Chapter I: Part 1

CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 702. SATURDAY, JUNE 9, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]

THE BOARDING-OUT SYSTEM.

Forty years ago or thereabouts, we happened to make a visit to an hospital for pauper orphan children in a large city. It was a dismal spectacle. The little creatures, seated on forms, and dressed in a poor garb, had a woe-begone appearance. Their faces were pallid, and a number of them had sore eyes. The sentiment which arose in our mind was that the whole affair was unnatural, and morally and physically unwholesome. Here was a spacious mansion kept up for the accommodation of some hundreds of poor children whom destiny had deprived of their parents. Treated well, as it was thought, according to regulations, they were evidently unhappy, and pined for that species of freedom which is only to be obtained by children brought up within the domestic circle.

Since that time, so far as Scotland is concerned, there has been a considerable revolution in the matter of juvenile pauper management. The plan of immuring a horde of orphan pauper children in large buildings under the charge of nurses and teachers is pretty generally abandoned, not so much on the score of economy as of common-sense. Nature has clearly ordained that children are to be reared, instructed, and familiarised with the world under the direct charge and responsibility of their parents. That has been the way since the beginning, and it will be so till the end of time. The family system is the foundation of everything that is valued in our institutions. Our whole structure of society rests on it. Any attempt to rear children artificially on a wholesale principle, is necessarily defective, will prove abortive, and be attended, one way and another, with bad effects.

Unfortunately there are exceptions to a sweeping rule. There can be no family system where parents are removed by death, or what is more dreadful, where the parents are so grossly dissolute as to be unfitted for their appropriate duties. In either case arises the question as to what is to be done with children who are so haplessly thrown on public charity. An answer to this brings us to the root of the matter. If at all possible, we must find foster-parents who will do the duty of real ones to the children assigned under proper precautions to their custody. We are aware that this may not be always practicable, and where it is not, the grouping of children in some kind of asylum must still be perpetuated. Some countries appear to be more favourable than others to the plan of boarding out children with foster-parents. For the plan to have a chance of success, there must be a prevalent intelligence, with a sense of moral responsibilities, and that special condition as concerns means of livelihood which would induce a family to board a child alien to them in name and birth.

In certain parts of Scotland, the plan of boarding out pauper children has been so peculiarly successful, that we purpose to give some account of it. The children so treated are not all orphans; some are children deserted by worthless parents; some are the children of sick, infirm, or lunatic parents; some are the children of parents who are in prison or are convicts. In all cases, deep considerations of humanity have guided the poor-law authorities in dealing with them. Throughout Scotland at 1st January 1875, the number of pauper children boarded out was 4512, among whom there was nearly an equality of boys and girls. The cost of each did not exceed ten pounds per annum; that is to say, for the sum of about four shillings a week a child is respectably brought up in the house of a foster-parent. This sum covers cost of bed and board, school fees, and extras of all kinds. The child participates in the ordinary meals of the family; it goes to the nearest school with its companions, plays about with them, and acquires a knowledge of country life along with a love of natural scenery. Instead of being confined in a dull mansion under a dismal routine of discipline, with the chance of acquiring bad or at least narrow notions, the boarded-out child grows up a stout country lad or lass, and is endued with such general intelligence as is likely to pertain to the class amidst whom he or she moves. By these means, the boarded-out pauper children cease to be paupers. Forgetting their unfortunate origin, they drop insensibly into the general population. The catastrophe of orphanism or deserted infancy is robbed of its horrors. Surely, this must be deemed one of the greatest triumphs of humanity.

Of course, the thing could not be done unless under a scrupulous system of management and general supervision. The parochial board, with whom rests the administration, needs to exercise the greatest vigilance in selecting families to whom children may be assigned. Agricultural labourers and small shopkeepers in country villages are, we believe, considered to be eligible, should character and everything else bear investigation. Nor, though boarded out, are the children lost sight of by the poor-law authorities. They are subject to the visits of Inspectors, who report on their condition. In a number of cases, the children are boarded with relatives, who may be supposed to take some special interest in them, and are not disinclined to accept a lesser board than would have to be paid to strangers. Yet the parochial boards do not appear to view with favour the practice of boarding children with relatives who are perhaps aged and infirm, or are in receipt of parochial relief on their own account. The person thoroughly suitable should be in middle life, engaged in active duties, and fit to act the part of a foster-parent. For the success of his endeavours he should be aided in every reasonable way. The child put under his charge must not wear clothes bearing the pauper stamp, but be dressed like the other children in the place. An Inspector reports on the good effects produced by the removal of pauper uniform. 'The hang-dog look of pauperism gradually disappeared from the faces of the children--they saw themselves treated as other children, and soon became as others.'

In the Reports of the Inspectors generally, we have many pleasing instances of the social value of the boarding-out system. The significant fact strongly brought out is that the children do not return to pauperism. 'When they leave school, the boys learn trades or become farm-servants, and the girls go to service like other country girls, and many of them get respectably married. When the children go to service, the family relationship is still kept up, and they return to their foster-parents as other children do to their homes, bringing at term-times, when they get their wages, presents of tea and sugar, articles of clothing, and other tokens of affectionate regard.' We learn that in some cases the children adopt the name of the family with whom they are boarded, and as a rule they are not distinguishable from the younger members of the family. Did our space permit, many valuable particulars could be added. Those who take an interest in this important question in social economics may be referred to an able and handy digest, 'Pauperism and the Boarding-out of Pauper Children in Scotland, by John Skelton, Advocate' (Blackwood and Sons, 1877). The system, it is to be observed, bears no resemblance to that vicious practice of farming-out children, which has been productive of so much demoralisation and infant mortality. In the boarding-out of pauper children as described in the work of Mr Skelton, and now very general in Scotland, the care that is taken in selecting foster-parents, and the constant supervision to which they are subjected, give to the system its peculiar value. Whether such a system would be applicable to all parts of the United Kingdom is perhaps doubtful. It is at any rate important to know that in Scotland it has been eminently successful, and is the theme of praise by authorities on the subject. The Inspector of the poor of Glasgow tells us that it has been in use in that city for upwards of a hundred years. How suggestive is this remarkable fact--how curious to find that in this as in some other valued public institutions, a thing may flourish and be spoken of approvingly for upwards of a century in one end of Great Britain, and yet be hardly known in another, or if known, be only treated with scepticism and indifference.

W. C.

THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.

CHAPTER XXVII.--PHILIP.

I arrived at the Grayleigh Station about seven o'clock in the evening, and walked slowly and enjoyably across the fields, altogether forgetting my dress-troubles as I watched the effects of the red sunset, a more than usually beautiful one. 'I must treat myself to just one look at the dear old beeches, in this light,' I murmured; forgetting fatigue and every other discomfort as I turned from the stile and went down the lane towards the woods. I was standing in mute contemplation of the sunset effects upon the different trees. The air was calm and still; not a leaf moved, as the sunlight stole amongst the majestic trees, crowning one, and robing another from head to foot with its red glory. I was accepting the rebuke with bowed head and clasped hands, when suddenly a sweet, low, girlish laugh--Lilian's laugh--rang out in the stillness, near me.

'There! I told you how it would be. I am not artist enough for that!'

'Try again,' returned a man's voice, clear and strong and in its way as musical as her own.

Whose voice--whose? For a moment I felt as though I were transfixed to the spot where I stood; then with trembling hands, softly parted the thickly covered branches which intervened between me and the speakers. Philip! My heart had already told me that it was he; and one swift glance shewed me that it was the Philip of my dreams--so improved as to bear only an ideal resemblance to the boy-lover I had parted with. He had developed grandly during the nine years we had been separated. Taller and larger in figure, his handsome bronzed face adorned with an auburn beard, whilst his gray eyes retained their old frank kindliness of expression, he looked the personification of manly strength, physical and mental.

Impulsively I advanced a step or two, then shyly and nervously shrank back again, clinging to the low outspreading branches of the tree. Presently, when my foolish heart did not beat quite so wildly--presently.

'Yes; that is better. Now a few bold strokes athwart the horizon. Have you not a coarser brush?'

'Yes. I will run in and fetch one.'

'Cannot I, Miss Maitland? Allow me.'

'O no; auntie could not tell you where to find it.' And away she ran, in the opposite direction to where I stood.

Without a moment's pause, in my anxiety for our meeting to take place whilst he and I were alone, I stepped hastily forward. He was examining Lilian's drawing, when he caught the sound of my footstep and looked up. His eyes met mine--ah Philip! ah me!--with the grave calm gaze of a stranger!

I stood utterly powerless to move or speak; and perhaps I looked more than ever unlike my past self in that moment of bitter anguish. But suddenly the truth flashed upon him.

'Great heavens--_Mary!_' he ejaculated, catching me in his arms as I swayed towards him.

I was still speechless; and looking down into my face, he added gently, it seemed to me sorrowfully: 'My poor Mary!'

'Am I so changed as that, Philip?' I murmured in a low broken voice.

'I--I fear you have gone through more than you would allow me to know about,' he replied, reddening. Adding a little confusedly: 'How was it that I did not find you at home, Mary?'

'I did not expect you quite so soon as this,' I stammered out quite as confusedly. 'You said a month or six weeks, and it is only three weeks since I received your letter.'

'I--found myself free sooner than I expected; and of course set my face homewards at once. I arrived at Liverpool last evening, and travelled all night, in order to be here in good time in the morning.'

'Did you get here this morning?'

'Yes; you had only left half an hour or so when I arrived. I should have met you, they told me, had I not taken the wrong turning from the stile.'

'Had--you a pleasant voyage?' I asked, terribly conscious that this was not the kind of talk which might be expected between him and me at such a moment.

I think he was conscious of this also. He stood a moment without replying, then every line in his face seemed to grow set and firm, and he said gravely: 'How is it that your friends here do not know that I have come to claim my wife, Mary?'

'I put off telling them from time to time,' I replied in a low voice; 'but I fully intended telling them this evening.'

'Let us go in at once,' he said hurriedly.

He drew my hand under his arm, keeping it firmly clasped in his own, and we went silently towards the cottage. Lilian was turning over the contents of a box in search of the brush she wanted, and Mrs Tipper was nodding over her knitting, fatigued with her day's exertion. Neither saw us approach, and both looked up with astonished eyes when we entered the room; and without a moment's pause, Philip introduced me to them as his promised wife.

'We have been engaged for the last ten years,' he said hurriedly, 'and I have just been taking Mary to task for not having told you so.'

'Dear Mary, dear sister, when you ought to have known how much good it would have done us to know!' said Lilian with tender reproach.

'Better late than never, my dear,' cheerfully put in dear old Mrs Tipper, eyeing me rather anxiously, I fancied.

The ground seemed to be slipping from beneath my feet and everything whirling round. I suppose I was looking very white and ill, for Philip gently placed me on the couch, and Lilian knelt by my side, murmuring tender words of love, as she chafed my hands, whilst Mrs Tipper was bending anxiously over me with smelling-salts, &c. But I shook my head, and tried to smile into their anxious faces, as I said: 'I am not given to fainting, you know--only a little tired.'

'The truth is, you have sacrificed yourself for us all this time, and it is now beginning to tell upon you!' said Lilian. Turning towards Philip, she added: 'We have all needed her so much, and she has been so true a friend to us in our time of trouble, that she has forgotten herself, Mr Dallas.'

He murmured something to the effect that he could quite understand my doing that.

'But of course it will all be very different now,' said Lilian. 'It will be our turn; and we must try what we can do to pay back some of the debt we owe to her.--Now, don't look fierce, Mary; it's not the least use, for petted you will have to be.'

'Then I am afraid fierce I shall remain,' I replied, trying to speak lightly.

'That is more like yourself, dear. You are feeling better now, are you not?' asked Lilian.

'O yes, quite well; only a little tired from walking farther than I need have done,' was my reply.

'To think of my talking "Mary" to you all day without knowing you were more than friends!' said Lilian, looking up smilingly into Philip's face. 'I know now why you bore the waiting so patiently, and why we got on so well together.--I felt at home with Mr Dallas at once, Mary. I think we both felt that we two ought to be friends.--Did we not?'

He bowed assent.

'And you must please try to like me more than an ordinary friend, Mr Dallas, or I shall be jealous. Mary is my sister, you know, or at least you will know by-and-by; and we cannot be separated for very long; so you must be considerate.'

'Philip knows more about you than you do about him, Lilian,' I put in.

'I am glad he knows about me, of course, Mary; but it will take a little time to quite forgive your reticence about him.--Will it not, auntie?'

'Auntie' thought that forgiveness might just as well come soon as late, in her simple placid way. Then, to my great relief, a diversion was caused by tea being brought in. If Philip had not won the heart of his dear little hostess before, he would have won it now by his hearty appreciation of the good things set before him. I quite understood why, for the first time since Becky had been at the cottage, her mistress had some cause to complain of her awkwardness. Becky's whole attention was concentrated upon Philip; and she placed things on the table in a somewhat hap-hazard fashion, gazing at him the while with curious speculative eyes.

Afterwards they commenced asking Philip questions about his voyage and so forth; and the conversation became less personal. He gave us an amusing account of his passage, humorously describing the peculiarities of life on board ship. Then as night drew on, Mrs Tipper very earnestly pressed the hospitalities of the cottage upon him. Of course he would be her guest--a room was already prepared, and she knew that she need not apologise to him for its homeliness. She had, I found, arranged to give up her own room for his use, and share Lilian's. But he explained that he was going back to an hotel in town, having arranged to stay there for the present.

'I am afraid I shall very frequently trespass upon your kindness nevertheless, Mrs Tipper. You will only get rid of me by giving up Mary, now.'

At which Lilian laughingly replied, _that_ would be paying too dearly for getting rid of him. 'The better way would be to put up with you, for Mary's sake, and so secure you both.'

In truth, Lilian was a great deal more cheerful, I might say merry, than I had seen her for many a long day, in her unselfish rejoicing over my happiness. And the sweet, girlish, modest freedom--the freedom which is so diametrically opposite to fastness--of her manner with Philip, was so pleasant to witness! It was the kind of playfulness which is so charming in a sister towards an elder brother, and which so well became her.

When at length Philip was obliged to take his departure, in order to catch the last up-train from Graybrook, he bade me, in the matter-of-course way which seems so delightful in those we love: 'Come out and set me on my way, Mary; just as far as the stile, if you feel rested enough.'

Yes; of course I felt rested enough. I went out with him into the starlit lanes, walking silently on by his side, happy in the belief that _his_ thoughts also were too deep for words. How could words express _my_ proud humility--the deep tender joy--the love half-afraid of its own strength which I felt! Would he _ever_ know the heights and depths of my love? Would a lifetime be long enough to express it? With it all, I was conscious of a shyness and awkwardness of manner, born of the indescribable feeling which accompanies, and gives a tinge of pathos to, great happiness in some minds. What was I, to be so blessed? What other women find their ideal fall short of the reality, as I was doing? Noble and true as I knew him to be, I had not hitherto, I think, sufficiently appreciated the geniality of Philip's temperament and his keen sense of humour. I do not know whether it was more noticeable in contrast with Robert Wentworth, who certainly impressed one with the idea that he was older than he was; whilst Philip seemed younger than his age. His fine physique too. How very handsome he was, in the best way, and how grandly careless about it! The most cynical observer could not have detected the slightest trace of conceit or self-consciousness in his tone or bearing. In fine, his was the rare combination of physical and mental power. Whilst he possessed the _gaieté de cœur_ almost of a boy, an appeal to his intellect would call forth the cool vigorous reasoning of a well-informed thinker.

He had won his way to wealth by dint of intelligence, persistence, and temperate living, in a climate which gives some excuse for, if it does not foster, all kinds of excess, and returned strong in mind and body to reap the fruits of his labour. Moreover, he had not been tempted to continue accumulating wealth for its own sake, nor acquired the huxtering spirit which self-made men so frequently do acquire.

'I think I must not go any farther, Philip,' I said, as we reached the stile. 'You have only to cross the two fields, and turn to the right when you get into the road--that leads direct to the station.'

For a moment he made no reply, and something, I hardly knew what, brought vividly back to my mind the remembrance of another who had stood there on such a night as this, silent beneath the stars--a remembrance which struck upon my happiness as might a sudden sword-thrust upon an enraptured dreamer.

He gathered my hands into his own, and looking down into my face, said in a low earnest voice: 'There can be no necessity for delay between you and me, Mary. When will you let me take you away from here?'

'Take me away from here?' I repeated, rather startled by the suddenness of the proposal.

'I mean, when will you marry me, Mary?'

'We will talk about that by-and-by,' I replied, overwhelmed with happiness again, yet afraid lest I might shew it more plainly than it is womanly to do if I said more.

'Why should there be any delay between you and me? I--beg of you not to make any unnecessary delay, Mary. You ought to have been my wife long ago. I know you would prefer a quiet wedding, and--afterwards--wouldn't you like to travel a few months before settling down? You used to have a fancy for seeing some of the old continental towns.'

I could only whisper that it would be very delightful--with him--lowering my head until my cheek rested upon his hand. Then to keep my reeling senses firm, I looked up into his face and made a little attempt at a jest about his not knowing me when first we met.

'Only for a second,' he replied. And even in that light I could see that his colour was heightened. He looked pained too; and I certainly had not meant to pain him. Amongst my failings was not that of the desire to be always trying little wiles to test those I love, as we women are sometimes accused of doing. I had used the words solely in jest and to steady myself.

'Only for a second,' he repeated; adding gently, 'and we will soon have you blooming again, Mary.'

Blooming again! I caught in my breath with a little half-sob. Then making a strong effort, telling myself that I must and would behave better than a love-sick hysterical girl, I lightly replied: 'What if my blooming days are over, Philip?'

He bent lower down, to get a better look into my face, as he said: 'Nonsense! What makes you talk in that strain? It is not fair to me.' Then he added more gravely: 'You have always told me that your friends here are real ones, Mary; and they seem to be very much attached to you. It was very pleasant to hear them talk of you in your absence.'

'They are everything and more than I have described them to be, Philip. Mrs Tipper has been like a dear old mother to me; and Lilian--the best and truest thing I can say about Lilian is, that she is what she looks. No one could be mistaken about Lilian. Hers is the kind of loveliness which takes its expression from the mind.'

'Yes; it is just that. The fellow who could not appreciate her deserves to lose her.' I had given him an account of Lilian's troubles in my letters; indeed he was well acquainted with all that was connected with my life at Fairview. 'I only regret that I was not in England at the time. I suppose it is too late now for'----

'It is too late for any kind of intervention now; but if vengeance is in your thoughts, you may rest content. It will be, I think, quite punishment enough to be the husband of the girl he has married, with the remembrance of Lilian. He certainly loved Lilian.'

'Ah, that is something! When were they married?'

'About three weeks ago,' I told him. And then we got talking over the Farrar history, until the chiming of a distant clock reminded us that he had but twenty minutes in which to reach the railway station, in order to catch the last up-train.

'I shall do it!' he ejaculated; and with a parting word and hurried kiss he vaulted over the stile, and ran across the field, turning once on the way to wave his hand to me.

SUBMARINE CABLES.

LAYING.

Before the days of steam-ships it would have been almost if not quite impracticable to lay ocean cables; for in order to do so with accuracy and success, it is necessary to be independent of wind and weather as far as possible. The course and speed of the ship must be under the control of the navigator, not at the mercy of the winds and currents, so that he may economise cable, and prevent undue strain upon it as the depth varies. Then too it is necessary that the ship should answer swiftly and surely to his will; that she should vary her speed, stop, or turn round, as promptly as he desires. The telegraph-ship is the helot of her cargo, and should be completely subservient to the work of laying the cable. A well-found steam-ship answers all requirements. Up till a few years ago no specially built telegraph-ship existed. The majority of cables have been laid from ordinary iron screw-steamers, fitted with tanks to contain the cable and paying-out gear. Recently, however, the steam-ships _Hooper_ and _Faraday_ (the first belonging to Messrs Hooper, the other to Messrs Siemens) were specially constructed as telegraph-ships for their respective owners. These vessels are very much on a par in size and carrying capacity. The _Faraday_ is a ship of five thousand tons burden, and capable of carrying fifteen hundred miles of main or deep-sea cable. She is fitted with screws both fore and aft, so that her motion can be reversed without turning her in the water. She can thus, without changing her position, begin hauling in a cable which she had previously been paying out. Both of these ships are fitted with three large iron water-tight tanks for containing the cable--one fore, one amidships, and one aft. The depth of these tanks varies from thirty to forty-five feet, and they are upwards of fifty feet in diameter. The _Hooper_ has laid the Brazilian coast cables, and the _Faraday_ the Direct United States Atlantic cable. Besides the tanks for holding the cable, the only other peculiarities of a cable-ship, as distinct from other steamers, are the heavy deck machinery for paying out the cable and for picking it up if necessary; the electrical testing-room; and the stock of large iron buoys she carries lashed to her gunwales for use in laying.

The cable-ship having been moored alongside the works where the cable is stored, shipment begins. The cable presents three aspects of increasing thickness, namely the shore-end, intermediate, and main; and thus graduated it is payed out of the tanks in the works into the tanks of the ship. When all is aboard, the tanks are filled with salt-water till the cable is soaked, and the ship puts to sea.

During her voyage to the place from which she is to start laying, electrical tests are taken daily of the cables on board, to see that they continue sound, and the machinery for laying is got ready. The souls on board may be divided into three classes. The _engineers_, or those in charge of the mechanical work of the laying, and their helps 'the cable-hands,' who do the rough work in the tanks and on deck, or in putting out buoys from the ship. The _electricians_, or those in charge of the electrical work of the laying, whose duty it is to see that the cable is all right electrically. The _navigators_, or those in charge of the sailing of the ship, including captain, officers, and seamen. The engineer-in-chief is generally the head of the entire expedition; he requires reports from the chief electrician, and instructs the captain where to put the ship.

Before laying a submarine cable between the proposed places it is extremely important to take soundings and otherwise survey the ocean, so as to determine the exact route the cable should take. A cable is too costly to be flung away anywhere on the sea-bottom, and the sea-bottom is sometimes of a very unfavourable character. It may be said that too little attention has hitherto been paid to this point in cable-_laying_. Expensive cables have been manufactured at home, with their relative lengths of shore-end, intermediate, and main determined by formula or usage, and then hid away in seas whose character had been largely taken for granted; the consequence being that weighty and very costly shore-end has been deposited in mud soft as butter where it would be out of harm's way; while unprotected main has been laid along the jagged surface of coral reefs. The depth and nature of the bottom, the strength and direction of currents, the temperature at the bottom, should all be ascertained beforehand by a special ship appointed to survey the proposed track of the cable. The best route for the cable is then laid down on the charts, as a guide to the navigator and engineers engaged in the laying.

Great improvements have recently been made in the method of taking deep-sea soundings. The ordinary plan is to carry the lead-line (a strong line or small rope of fine tanned Manilla yarn) from the stern along the ship's side to the bows, and there drop the lead into the sea. As it sinks the rope runs out off the drum on which it is coiled, and when the lead strikes bottom the running ceases. The introduction of fine steel pianoforte-wire for the rope, by Sir William Thomson, is a great improvement upon this clumsy method. The wire sinks quickly through the water, and is pulled in again with a very great saving of time and labour. But the most ingenious of all contrivances for finding the depth of the sea is Siemen's Bathometer, a very recent invention. The bathometer simply stands in the captain's cabin like a barometer, and indicates the depth of the sea over which the ship is passing, just as a barometer indicates the height of the atmosphere above. The action of this ingenious contrivance depends on the attraction of the earth on a column of mercury. This attraction is proportional to the earth's density, and the relative distance of its crust from the mercury column. Earth being denser than water, exercises a greater downward attraction on the mercury. If then there are say a hundred fathoms of water just under the mercury instead of a hundred fathoms of earth or rock, there will be less downward attraction on it. Taking advantage of this law, the mercury column is adjusted so as to indicate the power of the attraction and give the depth of water it corresponds to.

Arrived at the place from which the cable is to be laid, the first thing done is the laying of the shore-end from the ship at her anchorage to the cable-hut on the beach. The cable-hut is generally a small erection of galvanised iron or stone and lime to contain the end of the cable and a few instruments. Cables are never if possible landed in harbours, or where there is danger from anchors. A suitable retired cove is generally selected, not far distant from the town where the telegraph office is, and a short land-line connects the end of the cable to the office. In the cable-hut the land-line and cable meet and are connected together.

The distance from the ship to the cable-hut is accurately measured by the ship's boats or steam-launch, so as to fix the amount of shore-end necessary to reach the shore. This is then coiled in a flat barge or raft, and payed out by hand as the launch tugs the raft ashore. When the water becomes too shallow for the raft to float, the men jump into the water and drag the heavy end ashore. A trench has been cut in the beach up to the cable-hut, and into this the end is laid. In a few moments a test from the cable-hut to the ship announces that the shore-end is successfully fixed.

Everything is now ready for the ship to begin paying out. The anchor has been got up; the paying-out gear is all in working order; the men are all at their appointed places. The cable is being held fast at the ship's stern, and the running out by its own weight is prevented. But directly all are aboard again, the word is given, the screw revolves, the cable is let go at the stern, and the real work of paying out begins.

The cable passes from the tank to the stern of the ship, and from thence to the bottom of the sea. The weight of that part which hangs in the water between the ship and the bottom pulls it out of the ship as the latter moves along. If the ship were stationary, still the cable would run out, but then it would simply coil or kink itself up on the bottom. The object is, however, to lay it evenly along the bottom, neither too tight nor too slack, so as at once to economise cable, and to allow of its being easily hooked and hauled up again from the bottom without breaking from over-tightness. The speed of the ship has therefore to be adjusted to the rate at which the cable runs out. It should be a little under the rate of the paying out, so that there is a slight excess of cable for the distance travelled over. Now the rate at which the cable runs out from the ship is greater, the greater the depth; therefore the speed of the ship must be varied as the depth changes. The rate at which the cable runs out, however, is not entirely dependent on the depth. It can be controlled on board by mechanism. The cable can be held back against the force pulling it overboard. But there is a limit to the extent to which it may be held back, and the tension on it must not be so great as to overstrain it. It is necessary, therefore, to know what tension there is on the cable at any time. To achieve this, two apparatus are used: the friction brake (for holding the cable back) and the dynamometer (for indicating its tension).

The cable is made to run cleanly out of the tank by being allowed to escape through a funnel-shaped iron framework called a 'crinoline.' This prevents it from lashing about or flying off as the ship rolls. It then passes over pulleys to the paying-out drum, round which it is passed several times. The paying-out drum is controlled by an Appold's friction brake, which is simply a belt or strap of iron with blocks of wood studded to it clasping the periphery of the drum and restraining its revolution by the friction of the wooden blocks. The tighter the belt is made to clasp the drum, the greater the friction on the drum, and the greater the force required to make it revolve. After passing several times round the drum, so as to get a good hold of it, the cable passes through the dynamometer to the sheave or grooved pulley projecting from the stern, and from thence it passes to the water. The dynamometer is simply a 'jockey pulley' riding on the cable; that is to say the cable is made to support a pulley of a certain weight; and according as the tension on the cable, due to the weight of cable in the water, is greater or less, so will the weight of this jockey pulley supported by the cable cause the cable to bend less or more. Although this jockey pulley is the essential part of the dynamometer, there are three pulleys altogether, two fixed pulleys at the same level, with the riding pulley between. The cable passes _over_ both the fixed pulleys and _under_ the riding pulley. The weight of the latter bends the cable into a V shape; and as explained above, the depth of this V is greater as the tension on the cable is less. In short the tension of the cable can be told from the depth of the V, which is therefore graduated into a scale of tensions.

By regulating the friction on the brake the cable can be held back, under restrictions of tension indicated by the dynamometer, and the speed of the ship adjusted to give the proper percentage of slack. Sixteen per cent. for a depth of two thousand fathoms is a usual allowance. The slack should vary with the depth, because of the possibility of having to hook the cable and raise it up from the bottom to the surface to repair it. The revolutions of the drum, the tension on the cable, the number of turns of the ship's screw, are constantly observed night and day as the laying goes on.

In the electrical testing-room the same watchful activity prevails. A continuous test is kept applied to the cable, to see that its insulating power keeps steady; in other words, to detect any 'fault' that may occur in the cable which is being laid. This is done by charging the cable throughout, from the end on board the ship to the end left behind in the cable-hut, with a current of electricity, and observing on a galvanometer (an instrument described in a recent paper) the amount of electricity which leaks through the gutta-percha from the copper wire inside to the sea-water outside. To shew that the copper wire too keeps continuous from ship to shore, a pulse of electricity is sent along the cable at stated intervals, usually every five minutes. This is either sent from the ship to the cable-hut, or from the cable-hut to the ship by the electricians left on duty there. The _resistance_ too of the copper conductor is regularly taken at times, to see whether the conductor remains intact; for the pulse test only shews that it is continuous, and would not shew, for instance, that it had been half broken through.

The navigators of the ship are meanwhile as busy as the rest on board. It is important to keep the ship as nearly as possible up to the prescribed course marked on the chart, and in any case to determine accurately her place whatever it may be, so that the precise position of the cable on the bottom may be known, in order to facilitate future repairs, if necessary. Observations of the sun and other heavenly bodies are therefore made as often as feasible, and the navigation of the ship very carefully attended to.

If a fault should be reported from the testing-room, the engines are at once reversed and the ship stopped. The length of cable being payed out is cut in two within the ship, and that section still on board is tested first. If the fault is found to be there, a new length of cable is jointed on to the section in the sea, and the laying is again proceeded with. If, however, the fault is in the section already laid, special tests must be applied to locate the fault. If it should be proved to be but a few miles from the ship, she is 'put about;' the end of the section is taken to the bows, where the picking-up gear is situated, and the cable is hauled in slowly from the sea by the help of a steam-winch, the ship going slowly back the way she has come as the cable comes on board. This goes on until the fault is reached and cut out. If the fault should be proved to be twenty or more miles away, the end of the cable is buoyed, and the ship proceeds backward to the locality of the fault. Here she grapples for the cable, hooks it, and draws it up to the surface, where it is cut and the two parts tested separately. The flaw is then cut out of the faulty part and the cable made good. She then returns to her buoy, picks up the end there, joints on the cable on board to be paid out, and continues her voyage.

Arrived at her destination, the shore-end there is landed to its cable-hut. A test taken from there and signals exchanged between the two cable-huts proclaim the completion of her work. It only remains to test the cable daily for a specified period, generally thirty days; and if during this trial time it remains good and sound, it passes into the hands of the Company for whose use it has been laid, and is then employed for regular traffic and public benefit. In a concluding article we will describe the _working_ of submarine cables.

THE ROMANCE OF A LODGING.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.--CHAPTER II.

'Well, Fred, what will you say to all my sermons on extravagance, when I tell you that I have actually taken the landlady's first-floor rooms for a month; and that without any view to your advantage, which has hitherto actuated my movements? You will say it is only a preliminary step to my employing the artist--who by the way is not an artist after all--to take my portrait!'

Thus did Mrs Arlington announce her plans next morning at breakfast to Fred, who offered no remonstrance. It was enough for him that she chose to do it; he was too well satisfied and accustomed to her guidance and good sense not to fall in readily with everything she did, as the best possible that could be done; and so he assented without a remark.

'You don't scold me, Fred! I expected your reproaches; but they will come later; you are too engrossed at the present moment with the prospect of the examination before you to-day; but I have no fear for you; so have none for yourself.'

'What will you do while I am away?'

'Stay where I am; study the pictures; read the backs of all the books through the glass doors of the bookcase; and think what a churl the owner is to have locked them up. And this amusement over, I shall go in search of a piano; we cannot live for a whole month without one; can we? So I shall order it to be sent on Wednesday morning to our new quarters.'

'Suppose the "gentleman" unlocks his, and sets up an opposition tune; the jumble of melodies will be the reverse of harmonious.'

'Possibly; but then, you phlegmatic youngster, you wouldn't keep me without such a resource, for fear of an occasional discord! Let us hope the gentleman in question will give place to the ladies, and be amiable enough to listen without creating a discord; or he may decamp altogether, if he does not approve of our performances.'

'But tell me what has put it into your head to stay a whole month in London? I thought you said we had only funds for a week.'

'Well, my dear boy, it is just this: I have been thinking that we may as well wait and hear the issue of the examination; as in the event of your being among the successful candidates, of which I have very little doubt, you would be ready to go to Sandhurst without having to incur the double expense of the journey home and back again. Besides, I should like to see the last of you before I sink into my future oblivion, with no further call in the world upon my time and attention beyond writing to you.'

'What nonsense you can talk, mother, when you once begin! I suppose you expect me to believe you are one of the sort that is allowed to go into oblivion. I bet you ten to one some fellow will be wanting to marry you when I am at college!'

'Hush, Fred!' she said, with a solemnity of manner she well knew how to assume, that effectually quenched any conversation the subject of which she did not approve. 'It is time you started.'

'Forgive me; and good-bye,' he said, with a smile, as he prepared to go.

Wishing him 'God-speed,' she saw him depart, and then rung for the landlady.

'There is no difficulty, I hope, about the rooms?' she asked.

'None whatever, ma'am. I've told the lady; and they leave to-night.'

'Thank you. I wished to know positively before I ordered a piano. I suppose there is no objection to my having one, since there is another in the house?'

'None whatever, ma'am. Leastways Mr Meredith is mostly playing and singing when he isn't reading or painting, or at his meals; so that I am well accustomed to the sound by this time. I like it when he plays lively music. But dear me, ma'am! there are times when his spirits are low, or so I take it to be, and then he plays such dreary doleful tunes, it is for all the world as bad as the Old Hundred on them barrel-organs.'

'He is not married, then?'

'O my! no; not he; nor never likely to be,' she exclaimed, repudiating the idea of losing her lucrative lodger under such unfortunate circumstances. 'His man James says as how he once painted that there lovely faced young creature to remind him that women were one and all as false as---- I wouldn't like to offend your ears, ma'am, by naming the unholy gentleman as he likens them to; which I took to be no great compliment to myself, seeing I am a woman as was never false to none, which is saying a good deal, seeing how selfish and tiresome men are, as a rule, that it needs us women to be born saints and angels to put up with them.'

'I am afraid I can't quite agree with you there,' said Mrs Arlington, smiling. 'I rather think we give as much trouble as we get, and a little more sometimes.'

* * * * *

Wednesday morning saw her installed in the rooms above, which she busied herself in arranging tastefully, with a view to making their lengthened sojourn comfortable. Towards evening the piano came, and she was just about to try it, when an unusual bustle below-stairs announced the arrival of the gentleman, Mr Meredith. He was evidently a person of consideration in the eyes of the household; such hurrying to and fro and up and down to have everything as he would like, had not before been experienced.

'Glad to see you home, sir,' said Mrs Griffiths, courtesying, and beaming with pleasure.

'Thank you. Have the rooms been occupied?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I should say you ought rather to be sorry I have come, then.'

'Not at all, sir. I've been able to accommodate the lady up-stairs; and right glad I was that she came when she did, for she has got no troublesome hussy of a maid to come bothering about my kitchen.'

'The same old story, Mrs Griffiths!' he remarked, as he smiled pleasantly at her inability to hide her ruling mania; 'and now please let me have dinner as soon as you can, as I have an engagement this evening.'

He walked round the room, placing his desk and other articles he had brought with him in order; examined his pictures, to see that they had not undergone ruthless treatment at the hands of deputy-lodgers during his absence. After looking at them all he paused opposite the portrait of the young girl, and exclaimed mentally: 'Yes, there you are still, heartless mocker! just as you looked when you defied me and flung back my love in scorn. And yet--and yet--perhaps had I but been a little gentler, I might have softened you!' he cried in remorseful thought as he turned away; and the look of genuine regret he wore shewed how deep had been the wound that had the power still to call up a thrill of pain. 'Yes, I tried to break her proud spirit and make it subservient to mine, and I broke my heart instead! She was but young; I ought to have known better; but I was hard and determined, and could brook no opposition to my will. I had studied life, and established my views on most points, until I grew intolerant--a disease natural to culture as well as creed--and could ill bear to have my opinion questioned, especially by those who aspired to my friendship or affection: it interfered with my visions of harmony. Harmony! It was but a monotonous dreary unison I was cultivating, to foster my intense self-love. Bitter delusion! And from her, above all others, I demanded a slavish bending of her will to mine. I was jealous of her possessing an individuality or free right of being or thought apart from me. I was not content with her affection; I wanted her blind worship. No wonder her proud spirit revolted at such a prospect of bondage, and flung me and my love far from me. She was wise and right, and I was too headstrong to humble myself to sue for her forgiveness, or seek to win her by a nobler course. My heart was a flint, which it needed _her_ loss to soften, for I have never seen another like my darling! Yes, my poor girl, I was unjust and cruel, and Providence was kind to you in rousing you to resist!'

In such a strain did his thoughts run, as he sat waiting for dinner, of which he partook in no very elated mood. When the spirit wanders in the sad lone land of irreparable regret, and surveys with the light of experience how different all _might_ have been, had our hearts and wills been differently tuned to action, it is then our footsteps linger, painfully borne down by a weight, well nigh fatal to that courage which bids us bury our dead out of sight, and wander no more amid the graves of the past, but live afresh in the light of a new and better day, with high hope and stern resolve.

Something of this he had done, but not all, for the torment of self-reproach was at times powerful to waste his endeavours in fruitless action or torpid reverie. He was about to sink into the latter at the close of dinner, as, left alone with his coffee and cigar, he sat meditating on the past which he had invoked, when he was startled by the sound of music and the strains of a melody which seemed to float to him across the distant years, and reawaken his heart's sweetest and bitterest memories. Ah! how well he remembered it. It was one he had written and composed for _her_ of whom he had been thinking; and when she sang it to him, he could scarce restrain his tears; but there came a little 'rift within the lute' one day, that soon 'made all the music mute.' Some slight alteration that she had asked for, jarred upon his sense of its perfection--and his own--and he refused half haughtily, which she resented; words succeeded words, until that was said which could never be forgiven or undone; and then she asked to have her freedom back, and he gave it: yes, he gave it! and had never seen or heard of her after, until now--he hears the echo of the melody; but the voice--'Can that voice be hers?' he cries passionately. Starting up in his chair he listens, with every nerve vibrating to the sound, until it is finished. 'My own song!' he exclaims aloud; and then he rings the bell nervously and summons the landlady. 'Who is your new lodger?' he inquires with assumed calmness.

'Mrs Arlington, sir.'

'Arlington? Arlington?' he mutters. 'Never heard of her. What is she like?'

'A tall sweet-looking lady, sir: I was that taken with I hadn't it in my heart to turn her from the door the night she come here; so I gave her your rooms for a couple of days, for her son and herself.'

'Son! did you say? How old?'