[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 40.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 4, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
THE FUTURE OF ELECTRICITY AND GAS.
More than eighty years ago, Davy first produced and exhibited the
arc-light to an admiring and dazzled audience at the Royal Institution;
and forty years later, at the same place, Faraday, by means of his
memorable experiments in electro-dynamics, laid down the laws on which
the modern dynamo-electric machine is founded. Though known at the
beginning of the century, the electric light remained little more than
a scientific curiosity until within the last ten years, during which
period the dynamo-electric machine has been brought to its present
perfection, and electric lighting on a large and economical scale thus
rendered possible. The first practical incandescent lamps were produced
only seven years ago, though the idea of lighting by incandescence
dates back some forty years or more; but all attempts to manufacture an
efficient lamp were rendered futile by the impossibility of obtaining a
perfect vacuum. The year 1881 will long be remembered as that in which
electric lighting by incandescence was first shown to be possible and
practicable.
The future history of the world will doubtless be founded more or less
on the history of scientific progress. No branch of science at present
rivals in interest that of electricity, and at no time in the history
of the world has any branch of science made so great or so rapid
progress as electrical science during the past five years.
And now it may be asked, where are the evidences of this wonderful
progress, at least in that branch of electricity which is the subject
of the present paper? Quite recently, the wonders of the electric light
were in the mouths of every one; while at present, little or nothing
is heard about it except in professional quarters. Is the electric
light a failure, and are all the hopes that have been placed on it to
end in nothing? Assuredly not. The explanation of the present lull in
electric lighting is not far to seek; it is due almost solely and
entirely to speculation. The reins, so to say, had been taken from the
hands of engineers and men of science; the stock-jobbers had mounted
the chariot, and the mad gallop that followed has ended in ruin and
collapse. Many will remember the electric-light mania several years
ago, and the panic that took place among those holding gas shares.
The public knew little or nothing about electricity, and consequently
nothing was too startling or too ridiculous to be believed. Then came a
time of wild excitement and reckless speculation, inevitably followed
by a time of depression and ruination. Commercial enterprise was
brought to a stand-still; real investors lost all confidence; capital
was diverted elsewhere; the innocent suffered, and are still suffering;
and the electric light suffered all the blame. The government was
forced to step in for the protection of the public; and the result of
their legislation is the Electric Lighting Act, which authorises the
Board of Trade to grant licenses to Companies and local authorities
to supply electricity under certain conditions. These conditions have
reference chiefly to the limits of compulsory and permissive supply,
the securing of a regular and efficient supply, the safety of the
public, the limitation of prices to be charged, and regulations as to
inspection and inquiry.
That the electric light has not proved a failure may be gleaned from a
rough survey of what has been done during the past two years, in spite
of unmerited depression and depreciation. In this country, permanent
installations have been established at several theatres in London and
the provinces; the Royal Courts of Justice, the Houses of Parliament,
Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle, the Bank of England, and other
well-known buildings; while numerous railway stations, hotels, clubs,
factories, and private mansions throughout the country, have also
adopted the new light either entirely or in part. In addition to this,
over forty steamships have been fitted with the electric light during
the past year; and the Holborn Viaduct, with its shops and buildings,
has been lighted without interruption for the past two years. On the
continent, in addition to a large number of factories, private houses,
and public buildings, numerous theatres at Paris, Munich, Stuttgart,
Brunn, Vienna, Berlin, Prague, and Milan have been electrically
lighted. In New York, an installation of ten thousand lights has been
successfully running for the last year or two. Any one wishing to
see the electric light to advantage and its suitability to interior
decoration, should visit the Holborn Restaurant. This building, with
its finely decorated rooms, its architectural beauties, and ornamental
designs in the renaissance style, when viewed by the electric light, is
without doubt one of the chief sights of London.
The electric light in the form of the well-known powerful and dazzling
arc-light is the favourite illuminant for lighting harbours, railway
stations, docks, public works, and other large spaces. But it is to
the incandescent lamp that one must look par excellence for the ‘light
of the future.’ It has been satisfactorily established that lighting
by incandescence is as cheap as lighting by gas, provided that it be
carried out on an extensive scale.
Very contradictory statements have from time to time been published
as to the relative cost of lighting by electricity and gas; and a few
remarks on the subject, without entering into detailed figures, will
explain much of this discrepancy. These remarks will refer to electric
lighting by incandescence.
In the first place, the lighting may be effected in one of three
ways—(1) by primary batteries; (2) by dynamo-machines; or (3) by a
combination of dynamo-machines and secondary batteries. The expense of
working with primary batteries is altogether prohibitory, except in the
case of very small installations; while secondary batteries have not
yet been made a practical success; so that the second method mentioned
above is the only one at present in the field. In the second place, a
distinction must be made between isolated installations and a general
system of lighting from central stations. Up to the present time,
nearly all the lighting by electricity has been effected by isolated
installations. If every man requiring one hundred or even several
hundred lights were to set up his own gas-works and supply himself from
them, the cost of lighting by gas would be enormously increased. Hence
it is manifestly unfair to compare the cost of electric light obtained
from isolated installations with gas obtained from gas-works supplying
many thousands of lights; yet this is being constantly done. Central
stations supplying at least, say, ten thousand lights, and gas-works on
an equal scale, must be compared in order to arrive at a true estimate
of the relative cost of electricity and gas. Several such extended
installations are now being erected in London and elsewhere. With
improved generating apparatus, and above all, with improved lamps, it
is confidently anticipated that the electric light will eventually be
cheaper than gas. Even if dearer than gas, it will be largely used for
lighting dwelling-houses, theatres, concert-halls, museums, libraries,
churches, shops, show-rooms, factories, and ships; while perhaps gas
may long hold its own as the poor man’s friend, since it affords him
warmth as well as light.
The incandescent light is entirely free from the products of combustion
which heat and vitiate the air; it enables us to see pictures and
flowers as by daylight; it supports plants instead of poisoning them,
and enables many industries to be carried on by night as well as by
day. Add to this an almost perfect immunity from danger of fire and
no fear of explosion. When it is realised that a gas flame gives
out seventeen times as much heat as an incandescent lamp of equal
light-giving power, and that an ordinary gas flame vitiates the air
as much as the breathing of ten persons, some idea may be formed of
the advantage of the electric light from a sanitary point of view. To
this may be added absence of injury to books, walls, and ceilings.
Visitors to the Savoy Theatre in London will doubtless have seen the
adaptability of this light for places of public amusement, and it
is now possible to sit out a play in a cool and pleasant atmosphere
without incurring a severe headache. To theatrical managers the light
offers in addition unusual facilities for producing spectacular
effects, such as the employment of green, red, and white lamps to
represent night, morning, and daylight. The freedom from weariness
and lassitude after spending an evening in an electrically lighted
apartment must be experienced in order to be appreciated. The electric
light very readily adapts itself to the interior fittings and
decorations of houses and public buildings, and it can be placed in
positions where gas could not be used on account of the danger of fire.
The old lines of gas-fittings should be avoided as far as possible, and
the lights placed singly where required, and not ‘bunched’ together.
For the lighting of mines, electricity must stand unrivalled, though
little has as yet been done in this direction. Its speedy adoption
either voluntarily or by Act of Parliament, with the employment of lime
cartridges instead of blasting by gunpowder, will in the future render
explosions in mines almost an impossibility. In some cases, gas may yet
for some time compete with the electric light both in brilliancy and
economy; for the electric light has spurred on the gas Companies to the
improved lighting of many of our public streets and places.
With the general introduction of electricity for the purpose of
lighting comes the introduction of electricity for the production of
power; for the same current entering by the same conductors can be
used for the production of light or of power, or of both. The same
plant at the central stations will supply power by day and light by
night, with evident economy. Electricity will thus be used for driving
sewing-machines, grinding, mixing, brushing, cleaning, and many other
domestic purposes. In many trades requiring the application of power
for driving light machinery for short periods, electricity will be of
the greatest value, and artisans will have an ever ready source of
power at their command in their own homes.
Is electricity to supersede gas altogether? By no means, for gas is
destined to play a more important part in the future than it has done
in the past. Following close upon the revolution in the production of
light comes a revolution in the production of heat for purposes of
warming and cooking, and for the production of power. Gas in the future
will be largely used not necessarily as an illuminant, but as a fuel
and a power producer. When gas is burned in an ordinary gas flame,
ninety-five per cent. of the gas is consumed in producing heat, and
the remaining five per cent. only in producing light. Gas is far more
efficient than raw coal as a heating agent; and it is also far cheaper
to turn coal into gas and use the gas in a gas-engine, than to burn the
coal directly under the boiler of a steam-engine; for gas-engines are
far more economical than steam-engines. Bearing these facts in mind,
it cannot but be seen that the time is not far distant when, both by
rich and poor, gas will be used as the cheapest, most cleanly, and
most convenient means for heating and cooking, and raw coal need not
enter our houses; also that gas-engines must sooner or later supersede
steam-engines, and gas thus be used for driving the machine that
produces the electricity. In the case of towns distant not more than,
say, fifty miles from a coal-field, the gas-works could with advantage
be placed at the colliery, the gas being conveyed to its destination
in pipes. Thus, coal need no longer be seen, except at the colliery
and the gas-works. With the substitution of gas for coal, as a fuel,
will end the present abominable and wasteful production of smoke. When
smoke, ‘blacks,’ and noxious gases are thus done away with, life in
our most populous towns may become a real pleasure. Trees, grass, and
flowers will flourish, and architecture be seen in all its beauty.
Personal comfort will be greatly enhanced by the absence of smuts,
‘pea-soup’ fogs, and noxious fumes; and monuments, public buildings,
and pictures saved from premature destruction.
The present method of open fires is dirty, troublesome, wasteful,
and extravagant. With the introduction of gas as a heating agent,
there will be no more carting about of coals and ashes, and no more
troublesome lighting of fires with wood, paper, and matches. No more
coal-scuttles, no more smoky chimneys, no more chimney-sweeps! On
the other hand, the old open coal-fire is cheerful, ‘pokable,’ and
conducive to ventilation; while the Englishman loves to stand in front
of it and toast himself. All this, however, may still be secured in
the gas stoves of the future, as any one could easily have satisfied
himself at the recent Smoke Abatement Exhibition in London. The gas
stove of the future must be an open radiating stove, and not a closed
stove, which warms the air by conduction and convection chiefly, and
renders the air of a room dry and uncomfortable.
It has frequently been pointed out that our coal-fields are not
inexhaustible; but they doubtless contain a sufficient supply for
hundreds of years to come. Long before the supply is likely to run
short, other sources of nature will be largely drawn upon. These are
the winds, waterfalls, tides, and the motion of the waves. The two
former have to some extent been utilised; but little or nothing has
been done or attempted with the latter. Before these can be to any
extent made use of, means must be devised for storing energy in the
form of electricity, a problem which is now being vigorously attacked,
but as yet without much practical success. That electricity has a great
future before it cannot for a moment be doubted.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
BY CHARLES GIBBON.
CHAPTER L.—A CROW TO PLUCK.
The two men stared at each other—Mr Hadleigh with an expression of
stern inquiry; Caleb with a sullen audacity which failed to conceal
the confusion and disappointment he felt. But he made no attempt to
apologise, to explain, or to retreat.
After a brief inspection of the man, Mr Hadleigh was reassured: this
was no common burglar he had to deal with, and no immediate violence
was to be feared.
‘My good man,’ he said calmly, ‘you have wasted your time and labour if
you expected to find money or plate here. That safe, which you see is
open, contains my cheque-books; but they are worthless to you without
my signature. As for what plate and jewels there may be to reward your
adventure, they are in different parts of the house, and before you
can leave this room to seek them you must murder me. And before you do
that, I shall sound this alarm.’
As he spoke he took up a green cord which lay beside his desk. The cord
communicated with a bell in the butler’s room, which if rung at that
time of night would certainly have aroused the household.
‘I didn’t come here to rob; I didn’t expect to find _you_ in this room,
and I don’t mean to hurt you.’
Gruff and surly as Caleb’s manner was, Hadleigh, even in that moment of
peril, did him justice.
‘I believe you, Kersey,’ he said quietly; ‘and to prove it, I shall
sit down and listen to what explanation you have to give. Something
very unusual there must be to have caused you to act as you have done.
I told you at the end of the harvest that if I could serve you at any
time, I should be pleased to do so. Is that why you have come?’
‘No,’ was the sulky answer.
Although tortured by passion, Caleb was not only sensible of
the confidence which Mr Hadleigh showed him under such peculiar
circumstances, but felt his self-respect raised by it, and was wishful
to make matters clear. The thing somehow stuck in his throat, for he
who had broken into the house at midnight had to tell this man of his
son’s guilt—as he believed—and of Pansy’s shame.
‘Then what did bring you here and in such an outrageous fashion?’
‘I thought to find your son Mr Coutts here. I’ve been waiting for
him nigh on six hours. When he came, he wouldn’t tell me the truth,
wouldn’t wait to speak to me, and I am determined that he shall—not
only speak to me this night, but speak true. I thought I heard him
hollering to me from that window. I didn’t want to make a row if it
could be helped, so I got a ladder and came in, meaning to ask him to
do things straight and quiet. That’s all.’
As Coutts’s room was above the library, Mr Hadleigh comprehended the
mistake Caleb had made, and was satisfied that no intention of robbery
had brought him there. His own intense preoccupation had prevented him
from observing any disturbance.
‘What is it you wish him to speak truth about?’ he inquired.
‘I’d rather speak to himself,’ was the gloomy response.
‘You are aware that breaking into the house in this way might be an
awkward thing for you if brought before a magistrate. But since the
matter is important enough to induce you to run the risk you have done
to-night, you had better take me into your confidence. I have no doubt
of being able to assist you.’
‘Well, then,’ said Caleb, after another minute of hesitation, and the
blood tingling in his honest cheeks on her account, ‘I want to know
what he has done with Pansy Culver.’
‘What can he have to do with the girl?’
‘More than I care to think—more, maybe, than you would care to learn.
He has wiled her away from home and won’t tell me where she is.’
‘There must be some stupid mistake here, Kersey. Mr Coutts Hadleigh is
too careful of his reputation to perpetrate such a monstrous act. On
what grounds do you accuse him?’
Bluntly and speaking with less difficulty now that the ice was broken,
Caleb gave his reasons for believing Coutts guilty—what he had observed
at their chance meetings, and particularly her rejection of himself
after she had led him to think that she favoured him. Mr Hadleigh
allowed him to tell his story to the end without interruption. He could
see that the man was blinded by jealousy and rage, was unconsciously
exaggerating trifles, and distorting them into proofs of his foregone
conclusion.
‘It is fortunate that accident has made me the first hearer of this
accusation,’ he said calmly, when Caleb stopped. ‘I had little doubt
from the first that you were labouring under a delusion: I am now
convinced of it. I will undertake to convince you of it in the morning,
if you will be advised and remain quiet to-night.’
‘I won’t wait till morning—I’ll have it out of him now. Where is he?’
‘Stay where you are, sir!’ said Mr Hadleigh authoritatively, as Caleb
made a movement towards the door. ‘If you have no care for yourself,
you must have some for the girl. A brawl between you and my son on her
account would disgrace her for ever.’
Caleb halted as if his feet were suddenly clamped to the floor. For
the first time, he saw the danger with which his impetuous conduct
threatened the being he wished to save.
‘What am I to do, then?’ he asked with more humility in his manner than
he had yet displayed.
‘What I have told you. Wait as patiently as you can till the morning.
Be here at eight o’clock, and I promise to have everything explained to
your satisfaction without causing the girl annoyance.’
‘It’s kind of you to think of that, sir.’
‘Show your gratitude by doing what I tell you. Go back the way you
came; if you mounted by a ladder, return it to its proper place; and
when you come in the morning bring Culver with you.’
‘I can’t speak to him about it until I know she is safe.’
‘There is no need. You have only got to say he is wanted here. It
is better you should take the message than one of the servants. The
less gossip we have the more likely the girl is to escape scandal.
Good-night.’
‘Good-night, and ... thank you kindly.’
The Agitator had never imagined that there would come a day when he
should be compelled to speak such words of gratitude to the owner of
Ringsford. He obeyed his commands slowly but faithfully: all sense of
humiliation was stifled by the knowledge that whatever might be the
upshot of the meeting in the morning, the advice given him was sound,
and that in adopting it, he was rendering the best service to Pansy.
Mr Hadleigh knew that he had conquered the man, and did not think it
necessary even to look at him as he parted the heavy hangings and
stepped out on to the balcony. A few minutes after the window had
closed, however, he bolted it. That operation had been forgotten by
himself during the evening, and had not been performed by the servant,
who had instructions on no account to enter the library unless the bell
rang.
Resuming his seat at the desk, Mr Hadleigh completed the task in which
he had been so unpleasantly interrupted. He sealed the two envelopes,
and placed them in the drawer of the safe, which he locked.
‘I have done with these things now,’ was his mental observation, and
yet he lingered over the words, as if reluctant to pledge himself that
he should not again look at those records of a sad life. With more
firmness he said presently: ‘I shall not look at them again.’
He drew a curtain aside and looked out. The moon was shining dimly
through a haze; the white space before him looked like ghostland,
and it was peopled for him by ghosts of blunders in the past and of
hopes disappointed or relinquished as unattainable. If we could live
our lives over again! What use?—unless we could start with the bitter
experience which inspires the wish. Then how steadily we might steer
through the shoals of folly, passion, and falsehood.
In that still ghostland on which he was gazing, there rose a new
phantom offering comfort.
‘I will find my happiness in fostering theirs,’ he said, as he turned
from the window, and with hands clasped behind him, head bowed, began
to walk up and down the room.
Here happened one of those trifles which make and mar existence. He was
tripped by a hassock and fell: in falling, his temple struck the corner
of the table, and he lay insensible. About the same time there was a
strange sound outside like the distant boom of a heavy sea rushing upon
a shingly beach: it was the wind forcing its way through the snow-laden
trees of the Forest.
* * * * *
Caleb Kersey had reached the village, his hand was on the latch of
his lodging, when looking backward, he saw a red glare in the hazy
atmosphere. The terrible word ‘Fire!’ rose to his lips, and his
landlord—Dr Joy’s successful pupil in the science of economy—heard him.
The alarm spread through the village with mysterious rapidity, and
whether moved by a desire to render assistance, or mere curiosity and
a craving for any unusual excitement which might break the monotony of
their lives, groups of men, women, and boys were soon tramping through
the snow in the direction of the blaze. The little engine of the
village volunteer fire brigade was dragged from its shed, and with a
shout the lads started to the rescue.
There had been much rick-burning during the past few months, and it was
at first supposed that this was another outrage or accident of the same
kind. But the wonder grew, and the pace was quickened when it became
known, from messengers who were riding in search of assistance, that it
was Ringsford Manor-house which was on fire.
Already there were people at the scene of disaster, and as the broad
flames shot out from windows and roofs, there were murmurs of wonder
such as one hears at a display of fireworks. The murmurs, however, were
those of terror. The luminous glare cast a blood-red shade over the
white ground; the snow quickly dissolved, and was trampled into a black
puddle by the feet of the gathering crowd.
The fire had got complete possession of the building before it had been
discovered. Still, gangs of men were passing buckets of water from
the wells, which others heaved on the burning mass; whilst Coutts was
vainly exerting himself with an ‘extincteur.’
Eager questions passed from mouth to mouth as to the servants and
family. All were safe except one—the master of the house, and it was
feared he had perished.
Four men bearing a ladder came running from the direction of the
stables. The ladder was placed against the portico, which protected it
somewhat from the fire. Three of the men drew back from the scorching
heat; the fourth, whose form reflected by the light was like that of
a giant, dipped a big handkerchief in a bucket of water and fastened
it over his mouth. That done he ascended the ladder and reached the
balcony. He tried to open the nearest window, but it was fast, and a
slight murmur of dismay rose amongst those who watched the rescuer.
Placing his shoulder against the casement, he with one vigorous heave
burst it open and disappeared.
Suspense lengthened ten minutes into an hour. The man came out carrying
another in his arms, and all knew that the other was Mr Hadleigh. The
rescuer reached the ladder: instead of descending step by step, he
twined his legs round it and slid down, sailor fashion, supporting his
burden with the right arm and steadying himself with the left.
It was one of those feats of combined daring, courage, strength, and
agility which always win the heart of a crowd, and he was greeted with
as hearty a cheer as if he had saved the life of their best friend,
instead of one who was at ordinary times no favourite. Nevertheless,
there were not wanting expressions of sympathy when the report went
round that Mr Hadleigh was dangerously burned, and unconscious.
The young ladies and some of the female domestics had taken refuge in
the gardener’s cottage, and thither Mr Hadleigh was conveyed, whilst
messengers were despatched for Dr Guy and Dr Joy.
By this time the engines from Kingshope and Dunthorpe were at work. The
fire had raged within the house for some time before the roof fell; now
it came down with a great crash, and the melting snow aided the engines
in checking the extension of the flames to the right wing; but it was
long doubtful whether or not that portion could be saved. To this
object all efforts were now directed, and there were constant relays of
willing hands to work the pumps. By daylight the blackened walls of the
main building remained standing, with a smouldering heap inside. Thanks
to a thick wall between it and the right wing, the latter had sustained
relatively little damage.
The first question asked by the county police was how had the fire
arisen. No one could guess, until Coutts Hadleigh said briefly:
‘I believe it was that ruffian, Caleb Kersey.’
He stated his reasons for the surmise, and Caleb was arrested that day
on suspicion.
VÆ VICTIS!
What Brennus shouted on the banks of the Allia, and the Romans made
into a proverb after him, history has re-echoed ever since in deeds as
well as in words. ‘Woe to the conquered!’ is traced in letters of blood
on the sable lining of the golden shield, of which the legend in front,
written in lines of light, is ‘Hail to the victor!’ ‘Væ victis!’ is the
discordant echo of ‘Io triumphe!’ Woe to the conquered has been the
experience of all who have fought either for a principle or a cause; a
strip of land to add to the imperial territory, or for the integrity
and freedom of the country and for dear life itself. Strike and spare
not; kill all, even to the babes and sucklings, the aged men and the
young women; tread under foot those who are prostrate; leave to perish
by the wayside those who have fallen out from the ranks—væ victis! woe
to the conquered, and death to the weak; but hail to the victor, and
increase of power to the strong! So goes the world; so has it ever
gone in the moral life as well as in the physical; the struggle for
existence being as true of thoughts as it is of races.
We must remember the heroic past, when haply times are a little hard
to ourselves, and we are bound to suffer in the comparatively mild way
of modern days. We have to fight our fight, whatever it may be, as
the heroes of old fought theirs, till our cause conquers, or we are
convinced that we are on the wrong—not the weaker—side. But till then,
we have to endure private loss that humanity may have greater gain; and
to remember that conscience is better than victory, and that truth has
ever been buffeted before she has been crowned.
The world has this cruel cry for others beside the pioneers and martyrs
of a cause. If nothing succeeds like success, so nothing is so fatal as
failure; and væ victis! is in truth the sentence recorded against those
whose fortunes fail, whose card-houses tumble to pieces, and whose
flapping wings of ambition prove themselves to have waxen attachments,
which melt in the using and land the poor highflyer in the mud. That
fatal settling-day on ’Change: that bad debt made through the bank, and
added to indefinitely, on the theory of possible redemption if enough
time were allowed and enough rope paid out: that terrible spell of
ill-health which prevented the completion of the book, the painting of
the picture, the execution of the order: that failure, that fiasco—and
væ victis as the commentary!
Væ victis! to the unhappy—to those vanquished by pain and cast down by
sorrow. Only a very few compassionate souls care to give their time and
strength to the miserable who sit in darkness ever unlifted, and with
ashes never shaken off their bowed and melancholy heads. We naturally
like the light better than the dark; and perfumed pomade, beneath
rosebuds and fine feathered caps, is a more pleasant thing than ashes
taken out of the grate and scattered over our hair. We get tired of
enduring sorrow. At first, we are keenly sympathetic; but as time goes
on, we wonder why the wound does not heal. Our own sympathetic pain has
passed long ago; why cannot that of their real hurt? They are always so
sad! They take no pleasure in the last fashion, the newest gossip, that
good story which is going the round of society, or that smart saying of
the ill-natured wit, whose epigram rips the skin from the flesh of his
victim as neatly as if it were a rapier. They are always so dull, these
poor creatures—it is really impossible to go and see them! Væ victis!
They are conquered by grief, by loss, by pain; and they must suffer, as
all those who are overcome have to learn how.
Væ victis! to the outspoken who cannot back their words by that kind
of substantial evidence which passes by the name of legal proof. Thus
they are in the power of those against whom they sought to warn the
unwary and enlighten the blind. If they cannot so back their words
with legal proof, they are conquered, and have to suffer the fate
of the conquered—in the law-courts this time, as a change from the
battlefield; and with such punishment as belongs to the law of libel
to inflict. All the same it was maybe no libel, no falsehood, but the
absolute truth that they said; but all the same, too, truth which is
only a moral certainty and not a substantive fact to be demonstrated by
undeniable evidence, is not to be said without danger, and væ victis!
to those who cannot substantiate it. By which we are taught the lesson
of that silence which is golden; and, in private things, the wisdom of
not interfering in the affairs of others. As the Italian proverb has
it: ‘A fool knows his own affairs better than a wise man knows those of
others;’ and again another: ‘He knows much who, knowing nothing, knows
how to keep silent.’ A great deal of trouble is made for ourselves
by this interference in the affairs of others. But it is difficult
not thus to interfere, when we see all awry, things which we think a
few honest words would put straight. But we must look out for signal
discomfiture, unless we can hold the reins we seek to clutch, and make
those with whom we have intermeddled see according to our lights and
act according to our judgment. If their will is stronger than ours,
it is væ victis! to us in good sooth!—with the not over-pleasant
reflection, that we have pulled that pot of boiling water over
ourselves, and in not letting comparative well alone, have stirred it
into active ill.
Væ victis! to the unsuccessful aspirant, whether it be for honours, a
pass, a post, or for love. No one really pities him. He who droops on
the way and falls short in his stride is passed by, and the triumphant
reach the goal amid the plaudits of the crowd. Who cares to console a
failure? to reconstruct a ruined cloud-tower? to follow after a fading
rainbow? Væ victis! and let the pale illusions of a dead hope lie
where they have fallen! The poor fellow was rejected, was he? Well,
he really ought to have been more sure of success before he made the
effort! Perhaps he was led on, as you say; but even so, this does not
excuse him, nor in any way affect the principle of quasi-certainty
before the attempt. When you hazard a great stake, you ought at least
to know how to throw the dice, and to be sure that you have counted
your cards. It is no use rushing darkly into enterprises for which one
has not the material; and to offer one’s self for a place, whether of
love or honour, without having taken pains to measure one’s strength
against those forces which oppose, is to be more rash than brave, and
more foolish than energetic. To be sure, no one can have who does not
try. That is true for itself. But it none the more softens the verdict
of the world for him who has failed, nor deadens the echo of the cry
raised against him. If we do not try, we cannot get; but woe to those
who try—and fail!
Væ victis! also to the stupid, to the poor, to all born conquered by
fate even before they have begun to strive with fortune—who are thrust
into the battle unlearned and heavily weighted or ever the lists are
set. Who pities the dunce? Who cares to realise all the days and hours
of hopeless endeavour to get those facts, that task, rooted in the
sluggish brain? Is it his fault, poor dunce, that the atoms are slow
to move? the nervous fluid insufficient to stir? the blood too thick
to run or too poor to animate? He does his best; but as a schoolboy he
gets flogged, as well as over-tasked; as a man he gets distanced, and
perhaps ruined, unless he has the luck of hereditary bread with butter
superadded. But what is not his fault, is nevertheless accounted to him
for blame; and because he is a dunce, he has recorded against him the
sentence of disfavour.
What else, too, have the poor?—not the very poor, whose want of
bread of their own baking forces the oven-doors of the rich—but the
comparatively poor—those who have enough whereby to live, but nothing
left for enjoyment—who have the necessaries, but not the comforts, nor
the graces, nor the pleasures of life? No one pities them, though they
suffer in their own way quite as much as those ragged brethren who go
cold and hungry for want of clothing and food. These others have to
offer a brave front to the world, and to make a little seem a mickle,
and not enough a full measure. It is done only at the cost of the
night’s sleep and the day’s peace—at the cost of this thing pinched and
that pared, and the deft interlacing of two gaping ends. No one pities
all this, because no one realises it; and it may be, as has been known
too sorrowfully before now, that those who have almost more than they
can do to live decently are blamed for parsimony because they do not
live luxuriously.
Perhaps no people deserve more sympathy than those poor gentry whose
means fall below the standard of their original condition, and thus
fail the present needs and degrade the future position of the family.
Gentlefolks born and bred, with the niceness of feeling and delicacy
of taste included in that term, they are forced to abandon all the
embroideries of class refinement, and to see their children grow up
with manners below their own mark, and with an education of less beauty
if of as substantial value. They cannot give them the ‘advantages’
which count for so much. The girls do not learn music from the best
masters, and their painting lessons leave much to be desired. The boys
have to associate with lads of lower breeding, who teach them rude
ways and vulgar expressions, so that all the influence of home goes
to undo what that of the school has done. Neither boys nor girls can
learn to ride, to hunt, to shoot, like their cousins—the rich branch
of this unequally developed family tree; they cannot be taken to the
seaside if they fail in health; and, when they are ill, they cannot be
nursed so sedulously as if mamma had nothing else to do, and a nurse
with brains and experience could undertake the rest. They are heavily
handicapped all through, and set to play blindfold with Fortune, who
holds loaded dice and marked cards. From the first, væ victis! has been
recorded against them; and unless they have exceptional power, on which
we cannot always count, they are foredoomed to comparative failure, and
to that painful process of winnowing whereby the conquered fall through
the meshes into the abyss, and only the victors remain safe on the
surface.
So it is: Væ victis all through! Nothing succeeds like success, and
nothing is so fatal as failure. The law is inexorable, and tears
cannot dissolve the links of brass and iron which Fate has forged. The
survival of the fittest is only a form of væ victis!—the destruction
of the weak, and woe to the conquered! But—and herein lies the balm
to the sore—it depends greatly on ourselves whether we will be the
conqueror or the conquered; whether we will make ourselves strong by
endeavour, resolution, self-control, and the cultivation of our reason
and common-sense, or let ourselves go to ruin by self-indulgence,
weakness of will, unreasonable desires, and the gratification of tastes
which we cannot rightfully indulge, and of impulses which, even if
good, are unworkable and disastrous. If we resolutely determine that it
shall be _Io triumphe!_ with us, for the most part we come to our goal;
and at the worst we can always mitigate our failure.
ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.
_A NOVELETTE._
BY T. W. SPEIGHT.
CHAPTER I.
‘You are a rank heretic, Mac, neither more nor less,’ remarked the
vicar, ‘to say that you don’t care for our lovely Lake scenery.’
‘But listen, my dear friend,’ protested the doctor; ‘I never said
anything of the kind. What I did remark was, that your English Lake
scenery was not to be compared to our Scotch scenery. It’s pretty—very
pretty, but when you have said that, you have said all. If you want
grandeur, if you want sublimity, you must go’——
‘To Switzerland and see Mont Blanc,’ broke in Miss Gaisford as she
looked up for a moment from her writing.
The doctor shook his head. ‘I have reason to believe that the Swiss
scenery has been very much overrated. And then, just consider the
expense! I’m told that the innkeepers there are rogues—every man-jack
of them. No—no. I’ve been half over the world in my time, and all I can
say is, that old Scotia’s mountains and lochs are quite good enough for
me.’
The scene was the lawn of the _Palatine Hotel_, overlooking a lovely
stretch of Windermere, with the purple-buttressed hills that guard the
head of the lake for an imposing background. The time was about four
o’clock on a sunny afternoon. Of the three people who had engaged in
the conversation just recorded, one was Dr M‘Murdo, an army surgeon,
the greater part of whose life had been spent abroad. He had just
retired from the service on a small fortune left him by a relative, but
had not yet quite made up his mind where to settle for the remainder
of his days. He and the vicar had been great friends when young men,
but had not met for a number of years till to-day, the doctor having
arrived at the _Palatine_ a few hours ago on a visit to his friend, who
in his turn was spending a portion of his holiday with other friends at
the hotel.
Dr M‘Murdo was well on towards his fiftieth year. His hair and beard
were already grizzled, while his once fair complexion was deeply tanned
by many years of torrid sunshine. He was a tall, lean, high-dried man,
somewhat formal and old-fashioned in his attire, with an expression of
mingled shrewdness and good-humour.
His friend, the Rev. Septimus Gaisford, was about the same age as
himself, and had been the vicar of a small country parish in the
Midlands for nearly a quarter of a century. He belonged to the homely,
unobtrusive type of country parson of which, even in these days of
unrest and innovation, specimens happily are still to be found. He
looked after the needs of his poorer parishioners both spiritual
and temporal, and left the well-to-do pretty much to themselves. He
abounded in good works in a quiet unostentatious way, while his Sunday
discourses were as homely as himself and such as could always be
‘understanded of the people.’ Like his friend the doctor, he had never
ventured on the perilous sea of matrimony.
But the vicar was not without a worthy coadjutor and companion in his
parochial labours. His sister, Miss Gaisford, who was ten years younger
than himself, not only managed his small household, but looked after
such portion of his parish duties as can often be performed better by
a woman than a man, while it was even whispered that she occasionally
wrote his sermons for him. So that, all things considered, it was no
wonder the Rev. Septimus had more than once been heard to remark that
‘Pen’—short for Penelope, if you please—was far more useful to him than
any curate he had ever had. For the rest, Miss Pen was a bright-eyed,
vivacious little body, not in the least inclined to be sanctimonious,
but fond of a joke and a laugh, yet with an innate fund of sympathy
about her which by some attraction of its own seemed to draw all who
were in trouble or difficulty to her side.
On this sunny afternoon, the doctor and the vicar were seated one at
each end of a rustic bench in the shade of a leafy elm. The former
had his thumb in the pages of a medical review, to which, however,
he was paying but scant attention; while the latter was mending
his fishing-tackle, for our worthy parson was a genuine brother of
the angle. At a small rustic table a little distance away sat Miss
Gaisford, busy with her writing, but not so busy as to preclude her
from taking an interest in any topic which the others might introduce.
Presently she looked up, and as if in answer to the doctor’s last
remark, she said: ‘I am quite aware that we poor mortals who have the
misfortune to live south of the Tweed are very badly off as regards
many things. Still, we do now and then manage to produce an article
which even you cool-blooded Northerners can’t help admiring, and would
find it difficult to excel.’
‘The application, my dear madam, the application. To what particular
article do you refer?’
‘At present I refer to Madame De Vigne, the charming widow to whom you
paid such very marked attentions at luncheon.’
‘Ah-ha. I noticed something of that myself,’ chuckled the vicar.
‘Everybody noticed it,’ said Miss Pen emphatically.
Dr Mac rubbed the end of his long nose with his review and laughed
uneasily. ‘Ha, ha! Very good—very good indeed.’
‘Come now, Mac, you can’t say that you didn’t cast sheep’s-eyes at
her,’ put in the vicar blandly.
‘Let the pawky Scot deny it if he dare,’ said Miss Pen with a shake of
her little fat curls.
‘Very good, my dear friends; if you choose to make yourselves pleasant
at my expense, you are welcome to do so. That I admire Madame De Vigne,
I am quite willing to admit. From what little I have seen of her,
she seems to me a very agreeable person, and if we could trace back
her ancestry, I have no doubt we should find her to be of Scottish
extraction.’
‘Oh, come, Mac, give us poor Southerners credit for something.’
‘Well, I don’t mind admitting to you, who are one of my oldest friends,
and to Miss Penelope, that I am getting tired of a bachelor’s life.
I want a home and I want a wife. I have a little money judiciously
invested—and—and I thought, in fact—that—that’——
‘Don’t be bashful, Mac,’ chimed in the vicar softly.
‘You thought, in fact, that the charming widow would make you a
charming companion for life,’ put in Miss Pen briskly.
‘Perhaps ay, and perhaps no,’ responded the doctor quietly.
‘All I can say is, that you may think yourself a particularly lucky
fellow if you succeed in winning her,’ remarked the vicar.
‘Well, well; I know that both of you are friends of Madame De Vigne,
and that she and her sister are parishioners of yours. What I should
like you to do is to tell me all you know about her, and then leave me
to consider what my future course ought to be.’
‘All that we know about Madame De Vigne is very little,’ remarked the
vicar.
‘Very little indeed,’ assented his sister.
‘Still, my dear’—to Miss Pen—‘I am not aware that we should be abusing
any confidence in telling our friend all that there is to tell, so far
as we know it?’
‘There can be no possible harm in that. Besides, it will only be
charitable to take pity on the poor man. And now, please not to
interrupt me again for ten minutes at the least.’
‘It is now nearly two years,’ began the vicar, ‘since Madame De Vigne
and her sister, Miss Loraine, came down to Oaklands, bringing with them
a letter of introduction from my London lawyer, a certain Mr Railton,
whom I have known for a dozen years or more. How Madame De Vigne came
to be known to Railton, or what he knew with regard to her and her
antecedents, I had not the curiosity to ask at the time, and I have
never since made it my business to inquire. It is sufficient to say
that Madame De Vigne had seen advertised as being to let a certain
furnished cottage which she thought would suit her requirements; hence
her visit to Oaklands. The cottage did suit her. She became its tenant,
and there she and her sister have lived ever since, shunning rather
than courting such society as our neighbourhood affords, but visiting
a good deal among the sick and poor. One day about six months ago,
while I was out fishing I encountered a young fellow who was similarly
engaged. We met again and again, striking up an acquaintance as brother
Piscators have a knack of doing, till finally I invited him to dinner
at the vicarage, on which occasion Penelope there took quite a fancy to
the young man.’
‘Of course I did,’ answered Miss Pen, looking up quickly. ‘Any one else
placed as I was at the time would have taken a fancy to him. I was just
in want of some one to sit for the hero of my next novel, and Archie
came in very handy.’
Dr M‘Murdo started. ‘But, my dear Miss Gaisford, you don’t mean to say
that you make a practice of introducing portraits of your friends and
acquaintances into the stories you write?’
‘Don’t I though! I shall have your portrait jotted down in my note-book
before you are many hours older. I have no doubt it will come in useful
one of these days.’
‘Good gracious! I hope you won’t paint me in very dark colours.’
‘Not blacker than you deserve, you may rely upon it.’ Then to herself
she said: ‘Where was I?—Yes—yes,’ and so went on with her writing.
‘Well, that first visit of young Ridsdale to the vicarage was but the
forerunner of several others,’ resumed the vicar as equably as though
he had not been interrupted. ‘It was there that he met Madame De Vigne
and her pretty sister, and with the latter he at once fell desperately
in love.’
‘And the young lady fell desperately in love with him?’
‘That is exactly what came to pass. But I’m nearly sure the affair
might have been nipped in the bud had not Penelope, with true feminine
perversity and reckless disregard of consequences, encouraged the two
young nincompoops in their folly.’
‘What else could you expect me to do?’ asked Miss Pen, without looking
up. ‘When I see a little romance of real life going on under my very
nose, do you think I’m the one to try to put a stop to it? No, indeed.
Besides, it supplied me with a lot of hints for love-making scenes; it
was what the painters call “a study from the life.”’