young men and women to whom they refer are earning barely enough
to keep body and soul together. In most cases they are a load upon
the shoulders of their friends. For some months of the year the
majority are without work. When they are in work, their money will
never more than cover immediate wants. Would they not be better off
beneath the gentleman’s roof with regular food and regular money? No
one who knows anything at all about them will hesitate for a moment
to reply in the affirmative. ‘Why, then,’ it will be, and often is
asked, ‘do they not go into service?’ It would be found that if they
applied for a situation in the household to-morrow, they would want to
become ladies’-maids or valets. This disposition is to be explained
on two grounds. First, exceptional privileges attach to the personal
attendant; secondly, the lower grades of the domestic calling are still
regarded with the feelings to which George Eliot gave expression in her
dissertation on servants’ logic. The ordinary servant is too frequently
and often unjustly branded with the mark of servility and ignorance not
only among the upper classes, but to some extent among the industrial
classes. To be ‘only a servant’ is, in the society in which the artisan
or the clerk moves, to be entitled to less consideration than is given
to those who follow a more independent calling. Just as it is the
genius of the stage who alone is recognised in the best society, so it
is only a few servants who have the power of impressing those with whom
they come in contact with their worth, who secure friends outside the
domestic circle.
The growing antipathy to service is a sign of the times which has to
be reckoned with. Nor is this wonderful. No class of the community
are kept to so perpetual a round of labour as the domestic servant.
With the exception of an occasional afternoon or evening—often it is
not more than once in a fortnight—those who live below-stairs rarely
have an hour which they can call entirely their own. They may perhaps
frequently have an opportunity of getting through their work early
in the day, but they must not leave the house till they have asked
permission. Again, they may stay in the same family for many years. But
what do they gain by it? There is in England no such recognition of
long and faithful service as exists in Germany. Seven years ago, the
Empress of the Fatherland instituted a Long Service Order, and since
that time many hundreds of domestic servants who have lived with the
same master and mistress for forty years, have received from royalty
diplomas and golden crosses.
Is such an Order impossible in Great Britain? Could we not modify and
adapt it to ourselves? If a person is to work well for any length of
time, some motive must be found. Why should not a system of rewards be
adopted? No one can doubt that if a lady, when engaging a domestic,
said, ‘Supposing you stay with me and perform your duties to the best
of your ability for ten years, I will, in consideration thereof,
present you at the termination of your engagement with twenty-five
pounds,’ the effect would be beneficial. On condition of being assured
that the money was safe, many servants, for the sake of the bonus,
would consent to accept lesser wages than they receive at present. Even
though the plan now suggested cost a few pounds more than would be
spent under existing circumstances, would not the freedom from worry
and anxiety be ample compensation? The outlay, however, would probably
amount to little more than is now expended in advertising, in paying
fares to and from the house for the purpose of interviews, and in
various other ways incidental to the constantly recurring necessity of
engaging servants.
Further, there can be no reason why mistresses should not agree to let
each of their servants have a certain number of hours during the week
which they may consider their own. The one drawback to service, in the
eyes of many who would be better off in service than they are now,
is, that they cannot have the evenings which at present are at their
disposal. If the housewife gives the matter a little thought, she will
see that this is an enigma the solution of which is not impracticable.
The future must be pregnant with reform in the relations between the
occupants of the drawing-room and of the servants’ hall. If masters
and mistresses are wise, they will rob the revolutionary spirit of
the age of any force it may have, by anticipating in a generous and
liberal-handed manner claims which, if ignored, may result in a
condition of things as undesirable as that which to-day obtains in
Australia, where servants, at least as they are known in the old
country, are non-existent.
A SUBAQUEOUS EXCURSION.
Our good-fortune in obtaining permission to descend a caisson of the
gigantic Forth Bridge—which when completed will be one of the most
stupendous railway viaducts in the world—obtained additional zest
from the fact that comparatively few structures are founded on what
is termed the pneumatic principle in this country—the employment of
compressed air being more in vogue on the continent—and still fewer
are open to the passing visitor, uninfluenced alike by professional or
scientific ardour.
Arrived at North Queensferry, on the Fife side of the Firth of Forth,
we embark for the island in mid-channel, and rounding the easternmost
promontory of the rock, see before us a huge iron cylinder, which, but
for the incongruity of its position, we should take for a gasometer,
and not a caisson. We land, and are forthwith marshalled to the
dressing-room. Leathern caps and garments of a sombre blue hue are
donned, and we are ready to descend. Before, however, proceeding, a
brief outline of the working of a caisson, the end in view, and the
means adopted in the attainment of that end, may be given, which will
enable the reader to follow our movements.
Over the site of the proposed pier, a large circular cylinder is
sunk, which rests on the rock-bottom, and has its upper edge slightly
above high water. A horizontal floor divides the cylinder into two
chambers. The lower chamber, seven feet in height, is charged with
compressed air by machinery situated on shore, and connected with it
by flexible hose. The air under pressure excludes the water, enabling
workmen to descend into the lower chamber—which is, in fact, a large
diving-bell—and to excavate the rock on which the caisson rests. The
excavated material is drawn up in buckets or ‘skips’ and thrown over,
whilst the caisson gradually descends by its own weight until a level
bed is formed. The upper and lower chambers of the caisson are then
filled with concrete, and this circular monolithic foundation carries
the granite pier on which rests the steel superstructure. A tube,
connecting the air-chamber below with an air-lock on the upper platform
of the caisson, gives access to the working beneath. In principle, the
air-lock of a caisson in no way differs from the well-known lock on
a canal. The air-lock is formed by a tube of larger diameter, which
surrounds the upper end of the vertical tube leading to the air-chamber.
Having entered this outer chamber, the door is closed behind us, and
our connection with the outer world severed. A cock is turned, and
with a steady hiss, the compressed air enters, a fact of which we
soon become painfully conscious by the pressure that is brought to
bear upon the drum of the ear. We follow the directions previously
given us, and by copiously swallowing the compressed air and forcing
it into the ears, with closed nostrils, we equalise the pressure on
both sides of the drums, and succeed in accommodating ourselves to the
novel atmospheric conditions. The inrush of compressed air at length
ceases; and the pressure being now equal in the outer chamber—in which
we are—and the internal tube, the door between them opens without
difficulty. We enter, and descending a vertical ladder some ninety
feet, we find ourselves in the air-chamber, and standing on the solid
rock-bed of the Firth of Forth fifty feet below water-level. The scene
is as striking as it is novel. A circular iron chamber, seventy feet
in diameter and seven feet high, brilliantly illuminated by arc-lights
suspended from the roof. Groups of foreign workmen—enlisted for this
service, owing to continental experience in this class of work—are
busily engaged in levelling the surface of the rock. The majority
of these men wield pick and bar; whilst others fill the iron tubs
or ‘skips’ with the fragments of rock, which are then drawn to the
surface, passing through a lock similar in principle, though differing
slightly in design from that we have ourselves traversed; and having
discharged their contents over the edge of the caisson, return for
another load.
We would fain linger amid a scene so weird and wonderful; but time
fails, and we must return to ‘bank.’ We take a last look at the
air-chamber with its busy occupants, and ascending the ladder, not
without exertion, for a vertical ladder at all times calls muscle into
play, and the pressure we are under by no means lightens our labours,
we find ourselves again in the air-lock. The reverse process now takes
place. The inner door is closed, the compressed air is allowed to
escape from the outer chamber in which we now are, and causes a thick
mist, cold and chilly. Before long, the pressure ceases; the outer
door opens, and we again tread terra firma. The pressure-gauge records
thirty pounds per square inch.
We now discard our exploring garments, and having enjoyed a not
unneedful wash, we quit the works, and returning homewards,
congratulate each other on having trodden the very foundations of the
wonderful Forth Bridge, and ponder how little the future traveller, as
he lightly skims the estuary at sixty miles an hour, will think of the
practical ingenuity and patient labour that wrought, deep down beneath
the waters of the Forth, the foundations on which repose the huge
structures through which the flying express is whirling him.
OCCASIONAL NOTES.
BORAX.
We learn from a contemporary a good deal that is interesting about the
history and preparation for the market of the borax of commerce. In
1874 Mr A. Robottom, prospecting for commercial purposes some of the
vast tracts of unoccupied land in Southern California, came across a
long deep valley, about fifteen by eight miles, which was apparently
the basin, or series of basins, of once active volcanoes. This valley
was covered with crude borates, combined with earthy impurities. The
heat was oppressive, one hundred and nineteen degrees in the shade; and
the atmosphere so dry, that even breathing was difficult. At this time,
the explorer’s attention was drawn to a dark object lying upon the
ground, upon which he seated himself, and found it was a dead horse. He
was naturally surprised that no smell emanated from the carcase, and
taking out his knife, he cut to the bones, only to find that the flesh
was quite sweet. The explanation of this was that the boron from the
boracic land had saturated it thoroughly. He learned afterwards that
the carcase of this horse had lain there for seven months, having been
left by a party of emigrants. The remarkable antiseptic powers of boron
in its crude state having thus been proved to him, he took over this
Boron Valley for the State of California, and arranged with a Company
in England to make it available for commercial purposes.
As it reaches this country, Californian borax, after being freed from
its earthy elements at the Borax Lake, is put up in small bags, and
consists of pure white crystals, which are crushed into a fine, white,
almost inpalpable powder in the factories. After undergoing various
processes, it comes out eventually to the outside world as borax
extract of soap, borax dry soap, washing-powders, &c. In one factory,
over thirty-seven million of packets are turned out annually. This
prepared Californian borax is used in the laundry, for washing cattle,
for helping to heal wounds, and many other household purposes. Its
virtues in preventing decomposition in hams and salted meats are also
well known. Water containing one per cent. of borax will keep pure and
sweet for years, and remain safe for drinking.
The soap prepared with borax, however, has been thought by some to have
a more corrosive influence on fibres than common soap. In Belgium,
powdered borax is used for washing purposes, with a view to economise
soap; while in Sweden, meat and milk are largely preserved by means of
boracic acid, its use in no way rendering these viands less wholesome.
It is also valuable for hard soldering, and is in use for pottery
glazes and enamels.
In addition to the natural supply of crude borax already mentioned,
this substance is largely made from boracic or boric acid, found
among the matters ejected around the craters of volcanoes. Works for
utilising and preparing it exist in the Maremma of Tuscany, where the
acid is condensed from the boiling springs and heated gases issuing
from fissures in the rocks. It is also found in Central Asia, Canada,
Peru, and in Nevada, United States.
AMERICANISMS.
The _Globe_, in an article by an ‘American Journalist,’ says: ‘The
opportunity may here be taken to gently suggest that the word Yankee
is very often misapplied on this side of the Atlantic. It is a genuine
American word, but it only applies to the inhabitants of a certain
part of the big Republic. A stranger in the States describing an
inhabitant of Cincinnati, or St Louis, or Richmond, Virginia, as a
Yankee, would stand a good chance of a broken head, or even worse.
As a matter of fact, the Yankees are the people who inhabit the New
England States, and the title is considered a term of reproach, not
to say insult, by all others. This, however, is all by the way. There
are three terms very often quoted as American “slang,” which possess
certain peculiarities of locality. These are “guess,” “calculate,” and
“reckon.” One may travel through what are known as the Southern States
for five years and never once hear either of the first two words,
unless spoken by a Northerner or a man from the West. The Southerners
“reckon” everything, except, perhaps, consequences, and they are left
to take care of themselves. “Guess” is more or less universal in the
States, and “calculate” is common only to the North and extreme East.
“Straanger” is frequently erroneously used by English writers and
speakers as an ordinary colloquialism of all Americans. It is the
property of the South and South-west only, and even there is rapidly
becoming obsolete. But to these expressions it is hardly fair to append
the stigma of “slang.” Now there are plenty of slang words and phrases
in vogue in America which probably are meaningless to English minds.
A lady has purchased an article for considerably more than its value;
she shows it to her husband, proclaiming its beauty and cheapness.
He, seeing that she has been overcharged, endeavours to persuade her
that such is the case, vainly, for she is quite satisfied with her
bargain. “All right,” says he; “it’s not my funeral.” This is slang,
pure and simple, but it has a derivation. It is an unintentional
protest against the elaborate obsequial ceremonies indulged in by all
classes in the United States, and it is a grim reference to one of
those not unfrequent “shindies” that take place in Western bar-rooms,
from which the men who escape with whole skins have reason to thank
their stars that “it is not their funeral.” Many are the political
and party expressions which may well come under the head of slang
terms, such as “log-rolling,” “the bloody shirt”—a reference to the
late civil war—“mugwumps”—a name given in ridicule to independent
voters—“the ticket,” meaning the list of candidates recommended for
election by either party, and so on. The speculative nature of nearly
all Americans has originated the expression “you bet,” which is the
basis of many phrases, as, “you bet your life,” “bet your sweet life,”
“bet your bottom dollar,” “bet your boots,” “stake your pile,” “go the
lot on that.” Favourite games of cards have caused such expressions
as “euchred!” to signify that one is exposed or thwarted; “I pass,”
meaning that one declines further conjecture or speculation; “let’s
make a Jack-pot,” a proceeding in the game of poker similar to making
a pool; “pooling the issues,” denoting an intention or proposal to
put all the results of some action together and “divvy up” or divide
equally among the partners. To “catch on” means to understand or
comprehend quickly, and has its parallel on this side of the Atlantic
in “do you catch my meaning?” It is usual in the States to call
railways “railroads,” railway lines “tracks,” carriages “cars,” and
stations “depots.” Tramway carriages are referred to as “street” or
“horse” cars, in contradistinction to “steam-cars” or railway trains.
A railway engine is known as a “locomotive,” in opposition to a
stationary engine. The guards are all “conductors;” and there is no
luggage, but all “baggage,” and hence porters are called opprobriously
“baggage-smashers,” from their anything but gentle handling of the
baggage. The speed of the trains has given rise to the phrase “to
railroad a thing through,” meaning to get a thing done quickly; and the
huge lamp which flashes along the line from the front of the engine
has given its name to a special lamp-oil called “headlight oil.” Very
nearly every State has its special provincialisms, and they are as
numerous as the words peculiar to the counties of England. Climate has
had a great deal to do with many of these peculiarities, the languid
heat of the Southern States having induced a soft drawling accent and a
habit of slurring over certain letters, syllables, and sounds.’
A NATURAL SALMON-TRAP.
The salmon, the cousin of the trout, is famous for its method of going
up-stream; it darts at falls ten or twelve feet high, leaps into
the air, and rushes up the falling water in a marvellous manner. So
determined are the salmon to attain the high and safe waters, that
in some localities nets are placed beneath the falls, into which
the fish tumble in their repeated attempts to clear the hill of
water. Other than human hunters, moreover, profit by these scrambles
up-hill. Travellers report that on the banks of the Upper St John
River, in Canada, there was once a rock in which a large circular
well, or pot-hole, had been worn by the action of the water. At the
salmon-season, this rock proved a favourite resort for bears; and for a
good reason. Having an especial taste for salmon, the bears would watch
at the pot-hole, and as the salmon, dashing up the fall, were thrown
by its force into the rocky basin, the bears would quickly scrape them
out of the pot-hole, and the poor salmon would be eaten before they had
time to wonder at this unlooked-for reception. The Dominion government
finally authorised a party of hunters to destroy the pot-hole, and thus
break up the bears’ fishing-ground.
‘POOR JACK.’
A correspondent sends us the following. He says:
Reading the interesting article entitled ‘Poor Jack’ in the _Journal_
of the 7th November, I venture to send you a few notes, thinking that
an excerpt from them may possibly be of interest to your readers. As
the writer states, Jack is, thanks to the Board of Trade, much better
off than he used to be. At all ports where there is not a separate
Mercantile Marine Office, the custom-house is used as one, and the
customs officials discharge the necessary duties. It is only at large
ports that sailors are enabled to proceed home at once, if they _do_
reside—as is generally the case—at a seaport town. They receive a
document from the Board of Trade officer, which they present to the
officer at the port where they live; and he, being advised through
post by the officer at the arrival port, pays the amount of wages due.
Here Jack is protected thoroughly from all temptations, and usually
arrives at home sober, with his hard-earned wages safe in his pocket.
This beneficial system, however, is not extended to the middle-class
and small ports, and at these places Jack too often falls a ready
prey to the land-sharks. Usually, when a foreign-going ship arrives
in port, some hours—or perhaps a day or two—elapse before Jack is
paid off. In the meantime he has his liberty, and it is then that the
land-sharks are on the lookout for him. They entice him to their houses
and give him drink, and so manage matters that, when the ship is paid
off and he receives his wages, he is already considerably indebted to
them, and perhaps is in such a muddled condition as to be incapable of
taking care of his money. Seamen’s Money Orders are of great service in
rescuing Jack’s wages from the clutches of these plunderers. They are
obtained free of charge and for any amount at the time the ship is paid
off, and steady seamen generally make use of them. They can be drawn on
any Mercantile Marine Office; and as the seaman can make them payable
to himself if he is not married, they enable him to get a good portion
of his wages home in safety without any expense or risk. What is wanted
in many places is that some one concerned in the mission-work amongst
sailors should be on the lookout when a ship arrives in port with a
crew to pay off, and see the men lodged in respectable boarding-houses
or sailors’ homes, so that they can send their wages home by means of
the Money Orders; and also to see them safely to the railway station.
It is grievous to think that the wages of many of our sailors, who
have perhaps been out on a voyage of many months’ duration, should be
dissipated in a few days, and most of it fall into the hands of the
worthless creatures who live by this species of plunder.
A DESERTED GARDEN.
Tangled ivy creeps and twines
Where once bloomed my Lady’s flowers;
And the twisting wild woodbines
Weave o’er all their clustering bowers;
And the fruit-trees from the wall
Droop forgotten and forlorn,
And the rose-trees, thick and tall,
From their trellis-work are torn.
Dewy paths—once velvet-smooth
For the dainty steps of youth—
Weedy now, and overgrown
With the rank grass all unmown.
Here and there, amid confusion,
Gleams a berry scarlet-hued,
And pale bindweed in profusion
(By the summer breezes wooed),
Creeps, where once verbenas grew,
Or the myrtle flowered so fair
In the warm and scented air;
And the speedwell—deepest blue—
Shakes its frail flowers everywhere.
So, amid these paths—all haunted
By the memory of old flowers—
Grow these wild-wood blooms undaunted,
Through the glowing autumn hours.
Ah! how long ago it seems
Since bright faces glowed and smiled
In this garden of our dreams.
Now so desolate and wild!
They will come again no more,
And no time shall e’er restore
Golden days and fairy flowers
To these wearied hearts of ours.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._