CHAPTER IX.—TANGLED THREADS.

There is another listener to the song, and every word of it falls on his heart with intense meaning. It seems to him a lamenting wail of despair wrung out from aching hearts. The Admiral has returned from an official dinner-party, and when he reaches the drawing-room door, the duet is just begun. Rather surprised, and a good deal vexed at seeing Walter Reeves so soon installed as a familiar guest at Government House, he pauses, and the words of the song fall distinctly on his ear.

In bygone days, Captain Reeves was the only one amongst all Katie's admirers who really gave him uneasiness; and if truth must be confessed, he had often felt a pang of jealousy at the great attention Walter paid her, and by his unconcealed admiration of the young lady. He had made up his mind there was an end to all that now. His wife would henceforth be far removed from such influence; and when she and Walter should chance to meet, their acquaintanceship would be strictly ceremonious.

Yet now, they have taken up the old strain, and are already deploring in doleful song the hard fortune that has divided their lives. Sir Herbert has no idea of pretence or mere acting or of singing for effect. He is true to the 'heart's core' himself, and would not deign to seem other than he is. The words come to him with terrible meaning, and rouse him to sudden awakening. Has he spoiled their lives? While he would shield his wife from every rough wind and from all that could vex and annoy, has he only been driving her to despair? The guests are all so occupied that they do not notice the Admiral at the door, nor do they see him turn away with bowed head and a weight like an added ten years pressing on his heart.

Are Laura's words proving true? Has Katie only married him for wealth and position, while her heart has been given to Walter Reeves? Is she growing weary already, and pining in her gilded chains? Terrible thoughts these! They eat into his very soul, and crush him down as he has never been crushed before. He is only thankful no one sees the storm of agony that sweeps over him, while the merry music still goes on up-stairs.

Why did he not tell Katie then? She would have flown to his arms, and assured him, truthfully enough, that she has grown to love him better than any one else in the world. Pleasure-loving, thoughtless, she may be, but no thought of disloyalty to her husband has ever entered her heart. But the Admiral asks no question, gives no sign, only shrouds himself up with a proud man's reticence and reserve. Though deeply hurt and wounded, he goes on his way silently, and Katie never for a moment suspects that she is making him wretched.

The next morning Walter arrives, and all the others who are to take part in the entertainment arrive also; so the rooms are again crowded, and the rehearsal goes on with spirit. There is a sound of music and talk, of song and discussion. Peals of silvery laughter burst forth; snatches of various airs are heard; Major Dillon's voice loud and prompt; Liddy Delmere's, clear and ringing. All are excited; and Walter Reeves, from his experience on the subject, is voted by all, chief authority and general manager.

Nothing loath to bear the honour, he makes even the consequential Major play second-fiddle to him. He flirts with Liddy, while she purposely goes wrong, to be set right by him; and Katie smiles more than ever at the rapid friendship springing up between the two. It is on this scene of distracting confusion that Sir Herbert looks, as he returns home an hour earlier than usual. He glances gravely round on the busy groups, who are all talking and laughing together, and cannot understand what they are about in the broad daylight, turning the quiet matter-of-fact noonday into the revelry of night. His greeting to the guests is rather formal; there is a faint compression on his lips, a slight furrow on his brow, as he listens to the allusions and watches the proceedings. In fact the guests, his wife, and all seem to him to have gone a little out of their senses. At last the visitors decide it is time to depart, and they go off in high spirits, promising to meet again there in the evening.

Sir Herbert has all that morning been taking himself to task for his hard thoughts about Katie; but resolves to atone by paying her more devoted attention. What would he not do to win her back! No sacrifice can be too great, he thinks; so he begins by coming home an hour earlier than usual, only to find fresh annoyance and disappointment. When the guests are gone, he turns his grave inflexible face to Katie, and says: 'I came back early, my darling, on purpose to drive you to Belton Park.'

Lady Dillworth is gathering up the pen-and-ink sketches of costumes, glancing at each, and mentally considering what jewels she will use to adorn the highly ornamented stomacher of Lucy Ashton's blue dress, so she replies quickly: 'I'm sorry you fixed on this morning for a drive, Herbert, for I cannot possibly get away; I've no end of music to try over.'

'Perhaps there will be time in the afternoon then. Lady Ribson leaves Belton Park in a few days, and I promised to introduce you to her.'

'Does she return to Scotland?'

'Yes. Had she not been so old and feeble, she would have come here to call for you.'

'Oh, I am so sorry about it, Herbert; but every minute of to-day is portioned out: I've a hundred things to do.'

'Katie, I very much wish you to know Lady Ribson.'

'I know, I know; and I wish it also; but our meeting can't be to-day. Don't urge me, Herbert. This afternoon I'm to call at Madame Darcy's my dressmaker; she is to try to make some wonderful medieval robes for me.'

'Surely you are not thinking of having a fancy ball here?'

'No, no; only a charade party. But we are all to appear in apropos costume. There! that's the luncheon bell.—Liddy, are you ready?'

Miss Delmere has wandered off to the music-room, and has not heard the matrimonial conversation. She comes out radiant and gleeful, a smile on her lip, as she thinks of the pleasant morning she has passed, the pleasant evening still in prospect.

'Won't the charade party be nice, Sir Herbert? I wish you were to take a part in it.'

'Thank you, Miss Delmere; but my days of masquerading are over. Allow me to take you down to luncheon.'

He walks gravely down the broad stairs with the ladies. As far as the Admiral is concerned, the meal is a gloomy one. He eats but little himself, and joins but rarely in the conversation Liddy and his wife are keeping up. Sir Herbert does not like Miss Delmere. There is a mocking satirical manner about her, a tone of banter in her voice, an expression of raillery in her clear blue eyes, and a love of badinage in her thoughtless little heart, that he cannot understand. He can never distinguish whether she is in jest or earnest, and he is not the man to probe deeply into the character of one for whom he cares so little. He would fain see the friendship between Liddy and his wife die out; but with his morbid shrinking from interfering with his wife's plans or thwarting her wishes, he does not put his wish into words. When luncheon is over, Sir Herbert does not again allude to the proposed drive to Belton Park, and the subject appears to have passed from Katie's mind also, for when he goes out, she and Liddy decide about driving at once to Madame Darcy's.

After this, preparations for the charade party go on with great energy. Liddy is in her element, for Walter comes every day to consult and rehearse. The expensive dresses are ordered; invitations are sent out; the drop-scene is being painted by a local artist; and the erewhile solemn stately shades of Government House re-echo at all hours with unwonted strains of melody and mirth.

(To be continued.)

[A LEGEND OF 'THE FORTY-FIVE.']

The news of the expected landing of Prince Charles Edward Stuart in Scotland to attempt to recover the crown of his forefathers had reached a secluded glen, and many were the hopes and fears that animated the breasts of the Highlanders.

There dwelt in a small sheeling on the hill-side a young girl of eighteen, the only daughter of a Highlander. Her rare beauty and gentle manners had won her the admiration and approval of both young and old in the glen; many were the suitors that had sought young Flora's hand, and many were the sad hearts that had left the sheeling with the gentle yet firm refusal of the Highland lassie. Her companion from childhood had been young Donald of the clachan. The children had grown up together from their earliest years, had wandered among the bonnie heather braes, and sat beside each other in the primitive school of the glen, for years before either had known the meaning of the word love. On stormy days, when winds were high and the blinding snow-drift swept over the glen, young Donald would wrap the pretty child in his plaid, and though only two years her senior, seemed to consider himself the guardian of the mitherless bairn.

Thus years had passed away in all the innocent attachment of childhood. When the hours for play came, these children, instead of romping with the others in the school, would wander to some sunny brae and twine the purple heather in a necklet for the fair white neck of the little Flora, or to deck the blue bonnet of young Donald. Their natures seemed formed in the same mould—calm loving natures, cheerful and sunny, yet not impulsive, nor boisterous, nor cruel. Years had fled without a cloud to darken the sky of their young existence; Flora had fulfilled the promise of her childhood, and had grown in beauty both of person and mind. Hers was the same innocent and loving nature that had nestled in childhood beneath the plaid of the young Donald, who had now grown to manhood. A finer specimen of a young Highlander could not be seen; strength, agility, comeliness, and the proud bearing which is so native to the mountaineer, were his; but the artless confidence of childhood had been usurped by the deep strong power of love, and they met with more reserve as time went on.

Flora's father was proud of his only child, who so reminded him of her mother, his first and only love, that he had laid in the grave years ago. Proud of the admiration and respect that his child met with on all hands, he reasoned with himself that it was his duty as a father to endeavour to get his daughter to make a good match, which to his idea was a wealthy one. He had liked Donald, and encouraged him when they were children in the care he took of young Flora. But Donald was a shepherd, the only son of a widowed mother; and why should any foolish feeling on the part of Flora prevent her marrying some one of the well-to-do farmers who had sought her hand?

It was a winter's night; the fire was burning brightly on the hearth; and Donald, who had been spending the evening with them, had just left, when the first shadow came over young Flora's life. Her father spoke words which went like arrows to her heart, and brought tears to her glorious eyes. Donald was forbidden to come to the house again; and the name of a wealthy man whose suit she had rejected, but who had again asked her father for her hand, was pronounced with the sternness of parental authority to be the one he had selected for her future husband.

Flora loved her father, and at first only gazed at him with a look of incredulity; but the words were repeated, harsher and more stern than formerly. The tears were gone; there was an expression in Flora's eyes, not of anger, but it spoke volumes. She rose, kissed her father's forehead, and left the room.

Long hours passed ere sleep closed the tear-dimmed eyes of young Flora. Her love, her duty to her father on one side; her deep, pure, and virgin love for young Donald on the other: hard fate to have to choose between. But the conflict was over; her decision was made. She had been truthful as the sun from childhood; and without thinking of it perhaps, her father had asked her to swear a lie at the altar of God, in pronouncing the marriage vows to a man whom she did not even respect, when her heart, her life, her love, were given to young Donald. It could not be.

'What am I to say to Errick of the Bracken Braes, Flora?' said her father, in his most winning way, the following morning.

'Tell him, I hae nae heart to gie him, and that my heart and my hand gang thegither,' was the reply.

The Highlander swore an oath, and muttering he would have his own way, left the sheeling.

Next day was Sunday, and Donald and Flora met at the little chapel in the glen. He observed that his lassie looked sad, and was even more reserved than usual. 'Meet me at the Eagles' Cairn to-morrow, Donald, when I gang to milk the goats; ye ken the hour;' and with a smile she passed on.

At the Eagles' Cairn young Flora told her lover the stern decree her father had made. 'So ye mustna be coming again, Donald,' she said, struggling in vain to hide her emotion.

At the Eagles' Cairn there was a tableau: the distant mountains, the murmuring burn, the goats grouped around, and the collie dogs reposing amongst the heather; in the centre a youth and a maiden, his arm round her waist, her head resting on his breast. The first kiss of love had been given; their troth was plighted, and the fire-god shone on the scene.

The standard of the Stuarts had been raised, and the clans were marshalling to strike the most chivalrous blow that was ever struck on behalf of a fallen dynasty. Every sheeling was sending forth its men capable of bearing arms; and with heavy hearts, yet with all the pride of their race, the Highland wives, mothers, and sweethearts were placing the white cockade in the bonnets of their darlings. Sad was the heart of young Flora when Donald told her the news; she made his white cockade in secret, and gave it to him with a parting kiss at the Eagles' Cairn the night before that sad morning that saw all that was dear to her in this world, her father and lover, march down the glen.

Donald has asked Flora to take care of his mother, now that she would be left alone; and she had gone to live with the poor old widow, whose heart was nearly broken; but she shed not a tear as her handsome boy, arrayed in his tartan, marched away to fight for bonnie Prince Charlie.

Donald's Highland pride had felt bitterly the conduct of Flora's father, but for the sake of his heart's idol, he could not hate him. They fought side by side in the first battle at which the Highland army encountered the English forces. At a critical period of the fight, Donald beheld the stalwart form of Flora's father engaged in a hand-to-hand encounter with an English soldier; he had little doubt of the result of the contest, and the smoke that enveloped the scene hid them from his sight; as it for a moment cleared away, he saw the brave Highlander hard pressed by three of the enemy, and he rushed to his assistance. Ere he reached the scene of conflict, two of the English soldiers were lying on the ground; but in giving the blow that felled the second, the brave Highlander had lost his footing; and before he could recover himself, the third closed with him and had him down. With a wild Highland yell, Donald sprang forward like a tiger, and buried his dirk between the shoulders of the English soldier, as he was in the act of using the prostrate Highlander's dirk, while he firmly grasped his throat with the right hand. It was the work of a moment to hurl the dead soldier off the Highlander; and Flora's father sprang to his feet, to recognise in the boy he had so harshly treated, the saviour of his life. 'Donald!' he exclaimed; but the brave boy had not waited for thanks, but hurried on to join his clan, in pursuit of the now routed and disorganised English army.

Time passed on, and Highland pride on both sides had maintained the coldness that existed between the two Highlanders. It was a lovely morning when the two armies were again drawn up in order of battle, eager for the coming fray; the wild slogan of the bagpipe, the waving plumes, and flowing tartans on the one side, and the serried ranks and scarlet uniforms of the English army on the other. Its tale has oft been told. The fight was over; the impetuous charge of the Highlanders had carried everything before it, and the English army was in full retreat.

Beside a rude couch sat young Donald, who with the exception of a sabre-cut on the shoulder, had come scathless through that day of battle and victory. Not so Flora's father; he lay mortally wounded, his handsome features pale, and his broad chest heaving. He had clasped the boy's hand in his own, and spoke with difficulty: 'Donald, forgive me,' he exclaimed. 'I am wearing away: never shall I see the bonnie glen and the sheeling, or clasp again to my breast my ain dear lassie. Tell her that my dying words were seeking forgiveness from her, from you. Tell her that in health and strength, I thought mair o' riches than her happiness. God forgive me! Tell her that you saved my life; I, the wretch that would have wrecked both your young lives for gold; I that was so harsh with you. O Donald! tell her you gladdened the dying moments of her father, and that he gave her to you, with a dying man's blessing, as freely as she gave herself.' Here a spasm convulsed his paleness, and he ceased from exhaustion. Donald sat with tear-dimmed eyes; his heart was full, and his thoughts were far away.

The dying Highlander's lips moved; his voice for a moment regained its old tone: 'Tell them in the glen that Alister died the proudest death a Highlander can die—fighting for his chief, his Prince, and Scotland.' A slight tremor over his frame, and the brave heart had ceased for ever.

We will not trace the varying fortunes of the Highland army; the sun of Culloden had set in disaster, the Prince was a wanderer, the clans routed and dispersed.

A young Highlander, pale and haggard, with his arm in a sling, was resting on a bed in the clachan; an old woman counting her beads, and a young and beautiful girl, were the only inmates of the room. The sad tale of death and defeat had been told. 'Yes, Flora,' said young Donald (for he it was); 'he gied ye to me on his death-bed. Will ye still hae me?' Young Flora's lips pressed those of the wounded soldier in reply. And Donald and Flora parted no more, till Death called one away; but the parting was not for long—within three days Death called the other. Stalwart lads and bonnie lasses laid their parents beneath the old rowan-tree in the glen, full of years, and mourned by the country-side.

[THE MONTH:]
SCIENCE AND ARTS.

The usual holiday quiet has been animated by news of the discovery that the planet Mars has two moons—that a star in the constellation Cygnus is changing into a nebula—that Mr Stanley has made his way down the Congo to the sea—that Sir William Thomson has invented a chemical indicator which when attached to a sounding-line will tell the depth without stopping the ship, and that the ancient obelisk which has been talked about from the beginning of the present century, is at last on its way from Egypt to England. And now the quiet time is over; for colleges, schools, and hospitals have begun their scientific lectures; the learned Societies are resuming their evening meetings and discussions; the Royal Society have given notice that applications for aid from the funds for promotion of science voted by parliament must be sent in before December 31; and soon the men of philosophy and science will be as busy as the men whose talk is of merchandise.

Planetary satellites are a characteristic of our solar system, and now that the able astronomers at Washington have shewn that Mars has two moons, that mythological deity ceases to be exceptional. Neither in rate of motion nor in distance from the planet is there agreement between the two; for we are informed by Mr Christie of the Greenwich Observatory, that 'the outer satellite revolves once in less than a day and a quarter, and the inner three and a quarter times in one day. The phenomena,' he continues, 'presented to an inhabitant of Mars must be very remarkable, for the outer satellite will remain above the horizon for two and a half days and nights, and the inner will rise in the west and set in the east twice in the course of the night. The lunar method of determining longitudes must be singularly easy with such a rapidly moving satellite, which is equivalent to the addition of a minute-hand to the celestial clock, which in our case has to be read by the hour-hand alone.'

Mr Christie tells us further that the two moons have been seen by observers at Greenwich, Paris, and other places; and he remarks, that if they 'have been in existence for ages, it seems strange they have not been discovered before, especially at the opposition of 1862, when Mars approached the earth as closely as this year; but it is naturally much easier to see an object that has once been found than to discover it independently. The satellites must be much smaller than any of the minor planets hitherto discovered. Can Mars have picked up a couple of very large meteorites, which have approached him closely?'

Leaving this question to the experts, we add, in passing from the subject, that the orbital velocity of one of the moons is seventy-nine miles a minute; of the other, fifty miles; and that their discovery has enabled astronomers to determine the mass of Mars, and thus settle what has been to them an important and long-standing problem.

As a reverse to this astronomical triumph, we have to record the death of Le Verrier, an astronomer pre-eminent among the astronomers of the century, with such insight and such capacity for work as have rarely been equalled. He will be known through coming ages by his theory of the motions of the planets, and the tables founded thereon; for provided with these, astronomers all over the world are enabled to carry on their work with an accuracy hitherto unapproachable, and to widen its application. France has lost one of her greatest sons, and Science one of her most distinguished elaborators; but he lives in his works, and through them will continue to guide and instruct the mariner, the astronomer, and the physicist.

Mr Stanley's exploit in turn settles an interesting geographical question, for embarking on the Lualaba, he followed that river down to the Congo, and the Congo down to the sea. Thus the drainage of the lake-region of Central Africa finds its way into the Atlantic. The voyage proved fatal to some of the party through conflict with hostile natives, and accidents among the cataracts, which on the equator impede navigation for a distance of thirteen miles. The river is described as from two to ten miles wide: it drains an area of one million four hundred thousand square miles; and now with the Congo and the Nile, Africa may claim two of the largest rivers in the world.

It often happens in dark weather that the position of a ship can be ascertained only by sounding; and when near the land, the soundings should be frequent if danger is to be avoided. But as the depth cannot be accurately measured without bringing the ship to a stand-still, the seaman is apt to prefer risk to loss of time; and the consequence is at times—a wreck. Sir William Thomson, to whom navigation is indebted for an important improvement in sounding apparatus, has recently proved by experiment that by adding thereto a chemical appliance the sounding may be taken while the ship is in motion. This appliance consists of a copper tube, attached to the lower end of the sounding wire, and inclosing a slender glass tube, and a small quantity of sulphate of iron. As the tube descends, the pressure of the water forces the sulphate into the glass tube: it leaves a stain on the glass; and according to the height of the stain, as indicated on a scale, such is the depth of the water. We are informed that this ingenious instrument has been tried on board the Minotaur with satisfactory proof of its 'absolute accuracy and extreme handiness.'

H.M.S. Téméraire is appropriately named, for she is big enough and heavy enough to do battle with any antagonist that may venture to face her in the Mediterranean, whither she is bound. The engines are 7697 horse-power. No wonder that the mighty vessel when under way pushes up a ten-foot wave at her bow! The diameter of the principal cylinders is seventy inches; of the crank shaft, twenty-two inches; from which an idea may be formed of the bulk of the ponderous mass. To reduce the weight as much as possible, wrought-iron and brass are largely used in the construction of the engines and fittings, in place of cast-iron, so that in the condensers there are more than eleven thousand brass tubes, which make up a cooling surface of fourteen thousand square feet. To assist the movements and facilitate the working of this giant among war-ships, there are on board thirty-four small engines, thus distributed: two turning, two starting, four feed, two circulating, four fan, two bilge, one capstan, one steering, four pumping, four ashes lifters, two hydraulic gear workers, one torpedo reservoir charger, one to work the electric machine which feeds the lights on the bridge, and four others. In all this there seems something of complication; but we may hope that everything will work well even in the worst of weather, so that the ship may justify her name and the merits of her builders.

The Iron and Steel Institute held their annual meeting at Newcastle-on-Tyne, where, and in the neighbourhood, the manufactures and other mechanical operations abound in which the members take most interest. That these are mines, coking furnaces, brick-works, iron-works, and foundries, may easily be imagined. One of the papers read shewed that cast-steel could be produced without compression, and as readily as cast-iron; which if confirmed by further experiment, will prove of great value in the manufacture of heavy cannon.

In a visit to Sir William Armstrong's works at Elswick, the members saw the welding of coils for guns under the great steam-hammer, which weighs thirty tons, and falls upon an anvil of one hundred and twenty tons, with a stroke of twelve feet six inches; and yet so perfect is the hydraulic moving machinery, that it can be easily worked by one man. The four cranes too by which the ponderous masses of red-hot metal are lifted, are 'under the command of one man, who can sling them right and left, or move the load up or down just as he pleases without moving from his post.' Another example of what can be done by water was shewn at the swing-bridge across the Tyne, which has four spans of about one hundred feet each. The portion which opens weighs fifteen hundred tons. 'The hydraulic machinery for actuating it, is contained in the hollow pier which forms the pivot on which it turns. The pier is surmounted by a watch-tower, in which are the levers for opening and shutting the bridge. It takes just one minute to swing the bridge from its closed position across the river to the open one in line with the stream.'

Mechanists have pointed out that water-engines use the same amount of water when merely driving themselves (which is next to doing nothing) as when exerting their entire power. If it be true that there should be a proportion between the amount of work and the quantity of water, this, as we are informed, is provided for by Hastie and Company of Greenock in an invention by means of which an automatic lengthening or shortening of the stroke of the engine takes place, in accordance with the work to be done. No sooner does the engine become, so to speak, aware of the demand on its power, than it immediately adapts itself thereto without external assistance.

To revert to the Institute: A description was given of the coking coal-field of South Durham; it is thirteen miles long by eleven miles wide, and assists in supplying the present demand for fourteen and a half million tons of coke yearly. At one of the collieries there used to be a waste of three hundred tons of coal every week; but now by means of improved coking ovens, and intercepting the waste heat, this loss is prevented. It is found too that the large deposits of inferior coal can be utilised, by crushing, washing, and then coking: a very important fact, for there is in all our coal-fields a large breadth of coal which has been hitherto rejected as worthless, but which will now be worked and converted into coke.

A paper was read which shews that ways are opening for the utilisation of slag: it is now converted into bricks, cement, mortar, concrete, glass, and cotton or wool. This wool is an excellent material for covering boilers and pipes to prevent waste of heat. Four million bricks have been made, which looks promising.

The Journal of the Institute contains descriptions of machinery with which we may fitly supplement the foregoing: At Smethwick near Birmingham, there is a screw-factory which, with its clever mechanical contrivances, is something to wonder at. All the sizes of screws used in carpentry and cabinet-making are made of iron wire chopped into lengths, and shaped in a series of self-acting machines. A blow on one end forms a head, which is speedily turned true in a revolving chuck, the nick is cut by a small circular saw, a revolving jaw then seizes the head, and the 'worm' or screw is turned in a twinkling; and in this way half a million screws an hour are produced. This seems almost incredible; but the screwing-shed alone covers nearly an acre and a half, and contains two thousand machines. These being self-acting, five or six can be kept going by one woman.

Another example from the same source shews the application of machinery to soft goods and tailoring: At a wholesale clothing establishment in Leeds, more than a thousand hands and three hundred sewing-machines are employed. The cutting-out is done by means of knife-machines driven by steam, which cut through thirty-five layers of thick or a hundred and twenty layers of thin cloth at once, the pattern being marked on the topmost piece. The pile, as is stated, is manipulated around the knife-blade, just as a block of wood is moved when being cut by a band-saw. Pressing-machines heated by gas are used in place of the old tailor's goose, and as they are worked by a treadle, the workman's hands are at liberty to guide the heated iron over the seams.

As our readers know, experiments with continuous brakes for railway trains have been made in England and America. We now learn from a published Report that similar experiments have been made in Germany, and that generally preference is given to the Westinghouse brake. All other things being equal, that must be the best brake which will stop a train within the shortest distance, and that this is done by the Westinghouse appears to be clearly established. This brake has been adopted for the state railways by the Belgian government; and that the question should be settled without delay is regarded as essential in all the countries where it has been tried. The Board of Trade in a recent Report take an unusually decided tone on this point. As the Times remarks: 'They not only constantly refer to continuous brakes as the great railway want of the day, but they also lay down, for the first time, the qualities which a continuous brake ought to possess. The chief of these are instantaneous action when applied either by driver or guard, automatic action, regular use in daily work, and uniformity upon different lines, so that when vehicles from one line are connected with the trains of another the same brake-power may be available for both.' We are further informed that the Board have sent a circular to the railway companies with intimation that the sooner the requirements implied in the foregoing description are put into practice the better will it be for all concerned. There is common-sense in this: it will be read with satisfaction by all who travel by railway.

Social Science this year ventured into a high latitude, and held its Congress at Aberdeen, where the usual endeavours were made to promote health, wealth, and morality, which includes law. A paper read by Mr Caird on 'Economy and Trade,' chiefly as regards agriculture, will comfort those timid folk who are always looking for that troublous time when all our foreign supply of 'bread-stuffs' shall be cut off. 'We grow at present,' he said, 'nearly one million acres less wheat than we did twenty years ago. We have only to revert to the acreage of 1856 to meet such a deficiency as would be caused by all Europe being shut against us. And beyond that, we possess in our immense breadth of pasture-land a never-failing resource of stored-up agricultural power, which could be at once applied to the production of corn, if from any circumstance that course became at the same time necessary and profitable.'

Mr Edwin Chadwick, a veteran among sanitary reformers, read papers on Cleanliness and Health and on 'House Accommodation,' which deserve wide diffusion and careful consideration. But it may be said of these, as well as of many other topics brought forward for discussion, that 'it is better to be in possession of a few important principles than a host of facts; then reflection and reason have elbow-room, and are not hampered and brought to a dead-lock, by cramming a disorganised mass of knowledge into the brain.'

Mr H. C. Russell, government astronomer for New South Wales, has published a descriptive, historical, and tabular account of the climate of that colony in an octavo volume of more than two hundred pages, with a map and diagrams. Although the colony is not yet a hundred years old, Mr Russell has been unable to fill up the gaps which unfortunately exist in the record of its winds and weather; but his book is interesting and valuable nevertheless. He discusses the whole range of meteorological phenomena; he tells us about the hot winds and where they come from; about thunder and hail-storms; about lakes, floods, and tides; about droughts; about the rains, and why they vary; and about the great swarms of moths which at times come in clouds and infest miles of country. In his description of the physical characteristics of New South Wales, he gives particulars which will be quite new and perhaps surprising to many readers. 'Within the colony,' he says, 'may be found all climates, from the cold of Kiandra, where the thermometer sometimes falls eight degrees below zero, and frost and snow hold everything in wintry bonds for months at a stretch, and where upwards of eight feet of snow sometimes falls in a single month, to the more than tropical heat and extreme dryness of our inland plains, where frost is never seen, and the thermometer in summer often for days together reads from one hundred to one hundred and sixteen degrees, and sometimes in hot winds reaches one hundred and thirty degrees, and where the average annual rainfall is only twelve to thirteen inches, and sometimes nil for a whole year.' Clearly there is more scope than was thought for settlers who like 'bracing weather.' In discussing the observations, Mr Russell is of opinion that a periodicity, or a tendency to cycles of phenomena, is discoverable.

How to prevent famine, will be for some time to come a very serious question in India; and while charity seeks to palliate the misery, science is trying to discover the laws of the rainfall, and to devise means of storing large supplies of water against seasons of drought. Examples are not wanting. More than a thousand years ago one of the kings of Ceylon erected a tank, Kanthalai, on a scale so enormous, that were it to be built now it would cost a million sterling. This tank is to be repaired and made available for irrigation. In another district the tank of Kalowewa was twelve miles long and thirty miles in circumference, inclosed by embankments sixty feet in height, and was kept full by two rivers which flowed into it from the hills. In the district of Manaar the Giant's tank offers a further resource, and makes us aware of the pains taken by the natives to secure a sufficient water-supply in former ages. If India has not tanks enough for her wants, they must be built, for periodical famines are an opprobrium to Christian civilisation.

As regards Ceylon, we learn from an address delivered by Sir W. H. Gregory, the governor, that great improvements have been made in that fertile island: jungle and swamp have been converted into rice-fields or lakes: in Kandy there is a constant water-supply: fountains are set up in the villages: laws are in force for preservation of the forests, of the deer, buffalo, and elephant: the pearl-oyster, after some years' disappearance, has returned to the shores: a breakwater is in course of building which will convert the open roadstead of Colombo into a safe harbour, accessible to large ships at all seasons, and it is thought that in time Ceylon will become the great free port of the East.

Pitury is a stimulant said to be of marvellous power, and known to be used by the aborigines of Central Australia; but its origin has hitherto remained undiscovered. Last February, however, after vainly endeavouring for many years to obtain a specimen of the plant, Baron Ferdinand von Müller, Director of the Botanical Gardens at Melbourne, succeeded in getting some leaves; and after careful microscopic examination, he has shewn that they are derived from the Duboisia Hopwoodii, which he described in 1861. This bush extends from the Darling River and Barcoo to West Australia, through desert scrubs, but is of exceedingly sparse occurrence anywhere. In fixing the origin of the pitury, a wide field for further inquiry is opened up, inasmuch as a second species of Duboisia, extends in the forest-lands from the neighbourhood of Sydney to near Cape York, and has also been traced in New Caledonia, and more recently in New Guinea. In all probability the latter shares the properties of the former, as Baron von Müller finds that they both have the same burning acrid taste. The natives of Central Australia chew the leaves of the pitury, just as the Peruvians and Chilians masticate those of the coca, to invigorate themselves during their long foot-journeys through the deserts. Baron von Müller is not certain whether the aborigines of all districts in which the pitury grows are really aware of its stimulating power; but those living near the Barcoo travel many days' journey to obtain this, to them, precious foliage, which they always carry about with them, broken into small fragments and tied up in little bags. The blacks use the pitury to excite their courage in warfare, and a large dose has the effect of infuriating them. It is by no means improbable that experiments may shew that by this discovery a new and perhaps important medicinal plant has been gained.

[A STRANGE PAIR.]

About half-way between Martinsville and Liberty Corner, Pennsylvania, hidden from inquisitive eyes by tall trees and dense-growing shrubs, stands a neatly built house of ancient date; the home of a pair of lovers of a quiet life, who, the world forgetting, by the world forgot, have dwelt there in a semi-hermit way for nigh upon forty years.

Samuel and Joseph Pooley, brothers in mind as well as in blood, claim kindred on their mother's side with one of England's wealthiest nobles, and boast direct descent paternally from a follower of the Norman, who settled in Kent. In 1828 they set up in business together in New York; and in the same year Samuel, the elder of the two, coming over to England, fell in love with a beautiful girl, and wooed and won her; at least it was settled that she should become Mrs Pooley so soon as the success of the New York establishment was assured. A second visit to the old country in 1834 proved less happy in result. Samuel was not prepared to take a bride home with him; and tired of living upon hope deferred, the lady declared off; and not very long afterwards put the renewal of the engagement beyond possibility by marrying a readier suitor.

From that time Samuel Pooley became another man. The brisk man of business, the ardent politician, the lively companion, lost all liking for society, politics, and trade. His brother sympathised with his altered mood; and when, a few years later, a legacy fell to them, they resolved to retire far from the busy city and its restless crowd, and live as men whom man delighted not, nor women either.

Four thousand dollars made the Pennsylvanian homestead and its hundred and five acres their own; and there they have abided ever since, never, except when necessity compelled, finding their way even so far as the neighbouring village. Twenty years ago a sister-in-law spent a day or two at the farm; but from that time to this no woman's foot has crossed its threshold. A New York reporter describes Joseph Pooley as a ruddy-complexioned merry man, with large round wide-open eyes, a long pointed white beard, and snow-white locks bristling up nearly three inches from his scalp. Samuel, better known as 'the Squire,' is seventy-three years old—two years older than his brother, and not so stoutly built. He sports a short tuft of iron-gray beard, jutting out abruptly between his chin and throat.

As the inquisitive caller came upon the pair enjoying the cool evening air in the garden, the raggedness of their raiment struck him as something simply perfect. Joseph was arrayed in a woollen shirt (or rather enough of one to suggest what it once had been), a considerable portion of a jacket, and a very fair representation of the leading features of a pair of pantaloons; a pair of stout shoes and a gray felt hat of no particular shape completing his costume. As to the Squire's outfit, the facilities for ventilation were even greater than those enjoyed by his brother. His skin gleamed through innumerable rips and rents, to the great convenience of the mosquitoes, which he did not seem to notice; and his black felt hat was a more antique effort of the hatter's art than the gray one decking Joseph's head.

'It is unjust to say of them,' writes the note-taking visitor, 'as some do say, that they have not washed their faces or hands for ten years; they wash themselves when they feel like doing it. But seeing them, one would not find it difficult to believe that they had not felt like it for five years. At all events, this does not seem to be their year for ablutions.'

The consumption of water at the hermitage is not calculated to cause a scarcity of that article. 'On the table were standing a number of dishes of coarse yellow and blue and white delf, which had evidently just been used for supper. They always stand there, and they always have evidently just been used. Dish-washing is looked upon as a superfluous frivolity and waste of exertion. If perchance a sudden freak takes one of the hermits, just as he is sitting down to eat, that he would like to put on a little extra style, he wipes his plate with a bunch of grass or a piece of paper. But they are men of settled habits and seldom have freaks.' These Pennsylvanian disciples of Zimmerman would be at home among the dirt-loving Eastern Christians, whose domestic arrangements lately wrung from a special correspondent the declaration, that he would rather dine off a Turkish floor than a Bulgarian plate.

Like recluses in general, the Pooleys seem to be physically none the worse for contemning cleanliness, being troubled with fewer infirmities than most men at their time of life; while, unlike the common run of solitarians, they have kept their mental faculties in working order by the constant use of a first-rate collection of books, their library counting up eight hundred volumes. Neither miserly by nature, nor compelled to be so by poverty, they are by no means anchorites; and if they do go raggedly clad, it is not from economical motives, but because they are comfortable in their tatters, and have no reason to study appearances, since those who know them care not how they are dressed; and for the opinion of those who do not know them they care nothing.

Said Joseph to the New Yorker: 'It may seem strange to you that we should exile ourselves in this way from the life of the big town, after such a busy life as ours used to be; but I assure you we see enough of life to content us here. The life of the birds, the bees, the waving branches over our heads, the flowers blooming about us, and the grass beneath our feet—all these fill our hearts with a quiet content; and here we are truly happy.' It is something to know that two men in the world have succeeded in attaining this degree of contentment, though not quite to be generally admired.

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