Next day Eliza set out, accompanied only by her maid. No one, to
see her, would have fancied she was not yet one year a wife.
In the sweet quiet spot to which she went her illness passed away;
but she was weaker than before, and her health precarious. Her
spirits too sank daily, and the rich glow of her cheek, dimmer
during the last few months than it used to be, faded more and more.
The sparkling smile of other days, or the discontented pout which
had always betrayed any little 'temper,' never dwelt on her lips
now. A softened subdued shade settled on her countenance. In her
sadness and loneliness, forsaken by him to whom she would still
have clung even when love was gone, she turned, in her sorrow,
to thoughts which had never occupied her before, to religion, the
one source of consolation that remains to the disappointed and
unfortunate; fortunate if they can embrace it, and find peace and
full satisfaction somewhere at last.
In a peaceful nook, embosomed among a grove of beech-trees, there
was a lonely little chapel. Thither Eliza went every evening,
and kneeling among the few quiet worshippers, lifted her eyes to
the sculptured form above the altar, whose mild angelic face and
outstretched arms seemed to speak of pity and sympathy with human
woe.
One evening she lingered till dusk began to gather in the quaint
old place. It was now again the eve of All-Hallows, and her
thoughts reverted to the past and all that had happened during
one short year. Looking up at last, she found that the others had
gone and she was alone. The pale spectral rays of a rising moon,
broken and intercepted by the fluttering trees without, stole in
at the windows and crept with a kind of stealthy motion across the
floor. The silence was tomb-like. It smote on Eliza's heart. Part
of the chapel, where the moonbeams did not pierce, was veiled in
gloom, and in the darkness the draperies about the altar seemed to
stir and take strange form. Indistinct masses, which looked as if
they might at any moment become endowed with animation, filled the
corners. Eliza could almost fancy that the dim dead who slept in
the vaults beneath were rising round her. She turned to leave the
place, and then perceived that she was _not_ alone.
A female figure knelt at a little distance, the face buried in the
hands. As Eliza moved down the aisle it rose slowly and turned
round. With a low shuddering cry she sprang back, and almost sank
to the ground. She gasped for breath. She tried to speak, but for
some moments in vain. At last, in a loud cry, her voice broke
forth: 'In the name of the blessed God and by this holy sign!'
(crossing herself rapidly), 'speak! Who and what are you, that
twice before have crossed my path? In the lonely field; in the
crowded theatre, suddenly changing from an aspect of light and
beauty to a ghastly corpse-like image; and now again!'
The figure approached a few steps, the lips moved, but no sound
came. Eliza shrank back to the wall, pressing against it as if
she would force herself through the stone. A low sigh sounded, a
faint tremulous voice spoke: 'Twice before have _you_ started up to
bewilder and affright me: in the lonely field, when the night-wind
was sighing; in the gay assemblage; and here again, the third time.
Who and what are _you_, let _me_ ask?'
Eliza rose. 'One who is lonely and unhappy,' she answered; 'who,
having deserted others, is herself left alone now. If you would
know my name, it is Eliza Crofton.'
There was a pause, then in low, awestruck tones, the last word was
repeated: 'Crofton! And I am Ellen Courtney.'
'And we meet thus, for the first time knowing each other, though I
have often heard your name, and you mine! Did you too, then, go to
the Twelfth Rig last Hallow-eve night?'
'Listen, and I will tell you. He did not come home that
evening--he, I mean, who is now your husband. There was company
at the house, and he was expected. There was dancing and music,
but I could not join in it. I stole away to my own room, and
afterwards wandered out into the fields. I had heard of the charm
of the Twelfth Rig, but it was not with any settled intention of
trying it that I went out. When I got to the field, overcome with
sorrow and weariness, for I had walked a long distance, I sank
down; and thinking that nothing stirred in that lonely spot but
the night-wind, gave loose to the grief and despair that filled my
heart. When at last I rose up, I saw a figure wrapped in a cloak
standing motionless in the centre of one of the ridges, pale, with
wild eyes, and black dishevelled hair. As I gazed, it uttered a
dreadful scream, and turning, fled. I had heard stories of the
banshee, and I thought this must be it, or some spirit of doom,
that had appeared to warn me of my approaching death. I believe I
sank down again on the ground. My senses seemed to leave me. I know
not what I did, but I heard a voice crying "Doomed, doomed!" and I
think it was myself that uttered the words.'
'I heard it,' said Eliza. 'It pursued me as I fled, repeated, I
suppose, by the mountain echoes. Ah! how it has haunted me. I
tried to crush back the thought; but it was there still, though
I wouldn't face it, and I felt in my heart that my days were
numbered. Has the clearing up come too late? I have suffered so
much, I scarcely feel fit for life now.'
'It comes too late for _me_. Though it was no spirit that stood in
the midst of the Twelfth Rig, the charm will work still. I was ill
after that night, very ill, else we might have met before you left,
and recognised each other. Then came the shock that tore up by the
roots the last hopes that lingered in my heart. You know to what I
allude. I may speak of it now with calmness, standing as I do on
the brink of the grave.--Why do you look so shocked? Have you never
heard that Ellen Courtney was dying--dying of a broken heart?'
'No, no! I never heard it, never dreamt of it. O heaven!'--wringing
her hands, and raising them above her head, with a despairing
gesture--'then I am a murderess! The punishment has descended in
full force now. A curse could not but attend my marriage. Did not
friends warn me again and again? and yet I persisted--persisted,
though faith had to be broken on both sides, a heart cast aside,
and trampled on. It was an unholy marriage, and the blessing of
heaven could not sanctify it. It was that which made my husband
cease to love me, shrivelled up my own heart, and made everything
become valueless in my eyes. I was content to suffer myself; it was
only reaping what I had sowed. But that _you_ should suffer--suffer
and die; you, who never injured any one, who must be gentle and
good as an angel. But oh!' she pursued, dropping on her knees, and
raising her dark eyes pleadingly, as sinner might to saint, 'remove
the curse before you die--if heaven so wills--before _I_ die, as
perhaps I shall, and give me back my husband's love, the only thing
that remains to me now.' The last words were uttered in a piteous
moan.
'Do not speak so wildly,' entreated Ellen, sitting down on one of
the seats, and raising her hand (Eliza marked its transparency) to
her damp white forehead. 'You are not so much to blame. Life and
happiness could never have been mine, even had you not intervened.
If he ceased to love me, as he must have done soon, for he never
loved me truly, I could not have borne it. My heart would have
broke, and I should have died all the same. You have my forgiveness
fully and entirely--and he has too. Do not fret yourself for the
lover you forsook. His wound is healed. He has found happiness with
one who long loved him in secret. This was the appointed day for
his marriage with your cousin, Mary Conlan.'
Eliza started, and the blood rushed to her face. He then had
forgotten her; and the thought sent a bitter pang through her
heart; yet she thanked heaven that it was so.
'Part of the weight is lifted from my soul,' she said. 'And I have
your forgiveness too. Lay your hand on my head, and say again that
you forgive me, and breathe a blessing on me.'
The shadowy white hand was raised. It lay like a spotless lily,
emblem of heaven's pity and forgiveness, on the dark bowed head.
'I forgive you from my heart. If my earnest wishes can make you
happy, be so.--Now I must go.' She rose, but tottered as she
attempted to walk.
'You are weak,' exclaimed Eliza. 'Let me go with you.'
'No, no; there is no need. I have not far to go.'
'But still, let me walk with you, and lean on me. I shall think you
cannot bear my presence near you, if you refuse.'
'Be it so then.'
They left the chapel together. Not a word was spoken as they walked
slowly on till Ellen paused before the gate of a villa.
'Good-bye, Eliza. We shall never meet again on earth. This third
meeting, in which each first knows the other, is the last. Even if
I lived, we could not be friends, our paths should lie far asunder;
though your words, and still more your looks, tell me how it is
with you, that we are sisters in disappointment and misfortune. But
there'--she lifted her eyes, calm and serene, to the sky, where the
moon, now fully risen, gleamed fair and radiant--'there we may meet
and be friends for ever. Farewell, Eliza.'
Overcome with emotion, Eliza cast herself, weeping, on the other's
breast. For a few moments they mingled their tears together.
'Farewell, Eliza;' 'Farewell, Ellen.' A faint breeze swept through
the beechen wood. It came wandering by them, and seemed to murmur
in unknown tongue some sentence or benediction over their heads.
There was silence. Eliza felt her companion lean heavily on her.
She grew alarmed. At last she said: 'It is not well for you to
linger in the night-air. Will you not go into the house now?'
Ellen replied not. Heavier and heavier she leant, with a helpless
weight that almost over-powered the other. Eliza raised the
drooping head. A white, white face, a dim fast-glazing eye, met her
gaze. It was the dead that lay on her bosom.
That night Eliza was very ill, so ill that a telegram was
despatched in haste to her husband to come at once, if he wished
to see her alive. He arrived next day, but only in time to gaze on
a sweet marble face, that changed not even in the presence of the
dread remorse that then awoke in his heart, and to clasp in his
arms a fair but lifeless child, whose tender eyes had never opened
on this world's light--whose only baptism was tears.
A few days after Hallow-eve, Daly received a black-sealed letter.
It was that which Eliza had written to him, but never sent.
So they both slept. The remains of Ellen Courtney were conveyed
to her own land; and on a dark November morning, when all nature
seemed in mourning for the young and beautiful that had passed with
the summer flowers, she was laid with her kindred, amidst streaming
eyes and voices that blessed her name--
Poor victim of love and changeless faith.
But Eliza lay in a foreign soil, where the myrtle waved above her
head, instead of her own mountain-ash--an exile even in death, from
friends and home.
LIFE IN ST KILDA.
CONCLUDING PAPER.
On the 16th August I ascended the hill called Connaghar, where all
the men had gone to catch and the women to carry home fulmars,
leaving the village deserted. The weather was very warm, and
although I carried my coat over my arm, I was fain to stop on my
way up and cool myself in the light sea-breeze. About half-way up
I saw my old friend Tormad, with his ruddy face and large white
beard, seated on the edge of the cliff, with his attention fixed
on the rope he held in his hands. 'Who is below?' I asked as I sat
down beside him. 'Neil,' he answered. 'Is he far down?' 'Far--far,'
he replied. Neil's voice could be heard calling from the abyss.
In a little a crash sounds from below. Tormad looks anxious, and
with craning head listens with deep attention; whilst two girls
who had joined us, step with their bare feet to the very verge
of the precipice and peer below. One of them, who has a light
graceful figure, looks very picturesque as she stands poised on
that stupendous cliff. She has a Turkey-red handkerchief on her
head, and wears a coarse blue gown of a quaint shape, girdled at
the waist, and only reaching to her knees. Her limbs are muscular
and browned with the sun. She is engaged to Neil, and naturally
feels anxious on his account. A shower of large stones had fallen,
any one of which would have knocked his brains out had it chanced
to hit; but fortunately a projecting crag above his head saves him.
Tormad shifts his position to where he thinks the rock is less
frangible. I leave him, and climb to where the cliffs form a lofty
head or promontory which commands a view of the face of Connaghar.
This hill rises one thousand two hundred and twenty feet above the
sea, and is a precipice almost to the summit. The bottom of this
tremendous cliff had been cleared of fulmars the previous day by
men who had ascended from boats. Now the work had to be done from
above.
It is a dreadful trade. A sound like the crack of a musket is
occasionally heard, and one sees a huge stone bound and rattle
with great leaps into the sea below. Parties of two or three men,
laden with birds on their shoulders, are seen climbing by steep and
perilous paths to the summit. From the spot where I lie basking in
the sun, a path leads downwards to a steep grassy _brae_ bounded by
a cliff. This is considered a safe road for women, and a number of
them go by it to where the men can bring them fulmars. Some of the
girls can carry about two hundred pounds' weight, and seem rather
proud of their strength; but as they toil up the dangerous path
to where I recline, I hear them breathing heavily and in apparent
distress; but in a few minutes they are all right again.
In the intervals of work a number of them sit around me and offer
me a share of their oat-cakes and cheese, and hand me the little
tub covered with raw sheepskin in which they carry milk: 'Drink,
drink! you have taken none!' A number of the men also come up the
path with coils of ropes and bundles of inflated gannets' craws
on their backs. They are all barefooted and stripped to their
underclothing. A pile of fulmars has been collected beside us, and
the men whilst they rest economise time by extracting the oil. The
receptacle for holding the oil is the stomach of a solan-goose,
which is held open by one man, while another takes a fulmar, and
squeezing the body, forces the oil in a stream from its gaping
bill. When the fulmars and oil are carried home they are equally
divided. The birds are plucked, and the feathers are sold to the
factor for six shillings a St Kilda stone of twenty-four pounds.
The flesh is pickled and used as food in winter and spring. The oil
is sold to the factor for one shilling a St Kilda pint, which is
equal to about five English pints. Over nine hundred St Kilda pints
were exported in 1875. I ought to mention that it is the young
fulmars that are caught in autumn. No art is required to capture
them, as they are unable to fly; but they offer all the resistance
in their power by spitting their oil in the faces of the men. The
oil has a disagreeable odour. The old fulmars are caught in summer
when hatching; a noose tied to the end of a rod being slipped over
their heads. About the end of August all the fulmars leave St Kilda
and take the young to sea for their education. They are absent for
about two months and a half, and return lean and worthless.
On the 1st of September I began to be slightly alarmed that I
might be detained on the island until the succeeding summer. No
vessel had called since my arrival on the 21st of June. My stock
of provisions had become exhausted, and I had to give up tea and
coffee, and subsequently bread. The people began to pluck up their
little crops, neither sickle nor scythe being used. The oatmeal
supplied by the factor being done, the islanders had to depend on
the grain grown on the island. The oats are thrashed with a flail;
are scorched in a pot or in a straw basket containing hot stones,
previous to being ground. The grain is then ground with hand-mills
by the women, who work like furies.
On the 7th the new boat went to Stack Lee for _gougan_ or young
solan-geese, and returned in the evening with a few--about forty
to each man. As at the Bass and other fowling stations, so also
here are the gougan killed by blows on the head with a stick.
The flesh of the gougan is wild and fishy in flavour; but when
baked is an article of food. Every morning when I went up the
village the usual salutation included expressions of fear that
no ship would arrive. But my anxiety about the arrival of a ship
was naturally less than theirs, for they were burning to receive
further intelligence about the boat that was supposed to have been
lost fourteen years ago. 'Is my poor wife alive? Is my mother, my
brother, my son, my father, living or dead? Was my husband saved
in some mysterious way, like Donald MacKinnon? Is he married
again? Are all the women black in Africa?' Such were the agitating
questions that passed through the minds of the people, and often
found expression. Every time I went up the hill with my glass I
would be questioned by some one on my return whether any vessel was
visible, and my answer that there was not, was shouted from one end
of the village to the other. The poor people were straitened for
oatmeal, which was anxiously expected from the factor.
On the 5th of October in the evening, whilst I was sitting alone
in a cloud of peat-smoke, gazing at nothing by the dull light of
an iron lamp, my door was suddenly thrown open, and a woman in a
state of alarm bawled out that there were strangers in the glen.
I suggested that they were probably shipwrecked sailors, whom it
would not be right to leave in the glen all night, cold, hungry,
and without shelter. This seemed to move the women; and it was
arranged that five men armed with staves should go to the top of
the hill that separates the village from the glen and shout. In an
hour or two the five men returned wet to the skin, and reported
that, although they had whistled and shouted loudly, they had got
no reply, and that they were sure there must be a mistake. But the
woman still insisted that there were strangers in the glen. Next
day a steamer was seen bearing away from the island, and it was no
doubt her fog-whistle which had created the alarm.
In October, when the nights were getting long, spinning-wheels
began to be busy in every house, making the thread which the men
afterwards wove into cloth; and I spent the evening in one or other
of the cottages, chatting with the people, and endeavouring to
improve my Gaelic, and penetrate into their unsophisticated minds.
I tried to tell them stories--such as _Blue Beard_--in which they
seemed to feel a deep interest; the women sometimes improving my
grammar, and helping me out of any difficulty. They would also tell
me _sgeulachdan_ or tales.
On the 21st October and for many days afterwards all the
inhabitants went down the cliffs to pluck grass for their cattle.
I saw the women lying on the narrow sloping ledges on the face of
the rocks. A false step, and they would have fallen into the sea,
hundreds of feet below, or been mangled on the projecting crags.
About this time I gave up all hope of getting off the island until
the following summer. My oatmeal was done, and after that I was
obliged to depend on the people for a share of theirs. But I never
wanted, although I put myself on short allowance.
On the 7th November a meeting was held in the church to return
thanks for the harvest. A sudden change occurred in the weather:
the sky became charged with thick vapour, and there was a heavy
fall of hail accompanied by thunder and lightning. On the 8th
December I went to the top of the hills, and notwithstanding my
light diet, felt remarkably well; but slipping when twenty yards
from home, I sprained my ankle, and lay for some time in torture.
I crawled into the house, and after a time succeeded in cooking
my dinner. I slept none; and next day my room was filled with
sympathising male friends and ministering angels. Some brought me
presents of potatoes and salt mutton, turf and fulmar-oil. On the
10th I held a levee, the whole people coming to see me between fore
and afternoon services. The men about this time began to weave the
thread which the women had spun. Both sexes worked from dawn of
day until an hour or two after midnight. Their industry astonished
me. I soon began to limp about in the evening; and when the nights
were dark I got a live peat stuck on the end of a stick, to let me
see the road home. At this time I made a miniature ship and put a
letter in the hold, in the hope that she might reach the mainland.
I was anxious that my friends should know that I was alive. Shortly
afterwards I made a lantern out of a piece of copper that had come
off a ship's bottom. A large limpet-shell filled with fulmar-oil
served for a lamp inside. This lantern, a clumsy affair, was
more admired than my sketches. On the 12th of January, which is
New-year's-day in St Kilda, service was held in the church; and to
celebrate the occasion, the minister preached a sermon.
On the 17th the most remarkable event occurred that had happened in
St Kilda for many years. The people had just gone to church when,
happening to look out at my door, I was startled to observe a boat
in the bay. I had been nearly seven months on the island, and had
never seen any ship or strange boat near it all that time. Robinson
Crusoe scarcely felt more surprised when he saw the foot-print on
the sand, than I did on beholding this apparition. I ran to the
shore, where there was a heavy sea rolling, and shouted to the
people in the boat; but my voice was drowned by the roar of the
waves. A woman who had followed me gave notice to the congregation,
and all poured out of the church. The St Kildans ran round the
rocks to a spot where there seemed to be less surf, and waved on
the boat to follow. I went with the others. When we arrived at the
place indicated, the islanders threw ropes from the low cliffs to
the men in the boat; but the latter declined to be drawn up, the
captain bawling 'Mooch better dere,' pointing to the shore before
the village, and putting about the boat. All ran back; but before
we got to the shore the strange boat had run through the surf.
Instantly all the men in her leaped into the sea and swam to the
land, where they were grasped by the St Kildans. In a few minutes
their boat was knocked to pieces on the rocks.
The strangers were invited into the minister's house and dry
clothes given them. They proved to be the captain and eight of the
crew of the Austrian ship _Peti Dabrovacki_, eight hundred and
eighty tons, which had left Glasgow for New York five days before.
The vessel had encountered bad weather; her ballast had shifted,
and she lay on her beam-ends about eight miles west of St Kilda.
Seven men had remained in her, and no doubt perished. The ship was
not to be seen next day. When the survivors had got their clothes
shifted, they were distributed amongst the sixteen families that
compose the community, the minister keeping the captain, and every
two families taking charge of one man, and providing him with a bed
and board and clean clothes. I myself saw one man (Tormad Gillies)
take a new jacket out of the box in which it had been carefully
packed, and give it to the mate to wear during his stay, the young
man having no coat but an oilskin. The oatmeal being done, the
islanders took the grain they had kept for seed and ground it to
feed the shipwrecked men. The hospitable conduct of the St Kildans
was all the more commendable when one considers that their guests
were all foreigners. But long before the five weeks had elapsed
during which the Austrians lived on the island, they had by their
good behaviour removed the prejudice that had prevailed against
them at first. They were polite and obliging to the women, and went
from house to house to assist in grinding the grain.
On the 28th January 1877 the wind blew violently from the
north-west with heavy showers of sleet. It was the worst day I had
seen in St Kilda. The huge waves came rolling into the bay against
the wind, which caught them as they fell on the shore and carried
them off in spin-drift. Yet many of the women went to church
barefoot.
On the 29th the captain and sailors called on me and felt
interested in seeing a canoe I had hewn out of a log. They helped
me to rig her and to put the ballast right; but we had to wait
until the wind was favourable. We put two bottles in her hold
containing letters, which we hoped would find their way to the
mainland and be posted.
This canoe carried a small sail, and was despatched on the 5th of
February, the wind being in the north-west, and continuing so for
some days. I thought she would reach Uist; but the Gulf Stream
was stronger than I calculated on, and she went to Poolewe in
Ross-shire, where she was found lying on a sandbank on the 27th by
a Mr John Mackenzie, who posted the letters. Five days previous
to the date when we launched the canoe, we sent off a life-buoy
belonging to the lost ship. I suggested that a bottle containing
a letter should be lashed to it and a small sail put up. This was
done; but no one had much hope that this circular vessel would be
of service. She was sent off on the 30th January, and strange to
relate, drifted to Birsay in Orkney, and was forwarded to Lloyd's
agent in Stromness on the 8th February, having performed the
passage in nine days. During my residence in St Kilda, several
canes that the Gulf Stream had brought from some tropical clime
were picked up by the men. One was hollow and several inches in
diameter. The St Kildans split these canes and make them into reeds
for their looms.
On 17th February the Austrian skipper offered ten pounds for a
passage to Harris in the new boat, for himself and men. The St
Kildans accepted the offer, and arranged to send seven of their
own men to bring her back. They would not allow the Austrians
to go alone, being afraid that they (the St Kildans) might be
left without a boat, and have no means of getting seed-corn and
provisions. They drew lots who were to go, and it was stipulated
that I was to be one of them. All was settled except the weather.
We were waiting for a promising day, when, on the 22d, about seven
in the morning, as I was lying in bed and thinking of getting up
to make my breakfast, I was startled by hearing the sound of a
steam-whistle. I lay back again muttering: 'It was the wind;' when
hark! the whistle is repeated. I leaped up, ran to the door, and
saw, sure enough, a steamer in the bay! Huddling on my clothes,
I rushed barefoot up the village, rattling at every door, and
shouting 'Steamer--strangers!' In a few minutes all the people
were astir and hurrying to the shore. I had just time to throw
the articles that lay handy into my trunk and to get on board
the steamer's boat, which I saw belonged to Her Majesty. Then I
discovered that I had left my purse and other property in the
house; but the surf was too great to allow me to land again. I
got on board the steamer, which I found to be the _Jackal_. 'How
did you know we were here?' I inquired of one of the officers who
stood on the quarter-deck. 'From the letter you wrote and put into
the bottle lashed to the life-buoy.' I ran to the side of the
ship muttering to myself: 'There is a Providence that shapes our
ends, rough-hew them as we will;' and bawled to the St Kildans in
the boat alongside: 'It was the life-buoy brought this steamer
here, you incredulous people;' for they had smiled, although
good-humouredly, at my efforts to send a letter home. A small
supply of biscuits and oatmeal was given to them; and waving an
adieu to my good St Kildan friends, we were speedily receding from
the island.
I found all the officers extremely friendly and agreeable, and
here beg to return my hearty thanks. I was made to feel quite at
home. The shipwrecked captain and I were accommodated in the cabin.
The Austrian sailors were well taken care of forward, and seemed
particularly delighted at again having as much tobacco as they
could use. We had been all smoking dried moss.
The wind had risen and the sea become rough; and if the _Jackal_
had been half an hour later, she would have been obliged to return
with her errand unexecuted; for it would have been impossible for a
boat to approach the shore. We reached Harris the same evening, and
anchored in the Sound all night. But as this part of the journey
has appeared in the newspapers, I need not repeat it. Suffice it
that I arrived barefoot and penniless, but in good health and
spirits, in Greenock on the 26th. Here my narrative ends.
[Many of the facts related in the foregoing narrative were
published in various newspapers in the early part of the present
year, and led to considerable discussion. Stormy seasons, as we
have seen, may set in, and communication with the proprietor or
his factor be rendered impossible; the most anxious efforts to
transmit provisions may be rendered abortive, and famine, if not
actual starvation, be the result. Various hints for the melioration
of the poor St Kildans have been thrown out, amongst others that
those isolated beings should quit the island for good, and seek a
new home in the more civilised Hebrides or elsewhere. One thing is
sufficiently obvious, if the people are to remain on the island,
they should be taught to speak and write English. Their adherence
to Gaelic condemns them to innumerable privations, above all it
excludes them from communication with the outer world, on whose
sympathy they are forced to rely. Half a century ago, Dr John
Macculloch lamented this exclusive use of Gaelic; and we echo all
he said on the subject. We have no objection to Gaelic being made a
philological study, but its continuance as a spoken language is in
all respects to be regretted.--ED.]
THE MONTH:
SCIENCE AND ARTS.
The 'season' is at its busiest: crowds of sightseers are looking
at the pictures in the Royal Academy, the Grosvenor Gallery, and
in other resorts, and painting and sculpture are everywhere talked
about; while fine art rejoices in its annual holiday, and 'art
sales' (which are too often artful) draw throngs of competing
buyers. The debates in parliament on reform of our universities
have revived the education question; and sanguine talkers who
believe that education can do everything, have had to be reminded
once more that endowments however ample cannot create genius; that
our greatest achievements in science, art, or literature have
been wrought by unendowed men, and that nature will not produce
a larger proportion of highest quality brain even though schools
be multiplied. Meanwhile the experiment for the promotion of
scientific research initiated by government has advanced a stage,
and the investigators recommended by the Council of the Royal
Society have received grants of money from the Paymaster-general
to enable them to carry on their work. As this experiment is to be
continued for five years, we may reasonably expect that it will
assist in resolving the endowment question.
The cost of the expeditions sent out by this country in 1875 to
observe the transit of Venus has been ascertained: it is forty
thousand pounds; the estimate was twenty thousand pounds. As
will be remembered, other nations engaged in the work as well as
ourselves; and we have it on the authority of the Astronomer-royal
that the total expenditure 'may amount to two hundred thousand
pounds.' This is a large sum to pay for the endeavour to solve
the problem of the earth's distance from the sun; but the problem
is one of essential importance in astronomical science, and there
is reason to hope that when all the computations are completed
the true answer will appear. Remembering as we do the eclipse
expeditions assisted by the Treasury and the Admiralty, and the
expensive and abortive Arctic expedition, we agree with the learned
functionary above referred to that 'the government has been very
liberal.'
By a method known to astronomers, observations of the planet Mars
can be made available for determining our distance from the sun.
Sir George Airy speaks of this method as 'the best of all;' and as
Mars is this year in the most favourable position for these special
observations, a private expedition is to be sent to St Helena or
to Ascension to make them. The expense will be about five hundred
pounds; and this is to be provided by gifts from scientific men,
and by a contribution from the Royal Astronomical Society.
The formation of meteorites is a question which has long been
discussed by mineralogists and physicists. Professor Tschermak,
after much study, has come to the conclusion that the active agent
in the process is volcanic. He points out that the meteorites
which fall to the earth are angular in form, that they have no
concentric structure even in their interior, that their external
crust is not an original characteristic, and that they are
evidently fragmentary. Examination of the crust has shewn that
during the later stages of flight, disruption of the meteorite
itself sometimes takes place; and it is a fact worth record, that
guided by the appearance of the crust and peculiarity of shape,
Professor Maskelyne once succeeded in reconstructing a meteorite
from fragments which had fallen miles apart.
From much evidence of this character Professor Tschermak has been
confirmed in his views. He argues that 'the finding of hydrogen in
meteoric iron is a proof that permanent gases and perhaps vapours,
which are the great agents in transmitting volcanic energy, have
played some part in the formation of meteorites; and although it
may ever be impossible to obtain direct evidence of the volcanic
activity which is supposed to have hurled these mysterious
masses of stone and metal into space, yet such evidence as the
violent gaseous upheavals on the solar surface; the action of our
terrestrial volcanoes; and the stupendous eruptive phenomena of
which the lunar craters tell the history, lend powerful support to
any theory which assumes that meteorites owe their formation to
volcanic agency.'
Professor Boyd Dawkins in giving an account to the Manchester
Geological Society of his visit to the crater of Vesuvius said: 'A
coating of yellow sulphur about three inches thick covered the lip,
and beneath this the loose gray ashes gave out aqueous vapour at
every pore, which deposited on them in some places white powdery
sulphate of lime, in others common salt, sal ammoniac, green
chloride of copper, and specular iron ore, which looked like little
pieces of shattered mirrors scattered through their substance.
It was obvious that here we had a striking proof of the mode in
which water, in passing through heated rock, can carry minerals in
solution and ultimately deposit them. In these deposits we could
easily recognise the mode in which the various metals were brought
up from deep down in the earth's crust, and deposited in holes
and crannies in the rocks which are accessible to man as mineral
veins.' In this description we seem to have an approach towards an
answer to the oft-repeated question--Where do metals come from?
Further particulars, which will be regarded as surprising, have
been published concerning the Pennsylvania oil-wells. The Delameter
well, sixteen hundred feet deep, sends forth gas at such a vehement
pressure that a plummet-line weighing sixteen hundred pounds can
be pulled out of the bore-hole by hand. The ascending speed of the
gas is seventeen hundred feet per second; the quantity amounts to
one million cubic feet per hour, or more than fourteen hundred tons
a day; and the heating power is twenty-five per cent. greater than
that of good bituminous coal. After this explanation it is easy
to understand that the well, situated in a valley surrounded by
mountains, furnishes heat and light to the whole neighbourhood.
From one of its pipes, three inches in diameter, a flame rushes,
'the noise of which shakes the hills, and is heard at a distance
of fifteen miles. For a distance of fifty feet around the earth is
burnt; but farther off, the vegetation is tropical, and enjoys a
perpetual summer.'
It is known to chemists that turpentine when oxidised in a
current of air in presence of water, yields peroxide of hydrogen,
camphoric acid, acetic acid, camphor, and certain other less
defined substances. The progress of the oxidation is an interesting
study, and the solution produced is found to have great power
as an antiseptic and disinfectant. White of egg, milk, and beer
treated therewith are kept fresh for some time. 'From a series
of experiments undertaken with the view of ascertaining to which
constituents of the solution the antiseptic and disinfecting
property is to be ascribed, the power was found to be distributed
between the peroxide of hydrogen and camphoric acid; but the former
of these is able to evolve large quantities of oxygen, which in
this state is nascent, and of a powerful oxidising nature.'
A curious case of glass-making is published in the Proceedings of
the Newcastle-on-Tyne Chemical Society. A large mass of esparto
grass was burnt by accident. Lumps which might be called grass
clinkers were found among the ashes; and these on being properly
treated in a kiln produced glass which is described as 'a very good
sample of bottle-glass.' From this it is easy to understand that in
past ages some great bonfire of vegetable matter may have led to
the discovery of glass. Farmers who are unfortunate enough to have
their stack-yards burned, might possibly find straw clinkers among
the débris. This would be worth noting, for silica enters largely
into the composition of all grasses and cereals.
In South Russia, Hungary, parts of Italy, in Egypt, India, and
other parts of the world where no coal is to be had, different
kinds of vegetable refuse are used as fuel for steam-engines. In
a paper read at a meeting of the Institution of Civil Engineers
a table is given of the heating value of the refuse as compared
with coal. It has been found in Russia that a little more than
four acres can be cultivated with the waste straw of one acre,
which when compared with the results of steam-plough trials at
Wolverhampton shews that one pound of coal is equivalent to four
and one-sixth pounds of straw. An engine to burn vegetable waste
requires a greater heating surface than an ordinary engine; and
those of the most improved construction are self-feeding. In Egypt
the stalks of the cotton-plant and megass, or waste sugar-cane,
are the principal fuel; and the equivalent quantity of these to
one pound of coal is less than of straw. But there are engines in
England which burn vegetable waste; and the author of the paper
above mentioned is of opinion that 'as the demand for mechanical
appliances increases, so will the difficulties increase of
obtaining the best qualities of fuel for steam-boilers in rural
districts.' And he suggests that the only method of rendering the
use of steam-power universal, particularly for agriculture, would
be to construct the boiler of the engine so as to utilise the local
supplies of combustible material of every kind.'
Among scientific novelties worthy of notice are the Harmonograph,
an instrument constructed by Messrs Tisley and Spiller. It combines
a series of pendulums, susceptible of motion in every direction,
one of which carrying a pen, traces curves of remarkable forms
on a sheet of paper. Some of these curves represent waves of
sound as given off by a musical instrument, and certain waves of
light. Thus the invisible is, so to speak, made visible, with
manifest advantage to natural philosophy.--Next, the Otheoscope,
a modification of the radiometer designed by Mr Crookes. In this
little instrument the vanes do not rotate, but are fixed near a
horizontal disc free to move. The influence acting on the vanes is
thrown from them upon the disc, and the disc spins round with great
rapidity. The useful applications of this novelty have yet to be
discovered.--And Mr N. J. Holmes has invented a flaring projectile
or shell which when fired from a ship at sea falls into the water
at a distance of two miles if required; floats for an hour, and
throws out a powerful light, which in dark nights would be useful
in detecting the position and watching the movements of a hostile
fleet.
The Registrar-general pursuing the even tenor of his way amid the
world's excitements, has just published his Report on the public
health of 1876. He tells us that the area of London (taking the
registration division) is one hundred and twenty-two square miles,
with fifteen hundred miles of streets, about two thousand miles
of sewers, and 417,767 inhabited houses. The population numbered
nearly three millions and a half; but taking in the outlying
districts, 'greater London' as the Registrar calls it, contains
4,286,607 inhabitants, among whom the births were 153,192, and the
deaths 91,171. Some of these inhabitants live in the Plumstead
Marshes, eleven feet below, while the dwellers at Hampstead are
429 feet above high-water mark. These differences of level imply
different conditions of health; but the death-rate was not more
than 21.3 per thousand; which contrasts favourably with the
death-rate in other towns and cities within the kingdom and in
other parts of the world.
Economy is an important element in the maintenance of health, and
Dr Farr points out what looks like a waste of resources. He says:
'The capital engaged in the gas and water companies of London
is L.22,492,157, which realised in the year ending April 1876,
a profit of not less than L.1,676,542, or seven and a half per
cent. all round. Now, if this amount of capital were required
to construct all the works necessary to supply London with the
best gas and pure soft water at high-pressure, it could probably
be raised at four, or certainly three and a half per cent. less
than is now paid in dividends. If the capital were raised at four
per cent. L.776,856 would be set free; out of which, after the
companies were adequately compensated, there would be a large
revenue for education and many municipal purposes.' The facts set
forth in this paragraph should be taken into serious consideration
by all concerned.
A paper on the Climate of Scarborough in the _Quarterly Journal_ of
the Meteorological Society is worth attention, as it sets forth the
atmospheric movements to which that fashionable watering-place owes
the amenity of its summer climate. The highest summer temperature,
we are informed, is seventy degrees; and the temperature of the
sea is commonly five degrees below the temperature of the air.
'Another noticeable fact is, that in hot weather, with a tolerably
clear sky and a temperature between eight and nine A.M. of about
sixty degrees, rising to a maximum during the day of nearly
seventy, the wind, which in the morning is blowing from south-west
or west-south-west, generally backs to the south-south-east by the
middle of the day, bringing in a cool refreshing breeze from the
sea. This backward movement of the wind is easily accounted for,
when it is remembered that with such a high temperature and an
almost cloudless sky, the ground becomes much heated, causing the
lower stratum of warm and rarefied air to ascend, while the cooler
and heavier air is then drawn in from the sea to supply its place;'
and the moisture in this sea-breeze by tempering the sunshine
renders outdoor life the more agreeable.
As Fiji is now one of our colonial possessions, enterprising
emigrants will perhaps resort thither. They may find information
concerning the productions and weather of the group of islands
in a paper by Mr R. L. Holmes, published in the last number
of the _Quarterly Journal_ of the Meteorological Society. The
first quarter of the year comprehends the 'hurricane months;'
from January 1 to March 28, 1875, ninety inches of rain fell; an
inch a day. The driest month is July; the south-east trade-winds
are then strong; so strong indeed as to blow away the cotton,
which then 'breaks out with a rush,' unless it be quickly
gathered. The climate generally is described as healthy; fevers,
liver-complaints, and cholera, diseases almost always fatal in
a tropical country, being almost unknown. But a painful disease
of the eyes is common; and small wounds, even mosquito bites,
have a tendency to become serious sores, very difficult to heal.
The natives are a decidedly healthy race, notwithstanding that
they prefer to build their villages on swampy ground. That no
harmful consequences ensue may be due to the position of the
islands in the region of the trade-winds, whereby breezes always
prevail. Emigrants from Europe soon lose much of their fresh ruddy
appearance, their blood gets thin, and they probably lose in
weight; but if they will abstain from indulgence in ardent spirits
they may become acclimatised with but little risk of health.
SICILIAN BRIGANDAGE.
A writer on this subject in the _Edinburgh Review_ for April
more than confirms all that we stated on Italian Brigandage in
an article last January. We have in particular from this writer
a clear account of that system of organised iniquity known as
the _Mafia_, with its kindred associations the _Camorras_. The
Mafia, in fact, has an endless ramification of spontaneous and
illegal societies, and it comes pretty much to this, that society
in Sicily, high and low, official and non-official, is one great
confederacy to rob and murder at will, and otherwise defy or
circumvent the law in any way that seems best. The curious thing
is how any show of orderly civilised usages can be maintained.
Externally, in Palermo and other places, there is an aspect of
peacefulness and honesty; but beneath the surface nearly all
proceedings are regulated by force and deceit. The very attempt to
seek protection from the law brings down vengeance so remorseless
that well-disposed persons are fain to be silent under extortion.
There are three hundred and sixty communes in Sicily, and every
one of them, says this writer, 'has its own Mafia, of which the
character varies according to local tendencies and interests. In
one place its energies are devoted to the conduct of the elections
and the manipulations of the ballot-box; in another, to directing,
by means of a _Camorra_, the sale of church and crown lands; in
a third, to the apportionment of contracts for public works....
By a singular anomaly, the middle class--that very class of which
the absence is deplored in the rest of Sicily as the absence
of an element of order--forms in Palermo the chief strength of
the Mafia. Its proverbial virtues of prudence, industry, and
foresight are here exercised in the calling of crime. The so-called
_Capi_-mafia are men of substance and education. To them is due
the consummate ability with which the affairs of their association
are managed--the unity of direction, precision of purpose, and
fatality of stroke. They determine with unerring tact all the nice
points of their profession; in what cases life may be taken, and
in what others the end in view can be attained by mere destruction
of property; when an important capture is to be effected; when
a threatening letter sent, or a shot of persuasion fired; when
it is advisable to suspend operations, and when to inspire
terror by increased ferocity. By them, relations are maintained
with government offices in Rome, whose intrigues are generally
successful in obtaining the dismissal or removal of obnoxious
officials; so that complicity with crime is an almost necessary
condition of permanence in any responsible position.'
For this state of affairs, which violates all our conceptions of
a civilised community, the reviewer offers no practical scheme
for redress. Reform, in the ordinary acceptation of the word,
seems impracticable. Society is leagued to maintain a universal
terrorism. Judges, magistrates, police-officers are incorporated
in the gang of evil-doers. The military sent to preserve order
are inefficient. Whether from fear or favour, brigandage is
triumphant. Evidently the Italian government is powerless to
cure the disorderly condition of Sicily. The very members of the
government labour under suspicion of complicity. More probably,
they are afraid to give offence by acting with persistent vigour.
Constitutionalism carried to excess in a region wholly unprepared
for it, even in a moderate degree, might be described as the bane
of the country. It is in vain to appoint new native magistrates and
new police, for all are bad together. The feeble military force
sent to support the law is out-manœuvred or laughed at. Without
denying that things may mend in the course of ages, we should say,
that what Italy wants is a Cromwell with his Ironsides to stamp out
by military execution the ingrained villainy which now afflicts one
of the finest and most productive islands in the world. As there
is, however, no chance of a soldier of the Cromwell type casting
up, Sicily, we presume, must continue to be a disgrace to Italy and
as great a scandal to Europe as Turkey.
W. C.
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