Chapter II: Part 2

But in the year 1865 an important event happened. Mr Pudster and Mr Maggleby ran down by train one evening to see the fireworks at the Crystal Palace; and on their return journey they found themselves in a compartment the only other occupant of which was a remarkably buxom and cheery-looking widow of about forty years of age. The two gentlemen, with their accustomed gallantry, entered into conversation with her. They discovered that she and they had several friends in common, and that she was, in fact, a certain Mrs Bunter, whose many domestic virtues and abounding good-nature had often been spoken of in their hearing. They were charmed with her; they begged, as if with one accord, to be permitted to call upon her at her house in Chelsea; and when, after putting her into a cab at Victoria Station, they started off to walk home, they simultaneously exclaimed with enthusiasm: ‘What a splendid woman!’

‘Ah, Gideon!’ ejaculated Mr Pudster sentimentally, a few moments later.

‘Ah, Solomon!’ responded Mr Maggleby with equal passion.

‘If only we had such an angel at home to welcome us!’ continued the senior partner.

‘Just what I was thinking,’ assented Mr Maggleby, who thereupon looked up at the moon and sighed profoundly.

‘No other woman ever affected us in this way, Gideon,’ said Mr Pudster; ‘and here we are at fifty’——

‘Fifty last May, Solomon.’

‘Well, we ought to know better!’ exclaimed Mr Pudster with honest warmth.

‘So we ought, Solomon.’

‘But upon my word and honour, Gideon, Mrs Bunter’s a magnificent specimen of her sex.’

‘She is, Solomon; and I don’t think we can conscientiously deny that we are in love with her.’

‘We are,’ said Mr Pudster with much humility.

Having thus ingenuously confessed their passion, the two gentlemen walked on in silence; and it was not until they were near home that they again spoke.

‘I suppose that it will be necessary as a matter of formal business,’ suggested Mr Pudster diffidently, ‘for us to call upon Mrs Bunter and apprise her of the state of our feelings. We mean, of course, to follow the matter up?’

‘Certainly, certainly,’ agreed Mr Maggleby; ‘we mean to follow the matter up.’

‘Perhaps the firm had better write to her and prepare her mind,’ proposed the senior partner, with kindly forethought.

‘The firm had better write to-morrow, Solomon; but, Solomon, it occurs to me that the firm cannot marry Mrs Bunter. You or I must be the happy man; and then, Solomon, we shall have to separate.’

‘Never!’ ejaculated Mr Pudster, who stopped and seized his friend by the hand—‘never! You shall marry Mrs Bunter, and we will all live together.’

‘Solomon, this magnanimity!’ murmured Mr Maggleby, who had tears in his eyes. ‘No; I will not accept such a sacrifice. You, as the senior partner, shall marry Mrs Bunter; and, with her permission, I will stay with you. The firm shall write to prepare her mind. Business is business. The firm shall write to-night; and I myself will take the letter to the post.’

Half an hour later, Mr Maggleby handed to Mr Pudster a letter, of which the following is a copy:

14 MINCING LANE, CITY,
_August 4, 1865._

_To_ MRS FERDINAND BUNTER,
_Matador Villa, Chelsea._

MADAM—Our Mr Pudster will do himself the honour of calling
upon you to-morrow between twelve and one, in order to lay
before you a project which is very intimately connected with
the comfort and well-being of the undersigned. We beg you,
therefore, to regard any proposition that may be made to you by
our Mr P., as made to you on behalf of the firm and with its
full authority.—We remain, madam, most devotedly yours,

PUDSTER and MAGGLEBY.

‘How will that do?’ asked Mr Maggleby with conscious pride.

‘Excellently well, Gideon,’ said Mr Pudster. ‘But don’t you think that “most devotedly yours” sounds rather too distant? What do you say to “yours admiringly,” or “yours to distraction?”’

‘“Yours to distraction” sounds best, I think,’ replied Mr Maggleby after considerable reflection. ‘I will put that in, and re-copy the letter, Solomon.’

‘We are about to take an important step in life,’ said Mr Pudster seriously. ‘Are you sure, Gideon, that we are not acting too hastily?’

‘Mr Pudster!’ exclaimed Mr Maggleby warmly, ‘we may trust these sacred promptings of our finer feelings. We have lived too long alone. The firm needs the chaste and softening influence of woman. And who in this wide world is more fitted to grace our board than Mrs Bunter?’

‘So be it, then,’ assented the senior partner.

Mr Maggleby re-copied the letter, signed it with the firm’s usual signature, and carried it to the nearest letter-box. When he returned, he found his friend waiting to go to bed, and trying to keep himself awake by studying the marriage service.

On the following forenoon, Mr Pudster, with the scrupulous punctuality that is characteristic of City men, called at Matador Villa, Chelsea, and was at once shown into the presence of Mrs Bunter, who was waiting to receive him. ‘I am quite at a loss to understand why you have done me the honour of coming to see me to-day,’ said the widow. ‘From your letter, I judge that you have some business proposal to make to me. Unfortunately, Mr Pudster, I am not prepared to speculate in sugar. I am not well off. But, perhaps, I am under a misapprehension. The letter contains an expression which I do not understand.’

‘It is true,’ replied the senior partner, ‘that we _have_ some hope of persuading you to speculate a little in sugar; and there is no reason why your want of capital should prevent your joining us.’

‘I quite fail to grasp your meaning,’ said Mrs Bunter.

‘Well, I am not very good at explanations,’ said Mr Pudster; ‘but I will explain the situation as well as I can. You see, Mrs Bunter, Mr Maggleby my partner, and myself, are bachelors and live together. We find it dull. We long for the civilising influences of woman’s society. We are, in fact, tired of single-blessedness. The firm is at present worth a clear five thousand a year. It will support a third partner, we think; and so we propose, Mrs Bunter, that you should join it, and come and take care of us in a friendly way.’

Mrs Bunter looked rather uncomfortable, and was silent for a few moments. ‘You are very good,’ she said at last; ‘but although I am not well off, I had not thought of going out as a housekeeper. The late Mr Bunter left me enough for my little needs.’

‘I hope so indeed, madam. But we don’t ask you to come to us as a housekeeper simply. Marriage is what we offer you, Mrs Bunter. In the name of Pudster and Maggleby, I have the honour of proposing for your hand.’

‘Mercy!’ exclaimed Mrs Bunter in some agitation. ‘Surely you would not have me marry the firm?’

‘I put it in that way,’ said Mr Pudster, ‘because Maggleby and I are practically one and the same. But I will be accurate. The proposition is, Mrs Bunter, that you should become the wife of—ahem!—the senior partner; and that Gideon Maggleby should live with us in his old sociable way. Excuse my blunt way of expressing myself, Mrs Bunter.’

‘Then you, Mr Pudster, are the senior partner!’ said Mrs Bunter, with a very agreeable smile. ‘I am very much flattered, I assure you; but your proposal requires consideration.’

‘No doubt,’ assented Mr Pudster. ‘The firm is willing to wait for your reply. In matters of business we are never in a hurry.—When may we look for your answer?’

‘Well, you shall have a note by to-morrow morning’s post,’ replied Mrs Bunter. ‘I may say,’ she added, ‘that I have heard a great deal of your firm, Mr Pudster; and that I am conscious that it does me great honour by thus offering me a partnership in it.’

‘Indeed, madam, the honour is ours!’ said Mr Pudster, bowing as he retired.

No sooner had he departed than the widow burst into a long and merry fit of laughter. Her first impulse was to write and refuse the ridiculous offer; but as the day wore on, she thought better of the affair; and in the evening, after dinner, she sat down quite seriously, and wrote a letter as follows:

MATADOR VILLA, CHELSEA,
_August 5, 1865._

_To_ MESSRS PUDSTER and MAGGLEBY,
_14 Mincing Lane, City._

GENTLEMEN—I have decided to accept the very flattering offer
which was laid before me to-day on your behalf by your Mr
Pudster. If he will call, I shall have much pleasure in
arranging preliminaries with him.—I remain, gentlemen, very
faithfully yours,

MARIA BUNTER.

‘I must fall in with their humour, I suppose,’ she reflected. ‘And really, Mr Pudster is a very nice man, and almost handsome; and I’m sure that I shall do no harm by marrying him. Besides, it is quite true that they must want some one to look after them. If they go on living by themselves, they will grow crusty and bearish.’ And Mrs Bunter sent her maid out to post the letter.

Three weeks later, the widow became Mrs Pudster; Mr Maggleby, of course, officiating as best-man at the wedding, and being the first to salute the bride in the vestry after the ceremony. Thenceforward, for a whole year, the three members of the firm lived together in complete harmony; and the pleasant history of their existence was only interrupted by Mr Pudster’s enforced departure for Demerara in September 1866. Mr Maggleby, it is true, offered to go instead of him; but Mr Pudster would not hear of it; and Mr Maggleby was obliged to confess that business was business, and that it was certainly Mr Pudster’s turn to brave the mosquitoes. And so, after confiding his wife to the care of his friend, Mr Pudster departed. During his absence, all went well; and in March 1867 he returned to England. But this time the heat had been too much for poor Mr Pudster. His wife noticed that he was looking unwell. Maggleby, with sorrow, perceived the same. Pudster laughed. Nevertheless, he soon took to his bed; and after a long and painful illness, died.

The grief of Mrs Pudster and Mr Maggleby was terrible to witness. Mrs Pudster talked of retiring from the world; and Gideon Maggleby disconsolately declared that he had no longer anything left to live for. No one, therefore, will be much surprised to hear that towards the end of March 1868, Mr Gideon Maggleby led Mrs Solomon Pudster to the altar.

‘Solomon will bless our union,’ Mr Maggleby had said, when he proposed.

‘Ah, dear sainted Solomon!’ Mrs Pudster had exclaimed as she fell weeping upon Mr Maggleby’s breast.

SUDDEN RUIN.

In a former paper (April 19, 1884), instances were cited of fortunes suddenly made, not by inheritance or industry, but by what people are pleased to call luck. Cases of sudden ruin are less frequent, for, generally speaking, the wreck of a man’s fortune is like that of a ship: some rock is touched; water flows in; frantic attempts are made to lighten the vessel or to steer it into port; and finally, the foundering is slow. The striking upon a rock, however, is commonly with fortunes, as with ships, a sudden accident. It may be the result of careless or incapable steering; or it may be caused by a combination of adverse tides and winds, which no human skill can stem, and which hurry on the ship helplessly to destruction, inevitable, though it is not always foreseen. The rock, in whatever way it may be reached, is the determining cause of ruin; and when we speak of a man having been suddenly ruined, we mean that the calamity which brought him to poverty by degrees more or less rapid, occurred at a time and in a manner which took himself and his friends by surprise.

We are happily exempt in this country from those overwhelming disasters occasioned by political convulsions. Those who witnessed the flight of French ladies and gentlemen from their country upon the downfall of the Second Empire heard tales of misfortune not easily to be forgotten. Senators and prefects who, in July 1870, were living in luxury and power, drawing large salaries, and secure of the future, were towards the middle of September huddling in lodging-houses of towns on the English south coast; and along with them were bankers who had been obliged to suspend payment, and manufacturers and landowners of the eastern provinces who had fled from the tide of invasion, after seeing their factories or fields burnt, ravaged, and overrun by the enemy.

In most of these cases, ruin had been sudden and irremediable, so much so, as to appal sympathising British minds. And yet vicissitudes quite as pitiable had been witnessed in London a few years before—that is, on the Black Friday of May 1866, when, within a single day, hundreds of fortunes were wrecked in the City. For the most part, the people who were ruined on this awful Friday had had no warning of the fate impending over them; and this must needs be so whenever banks or financial companies fail. The credit of these establishments is like a piece of glass, which must remain undamaged, or there is an end to its value. For self-preservation, banks and companies feel bound to conceal their difficulties till these are past mending; and thus it generally happens that whenever a House suspends payment, almost all its customers are utterly unprepared. What this means, we all know, if not from personal experience, at least from misfortunes which have fallen upon persons of our acquaintance. Our country neighbour who lived in such grand style, returns from town one evening with a haggard face. A few days later it is announced that his house is to let; there is a sale; a notice among the bankruptcies in the _Gazette_; the family quietly leave their home; and from that time, only intimate friends know for certain what has become of them. Perhaps, years afterwards, somebody who knew the neighbour in great wealth, finds him eking out a penurious existence in the suburbs of some large city. Among the hundreds of acres of cheap houses which form the outskirts of London, the people ‘who have seen better days’ are an unnumbered multitude. Every suburban clergyman and doctor knows some, and generally too many of them; every bachelor in quest of furnished lodgings is pretty sure to stumble upon several people in this plight. Auctioneers and brokers, however, know them best of all, for it is they who play the chief part in the closing act of the drama of Ruin, when the last waifs of former wealth—the pieces of good old furniture, the pictures, china, books, and other such long-treasured valuables, have to be sold off to buy necessaries.

One of the most frequent and deplorable agents of sudden ruin is the dishonest partner. No business can be managed without mutual confidence between those who conduct it; and though, when we hear that a commercial man has brought himself within reach of the law, we are inclined to doubt if his partner can have been unaware of his malpractices, yet it must be obvious that the dishonesty of one partner too often arises from the unsuspicious simplicity of the other. There are even instances in which no amount of sagacity will save a man from the enterprises of a roguish partner. The following is a very common case: A and B being partners, A dies, and his son succeeds to his share of the business. So long as A was alive, the speculative tendencies of B were kept in check; but young A has not the same experience as his father; he has learned to respect B; he looks to him for guidance; and if B has made up his mind to extend the business of the firm by new methods, now that he is head-partner, the junior partner will generally be a mere tool in his hands. If young A be more fond of pleasure than business, he will of course be even less than a tool—a mere cipher; and B will be left to manage matters as he pleases, until he succeeds in his schemes, and proposes to buy A out of the business; or fails, and brings A to poverty and disgrace. It is a cruel thing that if B has absconded, A will have to bear the entire brunt of creditors’ wrath, and perhaps be criminally punished for his innocence. But partners have learned this lesson so often, that it is almost a wonder how any sane man can assume responsibilities without ascertaining the nature and extent of them. It is certainly not for the public interest that the sudden ruin of an honest partner should be pleaded in extenuation for his ignorance or carelessness.

Let us take some other causes of sudden ruin. We may set aside the destruction of property by fire or flood, as offering examples too many and obvious; nor does the sudden ruin of spendthrifts by cards or betting call for notice. But the ruin which comes to a man through sudden loss of character in his trade or profession is always most lamentable, especially when the offence perpetrated was unintentional, and did not appear to call for so heavy a punishment. The chemist who asked to be discharged from serving on the jury in ‘Bardell _v._ Pickwick’ on the ground that his assistant would be selling arsenic to the customers, expressed an alarm in which there was nothing jocular at all. We know of a chemist whose assistant committed this very mistake of supplying arsenic for some other drug, and three children were poisoned in consequence. The chemist was totally ruined. A coroner’s jury having brought in a verdict of manslaughter against him, he took his trial at the assizes, and was acquitted. But doctors ceased to recommend him; the public avoided his shop; his appointment as local postmaster was taken from him, and in a short time he became bankrupt. Poisoning by inadvertence has been the ruin of many a chemist, and of not a few country doctors who supply their own medicines.

But we remember an instance of a young doctor destroying his career by means just the contrary of this—that is, by suspecting that poison had been administered, when such was not the case. One of his patients, a lady, who seemed to have nothing worse than a cold, died very suddenly. The doctor had reason to believe that this lady and her husband had been living on bad terms, so he not only refused to certify as to the causes of death, but openly hinted his suspicions that there had been foul-play. At the inquest, however, it was proved that the lady had died from heart-disease; and the reports about her having been on bad terms with her husband were shown to have proceeded from the malicious tattle of a busybody. As a result of this affair, the doctor lost almost all his patients. It was thought that he had not behaved with discretion; and his ruin was consummated by an action for slander brought against him by the widower, whom he had too hastily accused of poisoning.

This action for slander reminds us of another case of ruin which had some comical features, and was in fact related to us in a very humorous way by a French journalist. The gentleman in question had accepted the editorship of a small daily newspaper published in a Belgian city. His salary was to be twenty pounds a month, with free board and lodging in the house of his employer, a notary, who owned the newspaper. Our friend discharged his duties to everybody’s satisfaction for about five years, when a bustling young journalist of the locality became intimate with the notary, and pointed out to him that he—the bustling one—could edit the paper quite as well as our friend, and for half the money. Our friend had just applied for an increase of salary; so the notary, with unreflecting parsimony, resolved to dispense with his services, and installed the bustling young man in his chair. But not more than a fortnight afterwards, the Bustling One, either from negligence, or because he had some private grudge to pay off, inserted a libellous paragraph against a banker in the town. An action was instituted. The proprietor of the paper was sentenced to pay a large sum by way of damages, with all the costs of the trial, and the advertisement of the judgment—filling about two columns of small print—in twenty newspapers of France and Belgium. This heavy fine, the numberless worries attendant upon the action for libel, and the loss of professional status which accrued to the lawyer from the whole thing, proved the death of the newspaper. As our friend remarked: ‘I think the notary would have found it cheaper to raise my salary.’

It may happen, however, that to make inopportune demands for an increase of salary will ruin not him who refuses, but him who asks. A case starts to our recollection of a man who had an excellent appointment in the City. He was drawing one thousand pounds a year for work which required some talent, but was pretty easy and pleasant; moreover, he was on the fair way to better things. But he was too impatient. His employers bore with him for a while, and in fact raised his salary four times within three years, for they fully appreciated his services. A day came, however, when they had to tell him plainly that his demands were unreasonable; upon which he stood on his dignity and resigned. He quite expected that he would instantly find in the City another situation as good as that which he had left; but he was not able to get an appointment at so much as half of his former salary. Everywhere his presumption in asking for twelve hundred pounds a year was laughed at; and he soon had to acknowledge to himself that in the former situation which he had so foolishly thrown up he had been most generously overpaid. Deeply mortified, too proud to return to his old employers, who would have been willing to take him back, the misguided man became a City loafer; he tried to set up in business for himself without sufficient capital, and, after a series of luckless speculations, took to drinking, and was no more heard of. This story points a moral, which ambitious young men do not always sufficiently lay to heart—namely, that to resign a good berth before making sure of a better is to run the risk of being left out in the cold. It is by no means a recommendation to a man out of place to have formerly received a high salary and to have served under first-rate employers. All the persons to whom he applies will naturally conclude that he must have left his good appointment for unavowable reasons; and even the best certificates of character from his old masters will not serve to dispel this notion. We knew an unwise young man, who, leaving a good place out of pure caprice, was earnestly advised by his employer to think twice of what he was doing. ‘You will find it a positive disadvantage to have served in our House,’ said his employer; ‘for we are known to be just masters, and nobody will believe that you left us of your own accord.’ The young man would not heed the warning; and the upshot was that he had to emigrate, having failed in all his endeavours to get another situation.

The ruin which is produced by business competition does not come within the scope of this paper. Everybody must sympathise with the snug old-fashioned inn which is suddenly brought to nought by the big Railway Hotel, and with the petty tradesmen who are impoverished by the establishment in their midst of some colossal ‘universal provider;’ but these are unavoidable incidents in the battle of life. An interesting class of sufferers remains to be specified in persons who own house-property, and find the value of their houses suddenly depreciated by causes beyond their control. Let a sensational murder be committed in a respectable street, and the rents of the houses in that street will probably fall twenty-five per cent.; while the house in which the deed was done will in all likelihood remain untenanted for years. A murder, the perpetrator of which escaped detection, naturally marks a house with almost indelible disrepute; people do not like to inhabit such a place; and the landlord is often reduced to giving up the house at a mere nominal rent to be the abode of some charity. An epidemic, again, will play havoc with the value of houses, by getting a whole locality noted as unhealthy; and this it may be said is the fault of the landlords; but it is not always so. We were acquainted with a gentleman who became possessed by inheritance of a row of houses, as to the antecedents of which he knew nothing. Soon after he had got this property, typhoid fever broke out in one of the houses and spread down the row. The drains were examined, and found in good order; but under one of the houses was discovered a vast cesspool, caused by the drains of two large houses which had formerly stood near the site. The emptying of this pool, the building of new foundations to several of the houses, the laying down of new water-pipes, &c., proved a very costly piece of work, and brought little profit when it was finished; for the row of houses had got a bad name, and years elapsed before the landlord could find good tenants for them even at much reduced rents. This was really a hard case; and the harder because the landlord, being a high-principled man, felt bound to pay substantial indemnities to those who had suffered through the bad condition of his property.

BACK FROM ‘ELDORADO.’

It was a scorching afternoon in October, when, with much clatter and racket, cracking of long whips, and a volley of eccentric profanity from the Dutch conductor and his sable satellites, the mule-train of that eminent Cape patriot Adrian de Vos scrambled headlong, as it were, out of the market-place of Kimberley in ‘the land of diamonds,’ jolted and swung through the ‘city of iron dust-bins,’ finally disappearing in a cloud of dust adown the Dutoitspan Road.

I may state that I was awaiting the arrival of the ‘veldt express’ at the little oasis in the desert, dear to all acquainted with the ‘Eldorado’ of the Cape Colony, by the name of Alexandersfontein. Distant only a few miles from the hot fever-stricken ‘camp,’ it is blessed with a spacious hotel and—luxury of luxuries—a veritable open-air swimming-bath, together with a meandering brook, which gladdens the eye of the parched, home-sick, and, most likely, disappointed searcher after diamondiferous wealth. I had spent the most part of the day with an Irish surgeon stationed there, who had been doing his best to persuade me to travel to Cape Town in the orthodox manner, by stage-coach, and not by the ‘heavy goods,’ as it is termed; but during the last year or so I had roughed it too much to care for a little additional hardship, and I wanted to complete the tale of my experiences in South Africa by personal contact with those unfortunates who from time to time abandoning their last dream of success, cast down and forsaken, broken in health, wealth, and estate, set forth gloomily on the journey back from Eldorado.

We were not altogether without amusement at Alexandersfontein, for, in addition to the attractions of the swimming-bath, there was the mild excitement of vaccinating ‘niggers,’ brought in at intervals by an Africander scout, the smallpox scare being at the time at its height, and my friend a government officer. Nevertheless, I confess I was glad when a pillar of dust, rising up from the arid road far away to the deep-blue sky overhead, announced that the mule-train was fairly _en route_ for us. I am glad now that it was dark when they arrived, because, if I had seen the accommodation provided by that philanthropic conveyer of broken hearts and shattered fortunes to the coast, I think it very likely that I might have declined to obey the order shouted at me through the still, sub-tropical night, to ‘get aboard.’ As it was, clutching my rifle with one hand, and grasping a leathern portmanteau, destined for a pillow, in the other, I struggled upward over the disselboom, thrust my head underneath a flapping canvas covering stretched over the whole length and breadth of the wagon, and receiving a friendly but rather violent impetus from my friend the surgeon, shot forward into the midst of a conglomeration of human forms, tin cases, deal boxes, ropes, and sacking. I was welcomed with anathemas, apparently proceeding from the internal economy of a ‘mealy’ bag in the corner. I could hear my Irish friend shouting a last adieu, which mingled strangely with the vociferations of the half-caste driver to his mules; and then, as the whole machine lurched heavily but rapidly forward, I collapsed against the corner of a huge tin case, slid thence into a hollow caused by the merchandise, and thus cramped up in a hole about two feet in width, prepared to pass the night. A dismal lantern, swinging and jolting overhead, threw a sickly gleam around; the keen wind of the karroo whistled past as we pushed onward in the darkness, and forward into the wilderness, leaving behind us the land of untold riches, the wonderful camp with its mines assessed at millions, its busy streets, its citizens with but one aim, the greed of gold—and its quiet burial-place, where hundreds of brave young Englishmen lie, wrapped in that deep sleep to which no dreams of avarice may come.

Our route lay over wide-stretching plains of fine sand, studded with stunted thorn; flanked on either side by lone mountain ranges, whose lofty heads assume fantastic shape of cone, table-land, or pyramid; here and there a miserable watercourse threading its way to the babbling Modder or stately Orange River. A solitary, silent land, where the glad song of birds is unheard, but the ever-watchful vulture circles overhead; where the sweet scent of flowers is unknown, but the gaunt mimosa stretches out its bare branches, and seems to plead with the brazen skies for a cloud of moisture. Far distant from each other are the white, flat-roofed Boer farmhouses; while midway to the railway centre of Beaufort West lies the quaint Dutch village of Hopetown with its ‘nightmare’ church; and farther on, Victoria, nestling at the foot of a great brown hill.

Monotonous? Well, truly I tired of the all-pervading sand, of the glare of the fierce sun, of the jolting and bumping of the springless wagon; but there was the abiding excitement of the commissariat question, the occasional sight of a flock of wild ostriches, the rough incidents of the nightly outspan, and, as the cumbrous machine rolled onward over the starlit plain, the exchange of confidences, or the singing of songs to the accompaniment of a wheezy accordion, which one of the party—a miserable little Israelite from Houndsditch—had provided.

I think the most remarkable amongst the ‘voyagers’ was a tall gaunt man, whose snow-white beard and sunken cheeks bore evidence to the fact that time had not dealt gently with him. He reminded me irresistibly of King Lear; and when camping for the night, he crouched over his solitary pannikin with his hands stretched out, to prevent any disaster to the blazing structure of sticks and ‘peat,’ his white locks blowing in the wind, and his keen, hard, glittering eye eagerly watching for the right moment at which to insert his pinch of hoarded tea, he presented a mournful embodiment of hopeless failure. He was a lonely, morose man; defeat and disaster had occurred to him so often, that he sought for no sympathy, and expressed no hopes for the future. When the lighter spirits in this storm-beaten company were essaying to laugh at dull care, and even making jests at the bitterness of the divers fates which had overtaken them, he would sit apart with folded arms, now and again muttering to himself, and once surprising me with an apt quotation from a Latin author in the original. I am afraid we were all inclined to laugh at him for his queer ways and solitary habits; but I never did so after one night, when I found him, some distance from our camp, kneeling on the bare sands, his arms tossed aloft to the stars, that shone like lamps in the dark-blue dome of the midnight sky, and his lips babbling incoherently of the wife and children, home and kindred, he had left long, long ago, never to see again in this world, in his thirst for the gold which had lured him from continent to continent.

We had another victim of the gold-mania with us in the person of a bald-headed Irish bookbinder. Of all the gentle enthusiasts I have ever met, he was the most extraordinary. He had just returned from a particularly disastrous prospecting trip to the newly discovered gold-field euphoniously termed ‘the Demon’s Kantoor;’ and previous to that, he had made equally unsatisfactory migrations into Swazieland, the Delagoa Bay, and other regions, returning from each of them ragged, penniless, but happy, to recruit his finances with a spell of work at his trade in the towns, whilst devising some fresh scheme of martyrdom for the cause of the glittering metal that had bewitched him. He was a devout Protestant, and would gravely rebuke any who gave way to the very common colonial vice of hard swearing; and during our halts by the wayside, generally stole away to any available shade, and taking forth from the bosom of his ragged red shirt a book of devotion, would read therein, heedless of the shouts and laughter of the drivers and the screams of the mules; though, to be sure, I have reason to believe that the precious volume contained a good deal about ‘the gold of Ophir’ and ‘the land of Midian.’ He admitted, with a genial smile, that he had dug a grave for the fruits of six months’ self-denying labour amid the hillocks and boulders of the Demon’s Kantoor; but he hoped by about a year’s industry in Cape Town to realise sufficient to enable him to penetrate into the Kalahari Desert, where, if he escaped the poisoned arrow of the Bushman, or the slow death from starvation or thirst, he was perfectly certain of finding nuggets of wondrous size, and ‘rotten reef’ worth fabulous amounts. Indeed, so happy was he at the prospect of his good fortune, that in the fullness of his heart, he sought to raise the spirits of a dark, melancholy young man, by offering to share it with him. But the latter only shook his head and buried his face in his hands, being engaged just then in a retrospect of his fallen fortunes, from which nothing but an occasional fit of assumed reckless levity could rouse him. Poor fellow! He was leaving every farthing he had in the world—the remnant of a noble patrimony—in a worthless diamond mine in the vicinity of Kimberley; and he was haunted with the memory of a golden-haired wife and two blue-eyed children on whom the ‘camp-fever’ had laid its deadly hand.

As for the light-hearted actor, who, by some strange mischance, had found himself left on ‘the Fields’ with the theatre closed and the company gone, and had just raised enough by the sale of his wardrobe to ‘catch a storm,’ as he expressed it, to waft him to Cape Town—he could not understand what despair or earnestness meant. His delight was to astonish the Kaffirs and half-breeds, as they crouched around the fires at night, with extravagant selections from the transpontine drama. He would make their eyes roll and their teeth chatter by holding converse, in sepulchral tones, with the incorporeal air, and then set them all grinning with glee at some fanciful imitation of domestic animals. He was never tired of telling stories of his wanderings, and joined heartily in the laughter at some ludicrous blunder which had for the nonce involved him in ruin. I am afraid he was not very particular as to his method of getting out of scrapes, for he related with great glee how, being deserted by a manager in Japan, he and a brother _artist_ got up an acrobatic performance for the benefit of the natives. As neither of them knew anything about the business, the grumbling was excessive; and the climax was reached when, having attained to some ‘spread-eagle’ position on the framework they had erected on the stage, and being quite unable to get down gracefully, he let go, and fell with a crash. ‘We then,’ he said, ‘announced an interval of ten minutes, secured the receipts from the innocent heathen at the “Pay-here” box, and—fled the city!’ He had gone to the Diamond Fields, because he had been told he could make ‘kegs of dollars’ there; and he trusted in chance or good fortune to convey him to Australia.

Despite the coarse food and its coarser preparation, the nights spent upon the ground beneath the wagons, the awful shaking over the mountain tracks, the dust, the thirst, the intolerable heat, there are many pleasant recollections of that memorable excursion. But when I see the young, the hearty, the strong, setting off, in the pride of their manhood, in search of that prize which flattering Hope assures them waits in distant lands for enterprise and courage to secure, I wonder how many will escape the dangers of ‘flood and field,’ to undertake, broken in spirit, bankrupt in health and wealth, the journey back from Eldorado.

STEEL.

Steel, we are frequently and emphatically reminded, is the material of the future. Passing from assertions respecting the time to come, let us concern ourselves with the present and the past of the material, and inquire why and wherefore steel should be held up so prominently as destined to make its mark in the future. Every age has stamped for its own not only a certain style of architecture or a peculiar class of construction, but it has also impressed into its service different materials, by means of which it has carried out those designs to which it has given birth. As formerly wood gave place to iron, so now, slowly yet surely, is the use of iron waning before the enhanced advantages accruing from steel in large constructive works. As ductile as iron, and possessed in a superior degree of tenacity, more uniform and compact, it is not a matter of surprise that steel should have largely usurped the position formerly occupied by iron in the engineering and constructive world, or that engineers and architects should gladly avail themselves of such a material in their designs, more especially when they desire to combine the maximum of strength and security with the minimum of weight and mass. So slight is the difference in appearance between rolled iron and rolled steel, that the casual observer will be unable to distinguish between the two substances. A certain amount of experience and skill is requisite before the eye becomes sufficiently educated to appreciate the appearance presented by each material. Nor should we omit to notice a method both simple and expeditious by which all doubts may be set at rest. A drop of diluted nitric acid placed on a piece of steel will at once separate the carbon in the steel, producing a black stain on its surface. On iron, no such effect will result.

The extensive works for manufacturing steel in England, Wales, Scotland, and on the continent, amply testify to the growth and vigour of the industry; and if further proof is wanted, it is supplied by the fact of the conversion of their plant by existing ironworks, to enable them to turn out steel. Such steps—though frequently producing financial distress, happy if only temporary—show the direction in which the commerce of the present day is moving.

That steel should so speedily overcome the initial difficulties incident to the introduction of every new material, adduces important evidence in its favour. In shipbuilding, for example, the inconvenience and delay occasioned by employing steel side by side with iron presented a formidable barrier to its use, the alternate demand for iron and steel built vessels causing no small confusion in the yards. The gradual and, before long, probable abandonment of iron in this class of constructions, is rapidly enabling shipbuilders to lay themselves out for steel, and steel only. We should not omit to notice the employment of steel plates, one-sixteenth of an inch in thickness, for the ‘skin’ of torpedo launches, a use to which the lightness and tenacity of such plates eminently adapt them.

The effective and systematic manner in which it is now customary in large works to test all steel previous to its despatch, has aided in no small degree to remove the feeling of doubt and uncertainty which was attached to the material on its introduction. There hung around steel an insecurity and a novelty, which, until dissipated, caused a feeling of distrust that might have proved fatal to its extended use, had not precautions been taken by its manufacturers to demonstrate the consistency and reliability of the article they sought to bring into the market. For the purpose of making these tests, a special machine is provided, usually driven by steam. A strip from the plate to be tested is placed in ‘jaws’ at each end; the machine is then set in motion, the strain on the test-piece being gradually increased until its ultimate tensile strength is reached, and it breaks—a travelling pointer indicating the pressure exerted by the machine on the steel test-piece at the moment of fracture. Thus the ultimate tensile strength per square inch and also the elasticity of the plate under manipulation are ascertained.

In order to check these and similar tests, one or more inspectors are stationed at the manufacturers’ works by the government, the company, or the engineer in whose designs the steel is to be employed. The Admiralty employ a number of men to watch the tests of all the steel destined for the royal dockyards; a similar class of inspectors perform a like task, under Lloyd’s rules, for the private yards and the vessels of our merchant service; whilst every engineer under whose directions steel is being made places his assistants—their number varying with the importance and extent of the work—to see that these tests are faithfully carried out, that they duly fulfil the conditions he has laid down, and to report to him the quality, quantity, and progress of the material under their charge.

Accurate records are made of every test to which the steel has been subjected, and the results of the behaviour of the material are carefully noted. Hence, should any event occur to call special attention to any particular bar, its history can be traced from the very first to the moment it took up its position in the finished structure for which it was destined.

So rigid and well checked a system of testing cannot fail to command the favour of all engaged in the design of vessels, roofs, or bridges, and to inspire the general public with confidence in and reliance on this comparatively young member of the material world, daily increasingly impressed into its service, and tending to promote the general well-being and comfort of the civilised world.

THE STRAY BLOSSOM.

Under a ruined abbey wall,
Whose fallen stones, with moss o’ergrown,
About the smooth fresh turf were strown,
And piled around the roots—and tall,
Green-ivied trunks, and branching arms
Of beeches, sheltering from the storms,
Within its empty, roofless hall—
There, in a broken sill, I spied
A little blossom, purple-eyed.

I took it thence, and carried far
The plant into a greenhouse, where
I tended it, with blossoms rare,
Until it brightened, like a star
Delivered from a passing cloud,
That hides it ’neath a silver shroud,
Yet fails its loveliness to mar;
Until it ceased to be a wild
And common thing—and then I smiled.

It grew, and thrived; new buds put forth,
And more, and more, and still became
More fruitful, till, no more the same
Meek, lowly child of the far north,
It reared its lordly stem on high,
Climbing towards the distant sky,
As though it deemed its greater worth
Deserved a higher place, and kept
Still reaching onwards—then I wept.

I wept, because I thought the weed
Showed strange ingratitude to me,
And had forgot how lovingly
I nourished it when in its need.
And then the flower bent down its head,
Touched me caressingly, and said:
‘Think not that I forget thy deed,
The tender care and constant thought
That in my life this change have wrought.

‘Now to the far-off skies I climb,
Because I fain would show thee, there
Is something higher than the care
Of a mere plant, to fill the time
God giveth thee. How, then, my love
For thee more truly can I prove
Than by thus pointing to a clime
Where Hope’s fulfilment thou shalt find,
And earthly love to heaven’s, bind?’

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So, from a tiny seedling, grows
Sweet Friendship’s root from year to year,
Nourished alike by smile and tear,
By sun and storm, and winter snows
Of jealousy and blind mistrust;
Through which the deathless plant shall thrust
Its growing flower, until it blows
At last, within that land on high
Where virtues bloom eternally.

F. E. S.

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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._