CHAPTER VIII.—RETURN OF THE 'LEO.'

December comes round again with its blustering winds and rude gales; there is every prospect of a spell of rough weather, and Captain Walter Reeves looks with intense satisfaction at his gallant ship the Leo, again riding securely at her anchor in Seabright Bay.

A season on shore just now, when festivities are about to commence, is in his idea far preferable to being tossed about on a squally sea or cruising about from port to port; so he congratulates himself on being ordered home. He hears of the gay doings at Government House, and how Katie is the reigning belle of Seabright; and he listens placidly, without one throb of emotion. Time has proved a panacea. He has no pang of regret that Sir Herbert is the husband of this very attractive woman of fashion, instead of himself. As a matter of duty, he is on his way to call at Government House, when outside a fashionable shop in one of the streets he sees a well-appointed carriage drawn up, and in it he catches a glimpse of a well-known form and face. An obsequious shopman is standing on the edge of the curb-stone displaying some articles of bijouterie; a coachman in dark livery, with a black cockade in his hat, is holding the reins. It is Lady Dillworth. There is no mistaking her imperial manner, as she speaks out in that slightly commanding voice; neither is there any mistaking her handsome face, her brilliant eyes, her dark coronal of hair, as she sits there in her proud beauty. Walter, as he crosses the street, takes note of her velvet, her sealskin, and the feathers and the damask rosebuds in her bonnet, and thinks all this suits the Admiral's wife very well. He hears her say to the shopman: 'The price is eight guineas, you say. Are the stones real?'

'Yes, my Lady; and they are very fine and well set. You are the first to whom I have had the honour of shewing them.'

'Send one of them to Government House. Or stay,' adds she musingly—'I want another for a present for a friend; so you may send me two bouquet-holders.'

'Sixteen guineas for such rubbish as that! I'm very glad the money comes out of the Admiral's purse, and not out of mine. A poor Commander's exchequer would not stand many such attacks as that,' thinks Walter, rather ungallantly, as he now greets the occupant of the carriage.

Katie is surprised to see him, and says so as she holds out her daintily gloved hand. 'I had no idea the Leo had returned. Have you been long here?'

'I arrived only last night, and am on my way to Government House.'

'How unfortunate there is no one at home! Sir Herbert went to Belton Park this morning, and I am on my way to the station to meet a friend who is coming to stay with me. By-the-by, you know the young lady—Liddy Delmere. Do you remember her?'

'Isn't she very pretty and a blonde?'

'Yes; she has both those attractions.'

'And doesn't she sing nicely?'

'O yes! Liddy can sing if she likes; and her voice is not a bad soprano,' replies Lady Dillworth with one of her brightest smiles.

'Then I'm sure I've often met her at your house in former days.'

'You had better come and refresh your memory this evening. We shall be quite alone, and very pleased to see you at Government House.'

Captain Reeves is of course delighted to meet Lady Dillworth on such friendly terms. He accepts the impromptu invitation at once.

The past, with its shadows and disappointments and jealousies, is gone for ever. Better now to banish every recollection of it from his heart, and meet Katie on an entirely new footing.

As if by tacit understanding, they both decide this is the wisest plan. They meet and separate as mere every-day acquaintances. Nothing can be more unembarrassed than her ladyship's smile as she acknowledges Walter's parting bow, and drives off, to the admiration of the staring urchins in the street.

'Quite alone' is a mere relative term with Lady Dillworth; for when the footman throws open the drawing-room door on that evening to announce Captain Reeves, the latter sees the room is already half full of guests. Katie stands near the piano; her dark velvet dress falls in sweeping folds, unbroken by flounce or trimming; the beautiful set of opals—her step-daughter's wedding present—shine out with a subdued light from neck, arms, and breast. Beside her is Liddy Delmere, who in her bright blue silk dress, and with her sunny hair tied with ribbons of the same azure tint, forms a contrast to her hostess, in which neither loses.

Ere long, Walter finds himself seated beside Miss Delmere, for they have renewed their acquaintanceship with mutual satisfaction, and plunge at once into discursive recollections of the past.

'We had some pleasant times together in the days long ago,' begins Walter.

'O yes; I remember meeting you several times at Mrs Grey's, also at a picnic on Bushby Plain, and at a gipsy party. Hadn't we capital fun sometimes?'

'Yes, really. What a pity these happy days are over. We never can recall those bright fresh hours, when the heart gilds everything with a magic glamour.'

'Speak for yourself, Captain Reeves! For my part, I enjoy things as much as ever I did; and my heart "gilds" a good deal still. Do tell me some of your adventures. What have you been doing all the months you were away?'

'Nothing worth relating. I neither discovered a desert island nor a new race of savages. I really have no wonders to narrate.'

'How marvellous! The very lack of incidents makes the thing curious. Now, if I had been cruising about in the Leo for months, I should have gleaned materials enough for at least two volumes of travels.'

'Ah! you ladies draw largely on the imagination. My experience is just this: I went away from England last spring; I return again in time for the Christmas pudding.'

'You sailors are all alike. I never met one yet who could give me the merest sketch of his voyage—all seems a blank, but the going and returning,' Liddy asserts laughingly.

'We had some nice balls at Malta,' replies Walter, rousing himself with a sudden recollection.

'Had you? Who gave them?'

'Sometimes we did; and crowds of the prettiest girls I ever saw, came.'

'Very flattering to the givers.'

'Oh, I wish you could see the Auberge de Provence when it is made ready for a ball; it looks just like a fairy scene. The old knights of Provence would never recognise the place if they could return to take a peep at it. As one passes through the hall, it appears like an orange grove; the trees are full of golden fruit and fragrant blossoms; and clusters of coloured lamps shine out like rubies through the green leaves.'

Walter is fairly launched into his subject now; one recollection speedily calls up another, till Liddy and he grow eloquent, and enjoy themselves amazingly.

He begins describing some musical charades they 'got up' at Malta.

'How nice they must be! But I can't quite understand them.'

'We merely take a word, divide it, and make our singing descriptive of the parts, instead of acting them out. For instance, take Ravenswood.'

'A sweet word, particularly if one has to croak out a raven chorus! Oh, I should like that extremely!' laughs Liddy.

'Ah, no; you don't catch my meaning. We make quite a grand affair of it, have a drop-scene, on which birds and trees are painted, and our illustrations are from the opera of Lucia di Lammermoor.'

'Quite a musical drama on a small scale, I declare! I wish we could get up something of the sort here. I'll ask Lady Dillworth about it. And here she comes.'

Katie walks over, looking rather amused at the evident good understanding between Liddy and Walter, as they thus interchange recollections with much empressement. She seats herself beside them, and the subject is discussed in all its points. Lady Dillworth enters into it with impulsive eagerness. Already she is longing for something new and fresh, something that will cause a sensation among the 'upper ten' at Seabright.

Several other guests join them, and ere long an animated group of people are professing willingness to aid such a charming scheme; anything novel is so attractive to those whose whole life is excitement. Walter takes the initiative at once.

'I have all the music we need. The bandmaster of the 25th arranged it for me with the songs, duets, and choruses. It's capital for drawing-room practice, if we can only get enough performers.'

Everybody is ready to join, so the rôle is settled on the spot. Walter is to be Edgar; Liddy, Lucy Ashton. But here the young lady enters a protest.

'I don't wish to be Lucy. If you want me, you must let me be Lucy's mother. I make a splendid old woman.'

'Then who will be the unfortunate bride?—Will you, Lady Dillworth?' asks Major Dillon, turning towards her.

'O yes, if Miss Delmere objects.'

So it is settled. Walter infects the whole party with his eagerness. Scenes, music, costumes, and arrangements are talked over; and Katie is all anxiety to carry out the plans with due effect. Walter is to bring on shore the music-scroll and sketches of the costume; and the intended performers are invited to meet him to-morrow morning at Government House, for the first rehearsal.

'Now that affair is settled, we'll have some music,' Katie says, as she rises and goes towards the piano. Walter follows her. 'Have you forgotten all your songs, Captain Reeves?'

'O no. How could I? You taught me most of them,' he replies.

'Will you try one now?'

'Don't ask me to sing a solo. I should break down at once; but if you will allow me to join you in a duet, I'll try to manage it.'

Katie turns over a book of manuscript music, and they fix on Then and Now.

'The words are dreadfully stupid, but the air is pretty,' asserts Lady Dillworth, as she runs over the prelude:

We heard the tower bells pealing
On that soft summer night,
Your hand was linked with mine, love;
Your heart, like mine, was light.
We whispered low together
Of that hope and of this;
While far above, the joyous bells
Seemed echoes of our bliss.

Again those bells are pealing;
We hear them now, and sigh;
No longer can their chimes, love,
Blend with our thoughts of joy.
Our lives for aye are parted;
And on the wintry air,
Those crashing sounds but haunt us now,
Like echoes of despair.

The two voices ring harmoniously and plaintively through the rooms. One could almost imagine the singers are actually using the 'past to give pathos' to the words. But nothing is further from their thoughts. Katie is only deciding that, after all, Walter's voice will 'do' with hers in the duets of the charade; and Walter is wishing—just a little—that Miss Delmere had retained the part of Lucy, as at first proposed.

[ELECTRICITY AS A LIGHT-PRODUCER.]

It has long been the opinion of scientific people that in electricity we have a power the development of which is only at present in its infancy. The marvellous details of our telegraphic system constantly remind us that there is a mysterious fluid round about us which can to a certain extent be made subservient and obedient to the will of man. This familiarity with that which would a few centuries ago have been stigmatised as the outcome of sorcery, has led the ignorant to place a blind belief in its powers. The subtle fluid has in fact taken the place of the necromancer's wand, and is believed by many to be capable of anything or everything. The electrician is thus credited with much that does not of right belong to his domain, and the wildest speculations are occasionally indulged in as to what next he will do for us. That electricity will prove of far more extended use than the present state of knowledge allows, we all have vague anticipations, and among these is the reasonable hope that it will some day supersede coal-gas as a means of artificial illumination. We propose, by a brief review of the present position of electrical research, to point out how far such a hope is justified by facts.

Sir Humphry Davy was the first to discover that when the terminal wires of a powerful electric battery were furnished with carbon-points and brought into such a position that they almost touched, the space between them became bridged over with a dazzling arc of light. The excessive cost of producing this light (owing to the rapid consumption of the metal-plates and acids which together form the battery-power) rendered it for a long time almost inapplicable to any other purpose than that of lecture-room demonstration. But it was evident to all that a means of illumination so nearly approaching in its intensity the light of the sun, would, if practicable, be of immense value to society at large. Apart from its cost, there were many other hindrances to its ready adoption. The incandescent carbon-points—which we may here remark are cut from a hard form of gas-coke—were found to waste away unequally. Some plan had therefore to be hit upon of not only replacing them at certain intervals, but also, in view of this inequality of consumption, of preserving their relative distance the one from the other; otherwise the light they gave became intermittent and irregular. These difficulties were met by employing clock-work as a regulator, and more recently by a train of wheelwork and magnets set in motion by the current itself. These arrangements naturally led to complications, which required the constant supervision of skilled operators, and the coveted light was necessarily confined to uses of a special nature where the question of cost and trouble was unimportant.

The use of the battery for the electric light has for some years been almost entirely superseded by the magneto-electric machine. The construction of this machine is based upon Faraday's discovery, that when a piece of soft iron inclosed in a coil of metal wire is caused to pass by the poles of a magnet, an electric current is produced in the wire. The common form of this machine consists of a number of such iron cores so arranged upon a revolving cylinder that in continual succession they fly past a number of stationary horse-shoe magnets placed in a frame round its circumference. By a piece of mechanism called a commutator, the various small streams of electricity thus induced are collected together into one powerful current. This invention forms one of the most advanced steps in the history of the electric light. But although it produces electricity without the consumption of metal involved in the battery system, another element of cost comes into view in the expense of the steam-power necessary to work it; besides which the original outlay is considerable.

In the year 1853 a Company was formed at Paris for producing (by the aid of some large magneto-electric machines) gas for combustion, by the decomposition of water. The Company failed to produce gas, and what was perhaps more to the annoyance of the subscribers, they failed also to shew any dividends, and the expensive machines were voted impostors. However, an Englishman, Mr Holms, succeeded in turning them to better account, and eventually produced by their aid a light of great power. Mr Wilde of Manchester was another worker in the same field; and improved machines were soon introduced to public notice by both gentlemen. A few years after, the South Foreland and Dungeness lighthouses were provided with experimental lights. (The first-named headland had previously been furnished with an oxyhydrogen or lime light, a source of illumination which is also open to the same objections of requiring constant attention and renewal.)

It is a matter of surprise to most visitors to the South Foreland lighthouse to find that a small factory and staff of men are necessary to keep the electric apparatus in working order. The extent of the establishment is partly explained by the fact that, in case of a breakdown of any part of the apparatus, everything is kept in duplicate. Hence there are two ten horse-power steam-engines, and a double set of magneto-electric machines, although only half that number are in actual use at one time. The old oil-lamps are also kept ready, in view of the improbable event of both sets of electrical apparatus going wrong.

Although lighthouses were the first places to which electrical illumination was applied, there are many other purposes for which that species of light is invaluable. One of the chief of these is its use in submarine operations. Unlike other lights, being quite independent of atmospheric air or any kind of gas for its support, and merely requiring an attachment of a couple of gutta-percha-covered wires for its connection with the source of electricity (which may be at a considerable distance from the place of combustion), it is specially applicable to the use of divers. The importance of a means of brilliantly lighting the work of those engaged in clearing wreck or laying the foundations of subaqueous structures cannot be over-estimated. There is another service too in which we may hope some day to see it commonly employed: we mean as a source of light to our miners. For this purpose, the burner could be placed in a thick glass globe hermetically closed; in fact the globe might even be exhausted of air, for experiments prove that the light is in several respects improved when burnt in a vacuum! The danger of fire-damp explosion would by this means be almost altogether obviated; for unless the glass were broken (and abundant means suggest themselves for protecting it), no communication could be made between the light and the gas-laden air of the mine. As a means of night-signalling, the electric light can also be profitably applied. This can be done by an alphabet of flashes of varying duration; the readiness with which the light can be extinguished and rekindled by the mere touch of a wire, rendering it peculiarly adapted for such a purpose; while the distance at which it can be seen is perhaps only limited by the convexity of the earth. Several of Her Majesty's ships are now being fitted with the electric light, which is to serve both for signalling purposes, and as a precautionary measure against the attack of torpedo-boats. For military field operations a brilliant light is often useful; and an electrical apparatus is in actual use by one of the belligerents in the present war. In this case, the light is doubtless worked by an electric battery, as a steam-engine is hardly a convenient addition to the impedimenta of a moving column.

Having called our readers' attention to the several special public uses for which the electric light is available, we may now consider how far it can serve us for the more common wants of every-day life. In its crude state as we have described it, governed by such a touchy thing as clock-work, it could not possibly compete with gas for ordinary purposes. But one or two improvements have within the last few months been made, which have led many to hope that the day is not far distant when the light will become common in our streets, if not in our houses.

These improvements are two in number. The one is a plan whereby the electric current can be subdivided so as to serve a number of different lights, and the other is an improvement in the arrangement of the burner. The first-mentioned invention seems most certainly to bring the system more on a par with gas-lighting, only that wires take the place of pipes. But the second offers features of a more novel character. The carbons, instead of being placed point to point, one above the other, as in the old system, are put side by side and made into a kind of candle. The carbons therefore represent a double wick; while the portion of the candle usually made of tallow is made of kaolin, a form of white clay used in the manufacture of porcelain. The points are thus kept at a fixed distance apart; and as they burn, they vitrify the kaolin between them, which both checks their waste and adds, by its incandescence, to the light produced. The old difficulty of keeping the carbons apart by the aid of clock-work, therefore disappears. The invention of this 'electric candle' is due to a Russian engineer, M. Jablochkoff. Another plan which is also credited to the same inventor is that of doing away with the carbon-points altogether, and substituting for them a thin plate of kaolin. The light produced is said to be softer, steadier, and more constant than that obtained by any previous method. Successful experiments with M. Jablochkoff's invention both in France and England have shewn it to be readily applicable to many purposes. It was lately tried at the West India Docks, London, where its power of illuminating large areas for the purpose (among others) of unloading ships by night, was fully demonstrated. Moreover, its portability is such that it can be carried into the depths of a ship's hold. We may mention as a result of these experiments, that the various gas companies' shares have been depreciated to a considerable extent.

Meanwhile, improvements in the magneto-electric machine have not been wanting; Siemens in England and Gramme in France have succeeded in obtaining intense currents from machines far less bulky than those of the old pattern. But still steam-power is required to set them in motion, and until this is obviated, we cannot expect that the electric light can become really available for more general use. The inventors claim that their method of illumination is, for the amount of light obtained, far cheaper than any other known, pleading that one burner is equal to one hundred gas-lights. But we must remember that for ordinary purposes this amount of light is far beyond our needs. In factories where steam-power is already available, and where the light would supersede a large number of gas-burners, it can of course be employed with profit. Indeed we learn that at several large workshops in different parts of France the light is in actual use with the best results. Some of the railway stations both there and in Belgium are also making arrangements for its immediate adoption.

The problem, however, which has now to be solved is, whether the light can be made available for domestic purposes. We fear that the necessary motive-power presents an insuperable objection; for although, as we have explained, one engine will feed a certain number of lights, it will bear no comparison in this respect with the capabilities of a small gas-holder. Besides which, a man would have far more difficulty and expense in starting a steam-engine in his back-garden than he would have (as is commonly done in country districts) in founding a small gas-factory for the supply of his premises. Without losing sight of the benefits which coal-gas has given us, we may hope that it is not the last and best kind of artificial illumination open to us. It blackens our ceilings and walls; it spoils our books and pictures, besides robbing our dwellings of oxygen, and giving us instead a close and unhealthy atmosphere. The combustion of electricity is on the other hand, as we have already shewn, independent of any supply of air; and instead of vitiating the atmosphere, it adds to it a supply of that sea-side luxury ozone, which may truly be said to be 'recommended by the faculty.' Besides these advantages, it can be used without any sensible rise of temperature. Another great advantage which its use secures is its actinic qualities, which would enable artists and all whose work depends upon a correct appreciation of colours, to be independent of daylight.

In conclusion, we may say that, beyond the special uses for the electric light which we have enumerated, and for which it has by experience been found practicable, we see no likelihood of its more general adoption until two requisites are discovered. The one is a substance that will, without wasting away and requiring constant renewal, act as an incandescent burner; and the other is a cheap and ready method of obtaining the electric fluid. For the former we know not where to look, for even the hardest diamond disappears under contact with the electric poles. But with regard to the latter, we cannot help thinking how, many years ago, Franklin succeeded by the aid of a kite-string in drawing electricity from the clouds. Is it too much to hope that other philosophers may discover some means not only of obtaining the luminous fluid from the same source, but of storing it up for the benefit of all?

[JAPANESE WRESTLERS.]

It is a fine clear day in February; and the bright sun shining without a cloud to impede his rays, lights up the hull of H.M.S. Lyre, swinging lazily round her anchors in Yokohama Bay. Scarcely a ripple can be seen on the surface of the water, and numberless boats are darting to and fro, conveying passengers from the various ships to the shore. On board the corvette the blue-jackets and marines are reclining about the forecastle smoking and sewing, for it is Thursday afternoon, the day set apart in English men-of-war for the men to make and mend their clothes; a concession which Jack values the more for the privilege of smoking all the afternoon which accompanies it. Clearly it is not a day for any one to remain cooped up in a ship, who is not detained there by duty. So think we officers; for most of us have shifted into plain clothes, and are ready to go ashore. The officer of the afternoon watch, who is endeavouring to beguile the weary four hours he has to spend on deck by levelling his spyglass at every object far and near, looks gloomily at a party of us getting into a sampan, and remarks, with a view to cheering us up, that the glass is falling rapidly, and he expects dirty weather before the night; he wouldn't go ashore if he could, &c. But we have been at sea too long to be persuaded out of anything by a little chaff; so with a parting joke at sour grapes, we get into the crazy little sampan, and manage to seat ourselves without capsizing her, a work of some little difficulty. The four half-naked, muscular little fellows who form our crew work their long sculls with great vigour, keeping time to the beat of the unwieldy oars with a shrill monotonous chant, whose burden is 'Go ashore! go ashore!'

It is a glorious view that lies before us on that bright winter day. The long esplanade, or bund, that fringes the shore is lined with the tall white houses of the foreign settlement, to the southward of which is the beautiful wooded hill called the Bluff, the white cliffs of which are dazzlingly bright in the sunlight. The bungalows of the foreign residents are for the most part on the Bluff, each house inclosed in its own beautiful grounds; and here too, about two miles from the settlement, is the race-course, an invariable accompaniment to any large gathering of Englishmen in the East. Yokohama itself lies in a valley between the Bluff on the one hand and the Kanagawa hills on the other; but inland rises range after range of lofty mountains, and towering far above everything is the snow-capped crest of Fusiyama, the 'peerless' mountain of Japan, which is forty-five miles distant from the bay where our ship is lying. Fusiyama is a volcano in the shape of a truncated cone, but no eruption has taken place for more than a century; a fortunate thing for the country, as fifty thousand people are said to have perished at its last great outbreak, which almost destroyed the capital, Yeddo. Shocks of earthquake are very frequent, though slight, in Yokohama and the neighbouring town, Kanagawa; in fact, most of Japan is subject to these volcanic disturbances, which occasionally cause great damage. It is on this account that the houses are built generally of such slight materials, as they can endure shocks which would infallibly overthrow any building constructed after the European fashion. In the summer, when the snow has melted from the top of Fusiyama, bands of pilgrims dressed in white, who have come from all parts of the empire to worship the peerless mountain, throng in great numbers along the roads at its base. At this season the ascent is often accomplished by foreigners for the sake of the magnificent view which is obtained from the summit on a clear day; though whether it is worth while going through so much to obtain so little is of course a matter of opinion. Many people will tell you they go up for the sake of saying they have been there, forgetting that any one who has not been there can as easily say the same thing. For my own part I never could see the object of climbing a mountain only to come down again on the other side, and therefore in my numerous excursions into the interior of Japan, I gave Fusiyama a wide berth. Ponies are usually employed by those who believe in the merits of four legs as compared to two; and the deep ashes which cover the upper part of the mountain render this mode of ascent preferable to the severe labour of climbing on foot. The weather is so clear on the day in question that the deep gullies down the sides can be easily traced by the naked eye as we are pulling ashore.

While we have been admiring the beauties of the scene, our sampan has passed round the projecting arm of the English Hatoba, a stone jetty which protects the landing-place from the heavy swell which often sets into the bay; so we land and make our way to the bund with some difficulty, owing to the crowd of coolies who are passing to and from the merchants' godowns with heavy packages slung on bamboo poles between two men. Now comes the question, how are we to pass our time? for amusements are somewhat limited in a small settlement like Yokohama. To be sure, we can go to the club and play billiards or bowls or read the papers; but the afternoon is so fine that it seems a pity to waste it indoors. We might spend a few hours very pleasantly in the Benten Doré, a street filled with shops for the sale of lacquer-work and curiosities of different sorts; but unfortunately it is nearly the end of the month, and I need scarcely tell any one acquainted with the manners and customs of naval officers that our dollars have grown small by degrees and beautifully less, and we are anxiously waiting for pay-day.

The most popular idea seems to be to walk round the race-course to Mississippi Bay, on the south side of the Bluff, the favourite drive of the Yokohama ladies; but just as we have resolved on this, a man passes making some proclamation in a high sing-song tone, which seems to meet with general approval from the natives. On inquiring, we find that he is announcing the arrival of the champion troupe of wrestlers, who intend giving a performance that afternoon on a piece of waste land just outside the boundaries of the foreign settlement. Nothing could have happened more apropos; so jumping into some of the odd-looking little hand-carriages which ply for hire in great numbers about the streets of most Japanese towns, we are rattled along the streets at a rapid rate by the active little drivers, who seem to possess the enviable faculty of never tiring, for they trot along as gaily at the end of a thirty miles' run over indifferent roads, as when they started. On arriving at our destination, we find numbers of natives on the same errand, 'gaily dressed in their Sunday best,' entering an inclosure which has been hastily made out of long bamboos covered with matting, to keep out the too curious eyes that would gaze at the performance gratis. A payment of a quarter bu each (about threepence in English money) admits us to the interior, which presents a very striking scene. Round the sides of the large inclosure are numerous bamboo stages, crowded with the wealthier class of natives and a few foreigners; while in the amphitheatre some thousands of people are assembled, many of them women, whose gay robes set off their attractions to perfection.

Every one has his holiday face on, and the ceremonious politeness which usually characterises the meeting of any Japanese, has for the time given place to mirth and gaiety. Itinerant vendors of cakes and sweets ply their trade among the crowd with much apparent success; and here and there is a stall for the sale of saki, a strong spirit brewed from rice, and much resembling inferior sherry in the taste and smell. There is a total absence of intoxication, and I may say very few drunken men are ever to be seen about the streets. By the time we have mounted a stage, and settled down on the chairs a neatly dressed musŭme (young girl) has procured for us, the performances are about to commence, and a man is giving out the names of the first pair of wrestlers.

In the centre of the amphitheatre a mound has been raised, on which a ring has been formed by banking up the earth to the height of a few inches. Two grave-looking elderly men, apparently the judges, now seat themselves upon mats on the mound, and unfurling their paper umbrellas, light their pipes, and commence smoking in dignified composure; while the two wrestlers doff their kimonos (robes) and enter the ring perfectly naked but for a cloth round the loins. They are very far removed from our idea of what an athlete ought to be, for though muscular, they have an ungainly heaviness of figure. Weight is indeed thought of such importance in these contests that men are fattened for them like prize cattle, under the mistaken belief that such size is an advantage to the fortunate possessor!

A tedious preliminary performance has to be gone through before the actual business of wrestling commences. Each man comes to the centre of the ring, and squatting down in front of his antagonist, raises each leg in turn, and then brings it down heavily on the ground, at the same time striking his thigh smartly with his open hand. I suppose this is meant as a sort of challenge; but it has an extremely ludicrous effect, at least to foreigners, to see two very fat men so employing themselves. Both men now quit the ring and take a draught of water and a pinch of salt, while they rub their arms and hands with mud, in order that they may get a better hold of each other's naked body. At length they re-enter the ring, and the real struggle now begins. They squat in front of each other like two huge frogs and strike their hands together, at the same time uttering a curious hissing noise, which gets louder and louder till they suddenly fly at each other like angry cats. Heavy blows and slaps are exchanged freely in the effort to close, but umpires are behind each shouting out cautions at any attempted infringement of the rules on either side. When they have fairly got hold of each other many a cunning feint and twist is shewn, and the struggling bodies and limbs entwine so rapidly that the pair look like one gigantic octopus. At length the bout is concluded by one man being hurled bodily out of the ring into the crowd outside, and the cheering from the excited spectators is absolutely deafening. The victor stalks about the ring for some time in great dignity, receiving the congratulations of his friends, and then repeats his former challenge, striking his thighs heavily and crowing like a bantam cock. Another wrestler, nothing daunted, at once comes forward to try his fortune; while the vanquished combatant, who has picked himself up amidst a running fire of chaff from the unsympathising crowd, resumes his kimono with an assumed air of indifference and vanishes behind the spectators.

Three men in succession did the first victor overthrow before he found a foeman worthy of his grip; but he too in turn soon succumbed to a fresh challenger. The judges during all the confusion maintained their seats in great dignity, and smoked away with quiet unconcern while the wrestlers strove and kicked beside them. Their office seemed to be to settle any disputes; but it was almost a sinecure, as I saw hardly any during the afternoon, everything being conducted with perfect fairness and good-humour. All the hard work seemed to be done by the umpires, who were dancing about each combatant in a perfect state of frenzy, and their repeated screams of 'Anatta! anatta!' (Sir! sir!) when any unfair movement was attempted on either side, soon reduced their voices to mere croaks. To win a round, a man had either to lay his opponent flat on the ground or thrust him out of the ring. Several of the first bouts we witnessed were decided in the latter manner, a heavy man driving his antagonist clean out of the circle by the weight and impetus of his first assault. Any method whatever seemed to be allowed in catching hold; I saw one man win a heat by dexterously catching his opponent by the scruff of the neck and jamming his head on the ground, the whole body perforce following suit. This seemed to be regarded as a sort of 'fool's mate,' for I noticed that the loser was much laughed at; and although the same manœuvre was attempted several times afterwards, it was never successful.

The light weights had their contest first; and then came the middle weights, if such a term can be applied to men of fifteen stone at least. But the real event of the day was the concluding struggle between the champions, about a dozen in number, who would have passed muster in any assembly where height and strength were the test. Not one of them was under six feet in height, and most of them were considerably over; one gigantic fellow must have been nearly seven feet. All of them were disfigured by the same inordinate amount of flesh; but the muscles of the arms and legs were very powerfully developed, and the activity displayed in spite of their enormous size was something marvellous. In one severe contest the gigantic champion threw a lesser athlete clear out of the ring on to the heads of the spectators below, overwhelming one of the unfortunate judges in the transit. The latter, however, soon arose, gave himself a shake, and resumed his pipe and seat, apparently none the worse for his rude shock.

The final contest of the day, which took place just before dusk, was between our friend the giant and the next biggest of the band; and after a severe struggle, ended in the former being thrown as scientifically as ever I wished to see. The earth shook with the violence of the fall; but the vanquished hero picked himself up at once, and with a good-humoured laugh at his opponent, resumed his kimono; and the sports were concluded.

Not the least amusing part of the afternoon's amusement was afforded by a blue-jacket on leave from the Lyre, who threw his cap into the ring, and wanted to try conclusions with the biggest man of the party for a few dollars. A long and amusing conversation took place between the sailor and the natives; but the challenge was not accepted, so Jack put on his hat and walked jauntily away. He was a tall powerful man, and I daresay could have held his own against the giant himself, in spite of his inferiority of weight; for it is a well-known fact that the enormous amount of flesh cultivated by the Japanese wrestlers stands seriously in their way when opposed to a foreigner in good condition. It is not very many years ago that a shining light of the English Church in the East came to Japan and astonished the natives by throwing some of their best men. No doubt, before many years, the Japanese, who are very quick at seizing any new idea, will perceive the folly of feeding their athletes to such a size, and follow the English system of training. A very noticeable feature about these contests was the perfect good-humour with which they were conducted, not a single man losing his temper, in spite of the heavy blows and cuffs which were exchanged with great vigour before closing with each other. While discussing the afternoon's amusement, we walked to the bund in the twilight, and a twelve-oared cutter soon took us on board in time for dinner. Next morning at daylight we were under weigh for Hong-kong.

[SHAMROCK LEAVES.]

A WAKE.

Tim Scanlan, while he lived, was only a labouring man; but he was well liked in the country; and it was expected that his funeral would be an unusually large gathering. Crowds flocked to the wake, and a great provision of tea, whisky, pipes, and tobacco had been made. The widow occupied her post of honour at the head of the coffin, and displayed a fair show of grief, joining in with vociferous weeping whenever the 'keening' was led by the older women. She was young enough to have been the dead man's daughter, having come to his house a 'slip' of a servant-girl, whom he had married and ruled over very masterfully.

As the night wore on, the whisky began to tell on those outside the room where the corpse lay. The noise increased, and soon apparently became loud enough to 'wake the dead,' as the saying is; for to the consternation and amazement of every one present, the defunct, after a deep sigh and sundry groans, opened his eyes and struggled up into a sitting posture. When the startled company had recovered from the shock, poor Tim was lifted out of the coffin; whisky was liberally poured down his throat; and well wrapped up in blankets and seated in the big chair by the fire, he gradually revived from the trance or stupor that had been mistaken for death. The last of the guests had departed from the cabin, and Tim, still propped up before the fire, was left to the care of his wife. Instead of coming near him however, she slunk off, cringing timidly away into a dark corner behind his chair, whence she directed frightened glances at her resuscitated spouse.

'Mary!' said the man in a stern voice.

No answer.

'Are you there?' peering round, his face quivering with anger and weakness.

'Yis, Tim, I'm here,' faltered Mary, without stirring.

'Bring me my stick.'

'Ah, no, Tim; no! Sure you never rose yer hand to me yet! And 'tisn't now, when you're all as one as come back from the dead, that'——

'Bring me my stick.'

The stick was brought, and down on her knees beside the big chair flopped the cowering wife.

'Well you know what you desarve. Well you know, you young thief o' the world! that if I was to take and beat you this blessed minute as black as a mourning-coach, 'twould be only sarving you right, after the mean, dirthy, shameful turn you've done me!'

'It would, it would!' sobbed the girl.

'Look here!' gasped Tim, opening his breast and shewing an old tattered shirt. 'Look at them rags! Look at what you dressed up my poor corpse in; shaming me before all the decent neighbours at the wake! An' you knowing as well as I did about the elegant brand-new shirt I'd bought o' purpose for my berrin; a shirt I wouldn't have put on my living back—no, not if I had gone naked in my skin! You knew I had it there in the chest laid up; and you grudged it to my unfortunate carcase when I couldn't spake up for myself!'

'O Tim, darlin', forgive me!' cried Mary. 'Forgive me this once, and on my two knees I promise never, never to do the likes again! I don't know what came over me at all. Sure, I think, the divil—Lord save us!—must have been at my elbow when I went to get out the shirt; tempting me, and whispering that it was a pity and a sin to put good linen like that into the clay. Oh, how could I do it at all?'

'Now, hearken to me, Mary;' and Tim raised the stick and laid it on her shoulder. She knew he wouldn't beat her even if he could with his trembling hands; but she pretended to wince and cower away. 'Mind what I say. As sure as you do me the like turn again, and go for to dress me in those undacent rags, I tell you what I'll do—I'll walk.'

'O don't, Tim, don't!' shrieked Mary, as pale as ashes. 'Murther me now, if it's plazing to you, or do anything to me you like; but for the love of the blessed Vargin and all the Saints, keep in yer grave! I'll put the new shirt on you; my two hands 'll starch it and make it up as white as snow, after lying by so long in the old chest. Yer corpse will look lovely, niver fear! And I'll give you the grandest wake that iver man had, even if I had to sell the pig, and part with every stick in the cabin to buy the tay and the whisky. I swear to you I will, darlin'. There's my hand on it, this blessed night!'

'Well, mind you do, or 'twill be worse for you. And now give me a drop of wather to drink, and put a taste of sperrits through it; for I'm like to faint with thirst and with weakness.'

Mary kept her promise; for such a wake was never remembered as Tim Scanlan's, when, soon after, the poor man really did depart this life. And the 'get up' of the 'elegant brand-new shirt' in which the corpse was arrayed, was the admiration of all beholders.

[CARRIER-PIGEONS.]

The value of these birds as carriers of messages was interestingly demonstrated at the siege of Paris, as it used to be in the French war seventy years ago, before the invention of the electric telegraph. It now appears that carrier-pigeons may be employed with advantage in taking messages from boats engaged in the Scottish herring-fisheries, when no species of telegraph is available. The following notice of the fact occurs in the Fishing Gazette:

'The experiment which was tried last year of employing carrier-pigeons for the purpose of bringing early intelligence each morning from the fishing-ground of the results of the night's labour, is again being resorted to this season, and with the most satisfactory results. One of the birds is taken out in each boat in the afternoon; and after the nets have been hauled on the following morning and the extent of the catch ascertained, the pigeon is despatched with a small piece of parchment tied round its neck, containing information as to the number of crans on board, the position of the boat, the direction of the wind, and the prospects of the return journey, &c. If there is not wind to take the boat back, or if it is blowing in an unfavourable direction, a request is made for a tug; and from the particulars given as to the bearings of the craft, she can be picked up easily by the steamer. The other advantages of the system are that, when the curers are apprised of the quantity of herrings they may expect, they can make preparations for expediting the delivering and curing of the fish. Most of the pigeons belong to Messrs Moir and Son, Aberdeen. When let off from the boats, the birds invariably circle three times round overhead, and then sweep away towards the land with great rapidity, generally flying at the rate of about a mile per minute. Two superior birds in Messrs Moir's possession have occasionally come a distance of twenty or twenty-five miles in as many minutes; and on Tuesday one of these pigeons came home sixteen miles in the same number of minutes. Another of Messrs Moir's pigeons flew on board the Heatherbell on Tuesday afternoon off the Girdleness, bearing a slip of paper containing the intelligence that the boat from which it had been despatched at 11.54 had a cargo of twenty-five barrels of herrings. The pigeons require very little training, and soon know where to land with their message. A cot has been fitted up on the roof of Messrs Moir's premises at the quay for the accommodation of the birds, and they invariably alight there on their return from sea.'

According to the London newspapers, there was lately an amusing experiment to test the flight of carrier-pigeons against the speed of a railway train. The following is the account given of this curious race, which took place on the 13th July: 'The race was from Dover to London between the continental mail express train and a carrier-pigeon conveying a document of an urgent nature from the French police. The pigeon, which was bred by Messrs Hartley and Sons of Woolwich, and "homed" when a few weeks old to a building in Cannon Street, City, was of the best breed of homing pigeons, known as "Belgian voyageurs." The bird was tossed through the railway carriage window by a French official as the train moved from the Admiralty Pier, the wind being west and the atmosphere hazy, but with the sun shining. For upwards of a minute the carrier-pigeon circled round to an altitude of about half a mile, and then sailed away towards London. By this time the train, which carried the European mails, and was timed not to stop between Dover and Cannon Street, had got up to full speed, and was proceeding at the rate of sixty miles an hour towards London. The odds at starting seemed against the bird; and the railway officials predicted that the little messenger would be beaten in the race. The pigeon, however, as soon as it ascertained its bearings, took the nearest homeward route in a direction midway between Maidstone and Sittingbourne, the distance "as the crow flies" between Dover and London being seventy miles, and by rail seventy-six and a half miles. When the continental mail express came into Cannon Street station, the bird had been home twenty minutes; having beaten Her Majesty's royal mail by a time allowance representing eighteen miles.'

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