Chapter I: Part 1

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 701. SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]

WINDOW WILLIE

A TWEEDSIDE TRADITION, BY W. CHAMBERS, LL.D.

Crossing the tall and narrow old bridge of several arches which spans the Tweed at Peebles, is seen an aged gentleman riding composedly on a small white pony. His head is bent droopingly down, as if meditating on some important mission. From his general aspect, he may be a gentleman-farmer, disposed to take things easily at his time of life; or he may be some retired public official who keeps a pony, and in good weather pops about for amusement. His dress has nothing particular about it. He wears a blue coat with metal buttons and capacious outside pockets. His legs are endued in buff breeches, white rig-and-fur woollen stockings, and black spats, a kind of short gaiters, over the ankles. Any one may observe that he is no common person. At the end of his watch-chain dangle a gold seal, a Queen Anne sixpence, a small and very pretty shell, and a flexible watch-key. Instead of using a riding-whip, he has in his right hand a perfectly respectable gold-headed cane, with which he occasionally gives a gentle pat on the side of the pony. Altogether a creditable affair, as things went towards the end of last century.

This imposing personage, according to tradition, was proceeding in a southerly direction across the bridge from his residence at Cabbage Hall, on Tweed Green, in order to pursue his way down the right bank of the river to the mansion of Traquair. It is a pleasant ride of seven to eight miles; and looking to the leisurely progress of the little nag, it is not unlikely he may reach his destination in an hour and a half. So far well. But who is this venerable gentleman? His proper designation is of no consequence. Locally, and somewhat irreverently, he is known as Window Willie, a man of genial temperament, but who professionally commands a degree of respect in the neighbourhood; for he is the district inspector in relation to the tax on window-lights, and it is not surprising that with all his good humour people are a little afraid of him.

Is Window Willie going to inspect windows in that old weather-beaten château of the Earl of Traquair? Not at all. He is a chum of the old Earl, and what his particular business happens to be on the present occasion will afterwards appear. In the meantime, as paving the way for Window Willie's interview, we may run over a few particulars concerning the Traquair family. There need be the less ceremony in speaking of them, as all have gone to their rest. The family is extinct, leaving not a shred behind.

The Stewarts of Traquair come first prominently into notice in the reign of Charles I., 1628, when Sir John Stewart of Traquair, Knight, was raised to the peerage as Lord Stewart of Traquair, and shortly afterwards elevated to the dignity of Earl of Traquair, Lord Linton, and Caberston. In looking into history, we cannot discover that this gentleman had a single good quality. Like too many at that period, he was a time-server, devoid of anything like settled principle. In politics and religion he discreetly sided with the uppermost--a Puritan or an Anglican of the Laud type, whichever seemed to promise to pay best.

There is a very curious old book, which few know anything about, called the '_Staggering State of Scots Statesmen, for one hundred years from 1550 to 1650_, by Sir John Scot of Scotstarvit.' It was printed from a manuscript in 1754, and is exceedingly rare. This little book is full of amusing gossip about the wretchedly struggling noblemen and officers of state at that unhappy period of Scottish history, during a large portion of which the central ruling authority was in London, and only a delegation of subordinates, who domineered at will, in Edinburgh. These subordinates were needy Scotsmen, of whom for more than a century hardly a good word can be said. They did as they liked, plundered and tyrannised without mercy. The _Staggering State_ gives an awful account of them. Among the whole, none was such an adept at looking to his own interest as the newly created Earl of Traquair. Appointed Lord High Treasurer, he 'managed matters so nimbly' that in a short time he was able, by purchase, to vastly extend the possessions of the family. He also enlarged the old mansion at Traquair, and made a handsome avenue lined with trees as an approach.

When Charles I. got into trouble, the Earl of Traquair for a time stuck to his cause, which in a half-hearted way he afterwards thought fit to desert. The Commonwealth under Cromwell proved a sore trial to every class of home-rulers in Scotland. A stern system of honesty and justice was introduced, at which the native nobility and judges stood aghast. Monopolies were abolished. Free trade was established between England and Scotland. Very hard all this on those who had been pocketing the public money, thriving on monopolies, and selling justice to the highest bidder. Turned out of office, and his estate being sequestrated, the Earl of Traquair was ruined. By some manœuvre, his son Lord Linton had the address to save for himself and his heirs at least a portion of the family property, and was able to keep house at Traquair, while the Earl was exposed to vicissitudes, uncheered by public respect or sympathy. Lord Linton can hardly be acquitted of having acted an unnatural part towards his father. He allowed him to drop into such extreme poverty that he was fain to accept an alms from an old friend, and to dine on a salt herring and an onion. Broken in spirit, he died in 1659; and as evidencing the meanness of his circumstances, it is recorded that at his burial there was no pall, but only a black apron over the coffin.

So ended the first Earl, who though not without the faults common to the period, was at least an historical personage. His son, the second Earl, was noted only for scandalous irregularities, and by him Roman Catholicism was introduced into the family, through his marriage with Lady Anne Seton. He was succeeded by his elder son, William, as third Earl; and he was succeeded by his brother, Charles, as fourth Earl, who married Lady Mary Maxwell, daughter of the fourth Earl of Nithsdale. We need say nothing of the fifth Earl. In the sixth Earl we begin to have a living interest. He had a son, Charles, and three daughters, Christiana, Mary, and Lucy. Lady Christiana caused serious trouble in the family by what was deemed a mésalliance. The story is that she fell in love with a young man named Griffiths, who as a lawyer's clerk had visited Traquair on some piece of business, married him--and was disowned. There is no doubt of the marriage, whatever might have been the position of Mr Griffiths; for it is recorded in the _Peerage_ of Sir Robert Douglas. Descendants of Lady Christiana are still living, we believe, in America.

The Ladies Mary and Lucy do not appear to have been married. As genteel spinsters they lived in the Canongate, Edinburgh, which even in their time had not been entirely deserted by noble families. Charles, their brother, who succeeded as seventh Earl in 1779, and was already married, dwelt for a time in Edinburgh. There to him was born a daughter, Louisa, 20th March 1776; and a son, Charles, 31st January 1781. After the birth of the two children, the Earl and his Countess spent most of their time at Traquair House. Here, for a number of years the Earl flourished, if it can be called flourishing, the more appropriate term being vegetating, at the period when Window Willie was in his glory.

There lingered some traditions of the Countess of Traquair in our young days. She was an invalid. The rumour in Peebles was that she had been afflicted with an 'eating cancer in her great toe.' Whether there was any truth in the report we cannot tell. All we know is, that the ailment of her Ladyship gave rise to a droll and popular myth. The cancer being an 'eating' cancer, required something to eat. If it was not properly provided with food, it would eat off her Ladyship's foot, and finally eat her up bodily. To avert this calamity, it was customary--so ran the legend in Peebles--to provide the cancer every morning regularly with a fresh pigeon, which it devoured with a relish in the course of the day, and so the foot of the Countess was luckily saved. The gossip about the daily consumption of a pigeon was possibly a piece of nonsense. At anyrate, the Countess having been much of an invalid, the old Earl her husband sought to amuse himself in a way, immediately to be specified.

We are now ready for the interview with Window Willie, who has been jogging on his way to Traquair. For the last hour the Earl had been expecting him, and now and then looks out from a small apartment with a low ceiling to see his approach down a side avenue. There at length he comes on his little white pony; and giving the animal to a groom, he enters the antiquated mansion.

'Glad to see you,' said the Earl. 'I've been out of work for a week; at least hardly anything to do. I hope you have brought something. How many have you got?'

'Well, my Lord,' replied Willie, 'I think I have made a pretty good haul. I have just returned from my circuit in the western district of the county, and have managed to pick up a round dozen.'

'That will do capitally. Lay them out carefully in a row, and tell me to whom they belong.'

So requested, Window Willie disburdened himself by drawing from his pockets a dozen razors in their respective cases, some of them having a very common appearance, and he proceeded to arrange and specify them as follows:

'There's one from Dickson of Hartree; one from Loch of Rachan; one from Murray at Drachal; one from Kerr, minister of Stobo; one from Marshall, minister of Manor; and one from Bowed Davie; it's sair lippit, but it will stand grunden. That makes six. Then comes one from Mr Findlater, the minister of Newlands; next one from Sir James Naesmyth; one from Robbie Symington at Edston; one from Mr Alexander at Easter Happrew; one from Toll Tammie at the Neidpath, which I got yesterday in passing; and last of all, one from your lordship's friend and adviser, Commissary Robertson, at Peebles. That makes the dozen.'

The row of razors made a splendid array, and put the Earl in high spirits. Window Willie must stay to dinner to talk over his adventures in securing the razors, for each has its story, which will furnish some amusement. Willie, of course, as he had expected, dines with the Earl, and pops home to Cabbage Hall in the evening.

Not to keep the reader in suspense: The Earl of Traquair had a profound passion for sharpening razors. Thankfully and gratuitously his Lordship sharpened not only all the razors of his tenants and their servants, but of all the landed gentlemen, farmers, and traders throughout the county who would favour him with a commission of the kind. In his time, no one in Peeblesshire needed to torture himself by shaving with a blunt razor. Of course, the razors were not sent for sharpening in a business fashion. Window Willie's professional rounds gave him an excellent opportunity of collecting razors for the Earl, and of returning them properly cuttled to their proprietors. When he brought one batch he took away another. It was a satisfactory arrangement all round. The Earl was delighted to be kept working at his favourite pursuit; people were glad to get their razors on all occasions sharpened for nothing; and Window Willie was pleased to have an employment which made him everywhere an acceptable guest, and afforded opportunities of visiting at Traquair. I happen to have an agreeable remembrance of various persons in Peebles telling me several of the foregoing particulars, and of how Window Willie used to call to ask if their razors did not want a little touching up, as he was going next day to visit the Earl.

The world was not then constituted exactly as it now is. Nobody thought there was anything particularly strange in an Earl sharpening razors as a recreation. It was a harmless hobby; and, besides, there was a gratification in thinking that your razor was put in trim by a nobleman. The Earl of Traquair was a general benefactor. He was a sort of artist. He should have been born and bred a cutler, in which capacity he excelled; but as he had the misfortune to be born an heir to an earldom, he had just to make the best of it. As for Window Willie, he seemed to have been born to be the Earl's provider with blunt razors to be sharpened; in which line he acquitted himself admirably. Working to each other's hands, they in their time kept the county well and comfortably shaved, and that is saying a good deal in the way of eulogium.

The Earl had another eccentricity. He did not patronise London or Edinburgh tailors. After some experience, he had a firm belief that no man could make clothes for him that would thoroughly fit but Thorburn, a tailor at Eddleston, a small village of forty to fifty houses, close to Darnhall, the residence of Lord Elibank. We have never heard how the Earl discovered Thorburn; in all likelihood he heard of him through his factotum, Window Willie, who knew something of everybody. Having tried, he stuck to Thorburn. One thing materially guided this selection. Thorburn was exactly his own shape, body, legs, and arms. That was a great point. The Earl had an invincible hatred of putting on new-made clothes, which required some time to settle down into the required figure, and were at first a little awkward. Thorburn was an accommodating fellow. He volunteered to wear the Earl's new clothes for a day or two, to give them a set. The obliging offer was accepted. When the Earl wanted a new pair of black velvet breeches, Thorburn took care to wear them for a Sunday at church, which gave the legs the appropriately round baggy form, and then they were ready for use. By the agency of Window Willie and his little pony, the garment safely reached Traquair House.

Dear old Earl, and dear good-hearted Window Willie! Both have long since passed away. The beards of the county are said to have been sensibly affected by their decease. Charles, the eighth Earl, had unfortunately none of his father's aptitude for razor-sharpening. As a bachelor and a recluse, he was mainly noted for effecting improvements on his various farm-steadings, which was by no means a bad hobby for a nobleman. Partly perhaps on account of a stammering in his speech, he shrank from general society, and vegetated till the last in the queer antiquated mansion of his forefathers, in the society of his only sister, Lady Louisa Stuart. We had the honour of several interviews with him in relation to railways for the district, and could not help feeling pained with that distressing stammer. A very curious fact afterwards came to our knowledge. The Earl having spent a number of his early years abroad, acquired a proficiency in speaking French, which he ever afterwards retained. When he spoke French, he never stammered! At his decease in 1861, the male line and peerage became extinct; and on the death of Lady Louisa Stuart in 1875, in the hundredth year of her age, all the family had departed, the property devolving by will on a distant relative. Traquair House, which looks like two ancient feudal keeps rolled into one, remains embosomed in trees almost as it was left by the Lord High Treasurer upwards of two hundred years ago, and as it used to be visited of old by Window Willie.

W. C.

THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.

CHAPTER XXVI.--PREPARATION.

Great was my relief the next day when, on Lilian and I returning from a ramble in our beloved woods, we heard Robert Wentworth talking to Mrs Tipper in the parlour. But at first sight of him, I shrank back. How altered he looked, how terribly altered since we had last met! The kind little lady's hurried explanation as we entered the room, that illness had kept him away, gave me another blow, and he saw that it did.

'Only a sort of cold,' he cheerfully explained, extending his hand towards me with a smile. 'How do you do, Mary?'

My own hand shook; but he kept it long enough in his own to steady it, giving me a reassuring look before releasing it.

But Lilian could not get over the shock which the first sight of him had given her, involuntarily exclaiming: 'But I fear you have been ill--very ill; and it has made you quite'---- She paused, not liking to go on; but he lightly replied: 'Gray, do you mean? My dear Lilian, the gray season had set in long ago, only you saw me too frequently to notice it.'

Mrs Tipper laid her hand for a moment on his shoulder as she passed him on her way out of the room to prepare some special dainty to tempt him at tea-time; and I noticed that she was looking much graver than usual.

'And how have you been going on with your work during my absence?' he asked; 'not carelessly, I hope? I am in the humour to be very exacting and critical to-night; so you must not expect me to treat sins of omission or commission with my usual amiability.'

'Amiability, indeed!' ejaculated Lilian. 'The idea of your setting up for being amiable! I do not consider you at all considerate and good-natured to failure, sir.'

He smiled. 'I certainly have not much sympathy with failure; it would not be orthodox, you know. But get out your work, and let me find a safe outlet for my savage propensity.'

He saw that it did me good to be taken to task in the old fashion; and was quite as unsparing as I could desire, when he came upon any error. Whatever it cost him, Robert Wentworth succeeded in setting my heart as well as theirs at rest before he took his departure that night. If Mrs Tipper saw something of the truth, she shewed her consideration for me by carefully avoiding to give any expression to her thoughts. Lilian evidently guessed nothing. She openly expressed her surprise and regret at the alteration which she perceived in him.

'I really felt quite shocked for the first few moments,' she said. 'Even serious illness does not seem quite to account for such an alteration as there is in him. He looks as though he had suddenly grown old. Do not you think so, auntie?--Don't you, Mary?'

Mrs Tipper was silent, leaving me to reply, though I knew that she was watching me somewhat closely the while. It required all the nerve and self-command I could muster to make something like a suitable reply; but I did make it; and Lilian at anyrate remained in ignorance of the true state of the case, although her ignorance occasioned me almost as much pain as her knowledge of it would have done, so very closely did she sometimes approach to the truth, in her speculations as to the possible and probable cause of the change which had taken place in Robert Wentworth.

I was becoming restless and anxious from more causes than one. The time of Philip's expected arrival was drawing near, and my news remained still untold. Whilst I was ashamed of my reticence with two such friends, the difficulty of approaching the subject seemed rather to increase than diminish. My uneasiness was becoming apparent too; even Lilian and Mrs Tipper were beginning to notice a difference in me, which they could not account for.

The dear little lady once ventured a few words to me to the effect that no good man could be the worse for loving a woman, though she could not return his love; fancying, I believe, that possibly I was uneasy upon Robert Wentworth's account. I could only kiss the hand laid so lovingly upon mine.

It so happened that just at this juncture Mrs Tipper required sundry little housekeeping errands done in town; and partly to be alone a few hours, partly to do a little shopping for myself, I volunteered to go for her.

'Are you sure you would prefer going, dear Mary?' said Mrs Tipper anxiously; 'the days are so hot, and the things could be sent down, if we write, you know.'

I murmured something about wanting to replenish my wardrobe a little, and she easily acquiesced: 'To tell the truth, my dear, I _should_ prefer your choosing the patty-pans,' she candidly allowed, when she found I really wished to go. 'Becky and I will think over all we require, and make a list,' she added, trotting off in high-feather to compare notes with Becky in the kitchen. If we were proud of our 'drawing-room,' Mrs Tipper was quite as proud of her kitchen. 'There is a place for everything and everything in its place, my dear, clean and ready to hand.' Becky in the evening, seated in state, surrounded by her brilliantly burnished tins, was a sight to behold. Nothing would have delighted her mistress and herself more than a sudden invasion of company as a test of their resources. Lilian and I were sometimes taxed beyond our powers, in our endeavours to shew our appreciation of the little dainty cakes, patties, &c. set before us. Indeed we had more than once consulted together upon the advisability of suggesting a party of children from the village to relieve us.

Lilian looked, I thought, a little surprised at not being invited to accompany me on my expedition to town. But if she was surprised, she was not offended; sensitive as she was, there was as little self-love in Lilian as it is possible for any human being to have. Hers was not fine-weather friendship. She was content to stand quietly aside until I should need her, without any complaints about being neglected, or what not, which half-hearted people are so apt to make at a fancied slight. She knew that I loved her, and I knew that she loved me, and we could trust each other, without the repeated assurance of it, which some people seem to require.

She was only a shade or two more tender and loving in bidding me good-bye, when I set forth in the morning, anxious to make me feel that my return would be eagerly looked for; and whispering a little jest about the necessity for bringing back a good appetite. 'Auntie and Becky will be sure to be busily engaged in preparing treats all day, you know; so you must come home hungry, whatever you do. And do not forget your promise to buy a pretty bonnet, Mary, and leave off that old dowdy thing; it makes you look as though nobody loved you, which is not fair to your sister Lilian. And oh, Mary, I had almost forgotten; if you bring any of this back, I shall say you don't care for me in real earnest;' pressing a little roll of paper into my hand.

I knew that she was genuinely disappointed when I proved to her that I had as much as five-and-twenty pounds in hand; and so I was obliged to promise to take from her store for my next need. 'Or else one may just as well not be a sister,' she said, with a discontented little shake of the head.

How cheering it was--how precious the knowledge that I was cared for in this way! And there was dear old Mrs Tipper too! I thought I knew why she was desirous just at that season to make me feel that my presence was so much required at the cottage.

'I wanted to ask you to cut out the little pinafores for Mercy Green's child, Mary; but they must wait till to-morrow, I suppose. And there's the curtains for my bed, dear; nobody would fit them to please me but you;' and so forth, and so forth, until the last moment, when Lilian accompanied me as far as the stile.

As I walked across the fields in that lovely August morning, while the bright sun was

Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy,

my thoughts attuned themselves to the summer sights and sounds, and I shook off the morbid doubts and fears which had so beset me of late. I resolved to be no longer so weak and unfriendly as to keep the truth from Mrs Tipper and Lilian. It really was unfriendly not to tell them what I knew they would both be glad to hear! That very evening my secret should be told, and I would at once begin brushing up for Philip, making up my mind to overcome my shyness for finery, and render myself as attractive as possible within the compass of--five-and-twenty pounds. It appeared to me a very large sum to spend at once upon finery, and I could only hope the end would justify the means. As it chanced, I really knew very little about Philip's taste in such matters. The selection of the modest outfit which was purchased for me nine years ago, I had been only too glad to leave to my dear mother's judgment, and we had been neither of us inclined to trouble Philip with _chiffon_ talk.

But I told myself that I really must make a beginning now, as I stood in the milliner's show-room, somewhat dolefully contrasting my appearance with that of the elegant-looking beings around me; wondering whether Philip would wish me to look like them, and in that case, whether it would be possible to make me do so.

I had been striving so earnestly and anxiously to make myself worthy to be his companion, and it had seemed of so little consequence what I looked like during his absence, beyond being attired with the dainty neatness befitting a gentlewoman, that I now appeared quite behind the times. I suddenly began to realise that I had carried my disregard of pretty things too far; and was seized with a desire to try what extraneous aid could do for me.

I anxiously studied my face and figure in the large glass, and then those of the obliging shopwoman, who displayed an endless assortment of pretty things for my selection. She was about my own age, and possessed no greater natural advantages than I myself could boast of; and yet how very different was the general effect of her appearance; how dowdy I looked beside her. Yes; Lilian was quite right; 'dowdy' was the proper word for me, from head to foot.

A little shyly and consciously, I ventured out of my shell, and appealed to the shopwoman for assistance, taking her so far into my confidence as to confess a desire to be modernised and made more attractive.

She displayed more interest in the matter than I had ventured to hope for; and we gravely discussed my capability of improvement. But I found that the complications would be so many, and the changes in the way of adaptation of hair, figure, &c. so endless, that I presently began to grow very impatient; and when she said something about the possibility of the present fashion only lasting another two months, I gave it up in despair. If I were quite sure it would serve for the rest of my life, I would go through it all; but for the fashion of an hour; no! I would be content with a simply made dress or two, and depend upon my own taste for the finishing touches. Some of my mother's old point, and a crimson bow or two for the pretty gray dress, and amber with the black silk, and such like, I trusted might please Philip's artistic taste as well as though I were in the latest fashion. And I pleased myself with the remembrance that he used to admire my method of dressing my hair in large coils round a comb; saying that it suited my head and Spanish style of face. 'Spanish! Yes; that certainly was the word,' I told myself, dwelling pleasantly upon the one only compliment I could recollect having received from Philip.

I tried to satisfy myself this way; nevertheless I was a little out of spirits at finding myself so different from other women whom I met as I walked through the park on my way to the railway station, and whom I scanned with curious critical eyes, trying to understand the intricacies of their toilets, and failing to obtain anything more than a general impression that the _tout ensemble_ was very effective. The home dress might be compassed; but how if it turned out that Philip wished his wife to look picturesque and attractive out of doors--not in Mrs Trafford's style, but in Lilian's more refined way of being in the mode? I would take Lilian into my confidence at once, and she would help me. That very night I had determined to make the truth known to her and to Mrs Tipper; and after it was once known, the dress question could be entered upon.

THE STORY OF THE PRISM.

When we see the brilliant colours reflected by the glass lustres and chandeliers which are now so commonly used for decorative purposes, we seldom bestow a thought upon them, regarding them as things too common, perhaps too trivial to be worthy of any particular attention. We are content to know that a triangular piece of glass will exhibit certain bright colours--they look very pretty, and it does not matter much how they happen to be there. This is the common way of dealing with the natural phenomena which meet us at every turn in this wonderful world in which we live. The progress of civilisation, with all its triumphs of Science and Art, would indeed have been slow, if not altogether at a dead-lock, if every one had been content to treat such matters in this summary fashion. But happily, this has not been the case, for certain intellectual giants have from time to time arisen, who have grappled with these things, and have devoted their lives to their investigation.

Such a one was Sir Isaac Newton, who just about two centuries ago, with rough appliances fashioned by his own hands, inquired into the meaning of the colours to which we have just alluded. We cannot do better than quote his own words, from a letter which he addressed to the Royal Society in 1672; for his statement is so clear that a child can easily understand what he means. 'I procured me a triangular glass prisme,' writes he, 'to try therewith the celebrated phenomena of colours. And in order thereto having darkened my chamber and made a small hole in my window-shuts to let in a convenient quantity of the sun's light, I placed my prisme at his entrance, that it might be thereby refracted to the opposite wall.'

He goes on to say how surprised he was to find that the ray of light, after passing through the prism, instead of being thrown upon the wall in the form of a round spot, was spread out into a beautiful coloured ribbon; this ribbon being red at one end, and passing through orange yellow green and blue, to violet at its other extremity. Upon this experiment is founded the theory of colour, which with few modifications, still remains unquestioned.

It was not until the beginning of the present century that this experiment of Newton's (repeated as it had doubtless been in the meantime by many philosophers) was found by Dr Wollaston to possess certain peculiarities which defied all explanation. He found that, by substituting a _slit_ in the shutter of the darkened room for the round hole which Newton had used, the ribbon of colour, or spectrum as it is now called, was intersected by certain dark lines. This announcement, although at the time it did not excite much attention, led to further experiments by different investigators, who, however, vainly endeavoured to solve the meaning of these bands of darkness. It was first observed by an optician of Munich that they never varied, but always occupied a certain fixed position in the spectrum; moreover he succeeded in mapping them to the number of nearly six hundred, for which reason they have been identified with his name, as 'Frauenhofer's lines.'

In 1830, when improved apparatus came into use, it was found that the number of these lines could be reckoned by thousands rather than hundreds; but their meaning still remained a puzzle to all. By this time Newton's darkened room with the hole in the 'window-shuts' had been, as we have just said, greatly improved upon. The prism was now placed in a tube, at one end of which was a slit to admit the light, while the retina of the observer's eye received the impression of the spectrum at the other end. This is the simplest form of the instrument now known as the spectroscope, and which is, as we have shewn, a copy in miniature of Newton's arrangement for the decomposition of white light into its constituent colours.

We must now go back a few years to record some experiments carried out by Herschel, which, quite independent of the spectroscope, helped others to solve the problem connected with the dark lines. He pointed out that metals, when rendered incandescent under the flame of the blow-pipe, exhibited various tints. He further suggested that as the colour thus shewn was distinctive for each metal, it might be possible by these means to work out a new system of analysis. A familiar instance of this property in certain metals may be seen in the red and green fire which is burned so lavishly during the pantomime season at our theatres; the red owing its colour to a preparation of the metal strontium, and the green in like manner to barium. Pyrotechnists also depend for their tints not only upon the two metals just named, but also upon sodium, antimony, copper, potassium, and magnesium. Wheatstone also noticed the same phenomena when he subjected metals to the intense heat of the electric current; but it was reserved for others to examine these colours by means of the spectroscope. This was done by Bunsen and Kirchhoff in 1860, who by their researches in this direction, laid the foundation of a totally new branch of science. They discovered that each metal when in an incandescent state exhibited through the prism certain distinctive brilliant lines. They also found that these brilliant lines were identical in position with many of Frauenhofer's dark lines; or to put it more clearly, each bright line given by a burning metal found its exact counterpart in a dark line on the solar spectrum. It thus became evident that there was some subtle connection between these brilliant lines and the dark bands which had puzzled observers for so many years. Having this clue, experiments were pushed on with renewed vigour, until by some happy chance, the _vapours_ of the burning metals were examined through the agency of the electric light. That is to say, the light from the electric lamp was permitted to shine through the vapour of the burning metal under examination, forming, so to speak, a background for the expected lines. It was now seen that what before were bright bands on a dark ground, were now dark bands on a bright ground. This discovery of the reversal of the lines peculiar to a burning metal, when such metal was examined in the form of vapour, led to the enunciation of the great principle, that 'vapours of metals at a lower temperature absorb exactly those rays which they emit at a higher.'

To make this important fact more clear, we will suppose that upon the red-hot cinders in an ordinary fire-grate is thrown a handful of saltpetre. (This salt is, as many of our readers will know, a chemical combination of the metal potassium with nitric acid--hence called nitrate of potash, or more commonly nitre.) On looking through the spectroscope at the dazzling molten mass thus produced, we should find that (instead of the coloured ribbon which the sunlight gives) all was black, with the exception of a brilliant violet line at the one end of the spectrum, and an equally brilliant red line at the other end. This is the spectrum peculiar to potassium; so that, had we not been previously cognisant of the presence of that metal, and had been requested to name the source of the flame produced, the spectroscope would have enabled us to do so without difficulty. We will now suppose that we again examine this burning saltpetre under altered conditions. We will place the red-hot cinders in a shovel, and remove them to the open air, throwing upon them a fresh supply of the nitre. We can now examine its vapour, whilst the sunlight forms a background to it; when we shall see that the two bright coloured lines have given place to dark ones. This experiment will prove the truth of Kirchhoff's law so far as potassium is concerned, for the molten mass first gave us the bright lines, and afterwards by examining the cooler vapour we saw that they were transformed to bands of darkness; in other words they were absorbed. (In describing the foregoing experiment, we have purposely chosen a well-known substance, such as saltpetre, for illustration; but in practice, for reasons of a technical nature, a different form of potassium would be employed.) Kirchhoff's discovery forms by far the most important incident in the history of the spectroscope, for upon it are based the new sciences of Solar and Stellar Chemistry, to which we will now direct our readers' attention.

The examination of the heavenly bodies by means of the spectroscope has not only corroborated in a very marvellous manner the discoveries of various astronomers, but it has also been instrumental in correcting certain theories and giving rise to new ones. The existence of a feebly luminous envelope extending for hundreds of thousands of miles beyond the actual surface of the sun, has been made evident whenever an eclipse has shut off the greater light, and so permitted it to be viewed. The prism has shewn this envelope, or chromosphere as it is called, to consist of a vast sea of hydrogen gas, into which enormous flames of magnesium are occasionally injected with great force. (We need hardly remark that these facts are arrived at analogously by identifying the absorption lines with those given by the same elements when prepared artificially in the laboratory.) This chromosphere can, by the peculiar lines which it exhibits in the spectroscope, be made manifest whenever the sun itself is shining.

The foregoing discovery has given astronomers the advantage--during a transit of Venus--of viewing the position of the planet both before and after its passage across the sun's disc; for it is evident that the presence of an opaque body in front of the chromosphere will cut off the spectral lines in the path which it follows; so that although the planet is invisible its exact place can be noted. From a comparison of these lines with those that can be produced in the laboratory, it is rendered probable that no less than thirteen different metals are in active combustion in the body of the sun. From certain geological appearances, it is conjectured that our own earth was once in this state of igneous fusion, and although our atmosphere is now reduced to a few simple elements, it must once have possessed a composition as varied as that of the sun. As it is, the air which we breathe gives certain spectral lines. These are much increased in number when the sun is low, and when therefore it is viewed through a thicker medium. In this case the blue and green rays are quickly absorbed, while the red pass without difficulty through the denser mass of air, thus giving the setting sun his blood-red colour. It will now be readily understood how, by means of the spectroscope, the existence of atmosphere in the superior planets can be verified. What a world of conjecture is thus opened out to us! for the existence of atmosphere in the planets argues that there are seas, lakes, and rivers there subject to the same laws of evaporation as those upon our own earth. And if this is so, what kind of beings are they who inhabit these worlds? The moon shews no trace of atmosphere, so that we may assume that if there be living beings there, they must exist without air and without water. The lines given by the _moon_ and _planets_ being in number and position identical with those belonging to the solar spectrum, is a further proof, if any were needed, that _their light is borrowed from the sun_.

The varied colours of the fixed stars may be assumed to be due (from what we have already stated with regard to metallic combustion) to their chemical composition; and the spectroscope, by the distinctive lines which it registers, renders this still more certain. Their distance from us is so vast, so immeasurably beyond any conception of space that we can command, that the detection of their composition is indeed a triumph of scientific knowledge. It has been calculated that if a model of the universe were made in which our earth were depicted as the size of a pea, the earth itself would not be one-fifth large enough to contain that universe.

If we marvel at the extraordinary skill which has brought these distant spheres under command of an analytical instrument, we must wonder still more when we are told that the spectra of these bodies can be brought within range of the photographic camera. This has lately been done by the aid of the most complicated and delicate mechanism; the difficulty of keeping the image stationary on the sensitive collodion film during the apparent motion of the stars from east to west, having only just been surmounted. This power of photographing the spectrum is (as we hinted in a recent paper on Photographic Progress) likely to lead to very great results, for the records thus obtained are absolutely correct, and far surpass in accuracy the efforts of the most skilful draughtsman. It must be understood that in all these researches the spectroscope is allied with the telescope, otherwise the small amount of light furnished by some of the bodies under examination would not be enough to yield any practical result.

The clusters of matter which are called nebulæ, and which the most powerful telescopes have resolved into stars, are shewn by the prism to be nothing but patches of luminous gas, possibly the first beginnings of uncreated worlds. Comet-tails are of the same nature, a doubt existing as to whether their nuclei borrow their light from the sun or emit light of themselves. We may close a necessarily brief outline of this part of our subject by stating that it is possible that the spectroscope may some day supplant the barometer, more than one observer having stated that he has discovered by its aid signs of coming rain, when the latter instrument told a flattering tale of continued fine weather.

We have merely shewn hitherto how the spectroscope is capable of identifying a metal; but its powers are not limited to this; for by a careful measurement of the length of the absorption lines, a very exact estimate of the _quantity_ present can be arrived at. This method of analysis is so delicate that in experiments carried on at the Royal Mint, a difference of one ten-thousandth part in an alloy has been recognised. Neither must it be supposed that the services of the spectroscope are confined to metals, for nearly all coloured matter can also be subjected to its scrutiny. Even the most minute substances, when examined by the microscope in conjunction with the prism, shew a particular spectrum by which they can always be identified. Nor does the form of the substance present any difficulty in its examination, for a solution will shew the necessary absorption bands. Blood, for instance, can be discovered when in a most diluted form. To the physician the detection of the vital fluid in any of the secretions is obviously a great help to the diagnosis of an obscure case. But in forensic medicine (where it might be assumed that this test would be of value in the detection of crime) the microscope can identify blood-stains in a more ready manner.

The simple glass prism as used by Newton, although it is the parent of the modern spectroscope, bears very little resemblance to its gifted successor. The complicated and costly instrument now used consists of a train of several prisms, through which the ray of light under examination can be passed by reflection more than once. By these means greater dispersion is gained; that is to say, the resulting spectrum is longer, and consequently far easier of examination. A detailed description of the instrument would be impossible without diagrams, but enough has been said to enable the reader to understand theoretically its construction and application.

It will be understood that we have but lightly touched upon a phase of science which is at present quite in its infancy. It is probable that many more remarkable discoveries will in course of time be due to the prism. Already, within the past twenty years, four new metals have by its aid been separated from the substances with which they were before confounded; and although they have not at present any commercial value, we may feel sure that they have been created for some good purpose not yet revealed to us. There are signs that the spectroscope will some day become a recognised adjunct to our educational appliances. It is even now included under the head of Chemistry in the examination of candidates for university honours, and there is no doubt that it will gradually have a more extended use. Many years hence, when generations of School-Boards have banished ignorance from the land, the spectroscope may become a common toy in the hands of children, enabling them to lisp:

Twinkle, twinkle, little star;
We know exactly what you are.

THE ROMANCE OF A LODGING.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.--CHAP. I.

'Where to, ma'am?' inquired cabby as he opened the door of his vehicle to a lady and her son who had just arrived by the evening train at Victoria Station.

'I want apartments somewhere in the neighbourhood of Chelsea; drive on until you find them: they are procurable, I suppose?' the lady replied as she took her seat.

'I do hope we may find a lodging,' she remarked to her companion, after they had been driving what appeared to her a very long time. The lad made no reply, being of a phlegmatic temperament, that finds speech an exertion unless distinctly necessary.

The lateness of the hour together with the influx of visitors, owing to the London season being then in full swing, made the search a difficult one; they were about to give up its continuance and go to an hotel, when the cabman good-naturedly proposed making one more attempt, and drove down a fresh street. Stopping at a baker's shop on the way, he invited the assistance of those serving, as it was growing too dark to discern the cards of advertisement.

They directed him to a private house in a street adjoining, but added: 'The chances are they are let; still you might just as well try, as Mrs Griffiths has a yearly lodger who allows her to sublet sometimes; perhaps he is away now.'

'Shall we chance it, ma'am?' inquired the cabman.

'Do; I am so weary. She may be able to give us a corner for the night at least.'

When they reached the house, Mrs Griffiths--late cook in a nobleman's family, who had married the footman--appeared, and in answer to the appeal, asked hesitatingly: 'For how long?'

'We should take them for a week of course,' said the lady.

'I cannot let for so long,' she replied, after a brief calculation; 'but I can accommodate you for a couple of days, if you please; that will give you time to find other rooms.'

'Thank you very much,' said the wearied traveller gratefully, as she followed the landlady into a good-sized room on the right of the entrance-hall, and begged for lights and tea as soon as Mrs Griffiths could make it convenient to send them.

'How very fortunate we are to have found a night's lodging,' she said to the lad, who now joined her. 'I think I see an easy-chair in that corner; what a comfort!' and she sat down to rest, removing some of her heavy wraps as she spoke. 'Now at least we shall have breathing-time to consider what is best to be done after your examinations are over. I can go in search of rooms to-morrow while you are at them. I wish she would hasten with the light and tea; this darkness is oppressive. Where are you, Fred?'

'Here,' he replied, from the opposite side of the room. 'Can I do anything for you? I've seen to the luggage and paid the cabman, and now am quite ready to do justice to some tea.'

They were soon put out of their discomfort by the entrance of the landlady, bearing a handsome lamp which gave a brilliant light.

'I've brought you my gentleman's lamp, ma'am; he is away just now; that is why I have been able to accommodate you; for he's most obliging, and don't mind my letting his rooms--this one and the one inside behind the folding-doors, together with the one I have given the young gentleman up-stairs, which belongs to his man-servant. May I ask what name, ma'am?'

'Mrs Arlington; and the young gentleman is my son.'

Mrs Griffiths glanced at the tall elegant woman in widow's weeds, and thought to herself: 'She looks more fit to be his sister than his mother; and is a sweet-looking lady anyway, whoever she is;' and she was glad she had taken her in and her son, if such he were. And then she bustled out of the room to prepare their meal.

As soon as they were alone, Mrs Arlington gazed around the room indifferently. It was of the usual stamp of lodging-house apartment, furnished according to the taste and means of those who take to letting for a livelihood. A dismal horse-hair suite were the chief articles of furniture, supplemented by others which stood out in contrast against the horse-hair background--a good piano, an harmonium, a bookcase with glass doors filled with a choice selection of the best works, and an easel. On the walls hung several good paintings, one of which was the portrait of a beautiful young girl.

'Some artist must live here, I imagine,' said the lad, as he went from picture to picture examining them, finally stopping before the portrait of the young girl, that hung immediately over the chair in which Mrs Arlington sat.

'I daresay,' she replied weariedly, as though it were a speculation which could not possibly concern her; and too glad of repose to be roused to any sense of curiosity upon the subject.

'Just look at this, mother; it is so pretty.'

'I cannot, Fred; I am too exhausted to turn round. I cannot possibly think of or look at any thing until I have had a cup of tea.--Ah! here it comes. Go and pour it out for me, and never mind the picture. But I forget. I am unfeeling and unnatural to tell you not to mind, for you are just at an age when young girls are beginning to possess a powerful attraction for you; but you must put the pleasing delusions out of your head until you have passed your examination for Sandhurst; that is the move-in-chief towards which all your energies must now be directed. I long to see your poor father's wishes fulfilled; and shall not feel quite contented until you are gazetted into the army; then my trust will have been accomplished. How many years is it now, Fred, since you first became my child?'

'Ten.'

'Yes; you were a little fellow when I first took you in hand as your governess, and you learnt to love me so well that your father asked me to be your mother.'

'Was that why you married him?' inquired the lad, as he brought her a cup of tea. 'Didn't you care for him for his own sake? You always seemed to.'