thousand pounds to supply Jerusalem with water, of which there is
a great scarcity during the summer season; but the proposal ended
in nothing, because the Turkish authorities shrewdly concluded that
they would have to pay in the long-run for keeping in good order the
aqueducts she restored. The want of water is one of the principal
reasons why Palestine is at the present day so sterile and unhealthy.
And this want of water is (as in other districts where woods are
demolished) caused in a great degree by the destruction of the
forests, and especially of the groves and vineyards which grew on the
terraces along the hill-sides. The system of terracing, according to
Captain Warren, has the effect of retaining the rain, which falls
plentifully at certain seasons of the year, in its natural reservoirs
about the roots of the trees and in the hollows of the rocks, instead
of allowing it to tumble in wild torrents down the bare hill-sides, and
rush headlong to the sea, wasting instead of dispensing all the rich
blessings which water alone can give in a dry and thirsty land.
What is wanted, Captain Warren says, to make Palestine again a rich
and fruitful country, 'is a good government, a large population, an
energetic people, and a sufficient capital.'
Wheat grows luxuriantly in Palestine; and the grapes on the Sandstone
formation are as highly flavoured as those of Muscadel, producing in
the hill country of Lebanon an excellent wine. Very fine raisins are
also dried in the east of Palestine; and the whole country abounds with
sheep, goats, camels, horses, and mules. The mutton of Palestine is
very poor, owing to under-feeding and to the accumulation of the whole
fat of the animal in its enormous tail.
Patches of tobacco are grown; and figs, oranges, lemons, and apricots
flourish when they are carefully tended.
Jerusalem is not entirely without the industrial arts: there are
seven soap factories; and a considerable traffic in grain, which is
altogether in the hands of the Moslems. There are also five potteries,
and many people work as stone-cutters and indigo-dyers.
Captain Warren's last work at Jerusalem was excavating an old wall near
the large reservoir called Birket Israil. Here he came upon a slit
about eighteen inches wide and four inches high, and was naturally very
much excited at something so unusual. At last he was upon the eve of
some great discovery. This small aperture might perhaps give access
to some secret chamber, in which the Ark and utensils hidden from the
plundering Romans had lain undisturbed for ages. Here, favoured by
fortune, he might perchance find the famous golden vine, which once
with its shining clusters twined in gorgeous splendour around the
entrance to the Temple. Vain dream! That rich fruitage was gathered
hundreds of years ago by the hand of some bold legionary. After
infinite trouble, the slit was enlarged so as to give access to the
apartment, or rather passage below; and then Captain Warren found one
of the most frequent facts--'in his city of facts'--an aqueduct!
Much as he has accomplished as the agent of the Palestine Exploration
Society, a great deal yet remains to be done before the Holy City of
the past can be disentombed from her sepulchre of centuries. That the
work interrupted for the present will be continued at some future
time, no one can doubt. Forlorn wasted Jerusalem, although no longer
the prize for which rival races contend, is as truly hallowed still by
solemn recollections to every thoughtful heart, as she was in the days
when mailed Crusader and turbaned Turk fought beneath her walls for the
mastery of the Holy Sepulchre. No spot on earth thrills the stranger
with such mingled emotion as fills the breast of him who, standing on
the Mount of Olives, marks its ancient gnarled trees, and remembers
that there, on the sward beneath their hoary boughs, has echoed and
re-echoed often in the mysterious past the footfall of the Saviour of
the World.
THE STRONG-MINDED WOMAN.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.--CHAPTER II.
When Earle arrived at the De Lacys' house next day at eleven o'clock
by appointment, he was shewn into the library, where he found Miss
Stirling alone, busy at needlework. She looked so particularly feminine
both in occupation and expression, that Earle fancied the soft gray
homespun and crimson ribbon more becoming even than her evening attire.
Both were slightly embarrassed as she rose and gave him her hand.
'Where is my sitter?' Earle asked, retaining the slim hand in his a
moment longer than necessary.
'Oh! you might as easily catch quicksilver as Mrs De Lacy,' said
Silvia, smiling. 'She is in and out fifty times an hour. I believe she
went to get ready for you.'
'Meantime, I want to ask you a favour,' Earle said, busy with his
apparatus. 'I want you to be so very good as to let me have a sitting
from _you_ too. I have a board on purpose.'
'But how will you get time?' said Silvia, her colour deepening.
'Oh, I shall have plenty, I fancy, while my legitimate sitter is
running in and out. I will keep one beside the other on the easel.'
'I do not wish it kept secret from her,' said Silvia, with the proud
honesty of her nature.
'Certainly not; but I want to have your face, if you will let me. I
will copy it--for your mother, if I may. Will you give me permission?'
'O yes,' she answered confusedly, 'if you care.'
'I _do_ care,' he said in a low voice; and at that moment the little
lady darted in, the _tête-à-tête_ was broken, and Earle, with a sigh,
resigned himself to his unpalatable task.
He painted as steadily as the volatile nature of his model permitted,
though it is not an easy thing to make a picture, worthy the name,
of a once pretty meaningless face that has lost the charm of youth
without gaining the dignity of matronhood. But he was rewarded for his
penance, for after a while Mrs De Lacy was summoned to some _protégée_;
and then, with a delightful sense of relief, he put the unsatisfactory
labour on one side, and placed instead a clean canvas on the easel.
'Now, Miss Stirling, if you will be so kind, will you take that seat
and reward me for the tedious hour I have passed?'
Silvia complied with his request quietly, without any affectation.
The artist became soon deeply absorbed in trying to produce a faithful
likeness of the face before him. It was not only the shape of the
features, but the expression of the whole, he wished to catch--as much
as it could be caught upon canvas.
'I cannot get the mouth to my mind,' said he, dreamily thinking aloud,
as artists do. 'What gives it at once that expression, sweet, arch,
firm?'
Silvia started up indignantly. 'Mr Earle! if I am to sit here, at least
spare me that sort of remark. Do you think any woman in the world could
sit still and bear to hear her face analysed?'
'Do forgive me,' he cried, really distressed. 'Indeed, I did not mean
to be impertinent, but I feel I was. We get so in the habit of ignoring
the _personality_ of the faces before us, through having those stolid
paid models to paint from. Please look like yourself again, and forgive
me.'
'Well, so I do,' said the 'subject,' with a return of her usual frank
sweetness. 'I daresay you think I ought to have got hardened; but I am
only a woman, after all, you know.'
'You are indeed,' murmured the artist, as he tenderly touched the curve
of the upper lip.
* * * * *
So sped the days Earle spent at the De Lacys', the mistress of the
house fondly imagining that he was bent on doing her portrait the
fullest justice. At last Earle could not pretend that Mrs De Lacy's
portrait required many more touches. One day he said sadly enough, as
he and Silvia were alone together: 'It's no use; this must come to an
end. I can't keep up the delusion that I want more sittings; so I must
bring to a close the happiest hours I ever spent in my life.'
'I am going home to-morrow,' Silvia observed, with her eyes down.
'Going home! are you? And you said I might call; do you remember? Will
you ask me again?'
'To be sure you may come; why not?' Miss Stirling answered.
'I will try and look forward to that then, for I do feel dreadfully
down in the mouth, I confess, at having come to the last of these
pleasant hours--pleasant to _me_, I mean. I can't hope _you_ have found
so much to enjoy in them.'
'O yes,' said Silvia, speaking with frank friendliness; 'we have had a
great deal of very interesting talk--when poor Mrs De Lacy was out of
the room,' she added with a mischievous smile.
'It is like you and no other woman I ever knew to say so!' he said
warmly. 'I want to ask you--I know you will tell me exactly the
truth--do you feel now as if I could be a friend of yours?'
'If you care to have a friend in a woman who acts constantly in
opposition to your cherished ideas.'
'I have altered many of my ideas since I knew you,' Earle said gravely;
'many, but not all. Still you are better, even when you are doing what
I disapprove, than any woman I ever knew.'
'I am glad you tell me the truth,' said Silvia. 'It is the best
preparation for friendship. But tell me, what do you disapprove of in
me?'
Her face was so gentle and winning as she spoke that he was on the
point of saying: 'Nothing in the whole world; only be just yourself;'
but Mrs De Lacy came in at that moment, and the words were not spoken.
Wilfred left the house feeling more depressed than there was any reason
for. 'What have I made up my mind to do?' he thought. 'I can no longer
conceal from myself that I love this woman, who is almost the opposite
of all I ever thought to love; and yet I feel a sort of dread in
letting this lead me on. Shall we be happy together if she loves me?
That is the question I cannot answer. I will wait to see her _at home_;
and then, I suppose I must let "the great river bear me to the main,"
and take my chance of happiness with the rest.'
* * * * *
Mrs Stirling and three daughters--of whom our friend Silvia was the
eldest--lived in a pleasant terrace about a mile from the De Lacys.
They were well to do, though not rich, and lived a happy busy life;
each having interests both separate and in common. They had many
friends, and it was a pleasant sociable house to visit at. Mrs Stirling
was still young in mind, and entered into all her daughters' pursuits
and interests with active sympathy. One afternoon they were all
together in the drawing-room--except the youngest daughter Marian, who
had a studio near where she painted every day--when a double-knock was
heard; by no means an uncommon sound, and yet somehow, lately, every
knock seemed to startle Silvia and bring rather a vivid colour to her
face. The servant brought in a card inscribed 'Mr Earle;' and that
gentleman followed, with an outward appearance of great coolness, but
some inward trepidation.
'Mother,' said Silvia quietly, rising and giving him a cordial hand,
'this is my friend, Mr Earle, of whom I spoke.'
'We are very glad to make your acquaintance, Mr Earle,' said Mrs
Stirling, in the same cordial natural way, making room by the fire.
'Silvia told us what a successful portrait you made of her.'
Earle's glance round the room pleased his fastidious taste thoroughly.
It was emphatically a _lady's_ room, filled with pretty feminine
things; and without being in the least untidy, was evidently a room to
be lived in and to have 'good times,' as Silvia's compatriots say. Mrs
Stirling too, whose tall elegant figure and frank manner were repeated
in her daughter's, was a woman of marked refinement and culture. He
found out this much in five minutes.
They had plenty to say to each other; the Stirlings seemed to read
everything, and to have thought about most things; but there was
nothing in the slightest degree pedantic or 'blue-stocking' in their
talk. So the chat went on merrily--for Wilfred too was a man who could
think--but without much help from Silvia, who was unusually silent. Tea
was brought in presently; and as she took her place at the tray, Earle
found his eyes constantly straying that way and watching her pretty
graceful movements. The mother's keen eyes soon discovered the secret,
and she turned her head to conceal an amused smile.
'I was nearly forgetting one of the objects of my call,' said the
artist, after paying an unconscionably long visit. 'I brought a copy of
Miss Stirling's portrait to offer for your acceptance. Shall I fetch
it? I left it in the hall.'
The picture was brought in; and Mrs Stirling regarded it with exceeding
interest.
'It is indeed beautifully done--beautifully!' she said. 'How Marian
will enjoy it! It is only much too good for me. You have idealised my
Silvia, Mr Earle.'
'Yes; it is shamefully flattered,' said Silvia.
'I don't think so at all!' Earle cried eagerly. 'I am sure it is
not in the very least! One tries always of course to catch the best
expression, the happiest moment.'
'Well, you must have caught it at a _very_ happy moment,' said Mrs
Stirling; and then she was vexed with herself, for she saw that her
daughter was vexed. To change the subject, she observed: 'Silvia is
going to another Suffrage Meeting on Monday, in ----'
This did very effectually change the subject. Earle felt a revulsion of
feeling that was painful to a degree. 'Indeed,' he responded coldly.
'Will you be at home on Sunday?'
This question, uttered under a sudden impulse, took them all by
surprise. He addressed the question directly to Silvia, whose confusion
made her stammer out some half-formed words; but Wilfred was quite
calm and master of the situation. 'I was going to ask--if Mrs Stirling
allows Sunday visitors--if I might call on that day. I particularly
want to see you before you go to ----. May I come on Sunday afternoon?'
Silvia had never before felt so utterly at a loss for a reply; but her
mother came to the rescue with some polite words; and the artist almost
immediately took leave.
'Well, my darling,' said the mother, breaking the pause his departure
left. 'What do you think of all this?'
'Mother,' said Silvia with gentle decision, 'I want to ask you, to
please me, not to allude to this again till after Sunday.'
On Sunday afternoon--a dull, cold, foggy day enough--Wilfred found his
way again to Eaglemore Gardens. His mind was made up; and his handsome
face looked a little set and stern as he paused at the door and asked
quietly this time for _Miss_ Stirling. The American custom seemed to
him at that moment to be a most respectable one. What an amount of
management and finessing it saved, for of course every one knew it was
Silvia, and Silvia only, he wanted to see.
He was shewn into a small study; and in a few moments heard a dress
rustle down the stair and rather a timid touch on the door-handle. As
Silvia came in, Earle's face by the dull light looked to her hard and
strange, which did not tend to quiet her nerves. She was very pale,
and there was an appealing wistfulness in her eyes as she lifted them
to his which went straight to his heart; but he gave no sign. He took
her hand, pressed it, and gently placed her in an armchair, while he
remained standing by the mantelpiece with his head down. Neither had
yet spoken; both felt they were touching upon a period of their lives
with which common forms had nothing to do. Silvia heard her heart
thump, and the clock tick, with painful distinctness: she seemed all
ear. All around seemed oppressive silence. At last Earle broke the
silence: his voice had a deeper tone in it than usual, a resolutely
suppressed passion vibrated in it.
'Silvia,' he said, 'I am going to speak the very truth to you--as
one speaks not often in one's life--you have taken possession of
me--against my will almost--I love you as I never loved woman before--I
scarcely know myself how deeply. Speak the truth to me as I have done
to you. Whether you love me or love me not, I shall never offer to any
living woman what I offer to you, for mine is no boy's love. Speak to
me, Silvia.'
'I _will_ tell you nothing but the truth,' she said, forcing her voice
to be steady. 'I do return your love, I believe I do--though I hardly
seem to have shaped it out to myself yet--but'----
'Yes; there is a "but"--I know it. What is your doubt, Silvia? Do not I
care for you enough?'
'I believe you do,' she answered softly. 'I believe you must love me
very much, because I know it is against your own judgment. But my doubt
is--shall we be happy? I know I am not the woman you would deliberately
choose for a wife.'
Earle half laughed, though he was terribly in earnest. 'What man in
love ever "deliberately chose" a woman for his wife?'
'But should I, could I indeed make you happy?' she said.
'Yes, darling,' he answered, melting into tenderness, and sinking by
her chair. 'If you can love me enough to make some sacrifices for me.'
'I should never hesitate to sacrifice anything but duty to one I love,'
she said, as he drew her to him.
'Ah, but people have mistaken ideas of duty, often! I want you now,
this minute, to give up something I believe you think your duty.'
'What is that?' she asked, drawing away from him.
'I cannot bear to have the woman I love standing up in public to speak
before a crowd of vulgar strangers,' he cried, almost fiercely. 'If you
love me, Silvia, give this up for me!'
'You mean on future occasions, after we are--are'----
'No; I mean now, to-morrow: give up this meeting for me, to-morrow!'
'Impossible! I cannot. They are reckoning upon me, and I have
promised'----
'You could easily excuse yourself.'
'I will make no false excuses,' cried Silvia with warmth. 'I admit
my love for you--but I will never bind myself to what you may choose
to demand. If we married, you might trust me to consider your wishes
before my own, before everything but conscience; but I will not give
way to this exaction--now. I cannot break my promise, and do what I
feel to be wrong and cowardly; no, not to be the happiest woman upon
earth! And do you think a marriage begun like _that_ would be a happy
one? No, no; better be sorry now than then.'
He got up and stood apart from her, gloomily. 'Then you will not? A
woman like you is too advanced for the dear old traditions of love!'
'I will never marry a man who is ashamed of what his wife has done,'
answered Silvia very low, but calmly.
'My old prejudice was a just one, after all,' said he, with a sigh.
'Good-bye.'
'Need we part so bitterly?' she said tremulously. 'May we not even be
friends again?'
'Friends! It is the idlest folly talking of friendship, when one's
heart is on fire with love. I could more easily hate you, Silvia, than
only be your friend! Good-bye. God bless you, though you have tortured
me. God bless you, Silvia.'
In another instant the front-door closed, and Silvia Stirling was alone
with a breaking heart.
True to her word, she determined on going to ---- the next day. She
was looking and feeling wretchedly ill, but she would not give it up,
and only stipulated that none but a maid should go with her to the
station. It was Silvia's way to suffer in silence and alone. She took
her ticket, and sank into a corner of an empty carriage with a heart
aching to positive physical pain. To her annoyance a gentleman followed
her in, and the train moved out of the station. She raised her listless
mournful eyes and saw--Wilfred! She turned so white that he threw
himself beside her, and in an instant had his arm about her.
'Why, why have you come?' she murmured with dry trembling lips. 'Cruel
of you to torture me again!'
'My darling, it is not now to torture you that I have come--only for
this--I can't live without you. I thought I could, but I can't. I have
been so vexed with myself ever since we parted. Do you think you can
forgive me, my sweet! and trust me with yourself after all?'
'Then you will let me--let me'----
'Let you be your own dear self? Yes, Silvia; I ask for nothing better.
As long as we know and trust each other, what does it matter what all
the world says? I _will_ trust you, dear one. Can you trust me?'
For answer, Silvia put up her lips and met his in a first kiss. Nothing
more was needed.
'I am going to shew you,' he said, after a delicious pause, 'that I
can be superior even to my prejudices. I have come to take you to this
meeting, and to steel myself, for your sake, to what I dislike as much
as ever. I could not bear the thought of you alone and sad. I knew you
would be.'
'This shall be the last time I do what you dislike,' she murmured
softly.
'Don't promise anything,' he interrupted. 'I leave you absolutely free.
We will work together and be, as you said, true friends as well as
lovers. Are you happy now?'
The honest tender eyes answered the question for her.
* * * * *
Some months after, Mr Roberts received the following note from his old
friend Wilfred Earle:
'DEAR JACK--I want you to come and dine with Benedict the
married man next Tuesday, and see how happy his "strong-minded
woman" makes him. You were right, old fellow! The clever women
_do_ make the best wives after all. That was a blessed day
for me that I went, under protest, to hear my Silvia "spout
in public." The spouting days are over now; but I am not
ashamed of anything she has done or said. You may laugh at
my inconsistency as much as you like; I can afford to laugh
too, as I have won something worth winning. Come and judge for
yourself, and see your old friend in Elysium, and then go and
do the same thing yourself. I can tell you, my wife knows how
to welcome my friends; and I hope you will think she makes her
house and mine a pleasant one. _Au revoir_, Jack; and between
ourselves--she does not at all object to smoking.
W. E.'
LIME-JUICE.
The subject of lime-juice has suddenly become one of great public
interest. When the chief outlines of the proceedings and experiences
of the recent Arctic Expedition appeared in print, much surprise and
concern were felt at the sad prostration of so many of the crew by
scurvy, the most terrible of all the diseases of maritime life. A
Committee of experienced men, old Arctic heroes and medical officers,
has been appointed by the Admiralty to investigate the whole subject.
We shall of course abstain from all comment or speculation here as to
the result; but our readers will not be unwilling to learn something
concerning the wonderful effects of _lime-juice_, by contrasting the
state of affairs before and since the introduction of that beverage (or
rather medicament) as a regular item on shipboard.
Scurvy is a disease concerning which medical men are a little divided
in opinion. The relative values of pure air, fresh water, vegetable
food, and general cleanliness have not been precisely ascertained.
The disease sometimes attacks landsmen under varied circumstances.
Martin, who visited the Shetlands early in the last century, found
that the inhabitants suffered much from scurvy, which he attributed
to the too great use of salt fish. Brand, near about the same period,
learned that the Orkney Islanders were often unable to obtain any kind
of bread whatever; as a consequence, this dire disease was rife among
them. In Von Troil's account of Iceland in the same century, he found
that the people lived much upon stale fish, fish livers and roes,
fat and train-oil of whales and seals, and sour milk; their clothes
were often wet, and the poor folks were constantly exposed to all the
hardships of poverty. Such persons supplied the greater number of cases
of scurvy in Iceland; those inhabitants who took less fish, sour whey,
&c., and ate Iceland moss and other vegetables, were less affected. A
singular remedy, or supposed remedy, for those attacked was to bind
earth-worms over the blotches, &c. produced by the disease, renewing
them as fast as they dried up. The Faröe Islanders suffered much from
this affliction at one time; but when the fishing declined and the
people began to grow corn, the general health improved. Coming down to
more recent times, Ireland suffered from scurvy during the famine years
1846-7; potatoes were almost unattainable, and other kinds of food high
in price. Devon and Cornwall were at one time much afflicted in this
way during the winter, the disease disappearing when vegetable food
became abundant and cheap in spring and summer.
Soldiers and besieged cities have suffered terrible ordeals in this
way. When Louis IX. led his crusaders against the Saracens in 1260,
the French were much stricken with scurvy, owing to scarcity of food
and water and the malarious state of the air. At the siege of Breda in
1625, and at that of Thorn in 1703; in the Hungarian campaign of the
Austrians and Turks in 1720; at the siege of Quebec in 1760--the same
calamity had to be borne. Towards the close of the last century, when
Bonaparte crossed the Alps into Italy, his troops suffered greatly from
this infliction. So did the British troops at the Cape in 1836. The
armies on both sides were much afflicted with the malady during the
Crimean War of 1854-5.