Chapter I: Part 1

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 116.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, MARCH 20, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]

QUEEN VICTORIA’S KEYS.

The time-honoured ceremony that is still observed when the gates of Her Majesty’s Tower of London are ‘locked-up’ is probably not unfamiliar to the public. What actually occurs, however, can be witnessed by a very limited number of persons who are not resident within the Tower; for a night’s immurement in that celebrated feudal ‘strength’ is essential in order that the proceedings of the ‘escort for the Keys’ may be satisfactorily seen and heard, the verbal portion of the formalities being by no means the least important. But the present writer having frequently been called upon to accompany the Queen’s Keys in their nightly perambulations, has enjoyed opportunities, not open to all, for viewing the curious ceremony of ‘locking-up’ from the best possible vantage-ground. A brief sketch of the somewhat unique details connected with it may perhaps prove interesting to the uninitiated reader.

When not engaged in making their midnight or early-morning progresses, the Queen’s Keys are deposited in the residence of the Deputy Constable of the fortress. Not very remarkable from an architectural point of view, this house stands almost in the shadow of the weather-beaten walls of the White Tower—the famous Norman ‘keep’ that can boast of eight centuries’ authentic history, and around which as a nucleus the various other buildings now collectively known as the ‘Tower’ have from time to time been erected. And the dwelling-place of the Keys overlooks the spot—now inclosed by a railing—where so many political offences, real or imputed, have been expiated on the block. The Keys, when brought forth, are invariably carried by a warder, who is a member of the corps of Yeomen of the Guard, or Beefeaters as they are familiarly called. It may quite fairly be said that the antiquated, but picturesque, costume of these men constitutes one of the ‘sights’ of the Tower; though in recent times the garments have been to a considerable extent shorn of their medieval characteristics. Besides the onerous duty of carrying the Queen’s Keys, the Beefeaters are in other ways employed within the precincts of the Tower; among other things, they exercise—or at least they used to exercise—a sort of supervision over the visitors who flock into it on ‘open’ days. Beyond its gates they take part in certain state ceremonials; and, as is well known, assist in the periodical searching of the vaults underneath the Houses of Parliament, thus materially helping to keep alive the remembrance of Guy Fawkes and the celebrated ‘treason and plot’ in which he was so deeply implicated. That neither the supervision nor the search is wholly unnecessary, has been sufficiently well demonstrated by events of recent occurrence.

By the Main Guard, which occupies a guardhouse distant about a stone’s throw from the Constable’s quarters, the Keys are provided with an armed escort on the occasions on which they venture into the open air. This guard is ‘mounted’ daily by some thirty soldiers; they are furnished by a regiment stationed in the adjacent barracks, which were constructed to replace other buildings totally destroyed by the great fire that made such havoc in the Tower nearly half a century ago. Over and above attending to the royal Keys, the members of the guard have other and perhaps equally responsible duties to perform, being in a general way answerable for the security of the fortress and its contents during the twenty-four hours they continue ‘on guard.’ One very important item in their tour of duty may here be mentioned—this is the protection of the Jewel House, within which are kept articles of almost fabulous value, including the regalia and the remarkable Kohinoor diamond. So low in the ceiling is the entrance to this Eldorado, that soldiers of short stature are selected to stand as sentries therein; for a tall man bearing arms would, under the circumstances, be apt to excite the ridicule rather than the awe of the visitors who are conducted into the place by the Beefeaters. The Main Guard, as its title implies, is the principal one; but two other distinct guards are maintained in the Tower; and it is necessary, in order to understand what follows, to rapidly glance at these. One of them mounts at the drawbridge—a structure that no longer exists, and of which, indeed, the guard itself seems to be the sole memento. The party is what is termed a ‘corporal’s’ guard. The other, known as the Spur Guard, occupies a group of buildings which probably represent the ancient barbican of the stronghold. It is a ‘sergeant’s’ guard, and is intrusted with the keeping of the two outer gates, to which we shall have to refer later on.

When the Main Guard enters upon its duties in the forenoon, certain men are detailed to act when required as an escort for the Keys. Their services in this respect are not, however, called upon till the near approach of midnight. But when the clock on the White Tower begins to chime a quarter to twelve, the word ‘Keys!’ uttered in a stentorian tone by a sergeant rouses the soldiers, who are usually slumbering with much apparent comfort on the wooden guard-bed. In a few moments they are transferred to the exterior of the building, fully accoutred, and accompanied by a youthful drummer, who bears a rather dusty lantern which he has hastily lit. Perhaps the lantern may be regarded mainly as a sort of relic of the times when it may be supposed to have afforded the only available light on the route traversed by the Keys. But the way is now amply illuminated by gas lamps of the ordinary pattern; and the not very brilliant lantern might, without very serious disadvantage, be dispensed with. Having drawn up his somewhat drowsy men, the sergeant has now to wait for the officer, if that individual in authority has not already appeared. The interval, if any, is employed by the soldiers in yawning, or in bestowing a finishing touch upon the adjustment of their accoutrements, which have no doubt become slightly displaced during their owner’s late ‘changes of front’ on the guard-bed. When present, the captain of the guard—having ascertained that the escort is likewise ‘present,’ or complete in number—marches off the little party towards the Constable’s house. There the soldiers are met by the warder, suspended from whose hand, as he descends the steps, the Queen’s Keys jingle merrily.

At this juncture, the sergeant commands his subordinates, whom he has halted for a moment, to ‘present arms;’ and the Beefeater takes post a little in advance of his protectors, who forthwith set off in the direction of the gates. The first sentry to be passed stands expectant under the veranda at the entrance to the guardroom, where is also the whole guard not elsewhere engaged: it has been ‘turned out’ to do honour to the Keys. When the sentry sees the escort, headed by the lantern, coming very near to his post, he calls out: ‘Halt! who comes there?’ not, ‘Who _goes_ there?’ the popular acceptation of a military challenge, perhaps derived from the words used in like contingencies by sentinels of certain continental armies. The advancing party is brought to a stand-still by this summons; and the warder, who, as a rule, is enveloped in the folds of an antiquated-looking cloak, replies, in a kind of sepulchral tone of voice: ‘Keys.’—‘Whose keys?’ inquires the soldier, who is meanwhile standing with his piece at the ‘port’—an attitude preparatory to assuming that of the ‘charge.’ The warder answers: ‘Queen Victoria’s Keys.’ But even now the escort is not permitted to proceed on its journey; for the obdurate sentry, coming down to the charge, makes the demand: ‘Stand, Queen Victoria’s Keys. Advance one and give the countersign.’ The password, being well known to the warder, is of course given, and the sentry cries: ‘Pass, Queen Victoria’s Keys. All’s well.’ After the above dialogue has come to a termination, the Keys are conveyed past the guardhouse, being in their transit saluted by the assembled guard, which is then ‘turned in.’

Before the Beefeater and the escort have marched twenty yards, further obstructions delay their progress. These fresh obstacles appear in the forms of the vigilant sentinels at the Jewel House and at the Traitors’ Gate; which latter was once used for the admission of ‘traitors’ brought down the river from Westminster. In succession, each of the soldiers challenges in the same way as his comrade at the Main Guard. And when the Beefeater has satisfactorily answered both men, the party moves onward for some little distance, and is a fourth time brought to a halt by a sentry at the Byward Gate. This gate is on the inner margin of the now dry ditch that encircles the Tower. It stands under an arch, which is surmounted and flanked by turrets or fortifications of a long obsolete design. Besides the soldier alluded to, a Yeoman is at all hours on duty at this point. He is always to be found in an apartment, with a quaint vaulted roof, close by the gate: the place has obviously once been the quarter of a regular military guard. The sentry here having been satisfied as to the character of the escort, it passes on, traverses a causeway leading across the moat, and reaches the Spur Guard. There, of course, it is stopped by a sentry belonging to that body; and the Keys are eventually saluted by this soldier, as well as by the guard of which he forms a unit. And now, after all those impediments have been overcome, the Barrier Gate is at length approached, its custodian having been appeased in the stereotyped manner. The Barrier Gate is the outermost gate of the Tower, and it is necessarily the first to be locked.

As already noticed, the warder marches a little in front of the escort. When he is within some fifteen or twenty paces’ distance from the gate, he halts. Then the men composing the escort advance, and under the superintendence of the sergeant, line the sides of the road, facing inwards towards its middle. The Beefeater, with considerable solemnity of demeanour, now walks up between the ranks, selects the appropriate key, and locks the gate, which in the meantime has been closed by a corporal. This operation accomplished, and having given the gate a shake, to assure himself of its being properly fastened, the Beefeater resumes his position a few yards away, passing as before between the lines of soldiers. Arms are presented to the Keys, both when they are proceeding to the gate and when they are retiring from it, by word of command from the sergeant; for the officer remains behind with the Main Guard.

The party is now rearranged in the order of march, and at once retraces its steps to the next gate to be secured—the one at the Barbican or Spur Guard. On the outer side of the ditch, this portal is exactly opposite the Byward Gate, which we have seen to be situated on its inner bank. Having passed through the as yet open gate, the soldiers are again drawn up in lines, and it is closed and locked; and as the key is withdrawn from the lock, all present say, or are understood to say: ‘God save Queen Victoria.’ The Spur Guard is turned out to salute; and the Keys and their escort retreat across the moat to the Byward Gate, where precisely the same ceremony takes place. This completed, the three chief gates of the Tower have been made fast for the night.

But there exists a fourth gate, which may be accurately described as a ‘back’ entrance to the fortress; it stands in the vicinity of the ancient drawbridge, in the eastern portion of the outer wall of the Tower. The gate in this somewhat remote region is locked in a slightly less formal style than the other or ‘front’ gates; and the men of the escort soon step out smartly on their return journey to the Main Guard. There they are hailed by the sentry as at the outset, and to the echo of his final ‘All’s well,’ the Queen’s Keys are carried into their quarters.

No one, however high in rank or authority, can enter, or leave, the Tower after midnight. But the sergeant in command of the Spur Guard is authorised to admit residents as far as his guardhouse, where there is a waiting-room for the accommodation of such belated persons. For this purpose he is provided with keys—quite distinct from those of the escort—wherewith to open, not the gates, but wickets alongside them. And thus the people admitted do not enter the Tower proper; for it will be remembered that the ditch intervenes between the Barbican and the Byward Gate, where there is no wicket. The architects, ancient or modern, who designed the waiting-room took pains that it should not be a very attractive abode; and though it may compare favourably with another apartment said to exist in the Tower, and called ‘Little Ease,’ there is yet but small encouragement held forth to the inhabitants of the fortress to remain abroad subsequent to the hour appointed for ‘locking-up.’

At five o’clock in the morning, the sergeant again summons his men; on this occasion, to open the gates of the Tower. The ceremony, though essentially similar to the midnight one, is perhaps a little more hurriedly performed in the unlocking than it is in the locking of the gates; and the officer on guard does not appear in the morning, though we may safely assume that he had to ‘turn out’ when the opening of the Tower was a more significant matter than it happily now is. But besides being present with his guard at midnight, he has other duties to carry out: by day, he marches off the ‘relief’ at intervals of two hours; and in the afternoon goes round the sentries, hearing them repeat their orders—an almost obsolete custom, but still kept up in the Tower. Previous to the hour appointed for this ordeal, the men may be seen studiously reading their instructions, or committing them to memory as they pace up and down. By night, the officer goes his ‘rounds’ accompanied by a small escort, including the drummer-boy and his rather opaque lantern. In the course of this tour, every sentinel connected with the garrison is visited; and by the time the rounds return to the Main Guard, the members of that important body have usually been called into activity by the loud cry of ‘Keys!’

IN ALL SHADES.

CHAPTER XIV.

Edward and Marian spent their first week in Trinidad with the Hawthorns senior. Mrs Hawthorn was kindness itself to Marian—a dear, gentle, motherly old lady, very proud of her boy, especially of his ability to read Arabic, which seemed to her a profundity of learning never yet dreamt of in the annals of humanity—and immensely pleased with her new daughter-in-law; but nothing on earth that Marian could say to her would induce her to unlock the mystery of that alarming telegram. ‘No, no, my dear,’ she would say, shaking her head gloomily and wiping her spectacles, whenever Marian recurred to the subject, ‘you’ll find it all out only too soon. God forbid, my darling, that ever I should break it to you. I love you far too well for that. Marian, Marian, my dear daughter, you should never, never, never have come here!’ And then she would burst immediately into tears. And that was all that poor frightened Marian could ever get out of her new mother-in-law.

All that first week, old Mr Hawthorn was never tired of urging upon Edward to go back again at once to England. ‘I can depart in peace now, my boy,’ he said; ‘I have seen you at last, and known you, and had my heart gladdened by your presence here. Indeed, if you wish it, I’d rather go back to England with you again, than that you should stay in this unsuitable Trinidad. Why bury your talents and your learning here, when you might be rising to fame and honour over in London? What’s the use of your classical knowledge out in the West Indies? What’s the use of your Arabic? What’s the use of your law, even? We have nothing to try here but petty cases between planter and servant: of what good to you in that will be all your work at English tenures and English land laws? You’re hiding your light under a bushel. You’re putting a trotting horse into a hansom cab. You’re wasting your Arabic on people who don’t even know the difference between Greek and Latin.’

To all which, Edward steadily replied, that he wouldn’t go back as long as this mystery still hung unsolved over him; and that, as he had practically made an agreement with the colonial government, it would be dishonourable in him to break it for unknown and unspecified reasons. As soon as possible, he declared firmly, he would take up his abode in his own district.

House-hunting is reduced to its very simplest elements in the West Indian colonies. There is one house in each parish or county which has been inhabited from time immemorial by one functionary for the time being. The late Attorney-general dies of yellow fever, or drinks himself to death, or gets promotion, or retires to England, and another Attorney-general is duly appointed by constituted authority in his vacant place. The new man succeeds naturally to the house and furniture of his predecessor—as naturally, indeed, as he succeeds to any of his other functions, offices, and prerogatives. Not that there is the least compulsion in the matter, only you must. As there is no other house vacant in the community, and as nobody ever thinks of building a new one—except when the old one tumbles down by efflux of time or shock of earthquake—the only thing left for one to do is to live in the place immemorially occupied by all one’s predecessors in the same office. Hence it happened that at the beginning of their second week in the island of Trinidad, Marian and Edward Hawthorn found themselves ensconced with hardly any trouble in the roomy bungalow known as Mulberry Lodge, and he hereditarily attached to the post of District Court Judge for the district of Westmoreland.

Marian laid herself out at once for callers, and very soon the callers began to drop in. About the fourth day after they had settled into their new house, she was sitting in the big, bare, tropical-looking drawing-room—a great, gaunt, spare barn, scantily furnished with a few tables and rocking-chairs upon the carpetless polished floor—so gaunt, that even Marian’s deft fingers failed to make it at first look home-like or habitable—when a light carriage drew up hastily with a dash at the front-door of the low bungalow. The young bride pulled her bows straight quickly at the heavy, old-fashioned, gilt mirror, and waited anxiously to receive the expected visitors. It was her first appearance as mistress of her establishment. In a minute, Thomas, the negro butler—every man-servant is a butler in Trinidad, even if he is only a boy of twenty—ushered the new-comers pompously into the bare drawing-room. Marian took their cards and glanced at them hastily. Two gentlemen—the Honourable Colonial Secretary, and the Honourable Director of Irrigation.

The Colonial Secretary sidled into a chair, and took up his parable at once with a very profuse and ponderous apology. ‘My wife, Mrs Hawthorn, my wife, I’m sorry to say, was most unfortunately unable to accompany me here this morning.—Charmingly you’ve laid out this room, really; so very different from what it used to be in poor old Macmurdo’s time.—Isn’t it, Colonel Daubeny?—Poor old Macmurdo died in the late yellow fever, you know, my dear madam, and Mr Hawthorn fills his vacancy. Excellent fellow, poor old Macmurdo—ninth judge I’ve known killed off by yellow fever in this district since I’ve been here.—My wife, I was saying, when your charming room compelled me to digress, is far from well at present—a malady of the country: this shocking climate; or else, I’m sure she’d have been delighted to have called upon you with me this morning. The loss is hers, the loss is hers, Mrs Hawthorn. I shall certainly tell her so. Immensely sorry.’

Colonel Daubeny, the Honourable Director of Irrigation, was a far jauntier and more easy-spoken man. ‘And Mrs Daubeny, my dear madam,’ he said with a fluent manner that Marian found exceedingly distasteful, ‘is most unfortunately just this moment down—with toothache. Uncommon nasty thing to be down with, toothache. A perfect martyr to it. She begged me to make her excuses.—Mr Hawthorn’—to Edward, who had just come in—‘Mrs Daubeny begged me to make her excuses. She regrets that she can’t call to-day on Mrs Hawthorn.—Beautiful view you have, upon my word, from your front piazza.’

‘It’s the same view, I’ve no doubt,’ Edward answered severely, ‘as it used to be in the days of my predecessor.’

‘Eh! What! Ah, bless my soul! Quite so,’ Colonel Daubeny answered, dropping his eyeglass from his eye in some amazement.—‘Ha! very good that—confoundedly good, really, Mr Hawthorn.’

Marian was a little surprised that Edward, usually so impassive, should so unmistakably snub the colonel at first sight; and yet she felt there was something very offensive in the man’s familiar manner, that made the retort perfectly justifiable, and even necessary.

They lingered a little while, talking very ordinary tropical small-talk; and then the colonel, with an ugly smile, took up his hat, and declared, with many unnecessary asseverations, that he must really be off this very minute. Mrs Daubeny would so much regret having lost the precious opportunity. The Honourable Colonial Secretary rose at the same moment and added that he must be going too. Mrs Fitzmaurice would never forgive herself for that distressing local malady which had so unfortunately deprived her of the privilege and pleasure.—Good-morning, good-morning.

But as both gentlemen jumped into the dogcart outside, Edward could hear the Colonial Secretary, through the open door, saying to the colonel in a highly amused voice: ‘By George, he gave you as much as he got every bit, I swear, Daubeny.’

To which the colonel responded with a short laugh: ‘Yes, my dear fellow; and didn’t you see, by Jove, he twigged it?’

At this they both laughed together immoderately, and drove off at once laughing, very much pleased with one another.

Before Marian and her husband had time to exchange their surprise and wonder at such odd behaviour on the part of two apparently well-bred men, another buggy drove up to the door, from which a third gentleman promptly descended. His card showed him to be the wealthy proprietor of a large and flourishing neighbouring sugar-estate.

‘Called round,’ he said to Edward, with a slight bow towards Marian, ‘just to pay my respects to our new judge, whom I’m glad to welcome to the district of Westmoreland. A son of Mr Hawthorn of Agualta is sure to be popular with most of his neighbours.—Ah—hem—my wife, I’m sorry to say, Mrs Hawthorn, is at present suffering from—extreme exhaustion, due to the heat. She hopes you’ll excuse her not calling upon you. Otherwise, I’m sure, she’d have been most delighted, most delighted.—Dear me, what an exquisite prospect you have from your veranda!’ The neighbouring planter stopped for perhaps ten minutes in the midst of languishing conversation, and then vanished exactly as his two predecessors had done before him.

Marian turned to her husband in blank dismay. ‘O Edward, Edward,’ she cried, unable to conceal her chagrin and humiliation, ‘what on earth can be the meaning of it?’

‘My darling,’ he answered, taking her hand in his tenderly, ‘I haven’t the very faintest conception.’

In the course of the afternoon, three more gentlemen called, each alone, and each of them in turn apologised profusely, in almost the very self-same words, for his wife’s absence. The last was a fat old gentleman in the Customs’ service, who declared with effusion many times over that Mrs Bolitho was really prostrated by the extraordinary season. ‘Most unusual weather, this, Mrs Hawthorn. I’ve never known so depressing a summer in the island of Trinidad since I was a boy, ma’am.’

‘So it would seem,’ Edward answered drily. ‘The whole female population of the island seems to be suffering from an extraordinary complication of local disorders.’

‘Bless my soul!’ the fat old gentleman ejaculated with a stare. ‘Then you’ve found out that, have you?—Excuse me, excuse me. I—didn’t know—— Hm, I hardly expected that you expected—or rather, that Mrs Hawthorn expected—— Ah, quite so.—Good-morning, good-morning.’

Marian flung herself in a passion of tears upon the drawing-room sofa. ‘If any one else calls this afternoon, Thomas,’ she said, ‘I’m not at home. I won’t see—I can’t see them; I’ll endure it no longer.—O Edward, darling, for God’s sake, tell me, why on earth are they treating us as if—as if I were some sort of moral leper? They won’t call upon me. What can be the reason of it?’

Edward Hawthorn held his head between his hands and walked rapidly up and down the bare drawing-room. ‘I can’t make it out,’ he cried; ‘I can’t understand it. Marian—dearest—it is too terrible!’

THE TURQUOISE.

There are few gems more commonly seen on jewelry than the blue turquoise. Its beauty, its serviceable hardness, its pleasing contrast with gold, and its moderate price, explain why it is so much esteemed. Only a few exceptionally fine specimens of the stone rank with the ‘rich and rare’ gems. In the unlikely event of Persia being at war with all the rest of the world, it would, no doubt, become scarce and dear outside the dominion of the Shah, since it is only in that country that the mineral in a state fit for the jeweller’s purpose is found. Much and widely as the turquoise is used for personal ornaments, the supply has for some time considerably exceeded the demand except for fine stones of an uncommon size. But, as is the case with all precious stones, unusually large pieces—those approaching the size of a hazel nut, for example—when of good quality, are eagerly sought after, and have a high intrinsic value.

The turquoise has in all likelihood been used as a gem from a very remote antiquity, since the range of mountains where it is plentifully found is situated at no great distance from the southern shore of the Caspian Sea, near to, if not within, the area believed by many to have been the cradle of the human race. By some scholars, it is thought highly probable that the turquoise was used for inlaying the delicate and beautiful gold-work of ancient Greece; and at all events, there is a cameo portrait of a classic Greek prince in this mineral among the specimens in the famous collection of Marlborough gems. There is some doubt about the name this precious stone was known by in Pliny’s time. He mentions that the _callais_, which was probably the turquoise, was found in Asia, where it occurred projecting from the surface of inaccessible rocks, whence it was obtained by means of slings; but these were the days of fables. That it was known to the ancient Romans is, however, proved by the fact that there still exist some, though only a very few, of their works of art cut in this mineral.

Want of certainty about the name applied to the turquoise in classic times leaves us in doubt as to what mystic virtues were then attributed to it. But in the middle ages, the turquoise, like other gems, was believed to have wonderful properties; indeed, it was credited with more supernatural virtues than most of them. The wearer of it had both his sight strengthened and his spirits cheered; he enjoyed immunity from the consequences of a fall by the gem itself breaking, in order to save his bones; and his turquoise, like himself, turned pale if he became sick. When its possessor died, it entirely lost its colour; but recovered it again on passing into the hands of a new owner. In some mysterious way, when suspended by a string, it correctly struck the hours on the inside of a glass vessel. Other precious stones have lost all the marvellous powers that belonged to them for centuries: the emerald no longer relieves the fatigued eyesight; the diamond cannot now dispel fear; the sapphire, though still cold to the touch, has ceased to be able to extinguish fire. In these perverse days, the hailstorm comes down even upon the wearer of an amethyst, and bright red coral attracts rather than repels robbers. But the turquoise still retains one of its mysterious properties, and flaunts it in the face of modern science. Sometimes slowly, sometimes suddenly, it unaccountably turns pale, becomes spotted, or changes from blue to white; and specimens that behave in this capricious manner are found more commonly than those whose colour is distinctly permanent.

The turquoise is called in chemical language a hydrated phosphate of alumina. This means that it consists mainly of phosphoric acid and alumina, along with nearly twenty per cent. of water. It owes its colour to small quantities of compounds of copper and iron. It occurs blue, green, and bluish green; but the change to a pale, mottled, or white colour, which inferior turquoises undergo, generally takes place soon after they are taken from the mine. These colours are opaque, or only very slightly translucent, and the stone has a somewhat waxy lustre. It is only those of a fast ‘sky-blue’ colour that are prized for jewelry; but at one time, a green turquoise was more highly valued than a blue one. Nowadays, however, people have no patience with either precious stones or precious metals that can be easily mistaken for those of inferior value. Either green felspar, which is of the same hardness, or malachite, which is softer, might be mistaken for green turquoise, and both are more common minerals. But there is hardly any other natural stone of the same, or even inferior, hardness that can be confounded with a blue turquoise. The material of some fossil teeth when coloured with phosphate of iron does, however, resemble it. Still, there need be no confusion, because this substance is softer. It is called odontolite or occidental turquoise; while the real stone is known by jewellers as the oriental turquoise. Odontolite is easily recognised under the microscope by the characteristic markings of dentine. Opaque blue glass can be made to imitate the turquoise; but the former differs in lustre and in the nature of its fracture.

Turquoises are found in Tibet, China, and the neighbourhood of Mount Sinai; but, as has been already stated, the supply for jewellers’ purposes comes almost wholly from the celebrated Persian mines. Very little was known about these till a remarkably interesting and exhaustive Report upon them was recently furnished to the British Foreign Office by Mr A. Hontum Schindler, who was for a short time Director of the mines. They are situated in a range of mountains bounding on the north an open plain in the Bâr-i-Madèn district, thirty-two miles north-west of Nishâpûr, in the province of Khorassan. Botanists tell us that the brightest blue is seen on alpine flowers. If pure mountain air could be supposed to brighten the colour of a gem as well as a flower, there is no want of it where these turquoise veins occur. Their position is between five and six thousand feet above the level of the sea, and a strong north wind blows almost continually over the ridges of the hills, rendering the situation very healthy. Wheat, barley, and mulberry trees grow well on the slopes at the lower of these heights.

Geologically, the mountains are composed of sandstones and nummulitic limestones lying on clay-slates and inclosing immense beds of gypsum and rock-salt. But these stratified rocks are broken through and metamorphosed by rocks of igneous origin, such as greenstones and porphyries. The turquoise-bearing veins occur in the metamorphic strata, and the mines proper consist of shafts and galleries in the solid rock. There are also ‘diggings’ in the detritus of disintegrated rock washed down towards the plain, and it is here that some of the best turquoises are found. A number of the mines are ancient and very extensive; and although most of them are now more or less in a state of neglect, Mr Schindler states that the presence of many old shafts—now filled up—for light and ventilation proves that they have at one time been skilfully worked, and were probably then under government control. But they appear to have been, for nearly two centuries, farmed by the villagers, who only think of a quick return for their money, and therefore cut away the rock wherever they see turquoises, without leaving proper supports to prevent the falling in of the mine. Several labourers have at different times been buried in the galleries through the rubbish being badly propped up. The perpendicular depth of one mine is one hundred and sixty feet, and others are nearly as deep. The miners work with picks and crowbars in much the same way as that in which vein-mining is carried on elsewhere; and it is a curious illustration of how slowly long-established processes are altered in the East, that gunpowder should have been used in these mines only within the last thirty years. But it is not strange, as can be seen by some examples of rock-blasting at home, to learn that the results obtained by gunpowder are, in one view, less satisfactory than those got by the pick. The powder does more work, but it is also more destructive, as it breaks the turquoises into small pieces.

Here we may say a few words about how it fares with the people who are occupied with the mining, cutting, and selling of the turquoises. About two hundred men work in the mines or at the diggings, and some thirty more—elders of the village—buy the turquoises and sell them to merchants and jewellers. A certain additional number of hands cut and polish the stones; but this work is done elsewhere, as well as in the district where they are found. The population of the villages in the neighbourhood of the mines is about twelve hundred, and the inhabitants, as in most mining districts, are improvident. Nearly all the men, and not a few of the women, are inveterate opium-smokers. Agriculture is neglected. Turquoise-dealing and its gains make the people careless of anything else. As a rule, the money is quickly spent; and men who easily earn a sum fully equal to fifty pounds sterling per annum, have often nothing to eat.

At the mines, the turquoises are roughly divided into three classes, of first, second, and third qualities. All the stones of good and fast colour and favourable shape belong to the first class. But how curiously these vary in value will be best understood by quoting Mr Schindler’s own words: ‘It is impossible to fix any price, or classify them according to different qualities. I have not yet seen two stones alike. A stone two-thirds of an inch in length, two-fifths of an inch in width, and about half an inch in thickness, cut _peikâni_ (conical) shape, was valued at Meshed at three hundred pounds; another, of about the same size, shape, and cut, was valued at only eighty pounds. Turquoises of the size of a pea are sometimes sold for eight pounds. The colour most prized is the deep blue of the sky. A small speck of a lighter colour, which only connoisseurs can distinguish, or an almost unappreciable tinge of green, decreases the value considerably. Then there is that undefinable property of a good turquoise, the _zât_, something like the “water” of a diamond or the lustre of a pearl; a fine coloured turquoise without the _zât_ is not worth much.’ He subsequently adds: ‘The above-mentioned three hundred pounds Meshed turquoise was bought from the finder by one of the Rish-i-Safîds (elders of the village) for three pounds; the latter sold it still uncut at Meshed for thirty-eight pounds. As soon as it was cut, its true value became apparent, and it was sent to Paris, where it was valued at six hundred pounds. The second purchaser, however, received only three hundred and forty pounds for it; the difference was gained by the agents.’ Among the fine turquoises in the possession of the Shah, there is one valued at two thousand pounds.

The best stones of the second class are worth about ninety pounds per pound; whilst the most inferior will scarcely bring a twentieth part of this price. The latter are chiefly used in Persia for the decoration of swords, horse-trappings, pipe-heads, and the common kinds of jewelry. Small cut turquoises of a slightly better quality than these sell at the rate of from two to three shillings per thousand. In the third class are included stones unsaleable in Persia, as well as large flat stones, some of which are esteemed for amulets, brooches, buckles, and the like. The prices given there will be more than doubled when the turquoises are sold in Europe.

The turquoise being an opaque stone, it would be useless to cut facets upon it, as these would not reflect light in the same way as when fashioned upon a transparent gem like a diamond or a sapphire. There are three ways of cutting the turquoise, all much in the same style—the flat or slightly convex form, the truncated cone, and the tallow drop or _en cabochon_. The higher the conical and convex surfaces in the two latter, the more the turquoises are prized. None but a fine deep-coloured stone can be advantageously cut into a conical shape, since one of pale colour would appear almost white at the apex. Turquoises are cut by the hand on wheels made of a composition of emery and gum. They are afterwards polished by being rubbed on a fine-grained sandstone, and then on a piece of soft leather with turquoise dust.

Of the few mines which yield good turquoises, one or two are dangerous, on account of the loose rubbish they contain. The one from which the best of all are obtained yields very few. Some mines contain stones which look well at first, but soon change their colour and fade. Mr Schindler gives an instance of a recently found turquoise, as large as a walnut and of fine colour, being presented to His Majesty the Shah, which he had for only two days, when it became green and whitish, and therefore of no value. Throughout Europe, there has been a great fall in the price of this gem within the last few years, and it would seem that this is owing to the fact that large quantities of stones which appeared to be of fine quality, but were really of fugitive colour, had been disposed of not long ago at good prices. Up to the time that they were sold, their colour had been preserved by keeping them damp; but when taken out of their moist packing, they slowly became white. It need hardly be said that the colour of most precious stones is very permanent. There is, however, a variety of opal occurring in Mexico which is very beautiful when first found; but after a brief time it entirely loses its bright play of colours. Both the turquoise and the opal are peculiar in containing a considerable amount of water in their composition.

The colour of a fine turquoise has not escaped the notice of enamellers and potters. For centuries, an imitation of its characteristic and lovely blue has been applied among other colours to the exquisitely decorated pottery of Persia. On the most expensive and perhaps also the most beautiful of all porcelain, the Sèvres ware of soft body made in the latter half of last century, the turquoise blue is often a conspicuous colour. Towards the end of the century, when the directors of the far-famed _fabrique_ changed the character of the china to that of a hard paste or body, its decoration with a turquoise colour was no longer possible. But modern English porcelain, like the old Sèvres, is of soft paste; and one of the feats on which our great Staffordshire potters pride themselves is the successful production upon it, in recent years, of a soft and clear turquoise blue.

THE HAUNTED JUNGLE.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.

CHAP. III.—THE BREAKING OF THE SPELL.

When the day dawned, it found the púsári still in the temple offering prayers and supplications to the god for deliverance from the spell he was under. As soon as it was sufficiently light for him to see his way, he left the temple and went down into the village. A hope had risen in his breast that his prayers may have been answered, and he was anxious to ascertain whether he was still invisible. The hope was soon dispelled. As he passed the door of a hut, an old man came out yawning and stretching his arms, and though the púsári stood right before him, took no notice of him. Filled with despair, the púsári went to his own house and sat in the porch, a prey to the gloomiest, most miserable thoughts. He occupied himself in watching Vallee. The overwhelming grief and agitation of the preceding day had passed off, leaving her listless, unhappy, and restless. She was trying to attend to her household duties; but her thoughts were elsewhere, for she sighed frequently and her eyes filled with tears very often. Every now and then, she went to the door and glanced out. On one such occasion she uttered an exclamation of surprise. On looking out, the púsári saw several men and women whom he recognised as some of his relatives, who lived in a village at some distance, coming towards him. On entering the house, one or two of the new-comers saluted Vallee curtly and coldly, but the rest took no notice of her. Abashed and pained by their conduct, Vallee retired to a corner and waited to see what they had come for. They made themselves quite at home at once. It was soon evident they had heard of the púsári’s disappearance, and were come to see about his property, being persuaded he would never come back. After a while, they began to examine the house and to make a sort of rough inventory of what it contained.

‘What are you doing, uncle?’ asked Vallee of one of them, a thin, ferrety-faced man, who was her father’s brother.

The man made no reply. Presently, he caught sight of the púsári’s strong-box in a corner of the hut, and turning to her, abruptly demanded the key.

‘My father keeps it,’ she replied.

‘Do not name your father to us!’ said her uncle sharply. ‘We have cast him off; we disown him!’

‘But not his property, it appears,’ retorted Vallee with spirit. ‘And I tell you, Sinnan Ummiyán, it will not be well for you when my father comes home and hears what you have said of him!’

‘Dare you mock me, daughter of a murderer!’ exclaimed her uncle, as he gave her a sharp box on the ear.

Vallee did not cry out or burst into tears, but drawing herself up, walked silently and proudly out of the house and disappeared into the jungle.

Great was the disgust of the púsári at the conduct of his rapacious and selfish relatives, and his indignation at their treatment of his daughter. Muttering wrathfully to himself that he would make them regret it, if he ever regained his human form, he got up and went out after Vallee. As he entered the jungle at the spot where he had seen her disappear, he heard a voice that he instantly recognised—it was that of Valan Elúvan. Vallee had just met her lover.

‘What is the matter, sweet one?’ he heard Valan say. ‘Are you crying for your father?’

‘Aiyo, aiyo!’ wailed the girl. ‘I shall never see him again!’

‘Do not give way to such thoughts, little one,’ replied Valan. ‘He will certainly return. He has probably gone to some distant village on sudden and important business.’

‘O Valan,’ exclaimed Vallee, ‘then you don’t think—you do not believe that he—killed the headman?’

‘No; I do not, Púliya knows,’ returned her lover gravely. ‘’Twas some stranger, no doubt, that did the rascally deed. Your father will doubtless return soon and prove his innocence.—Were those some of your people who came to your house just now?’ he added.

Vallee explained who they were, and told him of her uncle’s treatment of her.

‘Never mind, child,’ he said soothingly, when she had finished speaking. ‘Should anything have happened to your father, and he not return, I will take you to my house as my wife; and we will go and live in some distant village where nothing is known about either of us, and no one can say malicious things of us.—What say you, sweet one?’

Vallee made no reply and no protest when he tenderly embraced her. They continued to talk together for some minutes. When they separated, the púsári followed Valan home, as he wished to see what his enemy was doing. As they entered the house, the púsári saw Iyan hastily hide some money he had been fingering, in his waist-cloth. Valan, too, saw his brother’s action; he did not say anything, however, till he had deposited his jungle-knife in a corner; then, without looking round, he said quietly: ‘Elder brother, where did you get that money?’

‘What money?’ blustered Iyan.

‘That which you have in your waist-cloth.’

‘I have had a debt repaid,’ growled Iyan after a short pause.

‘What debt?’ persisted Valan. ‘I did not know any one owed you anything.’

Iyan grunted angrily, but made no answer.

‘Where were you the day before yesterday, when the múdliya was murdered?’ continued Valan in a stern, grave tone and looking keenly at his brother.—‘And why,’ he continued, when he received no answer, ‘did you change your cloth when you came home that night, and wash the one you had been wearing? And why, too, did you——?’

‘Mind your own business!’ interrupted Iyan fiercely, as he got up and walked out. ‘You had better not spy on me, Valan Elúvan, or I will make you repent it!’

For some minutes after his brother had gone, Valan sat looking thoughtfully out of the door, evidently turning something over in his mind; then he got up and carefully searched the hut, examining with great care a cloth he found in a corner. He appeared not to be satisfied with what he saw, for he shook his head, and muttered two or three times to himself in a tone of sorrow and misgiving.

The whole of that day the púsári wandered restlessly about, spending most of the time, however, in and about his own house. By noon, his relatives had quite settled down in his house. It was clear they had no expectation of his ever returning, and had, therefore, constituted themselves his heirs. They did not treat Vallee with cruelty or harshness, but simply ignored her, or treated her as if she was dependent on them. Early in the afternoon, the young headman whom the púsári had seen at Mánkúlam the previous day, came to the village armed with a warrant. He was accompanied by several men, who searched his house carefully, but of course found nothing to incriminate him. They seized, however, the púsári’s gun and two or three jungle-knives that were in the house. Vallee’s distress and indignation at the action of the headman and his satellites was great; but she restrained herself, and made no protest or remark of any kind. The púsári learned from the conversation of these unwelcome visitors that men had been sent to all the neighbouring villages in search of him.

Night at length came on. The púsári hung about the village till every one had retired to rest. Suddenly the idea occurred to him to go in search of the pisási village in the haunted jungle. He started off at once, and before long found himself in a part of the jungle which he knew could not be very far from the scene of his dreadful night’s adventure. But though he wandered about all night and climbed two or three trees, in the hope of seeing the glare of the magic fires, he found nothing. Though he knew himself to be invisible, and therefore perfectly safe, he could not overcome the sensation of fear when he heard the fierce cries of wild beasts in the dark, lonely forest. He listened anxiously to the crashing and trumpeting of a herd of elephants in the jungle near him, and to the grating roar of a leopard seeking its prey. He fairly fled when he heard the whimpering of a couple of bears coming along the path towards him. When the morning broke, he returned to the village.

Several days passed, and the púsári remained invisible to mortal eyes. He suffered neither from hunger nor thirst nor fatigue, and required no sleep. Aimlessly and ceaselessly, he wandered about, sunk in the lowest depths of misery and despair. His great wish was to find the pisási village again, as he hoped that, in some way, the spell might then be removed from him. Night after night he entered the forest and wandered about till daybreak with eyes and ears open for any sign of the presence of pisásis; but though, before long, he knew every path and game-track, and almost every tree for miles round, he could not find again the haunted jungle. Sometimes, when tired, of his fruitless midnight wanderings, he would go to the rice-fields and sit by the blazing fires in the watch-huts and listen to the talk of the men and boys guarding the crops from the wild beasts. During the day, he haunted the village, entering all the huts unseen, and listening to the conversation of the villagers. Often he laughed to himself as he overheard secrets disclosed, weaknesses exposed, and designs laid bare, by men and women who thought themselves alone and safe from eavesdropping. The excitement about the murder of the headman soon died out, and it ceased to be the absorbing theme of conversation in the village. The púsári was supposed to have got safely off to some distant country with his booty.

During this time, the púsári watched his enemy unceasingly, his feelings of hatred and desire for vengeance growing deeper every day. Iyan was too cunning a villain to excite suspicion by showing his ill-gotten wealth, and he had not as yet profited much by his crime. Every evening, the púsári watched him go into the jungle and gloat over the money and jewels he had hidden in the hollow tree.

The púsári also kept an untiring, loving watch over his daughter. His brother and family had by this taken complete possession of his house and property. Vallee felt keenly their rapacious proceedings and unkind treatment of her, for her father more than once saw her, with tears of mortification and indignation in her eyes, rush out of the house into the jungle. But she very often met there one who dried her tears quickly and easily. Valan appeared to be always on the watch for her, and met her so often and so openly, that it soon became the talk of the village. Many sneered at him for a fool to think of marrying a portionless girl, as they now thought her, and also the daughter of a murderer. It soon became clear to the púsári that matters were coming to a crisis, and that Valan, stung into resentment and defiance by the remarks of the villagers, and pitying Vallee’s distress and unhappiness, would soon make her his wife and take her away. Valan’s generous and honourable conduct towards his daughter, and his expression of belief in his innocence, had completely won the púsári’s heart. He saw with approval and pleasure the relations between the two, and the thought that his daughter would soon be provided for, helped in considerable measure to reconcile him to his unhappy lot.