(_Continued from page 69._)
He had not gone very far from her before he found himself between rocks
and bushes and without a path; for however much he might deny it to
himself, the words of this extraordinary girl had made him anxious at
heart, and all his thoughts were centred on himself. However, he still
saw the shepherd's fire on the opposite meadow, and worked his way
through manfully, trying to get down to the plain below. He reckoned by
looking at the sun that it must be about ten o'clock. But when he had
climbed down the steep mountain side, he came upon a shady road, and
then to a wooden bridge across a fresh stream. This seemed to lead up
the other side, and out on to the meadow. He followed it, and at first
the path was a very steep one, but then went winding along the mountain
side. He soon saw that it would not bring him very quickly to his
destination; but large overhanging rocks above prevented his taking a
straighter direction, and he was obliged to trust himself to his path,
unless he turned back altogether. He walked on rapidly, and at first as
though loosed from bonds, glancing now and then up at the hut, which did
not seem to draw near. By and by, when his blood began to cool, he
recalled all the details of the scene he had just gone through. He saw
the lovely girl's face bodily before him, and not as before through the
mist of his anger. He could not help feeling full of pity for her.
"There she sits," he said to himself, "poor crazy thing, and trusts to
her magic arts. That was why she left the hut by moonlight, to pluck who
knows what harmless plant. Why, yes; my brave contrabandists showed me
the strange white flowers growing between the rocks, and told me they
were sure always to evoke mutual love. Innocent flowers, what things are
imputed to you! And that, too, was why the wine was so bitter on my
tongue. How everything child-like, the older it is, becomes the stronger
and more honoured! She stood before me like a sibyl, stronger and surer
in her faith than any of those Roman ones who cast their books into the
flames. Poor heart of woman, how lovely, yet how wretched in delusion!"
The further he went on his way, the more he felt the touching grandeur
of her love, and the power of her beauty enhanced by the separation. "I
ought not to have made her suffer for wishing in all good faith to save
me by freeing me from inevitable duties. I ought to have taken her hand
and to have said: 'I love you Fenice, and, if I live, I will come back
to you and take you home.' How blind of me not to think of that
suggestion! a disgrace for any lawyer! I ought to have taken leave of
her with a lover's kisses, and then she would never have suspected I was
deceiving her. Instead of which I tried to be straightforward where she
was defiant, and I only made things worse."
Then he buried himself in thoughts of such a leave-taking, and seemed to
feel her breath and the pressure of her red lips on his own. It was as
though he heard his name called. "Fenice!" he answered eagerly, and
stood still with beating heart. The stream flowed on below him, the
branches of the fir trees hung motionless; far and near was a vast,
shady wilderness.
Once again her name rose to his lips, but shame in time sealed his
mouth--shame and a sort of terror as well. He struck his forehead with
his hand. "Am I already so far gone that waking I dream of her?" he
exclaimed. "Is she right, and can no man under the sun resist her charm?
Then I were no better than she would make me out to be, worthy only to
be called a woman's man all my life long. No, away with you, you lovely,
treacherous fiend!"
He had regained his composure for the time being, but he now perceived
that he had utterly and entirely strayed from the path. He could not go
back without running into the arms of danger. So he decided at all
hazards to climb to some high point from which he could look about him
for the shepherd's hut. Where he was walking, the one bank of the
rushing stream below was too steep and precipitous. So he fastened his
coat round his neck, chose a safe spot, and at one bound had leapt
across to the other side of the chasm, the walls of which at that place
nearly met. With fresh courage he climbed the precipice on the other
side and soon stood out in the sun.
It scorched his head, and his tongue was dry, as he worked his way
upward with great exertion. Then, suddenly, he was seized with the fear
that, after all his trouble, he would not be able to reach his
destination. The blood went to his head more and more; he abused the
infernal wine that he had swallowed in the morning, and was forced to
think of the white blossoms that had been pointed out to him the day
before. They grew here too. He shuddered. What if it were true, he
thought, that there were powers which enthrall our heart and senses, and
bend a man's will to a girl's whim? better any extremity than such a
disgrace! rather death than slavery! "But no, no! a lie can only conquer
one who believes in it. Be a man, Filippo; forward, the summit is before
you; but a short while, and this cursed haunted mountain will be left
behind for ever!"
And yet he could not calm the fever in his veins. Each stone, each
slippery place, every bare pine-branch hanging before him, were
obstacles which he surmounted only by an almost superhuman effort of
will. When he at last arrived at the top, and still holding to the last
bush, swung himself on to the summit, he could not look about him for
the rapid coursing of the blood to his head, and the blinding, dazzling
light of the sun on the yellow rocks around. Furiously he rubbed his
forehead, and passed his fingers through his tangled hair as he lifted
his hat. But then he heard his name again in real earnest, and gazed
horror-struck in the direction from which came the sound. And there, a
few paces from him, Fenice sat on a rock just as he had left her, gazing
at him with intensely happy eyes.
"At last you have come, Filippo!" she said, earnestly. "I expected you
sooner."
"Spirit of evil," he shrieked, beside himself, and inwardly torn in two
by horror and attraction, "do you still mock me who have been wandering
distressed in these forsaken places, and with the sun beating down into
my very brain? Is it any triumph for you that I am forced to see you,
only to curse you once again? By heaven, though I have found you, I have
not sought you, and you will lose me yet."
She shook her head with a strange smile. "Something attracts you without
your knowledge," she said. "You would find me though all the mountains
in the world were between us, for I mixed with your wine seven drops of
the dog's heart-blood. Poor Fuoco! He loved me and hated you. Thus will
you hate the Filippo who so lately cast me off, and will find peace only
if you love me. Do you see now, Filippo, that I have conquered you at
last? Come, now I will again show you the way to Genoa, my darling, my
beloved, my husband!"
[Illustration: "HE FELL BACK INTO THE RAVINE."]
And she stood up and would have embraced him; but the sight of his face
suddenly startled her. He turned all at once pale as death, only the
white of the eyes was red; his lips moved, but no sound came; his hat
had fallen from his head, and with his hands he violently waved off her
approach.
"A dog! a dog!" were the first words he with difficulty ejaculated. "No,
no, no! you shall not conquer--demon that you are. Better a dead man
than a living dog!" Thereupon he burst into a peal of terrible laughter,
and slowly, as though he fought hard for each step, his eyes fixed and
staring at the girl, he staggered and fell back into the ravine behind
him.
For an instant her head swam, and all seemed dark around her. She
pressed her hands to her heart, and when she saw the tall form disappear
over the edge of the rock, she gave a scream which resounded through the
ravine like the cry of a falcon. She tottered forward a few steps, and
then stood straight and upright, her hands still pressed to her heart.
"Madonna!" she exclaimed mechanically.
Still looking before her she rapidly drew near the edge, and began to
climb down the stony wall between the fir trees. Words without sense or
meaning broke from her trembling lips. One hand she pressed against her
heart, while with the other she helped herself down by branches and
stones. Thus she reached the foot of the trees.
[Illustration: "THERE HE LAY."]
There he lay, his eyes closed, his hair and forehead covered with blood,
his back against the foot of an old tree. His coat was torn, and his
right leg seemed hurt. She could not tell whether he was still alive.
She took him in her arms, and then felt that he still moved. "Praised be
the Lord!" she said, and breathed more freely. She seemed to be endowed
with a giant's strength as she began to climb the steep ascent, carrying
the helpless man in her arms. But it was a weary way. Four times she
laid him down on the mossy rocks. He was still unconscious.
When at last she gained the summit with her hapless burden, she too sank
down, and lay for a moment fainting and oblivious. Then she got up and
went in the direction of the shepherd's hut. As soon as she was near
enough, she gave a shrill cry across the valley. She was answered first
by echo only, then by a man's voice. She repeated her cry and then
turned back without waiting for the answer. When she stood again beside
the senseless man, she groaned aloud, and lifting him, carried him into
the shade of the rock, where she herself had been sitting waiting for
him.
When he awoke to consciousness, and slowly opened his eyes again, he
found himself still there. He saw two shepherds beside him, an old man
and a lad of about seventeen. They were throwing water in his face and
rubbing his temples. His head was pillowed softly. He little knew that
it was in the girl's lap. He seemed altogether to have forgotten her. He
drew a long breath, which made his whole frame quiver, and again closed
his eyes. At last he said in trembling tones, "Will one of you good
people go down--quickly, to Pistoja. I am expected there. May God, in
His mercy, reward whoever will tell the landlord of the Fortuna--what
has happened to me. My name is----" but here his voice failed him. He
had fainted again.
"I will go," said the girl. "Meanwhile, you two must carry the gentleman
to Treppi and lay him in the bed which Nina will show you. She must send
for the _chiaruccia_, the old woman, and let her attend to the gentleman
and dress his wounds. Lift him up; you take the shoulders, Tommaso; you,
Bippo, take the legs. When you go uphill, you must go first, Tommaso.
Now, raise him gently, gently! and, stay--dip this in water and lay it
on his forehead, and wet it again at every spring. Do you understand?"
She tore off a great piece of the linen kerchief on her head, dipped it
in water and laid it on Filippo's bleeding brow. Then they lifted him,
and the men started to carry him to Treppi. Fenice, after watching them
some time with anxious, straining eyes, gathered up her skirts and went
rapidly down the rough and stony mountain path.
* * * * *
It was nearly three in the afternoon when she reached Pistoja. The
Fortuna Inn was some hundred paces outside the town, and at this hour of
siesta there was not much life about the place. Carriages, with the
horses taken out, stood in the shade under the overhanging roof, the
drivers fast asleep on the cushions; opposite, too, at the great smithy,
work had stopped; and not a breath of air penetrated through the dusty
trees along the high road. Fenice went up to the fountain before the
house, the busy jet of water flowing ceaselessly down into the great
stone trough, and there refreshed her hands and face. Then she took a
long slow drink to satisfy both thirst and hunger, and went into the
inn.
The landlord got up sleepily from the bench at the bar, but sat down
again when he saw that it was only a girl from the hills who thus
disturbed his rest.
"What do you want?" he said to her sharply. "If you want anything to
eat, or wine to drink, go to the kitchen."
"Are you the landlord?" she asked quietly.
"I should think so; I should think everyone knew _me_--Baldassare Tizzi,
of the Fortuna. What do you bring me, my good girl?"
"A message from the lawyer, Signor Filippo Mannini."
"Eh, what? Indeed? That's another matter," and he got up hurriedly. "Is
he not coming himself, child? There are some gentlemen here waiting for
him."
"Then take me to them."
"What, secrets? May I not know what message he sends to these
gentlemen?"
"No."
"Well, well, my child, well, well. Each one has his own secrets--your
pretty little obstinate head as well as old Baldassare's hard pate. So
he is not coming? The gentlemen will not be pleased at that; they
evidently have important business with him."
He stopped and looked at the girl with a sidelong glance. But as she did
not show any signs of taking him further into her confidence, and went
to open the door, he put on his straw hat and went with her, shaking his
head all the time.
[Illustration: AT THE FORTUNA INN.]
There was a small vineyard at the back of the inn, which they walked
through, the old man keeping up a continued flow of questions and
exclamations, to which the girl did not deign to reply. At the further
end of the middle walk stood a poor-looking summerhouse; the shutters
were closed, and inside a thick curtain hung behind the glass door. The
landlord made Fenice stop a little way from this pavilion, and went up
to the door, which was opened when he knocked. Fenice noticed how the
curtain was then drawn on one side, and a pair of eyes looked out at
her. Then the old man came back to her and said that the gentlemen would
speak to her.
As Fenice entered the pavilion, a man, who had been sitting at the table
with his back to the door, rose from his seat and gave a sharp and
penetrating look at her. Two other men remained seated. On the table she
saw bottles of wine and glasses.
"Is Signor Filippo, the lawyer, not coming according to promise?" asked
the man before whom she stood. "Who are you, and what verification have
you of your message?"
"I am Fenice Cattaneo, sir; a maiden from Treppi. Verification? I have
none, except that I am speaking the truth."
"Why is he not coming? We thought he was a man of honour."
"And he is so still; but he has fallen from a rock and hurt his head and
legs, and is unconscious."
Her interlocutor exchanged looks with the other man, and then said:
"You betray the truth at all events, Fenice Cattaneo, because you do not
understand how to lie. If he had lost consciousness, how could he send
you here to tell us of it?"
[Illustration: "IS SIGNOR FILIPPO NOT COMING?"]
"Speech came back to him at intervals. And he then said that he was
expected here at the inn; I was to let you know what had happened to
him."
One of the other men gave a short, dry laugh. "You see," said the
speaker, "these gentlemen do not believe much of your tale either.
Certainly it is easier to play the poet than the man of honour."
"If, Signor, you mean by that that Signor Filippo has not come here out
of cowardice, then it is an abominable falsehood, and may heaven reckon
it to you!" She said this fiercely, and looked at them all three in
succession.
"You wax warm, little one," scoffed the man. "You are doubtless Signor
Filippo's sweetheart, eh?"
"No, the Madonna knows I am not!" replied she in her deepest voice. The
men whispered together, and she heard one of them say: "That nest up
there is Tuscan still."--"You don't seriously believe in this dodge?"
asked the third. "He is no more at Treppi than----"
Their whispering was interrupted by Fenice: "Come and see for
yourselves! But you must not carry arms if I am to be your guide."
"Foolish child," said the first speaker, "do you think that we would
take the life of so pretty a creature as you?"
"No, but his life; I feel sure you would."
"Have you any other conditions to make, Fenice Cattaneo?"
"Yes, that you take a surgeon with you. Perhaps you already have one
with you, signors?"
No one answered her. But the three men put their heads together in eager
talk. "When we arrived I saw him by chance in the front part of the
house," said one of them; "I hope he has not yet gone back to the town,"
and then he left the pavilion. He came back shortly with a fourth
individual, who did not seem to know the rest of the party.
"Will you do us the favour to go up to Treppi with us?" asked the first
speaker. "You have probably been told what it is all about."
The other bowed in silence, and they all left the pavilion. As they
passed the kitchen, Fenice asked for some bread, and ate a few
mouthfuls. Then she went on in front of the party, and took the road to
the mountains. She paid no heed to her companions, who were talking
eagerly together, but hurried on as fast as she could; sometimes they
had to call to her, or she would have been lost to sight. Then she stood
still, and gazed into space in a hopeless, dreamy way, her hand firmly
pressed to her heart. The evening had closed in before they reached the
heights.
[Illustration: "SHE WENT ON IN FRONT OF THE PARTY."]
The little village of Treppi looked no livelier than usual. A few
children's faces peered curiously out at the open windows, and one or
two women came out to their doors, as Fenice went past with her
companions. She spoke to no one as she drew near her home, returning the
neighbours' greeting with a hasty wave of the hand. A group of men stood
talking before the door, others were busy with some heavily-laden
horses, and contrabandists hurried to and fro. A sudden silence came
over the people, as they saw the strangers approaching. They stepped on
one side, and allowed them to pass. Fenice exchanged a few words with
Nina in the big room, and then opened her own chamber door.
The wounded man lay stretched on the bed in the dimly-lighted room. An
old, old woman, from the village, sat on the floor beside him.
"How goes it, _chiaruccia_?" asked Fenice.
"Not so badly, praised be the Madonna!" answered the old woman,
measuring with rapid glances the gentlemen who followed the girl into
the room.
Filippo started suddenly out of his sleep, his pale face glowing. "Is it
you?" he asked.
"Yes; I have brought with me the gentleman with whom you were to fight,
that he may see for himself that you could not go. And there is a
surgeon here, too."
The dull eye of the wounded man slowly surveyed the four strange faces.
"He is not one of them," he said. "I know none of these gentlemen."
When he had said this, and was about to close his eyes again, the chief
spokesman stepped forward: "It is sufficient that we know _you_," he
said, "Signor Filippo Mannini. We had orders to await you and arrest
you. Letters of yours have been found, from which it appears that it is
not only to fight a duel that you have come back to Tuscany, but to
renew certain connections through which your party will receive
advances. You see before you the commissary of police, and here are my
orders." He took a paper out of his pocket, and held it out to Filippo.
But he only stared at it as if he had not understood a word, and fell
back again into a half-stunned state.
"Examine his wounds, doctor," said the commissary, turning to the
surgeon. "If his state in any way permits, we must have this gentleman
transported down without delay. I saw horses outside. We shall be
enforcing the law in two ways if we take possession of them, for they
are laden with smuggled goods. It is a good thing to know what kind of
people visit Treppi, if one really wishes for the information."
As he said this, and the surgeon approached the bed, Fenice disappeared
out of the room. The old _chiaruccia_ sat on quietly where she was,
muttering to herself. Voices were heard outside, and a great bustle of
people coming and going, faces looked in at the hole in the wall, but
disappeared again quickly.
"It is just possible," said the surgeon, "that we can get him conveyed
down, if his wounds are well and firmly bandaged. Of course, he would
get well much quicker if he were left here quietly in the care of this
old witch, whose herbs and balsams would put to shame the most learned
physician. His life might be endangered by wound-fever on the way, and I
will on no account take any responsibility."
"It is not necessary--not at all," returned the commissary. "The _way_
we get rid of him need not be taken into consideration. Put your
bandages on him as tightly as you can, that nothing be wanting, and then
forward! It is moonlight, and we will take a guide. Go you outside,
Molza, and make sure of the horses."
[Illustration: "THE CONSTABLE STOOD PETRIFIED."]
The constable to whom this order was addressed opened the door quickly,
and would have gone out, but stood petrified at the unexpected sight
that met his view. The adjoining room was filled by a band of villagers,
with two contrabandists at their head. Fenice was still talking to them
as the door opened. She now advanced to her own chamber door, and said
with ringing tones:--
"Gentlemen, you must leave this room immediately, and without the
wounded man, or you will never see Pistoja again. No blood has ever been
shed in this house as long as Fenice Cattaneo has been mistress of it,
and may the Madonna ever preserve us from such horrors. Nor must you
attempt to come back again with a stronger force. Remember the place
where the rocky steps wind up between the cliffs. A child could defend
that pass, if the stones that lie on the top were rolled over the edge.
We will keep a watch posted there until this gentleman is in safety. Now
you can go, and boast of your heroic deed, that you deceived a girl, and
would have murdered a wounded man."
The faces of the constables grew paler and paler, and a pause ensued
after her last words. Then all three of them drew pistols out of their
pockets, and the commissary said calmly: "We come in the name of the
law. If you do not respect it yourselves, would you prevent others from
enforcing it? It may cost the lives of six of you, if you oblige us to
carry out the law by force."
A murmur ran through the group.
"Silence, friends!" exclaimed the determined girl. "They dare not do it.
They know that for each one they shoot down, his murderer would die a
six-fold death. You speak like a fool," she went on, turning to the
commissary. "The fear depicted on your faces is a more sensible
spokesman. Do as it suggests to you. The way is open to you, gentlemen!"
[Illustration: "THEY MARCHED THROUGH THE EXCITED BAND OF VILLAGERS."]
She stepped back, pointing with her left hand to the door of the house.
The men in the bedroom whispered together a little; then, with tolerable
composure, they marched through the excited band of villagers, whose
parting curses waxed louder and louder as the strangers left the house.
The surgeon seemed uncertain whether to go too, but, on an authoritative
sign from the girl, he hastily joined his companions.
The wounded man in bed had followed the entire scene with wide-open
eyes. The old woman now went to him and settled his pillows. "Lie still,
my son!" she said. "There is no danger. The old _chiaruccia_ keeps
watch, and our Fenice, blessed child, will see that you are safe. Sleep,
sleep!"
She hushed him to slumber like a child, singing monotonously until he
slept. But the face of Fenice was with him in his dreams.
* * * * *
For ten days Filippo had been up in the mountains, nursed by the old
woman. He slept soundly at night, and in the daytime he sat at the open
door enjoying the fresh air and the solitude. As soon as he was able to
write once more, he sent a messenger to Bologna with a letter, to which
he received an answer the next day; but his pale countenance did not
show whether it was satisfactory or not. He spoke to no one except his
old nurse and the children from the village. Fenice he saw only in the
evening, when she was busy at her fireside, for she left the house with
the rising sun and remained away the whole day in the mountains. He
gathered from chance remarks that this was not her usual custom. But
even when she was in the house there was no opportunity of talking to
her. Altogether, she seemed not to notice his presence in the very
least, and her life went on as before. But her face had become like
stone, and the light had faded from her eyes.
One day, enticed on by the lovely weather, Filippo had gone further than
usual from the house, and for the first time, conscious of returning
strength, was climbing up a gentle slope, when, turning a corner of a
rock, he was startled to see Fenice sitting on the moss beside a spring.
She had a distaff and a spindle in her hands, and as she spun was lost
in thought. She looked up when she heard Filippo's footsteps, but did
not utter a word, nor did the expression of her face alter. She rose up
quickly and began to collect her things. She went away, too, without
heeding that he called her, and was soon lost to sight.
The morning after this meeting he had just risen, and his thoughts had
flown to her again, when the door of his room was opened and Fenice
walked in quietly. She remained standing at the door, and waved him back
haughtily when he would have hurried up to her.
"You are now quite cured," she said, coldly. "I have spoken to the old
woman. She thinks that you are strong enough to travel, in short stages
and on horseback. You will, therefore, leave Treppi to-morrow morning
early, and never again return. I demand this promise from you."
"I will give you the promise, Fenice, but on one condition only."
She was silent.
"That you will go with me, Fenice!" he exclaimed in unrestrained
emotion.
Her brows knit in anger. But she controlled herself, and, holding the
door-handle, said: "How have I merited your mockery? You must make the
promise without a condition; I exact it from your sense of honour,
Signor."
[Illustration: "A DISTAFF AND SPINDLE IN HER HANDS."]
"Would you thus cast me off after causing your love-potion to enter my
very marrow, and make me yours for ever, Fenice?"
[Illustration: "HE FLUNG HIMSELF ON THE STONES AT HER FEET."]
She quietly shook her head. "From henceforth there is no more magic
between us," she said, gloomily. "You had lost blood before the potion
had had time to take effect; the spell is broken. And it is well, for I
see that I did wrong. Let us speak no more about it, and say only that
you will go. A horse will be ready and a guide for wherever you wish to
go."
"And if it be no longer the same magic which binds me to you, it must be
some other which you know not of, Fenice. As sure as God is over us."
"Silence!" she interrupted, and curled her lip scornfully. "I am deaf to
any speeches you can make. If you think you owe me anything and would
take pity on me--then leave me, and that will settle our account. You
shall not think that this poor head of mine can learn nothing. I know
now that one can buy a man no more by humble services than by seven long
years of waiting, which are also, in the sight of God, a matter of no
moment. You must not think that you have made me miserable--you have
cured me! Go! and my thanks go with you!"
"Answer me, in God's name!" he exclaimed, beside himself as he drew
nearer, "have I cured you, also, of your love?"
"No," she said, firmly. "Why do you ask about it? It belongs to me; you
have neither power nor right over it. Go!"
Thereupon she stepped back across the threshold. The next moment he had
flung himself on the stones at her feet, and clasped her knees.
"If what you say be true," he cried, overcome with grief, "then save me,
take me to yourself, or this head of mine, saved by a miracle, will go
to pieces like my heart, which you reject and spurn. My world is a void,
my life a prey to hatred and revenge, my old and my new homes banish
me--what is there left for me to live for if I must lose you, too?"
Then he raised his eyes to her and saw the tears streaming down her
cheeks. Her face was still immovable; she drew a long breath and opened
her eyes; her lips moved, but no sound came; the life in her seemed to
awaken with one burst. She bent down and raised him with her powerful
arms. "You are mine," she said, with trembling voice. "Then I, too, will
be yours!"
* * * * *
When the sun rose the following day, the pair were on their way to
Genoa, whither Filippo had decided to retire from the persecutions of
his enemies. The pale, tall man rode on a steady horse, which his
betrothed led by the bridle. On either side the hills and valleys of the
beautiful Apennines lay bright in the clear autumnal air, the eagles
were circling overhead, and far in the distance shone the deep-blue sea.
And bright and tranquil like the far-off ocean the travellers' future
lay before their eyes.
[Illustration]
_Our Money Manufactory._
Numismatics is a science in which the vast majority of people probably
take but the faintest interest. Yet the history of coinage, its
developments, its ramifications, is bound up indissolubly with the
history of the human race. It is the history of money; and money, as
Carlyle said of his own time, is the one certain nexus as between man
and man. Money is the determining factor in four-fifths of our
relationships. It has made the world what it is; on the one hand it has
brutalised mankind, and on the other it has given man unrivalled
opportunities of winning popular esteem. Money has ruined and created
individuals, families, States. Equally often it has brought worldly
happiness and worldly misery; it has broken hearts, unhinged reasons,
undone great enterprises; it has shed light in dark places, secured
comfort for the weary and the suffering, and involved all that heart can
desire. Noble knees have bent before "Lucre's sordid charms"; the humble
and the struggling have exalted themselves to place and power by its
means. Pope gives us an idea not only of the use but of the abuse to
which riches may be put, from the hiring of the dark assassin to the
corruption of a friend, and the bribing of a Senate.
[Illustration: RUNNING SILVER INTO MOULDS.]
Money in the form of cash has been infinitely more to civilisation than
mere barter and exchange ever were to barbarous races content to accept
one article in payment for another. It is, in fact, only necessary to
let the mind dwell for a period on all that the possession or want of
coin means to a people, individually and collectively, to render any
inquiry into the working of our money manufactory one of considerable
fascination. The attractions of the Mint for the ordinary sightseer
have, it would seem, yearly become greater, and in 1889, according to
the Report of the Deputy Master, the number of visitors was larger than
in any previous year, no less than 7,912 persons--that is, an average of
twenty-five a day--having been shown over the establishment on Tower
Hill. Vivid an idea of the place as the illustrations which accompany
this article will convey to those who have never been to the Mint, it
may at once be said, that to thoroughly grasp the actual work done
there, a visit is essential. It is an institution round which centres so
much human energy and scientific achievement that a picture should
certainly make most people anxious to know something more about it.
The Mint, as one approaches it on Tower Hill, suggests that it may be a
barrack, and the sentry pacing up and down outside lends colour to this
view, until one finds one's passage through the entrance gate blocked by
a sturdy policeman. Unless you happen to be fully armed with
credentials, or orders, you will not easily run the gauntlet of the
keeper of the peace and the gate, affable gentleman though he is. To be
shown over the Mint you must get an order from the Deputy Master, and
then everything is clear.
Once within the precincts of the establishment, your education--if it is
a first visit, as this of ours is--begins. You have probably, when
pocketing your salary at the end of the week, never given a moment's
thought as to the process by which money comes into the world. The
pounds (if you have any), the shillings, and the pence which you carry
in your pockets are the result of a combination of experience and skill
which you, perhaps, little suspect.
When the bullion--the metal in its pure state--arrives at the Mint, it
is assayed--that is, tested. It is then passed on to the Melting-room,
and, together with the baser metal which forms the alloy necessary to
reduce it to the proper standard, placed in the crucible, or
melting-pot. Let us take the coining of silver as an example. The
crucible used is made of mixed clay and graphite, each vessel holding
about three thousand ounces. On two sides of the Melting-room are coke
furnaces, and into one of these the crucible is dropped.
[Illustration: IN THE ROLLING-ROOM.]
Here it remains until the metal is at a molten heat, when it is lifted
by means of a crane on to an apparatus shown in our illustration. This
forms a pretty sight. The crucible is red-hot, and the boiling metal, as
it is stirred vigorously by one of the men with an iron rod, emits a
lovely bluish flame. The apparatus tilts the pot, and the metal runs
into a series of moulds which move on a carriage underneath. These
moulds being well oiled, the metal has no chance of becoming part of
them. The bars formed in this way are twelve inches long and
three-eighths of an inch thick. When removed from the moulds their edges
are ragged, but a revolving file soon makes them smooth, and the bars
are ready to be again assayed. A piece is chipped from one of them, and
if the necessary standard of fineness has been secured, the bars pass to
the next department.
This is the Rolling-room. The metal, it must be understood, is far from
hard, and the reduction of the thickness and consequent increase in the
length, due to the rolling of the bars, are not so difficult a matter as
to the uninitiated they may seem. The bars are placed between adjustable
cylinders and rolled into strips, or "fillets" as they are called.
They pass several times through the machine, being reduced the
one-nineteenth part of an inch in each rolling at first, but, finally,
only the one-hundredth part of an inch. Naturally the process makes the
metal very hard, and it has to be annealed--that is, heated and
softened--constantly until it is the right thickness. We need only state
that the strips from which half-sovereigns are made must not vary more
than 1-20,000th part of an inch--in other words, they must be within
1-10,000th part of an inch of the nominal thickness--to give an idea of
the minute care with which every stage of the development of the coin
has to be watched. Two-tenths of a grain is the divergence allowed in
the weight of the sovereign, but even this margin may mean a difference
of more than £3,000 on a million sovereigns.
[Illustration: MARKING MACHINE.]
The strips, as they leave the Rolling-room, are about four feet long and
double the width of the shilling. They are taken to the Cutting-room,
and here for the first time we get something approaching a piece of
money. The "fillets" are placed in the cutting-machines, by a man who
feeds two at a time. No doubt many persons have formed the idea that the
coin is cut, cucumber-fashion, from a metal rod; we have, indeed, heard
people suggest as much. Well, the foregoing is sufficient to dispel any
such notion. The fillet passes beneath two punches, and over holes the
size of the coin. As the former descend with swift, sharp, irresistible
force, they punch the "blanks" of the coin out of the strip. The blanks
fall through a tube into a tray or pan, and what remains of the strips
is sent back to the Melting-room, to be turned again into bars. In the
case of shillings, two blanks are forced out at once. In the case of
copper, five disappear at a blow, but in the case of large silver coins,
only one blank is cut at a time. The blanks of the shilling are produced
at the rate of some 300 an hour.
[Illustration: CUTTING MACHINE.]
Having secured the blank, it might well be imagined that there was
nothing more to be done but to impress it with the proper device on its
obverse and reverse. But we are not yet more than half-way on the road
to the coin which can be sent to the Bank, there to be handed over the
counter to the public.
Close by the cutting-machine is what is called a marking-machine. The
special function of this is to raise the edge which all coins possess
for the protection of their face. The blank is run into a groove in a
rapidly revolving disc, and edges are produced at the rate of between
six and seven hundred an hour; in fact, almost as quickly as the man can
feed the machine.
We cannot help but listen pensively for a moment to the thud, thud, of
the cutting machine as the punches strike the fillet, and watch with
keen interest the express rate at which the marking is accomplished. To
see the blank being turned out at this pace is to make one's mouth
literally water, and one's heart and pocket wish that it were so easy
and so mechanical a business to "make money" in one's daily doings. And
then it strikes us: What do these men, with their usually grimy aprons
and often blackened faces, get for their work in turning out so much
coin of the realm? They seem to have a very good time of it on the
whole, and the conditions of light, warmth, and safety under which they
labour are certainly in striking contrast to the trials, the dangers,
and the dreariness of the lives of those who unearth the metal.
On an average, each workman in the operative department of the Mint
makes his £2 10s. a week. He enters the service of the department as a
boy, and remains there through his working life, if he cares to do so
and proves trustworthy. No one is accepted for employment after sixteen
years of age, and every precaution is taken by the authorities against
the weakness of human nature. Each room is under a separate official,
without whose assistance in the unlocking of doors no employé can leave.
There is no hardship in this daily imprisonment, every department being
fitted up with all conveniences for cooking, eating, &c.; and, judging
from what we have seen, we should say the lives of the operatives at the
Mint are not unenviable. Of one thing we can speak very positively, and
that is as to their natures: their geniality is a characteristic they
share in common with their chief superintendent. If one had seriously
contemplated becoming an operative, they could not have taken more pains
to initiate one into the mysteries of the coinage.
We now make our way to the Annealing-room. Here the scene changes
entirely. The buzz, the whirr, and bang of the all powerful machinery
give place to several furnaces. The blanks are brought in in bags, are
emptied into an iron tray, and shoved along an elongated sort of oven,
of which our illustration gives an excellent impression. It shows the
man standing with the iron rod and hook in hand ready to push the tray
to the farther end of the oven.
We venture modestly to suggest that the structure would do admirably for
the purposes of cremation.
"Quite right, sir, it would! I suppose you wouldn't like to try it?"
We frankly and honestly confess we should not.
[Illustration: ANNEALING FURNACE.]
After a few minutes the blanks are sufficiently baked. If one's own
valuable carcase had been in that red-hot oven for ever so short a time,
it would have come out charred and hardened. Not so the metal, which is
considerably softened.
The blanks are now tipped into a perforated sort of basin, which is
picked up by a man from another room and carried away.
We have during all this time been standing in a heat which would do
credit to a Turkish bath.
But now, again, the conditions change entirely, and we are in a room
filled with steam, and cold enough to refrigerate one. Here the blanks
are plunged into a tank of cold water, which hisses and spits like a
dozen angry snakes as the hot metal touches it. From the cooling bath
the blanks go to the acid bath. Into this latter they disappear black
with the oxide of copper clinging to them. Pears' Soap or Sapolio, or
whatever means to cleanliness we may employ, would hardly accomplish the
wonders in an hour's application to the human skin, which a few seconds
of the sulphuric solution accomplishes with the blank of the coin. They
emerge from their bath in every sense white as snow.
The blanks are, of course, wet, and before they can assume the full
honours of the complete coin they have to be dried. How is this done? By
blowing on them with a bellows? By wiping each blank separately with a
cloth? By placing them in front of a fire or even in the oven again? No.
They are simply emptied into a revolving box containing beech-wood
sawdust. A turn about in this, and they and the sawdust are emptied into
a sieve, from which the sawdust escapes with a little shaking. The
sawdust is dried on a hot slab or bench, and is used again; the blanks
are ready for the Press or Die room.
In the illustration of this room the man is standing with a handful of
blanks feeding a small tube or shoot, from which they drop on to a
sliding plate and are conveyed into a collar, as it is called. We see
the piece a blank for the last time. Once in the collar, if the
machinery is in motion, nothing can save that smooth-faced blank from
becoming, in appearance at least, a coin of the realm. The blank rests
on a die and beneath a die. The latter descends with precision and
force, and the blank finds itself for an instant in a grip more powerful
than miser ever gave his hoard. It would, if it could, spread itself out
to the thinnest possible substance. But as it seeks to escape under the
pressure its edge comes in contact with the sides of the collar. These
are milled or lettered, and whatever they contain appears on the coin.
It is not generally known that the object of this milling or lettering
is to prevent the clipping or debasement of the money. In Queen
Elizabeth's time, and on to the reign of William III.--during the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries--the operations of the clippers were
very serious. Men made fortunes by paring a small piece from every coin
in their possession, and even the death penalty failed to check the
evil. A year or two before the beginning of the eighteenth century a
mill, worked by horses, was started in the Tower of London to replace
the old system of making money by the hand-wielded hammer. The edge of
the coin was made to bear an inscription, and the operations of the
clipper were rendered practically impossible. Even to-day offences in
connection with the currency are numerous. In 1889 110 persons were
convicted out of 194 charged with issuing counterfeit coins, having them
in their possession, or actually making them. The more ingenious the
device on the coin produced by the Imperial mint, the less likely is a
counterfeit to pass muster for long.
[Illustration: DRYING BLANKS.]
The coin leaves the Press-room complete, and has to pass only one other
ordeal, that, namely, of the Weighing-room. Here it is placed on a
wonderful automatic balance. If it is too light it falls into a drawer
on one side, if correct into a drawer in the centre, if too heavy into a
drawer on the other side. The average of coins which are either too
heavy or too light, and consequently have to be returned to the melting
pot, is, owing to the smallness of the "remedy" or margin of weight
allowed, as much as 13 per cent.
There are thirty of these little machines employed, and their
workmanship may be judged by the fact that each one costs £300. Bronze
coins are not subjected to this severe test, but are weighed in bulk in
a huge scale. Every year there is what is called "The Trial of the
Pyx"--the pyx being the chest containing sample coins. A coin is taken,
without preference, from every "journey weight" of gold, a "journey
weight" being 15 lb. troy, or 701 sovereigns, or 1,402 half sovereigns.
The work of testing is performed by a jury, composed of freemen of the
Goldsmiths' Company in the presence of the Queen's Remembrancer, and the
report of the jury is laid before the Treasury. The yearly verdict shows
how wonderfully and uniformly accurate the standard of fineness has
remained, averaging, as it did in 1889, according to the Deputy Master's
Report, 916·657, the precise standard being 916·6. As regards silver,
the English standard of 925 is, with the exception of certain coins,
averaging 945 in the Netherlands, the highest in the world, the average
in France being 835, and in Germany and the United States, 900.
[Illustration: COINING PRESS.]
The Deputy Master's Report for 1889 was rendered especially interesting
from the fact that it was the twentieth issued under the present system
of Mint administration. It was only in 1870 that the Mastership of the
Mint ceased to be a separate office, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer
became _ex officio_ Master, with the Deputy Master as principal
executive officer. The Mint was removed to its present site from the
Tower of London in 1810. With the increase of its labours, the buildings
afforded quite insufficient accommodation, and from 1871 to 1881 several
Bills were introduced into the House of Commons with a view to acquiring
a new site on the Thames Embankment. The governor of the Bank of
England, however, having in 1881 declared that no inconvenience would
arise if all gold coinage were suspended for a year, it was determined
to improve the existing structure. The changes were commenced on
February 1, 1882, and ended early in the following December. The result
has been to place the department in a position to meet almost any
demands which may be made upon it. The machinery was nearly all renewed,
and the arrangements now admit of the simultaneous coinage of two
metals. During July, 1889, the producing capabilities of the Mint were
put to the test, and one million perfect sovereigns were struck and
issued in a week. The coinage in that year of £9,746,538, to which
previous reference has been made, was nearly four times the average of
the previous ten years. Even this enormous sum does not represent the
whole of the coinage operations of the country in 1889. A considerable
portion of the Colonial coins required were turned out by a firm
formerly known as Ralph Heaton & Sons, but now called "The Mint,
Birmingham, Limited."[A] Messrs. Heaton were for many years a sort of
Imperial Mint Auxiliary. The idea once got abroad that all bronze coins
stamped with the letter "H" were counterfeit, whereas the initial simply
denoted that their manufacture had been entrusted to Messrs. Heaton. The
Mint, Birmingham, does most of the coinage for small foreign States
which look to England to convert their ingots to money.
The Imperial Mint, in the words of so many company prospectuses, is a
going concern. It levies a seigniorage which brings in a handsome
revenue. This seigniorage was abolished by Charles II., but restored by
an Act of George III., which required every pound of silver to be coined
into 66 shillings instead of 62--the extra four shillings to go to
defray the expenses of the establishment. During five out of the 18
years, 1872 to 1889, the Mint was worked at a loss; but, taking the
whole 18 years, the average net profit was as much as £83,724. The
profit made in 1889 amounted to no less than £780,691 12s. 5d. What the
record for 1890 will be it is too early yet to know, but 1889 will, in
every respect, take a lot of beating.
The Mint does not confine itself to the production of coins, but strikes
thousands of medals every year for the War Office, the Board of Trade,
the University of London, the Royal and other Societies. It may be
remembered that Pope addressed some admirable lines to Addison _à
propos_ of one of his dialogues, on the historic virtues of the medal.
He pictures all the glories and triumphs of the Imperial ambition of
Rome shrunk into a coin. "A narrow orb each conquest keeps," he says,
and he demands when Britain shall "in living medals see her wars
enrolled," and "vanquished realms supply recording gold." The historian
must always bear grateful testimony to the assistance derivable from the
metallic tokens of a country, no matter whether they show "a small
Euphrates," or merely an inscription, and the head of the sovereign.
They are imperishable witnesses in the cause of accuracy and truth.
[Illustration: WEIGHING ROOM.]