"She was floating away in the midst of the stream.""She was floating away in the midst of the stream."
"The carpenter took off his coat.""The carpenter took off his coat."
T was a fine June afternoon in the year 1806, and two boys, aged twelve and thirteen, were strolling idly along the muddy shore of the Thames by Millbank. There was no Embankment there then, nor indeed for many years later, and so many strange things, thrown out from incoming ships, were cast up by the tide on this side of the river, that it was the favourite resort of the boys of the neighbourhood, especially as there was a rumour that pearls had been found in several places on the muddy foreshore.
This, however, must certainly have been romance on the boys' part, though it was firmly believed in by most of the younger lads—our two friends, Tom and Roger, being among the number—and they were to-day walking with their eyes fixed on the mud, in hopes of finding treasure, till Roger raising his head, exclaimed hastily—
'I say, Tom, look there!'
'Where?' inquired Tom, gazing across the river.
'No, not there!' said Roger, pulling his brother's sleeve to make him turn round. 'Over there!' and he pointed down the river where a little crowd was assembled by the side of the water.
'Let's go and have a look!' declared Tom. Away scudded Tom and Roger, eager to miss nothing of what might be happening. The sight that had drawn the crowd together was a fool-hardy young carpenter, who, for a wager, had undertaken to row himself in a washing-tub from Millbank to London Bridge.
'Will he do it, Tom?' asked Roger anxiously, as he looked at the sturdy young carpenter, who was just about to step into the big tub which a friend was holding steady for him.
'He may,' cautiously answered Tom. 'The river is smooth enough to-day, but I should not care to be in his boat when he gets in the whirl of the bridges; that tub will spin round like a tee-to-tum.'
The carpenter now took off his coat, and throwing it to his friend said jokingly, 'It's yours, if I don't come back to claim it.'
'You will come back, right enough,' said his friend, as he handed him a pair of sculls. Then with a cheer from the crowd—in which Tom and Roger heartily joined—the tub was started on its adventurous voyage.
There was intense stillness on the part of the crowd as the tub went rolling uneasily along, but in a minute the tension was relaxed, as across the water came the notes of 'There was a jolly miller,' sung with calm unconcern by the voyager in his strange craft.
'He will do it!' said Roger excitedly. 'It's not the first time he's sailed in a tub, I feel sure, and if he keeps his head at the bridges he will do it.'
'Let us hurry to London Bridge; we shall hear if he has got safe, even if we are not in time to see him land,' said Tom.
'All right,' answered Roger, and off ran the two. They knew all the short cuts through the City, and by dint of hard running they actually arrived on the scene before the final act.
'There he is! there he is!' shouted Tom, 'and he is still singing. What a plucky fellow he must be.'
There in the middle of the water was the tub, sure enough; but the worst part of the journey had still to be done, for the tide swept very swiftly under the narrow arches of London Bridge, and the tub spun round and round till it seemed at one time that it would never make the land.
'It will be swamped!' cried impulsive Tom.
'No! no!' answered Roger, 'he's got it into quieter water already. There! he's bringing it on shore, and close by us! Let's give him a cheer, Tom.'
And with hearty goodwill the two boys set up a cheer, and then ran down into the water to help drag up the tub, and to congratulate the hero of this strange feat of 1806.
HE merchants of Manchester were not satisfied with the means they had for receiving goods from abroad and dispatching their own in return. They wanted to be nearer to the sea; but as Manchester was much too large a place to be carried to the coast, it seemed more reasonable to carry the sea to Manchester, and so turn the town into an inland port. They had thought and thought about it for a very long time, without being able to hit upon any satisfactory plan, when, in 1882, a Mr. Daniel Adamson invited some friends to his house in the suburbs of Manchester, and made a proposal and a suggestion which led to the accomplishment of the great design. Mr. Adamson was a gentleman of great energy and courage, and though cities might stand in the way, he would bring the sea to Manchester when once he had made up his mind to do so. It was almost safe to say that he would have cut the canal with his own hands rather than fail in his determination. It is such men as he who make England prosperous.
Permission having at last been gained from Parliament, a number of steam dredgers arrived in the mouth of the Mersey, and work was begun. The distance from the starting-point to Manchester is thirty-five and a half miles, and over most of these the river itself was followed.
At Eastham, on the south side of the river, foundations were laid for three locks side by side, and these form the entrance of the water-road to Manchester. One or two points with regard to them must be mentioned. In the first place they are not locks in the ordinary sense, as the water that flows through them is tidal water; but they serve to keep that tide in the canal at one uniform level. As they are within reach of boisterous sea-water, there is an additional protecting gate in front of each, while between them and the shore there are three large sluices to regulate the passage of unusually heavy tides.
On passing through the Eastham lock, vessels bound for Manchester find themselves in a channel about one hundred and seventy-two feet wide and twenty-six feet deep, separated from the broader Mersey by a long embankment thirty feet wide at the top, and following the curves of the river for nine miles. But in that nine miles there are several sights to see, for Eastham is not left very far behind when, on the right, the river Weaver is reached. This is a broad river flowing into the Mersey, and its ancient rights could not be taken away, though it was absolutely necessary to control them. Consequently, all across its wide mouth a number of sluice-gates, sliding up and down on rollers, had to be erected. These are worked by hydraulic power, and are raised at suitable times, according to the condition of the tide, when the water, flowing from the Weaver across the canal, finds its way into the Mersey through long openings in the top of the embankment of which we have spoken.
Streams less important than the Weaver are treated in a less dignified way. Thus, a little farther on we come upon two small rivers which are carried under the canal in huge cast-iron pipes. At the busy town of Runcorn we reach the first railway bridge, and the canal is narrowed to ninety-two feet, flowing in a graceful curve between concrete walls. The railway bridge, as it stands to-day, was built by the Canal Company, for the old one was too low for ships to pass beneath. It is now seventy-five feet above the surface of the water, and all other fixed bridges that cross the canal must be equally high.
Ten long straight miles beyond Runcorn a vessel comes to a halt in front of the first lock on the canal proper. It is at a place called Latchford. We are twenty-one miles from Eastham, and at the end of the tidal course. Fourteen and a half more miles to Manchester—and in that distance we have sixty feet and six inches to climb! As we move slowly into the lock the hydraulic machinery is set in motion; the gate behind us is closed, and the one in front slowly opens. In rushes the foaming water, lifting our vessel as it rises in the lock, and in a few more minutes we are steaming on our way—sixteen feet above the level of the waters just left behind. We have mounted the first step in the watery stairway leading to Manchester's front door.
Some seven miles further on another lock isreached, and passing through this we shortly come in sight of what is, perhaps, the most interesting engineering feat performed in this great enterprise. It is the Barton swing bridge, and was constructed to carry the Bridgewater Canal across the one upon which we are travelling in imagination. About the year 1756 the young Duke of Bridgewater employed an engineering genius named James Brindley to make a canal from his coal-mines near Manchester to the town of Runcorn. With astounding skill, James Brindley carried out the work, finding his greatest difficulty at the point of which we are speaking. The river Irwell flowed directly across the course of his canal and at a considerably lower level. Friends advised him to lead his canal down to the river by a large number of small locks, and lift it again on the other side by similar means. 'That is the usual thing to do,' they said.
But Brindley preferred thebestway to the usual way, and boldly carried his canal over the river on a stone bridge or aqueduct. It was the first time such a thing had been done in England, and it served its purpose for nearly one hundred and fifty years. Then the Manchester Ship Canal comes along the Irwell, and the stone aqueduct must be turned into a swing bridge, or how is any ship to pass?
'Very well,' said the owners of the Bridgewater Canal, 'but you must not let much of our water be lost, for we have little to spare.'
And this is how Mr. Leader Williams, the engineer, got over the difficulty. He built an island in the middle of the Ship Canal for the iron bridge to turn upon, leaving the two ends free. The bridge itself he made in the form of a long tank, nineteen feet wide and seven feet deep, the two ends being hinged so that they would open and close like doors. Strengthening iron girders, rising to a height of some twenty feet, form the sides of the bridge, while cross-girders close in the top. The two ends of the canal proper where it reaches the entrance to the bridge, are also provided with watertight doors. When the bridge is in position there is a narrow gap between its two ends and the canal. This is filled up and made watertight by a ponderous wedge, weighing twelve tons and shaped like a U, its sides and lower part thus corresponding in outline with those of the tank and canal. The wedge is further padded on each side with indiarubber which, when squeezed into place, effectually prevents any leakage. As soon as a ship is signalled on the Manchester canal, the doors at each end of the tank-bridge are closed, together with those at the ends of the canal. Then the U wedge is lifted from between them, and the bridge (weighing, with the water it contains, sixteen hundred tons) is swung round on its island pivot till the channels are open on either side. The ship passes by and the bridge is swung back to its original position. The towing-path (for all craft on the Duke of Bridgewater's canal are drawn by horses) is carried across the bridge on an iron shelf, nine feet above the water.
Beyond Barton the Salford docks are reached, and after passing one more lock, we sail triumphantly into the magnificent docks of Manchester to which this thread of silver leads.
Barton Swing Bridge and Aqueduct.A huge Crane at Work.The Barton Aqueduct.Coming through the Aqueduct.
When first the canal was opened Manchester seemed to be taken by surprise, and hardly knew how to perform the part of a seaport; but that is all changed now. The docks are growing fast, and only in 1905 their Majesties the King and Queen opened a new dock two thousand seven hundredfeet long, two hundred and fifty feet wide, making an area of fifteen and a half acres, and capable of accommodating ten of the largest steamships entering the canal.
Thus this great city, at a cost of fifteen million pounds, opened its gateway to the ocean, and receives at its doors rich freights of merchandise from all quarters of the earth, though it stands thirty-five miles away from the sound of the sea.
Iron-Smelting in IndiaIron-Smelting in India
In many parts of India iron is made in a very simple way, which has probably been followed for centuries without much change. The iron-worker builds a little furnace of clay, in the form of a tower which is narrower at the top than at the bottom. This tower is only four or five feet high, so that it is after all no bigger than the towers and castles which children build in the sand; but its builder makes good use of it, small though it is. The top of it is open, and at the bottom there are one or two openings in the side, through which the iron-maker can blow the air of a pair of bellows. These bellows are goat-skin bags, which have been made by sewing up whole skins. A hollow bamboo is fitted into the end of each bag, in order to form the pipes of the bellows and there is also another opening in each bag which may be closed very quickly by the man who blows the bellows. He works the bellows by pressing upon the goat-skin bags with his feet, so as to drive out the air through the pipe which is fixed in the end of each bag. He works two bags at one time, pressing first upon one and then upon the other. While he is pressing one bag, he raises the other, which is empty, and allows it to fill again through the hole which has been left in it for that purpose. In this way he contrives to have one bag filling with air, while he is squeezing the air out of the other.
The smelter, before he can make iron, must have iron ore and fuel, as well as furnace and bellows. The ore he has already dug from the ground and arranged in a little heap near his furnace. It is usually a rather dark-coloured stone, or a soft, red earth. The fuel is charcoal, which the smelter makes by burning wood in a heap more or less covered with earth, in such a way that the wood chars rather than burns away.
A very hot fire is needed to change the stony or earthy iron-ore into iron, or rather to burn out the iron which lies in the ore, and the clay furnace and the bellows are employed for the purpose of maintaining this hot fire. The smelter lights the fire inside the bottom of his furnace, and the tower acts as a sort of chimney. The pipes of the goat-skin bellows are joined on to clay pipes which pass into the bottom of the furnace, and lead the draught of air from the bags into the fire. The bellows-pipesthemselves cannot be put into the furnace, because they would take fire.
When the smelter has got his fire well aglow, he places upon it a layer of charcoal, and above that a thin layer of iron-ore. On the top of these he puts another layer of charcoal and another of ore, and thus he goes on loading his furnace until he thinks that he has filled it sufficiently full. Then he works away at his bellows for three or four hours.
At the end of this time the charcoal and much of the ore are burned away, and there is not much left but glowing embers in the bottom of the furnace. The smelter breaks a hole through the furnace, and, poking with his tongs into the ashes, draws out a little red-hot ball of iron, scarcely as large as a cricket ball, which has been formed from the ore, partly by the heat of the fire, and partly by the help of the red-hot charcoal which has acted chemically upon the ore. This little ball of iron is well hammered, in order to knock out any ashes which may have lodged in it, and it is then ready to be worked up into an implement, or to be made into steel for a sword-blade or some other weapon.
HE white snow has gone from the vale and the mountain;The ice from the river has melted away;The hills far and nearAre less winterly drear,And the buds of the hawthorn are peeping for May.I hear a light footstep abroad in my garden;Oh, stay, does the wind through the shrubbery blow?There's warmth in the breeze,And a song in the trees,And the Princess of Springtime is coming, I know.The crocus has lighted its lamp in the forest,Though it shelters its flame with a close-drawn green hood;The primrose peeps out,With a shiver of doubt,And wonders if winter has left us for good.But hark, from afar comes the sound of a bugle!Or is it the bee where the rose-bushes grow?He loiters so long,With such joy in his song,That the Princess of Springtime is coming, I know.The blackbird has climbed to the top of the cedar,And there in the sunshine he whistles a strain.'She's coming! She's here!'Are his messages clear,As squadrons of swallows sweep by in the lane.Now the woodlands rejoice with the green-tinted hedges;The young wheat peeps up and the blue sky looks down.Then out and away!Our respects we must pay,When the Princess of Springtime is wearing her crown.
The village wiseacres of Cumberland, to whom the habits of the poet Wordsworth and his eccentric friend Coleridge were a mystery, had decided that they must be terrible scoundrels. One sage had seen Wordsworth looking fixedly at the moon; another had overheard him muttering in some strange language. Some thought him a conjuror; some a smuggler, from his perpetually haunting the sea-beach; while others were sure that he was a desperate French conspirator.
One day, while on a walking excursion, Coleridge met a woman, who, not knowing who he was, abused him to himself in unmeasured terms for some time. 'I listened,' wrote the poet to a friend, 'very particularly, appearing to approve all she said, exclaiming "Dear me!" two or three times; and, in fine, so completely won her heart by my civilities, that I had not courage enough to undeceive her.'
This hostility seems very ludicrous now; but at the time its effect was such, that the person who had the letting of Allfoxenden House refused point-blank to re-let it to Wordsworth.
My first is very quiet,My second was very noisy,My third is very watery,My fourth is often very fierce,My fifth is very musical,My sixth is done to newspapers.
Every week my finals and initials are held in many large towns.
W. S.
[Answers on page323.]
9.—1. Board.2. Death.3. March.
1.H eLe n.2.C rIm e.3.G aLe n.4.T rAi n.5.B aCo n.
(Continued from page275.)
Thomas advanced towards Estelle cautiously, an artful smile on his face. Before the little girl was aware of his presence, he was close to her.
'Hush!' he muttered, fearing she would cry out; 'you come along with me, and I will take you home, my lady. It is not true friends that keep you here. I know my lady is dying to see you.'
He caught her suddenly in his arms, and bore her back into the tent. The curtains dropped heavily behind him, just as Estelle, the spell of her terror broken, uttered the cry Jack had heard.
Jack turned at the sound; so did Julien; so did Mrs. Wright. But Estelle was nowhere to be seen. No further sound betrayed her whereabouts.
But Jack was not a man to be easily disconcerted. Mrs. Wright and Julien stood still in consternation, but Jack made up his mind at once. He was naturally impetuous and hasty in thought and action. Only the sore troubles through which he had passed, and the knowledge that he had brought so much unhappiness on his mother as well as on himself by his quick temper, had had power to make him as calm and gentle as he had shown himself to Estelle. It was as if a fire smouldered within him always, but was held in restraint by a strong will.
Now, however, calmness was cast to the winds. The child was in danger. She had no helper but himself. Till her parents were found she washischild—his by right of being her protector, her preserver. On him she depended for everything; on him and his mother. Who had dared to touch her? His face flushed, then turned white. His keen eye searched every corner. There was one place only in which the child could have been concealed—the tent. She had been standing near it when he turned to give the coppers to the children.
Without an instant's hesitation he sprang forward, the curtains were thrust aside, and he was among the tawdry, excited crowd of play-actors. They had been resting between the performances. Suddenly they were startled by one of their number rushing through the tent with a child in his arms, whose cries he was stifling with a large cloak. None understood what the noise was about, nor had any of the men and women seen the face of the little girl; therefore none were interested, and none stirred themselves to ask what had happened. Only one spoke—she whose cloak had been snatched up to enfold the child. She called out a rough remonstrance, but Thomas answered her hurriedly, as he tried to wind the garment closely about Estelle, with small regard as to whether she could breathe or not.
'The child has been kidnapped,' he said, quickly. 'I know her parents, and I must—— '
He got no further. Jack was upon him. The sudden appearance of the tall sailor in hot pursuit caused a sensation among the people standing about. The men pressed forward to see what would happen, and were knocked over by the giant. A storm of resentment arose as they struggled to their feet, and threatening fists were shaken at Jack. None, however, ventured to attack the broad-shouldered, sinewy sailor, whose gigantic height and powerful arms inspired awe. At sight of him Thomas caught up the little girl, the cloak still trailing on the ground and hampering his movements, and tried to escape through another opening in the curtains of the tent. He did not require a second look at Jack's enraged face and blazing eyes to understand that in him Estelle had a mighty defender, who was not likely to let her kidnapper off easily. It seemed barely a moment before violent hands were laid on Thomas's collar, the child torn out of his hands, and himself hurled back among the angry crowd behind him. A murmur of increasing wrath went up, but Jack paid no heed to it. Getting rid of the cloak, and taking Estelle in his arms,he strode out of the tent to where he had left his mother and Julien. Estelle had fainted, and he was anxious to get her home as quickly as possible. Her white, unconscious face alarmed him.
Mrs. Wright and Julien were still where Jack had left them. Both had been too frightened to move, and now the sight of him, as he hurried towards them with Estelle's insensible form in his arms, alarmed them.
'Not dead!' cried Mrs. Wright, with a catch in her throat.
'No, thank Heaven! M. Julien, will you run for the doctor, and send him down to the Hospice at once? Mother, I will get on ahead, and perhaps M. Julien will come with you as soon as he has spoken to the doctor.'
Julien agreed gladly. He could not have borne to leave them at such a time, and he felt some relief that he was able to do something to help.
'The doctor is in one of the shows, but I will soon find him,' he said. 'If you will walk on, Madame, I will catch you up in no time.'
Jack was already almost out of sight, watched by a curious crowd. The incident had made some stir, and various versions of it were circulated among the throng. To his dismay, Thomas found that his action might have very serious consequences. His word would go for nothing against Jack's. The sailor was too well known, and too highly respected, for Thomas to hope that even a man like Fargis would say a word against him. All the blame would naturally fall upon Thomas, and his explanations would not be believed. Things looked blacker still when he discovered that the police were making inquiries about him.
In dismay he crept out of sight, and remained in hiding till the caravan began to prepare for departure. Then, after receiving his wages, he disappeared. When Jack, in the afternoon of the following day, made inquiries as to his whereabouts, no one could tell anything. The man had not gone with the caravan, that was the sole piece of information Jack was able to gather.
Meantime, Estelle's unconsciousness lasted long enough to alarm even the doctor. He and Goody were doing all in their power, while Jack and Julien stood close by the sofa with anxious faces, but ready to do anything which might be possible for them. Oh, how often in that time of suspense did Goody wish that she had heeded Jack's misgivings, and refrained from going to the Fête des Loges! It had proved anything but a joyous festival to them. She doubted whether they had seen the end of the bad business. Who knew where the man might be who had seized Estelle, or whether he might not again make efforts to carry her off? Would the child be safe anywhere in the absence of Jack? Would she, a weak elderly woman, be a match for such a man while left in sole charge of the child? Could she ever see Jack go off to sea without fearing what might happen while he was away, and beyond reach of recall? Such thoughts tortured her mind as she leant over the little girl, and obeyed the doctor's directions.
(Continued on page294.)
"Jack was upon him.""Jack was upon him."
"A terrible sight met their view.""A terrible sight met their view."
ARLY in the September of 1905, a short announcement appeared in the daily papers under the heading of 'German East Africa,' 'Masasi has been destroyed.' There had been for some time past disquieting news of rebellion among the native tribes, and grievous reports of the murder of white men working in the district. To ninety-nine people out of a hundred, Masasi was only another outlandish name of an unknown station. But the hundredth person read the meagre intelligence with a thrill of dismay, asking himself the question, 'Does history repeat itself, or have we gone back three and twenty years?'
Nearly thirty years ago, a party of those released slaves, of whom we spoke in a former story,[3]were brought from Zanzibar and settled at Masasi, some four hundred miles southward, and a hundred and twenty miles from the German port of Lindi. The place is situated upon a high plateau above the river Rovuma, on fertile ground, easy to cultivate, and with grand mountain peaks towering above it. Here the little community grew and nourished, people from the neighbouring country came to be taught, and for six years all went well. Then came a threatening of trouble. Far away, near the shores of Lake Nyasa, dwelt a tribe known as the Magwangwara—Zulus, who, says the story, were once defeated in warfare, and settled there rather than return home to meet death at the hands of their own countrymen. Tidings of the coming of the Europeans had reached this fierce race, to whom war was the business of life, and they had announced their intention of measuring their strength against the white men. They were marching eastward, and had shaken their spears towards Masasi.
Mr. Maples, one of the two Englishmen in charge of the station, started at once, with five of his own men, to meet the invaders, and try to persuade them to peace. On the afternoon of their second day's journey, they discovered, to their dismay, that they had missed the enemy, for they came upon the camping-ground of a large army, and could see their tracks, marking thedétourby which they had escaped meeting the little embassy. There was nothing for it but to return as quickly as possible, in the hope of catching them up before they reached Masasi. All that night they hurried along, making what speed they could in the darkness; but when, soon after dawn, they reached the outskirts of their own territory, some four miles from Masasi, a terrible sight met their view—columns of smoke were rising from the place where their dwellings had stood. Clearly the village had been attacked, their friends were dead or captive, and nothing remained but to learn their fate, and in all probability to share it.
Kneeling, in sight of their burning homes, the little party commended themselves to God's keeping, and were starting forward again, when shouts were heard close to them, and they found themselves in the midst of an armed body of the Magwangwara. Only Mr. Maples' presence of mind, and the perfect obedience of his followers, saved them from instant death. At his word of command the little band laid down their guns, and, though thrown to the ground and threatened by the assegais of their enemies, made no attempt at resistance, while Mr. Maples, trusting to the well-known awe of the natives for a white man, remained perfectly calm, fixing his eyes upon the assailants, and explaining by gestures that he and his party intended no violence. After a few moments' consultation, the Magwangwara bade them go into Masasi, but Mr. Maples, realising that this would probably mean death, or at any rate slavery, for his followers, without the hope of saving their friends, decided to strike eastward to Newala, a village some fifty miles away. The chief there was friendly to the white men, and, if any one had escaped from Masasi, it was to Newala that they would probably go.
So, once out of sight of the war party, they started upon a terrible journey through the thick bush, avoiding the beaten track, and every moment expecting a fresh attack by one of the scattered bands of the enemy. The heat was overpowering, the party had no food with them, and, to add to their troubles, Mr. Maples sprained his leg so badly as to make progress after sunset impossible. By morning, however, he was able to go forward, and there was another painful day's journey, still without food, save for a little sour fruit and cassava root, though water was mercifully plentiful. As they drew nearer to Newala, a terrible question began to weigh upon them all—what would they find? Was it possible that Matola, the friendly chief, would be there to receive them? Was it not more than likely that the village would be deserted, the inhabitants escaped to the bush, and neither food nor shelter awaiting the worn-out fugitives? Haunted by these fears they lay down for another night of hunger and uncertainty, eleven miles from Newala, and then, on Sunday morning, pressed on once more. Their hearts sank at finding the huts on the outskirts of the village deserted. Then came a joyful sight, a native carrying fowls, the universal food in Central Africa. He was hailed, and the eager question asked, 'Is Matola here?'
'Yes,' was the ready answer, 'he waited for you. He felt sure some of you would come, since Masasi has been destroyed.'
A good reply, this, to the accusation that the Central African tribes are incapable of gratitude or devotion. Matola was a heathen chief, used all his life to the sudden flights from a stronger foe which are the custom in this land of raids; but the lives of the white men, who came to Africa without hope or gain for love of their dark brothers, had taught him something of a higher law than that of self-preservation. The best he had was at the service of his exhausted guests, and, with a tact and consideration not always found even among Europeans, he insisted on hearing and sifting all the reports brought in by fugitives before they reached the ears of Mr. Maples, whose sprain kept him for some days unable to move.
After all, only seven of the Masasi people had been killed in the first mad onslaught of the Magwangwara. The rest were saved by strict obedience to the order to make no resistance. For twelve days the terrible visitors remained in their camp near the village, while Mr. Maples' colleague, Mr. Porter, exhausted all his bales of cloth, the current coin between Europeans and Africans, in ransoming those of his people who had been seized and carried as slaves to the camp. When at last the war party retreated, they carried with them twenty-nine of the Masasi people. Mr. Porter, having replenished his store of cloth, set off after them, and actually remained a month among the Magwangwara, bargaining for the freedom of the prisoners. Some of the poor creatures were already dead, some had escaped, or had passed to other owners, but Mr. Porter succeeded in ransoming the rest. He must have gone with his life in his hand, since the Magwangwara believed the heart of a white man to be an invaluable charm, and had announced their intention of securing one when starting on their raid. But the quiet tact of the Englishman conquered the savages, and Mr. Porter returned in safety with his ransomed people, bearing the blunted spear of the Magwangwara in token of peace.
Such is the story of the first destruction of Masasi twenty-three years ago. Of the two Englishmen who stood so stoutly by their people through those anxious days, one sleeps in his grave by Lake Nyasa, drowned in the waters of which he wrote with such enthusiastic love. The other, Mr. Porter, was one of the little group of fugitives, who, on a Sunday night in August, 1905, turned their backs, with sore hearts, upon the district, for the agitation was against white men only, and, without them, the natives would be safe from attack.
Claude De Crébillon, son of the well-known French poet of that name, and himself a man of letters of some merit, had been sent to the prison of St. Vincent on account of his writings. The first night he spent there he had scarcely fallen asleep when he was roused by feeling something warm and rough in his bed. He took the thing for a kitten, drove it away, and went on sleeping. In the morning he was sorry to have frightened the poor animal, for he was fond of cats, and in the solitude any companion would have been agreeable. He sought in all corners, but could not find anything alive. At noon, he was just beginning to eat his frugal meal, when he perceived an animal sitting on his hind legs and looking steadfastly at him; he thought at first that it was a very small monkey, and rose to have a nearer view of it, for the room was none of the lightest. He held a bit of meat in his hand, and the creature came to meet him;but what was his surprise when he saw that he had to deal with a remarkably large and well-fed rat! Now, rats were detested by him; he could not even bear the sight of them. He would almost have preferred to see a rattlesnake in his room, and he uttered a cry of horror on making the discovery.
The visitor disappeared immediately, but in his place came the jailor, who had been attracted by the exclamation. He laughed at the prisoner, and told him that his predecessor in the cell had tamed the rat when it was young, and that the two fellow-lodgers had become so intimate as to eat continually together. 'I was so interested,' he continued, 'that when the man obtained his liberty, I tried to win the affections of the animal, and you shall see how far I have succeeded.' With these words he seized something on the table and called out, 'Raton! Raton! Come here, my little friend.' Immediately Raton's head was protruded, and as soon as he saw his well-known benefactor, he did not hesitate for a moment to jump upon his hand and to eat what had been offered to him. From this moment Raton was restored to all his former rights and privileges; and Crébillon related afterwards to his friends, that he had tried to obtain the creature from the jailor, and that the latter's refusal had actually cost him tears at his release from prison.
A soldier of Antigonus was once ill with a terrible disease, the pain of which robbed him of all joy in life. He had ever been foremost in the fray and the bravest of the brave, for he strove by reckless daring to dull his pain, thinking that he had nothing to fear and nothing to lose.
Antigonus admired this ardour shown in his service, and at last sent for a doctor, whose skill found means to cure the man. But as soon as he was healed, the warrior lived at his ease, and no longer took the lead in the battle, for he desired to live, he said, now that life was no longer a burden, but a joy.
The noblest work is often done by the weakest hands—by those whose courage is redoubled by pain and misfortune.
HAVE a little GardenWhere many flowers are seen;Bright lilies bend beside the walksAnd daisies in the green.There pansies grow and tulips,And many a lovely flower;They blossom in my Garden,And give me joy each hour.I have another GardenThat I must tend with care,And fill with lovely growing things,Lest weeds should gather there.May sweetness, kindness, mercy,And joy be in each part;To grace this other Garden,The Garden of my heart.
HE Zulus, or more correctly the Amazulus, take the front rank amongst the native tribes of the African continent. Their code of laws, military arrangements, and orderly settlements resemble those of civilised nations at many points.
Their dances are a national feature, and a great company of young warriors performing a solemn war dance is a most impressive sight. One of their chief instruments is the 'Marimba' or 'Tyanbilo,' a form of harmonium. The keys are bars of wood called Intyari, of graduated size. These are suspended by strings from a light wooden frame, either resting on the ground, or hung round the neck of the player. Between every two keys is a wooden bar crossing the centre bar to which the keys are attached. On each key two shells of the fruit known as the Strychnos McKenzie, or Kaffir Orange, are placed as resonators, one large and one small. The use of resonators is to increase and deepen the sound. The Marimba is played with drum-sticks of rubber, and the tone is good and powerful.