CHAPTER XIII.—CONFESSION.

The storm has spent itself before the next morning. Katie can see that, as she listlessly looks out of the bay-window of the breakfast-room. One would hardly suppose the treacherous gale had been holding such wild revels the night before. The tossing waves that had leaped with frothy crests over the serrated rocks of the Short Reefs, are placid enough now—dancing perhaps over those who went down a few hours before into the cruel depths. Lady Dillworth has a headache; she listens calmly to Liddy, who blushing and blooming, pours forth her rose-coloured confidences, and swallows her coffee between whiles. Hunter is helping the groom to carry her boxes down-stairs; and Miss Delmere, with only a few minutes to spare, is selfish in the exuberance of her joy, and cannot see the dark circles round Katie's sleepless eyes nor note the deep sadness of her looks. At length she goes away, and the Admiral enters the room.

'You are just in time, Herbert; Hunter has brought up some fresh coffee.'

'None for me, thank you. I knew you would be engaged with Miss Delmere; and as I had papers to examine, I had my breakfast brought to the library.'

'Liddy is gone away now.'

'Yes; I met her in the hall, and saw her into the carriage. I've brought you the newspaper, Katie; you will see the wreck of the unfortunate ship I told you of yesterday.'

'The Daring! Is she wrecked?' Katie takes the paper into her trembling hands, but cannot read a word for the throbbing of her brows and the dizziness of her eyes.

Her husband goes on: 'Yes; she went to pieces in the gale, and every soul on board would have gone down with her had not a merchant-ship passed by the merest chance. Twenty-three men are lost. At least they went away in the Daring's large cutter; but no boat could have lived out the storm.'

'How dreadful!' Katie starts at the sound of her own voice, it is so deep and hoarse.

'Dreadful indeed! What makes the matter worse is, that in all human probability every man might have been saved and the ship also, had not an atrociously wrong act been perpetrated.'

Katie hears a rustle of paper; she knows by instinct what is coming, but she dares not lift her head.

The Admiral goes on in an agitated tone: 'Some one has tampered with my papers, has even dared to meddle with my orders. I directed the Leo to be sent out at once to the scene of the wreck; but from malignity or some other motive, the name Leoni was substituted.'

'Wouldn't that ship do as well, Herbert?'

'Certainly not. She would never reach the Short Reefs in such a gale. I fully suspect she's foundered at sea or gone on the rocks herself. I'll find out who did it! If I thought Reeves, or any one else at his instigation, had been guilty, I'd, I'd'——

There is no saying how the sentence might have ended. Katie has risen from her seat, and stands before her husband trembling.

'I did it, Herbert! I altered your order!'

'You, Katie!—you, my wife!'

'Yes; but I never thought my silly act would lead to such misfortune.'

'What was your motive, Kate? Surely you could not have wished to injure me? To set me up as a mark of inefficiency and ridicule?'

'O no; a thousand times no. But Captain Reeves was helping me to get up our charade, and I altered the ship's name that he might not have to go away.' Here Lady Dillworth's voice fails her. She cannot utter another word, so choked and gasping is her breath; the bare blank sentence remains as it was: 'I altered the ship's name that he might not have to go away.'

The Admiral does not reply. There is a stillness in the room as though some one had died there. A burst of passion, an angry storm of words would be a relief; and Katie glances up in alarm to see her husband looking down sadly at her. He is pale as death; his lips are set and firm; a dim haze has clouded his eyes, as though unshed tears are springing there; but there is no sign of resentment in his face—only pity, a tender, touching, tremulous pity, an infinite yearning for something gone, a regret, sorrowful and deep! Yet all so mixed with intense love, that Katie knows for the first time in her life what passionate boundless strength there is in his affection for her. A sudden understanding of how dear she is to him dawns upon her; she feels he would give his very life for her.

Katie would have flown to his arms, and told him his love is fully returned, that at last she feels his worth and goodness; she would have fallen at his feet and there have craved for pardon; but he puts her gently yet firmly away.

'My poor, poor Katie! Have I then spoiled your young life? I might have suspected this; but I was blind and selfish. Forgive me, my poor child, forgive me! I would give worlds to restore you your freedom again!'

Ere Katie has fully grasped the meaning of his words, he has gone out of the room; she hears him walk rapidly down the stairs and out of the house. A sense of numbness creeps over her; she sits for a while like one stunned. How long she remains crouching on the sofa she never knows; a whole lifetime of anguish seems crushed into that space. All the brightness of youth appears to die out at her husband's departure; his retreating footstep sounds like a knell of departed hope.

After a time, Lady Dillworth rouses herself; even sorrow cannot endure for ever. She recollects it is near the hour for luncheon, and then Herbert will come home. She dresses herself in the robes she had on when he made her the offer of marriage. Why she has done this, she does not confess even to herself; but perhaps she imagines old associations may soften present misunderstandings. She goes down to the dining-room and waits. The table is laid for luncheon, and the bright fire glitters on the silver and glasses and flowers. All is so pleasant and cheerful and homelike! And even then a thrill of satisfaction comes over her that now Liddy Delmere is gone she will be able to devote all her time to her husband—have him all to herself. But the luncheon hour passes, and then the door opens and Hunter enters with a letter on a salver. The address is written in a rapid unsteady hand, as though the fingers trembled. She sees it is Sir Herbert's writing, and tears open the envelope with a sense of impending trouble, that blanches her cheeks and chills her heart. The words run thus:

'No one shall ever know you did the mischief, my poor Katie; the blame shall rest on me alone, and I will bear it willingly for your sake. But my professional career is over; men will never again trust my judgment or deem me fit to command. I was proud of my standing in the service and of an untarnished reputation; but you have spoiled it all, merely to enjoy a short interval more of Walter Reeves's society. Why did you not tell me he was so dear to you? You should have said before we married I could never make you happy. Yet I will not blame you, my poor wife. My own selfish blindness has caused all this misery. Before this letter reaches you, I shall be on my way to London to resign my appointment.'

This was all! But the contents fell like a blow on her heart. Katie sits alone in that quiet room while the iron pierces her soul. The untasted luncheon stands on the table till the fire goes out and the shades of night gather round. Then Hunter knocks at the door in alarm, to know if 'my Lady' will have the things removed. Katie rouses herself to tell him that while his master is away she will henceforth have her meals laid in her boudoir, and that she will receive no visitors in Sir Herbert's absence.

Hunter sees her pallid face and tear-stained eyes, and draws his own conclusions, and thinks things 'never went on like that in the first Lady Dillworth's time, anyhow.'

[THE GUACHO.]

'Will you ride over with me to the neighbouring village?' asked my friend Senhor Pedro da Silva. 'There is a festa there to-day. And as you are a stranger in the country, you will see some feats of horsemanship quite as clever as can be shewn in the circus rings of old England.'

'With the greatest pleasure,' I replied. 'I have often heard of the wonderful horsemen called Guachos, and desire much to see if the accounts are really true.'

'I think you will not be disappointed. He and his horse are one; sometimes he acts as its tyrant, but more frequently they are friends. From infancy they have scoured over the immense Pampas of South America, frequently amidst violent storms of thunder, wind, and rain. His address and grace on horseback yield neither to your best fox-hunters nor to the American Indian. But here is Antonio with our steeds; let us mount.'

An hour's ride over the dull arid plains of Buenos Ayres, covered with the grass now so much cultivated in our gardens, and admired for its light leathery tufts waving in the wind, brought us to San Joachim, where the people were already collecting in their holiday attire, and exchanging friendly greetings on all sides. The gay striking dresses of the Guachos mingled in every group. The poncho or mantle of cloth, woven in bright coloured stripes, has a hole in the centre through which the head is passed, and falls down to the hips in graceful folds. The nether garment is a combination of bedgown and trousers, bordered by a fringe or even rich lace on these festa days, which varies from two to six inches deep according to the wealth of the wearer. Then to-day the great jack-boots of untanned leather are exchanged for the smartest patent leather, with bright scarlet tops, and enormous spurs at the heels. A wide-brimmed Spanish hat is worn, a purple or yellow handkerchief twisted round it; whilst the belt encircling the waist sparkles with the dollars sewn upon it—often the whole fortune of the owner. His weapons are attached to this girdle, consisting of a formidable knife, a lasso, and a bolas, which may not be so familiar to the English reader as the lasso. There are two balls fastened together by short leathern straps, to which another thong is attached, by which it is thrown; this is whirled violently round the head before propulsion, and entangles itself in the legs of the horse or cow to be captured.

But whilst we are gaily chatting to Senhor Pedro's many friends the games are beginning, and we hasten off to the ground. There we find two lines of mounted Guachos, from ten to twenty on each side, just so far apart as to allow a rider to pass between the ranks; all are on the alert and holding the lasso ready for use. One whom they call Massimo, an evident favourite with the crowd, comes tearing along at a gallop and dashes in between the lines. The first horseman in the ranks throws his lasso at Massimo's horse as he flashes past, but misses, amidst the derisive shouts of those around; then the second, quick as lightning casts his; and so on down the ranks. Presently, however, the horse is lassoed and brought to the ground; and the skilful rider alights uninjured on his feet, smoking his cigarette as coolly as when he started from the post. The dexterity and watchfulness of the men, who can throw the lasso so as to entangle the feet of a horse while going at full speed, are simply wonderful. Another and another followed with varying fortunes; sometimes the first struck down the horse and rider, rarely was it that one escaped altogether. The popularity of the famous chief Rosas was said to be founded on his proficiency in this adroit but cruel art, and no man can be their chief who is not the cleverest among them: renown on horseback is the one great virtue that exalts a man in their eyes; cruelty to their favourite animal does not seem to enter into their thoughts!

But at length they weary of this sport, and move off a little way to vary it with another. Now we seem to have moved back a few hundred years, and find a pastime of the middle ages still lingering among these descendants of the Spaniards, who doubtless introduced it into the New World. In those days it was called the game of the quintain. A pole was firmly planted in the ground, with a cross-bar, to which was hung the figure of a misbelieving Saracen, well armed and holding a large sword. The horseman tilted at full gallop against this puppet; and as it moved lightly on a pivot, unless it were well struck in the breast, it revolved, and the sword smote the assailant on the back amidst the laughter of the crowd. Here in the wild Pampas the trial of skill is greater. A kind of gibbet is erected, to which is hung a finger-ring by a string. The Guacho, instead of the spear of knightly days, holds a weapon more characteristic of his work in the saladero, where the cattle are killed and salted—namely, a skewer. One after another the Guachos gallop at full speed and try to push the skewer into the ring and carry it off. Antonio, Luis, and Melito succeeded admirably; but many a novice failed in the difficult task. Still it was a pretty sight, and enjoyed apparently by both horses and men.

Then came the inevitable horse-races, which are of almost daily occurrence, when associates challenge one another, and they strike off in a moment in a straight line until they disappear in the horizon. In this case, however, a wide straight avenue near the village was chosen for a short, rapid, and often renewed race; a pastime for the idle, and the occasion of ruinous bets. The riders were dressed with the greatest elegance; their horses well chosen from the corral, and covered with silver ornaments. The bridle is of the leather of a foal, finely plaited and mounted with silver; stirrup, bit, and spurs of the same metal. A glittering silver belt, sometimes of a flowery pattern, and of colossal proportions, hangs round the breast, and a silver strap across the forehead. The saddle is a wonderful piece of mechanism, forming the Guacho's 'bed by night and chest of drawers by day;' it is very heavy, and consists of ten parts; skins, carpets, and cow-hides intermingled with other necessaries. Off they go at last from the post, spurring and urging their steeds like modern centaurs, handling them in a manner well worthy of admiration, and with the most perfect elegance. When the winner came in, many a by-stander had lost all his possessions, so mad a race of gamblers are they. As a last resource, they pledge their horse, and expose themselves, if they lose, to the lowest of humiliations—that of going away on foot!

We turned at last towards home, leaving the roystering spirits to finish off their day at the pulperia. This it is which takes the place of the club, the café, the newsroom, and the home. A cottage, neither more simple nor more luxurious than any other to be found in the Pampas, covered with thatch; the walls of dried mud, or more frequently of rushes sparged with mud; the flooring being of trodden earth; into which the rain penetrates, the sun never enters, and where a hot damp air is the prevailing atmosphere. Before the door stands a row of strong posts, to which the horses of the guests are tied; the new-comer jumps off, and there leaves his steed, saddled and bridled, for many weary hours in the hot sun or pouring rain; whilst he, to use a native expression, 'satisfies his vices' in the pulperia. The door is open to all comers, and great outward politeness reigns within; there is a continual exchange of gallantries, to which the Spanish language easily lends itself; but reason soon loses its sway, and the strangest bets are offered and taken. Sometimes it is between two friends as to who shall first lose blood; when the whole company sally out, knives are drawn between the duellers, and a combat, often much more ridiculous than valiant, ensues!

The following morning, Senhor Pedro proposed that we should ride out and see the Guacho at work and in his home. 'You seem to have been interested in him yesterday,' he said, 'and he belongs to a type that is unique. Notwithstanding the hatred of the original inhabitants towards their invaders, the two races were mixed, and these unions produced the Guacho. Look at his tall figure, bony square face embrowned by the sun, and stiff black hair—there you see the Indian; whilst the Spaniard is in his proud haughty manner, in his vanity, and also in his great sobriety. He drinks water and eats his dried meat without bread, not from contempt for better food, but from a horror of work. To earn his daily food is not so much his aim as to get money to bet with. He will go into the saladero, where, knife in hand, he will kill, skin, and cut up the cattle for salting, and find enjoyment rather than labour in it. He easily gains in a few hours a wage that suffices; and as soon as it is paid, he jumps on his horse and rides off to the pulperia to gamble it away.'

Thus conversing, we reached a hut which could scarcely be surpassed in its misery. Placed alone in the middle of the plain, without any garden or cultivated ground, not a tree to cast a welcome shadow, or a hand to repair the dilapidated walls, it seemed formed to repulse rather than attract the owner. At our approach, the mother came out, surrounded by her children, her complexion approaching the mulatto, for the air of the Pampas quickly destroys the fineness of the skin. It is only in the capital, Buenos Ayres, that handsome Creole types are to be seen, where fine features of an Indian class surpass European beauty, even when the tint is olive. The wife, like the husband, hates work: her only occupation is to boil some water, pour it over maté or tea of Paraguay, and drink it through a metal tube. Her children, at the age of three or four, can sit on horseback and gallop over the plain with no other bridle than a cord passed through the horse's mouth. At six they watch the sheep, and at ten are ready to break in the most spirited colts. Only everything they do must be on horseback: they will neither use their arms nor legs.

'Good-morning, Senorita,' said my friend. 'Where shall we find your husband?'

'He is gone, Senhor, to break in some horses for Senhor Melisos; it is not far from here.'

'So much the better. We will ride on and see him at work.'

We reached the place; and the Guacho came out to meet us.

'Will you shew my friend your feat at the gate?' said Senhor Pedro.

'With the greatest pleasure,' answered the flattered Guacho. He jumped on to the top transverse bar which forms the gate of the corral, and calling to another man to open the lower ones and drive out a troop of horses at full gallop, he, with the most astonishing skill, singled one out with his eye, dropped down on to it, and rode off without saddle or bridle at the top of its speed. Soon returning, he proceeded to break a horse that had been previously caught in the plains. The Guacho threw two lassos, one over the neck, the other on the hind-legs. Several men hold the colt tightly whilst he saddles and passes a cord through the mouth of the animal; and when the first paroxysms of fear have passed, the tamer jumps on, and pressing his powerful knees into its sides, the lasso is withdrawn. The horse and rider then start on a furious course, from which they both return exhausted, in the midst of the vivats which resound from every side. All that is now required is for the breaker to ride ten or fifteen leagues, when he gives up the horse to the owner and receives his fee. They are never taught to trot, but have an easy movement; and a man has been known to ride two hundred miles a day without fatigue, and living only on dried meat and maté.

[THE GERM THEORY AGAIN.]

We have on several occasions alluded to the Germ theory, by which is meant the theory that invisible germs, capable of producing animalculæ and of spreading disease are constantly floating in the atmosphere—and that the more impure the air the greater are the number of these germs. We revert to the subject, because it is debated in all quarters, and it is as well that our readers should know something of what is causing so much controversy. Some surgeons distinguished as operators are great believers in the Germ theory; so much so, that before beginning, for instance, to cut off a leg, they cause a certain germ-killing liquid to shower like spray near the part operated on; by which, as is alleged, the wound is kept free of anything noxious. Whether there be germs or not, the use of disinfectants in the air is said to be beneficial. Notably the celebrated carbolic-acid plan of Professor Lister has met with marked success, and is practised by the greatest surgeons of our time. But though the air certainly contains something which favours decomposition, it is by no means yet proved that that something is made up of germs.

Professor Tyndall has been the principal advocate of the Germ theory, and has written some papers strongly in its favour. Professor Bastian takes an opposite opinion. He thinks that living organisms may originate in disease by spontaneous generation. His notions are that if germs are continually floating about in the air, they would drop everywhere and anywhere alike. This argument applies more forcibly to the fact which Dr Bastian discovered—namely, that he was able to get life in flasks containing inorganic solutions, but that he always failed if such solutions were not made up of salts containing oxygen, hydrogen, carbon, and nitrogen; that is to say, of the elements of life. If the organisms are really the result of a molecular arrangement of the 'mother-liquid,' we should expect to find them only in those fluids which already contain the elements necessary for their composition. Three speculations are involved in these experiments: on the one hand, that low forms of life do occasionally arise by spontaneous generation; on the other hand, either that the heat which is usually considered destructive of life and germinating power is in reality nothing of the kind; or that Dr Bastian's experiments were incorrectly performed.

Since the publication of Dr Bastian's observations, a very lively controversy has been carried on in scientific quarters between the supporters of the germ theory and of the theory of spontaneous generation. Dr Bastian's work was conducted with great care and in the presence of some distinguished authorities. Dr Sanderson, on the other hand, found that upon increasing the heat which is applied to the flasks, no organisms were produced; but until we have reason to doubt the generally received opinion as to the amount of heat necessary to destroy life, this result may be equally well explained according to either of the two theories.

Dr Bastian insists that the organic solutions in his own flasks are not found by him to undergo putrefaction where every precaution is taken for withholding the entrance of air. Thus a simple piece of cotton-wool, which acts as a kind of sieve, will when placed in the mouth of a flask prevent decomposition. Professor Tyndall has invented the most ingenious contrivances for illustrating his views. In one case he employed a chamber the walls of which were covered by a sticky substance. The particles of dust in the air were allowed to collect and adhere to the sides, and the air in the vessel, as shewn by its non-reflection of a beam of light, was rendered comparatively dustless. Flasks were now introduced, and they remained for a long period free from organisms. On repeating some of these experiments this year, however, Professor Tyndall found that many of the infusions which had previously been preserved from putrefaction with ease, were now found, when placed under the same conditions, to swarm with life. Still he refused to believe in 'spontaneous generation,' and preferred to consider that the production of life in his flasks was due to some fault in his experiments, and that the air of the Royal Institution was not so pure this year as it was last. Instead, therefore, of introducing his fluids by means of an open pipette, as he had previously done, he now made use of a 'separating funnel,' and by this means the fluids found their way into the flasks without exposure to the air. The result of these precautions was that no organisms appeared. The objection, however, that we have to find is, that no guarantee can be given that will enable us to ascertain whether the air is really free from particles of organic matter or not. Last year the air was considered to be pure because moteless; but this year, though moteless, it was found to be impure.

Professor Tyndall and his friends are so exceedingly confident in the power of the germs of the atmosphere, that they attribute to their influence every known case of putrefaction; and they do so because they believe that they have proved that whenever the air can be excluded from a putrescible fluid, putrefaction will not take place. But Dr Bastian has succeeded in producing life out of organic infusions from which the air has been excluded, and which have been previously raised by him to temperatures hitherto considered by scientific authority as fatal to life. Thus the question resolves itself into this: What is the exact point of heat which kills the germs of bacteria? At present we do not know, and we have therefore no right to make any supposition upon this point in favour of either of the two theories.

Since Dr Bastian's experiments were first made public, the holders of the Germ theory have gradually raised what we may call the thermal death-point of bacteria, in order to explain away the results of his experiments by the light of their own theory. If Dr Bastian's fluids did develop life, they say, the germs must have entered into them by some means or other; and if he superheated these fluids, the fact of the germs surviving the process shews that they must be possessed of greater enduring power than we have given them credit for.

Curiously enough, Professor Tyndall declares that frequent applications of a low degree of heat, and applied at intervals, have a far greater 'sterilising effect' than a single application of a high temperature. For a given fluid may contain germs of all ages. If such a fluid be boiled for a considerable time, all the germs of recent formation will be killed; but those of a greater age will merely be softened, but still capable of reanimation. If, however, the fluid be heated for a short time only, the recent germs will be destroyed, while an older crop will be liberated. A second application of heat destroys this second crop, and brings a third into play. Further heat will awaken successive crops, until at length a point is reached when the toughest germ must yield. This is certainly a most ingenious explanation of the difficulty.

A very interesting contribution to this subject has lately been made by Dr Bastian and others; and we will now briefly describe the main results of their researches. It has long been known that slightly alkaline organic fluids are more difficult to sterilise than those which are slightly acid. Pasteur the French chemist says that animal water in its normally acid state becomes sterile at one hundred degrees centigrade; but that if the infusion is first rendered alkaline by the addition of potash, the application of a little more heat is necessary, in order to insure sterility. If we bear in mind the two theories, we shall see that these observations of Pasteur may be explained according to either of them. We may believe that the germs in the infusion are fortified against the destructive action of heat by liquor potassæ; or on the other hand, we may hold that the spontaneous generation of organisms is favoured by the presence of an alkali. Acting upon these data, Dr Bastian heated a similar fluid in its acid condition to the temperature of one hundred degrees; so that, according to Pasteur, it was now barren. He then added a quantity of potash sufficient to neutralise the acid, the addition of the alkali thus being made after instead of before the boiling; and he then allowed the fluid so treated to stand at a temperature of about one hundred and fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. In a short time swarms of bacteria appeared.

Dr Roberts, however, considers that this result was obtained because sufficient precaution had not been taken by Dr Bastian to prevent the entry of germs, which might have been introduced by the potash. Accordingly, he filled a small flask with an ounce of the acid infusion, and then sealed up his potash in a capillary tube. The potash was then heated in oil to two hundred and eighty degrees Fahrenheit, and kept for fifteen minutes. The tube of potash was now introduced into the flask containing the infusion, and the flask was boiled for five minutes, and sealed. The flask was now kept for some time in order to test its sterility. When this was ascertained, the flask was shaken, so that the little tube of potash inside was broken, and the potash was thus allowed to mingle with and neutralise the infusion. The flask was now maintained at a low temperature of one hundred and fifteen degrees Fahrenheit, and it remained perfectly clear. And so Dr Roberts concludes that liquor potassæ has no power to excite the generation of organisms in a sterilised infusion. Professor Tyndall repeated these experiments with additional precautions, and obtained similar results.

The general conclusion which is drawn from various experiments by the advocates of the Germ theory is, that liquor potassæ has no inherent power to stimulate the production of bacteria, and that any apparent power of this kind which it may seem to possess is due to the presence of germs within it. These germs they consider are not destroyed until the potash has been raised to the temperature of one hundred degrees centigrade if solid, and to one hundred and ten degrees centigrade if liquid. Dr Bastian, who repeated his former experiments with every possible precaution, found no difference in his results. Moreover, he discovered that liquor potassæ, when added in proper quantities, is just as efficacious in stimulating the development of life after it has been heated to one hundred and ten degrees centigrade, as when it has been heated to only one hundred degrees. Pasteur will consequently have to raise the temperature which he considers sufficient to destroy the germs contained in a solution of strong liquor potassæ to a point still higher than one hundred and ten degrees.

But there is still another proof that liquor potassæ if previously heated to one hundred degrees does not induce fermentation in virtue of its germs, because if only one or two drops be added, the infusion will remain as barren as ever; while a few more drops will immediately start the process of fermentation. Now if the potash really induced fermentation because it brought germs along with it, two drops would be quite as efficacious as any other amount. Finally, Dr Bastian has shewn us that an excess of alkali prevents fermentation, and to this fact he attributes the failure of Pasteur to develop life when he employed solid potash. He had added too much of the alkali.

It is impossible to draw any definite conclusion from these as from the other experiments, until we know the precise temperature which is fatal to germinal life. Dr Bastian indeed thinks that he has been able to shew that bacteria and their germs cannot exist at higher temperatures than one hundred and forty degrees Fahrenheit; but his evidence here is not quite conclusive. He does not deny the existence of germs nor their probable influence in producing life; he merely says that his experiments furnish evidence to shew that in some cases organisms may spring into existence without the aid of a parent. The strong points of his case are, that as fast as his adversaries can suggest precautions to insure the destruction of germs, he has been able to shew life under the altered conditions; and that whenever the supposed death-point of bacteria has been raised on account of his experiments, he has succeeded in obtaining life after having submitted his flasks to the required temperatures.

How this most interesting controversy will end, we cannot foretell; but we hope that the further researches of our scientific men upon the subject will ultimately lead to the discovery of the truth. Meanwhile, we observe that Dr Richardson, at the late Sanitary Congress at Leamington, entirely dissented from the theory of germs being the origin of disease, and characterised it as the wildest and most distant from the phenomena to be explained, ever conceived. As no one contests the fact that pure air is a very important factor in promoting health and averting the insidious approaches of disease, people keeping that in mind need not practically give themselves much concern about germs. See that you draw pure air into the lungs. That is an advice to which no theorist can take exception.

[OCEAN-VOYAGES IN SMALL BOATS.]

It is perhaps not generally known that adventurous persons occasionally cross the Atlantic from the American coast to England in small boats. The undertaking is dangerous, but is accomplished. Twenty-four years ago, when on board a Cunard steamer, our vessel passed an open sailing-boat containing two men on a voyage from America to Europe. They had no means for taking an observation, but trusted to fall in with large ships, from which they would get information as to where they were. On sighting them, our captain knew what they wanted, and hung out a black board on which were inscribed in chalk the latitude and longitude. This was satisfactory, and on they went on their perilous expedition. What came of them we know not. We were told that men who run risks of this kind, and who happen not to procure information as to their whereabouts, are apt to make strange mistakes in their voyage to England; such, for instance, as running on the coast of Spain instead of the British Islands—the whole thing a curious instance of reckless daring.

Small vessels, possibly better provided, have made runs which have attracted the admiring attention of nautical men, for the exceptional circumstances under which they occurred, but without reference to competition or bonus. In 1859 three Cornish fishermen, in a fishing-boat of small tonnage, sailed from Newlyn near Penzance to the Cape of Good Hope, and thence across the Indian Ocean to Melbourne, where they arrived 'all well.' We do not find the actual tonnage named. In 1866 a small yacht of twenty-five tons, hailing from Dublin, set out from Liverpool, and safely reached New South Wales after a run of a hundred and thirty days. The distance was set down at sixteen thousand miles. It was regarded, and justly regarded, as a bold adventure in 1874, when a schooner of only fifty-four tons safely brought over a cargo of deals from St Johns, New Brunswick, to Dublin, with but seven hands to manage the craft.

Boat-voyages, however, are evidently more remarkable than those of clippers, yachts, and schooners; on account of the extremely small dimensions of the craft which have ventured to brave the perils of the ocean, and of the paucity of hands to manage the sails and helm during a period measured by months—under privations of various kinds.

Eleven years ago the Americans gave an indication of spirit and pluck in the conception and fulfilment of a very bold enterprise. Mr Hudson, the owner of a small craft named the Red White and Blue, fitted it up for an ocean-trip to England. It was a life-boat, built of galvanised iron, only twenty-six feet in length, six feet in breadth of beam, and three feet deep from deck to hold. Small as it was, the Red White and Blue carried what sailors call a very cloud of canvas; it had mainsail, spritsails, staysails, courses, topsails, royals, top-gallants, sternsails, trysails, three masts, bowsprit, booms, yards, gaffs, jib-boom, yard-tops, cross jack yards, spankers, and all the rest of it—an enormous amount of furniture, one would think, for so small a house. The boat was sharp at both ends, had water-tight compartments lengthwise and transverse, and safety-valves which would enable her to right herself in a few minutes if flooded. There was a tiny cockpit for the steersman near the mizzen-mast, in which he sat somewhat in the same position as Mr Macgregor in his Rob Roy canoe. The air-cylinders at each end of the boat and along the sides, customary in life-boats, assisted in maintaining the buoyancy and upright position. It is amusing to read of a mainmast only seven feet high and a bowsprit of two feet in length; but the juvenile ship was proportionate in all these matters, and bravely she looked, a plucky handsome little craft.

The crew of the Red White and Blue was as exceptional as the boat itself. The owner, Captain John M. Hudson, took the command; Mr Frank E. Fitch acted as mate; while in lieu of petty officers, able seamen, and ordinary seamen was a dog named 'Fanny.' On the 9th of July 1866 the pigmy ship took farewell of Sandy Hook, near New York, on a voyage of unknown duration and uncertain vicissitude. At midnight on the 18th the boat struck against something hard and solid, but fortunately without receiving much damage. They sailed on till the 5th of August, when they fell in with the brig Princess Royal, hailing from Yarmouth, and obtained a bottle of rum, two newspapers (very precious to the wayfarers), and a signal-lamp. Narrowly escaping a complete overturn on the 8th, they spoke with the barque Welle Merryman, from which they obtained two bottles of brandy. After another peril of capsizing, they at length sighted English land, the Bill of Portland, on the 14th. Beating up the Channel, the boat entered Margate Harbour on the 16th, after being thirty-seven days at sea. The little craft created no small astonishment at Margate. As there was no chronometer on board, the calculations of distance, direction, &c. had to be made by compass, line, and dead-reckoning. So little opportunity had there been of obtaining a fire, that the food (mostly preserved in air-tight tins) had to be eaten cold. The original store of a hundred and twenty gallons of water supplied their wants with this essential requisite. Poor Fanny the dog did not at all relish the voyage; constant exposure to the weather so weakened her that she died soon after reaching Margate. When the Red White and Blue was afterwards exhibited at the Crystal Palace, a little incredulity was expressed as to the reality of the voyage; but as the names of the vessels spoken with were given and the dates of meeting, there seems no reason to doubt the faithfulness of the narrative. The two navigators, however, did not return to America in the same way; they had 'had enough of it.'

A still bolder achievement, in so far as the number of the crew was concerned, was that of Alfred Johnson, who in June 1876 started from America in a small boat manned only by himself. Quitting the port of Gloucester, Massachusetts, on the 15th, he had fine weather for a time, but then experienced some of the peril of Atlantic voyaging under exceptional circumstances. Fogs and head winds compelled him to put into Shake Harbour, where he had his compass corrected. Starting again on the 25th, he experienced tolerably fair weather until the 7th of July, when a heavy gale set in from the south-west. The combings of the hatchway were started, and the water, finding entrance, damaged some of his provisions. The gale subsiding, he was favoured with fine weather and fair wind until the 16th; and a strong breeze in the right direction coming on, he made good progress till the 2d of August. When about three hundred miles from the Irish coast, the wind increased to a hurricane; he hove to, but in unshipping his mast for this purpose, the boat got broadside on a large wave and was upset. Johnson clambered on the upturned bottom, where he remained for about twenty minutes. By dexterous management he succeeded in righting the boat, got in, and pumped it dry; everything, however, was wetted by the upset, and he lost his square-sail and kerosene lamp.

Wending his way as winds permitted, he reached within a hundred miles of the Irish coast by the 7th, spoke a ship, and obtained some bread and fresh water—both of which had become very scanty with him. On the following day he got soundings, but fog prevented him from seeing land. On the 10th he sighted Milford, near the south-west extremity of Wales. He landed at Abercastle in Pembrokeshire on the 11th, after being fifty-seven days at sea; starting again, he put into Holyhead, and finally arrived at Liverpool on the 21st. The little Centennial, which measured only twenty feet in length over all, had run about seventy miles a day on an average. Johnson maintained his general health excellently well, though suffering from want of sleep.

The little boat that has recently crossed the Atlantic differed from Johnson's in this among other particulars, that it had a crew of two persons, one of whom was a woman. Certainly this woman will have something to talk about for the rest of her life: seeing that we may safely assign to her a position such as her sex has never before occupied—that of having managed half the navigation of a little ocean-craft for some three thousand miles. The New Bedford, so designated after the town of the same name in Massachusetts (the state from which Johnson also hailed), is only twenty feet long, with a burden of a little over a ton and a half; built of cedar, and rigged as (in sailor-phrase) a 'leg-of-mutton schooner;' with two masts and one anchor. Anything less ocean-like we can hardly conceive. Captain Thomas Crapo, the owner of this little affair, is an active man in the prime of life; and his better-half proves herself worthy to be the helpmate of such a man. On the 28th of May in the present year, Captain and Mrs Crapo embarked in their tiny ocean-boat, provided with such provisions and stores as they could stow away under the deck. The steersman (or steerswoman) sat in a sunken recess near the stern, with head and bust above the level of the deck; the other took any standing-place that he could get for managing the sails, rope, anchor, &c. The boat had no chronometer; and the progress had to be measured as best it could by dead-reckoning.

The boat, soon after leaving New Bedford, was forced by stress of weather to seek a few days' shelter at Chatham, a small port in the same state. Hoisting sail again on the 2d of June, the boat set off with a fair wind; and all went well for three days. An adverse wind then sprang up, a fog overspread the sky, and for ten days the voyage continued under these unfavourable circumstances. Whilst near the shoal known as the Great Banks, a keg was seen floating; this was secured, and the iron hoops utilised (with the aid of canvas) in making a drogue—one which was included among the outfit of the boat being found too light for its purpose. The boat, after lying to for three or four days in a gale of wind, started again, and sailed on till the 21st of June, when another gale necessitated another stoppage. The New Bedford sighted the steamer Batavia, which offered to take the lonely pair of navigators on board: an offer kindly appreciated, but courteously declined. After this meeting, a succession of gales was encountered, and the rudder broke; a spare oar was made to act as a substitute. The sea ran so very high that even when lying down to rest, husband and wife had to lie on wet clothes, everything on board being sloppy and half saturated. At one portion of this trying period Captain Crapo had to steer for seventy hours uninterruptedly, his wife being incapacitated from rendering the aid which was her wont; and on another occasion he had to pay eighteen hours' close attention to the drogue. The voyage terminated on the 21st of July, after a duration of fifty-four days. The average sleep of the captain did not exceed four hours a day; and he had no sleep at all during the last seventy hours of the run. He had intended to make Falmouth his port of arrival, but was glad to make for Penzance instead.

The surname of Crapo, we were informed by the captain, is not uncommon at New Bedford. The good wife is Swedish by descent, Scotch by birth, American by marriage—a citizen of the world. In examining the boat closely (which we have done), it becomes more than ever a marvel how it could have formed the home of a married couple for seven weeks. Descending through a small hatchway, the feet rest on the floor of (let us say) the state-cabin, an apartment three feet high; consequently the head and body project above the hatchway. By spreading blankets and rugs, and crouching down by degrees, a would-be sleeper can lie down under the deck, or two sleepers close to the two sides of the boat. The wife of course acted as stewardess, cook, parlour-maid, scullery-maid, &c., leaving her husband to manage most of the navigation. The sperm-oil lamp for the compass-binnacle; the kerosene or petroleum lamp for the cooking-stove; the receptacles for biscuit and preserved meats and vegetables; the butler's pantry for a few bottles of spirits; the vessels for containing water—all were packed into a marvellously small space. The drogue (already mentioned) is a kind of floating anchor which, dragged after the vessel by means of a long rope, helps to steady it in certain states of the wind. Five hundred pounds weight of stores and six hundred of iron ballast, kept the boat sufficiently low in the water.

Such were the interior arrangements of one of those strange small vessels which adventurously attempt to cross the Atlantic.

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