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Antiquarian research, conducted in the prosaicspirit of the present day, has dealt cruel blowsat many time-honoured traditions. We aretaught that the story of the siege of Troy wasa mere romance—that Troy itself never existed;that Arthur’s Round Table was a myth; thatthe accidental appearance of a Countess’s garterat a ball was not responsible for the institutionof the highest order of knighthood; that acertain other Countess never freed the citizensof Coventry by riding through their streets withinnocence for her only dress; that the Maid ofOrleans was never burned, but married, andlived happy ever afterwards. We hardly knowwhat historic relation we are to be allowed tobelieve. While, however, historical inquiry hasdiscredited many pleasant stories, hard sciencehas come to the aid of romance, and has testifiedto the veracity of some narrators who have beenaccused of imposing on the credulity of the ignorantand superstitious by the relation of wondersunworthy of credence in enlightened times. Thestories of the appearance in the heavens ofblazing sceptres, fiery serpents, and swords offire dipped in blood, when read in the lightof the calm and unbiased observations of somemeteors in recent times, are descriptions ofphysical phenomena sufficiently rare to be accountedsupernatural by nations whose acquaintancewith the heavenly bodies did not extendbeyond the regular movements of the sun,moon, and planets. There is no doubt thatthe authors of these accounts related truthfullywhat they saw, employing the language whichbest conveyed their impressions.

With what awe the visit of a meteorite maybe regarded, even in this nineteenth century,by unlearned country-folk, may be gathered fromthe account of one which fell at Juvenas, inArdèche, on the 15th of June 1821, and whichformed the subject of a curiousprocès verbaldrawn up by the mayor of the commune. Itwas first seen at threeP.M. as a fireball, in aclear sky, while the sun was shining brightly;and it sunk five feet into the ground. Theinhabitants were so alarmed, that it was morethan a week before they could make up theirminds to search for this strange visitant. ‘Theydeliberated for a long time whether they shouldgo armed to undertake this operation, whichappeared so dangerous; but Claude Serre, thesexton, justly observed that if it was the Evil One,neither powder nor arms would prevail againsthim—that holy-water would be more effectual;and that he would undertake to make the evilspirit fly;’ after which reassuring speech, theyset to work and dug up the aërolite, whichweighed over two hundred pounds.

We read in the classic poets that on certainmomentous occasions, statues have been soaffected as to perspire, as if they were livinghuman beings. These stories have been passedover as mere poetic fictions; but probably theyrest on a substantial foundation. The phenomenonis doubtless that which is observed whena fire has been lighted for the first time in aroom which has for a lengthened period beenallowed to remain cold: the walls and otherobjects are seen to run down with moisture,which appears as if exuded from their surface.The same thing occurs when a long-continuedfrost is succeeded by mild weather. The appearanceis familiar enough to us, who are accustomedto sudden variations of temperature;but in warmer and more equable climates,the requisite conditions are probably rare; andthe appearance of copious moisture on statuescomposed of substances on which dew is notcommonly found, may well have been accounteda prodigy.

We may not be disposed to admit that thefiery cross seen by Constantine was a miraculousintimation; but we cannot set aside the accountas necessarily apocryphal; for a celestial crosswas seen in Migné, near Poitiers, in December1826. It was observed during a religious service,and the preacher in his sermon had referredto the cross of Constantine. The awe-struck{626}congregation, on perceiving the visible cross inthe sky, of shining silver, edged with red, immediatelyfell upon their knees, accepting the signas a divine testimony to the truth of what hadjust been told them. The source of the phenomenonwas afterwards found in a wooden crosswhich had been erected near the chapel, theshadow of which had been cast by the decliningsun on a rising mist.

The Flying Dutchman was obviously anotherinstance of atmospheric reflection, and similarphantom ships have been described by moderntravellers. The Enchanted Island, or Isle ofGhosts, which had its place in old charts inthe mid-Atlantic, and so perplexed the marinersof the middle ages by its varying appearance,defying all attempts to reach its shores, has sincebeen recognised as a fogbank.

Among the wonders recorded in the reign ofWilliam Rufus, it is said that on a night in1095, the stars seemed falling like a shower ofrain from heaven to earth, or, according to theChronicle of Reims, were driven like dust beforethe wind. A tradition is recorded as prevailingin Thessaly that on a certain night in Augustthe heavens were opened and burning torcheswere seen through the aperture. These are clearlybut highly coloured accounts, by persons oflimited knowledge of natural phenomena, of speciallybrilliant displays of shooting-stars. Thelast corresponds with the August meteors.

Bartholin, in hisHistory of Anatomy, speaks ofa patrician lady of Verona, Catherine, wife ofJ. Franciscus Rambaldus, whose skin sparkledwith fire when slightly touched. ‘This noblelady,’ he says, ‘the Creator endued with so stupendousa dignity and prerogative of nature,that as oft as her body was but lightly touchedwith linen, sparks flew out plentifully from herlimbs, apparent to her domestic servants, as ifthey had been struck out of a flint, accompaniedalso with a noise that was to be heard by all.Oftentimes, when she rubbed her hands uponthe sleeve of her smock that contained thesparks within it, she observed a flame with atailed ray running about, as fired exhalationsare wont to do.... This fire was not to beseen but in the dark or in the night, nor didit burn without itself, though combustible matterwas applied to it.’ This description of electricsparks is such as would be given by a personwho saw the phenomenon for the first time andwas ignorant of its cause. The same appearanceis sometimes seen by persons of the presentgeneration when divesting themselves of tight-fittingunderclothing, and especially when combingtheir hair with a vulcanite comb; but probablyit shows itself only with persons of peculiarconstitution.

It is hardly necessary to advert to the partwhich comets have played in the annals ofsupernatural manifestations. In classic times,however low the state of knowledge may havebeen in other departments of physical science,the celestial bodies were never without intelligentobservers, and the ancient astronomers nodoubt acknowledged comets as having theirplace in the planetary or sidereal economy. Butthis knowledge was confined to the learned; tothe common people, comets were chariots offire conveying departed heroes to the abode ofdemigods. A splendid comet luckily appearedafter the death of Julius Cæsar, and confirmedhis title to divine honours. In the dark ages,comets were celestial portents, presages of revolutionor pestilence. Throughout the sixteenthand seventeenth centuries, it was accounted profanescepticism to attribute their appearance tonatural causes; and even as late as the beginningof the eighteenth century, we find an intelligentwriter on the natural curiosities of the worldadopting the view that these bodies are notallowed to appear except with the special permissionof Divine providence, for a specific purpose,in opposition to the theories of astronomers,who are twitted with assigning long periodsto the orbits of comets in order that the predictionsof their reappearance may not be falsifiedin the lifetime of the persons makingthem.

Whether it was owing to the improved meansof spreading intelligence afforded by the inventionof printing, or to the excitement of men’sminds consequent upon the political and socialevents of the time, the sixteenth century wasprolific in stories of wonderful sights in theheavens and on the earth. Of the many marvellousaccounts then circulated, we select the following,which forms the subject of a tract byAbraham Fleming, and purports to have beentaken from the evidence of eye-witnesses. Theaccount is titled, ‘A Straunge and Terrible Wunderwrought very late in the Parish Church ofBungay—namely, the fourth of this August inthe yeere of Our Lord 1577 ... with the appearanceof an horrible shaped thing sensibly perceivedof the people then and there assembled.’The account is couched in terms appropriate tothe solemnity of a special manifestation from thespiritual world, and is interspersed with ejaculationsexpressive of the awe which filled thepeople’s minds at their witnessing the occurrencesdescribed; but the incidents, briefly told, areas follows: A storm of extraordinary fury wasraging while the congregation were assembled atdivine service; rain came down like a deluge,lightning flashed, and thunder pealed, so thatnot only dumb creatures were disquieted, but‘senseless things void of all life and feeling shookand trembled;’ in other words, the fabric andfurniture of the building were shaken by theviolence of the storm. While the tempest wasat its height, a visitor from the lower regions(as the narrator evidently believed) made hisappearance in the midst of the congregation, inthe form, ‘as they might discerne it,’ of a dog,of a black colour; ‘the sight whereof, togetherwith the fearful flashes of fire which then wereseene, moved such admiration in the mindes ofthe assemblie that they thought doome’s day wasalready come.’ The ‘Evil One in such a likenesse’ran with extraordinary speed down the body ofthe church among the people. Passing betweentwo persons who were on their knees apparentlyengaged in prayer, he wrung the necks of bothof them in an instant, so that they died wherethey knelt. As he passed by another man he‘gave him such a gripe on the back that therewithalhe was presently drawen togither andshrunk up as it were a piece of lether scorchedin a hot fire; or as the mouth of a purse orbag drawn togither with a string.’ This man,{627}however, did not die. Meanwhile, the parishclerk, who was cleaning out the gutter of thechurch, also saw the ‘horrible shaped thing,’ andwas struck to the ground with a violent clap ofthunder, but beyond his fall, was not harmed.The stones of the church and the church door,on being afterwards examined, bore evidence ofthe power of the demon in the marks of hisclaws or talons; and all the wires, the wheels,and other things belonging to the clock, werewrung in sunder and broken in pieces.

A similar occurrence is stated to have beenwitnessed the same day at Blibery, a villageseven miles from Bungay. In this case, thedemon planted himself upon the rood-loft, fromwhich he flung himself down into the church,and after killing two men and a lad, and burningthe hand of another person, flew out of the church‘in a hideous likeness.’

Before dismissing this story as a fable, bredof the imagination of people terror-stricken by thestorm, let us compare it with the account of anoccurrence which took place on Malvern Hills onthe 1st of July 1826. A party had taken refugein an iron-roofed hut from an impending storm,and were about to partake of refreshment whenthe storm came on. A gentleman who wasstanding at the eastern entrance—the storm hadcome from the west—saw what seemed to himto be a ball of fire moving along the surface ofthe ground. It came up and entered the hut,forcing him, as it did so, several paces forwardfrom the doorway. An explosion followed,described by the inhabitants of the village at thefoot of the hill (Great Malvern) as terrific. Ongoing in, as soon as he had recovered from theshock, to look after his sisters, he found themon the floor, fainting, as he thought, from terror.Two of them had died instantly; and a thirdlady, with others of the party, were injured.An examination of the hut showed a large crackin the side opposite to that at which the fireballhad entered, leading up to a window, and theiron roof above this was indented.

The correspondence of the leading circumstancesof this account with Fleming’s story isremarkable; and had the Malvern incidentoccurred in the superstitious sixteenth centuryinstead of the scientific nineteenth, it wouldno doubt have been regarded as a supernaturalvisitation, and have furnished just such amarvellous story as that of Bungay. In bothcases, something was seen to enter a buildingduring a thunderstorm, killing two personsinstantly and injuring others, disappearing witha noise described in the one case as a violentclap of thunder, and in the other as a terrificexplosion, and leaving behind visible marks ofits progress in the material of the building. Ineach instance, too, a person stationed outside sawsomething which drove him from his place, butotherwise did not harm him; and in both casesthe body, whatever it was, which seemed to bethe immediate source of the mischief had a progressivemotion, which, though swift, could befollowed by the eye. The chief point of differenceis in the appearance presented by the vehicleof the destructive agent. In the one case it islikened to a black dog, and in the other to aball of fire, and it may be said that no twothings could be more unlike. As to the formof the so-called dog, little need be said. It isadmitted that the church at the time was insuch a state of ‘palpable darknesse’ that oneperson could not perceive another; and in thedark, any ill-defined object that can be perceivedat all has a tendency to assume a fantasticshape. It was accompanied by ‘fearful flashesof fire,’ which seem to be distinguished fromthe lightning, and the effect on those who weretouched by it was that of scorching or burning.Whether the vehicle which brought the destructiveforce into the church, and which was thoughtto be a fiend, was a mass of highly chargedsmoke or dust, or a miniature cloud of the kindwhich, on a grand scale, passed over Malta onthe 29th of October 1757, the effects describedcorrespond so entirely with those known to resultfrom a particular kind of thunderstroke, that wecannot accuse the author of writing otherwisethan in good faith. The supernatural colouringmay fairly be ascribed to want of knowledge inregard to a subject which, even now, is butimperfectly understood. The Malta storm-cloud,which destroyed nearly two hundred lives, andlaid in ruins almost everything in its way, isdescribed by Brydone as being at first black,afterwards changing its colour till it becamelike a flame of fire mixed with black smoke;but he reports that despite the scientific explanationsof this extraordinary storm-cloud, the peopledeclared with one voice that it was a legion ofdemons let loose to punish them for their sins.There were, says he, a thousand people in Maltathat were ready to take their oath that theysaw the fiends within the cloud, ‘all as blackas pitch, and breathing out fire and brimstone.’

Besides those mentioned above, many otherstrange stories might be instanced which, at thetime, were accepted as true accounts of supernaturalappearances; and afterwards, when thegeneral belief in spiritual manifestations declined,were denounced as false, because contrary tonature, but have since been recognised as consistentwith natural laws. By taking into accountthe surrounding circumstances, the state of knowledgeat the time, the customary modes of expression,&c., we may, from many stories at first sightincredible, arrive at a substratum of truth whichmay form a valuable addition to the sum ofhuman knowledge. Imbued with a sense oftheir own superior wisdom, learned men, andothers who have thought themselves learned,have sometimes rashly pronounced as impossible,and therefore untrue, phenomena whichhave since been accepted as facts. In Arago’sPopular Astronomy is an account of a meteoritewhich struck the earth at Lucé, in the year1769. It was perceived in the sky by severalpersons, who watched its progress until itreached the surface of the earth, when it was atonce picked up and preserved; but the Academyof Sciences pronounced it impossible for a solidbody to have fallen from the heavens. On the24th of July 1790, a quantity of these stonesfell at St Juliac—in the fields, on the roofs ofthe houses, and in the streets of the village.The fall was preceded by what is describedas the passing of a great fire, after whichwas heard in the air a very loud and extraordinarynoise. The facts were certified by the{628}municipality of the place and by some hundredsof the inhabitants; but the affair was treatedin the public journals as a ridiculous tale,calculated to excite the compassion not merelyof savants, but of all reasonable persons.

Modern scientific research, while continuallygiving us fresh revelations of that order innature which is its supreme law, is at the sametime constantly narrowing the domain of the impossible.Even the wild dreams of the alchemistappear, to the chemist and physicist of to-day,less groundless than they did eighty or a hundredyears ago. The present century, the ageof the railway, the electric light, the telegraphand telephone, is certainly not less replete withmarvels than any of its predecessors. Many ofthe achievements of applied science, to whichwe have now become habituated, if they couldhave been related to a person living in the middleages, would make as great demands upon hiscredulity as the most wonderful stories of pasttimes do upon ours, and problems which havebaffled the genius of all past ages, and the insolvabilityof which had come to be regarded asa matter of faith, have been solved in our owntime. And yet we have no ground for assumingthat we have approached a limit in the field ofdiscovery, or for claiming finality in our interpretationsof nature. We have lifted a cornerof the curtain, and are enabled to peep at someof the machinery by which her operations areeffected, but much more remains concealed, andwe know not what marvels may yet in courseof time be made clear to us. There are doubtlessmore things in heaven and earth than are dreamtof—even in our philosophy.

IN TWENTY CHAPTERS.—CHAP. IV.

Five years have passed away, bringing strangechanges and startling revolutions—years, to some,fraught with misery and regret; years, to others,which have been pregnant with fame and honour;but to the suffering, patient world, only anotherstep nearer to eternity. Five years later, andnight in the small German town where honouris wrecked and lives are lost on the hazard of adie. The Kursaal at Homburg sparkling with theglitter of ten thousand lights. Men of all nationswere gathered there, drawn together by thestrongest cords which bind human destiny—thepower of gold. No type of face was wanting;no passion, no emotion that the humanvisage is capable of, but had its being there:rage, despair, misery, exultation—the whole gamutof man’s passions and triumphs. Women werethere too. The bluest-blood recorded in theAlmanach de Gotha did not disdain to rub elbowswith the last fancy from the Comédie Française;my lord, cold, indifferent, and smiling, sat sideby side with the reckless plunger who wouldhave bartered his honour, had that commodityremained to him, for the gold to place upon thecolour. On the long green tables, the glitteringcoins fell with a subdued chink sweeter than thefinest music to the hungry ears; a republic themost perfect in the universe, where rich and pooralike are welcomed, with one great destiny—tolose or to gain. There were no wild lamentationsthere; such vulgar exhibitions were out of place,though feeling cannot be disguised under thedeepest mask, for a tremor of the eyelid, a flashof the eye, a convulsive movement of the fingers,betray poor human nature. As the game proceededwith the monotonous cry of the croupier,it was awful to watch the intentness of the faces,how they deepened in interest as the game wasmade, bending forward till at length ‘Rougeperd et couleur’ came from the level voiceagain.

The croupiers raked in the glittering stacksof gold, silently, swiftly, but with as much emotionas a child would gather cowslips, and threwthe winning on each stake as calmly, knowingfull well that in the flight of time it must return.The piles were raked up, and then arose a murmur,a confusion of tongues, reminding the spectatorof what the bewilderment at Babel musthave been, a clamour which died away to silenceat the inthralling ‘Faites votre jeu.’

How the hands clawed at the sparkling treasure;eager, trembling avarice in every finger-tip;from the long, lean, yellow claw of the oldwithered gamester, to the plump little hand of thebride, who is trying her fortune with silver, fearfullest, driven by despair, some less fortunateplayer should lay felonious fingers upon thepiled-up treasure.

Standing behind the all-absorbed group wasa young man with pale, almost ghostly features,and a heavy dark moustache. From his attitudeand smile, it was hard to say how fortune hadserved him, for his face was void of any emotion.He held one piece of gold in his hand, placedit on a colour, waited, and lost. A trifling movementof his lips, pressed tightly together underthe dark moustache—that was all. Then for amoment he hesitated, pondered, and suddenly,as if to settle the matter quickly, he detacheda coin from his watchchain and leaned forwardagain. Under him, seated at the table, was awoman winning steadily. A pile of gold wasbefore her; she was evidently in the luckiestvein. The man, with all a gambler’s superstition,placed the coin in her hand. ‘Stake forme,’ he whispered; ‘you have the luck.’

Mechanically, she took the proffered coin, andturned it in her hand; then suddenly a waveof crimson, succeeded by a deathly whiteness,came across her face. She held the coin, thenput it carefully aside, and staked another in itsplace. Then, apparently forgetting her emotionin the all-absorbing interest of the game, shelooked at the table. ‘Rouge gagne, et couleurperd,’ came the chant of the croupier. The stakeswere raked in, and the money lost. Under hisbreath, the man uttered a fervent imprecation,slightly shrugged his shoulders, and turned towatch the game again. From that moment thewoman lost; her pile dwindled away to one coinbeyond the piece of metal tendered her to stake,{629}but still she played on, the man behind watchingher play intently. A little varying luck, at onemoment a handful of napoleons, at another,reduced to one, the game proceeded. At lengththe last but one was gone, save the piece tenderedto her by the man behind the chair; that shenever parted with. As she sat there, words cameto her ears vaguely—the voice of the man behindher, and every time he spoke she shivered, asif a cold breath were passing through her heart.A temporary run of luck came to her aid, andso she sat, listening and playing.

The new-comer was another man, evidently anItalian, fine, strong, with an open face and darkpassionate eyes. He touched the first man uponthe shoulder lightly, speaking in excellent English.

There were four actors there, playing, hadthey but known it, a ghastly tragedy. The twomen were players; the listening woman wasanother; and across the table, behind the spectators,stood a girl. She had a dark southernface of great beauty—a face cleanly chiselled,and lighted by a pair of wondrous black eyes—eyesbent upon the two men and the woman,playing now with the keenest interest. Sheshrank back a little as the new-comer entered,and her breath came a little quicker; but thereshe stayed, watching and waiting for some opportunity.Her look boded ill for some one. Meanwhile,the unconscious actors fixed their attentionon the game. The last arrival touchedthe other man upon the elbow again, a littleroughly this time.

‘I have been playing my friend—yes. It isnot in my nature to be in such a place without.What would you have me do, Luigi? I amdying of ennui from this inaction—kicking upmy heels here waiting for orders.’

‘I should have thought you could have foundsomething better to occupy your time,’ the manaddressed as Luigi returned. ‘Our work is toostern, too holy, to be shared with such frivolityas this. Gold, gold, with no thoughts of anythingbut this maddening scramble!’

‘My dear Luigi, pray, control yourself. Areyou not aware that this sort of thing has beendone to death? Do not, as you love me, descendto the level of the descriptive journalist, whocomes over here to coin his superlative condemnatoryadjectives into money—to lose atthis very interesting game. John Bull holdsup his hands in horror as he reads the descriptionin hisTelegraph, and then he comes to tryhis luck himself. I, Hector le Gautier, haveseen a bishop here.’

‘How fond you are of the sound of your ownvoice,’ Luigi Salvarini returned. ‘Come outside;I have something important to say to you.’

‘Something connected with the League, I suppose,’Le Gautier yawned. ‘If it was not yourselfI was talking to, I should say, confusion to theLeague.’

‘How rash you are!’ Salvarini returned ina low tone, accompanied by an admiring glanceat his companion. ‘Consider what one wordspoken lightly might mean to you. The attendantshere, the croupier even, might be a Numberin the League.’

‘Very likely,’ Le Gautier replied carelessly;‘but it is not probable that, if I should whisperthe magic words in his ear, he would give mecredit for a few napoleons. I am in no moodfor business to-night, Luigi; and if you arethe good fellow I take you for, you will lendme’——

‘One Brother must always aid another accordingto his means, says the decree. But, alas!I have nothing.—I came to you with the intention’——

‘Oh, did you?’ Le Gautier asked sardonically.‘Then, in that case, I must look elsewhere; afew francs is all my available capital.’

‘Hector,’ the Italian exclaimed suddenly, ina hoarse whisper, ‘where is the?’—— He didnot finish his sentence, but pointed to thewatchchain the other was idly twirling in hisfingers.

Le Gautier smiled sarcastically. ‘It is gone,’he said lightly—‘gone to swell the bloated coffersof the bank. Fortune, alas! had no favour evenfor that mystic coin. Sacred as it should havebeen, I am its proud possessor no more.’

‘You are mad, utterly mad!’ Salvarini exclaimed.‘If it were but known—if it has falleninto the hands of the bank, or a croupier happensto have a Number, think of what it means toyou! The coin would be forwarded to theCentral Council; the signs would be called in;yours missing’——

‘And one of these admirable German daggerswould make acquaintance with my estimableperson, with no consolation but the fact ofknowing what a handsome corpse I shall make.Bah! A man can only die once, and so longas they do not make me the posthumous heroof a horrible tragedy, I do not care. It is notso very serious, my Luigi.’

‘Itis serious; you know it is,’ Luigi retorted.‘No Brother of the League would have had thesublime audacity, the reckless courage’——

‘L’audace, l’audace, toujours l’audace,’ Le Gautierreturned. ‘I sigh for new temptations; thesight of the gaming-table is to me what the smellof battle afar off is to the war-horse. I camehere intending to risk a louis; I have lost everything.There is nothing like courage at thetables; and as it had a spice of danger in it, Irisked’——

‘But, my dear friend, it is exactly that spiceof danger that gives the thing its namelesscharm. Come, you are hipped, out of sorts.You see the duties of the Order in every action;you see the uplifting of the avenging dagger inevery shadow that trembles on the wall. Bea man!’

‘I am all the more disturbed,’ Salvarini observedwith moody, uneasy face, ‘that the orders havecome. That is the principal reason I am hereto look for you. We are translated to London.’

‘That is good news, at anyrate,’ Le Gautier exclaimedbriskly. ‘I have been literally dying toget back there. By the bright eyes of Enid—— Whatis that?’

Above the clamour of tongues and the rattleof the gold pieces, a low laugh was heard distinctlyclose to the speaker’s elbow. He turnedsharply round; but there was no one within a{630}few feet of them. Apparently, it had not disturbedthe inthralled players, though the croupierswept his cold eye around to discover the authorof this unseemly mirth.

‘Strange!’ Le Gautier observed. ‘I seem tohave heard that laugh before, though I cannotremember where.’

‘And so have I,’ Salvarini whispered hoarsely—‘onlyonce, and I hope that I may never hearit again. It is horrible!’

Le Gautier looked at his companion, amazed tosee the agitation pictured on his face. It waswhite and drawn, as if with some inward pain.Salvarini wiped his damp brow as he met theother’s piercing gaze, and tried to still the tremblingof his limbs.

‘A passing fancy,’ he explained—‘a fancy whichcalled up a remembrance of my boyhood, therecollection of a vengeance as yet unpaid.—ButI am idling; let us get outside. The ordershave come, as I tell you, for London. We areto meet the Head Centre at the old address.’

‘The old mysterious way,’ was the impatientreply; ‘secrecy and darkness; no trust in anyone, however worthy he may have proved—theold suspicion, which drags us down, and holdsour hands even in the act of striking. I foundthem on my table when I got in. You and Iare to get to London, and there await orders.Our instructions bear the crossed daggers, indicatingextreme secrecy and a mission of greatdanger.’

In spite of hissang froid, Le Gautier couldnot repress a slight start; and a smile of covertsarcasm, pity almost, rose to his lips as he lookedin his companion’s eager, enthusiastic face; thesame sort of pity the sharper feels for his unconsciousvictim when he has him within the toils.Not that the younger man noticed this; his eyeswere full of some far-away project, somethingnoble, by their expression.

‘The old story of the monkey and the chestnuts,’Le Gautier observed with his most sinistersmile; ‘the puppets run the risk, and the HeadCentres get the glory. If we fall, it is infreedom’s name. That is sufficient epitaph forus poor, silly, fluttering moths.’

‘The glory, yes—the glory of a felon’s grave!The glory lies in the uncertainty. What do wegain, you and I, by the removal of crownedheads? When the last tyrant fell at our leader’sdictate, how much did we benefit by the blow?He was not a bad man; for a king, he wasjust.’

‘You are in a bitter mood, to-night, Hector,’Salvarini answered. ‘What will you say whenI tell you the appointment has come with yournomination as a Deputy, with a seat at theCouncil of the Crimson Nine?’

‘My appointment at last! You are joking,Luigi. Surely they had need of better menthan I. What of La Fontaine?’

‘Dead,’ Salvarini responded grimly. ‘Treacherywas suspected, and it was necessary to removehim.—But what I tell you is true; you areordered to be present at the next Council atWarsaw, two months hence, when you will giveup your badge as an Avenger, and take thepremier order.’

‘And I have staked it to-night on the hazardof a die!’ Le Gautier exclaimed, pallid evenbeyond his usual deathly whiteness. ‘Fool, foolthat I was! How can I prevent it becomingknown? I am undone!’

‘You do not know the worst,’ Salvarini replied.‘Come closer, and let me whisper in your ears;even the walls carry such tidings. The SupremeDirector is here!’

Le Gautier turned faint and sick as he lookedfurtively round the room, with its long mirrorsand barbaric splendour.

‘Suppose you lend me yours?’ he suggested.‘You will not want it now. What a mad foolI have been! I wonder if there is any wayof recovering it? for I must have it, come whatwill. With a penalty of’——

The word, abruptly, sternly uttered, was followedby the same low mocking laugh they hadheard before. They looked around in alarm, butno trace of any one could be seen. Standingin the recess of a window, they looked out; butno sign of the mysterious warning, so strangelygiven.

‘Let us get away from this,’ Le Gautier groaned.‘I am stifled! Come outside into the open air.My nerves must be unstrung to-night.’

They walked out through the high folding-doors,and disappeared in the darkness. As theyleft, the woman who had been playing rosefrom her seat and followed them. Apparently,she was too late, for they had vanished; and witha sigh, she abandoned her evident intention,turning into the Kursaal gardens and throwingherself into a seat. Directly she quitted thesaloon, the woman with the dark eyes followed,and tracked the other to the quiet retreat. Forsome time she stood behind the shadow of atree, watching her. It was a brilliant moonlightnight—clear, calm, and peaceful. Withoutthere, the lighted windows of the gamblingsaloon could be seen; and ever and anon themurmur of the croupier, the scrape of the rakes,and the subdued clink of the gold, might beheard. But the figure on the seat did not heedthese things; she was looking at a coin in herhand, making out as she best could the devicesthat it bore, strange and puzzling to her.

It was merely a gold coin, in fine a moidoreof Portugal; and upon the reverse side, thefigure had been rubbed down, and an emblemengraved in its place. There was a figure ofLiberty gazing at a rising sun, her foot upona prostrate dead body, and underneath the words,‘I strike.’ Over the rising sun, in tiny letters,was the device, ‘In Freedom’s name;’ and atthe top, two letters in a monogram. The seatedfigure noted these things, but, from the expressionon her face, they represented nothing toher. Behind the shadow of the tree, the watchercrept closer and closer, trying in vain to geta glimpse of the golden coin. As the seatedfigure bent over it, tears began to gather inher eyes, overflowing at last, and the passionof sorrow seemed to rise, till her frame wasshaken with the sobs she did not strive tomaster. The woman looking on stepped outfrom her shelter and crossed the open grass{631}to the other’s side. Her face, on the contrary,was eager, almost hopeful, as she bent forwardand touched the weeper on the shoulder. Shelooked up, surprise mastering her grief for abrief moment.

Few men have gone through a campaign of anyduration without having experienced some oneor more of those strange incidents of warfarewhich are known under the name of Panics.Those who have been in them know but toowell their peculiarity—how a sudden access offear seizing upon a body of troops, and communicatingitself from man to man with arapidity that can only be compared to a conflagrationin a city built of wood, spreads soquickly that it is impossible to detect its cause,and the coolest observer cannot tell whence thecontagion had its origin. Amongst raw levies oryoung and inexperienced soldiery, such panicsare naturally more frequent than amongst triedtroops; but history tells us that even the oldestveterans are not proof against their attack.

Napier, in hisPeninsular War, devotes butsome eight or nine lines to an account of themost remarkable recorded incident of this nature,in which Robert Crauford’s celebrated LightDivision—consisting of those three distinguishedregiments, the 43d, the 52d, and the 95th—wereseized and put to flight by an attack of fear sosudden and causeless that the historian makesno attempt whatever to ascribe a reason for it.‘The Light Division,’ he writes, ‘encamped in apinewood, where happened one of those extraordinarypanics attributed in ancient times tothe influence of a god. No enemy was near, noalarm given, when suddenly the troops, as ifseized with a frenzy, started from sleep anddisappeared in every direction; nor was thereany possibility of allaying this strange terror,until some persons called out that the enemy’scavalry were amongst them, when the soldiersmechanically ran together, and the illusion wasdissipated.’ It seems odd that so diffuse a writershould have seen fit to say so little of so extraordinaryan occurrence, more especially when weremember that this same Light Division was theflower of the British army in the Peninsula,and that he writes of it not many pages beforeas ‘composed of three regiments singularly fittedfor difficult service. Long and carefully disciplinedby Sir John Moore, they came to the fieldwith such a knowledge of arms, that six yearsof warfare could not detect a flaw in their system,nor were they ever overmatched in courage andskill.’

The public has been made acquainted with agoodly number of panics during the last fewyears, the military annals of which have been soreplete with the warlike operations of the Britisharms. Many of us have thrown up our handsand sighed over the decadence of the pristinevirtue of our soldiers, or prophesied darkly thedownfall of the whole British race. The reasonwhy the world nowadays is more familiar withmany of the shortcomings and failings of ourtroops is not very difficult to find. As, beforeAgamemnon, lived many brave men whose virtueshave not been handed down, so too, perhaps,many little indiscretions on the part of thesoldiers of Marlborough and Wellington havepassed into oblivion through want of a ‘specialwar correspondent.’ In spite of press censorshipon the part of military officers, sooner orlater these lynx-eyed gentlemen, being in themidst of the fighting-men, have seen and recordedin the columns of the daily press very manyincidents, the seriousness of which has not beenlessened in the telling. Amongst soldiers themselves,a natural pride would make them reticentin such matters; andl’esprit de corps has probablycaused more than we know of to be buriedin the bosoms of the members of some particularcorps.

This reminds us of an unrecorded case of‘panic’ pure and simple, which was communicatedto us, years after its occurrence, by anofficer in the regiment concerned. When hespoke of it, he did so with the air of a man fearfulof breaking a sacred trust, which even thenhe seemed to feel hardly justified in betraying,though the regiment had changed its title, andscarcely one of the members in it at the timestill remained. Suffice it to say that the regimentwas a distinguished infantry one, composedalmost entirely of veterans, who had added lustreto their former glories by the courage and braverywith which they had behaved throughout thetrying times of the Indian Mutiny. It wasshortly after this terrible outbreak had beenquelled that the regiment in question was marchingfrom the scene of some of the bloodiest outragesto a new station in a comparatively undisturbedportion of India. Then, as now, marchesin that country were usually carried out at night,the sun in the hot season rendering exposure to itsinfluence more or less unsafe to Europeans. Theyhad almost reached the spot where they wereto halt for the night—which, by-the-bye, wasan exceptionally dark one—in fact, the advance-partyhad already arrived, when suddenly somesort of commotion and press of men from therear was noticed by the officers. Before theycould divine the cause, the confusion increased,and the regiment, without paying any heed tothe commands of the officers, broke its ranks,and fled precipitately into the jungle on eitherside of the road. As usual, the officers, and eventhe senior non-commissioned officers, had notshared the general terror, and some few of theprivates had at first called upon their comradesto remain steady—but all to no avail. They wereregularly broken, and scarcely a man remained.Very soon, an explanation was forthcoming. Anumber of loose horses came galloping down theroad. It was the noise of their hoofs over thehard ground, breaking the stillness of the Indiannight, that had mysteriously magnified itself intoa vague but all-mastering terror. How completethe panic was may be imagined from the fact thatmany of the men had fled so far into the junglethat they did not return till the following morning.Every inquiry was made by the colonelinto the case; but no one was ever made responsibleas the originator; and the regiment mutuallyagreed to keep the whole affair a profound{632}secret. So well did they do so, that it neverleaked out till years afterwards, when time hadblunted the sting of publicity.

In South Africa, the disaster of Isandlhwanagave the soldiers’ nerves a severe shaking,and it often happened that false alarms at nightled to the rousing of whole camps, and sometimeseven to a reckless discharge of firearms.In some cases, friendly natives or even comradeswere taken by the excited imagination of a sentryfor enemies; in others, unoffending cattle, evena bush or a shrub, became the innocent causeof a fusilade sufficient to have dealt widespreaddestruction to a host of Zulus.

An odd incident, illustrative of the slightnessof the cause—or even, perhaps, of the absence ofany cause at all—that gives rise to a panic,occurred on the night of Tel-el-Kebir, amidst asmall corner of the force that was bivouackingon the battlefield. The narrator had crawledinto a marquee in which, with other commissariatstores, were the rum casks from whichthe troops had received their liquor ration afterthe fatigues and excitement of the day’s fightand previous night-march. Besides one or twocommissariat issuers in charge of the stores,several ‘odds and ends’ of other corps had foundtheir way into the marquee, preferring to restunder its shelter amidst the casks and biscuit-boxes,than under the open sky with the sandfor a bed. Suddenly, in the middle of the nightwhen all were sleeping, a noise and commotionbegan in the bivouac outside. Before the inhabitantsof the tent were sufficiently awake tounderstand its cause, the curtains were thrustaside by a red-coated soldier, who shouted tous to get up: ‘The Arabs are in the camp—theyare upon us!’ Then he disappearedas rapidly as he had come. Every one sprangto his arms, and probably experienced thatespecially uncomfortable sensation that is causedby a vague feeling of an unseen thoughimminent danger against which one is ignoranthow to guard. Outside, every one around wasaroused and up, eagerly striving to discoverfrom what quarter attack was to be expected.Nothing, however, more unpleasant occurredthan the advent of a staff-officer asking thecause of the confusion. Probably the truthnever did reach headquarters. Afterwards, however,a report gained ground—no other or betterreason was ever forthcoming—that the alarmarose from the screams of a sleeping soldier, who,overwrought perhaps by the horrors of the day,had been fighting his battle over again in hisdreams!

It is perhaps as well that all cases of panicshould be brought forward and investigated.Hushing them up may be satisfactory to thosewho feel that the credit and reputation of theirparticular regiment or corps are at stake; but,like all undeclared and secret evils, they are bestdealt with by being dragged to light. Howelse can the soldier learn their absurdity—howelse learn to recognise them and reason on themoment whether he be in the presence of acauseless panic or a real danger?

One lesson certainly the few lines of Napierquoted above teach us. The cry of some one thatthe enemy’s cavalry were amongst them causedthe Light Division to rally—it was the dissipationof a vague terror by the substitution for itof a substantial danger.

Enough has been said to show that panicswill occur. It is easy to see how fatal may betheir results, and how detrimental they are tothemorale of an army. A recognition of thisfact must convince us of the necessity that existsfor neglecting no step that may tend to minimisetheir occurrence, or, if they must occur, to mostefficaciously and speedily counteract their effects.Long since, sailors learnt by experience that realor imagined outbreaks of fire on shipboard weretoo apt to cause panic and confusion, and therebyincrease tenfold the horrors of the situation. Toprovide against this, the fire-alarm is frequentlysounded, with a view to accustoming the crewto take up rapidly their allotted posts, when fireactually does occur, with the calmness and despatchbred of familiarity. This system of accustomingmen to sudden alarms of attack waspractised with success in the Marine Camp roundSuakim, and they probably owed the idea insome measure to their naval training. At anyrate,their camp was particularly free from needlessnight-alarms, and their sentries earned thesomewhat rare distinction of never having beenforced throughout the whole campaign.

CHAPTER I.—TOO LATE!

There was a sharp but not unpleasant smell offrost in the air; the small shrubbery around theway-side station of Lochenbreck was covered witha slight coating of hoar-frost, which was beinggradually dissipated by the golden rays of thesun, now two or three degrees above the horizon.The bustle of the Twelfth had passed. The‘knowing ones’ who prefer Wigtownshire moorsto those of the West and North Highlands, asbeing lower rented and yielding quite as goodsport, had come and gone, for it was now thelatter end of September. It was about eighto’clockA.M.; the South train was due, and itwas timed to stop here for five minutes; notso much on account of any passenger or goodstraffic it might deposit or receive, as to allowthe iron horse to take a huge drink, sufficientto carry it in comfort to Stranraer. That thisparticular morning, however, there was some passengertraffic expected was evident. Outside thestation stood a wagonette, a pony-cart, and a smartostler in charge of both; inside was the station-master,a porter, and a young lady. The twoformer were listening for the clang of the signal-bellannouncing the train; the latter, in prosaictruth, was endeavouring to keep her feet warm,by pacing rapidly up and down the limitedplatform. She was a very pretty girl, with aclear, pinky freshness of complexion, a finelychiselled nose, and a small, sweet, though firmmouth.

The signal-bell clanged, and the train camegrandly sweeping in. There was but one passenger,but that was the one the young lady was{633}waiting for. When he alighted, she ran forwardand gave him her hand, which he shookheartily.

‘Oh, no, no! I’ll have you all to myself!And you’ll have such lots of new London storiesto tell, and none of your awfully clever cityfriends to laugh at me.’

The new arrival’s portmanteau, fishing-rods, &c.,were put in the pony-cart, and assisting the younggirl into the wagonette, he took the reins andstarted at a smart trot towards Lochenbreck Inn,some eight miles away over the purple moor.

While they are enjoying the heather-scented air,and the delightful moorland scenery, from whichthe sun had now dispelled the early morning’smist, it may be as well that the reader shouldknow who the occupants of the wagonette were.Place aux dames; Anne Porteous, aged nineteen,was the daughter of Robert Porteous, innkeeperat Lochenbreck. Robert, however, was not anordinary innkeeper. He certainly took in guestsfor bed and board, and, as was said by some,charged very highly for the accommodation; butbeyond this, he was proprietor of a loch, and mostof the moor encircling it, and could thus give freeangling and shooting privileges to his guests. Hewas quite independent of innkeeping as a meansof living; but his father and grandfather beforehim had kept the inn, and why should not he?Early in life he was left a widower, and Annewas his only daughter. She received an excellenteducation at S—— Academy, and reallytook charge of the inn business, for her fatherwas crippled with rheumatism. Her management,however, was an unseen one, for she did notcome personally in contact with the guests. Butthere were exceptions to that rule. One of themwas her present companion, George Hannay, theeditor of the London magazine, theOlympic. Butthen the case with him was different from thatof an ordinary guest. Her father and he were oldfriends, and he had been coming about the placesince she was a girl in short frocks. The editorwas a very keen angler, and as the sport couldbest be pursued off a boat, when Anne grewolder and strong enough, it was her whim andpleasure to row him about while he wieldedthe rod. Thus they grew great friends; and hisautumn visit was looked forward to with joyousexpectancy by little Nan. Little, she was notnow; years had glided away, and she hadalmost emerged into womanhood; but still theold friendly relations were kept up betweenthe two. Last summer she had spent withher father’s sister, who kept apension in Brussels,and it is about her experiences there that thepair are chatting gaily as the vehicle rolls homewardsover the leaf-bestrewn road.

As for the editor, he was a tallish, well-developedman, with dark hair, whiskers, and moustacheconsiderably more than sprinkled with gray. Atfirst sight you would guess his age at about fifty.But having regard to his light springy step andgenial smile, you might have set him down atabout forty, and still have been wrong, for intruth he was only thirty-eight. It was a grandrelief for him to leave the Metropolis and hiseditorial worries behind once a year, and spenda glorious autumn holiday at Lochenbreck—fishing,talking with his old friend Robert,and—well—yes! (of late years, that is to say)enjoying a chat with his pretty little daughter.It was not accidentally that he came alonethis time. Usually he brought a roisteringsquad of literary bohemians, who made theceiling of the private parlour ring with jestand song till unseemly hours of the morning.And the reason was, he came prepared to offerhis heart and hand to the fair Nan! He didnot imagine for a moment he was in love withher. Oh, no! he was too old and sedate for suchnonsense as that. In his professional capacity hehad dissected and analysed so many excruciatinglysentimental love tales, that he imaginedhimself Cupid-proof. But things had driven histhoughts towards matrimony. He had got tiredof his lady-housekeeper, with her Cockneyfiedvulgar airs. Now, if he could only get rid ofher, he thought, pension her off, or get anothersituation for her, and place this Scotch girl atthe head of his table, how much brighter lifewould seem to him! Would she take him?Well, he thought she would. Of one thing hewas certain, she was really fond of him; therewas no rival in the way; and the father wascertain to favour the match. He did not carefor girlish gush; sound lasting affection, andpurity and singleness of mind, were what hewanted.

The wagonette had now arrived at the inn—aquaint old crow-stepped edifice, half coveredwith ivy, and surrounded by a garden-wall.Old Mr Porteous was at the door, and badehis guest a hearty welcome. Then Anne set towork, and in less than half an hour there wasa tempting breakfast smoking on the privateparlour table, which Mr Hannay did excellentjustice to. To keep him company, his hostand hostess sat at table with him, and madebelieve to partake of the dainties before them;while the truth was, they had had a heartybreakfast three hours before. The sun, whichtill now had brightened up the room, becameovercast, and a few drops from a passing showerrattled against the diamond-paned window. MrHannay rose from his chair and looked out. Asplendid day for fishing. ‘Come, Nan, my lass,’he said, ‘let’s to work. It’s a shame to sithere idling, with the loch in such fine trim fortrouting.’

‘Well, sir, I suppose I must obey orders,’she rejoined, and tripping up-stairs, soonreturned arrayed in an old frock, and a headpieceof stiff white calico, resembling in designa sou’wester, and suited to protect from sun,rain, or wind. Half an hour later they werefloating on the loch; Nan slowly paddlingalong, her companion industriously whippingthe water; both keeping up a desultory conversation.Her experiences at Brussels naturallyformed the chief topic. On this subject shespoke with enthusiasm. She had never seenParis, therefore its miniature presentment impressedher all the more vividly. Hannay waspleased to hear scenes described with her freshgirlish fervour, to which he had long beenblasé.{634}Apart from the warm feelings he had towardsher, her conversation had a literary charm forhim, for she was a born narrator. She tookhim with her in all her rambles and escapades,and her six months’ residence in the gay littlecapital seemed exposed to his mental vision asclearly as if he had been her companion. Yetthe sly little damsel forgot, quite innocently ofcourse, to tell him of sundry moonlight walkswith a certain Scotch student, under the lindentrees of the Boulevard des Alliers.

The fishing was progressing but slowly.Perhaps there was thunder in the air; orpossibly the angler’s mind was abstracted, andhe was thinking of matters of weightier import,than the capture of a few silvery trout. Aftermissing excellent ‘offers’ on two or three occasions,his companion burst into a merry laugh, andasked him if his wits had gone a wool-gathering,‘I am afraid,’ she continued, gravely shakingher head, ‘that you are still in love with thatwicked Mademoiselle Sylvestre.’

Now, the lady referred to was an aged ex-primadonna of the English opera, and a warm friendof his. It pleased Nan, however, to make-believethat their relationship to each other was of astrongly amorous nature, and she missed noopportunity of teasing him about her. Nowwas a chance to broach the matter he had atheart. For, strange to say, this experiencedman of literature and society, this ornamentof London drawing-rooms, felt oddly embarrassedin his new relationship of suitor to asimple country girl. True it was, she had noidea of the terrible designs he had on her heartand liberty; but that seemed only to make thematter worse in his eyes. There was not anatom of self-consciousness about her. Her cleargray eyes were crystalline; he fancied he couldread every thought of her soul in their transparentdepths. No thoughts of love there evidently.It looked almost brutal to disturb theirsweet maidenly repose—almost like shooting atrusting, tame rabbit. If there had been butthe least spice of coquetry about her, it wouldhave been so much easier for him to have unburdenedhimself of his heart’s secret—at leastso he thought. He never felt so morally limpin all his life, and it was with the courage ofdespair that he wound up his reel and determinedto know his fate then and there. Afew intermittent drops of rain began to fall, andseating himself beside her on the thwarts, heshared his waterproof with her. He never yethad spoken, save in the language of raillery; howon earth was he now to address her in accentsof love and sentiment? However, it must bedone; and he took ‘a header.’

‘My dear Nan,’ he began, ‘it is really toobad of you to mention that estimable old lady.I like her very much, as I am sure would youif you knew her. But she might easily bemy mother! Ah, Nan,’ he continued, slippinghis arm round her waist underneath the waterproof—‘ah,Nan, there is only one girl in allthe world I care a pin for, and it is yourown sweet self! Nan—will you be my wife?’

As he spoke the last few words, Nan’s facegrew deadly pale; then the truant blood rushedback to her cheeks tumultuously, flushing themcarmine.

‘Oh, no, no!’ she piteously cried as sheshrunk from him, and gently disengaged his armfrom round her waist; ‘oh, no! Mr Hannay,that can never, never be! O how stupid andfoolish I’ve been. Forgive me, forgive me, mydearest of friends! But—but—indeed I neverlooked on you in any way like that. I havebeen very imprudent—I have been far too freewith you—but it was all thoughtlessness. Tellme you don’t for a moment believe I was sowicked as to have done it purposely.’

She put her hands over her face, and sobbedaloud. Here was a nice position for a lover to bein, who an hour ago was confidently dreaming ofyears of sweet companionship with her who nowtold him in language not to be misunderstoodthat such could never, never be. These werenot the simulated tears and sobs of a heartlesscoquette; the honest simple girl had evidentlynever dreamed of the possibility of him beinga wooer. He was too old—that was it. Andwhat a fool he had made of himself! Well, hewould just require to swallow it all, and comforthimself with the reflection that no oneknew of his folly, for he knewshe wouldnever tell. His heart went out in pity toher. He told her never to mind. He evenwent the length of pretending that he wasalmost glad she had refused him, for he was sowedded to city life, with its clubs, greenrooms,and what not, that he was certain he would havebeen a very careless, inattentive husband, andshe a neglected, heart-broken wife. In such wisedid he comfort the girl, who dried her eyesand tried to look quite gay and cheerful. Therewas no more fishing; they rowed slowly backto the hotel. Nan insisted on taking the oars;her rejected lover sat musing at the stern. Suddenlyhe raised his head, and said with a sedatesmile: ‘Some one else, eh, Nan?’

His question was not very intelligibly put;but she understood well enough what he meant.Drooping eyelids, a face slightly averted, and afaint blush for answer. After a pause, ‘Papadoes not know—at least not yet,’ she timidlysaid; ‘you’ll not tell him?’

‘Oh, of course not!’ he answered, and biting theend of a fresh cigar, began smoking vigorously.A few minutes, and they were at the Inn jetty,and to old Mr Porteous’ extreme astonishment,without a fin to show for their three hours’work.

Dinner past, father and daughter and guestadjourned to the private parlour. Anne retiredearly under the plea of headache. Host andguest continued to enjoy a cheerful glass andgossip all to themselves.

‘By-the-bye, Mr Porteous,’ said the latter ashe was lighting his candle preparatory to goingup-stairs to bed, ‘I forgot to say my stay thistime will be but a brief one. I am expectingevery day to have a letter from a friend atLucerne who wants me to join him in the fishingthere. He says the sport is excellent, and Ipromised to go if he found such to be the case.Good-night!’

The landlord was astonished, but was too wellbred to press him to stay. The truth is, ourfriend had been far more seriously ‘hit’ bysimple Nan than he had supposed, or was evenyet inclined to admit. Try as he would, sleep{635}refused to come to his tired brain; mockingvisions of ‘what might have been’ flitted throughhis waking dreams; and he arose in the morningmore tired than when he went to bed. Thepost brought him two letters; one of them, hesaid, required his instant presence in London onan important matter of business; after that, hewould go to Switzerland to join his friend inthe fishing; and meantime, he would havereluctantly to bid them farewell. Porteous wasboth surprised and vexed; his daughter wasneither, for she felt it would be happier forthem both to be apart—at least for the present.

Scarcely less alarming than the fall of an avalanche,and sometimes, indeed, far more destructive,are those sudden descents of earth andother materials commonly known as landslips.The cause of these remarkable calamities—forsuch they commonly are—may be briefly described.The strata of a mountain or lesser elevationare often found to deviate considerably froma horizontal position; and if shale or any othersubstance pervious to water forms the loweststratum, a landslip may take place. For instance,if there be an abundance of rain or melted snow,which percolates down so as to soften the lowerstratum, the upper strata are liable to be loosened,and, in process of time, to slide away. Suchwas the case in Shropshire towards the closeof last century, as related by Mr Fletcher ofMadeley. This took place at a spot on the Severnbetween the Grove and the Birches. ‘The firstthing that struck me,’ says Mr Fletcher, ‘wasthe destruction of the little bridge that separatedthe parish of Madeley from that of Buildwas,and the total disappearing of the turnpike roadto Buildwas Bridge, instead of which, nothingpresented itself to my view but a confused heapof bushes and huge clods of earth, tumbled oneover another. The river also wore a differentaspect; it was shallow, noisy, boisterous, andcame down from a different point. Followingthe track made by a great number of spectatorswho came from the neighbouring parishes, Iclimbed over the ruins and came to a field wellgrown with ryegrass, where the ground wasgreatly cracked in several places, and where largeturfs—some entirely, others half-turned up—exhibitedthe appearance of straight or crookedfurrows, as though imperfectly formed by aplough drawn at a venture. Getting from thatfield over the hedge into a part of the road whichwas yet visible, I found it raised in one place,sunk in another, concave in a third, hangingon one side in a fourth, and contracted as ifsome uncommon force had pressed the two hedgestogether. But the higher part of it surprisedme most, and brought directly to remembrancethose places of Mount Vesuvius where the solidstony lava had been strongly marked by repeatedearthquakes; for the hard beaten gravel whichformed the surface of the road was brokenevery way into huge masses, partly detachedfrom each other, with deep apertures betweenthem, exactly like the shattered lava. Thisstriking likeness of circumstances made me concludethat the similar effect might proceed fromthe same cause, namely, a strong convulsion onthe surface, if not in the bowels, of the earth.’

This conjecture was not confirmed by facts andcircumstances related by others; indeed, thelatter part of his description proves, almost beyondquestion, that the various results described wereoccasioned by a landslip, and not by a shockof an earthquake, of which no one heard anything.

He continues: ‘Going a little further towardsBuildwas, I found that the road was again totallylost for a considerable space, having been overturned,absorbed, or tumbled, with the hedges thatbounded it, to a considerable distance towardsthe river. This part of the desolation appearedthen to me inexpressibly dreadful. Between ashattered field and the river, there was thatmorning a bank, on which, besides a great dealof underwood, grew twenty-five large oaks; thiswood shot with such violence into the Severnbefore it, that it forced the water in great volumesa considerable height, like a mighty fountain,and gave the overflowing river a retrogrademotion. This is not the only accident whichhappened to the Severn, for, near the Grove,the channel, which was chiefly of a soft bluerock, burst in ten thousand pieces, and rose perpendicularlyabout ten yards, heaving up theimmense quantity of water and the shoal of fishesthat were therein.’

John Philips in his work onCider alludes toMarcley Hill as the scene of a landslip:

Marcley Hill is near the confluence of theLug and Wye, about six miles east of Hereford.In the year 1595, it was, says Mr Brown, theeditor of White’sSelborne, ‘after roaring andshaking in a terrible manner for three daystogether, about six o’clock on Sunday morningput in motion, and continued moving for eighthours, in which time it advanced upwards oftwo hundred feet from its first position, andmounted seventy-two feet higher than it wasbefore. In the place where it set out, it lefta gap four hundred feet long, and three hundredand twenty broad; and in its progress it overthrewa chapel, together with trees and housesthat stood in its way.’

That interesting naturalist, Mr White of Selborne,gives at length, in one of his letters tothe Honourable Daines Barrington, an accountof an extraordinary landslip in his own neighbourhood,at a date corresponding with that ofthe landslip in Shropshire. He says: ‘Themonths of January and February 1774 wereremarkable for great melting snows and vastgluts of rain, so that, by the end of the lattermonth, the land springs, orlevants [eastern; socalled, I suppose, because of the prevalence ofeasterly winds at this season], began to prevail,and to be near as high as in the memorablewinter of 1764. The beginning of March alsowent on in the same tenor, when in the nightbetween the 8th and 9th of that month, a{636}considerable part of the great woody hanger [alocal term for an overhanging woody cliff] atHawkley was torn from its place and fell down,leaving a high freestone cliff naked and bare, andresembling the steep side of a chalk-pit. Itappears that this huge fragment, being perhapssapped and undermined by waters, foundered, andwas ingulfed, going down in a perpendiculardirection; for a gate which stood in the field onthe top of the hill, after sinking with its postsfor thirty or forty feet, remained in so true andupright a position as to open and shut withgreat exactness, just as in its first situation.Several oaks also are still standing [written in1775 or 1776] and in a state of vegetation, aftertaking the same desperate leap.

‘That great part of this prodigious mass wasabsorbed in some gulf below is plain also fromthe inclining ground at the bottom of the hill,which is free and unencumbered, but would havebeen buried in heaps of rubbish, had the fragmentparted and fallen forward. About a hundredyards from the foot of this hanging coppicestood a cottage by the side of a lane; and twohundred yards lower, on the other side of thelane, was a farmhouse, in which lived a labourerand his family; and just by, a stout new barn.The cottage was inhabited by an old woman,her son, and his wife. These people, in theevening, which was very dark and tempestuous,observed that the brick floors of their kitchensbegan to heave and part, and that the wallsseemed to open and the roofs to crack; but theyall agree that no tremor of the ground indicatingan earthquake was ever felt, only thatthe wind continued to make a tremendous roaringin the woods and hangers. The miserable inhabitants,not daring to go to bed, remained in theutmost solicitude and confusion, expecting everymoment to be buried under the ruins of theirshattered edifices. When daylight came, theywere at leisure to contemplate the devastationsof the night. They then found that a deep rift,or chasm, had opened under their houses, andtorn them as it were in two, and that one endof the barn had suffered in a similar manner;that a pond near the cottage had undergone astrange reverse, becoming deep at the shallow end,and sovice versâ; that many large oaks wereremoved out of their perpendicular, some throwndown, and some fallen into the heads of neighbouringtrees; and that a gate was thrust forwardwith its hedge full six feet, so as to require anew track to be made to it. From the foot ofthe cliff, the general course of the ground, whichis pasture, inclines in a moderate descent for halfa mile, and is interspersed with some hillocks,which were lifted in every direction, as welltowards the great woody hanger as from it. Inthe first pasture the deep clefts began, and runningacross the lane and under the buildings, madesuch vast shelves that the road was impassablefor some time; and so over to an arable fieldon the other side, which was strangely torn anddisordered. The second pasture-field, being moresoft and springy, was protruded forward withoutmany fissures in the turf, which was raised inlong ridges resembling graves, lying at rightangles to the motion. At the bottom of thisinclosure, the soil and turf rose many feet againstthe bodies of some oaks that obstructed theirfurther course, and terminated this awful commotion.’

Passing by a number of catastrophes of thisnature occurring at earlier dates, we propose togive some interesting particulars concerning onewhich took place in the early part of thiscentury in Switzerland, where they are veryfrequent.

In one corner of the canton of Schweitz arethe lakes Wallenstadt, Zug, and Lowertz. Nearthe last is a mountain called the Righi, and asmaller one, the Rossberg. The latter is composedof strata of freestone, pudding-stone—aconglomeration of coarse sandstone, with siliciouspebbles, flints, &c.; and clay, with frequent blocksof granite, in the lower part. On the 2d ofSeptember 1806, a large portion of this mountain—amass about a thousand feet in width, a hundredfeet in depth, and nearly three miles inlength—slipped into the valley below. It wasnot merely the summit or a projecting crag whichfell, but an entire bed of strata extending fromthe top to nearly the bottom. A long continuanceof heavy rains had softened the strata ofclay, which sloped downwards; and so the masswas set free, and slipped into the valley, a chaosof stones, earth, clay, and clayey mud. Forhours before the catastrophe there had been signsof some convulsion approaching. Early in themorning and at intervals during the day therewere noises as if the mountain were in the throesof some great pang, so that it seemed to tremblewith fear; so much so, that the furniture shookin the houses of the villages of Arth and St Ann.About two o’clock, a superstitious farmer, whodwelt high up the mountain, hearing a strangekind of cracking noise, and thinking it was thework of some demon, ran down to Arth to fetchthe priest to exorcise the evil spirit. There werenow openings in the turf, and stones were ejectedin a few instances. In the hamlet of UnterRothen, at the foot of the mountain, a man wasdigging in his garden, when he found his spadethrust back out of the soil, and the earth spurtedup like water from a fountain. As the dayadvanced, the cracks in the ground became larger,portions of rock fell; springs began to flow, andfrightened birds took wing in confusion, utteringdiscordant screams.

About five o’clock, the vast mass of materialset loose began to move. At first the movementwas slow, and there were repeated pauses. Anold man sitting at his door smoking his pipe,was told by a neighbour that the mountain wasfalling. He thought there was plenty of time,and went indoors to fill his pipe again; but hisneighbour ran down the valley, falling repeatedlyby reason of the agitation of the ground,and escaped with difficulty. When he lookedback to the village, the old man’s house had disappeared.In the space of about three minutes,the vast mass, separated into two portions, haddescended three miles, sweeping everything beforeit. The smaller portion took a course towardsthe foot of the Righi, destroying the hamlets ofSpitzbuhl, Ober and Unter Rothen. Its velocitywas such as to carry enormous fragments toa great height up the opposite mountain. Apeasant who survived the calamity, was engagedin cutting down a tree near his house, when anoise like thunder arrested his attention; he felt{637}the ground tremble under his feet, and he wasimmediately thrown down by a current of air.Retaining his presence of mind, a dreadful scenepresented itself; the tree he had been cuttingdown, his house, and every familiar object, haddisappeared, and an immense cloud of dustenveloped him.

The ruin effected by the descent of the largerportion was more terrible. It took the directionof the Lake of Lowertz. Among its first victimswere nine persons belonging to a party whichhad come from Berne to climb to the top ofthe Righi. Besides the village of Goldau, theadjacent villages of Bussingen and Hussloch, andthree-fourths of the village of Lowertz, were overwhelmed.But the destruction did not stop here.The larger of the two portions filled up nearlyone-fourth of the Lake of Lowertz. The bodyof water thus displaced formed a wave whichswept over the little island of Schwanau in thelake, rising to the height of seventy feet, besidesdoing a great deal of mischief along the shore,especially to the village of Seewen.

By this disaster nearly five hundred persons losttheir lives, and damage was done to the amountof one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.Of all the inhabitants, about twenty were takenalive from the ruins. Two out of a family ofseven were saved as by a miracle. At themoment of the catastrophe the father was standingat his own door with his wife and threechildren. Seeing the mass rolling towards him,he caught up two of the children, bidding hiswife follow him with the third. Instead of doingso, however, she turned back into the house tofetch the remaining child, Marianne, and FrancesUlrich, the servant-maid. Frances seized thelittle girl by the hand, and was leading her out,when the house, which was of timber, seemedto be torn from its foundations, and to turn overand over like a ball, so that she was sometimeson her head and sometimes on her feet. A stormof dust made the day dark as night. The violenceof the shock separated her from the child,and she hung head downwards. She was squeezedand bruised a good deal, and her face was muchcut and very painful. After some time shereleased her right hand, and wiped the bloodfrom her face. She then heard Marianne groaning,and calling ‘Frances, Frances!’ The childsaid that she was lying on her back among stonesand bushes, unable to rise; that her hands wereat liberty, and that she could see the daylightand the green fields. Frances had imaginedthat they were buried a great depth underground; and thought that the last day wascome.

After remaining in this state some hours,Frances heard a bell, which she knew to bethat of the village church of Steinen, calling thesurvivors to prayer. The little girl was nowcrying bitterly from pain and hunger; and theservant-maid tried in vain to comfort her. Fromsheer exhaustion, however, the cry became weaker,and then ceased entirely. Meanwhile, Francesherself was in a most painful position, hangingwith her head downwards, enveloped in the liquidclay, and cold almost beyond endurance. Bypersevering in her efforts, she at length got herlegs free, and so obtained partial relief. A silenceof some hours followed. When the dark hoursof that terrible night had passed and morningcame, she had the satisfaction of knowing thatthe child was not dead, but had fallen asleep.As soon as she awoke, she began to cry andcomplain. The church bell now went again forprayers; and Frances heard also the voice ofher master making lamentations over his loss.He had succeeded in escaping and rescuing thetwo children he had with him, though one wasfor a time partly buried in the fringe of thelandslip. Seeking for the other members of hisfamily, he had found the lifeless body of hiswife with the child she had taken in her arms,at a distance of more than a quarter of a milefrom where his house had stood. All of herthat was visible was one of her feet. Whiledigging out her body, he heard the cries of littleMarianne. The child was at once disinterredfrom her living grave; and though one of herlegs was broken, she seemed more anxious forthe release of Frances than for her own comfort.The maid was soon extricated; but she wasbruised and wounded in a frightful manner. Fora long time her recovery was very doubtful.Even after she was out of danger, she was unableto bear the light, and was for a lengthened periodsubject to convulsions and seasons of extreme fearand terror.

A traveller who visited the district about aweek after the catastrophe has given an interestingdescription of his visit: ‘Picture to yourselfa rude and mingled mass of earth and stone,bristling with the shattered remains of woodencottages, and with thousands of heavy trees tornup by their roots and projecting in all directions.In one part you might see a range of peasants’huts, which the torrent of earth had reachedwith just force enough to overthrow and breakin pieces, but without bringing soil enough tocover them. In another were mills broken inpieces by huge rocks, separated from the top ofthe mountain, which were even carried high upthe Righi on the opposite side. Large pools ofwater were formed in different places; and manylittle streams, whose usual channels had beenfilled up, were bursting out in various places.’

There is living in our neighbourhood an oldman, the son of a once famous ‘Whiteboy.’ Assuch, his bringing-up must have been strangelyin keeping with the moonlighting propensitiesof the present day, and of which we unfortunatelyhear so much. But not so. ‘Barry,’ aswe shall call him, has a horror of Land-leagueism,and will have nothing to do with it. His experienceof the Whiteboys, or Moonlighters of sixtyyears ago, is interesting—at least to me; and Ihope the following account will prove so to thosewho are not quiteau fait with the doings ofthese confederations in Ireland sixty years ago.

Some time since, on the death of a relative,besides other effects willed to me, was a boxcontaining severalcurios. Amongst them wasa genuine letter written in 1823 by CaptainRock, in those days the Moonlight leader of{638}the Whiteboys. Knowing from Barry that hisfather had been not only an admirer of CaptainRock, but a follower of his, I showed himthe letter, hoping that in doing so I would alsoverify its authenticity. It was as follows:

‘Sure, and that’s a real letter, and no mistake,’said Barry, handing it back to me afterperusal. ‘I remember when I was a gorsoon[boy], my father writing letters just like it,when he and the Boys would meet of nightsat our house. Many is the queer thing I heardthem plan, when they thought I was asleep inbed; and though I forgets most of their doingsnow, I remembers a few; and I’ll tell themsame to you and welcome, if you likes to hearthem. The Whiteboys, and the Bloodsuckers,and the Molly M‘Guires resembles the Moonlightersof the present day; though they werenot, so to say, as bad entirely, still they werefidgety creatures enough. ’Tis nigh on sixtyyears since my father died, and I was a tidybit of a lad then. He was a follower of CaptinRock, the leader of what we called one kind ofWhiteboys, in those days. Captin Rock was,you know, only an imaginary name, just as CaptinMoonlight is in these times. I would notsay as the Whiteboys in my father’s time wasas bad as those as followed them.They saidnothing against paying the rent; and a gooddrop of thecrater would do wonders with CaptinRock and his followers. Sure, ’twas hardin name he was, as my father used to say,and not in nature.

‘The Bloodsuckers, who came next, were frightfulcreatures. They were so called because theytook money to inform. ’Twas the price of blood,you see.

‘The famine of 1845 had a demoralising effecton the people, and many and many the poorcreature breaking stones on the roadside hada pistol or some weapon of defence hid in theheap beside them. There was one gentlemanyou would like to hear about, maybe, who metwith great troubles at the hands of the Boys.I knew him well, for many a pocketful of appleshe gave me; and he was as hard-working andhonest a creature as you’d meet with in a day’swalk. The Boys had no ill-will against himselfpersonally; but they thought to frightenhim from taking a farm as was “useful to them,”’said Barry, with a knowing wink. ‘The firstthing they did was to send him a threateningletter. Then a man as I knew full well—formany’s the time he and my poor father laidtheir plans together—he was turned off to shoothim. He stood inside the road-wall where therewas an old archway half built up—a mightyconvenient place, as he afterwards said, to resta gun on. But for all that, he didn’t fire theshot that night, for reasons which you’ll hearpresently. The Boys were so disappointed, thattwo of them went at dusk one evening to thegentleman’s own hall door and knocked. Sureenough, just as they thought, he opened it himselffor them. On doing so, he saw the twoBoys, one with a pistol, the other with a blunderbuss.

“Don’t mind your hat,” was the answer; “you’lldo for us without it.”

‘Just then the Missis came into the hall,and hearing the noise, off they went.

‘Weeks afterwards, these men told the Master(as I shall call him, seeing I never likes to mentionnames) that had he gone in for his hat as hewanted to, they’d have shot him dead just wherehe stood, for they would have been afraid hewas going for help.

“Why didn’t you shoot me the night youwere behind the old archway on the old Moiveenroad?” he asked one of them.

“The night was cold,” replied the Boy; “andthe drop of thecrater as the Captin sint mewas that strong that it set me to sleep. Iaxes your pardon now for going to shoot youat all, for you are such a ‘dacent’ [plucky]man, you might be one of the Boys yourself.And to show you I has no ill-will aginyou, if there is any little job as you wants donebefore marning” (meaning murder, of course),“I’ll do it for you meself and welcome.”

‘However, this didn’t see the poor Masterat the end of his troubles; there was morebefore him. A short time after, as the manwas ploughing in the field, four of the Boyscame and told him to stand aside. Then twoof them held him, while the other two put abullet through the head of each horse, and thepoor creatures died the same night. The Boysbroke the plough afterwards and warned theman away. They tied notices on it forbiddingany one to plough for the Master till he gaveup the idea of taking the farm, as CaptinRock wanted it for his own use.

‘But the Master, he was an iligant man surely.Many’s the time, gorsoon though I was, I’d havegiven my two eyes to help him; but though Iwas no Whiteboy, and I hated their dirty work,I was the son of one, and you know, “There ishonour among thieves.”—Well, as I was saying,the Master was an iligant, foine man. Beinga bit handy, he mended his plough, took it inhis own hands, and with his loaded gun laidacross it, did all the ploughing himself. Maybeyou won’t hardly credit me when I tell youthat he did most of the work with a mule;and sometimes, to help the poor baste, whenthe ground was light, he yoked himself withher, whilst an old man who lived with theMaster guided the plough. After this, the Boys,{639}seeing they could not frighten him, let himalone.

‘When the Bloodsuckers had had their day,next came the Molly M‘Guires. ’Twas them ashad the big blunderbuss called “Roaring Mag,”which maybe you have heard tell of. Therewas an Englishman who came over to Ireland andlaid down a weir to catch our salmon; but theMolly M‘Guires would not have any foreignerscome a-fishing to our shores, so they cut awaythe nets and destroyed the weir. Whenever theyperformed a bould feat such as this, they madepoetry of it, writing it out, and giving a copyto the principal Molly M‘Guire Boys. ’Tis manya year ago since four of the Boys, long sincedead, wrote the piece I allude to; and I doubtif there is any one alive but meself who couldrepeat it for you; but I always had a goodmimory,’ concluded Barry proudly.

‘That’s a fine piece of poetry, isn’t it?’asked Barry, as he concluded this extraordinarymedley, which cannot, I fear, be dignified bythe name of rhyme, much less poetry. ‘A grainof powder and shot and a glass or two of thecrater would make a Molly M‘Guire your friendfor life, maybe. Sure, and many’s the curiousthing I’ve known, and many’s the plan madein my hearing by the Boys and my father; butI would never tell on them, though I neverhad ought to do with their intrigues, as I callsthem. But though my poor father was a realWhiteboy, he never had, as I knows of, thedark deeds on his conscience that some of themMoonlighters of the present days has. These isno times to be talking, leastways I keeps mythoughts to meself; but as you seemed anxious-liketo hear of them that went before theMoonlighters, I am glad to oblige you. I havebeen able to do that without mentioning names;and there isn’t many alive who could tell youas well as meself of the doings in Old Oirelandof sixty years ago.’

Spartan brevity of speech is still sometimesamusingly illustrated. A most worthyman, unaccustomed to public speaking, beingsuddenly called upon to address a Sundayschool, rose to his feet, and, after vainlystruggling for utterance, at last hoarsely muttered:‘Dear children, don’t ever play withpowder.’—The following gallant toast was latelygiven at a military dinner in Carolina: ‘Theladies—our arms their protection—their arms ourreward.’

‘Don’t eat stale Q-cumbers. They will W up,’is the terse advice of some wit.—Announcementson shop-signs expressed in the succinctstyle of one connected with a certainrestaurant in New York, should serve asstartling advertisements: ‘Lunch, 75 cents;square meal, 1 dollar; perfect gorge, 1 dollar25 cents.’—In the same city, a shopkeeperis said to have stuck upon his door thislaconic advertisement: ‘A boy wanted.’ Ongoing to his shop next morning, he beheld asmiling little urchin in a basket, with thefollowing pithy label: ‘Here he is!’—A penny-a-linerwould hardly find much employment onthe Kansas paper which informed the publicthat ‘Mr Blank of Missouri got to owning horsesthat didn’t belong to him, and the next thinghe knew he couldn’t get his feet down to theground.’ Lynched, probably.—A Western writer,speaking of a new play just written by a gentlemanof Cincinnati, says: ‘The unities areadmirably observed; the dullness which commenceswith the first act, never flags for amoment until the curtain falls.’

The characteristics of several nations havebeen summed up in the following concise form:The first thing a Spaniard does on founding acolony is to build a gallows; a Portuguese, tobuild a church; an Englishman, a drinking-booth;and a Frenchman, a dancing-floor.

A cobbler visited one of the large manufactoriesthe other day, and for the first time inhis life saw shoes made by machinery. ‘Whatdo you think of that?’ asked the foreman.—‘Itbeats awl,’ was the laconic and significant reply.—A‘sensible’ woman, as Dr Abernethy wouldhave called her, was discovered by a shy man,who made her a rather original proposal. Hebought a wedding ring, and sent it to thelady, inclosing a sheet of notepaper with the{640}brief question, ‘Does it fit?’ By return of posthe received for answer: ‘Beautifully.’

It is related that Makart, the great Viennesepainter, is even more taciturn than Von Moltke,the man who is silent in seven languages. AnAmerican, who had been told that the bestway to get on friendly terms with the artistwould be to play chess with him at the caféto which he resorted nightly, watched hisopportunity, and, when Makart’s opponent rose,slipped into his chair. At last his dream wasabout to be realised, he was to spend anevening in Makart’s society. The painter signedto him to play, and the game began, and wenton with no other sound than the moving of thepieces. At last the American made the winningmove, and exclaimed, ‘Mate!’ Up rose Makartin disgust and stalked out, saying angrily toa friend who asked why he left so early: ‘Oh,I can’t stand playing with a chatterbox!’

The expressions used by some boys and girlsif written as pronounced would look like aforeign language. Specimens of boys’ conversationlike the following may be called shorthandtalking: ‘Warejego lasnight?’ ‘Hadderskate.’—‘Jerfind the ice hard’ngood?’ ‘Yes;hard’nough.’—‘Jer goerlone? ‘No; Bill’n Joewenterlong.’—‘Howlate jerstay?’ ‘Pastate.’—‘Lemmeknowwenyergoin, woneher? I wantergo’nshowyer howto skate.’—‘H—m, ficoodn’ skatebetter’n you I’d sell out ’nquit.’ ‘Well, we’lltryerace ’nseefyercan.’

The well-known answer of the Greeks to thePersian king before the battle of Thermopylæ,was rivalled by the despatch of General Suvaroffto the Russian Empress: ‘Hurrah! Ismail’sours!’ The Empress returned an answer equallybrief: ‘Hurrah! Field-Marshal!’

The message from Lord Charles Beresford tohis wife from the fort near Metemmeh waspithy enough: ‘Quite well and cheerful. Privationshave been severe; thirst, hunger, battlesdesperate; but things look better.’

There are some quaint and pithy epistles onrecord. Quin, when offended by Rich, went awayin resentment and wrote: ‘I am at Bath.’ Theanswer was as laconic, though not quite so civil:‘Stay there.’

Sibbald, the editor of theChronicles of ScottishPoetry, resided in London for three or four years,during which time his friends in Scotlandwere ignorant not only of his movements,but even of his address. In the longrun, hisbrother, a Leith merchant, contrived to get aletter conveyed to him, the object of whichwas to inquire into his circumstances and to askwhere he lived. His reply ran as follows: ‘DearBrother—I live in So-ho, and my business isso-so.—Yours,James Sibbald.’

Concise and to the point was the curious lettersent by a farmer to a schoolmaster as an excusefor his son’s absence from school: ‘Cepatomtogoatatrin.’This meant, kep’ at ’ome to go a-taterin’(gathering potatoes). A Canadian freshman oncewrote home to his father: ‘Dear Papa—I wanta little change.’ The fond parent replied by thenext post: ‘Dear Charlie—Just wait for it.Time brings change to every one.’

Briefer than these was an epistle of Emile deGirardin to his second wife, with whom he livedon most unfriendly terms. The house was largeenough to permit them to dwell entirely separatefrom one another. One day, Madame de Girardinhad an important communication to make to herhusband. Taking a small sheet of paper shewrote: ‘The Boudoir to the Library: Wouldlike to go to Switzerland.’—M. de Girardin, imitatingher concise style, responded: ‘The Libraryto the Boudoir: Go.’ That was all.

One of the most laconic wills on record ranthus: ‘I have nothing; I owe a great deal—therest I give to the poor.’—A similar terse epitaphto the following would have suited that will-maker:‘Died of thin shoes, January 1839.’

Printed and Published byW. & R. Chambers, 47 PaternosterRow,London, and 339 High Street,Edinburgh.

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Movatterモバイル変換

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofChambers's journal of popular literature, science, and art, fifth series, no. 144, vol. III, October 2, 1886

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

CONTENTS

TRUTH IN THE MARVELLOUS.

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

IN TWENTY CHAPTERS.—CHAP. IV.

ARMY PANICS:
BY ONE WHO HAS BEEN IN THEM.

GEORGE HANNAY’S LOVE AFFAIR.

CHAPTER I.—TOO LATE!

LANDSLIPS.

THE WHITEBOYS OF SIXTY YEARS AGO.

CONCISE AND TO THE POINT.

PARTED.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

Movatterモバイル変換

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofChambers's journal of popular literature, science, and art, fifth series, no. 144, vol. III, October 2, 1886

CHAMBERS’S JOURNALOFPOPULARLITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

CONTENTS

TRUTH IN THE MARVELLOUS.

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

IN TWENTY CHAPTERS.—CHAP. IV.

ARMY PANICS:BY ONE WHO HAS BEEN IN THEM.

GEORGE HANNAY’S LOVE AFFAIR.

CHAPTER I.—TOO LATE!

LANDSLIPS.

THE WHITEBOYS OF SIXTY YEARS AGO.

CONCISE AND TO THE POINT.

PARTED.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

ARMY PANICS:
BY ONE WHO HAS BEEN IN THEM.