Chapter II: Part 2

In case of accident to the cables each Company maintains a repairing-ship ready to go to sea at shortest notice. Some 'faults' are of a nature not seriously to interfere with the working of a cable; but it cannot be expected that they will remain always in the same comparatively harmless state. When a flaw occurs in the insulator it tends to enlarge itself, and more of the current escapes to the sea, until so much escapes that the current which reaches the distant station is too feeble to work the instruments there. All traffic therefore ceases. The electrician's tests having localised the fault so many miles from shore, the repairing-ship proceeds to the spot. Here she lowers her grapnel a mile or two on one side or other of the supposed line of the cable, and when enough rope has been let out, she steers very slowly under steam, or drifts with the tide across the cable's track. The grapnel is simply a great iron hook, one approved form being like a compound fish-hook, with five or six flukes starting from the shank. A weight of chain drags behind it, to keep it well down on the bottom. The rope, which is generally of wire and yarn, passes under a dynamometer, which indicates its tension, and thence to the steam winch used for hauling in. Often the grapnel catches in rocks, or mud, and gives rise to false hope of the cable having been found. The ship is brought to, and hauling in commences; but soon the obstruction 'gives,' or the grapnel itself breaks, and the true nature of the 'catch' is found out. When the cable is hooked, the greatest skill and care are needed, especially when the ship's head lifts with the waves, to bring up the bight carefully without breaking the cable. When brought to the surface the cable is cut, and each end is brought on board in turn and tested. The fault, as we have previously shewn with the paying-out ship, may prove to be but a few miles distant. The sound end is thereupon buoyed, and the ship proceeds to pick up or haul in the faulty end until it is thought the fault must have been picked up. The electrician then cuts off the piece which contains the fault, and then he has only to join on a sound piece of cable in its place, and lay it back to the end that was buoyed, so filling up the gap. But if it should _not_ contain the fault, the tests are again applied, until finally the fault is detected and cut out. Repairing is arduous and trying work; now giving rise to hopes, now crushing them, and anon deferring them. A great responsibility rests on those who undertake them, as the gain or loss of a week or two may represent an enormous sum of money to the Company.

CROSS-PURPOSES.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.--CHAPTER II.

Had Cissy only known it, there was very little in Frank Halkett's words to cause her any uneasiness. On his entering the drawing-room, seeing his place by Cissy's side forestalled by the major, whose person intercepted the beaming smile of welcome she bestowed upon him, he had turned away and thrown himself into the low chair that stood by Mrs Leyton's cosy lounge.

'So you have taken refuge with me,' says that lady with a quiet smile.

'Refuge!' repeats Halkett with an innocently puzzled air. 'No; I have only taken a seat.'

'What's the matter with you, Frank?'

'Nothing. Why? Do I look dyspeptic?'

'You don't look pleasant, certainly, if that has anything to do with it. Come; I am a witch, you know,' says Mrs Leyton, 'and so can tell all your secrets. And just to prove my power, I will tell you something now--you are sulky this evening.'

'Meaning I am stupid, I suppose,' says Halkett; 'but it don't take much witchery to discover that. I have an awful headache.'

'Oh, but I have not half done yet,' exclaims Mrs Leyton. 'Shall I go on? I could tell something very important, but that I am afraid of your heavy displeasure. Will you promise not to be angry?'

'Angry with _you_! Was I ever that?' asks Halkett tenderly. 'I give you full liberty to say anything on earth you like to me.'

'Do you mean that?'

'Certainly I mean it.'

'Very good then,' says the widow with lazy triumph; 'I will continue my sorceries; and first--you are in love.'

'"In love!"' reiterates Halkett, forcing himself heroically to meet her laughing eyes, and reddening very much in the attempt. 'No, no; your witchcraft has played you false this time.'

'It has not. I persist in my declaration. You are in love--hopelessly, irretrievably, desperately in love.'

'Well, perhaps I am,' says Frank, with tranquil resignation. 'Is that strange? Could one be with you, Frances, for so long a time, and not'----

'Nonsense!' interrupts Mrs Leyton. 'Do not trouble yourself to complete that sentence. We are much too old friends for _that_, I take it. And now, Frank, be a good boy; emulate your name, tell me all about it.'

'I really don't know that there is anything much to tell,' says Halkett, smiling. 'But what there is you shall hear. I admire a certain young lady more than is good for me; I fancy, until to-day, she returns my regard. I discover a couple of hours ago that my vanity has misled me. I see her happy in the arms--no, in the society of another--I find myself nowhere, hence my dyspepsia, distraction, and despair.--Don't look so sympathetic, Frances; probably I shall get over it.'

Though he says this with a laughing face, Mrs Leyton's dark eyes can see for themselves he is tremendously hard hit.

'And what is her name?' she asks sweetly.

'O Frances! You laying claim to be a witch, and must even ask _that_ question? I decline to answer it. Your fairy lore should enable you to find out that much for yourself.'

'I love my love with a C because she is candid; I hate her with a C because she is capricious,' says Mrs Leyton archly. 'Am I "warm?" or will you still cry "cold?" If you do the latter, I doubt you will be wronging your conscience. Ah, Frank, I think I am one too many for you!'

'You were always that. What one man is equal to any woman? Well, as you have guessed so far, I believe I may as well tell you the rest;' and forthwith he commences to pour forth a tale, the telling of which had caused Cissy such exquisite anguish.

When he has finished, Mrs Leyton says: 'If you will take my advice, you will seek the first opportunity that offers, and ask for an explanation of her coldness.'

'You really think that the best thing to do?' says Halkett, brightening. 'I will act upon your advice then, and try my chance. Now let us forget it for the present. Is that a new ring upon your finger? May I look at it? Does it mark a fresh adorer?'

'No; an old one. Geoffrey Hyde gave it to me last autumn.' She surrenders her hand to him as she speaks; and he bending over it, examines leisurely the cluster of brilliants that scintillate and flash beneath the lamp-light.

'He has been faithful to you for a long time,' says Halkett presently.

'Yes; he is very tormenting. I really believe I shall have to marry him in the long-run, if only to get him out of the way.' She reddens a little as she says this, and laughs rather nervously.

'Are you serious?' asks Halkett with surprise. 'Then you are going to make him a happy man after all?'

'That remains to be proved. Probably I shall make him a wholesome warning to all obstinate men. But I think when last I saw him I made him some foolish promise about marrying him in the spring.'

'I congratulate him with all my heart, and you too,' says Halkett cordially. 'I think he is the only man I know _quite_ worthy of you.'

When the hour comes for bedroom candles to be adjusted, Halkett seizes one, lights it, and carries it solemnly to Miss Mordaunt. But quick as he has been, Major Blake reaches her side similarly armed, almost at the same moment.

'Which shall I take?' says Miss Cissy gaily. 'I suppose I can have my choice. I think _this_ pleases me most;' and she holds out her hand towards Blake with a pretty smile. 'Thank you,' she continues, slipping her slender fingers into his brown palm; 'and good-night. Don't smoke too much;' and with a little provoking backward nod she trips away, without bestowing so much as one poor glance upon Halkett. And so ends his first attempt at an explanation, leaving him so indignant that he almost vows he will not seek another.

All the following day Miss Mordaunt studiously avoids him, giving him no chance of obtaining the tête-à-tête she sees is impending. But Halkett calmly bides his time, knowing it cannot be far distant. As daylight fades, he feels more than ever determined to bring her to book before the dawn of another morning; and in this instance at least the Fates favour him, as there is to be a large dancing-party at the Hall to-night. She cannot well refuse to give him one dance out of the many--such palpable avoidance would be rather _too_ marked; and once he has secured her as his partner, she must be at his mercy until the dance comes to an end.

This idea of course has also occurred to Miss Mordaunt, and though dreading the interview, she is still sufficiently indignant to cause her to make up her mind to be as curt and outspoken on the occasion as will be in strict keeping with her dignity. In this frame of mind she goes up-stairs to dress, and being an Irishwoman, it cannot be altogether said but that she sustains a rather pleasurable sensation--albeit one largely mingled with something very much akin to nervousness--as the battle-hour draws nigh.

'What shall I wear, Kennedy?' she asks her maid, sinking languidly into a chair.

'Well, miss, you know you look well in anything,' says Kennedy obligingly; 'there is nothing but what becomes you; but if I might be allowed to suggest, you look lovely entirely in white.'

'I won't wear white; I hate it,' says her mistress pettishly. 'Débutantes, and brides, and corpses wear white; I think--I shall wear--_black_ to-night.'

'Black? O Miss Mordaunt!'

'Yes; certainly. Is gay clothing so necessary to me, then?'

'Well, miss, there's no doubt but you look real handsome in black; but the other ladies--they will be so gay--and you'----

'I shall be gayer than any of them, and the greater contrast!' cries Cissy, springing to her feet. 'Come, Kennedy; despatch, despatch; I feel I shall hold my own yet.'

And Kennedy throwing herself heart and mind into her task, soon turns out the most charming picture possible.

As Miss Mordaunt enters the drawing-room she sees Halkett standing on the hearth-rug in earnest conversation with the widow, who, if there is a fire anywhere, is never any great distance from it. He has been telling her of his repulse of the night before, and is looking somewhat dejected.

'Never mind,' says Mrs Leyton kindly; 'get her _alone_; then _you_ will have the advantage. I think she must have heard--or fancied--something that wounds her.'

'I do not flatter myself so far; I merely think she prefers Blake, and wishes to get rid of me,' says Halkett gloomily.

'Nonsense! Let nothing induce you to believe that. In the first place, she doesn't even _look_ at the man in the right way.'

Halkett laughs in spite of himself, and immediately afterwards becomes if possible even more despondent than before.

'How can she like that fellow Blake?' he says ill-naturedly.

'Oh, I don't see _that_. For my part, I think him absolutely handsome.'

'Of course, that goes without telling. All women have a _tendresse_ for those great coarse broad-shouldered men. And what an accent he has!'

'Do you really dislike it? To me, I confess it is rather pleasant; mellow, with just a touch of the brogue. Your Cissy, you must remember, has it too, with perhaps rather more of the mellow and less of the brogue; but then you are prejudiced against this poor Blake.'

'Indeed I am not; you mistake me altogether: I think him a downright good fellow. In fact I have a fancy for all Irishmen; they are so full of go--chic--good-humour, until crossed. And Blake is like all his countrymen, a most enjoyable companion,' says Halkett with suspicious warmth.

'Evidently Miss Mordaunt is of your opinion,' says the widow rather cruelly, pointing to where Cissy is listening with a smiling face to one of the major's good stories.

Meanwhile the guests are arriving; and the fine old room that has been given up to the dancers is rapidly filling with pretty girls and powdered dowagers and men of all ages and degrees. Papas too are numerous; but these instinctively crowd round Uncle Charlie, and by degrees edge towards a more dimly lighted room, where instinct tells them, whist is holding silent sway.

'Will you give me the first dance?' says Halkett to Mrs Leyton, who readily grants her consent. Major Blake has of course secured Cissy; and presently, as ill-luck will have it, they find themselves in the same set, dancing opposite to each other. As Halkett's hand meets Cissy's, he hardly lets his fingers close round hers; and as she is also in a revengeful mood, the ladies' chain almost falls to the ground. Mrs Leyton, in spite of the good-nature that lies somewhere in her composition, nearly chokes with suppressed laughter as she witnesses this little by-play. She twits Halkett about it later on, but he is moody, and doesn't take kindly to her witticisms.

At least half the programme has been gone through before Captain Halkett asks Miss Mordaunt for the pleasure of a dance.

'If I am disengaged,' she says coldly, not looking at him, and searches her card with a languid bored air that tantalises him almost beyond endurance. He is longing to say: 'Never mind it; I wont interfere with your enjoyment this time,' with his sweetest smile, and rage at his heart; but he is too sternly determined to have it out with her to-night, to let his natural feelings win the day.

Cissy examining her card finds she is not engaged for the next dance, very much to her disgust; and is pondering whether she shall tell the lie direct and declare she is, when Halkett, as though he divines her thoughts, says abruptly: 'Not engaged for the next? Then I suppose I may have it?'

'I suppose so,' returns Miss Cissy reluctantly; and instantly turning from him, addresses her partner, as though such a person as Halkett were no longer in existence. Indeed, when after a quarter of an hour, he finds her in the conservatory and claims the fulfilment of her promise, it is with the utmost bad grace she places the very tips of her fingers upon his arm, and looks impatiently towards the ball-room.

'I don't mean dancing just yet; I have something particular to say to you first,' says Halkett hastily, and almost commandingly, standing quite still. 'It is hardly private here. Would you find it too cold to come with me into the garden?' glancing at the open door of the conservatory.

Cissy hesitates; then fearful of seeming reluctant, says: 'No. If you will go to the library for my shawl (you will find it on the sofa), I will go with you.'

'You will stay here until I return?' says Halkett, regarding her intently.

Cissy stares in turn. 'Of course I will,' she answers rather haughtily; and he goes.

'Did he imagine I would run away when his back was turned?' she soliloquises angrily. 'Does he suppose I am _afraid_? One would think it was _I_ was in the wrong, not he. His conduct altogether is downright mysterious. I cannot understand him;' and for the first time it dawns upon her mind that there may possibly be some flaw in the interpretation she has put upon his conduct.

Returning with the shawl, Halkett places it gently round her shoulders, and they pass into the quiet night.

'What a beautiful moon!' exclaims Cissy presently, hardly knowing what to say.

'Yes;' absently.

'And for this time of year, how wonderfully mild it is--not in the least cold--as one might expect.'

'Yes--no--is it not?'

'I really don't know what _you_ think about it,' says Miss Mordaunt impatiently. 'I for my part find it almost warm; but of course I cannot answer for you. Probably all this time you are feeling desperately cold.'

This little petulant outburst rouses Halkett.

'No!' he says with sudden energy and warmth; 'I am _not_. It is not in my nature to be cold in any way. I feel most things keenly: more especially slights from those I love. All ill-concealed disdain, unkind speeches, fickleness, touch me closely.'

'I can sympathise with you,' says Cissy calmly. 'I think nothing can be so bad as inconstancy--except perhaps deceit.'

This retort being as unexpected as it is evidently _meant_, puzzles Halkett to such a degree that he becomes absolutely silent. Miss Mordaunt, with her white shawl drawn closely round her slight black-robed figure, walks quietly beside him with the air of an offended queen, her head held rather higher than usual, a pretty look of scorn upon her lips.

After a while Halkett pulls up abruptly and faces her in the narrow pathway. 'What is the reason of your changed behaviour towards me to-day and yesterday?' he says shortly. 'I think I have a right to ask that.'

'_Have_ I changed?'

'_Have_ you? Must you ask the question? The whole world can see it. You treat me with the most studied coldness.'

'I thought I was treating you with as much courtesy as I give to all my uncle's guests.'

'I don't care for courtesy,' says Halkett passionately; 'your hatred would be better than your indifference. Yesterday morning I believed we were friends--nay, _more_ than that; yesterday evening you ignored me altogether. It is either heartless coquetry on your part, or else you have a reason for your conduct. Let me hear it.'

'You are forgetting yourself,' says Miss Mordaunt coldly. 'You are the first person who has ever accused me of coquetry; you shall not do it again. I was foolish to come here with you, but--I trusted you. I wish to return to the house.'

'Nay, hear me!' cries Halkett remorsefully, following as she makes a movement to leave him, and catching her hand to detain her. 'Your avoidance has so perplexed and maddened me, that I said more than I meant or intended. Forgive me, and at least let me know how I have offended. Cissy, answer me!'

For a moment Miss Mordaunt hesitates, then endeavouring to speak lightly: 'I did not intend to perplex you,' she says; 'one cannot speak to every one at the same time. I am sorry if I appeared rude or neglectful; but you did not _look_ very miserable, and surely Mrs Leyton was an excellent substitute for me.' She smiles as she says this, but pales a little too beneath the brilliant moon that is betraying her.

'Mrs Leyton is my very oldest and dearest friend,' replies Halkett; 'but no one on earth could console me for--your loss. Why will you not confess the truth, Cissy, and'----

'Yet you once loved her, if report speaks truly,' interrupts Miss Mordaunt, still speaking carelessly, though her heart-throbs can almost be counted. 'In India, we hear, there was a time when you would gladly have called her your wife. Is it not so?'

Halkett drops her hand.

'Has that miserable bit of gossip taken root even here?' he says with a faint sneer. 'Has Blake been making his cause good by such rubbishing tales? Frances Leyton and I grew up together. I would as soon think of making love to my nearest of kin as to her. The idea of any romantic attachment existing between us is more than absurd! Besides, she is to be married to Geoffrey Hyde early in the coming spring.'

Miss Mordaunt severs a little twig from one of the shrubs, and takes it to pieces slowly.

'Then _she_ did not give you your favourite mare?' she says quietly, detesting herself as she asks the question, yet feeling compelled to solve all her doubts at once.

'No; she did not.' A pause. 'Shall I tell you who gave her to me? It was my only sister, Lady Harley. She loved the Baby dearly, and on her death-bed, told me to take good care of the creature, for her sake.'

The twig falls from Cissy's fingers. Surely, surely it cannot be true! Oh, how he must hate and despise her for all she has said and done! It is too late now to make reparation. She feels she would rather die a thousand deaths than give in, and confess to all the wretched suspicions and jealousies she has been carefully harbouring in her heart during these two past days.

'However, all this is beside the question,' goes on Halkett; 'you have not yet told me what I so much want to know. Has Blake anything to do with your coldness to me? Tell me, Cissy, are you engaged to him?'

Cissy has not expected this, and growing suddenly crimson, lets her head droop somewhat suspiciously. Halkett's eyes are on her face.

'No; of course not--I am not indeed.' There is a faint stammer in her speech as she says this, and Halkett's fears become certainties.

'But you _care_ for him!' he exclaims vehemently. 'The very mention of his name has brought a flush into your cheeks. You hesitate, and turn your head aside. This then accounts for your sudden change of behaviour towards me! Having gained your point, you found your first victim in the way, and hardly knowing how to get rid of so troublesome an appendage, had recourse to---- Had you told me point-blank my attentions were unwelcome, it would have been more womanly, more just'----

'Pray, do not say another word,' says Miss Mordaunt with dignity, though tears are in her voice and eyes; 'this is the second time to-night you have spoken words difficult to forget. Do not trouble yourself to return with me. I prefer going in alone.'

* * * * *

When Cissy and Halkett appear at breakfast the following morning, they take care to seat themselves as far as possible from each other, and presently it becomes palpable to every one that they are considerably out of sorts. Uncle Charlie suggests that Miss Cissy has over-danced herself, or given the wrong man his _congé_; a remark that has sufficient truth in it to bring the hot blood into her cheeks. While Captain Halkett, having run through his letters, declares he must return to town by the afternoon train; at which Mrs Leyton looks uneasy, and casts a covert glance at Cissy Mordaunt.

That young lady stands fire pretty well, but with all her hardihood cannot keep her under lip from trembling ever so little. This sign of weakness be assured does not escape the widow's tutored eye; and she instantly challenges Major Blake to a game of billiards after breakfast.

'My dear Frank, you can't go to-day,' says Uncle Charlie decidedly. 'To-morrow they have promised us the best run we have had yet. I will not hear of your leaving. Write and tell her you have sprained your ankle, and send her your undying love. She will forgive you when she sees you.'

'I wish I _could_ stay,' says Halkett, laughing; 'but unfortunately my recall is from my solicitor, not from my lady-love.'

'I don't believe a word of it!' says Uncle Charlie. 'A sudden recall _always_ means a woman. Why, when _I_ was a young man, I thought nothing of'----

'My dear!' says Aunt Isabel, with a gentle uplifting of the right hand.

'Quite so, my good Belle,' returns Uncle Charlie, patting the soft white fingers. 'But seriously, Frank, she will do very well without you.'

'I have no doubt of _that_,' says Halkett, and raising his eyes meets Miss Mordaunt's full.

Half an hour later, Cissy, feeling mournful and guilty, steals round to the stables to take a last look at the Baby, as she is afraid to look at the Baby's master. Just as she is patting her and rubbing down the soft velvet muzzle, the door opens, and Halkett enters.

'I am glad to see she is so much better,' says Miss Mordaunt promptly but nervously, pointing to the injured limb. 'If you go to-day, you will not take her with you, I suppose?'

'No; I suppose not.'

'_Must_ you go?'

Halkett glances at her reproachfully. 'Yes; of course I must. There is no other course left open to me. After what you told me last night, it would be simple madness to remain.'

'What did I tell you? I don't think I told you anything.'

'Well--what you led me to infer.'

'You should not infer things. _I_ never meant you to do so.' As Miss Mordaunt says this in a very low tone, she turns her head aside and recedes a step or two. A dark flush rises to Halkett's brow, colouring all his face, even through the bronze an Indian sun has laid upon it. A sudden gleam of something akin to hope shines in his eyes for an instant, but is as speedily suppressed.

'Do you know what you are doing?' he says in a tone sufficiently unsteady to betray the agitation he is feeling. 'Do you know what your manner, your words seem to me to mean? Do not, I implore you, raise within me again the hope I have surrendered, unless---- O Cissy, _you_ will never know how cruel a thing it is to love without return!'

'But--are you sure--_your_ love--has gained no return?' demands Miss Cissy in faltering accents, and immediately afterwards feels she has but one desire on earth, and that is for the ground to open and swallow her.

'Cissy, Cissy!' cries Halkett, '_tell_ me you do not care for that fellow Blake!'

'Not a bit, not a bit!' says Cissy; and in another moment finds herself in Halkett's arms, her tears running riot over the breast of his coat. 'Oh, say that you forgive me!' she sobs. 'It was most hateful of me--about that bedroom candlestick the other night, and everything. But I misunderstood it all. I thought you loved Mrs Leyton. _Say_ that you forgive me!'

'I will not hear a word about forgiveness now,' says Halkett, who has been assiduously employed in kissing her hair, brow, and any other part of her face that is visible. 'It is taking a mean advantage of me; I am so happy this moment, I would forgive my bitterest enemy without hesitation. By-and-by we will discuss the question, and I shall grant you pardon on my own terms.'

Some time before luncheon there comes a knock, low but decided, at Uncle Charlie's library door.

'Come in!' calls out the owner of the apartment; and the door opening admits Frank Halkett and Miss Mordaunt--the latter keeping well behind, and only compelled by the strong clasp of her companion's hand to advance at all.

'I have come, sir,' says Halkett mildly, 'to tell you I have, after all, decided on delaying my departure until next week, as I at first intended--if you do not object.'

'Indeed, indeed; I am glad of that,' says Uncle Charlie, just a wee bit puzzled. 'I need not say how welcome you are.--But what about the business letter, eh, and your hot haste to reach town? What has changed your plans, eh?'

'Miss Mordaunt,' says Halkett, with a mischievous glance at Cissy, who is hopelessly confused and horribly shamefaced, in the background. 'Miss Mordaunt has induced me to alter my mind.'

'Eh! what, what?' says Uncle Charlie, rising from his chair as the truth dawns upon him, and instantly sinking back into it again. 'You don't _mean_ it! And all this time I could have _sworn_ it was that fellow Blake!'

* * * * *

And so were made happy a pair who, through a mutual misunderstanding, might have never come together again in this world; who, but for an accidental timely explanation, might have remained through life victims to Cross-purposes. Reader, remember that there are two sides to every story.

POLAR COLONISATION.

Towards the end of February the Naval Committee of the House of Representatives at Washington reported a Bill authorising the American government to fit out an Arctic Expedition, which would establish a colony on Lady Franklin's Bay, and thence despatch exploring parties to the Pole. To influence congressional action in this matter, two or three pamphlets have been put forth in America, and circulated among the members of both houses. In one of these, Captain Henry W. Howgate, U.S.A., advocates the doctrine, that to reach the Pole with the greatest certainty, and with the least expenditure of time, money, and human life, it is essential that the exploring party be on the ground at the very time when the ice gives way and opens the gateway to the long-sought prize. This, he affirms, can only be done by colonising a few hardy, resolute, and experienced men at some point near the borders of the Polar Sea.

The same idea, in a somewhat different form, is advocated by Mr R. W. D. Bryan, of the United States' Naval Observatory at Washington, who, at Captain Howgate's request, has expounded in a brief pamphlet his views in regard to the best methods of conducting Arctic exploration. Mr Bryan says that he has given the subject much thought for many years, and has carefully examined the rich treasures of Arctic literature. This study, and his own experience and personal observation during the _Polaris_ expedition, have suggested to him a plan which seems comprehensive and practicable. He is opposed to all spasmodic efforts to reach the Pole, because the chances of success are not commensurate with the necessary outlay. Let a vessel, he says, be always ready at some advanced post to push forward whenever an opportunity offers, for it is well known to Arctic explorers that Polar ice moves, shifts its position, and breaks up, sometimes slowly, and at other times with great rapidity, and that its position and condition change from year to year; hence in the same place success in one season may follow the defeat of a previous one. If, therefore, a vessel be at hand when the movement carries the ice out of her path, she can advance; and if, unfortunately, she should have no such opportunity, her officers and crew, by their observations and their boat and sledge journeys, would be able to employ their time profitably; the chances, however, would probably be in favour of their finding some season sufficiently open to admit of their forcing the vessel towards the Pole. In connection with the ship which is thus to watch year by year for a friendly ice movement, Mr Bryan would have a station established on the land within easy communicating distance, and yet not so far north as to prevent its being visited at least once in every two or three years by a ship from the parent country. The plan, no doubt, is one which would conduce to eventual success; but we should fancy that even the hardiest enthusiasts would shrink from an undertaking which would involve their spending annually from four to five months in total darkness, even though 'the station should afford warm comfortable quarters for a corps of scientific observers and an active band of explorers.'

We cannot follow Mr Bryan through all the details of his original plan, but it will be interesting to glance briefly at a bolder and more comprehensive one which he develops towards the conclusion of his _brochure_. He says, and with reason, that a greater certainty of speedy success and the collection of scientific data beyond all measure more valuable, would follow the enlargement of the scheme he has propounded. 'Instead of establishing one station, and having but one ship watching tirelessly the mysterious movements of the ice, let there be many stations and many ships placed at intervals along the whole threshold of the unknown region.' To this, of course, the obvious objection arises that the plan would involve the expenditure of a large amount of money; but Mr Bryan is equal to the occasion, and perhaps taking a hint from the king of the Belgians' proposition with regard to African exploration, he suggests that the enterprise should be an international one, for in that case the burden upon any one nation would be comparatively light. Mr Bryan has gone further, for he has partitioned the work among the nations. Great Britain is to grapple with the difficulties of the Behring Strait route, and in addition, to take a turn at 'the eastern coast of Wrangell's Land or the western coast, or both.' This, we imagine, would keep Sir George Nares occupied for some time. For the United States is claimed the right to consider the Smith's Sound route as peculiarly its own; and the Germans are to undertake 'the eastern coast of Greenland, the route advocated so long and so well by their illustrious geographer Dr Petermann.' The Dutch are to take Spitzbergen for the base of their operations; the Austrians are to follow up Lieutenant Payer's discoveries in Franz Josef Land; and the Russians are to establish stations upon Novaya Zemlya and some of the extreme northern points of their empire. Italy, Norway, and Sweden, France, Spain, and Portugal have minor parts assigned to them; but hardy Denmark, oddly enough, is overlooked.

Mr Bryan thinks that the money laid out on these enterprises would be 'well invested, and would give an ample and speedy return in every department of human industry.'

Since the foregoing was written, intelligence has been received that arrangements are actually in progress for carrying out Captain Howgate's bold plan of prosecuting Polar discovery. The expedition, we hear, will be under the command of Captain Tyson, of _Polaris_ fame, and it was intended that it should leave at once for the Arctic regions to select a position for the planting of a colony in 1878. The funds required for this advance voyage (about ten thousand dollars) will be raised by subscription in New York; and it is expected that Congress will in autumn appropriate fifty thousand dollars to cover the expenses of despatching the colony.

A FEW WORDS ABOUT POULTRY.

There is no species of live-stock less understood or less cared for than poultry. Almost every farmer and nearly every cottager in the country keeps hens, as well as a great number of people about the suburbs of all large towns; and strange as it may seem, if you ask them as to the profitableness of their stock, you will almost invariably be met with the answer that 'hens don't pay.' Many people of course never take the trouble to find out whether they pay or not, but go on rehearsing the story of others who do take that trouble, and who find it an unprofitable job. With a large number of poultry-keepers this is really the case; and there must therefore be a certain fascination about fowls that induces such people to keep them. The secret probably is that fresh eggs being such an adjunct to the breakfast-table and to the making of savoury omelets and puddings, hens are kept to lay eggs, no matter how few, or at what cost. Some people, however, do make them pay, and pay well too; but it is only by properly directed intelligence being brought to bear on the subject, as well as by the exercise of a good deal of care and attention, that this object is attained. Many an amateur keeper of poultry is able during the spring months to sell as many eggs as he can part with at prices ranging from six shillings to a guinea per dozen--such eggs being the produce of prize poultry, and such prices being given in order to rear chickens from them. It is therefore principally amateurs, fanciers, and people who take delight in and bestow care and attention on their birds, that are able to reap satisfactory results from the rearing and keeping of poultry. If care and attention were not brought to bear on the rearing of horses and cattle, these would not pay either; but hens are, by farmers especially, usually considered too insignificant to bestow much trouble on; therefore they are often allowed to run about starved and ill cared for at one time, and glutted with food at another; while their roosting-houses from want of cleaning become so filthy that it is a wonder the birds so frequently escape the diseases which filth engenders, and to which the feathered tribe are so liable.

It is certainly not creditable to this country that the importation of poultry and eggs is so enormous, and probably few persons are aware of its extent. In 1875, the latest year for which the Board of Trade returns have been completed, no less than seven hundred and forty-one million of eggs were brought into this country; and the returns of the immediately preceding years shew that this importation has been making gigantic strides. Most of these eggs come to us from France; and when we consider that the French themselves are large consumers of both eggs and poultry, it may well be imagined to what an enormous extent our friends across the Channel develop this branch of trade or commerce. The advantage which our continental neighbours derive from it is obvious when we consider that not only eggs but fowls are largely sent over to us; and that about three millions of pounds sterling are now annually paid by Great Britain for these two staple articles of consumption. Farmers and poultry-keepers should lay this well to heart, and endeavour by some means so to increase the production of poultry and eggs, as not only to secure the retention of a large portion of this money in our own country, but to fill their own pockets with a portion of it.

In our observation and experience the point on which most ignorance prevails with regard to poultry is food. No attention or intelligence appears to be directed to the kind, quantity, or time of feeding that is most suitable; and nowhere is this ignorance more noticeable than at farm-steadings. At such places, hens are generally allowed to surfeit themselves with grain at one season, while they are starved at another. Now they do not lay well while they are either in the one condition or the other; for a starved bird has not the wherewithal to produce eggs, while an overfed one gets lazy and accumulates internal fat, to the extinction of egg-production altogether. Hens never lay so well as when they are kept in a state of activity, running after meat that is thrown to them, or searching and scratching for it among earth or rubbish. After moulting-time, or when hens have been as it were resting from laying eggs, one of the first things that to a keen observer heralds a speedy return to that state, is the restless activity with which they scrape and scratch the ground. When their courts or haunts bear evidence of this by the holes which they make, laying is not far off. A happy medium in feeding produces the best results with poultry; and a golden rule is never to give fowls more at a time than they will greedily pick up. Indeed they should always be made to leave off before their appetite is satiated. Their meals should be given regularly, and should be thrown on the ground to them, not left in wooden troughs, which readily sour and taint the meat. But whether given on the ground or otherwise, not a particle should be allowed to lie over, for nothing injures hens more than stale food.

The number of meals in a day may vary according to circumstances, but for adult fowls no more than three should ever be allowed. Where hens have full liberty to roam about a farm-yard or in fields, only two scanty meals should be given both in summer and in winter--one in the morning as early as possible, and the other about an hour before they go to roost in the evening. Birds which are confined to courts or runs should have a more substantial meal--not later than nine o'clock in the morning in winter, and an hour or two earlier in summer, with a pick of something at mid-day, besides their evening feed. Grain of some kind should always be given them at night; wheat, rough barley, or oats, are all good, but ought to be used singly, not mixed; and it is well occasionally to change the variety. Indian corn seems to be more relished than any other grain, but should be sparingly given, and never longer than a very few days at a time, just for a change, as it has a very fattening tendency. The morning meal may consist of table-refuse of any sort mixed to a proper consistency with sharps, middlings, bran, or barley-meal. The mixture should neither be too sloppy nor too hard, but such as if thrown on the ground in a lump will break into bits, not crumble down into a state of powder. Potatoes are bad to use in large quantities, for like Indian corn they are too fattening; boiled turnips, however, may be used with advantage for mixing. In winter it is best to give the morning diet warm, with an occasional sprinkling of pepper during very cold or wet weather. A very little salt may likewise be added. The mid-day pick may either consist of the morning's remains or a little grain; but on no account should soft food be given after it has stood for any length of time. It can be mixed up at night, but what is then prepared should all be used up on the following day. Grass or green food of some kind is requisite to keep poultry in good condition; and if the birds have not free access to it, a little cut up and mixed with their food, or a cabbage or lettuce hung up with a string just within reach of the birds, so that they may get at it with a little trouble, is a very valuable accessory to the dietary. It is absolutely necessary that green food be given regularly, if fowls are expected to thrive; but the amount of it need not be great; only if it is left off for a time and then resorted to, or given in too large quantities, it is likely to cause diarrhœa.

It is very difficult to define the exact quantity of food that ought to be given to hens, and it is well to remember that at some seasons they will eat much more than at others; but as a general rule for those in confinement, a ball about the size of a duck's egg in the morning, half of that at mid-day, and an average-sized handful of grain at night, is about the proper quantity for each bird; and less than that of course for those that have fields or farm-yards to roam in. The tendency with most poultry-keepers is to feed too well, and it is generally very difficult to get them convinced of this, for hens will go on eating long after they have had enough; but the consequences are always bad, such as accumulation of internal fat and the laying of soft or shell-less eggs. This latter disease--for so it may be called--is a very common effect of over-feeding young hens, and is sometimes not observed till it has existed for some time, as such eggs are often eaten by the birds as soon as laid, and if they are not caught in the act, those who keep them may be none the wiser. The quickest and most effectual way to cure the effects of over-feeding is to administer a good dose of Epsom salts in their soft food in the morning, and to starve them till the following day. Indeed such treatment to overfed fowls that have gone off laying will often bring them into that condition again at once. Poultry should always have access to plenty of cool fresh water; and if the dish containing it cannot be kept in a cool or shady place, the water should be frequently renewed, especially in warm sunny weather, for nothing is worse for hens than sun-warmed water. It is also important that a handful or two of small stones or gravel be occasionally thrown into their runs, if the ground itself is not gravelly, for hens swallow such stones to assist the gizzard in triturating their food. It is considered that lime or old mortar is necessary for the production of egg-shell, but we cannot speak authoritatively on this point, for we have kept hens for years, and never yet saw them swallow a piece of mortar, although they have access to it; but we are bound to admit that oyster-shells, broken up small, are at certain times swallowed with great avidity, if fowls can obtain them.

Next to the importance of good systematic feeding, if not even before it, ought to come cleanliness. Some people never think of cleaning their hen-houses and hen-runs; but it ought to be carefully and regularly done; and the inside walls and roosting-bars should be whitewashed at least twice every year. In connection with this, it may be mentioned that nothing is worse for a hen-house than a wooden floor, as it soon gets saturated with their droppings, and becomes rotten, when it is impossible to clean it. A stone or cement floor, or even an earthen one, is greatly superior to one made of wood; and if such a floor be kept thickly strewn with fine coal-ashes, sand, or dry earth, this helps to deodorise the dung, and is easily cleaned--besides the whole makes a very valuable manure, which can be used in the garden. The floor or ground of the court or run should be earth, the surface of which can be lifted off occasionally with a spade, and then dug up to freshen it. At such times, the birds will get a feed of worms, which will do them much good.

Fowls clean themselves by means of dust; and if they have not access to it, they readily become infested with a species of small lice. Finely riddled coal-ash or dry earth laid in a sheltered corner of their run will answer the purpose. It should be renewed occasionally, and a little flowers of sulphur or carbolic powder sprinkled on it. It is very amusing to see the birds lying in their baths and shaking the dust all over and through their feathers. They seem to take great delight in this occupation.

The variety to be kept depends on circumstances, that which suits one locality being unsuitable in another. Many people keep what are called barn-door fowls, that is, a cross of all sorts of breeds, but experience shews that such fowls are not profitable either for the table or for laying. Occasionally one hears that there is nothing like them for laying; but those who speak thus have seldom much experience of pure breeds; and because they now and again find cross-bred birds laying remarkably well, they are too apt to sound their praise. A first cross between two pure breeds, such as the 'Dorking' and 'Spanish,' or 'Game' and 'Spanish,' sometimes produces very fine profitable fowls; but if these are again allowed to mate with other crosses, the progeny always degenerates. The Dorking is perhaps the most common and well-known variety in this country, and holds a good reputation for size and quality as a table bird, also for its laying powers. It does not thrive, however, in all localities, requiring a dry soil and extensive range to roam on, and is essentially a farmer's bird. Dorkings make good sitters and mothers. The variety is bred to perfection, principally in the counties of Sussex and Surrey. The general favourites of 'fanciers,' owing to their symmetry of form and beautiful plumage, are the several varieties of Game; but they are somewhat troublesome to keep, owing to their fighting proclivities. Spanish hens are good layers of large eggs, but the breed is a delicate one, difficult to rear, and difficult to keep in health. Cold and damp affect them much; but they sometimes do well in confined runs, if these are dry and sheltered and their houses warm. 'Brahmas' and 'Cochins,' two Asiatic breeds, created quite a sensation on their first being brought to this country about a quarter of a century ago, and large prices were then paid for them. As chickens they take a long time to grow, but ultimately attain great size. They are both good layers, especially in winter, when eggs are dear, but are inveterate sitters; and the time lost by this propensity often neutralises the profit which might be made from their egg-producing qualities. 'Hamburgs' lay numerous eggs of a rather small description. The French varieties have been gaining ground in this country for some years back, the 'Houdans' being splendid table fowls, with good white flesh and small bones. They grow very fast as chickens, but do not generally begin to lay till well matured. 'Crève-cœurs' also grow quickly to a good size, but have not much reputation as layers. The latest breed--which, however, has not been known in this country more than a few years--is the 'Leghorn,' for the introduction of which we are indebted to the Americans, who imported the first birds of the kind from Leghorn about twenty years ago, and have since then been improving the variety. It would appear to excel most others for early development and splendid laying powers, and is fast taking a prominent place with poultry-keepers. Prize birds of all distinct varieties are very valuable, sometimes fetching as much as twenty-five pounds for a single bird to shew and breed from.

It is a great mistake with some people to keep too many birds, and we have noticed again and again where a keen amateur has very reluctantly been persuaded to kill off or dispose of a portion of his stock, that instead of his egg-basket suffering owing to the fewer birds kept, it has actually become fuller than before. Only a certain quantity can be kept on a given space, and if more than this is attempted, failure must be the result. The proper number can be arrived at only by experience, but no cottager with limited accommodation should attempt to keep more than about half-a-dozen. The worst layers should be killed after their first season's laying, just before they commence to moult or cast their feathers--say about July or August; for if allowed once to begin this process of renewal, they are useless for the table until the whole of the new feathers grow again; and this sometimes occupies months, during the whole of which time laying is generally suspended. The best, however, should be kept over their second season's laying, and then killed before moulting; and none but the very best should ever be allowed to see a third season, for age is a very unprofitable and increasingly unprofitable possession. From one hundred to two hundred and fifty eggs may be expected from a good bird in the course of a year; and those which lay less than a hundred are not worth keeping. It may be mentioned that the addition of a cock to the run makes no difference in the number of eggs which the hens will lay; it is unnecessary, therefore, to keep a cock unless chickens be desired.

THE WALMER LIFE-BOAT.

Hark! a distant gun is sounding
O'er the waters, wildly bounding;
Raging waves are fast surrounding
Some wrecked ship to-night.
On the shore the breakers, roaring,
Loud as thunder now are pouring;
Far a signal high is soaring,
Like a phantom light.

Moon and stars their aid denying,
E'en to seek the living--dying--
Who, to prayers and tears replying,
Will the tempest face?
Oh! for some brave ocean-ranger,
Who would, through the cold and danger,
Go to save, perchance, one stranger!
Silence, for a space.

Hark! the Life-boat bell is ringing,
Gallant men are wildly springing,
Life and home--their all--they're flinging,
So the lost they save.
Rockets now are brightly flashing;
Through the shingle sharply crashing,
Off the Life-boat's swiftly dashing.
Heaven guard the brave!

Through the night, that wanes so slowly,
'Little ones,' in accents holy,
Mothers, wives, in dwellings lowly,
Breathe their heartfelt prayer.
When the stormy sea is swelling,
Aching hearts in regal dwelling,
All their pride and power quelling,
Kneel as helpless there.

While the torches, dimly burning,
Shew the tide at last is turning,
Hundreds wait, for tidings yearning,
Watch, with eager eyes:
See! the first faint glimpse of morning
The dim eastern sky adorning;
Hark! the soldiers' bugle, warning
That the sun doth rise.