Chapter I: Part 1

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 709. SATURDAY, JULY 28, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]

PETER BOTTE.

In the island of Mauritius, in the Southern Ocean, stands Pieter Both (or Peter Botte), one of the strangest shaped and most inaccessible mountains in the world. From the sea it is most calculated to impress beholders. Its quaint shape towers above the rugged mountain mass which again dominates over Port-Louis; and its still quainter name dates from so far back as 1616, when Pieter Both d'Amersfort, a Dutch admiral, or General of the Sea, as he is described in the records, happening to be shipwrecked on the island, was perpetuated by name in the mountain which cast its shadow across his drowned body.

The travellers' tales which are heard beyond the seas of the ascents of a mountain, insignificant in size, but by reputation ranking with monarchs of Alpine celebrity, have contributed to lend a grandeur and a mystery to Pieter Both in the imaginations of those who approach him for the first time. Though various ascents have been made from time to time (one of which was described in this _Journal_ as far back as 1834), that made in June 1876 by a party of eleven seems to have been of special interest, as the following narrative, from the pen of one of the party, will shew. His story runs as follows:

An Indian, Deebee by name, a carriole driver by calling, by repeated ascents has made himself so much at home on the mountain as to be able to arrange a system of ropes and rough rope-ladders by which any one with a good head and fairly strong muscles can reach the top with comparative ease. Deebee is a short square-built East Indian, with a pock-marked face, whose dress on the last time I saw him was a soldier's old tunic, and a lady's 'cloud,' also old, about his head and chin. This worthy, after the preliminaries are settled with the leader of the expedition, purchases a coil of two and a half inch Manilla rope, arms himself with a wonderfully battered horse-pistol and a broken cutlass, takes into his confidence sundry others of his countrymen, and starts up the mountain the day previous to that on which the ascent is to be attempted. Upon the 'Shoulder,' which I shall presently notice, he has built a small hut, where he and his band sleep; to me, who saw it empty, it seemed just capable of holding half one man, with the contingency that his other half would dangle over a precipice some hundreds of feet high. In the morning the ropes are fixed; the 'Ladder Rock' being ascended by means of a pole; the pistol is used to fire a line over the head, by which the rope is gradually hauled up; the cutlass is for cutting the rounds of the rope-ladders from the bushes; so that if all goes well, when the party gather on the 'Shoulder' they will see above them the whole apparatus, strangely suggestive of the Old Bailey on hanging mornings, with Deebee and his crew clinging thereto--a black Jack Ketch to perfection.

Pieter Both itself is one of a score of peaks situated in the rim of a gigantic crater, which can be traced at the present day from itself on the north to the Black River Mountains on the south, a distance of more than twenty miles. A mountain called 'The Pouce,' so called from the resemblance of its peak to a man's thumb, lies immediately above Port-Louis, and forms a well-known feature in the views of that town. After the Pouce, which is thirty-six feet only lower than Pieter Both, the crater-wall becomes a wall indeed. Its northern face falls down in sheer precipice to Pamplemousses, two thousand feet below its crest; the reverse, no less steep, facing the valley of Moka, green with sugar-canes, and fifteen hundred feet below. This wall is broken into several peaks, of which the last is Pieter Both, having an elevation above sea-level of two thousand six hundred and ninety-eight feet, according to a recent survey made by the colonial surveyor.

At La Laura, a sugar-mill about ten miles from Port-Louis, the final arrangements are made for carrying up the provisions and other impedimenta, including on this occasion a photographic apparatus; and that satisfactorily arranged, comes a trudge of a mile along a gently ascending cane-road.

As the path nears the woods we find their margin impervious with the matted undergrowth; the bright green of the wild raspberry, with its hairy fruit, and long straggling branches armed with fearful thorns; the scarlet and orange blossoms of the _Lantana_; while the snowy white and pink blossoms of the many other species of underwood crowd in beneath the shade of the taller trees in a many coloured parterre.

Side by side with many other curious varieties of trees will be noted the fluted stem and broad spreading top of the mighty Sambalacoque, now fast disappearing under the axe. On either side of the road which winds along this forest line are the tall sugar-canes, like walls high above our heads, the silver-gray blossoms waving in the softly blowing trade-wind; the rain-drops hanging from their leaves, falling in showers, and giving a none too welcome hint of slippery work a little higher up. Between Pieter Both and the mountain ridge that joins him with the Pouce is a steep gorge, wide at the base, narrowing gradually till it ends abruptly in a gap some fifteen yards across, and about four hundred feet below the summit. You can climb up to this gap, but it requires to be cautiously approached, for on looking over its edge, sharp and knife-like, you will find yourself looking down a precipice of naked rock some two thousand feet deep. The lookout is grand beyond description, and you will make out Port-Louis harbour, looking about the size of the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens, and Pamplemousses Church a dot immediately below you.

The path ends with the canes; and that which we follow after leaving them we make for ourselves. But upwards is the right way; you can't go wrong, for the ravine is like a funnel cut in half, and the easiest slope lies in its centre, to which we all gravitate by a sort of 'natural selection.' The forest is dense under foot and overhead; perhaps it is as well that it is, for without clinging on to the branches and tree-stems, and swinging bodily by them up bad places, the lower part would be as difficult as the upper. The forest primeval, silent and gloomy, shuts out the light, and the air feels hot and stifling. Dead trunks lie rotting on all sides, mere touchwood many of them, resenting our footsteps by a cloud of dust; giving homes to a variety of lovely ferns, including the hartstongue, which grows in tufts on the dead-wood wherever its roots can penetrate. Everywhere strange forms meet the eye, as if Nature in a frolic had run wild to form them. From the branches depend long trails of 'lianes,' ropes that twist and twine and squeeze the life out of the trees they fasten on. Orchids are here also, fleshy leaved, with no apparent roots; and black shapeless masses perched in the higher tree forks, the nests of the destructive white ant. Mosses clothe the ground with an emerald tapestry, beautiful to the eye, but treacherous and squelching full of water under foot. Everywhere is a rank garden of luxuriant dripping vegetation, which, speaking as to comfort, we could have done without.

After a stiff climb, the funnel narrows visibly, and we get into the central watercourse, where there is free space to breathe and less vegetation. The path is rough, macadamised by gigantic boulders, moss-grown and slippery, standing at incalculable angles, very tedious to clamber over, amongst which a sharp lookout has to be kept to preserve our poor dear shins. Gradually the trees, hitherto a green arcade overhead, thin away, and the watercourse emerges into a steep grassy slope, growing steeper at every step. Above, facing us, is the gap spoken of already; on the left is the mountain ridge; on the right rises old Pieter Both, cold, gray, and menacing--and a long way up. The ravine has narrowed to some fifteen yards; here and there is a scrubby bush. The water-course is now the only way possible to climb by, and in two places there are in it rocks twelve feet high standing straight up, which have to be clambered over somehow.

Above, on the right, is the 'Shoulder,' a narrow projection about twenty yards long, and two or three wide, on which breakfast is to be eaten and preparations made for the final climb. To reach this 'Shoulder' appears a sufficient task from where we are; beyond it rises a smooth perpendicular cone, without flaw or crack, mid air, apparently impossible. Yet as we bend back our heads and say so, out of one side far up, springs a small figure; and the word 'impossible' is wiped out of our dictionaries when we behold that a 'black man and a brother' has essayed the task. Up to the 'Shoulder' it is all hands and feet; beyond that there is nothing for it but rope. Viewed from a distance, the 'Shoulder' forms the knees of the sitting figure which the mountain is said to resemble. From many points the resemblance to the statue of Her Majesty at the London Royal Exchange is ludicrously exact.

When the top of the grass slope is reached, there is a narrow band of turf, dotted with half-a-dozen scrub bushes of a foot or little more high. This band leads off horizontally to the right, and is the only possible way to the 'Shoulder.' A very bad way indeed it is. From below it looks nothing but a strip of green ribbon stretched across the middle of a rocky face, black and green and slimy as ever earth, air, and water put together have concocted to puzzle mountaineers. In truth it is little better than it looks. There are toe-holes to stick your boots into as you walk with your face to the wall; and here and there a shrub to let you feel something between your fingers, besides a bunch of dead damp grass to save you from eternity. The whole passage is oozing with sludge and water, very slippery, and the grass looks utterly rotten and unreliable.

This track, which is about one hundred yards in length, lands you a little below the 'Shoulder;' then a dozen yards' stiff steep climb and you stand upon it--perhaps sit at first--for a yard farther on across it is space, sheer awful space, which to look down till you have got your breath is neither wise nor pleasant. You soon get used to the feeling; but it is a little startling just at first to find that this promised landing-place where breakfast is to be served ends in nothing, just three feet beyond the baskets that contain the provender. When you have got your breath, the first thing to look at is the great bare cone immediately above and the dangling rope up which your road must lie. Your eye takes it all in at a glance, and that first glance is not promising. But breakfast puts a better construction on the onward journey; and by the time we have made acquaintance with the Oxford sausages and Australian sheep's tongues, we begin to scramble about quite merrily, and doff boots, coats, and hats for the task with as jaunty a grace as did my Lord Russell on Tower Hill.

The summit of Pieter Both is a cone of sugar-loaf form, compressed at the sides, that nearest the 'Shoulder' having a slight bulge, without which the ascent would be certainly impracticable. From the 'Shoulder,' which is covered with short grass and wind-scarred scrub, a ridge some three yards wide runs up to the foot of the 'Ladder Rock.' This ridge, which narrows as it goes up, is composed of rock-fractures firmly cemented together, and is to all appearance a great buttress supporting the cone. Up this you climb, hands and knees, without requiring a rope. The buttress comes to an abrupt end at the foot of a huge cube of rock, flat-sided and perpendicular, which stands bolt upright, and bars all further climbing without mechanical aid.

This is the 'Ladder Rock,' and is between fifty and sixty feet in absolute perpendicular height, its breadth being less than twenty feet. Running down its centre is a crack, without which the difficulty of climbing it would have been greatly aggravated, if not insurmountable. Against the face of the 'Ladder Rock' hangs a rope, the end disappearing over the upper edge where it has been made fast; the climb up it being made easier by a rough rope-ladder, which takes you up some dozen feet, to where the crack is sufficiently wide to admit your toes; that reached, grasping the rope with every one of your ten fingers, and squeezing as many of your toes into the crevice as you can, you must trust to your muscles and swing yourself up. The top of this rock reached, you are glad to sit or lie down upon a second ridge like the lower one, but much steeper and narrower; so narrow that in climbing up it, still with the rope tightly grasped, you sit astride it, your legs dangling over the sides, where it is better not to let your eyes follow unless the head that owns them is of the steadiest. This ridge has been christened 'The Saddle,' and is made up of broken rock cemented together with lava. Here and there are tufts of grass, with bosses of the silver-leaved 'everlastings,' wind-torn and ragged, and other plants. The 'everlastings' shew brightly against the cold gray rocks, and tempt many of the party to pluck them to adorn their hats when they get them; which just now is somewhat doubtful, as the slightest slip may be fatal. This dreadful 'Saddle' is said to have once vanquished two aspirants; one of them, conscious that he had 'lost his head,' lay flat along the ridge, allowing the man who came to his rescue to climb over his body, a ticklish bit of mid-aërial gymnastics, which happily came off successfully.

The 'Saddle' rises at a steep angle, say the steep roof of a house, and ends at another 'facer;' a huge rounded rock perhaps ten feet high standing straight up across the way, the way now having narrowed to a blunt-knife edge. This is the 'Saddle Rock,' and is the nastiest-looking and most dangerous place in the ascent. The 'Saddle Rock' must either be swarmed up or circumvented by stretching round its left side; for both experiments a rope is needed, and both are a trifle delicate. This time the rope went round; and the thread which disappeared past the smooth slippery face, out over the ghastly precipice, that fell down sheer into Pamplemousses, was not inviting. To get round you have to sidle up to the base of the rock, holding the tightly stretched rope level with your head, and push on your feet inch by inch till your toes rest on the outermost knob of rock. You must be quite sure that their hold is good before you slip your hands round the corner, letting your head and shoulders follow until you can make out a little branch as thick as your umbrella, and four inches long, which sticks out of a cranny, and is within reach of a long straddle. The awkward part of this is that in looking for the branch you are obliged to look _down_. It is the first look-down absolutely necessary, and it is one not easily forgotten. To the writer it had a strange fascination. The actual peril of the position; the necessity of coolness in head and eye; the uncertainty how far this could be relied upon, was so startling, so vivid when the actual time came, as to force a feeling of absolute security upon the mind! Never did he feel more certain of his own powers than when hanging like a spread-eagle against the face of that rock twenty-six hundred feet above the plains.

It is a good stretch, but does not require very long legs to do it. One toe, no more, the right one on a knob of rock; the other foot feeling for those four inches of scrub wood; both hands overhead grasping the rope; and the strangest bird's-eye view between one's legs that featherless biped could wish for. It did not do to look too long. Another pull up is in front, along a ridge like the previous two, but narrower again, which runs up to the Neck, the rope your companion all the way; and then you can at last sit down in perfect safety. This is the 'Neck,' which the aneroid gave as three hundred and forty feet above the 'Shoulder.' It forms an irregular plateau partly round the 'Head,' some six or eight feet broad, and quite flat. On it is a carpet of rough grass and 'everlastings,' protected from the wind and rain by the overhanging mass of rock, which is the 'Head,' formed of irregularly shaped rock, forty feet in height, nearly round, and which contains what there is of the brains of Pieter Both.

A notch in one side allows the rope which has been already passed over, to rest without fear of slipping; and depending from this is a short rope-ladder, hanging quite clear of everything over the rim of the Neck. Its half-dozen rounds put the rope between your fingers; and in less time than it takes to write it you are on the old fellow's brain-pan, the keen air racing past, with no more harm done than a few 'barked' knuckles, and a queer growing feeling in one's head of utter loneliness. Nothing but space all round; blue sky; white scudding clouds quite close, which turn one giddy; for it seems to be that we on our little plateau are racing past the clouds, borne noiselessly, interminably; flung on some tiny planet whirling around an endless orbit. There was another feeling to confess to, suggested by that thin white rope creeping and disappearing over the bare edge--suppose it broke, or was cut or frayed through! It was our sole connecting link with home and life and dinner. How hungry we should be if anything were to happen to that rope! how thirsty! how cold in the chill night! how wet in the company of those drifting clouds! Insensibly one fell to calculating which was the fattest for to-morrow's meal.

From our airy resting-place, the whole circumference of Mauritius, with a small exception, can be traced. From its height everything below is strangely dwarfed. Port-Louis as a town is barely visible; the harbour, which is nearly two miles in length, is a mere strip of water; moving objects are as much obliterated as if the land below was a printed map; sounds there are none, absolute silence, broken only by the whistle of the wind. In Mauritius, there is a paucity of animal life even in the valleys; it is possible to walk for miles without hearing a bird's note. On Pieter Both are no birds--even the lizards don't attempt him. Now and again a tropic bird, the _Paille en queue_ of the French, sails past, screaming his news from the sea beyond. One by one our party gained the top, each one as he pulled himself over the edge lying down for breath. Our feet, innocent of shoe-leather, had lost some of their own, and more than one pair shewed signs of rough usage. But what were a few scars to the triumph of sitting perched on Pieter Both--the dear old Peter Botte of childhood's picture-book.

As the party met and got their breath, tongues were unloosed, and the serious concentrated look that had sat on most faces hitherto, melted under the influence of mutual congratulations. Eleven in all, without counting Deebee and an assistant Indian, were gathered on the 'Head;' sitting, standing, lying on that patch of black soil which Claude Penthé spoke of for the first time nearly ninety years ago. The sheet of lead for inscribing the names of the 'visitors' was there, but of a tin box which was known to have been left, not a trace remains; some passing hurricane has probably spirited it away. The descent was safely made, though it is perhaps more awkward than the going up. Some photographs were taken from the 'Shoulder,' on so narrow a shelf that it was necessary to place a man at each leg of the tripod to prevent the camera toppling over; a final glass drained to the health of the old gray rock; and about four o'clock in the afternoon, La Laura and the pleasant sugar-cane fields were reached without a single mishap.

It may be thought worthy to record the names of this the largest party that ever made the ascent of Pieter Both. He is not likely to be visited again for some time to come, and long before this account appears, the whole eleven will be scattered far and wide--miles distant from that strange, eerie trysting-place. They are: Lieutenants MacIlwaine, Creswell, Bayly, and Midshipman Elwes of H.M.S. _Undaunted_. Major Anderson, Captain Bond, Lieutenants Phillipps, Hammans, Sillery, and Saunders of H.M. 32d Regiment; and Captain Montague, Brigade Major. A pole was rigged up, and the Union-Jack hoisted and left flying, as a remembrance of the day, and as a sign to the many watchers in town that the ascent had been successful. These told us afterwards that through a telescope our movements had been perfectly traced; the passage of the 'Saddle Rock,' where the rope stretches round the face of the mountain opposite Port-Louis, having caused the strongest sensation, as our bodies, dwarfed to the size of spiders, came out against the sky.

W. E. M.

THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.

CHAPTER XXXIV.--TWO LETTERS.

After arranging everything else, I sat down to write my farewell letters, commencing with one to Philip, and being very careful to allow no tears to fall upon the paper.

'DEAR PHILIP--I ought to have told you what I am about to
write, when I bade you farewell this morning; but I wanted our
parting to be, as it was, a happy one. Had I had the courage to
tell you, instead of writing, I know you would not have yielded
to me; perhaps you would not even have listened. When you read
this, your blame cannot reach me; and until you can forgive me,
we shall not meet again. Dear Philip, I cannot be your wife.
I must bear all the blame of not making it known to you until
now, as best I may; but I cannot marry you. The conviction has
only become absolutely clear to me since you so much pressed me
to make no longer delay.'

'Ah Philip, may you never suspect _how_ it was made clear to
me!' I mentally ejaculated, breaking down for a few moments in
an agony of suffering. But I sternly called myself to order,
and was presently bending to my task again.

'I have chosen a different life, and only delay explaining what
that life is, and why it now seems more congenial to me than
being a wife' (to the man who loves another woman, was in my
thoughts), 'until you have quite forgiven me. Indeed, it is the
belief that that time will come, which gives me the courage to
act as I am doing. But there is one way, and only one, by which
you can prove that your forgiveness is sincere, and give me the
comfort of believing that I have not shadowed your life. If I
hear that you are able, by-and-by, to find some other woman
more appreciative than I'----

I dropped the pen, and bowed my face upon my hands again in the
bitterness of grief. 'More appreciative than I!' But I forced
myself to my task again, and left the words as they were. If
he once suspected that it was a sacrifice, would he accept it,
however willingly it were offered? Loved he not honour more?
Besides, this must be a letter which he could shew to Lilian;
at anyrate by-and-by, and no suspicion of the truth must reach
her.

'If that time comes, and I earnestly desire that it may, I
shall be able perhaps to justify myself to my own conscience.
I know only one whom I should consider worthy of you, one not
to be easily won, but worth the labour of a lifetime to win.
I dare not name her--I am almost afraid to write of her. But,
dear Philip, if it could be--if she whom I love above all other
women could be in time won to make up to you for the loss of
me, I shall have nothing to regret. I can only repeat that
nothing but the knowledge of your happiness will give me the
courage to hope for your forgiveness and to meet you again.
Meantime, I can only beg you to try to believe in your loving
sister

MARY.'

I read the letter through with not a little dissatisfaction, though I could not see how to amend it. It had been so difficult to say sufficient to serve the purpose without giving some clue to the truth. I could not help a little bitter smile at the reflection how very different would his judgment of that letter have been if he loved me! How scornfully would such excuses have been swept away if I had been the woman he loved! How angrily he would have taunted me for being what in fact I should have been had I deliberately wronged him! Alas! I was writing to a man whose love for me was dead, and who yet desired to act honourably towards me. He would not be inclined to be unkindly critical about my _manner_ of setting him free, if I could only contrive to make him believe that I wished to do so.

To Lilian I wrote in a somewhat more jaunty strain. Better that my letter should seem to be written even flightily than sadly. But I had been so little accustomed to this kind of diplomacy, that I was astonished as well as saddened to find how close one might keep to the truth in the letter, whilst departing so far from it in the spirit. Neither to Philip nor to Lilian did I dare to tell the truth, and yet I could write all this without appearing to depart from it! Fortunately this kind of diplomacy blinds none who are not inclined to be blinded.

'MY DEAR SISTER--You must try not to be very angry with me
for running away without bidding you farewell in some better
fashion than this. But by acting as I am doing, I avoid your
scoldings, or perhaps I had better say pleadings. It is really
no use arguing with a person like me, as I think you have
discovered before now. And as I have very deliberately made
up my mind, there really is nothing to be done. You have, I
know, been a great deal puzzled of late to account for the
change which you have perceived in me, and as I could not
explain it without shocking you, I have waited to get out of
the way first. Dear Lilian, I was not in jest when I told you
I had begun to suspect that marriage is not my vocation; and
I have at length come to the conclusion to obey my instincts,
which tend in another direction. I believe that you will in
time agree with me in thinking that I have done for the best;
though I fear you will be very angry with me at first, not
being able to see all my motives. Please get dear Mrs Tipper to
ask Philip to come down sometimes, and try what you both can
do to cheer and comfort him. He knows so few people, and he
will be so terribly lonely. I must trust that in time he will
come to acknowledge that I may not be altogether so selfish and
inconsiderate as I must appear to be to him and to all of you
in the first moments of disappointment. I will say this much
to you, dear sister--I feel, and the feeling is not altogether
of sudden growth, that I am too old for Philip; or perhaps I
ought rather to say he is too young for me. At anyrate I have
chosen a different life, and only wait until I feel sure that
you have all forgiven me, to prove to you that I am happy in
it. Say all that is kind to dear Mrs Tipper for me. I must hope
to be able to prove my gratitude to her by-and-by. Ah Lilian,
my sister, if I dared to write about my hopes! I can only say
that if Philip is in time fortunate enough to find some good
woman willing to make up for the past to him, my gratitude
towards her will be very great. I am going away because I
think it is best for us all that I should go, and because the
persuasions which your love might prompt you to use would not
induce me to alter my decision. I have begged Philip to try to
believe in a sister's love, and I ask you too, dear Lilian, to
believe in the love of your sister

MARY.'

Little as I was satisfied with these two letters, I knew that I should not be able to improve upon them, however much I might try to do so. The fault was that I could not be explicit; and that would be apparent to myself if not to the others, however elegantly my sentences might be turned.

I put the letters aside until they should be required, and then lay down for a few hours' rest. Thank God it _was_ rest! I fell into a deep dreamless sleep, and only awoke when Becky came to call me in the morning. There was still the same expression in her face, half sorrow, half pity, as though she saw cause for both as she looked at me.

'Now, Becky, you must not look at me in that way, to begin with. I am going to depend a great deal upon you, and it will not do to let your face tell all you are thinking about, as it is doing now.'

'I can't help it shewing, because---- O Miss Haddon, dear, I know you are not so happy as you pretend to be--I know it! And it's ever so much worse to see you look like that, than as if you were crying and sobbing!'

I saw that it was no use trying to throw dust into Becky's eyes.

'Well, suppose I am not very happy, Becky, and suppose I have some good reason for pretending, as you call it, to be so. Suppose that I do not wish to grieve your dear old mistress and Miss Lilian by allowing them to see that I am unhappy. It is of great importance that I should appear cheerful to-day; and I want you to help me as much as possible to make them think that I am, for--Becky, I am going away, and they must not know I am going.'

Becky threw up her hands. 'Going away!'

'Hush! No one but you must know that I am going.'

She was on the carpet clinging to my feet. 'Take me with you; do, pray, take me, Miss Haddon, dear; no one will ever love you better, and I can't stay without you!'

I made her get up; and taking her two hands in mine, murmured in a broken voice: 'Try to trust me, Becky. If I could take you with me, it would be very selfish of me to do so. It is your duty to stay here, as it is my duty to go. But I shall not be so far away as I wish them to believe I am--recollect, as I _wish_ them to believe; and I may be able to see you frequently, if I find that I can trust you to keep my secret.'

'You may trust me, Miss.'

'I am sure I can, or I would not ask you to help me. I must not break down this last day, Becky; for the sake of others as well as myself, I _must_ not.'

She dried her eyes; and presently the expression I wanted came into her face.

'Please forgive me; I won't shew it any more; and I will do anything you tell me.'

'First, and above all, you must earnestly do what you can to assist me to make it appear that I am feeling neither sorrow nor anger to-day, Becky.'

'I will,' she replied, simply and honestly.

'And next, I want you to contrive to carry that small portmanteau into the wood for me at dusk this evening, when some one will meet you, and bring it to me. You must contrive it so that no one will know that you have helped me. The best time for you to take it will be whilst the ladies are at tea. If you take in tea at the usual time, precisely at seven, you would have a spare half hour, which would be time enough. Slip out the back way, and carry it anyway. I cannot take it myself, as there must be no good-bye.'

'Very well, Miss. This one?'

'Yes. It is not too heavy for you, I hope?'

'O no, Miss; it is not that;' lugubriously.

'Now, Becky, please do not forget. _That_ is not looking cheerful, you know.'

'No, Miss Haddon, dear; I won't forget, when I'm down-stairs.'

Fortunately, she helped me to get up a smile, to begin with, at the breakfast-table. How shall I describe the expression of Becky's face when she came in with the coffee, &c. Her mouth was distended with a grin, which was in strange contrast with the sadness in her eyes, and her whole face reminding one, as Lilian said, of an india-rubber one pulled out of shape!

Whenever she entered the room there was the same grin on her face. In fact, in her anxiety to be loyal to me, she was overacting her part, and it culminated, when, after looking at her in some astonishment, Lilian inquired if she had received any good news.

'Yes--no. It's only because I'm so happy to-day, Miss,' returned Becky, with a still more alarming distension of her mouth.

I think Mrs Tipper had occasion afterwards to congratulate herself upon Becky's 'happy days' not coming very frequently.

'She has broken two plates and a cup already, my dears,' anxiously said the little lady to Lilian and me. 'And I can't find in my heart to be angry with her about it, when she says it's through being so happy; but really, you know, it is a most unfortunate way of shewing her happiness.'

Lilian and I made a merry little jest at it, advising her to look sharply after such household treasures as Windsor Castle, &c.

'I wouldn't let her dust them to-day for the world, my dears!' ejaculated the little lady, hastily trotting off to the kitchen again.

I did not allow Lilian to make her escape afterwards. I smilingly decided that there was to be no French history to-day, and that she and I were to spend the morning together in the old delightful fashion of the past. Philip was not coming for a day or two; and we would go over some of the old work, which had been somewhat neglected of late, with the exception of music and singing. A little steady work, and the consultations over it, was bracing for us both, and set us at our ease as personal talk would certainly not have done. We were not, either of us, strong enough just then to talk about ourselves. Moreover, I begged Mrs Tipper to make it a fête-day, and treat us to one of her famous lemon puddings; and she was enjoying herself to her heart's content in the kitchen, only too delighted to be asked to treat us, and bent upon shewing that a lemon pudding was not enough to constitute a feast in her estimation. The only disturbing influence was poor Becky's hilarity.

'My dears, it really is not natural,' the little lady confided to us at dinner. 'No more like smiling than a baby in convulsions. I was almost frightened at the strange faces she made just now in the kitchen; and if it goes on, I must make her take some medicine.'

I begged Becky off that infliction, persuading her anxious mistress to wait a few hours.

Kind Becky! she would very soon be able to look as she felt. There would be nothing unnatural in her regret at my departure, after having known me so long a time. On the whole, I was more successful than I had dared to hope for in the way of leaving a pleasant impression upon the minds of Mrs Tipper and Lilian--just the impression I wished to give them.

They believed that I was happier than I had been for some time previously, and I know now that they attributed my happiness to the fact of the date being at length fixed for my wedding to take place. They had seen just enough to perceive that some disturbing influence was at work with me; and the sudden change in my bearing seemed to them to imply that my doubts and fears were now set at rest. It did me real good to witness the unfeigned relief in Lilian's face; the unselfishness which could rejoice in my happiness though her own might be wrecked. I know now how much she had suffered from shame and dread--how terribly afraid she had been lest I should divine any part of the truth; lamenting over what she considered to be her disloyalty to me, and blaming herself as she certainly did not deserve to be blamed.

'Dear Mary, it seems quite like old times again; does it not?' she said, looking up into my face with the nearest approach to happiness in her own which I had seen there for some time, as I bent over her with a playful criticism upon a bit of foliage she was doing.

'It has been a pleasant day, has it not, dearie?' I returned. 'All the pleasanter for French history being kept out of the programme, I think. You know I never did take kindly to that.'

She flushed up, nestling closer to my side. 'There shall be no more of it, Mary,' she whispered.

I replied with a tender kiss; then lightly said: 'I really feel quite kissably inclined this afternoon!' turning to my dear old friend, and giving her two or three hearty good-bye kisses, then back again to Lilian with a last hug.

'And now, I must run off again;' adding as I reached the door: 'Do not wait tea for me. I shall not be able to get back by then.'

'To town! Mary?' asked Lilian. 'And I am not to be permitted to accompany you again. I feel sure there must be something very mysterious going on!'

But she was smiling, and I believe that both she and her aunt were now quite at ease about it, having made up their minds that their first surmise--that I was preparing some pretty surprise for them--was a correct one.

I ran up to my room, hastily indicated to Becky where she was to find the two letters in a couple of hours' time, put on my bonnet and cloak, gave a quiet embrace and warning look to the faithful girl, sobbing under her breath, then went down-stairs again. I dared not venture to go into the little parlour for a last word, lest some tender speech of Lilian's should cause me to break down; so little would do it just now, when every nerve was stretched to its utmost tension.

I passed swiftly out, and down the garden path, only venturing to give one look back to nod and kiss my hand, when I reached the gate, and then sped on as fast as my feet would carry me. I was just turning into the lane which led towards the stile, when suddenly I found myself face to face with Robert Wentworth.

'Where are you going to at that rate, Mary?'

I shrank back, for a moment incapable of uttering a word; eyeing him desperately, almost defiantly, for I felt in my misery as though he had suddenly presented himself in my path to bar my escape--a new power to strive against, when my strength was almost spent. He could always see deeper than any one else; and he had come upon me when I was so unprepared. I had just dropped the smiling mask which I had found it so difficult to wear all day, and was beginning to feel sufficiently secure from observation to be less careful as to what my face might tell. I caught in my breath, shrinking farther away, but facing him like an animal at bay. For a few moments he stood gazing at me, apparently as much at a loss for words as I was myself, then his eyes fell upon my muffled hand, and he asked: 'Have you hurt your hand, Mary?'

'Yes.'

'Not seriously, I hope? How did it happen?'

I looked down at my hand in a dazed kind of way, trying to recollect what had happened to it. 'I don't know. Good-bye.'

'Mary! is there anything to be done which a brother might do for you?' he asked in a low troubled voice.

I tried to think what brothers could do, and what there was to be done for me, then shook my head.

'For old friendship's sake, _do_ treat me as a brother now, Mary!'

His very evident perturbation had the good effect of making me rally my scattered wits, and I was so far like myself again as to reply: 'The only--only way in which you can help me just now is to let me go without any further questioning.'

He stood aside at once without a word, and I passed on. But I had no sooner done so than my conscience smote me. Was _this_ the way to part from him--the one above all others so true to me? I turned back to where he remained standing, laid my hand for a moment upon his arm, and said: 'Please forgive my rudeness, Robert; and believe that if there were anything for a brother to do, I would ask you to do it. And perhaps you _will_ be able to help me presently in trying to convince them that, however blamable I may at first appear, I have acted, as I believe, for the best;' thinking that they might possibly turn to him for advice and assistance. Then offering my hand, I added tremulously: 'Good-bye, Robert.'

'God keep you, Mary!'

(_To be concluded next month._)

CURIOSITIES OF THE VOICE.

Some years ago, a delightfully interesting book was written by Sir Charles Bell on the human Hand. There might be fully as interesting a work written on the mechanism of the human voice, in which would be equally demonstrated the power, wisdom, and goodness of the Creator. We offer a few observations on the subject. Until recently, there were mysteries difficult to explain concerning the wonderful inflections in the voice. Now, it is thoroughly understood how words are produced, and how the throat is able to send forth a wide variety of charming notes in singing. We begin by mentioning that Dr Mandl has devoted himself to the study of the organs of speech, and from his work on the _Larynx_ we give some interesting particulars. Investigators have long been occupied with researches; but until they had seen the larynx of a living being one thing only was proved, that the voice was formed in the glottis. For fifty years of this century they were trying by mirrors and other appliances to examine the interior of this organ, but without results. Suddenly an inspiration came into the head of a celebrated singer, whose name awakens charming remembrances among old amateurs. This was M. Manuel Garcia. Ignorant of all the trouble which surgeons had taken in order to observe the movements of the throat in the act of singing, he conceived the idea of looking at himself. By the help of two mirrors, the one reflecting the image on to the other, he saw the whole of his larynx depicted. In ecstasy before the glass, he determined to pursue the accidental discovery which had been so long dreamed of. But the autumn had set in, and the sun's rays, which were necessary to success, did not lend their aid. London with its fogs forced him to try artificial light, the results of which were unsuccessful, and therefore he could only profit by fine days; yet he soon recognised how isolated sounds were produced. In 1855 the Royal Society received some communications from him on these curious studies.

The subject was at once taken up with great activity, especially in Vienna, where success was far from equalling the hopes of the doctors. The caprices of solar light and the defects of artificial threw them into a state of despair. By all means they must improve their mirrors. Czermak, the Professor of Physiology at Pesth, taking an example from the instrument used in examining the eye, the ophthalmoscope, had recourse to a concave mirror which concentrated the light. From this time there was no difficulty but to perfect the lenses. Czermak having acquired great skill in the use of his laryngoscope, visited the principal cities of Germany, where his demonstrations deeply interested surgeons and physiologists. He was warmly received in Paris in 1860, where he shewed not only the whole length of his larynx, but also the interior of the trachea or windpipe as far as its bifurcation; a spectacle truly astonishing to those who witness it for the first time. It is not possible to examine the organ of the voice with the same facility in all; a man must have had some experience before he can do it.

A slight sketch of this organ will perhaps make the subject clearer. From the breast there rises to the middle of the neck the passage for the air between the lungs and the mouth; at one end it is divided into numerous branches, called the bronchial tubes; at the upper end, like the capital of a column, is seen the larynx, resembling an angular box; strong cartilages make it very resistent; and the interior is lined with a mucous membrane forming folds, named the vocal lips. These separate, lengthen, or shorten in the formation of various sounds. The largest of the four cartilages rises in an annular form, and protects the whole structure. It is but slightly shewn in the neck of the female, but strongly marked in the man, and is popularly called Adam's-apple. Like everything else, the larynx presents individual differences. A fine development is an indication of a powerful voice. As the child grows up, there is a sudden alteration and increase of size; but it always remains smaller in the woman than in the man; the angles are less sharp, the muscles weaker, the cartilages thinner and more supple, which accounts for the sharp treble notes in their voices.

Singing demands a different kind of activity in the organs from speaking. In society, where education requires a submission to rule, singing belongs to the domain of art; but in a primitive state all nations have their songs. Musical rhythm drives away weariness, lessens fatigue, detaches the mind from the painful realities of life, and braces up the courage to meet danger. Soldiers march to their war-songs; the labourer rests, listening to a joyous carol. In the solitary chamber, the needlewoman accompanies her work with some love-ditty; and in divine worship the heart is raised above earthly things by the solemn chant.

A strong physical constitution and a perfect regularity in the functions of the organs used in singing, are inappreciable advantages. They should be capable of rendering an inspiration short and easy, the expiration slow and prolonged; there is a struggle between retaining and releasing the air, and with the well-endowed artiste the larynx preserves its position, notwithstanding the great variety of sounds which it emits. But the evolutions of the parts are multiplied, the vocal lips vibrate, and the configuration of the cavity modifies the sounds which are formed in the glottis, and determine the tone of the voice. The most energetic efforts of the will cannot change this tone in any sensible manner. Professors injure their pupils by prescribing the position of the mouth, from which perhaps they themselves derive an advantage.

It is interesting to watch the play of the organs by the help of the laryngoscope, and see the changes which succeed one another in the low and high notes. At the moment when the sound issues, the glottis is exactly closed; then the orifice becomes a very long figure, pointed at the two extremities. As the sound rises, the vocal lips approach each other, and seem to divide the orifice into two parts; then as the highest notes are sounded, there is but a slit the width of a line. The vocal lips change like the glottis; they stretch out, harden, thicken, and vibrate more and more as the voice rises. Women, who have a smaller larynx and shorter vocal lips, can sing higher notes than men, with a tone less powerful, but sweeter, more uniform, and melodious.

The ordinary limits of the voice comprehend about two octaves of the musical scale: it can easily be increased to two and a half; but some reach the very exceptional range of three, and three and a half. Thus at the commencement of this century, Catalani astonished every one who heard her, as a sort of prodigy. Suppleness and intensity may be acquired by practice, as has been proved in the case of many singers: the voice of Marie Garcia was harsh, but it became at last the delicious one of Madame Malibran. In general, the natural gift is manifested without culture; the child endowed with this great charm warbles like a bird for amusement; a lover of art passes by, listens with surprise, and promises glory and fortune to the rival of the lark. Thus the famous Rubini won his triumphs. Occasionally the singer has in a moment lost all power, and an enchanting voice will disappear never to return; such a misfortune befell Cornelia Falcon.

Those who have watched the formation of vowels and consonants can describe very precisely the positions which the lips, tongue, and palate take in articulation. Yet almost identical sounds can be produced with different positions. As we all know, the teeth are a great help to pronunciation, but a person who has lost all his teeth can modify the play of the lips and tongue and express himself intelligibly. Actors imitate the voice of public characters so as to make the illusion complete. The ventriloquist can make his voice issue as if from a cavern. When misfortune has deprived a man of the whole or part of his tongue, he can still hold a conversation, though the sounds are never particularly agreeable. All this shews that there is nothing absolute in the actions which form words, though in general the same organs play similar parts. Those who were born deaf have ceased to be dumb by interpreting the movements of the mouth with wonderful certainty: they guess the words of the speaker instead of hearing them, and so learn to speak by imitation, their speaking, however, being seldom well modulated. There are now several institutions where the poor creatures who have been deprived of one of their senses can acquire a means of communicating with their companions without the tedious intervention of writing. The master indicates to the child how he must open his mouth, place his tongue and lips; he then draws the pupil's hand over his own larynx, so that he may feel the movement. Those who, like the writer, have seen this reading from the lips, will be struck with the surprising delicacy of the impressions made on the eye which has been thus cultivated.