December comes round again with its blustering winds and rude gales;
there is every prospect of a spell of rough weather, and Captain Walter
Reeves looks with intense satisfaction at his gallant ship the _Leo_,
again riding securely at her anchor in Seabright Bay.
A season on shore just now, when festivities are about to commence, is
in his idea far preferable to being tossed about on a squally sea or
cruising about from port to port; so he congratulates himself on being
ordered home. He hears of the gay doings at Government House, and how
Katie is the reigning belle of Seabright; and he listens placidly,
without one throb of emotion. Time has proved a panacea. He has no pang
of regret that Sir Herbert is the husband of this very attractive woman
of fashion, instead of himself. As a matter of duty, he is on his way
to call at Government House, when outside a fashionable shop in one of
the streets he sees a well-appointed carriage drawn up, and in it he
catches a glimpse of a well-known form and face. An obsequious shopman
is standing on the edge of the curb-stone displaying some articles of
bijouterie; a coachman in dark livery, with a black cockade in his hat,
is holding the reins. It _is_ Lady Dillworth. There is no mistaking
her imperial manner, as she speaks out in that slightly commanding
voice; neither is there any mistaking her handsome face, her brilliant
eyes, her dark coronal of hair, as she sits there in her proud beauty.
Walter, as he crosses the street, takes note of her velvet, her
sealskin, and the feathers and the damask rosebuds in her bonnet, and
thinks all this suits the Admiral's wife very well. He hears her say
to the shopman: 'The price is eight guineas, you say. Are the stones
real?'
'Yes, my Lady; and they are very fine and well set. You are the first
to whom I have had the honour of shewing them.'
'Send one of them to Government House. Or stay,' adds she musingly--'I
want another for a present for a friend; so you may send me two
bouquet-holders.'
'Sixteen guineas for such rubbish as that! I'm very glad the money
comes out of the Admiral's purse, and not out of mine. A poor
Commander's exchequer would not stand many such attacks as that,'
thinks Walter, rather ungallantly, as he now greets the occupant of the
carriage.
Katie is surprised to see him, and says so as she holds out her
daintily gloved hand. 'I had no idea the _Leo_ had returned. Have you
been long here?'
'I arrived only last night, and am on my way to Government House.'
'How unfortunate there is no one at home! Sir Herbert went to Belton
Park this morning, and I am on my way to the station to meet a
friend who is coming to stay with me. By-the-by, you know the young
lady--Liddy Delmere. Do you remember her?'
'Isn't she very pretty and a blonde?'
'Yes; she has both those attractions.'
'And doesn't she sing nicely?'
'O yes! Liddy can sing if she likes; and her voice is not a bad
soprano,' replies Lady Dillworth with one of her brightest smiles.
'Then I'm sure I've often met her at your house in former days.'
'You had better come and refresh your memory this evening. We shall be
quite alone, and very pleased to see you at Government House.'
Captain Reeves is of course delighted to meet Lady Dillworth on such
friendly terms. He accepts the impromptu invitation at once.
The past, with its shadows and disappointments and jealousies, is gone
for ever. Better now to banish every recollection of it from his heart,
and meet Katie on an entirely new footing.
As if by tacit understanding, they both decide this is the wisest plan.
They meet and separate as mere every-day acquaintances. Nothing can
be more unembarrassed than her ladyship's smile as she acknowledges
Walter's parting bow, and drives off, to the admiration of the staring
urchins in the street.
'Quite alone' is a mere relative term with Lady Dillworth; for when
the footman throws open the drawing-room door on that evening to
announce Captain Reeves, the latter sees the room is already half full
of guests. Katie stands near the piano; her dark velvet dress falls in
sweeping folds, unbroken by flounce or trimming; the beautiful set of
opals--her step-daughter's wedding present--shine out with a subdued
light from neck, arms, and breast. Beside her is Liddy Delmere, who in
her bright blue silk dress, and with her sunny hair tied with ribbons
of the same azure tint, forms a contrast to her hostess, in which
neither loses.
Ere long, Walter finds himself seated beside Miss Delmere, for they
have renewed their acquaintanceship with mutual satisfaction, and
plunge at once into discursive recollections of the past.
'We had some pleasant times together in the days long ago,' begins
Walter.
'O yes; I remember meeting you several times at Mrs Grey's, also at a
picnic on Bushby Plain, and at a gipsy party. Hadn't we capital fun
sometimes?'
'Yes, really. What a pity these happy days are over. We never can
recall those bright fresh hours, when the heart gilds everything with a
magic glamour.'
'Speak for yourself, Captain Reeves! For _my_ part, I enjoy things as
much as ever I did; and my heart "gilds" a good deal still. Do tell me
some of your adventures. What have you been doing all the months you
were away?'
'Nothing worth relating. I neither discovered a desert island nor a new
race of savages. I really have no wonders to narrate.'
'How marvellous! The very lack of incidents makes the thing curious.
Now, if _I_ had been cruising about in the _Leo_ for months, I should
have gleaned materials enough for at least two volumes of travels.'
'Ah! you ladies draw largely on the imagination. My experience is just
this: I went away from England last spring; I return again in time for
the Christmas pudding.'
'You sailors are all alike. I never met one yet who could give me the
merest sketch of his voyage--all seems a blank, but the going and
returning,' Liddy asserts laughingly.
'We had some nice balls at Malta,' replies Walter, rousing himself with
a sudden recollection.
'Had you? Who gave them?'
'Sometimes _we_ did; and crowds of the prettiest girls I ever saw,
came.'
'Very flattering to the givers.'
'Oh, I wish you could see the _Auberge de Provence_ when it is made
ready for a ball; it looks just like a fairy scene. The old knights
of Provence would never recognise the place if they could return to
take a peep at it. As one passes through the hall, it appears like an
orange grove; the trees are full of golden fruit and fragrant blossoms;
and clusters of coloured lamps shine out like rubies through the green
leaves.'
Walter is fairly launched into his subject now; one recollection
speedily calls up another, till Liddy and he grow eloquent, and enjoy
themselves amazingly.
He begins describing some musical charades they 'got up' at Malta.
'How nice they must be! But I can't quite understand them.'
'We merely take a word, divide it, and make our singing descriptive of
the parts, instead of acting them out. For instance, take Ravenswood.'
'A sweet word, particularly if one has to croak out a raven chorus! Oh,
I should like that extremely!' laughs Liddy.
'Ah, no; you don't catch my meaning. We make quite a grand affair of
it, have a drop-scene, on which birds and trees are painted, and our
illustrations are from the opera of _Lucia di Lammermoor_.'
'Quite a musical drama on a small scale, I declare! I wish we could get
up something of the sort here. I'll ask Lady Dillworth about it. And
here she comes.'
Katie walks over, looking rather amused at the evident good
understanding between Liddy and Walter, as they thus interchange
recollections with much _empressement_. She seats herself beside them,
and the subject is discussed in all its points. Lady Dillworth enters
into it with impulsive eagerness. Already she is longing for something
new and fresh, something that will cause a sensation among the 'upper
ten' at Seabright.
Several other guests join them, and ere long an animated group of
people are professing willingness to aid such a charming scheme;
anything novel is so attractive to those whose whole life is
excitement. Walter takes the initiative at once.
'I have all the music we need. The bandmaster of the 25th arranged
it for me with the songs, duets, and choruses. It's capital for
drawing-room practice, if we can only get enough performers.'
Everybody is ready to join, so the _rôle_ is settled on the spot.
Walter is to be Edgar; Liddy, Lucy Ashton. But here the young lady
enters a protest.
'I don't wish to be Lucy. If you want me, you must let me be Lucy's
mother. I make a splendid old woman.'
'Then who will be the unfortunate bride?--Will you, Lady Dillworth?'
asks Major Dillon, turning towards her.
'O yes, if Miss Delmere objects.'
So it is settled. Walter infects the whole party with his eagerness.
Scenes, music, costumes, and arrangements are talked over; and Katie is
all anxiety to carry out the plans with due effect. Walter is to bring
on shore the music-scroll and sketches of the costume; and the intended
performers are invited to meet him to-morrow morning at Government
House, for the first rehearsal.
'Now _that_ affair is settled, we'll have some music,' Katie says, as
she rises and goes towards the piano. Walter follows her. 'Have you
forgotten all your songs, Captain Reeves?'
'O no. How could I? _You_ taught me most of them,' he replies.
'Will you try one now?'
'Don't ask me to sing a solo. I should break down at once; but if you
will allow me to join you in a duet, I'll try to manage it.'
Katie turns over a book of manuscript music, and they fix on _Then and
Now_.
'The words are dreadfully stupid, but the air is pretty,' asserts Lady
Dillworth, as she runs over the prelude:
We heard the tower bells pealing
On that soft summer night,
Your hand was linked with mine, love;
Your heart, like mine, was light.
We whispered low together
Of that hope and of this;
While far above, the joyous bells
Seemed echoes of our bliss.
Again those bells are pealing;
We hear them now, and sigh;
No longer can their chimes, love,
Blend with our thoughts of joy.
Our lives for aye are parted;
And on the wintry air,
Those crashing sounds but haunt us now,
Like echoes of despair.
The two voices ring harmoniously and plaintively through the rooms.
One could almost imagine the singers are actually using the 'past to
give pathos' to the words. But nothing is further from their thoughts.
Katie is only deciding that, after all, Walter's voice will 'do'
with hers in the duets of the charade; and Walter is wishing--just a
little--that Miss Delmere had retained the part of Lucy, as at first
proposed.
ELECTRICITY AS A LIGHT-PRODUCER.
It has long been the opinion of scientific people that in electricity
we have a power the development of which is only at present in its
infancy. The marvellous details of our telegraphic system constantly
remind us that there is a mysterious fluid round about us which can
to a certain extent be made subservient and obedient to the will of
man. This familiarity with that which would a few centuries ago have
been stigmatised as the outcome of sorcery, has led the ignorant to
place a blind belief in its powers. The subtle fluid has in fact taken
the place of the necromancer's wand, and is believed by many to be
capable of anything or everything. The electrician is thus credited
with much that does not of right belong to his domain, and the wildest
speculations are occasionally indulged in as to what next he will do
for us. That electricity will prove of far more extended use than the
present state of knowledge allows, we all have vague anticipations,
and among these is the reasonable hope that it will some day supersede
coal-gas as a means of artificial illumination. We propose, by a brief
review of the present position of electrical research, to point out how
far such a hope is justified by facts.
Sir Humphry Davy was the first to discover that when the terminal
wires of a powerful electric battery were furnished with carbon-points
and brought into such a position that they almost touched, the space
between them became bridged over with a dazzling arc of light. The
excessive cost of producing this light (owing to the rapid consumption
of the metal-plates and acids which together form the battery-power)
rendered it for a long time almost inapplicable to any other purpose
than that of lecture-room demonstration. But it was evident to all that
a means of illumination so nearly approaching in its intensity the
light of the sun, would, if practicable, be of immense value to society
at large. Apart from its cost, there were many other hindrances to
its ready adoption. The incandescent carbon-points--which we may here
remark are cut from a hard form of gas-coke--were found to waste away
unequally. Some plan had therefore to be hit upon of not only replacing
them at certain intervals, but also, in view of this inequality of
consumption, of preserving their relative distance the one from the
other; otherwise the light they gave became intermittent and irregular.
These difficulties were met by employing clock-work as a regulator,
and more recently by a train of wheelwork and magnets set in motion by
the current itself. These arrangements naturally led to complications,
which required the constant supervision of skilled operators, and the
coveted light was necessarily confined to uses of a special nature
where the question of cost and trouble was unimportant.
The use of the battery for the electric light has for some years
been almost entirely superseded by the magneto-electric machine. The
construction of this machine is based upon Faraday's discovery, that
when a piece of soft iron inclosed in a coil of metal wire is caused
to pass by the poles of a magnet, an electric current is produced in
the wire. The common form of this machine consists of a number of such
iron cores so arranged upon a revolving cylinder that in continual
succession they fly past a number of stationary horse-shoe magnets
placed in a frame round its circumference. By a piece of mechanism
called a commutator, the various small streams of electricity thus
induced are collected together into one powerful current. This
invention forms one of the most advanced steps in the history of the
electric light. But although it produces electricity without the
consumption of metal involved in the battery system, another element
of cost comes into view in the expense of the steam-power necessary to
work it; besides which the original outlay is considerable.
In the year 1853 a Company was formed at Paris for producing (by the
aid of some large magneto-electric machines) gas for combustion,
by the decomposition of water. The Company failed to produce gas,
and what was perhaps more to the annoyance of the subscribers, they
failed also to shew any dividends, and the expensive machines were
voted impostors. However, an Englishman, Mr Holms, succeeded in
turning them to better account, and eventually produced by their aid
a light of great power. Mr Wilde of Manchester was another worker in
the same field; and improved machines were soon introduced to public
notice by both gentlemen. A few years after, the South Foreland and
Dungeness lighthouses were provided with experimental lights. (The
first-named headland had previously been furnished with an oxyhydrogen
or lime light, a source of illumination which is also open to the same
objections of requiring constant attention and renewal.)
It is a matter of surprise to most visitors to the South Foreland
lighthouse to find that a small factory and staff of men are necessary
to keep the electric apparatus in working order. The extent of the
establishment is partly explained by the fact that, in case of
a breakdown of any part of the apparatus, everything is kept in
duplicate. Hence there are two ten horse-power steam-engines, and a
double set of magneto-electric machines, although only half that number
are in actual use at one time. The old oil-lamps are also kept ready,
in view of the improbable event of both sets of electrical apparatus
going wrong.
Although lighthouses were the first places to which electrical
illumination was applied, there are many other purposes for which
that species of light is invaluable. One of the chief of these is
its use in submarine operations. Unlike other lights, being quite
independent of atmospheric air or any kind of gas for its support, and
merely requiring an attachment of a couple of gutta-percha-covered
wires for its connection with the source of electricity (which may
be at a considerable distance from the place of combustion), it
is specially applicable to the use of divers. The importance of a
means of brilliantly lighting the work of those engaged in clearing
wreck or laying the foundations of subaqueous structures cannot be
over-estimated. There is another service too in which we may hope
some day to see it commonly employed: we mean as a source of light to
our miners. For this purpose, the burner could be placed in a thick
glass globe hermetically closed; in fact the globe might even be
exhausted of air, for experiments prove that the light is in several
respects improved when burnt in a vacuum! The danger of fire-damp
explosion would by this means be almost altogether obviated; for
unless the glass were broken (and abundant means suggest themselves
for protecting it), no communication could be made between the light
and the gas-laden air of the mine. As a means of night-signalling, the
electric light can also be profitably applied. This can be done by an
alphabet of flashes of varying duration; the readiness with which the
light can be extinguished and rekindled by the mere touch of a wire,
rendering it peculiarly adapted for such a purpose; while the distance
at which it can be seen is perhaps only limited by the convexity of
the earth. Several of Her Majesty's ships are now being fitted with
the electric light, which is to serve both for signalling purposes,
and as a precautionary measure against the attack of torpedo-boats.
For military field operations a brilliant light is often useful; and
an electrical apparatus is in actual use by one of the belligerents
in the present war. In this case, the light is doubtless worked by an
electric battery, as a steam-engine is hardly a convenient addition to
the impedimenta of a moving column.
Having called our readers' attention to the several special public uses
for which the electric light is available, we may now consider how far
it can serve us for the more common wants of every-day life. In its
crude state as we have described it, governed by such a touchy thing
as clock-work, it could not possibly compete with gas for ordinary
purposes. But one or two improvements have within the last few months
been made, which have led many to hope that the day is not far distant
when the light will become common in our streets, if not in our houses.
These improvements are two in number. The one is a plan whereby the
electric current can be subdivided so as to serve a number of different
lights, and the other is an improvement in the arrangement of the
burner. The first-mentioned invention seems most certainly to bring
the system more on a par with gas-lighting, only that wires take
the place of pipes. But the second offers features of a more novel
character. The carbons, instead of being placed point to point, one
above the other, as in the old system, are put side by side and made
into a kind of candle. The carbons therefore represent a double wick;
while the portion of the candle usually made of tallow is made of
kaolin, a form of white clay used in the manufacture of porcelain. The
points are thus kept at a fixed distance apart; and as they burn, they
vitrify the kaolin between them, which both checks their waste and
adds, by its incandescence, to the light produced. The old difficulty
of keeping the carbons apart by the aid of clock-work, therefore
disappears. The invention of this 'electric candle' is due to a
Russian engineer, M. Jablochkoff. Another plan which is also credited
to the same inventor is that of doing away with the carbon-points
altogether, and substituting for them a thin plate of kaolin. The
light produced is said to be softer, steadier, and more constant than
that obtained by any previous method. Successful experiments with
M. Jablochkoff's invention both in France and England have shewn it
to be readily applicable to many purposes. It was lately tried at
the West India Docks, London, where its power of illuminating large
areas for the purpose (among others) of unloading ships by night, was
fully demonstrated. Moreover, its portability is such that it can be
carried into the depths of a ship's hold. We may mention as a result
of these experiments, that the various gas companies' shares have been
depreciated to a considerable extent.
Meanwhile, improvements in the magneto-electric machine have not been
wanting; Siemens in England and Gramme in France have succeeded in
obtaining intense currents from machines far less bulky than those
of the old pattern. But still steam-power is required to set them in
motion, and until this is obviated, we cannot expect that the electric
light can become really available for more general use. The inventors
claim that their method of illumination is, for the amount of light
obtained, far cheaper than any other known, pleading that one burner
is equal to one hundred gas-lights. But we must remember that for
ordinary purposes this amount of light is far beyond our needs. In
factories where steam-power is already available, and where the light
would supersede a large number of gas-burners, it can of course be
employed with profit. Indeed we learn that at several large workshops
in different parts of France the light is in actual use with the best
results. Some of the railway stations both there and in Belgium are
also making arrangements for its immediate adoption.
The problem, however, which has now to be solved is, whether the light
can be made available for domestic purposes. We fear that the necessary
motive-power presents an insuperable objection; for although, as we
have explained, one engine will feed a certain number of lights, it
will bear no comparison in this respect with the capabilities of a
small gas-holder. Besides which, a man would have far more difficulty
and expense in starting a steam-engine in his back-garden than he
would have (as is commonly done in country districts) in founding a
small gas-factory for the supply of his premises. Without losing sight
of the benefits which coal-gas has given us, we may hope that it is
not the last and best kind of artificial illumination open to us. It
blackens our ceilings and walls; it spoils our books and pictures,
besides robbing our dwellings of oxygen, and giving us instead a close
and unhealthy atmosphere. The combustion of electricity is on the other
hand, as we have already shewn, _independent of any supply of air_;
and instead of vitiating the atmosphere, it adds to it a supply of
that sea-side luxury ozone, which may truly be said to be 'recommended
by the faculty.' Besides these advantages, it can be used without
any sensible rise of temperature. Another great advantage which its
use secures is its actinic qualities, which would enable artists and
all whose work depends upon a correct appreciation of colours, to be
independent of daylight.
In conclusion, we may say that, beyond the special uses for the
electric light which we have enumerated, and for which it has by
experience been found practicable, we see no likelihood of its more
general adoption until two requisites are discovered. The one is a
substance that will, without wasting away and requiring constant
renewal, act as an incandescent burner; and the other is a cheap
and ready method of obtaining the electric fluid. For the former we
know not where to look, for even the hardest diamond disappears under
contact with the electric poles. But with regard to the latter, we
cannot help thinking how, many years ago, Franklin succeeded by the aid
of a kite-string in drawing electricity from the clouds. Is it too much
to hope that other philosophers may discover some means not only of
obtaining the luminous fluid from the same source, but of storing it up
for the benefit of all?
JAPANESE WRESTLERS.
It is a fine clear day in February; and the bright sun shining without
a cloud to impede his rays, lights up the hull of H.M.S. _Lyre_,
swinging lazily round her anchors in Yokohama Bay. Scarcely a ripple
can be seen on the surface of the water, and numberless boats are
darting to and fro, conveying passengers from the various ships to
the shore. On board the corvette the blue-jackets and marines are
reclining about the forecastle smoking and sewing, for it is Thursday
afternoon, the day set apart in English men-of-war for the men to make
and mend their clothes; a concession which Jack values the more for the
privilege of smoking all the afternoon which accompanies it. Clearly
it is not a day for any one to remain cooped up in a ship, who is not
detained there by duty. So think we officers; for most of us have
shifted into plain clothes, and are ready to go ashore. The officer
of the afternoon watch, who is endeavouring to beguile the weary four
hours he has to spend on deck by levelling his spyglass at every object
far and near, looks gloomily at a party of us getting into a sampan,
and remarks, with a view to cheering us up, that the glass is falling
rapidly, and he expects dirty weather before the night; _he_ wouldn't
go ashore if he could, &c. But we have been at sea too long to be
persuaded out of anything by a little chaff; so with a parting joke at
sour grapes, we get into the crazy little sampan, and manage to seat
ourselves without capsizing her, a work of some little difficulty. The
four half-naked, muscular little fellows who form our crew work their
long sculls with great vigour, keeping time to the beat of the unwieldy
oars with a shrill monotonous chant, whose burden is 'Go ashore! go
ashore!'
It is a glorious view that lies before us on that bright winter day.
The long esplanade, or _bund_, that fringes the shore is lined with
the tall white houses of the foreign settlement, to the southward of
which is the beautiful wooded hill called the Bluff, the white cliffs
of which are dazzlingly bright in the sunlight. The bungalows of the
foreign residents are for the most part on the Bluff, each house
inclosed in its own beautiful grounds; and here too, about two miles
from the settlement, is the race-course, an invariable accompaniment to
any large gathering of Englishmen in the East. Yokohama itself lies in
a valley between the Bluff on the one hand and the Kanagawa hills on
the other; but inland rises range after range of lofty mountains, and
towering far above everything is the snow-capped crest of Fusiyama, the
'peerless' mountain of Japan, which is forty-five miles distant from
the bay where our ship is lying. Fusiyama is a volcano in the shape
of a truncated cone, but no eruption has taken place for more than a
century; a fortunate thing for the country, as fifty thousand people
are said to have perished at its last great outbreak, which almost
destroyed the capital, Yeddo. Shocks of earthquake are very frequent,
though slight, in Yokohama and the neighbouring town, Kanagawa; in
fact, most of Japan is subject to these volcanic disturbances, which
occasionally cause great damage. It is on this account that the houses
are built generally of such slight materials, as they can endure shocks
which would infallibly overthrow any building constructed after the
European fashion. In the summer, when the snow has melted from the top
of Fusiyama, bands of pilgrims dressed in white, who have come from
all parts of the empire to worship the peerless mountain, throng in
great numbers along the roads at its base. At this season the ascent is
often accomplished by foreigners for the sake of the magnificent view
which is obtained from the summit on a clear day; though whether it is
worth while going through so much to obtain so little is of course a
matter of opinion. Many people will tell you they go up for the sake of
saying they have been there, forgetting that any one who has not been
there can as easily say the same thing. For my own part I never could
see the object of climbing a mountain only to come down again on the
other side, and therefore in my numerous excursions into the interior
of Japan, I gave Fusiyama a wide berth. Ponies are usually employed by
those who believe in the merits of four legs as compared to two; and
the deep ashes which cover the upper part of the mountain render this
mode of ascent preferable to the severe labour of climbing on foot.
The weather is so clear on the day in question that the deep gullies
down the sides can be easily traced by the naked eye as we are pulling
ashore.
While we have been admiring the beauties of the scene, our sampan
has passed round the projecting arm of the English Hatoba, a stone
jetty which protects the landing-place from the heavy swell which
often sets into the bay; so we land and make our way to the bund with
some difficulty, owing to the crowd of coolies who are passing to
and from the merchants' godowns with heavy packages slung on bamboo
poles between two men. Now comes the question, how are we to pass our
time? for amusements are somewhat limited in a small settlement like
Yokohama. To be sure, we can go to the club and play billiards or bowls
or read the papers; but the afternoon is so fine that it seems a pity
to waste it indoors. We might spend a few hours very pleasantly in the
Benten Doré, a street filled with shops for the sale of lacquer-work
and curiosities of different sorts; but unfortunately it is nearly the
end of the month, and I need scarcely tell any one acquainted with
the manners and customs of naval officers that our dollars have grown
small by degrees and beautifully less, and we are anxiously waiting for
pay-day.
The most popular idea seems to be to walk round the race-course to
Mississippi Bay, on the south side of the Bluff, the favourite drive
of the Yokohama ladies; but just as we have resolved on this, a man
passes making some proclamation in a high sing-song tone, which
seems to meet with general approval from the natives. On inquiring,
we find that he is announcing the arrival of the champion troupe of
wrestlers, who intend giving a performance that afternoon on a piece
of waste land just outside the boundaries of the foreign settlement.
Nothing could have happened more apropos; so jumping into some of the
odd-looking little hand-carriages which ply for hire in great numbers
about the streets of most Japanese towns, we are rattled along the
streets at a rapid rate by the active little drivers, who seem to
possess the enviable faculty of never tiring, for they trot along as
gaily at the end of a thirty miles' run over indifferent roads, as
when they started. On arriving at our destination, we find numbers
of natives on the same errand, 'gaily dressed in their Sunday best,'
entering an inclosure which has been hastily made out of long bamboos
covered with matting, to keep out the too curious eyes that would gaze
at the performance gratis. A payment of a quarter _bu_ each (about
threepence in English money) admits us to the interior, which presents
a very striking scene. Round the sides of the large inclosure are
numerous bamboo stages, crowded with the wealthier class of natives
and a few foreigners; while in the amphitheatre some thousands of
people are assembled, many of them women, whose gay robes set off their
attractions to perfection.
Every one has his holiday face on, and the ceremonious politeness
which usually characterises the meeting of any Japanese, has for the
time given place to mirth and gaiety. Itinerant vendors of cakes and
sweets ply their trade among the crowd with much apparent success;
and here and there is a stall for the sale of _saki_, a strong spirit
brewed from rice, and much resembling inferior sherry in the taste and
smell. There is a total absence of intoxication, and I may say very
few drunken men are ever to be seen about the streets. By the time we
have mounted a stage, and settled down on the chairs a neatly dressed
_musŭme_ (young girl) has procured for us, the performances are about
to commence, and a man is giving out the names of the first pair of
wrestlers.
In the centre of the amphitheatre a mound has been raised, on which a
ring has been formed by banking up the earth to the height of a few
inches. Two grave-looking elderly men, apparently the judges, now seat
themselves upon mats on the mound, and unfurling their paper umbrellas,
light their pipes, and commence smoking in dignified composure; while
the two wrestlers doff their _kimonos_ (robes) and enter the ring
perfectly naked but for a cloth round the loins. They are very far
removed from our idea of what an athlete ought to be, for though
muscular, they have an ungainly heaviness of figure. Weight is indeed
thought of such importance in these contests that men are fattened for
them like prize cattle, under the mistaken belief that such size is an
advantage to the fortunate possessor!
A tedious preliminary performance has to be gone through before the
actual business of wrestling commences. Each man comes to the centre
of the ring, and squatting down in front of his antagonist, raises
each leg in turn, and then brings it down heavily on the ground, at
the same time striking his thigh smartly with his open hand. I suppose
this is meant as a sort of challenge; but it has an extremely ludicrous
effect, at least to foreigners, to see two very fat men so employing
themselves. Both men now quit the ring and take a draught of water
and a pinch of salt, while they rub their arms and hands with mud, in
order that they may get a better hold of each other's naked body.
At length they re-enter the ring, and the real struggle now begins.
They squat in front of each other like two huge frogs and strike their
hands together, at the same time uttering a curious hissing noise,
which gets louder and louder till they suddenly fly at each other like
angry cats. Heavy blows and slaps are exchanged freely in the effort
to close, but umpires are behind each shouting out cautions at any
attempted infringement of the rules on either side. When they have
fairly got hold of each other many a cunning feint and twist is shewn,
and the struggling bodies and limbs entwine so rapidly that the pair
look like one gigantic octopus. At length the bout is concluded by
one man being hurled bodily out of the ring into the crowd outside,
and the cheering from the excited spectators is absolutely deafening.
The victor stalks about the ring for some time in great dignity,
receiving the congratulations of his friends, and then repeats his
former challenge, striking his thighs heavily and crowing like a bantam
cock. Another wrestler, nothing daunted, at once comes forward to try
his fortune; while the vanquished combatant, who has picked himself up
amidst a running fire of chaff from the unsympathising crowd, resumes
his _kimono_ with an assumed air of indifference and vanishes behind
the spectators.
Three men in succession did the first victor overthrow before he found
a foeman worthy of his grip; but he too in turn soon succumbed to a
fresh challenger. The judges during all the confusion maintained their
seats in great dignity, and smoked away with quiet unconcern while the
wrestlers strove and kicked beside them. Their office seemed to be to
settle any disputes; but it was almost a sinecure, as I saw hardly any
during the afternoon, everything being conducted with perfect fairness
and good-humour. All the hard work seemed to be done by the umpires,
who were dancing about each combatant in a perfect state of frenzy, and
their repeated screams of 'Anatta! anatta!' (Sir! sir!) when any unfair
movement was attempted on either side, soon reduced their voices to
mere croaks. To win a round, a man had either to lay his opponent flat
on the ground or thrust him out of the ring. Several of the first bouts
we witnessed were decided in the latter manner, a heavy man driving his
antagonist clean out of the circle by the weight and impetus of his
first assault. Any method whatever seemed to be allowed in catching
hold; I saw one man win a heat by dexterously catching his opponent by
the scruff of the neck and jamming his head on the ground, the whole
body perforce following suit. This seemed to be regarded as a sort of
'fool's mate,' for I noticed that the loser was much laughed at; and
although the same manœuvre was attempted several times afterwards, it
was never successful.
The light weights had their contest first; and then came the middle
weights, if such a term can be applied to men of fifteen stone at
least. But the real event of the day was the concluding struggle
between the champions, about a dozen in number, who would have passed
muster in any assembly where height and strength were the test. Not
one of them was under six feet in height, and most of them were
considerably over; one gigantic fellow must have been nearly seven
feet. All of them were disfigured by the same inordinate amount of
flesh; but the muscles of the arms and legs were very powerfully
developed, and the activity displayed in spite of their enormous size
was something marvellous. In one severe contest the gigantic champion
threw a lesser athlete clear out of the ring on to the heads of the
spectators below, overwhelming one of the unfortunate judges in the
transit. The latter, however, soon arose, gave himself a shake, and
resumed his pipe and seat, apparently none the worse for his rude shock.
The final contest of the day, which took place just before dusk,
was between our friend the giant and the next biggest of the band;
and after a severe struggle, ended in the former being thrown as
scientifically as ever I wished to see. The earth shook with the
violence of the fall; but the vanquished hero picked himself up at
once, and with a good-humoured laugh at his opponent, resumed his
_kimono_; and the sports were concluded.
Not the least amusing part of the afternoon's amusement was afforded
by a blue-jacket on leave from the _Lyre_, who threw his cap into the
ring, and wanted to try conclusions with the biggest man of the party
for a few dollars. A long and amusing conversation took place between
the sailor and the natives; but the challenge was not accepted, so
Jack put on his hat and walked jauntily away. He was a tall powerful
man, and I daresay could have held his own against the giant himself,
in spite of his inferiority of weight; for it is a well-known fact
that the enormous amount of flesh cultivated by the Japanese wrestlers
stands seriously in their way when opposed to a foreigner in good
condition. It is not very many years ago that a shining light of the
English Church in the East came to Japan and astonished the natives
by throwing some of their best men. No doubt, before many years, the
Japanese, who are very quick at seizing any new idea, will perceive the
folly of feeding their athletes to such a size, and follow the English
system of training. A very noticeable feature about these contests was
the perfect good-humour with which they were conducted, not a single
man losing his temper, in spite of the heavy blows and cuffs which
were exchanged with great vigour before closing with each other. While
discussing the afternoon's amusement, we walked to the bund in the
twilight, and a twelve-oared cutter soon took us on board in time for
dinner. Next morning at daylight we were under weigh for Hong-kong.
SHAMROCK LEAVES.
A WAKE.
Tim Scanlan, while he lived, was only a labouring man; but he was well
liked in the country; and it was expected that his funeral would be
an unusually large gathering. Crowds flocked to the wake, and a great
provision of tea, whisky, pipes, and tobacco had been made. The widow
occupied her post of honour at the head of the coffin, and displayed
a fair show of grief, joining in with vociferous weeping whenever the
'keening' was led by the older women. She was young enough to have
been the dead man's daughter, having come to his house a 'slip' of a
servant-girl, whom he had married and ruled over very masterfully.
As the night wore on, the whisky began to tell on those outside the
room where the corpse lay. The noise increased, and soon apparently
became loud enough to 'wake the dead,' as the saying is; for to the
consternation and amazement of every one present, the defunct, after
a deep sigh and sundry groans, opened his eyes and struggled up into
a sitting posture. When the startled company had recovered from the
shock, poor Tim was lifted out of the coffin; whisky was liberally
poured down his throat; and well wrapped up in blankets and seated in
the big chair by the fire, he gradually revived from the trance or
stupor that had been mistaken for death. The last of the guests had
departed from the cabin, and Tim, still propped up before the fire, was
left to the care of his wife. Instead of coming near him however, she
slunk off, cringing timidly away into a dark corner behind his chair,
whence she directed frightened glances at her resuscitated spouse.
'Mary!' said the man in a stern voice.
No answer.
'Are you there?' peering round, his face quivering with anger and
weakness.
'Yis, Tim, I'm here,' faltered Mary, without stirring.
'Bring me my stick.'
'Ah, no, Tim; no! Sure you never rose yer hand to me yet! And 'tisn't
now, when you're all as one as come back from the dead, that'----
'Bring me my stick.'
The stick was brought, and down on her knees beside the big chair
flopped the cowering wife.
'Well you know what you desarve. Well you know, you young thief o' the
world! that if I was to take and beat you this blessed minute as black
as a mourning-coach, 'twould be only sarving you right, after the mean,
dirthy, shameful turn you've done me!'
'It would, it would!' sobbed the girl.
'Look here!' gasped Tim, opening his breast and shewing an old tattered
shirt. 'Look at them rags! Look at what you dressed up my poor corpse
in; shaming me before all the decent neighbours at the wake! An' you
knowing as well as I did about the elegant brand-new shirt I'd bought
o' purpose for my berrin; a shirt I wouldn't have put on my living
back--no, not if I had gone naked in my skin! You knew I had it there
in the chest laid up; and you grudged it to my unfortunate carcase when
I couldn't spake up for myself!'
'O Tim, darlin', forgive me!' cried Mary. 'Forgive me this once, and on
my two knees I promise never, never to do the likes again! I don't know
what came over me at all. Sure, I think, the divil--Lord save us!--must
have been at my elbow when I went to get out the shirt; tempting me,
and whispering that it was a pity and a sin to put good linen like that
into the clay. Oh, how could I do it at all?'
'Now, hearken to me, Mary;' and Tim raised the stick and laid it on
her shoulder. She knew he wouldn't beat her even if he could with his
trembling hands; but she pretended to wince and cower away. 'Mind what
I say. As sure as you do me the like turn again, and go for to dress me
in those undacent rags, I tell you what I'll do--I'll _walk_.'
'O don't, Tim, don't!' shrieked Mary, as pale as ashes. 'Murther me
now, if it's plazing to you, or do anything to me you like; but for the
love of the blessed Vargin and all the Saints, keep in yer grave! I'll
put the new shirt on you; my two hands 'll starch it and make it up
as white as snow, after lying by so long in the old chest. Yer corpse
will look lovely, niver fear! And I'll give you the grandest wake that
iver man had, even if I had to sell the pig, and part with every stick
in the cabin to buy the tay and the whisky. I swear to you I will,
darlin'. There's my hand on it, this blessed night!'
'Well, mind you do, or 'twill be worse for you. And now give me a drop
of wather to drink, and put a taste of sperrits through it; for I'm
like to faint with thirst and with weakness.'
Mary kept her promise; for such a wake was never remembered as Tim
Scanlan's, when, soon after, the poor man really did depart this life.
And the 'get up' of the 'elegant brand-new shirt' in which the corpse
was arrayed, was the admiration of all beholders.
CARRIER-PIGEONS.
The value of these birds as carriers of messages was interestingly
demonstrated at the siege of Paris, as it used to be in the French war
seventy years ago, before the invention of the electric telegraph. It
now appears that carrier-pigeons may be employed with advantage in
taking messages from boats engaged in the Scottish herring-fisheries,
when no species of telegraph is available. The following notice of the
fact occurs in the _Fishing Gazette_:
'The experiment which was tried last year of employing carrier-pigeons
for the purpose of bringing early intelligence each morning from the
fishing-ground of the results of the night's labour, is again being
resorted to this season, and with the most satisfactory results. One
of the birds is taken out in each boat in the afternoon; and after
the nets have been hauled on the following morning and the extent of
the catch ascertained, the pigeon is despatched with a small piece of
parchment tied round its neck, containing information as to the number
of crans on board, the position of the boat, the direction of the wind,
and the prospects of the return journey, &c. If there is not wind to
take the boat back, or if it is blowing in an unfavourable direction,
a request is made for a tug; and from the particulars given as to the
bearings of the craft, she can be picked up easily by the steamer. The
other advantages of the system are that, when the curers are apprised
of the quantity of herrings they may expect, they can make preparations
for expediting the delivering and curing of the fish. Most of the
pigeons belong to Messrs Moir and Son, Aberdeen. When let off from
the boats, the birds invariably circle three times round overhead,
and then sweep away towards the land with great rapidity, generally
flying at the rate of about a mile per minute. Two superior birds in
Messrs Moir's possession have occasionally come a distance of twenty
or twenty-five miles in as many minutes; and on Tuesday one of these
pigeons came home sixteen miles in the same number of minutes. Another
of Messrs Moir's pigeons flew on board the _Heatherbell_ on Tuesday
afternoon off the Girdleness, bearing a slip of paper containing the
intelligence that the boat from which it had been despatched at 11.54
had a cargo of twenty-five barrels of herrings. The pigeons require
very little training, and soon know where to land with their message.
A cot has been fitted up on the roof of Messrs Moir's premises at the
quay for the accommodation of the birds, and they invariably alight
there on their return from sea.'
According to the London newspapers, there was lately an amusing
experiment to test the flight of carrier-pigeons against the speed of
a railway train. The following is the account given of this curious
race, which took place on the 13th July: 'The race was from Dover to
London between the continental mail express train and a carrier-pigeon
conveying a document of an urgent nature from the French police. The
pigeon, which was bred by Messrs Hartley and Sons of Woolwich, and
"homed" when a few weeks old to a building in Cannon Street, City, was
of the best breed of homing pigeons, known as "Belgian voyageurs."
The bird was tossed through the railway carriage window by a French
official as the train moved from the Admiralty Pier, the wind being
west and the atmosphere hazy, but with the sun shining. For upwards of
a minute the carrier-pigeon circled round to an altitude of about half
a mile, and then sailed away towards London. By this time the train,
which carried the European mails, and was timed not to stop between
Dover and Cannon Street, had got up to full speed, and was proceeding
at the rate of sixty miles an hour towards London. The odds at starting
seemed against the bird; and the railway officials predicted that the
little messenger would be beaten in the race. The pigeon, however, as
soon as it ascertained its bearings, took the nearest homeward route in
a direction midway between Maidstone and Sittingbourne, the distance
"as the crow flies" between Dover and London being seventy miles, and
by rail seventy-six and a half miles. When the continental mail express
came into Cannon Street station, the bird had been home twenty minutes;
having beaten Her Majesty's royal mail by a time allowance representing
eighteen miles.'
* * * * *
The Conductors of CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL beg to direct the attention of
CONTRIBUTORS to the following notice:
_1st._ All communications should be addressed to the 'Editor,
339 High Street, Edinburgh.'
_2d._ To insure the return of papers that may prove ineligible,
postage-stamps should in every case accompany them.
_3d._ Manuscripts should bear the author's full CHRISTIAN name,
surname, and address, legibly written.
_4th._ MS. should be written on one side of the leaf only.
_5th._ Poetical offerings should be accompanied by an envelope,
stamped and directed.
_Unless Contributors comply with the above rules, the Editor cannot
undertake to return ineligible papers._
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._