Chapter I: Part 1

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 731. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]

THE ROMANCE OF ACCIDENT.

Many of our most important inventions and discoveries owe their origin to the most trivial circumstances; from the simplest causes the most important effects have ensued. The following are a few culled at random for the amusement of our readers.

The trial of two robbers before the Court of Assizes of the Basses-Pyrénées accidentally led to a most interesting archæological discovery. The accused, Rivas a shoemaker, and Bellier a weaver, by armed attacks on the highways and frequent burglaries, had spread terror around the neighbourhood of Sisteron. The evidence against them was clear; but no traces could be obtained of the plunder, until one of the men gave a clue to the mystery. Rivas in his youth had been a shepherd-boy near that place, and knew the legend of the Trou d'Argent, a cavern on one of the mountains with sides so precipitous as to be almost inaccessible, and which no one was ever known to have reached. The Commissary of Police of Sisteron, after extraordinary labour, succeeded in scaling the mountain, and penetrated to the mysterious grotto, where he discovered an enormous quantity of plunder of every description. The way having been once found, the vast cavern was afterwards explored by _savants_; and their researches brought to light a number of Roman medals of the third century, flint hatchets, ornamented pottery, and the remains of ruminants of enormous size. These interesting discoveries, however, obtained no indulgence for the accused (inadvertent) pioneers of science, who were sentenced to twenty years' hard labour.

The discovery of gold in Nevada was made by some Mormon immigrants in 1850. Adventurers crossed the Sierras and set up their sluice-boxes in the cañons; but it was gold they were after, and they never suspected the existence of silver, nor knew it when they saw it. The bluish stuff which was so abundant and which was silver ore, interfered with their operations and gave them the greatest annoyance. Two brothers named Grosch possessed more intelligence than their fellow-workers, and were the real discoverers of the Comstock lode; but one of them died from a pickaxe wound in the foot, and the other was frozen to death in the mountains. Their secret died with them. When at last, in the early part of 1859, the surface croppings of the lode were found, they were worked for the gold they contained, and the silver was thrown out as being worthless. Yet this lode since 1860 has yielded a large proportion of all the silver produced throughout the world. The silver mines of Potosi were discovered through the trivial circumstance of an Indian accidentally pulling up a shrub, to the roots of which were attached some particles of the precious metal.

During the Thirty Years' War in Germany, the little village of Coserow in the island of Usedom, on the Prussian border of the Baltic, was sacked by the contending armies, the villagers escaping to the hills to save their lives. Among them was a simple pastor named Schwerdler, and his pretty daughter Mary. When the danger was over, the villagers found themselves without houses, food, or money. One day, we are told, Mary went up the Streckelberg to gather blackberries; but soon afterwards she ran back joyous and breathless to her father, with two shining pieces of amber each of very great size. She told her father that near the shore the wind had blown away the sand from a vein of amber; that she straightway broke off these pieces with a stick; that there was an ample store of the precious substance; and that she had covered it over to conceal her secret. The amber brought money, food, clothing, and comfort; but those were superstitious times, and a legend goes that poor Mary was burned for witchcraft. At the village of Stümen, amber was first accidentally found by a rustic who was fortunate enough to turn some up with his plough.

Accidents have prevented as well as caused the working of mines. At the moment that workmen were about to commence operations on a rich gold mine in the Japanese province of Tskungo, a violent storm of thunder and lightning burst over them, and the miners were obliged to seek shelter elsewhere. These superstitious people, imagining that the tutelar god and protector of the spot, unwilling to have the bowels of the earth thus rifled, had raised the storm to make them sensible of his displeasure, desisted from all further attempts to work the mine.

A cooper in Carniola having one evening placed a new tub under a dropping spring, in order to try if it would hold water, when he came in the morning found it so heavy that he could hardly move it. At first, the superstitious notions that are apt to possess the minds of the ignorant made him suspect that his tub was bewitched; but at last perceiving a shining fluid at the bottom, he went to Laubach, and shewed it to an apothecary, who immediately dismissed him with a small gratuity, and bid him bring some more of the same stuff whenever he could meet with it. This the poor cooper frequently did, being highly pleased with his good fortune; till at length the affair being made public, several persons formed themselves into a society in order to search farther into the quicksilver deposits, thus so unexpectedly discovered, and which were destined to become the richest of their kind in Europe.

Curious discoveries by ploughmen, quarrymen, and others of caves, coins, urns, and other interesting things, would fill volumes. Many valuable literary relics have been preserved by curious accidents, often turning up just in time to save them from crumbling to pieces. Not only mineral but literary treasures have been brought to light when excavating mother earth. For instance, in the foundations of an old house, Luther's _Table Talk_ was discovered 'lying in a deep obscure hole, wrapped in strong linen cloth, which was waxed all over with beeswax within and without.' There it had remained hidden ever since its suppression by Pope Gregory XIII. The poems of Propertius, a Roman poet, long lurked unsuspected in the darkness of a wine-cellar, from whence they were at length unearthed by accident, just in time to preserve them from destruction by rats and mildew. Not only from beneath our feet but from above our heads may chance reveal the hiding-places of treasure-trove. The sudden falling in of a ceiling, for example, of some chambers in Lincoln's Inn revealed the secret depository of the Thurloe state papers. Other literary treasures have turned up in an equally curious manner. Milton's essay on the _Doctrines of Christianity_ was discovered in a bundle of old despatches: a monk found the only manuscript of Tacitus accidentally in Westphalia: the letters of Lady Mary Montagu were brought to light from the recesses of an old trunk: the manuscripts of Dr Dee from the secret drawer of an old chest: and it is said that one of the cantos of Dante's great poem was found, after being long mislaid, hidden away beneath a window-sill.

It is curious to trace how the origin of some famous work has been suggested apparently by the merest accident. We need but remind the reader how Lady Austen's suggestion of 'the sofa' as a subject for blank verse was the beginning of _The Task_, a poem which grew to formidable proportions under Cowper's facile pen. Another example of

What great events from trivial causes spring,

is furnished by Lockhart's account of the gradual growth of _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_. The lovely Countess of Dalkeith hears a wild legend of Border _diablerie_, and sportively asks Scott to make it the subject of a ballad. The poet's accidental confinement in the midst of a yeomanry camp gave him leisure to meditate his theme to the sound of the bugle; suddenly there flashes on him the idea of extending his simple outline so as to embrace a vivid panorama of that old Border life of war and tumult. A friend's suggestion led to the arrangement and framework of the _Lay_ and the conception of the ancient Harper. Thus step by step grew the poem that first made its author famous. The manuscript of _Waverley_ lay hidden away in an old cabinet for years before the public were aware of its existence. In the words of the Great Unknown: 'I had written the greater part of the first volume and sketched other passages, when I mislaid the manuscript; and only found it by the merest accident, as I was rummaging the drawer of an old cabinet; and I took the fancy of finishing it.'

Charlotte Brontë's chance discovery of a manuscript volume of verses in her sister Emily's handwriting led, from a mutual confession of the _furor poeticus_, to the joint publication of their poems, which though adding little to their subsequent fame, at least gives us another instance of how much of what is called chance has often to do with the carrying out of literary projects. It was the burning of Drury Lane Theatre that led to the production of _The Rejected Addresses_, the success of which, says one of the authors, 'decided him to embark in that literary career, which the favour of the novel-reading world rendered both pleasant and profitable to him.' Most of us know how that famous fairy tale _Alice in Wonderland_ came to be written. The characters in _Oliver Twist_ of Fagin, Sikes, and Nancy were suggested by some sketches of Cruikshank, who long had a design to shew the life of a London thief by a series of drawings. Dickens, while paying Cruikshank a visit, happened to turn over some sketches in a portfolio. When he came to that one which represents Fagin in the condemned cell, he studied it for half an hour, and told his friend that he was tempted to change the whole plot of his story, not to carry Oliver through adventures in the country, but to take him up into the thieves' den in London, shew what this life was, and bring Oliver through it without sin or shame. Cruikshank consented to let Dickens write up to as many of the drawings as he thought would suit his purpose. So the story as it now runs resulted in a great measure from that chance inspection of the artist's portfolio. The remarkable picture of the Jew malefactor in the condemned cell biting his nails in the torture of remorse, is associated with a happy accident. The artist had been labouring at the subject for several days, and thought the task hopeless; when sitting up in his bed one morning with his hand on his chin and his fingers in his mouth, the whole attitude expressive of despair, he saw his face in the cheval glass. 'That's it!' he exclaimed; 'that's the expression I want.' And he soon finished the picture.

The sudden prosperity of many a famous painter has resulted from some fortunate accident. Anthony Watteau, when a nameless struggling artist, timidly offered a painting to a rich picture-dealer for six francs, and was on the eve of being scornfully rejected, had not a stranger, who happened to be in the shop, come forward, and seeing some talent in the work, spoke encouragingly to the youth, and offered him one hundred and fifty francs for the picture; nor was this all, for he became Watteau's patron and instructor.--One day a little shepherd-boy was seated near the road-side on the way from Vespignano to Florence drawing upon a polished stone, his only pencil another polished stone which he held in his tiny fingers. A richly dressed stranger, who had descended from a conveyance that was following him, chanced to pass, and looking over the boy's shoulder, saw that he had just sketched with wonderful truth and correctness a sheep and its twin lambs. Surprised and pleased, he examined the face of the young artist. Certainly it was not its beauty that attracted him. The child looked up, but with such a marvellous light in his dark eyes, that the stranger exclaimed: 'My child, you must come with me; I will be your master and your father: it is some good angel that has led me here.' The stranger was Cimabue, the most celebrated painter of that day; and his pupil and protégé became the famous painter, sculptor, and architect Giotto, the friend and admiration of Dante and Petrarch.

How the fortunes of painters may hinge upon the most trifling circumstances, has another example in that of Ribera or Spagnoletto, which was determined by a very simple incident. He went to reside with his father-in-law, whose house, it so happened, stood in the vast square one side of which was occupied by the palace of the Spanish Viceroy. It was the custom in Italy, as formerly amongst the Greeks, that whenever an artist had completed any great work, he should expose it in some street or thoroughfare, for the public to pass judgment on it. In compliance with this usage, Ribera's father-in-law placed in his balcony the 'Martyrdom of St Bartholomew' as soon as it was finished. The people flocked in crowds to see it, and testified their admiration by deafening shouts of applause. These acclamations reached the ears of the Viceroy, who imagined that a fresh revolt had broken out, and rushed in complete armour to the spot. There he beheld in the painting the cause of so much tumult. The Viceroy desired to see the man who had distinguished himself by so marvellous a production; and his interest in the painter was not lessened on discovering that he was, like himself, a Spaniard. He immediately attached Spagnoletto to his person, gave him an apartment in his palace, and proved a generous patron ever afterwards.

Lanfranco, the wealthy and munificent artist, on his way from the church Il Gesú, happened to observe an oil-painting hanging outside a picture-broker's shop. Lanfranco stopped his carriage, and desired the picture to be brought to him. Wiping the thick dust from the canvas, the delighted broker brought it, with many bows and apologies, to the great master, who on nearer inspection saw that his first glance had been correct. The picture was labelled 'Hagar and her Son Ishmael dying of Thirst,' and the subject was treated in a new and powerful manner. Lanfranco looked for the name of the painter, and detecting the word Salvatoriello modestly set in a corner of the picture, he gave instructions to his pupils to buy up every work of Salvatoriello they could find in Naples. To this accident Salvator owed the sudden demand for his pictures, which changed his poverty and depression into comparative ease and satisfaction.

More than one famous singer might probably never have been heard of but for some discriminating patron chancing to hear a beautiful voice, perhaps exercised in the streets for the pence of the compassionate.--Some happy stage-hits have resulted from or originated in accidents. The odd hop skip and jump so effective in the delineation of Dundreary, says an American interviewer of Mr Sothern, was brought about in this way. In the words of the actor: 'It was a mere accident. I have naturally an elastic disposition, and during a rehearsal one cold morning I was hopping at the back of the stage, when Miss Keene sarcastically inquired if I was going to introduce that into Dundreary. The actors and actresses standing around laughed; and taking the cue, I replied: "Yes, Miss Keene; that's my view of the character." Having said this, I was bound to stick to it; and as I progressed with the rehearsal, I found that the whole company, including scene-shifters and property-men, were roaring with laughter at my infernal nonsense. When I saw that the public accepted the satire, I toned down what was a broad caricature to what can be seen at the present day by any one who has a quick sense of the absurd.'

An excellent landscape of Salvator Rosa's exhibited at the British Institution in 1823 came to be painted in a curious way. The painter happened one day to be amusing himself by tuning an old harpsichord; some one observed they were surprised he could take so much trouble with an instrument that was not worth a crown. 'I bet you I make it worth a thousand before I have done with it!' cried Rosa. The bet was taken; and Salvator painted on the harpsichord a landscape that not only sold for a thousand crowns, but was esteemed a first-rate painting.--Chemistry and pathology are indebted to what has often seemed the merest chance for many an important discovery. A French paper says it has been accidentally discovered that in cases of epileptic fits, a black silk handkerchief thrown over the afflicted persons will restore them immediately. Advances in science and art and sudden success in professions have often more to do with the romance of accident than most people imagine; but as we may have occasion again to take up the subject, we quit it for the present.

A DIFFICULT QUESTION.

THE STORY OF TWO CHRISTMAS EVES.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER II.--ANSWERED.

The mistletoe hung from the chandelier, the holly wreaths were on the walls, the clear fire shed a warm glow through the dimly lighted room, upon pictures and gilding, upon a great vase filled with crimson camellias, upon Ralph Loraine's dark handsome face. Christmas eve again, his first year in England over. How little certainty there is in this world; when we think we have smoothed our path, and see our way straight before us, there rises up some roughness, some unevenness we have left unnoticed, or thought too small to trouble us. So with Ralph; he had answered the question he asked himself last Christmas eve by another; he was very happy, but he was thinking now as he leaned against the mantel-piece whether he could bear to leave the army and give up the life he had led for so long; the life, at times one of bold daring, at others of lazy pleasure, which had suited him so well; that even now, with the wish of his heart fulfilled, it cost him a struggle to bid farewell to it, and to settle down into a quiet country gentleman. He had kept his oath to his dead friend, the oath he had taken in answer to the faintly spoken words, 'I meant to have made her so happy.' Louise would remain in her old home as its mistress.

It had been a happy year to Ralph, and had glided away so quickly since that first night when he had seen her standing in the snowy churchyard, listening to words which sounded very much like love from another man's lips. That other had, however, confirmed his opinion. Vere Leveson had been away with his regiment during all the twelve months; not once had he met Louise; the field had been clear for Ralph. Yet it was only a week since he had spoken; he had not dared at first to break through the barrier of childish affection. She looked upon him as her guardian, her father's friend, with the same grateful reverence she might have given to that father had he lived; so he had tried very gently to awaken deeper feelings, through the sweet early spring-time and the glowing summer days, till when the leaves were lying in brown showers upon the sodden earth, she had grown silent, shy, and distant, and so cold that he thought all hope was gone. He went away in November; and when he returned, his love unspoken became torture to his upright nature; he could not bear to live there day by day, to see her so often, to let her kiss him as a daughter might have done, and all the while that hidden passion burning in his heart. But after his temporary absence she had changed again; she was more as she had been, gentle, playfully loving; and so one day he had spoken. He told her of her dying father's words; how his great wish had been that she should never feel the loss he had caused her; how her happiness was his first object in life; and how that life would be indeed worthless and barren, should he go back to it alone. Grateful, she answered as he wished, and Ralph held in his arms as his betrothed wife the child he had promised to watch over in the silence of the Indian dawn.

'But you must give me time,' she had said timidly. 'I have never thought of you but as my guardian, Ralph.' She dropped the name of her childhood then, as a tacit acknowledgment that those days were over, and that she would learn to love him henceforth, not with a child's grateful unquestioning love, but with the tenderness of a wife.

She was the only one surprised by the event; all the neighbourhood had known it long before; so had Mrs Loraine and Emma; so had Katharine, whose wedding-day was now approaching, and whose bridegroom was Sir Michael Leyland. The drawing-room door opened, and Louise entered into the uncertain light, wearing the dress he had chosen for her--white bridal-looking silk, and holly wreaths like those she had worn last year. She went up to him composedly, with none of a young fiancée's usual bashfulness.

'Do you like my dress, Ralph?' she said, looking up with her sweet dark eyes, as he bent down and touched the rosy lips.

'I do,' he answered. 'You are always lovely, darling; last year I thought the same, but then things were different. I did not dare to hope for such happiness as this.'

'Are you happy, Ralph?'

'Happier than I have ever been in my whole life,' he whispered.

Then the others came in, and they started for the annual ball at Leigh Park. Vere Leveson had returned a week ago; and as he stood among his father's guests there was a troubled look on his face which deepened ever as the white silk folds of the holly-wreathed dress brushed past him, or the dark eyes watching its wearer met hers. At last he went to her.

'Are you engaged for this, Miss Wrayworth?' he said abruptly.

'No,' she answered.

'Then you will give it to me?'

Once more he held her in his arms, once more her hand rested in his, as they glided slowly round the room. Vere did not speak till the waltz was ended, and then he led her to the same window where they had stood a year ago. The same stars were shining down on the same world, only that night there was no snow-shroud over the dead flowers, and the moon was half hidden by a great splash of cloud. The same first faint Christmas bells were sounding in the distance, mingled with the echoes of a carol sung by boys' clear voices, telling for the angels the old story they had told so long ago.

'I wish you a merry Christmas,' Vere said, looking down on her with a half-scornful smile. 'What mockery there is in that salutation sometimes. If you were to say it to me, for instance.'

'Indeed I hope you will have one,' she answered timidly.

'I must go a long way to find it then,' he muttered. 'But I beg your pardon, Miss Wrayworth; I must congratulate you. I met--your sister I was going to say--Miss Loraine I mean, as I was on my way to call upon you the other day, and she told me of your engagement.'

'But you did not come,' said Louise.

'No; I thought you would be occupied. I congratulate you,' he repeated.

'Thank you,' she answered very low.

'Major Loraine is completely calculated to make a wife happy, I should think,' said Vere, in the same cold scornful tone.

She lifted her head quickly. 'Indeed he is; he is the best, noblest, most generous man that breathes!'

'And you love him?'

'He has been everything to me all my life long, Mr Leveson--father, brother, friend. Would you not have me do what I can to prove my gratitude?'

'By making him a still nearer relation? Certainly. But for my part, there is one thing I should rather choose my wife to feel for me than gratitude. How everything changes in this world!' he added abruptly. 'Can it possibly be only one year since I stood at this same window with a girl by my side who promised to _remember_ me and _trust_ me till next Christmas? Such a short time! only twelve little months. I suppose it is true that

Woman's love is writ in water,
Woman's faith is traced on sand.

But I never believed it.'

'I hope you will not find it so,' said the girl softly, as she played nervously with the shining holly leaves, breaking them, and crushing the scarlet berries till they fell spoiled upon the floor. 'I must congratulate _you_.'

'I beg your pardon! Congratulate me! What upon?'

'Your--your engagement.'

'My engagement! And may I ask to whom?'

'To Miss Leslie.'

'What!' he exclaimed. 'What do you mean? Alice Leslie! Who can have told you such a falsehood?'

'Katharine heard it when she was in London.'

There was a long, long silence, while each guessed the other's secret.

'Is it not true?' she said at last.

'No; on my soul!' he answered. 'I never said a word to that girl all the world might not have heard. I engaged to _her_! No! O Louise!' he cried passionately; 'Louise, my darling! I have loved you so long, and this is the end of it! Did not you know last year that I loved you and you only, when I asked you to trust me? I have been silent for a year, to obey my father, and--I have lost you!'

His voice trembled as he caught her hands, and a great longing tenderness gleamed in his deep blue eyes. 'Did not you love me, Louise? Have I been fool enough to delude myself all these months?'

'I was very--very unhappy when Katharine told me.' The answer was simply, hopelessly spoken, and there was another silence, broken again by her voice. 'Vere,' she said, 'Vere--I may call you so just this once--we have made a terrible mistake; but I must keep my word. Say good-bye to me, and let me go.'

'Oh, my darling! my darling!'

'Hush! Vere, hush!' she said brokenly. 'I owe _him_ a debt nothing can ever pay; and I know he will keep the promise he made to my father years ago, to try and make me happy.'

'God helping me, I will!' It was Ralph Loraine's voice that spoke; Ralph Loraine's dark fearless eyes that rested upon her; Ralph Loraine's loyal hand which took her cold one, as she started back from the man she loved.

'Don't look frightened, dear,' he said gently. 'Poor child, how you must have suffered! Louise! do you think I would let you bear one moment's pain to save myself from a lifetime of misery? Forgive me, dear; the dream has been very bright, and the awaking is'--he paused for a moment and steadied his voice--'a little hard; but I shall soon be used to it. The vow I made to your dead father, I will still keep, Louise; I am your guardian, nothing more. Forget what has been between us, child, as soon as you can.' He turned, and held out his hand to Vere. 'It is a precious charge I give up to you,' he said solemnly; 'you must help me to keep my vow.' He paused, then added tremulously: 'You must make her happy for me.' Then without another word he passed out through the open window into the wintry moonlit garden, and left them alone.

He wandered down the avenue through the open gate among the waiting carriages on to the silent fields, bearing the sorrow bravely, the utter wreck of his life's sweetest hopes. 'Which is the harder,' he thought bitterly as he hurried on, scarcely knowing where he went, 'to lay down life or love?' In his great unselfishness he never blamed her who had wrought this trouble; he had vowed to make her happy; he had done his duty, nothing more, but it was hard to do. It had been a fearful temptation as he listened, to go away without speaking, and so keep her his; but he had conquered. Yet it seemed as though he could not live without her, as though that one happy week had swallowed up his whole existence, as though he had loved all his life instead of for one short year; and he looked up piteously to the cloudy heavens, to the wintry moon, seeking for the comfort that was not to be found, longing, in his wretchedness, to lie down upon the cold wet grass and sleep never to wake again.

'Won't you remember the carols?'

A shrill voice broke in upon his thoughts; he started, looking down suddenly, vacantly, as though he did not comprehend.

Two boys stood there, on their way home across the fields. 'Hush!' said the elder; 'don't you see it's the Major? Merry Christmas, sir!'

Ah! how mockingly those words sounded now. The greeting stung him as the taunt of a fiend; he turned and hurried on. He paused breathlessly at the stile leading into the next field; all his strength seemed to have left him as he stood there alone with his grief. Then from the distance was wafted to him the sound of the boys' voices, and the words they sung were these:

All glory be to God on high,
And to the earth be peace;
Good-will henceforth from heaven to men
Begin and never cease!

Somehow they comforted him as no human sympathy could have done--the grand old words, the simple tune, the children's voices. Though he did not know that by what he had done that night, he had fulfilled as far as might be the charge given in the angels' song.

A DREAM AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

When I was about twelve years of age I was invited by Mrs Hall, my god-mother, to pay her a visit before going to a boarding-school, where I was to remain for a few years. My mother had died when I was very young; and my father thought it better for me to be at a nice school, where I would be amongst girls of my own age, than in the house with only his sister and himself. Mrs Hall was very fond of me; she had no children of her own; and had my father consented, she and Mr Hall would have taken me to live with them entirely.

It was a lovely day in June when I arrived at my god-mother's; and she was delighted to see me. The house was beautifully situated on high ground, surrounded by grand old trees, and at one side was a flower-garden.

One morning god-mother said to me: 'Come upstairs with me, Lilian, and I will shew you some Indian jewels that my uncle left me lately.' She opened the drawer of an inlaid sandal-wood cabinet and took out a small case, in which were a pair of ear-rings, a brooch, and necklet of most beautiful diamonds. I thought I had never seen anything so beautiful before. 'My dear Lilian,' said she, 'I intend to give you these on your sixteenth birthday. I see, however, there is a stone loose in one of the ear-rings, so I will take it into town to-day and have it repaired.' She folded it up carefully and put it in her purse; the case with the other diamonds she put in one of the drawers of her dressing-glass.

After lunch, Mr and Mrs Hall took me with them to the town, which was about four miles distant. The ear-ring was left at the jeweller's, and as we were to spend the day at a friend's house, we arranged to call for it on our way back. But you will say what has all this to do with your dream? Well, wait a little and you will see.

We spent a pleasant day, called for the ear-ring on our way, and arrived home about half-past nine o'clock. As I was taking off my bonnet, god-mother came into the room. 'Lilian,' said she, 'I cannot find the case of diamonds anywhere. Did I not leave it in the drawer in my dressing-glass, before I went out? I went to put in the other ear-ring now, and it was not there. Who can have taken it?'

'You certainly left it in the dressing-glass drawer,' I said. 'Could any of the servants have taken it, do you think?'

'I am sure they would not,' she answered. 'I have had them with me for years, and never missed anything before.'

'Are there any strangers about that could have come in through the window?'

'No, Lilian; there are no strangers about the place except the gardener, and he seems a most respectable man. I got a very high character of him from his last place; in fact we were told he was a most trustworthy person.'

Next day there was a wonderful commotion about the missing jewel-case. The police were sent for, and every place was searched over and over again, but to no purpose. One thing, however, puzzled us: on the window-sill was a footmark, and near the dressing-table a little bit of earth, as if off a shoe or boot; which led us to think that the thief must have come in through the window. But how did he get up to it? It was a good height from the ground, and the creeping plants were not in the least broken, as would have been the case had any one climbed up by them. A ladder must have been employed; and it was little to the credit of the police that this fact had not been properly considered. As the matter stood, it was a mystery, and seemed likely to remain so, and only one ear-ring was left of the valuable set.

In a few days I left for school, where I remained for four years. I spent every vacation between my home and my god-mother's. We often spoke of the stolen diamonds; but nothing had ever been heard of them, though a reward of fifty pounds had been offered by Mr Hall for any information that would lead to the detection of the thief. On my sixteenth birthday my god-mother gave me a beautiful watch and chain and the diamond ear-ring, which she had got arranged as a necklet.

'I am so sorry, Lilian,' said she, 'that I have not the rest of those diamonds to give you; but if ever they are found, they shall be yours, my dear.'

I must now pass over six years, which went by quietly and happily, nothing very important taking place until the last year, during which time I had been married. My husband was a barrister. We lived in the north of England. My mother-in-law Mrs Benson, and Mary, one of her daughters, lived some miles away from us near the sea-coast. It was a very lonely place, a long way from the little fishing-town, or rather village, of Burnley. I confess I often felt very nervous about Mrs Benson and her daughter living alone (her husband being dead many years). Except three women-servants in the house, and the coachman and his family who lived in the lodge, there was no one nearer than Burnley, four miles off. Besides, it was known that there was a large quantity of plate in the house; and the little sea-side village was often the resort of smugglers and other wild and lawless characters. One day, while thinking of them, I felt so uneasy that I said to my husband: 'I hope, Henry, there is nothing wrong with your mother; she has been in my mind all day.'

'Oh,' said he, 'why should you feel anxious about her to-day? I saw her last Tuesday; and if she were ill, Mary would be sure to let us know. It is only one of your "fancies," little wife.'

Still I did not feel easy, for more than once before my so-called 'fancy' had proved to be a 'reality;' so I determined that in a few days I would go and see Mrs Benson. All that evening I could not get her out of my thoughts, and it was a long time before I went to sleep. I think it must have been about three o'clock in the morning that I woke in a state of terror. I had dreamed that I saw Mrs Benson standing in the window of her bedroom, beckoning me to come to her, and pointing to a female figure who was stealing along under the shade of the trees in the avenue, for the moon was shining brightly.

I started up, thinking I heard her calling me. And here is the most extraordinary part of it all--though I was now quite awake, I heard, as I thought, a voice saying to me: 'Go, tell Mrs Benson, Martha is deceiving her; tell her to send her away at once.'

Three times these words seemed to be repeated in my ear. I can't describe exactly what the voice was like: it was not loud, but quite distinct; and I felt as I listened that it was a warning, and that I _must_ obey it. I woke my husband, and told him my dream and the words I had heard. He tried to calm my mind, and evidently thought me foolish to be so frightened by only a stupid dream. I said I would drive over the first thing after breakfast, and see if anything was wrong with Mary or her mother. The only thing that puzzled me was that Martha should be mentioned as deceiving Mrs Benson. She acted as housekeeper and lady's-maid to her, and was believed to be most trustworthy in every way. She had been four years with her; and was much respected. She was a silent reserved kind of person, about thirty-five years of age. One thing I had often remarked about her was, that when speaking to any one she never looked straight at them; but I thought it might be from a kind of shyness more than anything else.

As soon as breakfast was over I set off, telling my husband I would very likely not return until next day; and if possible, he was to come for me. He could drive over early and spend the day; and we would return home together in the evening, if all was well with his mother.

When I arrived I found Mrs Benson and Mary looking as well as ever, and everything seemingly just as usual. Martha was sitting at work in her little room, which opened off Mrs Benson's dressing-room. I could not help looking at her more closely than I would have done at another time, and I thought I saw a look of displeasure cross her face at seeing me. Mary and her mother were of course delighted to see me, and asked why Henry did not come too. So I told them I would stay till the next day, if they would have me, and Henry would come for me then. They were quite pleased at that arrangement; for it was not very often my husband could spend a whole day with them.

As the day passed on and nothing out of the way happened, I began to think I had frightened myself needlessly, and that my dream or vision might have been the result of an over-anxious mind. And then Martha, what about her? Altogether I was perplexed. I did not know what to think; but I still felt a certain undefined uneasiness. I offered up a silent prayer to be directed to do right, and determined to wait patiently and do nothing for a while. I almost hoped I might hear the voice again, giving me definite instructions how to act. Lunch passed and dinner also; and the evening being very warm, for it was the middle of July, we sat at the open window enjoying the cooling breeze that set in from the sea.

As they were early people, shortly after ten o'clock we said 'good-night,' and went up to our bedrooms. My room looked on the avenue, some parts of which were in deep shade, while in other parts the moonlight shone brightly through breaks in the trees. I did not feel in the least sleepy; and putting out my candle, I sat by the window, looking at the lovely view; for I could see the coast quite plainly, and the distant sea glistened like silver in the moonlight. I did not think how long I had been sitting there, until I heard the hall clock strike twelve. Just then I heard, as I thought, a footstep outside my door, which evidently stopped there, and then in a few seconds passed on. I did not mind, thinking it might be one of the servants, who had been up later than usual, and was now going quietly to bed. I began to undress, not lighting the candle again, as I had light enough from the moon. As I came towards the window to close it, I saw, exactly as in my dream, a female figure--evidently keeping in the shade of the trees--going down the avenue. I determined to follow and see who it was, for I now felt the warning voice was not sent to me for nothing, and I seemed to get courage, girl though I was, to fathom the mystery. I hastily dressed, threw a dark shawl over my head, and going noiselessly down-stairs, opened the glass door in the drawing-room window, and left it so that I could come in again. I kept in the shade of the trees as much as possible, and quickly followed the path I had seen the woman take. Presently I heard voices; one was a man's, the other a woman's. But who was she? I came close, and got behind a large group of thick shrubs. I could now see and hear them quite well; they were standing in the light; I was in deep shade. Just then the woman turned her head towards me. It was _Martha_! What did she want there at that hour? And who was this man? I was puzzled. Where had I seen that face before? for that I _had_ seen it before, I was certain; but where, and when, I could not remember. He was speaking in a low voice, and I did not hear very distinctly what he said, but the last few words were: 'And why not to-night? Delays are always dangerous, especially now, as they are beginning to suspect me.'

'Because Mrs Benson's daughter-in-law is here, and she is sleeping in the room over the plate-closet, and would be sure to hear the least noise. Wait until to-morrow night; she will be gone then. But indeed John, I don't like this business at all. I think we'd better give it up. No luck will come of it, I am sure.'

'Look here, Martha,' said the man. 'I have a chance of getting safe off now. I have it all settled, if you will only help me to get this old woman's plate. With that and a few little trinkets I happened to pick up a few years ago, you and I may set up in business over in America. The other fellows will help me. Meet me here to-morrow night, to let me know that all is safe for us. See here. I have brought you a valuable present. Keep it until the plate is secure with me; for you must stay here until all blows over; then make some excuse for leaving, and come over and join me in New York. If you want money, sell these diamonds in Liverpool; they are worth no end of money.'

I could see quite well that he took something out of his pocket and gave it to her. She held it up to look at it; and there, glistening in bright moonlight, I saw--my god-mother's diamond ear-ring! the one that had been stolen over nine years ago with the other jewels from her room.

Here then at last was the mystery solved, everything made clear, and all through my dream! Presently the light fell on the man's face again, and I instantly recognised my god-mother's very respectable gardener. A decent man he was believed to be, but a thief all the time, and one who hid his evil deeds under a cloak of religion. And who was this woman he seemed to have got such power over? Evidently his wife; for I gathered that from his conversation with her. I waited where I was until they were both gone--Martha back to the house, and her husband to the village; then as quietly as I could I returned to the house and reached my room. Falling on my knees I gave thanks to God for making me the means of finding out such a wicked plot, and perhaps saving the lives of more than one under that roof; for it is more than likely that had those desperate men been disturbed in their midnight plunder, they would not have hesitated at any deed which would enable them to carry out their wicked plans.

I slept little that night, and next morning tried to appear calm and composed, though I was frightened and really ill. I was longing for my husband to come, that I might tell him all, and consult what was best to be done, to prevent robbery and perhaps bloodshed. At last, to my great relief, I saw him coming. I ran to the gate to meet him, and told him what I had seen and heard the night before. 'Now,' I said, 'will you ever laugh at my "fancies" again?'

'No, my dear little wife,' said he; 'I never will.'

We then arranged that we should tell his mother and sister everything; and he was to go to the nearest police station and arrange with the chief officer to have a number of men ready in the wood near the house at twelve o'clock that night; that after dinner we were to say 'good-bye' to Mrs Benson, and drive home; but would return and join the police in the wood, and wait there until we saw Martha leave the house to meet her husband. We were then to go in and wait until the thieves came in, when they were to be surrounded and taken prisoners. My husband wanted me to remain at our own house; but I would not do so, as I said I would only be imagining all sorts of dreadful things; besides, I knew his mother and Mary would like to have me with them.

It all turned out as well as could be. The night was very fine; and just at twelve o'clock Martha stole down to the place where I had seen her the night before; then we all, about a dozen policemen and ourselves, went into the house. The men were stationed out of sight in different rooms, waiting for the robbers' entrance. Henry came up to Mrs Benson's room, where all of us women were, including the two servants. With breathless anxiety we watched and waited. From where I stood I could see the way they would come.

It was about two o'clock when I saw Martha coming up the walk and four men with her. 'Look!' I said; 'there they are.' They went round to the back door, and we heard them stealing along the passage in the direction of the plate-closet. Then a sudden rush--a scream from the wretched Martha--imprecations loud and bitter--a shot!--another scream!

'May God grant no lives will be lost!' we prayed.

Poor Mary nearly fainted. At last we heard the officer call Henry to come down. The four men were well secured and taken to the police station. Martha was taken there too. She confessed she had let them in for the purpose of stealing the silver. One of the robbers was slightly wounded in the arm, but no one else was hurt. Very thankful was I when I found next day that none was the worse for having gone through such a terrible scene.

The house where Martha's husband lodged was searched, and the case of diamonds and many other valuable articles found there. This immensely respectable gardener had been a disgrace to his family and his profession. Left very much to himself through the indulgence of his employer, he had contracted habits of tippling with low associates at the neighbouring village, and become so completely demoralised, as at length to assume the degraded character of a burglar. Now came the retribution which attends on wrong-doing. The thieves were all tried at the next assizes, and sentenced to various terms of imprisonment.

It is now many years since all this happened; but I can never forget what I went through those two dreadful nights; though I remember with thankfulness, that through my dream and the warning voice I heard, I was the means of averting a great wrong, and perhaps murder. I do not impute anything supernatural to my dream. It may have merely been the result of tension of feelings, supported by some coincidences. At all events, the results were such as I have described.

ODD NOTES FROM QUEENSLAND.

Queensland, as is pretty generally known, is the latest planted British colony in Australia, and has already made a surprising degree of progress. Situated on the coast of the Pacific, to the north of New South Wales, its more settled parts enjoy a delightful climate, which is said to resemble that of Madeira. It is usually thought that nowhere in the world do new and small towns develop so speedily into populous cities as in the United States; but in this respect Queensland can shew results nearly as remarkable. In Brisbane, the capital of the colony, one finds immense enterprise, with all the tokens of civilisation on the English model. A correspondent favours us with the following notes suggested by the _Queenslander_, which we presume to be the leading newspaper in the colony.

A cursory glance down the advertising columns of the _Queenslander_ gives one no mean notion of the colony's capacities. One auctioneer announces for sale three thousand square miles of land, twenty-one thousand head of cattle, and a hundred and twenty-four thousand sheep. A dairy herd of six hundred head is in the market here, and there a stock-owner announces he has seven hundred pure merino rams to dispose of. Sugar-plantations, salt-works, gold mines, are on offer; and--incontrovertible proof of the land's capabilities--nurserymen are ready to supply all comers with seeds or roots 'of all the favourite flowers known in England,' of every kind of grass and grain and vegetable familiar to the British farmer and market-gardener; and keep in stock thoroughly acclimatised apples, pears, plums, cherries, peaches, apricots, nectarines, quinces, mulberries, walnuts, chestnuts, cobnuts, grapes, figs, limes, lemons, oranges, dates, guavas, and mangoes, in every approved variety.

One correspondent extols the merits of chicory as a profitable thing to grow; another relates his successful attempts at rice-raising; and a third waxes eloquent anent the unique garden of Mr Barnes of Mackay, with its groves and avenues of cocoa-nut trees; its hundreds of fine date-trees; its grapes, oranges, apples, and fruits of all climes and seasons, thriving together; its enormous melons and magnificent pines ripening and rotting around. The owner looks forward to reaping a large profit from his twelve hundred cocoa-nut trees, many of them now thirty feet high, although as yet the return for his ten years' labour and expenditure has been something not worth mentioning.

Then we have an account of 'the acclimated wonders of the vegetable kingdom blooming in this present February 1877, in the government Botanic Gardens of Brisbane;' said gardens being then in the height of their midsummer glory, and a perfect blaze of colour. 'One of the most strikingly handsome as well as curious trees in the gardens is the _Kilgeria pinnata_, from India. Its branches bear a kind of drooping flexible vine-rope or liana stem, each of which terminates in a large spike of flowers; while at various parts of the said rope pendants, hang huge seed-pods, like in shape unto the weights of an extra large cuckoo-clock.' Several varieties of the mango just now are in fine bearing, and the wine-palm of the West African coast was never more juicy and strawberry-like in flavour. Ferns and palms are magnificent, but after all, the Queenslander finds a native plant excite his admiration most. 'No description can do justice to the exquisite colour of the so-called blue water-lily of this colony. It is _not_ blue, nor white, nor mauve, nor lilac, but has a blended dash of all of them, and is lovelier than any. A Swiss or French dyer who could reproduce it faithfully would make his fortune. It is a colour suggestive of summer afternoons, of lawns, of croquet, of classic villas, swell society, and five o'clock teas in the garden, with greyhounds, spaniels, pretty girls, and rosy children grouped about miscellaneous like.'