CONCLUSION.
Presently the nurse came and carried off Miss Lucy and her doll. Lady Dimsdale rose and joined Mrs Bowood.
A minute later, a servant came and presented Captain Bowood with a card. The latter put on his spectacles, and read what was written on the card aloud: ‘“Mr Garwood Brooker, Theatre Royal, Ryde.” Don’t know him. Never heard of the man before,’ said the Captain emphatically.
‘The gentleman is waiting in the library, sir,’ said the servant. ‘Says he wants to see you on very particular business.’
‘Humph! Too hot for business of any kind. Too many flies about. Must see him though, I suppose.’
The servant retired; and presently the Captain followed him into the house. Mrs Bowood and Lady Dimsdale lingered for a few minutes, and then they too went indoors.
As Captain Bowood entered the library, Mr Brooker rose and made him a profound bow. He was a stoutly-built man, between fifty and sixty years of age. He wore shoes; gray trousers, very baggy at the knees; a tightly buttoned frock-coat, with a velvet collar; and an old-fashioned black satin stock, the ends of which hid whatever portion of his linen might otherwise have been exposed to view. A jet black wig covered his head, the long tangled ends of which floated mazily over his velvet collar behind. His closely shaven face was blue-black round the mouth and chin, where the razor had passed over its surface day after day for forty years. The rest of his face looked yellow and wrinkled, the continual use of pigments for stage purposes having long ago spoiled whatever natural freshness it might once have possessed. Mr Brooker had a bold aquiline nose and bushy brows, and at one time had been accounted an eminently handsome man, especially when viewed from before the footlights; but his waist had disappeared years ago, and there was a general air about him of running to seed. When Mr Brooker chose to put on his dignified air, he was very dignified. Finally, it may be said that every one in ‘the profession’ who knew ‘old Brooker,’ liked and esteemed him, and that at least he was a thorough gentleman.
Having made his bow, Mr Brooker advanced one foot a little, buried one hand in the breast of his frock-coat, and let the other rest gracefully on his hip. It was one of his favourite stage attitudes.
‘Mr Brooker?’ said Captain Bowood interrogatively, as he came forward with the other’s card in his hand.
‘At your service, Captain Bowood.’ The voice was deep, almost sepulchral in its tones. It was the voice of Hamlet in his gloomier moments.
‘Pray, be seated,’ said the Captain in his offhand way as he took a chair himself.
Mr Brooker slowly deposited himself upon another chair. He would have preferred saying what he had to say standing, as giving more scope for graceful and appropriate gestures; but he gave way to circumstances. He cleared his voice, and then he said: ‘I am here, sir, this morning as an ambassador on the part of your nephew, Mr Charles Warden.’
‘Don’t know any such person,’ replied the Captain shortly.
‘Pardon me—I ought to have said your nephew, Mr Charles Summers.’
‘Then it’s a pity you did not come on a better errand. I want nothing to do with the young vagabond in any way. He and I are strangers. Eh, now?’
‘He is a very clever and talented young gentleman; and let me tell you, sir, that you ought to be very proud of him.’
‘Proud of my nephew, who is an actor!—an actor! Pooh!’ The Captain spoke with a considerable degree of contempt.
‘I am an actor, sir,’ was Mr Brooker’s withering reply, in his most sepulchral tones.
The Captain turned red, coughed, and fidgeted. ‘Nothing personal, sir—nothing personal,’ he spluttered. ‘I only spoke in general terms.’
‘You spoke in depreciatory terms, sir, respecting something about which you evidently know little or nothing.’
The Captain winced. He was not in the habit of being lectured, and the sensation was not a pleasant one, but he felt the justice of the reproof.
‘Ah, sir, the actor’s profession is one of the noblest in the world,’ resumed Mr Brooker, changing from his Hamlet to his Mercutio voice; ‘and your nephew bids fair to become a shining ornament in it. I know of few young men who have progressed so rapidly in so short a time, and the press notices he has had are something remarkable. Here are a few of them, sir, only a few of them, which I have brought together. Oblige me by casting your eye over them, sir, and then tell me what you think.’ Speaking thus, Mr Brooker produced from his pocket-book three or four sheets of paper, on which had been gummed sundry cuttings from different newspapers, and handed them to the Captain.
That gentleman having put on his glasses, read the extracts through deliberately and carefully. ‘Bless my heart! this is most extraordinary!’ he remarked when he had done. ‘And do all these fine words refer to that graceless young scamp of a nephew of mine?’
‘Every one of them, sir; and he deserves all that’s said of him.’
Like many other people, Captain Bowood had a great respect for anything that he saw in print, more especially for any opinion enunciated by the particular daily organ whose political views happened to coincide with his own, and by whose leading articles he was, metaphorically, led by the nose. When, therefore, he came across a laudatory notice anent his nephew’s acting extracted from his favourite Telephone, he felt under the necessity of taking out his handkerchief and rubbing his spectacles vigorously. ‘There must be something in the lad after all,’ he muttered to himself, ‘or the Telephone wouldn’t think it worth while to make such a fuss about him. But why didn’t he keep to tea-broking?’
‘I am much obliged to you, sir,’ said the Captain, as he handed the extracts back to Mr Brooker.
‘I am afraid that I make but a poor envoy, sir,’ said the latter, ‘seeing that as yet I have furnished you with no reason for venturing to intrude upon you this morning.’
‘You have a message for me?’ remarked the Captain.
‘I have, sir; and I doubt not you can readily guess from whom. Sir, I have the honour to be the manager of the travelling theatrical company of which your nephew forms a component part. I am old enough to be the young man’s father, and that may be one reason why he has chosen to confide his troubles to me. In any case, I have taken the liberty of coming here to intercede for him. There are two points, sir, that he wishes me to lay before you. The first is his desire—I might, without exaggeration, say his intense longing—to be reconciled to you, who have been to him as a second father, since his own parents died. He acknowledges and regrets that in days gone by he was a great trouble to you—a great worry and a great expense. But he begs me to assure you that he has now sown his wild-oats; that he is working hard in his profession; that he is determined to rise in it; and that he will yet do credit to you and every one connected with him—all of which I fully indorse. But he cannot feel happy, sir, till he has been reconciled to you—till you have accorded him your forgiveness, and—and’——
Here the Captain sneezed violently, and then blew his nose. ‘I knew it—I said so,’ he remarked aloud. ‘Those confounded draughts—give everybody cold. Why not?’ Then addressing himself directly to Mr Brooker, he said: ‘Well, sir, well. I have listened to your remarks with a considerable degree of patience, and I am glad to find that my graceless nephew has some sense of compunction left in him. But as for reconciliation and forgiveness and all that nonsense—pooh, pooh!—not to be thought of—not to be thought of!’
‘I am sorry to hear that, Captain Bowood—very sorry indeed.’
‘You made mention of some other point, sir, that Mr Summers wished you to lay before me. Eh, now?’
‘I did, sir. It is that of his attachment to a young lady at present staying under your roof—Miss Brandon by name.’
‘Ah, I guessed as much!’
‘He desires your sanction to his engagement to the young lady in question, not with any view to immediate marriage, Miss Brandon being a ward in Chancery, but’——
‘Confound his impudence, sir!’ burst out the Captain irately. ‘How dare he, sir—how dare he make love to a young lady who is placed under my charge by her nearest relative? What will Miss Hoskyns say and think, when she comes back and finds her niece over head and ears in love with my worthless nephew? Come now.’
‘It may perchance mitigate to some extent the severity of your displeasure, sir,’ remarked Mr Brooker in his blandest tones, ‘when I tell you that in my pocket I have a letter written by Miss Hoskyns, in which that lady sanctions your nephew’s engagement to Miss Brandon.’
The Captain stared in open-mouthed wonder at the veteran actor. This was the strangest turn of all. He felt that the situation was getting beyond his grasp, so he did to-day what he always did in cases of difficulty—he sent for his wife.
Mrs Bowood was almost as much surprised as her husband when she heard the news. Mr Brooker produced Miss Hoskyns’ letter, the genuineness of which could not be disputed; but she was still as much at a loss as before to imagine by what occult means Master Charley had succeeded in causing such a document to be written. Nor did she find out till some time afterwards.
It would appear that our two young people had fallen in love with each other during the month they had spent at Rosemount the preceding summer, and that, during the ensuing winter, Charley had contrived to worm his way into the good graces of Miss Hoskyns by humouring her weaknesses and playing on some of her foibles, of which the worthy lady had an ample stock-in-trade. But no one could have been more surprised than the young man himself was when, in answer to his letter, which he had written without the remotest hope of its being favourably considered, there came a gracious response, sanctioning his engagement to Miss Brandon. The fact was that, while in Italy, Miss Hoskyns had allowed her elderly affections to become entangled with a good-looking man some years younger than herself, to whom she was now on the point of being married. The first perusal of Charley’s letter had thrown her into a violent rage; but at the end of twenty-four hours her views had become considerably modified. After all, as she argued to herself, why shouldn’t young Summers and her niece make a match of it? He came of a good family, and would incontestably be his uncle’s heir; and Captain Bowood was known to be a very rich man. And then came in another argument, which had perhaps more weight than all the rest. Would it be wise, would it be advisable, to keep herself hampered with a niece who was fast developing into a really handsome young woman, when she, the aunt, was about to take a good-looking husband so much younger than herself? No; she opined that such a course would neither be wise nor advisable. Hence it came to pass that the letter was written which was such a source of surprise to every one at Rosemount.
‘What am I to do now?’ asked the Captain a little helplessly, as Mrs Bowood gave back the letter to Mr Brooker.
That lady’s mind was made up on the instant. ‘There is only one thing for you to do,’ she said with decision, ‘and that is, to forgive the boy all his past faults and follies, and sanction his engagement to Elsie Brandon.’
‘What—what! Eat my own words—swallow my own leek—when I’ve said a hundred times that’——
‘Remember, dear, what you said in the drawing-room last evening,’ interposed Mrs Bowood in her quietest tones.
Then the Captain called to mind how, in conversation the previous evening with his wife and Lady Dimsdale, he had chuckled over the tricks played him by his nephew, and had admitted that that young gentleman’s falling in love with Miss Brandon was the very thing he would have wished for, had he been consulted in the matter.
The Captain was crestfallen when these things were brought to his mind.
Mrs Bowood gave him no time for further reflection. Rightly assuming that the young people were not far away, she opened a door leading to an inner room, and there found them in close proximity to each other on the sofa. ‘Come along, you naughty children,’ she said, ‘and receive the sentence due for your many crimes.’
They came forward shamefacedly enough. Master Charles looked a little paler than ordinary; on Elsie’s face there was a lovely wild-rose blush.
Mr Brooker rose to his feet, ran the fingers of one hand lightly through his wig, and posed himself in his favourite attitude. He felt that just at this point a little slow music might have been effectively introduced.
The Captain also rose to his feet.
Charley came forward quickly and grasped one of the old man’s hands in both of his. ‘Uncle!’ he said, looking straight into his face through eyes that swam in tears.
For a moment or two the Captain tried to look fierce, but failed miserably. Then bending his white head, and laying a hand on his nephew’s shoulder, he murmured in a broken voice: ‘M—m—my boy!’
Sir Frederick Pinkerton was slowly pacing the sunny south terrace, smoking one cigarette after another in a way that with him was very unusual. He was only half satisfied with himself—only half satisfied with the way he had treated Lady Dimsdale. The instincts of a gentleman were at work within him, and those instincts whispered to him that he had acted as no true gentleman ought to act. And yet his feelings were very bitter. Had not Lady Dimsdale rejected him?—had she not scorned him?—had she not treated him with a contumely that was only half veiled? Still more bitter was the thought that if he acted as his conscience told him he ought to act, he would release Lady Dimsdale from the promise he had imposed on her, and stand quietly on one side, while another snatched away the prize which, only a few short hours ago, he had fondly deemed would be all his own. But this was a sacrifice which he felt that he was not magnanimous enough to make. ‘I have done the man a great—an inestimable—service,’ he said to himself more than once; ‘let that suffice. They are not lovesick children—he and Lady Dimsdale—that they should cry for the moon, and vow there is no happiness in life because they can’t obtain it. Why should I trouble myself about their happiness? They would not trouble themselves about mine.’
It was thus he argued with himself, and the longer he argued the more angry he became. He was so thoroughly anxious to convince himself that he was right, and he found himself unable to do so.
He was still deep in his musings, when one of the servants brought him a letter which had been sent on from his own house to Rosemount. He recognised the writing as soon as he saw the address, and his face brightened at once. The letter was from his nephew—the one being on earth for whom Sir Frederick entertained any real affection. He found a seat in the shade, where he sat down and broke the seal of his letter. But as he read, his face grew darker and darker, and when he had come to the end of it, a deep sigh burst involuntarily from him; the hand that held the letter dropped by his side, and his chin sank on his breast. He seemed all at once to have become five years older. ‘O Horace, Horace, this is indeed a shameful confession!’ he murmured. ‘How often is it the hand we love best that strikes us the cruellest blow! And Oscar Boyd, too! the man I dislike beyond all other men. That makes the blow still harder to bear. He must be paid the five hundred pounds, and at once. He has lost his fortune, and yet he never spoke of this. What an obligation to be under—and to him! He saved Horace’s honour—perhaps his life—but is that any reason why I should absolve Lady Dimsdale from her promise? No, no! This is a matter entirely separate from the other.—Why, here comes the man himself.’
As Sir Frederick spoke thus, Oscar Boyd issued from one of the many winding walks that intersected the grounds at Rosemount. He had been alone since he left Lady Dimsdale. He had vowed to her that if she would not reveal to him the key of the mystery, he would find it for himself; but in truth he seemed no nearer finding it now than he had been an hour before. From whatever point he regarded the puzzle, he was equally nonplused. Utterly unaccountable to him seemed the whole affair. He was now on his way back to the house in search of Laura. He would see her once more before she left; once more would he appeal to her. On one point he was fully determined: come what might, he would never give her up.
Sir Frederick put away his letter, rose from his seat, pulled himself together, and went slowly forward to meet Mr Boyd. ‘You are the person, Mr Boyd, whom I am just now most desirous of seeing,’ he said.
‘I am entirely at your service, Sir Frederick.’
The Baronet cleared his voice. He scarcely knew how to begin what he wanted to say. Very bitter to him was the confession he was about to make. ‘Am I wrong, Mr Boyd, in assuming that you are acquainted with a certain nephew of mine, Horace Calvert by name, who at the present time is residing at Rio?’
Oscar started slightly at the mention of the name. ‘I believe that I had the pleasure of meeting the young gentleman in question on one occasion.’
‘It is of that occasion I wish to speak. I have in my pocket a letter which I have just received from my nephew, in which he confesses everything. Hum, hum.’
‘Confesses—Sir Frederick?’
‘For him, a humiliating confession indeed. He tells me in his letter how you—a man whom he had never seen before—saved him from the consequences of his folly—from disgrace—nay, from suicide itself! He had lost at the gaming-table money which was not his to lose. He fled the place—despair, madness, I know not what, in his heart and brain. You followed him, and were just in time to take out of his hand the weapon that a minute later would have ended his wretched life. But you not only did that; you took the miserable boy to your hotel, and there provided him with the means to save his honour. It was a noble action, Mr Boyd, and I thank you from my heart.’
‘It was the action of a man who remembered that he had been young and foolish himself in years gone by.’
‘I repeat, sir, that it was a noble action. And you would have gone away without telling me how greatly I am your debtor!’
‘It was a secret that concerned no one but the young man and myself.’
‘It is a debt that must be and shall be paid. I am glad indeed to find that there is sufficient sense of honour left in my nephew to cause him to beg that you may not be allowed to remain a loser by your generosity. He has ascertained that you have returned to England; he has even found out the name of your hotel in Covent Garden, where he asks me to wait upon you. Hum, hum. My cheque-book is at home, Mr Boyd; but if you will oblige me with your address in town, I’——
‘One moment, Sir Frederick. Am I right in assuming that a certain anonymous letter which I received yesterday was written by you?’
‘Since you put the question so categorically—frankly, it was.’
‘You have done me a service greater than I know how to thank you for. You have dragged me from the verge of an abyss. At present, I will not ask you how you came by the information which enabled you to do this—it is enough to know that you did it.’ He held out his hand frankly. ‘Suppose we cry quits, Sir Frederick?’ he said.
The Baronet protruded a limp and flaccid paw, which Oscar’s long lean fingers gripped heartily.
‘But—but, my dear sir, the five hundred pounds is a debt which must and shall be paid,’ urged Sir Frederick, who felt as if he had lost the use of his hand for a few moments.
There was no opportunity for further private talk. Round a corner of the terrace came Captain and Mrs Bowood, Miss Brandon and her lover in a high state of contentment, and Brooker the benignant, nose in air, and with one hand hidden in the breast of his frock-coat. A servant brought out some of Lady Dimsdale’s boxes in readiness for the carriage, which would be there in the course of a few minutes. Mr Boyd went forward, leaving Sir Frederick a little way in the rear.
‘Quits—“let us cry quits,” he said,’ muttered the Baronet. ‘Yes, yes; let it be so as regards all but the money. That must be repaid. The service I did him was no common one—he admits that. Why, then, should I not hold Lady Dimsdale to her promise?’
At this moment, Lady Dimsdale, dressed for travelling, appeared on the terrace. ‘She is going, then. She means to keep her promise,’ said Sir Frederick to himself. He drew a little nearer the group.
‘And must you really and truly leave us this afternoon?’ said Mrs Bowood.
‘Really and truly.’
‘I am very angry with you.’
‘I have promised the children to be back in time to go blackberrying with them, so that you will not lose me for long.’
‘I suppose we shall lose Mr Boyd as soon as you are gone. The house will be too dull for him.’
‘I have no control over Mr Boyd’s actions,’ answered Lady Dimsdale quietly, as she turned away.
‘Then he has not proposed! O dear! O dear!’ murmured Mrs Bowood.
Sir Frederick had seated himself on a rustic chair somewhat apart from the others. He was still uneasy in his mind. ‘He saved Horace’s honour—he saved his life; but he said himself that we are quits.’
‘Why, this is nothing but rank midsummer madness,’ said the Captain to Lady Dimsdale. ‘But you women never know your minds for two days together. You won’t have been settled down at Bayswater more than a week, before you will want to be off somewhere else. Eh, now?’
‘Do you know, I think that is quite likely. But I am not leaving you for long. I shall be back again to plague you by the time the leaves begin to turn.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And now my adieux to all of you must be brief. Time, tide, and the express train wait for no one.’
She saw Oscar coming towards her, and she crossed to meet him.
‘The crucial moment,’ said Sir Frederick to himself. ‘How bravely she carries herself!’
Oscar took her hand. For a moment or two they looked into each other’s eyes without speaking. Then Oscar said: ‘You are determined to go—and without affording me a word of explanation?’
‘I cannot help myself.’
‘Do you really mean this to be farewell between us?’
‘Yes—farewell.’ There was a sob in her voice which she could not repress.
‘O my darling!’
‘Not that word, Oscar—not that!’
‘And do you really think, Laura, that I am going to allow myself to lose you in this way, without knowing the why or the wherefore? Not so—not so.’
‘You must, Oscar—you must.’
‘Give me some reason—give me some explanation of this unaccountable change.’
‘I cannot. My lips are sealed.’
‘Very well. I will now say good-bye for a little while; but I shall follow you to London within three days. You are my promised wife, and I shall hold you to your promise, in spite of everything and every one.’
‘No, Oscar, no—it cannot be—it can never be!’ She glanced up into his eyes. There was a cold, clear, determined look in them, such as she had never seen there before. It was evident that he was terribly in earnest.
At this moment Captain Bowood’s landau drove up. The footman descended, and contemplated Lady Dimsdale’s numerous packages with dismay.
‘You needn’t bother about the luggage, George,’ said his master. ‘A man from the station will fetch that.’
The moment for parting had come. As Oscar gazed down on Laura, all the hardness melted out of his face, and in its stead, the soft light of love shone out of his eyes, and his lips curved into a smile of tenderness. ‘Farewell—but only for a little while,’ he whispered. He lifted her hand to his lips for a moment, and then, without another word, he turned on his heel and joined the Captain.
‘I actually believe Mr Boyd is in love with dear Lady Dimsdale!’ whispered Elsie to Mr Summers.
‘Of course he is, and she with him; only, she’s playing with him for a little while.’
‘It seems to me that you know far too much about love-making, Master Charley.’
‘Who was the first to give me lessons?’
The only answer to this was a pinch in the soft part of his arm.
Lady Dimsdale controlled herself by a supreme effort. Then she crossed slowly towards where Sir Frederick was sitting.
He rose as she approached him. ‘You have kept your promise bravely,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Why should not a woman keep a promise as bravely as a man?’
‘It is I who am driving you away.’
‘You flatter yourself, Sir Frederick.’
He shook his head in grave dissent. He seemed strangely moved. He gazed earnestly at her. ‘There is a tear in your eye, Lady Dimsdale,’ he said. ‘I am conquered. I revoke the promise I caused you to give me yesterday.’
‘Oh, Sir Frederick!’
‘I revoke it unconditionally.’
‘Why did you not tell me this five minutes ago!’
‘Better to tell it you now than not at all. You will not leave us now?’
‘But I must, I fear—must.’ She gave him her hand for a moment, and then turned away.
As the Baronet watched her retreating figure, he muttered to himself: ‘Mr Boyd said we were quits. He was mistaken. We shall be quits after to-day. Hum, hum.’
As Lady Dimsdale was crossing the terrace, she dropped one of her gloves—whether by design or accident, who shall say. Oscar Boyd sprang forward and picked it up. Laura stopped, turned, and held out her hand for the glove. As Oscar gave it back to her, his fingers closed instinctively round hers. For a moment or two he gazed into her eyes; for a moment or two she glanced shyly into his. I don’t in the least know what he saw there; but suddenly he called out to the coachman: ‘Henry, you can drive back to the stables. Lady Dimsdale will not go to London to-day.’
THE MONTH:
SCIENCE AND ARTS.
The interesting lecture upon Celtic and Roman Britain, which was delivered last month at the London Institution by Mr Alfred Tylor, F.G.S., was illustrated by several drawings of curious antiquities. There was also shown a map prepared by the lecturer, which depicted all the Roman roads which at the present time still form important highways. A large number of these are seen upon this map to converge at Winchester, which at one time formed a central depôt for the metallurgical products of this country, before their dispersion abroad. From Winchester the metals won from the earth in Cornwall, Wales, &c., were carried to Beaulieu, in Hampshire, thence to the Solent, close by. Two miles across the Solent is Gurnard’s Bay, in the Isle of Wight, whence there was an easy road to the safe harbour of Brading, where the ores could be shipped for continental ports. It is believed, from the existence of so many British sepulchral mounds along these routes, that the roads were established and in constant use many centuries before the Roman occupation. The lecturer also referred to the curious Ogham inscriptions which are found nowhere except in the British Isles, and which are written in a kind of cipher of the simplest but most ingenious kind. A horizontal bar forms the backbone of this curious system of caligraphy. Five vertical strokes across this line would express the first five letters of an alphabet; the next five would be expressed by like lines kept above the horizontal bar, and five more by similar lines kept below it. Other five, making up a total of twenty signs, corresponding to a twenty-letter alphabet, are expressed by diagonal lines across the bar. This primitive method of writing is due to the Irish division of the Celtic race, and indicates a proof of early culture, which is seen in more enduring form in the artistic skill evident in such metallurgical work as has been assigned to the same period and people.
Professor Maspero’s recently issued new catalogue of the Boulak Museum, Cairo, deals with antiquities compared with which those referred to the Roman period in Britain seem but things of yesterday. Many of these archæological treasures, but more particularly the funerary tablets or stelæ, cover the enormous period of thirty-eight centuries, a period, too, which ends two thousand years before the Christian era. As to the object of these tablets, which are almost invariably found attached to ancient Egyptian tombs, Professor Maspero gives a new theory. There is no doubt that the ancient Egyptians believed in the immortality of the soul, but coupled with this was a belief in the existence of a something outside the soul and body—a kind of shade or double, called the Ka. The preservation of this Ka was essential to the preservation of the soul; and images of the defunct in which this spirit could dwell were entombed with the mummy. The various scenes of domestic labour and pastoral pursuits were not—as was until recently supposed—inscribed upon the Egyptian tombs merely as records of manners and customs, but were associated with the belief in the Ka. The pursuits carried on in life could by these representations enable the spiritual double to carry on the same line of conduct. Representations of various kinds of food in baked clay, limestone, or other material, formed the food of the Ka, and such things have been found in abundance. According to Professor Maspero’s new theory, the stela or tablet enumerated the funereal offerings of the deceased, and contained a prayer for their continuance. This prayer, repeated by a priest—or passer-by, even—would insure the well-being of the Ka. The name and status of the deceased were also inscribed upon the tablet; for, according to Egyptian ideas, a nameless grave meant no hereafter for its inmate. The catalogue referred to is intended to be a popular guide for the use of visitors, but it contains very much which will be of value to the student.
Mr Petrie’s recently published book upon the Pyramids of Gezeh, while it makes short work of many previously accepted theories as to the intention and uses of those gigantic structures, gives much information of a most interesting kind, and throws a new light upon many previously obscure portions of the subject. Most interesting is that part of the work devoted to the mechanical means employed by the builders of the Pyramids. Mr Petrie traces in the huge stones of which the Pyramids are built, the undoubted marks of saw-cutting and tubular drilling. He believes that the tools employed were of bronze, and asserts that this metal has left a green stain on the sides of the saw-cuts. Jewels, to form cutting-points, he believes to have been set both in the teeth of the saws and also on the circumference of the drills. (If this be true, rock-boring diamond drills are no new things.) He has even detected evidence of the employment of lathes with fixed tools and mechanical rests.
There is now little doubt as to the value of ensilage as a food for cattle, for there is abundant testimony from various parts of the country, where the experiment has been tried of building silos, that beasts thrive upon the compressed fodder that had been stored therein. For instance, its value as a fatting food for cattle has been demonstrated upon Mr Stobart’s estate at Northallerton, by a carefully conducted trial. Twelve beasts were divided into two lots of six each. All were alike given the same quantity of meal and cake. Besides this, one lot received daily, each beast, twenty-four and a half pounds of hay and ninety-five pounds of turnips; the other lot receiving in lieu of hay and turnips each seventy-five pounds of ensilage. At the beginning of the experiment, the animals were weighed separately. At the end of one month they were again weighed. All of course showed a great advance; but those fed on ensilage totalled up to a figure which was forty-nine pounds better than the total exhibited by those fed in the more orthodox style.
As we have on a previous occasion hinted, the principle of ensilage has, after a manner, been applied for some years to fruit by the jam-makers. In years of plenty, fruit is reduced to pulp, and can in this state, if the air is carefully excluded, be made to keep well until a time of scarcity occurs. Large quantities of apricot pulp finds its way to this country from France, and realises a good price. In America, a clever plan of rapid drying and evaporation of the watery parts of fruit has come into vogue, and this industry gives employment to many workers. A stove constructed for the purpose costs about fifteen pounds. It is portable, and is used in many districts far from towns where there is not a ready market for fresh fruit. As the water slowly evaporates, the acid and starch in the fruit undergo a chemical change, and grape-sugar is formed. When placed in water, these dried fruits once more swell up to their original volume, and are in every respect like fresh fruit, only that they require, when cooked, but half the usual quantity of added sugar. All kinds of vegetables can be preserved by this process.
A correspondent of the Times, writing from Iceland, gives some interesting particulars of the present condition of that island. At Reykiavik, its chief town, nothing was known of the reported volcanic disturbances in the interior of the island; but this is hardly to be wondered at, because a large portion of that area is occupied by snow-covered mountains and glaciers which the natives never visit, and which, it may be said, are never explored save by enterprising and adventurous tourists. Professor Tromholt is in Iceland, pursuing his researches on the aurora borealis, the frequency and brilliancy of which, coupled with the exceeding clearness of the atmosphere, give him every advantage. A large portion of Iceland still remains unexplored; and its mineral resources, if we except the large quantities of sulphur which are being worked by an English Company, are but slightly developed. There is still room for a brisk trade in coal, borax, copper, &c., which are abundant on the island. Besides these products, the fisheries of Iceland are most prolific; and although fish and its belongings form two-thirds of the total exports, it is believed that they offer a promising field for the further employment of capital.
Among the wonderful engineering projects of the present day must be mentioned the scheme for making Paris a seaport. This subject lately engaged the attention of the Rouen Congress of the French Association for the Advancement of Science, who gave to it two days’ discussion. One of the chief promoters of the project explained that the proposed way to carry it out was by transforming the river Seine, by dredging operations, into a canal ninety-eight feet in width. The amount of soil to be removed would measure close upon one hundred million cubic yards; it would consist chiefly of gravel and alluvial earth. The cost of the entire undertaking is estimated at four millions sterling.
Much attention has of recent years been called to the neglected art of Irish lace-making. The beauty of design and careful execution of old specimens of Irish lace contrast very remarkably with modern productions, which are too often coarse and inartistic. An Exhibition held last year at the Mansion House, London, and another still more lately at Cork, have to some extent aroused popular interest in this most beautiful class of work, and have given some impetus to the Royal Irish School of Art Needlework. In addition to the labours of this self-supporting Society, which is doing its best in the dissemination of good patterns and the employment of trained teachers, South Kensington has sent one of its emissaries, in the person of Mr Alan Cole, who has made lace-work his particular study, to lecture throughout the country. This gentleman is now in Ireland, travelling about the country wherever his presence is required, and teaching the application of artistic design to the technical requirements of the beautiful fabric.
A pretty picture, exhibited some short time ago, represented a little child looking up inquiringly to the intelligent face of a collie dog, and was entitled ‘Can’t you Talk?’ Sir John Lubbock has lately been asking this question of a little black poodle, and has been endeavouring to teach it to make its wants known by the use of cards with written characters upon them. Thus, one card bears the word ‘Food,’ another ‘Out;’ and the dog has been taught to bring either the one or the other to his master, and to distinguish between the meanings of the two. It seems doubtful whether the dog in this case uses the faculty of sight or smell; and it would be a source of some interest and amusement to those possessing an obedient dog, and with time at their disposal, to carry out the same kind of experiments, using new cards every time. It is constantly brought home to any observing owner of a dog that the animal understands a great deal more than he is generally credited with. In one case, we knew of a Dandy Dinmont who became so excited when certain things were mentioned in which he was interested, that French words had to be used in place of English ones when he was present. Their intelligence is truly marvellous. The wife of the editor of this Journal possesses a terrier which, while his mistress is out driving, will remain quietly in the parlour during her absence, taking no heed of other vehicles that may come to the front-door in the interval, but instantly recognising by some intuitive perception the arrival of the carriage or cab that has restored his mistress. Be it noted that the room in which Tim is confined during these temporary partings is at the back of the house, apart altogether from the front-door. This special power of discrimination on the part of our favourite has always been a marvel to us.
Colonel Stuart Wortley, commenting upon Sir John Lubbock’s experiments, tells an interesting story concerning a cat which he found during the Crimean War. The poor creature was pinned to the ground by a bayonet which had fallen and pierced its foot. The colonel released it; and the animal attached itself to him, and remained with him to the end of the war. The first two mornings of their acquaintance the cat was taken to the doctor’s tent to have his wound dressed. The third morning, the colonel was on duty; but the cat found its way to the doctor’s all the same, scratching at the tent for admission, and holding up its paw for examination.
Some months ago, when every one who had more money than scientific knowledge was hastening to invest in electric-lighting schemes, we gave a few words of warning as to the risks involved. That we were not wrong is evidenced by the collapse of so many of the Companies which were then issuing rose-coloured prospectuses. We now learn that so many people have suffered loss in this way, that there is the greatest difficulty in floating any scheme in which the word ‘Electricity’ occurs; and although inventors are still producing wonderful things, they cannot get support. There seems, however, to be no doubt whatever about the genuine success of the Edison Company in New York. The annual Report of the Company recently issued says that the Pearl Street Station in that city is working up to its full capacity. It has nine thousand eight hundred and eleven incandescent lamps in use, and the machinery has been kept running night and day without cessation since September 1882. The Company has now two hundred and forty-six installations at work, with a total of more than sixty thousand lamps. It may be mentioned as a matter of interest that Edison has had two hundred and fifteen patents actually granted him, and one hundred more have been filed. Every small item of his mechanical contrivances forms the subject of a patent specification.
There is just now such a great demand for handsomely marked leather, such as that obtained from alligator and boa skin, that the supply is not nearly equal to said demand. A large proportion of leather sold as the product of the alligator is really a photograph of the original article. It is managed in this way. The real skin, with its curious rectangular spaces separated by grooved markings, is carefully photographed. From the negative thus obtained a copy is produced in bichromated gelatine, which has the property, under the action of light, of affording images in relief. This is easily reproduced in metal, which serves the purpose of a die. Common cheap leather is now taken and placed with this die under heavy pressure, when all the delicate markings of the alligator skin are indelibly impressed upon it. The finished product can be stained in any way required, but is more frequently preferred to remain the brown colour left by the tanning operation. Such is the most recent trade-application of the fable of the jackdaw and the peacock’s feathers.
An American paper calls attention to a theory of life which, it asserts, was held by the great Faraday. This theory makes the duration of life depend upon the time occupied in growth, leaving all questions of disease or accident which may shorten life out of the question altogether. Man occupies twenty years in the business of growing. This number multiplied by five will give the age to which he ought, under favourable circumstances, to live—namely, one hundred years. A camel, occupying eight years in growing, ought to live by the same rule forty years; and so on with other animals. Human life he divided into two periods—growth and decline, and these were subdivided into infancy, lasting from birth to the age of twenty; youth, lasting from twenty to fifty; virility, from fifty to seventy-five; after which comes age.
‘A white-elephant’ has long been the common name of a gift which is not only useless, but is likely to entail trouble and expense upon its owner. The animal which has lately found a temporary home at the Zoological Gardens, London, will not be considered so unwelcome a guest, for it has drawn thousands of sightseers to the place. It is reported to have been bought from the king of Burmah on behalf of Mr Barnum, the American showman. But there seems to be a conflict of opinion on the point. Those who ought to know say that the exhibited animal has nothing very remarkable about it, and is certainly unlike the sacred animals of Burmah. Moreover, it is said that the king of Burmah would as soon part with his kingdom as with a real white elephant, which is the emblem of universal sovereignty, the parting with one of which would forebode the fall of the dynasty.
One of the attractions of the forthcoming International Health Exhibition will be an Indian village and tea-garden with the plant actually growing—that is to say, if it can be deluded into growing in the smoky atmosphere of London. In a tea-house, the beverage will be served by natives of tea districts, who are to be brought over from India for the purpose. There will also be exhibited a native pickle establishment. We venture to assert that if the entire Exhibition is carried on in this spirit, it is sure to be a success. In past times, the tea industry would have been represented by a few dozen bottles of the dried leaf with labels attached, which none would have read. Our authorities are now learning that if they wish to interest the multitude in an Exhibition, it must consist of something more than the dry-bones of the various subjects which it includes.
At a meeting of the Linnæan Society, Mr J. G. Baker lately gave a very interesting account of a potato new to this country, but common in Chili, which he believes would thrive well on this side of the Atlantic. There are known to botanists seven hundred species of solanum. Only six of these produce tubers, and of these six only one has been as yet cultivated by us, and this is the common potato.[1] Its true home, according to Mr Baker, is found in those parts of Chili which are high and dry; but there is another species which flourishes in moister situations, which he believes might be made to rival its familiar fellow. When cultivated, it grows most luxuriantly, so much so, that six hundred tubers have in one year been gathered from two plants. Some specimens of this same potato were brought to England so long ago as the year 1826, but they met with little attention, having been confounded with the more common species. Two other species of solanum, natives of the eastern portion of South America, and found at Buenos Ayres, &c., are also being cultivated experimentally in France and in the United States.
A case lately occurred which is deserving of notice, if only as a caution to those good people who are always ready to assist any unfortunate who may be seized with a fit. A man acting in this way the part of good Samaritan to a woman who had fallen in an epileptic fit, was bitten by her in the hand. In three days the wrist had swollen to such an extent as to need medical advice, and a few hours afterwards the poor man died. There may, of course, have been something exceptional in his state of health, which rendered this human bite more rapidly fatal than that of a rabid dog; but the lesson to be learned from the sad story is, that the greatest care should be taken in dealing with epileptic patients.