Chapter III

Mr Carver of Bedford Row, in the county of Middlesex, was exercised in his mind; and the most annoying part of it was that he was so exercised at his own trouble and expense; that is to say, he was not elucidating some knotty legal point at the charge of a client, but he was speculating over one of the most extraordinary events that had ever happened to him in the whole course of his long and honourable career. The matter stood briefly thus: His client, Charles Morton, of Eastwood, Somersetshire, died on the 9th of April in the year of grace 1882. On the 1st of May 1880, Mr Carver had made the gentleman’s will, which left all his possessions, to the amount of some forty thousand pounds, to his niece, Eleanor Attewood. Six months later, Mr Morton’s half-sister, Miss Wakefield, took up her residence at Eastwood, and from that time everything had changed. Eleanor had married the son of a clergyman in the neighbourhood, and at the instigation of his half-sister, Mr Morton had disinherited his niece; and one year before he died, had made a fresh will, leaving everything to Miss Wakefield. Mr Carver, be it remarked, strongly objected to this injustice, seeing the baleful influence which had brought it about; and had he been able to find Eleanor, he hoped to alter the unjust state of things. But she disappeared with her husband, and left no trace behind her; so the obnoxious will was proved.

Then came the most extraordinary part of the affair. With the exception of a few hundreds in the bank at Eastwood, for household purposes, not a single penny of Mr Morton’s money could be found. All his property was mortgaged to a high amount; all his securities were disposed of, and not one penny could be traced. The mortgages on the property were properly drawn up by a highly respectable solicitor at Eastwood, the money advanced by a man of undoubted probity; and further, the money had been paid over to Mr Morton one day early in the year 1883. Advertisements were inserted in the papers, in fact everything was done to trace the missing money, but in vain. All Miss Wakefield had for her pains and trouble was a poor sum of about eleven hundred pounds, so she had to retire again to her genteel poverty in a cheap London boarding-house.

This melancholy fact did not give Mr Carver any particular sorrow; he disliked that lady, and was especially glad that her deep cunning and underhand ways had frustrated themselves. In all probability, he thought, Mr Morton had in a fit of suspicion got hold of all his ready cash and securities, for the purpose of balking the fair lady whom he had made his heiress; but nevertheless the affair was puzzling, and Mr Carver hated to be puzzled.

Mr Carver stood in his office in Bedford Row, drumming his fingers on the grimy window-panes and softly whistling. Nothing was heard in the office but the scratch of the confidential clerk’s quill pen as he scribbled out a draft for his employer’s inspection.

‘This is a very queer case, Bates, very queer,’ said Mr Carver, addressing his clerk.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mr Bates, continuing the scratching. That gentleman possessed the instinct of always being able to divine what his chief was thinking of. Therefore, when Mr Bates said ‘Yes, sir,’ he knew that the Eastwood mystery had been alluded to.

‘I’d most cheerfully give—let me see, what would I give? Well, I wouldn’t mind paying down my cheque for’——

‘One thousand pounds, sir. No, sir; I don’t think you would.’

‘You’re a wonderful fellow, Bates,’ said his admiring master. ‘’Pon my honour, Bates, that’s the exact sum I was going to mention.’

‘It _is_ strange, sir,’ said the imperturbable Bates, ‘that you and I always think the same things. I suppose it is being with you so long. Now, if I was to _think_ you would give me a partnership, perhaps you would think the same thing too.’

‘Bates,’ said Mr Carver earnestly, never smiling, as was his wont, at his clerk’s quiet badinage, ‘if we unravel this mystery, as I hope we may, I’ll tell you what, Bates, don’t be surprised if I give you a partnership.’

‘Ah, sir, if we unravel it. Now, if we could only find’——

‘Miss Eleanor. Just what I was thinking.’

At this moment a grimy clerk put his head in at the door.

‘Please, sir, a young person of the name of Seaton.’

‘It is Miss Eleanor, by Jove!’ said Bates, actually excited.

‘Wonderful!’ said Mr Carver.

In a few seconds the lady was ushered into the presence of Mr Carver. She was tall and fair, with a style of beauty uncommon to the people of to-day. Clad from head to foot in plain black, hat, jacket, and dress cut with a simplicity almost severe, and relieved only by a white collar at the throat, there was something in her air and bearing which spoke of a culture and breeding not easily defined in words, but nevertheless unmistakable. It was a face and figure that men would look at and turn again to watch, even in the busy street. Her complexion was almost painfully perfect in its clear pallid whiteness, and the large dark lustrous eyes shone out from the marble face with dazzling brightness. She had a perfect abundance of real golden hair, looped up in a great knot behind; but the rebellious straying tresses fell over her broad low forehead like an aureole round the head of a saint.

For a few moments she regarded Mr Carver with a faint, wavering, unsteady smile. That gentleman tried to speak, and then blew his nose with unnecessary and ostentatious violence.

‘Don’t you know me, Mr Carver?’ she said at length.

‘My dear Eleanor, my dear Eleanor, do sit down!’ This was the person whom he had been longing for two years to see, and Mr Carver, cool as he was, was rather knocked off his balance for a moment.

‘Poor child! Why, why didn’t you come and see me before?’

‘Pride, Mr Carver—pride,’ she replied, with a painful air of assumed playfulness.

‘But surely pride did not prevent your coming to see your old friend?’

‘Indeed, it did, Mr Carver. You would not have me part with one of my few possessions?’

‘Nonsense, nonsense!’ said the lawyer, with assumed severity. ‘Now, sit down there, and tell me everything you have done for the last two years.’

‘It is soon told. When my uncle—poor deluded man—turned me, as he did, out of his house on account of my marriage, something had to be done; so we came to London. For two years my husband has been trying to earn a living by literature. Far better had he stayed in the country and taken to breaking stones or working in the fields. It is a bitter life, Mr Carver. The man who wants to achieve fortune that way must have a stout heart; he must be devoid of pride and callous to failure. If I had all the eloquence of a Dickens at my tongue’s end, I could not sum up two years’ degradation and bitter miserable poverty and disappointment better than in the few words, “Trying to live by literature.”—However, it is useless to struggle against it any longer. Mr Carver, sorely against my inclination, I have come to you to help us.’

‘My dear child, you hurt me,’ said Mr Carver huskily, ‘you hurt me; you do indeed. For two years I have been searching for you everywhere. You have only to ask me, and you know anything I can I will do.’

‘God bless you,’ replied Eleanor, with the gathering tears thick in her eyes. ‘I know you will. I knew that when I came here. How can I thank you?’

‘Don’t do anything of the sort; I don’t want any thanks. But before you go, I will do something for you. Now, listen to me. Before your uncle died’——

‘Died! Is he dead?’

‘How stupid of me. I didn’t know’——

Mr Carver stopped abruptly, and paused till the natural emotions called forth in the young lady’s mind had had time to expend themselves. She then asked when the event had happened.

‘Two years ago,’ said Mr Carver. ‘And now, tell me—since you last saw him, had you any word or communication from him in any shape or form? Any letter or message?’

Eleanor shook her head, half sadly, half scornfully.

‘You don’t seem to know Miss Wakefield,’ she said. ‘No message was likely to reach me, while _she_ remained at Eastwood.’

‘No; I suppose not. So you have heard nothing? Very good. Now, a most wonderful thing has happened. When your uncle died and his will came to be read, he had left everything to Miss Wakefield. No reason to tell you that, I suppose? Now comes the strangest part of the story. With the exception of a few hundreds in the local bank, not a penny can be found. All the property has been mortgaged to the uttermost farthing; all the stock is sold out; and, in fact, nothing is left but Eastwood, which, as you know, is a small place, and not worth much. We have been searching for two years, and not a trace can we find.’

‘Perhaps Miss Wakefield is hiding the plunder away,’ Eleanor suggested with some indifference.

‘Impossible,’ eagerly exclaimed Mr Carver—‘impossible. What object could she have in doing so? The money was clearly left to her; and it is not likely that a woman so fond of show would deliberately choose to spend her life in a dingy lodging-house.’

‘And Eastwood?’

‘Is empty. It will not let, neither can we sell it.’

‘So Miss Wakefield is no better off than she was four years ago!’ Eleanor said calmly. ‘Come, Mr Carver, that is good news, at anyrate. It almost reconciles me to my position.’

‘Nelly, I wish you would not speak so,’ said Mr Carver seriously. ‘It hurts me. You were not so hard at one time.’

‘Forgive me, my dear old friend,’ she replied simply. ‘Only consider what a life we have been leading for the past two years, and you will understand.’

‘And your husband?’

‘Killing himself,’ she said; ‘wearing out body and soul in one long struggle for existence. It hurts me to see him. Always hoping, and always working, always smiling and cheerful before me; and ever the best of men and husbands. Dear friend, if you knew what he is to me, and saw him as I do day after day, literally wearing out, you would consider my seeming hardness pardonable. I am rebellious, you know.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr Carver, a suspicious gleam behind his spectacles; ‘I can understand it. The only thing I blame you for is that you did not come to me before. You know what a lonely old bachelor I am, and how—how rich I am. It would have been a positive kindness of you to come and see me.—Now, listen. On Sunday, you and your husband must come and dine with me. You know the old Russell Square address?’

‘God bless you for a true friend!’ said Eleanor, her tears flowing freely now. ‘We will come; and I may bring my little girl with me?’

‘Eh, what?’ replied the lawyer—‘little girl? Of course, of course! Then we will talk over old times, and see what can be done to make those cheeks look a little like they used to do.—So you have got a little girl, have you? Dear, dear, how the time goes!—Now, tell me candidly, do you want any assistance—any, ah—that is—a little—in short, money?’

Eleanor coloured to the roots of her hair, and was about to reply hastily, but said nothing.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Carver rapidly.—‘I think, Bates’——

But Mr Bates already had his hand on the cheque-book, and commenced to fill in the date. Mr Carver gave him a look of approbation, and flashed him a sign with his fingers signifying the amount.

‘I suppose you have some friends?’ he continued hastily, to cover Eleanor’s confusion. ‘It’s a poor world that won’t stand one good friend.’

‘Yes, we have one,’ replied Eleanor, her face lighting up with a tender glow—‘a good friend. You have heard of Jasper Felix the author? He is far the best friend we have.’

‘Heard of Felix! I should think I have. Read every one of his books. I am glad to hear of his befriending you. I knew the man who writes as he does must have a noble heart.’

‘He has. What we should have done without his assistance, I shudder to contemplate. I honestly believe that not one of my husband’s literary efforts would have been accepted, had it not been for him.’

‘I can’t help thinking, Nelly, that there is a providence in these things, and I feel that better days are in store for you. Anyway, it won’t be my fault if it is not so. I have a presentiment that things will come out all right in the end, and I fancy that your uncle’s fortune is hidden away somewhere; and if it is hidden away, it must be, I cannot help thinking, for your benefit.’

‘Don’t count upon it, Mr Carver,’ said Eleanor calmly. ‘I look upon the money as gone.’

‘Nonsense!’ said that gentleman cheerfully; ‘while there is life there is hope. I begin to feel that I am playing a leading character in a romance; I do, indeed! Firstly, your uncle dies, and his fortune is lost; secondly, you disappear; and at the very moment I am longing—literally longing—to see you, you turn up. Now, all that remains is to find the hidden treasure, and to be happy ever afterwards, like the people in a fairy tale.’

‘Always enthusiastic,’ laughed Eleanor. ‘All we have to do is to discover a mystic clue to a buried chest of diamonds, only we lack the clue.’

‘’Pon my word, my dear, do you know I really think you have hit it?’ replied Mr Carver with great solemnity. ‘Now, at the time you left Eastwood, your companion Margaret was in the house; and after your uncle’s death, she disappeared. From a little hint Miss Wakefield dropped to me, your old friend was in the sickroom alone with your uncle the day he died.’

‘Alone? and then disappeared,’ said Eleanor, all trace of apathy gone, and her eyes shining with interest.

‘Alone. Now, if we could only find Margaret Boulton’——

Eleanor rose from her seat, and approached Mr Carver slowly. Then she said calmly: ‘There is no difficulty about that; she is at my house now. I found her only last night on Waterloo Bridge—in fact, I saved her.’

‘Saved her? Didn’t I say there was a providence in it? Saved her?’

‘From suicide!’

* * * * *

A quarter of an hour later, Eleanor was standing outside Mr Carver’s office, evidently seeking a companion. From the bright flush on her face and the sparkle in her eyes, hope—and a strong hope—had revived. She stood there, quite unconscious of the admiration of passers-by, sweeping the street in search of her quest. Presently the object she was seeking came in view. He was a tall man, of slight figure, with blue eyes deeply sunk in a face far from handsome, but full of intellectual power and great character; a heavy, carelessly trimmed moustache hid a sensitive mouth, but did not disguise a bright smile. That face and figure was a famous one in London, and people there turned in the busy street to watch Jasper Felix, and admire his rugged powerful face and gaunt figure. He came swinging down the street now with firm elastic step, and treated Eleanor to one of his brightest smiles.

‘Did you think I had forgotten you?’ he said. ‘I have been prowling about Gray’s Inn Road, for, sooth to say, the air of Bedford Row does not agree with me.’

‘I hope I have not detained you,’ said Eleanor timidly; ‘I know how valuable your time is to you.’

‘My dear child, don’t mention it,’ replied the great novelist lightly; ‘my time has been well occupied. First, I have been watching a fight between two paviors. Do you know it is quite extraordinary how those powerful men can knock each other about without doing much harm. Then I have been having a long chat with an intellectual chimney-sweep—a clever man, but a great Radical. I have spent quite an enjoyable half-hour.’

‘A half-hour! Have I been so long? Mr Felix, I am quite horrified at having taken up so much of your time.’

‘Awful, isn’t it,’ he laughed lightly. ‘Well, you won’t detain me much longer, for here you are close at home.—Now, I will just run into Fleet Street on my own business, and try and sell this little paper of your husband’s at the same time. I’ll call in this afternoon; only, mind, you must look as happy as you do now.’

Jasper Felix made his way through a court into Holborn, and along that busy thoroughfare till he turned down Chancery Lane. Crossing the street by the famous _Griffin_, he disappeared in one of the interminable courts leading out of Samuel Johnson’s favourite promenade, Fleet Street. The object of his journey was here. On the door-plate was the inscription, ‘The _Midas Magazine_,’ and beneath the legend, ‘First Floor.’ Ascending the dingy stair, he stopped opposite a door on which, in white letters, was written the word ‘Editor.’ At this door he knocked. It was not the timid rap of a literary aspirant, but the important tap of a man who knew that he was welcome. Without pausing for a reply, he pushed open the door.

‘How de do, Simpson?’ said Mr Felix, with a look of amusement in his blue eyes.

‘Glad to see you, Felix,’ said the editor of the _Midas_ cordially. ‘I thought you had forgotten us. I hope you have something for our journal in your pocket.’

‘I _have_ something in my pocket to show you,’ answered Felix, ‘and I think you will appreciate it.’

‘Is it something of your own?’ queried the man of letters.

‘No, it is not; and, what is more, I doubt if I could write anything so good myself. I know when you have seen it, you will accept it.’

‘Um! I don’t know,’ replied the editor dubiously. ‘You see, I am simply inundated with amateur efforts. Of course, sometimes I get something good; but usually—— Now, if the matter in discussion was a manuscript of your own’——

‘Now, seriously, Simpson, what do you care for me or anything of mine? It is the name you want, not the work. You know well enough what sells magazines of the _Midas_ type. It is not so much the literary matter as the name. The announcement that the next month’s _Midas_ will contain the opening chapters of a new serial by some one with a name, is quite sufficient to increase your circulation by hundreds.’

‘’Pon my honour, you’re very candid,’ rejoined Mr Simpson. ‘But what is this wonderful production you have?’

‘Well, I’ll leave it with you. You need not trouble to read it, because, if you don’t take it, I know who will.’

‘What do you want for this triumph of genius?’

‘Well, in a word, ten pounds. Take it or leave it.’

‘If you say it is worth it, I suppose I must oblige you.’

‘That is a good way of putting it; and it will oblige me. But mark me—this man will some day confer favours by writing for you, instead of, as you regard it at present, favouring him.’

The proprietor of the _Midas_ sighed gently. The idea of paying over ten pounds to an unknown contributor was not nice, but the fact of offending Felix was worse.

‘If,’ said he, harping on the old string, and shaking his head with a gentle deprecating motion—‘if it was one of yours now’——

‘What confounded nonsense you talk!’ exclaimed Felix impatiently.

‘Don’t get wild, Felix,’ replied Mr Simpson soothingly. ‘I will take your protégé’s offering, to oblige you.’

‘But I don’t want you to oblige me. I want you to accept—and pay for—an article good enough for anything. It is a fair transaction; and if there is any favour about it, then it certainly is not on your side.’

Mr Simpson showed his white teeth in a dazzling smile. ‘Well, Felix, I do admire your assurance,’ he said loftily. ‘I never heard the matter put in that light before. My contributors, as a rule, don’t point their manuscript at my head metaphorically, and demand speedy insertion and prompt pay.—Do you want a cheque for this manuscript now?’

‘Yes, you may as well give me the cash now.’

Mr Simpson drew a cheque for the desired amount, and passed it over to Felix, who folded the pink slip and placed it in his pocket; whereupon the conversation drifted into other channels.

REVOLUTION BELOW-STAIRS.

The relations of employer and employed in private life and in public are in a state of transition. The foundations of society itself are undergoing drastic modifications, which will either sap or enhance its strength. The air is charged with reform in every department of social life. The very conditions of existence are more or less in the crucible. The connection between man and man, between woman and man, between man and the State, or woman and the State, are every one of them passing through an ordeal of stringent examination. In no direction is the old order of things vanishing more rapidly than in the household. The relations of mistress and maid are not to-day what they were yesterday, or what they will be to-morrow. A hundred years ago, servants were more part and parcel of the establishment than they are now. They entered a family, in the majority of cases, whilst they were young, and marriage or death was the only cause of separation in general. It never occurred to the domestic of the past to ‘give notice,’ any more than it occurred to the mistress to dismiss her servants, on the slightest provocation.

We need not travel far to ascertain what are the agencies which have wrought the change. The same influences which are every day giving the working classes increased power have affected in at least an equally pronounced degree the domestic employee. In 1886, the footman or the housemaid, the butler or the cook, is perhaps as well educated as were many heads of households in 1786. If the upper classes are now more cultured than they were in the olden days, so are the lower classes. Advertising mediums, cheapness and ease of locomotion, and the ever-spreading education of the masses, were boons undreamed of by the ‘Jeames’ whom Thackeray portrayed. Before these results of our progress were realised, the sphere within which the energies of servants found play was exceedingly limited. Beyond the locality in which they lived and the immediate circle of their master’s acquaintances, the world was to them little more than a blank and a mystery. To-day, they are nearly as familiar with the world as are their masters.

The sooner this is understood and appreciated, the better for the peace and stability of households. It is an invariable rule that the most contented homes are those in which the servant is treated with the greatest respect. Servants must be servants. No one but a lunatic would suggest that they had any right to enter the drawing-room or the dining-room on a footing of equality with its owner. But not less idiotic is it to imagine that they will much longer consent to be regarded as only one degree removed from the beast of burden. Their opportunities for acquiring knowledge are so manifold that it would be wonderful if this were not the case. Ladies and gentlemen sitting round their table are apt to forget that the man or maid waiting upon them has ears, and that their comments on life and the way the world is wagging, cannot fail to excite attention on the part of the domestic. Topics thrashed out in the dining-room or drawing-room are frequently carried below-stairs, and there subjected to a similar process, though it may be on very different lines. The result, equally with that of love as defined by Kenelm Chillingly, must inevitably be ‘a disturbance of the mental equilibrium.’

The unrest which characterises society itself characterises every section of the community. To ‘better’ themselves is the lifelong aim of servants in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. Good servants are already at a premium. The complaint is constantly made that whilst domestics are more independent than of yore, their work is less carefully attended to. Those who understand the forces at work in our midst have no difficulty in recognising that, as time goes on, first-class servants will become rarer still. Preposterous as it may seem, this phenomenon is only another phase of the ‘social status’ question. There is, quite without reason, attaching to service a certain disposition on the part of many of our domestics to resent the washing-up of dishes or the cleaning of a floor.

The rule is not, of course, absolute, and there are many really good servants who enter a family and stay in it a number of years. But the tendency of the period is nomadic. In some quarters, there is a disposition to account for the perpetual changing of servants on the ground that servants love change. This is not altogether accurate. Many dislike nothing so much as fresh faces and fresh work, and are by no means eager to enter upon the duties of their new home. Others, however, leave one situation with the express hope that they may never enter another, and if employment of a different kind offers, eagerly avail themselves of it, albeit generally to their own disadvantage. Thousands of young men and women in every way qualified for service are swamping many callings. Milliners, dressmakers, clerks, shop-assistants—what a host might be found in the ranks of these who would constitute first-class recruits for private service! It is a fact, that whilst their numbers are on the increase, the numbers of domestics are almost stationary. During the decade 1871 to 1881, the census proved that indoor servants had increased by only one per cent., and consequently, proportionately to the increase of population, were scarcer in 1881 than ten years before. On the other hand, clerks had doubled; milliners had increased by nearly nineteen per cent.; dressmakers, by nearly eight per cent.; and seamstresses, by over five per cent.

These figures afford food for reflection. A large proportion of the young men and women to whom they refer are earning barely enough to keep body and soul together. In most cases they are a load upon the shoulders of their friends. For some months of the year the majority are without work. When they are in work, their money will never more than cover immediate wants. Would they not be better off beneath the gentleman’s roof with regular food and regular money? No one who knows anything at all about them will hesitate for a moment to reply in the affirmative. ‘Why, then,’ it will be, and often is asked, ‘do they not go into service?’ It would be found that if they applied for a situation in the household to-morrow, they would want to become ladies’-maids or valets. This disposition is to be explained on two grounds. First, exceptional privileges attach to the personal attendant; secondly, the lower grades of the domestic calling are still regarded with the feelings to which George Eliot gave expression in her dissertation on servants’ logic. The ordinary servant is too frequently and often unjustly branded with the mark of servility and ignorance not only among the upper classes, but to some extent among the industrial classes. To be ‘only a servant’ is, in the society in which the artisan or the clerk moves, to be entitled to less consideration than is given to those who follow a more independent calling. Just as it is the genius of the stage who alone is recognised in the best society, so it is only a few servants who have the power of impressing those with whom they come in contact with their worth, who secure friends outside the domestic circle.

The growing antipathy to service is a sign of the times which has to be reckoned with. Nor is this wonderful. No class of the community are kept to so perpetual a round of labour as the domestic servant. With the exception of an occasional afternoon or evening—often it is not more than once in a fortnight—those who live below-stairs rarely have an hour which they can call entirely their own. They may perhaps frequently have an opportunity of getting through their work early in the day, but they must not leave the house till they have asked permission. Again, they may stay in the same family for many years. But what do they gain by it? There is in England no such recognition of long and faithful service as exists in Germany. Seven years ago, the Empress of the Fatherland instituted a Long Service Order, and since that time many hundreds of domestic servants who have lived with the same master and mistress for forty years, have received from royalty diplomas and golden crosses.

Is such an Order impossible in Great Britain? Could we not modify and adapt it to ourselves? If a person is to work well for any length of time, some motive must be found. Why should not a system of rewards be adopted? No one can doubt that if a lady, when engaging a domestic, said, ‘Supposing you stay with me and perform your duties to the best of your ability for ten years, I will, in consideration thereof, present you at the termination of your engagement with twenty-five pounds,’ the effect would be beneficial. On condition of being assured that the money was safe, many servants, for the sake of the bonus, would consent to accept lesser wages than they receive at present. Even though the plan now suggested cost a few pounds more than would be spent under existing circumstances, would not the freedom from worry and anxiety be ample compensation? The outlay, however, would probably amount to little more than is now expended in advertising, in paying fares to and from the house for the purpose of interviews, and in various other ways incidental to the constantly recurring necessity of engaging servants.

Further, there can be no reason why mistresses should not agree to let each of their servants have a certain number of hours during the week which they may consider their own. The one drawback to service, in the eyes of many who would be better off in service than they are now, is, that they cannot have the evenings which at present are at their disposal. If the housewife gives the matter a little thought, she will see that this is an enigma the solution of which is not impracticable. The future must be pregnant with reform in the relations between the occupants of the drawing-room and of the servants’ hall. If masters and mistresses are wise, they will rob the revolutionary spirit of the age of any force it may have, by anticipating in a generous and liberal-handed manner claims which, if ignored, may result in a condition of things as undesirable as that which to-day obtains in Australia, where servants, at least as they are known in the old country, are non-existent.

A SUBAQUEOUS EXCURSION.

Our good-fortune in obtaining permission to descend a caisson of the gigantic Forth Bridge—which when completed will be one of the most stupendous railway viaducts in the world—obtained additional zest from the fact that comparatively few structures are founded on what is termed the pneumatic principle in this country—the employment of compressed air being more in vogue on the continent—and still fewer are open to the passing visitor, uninfluenced alike by professional or scientific ardour.

Arrived at North Queensferry, on the Fife side of the Firth of Forth, we embark for the island in mid-channel, and rounding the easternmost promontory of the rock, see before us a huge iron cylinder, which, but for the incongruity of its position, we should take for a gasometer, and not a caisson. We land, and are forthwith marshalled to the dressing-room. Leathern caps and garments of a sombre blue hue are donned, and we are ready to descend. Before, however, proceeding, a brief outline of the working of a caisson, the end in view, and the means adopted in the attainment of that end, may be given, which will enable the reader to follow our movements.

Over the site of the proposed pier, a large circular cylinder is sunk, which rests on the rock-bottom, and has its upper edge slightly above high water. A horizontal floor divides the cylinder into two chambers. The lower chamber, seven feet in height, is charged with compressed air by machinery situated on shore, and connected with it by flexible hose. The air under pressure excludes the water, enabling workmen to descend into the lower chamber—which is, in fact, a large diving-bell—and to excavate the rock on which the caisson rests. The excavated material is drawn up in buckets or ‘skips’ and thrown over, whilst the caisson gradually descends by its own weight until a level bed is formed. The upper and lower chambers of the caisson are then filled with concrete, and this circular monolithic foundation carries the granite pier on which rests the steel superstructure. A tube, connecting the air-chamber below with an air-lock on the upper platform of the caisson, gives access to the working beneath. In principle, the air-lock of a caisson in no way differs from the well-known lock on a canal. The air-lock is formed by a tube of larger diameter, which surrounds the upper end of the vertical tube leading to the air-chamber.

Having entered this outer chamber, the door is closed behind us, and our connection with the outer world severed. A cock is turned, and with a steady hiss, the compressed air enters, a fact of which we soon become painfully conscious by the pressure that is brought to bear upon the drum of the ear. We follow the directions previously given us, and by copiously swallowing the compressed air and forcing it into the ears, with closed nostrils, we equalise the pressure on both sides of the drums, and succeed in accommodating ourselves to the novel atmospheric conditions. The inrush of compressed air at length ceases; and the pressure being now equal in the outer chamber—in which we are—and the internal tube, the door between them opens without difficulty. We enter, and descending a vertical ladder some ninety feet, we find ourselves in the air-chamber, and standing on the solid rock-bed of the Firth of Forth fifty feet below water-level. The scene is as striking as it is novel. A circular iron chamber, seventy feet in diameter and seven feet high, brilliantly illuminated by arc-lights suspended from the roof. Groups of foreign workmen—enlisted for this service, owing to continental experience in this class of work—are busily engaged in levelling the surface of the rock. The majority of these men wield pick and bar; whilst others fill the iron tubs or ‘skips’ with the fragments of rock, which are then drawn to the surface, passing through a lock similar in principle, though differing slightly in design from that we have ourselves traversed; and having discharged their contents over the edge of the caisson, return for another load.

We would fain linger amid a scene so weird and wonderful; but time fails, and we must return to ‘bank.’ We take a last look at the air-chamber with its busy occupants, and ascending the ladder, not without exertion, for a vertical ladder at all times calls muscle into play, and the pressure we are under by no means lightens our labours, we find ourselves again in the air-lock. The reverse process now takes place. The inner door is closed, the compressed air is allowed to escape from the outer chamber in which we now are, and causes a thick mist, cold and chilly. Before long, the pressure ceases; the outer door opens, and we again tread terra firma. The pressure-gauge records thirty pounds per square inch.

We now discard our exploring garments, and having enjoyed a not unneedful wash, we quit the works, and returning homewards, congratulate each other on having trodden the very foundations of the wonderful Forth Bridge, and ponder how little the future traveller, as he lightly skims the estuary at sixty miles an hour, will think of the practical ingenuity and patient labour that wrought, deep down beneath the waters of the Forth, the foundations on which repose the huge structures through which the flying express is whirling him.

OCCASIONAL NOTES.

BORAX.

We learn from a contemporary a good deal that is interesting about the history and preparation for the market of the borax of commerce. In 1874 Mr A. Robottom, prospecting for commercial purposes some of the vast tracts of unoccupied land in Southern California, came across a long deep valley, about fifteen by eight miles, which was apparently the basin, or series of basins, of once active volcanoes. This valley was covered with crude borates, combined with earthy impurities. The heat was oppressive, one hundred and nineteen degrees in the shade; and the atmosphere so dry, that even breathing was difficult. At this time, the explorer’s attention was drawn to a dark object lying upon the ground, upon which he seated himself, and found it was a dead horse. He was naturally surprised that no smell emanated from the carcase, and taking out his knife, he cut to the bones, only to find that the flesh was quite sweet. The explanation of this was that the boron from the boracic land had saturated it thoroughly. He learned afterwards that the carcase of this horse had lain there for seven months, having been left by a party of emigrants. The remarkable antiseptic powers of boron in its crude state having thus been proved to him, he took over this Boron Valley for the State of California, and arranged with a Company in England to make it available for commercial purposes.

As it reaches this country, Californian borax, after being freed from its earthy elements at the Borax Lake, is put up in small bags, and consists of pure white crystals, which are crushed into a fine, white, almost inpalpable powder in the factories. After undergoing various processes, it comes out eventually to the outside world as borax extract of soap, borax dry soap, washing-powders, &c. In one factory, over thirty-seven million of packets are turned out annually. This prepared Californian borax is used in the laundry, for washing cattle, for helping to heal wounds, and many other household purposes. Its virtues in preventing decomposition in hams and salted meats are also well known. Water containing one per cent. of borax will keep pure and sweet for years, and remain safe for drinking.

The soap prepared with borax, however, has been thought by some to have a more corrosive influence on fibres than common soap. In Belgium, powdered borax is used for washing purposes, with a view to economise soap; while in Sweden, meat and milk are largely preserved by means of boracic acid, its use in no way rendering these viands less wholesome. It is also valuable for hard soldering, and is in use for pottery glazes and enamels.

In addition to the natural supply of crude borax already mentioned, this substance is largely made from boracic or boric acid, found among the matters ejected around the craters of volcanoes. Works for utilising and preparing it exist in the Maremma of Tuscany, where the acid is condensed from the boiling springs and heated gases issuing from fissures in the rocks. It is also found in Central Asia, Canada, Peru, and in Nevada, United States.

AMERICANISMS.

The _Globe_, in an article by an ‘American Journalist,’ says: ‘The opportunity may here be taken to gently suggest that the word Yankee is very often misapplied on this side of the Atlantic. It is a genuine American word, but it only applies to the inhabitants of a certain part of the big Republic. A stranger in the States describing an inhabitant of Cincinnati, or St Louis, or Richmond, Virginia, as a Yankee, would stand a good chance of a broken head, or even worse. As a matter of fact, the Yankees are the people who inhabit the New England States, and the title is considered a term of reproach, not to say insult, by all others. This, however, is all by the way. There are three terms very often quoted as American “slang,” which possess certain peculiarities of locality. These are “guess,” “calculate,” and “reckon.” One may travel through what are known as the Southern States for five years and never once hear either of the first two words, unless spoken by a Northerner or a man from the West. The Southerners “reckon” everything, except, perhaps, consequences, and they are left to take care of themselves. “Guess” is more or less universal in the States, and “calculate” is common only to the North and extreme East. “Straanger” is frequently erroneously used by English writers and speakers as an ordinary colloquialism of all Americans. It is the property of the South and South-west only, and even there is rapidly becoming obsolete. But to these expressions it is hardly fair to append the stigma of “slang.” Now there are plenty of slang words and phrases in vogue in America which probably are meaningless to English minds. A lady has purchased an article for considerably more than its value; she shows it to her husband, proclaiming its beauty and cheapness. He, seeing that she has been overcharged, endeavours to persuade her that such is the case, vainly, for she is quite satisfied with her bargain. “All right,” says he; “it’s not my funeral.” This is slang, pure and simple, but it has a derivation. It is an unintentional protest against the elaborate obsequial ceremonies indulged in by all classes in the United States, and it is a grim reference to one of those not unfrequent “shindies” that take place in Western bar-rooms, from which the men who escape with whole skins have reason to thank their stars that “it is not their funeral.” Many are the political and party expressions which may well come under the head of slang terms, such as “log-rolling,” “the bloody shirt”—a reference to the late civil war—“mugwumps”—a name given in ridicule to independent voters—“the ticket,” meaning the list of candidates recommended for election by either party, and so on. The speculative nature of nearly all Americans has originated the expression “you bet,” which is the basis of many phrases, as, “you bet your life,” “bet your sweet life,” “bet your bottom dollar,” “bet your boots,” “stake your pile,” “go the lot on that.” Favourite games of cards have caused such expressions as “euchred!” to signify that one is exposed or thwarted; “I pass,” meaning that one declines further conjecture or speculation; “let’s make a Jack-pot,” a proceeding in the game of poker similar to making a pool; “pooling the issues,” denoting an intention or proposal to put all the results of some action together and “divvy up” or divide equally among the partners. To “catch on” means to understand or comprehend quickly, and has its parallel on this side of the Atlantic in “do you catch my meaning?” It is usual in the States to call railways “railroads,” railway lines “tracks,” carriages “cars,” and stations “depots.” Tramway carriages are referred to as “street” or “horse” cars, in contradistinction to “steam-cars” or railway trains. A railway engine is known as a “locomotive,” in opposition to a stationary engine. The guards are all “conductors;” and there is no luggage, but all “baggage,” and hence porters are called opprobriously “baggage-smashers,” from their anything but gentle handling of the baggage. The speed of the trains has given rise to the phrase “to railroad a thing through,” meaning to get a thing done quickly; and the huge lamp which flashes along the line from the front of the engine has given its name to a special lamp-oil called “headlight oil.” Very nearly every State has its special provincialisms, and they are as numerous as the words peculiar to the counties of England. Climate has had a great deal to do with many of these peculiarities, the languid heat of the Southern States having induced a soft drawling accent and a habit of slurring over certain letters, syllables, and sounds.’

A NATURAL SALMON-TRAP.

The salmon, the cousin of the trout, is famous for its method of going up-stream; it darts at falls ten or twelve feet high, leaps into the air, and rushes up the falling water in a marvellous manner. So determined are the salmon to attain the high and safe waters, that in some localities nets are placed beneath the falls, into which the fish tumble in their repeated attempts to clear the hill of water. Other than human hunters, moreover, profit by these scrambles up-hill. Travellers report that on the banks of the Upper St John River, in Canada, there was once a rock in which a large circular well, or pot-hole, had been worn by the action of the water. At the salmon-season, this rock proved a favourite resort for bears; and for a good reason. Having an especial taste for salmon, the bears would watch at the pot-hole, and as the salmon, dashing up the fall, were thrown by its force into the rocky basin, the bears would quickly scrape them out of the pot-hole, and the poor salmon would be eaten before they had time to wonder at this unlooked-for reception. The Dominion government finally authorised a party of hunters to destroy the pot-hole, and thus break up the bears’ fishing-ground.

‘POOR JACK.’

A correspondent sends us the following. He says:

Reading the interesting article entitled ‘Poor Jack’ in the _Journal_ of the 7th November, I venture to send you a few notes, thinking that an excerpt from them may possibly be of interest to your readers. As the writer states, Jack is, thanks to the Board of Trade, much better off than he used to be. At all ports where there is not a separate Mercantile Marine Office, the custom-house is used as one, and the customs officials discharge the necessary duties. It is only at large ports that sailors are enabled to proceed home at once, if they _do_ reside—as is generally the case—at a seaport town. They receive a document from the Board of Trade officer, which they present to the officer at the port where they live; and he, being advised through post by the officer at the arrival port, pays the amount of wages due. Here Jack is protected thoroughly from all temptations, and usually arrives at home sober, with his hard-earned wages safe in his pocket. This beneficial system, however, is not extended to the middle-class and small ports, and at these places Jack too often falls a ready prey to the land-sharks. Usually, when a foreign-going ship arrives in port, some hours—or perhaps a day or two—elapse before Jack is paid off. In the meantime he has his liberty, and it is then that the land-sharks are on the lookout for him. They entice him to their houses and give him drink, and so manage matters that, when the ship is paid off and he receives his wages, he is already considerably indebted to them, and perhaps is in such a muddled condition as to be incapable of taking care of his money. Seamen’s Money Orders are of great service in rescuing Jack’s wages from the clutches of these plunderers. They are obtained free of charge and for any amount at the time the ship is paid off, and steady seamen generally make use of them. They can be drawn on any Mercantile Marine Office; and as the seaman can make them payable to himself if he is not married, they enable him to get a good portion of his wages home in safety without any expense or risk. What is wanted in many places is that some one concerned in the mission-work amongst sailors should be on the lookout when a ship arrives in port with a crew to pay off, and see the men lodged in respectable boarding-houses or sailors’ homes, so that they can send their wages home by means of the Money Orders; and also to see them safely to the railway station. It is grievous to think that the wages of many of our sailors, who have perhaps been out on a voyage of many months’ duration, should be dissipated in a few days, and most of it fall into the hands of the worthless creatures who live by this species of plunder.

A DESERTED GARDEN.

Tangled ivy creeps and twines
Where once bloomed my Lady’s flowers;
And the twisting wild woodbines
Weave o’er all their clustering bowers;
And the fruit-trees from the wall
Droop forgotten and forlorn,
And the rose-trees, thick and tall,
From their trellis-work are torn.
Dewy paths—once velvet-smooth
For the dainty steps of youth—
Weedy now, and overgrown
With the rank grass all unmown.

Here and there, amid confusion,
Gleams a berry scarlet-hued,
And pale bindweed in profusion
(By the summer breezes wooed),
Creeps, where once verbenas grew,
Or the myrtle flowered so fair
In the warm and scented air;
And the speedwell—deepest blue—
Shakes its frail flowers everywhere.

So, amid these paths—all haunted
By the memory of old flowers—
Grow these wild-wood blooms undaunted,
Through the glowing autumn hours.
Ah! how long ago it seems
Since bright faces glowed and smiled
In this garden of our dreams.
Now so desolate and wild!
They will come again no more,
And no time shall e’er restore
Golden days and fairy flowers
To these wearied hearts of ours.

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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._