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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 31, Vol. I, August 2, 1884

Author: Various

Release date: August 3, 2021 [eBook #65985]

Language: English

Credits: Susan Skinner, Eric Hutton and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 31, VOL. I, AUGUST 2, 1884 ***




[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 31.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, AUGUST 2, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




BIRD MIGRATION.


The migration of birds is a subject that has excited the attention of
naturalists of all nations from very early times, and many theories
have been advanced to account for the mysterious periodical movements
that take place among the feathered tribes, although it can hardly be
said there is one which fully explains these movements. Some writers
affirm that they are entirely due to temperature; others, that they are
caused by a want of food; while others, again, assert that they are
traceable, within certain limits, to a hereditary impulse which guides
birds in following lines of flight over seas where at one time all was
land.

There can be no doubt that originally, birds, like other animals, were
actuated to a great extent in their periodical shiftings by the main
considerations of food and temperature. As familiar examples of this,
we have only to remember that species which are reared within the
Arctic Circle are compelled to quit their birthplaces as soon as the
brief summer is past—their haunts becoming wrapped in snow, and their
feeding-grounds converted into a dreary expanse of ice; while in our
own country, every one knows that swallows and other soft-billed birds
are obliged to leave us at the close of autumn, and repair to climes
where there is not only greater warmth but abundance of insect life, on
which their subsistence depends.

Another theory, however, may be adverted to, as showing the phenomena
in a more suggestive and poetical light—namely, that put forward
by the aged Swedish poet Runeberg, who believes that birds, in
undertaking their vast and toilsome journeys, are solely influenced
by their longing for light. When the days become shorter in the
north, birds make up their minds to go southwards; but as soon as
the long northern days of summer set in, ‘with all their luminous
and long-drawn hours,’ the winged hosts return to their old haunts.
There is evidently something in this theory, because, in the case of
the insectivorous birds, there is little diminution of food in their
southern hunting-grounds to compel them to seek a change; and even with
regard to marine birds, it seems quite possible that fishes and other
migratory creatures in the sea on which they prey are influenced to a
great extent by some such impulse as this theory indicates. The longing
after light, moreover, is well exemplified in imprisoned plants, which,
though firmly rooted in the ground, instinctively strain towards the
light, and spread upwards in search of an outlet from the surrounding
darkness. The Swedish poet, therefore, may, after all, be nearer the
truth than some naturalists are willing to allow.

But whatever may be the true theory, it is certain that at the
close of each summer, whether it be within the Arctic Circle or in
the temperate region of Britain, where observations are now being
made, vast flights of birds are seen passing southwards, and again
in early spring proceeding northwards, with unvarying regularity;
and it has consequently become a matter of considerable interest to
ornithologists, as well as to naturalists at large, to record such
observations as may help to throw light upon the question as to what
species share in the general migration and how their movements appear
to be influenced.

In _Chambers’s Journal_ for December 1876, a suggestion was made that
the light-keepers of our lighthouses might be enlisted in the cause
of science by making notes of their observations concerning birds
and other animals, as by that means new facts would certainly be
added to our stores of knowledge; and Messrs J. A. Harvie Brown and
John Cordeaux—two well-known ornithologists—subsequently undertook
of their own accord the circulation of carefully prepared schedules
among the keepers of lighthouses and lightships situated on the
English and Scottish coasts, with a view to investigate the migratory
movements of birds. The results, which were both interesting and
valuable, were published in the _Zoologist_ for 1880, but were
immediately thereafter reprinted in a convenient form for reference.
Subsequently, it was found that the scheme was somewhat beyond the
limits of private enterprise, and application for aid was therefore
made to the British Association at its meeting at Swansea, in the
autumn of the same year. This led to the appointment of a Committee
of Naturalists, whose Report, issued in 1881 (London: Sonnenschein
and Allen), was so encouraging, that when the Association again met
at York, a larger Committee was appointed, and a wider interest given
to the investigations by their extension to the coasts of Ireland.
A subsequent Report on the migration of birds, containing a mass of
interesting information on the points referred to, has recently been
issued as the work of this Committee; and judging from its contents, it
may reasonably be expected that the results of such investigations will
become more and more important as the work proceeds.

From the returns given by the light-keepers, it would appear that
birds, prior to crossing the ocean, follow closely the coast-line in
their journeyings, and that during the two periods named, a continuous
stream passes to and from their summer quarters, broken, it may be,
by a sudden change of wind or other vicissitude of weather, and thus
causing ‘throbs’ or ‘rushes,’ as they have been termed, but steady as a
rule—the hereditary impulse being too powerful to admit of anything but
a temporary deviation or delay on these great highways of migration.

It seems strange that while such movements are taking place, persons
resident but a few miles inland may be unaware of the winged multitudes
that in this way pass within a short distance of their homes. Yet a
great deal of information may be gathered by close observers who are
willing to visit the seacoast at daybreak about the time the birds
are on the move. The present writer well remembers seeing large
flights of birds of different species arriving in early spring on
the shores of East Lothian for a succession of years. Among these,
the swallows were conspicuous even at some distance out at sea, the
main body passing northwards in undeviating flight, while numerous
detachments left it and came landwards, to people the haunts in the
country which they had occupied the previous year. The same was
observed in the case of wheatears, redstarts, and golden-crested
wrens—the last-named being particularly interesting from their tiny
size. Occasionally goldcrests would come in great numbers, and
immediately on alighting, would flutter in the morning sunlight among
the rocks and walls near high-water mark in search of insect prey,
paying no heed to the presence of any one watching their motions.
Again, in the autumn months, buzzards, owls, and woodcock would arrive
simultaneously, and pitch upon the rocks at low water, as if glad to
touch the nearest land; and even wood-pigeons (supposed by the country
folks to come from Norway), which delight only in dense woods and
fertile fields, and which suddenly appear in vast numbers in severe
British winters, settled in crowds upon the stony beach without any
preliminary survey of the ground. Observations like these can be made
on almost any part of the east of Scotland, and it is gratifying to
find them verified in a remarkable degree by the returns from the
light-keepers, which not only show the closeness with which birds
follow the coast-line, but also indicate the points of land from which
they speed seawards in their adventurous flight. Thus, it is found
that arrivals and departures take place at Spurn Point and on the
coast of Forfarshire—the inference being, if the theory of a former
land-communication be true, that an ancient coast-line must have
extended east or north-eastward probably from Holderness to Southern
Scandinavia and the mouth of the Baltic. There is also reason to
believe that similar points of arrival and departure exist in the
north-east of Aberdeenshire, judging from the occurrence of so many
rare birds, whose presence there at the migration season can hardly
otherwise be accounted for.

Among other interesting facts brought to light by the present series
of investigations we find that, with very rare exceptions, young birds
of the year migrate some weeks _in advance_ of the parent birds, and
that the appearance on our coasts in autumn of many species, such as
the wheatear, fieldfare, redwing, hooded crow, goldcrest, and woodcock,
may almost be predicted to a day. The punctuality, indeed, with which
certain birds return to us in the fall of the year is remarkable—one
species regularly taking precedence of another according to the time
required for their self-dependence. Shore-birds apparently reach this
stage earlier than land-birds, as it has been observed that the young
of the knot, gray plover, godwit, and sanderling—birds which nest in
very high latitudes, and are the last of the migrants to leave in
spring—are amongst the first to come to our shores.

The most interesting of all the stations from which returns have been
sent is the small rocky island of Heligoland, situated in the North
Sea, about forty miles from the mouth of the Elbe. Here the tired
wing of many a feathered wanderer finds a resting-place. Lying almost
directly in the line of migration, the island has been periodically
visited by birds in incredible numbers, many of them belonging to
species of extraordinary interest. Attracted by the lighthouse, which
occupies the highest point of the island, and throws out on dark nights
a blaze of light ‘like a star of supreme brightness,’ many thousands
of birds of all kinds pitch upon its treeless surface, where they have
scarcely any shelter from the weather, and where they become at once a
prey to the wants of the islanders, who capture them in vast numbers,
and use them as food. Mr Cordeaux, in an interesting communication to
the _Ibis_ for 1875, states, that on the evening of the 6th of November
1868, three thousand four hundred larks were captured on the lantern of
the lighthouse before half-past nine o’clock; and on the same evening,
subsequent to that hour, eleven thousand six hundred others were
taken—making a total of fifteen thousand. For this holocaust of these
charming songsters, no words of deprecation are strong enough, though
their capture was probably regarded as a lawful addition to the larder
of the captors, and probably such visitations had been so regarded
ever since the lighthouse had begun to lure the poor creatures to an
untimely fate! In this way also, no doubt, many a feathered rarity was
consumed.

Fortunately for science, however, this little island has numbered
amongst its resident population an observer of rare intelligence, Mr
H. Gätke, whose leisure hours have been employed for nearly thirty
years in registering the occurrence of the birds which have either
made the rock a temporary resting-place or been seen crossing it in
their migratory flight. Mr Gätke first visited Heligoland as an artist;
but having secured an official appointment there, he afterwards made
the island his permanent home. During the interval, he has collected
and preserved with his own hands upwards of four hundred species—a
collection containing examples of the avi-fauna of the four quarters
of the globe. Strange as it may appear, birds have touched here whose
proper homes are wide as the poles asunder—birds from the burning
plains of India and the arctic lands of desolation. The Far West, too,
has contributed its land and water birds; and from the barren steppes
of Siberia, tiny warblers have joined the moving throng. As instances
of the abundance of what are called ‘British birds,’ mention may be
made of flights of buzzards numbering thousands which passed over the
island on September 22, 1881; while flocks of equal numbers rested
on the cliffs, and a ‘great flight’ of hooded crows, which crossed
in the same direction. As for the starling—a bird which has become
extraordinarily plentiful in this country during the last thirty
years—it is referred to as making its appearance in a ‘great rush,’
which no doubt accounts for a flock, recorded some time afterwards
as coming from the east, by a light-keeper on the English coast,
‘estimated to contain a million starlings, making a noise like thunder,
darkening the air.’ All these birds were doubtless of Scandinavian
origin, and had in the case of each species travelled in a compact body
along the coast-line until they reached North Germany, where they had
to some extent become broken up, many of the birds being induced to
alter their flight westwards in the direction of the British coasts.
As a natural consequence, the earliest observers of their arrival in
this country would be the light-keepers at Spurn Head on the Yorkshire
coast; and the records from this station show that the buzzards and
hooded crows at least, reached us from Heligoland in somewhat less than
twenty-four hours.

Another important post of observation is the lighthouse on the Isle
of May, in the Firth of Forth,[1] from which one of the reporters
has obtained records of species of more than ordinary interest,
the intelligent keeper there having sent him no fewer than seven
closely filled schedules, principally referring to autumn migrations.
Seventy-five species have already been identified from this station;
but in addition to these, numerous entries refer to ‘small birds’ of
various descriptions, regarding which and other accidental visitors,
more will be known as the investigations proceed, arrangements having
been made for the preservation and transmission to the mainland of
all the species that occur at the station. The occurrence of the
blue-throated warbler here—a very rare bird in Britain—suggests the
possibility of other interesting forms being sent from this locality.

In summarising the material received, the compilers of the Report
confess that the migrations of seagulls are most erratic and difficult
to tabulate. In certain years, however, these are unquestionably
regulated by the movements of the fish upon which they feed. The late
Professor MacGillivray has recorded that, in the winter of 1837, a
flock of seagulls computed to contain not short of a million birds
made its appearance in the Firth of Forth; and it must be within the
recollection of at least one of the reporters that in 1872-3 similar
if not even greater numbers visited the firth, the most common species
being the kittiwake and lesser black-backed gull. In this memorable
invasion, unusual numbers of glaucous and Iceland gulls made their
appearance, birds of such note among ornithologists as to be marked
objects when they do occur; and the entire assemblage was suggestive
of a migration controlled by the movements of fishes—the waters of
the firth being at that time swarming with sprats. The ‘catches’ of
the local fishermen were so heavy as to necessitate their sale at a
trifling sum per cartload to the neighbouring farmers, for the purpose
of manuring their fields.

There is not much, we apprehend, to be gathered from the appearance of
skuas, petrels, long-tailed or ice ducks (_Harelda glacialis_), and
other species whose haunts are exclusively marine, as their occurrence
inshore signifies in nearly all cases continued rough weather at some
distance from land. There are no seafaring creatures, indeed, that
delight more in storms than ice-ducks and petrels; for them, the huge
green waves or churned masses of foam have no terrors; they are for the
time being at home amid the wildest waters—the petrels on the one hand
flitting silently over the turbulent billows, rising as they advance,
and falling in their wake with contemptuous ease; the ducks, on the
other hand, careering aloft during a sudden blast, and sounding their
bagpipe-like notes, as if deriding the war of elements. Very different
is the experience of the tender songsters that traverse the dreary
waste of waters; sorely tried in their powers of flight, they are not
unfrequently caught by adverse gales and driven hundreds of miles out
of their course, to be finally swallowed by the pitiless waves.

In connection with this subject, and as bearing upon the question of
former land-communications, reference may be made to an extremely
interesting paper on the Migration and Habits of the Norwegian Lemming,
read before the Linnæan Society of London by Mr W. D. Crotch in 1876.
In this communication, Mr Crotch shows that the lemming, which is
a small rat-like animal, occurring in abundance in many parts of
Norway, assembles periodically, although at irregular intervals,
in incredible numbers, and travels westwards until the seacoast is
reached; after which, on the first calm day, the vast multitude
plunges into the Atlantic Ocean, ‘and perishes, with its front still
pointing westwards.’ Such a voluntary destruction in the case of a
single species is perhaps nowhere else to be found in the history
of migratory animals, and it seems difficult to understand how the
annihilation of so many migratory hordes through a ‘suicidal routine’
should not ultimately lead to their extinction. Mr Crotch tells us
that no survivor returns to the mountains; indeed, so formidable is the
migration and its effects upon the poor fugitives, that we are told by
Mr Collett—a Norwegian naturalist—of a ship sailing for fifteen hours
through ‘a swarm of lemmings which extended as far over the Trondhjems
fiord as the eye could reach.’

Mr Crotch rightly, we think, concludes that land existed in the North
Atlantic Ocean at no very remote date, and that when dry land connected
Norway with Greenland, the lemmings ‘acquired the habit of migrating
westwards for the same reasons which govern more familiar migrations.’
The inherited tendencies, therefore, of this little creature are
opposed to the so-called instinct which impels quadrupeds as well as
birds to change their quarters in quest of food and warmth, unless
we conclude, with Mr Crotch, that in the case of the lemming, such
instinct has persistently failed in its only rational purpose.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] See article ‘The Isle of May and its Birds,’ in _Chambers’s
Journal_ for September 22, 1883.




BY MEAD AND STREAM.

BY CHARLES GIBBON.


CHAPTER XL.—MADGE’S MISSION.

The glow of happiness on Madge’s face seemed to brighten even the
gloomy atmosphere outside. She had done something for Philip—something
that would not only give him pleasure in the highest degree, but which
he would regard as an important practical service. For she had no doubt
that she would be able to convince Mr Beecham of the groundlessness of
all his charges against Mr Hadleigh. Then the two men would meet; they
would shake hands; all the errors and suspicions which had separated
them would be cleared up, forgiven, and soon forgotten in the amity
which would follow. How glad Philip would be. She was impatient to
complete her good work.

Miss Hadleigh entered the room hurriedly.

‘Goodness gracious, dear, what charm have you used with papa that you
have kept him so long with you? I never knew him stay so long with
anybody before.’

‘The only charm used was that the subjects we had to talk about were of
great interest to us both,’ Madge answered, smiling.

‘Oh, how nice.—They concerned Philip? What does he say?’

‘That we are not to pay attention to the rumours until we have definite
information from Philip himself.’

‘Was that all?’ Miss Hadleigh was disappointed, and her expression of
curiosity indicated that she was quite sure it was not all.

‘No,’ said Madge softly, wishful that her answer might have been more
satisfactory to Miss Hadleigh.

The latter did not endeavour to conceal her surprise; but she did
successfully conceal her feeling of pique that Madge should have been
taken into the confidence of her father about matters of grave moment:
she was sure they were so, for she had passed him on his way to the
library. _She_ had never been so honoured.

‘I suppose I must not ask you what the other subjects were, dear?’ she
said, with one of her most gracious smiles. She meant: ‘You certainly
_ought_ to tell _me_.’

Madge was spared the necessity of making a reply; for Mr Hadleigh,
instead of sending the promised packet, had brought it himself. When
he appeared, his daughter was silent. That was generally the case; but
on the present occasion the silence had an additional significance.
She was struck by a peculiar change in his expression, his walk, and
manner. As she afterwards told her betrothed, it quite took her breath
away to see him coming into the room looking as mild as if there had
never been a frown on his face. The dreamy, seeking look had vanished
from his eyes, which were now fixed steadily on Madge.

‘I have brought you the memorandum, Miss Heathcote, and you are free to
make what use of it you may think best.’

‘I hope to make good use of it,’ was her answer as she received a long
blue envelope which was carefully sealed.

‘Of course you understand that you are at liberty to open this
yourself, or in the presence of others whom you think the contents may
affect.’

‘I shall first find one or two of the other letters,’ said Madge, after
a moment’s reflection, ‘and then I shall place them with this packet,
sealed as it is, in the hands of the gentleman it most concerns.’

‘I am satisfied. What I am most anxious about is that you yourself
should be convinced. Do not forget that.’

‘I am already convinced.’ No one could doubt it who saw the bright
confidence in her eyes.

‘That is all I desire; but of course it will be a pleasure to me if you
succeed in convincing others. I have told them to have the carriage
ready, as I thought you might be in a hurry to get home.’

‘Indeed I am; and thank you.’

Amazement as much as courtesy kept Miss Hadleigh mute until the
leave-taking compelled her to utter the usual formalities. Mr Hadleigh
saw Madge to the carriage, and there was a note of tenderness in his
‘Good-bye’—as if he were a father seeing his daughter start on a long
journey from which she might never return.

What was the mysterious influence the girl exercised over this man?
Under it he had been always different from what he appeared to be at
other times; and under it he had consented to do that to which no one
else, except Philip, had ever dreamt he could be persuaded.

‘I shall be glad when they are married,’ he repeated to himself as,
when the carriage had disappeared, he walked slowly back to the library.

Aunt Hessy was somewhat startled when she saw the Ringsford carriage
and Madge come out of it alone.

‘Is anything wrong at the Manor?’ she asked; but before she had
finished the question she was reassured by the face of her niece.

‘No, aunt; but Mr Hadleigh thought I should have the carriage, as I was
in a hurry. I have had a long talk with him. He has made me very happy,
and has given me the power to make others happy.’

They were in the parlour now, and Aunt Hessy smiled at the excitement
of the usually calm Madge.

‘Is it extra blankets and coals for the poor folk, or a Christmas feast
for the children?’

‘No, no, aunt: it is something of very great importance to Philip and
to me. Philip’s uncle has all these years believed that it was Mr
Hadleigh who spread the false report about him; and that is why he will
not agree to have anything to say to him. Now, Philip has set his heart
upon making them friends, and I can do it!’

There was a brightness in the girl’s voice and manner which Aunt Hessy
was glad to see after those days of pained thoughtful looks.

‘How are you to do that, child?’

‘By showing Philip’s uncle who the real traitor was. His name was
Richard Towers, and Mr Hadleigh says you knew him.’

‘Richard Towers,’ echoed the dame gravely, and looking back to the
troubled time calmly enough now. ‘We did know him, and we did not like
him. He was one of the worst lads about the place, although come of
decent people. He borrowed money from my father, and thought he could
pay it back by wedding his daughter. He would not take “no” for an
answer for a long time. But at last he came to see that there was no
chance for him, and he spoke vile words. I do believe he was the kind
of man that would take pleasure in such evil work.’

‘He did do it. I have the proof.’

‘The wonder is we never thought of it before,’ continued the dame
thoughtfully; ‘but he has been gone away this many a year and is dead
now. He went to California, and was shot in some drunken quarrel.
Neighbour Hopkin’s lad, who was out there too, says he was lynched for
robbing a comrade and trying to murder him. But these are not pleasant
things to talk about. God forgive the poor man all his sins; although,
if what thou ’rt saying be true, he brought sorrow enough to our door.’

That was the worst word the good woman had for the man. Then Madge,
without betraying the confidence of Beecham, gave her a brief outline
of her conversation with Mr Hadleigh. Aunt Hessy naturally concluded
that it was Philip who had suggested that she should speak to his
father, and asked no questions. With her mind full of wonder at the
way in which the wicked are found out sooner or later, she went to the
dairy whilst Madge wrote a hasty note to Mr Beecham. She asked simply
what was the earliest hour at which she could see him.

She gave the note to young Jerry Mogridge with strict injunctions that
he was to bring back an answer, no matter how long he might have to
wait. Jerry promised faithful obedience, and privately hoped that he
might have to wait a long time, for the taproom at the _King’s Head_
was a pleasant place in which to spend a few hours.

Then Madge went to the garret, which had been a storehouse of wonders
to her in childhood, for there the lumber of several generations
was stowed. It was a large place, occupying nearly the whole length
and breadth of the house, with a small window at each end, and one
skylight. She knew exactly where to find the oaken box she wanted, for
she herself had pushed it away under the sloping roof near one of the
windows. It was not a large box, and she had no difficulty in dragging
it forward, so that she had the full benefit of the light. She had the
key ready; but as it had not been used for years, she found it was
not easy to get it to act. At length she succeeded, and raising the
lid, disclosed a mass of old letters neatly tied in bundles, and old
account-books ranged in order beside them.

The letters were not only neatly tied but duly docketed, so that, as
Madge rapidly took out bundle after bundle, she had only to lift the
tops to see from whom they had come and when. The light was failing
her fast, and Aunt Hessy would on no account permit a lighted lamp
or candle to be brought into the garret. She strained her eyes, and
endeavoured to quicken her search. At length she found two letters,
both dated in the same year—the year of her mother’s marriage—and
bearing the name Richard Towers. With a breath of satisfaction she drew
them out from the bundle. What their contents might be did not matter:
all she wanted was to secure fair specimens of the man’s handwriting.

After relocking the box and thrusting it back into its place, she
descended to the oak parlour. The lamp was on the table, and she lit it
at once. Her first impulse was to open those letters and read them. But
that would be to no purpose, as it was not in her power to compare the
writing with the memorandum in the blue envelope she had received from
Mr Hadleigh. Of course she was at perfect liberty to open that too,
and it was natural that she should feel an inclination to do so. This
feeling, however, was brief. She had decided to deliver the undoubted
letters of Richard Towers and the packet with its seals unbroken.
So she secured them all in one cover, which she addressed to Austin
Shield. It was not to pass from her own hand except into that of the
person for whom it was intended.

She had not recovered from the sense of hurry in which she had been
acting, when young Jerry returned, and after fumbling in his pockets,
produced a note.

‘You saw Mr Beecham, then?’ she said gladly.

‘Didn’t see him at all, missy; and I thought maybe as I’d better bring
that back.’ The note he gave her was her own.

‘But I told you to wait.’

‘Weren’t no sort ov use, missy. Gentleman’s gone away bag and baggage;
and they say at the _King’s Head_ he ain’t a-coming back no more.’

‘Did he leave no address?’

‘No what, missy?’

‘The name of any place where letters could be sent to him.’

‘O yes. I saw father: he drove him to the station, and the gentleman’s
gone to London.’

This was all the information young Jerry had been able to obtain, and
he regarded it as quite satisfactory. To Madge, it was disappointing;
but only in so far that it delayed the completion of her mission for
a few days. It was certainly strange that Mr Beecham should take his
departure so suddenly without leaving any message for her; but she had
no doubt that the post would bring her one.

So, now, she settled herself down to wait for Philip, and to make him
glad when he came, with her news that his father had given his consent
to the reconciliation.

But Philip did not visit Willowmere that night.




ANCIENT ROCK-HEWN EDICTS.


Having had the good fortune, some years ago, to find myself in the
grand old Indian land, in company of friends so exceptional as still to
take keen interest in all matters relating to native customs and Indian
antiquities, I hailed with delight their proposal that we should devote
some weeks to leisurely wandering among the chief points of interest
along the line of railway, and thus with ease and comfort see more of
the country than many old Indians have explored in their long years
of exile. One of the chief cities where we made a prolonged halt was
Allahabad—that is, ‘the City of God’—now the point of junction for the
railway from Bombay and from Calcutta, but dear to the natives of India
as the meeting-place of the sacred rivers the Jumna and the Ganges,
and consequently a very favourite place of pilgrimage, where countless
multitudes annually assemble from every part of Hindustan.

Immediately above the junction of the sacred rivers stands the old
fort of Allahabad, a grand mass of red sandstone, built by the great
Emperor Akbar. It now contains a very large English armoury—great guns
and little guns, and cannon and mortars, and all manner of weapons.
Here it was that the English found refuge during the Mutiny; and our
friends showed us the balcony, over-hanging the river, to which they
thankfully hauled up any morsels of food or firewood brought to them by
the faithful old servants, whom, however, they had been compelled to
dismiss, with the rest of the native attendants, from within the walls
of the fort. The mutiny in this city was very quickly crushed by the
timely arrival of General Neill with his ‘Madras Lambs;’ not, however,
till after one awful night, when, the doors of the jails having been
broken open, three thousand miscreants were turned loose to lend their
aid in burning and plundering the city. Upwards of fifty Europeans were
massacred that night, including eight young cadets who had only just
arrived from home. In the centre of the fort stands a very remarkable
monolith, surmounted by a lion. It bears an inscription in the ancient
Pali character, and is known as the Lat or Stone of Asoka, a mighty
emperor who lived about 250 B.C., and who, having embraced the tenets
of Buddha, inscribed his decrees on sundry great pillars which he
erected in divers cities. One of these is at the Buddhist caves of
Karli, and is called the Lion-pillar. It is a sixteen-sided monolith,
surmounted by four lions. Another exists at Delhi, in the ruined fort
of Togluck, though it is called after Feroze, a very modern emperor,
whereas Asoka was, as we have seen, a mighty prince of pre-Christian
ages. His pillars are sometimes surmounted by lions, sometimes by human
figures, overshadowed by the seven-headed cobra, or some other emblem
of power, such as the mystic umbrella—symbolical of Buddha—of which
sufficient trace remains to be recognised, though time and weather have
in the course of two thousand long years worn away the distinct form.
Very similar pillars are at the present day erected in Nepaul, whereon
are placed statues of kings, sometimes shaded by an umbrella made of
metal—and in one instance, by the serpent hood.

From the reign of Asoka, the stone architecture of India dates its
origin. He is said to have left eighty-four thousand buildings of
various sorts, as the marks of his footprints on Time’s sands. To him
is attributed the great tope at Sanchi, that mighty relic-shrine, whose
huge stone portals are to this day a marvel of mythological sculpture,
the details of which have now been made so familiar to us all by
casts, photographs, and description (see Fergusson’s _Tree and Serpent
Worship_, and also the great plaster casts at the South Kensington
Museum)—sculptures representing the primeval worship of sacred serpents
and holy trees, and displaying wheels, umbrellas, and other symbols
more particularly suggestive of the new faith—that of Buddha—which
Asoka established as the religion of the state. This mighty despot
having determined that the new maxims which had become binding on his
own conscience should henceforth be law to his subjects, proceeded
to inscribe them on stone in every corner of his dominions, that the
wayfarer might read them for himself.

Thus it is that, besides finding his edicts engraven on his buildings
and pillars, they are also found inscribed—as on imperishable
tablets—on great rocks scattered over the country from Orissa to
Peshawur. One of these huge boulders, twenty feet in height and
twenty-three in circumference, lies in the lonely jungle in the
district of Kathiawad in Western India. Here the emperor states, that
being convinced of the iniquity of slaying living creatures, he will
henceforth desist from the pleasures of the chase. Henceforth, no
animal must be put to death either for meat or sacrifice; and this
law, which the emperor appoints for himself, is to apply to all his
subjects, who are in future to feed only on vegetables. His protection
of the brute creation applies, not only to their lives; medical care is
to be provided for all living creatures, man and beast, throughout the
whole empire, as far south as Ceylon. Wells were to be dug, and trees
planted, that men and beasts might have shade and drink. The emperor
forbids all convivial meetings, as displeasing to the gods or injurious
to the reveller. He declares that he will himself set the example of
abstaining from all save religious festivals. On this huge ‘Junagadh
Rock,’ as it is called, allusion is also made to four contemporary
Greek kings. The date thus obtained is proved to be about 250 B.C.,
which just corresponds with that of Asoka himself.

The edicts go into various other matters. They inculcate the practice
of a moral law of exceeding purity; they enjoin universal charity;
and bid all men strive to propagate the true creed. To this end,
special missionaries were to be sent forth to the uttermost parts of
the earth, to preach to rich and poor, learned and ignorant, that
they might bring those ‘which were bound in the fetters of sin to
a righteousness passing knowledge.’ Nevertheless, a liberal margin
was to be allowed for diversity of opinion, and nothing savouring
of religious persecution was to be tolerated. At the same time, the
domestic life of the people was subject to the strictest censorship,
overseers being appointed to report on every act in the life of every
subject. These domestic inspectors attracted the particular attention
of the Greeks who visited India in the train of Alexander the Great,
who first turned the attention of Europeans to the then unknown
Indian land, and pursued his career of conquest as far as the banks
of the Sutlej, making himself master of the Punjab, and establishing
Greek colonies at various places. These Greeks described the domestic
monitors as ‘Episcopi,’ and asserted that their duty was to report,
either to the king or the magistrates, everything that happened in
town and country—an office which they seem to have filled wisely and
with discretion. We may here observe that there must be some confusion
in this chronicle of ancient days, inasmuch as Alexander the Great is
stated to have died at Babylon in the year 323 B.C., a hundred years
before the date usually assigned to the death of Asoka.

But Asoka’s pillar has been to us as a talisman, transporting us
backward for twenty centuries, to those remote days, which we now hear
of as a dream of the past, when Buddhism first arose, and, like a
mighty wave, for a while overspread the whole land. Hinduism is now,
however, the chief religion of this north-west province.

The pillar is not the sole representative of diversity of creed
that exists within the huge Mohammedan fort, a fort now held by
Christians, who have fitted up one of Akbar’s buildings as a military
chapel, where, we believe, service is held daily. Half-way between
this Christian church and the Buddhist pillar there still exists
a Hindu temple of exceeding sanctity, though how the Mohammedans
came to tolerate its existence within their fort is a marvel quite
beyond comprehension. It is a foul temple of darkness, extending far
underground, and roofed with low arches. We descended by a flight of
dark dirty steps, dimly revealed by a couple of tallow candles; and we
followed the old soldier who acted as our guide, and who led us along
dark passages, and did the honours of various disgusting idols, stuck
in niches, some as large as life, others quite small, but all alike
hideous, and all adorned with flowers, and wet with the libations of
holy Ganges water, poured upon them by the faithful. The flowers are
the invariable large African marigold and China roses.

Each image is generally smeared with scarlet paint, to symbolise
the atonement of blood that should be offered daily, but which most
of the worshippers are too poor to afford. This substitute for the
sacrifice of blood is common all over India, where a daub of red paint
administered to the village god is at all times an acceptable act of
atonement. These village gods, however, are generally placed beneath
some fine old tree, with the blue sky overhead; but this disgusting
temple was one which you could not enter without a shuddering
impression of earthly and sensual demon-worship.

Here we were also shown a budding tree, supposed to be of extraordinary
antiquity; a fiction by no means shaken, though the Brahmins frequently
substitute a new tree. So holy is this temple, that when, at one
time, all natives were excluded from the fort, one rich Hindu pilgrim
arrived, and offered twenty thousand rupees for permission to worship
here. The commandant, however, had no authority to admit any one, so
was compelled to refuse his prayer, in spite of so tempting a bait. It
was with a feeling of thankful relief that we emerged from that noxious
and oppressive darkness into the balmy air and blessed sunlight.

We spent some pleasant hours in one of the balconies overhanging the
river, while in the cool room within, fair women with musical voices
accompanied themselves on the piano, in Akbar’s old quarters; and so we
idled away the heat of the day till the red sun sank into the water,
behind the great dark railway bridge, a bridge which the Brahmins
declared the gods would never tolerate on so sacred a river as the
Jumna, but which nevertheless spans the stream in perfect security.
It was a vast undertaking, as, owing to the great extent of country
subject to inundation during the rains, it was necessary to construct a
bridge well-nigh two miles in length. The Indian railway has certainly
necessitated an amazing amount of work, on a scale so vast as to test
engineering skill to the uttermost, and in no respect more strikingly
than in the construction of these monster bridges, one of which, across
the Soane, is about a mile and a quarter in length, while that on
the Sutlej, between Jellunder and Loodiana, is about two and a half
miles. On the sandbanks just below the fort, huge mud-turtles lay
basking, and the gentlemen amused themselves by taking long shots at
them from the balconies, whereupon the creatures rose and waddled into
the water with a sudden flop. These sandbanks are favourite haunts of
crocodiles—_muggers_, as they are called—which, however, declined to
show on this occasion.

Perhaps the pleasantest of our afternoons at Allahabad was one spent
in watching the evolutions of the native cavalry, Probyn’s Horse, a
beautiful regiment, whose graceful dress, and still more graceful
riding, were always attractive. On this occasion they were playing
the game of Naza Bazi, or the Game of the Spear, when, riding past
us singly at full gallop, they with their long spear split a wooden
tent-peg driven hard into the ground. Then they picked a series of
rings off different poles; afterwards, with unerring sword, cleaving
a succession of oranges, stuck on posts, as though they were foemen’s
skulls. Next followed some very pretty tilting with spear against
sword. We had only one fault to find—their strokes were so unerring
that they never allowed us the excitement of a doubt! Altogether, it
was the prettiest riding imaginable, and a beautiful game, though the
practice of suddenly pulling up short, when at full speed, on reaching
the last peg, thereby showing off splendid horsemanship, must often
injure the good steed. As we watched this beautiful sport, we all
agreed in wishing we could see it introduced into England. That wish
has since then been fulfilled, and I learn with pleasure that many of
our own cavalry have attained such perfection in this game of skill as
to be no whit behind the most accomplished of Indian horsemen.




A RUN FOR LIFE.


A prisoner had escaped from Dartmoor Prison. During a dense fog, which
had suddenly enveloped a working convict-gang, one of them—a man
notorious for being perhaps the most desperate character amongst the
many desperate ones there—had contrived to escape, and, for the present
at all events, had eluded capture.

It was not a particularly pleasant piece of news for us to hear,
considering that we had, attracted by a very tempting advertisement,
taken a small house for the summer months not very far distant from the
famous prison itself. We were tired of seaside places; it seemed as if
we should enjoy a change from our every-day life in London more, if we
were in some quiet secluded spot, far from uncompromising landladies,
crowds of over-dressed people, and bands of music. Every day we
scanned the papers, with a view to discovering something to suit us;
and our patience was at last rewarded by coming across the following
advertisement, to which I promptly replied: ‘To be let for the summer
months, a charming Cottage, beautifully situated on the borders of
Dartmoor, containing ample accommodation for a small family, with every
convenience; a good garden and tennis-lawn; also the use of a pony and
trap, if required; and some choice poultry. Terms, to a careful tenant,
most moderate. Apply to A. B., Post-office, &c.’

The answer to my inquiries arrived in due time; and everything seemed
so thoroughly satisfactory, that I induced my husband to settle upon
taking the place for three months, without a personal inspection of it
previously. The terms were two pounds ten shillings a week, and that
was to include the use of the pony-trap, the poultry, and several other
advantages not set forth in the advertisement. The only drawback—rather
a serious one—was that Mr Challacombe, to whom the place belonged, had
informed me that it was about three miles from a station. However, with
the pony-trap always at hand, even that did not seem an insuperable
objection. He expatiated upon the beauty of the scenery; the perfect
air from the heather-clad moors; and lastly, requested an early
decision from us, as several other applicants for the Cottage were
already in the field.

To be brief, we agreed to take it; and on a scorching day in July, our
party—consisting of two maid-servants, my husband, and myself, and
our only olive branch, a most precious little maiden of three years
old—started from Paddington Station _en route_ for Exeter, where we
were to branch off for our final destination, Morleigh Cottage. The
pony-trap was to meet us; and Mr Challacombe had promised that we
should find everything as comfortable as he could possibly arrange; and
as sundry hampers had preceded us, I had no fears as to settling down
cosily as soon as we should arrive.

The journey to Exeter by an express train was by no means tedious; we
rather enjoyed it. As our branch train slowly steamed into the wayside
station, we seemed to be the only passengers who wished to alight; and
presently we found ourselves, with the exception of a solitary porter,
the sole occupants of the platform. At one end of it lay a goodly pile
of our luggage, which the said porter had in a very leisurely manner
extracted from the van.

The pony-trap was to meet us; and as Mr Challacombe had assured us it
would not only hold four grown-up people and a child, but a fair amount
of _impedimenta_, we were under no anxiety as to how we were to reach
Morleigh Cottage.

‘Is there anything here for us?’ my husband inquired of the porter.

‘No, sir; not that I knows of.’

‘From Morleigh Cottage?’ Jack explained.

‘No, sir,’ he repeated. ‘But chance it may come yet.’

‘Chance, indeed,’ I echoed in a low tone. ‘It will be too disgraceful,
Jack, if Mr Challacombe has forgotten to desire the carriage to be
sent.’

We both proceeded to the other side of the station, and gazed through
the fast-falling twilight up a narrow road, down which the porter
informed us the pony-trap was sure to come, if it was coming at
all—which did not seem probable, after a dreary half-hour’s hopeless
waiting for it.

In the meanwhile, we beguiled the time by asking the porter some
leading questions with regard to the surroundings, &c., of Morleigh
Cottage; all of which he answered with a broad grin on his sunburnt,
healthy face.

‘How far is the Cottage from here?’ Jack inquired.

‘Better than six miles.’

‘Six miles!’ I exclaimed!—‘O Jack, Mr Challacombe said it was about
three.’

‘It’s a good step more than that,’ observed the porter, with a decided
nod of his head.

‘It is a very pretty place?’ I said interrogatively.

‘It isn’t bad, for them as likes it,’ was the guarded and somewhat
depressing response.

I felt my spirits sink to zero. I had persuaded Jack to take it; he had
suggested that we should go to see it first; but the advertisement had
been so tempting, and the idea of the other longing applicants had made
me so keen to secure it, that I felt whatever it was like, I must make
the best of it, and contrive that Jack at least should not repent of
having been beguiled by me into, as he expressed it, taking ‘a pig in a
poke.’

‘The pony-carriage is sure to come,’ I said in a confident way, once
more straining my eyes up the deserted road. As I uttered the word
‘pony-carriage,’ I detected a distinct grin for the second time on the
man’s face, which was presently fully accounted for by the appearance
of our equipage coming jolting down the deeply rutted road. Imagine a
tax-cart of the shabbiest, dirtiest description, with bare boards for
seats, and the bottom strewn with straw; the pony, an aged specimen,
shambling along, with a harness in which coarse pieces of rope
predominated. It was a pony-_trap_, with a vengeance.

I could almost have cried when it drew up, and I saw Jack’s critical
eye running over all its shortcomings. And it was all my fault.

It was too late to recede from our bargain now; all that we could do
was to bundle into the horrible machine, and endure as we best could
an hour’s martyrdom driving to Morleigh Cottage.

Our groom was a civil boy of about fifteen, clad in ordinary
working-clothes. He managed to sit on the shaft or somewhere, and to
drive us back, as Jack of course had no idea of the direction; and,
judging from the solitariness of the scene, we should not have been
wise to depend upon chance passers-by to direct us.

Arrived at last, we found the Cottage was just two shades better
than the trap. It was a tiny abode, as desolately situated as it was
possible to conceive; the only redeeming point about it being that it
was clean.

The next morning, which happened to be a very wet misty one, we
surveyed our garden and domain generally. The tennis-lawn was spacious
enough, and the garden, to do Mr Challacombe justice, was well stocked;
but the place itself was like the city of the dead—so silent, so quiet,
so lonely.

But as the weather improved, we got out most of the day, which rendered
us very independent of the small low-roofed rooms. Jack and I took long
walks, and occasionally we utilised the pony-trap, taking with us our
little Rose and her nurse.

We began to think soon of asking some of our relations to visit us;
and the first to whom I sent an invitation was an elderly cousin, who
resided in London, and who was in rather delicate health. I candidly
explained the out-of-the-way nature of the place we were in, but
descanted upon the great pleasure it would be to have her, and my
entire conviction that the air would do her an immense amount of good.
She came; and it was very fortunate for me that she did so, as about
three days after, a telegram had reached us requesting my husband
to lose no time in returning to town, in consequence of one of his
partners being taken ill. It was raining when he left us; and I watched
the wretched shandrydan disappear down the road with feelings I could
scarcely repress—a sense of foreboding evil seemed to oppress me. I
tried in vain to shake it off, but only partly succeeded in doing so.
Cousin Susan endeavoured to console me by reminding me constantly that
Jack had promised to return in a day or two.

Jack had just been gone for one week, when Rose’s nurse, a pleasant
girl of about twenty, came to my room and informed me of the occurrence
I have already alluded to—‘A prisoner had escaped.’

Nothing could have frightened me more, and I was afraid it might alarm
Cousin Susan, so I charged Margaret on no account to let it reach her
ears. Very likely, even now the man was captured; it was rare, indeed,
that a convict ever escaped; but I had heard stories of their eluding
capture, until, driven by sheer starvation, they often surrendered
themselves to any stray passer-by, to whom the reward might or might
not be of some consequence.

That very morning, we had arranged to drive to rather a distant spot to
get some ferns. I would fain have deferred the expedition; but Cousin
Susan was already preparing for it, so I could only have postponed
it by giving my reasons; and the chance of encountering the convict
seemed too small to risk terrifying her by telling her of it at all.

It was a lovely morning when we started, and Cousin Susan became quite
enthusiastic over the ‘frowning tors and wind-swept moors.’

‘Don’t you admire them, Helen?’ she said.

‘They are very grand,’ I admitted.

‘Oh, so lovely, so wild!’ said Susan.

I was glad she liked them.

The ferns were to be found in a sort of ravine, which was reached
by a narrow lane; on one side was almost a precipice, overhanging
a streamlet, now nearly dry, but one which the winter rains soon
transformed into a torrent; on the other side was a wood, composed
principally of stunted oak-trees, with hardly any foliage, and
singularly small; but all around the trees was a thick sort of
underwood.

We had left Tom the stable-boy with the trap by the roadside, and I
had privately resolved not to let my cousin penetrate farther into the
ravine than I could help; but she was so charmed with its wealth of
rare ferns, that she skipped from one point to another with an amount
of dexterity and nimbleness I had never before given her credit for.

‘I do think we might collect quite a hamperful, Helen!’ she said,
kneeling down as she spoke to dig up a root most energetically.

‘We had better come another day, then,’ I responded. ‘I don’t want
to be late of getting back, so, if you don’t mind just taking a few
specimens—when Jack is with us, we can come again.’

‘Now or never!’ gaily rejoined my cousin, little imagining how soon her
own words were to be applicable to ourselves. She pounced joyfully upon
her ferns, and had collected quite a small heap, when I suggested that
we had better tell Tom to tie the pony to a gate, and come up to carry
them down for her.

‘O no!’ said Cousin Susan. ‘I will carry them myself. Do help me here
just a minute, Helen.’

By this time we were some distance up the ravine; the walk was narrow
and winding; we had gone farther than even I had intended. I bent
down to give her the assistance she wanted in raising up some lovely
lichen from the trunk of a dead tree. As I did so, my eyes wandered
some distance from where we were standing towards a fallen tree. I
fancied—perhaps it was only fancy—I knew I was in a very nervous state,
and apt to imagine, but I fancied I saw a movement just beyond the
tree—it was within twenty paces of us. I felt my face grow icy cold;
my veins seemed chilling; for a moment I feared I was going to faint.
Death must be something like what I felt on that sunny day in August
when I stood in the Devonshire ravine with my unconscious cousin. I
looked again. There it was more distinctly visible than ever—a line
of drab-coloured clothing, and presently a side-view of the most
villainous-looking countenance it was ever my fortune to behold. If I
could, without alarming her, get my cousin to retrace her steps about
ten yards, we should have turned a corner, and then I could tell her
enough to hurry her onwards. I knew she was nervous—more so, perhaps,
than myself; but I knew we were in imminent peril while in such
close proximity to this desperate and, from his very escape, doubly
desperate man.

‘Susan,’ I said—my voice seemed so hard and dry and strange!—‘you have
passed all the best ferns here.’

‘O no; I haven’t,’ said Susan joyously, approaching two steps nearer
the crouching convict.

‘Am I to throw these away?’ I continued, holding out one of her best
specimens, and, as carelessly and indifferently as I could, moving one,
two, three steps nearer the corner.

‘No; of course not,’ she exclaimed, hurrying towards me now. ‘Why,
Helen, what are you thinking of?’

I moved a few more steps on; and in a few more, Susan and I would both
be out of sight of that fallen tree.

‘There is a much better one here,’ I said, keeping my face well
averted, for I felt if she looked at me she would see its ashy paleness.

‘Where?’ she asked. ‘Wait a minute, and I’ll come for it.’ To my
horror, she retraced her steps towards her heap of ferns, and carefully
counted them, whilst I waited in a state of terror words cannot
describe. But she came at last, and I tottered with her round the
fateful corner.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ I said; ‘but come quickly; ask no questions. Do
as I tell you, Susan.’

She paused, affrighted. ‘Good gracious, Helen, have you seen a wild
beast?’

‘Worse,’ I murmured. ‘Do not run, but lose no time.’

I ventured to glance behind. Nothing was visible; but every moment was
precious; we must reach the pony-trap and Tom. Once all together, the
convict would surely not venture to attack us, and I knew that being
on the high-road, alone would in itself insure our safety. But we had
not reached it yet; a long rough narrow path had to be traversed. If
the man suspected we had seen him, nothing would be easier than for him
to overtake us and make short work of us. I thought of Jack, of Rose,
of my happy life. Everything seemed to float through my mind as I half
led, half dragged Susan after me. We had gone perhaps a shade more
than half-way, when I once more turned round, in the distance, on the
path over which we had just passed. To my unutterable consternation, I
beheld the convict hurrying towards us.

‘Run, Susan!’ I panted—‘run for your life!’

Another twist in the road hid us momentarily from his sight; but I knew
he was after us, running now as fast as, or perhaps a good deal faster
than we were, though we were now both of us flying along at a pace
which only the peril we were in could have enabled us to sustain.

‘For your life!’ I repeated. ‘Run, Susan!’

I held her hand. Narrow as was the path, we managed to struggle onwards
together and to keep ahead of our pursuer. Mercifully, we had had a
good start; and it had only been on second thoughts, some minutes after
we had disappeared, that the man had elected to follow us. I felt if
I once let Susan’s hand go, she would be lost. Ever and anon, she
stumbled; once she nearly fell; but she recovered herself well, and
though panting terribly, showed no signs of succumbing.

But he was overtaking us; I heard him coming faster and faster, nearer
and nearer. I heard him breathing behind us, and I felt another instant
and he must be upon us.

‘Help!’ I shrieked.

‘Help!’ echoed poor exhausted Susan, in a still shriller treble.

I heard an oath, awful in its profanity, hurled at us; but the steps
seemed to pause.

‘Help! help!’ I shrieked again.

We plunged forwards. I heard as in the distance the sound of horses’
feet galloping towards us. Another moment and we were on the high-road;
Susan speechless, her dress half torn off her with our terrible race,
her hat gone, and otherwise in a dishevelled condition; I feeling faint
and sick—but safe—thank God! both of us quite safe—with not only Tom,
seated in the shandrydan, staring in mute amazement at us, but with
three stalwart mounted warders, who were even then in quest of the
convict.

They captured him an hour afterwards, after a terrific struggle, which
was made all the more terrible from the fact of his having possessed
himself of a knife, with which he attempted to stab the warders.

Jack came back the next day; and as his partner’s illness had assumed
rather a serious aspect, he told me he must give up Morleigh Cottage,
and we could finish our holiday at Eastbourne or some place nearer
town. ‘I never could leave you here again, my darling,’ he said;
‘after such an escape, I can’t risk another.’ So we all, Cousin Susan
included, returned to our cosy house in Seymour Street, and afterwards
proceeded to the seaside, where in due time Susan and I both fully
recovered from the shock we had received in that Devonshire ravine.




FAMILIAR SKETCHES OF ENGLISH LAW.


III. MASTER AND SERVANT.

The relation of master and servant depends entirely upon a contract
of hiring and service. If the contract is not to be fully performed
within the period of one year, it is void if not in writing; and this
necessity for a written contract is not confined to cases where the
service is intended to be for more than one year. If a servant be
hired on Monday for the term of one year, to commence on the following
Saturday, the contract ought to be in writing, as a verbal contract
would be void on the ground indicated above—namely, that it was not
intended to be fully performed within one year from the date on which
it was entered into. If, however, the service was to commence on the
Monday on which the verbal contract of hiring was entered into, no such
objection would arise.

Assuming that a valid contract is entered into, there are still some
peculiarities attached to certain kinds of service, which do not affect
others. Thus, in England, both domestic servants and agricultural
labourers are usually engaged for a year; but the former class may put
an end to the engagement at any time by giving one month’s notice;
while the latter are irrevocably bound for the entire year, unless the
hiring be determined by mutual consent. This difference is founded
upon universal custom, which has the force of law. Probably the custom
had its origin in early ages, and was founded upon considerations of
convenience. The work of an agricultural labourer is distributed very
unequally over the year, being much more heavy at some seasons than at
others; and therefore it is reasonable that a man who receives wages by
the year should not be allowed to take his money for the light season,
and leave his situation when the work is heavier. Domestic servants,
on the other hand, have their work more evenly distributed over the
entire year, although they also have sometimes to do more work than at
other times, but not to the same extent as agricultural labourers; and
being brought into more immediate contact with their master’s family
(especially the mistress), it might in many cases be very unpleasant
to be obliged to carry into full effect the hiring for a whole year.
Hence, either master or mistress on the one hand, or domestic servant
on the other, may at any time give ‘a month’s warning,’ and so dissolve
the engagement. In Scotland, domestic servants are generally hired
for a month or for ‘the term,’ which is half a year, but agricultural
labourers for a year, as in England.

The more highly paid class of servants, such as managers, cashiers,
clerks above the grade of copyists, &c., are generally engaged for an
indefinite term, subject to three months’ notice. Such an engagement
as this, although it may possibly continue for several years, need not
be in writing, because it may be dissolved within the year; and it is
only when a contract which is entire and indivisible cannot be fully
performed within that time, that writing is necessary. It is, however,
desirable that the terms of the engagement should be in writing,
for the sake of certainty and in order to avoid misunderstanding.
Copying-clerks, journeymen, and persons occupying positions of a
similar kind, are usually subject to one month’s notice. In all
cases, the obligation as to notice is reciprocal, and equally binding
on both parties, mutuality being essential to the agreement. There
is, however, one distinction which has a substantial reason for its
existence: a master may pay his clerk or manager three months’ salary,
or his journeyman or copying-clerk one month’s salary, and dismiss him
immediately; but the servant must give the proper notice, and cannot
throw up his engagement by sacrificing salary in lieu of notice.
The reason for this is obvious: if a clerk gets his salary without
working for it, instead of working out his notice, he is not in any
way injured, but may be benefited by the prompt dismissal; for he may
obtain an engagement elsewhere before the time when the notice would
have expired. But it would be difficult to estimate the loss which
might be sustained by a master in consequence of the sudden withdrawal
of a confidential clerk or manager. For any breach of contract an
action of damages will lie at the instance of either party, and the
measure of damages will be the probable loss to the servant before he
can find a new situation, or to the master before he can find a new
servant.

Whenever a person is hired without any stipulation as to notice,
the engagement will be subject to any custom which may exist in the
particular trade or business for which he was engaged. In some
branches of business, commercial travellers claim to be engaged
absolutely by the year, and this custom has been proved and allowed in
court; a traveller obtaining a verdict for the balance of his year’s
salary, when he had been dismissed in the middle of the year. Ordinary
labourers, engaged by the week, are only entitled to one week’s notice;
but miners are by custom required to give, and are entitled to receive,
fourteen days’ notice.

Gross misconduct on the part of the servant is in all cases a
sufficient reason for dismissal without notice; and generally, if the
misconduct be sufficient to justify this extreme course, the wages
actually earned by the offender are forfeited, and he or she cannot
recover the same by legal proceedings. A manager who imparts his
master’s secrets to a rival in business; a cashier who cannot account
for the cash intrusted to his care; a journeyman who recklessly
destroys any of his master’s goods—may all be summarily dismissed. So
also may any kind of servant who persistently disobeys his master’s
orders, or frequently absents himself without leave. A female domestic
servant who without reasonable cause stays out all night, or who is
known to be guilty of immorality, is within the same category. It is
scarcely necessary to add that any dishonest act by a servant, such
as misappropriating his or her master’s money or goods, ought to be
followed on detection by immediate dismissal, even though it may not be
thought necessary or desirable to prosecute the servant.

In the absence of any special agreement on the subject, a servant
cannot be compelled to make good the loss occasioned by accidental
breakages; and any deduction from the salary or wages earned in respect
of such breakages would be illegal, unless the master were to establish
a claim for reparation in respect of fault or gross negligence; just as
in the case of a lawyer or a doctor who has bungled the duty intrusted
to him through want of skill or due care.

The death of the master terminates the contract. In England, the
servant may be paid wages up to the time of his master’s death, if
the executors do not retain his services, which would amount to a new
hiring so far as relates to notice; but in Scotland he is entitled to
be paid wages and board-wages up to the end of his engagement, unless
a new situation should in the meantime be procured for him either by
himself or the executors. He is at anyrate entitled to be kept free
from loss, because he was ready to fulfil his part of the contract.

On the bankruptcy of the master, each clerk or servant, labourer or
workman—if the assets be sufficient—is entitled to be paid in full
the salary or wages due to him in respect of services rendered to the
bankrupt during four months before the date of the receiving order,
if the amount do not exceed fifty pounds, before any dividend is paid
to ordinary creditors. For any excess, the servant must rank against
his master’s estate as an ordinary creditor, with whom he will rank
for dividend thereon. This right of priority is, however, subject to
the right of the landlord to distrain for the rent due, not exceeding
a twelvemonth, and is shared with the collectors of rates and taxes
within certain specified limits. If the net amount of assets in hand,
after paying expenses, should be insufficient to cover the preferential
payments, the money must be divided among the parties entitled, by way
of preferential dividend. In Scotland, the farm-servant’s claim for
wages is preferable to the landlord’s claim for rent.

A master is liable for any damage done to the property of strangers
by his servant in the course of his ordinary employment, but not
otherwise. For example: a groom who is sent out by his master with a
horse and carriage, and drives so negligently as to injure another
person’s horse or carriage, renders his master liable to an action for
damages. An engine-driver who disregards a danger-signal, and causes a
collision, involves the Railway Company in a liability for reparation
to every passenger who may be injured. But a master is not liable if
the servant act beyond the scope of his employment; if, for example,
the groom were accidentally to wound a passer-by with the gamekeeper’s
gun, or even if the gamekeeper himself were voluntarily to wound a
poacher, unless it were proved that he was actually ordered by his
master to do it.

Before January 1, 1881, a master was not liable to an action for
damages in respect of any injury sustained by any person employed by
him through the negligence of a fellow-servant; though he might be held
responsible if the accident which caused the injury were caused by his
own negligence. But the law has been altered, and a workman is now
entitled to compensation for accidental injury sustained by reason of
the negligence of any foreman or superintendent in the service of his
employer; or of any person whose orders the workman was bound to obey;
or by reason of anything done in compliance with the rules or bylaws
of the employer, or in obedience to particular instructions given by
any person duly authorised for that purpose: or in the case of railway
servants, by reason of the negligence of any signalman, pointsman,
engine-driver, &c. But the right to compensation is not to arise in
case the workman knew of the negligence which caused the injury, and
failed to give notice to the employer or some person superior to
himself in the service of the employer; nor if the rules or bylaws
from the observance of which the accident arose had been approved by
the proper department of the government; neither would a workman who
by his own negligence had contributed to the accident be entitled to
compensation: the common-law rule as to contributory negligence being
applicable. In case of any accident which is within the provisions of
the Act, notice of the injury must be given to the employer within six
weeks, and any action must be commenced within six months after the
occurrence of the accident; or in case of death, proceedings must be
taken within twelve months from the date of death. The compensation
must not exceed in amount three years’ earnings; and the action must
in England be brought in the County Court; in Scotland in the Sheriff
Court; and in Ireland in the Civil Bill Court; the proceedings in
each case being removable into a superior court at the instance of
either party. The benefits of the Act do not extend to domestic or
menial servants, but are available for railway servants, labourers
agricultural and general, journeymen, artificers, handicraftsmen, and
persons otherwise engaged in manual labour.

In case of the illness of a servant—unless such illness be caused by
his or her own misconduct—the master cannot legally refuse to pay the
wages which may accrue during the time of such illness; but the service
may be terminated by notice in the usual way; the principle being that
no man can be held accountable for what is beyond his own control. The
servant being willing to do his duty, but rendered unable to do so by
circumstances beyond his own control, he must not be punished for such
inability by being deprived of his wages. A master is only liable to
pay his servant’s medical attendant when the master has employed him,
but not when the doctor is employed by the servant himself.

A master may bring an action against a stranger for any injury done to
his servant, whereby he (the master) suffers loss or inconvenience, or
for enticing his servant away, and inducing him to neglect or refuse to
fulfil his engagement.

When a servant applies to any person for a new engagement, it is usual
for him to refer to his previous master for a character, as it would
be objectionable for a stranger to be employed without some means
of knowing whether he was competent and respectable. In answering
inquiries as to character and ability, it is necessary to be very
careful to say neither more nor less than the exact truth. If an
undeserved bad character be given, the servant may recover damages,
on establishing malice and want of probable cause, in an action for
libel or slander, according to the mode in which the character was
given, in writing or verbally. On the other hand, suppression of
unfavourable facts may have still more serious consequences. If a
servant be known to be dishonest, and his master ventures to recommend
him as trustworthy, he will render himself liable to make good any loss
occasioned by subsequent acts of dishonesty which may be committed by
the servant in his new situation, and which without such recommendation
could not have been committed. When nothing favourable can be said, the
safest way is to decline to answer any inquiries on the subject. But
it would be unfair to adopt this course without adequate cause, for
such refusal would inevitably be construed as equivalent to giving the
servant a bad character, and would frequently prove an obstacle to his
obtaining another situation.




HEROINES.


Most of us have heard of a certain thoughtful little girl who took Time
by the forelock, and decided that if women must have some profession
to turn to, she would be a Professional Beauty. There are thousands
of girls, older and wiser, who yearn to be heroines, and have quite
as vague notions about it. There are countless women, with characters
still fresh and plastic, who find existence but a dull level. Life
is a narrow lane to them. They would like mountaineering. They want
adventure. They sigh to be heroines.

What are heroines, after all? Let us look for the reality, and not for
a dream, or we shall go mountaineering, and be lost among shadows
when the darkness of age begins to fall. In the real life we are all
living, how does one get to be a heroine? Are there any, and where are
they? Who shall tell us? Can the novelists? For the most part, no. The
ordinary sort of fiction is full of ambitious flecks and flaws; how
can it know and describe the most delicate and intricate, the most
minutely beautiful of human characters? There is a novel in which the
hero exclaims pathetically that he was ‘a Pariah’ until he married.
Could the inventor of the Pariah invent anything but a heroine to match
him? The fiction that excels in the highest qualities falls short here.
The best describer of life, even if his conception of this character
be perfectly just, must be content with merely hinting it, for his
space has limits. Instead of describing in half a page the colour of
eyes, hair, and dress, and afterwards ten adventures and two dozen
conversations, he could hardly be expected to write for one character
a whole shelf of detailed volumes, and to gather his notes with the
minuteness of a census-taker.

Let us look elsewhere. Several women have passed the old turnstile to
public life, and got in somehow on men’s tickets. Their insignificant
sisters peep over the wall, and observe that men who outside
were the soul of chivalry, begin to elbow the ladies within, and
ungallantly assert in self-defence that the ladies have elbows too.
The insignificant sisters will not enter; but if they tried to reason
about it, they would be ‘stumped out’ in a moment by the others on the
platforms inside. ‘When I hear a woman use intellectual arguments, I
am dismayed,’ says a wise thinker from beyond the Atlantic; and the
insignificant crowd aforesaid and the majority of the world agree with
him in this; and those outside the wall find out all at once that a
woman’s unreasoning nature is no insignificant charm. ‘Her best reason,
as it is the world’s best, is the inspiration of a pure and believing
heart. She is happiest when she devotes herself, obedient to her
patient and unselfish nature, to some loved being or high cause; and
glory itself, says Madame de Staël, would be for her only a splendid
mourning-suit for happiness denied.’

Shall we turn from the platforms, and look to intellectual culture? We
see at the outset that it cannot be necessary to heroism; for all human
nature’s highest prizes are open to all, and great intellectual culture
belongs to the few. Besides, there can be such a thing as learning too
much, and knowing nothing worth knowing. In America, where life is
lived double-quick, and where every product from a continent downwards
is of the largest size, there are crops of overtaught girlhood ripe
already for our inspection. Women of the middle classes there can
discuss the nebular hypothesis or the binomial theory, as ours talk
of lacework and the baby. Mr Hudson, in his recent _Scamper through
America_, declares that to converse in the railway cars with ladies
returning from Conventions and Conferences was a genuine pleasure, an
intellectual treat. But he adds, that though one could revere them,
almost worship them, to love them was out of the question. ‘Practical
passionless creatures, they seemed to constitute a third sex. Where
were the girls? We never saw them. We did meet with young ladies of
twelve and thirteen, with jewel-laden fingers, and with vocabularies of
ponderous dictionary words; but, like their mothers and elder sisters,
they were such superior beings, that one longed for a lassie that was
not so very clever—one who had something yet unlearned that she could
ask a fellow to tell her about.’

We have failed in the novels, on the platforms, and at the learned
Conferences. Shall we carry our search to the haunts of human suffering
next? There are hundreds of women, banded together or working singly,
to whom every form of sorrow and helplessness is an attraction. They
do not deal in dry statistical philanthropy, but in loving compassion.
They are not ‘women with a mission,’ because the woman with a mission
flaunts it before the world, and gets more or less in everybody’s way;
but these desire to remain unknown, never counting the debt humanity
owes to them. The wounded soldier on the battlefield knows them well
enough; and the criminal in prison; and the sick, the poor, the aged,
the young children. Sacrificing a whole life to the common good,
they are heroines; it is beyond doubt. But not the heroines we seek,
whose sphere is to be something more homely, easy, and attainable for
all. However, these women, whose lives are compassion, have given
a light upon the track. It dawns upon us, that in womanly heroism,
self-sacrifice is the essence, and hiddenness marks it genuine.

Far different is the typical woman with a mission, whose type,
dashed off with a few strokes by the pen of Dickens, flits across
our memory from _Bleak House_, and provokes a sigh and a smile.
Again, Mrs Jellyby, with her dress laced anyhow like the lattice
of a summer-house, is writing in a room full of disorder, with her
philanthropic eye fixed upon the savages of Borrioboola, South Africa,
while her own little boy is outside, kicking and howling, with his head
stuck between the area railings. Again, Mr Jellyby employs his evenings
in leaning his head feebly against the wall; and when poor Caddy is
married, we hear him giving her all he has to give—the beseeching
advice: ‘My dear, never have a mission!’

Even Mrs Jellyby may help us in our search, by sending us flying in the
opposite direction. We have had light on our path—hiddenness is the
seal, and unselfishness is the essence, and we are searching for the
heroines of home. Their distinction does not depend, as in fiction,
upon adventures, lovers, or beauty. If it did, they could be heroines
only till the end of youth and volume three; but in the real world they
shall be heroines not only till the time of gray hairs and careworn
brow, but for ever and a day.

There is nothing in creation more beautiful than a true heroine, and
nothing so hard to find. Not that they are scarce. They crowd the world
as daisies dot the summer fields. But they are hidden, and hidden
precisely where a thing wanted is most unlikely to be found—too close
to us, just straight before our eyes. Not in the world of romance,
or in the crush of public life, or in the clear cold air of science;
but in the narrow lane where we started, in the monotonous routine of
common daily life, that seems to be hedged in from all interest—there
are the heroines to be found. Their heroism is made up of trivial
details, the shabby atoms of uneventful life. If it be objected that
the heroic means something greatly above the ordinary level, we would
answer, that their whole life is above the level; that the essence of
heroism—sacrifice—has become to them an unconsciously acting second
nature, and that all that is life-long is surely great. But sometimes
trivial incidents can become in themselves heroic. Whoever heard in a
novel of heroism with a crushed thumb? All the finest things are true.
It is told of the late Viscountess Beaconsfield, that on the night of
an important speech by her husband, then Mr Disraeli, when they were
seated in the carriage together to drive to the House of Commons, the
servant closing the door, crushed her thumb. She uttered no cry, left
the bruise untouched, and acted and spoke as if she was at ease. Hours
after, when she descended from the Ladies’ Gallery, he discovered the
agony she had been enduring, in order not to spoil his speech; and in
after-years, when the Viscountess was dead, he still told the touching
little story in her praise.

But to return to our heroines of commonplace life. Their greatness
does not even need striking incidents. Their worth makes precious
those trivial atoms of which life is composed, and what began as an
unpretending patchwork, ends as a complete and precious picture, like
the splendid mosaics of Venice or Rome. This is why one might defy the
first of novelists to describe the loveliness of such a life; its daily
parts are positively too small to pick up.

For each one of us there is some face enshrined in memory, whose
influence is lofty as an inspiration, whose power is a living power,
whose love has been stronger than death, and will light an upward path
for us even to life’s end. Why is all this but because she whom we
loved was a heroine? And what were her characteristics? One answer will
serve for all—Tenderness, gentleness, self-forgetfulness, suffering.
The last characteristic may not be universal, like the rest. But the
highest love can only exist where suffering has touched the object
loved. It is one of the compensations for the manifold sorrow of this
world of ours. The fire of trial seems to light up every beauty and
attraction. The life that not only loved much but suffered much has a
royal right of influence as long as memory lasts—an influence which
cannot belong to any life which suffering has not crowned.

Now we have sketched our heroine, easily recognisable, but herself
never dreaming or caring to think that she is one, or her glory would
be frail as a bubble. The poorest woman knitting on her cottage
threshold can have this glory for her own; for there is no true-hearted
woman, rich or poor, who cannot walk her simple life lovingly enough
to leave enshrined for others, as a living influence, such a memory as
we have described. And what sceptre has so sweet a power as that—an
immortal influence through the hearts we have loved most? Compared with
this, what is fame but an echo, and what is the heroism of romance but
an unreal shadow!




ARMY SCHOOLS.


The valuable advantages these institutions offer to soldiers and their
children will, we trust, be evident from the perusal of the following
short account of their organisation. With regard to children, these
schools will soon have little to do; for the new system of short
service promises to do away almost entirely with the married soldier.
A soldier is not allowed to marry till he has served seven years,
subject to certain qualifications of good conduct; but as the great
majority of men are passed into the Reserve before they reach that
length of service, the proportion of married soldiers is very small,
and rapidly becoming more and more reduced in number. It is rather with
the men themselves, therefore, that the military schoolmaster and his
assistants have now principally to deal.

Every regiment or depôt has its school. The schoolmasters are trained
at Chelsea; and though non-combatants, they are subject to the usual
army regulations. They now rank as warrant-officers, and, on the
whole, are an able and estimable body of men. Occasionally, educated
and promising young soldiers are selected from the ranks and sent to
the training college to qualify as schoolmasters. Their number is,
however, very limited; the great majority of the schoolmasters enter
the army through the college, joining it as civilians; consequently, a
schoolmaster cannot be reduced to the ranks. If he misconduct himself
seriously, he is liable to be tried by court-martial and dismissed.
Such cases are very rare. The army schoolmaster retires with a
pension on attaining twenty-one years’ service, though, under certain
conditions, it is possible for him to prolong his engagement. If of
more than ordinary ability, he is often promoted to the higher rank and
more important position of Sub-inspector of Army Schools.

Assistants are allowed in these schools according to the numbers in
attendance at them. There is usually one school-assistant to about
every twenty men or children attending. In depôts, where the soldiers
are mostly recruits, the attendance is often very large, with a
correspondingly increased number of assistants. The latter are picked
out from among the better-educated men in a regiment; they receive
extra pay, and are exempt from the ordinary drill and duty of the rank
and file, giving their time and attention to the working of the school
and the details connected with it. Many well-educated men, who are not
otherwise well suited for non-commissioned officers, are employed in
this way in imparting instruction to their more illiterate comrades.

Every recruit on joining a depôt has to attend school until he
satisfies an examiner—sub-inspector—of his familiarity with certain
elementary subjects. Examinations for this purpose are held at
intervals. There are four classes of certificates granted to candidates
on passing the necessary examinations. Supposing a man to be competent
to pass the fourth or lowest standard, he becomes exempt from further
school attendance. But if ambitious of being made a non-commissioned
officer, or of securing one of the other good berths, of which there
are many open to intelligent men, it is advisable for him to hold on
till he gains a higher certificate. For example, to be promoted to the
rank of corporal, the aspirant must be in possession of a third-class
certificate; to attain to a sergeant’s position, he must have one of
the second class. Thus, a considerable proportion of the men in a
regiment are kept under instruction; and as soon as one batch has been
passed out of the school, other candidates appear. A few unfortunates,
entirely destitute of education when they enlist, are often long in
obtaining the desired certificates. After a year or two’s attendance,
they are probably dismissed from school as ‘useless.’ Such hopeless
ignoramuses—happily not so numerous now as formerly—are a bugbear to
the school staff: they soon cease to make any attempt to learn, and
are simply in the way of the more intelligent or persevering men. Of
course, to such, the school-work is a species of punishment. But let us
glance at the quantity and quality of the learning implied in obtaining
the certificates.

To satisfy the examiner, the entirely uncultured youth has in the
first place to set himself resolutely to learn to read. Then he must
be able to write to the extent of transcribing a few lines from a
book. With the mysteries of the four elementary rules of arithmetic he
must display a tolerably intimate acquaintance. To men who can already
read and write, the latter does not prove an insuperable obstacle.
Having furnished a moderately good ‘paper’ on these not very exacting
subjects, he in a few days receives his fourth-class certificate,
and leaves the school in triumph. But if he aspires to a third-class
certificate, a man of this kind has yet much to do. As a matter of
fact, very few attempt more from mere love of self-improvement; an eye
to advancement in the ranks acts as the stimulus to further study.
Writing fairly well to dictation is a part of this next higher step,
and often proves a serious difficulty. Arithmetic will include the
compound rules and reduction; and on a man passing this standard, a
third-class certificate is granted. The possession of this qualifies
the holder for the rank of corporal. But to the corporal, further
promotion is necessary. No corporal would go to so much trouble,
besides having to perform the ordinary duty attached to his rank in
regimental affairs, except as a step towards the coveted chevrons of
the sergeant. To attain sergeant’s rank may be taken as the aim and
ambition of all corporals; and the latter are the men who, as we have
seen, try to get the third-class certificates. But a sergeant must, by
the regulations, have a second-class certificate. To the comparatively
untutored corporal, this object entails his continued use of the
school, and an increased demand of the schoolmaster’s instruction. In
short, to a man whose education has been more or less neglected in
early youth, this second-class test is a pretty stiff one; it requires
a considerable amount of application for a time before he can present
himself for examination with a reasonable chance of passing. He
must be able to write fluently and correctly a moderately difficult
passage to dictation; and take down military orders with due care to
arrangement and spelling. A long list of terms connected with military
matters—such as ‘commissariat,’ ‘aide-de-camp,’ ‘manœuvre’—has to be
written and spelt correctly. The arithmetical part of the examination
consists of the ordinary rules as far as and including decimals.
Besides, he must be able to work out a debt and credit account, a
military savings-bank account, and a mess account. Withal, he must read
with fluency, and write a good legible hand. Such is the necessary
scholastic attainment of the modern sergeant. The ordeal would probably
have terrified his predecessors of a quarter of a century ago.

There remains still the certificate of the First class. This is
obtained by a comparatively small number of men. It enters into
details which would be, to many, insurmountable difficulties; and as
the possession of it is not compulsory for any non-commissioned rank,
it is not much sought after. A few of the originally better-educated
men do, however, go in for it. As a passport to the higher grades of
clerkships, or even to eventual commissions, it is desirable. The
examination includes an extra subject, such as a language, or geometry;
the whole of arithmetic; and a searching test as to spelling and
composition.

The reader will see that, from the above description, the second-class
certificate is the important one to possess. Men having got it, are
available for all the higher kinds of non-commissioned officers, as
colour-sergeants, sergeant-majors, &c. The work of preparing men for
this is perhaps a very important part of the business of the school,
and is generally undertaken mainly by the schoolmaster himself.

In an army school the men are divided into classes according to their
several abilities or stages of advancement. A special class is usually
composed of men preparing themselves for the next examination for
sergeants; another lot looking forward to being made corporals are
engaged in the necessary work for third-class certificates. Then there
are still more elementary classes for men trying to get themselves
exempted from school attendance by passing the fourth class; and
lastly, are the complete ‘ignoramuses’ who are labouring at the
alphabet or assiduously making pot-hooks. The duration of the daily
attendance is from an hour to an hour and a half; but other duties
frequently break in upon this, and men are not able to be present every
successive day. As attendance is compulsory, the men are paraded and
marched to school as for any other duty; but the room is open in the
evening for those anxious to push on with their work—the latter being,
so to speak, volunteers, and nearly all non-commissioned officers.
From this it will be seen that men really desirous of picking up a
serviceable education have ample opportunity of doing so, especially
when we consider the large share of spare time which the soldier has in
ordinary circumstances on his hands.

All the schools are furnished with maps, books, and everything
essential for carrying on their work. Where there are children, they
are supplied with these requisites. Children, however, from being at
one time the more important, have now become a secondary element in
army schools. The present writer was connected with a school having an
average attendance of two hundred men, but no children. This was in
a depôt, and the men were almost without exception recruits. A small
number of children in barracks were sent out to the Board School,
leaving the school staff to devote its whole attention to the adults.
At one time several regiments would have been required to furnish such
a numerously attended school as the above, when recruits came in at the
rate of perhaps about twenty annually. But short service has filled
regiments up with recruits, or at least with very young soldiers,
which, together with other circumstances, has given more ample
employment to the schoolmaster. If we compare the number of recruits
who join a regiment with that of the certificates of education granted
in the same corps, we speedily find that the school department has not
been asleep; and especially is this the case when we consider what is
the educational standard of most men who enlist. We hear a good deal
from time to time concerning the superior class of men that now seek to
enter the army; but, practically, from an educational point of view,
recruits are not so very different from what we have seen for many
years past. It will yet be long before the army schools are abolished.

Among some statistics, we lately noticed some figures relating to
the standard of education of soldiers. In this statement, a large
percentage—fifty-seven per cent. of the whole rank and file—was set
down as of ‘superior education.’ This probably referred to the men in
possession of the two highest kinds of certificates, as holders of the
third class could hardly be included under such a heading. The reader
may perhaps be inclined to smile at the use of such a high-sounding
term; though that such a large proportion of the ranks are educated
even to this degree appears on the whole to be very creditable indeed.
It certainly offers a marked contrast to the state of affairs at no
very remote period.




LIGHTING COLLIERIES BY ELECTRICITY.


This interesting and important experiment has just been tried with
great success at the Park Pit Ocean Collieries, South Wales. The
arrangement consists of a number of Swan incandescent lamps distributed
throughout the workings, both under and above ground, in the workshops
and engine-houses. The bottom of the mine is thus admirably lighted,
and the whole of the workings as far as the main engine roads. The
power is supplied by a six horse-power Marshall engine, fitted with
Hartnell’s patent automatic expansion gear, driving a Crompton-Bürgin
self-regulating dynamo.

We believe we are correct in stating that this is the first attempt
to illuminate the whole of the interior of a colliery pit, and its
workings and offices, by this useful medium; and it is impossible
to over-estimate the value of an incandescent light, and yet one of
extraordinary brilliancy, in such a place as a coal-mine, subject
to the escape of gases which are liable at any moment, on coming in
contact with an unprotected flame, to occasion an explosion involving
terrible and deplorable consequences. Now, this is one source of
danger which the use of this system of lighting prevents; and if this
is found to succeed, it is to be hoped that it may be adopted in all
underground works, where the advantage of a brilliant light to work
by is recognised; a marvellous contrast to the safe but gloomy and
light-obstructing ‘Davy.’ There can really be no reason why this plan
should not be universally applied to mines, unless the objection may be
on the score of expense, for when once the necessary driving-machinery
is built, the rest is simple enough, and the advantages almost untold.




A LAST ‘GOOD-NIGHT.’


    Love, I see thee lowly kneeling,
      Claspèd hands and drooping head,
    While the moonbeams pale are stealing
      Sadly round my dying bed.
    Dearest, hush thy bitter weeping;
      Lay thy tearful cheek to mine,
    While the stars, their death-watch keeping,
      Softly through the lattice shine.
    Through the trees, low winds are sighing,
      And my hand, so worn and white,
    On thy clustering hair is lying.
      Love, my only love, good-night!

    Ah! I hear thy broken sobbing.
      Faint and low, thy voice hath grown;
    And I feel thy fond heart throbbing,
      Oh, how wildly, ’gainst mine own!
    Dear, my spirit still delaying,
      Loves to hover near thee now,
    Like the moonbeams fondly straying
      O’er thy pallid cheek and brow.
    Yes, my soul, to share thy sorrow,
      Pauses in its heavenward flight,
    And will comfort thee to-morrow.
      Love, my dearest love, good-night!

    Now, for one sweet moment only,
      Fold me closely to thy breast.
    When thy life seems dark and lonely,
      Oh, remember I am blest!
    Though thy voice with grief be broken,
      Smile once more, and call me fair.
    Darling, as my last love-token,
      Take this little lock of hair.
    Feeling these, thy last caresses,
      Tears must dim my failing sight.
    Kiss once more my wandering tresses,
      Then a long, a last good-night!

    Shades of death are round me closing;
      Tears and shadows hide thy face;
    Still I fear not, thus reposing,
      In thy faithful, fond embrace.
    Though thou lingerest broken-hearted,
      All thy thoughts to me shall soar;
    We shall seem but to be parted;
      I’ll be near thee evermore.
    Brightly on my soul’s awaking,
      See, yon gleam of heavenly light!
    Now, behold the morn is breaking.
      Love, my faithful love, good-night!

            FANNY FORRESTER.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._




*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 31, VOL. I, AUGUST 2, 1884 ***


    

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