It was a terrible ordeal, sitting there under their tender w

[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 708. SATURDAY, JULY 21, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]

A CORNISH HAVEN.

Come away with me to the sea! Let us go to Cornwall, where sea and air

are of the purest and most exhilarating. Jumping into the train and

proceeding westward until we come to Launceston, there we will leave

the little quiet old-world town behind. So anxious are we to get to the

sea, that we will not even stop to climb the hill and inspect the old

castle which frowns down on us; but we will mount to the box-seat of

the three-horse coach which stands waiting at the station, and drive

away--still westward. Away, over the breezy uplands, where the cattle

chew the cud sleepily beneath the August sun, between hedges set with

brilliant jewels, which we call flowers, past undulating downs in whose

hollows the purple shadows lie dreaming.

We stop presently at a little roadside inn, to give the horses a rest

and a feed; and I climb down from my elevated position and partake of

a cup of tea in the inn kitchen--a primitive flagged kitchen, with

a great high-backed wooden settle by the fire, and pewter bowls and

cups shining on the walls. They pour out my bohea from a teapot which

a fancier of old china would pronounce to be priceless. Genuine old

'Plymouth' it is, I see, and ask if they would be willing to part with

it. But no; 'It was granny's;' and they would rather not sell it; so

I turn my covetous eyes away, and clamber back to my seat beside the

coachman.

Off we go again, along a fairly level road. The country is but thinly

inhabited, and there are long intervals between the houses. By-and-by

we begin to descend a hill, and enter a little sleepy town, where at

first sight it seems to me that there are an inn and one or two shops,

but no inhabitants. Only at first sight; for as we draw up before the

_Hotel_ (such is the proud boast I see over the doorway), and the

driver descends and walks away to deposit a parcel or two and to gossip

awhile with his acquaintances, we are delivered over to the tender

mercies of the whole juvenile population, who surround the coach, climb

on to the wheels, and make audible comments in very broad vernacular

on our personal appearance and on our apparel.

This time we move off slowly, for we have a very steep hill to

encounter, and the tired horses plod somewhat wearily up it. As we

reach the top, and they stop panting to rest, I see far away on the

horizon a silver streak, and my heart gives a throb of delight; for I

have in its intensest form all an islander's love for the ocean, and I

know what that silver streak is on which the sun shines so gaily. On

rolls the coach merrily; the horses sniff the air, and seem to know

that they are nearing home. Yes; here are the breezes we have come

to look for. They peer familiarly under my hat; they blow my veil

aside, and rudely kiss my cheeks; and their breath is fresh and salt,

and whispers of new strength to the tired mind and body. On we hurry

towards the setting sun, who is now mounting the chariot in which he

drives away to the other side of the world. We have lost sight of the

faint line of silver again, and our view is almost bounded by the dusky

hedges. Presently we turn a corner abruptly, and there, apparently at

our feet, lies the blue Atlantic, smiling bright welcoming smiles at us

in the last rays of departing Sol. The active young breezes, which seem

so glad to see us again, revive us with sweet aromatic odours, which

they gather from the weed-strewn rocks. They evidently think we are

wise people to have left those weak-minded little zephyrs coquetting

with the flowers on the lawn at home, and to have followed them to

their sporting place beside the restless ever-changing sea.

In another moment we stop, and all the tired travellers dismount and

stretch their cramped limbs. I hear many around me inquiring for hotels

or lodgings; but we are expected, and here is our landlady's husband

come to meet us; so we hand over our luggage to him, and wend our way

to Cliff Cottage. Here we find a smiling hostess, who tells us how

glad she is to see us; and after we have removed some of the dust of

our journey, we sit down to a well-spread tea-table, on which a noble

Cornish pasty holds the post of honour. We draw the table into the

bow-window, which faces not directly seawards, but towards the bay,

which has been a haven of safety to so many. But it is growing dark

already, and we are weary with our long drive; so, soon we seek our

fragrant chamber, in which the lavender scents struggle faintly to

overpower the pungent aroma of the sea; and it is not long before we

are lulled to sleep by the monotonous thunder of the waves on the rocks

below.

In the morning we peep out at the colliers which ride safely in the

little sunny bay, at the white houses which are dotted here and there

over the cliffs, and at the little village itself lying snugly in the

hollow. To right and left, sweeping far away, stand the great eternal

sea-walls of sombre iron-stone crags, and the grassy downs rolling away

inland, unbroken except by a lonely stone or a patch of golden gorse;

and beneath us lie ancient gray boulders and stretches of yellow sand.

Away on the hill opposite stands the little church, in whose quiet

graveyard rests many a sailor who has found his death in the pitiless

sea. Eleven graves mark the resting-place of the crew of one vessel,

whose figure-head forms an appropriate headstone to the sad group.

The first thing to be done after breakfast is to bathe. It is not

enough to be _by_ the sea; we must be _in_ it, if we wish to rob it of

all the strength and vigour we can; so we start off over the downs to

where a sudden depression in the cliff leads to the bathing beach. Here

we find old Harriet the bathing-woman, browner than ever, who gives us

a cordial welcome. The bathing is primitive in the extreme. Harriet

possesses two tents, which she pitches daily on a smooth spot of sand.

For the use of one in which to disrobe you pay a ridiculously small

sum, which also includes old Harriet's watchful 'surveillance' while

you are in the water. As the number of tents is so limited and the

bathers many, not a few avail themselves of the shelter of a friendly

rock behind which to perform their toilet; but I am squeamish, and

wait my turn for the tent. And oh! how reviving the plunge into the

surf, which comes rolling in frothing and seething like champagne, and

which knocks me over and plays at ball with me as if I were a cork!

The cool waves curl and cling round me, and kiss my arms and hands

lovingly with their wet lips. I let them break over my bowed head,

and clasp them tenderly to my breast; but they slip away from me, and

riot and tumble round me with joyous laughter, sprinkling eternal

freshness from their bounteous hands. I sniff the keen salt air with

delight, and let the foam toss me to and fro at its own sweet will,

until Harriet, who watches me anxiously (she thinks me a somewhat rash

young person, I know), orders me authoritatively to come in, saying I

have had enough of it--for the first time. Very reluctantly I obey; but

it would require a braver person than I am to contradict the withered

old sea-nymph, and soon I emerge from the tent with streaming locks,

feeling like a giant refreshed.

Thank goodness, here are no brass bands, no esplanade; a circulating

library of such modest pretensions that it does not circulate, and

shops in which it is next to impossible to spend any money! At the

chemist's we buy our groceries as well as our drugs, and he is the

only wine-merchant the dear primitive little place can boast. But we

get mutton which transcends Southdown; capital poultry and vegetables;

butter such as I have never tasted before or since; rich cream, which

you must call Cornish (not 'Devonshire'), to please the buxom farmer's

wife who supplies it to you; and plenty of good fruit. And what do you

want more, with such a sky above you, such a glorious sea at your feet,

such a wall of ironstone crags behind you? Down on the beach we go,

and dawdle away the hot summer afternoon. We stretch ourselves on the

tawny sand, where great barriers of rock jut out on each side of us,

beneath the shadow of a dreadful scarped cliff, to which no scrap of

weed or herbage seems able to cling. We look up at it with a sense of

awe. We think of the many ships, nearing home after a weary journey,

which have been driven by the storm's pitiless whip straight into its

terrible arms, there to meet a dread destruction. We think of the many

struggling drowning wretches on whom it has gazed down with its stony

eyes during all the ages it has stood there. The great billows in their

winter's fury have beaten and lashed it until it is scarred all over;

but still it gazes calmly down at them, as if defying their malicious

rage. And yet, cruel as it is, how picturesque the colouring as it

ranges from the intense purple black of the tide-line, through warm

green and brown shadows, to the bright high lights far away above our

heads.

Dark rock-pools lie behind us, lined with queer zoophytes and delicate

sea-anemones; beside us are the crimson lady's finger and the golden

trefoil; the dainty scents of the sea-weed and the fresh wet sand are

in the air, and before us is the smiling sea. Yes; he smiles at us

to-day, though here--with a restless surf breaking eternally on the

beach--he is never calm and rippling, as we see him in more southern

climes.

Presently the sun sinks lower in the heavens; a breeze awakes, and

the day turns cooler; so we go for a walk along the smooth firm sand,

which the ebbing sea has left bare; through a wilderness of weird black

cliffs, which, when the tide is high, range far out into the sea in

castles and turrets and spires of jagged rock; an iron-bound coast

indeed, hopeless to the shipwrecked mariner, save for our friendly

little haven. Far away on the warm horizon hangs Lundy Island, like a

shapely gray ghost; very faint by day, and at night telling us only

by its revolving light where it is. We walk on to a gorge up which

we can make our way to the top of the cliff, and homeward over the

undulating downs and by the banks of golden broom. We pass through a

little village, where the myrtles and fuchsias are all abloom in the

cottage-gardens, and where the great yews brood silently over the

old gray church. The door stands open, and we go in. What a dear old

church, with its quaintly carved oaken pews, and tender-hued stained

glass windows! Evidently the restoration-fiend has not reached here

yet. Let us hope that he will stay away, along with the esplanade and

the brass bands.

Sometimes we spend our afternoon or evening out at the end of the

breakwater, which forms one side of this little mariner's refuge.

It connects a rock which stands right out at sea, with the shore,

and occasionally in spring-tides is quite under water. One evening,

while standing on the far end watching the glorious setting sun, we

forget to look behind us, and turning suddenly, find the breakwater

submerged. A man could still cross it perhaps, but a not over-strong

woman might easily be carried over and drowned by the on-coming surf.

I am not brave enough to face it; so we remain where we are, and enter

into conversation with a stalwart Cornishman, who, with the instinct

of a true gentleman, volunteers--as the lady seems nervous, and as

he knows all about the tides, and exactly how high the sea will rise

to-night--to remain with us until we are released by the ebbing waters.

I rather resent the imputation of timidity, but am very glad he has

imprisoned himself with us, as the night turns darker and darker, and

the waves creep higher and higher, and wheel and foam and thunder

around, as if in impotent rage at their inability to reach their prey.

Our Cornish hero reassures and consoles me, telling me that they cannot

possibly reach to where we sit; and he whiles away the time with

stories of wrecks which he has seen, and also of many hair-breadth

escapes. He tells us how a ship driving straight on to the cruel

rocks, was lifted by one giant wave over the breakwater and 'landed

safely in the harbour beyond;' and I steal a glance behind me, and

see with thankfulness that the waters are abating. In a little while

longer, with the help of our pleasant companion, I am able to get over

dry-shod, and it is with a feeling of relief that I find myself once

more on mainland.

From this breakwater too, on a stormy day we watch the life-boat go

out for practice. How gallantly she breasts the breakers, which seize

her and whirl her backwards, as if defying her to leave the shore. The

seamen tell us that in the great storms which arise here during the

winter she is perfectly useless. No life-boat could live in the seas

which beat upon this heartless coast. Often the coast-guardsmen have to

creep on hands and knees to their signal-station, as, standing erect,

they cannot face the wind. But the rocket apparatus has saved many and

many a life; and we also one night see that fiery messenger of life

and hope speed away into the darkness over an imaginary wreck; and a

fictitious shipwrecked mariner comes on shore in the frail-looking

apparatus, which slides along the rope, swaying to and fro in the angry

wind, looking like a frail thread, suspended as it is in mid-air over

the vexed and tumbling waters below.

Sometimes we make excursions--to Tintagel Castle, where King Arthur

dwelt with his knights; or away to wooded Clovelly, where Will Carey

lived, and Amyas Leigh suffered, and Rose Salterne loved. Or to

Stratton, in the neighbourhood of which a great battle was fought,

in 1643, between the Parliamentary and Royalist troops, in which the

former, under Waller, were defeated. A cannon found on the field marks

the site of the combat; and in the High Street of the town, a slab let

into the wall of an old house bears a legend telling how Sir Bevil

Grenvil, the victorious general, rested there after the fight.

But we like best to spend our days wandering over the sands and the

ancient mussel-clad boulders, or straying across the breezy downs into

the rich smiling corn-country beyond, where in the hedges the pale wild

roses are transforming themselves into brilliant scarlet hips, and the

sun is beginning to dye the blackberries a luscious purple. Then as the

day begins to tire, and prepares to go in royal state to her rest, we

love to sit out on the rocks listening to the weary surges which sing

her a sweet monotonous requiem, and watching the scarlet flames in the

west steeping the wet sands in a crimson stain as of blood. A great

belt of iron-gray clouds encircles the horizon. Slowly the sun sinks

behind it, gilding its edges with a rich luminous glow, which faintly

shadows forth the glories the clouds veil from our eyes. Lower and

lower he droops his head, heavier and still heavier with sleep, until

one brilliant flaming eye is all that we can see. Then the lid drops

over that too, and he is gone. Spell-bound, we sit on, listening to the

sea's mournful dirges, while night swoops down over earth and ocean

with dusky wings. We watch the moon, like a vain lady attiring herself

magnificently in the east before she issues forth on her evening

pilgrimage. She sends her handmaidens, the stars, before her, and they

light up her pathway with their brilliant lamps. Then she comes forth

robed in a filmy veil of pearly lace, and mounts silently into the sky,

until she sits enthroned far above our heads. She kisses the white

crests of the waves, and crowns them with silver, and peers with gentle

eyes at the solemn gigantic black cliffs, until they seem to lay aside

something of their stony harshness in the light of those poetic orbs.

The long oar-weeds waving in the water seem to beckon to her with inky

fingers, and a few giddy young stars obey the summons, for some of them

have fallen into the quiet rock-pools, and gaze up at us out of their

calm depths. The phosphorus awakes and shoots out tongues of lambent

flame, as if seeking to outvie the splendour of the queen of night. The

waters glow as if they were on fire, and the great dark billows rush in

and cast sparkling jewels at our feet.

How shall we resolve to leave all these delights? Wild ocean is so

kind to those who love him and do him homage. He gives them back the

strength of which the struggle and turmoil of the world have robbed

them, and refreshes the weary spirit with his gracious sights and

sounds. Nature is no step-mother, and for those who look at her most

tenderly and love her best, she paints her fairest pictures and sings

her sweetest songs.

But soon, too soon, the day comes when we must bid good-bye to the

kindly folks we have grown to love so well; when we rest for the last

time in our sea-odoured chamber; when we take our last walk over the

downs, and loiter for the last time beneath the shadow of the time-worn

cliffs. We leave the dear quiet little place, where we have for a time

hidden from the busy world, and rested on our march; we leave it to

the winds, which grow ruder and more boisterous day by day, and which

soon will drive many a mariner to take refuge in its friendly haven.

We shall find our own little zephyrs at home quite grown up, and strong

enough to give us many a blow during the winter.

But if there be any who, like me, would love to linger on its quiet

beach, to make acquaintance with its giant wall of rocks, to drink

its keen life-giving breezes, to watch its gorgeous sunsets, or dream

beneath its silver stars--then, let them take coach at Launceston, and

following the declining sun, drive westward away to--Budehaven.

THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.

CHAPTER XXXIII.--'A WOMAN'S ERRAND.'

After making two or three attempts to obtain a private interview with

me, and finding that it was not to be, Philip did not stay very long,

explaining that he had only come down for the papers, and had business

in town for the remainder of the day. Somewhat more gravely and quietly

than usual, he shook hands with Mrs Tipper and Lilian; and then, in a

matter-of-course way, said: 'Come, Mary.'

I knew that I must not refuse. Murmuring an excuse for a moment, I

ran up to my room and fell upon my knees, asking for the strength I

so sorely needed for the coming trial; then joined him again, and we

went out together. As we walked down the lane, I felt that he too was

nerving himself; and presently he asked, in a low grave voice: 'What

made you talk in the way you did just now, Mary?'

I was in a difficult position. If I attempted to justify myself, he

would take alarm at once, and bind me and himself still closer to our

bond. I could only treat it as a jest.

'We all talk nonsense sometimes, Philip.'

'I suppose so; but that is a kind of nonsense you have not taught me to

expect from you.'

'I am afraid you expect too much from me.'

'I certainly expect a great deal.'

Fortunately, I had something to say which would keep off love-speeches;

and without any attempt to smooth the way, I said it.

'Philip, I want to ask you to give me ten pounds. I have spent all my

money.'

Oddly enough, he did not know that I was entirely without money. I had

thought it sufficient to tell him only that my dear mother's income

died with her, not wishing to pain him with the knowledge that I had

been so nearly destitute. I think he imagined that I had a small income

of my own, and as I avoided the subject, did not like to appear curious

about it. Even now, I believe that he did not suspect me to be entirely

penniless, merely supposing that I had spent all that I had in hand.

The five-and-twenty pounds had been expended to the last shilling in

furbishing up my modest wardrobe, and for small incidental expenses in

the way of my share towards the cottages, &c. I had shrunk from the

idea of making him acquainted with the state of my finances; knowing

how large-hearted he was, and how much would be forced upon me if he

once guessed my need. Mrs Tipper was always protesting against the

value and number of the offerings which found their way to the cottage,

whilst Lilian and I were afraid of expressing a wish in his presence.

It was all very different now. It would cheer and comfort him by-and-by

to reflect that I was able to ask a favour of him just at this crisis.

Had I not been so sorely pressed as I was, it would still have been as

well to ask him.

'Ten pounds!' he ejaculated, stopping short in his walk to gaze at

me in the greatest astonishment; asking himself, I think, if _this_

was the explanation of the change which he had observed in me. 'I am

utterly ashamed of my stupidity in allowing you to name such a thing;

though I am sure you will do me the justice to attribute it solely to

want of thought!'

'You see I do not mind asking you, Philip.'

'Mind indeed; of course you do not! I will run back at once and write a

cheque.'

'No; please do not--not if you have as much as ten pounds with you.

Just now, I want only that.'

'Ten pounds! Take what I have about me!' hastily taking out his purse,

and putting it into my hand.

'But indeed I could not take all this!' I returned, seeing that the

purse contained several notes as well as gold. 'I do not want any more

than ten pounds.'

'Nonsense; don't make a fuss over such a trifle.'

But I separated two five-pound notes from the rest, and was very

decided about his taking back the purse.

'Then I shall of course send a cheque as soon as I get back. By the

way, Mary, I am making arrangements for the settlement of three hundred

a year upon you; and of course all is yours, absolutely, in the event

of'----

I broke down for a few moments, leaning against the stile where we were

standing.

'Nay, Mary'---- Then I think that he saw something more in my face than

even the allusion to his death seemed to warrant. He went on with grave

anxiety: 'I fear you are not well. Is your hand painful?'

Ah, my hand--how thankful I was for the suggestion! I slipped it under

my cloak, dragged away the bandage, which again opened the wound.

'Bleeding afresh! You must really have it seen to, Mary.'

'O no; it is really a very trifling affair.' In my misery and despair,

I almost laughed at the idea of being able to feel any physical pain.

He assisted me to tighten the bandage again. But I presently knew that

it would not do to have his hands touching me and his face close to

mine in this way; so, with a little brusque remark about his want of

skill (ah Philip, had you known what it cost me!), I declared that my

hand required no more fussing over. I had the parting to go through,

and needed all my nerve. First, I must make sure of his not coming down

to the cottage for two or three days.

'You said you expect to be very much engaged; and therefore I suppose

we shall not see you again until the end of the week--Friday or

Saturday, perhaps?'

This was Tuesday, and I wanted to make sure of two clear days.

'I will contrive to run down before that, if you wish it, Mary.'

'No; I too have much to do. Do not come before Friday.'

'Very well. You will tell me then which day you have decided upon,

since you will not say now.'

I had waived the decision as to which day the wedding was to take

place; and I did so again, merely repeating 'Friday.'

'All right; take care of yourself; and be sure to have the hand seen

to.' He was stooping down to give me the customary kiss before crossing

the stile; but I took his two hands in mine, and looked up into his

face, I think as calmly and steadily as I had prayed for strength to do.

'God bless you, Philip.' Then I put my arms about his neck, lifted up

my face to his, and kissed him. 'Good-bye, dear Philip.'

I saw an expression of surprise, a slight doubt and hesitation in his

eyes. He had not found me so demonstrative as this before, and was

for the moment puzzled to account for it. But I contrived to get up a

smile, which I think satisfied him. Then with a last wrench, I turned

away, hearing as though from another world his answering 'Good-bye' as

he vaulted the stile.

After that, the rest would be easy. I allowed myself one hour in the

woods--not for the indulgence of regret--I knew too well the danger of

that--but for recovery, and got back to the cottage in time for our

early dinner. Moreover, I forced myself to eat, knowing that I should

require all the strength I could get; and delighted dear kind old Mrs

Tipper's heart by asking for a glass of wine.

It was a terrible ordeal, sitting there under their tender watchful

eyes; but I got through it tolerably I think. Afterwards, I told them

that I wanted to catch the three o'clock up-train, adding a purposely

indefinite remark about having some arrangements to make in town.

'Is Mr Dallas going to meet you, my dear?' asked Mrs Tipper anxiously.

'No; I am going on a woman's errand,' I replied, with a sad little

half-smile at the thought of what their surprise would be if they could

know how very literally I was speaking.

'_Must_ you go to-day?--may not I go with you, dear Mary?' pleaded

Lilian. 'You are looking so pale and unlike yourself; I do not like the

idea of your going alone.'

'I should fancy that there was something really the matter with me, if

I could not go alone so short a distance as that, dearie,' I lightly

replied. 'I think I will allow my age to protect me.'

She drew nearer to me, looking at me in the nervous, half-afraid way

she so frequently did of late, as she laid her hand upon my arm.

'I wish you would not talk like that--dear Mary, why do you?'

I was not strong enough to bear much in this way; so replied with an

attempt at a jest, which made her shrink away again. I daresay my jests

were flavourless enough, and in strange contrast to my looks.

Mrs Tipper's silent, anxious watchfulness was even harder to bear than

Lilian's tender love. It was not my journey to town which puzzled

them--I saw that they imagined I was intent upon preparing some little

pleasant surprise for them at my wedding--but the change they saw in

me, which no amount of diplomacy could hide.

How thankful I was, when I at length made my escape to my own room; but

I was not allowed to go alone. I had to bear Lilian's loving attendance

whilst I was putting on my bonnet and cloak. Indeed, she lingered by my

side until I had got half-way down the lane.

'You will not be very late, Mary?'

'No, dearie; I think not--I hope not.'

'We shall be longing to see you back.'

'And you must not be surprised if I return in a very conceited frame of

mind, after being made so much of,' I lightly replied.

'Only come back _yourself_,' she murmured, giving me a last kiss as she

turned away.

Dear Lilian, did she in truth guess something of what the lightness

cost me? I knew that I did not deceive her wholly. Although she might

be in some doubt as to the cause, I did not succeed in hiding the

effects from her.

I arrived at the London terminus about four o'clock, and took a cab,

directing the man to drive to a West-end street facing St James's Park.

My errand was to one of the largest mansions there, which at any other

time I should have considered it required some nerve to approach in a

way so humble. I could quite understand the cabman's hesitating inquiry

as to whether I wished to be driven to the principal entrance. Probably

I did not appear to him quite up to the standard of the housekeeper's

room. Fortunately I was not able to give a thought to my appearance.

Had I been visiting the Queen, I should have thought of her only as a

fellow-woman, in my deep absorption.

Three hours later I was taken back to the railway station in a

luxurious carriage, borne swiftly along by spirited horses; a slight,

refined, delicate-looking woman, with earnest thoughtful eyes, and

attired almost as simply as myself, was sitting by my side with my hand

in hers, as we now and again touched upon the subject which occupied

our thoughts.

I had found a friend in my time of need, and such a one as I had not

dared to hope for. But this in due time. We parted with just a steady

look and grasp of the hand.

'To-morrow?'

'Yes; between six and seven.'

I returned to the cottage, certainly not looking worse than when I

had quitted it, and was received with a welcome which made me almost

lose courage again. Fortunately it was very nearly our usual time for

retiring. Fortunately too I had much to do, and it had to be done in

the small-hours of the night, so that I had no time to give to the

indulgence of my feelings when I was left alone in my room. First

turning out the contents of my drawers and boxes, I separated from

them a few things which were absolutely needful for my purpose. One

dress and cloak and bonnet were all that I should require, besides a

small supply of under-clothing. The latter I put into a small trunk

which Becky could easily carry, and then replaced the other things in

the drawers again, arranging and ticketing them in orderly methodical

fashion as I wished them by-and-by to be distributed. If 'Tom'

should in course of time prove more appreciative of Becky--which in

consequence of a hint I had received from Lydia, I did not despair of

so much as she did--I pleased myself with the idea that the contents of

certain drawers would make a very respectable outfit for her. The plain

gray silk dress which I had purchased for my own wedding would not be

too fine for hers. In a note placed on the top of the things, I begged

Mrs Tipper to give them to Becky when the right time came. Afterwards

I took out the little collection of my dear mother's jewellery. It

was really a much better one than I had believed it to be. Indeed I

had never before examined the contents of the packet. When it appeared

probable that the jewels would have to be sold, I had avoided looking

at them; shrinking painfully from the idea of calculating upon the

money value of my mother's only legacy to me; and perhaps also in my

time of need a little afraid of being tempted by the knowledge of its

worth. One diamond ring, a large single stone, which even I could tell

was of some value, I put on the finger of my left hand, which would

never wear another now. That was all I would keep. I then put aside a

pretty ruby brooch for my dear old friend Mrs Tipper; and after some

hesitation about making a little offering to Philip, I satisfied myself

with selecting a valuable antique ring which had belonged to my father,

and writing a line begging Lilian to give it to him with the love of

his sister Mary. The rest--I was quite proud of the quantity now--I

packed up and addressed to the care of Mrs Tipper--my gift to my dear

Lilian on her wedding-day.

SUBMARINE CABLES.

WORKING.

The working and maintenance of the existing telegraph lines employ a

vast number of people taken all together; but it is surprising how

few hands are necessary for the working of any single line or system.

This is especially so in the case of submarine cables, where, when

the cable continues sound, it is not necessary to support a staff for

surveillance and repairs. Half-a-dozen stations several hundred miles

apart, and half-a-dozen men at each, are sufficient to carry the news

from one end of a continent to the other.

Without enumerating the telegraph systems that now exist, it may

suffice to say that the British Isles are connected by submarine cables

with nearly every quarter of the globe, and that their number is still

increasing.

A telegraph station abroad, no matter in what Company or country,

presents nearly the same characteristics wherever found. The more

remote the place, the more primitive may be the arrangements; but the

work is the same, the men are about the same, and the instruments

almost invariably so. There is the superintendent; and under him

the clerk in charge, his right-hand man, who oversees the clerks

or operators at their work of sending and receiving messages.

Then, besides these, and partly independent of them, there is the

electrician, a member of the scientific as distinguished from the

operating staff of the Company, whose duties are to take periodical

tests of the cable and land-lines, to report on their condition, and to

keep the instruments in proper working order. Under all these, there is

generally the messenger and battery-man, who may be called the stoker

of the electrical engine, and who, besides, does the odd work of the

establishment.

The station itself generally consists of the superintendent's office or

bureau; the instrument-room, where the messages are sent and received;

the battery-room, generally under ground; and the sleeping-quarters

of the clerks. Occasionally the electrician and clerk in charge

have separate working-rooms; and a smoking-room, with perhaps a

billiard-table and home newspapers, are added for the convenience of

all. Life passes quietly and uneventfully at these stations, except

when something goes wrong with the instruments or the cable, and then

the electrician has his period of anxiety and trouble; while the

operators, on the other hand, find their occupation at a temporary

standstill.

To understand the working of a submarine cable and the actual process

of sending a message, it is necessary to figure in imagination the

several parts of the electric circuit, made up of the battery, the

instruments, the cable, and the _earth_ itself; and to remember that

for a current of electricity to flow through any part of the circuit it

is necessary that the _whole_ circuit should be complete. Starting then

from the battery, which is the source of the electric current, we have

the cable joined to it by means of a key or sending instrument, which

by the working of a short up-and-down lever can connect or disconnect

the conductor of the cable to a particular pole of the battery, the

other pole of the battery being the while connected to the earth. The

cable then takes us to the distant station. Here the conductor is

connected to the receiving instrument, or instrument for making the

signals indicating the message, and through the receiving instrument

it is connected to the earth. The electric circuit is thus rendered

complete. The current passes from one pole of the battery by means of

the key into the cable, through the cable to the instrument at the

other end, and thence to the earth; and inasmuch as the other pole of

the battery is at the same time connected to the earth at the first

station, the conducting circuit is complete, for the earth, no matter

what the intervening distance be, acts as an indispensable part of the

circuit.

We have thus the two stations connected by a cable. At the station

sending the message there is the battery, from which the current

proceeds; the sending instrument, for letting the current into the

cable, or stopping it; and the 'earth-plate,' or metal connection

between one pole of the battery and the earth. At the station

receiving the message there is the receiving instrument, and again the

earth-plate, connecting the earth into circuit. These separate parts of

the circuit, as we have already said, must be 'connected up,' as it is

termed, so as to provide a complete conducting channel for the current

to flow in from one pole of the battery to the distant place and back

again (or virtually so) through the earth. Only at one place can the

circuit be interrupted and the current consequently stopped--that is,

at the key of the sending instrument. Here then the sending clerk

sits, and by manipulating the lever of this key he 'makes and breaks'

the circuit at will, and thereby controls the current. The regulated

making and breaking of this connection is the basis of telegraphing,

whether by submarine cable or by the ordinary land lines. Accordingly

as the clerk maintains the circuit for a longer or a shorter time, so

will the current give longer or shorter indications on the receiving

instrument at the distant station: or again, according as the opposite

poles of the battery are applied to the cable by the key, and the

direction of the current consequently reversed in the cable, so will

the indicated signals on the receiving instrument be of opposite kind.

From the elementary short and long signals, or right and left signals,

so obtained on the receiving instrument, a code of letters and words

may be built up, and intelligible messages transmitted. The Morse Code

is that universally adopted, and for the further information of our

readers we here append it as it is usually written:

Letter. Sign.

A . --

B -- . . .

C -- . -- .

D -- . .

E .

F . . -- .

G -- -- .

H . . . .

I . .

J . -- -- --

K -- . --

L . -- . .

M -- --

N -- .

O -- -- --

P . -- -- .

Q -- -- . --

R . -- .

S . . .

T --

U . . --

V . . . --

W . -- --

X -- . . --

Y -- . -- --

Z -- -- . .

Ch -- -- -- --

_é_ (accented) . . -- . .

Understand . . . -- .

Wait . -- . .

The numerals run:

Numeral. Sign.

1 . -- -- -- --

2 . . -- -- --

3 . . . -- --

4 . . . . --

5 . . . . .

6 -- . . . .

7 -- -- . . .

8 -- -- -- . .

9 -- -- -- -- .

0 -- -- -- -- --

For other accented letters, fraction signs, punctuation, and official

directions as to the disposal of the message, there are other signs,

but the above are the essentials of the Morse Code. The long and short

signs represent the long and short signals of the receiving instrument,

produced by the long and short contacts of the sending key with the

battery. It will be seen that the letter A is rendered by a short

signal followed by a long one; the letter B by a long signal followed

by three separate short ones; and so on. Hence, in order to telegraph

the letter A to his colleague at the distant end of the line, the

clerk, by depressing the lever of the sending instrument, makes contact

between the cable and the battery, first for a short time, and then

for a longer time. The long and short signals are widely employed in

overland telegraphy; but in submarine telegraphy a saving of time is

effected by signals of _opposite kind_. Thus, if a left deflection, or

deflection of the indicator to the left, signifies a 'dot' or short

signal, a deflection to the right will signify a 'dash' or long signal.

In this case the sending instrument or key has two levers, a right and

left one, corresponding to the distinct signal which each produces. By

depressing the left lever of the key, a pole of the battery is applied

to the cable, which produces a left-hand signal on the receiving

instrument at the distant station; and by depressing the right-hand

lever, a right-hand signal is produced. Proper rests or intervals are

permitted between the separate words, letters, and full stops of a

message.

The battery in common use for submarine telegraphy is either the

sawdust Daniell or the Leclanché. The Daniell consists of a plate of

zinc and a plate of copper brought into contact with each other by

sawdust saturated with a solution of sulphate of zinc; and crystals

of sulphate of copper (bluestone) are packed round the copper plate,

so as to dissolve there in the solution of sulphate of zinc. The zinc

plate forms the _negative_ pole of the battery, and the copper plate

the _positive_ pole. When these two poles are connected together by a

wire or other conducting circuit, such as that made up of the cable and

the earth, a current of electricity--the voltaic current--flows from

one to the other, and always in one direction, namely, from the copper

or positive pole to the zinc or _negative_ pole. Hence it is that by

applying the one pole or other to the cable and the other to earth

through the earth-plate, the direction of the current in the cable is

reversed and opposite signals produced.

The earth-plate is usually a copper plate several feet square, sunk

deep into the moist subsoil near the station, so as to make a good

conducting contact with the mass of the earth.

The receiving instruments for working a submarine cable are different

from those used in working land-lines. Inasmuch as the current travels

full strength, like a bullet, through a land-line, and in the form

of an undulation or wave through a cable, so is it necessary to have

different kinds of receiving instruments for each. In a land-line

powerful currents can be used with impunity, and these can be made,

by means of electro-magnetism, to move comparatively heavy pieces of

mechanism in giving signals. But in a cable the currents are prudently

kept as low as possible, in case of damage to the insulator, and

the receiving instrument must therefore be delicate. In land-lines

the current passes in an instant, leaving the line clear for the

next signal, so that the indications of the receiving instrument are

abrupt and decided. But in a cable the electric current takes an

appreciable time to flow from end to end, so that the separate signals

in part coalesce, the beginning of one blending with the end of that

preceding it, so that the signals become involved with each other. It

is necessary, therefore, that time be allowed for each wave to clear

itself of the cable before another wave is sent in, otherwise we would

have the cable as it were _choked_ with the message. A continuous

current of electricity may be said to be flowing through it, and the

ripples on the surface are the separate signals of the message. It

is to take cognisance of these waves or ripples that the receiving

instrument for cable-work must be designed; and as the quicker the

message is sent into the cable the smaller these ripples will be, the

more delicate should be the instrument.

There are only two instruments in use on long cables, and both are the

invention of Sir William Thomson, the distinguished Glasgow physicist

and electrician. The mirror galvanometer has been already described

in this _Journal_ in a paper on the manufacture of submarine cables;

and the 'mirror' or 'speaker,' the commonest of these receiving

instruments, is but a modified form of the mirror galvanometer. It

consists of a hollow coil of silk-covered wire, in the heart of which

a tiny mirror, with several small magnets cemented to its back, is

suspended by a single thread of floss-silk fibre. A beam of light from

a lamp is thrown upon the mirror, and reflected from it on to a white

screen, across which a vertical zero-line is drawn. When no current

is passing through the coil, the reflected beam of light which makes

an illuminated spot or gleam on the screen, remains steady at the

zero-line. But when a current passes through the coil, the magnets in

its heart are moved and the mirror with them, so that the beam of light

is thrown off at a different angle, and the spot of light is seen to

move from the zero-line along the screen to right or to left of the

zero-line according as the current is made or reversed in the coil; so

that as the key is manipulated at the sending station, so are right

or left signals received by the clerk who sits watching the movements

of this spot of light, and interpreting them to his fellow-clerk, who

writes them down. In the form of instrument here described, and also

in the other receiving instrument for submarine work, the zero is not

fixed but movable. The vertical line on the screen is only the nominal

zero. The continuous current underlying the ripples which form the

message, deflects the spot from the zero-line; but this slow deflection

can be disregarded by the clerk, for over and above it there are

smaller quicker movements of the spot to right and left corresponding

to the ripples, and these are the proper signals of the message. It

requires long practice to make a good 'mirror' clerk, one who can

follow the gleam with his eye through all its quick and intricate

motions, and distinguish between those due to the shifting zero and

those due to the various signals sent. Even this compound-ripple

difficulty, however, is now got rid of by the use of an apparatus

called a 'condenser,' the effects of which are that continuous currents

are neutralised, and the pulsations of the signals sent are _alone_

seen in the movements of the light upon the scale.

The other instrument is the siphon recorder, which permanently records

in ink the signals which the 'mirror' only shews transiently. The

principle of the siphon recorder is the converse of that of the mirror.

In the mirror there is a large fixed coil and a light suspended magnet.

In the siphon recorder there is a large fixed magnet and a light

suspended coil. When the current passes through this coil, the latter

moves much in the same way as the magnet moves in the 'mirror;' that

is, it rocks to right or left according as the current flows. This

rocking motion is communicated, by a system of levers and fibres, to

a very fine glass capillary siphon, which dips into an ink-bottle

and draws off ink upon a strip of running paper. The ink is highly

electrified, so as to rush through the siphon and out upon the paper,

marking a fine line upon it as it runs. When no current passes in the

coil, this zero-line is straight; but when currents are passing, the

line becomes zigzag and wavy; and the right and left waves across

the paper constitute the message. Both of these instruments are very

beautiful and ingenious applications of well-known electric, optical,

and mechanical principles. The great merit of the recorder is that if

a false signal is accidentally made by the sending clerk, the whole

word need not always be lost by the receiving clerk, but may be made

out from the rest of the word written down. Thus much repetition of

messages is saved. There is some advantage too in having a written

message for purposes of after reference.

A singularly ingenious system of telegraphy, termed the _duplex_,

has recently been extended to long submarine cables, and is likely

to become of general, if not universal application. It is effected

by constructing an artificial line, in this case representing an

artificial cable, which shall have the same influences on the current

that the actual cable has. The signalling current from the battery

is then split up at each station between the actual cable and the

artificial cable, so that half flows into one and half into the other.

And there is placed a receiving instrument in such a way between these

two halves of the current that they exactly counterbalance each other's

effect upon it; and so long as sending is going on from a station, the

receiving instrument at that station is undisturbed. But the sending

currents from the other station have the power to disturb this balance

and cause signals to be made. Thus then, while the sending at a station

does not affect the receiving instrument in connection with the cable

there, the currents sent from the distant station cause it to mark the

signals. Each station is thus enabled to send a message and receive

one at the same time; and this is what is called duplex or double

telegraphy.

In ordinary telegraphy, one station is receiving while the other is

sending; but in duplex working, both stations are sending together and

receiving together, so that there is little or no delay in the traffic,

and the carrying power of a busy cable is practically doubled.