Chapter I: Part 1

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 712. SATURDAY, AUGUST 18, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]

AIR AND WATER POLLUTION.

We have been lately staying at a pleasant sea-side resort. The stretch of sands on the beach is beautiful, the houses generally well built and commodious, the accommodation for strangers excellent. With much to commend, one thing struck us as very anomalous. There are several factories, including one or two bottle-works, and from these are almost constantly sent forth huge volumes of dense black smoke, which according to the direction of the wind, pour across the otherwise fair scene, and tend greatly to pollute the atmosphere. Now, this we presume to think is a serious encroachment on public rights. Nature beneficently provides a pure atmosphere, which all may enjoy, and that will be favourable to vegetable growth. Despising this primary principle, and acting only from sheer selfishness, certain individuals, ordinarily known as capitalists, set up factories with tall brick chimneys, from which are vomited those hideously dark masses of coal-smoke, in defiance of good taste, decency, and common-sense. We had almost said in defiance of honesty, because the air of heaven is a universal inheritance, and the pollution of it for selfish ends is, morally speaking, little better than picking a pocket. Yet, how much of this aggressive dishonesty is habitually practised! The air of towns and villages is polluted. Some of the most beautiful rural scenes are polluted. Over charming dells, clothed in natural shrubbery and flowers, to which one would like to flee and be at rest, is seen hovering a pall of black smoke, projected from some sort of factory or a paper-mill, and doing its best to transform beauty into ugliness. Surely, to speak mildly, that is a public wrong.

Travelling through England, and entering what are termed the manufacturing districts, we come upon the Smoke Demon in full blast. Who, for example, can forget the revolting aspect presented by Sheffield or Wigan? The sky hidden by dark smoke, the houses begrimed, and the land blighted, as if saturated with coal-culm. Obviously, there is a prevailing sootiness; and speculating as to how people can possibly live amidst such horrors, we think with a feeling of relief of the joy they possibly experience when on Sunday the chimneys cease to smoke, the blue firmament is suffered to be unveiled, and children are able to fill their lungs with air comparatively free from impurity. Even in the neighbourhood of towns not absolutely of the manufacturing class, the tourist is pained to observe what atmospheric deteriorations are caused by smoke. In few places nowadays are there not tokens of industry involving the application of steam-power. Tall chimneys are apt to start up where least expected, with the usual results. These brick chimneys are not usually an embellishment to the landscape; but we raise no objection to them on this ground. Required for purposes of manufacture, and valuable in connection with the employment of large numbers of persons, they may be viewed as indispensable adjuncts in promoting commercial prosperity, and increasing the national wealth. Accordingly, it is not the chimney-stalks we find fault with; it is the vast masses of smoke that needlessly issues from them, which at a very small expense and a slight degree of care, could be effectually prevented. For want of this reasonable amount of care, the green fields in the vicinity of the chimneys cease to be green. The soot falling on the pasturage, defiles the herbage; and the poor sheep and lambs, born to experience the vicissitudes of weather, but at least to wear clean wool upon their backs, are as dingy as professional chimney-sweeps. Unmistakably, they have been besmirched by the Smoke Demon, who in his iniquitous visitations respects neither man nor beast, and is apparently indifferent to what becomes of the whole animal and vegetable creation. Perish the comfort of everybody; let smoke in any measure of density have its sway! That is the doctrine of greed predominant in this wonderfully advanced nineteenth century, which some people are never done eulogising.

We see a curious instance of the Smoke Demon's proceedings in a reputedly fashionable part of a large city. A piece of land had just been laid out in the building of mansions of a superior class--not one of them valued at less than seven or eight thousand pounds--when lo and behold the purchasers of the newly erected edifices find to their consternation that the tall chimney of an unexpected factory has begun to belch volumes of black smoke into their back-windows all day long! The chimney--that of a perfectly respectable flour-mill, we believe--is unexceptionable as regards chimney architecture. It is tall and handsomely tapered; but what signifies these commendable qualities? There, from morning to night, goes its smoke, polluting the atmosphere in the bedrooms, killing the flowers in the conservatories, odious and sickening in all directions. Very hard this on the purchasers of these splendid mansions. They have got unexceptionably good houses, but with what an atmospheric drawback!

Why, however, should municipal authorities tolerate such abominations? Yes, why should they? There exist in many places police edicts designed to quench the Smoke Demon. Through the vigilance of the authorities, the smoke nuisance in London has been immensely modified within our recollection. In some large provincial towns it has likewise been materially abated. But taking the country at large, it is about as bad as ever. The evil has little chance of being thoroughly mastered by any local magistracy. The very authorities who should stamp out the abomination are likely enough to be the evil-doers themselves, or are at least so compromised by surrounding influences as purposely in this particular to neglect the interests of the community. Besides, to put existing and not very distinct laws in motion, a heavy expense is liable to be incurred. And local authorities of all kinds do not like to encounter litigation unless strongly urged by public clamour and backed by persons of note, who do not mind to take trouble and share part of the cost. We apprehend that no effectual remedy is obtainable in present circumstances.

The true corrective would be to assign the conservancy of the atmosphere and of rivers to officers directly appointed by and responsible to the crown. To this opinion has come Dr Richardson, one of the most eminent promulgators of the laws of health. In a recent lecture on the subject at the Royal Institution, he says very pointedly: 'In the future of sanitary science, the politician must come forward more resolutely than he has done, in order to secure for those he governs three requisites--pure water, pure food, and pure air. It is utterly hopeless to trust to companies in a matter of such vital importance as the supply of water. It is equally hopeless to trust to the undirected action of local authorities.' Proceeding to state that a remedy can be found only in the official action of a supreme authority, he says: 'As to pure air, there is no practical legislation of any kind. The air of our large towns is charged with smoke and impurity. The air of our great factories is charged with dusts which destroy life with the precision of a deadly aim. Dr Purdon, one of the certifying surgeons under the Factory Acts, reports that in flax-working factories under his care, the carders, who are all females, if they get a carding-machine at sixteen years, generally die at thirty years. Could anything be more terrible than such a fact, that a girl of sixteen should have to live by an occupation that will bring her existence to an end in fourteen years, and to that end with all the prolonged wasting, sleeplessness, suffering, incident to the disease consumption of the lungs? If it were the fate of these doomed workers that at the close of fourteen years' work the majority of them were taken forth and shot dead in an instant, their fate were infinitely better than it is. The heart of the nation would thus be aroused, and the law in all its majesty would be put in operation to arrest the progress of the crime and to punish the offenders. Yet, year after year as terrible an offence goes on, and because the result of it is hidden in the sick-room, there is no arrest of its progress, no punishment for its commission.'

In the same lecture, Dr Richardson speaks with equal vehemence on the too prevalent practice of polluting rivers and wells by the influx of sewage from large towns and various kinds of public works, dye-works in particular. Here, again, the action of local authorities is generally hopeless. Magistrates and town councils will complacently see a river flowing past them loaded with impurities. 'The government,' he says, 'must either produce a process or processes for pure water supply, and insist on every local authority carrying out the proper method; or it must--and this would be far better--take the whole matter into its own hands, so that under its supreme direction every living centre should, without fail, receive the first necessity of healthy life in the condition fitted for the necessities of all who live. By recent legislation we had some security for obtaining fresh animal food, and foods freed of foreign substances or adulterations. The penalties that might be inflicted on those who sell decomposing, diseased, or adulterated foods were beginning to have effect, and much good was resulting.' Similar regulations ought to be applied to water. The fouling of rivers by sewage must be rendered penal. What horrid ideas arise on the consideration that a large part of the population of London are daily using the water of the Thames, into which has been poured the sewage of Oxford and a number of other places! The Clyde below Glasgow offers an example of still greater pollution; but its very badness saves it from use for domestic purposes; and in point of fact this fine river, for the improved navigation of which so much has been done, can now scarcely be spoken of as anything else than a gigantic common sewer, on which ships of large burden are borne to and from the sea. The Irwell at Manchester offers a specimen of an impure river of a different type. Here much of the pollution seems to arise from the liquid refuse of dye and other works. The last time we saw the Irwell, it had all the appearance of a sluggish river of black ink. Its colour, however, is liable to change with the predominating dye-stuffs which it happens to receive. The droll remark is made, that boys who indiscreetly take a fancy for bathing in it are apt to come out blue. Its condition and qualities were some time ago commemorated in a few comic verses in a newspaper, of which a cutting was sent to us. We give them as being too clever to be lost sight of.

SONG OF THE IRWELL.

'I flow by tainted, noisome spots,
A dark and deadly river;
Foul gases my forget-me-nots,
Which haunt the air for ever.
I grow, I glide, I slip, I slide,
I mock your poor endeavour;
For men may write, and men may talk,
But I reek on for ever.

I reek with all my might and main,
Of plague and death the brewer;
With here and there a nasty drain,
And here and there a sewer.
By fetid bank, impure and rank,
I swirl, a loathsome river;
For men may write, and men may talk,
But I'll reek on for ever.

I grew, I glode, I slipped, I slode,
My pride I left behind me;
I left it in my pure abode--
Now take me as you find me.
For black as ink, from many a sink,
I roll a poisonous river;
And men may write, and men may talk,
But I'll reek on for ever.

And thus my vengeance, still I seek
Foul drain, and not a river;
My breath is strong, though I am weak,
Death floats on me for ever.
You still may fight, or may unite
To use your joint endeavour;
But I'll be "boss," in spite of Cross,
And poison you for ever.'

We trust that the concluding threat of remaining for ever a poisonous and fetid river is not true of the Irwell any more than the Thames or the Clyde. The subject of river-pollution, as of air-pollution, is too serious to be much longer neglected, and we trust that government, setting aside private, selfish, and factious interests, will soon deal with it in as peremptory a fashion as constitutional forms will admit. As concerns the pollution of the air by smoke from factories, there is not a vestige of excuse. We have shewn again and again with, we fear, tiresome reiteration, that the consumption of smoke is a very simple mechanical process, and has the advantage not only of keeping the air unpolluted, but is attended with such a considerable saving of fuel, as to render the first cost of the appliances of no consequence. If such be the case, and we can prove it by many years' experience, the proprietors of public works at the sea-side resort already mentioned, and hundreds of other factory owners, are clearly chargeable with a shameful degree of disregard to the rights and feelings of their fellow-creatures.

W. C.

THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.

CHAPTER XXXVII.--REST AND PEACE.

Time has run on since then, and my life has grown fuller and happier. It was a great disappointment to Philip and Lilian to find what my boasted good fortune really was; and nothing would reconcile them to the idea of my remaining at the Home, although they were not able to deny that the work there was congenial to me.

Marian Trafford never forgave me my one day's grandeur, and never again addressed me as an equal when we chanced to meet. She and her husband did not lead the happiest of wedded lives. On the evening of Lilian's wedding-day, Arthur Trafford was found lying on the floor of his dressing-room with an exploded pistol by his side. If he really meant to destroy himself, he had attempted it in the half-hearted way with which he did everything, having only grazed his temples and swooned with fright, and so offended his wife to no purpose. Poor Marian, her married life was neither a long one nor a happy one! No child's voice was heard at Fairview; and the miserable bickerings between the husband and wife were common gossip. She was not the kind of woman to try to conceal her disappointment; and he was not the kind of man to spare her the knowledge that she had never possessed his love. Could he have foreseen, he would doubtlessly have adopted a different policy, and at anyrate kept up some semblance of affection.

A neglected cold and improper clothing for the season brought on an attack of inflammation of the lungs, to which Marian succumbed; and after her death it was found that she had avenged herself. A lawyer was hastily summoned to her bedside, and her will made as soon as her illness was pronounced dangerous. After the funeral it was found that the endeavours of Arthur and his sister to make up for the past by extra attention at the last had been in vain. It was said that she talked to them about the large fortune which they would inherit up to almost the last hour; and their disappointment was bitter in proportion.

All Marian Trafford's wealth was left to Lilian's children. Not to Lilian, as she in a characteristic letter informed her--'In case your husband should die, and Arthur should get the property after all, for he would be sure to marry you directly. Many and many a time has he taunted me about his love for you; and as good as said I wasn't to be compared! But if he married me for the sake of my money, he won't have much to boast of now. His sister too, Caroline, will be in a fine state; but she's only got herself to thank for what I have done. I _did_ mean to leave something handsome to Caroline, till I overheard her talking to her brother about me begging him to have patience a little while longer, because the doctors said that I could not last out many days unless a turn came; and saying ever such things about what she had had to put up with! What she had to put up with, indeed! When she has had such a home at Fairview, and lived upon the best of everything, without its costing her a penny! And as to presents; no one could be more generous than I have been to Caroline; and she knows it, if she would only speak the truth. If I do not get over it, I am determined that _they_ shan't be any the better off! I'd sooner leave everything to Miss Haddon, though I should be loath to do that too. Fortunately, there is you, dear; you are my sister after all, and your Ma was not treated well; I have always said that. Besides, I can't forget how kind you were to me, when you thought that it was _my_ Ma who went wrong instead of yours. You never shewed off a bit; and it's only right you should be rewarded. I haven't put Aunt Pratt into my will, because one naturally does not care about its being known that any of one's relations are common people; but I should like you to give something handsome to her, and say it came from me;' and so forth, and so forth; a letter we were all only too glad to put out of sight and out of mind as soon as possible.

The Pratts were well taken care of, and not a little astonished at Marian's liberality, as it was interpreted to them by Lilian. Arthur Trafford made a great deal of protestation in the outset about his repugnance to receiving the annuity which Philip offered; but of course he _did_ receive it, and in time came to think that it was much less than he ought to have, always forestalling it. But Philip remained firm, and never increased the amount to more than was at first offered, a sum which he considered sufficient for an idle man to live upon.

How shall I write of the married life of Philip and Lilian? I will only say with the poet:

Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands;
Every moment lightly shaken ran itself in golden sands.

They were not selfish in their happiness, finding plenty of room in their hearts for those outside their own circle; which by the way was now a not very small one. Need I say they held fast to 'Sister Mary;' and though they could not be brought to allow that she had chosen the life she was best fitted for, they did their best to impart to it as much sunshine as they could; and I hope comforted themselves with the belief that my happiness was owing more to their efforts than my work. Was there a word of truth spoken in the jest, sometimes thrown playfully at me, to the effect that I was imbuing my god-child Mary with the notion that she had a mission, as her brothers term it? She was a thoughtful earnest child of fifteen, who had spent a great deal of her time with me, and sometimes said she would choose Aunt Mary's life before all others. It did her no harm to think so for the time being; but I knew that Aunt Mary would choose her mission to be a happy wife and mother. Failing that, I could only hope she would be as happy as Aunt Mary. For notwithstanding an occasional bit of sentiment, I was as happy a woman as could be found in the three kingdoms, with a larger circle of friends than I could well count. And very proud I was of their friendship, though the majority of them could not be said to belong to the upper strata of society. I had a large correspondence too--letters which brought tears of joy and thankfulness to my eyes, though they could not be quoted as elegant specimens of the art of letter-writing; to say nothing of their being addressed in a somewhat eccentric manner, occasionally sealed with a thimble, and so forth.

I imagined that the story of my life would run thus smoothly and evenly on to the end; but the aspect of things changed. First, we lost dear old Mrs Tipper, who passed peacefully away, lovingly tended in her last moments by her children, as she called us. She left everything she possessed to me. Shortly afterwards, Jane Osborne died, bequeathing the bulk of her property for the future maintenance of the Home, and what she termed a competence to me. Five hundred a year appeared to me something more than a competence; and with my dear old friend's legacy it made me a rich woman.

Philip and Lilian would now give me no peace, insisting that I had not the shadow of an excuse for remaining at the Home. Moreover, Hill Side was waiting for me. They had been long engaged in altering and improving Fairview, and had at length taken up their abode there. It was now a large estate, sufficient ground adjoining having been purchased to make a good park; and the trees, planted fifteen years before, were beginning to look respectable. The house itself has been a great deal altered and _subdued_, as Philip calls it, a story being taken away, and wings thrown out, &c.; very greatly to its improvement. It now looks a fitting home for a family of good standing, and as Philip's brother allows, a residence worthy of one who owns the name of Dallas.

In truth they had outgrown Hill Side; two spirited boys and three girls with the necessary arrangements for an education befitting their accumulating wealth, were not contemplated in the first plans; and I could not pretend to think that the change had been made solely on my account; although they threatened to let the place fall to ruin, if I would not go to it. Everything was left just as it was; Lilian took nothing but her mother's portrait, and Philip a portion only of his books; and to this also there was no demurring; Fairview being furnished befitting its size. Whilst I was still hesitating, or fancied that I was hesitating (for I found it very pleasant to dwell upon the idea of ending my days at Hill Side), Robert Wentworth put in an irresistible argument in favour of my yielding to their wishes, and quitting the Home. He pointed out that I was preventing some poor gentlewoman from earning the income pertaining to the situation. I was not a little surprised at his going over to their side; but, I could not, had I wished to do so, deny the reasonableness of his argument. As soon, therefore, as a lady was found to undertake the office, I resigned it.

My home-coming was made a fête-day in the village. Had a royal visitor been expected, more could not have been done in the way of preparation. The place was gay with flags and evergreens, whilst feasting and bell-ringing were going on all day. And the approach to my future home was arched over with flowers, and 'WELCOME' repeated wherever the word could be put, but expressed more delightfully than all in the faces of Philip, Lilian, and their children. It was a busy day too, as 'befitted the coming home of Aunt Mary,' laughingly said the children. A dinner was given to the grown-up people in a large tent on the green; and later on a tea, to which children were invited, with a day's holiday to all and sports between times. Of course Becky and her husband were honoured guests with their eight children. He is now a flourishing market-gardener, very proud of his little woman, though her happy married life does not tend to decrease the size of her mouth, since there is always a smile upon her face.

We had all been very busy, and were glad to take our tea on the terrace in the cool of the evening--just sufficiently distant from the sound of merriment in the village below. After tea, Philip and Lilian, lovers still, stroll down to the green to watch the sports awhile, the tired children electing to remain with Aunt Mary and Uncle Robert. My eyes followed the two as they passed down the path under the flowery arches, husband and wife in all the best sense of the words. Philip was a stately, thoughtful, English gentleman, growing anxious and ambitious for his two boys; a little too ambitious, I told him, in certain directions, since they are but mortal. And his happy wife, beautiful 'with all the soul's expansion,' was worthy to be the mother of girls--confiding to me _her_ ambition to fit them to influence the lives of honourable men.

My nieces, as they were called, were to live with me in turn. Lilian says they are very pitiful to such of their friends as have no Aunt Mary. Little Phil was very enthusiastically describing to me the advantages of my new home.

'Look here, Aunt Mary; it's the best place for larks you can imagine; beats Fairview hollow.'

'Larks, Phil?'

'Well, you know. Suppose you've got some one in the library you want to make jump nearly out of his skin; just creep round the plantations, and crawl under the bushes, and climb up over the stones--you must take care though, for they are awfully slippery--and peep in at the windows with your face made up like a brigand, and point a sham pistol at him!'

I expressed a doubt as to my capacity for crawling under bushes and climbing over slippery stones; at which Phil proposed other larks, which he considered to be more within the compass of my ability. But with the dignity of thirteen, and the experience of three months at Eton, Robert gave it as his opinion that Phil's larks were not worthy of the name.

'Look here: I know a fellow;' &c. &c.; sinking his voice into a whisper as the two boys drew closer together; their sister Jenny, who is said to be developing a taste for larks, and is very proud of being occasionally taken into their confidence, listening with bated breath and dilating eyes. Then Mary whispers to me that if I want to enjoy that bit out of _Midsummer Night's Dream_, and fancy myself in the woods _really_, I must sit under the tree on the slope when the moon is rising and the shadows are deep. And before she is carried off by her nurse, Baby Lily solemnly presents me with a woollen lamb, which she thinks enough to insure my future happiness and make me 'dood.'

'And so you have got your rest and peace at last?' said Robert Wentworth, as he and I stood for a few moments together on the terrace watching the sunset.

'Yes,' I replied, a little absently, my thoughts reverting to the old dreams of peace and rest.

'Well, it's all _couleur de rose_ now. But how long will this kind of thing satisfy you?'

'What kind of thing?'

'Being worshipped and fêted in this way.'

'I find it very pleasant,' I demurely replied.

'You will not for long, Mary.'

'Do you think I am not capable of appreciating rest and peace then?'

He smiled. 'I give you six months.'

'And yet you were as urgent as the rest about my giving up work,' I said.

'Yes; I wanted to see you in an independent position, and so to ascertain if certain theories of mine are correct.'

'Uncle Robert, is it true? Phil says he heard mamma tell papa that she did not despair of your marrying Aunt Mary even now. Is it true--_really_?'

I saw a swift flush pass over his face, and an expression in his eyes which I had only once seen there before, as they turned for a moment upon me. Then after a few moments he said, in a low husky voice: 'Ask auntie!'

Robert Wentworth had never married, and I cannot affect to be ignorant of the cause; but in all the long years that have passed he has spoken no word of love to me. Now the child's words had stirred the depths of his nature, and shewn me that time has worked no change in him.

'Is it true, auntie--is it?' asked Jenny, turning impetuously towards me.

'Uncle Robert and I love each other like old friends, dearie,' I said, replying _to him_ in a low faltering voice. 'But--I am too old to think of--marrying;' laying my hand gently upon his, resting upon the back of a garden-seat, as I spoke.

'Well, that's what Robert and I said,' frankly ejaculated Jenny. 'You _are_ old, and old people don't marry;' and off she ran to tell the others.

He recovered first, beginning to talk to me about a case he had in hand, and very soon contriving to get me sufficiently interested in it to enter warmly into the pros and cons with him. He was no longer a briefless barrister, having made a name in the profession, and being remunerated accordingly. I have the comfort of knowing that his life, like my own, is on the whole a full and happy one, although we have both had to bid adieu to certain things.

Before the six months he had given me expired, I began to find that I required change of air, and commenced absenting myself occasionally from my beautiful luxurious home for two or three weeks at a time and sometimes even longer, much to the surprise of Philip and Lilian, who could not understand why I should choose to go alone and be so mysterious about the places I visited. But they became less anxious if not less curious when they found that I always returned cheered and refreshed by the change, and at length ceased to question me.

Robert Wentworth appeared to take it for granted that my trips were in search of the picturesque; occasionally remarking that I must be growing familiar with all the loveliest nooks in England. I flattered myself that I had for once succeeded in keeping him in the dark, and he did not suspect the real object of my journeys. But I was mistaken. I might as well have taken him into my confidence at once, and he shewed me that I might, in his own fashion.

During one of my absences from Hill Side, I was under the unpleasant necessity of appearing at a police court. In obedience to a call for Mary Jones, I stepped into the witness-box, as unwilling a witness as had ever made her appearance there. I had just been trying to comfort myself with the reflection that Robert did not take up such cases, and was not at all likely to be there, when our eyes met; and from the amused expression in his, I knew that he was about to examine me, and something of what I might expect. As he afterwards informed me, he had taken up the case for the express purpose of shewing me that he knew all about my movements.

'Is Mary Jones your real name?'

'It is the name I am known by.'

'And you are a lodger in Biggs Court, Bethnal Green?'

'Yes; I have two rooms there.'

'And go out nursing sick people in the neighbourhood?'

'I have occasionally done so.'

'Is it a fact that you have musical evenings and readings to which you invite the poor women in the neighbourhood; and that you lend money to the deserving, and give lectures to them about the management of their homes and children?'

'I do not call them lectures, sir,' I replied demurely. 'But I see that you know all about my movements.'

'It is my business to know,' he replied gravely, going on with the case, a charge of assault, not uncommon in the neighbourhood of my town residence, to which I had been a witness, and was obliged to give evidence.

Since then we have not met very frequently. He is always an honoured guest at Fairview; but he is on the Bench now, devoted to the grand earnest life of the upright judge, and has very little time for private intercourse, although he is always ready to give us counsel and advice. It is my pride to hear of the respect and honour he wins, and to know that I have not been instrumental in impairing his usefulness in the world. Meantime, we are beginning to talk sometimes of the life beyond, with the yearning of those who have borne the heat and burden of the day, and I listen with bowed head and thankful heart to his acknowledgment that his life has not been lived in vain for himself any more than for others. This may be said only to cheer and comfort me; but I believe that it is truer than he himself thinks it to be. But I am above all pleased with his occasional grim little attacks upon my logic, &c., for that is to me the most convincing proof that we are the best of friends; and we are highly amused when the children take my part, and ask him not to be hard upon Aunt Mary.

THE END.

HYDERABAD AND ITS RULERS.

The dominions of the Nizam, of which Hyderabad is the capital, are situated in the southern part of Central India, and are of considerable extent--nearly five hundred miles from north-east to south-west, and about three hundred and fifty in breadth. The Nizam holds a very high place among the native sovereigns of India; his revenue is a large one, and is yearly increasing, greatly owing to the wise administration of the present prime-minister, Sir Salar Jung, a man of singularly intelligent and enlightened views, with a remarkable capacity for government. For upwards of twenty years this able and talented man has powerfully swayed the councils of the Nizams; and since the death of the last ruler, his young son and successor, still a minor, has been entirely under his guidance and control.

The young Nizam is now a boy of nine or ten years of age; and until he is fifteen he will not assume the reins of government. His health is unfortunately not good; his constitution being naturally a feeble one, and the enervating life led in the zenana has in no way tended to strengthen it. He is said to have an amiable disposition and not bad abilities; an English tutor has been provided for him, and he has every facility for receiving a first-class education. This, in conjunction with the wise counsels of his prime-minister, ought to make him a liberal and enlightened ruler when the time comes for him to take the authority into his own hands. Let us trust that it will be so.

Sir Salar Jung speaks English fluently; and on the not rare occasions when he gives an entertainment to the élite of the European society, his manners are those of a polished and high-bred gentleman, anxious that his guests should enjoy themselves, and that none should be overlooked. In his extensive and splendidly furnished palace are several rooms fitted up entirely in the English style, with chairs and sofas of every form and dimension, and tables covered with albums, photographs, and all the innumerable ornaments and knick-knacks of fashionable London drawing-rooms. Here the guests all assemble before dinner; and when the announcement is made, Sir Salar offers his arm to the principal lady present, generally the wife of the English Resident, and conducts her to the dining-room, his own private band playing _The Roast Beef of Old England_, while the company defile into their places. Here, again, all is in the English style, or rather in that which is known as _à la Russe_; a long table brilliantly lighted, and decorated with flowers, fruit, and confectionery, all arranged in the most tasteful manner, the band continuing to play at intervals. The dinner is in precisely the same European fashion--one course following the other; and the viands and wine all of the most _recherché_ description; champagne in abundance, liqueurs, everything in short that can gratify the most fastidious palate; Sir Salar himself being a man of the simplest tastes and drinking nothing but cold water.

Dinner ended, all rise, the gentlemen not remaining behind the ladies. Sir Salar again conducts the _burra bebee_, or principal lady, to a terrace on the roof of the palace, where there are seats arranged for the guests, tea and coffee handed round, a quiet cigar permitted in the background, and where a fine exhibition of fireworks is witnessed. This is the conclusion of a very agreeable entertainment, to which about a couple of hundred people are usually invited, who are all received with the most perfect courtesy by Sir Salar, his young sons, and the members of his suite; and who quit his hospitable roof much impressed by the large-mindedness and frank geniality that so greatly distinguish the Nizam's popular prime-minister.

Sometimes while the company is arriving, a 'nautch' is held in a kind of garden quadrangle, and the guests stroll out and look on for a few minutes, just as they feel inclined. Ordinary nautch-dancing is anything but the incorrect proceeding it is commonly supposed to be; it is really rather a dreary entertainment, and a very few minutes of it will be sufficient to satisfy the curiosity of most people. Be this as it may, nautch-dancing is a very favourite amusement among the high-class natives. When Sir Salar Jung gives a banquet to his fellow-countrymen, there is a nautch on a very large scale; the viands also differ considerably from those presented to his European guests, and consist chiefly of curries of every possible kind and flavour, sometimes more than fifty being served at a meal.

Though he has held the supreme power for many years, and has been prominently before the public for a yet longer time, the prime-minister of the Nizam is not much above forty years of age. He is of medium height, with an air of great dignity, an intelligent expression, and piercing dark eyes. His face is entirely shaven except a dark moustache; he generally wears a tight-fitting dark robe and small white turban, with the Star of India on his breast, and well-fitting English boots. His two wives and his daughters are never seen out of the zenana, but they receive visits from English ladies; and it is generally understood that Sir Salar is more liberal in his ideas regarding the treatment of women than is usual among Mussulmans; and his daughters are well educated, and have had foreign instructresses.

Among the institutions of Hyderabad evidencing an enlightened spirit both among the foreign residents and the natives, is the successful establishment of an American female doctor, a lady distinguished alike by professional skill and charm of manner, and who commands an excellent practice among the female portion of the community. She is also frequently summoned to attend at the zenanas, a very great boon to the poor secluded inmates, whose maladies are very frequently wrongly treated, owing to the imperative strictness of the rule which prohibits the physician from ever seeing his patient; the most that is allowed in the case of a male practitioner being the extension of the hand or tongue through a slit in a curtain, the face all the time remaining perfectly invisible.

Hyderabad, with which is closely connected the large Anglo-Indian station of Secunderabad, is in many respects a very pleasant residence. The society is good, for in addition to a considerable sprinkling of civilians, occupied in various ways, Secunderabad is an important military centre, and the district enjoys many advantages in a social and sanitary point of view. Only about twenty-four hours' journey from Bombay by rail, it is thus brought into easy communication with one of the great mercantile and social centres of India. Its real distance from Madras is not much more; but as there is no direct line, a detour has to be made in order to join the main line from Bombay at Sholapore, which nearly doubles the time consumed in travelling between the two places. This, however, may probably be amended by-and-by; when Madras will be about equidistant with Bombay, and Hyderabad will then rise into even greater importance. The climate is, generally speaking, excellent: its situation, nearly two thousand feet above the level of the sea, conducing much to its salubrity; while it is fortunate in having two monsoons or rainy seasons, one between June and September, and a shorter one later in the year. These rains are not of the ordinary violent character, but more resemble April showers; the entire depth of fall not usually averaging beyond twenty inches, while it is more genially and beneficially diffused, rendering the air delightfully cool and pleasant.

The cost of living is perhaps rather under the recognised rate of most Anglo-Indian stations. Certain things are to be had very reasonably indeed, while others are high-priced, especially the generality of European articles, which are charged nearly double what they would fetch at home. Strangely enough, tea is very dear; nothing drinkable can be got under about six shillings a pound; lower-priced kinds being perfect trash. But eggs, poultry, and even very tolerable mutton can be bought very cheaply; a rupee (about two shillings of our money) will purchase three or four fowls, certainly rather skinny ones; while three rupees is an ordinary price for one of the small country sheep, and the mutton is not bad, though of course it is not 'gram-fed,' as they call the kind specially fattened for the table, and which costs three or four times the money. There is much sociability among the English residents; and the cooler nature of the climate enables them to have a greater variety of al-fresco entertainments than is customary in the tropical temperature of most parts of India. Perhaps partly in consequence of this, combined with its higher and more salubrious situation, the district round Hyderabad is generally very healthy; and people have lived there for many years and enjoyed excellent health without ever coming home at all. One well-known old Scotch gentleman has resided chiefly there for fifty years without ever returning to his native country; and to judge from his active habits and hale appearance, he will live there for many years to come.

Among the native population, however, the repulsive disease of leprosy is very prevalent; but Europeans seldom or never suffer from it. This dreadful malady is of two kinds: in one the type is exceedingly malignant; the afflicted persons are not permitted to go abroad, but are secluded in buildings specially set aside for their reception, and to all intents and purposes they are dead to their fellow-men.

The supply of water in the locality is excellent, mainly owing to the enormous reservoirs that have been constructed in the vicinity of Hyderabad, used principally for bathing both by the natives and by Europeans. The largest of these is about twenty miles round; and they are reached by numerous flights of steps, which are generally thronged by the natives at all hours of the day, for the double purposes of ablution and washing their clothes.

Cotton is the staple production of the country; but its other products and resources are being rapidly developed by Sir Salar Jung, who has organised large public works of various kinds, and is opening new roads through the less frequented portions of the Nizam's territory. If he could be induced to impose more taxes, a very great, and also a justifiable increase of the revenue could be easily effected; but to this measure he has an invincible objection, alleging that it is a system to which the subjects of the Nizam have been little accustomed, and which would be unpalatable to all classes alike. This may be true; but so enlightened a ruler will probably ere long be brought to acknowledge the necessity for a moderate adoption of this system, both in the interests of his master and in those of the real prosperity of the noble dominions he has so long and so faithfully governed.

'PRENTICE-LIFE AT SEA.

The sea is one of the most beautiful objects in nature, whether we watch it breaking in playful ripples on the pebbly beach, or shrink from it aghast when it rushes along the shore in the full thunder of its wrath, seething, tortured, convulsed, struggling in the clutch of the storm-fiend. To us in England who owe it so much, to us who have for centuries reaped our harvests on its pathless plains, and made of its trackless billows a highway to fame and fortune, the sea has always been an object of intense, almost passionate interest. Hence there have never been wanting among us volunteers for the wild sea-life of freedom and adventure. The boy intended by fond parents for quite a different fate, dreams of the unknown sea as he creeps reluctant to and from school, devouring it may be the while some well-thumbed novel of Marryat's, instead of mastering the intricacies of a Latin verb; until at last, the passion growing with his growth, he leaves all else behind him and finds his way to the shore, and looks wonderingly at the great ships lying in the harbour. Blissful Edens these, which have fought many a battle with the mighty ocean, although they are lying now so quietly in dock, with their rigging stretching aloft like a network of twine, and piles of cable lazily laid up on deck like so many coiled snakes. Gradually he finds his way on board, and then discovers that the rose has thorns; that sea-life, in other words, is by no means an Elysium.

Such a career is sketched for us in an amusing book, _Two Years Abaft the Mast_, by F. W. H. Symondson. The author was an apprentice on board the _Sea Queen_, a sailing ship, bound for Sydney with a general cargo. The ship was a good one, registered A1 at Lloyd's, and carried a crew of twelve able-bodied seamen, four ordinary seamen, and three apprentices besides himself. There were also three mates--the first, second, and third.

Naturally life at sea is made up very much of routine, and the routine on board the _Sea Queen_ was after the following fashion. A sea-day commences at mid-day, when we must suppose the starboard watch, to which our apprentice belonged, to be below. At twelve o'clock (eight bells) he comes up along with his watch, to relieve the port watch, who then have dinner. The second mate, who has charge of the starboard watch, then sees that every one goes to his proper work. He gives an eye to the steering of the ship, and carefully notes any shifting of the wind. A fresh helmsman relieves the man at the wheel, and receives directions as to steering from him; and our apprentice being the youngest, looks after the time and strikes the bells. At half-past twelve he strikers one bell, at one o'clock two bells, and so on. At four o'clock, eight bells are struck, and the port watch is called; and as soon as the man at the wheel is relieved, the starboard watch go below, and smoke or read or spin yarns until tea-time, which is at five o'clock. They then receive a pint of the pale inky coloured nectar which does duty for tea on board ship, and along with it salt pork or junk. This is cooked in different ways; chopped up with biscuit, water, and slush, by which is meant the grease from salt meat, it forms a sea-delicacy called sconse. Another _bonne bouche_ is dandy-funk, which is compounded of powdered biscuit, molasses, water, and slush; while dogsbody, composed of pea-soup, powdered biscuit, and slush, is also considered to form a savoury and refreshing compound. At six o'clock the other watch come below, and have their tea. During the first dog-watch, from four to six, no regular work is done, but no larking is allowed; but the second watch, from six to eight, is given up to fun and frolic of the maddest and merriest description, such as chasing rats with belaying-pins, or trying to turn the cook out of his galley, while he defends himself with boiling water. At eight o'clock the wild scrimmage ceases as if by magic, the starboard watch turn into their berths, and nothing is heard but the measured tread of the look-out on the forecastle head, and the soft murmur of the wind and sea, as the night-breeze fills the sails, and the _Sea Queen_ glides onward to her destination through the rippling water.

At midnight the port watch is relieved, all hands muster on deck, and the mate in charge sings out: 'Relieve the look-out! Relieve the man at the wheel!' and then all is silent again until four o'clock, when the starboard watch go below, and the port watch come up.

The cook is called at four; and from half-past five to six the men have their coffee, and then comes the order: 'Brooms and buckets aft, to wash the decks;' which shews that the work of the day has begun. While the decks are being scrubbed, the captain generally makes his appearance, and after inspecting the compass and the sails, sits down in his favourite arm-chair on the poop with a book. On Saturday afternoons each watch are allowed an hour to wash their clothes, and at half-past four or five the stores for the week are served out: these consist of articles such as sugar, vinegar, &c.

In the little world of the ship, the captain is an irresponsible autocrat; his word is law; to refuse to obey him is mutiny. The sole command of the navigation and working of the ship rests with him, and the weather-side of the poop is his private property when he chooses to come on deck. In the ordinary daily work he seldom interferes personally, but transmits all his orders through the chief mate, who is a very important officer, and who superintends everything. When the cargo is stowed, he must give an acknowledgment for it and for all goods in the hold, and must make up any deficiencies. He must also keep the log-book, which is a very important trust. The officer of each watch marks upon the log-slate the courses, the distance run, the winds, and any subject of interest; and these at the end of every twenty-four hours are copied into the official log-book by the chief mate. The duties of the second and third mate are less onerous; but they must always be addressed by the prefix of 'Mr' and answered with 'Sir.' The third mate has to dispense the stores--a very unpopular office, and one which does not fail to call down a shower of anything but blessings upon his devoted head. A boatswain is in general only carried by large ships, and his sole duty is to look after the rigging and all that concerns it. The carpenter is both an important and independent personage on board ship; the captain alone gives him his orders, and he has nothing to do with any of the three mates; his usual sobriquet is 'Chips.' The steward is in point of fact the captain's servant, and although he is well paid, he is generally looked down upon by the crew, who call him 'Flunkey.'

Pursuing the narrative presented to us by the _Sea Queen's_ apprentice, we find that the cook, if he is a good one, is a very important personage on board ship; he answers generally to the name of 'Slushy' or 'the Doctor,' and requires to be, and indeed almost always is, an individual of some resource, for he practises his calling amid difficulties such as would utterly dismay a _chef de cuisine_ on land. His kitchen, to begin with, is such a mite of a place that the wonder is that he can fry, roast, or boil anything in it; then it is provokingly subject to sudden inundations, partial deluges which come tumbling in as if in sport, playfully extinguishing his stove, and sending his provisions, cooking utensils, and seasonings sliding and spinning all around him; while if he is worth his salt he will still, in spite of all these difficulties, turn out such a meal for the cabin table as Soyer under the circumstances need not have blushed to own. As is befitting in the case of such a superior being, he has certain social advantages; he can smoke in his galley whenever he chooses; and he slumbers peacefully all night in the best bunk of the forecastle, blissfully unconscious of the existence or claims of port or starboard watches. The apprentices are not so well off, although a premium of from thirty to sixty guineas is sometimes paid for their term of four years; the only advantage they have is living apart from the crew. Their duties are the same as those of a forecastle boy, and they share the same food, which is sufficient in quantity, but often very bad as to quality.