[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 728. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
THE HIDDEN BOX.
A TALE OF THE COVENANTERS.
Something like two centuries ago, while the persecution against the
Covenanters was raging in Scotland, many were forced, for conscience'
sake, to give up all and retire to out-of-the-way places, to be out of
the reach of their enemies. Among others, a well-to-do farmer of the
name of MacWilliam, reduced to penury by the fines imposed upon him and
the confiscation of his lands, withdrew from the home of his youth;
and having rented a moorland farm in a remote parish of a neighbouring
county, he settled down there with his wife and family. Hillfoot--for
such was the name of the farm--lay in a hollow between two hills of
moderate elevation, which rose with a gentle slope on each side. A burn
ran through the farm, and about two miles farther on, joined a river of
some importance. Almost at the confluence of the two the glen took a
sharp turn to the left, and thus rendered Hillfoot invisible from the
main road, which followed the course of the larger stream.
Though the farm was of considerable extent, little more than a living
for the family could be made about it, for heather was more abundant on
the hills than grass; and good arable land was out of the question, for
the district was so late that cereals could barely ripen, and even the
meadows along the holms by the burn-side yielded but scanty crops. It
was in this place, however, that James MacWilliam had elected to spend
his latter days. All around the house the outlook was no doubt bleak
and bare and far from encouraging; but all that he loved most dearly
were with him, and if he had not the comfort and luxury of former days,
he had what he prized more than all earthly things--freedom to worship
God in the way it seemed best to himself. At the time of his removal
to Hillfoot he was about forty years of age, and his wife two or three
years his junior. They had been married some fifteen years, and two
children--a son and daughter--had blessed their union. John, a lad of
fourteen, assisted his father in the tending of their flocks and in the
working of the farm; while their daughter Barbara, two years younger,
helped her mother in the house; and although she was not strong enough
yet to do the heavy work, by the sweetness of her temper and the
blitheness of her nature her presence enlivened all about her and made
the heavy task seem light.
Years rolled on; and though they often heard of the persecution
and dreadful punishment their fellow-countrymen, nay even their
fellow-parishioners were suffering, still in their remote and
unsuspected retreat they were allowed to live on in peace. Ten years
had passed, and with them many changes had come over Hillfoot and its
inmates. Death had not left it inviolate, for the wife and mother, not
strong at best, had been ill able to stand the privations and hardships
which the family had endured since settling there. It was with sad
hearts that her husband and family saw her pining away; and although
they put forth every effort and tried every expedient that love could
devise to prolong her life, she sank lower and lower; and when autumn
was merging into winter, and the heather-bells were beginning to
wither, she passed away. Barbara, on whose shoulders the household
duties had long before this fallen, was now no longer a girl, but a
comely lass of twenty-two. Her tall graceful figure, kindly manner, and
sweet disposition made her beloved by all who knew her, and brought her
many admirers. She had become betrothed to a young man, a shepherd on a
neighbouring farm, and but for the ailing health and subsequent death
of her mother, was to have been married the following summer.
John, on whom, from the decrepitude of his father, the management of
the farm had now devolved, had applied himself with so much earnestness
to his task, and things had so prospered in his hands, that the family
were in a much better condition than they had ever been since their
coming there.
Of all the neighbours they had come in contact with, James Morton of
Burnfoothill was the one with whom they had the most dealings. Morton's
wife had been dead for many years; but his only daughter Janet, a young
woman about Barbara's age, kept house for her father. At bottom, Morton
was an honourable enough man, but he was grasping and worldly, and
cared little for those things which his neighbour MacWilliam regarded
as most sacred. Between the old folks accordingly there had been little
coming and going; but Barbara and Janet were fast friends, for the two
girls had forgathered among the braes shortly after the former had come
to Hillfoot, and an intimacy was then formed which grew closer as they
grew older, and which now rendered the two almost inseparable.
John MacWilliam had also found something of a kindred spirit in Janet,
and from taking a deep interest in her welfare, he gradually awoke to
the consciousness of regarding her with a true and honest affection. He
had long worshipped at a distance; but now that his mother was dead,
and his sister betrothed to a neighbouring swain, he determined to
approach the object of his love and tell her the state of his feelings.
An opportunity was not long in presenting itself. Janet came on a visit
to Hillfoot one lovely June afternoon, and in the evening, as she was
preparing to go home, John volunteered to accompany her. They sallied
out and wended their way down the burn-side. The sun was sinking behind
the hills; the sky was bright and clear and peaceful overhead, and as
the shadows lengthened, a dead calm seemed to descend on all things
around. Nothing was to be heard save the purling of the brook at their
feet, or the bleat of the lambs far up the hillside. The quiet beauty
touched the hearts of both as they tripped along, and caused them to
linger by the way, that they might the longer gaze on the tranquil
scene. Seating themselves on a grassy knowe, with the maiden's hand
clasped in his, he told in simple yet passionate language how he had
long regarded her with the deepest affection and that she alone could
make him happy. Need more be said? They rose to go, for the shadows
were deepening; and as they sauntered down the glen hand in hand, it
was agreed that he should ask her father's consent that very night.
When they entered Burnfoothill, Morton was much surprised to see John
at such an unusual hour; and when he learned his errand, was not
overpleased, for he had calculated that his daughter, of whom he was
justly proud, would make a better match, since he was rich, and she
being his only child, was the heiress-apparent to all his possessions.
Accordingly, he would give his consent only on two conditions, and
these were, that John should buy Hillfoot and portion it to his
daughter! When John heard these conditions, his heart died within
him; and he parted that night from Janet like a man in a dream; and,
despairing of ever being able to fulfil the conditions, he retraced his
steps up the glen with a heavier heart and less elastic step than when
an hour or two before he had come down. When he reached home, he knelt
by his bedside and prayed to the Father of all mercies for help to
enable him to bear up with his trouble.
Throughout the long night he pondered and racked his brain for some
expedient whereby he might raise the necessary funds and remove the
only obstacle between himself and his happiness, and carry Janet home
in triumph--his reward and joy. The day dawned; and as he prepared to
go forth to his first duty in the morning, that of looking after the
sheep, he felt as if there was no life in him--as if there was nothing
to live for now. But the old adage says truly--the darkest hour is
just before the dawn. Seizing his staff, he stalked forth and began
to ascend the hill. He had hardly reached the top when he saw right
in front of him a man looking carefully amongst the heather as if for
something he had lost. He appeared to be a stranger to the place; and
his dress shewed him to be no shepherd; and John, surprised that such a
person should be there at so early an hour, went forward and accosted
him. The stranger started when he heard a voice, for he had not noticed
any one approaching, but answered cheerily the 'Good-morrow' addressed
to him. At first he regarded his interrogator with some suspicion; but
the frank open countenance of the latter soon dispelled all doubt; and
when John asked whether he had lost anything, the stranger proceeded to
tell him the following story.
He began: 'I am a captain in the Scottish army; and the other day while
sitting in my house in Edinburgh I received a message to come to the
Tolbooth jail, as an old friend desired very particularly to see me.
Wondering who this friend in the Tolbooth could be, I set out, and
having arrived there you can judge of my surprise when I recognised in
the prisoner before me an old comrade and fellow-officer, Bertram by
name. We had served together under Leslie, and had been fast friends.
After some years, Captain Bertram left his regiment and went up to
London. What he went for I could never learn, but I lost sight of
him from that time, until he sent for me to come to the Tolbooth.
His history he told me had been an eventful one; and he had passed
through much since I had seen him last. Amongst other things, he had
allied himself with the ringleaders in the Ryehouse Plot; and when
that conspiracy had become known to the government, my friend the
captain fled with all haste from London and made the best of his way
to Scotland. Though he had made many narrow escapes, he got across the
Border safe enough, and was congratulating himself on having at last
reached a haven of safety, when he learned to his surprise that the
limbs of the law were still on his track, and that even there he was
not safe. He hurried north as fast as possible, thinking to find refuge
in the Highland glens; but his pursuers had been gaining on him, and as
he was traversing this part of the country--I take it to be on the top
of this very hill--he saw his pursuers, a party of red-coats, come over
the top of yonder hill on the other side of the valley. He had carried
with him from England a small box of extremely valuable jewellery, by
selling which he would have as much as keep him in his old age and
forced retirement. But when he saw the soldiers so close on him, he
hid the box in a tuft of heather, so that if he were taken it might
not fall into the hands of his enemies; and if he did escape he might
have an opportunity of coming back and recovering it. He was, however,
captured before he reached Glasgow, which I believe is not more than
twelve miles from here; thence he was taken to Edinburgh and confined
in the Tolbooth, where I saw him. I interested myself in his case, and
used all my influence to get him set free; but the evidence of his
guilt was too decided to admit of a doubt, and the government was in
no forgiving mood. He was tried, condemned, and has been executed. The
night before his execution he sent for me and described the place where
he had left his box of valuables, and asked me to go and search for
them and take the use of them. From the description I got of the hill,
I think this must be the one, and my errand here this morning is to
find this lost treasure.'
When he had finished his story, John immediately volunteered to help
him in his search for the box; and the stranger being nothing loath,
the two started to look, and continued the search until the sun had
mounted high in the heavens. The stranger, unused to the rough and
uneven ground of the hill, was completely knocked up, and determined
to give up the search as useless, remarking that it reminded him
of looking for a needle in a haystack. After being pressed to go
down and partake of some refreshments--which, however, the stranger
declined--and as they were on the point of parting, John asked him to
leave his address, so that if he did find the box, he would be able to
let him know. The stranger did so, and promised a handsome reward if
the box was found and brought to Edinburgh. They parted, the stranger
to make the best of his way to the village, which lay some four miles
off, and thence take horse to Glasgow; John to go his rounds amongst
the sheep, which had been neglected while the search was going on.
Whilst he was thus occupied, he kept turning over in his mind what had
passed between the stranger and himself, and it suddenly occurred to
him that here was an opportunity of raising at least a little money,
for should he find the box, the stranger had promised a handsome
reward. At the thought, a wild tumultuous joy filled his breast, and
he eagerly hastened to finish his round and get back home, so that
when he had breakfasted he might renew the search. He was, however,
so far behind his usual time of arrival that he found his kinsfolk
in consternation at his protracted stay. Fearing some accident had
befallen his son, the old man was on the point of going out to seek for
him when he made his appearance. John told them the cause of his delay;
and also declared his intention of going out to continue the search as
soon as he had satisfied his hunger.
The story told by her brother made a great impression on Barbara, and
she, after sitting wrapt in thought for a few minutes, exclaimed: 'It
_must_ have been him!' Her brother in surprise asked what she meant;
and then she told how, one afternoon two or three months before, she
had wandered up the burn-side with her seam in her hand, and had seen
a man running along the hill as fast as the nature of the ground would
permit; and as he ran she saw him halt, and as it were bend down
amongst the heather, and then start off to run again. She stood and
watched him till he went out of sight, thinking it was perhaps some
poor Covenanter chased by 'Kirke's Lambs,' who at that time were the
terror of the country; but having watched some time longer, and seeing
no one in pursuit, she concluded it would simply be a shepherd on
some errand of despatch, and thought no more about it. Her brother's
recital, however, had brought the circumstance to her memory; and
laying the two things together, she inferred that it must have been
Captain Bertram she had seen, and that when she saw him stoop, he had
concealed the box of valuables.
When John heard his sister's story, he eagerly questioned her whether
she could trace the man's course along the hill or point out the place
where she had seen him stoop. Barbara was uncertain, but volunteered
to accompany her brother and indicate, so far as she could remember,
the spot he was so anxious to find. Hurriedly partaking of the food
his sister had prepared for him, in a very few minutes the two issued
forth to begin the search. They agreed that it would be better to go
to the place where she had been standing when she saw the fugitive, so
that she might have a better idea of where to look. They accordingly
held their way up the valley, and as they were going he told her all
that had passed the night before, and explained how it was that he was
so eager to fall in with the concealed treasure. She, with all the
ready sympathy of a sister, entered into his spirit; and when they
had reached the place where she thought she had been standing, she
proposed that he should go up the hill, and in that way she might be
more able to tell definitely at what distance the man had been out.
The suggestion seemed good, and was immediately carried out; and at
the distance of nearly half a mile from where she was standing, she
signalled him to stop. She immediately ascended, and as soon as she
had reached him the search began in earnest. Sticking his staff in
the ground where he had been standing, he hung his plaid upon it; and
then Barbara and he going out something like fifty yards, and taking
different directions, each described a semicircle with the plaid as
centre, meeting on the opposite side. They continued the process,
narrowing the circle every round, till they had come within five yards
of the plaid; but all to no purpose. The task seemed hopeless, and
they were on the point of abandoning the search in the space they had
inclosed with the first round, when Barbara, with a joyful cry, drew
forth the box from a thick bunch of heather!
The two then hurried home to make known their good fortune to their
father, and also to consult how they should let Captain Hamilton,
John's friend of the morning, know that they had found the box. There
were no telegraph wires in those days which could flash the news to its
destination in a few minutes; nor were there even mails from so remote
a place, by which letters could be carried with anything like safety
or precision. The only way therefore that seemed to be advisable was
that John should take the box and carry it all the way to Edinburgh
and hand it over to the rightful owner. It was accordingly resolved
that he should start very early next morning, which would enable him
to reach Edinburgh that day, and take the box with him. To effectually
conceal it, Barbara put up two pairs of blankets of her own weaving
into a bundle, with the box inside; and when the east was beginning
to turn gray, John set out with his bundle on his back, and some
cakes and cheese in his pocket. On he trudged with a light step and
lighter heart, for he felt he was on the eve of having his dearest
wish fulfilled. Long before its inhabitants had begun to stir, he
passed through Glasgow, then an insignificant city compared with its
present grandeur and prosperity. While it was still early, halting
by the wayside he quenched his thirst at a neighbouring spring, and
then walked on, passing many villages by the way. By midday he reached
Falkirk, and having there done justice to his cakes and cheese, he
pushed on; and as the sun was sinking in the west he reached Edinburgh,
and with little difficulty sought out the address given him by his
friend the captain.
He found that that gentleman lived in one of the most fashionable
houses in the town; and when he knocked at the door and asked to see
Captain Hamilton, the page told him in a very rough manner that his
master had no time to waste on such as he. John felt nettled at this
impertinence, but respectfully desired him to tell his master that
the shepherd with whom he had been speaking the morning before, was
at the door, and wished to see him. The page very reluctantly went;
and when he delivered his message, was not a little surprised to see
the alacrity with which his master obeyed the summons. The captain
took John into his private room, and there eagerly asked him if he
had found the box. For an answer, John quietly drew the article asked
for from his bundle and handed it to the captain, who took it, and
having produced the key which Bertram had given him when he told him
the story, opened the box and found the contents all safe. He did not
tell John what was the value of the jewels it contained; but after
having been made acquainted with the mode in which the treasure had
been recovered, he produced a bag containing one thousand guineas, and
handed it to the faithful shepherd, as the reward of his honesty and
fidelity. He at the same time pressed him to accept of his hospitality
for that night; to which John readily consented, being thoroughly worn
out by his long and tiresome journey. Ordering meat to be set before
his guest, he waited till he had had enough, and then conducted him to
a bedroom for the night.
It would hardly be possible to describe the feelings of John when he
found himself alone. An overpowering sense of gratitude to his heavenly
Father filled his breast, and falling on his knees, he poured forth
a fervent prayer of thanksgiving for what he had received. In the
munificent reward he had earned, he saw the highest aim of his ambition
won, and his dearest hopes consummated. Having at length retired to
rest, his thoughts kept him awake for some time; but tired Nature soon
asserted herself, and he sunk into a deep and refreshing slumber, and
slept until the beams of the rising sun shining into his room roused
him, and warned him that it was time to be taking the road. He rose,
dressed himself, and was on the point of leaving, when the butler
knocked at the door and told him breakfast was laid for him in the
hall. Gratefully partaking of the offered cheer, he then set forth on
his journey homeward, where he arrived as the gloaming was deepening
into night. His story was soon told; and when he held forth the bag
of gold and declared how much it contained, and assured them that it
was all his own, his sister fairly broke down and wept for very joy.
John then told his father the whole story of how he had trudged to
the Scottish metropolis, and what he had there found; and he in the
fullness of his heart embraced his children, and thanked God who had
been so bountiful to them.
There is little more to tell. The muirland farm changed owners, and the
house was repaired. James Morton was no longer opposed to the marriage
of his daughter Janet with John MacWilliam, for his son-in-law elect
was no longer a poor tenant farmer, but an independent laird; and
before another summer had come and gone, a new mistress had begun to
rule at Hillfoot, and Barbara had been wedded to her shepherd-swain. It
is unnecessary to follow them further in detail; suffice it to say that
John and Janet lived long and happily together, and had the pleasure of
seeing their sons and daughters grow up around them; and when he died,
he left Hillfoot to his eldest son, charging him neither to sell it nor
to leave it. Well and faithfully has that injunction been carried out,
for to this day a descendant of the MacWilliams is in possession of
Hillfoot.
FIRES AND THEIR CAUSES.
The oft-repeated words, 'Cause unknown,' appended to the daily reports
of the conflagrations which occur all over the country--such as that,
for instance, which lately occurred at Inveraray Castle, but which is
now supposed to have been caused by lightning--furnish matter for grave
reflection. A glance at the report of one of the largest fire brigades
will shew us that the causes (when ascertained) are of the most varied
description. It appears that the candle is the most destructive weapon
to be found in an ordinary household, for conflagrations lighted by its
help far outnumber those credited to any other cause. Curtains come
next on the black list. The next large figures are given to 'Spark
from fire,' followed by 'Foul flues.' Next in order may be noticed
'Gas,' 'Children playing with fire,' 'Tobacco-smoking,' 'Spontaneous
ignition,' and lastly 'Incendiarism.'
There is no doubt that many a fire owes its origin to causes quite
beyond the control of the tenant of the house in which it occurs, and
that the scamping manner in which builders' work is often done is the
prime cause of many a fire which is put down as unaccounted for. The
ends of joists are left protruding into chimneys, or a thin hearthstone
is set upon a bed of timber. In both cases the wood becomes so dry and
hot that it is ready to take fire from the first spark that settles
near it. Overheated flues represent a source of danger which is also
attributable to the careless builder; for if the flue were so placed
that its heat could not affect adjacent woodwork, it would be always
as safe when hot as when cold. It is true that by act of parliament
builders are obliged to preserve a certain distance between flues and
timber; but surveyors cannot always reckon on their instructions being
carried out, and cases are unfortunately rare nowadays where workmen
will do their duty in such matters without constant supervision. Lath
and plaster divisions between houses are also illegal; but buildings,
and more especially warehouses, are now of such vast extent, that they
really represent aggregations of small houses in which the act of
parliament concerning party-walls becomes a dead-letter.
Among the ascertained causes of fire are those which occur in the
various workshops where hazardous trades are carried on. These
naturally shew an increase since steam-power has become such a
universal aid to nearly every kind of human labour; necessitating
furnaces which remain kindled for weeks or months together. Apart from
this source of risk, there are numerous trades where such inflammables
as turpentine, naphtha, spirits of wine, and combinations of them in
the form of varnishes, are in daily use to a very large extent. The
familiarity which such constant use provokes breeds a contempt which
often resolves itself into a negligence almost criminal in its nature.
Drying-stoves afford another dangerous item in the list of fires
connected with the trades; japanners, cabinet-makers, and hosts of
others using such stoves as a necessity of their business. Hot-water
pipes for heating purposes also represent the cause of a large number
of fires, the most dangerous kind being those which are charged with
water and hermetically sealed. The reason of this is easily explained.
Water boils at a temperature far below that necessary to ignite
woodwork; but when confined in such pipes as we have described, it will
rise in temperature to an extent only measured by the strength of the
material which holds it. A soft metal plug is sometimes inserted in
these pipes, so that should any unusual degree of heat be approached,
it will melt out, and thus relieve the pressure; but such a good
precaution is by no means universal.
The pipes which are used for carrying off heated air, and which are
placed above gas-burners, are too often allowed to pass between the
ceiling and the floor above without any regard to the obvious danger
incurred. The various close stoves which were introduced to public
notice at the time when the price of coal was suddenly doubled,
although no doubt economical, are not so safe as the old form of
kitchen range, which many a careful housewife has likened to a cavern.
The whole of the air which rises through the flue of a closed stove
actually passes through the fire, and thus attains a very exalted
temperature. In the old stoves, on the other hand, the hot air is
always largely diluted with that which is attracted to the chimney from
all quarters. It is evident therefore that the chances of fire in the
flue of the former are much greater than in that of the latter.
Theatres may be said to combine within their walls all the risks which
we have as yet alluded to, for they represent factories where work of
a most diversified kind is carried on, and where both open and closed
fires are in constant use. At pantomime time especially, the number
of persons employed in the various workshops of a large theatre is to
the uninitiated quite marvellous. Carpenters and 'property-men' (those
clever workmen who can make everything from a bunch of carrots to a
parish pump) represent a constant source of danger from fire, in that
they deal with inflammable material, and require the aid of heat for
their size and glue. It is obviously important in a little kingdom
where all is make-believe--where the most solid masonry is wood and
canvas, where the greenest trees are dry as tinder, where even limpid
streams are flimsy muslin, nay, where the moon itself is but a piece
of oiled calico--that there should be no mistake about the reality of
the precautions against accidental fire. In most theatres, rules are in
force of the most stringent character, extending even to such details
as clearing so many times a day the accumulated shavings from the
carpenters' shops. If such a sensible law were enforced in other places
besides theatres, it would be a preventive measure of very great value.
Shavings are perhaps the most dangerously inflammable things to be
found about a building. A block of wood is a difficult thing to set on
fire; but when reduced to the form of shavings, a mere spark will turn
it into a roaring fire. The same thing may be said in a minor degree
of a lump of iron, which when reduced to filings can be burnt in the
flame of a common candle. It is often this difference of bulk which
will decide whether a material is practically inflammable or not. Paper
affords another example of the same principle; tied tightly in bundles
it may smoulder, while in loose sheets its inflammability is evident.
It is stated upon good authority that in one-third of the number of
fires which occur the cause is not ascertained. The plan long ago
adopted in New York, and which has led to a sensible diminution in
the number of fires there, has not, for some reason, found favour
with the authorities in this country. We allude to the custom of
convening a coroner's court to inquire into the origin of every fire
which takes place. There is little doubt that such inquiries would
educate thoughtful householders into taking precautions which might not
otherwise strike them as being at all necessary. The importance of such
precautions is manifest when we learn that in London alone there are on
the average three fires in every twenty-four hours. If this wholesale
destruction were reported of an Eastern city, where the houses are of
wood, and are sun-dried by incessant tropical heat, there would be some
excuse for it. But here at home, where bricks and mortar are so common,
it is certainly astonishing that fires should be so prevalent.
It would seem that it is a much easier task to set an entire house
on fire, than it is with deliberate intention, and with proper
combustibles, to light a stove for the purpose of boiling a kettle.
This latter operation is not so simple as it appears to be, as any one
may prove who has not already tried his, or her, hand at it. In fact,
an efficient or bad house-servant may be almost at once detected by the
ease or difficulty with which she lights her fires. The inefficient
servant will place some crumpled paper in the grate, and will throw
the best part of a bundle of wood on the top of it, crowning the whole
with a smothering mass of coal; and will expect the fire to burn.
The good servant will, on the other hand, first clear her grate, so
as to insure a good draught; she will then place the wood above the
paper, crossing the sticks again and again; then the coals are put
in deftly one by one, affording interstices through which the flames
will love to linger; a light is applied; and the kettle will soon be
singing acknowledgments of the warm ardour with which it has been
wooed. Contrast this with the other picture, where double the fuel
is wasted, and where smoke and dirt make their appearance in lieu of
tea and toast. We venture to say that a badly managed kitchen fire,
with its train of unpunctual meals, leads to more general loss of
temper than all the other minor domestic troubles put together. The
stove is usually the scapegoat on which the offending servant lays
her incompetence (the cat clearly could establish an _alibi_); but
the most perfect of ranges would not remedy the fault. The only real
reason for such a state of things is the prevalence of sheer stupidity.
Molly's mother was taught by Molly's grandmother to light a fire in a
certain way, and Molly's descendants will, from persistence of habit,
continue to light fires in that manner, be it good or evil, until the
end of time. It is quite clear that the same stupidity which causes
an intentional fire to fail, will occasionally lead to a pyrotechnic
exhibition which has been quite unlooked for. For instance, cases are
not unknown where servants have used the contents of a powder-horn
for coaxing an obstinate fire to burn; the loss of a finger or two
generally giving them sufficient hint not to repeat the experiment.
The general use of gas has done much to reduce the number of
conflagrations, for it has replaced other illuminators far more
dangerous; but it has at the same time contributed a cause of accident
which before its use could not exist. So long as people will insist on
looking for an escape of gas with a lighted candle, so long will their
rashness be rewarded with an explosion. It is not customary, where
there is a doubt as to whether a cask contains gunpowder or not, to
insert a red-hot poker into the bung-hole. Yet such a proceeding would
be scarcely less foolhardy than the detection of the presence of gas
by means of flame. The test in both cases is most thorough, but it is
too energetic in its action to be of any value but to those who wish to
rise in the world too suddenly.
Drunkenness is a well-known source of burnt-out dwellings, the
habitual tippler being too often left to his own devices in the
matter of matches and candles. The usual faculty of double vision
with which an inebriated man is gifted, leads to a divided claim upon
the extinguisher, which naturally points to a disastrous sequel. Even
sober people will be guilty of the most hazardous habits, such as
novel-reading in bed with a candle placed near them on a chair; for
novels, like some other graver compositions, are occasionally apt to
induce slumber; and the first movement of the careless sleeper may
imperil his life, as well as the lives of others who may be under the
same roof with him.
The caprices of female dress have also often led to fatal accidents
from fire, and crinoline skirts had in their day much to answer for.
But at the present time petticoats seem to have shrunk in volume to
the more moderate dimensions of an ordinary sack, so that we are not
likely to hear of accidents from this particular cause until some
fresh enormity is perpetrated in the name of fashion. We may mention
in this connection that tungstate of soda (a cheap salt) will render
muslins, &c. uninflammable. But strange to say, it is not generally
adopted, even on the stage, where the risks are so multiplied, because
it is said to prevent the starch drying with due stiffness! We have
all heard of what female courage is capable when little ones are in
danger, but we hardly thought that it was equal to the task of risking
precious life for the appearance of a muslin dress. We can only bow,
and say--nothing.
Where fires have been traced to spontaneous combustion, it has
generally been found that some kind of decomposing vegetable matter
has been the active instrument in their production. Cotton-waste which
has been used for cleaning oily machinery and then thrown aside in some
forgotten corner, sawdust on which vegetable oil has been spilt, and
hemp, have each in its turn been convicted of incendiarism. The simple
remedy is _to avoid the accumulation of lumber and rubbish in places
where valuable goods and still more valuable lives are at stake_.
Occasionally fires have been accidentally caused by the concentration
of the sun's rays by means of a lens or of a globe of water, and
opticians have for this reason to be very careful in the arrangement of
their shop-windows. A case lately occurred where a fire was occasioned,
it was supposed, by a carafe of water that stood on the centre of a
table. The sun's rays had turned it into a burning-glass! It is stated,
with what amount of truth we cannot say, that fires in tropical forests
are sometimes caused by the heavy dewdrops attached to the foliage
acting the part of lenses.
The advance which has been made during the last twenty years in all
appliances connected with the art of extinguishing fires, has done
much to limit or rather localise the dangers of such catastrophes; for
whereas in the old days the lumbering 'parish squirt' was the only
means of defence, we have now in all large towns steam fire-engines
capable of throwing an immense stream of water with force enough to
reach the topmost floors of very high buildings. The aforesaid 'squirt'
was capable of little more than wetting the outside of contiguous
buildings, with a view to prevent the spread of the original fire,
which generally burnt itself out. But now our engines furnish a power
which will often smother a large fire in the course of half an hour
or less. Moreover, our well organised fire brigades are trained to
convey the hose to the nucleus of the flames, and much heroism is shewn
in the carrying out of this dangerous duty. It will be especially
interesting to the readers of this _Journal_ to note that the first
really efficient brigade was formed in Edinburgh by the late lamented
Superintendent Braidwood. He was afterwards employed in a like service
for London, where his devotion to duty eventually cost him his life.
Like a true soldier, he died 'under fire.'
And now for a few simple precautions.
Let some member of the family visit every portion of the house before
it is shut up for the night. (While he is seeing to the safety of
the fires and lights, he can also give an eye to bolts and bars, and
thus fulfil another most necessary precaution.) See that there is no
glimmering of light beneath the bedroom doors for any unreasonable time
after the inmates have retired to rest. Insist on ascertaining the
cause of any smell of burning. It may be only a piece of rag safely
smouldering in a grate, but satisfy yourself upon the point without
delay. Do not rake out a fire at night, but allow it to burn itself out
in the grate. (We have already referred to the danger of hearthstones
set upon timber.) Do not allow an unused fireplace to be closed up with
a screen unless it is first ascertained that there is no collection
of soot in the chimney, and no communication with any other flue from
which a spark may come. Caution servants not to throw _hot_ ashes into
the dust-bin. Let the slightest escape of gas be remedied as soon as
possible, and remember that the common form of telescope gasalier
requires water at certain intervals, or it will become a source of
danger. Finally, forbid all kinds of petroleum and benzoline lamps to
be trimmed except by daylight. (A lamp was the initial cause of the
great Chicago fire.)
Many other precautions will suggest themselves to the careful
housekeeper. But after all, the best precaution is common-sense, which,
however, is the least available, being the misnomer for a faculty which
is far from common.
A CAST OF THE NET.
THE STORY OF A DETECTIVE OFFICER.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.--CHAPTER II.
By ten o'clock on the following morning I had sketched out my plan,
and more than that, I was down at the water-side and looking after
a lodging, for I never let the grass grow under my feet. I must
say, however, that I very much disliked the east end of London, and
especially the river-side part of it; everything was so dirty and
miserable and crowded, that to a man of really decent tastes like
myself, it was almost purgatory to pass a day in it. And on this
particular occasion the weather changed the very day I went there; it
was getting on towards late autumn (October in point of fact), and
we had been having most beautiful weather; but this very morning it
came on to rain, a close thick rain, and we didn't have three hours of
continuous fine weather while I stopped in the east.
I was not likely to be very particular about my lodgings in one sense,
though in another I was more particular than any lodger that ever
came into the neighbourhood; and after a little trouble I pitched
upon a public-house again, chiefly because my going in and out would
attract less attention there than at a private house; so I secured a
small second-floor back room at the _Anchor and Five Mermaids_, or the
_Anchor_ as it was generally called, for shortness.
The great recommendation of the _Anchor and Five Mermaids_ was that
it was nearly opposite to Byrle & Co.'s engineering shops, a ferry
existing between the two places; this ferry was reached by a narrow
dirty lane, which ran by the side of the _Anchor_, and I could see
that numbers of the workmen came across at dinner-time. The _Anchor_
stood at the corner, one front looking on the lane, the other upon the
river; and once upon a time there had been, not exactly a tea-garden,
but arbours or 'boxes' in front of the house, where the customers used
to sit and watch the shipping; but this was all past now, and only the
miserable remains of the arbours were there; and it was as dull and
cheerless a place as the tavern to which Quilp took Sampson and Sally
Brass in the _Old Curiosity Shop_, of which indeed it reminded me every
time I looked at it.
I always had a readiness for scraping acquaintances; in fact it is not
much use of your being a detective if you can't do this. If you can't
be jonnick with the biggest stranger or lowest rough, you are no use on
that lay. I really must avoid slang terms; but 'jonnick' means hearty
and jovial; on a 'lay' means being up to some game or business. Before
the first dinner-time had passed, I had got quite friendly with two
or three of Byrle's hands who came into the _Anchor_ to have their
beer; and I learned some particulars about the firm and then about the
gatekeeper, that helped me in my ideas.
Directly after they had all gone back, I went over too, and the
dinner-traffic having ceased, I was the only passenger. The ferryman
did not like taking me alone, but he was bound to do it; and he looked
as sulky as if he was going to be flogged at a cart's tail. He was a
tall, bony-headed fellow, between fifty and sixty I should say; and I
noticed him particularly because of an uncommonly ugly squint in his
left eye. In accordance with my plan, I began talking cheerfully to
him while he was pushing off from the shore; but he didn't answer me
beyond a growl. Then I offered him some splendid chewing tobacco, which
a 'friend just over from America had given me.' Really and truly I had
bought it within a quarter of a mile of the _Anchor and Five Mermaids_,
but he wasn't to know that. _I_ can't chew; I hate the idea; but I put
a piece of the tobacco in my mouth, knowing how fond these waterside
men are of the practice, and how friendly they get with one of the same
tastes. To my surprise, he would not have it, and I was glad to pitch
my plug into the river when he turned his head away. But confound these
cock-eyed men! there is never any knowing where to have them. He had
not turned far enough, I suppose, or I didn't make proper allowances
for his squint; for as I threw my plug away with a shudder--it had
already turned me almost sick--I caught his plaguy cross-eye staring
full at me. I knew it was, by the expression on his face; that was my
only guide, for an astronomer could not have told by his eye in which
direction he was looking.
The ferryman pulled well, however; and just as we got athwart the bows
of a short thick-looking craft--it is of no use my trying to say what
kind of a craft she was; I can't tell one from another--a voice hailed
us. 'Ay, ay,' says the boatman, lifting his sculls; 'do you want to go
ashore, captain?' 'Yes,' returned a voice; and I looked up and saw a
man leaning over the side of the vessel; and the boatman sending his
wherry close under the ship, the stranger slid down by a rope very
cleverly, and got in. Though the boatman had called him 'captain,' and
though he was very clever with the rope, he didn't look altogether like
a regular sailor; he was a dark full-faced man, with black eyes, a dark
moustache, and curly greasy-looking hair.
The stranger said a few words in a very low tone to the boatman,
evidently to prevent my overhearing, and then nothing passed until we
landed. The sulky ferryman took his fee without a word; and I went
straight to the wicket-gate of Byrle's factory, where of course I found
the gatekeeper. I stated that I was in want of employment, and had
heard they were taking on labourers, and so had applied for a job.
'No; I don't know as we want any more hands,' said the man, who was
sitting down in a little sentry-box; 'and we have had plenty of people
here; besides, you're lame, ain't you?'
'A little,' I said, limping as I moved; 'not very bad: a kick from a
horse some years ago.'
'Ah! you won't do for us then,' he said; 'but I'm sorry for you. _I'm_
lame too, from a kick of a horse; I can't stand without my stick;' here
he rose up to let me see him; 'but you see I was hurt in the service,
and the firm have provided for me. I'm very sorry for you, for it's
hard to be slighted because you are a cripple. Here is sixpence, old
fellow, to get half a pint with, and I wish I could make it more.'
I took the sixpence, and thanked him for his kindness; he deserved my
thanks, because he wasn't getting more than a pound a week, and had
four or five little children. I found this out afterwards.
I was satisfied at having made a friend who might prove useful; but I
had one or two more questions to ask him, and was thinking how I could
best bring them in, when he said hurriedly: 'If you could get hold of
Mr Byrle by himself, he might do something for you, for he is a very
good sort; and you seem strong enough in every other way, and would
make a good watchman, I should think.'
Yes; he did not know how good a one!
'Mr Byrle senior or junior?' I asked, on the strength of my information
from the hands at the _Anchor_.
'Junior! O lor! that wouldn't do at all!' exclaimed he with quite a
gasp, as if the idea took his breath away. 'It's a case of "O no, we
never mention it" with him. He's seldom at home, and when he is, he and
the old gentleman lead the very---- Here you have it! Here's Mr Forey,
the only foreman in the place who would listen to you. Now, speak up!'
Mr Forey, a dark-whiskered, stoutly built man, came up, glancing keenly
at me as a stranger; so touching my cap, I again preferred my request
to be taken on as a labourer.
'I don't like lame men,' he said; 'but there does not seem to be a
great deal the matter with you. You say you can have a first-rate
character. We shall be making changes next week, and there's no harm in
your looking round on Monday morning at nine sharp.--Stop! I can give
you a job now. Do you know how to get to T----?'
'Yes, sir,' I said.
'Then take this letter to Mr Byrle, and bring back an answer,' said Mr
Forey. 'If he is not at home, ask for Miss Doyle, who may open it. I
want an answer this afternoon; so cut off! Stay! here's a shilling for
your fare; it's only tenpence, you know; and I'll leave eighteenpence
with Bob here at the gate for your trouble.'
I took the shilling, Bob winking triumphantly at me, as if to say it
was as good as done, and I left the yard.
I was amused at having the commission, for I wondered what Mr Byrle
would say when he saw me, and whether my disguise was so complete
that he would not recognise me at all. That would be something like
a triumph, and I almost made up my mind that it would be so. Had Mr
Forey seen me hurrying to the station, he might again have said that
there did not seem much the matter with me; but I walked slowly enough
through the street in which the _Yarmouth Smack_ was situated, and had
a pretty good trial of my disguise and my nerves as I passed it. Peter
Tilley, dressed in a blue slop and cord trousers, so as to look like
a dock labourer or something of that kind, was leaning against the
door-post, lazily watching the passers-by. I made up my mind to try
him; so stopping at a lamp-post just opposite to him, I took out my
pipe, struck a match on the iron, coolly lit the tobacco, and after
one or two puffs, threw the match into the road and walked on. He never
knew me. It was all right.
The drizzling rain came down again as I got out at T----; but luckily
Mr Byrle's house was not more than a quarter of a mile from the
station; and so resuming my limp, I got there without delay. The
man-servant who answered the door took my letter, but told me that the
old gentleman was not at home; then on finding Miss Doyle was to open
the letter and send an answer, told me to wait in a little room which
looked as if it was used as an office, having floor-cloth instead of
carpet, wooden chairs, and so forth. He was a careful servant, and
would not ask a stranger to wait in the hall, where coats and umbrellas
might be had by a sharp party.
I had not waited long, when the door opened, and a young lady, whom I
of course judged to be Miss Doyle, came into the room. She was a dark,
keen-looking young party, and spoke rather sharply. 'You are to take an
answer back, I believe?' she said.
'Yes, miss,' I answered, touching my forehead, for as you may suppose,
I held my cap in my hand.
'Mr Forey only wishes me to send word; I am not to write,' she went on;
'he wants to know if Mr Byrle will be at the works to-morrow. He will
not. Tell Mr Forey he will leave town to-night, and not return until
the day after to-morrow. You understand?' She spoke very sharply; so I
said: 'Yes, miss,' sharply too, and touched my forehead again.