moorland scenery, from which the sun had now dispelled the early
morning’s mist, it may be as well that the reader should know who the
occupants of the wagonette were. _Place aux dames;_ Anne Porteous,
aged nineteen, was the daughter of Robert Porteous, innkeeper at
Lochenbreck. Robert, however, was not an ordinary innkeeper. He
certainly took in guests for bed and board, and, as was said by some,
charged very highly for the accommodation; but beyond this, he was
proprietor of a loch, and most of the moor encircling it, and could
thus give free angling and shooting privileges to his guests. He was
quite independent of innkeeping as a means of living; but his father
and grandfather before him had kept the inn, and why should not he?
Early in life he was left a widower, and Anne was his only daughter.
She received an excellent education at S—— Academy, and really
took charge of the inn business, for her father was crippled with
rheumatism. Her management, however, was an unseen one, for she did not
come personally in contact with the guests. But there were exceptions
to that rule. One of them was her present companion, George Hannay, the
editor of the London magazine, the _Olympic_. But then the case with
him was different from that of an ordinary guest. Her father and he
were old friends, and he had been coming about the place since she was
a girl in short frocks. The editor was a very keen angler, and as the
sport could best be pursued off a boat, when Anne grew older and strong
enough, it was her whim and pleasure to row him about while he wielded
the rod. Thus they grew great friends; and his autumn visit was looked
forward to with joyous expectancy by little Nan. Little, she was not
now; years had glided away, and she had almost emerged into womanhood;
but still the old friendly relations were kept up between the two. Last
summer she had spent with her father’s sister, who kept a _pension_
in Brussels, and it is about her experiences there that the pair are
chatting gaily as the vehicle rolls homewards over the leaf-bestrewn
road.
As for the editor, he was a tallish, well-developed man, with dark
hair, whiskers, and moustache considerably more than sprinkled with
gray. At first sight you would guess his age at about fifty. But having
regard to his light springy step and genial smile, you might have set
him down at about forty, and still have been wrong, for in truth he
was only thirty-eight. It was a grand relief for him to leave the
Metropolis and his editorial worries behind once a year, and spend a
glorious autumn holiday at Lochenbreck—fishing, talking with his old
friend Robert, and—well—yes! (of late years, that is to say) enjoying a
chat with his pretty little daughter. It was not accidentally that he
came alone this time. Usually he brought a roistering squad of literary
bohemians, who made the ceiling of the private parlour ring with jest
and song till unseemly hours of the morning. And the reason was, he
came prepared to offer his heart and hand to the fair Nan! He did not
imagine for a moment he was in love with her. Oh, no! he was too old
and sedate for such nonsense as that. In his professional capacity he
had dissected and analysed so many excruciatingly sentimental love
tales, that he imagined himself Cupid-proof. But things had driven his
thoughts towards matrimony. He had got tired of his lady-housekeeper,
with her Cockneyfied vulgar airs. Now, if he could only get rid of
her, he thought, pension her off, or get another situation for her,
and place this Scotch girl at the head of his table, how much brighter
life would seem to him! Would she take him? Well, he thought she would.
Of one thing he was certain, she was really fond of him; there was no
rival in the way; and the father was certain to favour the match. He
did not care for girlish gush; sound lasting affection, and purity and
singleness of mind, were what he wanted.
The wagonette had now arrived at the inn—a quaint old crow-stepped
edifice, half covered with ivy, and surrounded by a garden-wall. Old
Mr Porteous was at the door, and bade his guest a hearty welcome. Then
Anne set to work, and in less than half an hour there was a tempting
breakfast smoking on the private parlour table, which Mr Hannay did
excellent justice to. To keep him company, his host and hostess sat
at table with him, and made believe to partake of the dainties before
them; while the truth was, they had had a hearty breakfast three hours
before. The sun, which till now had brightened up the room, became
overcast, and a few drops from a passing shower rattled against the
diamond-paned window. Mr Hannay rose from his chair and looked out.
A splendid day for fishing. ‘Come, Nan, my lass,’ he said, ‘let’s to
work. It’s a shame to sit here idling, with the loch in such fine trim
for trouting.’
‘Well, sir, I suppose I must obey orders,’ she rejoined, and tripping
up-stairs, soon returned arrayed in an old frock, and a headpiece of
stiff white calico, resembling in design a sou’wester, and suited to
protect from sun, rain, or wind. Half an hour later they were floating
on the loch; Nan slowly paddling along, her companion industriously
whipping the water; both keeping up a desultory conversation. Her
experiences at Brussels naturally formed the chief topic. On this
subject she spoke with enthusiasm. She had never seen Paris, therefore
its miniature presentment impressed her all the more vividly. Hannay
was pleased to hear scenes described with her fresh girlish fervour,
to which he had long been _blasé_. Apart from the warm feelings he
had towards her, her conversation had a literary charm for him, for
she was a born narrator. She took him with her in all her rambles and
escapades, and her six months’ residence in the gay little capital
seemed exposed to his mental vision as clearly as if he had been her
companion. Yet the sly little damsel forgot, quite innocently of
course, to tell him of sundry moonlight walks with a certain Scotch
student, under the linden trees of the Boulevard des Alliers.
The fishing was progressing but slowly. Perhaps there was thunder
in the air; or possibly the angler’s mind was abstracted, and he
was thinking of matters of weightier import, than the capture of a
few silvery trout. After missing excellent ‘offers’ on two or three
occasions, his companion burst into a merry laugh, and asked him if
his wits had gone a wool-gathering, ‘I am afraid,’ she continued,
gravely shaking her head, ‘that you are still in love with that wicked
Mademoiselle Sylvestre.’
Now, the lady referred to was an aged ex-prima donna of the English
opera, and a warm friend of his. It pleased Nan, however, to
make-believe that their relationship to each other was of a strongly
amorous nature, and she missed no opportunity of teasing him about her.
Now was a chance to broach the matter he had at heart. For, strange to
say, this experienced man of literature and society, this ornament of
London drawing-rooms, felt oddly embarrassed in his new relationship
of suitor to a simple country girl. True it was, she had no idea of
the terrible designs he had on her heart and liberty; but that seemed
only to make the matter worse in his eyes. There was not an atom of
self-consciousness about her. Her clear gray eyes were crystalline; he
fancied he could read every thought of her soul in their transparent
depths. No thoughts of love there evidently. It looked almost brutal to
disturb their sweet maidenly repose—almost like shooting a trusting,
tame rabbit. If there had been but the least spice of coquetry about
her, it would have been so much easier for him to have unburdened
himself of his heart’s secret—at least so he thought. He never felt so
morally limp in all his life, and it was with the courage of despair
that he wound up his reel and determined to know his fate then and
there. A few intermittent drops of rain began to fall, and seating
himself beside her on the thwarts, he shared his waterproof with her.
He never yet had spoken, save in the language of raillery; how on earth
was he now to address her in accents of love and sentiment? However, it
must be done; and he took ‘a header.’
‘My dear Nan,’ he began, ‘it is really too bad of you to mention that
estimable old lady. I like her very much, as I am sure would you if you
knew her. But she might easily be my mother! Ah, Nan,’ he continued,
slipping his arm round her waist underneath the waterproof—‘ah, Nan,
there is only one girl in all the world I care a pin for, and it is
your own sweet self! Nan—will you be my wife?’
As he spoke the last few words, Nan’s face grew deadly pale; then the
truant blood rushed back to her cheeks tumultuously, flushing them
carmine.
‘Oh, no, no!’ she piteously cried as she shrunk from him, and gently
disengaged his arm from round her waist; ‘oh, no! Mr Hannay, that
can never, never be! O how stupid and foolish I’ve been. Forgive me,
forgive me, my dearest of friends! But—but—indeed I never looked on you
in any way like that. I have been very imprudent—I have been far too
free with you—but it was all thoughtlessness. Tell me you don’t for a
moment believe I was so wicked as to have done it purposely.’
She put her hands over her face, and sobbed aloud. Here was a nice
position for a lover to be in, who an hour ago was confidently dreaming
of years of sweet companionship with her who now told him in language
not to be misunderstood that such could never, never be. These were
not the simulated tears and sobs of a heartless coquette; the honest
simple girl had evidently never dreamed of the possibility of him being
a wooer. He was too old—that was it. And what a fool he had made of
himself! Well, he would just require to swallow it all, and comfort
himself with the reflection that no one knew of his folly, for he knew
_she_ would never tell. His heart went out in pity to her. He told her
never to mind. He even went the length of pretending that he was almost
glad she had refused him, for he was so wedded to city life, with its
clubs, greenrooms, and what not, that he was certain he would have been
a very careless, inattentive husband, and she a neglected, heart-broken
wife. In such wise did he comfort the girl, who dried her eyes and
tried to look quite gay and cheerful. There was no more fishing; they
rowed slowly back to the hotel. Nan insisted on taking the oars; her
rejected lover sat musing at the stern. Suddenly he raised his head,
and said with a sedate smile: ‘Some one else, eh, Nan?’
His question was not very intelligibly put; but she understood well
enough what he meant. Drooping eyelids, a face slightly averted, and a
faint blush for answer. After a pause, ‘Papa does not know—at least not
yet,’ she timidly said; ‘you’ll not tell him?’
‘Oh, of course not!’ he answered, and biting the end of a fresh cigar,
began smoking vigorously. A few minutes, and they were at the Inn
jetty, and to old Mr Porteous’ extreme astonishment, without a fin to
show for their three hours’ work.
Dinner past, father and daughter and guest adjourned to the private
parlour. Anne retired early under the plea of headache. Host and guest
continued to enjoy a cheerful glass and gossip all to themselves.
‘By-the-bye, Mr Porteous,’ said the latter as he was lighting his
candle preparatory to going up-stairs to bed, ‘I forgot to say my stay
this time will be but a brief one. I am expecting every day to have a
letter from a friend at Lucerne who wants me to join him in the fishing
there. He says the sport is excellent, and I promised to go if he found
such to be the case. Good-night!’
The landlord was astonished, but was too well bred to press him to
stay. The truth is, our friend had been far more seriously ‘hit’ by
simple Nan than he had supposed, or was even yet inclined to admit.
Try as he would, sleep refused to come to his tired brain; mocking
visions of ‘what might have been’ flitted through his waking dreams;
and he arose in the morning more tired than when he went to bed. The
post brought him two letters; one of them, he said, required his
instant presence in London on an important matter of business; after
that, he would go to Switzerland to join his friend in the fishing; and
meantime, he would have reluctantly to bid them farewell. Porteous was
both surprised and vexed; his daughter was neither, for she felt it
would be happier for them both to be apart—at least for the present.
LANDSLIPS.
Scarcely less alarming than the fall of an avalanche, and sometimes,
indeed, far more destructive, are those sudden descents of earth
and other materials commonly known as landslips. The cause of these
remarkable calamities—for such they commonly are—may be briefly
described. The strata of a mountain or lesser elevation are often found
to deviate considerably from a horizontal position; and if shale or any
other substance pervious to water forms the lowest stratum, a landslip
may take place. For instance, if there be an abundance of rain or
melted snow, which percolates down so as to soften the lower stratum,
the upper strata are liable to be loosened, and, in process of time, to
slide away. Such was the case in Shropshire towards the close of last
century, as related by Mr Fletcher of Madeley. This took place at a
spot on the Severn between the Grove and the Birches. ‘The first thing
that struck me,’ says Mr Fletcher, ‘was the destruction of the little
bridge that separated the parish of Madeley from that of Buildwas,
and the total disappearing of the turnpike road to Buildwas Bridge,
instead of which, nothing presented itself to my view but a confused
heap of bushes and huge clods of earth, tumbled one over another. The
river also wore a different aspect; it was shallow, noisy, boisterous,
and came down from a different point. Following the track made by a
great number of spectators who came from the neighbouring parishes, I
climbed over the ruins and came to a field well grown with ryegrass,
where the ground was greatly cracked in several places, and where large
turfs—some entirely, others half-turned up—exhibited the appearance of
straight or crooked furrows, as though imperfectly formed by a plough
drawn at a venture. Getting from that field over the hedge into a part
of the road which was yet visible, I found it raised in one place,
sunk in another, concave in a third, hanging on one side in a fourth,
and contracted as if some uncommon force had pressed the two hedges
together. But the higher part of it surprised me most, and brought
directly to remembrance those places of Mount Vesuvius where the solid
stony lava had been strongly marked by repeated earthquakes; for the
hard beaten gravel which formed the surface of the road was broken
every way into huge masses, partly detached from each other, with deep
apertures between them, exactly like the shattered lava. This striking
likeness of circumstances made me conclude that the similar effect
might proceed from the same cause, namely, a strong convulsion on the
surface, if not in the bowels, of the earth.’
This conjecture was not confirmed by facts and circumstances related
by others; indeed, the latter part of his description proves, almost
beyond question, that the various results described were occasioned by
a landslip, and not by a shock of an earthquake, of which no one heard
anything.
He continues: ‘Going a little further towards Buildwas, I found that
the road was again totally lost for a considerable space, having been
overturned, absorbed, or tumbled, with the hedges that bounded it, to
a considerable distance towards the river. This part of the desolation
appeared then to me inexpressibly dreadful. Between a shattered field
and the river, there was that morning a bank, on which, besides a
great deal of underwood, grew twenty-five large oaks; this wood shot
with such violence into the Severn before it, that it forced the
water in great volumes a considerable height, like a mighty fountain,
and gave the overflowing river a retrograde motion. This is not the
only accident which happened to the Severn, for, near the Grove, the
channel, which was chiefly of a soft blue rock, burst in ten thousand
pieces, and rose perpendicularly about ten yards, heaving up the
immense quantity of water and the shoal of fishes that were therein.’
John Philips in his work on _Cider_ alludes to Marcley Hill as the
scene of a landslip:
I nor advise, nor reprehend, the choice
Of Marcley Hill; the apple nowhere finds
A kinder mould; yet ’tis unsafe to trust
Deceitful ground; who knows but that, once more,
This mount may journey, and, his present site
Forsaking, to thy neighbour’s bounds transfer
The goodly plants, affording matter strange
For law debates.
Marcley Hill is near the confluence of the Lug and Wye, about six miles
east of Hereford. In the year 1595, it was, says Mr Brown, the editor
of White’s _Selborne_, ‘after roaring and shaking in a terrible manner
for three days together, about six o’clock on Sunday morning put in
motion, and continued moving for eight hours, in which time it advanced
upwards of two hundred feet from its first position, and mounted
seventy-two feet higher than it was before. In the place where it set
out, it left a gap four hundred feet long, and three hundred and twenty
broad; and in its progress it overthrew a chapel, together with trees
and houses that stood in its way.’
That interesting naturalist, Mr White of Selborne, gives at length,
in one of his letters to the Honourable Daines Barrington, an account
of an extraordinary landslip in his own neighbourhood, at a date
corresponding with that of the landslip in Shropshire. He says: ‘The
months of January and February 1774 were remarkable for great melting
snows and vast gluts of rain, so that, by the end of the latter
month, the land springs, or _levants_ [eastern; so called, I suppose,
because of the prevalence of easterly winds at this season], began to
prevail, and to be near as high as in the memorable winter of 1764. The
beginning of March also went on in the same tenor, when in the night
between the 8th and 9th of that month, a considerable part of the
great woody hanger [a local term for an overhanging woody cliff] at
Hawkley was torn from its place and fell down, leaving a high freestone
cliff naked and bare, and resembling the steep side of a chalk-pit. It
appears that this huge fragment, being perhaps sapped and undermined
by waters, foundered, and was ingulfed, going down in a perpendicular
direction; for a gate which stood in the field on the top of the hill,
after sinking with its posts for thirty or forty feet, remained in so
true and upright a position as to open and shut with great exactness,
just as in its first situation. Several oaks also are still standing
[written in 1775 or 1776] and in a state of vegetation, after taking
the same desperate leap.
‘That great part of this prodigious mass was absorbed in some gulf
below is plain also from the inclining ground at the bottom of the
hill, which is free and unencumbered, but would have been buried in
heaps of rubbish, had the fragment parted and fallen forward. About a
hundred yards from the foot of this hanging coppice stood a cottage
by the side of a lane; and two hundred yards lower, on the other
side of the lane, was a farmhouse, in which lived a labourer and his
family; and just by, a stout new barn. The cottage was inhabited by
an old woman, her son, and his wife. These people, in the evening,
which was very dark and tempestuous, observed that the brick floors
of their kitchens began to heave and part, and that the walls seemed
to open and the roofs to crack; but they all agree that no tremor of
the ground indicating an earthquake was ever felt, only that the wind
continued to make a tremendous roaring in the woods and hangers. The
miserable inhabitants, not daring to go to bed, remained in the utmost
solicitude and confusion, expecting every moment to be buried under the
ruins of their shattered edifices. When daylight came, they were at
leisure to contemplate the devastations of the night. They then found
that a deep rift, or chasm, had opened under their houses, and torn
them as it were in two, and that one end of the barn had suffered in a
similar manner; that a pond near the cottage had undergone a strange
reverse, becoming deep at the shallow end, and so _vice versâ_; that
many large oaks were removed out of their perpendicular, some thrown
down, and some fallen into the heads of neighbouring trees; and that a
gate was thrust forward with its hedge full six feet, so as to require
a new track to be made to it. From the foot of the cliff, the general
course of the ground, which is pasture, inclines in a moderate descent
for half a mile, and is interspersed with some hillocks, which were
lifted in every direction, as well towards the great woody hanger
as from it. In the first pasture the deep clefts began, and running
across the lane and under the buildings, made such vast shelves that
the road was impassable for some time; and so over to an arable field
on the other side, which was strangely torn and disordered. The second
pasture-field, being more soft and springy, was protruded forward
without many fissures in the turf, which was raised in long ridges
resembling graves, lying at right angles to the motion. At the bottom
of this inclosure, the soil and turf rose many feet against the bodies
of some oaks that obstructed their further course, and terminated this
awful commotion.’
Passing by a number of catastrophes of this nature occurring at earlier
dates, we propose to give some interesting particulars concerning one
which took place in the early part of this century in Switzerland,
where they are very frequent.
In one corner of the canton of Schweitz are the lakes Wallenstadt,
Zug, and Lowertz. Near the last is a mountain called the Righi, and
a smaller one, the Rossberg. The latter is composed of strata of
freestone, pudding-stone—a conglomeration of coarse sandstone, with
silicious pebbles, flints, &c.; and clay, with frequent blocks of
granite, in the lower part. On the 2d of September 1806, a large
portion of this mountain—a mass about a thousand feet in width, a
hundred feet in depth, and nearly three miles in length—slipped into
the valley below. It was not merely the summit or a projecting crag
which fell, but an entire bed of strata extending from the top to
nearly the bottom. A long continuance of heavy rains had softened the
strata of clay, which sloped downwards; and so the mass was set free,
and slipped into the valley, a chaos of stones, earth, clay, and clayey
mud. For hours before the catastrophe there had been signs of some
convulsion approaching. Early in the morning and at intervals during
the day there were noises as if the mountain were in the throes of
some great pang, so that it seemed to tremble with fear; so much so,
that the furniture shook in the houses of the villages of Arth and
St Ann. About two o’clock, a superstitious farmer, who dwelt high up
the mountain, hearing a strange kind of cracking noise, and thinking
it was the work of some demon, ran down to Arth to fetch the priest
to exorcise the evil spirit. There were now openings in the turf, and
stones were ejected in a few instances. In the hamlet of Unter Rothen,
at the foot of the mountain, a man was digging in his garden, when he
found his spade thrust back out of the soil, and the earth spurted up
like water from a fountain. As the day advanced, the cracks in the
ground became larger, portions of rock fell; springs began to flow, and
frightened birds took wing in confusion, uttering discordant screams.