CONTENTS

CHRISTMAS-TIME.
A CAST OF THE NET.
FEATS OF ENDURANCE.
A DIFFICULT QUESTION.
IS THE TELEPHONE A PRACTICAL SUCCESS?
SINGING MICE.
USING UP WASTE SUBSTANCES.
LET BYGONES BE BYGONES.

CHRISTMAS-TIME.

'So many men so many minds' has been a proverblong before our days, and will be to the endof time and human history; and uniformity ofsentiment is the one thing which men need neverhope to attain.

Christmas-time is one of these battle-fields offeeling. To some it is just the consecration ofso many circumstances of torture; to others themeeting-point of so many facts of pleasure. Fromthe conventional greeting to the orthodox dinner—fromthe 'seasonable gifts' that are more obligatorythan voluntary, to the toast that heralds thepunch, and the dreams that follow on that lastglass—all is so much pain to the flesh and wearinessto the spirit; and they wonder how any onecan find it otherwise. What is there in Christmas-timeto make it pleasurable? they say. Thegathering together of the family? A lot of roughboys home from school, who spoil the furnitureand tease the dogs, lame the horses and ravagethe garden, make the servants cross, the girlsrude, and the younger children insubordinate; whoupset all the order of the house, destroy its comfortlike its quiet, and to whose safe return todiscipline and your own restoration to tranquillityyou look forward with impatient longingfrom the first hour of their arrival to the lastof their stay? Or the advent of your marrieddaughter with her two spoilt babies, who cry ifthey are looked at and want everything that theysee, and that very objectionable young man herhusband, with his ultra opinions and passion forargument, whom she would marry in spite of allthat you could say, but to whom you can scarcelyforce yourself to be decently civil, not to speak ofcordial, and whose presence is a perpetual blisterwhile it lasts? Is this the family gathering aboutwhich you are expected to gush?—this with theaddition of your son's fine-lady wife who snubs hismother and sisters with as little breeding asreserve, finds nothing at your table that she caneat, lives with her smelling-bottle to her nose andpropped up with cushions on the sofa, and givesyou to understand that she considers herselfhumiliated by her association with your family,and your son as much exalted as she is degraded?This is the domestic aspect of Christmas-timewhich is to make you forget all the ordinarytroubles of life, creating in their stead a Utopiawhere ill-feeling is as little known asennui, andfamily jars are as impossible as personal discomfortand dissent. Holding this picture in yourhand, you decline to subscribe your name to theIo pæan universally chanted in praise of Christmas,and wrap yourself up in sullen silence whenyour neighbour congratulates you on having allyour family about you, and wishes you a merryChristmas as if he meant it.

If the domestic aspect is disagreeable, what isthe social?—A round of dinners of which themenu is precisely the same from Alpha to Omega:—turbotand thick lobster-sauce; roast-beef andboiled turkey; indigestible plum-pudding andmurderous mince-pies; with sour oranges andsweet sherry to keep the balance even, and by thecreation of two acids perhaps neutralise eachother and the third. This is the food set beforeunoffending citizens under the name and styleof Christmas dinners for the month or six weeksduring which the idiotic custom of Christmas dinnersat all is supposed to last. You are expectedto live in this monotony of dyspepsia and antipatheticdiet till you loathe the very sight of thefamiliar food, and long for a change with avehemence which makes you ashamed of yourself,and more than half afraid that you are developinginto a gourmand of the worst kind.

As if your nights were not sufficiently broken bythe horrible compounds which trouble your digestionand disturb your brain, torturers known asthe 'waits' prowl through the streets from midnightto dawn, causing you agonies beyond those whicheven the hurdy-gurdy men inflict. You are justfalling to sleep—painfully courted and hardly won—whena hideous discord worse than the wailingsof cats startles you into a nervous wakefulnesswhich banishes all hope for that night. What canyou do? They are too far off for that jug of{802}water to take effect, and you must not fire;anathemas do not hurt them, and if said aloudonly waken up your wife and make her cry ifshe does not preach. You have nothing for itthen but to lie still and groan inwardly, devotingto the infernal gods all the idiotic circumstancesby which your life is rendered wretched, andyour health, already frail, set still further wrong.In the morning, when wearied and nervouslyfeverish from want of sleep, you go into thegarden for a little quiet and delectation, you findyour greenhouses stripped of the flowers which youhad been lovingly watching for weeks, and yourevergreens as ridiculously cropped as a shavedpoodle. This is the day for the decoration of thechurch, and you, having made an expensive hobbyof your garden, have to contribute what has costmonths and good money to rear, for the childishsatisfaction of John and Joan, lasting just twohours and five minutes. Not only have you lostyour flowers and your evergreens—that splendidholly, which yesterday glowed like a flame, todaynothing but a bundle of chopped ends!—butyou know that your favourite daughter is flirtingwith the curate, and that a great deal is going onunder cover of wreaths and crosses, laurustinus andchrysanthemum, of which you strongly disapproveyet cannot check. It is Christmas-time; decoratingthe church has become in these later days a kindof religious duty; and as a conscript father ofyour village, you must not forbid your daughterthis pious pleasure any more than you can refuseyour costly contribution in kind.

Turn to the financial side of the time; andwhat have you?—bills coming in that you neitherexpected nor knew of, and every one looking for aChristmas-box, and insolent or irritated if theydo not get it. The servants obsequious to theworth of half a sovereign—tradesmen and theirlads punctual in anticipation of half-crowns—postmenlevying blackmail, and watermen anddustmen demanding as their right that they shouldbe fee'd for their persistent neglect of duty—everyone making a dead set at your pocket and tryingto get your money for themselves—the verychildren more caressing and affectionate because itis Christmas and papa always gives them somethingon Christmas-day:—You groan as you askyourself where is disinterestedness on this earth?—andyou groan still more as you draw your chequesand reduce your balance and wonder by what lawof right it is that you should be the pipe by whichother folks are to be supplied.

No; you see no good or pleasure in this boastedChristmas-time as we keep it up in our benightedcountry. Its mirth is a sham and its inflictionsare only too real. A time of tumult and expense,of indigestion and discomfort, you wait, grimly orfretfully as your mood may be, till it has passedand the current of your life is allowed to flowevenly as before. When you hear people sing itspraises you long to stop their mouths, as youlonged to silence the waits who woke you up outof your first sleep and spoilt your rest for thenight. What manner of men are these, you think,who can find cause of congratulation in so muchabsurdity, if the fun is real to them—so muchdreary make-believe, if it is unreal? You despiseyour genial, laughing, merry-hearted neighbourwho goes into everythingcon amore, and accepts itall, from forfeits and snapdragon to plum-puddingand Christmas-boxes, as if he really liked it. Youthink what a fool he must be to be pleased with arattle, tickled with a straw like this. But for themost part you do not believe in his mirth; andthen you despise him still more as a hypocrite aswell. For a hypocrite shamming folly is anoffender against reason as well as truth, whom youfind it hard to forgive, let the motive of his mummerybe what it may.

This is one side of the question; your neighbourtakes the other.

Who on earth, he says with his hands in hispockets, his back to the fire and his kindly smilingface to the room, who on earth can grumble at thefacts of Christmas-time? For his part he findsit the jolliest season of the year, and he finds eachseason as jolly as the other, and all perfect in theirown appointed way. He is none of your cryingphilosophers who go through life bewailing itsmiseries and oppressed by its misfortunes. Nothe! He thinks the earth beautiful, men andwomen pleasant, and God very good; and ofall occasions wherein he can transact his cheerfulphilosophy, Christmas is the best. Theboys are home for their holidays; and it isa pleasure to him to take them out huntingand shooting, and initiate them into the personalcircumstances belonging to English countrygentlemen. He looks forward to the time whenthey will take his place and carry on thetraditions of the family, and he wishes them tobe worthy of their name and an honour to theircountry. He is not one of those nervous self-centredmen who live by rule and measure andcannot have a line of the day's ordering disturbed.He likes his own way certainly; and hehas it; but he can press his elbows to his sideson occasions, and give room for others to expand.He does not find it such an unbearable inflictionthat his boys should come home and racket aboutthe place, even though they are a little upsetting,and do not leave everything quite as smooth andstraight as they found it. He remembers his ownyouth and how happy it made him to come homeand racket; and he supposes that his lads are verymuch the same as he was at their age. He thinkstoo that they do the girls good—wake them up alittle—and while not making them rough or rude—themother takes care of that—yet that they preventthem from becoming prim and missy, asgirls are apt to be who have no brothers and areleft too much to themselves. Certainly he doesnot approve of the flood of slang which is let loosein the house during their stay; but school-boyslang at the worst is not permanent, and in aweek's time will be forgotten.

As for the married daughter's children, they arethe merriest little rogues in the world; and hiswife looks ten years younger since they came. Shewas always fond of babies; and her grandchildrenseem to renew her own past nursery with all thepleasure and none of the anxiety of the olden time.He rather wonders at his girl's taste in the matterof her husband—most fathers do—and cannot forthe life of him see what there is to love in him.But if not an Alcibiades he is a good fellow in themain, and makes his young wife happy; which isthe principal thing. And if his daughter-in-law isa trifle stiff, and fond of giving herself fine-ladyairs, he for his part never stands that kind ofnonsense, and will laugh her out of it before she{803}has been twenty-four hours in the house. Hefinds good-humour and taking no offence the bestweapons in the world against folly and ill-temper;and prefers them as curative agents to any other.The girl is a nice girl enough, but she has beenbadly brought up—had a lot of false ideas instilledinto her by a foolish mother—but when she hasbeen away from the old influences, and associatedwith themselves for a little while, she will openher eyes and see things in their right light. Whoindeed could resist the sweet sensible influence ofhis wife, her mother-in-law?—and are not his girlsthe very perfection of honest wholesome Englishladies? It will all come right in time; he has nodoubt of that; and meanwhile they must be patientand forbearing for Dick's sake, and not makematters worse than they are by their own want ofself-control.

Then as to the Christmas-boxes and the tipssacred to the season—well! well! after all theydo not amount to much in the year, and see whatpleasure they give! A man must be but a poor-spiritedsurly kind of hound who does not like tosee his fellow-creatures happy; and a very littlekindness goes a great way in that direction. Hetakes care to live within his income, and thereforehe has always a margin to go on; and he does notobject to use it. The servants have been very goodon the whole, and do their duty fairly enough.And when they fail—as they do at times—why, tofail is human, and are they alone of all mankindto be blameless and never swerving in the rightway? And are they alone of all mankind to bejudged of by their worst and not by their best?—tobe blamed for failure, but not praised forwell-doing? He does not think so; and notthinking this, his half-sovereigns are given freelywithout the grudging which makes them anungracious tax instead of a kindly voluntary gift.The tradespeople, too, do fairly well, and—theymust have their profit like any one else! ThoseChristmas-boxes to their lads may be the nest-eggsfor future savings; and even if they do goin a little finery or personal pleasure instead—youngpeople will be young, and his own boysare fond of being smart and amused: so why notthese others? You grumble at the waits? If youin your warm bed, well fed, well clothed, prosperousaltogether, fret at the loss of an hour's sleep,what must these poor fellows feel, out in the coldfrosty night, with the wind blowing and the sleetfalling fast, and they not half fed nor a quarterclothed? For his own part he would like to givethem a glass of hot grog all round; and as forgrumbling at the few coppers which they braveall this physical discomfort to earn, he makes itshillings, and hopes it will do them good. Wemust live and let live, he says with his broadsmile; and if we are sometimes a little inconveniencedby the efforts made by the poor toaccomplish the art of living for their own parts—wemust remember that our loss is their gain, andthat they are men and women like ourselves—fathersof families who want to keep the pot boilingand the fire alight—mothers who love theirchildren, and are anxious to do the best for themthat nature and man will allow.

You complain of indigestion and grumble atthe monotony of your Christmas fare?—That isstrange! Who can grumble at good plain succulentmeat?—and why do you eat the sweets if theydisagree with you? Neither pudding nor mince-piecomes into the eternal necessities of things,and you would do very well if only you wouldrefrain. He does not eat things that he cannotdigest, and in consequence he sleeps well, and whenhe wakes has neither regret nor remorse. Surelythat is not such a painful trial—to forbear eatingwhat is hurtful to your health, and in touchingyour health corroding your happiness as well.

In a word, the whole difference of the spirit inwhich we meet the facts of Christmas dependson the good or ill humour with which we arenaturally endowed, and which we have cultivatedby common-sense on the one hand, or suffered toride rough-shod over our reason on the other. Ifwe are unselfish and sympathetic, Christmas-timeis as pleasant to us as popular tradition wouldmake it; if we are egotistical and peevish, itis a wearisome infliction and a sham which nohonest man can pretend to believe in, nor anysensible one to admire.

For our own part we believe in Christmas,because we believe in the kindness of man to man,in genial good-humour, in unselfishness, and theliking of wholesome natures to give happiness;and so far as we have gone yet we have seen noreason to change our views. A merry Christmasthen to you all, friends, readers, and countrymen;and a happy New Year to follow after; and mayGod bless the rich and care for the poor, and leadus all in the right way while the day lasts andbefore the night has come!

A CAST OF THE NET.

THE STORY OF A DETECTIVE OFFICER.

CHAPTER IV.

Long after it had grown quite dark, all remainedquiet, and at last I resolved upon making a move.I had determined upon fetching Peter Tilley. Ihad plenty of assistance, but I thought I shouldlike to have Peter with me. So I went down tothe ferry; a gas-light which burned at the cornershewed me before I left my post that the bonyferryman was not there; and choosing a prettygood boat, with a strong young fellow to pull, I gotin. It was a most unpleasant night; as dark aspitch, which was bad enough, but every now andthen it lightened, which was worse, as it dazzledmy eyes, and made me think we were runningsmash on board some great vessel which I had notseen a moment before, and couldn't see a momentafter. However, the boatman was used to allkinds of weather, I suppose, and knew the riverthoroughly; so through the darkness and the rain,which never left off for a moment, we reached theother side.

I left the boat to wait for me, and ran up to theYarmouth Smack. I looked in, and saw Peterleaning against the bar and smoking a short pipe,as a labourer ought to do; and he was talking ina friendly way to some rough-looking fellows. Islipped in, and using the name we had agreedupon, spoke to him. He knew my voice of course;but seeing me so changed, for my make-up wasreally splendid (it was, although I say so thatshouldn't), it gave him such a shock that he was{804}obliged to put the pewter down he was going todrink from and look steadily at me before heanswered. 'I'm acoming,' he said at last, and wegot outside; when, as we walked down to the ferry,I gave him a sort of idea of what was going on, andhow I expected to make a great catch that night.Peter of course was very glad to be in for such abig thing as this, for he had never been mixed upwith anything so important.

Not to trust the boatman too much, I kept Peterback a few yards from the water while I finishedmy story, standing a little on one side, so as to beout of the way of the people who came and wentto and from the ferry. While I was talking tohim, a wherry ran in; we heard her grate on thepebbles and the sculls rattle as the man laid 'emin; but that we had heard before. It's a part of myhabit to notice little things however, and I lookedto see who had come in by this boat. There wasonly one passenger, a woman, and she passed uswalking quickly; but quick as she walked, I sawher, and she saw me. Blessed if it wasn't MissDoyle! My being there was no odds to Miss Doyle,nor could it have signified to her if she had seenme fifty times; yet I felt I would rather not havemet her just then; it looked unlucky, and she wassuch an uncommonly sharp one too. Sharp or not,I couldn't see what she could make out of mystanding under a wall on a wet night talking toanother labourer.

Having finished my explanation, we both gotinto the wherry, and I asked the man if he wouldlike a good long job, which might perhaps lastall night.

'The longer the better, governor,' he says, 'ifthe pay is accordin'.'

'The paywill be accordin',' I answered; 'and soyou are engaged.'

The first thing I made him do was to rowround that oyster-smack, for the tide had risenenough to take us round her. I shewed no light,but we went inside her twice; and the fellow onthe watch was very sharp, so he was leaning overthe side when we came round the second time, andI could say quite quiet-like: 'I am in this boatnow—watch the river.' That was quite enough;he knew he would not now have to look to theAnchor for signals.

After this began what I believe was the mostdisagreeable sort of patrol I ever had. There wasa time when I used to envy the Thames police;but I can't say I ever did after that night. Wewere obliged to be in motion almost continually,because we did not know from which side of theriver the paper might come, and we weren't quitesure that it would come at all, especially on thatnight; and I don't know, speaking from my ownexperience, that there is anything more trying tothe spirits than the pulling backwards and forwardsand loitering about on the river Thamesin a raw October night with a small thick rainfalling. Twice we landed, and went once to theSmack and once to theAnchor. I couldn't grudgethe men a glass of hot grog; in fact I was obligedto have some myself, even if I missed my capturethrough it.

It grew later and later; the flashes of lightningstill came at long intervals; but the lights on theshore went out, and excepting the gas-lamps whichburnt at street-corners, ferries, and wharfs, allwas dark. The traffic on the river had longceased, no shouts or rattle of wheels came from theshore; and the rain still falling, it was, I give youmy word, most horribly miserable, dull and sloppybeyond description. Twelve o'clock had struck,and one, and perhaps half an hour beyond it. Ihad cautioned my companions to speak very low;so the boatman only whispered when he said:'It's as quiet as it is likely to be, governor, ifyou've got anything to run. I have just seen thepolice galley creep along on the other side; I seeher under that lamp. Now's your time.'

He thought we were smugglers! Perhaps hedidn't care if we were thieves. I told him to bepatient; when at that very instant, just as we werecreeping along under the lee of a coal-barge, awherry shot very silently by, right in front of us,going across stream, and not six feet from ourbows. In her sat the sulky ferryman; I knewhim at a glance, dark as it was. 'Pull after thatwherry,' I said.

'Peter Tilley, my lad,' I continued, turning toPeter, 'the time's acoming, I think.'

'I'm precious glad of it,' says Peter; 'for I'mcatching a cold in my head every minute I sit inthis confounded boat; and it's all soaking wetwhere I'm sitting.'

Our man pulled on; he was a very strong fellow,as I have said, and we could have overtaken theother boat directly; but this of course I did notwant. I knew where to look for the old scamp;and sure enough, after a few strokes across stream,he bent to the left and ran under the bows of theDutch trader.

All was dark and silent as the grave aboard theship; but that didn't deceive the old boatman,nor did it deceive me. I stopped our man in theshade of the next vessel, if you can call anywherea shade, when it was all pitch dark. We had notbeen there a minute before I heard a slight noise—itwas impossible to see any one unless he stoodbetween you and the sky—and then I could tell bythe sound that a man had dropped into the wherry.There was no need to tell me what man it was.With an almost noiseless dip, the ferryman droppedhis sculls into the river again and rowed on, westill after him. I took it for granted he was goingto the other side of the ferry; but he suddenly boreoff to the right, and rowed on for some little time,then striking in between two vessels, he wentstraight for the land.

'Where is he going to?' I whispered.

'To the landing at Byrle's wharf,' says the boatmanin the same tone.

So he was; and it appeared this landing-placewas at the farther side of the wharf; that is, lowerdown the river.

It was so dark we could hardly see them—forwe could just make out there were now twopersons in the boat—but as they reached the shore,a lamp that was burning on the wharf helped us alittle. We could not clearly see what they weredoing; but they certainly got out of the boat, andas certainly there were then more than two figuresmoving about, and seemingly engaged in placingparcels in the wherry. But it was very gloomythere; they were in the shade of the wharf, andthe lamp glimmered weak and faint through thethick rain. It was the more difficult to see whatwas being done, because there were several boatstied up to the landing-place, making some confusionin the darkness. At last, however, we could see that{805}they were pushing off from the shore; so it wastime for us to move. We pulled back for a while(there was no doubt as to which way the otherswould come), and then sheering off, lay betweentwo colliers until we saw the wherry we hadwatched go by, and then we once more pulledafter them.

'I'm blest if I don't think there's another boatfollowingus,' says Peter Tilley, staring as hard ashe could behind us. I looked, but couldn't seeanything; and Peter owned he might have beenmistaken.

We could not make out how many there werein the foremost boat. There was only one man rowing,that was plain; and he pulled short round atthe proper place, as I knew he would, and rowedtowards the Dutch trader. As he did so, we losthim for a second, a big steamer lying between us;but the hull of this vessel did not obstruct theview up the river. I seized the moment, andwaved my lantern twice. It was all right. Asquick as thought the light on board the oyster-smackwas moved twice also, and then we toowere pulling across the stream. I wanted tocapture my men on board the trader, as otherwisethe paper might be got rid of, because Icouldn't be positively certain that it was notalready on board. In fact, Mr Edmund Byrlewas my chief aim, not the skipper.

The wherry pulled under the bows of the vessel;we followed just in time to see, by a very convenientflash of lightning, two packages handedup; then a figure, which we had recognised by thesame flash as the bony ferryman, got into the ship.As he disappeared, our wherry touched the vessel;and at the same instant, to my great relief, a longblack Thames police galley came alongside us, andits crew, five constables, with Barney Wilkins, whowas there as guide, clambered up like cats. I andPeter imitated them, but not quite so quickly; andwhen I looked over the bulwark, I saw by thelight of a couple of lanterns, screened from theoutside, four or five men, the boatman and theskipper being two, lifting up a great lid whichfitted in the deck—the hatches I heard it called—whileby their side lay the packages of paper.I could not see Mr Byrle; but there was no time toconsider; we all jumped in at once, the men lookinground in amazement at the noise. I fanciedthat just then I heard a shout from the boat.

'What do you all want here?' said the skipperangrily.

'We hold a warrant'—I began.

'Oh, it isyou, is it?' he screeched, like ahyena, or something of that sort. 'I owe you alittle for a past score, and you shall have it.' Asquick as lightning he pulled a long straightknife from the side of his trousers, where it musthave been in some sort of sheath, and jumped atme with such suddenness that he would havestabbed me, only Barney Wilkins snatched ahandspike from the deck, and dashing between us,hit him down with such a blow, that the skipperfell with a crash like a bullock when it is killed,the blood pouring from his head instantly.

It was all as quick as thought. The other menwere all seized in a breath. So quick was it alldone, that I had no idea Barney was hurt, untilhe reeled, made a wild clutch as if he caught atsomething for support, and then pitched forwardon his hands and knees.

'Hollo, Barney!' I said, stooping down to him.'What's the matter, old fellow?'

'It's all up, Mr Nickham,' he gasped; 'he'sdone me. I only hope I've killed him. Where'sthe other?'

'Oh, never mind the other, Barney,' I says.'Where are you hurt?'

But as I spoke, one of the men came with alantern, and Barney had no occasion to answerme, for I could see a straight stream of bloodrunning from his chest on to the deck; andhis hands giving way from weakness, he fell overon his side.

'Pull in for the shore, you, sir!' said the sergeantof the Thames police to my waterman. 'Youknow Marigold Street? Knock up Mr Gartley, andtell him what has happened. Say we are afraidto move the man to his house, so he had bettercome aboard.'

'Send one of your own men, will you?' answersthe boatman. 'I've got something to tell thegovernor' (that was me), 'as I think he oughtto know.'

'Cut away then, Bill,' says the sergeant to aconstable; 'these fellows are ironed, and we canmanage all that are aboard this craft.'

So the man went off in my wherry; and theThames men tried to make poor Barney a littlemore comfortable, while I undid his waistcoat,hoping to stop the bleeding.

'It ain't no use,' he said; but in that shorttime his voice was almost gone, and we could tellthat he was dying. 'I'm done for, Mr Nickham.If there's a reward, you'll act fair and square, Iknow; you always was a gentleman—let my sisterhave'—— And with that he gave a gasp, andwas dead.

I rose up, dreadfully vexed for the poor chap.The sergeant and one of his men were lookingafter the skipper, when I felt myself touched onthe arm.

'I say, sir,' said the boatman, 'when I'm in fora thing, I go through with it honourable. Didyou know as you was followed?'

'Followed? no!' I said.

'I thought we was!' said Peter Tilley.

'We was followed, sir, by a light wherry with twopeople in it,' continues the boatman; 'and whenthey see our boats, they held hard; and as you allboarded the ship and the noise began, they rowedaway as hard as they could go.'

'Which way did they go?' I said.

'Down river,' says the man. 'But it's of no usethinking of looking after them now. They areashore long afore this.'

This was likely enough; and it was quite certainthat Mr Edmund Byrle was one of the two in theboat, and I had lost him for the present. Well,it couldn't be helped; so we set to work to questionthe men and search the ship, till the doctor came.The men knew nothing more about the businessthan that they were going to have two passengers,a lady and a gentleman, this voyage. One of theThames men understood Dutch, or we should nothave heard even this scrap of information. Thesulky boatman never uttered a word, except thatonce he said as I passed him, and he said it with abitter curse: 'I always had my doubts ofyou.'

The doctor came off; but poor Barney was stone-dead,while the skipper's skull was badly fractured.However, the paper was all there; so I supposed,{806}and so it proved; and I shouldn't have cared if theskipper's head had been broken fifty times over.

We got our prisoners to the shore, leaving thecraft in charge of a Thames police galley thatcame in answer to our signals; and late as it was,I drove with Peter Tilley in a cab to the City.Our people there were immensely glad, I can tellyou; and when I went over to the Bank (for therewas no need for secrecy or dodging now), I thoughtthe gentlemen never would have left off payingme compliments. Poor Barney Wilkins that wasdead deserved most credit; but it could not dohim any good to say so now, so I let them go on.The paper was examined, and found to be exactlythe quantity required; enough, I believe, to havemade about twenty thousand bank-notes. Ah! iftheyhad got into circulation!

I hope you will understand, however, that Idid act fair and square; and when the rewardwas paid (and the Bank people did come downmost liberal; I bought my house at Pentonvillewith my share), I told the gentlemen aboutpoor Barney and his wishes; and I'm proudto say they found his sister out and took heraway; and after a time she went abroad withkind people who looked after her, and took careof her money till she got married, and did well.Why, she sent me a snuff-box made out of pureAustralian gold, with a letter signed by herselfand her husband, who was a butcher in a greatway of business out there; and they sent it as anacknowledgment of my having acted all fair andsquare. I promised so to do, and I did.

Edmund Byrle was never caught, and so far aswe were concerned, was never heard of; and ifit hadn't been for his father, I should never haveunderstood a lot of things that puzzled me. I hadgiven a pretty good guess as to how Miss Doylecame in the first place to inquire about Mr Byrleand the detective; a very clever idea in itself,but like many other clever things, it lost her thegame. Mr Byrle had talked with his friends aboutemploying detectives; and Miss Doyle knowingabout the Bank paper, and being always on thewatch, had got hold of just enough to misleadher. She went out with Edmund Byrle to Turkey,I think, and was married to him; and old MrByrle sent out a friend to see them; and it wasin this way I got the particulars. It appears sheknew me again—only as the limping labourer, ofcourse—when she saw me talking at the ferry toTilley. But she knewhim as the detective attheYarmouth Smack, and she thought that althoughit might be all right, yet a detective was a dangerouscustomer, and his acquaintances might bedangerous also. Consequently she tried to persuadeEdmund to put off his journey; but he wantedthe money for the paper, and wouldn't listen toher. But he agreed at last to go aboard in anotherboat, which satisfied her, as she felt so certainthe skipper's boat would be attacked. As I haveexplained, her precaution saved him from fifteenyears' 'penal,' which is the least he would have had.The skipper was sent for life, having killed aman in his arrest; but he didn't live six monthsin prison; he never got over the tremendous blowhe received from Barney. All the reports spokeof his being a receiver of 'stolen goods.' The Bankpaper was never mentioned, for the authoritiesdid not want to unsettle the public again, or letthem see what a narrow escape they had had.

And now comes about the queerest part of mystory. Call me names if I didn't stop the thievingat Byrle's factory as well as recover the Bankpaper, killing two birds with one stone.

It was all through my catching the bony ferryman.Finding that things was going hard with him,and hoping to make them easier, and being disappointedthat those who were concerned with himdid not come forward with money to provide forhis defence, he 'rounded' on them; he split onthem all, and owned how he was the means oftaking the metal over to a fence on his side of thewater, the things being stolen by a mechanic and awatchman who were in league. (I see I have usedthe word 'fence;' this means a receiver of stolengoods; but though I have been warned by theeditor of this magazine, we can't do withoutsomeslang words.)

Peter Tilley got a tidy present, and was notedfor promotion through this business. I was glad ofit, for Peter was a capital chap—never wanted toplay first-fiddle; and I admire people of that disposition.I tell you what I did: I got the newestfive-pound note of all what the Bank gave me, andthey were all very clean and crisp, and I wrappedold Bob the gatekeeper's own sixpence in it; andI went to the factory and I stood a pint of ale, andsays: 'Bob, here's your sixpence!' He hadn'tknown exactly who I was till then, for I hadmade excuses as usual; and then I'm blessed ifhe didn't quite cry over his luck. Mr Byrle toothought a lot of Bob's kindness, for I told the oldgent about it; and I heard that on that veryaccount he put six shillings a week on Bob'swages, and I was glad to hear it.

They couldn't keep me off the detective staffafter this; and although I am free to confess—nowI am on my pension and nothing matters to me—thatI only stumbled upon these discoveries byaccident, I was praised to the skies by those forwhom I worked. However, it all died away, assuch things do; but I had managed to get myhouse at Pentonville, as I have hinted; and apleasanter neighbourhood I don't know, or onemore convenient for getting about. I have hadsome rather odd adventures since I have lived inmy street; you can't help seeing strange things, ifyou keep your eyes open in London. But I didn'tbegin to tell aboutthem. I have finished myaccount of the robberies at Byrle & Co.'s and mystory finishes in consequence.

FEATS OF ENDURANCE.

London, which has witnessed many strange doingsin its day, was lately the scene of the mostwonderful feats of pedestrianism ever accomplishedwithin a given period.

Every hour, day and night, for six weary weeksa man plodded on his way round a measuredtrack, until the grand total of fifteen hundredmiles in one thousand hours had been made up,finishing his self-imposed task with his physicaland mental faculties apparently unimpaired.

The task of walking fifteen hundred miles in athousand hours had never before been attempted,and henceforth the new achievement will throwinto the cold shade of obscurity even the marvellousact of walking a thousand miles in as many{807}hours, which was once accomplished in 1809 byCaptain Robert Barclay of Ury, a Scotchman, whoproposed to perform the then incredible task ofwalking a thousand miles in a thousand consecutivehours. The proposition was received withevery sign of incredulity, though, when the affairwas finally arranged to take place, many thousandsof pounds were staked on the event. NewmarketHeath was selected as the scene of the exploit, andthe famous walk began on the 1st of June 1809, atmidnight. It is unnecessary to repeat the detailsof this feat; it will suffice to mention that theenterprising captain completed his task on the 12thJuly, at four o'clock in the afternoon.

Since then, an attempt has, we believe, beenmade to walk the same distancebackwards; andwithin the past twelve months, Weston, the Americanpedestrian, has performed some remarkableexploits of the kind; being however at last beatenby an Irishman named Kelly.

The hero of the lately completed task (fifteenhundred miles in a thousand hours) is alittle Welshman of not more than five feet threeand a half inches in height, and about forty-twoyears of age; while in personal appearanceand generalphysique he presents anything butwhat is usually supposed to be the characteristicof a good pedestrian. His name is William Gale,and he is a bookbinder by trade, living at Clerkenwell.

At the commencement of his task on Sundaythe 26th of August, he weighed no more thaneight stone four pounds (8 st. 4 lbs.); and fromthat day until Saturday the 6th October, duringa portion of every hour day and night, he pursuedhis monotonous way around the inclosure at LillieBridge grounds, Brompton. When the attemptwas first announced, even those most acquaintedwith pedestrian feats where great endurance wasrequired, expressed themselves dubious as to theresult; and in order to have a reliable record ofhis proceedings, Gale requested the different sportingpapers to appoint competent men as judges—arequest which was at once generously compliedwith.

Thus we have an official report of his greatexploit, and the public are enabled to judge forthemselves on the nature of the feat performed.Gale's average pace appears to have been aboutfour miles an hour; but when he had reached histhousandth mile he assumed a brave spurt, andfooted it in ten minutes, or at the rate of sixmiles an hour. During the last few days of hiswalking he started rather stiffly at first, owingto the pain caused by the swelling of somevaricose veins in his left leg; but undaunted byso great and manifest a disadvantage, and otherdisadvantages which we shall presently refer to,the gallant little Welshman 'plodded his wearyway' with a determined pluck that won theadmiration and applause of every one present.

On Friday the 5th October, the day before thefinish of the tramp, Dr Gant of the Royal FreeHospital was called in to see this extraordinarywalker, and after examining his legs, he pronouncedGale to be in excellent condition so far ashis physical powers were concerned; there beingno fever, the pulse only seventy, no murmur atthe heart; and the varicose veins which had beenthe cause of so much pain to him, were ratherbetter than worse, having considerably decreasedin size. Perhaps the most remarkable part of theperformance is, that it has been accomplished on asystem of training which entirely sets at varianceall athletic rules, for Gale partook of no fixedrefreshment, neither did he have his meals atstated hours. His chief food was plain mutton-chops;and as an instance of how he varied hisdishes, his afternoon meal on Friday the 5thOctober, which might have been either breakfast,dinner, or supper (so irregular had he been in thisrespect), consisted of a lobster and bread andbutter, followed by a fried sole, and one or twocups of ordinarily strong tea. During the walk healso drank a good deal of beer—not strong beer,but the ale which is usually sold at fourpence perquart, which he seemed to prefer to any otherkind, probably on account of its freedom from thattendency to increase rather than assuage thirst, soremarkably apparent in the stronger beers.

Many strange incidents occurred in the courseof the six weeks, which were calculated to whileaway the time, and occasionally to bring a smileto the pedestrian's lips. For instance, a certainillustrated sheet, notorious for its very sensationalcartoons, published a picture of Gale on the trackfollowed by Old Time with the conventionalscythe on his shoulder; and many people it wouldseem actually paid their money with the idea thatthey were going to see the two figures as thusrepresented. One man, who had evidently goneto the grounds for this purpose, had watched Galego round the track several times, when he couldno longer control his disappointment. He shoutedaloud, angrily demanding his money back, because,as he said with the greatestnaïveté possible, 'thebeggar with the scythe hadn't turned up!'

As the last week of the great walking matchwore on, signs of weariness in the indomitablepedestrian became painfully apparent, and manypersons began to fear that the task he had sethimself would after all remain unaccomplished.On several of the rounds he fell asleep whilstwalking, and dropped to the ground; but this contactwith mother earth seemed to revive himinstantly, and he plodded on as pluckily as before.

At length success crowned his efforts; and atseventeen minutes past five o'clock (less a second)on Saturday afternoon the 6th October 1877, Galeterminated his long and dreary walk in the presenceof a large, fashionable, and enthusiasticassemblage, who rewarded his efforts with severalrounds of hearty applause.

From the commencement of his task to thefinish Gale bore up against all obstacles with extraordinarypluck and determination, his last milebeing performed inten minutes and eight seconds.He was at once removed to the tent or pavilionunder which he had snatched so many brief half-hours'rest, and was examined by three medicalmen, who found that his heart was quite naturalin its movements, and that the temperature of hisbody did not exceed one hundred and six degrees.

{808}

The great feat which has thus been accomplishedwithout the aid of artificial training, is a marvellousinstance of what human endurance, allied withcourage and determination, can effect; though ofwhat particular benefit it may be to the world atlarge it is utterly impossible to imagine.

Since the preceding account was written, Galehas accomplished a still more extraordinary feat,and one which for strength of will and physicalendurance far surpasses his previous efforts. Westill fail, however, to see the benefit whichcan accrue from exhibitions of this kind, andwell might he have been contented with thelaurels he had already won. He had scarcelyallowed himself time to recover from his formertask, when he once more appeared at a publicplace of entertainment, namely the AgriculturalHall at Islington, to walk four thousand quarter-milesunder the astounding condition, that it wasto be done in four thousand consecutive periodsof ten minutes.

This of course deprived him of the half-hour'srest which he could obtain at one time in theformer race, and only allowed him a few minutesbetween each round to get a little sleep. Despitethese drawbacks, however, Gale finished his taskat eleven o'clockP.M. on the 17th November, aftera dreary walk of nearly four weeks. By accomplishinghis task, he has placed himself at the headof all the famous pedestrians the world has known;and we trust that this fact will be sufficient tosatisfy his craving after what is at best butephemeral fame.

Men have on many occasions attempted walkingfeats which required a vast amount of physicalendurance, and have failed from their utter inabilityto go without the natural quantum of sleep;but Gale has not only shewn himself to be possessedof the former, but to be altogether independentof the latter. This, however, instead ofindicating 'pluck' merely, would rather seem topoint to a peculiarity in the man's constitution;as there are doubtless many persons whose couragewould enable them to perform the same or even agreater task if, like Gale, they could walk aboutin a state of somnolency or semi-sleep—a state inwhich, to use his own words, he was as one in adream, unconscious of all that was going onaround him, and believing himself to be walkingin forests and other places of silvan beauty; andthe truth of this was made evident by the fact thathe would have often exceeded the limit of hiswalk had not the voice of his attendant arousedhim from his stupor.

The average time occupied by this extraordinarywalker was by day about three minutes for eachquarter of a mile, and by night about five minutes;and the fastest round recorded was done in twominutes and forty-two seconds. His pulse wasalways found to indicate a perfect state of health,and was as regular when he left off as when hecommenced his task. His food consisted principallyof fish, fowl, chops, eggs, and light puddings;and his drink was, with only one exception duringthe whole time, tea.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about thewhole affair was the fact that, although he sankinto a deep sleep directly he reached his chairbehind the curtain, which hid him from viewbetween his walks, the moment the bell rangthe second time, he would appear as fresh asever and begin trudging away again.

When the feat was accomplished, Sir JohnAstley stepped forward, and amid a scene of greatenthusiasm, presented the undaunted Welshmanwith a silver belt of the value of a hundred guineas,bearing the following inscription: 'This belt waspresented toWilliam Gale of Cardiff, on the 17thNovember 1877, by some of the nobility and gentryof Great Britain, in commemoration of his hithertounprecedented feat, namely walking one thousandfive hundred miles in one thousand hours at LillieBridge Grounds, August 26th to October 6th, 1877;and four thousand quarter-miles in four thousandconsecutive periods of ten minutes, at the AgriculturalHall, London, October 21st to November 17th,1877.' The belt is of lion's skin, mounted onvelvet, the metal portion of it weighing one hundredounces of sterling silver.

None will begrudge Gale his well-earned reward;but it is to be hoped that such exhibitions will infuture be discountenanced by the general public,as they not only detract from the dignity of man,but are needless and unwarrantable in a countrywhich, we trust, will ever pride itself on a noblercivilisation than that which is founded upon merephysical endurance.

A DIFFICULT QUESTION.

THE STORY OF TWO CHRISTMAS EVES.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.—PROLOGUE.

In the gray light of an Indian dawn, with thecool breeze blowing through the curtains of thetent, and his friend's sorrowful eyes looking down onhim, a soldier lay on his rough couch—waiting fordeath. They were soon to be parted those two, whohad lived and fought together; but the face ofthe one who was starting on that journey of whichnone has measured the distance, was smilinglycalm, while the eyes of the other glistened withregretful tears as he spoke low, faltering, remorsefulwords.

'Hush, Ralph, hush!' the other said at last.'Don't you think, dear old fellow, I would soonerlose my life in having saved yours, than in anyother way? After all, a few days or years sooneror later, what does it signify? My fate is perhapsthe happiest, though I hope it is not. I don'tthink life is so very desirable,' he continued; 'Iam only twenty-six; but mine has not been ahappy one. It was my own fault, though. Takemy advice, Ralph; don't marry young. There isonly one thing that troubles me'——

'Your little girl,' Ralph interrupted. 'Wrayworth,let me take care of her; if I can makeher happy, it will be some slight atonement,some'——

'You would take care of her, Ralph? wouldyou?' The dying man's eyes shone gratefully ashe looked up in his friend's face. 'She has nothing,poor little thing,' he went on sadly—'motherless,fatherless, scarcely more than a baby either. Itwould be a heavy charge to leave you, Ralph.'

'Wrayworth! how can you speak so; you willdrive me mad! You—you'—— He broke down{809}utterly; it was something so terrible to see thisfriend dying there—for him. 'Anything on earththat I can do'—— he murmured.

'You will do for her,' said Wrayworth. 'Thankyou. I have no friends to send her to. I meantto have made her very happy.'

'She shall be; I swear it!' Ralph answeredfervently, thankful for this charge, which mightin some degree help him to pay that debt of gratitude,and forgetful that he had no control of fate,that the promise he gave of happiness was afearfully presumptuous one. But he made itwillingly, gladly, solemnly, before God; and asfar as lay in his power it should sacredly be kept;any sacrifice he would make for this child.

His friend's eyes rested on him searchingly fora moment. 'I trust you,' he said—'I trust you.'

The hours passed on, the blazing sun arose, andRalph went out into the burning glare withbent head and staggering footsteps, while wordshe had heard long since seemed floating roundhim in letters of fire: 'Greater love hath no manthan this, that a man lay down his life for hisfriend.'—'Is therenone greater?' he thought. 'Isthere nothingI can do to repay—nothing?'

CHAPTER I.—ASKED.

The years were well on in their teens sincethat melancholy scene was enacted in the Indiantent—since Wrayworth consigned his only childto the guardianship of the friend whose life, atthe expense of his own, he had saved on thebattle-field. A carriage rolled along the snowyhigh-road through the cold clear air; the shortwinter's day was drawing to its close, and up inthe darkening sky the stars were beginning toshine upon the world's most joyful season, uponChristmas eve. The world's most joyful season?We call it so, this festival, more than eighteenhundred years old; but does the world think it so?—theworld, with its thousand cares and crosses,its deep and hidden sorrows, its partings and itstears? Of those amongst the myriads who keepthe Yule-tide feast, how many hold it with achastened joy! For on that day most of all ourthoughts go back to other years, to other faces, toother lips that have wished us 'a merry Christmas;'to other hands, which have clasped ours soloyally, to those who have loved us so long ago!

But Major Loraine had no sad memories connectedwith the season as he drove up to the oldhouse, from which duty had so frequently calledhim, and which he had not seen for five years. Inthe wide, dark, panelled hall his step-motherstood waiting to welcome him, as gladly as thoughhe had been her own son. He was only a boywhen she first came there, when the pink wasfresh on her cheek and the gold bright in herhair; they had been drawn to each other then;and through the long years of her widowhood hisloving care had helped to lighten her load ofsorrow; so it was not wonderful that for monthspast she had been eagerly looking forward to hisreturn.

The greetings over, they sat down side by side,talking, as those talk after long separation, of past,present, and future; of their acquaintances married,dead, or far away; of things on the estate, prosperousor failures; of the ball to be given next month,of the one they were going to, to-night; of howmuch Emma was improved since she 'came out,'how Katharine was considered one of the handsomestgirls in the place, and how she mightmarry Sir Michael Leyland with thirty thousanda year if she liked.

'But why ever doesn't she like?' asked theMajor, astonished at this new phase in the characterof his worldly-minded sister.

'That is just what troubles me,' answered MrsLoraine. 'They are all at the church now, helpingto decorate. Louise wanted to stay at home towelcome you, but I sent them all off, so as to haveyou to myself for an hour. You will see a greatalteration in Louise, Ralph.'

'Shall I, mother?' he said smiling. 'I thinknot. Her letters are the same always; they havealtered in style a little of course in the last yearor two, but it is the same spirit—the samecreature.'

'But not the same face, Ralph. Remember youhave not seen her for five years, which have notaltered you, but which have changed her from anunformed girl of fourteen to a lovely woman;with that bright changing beauty, which hasmore charm for a man than regularity of feature.It is a very difficult question.'

'What is a difficult question?' asked Ralph, ashis mother paused.

'What to do with Louise.'

'You hinted something of the kind in your lastletter, mother,' he said gravely. 'I am sorry, butI must confess this house seems large enough forfour women. You know how I am situated; youknow the promise which binds me. But tell me,'he added smiling, 'what has Louise done? Sheseemed to me gentle and tractable enough when Iwas last at home.'

'I have not the slightest fault to find,' MrsLoraine replied; 'you know I am very fond ofher. You will think my difficulty very womanish;simply, Louise is too pretty.'

'And some one has told her so,' said Ralph,laughing. 'Go on.'

'It is not that; but I cannot bear to see my ownchild's happiness destroyed by another, who, if nota stranger, has at least no claim upon her.'

Ralph frowned slightly. 'Perhaps not,' heanswered; 'the claim is upon me, and it is a sacredone. So,' he continued, 'it is a case of rivals, I see.'

'Simply this, Ralph. You remember the Levesonsof Leigh Court, where we are going to-night?Their eldest son is in the —th Dragoons, andhas been home on leave. Louise was away whenhe first came here, and he appeared very muchstruck with Katharine; and no wonder; she isvery handsome. Well—don't laugh at me; I don'tlike match-making as a rule; but I thought as sheseemed interested in him, there was no harm ininviting him sometimes. But as soon as Louisecame home, he transferred his attentions to her.Katharine says nothing; but it makes a kind ofawkwardness between them. I know she feels it,poor child; though indeed I believe Vere Levesonis simply flirting with Louise.'

Major Loraine laughed. 'Poor mother!' hesaid, 'you will have enough to do if you take allyour children's love affairs to heart so seriously.These things always right themselves, you know.But I confess I am surprised to hear of Katharinegoing in for sentiment; I should have thought SirMichael more in her line. Is that all, mother?'

{810}

'No; only the first of my difficulties,' sheanswered half sadly. 'You know what my healthhas been for the last few years; you know—— Well,you do not wish me to speak of that; but it isbetter to look in the face of possibility. Supposeanything happened to me, Ralph, what wouldbecome of Louise?'

'You speak of what I hope may be far distant,mother,' he answered tenderly. 'But why shouldyou be uneasy about her? In the event of her notmarrying, she would always have a home herewith me.'

Mrs Loraine shook her head. 'Turn round andlook in the glass,' she said; 'thirty-nine is notsuch a very formidable age.'

He turned, and contemplated his bronzed face inthe glass; such a handsome, noble face, telling of anature that could not act falsely or meanly. Thebroad square forehead, marred by a sabre-cut, andthe dark hair flecked here and there, by the Indiansun, with gray; nothing else to find fault with inthe frank kind smile, the fine regular features, thedark true eyes.

'I think there is no fear of my being taken foryounger than I am, mother,' he said, smiling.

'It is an awkward position for you, though,' sheanswered; 'and as I said, a difficult questionwhat to do. We must hope for the best, Ralph.You are going to join the others now, I suppose?'

'Yes; I think I can find my way.'

He went out into the keen frosty air, walkingslowly, though it was unpleasantly cold to oneaccustomed to tropical climates. He was thinkingover his mother's words, and knew she was rightas to the awkwardness of the position. He sawthe peace of the household was troubled, withoutknowing how to set matters right, and he thoughtof the old friend who had trusted his child to him.He had vowed she should be happy, and now itseemed a difficult vow to keep; but for the sake ofthe man who had died for him sixteen long yearsago, the pledge then given must be redeemed.

Louise Wrayworth's life had been a bright onehitherto; her guardian's home was the only one shecould remember, and he had striven to fill in somedegree her father's place. To him, from infancyto womanhood, she had looked up with lovinggrateful reverence, regarding him, present orabsent, as the noblest of created beings.

He reached the old church, and made his wayround to the open vestry door. The steps wereencumbered with bundles of evergreens; the voicesof the workers, who had finished their task, wereaudible. He pushed the door further open, andwent in. The floor was covered with boughs, andaround the pillars were wreathed holly and otherevergreens in honour of the joyous season. Someof the choristers stood waiting for the choir-practice,and the organist was softly playingAdesteFideles.

'Ralph!' cried a young fresh voice; and aslight fair girl with a merry face sprang up fromthe floor, with her hands full of the scarlet berries,which fell hither and thither in bright-hued rain,as with complete indifference to the by-standers,she gave the returned soldier a sisterly embrace.'You dear old thing to come for us!' she exclaimed.

'Emma, Emma!' exclaimed Ralph, laughing anddisengaging himself; 'you have not learned tobehave any better in five years.'

But his young sister had vanished, and heturned to greet the vicar; and one or two of theladies he recognised. In a few minutes Emmareappeared; and behind her came a tall fairgirl with masses of golden hair, and great beautifulcold blue eyes. She greeted Major Loraineaffectionately, but with the quiet stately gracehabitual to her. Five years had not changedKatharine Loraine; at twenty-four she was stillthe same majestic Queen Katharine as at nineteen,with whom he had always had so littlesympathy, whose nature he had found so difficultto understand.

'Where is Louise?' he asked presently. 'Is shenot here?'

'She went into the churchyard just now,'answered Emma, 'to put a wreath on NellieBryant's grave. You remember her, Ralph?'

'Louise's friend? Yes.'

'Atriste employment for Christmas eve,' observedone of the gentlemen decorators to Katharine,as he stooped to disentangle her dress from along sprig of ivy.

'Oh, Mr Leveson went to hold a lantern for her,'Katharine answered, with the slightest possibleshade of contempt in the silvery tones of hervoice; 'and Louise is nevertriste, unless she isby herself.'

The choir was now fully assembled; the organiststruck up the anthem, the rest were silent tolisten, and Ralph Loraine went out to look for hisward. He came round the east end of the oldchurch, and stood still for a moment in theshadow. There were two people standing at theedge of the path, looking down on the grave attheir feet, where the lantern's light shewed theshining holly upon the upright marble cross. Itshewed too the face of his friend's child; a beautifulface, as his step-mother had said, with largedark eyes and wavy dusky hair, a clear delicatecomplexion with a little rose-flush on the cheeks,and full red lips half-parted by the sweetest smilehe had ever seen; with the same erect carriage ofthe head, the same fearless straight regard whichhad characterised her father.

It was so strange to see her there a woman,whom he had left a mere girl; and as he lookedon the fair face, something seemed to whisper thatthe ideal beauty he had so often dreamed of wasbefore him at last. They moved away, and cameslowly nearer, and paused again where he couldsee her companion; and for a moment he almosthated the man for his youth, and his handsomeface, and the deep-blue eyes aflame with passion-fireas they rested on the child of his dead friend;and another whisper which silenced the first, toldhim how fitted was each for the other.

'IfI were lying there,' said Vere Leveson, andRalph could hear every one of the foolish, softlyspoken words, 'would you ever make wreaths forme, I wonder?'

'I don't know.'

'Don't you? I wish you did; for I thought justnow I should be glad to be lying there, if youwould remember me.'

Ralph had heard enough, and tried to slip awayunseen; but the gravel crunched under his feetand betrayed him.

Louise started, and a bright vivid blush coveredher face as she sprang forward. 'Lorrie! Oh, howglad I am to see you again!' she cried, as she{811}took both his hands in hers and lifted her cheekfor his kiss.

He felt half sorry she had done so; that andthe old childish name put him immediately inhis place as guardian, and made him ashamed ofhis thoughts. 'How you are altered, Louise!' hesaid, looking down at her admiringly. 'I think Ishould hardly have known you!'

'I should have known you, Lorrie, anywhere,'she said reproachfully.

'That is rather different,' he said; 'when weonce get old, we don't change so quickly.'

'You would not like it if I said you were old,Lorrie. But tell me, amI altered for the worse?or'——

'You have no need to come to me for compliments,surely,' he said smiling.

'I should think more of yours than of any one's,'she whispered, with that sweet dangerous smile;a smile which a man like Ralph Loraine shouldhave taken as a warning not to feel its influencetoo often.

'How rude I am!' she said at last.—'Mr Leveson,do you know my guardian?' She turned to hercompanion, who stood holding the lantern a fewyards from them.

'I had the honour of dining in your companyonce, Major Loraine,' he answered, stepping forward.'It is some time ago, when I first joined at Madras;but I well remember my anxiety to see such adistinguished soldier as yourself.'

There was a ring of truth and honest admirationin the words, which raised them above anordinary compliment, and which made Ralphhold out his hand and answer cordially: 'I havea bad memory for faces, or I think I should haveremembered yours.'

'Thanks,' said Vere, laughing. 'We shall havethe pleasure of seeing you to-night, I hope?'

'Yes; my mother told me of the invitation.'

'Of course he is coming,' said Louise. 'Andyou will dance with me all the evening, Lorrie;won't you?'

'Not quite all, Miss Wrayworth; please, don'tforget my waltzes,' said Vere, holding out hishand. 'I must be off now; so good-bye for thepresent. You won't forget?'

She looked up quickly. 'Perhaps,' the lips saidlaughingly; but the dark eyes gave a sweet silentanswer Ralph did not see, though he was watchingthem. But after Vere Leveson had gone, hewalked home beneath the Christmas stars, withLouise's hand resting on his arm, dreaming as hewent, a fair, fond, foolish dream.

The Christmas-eve ball at Leigh Park was aregular institution, one which Sir Harry Levesonhad kept up for years. It was a pretty sight,Ralph thought, as he stood leaning against awindow, and looking round to select a partner.And amongst all the fair women, the one hethought the fairest was his young ward LouiseWrayworth, in her white floating dress, with itswreaths of holly, and the red clustering berries inher dark hair.

Ralph had been watching Vere Leveson, tryingto decide in his own mind whether Mrs Loraine'sverdict of flirtation was a just one; and hejudged that it was; for the attentions of the youngofficer were apparently equally divided betweenLouise and Katharine. Ralph did not happen tobe near when, later on, he led Louise to one ofthe cool empty rooms, where through the openwindow could be heard the merry Christmas bells.He did not see the hand-clasp or the light thatflashed in the eyes of each. He did not hear thehurried whisper: 'Louise, you won't forget me,you will trust me till next Christmas-time?'

The ball was over, the rooms were dark andsilent; the whole world waited for the sun torise on Christmas-day.

IS THE TELEPHONE A PRACTICALSUCCESS?

In September last appeared in thisJournal anarticle entitled 'Singing and Talking by Telegraph;'and in that paper we attempted to describethe mechanism of that wonderful little instrumentthe telephone. It is now our purpose to say somethingregarding the progress that has been madetowards perfecting the invention; but in order tomake the article as clear as possible, we ventureonce more upon a few words explanatory of theinstrument.

The telephone as it is now made is an exceedinglysimple-looking apparatus similar in appearanceto a stethoscope; to the handle of a girl'sskipping-rope; or better still, to a large-sizedpenny wooden trumpet. Inside this hollow cylinder,and within an inch or so of the wider end, isfixed a plate of iron as thin as a well-worn sixpence,and about the size of a half-crown piece.This is called the diaphragm. Behind the diaphragm,nearly touching it, and extending to thenarrower end of the cylinder, is a piece of 'soft'iron enveloped in wire coils, with a permanentmagnet beyond. Outside the narrower end of thecylinder, and communicating with the coils thatsurround the iron inside, are attached two screwsor 'terminals,' which are 'joined up' to a mainwire, communicating with the distant or receivingtelephone wherever that may be, and which isprecisely similar to the one we have described.When we apply our mouth to the bell-shapedend of the apparatus, and speak or shout or sing,we set the diaphragm vibrating as in a tuning-fork;the vibrations thus created are electricallycommunicated through the wire to a distanttelephone, and are repeated on its diaphragmwith more or less distinctness.

It is known that the motion of an iron platecontiguous to the poles of a magnet creates adisturbance of electricity in coils surroundingthose poles; and the duration of this currentwill coincide with the vibratory motion of theplate or diaphragm. When, therefore, the humanvoice (or any other suitable sound) impingesthrough the tube against this diaphragm, thediaphragm begins to vibrate, and awakens, soto speak, electrical action in the coils of wiresurrounding the poles of the magnet; not a current,but a series of undulations, something likethose produced by the voice in the air around us.In short the telephone is an apparatus designedto transmit sound through a wire of indefinitelength; the voice being, so to speak, 'converted{812}into electricity at one end, the electricity becomingvoice at the other.'

With these few explanatory remarks, we nowproceed to offer to our readers the following interestingexperiments made by a gentleman wellskilled in telegraphy.

'Journalists,' he says, 'with no special knowledgeof the difficulties the invention has toencounter as a telegraph instrument, have expatiatedin such enthusiastic terms upon the resultssaid to have been achieved by the telephone, thata somewhat exaggerated notion of its powersand capabilities has been accepted by the generalpublic. It appears, therefore, to the writer of thoselines that a statement of the experiences of aperson practically engaged in the work of telegraphymay assist in placing the phenomena ofthe telephone on a proper footing.

'Scientifically, the telephone is a great andundoubted success; and a person would be grievouslyin error if, because of some undoubtedhindrances to its practical use, he pronounced itunworthy of further experiment. The emergenceof telegraphy from the domain of experimentinto that of daily practical use is a fact soundoubted, and one with which we are now sofamiliar, that it is impossible to say at whatmoment the telephone, at present a scientific toy,may become a daily necessity not only of telegraphicbut of ordinary commercial work.

'Being engaged in daily contact with a largetelegraphic centre, and in association with menwho have the command of every means of testingthe invention in a practical work-a-day manner,the writer was able to gauge pretty accurately therange within which the telephone can work. Itmust be understood, however, that in recordingthe effects observed by him and his associates, hehas no desire to invalidate, or even to call in questionthe experiences of others who may have beenable to arrive at better results. The telephone isin the hands of some of the first electricians andtelegraphists of the day, and differences of conditions(not to speak of differences of capacity onthe part of the operator) may give variety inthe observations made. The very difficulties anddrawbacks now to be recorded will no doubt someday suggest to a master-mind the method by whichthey may be overcome. But till that day arrives,the telephone must be content to remain wherethe writer leaves it, an undoubted success froma scientific point of view, but overwhelmed withobstacles to its practical use, in this country atleast, in general telegraphy.

'When a telegraphist first gets into his handthis beautifully simple and electrically delicate instrument,his first inclination is to test its carrying-power.This is of course a closet experiment,not working with actual telegraph line, butwith "resistance" equivalent to a telegraph line ofstated length. An experiment of this nature givesbetter results than could be obtained by a veritableline, because the insulation is, so to speak, perfect.No leakage at undesigned points of contact, ordisturbance from unfavourable atmospheric conditions,is felt, and the experiment is entirely underthe observer's control. The apparatus used isdesigned to offer the same labour for the electriccurrent to overcome, as would be offered by astated length of outside telegraph line. Thisartificial resistance is nicely graduated, and asthe method of testing was suggested by Ohm, aGerman electrician, the unit of resistance is, aswe once previously explained, termed an "ohm."Removing the telephone to such a distance thatthe two observers were "out of earshot," the testwith resistance was tried, and with a resistance ofone thousand ohms—roughly speaking, equal toseventy miles of a well-constructed line—the soundwas perfect, although not very loud. Every articulationof the speaker at the other end could be distinguishedso long as silence was maintained in theroom, or so long as no heavy lorry rumbling overthe stones outside sent in harsh noises whichdrowned the faint whisper of the instrument. Theresistance was gradually raised to four thousandohms—nearly three hundred miles—with likefavourable results; and for some little distancebeyond, articulation could still be made out. Butby the time ten thousand ohms had been applied,putting the speaker at a distance of, say, sevenhundred miles, sound only, but not articulatesound, reached the ear. The tone was there, andevery inflection of the voice could be followed;but articulation was absent, although the listenerstrove every nerve to catch the sound, which thespeaker, as was afterwards ascertained, was shoutingin a loud clear voice. The prolonged notes ofan air sung could be heard with the resistancenamed, but again no words could be distinguished.The voice, whether in speaking or singing, has aweird curious sound in the telephone. It is ina measure ventriloqual in character; and withthe telephone held an inch or two from the ear,it has the effect as if some one were singing faroff in the building, or the sound were coming upfrom a vaulted cellar or through a massive stonewall.

'Proceeding to our next experiment, we joinedup the telephones in one office to several wiresin succession, putting ourselves in circuit withlines going to various distances and working withdifferent instruments. When this was done, thereal obstacle to telephonic progress at once asserteditself in the shape of "induction." The first wireexperimented with was partly "overhouse" andpartly underground, and the offices upon it wereworking Wheatstone A B C instruments. It isdifficult to render clear to the person ignorant oftelegraphic phenomena the idea expressed by thewordinduction. Briefly it may be put thus, thatwhen a strong electric current is passing on awire, it has the faculty of setting up a current ofopposite character in any wire not then working,or working with a feebler current, that may be inits vicinity. The why or the wherefore cannot beexplained, but there is the fact.

'In various recent articles on the telephone,mention has been made of "contact" as the causeof disturbance. This word, however, although ithas been used by telegraphists, is misleading, andcan only be used as an endeavour to express popularlyan electric fact. Actual contact of one wirewith another would spoil the business altogether.A wire bearing an electric current seems to be forthe time surrounded, to an undefined distance, byan electric atmosphere, and all wires comingwithin this atmosphere have a current in an oppositedirection set up in them. This is as near anexplanation of the phenomena of induction as thestate of telegraph science at present affords. Nowthe telephone works with a very delicate magnetic{813}current, and is easily overpowered by the action ofa stronger current in any wire near which the telephonewire may come. To work properly it"requires a silent line."

'In the place where the observations were made,there are a large number of wires, travellingunder the floor, through the test-box, alongpassages to the battery-room and to a pole onthe outside, whence they radiate, or out toa pipe underground, where many gutta-percha-coveredwires lie side by side. On applyingthe ear to a telephone joined into a circuitworking in such an office a curious sound is heard,comparable most nearly to the sound of a potboiling. But the practised ear could soon separatethe boiling into distinct sounds. There was onemasterful Morse instrument—probably on the wirelying nearest the one on which we were joined up—whoseperemptory "click, cli-i-i-ck, click," representing"dot, dash, dot" on the printed slip we readfrom, could be heard over all. Then there wasthe rapid whir of a Wheatstone fast-speed transmitter,sending dots and dashes at express speedby mechanical means; the sharp well-pronouncedrattle in sounds of equal length of a needle instrument;and most curious of all, the "rrrrr-op, rr-op,rrrrrrrrrrrrr-op, rrrrr-op, rr-op" of the A B C, thedeadliest foe to the telephone in its endeavours togain admission into the family of telegraph instruments.There may be reason in this, for as theWheatstone A B C is the instrument used forprivate telegraphy, or for the least importantpublic offices, because it requires no "code" tobe learned by the manipulator, so it would likelybe the first to be displaced if an acoustic telegraphpermanently took the field. So the sentient littleA B C opens its mitrailleuse fire on the intruder,on whose delicate currents, in the words of anaccomplished electrician, it plays "old harry." Thepeculiar character of the sounds we borrow on thetelephone from this instrument arises from thefact that as the needle flies round the dial, adistinct current or pulsation passes for each letter,and the final "op" we have tried to represent shewsthe stoppage of the needle at the letters as wordswere spelled out.

'It must not be understood that thesoundsof those various instruments are actually heardin the telephone. What happens is, that thecurrents stealing along the telephone wire byinduction produce vibrations in the diaphragmof that instrument, the little metal membraneworking on the magnet in ready response toevery current set up in the latter. When itis remembered that the principle of the telephoneis that the sound-caused vibrations in thefilmy diaphragm at one end create similar butmagnetically-caused vibrations in the diaphragmat the other end, and so reproduce the sound, itwill be obvious why the rapid roll of the A B Ccurrents, or the swift sending of the fast-speedtransmitter, when brought by induction into thetelephone wire, cause disturbances in the soundvibrations, and thereby cripple the instrument.One instrument of either kind named would havea certain effect, but one Morse or single needlewould not have any greatly prejudicial effect. Buta number of Morses or needles going together,such as were heard in our experiments, wouldcombine to be nearly as bad as one A B C or fast-speedMorse. So delicate is the diaphragm tosound (and necessarily so), that in all experimentswith the telephone itself, such as those with "resistance,"or those made at home to test the instrumentapart from telegraphic considerations, everysound from without broke in, giving an effect likethe well-known "murmur of the shell."

'Joining up our wire now to a more distantstation at some miles along the railway, andhaving on its poles a number of what areknown as "heavy" circuits, the pot-boiling soundassumed even more marked characteristics. TheA B C no longer affected us; but a number ofMorse instruments were in full gear, and the fast-speedtransmitter was also at work. While wewere listening, the circuit to which we were joinedbegan to work, and the effect was literally electrical.Hitherto we had only borrowed currents—or,seeing they were so unwelcome, we mightcall them currents thrust upon us—and thesounds, though sharp and incessant, were gentleand rather low. But when the strong current wasset up in the wire itself, the listener who heldone of our telephones nearly jumped from thefloor when an angry "pit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat-pit"assailed his ear, causing him to drop the instrumentas if he had been shot! It was a result noneof us had expected, for it did not seem possiblethat the delicate metal diaphragm and the littlemagnet of the telephone could produce a sound sointense. Of course it was only intense when theear was held close to the orifice of the instrument.Held in the hand away from the ear, the telephonenow made a first-rate "sounder," and we could tellwithout difficulty not only the signals that were passing,but found in it a more comfortable tone thanthat given by the Morse sounder in common use.

'Other experiments of a like character led toresults so similar, that they may be left unnoticed;and we proceed now to describe one of a differentcharacter, designed to test the telephone itself. Ata distance of about half a mile, access was obtainedto a Morse instrument in private use, and joinedto the office by "overhouse" wire. Dividing ourparty and arranging a programme of operations,two remained with a telephone in the office, whileother two, of whom the writer was one, proceededwith the second telephone to the distant instrument.By an arrangement which a practical telegraphistwill understand, the key of the Morsewas kept in circuit, so that signals could be exchangedin that way. It may be noticed, however,that this was hardly necessary, as the diaphragmof the telephone can be used as a key, with thefinger or a blunt point, so that dot and dash signalsare interchangeable, should the voice fail to beheard. As the wire in this instance travelledalmost alone over part of its course, we were inhopes that induced currents would be conspicuousby their absence. In this we were, however, disappointed,for the pot was boiling away, rather morefaintly, but with the "plop-plop-plop" distinctlyaudible, and once more a sharp masterful Morseclick was heard coming in now and again. Thedeadly A B C was, however, absent, so that ourexperiment proved highly successful. For somereason or another—probably an imperfect conditionof the wire, or the effects of "induction" over andabove what made itself audible to us—the spokensounds were deficient in distinctness; but songssung at either end were very beautifully heard,and indeed the sustained note of sung words had{814}always a better carrying-power than rapidly spokenwords. Every syllable, and every turn of melodyof such a song asMy Mother bids me bind my Hair,sung by a lady at one end, orWhen the Heart ofa Man, sung at the other, could be distinctlyheard, but with the effect before noticed, that thevoice was muffled or shut in, as if the singerwere in a cellar, while it was not always possibleto say at once whether the voice was that of aman or a woman.

'In the course of some domestic experiments,it was remarked that in playing the scale downwardsfrom C in alt. on the piano, the resultto the listener was a "tit" only for the fourupper notes, although all below that had a clear"ting," and the octaves below were mostly distinct,although at the low notes of the piano the soundwas again lost. The ringing notes of a musicalbox were not so successful, but with close attention,its rapid execution ofTommy Dodd could bewell enough made out. An endeavour was madeto catch the ticking of a watch, but this wasnot successful, and the experiment is not recommended,as the near presence of a watch toa magnet is not desirable; and the watch exposedto it in this instance was, it is thought, affectedfor a short time thereafter, although it receivedno permanent damage.

'The observations made in the course of theseexperiments convinced those present that thetelephone presents facilities for the dangerouspractice of "tapping the wires," which may makeit useful or dangerous, according as it is usedfor proper or improper purposes. It might be animportant addition for a military commander tomake to his flying cavalry; as an expert sound-reader,accompanying a column sent to cut offthe enemy's telegraph connections, might precedethe act of destruction by robbing him of someof his secrets. The rapidity and simplicity of themeans by which a wire could be "milked," withoutbeing cut or put out of circuit, struck thewhole of the party engaged in the various trialsthat are described above. Of course the process oftapping by telephone could not be carried outif the instrument in use was an A B C or singleneedle, or if the wire was being worked duplexor with a fast-speed Morse, for in these casesthe sounds are too rapid or too indefinite to beread by ear. The danger is thus limited toordinary sounder or Morse telegraphs; but thesestill form the mainstay of every public system.

'Since the trials above described were made, thenewspapers have recorded a beautiful applicationby Sir William Thomson, of the electric part ofthe telephone to exhibit at a distance the motionsof an anemometer; the object being to shew theforce of air-currents in coal-mines. This is auseful application of an electric fact, and doubtlesspoints the way to further discoveries. Butit is to be noticed that the experiment, interestingas it is, hardly comes under the head of a telephone,what is reproduced at a distance being not soundbut motion.

'Obviously the invention cannot rest where itis; and no one more readily than the practicaltelegraphist will welcome an instrument at oncesimple, direct, and reliable. Even in its presentform the telephone may be successfully usedwhere its wire is absolutelyisolated from all othertelegraph wires. But the general impression isthat its power of reproducing the sound must beintensified before its use can become general evenas a substitute in works or offices for the speaking-tube.'

SINGING MICE.

These interesting animals are said to be smallerthan ordinary mice, to be usually of a brownishcolour, and to have long ears. Naturalists havenot come to any exact reason as to why theysing. Some persons impute the singing todisease, as in the wheezing of any one froma cold. Others attribute it to an internal parasite.But these seem unsatisfactory explanations;for when the little creatures sing they are aslively as common domestic mice. The facultyof singing in a small way with various modulationsappears to be quite natural to the animals.It has been noticed that during their musical performancesthere is a throbbing in the throat, andthat the snout is elevated in giving play to thevoice, as in the warbling of birds. The song orwarble of these mice is said to be sweet and varied.Hitherto not much attention has been given byzoologists to the phenomenon; but we observe byvarious notices inLand and Water and inNature,two periodicals devoted to pleasant discussions onsubjects of natural history, &c., that singing miceare becoming objects of careful investigation.

An amusing account of a singing mouse appearsinNature, Nov. 9, from the pen of Mr JosephSidebotham, dating from Menton, south of France.

'Last winter we occupied the rooms we now doat Menton. Early in February we heard as wethought the song of a canary, and fancied it wasoutside our balcony; however, we soon discoveredthat the singing was in oursalon, and that thesongster was a mouse. At that time the weatherwas rather cold, and we had a little fire, and themouse spent most of the day under the fender,where we kept it supplied with bits of biscuit. Ina few days it became quite tame, and would comeon the hearth in an evening and sing for severalhours. Sometimes it would climb up the chiffonierand ascend a vase of flowers to drink at the water,and then sit and sing on the edge of the table andallow us to go quite near to it without ceasing itswarble. One of its favourite haunts was the wood-basket,and it would often sit and sing on the edgeof it. On February 12, the last night of theCarnival, we had a number of friends in oursalon,and the little mouse sang most vigorously, muchto their delight and astonishment, and was not inthe least disturbed by the talking. In the eveningthe mouse would often run about the room andunder the door into the corridor and adjoiningrooms, and then return to its own hearth. Afteramusing us for nearly a month, it disappeared;and we suspect it was caught in a trap set in oneof the rooms beyond. The mouse was small andhad very large ears, which it moved about muchwhilst singing. The song was not unlike that ofthe canary in many of its trills, and it sang quite{815}as beautifully as any canary, but it had morevariety, and some of its notes were much lower,more like those of the bullfinch. One greatpeculiarity was a sort of double song, which wehad now and then—an air with an accompaniment.The air was loud and full, the notesbeing low and the accompaniment quite subdued.Some of our party were sure that therewas more than one mouse, until we had theperformance from the edge of the wood-basketand were within a yard or two of it. My sonhas suggested that many or all mice may havethe same power, but that the notes are usuallyso much higher in the scale that, like the cryof the dormouse and the bat, they are at theverge of the pitch to which the human ear issensitive. This may be so; but the notes of ourmouse were so low, and even the highest so farwithin the limits of the human ear, that I aminclined to think the gift of singing in mice is butof very rare occurrence.'

In the same periodical, the following additionalparticulars as regards singing mice are presentedby Mr George J. Romanes, Regent's Park.

'Several years ago I received some of these animalsfrom a friend, and kept them in confinement forone or two months. The description which yourcorrespondent gives of their performance leavesvery little to be added by me, as in all respects thisdescription agrees perfectly with my own observations.I write, however, to remark one curiousfact about the singing of these mice, namely, thatit seemed to be evoked by two very oppositesets of conditions. When undisturbed, the littleanimals used for the most part to remain quietduring the day, and begin to sing at night; but ifat any time they were alarmed, by handling themor otherwise, whether during the day or night,they were sure to sing vigorously. Thus theaction seemed to be occasioned either by contentmentor by fear. The character of the song, however,was slightly different in the two cases.

'That these mice did not learn this art fromsinging birds there can be no doubt, for they werecaptured in a house where no such birds were kept.It may be worth while to add that this house(a London one) seemed to have been suddenlyinvaded, so to speak, by a number of these animals,for although my friend has lived in this housesince the year 1862, it was only during a fewmonths that singing mice were heard in it, andduring these few months they were heard in considerablenumbers.'

As corroborative of the foregoing notices, wegive the following very interesting account of asinging mouse, obligingly sent to us by a correspondent,Mr Alfred Wright.

'In the early spring of last year I was invitedby an old widow lady to see a singing mouse,which she had at night heard singing and scratchingbeneath the floor of her bed, and been so fortunateas to catch in a trap. I went, and found thelittle animal in a cage with a revolving wheel,similar to that in which a squirrel is usually confined.Whether the mouse was shy at the presenceof a stranger, I do not know. It remained silent;but at length, after my patience had been nearlyexhausted, it began to sing in clear warbling noteslike those of a bird. When I called the nextevening to hear the mouse again, I heard him toperfection; and was so filled with interest in thenovelty, that I begged permission to bring anyfriend who was a sceptic of the fact, or who mightdesire to see the phenomenon. My request wasreadily granted. One friend of course had heardof a singing mouse, but he certainly would notallow that a prolonged squeak was a song—nothe! Another friend of course had heard a mousesing when he was a boy; but he was told, heperfectly well remembered, that thenoise producedby the mouse was the result of someinternal disease. Well, both of these went withme to hear the little creature. Unfortunately, atfirst it was again shy; but after an interval ofsilence it commenced to sing—sweetly, like thelow notes, the jug, of the nightingale. My friendshad come, had heard, and were conquered! Theone acknowledged it was really a song and nota squeak; the other, that the noise was certainlydulcet; but still he thought it possibly might bethe result of disease, and not natural to the littleanimal. We suggested that this wonderful naturalcuriosity (as we deemed it) should be sent toan eminent naturalist who resided near. Great,therefore, was my astonishment and pleasure whenit was presented to me, who could only treat itlike a schoolboy would his white mouse—as apet. And truly it became a great pet to bothmy wife and myself.

'In form, the singing mouse did not differ fromhis humbler brethren; but in colour he was ofa darkish brown, and had very bright eyes. Itsoon became used to the presence of my wife,and sang constantly while revolving the wheelof his cage. The notes proceeded from the throat.He became exceedingly gentle, and was pleasedat being caressed.

'I deemed him so rare a curiosity that I venturedto offer to exhibit him to the distinguished naturalistreferred to above, and in my letter describedthe little creature and its peculiarities, as I havedone here. The naturalist most courteouslyreplied: "The case of the singing mouse is veryextraordinary, but the fact is now well established....The best account which has ever been publishedis by an American naturalist, and I have givenan abstract of his account in myDescent of Man.

"The American referred to is the Rev. S. Lockwood,author ofThe American Naturalist, and hegives an account of his observations of theHesperomyscognatus, an American species, belonging to agenus distinct from that of the English mouse. Thislittle animal gave two chief songs. Mr Lockwoodgives both songs in musical notation; and adds,that though this mouse 'had no ear for time,' yetshe would keep to the key of B (two flats) andstrictly in the major key.... Her soft clearvoice falls an octave with all the precision possible;then at the wind up it rises again into a veryquick trill in C sharp and D." I have made thisquotation, as it far better describes the peculiarqualifications of a singing mouse, than my inexperiencedobservations could announce.

'My mouse remained in contented confinementupwards of a year, feeding upon a little soppedbread and canary-seed; and great was the grief ofmy wife (who was his keeper) and myself whenhe was found dead in his little nest. During theprevious evening he had been heard singing withmore than usual ardour.'

We shall probably return to this interestingsubject.

{816}

USING UP WASTE SUBSTANCES.

The subject denoted by the above title, morethan once treated in theJournal, is adverted toby an obliging Lancashire correspondent who,surrounded by one of the busiest and most ingeniousclusters of townsmen in England, has hadhis attention drawn to various substances waiting(as it were), for application to useful purposes.His suggestions are not wholly new, having tosome extent been already anticipated; but theyare sufficiently valuable to call for notice here.

One relates to the waste that presents itself inthe processes of manufacturing cotton. A residueknown technically aswillowings, that falls intoa receptacle during the preparatory beating anddisentangling of raw cotton-wool, consists of adusty heap of seed-husks and short broken fibres.It is used by farmers to absorb the liquid manureof their cowsheds and middens or dung-heaps.Although some of the cottony fibre may beseparated through a sieve, so much adheres tothe seed-husk as to render it unsuitable for paper-making,for which it has often been tried. Thesuggestion now made is, that though unfitted forpaper, this refuse may possibly be found usefulin the manufacture ofmillboard. Large quantitiesof this tough and durable product are employed forbookbinding, for making the discs of railway wheels,&c.; and as colour is not a matter of moment,the idea is that the mingled residue of cottonyfibre and seed-husk might be rendered available.It is known that millboard made from wood-pulpis imported to a considerable extent from abroad;and we are told that 'a large portion of theprivate income of the great German ChancellorPrince Bismarck is derived from the manufactureof wood-millboard on his Varzin estate.' Manyhundred tons of willowings could be obtained inLancashire at a very cheap rate, even as low astwo shillings per hundredweight.

Another suggestion bears relation to the utilisationof refuse from the manufacture of prussiateof potash, a most valuable product in the handsof the manufacturing chemist. The prussiate isobtained in large ratio from woollen rags, after theseparation of all the pieces that can be worked upinto shoddy for cheap cloth. The refuse is calcinedin cast-iron retorts, lixiviated with water,and drained off for subsequent treatment: leavingbehind it a thick black sediment of impure animalcharcoal. The suggestion relates to the applicationof this residue to the manufacture of blacking—ahumble but valuable agent for those who appreciatetidiness in the appearance of boots and shoesand economy in the preservation of leather. Ifuseful for this purpose, it might be found advantageousand economical as an ingredient in printers'ink. Whether this carbon residue is at presentapplied to any other useful purpose, we are notfully informed.

A third suggestion relates to the preparation ofanimal size for the carpet-manufacture and forthat of many kinds of woollen and worsted goods.This size is made from the clippings and scrapingsof skins and hides, from rejected scraps of parchmentand vellum, and from the worn-out buffaloskin pickers and skips largely used in textilemanufactures; also from the pith of cattle-horns,which contain a large amount of valuable gelatine.The suggestion is, to utilise the refuse left aftermaking this size. One large carpet factory inYorkshire rejects as utterly useless a ton or moreof this refuse every week. The horn-pith containsas one of its components phosphate of lime, and ison that account recommended to the notice of themanufacturers of chemical manures on a largescale.

One more suggestion comes from our ingeniouscorrespondent. Old corks are applicable to agreater number of purposes than we are generallyin the habit of supposing. That many of themare ground up to make cork-stuffing for cushions,padding, &c. is well known; but there are otheruses for them as corks or half corks, besidesmaking floating buoys and life-preservers. Ataverner in a Lancashire town covered the floor ofhis lobby and bar with very open rope-matting,and filled up the openings with old corks cutdown to the level of the surface of the mats. Thiscombination is found to be almost indestructibleunder the feet; while it gives a good grip or foothold.As the making of rope-mats is one of thetrades carried on in reformatories and some otherlarge establishments, it is suggested that themanagers should take into consideration the feasibilityof adding old corks to their store of manufacturingmaterials.

As thisJournal finds its way into every cornerof the busy hives of industry, it may possibly bethat some of our readers are already acquaintedwith such applications of waste refuse to usefulpurposes as those which our esteemed correspondentsuggests. But this is a point of minor importance.The primary question is, not whetheran idea is absolutely new, but whether it ispracticably susceptible of useful application. Thehistory of manufactures teaches us that apparentlyhumble trifles like these have proved to be worthmillions sterling to the country.

LET BYGONES BE BYGONES.