[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 731. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
THE ROMANCE OF ACCIDENT.
Many of our most important inventions and discoveries owe their origin
to the most trivial circumstances; from the simplest causes the most
important effects have ensued. The following are a few culled at random
for the amusement of our readers.
The trial of two robbers before the Court of Assizes of the
Basses-Pyrénées accidentally led to a most interesting archæological
discovery. The accused, Rivas a shoemaker, and Bellier a weaver, by
armed attacks on the highways and frequent burglaries, had spread
terror around the neighbourhood of Sisteron. The evidence against
them was clear; but no traces could be obtained of the plunder, until
one of the men gave a clue to the mystery. Rivas in his youth had
been a shepherd-boy near that place, and knew the legend of the Trou
d'Argent, a cavern on one of the mountains with sides so precipitous
as to be almost inaccessible, and which no one was ever known to have
reached. The Commissary of Police of Sisteron, after extraordinary
labour, succeeded in scaling the mountain, and penetrated to the
mysterious grotto, where he discovered an enormous quantity of plunder
of every description. The way having been once found, the vast cavern
was afterwards explored by _savants_; and their researches brought to
light a number of Roman medals of the third century, flint hatchets,
ornamented pottery, and the remains of ruminants of enormous size.
These interesting discoveries, however, obtained no indulgence for the
accused (inadvertent) pioneers of science, who were sentenced to twenty
years' hard labour.
The discovery of gold in Nevada was made by some Mormon immigrants in
1850. Adventurers crossed the Sierras and set up their sluice-boxes in
the cañons; but it was gold they were after, and they never suspected
the existence of silver, nor knew it when they saw it. The bluish stuff
which was so abundant and which was silver ore, interfered with their
operations and gave them the greatest annoyance. Two brothers named
Grosch possessed more intelligence than their fellow-workers, and were
the real discoverers of the Comstock lode; but one of them died from
a pickaxe wound in the foot, and the other was frozen to death in the
mountains. Their secret died with them. When at last, in the early part
of 1859, the surface croppings of the lode were found, they were worked
for the gold they contained, and the silver was thrown out as being
worthless. Yet this lode since 1860 has yielded a large proportion
of all the silver produced throughout the world. The silver mines of
Potosi were discovered through the trivial circumstance of an Indian
accidentally pulling up a shrub, to the roots of which were attached
some particles of the precious metal.
During the Thirty Years' War in Germany, the little village of Coserow
in the island of Usedom, on the Prussian border of the Baltic, was
sacked by the contending armies, the villagers escaping to the hills to
save their lives. Among them was a simple pastor named Schwerdler, and
his pretty daughter Mary. When the danger was over, the villagers found
themselves without houses, food, or money. One day, we are told, Mary
went up the Streckelberg to gather blackberries; but soon afterwards
she ran back joyous and breathless to her father, with two shining
pieces of amber each of very great size. She told her father that near
the shore the wind had blown away the sand from a vein of amber; that
she straightway broke off these pieces with a stick; that there was
an ample store of the precious substance; and that she had covered it
over to conceal her secret. The amber brought money, food, clothing,
and comfort; but those were superstitious times, and a legend goes that
poor Mary was burned for witchcraft. At the village of Stümen, amber
was first accidentally found by a rustic who was fortunate enough to
turn some up with his plough.
Accidents have prevented as well as caused the working of mines. At
the moment that workmen were about to commence operations on a rich
gold mine in the Japanese province of Tskungo, a violent storm of
thunder and lightning burst over them, and the miners were obliged to
seek shelter elsewhere. These superstitious people, imagining that the
tutelar god and protector of the spot, unwilling to have the bowels of
the earth thus rifled, had raised the storm to make them sensible of
his displeasure, desisted from all further attempts to work the mine.
A cooper in Carniola having one evening placed a new tub under a
dropping spring, in order to try if it would hold water, when he came
in the morning found it so heavy that he could hardly move it. At
first, the superstitious notions that are apt to possess the minds
of the ignorant made him suspect that his tub was bewitched; but at
last perceiving a shining fluid at the bottom, he went to Laubach, and
shewed it to an apothecary, who immediately dismissed him with a small
gratuity, and bid him bring some more of the same stuff whenever he
could meet with it. This the poor cooper frequently did, being highly
pleased with his good fortune; till at length the affair being made
public, several persons formed themselves into a society in order to
search farther into the quicksilver deposits, thus so unexpectedly
discovered, and which were destined to become the richest of their kind
in Europe.
Curious discoveries by ploughmen, quarrymen, and others of caves,
coins, urns, and other interesting things, would fill volumes. Many
valuable literary relics have been preserved by curious accidents,
often turning up just in time to save them from crumbling to pieces.
Not only mineral but literary treasures have been brought to light
when excavating mother earth. For instance, in the foundations of
an old house, Luther's _Table Talk_ was discovered 'lying in a
deep obscure hole, wrapped in strong linen cloth, which was waxed
all over with beeswax within and without.' There it had remained
hidden ever since its suppression by Pope Gregory XIII. The poems of
Propertius, a Roman poet, long lurked unsuspected in the darkness of
a wine-cellar, from whence they were at length unearthed by accident,
just in time to preserve them from destruction by rats and mildew.
Not only from beneath our feet but from above our heads may chance
reveal the hiding-places of treasure-trove. The sudden falling in of
a ceiling, for example, of some chambers in Lincoln's Inn revealed
the secret depository of the Thurloe state papers. Other literary
treasures have turned up in an equally curious manner. Milton's essay
on the _Doctrines of Christianity_ was discovered in a bundle of old
despatches: a monk found the only manuscript of Tacitus accidentally
in Westphalia: the letters of Lady Mary Montagu were brought to light
from the recesses of an old trunk: the manuscripts of Dr Dee from the
secret drawer of an old chest: and it is said that one of the cantos
of Dante's great poem was found, after being long mislaid, hidden away
beneath a window-sill.
It is curious to trace how the origin of some famous work has been
suggested apparently by the merest accident. We need but remind the
reader how Lady Austen's suggestion of 'the sofa' as a subject for
blank verse was the beginning of _The Task_, a poem which grew to
formidable proportions under Cowper's facile pen. Another example of
What great events from trivial causes spring,
is furnished by Lockhart's account of the gradual growth of _The Lay
of the Last Minstrel_. The lovely Countess of Dalkeith hears a wild
legend of Border _diablerie_, and sportively asks Scott to make it the
subject of a ballad. The poet's accidental confinement in the midst of
a yeomanry camp gave him leisure to meditate his theme to the sound
of the bugle; suddenly there flashes on him the idea of extending his
simple outline so as to embrace a vivid panorama of that old Border
life of war and tumult. A friend's suggestion led to the arrangement
and framework of the _Lay_ and the conception of the ancient Harper.
Thus step by step grew the poem that first made its author famous. The
manuscript of _Waverley_ lay hidden away in an old cabinet for years
before the public were aware of its existence. In the words of the
Great Unknown: 'I had written the greater part of the first volume and
sketched other passages, when I mislaid the manuscript; and only found
it by the merest accident, as I was rummaging the drawer of an old
cabinet; and I took the fancy of finishing it.'
Charlotte Brontë's chance discovery of a manuscript volume of verses
in her sister Emily's handwriting led, from a mutual confession of the
_furor poeticus_, to the joint publication of their poems, which though
adding little to their subsequent fame, at least gives us another
instance of how much of what is called chance has often to do with
the carrying out of literary projects. It was the burning of Drury
Lane Theatre that led to the production of _The Rejected Addresses_,
the success of which, says one of the authors, 'decided him to embark
in that literary career, which the favour of the novel-reading world
rendered both pleasant and profitable to him.' Most of us know how
that famous fairy tale _Alice in Wonderland_ came to be written. The
characters in _Oliver Twist_ of Fagin, Sikes, and Nancy were suggested
by some sketches of Cruikshank, who long had a design to shew the
life of a London thief by a series of drawings. Dickens, while paying
Cruikshank a visit, happened to turn over some sketches in a portfolio.
When he came to that one which represents Fagin in the condemned cell,
he studied it for half an hour, and told his friend that he was tempted
to change the whole plot of his story, not to carry Oliver through
adventures in the country, but to take him up into the thieves' den in
London, shew what this life was, and bring Oliver through it without
sin or shame. Cruikshank consented to let Dickens write up to as many
of the drawings as he thought would suit his purpose. So the story as
it now runs resulted in a great measure from that chance inspection of
the artist's portfolio. The remarkable picture of the Jew malefactor
in the condemned cell biting his nails in the torture of remorse, is
associated with a happy accident. The artist had been labouring at the
subject for several days, and thought the task hopeless; when sitting
up in his bed one morning with his hand on his chin and his fingers in
his mouth, the whole attitude expressive of despair, he saw his face in
the cheval glass. 'That's it!' he exclaimed; 'that's the expression I
want.' And he soon finished the picture.
The sudden prosperity of many a famous painter has resulted from some
fortunate accident. Anthony Watteau, when a nameless struggling artist,
timidly offered a painting to a rich picture-dealer for six francs,
and was on the eve of being scornfully rejected, had not a stranger,
who happened to be in the shop, come forward, and seeing some talent
in the work, spoke encouragingly to the youth, and offered him one
hundred and fifty francs for the picture; nor was this all, for he
became Watteau's patron and instructor.--One day a little shepherd-boy
was seated near the road-side on the way from Vespignano to Florence
drawing upon a polished stone, his only pencil another polished stone
which he held in his tiny fingers. A richly dressed stranger, who had
descended from a conveyance that was following him, chanced to pass,
and looking over the boy's shoulder, saw that he had just sketched with
wonderful truth and correctness a sheep and its twin lambs. Surprised
and pleased, he examined the face of the young artist. Certainly it was
not its beauty that attracted him. The child looked up, but with such
a marvellous light in his dark eyes, that the stranger exclaimed: 'My
child, you must come with me; I will be your master and your father: it
is some good angel that has led me here.' The stranger was Cimabue, the
most celebrated painter of that day; and his pupil and protégé became
the famous painter, sculptor, and architect Giotto, the friend and
admiration of Dante and Petrarch.
How the fortunes of painters may hinge upon the most trifling
circumstances, has another example in that of Ribera or Spagnoletto,
which was determined by a very simple incident. He went to reside with
his father-in-law, whose house, it so happened, stood in the vast
square one side of which was occupied by the palace of the Spanish
Viceroy. It was the custom in Italy, as formerly amongst the Greeks,
that whenever an artist had completed any great work, he should expose
it in some street or thoroughfare, for the public to pass judgment on
it. In compliance with this usage, Ribera's father-in-law placed in his
balcony the 'Martyrdom of St Bartholomew' as soon as it was finished.
The people flocked in crowds to see it, and testified their admiration
by deafening shouts of applause. These acclamations reached the ears
of the Viceroy, who imagined that a fresh revolt had broken out, and
rushed in complete armour to the spot. There he beheld in the painting
the cause of so much tumult. The Viceroy desired to see the man who had
distinguished himself by so marvellous a production; and his interest
in the painter was not lessened on discovering that he was, like
himself, a Spaniard. He immediately attached Spagnoletto to his person,
gave him an apartment in his palace, and proved a generous patron ever
afterwards.
Lanfranco, the wealthy and munificent artist, on his way from the
church Il Gesú, happened to observe an oil-painting hanging outside a
picture-broker's shop. Lanfranco stopped his carriage, and desired the
picture to be brought to him. Wiping the thick dust from the canvas,
the delighted broker brought it, with many bows and apologies, to the
great master, who on nearer inspection saw that his first glance had
been correct. The picture was labelled 'Hagar and her Son Ishmael
dying of Thirst,' and the subject was treated in a new and powerful
manner. Lanfranco looked for the name of the painter, and detecting
the word Salvatoriello modestly set in a corner of the picture, he
gave instructions to his pupils to buy up every work of Salvatoriello
they could find in Naples. To this accident Salvator owed the sudden
demand for his pictures, which changed his poverty and depression into
comparative ease and satisfaction.
More than one famous singer might probably never have been heard
of but for some discriminating patron chancing to hear a beautiful
voice, perhaps exercised in the streets for the pence of the
compassionate.--Some happy stage-hits have resulted from or originated
in accidents. The odd hop skip and jump so effective in the delineation
of Dundreary, says an American interviewer of Mr Sothern, was brought
about in this way. In the words of the actor: 'It was a mere accident.
I have naturally an elastic disposition, and during a rehearsal one
cold morning I was hopping at the back of the stage, when Miss Keene
sarcastically inquired if I was going to introduce that into Dundreary.
The actors and actresses standing around laughed; and taking the cue,
I replied: "Yes, Miss Keene; that's my view of the character." Having
said this, I was bound to stick to it; and as I progressed with the
rehearsal, I found that the whole company, including scene-shifters
and property-men, were roaring with laughter at my infernal nonsense.
When I saw that the public accepted the satire, I toned down what was a
broad caricature to what can be seen at the present day by any one who
has a quick sense of the absurd.'
An excellent landscape of Salvator Rosa's exhibited at the British
Institution in 1823 came to be painted in a curious way. The painter
happened one day to be amusing himself by tuning an old harpsichord;
some one observed they were surprised he could take so much trouble
with an instrument that was not worth a crown. 'I bet you I make it
worth a thousand before I have done with it!' cried Rosa. The bet
was taken; and Salvator painted on the harpsichord a landscape that
not only sold for a thousand crowns, but was esteemed a first-rate
painting.--Chemistry and pathology are indebted to what has often
seemed the merest chance for many an important discovery. A French
paper says it has been accidentally discovered that in cases of
epileptic fits, a black silk handkerchief thrown over the afflicted
persons will restore them immediately. Advances in science and art and
sudden success in professions have often more to do with the romance of
accident than most people imagine; but as we may have occasion again to
take up the subject, we quit it for the present.
A DIFFICULT QUESTION.
THE STORY OF TWO CHRISTMAS EVES.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.
CHAPTER II.--ANSWERED.
The mistletoe hung from the chandelier, the holly wreaths were on
the walls, the clear fire shed a warm glow through the dimly lighted
room, upon pictures and gilding, upon a great vase filled with crimson
camellias, upon Ralph Loraine's dark handsome face. Christmas eve
again, his first year in England over. How little certainty there is in
this world; when we think we have smoothed our path, and see our way
straight before us, there rises up some roughness, some unevenness
we have left unnoticed, or thought too small to trouble us. So with
Ralph; he had answered the question he asked himself last Christmas eve
by another; he was very happy, but he was thinking now as he leaned
against the mantel-piece whether he could bear to leave the army and
give up the life he had led for so long; the life, at times one of
bold daring, at others of lazy pleasure, which had suited him so well;
that even now, with the wish of his heart fulfilled, it cost him a
struggle to bid farewell to it, and to settle down into a quiet country
gentleman. He had kept his oath to his dead friend, the oath he had
taken in answer to the faintly spoken words, 'I meant to have made her
so happy.' Louise would remain in her old home as its mistress.
It had been a happy year to Ralph, and had glided away so quickly since
that first night when he had seen her standing in the snowy churchyard,
listening to words which sounded very much like love from another man's
lips. That other had, however, confirmed his opinion. Vere Leveson had
been away with his regiment during all the twelve months; not once had
he met Louise; the field had been clear for Ralph. Yet it was only a
week since he had spoken; he had not dared at first to break through
the barrier of childish affection. She looked upon him as her guardian,
her father's friend, with the same grateful reverence she might have
given to that father had he lived; so he had tried very gently to
awaken deeper feelings, through the sweet early spring-time and the
glowing summer days, till when the leaves were lying in brown showers
upon the sodden earth, she had grown silent, shy, and distant, and
so cold that he thought all hope was gone. He went away in November;
and when he returned, his love unspoken became torture to his upright
nature; he could not bear to live there day by day, to see her so
often, to let her kiss him as a daughter might have done, and all the
while that hidden passion burning in his heart. But after his temporary
absence she had changed again; she was more as she had been, gentle,
playfully loving; and so one day he had spoken. He told her of her
dying father's words; how his great wish had been that she should never
feel the loss he had caused her; how her happiness was his first object
in life; and how that life would be indeed worthless and barren, should
he go back to it alone. Grateful, she answered as he wished, and Ralph
held in his arms as his betrothed wife the child he had promised to
watch over in the silence of the Indian dawn.
'But you must give me time,' she had said timidly. 'I have never
thought of you but as my guardian, Ralph.' She dropped the name of her
childhood then, as a tacit acknowledgment that those days were over,
and that she would learn to love him henceforth, not with a child's
grateful unquestioning love, but with the tenderness of a wife.
She was the only one surprised by the event; all the neighbourhood had
known it long before; so had Mrs Loraine and Emma; so had Katharine,
whose wedding-day was now approaching, and whose bridegroom was Sir
Michael Leyland. The drawing-room door opened, and Louise entered into
the uncertain light, wearing the dress he had chosen for her--white
bridal-looking silk, and holly wreaths like those she had worn last
year. She went up to him composedly, with none of a young fiancée's
usual bashfulness.
'Do you like my dress, Ralph?' she said, looking up with her sweet dark
eyes, as he bent down and touched the rosy lips.
'I do,' he answered. 'You are always lovely, darling; last year I
thought the same, but then things were different. I did not dare to
hope for such happiness as this.'
'Are you happy, Ralph?'
'Happier than I have ever been in my whole life,' he whispered.
Then the others came in, and they started for the annual ball at Leigh
Park. Vere Leveson had returned a week ago; and as he stood among his
father's guests there was a troubled look on his face which deepened
ever as the white silk folds of the holly-wreathed dress brushed past
him, or the dark eyes watching its wearer met hers. At last he went to
her.
'Are you engaged for this, Miss Wrayworth?' he said abruptly.
'No,' she answered.
'Then you will give it to me?'
Once more he held her in his arms, once more her hand rested in his, as
they glided slowly round the room. Vere did not speak till the waltz
was ended, and then he led her to the same window where they had stood
a year ago. The same stars were shining down on the same world, only
that night there was no snow-shroud over the dead flowers, and the
moon was half hidden by a great splash of cloud. The same first faint
Christmas bells were sounding in the distance, mingled with the echoes
of a carol sung by boys' clear voices, telling for the angels the old
story they had told so long ago.
'I wish you a merry Christmas,' Vere said, looking down on her with
a half-scornful smile. 'What mockery there is in that salutation
sometimes. If you were to say it to me, for instance.'
'Indeed I hope you will have one,' she answered timidly.
'I must go a long way to find it then,' he muttered. 'But I beg your
pardon, Miss Wrayworth; I must congratulate you. I met--your sister I
was going to say--Miss Loraine I mean, as I was on my way to call upon
you the other day, and she told me of your engagement.'
'But you did not come,' said Louise.
'No; I thought you would be occupied. I congratulate you,' he repeated.
'Thank you,' she answered very low.
'Major Loraine is completely calculated to make a wife happy, I should
think,' said Vere, in the same cold scornful tone.
She lifted her head quickly. 'Indeed he is; he is the best, noblest,
most generous man that breathes!'
'And you love him?'
'He has been everything to me all my life long, Mr Leveson--father,
brother, friend. Would you not have me do what I can to prove my
gratitude?'
'By making him a still nearer relation? Certainly. But for my part,
there is one thing I should rather choose my wife to feel for me than
gratitude. How everything changes in this world!' he added abruptly.
'Can it possibly be only one year since I stood at this same window
with a girl by my side who promised to _remember_ me and _trust_ me
till next Christmas? Such a short time! only twelve little months. I
suppose it is true that
Woman's love is writ in water,
Woman's faith is traced on sand.
But I never believed it.'
'I hope you will not find it so,' said the girl softly, as she played
nervously with the shining holly leaves, breaking them, and crushing
the scarlet berries till they fell spoiled upon the floor. 'I must
congratulate _you_.'
'I beg your pardon! Congratulate me! What upon?'
'Your--your engagement.'
'My engagement! And may I ask to whom?'
'To Miss Leslie.'
'What!' he exclaimed. 'What do you mean? Alice Leslie! Who can have
told you such a falsehood?'
'Katharine heard it when she was in London.'
There was a long, long silence, while each guessed the other's secret.
'Is it not true?' she said at last.
'No; on my soul!' he answered. 'I never said a word to that girl all
the world might not have heard. I engaged to _her_! No! O Louise!' he
cried passionately; 'Louise, my darling! I have loved you so long, and
this is the end of it! Did not you know last year that I loved you and
you only, when I asked you to trust me? I have been silent for a year,
to obey my father, and--I have lost you!'
His voice trembled as he caught her hands, and a great longing
tenderness gleamed in his deep blue eyes. 'Did not you love me, Louise?
Have I been fool enough to delude myself all these months?'
'I was very--very unhappy when Katharine told me.' The answer was
simply, hopelessly spoken, and there was another silence, broken again
by her voice. 'Vere,' she said, 'Vere--I may call you so just this
once--we have made a terrible mistake; but I must keep my word. Say
good-bye to me, and let me go.'
'Oh, my darling! my darling!'
'Hush! Vere, hush!' she said brokenly. 'I owe _him_ a debt nothing can
ever pay; and I know he will keep the promise he made to my father
years ago, to try and make me happy.'
'God helping me, I will!' It was Ralph Loraine's voice that spoke;
Ralph Loraine's dark fearless eyes that rested upon her; Ralph
Loraine's loyal hand which took her cold one, as she started back from
the man she loved.
'Don't look frightened, dear,' he said gently. 'Poor child, how you
must have suffered! Louise! do you think I would let you bear one
moment's pain to save myself from a lifetime of misery? Forgive me,
dear; the dream has been very bright, and the awaking is'--he paused
for a moment and steadied his voice--'a little hard; but I shall soon
be used to it. The vow I made to your dead father, I will still keep,
Louise; I am your guardian, nothing more. Forget what has been between
us, child, as soon as you can.' He turned, and held out his hand to
Vere. 'It is a precious charge I give up to you,' he said solemnly;
'you must help me to keep my vow.' He paused, then added tremulously:
'You must make her happy for me.' Then without another word he passed
out through the open window into the wintry moonlit garden, and left
them alone.
He wandered down the avenue through the open gate among the waiting
carriages on to the silent fields, bearing the sorrow bravely, the
utter wreck of his life's sweetest hopes. 'Which is the harder,' he
thought bitterly as he hurried on, scarcely knowing where he went, 'to
lay down life or love?' In his great unselfishness he never blamed
her who had wrought this trouble; he had vowed to make her happy; he
had done his duty, nothing more, but it was hard to do. It had been a
fearful temptation as he listened, to go away without speaking, and so
keep her his; but he had conquered. Yet it seemed as though he could
not live without her, as though that one happy week had swallowed up
his whole existence, as though he had loved all his life instead of
for one short year; and he looked up piteously to the cloudy heavens,
to the wintry moon, seeking for the comfort that was not to be found,
longing, in his wretchedness, to lie down upon the cold wet grass and
sleep never to wake again.
'Won't you remember the carols?'
A shrill voice broke in upon his thoughts; he started, looking down
suddenly, vacantly, as though he did not comprehend.
Two boys stood there, on their way home across the fields. 'Hush!' said
the elder; 'don't you see it's the Major? Merry Christmas, sir!'
Ah! how mockingly those words sounded now. The greeting stung him as
the taunt of a fiend; he turned and hurried on. He paused breathlessly
at the stile leading into the next field; all his strength seemed to
have left him as he stood there alone with his grief. Then from the
distance was wafted to him the sound of the boys' voices, and the words
they sung were these:
All glory be to God on high,
And to the earth be peace;
Good-will henceforth from heaven to men
Begin and never cease!
Somehow they comforted him as no human sympathy could have done--the
grand old words, the simple tune, the children's voices. Though he did
not know that by what he had done that night, he had fulfilled as far
as might be the charge given in the angels' song.
A DREAM AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
When I was about twelve years of age I was invited by Mrs Hall, my
god-mother, to pay her a visit before going to a boarding-school, where
I was to remain for a few years. My mother had died when I was very
young; and my father thought it better for me to be at a nice school,
where I would be amongst girls of my own age, than in the house with
only his sister and himself. Mrs Hall was very fond of me; she had no
children of her own; and had my father consented, she and Mr Hall would
have taken me to live with them entirely.
It was a lovely day in June when I arrived at my god-mother's; and
she was delighted to see me. The house was beautifully situated on
high ground, surrounded by grand old trees, and at one side was a
flower-garden.
One morning god-mother said to me: 'Come upstairs with me, Lilian, and
I will shew you some Indian jewels that my uncle left me lately.'
She opened the drawer of an inlaid sandal-wood cabinet and took out a
small case, in which were a pair of ear-rings, a brooch, and necklet
of most beautiful diamonds. I thought I had never seen anything so
beautiful before. 'My dear Lilian,' said she, 'I intend to give you
these on your sixteenth birthday. I see, however, there is a stone
loose in one of the ear-rings, so I will take it into town to-day and
have it repaired.' She folded it up carefully and put it in her purse;
the case with the other diamonds she put in one of the drawers of her
dressing-glass.
After lunch, Mr and Mrs Hall took me with them to the town, which was
about four miles distant. The ear-ring was left at the jeweller's, and
as we were to spend the day at a friend's house, we arranged to call
for it on our way back. But you will say what has all this to do with
your dream? Well, wait a little and you will see.
We spent a pleasant day, called for the ear-ring on our way, and
arrived home about half-past nine o'clock. As I was taking off my
bonnet, god-mother came into the room. 'Lilian,' said she, 'I cannot
find the case of diamonds anywhere. Did I not leave it in the drawer
in my dressing-glass, before I went out? I went to put in the other
ear-ring now, and it was not there. Who can have taken it?'
'You certainly left it in the dressing-glass drawer,' I said. 'Could
any of the servants have taken it, do you think?'
'I am sure they would not,' she answered. 'I have had them with me for
years, and never missed anything before.'
'Are there any strangers about that could have come in through the
window?'
'No, Lilian; there are no strangers about the place except the
gardener, and he seems a most respectable man. I got a very high
character of him from his last place; in fact we were told he was a
most trustworthy person.'
Next day there was a wonderful commotion about the missing jewel-case.
The police were sent for, and every place was searched over and over
again, but to no purpose. One thing, however, puzzled us: on the
window-sill was a footmark, and near the dressing-table a little bit of
earth, as if off a shoe or boot; which led us to think that the thief
must have come in through the window. But how did he get up to it? It
was a good height from the ground, and the creeping plants were not in
the least broken, as would have been the case had any one climbed up by
them. A ladder must have been employed; and it was little to the credit
of the police that this fact had not been properly considered. As the
matter stood, it was a mystery, and seemed likely to remain so, and
only one ear-ring was left of the valuable set.
In a few days I left for school, where I remained for four years. I
spent every vacation between my home and my god-mother's. We often
spoke of the stolen diamonds; but nothing had ever been heard of
them, though a reward of fifty pounds had been offered by Mr Hall for
any information that would lead to the detection of the thief. On my
sixteenth birthday my god-mother gave me a beautiful watch and chain
and the diamond ear-ring, which she had got arranged as a necklet.
'I am so sorry, Lilian,' said she, 'that I have not the rest of those
diamonds to give you; but if ever they are found, they shall be yours,
my dear.'
I must now pass over six years, which went by quietly and happily,
nothing very important taking place until the last year, during which
time I had been married. My husband was a barrister. We lived in the
north of England. My mother-in-law Mrs Benson, and Mary, one of her
daughters, lived some miles away from us near the sea-coast. It was a
very lonely place, a long way from the little fishing-town, or rather
village, of Burnley. I confess I often felt very nervous about Mrs
Benson and her daughter living alone (her husband being dead many
years). Except three women-servants in the house, and the coachman
and his family who lived in the lodge, there was no one nearer than
Burnley, four miles off. Besides, it was known that there was a large
quantity of plate in the house; and the little sea-side village was
often the resort of smugglers and other wild and lawless characters.
One day, while thinking of them, I felt so uneasy that I said to my
husband: 'I hope, Henry, there is nothing wrong with your mother; she
has been in my mind all day.'
'Oh,' said he, 'why should you feel anxious about her to-day? I saw her
last Tuesday; and if she were ill, Mary would be sure to let us know.
It is only one of your "fancies," little wife.'
Still I did not feel easy, for more than once before my so-called
'fancy' had proved to be a 'reality;' so I determined that in a few
days I would go and see Mrs Benson. All that evening I could not get
her out of my thoughts, and it was a long time before I went to sleep.
I think it must have been about three o'clock in the morning that I
woke in a state of terror. I had dreamed that I saw Mrs Benson standing
in the window of her bedroom, beckoning me to come to her, and pointing
to a female figure who was stealing along under the shade of the trees
in the avenue, for the moon was shining brightly.
I started up, thinking I heard her calling me. And here is the most
extraordinary part of it all--though I was now quite awake, I heard,
as I thought, a voice saying to me: 'Go, tell Mrs Benson, Martha is
deceiving her; tell her to send her away at once.'
Three times these words seemed to be repeated in my ear. I can't
describe exactly what the voice was like: it was not loud, but quite
distinct; and I felt as I listened that it was a warning, and that I
_must_ obey it. I woke my husband, and told him my dream and the words
I had heard. He tried to calm my mind, and evidently thought me foolish
to be so frightened by only a stupid dream. I said I would drive over
the first thing after breakfast, and see if anything was wrong with
Mary or her mother. The only thing that puzzled me was that Martha
should be mentioned as deceiving Mrs Benson. She acted as housekeeper
and lady's-maid to her, and was believed to be most trustworthy in
every way. She had been four years with her; and was much respected.
She was a silent reserved kind of person, about thirty-five years of
age. One thing I had often remarked about her was, that when speaking
to any one she never looked straight at them; but I thought it might be
from a kind of shyness more than anything else.
As soon as breakfast was over I set off, telling my husband I would
very likely not return until next day; and if possible, he was to
come for me. He could drive over early and spend the day; and we would
return home together in the evening, if all was well with his mother.
When I arrived I found Mrs Benson and Mary looking as well as ever,
and everything seemingly just as usual. Martha was sitting at work in
her little room, which opened off Mrs Benson's dressing-room. I could
not help looking at her more closely than I would have done at another
time, and I thought I saw a look of displeasure cross her face at
seeing me. Mary and her mother were of course delighted to see me, and
asked why Henry did not come too. So I told them I would stay till the
next day, if they would have me, and Henry would come for me then. They
were quite pleased at that arrangement; for it was not very often my
husband could spend a whole day with them.
As the day passed on and nothing out of the way happened, I began to
think I had frightened myself needlessly, and that my dream or vision
might have been the result of an over-anxious mind. And then Martha,
what about her? Altogether I was perplexed. I did not know what to
think; but I still felt a certain undefined uneasiness. I offered up
a silent prayer to be directed to do right, and determined to wait
patiently and do nothing for a while. I almost hoped I might hear the
voice again, giving me definite instructions how to act. Lunch passed
and dinner also; and the evening being very warm, for it was the middle
of July, we sat at the open window enjoying the cooling breeze that set
in from the sea.
As they were early people, shortly after ten o'clock we said
'good-night,' and went up to our bedrooms. My room looked on the
avenue, some parts of which were in deep shade, while in other parts
the moonlight shone brightly through breaks in the trees. I did not
feel in the least sleepy; and putting out my candle, I sat by the
window, looking at the lovely view; for I could see the coast quite
plainly, and the distant sea glistened like silver in the moonlight.
I did not think how long I had been sitting there, until I heard the
hall clock strike twelve. Just then I heard, as I thought, a footstep
outside my door, which evidently stopped there, and then in a few
seconds passed on. I did not mind, thinking it might be one of the
servants, who had been up later than usual, and was now going quietly
to bed. I began to undress, not lighting the candle again, as I had
light enough from the moon. As I came towards the window to close it, I
saw, exactly as in my dream, a female figure--evidently keeping in the
shade of the trees--going down the avenue. I determined to follow and
see who it was, for I now felt the warning voice was not sent to me for
nothing, and I seemed to get courage, girl though I was, to fathom the
mystery. I hastily dressed, threw a dark shawl over my head, and going
noiselessly down-stairs, opened the glass door in the drawing-room
window, and left it so that I could come in again. I kept in the shade
of the trees as much as possible, and quickly followed the path I had
seen the woman take. Presently I heard voices; one was a man's, the
other a woman's. But who was she? I came close, and got behind a large
group of thick shrubs. I could now see and hear them quite well; they
were standing in the light; I was in deep shade. Just then the woman
turned her head towards me. It was _Martha_! What did she want there at
that hour? And who was this man? I was puzzled. Where had I seen that
face before? for that I _had_ seen it before, I was certain; but where,
and when, I could not remember. He was speaking in a low voice, and I
did not hear very distinctly what he said, but the last few words were:
'And why not to-night? Delays are always dangerous, especially now, as
they are beginning to suspect me.'
'Because Mrs Benson's daughter-in-law is here, and she is sleeping in
the room over the plate-closet, and would be sure to hear the least
noise. Wait until to-morrow night; she will be gone then. But indeed
John, I don't like this business at all. I think we'd better give it
up. No luck will come of it, I am sure.'
'Look here, Martha,' said the man. 'I have a chance of getting safe off
now. I have it all settled, if you will only help me to get this old
woman's plate. With that and a few little trinkets I happened to pick
up a few years ago, you and I may set up in business over in America.
The other fellows will help me. Meet me here to-morrow night, to let me
know that all is safe for us. See here. I have brought you a valuable
present. Keep it until the plate is secure with me; for you must stay
here until all blows over; then make some excuse for leaving, and come
over and join me in New York. If you want money, sell these diamonds in
Liverpool; they are worth no end of money.'
I could see quite well that he took something out of his pocket and
gave it to her. She held it up to look at it; and there, glistening in
bright moonlight, I saw--my god-mother's diamond ear-ring! the one that
had been stolen over nine years ago with the other jewels from her room.
Here then at last was the mystery solved, everything made clear, and
all through my dream! Presently the light fell on the man's face again,
and I instantly recognised my god-mother's very respectable gardener.
A decent man he was believed to be, but a thief all the time, and one
who hid his evil deeds under a cloak of religion. And who was this
woman he seemed to have got such power over? Evidently his wife; for
I gathered that from his conversation with her. I waited where I was
until they were both gone--Martha back to the house, and her husband
to the village; then as quietly as I could I returned to the house and
reached my room. Falling on my knees I gave thanks to God for making
me the means of finding out such a wicked plot, and perhaps saving the
lives of more than one under that roof; for it is more than likely that
had those desperate men been disturbed in their midnight plunder, they
would not have hesitated at any deed which would enable them to carry
out their wicked plans.
I slept little that night, and next morning tried to appear calm and
composed, though I was frightened and really ill. I was longing for my
husband to come, that I might tell him all, and consult what was best
to be done, to prevent robbery and perhaps bloodshed. At last, to my
great relief, I saw him coming. I ran to the gate to meet him, and told
him what I had seen and heard the night before. 'Now,' I said, 'will
you ever laugh at my "fancies" again?'
'No, my dear little wife,' said he; 'I never will.'
We then arranged that we should tell his mother and sister everything;
and he was to go to the nearest police station and arrange with the
chief officer to have a number of men ready in the wood near the
house at twelve o'clock that night; that after dinner we were to say
'good-bye' to Mrs Benson, and drive home; but would return and join the
police in the wood, and wait there until we saw Martha leave the house
to meet her husband. We were then to go in and wait until the thieves
came in, when they were to be surrounded and taken prisoners. My
husband wanted me to remain at our own house; but I would not do so, as
I said I would only be imagining all sorts of dreadful things; besides,
I knew his mother and Mary would like to have me with them.
It all turned out as well as could be. The night was very fine; and
just at twelve o'clock Martha stole down to the place where I had
seen her the night before; then we all, about a dozen policemen and
ourselves, went into the house. The men were stationed out of sight
in different rooms, waiting for the robbers' entrance. Henry came up
to Mrs Benson's room, where all of us women were, including the two
servants. With breathless anxiety we watched and waited. From where I
stood I could see the way they would come.
It was about two o'clock when I saw Martha coming up the walk and
four men with her. 'Look!' I said; 'there they are.' They went round
to the back door, and we heard them stealing along the passage in the
direction of the plate-closet. Then a sudden rush--a scream from the
wretched Martha--imprecations loud and bitter--a shot!--another scream!
'May God grant no lives will be lost!' we prayed.
Poor Mary nearly fainted. At last we heard the officer call Henry to
come down. The four men were well secured and taken to the police
station. Martha was taken there too. She confessed she had let them in
for the purpose of stealing the silver. One of the robbers was slightly
wounded in the arm, but no one else was hurt. Very thankful was I when
I found next day that none was the worse for having gone through such a
terrible scene.
The house where Martha's husband lodged was searched, and the case of
diamonds and many other valuable articles found there. This immensely
respectable gardener had been a disgrace to his family and his
profession. Left very much to himself through the indulgence of his
employer, he had contracted habits of tippling with low associates at
the neighbouring village, and become so completely demoralised, as at
length to assume the degraded character of a burglar. Now came the
retribution which attends on wrong-doing. The thieves were all tried at
the next assizes, and sentenced to various terms of imprisonment.
It is now many years since all this happened; but I can never forget
what I went through those two dreadful nights; though I remember with
thankfulness, that through my dream and the warning voice I heard, I
was the means of averting a great wrong, and perhaps murder. I do not
impute anything supernatural to my dream. It may have merely been the
result of tension of feelings, supported by some coincidences. At all
events, the results were such as I have described.
ODD NOTES FROM QUEENSLAND.
Queensland, as is pretty generally known, is the latest planted British
colony in Australia, and has already made a surprising degree of
progress. Situated on the coast of the Pacific, to the north of New
South Wales, its more settled parts enjoy a delightful climate, which
is said to resemble that of Madeira. It is usually thought that nowhere
in the world do new and small towns develop so speedily into populous
cities as in the United States; but in this respect Queensland can shew
results nearly as remarkable. In Brisbane, the capital of the colony,
one finds immense enterprise, with all the tokens of civilisation on
the English model. A correspondent favours us with the following notes
suggested by the _Queenslander_, which we presume to be the leading
newspaper in the colony.
A cursory glance down the advertising columns of the _Queenslander_
gives one no mean notion of the colony's capacities. One auctioneer
announces for sale three thousand square miles of land, twenty-one
thousand head of cattle, and a hundred and twenty-four thousand sheep.
A dairy herd of six hundred head is in the market here, and there
a stock-owner announces he has seven hundred pure merino rams to
dispose of. Sugar-plantations, salt-works, gold mines, are on offer;
and--incontrovertible proof of the land's capabilities--nurserymen are
ready to supply all comers with seeds or roots 'of all the favourite
flowers known in England,' of every kind of grass and grain and
vegetable familiar to the British farmer and market-gardener; and
keep in stock thoroughly acclimatised apples, pears, plums, cherries,
peaches, apricots, nectarines, quinces, mulberries, walnuts, chestnuts,
cobnuts, grapes, figs, limes, lemons, oranges, dates, guavas, and
mangoes, in every approved variety.
One correspondent extols the merits of chicory as a profitable thing
to grow; another relates his successful attempts at rice-raising; and
a third waxes eloquent anent the unique garden of Mr Barnes of Mackay,
with its groves and avenues of cocoa-nut trees; its hundreds of fine
date-trees; its grapes, oranges, apples, and fruits of all climes and
seasons, thriving together; its enormous melons and magnificent pines
ripening and rotting around. The owner looks forward to reaping a large
profit from his twelve hundred cocoa-nut trees, many of them now thirty
feet high, although as yet the return for his ten years' labour and
expenditure has been something not worth mentioning.