Chapter II: Part 2

[A] Since writing the above, information has come to hand concerning the real fate of this submarine craft. When the civil war was over, divers were sent down; they fished up the enemy-destroying and self-destroying torpedo-boat, which was found, with its dead crew in it, _underneath_ a Federal ship, which it had sunk by bursting a hole in the hull.

CROSS-PURPOSES.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.--CHAPTER I.

'Is it very bad? Do you think it will mark her? How unfortunate I am.'

'Oh, it won't signify--_much_,' says the major, making a feeble attempt at consolation.

The groom is on his knees washing down the mare's leg. As he washes, the red raw patch shews out with ominous distinctness from the glossy dark-brown skin that surrounds it; and Cissy, standing in her riding-habit, whip in hand, regarding the operation, begins to look the very picture of ill-concealed misery.

'How dreadfully bad it looks _now_,' she says fearfully.

'Not at all,' replies the major.

'I cannot imagine how it happened; she is usually such a clean jumper,' goes on Cissy, diligently searching for excuses. 'I never in my life injured a mount before, and I would not have harmed _this_ one for all the world. Captain Halkett will be so awfully angry.'

'Nonsense! You don't suppose he will _bite_ you, do you? Think of his angelic temper and your privileges as a woman. He daren't blow you up, you know.'

'It is not so much _that_'--with hesitation. 'Of course I know he will _say_ nothing, but he will _think_ the more; and'----

'Like the parrot,' interrupts the major.

'And he will look so annoyed,' goes on Cissy, torturing herself with immense success. 'I would not for anything it had occurred. I do think I am the unluckiest girl on earth.'

'Are you in love with him?' suddenly asks the major sharply.

'In love with him? What an absurd question! Of course I am not,' says Cissy angrily, while blushing in the most furious and uncalled-for manner. 'What _can_ have put such a ridiculous idea into your head?'

'Well' (sulkily), 'you are so afraid of vexing him, for one thing.'

'Not a bit more afraid of him than I would be of you or any other man, under the circumstances,' declares Cissy with exemplary candour. 'But it is not a pleasant thing at any time to injure a favourite hunter; and the mare, for some reason or other, is a special darling with Captain Halkett. Indeed, it was only yesterday I heard him saying he valued her more than any animal he had ever had.'

'Given him by one of the fair sex, most likely,' says the major with vicious intent.

'Very probably,' returns Cissy quietly, who carries a very game little heart beneath her pretty Irish skin, and would have died rather than betray any undue emotion. Nevertheless, it must be confessed her colour faintly wavers and fades away a little, only to return with tenfold brilliance as she sees Captain Halkett pass the stable window.

'Here he is!' she cries hurriedly. 'Now, what _shall_ I do?'

'Nothing, if my advice is worth anything,' says the major sententiously.

Captain Halkett coming slowly up the yard, cigar in mouth as usual, and hands thrust deep in the pockets of his shooting-coat, sees Cissy, Major Blake--and the groom on his knees beside the mare. He takes in the whole situation at a glance. Throwing away his cigar, he turns to Cissy, and says pleasantly: 'Good-morning, Miss Mordaunt. Had a good day, I hope?'

'Yes; thanks--very--that is, _no_, not at all,' says Cissy nervously. 'I am afraid you will be horribly angry. But the fact is, as Major Blake and I were coming quietly home--cantering through the Park fields, at the last gap some sharp stone caught the Baby's leg, and has hurt her, as you see. I--I am so _very_ sorry about it,' concludes Miss Mordaunt, genuinely vexed for the mishap.

'Don't say that,' entreats Halkett gently; 'and don't vex yourself. I would rather the mare was dead, than that you tormented yourself about her. Besides'--stooping to examine the injury--'from what I can see it is only skin-deep, and won't matter in a day or two; eh, Connor?'

'Yessir; only a scratch, sir. Right as ever in a week, sir.'

These words carry balm to Miss Mordaunt's breast; and presently the bandages being finally adjusted, and the Baby consoled by an additional feed, they leave the stables; and Blake considerately diverging to the right, Miss Mordaunt and Halkett go leisurely towards the house.

As they reach the stone steps leading to the Hall door, Cissy pauses. 'You are _sure_ you forgive me?' she asks sweetly.

'How can you speak to me like that!' says Halkett, almost angry. 'Did you think I should cut up rough with _you_? What an ill-tempered brute you must consider me; you ought to know me better by this time.'

'I have not known you for so very long,' says Cissy smiling; then impulsively, while her colour once more deepens: 'Why is that horse such a favourite with you?--beyond all others, I mean. Was it a present?'

'Yes,' says Halkett in a low voice.

'From a very dear friend?'

'Very dear; more than a _friend_.'

'From--a gentleman?'

'No. From a lady,' says Halkett shortly, and turns away his head.

On the instant, the words the major had uttered in the stables come back to Miss Mordaunt's mind, and without further comment she sweeps past Halkett into the house, and he sees her no more until dinner-time.

When half-past seven chimes out, and the solemn retainer of the House of Mordaunt announces dinner as being served, both Major Blake and Captain Halkett make a hard fight of it to take Miss Cissy down; but Fate, in the person of Sir Thomas Lobin, interferes, and balks them of their prey. Halkett, however, may be said to have the best of it, as he succeeds in seating himself directly opposite his Irish divinity, and so can watch the changes of her beloved face, and perhaps edge in a word or two, addressed particularly to her, during the repast. All this can be the more readily accomplished, as he has been told off to a young lady who, if not actually insane, is at all events three parts silly, and so does not feel it incumbent upon him to supply her with the orthodox amount of small-talk.

Major Blake falling into line, finds himself presently situated somewhat low down, with Mrs Fairfax on one side of him, and Grace Elton, a cousin of Cissy's, on the other. If it were not that his thoughts are altogether centred on Miss Mordaunt, he might have considered himself in luck, as he is undoubtedly in very good quarters. Grace Elton is as unaffected as she is charming, and extremely pretty into the bargain. But the major will neither acknowledge nor see anything beyond the tip of Cissy's nose, as it shews itself provokingly every now and then from behind the epergne.

On a line with Sir Thomas, and the third from him, sits Mrs Leyton the Indian widow, in a ravishing costume of pearl and blue that speaks alone of worth. She is looking wonderfully handsome to-night, and has a bright adorable spot on each cheek that is _not_ born of rouge. She is keeping her hand in by trying a little mild flirtation with the vicar, who occupies her right, and is making very pretty play; while his daughter--who is almost too young for society--watching them from the opposite side, finds her mind much exercised, and wonders in her heart if Mrs Leyton is _really_ very fond of papa. Surely she _must_ be; else why does she raise her large soft dark eyes so tenderly to his once in every three minutes precisely, by the marble clock on the chimney-piece?

Aunt Isabel, at the head of the table, is radiant as usual, and dispenses roast turkey and smiles with equal alacrity. She is carving with even more than her customary vigour and well-known proficiency, while at the same time she is listening to and adding a word here and there to every topic under discussion. She is, however, particularly attentive to Miss Lobin, who sits beside her, and who is as deaf as a post; though no trouble to any one except herself, poor lady, as she seeks not for conversation, and as long as she gets a bit of everything mentioned in the _menu_, is perfectly content.

There are two or three stray men from the neighbouring barracks scattered up and down; and these, with the three Misses Brighton--who being evidently not cut out by mother Nature for the civil service, have been considered suitable to ask to meet them--make up the party.

'Well, Cis, you had a pleasant day, I hope?' says Uncle Charlie, presently addressing his favourite niece.

'A delicious day, dear uncle; only we wound up with a misfortune. I was stupid enough to hurt Captain Halkett's horse on my way home through the Park; though indeed I scarcely think it was my fault. However, as it _was_ to happen, we were lucky in having it occur at the end, instead of the beginning of our day, as we had our ride in spite of it.'

As she makes this little speech, she never once glances at Halkett (indeed she has taken no notice of him since the commencement of dinner), and purposely treats the whole thing as unworthy of regret. Halkett, contrasting her pretty contrition of the morning with this off-hand dismissal of the matter, is, manlike, thoroughly mystified.

'I am sorry to hear of an accident,' says Uncle Charlie, who holds all good animals dear to his heart.--'Nothing serious, I hope, Frank?'

'A mere scratch,' returns Halkett carelessly.

'That is right. It could not have happened through any great desire on the rider's part to reach her home, as she delayed her return so long we all imagined an elopement had taken place. But there was no such excitement in store for us.--I do think, as your guardian and uncle, Cis, I have every right to know what you and the major were talking of all that time.'

'Politics,' says the major lightly; 'we never talk anything but politics.--Do we, Miss Mordaunt?'

Here Blake dodges to one side of the epergne, that he may the more surely get a full view of Miss Mordaunt's face.

'_Never_,' replies Cissy emphatically, dodging the epergne in her turn; and then they both laugh.

Here Halkett mutters something under his breath that is so far audible as to rouse the silly young lady by his side into some kind of life. She sighs and uplifts her head.

'Were you speaking to me?' she asks in a somewhat startled tone.

'No--yes--was I?' stammers Halkett, rather shocked. 'I _ought_ to have been, of course; but I have fallen so low as to allow dinner to engross all my attention. Pray, forgive me. It comes entirely of going down to dinner with a middle-aged gourmet.'

'Dear me--I fancied you quite young,' responds his companion with a simper; and lapses again into silence after the effort.

'Politics!' says Uncle Charlie, going back to the subject, after he has desired the butler to take several different dishes to Miss Lobin. 'How you must have enjoyed yourselves--especially Cissy. I never met any woman with such keen and comprehensive views on all matters connected with the state. It was only yesterday I asked her opinion of Gladstone, and she told me she always thought he was'----

'_Now_--Uncle Charlie,' interrupts Miss Mordaunt with such indignation, that the old gentleman, though chuckling to himself, audibly refuses all further information.

'May we not hear your opinion of Gladstone?' demands Sir Thomas, who is an old beau, and much addicted to Miss Mordaunt.

'Certainly not. And remember I distinctly forbid you to ask Uncle Charlie any questions when my back is turned; as he is capable of saying _anything_ once my eye is off him.'

'Your will is my law,' says the old beau with a bow that would have reflected credit on a Chesterfield; and shortly afterwards, at a signal from Aunt Isabel, the ladies rising, leave the gentlemen to their own devices.

On entering the drawing-room, Mrs Leyton walking with the undulating graceful motion that belongs to her, and that cannot be acquired, goes straight to the fireplace, where she sinks into a lounging-chair, leaving the opposite one for Aunt Isabel, who almost instantly falls into a gentle doze. Little Miss Millar, the vicar's daughter, losing sight of her shyness in her desire to obtain her object, seeks a resting-place that will enable her still to keep a fascinated watch over Mrs Leyton, the widow having cast a glamour over the timid country maiden. The Misses Brighton and Grace Elton keep up a continual chatter, and are evidently enjoying themselves immensely; while Miss Lobin taking the cosy corner of the sofa, emulates her hostess, and letting her face lengthen until it reaches a state of utter imbecility, sweetly snoozes.

Cissy is standing in one of the windows, somewhat apart; she gazes out upon the stilly night, and softly cogitates. She cannot quite make up her mind whether she has been most sinned against or sinning; she cannot wholly approve her conduct at dinner, and finds it impossible to divest herself entirely of the idea that Halkett was looking miserable the entire time. But all men make a point of appearing injured when placed in the wrong position, and of course he had not liked her cross-examination of the morning. Yet again, why should he _not_ receive presents from women? What right had she to question act or word of his? No matter what thoughts and hopes she may have encouraged in the secret recesses of her heart, she feels now she has no certain data to go upon to prove that Halkett cares for her beyond all others. Somebody--who was it?--had said he was a flirt. Well, one thing was positive--he should not flirt with _her_.

Here Aunt Isabel, slowly rousing, sneezes, and hems audibly, to let her friends know she has not been sleeping.

'Cissy, child,' she says, 'you will be perished over there. Come to the fire and warm yourself.'

'I _am_ warm, thank you, and quite comfortable.'

'My love, I don't believe it' (with extreme mildness); 'it is freezing as hard as it can, and there is always a draught near a window. Come here, when I desire you.'

'Oh, I shall die near that blazing log.'

'And _I_ shall die if you remain over there,' says Aunt Isabel; and carries her point.

'Better I than you, Auntie,' says Miss Mordaunt, and coming over, good-humouredly kneels down beside her kinswoman.

'Cold hands--warm heart,' murmurs the old lady, caressing the soft white fingers that lie upon her lap.

'A troublesome possession,' remarks Mrs Leyton with a lazy smile. 'No one is _really_ happy in this world except he or she who carries an empty bosom.'

'Are _you_ happy?' asks Miss Cissy innocently.

'Almost. The little worn-out article that beats here'--laying her hand over the region of the heart--'has pulsations hardly strong enough to cause me any uneasiness. Now and then I feel a faint pang--not often.'

'I would rather keep my heart, even at the expense of my suffering,' says Cissy warmly. 'She who cannot feel anguish, can know no perfect joy. Without love, life is a mistake, an unutterably stupid gift. That is how _I_ think; but then I am Irish, and therefore of course unreasonable.'

'O no,' says Mrs Leyton graciously. 'The Irish are the most charming people in the world--so light-hearted, so quick to sympathise. Though I have been here only two days, and have asked no questions, I knew you to be Irish before you told me. Most of my friends come from your land; even Captain Halkett is half Irish, his mother being from Galway.'

'Yes?' says Cissy. She rather shrinks from mention of Halkett's name, and remembers with a slight pang how friendly have seemed his relations with Mrs Leyton since her arrival. 'Have you known Captain Halkett long?' she cannot help asking.

'All my life. His father and mine were fast friends; our childhood was spent together. Then we separated'--with a sigh, that sounds ominous to Cissy, but in reality is only born of past sorrow, utterly unconnected with him in any way--'to meet again after many years in India, and now--here. One way or another, all through, Frank's life has been mixed up with mine.'

Cissy bites her lip, and asks no more questions; but Mrs Leyton notices the action of the white teeth, and ponders.

'There is a great charm in Frank's manner, I think?' she says interrogatively.

'Is there? Most men nowadays are charming, as acquaintances,' replies Cissy carelessly. 'And Captain Halkett is too universal a favourite to be altogether charming to _one_.'

'Poor Frank!' laughs the widow lightly. 'He is unfortunate; or at least has found some one who cannot appreciate him. Then you mean to say you would find it impossible to care for any man who liked some other woman besides yourself?'

'Well, as you ask me the question, I confess I would,' says Cissy, who is feeling irritated, she scarcely knows why. 'I would divide honours with no one, and I would be winner--or nothing.'

'Then the man you love must be civil to no one else?'--with arched eyebrows indicative of surprise.

'Oh, "_civil_." Let him be as civil as he pleases. If you were talking merely of civility, I altogether misunderstood you. I only meant if I had a lover--which at the present moment I certainly have not--I would wish to be first in his eyes. Let him be _civil_ to all the world, but let him love _me_.'

'Quite so; that is only fair, I think,' says the widow, but she looks immensely amused; and Cissy seeing her expression, feels her wrath rising. 'I quite thought--judging from appearances--that you and Captain Halkett were very good friends,' goes on Mrs Leyton unwisely, and regrets her speech a moment later.

'I beg you will not judge _me_ from appearances,' says Miss Mordaunt haughtily. 'A woman of the world as you are, Mrs Leyton, ought surely to know that people for the most part do not always feel everything they may look. And besides, you must forgive me; but if there is one thing I have a particular objection to, it is being watched and commented upon.'

'You are right,' returns Mrs Leyton with suspicious sweetness; 'I fear I have been very indiscreet; for the future I will not _watch_ you and Captain Halkett.'

There is a covert meaning in this speech that is absolutely maddening; but the entrance of the gentlemen puts a stop to Miss Mordaunt's reply. She withdraws slowly, and seats herself upon a distant lounge, where she is immediately joined by Major Blake.

'I hope you have missed me,' he says with a tender glance, pushing aside her trailing skirts that he may gain room for his huge person. 'I assure you the time those men spent over their wine was actionable; while I was tantalised by dreams of fair women the entire two hours.'

'Two hours! What an exaggeration. Why, by Aunt Isabel's watch, that was never known to lose a minute, it was only half an hour.'

'What to me was two hours, to you was but a fourth of the time. How cruel an interpretation may be put upon your words! And I have been buoying myself up with the hope while absent from you, that when we _did_ meet again, I should hear something kind from your lips.'

'And so you shall,' says Miss Mordaunt, bestowing upon him a radiant smile, just to let 'that woman' see she is not pining for the recreant Frank. But unfortunately for the success of the thing, Mrs Leyton is looking the other way, and does not see it at all, while Frank Halkett does.

'Must I confess to you? Well, then, my accurate knowledge of the hour arose from my incessant glances at the watch, to see if your delay in coming was really as long as it appeared--to _me_.'

'If I thought you _meant_ that'--begins Blake hesitatingly, with a sudden gleam in his eyes (what man but feels more valiant after dinner than before?)--'if I really thought you meant it'----

'Well--"if you _really_ thought I meant it"--what would you do then? But no!' she cries hastily, seeing she has gone rather far, and unwilling to bring matters to a climax--'do not tell me; I do not wish to know. My ignorance in this case no doubt is blissful; I prefer to remain in it.--And now to change the subject. Who is Mrs Leyton? and what do you know about her? I am all curiosity where she is concerned.'

'Do you like her?' asks Blake, merely as a precautionary measure.

'I can't say I do--exactly,' replies the Irish girl candidly. 'Now tell me where you first met her.'

'In India. Her husband was alive when I first became acquainted with her. He lived tremendously hard; but he was devoted to her, without doubt, and she to him; and she took his death awfully badly. Never saw a woman so cut up by anything before; they generally take it pretty sensibly after the first shock, but she didn't; and went to a skeleton in less than three months.'

'She is not very thin now.'

'No. I suppose one can't keep on pining for ever, and in course of time good food _will_ cover one's bones. But she felt it no end for months, and was altogether down in her luck. You see he got rather a horrible death, as his horse first threw him, and then almost trampled him beyond recognition.'

'How dreadful!' murmurs Miss Mordaunt, with a little shiver; and wonders how Mrs Leyton could ever have smiled afterwards.

'Yes; wasn't it? She took it so much to heart, that for years after she could not bear the sight of a horse, though she had the best seat in the regiment--amongst the women, I mean--and could not be induced to take a ride. Before leaving India, she sold, or gave away, every one of her horses.'

Here Cissy becomes intensely interested. 'To whom did she give them?' she asks indifferently.

'I hardly know; I was up-country at the time, but her most intimate friends, I suppose.--By-the-bye, Halkett was an immense crony of hers.'

'Indeed?'

'Never out of the house,' says the major, thinking it a good opportunity to improve his own chances, though really only giving voice to what had been the common report in that part of India where the catastrophe had occurred. 'After Tom Leyton's death, he would have married her like a shot; but she would not hear of it. She is a very handsome woman, you know, and tremendously admired by some fellows, though for my part I don't altogether see it.'

'Don't you? I think her wonderfully pretty. Perhaps she will relent, and marry him now; who knows? Certainly his constancy deserves some reward. Was it Mrs Leyton gave him the mare?'

'Don't know, I'm sure. But think it very likely, now you mention it, as he sets such uncommon store by her.--How very well Mrs Leyton is looking just now,' says the major, adjusting his eyeglass with much care, and glancing significantly at the other end of the room, where sits the widow in earnest conversation with Frank Halkett. Cissy follows the direction of his gaze, but, conscious of his scrutiny, takes care that not one muscle of her face betrays what she is really feeling.

Yes, very well, very handsome looks Mrs Leyton, as leaning gracefully back in her chair, with one hand toying idly with the rings that cover her fingers, she listens to Captain Halkett's conversation. Now and then she raises large dreamy eyes--half mirthful, half sympathetic--to his face, but scarcely interrupts him. He is talking with much earnestness--is apparently entirely engrossed by his subject--and takes no heed of what is going on around him. Presently he ceases, and evidently seeks an answer from his beautiful companion. She gives him one of her upward glances--all sympathy this time--and says a few words; but they are without doubt the right ones, as Halkett's face brightens, and a smile overspreads it that makes it positively handsome. At the moment he raises her hand, and bending over it, seems to examine her rings curiously. To Cissy the action almost bespeaks a betrothal, and renders her half indignant, wholly miserable. Nevertheless, turning to Major Blake, she says with a bright brave smile: 'I think my idea was right, and even now he has received his reward.'

'Looks uncommon like it,' says the major with a sigh of relief.

NOTES FROM CHINA.

A medical gentleman at one time resident in China furnishes the following notes of interesting incidents within his knowledge. Though roughly put together, they may amuse our readers and be relied on as true.

In the month of January 1869, at about half-past seven P.M., I was sitting at dinner in my house in Swatow, when a sailor from the small gun-boat at that time in Swatow Harbour came running breathless and hatless, asking me to come down without any delay to the hospital, which I had built in the Chinese town on the side of the river opposite my own house. This man said there were thirteen sailors and the captain of the gun-boat badly wounded by an unprovoked attack of the Chinese. This looked serious indeed; so putting up instruments, lint, &c. I hastened down with the sailor. On reaching the hospital, the unwounded men of the gun-boat were still carrying into the hospital their injured comrades. I never saw a set of men so severely wounded without any being fatally so. I set to work, and extracted fifteen bullets from the men; but some were too deeply imbedded to get at that night. One man had one ear shot off, a second two fingers, a third was hit in the eye, a fourth shot in the breast, and I afterwards extracted the bullet at his back. The captain of the gun-boat had on a very thick shaggy pilot-coat, double on the breast; a bullet had cut right across his chest; and on examination I found the skin just raised where it had passed. A very singular wound was that of a young officer, whose two front teeth were knocked in by a bullet, that then disappeared somewhere in his palate. I never could find this bullet whilst he was under my care; but it seemed not to have done him much harm. He left Swatow; and I saw him three or four years later, and he said the lead had never appeared, and he had suffered no inconvenience from it. I believe it must have worked itself somewhere into the muscles at the back of his neck.

The cause of this raid of the Chinese was this: the captain of the gun-boat had merely taken out twenty-five men to exercise by rowing one of his boats up the river Han, on which Swatow is situated. This river is very wide at the mouth, and abounds in large creeks; on the banks of one of the largest of these, next to Swatow, are built three fortified walled-in villages, or what we should call _towns_, from their large population. The inhabitants of these towns were well known as being particularly lawless, not having paid taxes for many years, and setting the mandarins at defiance. Seeing the foreigners (whom they detest) rowing up the creek, 'the Braves' (as they call themselves) rushed out in hundreds and fired into the gun-boat from each side of the river; and were it not for the nature of their guns, or as the Chinese call them 'gingals,' which are old-fashioned and of short range, none of the boat's crew would have returned alive; as it was, fourteen men were well riddled; and the boat, which I saw afterwards, had as many holes in it as a colander. The sailors rowed away for their lives, and escaped.

Our settlement, on hearing this story, was in great and just alarm. These people detest the foreigners; and having put to flight their supposed enemies in a crippled state, it was very likely they might follow this up by an attack on the settlers; and had they only sufficient courage, their numbers were so great, that our fate would have soon been decided by pillage and murder. The British consul, Mr Alabaster Challoner, saw the danger; and being a man of decided character and great energy, without any delay sent a merchant-ship that was in the harbour under high steam-pressure to Hong-kong to inform the Admiral of what had happened. The reply was prompt and satisfactory; for a few hours brought Admiral Keppel, Lord Charles M. Scott (son of the Duke of Buccleuch), two frigates, and seven gun-boats into Swatow Harbour, to the great satisfaction of the foreign settlers and of Mr Challoner. This gentleman was a small delicate-looking man, whose neck being a little crooked, made him hold his head on one side; but such was his courage, determination, and inflexible sense of justice, that the stoutest Chinese officials trembled at his look; and they all declared they would rather face a tiger than meet the glare of 'His Excellency the Devil's' eyes when displeased. The Admiral immediately told off five hundred marines and blue-jackets, fully armed and supplied with two small cannon, to punish the offenders. The friendly natives of Swatow averred loudly that these men were going to certain destruction; that not one would return, as the tribe in question was invincible; and most of the foreign merchants were sufficiently alarmed by these assertions to send all their most valuable possessions on board the vessels in the harbour. Fortunately the result was not what they dreaded. On approaching the first town, the troops saw 'the Braves' in vast numbers on the walls, shouting, waving flags, jumping up and down, and calling on them to come on and be killed. The tars replied by blowing open the gates with gunpowder, and falling on the heroes, who instantly gave way and fled precipitately. They then set fire to the place, sparing all who did not resist. They treated the other towns similarly, and returned victorious. The excellent effect of this prompt action was to produce a complete tranquillity in the neighbourhood of Swatow, which has remained undisturbed ever since (eight years), and a feeling of security which never before existed; yet the Admiral was reproved by the British government at that time for having acted without 'home orders!'

* * * * *

In the winter of 1873 a very unseaworthy merchant sailing-vessel (a Siamese), the _Tye Wat_, set out from the north of China to Siam with a cargo of beancake, &c. The weather became excessively stormy, and at last the old vessel actually went to pieces many miles from land in the Gulf of Pe-che-le. The crew consisted of eight Malays, who worked the ship; the captain, an Englishman; and in addition was one Chinese woman. They had no boats on board, no time to make a raft or means of doing so; and as the vessel was rapidly sinking, the wretched people looked round in despair; when a hope of escape struck one of them as his eye lighted on a very large wooden water-tank which was on deck. This tank was strongly made, about six feet long, five feet across, and five feet high, with a large hole at the top into which a man could squeeze, and a tight-fitting cover. There was not a moment to lose: a hole was bored in the bottom, to let out what water it contained, then quickly plugged; and all ten squeezed themselves in hurriedly, put on the lid, and awaited their fate. In a quarter of an hour after they were thus packed, the ship sunk under them. They first whirled round, and then floated off freely, and felt themselves rolling and tossing about frightfully on a stormy sea. The weather was intensely cold, so much so that icicles had hung from the rigging of the sunken ship the day before; and being so tightly packed, perhaps it was fortunate the weather _was_ so cold. In their haste to save life, they had brought only part of a ham which the captain had snatched up, and a bottle of brandy; and thus these poor creatures were tossed about from day to day, hungry and thirsty, jostled like potatoes shaken in a barrel; now and then, when they dared, letting in a little air by raising the lid. Their situation strongly reminds one of Gulliver in his box when the eagle carried him out to sea from the land of the Brobdingnags.

On the fifth day the Malays said they must kill and eat the English captain; but the poor Chinese woman (to the credit of her sex) vehemently opposed them, and succeeded in saving him for that day. On the sixth day the Malays said they _must_ eat her; but the captain in turn saved _her_ for that day. It is difficult to imagine a more horrible situation than that of this poor Englishman surrounded by eight starving men determined to eat him, which they certainly would have done had not an English vessel rescued them on the seventh day. It happened thus: the captain of that vessel sighted a large box tossing on the waters, and at first never thought of minding it, only supposing it part of some wreck, as the weather was so bad; but as he looked, to his utter surprise a head popped up through the hole in the centre, and then vanished, to be followed by another figure, making frantic gesticulations. With much difficulty this strange box was got alongside, hauled up, and its poor inmates dragged out to light barely alive, and emaciated fearfully, finding the man-hole easier to pass out of than to get into; which was reversing the fable of the weasel who got into the barn. The captain of the rescuing vessel was a kind Englishman, and did all in his power to restore his guests. They were still in the Gulf of Pe-che-le; and did not reach the port of Swatow sooner than six days, where a doctor was called in to visit these liberated 'Jacks-in-a-box.' He said they were a singular proof of how much human beings can endure. All lived, and recovered perfectly. Certainly they were all _young_ people. The Malays went home. The English captain went to Singapore, and shewed himself really grateful to the poor Chinese woman who had saved him from the jaws of the Malays.

UNSUSPECTED WAYS OF EARNING A LIVELIHOOD.

'Why, sir, we never should wake of our own accord, specially these dark mornings, if we hadn't somebody to knock us up.'

The speaker was a worthy artisan whom I often used to meet at a certain steam-boat pier on the Thames; his after-breakfast labours appearing to begin about the time I usually was in waiting for the boat.

'You see, sir,' he continued in answer to a question I had put to him--'you see, sir, there's about sixty of us hereabouts down by the water-side; and there's so much that depends upon the tide, that we have to be called at all hours--sometimes two o'clock in the morning, or three or four, just as the case may be.'

'But who is it calls you?' I asked. 'A policeman, I suppose?'

'No; not a policeman,' my companion answered; 'it would take up a deal too much of his time; besides, fresh policemen are always coming on to the beat, and we could not be bothered with constantly having to shew and tell a new man the way.'

'Well, it must be rather an awkward matter,' I observed.

'No; it isn't. We each pay fourpence a week to Phil Larkins; and he wakes us as regular as clockwork.'

'But if sixty people want to be called at all sorts of irregular hours, how does the awakener manage to know his duties?' I asked.

'Oh, we chalk on our doors or shutters the time, and that way he knows. Phil is to be depended upon always. But he very nearly lost the work a year ago, and it was a shame. Some fellow wanted to step into his shoes, and morning after morning went and altered the chalkings, so that we were either called two hours before our time, or over-slept ourselves, and so got into trouble. There was no end of quarrels and misunderstandings till the trick was found out. And I think the rascal who did it deserved a ducking--only, you see Phil is such a little fellow he couldn't give it him.'

'It was a dastardly trick!' I exclaimed with indignation, bidding the man good-bye.

Another speaking acquaintance of mine was an old man whose duty consisted in sweeping down the steps which were submerged at high-tide, but quite bare at low-water. I had often seen him at work cleansing from mud and silt step by step as the tide receded; and now it occurred to me that from the nature of his occupation he, of all others, must work at the most irregular hours. It was a dull wintry morning, but the old man was working cheerfully at his accustomed task, which, as the water was getting low, was very nearly completed. He was pale and thin, but had that air of decent respectability which happily is often seen in the very humblest classes.

I opened the conversation in true English fashion by a remark on the weather, asking his opinion as to the probability of rain.

'Snow more likely,' he answered laconically, but quite civilly.

'I daresay you are right,' was my reply, 'for I should think you are one of the weather-wise people.'

'Ought to be, if there's anything learned in being always twelve hours in the four-and-twenty out of doors all seasons,' was the rejoinder.

'Rather hard work for you, my man,' I said sympathisingly.

'I don't complain. There's lighter work to be sure, but there's some that's a deal heavier; and after being at it so many years, maybe it comes easier to me than it would to another. I was only fifty-five when I began, and now I'm seventy-three.'

'And is it necessary that you should work all the six hours that the tide is ebbing?' I asked, really desiring the information.

'Quite necessary,' he replied, descending a step, and plying his broom vigorously as he spoke. 'Why, if I did not begin at the beginning and go on regularly, the mud would harden, and I should have to drag up buckets of water to wash the steps with. And gentlefolks want nice clean steps going to the boats.'

'I suppose you are glad when your work does not happen to be in the dead of the night?' I observed.

'I don't know that I care. It is the change in the time that makes the variety in the work. And sometimes on fine nights, when the stars are blinking and winking, or the moon floating in the sky, with the clouds rushing along as if every now and then they were washing her face--I think things and feel things as I don't at other times. I think it is a mistake for people always to sleep of nights, I do.'

'I suppose you depend on some one to call you up at the turn of the tide?' I said inquiringly.

'No; I don't,' replied the old man, with a shake of his head. 'I tried that at first, but it didn't answer. I daresay Larkins might do it; but it was before he took to the business of knocking at doors; and the man I trusted to made mistakes or else forgot, and didn't wake me right, and I very nearly lost the place; and ever since I have trusted to myself.'

'Then how do you manage?' I said.

'That is just what I don't know, except that it seems to me it is managed for me. I only know that if it is high-water in the deadest hour of the night, I always do wake. It is just as if something said: "Look alive; time's up;" and sure enough it always is. I often wonder at it; but I have come to think that wondering is of no more use than wondering at the tides coming up so surely, and the new moons shining just as they are expected, and the stars all keeping their places so safely. O sir, some folks, no doubt, are very learned, but there's a deal more in the world than people can ever make out.'

'Do you know, my friend, that you are speaking the thoughts of one of the greatest of men?' I exclaimed, reflecting on Hamlet's words to Horatio.

'Am I? What did he say?' was the rejoinder.

'He said,' I exclaimed, '"there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy."'

'Well, he was right, whoever he was,' exclaimed the old man, with a sort of innocent satisfaction at his own corroboration of a great man's words. 'And what's more, I think the world would be a worse place than it is if we had nothing left to wonder at.'

'I heartily agree with you,' was my reply.

'And there's more to wonder at than even the stars and the tides,' continued the sweeper, 'and that's the ways of men, the good and the bad that's in the most of us. But then I do think we river-side people see more than others, what with the partings and meetings going on; and now and again the dead bodies that come to shore, and sometimes the miserable despairing people who would drown themselves if they weren't hindered. Well, it's these things that set me wondering and thinking, and that make the working hours pass quickly, especially at night.'

'You seem a bit of a philosopher,' I said admiringly.

'What's that?' cried the old man.

'It means lover of wisdom,' I replied; 'and he is happy who can justly lay claim to the title. My friend, we must have another talk another day.'

'Well, sir, you'll always find me here according to the tide; leastways unless I am ill again, as I was last year.'

'How was that?' I asked.

'Well, I don't quite know myself,' the old man answered, 'for I don't remember much about it. When they found the steps neglected, some of the wharf people came to look after me, and then they took me off to the hospital, where I was for a matter of six weeks. You see, sir, since my poor old missus died I am all alone, for my grandson went to sea; his father is a soldier; and my daughter has been in service these thirty years; so I had no one to go for a doctor or give me a drink of water.'

'Oh, that was very sad,' I exclaimed.

'Well, it was rather hard lines; but you see no one knew how I was taken; and when they found me, folks were mighty good to me, and they gave me back my place when I got well; so I ought not to complain.'

The boat by which I travel was now nearing the pier, and I stepped on board, with a friendly nod to the old man, reflecting with some sympathy on the many such stories which doubtless, if we knew them, would serve to swell

'The short and simple annals of the poor.'

FROTH.

Children sometimes ask, and men and women need not be ashamed to ask, why is froth always white or nearly white, whatever may be the colour of the liquid underneath it? To answer the question, we shall have to determine what froth really is in itself, and how it is formed.

Take a filled ale-jug, or the well-known 'pewter' of a tavern or public-house, and pour out gently into a glass: scarcely any froth is produced. Pour out the self-same liquor from the self-same vessel in a stream several inches high, and you produce a foaming 'head,' which to the eye seems to be a substance quite different from ale or beer. Open a bottle of lemonade or ginger-beer, of soda-water or seltzer-water, and pour out the contents into a glass; the formation of froth is so rapid and abundant that the glass appears full when it really contains but a small quantity of liquid. Open a bottle of Bass's ale or of Guinness's stout; the froth is still more opaque and pronounced. Look at a cup of tea or coffee soon after the sugar has been added; there will often be seen a small covering of froth on the surface, which froth, if not actually white, is much more so than the liquid beneath. Watch the movements of the paddle-wheels of a steamer; the water thrown back from them is covered with foam of dazzling whiteness, the intensity of the white increasing with the rapidity of the wheel's motion.

In all these cases, and in multitudes of like kind, the froth seems to result from agitation; a quiescent liquid seldom presents symptoms of this nature. But agitation alone would not do it. Supposing it were possible for human beings to live, or for pints of ale to exist, without _air_, there would be no such thing as froth. In pouring out ale or other liquid, the falling stream becomes mingled with a portion of the atmospheric air which surrounds us; and it also buries, as it were, the air contained in the apparently empty glass: the result is, a mixture of ale and air, instead of ale only. Under ordinary circumstances, liquids contain as much air as they are capable of absorbing; the additional quantity is expelled. But how? It cannot rise in a body to the surface, but divides into minute spherical portions or air-bubbles, which ascend to the top of the liquid on account of their levity or comparative lightness.

This, however, is not all; if it were, the bubbles would burst directly they come to the surface, and froth would not have an opportunity of forming. Cohesion comes into action, the cohesion between the particles of every liquid. The bubbles of air, as they rise from the body of the ale, beer, or other liquid, are able to penetrate between the particles; but when they arrive at the surface they encounter a film of liquid cohesive enough to restrain for a time their final escape into the atmosphere. Froth consists of bubbles, each a tiny globular portion of air, bounded on the upper surface by an exceedingly thin film of liquid; the bubbles retain this position and condition until the struggle ends as a victory for one of the belligerents. The ascensive power of the air within the bubble overcomes the cohesive power of the liquid film or covering, and 'the bubble bursts'--our beverage loses its frothy 'head.' The length of time that elapses before the air escapes by the bursting of the bubble depends chiefly on the viscidity of the liquid. If we pour ale into one vessel and water into another, from equal heights, we shall find that the former will present a frothy surface, the latter a more instantaneous sparkling appearance; the power of retention being greater in the former instance than in the latter. In other words, ale having a greater specific gravity than water, and also greater viscidity, the bubble formed has a thicker coating, and requires a longer time for its disrupture. Taking the round of all the 'frothy headings,' we find the same rule prevail. In the spray from the paddle of a steamboat, in the froth on the surface of beverages, in the sparkles on a cup of tea, the air is in the first place entangled among the particles of liquid, and thus forms bubbles in the struggle to escape. Although carbonic acid may, in regard to physical properties, be ranked as a kind of air, the formation of froth in effervescing liquids is slightly different.

But why is froth _white_? Porter, ale, tea, coffee, champagne, water, differ very considerably in colour; yet in all of these, when froth is produced it is white. This appears to be due to the reflection of the light from the outer surface of the several bubbles. When the surface is thus broken up, we have a cluster of little spheres, each of which presents a reflection to the eye from some part of its surface; and as there may be tens of thousands of these in a very small space, the effects become united, and are recognised as a whiteness. It is simply an aggregation of small effects to produce one more conspicuous. If the bubbles are large, then fewer of them can be contained in a given area; consequently the number of convex reflecting surfaces is smaller, and the united effect less brilliant--in other words, less white.

But it may still be asked by some of us, how is it that the froth of a _reddish_ liquid, such as beer, is white? The phenomena of reflected light must again be appealed to for the means of solving this problem. The colour of a liquid (not its froth) is determined by the transmitted light, not the reflected. If liquor be contained in a transparent glass vessel held between the eye and the light, and we look _through_ it, the eye receives the light transmitted by the liquid, and deems the colour of that light to be the colour of the liquid itself; but if we pour the liquor into an open vessel, and look obliquely at the surface, we shall find that the colour does not deviate much from whiteness, whatever the transmitted colour may be. The liquid, whatever be its body colour, is when agitated broken up into detached portions at its surface by the formation of bubbles, and each bubble reflects to the eye a portion of the light which falls upon it. Consequently, if this reflected light is nearly white in all cases, the resulting assemblage of bubbles, generally known as froth, must always appear white or nearly white. We can easily understand the greater yellowness of the froth on strong Dublin stout than that on pale Burton ale; the more tenacious liquor forms a thicker and consequently less clearly reflecting bubble than that on the more limpid.

A CITY WEED.

I passed a graveyard in a London street,
Where 'stead of songs of birds, the hoarse sad cries
Of wretched men echoed from morn to night.
Locked were its gates, and rows of iron bars
Fenced in God's Acre from tired wanderers' feet.
All broken lay the slabs which love had raised;
But on a mound where fell a patch of light,
A Bindweed grew; and on its flowers, with eyes
O'erflowing with a wintry rain of tears,
A pale-faced, miserable woman gazed,
Heart-sick with longings for the nevermore,
And faint with memories of bygone years:
A breezy common with a heaven of stars,
And lovers parting at a cottage door.

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

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