Chapter I: Part 1

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 708. SATURDAY, JULY 21, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]

A CORNISH HAVEN.

Come away with me to the sea! Let us go to Cornwall, where sea and air are of the purest and most exhilarating. Jumping into the train and proceeding westward until we come to Launceston, there we will leave the little quiet old-world town behind. So anxious are we to get to the sea, that we will not even stop to climb the hill and inspect the old castle which frowns down on us; but we will mount to the box-seat of the three-horse coach which stands waiting at the station, and drive away--still westward. Away, over the breezy uplands, where the cattle chew the cud sleepily beneath the August sun, between hedges set with brilliant jewels, which we call flowers, past undulating downs in whose hollows the purple shadows lie dreaming.

We stop presently at a little roadside inn, to give the horses a rest and a feed; and I climb down from my elevated position and partake of a cup of tea in the inn kitchen--a primitive flagged kitchen, with a great high-backed wooden settle by the fire, and pewter bowls and cups shining on the walls. They pour out my bohea from a teapot which a fancier of old china would pronounce to be priceless. Genuine old 'Plymouth' it is, I see, and ask if they would be willing to part with it. But no; 'It was granny's;' and they would rather not sell it; so I turn my covetous eyes away, and clamber back to my seat beside the coachman.

Off we go again, along a fairly level road. The country is but thinly inhabited, and there are long intervals between the houses. By-and-by we begin to descend a hill, and enter a little sleepy town, where at first sight it seems to me that there are an inn and one or two shops, but no inhabitants. Only at first sight; for as we draw up before the _Hotel_ (such is the proud boast I see over the doorway), and the driver descends and walks away to deposit a parcel or two and to gossip awhile with his acquaintances, we are delivered over to the tender mercies of the whole juvenile population, who surround the coach, climb on to the wheels, and make audible comments in very broad vernacular on our personal appearance and on our apparel.

This time we move off slowly, for we have a very steep hill to encounter, and the tired horses plod somewhat wearily up it. As we reach the top, and they stop panting to rest, I see far away on the horizon a silver streak, and my heart gives a throb of delight; for I have in its intensest form all an islander's love for the ocean, and I know what that silver streak is on which the sun shines so gaily. On rolls the coach merrily; the horses sniff the air, and seem to know that they are nearing home. Yes; here are the breezes we have come to look for. They peer familiarly under my hat; they blow my veil aside, and rudely kiss my cheeks; and their breath is fresh and salt, and whispers of new strength to the tired mind and body. On we hurry towards the setting sun, who is now mounting the chariot in which he drives away to the other side of the world. We have lost sight of the faint line of silver again, and our view is almost bounded by the dusky hedges. Presently we turn a corner abruptly, and there, apparently at our feet, lies the blue Atlantic, smiling bright welcoming smiles at us in the last rays of departing Sol. The active young breezes, which seem so glad to see us again, revive us with sweet aromatic odours, which they gather from the weed-strewn rocks. They evidently think we are wise people to have left those weak-minded little zephyrs coquetting with the flowers on the lawn at home, and to have followed them to their sporting place beside the restless ever-changing sea.

In another moment we stop, and all the tired travellers dismount and stretch their cramped limbs. I hear many around me inquiring for hotels or lodgings; but we are expected, and here is our landlady's husband come to meet us; so we hand over our luggage to him, and wend our way to Cliff Cottage. Here we find a smiling hostess, who tells us how glad she is to see us; and after we have removed some of the dust of our journey, we sit down to a well-spread tea-table, on which a noble Cornish pasty holds the post of honour. We draw the table into the bow-window, which faces not directly seawards, but towards the bay, which has been a haven of safety to so many. But it is growing dark already, and we are weary with our long drive; so, soon we seek our fragrant chamber, in which the lavender scents struggle faintly to overpower the pungent aroma of the sea; and it is not long before we are lulled to sleep by the monotonous thunder of the waves on the rocks below.

In the morning we peep out at the colliers which ride safely in the little sunny bay, at the white houses which are dotted here and there over the cliffs, and at the little village itself lying snugly in the hollow. To right and left, sweeping far away, stand the great eternal sea-walls of sombre iron-stone crags, and the grassy downs rolling away inland, unbroken except by a lonely stone or a patch of golden gorse; and beneath us lie ancient gray boulders and stretches of yellow sand. Away on the hill opposite stands the little church, in whose quiet graveyard rests many a sailor who has found his death in the pitiless sea. Eleven graves mark the resting-place of the crew of one vessel, whose figure-head forms an appropriate headstone to the sad group.

The first thing to be done after breakfast is to bathe. It is not enough to be _by_ the sea; we must be _in_ it, if we wish to rob it of all the strength and vigour we can; so we start off over the downs to where a sudden depression in the cliff leads to the bathing beach. Here we find old Harriet the bathing-woman, browner than ever, who gives us a cordial welcome. The bathing is primitive in the extreme. Harriet possesses two tents, which she pitches daily on a smooth spot of sand. For the use of one in which to disrobe you pay a ridiculously small sum, which also includes old Harriet's watchful 'surveillance' while you are in the water. As the number of tents is so limited and the bathers many, not a few avail themselves of the shelter of a friendly rock behind which to perform their toilet; but I am squeamish, and wait my turn for the tent. And oh! how reviving the plunge into the surf, which comes rolling in frothing and seething like champagne, and which knocks me over and plays at ball with me as if I were a cork! The cool waves curl and cling round me, and kiss my arms and hands lovingly with their wet lips. I let them break over my bowed head, and clasp them tenderly to my breast; but they slip away from me, and riot and tumble round me with joyous laughter, sprinkling eternal freshness from their bounteous hands. I sniff the keen salt air with delight, and let the foam toss me to and fro at its own sweet will, until Harriet, who watches me anxiously (she thinks me a somewhat rash young person, I know), orders me authoritatively to come in, saying I have had enough of it--for the first time. Very reluctantly I obey; but it would require a braver person than I am to contradict the withered old sea-nymph, and soon I emerge from the tent with streaming locks, feeling like a giant refreshed.

Thank goodness, here are no brass bands, no esplanade; a circulating library of such modest pretensions that it does not circulate, and shops in which it is next to impossible to spend any money! At the chemist's we buy our groceries as well as our drugs, and he is the only wine-merchant the dear primitive little place can boast. But we get mutton which transcends Southdown; capital poultry and vegetables; butter such as I have never tasted before or since; rich cream, which you must call Cornish (not 'Devonshire'), to please the buxom farmer's wife who supplies it to you; and plenty of good fruit. And what do you want more, with such a sky above you, such a glorious sea at your feet, such a wall of ironstone crags behind you? Down on the beach we go, and dawdle away the hot summer afternoon. We stretch ourselves on the tawny sand, where great barriers of rock jut out on each side of us, beneath the shadow of a dreadful scarped cliff, to which no scrap of weed or herbage seems able to cling. We look up at it with a sense of awe. We think of the many ships, nearing home after a weary journey, which have been driven by the storm's pitiless whip straight into its terrible arms, there to meet a dread destruction. We think of the many struggling drowning wretches on whom it has gazed down with its stony eyes during all the ages it has stood there. The great billows in their winter's fury have beaten and lashed it until it is scarred all over; but still it gazes calmly down at them, as if defying their malicious rage. And yet, cruel as it is, how picturesque the colouring as it ranges from the intense purple black of the tide-line, through warm green and brown shadows, to the bright high lights far away above our heads.

Dark rock-pools lie behind us, lined with queer zoophytes and delicate sea-anemones; beside us are the crimson lady's finger and the golden trefoil; the dainty scents of the sea-weed and the fresh wet sand are in the air, and before us is the smiling sea. Yes; he smiles at us to-day, though here--with a restless surf breaking eternally on the beach--he is never calm and rippling, as we see him in more southern climes.

Presently the sun sinks lower in the heavens; a breeze awakes, and the day turns cooler; so we go for a walk along the smooth firm sand, which the ebbing sea has left bare; through a wilderness of weird black cliffs, which, when the tide is high, range far out into the sea in castles and turrets and spires of jagged rock; an iron-bound coast indeed, hopeless to the shipwrecked mariner, save for our friendly little haven. Far away on the warm horizon hangs Lundy Island, like a shapely gray ghost; very faint by day, and at night telling us only by its revolving light where it is. We walk on to a gorge up which we can make our way to the top of the cliff, and homeward over the undulating downs and by the banks of golden broom. We pass through a little village, where the myrtles and fuchsias are all abloom in the cottage-gardens, and where the great yews brood silently over the old gray church. The door stands open, and we go in. What a dear old church, with its quaintly carved oaken pews, and tender-hued stained glass windows! Evidently the restoration-fiend has not reached here yet. Let us hope that he will stay away, along with the esplanade and the brass bands.

Sometimes we spend our afternoon or evening out at the end of the breakwater, which forms one side of this little mariner's refuge. It connects a rock which stands right out at sea, with the shore, and occasionally in spring-tides is quite under water. One evening, while standing on the far end watching the glorious setting sun, we forget to look behind us, and turning suddenly, find the breakwater submerged. A man could still cross it perhaps, but a not over-strong woman might easily be carried over and drowned by the on-coming surf. I am not brave enough to face it; so we remain where we are, and enter into conversation with a stalwart Cornishman, who, with the instinct of a true gentleman, volunteers--as the lady seems nervous, and as he knows all about the tides, and exactly how high the sea will rise to-night--to remain with us until we are released by the ebbing waters. I rather resent the imputation of timidity, but am very glad he has imprisoned himself with us, as the night turns darker and darker, and the waves creep higher and higher, and wheel and foam and thunder around, as if in impotent rage at their inability to reach their prey.

Our Cornish hero reassures and consoles me, telling me that they cannot possibly reach to where we sit; and he whiles away the time with stories of wrecks which he has seen, and also of many hair-breadth escapes. He tells us how a ship driving straight on to the cruel rocks, was lifted by one giant wave over the breakwater and 'landed safely in the harbour beyond;' and I steal a glance behind me, and see with thankfulness that the waters are abating. In a little while longer, with the help of our pleasant companion, I am able to get over dry-shod, and it is with a feeling of relief that I find myself once more on mainland.

From this breakwater too, on a stormy day we watch the life-boat go out for practice. How gallantly she breasts the breakers, which seize her and whirl her backwards, as if defying her to leave the shore. The seamen tell us that in the great storms which arise here during the winter she is perfectly useless. No life-boat could live in the seas which beat upon this heartless coast. Often the coast-guardsmen have to creep on hands and knees to their signal-station, as, standing erect, they cannot face the wind. But the rocket apparatus has saved many and many a life; and we also one night see that fiery messenger of life and hope speed away into the darkness over an imaginary wreck; and a fictitious shipwrecked mariner comes on shore in the frail-looking apparatus, which slides along the rope, swaying to and fro in the angry wind, looking like a frail thread, suspended as it is in mid-air over the vexed and tumbling waters below.

Sometimes we make excursions--to Tintagel Castle, where King Arthur dwelt with his knights; or away to wooded Clovelly, where Will Carey lived, and Amyas Leigh suffered, and Rose Salterne loved. Or to Stratton, in the neighbourhood of which a great battle was fought, in 1643, between the Parliamentary and Royalist troops, in which the former, under Waller, were defeated. A cannon found on the field marks the site of the combat; and in the High Street of the town, a slab let into the wall of an old house bears a legend telling how Sir Bevil Grenvil, the victorious general, rested there after the fight.

But we like best to spend our days wandering over the sands and the ancient mussel-clad boulders, or straying across the breezy downs into the rich smiling corn-country beyond, where in the hedges the pale wild roses are transforming themselves into brilliant scarlet hips, and the sun is beginning to dye the blackberries a luscious purple. Then as the day begins to tire, and prepares to go in royal state to her rest, we love to sit out on the rocks listening to the weary surges which sing her a sweet monotonous requiem, and watching the scarlet flames in the west steeping the wet sands in a crimson stain as of blood. A great belt of iron-gray clouds encircles the horizon. Slowly the sun sinks behind it, gilding its edges with a rich luminous glow, which faintly shadows forth the glories the clouds veil from our eyes. Lower and lower he droops his head, heavier and still heavier with sleep, until one brilliant flaming eye is all that we can see. Then the lid drops over that too, and he is gone. Spell-bound, we sit on, listening to the sea's mournful dirges, while night swoops down over earth and ocean with dusky wings. We watch the moon, like a vain lady attiring herself magnificently in the east before she issues forth on her evening pilgrimage. She sends her handmaidens, the stars, before her, and they light up her pathway with their brilliant lamps. Then she comes forth robed in a filmy veil of pearly lace, and mounts silently into the sky, until she sits enthroned far above our heads. She kisses the white crests of the waves, and crowns them with silver, and peers with gentle eyes at the solemn gigantic black cliffs, until they seem to lay aside something of their stony harshness in the light of those poetic orbs. The long oar-weeds waving in the water seem to beckon to her with inky fingers, and a few giddy young stars obey the summons, for some of them have fallen into the quiet rock-pools, and gaze up at us out of their calm depths. The phosphorus awakes and shoots out tongues of lambent flame, as if seeking to outvie the splendour of the queen of night. The waters glow as if they were on fire, and the great dark billows rush in and cast sparkling jewels at our feet.

How shall we resolve to leave all these delights? Wild ocean is so kind to those who love him and do him homage. He gives them back the strength of which the struggle and turmoil of the world have robbed them, and refreshes the weary spirit with his gracious sights and sounds. Nature is no step-mother, and for those who look at her most tenderly and love her best, she paints her fairest pictures and sings her sweetest songs.

But soon, too soon, the day comes when we must bid good-bye to the kindly folks we have grown to love so well; when we rest for the last time in our sea-odoured chamber; when we take our last walk over the downs, and loiter for the last time beneath the shadow of the time-worn cliffs. We leave the dear quiet little place, where we have for a time hidden from the busy world, and rested on our march; we leave it to the winds, which grow ruder and more boisterous day by day, and which soon will drive many a mariner to take refuge in its friendly haven. We shall find our own little zephyrs at home quite grown up, and strong enough to give us many a blow during the winter.

But if there be any who, like me, would love to linger on its quiet beach, to make acquaintance with its giant wall of rocks, to drink its keen life-giving breezes, to watch its gorgeous sunsets, or dream beneath its silver stars--then, let them take coach at Launceston, and following the declining sun, drive westward away to--Budehaven.

THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.

CHAPTER XXXIII.--'A WOMAN'S ERRAND.'

After making two or three attempts to obtain a private interview with me, and finding that it was not to be, Philip did not stay very long, explaining that he had only come down for the papers, and had business in town for the remainder of the day. Somewhat more gravely and quietly than usual, he shook hands with Mrs Tipper and Lilian; and then, in a matter-of-course way, said: 'Come, Mary.'

I knew that I must not refuse. Murmuring an excuse for a moment, I ran up to my room and fell upon my knees, asking for the strength I so sorely needed for the coming trial; then joined him again, and we went out together. As we walked down the lane, I felt that he too was nerving himself; and presently he asked, in a low grave voice: 'What made you talk in the way you did just now, Mary?'

I was in a difficult position. If I attempted to justify myself, he would take alarm at once, and bind me and himself still closer to our bond. I could only treat it as a jest.

'We all talk nonsense sometimes, Philip.'

'I suppose so; but that is a kind of nonsense you have not taught me to expect from you.'

'I am afraid you expect too much from me.'

'I certainly expect a great deal.'

Fortunately, I had something to say which would keep off love-speeches; and without any attempt to smooth the way, I said it.

'Philip, I want to ask you to give me ten pounds. I have spent all my money.'

Oddly enough, he did not know that I was entirely without money. I had thought it sufficient to tell him only that my dear mother's income died with her, not wishing to pain him with the knowledge that I had been so nearly destitute. I think he imagined that I had a small income of my own, and as I avoided the subject, did not like to appear curious about it. Even now, I believe that he did not suspect me to be entirely penniless, merely supposing that I had spent all that I had in hand. The five-and-twenty pounds had been expended to the last shilling in furbishing up my modest wardrobe, and for small incidental expenses in the way of my share towards the cottages, &c. I had shrunk from the idea of making him acquainted with the state of my finances; knowing how large-hearted he was, and how much would be forced upon me if he once guessed my need. Mrs Tipper was always protesting against the value and number of the offerings which found their way to the cottage, whilst Lilian and I were afraid of expressing a wish in his presence.

It was all very different now. It would cheer and comfort him by-and-by to reflect that I was able to ask a favour of him just at this crisis. Had I not been so sorely pressed as I was, it would still have been as well to ask him.

'Ten pounds!' he ejaculated, stopping short in his walk to gaze at me in the greatest astonishment; asking himself, I think, if _this_ was the explanation of the change which he had observed in me. 'I am utterly ashamed of my stupidity in allowing you to name such a thing; though I am sure you will do me the justice to attribute it solely to want of thought!'

'You see I do not mind asking you, Philip.'

'Mind indeed; of course you do not! I will run back at once and write a cheque.'

'No; please do not--not if you have as much as ten pounds with you. Just now, I want only that.'

'Ten pounds! Take what I have about me!' hastily taking out his purse, and putting it into my hand.

'But indeed I could not take all this!' I returned, seeing that the purse contained several notes as well as gold. 'I do not want any more than ten pounds.'

'Nonsense; don't make a fuss over such a trifle.'

But I separated two five-pound notes from the rest, and was very decided about his taking back the purse.

'Then I shall of course send a cheque as soon as I get back. By the way, Mary, I am making arrangements for the settlement of three hundred a year upon you; and of course all is yours, absolutely, in the event of'----

I broke down for a few moments, leaning against the stile where we were standing.

'Nay, Mary'---- Then I think that he saw something more in my face than even the allusion to his death seemed to warrant. He went on with grave anxiety: 'I fear you are not well. Is your hand painful?'

Ah, my hand--how thankful I was for the suggestion! I slipped it under my cloak, dragged away the bandage, which again opened the wound.

'Bleeding afresh! You must really have it seen to, Mary.'

'O no; it is really a very trifling affair.' In my misery and despair, I almost laughed at the idea of being able to feel any physical pain.

He assisted me to tighten the bandage again. But I presently knew that it would not do to have his hands touching me and his face close to mine in this way; so, with a little brusque remark about his want of skill (ah Philip, had you known what it cost me!), I declared that my hand required no more fussing over. I had the parting to go through, and needed all my nerve. First, I must make sure of his not coming down to the cottage for two or three days.

'You said you expect to be very much engaged; and therefore I suppose we shall not see you again until the end of the week--Friday or Saturday, perhaps?'

This was Tuesday, and I wanted to make sure of two clear days.

'I will contrive to run down before that, if you wish it, Mary.'

'No; I too have much to do. Do not come before Friday.'

'Very well. You will tell me then which day you have decided upon, since you will not say now.'

I had waived the decision as to which day the wedding was to take place; and I did so again, merely repeating 'Friday.'

'All right; take care of yourself; and be sure to have the hand seen to.' He was stooping down to give me the customary kiss before crossing the stile; but I took his two hands in mine, and looked up into his face, I think as calmly and steadily as I had prayed for strength to do.

'God bless you, Philip.' Then I put my arms about his neck, lifted up my face to his, and kissed him. 'Good-bye, dear Philip.'

I saw an expression of surprise, a slight doubt and hesitation in his eyes. He had not found me so demonstrative as this before, and was for the moment puzzled to account for it. But I contrived to get up a smile, which I think satisfied him. Then with a last wrench, I turned away, hearing as though from another world his answering 'Good-bye' as he vaulted the stile.

After that, the rest would be easy. I allowed myself one hour in the woods--not for the indulgence of regret--I knew too well the danger of that--but for recovery, and got back to the cottage in time for our early dinner. Moreover, I forced myself to eat, knowing that I should require all the strength I could get; and delighted dear kind old Mrs Tipper's heart by asking for a glass of wine.

It was a terrible ordeal, sitting there under their tender watchful eyes; but I got through it tolerably I think. Afterwards, I told them that I wanted to catch the three o'clock up-train, adding a purposely indefinite remark about having some arrangements to make in town.

'Is Mr Dallas going to meet you, my dear?' asked Mrs Tipper anxiously.

'No; I am going on a woman's errand,' I replied, with a sad little half-smile at the thought of what their surprise would be if they could know how very literally I was speaking.

'_Must_ you go to-day?--may not I go with you, dear Mary?' pleaded Lilian. 'You are looking so pale and unlike yourself; I do not like the idea of your going alone.'

'I should fancy that there was something really the matter with me, if I could not go alone so short a distance as that, dearie,' I lightly replied. 'I think I will allow my age to protect me.'

She drew nearer to me, looking at me in the nervous, half-afraid way she so frequently did of late, as she laid her hand upon my arm.

'I wish you would not talk like that--dear Mary, why do you?'

I was not strong enough to bear much in this way; so replied with an attempt at a jest, which made her shrink away again. I daresay my jests were flavourless enough, and in strange contrast to my looks.

Mrs Tipper's silent, anxious watchfulness was even harder to bear than Lilian's tender love. It was not my journey to town which puzzled them--I saw that they imagined I was intent upon preparing some little pleasant surprise for them at my wedding--but the change they saw in me, which no amount of diplomacy could hide.

How thankful I was, when I at length made my escape to my own room; but I was not allowed to go alone. I had to bear Lilian's loving attendance whilst I was putting on my bonnet and cloak. Indeed, she lingered by my side until I had got half-way down the lane.

'You will not be very late, Mary?'

'No, dearie; I think not--I hope not.'

'We shall be longing to see you back.'

'And you must not be surprised if I return in a very conceited frame of mind, after being made so much of,' I lightly replied.

'Only come back _yourself_,' she murmured, giving me a last kiss as she turned away.

Dear Lilian, did she in truth guess something of what the lightness cost me? I knew that I did not deceive her wholly. Although she might be in some doubt as to the cause, I did not succeed in hiding the effects from her.

I arrived at the London terminus about four o'clock, and took a cab, directing the man to drive to a West-end street facing St James's Park. My errand was to one of the largest mansions there, which at any other time I should have considered it required some nerve to approach in a way so humble. I could quite understand the cabman's hesitating inquiry as to whether I wished to be driven to the principal entrance. Probably I did not appear to him quite up to the standard of the housekeeper's room. Fortunately I was not able to give a thought to my appearance. Had I been visiting the Queen, I should have thought of her only as a fellow-woman, in my deep absorption.

Three hours later I was taken back to the railway station in a luxurious carriage, borne swiftly along by spirited horses; a slight, refined, delicate-looking woman, with earnest thoughtful eyes, and attired almost as simply as myself, was sitting by my side with my hand in hers, as we now and again touched upon the subject which occupied our thoughts.

I had found a friend in my time of need, and such a one as I had not dared to hope for. But this in due time. We parted with just a steady look and grasp of the hand.

'To-morrow?'

'Yes; between six and seven.'

I returned to the cottage, certainly not looking worse than when I had quitted it, and was received with a welcome which made me almost lose courage again. Fortunately it was very nearly our usual time for retiring. Fortunately too I had much to do, and it had to be done in the small-hours of the night, so that I had no time to give to the indulgence of my feelings when I was left alone in my room. First turning out the contents of my drawers and boxes, I separated from them a few things which were absolutely needful for my purpose. One dress and cloak and bonnet were all that I should require, besides a small supply of under-clothing. The latter I put into a small trunk which Becky could easily carry, and then replaced the other things in the drawers again, arranging and ticketing them in orderly methodical fashion as I wished them by-and-by to be distributed. If 'Tom' should in course of time prove more appreciative of Becky--which in consequence of a hint I had received from Lydia, I did not despair of so much as she did--I pleased myself with the idea that the contents of certain drawers would make a very respectable outfit for her. The plain gray silk dress which I had purchased for my own wedding would not be too fine for hers. In a note placed on the top of the things, I begged Mrs Tipper to give them to Becky when the right time came. Afterwards I took out the little collection of my dear mother's jewellery. It was really a much better one than I had believed it to be. Indeed I had never before examined the contents of the packet. When it appeared probable that the jewels would have to be sold, I had avoided looking at them; shrinking painfully from the idea of calculating upon the money value of my mother's only legacy to me; and perhaps also in my time of need a little afraid of being tempted by the knowledge of its worth. One diamond ring, a large single stone, which even I could tell was of some value, I put on the finger of my left hand, which would never wear another now. That was all I would keep. I then put aside a pretty ruby brooch for my dear old friend Mrs Tipper; and after some hesitation about making a little offering to Philip, I satisfied myself with selecting a valuable antique ring which had belonged to my father, and writing a line begging Lilian to give it to him with the love of his sister Mary. The rest--I was quite proud of the quantity now--I packed up and addressed to the care of Mrs Tipper--my gift to my dear Lilian on her wedding-day.

SUBMARINE CABLES.

WORKING.

The working and maintenance of the existing telegraph lines employ a vast number of people taken all together; but it is surprising how few hands are necessary for the working of any single line or system. This is especially so in the case of submarine cables, where, when the cable continues sound, it is not necessary to support a staff for surveillance and repairs. Half-a-dozen stations several hundred miles apart, and half-a-dozen men at each, are sufficient to carry the news from one end of a continent to the other.

Without enumerating the telegraph systems that now exist, it may suffice to say that the British Isles are connected by submarine cables with nearly every quarter of the globe, and that their number is still increasing.

A telegraph station abroad, no matter in what Company or country, presents nearly the same characteristics wherever found. The more remote the place, the more primitive may be the arrangements; but the work is the same, the men are about the same, and the instruments almost invariably so. There is the superintendent; and under him the clerk in charge, his right-hand man, who oversees the clerks or operators at their work of sending and receiving messages. Then, besides these, and partly independent of them, there is the electrician, a member of the scientific as distinguished from the operating staff of the Company, whose duties are to take periodical tests of the cable and land-lines, to report on their condition, and to keep the instruments in proper working order. Under all these, there is generally the messenger and battery-man, who may be called the stoker of the electrical engine, and who, besides, does the odd work of the establishment.

The station itself generally consists of the superintendent's office or bureau; the instrument-room, where the messages are sent and received; the battery-room, generally under ground; and the sleeping-quarters of the clerks. Occasionally the electrician and clerk in charge have separate working-rooms; and a smoking-room, with perhaps a billiard-table and home newspapers, are added for the convenience of all. Life passes quietly and uneventfully at these stations, except when something goes wrong with the instruments or the cable, and then the electrician has his period of anxiety and trouble; while the operators, on the other hand, find their occupation at a temporary standstill.

To understand the working of a submarine cable and the actual process of sending a message, it is necessary to figure in imagination the several parts of the electric circuit, made up of the battery, the instruments, the cable, and the _earth_ itself; and to remember that for a current of electricity to flow through any part of the circuit it is necessary that the _whole_ circuit should be complete. Starting then from the battery, which is the source of the electric current, we have the cable joined to it by means of a key or sending instrument, which by the working of a short up-and-down lever can connect or disconnect the conductor of the cable to a particular pole of the battery, the other pole of the battery being the while connected to the earth. The cable then takes us to the distant station. Here the conductor is connected to the receiving instrument, or instrument for making the signals indicating the message, and through the receiving instrument it is connected to the earth. The electric circuit is thus rendered complete. The current passes from one pole of the battery by means of the key into the cable, through the cable to the instrument at the other end, and thence to the earth; and inasmuch as the other pole of the battery is at the same time connected to the earth at the first station, the conducting circuit is complete, for the earth, no matter what the intervening distance be, acts as an indispensable part of the circuit.

We have thus the two stations connected by a cable. At the station sending the message there is the battery, from which the current proceeds; the sending instrument, for letting the current into the cable, or stopping it; and the 'earth-plate,' or metal connection between one pole of the battery and the earth. At the station receiving the message there is the receiving instrument, and again the earth-plate, connecting the earth into circuit. These separate parts of the circuit, as we have already said, must be 'connected up,' as it is termed, so as to provide a complete conducting channel for the current to flow in from one pole of the battery to the distant place and back again (or virtually so) through the earth. Only at one place can the circuit be interrupted and the current consequently stopped--that is, at the key of the sending instrument. Here then the sending clerk sits, and by manipulating the lever of this key he 'makes and breaks' the circuit at will, and thereby controls the current. The regulated making and breaking of this connection is the basis of telegraphing, whether by submarine cable or by the ordinary land lines. Accordingly as the clerk maintains the circuit for a longer or a shorter time, so will the current give longer or shorter indications on the receiving instrument at the distant station: or again, according as the opposite poles of the battery are applied to the cable by the key, and the direction of the current consequently reversed in the cable, so will the indicated signals on the receiving instrument be of opposite kind. From the elementary short and long signals, or right and left signals, so obtained on the receiving instrument, a code of letters and words may be built up, and intelligible messages transmitted. The Morse Code is that universally adopted, and for the further information of our readers we here append it as it is usually written:

Letter. Sign.
A . --
B -- . . .
C -- . -- .
D -- . .
E .
F . . -- .
G -- -- .
H . . . .
I . .
J . -- -- --
K -- . --
L . -- . .
M -- --
N -- .
O -- -- --
P . -- -- .
Q -- -- . --
R . -- .
S . . .
T --
U . . --
V . . . --
W . -- --
X -- . . --
Y -- . -- --
Z -- -- . .
Ch -- -- -- --
_é_ (accented) . . -- . .
Understand . . . -- .
Wait . -- . .

The numerals run:

Numeral. Sign.
1 . -- -- -- --
2 . . -- -- --
3 . . . -- --
4 . . . . --
5 . . . . .
6 -- . . . .
7 -- -- . . .
8 -- -- -- . .
9 -- -- -- -- .
0 -- -- -- -- --

For other accented letters, fraction signs, punctuation, and official directions as to the disposal of the message, there are other signs, but the above are the essentials of the Morse Code. The long and short signs represent the long and short signals of the receiving instrument, produced by the long and short contacts of the sending key with the battery. It will be seen that the letter A is rendered by a short signal followed by a long one; the letter B by a long signal followed by three separate short ones; and so on. Hence, in order to telegraph the letter A to his colleague at the distant end of the line, the clerk, by depressing the lever of the sending instrument, makes contact between the cable and the battery, first for a short time, and then for a longer time. The long and short signals are widely employed in overland telegraphy; but in submarine telegraphy a saving of time is effected by signals of _opposite kind_. Thus, if a left deflection, or deflection of the indicator to the left, signifies a 'dot' or short signal, a deflection to the right will signify a 'dash' or long signal. In this case the sending instrument or key has two levers, a right and left one, corresponding to the distinct signal which each produces. By depressing the left lever of the key, a pole of the battery is applied to the cable, which produces a left-hand signal on the receiving instrument at the distant station; and by depressing the right-hand lever, a right-hand signal is produced. Proper rests or intervals are permitted between the separate words, letters, and full stops of a message.

The battery in common use for submarine telegraphy is either the sawdust Daniell or the Leclanché. The Daniell consists of a plate of zinc and a plate of copper brought into contact with each other by sawdust saturated with a solution of sulphate of zinc; and crystals of sulphate of copper (bluestone) are packed round the copper plate, so as to dissolve there in the solution of sulphate of zinc. The zinc plate forms the _negative_ pole of the battery, and the copper plate the _positive_ pole. When these two poles are connected together by a wire or other conducting circuit, such as that made up of the cable and the earth, a current of electricity--the voltaic current--flows from one to the other, and always in one direction, namely, from the copper or positive pole to the zinc or _negative_ pole. Hence it is that by applying the one pole or other to the cable and the other to earth through the earth-plate, the direction of the current in the cable is reversed and opposite signals produced.

The earth-plate is usually a copper plate several feet square, sunk deep into the moist subsoil near the station, so as to make a good conducting contact with the mass of the earth.

The receiving instruments for working a submarine cable are different from those used in working land-lines. Inasmuch as the current travels full strength, like a bullet, through a land-line, and in the form of an undulation or wave through a cable, so is it necessary to have different kinds of receiving instruments for each. In a land-line powerful currents can be used with impunity, and these can be made, by means of electro-magnetism, to move comparatively heavy pieces of mechanism in giving signals. But in a cable the currents are prudently kept as low as possible, in case of damage to the insulator, and the receiving instrument must therefore be delicate. In land-lines the current passes in an instant, leaving the line clear for the next signal, so that the indications of the receiving instrument are abrupt and decided. But in a cable the electric current takes an appreciable time to flow from end to end, so that the separate signals in part coalesce, the beginning of one blending with the end of that preceding it, so that the signals become involved with each other. It is necessary, therefore, that time be allowed for each wave to clear itself of the cable before another wave is sent in, otherwise we would have the cable as it were _choked_ with the message. A continuous current of electricity may be said to be flowing through it, and the ripples on the surface are the separate signals of the message. It is to take cognisance of these waves or ripples that the receiving instrument for cable-work must be designed; and as the quicker the message is sent into the cable the smaller these ripples will be, the more delicate should be the instrument.

There are only two instruments in use on long cables, and both are the invention of Sir William Thomson, the distinguished Glasgow physicist and electrician. The mirror galvanometer has been already described in this _Journal_ in a paper on the manufacture of submarine cables; and the 'mirror' or 'speaker,' the commonest of these receiving instruments, is but a modified form of the mirror galvanometer. It consists of a hollow coil of silk-covered wire, in the heart of which a tiny mirror, with several small magnets cemented to its back, is suspended by a single thread of floss-silk fibre. A beam of light from a lamp is thrown upon the mirror, and reflected from it on to a white screen, across which a vertical zero-line is drawn. When no current is passing through the coil, the reflected beam of light which makes an illuminated spot or gleam on the screen, remains steady at the zero-line. But when a current passes through the coil, the magnets in its heart are moved and the mirror with them, so that the beam of light is thrown off at a different angle, and the spot of light is seen to move from the zero-line along the screen to right or to left of the zero-line according as the current is made or reversed in the coil; so that as the key is manipulated at the sending station, so are right or left signals received by the clerk who sits watching the movements of this spot of light, and interpreting them to his fellow-clerk, who writes them down. In the form of instrument here described, and also in the other receiving instrument for submarine work, the zero is not fixed but movable. The vertical line on the screen is only the nominal zero. The continuous current underlying the ripples which form the message, deflects the spot from the zero-line; but this slow deflection can be disregarded by the clerk, for over and above it there are smaller quicker movements of the spot to right and left corresponding to the ripples, and these are the proper signals of the message. It requires long practice to make a good 'mirror' clerk, one who can follow the gleam with his eye through all its quick and intricate motions, and distinguish between those due to the shifting zero and those due to the various signals sent. Even this compound-ripple difficulty, however, is now got rid of by the use of an apparatus called a 'condenser,' the effects of which are that continuous currents are neutralised, and the pulsations of the signals sent are _alone_ seen in the movements of the light upon the scale.

The other instrument is the siphon recorder, which permanently records in ink the signals which the 'mirror' only shews transiently. The principle of the siphon recorder is the converse of that of the mirror. In the mirror there is a large fixed coil and a light suspended magnet. In the siphon recorder there is a large fixed magnet and a light suspended coil. When the current passes through this coil, the latter moves much in the same way as the magnet moves in the 'mirror;' that is, it rocks to right or left according as the current flows. This rocking motion is communicated, by a system of levers and fibres, to a very fine glass capillary siphon, which dips into an ink-bottle and draws off ink upon a strip of running paper. The ink is highly electrified, so as to rush through the siphon and out upon the paper, marking a fine line upon it as it runs. When no current passes in the coil, this zero-line is straight; but when currents are passing, the line becomes zigzag and wavy; and the right and left waves across the paper constitute the message. Both of these instruments are very beautiful and ingenious applications of well-known electric, optical, and mechanical principles. The great merit of the recorder is that if a false signal is accidentally made by the sending clerk, the whole word need not always be lost by the receiving clerk, but may be made out from the rest of the word written down. Thus much repetition of messages is saved. There is some advantage too in having a written message for purposes of after reference.

A singularly ingenious system of telegraphy, termed the _duplex_, has recently been extended to long submarine cables, and is likely to become of general, if not universal application. It is effected by constructing an artificial line, in this case representing an artificial cable, which shall have the same influences on the current that the actual cable has. The signalling current from the battery is then split up at each station between the actual cable and the artificial cable, so that half flows into one and half into the other. And there is placed a receiving instrument in such a way between these two halves of the current that they exactly counterbalance each other's effect upon it; and so long as sending is going on from a station, the receiving instrument at that station is undisturbed. But the sending currents from the other station have the power to disturb this balance and cause signals to be made. Thus then, while the sending at a station does not affect the receiving instrument in connection with the cable there, the currents sent from the distant station cause it to mark the signals. Each station is thus enabled to send a message and receive one at the same time; and this is what is called duplex or double telegraphy.

In ordinary telegraphy, one station is receiving while the other is sending; but in duplex working, both stations are sending together and receiving together, so that there is little or no delay in the traffic, and the carrying power of a busy cable is practically doubled.