There is no phrase of abuse so apparently innocent and yet so cutting
and disturbing as that, ‘I know all about you.’ It asserts nothing
of which one can take hold, and yet it implies a great deal that may
well be offensive. It is customary to say that the life of the best of
men, could it be subjected to the full glare of daylight in all its
bearings, would be found more or less spotty and blemished; and perhaps
it is this secret consciousness of hidden iniquities that gives such
force to the innuendo.
But in the mouth of Houlot, who you will remember made use of the
expression, and thus caused his speedy expulsion from my premises, the
phrase was one that gave us all considerable uneasiness. Did he really
know anything about my connection with the firm of Collingwood Dawson?
It seemed hardly likely that he would have come to borrow money of me,
had such been the case. But this, after all, might have merely been a
device to throw dust in our eyes. His visit might have been a spying
one, for the purpose of seeing how the land lay. He might indeed have
seen his wife and recognised her.
Mrs Collingwood was full of terror lest such should have been the case.
She dreaded that he was coming to claim her. Every passing footstep,
every ring at the bell of the outer gate caused her a vivid throb of
fear. For my own part I did not think the danger thus great in that
direction. It was hardly likely that a man who had taken such pains to
escape from a tie that must have been profoundly irksome to him, would
wish to renew it now. His habits were fixed and eccentric, and probably
he would be as much dismayed at the prospect of being claimed by his
wife, as she would at the idea of going back to him. These thoughts I
did not divulge to Mrs Collingwood. They suggested to me, however, a
plan of action.
I determined to go and see M. Houlot, to beard the lion in his den.
Probably I should be ill-treated and abused for my pains; but it was
worth the trial. Houlot’s house was, as I have said, on the slope of
one of the hills overlooking the town, the top of which was fringed
with forest, whilst all down the sides were houses with terraced
gardens, full of greenery, and with dividing walls covered thick with
vines and pear-trees. It was a tall, timbered house, occupied by many
families; and a common staircase, rickety and creaky, but with fine old
carved oak balusters, led to the various floors. Houlot lived on the
fourth stage, I found; and I made my way up panting, and not without
fear lest the boards should give way beneath me. A sempstress who was
busily at work in one of the rooms with her door wide open and her
children scattered about the landing, indicated the door of Houlot’s
room, and told me that she had just seen him go in.
I knocked several times without any one taking notice of me. Finally,
after I had made a considerable din, the door was suddenly opened and
Houlot stood before me.
‘What do you want?’ he cried, after glaring at me a few moments from
under his pent-house brows. ‘Have you come to bring me the money?’
‘Let me come in and explain matters,’ I said.
He looked doubtfully at me for a moment, and then sullenly drew on one
side and allowed me to pass in. His room was bare of furniture, except
for one square deal table and a chair without a back. In one corner of
the room a mattress and blanket were spread on the floor, in another a
lot of books and papers were heaped confusedly together, all covered
by a thick mantle of dust. A small cooking stove stood in the middle
of the room, the black iron pipe from which went through a hole into
the huge chimney; and a large open fireplace, which had once warmed
the room, was covered with a rough framework of planks and sacking.
The aspect of the place was squalid and comfortless, but it had one
redeeming feature—there was a splendid view from the open window. A
great fold of shining river, inclosing a stretch of marsh-land and wide
green prairie, dotted with feathery aspens and monumental poplars,
among which shewed here and there a cluster of farm buildings, and
an occasional church spire. A black morose-looking windmill, with
sails pugnaciously stretched out, as if daring an attack from some
nineteenth-century Don Quixote, stood solitary on its grass toft. Range
upon range of hills inclosed the landscape, dappled with the shadow of
the lazy clouds; with here a dark ravine, and there a white gleaming
chalk cliff.
‘You are well placed here,’ I said, making for the window. There was an
overpowering smell of brandy in the room, that made one feel quite sick
this fine summer morning. ‘You have a splendid view.’
‘Well enough for that,’ growled Houlot. ‘But what is the good of a view
to a hungry man?’
I noticed now that he looked haggard and starved, and that there was an
unhealthy fiery flush upon his face and a wild look in his eyes, as if
he had been drinking without eating for a good while.
‘You need not go hungry unless you like,’ I said. ‘I can’t lend you all
the money you ask for; but anything you want for daily needs I will let
you have till you get your remittances from England.’
‘I have no remittances coming from England,’ said Houlot. ‘I have given
up writing for the rascal who filched my work. But if you will only
let me have that five-pound note we will put matters on a different
footing. Let me shew up Collingwood Dawson!’
‘Yes, that’s all very well; but what will you gain by it?’
‘I shall vindicate my own name.’
‘What! the name of Houlot?’
He winced, but retorted angrily: ‘What business is it of yours what
name?’
‘If I lend you the money to carry out your plans, it seems that I am
entitled to ask what chance I have to be repaid. But apart from that,
having vindicated your name, how many five-pound notes will it be
worth?’
‘Why, look here,’ he said; ‘if that rascal can make a reputation and
money by his stuff, which is only mine diluted and spoilt, surely for
the genuine work of the real man’——
‘If you are trusting to that, I must decline to advance any money for
the speculation. Why on earth, man, when you had a sufficient income
paid you regularly, and lived as you liked, did you give it up and
embark on a sea of trouble?’
‘Because I have a mission in this world, which I dream sometimes I
shall accomplish.’
‘And the mission is?’
‘To open the eyes of fools.’
‘My dear fellow, they object to the operation, and have punished a good
many people for trying it.’
‘Then I will be punished,’ he said. ‘But anyhow, I’ll expose these
wretched smatterers, who serve up my things with all their wit and
wisdom taken out of them, who travesty my best thoughts. Why, they have
even made vulgar my very name!’
‘Houlot?’ I said, ‘Houlot? Is that the French for Dawson or
Collingwood?’
‘That is not my real name,’ he said. ‘I abandoned that years ago. Every
one turned his back upon the name. I did so myself at last.’
‘One of the results of the eye-opening process, I suppose?’
He nodded sullenly. ‘My name used to be Dawson,’ he said.
‘You don’t mean to say,’ I cried, ‘that you are the Dawson who was
supposed to have been drowned years and years ago?’
‘I was that man—that unhappy man! But why,’ he cried, turning round
fiercely upon me, ‘why do you make me go back to all these hateful
things?’
‘Then is the memory of your former life hateful to you?’
‘I escaped from the most wretched condition that a man was ever in:
tied to a woman who made my life an intolerable burden. She was not a
bad woman, not an unworthy woman. She was—— Well, she had a mother who
was fat and well to do, and lived in St John’s Wood.’
Houlot laughed hoarsely, knocked out his pipe on the empty stove,
looked mechanically for some tobacco in a jar on the chimney-piece.
It was empty. I offered him my pouch, which he took with an indignant
scowl.
‘Well, I was meant for great things,’ he went on between the whiffs
of his pipe—‘meant for great things; and here I am. Life fribbled and
frittered away, and that woman the main cause of it! There was no
escape from her any other way. I believe in my heart that the woman
loved me in her fashion; all the greater was my unutterable woe.’
‘And you ran away from her?’
‘I disappeared from existence. I would not harm the woman. I would not
spoil her life any longer. No; I adopted another plan. At the risk of
my own life, I contrived that my death should be apparent. The means
were simple enough, although they caused me some anxious thought and
preparation. I went down to a little visited part of the coast with
which I was well acquainted, and put up at an inn where I was known.
Taking my cue partly from the well-known farce of _Box and Cox_, I went
out one morning early and deposited a suit of clothes in a little niche
in the cliffs: a wild and solitary spot, rarely visited by any living
creature. Later in the day, I went out again, telling the people of the
inn that I was going to bathe. I left my clothes on the beach and took
to the water. I had chosen my time so that the set of the tide would
carry me to the place where I had deposited my clothes, and I drifted
along with little exertion. Arrived at the spot, I landed, found my
clothes all right, and put them on. Then I started on foot along the
coast till I reached a road-side station, made my way to London, and
then crossed the Channel, intending to go to Paris. I thought that I
should be able to get literary employment there; for French is as a
second native tongue to me. My mother was a Frenchwoman; her name was
Houlot; hence the name I adopted. But I took this place on my way; and
on the journey I fell from the roof of the diligence, and the wheel
went over my hand. Amputation was necessary; and by the time that I
was cured, I had spent all my little store of money and owed something
beside. But the people here were very humane and kind. I set to work
to write with my left hand, and earned a little money meanwhile by
teaching English; and by degrees I got into the knack of writing again,
and contributed some articles to the English press, by which I got a
little money. It was all a flash in the pan; my pupils fell away, my
articles were no longer acceptable. My friend here’—pointing to the
bottle—‘was always at my elbow. But I shall shake myself free one of
these days.’
‘And if it happened,’ I said, as he finished and was silent, sitting
puffing at the pipe that had long since gone out—‘if it happened that
the wife was still waiting for you—that she had heard a rumour of your
existence, and had come to seek you’——
‘No; don’t talk of that, for any sake!’ he cried, springing to his
feet. ‘Wretched and miserable as I have been, I have never wished
myself again tied in that hateful knot. There! you would never betray
me?’
‘But if she were rich, and able to give you a good home?’
‘Never, never!’ he said. ‘What degradation, what abasement!’
‘To take you out of this den of yours, to clothe you in well-made
garments, to bring you again into society?’
‘Never, never! I would hide myself in the remotest corner of the world.
Tell me, man, what do you mean? You know something; you are a spy, a
traitor!’
Houlot looked here and there as if for a weapon, and I thought it
prudent to make quickly for the door.
I went home and told Mrs Collingwood all that had occurred, excepting
the horror that M. Houlot had shewn at the idea of returning to her.
That I thought it most prudent to suppress. She seemed a little
softened, I thought, when I told her his account of his disappearance
in the sea, and that his motive was a good one as far as she was
concerned.
We sat till late that night talking in the little pavilion, the
light from the windows of which was reflected in the dark river. I
fancied every now and then I heard a footstep softly pacing up and
down the embankment between us and the water’s edge. I certainly
thought I had securely locked the garden gate, and never dreamt of
our being disturbed. Just as my guest had risen to take her leave,
the door suddenly opened, and M. Houlot stood upon the threshold. Mrs
Collingwood screamed, and ran to the furthest corner of the room,
crouching behind the window curtains. Houlot glared at her for a
moment, then slammed to the door and strode away. I ran after him.
‘You have deceived me!’ he said savagely, as, breathless, I overtook
him upon the embankment; ‘and I, like a fool, believed you, and
pictured her to myself—still loving, still faithful to the memory of
a wretched being; and I came to seek you, to know more about this
wonderful phenomenon. And now I see it all; she dreads me as if I were
a leper! Well, it matters not now; I am away to-morrow. Some kind
friends have raised a little money for me; I don’t need your help now.
To-morrow before daylight I start on my way to make my claim for that
which is mine own. Tell her—tell her that she need not fear me, that I
shall never trouble her, nor she me! I have been a slave long enough;
but to-morrow, light; to-morrow, freedom!’
‘Take care what you do,’ I said, ‘for the person whom you seek to ruin,
whom you would expose and bring to confusion, is the woman whom you
abandoned and left to the mercy of a pitiless world! Every step you
take to that end is over her, poor creature! The harm you did before
came right, after much misery; the harm you will do now can never be
cured!’
He uttered an exclamation of rage and despair, and disappeared in the
darkness.
‘Is he gone?’ cried Mrs Collingwood, as I returned once more to the
pavilion.
‘Yes, he is gone; he is away to London to-morrow to claim his rights,
as he calls them—to ruin us if he can. We must go also, and fight him.’
‘Do you know,’ faltered Mrs Collingwood, ‘that there has come a great
change over me these last few minutes? The thought that he really loved
me and sacrificed himself for my sake; and then he living here so
lonely and wretched, and I luxuriating on the fruits of his genius! Oh,
my heart has smitten me sorely, and I think if he came again I should
not be frightened!’
‘In that case,’ I said bitterly, ‘your course is easy enough; you
have only to make him understand he is forgiven. I will go with you
to-night.’
‘O no, not to-night!’ she said. ‘No; it is too sudden. But don’t let
him go away; tell him to stay, and that perhaps things may yet be well.’
‘He can’t leave before the first diligence,’ I said, ‘and I will meet
him there and tell him to stop.’
‘Do, do!’ she cried. ‘Keep him here for to-morrow; then I may have made
up my mind what will be for the best.’
I went to see the diligence start next morning; but no M. Houlot was
there. He had overslept himself probably. Well, I would go and see him
at his apartment, and tell him how matters stood. I knocked at his
door; but could not make him hear. Then I scribbled some words upon a
visiting card I happened to have in my pocket, and thrust it under the
door.
The next time I saw that card it was in the hands of the _commissaire_
of police, who came, accompanied by the _juge d’instruction_, to make
some _perquisitions_ as to what I might know of the last hours of M.
Houlot; for he had been found that morning lying dead on his mattress.
The sad end of Houlot—well, of Dawson, if you like, but I have grown
to think of him and talk of him as Houlot—quite unmanned me for a
while. I could not help blaming myself as being in some way the cause
of it. From the moment of its discovery, I took a violent antipathy
to the work I had in hand. Houlot seemed to be always standing at
my elbow, reproaching me with killing him over again. I don’t know
whether the widow—really now a widow—had any such visions; I fancy not.
After the first shock of the news, she found that Houlot’s death was
really a great relief to her. It put an end to her troubles once for
all. We found at his lodgings a great heap of manuscript, which she
purchased from the agent acting for the landlord of the premises—who
had taken possession of everything in satisfaction of rent—for a
few francs. Whether she found the material among it for a series of
novels, I don’t know, for as soon as I had finished the work in hand,
I gave up my connection with Collingwood Dawson. I have since taken
to writing improving books for the young, and find that it pays much
better. Still I hear of him occasionally, and find that he continues
to be a tolerably successful author; and the other day I met my late
employer, who told me that she was married for a third time, and to a
gentleman of great literary ability, who had undertaken the management
of Collingwood Dawson. For my own part, I advised her to form him into
a Limited company, with a preference in the allotment of shares for
gentlemen of the press.
MR FAIR, ‘THE SILVER KING.’
The prodigious quantities of silver recently dug from the mines of
Nevada and California, have, as is generally known, had the effect
of lowering the commercial value of silver to the extent of several
pence per ounce, and thereby depreciated the American dollar from one
hundred to about ninety cents; that is to say, the dollar has sunk
nearly fivepence in value—a circumstance greedily seized hold of by
certain parties in the United States, who propose, with more ingenuity
than honesty, to pay the public creditors in silver money without
making any allowance for depreciation. On this extraordinary policy so
much has been said by the newspapers, that we do not need to go into
particulars, further than to hint that before all the play is played,
the supporters of this scheme may unpleasantly find that there is some
truth in the old proverb that ‘honesty is the best policy.’
Something like an idea of what enormous wealth is being realised by
means of the above-mentioned silver mines is given in an account of
Mr Fair, ‘The Silver King,’ in a late number of that smart London
newspaper, _The World_. The following is an abridgment of this amusing
paper.
‘There is a man alive at this present moment who, if he were so minded,
could give his daughter a marriage-portion of thirty millions sterling.
He would then have about ten millions left for himself. He lives six
thousand miles west of London, half-way up a mountain-side in Nevada;
and his daughter lives with him. Seven years ago he was a poor man;
to-day he is the Silver King of America. He has dug forty million
pounds’ worth of silver out of the hill he is living on, and has about
forty millions more yet to dig. If he lives three years longer he will
be the richest man in the world. His name is James Fair, and he is the
manager, superintendent, chief partner, and principal shareholder in
the Consolidated Virginia and California Silver Mines, known to men as
the “Big Bonanzas.” He has an army of men toiling for him day and night
down in the very depths of the earth—digging, picking, blasting, and
crushing a thousand tons of rock every twenty-four hours.
‘Seven years ago there were two little Irishmen in the city of San
Francisco keeping a drinking-bar of very modest pretensions, close to
one of the principal business thoroughfares. Their customers were of
all kinds, but chiefly commercial men and clerks. Among them was an
unusually large proportion of stock and share dealers, mining-brokers
and the like, who, in the intervals of speculation, rushed out of the
neighbouring Exchange five or six times a day for drinks. Whisky being
almost the religion of California, and the two little bar-keepers being
careful to sell nothing but the best article, their bar soon became a
place of popular resort. And as no true Californian could ever swallow
a drink of whisky under any circumstances without talking about silver
mines or gold mines or shares in mines, it soon fell out that, next
to the Stock Exchange itself, there was no place in San Francisco
where so much mining-talk went on as in the saloon of Messrs Flood
& O’Brien, which were the names of the two little Irishmen. Keeping
their ears wide open, and sifting the mass of gossip that they listened
to every day, these two gentlemen picked up a good many crumbs of
useful information, besides getting now and then a direct confidential
tip; and they turned some of them to such good account in a few quiet
little speculations, that they shortly had a comfortable sum of money
lying at their bankers’. Instead of throwing it away headlong in wild
extravagant ventures, which was the joyous custom of the average
Californian in those days, they let it lie where it was, waiting, with
commendable prudence, till they knew of something good to put it into.
They soon heard of something good enough. On Fair’s advice they bought
shares in a mine called the Hale and Norcross, and were speedily taking
out of it fifteen thousand pounds a month in dividends. This mine was
the property of a company, and though it had at one time paid large
and continuous dividends, it was now supposed to be worked out and
worthless. Mr Fair, however, held a different opinion; and when he came
to examine it carefully, he found just what he expected to find—a large
deposit of silver-ore. Thereupon he and Flood and O’Brien together
bought up all the shares they could lay their hands upon, and obtained
complete control of the mine.’
Besides being a clever and experienced miner, Mr Fair entertained the
belief that by patient examination into holes and corners of the mine
he would discover a gigantic vein of silver-bearing ore. He discovered
the vein, the estimated value of which was a hundred and twenty
millions sterling.
‘In the excitement caused by this astounding discovery it is scarcely
more than the hard truth to say that San Francisco went raving mad. The
vein in which the Bonanza was found was known to run straight through
the Consolidated Virginia and California mines, dipping down as it
went, and could not be traced any farther. But that fact was nothing
to people who were bent on having mining stock; and vein or no vein,
the stock they would have. Consequently they bought into every mine in
the neighbourhood—good and bad alike—sending prices up to unheard-of
limits, and investing millions in worthless properties that have never
yielded a shilling in dividends, and never will. When Flood had bought
a large quantity of the Bonanza stock, and had assured to himself and
his partners the controlling interest in the mines, he recommended all
his friends to buy a little; and O’Brien did the same. Those who took
the advice are now drawing their proportionate shares of dividends,
amounting to about five hundred thousand pounds a month. The majority
of those who bought into other mines are, in Californian parlance
“busted.” What these three men and their latest partner Mackay are
going to do with their money is a curious problem, the solution of
which will be watched with great interest in a year or two to come. The
money they hold now is yielding them returns so enormous that their
maddest extravagances could make no impression on the amount. Every
year they are earning more, saving more, and investing more. They
have organised a bank with a capital of ten millions of dollars; they
control nearly all the mining interests of Nevada and California;
they have a strong grip of the commercial, financial, and farming
interests all along the Pacific slope; and by a single word they can at
any moment raise a disastrous panic, and plunge thousands of men into
hopeless ruin. It will be an interesting thing to wait and watch how
this terrible power for good or evil is to be wielded.’
THE MONTH:
SCIENCE AND ARTS.
Professor Osborne Reynolds, in his presidential address to the
Scientific and Mechanical Society of Manchester, discussed the
Smoke question; a very pressing question in a town with so grimy an
atmosphere as Manchester. He pointed out that great part of the smoke
is produced by the furnaces of small steam-engines carelessly managed,
which are numerous throughout the town and neighbourhood, and suggested
that it might be possible to do away with these by producing power at
some great central establishment, and supplying it by transmission to
all the little factories of a district. But how is the transmission
to be effected? That is a question which has often been considered by
engineers, ‘not so much as a means of preventing smoke, but because
there are in our towns numberless purposes for which power is, or at
all events might be, usefully employed, and for which it is almost
impossible or very inconvenient to provide on the spot. Very small
steam-engines are very extravagant in coal, besides requiring almost
as much attention as large ones; and they are dangerous.... If,
therefore,’ continues Professor Reynolds, ‘power in a convenient form
could be obtained whenever and wherever required, at a fixed and
reasonable charge, and with no other trouble than the throwing into
gear of a clutch or the turning of a tap,’ it would be largely made use
of, and would ‘supplant steam-engines, which are now kept working with
little or nothing to do for the greater part of their time;’ whereby an
important saving of coal would be effected. The suggestion of supplying
steam-power on a retail principle is not new, and nothing but some
practical difficulties stand in the way. All we want is a solution of
the question by some competent engineer. Let the genius but arise; he
will find fame as well as fortune waiting for him.
The Council of the Statistical Society will give their Howard Medal for
the present year and twenty pounds to the author of the best essay on
‘The Effects of Health and Disease on Military and Naval Operations.’
The Council of the Royal Geographical Society have resolved to devote
five hundred pounds yearly—‘in grants to assist persons having proper
qualifications, in undertaking special geographical investigations
(as distinct from mere exploration) in any part of the world—To aid
in the compilation of useful geographical data and preparing them for
publication, and in making improvements in apparatus or appliances
useful for geographical instruction, or for scientific research by
travellers—In fees to persons of recognised high attainments for
delivering lectures on physical geography in all its branches, as well
as on other truly scientific aspects of geography, in relation to its
past history, or the influences of geographical conditions on the human
race.’ Adherence to this course for a few years will do more to advance
geography as a science than having recourse to sensational meetings.
Mr Dumas, the distinguished chemist, in giving an account to a
scientific Society in Paris of the liquefaction and solidification of
gases, stated that the specimen of oxygen produced by Mr Pictet of
Geneva was the size of a hen’s egg, and resembled snow in the solid
form, and water in the liquid form. Theoretically he had concluded that
the density of liquid oxygen would be about the same as that of water;
and this has been confirmed by experiment.
As regards hydrogen, Mr Dumas explained that it was liquefied under
a pressure of six hundred and fifty atmospheres with cold minus one
hundred and forty degrees; and by evaporating the liquid thus obtained,
the solid condition, shewing the colour of blue steel, was arrived at.
Many years ago this possibility was foreseen, and the most advanced
chemists admitted the existence of a theoretical metal—hydrogenium.
‘This confirmation of the real nature of hydrogen,’ continued Mr
Dumas, ‘is not to be regarded merely as a theoretical result useful to
pure science; it appears to be of great importance for the future of
industry. A certain knowledge of the metallic nature of hydrogen will
have a certain influence on metallurgy, of which manufacturing arts
will take advantage.’
The phonograph has been exhibited, and made the subject of lectures
and experiments in many places, and as we anticipated, has given ample
demonstration that the statements put forth concerning it are true.
Marvellous as the fact may appear, all the words spoken into the
instrument seem to be there stored up ready for repetition whenever
excited by the cylinder of tinfoil. They do not come out quite in
the same tone as that in which they go in; but they are perfectly
distinct, and retain the characteristics of the speaker or singer.
At a scientific meeting in London, one of the company sung _God Save
the Queen_ into the phonograph. On coming to the highest note, he had
to make three attempts before he could reach it; and these failures
excited much merriment when the stanza was (only too faithfully)
repeated by the instrument. The same air was sung and produced
without failures, and a comic ditty was sung and inscribed on the
same cylinder: and very curious it was afterwards to hear the stately
movement of the national hymn accompanied by the jingling notes of the
funny melody. An instrument so ingenious as this ought to be applicable
to many useful purposes. Already there are improvements on the original
invention, and we shall doubtless hear of others.
The very best photographs of the sun ever yet seen have been taken
at the Observatory, Meudon, near Paris, by Mr Janssen; and copies on
glass, twelve inches diameter, are now placed in the hands of some
of our scientific societies. They well repay study, for they shew
distinctly the granular appearance of the sun’s surface: millions of
white specks imbedded, so to speak, in a dense dark cloud. This surface
is liable to violent commotions, or ‘vortex movements,’ as Mr Warren
De la Rue calls them, ‘of which we can form no conception whatever
in thinking of tornados on the earth’s surface. The photosphere,’
he continues, ‘had been whirled up in cloud-like masses in various
parts of the sun; and he saw at once that that might be the origin of
the luminous prominences with which we are all now so familiar.’ A
conclusion drawn from these appearances is that sunspots are not the
most important of solar phenomena. ‘There are changes taking place
from day to day, from hour to hour, and in some cases from minute to
minute, which completely change the aspect of the various parts of the
sun, shewing an amount of activity which it is extremely necessary
to study.’ And it is suggested that this could best be done by
establishing a physical observatory devoted to ceaseless observation
of the sun accompanied by photography. Such an observatory has been
recently founded at Potsdam, near Berlin.
Professor Wolf of Zurich has spent many years in collecting from
every possible source records of sun-spots from the beginning of the
seventeenth century, and the beginning of the telescope. And after
careful examination he arrives at the conclusion that they do not bear
out the theory of an eleven years’ period, for since 1610 there are
twenty or thirty different maxima and minima, extending to sixteen
years in some instances, and in others contracting to seven years.
This is a fresh proof that many more observations are required for a
settlement of the question.
Put a lump of zinc into the boiler of a steam-engine, and it will
prevent the formation of ‘scale;’ that is, the stony crust which, as
all engineers know to their sorrow, is very injurious and involves
constant expenditure. The experiment having been successfully tried
during four years by certain manufacturers in France, the Minister of
Public Works appointed a Commission to inquire into and report upon it.
From their Report, which was published last year in the _Annales des
Mines_, we learn that the zinc is to be placed in the boiler as far
as possible from the furnace, the quantity being a quarter-pound for
every five square feet of boiler-surface if the water be soft, and a
half pound if the water be hard. The boiler is then worked in the usual
way; and when opened for the usual cleaning the appearances as the
Commission describe will be—‘If the water be but slightly calcareous,
the deposits, instead of forming solid and adherent scale, are found in
a state of fluid mud, which is easily removable by simple washing. The
iron being clean and free from rust, no picking or scraping is needed,
whereby an important saving of time and labour is effected.’
On the other hand, if the water be strongly calcareous or hard, ‘the
deposits are as coherent and strong as though the zinc had not been
employed; but this strong coat does not stick to the iron. It can be
pulled off by hand, or at the worst detached without much effort,
leaving the iron clean. A simple washing clears it from the boiler;
and in this case, as in the foregoing, picking and scraping are
avoided.’
Here the question arises—What has become of the zinc? The answer given
is, that it is not strictly correct to say it has disappeared, for it
has been transformed into oxide of zinc, a white and earthy substance,
which often preserves the lamellar texture of the metal, the central
part sometimes continuing metallic and unattacked. At the same time it
is worth remark that no trace of dissolved zinc is found in the water
taken from the boilers.
A communication to the Royal Institute of British Architects by Mr
Penrose makes known certain important ‘improvements in paint materials
invented by Mr W. Noy Wilkins,’ which have been satisfactorily tested
in the decoration of St Paul’s Cathedral. In the words of Mr Penrose,
‘The results arrived at are of such extreme simplicity as to make
their general application extremely easy, and also to give a strong
_a priori_ conviction of their permanence. In the matter of pigments,
white-lead is entirely banished from the painter’s stock, and the
substitution of kaolin, mixed with a smaller proportion of zinc-white,
combined with the limitation of the palette to the mineral colours.
Mr Wilkins has practised for twenty-five years exclusively with
these materials.... His discovery is that the chemical driers, which
produce a very unfavourable effect upon painter’s work, whether of the
house-painter or the artist, causing it to darken and to crack, can be
entirely dispensed with, by simply boiling for a short time a small
quantity of Turkey umber in the oil to be used for painting—whether
linseed, poppy, or nut oil—producing as desired a drying painting oil
or a varnish, and the residuum forming a valuable oil cement.’ Mr
Wilkins permits cultivators of art, desirous of more particulars, to
address him at ‘The Cottage, Elm Grove, Peckham’ (London).
In another communication, by Mr I’Anson, on the Architecture of Norway,
the wooden churches were of course mentioned, and something was said
about Norwegian timber which will bear repetition. ‘The Scotch fir
furnishes the red wood, and the spruce-fir the white. What strikes
one,’ said the speaker, ‘is, that the Scotch fir, which with us is
regarded as the least valuable kind of fir-wood, scarcely fit for
railway sleepers or fences, is the best fir in Norway. I account for
that superiority of the Norwegian over the English tree in some measure
by the greater length of time that Scotch fir takes to come to maturity
in Norway than in this country. Scotch fir grows at the rate of as much
as two feet a year in Britain, and takes about fifty years to become a
usable tree; whereas in Norway it would take probably a century to grow
to a tree of equal size.’
In the last annual Report of the Royal Asiatic Society it is stated as
a now nearly accepted fact, that the language of Madagascar is a Malay
language from Sumatra, and that its connection with the African Suahili
is only that of loan-words, just as Persian has borrowed largely from
Arabic. Philologists and others interested in Eastern Africa will
perhaps be glad to hear that a grammar of Malagasi has been recently
published.
Plantations of the cinchona tree were first begun in Jamaica in 1860,
at the cost of the government. The experiment has proved so successful
that more than eighty thousand trees are now growing in different
parts of the island. Henceforth the West Indies will compete with India
in supplying the world with quinine.
It is well known that in some churches and large halls a reverberation
prevails which annoys the persons assembled, and prevents their
hearing distinctly. A few years ago the discovery was made that the
reverberation could be deadened by stretching threads across the
building from wall to wall below the ceiling. This curious fact has
been further confirmed at the Palace of Industry, Amsterdam, and in the
church of Notre-Dame des Champs, Paris, in each of which, by the simple
means of threads, the reverberation is silenced.
The importation of fresh meat from the United States of America
commenced in the autumn of 1875. Since then the quantity brought to
this country from New York, Philadelphia, and other ports, has reached
a total of more than sixty million pounds; and great as the trade
has become, it tends to increase. The graziers and agriculturists
of Europe will have to consider whether some means may not be found
for increasing and cheapening cattle-food, if they desire to compete
with the transatlantic graziers. Whether the way shall be by improved
irrigation, extended drainage, or creation of pastures, remains to be
discovered. On this subject much valuable information is contained in a
work entitled _Food from the Far West_, with special reference to the
Beef Production and importation of Dead Meat from America (W. P. Nimmo,
London and Edinburgh).
‘On Some Means used for testing Lubricants’ is the title of a paper
by Mr W. H. Bailey, read before the same Society. There needs no
argument to prove that if it be possible to discover the oil or grease
which will best prevent friction, it ought to be discovered; and the
engravings in this paper shew the contrivances for effecting this
discovery. To Dr Joule, F.R.S. all who use machinery are indebted for
having, as Mr Bailey remarks, ‘enabled us to look upon the cost of
friction and the cash value of heat as mere questions of arithmetic.
The energy which passes away in wasted heat may be measured and valued
with nearly as much facility as any article of commerce. The science of
heat teaches us that the relations between heat and mechanical motion
are regulated by well-defined, accurate, and rigid principles. Those
who would command Nature’s forces must first learn her laws; the first
rudiments of which say, that when we produce frictional heat in our
machinery, we become law-breaking prodigals, who have incurred fines
and penalties, which are generally paid when a cheque is given to
settle the coal-bill.’
Perhaps not many people south of the Border are aware that there are
gold-fields in Scotland; but that gold can be found in Sutherlandshire
and in the south-west, has long been known to the dwellers in those
localities; and now in the _Scottish Naturalist_, Dr Lauder Lindsay
describes the gold-fields of Lanarkshire. In the Upper Ward of that
county he tells us that ‘of alluvial gold, from nuggets big enough to
make breast-pin heads down to granular dust, there is no scarcity. It
may be collected at any time by simple washing from the beds or banks
of any streams of the district. Whenever a supply of gold is wanted
for museum specimens or for presentation jewellery, a sufficiency is
forthcoming. A few hours’ work of a miner, and still more the conjoint
efforts of a band of miners extending over several days, produce the
number of grains or ounces required.’ The people of Scotland have
long known that gold can be found in various parts of the country.
The difficulty, however, is to find it in sufficient quantities to
pay the expense of working, or even in searching for it. Persons of
an eager turn do not sufficiently think of this, and hence endless
disappointments.
Our notice (No. 726, p. 750, 1877) of Dr Sayre’s method of treating
curvature of the spine has led to inquiries for further particulars:
we have pleasure therefore in mentioning that Smith, Elder, & Co. have
published a book by Dr Sayre, entitled _Spinal Disease and Spinal
Curvature—their Treatment by Suspension, and the Use of the Plaster
of Paris Bandage_. Besides clear descriptions, the book contains
engravings which represent the method of treatment, and may be easily
understood.
BUTTERFLIES.
Once more I pass along the flowering meadow,
Hear cushats call, and mark the fairy rings;
Till where the lych-gate casts its cool dark shadow,
I pause awhile, musing on many things;
Then raise the latch, and passing through the gate,
Stand in the quiet, where men rest and wait.
Bees in the lime-trees do not break their sleeping;
Swallows beneath church eaves disturb them not;
They heed not bitter sobs or silent weeping;
Cares, turmoil, griefs, regrets, they have forgot.
I murmur sadly: ‘Here, then, all life ends.
We lay you here to rest, and lose you, friends.’
By no rebuke is the sweet silence broken.
No voice reproves me; yet a sign is sent;
For from the grassy mounds there comes a token
Of Life immortal—and I am content.
See! the soul’s emblem meets my downcast eyes:
Over the graves are hovering butterflies!
G. S.
WASTE SUBSTANCE.
A correspondent suggests that the refuse from broken slate which is
thrown aside at the quarries as useless, might be ground down into
powder and used as paint. The writer informs us that he has tried
powdered slate, and found that it not only made good paint but that the
paint lasted well for outdoor work.
* * * * *
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[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text.
Page 193: beech to beach—“a white beach”.]