Fortune seemed to smile on Alfred’s London enterprise. He called
personally on the editors of several of the society magazines and
journals. ‘A Summer Ramble in Kirkcudbright’ was now in all the glory
of print; and when he assured the editors that he was really the
‘Ariel’ who penned the sketch, he found them willing, nay, anxious
to look over the manuscripts he left with them. The letter from the
_Olympic_ accepting the manuscript and inclosing so handsome an
honorarium was of great help to him. Mr Hannay had a reputation for
‘discovering’ talent, and his protégés hardly ever failed in taking
some rank in the profession. He got four or five accepted at fairly
remunerative prices. Then he was proposed at a minor literary club, and
passed the ballot. As a new contributor to the _Olympic_, he ranked
well there among his brother scribes, who looked on him as a rising
man, and one whose good opinion was worth courting. These new friends
indeed treated him with great cordiality, and made him as one of
themselves; some even going the length of borrowing from him small sums
of money.
Nor was this all. One of the members, the sub-editor of a Sunday paper,
volunteered to introduce him to London ‘society.’ Behold our friend,
then, at a grand reception at Mrs Judson’s. This lady was the widow of
a wealthy London pawnbroker (financial agent she preferred the lost one
to be called). Her sole ambition in life was to secure a following of
literary ‘stars,’ even if they were of infinitesimal magnitude; and in
her circle, ‘Ariel’ appeared as one of the first. His handsome figure
and genial manners constituted him a great favourite with the ladies;
and his presence was eagerly sought for at all these little reunions
which compose the ‘fringe’ of London literary and artistic society.
He found this kind of life both pleasant and profitable; for he was
brought in contact with many editors and proprietors of third and
fourth rate periodicals, and was able to dispose of half his rejected
manuscripts among them, with fairly satisfactory pecuniary results to
himself.
His banker now held one or two hundred pounds to his credit, and he
began to look upon the success of his literary venture as _un fait
accompli_. There was just one little thing that annoyed him: his newly
found literary friends were extremely solicitous to know when his
further productions would appear in the _Olympic_. This was a poser,
for he had not the least idea himself. He got out of the difficulty,
however, by saying that the principal editor being on the continent,
there would be nothing definitely arranged until his return. As will be
remembered, Nan’s restrictions did not prevent him from contributing
to the _Olympic_ in his own name; so, immediately after his arrival
in London, he set to work and wrote a sketch called ‘Student Life in
Brussels.’ The manuscript was duly sent, and duly returned in a few
days with a printed note indicating the editor’s regret at being unable
to make use of the paper. This was discouraging; but then he reflected
that taste in literary things was very fickle; so he wrote a heavy
article on Fair Trade, and sent it on; but the result was the same.
About this time, he heard that Mr Hannay had gone to St Petersburg
with a friend to enjoy the winter festivities of the gay northern
capital. As he was not expected home for two or three months, Alfred
had a good excuse till then for the non-appearance of any further
work of his in the _Olympic_. In the meantime he gave himself up to
the charming gaieties and pleasant little dissipations of the circle
that had made quite a lion of him. He rather liked the homage these
people paid him; true, they were mentally his inferiors, he thought;
but then they had money, position, and influence, and might be made
useful to him in the future. He began to think—sometimes with a feeling
bordering on regret—of his engagement to the innkeeper’s daughter. How
much better he could do now, if he were free! However, he would be
true to his engagement. Only, Nan must be reasonable, and wait; at the
end of two or three years, when his name was famous and his position
thoroughly assured, he would marry her. To do so now would be extremely
prejudicial to his interests, and must not be thought of for a moment.
O no; she must wait patiently till it suited his convenience; and
wouldn’t she gladly do so? Of course, for wasn’t the girl madly in love
with him?
And what about Nan? Well, things were going on in their usual jog-trot
course at Lochenbreck. The winter was their dull season, and she had
plenty of time at her disposal, which she employed in sewing, reading,
practising her music, and occasionally taking part in the quiet social
gatherings of her country neighbours. She was, of course, delighted to
hear of her lover’s success in London. ‘Well, after all,’ she thought,
‘he seems to have known best.’ Then she thought smilingly of the time
when he would be coming to claim the fulfilment of her promise; and
she hoped she could induce him to spend part of the year at least at
Lochenbreck. The parting with her father was the only drawback in her
fair future; and she hoped this might be partially at least averted.
She sometimes thought of her old and trusted friend the editor, and
a shadow would come over her countenance for a moment. It passed
quickly away, however, for she never thought but that he had long since
forgotten her, amid the gaieties of the continent and his literary
pursuits; for though far from London, he still held the editorial reins
and wrote his usual articles for the _Olympic_.
This pleasant, tranquil state of matters lasted for some weeks. Her
lover still corresponded regularly with her; but his letters began to
get shorter, and were, perhaps, not quite so profuse and warm in their
amatory expressions. Then after a bit they came more irregularly and
seldomer. Still Nan paid no heed to what another maiden might have
taken as indications of their lover’s failing allegiance. Hers was
a happy, contented disposition, with no morbid desire to conjure up
possible future evils. She loved Alfred sincerely, and with all the
warmth and fervour of a girl’s first love. That he had failings, her
strong, keen sense showed her plainly enough; but then he was only a
fallible mortal like herself and other people. She was not blind to the
vanity he displayed in writing to her about his social triumphs. If
there was anything that troubled her, it was the frequent references he
made to Mrs Judson. She resented the control which this woman seemed
to have acquired over her lover’s doings. True, the widow was almost
old enough to be his mother, and had been very kind to him; but a man
should have a mind of his own, and hold his future in his own hands; if
he did consult with any one, it should be with her who was soon to be
his wife.
Things went on in this fashion for some time longer, and Nan began
to feel a vague, chilling feeling in her heart that all was not as
it should be between Alfred and herself. She was scarcely prepared,
however, for a letter she received from him one morning after a
longer silence than usual. It was dated from a Sir Hew Crayton’s
shooting-lodge down in Essex. The high-born though impecunious—and, if
the truth must be told, rather disreputable—baronet had been a client
of the late Mr Judson, and was heavily indebted to his widow. He was a
constant attender at her house, and it was there Alfred had formed his
acquaintance. Nan smiled when she saw the ostentatious way he dated the
blazoned note-paper from Crayton Lodge. Before she finished reading,
however, her eyebrows became knit, and an angry frown settled on her
whilom smiling visage. The letter commenced by saying that as he felt
rather out of sorts with his protracted course of social enjoyments,
he had accepted his friend Sir Hew Crayton’s kind invitation to spend
a few days’ pheasant-shooting with him down in Essex. Then he gave
a general account of what he had been doing since he last wrote—the
dinner-parties, balls, routs, conversaziones, and what not he had been
at; the compliments that had been paid him, and the pleasing prophecies
of the grand future before him which flattering tongues had whispered
in his ears. All this she read with an amused smile. But near the end
she came to a paragraph which ran as follows: ‘Do you know, Nan, I
have got a splendid chance of making my fortune just now? A young lady
with twenty thousand pounds in her own right has fallen in love with
me! I was introduced to her at an afternoon tea at Mrs Judson’s. Of
course, I made myself agreeable enough, but I never thought she would
have taken my little civilities so seriously. Yet she did so. Mrs
Judson gave me a plain hint to that effect, and I then had to tell her
about our engagement, and that such a thing was impossible. She was
surprised, and advised me strongly to keep the thing secret, as, if it
were known, it would damage my prospects greatly in society, and even
in my profession. She has an excellent knowledge of the world, Mrs
Judson, and has been very kind to me; her idea is, that we should not
think of getting married for two or three years yet. By that time I
will be in an assured position, able to marry any one I like, and not
care a pin what the world says.’
Nan could scarce believe her eyes. Who was this Mrs Judson who had
thrust herself between them? And did the prospective ‘not caring a
pin what the world said about marrying her,’ mean that he was afraid
and ashamed to marry her _now_? The very thought brought the hot
blood tumultuously to her cheeks. Her impulse was to write breaking
off the engagement at once; however, when the first burst of natural
indignation was past, her practical good sense asserted itself, and
she wrote a short note, requesting him to hasten down to Lochenbreck,
as something of the most vital importance to them both had to be at
once decided. This she posted, and awaited her lover’s arrival—with
impatience certainly—but not of a pleasing kind.
When Alfred got the letter, he was a little startled. Justly enough, he
attributed it to something he had said in his last epistle to her; and
in going over its contents in his mind, he had no difficulty in fixing
on the paragraph just quoted as being the cause of offence. ‘Poor Nan!’
he thought. ‘A case of jealousy, I suppose—the twenty-thousand-pounds
young lady. How ridiculous of her! Didn’t I say the thing was
impossible! However, I must run down and see her. A kiss, a caress, and
a few soft words, will put her all right. Really, now, I do like Nan;
and I’ll make things all right for her one of these days. But she must
have patience: she forgets what a sacrifice I am making, all for her
sake. To marry an innkeeper’s daughter! when, I may say, I have the
pick and choice of the eligibles of London society, seems like lunacy.
Oh, but I’ll be true to her, all the same! But she must learn her
position; give up any selfish ideas of an early foolish marriage, and
learn to wait patiently till it suits my convenience and interest.’
He arrived at Lochenbreck railway station by the morning express. The
wagonette was there to meet him, but no Nan. He jumped in; and whirling
through the keen frosty air, cracking jokes with the driver the while,
he arrived in excellent spirits at the little old-fashioned inn. To
Nan’s great relief, her father had gone to Castle Douglas market;
she hated ‘scenes’ of any kind and under any circumstances; but she
thought she could bear the one before her better, if her father was not
present and was never to hear of it afterwards. After having dinned
the praises of his prospective son-in-law in his ears for months, how
could she now turn round and say she had discovered him to be a vain,
conceited, selfish coxcomb? She had little hope of this interview
putting matters right between them, and, to be prepared for the worst,
had collected all his letters—all the little nicknacks he had given
her—and parcelled them up ready to hand to him.
She submitted gravely and coldly to the customary salute with which he
greeted her, and led the way to the coffee-room, where breakfast lay
ready for him. In the occasional presence of the waiting-girl, private
conversation was impossible; so he rattled on in an agreeable manner
about his experiences in London, giving brilliant sketches of the
varied private and public entertainments in which he had participated.
Nan listened with lady-like composure, putting in an occasional word;
and when the meal was over they retired to the private parlour. They
sat down opposite to each other, and then Anne commenced her invective.
She pointed out that he had deliberately chosen literature as a
profession, and having gained a slight success, was now idling away his
time in London, among a set of people who could do him no good, and who
were, she thought, but of very doubtful reputation.
‘Wrong there, Nan!’ he interrupted. ‘I admit I don’t quite move in
the inner circle. Still the people I know seem to have plenty of
money, and are respectable enough; and I find them useful. I meet with
journalists among them, and have been able to dispose of a good many of
my manuscripts. And you would notice I was staying for a few days with
Sir Hew Crayton. Now, you know it does a literary man a deal of good—in
public estimation—to be taken notice of by a baronet.’
‘I am sorry to hear you talking in that way,’ she replied sadly,
‘for it shows me your vanity has got the better of your good sense.
Do you not see it was entirely through your article appearing in the
_Olympic_ that you got your rejected manuscripts disposed of? As for
your baronet, I don’t think you need boast of him. He stayed with us
for a month, four years ago, and left without paying his bill. Papa
made inquiry about him, and found he made a swindling living by lending
his name as director to bogus Limited Companies. Likely he would borrow
money from you?’
Alfred was forced to admit that he had obliged him with a loan.
‘Now, Alfred,’ she continued gravely, ‘I have decidedly made up my mind
that it would be better for us both that our engagement should come to
an end. If you continue in the life you are leading, I have no hope
for your future; but even if you were successful, I could never marry
you. Doubtless, you would expect me to mix with your new friends; that
I could never do—if they are like what you describe them—and certain
unhappiness would be the result. It is well for us both I have come to
know this in time.’
This was different sort of talk from what he had come to hear. It was
tears and entreaties for their immediate union which he had expected.
Still his vanity blinded him to the true import of her words. She had
said she never could mix with his new friends; well, it was but proper
modesty for her to say that. He would reassure her on that score, and
all would be well yet.
‘My dear Nan, I think you are talking a little hastily. No doubt you
would feel a little awkward among the London ladies at first, but that
would soon pass away. And Mrs Judson promised me to chaperon you a bit,
and’——
‘I wish to hear nothing more, sir, about Mrs Judson,’ she answered
curtly.
‘Well, Nan, she’s a good friend of yours. I told her all about our
little affair. She said of course it would be a great sacrifice on my
part; but she applauded my intention of acting honourably towards you,
even although you were only an innkeeper’s daughter. Of course, it may
be two or three years before I’——
‘Stop!’ she cried, rising to her feet, her lips quivering and her
cheeks as pale as death—‘stop, sir! I did not send for you here to
insult me. Surely I have spoken plainly enough; but your head is so
stuffed with selfish vanity, you cannot comprehend me. Our engagement
is at an end. Here are all your letters and presents! You’ll return
mine when you get to London.—Now, go!’
As she said the last words, she drew herself up to her full height and
pointed to the door. The action was perhaps a little theatrical; but
when he looked at her white set face and flashing eyes, he saw plainly
enough that she was acting no part. He fancied he had never seen her
looking so handsome before; and he felt a sinking at his heart at the
thought of having by his foolish letters and talk lost for ever this
woman.
‘You—you—are—angry just now, Nan. Do take time to’——
‘Go!’ she repeated firmly, her hand still pointing to the door. Her
face was marble in its inflexibility; he knew his doom was sealed.
Making a poor show of indifferent self-possession, he rose and quitted
the room.
When he was fairly gone, Nan broke down entirely. Shutting herself up
in her bedroom, she made use of the safety-valve provided by nature
for her sex, and had a thoroughly good cry. Next morning, she was calm
and self-possessed, although her eyes were red and heavy looking. Her
cherished idol had crumbled into dust; and it became her, she thought,
as a prudent damsel to sweep away the smallest trace of it from her
heart.
LONDON CHARITY ORGANISATION SOCIETY.
The Society for Organising Charitable Relief and Repressing Mendicity,
or, as it is popularly called, the Charity Organisation Society, has
for its object the scientific supervision of charity dispensation,
in the deep-rooted conviction that slovenly and indiscriminate
almsgiving is a most pernicious bane to society, and calculated to
foster rather than diminish indigence. Personal inquiry is the keynote
of the Society’s mode of operation. Trained, experienced, and apt
persons—both honorary and paid—exhaustively investigate all cases of
indigence brought under the Society’s notice. In each instance, one
important point is established at the outset of the investigation,
namely, whether the individual concerned must of necessity—through
physical or other disability—habitually depend for sustenance upon the
resources of others, or whether he or she possesses the latent means
of self-support, which may be brought into action—under the fostering
influence of personal guidance in moral and material things—after
the temporary condition of poverty has been met by the judicious
application of charity. Cases of the former description are relegated
to the action of the poor-law—therein lying its true function; cases
of the latter kind are taken in hand by the Society. But its action
is not that of an individual charitable institution concerned merely
with the distribution of its own resources. It acts as an intermediary
between those who need charity and those who are anxious to devote
money to charitable purposes. Hence, in the discharge of its functions,
it places itself in connection both with benevolent individuals and
benevolent bodies, seeking to secure the best relief for the different
cases of destitution which come under its notice and at the same time
to prevent ‘overlapping’ in charity dispensation. Where, however, it
finds that a case of destitution cannot effectively be relieved from
other sources, the Society brings its own funds into requisition. As to
its function of ‘repressing mendicity,’ this it discharges by promoting
the detection and prosecution of impostors.
And now for a word or two about the mechanism, if we may so call
it, of the Society. The organisation consists of a federation of
forty district committees—one or more being established in each of
the poor-law divisions of London—and of a Central Council, at which
every committee is represented. The committees comprise, where it
is possible, ministers of religion, guardians of the poor, and
representatives of the principal local charities. Their function is to
receive, investigate, and deal, according to the general principles
of the Society, with all cases of alleged want or distress referred
to them; and each is intended to form a common meeting-place—a centre
of information and charitable work—for persons in the district
desirous of benefiting the poor. The Central Council supervises
besides endeavouring to strengthen and consolidate the work of the
district committees, taking into consideration, as well, all questions
of principle and all matters relating to the general action of the
Society. Of course the scene of the Society’s main operations is
the metropolitan poor-law district; but it is glad to give general
assistance, by sending information to agencies outside that area. We
may add that the example set by the Society has given birth to many
foreign and provincial organisations of identical aims and action.
It may be interesting to glance briefly at the broad method of
investigation pursued by the inquiry officers—be they paid or
honorary—of the Society. In treating a family, then, the following
facts are in the first place arrived at: The ages of the parents; the
amount of their earnings at the time of application and previously;
the cause of their leaving their last employment; the ages of
their children; and whether those children go to school (and if
so, where)—or, if they are employed, what they earn. The previous
addresses, with the references of the family, are next learned; and
it is ascertained whether they belong to a club or have relatives who
ought to assist them. Then inquiry is made as to whether the family
have any debts hanging over them; what their rent is; how they are
obtaining a living at the time of application; and, finally, how they
think they can be thoroughly helped. Subsequently, it is the inquiry
officer’s duty, among other things, to ascertain for himself the cause
of the family’s distress, verifying the information they have supplied
to him; to search out the best mode of helping; to familiarise himself
with the character of the family, and find on whom, if its natural head
be weak or incompetent, reliance can be placed to re-establish the
family fortunes; and, lastly, to settle what means of future thrift and
self-support can be fostered into life.
Did space permit, we should like to give some characteristic examples
of instances where the indigent have been raised to a state of
independence by the well-advised action of the Society, and tell how
the workhouse itself has been made to yield material with which to work
so happy a transformation. Some reference, too, would be justified to
the numerous special questions in connection with which the Society has
seen cause to take action. But we have said enough perhaps to effect
our immediate purpose and indicate the nature of the Society and the
scope of its operations. A considerable literature has grown around the
Charity Organisation Society, and this is accessible to all who visit
the central office of the institution, 15 Buckingham Street, Adelphi,
London, whither all communications to the Secretary, Mr C. L. Loch,
should be addressed.
THE DENSCHMAN’S HAD.
A LEGEND OF SHETLAND.
From Widwick to Hermaness the cliffs rise steep and high from a deep
ocean, so deep that a large ship might float alongside of the crags
without danger of scraping her keel. What would be the fate of such
a vessel, if she were carried by the might of that sea against that
iron wall, I leave you to imagine. The rocks are broken all along
their range by fissures and caves, inaccessible from the land, and
scarcely approachable from the sea. He is a bold voyager who brings
even a boat to thread the ‘baas’ and ‘stacks’—submerged rocks and
needle-crags—which guard the way to those haunts of sea-fowl and seals.
One of the caves is named the Denschman’s Had. I ought to explain that
a ‘had’ means the den of a wild beast, his stronghold; and ‘Denschman’
is ‘Dane.’
In old days, Shetland (or Hialtland) was nothing more than a ‘had’ of
vikinger, those pirates of the North who have so often been confounded
with the noble sea-kings of Scandinavia; but while the islands belonged
to Norway, their inhabitants were under powerful protection, and
suffered little inconvenience from the uses to which the sea-rovers
turned the sheltered voes and secluded islets. It was only when
Scottish rule came in that the vikinger of Norway and Denmark turned
their weapons against their brother-Norsemen of the Shetland Isles.
During the times of the Stuarts, Scotland had enough to do to look
after itself, far less to extend protection to an outlying dependency
that was more plague than profit. Indeed, the Scottish kings and nobles
seem to have regarded Hialtland as fair game, and robbed and oppressed
the people after as cruel a method as that of the northern pirates.
Between the two, those islands had a hot time of it; and the islanders,
once a prosperous community, sank into poverty and hopeless serfdom.
About the time of Mary Stuart, the isle of Unst was harassed by a noted
viking whose name and lineage were unknown. He and his daring crew
were believed to be Danes, and his swift barque—appropriately named
the _Erne_—and his stalwart person were familiar to the affrighted
eyes of the islanders. When the Denschman swooped upon the isle, its
inhabitants fled to the hills and rocks, leaving their homes as spoil
for the lawless rover. What else could they do? The enemy were strong,
reckless, brave, well armed and well disciplined. The islanders,
groaning and disheartened under the yoke of an alien power, were at
the mercy of might, and could neither resist nor make treaty; so the
Denschman came and went like the fierce bird of prey whose name his
vessel bore, and no man dared oppose him.
* * * * *
One midsummer evening, a westerly squall arose which sent the
fishing-boats flying to the shelter of their voes and vicks. Those
storms rise and fall with tropical rapidity and violence. Six hours
after it was at its height, the wind had fallen to an ordinary fresh
breeze, the sky was smiling as before, and only the wrathful surf,
rolling white and broken under the influence of a changing tide,
remained to tell of the tempest. All the boats had returned in safety,
and there should have been rejoicing in Unst; but instead, men frowned
and women trembled, for the fishers had brought news that the Denschman
was on the coast: his well-known sail had been seen hovering beyond
the holms of Gloup; he was coming upon the wings of the westerly wind;
he would be on the Westing Bicht ere long. There was no landing-place
available—with such a heavy sea—on that side of the island; but the
Denschman knew what he was about, doubtless. He would scud to the
nor’ard, fly round the Flugga skerries and Skau, would lay-to, and
bide his time till dusk drew down; then he would alight on the eastern
shore, and work his wild will upon the defenceless isle. Such had been
his tactics aforetime. The people ran to the high lands of Vaalafiel
and Patester to mark the Denschman’s course, for where he meant to
land, _there_ they must not be.
Soon the _Erne_ was descried emerging from a mist of spindrift, and
bearing swiftly towards Unst, heading straight for the isle, and not—as
the folk had supposed—skirting the coast. Did the vikinger mean to
bring their vessel to harbour among those crags, where the sea was in
such a turmoil? Was the _Erne_ a demon-ship that could dare everything
and perform such a feat? On he came right before the wind with a
following tide; but when well in the Westing Bicht, some experienced
seamen affirmed that there must be something wrong aboard, for the
_Erne_ did not rise on the waves with its usual buoyancy; he seemed to
plunge madly forward, as if in fierce conflict with the ocean he had
ruled so long. By-and-by it was seen that the vessel laboured more and
more, yet carried full sail, as if on speed depended salvation.
‘I would not say but he’s sprung a leak, or the like,’ said an old
udaller among the onlookers. ‘Who but a madman would bring a ship
in-shore like yon, if all was taut aboard!’
‘That is so,’ remarked a seaman. ‘Without doubt, he’s in straits;
and he’s going to try to beach on the Aire of Widwick. It’s his only
chance, and a poor one.’
‘Pray the powers he may not make the Aire,’ replied the old man; ‘and
I’m thinking,’ he added, ‘that the powers will hear us. There is
something fatal amiss with that evil one. See yon! He’s not obeying his
helm; he’s just driving with wind and tide. He’s in a mighty strait,
praise the Lord!’
‘If he misses the Aire, he’ll go in _shallmillens_ [the fragments of
eggshell] upon the baas of Flübersgerdie,’ said a fisherman, with a
grim smile; and all cried out: ‘Pray the powers it may be so!’
As if the powers thus invoked were ready to prove their immediate
willingness to answer the cry of the oppressed, the wind veered more to
the west, and carried the disabled ship against the holm of Widwick, a
small islet which lies off the creek, and wards from it the full force
of the North Atlantic. If the _Erne_ had stranded on the holm, some
of his crew might have effected a landing there; but that was not the
end of the viking’s barque; she reeled back from the holm with a gash
in her side that was a death-wound indeed, and drifted onwards once
more. Now, would she gain the creek? No! In a few moments the _Erne_
was carried past the little harbour, where lay the sole chance of
deliverance, and then crashed among the rocks of Flübersgerdie.
‘Praise to the powers that are above all!’ cried the men of Unst, and
even gentle-hearted women rejoiced as the Denschman, barque and crew,
disappeared among the breakers.
The people returned to their homes, happy in the thought that the rocks
of Fatherland had proved able protectors, and that Unst was for ever
rid of its most dreaded foe.
* * * * *
Two days and two nights passed. No trace of the storm was left. A
boat put off from Widwick with the intention of saving such portions
of the _Erne_ as would certainly be drifting among the skerries near
Flübersgerdie. The men could tell by the state of the tides and the
wind exactly where the wreckage was to be found, and they made for
the spot, never doubting that some spoil would be there to reward
them. As they approached the submerged reef where the _Erne_ finished
her career, the skipper, alluding to the dreaded Denschman, said:
‘Well did he deserve what he met here! Think our isle would give him
foothold!—our isle, that he has harried this ten year and more! No, no!’
Scarcely were the words spoken, when one of the fishermen called out
excitedly: ‘Lord be about us, men, what’s yon?’—and he pointed to a
cave situated in the cliff opposite the reef.
All gazed, and were struck dumb, for, on a ledge within the mouth of
the helyer (cave) stood a man—the man! the Denschman, alive, stalwart,
terrible as ever, and brandishing his sword, as if defying mortal to
molest him.
The boat was instantly backed, and when the islanders had put what
they considered a safe distance between themselves and their dreaded
foeman, the men consulted together. Should they make a bold attack?
The Denschman was alone; they were six in number. Surely, they could
overpower him, tired and despairing as he must be. Yes. But one, or
even two of their number were likely to fall before his sword ere he
could be conquered. Who was patriot enough ‘to lead such dire attack?’
No one of that crew! Then should they leave him to die of exhaustion,
as he must ere long? There was no way of escape. The lofty precipice
overhung the cave, precluding any scheme of climbing upwards; on either
side, the _aiguille_ crags rose from a seething depth of sea; in front,
a reef of sunken rocks covered with fretful surf, dared the bravest
swimmer that ever breasted waves to pass alive.
The Denschman had evidently reached his present refuge by aid of a
large plank belonging to the _Erne_, which still floated near the cave.
When they had recovered every vestige of the wreck which floated, he
could not escape. It was beyond the power of man to leave that cave
unaided from without. Help must come from ropes lowered from the land
above, or boats brought to the cave. And who was there in Unst would
bring rope or boat to aid the Denschman? None!
‘Let him die the death!’ said the men whose homes the viking had
devastated. So they ventured nearer, and removed every floating spar or
plank, then returned to Widwick; and it was told in the isle that the
Denschman had survived his barque and crew only to meet a more terrible
death. No man pitied him; no man dreamt of giving him succour. Those
were days when the gentler feelings had little part in men’s warfare,
and no red cross of healing followed battle ensigns to the field of
fight.
Next day, a number of boats put off, that men might feast their eyes
on the dead or dying viking; and many saw him. That day, he was seated
on the ledge of rock glowering at them; but he made no sign of either
submission or defiance. ‘He grows weak,’ they said, and wondered that
even the Denschman’s tough and giant frame had so long withstood the
exposure and starvation.
A third time the islanders sought the rocks of Flübersgerdie and saw
the pirate chief as before. Then they began to fear, and to say that he
must be allied to potent powers of evil; for how, otherwise, could he
have survived there so long? The interior of the helyer could be seen
from a little distance: no food or clothing had been saved from the
wreck to be secreted there. The prisoner was always seen sitting on the
cold bare ledge where he had been first discovered, and the people were
satisfied that the cave held no means of sustenance.
Day by day for a whole fortnight boats were guided to Flübersgerdie,
and men gazed in awe, but did not venture to molest the Denschman, who
merely returned their stare with haughty glances, and never deigned
to bespeak their compassion. Dread of the supernatural added its
paralysing effects to the terror which the viking’s fame had implanted,
and there was not a man found brave enough to attack the Denschman in
his ‘had.’
Then heaviness fell on the men’s spirits, for wives and mothers
upbraided them as cowards; their little ones shrieked and hid their
faces when it was told that the bugbear of their dreams was making his
‘had’ in an Unst helyer; and at last, driven by shame and a remnant of
manly courage, the islanders determined on attacking their enemy. They
would discover if he were immortal; they would prove if the powers of
evil were above those of good.
A fleet of boats was got ready, laden with sharp stones, which were
to be cast at the foe—a safe mode of onslaught! The islanders armed
themselves with staves and axes. Nets were prepared, in whose toils
the Denschman should fall if he, by any strange chance, came to close
quarters. The oldest udaller in the isle ordered his best boat to be
launched and consecrated, to lead the attack. A day was fixed upon. It
had been ascertained on the previous evening that the Denschman was
still in his ‘had,’ alive and strong. No one doubted by that time that
there he would remain while the island remained, if not ousted by force
and the help of holy powers; or if not aided by demons to rise and
blight the isle.
‘Pray,’ said the old udaller to his three fair daughters, who stood
to see him embark in the consecrated boat—‘pray that I bring the
Denschman’s dishonoured corpse back with me.’
‘We will pray,’ said the golden-haired maidens.
* * * * *
But what consternation there was on the Aire of Widwick, a few minutes
later, when it was found that the old man’s boat—the largest and best
in the isle, the skiff that was to have led the attack—had disappeared!
She had not sunk into the pellucid water, else she had been easily
recovered; she had not floated out to sea, for the tide was running
landwards; yet she had gone as completely as if she had owned feet to
carry her over earth, or wings to fly through air. To be sure, the boat
had both feet and wings of a kind, but these were of use on the ocean
alone. And she was gone—oars and sails too! Doubtless, her flight had
been on her native element; but some man’s hand must have spread her
wings or moved her feet. Then who had stolen the udaller’s boat? No
Hialtlander, be sure! Robbery was never the vice of those islanders;
moreover, such a theft could have been brought home to a native easily.
One fisherman, more acute than his neighbours, whispered: ‘None but
the Denschman has done this;’ and with common assent, all echoed: ‘The
Denschman has done this.’
Boats instantly put off and sped to Flübersgerdie, where confirmation
of those suspicions was not wanting. The Denschman was no longer in the
cave. He had been there, hale and terrible, on the previous evening;
he had vanished that morning, and left no trace behind. ‘It must have
been the Evil One himself,’ said the folk; and there was gloom in the
isle, trembling, and much fear, for all expected that ere long the
Denschman would descend upon Unst, and, fired by revenge, deal worse
havoc than even that of former days.
* * * * *
But days and weeks went past, and nothing further was known of the
Denschman or the udaller’s boat, and still the people feared their
ancient foe and looked for his return. None doubted that he survived.
The man who could live in unabated vigour through a fortnight without
food or fire in a dark ocean cave, who could find means of leaving his
prison, and could spirit away a large boat—such a one was not likely
to have perished on the sea. Yes, without doubt, the Denschman would
return to Unst; ‘and heaven help us when he comes!’ said the islanders.
* * * * *
Then it happened one autumn afternoon that a stranger vessel was
seen, on the Westing Bicht, making tacks for the isle. The people
had always cause to suspect an unknown sail, and they watched the
stranger’s approach with some fear. As he drew nearer, it was observed
that he closely resembled the _Erne_ of old, but carried the white
flag of peace. The Norland pirates ever scorned to conceal their true
character, which was never a treacherous one, but flaunted their
ruthless blood-red colours in the face of day. If a viking hoisted
the white banner, he meant peace; and so well was this known, and so
thoroughly could all men trust in the good faith of a viking, that
the islanders instantly sent off a boat to the vessel, though they
suspected it was a pirate ship. The stranger had a boat in tow, and
when the islanders came near, he lay-to and allowed them to come
alongside of his convoy. What was the fishermen’s astonishment to find
that the boat was no other than that of the Unst udaller!
Then a stern voice spoke from the ship. ‘Come not nearer,’ it said,
in a patois half-Danish, half-English, which the Hialtlanders could
interpret well enough. ‘Come not nearer; but undo the tow-line, and
take that boat to its owner. It is freighted with goodly gifts for
the udaller’s three fair daughters, who will know whence those tokens
come.—And know, ye hinds of Unst, that ye owe your lives and all that
makes life precious to the golden-haired maidens.—Begone!’ Then the
speaker—easily recognised as the Denschman—made imperious sign to his
mariners, who speedily put the vessel on another tack, and before many
minutes he was running out to sea again.
The islanders towed the laden boat ashore, where a throng was waiting
their return. Numerous questions were asked, numerous conjectures made.
The udaller and his daughters were summoned and the precious cargo
displayed. Table utensils of silver, personal ornaments of gold, silken
stuffs and snowy linens, rich wines and fruits, and precious grain,
whatever could please feminine taste, were spread before the wondering
people, while the three sisters stood mute and blushing, now cowering
with strange shame, anon glancing with curious pride at all around.
Presently, their old father addressed them in grave and troubled
tones: ‘Tell us the meaning of this strange _güdic_ [riddle].’
At that, the two younger girls fell on their knees and clasped his
hands entreatingly, while the eldest sister cried: ‘O father, do not be
angered, and I will tell ye all. We heard you speak of the Denschman
in his sore strait with nobody to pity him. It’s true he had dealt
cruelly by our isle; but—but, O father, it lay heavy on our hearts
that a man—and such a man, with such a goodly presence and such a bold
spirit—should die like an otter trapped in a snare; and so, we—we went
to the rock in the dark hour of nicht, and we lowered a _keschie_
[basket] to him with food and cordials and clothes—everything to keep
in life. And then—when we knew that our men meant to stone the poor
defenceless captive to death, our souls were melted with pity; so we
took the boat and helped him to escape. _We_ were not afraid of the
Denschman; and, truth to tell, he can be kind and gentle like other
men. Or ere he left the isle—all in the mirk hour—he promised that,
because of what we had done, he would never harry Unst again. No doubt,
it was wrong of us, father; but then, oh, be mindful that the plight
he was in could not fail to touch lasses’ hearts. And if good instead
of harm come of it—nay, _has_ come of it—ye need not trouble yourself
more, but forgive us, and trust the Denschman to keep his word. He
will do so. We all know that a viking stands to his promise, whate’er
betide.’
‘The lass has spoken words of wisdom,’ said a prudent matron, eyeing
the viking’s royal gifts; and a laughing seaman added: ‘Ay, and what
would come of us poor men if lasses were not pitiful, and not just
altogether wise at times!’
So the old udaller forgave his daughters, and—as legend says—‘after
that Unst was often benefited, and never more harried, by the
Denschman,’ whose ‘had’ is still pointed out to the inquiring stranger.
AN ELECTRICAL FURNACE.
Some of the enormous power which runs waste at the Falls of Niagara
is about to be utilised at last, and, strangely enough, the first
work required of the water will be the smelting of refractory ores.
This new undertaking is to be carried out by the Cowles Electrical
Furnace Company, the inventors of the process being Messrs Eugene
H. and Alfred H. Cowles. Their experimental works at Cleveland,
Ohio, have been so successful, that they were awarded the John Scott
premium and the Elliot Cresson medal of the Franklin Institute. While
labouring under various disadvantages, the Company was yet able to
produce metallic combinations that promise to be of great importance,
such as aluminium bronze, aluminium silver, aluminium brass, and
silicon bronze in ingots, castings, wire, and rolled metal. Some of
these alloys were manufactured into different articles in every-day
use. They exhibited screws of aluminium brass; knives with blades of
aluminium silver, and handles of aluminium bronze; together with a
number of other manufactured articles. Aluminium bronze is stronger
than steel, is not so liable to rust, and, being elastic and ductile,
if it can be produced at a cheap enough rate, it should have a great
future before it. For instance, cycles made of it would be lighter,
stronger, and more easily kept clean than those made of steel. This
industry alone should create a large demand. Silicon bronze, also,
from its electric conductivity, tensile strength, lightness, and
non-corrosiveness, will be a desirable substitute for iron and copper
in telegraphy; while aluminium silver—an alloy containing the special
bronze with nickel—will be serviceable for cutlery and fancy articles.
Pure aluminium, however, has this great disadvantage, that it tarnishes
readily, and unless something can be done to remedy the defect, its
usefulness will be considerably restricted. At the same time, these
alloys bid fair to supplant steel and other metals in the manufacture
of light articles where strength and appearance are desirable.
A dynamo larger than any yet constructed is at present being made
for the Company at Lockport, New York. As already stated, it will be
driven by water, acting on turbines. The contemplated works will, it
is estimated, yield about three hundred thousand horse-power, and this
only represents a fraction of the power that is running to waste at
Niagara.
WHO KNOWS?
I grant her fair, ay, passing fair,
As lovely as a budding rose;
But is there soul behind that face,
A beauty ’neath that outward grace?
Who knows—who knows?
Does light of love beam from those eyes?—
The love that in her bosom glows?
Or is the light that lingers there
Delusive, though it shine so fair?
Who knows—who knows?
Does that fair form a fairer charm,
A tender, loving heart inclose?
A heart whose tendrils, like the vine,
Would round the heart that loved it twine?
Who knows—who knows?
And should life’s sky be overcast,
And gathering clouds around thee close,
Should fortune frown and false friends flee,
Would that heart still cling close to thee?
Who knows—who knows?
Or is she, can she ever be,
As fickle as the wind that blows,
And veers as if it were at play,
Trifling with all who own her sway?
Who knows—who knows?
But why a prey to doubt remain?
Why halt ’twixt hope and fear?—propose.
She may be waiting till you dare,
To crown with love that beauty rare.
Who knows—who knows?
JOHN NAPIER.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._
* * * * *
[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.
Page 676: du to de la—“l’ami de la famille”.]