It wanted a few minutes to eleven o’clock, the same night when Seaton
turned into Long Acre on his peculiar business. A sharp walk soon
brought him to the Alhambra, whence the people were pouring out into
the square. Turning down —— Street, he soon reached his destination—a
long narrow house, in total darkness—a sombre contrast to the
neighbouring buildings, which were mostly a blaze of light, and busy
with the occupations of life. A quiet double rap for some time produced
no impression; and just as he had stood upon the doorstep long enough
to acquire considerable impatience, a sliding panel in the door was
pushed back, and a face, in the dim gas-light, was obtruded. A short
but somewhat enigmatical conversation ensued, at the end of which the
door was grudgingly opened, and Edgar found himself in black darkness.
The truculent attendant having barricaded the exit, gave a peculiar
whistle, and immediately the light in the hall was turned up. It was
a perfectly bare place; but the carpet underfoot was of the heaviest
texture, and apparently—as an extra precaution—had been covered with
india-rubber matting, so that the footsteps were perfectly deadened;
indeed, not the slightest footfall could be heard. Following his guide
in the direction of the rear of the house, and ascending a short
flight of steps, Edgar was thrust unceremoniously into a dark room,
the door of which was immediately closed behind him and locked. For a
few seconds, Edgar stood quite at a loss to understand his position,
till the peculiar whistle was again repeated, and immediately, as if
by magic, the room was brilliantly lighted. When Edgar recovered from
the glare, he looked curiously around. It was a large room, without
windows, save a long skylight, and furnished with an evident aim at
culture; but though the furniture was handsome, it was too gaudy to
please a tasteful eye. The principal component parts consisted of glass
gilt and crimson velvet; quite the sort of apartment that the boy-hero
discovers, when he is led with dauntless mien and defiant eye into the
presence of the Pirate king; and indeed some of the faces of the men
seated around the green board would have done perfectly well for that
bloodthirsty favourite of our juvenile fiction.
There were some thirty men in the room, two-thirds of them playing
rouge-et-noir; nor did they cease their rapt attention to the game for
one moment to survey the new-comer, that office being perfectly filled
by the Argus-eyed proprietor, who was moving unceasingly about the
room. ‘Will you play, sare?’ he said insinuatingly to Edgar, who was
leisurely surveying the group and making little mental notes for his
guidance.
‘Thanks! Presently, when I have finished my cigar,’ he replied.
‘Ver good, sare, ver good. Will not m’sieu take some refreshment—a
leetle champein or eau-de-vie?’
‘Anything,’ Edgar replied carelessly, as the polite proprietor
proceeded to get the desired refreshment.
For a few minutes, Edgar sat watching his incongruous companions, as
he drank sparingly of the champagne before him. The gathering was
of the usual run of such places, mostly foreigners, as befitted the
neighbourhood, and not particularly desirable foreigners at that. On
the green table the stakes were apparently small, for Edgar could see
nothing but silver, with here and there a piece of gold. At a smaller
table four men were playing the game called poker for small stakes;
but what particularly interested Edgar was a young man deep in the
fascination of écarté with a man who to him was evidently a stranger.
The younger man—quite a boy, in fact—was losing heavily, and the money
on the table here was gold alone, with some bank-notes. Directly Edgar
saw the older man, who was winning steadily, he knew him at once; only
two nights before he had seen him in a gambling-house at the West End
playing the same game, with the same result. Standing behind the winner
was a sinister-looking scoundrel, backing the winner’s luck with the
unfortunate youngster, and occasionally winning a half-crown from a
tall raw-looking American, who was apparently simple enough to risk his
money on the loser. Attracted by some impulse he could not understand,
Edgar quitted his seat and took his stand alongside the stranger, who
was losing his money with such simple good-nature.
‘Stranger, you have all the luck, and that’s a fact. There goes another
piece of my family plate. Your business is better’n gold-mining, and
I want you to believe it,’ drawled the American, passing another
half-crown across the table.
‘You are a bit unlucky,’ replied the stranger, with a flash of his
white teeth; ‘but your turn will come, particularly as the young
gentleman is really the better player. I should back him myself, only I
believe in a man’s luck.’
‘Wall, now, I shouldn’t wonder if the younker is the best player,’ the
American replied, with an emphasis on the last word. ‘So I fancy I
shall give him another trial. He’s a bit like a young hoss, he is—but
he’s honest.’
‘You don’t mean to insinuate we’re not on the square, eh?’ said the
lucky player sullenly; ‘because, if that is so’——
‘Now, don’t you get riled, don’t,’ said the American soothingly. ‘I’m a
peaceable individual, and apt to get easily frightened. I’m a-goin’ to
back the young un again.’
The game proceeded: the younger man lost. Another game followed, the
American backing him again, and gradually, in his excitement, bending
further and further over the table. The players, deep in his movements,
scarcely noticed him.
‘My game!’ said the elder man triumphantly. ‘Did you ever see such luck
in your life? Here is the king again.’
The American, quick as thought, picked up the pack of cards and turned
them leisurely over in his hand. ‘Wall, now, stranger,’ he said, with
great distinctness, ‘I don’t know much about cards, and that’s a fact.
I’ve seen some strange things in my time, but I never—no, never—seed a
pack of cards before with two kings of the same suit.’
‘It must be a mistake,’ exclaimed the stranger, jumping to his feet
with an oath. ‘Perhaps the cards have got mixed.’
‘Wall, it’s not a nice mistake, I reckon. Out to Frisco, I seed a
gentleman of your persuasion dance at his own funeral for a mistake
like that. He didn’t dance long, and the exertion killed him; at least
that’s what the crowner’s jury said.’
‘Do you mean to insinuate that I’m a swindler, sir? Do you mean to
infer that I cheated this gentleman?’ blustered the detected sharper,
approaching the speaker with a menacing air.
‘That _is_ about the longitude of it,’ replied the American cheerfully.
Without another word and without the slightest warning, the swindler
rushed at the American; but he had evidently reckoned without his host,
for he was met by a crashing blow full in the face, which sent him
reeling across the room. His colleague deeming discretion the better
part of valour, and warned by a menacing glance from Edgar, desisted
from his evident intention of aiding in the attack.
By this time the sinister proprietor and the players from the other
tables had gathered round, evidently, from the expression of their
eyes, ripe for any sort of mischief and plunder. Clearly, the little
group were in a desperate strait.
‘Have it out,’ whispered Edgar eagerly to his gaunt companion. ‘I’m
quite with you. They certainly mean mischief.’
‘All right, Britisher,’ replied the American coolly. ‘I’ll pull through
it somehow. Keep your back to mine.’
The proprietor was the first to speak. ‘I understand, sare, you accuse
one of my customer of the cheat. Cheat yourself—pah!’ he said, snapping
his fingers in the American’s face. ‘Who are you, sare, that comes here
to accuse of the cheat?’
‘Look here,’ said the American grimly. ‘My name is Æneas B. Slimm,
generally known as Long Ben. I don’t easily rile, you grinning little
monkey; but when I do rile, I rile hard, and that’s a fact. I ain’t
been in the mines for ten years without knowing a scoundrel when I meet
him, and I never had the privilege of seein’ such a fine sample as I
see around me to-night. Now you open that door right away; you hear me
say it.’
The Frenchman clenched his teeth determinedly, but did not speak, and
the crowd gathered more closely around the trio.
‘Stand back!’ shouted Mr Slimm—‘stand back, or some of ye will suffer.
Will you open that door?’
The only answer was a rush by some one in the crowd, a movement which
that some one bitterly repented, for the iron-clamped toe of the
American’s boot struck him prone to the floor, sick and faint with the
pain. At this moment the peculiar whistle was heard, and the room was
instantly in darkness. Before the crowd could collect themselves for a
rush, Mr Slimm passed his hand beneath his long coat-tails and produced
a flat lantern, which was fastened round his waist like a policeman’s,
and which gave sufficient light to guard against any attack; certainly
enough light to show the hungry swindlers the cold gleam of a revolver
barrel covering the assembly. The American passed a second weapon to
Edgar, and stood calmly waiting for the next move.
‘Now,’ he said, sullenly and distinctly, ‘I think we are quits. We air
going to leave this pleasant company right away, but first we propose
to do justice. Where is the artist who plays cards with two kings of
one suit? He’d better come forward, because this weapon has a bad way
of going off. He need not fancy I can’t see him, because I can. He is
skulking behind the brigand with the earrings.’
The detected swindler came forward sullenly.
‘Young man,’ said Mr Slimm, turning towards the boy who had been losing
so heavily, ‘how much have you lost?’
The youngster thought a moment, and said about twenty pounds.
‘Twenty pounds. Very good.—Now, my friend, I’m going to trouble you for
the loan of twenty pounds. I don’t expect to be in a position to pay
you back just at present; but until I do, you can console yourself by
remembering that virtue is its own reward. Come, no sulking; shell out
that money, or’——
With great reluctance, the sharper produced the money and handed it
over to the youth. The American watched the transaction with grave
satisfaction, and then turned to the landlord. ‘Mr Frenchman, we wish
you a very good-night. We have not been very profitable customers, nor
have we trespassed upon your hospitality. If you want payment badly,
you can get it out of the thief who won my half-crowns.—Good-night,
gentlemen; we may meet again. If we do, and I am on the jury, I’ll give
you the benefit of the doubt.’
A moment later, they were in the street, and walking away at a brisk
pace, the ungrateful youth disappearing with all speed.
‘I am much obliged to you,’ Edgar said admiringly; ‘I would give
something to have your pluck and coolness.’
‘Practice,’ replied the American dryly. ‘That isn’t what I call a
scrape—that’s only a little amusement. But I was rather glad you were
with me. I like the look of your face; there’s plenty of character
there. As to that pesky young snip, if I’d known he was going to slip
off like that, do you think I should have bothered about his money for
him? No, sir.’
‘I fancy he was too frightened to say or do much.’
‘Perhaps so.—Have a cigar?—I daresay he’s some worn-out roué of
eighteen, all his nerves destroyed by late hours and dissipation, at a
time when he ought to be still at his books.’
‘Do you always get over a thing as calmly as this affair?’ asked Edgar,
at the same time manipulating one of his companion’s huge cigars. ‘I
don’t think dissipation has had much effect on _your_ nerves.’
‘Well, it don’t, and that’s a fact,’ Mr Slimm admitted candidly; ‘and
I’ve had my fling too.—I tell you what it is, Mr—Mr’——
‘Seaton—Edgar Seaton is my name.’
‘Well, Mr Seaton, I’ve looked death in the face too often to be put
out by a little thing like that. When a man has slept, as I have, in
the mines with a matter of one thousand ounces of gold in his tent for
six weeks, among the most awful blackguards in the world, and plucky
blackguards too, his nerves are fit for most anything afterwards.
That’s what I done, ay, and had to fight for it more than once.’
‘But that does not seem so bad as some dangers.’
‘Isn’t it?’ replied the American with a shudder. ‘When you wake up and
find yourself in bed with a rattlesnake, you’ve got a chance then;
when you are on the ground with a panther over you, there is just a
squeak then; but to go to sleep expecting to wake up with a knife in
your ribs, is quite another apple.—Well, I must say good-night. Here is
Covent Garden. I am staying at the _Bedford_. Come and breakfast with
me to-morrow, and don’t forget to ask for Æneas Slimm.’
‘I will come,’ said Edgar, with a hearty handshake.—‘Good-night.’
SNOW-BLOSSOM.
Under the above title, Professor Wittrock, in _Nordenskjöld’s Studies
and Researches in the Far North_, has given us a wonderful and
exhaustive account of the lowest order of plants—those which have their
existence on the surface of the snow and ice, and colour the monotonous
white or dirty gray of the everlasting snowfields with the warmest and
most lovely rosy red and crimson, vivid green, and soft brown, until it
almost appears as if these frigid zones have also their time of spring
and blossom.
Late researches go to show that the snow and ice flora is far greater
and richer than was at one time supposed. Formerly, people had only
heard of ‘red snow’—which Agardh poetically calls ‘snow-blossoms’—and
‘green snow,’ first discovered by the botanist Unger—specimens of which
were brought from Spitzbergen by Dr Kjellmann, and from Greenland
by Dr Berlin. But a closer examination has discovered in the ‘green
snow’ about a dozen different kinds of plants, and these not merely
comprising the _lowest_ order, but also including some mosses. The
latter, however, were only in their germinating state, looking like the
green threads of algæ, and therefore showing a much inferior degree
of development to that which they would have if growing on a warmer
substratum. The flora of the loose snow, too, is generally far richer
than that of the solid ice; already forty different varieties of plants
having been found, which number will no doubt be greatly increased by
every fresh expedition to the arctic zone. On the solid ice, only ten
different kinds have been observed.
There is a great difference between the real ice and snow plants
which grow exclusively on the snow-line and those hardened children
of the sun which only grow on the snow. The latter all belong to the
one-celled microscopic algæ of the lowest order, which increase by
partition, possessing no generic character, and generally appearing
in large horizontal masses of vegetable matter. They are also
distinguished by seldom having the pure green chlorophyll colour of
other plants, but instead display shades of red, brown, and sap green,
whence they have been named coloured algæ.
Some botanists suppose that the chief and most numerous of all the
algæ, the red snow, only represents a lower state of a higher class
of algæ which has never attained to full development in the region of
perpetual snow; and this supposition is the more remarkable, as the
brilliant red granules of this species—about the four-thousandth part
of an inch in diameter—probably surpass in reproductive powers every
other plant. They cover enormous tracts of snow in such dense masses
that it sometimes appears as if the snow was coloured blood-red to the
depth of several feet. Ever since it was first found, red snow has
greatly exercised the minds of the learned. It is often mentioned in
old writings, though whether the red snow referred to took its colour
from the red algæ or from the meteor-dust which contains iron, is not
certain. But there is no doubt that it was the real red-snow algæ
which De Saussure found in his Alpine expeditions. He mentions this
phenomenon several times in 1760, and states that he had found the
most beautiful species on Mont St Bernard, but had thought it must be
pollen, wafted thither by the wind, although he knew of no plant that
had that kind of red pollen.
The knowledge that the red snow of the polar regions and mountains owes
its colour to a living plant, only dates from the year 1818, when Ross
and Parry made their celebrated polar expedition, and Ross discovered
the ‘crimson cliffs’ of the coast of Greenland, six hundred feet above
the level of the sea. Here the red snow coloured the rocky walls of
Baffin’s Bay a rich glowing crimson, reaching in some parts to a depth
of nine or ten feet, and close to Cape York extending over a distance
of eight nautical miles. Various were the surmises and conjectures as
to the origin and nature of the phenomenon. Bauer was the first to
examine it under a microscope, and he fancied the organic red granules
represented a species of fungus. The same year, Charpentier, the great
Alpine explorer, started the idea that the red appearance was caused
by some meteoric matter, which, falling from the sky, spread over the
immense tracts of snow. Hooker was the first who recognised the true
nature of this new plant, and compared it to the red slime algæ which
are found floating in blood-red masses in water or damp places; while
Wrangel declared the granules had apparently no organic substratum, and
they must therefore be of the lichen tribe, suggesting also that the
germs were generated by the electricity in the air, for he had once
seen a rock split in two by lightning, the sides of which were thickly
covered with a red dust similar in nature to the ‘red snow.’ Two more
botanists agreed that the red granules were ‘red powder that had become
organic matter in the oxidised snow;’ the stern hard rock as it decayed
had defied death, and come to life again in a new form. It remained for
Agardh to put an end to these various fancies by proving the undoubted
algal nature of the plant, and to give it, besides, its poetical name
of ‘snow-blossom,’ the scientific one of crimson primitive snow-germ
(_Protococcus Kermesina nivalis_). In 1838, Ehrenberg watched the
development of this new species by sowing some specimens he had brought
with him from the Swiss Alps, on snow, and noting how they developed
first into green and then into red granules, joined together like a
chain; he called it snow granulæ (_Sphærella nivalis_), which name it
still bears.
Even now, the wild theories about the red snow were not yet ended.
Seeing that the young spores of the algæ moved incessantly backwards
and forwards in the water, the idea arose that they were animalcula,
and ‘red snow’ only the lowest form of animal life. By degrees,
however, it came to be an accepted fact that this voluntary motion
does not belong exclusively to animal life, and that the young spores
of the lower plants, although they move freely about in the water, and
are plentifully provided with fine hair-like threads like the real
infusoria, still remain plants, and never turn into animals. And thus
the plant-nature of the ‘snow-blossom’ was finally settled.
The red-snow alga found on the Alps, Pyrenees, and Carpathians, and
also on the summits of the North American mountains as far down as
California, is not, however, such a determined enemy to heat as its
having its home in the ice-region would imply. In the arctic circle,
as well as on our own mountains of perpetual snow, especially on
Monte Rosa, the red snow is seen in summer like a light rose-coloured
film, which gradually deepens in colour, particularly in the track
of human footsteps, till at length it turns almost black. In this
state, however, it is not a rotten mass, but consists principally of
carefully capsuled ‘quiescent spores,’ in which state these microscopic
atoms pass the winter, bearing in this form the greatest extremes
of temperature. Some have been exposed to a dry heat of a hundred
degrees, and were found still to retain life-bearing properties; while
others, again, were exposed with impunity to the greatest cold known in
science. This proves that the reproductive organs in a capsuled state
can hear vast extremes of temperature without injury; a significant
fact, in which lies the secret of the indestructibility of those germs
which are recognised as promoters of so many diseases.
Time, too, that great destroyer of most things, seems to pass
harmlessly over this capsuled life. If the spores find no favourable
outlet for their development, they do not die, no matter how long
a time they may remain thus; and so the dried remains of red snow
brought home from various polar expeditions have, even after the
lapse of several years, fructified. During the uninterrupted light
of the arctic summers, the ‘snow-blossom’ develops itself so rapidly,
that at last it covers vast and endless tracts of snow. Although the
sun does not rise very high above the horizon even at midsummer,
yet, owing to the great clearness and dryness of the atmosphere in
those high regions, it has a considerable degree of warmth at noon,
and Nordenskjöld observed that one day in July, at mid-day, the
temperature just above the snow was between twenty-five and thirty
degrees centigrade. But it must not be supposed that the red alga
vegetates in the pure snow; this would not be possible, as, according
to chemical analysis, its body contains numerous mineral substances.
The outer skin or membrane, particularly, in which the granulæ are
stored seems to hold a quantity of silicon; but chalk, iron, and other
mineral substances peculiar to the vegetable world, are also not found
wanting in the ashes of the red snow. In fact, the upper surface of the
snow and ice always shows, whenever it has lain long enough, a thin
coating of inorganic dust, which brings to the snow alga the mineral
constituent parts it requires.
Nordenskjöld gives some very interesting details about this dust,
from observations made during his various expeditions. At one time
it was supposed to be a slimy mass carried down from the hills which
pierce the snow, and lodged on the lower stretches of its upper
surface; but Nordenskjöld found this same dust in like quantity on the
interior ice-fields of Greenland, where for miles around there were
no mountains near, and also on ice-hummocks that quite surmounted the
ice-plains, as well as on the nearest hills. During their long sojourn
in the land of ice, they searched very carefully for any traces of
small stones even as large as a pin’s head; but they could find none;
while many square miles were covered by this fine dust, gray in its
dry state, and becoming black when moist. It was therefore at last
decided that this dark-coloured matter must be a precipitate from the
atmosphere, and that the summer sun melting the snows, had allowed
numerous dust-showers to accumulate thus, one on the top of the other.
Nordenskjöld further thinks that it is not exclusively earth-dust
wafted thither by currents of air, but that it contains a number of
metallic particles, that can be extracted by a magnet, consisting, like
the metallic meteor-stones, of iron, nickel, and cobalt. This metallic
cosmic dust, which has been noticed previously in our pages, and which
is spread over the whole world, is best observed and gathered on these
vast snow and ice fields, and as it also bears a similitude to our
ordinary earth-dust, Nordenskjöld has given it the name of Kyrokonit,
or ice-dust.
At first, the alga of the red snow was looked upon as the sole
inhabitant of the ice-lands of the polar regions; but in 1870, Dr
Berggren, botanist of Nordenskjöld’s expedition, discovered a second
or reddish-brown alga. It is allied to the ‘snow-blossom,’ but has
this peculiarity, that it is never found on _snow_, but combined with
the kyrokonit, it covers enormous tracts of _ice_, giving to them
a beautiful purple brown tint, which greatly adds to their beauty.
Besides growing on the surface of the ice, this red-brown alga was also
found in holes one or two feet deep, and three or four feet across,
in some parts so numerous and close together that there was scarcely
standing-room between them. A closer examination showed that this very
alga was the cause of these holes, as wherever it spreads itself, it
favours the melting of the ice. The dark-brown body absorbs more heat
than either the gray dust or the snow, therefore it sinks ever deeper
into the hollows, until the slanting rays of the sun can no longer
reach it.
Thus these microscopic algæ play the same part on the ice-fields of
Greenland that small stones do on European glaciers. By creating holes,
they give the warm summer air a larger surface to take hold of, and
thus materially assist the melting of the ice. Perhaps it is to these
microscopic atoms that we owe some of the vast changes that our globe
has experienced; it may be by their agency that the vast wastes of snow
that in the glacial period covered great tracts both of the European
and American continents for some distance from the poles, have melted
gradually away and given place to shady woods and fields of grain. It
is indeed a remarkable instance of the power and importance of even the
smallest thing in nature; all the more interesting in this case, that
the sun creates for itself in these tiny dark atoms, the instruments
for boring through the ice.
One important fact we must not forget to mention in conclusion,
namely, that these microscopic plants have tempted many insects—to
which they serve as food—into these inhospitable regions. A small
black glacier flea lives principally on the red snow; and even in the
arctic regions we find many tiny insects subsisting entirely on the
red and green algæ. These insects, too, possess the same property
as the algæ, of shutting themselves up in capsules during the long
winter, and like them too, remain alive even when in a dried condition.
When Professor Wittrock, in the winter of 1880 to 1881, placed the
dried spores of the red snow in water to germinate, a number of tiny
colourless worms appeared, still living. Thus even the stern, rigid
north pole cannot prevent the universal spread of life; and if those
cosmological prophets are right who declare that the whole surface
of the earth will one day be covered with snow and ice, then these
minute insects will have an ample store of food in the red, green, and
brown algæ, and as the last of living beings, will be able to mock
at the general stagnation; ay, perhaps even become the foundation of
a fresh development of life on our earth, should any cosmical cause
sufficiently increase the temperature.
OCCASIONAL NOTES.
EXTENDED USE OF GAS COOKING-STOVES.
We have repeatedly called attention to the practical utility and
convenience of gas-stoves for cooking purposes, and facts to hand
seem to show that these are being largely taken advantage of by the
public. Many gas Companies now lend them out at a cheap rate, and they
may be had for purchase at a price to suit most buyers. Since the
Corporation Gas Company of Glasgow introduced the system of hiring out
these stoves, about three thousand five hundred had been lent out in
six months, and the demand continues unabated. In hotels, restaurants,
and many a private home, they are found doing their work with economy,
ease, and a great saving of labour.
Dr Stevenson Macadam, speaking of gas-cooking in its sanitary aspects,
says: ‘The wholesomeness of the meat cooked in the gas-stoves must be
regarded as beyond doubt; gas-cooked meat will be found to be more
juicy and palatable, and yet free from those alkaloidal bodies produced
during the confined cooking of meat, which are more or less hurtful,
and even poisonous.’ A joint cooked in a gas-oven weighs heavier than
the same joint cooked in a coal-oven, from the fact, that in the case
of the gas-cooked joint the juices are more perfectly preserved.
At the East London Hospital, where the entire cooking for an enormous
number of patients is done by gas, the managers calculate that
fully six hundred pounds is saved yearly since the introduction of
gas-cooking.
For the extended use of gas-stoves in Scotland, the public is greatly
indebted to R. and A. Main, Glasgow, who are ever ready to adopt
everything new in gas-apparatus. Gas is also now largely used in
connection with washing by means of steam. When we noticed Morton’s
Steam-washer, probably not more than half a dozen had adopted this easy
and economical method of washing, in Scotland, and now those who do so
may be counted by the hundred.
AUTOMATIC RAILWAY COUPLING.
For several months past, some of the goods-wagons working the traffic
on the South Dock Railway lines of the East and West India Dock Company
have (says the _Times_) been fitted with a new form of coupling, which
possesses several important advantages over the ordinary coupling. Not
the least of these are simplicity in construction and automaticity,
combined with certainty in action. The coupling is the invention of Mr
J. H. Betteley, of 42 Old Broad Street, London, and consists of a long
shackle which is attached to the drawbar, and stands out at a slight
angle of depression from the carriage or wagon. Connected with this
shackle is a hook of special shape, which is attached to a bar running
across the carriage front, and having a short lever fixed on either end
just outside the buffers. To couple the vehicles, they are run together
in the usual way, and, on meeting, the shackle on one carriage runs up
the shackle on the other and instantly engages with the hook. Thus the
shunter has no dangerous work whatever to perform. To uncouple, he has
simply to depress the lever, which action raises the hook and releases
the shackle. The hook is so formed that no matter how much bumping of
the carriages there may be, it cannot be freed from the shackle without
the intervention of the lever, and the combination therefore forms a
perfectly safe and reliable coupling. In fact, the whole train could
be coupled up automatically, and the engaged hook and shackle then
constitute a locking apparatus which prevents the carriages becoming
accidentally detached. The coupling can, moreover, be used on any kind
of railway vehicle, and it is of no moment if the couplings are not all
on the same level, as the higher shackle will always travel up the
lower one and engage with the hook of the latter. The apparatus has
been examined and the trucks fitted with it have been severely tested
by General Hutchinson and Major Marindin, of the Board of Trade, who
have given it their united approval. It certainly appears to be well
fitted to supersede the ordinary coupling, which has cost so many lives.
CHARLES DICKENS AT WORK.
An unpretentious volume entitled _Charles Dickens_ has been issued in
the ‘World’s Workers’ series (Cassell & Co.), written by the eldest
daughter of the great novelist. It is simply and pleasantly compiled,
and though it may be read through at a sitting, it gives a good idea
as to what manner of man Dickens was, and how he lived, talked, wrote,
and spoke. As Forster’s Life of Dickens is beyond the reach of many,
this book, which has been specially written for the young, will form
a good introduction to his writings, of which there is a complete
summary at the end of the volume. It forms an affectionate tribute from
a daughter to a father, and, as was to be expected, exhibits the more
human side of his character. A sketch of his demeanour in his study,
as witnessed by one of his daughters, who had been taken there after
an illness, will have the charm of novelty to many people. ‘For a long
time there was no sound but the rapid moving of his pen on the paper;
then suddenly he jumped up, looked at himself in the glass, rushed
back to his desk, then to the glass again, when presently he turned
round and faced his daughter, staring at her, but not seeing her, and
talking rapidly to himself, then once more back to his desk, where he
remained writing until luncheon-time.... It was wonderful to see how
completely he threw himself into the character his own imagination had
made, his face, indeed his whole body, changing, and he himself being
lost entirely in working out his own ideas. Small wonder that his works
took so much out of him, for he did literally _live_ in his books while
writing them, turning his own creations into living realities, with
whom he wept, and with whom he rejoiced.’
PLASTERING MADE EASY.
Architects and those interested in the erection of new houses have
frequently looked upon the application of plaster as one of the
greatest drawbacks of modern building, showing, besides, a marked
deterioration from old plaster-work, such as that found on walls of
ancient buildings, some of which, of a highly decorative character,
may still be found almost as sound as when first executed. In
Hardwick Old Hall, Derbyshire, though roof and floor are gone, the
decorative friezes still remain in wonderful preservation. Many ancient
manor-houses and farm-buildings show specimens of fine and enduring
plaster-work.
A new cement has been invented, and patented, which appears to have
the qualities of both cement and plaster, and greatly simplifies the
process. The patentees are Joseph Robinson & Co., of the Knothill
Cement and Plaster Works, near Carlisle, who have been engaged in the
manufacture of plaster for the past sixty years. From the almost
inexhaustible products of their alabaster quarries in Inglewood Forest,
this new cement is made. It is claimed for it that, while being equal
to the Keene’s and Parian cements now in use, it is cheap enough to be
used as they are, and also as a substitute for ordinary plastering.
In the erection of new buildings, the plasterer’s pit takes up much
room, and is often looked upon as a necessary evil. In putting on the
common three coats of plaster, the second and third can only be laid on
when that before it is sufficiently dry. Owing to the unequal shrinkage
of the different materials, it is often an uncertain method of doing
good work. When using the cement we speak of, the plasterers can be
put into a room with the requisite quantities of sand and cement, and
work straight away. There is no delay required for drying, for as fast
as one coat is done, the finishing coat can be run on and the whole
completed. It has the merit, also, of neither shrinking nor expanding,
is impervious to absorption and infection, and its hard surface affords
facilities for washing or taking on paint.
As to its fire-resisting qualities, Captain Shaw, of the Metropolitan
Fire Brigade, is of opinion that it ‘would be much more effectual in
preventing the spread of fire than any other of the common plasters or
cements generally used in this country.’
AT WAKING.
I bore dead Love unto his grave,
Beneath a willow, in winter’s rain,
Where he might feel the branches wave,
And hear me, if he woke again.
One withered rose-tree on his tomb
I planted, so that, by-and-by,
If he should wake, the rose might bloom,
And I should know, and hear him cry.
I decked his breast with rosemary,
Laid on his lips one violet,
That once he kissed; I think if he
Should wake, he will not quite forget.
I set a crown about his brow,
The crown affection weaves and wears;
At waking, he will hardly know,
I fear, whose diadem he shares.
I placed a lily in his hand—
Sceptre of his dead sovereignty;
At waking, will he understand
_Who_ placed it there, to bloom or die?
I laid my heart, that for his sake
Remembers now no old sweet strain,
Close to his ear; he, if he wake,
Perchance may tune its strings again.
If he should wake! Till death be dead,
Till life begin, and sleep be past,
Till on his breast he lay thy head,
And flowers begin to bloom at last—
O soul, remember! lest by thee
That unknown sweetness be forgot
Which now thou lookest for, and he
Bid thee ‘Depart! I know thee not.’
SIDNEY R. THOMPSON.
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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
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_All Rights Reserved._