular form, is but a step; and from individual underwriters drawing up such lists for their own guidance, to their agreeing generally to place them at the service of their brothers in the business, is but another, although the length of time that elapsed ere this latter result was reached was doubtless considerable. The oldest classified list of shipping extant dates only from the beginning of the reign of George III.; but this document—of which more anon—bears unmistakable internal evidence of being at the time no novelty.

Our story opens during the early years of the reign of Charles II.; English colonies across the sea were beginning to prosper; English commerce, notwithstanding oppressive fiscal laws, was on the increase, and the business of the underwriter naturally followed. London was then, as now, the headquarters of the marine insurance business of the country; and the city coffee-houses, then but of recent origin, were the common meeting-places of all connected with the shipping interest: it is the name of the proprietor of one of these establishments that now lives in that of the great corporation of Lloyd’s.

Edward Lloyd is one of those men of whom we would gladly know more than history has brought down to us, but of whose personality apart from his work we know practically nothing, even his proper name having been lost, until recovered by the researches of a recent writer. Finding his house in Tower Street regularly frequented by underwriters, Lloyd—who must have been a man of great ability and foresight—appears to have formed the resolution of making it the headquarters of the business; and to this end, gave facilities for meetings, arranged for sales of vessels and cargoes, started a newspaper, and practically identified his interests with those of his patrons. The newspaper was short-lived, being suppressed by government; but his labours were rewarded by his seeing his establishment—latterly removed to Lombard Street—the centre of marine insurance business not only for London but for the kingdom. Three generations of underwriters met at the Lombard Street coffee-house, and when, in 1770, having formed an association, they removed to premises of their own, and shortly after to the Royal Exchange, they took the name of their old headquarters with them; and thus it has come about that the greatest marine insurance corporation the world has seen owes its name, and to a certain extent its origin, to a London coffee-house keeper at the time of the Restoration, to whose memory the foreign shipowning Companies’ titles of ‘Austrian Lloyd’s,’ ‘North German Lloyd’s,’ ‘Argentine Lloyd’s,’ &c. are additional tributes. The classified list of shipping already referred to as the oldest extant is dated 1764, but is, unfortunately, somewhat mutilated. The work is arranged in a form very similar to that of the register books of to-day, giving in parallel columns the name of the vessel, tonnage, date of building, owner, &c.; and also what is evidently intended for a character or class, one or other of the vowels A, E, &c., in conjunction with the letters G, M, or B. The key to this system of classification is missing; but Mr Martin, the historian of Lloyd’s, has surmised, with every appearance of justice, that the vowels refer to the character of the hull of the vessel; and the accompanying letters, being the initials of the words good, middling, and bad, to the character of the equipment; AG being thus a good, well-equipped ship, and UB the reverse.

How to express satisfactorily the condition of a ship by means of symbols was evidently about this time a disputed point, as in a register dated four years later an entirely new system appears, the letters a, b, c being used in conjunction with the Roman numerals 1, 2, 3, 4. Under this system, a1, an approximation to the now familiar character, represented a good vessel; and c4 its antithesis. Seven years later still, in 1775, the vowels again make their appearance for expressing the character of the hull, the Roman numerals being retained, and A1, as the symbol for a first-class ship, comes on the scene. To decide what shall be the classification letters or numerals used in describing ships of varying character is one thing; to give to each ship the class to which it is justly entitled is another and decidedly more difficult matter. So the London underwriters found; but instead of treating the question as one in which many interests were involved, they treated it as concerning themselves alone, and, during the closing years of last century, came to a decision the sole merit of which was its simplicity. The London shipbuilders of the day got a better price for their work than the builders at other ports, and consequently were able to, and admittedly did, turn out a better ship. Further, it might be primâ facie supposed that a ship, built even on the Thames, was not so good after being afloat ten years as on the day of its launch. Putting these two things together, the compilers of the Register decided to class ships simply according to their age and where they were built; such events as a ship newly built on the Tees being occasionally better than a Thames-built craft of the same size that had been knocking about the seas for five years; or a thirteen-year-old ship under good management being actually in better repair and more seaworthy than an eight-year-old one in careless hands, being held to be contingencies needless to provide against. It was hardly to be supposed that the shipowners would agree to a system of classification which practically placed a monopoly in the hands of certain builders, and which decreed that existing ships after a certain period would lose their class, no matter how perfect their state of repair; and the result of indignation meetings on the subject was the starting of a new Register of shipping; thereafter known as the ‘Red Book;’ the former, or underwriters’ register, being known as the ‘Green Book.’ From the date of founding of the Red Book, the history of ship-classification, from being fragmentary, becomes continuous; and, had the popular saying, that competition is the life of trade, been of universal application, great advance might have been looked for; the law of supply and demand, however, stopped the way. There was not sufficient work for the two Registers; each found it difficult to meet its expenses without taxing its supporters; and although, during the thirty odd years the rivalry lasted, some advance was made, still, during the whole of that period the relationships of shipbuilders, shipowners, shippers, and underwriters one to the other were on an unsatisfactory footing. Nowadays, it is recognised—and no one thinks of disputing the justice of the arrangement—that the shipowner, being clearly the person most interested in his ship bearing a high class, should pay the expense of all surveys. This apparently elementary truth was, however, far from being recognised sixty years ago, the opinion then being that the interested parties were the shippers and underwriters.

After the close of the war with Bonaparte, when privateering was a thing of the past, and convoys of frigates were no longer required, the shipping trade of England rapidly increased; each Register was impelled to keep pace with its rival in adding to its number of ships registered, and the expense of surveys increased in proportion, the number of subscribers remaining but little altered. This was the beginning of the end. By the time that a fourth of the present century had elapsed, the rival Registers were in a hopeless condition; but ten years more of trouble and dispute had to pass ere differences were adjusted, jealousies set at rest; and the ‘Red’ and the ‘Green’ now united, commenced a fresh career of usefulness under the title of ‘Lloyd’s Register of British and Foreign Shipping,’ the new departure dating from January 1835. The Committee of management of the new Register was supposed to represent in equal proportions the interests of the shipowners, shippers, and underwriters, and, so far as London was concerned, it doubtless did so. With, however, that preference for men and things metropolitan, not unknown yet on the banks of the Thames, the interests of the other shipping ports of the United Kingdom received scant recognition, and the result was the perpetuation of grievances, the effects of which have lasted to our own day. Of much greater importance than the mere union of the rival Registers was the adoption of the system of surveying and classification, which, although improved in detail to an extent then undreamt of, is in operation still. It was settled that henceforth vessels were to be classed on their own merits as at date of survey; that the class should be fixed by the committee on the report of the surveyor; that vessels built with a view to class should be under survey during the course of construction; and that the shipowner should pay the survey fees.

At the date of the founding of Lloyd’s Register, and for untold generations before, the one material used for building ships was wood. Long experience had made its properties common knowledge, and it might reasonably be supposed that shipbuilders would long since have come to an agreement as to the dimensions, say, of the ribs, keel, or planking of a ship of given size; such, however, was far from being the case. Owing, possibly, in part to the fact of ships built at one port being assumed inferior to those built at another, and the builders accepting the situation, and certainly in part to the fact that the rule of thumb was then the leading rule in British naval architecture, the practice in one part of the country differed widely from that in another. To induce the adoption of a uniform scale of ship scantlings founded on the best practice was one of the first tasks attempted by the Committee; but while its members were yet considering the proportions of wooden ships, an influence was at work in the world that was shortly to render their labours of small account. Along with the old familiar click of the calker’s mallet, the dwellers by river-banks began to hear mingle a new sound, the rattle of the riveter’s hammer; and by the time Lloyd’s Register had completed its tenth year of work, the Great Britain had crossed the Atlantic, and the Iron Age had come. The ship-designer found his business brought back at a single step to the experimental stage, and the Committee and surveying staff of Lloyd’s Register found that they had a new business to learn. It is probable that every branch of human industry has been, at one period or another of its history, the subject of trade secrets; iron shipbuilding in its earlier days was no exception, and, as no builder thought it his interest to initiate Lloyd’s Register, that body had no share in the development of the iron ship. This was probably the best arrangement; the days of competitive tenders and ‘poor man’s ships’ were yet in the future; and the men who launched the Great Britain, the Persia, and the Great Eastern, were more in a position to teach than to be taught. In 1844, Lloyd’s Register agreed, for the first time, to give the A1 class to iron ships built under their survey, on the surveyors’ report that they were of good and substantial materials and workmanship; and eleven years later, their first rules for iron ship-construction were issued.

Landsmen who voyaged in the wooden ships of the past were but too familiar with the creaking that went on without intermission whenever weather of a certain degree of roughness was met with. This was due to a slight rubbing of the timbers one on another, and was no sign of weakness, it being impossible with a yielding material like wood to drive bolts absolutely tight. The amount of straining and actual distortion that a wooden ship might undergo and yet remain fairly seaworthy, was astonishing; and a go-ahead skipper preferred a springy ship to a stiff one. With iron, the conditions were entirely changed; rigidity proved essential to safety, and loose fastenings were fatal. It was this necessity for rigidity that made it possible to frame constructive rules from the observation of the behaviour of comparatively new ships, old and tried ones not being then in existence. On examining an iron ship after a single voyage, the surveyor, provided always the painter had not been at work before his arrival, could point unchallenged to the weak points of her structure—started joints, cracked plates, and bent bars, telling their tale only too plainly. For reasons which are not far to seek, but which need not be entered upon here, the rules for the construction of iron vessels issued by Lloyd’s Register in 1855 did not meet the success their framers intended. Greatly improved rules were issued in 1863; but it was not until 1870 that the Committee emancipated itself from various obsolete ideas, and, under the guidance of the honoured gentleman who now holds the position of Secretary to the Register, issued rules in the form now existing. Various editions of these rules appeared from time to time, each more comprehensive than its predecessor; for some years past they have been issued annually; and those now current leave little to be desired so far as completeness is concerned. Lloyd’s Register grants three leading classes—namely, 100A, 90A, and 80A; the numeral 1, making 100A1, being added to keep up the time-honoured classification mark. The system of classification a century ago provided, as we have seen, for differing qualities of outfit in ships otherwise bearing the same character, and the numerals 1, 2, 3, &c. were used accordingly; but the fact has come to be recognised that a good ship with a bad or insufficient outfit is practically a bad ship, and the 100A class is not granted unless the outfit be up to the requirements of the numeral 1.

In addition to the above-named classes, Lloyd’s Register will survey and grant the class A for a vessel designed for almost any desired service, the plans being submitted for their approval; for instance, the swift steamers that carry the mails in connection with the South-Eastern Railway are classed ‘A. Folkestone and Boulogne Passenger Service.’ These special classes, however, are not taken advantage of to any great extent.—Two classes of surveys are held—the ‘Ordinary’ and the ‘Special.’ The first consists in a given number of visits paid to a ship at certain periods during construction; the second, in a systematic inspection of the vessel at short intervals, from the time of laying the keel to that of certifying to the anchors and cables being the proper weight. The first of these, as might be imagined, is open to various drawbacks; and few shipowners who desire a class at Lloyd’s hesitate to incur the somewhat greater expense of a ‘special survey,’ which, as it includes the machinery also if the vessel be a steamer, practically saves the expense of a private inspector. Lloyd’s survey only extends to the structure of the ship, and takes no account of the fitting-up of the cabins and other work connected with the accommodation or comfort of crew and passengers; the class meaning simply that, in the opinion of the Committee, the ship is strong and seaworthy. The work of surveying is carried on in the United Kingdom by about one hundred surveyors, who give their whole time to it; in addition, about three-fourths of this number scattered throughout the world give their services in part. The Committee of management, whose headquarters is in Cornhill, consists of fifty members, representing the different ports of the country, although by no means in proportion to their relative standing, London securing about half the total representation. The Register Book, which represents the results of the labours of Committee and surveyors, is a ponderous volume, and gives the particulars of all the vessels now afloat that have received Lloyd’s classification, in addition to the particulars of numbers of other vessels not so classed; in fact, the Register Book is a great shipping directory, the ship, not the owner, being the leading feature.

Lloyd’s Register is not alone in the field of surveying and classifying ships. Liverpool up till a year ago had a registry of its own, the ‘Liverpool Underwriters’ Registry.’ This has now united itself with Lloyd’s Register, a fact which, for some reasons, is to be regretted. Paris is the headquarters of the ‘Bureau Veritas,’ an undertaking whose classification is in repute in Scandinavia, North Germany, the Netherlands, and France; and which maintains a staff of surveyors in the United Kingdom. This undertaking is not a representative one, and on this ground has been objected to. It is doing useful work, nevertheless; and its system of classification is superior to Lloyd’s, inasmuch as it takes into account the service for which the vessel is intended. A kindred institution to the ‘Bureau Veritas’ looks after the shipping of Italy, and is known in this country as the ‘Italian Veritas;’ while the ‘American Lloyd’s’ controls to a certain extent the building of ships on the Delaware, but is unknown in this country, on account of the well-known navigation laws by which only native-built craft can sail under the stars and stripes.

Classification Societies are not an unmixed benefit to the community, still less have they an unmixed influence for good on the design of ships. Theoretically perfect rules would proportion the strength of every individual ship to the work it had to do; but, as Lloyd’s Committee, through whose hands the designs for over eight hundred ships probably pass in the course of a year, have no possible time for going into such detail, standard types of vessel have been adopted, the designs submitted being compared with these on the basis of their dimensions alone. The natural result of this is that ships are in many cases built to suit Lloyd’s type; and the art of the ship-designer but too often has degenerated into getting the maximum of advantage out of certain dimensions which are known to bring the vessel just within the limits of one of these types.

In the days gone by, ships were built for a certain trade, and kept at it, the East Indiaman, the West Indiaman, and the Atlantic packet seldom interfering with each other. The leading steamship Companies naturally adhere to this system still; but, during recent years, hundreds of individually owned ships have been set afloat, designed for no special trade, but simply to carry the maximum cargo on the minimum cost wherever a freight offers itself. It is largely from the necessity of making its rules applicable to these privateers of trade that the frequently grumbled-at oppressiveness of Lloyd’s Register arises. This brings us to notice that some first-class steamship Companies do not class their vessels at all; and it may cause surprise to many to know that of those steamers whose rapid passages across the Atlantic have made their names familiar, the majority are not A1 at Lloyd’s. The reason for this is simply, that a skilful designer who knows thoroughly the requirements of the service for which a ship is intended can always turn out a better and more economical vessel than one built to class, a fact which more of the leading steamship Companies will doubtless come to recognise before long. The rules of Lloyd’s Register for the construction of iron vessels are growing in stringency from year to year; a vessel built to class ten years ago, and which has proved her efficiency by doing the work for which she was designed during all that period without a complaint, would, if built to-day, require a large percentage of additional weight put into her structure to bring her strength up to the demands of the current rules. That this is so is due to the fact that, up till quite recently, Lloyd’s Register has taken account of one element only out of the several that the question of the safety of a ship on the ocean involves. For years past, the aim of the Committee has been to take from the shipbuilder more and more of the responsibility which he at one time bore for the strength of the vessels he builds, until now his share is practically nil; while it has been but too evident for years past, from the disclosures that now and again have been elicited before the Commissioner of Wrecks, that a good ship may be badly stowed, overloaded, or undermanned, and, under such circumstances, be in much greater danger from sea-risks than a far inferior ship in good hands.

The aim of Lloyd’s Register is the protection of the shippers and underwriters against undue risks, and the present high rates of marine insurance show that this protection is not what it might be. If the trouble and expense now devoted to securing strong vessels are not to continue to be thrown away, as they certainly are at present in a fair percentage of cases, the Committee will require to take steps to insure that a ship bearing their highest class shall not take the sea with a cargo badly stowed, an insufficient crew, or too little freeboard. The question of freeboard is already engaging attention; the other points cannot long be left in their present state; and the day will then come when shippers will think with wonder on the times when premiums at the rate of ten per cent. were paid for insuring cargoes in ships that were 100A1 at Lloyd’s.

DESTRUCTIVE INSECTS.

The Agricultural Department has issued two Reports by Mr C. Whitehead, F.L.S., F.G.S., dealing with Destructive Insects. The first of these treats of ‘Insects Injurious to Hop-plants.’ In the opinion of the writer, there is an increased and increasing risk of loss and destruction from injurious insects to many of the crops cultivated in this country. We scarcely grow anything exempt from the ravages of these pests. They attack corn of all kinds, fruit-trees, hop-plants, clover, turnips, mangold-wurzel, &c. Although some kinds are well known and long known, others are new, or, at anyrate, they have only recently been noticed. In certain instances they appear to have been imported with the plant, as, for example, the mangold-wurzel fly, Anthomyia betæ, which, within the last five years—contrary to the opinion of Curtis, who, writing in 1859, thought its injuries would not be of much consequence—has wrought much mischief. The turnip-fly again, which originally fed upon charlock and other cruciferous plants, has now quitted these, because the turnip supplies more suitable food. With its increased cultivation, this fly has multiplied enormously, as the farmer knows to his cost, for, in seasons favourable to its development, it sometimes destroys whole fields and causes great loss.

Cultivation is not only favourable to such old offenders, but it seems to have introduced entirely new ones; at least, the farmer now finds that wheat, clover, and other crops raised by rotation in the same fields, suffer injuries from insects, which, if they existed formerly, escaped notice. It may be, however, that the scientific spirit of late introduced into agriculture has only just discovered what in many cases has always been going on. At the same time, it is universally admitted that the destruction occasioned by insects is larger than ever it was, and that there are insects at work in the fields which were little, if at all, known to our forefathers.

One very good reason for the progressive increase of agricultural plagues is that they multiply proportionately at a much quicker rate than the plants on which they feed. We are actually rearing them artificially, and the problem is how to cultivate crops without at the same time cultivating these parasites. High-farming, by pampering plants, no doubt renders them more delicate and more liable to attack; but perhaps we help to make our own trouble by not exercising ordinary caution. Certain it is that destructive insects are imported into, as they are exported out of, this country. The agricultural produce which we bring from various parts of the world must contain many unwelcome visitors, though, fortunately, our climate does not agree with the majority of them. Like the famous Colorado Beetle, even if allowed a fair chance, they would scarcely thrive. Others there are with the Scotsman’s reputation of being able to do well anywhere. They only require a suitable plant to feel perfectly at home. They sometimes get ‘assisted’ emigration at the cost of their favourites, like the hop aphis, which was introduced into America among hop-roots sent from England. The former country has by entomologists been styled ‘the home of insects;’ but, to Europe’s loss, one highly interesting though destructive American crossed the Atlantic—namely, the phylloxera, so destructive to vines. An individual that undergoes various puzzling transformations is not readily identified, and the hop aphis, having these disguises, has alarming opportunities of getting a footing where it is least wanted. Indeed, all such destructive insects should receive more study than they have hitherto obtained. Within the last few years, scale insects were introduced into the Californian orange groves from Australia; and orange, citron, and lemon growers in other parts of the world are now complaining of pests of a similar nature. Considering the evil which has been already accomplished, it is highly important that farmers, fruit-growers, gardeners, and all who cultivate the land should be made acquainted with all that is known regarding the insects which attack their several crops.

The hop-plant in particular has many enemies, some of them so destructive, that if not checked, they would soon ruin the grower. Within the last thirty years, it is believed the liability of this plant to attack by insects has considerably increased. Hop-planters assert that insects now destroy their crops which were not known in the plantations until recently. Mr Whitehead selects ten of the most troublesome species, and gives descriptions of each insect, together with its life-history, its modes of attack, and the injury to the hop resulting therefrom; also a detailed account of methods of prevention, and of measures which have been found efficacious in stopping or alleviating these attacks.

Mr Whitehead originally intended to confine his second Report to insects injurious to corncrops; but as the work progressed, it was found desirable to include those destructive to grasscrops, as some insects are common to both. While dealing with cereals, he also thought it well to treat pulse, under which title are included plants such as peas, beans, and tares, and to describe the principal insects which affect them, especially as they are all crops liable to be attacked by the same insects. A description of a genus the most injurious to different kinds of clover, is also given. To include comparatively harmless insects in a work which is intended not so much for scientific purposes as to enlighten farmers and others regarding the pests which molest them most, was not necessary. For sufficient reasons it has been found most expedient neither to arrange them alphabetically nor according to a recognised scientific classification, but to take the insects of each group as far as possible in the order of their injurious effects. Indeed, there are included what, in the scientific acceptation of the term, are not insects at all. But the Report was written to convey useful and practical instruction to the cultivators of the soil, and wisely it was done in the manner which was likely to benefit them most. ‘With regard to these’ (the chief pests), Mr Whitehead writes, ‘it has been endeavoured to collect all the information that is known about them, and to bring this down to the latest date. It is believed that each monograph is a résumé of all that is known of its subject, of its life-history, and the means of prevention, and remedies against it. It is admitted that in several instances the information is still imperfect; and in compiling this series of Reports, I have been more than ever impressed with the necessity of enlisting skilled workers in this cause, as well as of urging and encouraging habits of observation amongst those who superintend the cultivation of the land and those who work upon it.’

A NURSE.

A nurse, a simple nurse; to the unthinking

Only a nurse, and nothing but a name:

A patient woman in her round of duty,

Living and dying all unknown to fame.

Only a nurse, a messenger of mercy,

An angel sent unto our suffering race,

With quiet step, and tender hand of healing,

Divinest pity on her gentle face.

When all the world lies wrapt in quiet slumber,

Save the poor sufferer moaning on his bed,

Whose watchful eye with Christian love keeps vigil

Through the long night with silent softened tread?

Only a nurse, in duty all unshrinking;

Before such scenes, man’s stouter heart would quail:

See there! that sweet, fair girl, in sorest trial

Is at her post, nor will her courage fail.

The fever we but terror-struck encounter,

Or fly before with selfish, coward dread;

While nurse and doctor hasten to the rescue,

And stand unflinching by the stricken bed.

Hark! that weird bell—an accident at midnight;

The nurse and doctor, wakeful, close at hand,

Who minister to suffering or dying,

The hospital’s heroic little band!

There you or I may in our need find refuge,

With kindly help and loving tender care;

Respect we give those brave, unselfish women,

And night and day, remember them in prayer.

E. M. C.

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

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